Title: Devil’s Advocate

Authors: Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net) & Susan Proto

(STPteach@aol.com)

Completed: January 2001

Category: X-file, MSR, MT

Spoilers: None

Summary: Mulder willingly joins an investigation that may

be his undoing.

Archive: IMTP for the first two weeks, then MTA, the

Garden, the Pyramid, Ephemeral, Gossamer, and any other

site that has received prior written permission. All

others, please contact the authors.

Disclaimer: Mulder & Scully as well as all other

recognizable character references belong to Chris Carter,

Ten Thirteen Productions, and Twentieth Century Fox

Television. They are used here without permission. No

copyright infringement is intended. Unrecognized characters

belong to the authors.

Author’s Notes: This was written for I Made This!

Productions as one of the episodes of Virtual Season 8.

IMTP can be found at http://www.i- made-this.com. Thanks to

our Beta-Reader, Brandon Ray, for his infinite patience

and

wonderful cyberEye for detail.

Feedback: YES!

Devil’s Advocate

By Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net)

& Susan Proto (STPteach@aol.com)

Prologue

Friday, April 6th, 2001

Monsey, New York

11 a.m.

The heavy wood door opened and a small, slightly built man

entered the sanctuary of the old temple. He moved about

the pews and quickly checked for dust and smiled with

satisfaction to find none.

Next, he walked through a small archway and entered the

old, but functional kitchen. He removed his formal, black

hat and placed it on the counter. The man’s long black

coat brushed against the old stove as he opened the door.

He peered in and wondered if that was a piece of bread, of

chomaytz, that still lurked in the dark recesses of the

oven. He reached in to pick it up, but his fingers swiped

at only air and the hard, cold metal of the appliance.

“It’s clean, Rebbe,” called out the young man who stood

quietly during the older man’s inspection. “You told me to

make it spotless. I’ve been working here since 6 o’clock

and I did as you said. Really, there is not one piece of

non-kosher for Passover food crumb in this entire

synagogue.”

“It doesn’t hurt to check, Reuven,” he responded in a

surprisingly strong, deep voice. Though he rose to his

full height, the younger man continued to tower over him.

The rebbe unconsciously stroked his long untrimmed beard.

His plain, black skullcap perched precariously on top of

his head while his long curly earlocks threatened to thread

their way in front of his lobes.

His physical appearance belied his vigorous energy; an

energy that was not normally expected of a man in his late

eighties. Reb Shmuel Zimmerman, however, was no ordinary

octogenarian. His small, orthodox congregation counted on

him to make sure their shul was free of any chomaytz, so

they would be able to celebrate the first Seder night of

Pesach tomorrow night without worry.

“Reuven, it looks as though you have done a fine job in

cleansing and preparing our shul for Pesach. Now we’ll be

able to enjoy the Sabbath tonight without worrying about

preparing for tomorrow. You may go and help do the same at

home,” informed the rebbe.

“You’re going home now too, aren’t you Rebbe Shmuel?”

asked the young man. “You should get some rest for

tonight’s service. You work hard, too.”

“Yes, yes, of course I will. I’ll be leaving shortly. I

just need to do a couple of more things here in preparation

for tonight’s service.”

“The shul is fine, Rebbe. You can go home too,” assured

the young congregant. At seeing the wizened old man nod

his head, Reuven smiled and bid him good morning. “I’ll

see you tonight at services, Reb Shmuel.”

The old man nodded and heard the heavy door of the temple

close behind the young member. Reuven Steiger was a good

person, he thought to himself, and someday he will be a

leader in our community. But for now, he worries too much!

Reb Zimmerman thought with a smile.

He moved about the old shul in a slow deliberate manner.

This was his sanctuary, his home. He found his peace here

and did whatever was necessary to make sure that his

congregation could find their peace here as well.

He finally ended up in the small room at the end of the

hallway, his office. He sat down at his desk and opened

the small book that would help him with the finishing

touches on tonight’s sermon. It had to be a particularly

good one tonight, as it would be one to not only welcome in

the Sabbath Queen, but it would be to inspire the coming of

the eight-day observance of Passover.

He turned the dog-eared pages of the old text. He’d used

it as his inspiration for many sermons past and prayed it

would continue to give him guidance for future sermons as

well.

As his gnarled fingers pointed to the words with great

care, the rebbe felt a sudden draft. He supposed it was

young Reuven returning to retrieve a forgotten hat or book.

The old spiritual leader continued to read and make sense

of the Hebrew text, while a second presence entered the

room.

“Reuven? What did you forget?” he asked without looking

up from his book. Seconds passed when Shmuel Zimmerman

realized he’d yet to receive an answer from his young

charge. It wasn’t like Reuven to be rude, thought the

rebbe. Finally, out of curiosity, Reb Zimmerman raised his

eyes.

And when he did, the beam of light aimed straight and

true, and bore a hole directly through the book that the

old man had clutched to his heart.

St. Gertrude’s Church

Chicago, Illinois

Saturday, April 14, 2001

9 a.m.

The church was dappled with colored light from the sun

streaming in through the stained glass windows. Dust motes

danced freely in the beams of red, blue and gold and gilded

the pews with a heavenly fire.

Father Mick Nelson grasped the aging wooden folding ladder

in both hands and carried it over to the far alcove of the

church. Only one statue remained to be uncovered and the

long season of Lent would be over, at least as far as the

outward appearances went. Tonight, a hundred candles would

light the altar as the holy water for the next year would

be blessed and the newly converted would receive the

sacraments after a year of study and prayer.

Mick remembered a time when he was new to the priesthood,

back when at least a dozen or so women would be cleaning

the floors, dusting the pews and uncovering the statues.

Back when Holy Saturday was the official ‘work day’ of any

parish. But times change, and most young women were now

working mothers, with Easter eggs left to dye and the

perfect gloves and hat to match the perfect Easter dress

left to find at the mall.

The Rosary Society now consisted of women not much younger

than Mick himself, a spry 70 years old. He chuckled

slightly, secure in the knowledge that he was still capable

of preparing the church, even if the ladies of the parish

were elsewhere occupied, or too frail to take up the task.

If he had time, he’d run Mrs. Mulligan’s feather duster

over the tops of the statues, but it usually seemed that

not much dust accumulated in the wake of the just three

year old heat pump/air conditioner that the parish council

had installed in the church. Still, it was the principle

of the thing — everything should be new and sparkling clean

for Easter.

He heaved the ladder more firmly in his hands. Dratted

thing was getting heavier. The old wood must be turning to

stone. He was certain the ladder had been there even

before the church was erected. It had probably somehow

escaped the great fire that burnt the city almost to the

ground in the late 19th century. Mick would never admit

it was his own body growing weaker, and not the ladder

growing heavier. Finally, both ancient artifacts made it

to their destination and he set the ladder at the foot of

the last statue.

The rickety old ladder groaned under his weight as he

reached over the edge to grasp the purple velvet covering

the statue. Michael the Archangel. Of course, as an image

of his patron saint, Mick had immediately taken a liking to

the marble edifice the first time he’d stepped foot in St.

Gertrude’s, almost 20 years ago. It was a fiery Michael,

one to strike terror in the hearts of anyone thinking they

might have an equal footing with God. The sword in his

right hand was held high, too high to cover completely with

the purple cloth. Only the rest of the body was covered,

leaving the penitent the impression that even during the

long 40 days of Lent, Michael was still ready to defend the

gates of heaven against all would-be invaders.

Mick smiled as he thought of how he’d missed those intense

eyes, carved into the marble in such a way that they

followed him as he made his way up the aisle of the church

on Sunday mornings. He always felt Michael to be something

of a protector to himself, personally. He’d always been

proud of the fact that he was named after the guardian of

the Kingdom of Heaven.

The velvet was slippery, and from his precarious perch on

the old ladder, Mick shifted his weight, so as not to

topple either the ladder or the statue. One hundred-year-

old marble statues imported from quarries just miles from

the Vatican were not that easy to come by, especially when

the roof of the church needed new shingles. He was

concentrating so hard at his task that he didn’t see the

cloud that apparently covered the sun, for the just

recently brightly lit church was suddenly plunged into

darkness. Rain on Easter weekend? His mother’s voice

echoed in his ears, foretelling of rain for seven Sundays

after if a drop fell on Easter morning.

It was his mother’s voice in his head that was the last

sound the old priest heard. Behind him was a flash of

light so intense that it blazed a shadow on the plaster

wall behind the statue, melted the lead glaze that held the

stained glass of the window and singed the wooden sill. A

flash of light so bright that it burned right through the

body of a 70-year-old priest, cauterizing the wound even

as it vaporized his still-beating heart.

A look of surprise on his face, the corpse fell to the

ground, still clutching the purple velvet that had been

draped over his marble protector. The velvet caught for a

moment on the statue’s shield, causing it to drift down and

gently cover the deceased in a purple shroud.

A form stepped out of the shadow, a man about 6 feet tall

with coal black hair and eyes that seemed to glow red. He

calmly walked over to the body hidden under the purple

velvet. With a smile of triumph on his face, he leaned

over and tenderly tucked the cloth around the body, then

turned and left by the front door of the church.

The statue of Michael stared on, frozen in horror at the

murder he’d just witnessed.

ACT I

Office of the Assistant Director Walter Skinner

Friday, September 21, 2001

10:45 a.m.

Walter Skinner looked up from the folder on his desk and

waved the two agents toward the waiting chairs. “This

won’t take long, Agents.”

Mulder stepped aside to let his partner take her ‘favorite

chair’ just to the right of his. He’d often wondered if

he’d been a Freudian what he might make of her almost

obsessive need to be to his right. As it was, he’d gotten

too used to their normal positions in this office to care.

“It’s good to see you back in the office, sir,” Scully

said, “How are you feeling?”

Skinner looked up and said, “I’m beginning to feel more

like myself,” and gave just a hint of a smile.

Mulder chuckled outright, however, and said, “Welcome

back, sir.”

Skinner smiled more broadly in acknowledgment of Mulder’s

recognition of his small joke about their last X-file.

Just as quickly, however, he returned to his AD persona.

“I just received this from Violent Crimes,” Skinner said,

extending a file folder across his desk toward Scully.

“It’s a potential serial murder case. Different cities,

same mode of death. The most recent murder occurred just

two days ago, a Lutheran minister was found dead at the

site of a prayer service that was to open the beginning of

classes at the parochial high school he headed up.

“The medical examiner in Chicago states that the priest

was killed by use of a laser,” Scully said, reading

directly from the file. “Sir, the first two victims died

of the same cause, within a week of each other.” She handed

the file over to Mulder. “Nobody thought to connect them

until just recently?”

Skinner shrugged. “The first murder in New York State

wasn’t reported immediately. It occurred in an Orthodox

Jewish Temple and wasn’t reported until the most recent

murder of the student made the press.”

“One priest, one Hassidic rabbi, and one Lutheran

minister,” Scully noted. “All members of the clergy,” she

mused more to herself than to the two men sitting with her.

“Are they filing charges for obstruction of justice? They

didn’t report the first murder for five months, why not?”

Mulder asked, flipping through the pages.

“No charges that I’m aware of, Agent Mulder. The death

was immediately reported to the Rockland County Sheriff’s

Department, and the medical examiner was called in as well.

He apparently signed off on a visual examination, but no

investigation was made because the M.E. concluded at the

site

that the death was not a result of foul play.” Skinner

paused momentarily before continuing. Hesitantly, he

continued, “It appears that there was some feeling that the

death was not… of an earthly cause.” Skinner craned

his neck, obviously uncomfortable with the reasons for the

lack of a report.

“The statement of the person who found the first murder

victim says he believed it was supernatural causes,” Mulder

corrected, reading from the statement. “Evil causes,” he

added with a lifted eyebrow.

“In any event, there have been three murders in just over

five months and the VCS has asked for the case to be

referred to the X-Files Division,” Skinner said, looking

directly at Mulder.

“They’ve had it less than a week. Seems like they might

at least ‘try’ to find a reasonable explanation,” Scully

said with a deep sigh.

“Nah, Scully. Not when they’ve got ‘The Spooky Patrol’ to

take all the really difficult cases off their hands,”

Mulder answered with a smirk. “I know those jokers in

Violent Crimes. Work to them is a four letter word.”

“I think you know what to do on this case, Agents,”

Skinner interjected impatiently. “If you don’t mind, I

have my own work to do. I’ll be expecting a report when

you’ve got something to go on.”

The two agents stood in tandem and Scully followed Mulder

out of the assistant director’s office. He was reading the

file folder all the way to the elevator, and Scully had a

hard time keeping the grin off her face as he deftly

sidestepped oncoming traffic. She knew a great deal of his

talent at this game was his peripheral vision, honed to a

razor’s edge after years spent on many basketball courts,

but to the layman, or other agents, it just gave more fuel

to her partner’s now titanic reputation.

“What’s so funny, Scully?” he asked, jolting her from her

thoughts. She must not have been too successful keeping

that smile off her face. She made a note to start

practicing that art again in front of the mirror at home.

“Nothing, Mulder. So, what else does the file say?” she

asked, changing the subject in the direction she knew he

would want it to go.

“The third victim was a Lutheran minister who teaches at a

small private high school in Missouri, about forty miles

southeast of St. Louis,” Mulder resumed reading. “He was

setting up for an outdoor prayer service before the

beginning of classes and was found with the same burn hole

through his chest. Well, at least this guy doesn’t seem to

hold too many prejudices. Next, he’ll probably go after a

Buddhist Monk.”

They had arrived back at the basement office and Mulder

took a few seconds to shed his jacket, drape it over the

back of his chair, and sit back with his feet on the desk.

He tossed the file back to his partner.

“All members of the clergy, as I was saying upstairs,”

Scully mused thoughtfully as she flipped through the pages

again. “Gee, Mulder. Maybe the devil’s doing it,” she

teased. But something about one of the crime scene photos,

the picture of the last victim, the Lutheran minister,

caught her eye. The man’s face was clearly shown in the

glossy black and white photograph and the look in his eyes

caused Scully to blink and look closer.

A chill ran down her spine. This person had seen

something. Something that could only be described as pure

evil. She’d seen pure evil before, and she didn’t know if

she was ready to go after it again.

” …surgical laser. So basically, the guys over at

VCS just didn’t look very far. I think this one’s pretty

easy, Scully.”

She looked up, startled, when she realized she’d just

missed half a conversation. “I don’t know, Mulder. Three

different cities, three victims, and how many people can

just stick a surgical laser under their overcoat and then

use it to kill a person. Those things are pretty bulky!”

Mulder’s feet hit the floor as he stood to come over next

to where she was standing. She was feeling unnerved by the

photo and her partner’s nearness unnerved her even more.

She held back a flinch when he took the file back and

started pacing.

“Scully, medical technology is moving forward at the speed

of light. Why, just the other day I was reading an article

where surgical lasers are becoming smaller and smaller. I

think it’s not impossible to find one that could be used.

And remember, all these men were killed in seclusion.

There was no one else in the temple, the church, the school

grounds. And before you say it, we both know there is

always a back door that can be jimmied open.”

“But Mulder, there is no mention of a jimmied door. Most

churches these days have security systems unless there are

several people around,” Scully countered, moving over to

perch on the edge of the desk, just to stay out of the path

of his pacing. “And where did you read this article about

surgical lasers?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

He smiled sheepishly. “Ah, did I tell you your Journal of

the American College of Surgeons came in the other day? I

think it’s somewhere on my desk.” He moved over to a pile

of papers nearly a foot and a half high and started digging

through it.

She shook her head and stilled his hand. “Forget it,

Mulder, I’ll buy a new one. It’s simpler. But that still

doesn’t explain . . .”

“Scully. If we take all the grunt cases from VCS, we

won’t have time for our cases,” Mulder said firmly, taking

the file folder and tossing it on the only open space on

his desk. “I think it’s time we stopped being the

‘whipping boys’. I’m going to give this one back to them.”

Scully chewed her lip for a minute. In the pit of her

stomach, that was exactly what she wanted. The photo of

the minister’s eyes was still haunting her. But another

part of her, the curious part that was only happy when they

were on a chase, didn’t want to let this one go that

easily. Besides, she couldn’t believe her partner was

willing to toss it aside, either, even though that’s

exactly what he was proposing.

“You don’t want it because they’re religious,” she accused

suddenly, realization brightening her eyes.

Mulder gave her a blank stare and then shook his head in

disgust. “Scully, do you really want to start this?

Because I’m beginning to hate this game.”

“What game?” she shot back.

“The ‘you’re a good Catholic and I’m a dirty atheist’

game. I really hate it. Look, just because I don’t go to

church every Sunday and you do doesn’t mean I hate

religion.”

“Mulder, you have told me, flat out, that you don’t like

organized religion,” she replied evenly. “And I’ve never

called you a ‘dirty atheist,'” she added, her voice

betraying the pain of that accusation.

He stood there for a full minute, looking like he was

going to try and prove her wrong. Then he dropped his head

to his chest. “Look, I admit there is some drawing power

to this case. The whole concept that someone might be

delusional to the point of feeling they are acting as

‘God’s Avenging Angel.’ The Good vs. Evil, and I would be

willing to bet that in each and every case, the killer

feels that the victim is somehow the evil one. I love that

kind of shit, Scully, I eat it up with a spoon and you know

it. But is it really an X-File?”

He had her stymied. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he

had taken control of the argument and brought it back to

the only point that mattered, but he’d done it. Damn him,

she always liked to do that. But grudgingly, she had to

agree. As interesting as the case might be, if the answer

could be found in the most recent JACS, there probably

wasn’t much there for the X-Files Division. Fighting it

every step of the way, a small smile grew on her face.

“You’re right, Mulder. This very likely is not an X-File.

And for the record, you owe me this month’s issue of the

Journal.”

“So, I give this back to the bad boys at VCS?” he asked,

not hiding his own grin in the least. “We have real

mutants to catch, Scully.”

“Speaking of which, I have a date at Quantico. They’re

backed up and called for reinforcements. I’ll be gone the

rest of the afternoon.”

“We still on for tonight?” he asked hopefully. She

couldn’t decide whether she wanted to kiss the little boy

look on his face, or scrub it off with a scrub brush. She

did neither.

“We are, but remember, my turn for the movie. I fully

intend to get something I want to see,” she warned, picking

up her coat and briefcase as she headed for the door.

“I’ll make sure the pizza gets there on time this time,

Scully. See you later.”

Mulder’s Apartment

6:55 p.m.

The doorbell rang and Mulder rose off the couch to

retrieve his wallet to pay for the pizza that awaited them

on the other side of the door. He went into his bedroom and

returned with a ten, a five, and a few singles.

That was Scully’s influence no doubt. There was a time

when he would have handed over $15 to cover the cost and

tip for a $13.99 large, extra cheese pizza. The first time

Scully saw him do that, however, she’d gasped and

immediately ran to pick up her purse to add a few singles

to the payment. The delivery boy looked at her with an

expression something akin to love at first sight, and then

muttered, “Wow, I hope he keeps you around,” and then in a

clearer voice, he expressed his thanks.

So now, Mulder had learned his lesson and automatically

produced the appropriate number of singles to cover a tip

that Scully was no longer embarrassed by. The amazing

thing was, it had become second nature to Mulder.

Guess you could teach an old dog new tricks.

“Grab some beers, will ya Scully?” called out Mulder as he

carried over the hot pie to the coffee table.

“Sure,” she replied and made her way into the kitchen.

She grabbed a couple of bottles that were chilling in the

refrigerator and returned to the couch where Mulder had put

down a couple of paper plates.

“You know, that case from this morning has some

interesting aspects to it, Scully.”

“No.”

“No?” he echoed.

“No talk of cases tonight, Mulder. I want this to be a

nice, relaxing time together. Please.”

“Relaxing, eh?” he said with his patented leer.

“Yeah, big boy,” she retorted, “relaxing.”

“Oh, Scully, if it weren’t for the fact that I was

starving at the moment, I’d be happy to help you relax,” he

said as he picked up a slice of the steaming, gooey pizza.

“Gee, Mulder, it’s not often I can say you’re thinking

with your stomach instead of your–” she began.

“–Damn! It’s hot!” he exclaimed as he tried to pick up

the first slice.

“Well, we’d just complain if it arrived cold, right?” she

asked with a wry smile. “Be patient, it’ll cool off soon

enough, Mulder.”

“Yeah, but I’m hungry now,” he replied. The fact that his

stomach chose that very moment to growl loudly threw both

partners into a fit of laughter. “See? The stomach don’t

lie, Scully.”

“No, I suppose not. Let me try,” she said as she deftly

removed the first slice with the help of a butter knife.

“Here you go, Mulder. Feast!”

Scully took one for herself and then the two of them

settled back to enjoy a video Scully had rented.

“Now, ya wanna tell me again why I want to see this film,

Scully?”

“It’s called “House of Mirth,” Mulder, and it’s a very

poignant story that is universal in its attempt to tell of

how greed can be the downfall of all who crave money

without earning it,” she explained.

“Um, right, but Scully, Caddyshack does the same thing and

we would have had some laughs while watching it, too.”

“Mulder, c’mon! You chose the movie last week. You didn’t

hear me crabbing when we watched Road Trip for the

seventeenth time, did you?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll be good, but Scully, they’re wearing

hats and gloves and stuff,” he pouted.

“Mulder…” she uttered with a warning tone.

Mulder closed his mouth around a bite of pizza.

“HOT!” he cried out immediately, although the utterance

wasn’t quite that clear. He dropped the pizza back into

the plate as he reached for his beer to take a cooling swig.

“You okay?” Scully asked with some concern.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. His tongue felt like it had

swelled to twice its size in a matter of moments. “Damn,

‘dat was hot!”

“Poor baby,” Scully cooed. “Want me to kiss and make all

better?”

“Oh, ‘Cully, ‘dat’s the ni’tet t’ing you could ever ‘tay

to me.”

Scully, of course, burst out laughing.

Scully managed to scarf down two of the large slices and

two beers, while Mulder polished off three beers, three

slices, and was eyeing a fourth.

“You do realize you’re going to explode if you do,” Scully

said as she watched her partner wage an internal war with

himself.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Besides, if I eat it now,

what’ll I have for breakfast?”

“Oh, you’re such a gourmet, Mulder!” replied Scully with a

giggle.

“Yeah, that’s me. Hey, c’mere,” he said softly.

“What?”

“You’ve got some cheese on your sweater,” he said as he

pointed to her collar.

Just as it appeared that Mulder was going to reach over

with his fingers to pluck the piece of cheese up, Mulder

leaned in quickly and devoured his partner’s neck while

also managing to scoop up the cheese with his tongue.

She squealed in utter surprise and in utter delight.

“You taste good, Scully. A whole lot better than pizza,”

he said through alternating kisses and licks of the skin

exposed just above her collar.

“How good is that?” she asked in a breathy tone and

wondered if she’d be able to maintain any kind of composure.

Wondered why she would want to.

“Oh, good, Scully. Really, really good.” And with that

he stood up and scooped her up in his arms. “But I think

there are other parts of your anatomy that I want to taste

even more.”

“Only if I can join in this little dessert, too, Mulder.”

“Sure, Scully, I learned to play nice in the sandbox with

my playmates,” he responded.

And so did she.

He nibbled at her neck, just under her chin and then

slowly worked his way down to the hollow area of her neck

just where her cross lay. Scully lifted her chin up a bit

to allow Mulder better access and sighed in delight when he

continued his explorations.

And groaned when he stopped.

Why did he stop?

“Mulder?”

“Shh, listen,” he said in a whisper.

“Listen to what? I don’t hear anything,” she pouted as

she reached around his head in an effort to prod him back

to her chin, and her neck, and her chest, and her…

“That’s just it, Scully. I don’t hear anything,” he

agreed with a tone of wonder. “No phone ringing, no

doorbell buzzing, no gunshots through the window…”

“Mulder!” she cried out slapping his arm in quick

reaction while he laughed aloud.

“Think about it, Scully. This has got to be a sign. It’s

got to be some kind of omen.”

“Mulder, shut up and get back here, now!” she growled with

a hint of a smile.

“Simmer down Agent Scully,” he said with a chuckle, “no

need to pull out the weapon yet.”

“Oh, no?” she said with a lecherous grin, as she snaked

her hand down the front of her partner’s pants. “It seems

to me the weapon is very much in need of being pulled out.”

Mulder managed a low, very needy, groan before he was able

to replace his lips on just the parts Scully desired.

And then some.

Mulder’s Apartment

Saturday, September 22, 2001

5:45 a.m.

It was barely dawn when he reached over and lightly

touched her bare leg. He reveled in how good it felt to be

able to reach over and touch her at will. Her skin was so

soft, so smooth… Well, usually.

Mulder smiled when he realized how mortified Scully would

feel if she knew that he was playing with the light hair on

her legs. Maybe he’d offer to help her shave them, or wax

them, or whatever women did to make their legs feel silky

smooth. All he knew was right now Scully felt wonderful to

him, and he was perfectly content to have her in his arms,

hairy legs and all.

Slowly his fingers wandered towards her navel, and he made

small, loving circles around it before he found himself

moving up toward his favorite part of his partner’s

anatomy. He listened to Scully sigh contentedly.

She always knew Mulder was a breast man.

Slowly, Scully placed feathery touches on his knees and

thighs, which remained wrapped comfortably around her legs

like a Christmas present’s ribbon.

As his fingers reached more urgently for her, she answered

with her own fingers in kind. Mulder felt his urgency

build slowly at first, but the anticipation grew and the

excitement caused both of their bodies to respond

without inhibitions. Their mutual desire to satisfy one

another was their first priority, and as a result, their

breathing soon came in pants and quiet cries of blessed

release.

Scully reached around to draw him into a soft, but very

passionate kiss. He loved her back as he knew she loved him.

“Go back to sleep,” he quietly urged. “It’s still so early.”

“Mmmm,” she murmured and prepared to snuggle into him more

comfortably.

“Just a minute, Dana,” he whispered, as he unraveled from

her.

“Mulder?” she asked with her eyes still closed.

“Go back to sleep.” He slowly got out of bed and went

into the bathroom. By the time he’d finished with his

shower and dressed, she’d fallen back into a fairly deep

sleep.

He bent down and placed a light kiss on her lips.

“Sleep now?” she asked.

“I have to go out for a little bit. We’ll talk later. You

sleep.” He reached over and kissed her again. He walked

out of the bedroom into the kitchen to set up the coffeepot

for her. After he set the timer, he jotted a quick note

and leaned it against her mug.

He lightly danced his fingers over the note one last time

and then he left, locking the door behind him.

Mulder’s Apartment

8:45 am

“Mulder?” she called out as she stretched catlike amid the

rumpled sheets. She crawled out of bed and wondered how

long he’d been up. She realized it was quite possible he

was out jogging, though after this morning’s extension of

last night’s wondrous activities, she wasn’t certain how he

had the strength.

She knew she sure didn’t.

She went into the bathroom and took care of her morning

business, and made sure to run her toothbrush across her

teeth. She didn’t even remember which of the dozen times

she’d been over when he’d been injured that she’d left it

there. The only thing worse than kissing Mulder with

morning breath was trying to drink coffee with unbrushed

teeth.

She went into the kitchen, led by the aroma of the coffee

that had brewed only a short time before.

“Mulder, if ever there was a reason I loved you, this has

to be it,” she murmured aloud as she picked the pot up.

She noticed the note by her mug and picked it up as she

poured. Next, Scully carried both the steaming cup of

coffee and the note into the living room and sat down on

the couch. She pushed aside the box of leftover pizza over

to place her mug down.

Scully unfolded the note and managed to decipher Mulder’s

small, scrawling handwriting.

“SHIT!”

She read the short note again.

“SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!” she cried out. “Damn it, Mulder, what

the hell do you think you’re doing? And why the hell

didn’t you tell me?”

She threw the note down onto the coffee table, while at

the same time opened up the pizza box and picked up a cold

slice to munch on. A little comfort food was called for,

as Scully needed to fortify herself before she called

Quantico to ask Mulder why the hell he got himself assigned

to that damned case.

Mulder’s Apartment

4:35 p.m.

Scully was still fuming as she unlocked the door to

Mulder’s apartment. She didn’t bother to knock. She only

hoped he would be standing close enough that the door would

slam into him when she burst in. That would serve him

right, the bastard!

She hadn’t spent the entire day looking for him. No, she

vowed as she munched cold pizza, deliberately leaving

greasy fingerprints all over his leather couch, only to

wipe them clean after taking her shower, that she was not

going to run after him like some crazed fish wife. But as

she went to the cleaners and picked up her clothes, went to

the market and stocked her rapidly depleting supply of

feminine products and nonperishable grocery items, went to

the computer store to see if her new power cord had

arrived, she couldn’t shake the feelings that were invading

her thoughts.

Sure, this was not technically a ditch. Even she had to

admit that. He had told her exactly where he was going.

He had even stayed in the same time zone. She knew his

approximate location all through the day, and for once, she

was relatively certain that he was safe from physical harm.

But that was the rub. He might have been safe from

physical harm, but that wasn’t the only harm Fox William

Mulder was known to encounter and Scully knew that

painfully well. He wasn’t taking this case as an X-File.

Which meant he wasn’t expecting a nice, paranormal reason

behind these murders. In turn, that meant he knew, as only

he could know, there was a person behind these deaths.

Someone truly vile and depraved, someone hard to catch,

making the journey to follow him that much more difficult.

This was a John Mostow, a John Roche, a Luther Boggs, a

Lucas Henry, dare she even think it to herself, this was a

Bill Patterson.

Sometime around 3, she was sitting at a stoplight when

a memory hit her so hard and so real she had to pull off

the road. It was an image of her partner, her lover,

finally, and he was lying in a hospital bed in the

psychiatric ward, hands and feet bound to the bed rails.

“Scully, you can’t tell me that after all these years, you

didn’t see this coming.” Sure, at the time it was a jest,

but more so an accusation.

Yes, she had stood by and said very little each time he

plunged himself into the ‘abyss of darkness’ as he waxed

poetic in their field report. But each time, she noticed

with horror that it was getting harder and harder for

Mulder to find his way back out of the darkness. His

greatest fear, besides losing her, was losing himself to

that darkness, becoming another Patterson, the negative of

the man he aspired to be. And here he was, running headlong

into a situation that could very possibly fulfill that self-

made prophesy.

The door squealed open and hit the wall with the force of

her entrance. The bang resounded loudly, but it was met by

silence. Only the fish tank created any white noise. Then

she heard a dresser drawer open and she headed resolutely

for the bedroom.

He looked up expectantly when she entered. “Scully, where

ya been? I tried your apartment but the machine picked up.”

“What are you doing?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

For a moment it occurred to her he might mistake her

question. She meant both in general, with this case, and

specifically, as he was taking clothes out of his dresser

and putting them in his suitcase.

“There was another murder, just today in Biloxi,

Mississippi. The task force is meeting first thing

tomorrow morning. Tom booked me on a flight tonight, I’ve

got to be out at Dulles in half an hour.” He glanced at

his watch. “Shit, make that 25 minutes. Hey, this

morning, did you see my razor in the bathroom?”

She blinked at him. He had no idea how angry she was at

that moment and apparently it wouldn’t really matter if he

did. She willed herself to calm down. “Did you check on

the floor next to the sink?”

He grinned at her and gave her the thumbs up as he hurried

across the hall. “Bingo!” he cried triumphantly. “I

really need to get one with those shower holders, like you

have,” he grinned again and stuffed the razor in his travel

bag. “Good thing you’re here. I don’t know if I need long

term or short-term parking. Give me a ride to the airport?”

Realizing it was her only chance to talk to him, she took

it. “Sure. But Mulder, I really want to talk for a minute.”

“Twenty minutes on the Beltway, Scully. That enough

time?” He grabbed the suitcase and his briefcase and

headed into the hallway.

She was following behind him, a position she always hated.

Not so much because of its submissive role, but because she

was never sure if he was listening to her when she couldn’t

see his face. “Mulder, why didn’t you tell me you’d gone

to VCS and offered your services?”

“I tried to tell you, Scully. Last night,” he tossed over

his shoulder as he locked the door. “Remember, you

declared no shop talk.”

She bit her lip to keep from screaming. She had meant

general, run of the mill debate on the merits of a case,

not announcements of transfers, no matter how temporary.

But, of course, Mulder wouldn’t see the significant

difference there.

“Besides, I didn’t call them. After you left yesterday,

Tom Alexander called me.” Scully thought hard and finally

remembered, Tom Alexander, the new head of VCS. At her

furrowed brow, he supplied more information. “Tom and I

shared a room at the academy.”

“He asked for your help,” she said flatly.

“He reminded me that I owed him one. And I did. He

pulled my ass off a roof in Hogan’s Alley that was about to

collapse. I could have been laid up for weeks with

whatever broken bones I would have acquired. He never

collected, so I agreed to give him a hand here.”

“Mulder, you know how these cases affect you!” Scully

cried out in frustration as the elevator doors opened and

they entered the car.

“Scully. Relax. I’m one of the profilers. I’m not even

the main one! Tom has a new kid, a little wet behind the

ears, but all the makings of a really good behavioral

scientist. I’m just there to, well, as Tom put it, potty

train the kid.”

“Like you were just there to help out Bill Patterson?” she

asked, her voice sounding like an accusation even to her

own ears.

Mulder took a long look at her. She could see him trying

to figure out what the problem was, and failing miserably.

“Is this about this morning, Scully? Because I made

coffee. I even left a note,” he pointed out as the

elevator doors opened and he took off down the hall toward

the outer door of his building.

“No, Mulder, this has nothing to do with leaving me in bed

this morning,” Scully said with a heartfelt sigh. The man

was so dense at times, his brilliance was like finding

diamonds in a dark cave. “This is about why you left VCS

to take over the X-Files. This is about how wrapped up you

get in profiling. This is about your sanity — or, in this

case, your lack thereof!”

Mulder stopped so abruptly she had to sidestep him to keep

from plowing into his back. He turned toward her and the

look on his face chilled her to the bone. It was a look of

utter betrayal and she tried to remember every syllable

she’d just uttered that would have invoked such a response

from him.

“You think I’m crazy, Scully?” he asked in that deadly

calm voice she’d learned to both love and despise. She

loved it when he directed it at anyone he was

interrogating. She despised it when he directed it at her.

“You know better than that,” she shot back, when she

recovered sufficiently from his glare.

“You think helping out on this case is going to drive me

over the brink?” By this time they were standing outside

her car and she dug through her pocket for her keys.

“Mulder, I think every time you take a profiling case,

it’s playing with fire. Each time it’s harder and harder

for you to find your way back. And don’t stand there so

sanctimonious and try and tell me that’s not true. That is

what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid for you!”

She watched him as he visibly tried to get his anger in

check. He took several deep breaths. Then he swallowed

and looked down at her, his eyes clear and just like the

sun coming out from behind the clouds, a small smile broke

out on his face. “Eight years and I’m still getting used

to having you cover my back,” he said tenderly. He pulled

her over into his arms for just a moment, placing a kiss on

the top of her head. “I’ll be good. I’ll be careful. And

most of all, I won’t get in too deep. I promise.”

“But I won’t be with you,” she countered and tried very

hard not to sound like the whiny fishwife image she’d been

fighting all day. She unlocked his door to avoid looking

at him.

“Scully,” Mulder sighed. “Somebody has to stay behind and

keep the home fires burning. I really don’t think this is

going to take that long. I’ll watch the kid, give him some

pointers, and tell Tom our slate is clean. With luck,

we’ll catch this bastard quickly. But either way, once the

kid is up to speed, I’m history.” He got into the car and

reached over to unlock her door. She got behind the wheel

and buckled her belt before speaking again.

“You honestly believe that you will leave an open

investigation, with the perpetrator at large?” she asked,

keeping her eyes on the road as she pulled away from the

curb.

“You think I can’t?” he shot back.

“I’ve never seen you do it, Mulder. Not once. Not once

in eight years. That’s a pretty long track record.”

“Yeah, but look at us. Who would have thought last night

or anything like it would happen after eight long years,”

he countered with a devilish smile. She wasn’t buying and

he shook his head in exasperation. “Scully, things can

change. I want them to change. I don’t want to be known

as ‘Spooky’ for the rest of my life.”

She stared at him, almost making him reach out to take the

wheel before she turned back to the road.

“OK, I probably will. But I don’t want to go crazy. That

is not something I put on the list of things I want to do

before I retire.”

“I don’t like this, Mulder. I want that on the record.”

“Duly noted, Agent Scully.” He reached over and squeezed

her leg just above the knee. “I’ll call, really. And if

you think I’m losing it, you have my permission to use my

credit card, buy a plane ticket, come to wherever I am and

kick my ass, now, how’s that?”

“If that comes to pass, Mulder, you better be prepared.

Because I’m flying first class,” she muttered, but let the

subject drop for the rest of the drive to the airport.

Biloxi, Mississippi

Sunday, September 23, 2001

8 a.m.

Mulder should have felt more rested, having gone straight

to the motel room the previous night, but he didn’t sleep.

His mind was already on the case, and he was anxious to

finally meet with the team and see what they’d come up

with. The kid managed to get a flight out that morning and

was already at the Biloxi Bureau Office when Mulder

arrived. “Gotta stop thinking of him as that,” muttered

Mulder to himself as he entered the hastily set up meeting

place. Surprisingly, Tom Alexander was the first to greet

him.

“What the hell are you doing here, and who’s running the

shop back at Quantico?” asked Mulder with a smile.

“I decided someone had to watch and make sure you

remembered how to profile, Mulder,” Tom replied with a

hearty handshake. “Good to see you again. Sorry it

couldn’t be under more pleasant circumstances.”

“Yeah, but you know I’m happy to try and help you guys

out,” replied the agent.

“I know, Mulder, and I do want you to know I appreciate

it. I got a call from your AD; he was none too pleased

with me and made no bones about it,” informed the VCS head.

“Yeah, well, Skinner is a bit of a mother hen when it

comes to his people,” Mulder replied with a laugh. “You

gotta forgive him, he’s not used to people overruling his

directives.”

“I wouldn’t overrule your AD’s directive,” responded Tom

immediately, and then as sudden realization hit, he

practically moaned, “Damn it, Mulder, you didn’t–” reacted

Tom.

“Yeah, ‘fraid I did, but don’t worry about it. Skinner’s

gotten used to it.”

“Remind me to send the man a nice bottle of wine, Okay?”

“Tom, there is a definite reason you were promoted to head

of VCS,” Mulder retorted, smiling.

“But, it’s cost me half my salary to pay for the Grecian

Formula to cover all the gray hair guys like you give me,”

Tom replied in kind. “C’mon, let’s go meet the team. I

also want you to meet Kenny.”

“Kenny?”

“Kenny Andrews, our up and coming profiler

extraordinaire,” Tom reminded.

“Oh, the kid,” Mulder muttered more to himself than aloud.

Tom heard him anyway and simply laughed. “Feeling your

age a bit, eh, Mulder?”

“Don’t remind me, Alexander, okay? C’mon, let’s go put

‘the kid’ through his paces.”

When Tom pointed out Kenny Andrews, Mulder wasn’t sure if

he should be working with the guy or taking him to the

playground and push him on the swings. He looked around

twelve years old. Mulder couldn’t help but wonder if he

_ever_ looked that young.

“Remind you of anyone, Mulder?” Tom asked interrupting his

thoughts.

“Should he?”

“Mulder, everyone had the same reaction to you when you

hit VCS.”

“Reaction?” echoed Mulder.

“Oh c’mon, Mulder, is your memory that short? Patterson

had been touting you as the VCS savior. Now of course, I

knew you were just a mere mortal, having seen you in your

underwear and all, but these guys figured you were their

new superman and in you walk, looking about as old as their

teenage sons. I thought the guys in the bull pen were

going to lose their lunch!” he said laughing at the memory.

“You mean, much like I feel about now,” Mulder retorted.

“Jeeze, Tom, how old is the kid?”

“Old enough, Mulder, but for your information he’s turning

25 in a few months.”

“Twenty-four? The kid is 24 fucking years old?” Mulder

repeated in amazement.

Tom paused momentarily and then said, softly but with a

seriousness he held in reserve, “Look, Fox, the kid’s good.

Real good. But there’s one little problem.”

“Problem?”

“Yeah,” Tom answered, “a problem. He reminds me of you.”

Mulder knew Tom wasn’t joking at this point. “He gets in

deep?”

“Yeah. He can get himself in real deep. I need you to

show him the way out, Fox.”

Mulder drew in a deep breath and then let it out in one

loud blow. “Sure, Tom. Let’s go teach the kid a thing or

two about how to be spooky and still keep your marbles.”

“That’s why I knew you were the man to call, Mulder,” Tom

replied as he clapped his hand on Mulder’s shoulder.

Tom turned his face away from Mulder’s and as he continued

to walk him over to where Kenny Andrews was sitting, Tom

could only wonder who was going to help Mulder keep his?

As they drove to the site, Mulder tried to keep calm. He

knew the kid was nervous; he was meeting his idol or so

he’d said about a dozen times, so it wasn’t surprising that

Andrews kept sputtering and tripping over his words. Each

and every time he tried to offer a piece of data regarding

the latest information, he stuttered and found it

impossible to get it said without stopping and starting

countless times.

Mulder could only wonder how the hell this ‘child’ could

ever remind Tom Alexander of him. If there was one thing

Spooky Mulder was, he was smooth in his delivery of the

facts to the point of being glib, which was one of the

reasons he’d developed a goodly number of enemies in the

VCS bullpen. No one liked a wise ass, particularly a wise

ass who was almost always right and made everyone around

him look like an idiot.

The only thing that saved Mulder was that as he got deeper

and deeper into a case, he’d become less and less talkative

as he got deeper and deeper into the profile. Once that

happened, everyone knew there was no talking to ol’ Spooky,

since he was no longer just himself. He was more the UNSUB

than he was Spooky Mulder, and very few people had the

stomach to deal with him when he got to that point.

It was one of the reasons he knew he had to get out of

VCS. He knew, since there was no one person who was

willing to cover his back a hundred per cent of the time

when he was profiling, he had to save himself. Patterson

didn’t like it, but Patterson didn’t like anything that

went against his way of thinking.

Mulder was glad Tom Alexander was the new head of VCS. He

was a good man. He was the type of man who would look out

for his people in a way that Bill Patterson could never

look out for Mulder. Kenny Andrews would be okay if he got

himself in too deep. Though at the moment, Mulder couldn’t

for the life of him figure out how Kenny Andrews ever

became a profiler. He hadn’t shut up the entire time they

were driving to the site, which was approximately a twenty-

minute ride. Mulder was never so grateful to feel the car

stop so he could get out and escape the kid’s incessant

talking.

As he stood up, Mulder took a look all around him to see

what the area looked like. It was pretty much an open

field that had a large tent set up with several cars and

trucks parked to the rear right side of it. There were a

couple of local police cars parked in the location they’d

just parked. Mulder assumed it was to keep curiosity

seekers beyond the taped off section of the murder site.

The driver of the car, Agent James Sandborne was a native

of the area. He said hello to the two local law enforcement

officers and introduced Mulder and Andrews.

“So, Jimmy, you think you really need all the big guns in

here to solve this one?” asked Officer Jeremiah Thompson.

“Well, Jerry,” Agent Sandborne began, “I tell ya. It was a

bit of a surprise when the reverend passed on, dontcha

think?”

“Could be it was just his time,” offered Thompson’s

partner, Officer Avery Millstone.

“That’s true, Avery, that’s true. But we just want to

make sure that was the only reason he died and moved on to

his place in heaven, ya hear?” Agent Sandborne explained.

“Well, we hear ya, Jimmy. Y’all let us know if there’s

anything we can do for ya,” Officer Thompson offered.

“Well, that’s right kind of you, Jerry. We sure do

appreciate that,” Agent Sandborne said. And with that the

three agents began moving toward the taped off site.

“Agent Andrews, I want you to know you just witnessed the

work of a master,” stated Mulder emphatically.

“Excuse me?” asked Andrews.

“Andrews, Agent Sandborne is a master of diplomacy.”

Mulder took a quick glance at the older Sandborne and

observed him turn a couple shades of red.

“Thank you, Agent Mulder. Thanks for noticing,”

acknowledged Sandborne.

“Right,” muttered Andrews who was obviously still unsure

of what the hell Mulder was talking about.

“Agent Andrews, Agent Sandborne here just let the local PD

know that we are on their side, and we’re not trying to

steal anyone’s thunder or glory. He’s also let it be known

that we don’t consider ourselves supermen and that we don’t

necessarily have all of the answers and that we would be

happy to turn to them as the experts of the area for help

if we need it,” Mulder pointed out.

“Oh.” Andrews stood silently for a moment, and then said,

“I guess it’s important to establish some kind of rapport

with the local police, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Agent Andrews, it is. And if you don’t know how to

do it, or you know you don’t do it very well, then you

don’t ever hesitate to allow a master to do the deed. I

know of only one other person who’s as good as Agent

Sandborne,” Mulder said with a hint of a smile, “and I’ve

learned over the last several years to stick with what I

know best.

“This time, whether you know it or not, Agent Andrews, we

were both smart enough to keep our mouths shut and let

Agent Sandborne do what I have never been able to do, and

that’s make nice with the locals.” Mulder offered his hand

to Sandborne and said, “Thank you, Agent.”

Sandborne took Mulder’s hand and shook it firmly. “You’re

welcome, Agent Mulder,” he said and felt a kind of pride he

hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

As soon as they entered the tent Mulder sensed it. It

wasn’t anything he saw, but rather, it was a chill that

went right through him. He felt himself involuntarily

shiver as he placed his hand to his cheek, as a way of

measuring the temperature. His fingertips felt like ice.

It was a balmy 74 degrees outside.

Suddenly, Mulder felt slightly dizzy and somewhat overcome

with the wave of stench that permeated the air. He looked

at Agent Sandborne for an explanation, but to Mulder’s

surprise, Sandborne appeared as if nothing was unusual.

“Oh, goddamn!” rasped out Kenny Andrews. “Do you smell

that?”

“Smell what?” asked Sandborne, “I don’t smell a thing? I

mean it’s warm and everything, but it’s not hot enough for

the body to decompose in less than three hours. So, what

exactly is it you smell, Agent Andrews?”

“But, it’s vile,” he began, and then added, “Why is it so

damn cold in here?”

“What the hell are you talking about, Greenhorn?”

Sandborne asked and then he turned to Mulder and

practically chuckled in amusement, “Kids, right?”

Sandborne shook his head and informed Mulder that he was

going to check in with the other pair of local law

enforcement to see if there was any new information that he

could wheedle out of them.

“Good idea, Agent,” Mulder agreed quickly. The men nodded

and Sandborne was off.

“Agent Mulder, I’m not crazy,” Andrews implored.

“I know.”

Andrews looked surprised momentarily, and then he sighed

with relief. “You smell it, too?” Mulder nodded and

Andrews asked with a bit of hesitation, “What the hell is

it?”

“I don’t know, Agent Andrews, but it appears it’s going to

be up to us to find out, doesn’t it?”

Mulder began his survey of the area. As was his usual

procedure he began at its perimeter and moved slowly inward

toward its core. As he observed his surroundings he noted

as many details as possible, and relegated those details to

his memory for future reference.

The experienced agent caught a glance of his young protŽgŽ

as he carefully examined the body of the victim. Mulder

was very curious to hear his findings and more importantly,

to hear his impressions. Mulder suspected that Tom

Alexander was right; Agent Andrews had the intuitiveness to

be a damn fine profiler. Only problem with that was, it

could also be his downfall.

As Mulder walked the circumference he noted how the grassy

path in the aisle on the right side of the tent was worn

away, almost as if the grass died in that particular area.

Mulder found it curious that the rest of the grounds

appeared to be rather healthy; it was only in that

particular area, the right aisle on the edge of the tent,

that it was eroded away. There were many brown patches as

well and several, albeit small, totally bare sections.

Mulder knelt down and with a gloved hand pulled up some of

the deadened grass. Surprisingly, the grass felt warm, and

when Mulder raised it to his nose to sniff it, there was a

faint burnt smell.

He suddenly flashed on a darkened shadow hovering above

him. Mulder had no idea as to what it was, but it startled

him and he quickly jumped up from his kneeling position.

He looked to see if anyone else saw what was standing right

before him, but the others walked around, business as

usual. The agent took a deep breath and quickly placed the

sample into a plastic evidence bag and moved on in his

circular investigation.

At one point Andrews and Mulder crossed paths and the men

found themselves taking opposite routes. They stopped and

stared at one another briefly. Mulder’s eyes had grown

dark and focused; he was not surprised to see the younger

man’s do the same. There was no need to talk at this

point. Discussion and comparison of observations would

come later. Both men needed a chance to absorb and

assimilate the crime scene. Andrews traveled toward the

outer circle of the murder site, while Mulder moved within

a couple of yards of the victim.

Again, something flashed before Mulder. He couldn’t

decide if it was in his mind’s eye, or if it was something

actually present at the scene. He looked around quickly to

see if anyone else was reacting to the black cloud of a

shadow that blocked his path to the victim. He wondered if

the kid could feel it and wanted to call out to him to look.

But he couldn’t. His voice remained suppressed in his

throat and all Mulder could do was shudder with a feeling

of both fear and disgust. As suddenly as it appeared, it

disappeared and Mulder found himself walking quickly toward

the victim.

He knelt down again and this time touched the black

minister with his gloved hand. Flashes of images quickly

took a foothold in Mulder’s mind and he couldn’t shut them

off.

“Amen, Brothers and Sistas,” cried the Reverend Abraham

Stewart, otherwise known as Reverend Abe. “Let me hear an

AMEN!”

“AMEN!” cried out the congregation.

“This is to tell our God, our Lord, Jesus Christ, our

Savior that we trust in him and that we KNOW that if we

have faith in Him, He will save us!”

“AMEN!” responded the crowd, their cries even louder than

before.

Mulder felt something on his shoulder and then someone was

shaking him.

“Agent Mulder? Agent Mulder, are you okay?” asked

Sandborne anxiously.

“What?” Mulder shook his head as if to get rid of some

cobwebs that had suddenly taken up residence.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he said even though he didn’t

believe a word of it.

“Are you sure? You looked kind of out it,” probed

Sandborne.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Mulder stood up, and felt his bones

crackle a bit. Damn, he thought to himself, I am getting

too old for this shit.

“Well, then if you’re okay, would you mind going over and

seeing if the greenhorn’s all right? He’s acting a little

funny over there too.”

Mulder looked over to where Kenny Andrews stood. It was

the right aisle of the tent and Mulder could see the

younger man was almost swaying with his eyes shut tight.

“Shit,” he muttered aloud. Mulder moved as quickly as he

could to Andrews’ side.

“Agent Andrews!” Mulder called out and then grasped his

shoulder and shook him. In a low, but firm voice, he

ordered, “Andrews, come on back. Now, damn it.”

Andrews opened his eyes and uttered very softly, “Amen.”

The drive back to the bureau office was a quiet one.

Sandborne had tried to make a little small talk at first

but soon realized that neither Agent Mulder nor Agent

Andrews were up for any chitchat.

He pulled into the Bureau parking lot and watched as they

both got of the car in tandem; Mulder exited from the front

passenger side and Andrews from the rear. Their movements

mirrored one another’s and Sandborne felt himself shudder

just a bit at the sight. They left without looking back or

saying a word.

“Do you drink coffee?” asked Mulder. The younger man

shook his head and Mulder smiled for the first time in

hours. “Well, if you’re going to become a first class

profiler, Andrews, you’re going to have to find a caffeine

source.”

“No problem, Agent Mulder,” he said as he hoisted a small

duffel bag up from the corner of the office. He pulled out

two twenty-four-can cases of Coca-Cola. “And there’s

plenty more where these came from.” Kenny exhibited his

first smile in a few hours as well.

Both men breathed a small sigh of relief, though neither

had been aware of any real tension between them. It was

more of the situation; it was the crime. It was the fact

that they were able to see things no one else had been able

to see.

The kid was scared to death about it.

Mulder was resigned.

“So? Tell me what you’re thinking, kid,” Mulder said.

The younger man blushed a bit; he wasn’t sure if his hero

was making fun of him or not. He wanted to be taken

seriously, but if Mulder was going to treat him as if he

were a schoolboy, then there was no sense in even bothering

to share his thoughts.

“Listen,” Mulder hesitated. Some might think Mulder was

able to read Andrews’s mind, but the older agent would have

been quick to point out there was nothing magical about

being able to read someone who wore his heart on his

sleeve. Hell, Scully had been able to do that with him

often enough. He was able to keep everyone else at an

emotional distance, but not her.

Never Scully.

“Listen, Andrews,” he began again, “when I call you kid,

it’s not an insult, okay? Shit, I’m the ‘old man’ in this

little alliance we got going, so let’s not walk on

eggshells with one another, okay?”

Andrews nodded, and said, “Well, old man–“

“–Let’s not get carried away, Kid, okay?”

Andrews noted the small smile on Mulder’s face and

continued, “It was damned near one of the oddest

experiences I’ve ever had.”

“How so?” Mulder probed gently.

“I felt like I was seeing flashes of the scene. I mean,

before the guy was murdered.”

“Yeah,” Mulder acknowledged. The kid looked at Mulder

with his head cocked and wore a puzzled expression.

“What?” asked Mulder.

“You’re not going to even question it? I mean, you’re

just going to accept it at face value?” he asked

incredulously.

“No one’s ever accepted what you have to say without

giving you an argument?” asked Mulder.

“Screw that! I’d love an argument; it’s the out and out

dismissals of my ideas that piss me off.”

“Yeah,” Mulder said with obvious affection in his voice,

“arguments can be a very good thing. Keeps you honest.”

Andrews nodded at that and then asked, “You believe me.

You saw them, too, didn’t you?”

“Now I know why Alexander picked you out of the lot as

someone to watch,” Mulder said with a smile. “Yeah, I had

some flashes, too. You tell me about yours and I’ll tell

you about mine,” he said lightly.

The kid laughed and nodded his head in agreement. “I kept

seeing this black thing hanging around me, and it was cold.

Damn, Agent Mulder, it felt so damned cold every time it

appeared.”

“I saw that too. Oh, and it’s just Mulder, please.” Kenny

nodded and then Mulder asked, “What happened just before we

left. What were you seeing then?”

“Everything, I think.”

“Such as?” Mulder probed.

“The people were sitting in the seats. The reverend was

standing up on the stage and whipping those guys into a

frenzy. And that’s all. The next thing I remember you

were standing next to me and telling me it was time to come

back here.”

“That sounds like something similar to what I

experienced,” Mulder acknowledged.

“You’re kidding,” Andrews reacted incredulously. Mulder

assured him that he was not kidding, so the kid said, “This

is incredible, Mulder. I mean, what the hell does it mean?

Why were we the only ones to feel this… this… damn!

I don’t even know how to describe it! How the hell am I

supposed to put this into a report?” Andrews expressed with

pure frustration.

“Don’t worry about that. The facts will present

themselves, Andrews and we’ll have a report, with or

without our so-called icing on the cake details,” assured

Mulder. “Now, tell me your impressions of the crime scene.”

And he did. Kenny Andrews spoke for a solid thirty

minutes before Mulder was able to even ask a question.

Mulder shook his head in admiration. The kid was good.

Really, really good.

And it scared the hell out of Mulder because he knew just

where that ability was going to lead the poor guy.

“So, based upon the scene and the attributes you’ve

described, tell me your first impressions of our UNSUB,”

Mulder encouraged.

It was the first time all day that Kenny Andrews appeared

speechless.

“Talk to me, Kenny,” Mulder encouraged quietly. “It’s

just you and me in here.”

“I don’t know,” he began hesitantly. “I don’t know if I

want to know.”

“I know, but if we’re going to prevent this from happening

again, we’re going to have to start profiling this…”

“Thing,” interjected Andrews. “This entity,” he

practically

spat. “Mulder, the preacher was described by witnesses as

a good man. They said he had some inflexible religious

views as is often the case with a fundamentalist sect, but,

basically, they said he was a good man.

“He was seared through his heart, Mulder. Straight

through his heart. This looks like something out of God

Damned Star Wars, but it’s not that, Mulder. I know it’s

not that.”

“How do you know?” Mulder quickly asked.

“I… I don’t know, I just do, damn it! C’mon, this is no

technological genius we’re dealing with, and you know it!

This is evil, Mulder, this pure evil.”

The younger man stood off in a corner with his arms

wrapped around his own body to prevent the involuntary

shudders from traveling through his body. Mulder looked

away for a moment; he needed to regain control of his own

body’s reaction.

The kid was good, Mulder had to admit it. He agreed with

everything he’d stated. Now, what to do about it.

Mulder looked at his watch and realized he was going to

have to check in with Scully soon. He knew she was going

to ask about the progress of the investigation and how the

kid was getting along. He knew he was going to have to

tell her something.

He also knew he was going to have to lie through his teeth

in order to buy himself some time.

Act II

Office of the Assistant Director

Monday, September 24, 2001

8:15 a.m.

Scully rapped on the glass so as not to startle Kim as she

sat listening to the voice mail on her phone. Kim smiled

and waved her to the couch against the wall opposite her

desk. Scully thought about standing but thought better of

it and sat on the edge of the cushion.

She hadn’t been totally surprised when a message on her

own voice mail told her that the assistant director wanted

to see her the minute she got into the office. She even

expected the fact that her superior’s voice would hold that

strained quality it usually had when he was considering the

options of a life sentence for killing her partner, or just

10-20 for attempted murder.

But that didn’t make it any easier to wait for the chewing

out she was expecting. One of these times, she vowed

silently as she waited, she was going to tape one of these

sessions and force Mulder to listen to it, all day long, if

necessary.

Kim finished getting her messages and looked up at Scully.

“Boy, I don’t know what your partner did this time, but I

lost a coffee mug this morning because of him,” she said

with an exasperated huff.

“I’ll make sure he replaces it, Kim,” Scully assured the

woman, just as the inner office door opened and Assistant

Director Skinner loomed in the doorway.

“Scully. Now.” Without waiting for her to join him, he

returned into his office and took his place behind his

desk. Scully couldn’t resist a quick peek in his

wastebasket, situated next to his desk as she passed it on

the way to her seat. Sure enough, the colored remains of a

light brown coffee mug littered the bottom of the can.

“Don’t bother sitting, Agent. This won’t take long,”

Skinner growled and Scully resisted the urge to cringe at

the sound of his voice. Instead, she straightened her back,

squared her shoulders and waited for the coming storm.

“I assume you were informed of your partner’s recent

defection to Violent Crimes Section?” Skinner asked, low

and menacing. It was a double-edged sword. A yes meant

she knew before the AD and that was bad for her. A no

meant that Mulder hadn’t even bothered to tell his partner,

and that would be even worse for Mulder.

“I found out on Saturday, sir,” Scully answered honestly.

“I heard from him briefly last night. He and the other

profiler were putting together a preliminary profile.

Everything seemed fine.”

“It would have been nice of him to at least give me a

heads up, after I called SAC Alexander following our

meeting Friday and explained that the X-Files Division was

much too busy with its own cases to offer assistance on

this one,” Skinner intoned evenly. Scully could see the

little vein throbbing at his neck and wondered how close he

was to red-lining on a blood pressure scale.

“Sir, as Agent Mulder explained it to me, this is a

personal favor to SAC Alexander. They have a new profiler,

and Agent Mulder agreed to come in strictly on a consulting

basis. Once the new agent has his feet under him, Agent

Mulder will be leaving the task force and returning his

attention to his own division. In the meantime, I am

pursuing the other cases that the division is currently

investigating.”

Skinner was unearthly still for a good minute. Then his

expression softened somewhat and he drew in a deep breath.

“Off the record, Scully. This is a profiling case. I

really hate to think he’s working this without…”

Scully didn’t need a road map to know that the AD was

disturbed that she wouldn’t be providing her partner with

back up, professional or otherwise.

“I have expressed my own concerns to Agent Mulder, sir,”

she assured him. “He seems intent on helping VCS out, but

only in as far as the new agent needs assistance getting

started. He is aware of the potential hazards this case

poses.” To her great relief, Skinner’s expression told her

he was able to read between the lines. She was going to be

on top of this, all the way.

“You will be keeping in contact with him?” It was more of

a statement, worded as a question. In other circumstances,

it probably would have been issued as an order.

“Absolutely, sir,” Scully responded, nodding for emphasis.

Skinner still wasn’t happy, but he seemed to relax a

little. “Next time, Scully, remind him that I can be

reached off hours and if something like this comes up,

that’s exactly how I would prefer it be handled.”

“I will do that, sir,” Scully said, rising to leave while

the conversation was on relatively neutral ground.

Before she got to the door, Skinner called her name.

“Scully, that goes for you, too.”

Scully didn’t say anything, just nodded. Message

received, if she had any problems with Mulder or detected

any problems, she was to bring them to Skinner first.

She just hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Dana Scully’s apartment

8:15 p.m.

The bag of groceries held out until she got the door

unlocked. As she stepped into her apartment, the bottom

ripped out and the contents, including a dozen eggs and a

sixteen-ounce tub of yogurt, spilled out onto her hardwood

floor. Anger would have been her first emotion, but she

was just too tired. Instead, she kicked at the mess with

her foot and trudged off toward her bedroom, shedding her

suit jacket and pants as she went.

In jeans and a sweater, she returned to clean up the mess.

Six of the eggs were history, but that still left enough

for an omelet on Saturday. She sighed to herself. If

Mulder was finished playing ‘big brother’ to the new guy in

VCS, maybe she could make that a nice six egg omelet and

share it with her partner next Saturday morning. That

thought made her smile. The rest of the contents of the

bag were relatively unscathed, so she scrubbed up the egg

yolk and yogurt and put the groceries away.

Dinner consisted of the contents still clinging to the

inside of the tub of yogurt, which she would never admit to

anyone. “Five-second rule, Scully,” Mulder had once

enlightened her. “It takes germs at least five seconds to

infect something when it lands on the floor.” At the time,

she’d been appalled that her partner could eat food that

had fallen on the motel shag carpet, but as the case they

were on grew longer and the runs to get food grew fewer and

farther in between, she found the economic sense in his

actions. Besides, she was just too tired to cook.

She glanced at the phone at least four times before

deciding she needed a soak. She hadn’t had a good bubble

bath in… She couldn’t remember how long it had been

since she’d had a good soak in the tub. It was once a

Friday night ritual, when the two agents weren’t on a case.

But since she’d been spending Friday evenings with Mulder,

she’d traded her bubble bath for something more engaging.

She smiled as slipped into the tub and let the bubbles

tickle her chin. She and Mulder had finally crossed the

line, that invisible line they’d drawn in the sand over

eight years ago. She drew in a deep breath, thinking how

nice it would be for him to surprise her, sneak in her

apartment and join her in the tub. There was enough room,

more than enough. She lay there until the water grew cold,

waiting for him. It was with a touch of disappointment

that she climbed out of the tepid water and toweled herself

off. It was only 10 p.m., but she was dead tired, and

now deliciously warm, so she crawled into bed and drifted

off to sleep with the image of Mulder’s arms around her,

holding her close.

She was running through an empty airport. It looked

almost like Dulles, but it could have been any of a hundred

airports she’d been in all across the country. She

couldn’t help wondering where all the people were. But

more than anything else, she knew she had to find her

partner.

The gates flashed past her as she ran, and the end of the

hall seemed to be getting further and further away. She

was certain that Mulder was just in front of her, at some

gate she was running toward. Outside, dark clouds engulfed

the runways and lightning flashed, illuminating the

concourse in eerie shadows.

She saw him, finally, probably no more than fifty yards

away. She called out to him and he turned toward her,

started to come forward to greet her. A dark shadow formed

between them, and Mulder was obscured from her view. She

called his name and heard him call back to her, but his

voice sounded farther away than she knew him to be. His

voice sounded muffled, and then she heard him yelling,

telling her to run, to get away.

She was about to turn, figuring that he would follow.

When she didn’t hear his footsteps behind her she looked

over her shoulder and saw him struggling. He was fighting

with the shadow, which had taken the form of a human, much

taller than her 6-foot partner. The shadow was at least 10

feet tall and Mulder was quickly losing his battle. Scully

watched in horror as the shadow took hold of Mulder’s neck

with long arms and with one quick twist and a loud snap,

Mulder’s eyes went wide, his body went limp and he dropped

to the floor. She couldn’t tear her eyes from his lifeless

expression as she started to scream.

Sirens were blaring and she couldn’t move, nor could she

break her gaze from the man lying now mere yards from her.

The shadow seemed to grow even larger and was bearing down

on her when the sirens grew so great that she had to clasp

her hands over her ears…

It was the phone! Catching her breath, she frantically

glanced around her darkened bedroom, finally realized she’d

just had one hell of a nightmare. The phone went silent

for a moment, then started ringing again. She fumbled with

the receiver and finally picked it up with a shaking hand.

“Yes, Scully,” she panted, her voice cracking almost as

badly as her hands were shaking. Cradling the phone

against her shoulder, she wiped at the tears still wet on

her cheeks.

“Scully, you OK?”

She almost cried out in relief. Mulder. Just the person

she needed to hear from most. She took a moment to draw in

a lungful of air and calm down. She didn’t want him to

know she’d been crying in her sleep. Or what she’d been

crying about.

“I’m fine, Mulder. I was asleep.”

“Asleep? Scully, it’s 11:25 at home. Since when do you

go to bed before the late news is off?” Mulder asked,

trying to keep his tone light but failing to hide his

concern completely. “You sure you’re OK?”

“Hey, you know how paperwork wears me out. I was

exhausted when I got home. I took a bubble bath. . .”

“Stop right there, Scully. I know all about your dirty

little secret. You get in a bath and you’re out for the

night. And I’d rather not talk about you soaking in a tub

of bubbles unless I’m there to partake in the festivities.”

“Awfully presumptuous, aren’t you G-Man?” she teased. It

was so good just to hear his voice. Her dream was fading

with each breath she heard him take over the phone line.

“I mean, who said my tub’s big enough for the both of us.”

“I can squeeze in there somewhere, Scully,” he shot back

and she didn’t try to hold in her laugh.

“So, did you get the new kid straightened out?” she asked.

Hearing his voice, she wanted him home more than anything.

The dream was fading, but the anxiety it produced was still

ripping through her veins. She didn’t like Mulder being

hundreds of miles away with no one but a wet behind the

ears newbie watching his back. It was too easy for her to

remember her own experience with a raw recruit. Her side

still ached from time to time to remind her.

“Kenny? He’s a good kid, but I might have to hang on a

couple more days. Hey, I need a favor,” he said, deftly

switching the subject.

“Ah, Mulder,” she groaned. “I hate your favors!”

“Scully! You haven’t even heard this one! Give me a

chance, please,” he whined.

“Yeah, Mulder. One chance. Like the one chance I gave

you in Chaney, Texas, and the one chance I gave you in

Arcadia Falls, California, and let’s not forget the one

chance I gave you in Pentwater, Michigan…”

“Hey, hold up there! This one is nothing like those other

times, Scully, I swear.”

“Spill it, Mulder. What’s the big favor?” she asked dryly.

“Run up to Monsey, New York and get an exhumation order

for the rabbi who was killed in April.”

“Mulder! That rabbi was Hassidic!”

“Yeah, so? They didn’t do an autopsy, Scully. We need

that information for the profile. Besides, Hassidic Jews

abide by the same laws and authorities we all do.”

“Oh, well, then why don’t you ‘run up to Monsey, New York’

and get the exhumation order, Mulder?” she taunted.

“Because you’re much harder to turn down, Scully,” he

replied quickly and she could almost see the leering smile

on his all too handsome face. A smile she would have dearly

loved to scrub right off his kisser at that moment.

“Oh, all right. I’ll go. But they have every reason to

deny this request, Mulder. You have very little to go on

and the other autopsies haven’t given you any additional

leads,” she reminded him.

“I know, Scully. But those other autopsies weren’t done

by you,” he pointed out. Damn him, he was always using

praise to get his way. She’d have to get him for that,

someday.

“So, it’s late. Are you calling me before you turn in?”

she asked, no longer wishing to spend their precious time

arguing over exhumation orders.

“Nah, actually, we just cracked open Kenny’s second case

of Coke and we’re going to get started on the preliminary

profile.”

“Mulder, did you say…”

“Coca-Cola, Scully. That Coke. Kenny doesn’t imbibe

caffeine the same way you and I do. I have a pot of motel

bathroom coffee and he’s shootin’ Cokes.”

“Well, remember to get some sleep, all right? You made me

a promise.”

“One I fully plan on keeping, Scully. I’m fine. Really.”

Even as he spoke the reassurances, a cold chill ran the

length of her spine and suddenly all she could see was the

shadow snapping his neck and Mulder falling dead to the

ground at her feet. She had to take several deep breaths

to keep from crying out again.

“Mulder…” she started. She wanted to warn him, force

him back home. Short of that, she wanted to get on the

first plane to Biloxi and stick to him like glue, making

certain neither of them ended up in any deserted airports.

“I know, Scully. I really miss you, too,” he answered

back tenderly, totally misunderstanding what she was trying

to put into words. “But I’ll see you soon. Hey, this week

it’s my turn to pick the movie. I’ll make sure I’m home by

Friday night.”

“Mulder, please, I just…”

“Just a minute, Kenny. Look, Scully, I gotta go. The kid

can’t figure out how to hook up the modem on the phone in

his room. I’ll try to call you tomorrow. And let me know

about the exhumation, we really need that autopsy.”

“Mulder…”

“You, too. Talk to you soon.” The line was disconnected

before she could slip in another word. She laid the phone

down its cradle and let the tears fall hot down her cheeks.

Tuesday, September 25, 2001

10 a.m.

As Scully punched in the touch-tones to place the call to

Monsey, New York, she realized her fingers still trembled

slightly. No matter how hard she tried to talk herself

into thinking her dream last night was nothing more than a

manifestation of her missing Mulder, she knew that it was

more than that. She couldn’t even call it a nightmare. It

was more than that, too.

A vision. It was more like that, and it scared the hell

out of her.

She heard the phone ringing on the other end and drew a

breath in anticipation of the voice on the other side. She

grasped the receiver more tightly in an effort to calm her

skittish fingers.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mr. Steiger?” asked Scully tentatively. She

hesitated momentarily as she realized she wasn’t quite

certain how to pronounce the witness’s first name.

“Yes, this is Reuven Steiger,” he responded.

Oh. That’s how, she thought to herself with a small

smile. “Mr. Steiger, my name is Dana Scully and I’m a

special agent with the FBI, in Washington. I need to speak

with you to clarify some details regarding Rabbi

Zimmerman’s death last April.” She’d realized she wasn’t

sure of the pronunciation of the rabbi’s first name as

well, ‘Shmuel.’

“I’ve already spoken with the police, Miss Scully. I

don’t know what else I could possibly add,” he said in a

soft, but firm voice.

“There’s always a possibility that some detail has been

left out, Mr. Steiger. Please, it would be of great help if

I may speak with you in person.”

There was silence for several moments, and Scully feared

her request would be refused. “Mr. Steiger?” she asked

hopefully.

“Miss Scully, please understand, it’s not that I wish to

be difficult,” he began in his soft toned voice. “Tomorrow

evening is Erev Yom Kippur, the holiest of holy days for

the Jewish people. I must be free to help my family

prepare for it; I don’t want to seem rude, but I have

little time to rehash a statement that I’d already given to

the sheriff.

“That was a very difficult time for me; for my entire

family and the congregation of our shul. Please understand

if I’m reluctant to relive it.”

“Mr. Steiger, I do understand, and it is not my intent to

intrude upon your family during your holiday. I can catch

a shuttle to New York this afternoon. We could meet, and

then I’ll be out of your hair shortly after that. I

promise.”

Scully wondered momentarily to herself if she weren’t

going to be damned to hell for lying to the young man. She

was going to ask permission to exhume the body of the man’s

Rabbi, for heaven’s sake. If that wasn’t getting into

one’s hair, she wasn’t sure what was.

“Very well, Miss Scully, I’ll meet you in our synagogue’s

office this afternoon. Do you have a time in mind?”

Scully knew there was a hourly business shuttle that left

Dulles on weekday mornings, so she was fairly certain that

if she moved quickly she could catch a flight, grab a

rental car at the airport and be in Monsey by one o’clock.

Monsey, New York

1:15 p.m.

As Scully entered the aging building, she couldn’t help

but feel the conflicting sense of peace and unrest that was

pervasive throughout. She was overwhelmed with feelings of

discord within herself, but couldn’t account for any of it.

The building resembled the one she’d been in New York City,

when she and Mulder battled an unexplainable phenomena, a

golem.

She noticed that there were pews on the ground level,

where she stood, as well as above in a balcony. She also

noted lightweight, sheer curtains, which hung from the

balcony pews, and wondered what their purpose was. The

wooden pews were well maintained and cared for. The temple

was old, but it was well cared for.

“Hello?” she called out tentatively. “Mr. Steiger?”

“Yes, yes, coming,” responded a voice.

Scully wasn’t sure what she was expecting Reuven Steiger

to look like, but based upon his soft-spoken tone and

demeanor over the phone, she knew she’d never imagined the

form that stood before her.

Reuven Steiger stood at least six foot three inches,

perhaps four. All she knew was that this young man

certainly would tower over Mulder. He stood straight, so

his posture accounted for every millimeter of his height.

He was dressed formally, much more so than Scully would

have anticipated, but the suit was slightly wrinkled which

told her he didn’t own many of them. This one was badly in

need of pressing and she suspected he was getting one more

wearing out of it before he traded it in for a suit

reserved for the Jewish High Holy Days.

She held out her hand in a gesture of introduction, but he

shook his head slightly and said softly, “Forgive me, Miss

Scully, but it’s not considered proper. May I ask you to

join me in the office. Please?”

Scully nodded her head as she withdrew her hand. Though

the situation could have easily made her feel foolish or

humiliated, Reuven Steiger’s quiet manner did neither, and

if anything actually put her more at ease.

When they entered the office, Scully was somewhat

surprised to see a woman in the room as well. “Miss

Scully, this is my wife, Rifka. We felt it would be more

proper if my wife was present when I met with you.”

Scully felt like smacking her head; of all the utmost

stupidity on her part! Of course Reuven would be

uncomfortable meeting with her alone. As a Hassidic Jew he

would not normally meet alone with a female officer.

Scully hoped her faux pas did not hamper her interview too

much.

“Rifka, this is the police officer I told you about,” said

Reuven as he interrupted Scully’s thoughts.

“Mrs. Steiger, it’s nice to meet you.” This was received

by a nod of acknowledgment by the younger woman. Scully

kept her hand at her side. “I would like to clarify that

I’m not with the police here in New York. I am a federal

agent out of Washington DC.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. We do know that.”

“Very well, I promised to be as brief as possible, so why

don’t we begin?” offered Scully. At the nod of the couple,

Scully began asking general questions regarding the events

that led up to Rabbi Zimmerman’s death and what Reuven, the

first person on the scene to find the rebbe, did.

“Then, as I told the sheriff’s deputy, I walked into the

office to see if the rebbe was still there, which I’d

strongly suspected.”

“This was before Friday night services?” interrupted Scully.

“Oh yes, well before. It was only 2:30 in the afternoon.

Rivka had made some soup for Shabbat dinner, and she asked

me to bring a bowl of it to Reb Shmuel since she was sure,

as was I, that he hadn’t left for home to eat before

services.”

“Why is that?” asked Scully.

“Why is what?”

“Why didn’t the rabbi leave? What do you believe he was

doing that prevented him from going home for a noon meal?”

asked Scully.

Steiger looked pensive for a moment. Scully watched his

reaction closely, this question had not been asked in the

earlier report on file. “He was always studying, Miss

Scully. He was always trying to learn more the ways of our

God.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t understand,” replied a confused Steiger.

“Rabbi Steiger–” Scully began.

“No, Miss Scully. I am not a rabbi. I have not achieved

that honor. Reb Eisenberg is our religious leader now. I

am merely his assistant as I was Reb Shmuel’s assistant.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just that it seemed as if you were so

aware of the inner workings of the Temple and you seem to

be here as much as the Rabbi.”

“He was,” murmured Rifka.

“He was?” echoed Scully.

“Rifka, please, you are here as an observer,” said Reuven

with firmness that Scully hadn’t heard up till now. “Now,

Miss Scully, if there are no other questions, my wife and I

need to get ready for our holiday.”

Scully hesitated; she wanted desperately to follow up on

Rifka’s involuntary comment, but she knew the younger woman

would not willingly respond if her husband did not want her

to answer. Scully was also not sure if she had the nerve

to make the request that Mulder had made of her. She took

a deep breath and moved forward.

“Mr. Steiger, there is one more question, request

actually. There was never a full autopsy performed on Rabbi

Zimmerman. Can you explain why not?”

Reuven eyes widened slightly; it wasn’t a question that he

should have been surprised to hear, but nonetheless he

wasn’t quite sure how to answer it either.

“I found him at 2:30 in the afternoon. We had a

very narrow window, Miss Scully.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” interrupted Scully.

“Narrow window for what?”

“To bury our religious leader according to Jewish Law.

You see, you can’t have a funeral on the Sabbath, nor can

you have one on the first day of Passover, which happened

to follow the Sabbath this year. Judaic law dictates that

we bury our dead within twenty-four hours.

“This was our rabbi, Miss Scully,” Steiger implored. “If

we didn’t have a service for him that afternoon, we would

have had to wait till three days later, which would have

also been the second day of Passover. We didn’t want to do

an injustice to our rebbe. We wanted to give him a proper

burial, immediately.”

“I can’t imagine that you were able to organize the

service that quickly, Mr. Steiger,” responded Scully

somewhat skeptically.

“Miss Scully, this is a very small community. It doesn’t

take a great deal of effort for us to all come together in

a time of need. Our rebbe needed us. There was no

question as to whether we would be able to accomplish our

task,” responded Reuven.

“But Mr. Steiger, how could the police allow you to bury

the rabbi without a formal inquiry. His death was

untimely; it was unexplained,” queried Scully.

“It was anything but untimely, Miss Scully. The rebbe was

a man well into his eighties. He had a long, full life in

which he garnered a community of followers that would do

anything for him. The timeliness of his death was not in

question.”

“But the manner? Mr. Steiger, you reported to the police

that he had a hole in his chest!” declared Scully with a

hint of ire. The pathologist in her couldn’t understand

how the rebbe’s congregation wouldn’t want to know the

cause of their religious leader’s death.

“I explained exactly what I saw, Miss Scully. I withheld

no information and the county medical examiner took a

number of pictures. It was quickly determined that there

must have been a terrible accident that caused the burns to

appear. I don’t know why, but the medical examiner

decided, after much discussion with the deputies involved

that it would not be in the best interest of the community

to conduct an autopsy. They claimed they wouldn’t be able

to derive any new information from it anyway. The medical

examiner did evaluate the body’s condition and determined

the death was of unknown origin,” explained Steiger.

“I don’t understand how the Rockland County Sheriff’s

Department could just allow the M.E. to conduct a

superficial

exam and claim an autopsy was not needed. This was highly

unorthodox!” declared Scully, unaware of the pun she’d

unintentionally made.

Even Rifka chuckled, to which Scully opened her mouth and

muttered a quick apology. “Miss Scully, if I may speak?”

Rifka actually looked over at her husband for permission

rather than Scully, and when he nodded slightly, she

continued. “You have to understand something else about

this community. It has had a difficult history in the

area. We have been subject to some strife in recent

history, and the people of this community are not always,

shall we say, willing to cooperate with the authorities.

That’s not to say that we shouldn’t; there is nothing in

Jewish Law that says we should not cooperate with the

authorities.

“But understand, that many of our community members are

rather sheltered; they rarely if ever leave the area.

Their whole life revolves around the small area that is

Monsey. The sheriff’s department is not always a body that

our community puts its trust in. The death of our rebbe

was a shock; it also occurred right before the Sabbath and

a major Jewish holiday.

“That in and of itself would have been enough to set off

demonstrations by anti-Jewish groups; the rebbe’s death,

unfortunately was welcomed by all too many hate groups. We

wanted our rebbe to be buried in peace. We didn’t want

there to be any questions regarding the virtue and piety of

this great man,” concluded Rifka.

“Why would anyone question that?” asked Scully curiously.

Reuven stood up. “There was no reason to question it,” he

stated quickly in a tone that indicated the conversation

was over.

However Scully still needed to make her request. She

remained seated and with a gentle firmness stated, “Mr.

Steiger, the FBI wants to exhume the rebbe’s body in order

to perform an autopsy.”

“What?” gasped Reuven. “No!”

“But, Mr. Steiger, you must understand, we need to see if

there’s any forensic evidence to support similarities in

the deaths of three clergy members. The Catholic priest

was also killed in Chicago around the same time as the

Rabbi. There was a Lutheran minister killed over the

summer and just recently there was a Baptist minister who

was apparently killed in a similar manner in Mississippi.

We have to find out what killed these men.”

“It would be impossible to even consider exhuming the

rebbe’s body before the end of the High Holy Days. Please,

Miss Scully. You must understand what such a request would

do to this community so shortly before Yom Kippur. Please,

Miss Scully. Please do not ask us to do this now,” Steiger

pleaded.

“I understand, Mr. Steiger. We’ll wait, but understand

that I can get a court order, and will do so if necessary.

I’ll return on Friday morning, Sir.”

Reuven sat down heavily in the chair and simply nodded.

He stared vacantly into space and remained mute.

“Are you all right?” Scully asked with concern. He nodded

in response but didn’t speak. “I’ll speak to you on Friday

morning, Mr. Steiger.”

Scully was about to step out the door when she turned to

Reuven and said quietly, “Have a good day, Mr. Steiger,

Mrs. Steiger.”

Reuven raised his eyes and said softly, “Thank you, Miss

Scully.”

Rifka gave her thanks as well, and then said quietly,

“I’ll walk you out, Miss Scully.” She turned to her

husband and said, “Reuven, finish up; we need to go home

soon.”

He nodded and numbly watched her accompany Scully out the

door.

“I have but a moment to speak, and then my husband will

become worried that I have ill spoke,” whispered Rifka

hurriedly as she and Scully arrived at the door to the shul.

“What is it? What did you mean before when you said

Reuven didn’t spend all his time here anymore?” asked

Scully.

“The rebbe was a wise and wonderful man, Miss Scully. He

wanted to learn all that God had to offer him. That

included the words of Kabbalah; that’s Jewish Mysticism.”

Scully nodded her understanding and Rifka continued.

“There was a section in the Kabbalah that Reb Shmuel began

studying with great interest.”

When Rifka hesitated, Scully urged her to continue, if for

no other reason that both women feared Reuven would

discover them deep in discussion. “I see you wear the sign

of the cross. Are you Catholic, Miss Scully? When Scully

nodded ‘yes,’ Rifka said, “Then you are well aware of the

history of exorcism in the Church?” Once again, Scully

nodded.

“Miss Scully, were you also aware that there are exorcists

on the payroll of the Catholic Church even today as we

speak?”

“You’re kidding?” Scully retorted, and then seeing the

expression on her companions face realized she was doing

anything but. “Rifka, how is it that you are so aware of

all of this? You’re obviously an educated woman; you’ve

been out in the world, haven’t you?”

“Miss Scully, my full name is Dr. Rifka Steiger. I am a

pediatrician with a full time practice in Rockland County.

I also helped the medical examiner determine there was no

need for an autopsy.”

“What? But how could you?”

“I had to, Miss Scully. I had to protect Reuven.”

“Reuven? Protect him from what?”

“From whatever evil did that to Reb Shmuel. The rebbe was

teaching Reuven about the Kabbalah, about exorcism. The

two of them would sit and study and argue all through the

night, and would never stop if I didn’t come to drag both

of them home.”

“Both of them home? You say that as if–” Scully said

bewildered.

“I say it as if Reb Shmuel was my father. My father,

for a Chassid was a very worldly man, Miss Scully. He

didn’t have to, but he allowed me to go into the world to

learn the ways of modern medicine so I could be of service

to our community.

“Reuven and I loved my father very much, Miss Scully. Our

community revered him, but he was traveling down a

dangerous, religious path. If the elders in our religious

community got wind that my father was studying about

exorcism, there would have been problems. Big problems.

“I did not want to see my father’s name tarnished, so I

convinced the M.E. that it wasn’t necessary nor good

community PR to order an autopsy on the beloved, elderly

community rebbe,” she said, and then softly added, “May God

forgive me.”

“Forgive you for what, Rifka?” Scully asked gently.

“Forgive me for letting the devil get away with murder.”

Biloxi Fairgrounds

9:45 p.m.

The storm had been brewing over the Gulf for about two

days, so when it finally hit land, it brought with it gale

force winds and driving rain. Mulder stood just outside the

big tent, watching the wind whip the top and billow it up

into a grotesque imitation of a mushroom cloud.

He jerked at his suit jacket collar in a feeble attempt to

stop the rain coursing down his neck. When he’d left

Washington, he’d forgotten his raincoat at the office. Not

that he would have bothered to remember it this time. He

was just running out to get another look at the scene.

That’s what he’d told Kenny and that’s what he’d written

in the note he left for Tom. Kenny had started to come

along, but one look from Mulder and the kid had cringed and

went back to the computer, searching for any possible

connections between the victims, schools, military service,

any thing they could go on.

From the outside, and to the other task force members, the

trail was beginning to grow cold. No new murders in three

days and no evidence from the most recent murders to point

the task force in a direction to follow. Only Mulder and

Kenny felt any progress was being made. But the progress

was in knowing the killer’s motivations, and not

necessarily in figuring out exactly who it was doing the

murders.

They’d stayed up all night hammering out a profile.

Several sheets of yellow legal pad and about a dozen number

2lead pencils fell victim to Mulder’s temper during the

long hours. He cautioned Kenny on placing too much

reliance

on the ‘feelings’ they’d both had at the crime scene at the

fairgrounds. But at the same time, he knew in his gut that

the dark shadow and the chill he’d felt was as much

tangible evidence that would lead them to the murderer as a

fingerprint or a DNA sample.

The burned ground had haunted his dreams, when Mulder had

finally fallen asleep for half an hour just before dawn.

He could see the dark shadow passing over the green grass,

burning everything in its path. That dark shadow was

filled with hatred and cold, an evil so all-encompassing

that it took Mulder’s breath away.

Kenny had experienced a nightmare, too, though he wouldn’t

confide in Mulder. He’d been sprawled across the bed, not

even having removed his shoes, when Mulder had gotten up to

take a shower. When Mulder came back out, the young man

was sitting up stiffly on the edge of the bed, breathing

heavily. Mulder was certain he saw the tracks of dried

tears on the kid’s face. That just served to strengthen

Mulder’s resolve on what he had to do.

There was no way he could let the kid face this evil. He

was still too young, too inexperienced, too much of a

tenderfoot to face anything so heinous and destructive.

Mulder knew he’d have to face this thing himself, alone.

The wind howled around him, giving the big tent the

ominous feel of a giant yawning mouth, waiting to devour

anyone who neared it. Mulder wiped more rain from his face

and walked under the edge of the tent. The wind was blowing

so hard that the tent only marginally protected him from

the torrential downpour. Cautiously, he pulled out his

Maglight and moved further into the tent.

The images played in his head again. The Reverend Abraham

Stewart was standing tall and proud on the raised platform.

He didn’t use the podium that had been placed there for his

convenience. He preferred to be close to his congregation.

He held a worn Bible in his hands, opened it with a tender

caress of the gold leaf pages and began to recite.

“Then the devil took Him to the Holy City;” Abraham said,

his voice slow and low with emotion.

“Amen, brother!” shouted many in the crowd.

“And he had Him stand on the pinnacle of the temple, and

said to Him, ‘If you are the Son of God, then row yourself

down; for it is written He will give His angels charge

concerning You; and on their hands they will bear You up

least you strike your foot against a stone.'” Sweat poured

from his face as Abraham held the book high above his head

and raised his face to the Lord.

“Amen! Hallelujah!” shouted the crowd.

“And Je-sus said to him, ‘On the other hand, it is

written, ‘You shall not put the Lord your God to the test!'”

The Reverend Stewart closed the book and closed his eyes.

Reaching forward, he touched the head of a woman kneeling

down in front of him.

“BE GONE! I say, Satan! Be gone from this woman of the

Lord!”

And the woman began to writhe and fell backward, eyes

rolling back in her head, shaking uncontrollably. The

reverend kept shouting, “Be gone, Satan! Be gone, you

fallen angel! You have no place in God’s world. Be gone!

Be gone!”

Mulder stumbled under the wave of anger and hatred that

rushed into him. Humiliation, despair, betrayal all warred

against each other for his attention. But most of all,

overriding everything else, he was filled with revenge.

“Agent Mulder?”

It was like coming up for a breath when he’d been under

water too long. Air was sucked into his lungs not by the

act of breathing, but as a vacuum is filled with the seal

is broken. He swallowed hard, tried to quiet his heart

where it pounded in his chest.

“Agent Mulder, I’m sorry. I tried to call you on your

cell phone. I think we might be out of range of a cell.”

“Andrews, what the fuck are you doing out here?” Mulder

growled, not even sure why he was suddenly so angry.

“I’m sorry. I know you wanted to come out here alone, but

I needed to find you. It’s important.” The kid was

trembling, but as far as Mulder could tell, it was probably

from the wind and the storm.

“Well, you found me. Now, what the hell do you want?”

Kenny swallowed and licked rain off his lip. “There’s

been an accident.”

Act III

Biloxi Mercy Hospital

10:30 p.m.

“They said the accident happened sometime around 9. The

car was struck head-on by a drunk driver,” Kenny explained

as they got off the elevator.

“The other driver?”

“Dead at the scene. Mulder, we haven’t been able to get

hold of the next of kin.” Kenny chewed on his lip and

looked all the more like a kid of 24.

Mulder stopped and shut his eyes, rocking back on his

heels. It hurt. He didn’t think it was possible to hurt

this much when it wasn’t even…

“I’ll make that call. But first, I want something to go

on.”

Kenny nodded and pointed in the direction of the nurses

station.

Mulder pulled out his badge and showed it to the nurse

behind the desk. “I’m Special Agent Fox Mulder with the

FBI. I understand another agent was brought in tonight.

Thomas Alexander.”

The nurse took a minute to consult her computer screen.

“Yes, Mr. Alexander was brought by ambulance. I’m afraid I

can’t give you much information, except to tell you he’s

been taken to surgery.”

Mulder nodded his thanks. “Is there a pay phone nearby?”

The nurse smiled and pointed to a bank of phones just

across the hall. Mulder headed over, picking up the first

receiver and closing his eyes again before dialing a number

by heart.

“Sally? It’s Mulder, Fox Mulder. Yeah, long time for

sure. Sally, you need to get down here to Biloxi. Tom’s

been hurt.”

Biloxi Mercy Hospital

Wednesday, September 26, 2001

6:15 a.m.

Mulder paced the small waiting room. Other agents had

arrived shortly after him and Kenny, but he pointedly

ignored all of them. Sally Alexander was booked on a 5:30

flight from Falls Church, Virginia. She was due at the

Biloxi airport at 6:45. Mulder hoped she’d get there in

time.

More than once he’d started to call Scully, but had

stopped himself. What could she do but offer her sympathy?

He missed her voice, wanted to hold her in his arms, but

that felt like it would be comfort for himself and he

wasn’t the one needing comfort. Sally needed comfort. He

needed to be strong for Tom and his wife.

He hadn’t seen Sally since the wedding. Tom’s brother had

been the best man, but Tom had asked Mulder to stand up

with him as a groomsman. Sally had tried several times

during the reception to hook Mulder up with her cousin, but

he’d managed to escape that fate. Now, he couldn’t even

picture the girl in his mind.

“Mulder, want some coffee?” Kenny was standing there, a

Styrofoam cup in one hand and a familiar red can in the

other, looking way too much like a hopeful puppy begging to

be patted on the head. Mulder stamped down the urge to

smack the kid across the room and shook his head.

“No, thanks.”

“Do you think…”

“We don’t know anything, Andrews,” Mulder spat out, but

when he saw the wounded look on the young man’s face, he

struggled to get hold of his temper. “Look, Kenny, the

doctors don’t know anything right now. He made it through

surgery. That’s the good part. But with the kind of head

trauma he sustained, well, let’s just say a coma might be

the lesser of two evils.”

“It all happened so fast. One minute he’d called from the

police station telling me he wanted to look at our profile

and then next minute the hospital was calling. The phone

number to my motel room was the last number he’d dialed on

his cell phone,” Kenny said miserably.

“Don’t blame yourself, kid. You had nothing to do with

this. It was an accident.”

“Still, he was thinking about the case. Maybe his mind

wasn’t on the road…”

“Stop it, Kenny! I mean it. Just get off that track

right now. You had absolutely nothing to do with this.”

Kenny was silent for a minute, then he squared his jaw.

“Yeah, but if I’d given him a good profile, we’d have

closed this case already and he never would have been on

that road.” Without giving Mulder a chance to reply, he

turned on his heel and left the waiting room.

Mulder closed his eyes again and trembled with the effort

it took him to keep from putting his fist through the wall.

A hand on his shoulder brought him around to reality.

“Fox, it’s been a long time.”

Sally stood beside him, looking a little older than when

he’d last seen her. She was still blonde, what most people

would call ‘perky,’ but there was a fear in her eyes that

he would have given anything to replace.

“Yeah, too long. Sally, I don’t know what to say,” he

muttered as he drew the petite woman into a loose hug. She

drew away quickly and wiped at her eyes. “I just talked to

the doctor.”

He didn’t want to know. But he had to ask. “And?”

Slowly, she shook her head. The tears left little tracks

on her cheeks. It was everything Mulder could do to keep

from wiping them away. But that wasn’t his place. He bit

the inside of his lip to keep from crying.

She started to say something else, but someone called her

name — one of the doctors Mulder vaguely remembered from

seeing earlier in the night. He was coming toward them with

a very serious look on his face.

Suddenly, Sally froze. The doctor hadn’t gotten within

10 feet of them and she was shaking her head back and

forth.

“No. No, it can’t be. No.” She started walking backward

and ran right into Mulder.

“Mrs. Alexander, I’m very sorry,” the doctor started to

take her shoulder, but Mulder waved him off. He turned

Sally in his arms and held her while she cried.

Kenny watched helplessly from his seat near the wall. A

noise startled him and he realized Mulder’s jacket was

ringing. He reached over and dug out the older agent’s

cell phone.

“Hello?” he said, hesitantly. “Um, Agent Mulder’s phone.”

“Who is this?” asked a terse voice on the other end of the

phone line.

“This is Agent Kenneth Andrews. Now, who is this?” Kenny

shot back.

“Agent Scully, Agent Mulder’s partner. Where is he?”

Kenny looked across the room. Mulder had managed to get

Sally over to a bank of chairs on the opposite wall and was

holding her while she sobbed uncontrollably.

“He’s indisposed at the moment. Can I take a message?”

He had to hold his hand over his ear as the P.A. system went

off paging a doctor.

“Where are you? Are you at the hospital? What’s

happened? Where’s Mulder? Is he hurt?”

She was asking the questions so fast and furious, Kenny

almost couldn’t get a word in edgewise. “Hey! Agent

…Sculder? Calm down! No, he’s not hurt. Yes, we are at

the hospital. There was a car accident. SAC Alexander…

he was in a car wreck. He, uh, he… he didn’t make it.”

Kenny felt his throat close up and croaked out the last

words. He didn’t want to cry, but he wished he were

anywhere else so he could break down.

“Tom? Tom Alexander’s dead?” came the voice on the phone.

“Oh God, Mulder must be devastated,” she said with a sad

sigh.

“Well, right now he’s pretty busy trying to calm down

Tom’s wife,” Kenny told her.

“I better get down there,” Scully announced. “I don’t

know when I’ll be able to get a flight, but I’ll be there

as soon as I can.”

Biloxi Blues Motel

8:12 a.m.

Mulder exited the rental and slammed the car door. Hard.

Kenny jerked in reaction and immediately clambered out of

the driver’s seat to follow him. Mulder didn’t want to

deal with the kid at that moment. He couldn’t. He’d just

finished holding Tom Alexander’s widow in his arms in a

vain attempt to console her, but all the while berating

himself for selfishly wondering if he would be able to

solve this case without his friend’s steady hand.

Tom knew when he’d agreed to have Mulder join the team

what they were both getting into. Mulder was going to do

his damnedest to find the killer, and Tom was going to do

his damnedest to keep Mulder from going insane.

Tom had seen it happen all too often while both were

working under Patterson in the early days. Bill would pass

out serial cases for his people to profile; only Mulder

always seemed to get twice as many. Maybe because Mulder

could solve ’em twice as fast. The problem with that was

that Mulder would never have any down time. More than once

Tom had found his former roommate holed up in a tiny office

in the VCS dungeon at Quantico staring into space. More

than once Tom had been tempted to call for an ambulance,

and only when Tom had screamed threats of just such an

action, did Mulder snap out of his trance-like state.

But now Tom was dead, and Mulder’s immediate tether to

sanity was dead too. His true lifeline was miles away and

on the trail of more information for the case, so he

couldn’t count on Scully at that point for comfort. All he

had was a profiling newbie who was probably going to get

himself killed because he had no idea what the hell they

were dealing with. And the last thing Mulder wanted to do

at that moment was try and explain it to the kid.

Tom’s death hurt. It wasn’t only because Tom was a

steadying force for him on this case. Nor was it just

because Mulder had lost a friend; Tom was someone Mulder

was able to associate with a pleasant memory from his VCS

past, a rarity in and of itself. But Tom’s passing,

coupled with Mulder’s seemingly inability to console Sally

Alexander over her husband’s untimely death reminded Mulder

of something. No matter how good of a profiler he still was

it didn’t negate the fact that he was still a mere mortal

and subject to the same rules of life, and death, as all

men were.

And the combination of Tom’s death and the gut feeling he

was getting about this case made that epiphany all the more

frightening to Mulder. Mulder was scared to death, and that

did not bode well for either him or the kid in this case.

Fear could work for you in that it could make you cautious

and wary of taking foolish steps. However it could also

work against you; it could freeze you from taking the

necessary steps to prevent another killing. Mulder was at

a crossroads. He was ready to stand frozen in place, but

then the kid spoke.

“Mulder, wait! You’re right! There was nothing I could

do to have prevented this. It was a damned drunk driver,

and Tom was in the wrong place at the right time. But

Mulder! Damn it Mulder, look at me!” he screamed as the

older agent had continued to walk away from him. Mulder

halted and turned to look at the Kenny.

“Mulder, you couldn’t have done anything either. There

was nothing you could have pieced together to prevent that

drunk from slamming into Tom.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Andrews?” Mulder

asked tensely.

“You KNOW what I’m talking about. You KNOW!” he

practically screamed.

And the truth of the matter was, Mulder did know, but what

disturbed him most was that the kid knew too. He’d already

sensed that Kenny had the makings of a good profiler; he

hadn’t realized that Kenny had the makings of another

‘Spooky’ Mulder. But for the kid’s sake, Mulder knew he

couldn’t let on that Kenny was on the right track. That

would be too dangerous.

“Andrews, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.

I’m going to go into my room and get some shuteye. I

suggest you go into your room and do the same.” And with

that he turned and left Kenny Andrews staring at him with

his mouth slightly agape.

As the door to Mulder’s room slammed shut, the younger

agent remembered he hadn’t told him that his partner had

called and was on the way. The way Mulder was acting, it

could wait.

Mulder entered the small motel room and prayed Kenny

wouldn’t decide to play nursemaid and knock at his door.

He practically held his breath as he listened for the slam

of the door to the room next door. When he did hear it,

Mulder sighed with relief and sat down on the bed that was

covered with files and papers with scrawls of notes.

Though he was practically dead on his feet, Mulder had no

intention of sleeping. There was a killer to be caught,

and Mulder knew that he was the only one who had a chance

of doing it. He didn’t understand how he would accomplish

this as yet, nor did he understand why, of all people, it

should be him to do so, but neither of those mattered.

What did matter was that there was a killer, an entity that

was capable of picking off people at will and leaving them

dead with a hole in their heart.

As Mulder felt himself become emotional at the thoughts of

his victims, he knew he had to keep himself in check. He

needed to pull himself back from the case and begin to

think more objectively.

He stood up and stretched. He looked for something to use

as leverage to crack the vertebrae in his back. What he

wouldn’t give for his stickball bat. When he couldn’t find

anything he placed his hands firmly on the small of his

back and bent backwards. He experienced some relief and

then bent forward touching his toes. He did some stretches

to both sides and then tried to relax his neck and

shoulders.

His head felt somewhat clearer and he allowed himself to

get his mind back on the case. There were still so many

questions that he had no answers for. What was the UNSUB’s

motivation? The victims were all clergymen, but why those

particular men. There seemed to be no commonalties among

them other than they were leaders in their respective

religious communities.

What were the common traits among the victims that would

lead the UNSUB to pick those particular men. The reverend

was in his 40s, the priest was in his early 70s, and the

rabbi was in his 80s. There seemed to be nothing these

men’s backgrounds that indicated a common ground. The

rabbi was a widower, the reverend was married, and the

priest was celibate. He knew he was beginning to clutch

at straws.

Mulder began to pace around the room as thoughts began to

form. He held a pen in his hand and a yellow legal pad in

the other. He began scratching the words down as his mind

brainstormed leaps of seemingly incongruent thoughts.

Beliefs.

Common.

Teachings.

Religious.

Renegade.

Religious renegades. Mulder looked at the pairing of

those two words and wondered why that made sense to him.

What would make a man be considered a religious renegade?

How could men in their 70s and 80s be renegades? What were

their beliefs? Beliefs. It came back to that again.

“Damn it! Damn it! What the hell was I thinking!” he

cried out as he flung the notepad to the floor. Mulder

began to furiously pull at the papers on his bed. He

picked up file after file, paper after paper, index card

after index card of copious notes until finally, he found

the part of the report that held a seemingly innocuous

piece of data.

The paper was from the Zimmerman file. It was an

accounting of the body as it was found in the synagogue.

Though Mulder had reviewed and reviewed the details, few as

there were due to the lack of an autopsy, the one item

Mulder did not concern himself with was what Mulder now

believed was the key that would unlock the door to the

reasons behind the murders.

The elderly rebbe had been clutching a copy of the Sefer

ha-Razim, a book of ancient writings otherwise known as the

Book of Secrets. It was a book of magic, written by a

Palestinian Jew of the Talmudic period, dealt with the

forgotten field of Jewish magic. Apparently Reb Zimmerman

had been looking to rediscover it.

Mulder then searched frenetically for the next piece of

information that he hoped would tie these men together.

Father Michael Nelson, 70 years old was the parish priest

at

St. Gertrude’s for almost twenty years. There was nothing

out of the ordinary about that, but Mulder knew there had

to

be more. There had to be… “Holy shit!” he exclaimed

aloud.

There it was. The details were finally starting to fit

together. Mulder read the long list of Father Michael

Nelson’s cleric duties. They included the normal activities

associated with a parish priest. He said Mass, visited the

sick, taught at the Parish School of Religion, helped out

at the local soup kitchen run by Catholic Charities. All

normal priestly activities, but in addition to all of that,

Father Nelson’s included one other job description. It was

the small, tiny notation in the last line of the section of

official duties that held Mulder rapt. It was a position

that few probably would have taken the time to take note

of, given all of the mundane job descriptions that preceded

it.

Exorcist.

Father Michael Nelson was on the Church payroll as an

exorcist and had been apparently for the last thirty years.

Mulder suspected business must have been at an all time

high when the Linda Blair movie came out in the 70s,

settled down as soon as the furor of the movie died. He

couldn’t believe there was actually an official position

within the Church. He almost laughed. Almost.

The final puzzle piece was the reverend. Once again the

profiler did a furious search of the multitude of papers

that lay strewn across the bed. He picked up the papers he

sought and began to read the notes of the Reverend

Stewart’s last sermon. Though Mulder realized that as an

evangelical preacher, Stewart probably rarely followed his

sermons to the letter, the notes were still a good

indicator of what the man’s ideology was.

He read through paragraph after paragraph, wondering if

perhaps he was wrong in his thinking, until he got to the

third paragraph on the fourth page.

“And I say onto you, Brothers and Sisters, that we have

the power to rid ourselves of sickness, to rid ourselves of

accidents, to rid ourselves of those which we seem to have

little control! How can we do that, you ask, if we do not

have the control?

“We can, because I know what is in control and I know that

we must be rid of it and I say to you, Brothers and

Sisters, I know HOW to rid ourselves of the evil. I know

how to give you back the control you so desperately need,

so desperately want. I know, Brothers and Sisters, who the

evil culprit is that wants to control our lives, and that

evil is none other than Satan himself!

“How do we obliterate our lives of the malfeasance that

threatens our lives and our children’s lives? And how do

we do this? We must work together, my brothers and

sisters, to excise the depraved entity that wants to work

its way into our souls. We must be willing to open our

hearts and our minds to the knowledge that we can exorcise

this demon from our lives and I ask you all for an Amen!

“Amen!

“Amen!

“Amen!”

There was a sudden pounding on the door that shocked

Mulder back into an awareness of his surroundings that was

missing only moments before.

“Mulder! Open the damn door! Now!” screamed Kenny,

“Mulder! Please, open the damn door before I shoot it

open.”

It took Mulder several seconds to get his bearings and

then he looked around. He wasn’t in a revival tent; he was

in a motel room. He wasn’t standing amidst hundreds of

people swaying together in an emotional show of support for

their spiritual leader, but rather he was standing beside a

bed strewn with files and reports and notes. The lamp had

unaccountably fallen from the night stand and now lay in

several pieces at his feet. For some reason, his throat

felt raw.

He walked haltingly toward the door. He opened it and

Kenny pushed his way into the room.

“What the hell is going on in here, Mulder?” the young

agent asked angrily. Mulder almost smiled to himself;

suddenly the kid didn’t sound like a kid any longer. When

Mulder didn’t answer, Kenny began a tirade of his own.

“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing by

keeping me out of the loop, Mulder, but it’s not going to

work. It’s not going to work, do you hear me?” Kenny

observed the disheveled appearance of the man whose

reputation he so admired and envied. Now, Kenny Andrews

wondered how this man, given his current condition, was

going to solve this case, and was he going to allow Kenny

to help him solve it?

“You doing some redecorating, because I don’t think the

Bureau will pick up the tab,” he added, pointing to the

broken lamp.

Mulder stood absolutely silent and still. Andrews had no

idea if the man had heard anything he’d just said.

“Mulder, what were you doing in here?” he finally asked as

evenly as possible. Andrews realized he had to remain calm

and rational in order to counterbalance Mulder’s erratic

behavior if they were to get any further on the case. He

waited patiently for Mulder to respond. He’d wait all day

and all night if he had to, when finally Mulder spoke.

“I was looking for links between the victims. I was

looking for possible connections,” he said in an almost

toneless voice.

“It sounded like you were trying to raise the dead in

here, Mulder,” Kenny said with a hint of humor. Mulder

recognized the younger man’s efforts to lighten the mood

and smiled slightly. It appeared to Kenny that Mulder was

finally beginning to relax; of course, the inexperienced

agent knew nothing of Mulder’s ability to deflect and

camouflage.

“I was reading the reverend’s last sermon. Guess I got a

little carried away,” he responded, though in reality

Mulder had no memory of reading the sermon aloud.

“Jeeze, Mulder, you are the master of the understatement,

ya know?”

The agent responded with a wry smile and nodded. He then

said, “Look, I really am kind of tired. I think I need to

lay down and sleep a bit, okay? We’ll meet for a late

lunch, early dinner and talk more of my findings.”

“But, Mulder–” Andrews tried to contradict, but Mulder

would hear none of it.

“I’m dead on my feet, kid. A good friend of mine is dead,

and I’ve got a really strong feeling that we’re going to

have a fourth victim real soon if we don’t get our acts

together. I need to sleep. We’ll get something to eat in

a little while.”

Of course, if the younger, less experienced agent had the

knowledge and insight that Dana Scully had, or even the

late Tom Alexander had, Kenny Andrews would have known

immediately that something was definitely wrong with that

picture. Scully would have told Kenny that Mulder never

eats when on a profiling case. Alexander would have told

the kid that Mulder never sleeps while on one either.

Mulder was bluffing the kid big time, and the kid fell for

it hook, line, and sinker. Kenny told him to knock on his

door when he awoke from his nap, to which Mulder replied,

“Will do.”

Mulder picked up his pen and began scribbling notes on the

first piece of paper that he could find. When he ran out

of paper he moved on to the next convenient writing

surface, the wall. He stood in front of the wall, writing

and writing some more. His theory was starting to come

together, and his profile took the shape he knew that it

could.

Mulder identified his one aspect of his theory and listed

every fact he could that supported it. After each and

every point was bulleted, he then moved on to the profile

itself. Mulder knew this was the trickier of the two; he

was able to explain with inextricable, but at the same time

indisputable facts, how the three victims were tied

together.

Mulder also came to the realization it wouldn’t matter one

way or the other whether Scully was able to gain permission

to exhume the rabbi’s body; it wouldn’t give them any more

information than they already had. He wrote as such on the

wall as a reminder to call Scully and tell her as such, so

the rabbi’s family wouldn’t needlessly be put through that

particular trauma.

The notes consumed him and he wrote continuously on the

wall for the next hour and a half. Much of what he wrote

was jumbled and chaotic, but given the right interpreter,

the words fit together like the pieces of an intricate

jigsaw puzzle. The words came out of him as if going

through a sieve; in no particular order but none of the

waste, much like the salted water would cascade through a

colander leaving only the ingredients for a meal offering

sustenance.

As the weary agent came to his final words of his profile,

Mulder’s sense of time and place began to wane. As he lost

track of his surroundings, his mind suddenly focused solely

on one fact. He inexplicably knew there would be a fourth

victim very soon. And just as suddenly, he knew, without a

doubt, the identity of the killer.

Without a doubt, Mulder knew where the killing would take

place.

Without a doubt, Mulder knew who was to be killed.

“I have found my new vessel,” intoned the agent in a

trance-like voice. “I have found my new bridge to the upper

world who will do the acts that will save my soul. You have

done battle with me in the past, Agent Mulder… but

fighting silly school board members and preachers with a

fetish for snakes were mere skirmishes. Now, you must deal

directly with me. And this is a war that I will win.”

And with that, as if in some kind of hypnotic state, Fox

Mulder picked up his jacket and keys to take off for the

next site of his latest victim. He would need to arrive as

soon as possible, as he needed to achieve his goal before

the descent of the sun or he might not find the strength to

succeed.

It was time to deal with a new enemy of Hell.

“MY enemy,” murmured Mulder.

Kenny heard the door slam. He never hesitated; he simply

picked up his coat, keys, and opened the door. He saw

Mulder walk to his car and though the younger man called

out to him repeatedly, Mulder never responded. Kenny ran

to try and get in front of the car and block him, but at

the last second Kenny had to jerk out of the way as Mulder

would have certainly run him over.

Kenny noticed an older couple drive up to the office

entrance of the motel. He ran to the car, waving his FBI

identification and commandeered their 1993 Ford Taurus. As

the shocked couple looked on, the agent drove off with a

screech. He had no idea if what he did was legal or if he

were going to be written up from now till kingdom come. All

he did know was he had to keep his eye on Mulder.

The man was not acting like himself; it was as if he’d

taken on an entirely new persona, and Kenny was scared

shitless that his mentor was going to kill himself because

of it. He tailed the rental and wondered if Mulder

realized he was being followed. It seemed impossible to

Kenny that Mulder wouldn’t sense it, as Kenny made no

pretensions of trying to conceal himself. But if he were

aware, Mulder gave no indication. He drove straight and

true with no attempts made to lose Kenny on the highway.

The younger agent soon realized their destination was the

airport. “Where the hell do you think you’re going,

Mulder?” he asked himself.

Mulder pulled up to the United Airlines terminal and

simply left the car. When a security officer approached

him, Mulder pulled out his ID badge and wordlessly moved

on. Kenny hoped that approach would work for him as well.

He stepped out of the car and immediately pulled out his

ID badge, though his fingers weren’t nearly as dexterous

as he fumbled with the cover. “Official business,” he said

just loudly enough to be heard, and he continued on his

way.

The security guard appeared somewhat incredulous and

muttered something about, “Damn bureaucrats,” and then made

the decision to move the damn cars himself.

Meanwhile, Mulder walked the path that led him directly to

the ticket agents for departing flights. Kenny called

after him, but once again, Mulder refused to acknowledge

him. The younger agent couldn’t understand what was going

on.

When he finally came to Mulder’s side, Kenny asked, “What

in the hell is wrong with you?”

Mulder looked at Kenny but said nothing directly to him.

He simply turned back to the ticket agent and said, “New

York.”

“We have a flight that’s scheduled to depart shortly and

land in LaGuardia at 4:27 p.m.,” the pert young agent

replied.

“Nothing that lands sooner?” Mulder asked. At the shake

of the young woman’s head, Mulder said, “Fine, book it

please.”

“And what about me, Agent Mulder, or have you forgotten

that I’m working on this case too?” asked a disgruntled and

confused Agent Andrews.

“Not this time. You stay here and mop up,” was Mulder’s

terse reply.

“Like hell!” declared Andrews, and he turned to the agent.

“Book a seat for me too, and put it on his card.” The

ticket agent looked reluctant until Andrews whipped out his

FBI ID again, this time smoothly presenting it, and the

ticket agent seemed convinced. She issued the ticket and

Kenny quickly walked in pursuit of his obviously ailing

mentor.

The two men displayed their weapons and badges to the

flight attendant at the door and boarded the plane almost

immediately but were not seated together, which didn’t seem

to phase Mulder in the least. He totally ignored Kenny no

matter how many times Kenny tried to get his attention.

Finally, the man seated next to Mulder asked the younger

man politely, but firmly, to kindly let his seatmate alone,

as it was obvious he wasn’t in the mood to chat. “Perhaps

once the plane lands, your partner will be more open to

making up with you,” he offered.

Kenny returned to his seat red-faced, as it was obvious

the stranger mistook Kenny’s pleas as those of Mulder’s gay

lover apologizing over some kind of lover’s spat. He was

too embarrassed to try and talk with Mulder again at that

point, and he also realized the likelihood of Mulder

willingly opening up to him once they landed was

practically nil. Andrews needed backup.

He picked up the telephone that was nestled into the seat

in front of him. The wonders of modern technology were a

given to this young man, but nevertheless he did appreciate

them. Andrews placed a phoned call to the only person in a

position of authority that he could think of at that point.

“Hello, I’d like to be connected with Assistant Director

Skinner please. This is Agent Kenneth Andrews calling with

regards to the Biloxi murder case.”

When Skinner finally got on the line, Andrews explained as

clearly but as calmly as possible the situation as he now

saw it. He expected Skinner to be at the very least

surprise, and the very most incredulous over his agent’s

behavior, but Walter Skinner seemed neither surprised nor

incredulous. If anything, he seemed resigned.

Skinner asked what time his plane was scheduled to land

and Kenny told him. He then informed Kenny that he was

going to catch the next shuttle to New York and that Kenny

was to do whatever was in his power to detain Agent Mulder

at the airport until his arrival. With a bit of luck,

Skinner shouldn’t be too far behind them. Andrews quickly

agreed and felt grateful to the man who was ready to take

ownership of this new problem.

Mulder had no overhead luggage, nor did Kenny, so

disembarking was relatively painless. Kenny continued to

follow the older agent until he saw Mulder approach the

escalator that led upstairs.

“Mulder, please! Wait for me!” Kenny pleaded. Now Andrews

knew there was no doubt he felt terrified for his fellow

agent. Mulder was not acting anything like himself, and he

didn’t understand why. All he did know was that he had to

find a way of keeping Mulder at the airport until AD

Skinner arrived.

“Agent Mulder, I need you to explain what your next step

is,” Andrews stated in an attempt to get his companion’s

attention. Mulder, however, simply ignored him and was

about to take a step onto the moving staircase.

“Mulder, you can’t leave! We have to wait here; we need

backup, Mulder! Don’t you understand? We can’t do this

alone,” Kenny pleaded as he grabbed onto Mulder’s arm with

as much strength as he could muster.

Mulder, however, was not to be deterred. Now having the

strength of twenty men, he easily threw the younger, weaker

man off of him. He took a quick look around and set his

eyes on a new destination. He knew the younger man,

determined now, would follow him.

As Mulder turned down a corridor that led to little-used

offices in the terminal, Kenny once again tried to grab him

and hold him still.

“We’ve got to wait here, Agent Mulder. We’re getting

reinforcements, but we have to wait here until he comes.”

“Until WHO comes?” asked Mulder through clenched teeth.

“The AD I called the AD from the plane,” Kenny

confessed. The expression Mulder wore upon hearing this

information frightened Kenny. It was almost as if the real

Mulder had reemerged momentarily, and the older agent’s

expression showed a fear that Kenny knew exceeded even his

own.

“Walter Skinner?” Mulder rasped. Kenny nodded his

confirmation.

“No!” came the dissonant voice so quickly that it startled

Kenny that it caused him to flinch. Which gave Agent

Mulder just enough time to remove his service revolver from

his holster and promptly fire toward the now shocked Agent

Andrews.

As Kenny Andrews slumped, bleeding to the floor, Fox

Mulder replaced his weapon and headed toward his original

destination.

He had his next victim to attend to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To Be Continued in the Season Opener of I Made This!  Devil’s Advocate Part 2

Productions, Virtual Season 9, coming July 2001

Category: M/Sc/Sk friendship

Spoilers: none

Archive: IMTP for the first two weeks, then go for it!

Summary: Skinner is dead — or is he? Mulder and Scully’s

investigation into his death brings them up against still

unseen enemies, who conspire to control them all.

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully and Skinner are owned by Chris

Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc.

They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny,

Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit

from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am

poor and have nothing material they can profit from.

Author’s Notes: This was written for I Made This!

Productions as one of the episodes of Virtual Season 8.

IMTP can be found at http://www.i-made-this.com.

My Name is Paul

Prologue

Arlington Cemetery

August 26, 2001

11 a.m.

“And so, it is with great sadness and regret, we have

gathered here today to lay to rest the earthly remains of

Walter Skinner.”

Mulder stared at the young man. He was an anachronism at

this gathering of somber men and women who all wore the

prescribed dark suits despite the sweltering heat of

Washington August. The man looked like a refugee from the

sixties; ragged jeans, a threadbare knit shirt, and

unbelievably old, worn sandals on his feet. Mulder

shrugged within his own dark suit coat. At least the young

preacher had put shoes on; when Mulder had met with him,

the man had been barefoot.

He forced himself to listen again, and heard the preacher

say, “And so, those of us who knew and respected Walter,

are glad to have this opportunity to say goodbye to our

colleague, our co-worker, our helper and,” here the young

man stumbled over his words, “our friend.”

It was no surprise to Mulder that the man found it

difficult to call Skinner a friend. He and Scully couldn’t

use the term about Skinner either, though there had been

several times when he thought they’d broken through. When

Scully was missing. When that prostitute and then Skinner’s

wife had been killed. When Scully’s cancer had gotten so

bad. And most recently, when Skinner himself had been so

close to death, infected with some still unnamed, unknown

technological virus. But always, always, Skinner had

pulled back, put up the walls, refused to take a stand,

choose a side, make a friend. It was frustrating to no

end, but Mulder was convinced that beneath all the

deceptions and seeming betrayals, Skinner was fighting with

them. It was why he was here today.

Well, that and the fact that he and Scully had arranged

the funeral.

When the call had come in to the Hoover, that Skinner was

dead, the body identified, asking who was handling the

arrangements, it had landed in Kim’s lap. She’d pulled her

boss’s personnel folder, determined that his parents were

deceased, his wife was dead, he had no children, and the

only relative was a brother who lived in California. A

brother who had been less than interested in the fact that

Skinner was dead, and had refused to take responsibility

for the funeral, giving Kim a lawyer’s name and the old

“have his lawyer contact my lawyer if there’s anything left

to me.”

Scully had come into the office at that point, found Kim

near tears, heard the whole story and volunteered them to

take care of the arrangements. Which was how Mulder now

found himself knowing a whole lot more about his boss’s

private life than he was entirely comfortable with. It was

also why there was a storefront preacher, one who ran a

soup kitchen, presiding over the grave. It was one of two

things Skinner did outside work. He boxed at a hole in the

wall gym in the wrong part of DC, but had no close

acquaintances there. Mulder scanned the assemblage again.

No, there was no one here from the gym. And Skinner’s

second activity — surprise, surprise — was working at a

soup kitchen that was mainly frequented by down on their

luck vets. He was a regular, every Tuesday night for four

years. And even there he had been aloof, stand-offish. He

did his part, spoke pleasantly to everyone, but never

allowed any degree of intimacy to develop. Mulder shook

his head sadly. Skinner had been a very lonely man.

Mulder jerked alert again as the first volley of gunfire

echoed through the cemetery quiet. It was followed in

rapid succession by nine more and Mulder flinched with each

one. It made his skin crawl, as if each shot were a

hammer, pounding nails into a coffin that would remain

sealed for all eternity. Or perhaps each shot was a door

closing, another avenue toward the truth closing with no

hope of being opened again.

The planes were coming in, now, low and fast, and as Mulder

looked up, one peeled away, the sun glinting off the silver

underbelly, almost blinding him with its brightness. It

was hot, so hot, and the sweat on his brow had trickled

down and caused his eyes to water. The blinding sun, the

August heat, they were the only possible reason that his

cheeks were wet and his eyes stung from salty tears.

He chanced a glance at Scully, and saw that she was

looking up at him in concern. A barely noticeable nod

redirected his attention to the young Marine who stood by

the casket, a neatly folded flag held in his hands and no

one to whom he could present it.

Mulder swallowed hard, then stepped forward, arms extended

and the visibly relieved Marine placed into his hands the

United States’ last recognition of the strength, the

courage, the man who had been Walter Sergei Skinner.

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

Act I

Mulder’s Office

August 26, 2001

2:15 p.m.

“I can’t believe he’s gone.” Scully handed Mulder a cup

of coffee as she sat down and sipped her own steaming cup.

“I can’t believe you can drink coffee after being out in

the heat this afternoon.” Mulder took a swallow, grimaced,

and put the cup down on a desk overflowing with papers,

files, and loose photos.

“How can you find anything in that mess?” Scully asked,

sighing out loud as she took another sip of her favored

beverage. “And don’t avoid – it’s not like you.” She

narrowed her eyes as she studied him over the rim of the

still steaming cup.

Mulder gave a sigh of his own, and shook his head. “I’m

not avoiding. I’m just not sure I can accept this yet.”

“What’s not to accept, Mulder? The man is dead. We just

came from his funeral, for God’s sake. What more do you

need?”

“A cause of death, a reason he was out there on that road.

Hell, a body would be nice,” Mulder muttered.

“We have a body. We have a cause of death.”

“We have a severely-charred bunch of bones that Kersh —

Kersh, for Christ’s sake — identified!” Mulder stood and

began to pace, one hand pushing back the lock of hair over

his brow as the other worried his lower lip.

“Severely-charred would seem to give us cause of death,”

Scully said quietly. “And as to why he was that far out of

the city, at that time of night — well, he was a big boy.

Even Skinner had a life.” She shrugged. “We didn’t know

him that well, Mulder. There’s no way to know what he did,

or why he did it.” She sipped her cooling coffee as she

studied her partner’s pacing form.

“That’s just it. I do know him now. I know him a hell of

a lot better than I ever thought I would. He didn’t have a

life. He worked, he slept, he worked some more. He boxed

when he couldn’t stand the office politics anymore…”

“Or maybe when he couldn’t stand you anymore,” Scully

interrupted with a smile.

“Maybe,” Mulder conceded. Scully’s deflection had worked,

and he stilled, the need to move defused. Mulder shook his

head, amazed again at how well she knew him. He threw the

slightest of grins her way, saying, “If I may continue?”

“You’re profiling him, now? Now that he’s dead?”

“I need to understand.” Mulder dropped into his desk

chair, leaning back and throwing his legs up onto the

papers and files. He tilted his head back, stared at the

ceiling, then closed his eyes. “He fought his survivor

guilt by feeding homeless vets. He worked, he slept. He

boxed to relieve tension. He ran occasionally. And he

lived with guilt. Guilt and regret.” Mulder’s chin

dropped, his eyes popped open. The long legs slid to the

floor and he sat erect, pinning her with eyes of swirling

green and gray. “That’s *all* the man did. He *didn’t*

have a life.”

“Well, for someone who didn’t have a life, he’s still

extremely dead, Mulder, and all the profiling in the world

isn’t going to change that.” Scully rose and walked to

stand beside him, one hand placed gently on his shoulder.

“He’s dead and we have to accept it.”

Mulder gave a soft sigh, looking up into her eyes. “Do we

have to accept it, Scully?” He lifted one hand, carefully

removed hers from his shoulder, then rose. “Is he really

dead?”

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

Undisclosed Location

September 12, 2001

6:30 a.m.

“Paul! Breakfast’s ready!”

The man in the shower shook himself, enjoying the sensual

feel of the water rolling over his shoulders, sliding down

his back and legs. He ducked his head under the shower

head and shook again. You had to enjoy your pleasures

where you got them. Somehow, getting older had made him

more and more aware of that fact.

“Paul! Did you hear me?”

He grinned beneath the cascade, grabbed a loofah and began

to scrub. God, he loved showers! The moist heat, the feel

of the water as it caressed his skin, even the scent of

soaps and shampoos — it was a sensory feast.

“PAUL!” The door flew open and she was standing there,

small and trim, her curly hair still in disarray about a

round face, legs bare beneath his faded old T-shirt that

she often wore to sleep in. “Breakfast is ready and we’re

gong to be late if you don’t get moving. Didn’t you hear

me?”

She shook her head at him and he laughed, amazed at how

many things there were in life to be thankful for.

Showers and hot water, breakfast and work he enjoyed. And

a wife that still captivated him, even after all these

years. “What time is it?” he asked as he ran the soap over

an abdomen that, despite being almost 50 years old, was

still rock hard. He had a life he loved, he wasn’t going

to blow it by letting himself go to pot and then being

sickly and unable to enjoy it. And thinking of enjoyment…

He eyed Karen, standing there with a smile on her lips,

head tilted to the side, one hand on her hip. It was a pose

he knew all too well. She wanted him to get his butt

moving, and NOW. “It’s late,” she answered. “But if you,

dear sir, will move that very fetching ass, we can still

sit down to a civilized meal and not have to race into the

school like a couple of teenagers.”

“Maybe I feel like a teenager,” he teased as he reached

out and pulled her into the water with him. The shirt

soaked quickly and he liked what he saw. “A lovesick

teenager at that,” he amended.

She struggled at first, raining tiny fists against his

chest in mock resistance, then laughed and wriggled against

him. In one of the sexiest moves he’d ever seen, she swept

the T-shirt up and over her head and he felt himself unable

to breathe as he looked at her. “Maybe we should skip

breakfast after all,” she murmured, her voice gone soft and

low.

Paul nodded, pushing back dark strands of wavy hair, then

bending to whisper into her ear. “Do you know how much I

love you?”

She laughed as his breath tickled her, and glanced down at

him. “Oh, yeah,” she purred. “I’ve got a pretty good

idea.”

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

September 12, 2001

7:50 a.m.

They were almost late again, running from the teacher’s

parking lot into the building. They got to his classroom

first, and stopped as he pulled the door open and handed

her her satchel. He leaned down and kissed her, quickly at

first, then a bit longer, a bit deeper, and he could feel

himself being pulled into her very soul. The sound of

laughter, then applause, caused him to pull away in

embarrassment. He looked down into her flushed face and

they both laughed as the kids surrounding them continued to

clap.

“Time to get to class,” she murmured.

He laughed and let her go. “See you tonight,” he called

to her retreating form before he turned and said, “All

right, you monsters, nothing else to see here.”

“Already got an eyeful, Mr. J,” someone cried, and the

group erupted in laughter again.

“Get to class, all of you,” he ordered, but his own

laughter made it hard to sound stern. It was hard to be

stern when he felt so full of joy. He turned and entered

his classroom and began to pull books and papers out of his

briefcase as the teens filed in and took their seats.

“How long you and Ms. J been married?” one of the kids

asked, and Paul looked up, grinning.

“Almost twenty-five years, and let that be a lesson to you

all. It’s worth waiting for the right person. You’ll be

glad you did.” He smiled at the class, his face softening

and his eyes warm behind his glasses. “Now, can we all

open our books to page 95?”

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

Office of the Lone Gunmen

September 12, 2001

7 p.m.

“Mulder, this is crazy!” Scully said for the tenth time.

“You’re going to get us both fired!”

“I need to see the reports, Scully.” Mulder leaned over

Byers’ shoulder, staring at the monitor as the other man’s

fingers danced across the keyboard.

“You saw the reports, Mulder.”

“We saw what they wanted us to see.”

“I’m in,” Byers said, looking up quickly to see Scully

move across the room and stand over his other shoulder,

next to her partner.

“They, they, they, Mulder. It’s always ‘they.’ Why can’t

you accept that Skinner died in that car wreck? If you

keep this up, we’ll both be out of work, and you,” she

tapped Byers on the head, “you may be in jail.”

“Not Byers,” Langly said. “He’s too fast to get caught.”

“What do you think you’re going to find?” Scully stared

over at Mulder, then down at the monitor. It briefly

flashed the emblem of the Fauquier County Sheriff’s

Department, then a directory tree. Byers moved the mouse,

made a selection, and the screen changed again.

“I just want to see the original reports, not the ones

that Kersh gave us.”

Scully sighed. They’d been over this a hundred times in

the last few weeks. “Mulder, he was FBI. Fauquier called

the Bureau right away. There *are* no original reports!”

“What local office ever willingly calls the feds to take

over their case?” Mulder reached out a long finger and

tapped something on the screen, then nodded as Byers

clicked again.

“There was no case. There is no case. There was nothing

to take over.”

“Never mind why Skinner was out there at that time of

night, Scully. Never mind that there’s no record of

anything he was working on that could have had him in

Fauquier County. But it was a clear night, a straight

road, and Skinner’s not known for drinking and driving. So

what made him veer off the road, at over 90 miles an hour,

at the only point in three miles in either direction where

there was something to crash into?”

“You don’t know he hadn’t been drinking. He does, you

know.”

Mulder raised an eyebrow.

“Drink,” she went on stubbornly. “He does drink. He

could have been drinking. The accelerator could have

stuck. There could have been a bee in the car.”

“A bee in the car? Is that the best you can come up

with?” Mulder tapped the screen again, then turned to face

Scully. “If he’s dead, I want to know what happened. We

owe him that.”

“I agree, but I don’t see that there’s any reason to doubt

that he’s dead.” Scully folded her arms across her chest

and stared levelly up into Mulder’s eyes. “If nothing comes

of this, I want you to agree to drop it, Mulder. Accept it

and move on. We’ve got other things that need our

attention.”

Mulder took a deep breath and stared at the floor. “I

want to see Fauquier’s report, and I want you to check the

autopsy report. If there’s nothing in either of those,

I’ll let it go.” He looked up. “But that’s depending on

nothing else coming up that looks fishy.”

She smiled at him, her face softening. One hand came out,

took his arm and pulled gently, drawing him away from his

hacker friends and over to a wall where they could speak

quietly. “I’m worried about you, Mulder. Obsessions are

one of your favorite things. And we need to focus on other

things now. You’re wearing yourself out over this.”

“I know, I know.” He ran a hand through his hair, then

scrubbed at his face in exhaustion. “I just need to see

the reports for myself. The originals, not something

Kersh has doctored.”

“Fine. Then hack away and don’t get caught. And once

we’ve seen them, we move on, OK?” She smiled slightly to

soften her words.

“Agreed.” He rubbed his face again and turned to head

back to Byers and the monitor. “Unless something else

turns up.”

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

September 12, 2001

3:45 a.m.

It was dark and he was carrying something. Something

heavy. He grunted as he shifted the weight on his shoulder

and tried to find a comfortable grip. But it wasn’t

comfortable. It was big, whatever it was, long and thin

and it bounced against his back with every step he took.

He shifted again and took a deep breath. The air smelled

funny, a sort of strange scent that he couldn’t place.

Saltwater and decay. He looked around and realized he was

on a pier, a pier with no ships tied up, but littered with

crates. From truck-sized to boxes small enough to carry,

the pier was stacked with crates. He didn’t know where he

was, or where he was going, carrying this long, thin

thing.

Everything was silent, like a movie with the sound off.

He should be able to hear something. Water lapping against

the pier, traffic from the streets nearby, at least the

sound of his own breathing.

He was confused, unsure of what was happening, and he

stopped, longing to put the thing he carried down, but

somehow knowing he shouldn’t. His gut was tight with fear

and his nerves jangled from the adrenaline that surged in

his veins with every move he made. Sweat rolled down his

brow, and he shifted his burden again, then raised a hand

to wipe his forehead. But his hand was wet already, wet

and sticky, and he squinted in the darkness as he stared at

the hand and tried to figure out why it was wet.

He wiped his mouth and tasted something metallic. Oddly

familiar, with a coppery tang. The adrenaline flowed again

as he first realized it was blood, and then, in shock,

wondered how he would know the taste of blood. He shook

his head in confusion, then bent again to readjust the load

he carried, and a bullet sliced the air where his head had

been a split second before. He dropped to his knees,

rolling to one side, ducking behind a shipping crate. He

realized he could hear again, even as he reached out and

grabbed the man he had been carrying (he’d been carrying

a man!) and pulled him into the temporary safety of the

crate.

It was like he was two people. There was the person

moving, ducking, rolling, pulling, the man who seemed to

know what was happening. And then there was him — the

high school teacher who didn’t even know where the hell he

was or how he’d gotten there.

Another shot rang out and the wooden crate splintered over

his head. He looked down and found a gun in his hand. How

the hell had that gotten there? He didn’t know anything

about guns. Or maybe he did. As he watched in disbelief,

his hands thumbed the safety off, pulled back on the barrel

and he began to fire. He looked down at the man beside him

— tall and lanky, his face pale from the blood he was

losing — and fired again at the unseen threat.

He could hear something else now, something besides

bullets. There was shouting. Someone was crying out,

“Kill them! Kill them!” And a barrage of gunfire

assailed the crate. He grabbed the injured man by the

collar and slithered further back, behind more crates. He

felt a sharp pain in his arm and looked down, saw that he’d

been hit and was bleeding now. He had to stop the

bleeding. He looked at the unconscious man beside him,

somehow knowing that he knew him and yet having no name for

this tall person with dark hair and the oh, so pale face.

Another shot whizzed by, pulling him back to the present.

He reached into a pocket, reloaded the gun, and began

firing again. His arm was bleeding freely, and he was out

of ammunition when a figure stepped around the crate, a gun

leveled at his head. He strained to see the face of the

man who was going to kill him, but it was shrouded in

darkness.

He thought again about the absurdity of it all. That he,

a high school math teacher would end up dying on a nameless

pier, killed by a nameless man, for no reason he could

comprehend. He didn’t know how he’d gotten here, or why he

was here, or how he knew how to handle this gun.

He looked down at his hands, watched as the gun dropped

from numb fingers and wished with all his heart he was back

safe in his bed with his wife. “Karen! “Karen!” The first

cry was hoarse and almost unintelligible. But the second

one rang out clear.

He stared at the man before him, his finger on the trigger

pulling back almost imperceptibly. He was going to die. He

closed his eyes, and screamed again, “Karen! Karen!”

waiting for the bullet to sound, for the pain he knew was

coming. Waiting…

“PAUL!”

His head rocked back from the force of her palm and his

eyes snapped open. His wife was straddling him, her

fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Paul! Are you awake?”

He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded, and let

himself fall forward into her embrace. She wrapped her

arms around him, holding him tightly and stroking his back

until his breathing slowed and he could manage to make his

tongue work.

“It’s getting worse,” he whispered thickly, feeling her

answering nod.

She tightened her grip on him, holding him as if she would

fight the world to keep him safe, then reluctantly let go

and slid off his legs, leaving him to hold himself upright.

“You go and shower,” she said softly. “You’re drenched and

the sheets are soaked. I’ll strip the bed and make

coffee.”

He nodded obediently, not able to think yet, and struggled

to his feet, padding softly toward the bathroom.

She cocked her head as she studied him. “We’ll talk when

you get done.”

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

Mulder’s Office

September 13, 2001

10 a.m.

“Are you satisfied now?” Scully dropped the folder on

Mulder’s desk. I’ve gone over the autopsy and I don’t see

anything other than what went into the report.”

“Nothing?” Mulder opened the file, staring down at a

Skinner-sized black lump on a stainless steel table.

“The body was badly burned, Mulder. Not just beyond

recognition, but to the point where the bones began to

break and fuse. Not even the teeth could be used for

identification.”

Mulder jerked alert, staring up at his partner. “No

dental I.D.? What did they use?” He shook his head and

added, “And don’t tell me his wallet.” A quick glance down

at the picture in the folder and then, “No way the wallet

survived.”

“No, Mulder. It wasn’t his wallet.” She tilted her head

as she looked at him. “I thought you knew.”

“I don’t *know* anything!” Mulder said in disgust. “That’s

why I’m trying to find something out.” He rose and began

to pace the small office. “I just think it’s too

convenient that once Skinner begins to be a little more

dependable when it comes to backing us up, he suddenly

turns up dead. Dead, in a weird, single car crash, on a

deserted road, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of

the night.” He heeled around, facing her. “Nothing new, I

know, but he had no reason to be there, nothing anyone can

find that would explain why he was out there, or what

caused the crash.” He started pacing again, three strides

to the door, then a quick turn and back toward the desk.

“And now you tell me not only was he burned beyond

recognition, his teeth were destroyed too?” He halted at

her side, staring earnestly into her face. “How do we know

it’s him?”

“Oh, Mulder,” Scully sighed, one hand reaching up almost

hesitantly to push gently against his chest, forcing him to

sit. “I thought you knew.” When he was seated, she

propped herself on the desk in front of him. “It was him,

Mulder. He broke his leg when he was a child, a bad break.

I saw the X-rays. Right leg.”

Mulder’s head dropped as she spoke and she could see the

beginnings of acceptance slide across his features.

“The body was badly burned, the bones included. But you

could still see the healed fracture on the right leg.” She

stopped and took a deep breath. “It was him, Mulder. It

had to be him.”

Mulder shook his head as she spoke, still staring at his

lap. She could see as he closed his eyes tightly, fighting

unnamed emotions, and when he opened them and lifted his

head, she could see the exhaustion in the drooping, red-

rimmed lids. His whole face was etched in exhaustion and

she chided herself for not watching more closely, not

having confronted him sooner. Staring down at him, she

wondered just how much sleep he’d gotten in the week since

Skinner died.

He stared up at her and she was struck by the sudden

bereft look on Mulder’s features and she realized he had

truly not believed that Skinner was dead until this

moment.

“Mulder,” she said softly, “I miss him, too. But the fact

is, we didn’t know him that well, and we couldn’t really

depend on him. He never really took a stand.”

Mulder just shook his head. “I know he was on our side.

There were other things going on, things that made him seem

to sit on the fence, but he was on our side.”

“Mulder…” She reached out and touched his head,

surprised to find he was warm to her touch. “Mulder? Are

you all right?”

He shook his head, pushing her hand away. “No, I’m not

all right.” He looked up at her impatiently. “Don’t you

get it, Scully?” He shook his head again.

“We’re really on our own now. We’re alone,” he said, in

an almost stricken voice.

“We’re not alone,” she whispered. “We have each other.”

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

ACT II

September 13, 2001

10 p.m.

He was humming softly, something from the early seventies

that he knew but couldn’t remember the name of. He scanned

the shelves in front of him, searching for the brand she

liked, found it, and threw two packs of paper towels into

the cart without missing a beat. It amazed him how much he

enjoyed the every day things in life. Before they’d moved

here, he’d had friends who talked of feeling trapped in

their marriages, trapped in their lives. The every day

joys seemed to elude those men, but not him. He couldn’t

imagine anything more wonderful than this life he led. A

wife who loved him, a job he was happy at, one that gave

him pleasure. A chance to shape young lives, to contribute

to the future. A chance to make a difference in the world

through the children he taught.

He laughed as he picked up toilet paper, then tissues, and

stacked them on the almost full cart. Some people weren’t

content with the every day life, thinking life had to be

exciting and an adventure in order to be worthwhile. Or

they needed to do something on a grand scale to feel they

were making a contribution. But he knew better. It was the

little things, the every day things, that made life worth

living. He could think of nothing sadder than a life with

no family, no friends, no hobbies. A man who only worked

and slept and worked some more. He shuddered as he opened

the dairy case and pulled out a carton of eggs. He

carefully opened the lid, first checking to be sure none

were broken, then moving each egg in its cradle, as Karen

had taught him all those years ago, to make sure none were

cracked on the bottom.

This was what life was all about. Not — he shuddered

again — not the macho heroics of those horrid nightmares

he’d been having. It was about love and friendship. About

grocery shopping and grading tests at night with someone

you loved. Someone who loved you. It was about mowing the

grass and backyard barbecues with friends. It was about

baseball in a minor league park on a hot summer night and

fireworks under the stars. It was about helping a bright

young girl find a scholarship so she could go to college

and watching a kid add A + B for the first time and really

get an answer.

He moved on to the checkout, and idly noticed the long

coat the man in front of him was wearing. A glance at the

big thermometer that hung over the customer service counter

reminded him of what he already knew. It was September in

Georgia; that guy had to be dying in that thing. He

shrugged and went back to wondering how he got to be so

lucky. How he was the one who knew what made life

worthwhile, when millions of others wandered blindly along,

never satisfied, never content. As far as he was

concerned, the life of this high school math teacher was

all he needed, and he was going to thank God every day that

he had it.

A shrill cry jerked him from his reverie and he came

alert, looking around. The man in the long coat had pulled

a gun and had it aimed at the young cashier. She was the

one who had cried out. He looked at her more closely. It

was Cheryl Pierce. She was in his algebra class. He

seemed to remember she’d once told him she was junior class

VP. Made sense — she was active in school. He knew that.

Even had a school T-shirt on at work. A lot of the

teenagers wouldn’t show that kind of school pride. She was

a bright girl, cute and funny, but she hadn’t been

satisfied with the D she’d gotten in algebra and was

repeating it again this year. She said she just couldn’t

seem to get the hang of using letters for numbers last

year, but he was inclined to think it was more the

teacher’s fault than the girl’s, since she seemed to be

doing fine in his class.

He studied her closely. She wasn’t doing fine right now.

Her face was pale, almost transparent, and she was crying.

Not loud, sobbing cries, but crying nonetheless. Tears

streamed down her cheeks and she breathed in little gulping

sighs. Her nose was running and as he watched, she lifted

a shaking hand and swiped it, a little child’s action. The

man in the coat said something, but it was strange, almost

like his dream. He couldn’t seem to hear, he just suddenly

knew how to act. Part of him was appalled that anyone

would threaten a child this way, that anyone would dare to

infringe on her innocence and stain her with violence.

But another part of him was moving, shoving his full

shopping cart forward, watching as the man in the long coat

fell forward, the gun going off at the ceiling. Paul

shoved again, then leapt over the moving belt on the

counter, tackling Cheryl and pulling her to the ground with

him.

Sound was suddenly back and he could hear screaming all

around and he saw people scurrying away. The man with the

gun was up, because when Paul rolled again, he saw the

barrel of the gun come down over the counter and he felt

the bullet as it exploded into his arm. He somehow kept

rolling, Cheryl beneath him, then above, and soon they were

behind a refrigerated display case full of ice cold sodas.

He heard the glass on the front of the case shatter as

another bullet found its way home. He pushed away from

Cheryl, shoving her toward the door, screaming, “Run! Run!

Run!” even as he leapt to his feet and raced toward the

shooter.

This was insane. This was madness. He’d lost his mind.

He was Paul Johnson, math teacher, and he did not *ever*

charge down men who were holding a gun.

He stared at the barrel of the gun, watched as it rose and

pointed directly at his chest. He was still moving

forward, a final dance with death, the barrel of the gun

wavering only slightly. He could hear screaming, taste the

fear in his mouth, feel the blood on his sleeve. The man

holding the gun grinned, his lips pulled back to reveal

teeth locked in a death’s mask parody. He could see the

finger on the trigger, pulling, pulling, pulling, and he

could almost feel the jolt as the gun fired, the bullet

leaping from the barrel and as he went down, he thought,

“Karen is never going to forgive me for this.”

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

September 14,

2001 5:15 a.m.

The hammer came down again. BANG! He pulled back and

looked down at his work. For someone as unhandy as he was,

it was turning out all right. He raised the hammer once

more — BANG — and then nodded in satisfaction. He was

done. He set the hammer on the bench, then turned for

sandpaper.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

He looked down in surprise, then glanced at the workbench

to make sure the hammer wasn’t acting on its own.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Mulder jerked awake, the old blanket slipping to the floor

as he sat up on the battered couch. The TV was still

running, sound muted, the picture causing weird shadows to

dance across the walls.

Weird shadows, weird dreams. Something about building

something. And a hammer.

Mulder rolled his shoulders, then stretched, standing as

he lifted his arms over his head and arched his back. It

was September, in the nineties, but the A/C was blowing full

force and he shivered in his boxers.

Very weird dream. Wood and nails and hammers.

Hammers.

Pounding.

He froze in midstretch and shot a glance at the door.

“Nah,” he muttered, padding into the kitchen and turning

on the water. He pulled the basket from the coffeemaker,

dumped the old filter with a grimace. It was a solid lump,

gray and fuzzy, and he swore for the hundredth time to wash

the damn thing every time he used it. He stuck the basket

in the sink, letting the now hot water bathe it as he

rummaged in the cabinet for a new filter and the coffee.

Pounding. He been dreaming of pounding.

Or had he?

He shook his head again, forcing his thoughts back to the

coffee. The coffeemaker had been a gift from Scully’s

mother — and he actually used it. Not as often as he’d

thought he would. He always seemed to be running from one

emergency to another, and when it wasn’t an emergency, he

was just plain running late. But on nights like this, or

the occasional weekend, it was nice to be able to make a

cup of decent coffee — something drinkable that still

served its purpose to keep him awake and keep him going.

Pounding.

He glanced at the door again. Why couldn’t he shake the

dream? Oh, the dream itself was fading. He’d been making

something, something that involved pounding. It was the

pounding that kept coming back to him.

He filled the filter with coffee, then put it in the

basket, filled the pot with water and dumped it into the

reservoir. Put the pot on the burner, flick the switch, and

voila! In mere minutes he’d have coffee even Scully

couldn’t fuss about.

He scrounged for a cup, but couldn’t find a clean one, so

the hot water came back on and he put the least filthy one

right in the stream, letting the hot water soak his latest

science experiment.

Pounding.

That was it. He looked at the half-filled coffeepot, then

stared at the water overflowing the coffee cup. It was his

favorite. It had a picture of the space shuttle and the

words, “Space — the final frontier.” He liked it because

it was so normal. It was the kind of cup anyone could

have. It wasn’t really about aliens or UFOs or anything

else weird or strange. Just a typical cup that any old guy

might have sitting on his desk at work. It made him feel

almost normal.

Pounding.

He shook his head and gave up at last, walking quickly to

the door to the apartment. He yanked it open, looking

right and then left.

Nothing.

He looked down, not really surprised to see the bulky

manila envelope that lay there. He bent and picked it up,

checked the hall again, and shut and locked the door. Even

as he walked back to the kitchen, he could tell it was a

videotape.

“Scully would be proud of me,” he muttered as he finished

rinsing the cup and then filled it with coffee. Cup in one

hand, tape in the other, he moved back to the living room

and turned on the VCR.

The image was in black and white, shot from a distance,

and from a stationary position. It was the inside of a

supermarket. It took him only a moment to realize this was

a surveillance tape from the store’s security system.

As he watched, a man in a trench coat got into a young

girl’s line and moved forward. When he got in front of the

girl, he pulled a sawed-off shotgun from beneath the coat

and pointed it at her. He watched as the girl began to

cry, as one hand rose and wiped uselessly at her nose, the

shotgun never moving from in front of her. He was staring

at the girl’s hands, certain he could see them shake, even

on this grainy film, when the cart behind the gunman shot

forward, knocking the man to his knees, then down again as

the cart was shoved a second time. A big man appeared in

the camera’s view, leaping over the counter in a single

smooth movement, then the man and the girl disappeared and

the gunman rose, shoving the cart back and then leaning

over the counter and firing.

Mulder watched as the big man and the girl appeared again,

blood blossoming on the big guy’s arm. He ignored the

wound and rolled the girl away. Just before the man and

the girl disappeared from the camera’s view again, the man

lifted his head, searching for the shooter and unknowingly

stared into the camera’s eye.

Mulder choked, hot coffee spraying from his mouth as he

hit pause and struggled to regain his breath.

“Holy shit!” he muttered as he stared at the all too

familiar face on his TV screen. “I don’t believe this.”

His eyes never left the screen as he scrambled for the

cordless phone, hit the speed dial button and waited for

the familiar answer.

“Scully,” she said.

“Scully, it’s me.”

“Of course it’s you, Mulder,” she answered in a grumpy

tone. “No one else would call me now. Do you even know

what time it is?” He could hear the sleep in her voice,

knew her lips were pursed as she studied the clock on her

bedside table. Knew she was annoyed, but knew as well

she’d forgive him, and in about five seconds she’d be as

awake as he was.

“Scully — you aren’t going to believe what I just found.”

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

Hospital Room

September 14, 2001

7:30 a.m.

He woke up, surprised to find that he could. The room was

bright and cheerful, and there were flowers covering every

surface he could see. There was a small hand in his own

larger one, and he tightened his grip slightly.

Karen gasped, then sat up, coming immediately awake.

“You’re awake,” she said, squeezing him back.

“Yep.” He nodded, not sure what else to say. He stared

into her worried eyes and finally asked, “What happened?”

“You decided to be an idiot and got yourself shot.”

Paul blinked. The store, the gunman, Cheryl. Cheryl. He

felt his heart rate pick up and a frown crept across his

face. “Cheryl? The girl from the store? Is she all

right?”

Karen smiled. “She’s fine. Telling the whole town how

her favorite teacher saved her life.”

“I didn’t, really. I just tried to get her out of the

way.” He glanced up at his wife. “What happened to the

man? I thought he was going to shoot me.”

“He did.” Karen nodded at his arm and he looked down at

the bandage then shook his head.

“No. Here.” He pointed at his chest. “I thought he was

going to shoot me here.”

Karen’s face sobered. “So did the cops. They got there

just in time to see the end.” She wrinkled her nose at him

as she asked, “You really don’t remember what happened?”

He shook his head again.

“According to the cops, as the guy started to pull the

trigger, you lunged at him, then did some sort of drop and

kicked his feet out from under him. Then you rolled on top

of him and took the gun away.” She narrowed her eyes at

him. “You hit him with the butt of the gun, almost knocked

him out. The cops said it looked professional, like

something you’d practiced a hundred times to get that

smooth.”

“They get him?”

She shook her head. “In the confusion, he managed to get

to his feet and get out the back.”

He blinked again, then looked around for his glasses. She

saw him searching, opened the drawer to the bedside table,

and pulled them out. “Looking for these, hero?”

He nodded, slipping them on his face, even as he said,

“I’m no hero. I was scared shitless.” He pushed the

wirerims up against the bridge of his nose, then settled

back into the pillows. “Then what happened?”

“Then, Mr. Hero-Man, you fainted.” She couldn’t suppress

the grin that stretched across her face.

“I fainted?” He laughed, then laughed even harder when

she joined him, nodding. “I really fainted?”

“Apparently. The cops said it was probably the adrenaline

coupled with the blood loss from the shot to your arm.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever fainted before,” he murmured when

they had both stopped laughing.

“I don’t think you’ve ever tackled a man with a gun

before, either,” she said, laughter still in her voice.

He chuckled as he looked at her, but somehow, this time,

he couldn’t agree.

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

Scully’s Apartment

September 14, 2001 6:30 a.m.

The image frozen on the TV screen was the same one he had

stared at in disbelief for so many long minutes. Only now,

it was frozen on Scully’s TV and she was the one who stared

in disbelief.

“Oh, my God …” she whispered for the fourth time. Her

eyes finally slid off the screen and traveled up to meet

his. One small but strong hand half-covered her mouth.

“What have they done?”

Mulder shook his head grimly. “I still don’t know that,

but I know what they haven’t done.”

“What?” Her eyes had moved back to the image of Skinner,

arm bloody, face dirty, and eyes that seemed to stare

directly at them from the TV.

“They haven’t killed him.” Mulder stood and stepped to

the VCR. He pushed a button and the image disappeared.

Seconds later, the tape slipped halfway out of the machine

and he pulled it free, then pocketed it. “We need to find

him.”

“Can we get Bureau help, do you think? Is it safe?”

Mulder shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know. Not

everyone can be involved, but I don’t know who is and I

don’t know how far their reach extends.”

“Pretty damn far if they managed to ‘kill’ Skinner and

almost get away with it.” She rose from the sofa and moved

into the kitchen, turning to study him as he followed her.

“I’m making tea. My bet is you’ve already had at least a

pot of coffee.”

“We need to find him, Scully! If they want him gone this

badly, I sure as hell want him back!”

The kettle was filled and on the stovetop now, and she had

moved to the kitchen. Sandwich makings were appearing on

the small table as she pulled one thing out after another.

“I’m not hungry, Scully! We need to get started!”

“Hush,” she ordered, turning to look at him. “You’ve

gotten started. You’ve got the tape.”

“I didn’t *get* the tape. It came to me. I haven’t done

anything, yet.” He slumped into a chair in frustration.

“You didn’t let it go, Mulder. That’s your biggest

strength.” She patted him absently and began to make

sandwiches. “You also didn’t sleep or eat much since we

got the word.” She placed a paper plate with a ham and

cheese sandwich on it before him as the kettle began to

whistle. “Now… I know you. You’re not going to eat or

sleep much until we find him.” She was pouring hot water

into mugs as she spoke, then adding sugar. The milk was

already in a small pitcher on the table. “And God only

knows how long it’s going to take, considering all we have

to go on is the tape.” She turned and placed the hot mug

in front of him, pleased to see half the sandwich had

already been wolfed down. “You can’t let yourself get worn

down. He needs you.”

Mulder shook his head, mouth full. He chewed hard, then

swallowed and said, “He needs us both. I’ve looked at the

tape and I haven’t got a clue as to where it is. It could

be any grocery store in any town in America.” He took one

more huge bite and the sandwich was gone. “I don’t know

where to start.”

“Let’s go look again. This time, instead of watching the

action, we need to watch what doesn’t move.” She had

almost finished cleaning up her impromptu sandwich makings.

The mayonnaise went back into the fridge and she grabbed a

dishcloth and wiped the table.

“What do you mean?” Mulder was stirring milk into the

tea, staring up at her.

“The background.” She walked to the trash can, shook

bread crumbs from the cloth, then went to the sink. “There

must be something there to give us a clue as to where he

is.”

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

Office of the Lone Gunmen

September 14, 2001

8:30 a.m.

“There!” Mulder pointed to a fuzzy image on the screen.

“We think that’s a newspaper. Can you enhance it?”

“C’n try.” Langly scratched his head. “None of the

images are real clear.” He rolled the tape back, stopping

at another frame, then squinting at the screen. “I still

think that’s just a clock.” He turned and looked at

Scully. “Why do you think it’s a thermometer?”

“A grocery store we went to when I was a child had one of

those. I always thought it was neat — a thermometer that

looked like a clock. It was when we were stationed at

Mayport and it would get so hot in the summer. I remember

wondering what would happen when it got over a hundred,

since 100 was as far as the thermometer went — the 12

o’clock spot.”

“We’ll see what we can do with the girl’s shirt, too.”

Frohike spoke from a seat in front of another monitor. “I

swear that looks like a school mascot.”

“She’s just a kid, Frohike. Make sure the mascot is all

you check out.” Mulder tossed out the warning without

thinking and Scully had to laugh.

Mulder glanced at her, smiled in acknowledgment, then

turned back to his friends. “We’re taking copies to the

FBI, get them working on it too.”

“Is that wise, Mulder?” Byers rose and tugged at his

vest. “Surely someone there was involved in this.”

“Probably,” Mulder nodded grimly. “But at high levels,

not down in the labs.”

“At least that’s what we’re hoping,” Scully added. “You

guys are good, and we appreciate what you’re doing, but we

need all the help we can get.”

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

September 14, 2001

5 p.m.

“How’s the arm?” Karen asked as she set a plate before

him.

He sniffed appreciatively. Barbecued chicken, mashed

potatoes, corn on the cob. So much for their resolution to

eat salads for dinner during the summer months. He grinned

up at his wife. “It hurts, but not too bad. And if

anything can make it feel better, a meal like this can!

Thanks, babe.”

She leaned down and kissed him. “You’re welcome. Just

promise me you’re done with heroic stunts like that,

please.” Her voice softened and she looked deep into his

eyes. “I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

He pushed the plate aside, scooted his chair back from the

table, and pulled her into his lap with his still good arm.

He kissed her hungrily, then buried his head against her

breasts. “I couldn’t go on without you either.”

They sat that way for a long moment, until she rose, ever

the practical one, and said, “Well, enough of that sap.

Just you mind your p’s and q’s, Mr. Johnson, and don’t make

me have to track you down in a hospital again.” She took a

deep breath, steadying herself, and put his plate back in

front of him. “Eat, before it gets cold. That detective

is coming over after dinner to talk to you again.”

They ate together, talking about the kids at school, the

new house, what a good decision it had been to leave the

city and move to this small town. And how sad it was, that

even in small town America, crime had to rear its ugly

head. They finished and she wouldn’t let him help with the

clean-up, so he sat and kept her company while she washed

and then dried their dishes. There was chicken left over —

it would make a wonderful lunch tomorrow. She had just

wiped the table down, making him lift his arms so she could

do the whole thing, when the doorbell rang.

A look of concern slid across her face, but she covered it

quickly and said, “I’ll let him in. You two can talk out

here. I’m going to go in the living room and read.”

“I *can* move, you know,” he said, reaching out to stop

her and pull her to himself. “It’s just my arm and it’s

going to be fine. I’ll only have a little scar.”

She took a deep, shuddery breath. “I know, I know. And I

know I’m fussing.” Her head came up and she met his eyes.

“Let me fuss. I was scared. I felt so damn helpless. I

couldn’t *do* anything when they told me you’d been shot.”

He stroked her hair as the doorbell rang again, murmuring,

“I’m sorry. It’s all right now.”

She kissed him then, a quick brush on the lips and pulled

away. “Of course it’s all right. You saved Cheryl’s

life.” She turned and walked to the doorway, then looked

back. “Just let me fuss a bit more.” Her eyes dropped and

she studied the floor. “It helps chase away the scared

feeling.”

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

FBI Lab

September 14, 2001

5 p.m.

“I can’t believe it’s really him!” Danny looked up at

Mulder in astonishment. “And you just found this tape

outside your door?”

“Yeah, and nobody knows I’ve brought it to you and I want

to keep it that way.” Mulder brushed his hair back and

stared down at the younger man.

Danny lifted both hands in a surrender gesture. “No

sweat, Mulder. Your secret’s safe with me.” He dropped

his hands and fiddled with the controls on the monitor.

The image of Skinner doubled and then doubled again until

they could stare into the man’s eyes. “But why, man? I’d

think you’d want all the resources of the Bureau working on

this.”

“I’m not sure I can trust the Bureau. Someone went to a

lot of trouble to convince us all that Skinner is dead.

Until I know who that someone is, and why, I don’t want

anyone to know about this who doesn’t absolutely have to.”

“I hear ya.” Danny shifted the image on the screen and

the thermometer over the customer service desk leapt into

view. It was still fuzzy, but it was clear that it wasn’t

a clock. Scully had been right. “They won’t hear it from

me.” He played with the dials again, and the number

cleared. “Ninety-four degrees.”

“Ninety-four.” Mulder nodded, pleased. “That’ll help

narrow it down if we can get a date.”

“I’m working on it. I’m gonna try for the newspaper —

that’ll give us a date and a name, hopefully. If I can’t

get that, there may be a receipt showing in one of the

frames and I can pull a date off that.”

“Good man.” Mulder patted the other man’s shoulder. “Let

me know as soon as you get anything I can use.”

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

September 14, 2001

6 p.m.

“White male, five-eleven, 18 to 25. Brown eyes and brown

hair past his earlobes. Blue jeans and a white T-shirt,

and of course, that damn coat.” Paul stopped and looked

over at the other man. “I’m amazed you didn’t get him.”

Detective Franco snorted. “So am I. And I still don’t

know how he slipped out.” He narrowed his eyes as he

studied Paul. “And you, you give a description like a cop

would. What’s up with that?”

Paul laughed uncomfortably and lifted one hand in a little

‘forget it’ gesture. “Didn’t know I’d done it.” He rose

and got the iced tea from the refrigerator, refilling both

glasses. “Must have watched too much NYPD Blue.”

“Yeah — uh, thanks.” The detective took another swallow

of the tea. “That must be it.” He lifted one hand and

tugged absently at a lock of hair.

Paul stared at him. The movement looked almost familiar,

but he couldn’t place it. He shook his head and put the

pitcher back in the refrigerator. Probably something one

of the kids did in class.

“So there’s nothing else you can tell me, Mr. Johnson?”

The detective set the tall glass of iced tea back down on

the table. “Nothing at all?”

Paul shrugged in frustration. “I don’t know what you want

from me. It all happened so fast.”

“Yeah, and you reacted like a pro. That roll over the

counter was one of the slickest moves I’ve ever seen.” He

shook his head. “And the way you avoided the man’s shots —

I was amazed. We all were.”

Paul pointed to his bandaged arm. “Didn’t avoid them all,

as you should recall. Just lucky on the rest.”

The detective was still shaking his head. “No, you don’t

understand. We’ve checked the trajectories of all the

shots. What you did went beyond luck. It was something

any one of us would have been proud to have pulled off. It

was like you knew where he would aim next, like you’d

studied criminal behavior and knew where and how to move to

stay ahead of the guy.”

Paul laughed now and took a deep drink from his tea.

“‘Fraid you’ve got the wrong guy. Me? I’m just a high

school math teacher. Always have been. No cops and

robbers stuff for me.”

“I guess.” The cop looked disappointed. “We checked your

background — you came up clean.”

Paul choked on the tea, coughing long and hard enough that

Karen came to the door to see what had happened. He caught

his breath at last and waved her away. “I’m fine — just

swallowed wrong.” He smiled up at her, sorry to have

worried her further. “Go read — we’ll be done shortly and

I’ll join you.”

When she had retreated to the living room, he turned and

looked at the cop. “You checked my background? What the

hell for?”

“You’re new in town. You interrupt a robbery despite your

mild-mannered high school teacher persona. You move like a

cop — or a professional bad guy — someone with a lot of

experience at staying out of a bullet’s way. I wanted to

know who you are.”

Paul stared at him. “And who am I?”

The cop shook his head. “I don’t know. Everything I

found says Paul Johnson, math teacher. Grew up in a small

town in Ohio, OSU for college. Met Karen Riley there,

married her upon graduation, and you’ve both been teachers

ever since. She grew up in foster care, your parents are

dead — it’s just the two of you.”

“What the hell does my life have to do with what happened

at the Shop-n-Save?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Johnson. And if I’ve invaded your

privacy for no reason, I can assure you I’ll apologize. But

from my point of view, it just looks pretty weird.”

Paul stared at the man in amazement. “Don’t you have

anything better to do than dig around in my past? Can’t

you see I’m one of the most boring people you’ll ever meet?

Don’t you have a life?”

The cop rose, still shaking his head. “You’ve got the

life a lot of us cops wish we had. The wife, the house,

the job you love.” Franco lifted his glass, walked to the

sink, and dumped the ice. He set the empty tumbler on the

stainless steel carefully, then turned to face the man in

the chair. “Some cops can balance it all, but most of us

can’t. Failed marriages, too much liquor. We eat and

sleep and shit our jobs. It becomes the sum total of all

we are, and it’s pretty damn lonely, Mr. Johnson.” Franco

dug in his pocket, pulling out car keys. “I’ll give you

that apology now, sir. Maybe it was just envy that made me

want to dig around in your past.”

He walked over and extended a hand, shaking when Paul

extended his own. “Thanks for the help with our bad guy.

Sorry we let him get away after you worked so hard to save

the girl. We’ll let you know when we find him.”

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

ACT III

Mulder’s Apartment

September 14, 2001

11 p.m.

“I picked it all up from our friends, Scully. They’ve got

the name off the paper, and the date. We already had the

temperature. All that’s left is the symbol on the girl’s

shirt.” Mulder could barely contain his enthusiasm. “When

can you get here?”

She sighed sleepily. “On my way. Give me about an hour.

I’m clear across town from you and I’m half asleep. I don’t

want to have a wreck.” Mulder nodded as he heard her hang

up the phone, disconnecting them.

He glanced at the clock, then headed for the kitchen.

Scully always fed him when they worked at her place. After

an initially skeptical start, she’d thrown herself

wholeheartedly into the search for Skinner. She deserved

at least a sandwich or a cup of soup. He opened the

refrigerator. Mustard, mayonnaise, a carton of sour milk

and an onion were the only occupants. Damn! He’d

forgotten to shop again.

No sweat. There was always soup. He went to the cabinet

and opened the door. Bare shelves. Well, not completely

bare. There was an opened bag of noodles that he couldn’t

remember buying and a can of cranberry jelly, left from

Thanksgiving. That was it. He briefly pondered cranberry

jelly soup, then wrinkled his nose in disgust. He grabbed

the phone and hit speed dial 2 and the familiar voice of

the woman at the Chinese restaurant answered.

The food taken care of, he looked down at himself and

sniffed. Phew! Now he was really disgusted. When was the

last time he had showered? He’d been so obsessed with the

search for Skinner, he couldn’t remember the last time he

climbed into a shower. He glanced longingly at the

envelope with the papers and the disk from the Lone Gunmen,

then sniffed again.

No contest. He pulled the T-shirt over his head and

started unbuttoning his jeans as he headed for the shower.

He was just getting out, towel wrapped around his waist,

when the doorbell rang. “Coming,” he called as he scooped

up his wallet and headed for the door. He had the money in

one hand and the other hand on the door knob, when the door

frame shattered, and he was thrown backward into the wall.

His vision blurred and he shook his head, even as he tried

to get to his feet. The head shaking had been a mistake

and a wave of nausea held him pinned to the floor as he

struggled for breath. One man stood over him, a gun

sighted at his head. The other one was coming back from

the living room, the packet of material about Skinner in

his hands.

He surged upward, ignoring the gun and lunged at the man

with the envelope. The other man grabbed him and threw him

into the wall again, this time the gun was pressed against

his chest. Mulder stood still, panting heavily, still

eyeing the envelope.

“Don’t try it,” the man with the gun said. “I’m not

supposed to kill you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t shoot

you.” He slid the gun up Mulder’s chest and settled it

against the scar Scully’s bullet had left. “This seems to

be a popular spot.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Mulder grated out between

clenched teeth. “What do you want?”

“We want you to leave the A.D. alone. He’s happy, content.”

The gun moved pack and forth over the scar, almost as if

the man were scratching it. “Leave it alone, Mulder.”

Mulder stared at the two men. He’d lost his towel at some

point and standing here naked did not add to his

confidence, but he’d be damned if they were going to walk

out with all his hard-won information without a fight.

Mulder dropped his head, nodding slightly.

“Good boy,” the man said. The gun pulled back from his

shoulder fractionally, and Mulder moved. He dropped and

rolled, sweeping the gunman’s feet out from under him. The

man fell with a crash. Mulder was up in a split second and

lunging for the second man. The second man danced back

barely avoiding Mulder’s grasp. Mulder struggled with

balance for a second, then got ready to leap again.

The muscles in his legs were taut, his body was coiled

like a spring and he was going to get this guy. The

adrenaline was flowing and he was ready and the man was

just standing there, not running, not trying to get away.

Just waiting. Mulder was poised, ready to plunge, when

something heavy came crashing down on the back of his head

and everything went dark.

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

September 14, 2001

11:45 p.m.

His gun was missing. He was searching for it but he

couldn’t find it. It was just gone. Someone was pounding

on the door, someone that didn’t wish him well, and he

couldn’t find the damn gun. He could hear the door as

whoever was out there threw himself against it. He raced

through the house, pulling open drawers, digging through

closets, his hand sliding between the mattress and box

springs in the bedroom.

Where the hell was the damn gun?

He heard the door crack again — knew it was just moments

before the man on the outside became the man on the inside.

He raced down the stairs and into the kitchen, settling for

a large butcher knife. If he couldn’t find his gun, he’d

be damned if he was going to face them unarmed.

He went to the fuse box and hit the circuit breaker,

turning off all the lights. It was hard to aim a gun when

you couldn’t see. A knife, on the other hand, had only to

make contact. Contact in some places was better than

others, but any kind of contact constituted a score.

“Paul!”

He looked around, startled, trying to see who was in the

room and who they were calling. Was Paul the one trying to

break his door down?

The door frame finally gave and he could hear feet tread

on the carpet as the man moved into the condo. The man was

moving slowly, carefully, and he could imagine the gun held

out in front as the head turned from side to side.

“Paul!”

He ignored it this time, focused on the man moving

silently toward him. The knife was clenched in his right

hand; he crouched behind an overstuffed chair and struggled

to control his breathing. He was almost there. It was

almost time. He waited, holding his breath now, not daring

to make a sound, because he might only get one chance at

this.

The man stepped around the chair and he sprung, leaping to

his feet and plunging the knife in as hard as he could. He

pulled it out and stabbed again. And again, and again and

again.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

The scream shocked him. It wasn’t the man in his arms.

That man was unmoving.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

He lifted his hand to stab again, but something happened,

something moved, and…

“Karen!” He sat up, drenched in sweat. She lay on the

floor where he’d thrown her? pushed her? and his heart

broke. He scrambled out of the bed and moved toward her

but she scuttled away and he froze.

“Karen?” he said softly. “Are you all right?”

“Paul?” She was crying and he strained to see if he’d

hurt her.

“I’m going to turn the light on, OK hon?” He stayed on

the floor, crawling to the table and flipping the switch.

As the room lit up and he could see, he stared at her,

still huddled by the foot of the bed. “Are you all right?”

“Paul?”

“Yeah, babe, it’s me.” He moved forward slightly, and

when she didn’t move back, he went to her. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, the tears starting to stop at last.

He leaned back and grabbed the tissues from beside the

lamp, handing them to her. She wiped her eyes then blew

her nose noisily. When she was done, she tossed the tissue

aside, then smacked him on his good arm. “You threw me out

of the bed, you big oaf!”

“Aw, shit, Karen, I’m sorry.” He reached out and pulled

her into his arms, ignoring the pain in the injured one.

“I’m so damn sorry.” He kissed her hair, then shifted to

lean up against the bed and pull her into his lap. “I

don’t know what’s going on with me. God! I’m so sorry.”

“Shhhh. I know. You didn’t mean to. But Paul, this is

getting serious. You’re a big guy and you could’ve hurt

me.”

“I would never hurt you!”

“Not deliberately, I know that. But these dreams, Paul…

You have to do something.”

“I’ll find a shrink, see a hypnotist. I will, Karen. I

couldn’t stand it if I hurt you.”

“I know.” She laughed. “Somehow, sweets, I don’t think

I’d stand it too well either.” She stood and pulled him to

his feet, then let him engulf her in his arms again. “But

it’s getting out of control, Paul. You’ve got to get some

help.”

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

Mulder’s Apartment

September 15, 2001

12:01 a.m.

“How many fingers, Mulder?” Scully asked again.

“Stop that,” he groused, “and at least get me my pants

before anyone else gets here.”

“What the hell were you doing answering the door in the

buff anyway?” she called from the bedroom.

“I’d just gotten out of the shower and I had a towel on.”

“You know better than to open the door like that.” She

threw a pair a dark boxers at him and waited while he

struggled into them before handing him the jeans.

“I ordered Chinese,” he admitted sheepishly. “I figured

it was the least I could do since you were driving over and

I knew we’d be working all night.”

“Delivery!” a voice called from the hall. “Mr. Mulder?”

Mulder groaned and started to get up, but Scully held him

down with one hand. “Just a sec,” she called. “Where’s

your wallet?”

He pointed to the wall by the door where he’d first fallen

and she strode over and picked it up.

“What happened this time?” the delivery boy asked as he

accepted the money and passed over the brown paper bag.

Scully shrugged. “Don’t know yet. I just got here.” She

narrowed her eyes at the boy. “You know someone who can

fix his door at this time of night?”

“My uncle. He’s fixed it before.”

Scully dug another twenty out of Mulder’s wallet and

handed it over. “Get him, please.”

The boy nodded and ducked out.

“His uncle’s gonna come do your door, Mulder.” She

dropped his wallet in his lap. “I gave him twenty.”

“Twenty? Scully, you’re breaking me here! I usually only

give him ten to get the uncle.”

“So sue me.” She studied him again, noting the slightly

dilated pupils and the knot on the back of his head. “How

bad does it hurt?”

He winced. “Bad enough. Aspirin?”

She nodded and went into the kitchen. “You want to eat?”

“Still too nauseated. Just water. And the damn aspirins,

please.” He was gently touching the knot when she came

back, two white pills in one hand, a cup of water in the

other.

He took both.

“What did they want?”

“They took the stuff from the guys, which makes no sense

whatsoever. They’ve gotta have known I’d have already

looked at it.” He tapped the side of his head, then moaned.

“Smart, Mulder.” She reached out and touched his head

gently and her touch took the sting from her words. He

could see she was really worried.

“I’m OK, Scully, really.” He reached up and caught her

hand, holding it for a moment as his eyes met hers.

She stared at him for a minute, then sighed. “Of course

you are. A little bump on the head isn’t going to stop you

when you’re on the hunt.” She headed back to the kitchen.

“Will the smell bother you if I eat?”

He started to shake his head but stopped in time and said,

“No, go ahead.” When she came back in with a plate and

curled up in the chair, he said, “I’d already looked at the

stuff.”

“And?” The word was more of a grunt as her mouth was full.

“And the paper was dated three days ago.”

“Name?” She was still eating.

“You were hungry,” he observed.

She swallowed. “Yep. Good thinking, ordering the food.”

She cocked her head as she looked at him. “Sorry it got you

knocked out.” She rose and walked over to him again,

putting her plate on the coffee table. One hand came out

and gently touched the back of his head again, then came

around to cradle his cheek for a moment as she met his

eyes. “You do seem to have a knack for attracting

trouble.” The words were spoken softly and her eyes

sparkled as she said them.

He lifted a hand to meet hers. “Not deliberately.”

“I know.”

They stayed that way for a moment, frozen in time and then

she pulled her hand away and grabbed her plate. This time

she sat on the other end of the sofa from him. “So, what do

you know?”

“The paper is the Bayville Herald. There are 26 Bayvilles

in the country and four of them have a paper called the

Herald. Washington state, Maine, Virginia, and Georgia.”

“So where do we go?” She opened her mouth and took a bite

of an egg roll.

“Washington’s having rain — cold front passing through.”

Mulder sipped his water.

“Maine doesn’t get into the nineties too often either,”

she mused.

“Right.”

“So it was 94 degrees where?”

“Georgia and Virginia.”

“Anything else to narrow it down?” She took a last bite

and wiped her mouth as she plopped the plate on the coffee

table again.

“Better?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“You bet.” She sighed contentedly. “Anything from the

girl’s shirt?”

“We decided it was something big — bear or bull or wolf

or something like that. Some kind of animal.”

She rose and headed for the kitchen. “Spill it, Mulder. I

know you know where to go. What is it?”

“Bayville, Virginia’s mascot is a scorpion.” He leaned

his head back and closed his eyes. It didn’t help the

pounding at all so he sat back up and looked at her.

“Georgia?”

“Bayville Bruins — big ugly grizzly looking thing.”

“So we’re off to Georgia.”

“Yep. It’s a small town. Three grocery stores. Two are

chains and the employees wear uniforms of sorts. One

insists on white shirts and black pants, the other white

shirts and khakis.”

She eyed him. He did so love to drag things out at times.

“And the third one?”

“The third one is an independent. Cashiers wear what they

want — including school T-shirts.”

She nodded. “When do we leave?”

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

Bayville, Georgia

September 16, 2001

3 pm

The yard was full of teenagers. There were five or six

adults as well, parents who’d come along to help chaperone

and to meet the “hero,” but it was mostly a day for the

kids. Cheryl Pierce was helping Karen shuck corn, and he

could see them talking quietly. As he watched, the girl

dropped the ear of corn she was holding and hugged Karen,

who hugged back, corn and all.

Somehow, he didn’t want to know what they were saying. He

looked around the yard, the kids sitting by the speakers,

talking. Though how they could talk over the volume he had

no idea. Another group had brought a volleyball and there

was a full court game going on, minus net and court, but

the kids were squealing with enjoyment. A group of boys

stood by the grill, turning hot dogs and hamburgers, and

huddled together, almost in self-defense, the adults were

off in a corner, watching it all in content bemusement.

One of the fathers came over to him. “I don’t know how

you’ve done it, Mr. Johnson…”

“Paul,” he interrupted. “My name is Paul.”

“Well, Paul. This is a small town, good kids. But they

don’t usually want to party at the teacher’s house with

their parents present. This is no small accomplishment.”

“Glad to have them.” He looked at the man and smiled.

“Karen and I never had kids of our own — it just never

happened. We feel blessed that folks like you will share

yours with us.”

“Share? Hell, you can *have* that rascal of mine. Did he

tell you what he’s done now? He was moving my car out of

the driveway so he and his buddies could play basketball

and he hits the mailbox on his way down. Then he tries to

correct his course and he manages to wing my wife’s car as

well. Got a nice little crinkle in her bumper now, and two

matching dents in my car!”

Paul laughed. “Did he confess on his own?”

The man laughed as well, shaking his head. “Yeah. Yeah,

he did. Can’t complain on that count. Even offered to pay

for the damages.”

“What’d you say?”

“I told him he’d be better off spending his money on

driving lessons!”

Both men roared with laughter and then Paul said, “He’s a

good kid, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” The man looked up and met Paul’s eyes.

“He was in the store that day, waiting for Cheryl to get

off.” The man’s face fell and he reached out, gripping

Paul’s good arm. “He could have been shot, killed even.

We’ll never forget what you did.”

Paul nodded, uncomfortable now. He tried to laugh but it

didn’t quite come out right. “I’m glad everything turned

out all right.”

The man nodded again and squeezed Paul’s arm once more, an

awkward thank you. “Well, I better get over there and

check on the dogs. God only knows what the kids are doing

to them.”

Paul nodded and watched the grateful father walk away. He

watched his wife shuck corn with a gaggle of giggling

girls, watched the boys cook burgers and dogs, watched the

parents as they watched their kids play volleyball. One of

the moms lifted a beer in a sort of salute to him, and he

raised his own back at her.

God! He loved his life! He was the happiest, luckiest

SOB on the planet! He had it all!

So why did he feel like everything was slipping away?

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

Bayville, Georgia

September 16, 2001

3 p.m.

“Well, that’s either him or he’s got a twin we know

nothing about.” Mulder sighed and dropped the binoculars.

“So what the hell is he doing out here in the middle of

small town America?” He reached up and rubbed his

temples.

“Head still hurt?” Scully asked as she lifted the glasses

and took a turn watching their boss as he supervised a

backyard barbecue.

“A little. Now I can’t decide if it’s the bump on the

noggin or the tension from finding him and not knowing what

to do.”

“I know what to do.” She lowered the glasses and looked

at him. “We go over there and ask him what the hell is

going on!”

“Scully, we can’t just storm in and demand answers. We

don’t know enough yet. The cop we talked to, the one that

gave us the address. She said that the detective on the

grocery robbery had done some investigating into Mr.

Johnson’s background.” Mulder looked at his partner and

turned the ignition key. “Let’s go talk to him.”

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

Bayville Police Department

September 16, 2001

4 p.m.

“The man’s clean as a whistle.” Franco nodded at the file

that lay on his desk. They’d paged the man and not been

surprised when he’d agreed to come meet them at the station

to discuss Paul Johnson.

“Of course, he’s clean. He’s just not Paul Johnson.”

Mulder lifted the folder, scanning quickly. He read the

whole file, then whistled softly. “Damn, Scully, they

really did a good job on this.” He looked up and met her

eyes. “Everything’s covered.”

“But why, Mulder? Why not just kill him?”

“I don’t know. Why is he such a threat at this time?

Enough that they would go to such elaborate lengths to get

him out of the picture, but still not kill him?” He turned

and looked at the detective. “This man is not Paul

Johnson.”

“What? You’re kidding me, right?” Franco’s cigarette

swung at half mast from parted lips.

“No. He’s an assistant director with the FBI. He’s our

supervisor. And he was killed in a car wreck a few weeks

ago.”

“You’re shittin’ me!” Franco rose and began to pace. “I

knew something wasn’t right with this guy. He moved too

smooth.” The detective stopped and faced Mulder and

Scully. “Even the move to town was a little too smooth. I

mean, we suddenly have two teachers die, there’s openings

just when school is ready to open, and these two show up.

It was just weird.”

“Two people died?” Scully looked at Mulder in concern.

“We hadn’t figured that they’d killed people this time.”

Mulder shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I can’t say that I’m

surprised.”

“Whoa! Hold your horses there. I may be suspicious of

our Mr. Johnson, but nobody killed anybody. Mark and

Jeannette were rock climbing. They both liked to climb and

had been doing it for years. It was just an accident.”

Mulder looked at the man. “And Mr. and Mrs. Johnson had

just happened to have moved to town, shiny bright teaching

certificates at the ready.”

“They’d signed up as subs for the year. We were lucky

they’d already moved and were willing to step in at the

last minute like that.” The detective scratched his head,

then snuffed out the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.

“I gotta stop smoking. It’s gonna kill me.”

Mulder and Scully exchanged an amused glance.

Franco took a deep breath then spoke. “I’m willing to

believe Mr. J isn’t who he says he is. But what are you

trying to say? That someone kidnapped him and killed Mark

and Jeannette so that he and Karen could have full-time

jobs? That’s insane.”

Scully smiled wryly as she looked at Mulder. “Told you so.”

“Our boss, A.D. Skinner, disappeared almost a month ago. It

was made to look like a car wreck, but the body was burned

beyond recognition. I think he was taken somewhere, given

new memories, and then planted here with a new identity, a

wife, a job, a cozy little life.”

“New memories? New identity? A wife? What the hell are

you talking about?”

Now it was Mulder’s turn to pace. “I just don’t know why

they didn’t go ahead and kill him.”

“The nanoprobes,” Scully murmured. “Maybe it’s the

nanoprobes.”

Mulder stopped and looked down at her. “What? What did

you say?”

“I said maybe it’s the nanoprobes. Maybe they don’t want

to risk killing their prime subject while they can still

study the nanoprobes.”

“What the hell is a nanoprobe?” Franco thundered.

Mulder shrugged him away, shaking his head. “Not now,

Franco.” He looked at Scully. “Maybe. It’s thin, but I

can’t think of anything better at the moment.” He took a

deep breath. “Anyway, we have a bigger problem.”

“What’s that?”

“How do we convince Paul Johnson he’s Walter Skinner?”

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

Paul and Karen Johnson’s House

September 16, 2001 6 p.m.

“Federal Bureau of Investigation?” Karen sat on the

couch, tight up against Paul and she clutched his hand.

“Why would the FBI be interested in us?”

“Well, not you really, Mrs. Johnson, but your husband.”

“Agent… Mulder, is it?” Paul stroked the back of

Karen’s hand as he spoke. “I don’t understand any of this.

Why would my foolhardy action in a grocery store have the

local police investigating my background and the FBI down

here in Georgia checking me out? How the hell did the FBI

even find out about that little stunt?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that, sir. But I can tell

you that it’s not your actions that concern us. It’s your

identity.”

“My identity? What the hell are you talking about?” Paul

stood and strode to the window, staring out across the

street. Two boys played basketball in the driveway across

the way, and a little girl rode her bike up and down the

sidewalk. His neighbor, the retired Tom Davis, was out

mowing the grass and he knew if he opened the door he’d

smell that intoxicating scent of fresh cut grass on a hot

summer day.

It was perfect, damn it! Perfect! So why did he feel

like it wasn’t his?

“Sir, we need to confirm your identities. I’m sure this

is uncomfortable, and I assure you it is as awkward for us

as it is for you. But a man is missing…” Scully

trailed off as the man named Johnson stared at her.

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“No, sir.” The answer was automatic, and for a moment it

was like it really was Skinner before them, questioning,

probing, demanding. She shook off the sense of deja vu and

went on. “Actually, we think you are the missing man.”

“Ridiculous!” Paul dismissed the thought with a snort.

Karen joined him at the window and he put his arm around

her.

“Sir, where did you live before you moved here?” Mulder

asked.

“Atlanta, but I’m sure you’ve got that in your

investigative

reports.” He could feel Karen trembling and he pulled her

closer to his side. “And we both taught at Eastside High.”

“Yes, sir. We do have that in the reports. Would it

surprise you to know that no one at the school has any

recollection of you, no one knows who you are?”

“What are you talking about? We were there for thirteen

years. We taught, I coached the track team, worked at a

local gym teaching disadvantaged youths to box. Karen

chaired the yearbook committee. She volunteered at a

battered women’s shelter. We were both active in our

church, St. Thomas the Apostle. How can you say no one

knows us?”

“Because no one does, sir. We’ve had agents out for two

days knocking on doors. They’ve talked to other teachers,

students, people at the church.” Mulder rose and looked

the other man in the eye. “No one has heard of you.”

“This is insane.” He turned to look at Scully. She was

pulling a fingerprint kit from a small case.

“If you will, sir? This could let us begin to straighten

this whole mess out.”

Paul walked over to the table, not speaking, and let her

take his fingerprints. When she was done, she motioned to

Karen. “You, too, Mrs. Johnson.”

“Paul?” Karen pulled close to him. “Paul, are we going

to let them do this to us?”

“Why Karen? Why do you need Karen’s prints if I’m the one

you think is someone else?” he asked Scully.

“Well, sir, if we can prove that you are the A.D., then we

need to find out who she is as well. Her memories seem as

real as yours.”

“Paul, I don’t want to do this.” There was panic in her

voice and he held her close for a moment. “Karen,” he said

softly, whispering in her ear. “Remember the dreams? What

if something *is* wrong?”

“Not this, Paul. Not what they’re saying. I know who I

am. I know who you are. We’ve been married twenty-five

years and I’m not going to lose you to something as absurd

as this.”

“Please, Karen. Just do it. It’ll get them out of the

house.” He grinned down at her. “After all, what do we

have to be afraid of?”

She hesitated a moment longer, then sat on the couch and

let Scully print her. He moved to the window again,

watching the children play, the old man next door push his

lawnmower, a little spoiled terrier following in his wake.

It was too perfect, wasn’t it?

Paul turned and walked back to the couch, pulling Karen up

to stand beside him.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, or who you

think we are. But you’ve gotten your fingerprints and

we’ve answered your questions. Please go.”

The two agents nodded and rose. When they got to the

door, Mulder looked back and said, “I’m sorry, sir,” and

then they were gone.

“Paul, when will we know?” Karen’s face was buried in his

chest.

“We know right now. You’re Karen Johnson and I’m Paul

Johnson. My name is Paul.” He said it stubbornly, as if

voicing it would make it true.

“Catch them, Paul. Find out how long we have to wait.”

He nodded and moved to the door. The two agents were

climbing into a rental car in the driveway. He had gotten

halfway down the sidewalk toward the car. The man,

Mulder, had gotten out and was coming to meet him. There

was a curious expression on his face and then there was a

look of panic.

It was like one of his dreams, the bad ones. The sound

seemed to have disappeared. He was flying through the air,

slamming into the man and they both went down. He felt a

rush of wind, a tongue of heat, and he rolled over, looking

back as his house, his wife, his life exploded and went up

in flames.

“Sir, sir, are you all right?” It was Scully, hovering

over him and touching a gash on his forehead. His glasses

were broken and everything was blurry but he wasn’t sure if

that was from the lack of glasses or the tears that ran

down his face.

Scully was pulling Mulder to his knees, checking the back

of his head and then they were both pulling him down, away

from the burning house.

“No, no, no,” he sobbed. “This can’t be happening.”

“Sir, are you all right? Can you answer me?” Scully

looked at Mulder who nodded. “Paul, can you talk to me?”

Skinner looked at her, tears in his eyes. It was all

there, his whole life. The life of a lonely man. A

soldier, a cop. A man with a failed marriage, a wife who

was dead because of him. A man whose whole existence was

work, work, and more work. A man without friends, without

activities, without much of anything. Oh, yes, he had his

life back, but now he knew, he had no life.

“No, Scully,” he whispered. “Not Paul. My name is Walter.”

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

Hospital

September 18, 2001

10 a.m.

“Who was she?” Skinner asked. He had a small bag open on

the bed and was packing the few bits of personal items he’d

accumulated in his brief hospital stay. Toiletries,

underwear and T-shirts, socks, a plain gray sweatsuit. He

was amazed it didn’t bother him more to know Scully had

been shopping for underwear and deodorant for him.

“Theresa Wimbley, a schoolteacher from Ohio. She didn’t

have any family and her coworkers all thought she’d been

killed in a car wreck.” Scully paused and looked at him.

“Familiar, eh?”

Skinner shrugged. “I don’t remember that part. I just

remember waking up with Karen and a whole lifetime to look

back at and a future to look forward to.”

“Do you remember it?”

He dropped his head. “Yeah, I do. I remember all of it.”

He tapped his head. “I remember Walter Skinner very

clearly. Everything from my time in Vietnam to my life

with Sharon to all those years with the Bureau.” He paused,

staring down at the bed, then walked to stand by the

window.

“But I remember Paul Johnson, too. He was an ordinary

man, living the life I never had.” He turned and looked at

her. “I envy him that.”

“It wasn’t real, sir. You know that.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I know that. But I miss it just the

same.”

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

EPILOGUE

Mulder’s Office

September 21, 2001

8 a.m.

“Morning, Mulder.” Scully set the drink carrier on the

desk, two paper cups still steaming. She looked up and saw

Skinner. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t know you would be here.

“It’s all right, Scully. I came in to work today, but

they won’t let me.” He sighed in disgust. “Apparently,

I’m still officially dead and I can’t do anything until

that is sorted out.” He looked around the small basement.

“So I came down here.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “It’s

the only place I feel halfway comfortable.”

“You’re always welcome, sir,” Mulder murmured.

“Thanks.” Skinner shook his head at Scully’s offer of one

of the coffee cups. “Don’t have too many places I feel

welcome.” He turned and looked at them. “One of the

things I intend to do now.”

“Do, sir? What’s that?”

“I intend to find some places I feel welcome. I didn’t

ask for what happened, didn’t want to be pulled out of the

game at this point in time.” He slammed a fist down on the

table. “But, damn it! I can learn from my experiences. I

don’t want to die a lonely man.”

“None of us want to die lonely.” Mulder was speaking, but

his eyes were on the floor.

“Well,” Skinner said softly, “I just wanted to tell you

both thanks. Let you know I appreciate that you didn’t

just let them kill me off.”

“Do you really, sir?” Mulder looked at him. “Were you

happier there?”

Skinner shrugged. “It wasn’t real, Mulder. It felt real,

but it wasn’t.” He walked to the door then turned. “For

now, this is where I belong.”

End

———————–

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http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113/

Title: Closed Colony, Special Stock

Author: Branwell

Email: combs-bachmann@worldnet.att.net

Rating: PG-13 for mild language, innuendo, disturbing

images and ideas.

Category: X, A, M/S Friendship

Casefile with Mytharc connection

Archiving permission:

This is reserved to IMTP for two weeks after the initial

posting. After that, anyone may archive this. Please keep

my name with it.

Summary: A body is found in a top secret area on an Air

Force Base. No one knows the cause of death, or why the

dead woman was in a secured area. The Air Force officer in

charge makes a last ditch effort to prevent the project

from being closed down. He uses his clout to get the FBI to

send Mulder and Scully to investigate. Scully finds she

knows the right questions to ask–but how?

Author’s notes follow the story.

—————————————————

Prologue:

An Air Force base in Missouri

Monday, Aug. 20, 2001

7:15 a.m.

Around the base this place is getting a bad reputation.

Security finds secret documents scattered on the floor. The

vault door stands open in the morning, after being locked

shut the night before. Badges disappear and reappear

without an explanation.

People talk about it, but no one uses the word “haunted.”

When I pass Jay, Steve, Drew and the colonel at the

coffeepot, they’re debating last night’s game as though

earth’s fate depended on the outcome of the World Series.

Angie fidgets in the cubicle around the corner, looking

like Death with a make-over. She checks her e-mail,

rearranges piles of paper and then sits staring into the

corner of her cube. Spots of blush stand out as bright as

pink bandages on her cheeks.

Pam’s cubicle is empty. The woman hasn’t taken sick leave

in seven years, but she’s been home with a stomach flu for

the last ten days. She’s got five months of sick leave

saved up: I don’t expect we’ll see her for a while.

In the next cubicle, Marge buttons up her cardigan and rubs

her palms together. She gives me a nod, as usual. It’s

placatory, not affectionate. I accept it graciously,

anyway. She turns her back and pretends to be busy

reviewing the papers presented at the Conference on

Technology-Inherent Risks in Genetic Engineering.

I return to the men, who are laughing too loud at old

baseball jokes. When Colonel Robbins breaks away, I follow

him into his office. He looks up and runs a nervous finger

between his collar and Adam’s apple, but he doesn’t speak.

Before now, he always looked like he had a slight sunburn,

even in the winter. In the last two weeks his face has

collapsed into pale furrows. Every day of his 60-plus

years shows.

Helen, the two-letter admin support, leans in through the

open doorway. After a moment’s hesitation, she takes two

steps inside and beckons to someone behind her.

“Colonel Robbins, the special investigative team you

requested is here. Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully.

Agents, this is Colonel Ed Robbins.”

ACT I

7:30 a.m.

The man and woman who follow her in should pose for an FBI

recruiting poster. He’s tall and graceful, with golden skin

that looks almost tan. Even though she’s small, she has a

perfect figure. Daddy calls that type a “pocket Venus.” I’m

not sure if her red hair is natural, but she has the faint

freckles that go with that coloring. Both of them radiate

health and energy.

Hands are shaken all around. Helen can hardly wait to get

back to the safety of her own office. She rocks on those

spike heels like a fir tree in a high wind, always swaying

back toward the door. Robbins releases her with a nod and

muttered “Thanks, Helen.”

I leave when Helen does. I’ve heard Robbin’s story already.

I was there when he made the call to his old buddy Kersh at

FBI headquarters. The colonel always has a buddy who can

fix things.

No matter how hard they try to pretend, nothing’s been the

same since they found the body. There were no signs of

violence, forced entry, or tampering with secret documents.

Just a peaceful corpse that had no right to be inside a Top

Secret vaulted area where a Black Program has been going on

for almost fifty years.

Jay has always been good at acting normal. Maybe it isn’t

an act. Maybe this feels normal to him. I know he put his

daily dollar into the coffee fund at 7 a.m.. He poured his

first cup at 7:30. In another fifteen minutes he’ll pour

his second. Fifteen minutes after that he’ll head for the

men’s room with the sports section.

You’d never guess that two weeks ago he found his dead wife

lying on the floor, not fifteen feet from his desk.

The carpet in these offices is thirty years old. In the

corners I can still see the fleur-de-lis pattern, red on

blue. The rest is a dirty purple blur.

The desks are battered–painted a sloppy, gun-metal gray.

Half the drawers are coming apart, so they can’t be fully

closed or opened. The mismatched chairs are too worn to

have their heights adjusted. Their spring mechanisms

screech like squealing brakes when the sitter moves.

I amuse myself by tipping my chair once in a while. Nobody

knows when the next little squeal will break the quiet.

Marge shakes her head at me.

EOS has been losing budget funds for years now. It’s never

produced anything usable. Normally, Congress would have cut

off its money a long time ago. Colonel Robbins is too good

at working the system. According to the rules, he should

have relocated eleven times in the last thirty-five years.

The brass waived the requirement every time because he

convinced everyone he was indispensable to the project, and

that the project was indispensable to the DOD.

He may not be able to get carpets or furniture, but he’s

kept vault space and his lab animals. Everybody in the

office gets the latest software on their PCs. In the midst

of an institutional melt-down, the colonel still gets

funding.

The Air Force is living on its capital, like the lazy heir

of a rich, old family. The fat budgets of the Cold War

fostered today’s glamorous technology–Stealth, smart

missiles, the Shuttle. There’s nothing like that warming up

over the Bunsen burners in today’s labs.

More than half the civilian employees will reach retirement

age in five years. There aren’t enough lower level people

to replace them. It’s all very well to contract everything

out, but someone has to manage the contracts. Rules for

contracts make political intrigues look like playground

strategies. When the next “incident” breaks out, most of

the people who know how to make things happen will be gone.

Operations, intelligence, logistics, research–it’s the

same everywhere. People are going to be surprised during

the next conflict. It won’t be a happy surprise.

Daddy can go on about this for hours. And he does.

Colonel Robbins doesn’t talk as much, but he knows how to

make things happen. And how to stop things from happening.

He steps out of his office to make an inspirational speech,

and introduce everyone to the FBI agents. I hum the rude

song Jay made up about him.

“There are chickens on his shoulders,

Yeah, chickens on his shoulders.

Chickens make him bolder,

Than he’s any right to be.”

No one calls his eagles “chickens” to his face. People have

been known to slip and use his nickname “The Birdman” in

his presence. He doesn’t react.

Agent Scully cuts in so fast at the end of his compliments

to his “saddened but loyal team,” that it almost sounds

like an interruption.

“We need an office to conduct our interviews.” Her voice is

low, but it carries.

Colonel Robbins pauses before he gives one of his ominously

patient replies. “Of course. We’re going to use Lieutenant

Jackson’s office.”

The lieutenant’s been on TDY to Wiekamp AFB for the last

month. Everyone is green with envy at his perfect alibi.

They seem to forget that there’s no evidence of a crime.

“Thank you. We’ll speak with each of you individually,”

Agent Mulder says. I’ll bet he’s already formulated and

poked holes in a dozen theories behind that blank face.

With his most steely-eyed gaze fixed on Jay, the colonel

speaks up.”Please be frank. It’s the only way to clear our

group’s good name. Will you be starting with Mr. Barnes?”

the colonel asks.

The agents look at each other and then both nod. Are they

telepathic or something?

“No. We’ll speak to him last. We’ll start with Mr.

Kestler,” Agent Mulder answers.

“Fine. Drew, you go first. Do you want to go next, Marge?”

I head for the lieutenant’s office while the colonel is

still trying to take charge of the interviews. Maybe this

time the Birdman’s met his match. These agents act like

their final report hasn’t already been written. We’ll see.

The colonel is terrified that the new base commander will

use the compromised security issue to shut EOS down. He

wants the FBI to find a minor lapse in judgment on

somebody’s part. After a formal reprimand–maybe even a

dismissal–the project can go on as usual. If there’s been

foul play… who knows?

A couple months ago Jay said the Birdman was brooding over

a new proposal. This fuss could keep it from hatching.

Drew has round, wet, black eyes, like those lemurs that

stare worriedly out of “National Geographic.” It’s hard for

him to look dignified.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Kestler.” Agent Mulder takes the

lead, sitting behind the desk while his partner takes the

chair beside Drew. She perches on it at strict attention.

Mulder lounges back in his seat and grins when it screeches

a loud protest.

“What does ‘EOS’ stand for, Mr. Kestler?” Mulder asks.

“Nothing. It’s a random set of letters used to indicate the

group’s hierarchical position and departmental

relationships within the Air Force.” Drew must have seen

that one coming.

“You’ve been on this project for twenty-five years. Can you

give me a brief explanation of its purpose?”

“That information is classified and irrelevant to this

investigation.” Drew’s lips purse up with smugness.

Mulder has almost perfect control. I hardly see any change

in his expression. But his partner intervenes as though

he’d objected.

“He’s right about the classified status, Mulder. Kim gave

us forms to fill out for special clearances. You remember

the paper I had you sign yesterday? They haven’t been

processed yet.”

When he answers, Drew keeps his head down. “They’re about

six months behind on background checks marked ‘urgent.’ The

standard wait is twelve months now.” The big knuckles of

his spatulate fingers seem to fascinate him.

Mulder draws in a big breath and lets it out slowly. “All

right, Mr. Kestler, I think we understand each other. I

need to know your movements during the 24 hours before the

body was found.”

Drew throws back his bony shoulders and puffs out his

narrow chest. “I began that Sunday with a small breakfast

of toast and antioxidant green tea. No coffee. Did you know

that coffee can aggravate inflammation of the gall bladder?

Some times I get this twinge after eating.”

They’d better not let him get started on his twinges.

Agent Mulder gives him a pleasant smile and interrupts.

“Actually my partner here is a…”

At that point, Agent Scully interrupts his interruption.

“Perhaps we can skip to the question of your activities

after five o’clock that afternoon. Surveillance cameras

show Ms. Barnes being waved through the gate at that time.”

Drew opens and closes his mouth a few times, and shakes his

head. Then he plods on.

“I had a meeting of the International Trolley Enthusiasts

Club. We’re planning an excursion to the Baltimore

Streetcar Museum this summer.”

“Are there enough streetcar enthusiasts to form a club in

… let’s see, you live in Warrensburg?” Agent Mulder

asks, flipping through the file in front of him.

“I’m the only member from Warrensburg. I had to drive to

Kansas City. I allowed plenty of time. I got there early–

at six o’clock. I didn’t leave until almost eleven. You can

check with the other members. I know you’re thinking that’s

not healthy, staying so late, with work the next day. I had

to help Stan break down his cutaway of an interurban.”

“We’ll be getting in touch with your club members. What did

you do when you got home?” Agent Scully slips her question

in while Drew takes a breath.

“Brushed my teeth and went straight to bed, of course. I’d

had a shower before I went,” he explains.

Scully’s slightly wrinkled nose makes me think she’s

getting more information than she wants. Drew continues

without prompting.

“I slept until my alarm went off at six. There was a huge

traffic jam at the gate when I got to the base. The guards

were checking everybody’s ID. Usually they wave cars with

stickers on through. So I ended up being late for work! The

first time in twenty-two years. They wouldn’t let me into

the vault anyway. I waited and waited, and finally went

home. Our office was off limits, with guards posted, until

Wednesday.”

“May I see your access card?” Agent Mulder asks.

Drew lifts the cord holding his ID over his head.

“Have you ever loaned it to anybody? You know, maybe they

left theirs at home one day?” Mulder slips the photo card

out of its clear plastic pocket and examines the magnetic

strip on the back.

“Never. That’s against every security regulation. That’s

why we have ‘Turkey’ badges like yours. I mean ‘Temporary’

badges.”

The badges, blazing with big, wattle-red ‘T’s, are clipped

to the agents’ collars. In the vault, an escort is required

for the person with a “Temporary” badge. There’s a young

officer sitting outside the door right now. All he has to

do today is watch Agents Mulder and Scully.

“Have you ever told anyone your PIN?” Agent Scully asks.

“Certainly not! Has someone accused me of a security

breach? Because I’ve never… ” Drew gets hives when he

gets excited or nervous. I see the welts start to rise at

his jawline.

“No, no. We have to ask everyone these questions,” Mulder

soothes him. “How well did you know Rebecca Barnes?”

Drew leans back a little in his chair and I see the marks

fade from his face. “Oh. We always met at the Christmas

party and annual picnic. Chatted about the federal budget

and trollies. She seemed really interested in the history

of electrified rail service.”

“So you liked her?” Agent Mulder asks.

“Sure. Why not? Don’t get me wrong. I only liked her as a

friend. She wasn’t very pretty–kind of pasty and puffy, if

you know what I mean. Not very talkative. Jay or Pete

always monopolized her anyway.”

Not very pretty, huh? As though Drew were next in line to

play James Bond. The agents keep straight faces.

I tune out the rest of the conversation. It’s not going

anywhere.

I take a turn down the narrow passage between cubicles. Jay

is graphing something about percentages of diploid,

triploid and tetraploid cells in the special stock. I’m

watching when he finds the bite-marked pencil in his lap

drawer. He always hated the way I chewed on pens and

pencils. It took me two days get it done, but it was worth

it. Finally I see Jay react to something. He turns

abnormally pale.

When Drew emerges from his interview, I go with Agent

Scully to fetch Steve Sanderson.

As she shows him in, Steve scans the little office as

though he expects to sight a thumbscrew or rack. Steve’s

nose juts out like the beak of an American eagle. Maybe

that’s why his eyes look so keen. It’s an illusion. He sees

what he expects to see, like everybody else.

His meaty hands open and shut rhythmically while he

explains that all Sunday evening he worked on finishing his

basement. If you didn’t know him, you’d picture paneling

going up, maybe a wet bar in the corner, and an exercise

room with carpets and a Nordic track.

Steve is building a bunker to defend when the New World

Order finally moves into the Heartland. Once we went to his

house for dinner, and got the grand tour. He showed us his

gun racks, his grain storage bins, and his still.

“Better than gold,” he grinned, running his hand over the

glass tubing. “When society breaks down, people will trade

anything for alcohol. And I’m ready to defend my property.”

Steve is pushing fifty, but his wife is only twenty. She

must be close to her due date by now. When he talks, she

watches his face as though it’s the last light burning

after Armageddon. I guess she buys into the whole Jewish-

Liberal-Feminazi-Welfare-Queen-Homosexualist-Hollywood-

Peacenik Conspiracy to reduce American men to sniveling

servants of the U.N.

Of course, Steve has unusual access to top secret documents.

That’s what makes him scary. He knows more about the

government than the rest of us, and he wants to live miles

away from everybody else, on a pile of weapons.

“I understand you live quite a distance from the base,”

Agent Scully remarks. She startles her partner by pulling a

folder out from under his nose and over to her place.

“Yes. I have a few acres about sixty miles east. It’s real

quiet.”

“I’m sure it is,” she smiles. “But aren’t you worried about

your wife? She’s alone and unprotected out there. There’s

been a suspicious death right here on base. Or what if she

had a medical emergency?”

“Why should she need… Did the colonel tell you she’s

expecting? We’ve got a local midwife lined up. Not that

it’s any of your business. And Terri knows how to shoot.”

Agent Scully looks across the table at her partner. He

gives a tiny shrug. She asks the next question.

“What happened on Monday?”

“They were putting on a show of heavy security at the

gates. Never mind the miles of unpatrolled fencing around

the base.” Steve snorts with laughter. “Oh well. By the

time I got here, the excitement was over. There was yellow

tape all over the office. Security was giving Jay a hard

time–wouldn’t let him go home until I started threatening

to call the Kansas City TV stations. Wasn’t it bad enough

that he had to be one to find his wife’s body? She was

lying right outside Marge’s cubicle.”

Steve turns halfway around, as though he needs to recheck

that spot for corpses.

If I could remember how Jay reacted, I might know

everything.

Agent Mulder jumps in again. “That puzzles me, Mr.

Sanderson. Why was he at work when his wife hadn’t been

home all night? In his place, I’d have been out looking for

her. Or I’d have reported her missing.”

When he poses the question, Agent Mulder is looking at his

partner instead of at Steve. I notice that neither of them

wears a wedding band.

Steve’s jaw muscles stand out as he thinks about his

answer. “Well, you see… They’d separated. Sort of.

Sometimes she stayed with her dad. So Jay didn’t know she

was missing all night.”

Agent Mulder doesn’t show a reaction, but he speeds up the

pace of the questions. He asks about Steve’s membership in

MUFON. It’s some wacky organization for people who think

they’ve been abducted by aliens.

Mulder and Scully exchange whispers before he leaves the

room with Steve. I’m surprised to see him return with Jay.

I thought they were leaving him until last.

Jay is almost forty. Except for the lieutenants that get

cycled in and out every three years, he’s the baby boy of

the project. He spends an hour and a half at the gym every

other day, to keep his college athlete body. The luck of the

gene pool won him that handsome, durable face, and thick

hair that’s too blonde to show any gray. The charm–I’ve

never known how much of it comes from the heart.

He still looks paler than usual. It doesn’t stop the agents

from putting him through the usual questioning. I have to

sit through another recitation of the story Jay’s been

telling everyone.

“I went to bed early on Sunday. Rebecca was over at her

dad’s. When I got up, and she wasn’t home, I just assumed

her visit lasted so late that she decided to spend the

night. Pete gets lonely since he retired.

“I’m on an early schedule at work. I opened the vault at

7 a.m., like always.”

This is the part where he covers his eyes with one hand.

“She was lying there curled up like she was asleep.” Here

he always looks straightforwardly into someone’s eyes. He

chooses Agent Mulder. “Of course I knew something was very

wrong.”

“What did you do?” Scully prompts.

“I touched her hand. She was… cold. I’d never seen a

dead person before but I knew… I called the base

hospital to get an ambulance. I knew it was too late.”

Mulder takes his turn. “I’ve read the statement you made to

the military police. You said sometimes your wife spent the

night at her father’s. We have a statement from another

source that indicates you and your wife were separated. Is

that true?”

“No. Well, not exactly. We’d been going through a hard

time. Becky could be very… difficult. Her health

problems had… twisted her some way, I think. It was

never clear what was wrong with her, and no one could give

us a prognosis. If she was a little unbalanced, I blame it

on her illness.”

Agent Scully steps up to the plate.

“I’ve read her medical history, Mr. Barnes. Unexplained

inflammation of various joints and organs. Variously

diagnosed as diabetes, vitamin B deficiencies, rheumatoid

arthritis, lupus, IBD, asthma, allergies, appendicitis,

candidiasis syndrome. It looks like she got a new diagnosis

every time she received treatment.”

“It came and went. I could never see a pattern. I couldn’t

blame her for being irritable. For trying to control what

she could.” Jay sounds so understanding.

Mulder’s turn again: “So what happened lately to make

things worse between you?”

“She’d gotten this idea that… God, I don’t want you to

think she was crazy, but she thought that her doctors at

the base were in a conspiracy against her. She thought they

were doing experiments on her connected with MY work!”

Agent Mulder surprises me with his next question. “What do

you think?”

“Of course there’s no connection! We’re studying… Oh,

I know it’s supposed to be secret, but I can tell you the

general gist of it. It’s genetic engineering. Specifically,

how to target genes in selected cells and change the

protein production codes. Theoretically you could change

the cell itself to a different kind of cell by controlling

the kinds of proteins it makes. We’ve gone through a

hundred generations of rats, and made a little progress.

Imagine if you could change a transplanted organ to avoid

the immune rejection response! Or even turn fatty tissue to

liver tissue! But we’re nowhere near ready for human

experimentation.”

Jay puts on his martyr’s look.

“Becky sometimes didn’t have enough to occupy her mind. She

always ended up getting sick and losing jobs. Of course it

would have been foolish to try to have children.

“It seemed like she had nothing to do but get involved in

bizarre theories and grill me and spy on me. It got pretty

hard to live with. Every once in a while she’d have a

tantrum and drive off. She always ended up at her father’s.

She didn’t have anyplace else to go.”

Sad, but true. Jay could always go to Angie’s place. I guess

he’s not going to mention how he’s been carrying on with

that slut for the past three months.

“Is it possible your wife could have been here looking for

evidence of a conspiracy?” Mulder asks.

“I don’t know what to think. Even if she were crazy enough

–I mean, disturbed enough–to try that, she didn’t take my

access card. She didn’t know my password. I can’t explain

how she got here! All I know is it just about killed me to

find poor little Becky like that. After all the times I’d

seen her so sick in the hospital, to find her suddenly dead

when I least expected it!”

This is where Jay will let one manly tear trickle down his

face. I know he can’t feel too bad. When this blows over,

he can have Angie over any time he wants for a quickie.

Mulder looks as though he might leak a tear or two in

sympathy with Jay. His partner narrows her eyes.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Barnes,” Mulder

manages. “I know this has been very difficult for you.”

They shake hands and Jay shuffles out with his head down.

I’m sure his mid-morning granola and yogurt will perk him

up.

“Shall we talk to… ” Mulder begins.

“Let’s get Angie Phillips in here!” Scully snaps.

“Angie Phillips? That doesn’t sound like a random call. Did

I miss something in that interview?”

“I’ll go get her.” Agent Scully answers without answering.

Angie probably lost ten pounds in the last two weeks. Some

people have all the luck. Jay likes them slim and girlish.

Scully shoots a warning glance at her partner and asks the

first question.

“How long have you been intimate with Mr. Barnes?”

Mulder has a good poker face, but his eyes get rounder and

his mouth opens a little.

Angie looks less surprised than Mulder does. Maybe she’s

relieved that everything is out in the open. “We started

seeing each other about three months ago.”

“So it began right after you came onto the project?” Scully

says, without looking up from Angie’s folder.

“Not RIGHT after,” Angie replies. “We worked together a

lot. It was… natural. Jay didn’t hate Rebecca, if

that’s what you’re thinking. He felt sorry for her.”

It’s so pleasant to be pitied. The opportunity to be

pathetic is a great incentive to get up in the morning.

Angie had better be careful. Jay isn’t the only one with a

possible motive here.

Agent Scully pounces. “Did you want Mr. Barnes to divorce

his wife and marry you?”

“Marry me? I… No! We didn’t have any plans… .”

I’m thinking–Come on, Angie. He brought you to our house

for nooners. What was that all about?

Agent Scully’s voice takes on a hard edge. “Come now, Ms.

Phillips. Be honest. You were doing it right in their

marriage bed, weren’t you? ADMIT IT!”

Mulder’s jaw drops like a cartoon of surprise. Angie saves

him from having to speak by answering the question.

“No! We used the bed in the guestroom. We don’t want to get

married. It was just… propinquity. You know?”

“Thank you for your honesty, Ms. Phillips.” Scully smiles

at her, but it isn’t a nice smile. If Scully knows about

propinquity, it doesn’t please her.

They ask her questions about her activities on that Sunday.

Usually her son spends the weekend with his dad. Two weeks

ago the ex had plans, so she had to drive her son to a rock

concert in Kansas City. She’s got her alibi. I half listen

to the details.

I have to admit, I’m convinced. My death had nothing to do

with a crime of passion. It’s just as I thought. From the

beginning it’s been a plot, and everyone is in on it. And

the truth will never be known.

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

ACT II

Angie leaves and Mulder gives Scully a pained look.

“Scully, what’s going on? If you knew something, you should

have told me. There was no evidence of a relationship

between Jay Barnes and Angie Phillips.”

I’m wondering about that myself. It was great to see Angie

shaken up, but how did Agent Scully know about the affair?

They were pretty careful. They didn’t want Daddy to find

out.

Scully has all the folders pulled over to her side of the

desk. She looks up into her partner’s face with confidence.

“But they are involved, aren’t they?” she responds. “I must

be having a hunch. You have hunches all the time.”

“That’s me, Scully. Not you. Sometimes my unconscious

solves a problem before I’m aware of the process.”

“It’s not always about you, Mulder,” Scully says, directing

a severe look his way.

For a second he gets this sick expression. Then he

registers the little smile she can’t quite suppress. He

gives a grimace that might be taken as a smile.

“Talk to me, Scully,” he bursts out. “What does it feel

like? Can you trace a reasoning process or is it like a

voice in your head? Or just a feeling?”

Her smile disappears and she seems to be looking right at

me. But her eyes aren’t focused. “It’s like a voice from

another room. A door opens or closes and it’s louder or

softer. Or maybe a radio station that fades in the hills

and gets strong again on flat land. It’s coming from

outside of me. Mulder, is that how it was for you?”

Mulder’s nods his head and then shakes it. “It was more

than one voice. There were thousands, as though everyone in

a football stadium was trying to get my attention. There

was no room left for MY thoughts. Are you sure you’re all

right?”

“I’m fine,” she says quickly. “No, really–I’m fine.”

Mulder raises his eyebrows and looks pointedly at the

folder in front of her. “So, who are we interviewing next?”

Scully lifts her arms with bent elbows, and places the tips

of her fingers on her forehead like a stage mindreader.

“Please, I must have silence to concentrate,” she intones.

She’s having a hard time keeping a straight face.

Daddy! I think. Daddy!

Scully’s eyes go wide and she gasps.

“Why ‘Daddy’?” she almost pleads out loud.

For a second Mulder looks scared too. Then he grabs for a

folder. “Her daddy, Scully. Rebecca’s father. Look. He

lives in Knob Noster. In her folder it says he’s a

consultant for HWI.”

“I wonder what ‘HWI’ stands for?” Scully asks, her voice a

little shaky.

“Nothing. It’s just the contractor that Mr. Eberhardt works

through now.”

Marge had sneaked up on us and answered Mulder’s question

from the doorway.

With her jacket on over her sweater she looks as round as

the Buddha. Come to think of it, she’s got the half-witted,

serene look of some mystic.

“I’m Marge Elders,” she explains. “I’m taking the afternoon

off. Do you need to talk to me before I leave?”

“We don’t have to talk now, if you’ll be in tomorrow. But

what were you saying about Mr. Eberhardt?”

Daddy still works on the project. The government offered

big retirement incentives to reduce the payroll. So he

retired. Then the government hired him as a consultant,

through a contractor, for half again what he earned as a

civil service employee. It’s how the government saves

money.

Marge’s face shines with benevolent superiority. “Mr.

Eberhardt still works on EOS, like he has for the last

forty-five years. Now he’s a contractor.”

“Where’s Eberhardt’s folder, Scully?” Mulder interjects.

As Scully fans the folders out, I let myself feel the

misery for a moment. It’s not easy to find out for sure

that everything in your life was false. All the time I

thought I was a person, with the whole world to live in, I

was a lab rat in a maze. Even my own father was just one of

the scientists, running an experiment in our home.

“No, it couldn’t be her father,” Scully protests. Marge and

Mulder look at her and she blinks. “We didn’t get a folder

for him,” she asserts.

Marge folds her lips and her expression loses some

serenity. “Somebody has to solve this. We can’t stand it

much longer.”

“Are you worried about your own safety?” Mulder asks. “Ms.

Barnes’ death may have been due to natural causes. Do you

have any reason to believe that you’re in danger?”

When Marge shakes her head, her cascade of brassy curls

moves with it in a solid mass. “Don’t tell me you don’t

feel it. She’s here. All the time. There must be a secret

that binds her here. You have to expose it and release

her.”

Mulder and Scully look at each other. They’re comical in

their uncertainty. Normal agents would give her a non-

committal answer and assume she’s a nut. But there were the

two of them discussing their experience with mental

telepathy not ten minutes ago.

“Didn’t anyone tell you about the vault door unlocking

itself, and small objects disappearing and then

reappearing?” Marge is definitely showing some temper.

“You mean there’s been poltergeist activity?” Mulder

brightens.

“Nothing spectacular.” Marge laughs a little. “Nothing

flies through the air, or breaks, or catches fire. It’s

impossible to prove, but we all know it’s happening. I know

she’s here. And the cold spots. Haven’t you felt them?”

I move over close to Marge and think about touching the

back of her neck. That’s how it works. I think about it,

and sometimes it happens. Sometimes I’m not strong enough.

Marge gasps and shivers. “I’ve got four more years before I

can retire. They owe me retirement. But I can’t work under

these conditions.”

Who ya’ gonna’ call? I think. Ghostbusters?

Marge recovers and asks, “Why would Pete Eberhardt have

anything to do with it? I mean besides being her father. He

mostly works at home and only puts in a time card for ten

hours a week.”

Scully looks uncertain.

I move away from Marge toward Scully, and consider the

facts. Daddy would have an access card.

Security should be able to tell whose card was used on

Sunday, but the log is kept on tape. The tape is blank, as

though somebody set a magnet on it. Who uses reel-to-reel

tapes anymore? No one but under-funded government systems.

“If he’s on the project, Eberhardt has an access card,”

Scully responds. “We should go talk to him.” She starts

stacking the folders and looks around for her coat before

she remembers that she never took it off.

Marge shrugs and rolls her eyes. When she walks away, that

unfocused, mystical look is back again.

The agents step out of the office. Their escort’s crewcut

head snaps up from “Security Policies and Procedures, pub.

AFSD-3251.” Mulder leads the way with long, effortless

strides. His partner’s short legs have to move more

quickly. The lieutenant hustles after them, juggling books

and briefcase.

It’s only as they’re leaving that I realize this decision

is my doing. I’ve helped them crack the case. Before I can

stop myself, I think–I should go with them.

I can’t believe it when I find myself outside in the gray

October daylight. Doing things by thinking about them is

tricky business. I have to stop and decide. Should I go

with them, away from the base?

I’m scared. What if I blink out of existence when I leave

the place where I died? What if I find out for sure that I

can’t leave this place? Maybe I don’t want to know that I

have to spend eternity in a shabby office with cranky

government workers.

My undisciplined thoughts land me in the back seat of their

car. As we drive off the base, I see that more leaves have

turned in the last two weeks.

This isn’t much different from coming out of the hospital

after a long stay. The rest of the world always moved on,

while I struggled with the basics, like digesting and

excreting. Every time it happened, I felt like I fell

farther behind in some kind of lifetime game.

It’s kind of a relief to know it can’t happen again. But of

course neither can any of the good stuff.

Daddy’s house is only ten minutes away. It’s coming back to

me, how I drove there that Sunday.

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

Knob Noster, Missouri

Noon

“Turn right at that Reddi-mart past the light,” Scully

tells her partner.

“That’s not what the map says,” Mulder objects.

“It’s a shortcut,” she assures him.

His pouty lower lip juts out more, but he takes the right.

Without saying another word, he follows her instructions,

cutting through the parking lot to the alley that runs

behind Daddy’s house. We park on the street that parallels

the alley.

My parents bought this house five years before I was born.

A brick ranch was the most modern thing you could get.

Daddy’s kept it up beautifully. The basketball hoop over

the garage has its annual coat of anti-rust sealant. He

still scrapes and paints the garage every three years, no

matter what.

When I was a little girl, each time he painted, Daddy would

buy me a new bike to hang on the garage wall. We’d give

away the old one, always as good as new. Most of the time I

was getting sick or getting well, so my bikes didn’t get

much wear and tear. The basketball hoop didn’t get much use

either, until I married Jay.

I would have inherited this house, I think, as we troop up

the front walk. I’ll never need a house again. How odd.

While Mulder is knocking, it occurs to me that I might not

need to wait for Daddy to open the door. But really I’m not

in a hurry to see him.

Daddy looks a lot smaller and older than I expected. He’s

got less graying hair combed over his head, and his

shoulders are so stooped.

“Come on in,” he tells Mulder and Scully. “Helen called and

told me you were on your way. I don’t know how I can help.”

He shows them into the living room. It’s so neat and new

looking–the opposite of the vault on base. It could be a

furniture showroom, except for the post-it notes on the

tables and lamps. The agents perch side by side on the pale

blue couch. Mulder looks around, and I see his feet move

restlessly.

Daddy’s got even more notes taped up today than he did on

that Sunday when I last visited. I wonder if there’s one

hidden away somewhere that says ‘Do something about Becky.

She’s getting to be a pain.’ Or maybe ‘Time to sacrifice

the subject and end the experiment.’ Probably not. He’d

throw the note away when the job was done.

“Mr. Eberhardt… ” Mulder begins.

“Can we see your vault access card, sir?” Scully

interrupts.

Daddy frowns in concentration. “Of course,” he says slowly.

“Give me a minute. I don’t use it most days… You asked

me too fast,” he stalls.

He keeps it on the mantle under the jade green vase with

the artificial ferns. Scully looks above the fireplace

and focuses on the vase.

Daddy follows her gaze, and his face brightens. He gets up

deliberately and walks to the fireplace. He’s confident

when he lifts the vase. His shoulders rise when he finds

only a yellow post-it note. He crumples it and drops it

into his pocket.

“I must have lost it,” he informs the agents.

For the past year he’s left his card under that vase, along

with his password written on a post-it note. Now I remember

taking it on that last visit, when he left the room. Why

should I care if he got blamed for the security breach? He

was in it with the others.

Mulder opens his mouth, but Scully jumps in ahead of him.

“I’d like to talk to you about your daughter’s theory that

there was a scientific conspiracy against her.”

Mulder’s face twists as though he’s swallowing a spoonful

of nasty medicine. He stays quiet.

“I know what caused that,” Daddy says calmly.

He’s not happy. He hardly ever is, but he gets so much

satisfaction out of being right, that it’s almost as good.

“It was her brain this time. She was getting sick again,

and her brain was affected,” he goes on. Even if he

believes that, it doesn’t make him innocent.

“Mr. Eberhardt,” Mulder finally gets a word in. “Is there

any other place else you could have left your card?”

Daddy looks as anxious as if he had to remember events from

forty years ago, instead of two weeks. “Maybe the bedroom,”

he offers, with a helpless, palms-up gesture. He starts

down the hall to the bedrooms.

Mulder wanders over to the table where Mom set up a display

of family photographs. There’s nothing more recent than

seven years ago, when she died. Now I wonder if she stayed

here in the house, and watched us afterwards. And if she

did, where is she now? The questions make me nervous. I

decide to pay strict attention to Mulder instead of asking

myself pointless questions.

“She was no Laura, was she, Scully?” Mulder remarks. He

leans over for a closer look at my graduation picture.

Back in the seventies, we only got to pick two out of three

poses. Then our choices were airbrushed until our faces

looked like molded plastic. They could take away flaws.

With my flaws gone, there wasn’t much personality left.

Scully’s silence doesn’t discourage Mulder. He keeps on

talking.

“You know–there was a movie called ‘Laura.’ With Dana

Andrews. He falls in love with the woman whose death he’s

investigating. Everyone he interviews says she was special.

Then he sees her portrait, and on top of everything else,

she was beautiful. There’s a hint of the succubus legend in

the way he… . ”

“Hmmm. Ah. I see,” Scully remains unenthusiastic.

“But she’s not really dead, it turns out… ”

“Rebecca Barnes is really dead, Mulder. I did a second

post-mortem on her body last night.”

I don’t like to think about that. That body was me for

forty years. I still can’t figure out who I am without it.

“Rebecca might have taken the card,” Daddy says from the

hallway. “That Sunday she was here, arguing again.” He

looks sad and tired.

I think he’s sorry he killed me.

“Did you argue often, Mr. Eberhardt?” Scully asks.

“She’d argue. I’d listen.” Daddy sits down in the olive

wing chair with a deep sigh. “Then I’d write her a check.

Usually.”

“You got tired of it, didn’t you?” Scully pushed. “Did you

ever feel like you couldn’t take it anymore? That you had

to make it stop? Temporary insanity…”

Mulder is still standing by the round table. He keeps his

eyes fixed on the picture, as though he doesn’t want to

know what’s happening.

“You don’t have any children, do you, Agent Scully?” Daddy

says.

Mulder’s shoulders twitch at this question. Daddy fills the

silence.

“Do you have any idea of the guilt that goes along with

having a chronically sick child? You’re always asking

yourself questions. Was it in the family? Was it in the

environment? A vitamin deficiency? Power lines? It all

boils down to one question. Was it my fault?”

Scully doesn’t answer, even though I’m thinking as hard as

I can: pity and guilt can turn to resentment and hate! She

stares out the window at dry brown leaves blowing around in

the empty street.

Mulder speaks first. “I’m sorry if my partner seems overly

aggressive. Her first priority is always justice for the

victim.”

“I already have your daughter’s medical records from the

base. There’s nothing about brain involvement.” Scully’s

voice is a little rough, but it smooths out. “Did she

consult any other doctors?”

“Yes. A month ago. She said she was going to find the

truth. She went to a genetics counselor. If she ever found

anything out, she didn’t tell me.”

“Do you have the doctor’s name and address?”

“Of course. She brought the bill to me.” My daddy’s smile

is small, and makes me want to cry.

A sharp crack sounds from the corner of the room where

Mulder stands. He sticks his hands reflexively into his

pockets. We all see the big crack in the glass across

my picture.

“I wasn’t touching it,” Mulder protests hurriedly.

No one is listening.

“Those inspirational books about sick children–Ryan White,

Karen Killilea–they don’t tell the half of it,” Daddy

says. “Nietzsche didn’t raise any children. A lot of times

what doesn’t kill you leaves you useless. You don’t hear

stories like that, because they wouldn’t sell. I’ll get

that address for you.”

It’s a dark day outside. The light in the room is blue-

green, like an aquarium. There’s not a word from the agents

to interfere with the sound of Daddy opening the file

cabinet in his den.

“Here,” he says, returning with a yellow post-it note. “The

doctor’s name is Gina Miller. Her office is in Kansas

City.”

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Eberhardt,” Mulder says as

they exit.

“It was a relief to know her suffering was over. Sometimes

I think the worst part was wondering when the good periods

would end. But I’d give anything to have her back, under

any conditions. It’s not right to outlive your child.”

Daddy, I’m sorry. I wish I could have been different. And

you too. But I love you. Nothing stops that, I guess.

Scully turns back toward Daddy from the front walk. “I

believe someday we’ll be reunited with the people we love,

Mr. Eberhardt. We’ll understand each other then,” she tells

him.

He gives her a tolerant smile. Daddy’s always been a

rationalist. He has to see it to believe it. Won’t he be

surprised someday?

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

It’s an hour’s drive to Kansas City, and all they do is

argue over expense reports and play Twenty Questions. No

normal person could ever win against them. I’ve never heard

of a flukeman, or ice worm, or Jersey devil, or EBE.

When the land is flat, it seems to roll under a stationary

car. I wonder how it’s working, travelling in a car, when I

don’t really have a body. I intend to stay with Mulder and

Scully, so I do. Very existential.

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

Mid-America Medical Consultants Building

Kansas City, Missouri

6 p.m.

I remember the huge parking garage on Wornall Ave., near

St. Luke’s Hospital. Medical buildings cluster around

hospitals, like animals around a watering hole.

Dr. Miller was the first non-military doctor I ever saw. I

was as scared as though I was doing something criminal. The

doctors at the base told me they were the only ones who

could treat me. They said they had treatments civilian

doctors couldn’t use. That was why they agreed to treat me,

when I wasn’t a military dependent anymore. It was an act

of mercy. There was no telling what would happen if I went

to a doctor who wasn’t familiar with my case.

I shouldn’t have been so scared. Dr. Miller wasn’t going to

treat me. She was going to do a genetics consultation. I

think I was most scared of finding out that the conspiracy

was true. Because then, what would I do?

Office hours ended an hour ago, but the door is unlocked,

the way Dr. Miller promised Scully on the phone. The

generic, orange-cushioned waiting room is empty. There’s no

receptionist at the little window.

“Dr. Miller,” Scully calls out.

I’m amazed when both agents check inside their jackets for

their guns. It hadn’t even occurred to me that the

conspiracy might spread this far.

Then Dr. Miller pops up in the window. Her hair droops

flatly to her shoulders, and her eyes have dark circles.

“You made good time. I thought the traffic would hold you

up longer.”

“Compared to D.C., it isn’t so bad,” Mulder answers with a

smile.

Dr. Miller looks like she tries for a professional finish,

but can’t keep up with all the details. Today one of her

shoes is scuffed, and the hem of her suit hangs down on one

side. The blue earrings don’t quite match the blue flowers

on her blouse.

I liked her a lot when I met her, and I still do.

She scrutinizes the badges Mulder and Scully hold out, as

though she knows what to look for.

“I called the field office about you,” she explains. “There

are legal issues… you know. Then I got out Ms. Barnes’

file. Now I don’t know what to say.”

“Was the file empty?” Mulder asks. He sighs and his

shoulders slump a little.

“No. No, my staff is efficient,” Dr. Miller says. She gives

him a puzzled look. “It’s just that I think there was a

mistake, and I can’t explain it.”

“Maybe we can help. What did you find?” Mulder perks up a

lot at her words.

“Ms. Barnes was going to come in for her follow-up visit

next week. I should have been ready to explain the results

of the work-up. Instead I was going to have to ask her for

more blood samples. The lab messed up the tests, somehow. I

don’t know if their equipment was contaminated, or what,

but her results were impossible to interpret.”

“May I see?” Scully asks.

“Come back here and look,” the doctor invites.

She hits a buzzer below the window, and Mulder opens the

door leading back to the receptionist’s area. Scully and

Mulder stand on each side of Dr. Miller, where she sits at

a desk.

Dr. Miller holds out a paper with markings on it. It looks

like a picture of little bundles, each one tied in the

middle. They’re arranged by size, in groups of three. I

know it’s a picture of chromosomes, but it looks odd.

Scully seems to think so too. It’s her turn to put on the

cartoon surprise look.

“That’s impossible!” she exclaims.

“I know. At first I thought I’d ask for a FISH analysis to

follow up. Then I decided not to waste time and money. It’s

obviously a lab error. They sent me the karotype on tissue

from a fetus with triploidy.”

“There’s never been a documented case of survival past the

first days after birth.”

“Exactly. And there would be gross abnormalities in the

phenotype. Ms. Barnes appeared to be normal.”

“Unless she were a mosaic?” Scully suggests.

“There were multiple samples,” Dr. Miller answers, with a

shake of her head. She holds out another set of pictures.

“Her medical history wasn’t normal,” Mulder remarks.

Dr. Miller holds up a thick bunch of typewritten papers.

“No, it certainly wasn’t. But it didn’t exhibit the effects

associated with triploidy–multiple, lethal abnormalities.

There was no indication of any permanent damage resulting

from her illnesses.”

“What about the surgery she had? Her records from the base

hospital documented an appendectomy, but there was no

mention of the removal of her ovaries,” Scully inquires.

“What? She’d had an oophorectomy?”

The doctor looks as surprised as I feel.

“Yes. I established that when I redid the post-mortem. I

asked her doctor and he just shrugged. Said she must have

had an operation for female troubles somewhere else.”

That miserable liar. He knows I never went to any other

hospital. He told me I’d die if someone else treated me.

Dr. Miller closes her eyes and folds her hands. There isn’t

any noise except for the hum of the office computer.

“Let’s see. She told me she wanted to get pregnant, but was

afraid of passing on abnormalities to her children,” she

says slowly.

A planned pregnancy was just my excuse for having the

genetics consultation. Two years ago my belly hurt so bad.

I’d have agreed to a brain transplant to stop the pain.

When they told me I should have an appendectomy, I didn’t

even read the consent form. They could have told me the

truth. I wasn’t fit to have children anyway. But they lied

to me!

Everyone jumps at the loud crack from the corner of the

room when the water cooler splits in half. Water cascades

to the floor in one huge wave.

“I got glass because of the environment,” Dr. Miller says

with a stunned look.

Scully and Mulder are looking around with wild eyes, as

though they expect something else to happen. Dr. Miller

jumps up and disappears into a back room. She comes back

with a roll of paper towels. She and Scully tear off towels

and stomp them down into the soggy carpet. When they’ve

used up all the towels they stare hopelessly at the dark,

spreading circle of wetness.

Dr. Miller snorts out one loud “Ha!”

“I’ll call facilities,” she says with a weak wave of her

hand. “What a day.”

While she makes the call, Scully joins Mulder. He’s sitting

at the desk, flipping through my medical history. He can’t

possibly be reading that fast, but he stops suddenly and

points at a paragraph.

“Dr. Miller,” he says. “What about this incident in 1984?”

“What incident? Let me look. I don’t remember.” Her shoes

make squishy sounds as she returns to the receptionist’s

desk. After a moment’s reading, she replies, “Yes. That was

unfortunate. But there were no lasting physical sequelae.

Dr. Miller is right. It didn’t amount to much. I’m

surprised it caught Mulder’s attention. He tells Scully the

story.

“Ms. Barnes–she was still Miss Eberhardt at the time–

moved to St. Louis in 1984. She worked at an insurance

agency. One night in November she closed up the office

after dark. Her car quit on her in a bad neighborhood, as

she was driving home. She was mugged for her purse, hit,

and shoved to the ground. The muggers got away. There were

no injuries, except for minor bruises and abrasions.”

I shouldn’t have told Dr. Miller about that. It’s trivial

and pathetic. When I told her my history it sounded so

childish, so stunted. I wanted to explain why I gave up and

went back home. It just makes me look like a quitter. Which

I guess I was.

So why is Mulder so excited about the story?

“Scully, let’s assume, just for a minute, that Ms. Barnes

was right. That she was the victim of an experiment run by

the government. Doesn’t it make sense that they’d do

something to drive her back into a controlled environment

when she tried to leave? And that they killed her when she

started to ask hard questions?”

Dr. Miller tips her head back and looks at Mulder through

the bottom of her glasses. “You’re saying that Ms. Barnes

was an unwilling subject of covert, government-sanctioned

medical experiments. And that she was eliminated by

criminal means when she threatened to blow the whistle?”

Mulder puts on his expressionless expression. “We form many

theories in the course of an investigation,” he soothes.

“I’m sure a scientist like you understands that.”

Scully has a fierce look that contrasts with Mulder’s

abrupt calm. “What about the story her doctor gave me about

‘female problems?’ I need to talk to him.”

Dr. Miller takes off her glasses and closes her eyes again.

She pinches the bridge of her nose. There’s a bustle at the

outside office door, and a paunchy man in a navy coverall

lets himself in.

“I didn’t understand the message. Something about a flood.

Is it a plumbing leak?” he inquires.

They answer “No” in unison, and then everyone goes quiet.

Mulder starts to engineer a quick departure.

“We’ll be on our way, Dr. Miller. Thanks so much for your

help,” Mulder pulls the inner door open for the new

arrival.

“Yes, thanks. We’ll be in touch if we have more questions.”

Scully dashes through the open door, neatly sidestepping

the workman. Her tall partner has to hurry to catch up with

her in the hall.

“We’ve got to get back to the hospital, Mulder,” Scully

tosses over her shoulder as they hustle through the parking

garage.

“Wait a minute. We’re all over the map with these hunches

of yours. Let’s talk about this for a minute.”

“Hunches? Hunches! Look how far we’ve gotten with these

‘hunches’.” Scully takes an indignant stance beside the car

while she waits for him.

“Look, I’m not questioning the value of your…

insights. But let’s stop and think about which lead to

pursue. Why would her doctor tell you anything more now? I

think we should go back to her father and ask about this

mugging.”

Scully has the passenger door open, but she stops before

she climbs in, as though she’s listening for something.

My thoughts refuse to take form.

The agents get in the car at the same time. There’s an

apology in Scully’s voice when she speaks.

“You’re right, Mulder. I need to go back to basics and get

some hard evidence. I’ll take tissue samples from her body

and send them to the FBI lab. Let’s see what another DNA

analysis shows. You can drop me at the hospital and go back

to talk to Mr. Eberhardt.”

Here’s where Scully and I part company. I don’t need it

anymore, but I don’t want to see my body cut up like a

deer. Maybe I can’t get through to Mulder’s mind, but right

now, I’m sticking with him.

“Do you think we can rule out the philandering husband as a

suspect?” Mulder ventures.

If I could laugh, I would. Jay’s never been passionate

about anyone but himself. I’m sure I was an excellent

excuse for him to avoid making commitments to other women.

With me gone, he’s got more freedom, but less cover. Not

enough motive, I’d say.

“I think that’s a dead end,” she answers with a grim smile.

Mulder navigates his way back to the highway without any

directions from Scully. She takes out a tape player and

plugs in headphones. I notice the tape she puts in is

labeled “#X-2546 – PM on Rebecca Barnes.” Probably not

anything I’d want to hear.

I amuse myself by thinking my way to the roof of the car.

When I was alive, I had dreams of flying. Speeding through

the twilight with only the violet sky around me is almost

like that. There’s no wind, or fear of falling. I’m

beginning to understand that I don’t need things like cars,

and I don’t have to pay attention to solid barriers, like

closed doors.

It’s hard to get over the habit of being limited.

It’s frightening to imagine an existence without limits. I

could expand to fill the sky–the universe. And nothing of

me would remain.

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

ACT III

The Base Hospital

9 p.m.

When we pull up outside the hospital, I don’t know if time

has drifted or whipped by. I didn’t even notice a pause at

the gate.

The sky is already navy blue behind the gray, floodlit

hospital. Scully zips through the automatic doors without a

backwards look. Luckily she doesn’t need my help to slice

up specimens.

Even in the dark, Mulder finds the shortcut to Daddy’s

house. It’s not my doing; he remembers it. There’s a

constant seething in Mulder’s brain. It pushes me back,

like the wind holding a sailboat offshore.

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

Knob Noster

9:30 p.m.

Once upon a time, Daddy would have turned away a late-night

visitor. He needed his evening solitude to get

anesthetized. Instead, he invites Mulder in, and offers him

a whiskey. It’s early yet for Daddy to be that far gone.

The two of them sit in the kitchen in the white glare of

the overhead light.

“No thanks, Mr. Eberhardt,” Mulder says.

Daddy drinks the second shot himself and squints at Mulder

through red-lined eyes.

“My partner and I visited Dr. Miller,” Mulder begins.

“There was no conclusive evidence from DNA tests. But the

doctor realized that there was an unexplained discrepancy

between the medical records and your daughter’s physical

condition. Ms. Barnes had had her ovaries removed, but her

medical history showed only an appendectomy. Can you

explain that?”

Daddy shrugs and makes a sound in his throat, as though

he’s trying to choke something back down. “I haven’t been

able to explain anything in forty years. I just kept on

going because I couldn’t stop. You can’t stop, can you? You

make decisions and you take the consequences. Whose fault

is it if you don’t foresee the problems? It doesn’t matter.

You do the best you can.”

That was always his way. Do your duty and don’t whine. He

focuses suddenly on Mulder’s face.

“I met a Bill Mulder once. He didn’t look much like you. No

relation, I suppose. I was still in the service. We were

both on TDY down at Eglin AFB, for different meetings on

Black Projects.”

Mulder sits still as a rabbit caught on the open lawn. His

thoughts are whirling in a vortex. Daddy doesn’t wait for a

response.

“We had the same chief scientist on our projects. ‘Herr

Doktor Klemper’ we called him, behind his back. Bill and I

met at the hotel bar and decided to check out Dean’s Place

on the island. I wanted to celebrate. Dot had just gotten

pregnant. I was so happy I was buying drinks for everybody.

Bill told me his wife had just given him a son. I don’t

know if he was celebrating, but he sure liked to drink. I

told him–this will make you laugh–‘I don’t care what it

is, just as long as it’s healthy.'”

Mulder doesn’t laugh.

Daddy doesn’t notice. “No matter how drunk I got, I didn’t

tell him how Dot got pregnant. That I’d made a deal with

the devil. I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone that we were

having a test tube baby.”

“Sir, the first test tube baby wasn’t born until 1978.”

Mulder shapes each word carefully, as though it might break

with rough handling.

“That’s what the history books will always say. Just like

they’ll always say JFK was shot by a lone gunman.”

“Do you know something about the assassination?” Mulder

asks, still in that cautious way.

“I know nothing, but given the nature of the ‘truth’

published about other things, I’ve got my suspicions.”

“What ever happened to Bill Mulder, I wonder?” There’s a

new sadness in Mulder’s tone when he speaks.

“I don’t know. We shared a cab back to the hotel. I barely

remember getting to my room. Didn’t get to breakfast the

next day. Bill didn’t turn up at the hotel bar that night.

I assumed his meetings were over.”

“Did Dr. Klemper arrange for your wife to have an embryo

implanted?” Mulder is regaining some of his usual cool.

Daddy must have heard the change in Mulder’s voice. “You

think I’m too drunk to be discreet, don’t you? I just don’t

care anymore. Dot died after more than thirty years of

worry and trouble. Now Becky’s gone. What more can anyone

do to me?”

“If that’s right, why don’t you tell me what happened?”

It’s funny how good Mulder is with the people he can see.

He watches them, notices all the little tics and blinks. He

takes things in at so many levels, there’s no room for me

to slip in a word or thought.

“It was Colonel Robbins. He was the wonder-boy assistant to

Victor Klemper. ‘Why don’t you take advantage of the

technology we’re developing, Pete?’ he kept saying. I don’t

even remember telling him about our problem. Afterwards he

made the excuse that the technology hadn’t been perfected.

He was always reminding me that we should thank our lucky

stars that he could arrange for Becky to get medical care

at the base.”

I’m rooting for Mulder to tell him about the triploidy, but

he’s not getting it. He goes off on a tangent.

“Mr. Eberhardt, your daughter was attacked in St. Louis in

1984. Did you ever think there was anything unusual about

the incident?”

“It happens to a lot of unwary people,” Daddy snaps at him.

“In fact, I warned her not to move to a big city alone. It

didn’t surprise me when I got the call the day after it

happened. I was just thankful it hadn’t been worse. She

called me at work. Colonel Robbins suggested I take Jay

along with me to pick her up. He’d just started on the

project. I hadn’t even thought about needing someone to

drive Becky’s car back. Her nerves were shot.”

“Sir, did her car start when you got there?”

I don’t listen anymore, because I already know the answer.

I’m preoccupied with thinking up the right punishment for

Colonel Robbins. A cage with cedar shavings, a water dish

and pellets would be too good for him. I picture him

pickling in a formaldehyde bath, like a frog ready for

dissection.

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

The Base Hospital

The morgue

10:30 p.m.

Then the kitchen is gone, and I’m watching Colonel Robbins

watch Scully as she slides a steel drawer shut.

“I just got word that you were here, Agent Scully,” he’s

saying to her. “What authorization do you have for doing a

third post-mortem on Rebecca Barnes?”

“I have the authority you gave us to investigate this case,

sir. I was collecting tissue samples to send to the FBI

lab. We think there may be some abnormality in Ms. Barnes’

karotype.”

“What would it prove if that were true, Agent? It had

nothing to do with the circumstances and cause of her

death?”

“How can we know that, until we find out the nature of the

mutation? Maybe her parents were exposed to radiation, or

some toxin, before her birth. We might learn something new

about prenatal hazards. I believe we should take every

opportunity to advance medical knowledge.”

The Birdman did it, Scully! I think hard. He’s the guilty

person! I concentrate on shaking him, and the colonel

wavers a little in place. I wonder if I could kill someone.

Scully is wrapped in green scrubs that are too big. Even

the goggles look too big, as though she’s a child playing

doctor. She strips off the outer gear and looks over at

Robbins while she washes her hands. “You’re not afraid of

the truth, are you?” she asks him. She folds her arms to

wait for his answer.

Colonel Robbins is chewing on his lower lip. He folds his

own arms and edges around the table toward Scully. She

moves slightly, so the table is still between them.

“You’re a scientist, Agent Scully. Not just a glorified

policewoman.”

“We need trustworthy policewomen. And military personnel,”

she says. I seem to shiver with the chill in her voice,

even though I don’t have a body anymore.

“Of course. But you’re in a position to appreciate things a

layman can’t understand. You can imagine what it would be

like to be on the verge of creating a new species!”

“Please explain what that means,Colonel,” she invites him.

“You know that cells are just factories for making amino

acids,” he charges ahead, ignoring her severe expression.

“It’s our genes that determine what proteins are produced.

Every cell we have has a full set of genes, but most of

them are turned off. Turned off! That was the key. We had

to find the switch for turning genes on and off. And then

we planned to test it by providing a completely different

set of genes. It should have worked like switching a

production line back and forth between producing parts for

jets and parts for trucks.”

“Should have worked,” she echoes, as though the ideas made

sense. “The sequence would have to be perfect, or the

organism would die. The body’s systems would be out of

sync.”

“Yes! You understand. I knew you would.” The Birdman gives

her a complicit smile.

“I’m interested in the switching,” she responds. She

doesn’t return his smile.

“You must have followed the work on weak photon emission

from cellular DNA. It shouldn’t surprise you that the DNA

in cells is also receptive to ultraweak photon influence.

It was just going to be a matter of experimenting until the

right sequence was found.”

“Where did you get the technology? I saw a third set of

chromosomes in Rebecca Barnes’ karotype.”

“That was a serendipitous contribution by Dr. Klemper. A

seminal thinker, Victor Klemper…”

Scully’s face changes suddenly from a non-committal mask to

the picture of disgust and contempt. Her words are dragged

down to a low, rough pitch.

“So. You’re telling me that you’ve experimented on a human.

Without her consent. You made her sick over and over again

with failed attempts to activate a set of non-human genes.

You haven’t published. You haven’t shared your discoveries.

That’s not how true scientists work! You know that what

you’re doing is wrong.”

“Don’t let the personal prevent you from being objective.

We’re on the verge of success. We didn’t get it right

with Barnes, but we learned a lot. And we’ve got a whole

new set of potential test subjects in the freezer here. Her

descendants…”

“Her ova. You took her ova…” Scully starts walking

toward the colonel.

He should be frightened by the look on her face. Instead he

talks on and on, as though she were hanging on his words.

“When the subject got too difficult to manage, we halted

the experiment and euthanized her. It was just a matter of

toggling all the switches off at once…” The Birdman

even turns his back on Scully, as he leads the way to the

locked, stainless steel cabinet in the corner.

My last moment comes back to me then. I have a sudden

vision of the colonel at the end of the narrow corridor

between the cubicles. I’d been searching the file cabinet

in his office. There was a dog-eared file with my name on

it. Seeing the file felt like being backed into that alley

by two men with guns. It was something I’d imagined with a

queasy stomach and pounding heart. When it actually

happened, it didn’t seem real.

I heard a noise outside the room, and looked up. My eyes

skimmed the length of dingy purple carpet, and fixed on

Colonel Robbins. I was too surprised at how perfectly my

nightmare was coming true to feel terror. When I stepped

out of the office, he didn’t look surprised to see me. I

waved the folder at him and spoke the words I’d planned.

“I’m going to expose you all!” Of course I’d visualized a

more public setting, like a press conference.

He pointed something like a flashlight at me, but there was

no beam of light. Then there was nothing at all, until I

woke up somewhere just below the ceiling. Beneath me

security police strode around with grim, self-important

expressions.

In the time it takes me to remember, the Birdman whips

around and catches Scully on the point of her chin with his

fist. Her head snaps back, her eyes roll up, and she

tumbles to the floor, like a block tower with the bottom

block kicked out from under.

“I could tell she didn’t really understand,” Robbins

murmurs to himself.

If I’d stayed alert I could have warned her. I got Scully

into this, and I now I can’t get her out–not alone. But

I’m not giving up. I’ll find some way to get to Mulder.

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

Knob Noster

11:30 p.m.

And I’m suddenly in Daddy’s kitchen, where Mulder is

pouring boiling water over instant coffee.

Scully’s in trouble! Surely my thought must be loud enough

to hear. At the same second the fluorescent light tube

overhead pops and goes out.

“What the hell?” Daddy says.

I can tell he’s not that drunk by the way he jumps out of

his chair. He’s been putting on an act for Mulder.

“What?” Mulder shouts. “What is it? Why aren’t you with

Scully? I can’t hear you.”

She’s in danger! SHE NEEDS YOU. I think and think. The

glass shelf over the sink breaks in two. The potted plants

rush down into the sink and shatter. Little clods of wet,

black dirt go everywhere.

“What are you doing?” Daddy yells at Mulder.

“It’s not me, Mr. Eberhardt.” Mulder lowers his voice, but

he’s panting as though he’s been running. “It’s an entity.”

Mulder hits three buttons on his cell phone, pacing the

floor while it rings and rings.

Then he walks to the corner of the kitchen. Mulder faces

the wall, bows his head and covers his ears. He pays no

attention to Daddy’s exclamations.

Scully! Go to your partner at the hospital! My mind is

screaming the words with all the force of my will.

The blue china cups on hooks under the cupboard fly apart

with loud cracks.

“Get out of my house. Right now.” Daddy grabs at Mulder’s

arm. The agent shakes him off, his back rigid. He moves his

hands to cover his eyes.

I can feel his mind straining, like an engine in overdrive.

I don’t know if he can’t, or won’t, let me in. Then he

whirls around and asks a lunatic question.

“Do you have a basketball?” he asks my furious father. “Any

kind of ball?”

“I want you out of here!” Daddy shouts.

“I’m going. I promise I’m on my way out, but I need a

ball.”

“Jay keeps one in the garage,” Daddy growls. He makes a

wide circle around the pitcher on the counter, as he

crosses the kitchen to the garage door. “Here. Go out this

way,” he calls out a minute later.

In the doorway Mulder catches the basketball he throws.

“Perfect,” Mulder mutters, tossing the big orange ball from

one hand to the other.

Daddy activates the garage door opener. Mulder ducks under

the door before it’s all the way open, and makes a basket

in the hoop over it on his first try.

He looks ridiculous, dribbling the ball and feinting with

it in the dark. His tie and jacket flap in all different

directions.

“Stand under the basket,” he calls out to Daddy.

“What? I don’t feel like playing. That was a long time

ago.”

“Please. Just stand there,” Mulder gasps.

He dribbles up and down the driveway as though the state

championship was riding on it. Pivoting to keep the ball

away from imaginary opponents, he sinks another shot. He

dodges around Daddy to catch the rebound.

Smack. Smack. Smack. The ball hits his hands as hard as it

hits the driveway. Daddy looks preoccupied, instead of

worried about this loony contest. A few dry leaves roll

across the concrete. I see the living room curtains twitch

apart at the Newman’s house. Someone I don’t know opens the

front door across the street.

Mulder is slow compared to the boys I remember from high

school, but he seems to have plenty of stamina. In the

meantime Colonel Robbins could be sliding Scully into a

cold metal drawer right beside me.

Mulder’s shot misses the basket entirely. He ignores the

ball and dashes for his car. “Thanks Mr. Eberhardt,” he

babbles out, as he yanks the door open.

Mulder is crazy, but he’s Scully’s only hope. I keep trying

to get through. There’s a small “pop” from the dome light

as he turns the key in the ignition.

He flinches at the sound, but the plastic cover keeps the

glass inside.

“I heard you,” he says loudly. “Scully is in the hospital

morgue with Robbins. But I can’t hear you now. It’s hard

for me to let you in.”

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

The Base Hospital

11:50 p.m.

He makes the drive in four minutes, running four red lights

on the almost empty streets. He does remember to slow down

before coming in sight of the gates to the base. A bored

young guard waves him through on the strength of his

cardboard visitor’s pass.

At the hospital, his badge is in his hands before he gets

to the emergency room doors.

“Fox Mulder, FBI,” he snaps at the nurse behind the

admitting desk. He doesn’t wait to answer the questions she

shouts after him. I know she can’t leave the desk.

“Do we have an emergency?” she calls. She picks up the

phone with exasperated emphasis.

Mulder is taking the stairs to the basement two at a time.

He picks the right door even though it’s unlabeled. I don’t

know if he’s getting my directions or if he was there with

Scully the night before.

The white glow from the morgue contrasts with the dim

halls. I see Scully crumpled on the floor by the table. The

door to the steel cabinet in the corner is open, and it’s

empty inside. Colonel Robbins is pouring chemicals into

opened waste containers at the other end of the room.

Mulder’s left hand goes to his nose and mouth. He’s got a

gun pointed at the colonel with his right hand.

“Put the bottle down and place your hands against the

wall.” Mulder is almost gagging on the words.

His eyes, and the colonel’s, are streaming with tears.

“You don’t really expect me to watch forty years of work go

for nothing, do you?” the colonel asks. He up-ends a brown

glass bottle over a dirty linen container and then drops it

in. His voice is as reasonable as though he were asking to

someone to wait while he put the finishing touches on a

paint job. “There’ll be time to rescue your partner, if you

don’t worry about me or the evidence,” he goes on. “What

are you waiting for? After the risks I’ve taken, don’t you

believe I’m ready to risk my own death? All I have to do

now, is flip this switch.”

There’s another exit behind Robbins. He might be able to

make it out. I notice he’s got a thermos-like steel

cylinder tucked under one arm. Copper shines out of a long

gash in the cord that runs between the autoclave and the

electrical outlet beside it. The colonel dumps another

bottle of chemicals on the cord. An oxygen tank beside the

outlet has a big red slash through the picture of a flame

on its side. There’s a sinister hiss of gas escaping.

I don’t know what to do. Mulder is struggling to keep his

eyes open. I wish he’d shoot, but even if he hit Robbins,

there’d be time to flip the switch. A shot might even

trigger an explosion. All the evidence would be burned up.

Then there’s a step in the doorway behind Mulder. He moves

sideways and backward, but doesn’t turn his back on

Robbins. A manila folder sails across the room, scattering

papers and pictures as it goes.

“You lying bastard,” Daddy says. He’s got the gun he always

kept in the drawer beside his bed. “Maybe I always knew and

wouldn’t admit it to myself. You shouldn’t have kept the

records in your office.”

For the first time the colonel looks shocked. He clutches

at the steel cylinder with his right hand.

Mulder says, “Cover me,” to Daddy. He doesn’t notice that

Daddy isn’t listening to him. He dashes to the center of

the room. His gun is gone, probably into his pocket,

because he needs both arms to lift Scully.

The colonel should stay quiet, but he can’t. He speaks,

saying all the wrong things. “You don’t understand. It was

an honor to be part of it, Pete. Like the doctor who

infected himself to identify the vector for yellow fever.

She’d suffered enough at the end. It was painless…”

He reaches the switch even after Daddy puts two shots into

his chest.

Daddy careens into Mulder, who’s already in the hall when

flames come roaring across the room. The intense light

sparkles through me, bursting blossoms of orange. For a

moment there’s no separating myself from the golden energy.

Then the door slams shut, and I decide to be on the other

side to find out what’s happening.

The hall is empty except for the smoke. There are bells and

a voice announcing that this is not a drill. Then firemen

come tearing around the corner like invaders from another

planet, inhuman in their breathing equipment and protective

clothing.

Outside, fire trucks are still arriving in a blast of noise

and flashing lights. Dozens of people are running from

place to place. Airmen are transporting patients bundled

onto stretchers to the gymnasium.

There’s a huddle around Daddy, where security police are

putting handcuffs on him. His face barely moves while he

answers questions with “yes,” or “no,” or silence. A medic

is examining Scully’s eyes with a light where she sits on

the back steps of an ambulance. Mulder is talking to her

very fast, while she blinks and frowns. She winces when she

turns her head to see where a blue truck with floodlights

has pulled up. A man, so tall and long-legged he reminds me

of a stick figure, jumps down from the passenger side of

the cab.

It’s General Brandon, the base commander. He prides himself

on his quick grasp of the essentials and refusal to waste

time. Everyone he speaks to points at Mulder and Scully in

answer to his questions. They don’t want to irritate him

with second or third-hand information. But I’ve already

seen how these things go. I ride along with Daddy, instead

of staying to see how the cover-up will be done this time.

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

EPILOGUE

Outside the Base Commander’s Office

Tuesday, August 21, 2001

10 a.m.

The next day I wait with Mulder while the security police

finish questioning Scully. When she leaves the base

commander’s office, her lips are pressed together so tight

they must be holding back strong words. Mulder pats the

seat of the chair next to him in the waiting room.

Scully sits down with a “hmmph” of disapproval. “They want

us to go now, Mulder,” she says. “They’ve figured

everything out and the services of the FBI are no longer

needed.” A smile as thin as paper stretches her mouth.

“Peter Eberhardt shot his boss and old friend due to the

stress of his daughter’s death, combined with the first

stage of senile dementia. Then he panicked and tried to

cover up his crime by setting a fire. His misinterpretation

of questions put to him by Special Agent Fox Mulder

probably led to his crazed behavior. Mulder’s partner had

her brains scrambled by a blow to the head, making her

testimony unreliable.”

“I know,” he answers. “Can you get in as a doctor to see

Eberhardt at the psychiatric facility? See if he has any

ideas about where we could find evidence?”

“Mr. Eberhardt can’t be seen by anybody but staff with

special clearances. Since he isn’t in his right mind, he

might communicate sensitive information to those with no

need to know.” Scully must be quoting the official Air

Force memo.

“It’s a perfect cover-up. The experiment can go on under

somebody else.” Mulder looks so tragic, I wish I could

cheer him up.

He wouldn’t feel so bad if he understood how the military

works. General Brandon may not want to own up to the

unethical experimentation that went on here, but that

doesn’t mean he wants it to continue. Without Colonel

Robbins to lobby for funds in Washington, there won’t be

any money for EOS. With no budget, EOS will be dissolved,

and the staff will disperse to other projects until they

retire. Some of the findings will go into archives. The

inconvenient ones will disappear.

“Maybe it won’t be that easy, Mulder,” Scully consoles him.

“Barnes’ ova were lost with Colonel Robbins in the fire.

They won’t have ready test subjects. My report will be

strongly worded in condemnation of Robbins’ experiments.”

“A strongly worded report.” As if that would have an

influence. No one will admit it, but there’s a better

deterrent. A haunted project won’t attract or keep workers.

Marge was right about the feeling in the office. I’ll make

it impossible to work anyplace where they try to follow up

these experiments. I’m getting smarter and stronger every

day.

“Mulder. It’s over. There won’t be any more experiments,”

Scully tells him.

“What? How do you know? Did a little birdie tell you?”

Mulder starts teasing.

I disrupt the electrical current through the lamp next to

him and the light flickers. He rises quickly to his feet

and grabs Scully’s hand. She gives him a startled look, but

immediately stands up beside him. Their hands cling

together while Scully makes a quick survey of the room. She

squeezes Mulder’s hand, and then drops it to reach for her

coat.

As they leave the room, Scully looks back over her

shoulder. I feel the goodbye in her thoughts. Her eyes

almost seem to focus on me in the corner of the room next

to the window. Mulder lets her exit, before he pauses at

the door. He says goodbye to the lamp in a soft voice,

while I watch from the opposite end of the room. Mulder

isn’t sensitive, but he means well.

It’s important to mean well. My father is a good example of

why meaning well isn’t enough. A person has to be strong,

and face the truth about herself and other people. And do

something about it.

I’ll be in this place for a while. But I know there’s

something else waiting. I can’t see it yet. There’s a

corner somewhere that I’ll decide to turn one day, and

there will be something new. Or old. And a chance to use

what I’ve learned this time.

Patterns continue, but they change, too. There’s no seeing

the whole thing at once. We only know that everything is

part of the same infinite weave.

——————————————————–

End of “Closed Colony, Special Stock”

Date Posted: 01/19/01

Written especially for: I Made This Productions, Virtual

Season 8 http://www.i-made-this.com

Disclaimer: Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson,

and Ten Thirteen productions created and own the characters

you recognized. My writing is for fun, not profit.

Thanks: I thank IMTP for honoring me by asking for a story,

and for the tremendous amount of hard work put into Virtual

Season 8 by Laurie and her fellow producers, writers, and

artists. I especially thank Deej for the banner and

dustjacket she created for my story. She’s done a wonderful

job of capturing the mood of “Closed Colony,” and created

a beautiful image of our heroes in the process.

I thank bugs for her friendship, and for her beta work on

this story. I also thank her for the beautiful website she

created for my stories. See the URL below.

http://urw.simplenet.com/branwell