TITLE: “The Trade”

INFO: Written for The X-Files Virtual Season 11

(Episode number 16)

AUTHOR: Ten

EMAIL: kristena@ocean.com.au

RATING: PG-13

CLASSIFICATION: X-File, Angst, ST, MT,

MSR

SUMMARY: When Scully becomes seriously

ill, Mulder manages to find a potential cure. But

it is one that he will have to pay dearly for, and

not in a monetary sense.

SPOILERS: “Redux I & IIÓ.

Also there are spoilers for past Virtual Season

cases: Suzanne Bickerstaffe & dtg’s “Legacy“,

the VS 11 Producers’ “Camarilla“, Vickie

Moseley’s “Great Balls of Fire“, Caroline

McKenna’s “Demonic Perfection“, Suzanne

Bickerstaffe’s “Hollow Earth” and my “Layers“.

ARCHIVING: The X-Files Virtual Season has a

two week exclusivity to all Virtual Season 11

stories from the day each first appears on the

website. After that, please drop me a note if

you’d like to archive “The Trade”.

Virtual Season 11 can be found at:

http://www.virtualseasonx.com/

My website for all my X-Files fanfiction, thanks

to the

wonderful Skyfox, is at:

http://ten.bitter-moon.com/ten/xf/

DISCLAIMER: The X-Files, the episodes

referred to, Mulder and Scully and all other

characters from the show belong to Chris Carter

and his team of writers, Ten Thirteen

Productions and Fox Broadcasting, and are used

without permission. No copyright infringement

is intended, no profit will be gained. Characters

not recognized from the show are either mine, or

from previous VS stories.

MEDICAL NOTES: At end of story.

THANKS TO: Suzanne, Debbie, Mac, Gerry,

Vickie, Sally and Sheila for help above and

beyond the call of duty or friendship. Also

especially to Suzi for all the help and effort at

such short notice (despite being a fellow

procrastinator <G>) and in giving Corin more

depth. And a huge thanks to the VS11

production team!

FEEDBACK: Yes, please!

“The Trade”

by Ten, January and February 2004

xXx

TEASER:

Scully’s apartment:

Mulder sat at the desk in the living room, using

his new desktop computer. He had bought it

recently to replace the one lost when his

apartment building burned down. Having this

new computer not only gave him a more

powerful machine, but it also thankfully ended

the awkward sharing of Scully’s laptop.

She was the one who suggested he set the

desktop computer up on her living room desk.

“It’s the logical thing to do. It’s easier for me to

put my laptop on the dining room table or at the

desk in my bedroom. Plus, if you want to get on

your computer at some unearthly hour, you can

do it out here and not disturb me.”

“Is that just a nice way of saying that you didn’t

want your dining room table to be taken up with

the new computer and case files and my clutter?”

“You’ve got it.”

He didn’t think she minded relegating herself to

the desk in her bedroom Ð it gave them some

time apart in a way. Their own space. They were

trying not to live in each other’s pockets twenty-

four hours a day, since they were so used to

being solitary at home. So Mulder was regularly

going out to visit the Gunmen, for example, or

Dana to one of her friends or her mother’s or to

shop. But they were also enjoying their time

together and doing their best to get around any

hurdles with affection and humor, some times

more successfully than others.

Now Mulder had gotten up even earlier than

usual, and was online, checking out apartments.

He had to, since every one he had inspected

during the last few weeks had failed the Dana

Scully Test. None got her official seal of

approval. Not even close.

“Mulder, you are NOT going to lease that

dump.”

“Scully, it’s not like you’ll actually be living

there!” he pointed out.

“On and off, I will be. I’ll definitely be sleeping

there regularly.”

“If I don’t take this apartment, that means you’ll

be stuck with me indefinitely.”

“We’re managing. We haven’t killed each other

yet. And it is handy not having one of us race to

their own apartment each morning to get ready

and go to work. It gives us time to sleep a little

more, or do other things . . . .”

And at least she wasn’t overeager to bundle him

out the door. So he must be doing something

right.

Surfing the net was also a way of keeping his

mind occupied. To try to stop it straying onto

other things, two in particular.

One was the fire that had destroyed his apartment

building. It was still hard for him to comprehend

that he had lost virtually everything, apart from a

few items he had at Scully’s, the drycleaners and

the Gunmen’s.

Fortunately one priceless item had been saved

through sheer luck and timing. Just before the

case that had led to the fire, Scully had wanted to

look through Mulder’s photo album. She ended

up wanting to scan and reprint some of the

photos to put in her own collection, and

borrowed the album. So a number of Mulder’s

childhood, family and college photos had

survived. Otherwise he would have only been left

with the photos of Samantha that he kept in the

basement office.

However, so many times he found himself

thinking: “I need that book.” Or he wanted

something in particular, and made a mental note

to get it the next time he was at home, before he

realized it was gone forever. He was slowly

getting replacements for a number of things, but

it wasn’t quite the same.

His sofa was a major loss. The fish. The goofy

shoe bookend. The lithograph of the typewriter

and his Navajo blanket.

They’d previously gone through the trauma of

having the basement destroyed by fire, but at

least he was able to painstakingly reconstruct

most of the reports, though he had lost a lot of

his paranormal collection that time. When his

apartment burned, though, there had been no

hope of any salvage at all.

Look on the bright side, he told himself. You

didn’t suffer any permanent injuries Ð the burns

have healed fine. And there are definite

advantages to living with Scully.

At that he allowed himself quite a grin.

Yes, it could have been a lot worse. He could

have died, and Scully could have been there too

when the place went up.

And that brought him to the other worry he was

trying not to dwell on.

Lately his partner was becoming progressively

more tired and drawn, despite getting lots of

sleep. In fact, she was falling asleep well before

her usual bedtime and getting in excess of eight

hours a night. It started with little things, like

running out of breath only halfway through a

joint jog or not feeling like going for a run at all.

Other activities were also suffering. A few nights

ago she initiated some bedroom fun, only to fall

asleep before things really started cooking.

“I just don’t seem to have as much energy,” she

confessed to him the next day.

And that really set a cold fear burning in Mulder

that did not let up. Hopefully it was just

something minor, some bug, or overwork, he

told himself. After all, she had a rough time

recently, nearly being crucified by a madman and

his mother. Perhaps that was catching up with

her.

Fortunately she had made an appointment to see

her doctor, which was this morning, and she was

letting Mulder accompany her. Not just to the

medical center, but in to see the doctor himself.

How far we have come, Mulder could not help

musing. Then he started worrying that Scully

actually letting him come in to her appointment

meant that she thought there was something very

serious wrong with her.

They had been able to arrange the time off with

Skinner and Ð

A noise startled Mulder out of his reverie. He

looked away from the computer screen, which he

had not really been perusing for a while. The

noise was Scully’s alarm going off. It was time

for her to get up and get ready for her

appointment.

Mulder stood and went to the doorway of her

bedroom, in time to hear his partner groan and

see her reach out and turn the alarm off. She

buried her head under the covers.

He opened the blinds, then walked up to the side

of the bed. “Good morning, Sunshine.” He

couldn’t quite catch her muttered response, but

had a fair idea it wouldn’t get a PG rating.

Then she pulled the covers down with a reluctant

sigh, blinking in the light. She certainly wasn’t

looking perky. He could feel her own worry and

frustration, despite how hard she was trying to

hide them. He was also sure that she was

mentally running through her symptoms, trying

to work out what was wrong.

When her gaze met his, Mulder mustered a smile

from somewhere. He would have offered to make

her breakfast while she was in the shower, but

she had started fasting the night before for her

tests, since the doctor was going to do her post-

cancer check up as part of the day’s appointment.

“Morning already?” she asked.

“Yep. And I haven’t found any apartments you

would approve of yet.”

“I think I can put up with you for a little longer,”

she said with a smile.

Something made him stay by the bed, chattering

on about banalities as she got up. Which was

just as well, because when she stood, she went

even paler and her knees buckled. Mulder

managed to grab her in time to stop her falling.

They stared at each other, Scully a little dazed

but still conscious, locked in Mulder’s arms.

And the fear that they had lived with during

Scully’s cancer leapt back into both of them like

it had never been gone.

xXx

ACT ONE:

After sitting down on the bed for a few minutes,

Scully had recovered from her near-faint, though

Mulder insisted that she have a bath instead of a

shower and that he be present, just in case.

She let him. And unlike during that other dark

horrible time, they held hands and gazes where

they could.

Though just like during their cancer time, they

did not say much on the way to the medical

center. Mulder was just grateful they had the first

appointment of the day.

Fainting doesn’t have to mean something doom

and gloomish, Mulder told himself. And she

hasn’t had a nosebleed, or at least not that she’s

mentioned. He didn’t dare ask. The doctor did

ask, and received a negative reply, then checked

her nails and commented on the pallor of her

skin. Doctor Ben Gavins had been Scully’s

personal physician for a long time. He was well

acquainted with her unique medical history.

Scully had some tests there and then, including a

blood sample.

“Most of the results of these particular tests will

be back within a few hours. Why don’t you come

back in two and a half hours? There are some

stores and a cafe nearby,” the doctor said.

Scully managed a smile. “I noticed there was a

great sale going on just down the block.”

The partners didn’t end up going to it, of course.

They sat in the cafe. Mulder only felt like toying

with the food and drink ordered, but because

Scully hadn’t eaten anything since the night

before, he made himself eat and saw that his

partner was doing the same: chewing and

swallowing automatically, not really tasting. It

was an effort for Mulder to stop checking the

time and also to work out what to say. They

ended up talking about mundane things to fill in

the space and beat down the fear.

But at least they were together in this, whatever

this proved to be. That was something to take

even a little comfort in.

After what seemed like eons, they returned for

the results.

Doctor Gavins told Scully, “From these tests,

I’m strongly suspecting aplastic anemia,

especially from the low levels of your red and

white cells and platelets. But a sample of your

bone marrow will need to be taken and examined

by a hematologist for confirmation.”

“What is aplastic anemia?” Mulder asked,

directing his question at both of them. The look

in Scully’s eyes was telling him that it was not

something minor.

It was his partner who told him, “It’s a rare but

extremely serious disorder that results from the

unexplained failure of the bone marrow to

produce blood cells.”

That could not be good. Mulder knew that the

bone marrow was a factory producing the cells of

the blood: red cells, white cells and platelets.

Continuous production of blood cells was

necessary to sustain a body, because each cell had

a finite life span once leaving the bone marrow

and entering the blood.

But modern medicine had made so many

advances, even in the seven years since Scully’s

cancer. So surely . . . .

“And it’s curable?” Somehow Mulder was able to

get the question out. But he was only able to

look at Gavins when asking it.

“There are treatment options which could well

work -” Gavins began, before Mulder impatiently

interrupted him.

“But if they don’t, then is it fatal?”

“Yes, eventually.”

Mulder felt like he’d been kicked. Scully was

remaining very quiet, nodding slightly at what

the doctor said. Her outward composure was

legendary.

The doctor looked back and forth between them.

“But let’s focus on the options for now, before

we go expecting the worst. All right?”

“Could this be due to the chip?” Mulder asked.

Somehow his voice remained steady.

The doctor immediately knew what Mulder

meant, but hesitated before saying, “As far as I

can tell, it seems to be, um, working the same as

it was when Dana’s cancer was cured. But I have

no idea whether this disease has anything to do

with that chip. And honestly I don’t think there

is any way for us to know for sure.”

Mulder couldn’t stop asking questions and

Scully was staying silent. She probably knew the

answers already anyway. “What’s the cause of

aplastic anemia?”

Doctor Gavins said, “There are a number of

known causes. It has been clearly linked to

radiation Д

Mulder went very still. Scully had been exposed

to radiation during her abduction and in

treatment for her cancer.

“Environmental toxins Д the doctor continued.

They’d had plenty of those . . . .

“Insecticides and drugs, in much the same

fashion as cancer has been linked to these agents.

Benzene-based compounds, airplane glue and

drugs such as chloramphenicol have been linked

to aplastic anemia too. Also, Hepatitis, Epstein

Barr, drugs like Dilantin and even some

antibiotics. In some people it is believed to be

caused by a virus. But in over half the cases the

cause is unknown or idiopathic.”

Then Gavins turned to Scully and asked if she

had any questions. He also arranged to book her

in for the bone marrow test as soon as possible,

where a needle was going to be inserted into the

large pelvic bone and a biopsy taken.

“Restrict your activities and see how much

taking it easy relieves your symptoms.”

Her voice remained calm when talking to the

doctor, but as soon as they were heading out, she

slipped her hand into Mulder’s and did not let go

until they reached the car.

He swore inwardly, raging at everything and

everyone. Why did it have to be her again?

The agents didn’t say much on the way home.

They didn’t have to. Once inside Scully’s

apartment, they held each other tightly, before

Scully gently pulled away and announced that

she was going to call her mother and Skinner.

xXx

Scully had the bone marrow test and, while they

waited a few days for the results, she

determinedly did paperwork at home and

consulted on autopsy results from other cases

that were sent to her via the internet or courier.

She also researched as much as possible about

aplastic anemia and the available treatments.

Cabin fever was inevitable, though. Mulder was

trying his hardest not to rock the boat, to find a

balance between being over-coddling and

standing too far back. Maggie was helping out

where she could while Mulder was at work.

“I hate being ‘fragile’!” his partner declared at one

point with an anger that he knew was not being

directed specifically at him. She needed to vent.

“Scully, that is one thing that no one would ever

accuse you of. Even now. You’re still the

equivalent of at least twenty of me.”

At that some of the anger went out of her sails.

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Ten of me then?” he asked.

“One of you does me just fine. And I only wish I

felt well enough for you to do me now!”

Her symptoms were not being relieved much by

staying at home either.

The results of Scully’s test confirmed aplastic

anemia.

Mulder sat quietly while Gavins and Scully

talked about the next steps to take. But then he

realized something and couldn’t help saying,

“You’re not going to hospitalize her?”

The doctor replied, “Agent Mulder, with all of

the superbugs and diseases around in hospitals

these days, it is best that she stay home for now

while her condition allows it. Home help is

available, and it sounds like Mrs Scully is doing

a lot, which is great. Masks can be made

available for both Dana and visitors to wear, to

ensure that she doesn’t catch anything from

anyone Ð even healthy people can potentially be a

threat to her condition. Strict hygiene is to be

followed, for example: thorough washing of

hands.” He said to Scully, “We’ll start you off

on a cycle of drug therapy and see how that

goes.” She nodded.

“Modern medicine keeps most people happy

most of the time, although I’m sure the patients

themselves might not see it quite that way,”

Gavins continued. “Theoretically, Dana should

be able to stay out of the hospital for a long time

yet, just going in for the drug therapy and

treatments like transfusions when necessary.”

During the last week, Mulder had read up on

aplastic anemia. He knew why the doctor was not

starting to test Scully’s family for bone marrow

compatibility in case of a transplant Ð that was

only as a last resort. The transplant also had far

higher risks than just letting the patient be or

trying other options, at least at this stage.

Scully had to keep her activity restricted to

reduce symptoms of anemia, avoid falls or

accidents that could provoke bleeding, and she

was to reduce contact with other people. She was

to go into the hospital as an outpatient regularly

for her treatments, for a few hours at a time.

xXx

Outside, Scully tried to put a brave face on it.

“Mulder, it’s going to be fine. There are courses

of treatment. We just have to find out which one

is the best.”

But that didn’t mean that they couldn’t be on the

lookout for other, not so well-marked courses or

paths. Or create a few of their own, Mulder

thought, but instead he said, “Of course it’s

going to be fine, Scully. Look what we’ve

already managed to beat.”

“And this will be a great opportunity to catch up

on my med and science reading,” she said, half

lightly, half seriously. “There’s always so much

published.”

He managed to smile at her spirit and

determination, but wondered how much longer

he’d be able to if things got worse.

xXx

That night:

Mulder couldn’t sleep. That was fine by him,

because he had research to do on this illness and

those other potential paths for a cure, just in

case.

He was out on the sofa bed. He and Scully had

discussed it and reluctantly agreed that it was

best if he did so Ð it would make things easier

than wearing masks to bed, which could easily

slip, and neither wanted to disturb the other if

they were restless or when Mulder had to get up

and get ready for work.

But in reality, Scully was out like a light. That

was the one ‘good’ thing about this illness. She

shouldn’t even notice that the living room lights

were on in the wee hours or hear if he

accidentally made too much noise, which was

another, unspoken, reason why Mulder had

suggested that he sleep on the sofa bed. He half-

expected that his all-encompassing panic and

worry would be loud enough to wake his partner

up. God knew it was certainly gnawing away at

him loud enough.

Okay, focus. To work with you. The phrase

‘Fight the future’ certainly applies here.

He headed to his desk and prepared for a long

session.

xXx

The next day, late afternoon:

The agents had been in phone contact a few times

during the day, and it wasn’t just Mulder

phoning Scully to check up on her. She called

him a few times just, he was sure, to check up

on him and be connected to him, to the office, in

some small way. Now he was back home and

had taken over the ‘night shift’ from Maggie.

After Scully’s mother left, his partner actually

admitted to him despondently, “I think I’m

going crazy being here at home all day. I’m

having trouble concentrating on the med

journals.”

He was surprised by her admission, despite how

much better they had become over the years at

being more open with each other. He guessed she

had kept up a cheery facade all day for her mother

and couldn’t any more.

“Scully, perhaps look at it from a different

angle,” he suggested.

She gave him the eyebrow. “Show me the

angle.”

“I know you’re frustrated, but try viewing this as

vacation leave. You don’t often get to have a

break. So instead of focusing on paperwork or

going at the journals for so long, step back, at

least for some of each day. Give yourself more

time. Some pampering. Skinner would have no

problem giving you the leave. Read books, the

fun books, the romances, the novels that you’ve

bought and stacked up and not gotten around to.

Watch all those movies you’ve missed. I

recommend comedies Ð it’s always good to

laugh. There are plenty of things you can do that

aren’t as taxing or stressful.”

From the look on her face, she was carefully

contemplating his idea. “A vacation?”

“I’ll hunt out whatever book you want in the

stores, or anything else you want. Hell, we can

go all the way and do the living room up as a

beach. I’ll even wear my Speedos.”

She laughed, then her eyes held a glint that he

was glad to see as she asked oh-so-coyly, “Is

there any rule that says we can’t make it a nudist

beach? For males, anyway.”

So they pretended that the sofa was a deck chair

at the beach on a tropical island and that Scully

was a rich visitor. Mulder was her personal

waiter.

“Want me to wear a bow tie?”

“That all depends on where . . . .”

xXx

Mulder watched his partner get worse. She was

still able to function at home, however it was

like a leak in a dam. When a trickle, no big deal,

but as the hole gets bigger, it has more and more

of an effect, but still no major problems. Finally

the hole was going to get so big that the dam

would burst.

It wasn’t about to burst just yet, but . . . .

The trips to the hospital for the treatments were

taking a lot out of Scully. Often her control and

determination were a marvel, however her temper

was getting shorter and more explosive when it

did break through, and it was a strain to monitor

everything he was about to do or say, to try to

minimize any flare ups. Having to rely so much

on others and not be able to do her job or much

else during the course of a day was hell for her,

he knew. Being extremely intolerant to any form

of exercise, after being such a fit and active

person was a constant source of irritation too.

And there was the frustration of having to be so

aware of quarantine procedures, which had really

put a damper on their holding and touching. The

masks. So they went back to the ‘old days’ of

communicating so much with their eyes, though

they also said a lot with words that they would

not have told each other in those old days. And

often after a flare up, Scully would get upset

with herself and apologize to him.

She slept a lot anyway, and he continued on with

his research. After exhausting the Gunmen’s

library, he paid a visit to Chuck Burns, who

knew about their situation.

“Mulder! Great to see you. How’s Scully doing?”

“Not good. Can I go through your stacks? You’re

bound to have magazines and articles that could

have slipped under my radar, or the Gunmen’s.”

“I pride myself on finding obscure releases. Sure,

you’re welcome to borrow whatever you want.

Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Hopefully I’ll know when I see it.” They ended

up discussing some rather remote possibilities,

but to no end.

xXx

Scully had been on the drug therapy for two

weeks, but now was going downhill too fast for

it to remain a viable option. The doctor was

baffled and frustrated by the rapid deterioration.

She was being given blood transfusions during

her trips to the hospital, to try to correct her

anemia. Fortunately she hadn’t started bleeding

yet Ð her platelet levels had not dropped that

low. That sort of bleeding was an acute medical

emergency, with the danger of fatal hemorrhage

occurring.

Her brother Bill, mother and surviving relatives

proved to be non-compatible for a bone marrow

transplant. Seeing that Charlie Scully appeared to

have Consortium links and had tried to kill

Mulder recently, the chances of him suddenly

turning up and offering to have his blood tested

for compatibility were remote. They couldn’t get

in contact with him anyway Ð and Maggie, who

had no idea about just what her son had become,

believed he was currently unreachable because he

was on a long term undercover assignment.

The database of donors was being searched, so far

with no luck of a match with Scully.

Maggie was staying with her daughter all the

time during the day and a home help nurse came

in when required. At night, Mulder was the

caregiver, and he regularly got up and checked

how Scully was during the night.

Scully had a PICC line inserted in the crook of

her arm. It was a special IV that would not need

changing for weeks, so the line could be used for

antibiotics at home and for the drug therapy and

transfusions in the outpatient clinic, without a

new one having to be inserted each time.

She also had a liquid oxygen tank with a nasal

cannula. The tank was set up in the bedroom, but

had tubing long enough to allow Scully to move

around in other rooms of the apartment while

still getting the oxygen. She and her caregivers

just had to be careful not to trip over the tubing

or get it hooked up or accidentally put something

on it, like a chair leg.

Scully was out in the living room. At the

moment she was not receiving anything via the

PICC line, and it was heparin-locked, capped off

so they didn’t have to deal with an IV stand and

its various paraphernalia for now.

“I wonder . . . ” Scully began, then tailed off, as

if realizing she was saying a thought

inadvertently out loud.

Mulder looked at her, knowing that she hadn’t

stopped talking only because she was short of

breath. “What?” he asked, fearful of what she was

going to say, but he had to know.

“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.

But I wonder whether the chip or my medical

past . . . might be accelerating the progress of

this illness.”

Mulder’s heart sank even more. She was going

downhill a lot faster than expected, without even

something like an infection to really gallop it

along.

“Sorry, Mulder. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You could easily be right.”

“But without that chip . . . wouldn’t have had

seven extra years with you,” she finished

sincerely.

Without me, Mulder couldn’t help thinking, you

wouldn’t have been abducted and had the cancer

or needed another chip.

“Mulder, I know what’s running through your

head. Stop it. You know that I could well have

never joined the FBI and stayed in medicine . . .

only to get killed in a car accident coming home

from a shift one day. Life has no guarantees.”

He nodded, trying to put on a good act so as not

to further worry his partner.

It had been a bad day. Mulder knew that if this

kept up, in a few days Scully would have to be

admitted to the hospital. Since she was a doctor

and had twenty-four hour care and a home health

nurse, her doctor was still letting her try to stay

at home for as long as possible, but there were

limits and she was close to reaching them.

“Bedtime,” Mulder said softly, dreading how

tired the trip would make her. And that she

might resist and make things worse.

“Too bad the bedroom . . . wasn’t closer to the

beach,” Scully said wryly.

An idea sparked in his mind. “Well, instead of

the rich woman on the tropical beach, we could

do ‘Gone With the Wind’.”

She smiled and he knew she was pleased at his

efforts to keep their spirits up. “Sweep me off

my feet . . . and carry me up that staircase,

Rhett.”

“Staircase? Have you and your mom been

renovating while I’ve been at work?”

He was relieved that she had acquiesced, that he

had found a way to carry her without making her

feel weak and upset. Or too much so.

It wasn’t quite as easy a task as the ‘Gone With

the Wind’ scenario: there was the oxygen tubing

to factor in, but they managed. And somehow it

still felt romantic, the closest they could get at

the moment.

END ACT ONE:

xXx

ACT TWO:

Later that night:

Once again he was back at his desk, on the

computer and poring through journals and

magazines and anything he could think of which

might provide some help.

He was going through one of Chuck’s

paranormal magazines when he found it.

A letter in a magazine. The letter was written by

a thirty-five year old man called Corin Harper, in

which he claimed that at age eleven he had

somehow been cured of a deadly childhood

illness, but on the same night as that happened,

his mother had died. Recently he found out that

she had died of that very illness. It was cystic

fibrosis, which was incurable, so Corin should

not have survived it in the first place, and it was

impossible that his mother had suddenly

developed it in adulthood.

Corin said he had only recently recovered

memories of that time, which had made him

curious, and led him to access his own and his

mother’s medical records. He wrote: “It’s as if a

trade occurred between us,” and was enquiring if

anyone else had undergone a similar experience

or knew of anyone who did. He urged them to

contact him.

There was something about the way the letter

was written that pulled Mulder in and made him

not dismiss the writer as a crank. It was a

heartfelt enquiry for answers. There was not

much in the way of detail about what memories

the man had recovered, but it came across to

Mulder as the writer being cautious about the

sort of responses he would get. Like not telling a

psychic much about your life and seeing what

they came up with, to test how accurate their

responses were.

Mulder checked the date on the cover. This

magazine was published twice yearly and this

issue had come out nearly five months ago.

He mused over the words. Like a trade had taken

place. . . .

Mulder read back through the letter very

carefully. The man said that he had medical

records, so that would be some proof. He decided

to phone Corin Harper in the morning and talk to

him. Within the last five months other people

may have written to Corin with their theories or

stories. Mulder was interested to find out what

they had said.

He looked again at the contact details. Corin

Harper lived in Sharpsburg, Maryland. That was

about an hour and forty minutes away, or a two

hour drive with rush hour traffic. So it was

possible to visit the man fairly easily if need be,

instead of relying solely on phone contact.

Because if the phone call went well, Mulder

wanted to see this man for himself. A visit

would not be to just go over his evidence, but to

see him face to face and gauge if he was genuine.

Hopefully he had a potential way out of Scully’s

suffering.

xXx

FBI Building

X-Files Office:

Over the phone, Corin Harper promised to fax

Mulder copies of his medical reports and his

mother’s autopsy report. Corin also said he

thought that he had pieced together what

happened on the night that he became a healthy

child, thanks to responses from people who had

read his letter. “My mother took my illness into

herself. And she’s not the first or the last person

to do such a thing.”

Hope and curiosity set Mulder’s heart beating

faster at hearing this.

Before Corin could go into more detail, Mulder

could hear the sound of a doorbell. “Damn.

Sorry, can I call you back?” Corin asked.

“Please fax those medical records to me as soon

as you can. And could I come and see you

sometime today? Would that be convenient?”

“Sure. What time?”

Agreement was quickly reached. Soon the

paperwork appeared on the fax machine in the

basement and backed up what Corin claimed in

his letter. Though paperwork can be forged or

mistakes made, Mulder told himself. He sighed

and started to get ready to head to Sharpsburg.

xXx

Mulder checked the street sign and nodded to

himself. He wasn’t far from Corin Harper’s

home. And the trip had gone well.

Apart from the niggling guilt about keeping this

from Scully.

Mulder took a deep breath, again going over his

reasonings, justifying them to himself.

Time was running out. A donor match might be

found in the database, but it hadn’t happened yet

and hopes were fading. The drug therapy wasn’t

working. There had been no luck at tracking

down any of the other potential means of help,

like the healing aliens.

And Cancerman hadn’t popped up to dangle a

cure at the cost of a deal.

Mulder didn’t want to raise false hope in his

partner about Corin Harper’s discovery, in case it

turned out to be false or for some reason not

work for them.

And he wanted to find out everything he could

about this trading ability first, because if it did

work, he didn’t want Scully to be able to reverse

the process. Not if it meant her dying.

He had made sure his cell phone was fully

charged, so if Scully or anyone wanted to phone

him, they could. Just hopefully she wouldn’t ask

him where he was . . . . She thought he was at

work for the day.

I am working. This qualifies as an X-File.

And it isn’t like I’m doing something like

sneaking onto a Consortium base.

Corin Harper worked from home as a carpenter

and woodworker. As Mulder got out of his car,

he could see a workshop at the end of the

driveway, behind the house. A large and

beautifully carved wooden business sign on the

fence directed customers to the workshop. The

front door of the house opened as Mulder was

deciding which building to try. A man appeared

in work overalls, greeting him and waving him

up onto the porch.

“I’ve left a sign on the workshop door for people

to come to the front door instead,” the man

announced. “And my business phone will divert

through to the house. But hopefully we won’t

have any or many interruptions.”

“That’s fine. I appreciate you letting me visit at

such short notice.”

Corin was a cheerful man with close-cropped red

hair. The living room they went into contained

beautifully crafted and finished wooden furniture

and fittings. As Mulder settled down in a

comfortable chair, he noticed a glass cabinet held

a lot of sporting trophies and items from around

the world. The mantelpiece contained a lot of

family photos Ð Corin as a boy and a woman

who would have to be his mother. A vase of

fresh flowers was next to the main photos.

“Did you make all of these?” Mulder gestured at

the furnishings.

“Yes. It started out as a hobby in my teens and

sort of snowballed from there.”

“It all looks great.”

Thank you. Would you like some coffee or

food?”

“No thanks. Not at the moment.”

“Okay. I guess to business then? So, you work

for a branch of the FBI that investigates strange,

potentially paranormal, happenings?”

Mulder nodded. He had approached Corin in that

way, instead of mentioning that he had a sick

partner.

“Well, if you’re hoping to find out how to save

dying people by this particular method, the news

isn’t that great. Someone still has to die.” The

man’s eyes, now sad, went to one of the pictures

on the mantelpiece for a few seconds.

Mulder had another look at the photos. The ones

he could see of young, pre-teen Corin showed a

frail boy, but the few beyond that showed a

remarkable difference. Mulder decided he’d been

right not to mention the real reason why he was

here. Corin could clam up and not tell him what

he needed to know Ð he might have even been

burned by people wanting a miracle cure after the

publication of his letter. Mulder would just have

to see, and hopefully no desperation would show

through.

Corin pulled his eyes away from the photos and

mustered a smile. “Anyway, I know you want

the whole story, so where would you like me to

start?”

“According to the letter, you were eleven when

your mother died.”

“Yes, but I couldn’t remember the period around

her death until well into my adulthood. Before

that, I could just remember that I was a sick

child because of cystic fibrosis. It was and still is

an incurable and eventually fatal childhood

disease.” He paused, before continuing, “Then

suddenly my mother was dead, and I wasn’t sick

anymore, which was quite a contrast, because I’d

been living with that illness since birth. My aunt

and uncle raised me after my mother died. They

didn’t have any children of their own and were

my only living relatives. They talked about my

mother, but not about her death, just that she had

suddenly died when I was in the hospital. So I

grew up thinking she’d had a heart attack or a

stroke, and that some sort of miracle had

happened in regard to my own sickness.”

“How did you recover your memories?”

“They started coming back to me in the last five

years, in my dreams. Or rather, in my

nightmares.” Corin shifted in his armchair, one

hand absently stroking the polished arm rest. “At

first I didn’t realize what they were, because I had

a partner, and she would wake me very quickly

when she could hear that it was a bad dream. It

wasn’t until after we broke up about eighteen

months ago that the dreams lasted longer and I

was able to see that they were about my mother.

Hazy bits of images of her standing over me in

the hospital, her concentrating, and then falling.

Nurses running in. I thought it was my

unresolved grief about her death, but then I

started to wonder if these were actually memories

instead of just things from my imagination.”

“Did you try hypno regression?”

“No. I think what I can remember now is all that

I’ll be able to recall. On the night that my

mother ended up dying, I was in the hospital

because I was getting worse. I had a bad infection

and my lungs were so clogged up . . . . The

doctors didn’t expect me to live long. I either

had sedatives in my system or was asleep when

my mother came into the room, so that’s why I

can only recall hazy bits of what happened next.

Mom was standing there, concentrating, there

was a blackness between us Д

“A blackness?”

Corin nodded. “A haze. When I recalled it, I

thought it was just the drugs or the fact that my

eyes were just cracked open a little. Then my

mother clutched her chest and collapsed. Next

thing I can remember, there were medical staff

rushing my mother away, out of the room, and a

doctor checking me. I could breathe properly.”

Mulder wanted to ask more about the black haze,

but Corin kept speaking.

“Cystic fibrosis is something that no adult

should spontaneously develop. It’s something a

person is born with.”

Mulder knew that Scully would think that

Corin’s illness could have been misdiagnosed,

and was something hereditary that tests failed to

pick up about twenty-four years ago when

Corin’s mother died. Or that someone bungled

the finding that Mrs Harper died of cystic

fibrosis. Therefore, no X-File, no trade.

“As you’ve already seen, I managed to trace my

old medical records and my mother’s,” Corin

said. “They confirm what I remember. Somehow,

suddenly and inexplicably, my mother got this

disease. The autopsy report confirms it, as

impossible as it is, because she had been healthy

all of her life before then. It looks like the

sudden shock killed her, though the infection

soon would have anyway. Suddenly her lungs

weren’t working right.” He swallowed. “She

probably felt like she was drowning, unable to

take a deep breath.”

He shuddered, his eyes getting damp. “The

weirdness of it must have really freaked my aunt

and uncle out Ð that’s why they didn’t talk about

my mother’s death. I think it came as a relief to

them that my memories of that time were

blocked out. Even when I asked Aunt Isabel

about it not long ago, telling her what I could

remember, she did her best to avoid the subject.

Perhaps they were even a little afraid of me. My

mother was very much into meditation and the

new age way of thinking, while my aunt was

anything but.”

“So once you got the memories back you decided

to track down these medical records?”

“Yeah. I had those snatches of memory, and the

knowledge that I’d had cystic fibrosis as a kid

and somehow been cured. The impossibility of it

had always nagged at me, so that’s why I was so

curious and started digging once those memories

returned.”

“So how did your mother take your illness onto

herself? You said on the phone that you think

you now know.”

“I *think* I’ve found out via others how she

managed to do it,” Corin stressed. “About twelve

people have contacted me with similar

incidences. And most of those occurrences seems

to match the bits I can remember of the night she

died.”

“Most?”

“Yes. There are a few that I think are fake,

cranks. They just don’t ‘feel’ right.”

Mulder nodded, well aware of how he himself

was able to discern cases with a ‘paranormal

bouquet’. And at the moment, he was getting the

feeling that Corin was genuine, that the man did

believe in what he had written about.

Corin said, “The ones that ring true are very

interesting, and collaborative. Some people have

been able to concentrate hard enough to actually

‘lift’ the affliction out of their loved one and take

it onto themselves instead.”

“But if sheer willpower/prayer/hope/wishful

thinking, whatever, are all that is required, then

such a trade should be much more common,

especially when parents are having to watch their

children dying in hospital,” Mulder pointed out.

Heck, if that were the case, he would have been

able to do that with Scully when she was in her

coma or with the cancer.

“Yeah, I wondered about that too. I examined all

the occurrences I could find and I think I’ve

found two similarities. The main link seems to

be that the person who is able to take the

affliction onto themselves has had a near death

experience in their past, like an accident that has

brought them medically close to death or they

have needed CPR.”

That made Mulder sit up straighter. “So they

actually had to have found themselves on another

plane of existence or in a hallway moving

towards a light, until they were brought back?”

“It might be enough that the person had a close

brush with death. The people who have contacted

me haven’t all mentioned imagery like that.

Some of them don’t know for sure if the person

who sacrificed their life for them actually had

such an experience. I talked to the survivors and

some can give me an instance where, for

example, their benefactor had been in a car crash

a few years beforehand but survived against steep

odds.” Corin ran a hand through his hair,

contemplating the issue. “That person just may

not have talked about what they went through, or

remember it, or they might not have had the

tunnel and the light, etc. It might not be

necessary.”

“Do you know if anything like that happened to

your mother?”

“Yes. She told me when I was little. When she

was a child, she and some friends tried to make a

snow cave. It collapsed and my mother was

caught in it. She couldn’t breathe, and a feeling

of incredible peace came over her. Then suddenly

it was gone Ð her friends had dug around and

managed to uncover her face, just in time. She

said that after that, she didn’t fear dying. I guess

knowing she felt that way is some comfort. And

it made me feel better when I was little that death

wouldn’t be so scary. But until people got in

contact with me about my letter in the magazine,

I hadn’t considered that experience of my

mother’s as a factor in regard to what she ended

up doing for me.” Corin looked over at the

photographs. “A miracle that could do so much

for sick people, but at quite a price.”

The carpenter blinked, then looked back at

Mulder. “Perhaps a person who has a brush with

death then possesses some sort of talent or

power. Hopefully more people will write to me Ð

I could do a follow-up letter in the next edition

of the magazine, an article even, and publish in

some others too. Then we can see if the same

pattern keeps emerging. But I’m in two minds

about doing that.” The carpenter did not elaborate

though. “I haven’t got long to decide before

submissions close for the next edition.”

Mulder made a mental note to ask Corin about

that hesitation, but first he reminded the

carpenter, “You said there were two similarities.”

“Yes. I’ll tell you the other after I’ve got us

something to drink. I think we need it,” he

replied with feeling. He indicated a folder on the

coffee table. “There are the letters I’ve received,

my copies of the medical reports, and my notes,

including the ‘rules’ of this trade, as far as I can

make out.”

Then Corin went to the kitchen to make some

coffee, and Mulder started looking through the

paperwork. He also started to muse on what he

had learned.

Near death experiences and brushes with death.

He’d certainly had those.

But so had Scully.

xXx

When Corin came back and they settled in their

chairs again, he continued. “The second thing

seems to involve visualization and focus. A

person who has the necessary close brush with

death might have a child who is sick, but

wishing and praying that the illness goes or is

given to the parent instead doesn’t seem to work.

My mother was into meditation; she was very

visual. One person said that her father pictured

the illness in her body and mentally focused on

lifting it out. She said she saw a cloud of ‘black

light or mist’ rise out of her own body, and go

into her father. Just like I saw. When I read that,

I knew I was on the right track, because I hadn’t

mentioned that in my letter. Several other people

wrote about it too in their letters to me. That

seems to be how the illness appears, how it

manifests: a dark cloud. And once it is out of the

sick person’s body, they are fine. It’s like all the

damage and weakness it caused has gone too.”

Time for the million dollar question. Mulder

mentally crossed his fingers and asked it. “Due

to the rules, as you know them, if one person

manages to get the affliction out of another,

could the cured person turn around and take it

back?”

“I’m not sure. It does seem that the person who

has taken the illness onto themselves can’t then

remove it from their own body, for example to

try to transfer it to someone else. And it looks

like it has to be a fatal disease for the trade to

occur.”

“Some diseases are fatal to children but not so

much to adults . . . . Some forms of leukemia, I

think,” Mulder said.

“I haven’t had any cases where something like

that has happened. Whether that’s because for

some reason the trade can’t take place under those

circumstances or I just haven’t been contacted by

anyone like that yet, I don’t know. In the child

to adult trades that I’ve read about, and

experienced, the disease or illness was strong

enough to kill the adult.”

Corin told him more, recounting how one person

had found out from someone else how to do the

trade, so she decided to try it with her sick child.

She got the illness out of her child and then as

the dark cloud came towards the parent, she held

up one of their farmyard animals in front of her,

trying to see if the mass would go into the

animal instead, therefore sparing both her child

and herself. But it couldn’t Ð it had to be human

to human.

And the mass couldn’t be lifted out of the victim

and then mentally ‘thrown away’ by the person

doing the lifting.

The haunted look was back in Corin’s eyes,

making Mulder uncomfortable, considering what

he was planning.

Corin said, “Now that I know what my mother

did for me, I’m kind of torn. I’m grateful for her

sacrifice, but it’s hard to accept that I’m only

here because she’s dead. She may have felt guilty

because cystic fibrosis is inherited, so she could

have passed the disease to me in that way, as a

carrier. But she always tried to make things

happy and positive. When I became healthy, I

was determined to live life, to make the most of

it, and I have.” Corin gestured at the glass

cabinet, full of trophies and evidence of his

travels. “I guess now I need to keep focusing on

that. Not to waste what Mom gave me, despite

the cost.”

Mulder hoped Scully would see it that way, if he

did manage to pull off a trade. He found himself

asking, “Do you believe in fate? That this was

perhaps meant to be?”

At that, Corin paused for what seemed a long

time, before finally saying, “I honestly don’t

know. Perhaps to some degree, but a lot of free

will and luck too. Mom used her free will. This

is what she chose. I’m also torn about writing a

follow up letter or article. I mean, in a way this

is giving people a chance to save a loved one,

however it could also be seen as aiding murder or

suicide . . . .”

Soon Mulder was about to take his leave. He

indicated the folder on the coffee table. “I’d like

to take copies of what you’ve got there.”

“Of course. I’ve got a printer in my office that’s

also one of those copier, fax and scanner

combos.”

Once that was done, Mulder looked at the

collection of papers. I still have to go through

these thoroughly, but I am probably going to try

this. I’ve got nothing to lose, apart from Scully,

which is not an option.

“Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.”

He saw a look go through Corin’s eyes, and a

hesitation, and for a moment he thought that the

carpenter suspected that Mulder wanted to use

this trade himself and was about to ask. But the

moment passed and Corin instead ushered him to

the front door.

When he was leaving, Mulder almost told Corin,

‘I’ll keep you in mind for your furniture too. I

had a fire in my apartment recently and could do

with some new things.’ But then he thought that

there was also a good chance that he might be

dead of aplastic anemia soon, if the trade worked.

No! He couldn’t let himself think like that. If

this did work, there was the chance of a donor for

him, or a chance of drug therapy working. He

had to try it Ð there were no other options at the

moment. His innate stubbornness and arrogance

and ‘never give up’ mentality were assuring him

that somehow he would find a way to outwit this

trade or make it work out.

And if the trade didn’t work, there was a good

chance that Scully would die, and his life would

be over anyway. So any thoughts about buying

or ordering new furniture were definitely on the

backburner at the moment.

xXx

Mulder returned to D.C. in good time and

without Scully being aware that he had taken a

little trip. He phoned her from the basement to

check how she was, and then went home that

night at the usual time.

“My next doctor’s appointment . . . is tomorrow.

And I think he’ll want . . . to admit me,” Scully

told him quietly after Maggie had gone.

Mulder looked at his partner. She was lying in

her bed, with the nasal cannula, and he was

wearing a mask. To a degree she was already in a

hospital. He nodded, outwardly appearing to

accept the inevitable. “We’re going to be okay.”

She managed a smile. “You go have dinner.

Mom’s already . . . given me mine.”

“Okay. Do you want anything? Another audio

book or something?”

“No. I’ll have a nap . . . Then you can read to me

. . . or tell me some jokes.”

“Jokes? Now that could be interesting. Let me go

through my prolific selection, and just ring the

bell if you need anything.” A hand bell was set

up within easy reach for her.

xXx

Several hours later:

She was sound asleep. It was time.

Mulder carried one of the chairs from the dining

table set into the bedroom. He put the chair next

to the bed, its back up against a bookcase, on the

side that Scully was sleeping on.

He sat down. Hands resting on his knees, he

took a deep breath.

Please let this work, he thought, while another

part of him was internally raging, rebelling

against such a drastic step. The thought of

willingly allowing a deadly disease into himself

. . . . He did have a strong instinct for survival Ð

he’d had to, considering what he’d managed to

overcome over the years. However this was for

Scully. He would willingly take a bullet for her

in the line of duty. This was no different. He

remembered how close to the brink he had come

when he thought he would lose her to the cancer.

And there will be a way to get rid of this, he told

himself. There has to be, and I will find it. I’ve

done it before. There will be time.

But for now . . . .

More deep breaths. He concentrated on Scully,

the features he knew so well. Then he pictured

her illness as a dark cloud inside her, an invader

in her body.

For a little time, there was nothing. He

concentrated harder.

Suddenly he could feel it. Not see it, but his

mind brushed against something. The impression

of something strange, leaden, in Scully.

He concentrated more, visualizing his enemy,

and he felt himself mentally connect with it. He

‘pulled’.

You picked the wrong place to set up as a

squatter, buddy. Eviction time.

He pulled harder, his mind straining.

And to his astonishment, relief and fear, a black

cloud rose out of Scully’s sleeping form, to

hover just above her.

Am I imagining this? Sheer wishful thinking?

Mulder was so surprised and startled, that he

started to let go of his mental grip. The cloud

began to sink back into Scully, but he quickly

halted it.

He could be imagining it, or have fallen asleep

and be dreaming Ð things certainly felt surreal at

the moment – but he had to assume he wasn’t.

Okay, I’ve lassoed the varmint, he couldn’t help

thinking to himself. Now I have to pull it away

from her.

He could feel the cloud was trying to go back

into Scully’s body. And Corin was right: no

amount of effort on Mulder’s part could make the

mass go anywhere else but into either himself or

Scully. He felt panic, then resignation. He kept

reeling the black haze in. His body could not

move while he was doing this. Somehow it was

immobile.

Once he got the cloud over the halfway mark

between their bodies, the gravitational pull of his

own body took over, and suddenly the cloud

easily flowed into his torso with a speed that

took him by surprise.

Simultaneously his mind yelled both a

triumphant, hopeful ‘Yes!’ and a horrified,

helpless, ‘No!’ at what he had just done.

Mulder blinked. The cloud was gone. He could

see no trace of it, either in the air or on his own

skin. Perhaps he had imagined all this, and just

fallen asleep in the chair instead.

Scully kept sleeping. Mulder found he could

move again, and tried to work out if he felt any

different. Tired for sure, but that could be

explained away by all they’d been going through.

And he wasn’t sure how long it took for an

illness to assert itself in a new body after a trade.

Not too long at least, because Corin could

remember his mother falling . . . .

Mulder stood and gazed down at his partner. She

seemed to be sleeping more easily, breathing

more deeply.

xXx

Next morning:

Scully woke up, but didn’t open her eyes, just

drifting in contentment in the warmth of the bed.

Of course, it would be even nicer if Mulder was

there with her. She would just have to imagine

that he was Ð

Then she realized she wasn’t short of breath. In

fact, the fog of lethargy and illness that had been

weighing her down, getting worse and worse,

was gone.

She felt healthy, alert and awake. And even,

thanks to her imaginings about Mulder,

definitely in the mood for some fun.

Scully opened her eyes and looked around. She

was in her bedroom, not a hospital. She still had

the cannula and the PICC line, so her illness

could not have been a nightmare she had just

woken up from. But what was going on? She

took a few experimental deep breaths. No

problem. She stretched her legs under the covers.

No aches, no strain. In fact, she sensed that if she

got up and went to the bathroom, heck, even for

a run, her legs would oblige her.

She cautiously sat up. No dizziness or

overwhelming tiredness hit her. She gingerly

removed the nasal cannula, with no ill effects.

She looked at the bedside clock. Her alarm was

due to go off in about ten more minutes. Mulder

should be up, getting ready. He was going to

come with her to the doctor’s appointment, then,

after the verdict, phone Skinner to tell him what

was happening and whether he would then be

coming in to work.

She couldn’t hear the shower running, or any

other noise. “Mulder?” Her voice was strong and

clear. No answer. “Mulder!”

Perhaps he had gone somewhere, or for a run.

But he wouldn’t have dared leave her alone. Not

when she was this sick.

Only she didn’t seem to be sick anymore.

“Mulder!” Scully wondered if she was having a

good hour or something, as impossible as it

seemed at this stage, and that everything would

come crashing back on her any minute. She

turned off the alarm, and slid her feet out of the

blankets and onto the floor. The PICC line was

still capped off, so she didn’t have to worry

about taking the IV stand along as she headed

towards the bedroom door.

But then there was movement, a shuffling noise,

and Mulder appeared in the doorway.

“Mulder, there you are! I’m Д

She stopped and blinked. The room was still

somewhat dim, so she wasn’t getting a clear look

at Mulder’s face, but she could hear that his

breathing was heavy and see that he was holding

onto the doorframe tightly. Had he gone for a run

after all?

As she turned on the bedside lamp, she asked,

“Mulder, are you all right?” at the same time as

the same question came from him. Only his

voice sounded very weak.

She blinked in the light and then finally got a

good look at him. He looked like hell. In fact, he

not only looked like, but sounded like . . . .

Herself, just yesterday.

“Mulder, what’s wrong?”

He ignored her question, but did not move

forward from his grip on the doorframe. “Are you

all right . . . Scully?” he repeated.

“I’m fine. Honestly, I feel fine. Like I’m not sick

anymore.” She saw him close his eyes, in

exhaustion and Ð

Relief?

Then realization rooted her temporarily to the

spot. She had somehow been cured, but at a cost.

“Mulder, what did you do?”

“What makes you think . . . it was me? Your

chip probably came . . . to the fore again.” He

was getting breathless already, just saying those

few sentences.

“No. I know you’re lying. Not only that, but

you’re looking and sounding like I was.” Her

tone brooked no argument, and it also contained

traces of fear. She moved towards him, seeing

the effort it was taking for him to stay on his

feet, and then he stumbled forward. Between

them, they managed to get him to sit on the bed

without him falling along the way.

She reached for the nasal cannula, intending to

put it on him. “What have you done?” she asked.

“What I promised you I’d do.” He paused for

breath. “What you would . . . have done for me.”

“Whatever it took . . . . Mulder, you didn’t make

any deals, did you?”

“I swear to you, no deals were made . . . . I just

found a way to cure you . . . and against all

odds, it worked. I have to admit, I’m just as

surprised . . . as you are.”

She had finished positioning the cannula and he

took a few deep breaths as she was opening her

mouth to instruct him to do just that, quickly

getting some oxygen into himself. She stared at

him. “But you’ve got the illness. Somehow,

you’ve got it now.”

“Yeah. I think so . . . . Have to run tests for sure

though.”

“And that’s a cure? You having it instead of me?

Making me feel better in one way, but horrible in

another!” She was nearly yelling at him now,

even though she could see the pain and hurt in

his eyes.

Then a ghost of an ironic smile flitted across his

pale face. “You’re welcome.”

Trying to hold back her fear and questions,

Scully headed for the nearest phone.

END ACT TWO

xXx

ACT THREE:

Tests confirmed it. Scully miraculously no

longer had aplastic anemia. But Mulder was

suffering from it, severely enough to be

hospitalized.

Scully sat by her partner’s side, in protective

gear, including a mask. Her PICC line had been

removed. She was an internal mess of emotions

at the moment. Anger at him for doing this

clashed with her gratitude and love, fear that she

was going to lose him was nearly smothering

her, and a burning desire for answers and for his

cure spearheaded through them all.

She felt awful pressing her partner with questions

while he was lying sick, oxygen mask firmly in

place, but this had to be done. For him. For

them.

For what seemed to be the thousandth time, she

asked him, “How did you do it, Mulder?” When

he shook his head, she snapped, “I have the right

to know! Look, if you’ve found a way to swap

this illness from me to you, then surely there

must be a way to -”

“No. Irreversible.”

“That’s not true. Otherwise you wouldn’t be

guarding the method so fiercely,” she pointed

out.

“Maybe I want to patent it . . . and make a

fortune,” he shot back. “Scully, we still have

other options. The Gunmen are . . . looking into

them.”

“Healing aliens?”

“And hollow earth,” Mulder said, referring to a

race of highly evolved and enlightened

humanoids they had encountered twice two years

ago in a National Park in California. Those

beings, the Agarthans, lived deep underground,

and were able to easily heal Mulder’s injured leg

and a case of progressive amnesia that baffled

human doctors.

“Lathos said we wouldn’t be able to contact them

again for a while,” Scully pointed out. He was

the Agarthan who had taken them to his city.

“A while may be up. It was something . . . I was

considering when you were first diagnosed, but

at the time we thought . . . the other treatments

would work or a donor would be found. . . . .

Then by the time those things . . . didn’t pan

out, you were too sick . . . to make the trip.”

“And so are you.”

“Byers is willing to go to the campsite . . . and

see if Lathos turns up. Or you could go. Or who

knows Ð Cancerman might even . . . decide to

intervene with some of his . . . alien

technology.”

Because he thought that Mulder was his son?

“You’re taking a hell of a gamble.”

“That’s me. And you’re worth it. I just couldn’t

stand to see you . . . in a hospital again, Scully.”

“I know. But here I am, in a hospital again, and I

can’t stand it, even though I’m not the one in the

bed.” Well, her heart was.

“There are also . . . experimental treatments.

Could try . . . one,” Mulder said. Scully and her

doctor had considered several of these, but ruled

them out for her on various reasons. But now

that the aplastic anemia was in Mulder, perhaps

those reasons no longer applied.

But he was deteriorating so quickly Ð there

probably wasn’t time to try.

Mulder must have done his best to cover his

tracks to the secret of the trade, but there had to

be some traces left, some clues. And she was an

experienced investigator too, with contacts of her

own.

And even if she didn’t find out what he had

done, she might be able to find another way to

save him instead.

xXx

Several days later:

Scully stared despondently at the wall in

Mulder’s hospital room, unsuccessful thus far at

finding out the secret cure. Or ‘swap’.

The Gunmen and Chuck all swore that they had

no idea how Mulder had done it. And that they

weren’t lying to protect her.

She had considered going to see if she could

summon Lathos, but Mulder had come down

with a serious infection, and she was scared to

leave him for too long. Especially when she had

no idea how long it would take for Lathos to

appear, or one of the others, if at all. So Byers

was about to make the trip instead, fully briefed

by Scully on all they knew.

Skinner had also promised her he would do

anything he could to help.

“Mulder, there was still a chance that they would

find a donor who was compatible with me,”

Scully said to her partner.

“Well, they hadn’t . . . so far. Time was running

out . . . for you.”

“And now you’ve got an infection, a very serious

one, that there is a good chance I wouldn’t have

even gotten.”

Time was running out quicker for Mulder. There

was no donor match for him so far, but even if

they did find a match, there was the danger that

he was already too weak and unstable to have a

transplant, or that it would most likely fail. It

was a rough procedure and even patients without

infections could have a bad reaction. Trying to

control the infection was the doctors’ priority at

the moment.

Inwardly he was cursing the infection, while also

being glad that Scully had been spared it. But it

was stripping him of time he couldn’t afford to

lose and hadn’t counted on losing. As Deep

Throat had warned, he was a shark that was now

no longer swimming.

“And if you won’t tell me what you did, what

this cure is, then isn’t that preventing other

people from being able to use it too?” Scully

asked.

He didn’t answer.

xXx

Scully’s apartment:

Now Scully was the one sitting at a desk, poring

over all the things that Chuck said he had loaned

Mulder. Unless of course Mulder had removed

anything relevant Ð Chuck had such a large

collection that it was hard for him to keep up

with it.

After going through Mulder’s computer files

herself, she had given his computer to the

Gunmen with orders to see if there was any

deleted information they could retrieve that could

be of some help. Her computer. His office

computer. She was using another, borrowed,

laptop when needed.

The phone records from Mulder’s cellular,

Scully’s home phone and the office phone

yielded no clues. She even got her own cellular

records checked. The bastard had probably used a

payphone somewhere, if he had needed to contact

anyone about this. His credit card transactions

also gave no indications.

Amongst Mulder’s paperwork, there were a lot of

trails that led to dead ends, because her partner

had been chasing down so many paths in trying

to find a cure for her.

Scully believed that Mulder had kept records of

what he had done and placed them somewhere for

her to find, but not to come to light until there

was no longer any possibility of her reversing

whatever he had done. Because, like she had said

to him, otherwise he would be preventing other

people from being helped in the same way.

So she used her FBI credentials and her rights as

his Power of Attorney to do some digging. His

safety deposit boxes gave no answers, though she

did have searches ongoing just in case Mulder

had more out there she didn’t know about or

under a false name like George Hale. And she

had contacted his lawyers to see if they were

holding anything Ð she was waiting for the

Rhode Island lawyer to get back to her.

Scully sighed. She had the feeling that whatever

method Mulder had used, there had not been

much time in-between him discovering it and

then implementing it. So that meant not much

time to cover his tracks. She had hoped that in

his haste he would have forgotten something.

And it also meant that the answers were likely to

be somewhere in either their basement office or

her apartment. So far her searching had not led

anywhere Ð even in just those two places, there

was a lot of ground to cover and a lot of time

needed to do it thoroughly.

She checked her watch, intending to head back to

the hospital in another hour. Mulder’s infection

was getting worse, and his temperature was up.

Despondent, she swivelled in the desk chair,

looking around her living room, trying to work

out where to check next.

If she were Mulder, where would she have put

the answers? They would be in a place that he

knew she would eventually look, but in

something that she would be too distracted to be

using, or needing something from, at such a

hectic, frantic time.

A possible answer came to her with a jolt,

without her eyes even having to land on it first.

His photo album. He would have gambled that

scanning his baby pictures was hardly a priority

at the moment.

Scully hurried over to the shelf where the album

had been put for safekeeping. As she pulled it

out, it felt thicker than she remembered. Sure

enough, a paranormal magazine was tucked

inside the front cover, as well as various pages.

Heart thudding, Scully sat down to read their

contents.

xXx

Scully had finished reading the hidden secrets of

the album. This trading ability sounded

fantastical, but . . . it was also the only answer

that explained her recovery and Mulder’s

condition.

Potentially, it might be reversible. There were no

instances of anyone who had tried it, but that

could be because most of the cases sent to Corin

Harper involved a parent and child, with the

child unaware of what had happened until too

late. Or the disease was ‘generic’ enough for its

remission in one person and occurrence in the

other to be seen as just a horrible coincidence.

“A near death experience is the key . . . .” Scully

mused out loud. Her qualifying on that score was

not a problem. No wonder Mulder had been so

guarded about what he’d done.

She found herself wondering if she would also

get Mulder’s infection when she transferred the

aplastic anemia back. But that really didn’t

matter. She fingered one of the pages that had

been in the album: a handwritten letter from

Mulder to her, that he had expected her to read

after his death. It had brought her to tears, and to

even fiercer determination.

All of the emotions he felt for her, that made

him take this illness onto himself, she felt just

as strongly towards him. She couldn’t let him

die.

It was time to take back what was hers.

xXx

Scully entered Mulder’s hospital room. It was

very late at night Ð luckily the medical staff were

all extremely well acquainted with this particular

FBI couple.

Mulder was asleep, sedated. His fever was down,

but it was only a matter of time before it rose

again. The infection was gaining ground, despite

what they threw at it. IV antibiotic treatments

were buying some time and temporary respites,

but that was all.

Scully sat with him, waiting for the next nurse’s

check. Finally someone showed up and went

about their duties. After the nurse left, Scully

knew how long it would be until the next one,

how long she should have before she would be

disturbed.

She had to try this now. Hopefully he was

sedated enough, or at least deeply asleep enough

not to wake up and realize what she was doing.

But if this did work, what would be the affect on

the monitoring equipment? If it started going off

halfway through the trade . . . .

Scully considered whether to lock or bar the

door. But that gave rise to danger if something

went wrong and no one could get in. Perhaps she

should call one of the Gunmen to come and stay

at the door, but then she would have to wait for

another shift and there was no guarantee that he’d

be allowed into Mulder’s ICU room when there

was already one visitor.

Damn!

She decided to try the trade now and looked

around. The curtains of all the windows were

closed, including the ones in the walls that ran

along the corridor. Good.

Quietly Scully stood up. She turned and moved

the recliner chair out of the way, then came back

to stand beside Mulder’s bed. She stared at him,

concentrating not on him, but on the illness,

picturing it as a black cloud in Mulder’s body.

She felt rather self-conscious and somewhat silly,

but forced those feelings aside. If this was what

it took, then so be it. Mentally she imagined

lifting the cloud up and out.

Nothing.

She tried again. Still nothing.

Scully felt panic creeping in. Had she been led

on a wild goose chase? Or was her own

skepticism getting in the way of this working?

There were more than enough brushes with death

on her record Ð including her own bout of this

aplastic anemia Ð to make this work.

She looked at Mulder’s pale, sleeping face, or

what she could see of it around and through the

oxygen mask, and her determination tripled.

And this time when she pictured the illness, the

invader in his body, she could *feel* her mind

brush against it. The heaviness and dread of it.

She took hold of it in her mind. Heat.

Malevolence. Hunger.

She swallowed and steeled herself. Remember

me?

Scully pulled at it with all her willpower. She

felt it resist. The infection was well-settled and

spread and did not want to leave. But Scully

could be and was a most determined woman.

A dark cloud lifted out of Mulder and hovered

just above his body.

Scully sucked in a surprised breath through her

mask, and just like Mulder had, almost let go of

the cloud upon seeing it for real.

It *was* real.

But more importantly, this was working.

Scully tried to lean over, to get as close to the

cloud as possible. But it was like her body was

locked in position Ð already caught up in the

battle to prevent the cloud from going back into

her partner. So she tried to bring the cloud over

to her with her mind.

Slowly, ever so slowly, it began to move

towards her.

Fear sent her heart racing even more. The notes

had been right; she couldn’t get the cloud to

move left or right, or away from them both. It

needed a body, and it was determined to have the

nearest one.

There was not much distance between her and

Mulder, relatively speaking, but it seemed like a

chasm. Scully’s head was aching, and the cloud

was halfway to her now. A little more and the

‘gravity of her orbit’ would pull it in.

A part of her realized that she was crying. In

resignation, relief . . . .

She felt the cloud coming Ð

“No!” came a hoarse, horrified voice from the

bed.

Mulder’s eyes were open, staring at the cloud, at

her.

The black mass halted abruptly. Scully could feel

Mulder’s will come into play, as surely as if he

was grabbing hold of the cloud with a mental

hand.

“Mulder, don’t!”

“Scully!” His eyes were wide and wild, holding

off sleep and sedatives somehow. His face was

straining and his body was taut. She could tell

he was desperately trying to move, but like her,

his body was locked. Only their minds had any

sway in this battle.

And their minds were an even match. Scully

hoped that the sedatives and weakness would

have some effect on Mulder, allowing her to take

the cloud. Though now that the cloud was out of

his body, those things could well be too. The

darkness was suspended between them, straining

as they both exerted their wills on it.

A bizarre tug of war, with only one ‘winner’.

“Mulder, please!” She almost found herself about

to yell, ‘It’s mine!’ like a child in a playground.

But her desperate plea to him had just as much

emotion in it.

The cloud moved closer towards her.

“No!” Mulder concentrated, and the cloud halted,

like a dog reaching the end of its leash.

Stupid, stubborn man! And now that the illness

was out of him, he was making the most of his

renewed energy in trying to reclaim it.

She could feel him trying to pull it back.

And suddenly she realized that something was

happening to the cloud.

It was starting to churn. Flashes of electricity or

energy appeared and disappeared in it.

Her distraction allowed Mulder to move the

cloud closer towards him. Scully quickly

stopped that in its tracks.

Her head felt like it was going to split in two,

but she had to keep this up. She tried to tell

Mulder with her eyes to please let go, that she

couldn’t bear to see him go through this.

But his eyes were telling her exactly the same.

“Scully,” Mulder managed to get out, past his

straining and the oxygen mask. “See if we can

move it away. . . Both of us together . . . might

be able to . . .”

Two together might be able to do what one could

not. It was worth a try, though she was at a loss

as to how they were going to be able to get rid of

it. “Okay, to my left!” she ordered.

But although they concentrated fiercely, the

cloud would not bend to their wills in that way.

It was writhing in earnest now, little internal

lightning bolts darting across its surface and in

its murky depths.

Oh God, someone would surely notice this and

come in . . . .

“Mulder, please let me Д

She stopped her plea when she saw something

pass through Mulder’s eyes. She had seen that

look often enough Ð during the times he was

making one of those spooky leaps of logic.

“Keep it there! Keep it between us!” he cried out.

The cloud was roiling as if in a rage. The

lightning had increased.

Then suddenly there was a flash of light and a

bang. Something hit Scully with such force that

she was knocked off her feet. She found herself

lying against the wall, dazed.

Mulder. She scrambled up, having to fight

briefly with the recliner chair that was now lying

on its side. Her mask was dangling around her

neck, and the lights were blinking on and off but

so rapidly she could still see. Alarms were going

off on equipment. As soon as she stood up, she

saw Mulder.

He was still in the bed, but struggling into a

sitting position and pulling off the oxygen mask

and reaching out for her. If he wasn’t tethered by

the catheter and other tubes and leads, she knew

he would have been out of that bed like a shot.

Though a few of the leads and monitoring wires

were hanging off or askew. The protests coming

from the equipment seemed to be more from

whatever had just happened with the power and

Mulder losing some of the leads than him being

at death’s door.

She went to him. “Are you all right?” they asked

each other simultaneously. Scully didn’t even

notice the bedrails pressing against her as she

managed to embrace her partner. The lights

stopped blinking as they held each other.

Scully could hear that med staff were trying to

get in the door. The recliner chair was in the

way, jammed on an angle that was making

things difficult.

Her heart was pounding, and she could feel

Mulder’s was too. “Which one of us did it go

into?” she asked, looking up at him, more

worried about that than letting the med staff in,

for the moment. “I felt something hit me. It

must have been the cloud going back in.” She

felt sore, but that could have been from being

knocked down. And here was Mulder, holding

her tightly, with no sign of frailty or fever or the

need for oxygen.

But she didn’t feel sick either. Unless a trade

took several minutes at least to ‘settle’ into a

new body . . . .

“I felt something hit me too,” Mulder said, still

holding her. “But I think we’re okay. I’ll tell you

my theory in a minute, but first you’d better

open that door before they smash a window or

get a battering ram. Coming!” he called out,

reluctantly letting go of her.

END ACT THREE

xXx

ACT FOUR:

A few days later:

“Capable Carpentry, Corin speaking.”

“Mr Harper, this is Agent Fox Mulder.”

“Hi! You’ve got good timing. I was going to

contact you today Ð I just received another letter

and was going to send you a copy.”

“That would be great, thank you. I might be able

to collect it in person if I can come and see you

sometime soon, because I’m actually phoning to

give you some news I’m sure will interest you

very much . . . .” And so Mulder started to

explain that his work as a paranormal

investigator hadn’t been the only reason he had

gone to see Corin in the first place.

xXx

The next day, Mulder and Scully were sitting in

Corin Harper’s living room.

“Our bloodwork is clear,” Scully told Corin.

“Neither of us have aplastic anemia anymore.

And Mulder’s infection has completely gone.”

The carpenter looked happy and amazed in equal

parts. Mulder had told him over the phone, but

actually seeing for himself was another thing

entirely. “And you think it was because you were

able to keep the cloud suspended between you?”

Mulder took up the explanation. “It all came

down to physics and our tug of war over the

cloud. It had converted into a mass of energy to

exit the body, and couldn’t remain in that state

indefinitely. It either had to be in a body, or it

had to discharge. And fortunately Scully and I

were able to keep it outside of its natural

environment for long enough that it was forced

to discharge. In a ‘normal’ trade, there is only

one person battling the mass and they only have

limited control over it, but for two people it is

possible to hold the cloud in place and force its

hand.”

“Talk about a lucky metamorphosis!” Corin

commented.

“Very. Though it certainly took a lot of energy

and strain on our parts. From what we can tell, it

converted into a bit of a shockwave Ð flash of

light, a bang, a rush of air strong enough to

knock Scully back and pin me to the bed for a

moment. Fortunately no actual explosion to

speak of, no electric discharge, or not much of

one, otherwise the room probably would have

been incinerated or there could have been a nasty

reaction with the oxygen supply I was on at the

time. And even though we were both hit by the

‘wind’, the cloud was now in a different state and

harmless as was. So, no illness.”

“We beat the trade,” Scully said, still with some

disbelief amongst her relief. “We found a way.”

Yes, Mulder thought. Because we’re two people

who are so completely stubborn when it comes

to each other’s wellbeing. If this outcome hadn’t

happened, he could only imagine the two of

them continually trying to ‘steal back’ the illness

from each other, if possible, until the aplastic

anemia reached a point where it killed whichever

one of them it was in at the time. Other just as

awful scenarios also came to mind. He tried to

conceal a shudder of horror.

Corin was ecstatic. “What a loophole. I’ve got to

put this in my follow-up in the magazine! This

makes me determined to do one now, because

this is the ultimate case! Other people can be

saved.” Then his smile dimmed. “Though if only

I’d known this back when my mother saved me .

. . . She could still be alive today.”

“You were eleven years old and very sick,

Corin,” Scully pointed out gently. “You had no

way of knowing.”

He sighed and nodded, still looking regretful.

They sipped at their drinks. The agents were still

feeling sore from the bone marrow biopsies done

on them to make sure they were cured, but that

was nothing compared to what they had just been

through. And due to the bizarre nature of their

recoveries, the tests and results had been rushed

through a lot quicker than normal.

Corin had a thoughtful look on his face. “I have

a feeling that the two of you won’t be able to do

it again,” he remarked after a pause.

“I’m just glad it worked this time!” Mulder said

with feeling. “But what makes you think that? If

it was a case of ‘once swapped, no refunds’, then

Scully wouldn’t have been able to pull the cloud

back out of me.”

Corin elaborated. “Mulder, you told me a bit

about some of your near death-experiences.”

The agent nodded. When Mulder had phoned

Corin with the good news, the carpenter had

wanted more information about their own close

calls, to see if it all matched in with the ‘rules’

as he knew them so far about the trade. Corin

had provided them with so much help and

information that it was only fair they did the

same for him.

“You said that in one of your near-death

experiences, you could remember something

about being on a bridge that spanned two worlds

Ð which would be the real world and the spiritual

world. Those that have had near-death

experiences probably retain some residual access

to that bridge, that connection, even

subconsciously, to be able to do the trade. But

due to what transpired, I think you may have

sealed that connection off. For now, anyway. I

guess we’ll have to see, as it is a rather unique

case.”

“Yes, we specialize in those,” Scully said with a

grin.

Mulder laughed, then said, “Corin, please keep

us updated about any other instances you find of

this phenomenon.”

“I’ll be glad to.”

Eventually it was time to go. Mulder shook

Corin’s hand. “Thanks to your letter, you saved

us both.”

“My mother deserves the credit,” came the

wistful reply. “Now, before you go, come out the

back.”

When they entered Corin’s workshop, Mulder

was pulled away from admiring the objects and

items by Corin saying, “Agent Scully phoned

yesterday, without you knowing. She had a

request for me, one that I was happy to fulfil.

Something she wanted to get for you.”

He led them to the back of the workshop,

laughing at the quizzical look that Mulder gave

Scully. She just smiled mysteriously in

response.

“What do you think?”

Mulder stared. Corin was pointing at a beautiful

wood cabinet, one that was holding an empty

forty gallon fishtank. The tank fitted perfectly,

and the cabinet was designed with room for the

tubes and wires, plus storage space underneath

for all the necessary paraphernalia and more.

“Hand rubbed walnut,” Corin supplied with

pride.

“And hand carved,” Scully said, admiring the

intricate borders and patterns.

“You couldn’t have gotten this ready so

quickly,” Mulder said, a little stunned.

Corin answered, “I didn’t. It was one of several

I’d already made. And this one matches the type

and measurements that Agent Scully wanted.”

“Better than I ever imagined. If you want it,

Mulder, we can get it delivered to my

apartment.”

Mulder said honestly, “I love it. It makes metal

stands seem obsolete. But where are we going to

put it in your apartment while I’m looking for

another place?”

“We’ll find room. I wanted to get you some fish,

and it will be nice to have them around.

Especially in this marine Hilton!”

Mulder laughed and nodded. “Thanks, Corin.

You’ve made a sale. And when I’m looking for

other furniture, I know where to call.”

“Excellent!”

Scully insisted on buying the cabinet for Mulder

as a gift. They decided to get a tank in D.C.,

then made delivery arrangements with Corin, and

said goodbye.

As they pulled away from his house, Scully said

to her partner, “Let’s go back to D.C. and pick

out some fish and a tank with all the

trimmings.”

“After we go back to your apartment and I show

you my gratitude,” he said with a smouldering

look.

“Deal. And from now on, the only trades we’re

doing involve matters like housework or food.”

“Agreed.” He also knew that he wouldn’t be

looking up what apartments were available for

rent, not just yet anyway.

THE END.

MEDICAL NOTES: A lot of the medical

information on aplastic anemia I got from the

MEdIC Aplastic Anemia Answer book on the

internet, and from friends with medical

backgrounds. Beta opinion varied on medical

aspects like the lengths of treatment times, speed

of scheduling for tests and when results would be

available, etc, so I have gone with the times and

scenarios that best serve the plot. Any mistakes

are my own.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: The idea for this story has

been bubbling in my head for years, originally

conceived for a planned fourth season alternate

universe fic as a way that Mulder cures Scully of

her cancer. Influence probably came from a fanfic

I remember reading in around 1996, which I

think was called “Driver”, where Scully becomes

blind. With the help of a woman’s mysterious

powers, Mulder takes her blindness instead.

And the show itself has done some episodes

along similar themes, like ‘Tithonus’ and a

season eight episode, the name of which escapes

me. So it was fun to try to find another angle.

Title: Moa a Moana

Author: Martin Ross

Type: Casefile

Rating: R for adult language and innuendo

Synopsis: When a genetically engineered

“supertuna” may be on a killing spree in

paradise, Mulder and Scully must net a cold-

blooded killer, human or finned

Spoilers: Host, El Mundo Giro; The Practice —

Season Seven

Disclaimer: The X-Files is the property of 10-13

Productions, Chris Carter, and Fox. Rebecca

Washington is the legal creation of David E.

Kelley

Lahaina, Maui

11:08 p.m.

Heart no longer racing, breath slowing to a

normal rhythm, Peter Crowther stared out over

the darkness of the Pacific, broken only by the

white froth of the breakers. Under a starless,

moonless sky like tonight’s, water and air

merged into a uniform black void that stretched

to the horizon. It was a source of calm for

Crowther.

In his years with The Company, it had been

Peter Crowther’s job to penetrate the darkness,

the veil of secrecy others had built around him,

and to create a new darkness — an impenetrable

veil to hide what the world, including his

fellow Americans, could not be permitted to see.

Within that cloak of darkness dwelt

monsters, Crowther included. The destruction of

governments and economies, the deaths of men

evil and noble alike, had been sanctioned and

executed under cover of that veil. Crowther had

trafficked with the darkest abominations the

species had produced, from diplomats with

unspeakable appetites and urges and assassins

with dead souls and depthless eyes to that

smarmy, chain-smoking horror to whom Crowther

had briefly answered, the one who hinted at some

role in the events in Dallas back in ’63, in

Memphis in ’68.

That was in the past now, thanks to a new

veil Crowther had woven of secrets and threats.

They would leave him alone here in Paradise: He

was viewed as a burnout case, an old, apathetic

man with too many secrets to risk erasing.

Crowther would live out his last two or three

decades on Maui, unmolested, just him and his

demons.

Those demons — who arrived in the night

with heart palpitations and distorted half-

memories — had spurred him to his newest,

potentially most significant “mission.” The one

that might bring him a measure of absolution, or

at least solace. Certainly, he could never leave

the world better off than it had been before he

and his colleagues had tinkered and meddled with

it. But he could mitigate some of the damage

others had done, if he could deal with this new

crew of undisciplined, emotional “civilians.”

Crowther continued to fume over his encounter

with the bush leaguer who’d left minutes

earlier.

Crowther stared again into the darkness —

a darkness with secrets no man could ever

inveigle or obfuscate. He sighed and pulled off

his robe.

The water was cool, bracing but not

forbidding. Crowther liked to think his

ritualistic nightly swim was a sort of

incremental baptism of sorts, gradually washing

away the film of sin and degradation that had

clogged his life. He’d even thought of joining a

church here, but decided ultimately that that

would be reformatory overkill.

Even strokes, rhythmic kicks — Crowther’s

regimental discipline kicked in even in such

recreational pursuits. Then, something brushed

his leg. He paused, but did not panic: The

storms had come only a few days earlier, and

debris both natural and manmade continued to

float between the islands and out to sea.

The object collided again with his

muscular thigh, and he pushed away. The

mainlanders’ superstitions and prejudices aside,

shark attacks were an infrequent occurrence here

on Maui, especially this close into shore.

Probably a large fish, maybe a sea turtle.

Crowther’s speculation was interrupted by

a nearby thrashing and the sensation of knives

rending the flesh of his calf. He’d been shot

twice, stabbed once, while with The Company, and

this wasn’t like that. This was like…

The bastards, he thought, as teeth tore

into his abdomen.

J. Edgar Hoover Building

Washington, D.C.

8:32 a.m.

Dana Scully stared into the flat,

emotionless eye of the big fish.

“Thunnus albacares,” Mulder explained,

caressing the remote for his beloved, if

antiquarian, slide projector. “AKA, the

Yellowfin Tuna. AKA, El Pollo de la Mar. The

legendary chicken of the sea, known associates

mayonnaise, a dash of dill, and a couple slices

white or rye.”

Mulder pulled the trigger, and a second

yellowfin gaped out at Special Agent Scully.

“Dolly the cloned yellowfin,” he identified.

Scully, who had been forced by Mulder’s

lackadaisical bathroom regimen to skip her

morning half-caff Grande, turned with an

unspoken sigh.

“OK, just kidding,” Mulder confessed. “But

not exactly. This is Event T-12, one of seven

genetically engineered yellowfin tuna being

studied at Pescorp’s Maui R&D facilities. As I’m

sure you must know,” — Scully crossed her arms

at Mulder’s genial sarcasm — “animal biotech

research follows strict USDA, EPA, and FDA

regulations. Well, we have reason to believe one

of our T-12s is missing, and our finned friend’s

suspected disappearance has spurred concerns

about a potential environmental release.”

“Suspected disappearance?” The brow arched

as Scully rallied.

“Six nights ago, one of Pescorp’s security

guards called in a break-in at the research

facility. The Maui County Police Department

investigated and found one of the perimeter

surveillance cameras had been expertly disabled

and the key card scanner at the yellowfin lab

tampered with. Then Pescorp quickly got the

investigation shut down, reporting nothing had

been stolen — no harm, no fish nor fowl. MCPD

checked all the T-12 tanks before the company

execs slammed the door on them, and all tuna

were accounted for.”

“Animal rightists or industrial espionage?”

Scully demanded with decaffeinated directness.

“It looks like the former, given the

physical evidence left at the scene,” Mulder

offered. “Aquacultural biotechnology has been a

sore spot for several environmental and consumer

groups, and the controversy’s been exacerbated

by initial research focusing on salmon species

that spawn in the Pacific Northwest, in the

heart of Greenpeace Acres. If you could see this

photo in full context, and you knew how big a

yellowfin tuna grows, you’d see that T-12 — The

Tunanator (Scully pointedly ignored the

Schwarzennegarian pun) — is roughly half the

size of his conventionally produced counterpart.

Pescorp hopes this new biotech fish will help

meet America’s growing demand for sushi and hip-

and-happening Asian-fusion entrees.”

“So the green guys were thwarted and the

U.S. made safe for jumbo tuna,” Scully murmured.

“Where’s the X-File? Hell, where’s the case?”

“Ah ha,” Mulder proclaimed, clicking up a

new slide. A palm-lined streambank was littered

with bloody fish corpses. The agent clicked

again, and Scully witnessed a similar scene in

what appeared to be a rocky marine cove. “Two

fishkills, reported by the U.S. Fish and

Wildlife Services four and three days ago,

respectively.”

Scully looked skeptically at her partner.

“Are you suggesting a yellowfin tuna did this?

That this biotech fish was released into the

wild, and this was the result? First of all,

Mulder, that first slide would appear to be a

freshwater stream, and a marine species like the

yellowfin wouldn’t survive for an hour in that

environment.”

“Unless,” Mulder suggested in a Holmesian

tone that never failed to annoy Scully, “Pescorp

intentionally or accidentally incorporated

genetic material that would allow this animal to

live in either environment. Imagine the

commercial advantages of being able to raise a

commercial marine species in a freshwater pond

or tank. It would cut production costs

significantly.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Mulder,” she

protested. “And even if it did, we’d be looking

at a novel genetic trait neither EPA nor FDA

would ever approve. And with the public outcry

over cloning and genetic engineering in animal

species, I’m not sure you’d get consumers to by

such a ‘new’ tuna. From a biological standpoint,

although I’m no ichthyologist, I don’t remember

the yellowfin being an aggressive predator

species.”

“Perhaps in tampering with yellowfin growth

factors, they somehow triggered some new level

of fish ‘testerone’ release. We can speculate

all day, Scully, but the investigating wildlife

biologist at the scene swears the dental marks

found on the mutilated fish are clearly

identifiable as a yellowfin’s. The regulatory

guys suspect Pescorp may be covering up an

actual T-12 theft, and just wants to avoid the

publicity. The company’s erected a solid wall of

lawyer pinstripe, and the agencies have had to

go to court to get a warrant to get into the

labs.”

“So where do we come in?” she asked, tired

of sparring. “Missing Perches?”

Mulder grinned. “See? The fun’s contagious.

No, the FBI was called in two nights ago.” He

clicked the remote, and the modified yellowfin

was replaced by a man, bloodied and mauled but

clearly older, tanned, and tall. “Meet Peter

Crowthers, Maui. A retiree who moved from the

mainland five years ago. A beachcomber, wino,

whatever, found him in the surf behind his

beachfront condo 20 miles north of Lahaina. His

jugular and femoral arteries were punctured, and

again, the local pathologist ID’ed the dental

marks as being consistent with those made by a

yellowfin.”

“This is like a bad ’50s horror film,”

Scully complained. “So we’re supposed to

investigate a serial fish killing and a man who

very likely was mauled by a shark or other

predatory species brought into the wrong cove by

some oceanic storm.”

Mulder turned the projector off and brought

up the office lights. “There’s one other thing

the director didn’t bother to tell Skinner or

us. I thought Crowther’s name was familiar, and

I asked Frohike to run it through his shadow

files. Peter Crowther’s gold watch has ‘CIA’

etched on the back of it.”

Scully was silent for a moment.

“Coincidence.”

“Even so,” Mulder began, slyly, “the

powers-that-be seem to feel our country needs

us. In Maui. Land of white beaches, potent tiki

drinks, and erotic sunsets. I don’t know about

you, but if Uncle Sam demands I leave my cozy

Washington home in the midst of the iciest

February on record to investigate a threat to

domestic security in a Hawaiian paradise, well,

I suck it up and do my duty.”

Scully’s frown relaxed, and her eyes began

to glaze. She shrugged with a suddenly sunny

smile. “I suppose you may be right, Mulder. The

bastards.”

Kahalui Airport

Kahalui, Maui

11:28 p.m.

“Agents Mulder and Scully? Aloha, and

welcome to the island.”

Scully looked up blearily as she wrestled

her carry-on into the gate area. The shoulder

strap had snapped when some overweight

Midwesterner had jerked his tote bag from the

overhead on the bumpy Washington-to-L.A. leg. A

liberated Mulder had not offered to assist her,

and the walk to the LAX terminal had been a

death march which had ended in a two-hour flight

delay.

“Aloha,” Mulder greeted, refreshed by the

near-coma into which he had fallen during his

trans-Pacific flight.

The man before them was probably 50, stocky

with thick gray hair and genial wrinkles framing

his rich brown Hawaiian eyes. “Jim Kamehana, Lt.

Jim Kamehana, Maui County CID. You folks are a

little late — hope the flight wasn’t too much

of an ordeal.”

“Milk run,” Mulder assured him. Kamehana

gently appropriated Scully’s carry-on.

“Baggage’s this way. I appreciate you two coming

out. I can use a little help on this one.”

“That’s a refreshing attitude,” Scully

said. “Sometimes, local law enforcement’s not to

thrilled when the Bureau’s called in.”

“Ah,” Kamehana shrugged. “I think you’ll

find the department pretty cooperative. It’s

that way on the island — when you’re fortunate

enough to live 2,000-some miles away from the

rat race, in the cradle of paradise, all that

competitive mainland crap seems kinda

ridiculous. Domestic disturbances, DUIs, and

cocky teenagers aside, I figure I’m already

living the dream, you know? E komo mai — c’mon,

let’s get your bags.”

“Any leads on the Crowther case?” Mulder

inquired.

“Not sure yet there is a case — not for

homicide, anyway,” Kamehana reported. “Though it

don’t make much sense, M.E.’s pretty sure it was

a yellowfin got Pete. Be pretty hard to fake

those kinda wounds.”

“Pete?” Scully asked, working her ravaged

right shoulder. “Did you know the victim?”

“Sure, we all knew Pete. He used to be some

kinda federal cop, though he always played that

one pretty close to the vest. I figured CIA or

NSA, either that or he just talked a good game.

See him at the local watering holes, he always

wanted to talk shop with the guys. Also had to

bust him a few times. Pete was a born-again

‘green.’ One of those haoles — foreigners, no

offense — who come to the island and start

thinking they were born here, that they’re gonna

save their island Eden singlehandedly. I don’t

mind ’em particularly, and I agree with a lot of

what the enviros say, but when they start

callin’ us storm-troopers and Nazis, they start

wearing out their welcome. At least Pete didn’t

preach — he’d show up at the protests, but when

the party was over, he’d put on the cuffs

peacefully and ask if we wanted to go for beers

later on.”

“Kind of a coincidence, an environmental

activist allegedly being attacked by a

genetically engineered fish,” Mulder said.

“How’d Crowther feel about Pescorp’s biotech

research?”

“Mostly, he was upset about the development

on the west side of the island, on the hillsides

where the sugar cane fields used to be, and

about the ‘biodiversity’ of the island. But you

get a few beers in him, he’d rant about

‘corporate engineering,’ us screwin’ with Mother

Nature, that sort of thing.”

“How do you feel about what Pescorp’s

doing?”

The lieutenant waggled his fist, pinky and

thumb extended, in a surfer’s gesture signaling

laid-back indifference, and steered his charges

toward the baggage carousels. “Hard times tend

to catch up to us a little slower out here, but

unemployment’s starting to creep up, and even

though the tourist trade’s important, the

average kama aina — local — doesn’t always

understand why he has to pay $6 for a cup of

Kona or a gallon of milk in town just cause to

soak some rich orthodontist from Ohio. I got a

kid at the U of H, biology major, and I don’t

buy into all this mad scientist stuff about

biotechnology. If Pescorp says it can make a few

more jobs on the island without belching black

smoke or pouring poison into the water, then far

as I’m concerned, they can grow all the three-

eyed Simpsons fish they want.”

“Did you investigate the break-in at the

Pescorp lab?” Scully asked, hobbling along on

her sensible but escalator-damaged pump.

“The big fish — pardon the pun — took the

case directly from the responding patrol team,

before the kahuna at Pescorp shut us down. What

I understand, though, smells a little like week-

old ahi — yellowfin. Kenny — the first uniform

at the scene — said the surveillance equipment

at the company had been acting up. Chuck —

Chuck Kinau, the guard on duty that night —

told him it was like some kind of TV

interference, like the signal was being jammed.

Wanted to check the lab tapes, but Pescorp

turned us down. Lucky thing Chuck didn’t get

canned — he’s got a big family and his folks to

look after.”

“You think the company’s covering

something?”

“We saw the fish — all seven of them, fat

and hau’oli, fat and happy. Ah here we are,

Hawaii Airlines.” The carousel already was laden

with suitcases, golf bags, and totes. Scully

began to reach for her garment bag, and Lt.

Kamehana reached in and swung it over a thick

shoulder.

“Thanks,” she said, nursing her shoulder.

“A’ole pilikia,” the cop responded, then

shook his head. “Sorry, I meant no problem. My

youngest’s in one of those Hawaiian immersion

classes, and I just can’t help myself.”

Peter Crowther residence

Lahaina, Maui

12:46 a.m.

“This couldn’t have waited ’til morning,

Mulder?” Scully groaned, kicking sand from her

good pump.

Mulder eyed the floodlit underbrush

surrounding the beach behind Crowther’s large

but aged cottage. When Kamehana had offered to

transport them directly to their beachfront

lodgings, Scully had been wearily grateful, but

Mulder was restless and wired. “C’mon, you’ve

said it before — the fresher the scene, the

closer the solution.”

“Mulder, there is no scene. The evidence —

at least, any evidence pertaining directly to

Crowther’s death — is all out there now,” she

waved into the inky waves of the Pacific. “What

do you hope to find?”

“Whatever I find.”

“Great. Lieutenant, you say there was a

witness?”

“Not an eyewitness, exactly,” Kamehana

amended, leaning on a nearby coconut palm.

“Name’s Bobby Jameson, old salt been here since

after the Big War. Lost his wife, then his house

to the booze, and these days, he sleeps his way

from park to golf course. Week or so ago, the

chamber started kickin’ about the homeless

scaring the tourists, and we had to roust Bobby

out. He probably started sacking out around the

private beaches. The locals, like Pete, knew he

was harmless.

“Anyway, we found Bobby, white as a sheet,

about a quarter-mile down the beach, oh, about

11:30 or so. He’d called in about the body

anonymously, from the Shell station up on 30,

but we recognized his voice, plus he tends to

use a lot of colorful adjectives in his speech,

you know what I mean. He thinks he may have

heard Crowther arguing with somebody, then

thrashing around out in the surf. When he came

out of the thicket over there, he saw the body

at water’s edge.”

“Patio’s pretty clean, Lieutenant,” Mulder

observed, peering inside Crowther’s house.

“Almost too clean. From the looks of the tile

inside, Crowther wasn’t the greatest housekeeper

in the world. Sand all over the place.”

“‘Ae, we spotted that,” Kamehana nodded.

“That’s what made us a little suspicious about

the death in the first place. Maybe Pete had a

visitor the night he died? But Doc’s pretty

certain about those bite marks on Pete’s body.”

“I’m a pathologist,” Scully informed the

cop. “You think I could examine the body? In the

morning?” She glared at Mulder.

“Sure. And you want me to round up Bobby,

too?”

Mulder turned, surprised. “Yeah, if you

can.”

“Oh, I can. I want you to hear his account

of things, in his words. Definitely in his

words.”

Mulder turned to an equally puzzled Scully

as Kamehana crunched back toward his car.

Ronald Gennari residence

Lahaina, Maui

12:32 a.m.

Ronald Gennari’s great-grandfather and

grandfather had been New England lobstermen, up

well ahead of the butt-crack of dawn and out on

the bay before the first hint of orange touched

the Atlantic sky. Theodore Gennari, his father,

had abandoned the sea for the perilous swells of

the business world in the 1950s, building a

taste in the Heartland first for frozen cod and

shrimp, then for fresh perch and blue crab, then

for mahi-mahi, Chilean sea bass, and other more

exotic fritti di mare. In the process, he built

a corporate empire that consistently ranked in

Fortune’s 50 and that rivaled Sara Lee, Tyson,

Philip Morris/Kraft, and the other titans of the

food industry.

But some things are bred in the bone and

etched irrevocably in the genetic code, and

Ronald Gennari (“If you knew sushi…: Pescorp’s

Neptune of the New Millennium reigns with market

savvy,” Newsweek, Dec. 18, 2002) remained prey

to the adaptive curse of his early-rising

forebears. Pescorp’s senior VP for Pacific

marketing and development survived on five

hours’ sleep a night, prowling his faux

plantation manse and consuming tireless hours of

satellite business news and sports. Gentry was

watching highlights of his hometown Celtics when

Carl Nahimi, his executive assistant, phoned in

on the line that opened exclusively into his

teak-lined home theatre.

“FBI’s on the island — cat-and-dog team,”

Carl reported. Gennari bit back on a pearl of

annoyance: Carl loved intrigue and was too fond

of crime movie jargon. “They went straight to

Crowther’s shack.”

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Gennari snapped. “I still

think that crazy bastard is behind it. Those

fucking hippies he hangs with probably fed him

to a shark.”

“He was an ex-spook, you know,” Carl noted.

“You think maybe the Company ordered some kind

of—”

“Christ, man, just get me some intelligence

on those feds, and indulge your fantasies on the

Internet, on your own fucking time.”

“Sure. How we coming with…you know, the…”

“Kee-rist! You think they’re tapping my

phone, now? We’re on schedule, as long as the

lawyers can keep those government vultures at

bay. You don’t worry about it, hear? You have

enough on your plate.”

“Yes, sir,” Carl murmured. “I’ll–”

Gennari broke the connection, turning back

to the 100-inch screen in time to see the Celts

give up a three-pointer.

“Bastard,” he grumbled, referring not to

the fumbling center on the satellite feed.

Maui County Police Department Lahaina Annex

Lahaina, Maui

9:05 p.m.

Mulder watched Bobby Jameson scarf a fourth

sausage Croissan’wich with mingled horror and

admiration.

“God anudda pepshi?” said the rail-thin old

man, who resembled nothing so much as Popeye on

a bad day. Lt. Kamehana patted him on the

shoulder and stepped out of the police interview

room.

“Mr. Jameson,” Mulder ventured as the

derelict’s Adam’s apple twitched with the last

morsel of ground pork and pastry. “You remember

the night the man died on the beach? The night

the big fish attacked him?”

“Patronizing and leading,” Scully murmured.

Mulder waved her off.

Jameson squinted up at the agent. “Yeah,

just cause I’m an old drunk don’t give you call

to talk down to me. ‘Big fish, my a–”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Effin’ straight.” Jameson sucked at his

sparse teeth and settled back into his folding

chair. “Wellll, the fucking Nazzies told me I

couldn’t sleep downtown with the nice tourist

folks, so I was campin’ by the feller’s house. I

was grabbin’ a little shuteye after supper — Mo

down to the Barbecue Shack gived me a whole pan

of burnt rib-tips the mainlanders wouldn’t

touch. Anyhow, all of a sudden, I hear these two

fellas yellin’ at each other to beat the band.

One was the guy what lived there, and the other

sounded like an islander. Kaui this, Kaui that.

Maybe that’s where the fella was from, like I

give a flyin’…”

“Pepsi on deck,” Kamehana sang. The old man

guzzled the soda.

“So Mr. Crowther and the other man were

arguing.”

“Yeah, I thought they was gonna mix it up a

little, so I tried to get up to where’s I could

see. But that’s when I saw the menehune.”

A uniform hanging in the doorway snorted.

Scully glanced up at Kamehana, who shrugged with

a slight smile.

“Mene–?” she asked.

“—hune,” Mulder finished, leaning forward

with interest. “Little people. The menehune are

like island fairies or gnomes, supposedly

supernatural beings. You saw one, Mr. Jameson?”

“Bet your pale haole ass,” Jameson said

proudly. “Was gawkin’ at me from behind a tree

about six or seven feet away. Scared the blue

lovin’ shit outta me, and I kinda lost track of

what the fellas up to the house was sayin’. Ugly

little fucker — I heard stories about them

menehune, and I didn’t want no truck with ’em.

But then, just when I was lookin’ for a stick to

bash his little fairy brains in, he runs off.

Second or two later, the fella, one that was

fightin’ with the guy owned the house, I hear

him rev up his car and spray gravel and shit all

over the place getting’ outta there. I was

afraid maybe he’d killed that other fella, but a

couple minutes later, that fella…”

“Crowther?” Mulder prompted.

“The fella what owned the house,” Jameson

snapped, wearying of interruption. “I hear the

patio door open and him traipsin’ out hummin’

and whistlin’, all cocky, like maybe he’d won

the argument with the other guy. Then I hear him

goin’ down the beach, I guess to take a swim.

That’s when I heard him screamin’ — guess it

was him, cause I was the onliest one else there.

He was catterwhaulin’ like a little girl with

her arm caught in an outboard motor. I’m

thinkin’ shark, but that don’t make no sense.

Then I’m wonderin’ if maybe the little menehune

bastard had got him, ‘cept I never heard a’ no

menehune knowin’ how to swim. I just got my ass

outta there quick like. Then I figured maybe I

oughtta call Jim and the fellers, let ’em know

maybe they should put out a shark or menehune

alert.”

Jameson guzzled more Pepsi, a thin thread

of cola meandering through the stubble on the

old salt’s chin.

“Mr. Jameson,” Scully began tactfully,

“You’ll have to pardon me for asking, but, ah,

the night that man was attacked, did you, were

you, um…”

“Crocked?” Mulder supplied. Scully slumped

back in her chair, and the uniform fled the

scene. Jameson’s can stopped in mid-arc, and the

old man’s eyes narrowed. Then Jameson grinned,

and he crooked a finger at the agent. Mulder

looked at him quizzically, then leaned in.

Jameson whispered into his ear at length,

finally leaning back with a single cackle.

Mulder had turned a lighter shade of beige as

Jameson talked, and he nodded soberly as he

regarded his partner and the Maui detective.

“Mr. Jameson is rather firm in his

conviction that he was not inebriated the night

of Crowther’s death,” he announced. “And thanks

for the advice, Mr. Jameson, although I’m fairly

certain I lack the agility to accomplish it.”

Maui County Police Department Morgue

10:16 a.m.

Scully pulled her latex glove free with a

sharp snap and tossed it into the biowaste bin

next to the steel exam table where Peter

Crowther’s corps lie. “I’d have to concur with

Dr. Pukui — Mr. Crowther seemingly died as a

result of an encounter with a fish.”

She sighed, and avoided eye contact with

Mulder. “A big fish. I identified at least 25

individual bite marks, the fatal wounds likely

being those to Mr. Crowther’s carotid artery.

While the bite pattern is consistent with

Thunnus albacares, Dr. Pukui assures me this

sort of…piscine vehemence…is wholly atypical of

the species, and the size of the wounds is

roughly twice the size of a large yellowfin

bite.”

“Tuna, ahoy!” Mulder crowed. Kamehana

frowned.

“You saying one of Pescorp’s fish may have

done this?” the cop drawled.

Scully pulled off her scrub blouse. “I am

merely confirming that a marine fish of

prodigious size and mandibular strength was

responsible for Peter Crowther’s death.”

“The polysyllabic backpedaling and

academic profundity you hear is the sound of

Special Agent Dana Scully once again flying into

the face of the facts,” Mulder smirked. “Maybe

this’ll at least convince the court to issue

that warrant for the Pescorp lab.”

Scully frowned. “I don’t know, Mulder.

There are a number of inconsistencies here. I

don’t want to jump to the conclusion we’re

looking at a yellowfin attack — given the

abundance of comparative samples on the island,

I’ve requested a DNA test of the tissues

surrounding Crowther’s wounds. Biotech test

specimens also usually bear a special marker

gene to identify them, and that also should show

up in any DNA screen.

“Plus, there was no missing flesh, no

tearing — no sign that whatever attacked

Crowther attempted to consume him. And the USFWS

reports of the two earlier fishkills indicated a

similar pattern — a frenzied attack, but no

signs the predator fed on any of the vict–, ah,

fish.”

“Maybe it was just, well, crazed,” Mulder

protested.

Scully gave her partner what only could be

deemed the fisheye. “Attack of the Giant Crazed

Killer Tuna. Why don’t you put that on a triple

bill with Night of the Chupacabra and Revenge of

the Flukeman? I know Skinner would buy a ticket

for that.”

Colonial Maui Tropical Plantation

12:37 a.m.

“Don’t you want to stop at the gift shop,

Scully?” Mulder asked as the pair followed the

plantation tour route past a wild-looking plot

of sugar cane and a stand of pineapple trees. “I

was assuming from your demeanor this morning you

might like a good lei.”

“You keep this up, it may be the only kind

you get this trip,” Scully responded, kicking a

rock out of her shoe. “You are literally on a

fishing expedition, Mulder, and I’m not sure the

evidence bears out your wild speculations. God

knows what kind of predatory species may be out

here, forced to find a new habitat by shifts in

the oceanic food chain, pollution, maybe even

fishing activity. And why is this Makule

important?”

“According to the lieutenant, Crowther’s

been seen or arrested at several MKA

demonstrations. Vincent Makule’s the closest

thing to a Maui chapter president. I still think

that if there was an attempted break-in — or a

successful one — at Pescorp, some activist

group is behind it, and MKA’s been particularly

outspoken on biotechnology. Left at the guava?

Is this guava?”

“Macadamia,” Scully sighed, pointing to the

tour sign at Mulder’s elbow. “And it’s right at

the plumeria patch. I can hear the tour ahead,

and it sounds like they’re talking coconut.”

“To the grove, Watson,” Mulder declared.

“Yeah, fine, whatever.”

As the three-car Colonial Maui Tropical

Plantation tram trundled off toward a shack

displaying birds-of-paradise and garlands of

hibiscus, Vince Makule tossed shards of coconut

husk into a white plastic pail next to a

primitive wood bench in a clearing adjoining the

trail. Affixed to the bench was a long, broad,

fierce-looking knife.

Makule, in a sun-yellow aloha shirt and

oyster white jams, looked up, smiling, as the

agents approached. “Aloha! You two get lost?

They don’t like folks just wandering around

alone, especially they don’t have tickets.

Tram’s just up ahead; tickets are available at

the general store.”

“Vincent Makule?” Mulder asked, unsheathing

his ID. “Special Agents Fox Mulder and Dana

Scully, FBI.”

“Wow, FBI,” the young man enthused. “Just

like on TV?”

“Wow, yeah,” Mulder grinned. “Just like

that break-in at Pescorp about a week ago.”

Makule smirked and resumed cleaning up the

debris of his 12:30 p.m. show. “You guys are

kinda late to the luau, aren’t you? I already

talked to the county cops and the state cops,

even some joker from Homeland Security, I think,

after the break-in. Then I went through it all

again after that dude in Lahaina got eaten.”

“He wasn’t eaten,” Scully noted, weakly.

“Tell you what I told them. Malama Ka Aina

is a peaceful organization that exercises its

lawful First Amendment rights and sometimes

practices non-violent civil disobedience when

the environment and biodiversity of the islands

are threatened.”

“Was that swarm of toads someone planted at

that new subdivision up north last April lawful

exercise or civil disobedience?” Mulder

inquired.

Makule shrugged. “You never know when new

construction might bring some of the indigenous

wildlife out of the hills. ‘Sides, I never heard

of frogs killing a couple of hundred fish or a

man before, not like that superfish of

Pescorps’.”

“You’re really up on the local news, Mr.

Makule. And didn’t you know that man, Peter

Crowther? According to the county cops, you and

Crowther shared a cell with you a few times.”

“Yeah, OK, I hung with Pete some. One of

those guilty burn-out types out to save his

soul. I’m sure you know he was a spy for Nixon,

Reagan, Dubya’s daddy — probably overthrew a

couple of Third World countries, offed a few

guys in his time. But he was loyal to the cause,

understood how to piss off the bureaucracy. And

he knew what Uncle Sam and the corporate machine

were willing to unleash on the planet for a few

bucks. Like Moby Dick out there, eating its way

through the island fish population. Ah, well,

maybe it’ll take out a few of those fat tourist

chicks, too.”

“Do you honestly believe that man was

killed by Pescorp’s yellowfin?” Scully asked.

“Lemme show you something, lady,” Makule

said, searching up a plump green coconut and

straddling the bench. He lifted the fruit above

his head and brought it down just off-center. A

large slice of husk came away. “We been growing

and selling these things more than a half-

century here, and this is just about as state-

of-the-art as coconut ‘processing’ gets. Know a

guy on the big island can strip one of these

down to the nut in three seconds flat, a lady

here on Maui can take off the husk in two

minutes. But nobody’s been able to come up with

some computerized machine that can do it. Each

coconut’s different; you can’t predict what’s

inside. Those suits down at Pescorp think they

can build a better fish than Nature can, but

they don’t know the half of what they’re messing

with, or what that supertuna sandwich is gonna

do to your grandkids.” He held up the semi-

shucked coconut. “Goin’ on break — wanna share,

FBI?”

“Wonder how long he’s rehearsed that

routine,” Scully pondered a few minutes later,

as she and Mulder ascended the hill approaching

the plantation gift shop/tour center. Her

partner paused at a small zoo near the center,

where a group of largely Hawaiian elementary

students listened to a plantation employee’s

hourly recitation.

“While there are no monkeys native to

Hawaii, the plantation support the Pacific

Primate Rescue Program, which finds new homes

for displaced, abused, or neglected monkeys like

Dakota here. Dakota’s a capuchin…”

“Probably pretends the bathroom mirror’s

Diane Sawyer,” Mulder suggested, embroiled in a

staring contest with a boldly colored parrot.

“I’m not buying Makule’s Gandhi act. There’ve

been at least a half-dozen acts of sabotage,

trespassing, and vandalism around the islands in

the last six months that’ve been linked to MKA,

but not enough evidence to bring charges. I

think somehow Makule and Crowther were in on the

break-in together, or maybe Crowther the ex-fed

was pissed off about the way Makule exercised

his civil disobedience. Maybe Crowther was

keeping the T-12 for Makule and the gang, and it

got out of control.”

“Where would he have held it, Mulder?”

Scully challenged. “There were no tanks or

enclosure nets at his house. You think he was

taking his tuna for a midnight stroll when it

turned on him?”

The parrot looked away, and Mulder turned

triumphantly. “It just seems too pat, too

deliciously ironic, that Crowther would be

killed by the creature whose existence he was

protesting. I feel like Makule is involved in

Crowther’s death, somehow.”

Scully flopped onto a huge rock next to a

tankful of geckos. “Well, I got a look at

Makule’s teeth, and if he mauled Crowther, he

must have been wearing dentures.”

Lahaina, Maui

2:37 p.m.

“Gaze upon paradise,” Phillip Lutz invited,

his leathery hand sweeping across the ocean’s

near-turquoise perfection, the seamless,

cloudless robin’s egg blue of the morning sky

abutting it, and the velvet jade of the nearby

hills towering above the bay.

Lutz had chosen pointedly not to entertain

Mulder and Scully in the confines of a cluttered

university extension office that served him

largely as an academic storage closet and an

emotional torture chamber for stupid and

indolent students. Instead, the middle-aged

molecular biologist, who more closely resembled

some surfer-gone-to-beachcomber, invited them to

a picnic lunch of smoked kalua — pork — and

macaroni salad on his catamaran, in a cove just

south of Lahaina.

A collection of mixed-vintage but largely

salt-pitted cars lined the sandy berm next to

Highway 30 above the bay, their owners

worshipping The Big Wave, several true believers

wielding the solid wood boards demanded by the

legendary surf god Huey. A hundred or so yards

offshore, a goofy foot — a surfer riding his

board right foot in front of the left —

executed as perfect a cutback as one was likely

to see outside the North Shore.

“Ironic that this Eden, this outpost of

natural wonder, may be a gateway to man’s

greatest achievements in food production and

prolonged life,” Lutz continued, once his guests

had absorbed his home paradise. “At least,

that’s the horseshit they put on the Biosciences

Department Web Page. But there’s a great deal of

truth to the defensive hyperbole we toss around

regarding genetic engineering.

“I don’t suppose you two have had the

opportunity to visit any of the big plantations

on the island? If you can get away from your

investigation for a few hours, I think you might

find it educational, perhaps even for your

investigation. It’s one of the first real

socioeconomic success stories for biotech

research and development. You know the Hawaiian

sugar industry is losing ground fast to Brazil –

– South American production costs, improved

inland transportation infrastructure, all that

good ag economics stuff? Well, we still maintain

a competitive edge in papaya production, but we

almost lost the entire crop a few years back, to

ringspot — a fungal disease. It was decimating

the plantations. Even if we’d had effective

chemical treatments for the rust, EPA’s

continuing to whittle away at the few potent

fungicides we have left, and nobody likes to

think their tropical fruit salad has been

marinated in methyl bromide. Long story short,

Agent Mulder?”

“Sorry,” Mulder grinned, coming out of a

deepening slump. “I was about ready to sacrifice

myself to the nearest passing mano.”

Lutz, accustomed to worshipful sophomores

and calculating post-grads, beamed at his

passenger’s refreshing candor. “Occupational

hazard — I frequently lapse into lecture hall

mode when I get into this subject. Why I

windsurf and immerse myself in The Simpsons on

the weekends. And very nice pronunciation,

Agent, although nothing sticks out like a sore

haole like a mainlander peppering his speech

with island lingo.”

“Mahalo.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

“The papayas?” Scully prompted tonelessly,

brushing another red lock from her sunburnt

face. Mulder waggled his fist, thumb and pinky

extended, in a surfer “chill out” gesture. She

surreptitiously started to offer an alternative

gesture, but thought better of it, and nibbled

at the sweet Hawaiian roll that enveloped her

pit-cooked pork .

“Long story short, before your partner

surrenders to the sharks” the professor

repeated. “Biotechnology comes to the rescue —

I should say molecular biology, because biotech

goes back thousands of years to when the native

Meso-Americans manipulated maize into its

current harvestable ear state. In this case, my

university colleagues were able to build

biological rust resistance into indigenous

papaya varieties without changing either the

content, the natural function, or the

environmental impact of the plant. Didn’t sit

too well with some of the organic folks, but you

can’t have an organic market without a product

to sell. GMO papayas very likely saved Hawaii’s

economy. Oops, more defensive hyperbole.

“But my point is, despite the politicized

rumblings of the European trade community and

the capitalistic fear-mongering of some ‘non-

GMO’ food companies, we have in our hands the

tools to meet the food and agricultural needs of

a global population that could grow to six

billion within the next 50 years. Imagine rice

engineered to provide a child the vitamin A

necessary to stave off blindness or disease.

Drought-resistant cassava that could survive in

the shadows of the Nigerian hunger relief camps.

We have the tropical climate, the relative

isolation from major cross-pollinating farm

crops, the international scientific support for

finding biotechnological answers. China knows

it, India knows it, sub-Saharan Africa knows it,

though it doesn’t yet have the means to fully

exploit it. It’s the mall-shopping yuppie

housewife we still have to convince.”

Scully tucked her Laura Ashley-shorn feet

under her, spitting hair. “At the same time,

Professor, hasn’t Hawaii been somewhat notorious

for biotech problems over the last few years?”

Lutz nodded, as if Scully had scored a

glancing blow in a classroom sparring match. “I

assume you’re referring to the recent federal

sanctions against Monsanto and the others for

failing to follow proper field test protocols.

Yes, I’ll admit there are certain pitfalls when

you transfer technology from the university lab

to the bottomliners at some multinational

biosciences outfit. The Prodigene incidents in

Iowa and Nebraska back in Iowa demonstrated that

— the company’s error set pharmaceutical crops

research and God knows what Third World medical

advances back at least five years.

“You can’t hire some kid who was making

gorditas at the Taco Bell last week to dispose

of GMO crop wastes or fudge a foot or two on

EPA-prescribed test plot buffers. I’m adamant

with my colleagues and students that we must

jump through all the federal hoops if we hope to

be a credible force for the world. But I can

assure you, there was no imminent threat of

environmental contamination in the cases you’re

citing.”

“What about animal biotechnology?” Mulder

challenged. “There’s a big difference between

goosing up a soybean or papaya plant and

genetically tinkering with some fish or mammal

whose natural tendency’s going to be to tango

with whatever fish or mammal strikes its fancy.”

Scully’s sunglasses slipped to the tip of

her nose as she gaped at her partner’s flippant

— not to mention simplistically anthromorphic –

– characterization of mammalian and

icthyological reproductive processes. Dr. Lutz

cackled.

“Sorry, just watched Finding Nemo last

night, and the picture of ahi or bonito

tangoing…” the biologist said. “Of course,

animal biotechnology is an entirely different,

ah, animal, than plant biotech. Not only in

purely molecular and physiological terms, but

also in a sociological context. When the Scots

successfully cloned cells from a sheep, the

public began to conjure images of genetically

engineered armies of slave monkeys produced to

perform sub-minimum wage duties for the

corporate machine.”

“Might improve the service at Burger

King,” Mulder suggested. Scully’s loud sigh was

lost in the crashing tides.

“And then 60 Minutes came out with its

‘analysis’ of biotech salmon a couple of years

ago, and anyone who’d ever seen a bad ’70s

horror film became convinced we were going to be

setting hordes of mutant coho loose in the

Columbia to swim upstream and converge on

Seattle.”

“I see Bruce Willis, lots of screaming

Starbucks drinkers.”

“Precisely. But what you really would like

to know is whether whatever is responsible for

these recent fishkills and that poor

unfortunate’s death is some genetically mutated,

homicidal yellowfin tuna that has developed an

appetite for human flesh.”

“Ask any geneticist you happen to see…”

Mulder sang.

“Sorry, Charlie,” Lutz responded dryly. “I

served on a National Institutes of Health panel

that examined Pescorp’s research protocols for

Event T-12 — the modified yellowfin. Are you

familiar with diploid and triploid development

in catfish, salmon, and other aquacultural

species, Dr. Scully?” Scully nodded in

consultation. “Agent Mul–?” Lutz smiled

indulgently, and Mulder looked at a now-smiling

Scully in indignation. “Let’s just say modified

aquatic species are, in effect, built to be

sterile. They do not have the capacity to

reproduce, by design. T-12 was modified in this

manner, so first of all, if a specimen was to be

released into the wild, it could not possibly

procreate, or tango, as you put it, Agent

Mulder.

“Secondly, as a precaution against

liability or environmental damage, all test

specimens of T-12 were engineered with a gene

conferring extreme nutrient deficiencies. The

GMO yellowfin are kept in a medium with

abnormally high levels of manganese, potassium,

and other nutrients present. If one were

introduced into an environment without this

signature cocktail of nutrients, it would die

within a day or so, if that much. I’ve seen all

the documentation — it’s a foolproof safeguard.

“And finally, the idea that the particular

growth promotant genes incorporated into T-12

could turn it into some kind of hyper-

testosterone killing machine, well, that’s a

Bruce Willis movie. If you want the full

scientific explanation, Agent Mulder, …”

Scully snorted.

“No, I’ll take your word for it — at

least for now,” Mulder nodded, ignoring her.

“You said you’ve reviewed Pescorp’s research

protocols. Did that include the company’s

security systems? How difficult would it have

been to steal one of the T-12s?”

“I’m no security specialist, but I would

think extremely difficult,” the scientist

considered. “Beyond federal regulatory

expectations, I should think Pescorp has

considerable capital invested in those tuna.

They have the resources to protect their

investment to the maximum extent possible. And I

truly can’t believe they’d attempt to cover up

the disappearance of a specimen.”

“Truly, Prof. Lutz?” Mulder posed, raising

a Scullian eyebrow. “Is nicotine truly

addictive, Doctor? You have any stock in Enron?”

Lutz chuckled. “Your somewhat paranoid

point is well taken, Agent. But, again, how

could anyone get beyond Pescorp’s security?

Unless…”

“It was an inside job,” Scully supplied.

Royal Aha’aina Luau

6:23 p.m.

“Nah, the guys at Pescorp are all as

straight as the day is long,” Kamehana assured

Mulder as he forked a pile of cold octopus onto

his plate. He’d used his law enforcement

connections to snag a couple of tickets to

purportedly Maui’s finest luau, and after an

introductory Lava Flow, even Scully’s jet-lagged

disposition had improved considerably. “I’ve

known Chuck Kinau’s family since I was a kid.

His dad and granddad were fishermen here ’til

they had a few years’ run of bad luck. Chuck

worked patrol until Pescorp offered him and a

few of the guys more money.”

“His family lived off the sea,” Mulder

noted, eyeing a dish of mahi-mahi in macadamia

cream sauce. “Could he have become sympathetic

with MKA’s cause, maybe decided to use his

access to help them?”

Kamehana shook his head curtly. “Chuck pees

red, white, and blue — he was Marines in the

Gulf, worked for the Bush side the last

election. Never had any use for the enviros or

the animal rightists. Calls ’em ‘haoles in

sheep’s clothing.'”

“Just in case, maybe you want to check his

whereabou–”

“Time-punched in at Pescorp, third shift,

when Crowther was killed. Helluva a lot more

definitive than trying to nail down Vince Makule

killing a six-pack with his buddies on the North

Shore. McGarrett’s got nothing on the Maui PD,

brother.”

Mulder took a breath, glancing over at

Scully, who was engaged in conversation with a

pasty older couple in garish aloha togs. “What

did you make of Jameson’s story?”

“Sounds like a falling-out between

comrades,” Kamehana theorized. “I’m checking out

any Kaui connections for Pete, even though he

stuck pretty much to himself.”

“Which for ex-CIA could in itself be

suspicious behavior. No, I meant the menehune

part. Tell me about the menehune.”

The lieutenant sought any sign Mulder was

kidding, and shook his shaggy head in bemusement

when he found none. “Holy crap, you’re serious.

Well, legend goes that when the Polynesians

first settled out here, they found heiaus —

temples — dams, and fish ponds. Some of the

first real aquaculture was practiced here, you

know — long before Pescorp started tinkering

with tuna. Anyway, the Polynesians thought all

of this was built by the little people, the

menehune, who lived in caves on the islands.

“A menehune’s kinda like a leprechaun,

except with bipolar. Each one has its own

personality, but a menehune can be mean and

dangerous one day and harmless the next. They

have a leprechaun’s cunning, and they say you

oughtta stay clear of them.”

“And what do they look like?” Mulder asked.

Kamehana laughed as he dished up some

kahuna pork. “Subject’s six inches to two feet

in height, naked, long straight hair. You want

me to put out an APB?”

Mulder grinned. “Just speculating. Jameson

may be one mai-tai short of a luau, but I think

he saw something relevant out there. I just have

to make a few connections. Ah, I see my

partner’s managed to shake off Ma and Pa Kettle.

Hey, Scully, over here.”

Before the redheaded agent could reply, a

stereo warbling rang through the buffet tent.

Mulder and Kamehana reached simultaneously for

their cell phones.

“Aloha,” Mulder greeted.

“Yeah,” Kamehana rapped out.

“Mekaleka heinie ho, Mulder,” Frohike

grunted. “How goes it in the land of lethal UV

rays and bootie-licious wahines?”

“Answers now, whacking later, OK?” Mulder

said. “What’d you find out about Crowther?”

“Peter Crowther, AKA Pieter Krause, AKA

Pedro Cruz, was not your usual spook.

Apparently, he was recruited out of NASA, where

he did some of early lunar rover research,

satellite robotics, and the like. My guy at the

Company says he did a lot of high-tech, black

budget project work. During the ’80s and ’90s,

Crowther moved around a lot between Central

China, Brazil, India, and, for some reason,

Oregon. His cover was he was some kind of

environmental engineering consultant.”

“Environmental engineering,” Mulder

murmured. “CIA, he’d know where the bodies — or

the toxic waste — was buried. Any word of why

he left the agency?”

“I looked into your eco-angle. My

Greenpeace guy never heard of him, and he hasn’t

been laid in years. If Crowther’s a tree-hugger,

he must just be cuckoo for coconuts.”

“You paint a dark and disturbing picture,

my diminutive friend,” Mulder moaned. “Mahalo,

Frohike.”

“De nada, Mulder,” the Gunman returned.

“Save a whale for me, and if you happen to get

any Polaroids of the pulchritudinous Agent

Scully basking on the beach, save one of those

for me, too.”

“You’re a sick little menehune,” Mulder

said affectionately, ending the call. Kamehana

was pocketing his phone, a plateful of meat and

fruit balanced in his other hand. “Got some

curious background on your victim. What do

China, India, Brazil, and the Pacific Northwest

have in common?”

“Probably all got Starbucks every other

corner by now,” Kamehana guessed. “That was my

buddy at the federal courthouse. We finally got

our warrant for the Pescorp lab. Go in tomorrow

morning, if that’s soon enough for you.”

“Gotta meet my three mai-tai limit,” Mulder

assured him, heading for the table. “Scully’s

designated driver.”

His partner had shed herself of the AARP

carders but was being assailed by a pudgy

spectacled man and his well-fed wife. Scully

smiled forcefully as Mulder set his groaning

plate on the long communal table.

“Mulder, this is Clark and Carol,” Scully

said. Clark beamed sharkishly, as if eyeing new

conversational prey.

“The little woman bending your ear?”

Mulder asked, reaching across to grasp a pink

sea cucumber of a hand.

“This is your husband, Dana?” Carol

purred.

“No,” Mulder replied, avoiding Scully’s

glare. “What’s your 20, Clark?”

“Columbus, Ohio,” their tablemate

announced. “I teach social studies at one of the

high schools. That’s part of why I’m here. We

were thinking Branson this year, but I told

Carol, ‘You know, we’re living in a global

village now. Why don’t we see how the other half

lives, expose ourselves to another culture.”

“Clark’s something of an amateur linguist,”

Scully said, rising. “Why don’t you tell him

about that while I hit the little girl’s, ah,

the lady’s room.”

“I’ll go with you, dear,” Carol volunteered

as she struggled to her feet, and Mulder shot

Scully a retaliatory smirk.

“I’m not really a professional linguist,

uh…” Clark began. “Mulder your last name or your

Christian name?”

“Call me Fox,” Mulder invited, drawing a

perplexed look.

“Yeah, Fox…I’m really fascinated by

regional dialects — the different words they

call things and why, the way how folks live

affects how they talk. Like you take the

Hawaiian language, for instance. They got three

different sets of first-person possessive

pronouns. It has to do with the relationship

between the possessor and the possessee.

Possessee?”

“I get your meaning,” Mulder smiled, mouth

going rapidly dry.

“See, if you’re talking about something

like a body part or a relative like a father or

a sister, something you can’t control having or

that’s like an extension of yourself, then you

say ‘ko’u’ — ko’u po’o would be ‘my head.'”

“My head,” Mulder agreed, rubbing his

temple.

“But if it’s something you just own, like a

cup or a plate, or your kids, who you

consciously chose to have, then you say ‘ka’u.’

But, then, if you want to avoid having to choose

between ko and ka, you can say ku. Then you get

into some of the cultural nuances — well, I

could go on forever.”

“I bet.” Jim Kamehana approached, looking

to Mulder like a knight with a meat-laden

shield. “Hey, Clark, this is Jim — he’s a cop

on the island, and something of an expert on the

language and the culture. Maybe he can tell you

more about possessive pronouns.”

Clark’s eyes lit up. “Hey, Jimmy, maybe you

could explain the differences in Hawaiian and

Tahitian consonant use…”

“Not to mention the Maoris,” Kamehana

added, launching into a lengthy and academic

discourse that had Clark initially spellbound

but ultimately dazed. When Scully returned,

Carol having peeled off to watch a pair of half-

naked luau performers carve volcano gods, Mulder

cornered her.

“OK, what do China, India, Brazil, and

Oregon have in common?” he posed.

“Except for Oregon, a tendency to over-

spice their entrees,” Scully guessed. “Mulder,

if you want to play Scattergories, we can do

that later at the hotel. I may even know an

interesting new adult variation.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what Peter

Crowther was up to during his CIA years, and

whether it may have some relevance to the case

at hand. I mean, maybe this whole tuna thing is

a red herring. Who’s better at ‘staging’ an

accident or a suicide than our friends with The

Company? Maybe Crowther knew something his ex-

coworkers wanted hushed up.”

“First of all, we have no evidence Crowther

was murdered,” Scully countered. “And if the CIA

wanted to stage a fatal accident for Crowther,

don’t you think they’d have come up with

something a little more, oh, ordinary? Like a

car crash or a drowning? A tuna mauling isn’t

exactly an inconspicuous way to kill someone.”

Mulder frowned, and played absently with

his octopus. “OK, Crowther was a gadget guy with

NASA before he signed on as a professional

spook. That tell you anything?”

“It tells me he’d probably have got on

famously with Clark,” Scully sulked. “When are

they bringing on the guys with the loin cloths?

And don’t give me that look, Mulder — not after

you asked me to model that ridiculous coconut

shell bra. If I like the talent tonight, maybe

I’ll rethink my position.”

Mulder grabbed a passing waitress. “Excuse

me. When’s the show start?”

A cell phone sounded. Mulder and Kamehana

went for their pockets, but Scully held up a

finger and reached into her handbag. “Dana

Scully. Yes. No, it’s fine. What did you come up

with?…What?…How’s that possible? There must

be some trace…No, I’m sure they did, but maybe

you could ask them to double-check…OK, thanks.”

Scully held the phone for a moment longer,

frowning, before she closed it.

“What?” Mulder asked.

She looked up. “That was the M.E. — the

DNA tests on Crowther and those fish came back.”

Scully turned to Kamehana. “Any time an animal

violently attacks a person, there are almost

always traces of saliva, blood, other remnants

of genetic material left as they maul the

victim.”

Carol’s fork dropped.

“Given the depth of the wounds particularly

in Crowther’s case, even the sea water he was in

shouldn’t have washed away all traces of DNA or

tissue. But they couldn’t find any foreign DNA

in either the fish or Crowther. Not merely

unusable or contaminated samples, but no

samples.”

“My,” Clark breathed.

Lahaina, Maui

1 a.m.

The bartender at The Kahuna Schooner

watched with a vague sense of concern as Bobby

Jameson stumbled out of the establishment. The

young guy at the bar had taken pity on the old

souse and bought him a few rounds, even listened

to Jameson’s probably fictional tales of the

merchant marines and his postwar conquest of the

local wahines. Finally, the old guy had worn

himself out and decided to set out in search of

a nesting place for the night.

Jameson made it nearly to the door before

he collided with the jukebox. He let loose with

a stream of profanity.

The young guy glanced at the bartender, who

shrugged, and sighed as he hopped off his stool.

“C’mon, ka’u makua kane, let me help you.”

The bartender shook his head at the young

samaritan, and turned to the cute not-so-young

thing at the end of the bar. The young guy

guided the old man out the door, and the sound

of crashing waves momentarily eclipsed Jimi

Hendrix from the bruised box.

“Nice night out, Pop,” the younger man

noted. “At least you got some good weather to

sleep under the stars.”

“Fuckin’ Chamber of Commies,” Jameson

burbled, grabbing his new friend’s sleeve as he

trudged through the sand beyond The Schooner.

“Public beach — gotta right to use it just as

mucha those tourist ass-haoles. ‘S a violation

of my constipational rights.”

“It’s OK, Pop,” the young man said,

steering Jameson toward the water’s edge. “You

oughtta be able to crash in the pilings under

the Seafood Shack without nobody bothering you.

Hey, look, what is that?”

“Whattya lookin’?” Jameson mumbled,

following the man’s gaze out toward the black

ocean. He squinted.

“Looks like some kinda box or something,”

the young guy drawled, pulling free of the old

man. “Maybe fell off one of the freighters or

something. Loot from the sea.”

“I don’t see nothin’…”

“Out there, right before the breakers, out

Lanai direction.”

Jameson leaned forward, then began to nod

slowly. “Yeah, yeah, I see it. You think there

may be somethin’ in there? Somethin’ worth

somethin’?”

“Dunno. Hey, where you goin’, Pop. You

better not go out there — you been tying it on

pretty good.”

Just as he’d predicted, Jameson’s combined

greed and pride drew him toward the sea, toward

the parcel the younger man firmly moored about

30 yards out before he’d begun to pour beer down

the old guy’s gullet. Jameson stumbled through

the sand, kicking off his ragged boat shoes as

he eyed the potential fortune bobbing on the

nearby waves. “Watch them shoes, boy. I’ll cut

you in.”

The young man smiled grimly as the derelict

treaded into the water, toward his treasure. He

reached into his pocket, withdrew the device

he’d been supplied, and sent the signal.

Jameson was nearly out-of-breath by the

time he swam the last ten yards to the floating

crate, but booze, a life of hard living and

survival, and avarice empowered him. He hoped

that whatever the crate might contain wouldn’t

have been damaged by the corrosive sea salt. If

it was packaged food, at least it would provide

a few days’ nourishment. If it was something

more valuable, he could maybe sell it for

something more appetizing.

Finally, he bumped into the crate, cursing.

It was large, but not unwieldy, and Jameson

figured the young fella could help him back to

shore with it. In the pale light of the moon, he

could make out stenciling on the side of the

box.

COLA? Wasn’t Bobby’s drink of choice, but…

No, it was longer. C-O-L-O-N-I-A-L. MAUI.

TROPICAL. P-L-A-N-T-A—

A pair of hands suddenly appeared at the

edge of the crate, and a face materialized. Wet

hair, angry eyes, a mouth full of sharp teeth.

“Menehune,” Jameson tried to whisper before

it struck.

Lahaina, Maui

7:05 a.m.

“Poor old Bobby,” Kamehana eulogized,

patting the corpse’s shoulder. The morning tide

had washed Jameson against a small dune, and

he’d been found by a local seeking tourist booty

with his metal detector. A trio of uniformed

officers were scouring the beach for clues, and

a cluster of tourists had gathered on the bank

above.

“At least a dozen sets of bite marks,

consistent with Crowther’s,” Scully observed,

crouching beside the dead witness. “And here’s

something else…See that scar on his face?”

“Probably when he washed ashore,” Mulder

suggested above her.

“I don’t think so,” she frowned. “I can see

traces of dried blood, and if he was dead before

the tide brought him in, as I’m assuming, he

wouldn’t have bled. Look closely — there’s two

lighter scratches alongside. Almost as if

someone had raked their fingernails across his

face.”

“Think smaller, Scully,” Mulder said.

“Those marks are too close together to be

human.”

His partner looked up, skeptically. “What

are you suggesting, Mulder? That this man was

attacked by one of those little people? Those

mene-whosis?”

“Menehune,” Kamehune corrected. He looked

warily at Mulder. “Tell me that isn’t what

you’re thinking, Mulder.”

“You might want to get that APB out,” the

agent advised.

Pescorp Commercial Marine Research and

Development Center

Kehei, Maui

11:02 a.m.

Ronald Gennari was as cordial as any man

could be surrounded by representatives of four

government agencies and looking down the barrel

of a federal warrant.

“Let’s get this the hell over with,” the

Pescorp VP rumbled, slapping the warrant into

his lead attorney’s palm. He scanned the throng

gathered about him. “This is the most ludicrous

waste of both my company’s and the taxpayers’

time I’ve ever witnessed. C’mon.”

As the EPA, USFWS, and USDA bureaucrats

sorted out the niceties with Gennari’s legal

crew, Mulder examined the tubular ceiling-to-

floor tanks that lined the Pescorp Research

lobby. A trio of yellowfin tuna glided through

the tube closest to the terse group.

“FBI, huh?” a spectacled, immaculately put-

together man ventured at Scully’s shoulder.

“Carl Nahimi, Mr. Gennari’s executive

assistant.”

“Special Agent Dana Scully,” she said

uncertainly. “Yes. We are. FBI, I mean.”

“Let me ask you,” Nahimi lowered his voice,

moving further into Scully’s personal space. “Do

you really believe one of our T-12s could’ve

killed a man? The very notion’s absurd.”

She caught Mulder’s eye. He waggled his

eyebrows, and a spark of annoyance ignited in

her gut. “Any more absurd than attempting to

engineer a jumbo colossal megatuna?”

Surprisingly, Scully hadn’t antagonized

Nahimi. “How much do you know about the

commercial fisheries industry, Agent?”

“A little…”

“The world’s annual yellowfin catch is

rapidly surpassing 300,000 metric tons per

year,” he explained with a smile. “While Pescorp

adheres strictly to best industry practices —

we’re 100 percent dolphin-safe — the commercial

industry is coming under a lot of heat from the

environmental movement. Believe me, dead

dolphins and sea turtles do not make good

advertising copy.”

Gennari set off with the feds and lawyers

in tow, and Nahimi gently took Scully’s elbow.

She heard Mulder snicker behind them. “The

yellowfin was an ideal focus for our pilot

genetic enhancement program. It’s a prolific

breeder with a relatively rapid maturation.

We’ve enhanced those traits, along with

promoting increased size and meat yield and a

greater ability to predict sex and maturity.

That should help improve managed production and

reduce the need for wild catch. And to top it

off, we’ve tweaked the T-12 to produce greater

concentrations of the essential fish oils

nutritionists have linked to improved cardiac

health.

“What we hope to accomplish with the T-12

project is not just increased productivity and a

higher profit margin for one of our fastest-

growing product lines, but a new level of

industry stewardship and community

responsibility. It’s basically the same

philosophy the crop biotech firms have adopted:

Getting more production out of fewer acres. More

captive production, less risk to innocent marine

wildlife and less overfishing of the species.

And our plan is to contract yellowfin tank

production throughout the islands, much like

Tyson and Smithfield contract poultry and hog

production on the mainland. That should create

new economic opportunities for farmers and

laborers at our planned new ahi processing

plant. It’s a win-win. Um, a win-win-win.”

“But you still have to clear FDA,” Mulder

asked, drawing an annoyed backwards glance from

Gennari’s assistant. “And it would appear you

have some strong activist opposition to the idea

of genetically engineered fish.”

“We’re trying to steer clear of that

term,” Nahimi said, somewhat peevishly. “We

prefer to say ‘genetically enhanced.’ In fact,

we plan to use that in our advertising/marketing

program: ‘Nature made it good; we’ve made it

great.'”

“How about ‘Good to the last bite?'”

Mulder suggested.

“Excuse me,” Nahimi said frostily,

releasing Scully’s arm and moving to Gennari’s

side by the card-scan console that provided

access to the yellowfin research lab.

“Great mother of Mrs. Paul’s!” Mulder

breathed as he scanned the outsized tanks

throughout the room. The three regulatory agency

reps glared at the agent; Gennari regarded him

as if he were a new species of bony, bitter-

tasting bottomfeeder, and Nahimi’s jaw hung

open. Scully created distance from Mulder.

The seven T-12s were identical in

appearance to the tuna in the lobby tanks, but

were larger than a trophy swordfish. Gennari’s

eyes flickered quickly to one of the T-12s.

“Somebody get me a harpoon and a tub of

cocktail sauce,” Mulder marveled.

“The warrant,” the EPA representative

announced, too loudly, “specifies that we’re to

draw tissue samples from each of the modified

Thunnus albacares, for purposes of genetic

verification. I’m to be present during all

phases of sampling and testing.”

“You think we pulled a switch or

something?” Gennari blustered incredulously,

glancing again at the T-12. “You think we just

pulled a jumbo tuna out of our, ah, hat?”

“We’re mandated to ensure no environmental

release of a yet-unapproved organism has

occurred,” EPA droned. “Verified reassurance no

such event has occurred is as much for your

company’s benefit as it is for the public’s. We

just want to confirm that each of these seven

specimens carries the marker gene that

identifies it as the event T-12.”

“This guy must be a real hoot at a luau,”

Mulder whispered to Scully, who swatted at him.

“Hey, you notice Mr. Big Fish keeps looking at

that tuna?”

“Yeahhh?” Scully murmured. “So what?”

“The same tuna. Like he’s anxious or

nervous. Why?”

“I don’t know,” she hissed.

“Who’s going to conduct the sampling?” EPA

asked.

“Excuse me,” Mulder said after studying

Gennari eyeing the T-12. The three wise feds,

Gennari, the lawyers, and Nahimi turned as one.

“Oh, God,” Scully sighed.

“Sorry to interrupt, but your DNA test?

Can it be used to match samples as well as

identify a marker gene?”

EPA examined the agent silently for a

moment. “What do you mean? What samples are you

suggesting we compare?”

“That fish there,” Mulder said, pointing

to the focus of Gennari’s ill-hidden attention,

“with each of the other six specimens.”

“This man’s FBI, isn’t he?” one of the

Pescorp attorneys, a short young woman with a

close-cropped Afro, protested. “By what

authority…?”

Gennari just stared at Mulder, his eyes

wide and unblinking.

“You cloned that yellowfin from one of the

others, didn’t you?” the agent challenged.

“What are you suggesting?” the lawyer

demanded.

As Scully tried to shrink into the

background, Mulder looked directly at a

dumbstruck Gennari.

“Gentlemen,” he proclaimed, “I believe one

of our tuna is missing.”

**

Why did I ever leave Boston?, Rebecca

Washington pondered as she sat beside a sweating

Ronald Gennari, amid a sea of feds. A

taxidermied tarpon — a recent catch by the

senior VP — looked accusingly down at the

conference table and his killer.

Washington had left, well, not a lucrative

but at least a meaningful practice in

Massachusetts, after her mentor and senior

partner Bobby Donnell had bailed out. A few

months of floundering on her own, accepting

personal injury and drug cases, had made the

offer from Pescorp’s home office extremely

attractive. They’d watched her impressive

performance in a few well-publicized

litigations, and read about the persuasive Mass

Supreme Court appeal that had led to the

acquittal of convicted murderer Lindsay Dole,

one of Washington’s partners.

When Pescorp offered a six-figure salary

and the post in Maui, Washington recovered from

her daze long enough to pack up her winter

wardrobe for the Salvation Army. Now, one

antitrust and two price-fixing cases later, the

attorney longed for subzero temps and ankle-deep

slush.

“A voluntary consultation process is a

voluntary consultation process,” Washington

protested, grasping for the one legal point that

wasn’t too slippery or full of sharp spines.

“The cloned progeny of this test animal is not a

product intended for any commercial release. It

is merely a basic research specimen. As such,

consultation requirements do not app—”

“Your employers manufactured this creature

just for, what, the educational value?” the FDA

man challenged dryly. “You people produce fish,

for commercial sale. Even though biotech

consultation is voluntary, there is an

expectation…”

“Let’s set that aside for a moment,” the

EPA representative said before Washington could

respond with an albeit shaky point. “Where is

the T-12, the real one? Do you know its

whereabouts?”

“Ron,” Washington warned as her employer

turned salmon red and leaned forward.

“Why aren’t you–?” the VP growled.

“Ronald,” Washington flared, as if she

were disciplining a child. “You do not talk

here. I talk for you.”

“Why are you busting my balls–?”

“Shut up!” Washington shouted, slamming

her palm on the table repeatedly. The three

bureaucrats and the redhead fed stared in

stunned silence. The odd one, the one who’d

leveled the cloning accusation, was suppressing

a giggle.

“—when you oughtta be out there looking

for those tree-hugging cocksuckers who stole our

fish?!” Gennari roared.

Washington inhaled, let it slowly go, and

planted her palms on the conference table. She

swept her notes into her briefcase and rose.

“The hell are you going?” Gennari snapped.

“Back to the arctic wasteland, Baby,”

Washington said as the hall door shushed close

behind her. The room fell silent.

“And we still haven’t been offered so much

as a cup of coffee,” Mulder observed.

Lahaina, Maui

4:46 p.m.

“And this is…?” Scully inquired, her

sunglasses sliding down her sunblocked nose.

“This is the Lava Flow,” Mulder said,

depositing the slushy, fruity concoction on the

towel next to her chaise. “Guaranteed to chase

away cloned supertunas, killer menehunes, and

deceased CIA agents.”

She glanced down into the drink. “And

perhaps loosen my inhibitions?”

“There is that.” Mulder, bedecked in a

Roswell T-shirt and cargo shorts, took the

lounge chair next to Scully’s.

“OK, let’s hear it,” she sighed, laying

back.

“What?”

“You know. The T-12 was stolen from

Pescorp, and the company was covering it up. I

was just up in the room, and it’s already made

CNN.”

“Sooo?”

“Just get it out of your system. I was

wrong, and you had a valid theory.”

“Yow, don’t humble yourself too much,”

Mulder said. “Look, Scully, it doesn’t matter

who reached the proper conclusion — we’ve found

a big piece of the puzzle. And one more

important thing: Ya-ya-ya, I nailed it!”

“Good,” Scully muttered. “Where are we

eating?”

“$12.95 lobster. Six-ish?”

“Fine. And, oh, by the way: Extensive river

infrastructure.”

“What?”

“China, India, Brazil, and Oregon. All have

major rivers — the Yangtze, the Ganges, the

Amazon, and the Columbia. Whatever that tells

you.”

Mulder stared out at the dark shape of

Lanai on the horizon. “Rivers. CIA.”

“Are we playing Catchphrase now?”

“Something’s resonating, but I can’t quite

grasp it.”

“It’ll come to you,” Scully assured him

drowsily, closing her eyes and turning her face

to the setting sun. A cool shadow fell across

her, and her eyes blinked open. Mulder was

standing before her, a digital camera in his

hands.

“What are you doing?”

Mulder lined up a shot. “I promised

Frohike.”

“The drink stays…” Scully began.

**

“YES!”

Scully jumped at Mulder’s exclamation. “Are

you starting again without me?” she mumbled as

her cardiac rate slowed and her eyes adjusted to

the darkness. Mulder came into focus, his face

and torso illuminated in the glow of his laptop

as he pecked away at the hotel room work table.

“Actually,” Mulder said, “your somewhat

over-analytical comments the first time dampened

my ardor. The good news is, you’re about to get

even in the points.”

“What do you mean?” Scully yawned, crawling

out of bed and padding over.

“Just that I think you may have been right

all along about the T-12.”

“Mulder, help me here…”

“I don’t think the missing T-12 was

responsible for the fishkills or either of the

murders,” Mulder said, jerking his head toward

the web page displayed on his Thinkpad. Scully

leaned in.

“‘CIA gadgets: Robot ‘bugs,’ pigeon camera,

jungle microphones,'” she read. “What is this, a

wire story?”

“Associated Press, from about three or four

months ago,” Mulder reported. “I thought I

remembered reading about how The Company had

been involved with building these goofy, ‘Get

Smart’-style surveillance/infiltration devices,

from robotic dragonflies they could use to plant

window bugs to mock tiger dung that can conceal

a radio transmitter in a jungle war zone.”

“This is what you woke me up for?” Scully

complained. “A bunch of covert dweebs inventing

toys to justify their black budgets?”

“Wait a minute. Scroll down — right

there.”

“‘Besides the jungle transmitter, the

exhibits include a robotic catfish, a remote-

controlled dragonfly, and a camera strapped to

the chests of pigeons and released over enemy

targets in the 1970s,'” Scully glanced at her

partner. “Robotic catfish?”

“Yup. In 2000, the CIA built a catfish

named Charlie, quote, ‘a remarkably realistic

swimming robot.’ The Agency won’t say anything

about how it was used, but some experts think it

may have been designed to collect water samples

near suspected chemical or nuclear plants.

Problem is, the catfish robot, uh, robot

catfish, was so realistic that it could be eaten

by predators while on a mission. So sorry,

Charlie. Scully, what if we’re dealing with a

robotic tuna? What if this was what Crowther was

working on all those years on the Yangtze, on

the Amazon?”

Scully plopped onto the edge of the bed,

silently meditating. “You know, as ridiculous as

it sounds, it would explain why we were unable

to find any foreign DNA in Crowther or those

dead fish. But, Mulder, the bite marks were a

precise match for a yellowfin. Realistic fins

and scales, realistic movements — those would

be essential to pass a…robot fish…off as the

real thing, at least from a reasonable distance.

But why realistic teeth?”

“Maybe this tuna was designed to kill,”

Mulder suggested. “Specifically designed to

replace the T-12 — the one that was stolen.

Crowther wouldn’t be the first sociopathic spy

to be born again: Maybe he applied his knowledge

to help Makule and his buddies make a point

about biotechnology. The giant mutant tuna

disappears from the lab, and the next thing you

know, fish are dying all over the island.

Jameson said Crowther and the other man arguing

with him kept yelling about Kaui. What if he

misheard it, in his inebriated state? What if

Crowther’s friend was yelling, ‘Ko’u ahi.’ ‘My

yellowfin.’ Granted, it ain’t Shakespeare. But

why would these two environmentalists — avowed

enemies — be claiming a genetically engineered

fish as their own? I think the two of them —

Crowther and Makule — fell into a power

struggle over their robotic tuna. Maybe Makule

wanted to make a real point, set the thing loose

on a few fat tourists. Like I think he did with

Crowther and Jameson.”

Scully exhaled as she took it in. “But,

Mulder, wouldn’t something like this bionic tuna

cost tens of thousands, maybe more, to produce?

How would Crowther or Makule come up with the

funds or resources to build this thing? And why

were you so coy with Kamehana today about the

menewhosises?”

Mulder turned, his arm drooping over the

chairback. “Menehune. I think I found the answer

to that, too.” He clicked up his bookmarks and

punched a key, looking to Scully in triumph. His

partner examined the image on the screen.

“Ah huh…” she replied.

“Yoicks,” Mulder yelped.

Scully patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll

issue a warrant for Ms. Hilton in the morning.”

Colonial Maui Tropical Plantation

9:07 a.m.

“Like so many young idealists in search of

a divine cause, Vincent Makule made his rounds

of the activist community,” Mulder explained to

Kamehana as the tall palms of the Tropical

Plantation came into view. “I Googled him last

night: He came up in a news story about

Greenpeace fighting recreational boaters they

blamed for injuring a humpback whale, an item

about a PETA demonstration at a Waikiki

boutique, and, right before he came to work

here, an outdated news release about his work

with the Pacific Primate Rescue Program. They

save monkeys, chimps, and the like from small

zoos, animal test labs, and the like, and

relocate them in the islands.”

Mulder pulled into the plantation parking

lot, where a shuttleful of seniors was

debarking. Scully and Kamehana trailed him

through the crowded welcome center and out

toward the tram loading station. “Makule’s

specialty was animal relocation. When he left

the rescue program, under what I understand were

less than amicable circumstances, Makule took

one of the monkeys with him — a capuchin. He

came to Maui and landed this job at the

plantation, but apparently his landlord had a

no-apes policy.

“I called the owner of the plantation this

morning, and he told me the monkey, AKA Dakota,

came as a package deal with Makule. Although

Dakota is prone to biting anyone but Makule and

occasionally flinging his own feces at loud or

obnoxious tourists, the management seems to feel

the monkey was the better part of the deal.”

“While I’m never averse to getting out of

the office,” Lt. Kamehana said, “can I ask how

this is relevant?”

Mulder turned to Scully. “My God, you’ve

begun to rub off on the natives. Right up there,

Lieutenant,” the agent instructed, waving toward

the plantation zoo. “See, I don’t think Bobby

Jameson’s delusions about the menehune lurking

about Peter Crowther’s house were really

delusions at all. I think Makule was the man

Crowther was arguing with the night he was

killed, and Dakota was along either for the ride

or maybe even to manage the robotic tuna,

somehow. Even some of the lower primates have an

amazing ability to learn complex series of

commands.”

“The robotic tuna?” Kamehana pondered.

“Later,” Scully urged.

“Scully sent off a new DNA sample from

that scratch we found on Jameson. If we can get

some hair or whatever from Dakota, I’ll bet we

come up with a match. We may even be able to

find some trace evidence from Crowther’s house

or yard in the monkey’s habita—”

Mulder had arrived at the capuchin’s

large, wire-enclosed frame habitat. The

enclosure was empty. The agent corralled one of

the plantation staff, who was feeding a small

rodent.

“Excuse me,” he asked, flashing his Bureau

credentials. “Where’s the monkey?”

“One of the guys — Vince — had a yelling

match with the boss yesterday,” she informed.

“It got kinda ugly, and the boss thinks he took

Dakota along with some cash and a couple cases

of bananas last night.”

“I’ll get somebody over to Makule’s

apartment,” Kamehana volunteered. “And we’ll get

a tech crew to go over this cage.”

“I’m guessing you won’t find Makule

watching Springer,” Mulder lamented. “He’s

probably gone underground.”

“Small island,” Kamehana noted calmly.

“We’ll get out word at the airports and the

docks, ‘case he tries to get out by boat. You

want to go back to town?”

Mulder scratched his neck in distracted

irritation. “Yeah, thanks. I want to check up on

something.”

“I’ll check on the results of the DNA

test,” Scully said.

Her partner stared at the empty habitat.

“Damned dirty ape,” Mulder muttered.

Hawaii State University Maui Marine Sciences

Center

Kahalui, Maui

3:21 p.m.

Dark shapes glided along the perimeter of

the tank below Philip Lutz. The geneticist

studied the impassive grace of the mako sharks,

sleek and quiet but filled with some of the most

mindlessly lethal potential in either the

vertebrate or invertebrate worlds.

Though Dr. Lutz’ world existed largely at

the cellular and molecular levels — he’d

accumulated no wife, no children, few real

friends among the focused egos of the academic

universe — he spent hours at the mako tank.

Their silent but deadly presence was a lesson —

and a model — for the researcher.

He’d grown disenchanted of late with the

frustrations and deprivations of the academic

life, and had begun swimming with sharks.

“Professor?”

Lutz turned from his sharks. “Ah, Agent

Mulder. Back for more droning revelations about

the world of biotechnology?”

“Actually,” Mulder said, “I’d like to talk

to you about robotics.”

Lutz paused before descending the metal

steps next to the mako tank. “You want the

university’s engineering department. I’m afraid

my expertise is limited to the mechanics of

chromosomal modification and adaptation.”

The agent smiled. “Don’t be modest,

Professor. I’m sure a PhD and Nobel nominee such

as yourself is a fast study. Peter Crowther may

have been the engineering mind in your little

‘project,’ but I think you provided the

zoological know-how to help him build a perfect

T-12. Plus, my guess is you provided the capital

for Crowther and Makule. I talked to your

department head at the main campus, and he told

me you’re currently managing close to $12

million in federal grants. Cutting a few corners

here and there, it wouldn’t be too tough to skim

off $50,000 or $60,000 or $100,000.”

“Agent Mulder,” Lutz sighed, “I’m afraid

I’m too disoriented by your accusations to be

outraged. But I believe you’re suggesting I have

some involvement in that man’s murder.”

“Oh, I think Vincent Makule’s the homicidal

maniac on this project. You and Crowther simply

wanted to throw a monkey wrench in Pescorp’s

biotech program, kill a few fish and create a

little public panic, right? How’d you three ever

get together? A hotheaded environmentalist, an

ex-CIA gadget guy, and a distinguished

scientist. Your whole professional life has been

devoted to unlocking the secrets of genetics.

Why suddenly throw in with the anti-biotech

faction?

“Or did you have a different agenda?”

Mulder posed. “I came across some research

abstracts on the web this morning. Genetic

Expression of Enhanced Reproductive Traits in

the Genus Thunnus. That ring a bell? Most of

your work since you came to Hawaii has been

directed at helping build disease resistance and

reproductive capacity in overfished species.

Basic, meat-and-potatoes research.”

“Basic research for the benefit of the

planet,” Lutz spat. “Not to sell tuna.”

Mulder leaned against a lab table. “You

said it yesterday. The ‘pitfalls’ that occur

‘when you transfer technology from the

university lab to the bottomliners at some

multinational biosciences outfit.’ Or when one

of your pet grad student jumps ship to sell his

soul to the corporate machine, right, Professor?

A C. Nahimi was listed next to your name on the

tuna research abstract. Did Carl barter some of

your work for a cushy research post at Pescorp?

Highly unethical, but probably difficult to

prove, especially against a deep-pocket, Fortune

500 company. When Carl dumped science altogether

to become the head honcho’s chief yes-man, that

must’ve been the last straw. Crowther and Makule

thought you’d begun to rethink your life’s work,

when really all this was about was bringing

Pescorp down. I am curious, though. How did you

manage to get the T-12 out of the Pescorp lab?”

Lutz smiled. “A man of your whimsy will

appreciate the irony. Crowther had the basic

schematics for our aquatic animatron, and, as

you pointed out, I had the creative bookkeeping

skills to help Crowther and that volatile cretin

Makule realize their ham-headed plan. Makule was

assembling a crew to break into the Pescorp lab

and ‘liberate’ the Thunnus. Some gang of

delusionary, deconstructionist thugs. But then

someone beat us to the punch.”

Mulder blinked. “What?”

“Yes. An island like this is almost like a

small town: Everyone eventually knows everyone

else’s business. The break-in at Pescorp and the

company’s attempted coverup quickly made the

island grapevine, and we simply took advantage

of it.”

Lutz was suddenly being very forthcoming —

too forthcoming. Those hoary last-act

confessions in every bad detective show

notwithstanding, Mulder had seldom been given so

much data based on so little solid evidence. His

hand slipped into his slacks pocket.

His finger had barely made contact with the

pre-programmed button when something unwieldy

made contact with the back of his skull.

Vincent Makule grinned down at the crumpled

Mulder, and up at his academic partner-in-crime.

“‘Volatile cretin,’ huh?’ the

environmentalist sneered. “Your insults weren’t

so freaking pompous, I’d take a few whacks at

you, too.”

Maui County Police Department

Lahaina, Maui

3:36 p.m.

“Definitely primate DNA,” Scully announced

as she cradled Kamehana’s phone. “They’re still

trying to fix species, but I’d say, under the

circumstances, we’ve got a hit.”

The cop swigged his Pepsi. “Now all we

gotta do is find Dakota’s daddy. Got both

airports covered and the word going out down the

coast. But you know, even with the Coast Guard’s

radar out, it won’t be too tough for Makule to

get to one of the other islands.”

Scully rubbed her temple. “Should be a

little tougher if he’s packing a robotic

yellowfin tuna the size of Shamu the Whale.”

“There’s that.”

Scully’s cell phone warbled. “Agent

Scully…Hello?” She glanced at the phone’s

readout. “Mulder? Mulder…?”

**

The impact with the water shocked Mulder

back to consciousness. The breath control

exercises he’d mastered with the Oxford swim

team instinctively kicked in, and he used his

legs to stabilize himself as he drifted toward

what appeared to be a tiled floor.

Mulder’s wrists had been cuffed behind him,

and he kicked back toward the blue sky

shimmering above him. Then he heard the muffled

sound of someone diving into the semi-cloudy

water, and turned to see a murky figure sinking

perhaps 15 feet away. The large, long object

suddenly arced, and what he now could identify

as fins began to twitch. Adrenalin pumped into

his brain and throughout his body, and Mulder

shot up toward the surface of the pool or tank

or whatever he now shared with the animatronic

T-12.

The “tuna” jerked to life, and Makule or

Lutz guided it at breakneck speed toward the FBI

agent. Mulder used his upper body strength in

the low-gravity environment to whirl out of the

robot’s path, and he spun as the plastic-skinned

metal shell of the “fish” collided with his hip.

The “tuna” banked, and Mulder, lungs beginning

to burn, kicked frantically toward the light.

The agent’s head broke the surface, and he

sucked in a welcome gallon of air as he quickly

scanned what he now recognized to be the

swimming pool of some abandoned hotel or

apartment house. Mulder caught a glimpse of

Makule and Lutz, some small device in Makule’s

hand, before he re-emerged to escape the rapidly

approaching robot. It was roughly five feet away

and closing, and Mulder rocketed down past it

and came around to see it circling back. Was the

thing guided in part by body heat? Had that been

the CIA’s original purpose for Charlie the

Catfish and his mechanical cousins? Aquatic

killing machines?

Mulder again lurched to the side, but this

time, the mock “T-12” seized his pants leg and

ripped away a long ribbon of fabric. The agent

paddled away, and could practically feel the

piscine missile again bearing down on him.

A second missile broke the water cloaked in

froth and bubbles, and Mulder watched the

speeding object, transfixed, as the robotic

killer shot toward him. The dead-eyed “fish” was

mere feet from Mulder’s face, jaws deployed,

when the second missile connected. The tuna

jerked and convulsed as a metal shaft sunk into

its synthetic “skin” and a barbed point ripped

through its underbelly. The “T-12” convulsed,

and Mulder could see sparks ignite in the black

void beyond its razor “teeth.” Then the fins

jerked to a stop, and the giant faux fish

drifted to “clunk” onto the pool floor.

A splash sounded behind Mulder, and he

whipped around. Did they have two robots? An

army of them, ready to converge on Honolulu, Los

Angeles, Miami? He nearly sighed in sheer,

blood-draining relief before remembering he was

underwater. The redheaded siren glided the

through the murk, clutched his arm, and dragged

him upward.

As Mulder and Scully’s heads broke the

membrane between water and oxygen, Mulder saw

Kamehana, speargun tucked under his arm,

standing above the prostrate figures of Vincent

Makule and Philip Lutz. The conspirators, their

hands cuffed behind them, wriggled ineffectually

like a pair of mackerels.

Scully tugged him to the side, and the cop

helped yank him from the dirty water.

“Good thinking with the cell phone,” his

partner puffed as she climbed out of the pool,

dripping, and — to Mulder’s amusement —

stooped to recover her good pumps. “Phone

company tracked the signal almost right to the

lobby.”

“Yeah, well, I hope Skinner will

requisition me a new one,” Mulder said as

Kamehana unlocked his cuffs. He withdrew his now

defunct Nokia, which bleed dirty water onto the

pool deck. “Hey, nice shootin’, Sheriff Ahab.”

“Normally don’t kill what I don’t eat,”

Kamehana murmured, hefting the spear gun and

glancing at the colossal dark shape at the

bottom of the pool.

Mulder kneeled beside Lutz and Makule. “You

know what, guys? The tuna here SUCKS.” He looked

to Scully with his best Jack Lord scowl. “Book

’em, Dana.”

“I should have thrown you back,” she

reflected.

Lahaina, Maui

2 p.m.

Scully absently thumped her skull against

the headboard, glumly watching the palm trees

outside the lanai window groan and the Pacific

roil under 60-mile-per-hour winds and driving,

nearly horizontal rains.

Pleased with the resolution of the

Crowther and Jameson murders and exposure of the

fraudulent yellowfin, Skinner had given his

agents an extra few days in Maui to “clean up

some details and liaise with local law

enforcement.” The island’s worst tropical storm

of the year had commenced just as Scully had

completed packing her case notes and unpacking

her sun block.

“You wanna play another game of

Scattergories?” Mulder suggested, surfing

through the channels for the tenth time that

hour. “You know, that special version?”

“Only if you make the ‘clues’ a little

harder,” Scully muttered sourly. “What do you

think happened to the T-12, the real one? I

mean, that’s why we came here, right?”

Mulder clicked off the set and flopped

back at her feet. “I dunno. None of the activist

groups ever came forward to claim the credit. I

wondered for a while if maybe one of Pescorp’s

competitors might’ve made off with the T-12

either to steal the technology or discredit the

industry’s big fish, but wouldn’t you think

they’d have covered their tracks by trying to

frame the anti-biotech people?

“Lutz said Pescorp probably encoded

safeguards into those tuna — severe nutrient

deficiencies, terminator genes to prevent

reproduction. Maybe outside its controlled

laboratory environment, the T-12 simply couldn’t

survive. Maybe our enviro-burglars got home to

discover their prize catch had turned into a few

hundred pounds of rotting sushi. Or maybe one

day, Pescorp found one of its futuristic fishies

floating at the top of the tank and flushed it

down the toilet. Maybe the only thing worse than

creating a Frankenstein is doing a botch job of

it. Whatever the case, I doubt our megatuna will

ever turn up alive or pose a threat to the

environment. The enviros wouldn’t let it loose,

and the corporate sharks wouldn’t let it go. So

let’s order up a couple mai-tais and some room

service and toast our absent friend.”

Scully peered dully at the smudged sky and

sighed audibly. “Anything but ahi.”

“That’s the Aloha spirit,” Mulder said

brightly.

Molokai, Hawaii

Ten months later

Chuck Kinau grunted as he hoisted two bags

of high-protein, floating soy pellets over his

beefy shoulder and headed down to the inlet. His

stomach full of leftover ku’lolo — taro/coconut

cream pudding — and the setting sun casting

warm orange tones on his small house and the

recently constructed fabricated steel processing

shack, he smiled unconsciously. It was something

he’d seldom done when he was punching a clock at

Pescorp.

Chuck had bailed out of Pescorp soon after

the stories about missing mutant fish and

cloning experiments hit CNN and Fox. After the

home office had announced it was moving its

Pacific division offshore to Thailand — which

was courting biotech firms with a Viagra-like

fervor — the security guard had a plausible

out. The Pescorp management, emphasizing its

gratitude in advance for Chuck’s discretion

regarding the T-12 project, offered him the most

gracious golden parachute ever extended to

anyone of his job grade.

The company’s severance check provided his

family the seed money and Pescorp’s departure

from the islands the opening it needed to

relocate to Molokai and take out a state-backed,

low-interest venture capital loan. With that

loan, the family was able to secure two almost-

new fishing boats and some processing and flash-

freezing equipment purchased at a fire sale from

a retooling Pescorp.

The consumer backlash against Pescorp,

seized upon by Greenpeace as an opportunity to

grab a Dateline segment on corporate

overfishing, proved a boon for the smaller

seafood companies. The Kinau clan’s Moana Gold

brand hit pay dirt with a somewhat vacuous

“Family-Fished” label that appealed to suburban

and metro mainlanders willing to pay for the

notion that they were simultaneously eating

healthier, sticking it to the Big Guys, and

probably saving dolphins and maybe even whales.

That thought amused Chuck, whose grand scheme

had been motivated by dreams of sticking it to

Chuck’s nephew Kyle, the HSU electronics

grad who’d helped circumvent Pescorp’s

computerized security system, had devised the

new company’s advertising and marketing strategy

and developed Moana Gold’s increasingly familiar

“Aaaaah-hi!” radio and TV campaign. Cousin

Mickey, who’d helped liberate the T-12 from its

tank and re-liberate it from Pescorp’s low-

security maintenance plant after the cops had

investigated the lab “break-in,” had proven a

master at keeping seafood shipping costs in

line. And Tina, Chuck’s girl, who had taken a

few junior genetics courses from Dr. Philip Lutz

before earning her own masters in molecular

biology, headed research and development for the

family business.

R&D focused largely on improved methods of

packaging, extending shelf-life without losing

flavor or mouth-feel, and testing flavors for a

planned line of Hawaiian-style yellowfin entrees

(Wolfgang Puck in a Los Angeles Times Sunday

interview had predicted Luau would be 2005’s

Next Big Cuisine, and Kyle had storyboarded a

national TV spot urging up-scaled consumers to

“Get Tuna-ed In”). Tina also was charged with

Moana Gold’s special “breeding” project, which

was based in the fenced inlet into which Chuck

now hauled his high-protein rations.

As general manager of production for Moana

Gold, Chuck had studied up on joint

Chinese/American Soybean Association feeding

trials for both freshwater and marine fish

species. The floating pellets he fed “Tina’s

Tuna” improved feed efficiency and individual

rate of gain and, at least to Chuck’s belief,

enhanced the taste of the ahi. He ripped climbed

onto one of the catwalks that extended across

the inlet and ripped open the bags. Pellets

rained into the turquoise water and floated on

the surface like so many tiny islands.

Chuck loved this part, and he leaned on the

catwalk railing with an anticipatory grin. Soon,

a school of huge-but-graceful creatures

converged on the islets, their distinctive,

slender pectoral fins parting the warm waters of

the gated cove. A round head the size of a

killer whale’s broke the water and gobbled a

dozen pellets with one sweep. More heads emerged

to greedily inhale the soy rations.

Chuck Kinau shook his head. The big brains

at Pescorp were so confident in their science,

in their “diploid” or dipwad or whatever

technology they’d called it, that they’d missed

a major hitch in their project. Chuck’s people

had been raised with the sea in their blood,

with the lovely stench of fresh catch in their

nostrils, and he knew just by looking at the

original T-12 that its genetically guaranteed

“sterility” was no more than a fish tale

perpetrated upon those who thought to second-

guess God and the genetic code.

“E komo mai!”

Chuck turned to see his brother Kevin

waving to him from the rock above the inlet.

“Come on!” the stocky young man repeated in

impatient English. “Mom wants us to come for

supper tonight. She got some T-bones down at the

market, or there’s still plenty of that aku Jack

caught the other day.”

“Steak, man,” Chuck shouted emphatically.

“You know I hate fish.”

This story is based on characters created by Chris

Carter and Ten Thirteen Productions. Characters used

without permission. No infringement intended.

TITLE: Practice Makes Perfect

AUTHOR: Jo-Ann Lassiter

EMAIL ADDRESS: Jolassi555@cs.com

DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Two weeks exclusive on VS10.

Then post anywhere. Thanks.

RATING: PG-13

CLASSIFICATION: S, R

SUMMARY: Three years ago, Mulder’s profile was

directly responsible for the capture of a man who had

been killing the presidents of large corporations.

The man escaped and had not been heard from again —

until now. Mulder and Scully are called to a case in

Texas where they once again cross paths with Lawrence

Dexter III.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is a sequel of sorts to VS8’s

“Your Past is Showing.” You should be able to read

this without reading that, though, as I think I’ve

scattered enough explanation throughout to bring you

up to speed. If not… well, it’s episode 8X18.

THANKS: To Gerry, for her usual crack beta work.

Teaser

George Bush Intercontinental/Houston Airport

February 15

8:03 a.m.

Larry Dexter woke as soon as the wheels touched down

on the tarmac. After three years, it was good to be

back in the good ol’ US of A. He’d take care of the

business he was there for, and at the same time

pursue a pleasure he’d put off far long.

Still clutching the folder containing the dossiers

he’d compiled on the two FBI agents, he flipped it

open; since his assignment required him to be a

little further away from the agents than he would

have liked, bringing them to him only presented yet

another puzzle to be solved.

He directed his attention to the male of the two.

After finally having made the decision to focus his

attention on Agent Mulder rather than Agent Scully,

his mind had spent the hours before he fell asleep

working out the details. He read over the agent’s

physical characteristics, smiling when he reached the

one that had won him the honor of ‘target.’

He smiled to himself. Even if it hadn’t been so easy

to pick Mulder, he suspected he would have found some

way to assure his selection. While Agent Scully had

most certainly played a part, it was Mulder’s profile

that had directly led to his capture.

As for those fools who’d recommended minimum security

over the objections of the two agents and that

assistant director — a shame that he couldn’t bring

him out as well — Larry wouldn’t even waste his time

with those incompetents. And they’d called *him*

mentally unstable. He wasn’t the one who’d placed a

trained assassin in a van with two elderly guards and

a staff psychiatrist.

It had been laughable how he’d been able to convince

everyone of his ‘illness.’ Only those three agents

from DC had been wise enough to see him for what he

really was. He wouldn’t be surprised if they’d

guessed his ‘real’ profession as well.

Being taken for a nerd had always served him well; he

supposed there was even some substance to it, what

with his love for science and ‘gadgets.’ But how many

nerds could single out a target from a crowd of

thousands — and then eliminate him, quickly,

quietly, and without having to raise a finger?

Dexter sighed. Of course, the means by which he’d

achieved that particular aspect of his profession had

also contributed to his downfall; short though his

incarceration had been, it had caused him to shelve

his plans — however temporarily — to deal with the

men whose actions had caused his beloved mother’s

death.

Of the twelve on his list, he’d only been able to

eliminate six. He hadn’t expected to get all of them

in round one, but he’d anticipated eliminating a few

more than he actually had. Damn those feds.

No matter. He was back now, and after he’d had a

little fun with Special Agent Fox Mulder, he’d put

his contingency plan into action. Mother always said

he was so good at his work — if she only knew, he

giggled — because he planned so far in advance.

Wouldn’t those mother killers be surprised when they

found out he had returned?

He dearly hoped they were all still alive so that he

would not be denied the pleasure of watching them

die.

Act I

Dodge, Texas

11:16 a.m.

February 23

Mulder removed a hand from the steering wheel,

swiping it across his wet forehead; he glanced over

at his partner, dozing in the passenger seat. That

should be him, he thought sourly.

When the rental agent had offered the keys, he’d

grabbed them and settled himself in the driver’s seat

before he’d thought about it. Scully had once called

him a chauvinist because he always wanted to drive;

at the time, he’d scoffed at the notion as absurd,

but here he’d gone and done out of habit something he

hadn’t even wanted to be doing. Christ. He *was* a

chauvinist.

If he didn’t feel so lousy, he might have laughed; as

it was, all he wanted to do was find the motel and

crawl into bed. He sighed as he left the interstate

for the road that was the last leg of their journey.

Another mile or two, and they’d be there.

Just as Mulder merged from the left onto the busy

two-lane, a wave of dizziness hit him so hard that he

knew he was about to pass out. He gave a cursory

glance in the rear view mirror, then cut across the

right lane into the breakdown lane, narrowly missing

a delivery truck. He stomped on the brake, threw the

car into park, and slumped against the steering

wheel.

He came to when Scully’s frantic voice penetrated the

fog in which he was enshrouded. “Scully…” he

moaned, not actually able to make out anything that

she was saying. He felt her hands on his head as she

gently lifted it off the steering wheel.

“What’s wrong, Mulder?” she asked, her voice breaking

up like a bad telephone connection.

“Dizzy,” he mumbled, his head still spinning. He

didn’t even consider opening his eyes.

“You nearly caused an accident,” she said, softly.

“I know. I’m sorry,” he panted, trying to keep from

fainting again.

“Did you — ”

A loud rapping on Mulder’s window startled them both

into silence. Even Mulder’s harsh breathing stopped

for a few seconds.

“It’s a sheriff’s department deputy,” Scully told

him.

“Unh hunh,” Mulder murmured, when he resumed

breathing again.

“I think he wants you to roll down your window.” She

nudged him with her elbow.

Fumbling around until he located the switch, Mulder

tabbed the button, and the window rolled down. Hot

air rushed in, and Mulder felt the world dissolve

into blackness.

**

“Mulder!” What the hell was wrong with him? That was

twice in two minutes. Scully cupped her hand around

his chin and shook his head lightly, as she addressed

the officer. “Deputy, my partner — ”

“I’ll be wantin’ your license ‘n’ registration, son,”

the man cut her off.

Mulder groaned and opened his eyes. Scully rubbed a

hand over his cheek worriedly.

“License ‘n’ registration,” the officer repeated,

more forcefully than before.

“Give us a minute here, would you?” Scully said, her

patience wearing thin.

“All right, get on out of that car,” the deputy

demanded, yanking on the door handle, pulling it

open.

“If you’d just let me explain — ”

“Get out,” he ordered, jerking with his thumb, and

directing his words to a semi-conscious Mulder,

disregarding Scully altogether.

When the man reached out a beefy hand and grabbed

Mulder’s shoulder, Scully pushed it away. “Back off,”

she growled, incensed now by the man’s refusal to

listen to reason. “Can’t you see he’s — ”

She broke off when she found the barrel of a weapon

three inches from her face. Very slowly, she brought

her eyes up to meet the officer’s. “There’s no need

for that, Deputy. If you’ll just — ”

“Get out of that car now!” The officer took a step

back. “The two of you.” Scully swallowed as she heard

the safety being released. “Right now!”

She freed herself from the safety belt and reached to

the handle on her door.

“Hold it right there,” the cop demanded. Scully

paused and looked up. “You get out on this side.” He

indicated Mulder’s open door. “Get out, boy,” he said

to Mulder.

Looking somewhat more alert, Mulder released his seat

belt and stumbled out; Scully climbed over the stick

shift and followed him.

The deputy looked them up and down, making no effort

to hide his disdain for their expensive clothing.

“If I may be allowed to explain — ” Scully tried

again.

“Ma’am, I’d appreciate it if you’d quit yer yappin’

so I can give this feller his sobriety test.” The

deputy reached into his pocket and pulled out a set

of handcuffs.

Scully bristled. If he was thinking of cuffing

Mulder… “Listen, Deputy…” She glanced at his name

tag. “…Jenkins, we seem to have gotten off on the

wrong foot here. My partner and I — ”

All capacity for speech left her as the deputy

snapped the cuff onto her left wrist and then secured

the other to the steering wheel. Scully blinked. She

was *not* standing outside her rental in the ‘hottest

February on record,’ handcuffed to a steering wheel.

She was *not* watching as some poor excuse for a law

enforcement officer dragged her sick partner away

from her.

In shocked silence, she struggled to gather her wits

about her as she tried to ascertain what the hell had

just happened.

**

Mulder was having trouble locating his nose. From

past experience, he knew it was somewhere on his

face, but trying to find it with one finger while his

eyes were closed was a lot harder than he thought it

would be. Having his eyes shut, though, was a big

plus because the light from the sun had been causing

him some serious hurt.

“All right, walk to the end of the car and then

back,” he heard barked at him.

With his eyes closed? he wondered. Pushing himself up

off the car, Mulder got to take one step before the

light-headedness hit him again.

“Hey, you! Did I tell you to stop? Get moving!” He

felt a rough shove on his back and lurched forward a

few feet, more from the push than from any power of

his own.

“Christ,” he heard, muttered under the man’s breath.

“Get your sorry ass back here, you drunkard. I’m

takin’ you in for drivin’ under the influence.”

“He is *not* drunk!” Scully’s incensed voice reached

Mulder’s ears, just as he executed an about-face that

toppled him onto the pavement. The tarmac biting into

his cheek was hot, and he knew he really ought to

move. Instead, he closed his eyes and waited for

Scully to rescue him.

**

Scully’s eyes followed Mulder’s ungraceful descent to

the highway. She didn’t know what was wrong with him,

but she did know that he definitely was not drunk.

“He’s not, huh?” the deputy’s triumphant voice

retorted.

“He’s sick,” Scully countered. “He has not been

drinking.”

“Ma’am, you assaulted an officer of the law. I’m not

inclined to believe anything you’d tell me.”

“Assaulted…” Scully sputtered. “*You* assaulted

*him.* You’re the one who grabbed him — ”

“I was assisting him out of the vehicle.” The

deputy’s tone reverted to that pompous, officious

tone that all officers of the law affected when they

talked down to a suspect. Scully vowed never to allow

herself to speak to anyone that way ever again.

“And I tried to explain to you that he was sick, and

you dragged him out anyway.” …you jerk, she added

to herself.

“Ma’am, he exited the vehicle under his own power. I

did not ‘drag’ him out.”

Scully was about ready to pop a blood vessel.

“Whatever.” She looked at Mulder, moaning softly,

struggling to rise from the hot pavement. “Look, are

you going to help him up, or what?”

The deputy shook his head. “Oh, no, Ma’am. I don’t

want to be accused of ‘assaulting’ him again. Why

don’t *you* help him up?” he asked, snottily, turning

his back on her and walking to where Mulder lay.

“Fine, Deputy. I will.” For once grateful for her

small-boned structure, Scully wriggled free of the

loose cuff. She rubbed her wrist, seriously

considering drawing her weapon on this buffoon. The

idiot hadn’t even frisked them!

The deputy nearly jumped out of his skin as she

passed him to kneel beside Mulder. “How’d…” He

looked back to the car. “How’d you do that?” His

weapon was trained on her again, and Scully sighed.

“You told me to help him, and I am.” She directed her

gaze to the gun, held in shaky hands. “Now would you

please put that away before you hurt someone?”

The deputy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re mighty cool for

someone having a gun pointed at them. Just how often

does it happen to you?”

About to lift Mulder to his feet, Scully turned her

attention back to Jenkins. She considered a smartass

reply, but thought better of it. “More than I’d

like,” she muttered. To the deputy she said,

“Actually, we’re FBI agents.”

Scully let Mulder latch onto her, and she rose

slowly, holding him when he started to topple again.

“Easy. I’ve got you,” she assured him, softly.

“Let go of him, and get back over to that car,” the

deputy said, taking aim at her chest.

“If I let go of him, he’ll fall,” Scully said, trying

to reason with the man.

“If you don’t let go of him, I’ll shoot you.” The

deputy’s voice was steady, but the hand holding the

gun wavered slightly. Scully decided she should tread

carefully.

“Can I take him to your car?”

“Let him go, ma’am. Right now.”

“I’m sorry, Mulder,” she whispered as she

relinquished her hold on him. Mulder slithered to the

ground at her feet.

“Scully…” he groaned. “What’s goin’ on?”

The deputy walked over to their car and removed the

cuff dangling from the steering wheel; he motioned

her over, then pulled her hands behind her back and

snapped the cuffs onto her wrists. “We’re being

arrested, Mulder.”

“Why?’ His tone was so innocent and so pitiful that

Scully was now sorry that she hadn’t pulled her

weapon when she’d had the chance.

She winced as Mulder was pulled roughly to his feet.

When the deputy produced another pair of handcuffs,

she couldn’t believe it. “You’re not really going to

cuff him, are you?” she asked. “He can barely stand.

He’s not any danger to you.”

The officer pulled Mulder’s arms behind him a little

more forcefully than Scully deemed necessary. She

could feel her blood beginning to boil. After the

cuffs were in place, he wedged a hand under Mulder’s

armpit and started hauling him toward the sheriff’s

department car.

When they reached the car, the deputy pushed him

against the car. “Okay, cowboy, spread ’em.”

After a second’s confusion, Mulder grunted and

shifted until he had assumed the position. Just as

the deputy was about to frisk him, a cherry red

pickup truck came careening around the curve,

swerving to avoid the rear end of a slow-moving sedan

and narrowly missing the three of them.

“Goddammit!” Jenkins shouted. Yanking at the door

handle, he scrambled inside, getting as far as

shifting the gears before Scully caught his eye; she

was astounded that he was about to give chase,

leaving them outside, lying where they’d dove to

avoid being flattened, with their hands cuffed behind

their backs.

“Goddammit,” Jenkins swore again, throwing the car

back into park and getting out. He hauled Mulder up,

then pulled Scully to her feet. “Get in,” he ordered

her.

“Deputy, this is a mistake,” Scully spit out through

gritted teeth as she clambered into the back seat.

“You’re making a mistake.” She maneuvered her

shoulder to catch Mulder as he practically fell in;

he was barely managing to stay awake. “We *are* FBI

agents. This man is my partner, and he’s sick. I

demand that you — ”

“Just shut up! You don’t demand nuthin’!” The deputy

closed the door, walking over to their rental, where

he went through the motions of locking up.

Resigned to her fate for the moment, Scully turned

her attention back to her partner. “Mulder?” She

nudged him with her shoulder. “How are you holding

up?’

“I feel really awful, Scully,” he said, his non-

denial surprising her more than if he’d broken out in

song. He leaned back into the seat. “Sorry,” he

whispered, closing his eyes. “I wasn’t expecting it

to hit me like that. I don’t know what’s causing

this.”

“You weren’t sick before this?” she asked gently.

He shook his head. “Not like this. I felt a little

wiped at the rental place, but nowhere near this

bad.”

Scully’s attention was drawn to the deputy as he

returned to the car, pocketing their keys before he

got in; he restarted the car and pulled out into the

flow of traffic. Looking back at her partner, Scully

found him slumped against the door, eyes closed.

“Mulder?”

She didn’t really expect an answer.

**

Mulder came roughly awake when he felt himself being

manhandled out the door of the car.

“Hey! There’s no need for that!” Scully enraged voice

was music to his ears. She would protect him from

this big goon.

As Mulder stumbled along, he prayed that the big goon

didn’t let go of him, or he’d fall flat on his face;

the rude awakening had done nothing to improve his

state of well-being. Or lack thereof. All it had

served to do was speed up his heartbeat so that he

could feel the blood pounding in his head all the

harder.

“Inside,” the man growled, giving Mulder another

shove.

“And how do you propose that I do that?” Mulder was

surprised to hear Scully’s voice in front of him, and

he looked up. She was standing by a door, looking

flushed and exasperated and gorgeous.

The big goon huffed, stepping around Mulder to turn

the knob and push open the door. “There y’go,

darlin’.” Even in his less-than-stellar state, Mulder

could hear the sarcasm in the deputy’s voice.

When she speared the deputy with her venomous glare,

Mulder was thrilled that he wasn’t her target this

time. He hoped he’d be conscious when she finally got

to give the goon what for.

Able to move under his own power now, Mulder followed

Scully inside. “This way,” he heard off to his left.

A gentle prod from Scully nudged him toward the open

cell door. Reaching it, he stopped and gazed at the

deputy questioningly.

“In there,” the deputy ordered.

“My…” He had to cough to clear his dry throat. “The

cuffs are still on.”

“And they’re stayin’ on.” The man grabbed Scully’s

arm and pushed her into Mulder, nearly causing him to

fall. “You can thank your girlfriend for that.”

Ignoring Jenkins, she threw a quick glance at Mulder,

catching his nod that he was not hurt. She turned her

attention back to the law officer. “You can’t leave

us like this!”

A light push against her collarbone by the deputy

landed her just inside the cell, and he swung the

door closed. “I can’t, eh?”

“Deputy, please.” Mulder could tell that Scully was

trying very hard to calm her delivery. “We *are* FBI

agents. My partner is sick, and I need to see what’s

wrong with him.”

The deputy appeared to consider her words for a

moment, then shook his head. “Sorry. No.” His smug

expression told her that he was anything but sorry.

Scully closed her eyes, and Mulder could hear her

counting to ten, although she didn’t utter a

syllable. When she opened her eyes, Mulder shuddered

at the barely-restrained fury that radiated off her.

“Deputy?” she asked, in a sweetly dangerous voice.

“When is the sheriff expected back?”

“Sheriff’s at a scene right now. He’ll be back when

he’s back.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Scully had

had enough, and Mulder couldn’t blame her; the man

had violated more than one of their civil rights.

“Scully,” Mulder called, walking slowly to the lone

bed in the cell. “It’s not worth it. Let’s just sit

and wait for the sheriff.”

“You just listen to your boyfriend, honey,” the

deputy snarled.

Turning her back on him while he was still speaking,

Scully sat beside her partner. “Feeling any better?”

“Not really.” Mulder tried not to whine as he leaned

his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

“Still dizzy?”

“Mm.” He shifted to the right, losing his balance and

toppling to the mattress behind Scully.

He felt her weight leave the mattress. “You all

right?”

“No,” he whispered. “If things don’t stop spinning

soon, I’m going to lose my breakfast.”

“Damn that asshole,” Scully spat. “You should be in a

hospital.” He felt Scully’s breath on his cheek for

about two seconds before he heard her voice from a

few feet away. “Hang on a sec, Mulder.” The sound of

grunting and groaning reached his ears, and then he

felt Scully’s hands on his cheek.

Taking a chance, he cracked open one eye, then the

other, relieved when her image remained stationary.

He grinned when he saw that her hands were no longer

behind her back and that she was now able to touch

him.

“Mulder? Do you think if I helped you, you could work

your hands out in front, too?”

He shook his head. “The way I’m feeling, I’d either

pass out or throw up if I tried it.” He met her eyes.

“Neither of those sounds too appealing.”

She gave him a sympathetic nod. “How about we give it

a try, and you tell me if you need to stop?”

He knew that having his hands in front, rather than

behind, him would be infinitely more comfortable, but

he was afraid of what it might cost him to accomplish

it. He drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly,

nodding his head.

Scully gave him a smile that did wonders towards

bolstering his spirits. Giving her the best smile he

could muster, he lay back on the bed while Scully

coaxed him through the contortions necessary to

perform his Houdini act. With his knees crushed to

his chest and his cuffed hands stuck between his

ankles and his knees, Mulder felt an urgent need to

get this over with — quickly.

Scully must have caught the desperation on his face

because she gave a mighty tug on his hands that

allowed his legs to spring through. She helped him up

and brought him to the toilet where he, as predicted,

lost his breakfast.

When he was through, she handed him some water in a

paper cup and waited while he rinsed his mouth. He

tossed the cup in the direction of the trash can,

then looked up at her balefully, certain he was

wearing an ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’ look on

his face.

Looping her arms over his head, her handcuffed hands

resting against his belly, she helped him to regain

his footing and held him as he tried to catch his

breath. “Okay now?” he heard softly from behind him,

after his heart had stopped racing.

“Not okay,” he croaked. “But better.” He blinked;

something was different. “The dizziness is gone, I

think.” He inhaled deeply, then blew it out. “God, I

feel *much* better.”

Scully started to pull her hands away, freeing him

from where they held him captive; he clamped his

hands over hers, holding them in place. “Must you go

so soon?”

Scully did not resist, and instead adjusted her body

more comfortably behind him. She pressed her hands

into his abdomen. “Not at all.”

He sighed deeply, filling her embrace all the more.

“We have *got* to try some variation of this when

we’re not in a jail cell.”

She gave him a nudge that affected him as anything

but playful. “You,” she said, giving him a meaningful

squeeze, “are on.”

**

Act II

Dodge County Jail

2:33 p.m.

February 23

The sound of Mulder’s stomach rumbling loudly in her

ear made Scully realize how hungry she was. Raising

her head up from where she’d fallen asleep using

Mulder’s lap as a pillow, Scully checked her watch,

pissed to find out how late it was and that they

hadn’t been fed yet. She wondered if the sheriff was

back and why the hell they were still in jail.

Careful not to wake her partner, Scully slid off the

bed; she trod quietly to the door and peered into the

office. It was eerily silent. Deputy Dawg was nowhere

to be seen.

Suddenly, the front door burst open, and a hand

pushed the deputy inside. Scully thought that this

was rather rash behavior for the sheriff to exhibit,

even if the deputy did deserve it.

The man who was holding the gun on the deputy was not

in uniform. He looked laughably geeky in his dark

blue jeans — with a crease in them, for chrissakes –

– blindingly white Reeboks, and pale blue pocket t-

shirt. The only thing that looked natural on the man

was the two-days’ growth of beard on his face.

Scully thought he looked a little familiar.

“Agent Scully! A pleasure to see you again.”

Scully squinted, trying to match the voice to the

face.

The man tipped a non-existent hat. “John Doe,” he

said, giving the stupefied deputy another shove. “I

can’t tell you how pleased I am that the FBI has seen

fit to dispatch you to investigate the calamities

that have befallen this placid little community.”

‘John Doe’ peered around the deputy’s quivering form.

“And how’s the intrepid Agent Mulder?” he asked in a

voice that indicated he already was well aware of the

state of her partner’s health.

“What do you know about what happened to him?” Scully

asked.

The man bowed slightly. “My dear Agent Scully, I am

responsible for it.” He gave her a big toothy smile

that she found repulsive. “I have Deputy Jenkins

here, though, to thank for your current

incarceration.” He poked the deputy in the back with

the barrel of the gun; the deputy shuddered, and

Scully almost felt sorry for him.

“What did you do to my partner?” Scully asked

quietly, glancing back to see if Mulder was still

asleep. She wondered if the man knew that whatever

had caused this had worn off. If not, she wasn’t

about to tell him.

“Don’t worry, Agent Scully. Agent Mulder’s reprieve

is temporary… a slight technical problem which has

now been rectified.” The man looked at her partner,

and as if on cue, Mulder moaned.

“What did you do to him?” Scully demanded, hastening

to Mulder’s side. Sweat had broken out on his face,

his eyes were screwed shut tightly, and he’d begun to

thrash his head from side to side. “Stop it!” Scully

directed to John Doe. “Whatever you’re doing to him,

please stop it!”

The man shook his head slowly. “I derive so little

enjoyment out of life. Would you deny me, Agent

Scully?”

“Stop it now!” she yelled.

“No.” His voice no longer held that jovial tone to

it, and Scully shivered at the menace she now heard.

“Agent Mulder’s intervention prevented my punishing

the individuals who killed my mother.”

As she realized who it was they were dealing with,

Scully bit her lip to keep herself from blurting that

Mulder wasn’t the only one responsible for Lawrence

Dexter’s capture. She didn’t want to add any more

targets to Dexter’s revenge list. Forgive me, Mulder,

she thought, as she watched him writhing and

groaning.

“He was only doing his job,” Scully told Dexter.

Dexter nodded. “Which is why he’s still alive.” His

eyes locked with Scully’s. “I understand duty. I

believe in it. But his profile still led to my

capture and necessitated my ‘laying low’ due to my

subsequent… uh… sudden departure.” The pleasant

tone was back in his voice. “Thank those responsible

for recommending the insanity angle, would you? It

would have been much more difficult to effect an

escape with handcuffs and tighter security.”

Scully closed her eyes momentarily. Those assholes

had really done it. With the exception of Mulder,

Skinner and her, all the other agents on the team had

advocated that Dexter be tried as criminally insane.

The judge had apparently agreed.

But Dexter never made it to his trial. He killed

three people and escaped while being transported from

the hospital to the courthouse.

“Scully…” Mulder’s thrashing had ceased, and he was

attempting to get up.

“I’m right here, Mulder.” She rubbed her hands up and

down his arms. “Try to lie still.”

“Gonna be sick,” he moaned.

Quickly hoisting him to his feet, Scully brought him

to the toilet. He grasped the rim, dropped to his

knees and began vomiting. Scully turned pleading eyes

to Dexter, who looked surprised, repulsed and

delighted, all at the same time. “Please,” she

begged. “Stop doing this to him.”

“Well!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t expect this.”

Scully was kneeling beside Mulder, rubbing his back

as he continued to be sick. “What do you mean?”

Dexter smiled and shrugged. “It was supposed to cause

dizziness and then a killer headache. Just enough to

incapacitate him for a few days, while I completed my

business here. But, well…” He gave her a sheepish

look. “I finished before you arrived, and I didn’t

want to let a perfectly good plan go to waste.” His

gaze moved to take in the man now lying on the floor,

gasping for air. Dexter gave a brilliant smile. “And

here I am.” His eyes darted to Scully and back to

Mulder. “Enjoying the show.”

Scully turned away, focusing all her attention on her

partner. Nothing she said was going to cause Dexter

to have a change of heart and stop whatever the hell

he was doing to Mulder; she would just have to do as

much as she could to help him.

“Here, Mulder,” she said, lifting him by his

shoulders. “Come lie on the bed.”

“No,” he panted, pulling away.

“Mulder, what the hell are you — ”

“Still sick,” he groaned. “I can’t… The bed…”

“Shh… It’s okay.” She brushed wet strands of hair

out of his eyes.

“Well, Agent Scully,” she heard Dexter saying, “as

entertaining as this has been, I really do have to be

going now.” He shoved the deputy into the empty cell

next to theirs and pulled the door shut with a

‘clang!’

As Dexter turned to leave, Scully pulled Mulder’s

weapon from the ankle holster on his leg. “Dexter,”

she called.

Dexter had the front door partially opened when he

stopped and looked at her. Delight was not what she

expected to see on his face. “He didn’t take your

weapons! I’m so glad I decided to have a chat with

you. I would never have witnessed this shining

example of small town ineptitude otherwise.”

“Lay down your weapon,” Scully directed, not amused.

“And turn off whatever the hell is affecting my

partner.”

Smiling charmingly, shrugging, Dexter made a move to

place his pistol on the floor, then darted through

the open door before Scully could react. “I don’t

think so,” she heard from the other side. “You have a

nice day now.”

“Dexter!” Scully yelled in frustration. “Dexter!”

She watched the closed door for a few seconds before

whipping around to glare at Jenkins.

“Who…” Jenkins swallowed, wide eyes focused on the

weapon now pointed at him. “Who in blue blazes was

that?”

Ignoring him and feeling smug about it, Scully turned

back to Mulder, hoping that whatever was happening

to Mulder would be gone now that Dexter was.

It wasn’t. Dammit, Dexter must have left some sort of

transmitter in the office, or planted it… Scully

whirled on the deputy. “Check your pockets,” she

ordered.

“What in tarnation is going on here? Who are you

people?” the deputy asked, making no move to comply.

Swinging the gun around, Scully aimed it at Jenkins.

“Check your pockets.” She took a second to glare at

him. “Now.”

Jenkins pulled his wallet, badge, keys and change out

of his pants pockets. “What’m I lookin’ for?”

“Anything you don’t recognize.” Standing with his

pockets turned inside out, Jenkins looked downright

pathetic, quite a change from the arrogant bastard of

earlier. “Damn,” Scully muttered, noting the small

pile. “Bring that over here.”

When Jenkins balked, she tapped the bars with her

weapon, and he hastily gathered all his possessions

and delivered them to her.

“Place them on the floor and slide them in here.”

Scully indicated a section of the floor, then moved

back a step. When Jenkins came closer, she noticed

the pocket on his shirt and nodded toward it. “What

about that shirt pocket?”

Shrugging, Jenkins fished around, coming up with a

small round plastic disk. “What’s this?” he asked.

Feeling her heart rate quickening, Scully glanced at

Mulder to see if the closeness of the disk had any

effect on him. His arms were held tightly to his

head, and he was beginning to whimper.

“Keep the rest of that stuff, and give me the disk,”

Scully told him. Mulder’s whimpers had turned into

cries of anguish. “Move!” she shouted.

The deputy hustled toward the bars, set the disk just

inside of Scully’s cell, and backed away.

“Scully…” Mulder sobbed. “Oh, Christ, Scully…”

Cursing as she got a look at the hard plastic casing,

Scully looked around the cell in dismay. Seeing

nothing she could use as a hammer, she ripped off her

shoe and pounded the disk with the heel until she

heard a satisfying crunch.

She ran to Mulder, soothing him as he recovered from

the torture he’d just been through. Trying to reach a

tissue in her jacket pocket, she was pulled up short

by the handcuffs. She looked over at the deputy.

“Jenkins. Do you have the keys to these?”

When the deputy hesitated yet again, Scully threw a

warning glance at the weapon laying on the floor

within her reach. She almost hoped Jenkins would

resist.

Scully watched the deputy’s gaze fall on the gun

before he indicated the key ring on the floor inside

her cell. “It’s — ”

“I know which one it is,” Scully cut him off,

retrieving the keys and taking them back to where

Mulder lay, his breathing ragged and hitching.

After removing her cuffs, Scully unlocked Mulder’s.

“Thanks,” he croaked, rubbing his wrists for a couple

of seconds before pressing the heels of his hands to

his temples.

“Still hurt?’ she asked.

He nodded. “Not like before, but, yeah.”

“What about the dizziness, the nausea?” She touched

his hands lightly, and he let her take over the head

massage.

“Not as bad.” She could see he was fading fast, and

she all but carried him to the bed. He needed no

coaxing to lie down, and was asleep before she got

his feet up off the floor.

A movement in the next cell caught her eye, and she

looked at the deputy. “Will any of these open that

door?” She indicated her cell door.

Jenkins shook his head.

“Where are they?” she asked.

Jenkins pointed to the desk with his chin. “Top

drawer of the sheriff’s desk.”

Scully moaned. “Great.” She stared at the lock, then

at the gun still on the floor. The lock was one of

those old, solid steel ones that looked damned near

impregnable. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to try.

She picked up Mulder’s gun, then placed it back in

his ankle holster and withdrew her more powerful Sig.

“Jenkins,” she called, taking aim. “How old is this

lock?”

“Uh… About sixty, seventy years.”

Scully sighed. “What are the chances I could shoot it

open?” she asked him.

She heard him take a deep breath, then let it out

slowly. “Near impossible. That’s a Yale lock, about 3

inches thick. A bullet’d barely scratch her.”

After studying the lock for another minute, Scully

re-holstered her weapon; she didn’t want to chance a

ricochet hitting one of them. Stabbing Jenkins with a

glare, she asked, “When will the sheriff be back?”

“Um…” He glanced at the door nervously, as if he’d

just remembered something important.

“When, Jenkins?” Scully asked, impatiently.

“Oh, shit, he’s not coming back.” He looked at her,

his face full of fearful realization. “At least not

until after the storm.”

Scully suddenly got a bad feeling. “Storm?”

Jenkins looked anxiously at the front door, which was

starting to rattle from the wind. “Tornado,” he said,

his voice full of dread. “A twister is headed this

way. I just knew this blamed heat was gonna cause

trouble!” He moved his gaze to Scully. “I was coming

to take the two of you to the shelter, when that

maniac got the drop on me.”

Scully looked around nervously. “Are we safe in

here?”

The deputy licked his lips. “As safe as anyplace can

be that’s not below ground.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Jenkins shrugged. “This jail’s been through over a

hundred years’ worth of twisters, and it’s still

standing.”

The rattling of the door was nonstop now, and Scully

felt a prickling on the back of her neck when she

heard the roar outside getting louder by the second.

She recalled reading that the sound from a tornado

was likened to that of an approaching freight train.

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

“Ma’am!” Jenkins was yelling to be heard over the

din; she gazed at him dully and found him unbuckling

his belt, then rebuckling it around one of the cell

bars. “You’re gonna need to anchor yourselves to

these bars. Either that twister’s comin’ right at us,

or it’s gonna be awful close.” His gaze swept the

cell. “If you don’t want to be blown around against

the walls, you’d best fasten yourselves to the bars.”

He indicated the outer office. “There are no windows

in this building, and that’ll protect us a mite, but

if that twister hits us dead on — -and it sounds

like it might — -you’re gonna want to be connected

to something solid.”

After taking a second for the deputy’s words to sink

in, Scully rushed over to Mulder, slapping him none

too gently in her haste to wake him. “Come on,

Mulder. Wake up.”

His eyes shot open to glare at her. “Ow! Scully, what

the hell?” He caught her hand before another one

landed on his cheek. Looking at her, his expression

changed from angry to concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Tornado!” she shouted, straining to be heard. She

gave his arm a tug. “We need to anchor ourselves to

the bars.” Scooping up the two sets of handcuffs from

where she’d dropped them on the floor, she snapped

one end over Mulder’s wrist, dragging him toward the

bars at the front of the cell. Locking it in place

around the sturdy steel, she repeated the process

with her wrist, taking care to make it tighter than

the deputy had. As an afterthought, she patted her

pocket to assure herself that the key ring was still

where she’d put it.

Hesitating only a moment, Scully locked herself into

place mere inches from her partner. Though still a

bit dazed, Mulder wrapped his arm around her and drew

her close. She wrapped her free arm around his waist

and held on for dear life.

**

2:48 p.m.

As a native of coastal Massachusetts and then as a

denizen of Virginia, Mulder had had little to no

experience with tornadoes. Abstractly, he wondered

how it was he’d avoided the experience until now.

Scully had burrowed herself under his armpit, and

while one portion of his brain was overjoyed that she

was accepting his protection, another part was scared

shitless. When the front door blew open, Mulder

tightened his hold, and Scully practically crawled

inside him.

The noise was deafening now, and with the door open,

anything that wasn’t anchored was sucked out the

door. Scully was snatched from his grasp, and he was

pulled into the bars; the sheer force of it jarred

his teeth, and the air was stolen from his mouth. As

he struggled to breathe in the vortex, Mulder was

frantic with worry when he couldn’t move his head to

check on Scully.

Not so naïve to believe that it couldn’t get any

worse, Mulder was nonetheless surprised when the roar

outside intensified, the wind reversed and he was

literally blown off the bars. Even though it saved

him from being batted about the cell, Mulder cursed

the handcuff as it strove to sever his wrist from his

hand. He hoped Scully’s lighter body weight reduced

the strain on her wrist.

A loud clang by his imprisoned hand brought his

attention to the bars in front of him. He looked on

in horror as anything that hadn’t made it out the

door was now being hurled at them by the frenzied

winds. He never thought he’d ever feel lucky that he

was in jail.

So far, everything that had come their way had been

large enough to be stopped by the bars, but Mulder

felt his heart leap to his throat when the desk

drawers started exploding out. Fearful of what a

sharpened pencil or a letter opener could do at 100

MPH, Mulder was relieved when suddenly everything

stopped.

The roar, the wind, the pull on his arm ceased

abruptly, and he dropped like a lead weight, crashing

into the bars before slumping to the floor. He

scrambled to get his feet under him when pain from

his shoulder made him see stars. “Ow! Jesus!” he

gasped.

Expecting some sort of response from his partner and

not receiving one made Mulder shake off the graying

of his vision. “Scully?” he croaked.

She was hanging limply by her arm, not moving. His

heart started beating faster, and he felt himself

trembling with fear; he could barely breathe in the

still air. “Oh, God. Scully?” he choked out, reaching

for her face.

Her skin was hot and dry, and Mulder didn’t know if

that meant anything. Feeling for the pulse at her

neck, he almost passed out when he found it strong

and steady. He thought she must have been knocked out

when she hit the bars. Still, he checked her for

injuries, sighing when he didn’t find any.

Now that threat of serious injury had been ruled out

for Scully, Mulder’s shoulder was screaming for

attention. A groan from the next cell distracted him

only minimally. “Deputy?” Mulder questioned, unable

to maneuver himself around to face the other man.

“Are you all right?”

The deputy grunted an affirmative. “The blamed sheets

from the bed are tryin’ to strangle me.” His voice

was slightly muffled, and Mulder laughed at the

absurdity of it. He glanced at the bed in their cell.

It was stripped clean, but the bedding was nowhere in

sight. Only the pillow, too thick to fit through the

bars, remained, snug against the next cell.

Mulder winced as he moved back to face Scully,

grateful that she hadn’t left too much space between

them when she’d cuffed them to the bars. Struggling

to recall in which pocket she’d placed the keys, he

ended up patting her down when he couldn’t remember.

Though an enjoyable task under normal circumstances,

the pull on his shoulder made it excruciating.

Sweating and shaking when he finally found the keys,

he had to rest a minute before he could free himself.

After unlocking the cuff, he used his right hand to

lower his left arm very carefully; it hurt too much

to let it hang at his side, so he tucked it into the

waistband of his pants.

Then he turned and regarded his partner with dismay.

Once he uncuffed her, he’d be unable to hold her

upright with his other arm. Stepping close to her, he

pressed his body into hers, propping her up against

the bars. He reached up with his good arm and, after

a few clumsy attempts, was able to get her free. When

she slumped on top of him, he managed to get a grip

on her waist and lower her to the floor.

He winced when he caught sight of the lump on her

forehead. Trailing a finger gently down her cheek, he

called softly, “Scully…” Very gently, he tapped her

face with the side of his finger. “Come on, partner.

Wake up.”

A long, low, drawn-out groan made him almost forget

that they both were injured. “Mulderrr…” she

moaned, and he had to remind himself that he was

hearing a moan of distress, not of pleasure.

“I’m here, Scully,” he said gently, brushing the hair

out of her face with his good hand. “Lie still a

minute. You took a pretty good conk to the head.”

“Okay,” she whispered, surprising him with her

compliance.

After a few minutes of kneeling and watching her

anxiously, her eyes popped open, and she pushed

herself to a sitting position. “Careful,” he told

her, hovering but avoiding any contact that might jar

his shoulder.

Picking up on his out-of-character behavior, she eyed

him appraisingly. “Where are you injured?”

“I think I dislocated my shoulder.” He looked down at

the hand tucked into his waistband. He endured a few

seconds of her prodding on and around his joint

before he jerked away. Surprised and a little

embarrassed by this move, he again offered the

shoulder for her inspection. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

When he looked at her face, and her eyes met his, he

saw the change from doctor to partner to friend to

lover. All in the span of one second. Her hand came

up to cup his cheek, then slid to his neck. “Help me

up, and I’ll try not to hurt you too much.”

His concern for his shoulder was forgotten. “Why

don’t you give it another couple of minutes, Scully?

You were unconscious, you know.”

Smiling, she shook her head. “I feel fine now.” When

she started pushing to her feet, Mulder had no choice

but to relent and give her a hand.

He watched her carefully, and when he saw no

indication that she was feigning her good health, he

let himself relax, wincing from the movement.

“Okay?” she asked, directing him to the naked bed

frame and pushing him onto it.

He nodded, unable to speak as she resumed her

examination. She tried, he could tell, but it was

impossible for her to touch him and not hurt him.

“Almost done,” she said gently, as skilled fingers

probed tender flesh.

Again he nodded, then sighed when she declared that

she was done.

“The best I can do is immobilize it,” she told him.

“It looks like there may be some muscle damage as

well.” She turned her attention to the man in the

other cell. “Deputy, could you hand me those sheets,

please?”

As the officer complied, his eyes darted from her to

Mulder and back to her. “Y’all are really FBI?”

He heard Scully sigh. “Yes, we are.”

The man shook his head. “I’m sure sorry, ma’am.”

“You should be,” he heard his partner mutter, as she

dumped the bedding next to Mulder.

Any comments he had on the subject of the deputy’s

apology immediately fled when he saw his partner

tearing sheets in preparation of more torture. He

managed to stay quiet while she positioned his arm,

then attached it tightly to his chest. When she

finally pronounced that she was finished, he found

himself once again sweating and shaking, and wanting

desperately to pass out.

“Does it still hurt?” Her tone was concerned, and a

little alarmed.

He shook his head. “Not now.”

“Oh, Mulder…” She wrestled the mattress back onto

the bed frame, then guided him to it. Why don’t you

lie down for awhile?”

He couldn’t have protested if he’d wanted to. Letting

her help him down, he closed his eyes and sank into

the welcome darkness.

**

Act III

10:07 p.m.

“What in tarnation are you doing in there?”

Scully practically fell out of the bed when the

exasperated words penetrated into her doze. Rolling

smoothly off the mattress, she faced the two men

squared off at the adjoining cell.

The deputy sputtered an explanation of how he came to

be incarcerated in his own jail while the sheriff

unlocked the door.

Stopping when he caught sight of her and a Mulder

getting slowly to his feet, the sheriff asked, “Who

are they?” As the man’s gaze took in their

appearance, disbelief painted his face. “Oh, lord,

tell me they aren’t the ‘mobsters’ you arrested this

morning.”

Euphoric anticipation in the scene about to play out

caused Scully — and probably Mulder, too — to

refrain from answering for the flustered deputy.

The deputy shuffled from foot to foot, still inside

the unlocked cell. His gaze remained glued to his

boots. “Well… yeah.”

Muttering under his breath, the sheriff unlocked

their cell door. “I’m Sheriff Carl Farris. Agents

Mulder and Scully?”

Scully took out her I.D. and presented it to the

sheriff. “Yes, sir.”

The sheriff’s gaze drifted to his deputy and then

back to Scully. “Why didn’t you…” He indicated

Scully’s I.D. and the deputy.

“I wasn’t given the opportunity to do so,” she

answered.

The sheriff pinned Jenkins with a glare. “Didn’t they

tell you they were federal agents?”

Jenkins cleared his throat. “Sort of.”

“What the hell does that mean?” the sheriff exploded.

“Either they did or they didn’t.”

“We told him, but he didn’t believe us,” Scully

volunteered, savoring every moment of this.

“He was drunk,” the deputy challenged, pointing a

finger at Mulder. “Couldn’t pass the sobriety test.”

The sheriff turned back to Scully for an explanation.

“My partner was sick. The madman who locked your

deputy in that cell was using a device that affected

Agent Mulder’s health. I tried to explain…” She

felt the bitterness at Mulder’s treatment by the

deputy return. “…but he slapped the cuffs on and

threw us in a cell, and he wouldn’t listen.”

Mulder picked up the tale of woe. “Our cel phones

don’t get a signal here, so we couldn’t call anyone.

Plus, it’s hard to dial with handcuffs on,” he

muttered under his breath.

Scully — and apparently the sheriff, too — heard

him anyway. “Francis,” he addressed the deputy. “Did

you put them in a cell with the cuffs on?”

Jenkins nodded miserably.

Farris shook his head, then addressed Scully and

Mulder again. “I’m sorry about that, Agents. Francis

has been warned about that, but it doesn’t appear to

be taking too well.”

Scully exchanged a look with Mulder. ‘Obviously not,’

his raised eyebrows conveyed.

Seeing her partner holding himself a little stiffly,

Scully said to the sheriff, “I’ve got to get Agent

Mulder to the hospital.” She herded him out the cell

and into the debris-strewn office. “If you’ll excuse

us, we’ll check back with you tomorrow on the case.”

Seemingly just noticing that Mulder was injured,

Farris hastily moved aside. “Oh. Of course. Mind if I

ask what happened?”

“We were stuck in here when the twister hit.” Mulder

indicated Jenkins with a tilt of his head. “At the

deputy’s suggestion, we secured ourselves to the

bars.”

“Agent Mulder came down a little too hard,” Scully

finished.

The sheriff nodded. “County Hospital is five miles

out of town, going toward Huntsville, on the 190. You

should have no trouble finding it.”

Scully nodded her thanks as she ushered her partner

to the door. “We’ll be by late morning, if that’s all

right, Sheriff.”

“That’ll be fine, Agent Scully. It’ll give me time to

make this place a mite more presentable,” he grinned.

Scully gave him a tired smile. “We’d have no

objections coming by later if you need more time.”

The sheriff thought a moment. “How about two? That’ll

give you time to rest a bit, and me time to get a

little order in here.”

“Two it is,” Mulder answered for them. “See you

then.”

Scully smiled and followed her partner. They walked

out the door, then turned around and walked back in.

“Sheriff, could we trouble you for a ride?”

**

Larson’s Motel

9:49 a.m.

February 24

“Yes, sir. I’ll keep you apprised.” Through slitted

eyes, Mulder watched as Scully placed the motel phone

back in the cradle.

Mulder groaned and opened his eyes. “Was that

Skinner?” His voice was still rough with sleep, and

he coughed to clear it.

“He sends his love.”

Mulder snorted. “Maybe to you.”

Scully smiled. “His concern then.” Her face lost its

brightness. “He’s worried that you haven’t seen the

last of Lawrence Dexter.”

Wincing as he struggled to sit up, Mulder nodded.

“It’s a valid assumption, given Dexter’s history.” He

felt a little woozy, and let himself fall back

against the headboard. The impact jarred his

shoulder, and he grunted from the pain. Although the

doctor at the hospital had been able to pop his

shoulder back in, it still hurt like a son of a

bitch.

“What’s the matter?” Scully homed in on him like a

bee to honey.

Mulder tried to shake the cobwebs out of his head.

“Must be the medication they gave me.”

“Are you dizzy again?

Now that he’d been sitting up for few seconds, he

didn’t feel so bad. “It’s going away,” he told her,

his head beginning to clear. However, when he stood

up, Scully had to grab onto him to keep him from

toppling over.

“Whoa! What were you saying about its going away?”

And after another few seconds, it did. Not entirely,

but enough so he could continue his trek. “Thanks,”

he said, breaking out of her hold.

“Mulder,” she called after him. “You shouldn’t — ”

“Just going to the bathroom, Scully. I’ll come right

back out. I promise.”

He heard her halt her pursuit of him. “All right. Be

careful, though.”

Nodding, he entered the small room and closed the

door. He had just finished washing his hands, and was

reaching for the hand towel when his knees turned to

jelly, and he found himself sitting on the bathroom

floor.

The door suddenly flew open, nearly beaning him, and

he looked up in surprise. Scully stood over him like

a mother bear protecting her cub. “What happened?”

she asked as she lifted him to his feet. “Did you get

dizzy again?”

He honestly couldn’t remember. One minute he was

standing there, the next he was on the floor staring

up at his partner. “I don’t know.”

“This is *not* from the medication,” Scully stated

firmly. “Besides, that should have worn off about

four hours ago.”

“I know,” he said, as she walked him back to the bed.

“This feels like what happened earlier.”

“Dammit,” Scully swore. “That son of a bitch is still

in the area.”

“It looks like it,” Mulder agreed, sitting down

heavily on the bed; starting to feel ill, he crawled

up to the pillows and lay down. “Or he left behind a

present.”

Scully’s alarmed eyes met his, then she stalked away

and heaved his partially-packed bag onto the other

side of the bed. He tried not to groan when the

movement upset his already queasy stomach.

“Well, that’s everything.” Scully’s declaration

startled him awake.

He blinked and looked up at her. “Done already?” His

voice was hardly more than a croak.

Scully laughed. “Mulder, you’ve been asleep for two

hours.” She gazed at him with concern and affection.

“But, yes, I’m done.”

“Find anything?” he asked, even though he could tell

by her demeanor what the answer would be.

“No,” she answered quietly. “There’s nothing here.”

Her eyes met his. “We’re going to have to look for

him.”

Dumbfounded to hear her include him in the search

without his having to fight for it, he could only

nod, his mouth parted in awe.

Sitting beside him on the bed gently, she placed her

palm on the side of his face. “It’s your health he’s

screwing with, Mulder. You have every right to be in

on the hunt for him.”

“Thank you,” he managed to choke out. Just when he

thought he was sure he knew everything about her, she

still had the ability to surprise him.

She smiled her response and took hold of his hands,

giving them a squeeze. “Do you feel up to showering?”

He shook his head slowly. “I think I might need

help.” The sad truth was that he really thought he

would.

She helped him to his feet and guided him to the

bathroom, then stripped them both.

Mulder cursed Dexter anew when he found that his

greatest desire was not to ravish his partner, but to

keep her free of injury when he inevitably fell onto

his ass.

**

Sheriff’s Office

2:27 p.m.

“So this man Dexter is responsible for *all* the

‘accidents’ this past week?” The sheriff looked up at

Scully from behind his desk. “Even the ghost in the

diner?”

Scully blew out a breath, but before she could reply,

the sheriff put up a hand to stop her.

“I know it wasn’t really a ghost, Agent Scully, but

how did he do it? I have half a dozen witnesses who

swear they saw a man walk in through one wall and

walk back out another.”

“It could have been a holographic projection of some

kind,” Mulder interjected. “He certainly has the

technological know-how to make it look real.”

Scully nodded her agreement. “And we have reason to

believe that he has access to very sophisticated

equipment.”

She exchanged a look with her partner, critiquing his

appearance at the same time. He sat slumped in the

chair, elbow propped up on the sheriff’s desk, his

hand shielding his eyes from the bright fluorescent

lights.

“So where is he now?” Farris asked.

Scully shrugged. “He left just before the tornado

struck. I don’t know where he is now.”

“That’s it, then?” the sheriff asked. “Now that he’s

gone, all these weird events will stop?”

Scully glanced at her sick partner, who now appeared

to be asleep. “Almost all.”

Farris looked up sharply. “What do you mean, ‘almost

all?'”

“Dexter either left something behind, or is still in

the area. Whatever he used earlier on Agent Mulder is

affecting him again.”

The sheriff looked closely at Mulder, and his face

softened in sympathy. “Why does it only affect him?”

Scully shook her head. “We’ve been wondering that,

too, and we think he must have found some unique

element in Mulder’s chemical makeup that allows

Dexter to somehow zero in, to focus… whatever the

hell he devised… exclusively on him.” She noticed

the sheriff’s curiosity, but to the man’s credit, he

did not ask. This factor prompted her to tell him.

“Agent Mulder is red/green colorblind. We think that

the same genetic defect that causes the

colorblindness is also the trait that Dexter has

somehow been able to home in on.”

Farris nodded gravely. “Can I do anything to help?”

God bless the man, Scully thought. This almost made

up for his having an idiot for a deputy. Suddenly

remembering their not-so-pleasant encounter with the

man, Scully looked around warily. “We would

appreciate your help, Sheriff, but you can understand

that we would prefer not to work with Deputy

Jenkins.”

Farris nodded his agreement. “You won’t have to worry

about that. I let Francis go.”

Immediately — and irrationally — Scully felt

responsible.

The sheriff waived away her concern. “Don’t feel too

sorry for him. He’s my wife’s cousin and I’ve been

looking for a good enough reason to get rid of him

for months. I’m sorry it had to come at your expense,

but I surely thank you for the excuse I needed to

finally fire his ass.”

“Uh, Sheriff, I know you’ve got your hands full with

the fallout from the tornado, so if you could just

clear it so we have free reign to search the area,

we’ll be on our way.”

Farris glanced at Mulder, then nodded. “I hope you

don’t mind my saying so, Agent Scully, but your

partner doesn’t look like he’s in any condition to go

on a manhunt.”

Scully let her gaze drift to her sleeping partner for

a moment. “Unfortunately, Mulder’s illness is the one

sure way we have of finding either Dexter or whatever

is being used to make him sick.”

Farris squinted in puzzlement.

“The closer we get, the more he’s affected.”

Farris drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “You

mean, the closer you get, the sicker he gets?”

Scully nodded solemnly. “That’s right.”

The sheriff looked appalled. “Look, I can get someone

to take over for me here, and I can help you — ”

“That won’t be necessary,” Scully cut him off. “We’re

almost positive that Dexter has left the area — if

he was able to.”

Farris looked up at that. “You think he might be

dead?”

She hoped. “Or injured. He left only a couple of

minutes before that twister struck.”

“But you said Agent Mulder wasn’t affected until this

morning. If your suspect was killed, who activated

the device?”

“We know he planted one in Jenkins’ pocket — which

didn’t start to affect Mulder for a few minutes. We

think he must have used some sort of time delay.

Mulder could have been affected last night, but he

was too groggy from the pain killers at the hospital

to notice much before he fell asleep.” She paused,

thinking. “He was fine at the hospital, so we don’t

have to look in that direction. But it’s affecting

him more here than at the hotel, so we seem to be

heading in the right direction.”

Farris sighed. “All right, Agent Scully. But if you

find that son of a bitch alive, you call me if you

need me.”

Scully smiled. “Sheriff, it will be my pleasure.”

**

Just Outside the Agents’ Rental Car

4:06 p.m.

If he didn’t know Scully was with him, Mulder would

have sworn he was in hell. Why he ever thought it

would be a good idea to use himself as a gauge to

Dexter’s whereabouts was beyond him now.

He’d lost count of the number of times they’d had to

pull over so he could throw up, and even Scully was

growing exasperated by all the stops. As he crawled

back into the car from his latest bout, she was

studying a map and acknowledged him with a glance.

“Are you through?” she asked, and the annoyance in

her tone made him want to hit her.

“Do you think I’m enjoying this?” he spat. “I’m sorry

if I’m holding things up, but I didn’t think you’d

want to drive a rental car that smells like a sewer.”

“Look, I’m sorry, but we’re never going to find him

if we keep stopping every two minutes.”

“Well, what would you suggest I do? Stick my head out

the window every time I have to puke?” Exhausted and

dizzy beyond belief, he let himself fall against the

seat; when he noticed Scully’s scrutiny, he curled

against the door, turning away from her.

Her hand on his shoulder made him jump. “I’m sorry,”

she said, and the genuine sorrow in her voice made

him swallow hard. Yet he did not turn around; he

wasn’t quite ready to forgive her.

All too soon, her warmth was gone as she put the car

in gear and continued slowly along the debris-strewn

road. After a few minutes’ driving, he began to feel

better.

“Stop,” he croaked. “We’re going the wrong way.”

Scully brought the car to a stop, then looked at him

a moment before nodding and wordlessly reversing

direction. When they came to a side road, she took

it, and immediately he felt the effects.

“This way, huh?” she asked, with a noticeably strong

sympathetic tone in her voice.

Mulder knew he wasn’t required to answer, so he

concentrated on fighting the nausea, determined not

to lose any more time at the side of the road.

After about half a minute, he knew he’d made a major

mistake; unable to voice his panic, and before he

could convey his dilemma to his partner, Mulder found

himself heaving onto the floor. Though Scully

immediately pulled over, Mulder was embarrassed at

his inability to control his own actions. The second

the car came to a stop, he pulled on the handle and

stumbled out.

Christ, he thought she’d seen him at his absolute

worst, but this was a record low, even for him.

Feeling her hands on his shoulders, he tried to shake

her off. “Go on ahead, Scully.” He tried not to let

his emotions color his words. “We’re as close as

we’re going to get.”

“Mulder…” She tried to get him to turn around, but

he used the last of his strength to finally pull out

of her grip.

“Scully, just find whatever the hell is doing this to

me. I can’t help you anymore.” He sobbed it out, and

didn’t care that he did. “I just can’t.” He felt her

watching him, but he refused to face her, looking as

bad as he knew he must look.

“Okay, Mulder, but I know why you’re doing this.” Her

hand felt warm where she laid it on his back. “We’ll

discuss it when you’re feeling better.”

He nodded frantically. “Right,” he choked out, hoping

to hold back until she was in the car and away.

Though he didn’t hear the car door open and shut

before he began puking his guts out again, he did

hear her drive away right before he passed out.

**

4:53 p.m.

Mulder was exactly where she’d left him. She winced

when she took in his appearance; he’d been sick again

and then passed out right into the mess.

Returning to the car, she retrieved a couple of the

bottles of water they had bought to keep themselves

hydrated in the hot weather.

After dragging Mulder a few feet away from where he

was lying, she poured one of the bottles over his

face and hair. Worried when dousing him with water

didn’t rouse him, she fished his handkerchief out of

his pocket and wiped off the remaining hints of

sickness from his face. She tapped on his cheek

gently.

“Mulder… Hey, partner, come on. Wake up.” She wet a

clean portion of the cloth and ran it over his

forehead and eyes.

“Unnh…” he groaned. “Scully?”

A thrill still ran through her whenever she was

reminded that she was always Mulder’s first waking

thought. “Yeah, it’s me,” she told him, lovingly,

nudging his cheekbone with the backs of her fingers.

“How are you feeling?”

She watched as he took stock, then opened his eyes

and regarded her. “Better.” Taking a breath, he

wrinkled his nose, then jerked upright. He looked at

the ground around him. “I thought I…” He trailed

off.

“I’m afraid you did,” she said sympathetically. She

indicated the spot about six feet away.

His eyes alit on the area indicated, and his face

reddened, yet he didn’t say anything.

She touched a finger to the back of his hand. “You

don’t have to hide from me, Mulder.”

He shook his head and looked down at his lap. “I

don’t want you to see me looking like that.”

“But I did.” She knelt down beside him. “And it

hasn’t changed anything.” He shrugged, and she could

tell that though he believed her, it still troubled

him.

Looking up, he met her eyes. “What happened with

Dexter? I assume you found the device since I’m able

to sit here and talk to you.” His eyebrows furrowed

in question. “So what happened?”

Trying not to recall the scene she’d come upon when

she found their suspect, Scully looked away.

“Dexter’s dead. I found the device and destroyed it.

End of story.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” he asked, softly, and

she thought how there were times when she absolutely

hated the fact that he knew her so well.

“He asked me to kill him,” she stated flatly.

Mulder displayed the tiniest bit of surprise. “And

did you?”

Crossing her arms across her chest, she sighed. “He

wasn’t as lucky as we were, stuck inside a nice box,

with bars all around us.” She stopped, picturing the

scene in her mind. “There were fence pickets laying

everywhere, sticking up out of the ground… All but

one missed him.” She took a deep breath to try to

steady her increasingly faster-beating heart. “He ‘d

lost a lot of blood, but he was still alive.” She

looked away. “He pleaded with me to shoot him.”

The compassion in Mulder’s eyes made her glad she’d

done what she was about to tell him next.

“I made him tell me about the device he was using on

you.” At the question in his eyes, she explained. “He

had it in his jeans pocket. I took it and destroyed

it.” She focused on his face. “He had hidden similar

devices all over the D.C. area three years ago.” At

Mulder’s appalled look, she nodded. “For those CEO’s

he didn’t get to finish off. You were given the honor

of being subjected to the milder version. Because you

had nothing to do with his mother’s death, and for

doing your job, and doing it well, you got off easy.”

His look of disbelief made her laugh. “I know. I

know.” She patted his shoulder. “But at least you’re

alive. The others, if he’d been able to activate

them, would have eventually killed them.”

“Do you know where they’re hidden?” he asked.

She nodded, taking a notebook out of her pocket.

“Everything is in here: where they’re hidden, how to

activate them, the intended target.” She tapped the

small brown book with her finger. “As well as all his

little ‘experiments’ out here. And his…

professional work.”

Mulder gave a low whistle. “Some legacy he left,” he

commented, then gazed at her. “So did you…” He left

it at that.

She met his eyes, not blinking. “I couldn’t do it.”

He nodded. “What happened?” he asked softly.

She drew in a deep breath, then blew it out. “I took

aim, and I was all set to pull the trigger… and I

just couldn’t.” She glanced down guiltily at him.

Although grateful for the love and support in his

gaze, she had to look away for what was coming next.

“He grabbed my gun. A dying, mortally-wounded man

took away my weapon and shot himself with it.”

When she looked back at Mulder, she was dismayed by

the shock on his face. “He could have killed you,

Scully.”

She shook her head. “He didn’t want to kill me.” Her

eyes met his. “And he didn’t really take my gun away.

I gave it to him.”

Mulder’s shocked look increased. “Jesus, Scully…”

She looked down at her shoes; she really did not want

to tell him this. “It was his price for telling me

where he’d hidden the device,” she practically

mumbled. “…That I kill him or let him kill

himself.”

“Jesus…” he whispered. “Scully — ”

“Don’t even say it, Mulder.” She met his eyes again,

her own full of conviction. “He named a price — you

— and I paid it. Don’t even *think* for a minute

that I shouldn’t have.”

“But… he could have killed you.”

She sighed in exasperation. “You didn’t see him. I

did. You didn’t examine him. You didn’t see how much

he was suffering.” She shook her head. “He had barely

enough strength to pull the trigger once. He wasn’t

about to waste that shot on me.” She looked hard into

his eyes, as if that could make him see. “I made a

judgement call, Mulder. Either you trust me on this,

or you mull over for the rest of your life the fact

that I love you enough to take chances with my life

to save yours.” She narrowed her eyes at him and

quirked an eyebrow. “Sound familiar?”

She was relieved to see him visibly relax at that.

His lips even twitched upward almost in a smile.

“Yeah. I guess I can relate.”

Scully laughed. “Understatement of the year.”

Mulder chuckled, then winced when Scully helped him

to his feet.

“Shoulder still sore?”

He nodded, then said in a sheepish voice, “But my

stomach muscles hurt more.”

Scully nodded in sympathy; all that vomiting had

taken its toll. “I’ll bet,” she said, rubbing his

back.

Mulder gazed at her lovingly, then he smirked. “How

about we get the hell out of Dodge, pardner?”

Rolling her eyes, Scully groaned. “You’ve just been

waiting for the right time to use that, haven’t you?”

Her partner smiled happily. “Yeah.” He raised an

eyebrow. “And you haven’t?”

She shook her head. “Never even occurred to me.”

When Mulder rolled his eyes at her, Scully laughed.

**

Epilogue

February 25

A.D. Skinner’s Office

6:12 p.m.

“That’s the last of them,” Skinner sighed as he hung

up the phone.

“I’m impressed,” Mulder stated. “We just turned in

that notebook this afternoon.”

Skinner smiled. “Some pretty powerful people were on

that list, Agent Mulder.”

“What about the other… information?” Scully asked.

“That’s not your concern, Agent.” Skinner seemed

surprised at his harsh tone, and his next comment

came out a little milder. “The FBI has turned it over

to another agency.”

Mulder exchanged a look with Scully. Neither had to

ask which agency.

“So…” Skinner claimed their attention once again.

“That ends that. You can go home, Agents.”

Mulder nodded and stood up, Scully right by his side.

As they started for the door, Skinner stopped them.

“Agents?”

They turned around to face him.

“That was good work,” Skinner said quietly. “I’m glad

we can finally lay this case to rest.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mulder heard Scully say, while he

could only nod dumbly. What good work had he done?

Unless Skinner counted getting sick at every step a

plus, and in that event he solved this one by

himself.

When Scully turned and continued to the door, Mulder

followed her out. He was still embarrassed that his

partner had seen him in so many unflattering

situations. He couldn’t help but recall how irritated

she’d been during their search for Dexter when she’d

had to pull over every few minutes so he could vomit.

Just the thought made him feel humiliated all over

again.

“Mulder!”

His head jerked up in surprise. “Huh?” Finding his

partner’s eyes filled with mild annoyance, he shook

off the feeling of deja vu.

“I said, do you want to get some dinner?”

“Um…” He really wasn’t all that hungry, but if he

said so, he was certain he’d be facing The

Inquisition. “Sure.”

When Scully gave him a stern look, Mulder returned a

confused one. “Not here,” she said, motioning him

into the elevator.

Not sure what he’d done to get the silent treatment,

he nonetheless accompanied her to their office, where

they packed up and left in utter silence.

He was confident enough not to worry that she didn’t

love him any longer, and from the looks she was

throwing his way, he was beginning to see what had

upset her. He sighed. It wasn’t his fault that he

felt that way. And look who was calling the kettle

black! The ‘I’m fine” queen. The original ‘never let

them see you sweat’ model — or in her instance,

‘never show any weakness, never let Mulder comfort

you, never let him take care of you or allow him to

see you at anything less than your absolute perfect

best!’

How dare she be upset at his being embarrassed! She’d

had a front row seat to what he’d never been allowed

to even *know* about when *she* was sick.

Once they were in the car and Scully turned to him,

Mulder was ready to counter any argument she gave him

about his feelings.

Her softly-uttered, “I’m sorry,” totally derailed his

thoughts.

“What?” was all he could manage.

“Because it was you, because it’s absurd to me that I

would see you in any light other than perfect, I’d

discounted how very humiliating it feels to have

someone watching while you’re feeling as far from

perfect as you can feel.” She cupped his cheek. “And

I apologize for how much worse I made you feel in the

car. In my defense, I can only say that I was so

anxious to catch Dexter and put a stop to what he was

doing to you, that I forgot about *you.*”

Mulder swallowed hard, nodding. While he appreciated

her viewpoint and could understand her impatience,

still it hurt. In time, he would push it out of his

mind, but for now the memory was too sharp to simply

brush aside. He took a deep breath, and dredged up a

smile. “It’s okay,” he said softly.

She gave him the eyebrow, and he laughed.

“It will be,” he amended. Taking her hand in his, he

brought it to his lips and gently kissed her palm.

“Because I know you love me.”

“Damned right,” she averred. After a few seconds, he

let her go so she could start the car.

As she drove in silence, his mind couldn’t help but

wander back to the previous day and what she’d gone

through alone with Dexter. He hadn’t been the only

one who’d had a tough time of it.

“You’ll be all right, too, Scully.”

Eyes never leaving the road, she smiled. “I know.”

When she didn’t say anything else, Mulder felt the

need to prompt her. “Do you know why?”

A wistful smile came to her face. “Because you know I

love you.”

Mulder shook his head slowly from side to side.

“You’re impossible,” he said good-naturedly.

Taking her eyes off the road for a moment, Scully

glanced at him. “Do you know why?

“Because I love you,” Mulder said quietly.

Scully nodded with enthusiasm.

“Damned right.”

The End

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