Z1372

Author: Martin Ross

Category: Casefile/profiler/crossover

Rating: PG-13 for language, violence, mild sexual innuendo

Spoilers: Kaddish, VS12/13 various, CSI, Without a Trace, Cold Case

Summary: Mulder and Scully embark on a cross-country trek to thwart a kidnapper and memory

thief who may be connected to an old adversary.

Disclaimer: To Chris Carter and Jerry Bruckheimer, here’s the mega-crossover that never

happened, all in fond fun and with respect to the enforcement agencies and producers involved.

E-mail: fwidsvnt@ilfb.org

Hotel Manhattan Continentale

New York, N.Y.

10:17 a.m.

“In the end, the essential question is not, ‘Are we playing God?’ Without wishing to debate

theology or the theoretical hand of God in the human genome – and, please, believe me, I don’t —”

A titter arose from the 150-some scientists assembled in the Versailles Salon, and Cedric Morsberg

slipped silently from his seat on the aisle near the back. The ongoing scrap between God and

Science had been escalating since Dolly the Sheep started making the tabloids, and Morsberg had

heard it all, even from the likes of the artfully tattered, pampered kids on the sidewalk outside the

hotel, chanting and screaming and, periodically, invoking the name and outrage of a deity to which

most of them likely did not subscribe.

“—I must argue that the quintessential question is whether we are acting with humanity. Are we

indeed acting as stewards of all over which we have been given dominion? Are we embracing that

which will serve our planets in the millennia ahead, or that which ultimately will spell our

downfall?”

Easing the ballroom doors quietly closed behind him, Cedric Morsberg sighed with amusement.

The Canadian geneticist had contemplated blowing off the initial breakout sessions for a peek

about Manhattan, perhaps a famous New Yawk bagel at the deli he’d spotted a few blocks down.

Morsberg was no hayseed down from the University of Guelph-Ontario to gawp at the New York

skyline – he’d lectured and consulted in the world’s major genetics hubs, and the Science Prize

he’d collected in Stockholm held an honored spot on a shelf above his cluttered desk. But this

incredibly was his first visit to the Big Apple, and he felt a certain tinge of adrenalin.

No, he’d attended Jason Kirschner’s bioethics session purely out of academic curiosity and, he was

forced to concede, a highly non-academic sense of amusement. The conservatives somehow

believed Man capable of usurping the dominion of a purportedly all-knowing, omnipotent God.

The liberals, to whom rational, existential fact was purportedly the only God, disregarded the most

essential mechanics of biology and the growing hunger of the planet –- a hunger that, unchecked by

technology, would consume Earth’s resources.

Morsberg himself had tweaked a few genes to increase phosphorous uptake in swine – a

development that could significantly reduce phosphate levels in manure and thus harmful runoff

from livestock farms. That angle had only peripherally interested the Toronto metro reporter who’d

visited his lab, instantly dubbed UG-213 the “Greenpig,” and conducted his own clumsy print

forum on bioethics. His stomach rumbled with acid and Starbucks, and Morsberg wished he’d

opted for the bagel.

Morsberg headed around the corner toward the Grand Ballroom, groaning as he spotted the “Out of

Order” placard on the men’s room lavatory. An old Latino man pressing the hotel’s initials into the

white sand of a now purely ornamental ashtray looked up.

“There’s another one, sir, one floor up,” the man smiled, head slightly bowed.

“Thank you,” Morsberg nodded congenially, and he cut across to the escalator. The mezzanine

floor was deserted this morning, reserved for afternoon business sessions by some insurance

organization. The geneticist was reminded of The Shining – not the book but the Nicholson film.

Morsberg had been taken with the chilling image of the twin girls haunting the Overlook’s

corridors – twins, the abilities they purported to possess, frequently elicited wariness, and he

suspected that fear played into societal perceptions of cloning. Not a paper there, but interesting

chat for the lab lunchroom nonetheless.

The men’s lavatory was encased in marble, lined in deep teak, cold despite the five-star hotel’s

meticulous control of its environment. He peeked under the nearly floor-length stall doors – the

place was his – and Morsberg entered the first cubicle. As he settled in, the scientist pulled the

conference program from the pocket of his hanging blazer. Mostly crop and biomedical sessions

for the next few hours, but a promising breakout on prion manipulation in cattle at one.

Morsberg replaced the agenda, and glanced at the wall to either side of him. Even in this pricey

Manhattan hostelry, the human instinct toward ego and identification prevailed. Morsberg’s

adolescent grandson of late had taken an interest in U.S. rap music, and his grandfather the

academician in turn had developed a fascination with the monomania of the “gangsta” community

and the culture of graffiti – “tagging,” as his grandson had patiently explained.

Here was a mix of the hackneyed and pathetic. Obscene verse prepossessed with excrement and

sex; hastily and deeply carved monograms; alternately misogynistic or homophobic observations

about unknown third persons. And the American classics – “Here I sit, all broken-hearted…”

Morsberg chuckled, his laughter ricocheting off the wood and marble. Then he spotted the partial

inscription, obscured by his blazer but directly in front of his face. He moved the jacket’s tail aside

and frowned. It was a number, carved with neat, thick block letters into the door. The number was

preceded by the letter Z – too obviously hand wrought to be some kind of serial number, but too

precisely produced and unadorned to be a personal tag.

The number disappeared momentarily as the lights flickered over Morsberg’s stall. Then the room

plunged into darkness. He glanced up curiously. Had some custodian assumed the room was

uninhabited?

“Pardon me,” Morsberg called. “Someone in here.” He blinked as the room again filled with

blinding light.

Then he heard the whispered giggling, low and, to his ears, conspiratorial…

The Java-nese Embassy

Washington, D.C.

1:32 p.m.

Three weeks later

Scully scanned the interior of the faux deco coffee shop, filled to the pine walls with congressional

aides, interns, students, lobbyists, and visiting taxpayers. It was a pleasant day in the Capitol, the

caseload was light, so she’d done the quarter-mile from the Hoover on foot.

Malone was seated to the rear, back against the wall, a folded Post in one hand and a Supragrande

in the other. As he spotted Scully, he flashed a tight smile and stowed the paper.

“OPEC just dropped their per-barrel price again,” the square-jawed agent rumbled, toasting with

his foam cup. “So, once again, it’s gonna cost more to get wired up than fueled up. Agent Scully.”

She pulled up a chair. “Agent Malone.”

“Not gonna have something? I mean, it’s on me. Well, the Bureau.”

“No thanks.”

Jack Malone worked Missing Persons out of the New York office. Mulder and Scully had worked a

task force with him about a year back – good outcome, but Malone and Mulder had developed a

predictable “rapport.” Malone was a dedicated agent, but his workaholic nature and – if the Bureau

grapevine were correct – a questionable relationship with an underling had cost him his family.

Scully had no real professional beef with the man, but his exclusive invitation had spurred her

defensive instincts toward Mulder.

“How’s your partner?” Malone asked, sipping his Supragrande.

“He’s fine,” Scully drawled. “What can I do for you, Agent?”

“OK,” Malone shrugged. “Got something that might appeal to him, but I thought I might run it past

you first. We didn’t exactly click on the Jensen case, case you didn’t notice.”

“I noticed. What’s up, Agent Malone? Is this case of yours supposed to appeal to Agent Mulder’s

profiling skills, or…”

Malone suddenly smirked, boyishly. “Or, I hate to say.”

Scully’s brow tweaked. The New Yorker shrugged.

“Perhaps I will have that coffee,” Scully said.

J. Edgar Hoover Building

Washington

2:43 p.m.

“Cedric Morsberg,” Scully began. “Canadian molecular biologist, reported missing while attending

an academic conference in New York three weeks ago. His colleagues saw him abruptly leave in

the middle of a seminar about mid-morning, and that was the last anyone saw of him. He was

scheduled to deliver a banquet address that evening, and when he failed to show, the conference

organizers called NYPD Missing Person, who called in the FBI two days later.”

Mulder’s chair squeaked as he leaned back and propped his shoes on the desk top between a plaster

cast of a large, three-toed foot and a stack of Polaroids that portrayed a smiling couple flanked by

translucent, eyeless apparitions. “So far, Scully, it’s a three on the Snore-o-Meter — somewhere

between Sen. Lieberman’s ‘Joe-mentum’ speech and Wheel of Fortune visits Fort Lauderdale.”

“Agent Malone and his team failed to unearth any leads, and the press speculated Morsberg had

become a victim of street violence, never mind that he went missing in a busy section of Manhattan

in broad daylight,” Scully continued, unfazed. “The trail went cold for a week or so, until a witness

in Las Vegas recognized Dr. Morsberg from a CNN report, after the good doctor tried to panhandle

him. The locals pulled him in, only to find Morsberg had no memory of the last week-and-a-half or

even his own identity.”

Mulder’s chair snapped back into place. “Total amnesia?”

“Rarer than you might think. Psychogenic amnesia – the loss of the ability to remember one’s self –

is common in pop culture, in the movies, but scientists have never been able to confirm that it’s a

real phenomenon.” Scully perched on the edge of the desk. “If I had to guess, I’d say Dr.

Morsberg’s in a fugue state. The Merck Manual defines disassociative fugue as ‘one or more

episodes of amnesia in which the inability to recall some or all of one’s past and either the loss of

one’s identity or the formation of a new identity occur with sudden, unexpected, purposeful travel

away from home.’ Dr. Morsberg’s journey from Manhattan to Las Vegas certainly was sudden and

unexpected. The question is, was it purposeful?”

“That’s the question Malone wants us to answer?” Mulder smiled. “I didn’t get the impression he

held much regard for my particular criminological approach. What aren’t you telling me, Scully?”

His partner pulled a sheaf of folders from the bag at her feet. “After the Las Vegas P.D. identified

Dr. Morsberg, one of Agent Malone’s squad checked for cases that might have a similar ‘M.O.’ –

victims abducted, transported great distances, and released unharmed with no ransom demands or

apparent motive.”

“Could you narrow that down?”

Scully didn’t smile. “There’ve been at least four such cases over the last three years, Mulder. The

victims were found scattered across the U.S., but each disappeared in New York, seemingly

without a trace.”

Mulder straightened, frowning.

“And each victim,” Scully added, significantly, “had suffered nearly complete and to date

irreversible amnesia.”

Mulder was silent for a moment. “Pack your bags, Scully – I’m willing to indulge Malone. But let

me warn you: I’m not going anywhere near Kenny G or Sinbad.”

Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department Forensics Lab

10:23 a.m.

To Scully’s chagrin, Mulder had discovered a kindred spirit.

“Holy Lepidoptera, Batman,” the agent murmured as his childlike eyes scanned the dimly lit

interior of Gil Grissom’s office. Chemically interred insects stared with lifeless, compound eyes

from nearly every corner. “I didn’t realize you were THE Gilbert Grissom. Loved your piece on

blowfly development in the July Entomologica.”

The bespectacled, bearded chief investigator for the Las Vegas Crime Lab dipped his head

modestly. “I enjoyed equally your article on crypto-invertebratology in last month’s Fortean Times.

I understand we have a mutual acquaintance? Bambi Berenbaum?”

Scully chortled.

“Ah, yeah,” Mulder mumbled with a dreamy grin. “She helped me on a case a while back,

involving some anomalous cockroach behavior. Dr. Berenbaum has an exceptional…mind.”

“Ah, yes,” Grissom smiled back, cryptically. “Supple logic, a firm grasp of insectile psychology.”

“Not to mention her tightly disciplined sense of—”

“Before you boys start discussing Dr. Berenbaum’s thoracic exoskeleton, could we return to the

case at hand?” Scully sighed.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, your victim, Dr. Morsberg, has no knowledge of how he arrived on the

Strip,” Grissom shifted without missing a beat. “No sign of physical trauma or drug presence that

might account for his apparent fugue state. However, Dr. Morsberg’s clothing provides us a few

clues. The heels of his shoes exhibited slight but recent wear, as if he had been dragged for a short

distance. And we found some salt-like residue on his suit similar to highway de-icer. Which,

considering it’s June, should make it reasonably easy to trace–”

“Brine,” a self-assured voice announced. Mulder and Scully turned to face an arrogantly bored

young man in a lab coat with an expression, and Grissom’s brow rose in anticipation. “Hodges to

the rescue again. Your John Doe was swimming with the fishes – or at least, hanging with them.”

Grissom waited calmly. The lab technician coughed.

“Your compound is a brine – salt, sugar, and some assorted spices. I’m guessing it was used to cure

smoked fish — I also found some omega-3 fatty acids common in tuna and salmon, thus verifying

my brilliant conclusions. I’m screening the DNA right now, but my guess is Nameless Guy is the

victim of some kind of schmear campaign.” The bored technician smirked, awaiting a reaction.

“Get it? Smoked salmon, lox, schmear campaign?” Hodges rolled his eyes. “And they say Vegas

audiences are the best in the world.”

“See if you can pin down the specific brining compound – assuming we’re talking a commercial

food company, it should be easy enough to trace,” Grissom replied cheerfully. “Thank you,

Hodges.” The young man blinked and stumbled back into the corridor, and Grissom turned back to

his visitors.

“Occam’s Razor,” Scully murmured. “The simplest, most logical alternative: Morsberg was

mugged in Manhattan, dragged into some kind of food service or catering truck – probably at the

Hotel Continentale –- transported a few thousand miles, and unceremoniously dumped on the Strip.

The question is, why?”

“Witness?” Grissom ventured. “Maybe he saw something, maybe at the hotel?”

“The biotechnology conference pretty much consumed the hotel facilities, but they’d also booked a

one-day annual meeting of East Coast insurance claims adjustors,” Mulder reported. “The claims

guys all checked out, and there were no red flags in the guest register – geneticists, insurance

geeks, and Iowans in town to see The Producers. Besides, if Morsberg had witnessed a crime or

some uptown indiscretion, why not eliminate him altogether? Why ship him cross-country?”

Grissom considered, his eyes obscured by the glare of his desk lamp. “What if the amnesia came

first? Morsberg suffers some sort of physical trauma we haven’t yet been able to detect, or maybe

he sees something that induces an emotional trauma, thus the fugue. He wanders onto the hotel

loading dock and into a seafood delivery truck, collapses, and is locked inside. Except…”

“Except the driver surely would have unloaded some cargo somewhere between here and New

York,” Mulder concluded. “Unless our driver is near-sighted, or Dr. Morsberg has fins and a bad

case of wall-eye, it’d be kind of hard to miss an unconscious researcher in amongst the lox and crab

legs. I’d say that, for whatever reason, Dr. Morsberg was deliberately hijacked.”

Grissom lips twitched into a Cheshire smile. “Fish AND foul.”

Las Vegas Police Department – Detectives Division

12:46 p.m.

Despite his disheveled white mane and the deep creases surrounding his eyes, Cedric Morsberg

looked like a child lost at a mall, periodically looking to Lt. Jim Brass for answers to Mulder and

Scully’s questions. Brass, a middle-aged, dry-humored cop, smiled encouragingly but largely kept

his peace.

“I’m sorry,” Morsberg said again, meekly, as he glanced at the agents across the interview table. “I

simply have no idea about anything you’re telling me. Cedric? What an awful name, eh?”

“Not so awful,” Brass commiserated, turning to Mulder with a mischevious glint. “Right, Fox?”

“Dr. Morsberg,” Mulder continued, undaunted by the detective’s not atypical reaction to the

presence of feds in his chicken coop, “just what do you remember?”

Morsberg’s liver-spotted head drooped and shook from side to side. “I’m sorry.”

“Been like that since we found him,” Brass related. “Don’t know how you’re going to squeeze this

turnip dry. No offense, Dr. Morsberg.”

The scientist smiled for the first time. “Actually, I like turnips. Isn’t it odd I’d recall that, of all

things?”

Mulder turned to Scully. “You think I could penetrate his fugue?”

Scully frowned for a second, and her lips parted with realization. “You know how I feel about

voodoo psychology, but I guess nothing ventured, nothing gained…”

“Hey, guys,” Brass interrupted. “This supposed to be some kind of mind-reading act? Cause I’m no

Kreskin.”

“Different schtick, Lieutenant,” Mulder informed the cop. “Tonight’s headliner is the Amazing

Fox, hypnotist extraordinaire.”

“Great,” Brass sighed, pushing his chair back. “I prefer my magic acts with tigers, but it’s your

show, I guess.”

“Just remember,” Mulder warned. “What happens in Las Vegas under hypnosis stays in—“

The interview room door cut his admonition short.

**

“Dr. Morsberg,” Mulder prompted. “Do you need to use the men’s room? I think you do.”

Morsberg, who had sat docilely in his chair, hands folded in his lap, grimaced slightly. He nodded.

“Yes. I need to find the lavatory.”

Brass grinned. Grissom watched the performance, rapt. It had been a guess on Mulder’s part – a

boring seminar on bioethics, coffee consumed by the gallon to keep the conference’s assembled

scientists on task.

“This is the first time you’ve ever been here,” Mulder reminded the semi-conscious man, who now

was restless with imagined discomfort. “You must ask where the men’s room – the lavatory – is.

You’ve left the ballroom – you’re in the hallway. You need to go, badly. You must find someone to

help you.”

“Everyone’s inside, listening to the man. There is no one in the hall. I’ve found the lavatory, but I

can’t use it. The sign says it is out of order.”

Mulder waited patiently – he didn’t want to influence Morsberg’s memories – whichever ones

might remain. The amnesiac suddenly perked.

“There he is. A man in a white jacket. He’s older; he’s doing something with a trash can – no, an

ashtray. He sees I’m looking at the lavatory sign.” Morsberg smiled in relief. “There is another one,

upstairs. Thank you. Yes, this one is open, though I’m a bit anxious. This floor seems deserted. But

I need to relieve myself, and surely no one would try anything in broad daylight in such a nice

place.”

“Was there anyone in the lavatory?” Mulder inquired, gently.

“No, I am alone. I go into one of the stalls and sit.”

“Should I get a stenographer in here?” Brass chortled. Mulder glanced sharply at the detective, who

locked his lips with an imaginary key.

Morsberg’s forehead wrinkled.

“Doctor?” Mulder asked. “Do you hear something, see something?”

“The number on the door. It’s right before my eyes, as if it were meant for me to see.”

Mulder turned to Scully, who goaded him to return to his questioning.

“Can you see the number now?” he prodded. “You’re at a blackboard. Here’s some chalk. Could

you please write the number on the board for me?”

Morsberg nodded. His arm floated upward, and with clean, brisk classroom strokes, he inscribed a

series of numbers. The arm fell back into his lap.

“Would you read the number to me, sir?”

“Zed. One, three, seven, two.”

“Zed?” Brass mumbled.

“Dr. Morsberg was born in Kensington, England,” Scully supplied. “Zed means Z.”

“Yes,” Morsberg nodded, his eyes still shut. “Zed-1-3-7-2. What does this mean?”

“You got me, Doc,” Brass sighed. The cop jumped as Morsberg tensed, his chair rattling.

“Doctor?” Mulder whispered.

“I can see nothing,” he rasped fearfully. “The lights have gone out.” He winced, shielded his

unseeing eyes. “What is this? Why are they laughing? WHY ARE THEY LAUGHING?”

The Imperial Casino

Las Vegas, Nevada

6:12 p.m.

“Z1372,” Mulder repeated for the thirteenth time over the din of slots and partying, as a thick prime

rib was deposited before him. “Doesn’t sound like a phone number.”

Grissom shook his head, sipping his Pepsi. “Doesn’t correspond to any New York exchanges. The

same for Motor Vehicles, at least in New York and surrounding states – it’s not a local plate

number. Meanwhile, a colleague of mine, Lt. Taylor with New York CSI, is checking out the

mezzanine restroom Morsberg supposedly used. Though I’m sure the room has been cleaned

dozens of times since Morsberg’s disappearance, maybe that number’s still on the stall door.”

“If it ever was,” Scully cautioned. “The number could just be a piece of disjointed memory bobbing

to the surface. I’m more interested in how Dr. Morsberg’s memory loss may have been induced.

The CAT-scan shows no apparent insult to the brain, and he’s suffered no cranial injury.”

“Induced?” Grissom back-tracked. “Do you believe someone somehow erased his memory?”

Mulder and Scully exchanged glances. Up in the room, they’d decided to bring their

criminologist/host into their confidence.

“We’ve found a series of similar incidents going back at least three years,” Mulder said, carving

into his meat. “Four victims besides Morsberg, apparently kidnapped in the New York area,

eventually found unharmed except for a complete loss of both short- and long-term memory. To

this day, none have recovered their memory.”

“Serial what, abductions?” Grissom murmured, disturbed. “What about the victims? Any pattern

there?”

“The first victim, Jeffrey Turealt, 41, was an employee with the New York State Department of

Corrections. A clerk at Riker’s Island. Turealt went into the city to take care of some personal

business but never came home to Staten Island that night. Wife and two kids, an essentially

anonymous job processing paperwork on prisoners, and no real interests outside the Yankees. He

was busted three months later in Nogales, N.M., dumpster-diving for lunch. Turealt had no

memory of how he’d gotten there.

“Dorothy Banbridge, 54, the second victim, worked for the New York Department of Motor

Vehicles. A faceless bureaucratic functionary, like Turealt – administered driver’s exams all day,

lived alone with two cats. Took her lunch break one day and never came back. She turned up

bussing tables at a diner in Miami – she’d been there two months.”

Grissom’s brow furrowed. “So we have three employees of the state, or the province, if you count

Dr. Morsberg. The University of Guelph is a nationally-funded university, and Morsberg’s genetics

work was conducted under a Ministry of Agriculture grant. Perhaps we’re looking at some lone

wolf anti-government extremist, a supremely disgruntled taxpayer with roots in both the U.S. and

Canada.”

“That hadn’t occurred to me,” Mulder drawled. “Unfortunately, Victim No. 3 blows that theory out

of the water. Ray Herrera, 26, researcher with Droxell-Melchin Pharmaceuticals. Disappeared one

night after work – said he was going drinking with some friends, but the friends never materialized.

Wherever he actually went, Herrera wound up in Mesa, Ariz., rounded up in an INS raid of a

construction site. But the agents involved were curious about his grasp of U.S. slang, Droxell-

Melchin had done some federal work on military bioweapons antidotes, and luckily, Herrerra’s

prints were on file. But, once again, Herrerra had no memory of his identity or how he’d arrived in

Arizona.”

“A compassionate kidnaper,” Grissom mused.

Scully replaced her arugula-filled fork. “How so?”

“Las Vegas, Mesa, Miami, New Mexico? Our kidnaper – or kidnapers – didn’t leave our victims to

languish in the wilds of Alaska or Wisconsin. He, she, or they didn’t want their prey to suffer, at

least in any immediate physical sense.”

“Humane brain thieves,” Mulder mused.

Grissom’s face grew meditative. “‘Cruelty must be whitewashed by a moral excuse, and a pretense

of reluctance.’”

Residence of Jeffrey Turealt

Staten Island, N.Y.

10:03 a.m.

“Jeff, baby, these are the FBI people I told you about,” Gwen Turealt said softly. Jeffrey Turealt

looked up disinterestedly from the couch, his remote hand silencing Judge Judy. “You talk to them,

and I’ll make you some more coffee, OK?”

Mrs. Turealt appeared some 30 pounds lighter and 20 years older than the photo of the couple

Mulder and Scully had been provided. As Scully inspected the dull-eyed man on the couch wearing

the New York Corrections Department sweatshirts and baggy jeans, she understood what had

added years and subtracted pounds from his wife.

“You know,” he said mildly. “I’m not gonna be able to tell you any more about what happened to

me any more I could the cops. Hope you had other business in town today.”

The agents settled into armchairs flanking the couch. Dust motes floated in the sun admitted by the

Turealts’ thick curtains, and Judge Judy mutely waggled a finger at a fish-faced man and an over-

made-up young woman.

“How are you, Mr. Turealt?” Mulder inquired. “Has anything come back to you?”

He shook his head, staring at Judy’s wrathful face. “Not a thing. I know she’s disappointed. She’s

always pushing scrapbooks and crap in my face, trying to get me to remember. Even had some of

the guys I used to work with out — kinda rough characters, you know?” Turealt sighed. “Sorry —

guess this ain’t easy on her, either. She seems like a nice enough lady. And I ought to get a job,

‘cept every time I try, they treat me like a retard or something. Tell you the truth, I guess I’d just as

soon be left alone, you know? Please don’t tell her that — I don’t want to hurt her any more.”

Mulder rose. “Sure, Mr. Turealt. Good luck.”

Turealt nodded absently, raised an arm, and Judge Judy’s tirade filled the room. In the adjoining

kitchen, Mrs. Turealt was turned toward the refrigerator, her back twitching with silent sobs. Scully

placed a tentative hand on her shoulder, and the thin woman turned with red eyes and an apologetic

smile.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Turealt whispered. “Most days, I can keep it together. It’s just, if you’d known

him, before, well, he was just a very dynamic man. Dynamic but sweet — he’d give you the shirt.

Now he just watches the soaps and Matlock and buys lottery tickets with whatever money I give

him.” She tapped a row of Big Ball Pick Five tickets clamped magnetically to the Amana.

“Sometimes, I wonder if he isn’t hoping to hit the big lotto just so he can get away from me.”

“Have you looked in any memory enhancement therapies?” Scully asked. “I know a researcher at

Johns Hopkins…”

“We’ve tried, agent,” she sighed. “He won’t go any more. Says it’s a lost cause.”

Mulder had strayed from the conversation to scan the tickets on the fridge. “Scully,” he murmured

suddenly. “Take a look at this. Mrs. Turealt, does your husband always play the same numbers?”

“I never noticed.”

Scully’s eyes moved from one ticket to the next. “26-3-1-7-2. 3172. Morsberg’s number.”

“It’s been planted subconsciously in Turealt’s mind. Except he can’t play a Z, so he converted it to

its alphanumerical equivalent.”

A ghostly smile crossed Mrs. Turealt’s lips. “He always was good with numbers.”

Palmetto Cabanas Apartment

Miami, Florida

2:30 p.m.

Dorothy Banbridge also had experienced a significant loss of weight.

“Fifty pounds, kids,” the former DMV clerk announced, pirouetting for her visitors. “Lost my

memory, lost my hips. I took one look at my lard-assed, nicotine-stained self, and wondered how

the hell somebody had done this to me. That’s how I think about that pinch-faced, tight-assed old

bitch — somebody else.”

Mulder scanned the studio apartment, which was carpeted in canvas tarps and newspaper. A dozen

faceless figures stood sentry over the virtually unfurnished space – hand-fashioned golem

seemingly created in Dorothy’s mentally sterile image. Each bore a UPC-style bar code on its

forearm.

“I have to say you’ve got an astonishing attitude toward your predicament,” he said. “Most people

who’ve had a lifetime of memories, experiences wiped away would be devastated.”

Dorothy grinned. “After my daughter came to take me home, I took a good look at old ‘Dot’s life.

Smelly cats and flavorless TV dinners. She spent her days making poor schmucks jump through

hoops. My Aunt Virginia, an equal dried-up husk, left me a sizeable wad that I’d put into tech

stocks when they were worth something, and I caught the first plane back here. I think Linda was

relieved her sour old lady was gone. She actually came down here to visit last month – never did

that when I lived in the city.”

“And these,” Scully gestured toward the figures, “are yours’?”

“Just started making them one day – almost like I had to – and the girl downstairs got her gallery

owner friend to look at them.” Dorothy’s laugh itself was girlish. “Turns out my little ‘misfortune’

made for a good ‘back story.’ I’ve sold 15 so far – ‘freshly mindless creativity,’ my artsy friend

says.”

“Mrs. Banbridge.” Mulder turned serious. “Have you ever recovered any memory of your

kidnapper?”

She shrugged. “Wish I could. He – sorry, he or she — saved me.” She inspected her golem. “You

find him, tell him I’ll cut him in.”

**

“You ever wish you could get a clean start?” Mulder posed as they left Dorothy to her new life. “A

second chance?”

Scully smiled as the Florida sun outside the apartment building caressed her face. “I don’t know,

Mulder. I guess I feel I’ve done all right with the first one. Maybe the road not taken leads to a

dead end. How about you? Any regrets?”

“Not getting the TiVO thing,” he concluded. “I tried to watch Lost the other night and was totally

effed up. Seriously, look at Ms. Banbridge up there – nothing to regret, nothing but future.”

“And Jeffrey Turealt? A shell without substance, without mission, living with a stranger he once

loved? I’ll take my past, Mulder – without it, I wouldn’t have my future. Our future.”

“There’s that. Hold on — either I’m stroking out, or my phone’s vibrating.” Mulder extracted his

cell. “FBI’s Most Unwanted. . .Yeah. . .Really?. . .Where? No, I think it’s a good shot. . .We’ll be

there.”

Mulder turned to Scully. “Grissom was able to track the brining compound to Marine Gourmet, a

seafood supplier out of Massachusetts. They ship product to 36 states, including New York,

Florida, Arizona, and Nevada. Marine Gourmet had three drivers in New York City the day

Morsberg disappeared. Only two have been with the company for more than two years, and one

only works the Eastern Seaboard. John Barry. Been trucking for 10 years, but the Mass State Police

haven’t found anything prior to that. Barry’s probably an alias.”

“So, have they rounded him up?” Scully asked.

“They didn’t want to spook him, so the plan is to intercept him on the road. He’s expected to hit

into the Indianapolis area tomorrow, and his coworkers say he always haunts the same truck stop.”

Scully sighed, staring longingly at the ocean a few blocks away. “Suddenly, I see chicken fried

steak in my future.”

City Market

Amarillo, Texas

3 p.m.

“Kee-rist,” Aaron Jostens snarled as mole sauce formed a new pattern on his latest power tie. He

had a two o’clock with one of the senior partners, and his only option would be to run to Dillard’s

and put out 30 or 40 bucks for a new Italian silk noose. Or send Renee out for one, except that was

probably viewed as outside the little airhead’s job description. She couldn’t book a conference

room to save her vacuous life, but, Jesus, she and every secretary and paralegal at Greene, Jakes,

Petrie knew their effing rights.

“Nice move, dude,” Danny Kenner, fellow associate, chortled. He’d suggested Thai instead of the

mob scene at the city market, and he considered his coworker’s mishap karma crapping down his

shirtfront. The firm seemed to nurture adversarial relationships, and Aaron merely scowled as he

considered possible payback for his smarmy young colleague (that Aaron was no slouch in the

smarminess department either was of no consequence).

“I don’t know why I ever left D.C. for this godforsaken outpost,” Aaron grumbled, signaling the

counter guy for some water. Or 7-Up – it was 7-Up you used to get stains out, right, or was it

Mountain Dew?

Danny sipped his horchata musingly. “Thought it was cause your neo-con boss got his ass kicked

last fall.”

“What, you the big liberal now, just cause you drive a Prius? I bailed weeks before election – I

knew he was toast in the district after what he said about the wetba—”

“Hey. Dude.” Danny glanced nervously at the Latino vendors and customers peppered throughout

the open-air collection of tables and booths, produce and knick-knacks. The only second language

spoken at Greene, Jakes was a dead one, and it was used largely to keep clients off-balance.

“I’m very hungry.”

Aaron and Danny hunched instinctively over the remnants of their food, ignoring the voice behind

their shoulders.

“Excuse me, gentlemen?”

“Kee-rist,” Aaron repeated.

“Look, bud,” Danny sighed, turning to the crusty middle-aged man in the torn suit jacket. “Tapped

out, comprende?”

“I’m hungry,” the man repeated, as if the young attorney had failed to understand his need.

“Sorry, dude. Betcha those guys over there’ll help you. Criminal law firm – big bucks.”

“It’s been days,” the man persisted.

Danny’s eyes frosted. “Fuck off, dude, or I’ll call the policia. Que pasa?”

Aaron swiveled around. “Jesus, big liberal. Here, man, here’s five bucks – just move it along,

oka—”

Aaron’s jaw locked in mid-phrase. “Kee-rist, man. What are you doing here? What the hell

happened to you, sir?”

“Who is he?” Danny demanded.

“Yeah,” the “homeless” man asked eagerly. “Who am I?”

“Aw, jeez,” Aaron breathed. “Everybody’s been looking for you, sir. We better call 911, Dan — I

wonder if he’s been drugged. Sir, you’ve got no idea how you got here?”

The man, unshaven, his mane of silver hair gone yellow, shrugged, then dug into his ripped pants

pocket. He thrust a used popsicle wrapper at the young lawyers. “I think maybe this might be

where I live. I don’t have any street, though, sorry.”

Aaron squinted at the five digits scrawled onto the wrapper. “2-3-1-7-2. Dan, man, is that a 2 or a

Z?”

Hoosier Heaven Truck Oasis

Indianapolis, Indiana

11:34 a.m.

“Breaker, breaker,” Mulder murmured into the wire with which he and the rest of the state-federal

team had been equipped. “You got any fix on the Fishman’s 20?”

“That’s a big negatory,” the Indiana State Police captain responded in a low baritone. “And, Agent,

you don’t knock off the C.W. McCall shit, I’ll come in there and break something else. You copy?”

“That’s a big 10-, I copy. Out.” Mulder caught his partner’s disapproving eye. “There’s one

grumpy smokie. By the way, you haven’t touched your ham steak. I don’t suppose…”

Scully shoved her plate across the formica. She stared glumly at the collection of truckers, tourists,

and old-timers feasting on breading and gravy throughout the huge, glaringly lit dining area. Travis

Tritt crooned for the lunch crowd. A biker studying the buffet was with the Indianapolis district

field office; an attractive young couple sipping coffee had been summoned from ISP highway duty

for the stakeout. Assorted law enforcement officers were occupying semi cabs at the periphery of

the parking lot.

“What if he decides on a Thickburger today?” Scully posed. “What if he breaks an axle?”

“Problem with you,” Mulder offered through a mouthful of cured hog, “is you see the glass as half

empty. Which reminds me, I need some more Dew. Where’s that waitress?”

Mulder and Scully’s earpieces buzzed. “Table Five, our man just pulled into the lot,” the ISP

captain announced. “Think he’s heading your way.”

They’d decided to grab Barry as far from his truck cab — and any secreted weapons — as possible.

As the tall, leathery driver ambled into the dining room in T-shirt and jeans, Mulder saw no

obvious sign of a weapon. He nodded to the woman behind the register — an undercover ISP

investigator — and she picked up the phone next to a bowl of Starlight mints.

Barry took a booth at the counter, which was reserved for truckers, and briefly perused the menu

specials. A too-blonde girl in a too-tight uniform giggled as she poured his coffee. Barry gave his

order, and did not watch as the girl strutted off.

“Will the operator of a Peterbilt license number 12 V234 please report to the Service Desk at the

rear of the shop?” a disembodied voice droned over the lunch crowd. “That’s a Peterbilt license 12

V234.”

Barry called something to the waitress, who shrugged. He slowly climbed off his stool and started

toward the truck supply/food shop adjoining the restaurant.

“Wait ‘til he’s past the audiobooks rack,” Mulder advised Scully. He looked to the biker and the

caffeinated couple, who visually followed Barry toward the store.

Then Barry stopped.

“What the–” Mulder muttered.

The trucker turned slightly, scanned the dining room, and pivoted.

“Shit,” Mulder informed the team. “He’s onto us. Coming your way, Captain.”

The biker, the couple, and the agents bee-lined for the door as soon as Barry was outside. Three

truck cabs swung open, and Barry bolted, not for his truck, but toward a neighboring shopping

plaza. Mulder and Scully peeled off in pursuit.

Barry dodged pedestrians as he passed a video store, a Hallmark outlet, a baseball card shop, and

an H&R Block franchise. He then abruptly disappeared behind a rack of flowers on the sidewalk

before the anchoring Marsh supermarket.

“Great,” Scully puffed as she and her partner picked up their speed.

As they entered, Mulder nearly tripped on one of a few dozen bags of chips that had spilled from a

display near the entrance. A portly security guard was sprawled among the splattered snacks, and

wide-eyed patrons and checkers were frozen in fear, staring toward the aisles of food and sundries.

“He got my gun,” the guard wheezed. Scully noted a red patch spreading midway down his

uniform short sleeve, and rushed to his aid.

“Bread aisle,” a nose-ringed cashier yelled at Mulder’s back as he rushed past.

“Barry! FBI!” he shouted as he spotted the trucker preparing to round the turn past the generic

hamburger buns. John Barry slid, then spun, gun in both hands TV-style. Mulder walked slowly

toward him, his own weapon leveled.

“Mr. Barry,” the agent said calmly. “You haven’t killed anyone yet, and I’m sure an attorney could

establish reasonable doubt about your ‘hurting’ those people.”

“Wasn’t out to hurt anybody,” Barry growled, eyes wild and darting. “Just wanted people to get it,

you know, just get it.”

Mulder moved past the bagels. “Get what, Mr. Barry? The depersonalization of society? The

faceless cruelty of the bureaucracy, of corporate America?”

Barry laughed harshly. “Boy, you must have a couple of degrees after your name. No, ‘Agent,’

nothing fancy. Just remember, we may be nobody, but there’s a shitload of us.”

The hammer of the security guard’s gun clicked, and Mulder smelled fear and yeast. And cordite,

as an explosion sounded behind him and a hole blossomed in Barry’s forehead. The trucker, a

stunned look in his eyes, dropped to the linoleum, and Mulder’s gun hand dropped to his side.

The “biker” edged past the agent and knelt beside John Barry. He checked his vitals, looked up at

Mulder, and nodded.

Mulder nodded back, robotically.

Indiana State Police — Indianapolis Post

Indianapolis

2:10 p.m.

“He was one angry muthah truckah,” the ISP technician declared, shoving her rimless glasses onto

her forehead and pushing back from the now-open Powerbook they’d uncovered in John Barry’s

sleeper cab.

Like many confident and inexperienced felons — especially loners — he hadn’t bothered with

passwords. On the other hand, the state police cyber-specialist so far had found no mention of

Barry’s apparent victims or any plans to abduct them.

“Checked his e-mail last couple months — man should keep his folders cleaner,” the technician

tsked as Mulder and Scully bent toward the laptop screen. “He’s a worldly man, in his own way. Ze

da Silva from Sao Paolo, Ashok Kumar from Bombay, an HMayer from Vienna. All a bunch of

philosophical yada yada about alienation and how the world doesn’t care about the faceless

thousands.”

“Thousands,” Scully frowned. “Not millions? They can’t be talking about the poor or the

malnourished. Maybe some specific population? A regional culture on the brink of destruction? A

group suffering from some orphan disease the pharmaceutical companies won’t address? Mulder,

Herrera.”

Mulder shook his head. “Herrera’s research was in cholesterol reduction. My guess is these people

share a common affliction or social stigma. There’s a self-pitying note here along with the activist

outrage.”

“Well,” the technician sighed. “Unfortunately, he’s better at web maintenance — his history and

cache are clean as my Aunt Mavis’ house. Can’t tell you what trips his trigger.” She stopped with a

grimace, and patted Mulder’s arm. “Sorry, baby, bad choice of words.”

Indy Motor Plaza Motel

Indianapolis, Indiana

11:54 p.m.

“Our victims all were literally robbed of their memories, transported great distances, dropped off

far from their lives but left physically unharmed.” Mulder’s voice broke the long post-coital

silence. “It seems to be some kind of statement on the kidnapper’s part. He steals their identity,

makes them anonymous, removes them from their personal reality. Payback of some kind?

Revenge?”

Scully gently removed his cupped hand from her breast and turned to face him. “But he or she has

no desire to kill them. Wouldn’t that be far more satisfying revenge?”

“Maybe he or they consider robbing their victims of their lives, their memories to be a far more

lasting ‘lesson.’ Dropping them in warm, sunny climes may have been no act of compassion.

Maybe they simply want their victims healthy enough to live with their affliction.”

“But why these victims, in particular? Turealt was no hard-nosed prison bull, and although I’ve

wanted to throttle the clerks at the DMV from time to time, Banbridge certainly led an innocuous

life. Herrera was helping fight heart disease, and Morsberg was working to improve the

environment. Although I suppose the anti-biotech community might have felt otherwise…”

Mulder propped himself on his elbow. “I think we are talking about an activist conspiracy, but

nothing so sociopolitical. I thought the name John Barry seemed familiar, so I Googled it. I don’t

think our trucker friend is trying to conceal his past. I think he has none.”

He paused to let it sink in, and sink in it did. Scully looked up, eyes wide. “An amnesiac? Barry’s

an amnesiac himself?”

“‘John Barry’ is one of dozens of versions of ‘John Doe’ that have been adopted around the world.

Those e-mail addresses on his laptop? Ze da Silva is a Brazilian version of John Doe, Ashok

Kumar an Indian variation. Richard Roe is a legal term for an anonymous plaintiff. And I’m

guessing HMayer is Hans Mayer, an Austrian variation. I cross-referenced the names of Barry’s

pen pals on Google and found they were all members of an amnesiacs discussion forum called

fugue@nowhere. It’s sort of a support group-slash-bitchfest-slash-advocacy site for victims of all

forms of amnesia and memory loss. More social and educational resources for ‘New Lifers’ – that’s

what they call themselves; more funding for ‘incidental memory loss – they’re kind of bitter about

all the research money that goes to Alzheimers and not to amnesia victims.”

“How bitter?” Scully demanded.

Mulder shrugged. “About like any other survivors group – some are like Banbridge, liberated by

their amnesia to pursue new interests and lives. Some are relentlessly angry about the loss of their

childhood, their feelings for their families and loves, their treatment as mental invalids.”

“And where does our friend Barry fit into that spectrum?”

“In the deep end of the pool. He’s the semi-literate voice of empowerment: Free yourselves, let the

world know of our trials and our triumphs. It’s like those crazed La Leche League women who go

from maternity ward to maternity ward ripping the bottles from patients’ hands. Barely constrained

fury channeled into delusions of grandeur. He fits the profile, at least as the transporter.”

“You think these people, these ‘New Lifers,’ have formed some kind of radical cell?” Scully

breathed. “You think there may be other victims, all over the globe?”

“I don’t think so, even though I’ve got Frohike and the boys searching global missing persons and

hospital databases. The victims were all taken in New York – wouldn’t you assume Barry would

spread his crimes out across his routes, reduce the risk of detection? If he wanted to make a social

statement, he had a whole country to do it in. Besides, we’ve found no rational, physical reason for

what’s happening to these victims.”

Scully smirked. “You’ve got a one-track mind. However, at this point, I’m inclined to agree with

you. You believe Barry’s accomplice is, what, psychic, telekinetic?”

“I believe he’s almost certainly a fellow amnesiac – he and Barry hooked up somehow, maybe in

the New Lifer discussion forums, maybe some other way. The accomplice is based in New York,

likely land-locked there. In Barry, he found not only a kindred spirit, but a conduit to the rest of the

country. I think Barry was carrying out his will.”

“You think Barry was under his psychic control?”

“No. They were probably just two people with a common bond.”

Scully nodded. “Speaking of common bonds, I assume from the way you’re rubbing my ass, you’re

in the mood for some more nocturnal bonding.” She yawned. “Sorry, Mulder, but our little truck

stop gunfight has taken it out of me, and the combination of drunken revelry and diesel exhaust

outside isn’t making my hormones sizzle. Knock yourself out, but leave me out of it.”

“Could you at least roll over into a more accessible mode? Last month’s team-building exercise

clearly had no impact on you.”

Scully flopped onto her side, bunching her pillow under her head. “’Night, Mulder.”

“Buzz killer,” her partner mumbled, reaching for the remote. Mulder briefly considered the pay

adult block, sighed, and surfed upward past Letterman, Leno, and Frasier. The current HBO

offering was Pride and Prejudice (Mulder shuddered), and so he settled on CNN. A familiar head

floated in an inset above the handsome blonde anchor.

“…A nationwide manhunt launched four weeks ago ended with a bizarre turn today in Amarillo,

Texas, when missing Illinois Congressman Victor Mowery was found wandering a city market in a

dazed, reportedly disoriented state. Doctors at Houston’s St. Lucas Memorial Hospital, where the

three-term lawmaker was taken, are stating only that Mowery may be suffering some form of

advanced memory loss.”

Mulder’s hand again connected with Scully’s bare rump. “No means no, Mulder,” she mumbled.

“Wake up, Scully. Now.” His partner awoke immediately at the urgency of his tone. He directed

her to the screen, where a less disoriented Rep. Mowery was pumping farmers’ hands in some 2004

video.

“Mowery, a staunch conservative and strongly pro-Bush voice on Capitol Hill, recently split from

the White House over the Dubai/port controversy and the immigration issue, calling for a new

nationwide ID and immigrant registry program to, quote, ‘draw the line on unsecured entry at our

national borders.’ Mowery had been visiting New York to address a National Rifle Association

conference when he vanished seemingly without a trace four weeks ago…”

Mulder tensed, his profiler’s instinct sounding an alert. If this was what it seemed to be, Barry and

his accomplice had picked up their pace. Two victims within roughly a week. Barry’s partner likely

was growing impatient, more empowered, and even without his victim transport mechanism, he or

she may already be pinpointing new victims.

In addition, Rep. Mowery had been a high-risk grab. Morsberg had some notoriety within the

scientific and academic community, but the congressman’s abduction indicated the memory thief

was growing bolder, more oblivious to exposure.

On the other hand, Mowery’s visibility also offered a potential break in the case. How had this

high-powered politician come into the predator’s orbit. How had Mowery evaded what certainly

must have been a constant swarm of aides, cronies, and media types around him. And why

Mowery?

By now, the blonde anchor was chatting split-screen with a rumpled, bearded man surrounded by

book-lined shelves. A second, bow-tied young man listened impatiently, waiting to pay his two

cents.

“Well, while I don’t mean to seem insensitive to the congressman or his family, who I’m sure must

be deeply gratified at this point, there is a certain irony to Mowery turning up within a relative

stone’s throw of the border, stripped of his identity,” the bearded man smiled slightly, and Mulder

thought he detected a glint of satisfaction. “Mowery’s extremist response to the immigration issue

is the first step to an Orwellian society of nameless, bar-coded drones. IDing U.S. citizens like

cattle? Why not simply brand them, tattoo them?”

“C’mon, Carl,” the bow-tied man breathed in exasperation. “You and your pals trivialize the

Holocaust and its victims with this constant Nazi name-calling, not to seem insensitive. This man

may have suffered permanent mental injury, and all you can do, frankly, is make political hay—”

“That’s it,” Mulder gasped, fumbling for the remote.

Hotel Manhattan Continentale

New York

11:32 a.m.

“This isn’t some sleazy nooner between a horny securities broker and a fifty-buck hooker,” Malone

growled. “I can have your records subpoenaed in about a New York minute – highly appropriate,

don’t you think? Maybe shut things down here for a couple days while we stumble around looking

for clues. If your regard for your guests’ privacy really means that much right now. You want, we

can all go downtown and you can tell me why you sat on information that could have saved the

FBI a few thousand man-hours and the congressman’s family a lot of needless anxiety.”

Malone had all but demanded to be in on the interview at the hotel once Scully had sold him on

Mowery’s connection to their case. The agent had been New York liaison on the investigation into

the congressman’s disappearance. The New Yorker had been coolly civil toward Mulder, cognizant

that he’d invited him to a party Mulder now seemed to be hosting.

Mulder himself regretted opening the door to Malone, who’d immediately assumed the role of Bad

Cop without consulting his teammates. Especially as Mulder had divined how – and why –

Mowery had slipped under his entourage’s radar at the Waldorf East five blocks away.

Kurt Engler, supervising manager of the Continentale, gulped like a fish trapped in his sterile third

floor, glassed-in office. “Look. You have to understand, Agent Malone – when men like

Congressman Mowery need to relieve the pressures of the day, as it were, we are acutely aware of

the potential for a media shit storm, if you’ll pardon me.”

Malone smiled coldly. “First thing you’ve said today doesn’t sound like a shit storm, if you’ll

pardon me. You wanna get me all the records you got on the good congressman, round up any of

the night shift might have been working his floor, maybe see if your house cop knows the working

girl who filibustered the congressman’s brains out?”

Engler practically upended his lush leather chair. “We’re at your complete disposal, Agent

Malone.”

“I’m delighted,” the Irishman grunted as the manager scrambled out of his office. Malone turned to

Mulder and Scully. “Sorry, but I’ve got a degree in New York bullshit. Now, you say you’ve got

some kind of connection between Mowery and Morsberg?”

“And the rest of our ‘vics,’” Mulder said with an antagonistically serene smile. “You read those

files I FAXed over last night?”

Malone nodded. “Briefly. I think it’s a stretch. But it’s your party, I guess.”

“Let’s start with the first hypothetical victim, Jeffrey Turealt. An employee of the New York penal

system. In Records, as it turns out. Next was Dorothy Banbridge, a driver’s license clerk. What

would you say Turealt and Banbridge have in common?”

Malone smirked — a nearly imperceptible reaction. “Cattle herders. People processors.”

“Exactly. Turealt’s ‘clients’ are no longer people, just numbers. Banbridge’s job is plugging people

into a huge bureaucratic system. Now, with Ray Herrera, it becomes a little more convoluted.”

“Herrera. He was the drug guy, right?”

“The pharmaceutical researcher,” Scully nodded. “Specifically, Herrera conducted clinical trials for

experimental cholesterol-reducing drugs. You know how a blind trial works, Agent Malone?”

“You dose half the guinea pigs, feed the other half sugar pills,” Malone sighed impatiently. “So.”

“To avoid any risk of bias or false conclusions in testing, the volunteer test subjects remain

anonymous to each other and the research team. They’re assigned identifying case numbers.”

The lines in Malone’s inscrutable face deepened, and the office was smothered in silence. “I think I

see where you’re heading with this,” he finally murmured. “Congressman Mowery was touting this

national ID system, right? Assigning everybody a number?”

“And takin’ ‘way their names,” Mulder sang, echoing Johnny Mathis’ classic theme to Secret

Agent.

Malone looked to Scully, who stared ahead stolidly. He sighed and turned back to Mulder. “OK, so

our kidnapper, kidnappers, whatever, they’re stealing the identity of people who ‘steal’ other

people’s identities. Is that it?”

“John Barry was an apparent amnesiac who had become bitter about his memory loss. My guess is,

these victims represented the theft of individuality, of identity. They were the enemy.”

“Ah huh. And where does Morsberg come into this? He was a harmless egghead, probably never

ventured out of his lab before.”

“A world-renowned geneticist,” Mulder corrected. “The creator of the Green Pig, a cleaner, leaner

genetically engineered swine aimed at rocking the agricultural world. Morsberg maintained a small

herd of Green Pigs – a herd of genetically identical cloned pigs. Morsberg was at the vanguard of a

Brave New World, where, in the view of some unhappy citizens, humanity soon may lose its own

identity through cloning and genetic selection.”

“Whoa,” Malone interrupted. “You paint a pretty wild scenario, Agent Mulder. First of all, how did

our perp even hone in on Turealt, Banbridge, or Herrera. Not exactly high-profile celebs, are they?

What’s your connection there?”

Mulder smiled calmly, unruffled by Malone’s skepticism. “As soon as Mr. Engler changes his

trousers and gets that information you so politely requested, I hope to find out.”

**

As he was brought before the trio of agents, Anthony Ruggiero looked as if he might himself

appreciate a change of uniform. After checking the IDs of the entire floor staff for the day Cedric

Morsberg had disappeared, Mulder had selected the handsome, impeccably groomed young

bellman, then kept him waiting under Malone’s severe glower.

“Ah, there she is,” Mulder finally piped up. Anthony followed Mulder’s stare down the ballroom

corridor, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the darkly beautiful, strongly built young housekeeper.

“Agent Scully, you want to talk to Ms. Bunuelo? Agent Malone and I want to ask Anthony here a

few questions. Take Mr. Engler with you, in case you need any more personnel data.”

Scully nodded curtly, and she and the manager moved to intercept the girl.

“So, Anthony,” Mulder grinned. “You been working here long?”

Ruggiero’s eyes were fixed on Elena Bunuelo and, Mulder could see, Bunuelo’s were fixed on the

bellman. “Ah, yeah, about three years. It’s a pretty sweet gig – great tips.”

“I bet it’s pretty sweet,” Mulder agreed, jerking his head toward Bunuelo. “Staff all pretty

friendly?”

Ruggiero blinked. “Ah, I don’t know what you mean. We get along OK.”

“You get along better with some than with others, Tony?” Malone asked bluntly. “You’re a good-

looking guy, a veritable prince among the old guys and toads around here.”

“Well,” Anthony grinned despite himself.

“How would you like to keep this sweet gig, Tony?” Malone asked. In a nanosecond, he had

transformed from One of the Guys into The Man, and Anthony again tensed. “The morning that

guy disappeared, you know, the scientist, you and Ms. Bunuelo were on duty together. He

remembers somebody coming into the mezzanine john while he was trying to take a crap. The

lights went out, he called out, the lights went back on, and he heard some giggling. Now, I took a

piss a few minutes ago, and I noticed the light panel in there’s pretty well concealed. Staff-only

access, right? You and Ms. Bunuelo take a little coffee break, decide to grab a little mid-morning

delight? Cause I noticed you both got a couple black marks in your personnel files.”

“Hey,” Anthony said through his teeth. It was clear to Mulder the anxious young man was not

outraged at Malone’s challenge to his fair damsel’s honor. “Look, man, they get a good week’s

work outta both of us, and we weren’t hurtin’ anybody, you know? That mezzanine bathroom’s

usually vacant weekday mornings – the meeting people use the ones on this floor. C’mon, guys,

you gotta tell Engler about this?” The young man smiled sheepishly. “I mean, c’mon, look at her.

You was both young once, right? Hey, I didn’t mean that the way it sound—”

“Anthony,” Mulder said, sternly. “You’re going to pull something useful if you don’t chill. I don’t

see any reason for Agent Malone or I to tell your supervisor anything. But you did withhold

important information in a federal case. The Canadian authorities are very interested in what

happened to Dr. Morsberg, as well as the FBI.”

“OK, OK, we was in there, in the john. That guy, old guy, right? He was in the second stall, yelled

out when we hit the lights. It was pretty funny in a way, you know, but we didn’t want to get

canned, so we got the fuck outta there. I hung around here, waited for the guy to come out. Wanted

to see if he was gonna report us. But he made a bee-line for the street, and me and Elena, we went

back to work. The mood was pretty well fucked-up, you know?”

“That’s amore,” Malone observed.

“Thanks, Anthony,” Mulder smiled. “That’s very helpful. Just one more thing.”

“Anything, man.” Anthony looked like he’d received a gubernatorial reprieve.

“The custodian on this floor that morning, Mr. Perez.”

“Yeah, Juan. Nice enough old guy. Too bad he left – he was only here a couple weeks.”

Mulder already had noted that the old man who’d directed Cedric Morsberg to the mezzanine

restroom had failed to appear for work two days after the NYPD had interviewed him. The

assumption had been that Juan Perez was one green card short and the sudden police presence at

the hotel had spooked him. Working on a hunch, Mulder had Googled Juan Perez and John Barry

to find the two names had a common origin with Hans Mayer, Richard Roe, and John Doe.

“Funny old dude, though,” Anthony laughed. “Very old school, you know. Real polite, called me

Mr. Ruggiero like I was the mayor or something. Not real chatty, though, and he’d wear his

uniform home – most of us like to change the end of the day, but he never even came into the staff

locker room.”

“Anybody on staff particularly friendly with Mr. Perez?” Malone asked.

“Naw, not really. Everybody liked him OK, except Rashim.”

“Rashim?”

“Yeah, he works day shift, too. He and Juan had a little tiff one day – one of the guests, some

numb-nuts, dropped his Rolex in the lobby john, and Juan and Rashim went in for the rescue

operation. Rashim says Juan suddenly pulled rank, which he didn’t have anyway, cause Rashim’s

been here two years now. Juan wouldn’t reach into the crapper, which shoulda been no big deal for

him cause he was up to his mustache in terlets every day, was a whiz when it came to plumbing.

Told Rashim he needed to fish the thing out, got real insistent about it. Which Rashim made into

some big racial thing, you know? Which was bullshit, cause he was always askin’ about Mrs.

Cleveland’s grandkids.”

Anthony snapped his fingers. “An’ you know what? I don’t think Juan was real crazy about the

cops, neither. He’d always kinda hang back whenever security was on the floor, and one time,

when Tiny – he’s one of the security guys – was trying to get some from one of the working girls

he’d caught hustling in the lobby bar, Juan called him some name under his breath. Geez, what was

it. Yeah, mah-gear-doh or somethin’, which must be Spanish for lowlife perv, huh?”

“Thanks, Mr. Ruggiero,” Malone said dismissively. “That oughtta be about it for now.”

Anthony sagged with relief. “Yeah, sure. Anything to help.” He glanced anxiously at Elena

Bunuelo, flanked by Scully and Engler. “And you guys won’t…”

“Bye, Anthony,” Mulder said. “You have a nice day now.”

The bellman barked sourly. “Yeah. It’s off to a freakin’ great start.”

**

“What are we doing here?” Malone sighed as Mulder studied the infamous mezzanine stall. “I

usually prefer to come alone, and without the female company, nothing personal, Agent Scully.”

“Besides, Mulder, the stall door’s been taken to the CSI lab,” Scully noted, perched on the edge of

the sink. “They haven’t been able to bring out any trace of the number Morsberg claims to have

seen. Certainly, any other possible trace evidence was collected weeks ago.”

Mulder peered into the blue sanitized water below, as if seeking a vision. “I just thought it might be

useful to revisit the crime scene, get some sense of what Morsberg might have seen, what our

kidnaper might have been thinking. That’s what I get the big profiler bucks for, you know. Oh,

shit.”

“Brilliant discovery,” Malone muttered. “I coulda told you that.”

“No,” Mulder sulked. “I dropped my pen. The good one, Scully – the ten-year one from the

Bureau.”

Scully frowned. “Why in the world did you bring that along?”

“Jesus, and I just bought this suit. I don’t want to get it wet…”

She sighed and crossed the tile. “Good thing we didn’t need to wipe your backside, too, Mulder.

Step aside, G-Man.”

Malone sighed again. “Christ. I’ll get it, OK? Wouldn’t want the king of the profilers to get Tidy

Bowl on his off-the-rack special.” The missing persons specialist removed his jacket, hooked it on

the next stall door, and rolled up his right sleeve. Mulder patted Malone on the shoulder as he

began to kneel.

“That won’t be necessary, Agent Malone,” Mulder informed him, displaying his Bureau-supplied

Bic Ultra-Fine. “See that, Scully?”

“What?” Malone snapped, snatching his jacket from the adjoining stall.

“I have to concur with Agent Malone, Mulder,” Scully said. “What?”

“I’ve got your number,” Mulder sang. “Just what you’re loo-king for!”

“He starts doing show tunes,” Malone warned Scully, “and I shoot him.”

The National Library of the Holocaust

New York

2:13 p.m.

“You’re a little out of my cultural context here,” Kenneth Ungar told Mulder, folding his hands

over his stomach as he leaned back among the volumes of Judaica, under a grainy, blown-up photo

of the liberation of Auschwitz. Scully could scarcely tear her eyes away from the horror of the

camp’s cadaverish inmates, blinking into the light of a new day they thought they might never see.

Ungar had provided some valuable insights into Jewish folklore during an investigation involving

the Hassidim years ago. He had leapt at the opportunity to again assist the agent, who had what he

considered a Talmudic sense of logic and justice.

“I know,” Mulder said. “But I need to know about tattoos.”

Ungar adjusted the embroidered yarmulke resting on the back of his bare scalp, smiling grimly.

“The camp tattoos. The ultimate dehumanization, objectification. Well, as you may or may not

know, the SS sorted its prisoners into two groups: those immediately killed in the gas chambers,

and those to be put to work in the forced labor camps. After their heads were shaved and their

personal possessions removed, the surviving prisoners were officially ‘registered.’

“Beginning in 1941, this registration consisted of a tattoo placed on the left breast of the prisoner.

Later, the Nazis placed the tattoo on the inner forearm.”

Scully exhaled. Now, she understood Mulder’s restroom demonstration. “Perez” had not wanted to

reveal his tattoo, his disfigurement, to his coworker.

“Jewish prisoners weren’t the only ones marked — all prisoners other than ethnic Germans and

police prisoners were tattooed.” Ungar glanced silently out a side window for a moment, as if

reflecting on the incomprehensibility of it all. “Most people believe all Holocaust prisoners were

given tattoos, but after 1941, only the prisoners of Auschwitz were branded this way.”

Mulder leaned forward. “And there was a system, a code, to the registration process. Right?”

“Yes – the monsters were nothing if not efficient. The numbering scheme was divided into what

was called the ‘regular series,’ with each group of prisoners eventually branded with a different

identifying prefix. Jews eventually were tattoed with the letters A or B. The AU series indicated

Soviet prisoners of war. The identification EH denoted trouble prisoners, those who refused to

work in the camps or acted up and who were sent for ‘re-education,’ or erziehungshaftlinge.”

“And the letter Z,” Mulder inquired.

“Ah, yes, the Ziguener – next to the Jews, perhaps the most despised of the Nazis’ ‘enemies.’”

Ungar turned to Scully. “The Ziguener were the gypsies, the Romany peoples that roamed Eastern

Europe, Asia, even the British Isles. Many of the rom were rounded up with the Poles, and they

were given their own ‘special’ brand – the letter Z.”

Scully looked to Mulder, who nodded slowly as if a theory had been confirmed.

“One other thing,” Ungar added. “Women were registered under a separate system than their

husbands and brothers. Anyone bearing a Z series tattoo was a male prisoner.”

Mulder leaned forward. “Ken, could we trace one of these tattoos? How hard would that be?”

“My God,” Ungar murmured. “I don’t know, Fox. There are some detailed records – ‘death books’

– for the Auschwitz, Sachsenhausen, Gross Rosen, Buchenwald, Dachau, and Mauthausen camps –

maintained in Arolsen, Germany. But those documents have been released gradually over the years,

and some of the information is sketchy. I don’t know how quickly you could turn around an

individual request with the International Tracing Service.” The scholar paused. “This survivor, this

Gypsy – what has he done?”

“If we’re right, what was done to him,” Mulder said. “More than 60 years after his imprisonment,

he’s taking his revenge on those who in his mind are robbing us of our identity and individuality.

Somehow, he’s stealing their memories, their lives, just as the victims of the Holocaust were

stripped of their identities, their families, their dignity. Just as the victims of the SS were loaded

into boxcars and shipped off to the camps, he’s dislocating his victims.”

Ungar closed his eyes and scratched his temple. “It never ends, the cycle of devastation and tragedy

those madmen set in motion. Victims become predators.” His eyes opened. “I’ll see if I can help

you get the wheels rolling with the ITS – I have connections there who owe me.”

“Thanks, Ken.” Mulder rose. “Just one last thing. You told me you knew a little Polish, right?”

“They suffered in the camps with us – the language of persecution has become universal to me.”

“Magerdo. That mean anything?”

Ungar laughed darkly. “Magerd’o. It’s Polish Rom. It means stained, unclean. Unfortunately, my

friend, the language of loathing and self-loathing also is universal.”

**

They’d discovered their special connection, their shared fate, about four years ago, when the boy

paid one of his nearly daily visits. He’d been working on the U-joint beneath the sink, and,

forgetfully – the mind slips with advanced age – he answered the boy’s familiar call in his

undershirt, what the young animals called a wife-beater. The punks – he’d been guilty of many sins

– too many to count, when the time came – but he had never raised his hand to a woman.

The simple and curious boy had asked about the tattoo. Years ago, he’d thought of removing it – it

threatened the new life he’d brought to this new land nearly 50 years ago. But aside from some of

the sly old ways he had inherited from his now extinct kumpa’nia – according to some educational

TV show he’d watched one night, more than a half-million Roma were slaughtered in Hitler’s

purge – the faded blue Z was the last remnant of his proud Rom heritage.

After a moment of panic, he realized his days in this world were few and that he could live perhaps

a few years longer through this friendly and inquisitive young man. He told him the story – well,

most of it – and to his initial dismay, the boy wept. He was touched by his young friend’s

sensitivity, so rare in the children today, and was astonished to discover their common bond.

The boy himself had had his identity ripped away – no less traumatically, but with no possibility of

ever retrieving it. A car crash, the doctors had theorized after repairing the boy’s extensive injuries.

Months in Bellevue – surely a foretaste of hell – failed to restore the boy’s memory or surface any

parent or sibling. An act of kindness, or what had appeared to be, had supplied him a home, bread

on the table, honest work, a family of sorts. But what had been taken – by God, an 18-wheeler,

whatever cruel force out there – could not be returned, and the boy felt an instant kinship with the

old gypsy.

The boy began to return in the evenings, and they had long talks – about the outrages of everyday

life, about the way of the modern world, about the storm troopers of the SS who marched in jack

boots and the modern-day Nazis who trod the Earth in Florscheims and Thom McAns, stealing the

dignity and identity of all around them.

At the same time, he began to see what was in the boy – his gift. The boy would talk of the people

who had crossed his threshold each day, revealing details they could not possibly have offered up

consciously. While his slate was clean – or perhaps because of it — he seemed to absorb bits of

memory, harmless pieces of information, from those he’d encountered.

One day, he’d ventured out into the wild streets, visited the boy, watched him toil, watched him

relate easily and cheerfully with those around him. Then, as he watched them leave, one by one,

with frowns of confusion, absent retrieval of coats and cases nearly forgotten, it hit him. And he

knew it was baxt – fate, karma.

He, too, had been a talented boy, as his captors had discovered. He knew things, he caused mischief

in the camp, he traveled occasionally beyond the barbed fences of his Hell. The guards grew wary

of the young Rom whose parents and uncles and aunts had been shot before his terrified eyes, and

he nearly met his fate in the ovens.

However, word had spread, and, one day, he was whisked from the camp to what had been a

sanitarium near Dusseldorf prior to the madness of the Reich. A barrage of questions, tests, curious

examinations followed, all performed by an educated young man only a few years his senior.

Strughold had a deceptively calm and disarming manner, speaking in low tones, proffering small

treats and privileges when the questions became intense or the tests arduous.

Most of the tests involved identifying shapes printed on cards sealed inside thick envelopes,

attempting to describe people and places in other rooms within the hospital, making Strughold and

his silent “assistants” see things that did not exist to the human eye. Strughold was very interested

in his family’s history – especially in the “gypsy tricks” of his grandparents and parents. The

German talked of curses and science in the same breath, as if he shared the Romany understanding

that both were woven into the same fabric of this world.

When the bombs fell and the soldiers came to end the tests, he never learned of Strughold’s fate.

He traveled to America – the clan was dead or scattered, the opportunities reportedly rich across the

sea – and assumed a new name, a new faith, and a new life in New York. It had admittedly been a

fairly satisfying new life – he had applied his energy at first toward the larceny of his tribe and then

toward hard, diligent work.

And now, as the last of his tragic, triumphant, twisted life drew to a close, karma, baxt had

delivered a chance at immortality, a chance to right an insane world, literally to his doorstep.

Stein’s Uptown Deli

4:14 p.m.

“All right,” Scully said, fanning her matzo ball soup. “We’re looking for an at-least 80-year-old

gypsy who in all likelihood assumed a new identity when he came to the U.S. The horrors of the

concentration camps weren’t fully known to Americans until well after the war ended, so I doubt

any Ellis Island records would especially mention the Z series tattoo. As a gypsy–”

“Romany,” Mulder corrected through a mouthful of his mountainous corned beef sandwich.

“Gypsy’s actually a derogatory term. And given the prevailing attitude toward the Rom on both

sides of the ocean at that time, my guess is you’re right about his concealing his identity. Too bad

the hotel doesn’t issue photo IDs – would’ve made things a lot simpler. Ah, well – maybe Malone’s

sketch guy can be of some help.”

After interviewing a half-dozen employees who’d worked closely with “Perez” (“Racist old spic,”

Rashim had recalled), Mulder had suddenly announced a time out. The neighborhood around the

Continentale had largely given way to high-rise condos, and Stein’s was one of the last family-

owned, non-organic, non-fusion, non-dietarily correct restaurants within blocks. The small crowd

of senior early-birders and schmoozers was beginning to swell as the first wave of 8-to-4ers

clocked out.

Scully glumly sipped at her chicken broth. “So this is all about revenge, retribution? After more

than 60 years, Mulder?”

“Something tripped our man’s trigger, and I have a half-assed guess what it might be. Profiling

101, Scully: Look at the first victim.”

“Turealt. The prison clerk? You think our man served some time at Riker’s.”

Mulder shook his head. “Like a lot of families fragmented by Hitler’s purge, our guy’s tribe, clan,

whatever, may have filtered into the U.S. gradually, over the years. Maybe our undercover Rom

kept track of some of his ‘family,’ and maybe some of his family pursued the ways we associate

with his culture. I asked Malone to check any prison deaths involving Rom convicts over the last

five or six years. That could have been the catalyst – a beloved family member killed in

confinement, under the watch of a government the Rom have never trusted. From there, he became

a man on a mission.”

“This assumes Tureault was the first victim,” Scully noted. “If our man…”

Mulder looked up as his partner trailed off with a polite smile. A tall redheaded young man hefted a

pitcher of water.

“You guys need a fill-up?” he asked, grinning amiably. The voice was flavored with corn more

than corned beef – perhaps one more small-town boy who’d sought the bright lights of Broadway.

“Sure,” Mulder murmured. As the waiter replenished his water, the agent frowned and glanced at

the menu board behind the counter. “Hey, you guys serve breakfast?”

The boy nodded eagerly. “Mr. Stein makes the best corned beef hash in town. Got lox and bagels,

cheese omelet. No bacon or nothing – we’re kosher – but we get a pretty good crowd.”

“Can I ask your name?”

The grin vanished momentarily, then returned. “I’m Adam.”

Mulder reached into his jacket and pulled out the photo Malone had supplied. “Adam, could you

tell me if you’ve ever seen this man before?”

The young man squinted at Cedric Morsberg’s portrait. “He looks awful familiar. You think he was

in here at breakfast time?”

“Maybe,” Mulder suggested. “This man left the Continentale kind of suddenly about three weeks

ago, in the middle of a convention. It was mid-morning – maybe he stepped out for some of that

corned beef hash or a bagel.”

“Gee, like I said, we get a pretty big crowd in the mornings. I just can’t remember.”

“No. 12!” a gruff voice called as a platter rang on the stainless steel cafeteria counter. A stout man

with a florid expression arched his thick brows. “Hey, Adam, pastrami won’t slice itself, you

know?”

The waiter beamed sheepishly at Mulder and Scully. “Gotta go. Coming, Mr. Stein!”

“I suppose it’s possible,” Scully considered as Adam retreated. “I know those seminars are pretty

deadly if you don’t take an occasional break.” She picked up her spoon, then placed it back on the

table. “Mulder. Smoked salmon. Lox. Maybe Barry wasn’t delivering seafood to the Continentale.

Could he have targeted Morsberg here, maybe overpowered him outside?”

Mulder leaned back, his corned beef forgotten. “Turealt was running errands in Manhattan.

Banbridge disappeared during her lunch break, and I remember seeing a DMV branch a few blocks

away. If Congressman Mowery wanted a little nosh after his, well, big nosh, he wouldn’t have

wanted to be seen at the Continentale, would he? I think you’re right, Scully – this may be where

Barry hunted his prey.”

“Not to take away from my being right for a change, but what is Barry’s connection to our

mysterious Rom? There were three victims – at least – before our suspect went to work at the

Continentale, presumably to target Mowery and Mosberg. Did Barry join forces with the Unknown

Gypsy at some point along the way? Except you connected Turealt to the Rom, not Barry, didn’t

you?”

“Eat your soup, Scully,” Mulder ordered.

**

He waited by the door after buzzing his young friend up. As he grew older, he economized on

activity as much as on groceries. He pulled open the door as he heard the sneakered feet pad down

the hall.

The boy proffered the parcel, and Marxmann accepted it, placing it on an end table. He gestured

toward an overstuffed chair where a glass of iced tea awaited.

“I can’t stay today,” the young man said politely. “I just wanted to tell you something.”

An instinctive alarm went off in the old Rom’s head. “Sit. Talk to me.”

His guest remained standing. “I just wanted to let you know how much your friendship’s meant to

me over the years. It’s really helped me feel like I haven’t been, you know, alone.”

“I’ve enjoyed your companionship, as well,” he replied with an uncertain smile. “What, are you

going somewhere? I thought we had important work to do.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the boy assured him. “But I think your work is done.”

He staggered slightly, bumping into his chair. “What do you mean? They need to know.”

“The stories you’ve told me. The pain you’ve gone through. It’s enough. I’ll carry on. I promise.”

“Wait, just wait. Let me get you some tea, and we can talk about it.” He turned toward the kitchen.

Suddenly, he felt the warmth of his friend’s hand on his sloped shoulder, and realization sank in.

“No,” he whispered.

“Yes,” a loving voice responded, and the pain disappeared.

**

“May have your guy,” Malone said as he intercepted his colleagues in the Continentale’s lobby. “I

thought about Ruggiero’s comment about ‘Perez’ being a whiz at toilets, and I called the district

Plumbers and Steamfitters’ pension department. A few of the old-timers are still around, and they

recalled a guy from around this neighborhood who retired maybe 20 years ago. Claus Marxmann —

came to New York after WWII, apprenticed for a few years and put out his own shingle. Kicker is,

our witness remembers a tattoo on Marxmann’s arm. Never knew what it meant, never asked.”

“Probably never really wanted to know,” Mulder guessed. “I don’t suppose this guy would know if

it was a Z series tattoo?”

Malone arched an eyebrow.

“You have an address?” Scully sighed.

**

After working the call button for several minutes, the agents flashed a warrant at the building super

and ascended the stairs toward Claus Marxmann’s second floor apartment.

“Can’t understand it,” the super grunted. “Old Claus hardly ever goes out. Jesus, hope he ain’t

kicked. Takes a tankerful of chlorine and ammonia to get the death smell out, especially if they let

loose when they go. You know? Well, here we are.”

Malone tried an initial courtesy knock. To his surprise, the door quickly swung open, and a bleary-

eyed old man stared out at the quartet in the corridor. “Hello?”

“Claus Marxmann?” Mulder asked.

The old man, wrapped in an oversized cardigan and corduroys, nodded and smiled contritely. “I

don’t know where he is. Is this his home?’

Scully nudged Mulder aside and looked into the man’s face. “What is your name, sir?”

“My,” he sighed. “I don’t believe I know.”

Scully looked to Mulder. “May we come in, please?”

“I suppose so,” he said politely with a European accent, stepping aside. Scully took his arm and led

him to a couch. The room was tidy and spare — the furnishings were nice, evidence of a reasonably

prosperous life, but the walls were bare. Malone headed down a hall beyond the living room.

“Sir,” Mulder spoke. “May I see your arm, please. Your right arm?”

“My arm.” The man seemed amused by the request. “Well, certainly.” He rolled up his cardigan

sleeve, then the sleeve of his chambray work shirt. Faded blue ink appeared in the form of a Z.

“What do you remember, sir?” Mulder asked.

Marxmann leaned back against the cushion and studied the plaster ceiling. “Well, now. I had my

lunch. Then you and your friends came to call. That’s it, I suppose.”

Mulder nodded and rose. He found the kitchen and rooted in a garbage can under the sink. The sole

content was a crumpled brown bag, which Mulder carefully poked open. The smell of vinegar and

garlic wafted up from a smaller wax paper bag.

“Scully,” he breathed, mind whirling. “You and Malone take care of Mr. Marxmann. I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Gotta see a man about a kosher dill,” Mulder informed her as the apartment door closed.

**

Like the old movie cliché, it was quiet. Too quiet. Mulder knew something was wrong as he

entered Stein’s Uptown Deli and the tinkling bell was all he heard.

A dozen heads turned from the scattered tables, from the front counter. Their faces bore identical

expressions of blank semi-interest. Their eyes were wide, unfocused, and vaguely frightened.

Mulder recognized one of the deli’s odd inhabitants. He wore a stained white apron and blinked

vacantly.

“What’s your name, sir?” Mulder ventured, his throat dry and tight.

Stein stared at Mulder for a full five seconds, then glanced at a ticket in his hand. “Number 23?”

The agent’s heart began to pound even as the irony hit home. He turned to a young blonde in

leotards and a Knicks cap. “What’s your name?”

The blonde opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“Anybody,” Mulder called out. “Tell me your name. Anything.”

The customers mutely regarded each other and Mulder. “Sorry,” an obese old man whispered.

Mulder rushed to the glass door, searched for a lock, then shoved a table in front of it. Treat it like a

disease, he told himself – isolate and quarantine, then call Scully and 911.

“Adam!” he shouted. “Adam! You have to stop this. These people, they’re innocent.”

“I’m not trying to hurt them.” The redheaded boy stepped from behind the counter, patting Stein on

the arm. “I’ve freed them.

“Freed?” Mulder laughed despite himself.

“They’re free of all the pain and guilt their memories bring them every day,” Adam “Stein”

explained calmly. “Every terrible, shameful thing they’ve done, everything that’s been done to

them.”

“Like you freed Mr. Marxmann?” Mulder inquired, perching on the edge of a table to put the boy at

ease. His hand nonetheless hovered near his holster. “You wanted him to forget, to be able to

forget, what the Nazis did to him and his family. That’s what you two wanted to do, wasn’t it?

Punish those who reduce human beings to numbers, to casefiles, who would erase man’s

individuality.”

“That’s what he wanted, Mr. Marxmann,” Adam murmured, regretfully. “I think John just wanted

to make some kind of point. He was always awful pissed off. Oh. I’m sorry, sir.”

Mulder suppressed a smile at the absurdity of the memory thief’s apology. “But you needed him –

you and Mr. Marxmann.”

“John was our regular fish guy, and we’d talk a lot while I was helping him unload the truck,”

Adam said. “One day, it just kind of spilled out that I was an amnesiac. He said not to let it get me

down, that it meant I was free from all the hang-ups the world piles on us in the form of memories.

That’s from the website he was going to start. Anyway, he told me not to tell anybody, but he’d had

total memory loss, too, years ago. See, he couldn’t get a CDL – trucker’s license – if they knew he

was a New Lifer.” Adam shook his head sadly. “It isn’t like he can’t learn to drive, right?”

“Right. So you two got to be buddies. Who said whose memories you were supposed to wipe out?”

Adam looked hurt. “That’s kind of a cold way to put it. But I guess you aren’t wrong. I started

telling Mr. Marxmann about the people who’d come in each day. Folks like to talk to me, and I just

seem to know about them, you know, mentally. Mr. Marxmann said Mr. Turealt made a living

taking away people’s names, sticking them in boxes like the Nazis stuck him in that concentration

camp.”

So it had started as a personal vendetta for “Marxmann.” “And Dorothy Banbridge, people were

just pictures on a driver’s license to her.”

“They couldn’t help it,” Adam noted. “It’s what’s happened to us, to society. We didn’t hate ‘em or

anything. Well, maybe John did, a little. Especially that congressman guy. John called him the New

Age Hitler and the scientist guy, Morsberg, Dr. Mengele Jr. Didn’t know who that was until I

Googled him at the library. Actually, the guy seemed kinda nice.”

“Adam,” Mulder interrupted, gently. “Barry’s gone now.”

The boy’s face drained. “John? No. God. What happened.”

The agent had decided on a shock approach. “He tried to kill us, my partner and I.”

“And you killed him,” Adam mumbled incredulously. “You going to kill me?”

The last was a challenge rather than a concern. “No, Adam. But you know this has to end. That’s

why you freed Mr. Marxmann.”

“I freed Mr. Marxmann because of his pain, but also because he was wrong. So was John. This

isn’t about getting even. This is about fixing things. Things have gotten too fu–, sorry, too screwed

up because of our memories. People can’t forget about what’s been done to them, forget about their

prejudices. History just reminds us who we hate and why. Look at these people – free of their pain,

free of what they’re supposed to think, what they’re supposed to feel. We want to help people

forget.”

Mulder was silent for a moment. “We, Adam?”

Adam smiled — to Mulder, like some fresh-faced icon of a mad religion. “I’m not special, Mr….

Gee, sir, I don’t know you’re name.”

“Fox.”

“Weird. No, I’m not special or anything, Fox. I’ve got a talent, I guess – maybe ‘cause I’ve got

such a big hole in my memory, I take in other folks’ memories like a sponge. But it’s something I

can teach other people like me to do. I taught John. It just takes practice and concentration.”

Mulder’s hand twitched near his gun, and his eyes darted at the dehumanized shells around him.

“How many others have you taught, Adam?”

“None yet – that’s what John’s website’s for. We’re going to help train New Lifers to give New

Life to others.” Adam frowned. “Guess I’ll have to learn a little web authoring, now that John’s

gone.”

“I’m sorry, Adam,” Mulder said, getting to his feet and fishing for his cell phone. “You’re going to

have to come along with me, OK?”

Adam stared at the agent for a moment and moved forward. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?

It’s like John said – you’re afraid of us. You shouldn’t be, really.”

“Adam, move back,” Mulder said, punching Scully’s pre-programmed number, pushing his jacket

back to reveal his weapon.

“You’ve probably killed a lot of people, haven’t you?” Adam asked softly. His eyes filled with

sympathy. “You’ve seen a lot of dead people, a lot of evil things, haven’t you? The memories,

they’ve just got to eat at your soul.”

“Adam, don’t.” The gun came out, but it hung at Mulder’s side as Adam’s inquiry seemingly

summoned thoughts of Samantha, of Mom, of the trail of death and tragedy that had dogged his

search for The Truth. The ghosts lingered perpetually at the threshold of Mulder’s conscious.

“Let me help you, Fox,” Adam smiled, his eyes filling even as Mulder’s blurred. As the boy

reached for Mulder, the gun came up…

**

“Hard to picture this guy masterminding a game of canasta, much less a cross-country crime

spree.” Malone shook his head as he regarded “Marxmann,” who now was being escorted from the

apartment by a crew from Bellevue. He looked all of his eighty-plus years, and looked

bewilderedly from one paramedic to another. “Guy was a plumber, you say?”

Scully glanced up from the couch. Mulder’s abrupt departure had concerned her. “We’re hoping

Interpol can help expedite the search for this man’s real identity. You saw that tattoo on his arm?”

“Holocaust survivor,” Malone grunted. “We had a case. So I guess this is it, huh? Barry’s dead,

Marxmann’s a vegetable. We ever gonna know how they pulled it off, what they did to the

congressman, those others?”

We may know, but you’ll believe what you will, Scully reflected. “Those mementoes we found in

the bedroom – Herrera’s watch, Mowery’s Capitol ID, and the rest – could provide a lead. Maybe

we’ll find some latents. Marxmann almost had to have had an accomplice beyond Barry.”

Malone was about to respond when Scully’s cell phone sounded. She whipped it open. “Scully.

Hello?” She consulted the number on the small display screen. “Mulder?”

“…Let me help you, Fox…” The voice was faint, but familiar.

“What?” Malone asked. Scully hushed him.

“…get rid of all that pain, all those memories…” Where had she heard that voice? Young,

solicitous, sympathetic…

Even Malone heard the screams that erupted suddenly over the line, and Scully suddenly

remembered.

**

The first thing they spotted were the faces in the window of Stein’s Uptown Deli – staring, empty

faces, similar to the countenances in the photo Scully had seen at the Holocaust library.

“What the–?” Malone murmured, sidearm primed. A crowd was forming behind the blockade the

NYPD had set up several storefronts away, but the agents had specifically requested no sirens or

flashers. He’d been prepared for a by-the-books hostage situation, but the people at the window

appeared merely lost, out of focus. “Hey, Scully, what the hell are you doing?”

Scully had rushed the deli entrance, disregarding the potential risks. The door was unlocked, and to

Malone’s astonishment, no gunfire greeted her.

He was seated at the table nearest the counter, his gun on the formica before him, his cell phone

broken on the tile floor. He looked up blankly as Scully slowly advanced.

“Mulder?” she asked, yanking a chair over to her partner.

He blinked. “What?”

Scully struggled to breathe. “Oh, Jesus, Mulder.”

Mulder sighed. “He’s back there, Scully,” he said, wearily, waving toward the counter. Scully

slumped in relief.

“What happened, Mulder?” she asked, squeezing his hand. Malone hefted his weapon and edged

around the deli counter.

“Shit, Mulder, what did you do?” the older agent drawled. Scully stared briefly into Mulder’s eyes,

then joined Malone.

He was in the corner, curled into a fetal crouch. Adam’s eyes were wide and filled with horror, his

lips quivering, his red hair sharply contrasted against his ghastly white pallor.

“Just keep him away,” the boy rasped, hugging the wall. “Fucking keep him away from me.”

Scully stared questioningly over the counter. Mulder’s face was buried in his hand. She left the

traumatized boy to Malone.

Mulder looked up as she approached.

“He got into my head,” he said, almost inaudibly.

“How did you–?”

Mulder closed his eyes. “He found something.”

Staten Island, New York

5:17 a.m.

Gwen Turealt started at the rustling in the guest room next door. She glanced blearily at the digital

readout on the bedside clock.

Jeff had moved into the room next door shortly after his return from the hospital — it was too

uncomfortable, somehow unseemingly for them to share a bed. Jeff normally slept like the dead,

with no memories to generate the fodder of nightmares, and she climbed out of bed to check on

him.

Her husband stood by his rumpled bed, fully dressed in the Corrections Department uniform she

had been unable to throw away. Jeff smirked as he spotted her.

“I come home wasted last night?” he asked. “Sorry. You go back to bed — I’ll get the coffee on.”

What the fuck?, Jeff thought as his now-slender wife threw her arms about his neck.

Miami, Florida

8 a.m.

Dorothy Banbridge’s fingers froze as they shaped the cheekbones of her latest golem. She’d had an

order for five more, and the apartment resembled a cocktail party in Rod Serling Land.

Had I cleaned the litter boxes?, she thought.

You have no cats, she responded.

“Oh, shit,” the artist murmured, returning to her work.

Philadelphia Police Homicide Division

Philadelphia, Pa.

Three weeks later

In May 1999, Philadelphia Homicide Det. Will Jeffries placed a standard cardboard document box

on a metal shelf in a basement room of the PPD’s police headquarters. The box was inscribed

respectfully but simply with the name Briese and the legend 5-17-99, the date Robbie Briese

effectively was laid to rest.

No one ever determined who had slit Robert Arnold Briese’s throat and left him buried shallowly

in a thicket on the city’s outskirts. Truth to tell, despite the headlines that had followed the teen’s

disappearance and subsequent discovery, the case quickly went cold.

It took an exhaustive, nationwide search of national medical and dental databases to thaw out the

Briese case. In the end, a very unique crown led FBI Special Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully

to Philadelphia. Robbie Briese’s medical records then led the agents and the PPD’s Cold Case

Squad to Ron and Sharon Briese.

Robbie had sustained a few major injuries in the collision outside Brooklyn. The pickup driver with

whom he had hitchhiked had been killed instantly, and the teen awoke in post-op with no memory

and no identity. An AP story syndicated across the U.S. failed to yield the boy’s ostensibly frantic

parents, but a Manhattan delicatessen owner reading of Robbie’s potentially indefinite confinement

in the Bellevue psych ward offered him a job, an apartment above his restaurant, and a seat at his

family table. Max and Betty Stein looked to the Book of Genesis for a name for this fresh-faced,

memory-less, sinless “new” man.

“You definitively identified that body as your son’s,” Jeffries said gently from his perch on the

interview table. Sharon’s fingers were wrapped tightly around her husband’s, and the large cop

noticed Ron’s knuckles turn white under her sudden pressure. “That wasn’t your son; that wasn’t

Robbie, was it?”

“We were confused,” Ron managed. “We were grief-stricken.”

“Too grief-stricken to notice the body in the woods didn’t have a missing fingertip on the right

hand?” Jeffries prodded. “I would think you’d have looked for any indication that your son might

not be dead.”

“How did he lose that fingertip, Mr. Briese?” Det. Lilly Rush asked. The insurance agent glanced

sharply up at the blonde cop.

“He was playing with my power tools one day,” Ron rasped. “You know eight-year-olds.”

“Robbie was quite an active boy, wasn’t he?” Jeffries smiled serenely. That was when he was most

dangerous. “The doctors in New York found at least a dozen old injuries – broken bones, a cracked

vertebra, joint trauma.”

“You said he was in an accident,” Sharon protested.

“These injuries dated back to early childhood,” Lilly reported. “A behavior problem, your son?”

“He was always a handful,” his mother murmured.

“Sharon,” Ron cautioned.

“They said it was a ‘learning disability,’” she continued, her voice rising. “He was wrong, just

wrong, from the beginning. The way he tormented his classmates, the way he looked at us. Take

your hands off me, Ronald.”

Ron Briese withdrew his hand and stared at his wife in abject misery. “I think we’ll want to get an

attorney now.”

“I wonder whether it was the accident, the abuse, or just something in his genetic makeup,” Scully

pondered on the other side of the two-way glass. “No wonder he wanted to forget, to remake

himself into Adam.”

“They were both victims,” Mulder muttered. “Marxmann left his identity in a black hole in

Germany, Adam – Robbie – on a New York highway. But they couldn’t leave their horrors behind.

Whatever they lost, that stayed with them.”

Mulder had tried to see Adam at Bellevue, but the mere mention of the agent’s name had sent him

into a catatonic state. Scully knew Mulder now was thinking not about the darkness within the

Holocaust survivor or the abused boy, but about the secret place in his own head where

otherwordly horrors might lurk.

She wanted to reassure Mulder, let him know that whatever had been buried within him wasn’t an

intrinsic, organic piece of Mulder, that together they’d root it out and destroy it, wipe it from

memory and make new memories.

“Let’s go home, Mulder,” Scully said.

end

AT LAST

AUTHOR: Traveler
RATING: PG-13 for language, mild violence.
CATEGORY.: Casefile
DISCLAIMER: Characters from The X-Files are property of FOX and 1013, I just borrowed them to fulfill a fantasy. No infringement intended…besides they don’t seem to have any use for them anymore.
SPOILERS: None that we know of.
SUMMARY: A dream is an answer to a question we haven’t learned to ask…How would Mulder look in a fedora?

At last my love has come along

My lonely days are over

And life is like a song

Mack Gordon

CRADDOCK MARINE BANK

12:21 PM

Scully remembered the last time the two of them had been in a branch of this bank. The

desperate young man decked out in explosives and the young woman who had somehow

found herself between a bullet and Mulder. This was Craddock’s main office here in

D.C., a huge stately building built back in the thirties, its façade and pillars covered in

aged pink granite. As she followed him across the polished floor, her eyes took in the

huge marble columns and beautiful woodwork of the interior of the banking

establishment. It reminded her of something in an old movie. “Doesn’t this place remind

you of something out of a noir detective story, Mulder?” Scully asked as he stopped at the

unoccupied front desk. “You could play the part of Philip Marlow

“Philip Marlow?” he asked, turning to look at her with that quirky grin on his face.

Scully gave him a swoon, “You know the movie last night, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren

Bacall…”

Mulder chuckled, he didn’t remember much of the movie last night, “You watch too

many of those old movies, Scully.”

“They’re the best ones.” She was glad for the uneasy truce they had reached since last

evening. For the time being Mulder seemed to have put their heated discussion behind

him. She still wasn’t sure why he had insisted they come here today. It was something

he’d obviously planned but in his usual manner hadn’t provided much of the details. There

was something about the place that made her feel uneasy. As if at any minute a band of

trench-coated, fedora-wearing thugs carrying sub-machine guns would invade the place.

She chuckled to herself, maybe Mulder was right, she had been watching too many old

movies lately.

“Fox Mulder,” a well-educated voice said to her right. She glanced over to catch Mulder

accepting the hand of an expensively tailored gentleman with slightly graying hair.

“John McKinley, guardian of the Mulder estate,” Mulder greeted him, shaking his hand

vigorously with a grin.

“Glad to see you finally got that cast off your arm. Now maybe you’ll let me try and beat

you at some round ball.”

“I hate to admit it,” he turned to catch Scully’s eye. “But right now, you probably could.”

“Well, come on back to my office, I’ve got everything all ready for you,” John said,

turning to lead the way with a grin that made him look younger than his graying hair.

Mulder motioned for Scully to precede him as they followed John through a passageway

behind a partial glass divider and into a large cubical. “This must be Dana,” he said

reaching over the desk to extend his hand to her as well. “Mulder’s told me all about you.

It’s about time someone got through to that heart of his.”

“Ssscully,” she caught the hesitation in Mulder’s voice as he winced at her. “John is my

financial advisor.” She shook John’s hand firmly. “John, Dana Scully, my…partner.”

Mulder made the introductions as if it pained him and then took a seat. Scully glanced

between the two men. John bit his lip as if momentarily judging what Mulder’s definition

of ‘partner’ might be and then ran his tongue across his lower lip as he motioned for

Scully to take the other seat. “I just need your signature on a few things here Dana and

then I hope this gentleman is going to buy you lunch,” he looked pointedly at Mulder.

“Maybe someone could tell me just what it is I’m putting my signature on…?” Scully

said, turning to Mulder.

Mulder looked to John and then turned to his partner. “John brought it to my attention

that some accounts I have here should have counter signatures on them.” When Scully

looked at him questioningly, he continued. “In case something should happen to me—

someone should have access to the funds.” Scully felt that uneasiness again as she took

the pen John offered her.

“EVERYBODY DOWN! DOWN ON THE FLOOR! NOW!”

The voice was loud enough to make all three of them jump. A few screams erupted from

customers, a child started to cry. “YOU ALL GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR AND NO

ONE GETS HURT!” The sound of booted footsteps echoed around the cavernous bank

building, a semi automatic was cocked. “I WANT THE DRAWERS EMPTIED.

THESE GENTLEMEN WILL ASSIST YOU. NO ALARMS OR EVERYONE DIES.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND!”

John got to his feet but Mulder, rising with him, instantly reached to grab his arm.

“Wait,” he insisted turning to Scully. “Get down! Under the desk!”

“Mulder, no,” she started to get up, reaching behind her for her Sig.

“Damn it, Scully, get down, use your cell, get the police in here now!” He practically

shoved her down behind the desk. By now both John and Mulder were visible over the

glass partition.

“YOU TWO, OUT HERE NOW! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!”

As Mulder and John emerged from behind the partition, hands in the air, Mulder could

see at least a dozen people lying on the floor. A young mother held her daughter against

her side trying to quiet her. The man doing all the yelling was standing center stage

wearing a President Bush mask, holding a semi-automatic rifle. Three other Bush

imposters had vaulted over the counters and were collecting cash from the drawers.

There were sounds coming from the vault as well. It was all too eerily familiar to

Mulder.

“UP AGAINST THE WALL, HANDS ON THE GLASS!”

Mulder turned around to his right to face the glass partition, keeping his arms close to his

body so as not to expose his service weapon. John followed his lead and they both placed

their palms on the glass. The sweaty marks John’s palms made on the glass alerted

Mulder that the man was scared to death. “Just do what they say. Take it slow,” he said

in a low voice, trying to reassure his friend.

“SHUT UP! FACE THE WALL NOW!”

From where he stood, Mulder was looking right at Scully as she placed her cell on the

desk, obviously leaving the line open. He tried to mouth a “No” as he watched her

remove her gun and check the clip; finally resorting to a furious shake of his head when

she finally met his eyes. He refused to let her be the hero here.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

The booming voice made Mulder jump. He hadn’t heard the group leader come up

behind him and now he too was looking right at Scully. She never hesitated, rushing

along the partition to plant herself in the doorway, gun raised in defiance. “F.B.I., drop

your weapon now!”

From the corner of his eye, Mulder saw the man raise his weapon; he had no choice now

but to act. Instinctively pushing John out of the way he made a leap for Scully. She

heard the man’s weapon discharge and felt an impact, felt herself hit the wall and then the

floor came up and everything went black.

MARGARET SCULLY’S RESIDENCE

24 HOURS EARLIER

Mulder walked into the kitchen in search of a beverage only to find Tara trying to stir

something on the stove and balance Claire on her hip at the same time. An act, he had

decided long ago only a mother could do. He stepped over to her and reached his hands

out to the toddler. “Here, I’ll take her.” Surprised at his offer Tara smiled and let Mulder

pull her daughter into his arms. She giggled when he made a silly face and the two of

them stepped over to the screen door to check out the back yard.

It was a melancholy memory for Tara, Bill doing much the same thing. For some reason

he had been closer to their daughter than to Matthew, making her think that maybe there

was something to that father-daughter, mother-son relationship thing after all. Mulder,

somewhat to her surprise, had taken on the “uncle” status of his own accord. Over the

summer he had become Matthew’s sports coach and Claire’s own personal pony.

Mulder’s connection to the Scully family for the most part hadn’t been a good one though

in all honesty, even she could acknowledge that was not entirely his fault. He and his life

were hard to understand but what she did know what that he loved Dana, and cared very

deeply for all of them. As she watched him making faces with Claire she couldn’t help

but think that somewhere inside this man of mystery, there lived a father trying to find his

way out. She finished up and put the lid back on the pot, crossing the kitchen to where

Mulder was standing playing some kind of guessing game with her daughter.

“A baby looks good on you, Mulder,” she said when she reached the pair.

“Excuse me?” Mulder looked somewhat astonished by her comment, setting Claire down

on the floor.

She smiled at him. “You’re really good with the kids, especially Matthew. I’ve never

gotten the chance to thank you.”

Mulder looked down and then out into the backyard. “You don’t have to thank me for

anything, Tara, they’re great kids.”

“You always find a way to make time to do things with them. You wouldn’t do that if it

didn’t mean something to you. Maybe you and Dana should think about having some of

your own.”

Growing increasingly uneasy with the conversation Mulder chuckled under his breath.

“I’m forty-four Tara; it was never in the cards.” He looked at her now somewhat

confused. “You know Dana can’t have children.”

“Well, don’t give up on the idea.” Tara said, reaching out to touch his arm. “You never

know what life may offer you. There are other options, Fox.”

Claire was starting to tug on Mulder’s leg. “Come with me…”

“But first you have to make an honorable woman out of her.” When Mulder met her eyes

she continued. “How many years did it take you to admit to her you loved her? Don’t

take that long to ask her to marry you.” She reached down to take Claire’s hand.

“Claire, what are you doing to your Uncle Fox?” Scully’s voice filled the kitchen

startling them both. Claire let go of Mulder and ran across the kitchen into her arms.

“Come on, lets find you a seat at the table,” Dana picked the child up giving them both at

pointed look as she turned and walked out of the room.

Tara met Mulder’s eyes again, “Besides, you’d make Maggie very happy, and she needs a

little happiness in her life now.”

MULDER & SCULLY’S RESIDENCE

LATER THAT EVENING

Maggie’s dinner had been a quick affair. She and Tara and Scully had talked over what

the kids were up to and Mulder had sat and contemplated his conversation with Tara in

silence. They had stayed for coffee and pie and then headed for home for a quiet evening

together.

“What are we watching?” Mulder asked as he settled in beside her on the couch and

handed her the bowl of popcorn.

“The Big Sleep,” she replied.

“Guaranteed to put me to sleep, that’s all there is?”

“Bogie and Bacall, Mulder, classic film Noir, I love these old detective stories; tall dark

handsome men in trench coats and fedora’s lurking about in dark alleys or driving classic

cars.”

“Is that what it takes to win you over, a trench coat and a fedora?”

“You’re assuming you’re already handsome?” The impish grin on her face made him

smile, “You’d look great in one of those you know.”

“Yeah, I’d look like Indiana Jones’ younger brother.”

They sat in compatible silence watching the film and munching on the dry popcorn. She

found it odd for him to be so silent; he usually ran commentary through just about every

movie they watched together. Something else was evidently on his mind and had been

for the better part of the day, ever since she’d found him talking to Tara in her mother’s

kitchen.

“So what were you and Tara talking about this afternoon?” It sounded nosey and she

knew it. He didn’t say anything at first, reaching over and taking a swig of his beer. She

watched as he seemed to contemplate the bottle before setting it down. “The kids, she

told me I looked good with a kid on my hip.”

The comment threw her for a loop; it certainly wasn’t what she’d been expecting him to

say. They had long ago dropped any conversations of regrets and lost children, moving

on with the life they shared together. Mulder caught her distress. “She — was just

thanking me for spending time with the kids. I told her I enjoyed it.”

Putting the popcorn bowl aside she studied his profile for a moment as he turned back to

the movie. She knew it was there, deep in her own subconscious; a fear that her

infertility was keeping him from something he wanted but would never admit. “I know

you do. I can see it every time we’re with them.” She leaned a little tighter against him.

“Mulder, you’ve never really told me if you wanted children of your own.”

“Mini-Mulders? Now there’s a scary thought,” he answered in jest. “We’ve had this

conversation before, Scully,” his voice a soft baritone in her ear. He wrapped his arm

around her back, resting it on the cushion behind her, his hand coming to rest on her

shoulder. “All I want is you.”

She wouldn’t look at him, her eyes drawn to the black and white images in their TV

screen. He breathed out, the gentle puff billowing strands of her hair. His left hand came

up to cup her chin and he gently turned her face towards his, “Scully, look at me.”

His eyes when she met them were dark in the dim light of their living room. She watched

him swallow. His hand still cupped her chin. “Marry me.”

Her lips parted. Of all the things she would have expected him to say to her at that

moment, that was the furthest from her mind. He’d said it to her before in innuendo, in

making other comments like picking out china patterns over the years but at that moment,

from the look he was giving her, she knew for the first time he was absolutely serious.

Taken aback by the suddenness of the proposal she had no idea how to respond to him.

“What?”

He dropped his hand and smiled at her. “I’m asking you to marry me. You know, be

Mrs. Fox Mulder,” his eyes danced with mirth. “Of course you could still be Dana

Scully, which would probably be better since it would be a little inconvenient if we called

each other ‘Mulder’. Come on, what do you say, make an honest man out of me?”

It hit her then in that last sentence what the conversation with Tara had been about. It

was a comment her mother had occasionally thrown at her but never held against her.

And for all the wrong reasons it hit a nerve. “Is that what this is about? Making me an

honest woman? Just what are you implying, Mulder?”

She watched the smile disappear from his face. “I’m not IMPLYING anything. I have no

doubt about your integrity. I just don’t want anyone else to think otherwise.”

Scooting back from him on the couch, she was now out of arm’s reach. “What brought

this on? We have a marriage in every sense of the word but the piece of paper that makes

it legal. Why is that suddenly so important to you? Why now?”

“What do you mean, why now? Why NOT now?” His defenses were going up and so

was his blood pressure. How had a simple question turned into a heated debate? “We’ve

been living together for two years; this courtship has lasted for what, twelve?” Gunfire

erupted on the television; he picked up the remote and turned the television off tossing it

onto the table with a satisfying whack. “I see how people look at us. For years we’ve

lived with the rumors and innuendos. We’ve been mistaken for a couple ten times over.

In the personal and professional sense I don’t know how to introduce you to anyone

anymore — partner, friend, lover, roommate…”

“We ARE all those things. The only thing ‘wife’ will change is that you won’t need

‘partner’ anymore Mulder. The F.B. I. doesn’t allow married couples to work together,

think about that. You of all people should understand the uniqueness of our situation.

Somehow we’re flying under the F.B.I. radar right now because even though we live

together we’re still working together. Don’t you see? As it is now, we have the best of

both worlds.”

He glared at her then, “I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life in the F.B. I., Scully.”

Truth was neither did she but this was the first time she’d heard him admit it about

himself. She scooted back toward him, trying to put together the words that would make

him understand that their partnership went much deeper than any marriage possibly

could. “Mulder, listen to me for a moment.” Reaching to touch him she watched as he

turned away and launched himself off the couch. “I’m not saying no.”

“Well that’s funny,” he sneered as he turned back to face her. “Cause I sure haven’t heard

you say yes either.”

She closed her eyes and let out a breath of frustration. Opening them again she begged

him with her eyes, “How do I make you see that what we have here together is enough?

Somehow out of the ashes of our lives we’ve built a home here together. It’s made me

very happy. Are you telling me that you don’t feel the same way? How is our

relationship different from a marriage?”

“There’s no Mister or Misses in this relationship Scully, that’s what makes it different.

Legally we’re nothing more to each other than good friends.”

“That’s it? Good friends?”

He closed his eyes, let the sigh escape and then opened them again. “No — look, I’m

sorry,” he rubbed his hand across his forehead, for a moment she thought she saw it

shaking. “Forget I even started this conversation. I’m tired and I have a splitting

headache, I’m going to bed.”

With his recent history, she worried every time he complained of a headache. She was

suddenly struck with the thought that something else had prompted this conversation.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” their eyes met over his curt reply.

“Not that you would tell me otherwise,” she got up from the couch herself, the movie

long forgotten. Bending over to pick up the popcorn bowl and their two empty bottles,

she addressed him again. “I worry about you, about what’s happened to you since we

acquired that other artifact. I don’t want to lose you, Mulder.”

“You don’t want to lose me but you don’t want to marry me either is that it?”

“Dammit, Mulder, don’t put words in my mouth. It’s just that sometimes your obstinacy

frightens me. This has gone way beyond the fanatical. You’re so obsessed with the idea

that you’ve been given some gift — some window to the future that will somehow allow

you to prevent this Armageddon you believe is coming that you won’t even consider the

possibility that health wise, something could be terribly wrong. You worry about every

life but your own,” she let out another sigh as her shoulders slumped. Her eyes scanned

the room as if for divine guidance. It was a test of his patience but Mulder just stood

there waiting her out. “I used to think it was just your careless single-minded pursuit of

the truth. Now, I’m not so sure. These trips you take off the deep end…sometimes you

don’t seem like yourself. I wonder how far you’ll go with this.”

“You think I’m crazy, that I’m off my nut?” he questioned her with astonishment. “Are

you afraid of me Scully, is that it?”

“I’m afraid FOR you, Mulder. The toll this is taking on you physically. You just got

cleared for active duty from the last case. You cover it well but I know your leg still

bothers you. You don’t sleep well, these headaches…”

“How the hell did we get on this subject?” Mulder erupted, his arms flying out to either

side as he glared at her.

“Because, this subject affects the other subject! I’m tired of you taking the risks you do.

Can you promise me that if we were married that would change?”

They had been standing several feet apart in the living room; her arms full of dishes and

his head throbbing. Suddenly feeling the need to do something, he clenched his fists in

frustration and took the several steps towards her and grabbed the dishes from her hands.

“No, I can not promise you that so let’s just forget this conversation ever happened,” his

voice was flat as he turned away from her and headed for the kitchen clenching the dishes

in a death grip.

“I’m not forgetting you asked Mulder,” she said as he reached the doorway.

He stopped and turned to face her, “I know this isn’t the conversation we started but I

need you to understand something. I won’t lie to you, Scully. I take the risks I do

because I believe their outcome will be worth it. I believe the truth is out there, waiting

to be known, nothing has changed that. And if this ‘gift’ as you call it, will lead me to it

why would I not use it? You’re the one who told me God has his reasons — then there’s

got to be a reason for this.”

“Are you saying you believe this is a gift from God, Mulder?”

His head turned a little, in not quite a ‘no’, “What do you believe, Scully?” When she

didn’t answer he turned back towards the kitchen. “I need to see this thing through to the

end whatever its purpose, wherever it takes me. I just want to be certain that you’ll be

okay when it’s all over.”

Her brow furrowed as he spoke, “Us, Mulder, wherever it takes us. When will you

realize you’re not alone in this? Please don’t forget how much our partnership means to

both of us. It’s really all we need.”

She watched him stand there, mulling over her words. When he finally turned back to

face her it was for a totally different reason. “Don’t forget I need you to come to the bank

with me tomorrow, around noon, there’s something we need to take care of. Is that okay

with you?”

She wasn’t sure he had accepted her resolution instead reminding her of an appointment

he’d only mentioned the day before. “Yes, I remember, that’s fine,” she answered as she

watched him disappear into the kitchen.

D.C. GENERAL HOSPITAL

PRESENT DAY

She knew before she opened her eyes where she was. The scratchy sheets, the smell of

disinfectant, the echoes of voices in the hallway, the only question that remained was

which hospital she now found herself in. Her head swam and a brief bout of nausea

swept over her as she surveyed the room. The empty room she noticed with alarm.

“Well, look who’s awake,” the all too sweet voice of a nurse suddenly appearing in her

doorway drew her gaze in that direction; the sudden movement causing her vision to blur.

“A little dizzy,” she whispered.

“I’m not surprised honey,” the nurse came into the room, resting her hand on the bedrail.

“You have a nasty bump on the head, severe concussion, you’ve been in and out for quite

a while…”

The scene from the bank came back to her, Mulder coming at her, the sound of gunshots.

“Where’s my partner? Mulder?” She looked up at the nurse with alarm.

“I don’t know honey. I just came on the floor. There hasn’t been anyone up here to see

you that I know of. You need to rest. Your doctor’s prescribed some Compazine for the

nausea.” She could feel the nurse adjusting her IV and then her eyes drifted shut again.

The second time she opened her eyes was a little easier. The room didn’t seem to swim

as much and the nausea was gone. This time the room wasn’t empty either. She sized up

the figure sitting in the chair next to her bed. He dozed on, his head cocked at an

awkward angle against his left shoulder, his right arm in a sling. She hesitated to wake

him but the mere fact that Mulder was sitting beside her looking relatively intact made

her feel one hundred percent better.

As if on cue, he stirred, his eyes opening as he straightened his neck with an audible

crack. Catching her eye, he leaned over and pecked a kiss against her cheek. “Hey

sleepy,” he smiled gently, adjusting her blankets and taking her hand in his. She eyed

him carefully. He was dressed in his dress slacks and a green hospital scrub. The heavy

shadow across his cheeks made him looked haggard. He had a nasty bruise on his right

cheekbone. Tape from bandage dressing was visible under the neck of the shirt.

“What happened?” she finally asked letting go of his hand to caress the bruise.

“My face sort of got in the way of George Bush’s boot,” he replied, picking nervously at

his sling. “Right after you tried to pull one of my hair-brained stunts.”

She reached to grab his hand again, “And you stepped in front of the bullet.”

“It’s just a flesh wound, no major damage.” He tugged on the sling and looked up at her

again. “Actually, it was more like I leapt in front of it,” he said with a wince. “But yeah,

I tackled you; you hit the floor before I did. I’m sorry, Scully. They want to keep you

here overnight for observation.”

“Sorry for what? For saving my life?”

“I told you last night I could never make that promise to you.” He met her eyes again and

sighed, “Besides, it was more like you saved ours. The cavalry showed up just in time to

save the day.”

“And I had no right to ask that of you,” it was a fact she had realized last night even as

she was making the request. “What about John? Was anyone else hurt?”

“No, everyone is fine, a little shaken up,” he looked away from her. “They’ll probably all

be looking to bank elsewhere, somewhere Fox Mulder isn’t a customer.”

“What am I going to do with you, Mulder?” She tried to take his hand again but he

refused her.

“I don’t know, but I wish you’d figure it out,” his voice now suddenly full of frustration.

“Cause right now I’m at a loss trying to figure you out,” he finished abruptly and rose

from the chair stepping to the foot of her bed. “Look, I need to think some things over,”

she watched him look about the room, everywhere but at her. “I’ll call in the morning;

make sure you’re going to be released before I come back to get you.”

She was taken aback by his sudden act of departure, “Mulder?”

He turned around, “I’m tired Scully, I just want to go home.”

There was something in his manner that told her he wasn’t talking about being physically

tired. They’d been here before, she knew, asking themselves that question of whether or

not it was all worth it. But this was different, this wasn’t a question about the X-Files

future, it was a question regarding their own.

He smiled a weak smile and tugged on her toe beneath the blanket and then gave her a

gentle wave as he headed out the door. She lay there for a moment in the empty room

tugging the covers tighter as she drifted off again wishing for his warmth.

*

I awake to the sound of voices in the hall, male voices. I keep hearing my name

mentioned so I know they are talking about me. It irritates the hell out of me that they

don’t feel I should be privy to their conversation. One is my father; I don’t recognize the

other man.

“I just don’t think we should go through the Bureau on this. You start spreading her name

around any governmental organization and questions start to get asked about why some

Navy captain’s daughter needs government protection.”

“But you work for a governmental organization yourself Captain, you sound like you

don’t trust them yourself.”

“It’s not our government I don’t trust, it’s who might be listening to what our government

is doing that I don’t trust. You know as well as I do there are spies everywhere these

days.”

“Germany already knows we’re working on an A-bomb, Sir. What I don’t understand is

why she’s here and not at Oak Ridge with everyone else.”

“You don’t need to know why she’s here. All I’m asking from you is that you find me

someone to protect her, a bodyguard, someone you trust.”

“Someone that doesn’t work for the government.”

This is the second time today I’ve fallen asleep slumped over the lab table. We’ve been

working almost round the clock on this project and I am exhausted. But when I hear the

word “bodyguard” from my father I’m up off my chair and headed for the door, pulling

my hair back into a sensible pony tail and making an attempt to straighten my rumpled

clothes. I don’t need a damn bodyguard, what I need is a hot soak and a change of

clothes. They both jump when I open the door.

My father is standing there all proper in his Navy blues; this other man is tall and balding

with heavy glasses and a dark trench coat, obviously a Fed. I look at my father first,

“Don’t Dad, just don’t. I don’t need anybody watching over me, nobody has a clue what

we’re working on here anyway.”

“The Navy does and we don’t want the Germans finding out. It could mean the difference

between the success and failure of project!”

Out of the corner of my eye I notice this Fed put his hat back on and make an attempt to

walk away from this little family squabble. My father catches it too, “Where do you

think you’re going? I’m not through with you yet!” Then he turns back to me. “Dana,

honey,” he reaches out to caress my cheek and as much as I’m angry for his over-

protectiveness, I lean into his touch. “You look exhausted. Why don’t you go back to the

house, get some rest? Let me work this out.”

I am tired, and I want nothing more than a bed and those things I mentioned to myself

before. Go ahead Dad, work it out, just don’t expect me to go along with it. I nod and

turn to pull the door to the lab shut. My father and this Fed start to walk off down the

hall but not out of earshot. “Look Captain, I really think you’d be better off working with

the government on this but I might know someone, private dick, good guy despite your

first impressions. Is this going to be on your dime?”

“Will he be expensive?”

“Marty?” the Fed says, turning back in my direction. “Despite first impressions, he’s a

man of good character. I’m sure whatever you offer him will be fine.”

It takes me a while to find a driver to take me up to the estate. The Navy has put most of

its tactical personnel up in this Victorian estate just outside of Baltimore. My father must

have more clout than I imagined. When I finally get to my room I don’t even bother to

undress. I just pull the drapes and flop into bed.

I don’t know how long I slept; it felt so good to be lying in a bed again. Anna, our

housekeeper must have heard me stirring because she came into to inform me that we

would be having a guest for dinner and that maybe I should make myself look

presentable for once, I just hope it isn’t this Marty character.

I comb my hair and roll it into a chignon and then paw through the closet for a suit I

haven’t worn in ages. I need some heels. I hate looking up to people. I actually take the

time to put on a little makeup, Dad will be shocked.

When I get downstairs I’m disappointed to learn Dad, excuse me, the Captain, hasn’t

arrived yet. Seems there’s a big strategy meeting in the operations center so I get to do

the entertaining. Anna winks at me and then opens the door to the sitting room, “The

gentleman is waiting in here.”

“The gentleman,” as Anna referred to him is standing by the window admiring the

scenery. Smoke curling about his head. He turns when the door opens taking one last

drag before stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray on the table. He’s about the same

height as the Fed who was here earlier only considerably younger. He’s dressed like the

Fed too in a trench coat. I watch him fumble with the well-worn fedora he’s been

holding. “The Captain is going to be a little late; can I have Anna take your hat and coat?”

He divests himself of the coat and hands them both to Anna who promptly bustles out of

the room. He’s dressed extremely well for his profession in a double-breasted suit and I

find myself unexpectedly drawn to his lanky form. Most of your private detectives look

like they shop at the thrift store. As much as his dark hair and smoky eyes intrigue me I

still don’t want him following me around. “You look like a much better dinner

companion than the Captain anyway, Doll.” I bristle at the salutation but the baritone

timbre of his voice makes me tingle, I know his type and I’m not going to let myself be

played.

“Yes, well, I’m not the one who asked you here Mr.?”

“Marty, the name’s Marty,” he replies rather distractedly sliding his hands into his

pockets.

I need something to do so I offer him a drink and walk over to the library table to see

what the men have left there. There’s only one choice so I pick up the bottle and show it

to him, “How do you like your scotch?”

“In a glass,” he replies rather sarcastically.

I choose to ignore his poor joke and drop some ice in the glasses. As I’m pouring us both

a scotch he digs in his breast pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”

“No, thank you, I don’t smoke.”

“Well, neither do I, it just goes with the look,” a boyish grin crosses his lips as he lights

up. I walk over and hand him his drink. His fingers are cold.

I sip my scotch hoping it will steady my nerves. “Look — Marty, I’m not sure just what

you’ve been told but I’ve already made it clear to the Captain that I don’t need your

services.”

He swigs the scotch and sets the glass down, taking a drag on his cigarette, he meets my

eyes. “Just so we’re clear, I ain’t too thrilled about the prospect either. I don’t know what

your old man’s game is, Miss. But it seems that since he’s out there fighting a war the

least I can do is protect the home front.”

Obviously he’s been told the Captain is my father. He sizes me up and down and I find it

disconcerting until he meets my eyes, taking another drag on the cigarette. “Look Red, as

far as I’m concerned you’re just another job. Not that keepin’ my eyes on a dame is my

usual practice but I could use the cash.”

I’d like to smack him for using the word ‘dame’ but then I figure it’s just part of his

vocabulary. The ‘Red” on the other hand is another story. “My name is not Red.”

I watch him wander over and help himself to a second scotch, “What would you prefer I

call you then?”

I don’t even want him here, “Dana will be fine.”

He swigs most of the scotch again, “Yes, ma’am.”

I hate being called that too.

Dad finally shows up and we manage to get through dinner. Every time I look up from

my plate Marty, as he’s told us to call him is looking at me. He’s handsome in a roguish

sort of way and somewhere in his mysterious past he must have had a good up-bringing.

The pleasantries over, dad ultimately turns the conversation to the war. “Tell me Marty,

how is it that you’re not over on the front lines.”

Marty looks at me and then turns back to my father, “Somebody has to keep an eye on the

home front, sir.”

I don’t think my father likes his answer but you can’t argue with it. “Yes, well, if we don’t

win this war there may not be anything for you to keep an eye on. We all need to do our

part.”

“Isn’t that why I’m here?”

“Yes, and let’s get down to that.” Dad motions Anna to clear the table. “I’m sure you’re

aware of the Manhattan Project?”

“Yeah, it’s some science fiction project based on Einstein’s theory of relativity our

governments’ involved in to build an atomic weapon.”

“This SCIENCE FICTION project, mister, could wipe Germany off the globe!” My

father pounds the table with his fist and I watch Marty flinch at the vehemence.

“So you’re involved in this research?” Marty asks looking directly at me. Without a

cigarette he has nothing to do with his hands so I watch him play with his spoon left from

dinner.

“NO,” Dad’s voice booms in the room. “While the U.S. is busy working away at places

like Oak River and Los Alamos; intelligence reports have informed us that the Germans

may also be trying to develop atomic weapons. I’m sure you’ll agree we can’t let that

happen.”

“Yeah, I agree, go on.”

“Over the past several years our allies have been watching the activity at the Norsk Hydro

plant in Vemork, Norway. It’s been under Nazi control since 1940. The plant produces

heavy water.”

Anna brings coffee for all of us and leaves the room. I watch Marty stir his even though

he hasn’t put anything into it. “So what exactly is this heavy water?”

Finally I can get a word in on the conversation, “D2O, it’s the key to one type of reactor

in which you can breed plutonium from natural uranium.”

I watch Marty as he sips his coffee and considers this. He looks back and forth between

my father and I and finally addressed my father, “So, why haven’t the allies destroyed the

plant?”

“Two raids on the facility so far have failed.”

Marty sets his cup down a little more forcefully than he should. “I’m afraid I’m a little

confused here. If your daughter isn’t involved with the U.S. atomic research what makes

her a threat to German intelligence?”

“And why are you here?”

“Yeah, I was gettin’ to that.”

Let me explain this Dad I think to myself, “The importance of heavy water to atomic

production is that it provides one more way to produce plutonium for use in weapons,

completely bypassing uranium enrichment and all the other technological infrastructure

usually needed.” Marty must be smarter than he looks because he seems to be following

me so far.

“If Germany is able to perfect this process and produce enough plutonium to create

atomic weapons before the allies do, the results could lead to a global catastrophe.”

“Unfortunately, you’re probably right.”

“I know I’m right. What you don’t know is the effects these weapons will have on the

population. Aside from the destructive power and casualties of the initial blast, radiation

from them causes the onset of radiation sickness that could wipe out entire populations

and more importantly wipe out an army.”

“Radiation sickness?” he asks with a wince.

“Yes, our researchers have been sworn to secrecy but many of the civilians and project

workers involved are being subjected to lethal doses of radiation and becoming deathly

ill,” Marty looks like he’s going to turn green. “With the help of my father I have been

secretly involved in a research project to develop and test a drug that will combat

radiation sickness. Can you understand the value of that drug to an army whose sole

purpose is to take over the globe?”

“So, you’re not a threat to Germany, what they’d really like is to get their hands on you.”

“Which is why, Marty, you are here.”

“And these atomic bombs which science burst upon the world that night were strange

even to the men who used them,” Marty looks at me with something like regret in his

eyes.

“Excuse me?”

I watch his lip quirks up a little, “H.G. Wells, smart man.”

My father gets up from the table, “War of the Worlds?”

“No, um, The World Set Free,” Marty answers as he too gets up from the table.

My father looks at the both of us, “Lets all hope so.”

Dad hustled Marty back off to the library shortly after dinner. He and my father talked in

private for a while. I suspect Dad was just sizing him up, but he must have decided he

approved of what he saw because I heard him tell Marty he would be in touch with him

soon. I hate all this secrecy, especially when I’m the subject of it.

I don’t know what to make of Marty myself. He seems out of place in his profession.

Aside from dressing poorly most of these private detectives are past their prime. I’m

ashamed to admit I noticed, but he seems to be right in the middle of his adding an air of

mystery about him. No wonder my father asked, he should be on the front lines with the

rest of the countries young men. I also got the impression he’s had an education. Perhaps

I’ll get more out of a conversation with him than I will the rest of the old stuffed shirts

around here. He’s certainly a lot more pleasing to look at.

Anna catches me daydreaming while she finishes cleaning up. “Dana, honey, you stay

away from that one. I saw your eyes dance when you got a look at him; he’s trouble with

a capital T!”

“Why Anna, whatever do you mean?” I ask her with mock astonishment that she would

even think such a thing.

“Men like him only have one thing on their minds. I don’t know what your father’s

thinking.”

I walk over to tap her arm as I head off again to my room, “Don’t worry, I have no

intention of getting anywhere near him.”

Once again I’m woken from a sound sleep by Anna only this time she’s frantic, “Dana,

Dana, you have to get up! The Captain called, you need to throw some things together,

get your research and be ready to leave in half an hour!” She’s hovering over me in just

her nightclothes and then she heads for the closet to dig out a suitcase for me.

I crawl out of bed and she grabs my arm, “Get moving, there’s been a leak, the Germans

know everything. They know where you are!”

Once I’m dressed she hurries me out of the room, “Get your research, I’ll pack for you!” I

head downstairs and find one of the lab assistants in the library holding a case. “I think I

have everything they asked me to bring you,” he says nervously handing the case over to

me. I set it on the table and open it. My journals, lab notes and several vials of test

serum are packed inside. When the young man reaches over to touch my arm I look up

into his worried expression. “Good luck,” he says to me before I head back out into the

main hall.

To my surprise, Marty is standing there just inside the door talking to Anna and holding

my suitcase. His coat and hat are spotted from the rain and his shoes have tracked water

across the polished floor. He turns to me almost immediately, “Come on doll, we gotta

split!”

So I’ve gone from “Doll” to “Red” to “Ma’am” and back to “Doll” in the course of one

evening. Marty and I have got to get something straight. Anna is handing me my coat

and I realize that I’ve just tumbled out of bed, I must be a sight. I bypass the coat and put

my hand on the banister, “Give me a minute to put on my face.”

Someone grabs my arm and turns me around; “You look just fine,” Marty says with an

intensity that I understand to mean we’re leaving now. Anna hands me my coat and we’re

out the door and into the rain.

He doesn’t say anything to me as he throws me and my luggage into the big Packard and

we head off down the drive. The car smells like cigarettes and our clothes smell like the

rain and I watch with some mirth as the brim of his hat drips water onto his lap but he

still doesn’t say anything as his eyes scan the road ahead of us. I’m a bit shocked by all

this and suddenly feel the consuming need to find out what’s going on. “What the hell is

going on?”

He flashes a glance my way, “I don’t know. I got a call tellin’ me to come pick you up.

So here I am.”

“You usually just drop everything in the middle of the night for a call like that?”

I pull my coat tighter around me as I’m suddenly wracked by a chill. He must be

watching me out of the corner of his eye because he reaches out to turn up the heat.

“Didn’t have anything to drop.”

“No woman at home?”

“Home is where you hang your hat.” As if to emphasize his point, he looks right at me.

“I’m usually working most of the time.”

I don’t buy it. “I would figure you as a sucker for dames, Marty.”

“Well, you’re wrong, Sister.”

Wonderful, he’s added another name to the vocabulary. “Since we’re evidently going to

be stuck in the car together, I really wish you would just call me Dana.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says without taking his eyes off the road.

We’ve been driving for almost an hour now in complete silence, save for the constant

thumping of the windshield wipers. It’s raining harder and his eyes are too busy

watching the road and the rear view mirror to notice as I give him the once over. He

needs a shave but between his clothes and the big car, detective work must pay better

than I thought. I decide it’s time to find out what makes him tick. “So, what’s your story,

Marty?” I watch him as his dark eyes flash to the rear view mirror again.

“What do you mean my story?”

“I mean I get the impression you haven’t always been strapped for cash.”

He looks at me again as if trying to determine how many of his secrets to give up. “I

used to work for the F.B.I., got fired for insubordination.”

I know there must be more and he must realize this. I watch his lip curl before he

elaborates, “Lived off the family dime for a while but eventually even that ran out.”

I can put two and two together and remember the man who was talking to my father

yesterday. “There was an agent at the estate yesterday, did he hire you?”

“In a matter of speaking yeah, he’s my old boss.”

When he doesn’t elaborate I continue to pry. “Interesting business you have now.”

“You wouldn’t like my business, doesn’t pay very well.”

We pull into an old gas station and he cuts the engine. “I need to make a phone call,” he

says looking over at me. “Don’t get out of the car unless you have to.” It’s hard to see in

the driving rain but I watch as he runs inside and then the attendant comes out to fill up

the tank while he makes the phone call. A few moments later there’s a tap on my window

and I roll it down. “Don’t do that again unless you know who it is,” he cautions me as he

hands me a bottle of soda and then walks around the car. I hold the bottle for a few

minutes wishing it were a cup of warm coffee instead and then take a sip.

He gets in and takes a heavy slug from his own soda. Droplets of rain drip off the brim

of his fedora again and I start to chuckle. He looks at me, “What?”

“Don’t you ever take that thing off?”

“Not if I don’t have to.” He finishes the bottle and tosses it in the backseat. The car roars

back to life as he starts the engine and pulls through the station; the car bouncing through

the ruts in the unpaved surface.

“Where are we going?”

“You don’t need to know,” he doesn’t look at me when he replies and I’m instantly

irritated by his cockiness again.

“I think I have the right to know.”

He glances at me only momentarily, deciding that maybe I do, “Away from the coast.”

I must doze off because it’s almost noon before we stop again. This time at a dumpy

roadside diner called Molly’s. We’re somewhere in Pennsylvania now and he still refuses

to tell me where we’re actually going. Maybe he doesn’t really know himself. I head for

the bathroom while he picks out a booth near one of the windows; hanging up his coat

and surprisingly his hat on the rack next to the table. He turns around to catch my eye

and runs his hand through his hair before he sits down.

When I get back to the table he is already nursing a cup of coffee and a smoke. I can feel

his eyes on me as I glance through the menu selections. “Well Red, what’ll you have?” I

think he knows I hate that because when I look up his lip curls into a half smile. “I hear

the ‘possum is especially tasty this time of year.”

God, he is so infuriating but at the same time I’m beginning to feel myself fall for him

and I hate myself for it. It was almost as if he’d legally kidnapped me and I’d let him.

The busty waitress seems a little disappointed when she comes back to take our order and

finds that Marty isn’t alone. She refills his coffee and saunters away. Our meal comes

and I watched him attack his food like he hasn’t eaten in a week. He ordered breakfast

while I settled for a bowl of vegetable soup and a sandwich. I still couldn’t shake the

chill.

“So tell me about this research you’re working on? How is what you’re doing different

from what they say is going on in the death camps?”

He’d caught me with a mouth full of food and I almost choke, “How can you even ask me

that?!”

He puts down his fork and takes another sip of coffee, “Because I want to know if you’re

worth it.”

I throw the sandwich on my plate, “What do you mean, worth it?”

“If what you’re doing is worth me risking my life to protect you; it’s that simple Doll.”

“You’re not here because I asked for your protection,” I sneer at him.

“You’re right. I’m here because your father asked for it.”

I study him for a moment. This man isn’t the meticulously dressed gentleman who’d

come to the estate last night. This man looks tired. His five o’clock shadow has darkened

and his hair is unkempt and cascading over his forehead. He’s changed into a different

suit but I recognize the tie that now hangs askew from his unbuttoned collar. There’s

sadness in his eyes I haven’t noticed before. He holds my gaze for a moment as if

inviting me in before going back to picking at his breakfast.

“What do you think is going on in the death camps?”

“Things we shouldn’t talk about over a meal,” he acknowledges looking back up at me.

“Things that human beings shouldn’t be doing to other human beings. You’re not doing

things to other human beings are you?”

“Is that what you think?”

He puts the fork down with some finality. “No, I wouldn’t be here if I did. But I really

don’t know what to think because nobody’s tellin’ me much of anything, including you.”

The floozy waitress comes back to refill our coffee and when she leaves I proceed to tell

Marty what I’ve been doing in the bowels of that Victorian mansion. What the bombs

don’t destroy the radiation will take care of unless there is some way to combat it. This

applies to just about every living organism on the planet. What had begun as a war in the

trenches has now become a war in the laboratory. While scientists play with atoms it will

be the doctors who will eventually save the world.

“Do you have any idea will happen when atomic weapons are used in a war?”

I watch him pick up his spoon again and stir nothing into the black coffee. “Unfortunately

working for the government has its advantages. You learn a lot of things you’d rather not

know. But to answer your question — no, not exactly.”

“I thought you didn’t work for the government anymore.”

“That’s why I don’t.” Our eyes meet across the table, “What they had me doing didn’t

exactly live up to my high moral standards,” he says with a smirk but I can see the truth

of what he says in his eyes. “I get the impression you have morals of your own. What is

it you do that allows you to look the other way? How do you live with the lies?”

I take a sip of my coffee to ward off the chill he has given me. “I’m not looking the other

way. I’m looking straight ahead.”

“How so?”

I really don’t feel the need to defend myself to this man. I don’t know under what

circumstances he agreed to participate in this ‘undercover’ assignment and not know the

particulars and yet he obviously knows more about our situation than he is letting on —

being the ever protective male. I find it hard to understand him. I can’t figure out his

game either but he deserves to know mine. I set my coffee cup down with a satisfying

thump. “Hitler’s idea of creating a master race is nothing short of genocide. He wants his

Germany to rule the planet which means anyone he feels is a threat to that prospect or

inferior to his plan is expendable. And as I told you before if they’re successful in

developing atomic weapons before we do, we won’t be able to stop them. You know that

as well as I do otherwise you wouldn’t be ‘protecting the home front’.”

“Well, alright,” he says as he glances around the diner to see who might be within

earshot. “It’s just you and me here so explain this all to me.”

“I can’t explain everything. I don’t really know that much about atomic fission but what I

can tell you is that if we can’t figure out a way to keep the people involved in the project

alive; find a way to combat the radiation sickness or prevent it altogether…” I shiver,

the need to feel something warm envelopes me and I reach over and touch his hand. “I

can’t even think about it, Marty. It’s not just a war anymore, it’s a race.”

He looks down at my hand on top of his and gently extracts his from underneath it,

“Radiation sickness? Our own researchers are dying from it?”

“The exposure is not deliberate. One of the byproducts of atomic research is radiation.

As a doctor I can tell you that we’ve learned that depending on the proximity to the

exposure it can cause burns, cellular and vascular damage; fluid loss into the

gastrointestinal tract, terminal infection, hemorrhaging and eventually death. Scientists

had no idea of the extent of damage exposure would cause when they started this project.

This is why they’ve been sworn to secrecy. Until we’re able to come up with a cure the

public can’t know about the cause.”

“And you think this is morally right?”

“No, Marty, I don’t think it’s right,” I pick up my coffee cup, wrapping my hands around

it in another attempt to warm my soul. “But I think what I’m doing is right. Once these

weapons become available for use on battlefields the casualties, both civilian and military

will be catastrophic. So you see? The research I am involved in is two-fold. We need to

find a way to protect our own people. The project personnel and the rest of us in case the

Germans win. What I have in this case here is a key to that…”

“I wouldn’t have figured you for a doctor.” he says before I can finish.

“Does that surprise you?”

“No, but you surprise me,” he lights up another cigarette and takes a long drag on it.

“How’s that?”

“That you let me drag you out of that fancy house and out into the dark of night without

much of an explanation. You must trust me more than you let on.”

“My father trusts you.”

“As long as that’s good enough for you, Doll,” he says stubbing out his cigarette before he

slides from the booth.

By nightfall we’re crossing the Indiana state line. Marty has been driving for almost

twenty-four hours, he keeps rubbing his eyes and I can tell the coffee is no longer

keeping him awake. As we roll into Richmond he pulls up in front of the first cheap

hotel he can find and looks over at me as he kills the engine. “I gotta get some sleep.”

We get out of the car and he pulls a couple bags from the trunk while I grab my briefcase.

Inside the hotel he sets the bags down and heads for the pay phone he’s spied back in the

corner. Even with his back turned toward me I can still make out some of his

conversation. He’s asking about a tail and how many of them they think there are. He

turns around to glare at me and then slams down the receiver and stubs out the cigarette

he’d lit before heading back to where I’m standing. Grabbing my arm he steers me over

to the counter, “We need a room, front exposure,” he demands from the dumpy man

behind the counter as he scribbles something into the ledger and throws a ten-dollar bill

on the counter. The man looks at the ledger and then winks at me, “Sure thing.” I look

down to see Marty has scribbled Mr. and Mrs. Smith in the book before we follow this

loser up to our room.

The hotel sits on a corner and the room has windows that face both streets; two in the

front and one on the side. There’s a small table and two chairs; an old lounge chair near

one of the windows and one bed. Wonderful. “Bathroom’s across the hall,” the clerk

informs us as he points to the towels on the back of the door.

“Don’t you think we should get two rooms?” I ask Marty after our escort has left. He

makes the rounds of the room, checking the closet and then looking out all three windows

while I take off my coat and rummage through my bag.

“I thought you said your father trusts me,” he says pulling off his coat and jacket and

throwing them across the back of the old chair. He takes off his hat and sets it almost

reverently on top of them. It doesn’t surprise me to find he’s wearing a shoulder harness

with a good-size revolver tucked inside of it. His wrinkled shirt makes him look even

more disheveled.

I’m curious to know whom this contact is he keeps calling. Is he trying to find out who

might be following us or could he possibly be telling them where we are instead? “To

whom were you talking to on the phone downstairs?”

“The Navy’s been monitoring some overseas transmissions. They know you’ve left

Baltimore.”

“They?”

“The German hounds that are following us.”

“Why am I suddenly such a hot commodity?” I find myself asking. “I’m not the only

doctor involved in this project. What about the others?”

Marty is standing by one of the windows, I watch as he looks up and down the street

before he answers, “I don’t know about any other doctors. You’re the only one I’m

concerned about.”

I don’t believe him but I take some things from my bag and grab a towel from the door.

“Leave the door open,” he says to me as I leave the room.

In the bathroom I scrub my face and reconsider putting on the nightgown I’d brought

with me. Dad might trust him but I won’t take the chance. Besides if we have to make a

run for it I don’t want to be running in my nightgown.

When I get back to the room Marty has turned the lights off. He’s standing in the

shadows by one of the windows smoking again and I catch the glimmer of the flask he

has in his hand. As I shut the door and lock it he motions an offer of a drink. “It’ll warm

you up.”

“No thank you.”

I feel him watch me as I walk around the bed to put my nightgown back in the suitcase

and then reluctantly sit down on the opposite side of the bed. He turns back to the

window and I fluff the sad excuse for a pillow against the headboard and settle against it

closing my eyes. When the bed dips to my right I stop breathing. I hear him set the flask

on the night table and stub out the cigarette. He grabs the other pillow and turns to me,

“You’re not gonna use both of these are you?”

It’s all I can do to say no to him. For a moment I can feel the tension between us and then

he gets up from the bed taking the pillow with him. “Good night, Angel.”

He walks over to the old chair and sits down in it. Propping his feet up on the register

and tucking the pillow behind his head. His long lanky form looks horribly

uncomfortable but he’s exhausted and it doesn’t take him long to drift off. I sit for a while

and watch him sleep and then finally drift off myself.

It’s still dark when I awaken. I’m a little alarmed to find I’m alone in the room. I don’t

know him well, but I know Marty wouldn’t leave without me. The ragged spread from

the bed is draped over me, and I find myself snuggling into it with worry before I notice

the door is cracked open slightly and I can hear the sound of water running from the bath

across the hall. Needing to know it’s him so I climb out of bed and gather up a few things

for myself and step into the hallway. The bathroom door is open and I can see his

reflection in the mirror before he sees me. He isn’t a big man but he fills out an

undershirt nicely and I find myself watching him as he scrapes the last of his shaving

cream from his face. The bullet scar on his left shoulder intrigues me. I watch him

splash some water on his face and then his eyes catch me in the mirror as he towels

himself off. I can feel the blush rising in my cheeks and I know he sees it when he turns

around. “You lookin’ for me Red?”

Maybe in another lifetime, but I don’t say that, I just tell him I need to use the bathroom

and he smiles and walks past me. “Don’t take too long, we need to get out of here before

daybreak.”

I close the door and do my best to clean myself up in the sink and change into a clean

blouse and a pair of slacks. Before I know it someone is pounding on the door and I

nearly jump out of my skin, “Damn it, Red, lets go!”

He doesn’t even give me time to open the door before he’s throwing it open himself and

grabbing my arm, “We got company — we gotta move now!”

I try and grab my things as he’s pulling me from the room and across the hall. He’s

already dressed and he jogs to the front window while I throw my things into my

suitcase. “What’s going on?” I demand walking over to have a look myself. There are

three big black cars downstairs and I hear voices in the lobby below us.

Before I can even get an answer the window glass shatters around us and we both dive to

the floor in a heap. “Dammit, Red, what are you trying to do, get us both killed!” I roll

over and look up at him as he climbs off and then straddles my legs. A moment of eye

contact passes between us and then he yanks me to my feet. He’s got my case in his hand

and me by the arm and he’s dragging me across to the other side of the room. “The

hounds have caught up with us, that’s what’s going on!”

I watch as he throws up the sash and tosses both our suitcases out the window before

grabbing for the bag with my samples and notes. “You can’t throw that!” I grab it from

him and then watch as he starts to climb out the window himself. “What are you doing,

we’re two stories up!”

“I’m gonna fly,” he says with some irritation as he grabs my arm again. “There’s a fire

escape out here, now move!” He makes an attempt to help me out the window but I

shake him off and by the time I get myself out he’s already one story below me on the fire

escape. We get to the bottom of the stairs and I realize that they end about twelve feet

from the ground. I watch Marty turn around and lower himself down and then jump to

the ground. He’s tall; he doesn’t have as far to jump as I do.

He stumbles a bit when he hits the pavement and I watch him collect that damn hat and

put it back on before he walks around the bottom of the ladder to look up at me. It’s a

good thing I’m wearing slacks. If I were wearing a skirt he’d have a great view from his

vantage point. “Toss me your case!” He yells up to me and I have no choice to do so. I

watch him set it on the ground and then turn and extend his arms up to me, “Come on,

Red, I’ll catch ya!” I look down at him, despite our dire situation I watch this shit-eating

grin spread across his face from under the brim of that damn hat. I want to just smack

him but I don’t, I jump.

His hands catch me around the waist and my momentum allows them to slide up until

they’re almost cupping my breasts. The bastard holds me, my face inches from his and

for a moment I’m caught by the same desire I saw in his eyes only a few moments ago. I

feel him sigh and then he sets me down grabbing our two bags and turning up the street

away from our car. “Hey, what about the car!” I yell as I grab my case and take off after

him.

“Forget the damn car! Run!”

We run down the street in the rain. The droplets sting my face and it’s not long before

my hair and my feet are soaked. When gunshots ricochet off the wall to our right we dart

into an alley. Marty drops the bags and pulls out his gun looking back up the street.

We’re both panting hard; the cool damp air causing our breath to come out in bursts of

white fog. When I try and peer around the corner myself he grabs my arm and yanks me

behind him, “Not again, are you insane?” he yells. “What do I have to do, tie you up and

carry you?”

Just try it bastard, “I can take care of myself!”

Another shot ricochets off the brick above his head and our attention is drawn to a man

across the street. Marty fires twice and I watch the man drop. Jesus, he just shot a man!

The doctor in me wants to run out there to see what I can do but Marty has already turned

and grabbed our bags again with one hand. “Come on!” he yells at me again.

“But you just shot that man!”

“Yeah and lets hope I killed him, now come on!” There’s desperation in his eyes as he

motions me down the alley. I take one more look back at the man slumped on the

sidewalk and start to run. Marty takes one more look over his shoulder and starts to run

after me. “Where are we going?” I yell back.

“Just keep runnin’!”

The alley must cut between two streets because I can see the end up ahead. What if these

men are waiting up there ready to gun him down the moment we exit the alley? It’s me

they’re after we both know it. I splash to a stop and Marty almost careens into me,

“Christ, don’t stop!” he pants into my face.

“What if they’re waiting at the end of the alley?”

“They’re not, now move!”

More gunshots, they’re coming from behind us again. He looks right at me and says only

one word, “Run!”

I don’t know what to do when I get the end of the alley. I’m afraid to go out into the street.

When I turn around I see Marty stumble a little on the uneven pavement. He turns and

fires four more shots back up the alley until we both hear the empty chamber click. His

eyes flash to mine and he pockets the gun.

There are several cars parked here and I watch Marty frantically search them; stopping by

one to yank open the back door and throwing our bags into it. “Get in!” he yells at me as

he ducks into the front seat himself.

“You’re stealing a car!”

“Get in the damn car!” Some idiot must have left the key in it because I hear him start it

right up.

“Are you crazy?” I can’t believe this but I get into the car with him anyway. “You just

can’t steal someone’s car!” I don’t get a chance to say anything else before his lips are on

mine effectively shutting me up. It’s not a peck, it’s a hot desperate kiss and I find myself

responding to it before I pull back and smack him the way I’d wanted to just a few

minutes earlier when he was feeling me up. He closes his eyes, his face must sting, I

know my hand does.

“You feel better now?” he asks as he opens his eyes and stares back at me in the darkness.

I don’t know whether to cry or scream. Instead I just yell at him, “Just get us the hell out

of here!”

He pops the clutch into drive and hauls off down the alley. His hands clutch the wheel

tightly as we bounce along the rutted brick and then careen out into a street without

looking. Several shots ping off the back of the car. We both flinch with each one as he

steers the old car wildly down the street into the darkness. If those men behind us don’t

kill us, Marty will, I cross myself and say a little prayer for the both of us.

Somehow Marty manages to give the thugs the slip and after several hours of touring the

Indiana countryside we find another little diner and stop for a bite to eat. “What the hell

happened back there?” I finally ask after we have ordered our food. Marty stirs his coffee

and seems to contemplate just what he thinks he should tell me. “Those men weren’t

there to kidnap me; they were trying to kill me weren’t they?”

“The other two doctors you were working with have already been killed,” he confesses.

“Right now the Germans think you’re the only one capable of continuing the research.”

“Carl and Donald are dead?” I gasp, throwing my hand up to my mouth, I suddenly feel

like throwing up. “I don’t get it. I thought they wanted to kidnap us to continue the

research for their cause, now you’re saying they want us all dead? What else aren’t you

telling me?”

Marty takes a sip of his coffee and then sits back against the seat in our booth with a

visible wince, “I’m sorry, they told me not to tell you.” I watch him fuss like he can’t get

comfortable. He notices me eyeing him, “It happened the night we left Baltimore, when

they sent me to get you. Carl and his wife were found murdered in their apartment.

Donald was a hit and run victim”

“I don’t believe this, Carl and I went to Med School together, Donald was one of our

instructors.”

“Well, you better believe it, Doll. You said it yourself; the Germans aren’t interested in

saving lives. Hitler’s Germany is only concerned with building that master race. What

you’re working on would be detrimental to that process. So in answer to your question,

yes, they want you dead.”

As I sit and warm my hands around a cup of strong coffee I realize that Marty still has his

hat and coat on, he’s holding his left arm close to his side and when I meet his gaze I’ve

been a doctor long enough to see the pain there. “Marty? Are you okay?” I ask the

question before I look at his hands wrapped around his own cup and see the dried blood

on his fingers. Pulling his left hand away from his cup I turn it palm up, “You’re

bleeding.”

“Not enough to die from, Doc.” There’s no humor in his answer.

I’m silenced momentarily as the waitress comes back to plunk our food down on the

table. “Eat your lunch,” he says stabbing at his steak and then wincing when he tries to

cut it.

How does he expect me to eat while he sits here and bleeds? Hell, now that I think about

what happened back in Richmond, he’s probably been bleeding since we flew out of that

hotel room. “I’ll eat, but I’m not going anywhere else with you until you let me look at

you.”

He picks up his coffee again and in a mock toast says something I know he can’t resist,

“Here’s lookin’ at you kid.”

“I take it that’s a yes?”

We stop at an old gas station after we leave the diner and I drag him into the Ladies room

with me and lock the door. Under his coat and jacket I find the bullet that came through

our window had creased his shoulder. The same shoulder with the bullet scar. I few

inches to the right and he would have bled to death before we had gotten out of the room.

It’s messy but he’s right, not enough to die from. I don’t ask about the other scar but he

sees that I’ve noticed it. “Crime of passion,” he says with a mock smile. I clean and

patch him up and as we leave the restroom we get an eyeful from a couple waiting in

their car with their kids. I’m sure they think we were doing something else in that room.

The old Ford gets us to Chicago by nightfall. Marty finds us another hotel; fortunately

this one is a step above the last dump we had found ourselves in, only this time we’re Mr.

and Mrs. Jones. He asks the desk clerk about places to eat and then we head up to our

room. I open my suitcase and try to straighten up the clothes from this morning’s hasty

departure while he heads off down the hall to make another phone call. In a short while I

hear the door close behind me and I turn at the sound of his voice. “You got somethin’

nice in that bag?”

Thinking he has something else in mind I ask for an explanation. “What do you mean by

‘nice’?”

He slips out of his coat and jacket as he crosses the room and for the first time I feel

apprehensive of his intentions. “We need to go someplace with a lot of people,” he says

lying his coat on the foot of the bed and once again setting his hat on top of them. He

shoves his hands in his pockets, “A dance club maybe.”

“You want to take me dancing?” I almost laugh.

“I didn’t say we were gonna dance Doll, I was only askin’ if you got something you could

wear to a place like that? It’s less likely they’ll try something in a place full of people.”

I don’t get it. “I thought we lost them back there, aren’t we safer if we stay here?”

“I thought so too,” he looks up to catch my eye. “But the answer to both questions is

probably no.”

I don’t know how he knows this as I watch him amble about the room. He looks defeated

and it worries me. He needs to change out of that blood stained shirt himself if we’re

going out in public. I think about what I have packed in this suitcase that contains the

remains of my life. What does one wear to their own funeral? I could probably get by

with a suit I have and the blouse I’m wearing and some heels. “Can you give me some

time to get dressed?”

He hesitates for a moment, “Yeah — yeah, go ahead.” He digs a pack of cigarettes from

his jacket pocket and walks across the room to sit on the edge of the bed. I gather up my

things and head into the bathroom to freshen up and change.

The suit’s a light gray with a broad collar and I pop the collar of my blouse out to lie

against it. I wish I had some jewelry to dress it up but by the time I get my nylons on and

my heels it doesn’t look too bad. I sound like I’m going on a date I think to myself, what a

fool. A hair comb and some make up and I’m a different woman. I take one last

primping look in the mirror and then open the door. Marty’s right where I imagined he

would be, leaning against the window frame, watching the street below. He has on a

clean shirt and he glances at me a moment and then tosses his cigarette butt on the floor

and stubs it out next to the other two at his feet. He looks up again. “Will this do?” I ask.

His lip curls a little but I watch something like regret pass across his face. He nods every

so slightly, “Yeah, Red, that’ll do just fine.”

As we walk up the street towards the club the desk clerk told us about I get the eerie

feeling someone is following us. Marty must sense it too and he leans over to whisper in

my ear, “Just keep walking.” His hand comes to rest at the small of my back and I feel a

sudden sense of security rather than fear from his touch. When we cross the street in

front of the club our shadows follow us. If it weren’t for Marty I’d be running for my life

right now.

The club is called The Ivanhoe. It’s a restaurant and dance club like so many others that

dot the big cities these days. This one probably isn’t one of the more popular ones in

town but it’s nice to be dining in a place with tablecloths for a change. As Marty checks

his hat and our coats, I notice he’s wearing that same double-breasted suit he had on the

night he came to the house. Between the suit and his hat he looks right at home here, I

feel like I’m dating a mobster. But this is the closest thing to a date I’ve been on in

months and from the looks Marty is getting from some of the other women as we wind

our way though the restaurant, I’ve got myself a pretty good catch.

The maitre’ d finds us a nice table at the back of the room and we dine in companionable

silence. Being secluded way for the past several months makes me feel awkward in a

place like this. I don’t think our recent conversations would be appropriate. Marty has

been silent too. A little too silent and I can’t help but think there is another reason for us

being here. All through dinner he’s been watching the room when he doesn’t think I

notice. When I question Marty about it, he changes the subject. “You don’t believe I just

wanted to take a good lookin’ dame out to dinner?” he asks with a smirk.

I think that was a compliment but I’m not going to let the comment get by me. “You told

me before you weren’t a sucker for dames, remember? Besides, you already told me

why we were going out.” The smirk disappears from his face. Nice Dana, spoil his fun.

He’s ordered an after dinner scotch and he picks up the glass to clink the ice in it. “Yeah,

well, that wasn’t exactly true. Hot potato like you can get a guy in a lot of trouble if he’s

not careful.”

“And you always try to be careful?”

He takes a sip of his drink, “Doesn’t always work out that way.”

He acts like he’s speaking from experience. When I first met this man a few days ago I

didn’t want to know him, hell, I didn’t want to be seen with him. He seemed cocky and

arrogant back there at the estate. Now, I’m beginning to think it was all a front, a defense

mechanism to protect who he really is. Someone I find myself wanting to get to know.

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“Mostly bad ones,” he says with a sad smile. “Trust me, Red, there’s so much more you

need to do with your life than get mixed up with a guy like me.”

He’s left himself open and I take the opportunity, “And what kind of guy are you,

Marty?”

“The kind of guy you don’t want to get yourself mixed up with right now, Red. Trust

me.”

“I think we’ve already established that element of trust.”

“Well, maybe that was your first mistake. Someday Red, your science is going to save

the world. I’m just here to make sure that happens.” he looks up at me but I notice his

gaze go right past me. I want to turn around but that would be too obvious. I know

something is wrong.

“Marty, what’s wrong?”

He sighs again and sets his glass down. “Nothin’ you need to worry about, Red. You

want another drink?”

I don’t need reassurance, I need an answer. “We’re not going to make it out of here alive

are we?”

He looks at me with mock astonishment, while he signals the waiter for a refill on his

scotch. “What do you mean by that?”

“The two men who followed us here from the hotel are sitting across the room; you’ve

been watching them all night.”

Busted. He looks me right in the eyes, “Actually there are four of them and I’m gonna do

my damnedest to get us out of this room alive.”

It occurs to me then how ironic in a sense our situation has become. “You know back in

1934 John Dillinger was led to a place like this by the infamous ‘Lady in Red’. Right

before he was gunned down by a bunch of F.B.I. agents.”

“And here I thought I was the one with the sick sense of humor,” he smiles but we both

know this is anything but funny.

The band has started up in the other room. They’re playing a set of Glen Miller tunes but

they’re nowhere near as good and yet I still feel myself drawn to the music. I hadn’t

realized I’d closed my eyes until someone is touching my hand. I trace the hand up to

meet Marty’s eyes. “You want to dance, Red?”

I’m shocked that he’s asked but in a world full of chaos and uncertainty there’s nothing

more I’d rather do. As we head for the dance floor his hand comes to rest at the small of

my back again. It feels like it belongs there and I cherish the warmth if only for the

moment. The band starts up a new tune and we step onto the dance floor. With my heels

our height difference isn’t as bad and I fall easily against him. The band goes through

String of Pearls and then into Glen’s theme song, Moonlight Serenade. Marty pulls me

tighter against him I hear him swallow hard.

“Did you ever see Glen Miller?” I whisper to him.

“No, never had time for something like this before,” he pulls back a little and looks down

at me. I don’t believe him. He’s a good dancer.

“And now you wish you had?”

He leans against me, “If we were two other people in a different world.” His throaty

voice almost chokes and I understand how he feels. But we’re not two other people. He’s

a two-bit private eye and I’m a doctor with a very important job and no time for romance.

I have a world to save. What the hell am I doing here?

The band has a vocalist and she starts in on the next tune, “At last — my love has come

along. My lonely days are over — And life is like a song. At last — the skies above are

blue and my heart was wrapped up in clover.”

Marty pulls me close again and rests his cheek against my head; I cup the back of his

neck as she continues her song, “The night I looked at you I found a dream that I can

speak to. A dream that I could call my own; I found a thrill to press my cheek to

a thrill that I have never known.”

The gun beneath his jacket reminds me that this is no ordinary date but I feel something

happening between us that I think both of us swore at the beginning of this charade never

would. It feels a lot like love but I sense that Marty feels he’s unworthy and I’m afraid to

act on it. His head comes up and he turns to look at me. My arms are still wrapped

around his neck. “Damn, you’re beautiful,” he whispers and then he’s kissing me again

desperately and I can do nothing but kiss him back there on the dance floor as the song

finishes behind us.

“You smiled, and then the spell was cast; and here we are in heaven; and you are mine at

last.”

When the music stops we both break the kiss and just stand there holding onto each other

as the crowd leaves the floor. The momentary bliss is broken as I feel him tense in my

arms. I look up to meet his concerned eyes and he whispers “I’m sorry,” before he pulls

away from me. He’s looking wildly around the room. I follow his gaze and see the men

who followed us standing in the doorway between the restaurant and the ballroom. I

think I catch the face of someone I recognize behind them but I’m not sure. When the

men catch us looking they scatter into the crowd. I’m suddenly terrified and grab Marty’s

hand, “Marty, what do we do?” As the band starts up Marty looks at me and begins to

pull me off the dance floor, “Come on!”

We wind our way through the crowd and end up in the lobby of the restaurant. He

scrambles into his coat and hat then helps me into mine pulling it tightly around me.

“You ready?” he asks.

I’m not sure what he’s asking me and can only nod in agreement before one of the men

finds us. While he’s looking around for the rest of his party Marty shoves me out the

door and once again we find ourselves in the cold rain. He grabs my hand and we run

back up the street to where we’d parked the old car. His legs are longer than mine and

he’s practically pulling me along as we run. I can hear the sound of running feet behind

us. I’m more certain than ever that we’re not going to make it.

When we reach the car I stumble on the curb but he catches me, opening the door and

practically throwing me inside. He slams the door and I can only make out shadows

through the wet windows as he rounds the car himself. Everything happens so fast, he’s

in the car and we’re pulling away from the curb immediately. Out of the corner of my

eye I catch another dark car pass us in the other direction. As we speed up the street the

sound of gunfire erupts behind us. He pushes me down in the seat.

It’s several minutes before the pressure of his hand relaxes on my back. I’m shaking,

from fear or the cold I’m not quite sure. It’s raining hard making it difficult to see where

we are going. I reach over to touch his hand on the wheel and realize instantly that it is

the hand of a much older man. My gasp catches his attention as I pull my hand away and

turn to look at the man seated beside me. It dawns on me then that this car had been

running when Marty had tossed me into it and what had occurred back there on the street

was one of the oldest tricks in the book, the old switcheroo. I look over to meet the eyes

of Agent Skinner, Marty’s old boss and realize what sacrifice has just been made.

He doesn’t say anything at first, fighting to see through the rain and the wipers as they

slap back and forth across the windshield. “Who was in the other car?” I demand fighting

my emotions even though I think I already know what his answer will be.

As I suspected he doesn’t answer. I look around the car and see my luggage and my

briefcase in the back seat. “Who planned this? You? Did he know about this? Dammit,

answer me!”

Skinner looks over at me, “He planned it Dana.”

As we drive on through the darkness I suddenly remember what my father had said about

not wanting the government to know where I was. This man works for the government.

God, it couldn’t be. “This was a set-up wasn’t it? You set him up — it was you he was

calling all the time wasn’t it? You let him believe he was getting me out of Baltimore

safely but the whole time you and the Germans were right behind us. You used the

information he gave you against us.” I wanted desperately to get out of the car. “Where

are you taking me?”

“The same place Marty wanted you to go.”

“Dammit, he never told me where we were going!”

“There was a lot he couldn’t tell you. We’re headed to The University of Chicago; which

you may or may not know is one of the countries top atomic research facilities. If what

you’re carrying in that case can aide in that project then you need to be where it will do

the most good. Marty was interested in saving just more than your ass, Sister.

You have it all backwards; use that pretty little head of yours to think. Someone in the

military leaked the information that you’d left Baltimore. You don’t think they monitor

our information in the same way that we do theirs? I did my best to keep you two steps

ahead of them but it didn’t work. Now they think you’re dead.”

I sit and fume in silence for a few minutes, trying to put things together in my head.

“You don’t get it do you?” he finally asks. “What you were to him?”

“What are you talking about? He hardly knew me. I was a job to him; just like I’m a job

to you.”

“This was no job to him. I’ve know Marty a long time, Dana. I’ve seen him with dames

before but I’ve never known him to fall for one. Not like he fell for you. He loves this

country and he loved you,” he catches my eyes in the darkness of the car. “I heard it in

his voice every time he called me.”

I laugh, a bitter sarcastic laugh. Who is he kidding? Better yet, who am I kidding? I’d

seen the desire in him several times on our trip across the Midwest; he’d never acted on it.

Face it Dana you weren’t his type. “He didn’t want me; all he wanted was the cash.” I say

without thinking.

“You’re right, he didn’t want you,” Skinner takes his eyes off the road to pin them on me.

“He needed you.”

“And that’s supposed to be enough? There’s a war on in case you haven’t noticed. The

world’s going to hell in a hand basket. It’s going to take more than needing each other to

us through this.”

“Sometimes all you really need is each other.” I look over at this man who Marty

considers a friend and suddenly feel sick. He wasn’t doing this for the government; he

was doing it for a friend who’d done it for me; he’d never see the damn cash.

One of the last things Marty had said to me was ‘I’m sorry’, I’d misunderstood him.

Dammit it, I’m the one who should be sorry and I suddenly feel the overwhelming need to

tell him so and I don’t want to save the world without him. I look over at this imposter,

trying to draw his attention, “Who was in that other car? Where’s Marty?” When he

refuses to answer I try again, “Stop the car!”

Mr. Skinner ignores me so I jump across the seat and try to take the wheel from him, turn

the car around and go back and find Marty. We wrestle for control of the wheel in the

rain. “Stop it, Dana — Dana…

D.C. GENERAL HOSPITAL

PRESENT DAY

Someone was calling her name, “Dana, Dana, hey — sleepy…” She felt the touch of a

hand along her cheek, “Come on, Scully, wake up.” Opening her eyes, she blinked at the

image above her; the dark hair and hazel eyes, the labels of his trench coat and that damn

hat. “Marty? Oh God — Marty,” she flung her arms around his neck, trying to pull him

down. “Oh God, you’re alright…” Though somewhat surprised he followed her into the

hug.

“Marty?” he said, breaking into a smile. “Scully, it’s me, Mulder.”

Mulder? The name hit her then and she pulled back to look at him again recognizing the

bruise that tinted his right cheek. “Who’s Marty?’ he asked as she settled back against the

pillows and covered her face with her fingers in embarrassment.

Dropping her hands, she shook her head in disbelief, “He’s–I…” she watched as his

brows furrowed.”Oh, Mulder, never mind, I must have been dreaming,” she looked up at

him a bit sheepishly.

“Wow, must have been some dream,” he kidded as he sat down on the edge of the bed,

leaning over to prop himself with his arm on the other side of her hips. “You ready to go

home? I heard the doctors already released you this morning.”

She pursed her lips and his gaze followed her hand as she reached up to snag the hat from

his head. “Where did you get this silly hat?”

“The other night you didn’t think it looked silly on Bogie,” he sounded a little

disappointed by her reaction.

“So you went out and bought one?”

He snatched it back and put it back on his head so it sat a little off to the left. “What do

you think?” he asked hopefully. “Am I turning you on?”

Her vision of tough guy Marty with the chains around his heart came back to her. He’d

left her without her even getting the chance to know it. Mulder’s heart on the other hand

had always been right there; raw and exposed for her taking. He’d offered it to her many

times over.

“Scully?” She focused on Mulder again.

“Hmm?”

“I said, what do you think?”

She ran her finger along the brim and he dipped his head, “I think you look — damn sexy,

Mulder.” He smiled then, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Maybe I should break into that Rod Stewart song, “Do you think I’m sexy…”

She laughed as he moved to the beat of his off-key singing. “Please,” she laughed

waving her right hand back and forth. “Of course I think you’re sexy. I’m just glad you

never figured it out yourself and I have you all to myself because I have no intention of

letting you go.” She reached for his right hand, “Ever.”

“I hope not,” he answered looking down at their joined hands.

It was then as she studied him more closely that she noticed the shadows under his eyes,

the lines that became more pronounced with fatigue. “Actually you look tired.”

She watched as his face turned serious, “Yeah, I didn’t get much sleep last night. The

headache I had the other night came back with a vengeance.”

She thought about all the other restless nights he’d had lately but would never admit to

her. That he was acknowledging it now began to worry her. His headaches in the recent

past had always been accompanied by periods of what he called visions and what she still

preferred to call hallucinations. “Mulder, is everything alright?”

She watched him hesitate; knowing full well that he was weighing what he should tell

her. Avoiding the confrontations that usually came with their discussions of his mental

health of late he’d been keeping things to himself. He needed to understand she was only

concerned about his well being but knowing he needed to realize it on his own. He

glanced away as he finally spoke, “Alright? Now there’s a loaded question. Yeah,

Scully, I’m fine.”

As soon as he’d said it he knew how wrong it was. He watched the concern spread across

her face.

“It’s starting again isn’t it? The hallucinations? Mulder, we really need to find you a

doctor and get you some help. We both can’t go on like this.”

Anger flared in him, “I really wish you’d stop saying that, Scully. I am not hallucinating.

The only thing a doctor is going to do is prescribe some anti-psychotics or worse yet, fit

me for a straight jacket.”

His denial only irritated her, “Then what do you call them Mulder? If these really are

precognitions of the future how do we convey them to anyone who won’t think you’re out

of your mind?”

“Sarcasm will get you nowhere. You think I’m enjoying this?” She could see the veins in

his neck as he fought to control his temper. No, she knew he wasn’t enjoying it. So why

was he so adamant about protecting it?

“Well I’m not enjoying it either, Mulder, so talk to me.”

“Why, so you can try and fucking rationalize what I tell you?”

“No,” she tried to stroke his hand, offering him reassurance in hopes of keeping this

conversation from escalating into something like they had been through the other night.

“So I can help you,” she answered, trying to keep her voice calm. “When we hide the

truth from each other it only works against us, you told me that. I just want to be sure

that when this is all over YOU’RE going to be alright.”

He had told her that and he remembered how he’d felt everytime she’d kept the truth

about her illness from him. He let out a shaky sigh, and began his confession.

“Honestly?” He watched as she nodded hopefully. “I can’t remember the last time I felt

ALRIGHT Scully, and it certainly wasn’t last night,” his eyes sought out hers for support.

“That explains why you look the way you do. What happened last night?”

“Bad dream, really bad dream,” her eyes begged him to continue. “I’ve been catching bits

and pieces of it for the past week, when I was alone last night it unfolded in all it’s glory.”

“Oh, Mulder.”

He shook his head, “I was in some sort of antiquated medical facility, strapped down on a

table and surrounded by a group of German doctors…”

She closed her eyes, the Germans from her dream; the moment she found Mulder

strapped to that table in the DOD several years ago all came rushing back to her.

“Hey,” Mulder reached up to brush her cheek. “Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this

now.”

“No, no, if you stop you’ll never tell me the rest of it.” His hand had suddenly grown cold

in hers.

“They’d shaved my head and imbedded some sort of electrodes into my brain. One of

them injected me with something, God Scully, it burned through every part of my body.

There were others there, I could hear them screaming. The gulag at Tunguska had been a

health spa compared to this. I don’t remember anything else. I woke up to my own

screams drenched in sweat.”

Scully hesitated a moment before she spoke. She wanted to tell him there had been

Germans of a different kind in her own dream but he didn’t need to hear about that now.

There was something more important she was trying to get to. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there

for you…”

“No, no,” he shook his head. “You’re listening now, that’s all I ask.”

It hit her then that maybe that’s all he had ever wanted; someone to listen and not

condemn. “Do you think it was a flashback or something to do with The Holocaust?”

“I don’t know,” he answered letting go of her hand. “From what I remember, nobody was

speaking German at the DOD,” he tried to pull a smile from her but she only looked more

concerned. “Don’t you see, these aren’t visions of the future, they’re moments from the

past? Moments we should have learned from. You said it yourself, we bury the dead

alive, that that’s what consciousness is. They’re trying to speak to us, Scully. Only

nobody is listening.”

“Except you?”

“God, Scully, don’t you think somebody needs to?” His eyes pleaded with hers, “You

know years ago Cassandra told me that I was the one she believed could stop what was

happening. I brushed her off then. I was so frustrated and angry and tired of the bullshit

that I refused to listen to her. But what if she was right?”

She squeezed his hand, “You know, Mulder, maybe you don’t realize it, but I’ve always

been listening to you and what I do know is that these dreams you’re experiencing now

have only led us to some other horrific event. What if this dream is the same? Why can’t

you understand that you’re not in this alone? Mulder, I’m worried about you.”

A gentle smile crossed his lips, “I know you are but I don’t want you to be. If I thought I

was a danger to anyone, including myself I would let you know. I will promise you that.”

“I will keep you to that you know.”

He nodded ever so slightly and then met her eyes. “Listen, about yesterday, I didn’t mean

to run out of here like I did but I meant what I said — about needing some time to think.”

“About what?”

“Us, and about what you said the other night. It wasn’t very fair of me to spring that on

you like that Scully, I’m sor…”

Before he could say anything else she reached up to put her fingers to his lips. “Mulder,

don’t apologize, that’s not what I want. It was just a surprise, a wonderful surprise and

flattering and very sweet and I reacted badly. I should be the one to apologize.” She

couldn’t look at him with the hat on anymore and she reached up again to pull if off his

head. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I took a beautiful moment away from us and

I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s okay…”

“No, it’s not okay. All I could think about was our not being able to work together

anymore if we were married. That it would end our partnership. A legal marriage would

only keep us apart in a most important way and I don’t want that to happen. I got angry

because I couldn’t make you see it that way.”

He leaned over and kissed her gently, “Well I do now,” he pulled back a little and

watched as a soft smile graced her lips. “I am happy, Scully, that confession I made to

you in my hallway all those years ago — you still have no idea how much you’ve changed

my life. This relationship we share has made me whole again and for the first time in my

life, I am happy.”

He reached for her then, taking her head in his hands and using the pads of his thumbs to

caress her cheeks, “You’re right Scully, right now we do have the best of both worlds. A

marriage certificate is just a piece of paper and what you and I have goes much deeper

than that.”

The intensity of his gaze unnerved her. When he spoke again his voice cracked with

emotion. “Having each other is all that’s really important.”

The phrase seemed eerily familiar, Skinner’s words as they’d driven though the dark night

without Marty echoed in her mind. The sacrifice he’d made for her in her dream. She

played with Mulder’s hat realizing how very much alike he and Marty were. She suddenly

worried about where he was going with this. “But you suddenly felt the need to ask for

one.”

He looked down at her hands that continued to play with his hat. “I asked because I got

to thinking about what Tara said to me about the time we have left; and what your family

has always thought of me and because I thought our relationship had become something

that maybe you wanted to sanctify in the eyes of God but didn’t think that I did,” he

looked up. “I want you to know what you mean to me. You’re all I have left Scully. I

can’t lose you either.”

She did know, how could he think she didn’t? Words had never seemed necessary where

her devotion to him was concerned. She’d proved it over and again and her family knew

it too. But when he’d asked her for the ultimate commitment, she’d turned him down. It

saddened her to think she hadn’t realized this, that maybe now for some reason, it was too

late.

“Mulder, what do you mean, the time we have left? We have all kinds of time don’t we?”

When he didn’t answer her, she asked him again, “Don’t we?”

“They both know what it’s like to lose a partner, Scully. To have that bond and lose it.”

“And we wouldn’t because we’re not married? Mulder, why is this suddenly so

important? You said I was right, about our partnership.”

She watched him pick at her blanket. “You are,” he acknowledged, looking up. “As

much as I would like it to happen, if we got married, we’d very likely lose the partnership

and I’m not willing to risk that now either — despite what your family thinks of me.”

She reached out to still his hand, “They accept my lifestyle Mulder. Tara is grateful, and

mom loves you. Besides, it doesn’t matter what they think, I love you, for better or for

worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until — for

as long as we both shall live. I do.”

“Your mom accepts me, Scully. Don’t for once think that I’m the type of guy she

envisioned her baby girl spending the rest of her life with.”

He straightened up, the realization of what she’d just said finally sinking in. “What?” He

looked right at her, “What did you just say?” It warmed her heart to see the same smile

from the other night spread across his face.

“I said, I do,” surprised to find she’d rendered him speechless, she went on. “I’ve trusted

you with my life, Mulder, I always have. How could you not think that I trust you with

my heart as well?” She watched his eyes search hers, “Mulder, you are the most amazing

person I have ever met. You’re dark and mysterious, and yes, maybe you are a little

dangerous. But you’re also brilliant and wonderfully caring and though I hate to

encourage you, you make me laugh.” She watched as his lip curled but before he could

say anything, she continued. “You’re a dreamer, Mulder and I admire you for holding on

to those dreams with more courage than an army. You’re the best teacher I’ve ever had

and a hopeless romantic and though you can be infuriating at times, you’re irresistible,”

she reached up to caress his face, her fingers playing into his hair. “And I love you for all

those things.” She glanced down and picked up his hat to put it back on, “With or

without this silly hat. You have my heart, Mulder, always. As my work partner and in

every other meaning of the word, don’t ever doubt that. And I do, want to spend the rest

of my life with you.”

She watched as he studied her face, his eyes dilating with desire and then he swallowed,

hard. “Do we need to exchange rings on that or what?”

“God is watching, Mulder, he knows,” she reached up to brush her thumb across the

bruise on his cheek.

“I’m glad then,” she watched his eyes suddenly dance. “Because of all the gin-joints in

the world, I’m so very grateful you walked into mine, partner,” he whispered as he leaned

over to kiss her again.

A tap on the door broke them apart; she smiled at him in reference to his apropos use of

the movie quote. “Excuse me,” the floor nurse who Scully had met earlier was standing in

the doorway. “Sorry for the — interruption,” she nodded to Mulder when he turned to

look at Scully. “I’ve got Dana’s release papers ready. They’ll be at the desk,” she

motioned down the hall and then shyly pulled the door to.

“Please tell me you brought me a change of clothes?” Scully asked when he turned back

to her. She watched him get up and bend down to pick up a duffle bag.

“Picked them out personally,” he said as he set the bag on the bed and reached up to

straighten his hat. “I’ll go find your release papers.”

“Mulder wait,” once again she reached for his arm. “I need to apologize for something

else. The way I acted at the bank the other day.”

“What do you mean?

“I wasn’t very polite to your friend at the bank. It just all seemed so secretive on your

part you didn’t really explain why we were there.”

“I told you, I just needed your signature on some things. I talked to John this morning, he

said he’d come by the house when you’re feeling better, we can take care of it then.

“Have you been holding out on me?” she asked with mock seriousness.

He stepped back a few steps and her hand dropped from his arm. “They’re just

investment accounts Scully. Though there’s enough there for a healthy retirement,” he

said with a smile. “And maybe help Tara put the kids through school. I want you to have

access to them.”

The ‘in case something happens to me’ he didn’t say crossed quickly through her mind.

“Then invite him to dinner, I think I owe him one.”

“Thanks, he’d probably like that better than trying to beat me on the basketball court.”

After he’d left the room in search of her release papers she opened the duffle, shuddering

to think what he might have packed for her but relieved to find he’d packed her some of

her favorite casual clothes and a pair of flat shoes. Though the nurse had succeeded in

changing the subject of their conversation she was determined to take it up with him

again. Her Mulder alarm had gone from yellow to red. He’d been more forthcoming than

usual about his disturbing dreams but she still had a sense that he was hiding something

from her. She remembered the sacrifice Marty had made in her dream. She would not let

Mulder do the same. Maybe her science would save the world one day, but she needed

his beautiful mind to help her do it.

A few minutes later Mulder came back with an orderly in tow steering the customary

wheelchair for her ride to the door. “You ready Doll?” he joked, falling into the part.

When she nodded, he kept it up. “Good, then what do you say we blow this joint?” The

orderly rolled his eyes as he helped her into the wheelchair. Heading down the hall to the

elevator, she couldn’t help but notice the looks that were directed their way. Mulder had

no idea how he looked in that hat.

When Mulder pulled up with the car she reached in to pluck his hat from her seat and slid

in beside him. The orderly shut the door and tapped the window. Mulder put the car into

gear and pulled away. As they headed down the drive and out into traffic she played with

his hat. Creasing it just so and straightening the brim. She could see him watching her

from the corner of her eye.

“So, you gonna tell me about this Marty guy or what?”

AUTHOR’S NOTES: Webster’s definition of the word “Partner” is as follows:

1. a person who shares or is associated with another person in some action or endeavor;

associate 2. one of two persons who contribute capital to establish or maintain a

commercial venture and who usually share in the risks and profits 3. silent partners 4. a

husband, wife or lover 5. either of two persons who dance together 6. a player on the

same side or team as another

According to a website I found there really was a club in Chicago called The Ivanhoe

back in the 40’s. I’m a closet fan of Big Band music. Google Glen Miller and listen to

some of his music, it had a sound all its own. Thanks to my ebuddie Chris for the

information on John Dillinger and her endless poking. And thanks to Vickie and Chuck

for their beta work and to Martin for the wonderful artwork, you’ve satisfied my secret

desire to see Mulder in a fedora. The idea for this story came to me last summer on a

drive to South Carolina. My husband and I were listening to an early morning radio

program on of all things, fashion of the 1940’s. One of the tunes in the piece was AT

LAST a song composed by Mack Gordon for a 1942 film titled ORCHESTRA WIVES.

In my own little universe, it seemed to fit Mulder and Scully; the story just grew from

there. There’s a quote from STAR TREK in here somewhere.