TITLE: City of Light
AUTHOR: Bonetree
RATING: NC-17 for sexual situations, graphic violence, and adult
language.
CATEGORY: Novel, Angst
SPOILERS: Everything through season five (this sort of takes
off into its own world somewhere within season six and just keeps
going...).
KEYWORDS: MSR, Angst.
SUMMARY: On the run through the American Southwest, Scully and
Mulder flee the shadowy forces of Owen Curran and Padden's government
agents, who threaten their freedom and their lives. On the way, they
must also struggle with their own demons, which threaten to tear them
apart.
ARCHIVE: If you can fit it?  Sure!  Okay for Gossamer, but anyone
else please ask first so I know where it's going.
FEEDBACK: Welcomed and responded to at Bonetree@gmail.com
DISCLAIMER: The following is a work of fiction. The characters of
Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Maggie Scully, Emily, The Lone Gunmen,
Albert Hosteen (and anyone else from the show who appears suddenly
out of the ether) are the property of 1013 Productions, Chris Carter,
and Fox. No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is
being made from the use of these characters. All other characters are
my own creation and they, along with the story in this form, are the
intellectual property of the holder of the above AOL account.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is the sequel to "Secret World," one of my
earlier fanfictions. I'm afraid this story will make absolutely no
sense if you haven't read that one before diving into this. "City of
Light" is the ending piece of a trilogy that began with the story
"Goshen."  While you don't HAVE to read "Goshen" to understand this
story, the events of that story will also be discussed in this one,
so I would recommend you read it, as well, or you're going to get
thrown by some references to and discussion about an event that took
place in the mountains of Virginia (specifically Afton Mountain) a
little over a year ago in this story's timeline. This is also an
established MSR story, and "Goshen" details the beginnings of the
relationship, which also might be helpful for you to know.

"Goshen," a novella, and "Secret World," a novel, can be found on
the main page of this website.

TIMELINE NOTE: This story takes place a little over two years after
"Emily." For the purposes of this story, seasons seven and eight have
never happened. Sorry, no Babyfic, Mulder abduction, or Doggett
anywhere in sight. Also, Albert Hosteen hasn't died (we're pretty
much AUing it here...).

Oh, and everyone's hair is still fabulous in this. ;o)

Other Author's Notes will follow at the end of the story, though I'm
going to go ahead and say a quick thanks here as we get started to my
betas -- Dani, Sheri and Shari. Here we go again, ladies!

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 1.

********

CITY OF LIGHT


"....My only advice is not to go away.
Or, go away.  Most

Of my decisions have been wrong.

When I wake, I lift cold water
To my face.  I close my eyes.

A body wishes to be held, & held, & what
Can you do about that?

Because there are faces I will never see again,
There are two things I want to remember
About light, & what it does to us.

Her bright, blue eyes at an airport -- how they widened
As if in disbelief;
And her opening the gate to a lit & silent

City."

        -- a variation on Larry Levis' "In the City of Light"



***********

NEAR JOSHUA TREE, CALIFORNIA
MOJAVE DESERT
MARCH 18
5:47 p.m.


The headlights of the ancient Bronco raked the cracked pavement in
front of it, piercing through the deep glow of the sunset over the
desert, the sky fading as if a shroud were being pulled down across
the wide white sun that hung cloudless on the horizon.  The truck was
moving fast, the engine thundering against the craggy tan of rocky
outcroppings that crouched around the road, the sound seeming to echo
through the open window on the driver's side.

Whizzing past the window, the odd shapes of Joshua trees, gnarled
and spiked and bent at strange angles against the darkening sky.
They stood on the barren landscape like wizened figures frozen in
place, the branches twisted and covered with their strange layers of
harsh green.

Mulder watched them pass out of the corner of his eye, though his
gaze was shifting back and forth between the road ahead and the rear
view mirror.  He reached up and scrubbed at his beard nervously,
smoothing it down, a habit he'd picked up since it had grown out.
Then his hand returned its iron grip on the steering wheel, guiding
the truck around a wide curve in the road that angled around another
small hill of rock and sand.

He glanced to the side, at the woman on the wide bench seat beside
him.  Scully was sitting with her back against the door, her arm
thrown over the back of the seat, her gaze out the back window.  Her
face was grim, creased, as she stared behind them, her body tensed.
He could see the muscles of her left arm shaking slightly as her hand
gripped the seat back.

From the trembling, he knew how tired she was.  The shaking always
gave it away.

"Anything?"  he asked finally into the silence between them.

Scully kept her eyes on the road, said nothing for a long moment.
He let the silence linger, trusting her to speak when she was
certain.  Trusting her.

They hadn't spoken since they'd left the highway 20 minutes ago,
heading down the shabby road that wound its way through Joshua Tree
National Park, one of the most desolate places Mulder had ever seen.
Even with the weeks they'd spent in the desert, this place seemed the
most remote to him.  He felt as though they were the last two people
on earth.

Right now, he hoped they were.

Finally, Scully turned in her seat, her arm coming down as she faced
forward again.

"They didn't follow us," she said.

The "they" she referred to was two policemen in a state police car
who had picked up their tail as they'd left Yucca Valley.  Scully had
seen them from the window of their tiny motel room there as two
policemen drove up and entered the office, asking the manager
questions as she watched them through the office's window.

Mulder had been sleeping behind her when she suddenly sat down on
the side of the bed, pulling on her shoes as she spoke to him with
urgency.

"Mulder, we have to go.  We have to get out of here," she'd said,
and he'd bolted upright immediately in the bed at the sound of her
voice, its tone.

"What is it?"  He wasn't even bleary as he asked it.   His nerves,
like hers, were constantly on edge.

"Police.  Asking questions."

He'd glanced at the window.  "Scully, it could be nothing," he tried
to soothe, putting a hand on her back.  She'd tensed at the touch and
risen, tossing a couple of things into her open suitcase on its
holder.

"We can't take the chance," she said hurriedly, and her voice shook,
but not with tears.  Knowing there was no way to talk her out of her
panic once it gripped her, he rose and began to dress quickly.

They were in the car and out of the motel, the key left on the
bureau, before the police could leave the office.  Everything had
seemed fine for the long moments as they wove toward the highway.

Then the car had appeared, seeming to follow them.  It tailed them
onto the interstate, through the desert on the outskirts of a little
outpost town called Joshua Tree.

It didn't follow them closely, but it did stay behind them, a
persistent presence in the rear view mirror.

Mulder had watched it the entire way, his eyes hidden behind
sunglasses while the sun still shone brightly against the pale sand.
For her part, Scully sat still in the seat beside him, her hair
tucked back into a small knot, the white dress shirt of his that she
wore accentuating the paleness of her skin.  Her white-knuckled hand
on the door handle was the only thing that belied her emotions.

"I'm getting off this road," he announced as they left Joshua Tree
and entered the national park.  She nodded, reaching for the worn map
between them.  He'd pulled off onto a side road and sped out of sight
around a sharp curve before the police car could catch up with them
enough to notice the turn.

Now he pulled off his sunglasses, tossed them on the dash
haphazardly, blowing out a breath at her announcement that they
hadn't been followed.  He didn't mean for it to sound as frustrated
as it did.  Scully's reaction, he could see as he glanced at her, was
immediate.  She stared down, suddenly intent on the map, her hands.


"I'm sorry," she said softly, barely audible over the truck's huge
engine.

He looked at her for a moment, then back at the road.  The desert
stretched out around them, the headlights seeming to brighten as the
sky continued to darken, the sun dipping below the horizon now, a
semicircle of white light.

"It's okay," he replied gently, reached over to grip her trembling
forearm.

"No," she said, shaking her head.  "I shouldn't have overreacted
like that."   She looked out the window, away from him as she spoke.
"They were probably just following us because we left in such a
hurry."

"You don't know that," he said, wishing she would look at him.
"They could have been acting on a description of us.  You could have
been right."

She shook her head again, looking down at where his hand touched her
arm.  Slowly she reached down and put her hand on top of his.

"I know how tired you were," she murmured, her voice showing her own
exhaustion now as the tension receded.  "How much you needed to
sleep."

He didn't disagree with that.  They'd been driving for hours, up
from El Centro near the Mexican border.  They'd avoided crossing the
border to stay away from Customs, who might have their descriptions.
They had false identification thanks to the Gunmen, but there was no
way to hide their faces.  Though Mulder was trying with the beard.

"How far until the next town going this way?"  he asked, moving his
arm back to the steering wheel to let her adjust the map.  She
reached up and flicked on the interior light, studied the map for a
long moment.

"There's a place called Twentynine Palms coming up in about 50
miles," she said.

"That's too close," he replied, shaking his head.  "In case you were
right about those cops, I'd like to put some distance from where we
were."

She nodded.  "All right."  She returned her gaze to the map.  "Well,
if we're really going to head back into Arizona, the next closest
place is Parker.  It's on an Indian reservation -- we'd be safer
there.  It's about 180 miles, though.  Can you make it that far?"
Her eyes filled with concern as she looked at him.

He rubbed at his beard again, trying not to grimace.  "Yeah, I can
make it,"  he said with an assurance he didn't quite feel.   He
returned her gaze, forced a wane smile.  "You should lie down and get
some sleep, though.  I know you're running on fumes."

Without meaning to, he glanced down at her hand, which was sending
the map into shivers.  She saw him looking at it and dropped her hand
into the shadows in her lap, hiding it from his view.

He regretted his action immediately; she was very self-conscious
about the nerve damage to her hand caused by her exposure to Owen
Curran's drug.  The injury could end her career as a pathologist,
perhaps as an FBI agent.  It was something they tried not to discuss,
one of the many unspoken subjects that travelled with them, between
them.

He cleared his throat, hoping to clear the moment with it.

"I'll stay up with you," she said finally into the awkward silence,
flicked off the overhead light and settled into her seat a bit more.
The interior of the car was washed in darkness now, the blue-white
lights of the dash giving their faces a ghostly glow.

He turned to glance at her.  Her expression was a mask, unreadable.

"All right," he replied softly, then returned his eyes to the road,
the headlights the only lights for as far as he could see.


**********

MESQUITE MOTEL
PARKER, ARIZONA
COLORADO RIVER INDIAN RESERVATION
9:45 p.m.


Mulder made his way slowly across the parking lot of the dingy
motel, the key to room 14 dangling from his limp fist.  He ached all
over, his back sore, his legs stiff in his worn jeans.  The edge of
his white t-shirt hung out one side of the waist band, dipping just
below the bottom of the denim jacket he'd picked up a few weeks ago
at a thrift shop in a town whose name he couldn't remember anymore.

There were so many towns.   He'd lost count of them, as well.

Almost two months on the road and his life had become a blur of sand
and highway, diners, midnight stops at gas stations, worn mattresses
and too-thin sheets.  His skin was deeply tanned now, and he'd begun
to notice the beginnings of creases around his eyes, the squinting
against the persistent sun and the strain of the life they were
living aging him, making him look care-worn.

Between that and the beard he now wore, he sometimes barely
recognized himself in the gas station bathroom mirrors he passed.
The face that stared back at him as he combed his lengthening hair in
mirrors of a dozen motels seemed strange to him.  Like he was turning
into someone else.

He sighed with the thoughts, approaching the Bronco now.  He pulled
the creaking door open, startling Scully awake on the passenger side,
her head bolting up from where it had slumped against the back of the
seat.

"Mulder?"  she asked quickly, breathless as her eyes scanned the
car, wide and bright in the dim parking lot lights.

"Yeah, it's all right," he said softly, and climbed into the
driver's seat.  It was a big vehicle, and he did literally have to
climb into it, despite his height.  He reached over and handed her
the key and she took it.

"The Presidential Suite, I assume?" she quipped.

"Of course," he replied, playing along, glad for her attempt at
levity.  "Jacuzzi.  Waterbed.  Full dining room and sitting area.
Room service all night."

He watched her small smile and it warmed something cool in him.

He put the car into reverse and backed it out slowly, struggling
with the lack of power steering once again.  He wound the wheel back
around and pulled down to the end of the parking lot, stopping in
front of the door marked 14 with crooked numbers, the paint chipped
on its front as the headlights glared at it.

He turned the key and the engine grumbled into silence, hissing
softly beneath the hood.

"I'll get the bags," he said.  "You go on in."

She hesitated, but then nodded, sliding out of the truck to her
feet.  He watched her go to the door, open it and go into the room.
After a few seconds a light switched on and he could see her
stretching at the foot of a bed, holding her lower back.

It only took him a few moments to hustle their bags into the room,
close the door behind him and throw the lock and chain.  Scully came
forward, reaching for one of her bags.  She'd already gotten out of
her boots, a brown pair of what he referred to as "shitkickers" that
they'd picked up along the way.  They were so unlike her, like men's
construction boots, but they were practical for the kind of terrain
they were in.  Her usual array of pumps just wouldn't do in the
desert.

Her other bag, the one full of her more formal clothes from the
undercover work, he set down by the door.  He only brought it in to
keep it from getting swiped from the car.  He had a suitbag that he
draped over a chair, also left forgotten, as he went to the bed with
his other suitcase.  He threw it down on the foot of it as he sat
heavily on the edge, peeling out of his jacket.  The t-shirt soon
followed, tossed with the jacket toward the other chair around the
chintzy table by the door.

He put his arms up and closed his eyes, stretched like a cat,
yawning, listening to various things pop as he did so.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Scully at the suitcase stand by the
dresser, holding a bottle of shampoo and conditioner, her toothbrush
and toothpaste in her hands.  But she was looking at him, a sad
expression on her face.

"What is it?" he asked gently, rubbed at his bare chest with one
hand as he braced the other on the mattress beside him.

She glanced away quickly, as though ashamed to have been caught
looking at him.  "Nothing," she said softly.  He saw color rise in
her cheeks.  "You just...you look..." She trailed off.

He looked at her, understanding.  Seeing his body had triggered
something in her.  Some feeling.  Something kin to desire.

And desire was like a phantom pain to her.

He smiled tenderly, taking her into his eyes.  "You do, too," he
murmured, and meant it.  He loved the way she looked wearing his
shirt, tied just at the waist of her jeans, loved the creamy triangle
of her chest it revealed, the cross shining against her skin.


Loved her.

His body ached for hers.  Sometimes it was like a physical pain, the
wanting.  Feeling her body so close to his as they slept at night,
but knowing he could do nothing but hold her, that he had to be
content with that.

John Fagan had taken the rest of her -- of them -- away from him.

At least for just the time being.

Or so he hoped.

He rose slowly and closed the distance between them, stopping a
small distance from her.  She was staring at the surface of the
dresser, avoiding his eyes as he approached.

"Hey," he said softly, and reached up to brush an errant strand of
her hair behind her ear.  She didn't flinch at the touch, which he
took as a good sign.  She looked into his eyes, and he didn't see the
overwhelming fear there he sometimes did.

"Can I kiss you?"  he murmured, keeping his fingers against her hair
at her temple.

She smiled, but it was a sad smile, then closed her eyes as she
rubbed her cheek against his palm.  After a beat, she nodded, once.

He took another step toward her and she turned to face him, setting
the bottles and things down on the dresser.  Reaching up with his
other hand, he cradled her face between them, rubbing at her temples
as he leaned in, brushed his lips against hers.  As their lips
touched, her eyes opened and he watched her face as he withdrew, his
eyes questioning.

She met his gaze, nodded again.  Her hand came up to brush across
his cheek, stroking his short-cropped beard.  With that, he leaned in
again and kissed her in earnest, moving his lips against hers,
feeling her mouth open beneath his.  He waited for her tongue to
enter his mouth first, met it with his own as their faces angled,
first one way, then the other.

Her hand trailed from his cheek down to his shoulder, across his
chest, her palm settling against his breastbone, in the soft hair
there.  Her fingers curled in it.

When they came up for air, he moved to her cheek, her ear.  "I love
you," he whispered to her like a secret.  He felt her small smile
against his cheek.   He kissed her below her ear and she shied away
slightly, shivering.

"You okay?" he asked, freezing.

"Yes," she replied, her voice low, the smile still on her face.
"That beard just tickles."

"I thought you liked it," he said, his hands going down to her
waist.  They closed slowly on the curve of her hips.

"I do," she murmured.  "It's just...different.  It feels different
to me sometimes."  Her expression darkened suddenly, like storm
clouds coming in.  "A lot of things feel different.  Still..."

He leaned his forehead against hers as she averted her eyes again.
"I know," he said.  "I know they do."  He squeezed her hips slightly.
"It's just going to take some more time.  That's all."

She nodded, withdrew from him, her hand falling away from his chest
as she shifted her body out of his grasp.  She picked up the items
from the dresser again and he stepped back reluctantly.

The times when he actually got to touch her like that were so
seldom.

He hid the disappointment from his face, the feeling just below it.
The now-familiar anger that bordered on rage.  Not at her, of course,
but at everything that happened.  At Fagan.  Curran.  Padden.  At
this whole damn mess they were in.

If they could settle in somewhere for long enough she might have
time to let it move through her, come to some sort of place in her
where she could move forward with it.

But they had to keep moving.  For both their sakes.

"I'm going to take a shower," she said, and he nodded, swallowing it
all down once again.  It was beginning to have a sore place in his
belly, his heart.

"Okay," he said.  "I'll take one after you.  Watch the news."

She nodded, brushed past him and headed to the small bathroom at the
back of the tiny room.  She closed the door behind her, something
sinking further in him with the sound of it closing.

Shutting him out once again.

He reached over and flicked the television on, scrolled through the
channels until he got to MSNBC.  Returning to the bed, he fished out
his pajama bottoms, clean boxers, just washed in a laundromat in
Tucson a few days before.  With that, he tossed the suitcase, open,
on the floor beside the bed and sat on the bed again, pulling off his
boots.  He fumbled with the straps on the ankle holster he wore and
set the gun and holster on the night table, the straps hanging down.
Then he lay down, propping the pillow up behind him.

They'd actually stayed in Tucson a couple of days, feeling anonymous
in the larger city.  It had been that feeling that had urged them
into California, thinking that perhaps being less of a couple of
"strangers in a strange land" would ease their minds.

They knew immediately, however, that it was a mistake once they'd
crossed the border.  Much more law enforcement -- border patrol and
highway patrol -- motel and gas prices higher than their meager
budget could afford, few Indian reservations where the Federal
presence was all but nonexistent, places which they'd found had given
them some small measure of comfort, though they stood out and could
find few places to stay.

In California, the towns were getting more populated, which made
them less conspicuous, but also exposed them to more people who might
recognize them from the photos Mulder had seen at a post office in a
town in Arizona called Red Rock.  He'd been there to rent a post
office box so the Gunmen could send them money without having to wire
it, which seemed more risky.  He and Scully were thinking they might
actually stay for a couple of weeks in that place to rest up and slow
down.

Seeing the photos, he'd torn the sheet off the binder hanging on the
wall while the lone clerk was in the back, stuffed it in his pocket
and left in a hurry.

They'd left the town that night, as well.  Moving on.

He shifted on the pillow, throwing his arm behind his head to
cushion it when the flat, bumpy pillow would not, chewing his lip as
he thought about all this.  He stared at the television screen, his
eyes dry and tired.  He scrubbed at them with his other hand.

The news was on, a prime-time news show.  So far nothing about
Curran, though they'd seen other reports about the manhunt for him on
other nights.  They'd yet to see something about themselves, for
which Mulder was relieved.

"They're keeping it quiet with the press, treating it as an internal
matter," Skinner had said the last time Mulder had spoken to him,
from a payphone at a gas station on the road a few days before.  "The
task force that's looking for you is pretty big, but they're not
making a lot of noise about it.  Granger's well again, working on it
with them now.

"I don't think there's any press about you two because Padden's
trying to fly in under everyone's radar about this, hoping to get to
you before anything gets clear about his screw up with the embassy
bombing.  He's trying to get to Curran, too.  There *is* a lot of
pressure in the press about him, as you've probably seen."

"Yeah, we've been watching the news when we can," Mulder had
replied, standing beneath the lone light at the corner of the lot
while Scully bought coffee at the convenience store.   He remembered
his frustration peaking.

"I can't believe there's nothing that can be done about these
charges."  He had been holding the flyer with their photos on it at
the time, read off it.  "'Wanted for conspiracy to commit terrorism,
murder, attempted murder'?  What the fuck is this?  I can't believe
this would even stick."

He stared at the pictures of he and Scully, Scully placed on the
sheet as an identifier for him -- "most likely travelling with..." --
in his description.  They'd used their official FBI photos, the
photos they'd worn for years on their badges now looking like
mugshots.

"I've gone to the Attorney General about it," Skinner'd replied
tensely.  "He trusts Padden more than he trusts me, more than he
trusts anyone.  He wants you caught.  Both of you.  He doesn't know
what Padden's up to with using Scully to get to Owen Curran.  I tried
to explain that to him and was told I was being 'paranoid and
irrational'."

"Feels good, doesn't it?"  Mulder had replied darkly.  Skinner did
not reply.

Mulder relented, watching Scully walk slowly through the parking
lot, two cups of coffee in her hands, glancing around nervously.

"So I take it you're saying stay out again," he said dejectedly.

"I think if you come in, especially before Curran's caught, they're
going to string you up by your nuts, Mulder, and there's nothing
anyone will be able to do about it.  Padden can make anything stick
right now.  He's got his head so far up Ashcroft's ass, for one
thing, and for another, Ashcroft is new and will listen to just about
anything at this point.

"And I don't have any proof you weren't involved.  Your trip into
the Grey Mouse that day is being used against you, incriminating you.
The fingerprints in Mae Curran's apartment.  Fagan.  All of it.  I
can't protect you, so I want you to stay out of sight."

A pause.  "How's Scully holding up?"

"She's been better," Mulder said evasively.  Skinner didn't know
much of what had happened to her -- only that she'd been exposed to
the drug.  Nothing about the attack by Fagan.

"Is she still having after-effects of the drug?"

"Yes," Mulder replied softly.  "I think some of that might be
permanent.  But she won't talk about it."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Skinner had replied, matching Mulder's
tone.

They'd ended the call with a promise from Mulder to check back in a
week or so, getting off the line right as his coins ran out to pay
for the call.

On the bed, he sighed, rubbed at his eyes again.  The news ended and
he turned off the television, letting silence come over the room. The
water went off in the shower, and a few moments later Scully emerged,
wrapped in a towel, her hair dried to damp.

She crossed the room silently, went to her suitcase.  Her back
turned toward him, she rooted around in her suitcase for underwear, a
t-shirt.  Then she dropped the towel as she put them on.

He watched her from the bed.  Her skin was pale where the sun had
not touched it.  Too pale.  He could see the outline of her spine
stark beneath the skin.

"You've got to eat more, Scully," he said quietly, trying not to
sound reproachful.  He'd been watching her pick at her food for weeks
now.  "You can't afford to lose any more weight."

"I know," she said, slipping the t-shirt over her head and then
turning to face him.  She could not meet his gaze, though.  "I'm
sorry.  I just don't feel like eating...I think it's still a holdover
from the drug...something..."

He nodded, but knew she was avoiding the real reason.  Her sadness
and grief.  Over what had happened to her.  Over what it appeared
they were losing or had already lost.

He understood the feelings.  Despite the kiss they'd shared before
she went into the shower, sometimes he felt like she were simply
drifting away from him along with the rest of his life.

"I'll try to eat more," she said, coming toward the bed now, going
to the other side and pulling back the pilled, faded coverlet and
sheets and slipped beneath them.  She turned on her side, facing him.
He was relieved when she touched his forearm, which was draped across
his belly.

He reached for her hand, pulling his arm down from behind his head,
lifted her hand  to his mouth, kissed her knuckles gently, rubbed
them against lips.  She made a soft sound in response, though he
could not tell if she intended it or not.

"I'm going to go shower real fast," he said, curved his arm over her
head, fingering the damp red strands of her hair.  "You go ahead and
go to sleep.  Don't wait for me."

She nodded, her eyelids drooping already.  "Mm...okay," she mumbled
softly.  He leaned over and kissed her forehead, then rose, pulling
his toiletries bag out of his suitcase and throwing his pajama pants
and boxers over his shoulder.  He padded in his socks toward the
bathroom.

"Mulder?" she called from the bed, her voice edged with sleep.

He turned back to look at her.  "Yeah?"

She didn't move as she spoke.  "I love you, too."

He stood there for a few seconds, a faint smile coming to his face.
Then he headed for the bathroom, left the door open.


***********

END OF CHAPTER 1.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 2.


*********

FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MARCH 19
9:16 a.m.


The tour group wound its way through the corridors of the massive
building, stopping here and there in front of glass display cases
with various exhibits on the history of the agency.  The tour guide
was a woman in her mid-thirties dressed in a formal suit, which
matched her tone and the general mood of the tour.

Among the smattering of young boys and their fathers, the tourist
couples -- some American, some not -- a young African-American man
stood hanging near the back, paying only passing attention to the
exhibit presently being shown to the group, one of J. Edgar Hoover
himself.

Sans tutu, the man thought wryly, enjoying his private joke, despite
the tension coursing through him.

They were on the right floor now.  It was just a matter of slipping
away.

The group began to move on down the hallway, the woman referring to
some of the more innocuous offices housed on the floor, promising
they'd pass the fingerprinting labs on the floor above.

Drifting back even farther, Paul Granger took a step into an open
doorway, an office presently unoccupied.  He stood at the door as he
heard the woman's voice receding down the hallway, the softening
footfalls of the group as they headed toward the elevator.  He heard
it ding as it arrived, then the woman's voice disappeared completely
behind the soft thud of the closing doors.

Relieved, he stepped out of the office, his hand going to pluck the
"Tour" badge off the collar of his coat.  He stuffed it in his pocket
as he looked at where he was on the floor, orienting himself.

The office he wanted was down that way, he decided, looking to the
right.  He turned and walked in that direction, his eyes darting at
the faces around him from behind his small silver spectacles.

He limped slightly as he went down the corridor, his newly healed
leg still hampering him.  It had come along more slowly than his arm
had, the shoulder responding to the physical therapy much better
since the injury he'd sustained there had been at a joint.  The break
in the leg was at the shin, held together with a plate, and the
healing was slower, the pain still nipping at him as his weight rose
and fell off it.

He got a few strange, vaguely suspicious looks as he went down the
corridor, though he did his best to appear as though he belonged
there.  The casual clothes he'd worn to the building to blend in with
the tour group were making him stick out now that he was among
nothing but FBI agents.

He fingered the CIA badge in his coat pocket, secure that it was
there should he need it.  He just hoped he didn't.  No one was
supposed to know he was there, and he didn't feel like advertising
it.

He reached the office he was looking for, went in, saw the secretary
look up with surprise as he entered.  She scanned him for a Visitor's
badge of some kind, and he spoke as her mouth opened to do the same.

"I'm here to see Assistant Director Skinner," he said.

"Do you have an appointment, Mister...?"  the woman, a redhead who
reminded him vaguely of Scully, asked.

"Granger,"  he replied.  "Paul Granger.  No, but he'll know who I
am."

The woman looked at him doubtfully for a few more seconds, taking in
his attire, his face, then she reached for the phone, pressed a
button.  He just hoped it wasn't the hot button for Security.

"Sir, there's a Mr. Granger to see you," she said, her eyes not
leaving Granger's face.  He could hear a voice in the receiver after
a beat of silence.

"Yes, sir, I'll send him in."  She hung up, looked toward the door.

"You can go on in, Mr. Granger," she said.

Granger thanked her, went to the door and opened it.  Skinner was
behind his desk, a pen in his hand, his jacket off.  He put the pen
down and stood as Granger closed the door, came forward.

Skinner did not reach out his hand.

"What are you doing here, Agent Granger?"  he asked by way of
greeting, his jaw tight.  He looked around as though there were
someone in the office who might see them, then leveled his gaze on
the younger man again.

Granger looked down, nodded. This was exactly the reaction he'd
expected.

"No one knows I'm here," he said, met Skinner's eyes.  "And no one
ever will."

"You signed in when you came in, didn't you?"  Skinner snapped.

"A Mr. Andreas signed in, with a tour group," Granger replied, and
Skinner looked at him a few seconds longer.  Finally, he seemed to
relax a little, though not much.  He gestured to a chair in front of
his desk.

"Have a seat," he said, though there was nothing warm in the
invitation. Skinner was on edge.  Very on edge.

"I'm not going to ask you where they are," Granger offered as he
sat.

Skinner hesitated, then returned behind his desk and sat down
himself, leaning on his elbows on the desk, as though he were poised
to leap up at any second.

"That's good, because I don't know where they are," Skinner bit out.
 "And frankly, if I did, I sure as hell wouldn't be telling you."

Granger nodded.  "I understand that.  I wouldn't want you to.  I
don't want them found either.  Not yet."

Skinner grunted. "How are you going to manage not to look for them
when you're the Chief Profiler on the case?  You can't play dumb and
fuck around forever."

"I don't plan to play dumb or fuck around," Granger replied evenly.
He leaned back in his chair.  "I'm going to be looking for them, but
not for Padden.  I want to find them myself.  When a few things are
in place.  And the resources of the task force are the best way to do
that."

Skinner's eyes narrowed behind his glasses.  "I'd like to believe
that, Agent Granger," he said, folding his hands in front of him.
"But frankly I'm having a hard time trusting you in all this."

"I'm sure you're having a hard time knowing who to trust at all at
this point, yes," Granger replied.  "I am, as well.  And I know I'm
not exactly at the top of your list because I've accepted this
assignment in the first place."

He met Skinner's eyes seriously.  "But you are at the top of mine."

Skinner looked to the side and shook his head.  "How do I know you
weren't sent here by Padden to scope me out, see how I'd react, to
see if I know anything? How can I trust that?"

"I can't make you believe me, except to give you my word,"  Granger
said, looking at him hard, trying to meet Skinner glare for glare,
something he couldn't have done a few months ago.

These days, he felt much older than his 33 years, like he'd aged ten
years in the past three months, in his body and his mind. The green
agent who had scuttled after Mulder across Richmond, nearly
scattering papers from folders in his wake, was all but gone now.  He
was much wiser, and not all the wisdom he'd gained was for the
better.

Skinner was looking at him, as though trying to decide whether to
believe him.  He didn't seem to come to any decision as he mirrored
Granger's action by leaning back in his chair.

"Then what is that you want from me?"  He asked it quietly, his eyes
still narrowed.

Granger drew in a deep breath, taking the plunge.  This was, after
all, what he'd risked coming here for in the first place.

"I wanted to tell you a theory about how it is they're going to get
caught." Granger leveled his eyes again.  "To reassure you as
Assistant Director that your fugitive agents will be found if they
keep doing what they're doing."

Skinner stared.

"All right," he said carefully.  "Tell me your theory."

"If they *didn't* want to get caught, they'd have to stop moving
around at some point," Granger said. "They think they're doing the
right thing, but they're not.  Not anymore. There have been a few
reports from places out west of couples vaguely meeting their
descriptions possibly passing through here and there.  Their moving
around constantly may keep them from Curran, but it's going to make
it easier for the task force to find them."

Skinner picked up his pen, suddenly fascinated by it.  His jaw
muscles were pulsing. Granger pressed on.

"Agencies in those areas have been fully briefed and are looking for
them, including the local police.  They're looking *hard,*
circulating pictures to motels, restaurants, gas stations.
Blanketing the area.  The more mobile Mulder and Scully seem, the
less settled they are, the more they're going to arouse suspicion.
And the greater the chance of them stopping at a motel where the
manager has a flyer with their faces on it taped to the desk.  Moving
is exposing them to more people.  Staying put somewhere will expose
them to less."

He lowered his voice to just above a whisper.  "You might want to
pass that along if you get the opportunity."

Skinner looked away again, dropped the pen.  "That's an interesting
theory you have about their activities, Agent Granger," he said
nonchalantly before glancing back.  "But seeing as how I have no
contact with them -- that having contact with them and not revealing
that information would cost me my career and probably my freedom for
aiding and abetting a Federal fugitive -- I don't know how I would
relay that information even if I were so inclined to do so."

Granger nodded.  "Of course, sir," he replied.

He rose, reached his hand across the desk now.

"You know I didn't say any of this," he said softly.

Skinner reached out and shook his hand now.  "I understand."

Granger nodded again and headed slowly for the door.

"Agent Granger," Skinner said to the younger man's back.  Granger
turned to face Skinner again, his eyes questioning.

"Be careful."  Skinner's tone was firm, his voice low.  "You're
standing with one foot on the dock and the other on the boat.  And
you know how that always ends up."

Granger quirked a smile.  "Not always, sir.  But thank you for the
warning."

**

9:50 a.m.

In the car now, fighting the late flex-time shift on the Teddy
Roosevelt Bridge, Granger drummed his fingers on the steering wheel,
not even reacting as a car swerved around him in the fast lane,
nearly cutting him off in its attempt to punish him for driving too
slowly.

His mind just wasn't on the road.

His heart was still thumping a little hard, the fear he'd had over
the risks he was taking still working in him.  He'd managed to hold
the feeling down until he'd returned to his car and taken off through
the city.

But then it had hit him, the reaction delayed by his need to seem
completely in control of the situation in front of Skinner.

What the hell am I doing? he thought, shaking his head.

His hand went to his forehead, wiping at the sheen of sweat that had
appeared there, despite the chill still in the air in the Washington
early spring.   He moved over into the right-hand lane as the sign
for the George Washington Parkway appeared, took the exit.

He would be at CIA Headquarters by 10:15 at the latest.  Late, but
then he'd only been back at work for a few days since coming off
medical leave.  They were going easy on him so far, giving him light
duty, not pressuring him too much, letting him leave early when he
got too tired.

But then he'd yet to see Padden.  And that was going to change this
morning.   That was why he'd chosen this particular morning to risk
going to see Skinner -- it was the last chance he'd have before he
had the NSA Director breathing down his neck, no doubt watching his
every move.

If he wasn't already.

They'd spoken on the phone several times over the course of
Granger's recuperation from his injuries sustained in the bombing,
mostly for Padden to ask him questions about his involvement with
Mulder while they were working together in Richmond.

Padden was slowly, methodically, building his case against Mulder,
doing everything he could to make every move Mulder had made in
Richmond seem suspect.

"So what you're saying, Agent Granger," Padden said during one such
phone call, "is that you actually have no idea where Mulder was
during that period of time on January twelfth to the thirteenth."

The day Mulder had gone to the mountains, needing "a day off," he'd
said.

Granger remembered sitting up quickly from where he was reclined on
his bed, the Flyers playing on the television, as he realized what
Padden was implying.

"I've told you where he was.  He was in D.C. on a personal matter.
Begging your pardon, sir, but how many times do you want me to tell
you the same thing?"

That had been the cover story he'd used that day when he did not, in
fact, know where Mulder had been.

"'A personal matter' could mean a lot of things, Agent Granger,"
Padden replied.  He'd sounded almost smug.

Granger sighed now, remembering the conversation, the car speeding
along the parkway, a view of the Potomac off to his right, the river
dark, surrounded by bare trees on the banks.

There had been nothing he could do for Mulder except, it seemed, dig
him in deeper.  When he held anything back, he could tell Padden knew
it; when he told the truth, Padden skewed it, finding the holes in
what Granger knew and filling them with his own agenda.

The truth of the matter was that Granger could prove nothing, had
nothing beyond his own unwavering trust in Mulder and his word.  So
many things he actually didn't know for certain.  Whether Mulder had
actually been at the airport that morning when John Fagan was killed.
Whether he'd really been in the mountains those two days in January
as he'd said.  What he'd done the day he'd gone into the Grey Mouse
after Fagan.

And though Granger had explained Mulder's reasoning about the
bombing, mapped out for Padden how Mulder had figured out that it
would be the Irish Embassy that was going to attacked and not the
British as Padden had insisted, Padden saw Mulder's tip-off as a last-
minute change of conscience of a man who had been in on the planning
of it all along.

And the fact that Mulder was running didn't help his case very much,
though Granger knew he was running for Scully's sake and not his own.
 He knew that Mulder would do anything to guarantee his partner's
safety.

His lover's safety, he thought sadly.

Though Mulder had never spoken of it, or even hinted at it, Granger
had spent enough time with him, and was interested enough in how he
ticked, to know this fact to be true.

He had, of course, told no one.

He took the Chain Bridge exit, and the sign for the George Bush
Center for Intelligence, the fairly new CIA headquarters where
Padden's multi-agency task force was based, came into view.  His hand
tightening on the steering wheel, he blew out another frustrated
breath.

What he needed was evidence of where Mulder had been.  Beyond what
had been said.  It was the only way to combat Padden and the frame he
was putting Mulder in.

That's what he'd meant when he'd told Skinner that he didn't want
Mulder and Scully found until "some things were in place."

A lot of things.

He didn't know what they were yet, these things he would need to
find.

But find them he would.


************

OATMAN, ARIZONA
ROUTE 66
11:38 a.m.


When Scully was a child and on the road in the back seat of her
parents' station wagon, she didn't watch the landscape, the trees
that crowded the highways, but rather she watched the road itself.

She watched the intermittent white lines that bisected the road they
drove on, speeding past, going in the opposite direction than the one
she was travelling.  In her child's mind, she imagined them as cars
on a train filled with passengers, all fleeing from where she was
headed, as though fleeing her unforeseeable future.

Here, the pavement was cracked and the lines faded somewhat from
sunlight and neglect.   She continued to watch them, the lines
fleeing beside her as Mulder aimed the truck down the highway from
the fast lane.  Her eyes hidden behind sunglasses, a black baseball
cap that Mulder had bought her in a truck stop weeks ago hiding her
still-red hair and blocking her face from the constant sun, she
leaned against the door.  Her gaze was fixed on the road, and she
felt the same feeling of dread she'd felt as a child wash over her at
what lay up ahead.

She'd had the same feeling for weeks, her life feeling like an
endless highway now, the moments of it like the hundreds of towns
they'd driven through in the past two months, each separate but
beginning to run together in a colored blur of light, neon lights
that beckoned to them from the road as they drove past late into the
many nights.

Mulder was humming tunelessly to a song she didn't know on the
radio.  One he clearly didn't know either.   His mind was obviously
elsewhere, put there by the quiet that had stretched between them for
50 miles or so now.

She wasn't much on talking these days, and the silence between them,
which he seemed to have reluctantly grown to accept, pained her.

Many times she would have a thought -- a memory of something they'd
done together, a story from childhood, a case they'd worked on -- and
she would open her mouth to speak, and the sound would simply fade
from her throat, her lips closing to the grim line they'd assumed
since they'd left Tennessee.

There was so much she both did and did not want to tell him.  The
unspoken things, all of them, building a wall between them, brick by
brick.  She knew he felt it, too.  She would feel him looking at her
as they lay spooned in the bed together, or see him watching her
sometimes from behind his sunglasses as they drove.

As he was doing now.

The familiar blue square of a roadsign signalling food and gas up
ahead came into view, riddled with shotgun pellet holes.  She
couldn't see over the next rise, but knew what she would find there.
A lonely restaurant and a three-pump gas station that made you pay
before you pumped.

"You hungry?"  Mulder asked from beside her, his voice sounding out
of place after so many miles of faint music and loud engine.

She glanced back at him, trying to ignore the concern that
constantly tugged at his gaze.  "Sure," she replied, forced a smile.

"Okay, we'll stop then," he said, clearly pleased, and shifted in
the seat as though his body were already anticipating leaving the
truck.

She returned her eyes to the road, nodding.

She really wasn't hungry.  She rarely was anymore, as though that
part of her connection to her body had gotten somehow crossed, the
signals that her body needed something rarely making it to her.

Only the ghost of longing reached her sometimes, Mulder's hand on
her leg, his legs twining with hers as he slept, their bodies pressed
together.

Sometimes even that was too much for her, and she would rise, sit on
the side of the bed, or retreat to a table in the motel room, wait
for him to roll over in his sleep, lose his contact with her
completely, before she slipped back into the bed, curled on the edge
like a comma as far away from him as she could get, hiding the tears
behind her hands.

She felt her eyes burning with the thought, and she pushed it away
hard, back down with the rest of the things she could not think
about.  Turning her head farther away from where Mulder might see the
suspicious shine of her eyes, she looked out over the desert,
squinting against the light reflecting off the sand.

Along the sides of the highway and stretching off into the distance,
yellow and orange poppies at the feet of the cacti and sagebrush,
purple stalks of lubine.  It had rained a lot in the past month -- a
lot for the desert -- and the hard husks of the seeds had been forced
open by the moisture, the flowers' tough heads coming up through the
sand to wash the tan earth with their colors.

At least that's what one of the motel managers had told her when
she'd asked about the flowers.   She had never thought of them being
in the desert before, and had said so.  The manager had beamed as he
spoke of them, clearly pleased with the development himself.

She smiled now as she remembered that, smiled at the colors that
stretched up onto the hillsides in patches.  After so many weeks of
the desolation, the tiny change thawed her a bit.

They reached the top of the rise and the restaurant and gas station
appeared off to the right.  The ubiquitous "Get Your Kicks On Route
66" sign was proudly displayed out front, the restaurant called the
Circle J.

Mulder slowed and pulled off into the dirt lot, parked the truck in
a space at the front of the ramshackle structure.  There were only a
few cars in the lot, a couple of hulks of RVs sitting parallel to the
road, encrusted with dust.

No one looked up as they entered, the place filled mostly with
tourists, it appeared, so they didn't stand out very much.  Scully
took her sunglasses off as a woman behind the counter, hippy with a
kind smile, gestured toward the wooden booths.

"Sit anywhere you like," she said, her smile touching her voice.
Scully smiled back, followed Mulder to a booth near the back, one
he'd clearly chosen because it was secluded from the rest of the
restaurant.

They slid in and Mulder removed his sunglasses, tossed them on the
table near the salt and pepper shakers in their cage and the half-
empty bottle of Heinz.

The same woman, "Sue," her nametag read, came up and laid two huge
menus in front of them both, still smiling kindly.  She took their
drink orders -- coffee for both of them.

"Where you all headed?  You look like you've been on the road for
days."

"Grand Canyon," Mulder replied immediately.

Scully stifled a smirk at that.  They'd been on their way to Grand
Canyon for two months now.  It was, to her, the most elusive place on
earth.

"Oh, you'll love it," Sue said expansively, putting the order pad to
her chest as she said it for effect.  "Take the mules down, though.
Don't try to walk it."

Scully smiled to her again, picturing she and Mulder on mules with
cameras dangling from their wrists.

"We'll remember that," she said.

Sue drifted off, and Scully watched her go until Mulder opened up
the menu in front of her.   She did the same out of sheer habit.

"No salads, okay?" Mulder said gently, looking at her earnestly over
the top of the menu.

She nodded, letting his nagging slide over her, if only because she
knew he was right that that was what she'd order.  It was what she
usually ordered.  They were easier to pick at for some reason, didn't
turn her stomach like most road fare did.

She would try.  She needed to try.

Her own body felt strange to her, her clothes beginning to hang from
the juts of her shoulders, her too-thin waist.  She was in another
one of Mulder's shirts today, this one blue, a white tank top beneath
it.  Wearing his clothes, which would seem too big to her anyway,
made her body feel not quite so changed.

It was also, she thought, like being close to him without actually
having to touch him.

The thought made her flustered, her eyes darting from the window
where'd she'd been staring back to the menu, as though she were
afraid he might read the her mind.  He was still watching her,
something pained in his eyes, and for an instant she thought he
really had.

Sue returned with two glasses of water filled with ice, two steaming
cups of coffee.  Dropping a handful of creamers in a little pile at
the edge of the table, she reached for her pad.

"What can I get you?"

Mulder ordered a pizza burger, a side of fries.  Scully looked down
at the menu as he did so until Sue turned to her.   The chicken
burrito seemed appealing in a vague sort of way.  She decided on
that.

Sue took the menus away, leaving them with nothing but the coffee
and creamers to tinker with.  Scully fingered a creamer, rolling the
cool plastic of it between her fingers.  She looked down at it, the
movement obscuring most of her face beneath the rim of the cap she
still wore.

As always, her hand shook slightly, sending the pale liquid inside
the container into ripples as she tore at the paper top with her good
hand.

"You okay?"  Mulder murmured.

She nodded, dumping the cream into the thin coffee.   "I'm all
right, Mulder," she replied.  "Really."  The last she said as she met
his gaze tiredly.

He shook his head, pursing his lips.  "I think we need to stop
somewhere for a few days again," he said.  "I think we could both use
a couple of days or so of not moving around."

"I'm really okay," she insisted quietly, picked up a spoon and
stirred, staring into her coffee as the light swirled into the dark.
"If you need to stop, it's fine, but--"

"I think we *both* need to stop," he replied, his voice just
slightly firmer now.  She looked back up at him as his tone shifted.

She set the spoon down.

"Look," he said, leaning closer.  "I know you're trying to tough
this out and pretend like what we're doing isn't affecting you, but I
can tell it is.  It has been for weeks now.  You're so pale and you
seem so exhausted--"

Instinctively, she pushed her damaged hand beneath the table, anger
coming over her at his insinuation, looked out the window, her jaw
set hard.

"And this isn't about your hand, either," Mulder said instantly,
clearly frustrated. "I'm talking about *you,* Scully."   His hand
reached across the table, gripped her right arm at the wrist.  "It's
like you're getting further and further away from me every day that
goes by."

"I'm just tired," she bit out, hating the defensiveness of her tone
as she looked at him sharply.  "You are, too.  What else do you
expect me to say?"

He didn't take the bait of her tone, but shook his head instead.

"Scully, you have to talk to me."  His voice was a little desperate
now, softer.

His hand went from her wrist to her hand, his fingers weaving into
hers.  She watched his fingers moving over hers, her hand looking and
feeling like that of a figure made of wax.

"You have to talk to someone about what happened in Richmond," he
pressed into the quiet.   "All of it.  If we were home, there would
be people you could talk to besides me, but I'm all you've got and I
want to be here for you."

She hesitated for a moment, her mouth opening and closing as it did
in the truck.  They were in dangerous territory now.  An unexplored
country.

She took in a breath, let it out slowly.

"There are some things I can't talk about with you, Mulder," she
said, her voice flat, monotone.

"I can take hearing them," he said, gave her hand a squeeze.

"But I can't take telling them," she replied immediately, implored
him with her eyes.  "And I'm not as sure as you are that you could
take hearing them, either.  Try to understand, please...."

"I'm trying to understand," he replied, that same tone of quiet
desperation in his voice.  "I *want* to understand.  But you won't
let me in, Scully.  I can feel you shutting me out."

He took a breath, seemed to hesitate for a beat, then spoke anyway.

"And it scares me."

"I'm sorry."  It was all she could think of to say after a moment.

"You don't have to be sorry," he replied.  "I just don't want you
any further away than you are already.  I feel like I can still get
to you sometimes...like last night.  But..."

The memory of the night before entered her mind, his mouth moving
over hers, her hands skimming across the flat, hard plane of his
chest.  For a moment she had felt like herself again.   Remembering
it cracked a door in her, something warm coming in.

"I'm not going anywhere, Mulder," she said, and now she did squeeze
his hand, met his gaze.   "Okay?"

He looked at her doubtfully for a few seconds, then nodded.  "Okay."

She pulled her hand away to pick up her coffee, and he did the same.
Despite what he'd said, she would not put her left hand back on the
table.

"And we can stop, if you want to," she added.  "We both could use
the rest.  And besides, we're getting low on money again.  It's time
for another phone call."

Sue returned, a plate in each hand, which she set down before them.
Her arrival halted his reply.

"There you go," Sue said, her cheerfulness now plucking Scully's
already taxed nerves as it contrasted too starkly against the
conversation they'd been having.  "Let me know if you need anything
else."

"We will, thank you," Mulder replied, forced a wan smile at her.  He
was feeling the same way, she could tell.

When she was gone, Scully stared down at her plate, the smell of the
burrito drifting up at her, thick and heavy.  Her mouth went dry as
she set down the mug, fingered her fork as if she wasn't sure how to
use it.  The rest of her was still.

"Scully," he said softly after a minute had passed.  "Please."

She looked up at him, at the worry in his face.  She wanted to make
that expression, the one that made him look so tired, so sad, go away
any way she could.

She did her best to eat.


***********


END OF CHAPTER 2.   CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 3.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 3.

********

UNKNOWN LOCATION
NEAR ALDER CREEK, COLORADO
MARCH 20
6:13 a.m.


The sheet of blowing flakes outside the window and the quiet that
accompanied it were nothing new to the man as he rose in the rickety
bunk.  The wood stove crackled and hissed in the center of the tiny
cabin as a nearly spent log fell within it, sending out an answer of
red flakes that the man saw through the cracks of its ancient door.

He stretched, the sleeves of his thermal top sliding up his arms as
he reveled in the simple pleasure of the wave of heat coming from the
stove.  He could feel the cold wind pushing itself through the flimsy
windowpane, the flakes gathering on the sill, the heavy snow and its
wind pressing in around him.

It was something he'd grown used to, this endless view of white.
There was something lonely in it that appealed to him, the blankness
of it reminding him of nothing, the landscape like cold amnesia.

He was reminded of nothing by his surroundings, but this did not
mean he was in the practice of forgetting.  In fact, he forgot
nothing.  He never had.

Pushing his legs from beneath the blanket, he reached for his jeans,
which were thrown across the foot of the bed.  He pulled them on over
the long-john bottoms he wore, thick white cotton covering his legs,
the denim lined with flannel.   Standing, he pulled the pants up to
his trim waist, fumbled with the belt until it was fastened tight
around him.

He noticed that he had grown leaner as he tugged on his two shirts,
the clothes hanging on him despite the layers.  It was the travelling
he'd done, the time spent helping keep this place running, this small
outpost tucked in the remote crags of the Rockies.

He'd worked hard while he'd been here, proving himself, becoming one
of these people as best he could while he bided his time.

Waiting.   Waiting for word.

He went to the window, looked out over the main area of the compound
through the snow, the lazy smoke coming from the chimney of the mess
hall, the largest building on the compound.  Breakfast was already
on, the cooks usually up by five to start the meal for the 46
inhabitants of this place.

He went to the military locker in the corner of the small room,
fumbled through the few provisions he kept there for himself, his
small collection of personal effects.  On the top shelf, a tin of
Twinings Breakfast Tea, which he pried open, stuffing two of the soft
bags into his jeans pockets.

As he replaced the tin, his eyes fell on his wallet, which sat
against the far edge of the shelf.  There was no need for money where
he was, so he rarely carried the wallet, rarely looked at it.
Something made him want to this morning, some pang of feeling which
he usually kept buried, deep as the ground around him was buried in
snow.

The snap and crackle of the fire in the stove the only sound around
him, he drew the wallet out, flipped it open.

The picture was right there.  Tucked in its leather slot.  The boy
in the picture was laughing, his aunt, on whose lap he sat, having
tickled him to prompt the wide-open laugh captured there.

The man smiled despite himself as he looked at the boy's face, at
the conspiratorial look the woman gave the camera.

Then, beneath the heat of a dull rage, the smile melted away.

He replaced the photo in its slot, fingered the one behind it by the
corner, pulled it out halfway.

A woman.  The most beautiful smile he'd ever seen in his life.  Red
hair ruffled by the wind, her blue eyes looking at something just to
the side of the camera.  Her small body was leaning against the
doorway of a stone house, her dress a deep green, accentuating the
pale of her arms.

Unlike the boy's grin, this smile was prompted by nothing but him.

He was the person she'd been looking at when the picture was snapped
the morning of their wedding all those years ago, the layer of green
ivy curling up the side of the house and arching up around her over
the doorway to his parents' house.

He felt his eyes burning, which surprised him.  He thought he'd gone
beyond feeling anymore.  The picture grew distorted before he
blinked, distorted just enough to alter the face slightly in his
vision and in his mind's eye.

Another woman.  Beautiful.  Red hair and blue eyes.  Her small body
leaned across a table at a pub in Richmond, looking shyly into her
glass of beer as he studied her from across the crowded bar.  She had
always been aware when he was looking at her, it seemed, her guard
always up against him.

Now he knew why.

The rage in him swelled again.  He rubbed hard at his eyes just in
case any trace of sentiment still remained.

Tucking the picture back down and away, he put the wallet in the
locker, closed the metal door with a hollow sound.

The woman in the bar's was the face he carried with him now.  Not
his wife's, though Elisa's face had driven him for many years in the
things he had done.

Now he had a new one to take her place.  An FBI agent named Dana
Scully.  The woman his sister, Mae, had betrayed him for, helping
Scully escape and stealing his son away.

And leaving his best friend, John Fagan, missing in the process.
He'd waited for Fagan at the rendezvous point for over a day, a motel
on the outskirts of a town in western Virginia where they'd decided
to meet if they got separated.  Fagan had never shown.  And Fagan had
*always* shown.

Curran could only assume he was dead.

He hoped to God it was Dana Scully who was responsible for that and
not Mae.  But knowing how careful John had been, how much he would
have planned his approach on Scully, a part of him wondered if it was
Mae who had caught him by surprise, the attack he wouldn't have been
expecting.

Just thinking about it made him tremble with rage.

Revenge had always driven him, but it had never been as urgent as it
was now.  Elisa had died, after all.  Murdered by people he'd spent
the last five years planning on punishing.

His boy, Sean, was still alive out there somewhere, just beyond his
sight, his reach.

And without Sean, he felt completely lost.

Without Fagan, the feeling was made even worse.

And without punishing the people responsible for Sean and Fagan's
loss, he felt even more incomplete, like half the person he'd been
before.

Half a man.

And he wanted to be whole again.

Turning, Owen Curran went to the stove, tossing in a few more small
logs so that the cabin would still be warm when he reentered after
his meal.  Then, shouldering into his heavy army parka, he unlatched
the door and entered the world of blinding white.


**********

WHISTLE STOP INN
WILLIAMS, ARIZONA
8:34 a.m.


The bell on the door to the manager's office jangled loudly as
Mulder pushed his way through it with his shoulders, his arms full
with groceries he'd just purchased from the small market across the
main road.  He had a smaller bag filled with danishes in his teeth, a
cup of coffee in each hand, which he set down on the counter to free
them.  He put the bag of danishes in between them carefully, so as
not to topple the bags in his arms.

As he placed the groceries on the floor in front of the desk, the
manager -- an older man with a wisp of hair combed over his bald
spot, thick glasses, and a toothy, amiable smile -- came out from the
back office where'd he'd been stretched out in a green recliner,
watching a small black and white television.

"Help you with something, Mr. Garrett?"  he asked Mulder, putting
his hands on the counter, framing the cups of coffee in his arms.

Mulder was fingering a rack of pamphlets on the counter, all
advertising attractions in the Williams/Flagstaff area.  He smiled
faintly to the manager -- Barry, John Barry, Mulder remembered now --
as he did so.

"I'm just looking for some things to do around here," Mulder
replied.  "Some things to see."

"Oh, there's plenty to see around here,"   Barry said
enthusiastically.  "The biggest thing we've got here in Williams is
the train that goes all the way up to The Canyon.  Right to the South
Rim.  But if you want to go out a little further around Flagstaff,
there's some other things to see."

That sounded a little too touristy for Mulder's liking, a little too
public, though he would have loved to have finally seen Grand Canyon
after driving around it for so many weeks.  He thought they needed a
diversion, something to give he and Scully a sense of normalcy for
even a few hours, but the thought of piling into the old-fashioned
steam engine he saw on the front of the pamphlet with a dozen
families from Kansas to go see one of the most heavily visited
national parks in the country wasn't his idea of a diversion.

Being around so many people would probably cause them both more
stress -- and expose them to more risk of being recognized -- than it
could ever do them any good.

"Are there any Indian ruins around here?"  Mulder asked, his eyes
still on the pamphlets.  He remembered Scully always seemed to notice
when there were ruins nearby as they'd driven around, though they'd
had yet to stop at any.  He thought she might like that.

"Lemme see..."  Barry said, thinking for a beat.  "Well, there's
Wupatki outside Flagstaff, on the way to the Navajo Reservation,
going up Marble Canyon way.  It's not much to see, though I might be
a little prejudiced about that myself.  I don't get into them ruins
too much.  Just a pile of rocks in the middle of nowhere is what I
say."

Despite what Barry has said, Mulder was intrigued.  "Is it on the
map?"

"Yeah, it's on there all right.  Hardly nobody goes there, though.
It's 20 or so miles off the main road, and besides, there's snow
called for up there today.  Just saw it on the news a bit ago."
Barry glanced out into the parking lot.  "Though I reckon in that
truck of yours that wouldn't be a problem."

Mulder glanced up him, unnerved by the amount of interest Barry had
shown in him on some level -- remembering his name from the night
before, noticing what they were driving.  He forced the paranoia
down, knowing that Barry was probably just bored enough here in the
off-season to notice a lot about the people who did stop by.

He gave Barry a polite smile.  "No, it won't be a problem," he
replied, and began gathering up his things again, fitting the
danishes under his arm this time.  Barry hurried around the desk and
opened the door for Mulder, the bell clapping against the glass-paned
door again.

"Thank you, Mr. Barry," Mulder said as he went out the door with his
load.

"Not a problem, Mr. Garrett," Barry replied.  "Give my best to your
missus."

That got a wry smile out of Mulder as he turned and made his way
down the front of the motel, a rambling one-story affair with blue
shutters on the mostly blinded windows.  He could smell bacon cooking
as he passed by one door, a heavy smell that he had grown to
associate with their time on the road.  He could hear a television on
in another as he continued toward the end, to the small efficiency
where he and Scully had decided to spend the next few days to rest
and recuperate as much as they could.

Reaching the last door, he listened for any sound inside, heard
nothing but silence. He set the bags down on the sill, balancing them
with his hip as he dug in his pocket for the key.  He pushed the door
open quietly, gathered the bags up and slipped into the room, his
eyes immediately going to the bed.

Scully lay facing away from him, looking small beneath the covers,
her lengthening, more curly hair sprayed out behind her on the
pillow, her arms out in front of her across the other side of the
bed.  She gripped his pillow in one fist, the cotton case wrinkled
around her fingers.

Moving carefully, he went to the kitchenette at the back of the
room, set the coffee cups down, the bag of danishes.  Then he slid
the grocery bags onto the counter and began unpacking the contents,
his eyes darting to the bed every now and again, watching her face
for any sign that he was disturbing her.  He wanted her to sleep for
as long as she could.

He turned away and put the perishables in the tiny refrigerator,
having to get creative with the space.  When he stood again, he
glanced back at Scully and saw that her eyes were open now, watching
him.

"Good morning," he murmured, smiling gently.

Much to his relief, she returned the smile -- an easy smile -- and
rolled onto her back, the covers slipping to her hips, her t-shirt
bunched around her ribs.  She stretched languidly, her arms going
over her head as she yawned.

"I've got some coffee," he continued, trying not to stare as her t-
shirt slid up, exposing all the way up to the bottom curve of one
breast, the nipple peaking out for a second until she put her arms
down again.

"Coffee sounds good," she said, her eyes still closed, and her voice
was as easy as her smile had been.

He found his pervasive tension releasing some.  It was going to be
one of her good days, he realized, when she was able to relax, her
mind not as preoccupied as it often was.  He was glad, because his
was the same way.

There was something to be said for knowing you could stay in bed all
day if you wanted to, he thought, his lips curling into a smile as
she looked at him again, her eyes bright in the shuttered light
coming through the half-opened blinds.

Then she did something she rarely did anymore, and certainly not
when she wasn't in tears, awake from the grip of nightmare that had
shaken her in the dark.

She reached for him, then smoothed her hand across the mattress
beside her, a clear invitation.

He didn't have to be asked twice.

Pushing off his leather jacket, he came around the counter that
divided the two rooms, laying the jacket across the chair at the
table in the eat-in area of the kitchen.  He sat on the edge of the
bed, his back to her as he pulled his boots off.  He felt her hand on
his back already, her nails grazing him through his long-sleeved t-
shirt.

He slid beneath the covers in his jeans, easing an arm beneath her
neck as she rose and pillowed her head on his shoulder, her arm going
around his chest, her bare leg bending over his thigh.  He craned his
neck and kissed her forehead, curled his arm up so that he could
tunnel his fingers through her hair.

"You feel good today, don't you?"  he asked, pleased, rubbing his
lips against her hairline slowly.

He felt her smile against his shoulder, a small one, but a smile
nonetheless.

"Yeah, I do," she replied.  "I think I had a good dream."

"Oh yeah?  What about?"

She shook her head slightly.  "I don't remember," she said, leaning
in a bit so that her lips were against his throat.  "I just have this
feeling.  A good feeling."

He smiled at the ease in her voice, at the feeling of her warm
breath against his skin.  "I'm glad," he murmured.

They lay in a companionable silence for a long moment, Scully
tracing little patterns with her fingers on his chest.   He closed
his eyes, feeling contented, everything pushing away from him except
her.

"You want me to cook something?"  she said into the quiet.

He shook his head.  "No, I don't want you to move," he said softly,
and he meant it so much that he felt his eyes sting for a second.

She nuzzled into him, unaware of the emotions his confession had
stirred in him.

"Okay," she replied.

Another quiet few moments.  The television in the room next door
came on, a muffled voice reaching him.  The heavy sounds of someone
settling against the headboard just on the other side of the flimsy
wall.

He pulled Scully closer to him, willing the sounds away.  It was so
hard to feel like he was ever truly alone with her, people always
around them.  He longed for the privacy of his apartment, or hers --
any place where it could just be the two of them, no strangers just
outside the door, no sounds of cars, of televisions, of voices
carrying over from another room or table.

It was something he'd taken so much for granted before.

If they ever made it out of this  -- *when* they did, he corrected
himself sternly -- he would never take that for granted again.  He
would never take any part of her for granted, now that so much of her
had been taken away from him.

Reluctantly, feeling a funk coming over him and not wanting it to
continue, he broke the tenuous spell around them.  "I had an idea."

"What's that?"

"There are some Indian ruins not too far from here, apparently.  The
other side of Flagstaff.  I thought we could go see them today."

She leaned up, looking at him now, her brow creased.  "Mulder, don't
you think that would be a little risky?"

He shook his head.  "I think we're okay on this one.  They're pretty
remote, from what the manager said.  I don't think they'll be a big
tourist spot."

She chewed her lip, her expression clearly worried.

"Plus," he added quickly, not liking the change in her quicksilver
mood.  "It's supposed to snow today, so nobody will be out there.  I
thought we could just get out, pretend to be seeing something.  It'll
be better than being cooped up here all day watching television."

She looked at him, unconvinced still, he could tell.

"I know you've wanted to see a few of them," he said gently,
stroking her hair back from her face.  "We've passed a hundred or
more.  Stopping at one won't do any harm.  It's not like we're going
to the Canyon or something.  We could use a day of doing something
normal."

He could see her expression softening as he brushed at her hair, his
fingers tracing the curve of her ear as he did so.  He leaned his
head up and touched her lips with his for good measure, lingering
there, reassuring her.

When he pulled his face away, her eyes were closed.  When she opened
them, she gave him a tiny smile, nodded.   "Okay.  I'll get ready
then."

"Good," he said softly, and leaned in to kiss her once more as she
moved to slip out of the bed and away from him once again.


**********

UNKNOWN LOCATION
NEAR ALDER CREEK, COLORADO
12:38 p.m.


It was intricate work.

A bundle of multicolored wires, their connectors all having to find
their correct places before anything would work.  Curran took the
wire cutters in his hand, chose a wire out of the mass and separated
it, carefully stripping away the vinyl covering, exposing the copper
wire underneath.  Then, twisting its end to a connector, he screwed
the wire down onto the small panel, gently tightening the screw with
a tiny screwdriver made just for this kind of close-quartered work.

The midday light shone through the window, brighter with the snow,
which was still falling, though not as hard as before.  The kerosene
heater in his small workroom gave the place a thick, oily smell, but
he'd grown used to it after so many weeks bent over the workbench,
day in and day out.  He wore a pair of glasses on the end of his nose
which magnified the board he was working by several powers, making
finding the correct placement easier.

Pushing the glasses up, he sniffed, rubbed his nose, checked the
work.   Beside him, cigarette smoke rose lazily into the cold air, a
stream of grey gathering in the cup of the bright overhead desk lamp.
He took a drag, blew out a stream of smoke easily, replaced the
cigarette in the ashtray with care.

Four more wires to go and then he would be finished.  The bomb was
thin enough to be slipped into a padded mailer, the final wire taped
on the flap and designed to break away when the article was opened.

It was crude work for him, actually -- a thing he'd done since he
was a boy -- but it proved useful to the people around him, most of
whom didn't seem to have the technical skill necessary for such a
task.  Most of the people on the small compound busied themselves
with the running of the ranch itself, tending to the cattle and sheep
that roamed in the paddocks fenced in around the barns to the north
side of the encampment.  Others worked in the lumber mills in the
town below, only to return in the evenings to be with their families,
or to bunk up in the common bunkhouse like a bunch of ragged soldiers
just in from a war.

None of them wanted to be here.

But this was the place where Larry Kingston, the head of the Sons of
Liberty Militia, sent the people the law was most interested in, a
sort of gulag high up in the mountains where people who had a need to
be hidden stayed for their own protection.

Curran was himself such a person, secreted away by Kingston in this
place while the militia's various contacts searched out Mae and Sean
and Dana Scully for him, the repayment of a favor that Curran had
done Kingston years ago.  Kingston had needed explosives, plastics,
and Curran just happened to have a contact who could get him those.
They'd struck an uneasy truce over that, Curran knowing that if he
were going to survive in this country in the line of work he was in,
he'd better do his best to ingratiate himself to the like-minded
locals.

And American militias were the closest thing to the IRA and his
group The Path that he was going to find in this Godforsaken country.


That instinct to ingratiate was paying off now, he thought, trimming
the blue coating off another wire, his teeth catching his lip between
them in concentration as he tried not to fray the wire itself.  He'd
been hidden for over six weeks now, since his face had really hit the
news over the failed Embassy bombing in Washington, the manhunt for
him intensifying as pressure to solve the act of terrorism pressed
down on the U.S. government agencies like a giant hand.

But no one would find him here.  At least no one he didn't want to.

Once he'd stripped the tube off the wire, he reached up, rubbed the
scar along the side of his mouth absently, picking up another
connector with a pair of fine, long tweezers, settling it on the cork
of the work area in front of him.  He began twisting the wire
carefully once again.

Behind him, a knock at the door, the door coming open immediately,
an elderly woman peeking her head in.  It was Sarah James, the
defacto "mother" of the worn bunch of refugees of the camp.  She made
it her business to be into everyone else's.

"Mr. Curran?" she said, her hands on her hips.

"Aye, Sarah," he said, not looking up.  "What is it?"

"There are two men here to see you in the mess hall, just up the
side of the mountain.  Must be important.  They've got chains on
their tires as thick as my arms to get up here in weather like
this."

He laid the tools down, stubbed out the cigarette calmly.  Sarah
stayed at the door, watching him, as he pulled the glasses off his
face and set them down beside the tools.

"You shouldn't be smokin' in here with all these explosives and such
laying around, and certainly not with that kerosene heater so close
to you.  You're going to go up like a roman candle if you keep that
up."  Her voice was mild, but the rebuke was not lost on him.

He stood and turned, showed her his teeth in a stiff grin.  "I'm
very careful, Sarah," he said.  "Always have been."

She chuffed at that.  "Bullshit," she said.  To Curran's Irish ears
it sounded like "Bowl sheet."

"Begging your pardon?" he asked, not taking the bait but curious as
to what had prompted her laughter.

She appraised him with her big wet eyes.  They reminded him of those
of the cows that wandered around the snowy troughs, looking for bits
of grain.   "If you're so goddamn careful," she said, looking him up
and down.  "what the hell are you doing up here?"

He smiled mildly.  "Everyone has a run of bad luck, Sarah.  You of
all people should know that.  Yours must be stretching into the
decades at this point, eh?"

She harrumphed at that, turned and went out of the room, leaving the
door open as she disappeared down the hallway and out the front door
to the building.

He laughed quietly, satisfied, as he pulled on his parka.  The
people here barely tolerated his presence, him being one of the nasty
foreigners the militia spent so much of its propaganda railing
against.  But he still could hold his own against them.  He'd managed
to hammer out a little bit of begrudging respect from most of them.

Even Sarah, though she'd rather die than admit it.

And at least their contained animosity -- and Kingston's good favor -
- had bought him a private cabin.

He hit the ground outside at a trot, his hands jammed in his
pockets, the snow up over the ankles of his boots now.  People were
milling out of the mess hall across the compound, lunch still being
served.  If he was lucky, he'd still get a tray of something hot.

He recognized the newcomers immediately, two men seated near the end
of one of the long tables, heavy white cups of coffee in their hands.
There was rarely such a thing as a stranger here, all the faces
familiar.   They were looking around expectantly, clearly waiting for
him.

Going to the line, he picked up a tray, pure World War II surplus
with grooved areas dividing the battered surface, and had it loaded
down with what the cooks were offering today.  Pressed turkey on
bread with a floury gravy.  Green beans.  He stopped at the end of
the line and drew a cup of coffee from the large container, gathered
the dull silverware, then headed toward the two men.

They eyed him as he approached, both of them peering at him with
narrow, dark eyes.  One was taller than other, more strongly built,
bulky in his blue parka, which he'd yet to remove, as though he
didn't intend on staying long.

The other man, smaller than Curran with jet black hair he'd combed
straight back, had a vaguely blank and stupid look on his face, as
though nature hadn't quite finished with him before it had sent him
into the world.  He was sliding his coffee cup back and forth between
his hands on the table, running it along the slick surface as though
enjoying a private game.

"Mr. Curran?"  the larger man asked as Curran sat at the head of the
table between them, setting his tray down with care.

"Aye, I'm Curran," he said, taking a sip from his coffee
nonchalantly.

"My name is Tom Lantham.  This is Rudy Gray.  Larry Kingston sent us
up here to speak with you."

Curran nodded, digging into his meal.  "You've got word of some sort
then?"  he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral, as though they
were discussing the weather.

Lantham nodded, eyeing Curran as he ate.  "We have a couple of
possible sightings of the people you're looking for, yes.  We've been
sent out here to investigate the leads."

"You bounty hunters then?"  Curran asked, glancing at the two of
them.  Gray continued pushing the cup of coffee back and forth.  It
was starting to grate on Curran's nerves.

"In a manner of speaking," Lantham replied stiffly.  "We both worked
as bail bondsmen.  Developed a certain talent for finding people.
For a price, of course."

"More money to be had this way, I would imagine," Curran said,
chewing another mouthful of the mediocre meal.

"You could say that."  Lantham's voice was guarded.  He seemed eager
to get off the topic.  "Anyway, we'll be going down to Nogales in
Southern Arizona right away, see what we can find out.  It's not too
far from Tucson, right on the Mexican border."

Curran nodded.  "I'll tell you what it is I want you to do," he
said, put his fork down.  "You find any of them that I'm looking for,
and you give Kingston a call.  He'll get in touch with me and I'll
come down and meet you before you move in."

Lantham glared.  "I'd been told we'd be able to handle this our own
way," he said, his voice clipped.  "Mr. Gray and I have a method for
taking care of situations like this; we're perfectly capable of
bringing the people to you up here.  From what I  understand, it
would be better if you stayed up here, anyway."

Curran was shaking his head.  "We do this my way," he said simply.
"I have my reasons for making the request."

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Curran," Lantham said softly, leaning in.
"But you're not the one paying for this.  Kingston is.  I don't take
orders from anyone but him."

Curran looked up, met the challenge in Lantham's eyes.  The tension
between them had at least gotten Gray to stop with the coffee cup.
Curran could see Gray watching them from the corner of his eye,
still now, his beady, oily looking eyes first on one man, then the
other.   Gray'd had yet to say a word.

"This is my show," Curran said, his voice flattening as anger piqued
in him.  "Kingston's paying you as part of a favor he owes ME.  You
don't do as I ask and you don't get paid a cent.  I'll see to that."

He and Lantham stared at each other, neither willing to budge.  Gray
continued to watch them.

Finally, Lantham leaned back on the bench seat a little, put his
hands up in a gesture of acquiescence.

"All right, Mr. Curran," he said.  "We find any of them and we'll
get word to you.  Follow them until you get there before we move in."


Curran picked up his coffee cup, took a sip.  "Thank you, Mr.
Lantham," he said, his voice still a touch angry at being so openly
challenged.  It was not something he was accustomed to.  "I knew
you'd understand once it was made clear to you."

Lantham made a small sound in his throat at that, a grunt of
displeasure.  "Well," he said, standing.  Gray stood with him, like a
dog getting ready to follow its master.  "We'll be in touch."

Curran gestured with his coffee cup, dismissing them both
effectively.  "Safe travels to you," he said, then returned to his
meal as though they were already gone.

He could have sworn he heard Lantham mumble something under his
breath as he departed with Gray in tow.  Curran thought he heard the
word "fuck" in it and that made him smile with satisfaction.

Sighing, contented now that there was progress of some sort, he took
a sip of the coffee -- a thick, bitter liquid -- and wished for his
tea.


************


END OF CHAPTER 3.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 4.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 4.


*************

JOHN F. KENNEDY AIRPORT
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
1:30 p.m.


The old man blended in with the gathered crowd, funneled from the
baggage claim belts to the long lines of the U.S. Customs area,
pushing a cart in front of him easily.  On it sat three articles --
two ancient suitcases, carefully packed so as not to be the slightest
bit overburdened, and a long slender case made of hard plastic,
latched tightly closed and clamped with a small lock.

The old man walked slowly, but not because of his age.  He was
simply not in the habit of hurrying.

All of the lines leading to the Customs stations were the same
length, two or three large flights just in from Europe all descending
on the area at once.  Around him, people from every ethnicity, every
age group, every walk of life.  Families that were clearly refugees,
carrying everything they owned in crates crudely tied with rope.  The
businessmen already on their cell phones as they waited, smart-
looking matching luggage sets rolling behind them on silent plastic
wheels.  The American families in their separate line looking put-
upon at this, their last stop before they re-entered their home,
vacations finally coming to an end.

The old man was none of these.  He was simply a traveler, dressed in
comfortable clothes that hugged the contours of his still-vibrant
body.  He wore a touring cap on his head to hide his balding pate,
his wide white moustache neatly trimmed over his full lips.  His eyes
were bright and held a certain keen intelligence to them, the irises
the color of turquoise flecked with amber.  He did not wear glasses,
his eyesight still the same as it was when he was a boy.

A child in front of him, a young Indian boy wearing a long white
cotton shirt, held on to his father's leg and looked back at the old
man, who appraised the boy for a few seconds before offering a
kindly, closed mouth smile.  The boy smiled back shyly, then turned
and looked away.

As the line moved slowly forward, he pushed the cart in front of
him, finally reaching the blue line on the floor that signaled him as
the next person to enter the countered area.  His passport stuck out
of the pocket of his shirt, its crisp green cover having already been
scanned at Immigration.

He found himself whistling a soft tune as he waited.

Finally, the woman behind the counter, an African-American woman in
an ill-fitted uniform and short-cropped hair, dismissed the person in
front of him, signalled for the old man to come forward with his
things.  As he approached the counter, he removed his hat, smiled to
the woman.

He was in the "Nothing to Declare" line, but he did not expect to be
waved through.  He was right.

"Sir, could I see your passport, please?"  the woman asked, halting
him.  He continued to smile, tucked his touring cap under his arm as
he withdrew the passport, handed it to her.

"Mister...Shea,"  the woman said, reading his name off the inside
flap.

"Aye," he replied.  "That's me.  Jimmy Shea."

"You say you have nothing to declare?"  She said it incredulously.

"I've got a bottle of whiskey in that bag right there, but just the
one, just like I put on the little card they gave me on the plane."
He gestured to his top suitcase.

The woman glanced down at his things now, taking in the three bags.
As he expected, her eyes stopped on the long case, her eyes flicking
back to his.  He smiled again.

"Could you open that one for me, Mr. Shea?"  she asked, and her
voice had hardened.  She looked over at a security guard standing
nearby, gestured him forward.   The guard put his hand on his service
weapon and came over, standing beside her and eyeing Shea warily.

Shea reached down, picked up the case and set it on the counter in
front of them.  Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out the tiny key to
the lock on its side, unlatched it.  Then, undoing the catches on the
case's side, he flipped it open so that the two Customs officials
could see the contents.

The woman looked at it, then back up into Shea's face, her lip
curling with a put-upon expression.  Beside her, the guard removed
his hand from his gun, relaxing.

Inside the case, a well kept fishing rod and reel, an assortment of
flies and tackle.  The reel gleamed silver in the fluorescent light.

"Are you always in the habit of carrying your fishing equipment in a
rifle case, Mr. Shea?" the woman asked, perturbed.

"Aye, that I am," he replied, the same amiable smile on his face.
"It's the only thing that it'll all fit in, and it's got the right
amount of padding.  I wouldn't want anything  happening to my rod on
the way over, you know."

The woman made a sound in her throat, a low "humph."  The guard
drifted away.

"I assume this is a pleasure trip for you then, Mr. Shea?"  she
asked flatly.

"Oh yes," he replied immediately, with enthusiasm.  "I plan on doing
a good bit of fishing.  But there's some business I'm here to attend
to, as well."

This last bit he added quietly, almost as an afterthought.

"Well, enjoy your visit, sir," she said, her voice bored and rote
now as she waved him through.  "I hope it's a productive one."

He reached down, closed up the case and replaced it on the cart.
"Oh, I'm sure it will be," he said, then drifted off through the rest
of the Customs station and out into the airport beyond.


*********


WUPATKI NATIONAL MONUMENT
OUTSIDE FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA
3:34 p.m.



The heavy snow clouds hung over Doney Mountain, a grey-white blanket
moving across the peak led by small wisps and a cold wind that blew
down across Deadman Wash and over the flat top of Woodhouse Mesa to
the southeast.  Between the mesa and the mountain, Scully picked her
way along the pueblo ruin of Wupatki, bleak light bleeding through
the crumbled remains of windows and doorways.

Her dark coat, trailing down around her ankles, whipped around her
in the frozen wind, her black-gloved hands buried in her pockets for
extra warmth.  She walked the perimeter of the largest ruin in the
area, which stood on a high rise like a sentinal above the smaller
mounds of carefully carved bricks, the remnants of a hundred or more
rooms that had once housed a town of simple Sinaguan farmers almost
900 years ago.

Going through a low doorway, she stood in the middle of one of the
rooms, stared at the packed earth floor, the clouds moving high in
the ceilingless expanse above her, wind sighing through the windows
and the breaks in the walls.  The sight of all this, the loneliness
of it, made her slightly sad, more introspective than she had been
that morning, and she longed for the easy feelings she'd had when she
had first awoken.

After all, this had been Mulder's idea of a way to distract them
both from the troubles that followed them constantly along the
endless ribbon of highway they traveled on.

And she didn't want to become melancholy and disappoint him.

Disappoint him again.

The thought pained her, and she fled the room, returning to the
straight force of the wind as she left the interior of the ruin for
the wide lip of rock that jutted from one side.  From here, she could
look out over the smaller ruins stair-stepping down toward the desert
plain, a desolate landscape shrouded in fog as the storm approached.

Below her, a handful of tourists milled about, bundled up in their
coats, children darting in and out of the rooms and down the long
trail that led to the remnants of what the pamphlets called a "ball
court," a round structure with high walls and a single entrance
facing off to the south.

Mulder, ever the sports fan, had immediately gone down toward it to
have a look.  She'd chosen to remain on the upper levels, glad to
have some time to herself, if even for a few moments.

It wasn't that she didn't want to be with him.  She loved Mulder
more than anything.  There was no question about that.  But they had
been together 24 hours a day for over two months, and she found she
was craving the solitude she'd often relished in her apartment back
in Washington.  More than anything, she needed to be alone.  With
Mulder around all the time, she found herself expending more energy
hiding her feelings than actually feeling them.

And she couldn't afford to become to any more numb than she'd become
already.

The first flakes of snow began to fall as she sat carefully on the
rocky outcropping, the intricate brickwork of the pueblo behind her
and off to one side.  The wind ruffled her hair, sending streams of
red gently across her face and causing her eyes to tear from the
cold.  The flakes were large, heavy.  Her legs dangled over the side
of the ledge, and she hunkered into her coat, her eyes down in her
lap.

She drew in a deep breath, and let herself think of him.  Of Fagan
and what had happened in Mae's apartment in Richmond all those weeks
ago.

Though the images came easily to her, she couldn't access the
feelings that went along with them.  It was as though what she saw in
her mind were happening to someone else.

She closed her eyes, waiting to feel...something.  Anything.

Nothing would come.

As an investigator, she had seen this kind of reaction a dozen times
before from victims of violent crime.  It was all very studied to
her.

She knew that until she could feel what she needed to feel, until
she allowed herself to do that, she could not begin to come back from
the bleak land where she now dwelled, a self-imposed, if not
intentional, state of exile.

An image suddenly entered her mind, replacing those of Fagan in an
instant.  She and Mulder in her apartment, his hands bracketing her
head beneath the pillow as he moved, his lips moving over hers,
across her jaw, beneath her ear--

She choked on the sob, her gloved hand going to her mouth as the
strangled sound was trapped in her throat.  Her eyes welled.

The snow began to fall more heavily.

She closed her eyes, willing the sudden anguish away.

After a long moment, her eyes opened.

The mask was back in place.

She turned and looked down over the expanse of the ruins, saw Mulder
coming up the path below her, returning from the court at the base of
the hill.   He was looking up at her, his hands in the pockets of his
jeans, his strides long but unhurried.  She could see his gentle
smile even from this distance.

She tried to smile back, then looked away, across the plain toward
the wide shape of the mesa.  Snowflakes dotted her dark coat, light
on black.  She found herself mesmorized by them, staring at them as
they gathered there.

She almost did not hear the footsteps as he came up behind her.

"Mind if I join you?"  Mulder asked softly, his voice nearly lost in
a gust of wind.

She looked up him, gave him a small smile.  "Of course not," she
replied, and returned her gaze to her lap.  She shivered, her
shoulders trembling for an instant. Her teeth had begun to chatter.

He sat down behind her, scooted forward until his thighs framed
hers, his legs dangling over the edge with hers.   Sliding his arms
under hers, he tugged her gently until her back was against his ches,
and she closed her hands around his wrists.

He put his chin on her shoulder, turned to kiss her just in front of
her ear, lingering there.  She pressed her cheek into his lips,
closed her eyes at the feeling of safety she had, embraced by his
warm body, the snow falling on around them, steady, swirling now and
again in the hollow-sounding wind.

He returned his chin to her shoulder, breathed out a puff of white
into the air.  He sounded content.  Tired and content.  She squeezed
his hands tighter, running her thumb across the exposed skin on his
wrist.

For a long moment they both looked out over the wide expanse in
front of them, a desolate place they faced, the ruins behind them.

The tourists were beginning to withdraw to their cars, frightened
off by the weather as the storm moved in.   There were footsteps
around the pueblo behind them as people picked their way through the
bricks toward the parking lot.

Scully shut them out.  Neither she nor Mulder moved.

Then, close by, the sound of a camera shutter firing off, several
quick turns of a motor drive.

Now they both did turn quickly, saw a man standing there, camera
equipment slung over his shoulders and around his neck.  He was tall,
weathered looking, wearing a heavy parka, jeans, hiking boots.  He
held a 35 millimeter camera in his hand and was smiling kindly at
them.

"Sorry to intrude on you both like that," the man said.  "You're a
lovely couple, and you two just made such a nice shot with the
mountain behind you, in this light, with the snow and all."

Scully could feel Mulder tense up behind her.  She had, as well.

"You shouldn't take someone's picture without asking," Mulder said
to him angrily.  He let go of her, scrambled up so that he was
standing behind her, facing the man now.

Mulder reached out his hand.  "I'd like the roll of film, please."

The man's kind smile turned regretful.  "I'm sorry, but I can't do
that," he said, shaking his head.   "I'm a professional photographer
and I've got 20 shots of this place in various lightings I've been
here all day trying to catch.  I can't give you the film without
losing a whole day's work.  I'm very sorry if I've offended you,
though."

The man did look stricken, clearly realizing his misstep now.
Scully could see Mulder getting ready to argue, shifting his weight
to his other foot.

A dog trotted up the rise after the man, a black Lab with eyes like
a doe.  It stopped beside him, sat, its face turned up toward Mulder,
its tail moving uncertainly on the rocky ground.

Looking at the photographer, at the dog, Scully cringed inwardly.

She realized how strung out she and Mulder were, how suspicious
they'd become. Sometimes it was hard to remember the world was filled
with ordinary people, doing ordinary things, living ordinary lives.

She also realized that forcing the man to turn over the film might
draw more attention to them than the pictures he'd taken ever could.

Thinking this, she reached out, touched Mulder's calf lightly,
getting his attention.  He looked down at her, and she could see his
anger, borne of fear.

"It's okay," she murmured so that only he could hear.  "I think it's
okay."

Mulder looked from her to the man and back again.  She nodded, and
saw his shoulders fall slightly.  He nodded, and she could tell it
was reluctantly that he agreed with her.

"Look, if you give me your name and address, I'd love to send you a
copy of the shots," the man offered earnestly.  "I think you'll find
they're really nice.  I do good work."

Mulder shook his head, waving the man off, reached down as Scully
began to rise and helped her into a standing position.  She dusted
off her coat, tried to smile at the stranger, who still looked
stricken at Mulder's reaction.

"That's all right," Scully said to him.  "You just might consider
asking next time."

The man nodded.  "I will.  And I won't use the shots for anything.
Again, I'm sorry."

And with one final look at Mulder, as though afraid Mulder might
make some move toward him, he wandered away toward the lot down the
hill from the rise, his dog following a few steps behind.

Mulder watched them go, his hands still balled to fists at his side,
his jaw muscles still bunched with tension.  Scully reached out and
put her hand on his, worked his fingers apart until her gloved
fingers were pressed against his palm.

"Come on," she said softly, reaching up to brush at a large flake
that had caught in his hair.  "Let's go back to the motel.  I'll make
some dinner."

He looked down at her, something in his gaze softening.  Finally he
nodded, gripped her hand.

Walking slowly, they made their way around the pueblo, walked back
toward the battered truck as the light was muted by the clouds now
over the mountain, the snow continuing to fall.


***********


ST. MATTHEW'S CATHEDRAL
HIGHBRIDGE, THE BRONX
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
5:35 p.m.


Jimmy Shea dipped his right middle finger in the small bowl of holy
water, touched the cool water to his forehead as he took off his cap
and stuffed it in his coat pocket.  Then he made the sign of the
cross quickly and went forward into the cavernous building, his
footsteps echoing on the marble floor as he made his way slowly
toward the altar.

This time of night, there was no light coming through the elaborate
stained glass windows on either side of him, only faint dark outlines
of surrounding saints.  The light of a dozen random candles shone
before statues of Christ and the Virgin in alcoves to his left and
right, the candles sending up their bitter smoke prayers.  Shea
crossed himself again as he passed the statue of Mary, a habit since
childhood.

The cathedral was nearly empty and completely silent except for his
footsteps.  The only other people, a knot of dark-clad figures in the
front of the church, taking up the ends of two or three pews.  They
were leaned into each other, whispering, but Shea could not hear
their voices.

Coming to the rows they were in, he genuflected, his eyes on the
crucifix above the altar, then began walking sideways down the pew
toward the group.  They all turned as he did so, nodding.  A man,
tall and in his early forties, stood in the pew ahead.   The man
reached out his hand.

"Mr. Shea?"  he asked as Shea took his hand, gave it a single shake.

"You must be Conail Rutherford," the older man replied, smiling
kindly.  Around him, the others watched him intently, as though it
were important for them to get a good look.

"Aye," Rutherford said, smiled.  "How was the trip over?"  He
gestured for Shea to sit.

Shea waved his hand, remained standing.  "Ah, it was fine, fine.
Got to see that film about the little bloke who does ballet."

Rutherford's smile widened.  "That's good then," he said, then
cleared his throat.  He turned to the men around him.  "This is Joey
Sullivan..." he began, and introduced the entire group.  Shea nodded
to each of them, noting that he was the oldest of the group by at
least 20 years.

"An honor to meet you, Mr. Shea," Sullivan said when Rutherford was
finished.  "My father's told stories of you as long as I can
remember...what you did on Bloody Sunday, and up in Ballycastle--"

"No honor in doing what you can," Shea said quickly, his hand
raising again to stop the listing.  He offset his words with a small
smile.  Sullivan nodded, the words seeming to please him more.

"Fair enough," he said.

Shea turned to Rutherford.  "I take it my packages were delivered
without incident," he said, eager to get to business.

"Aye, we've got them in a suitcase here," Rutherford gestured to one
of the other men, who pulled a black soft bag from beneath the pew he
sat in and offered the heavy bundle to Shea.

"Fine, fine," Shea said, hefting the weight.  "Any idea of where I'm
headed first off?"

Rutherford nodded, reached into the seat and brought up a Rand
McNally atlas of the States.  He flipped through the pages until he
found the right one -- a map of Kentucky.

"This was the last place he was seen," he said, pointing to a small
town near the center of the state.  Shea leaned forward in the dim
light to look at it.  Tyner.  Just a speck on the map, he thought.
And a long way off.

"I see," he said, setting the bag down on the pew.  It made a
thumping sound, things bumping against each other inside it.  "I
suppose that's where I'll head off to in the morning then.  You've
got a mobile telephone for me?"

"Aye, just as you requested," Rutherford said, and handed Shea a
small cell phone.  "We'll be calling you with any information we're
able to find out.  Hopefully we won't send you criss-crossing too
much."

"You'll do what you can, I'm sure," Shea said, tucking the phone in
his coat pocket.  He then took the map from the younger man.  "It's a
big country, after all.  Not like back home, that's for sure."

Rutherford shifted uncomfortably for a moment as Shea closed up the
book, unzipped the suitcase and stuffed it inside.  The silence that
fell over the group was an awkward one.  One of the men cleared his
throat nervously.

"Are you sure we can't persuade you to take someone with you?"
Rutherford asked carefully.  "Any of these men would be happy to go,
even if it was just to share the driving.  A bit of company on the
road."

The men around him nodded, clearly eager to do as Rutherford
suggested.  Shea was flattered by their enthusiasm, warmed by it.
But he shook his head, smiling again.

"No, that won't be necessary," he said kindly.  "I like to go about
these things my own way.  And I always work alone, as I'm sure you
were told."

"I was, aye."  Rutherford said.  "It just might take some time.
It's a lot of time to be on your own in a strange place."

"Oh, I'll manage," Shea replied quickly.  "I've got plenty to keep
me busy.  I hear the fishing is good here.  I bought one of those
guidebooks to America so I could find some places to set a hook along
the way.  I'll be right as rain.  Not to worry."

"All right," Rutherford said, and reached into his pocket, brought
out a key on a ring.  "Here's your ride then.  It's out front.  The
black pickup with the camper top."

"That'll do me just fine," Shea said, and took the key.  He was
eager to go, to get back to his room and get some sleep.  He reached
his hand out to Rutherford again, who shook it.

"It really is an honor for us all to meet you, Mr. Shea," Rutherford
said softly.  "We appreciate your help with this...situation...a
great deal.  It's good to know it'll be done right."

Shea gave him a smaller smile.  "It'll get done right, aye," he
said, and there was something sad in his voice.  He lifted the bag
and slung the strap over his shoulder.

"I'll be in touch with any news," the younger man said, and Shea
nodded and, with a raised hand, withdrew, going back up to the main
aisle and out into the cold night.

He drove surely back to the house where he was being put up for the
night, having watched the street names in the cab ride on the way
over.  Driving on the right side of the road came more easily than he
imagined.

Once outside the small row house, he parked the truck carefully on
the street, climbed wearily from the cab and walked up to the front
door with his bundle.  He rang the bell.

The person who owned the house, a woman about his age named Mary,
answered immediately, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Oh, Mr. Shea, you didn't need to knock," she fussed, embarrassed.
"I left the door unlocked for you, of course!"

He took off his cap as she made room for him to enter.  "It's quite
all right," he soothed, putting a hand on her arm.   "I don't walk
into anyone's home without knocking but my own.  My Ruby would have
my head if I showed she hadn't trained me any better."

Mary laughed at that, a high-pitched trill.  "Well, I've got dinner
for you when you're ready for it."

He nodded.  "That's good.  I'm going to attend to a few things and
then I'll be right down."

"All right," Mary replied, and returned to the kitchen in the back
of the house.  The entire place smelled of bread and Shea inhaled the
scent deeply, reminded of home.

He climbed the stairs and made his way to his room in the back,
closing the door behind him.  He went to the window and pulled the
blinds slowly, closing out the New York City night.

Removing his coat, he laid it across the back of a chair in the
corner, went to the full sized bed against the far wall, set the
suitcase down on the quilt.  Then he pulled the rifle case from
beneath the bed, laid it out and opened it, exposing the pristine rod
and reel.

He gently took it and the tackle out of the case, set it aside.
Then he unzipped the suitcase, removed the map book, and then started
pulling out the other contents.

A rifle butt, dark wood, shining with years of care.

The muzzle, long and straight.

He pulled out the pieces, five of them in all, including the high-
powered scope that would fit on top once the rifle was assembled.

Opening his other suitcase on the bed, he drew out his tool kit  and
began to do just that, sliding the parts of the sniper's rifle into
place, oiling the moving parts as he did so, making sure everything
was lined up just so.  He worked carefully, slowly, but with an
assuredness that came with having done this task hundreds of times
before.

Finally, he screwed the scope on the top, set the bolt and raised
the gun toward the window, peering down the sights through the
crosshairs.

Everything seemed to be in order.  He gave the gun one more wipe
down with the cleaning cloth he kept in the tool kit, then carefully
laid the rifle in the case, which he'd had custom-made to fit it
decades ago.

Latching the case closed, he locked it with the tiny lock, then
placed it beneath the bed once again.  He replaced his tools, taking
the same care with them he'd taken with the rifle itself.

Then, taking the rod and tackle and placing them carefully in the
suitcase the rifle had been in, he zipped it closed and set it and
his other suitcase back on the floor.

He stood back, surveying the room for a sign of anything looking
amiss.  Nothing seemed out of the ordinary or out of place.

He let himself relax for the first time in hours.

That's when the image of the small boy came into his mind.  The boy
was hanging around his father's legs at the stone wall near a pasture
of pure green.  He was laughing as Shea -- a young man then --
squatted down, smiling back, urging him to come forward.

He pushed the thought away with a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping
with it.

That kind of thinking wasn't going to get him anywhere.

With that, he turned, went out the door, down the hallway to the
small bath to wash up for his meal.


*********


END OF CHAPTER 4.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5.


Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 5a.


*************

PUERTO PENASCO, MEXICO
BAHIA DE ADAIR GULF OF CALIFORNIA
MARCH 21
11:38 a.m.


The sea stretched out a cobalt blue, small breakers on the
shoreline, the waves' hair blown back white.  The sea itself was
beautiful, but the woman could not fool herself into thinking the
beach was.  The blowing trash along the high dunes ruined any such
illusions, the sound of paper rustling lodged in the wind coming off
the ocean.

Around her, tourists lay out like beached fish on their towels,
their winter-white bodies soaking up the mid-day sun.  American music
competed with the sound of the waves, the tunes coming from a group
of what she assumed were college students down from the States.

She'd been seeing a lot of them the past few weeks as they came down
for Spring Break, venturing into Mexico for a cheap holiday on the
coast.  They were vibrant and carefree and laughed constantly on the
beach and in the ramshackle town behind her, and the influx of them
had made the woman more depressed than she was already.

It had been a long time since she had laughed -- or felt -- like
that.

If she'd ever felt like that.

She watched the young women's faces as they sat up in their bright
bikinis, looking at the young men playing volleyball and frisbee on
the sand.  They whispered to each other, giggling, planning...

It was all one huge game to them, she thought, then looked the other
way, squinting against the glaring sun.  She sighed.

Though she, too, didn't belong here, it was clear she was not on
holiday.  She was a solitary figure on the beach, a loose white
cotton shirt hiding her sensitive skin from the sun, jeans covering
her legs.  Her sandals sat beside her.  Her thick dark hair was
pulled into a loose ponytail that trailed down to the center of her
back, stray strands  ruffled by the wind around her face.  She wore
dark sunglasses to hide her pale blue eyes.

Besides her attire, there was a set to her that showed she was not
at ease.  A certain tension.  A wariness.  And a tired, careworn
expression on her face.

She sat silent, still, her knees drawn up, her arms crossed around
them, her shirt cuffed to the elbows.

Her eyes followed a figure moving along the shoreline down by the
rocky tidal pools at the edge of the water.  She watched the small
boy squat now and again, picking up things he found in the crevices
of the dark mazed stone.  The waves washed gently up in this area,
carrying small crabs, fish, into the shallow pools.

Playing in them was one of the boy's favorite pastimes here, and she
tried to indulge him by coming to the beach every day to let him
play.  The rest of their lives were so quiet, sheltered even from
most of the other people in the town.  She had to allow him this one
pleasure he'd found here.

After he'd lost so much.

After they both had lost so much.

Or was it that she had taken it all away?

That thought and a peal of laughter from the young women beside her
sent her to her feet.  She brushed at the sand on her clothes,
reached down for her sandals, began walking toward the boy at the
edge of the sea.

He was standing up now, facing the ocean, looking at something.  She
put her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes to try and see what
he saw.  He turned, caught sight of her approaching.

"Look!"  the boy shouted.  "Look!  A seal!"

Then she saw the dark shape curving through the water.  It stopped
to look at them curiously.

"Do you see it?"  the boy asked as she bent and put her sandals on
so that she could traverse the rocky terrain.

"Aye, Sean, I see him," she said, and walked until she stood beside
him.  He was clad in multicolored Guatemalan shorts she'd bought in
town, a white undershirt, his feet also in thick sandals.

The seal stayed where it was, bobbing slightly in the waves.

"He's looking at you, I think," she said, smoothed down the boy's
unruly hair.  He was badly in need of a cut.

"You think?"  he asked, seeming to consider the idea seriously.

"I do," she said, nodded as he turned his tanned face up toward
hers, then back to the seal.

The three of them regarded each other silently for a long moment.

Then the seal turned once, dipped below the surface and was gone.

Mae Curran looked down at her nephew now, his small hands fisted in
front of him.

"Let me see what you've found then," she said, and squatted down so
that her face was almost even with his.  He opened his hands and
showed her what he had.

Small round rocks, a tiny purple crab claw, small halves of white
and black shells.

"That's a good haul for one morning."  She smiled up at him.  "Go
ahead and put those in your pockets and we'll set them on the sill
with your other things."

"Okay," he said, and stuffed his hands in his pockets.  She could
hear the shells clinking softly against the stones.

"Let's go get something to eat," she said, and, taking his hand, she
led him up the beach.


**********

GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
12:32 p.m.


"Here's another stack for you, Agent Granger."

The voice and the body attached to it appeared so suddenly in front
of Granger's desk that he nearly jumped, his head jerking up in
surprise.  Instinctively, he pressed the file he was reading -- one
on Mae Curran -- up against his chest, though he immediately reminded
himself that the file was actually *all right* for him to be looking
at.

He really didn't have the nerve for this kind of subterfuge.  He
hoped to get used to it soon.

"Well, do you want them or not?"

Agent Stiles, also assigned to the task force to find both Curran
and Mulder, gave Granger a put-out look as he shifted from one foot
to the other and hefted the stack of reports.  Though Stiles was
technically Granger's subordinate on the case, he was much older and
seemed to be having a difficult time mustering the respect his
superior deserved.

Granger, unaccustomed to the role himself, let it slide.

"Uh...sure.  Go ahead and set them down there."  He gestured to the
corner of the desk, the one spot not already covered with files and
yellow legal pads scribbled with notes in Granger's precise
handwriting.

Stiles set them down unceremoniously, smirked.   "Looks like a bunch
of red herrings to me, though these were the most promising of the
ones we've been through.  I think people are seeing Curran and Mulder
more than they're seeing Elvis this year."

Granger forced a smile.  "Thank you.  I'll have a look through
them."

Stiles turned and moved toward the door.  "Have fun looking for your
needles," he called over his shoulder, and disappeared into the busy
hallway outside Granger's quiet office.

Granger set the file he'd been looking at down, eyed the stack of
police reports wearily.  This would be the fifth stack he'd been
through in two days, the reports filtered to him if they seemed to
hold any hint of veracity.  He'd gotten good at flipping through
them, discarding the obvious still shots of johns and prostitutes
from motel security cameras, an endless collection of dark haired men
in sunglasses and garish, auburn haired women.

And Curran would be nearly impossible to pick out from the scratchy
photos.  It seemed any man who entered a motel with a facial scar was
flagged for the police.  It was his one identifying feature.
Otherwise, Curran could be any man in his late thirties.  He blended
in that well.

He'd made a lifetime out of blending in.

Sighing, Granger pulled the reports toward him, flipped through the
files.  Tuba City, Arizona.  Tombstone, Arizona.  Topeka, Kansas.
Oakland, California.  Durango, Colorado.  He looked at the photos
attached to each file, staring at the faces in front of the counters
of the motels and gas stations.

A dark haired man who looked like Mulder but who was not Mulder.

A nondescript man, too young to be Curran, probably paying for gas.

A woman, long red hair pulled back in a ponytail, buying a pack of
cigarettes.

In other words, a whole bunch of nothing.   He kept moving through
the stack.

Then, on the folder marked "El Centro, California," Granger froze,
pulled the black and white picture from the folder and held it up to
get it in better light.  He squinted at it through his glasses, his
head cocking to one side.

A youngish, very thin woman in a black baseball cap, sunglasses,
passing cash across the counter of a convenience store.  Behind her,
a man in profile, looking out the doorway they'd come.  Sunglasses.
Dark hair and beard.  Lean.  Strong nose.  His hand was on the
woman's shoulder as if to hasten her along in paying for the cups of
coffee that sat on the counter.

It was them.  It had to be, he thought.

He studied the picture for another long moment, frowning.  Scully
was so gaunt, her clothes swallowing her.  And Mulder, even in the
still photo, looked so on edge, looking behind him, his hand on her
shoulder protective, but like a warning.

The time on the road was taking its toll.   And he knew Scully had
been hurt the last time he'd talked to Mulder all those weeks ago
from his hospital bed.  He wondered how badly she'd been hurt now,
seeing her changed so much in the photo.

Granger shook his head sadly.  He could only imagine what they were
going through.  He would have to work more quickly to do what he
could to bring them home again.

Someone passed his office door and Granger's eyes darted up
instantly.  Though the person didn't even glance in, Granger stuffed
the photo back into the folder, closed it, reaching down to jerk open
a drawer in his desk, one with a lock.  He pushed the folder into it,
closed it quickly and reached into his pocket for his keys.  Choosing
the proper one, he locked the drawer with an audible "click."

When his phone beeped a second or two later, before he'd even
righted himself in his chair again, he nearly jumped out of his skin,
feeling caught.  Blowing out a breath, he pressed the button on the
phone.

"Granger."

"Agent Granger."

Shit.  Padden.

"Yes, Dr. Padden?"  He tried to sound formal and at ease at the same
time, only marginally succeeding.

"Would you mind joining me in my office for a few moments?" Padden
replied, his voice strangely friendly.  Light.

Granger frowned again.  He had a sudden vision of he and Padden
sitting across the desk from each other yukking it up over the
Letterman show or something.   His superior's tone was that casual.

His eyes narrowed as he looked at the phone, his guard coming up.

"Of course, sir," was what he said aloud.  "I'll be there
momentarily."

"Very good."  The light went off on the intercom button.

Five minutes later he was stiff in his dark suit jacket once again,
his tie straightened and knotted down tightly, walking into the
receiving area of Padden's temporary office, the one assigned to him
while the task force was based at the CIA.

The secretary smiled kindly to him.  He smiled back, though it was
hard.

"Go on in, Agent Granger," the woman said.

Granger pushed the door open and entered the office.  It was a huge
space, the vertical blinds all but drawn on the windows, obscuring
the view of the grounds.  What little light filtered into the
cavernous room was absorbed by the darkness of the office, all the
furniture black.  The bookshelves lining one whole wall.  The low
table beside the window covered with plants that Granger could tell
were fake even from where he stood.  Black leather chairs gathered at
the far end of the room, just in front of the wide, neat desk.

Robert Padden, Director of the NSA, sat behind that desk, just
beneath an oil portrait of someone Granger didn't recognize but whose
eyes seemed to follow him as he made his way across the forest green
oriental rug toward the desk.  The rug was expensive and so heavily
padded that Granger's footfalls didn't make a sound as he came
forward.  It was as if the office consumed even that.

"Agent Granger," Padden said as he stood, came around the desk, a
smile on his face, creasing his cheeks against the bottoms of his
reading glasses.  "It's a relief to see you up and around and back at
work again after the seriousness of your injuries."

Much to Granger's surprise, the other man reached out his hand,
which Granger shook uncertainly as he stood in front of one of the
chairs.  Gone was the man who had screamed at he and Skinner in his
hospital room.  Gone was the man who had firmly interrogated him on
the phone at home.  He didn't know what to make of this person in
front of him.

"Thank you, sir," he replied cautiously.  "I'm feeling fine now."

"Just that limp to deal with?"  Padden asked, and withdrew behind
the desk again, taking a seat in the high back chair.  "That's not
permanent, I hope."

"No," Granger said, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the limp.
"It shouldn't be permanent.  It just needs a little more time."  He
sat as Padden did, sitting in the stiff chair, which creaked beneath
him, being made out of something's hide.

"Good, good."  Padden leaned forward, folding his hands in front of
him on the desk, his expression still easy, friendly.  "I'm sorry I
didn't get to see you yesterday when I was in.  Trying to run this
level of a manhunt and keep the NSA running on its rails...you can
imagine it requires a great deal of my attention."

"Yes," Granger replied, smiling faintly.  "I imagine so."   He
watched the other man carefully, sizing him up.  If this was all an
act, Granger thought -- and he was almost certain it was -- Padden
was doing a hell of a job at it.   His guard came up a notch more.

"So."  Padden took off the reading glasses, setting them carefully
on the desk.

Here is comes, Granger thought.

"What are your initial thoughts on Owen Curran and Agent Mulder?"
he asked.  "I know you've only been back for a few days, but I wanted
to know your impressions."

"My impressions on what aspects of them, sir?"  Granger wanted to
know more about what specifically Padden was fishing for, lest he say
something that he shouldn't, something that could be slanted and
later used in a way he didn't intend.

Padden shrugged, leaned back in the chair.  "What you think is
motivating both of them at this juncture, what they might be up to.
If they're together, that sort of thing."

Granger felt a flare of anger, like a match being struck in his
head.  He snuffed it out instantly.

"No, sir, they're not together," he replied slowly.  "Agent Mulder
has had no dealings with Owen Curran.  He was not involved with any
conspiracy to bomb the embassy, as I believe I've mentioned before."

"Yes, so you've asserted," Padden replied.  "And though I do hope,
of course, that you are right about this, I don't share your
certainty about that fact.  Hence my question."

Granger's tie felt too tight.  "The only connection between Agent
Mulder and Owen Curran," he said quietly, "would be Agent Scully.
She is what is motivating both of them right now.  But for different
reasons, of course."

"How do you mean?"  Padden asked, his brows squinting down.

"Based on what I know of Owen Curran, I would say that Curran is
concentrating his energy on finding Agent Scully."   He neglected to
mention that everything he knew about Curran had come from Mulder's
profile in Richmond.  He didn't think Padden would appreciate that
knowledge very much, and kept it to himself.

"For what purpose?"  Padden asked incredulously.  "Surely he knows
that she would have relayed all of her information to us before her
cover was exposed.  It seems to me that killing her at this point
would be a futile use of his energy."

Again Padden smiled, this time almost apologetically.

"Because revenge is what motivates Owen Curran, sir," Granger
replied carefully.  "He feels, at the least, that Agent Scully was
responsible for his bombing being unsuccessful."

Padden said nothing, so Granger pressed on.

"I also believe that Agent Scully resembling Curran's wife so
closely allowed him to develop a level of attachment to her that
would make her betrayal of him even more of an insult.  He would have
trusted her, probably more than he does most people outside his
family, and he will not take kindly to that trust being abused."

"I see," Padden said after a beat.  "You sound quite certain of your
theories, Agent Granger.  That's good to hear."

Granger kept his face neutral, not rising to the compliment, knowing
there was something behind it.   Padden was doing everything he could
to put him at ease, to seem reasonable.

And Granger didn't like it one bit.

Padden leaned back a bit more in the posh leather chair, pushed at a
pen on the desk top absently.  "You said Agent Scully was motivating
Agent Mulder at this point, as well.  What do you mean by that?"

Granger shifted a bit in his seat, knowing he had to tread
particularly carefully in this terrain.  "Agent Mulder is protecting
Agent Scully from Curran," he said, his voice devoid or emotion or
inflection.

"But why is that necessary?"  Padden replied, and his voice now did
betray some frustration.  "Surely they both know that we could
protect Agent Scully much better in a safe house than they could
possibly be doing on their own."

Granger looked at Padden now, and felt anger flare in him again.
This time, he knew it made it to his face.  "Because I believe that
Agent Mulder doesn't trust you, sir," he said, his voice the same
monotone.  "I think he believes that you will do anything you can to
capture Owen Curran, even if it means sacrificing Agent Scully's life
to do it."

Padden chuckled bitterly.  "The famous Fox Mulder paranoia," he said
dismissively.  "Which he seems to have given to Agent Scully, as
well."

"Sir," Granger said as Padden's chuckle subsided.  "You must admit
that you *did,* in fact, suppress the information about Agent
Scully's resemblance to Elisa Curran, even though you must have
realized that likeness would place her at more risk, given Curran's
attachment to his wife and the circumstances of her death."

"That's nonsense," Padden replied, his voice peeved.  "Yes, we'd
noticed a slight resemblance but we didn't 'suppress' that
information.  We just didn't feel that it had any tactical
importance.  We still don't.  Agent Mulder overreacted to that
information.  Overreacted badly."

Granger watched his face, the profiler in him watching the
expressions that crossed it.  They were subtle -- Padden was clearly
used to hiding his feelings well -- but Granger saw them nonetheless.

Padden was, as Granger's mother used to say, "lying like a rug."

It was not, however, the time to call him on that.  Granger had too
much work to do and did not need to be in an openly antagonistic
relationship with his superior at this juncture.  There was too much
at stake.

"This...protectiveness...Agent Mulder has of Agent Scully," Padden
began, his eyes on the desk, on the shining gold pen he'd been toying
with before.  "What do you make of that?"

Granger became very still.  "I'm not sure what you mean, sir," he
said, and meant it.  He didn't like the turn of the conversation, the
probing tone in Padden's voice, the quietness of it.

"What do you make of their relationship?"  Padden pressed.
"Generally speaking."

Choosing his words with care, Granger shifted in his seat and
responded.  "Agents Mulder and Scully are two of the best matched
partners I've ever encountered.  Consummate professionals in their
work.  Loyal to each other.  Vigilant.  Balanced in their seemingly
contradictory views and methods.  I think the fact that the work
they've done on the X-Files for the past eight years has been under
so much ridicule and suspicion both inside and outside the Bureau has
given their partnership more importance to them both, since they seem
to have no one to rely on for affirmation of their work but each
other."

"An "Us Against Them" mentality, in other words?"  Padden asked.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Granger replied, though he didn't
like the implied negative connotation of Padden's words.

Padden nodded, leaned forward, folding his hands in front of them.
"What about their personal relationship?" he asked, looking at
Granger over the flat-topped rims of his glasses.

Granger looked back, forcing his face to remain neutral.  "I have
very little information on that, sir.  I did not get the opportunity
to see them outside of their working relationship."

"Surely you must have gotten a sense of Mulder's feelings from
spending so much time with him in Richmond," Padden persisted.  He'd
had yet to move.

Now Granger did squirm a bit under the other man's intense scrutiny.
"He's very loyal to Agent Scully," he said noncommitedly, using the
most innocuous yet accurate word he could come up with.

Padden nodded thoughtfully, his lips pursing as he looked down.
Then he pinned Granger with his gaze once again.  "Could there be
more to it than that?"

Granger froze again, swallowed.  "How do you mean, sir?"

Padden leaned back again now.  "Frankly, I'm wondering if there's
something going on between them personally -- and by that I mean
sexually -- that is causing this behavior.  A level of attachment
that would cause Agent Mulder to ruin his career by avoiding coming
in and facing these charges against him, that would cause Agent
Scully to sully her reputation by running, as well."  He shook his
head.  "This behavior is very irregular.  You'd have to agree with me
on that point, Agent Granger."

"How would a romantic relationship of some kind contribute to that?"
Granger replied cautiously.   "I think their partnership -- their
level of commitment to that -- is enough to cause what we're
seeing."

"I don't think so, Paul."

Paul?  Granger chafed.

Padden sighed.  "I think, frankly, that they've compromised
themselves, gotten too involved with one another so that they've lost
their perspective.  Many of us noted it while Agent Scully was
undercover, Mulder's overly emotional reactions to things, his
protectiveness, his anger at being separated from her.  I think it's
this overreaction based on their attachment that is causing all this.
It's not anything I've done, or that the task force has done.  I
think that Mulder has used his personal relationship with Agent
Scully to fool her into sacrificing herself and her position to
protect him, to run with him.  I think she's being brainwashed by
him, to be honest.  I think she's believing his paranoia about me and
the task force to avoid facing the truth of his involvement with
Curran."

Granger's hands clenched down on the arms of the chair, the leather
squeaking in protest.

"You're wrong about all that, sir," he said, tight lipped.  "You're
wrong on so many levels.  Agent Scully could not be 'brainwashed' by
anyone, for starters.  She's the most professional, level-headed
agent I've ever met.  She sets a standard with her approach and
conduct."

"Not anymore."  Padden's face had hardened now to the craggy mask
that Granger had known in Richmond.  He was almost glad to see its
return, because it was, at least, familiar.

"Mulder would never do anything to compromise Agent Scully," Granger
continued, stoked now at the insinuations about Scully and Mulder's
manipulation of her.  "Quite the opposite, in fact.  He would do
anything he could to protect her.  And not because of any sort of
romantic involvement.  Because of their partnership."

Padden picked up the pen, pushed at a file on the desktop with the
blunt end of it, his eyes averted.   "I wonder if your feelings on
this matter are quite clear," he said softly.

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean," Granger replied stiffly.

"It was no secret here at the CIA, I'm told, that you are a great
admirer of Mulder's profiling work," Padden said, glancing up and
Granger and frowning.  "There are some on the task force who are
wondering how impartial you're able to be in your work on this case.
That concerns a great many people, to be quite honest."

Granger recognized the ploy -- the insinuation coming in punishment
for Granger's assertion that Padden was wrong.

"Who exactly is being profiled here, Dr. Padden?"  Granger replied
quietly.  "Me or Agent Mulder and Owen Curran?"

"All three of you, to some extent, Paul,"  Padden replied.  "Your
work is being closely watched on this.  Some of your past actions
have been somewhat... questionable... shall we say?  At least as far
as Agent Mulder is concerned.  There are those who don't think you're
up for the task of bring him in, that your heart isn't in it."

Granger stood then slowly, took the two steps toward the desk.  He
was fuming, but kept it simmering deep.

"I can promise you, Dr. Padden, that I will do everything in my
power to locate Agents Mulder and Scully and Owen Curran," he said
formally.

Again, Padden's face crimped with that strange, patronizing smile.
"I'm sure you will," he said.

There was a strange moment as the two of them regarded each other
silently.  Granger pulled himself up straighter.

"If there's nothing else, sir, I have some files to attend to."

"Of course," Padden replied, standing.  "I'll expect a full progress
report by the end of the week, and sooner if there are any major
developments."

Granger nodded, turned on his heel and left the room, closing the
door quietly behind him, the sunlight of the outer office assaulting
him.

Out in the bustle of the hallway, Granger made his way toward his
office, his teeth clenched in rage.  When he reached it, he closed
the door perhaps a little too hard, went behind the desk and stood
for a moment, facing the window.  He reached up, took off his
glasses, rubbed his eyes, exhaling slowly to calm his nerves.

After a moment, he replaced his glasses and glanced behind him, at
the locked drawer of his desk, the memory of the photo coming back to
him.

Mulder's hand on Scully's shoulder.  The thinness of her face and
arms.

He had to DO something.  Find something that could help clear
Mulder's -- and now Scully's, it would seem -- name.

He needed proof.  Of something.  Anything.

A picture of Mulder standing in the airport waiting for Scully to
show for her plane entered his mind, an imagining of Mulder tensely
watching the passengers board the plane bound for Boston.

Padden had stated on the phone weeks ago that he didn't really
believe that Mulder had ever been at the airport at all.

Surely someone would have seen Mulder there.  Surely there was
someone who could vouch for that.

It was a place to start, at least.

Turning, he picked up the phone, dialed the number for toll-free
directory assistance.

"What listing?"  the computerized voice prompted.

"Richmond International Airport," Granger said, watching the shadows
of people passing by beneath his office door.



***********

END OF CHAPTER 5a.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 5b.


**********


PUERTO PENASCO, MEXICO
12:35 p.m.


Mae and Sean drifted through the open-air market, past the stands
selling fireworks and firewood for the tourists on the beach, past
the stalls steaming with the heavy smell of heavy food, the garish
storefronts peddling Mexican blankets and sombreros so huge and
useless that only an American would buy them.

"It's the Movie Star," one of the storefront vendors called from his
stool.  "Seorita West, buenos d'as.  You are looking beautiful
today, as always."

"Thank you, Enrico," Mae replied, gave him a small smile.  It was a
near-daily ritual for her, the attention of the men in the center of
town.  It was impossible to be a woman -- and a foreign one,
particularly -- and really blend in, so she did her best to accept
the attention in stride, casually, so as not to draw suspicion.

Sean walked slowly just behind Mae, and she turned to make sure he
was still there.  He was looking down as he walked, appearing deep in
thought.

"Sean?"  she asked, and stopped to let him catch up, knelt down in
front of him and took his hand.  "Qu pasa, Seor West?"

She hoped to get a rise out of him, both with her Irish-accented
Spanish -- she was dreadful at the language -- and with the use of
their fake name, and did.  He looked up at her and a smile tugged at
the corners of his mouth.  She was glad to see it.  He'd become so
serious over the weeks.  Broody.  Quiet.  Much like his father that
way, and for many of the same reasons.

Loss seemed to cling to her family like a cobweb.  It always had.
And all of them had worn it on their faces, in the way they carried
themselves and moved through the world.   Her mother.  Her father
before he disappeared into prison and never returned.  Her brother
James.  Owen.  And now Sean, as well.

He said nothing in response to her question about what was the
matter, however.  Just looked at her as though he had something to
say and couldn't say it.  Mae felt sadness wash over her as she
looked at him.

"What do you want to eat?  Anything you want."  She stroked down his
hair again.

"I want one of Seora Mart'nez's burritos," Sean replied softly.

Her smile widened.  "And I bet you want to ride Seor Mart'nez's
burro while she makes it, as well, don't you?"

Now Sean broke into a wider, shy smile as he looked down, clearly
caught.  Mae reached out and tickled his middle and he squirmed and a
laugh chirped out of him.

"I know your game, little man," she said, and tickled him again.
"We'll see if Seor Mart'nez will let you today then."

She stood, still holding his hand, started toward the far end of
town where the Mart'nez family lived, selling food straight from
their own ramshackle kitchen.

The catcalls and greetings continued as she walked along, and she
ignored those from people she didn't know, said hello to the ones she
did.

Then she passed a stall and saw a familiar face.  The man -- an
American with sun bleached brown hair and brown eyes, lean with a
surfer's body and clad in jeans and a t-shirt that hugged his chest
just a touch -- turned as she approached, smiling kindly.

"Hello, Mr. Porter," Sean said, and the man came forward, put a hand
on Sean's head.

"Hello, Sean.  Katherine."

Mae smiled back at him shyly.  "How are you, Joe?  A good day on the
boat?"

Porter smiled back at her warmly, taking her in.  "Yes, we got a
good catch this morning."

"That's good then," she replied.  She hated that she had a hard time
meeting his eyes.  She wasn't accustomed to being so shy.  But
meeting up with him always made her feel awkward.

"Seor West!" a voice boomed from across the street.   "I have
something for you!"  It was Paco, the bone salesman, his storefront
stacked with cow skulls and stinking of bleach, even from where Mae
stood.

"Can I go?"  Sean asked, looking up at Mae, his expression excited
for once, and she nodded reluctantly.  She hated the thought of the
place.

"Go on, but hurry now."  She ushered him forward and he darted
across the dirt road.  Cars weren't allowed in the tourist market
area, so she let him go without a thought.

"You look tired," Porter said quietly.

"I'm all right," she said, brushing him off and looking down at his
sandalled feet.  Then she felt his finger on her chin, tilting her
face up.  His eyes probed hers for a long moment, though neither of
them said anything while he did so.

Finally, Mae broke the silence. "Tonight," she nearly whispered.
"Ten."

He dropped his hand, nodded, taking a step back as Sean returned,
carrying a stuffed armadillo under his arm like a football.

"Ach, Sean!"  Mae protested, her face screwing into a look of disgust.

"He said I could have it," Sean insisted, holding it up so Mae could
see.  Its stunned glass eyes stared up at her, its obscenely long
toes curled.

Joe laughed.  "Those go for $60," he said.  "Paco must be feeling
generous today."

"Can I keep it?"  Sean asked, and Mae could tell it meant something
to him, so she relented immediately.

"All right," she said, "But you're washing your hands at the
Mart'nez's.  And don't get it near me."

Sean smiled and replaced the animal beneath his arm, pleased to have
grossed her out.

Joe laughed again as he watched them, put his hand back on Sean's
head, tussling his hair.

"See you, Sean," he said, and nodded to Mae.  "Katherine."  And he
moved on through the crowd.  Mae watched his back through the thin
fabric of his shirt.

**

11:30 p.m.

Mae's nails dug into his back, her legs clenching his waist as his
movements shortened, quickened.  She gasped, turning  her head into
his throat, her mouth open against him, her breath fanning the hair
over his shoulder.

"Oh God, Joe..."  she whispered.  "God yes..."

Her words seemed to urge him on, his thrusting into her deepening,
and she pulled him to her tightly as she shuddered finally, stifling
a cry by biting down on his shoulder.  He was already trembling, as
well, his face in her hair, a quiet groan escaping him as his hips
slowed their movements and finally stopped.

They were both panting, drenched with sweat, as they rolled onto
their sides, Joe's lips finding hers as her legs relaxed and she
straightened them, their knees touching.  She let their lips touch
for a brief moment, then withdrew her face, pulling his down beneath
her chin.  His lips roamed her chest as his breathing began to even
out.

If he noticed the brush-off she'd just given him, he gave no
indication of it.

Stretching her arms over her head, Mae rolled over, so that her back
was to his front,  pillowing her head on her forearm.  He moved over
until he was pressed against her, his arm draped across her waist and
resting on her belly.  He leaned up and kissed her temple.

"You always turn away from me after we make love," he whispered.
"Why is that?"

The question took her by surprise.  It wasn't that what he said
wasn't true -- it was that after all these weeks she thought if it
bothered him he would have mentioned it sooner.

"Don't know," she murmured, keeping her voice low.  She didn't want
to wake Sean, asleep in the room across the hall on the other side of
her bedroom's locked door.  She started to roll back over, but he
stopped her.

"No, don't.  If it's what you want, it's all right."  He settled his
head on the pillow behind hers, his hand coming up and smoothing down
the curls in her long hair.  They were silent for a long moment.  Mae
closed her eyes, breathing out a long sigh.

"It's so strange to me," he said softly into the quiet.

She opened her eyes.  "What's strange?"

His hand continued to stroke her hair gently.  "That you'll sleep
with me, but you won't tell me anything about yourself.  Why you're
here."

"I've told you why I'm here," she replied softly.  "We're on
holiday."

He chuffed softly.  "Katherine, people don't come to this
Godforsaken place for more than a day or two.  If they're going on
vacation in Mexico, they go to Cancun or Acapulco.  Not this place.
Anybody who stays here for more than a few days has to be hiding from
something."

She looked down at the bend of his arm, the scars of needlemarks
still pink-going-to white against his tan skin.

"Just because you came here to run from something doesn't mean
everyone does," she said, her voice still pitched low.

He was quiet for a moment.  "I know you're not telling me the
truth," he said softly, but there was no anger, no accusation in his
voice.  Just a tired sadness.  "I hope someday that you'll trust me
enough that you will."

She said nothing to that.  His arm reached around her protectively,
pulling her against him more tightly as he settled down, going still
behind her.

Mae lay there, thinking about what he'd said.  It took her a long
time to fall asleep.


***********

END OF CHAPTER 5b.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 6.

TITLE: City of Light
AUTHOR: Bonetree (bonetree@gmail.com)

Disclaimers in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 6a.

*********

JEFFERSON MEMORIAL
THE BANKS OF THE POTOMAC
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MARCH 22
12:13 p.m.


Margaret Scully pushed her hands deeper into her pockets, uncrossed
her legs to press her knees tightly together for warmth as the snow,
blown in a stiff breeze, dotted the air around her, mixing with the
soft pinks of cherry blossom petals caught unaware by the
springtime's winter squall.

The snow wasn't sticking to the sidewalk in front of the bench she
sat on -- it had been too warm for that -- but it was leaving a thin
layer of white on the new grass that surrounded the domed monument in
front of her. She knew the storm would blow over quickly and the snow
would be gone in the sunlight, but for now she watched it gather on
the slender blades, watched it bend their thin green backs.

She checked her watch as a group of tourists passed by in front of
her. She was early, but she didn't mind the wait. It helped her
gather herself, allowed her to swallow down the emotions churning
inside her. The worry. The sadness.

The rage.

None of them would serve her now. She would not allow herself to
appear anything other than formal and collected on this day for a
number of reasons. For one, she knew being overly emotional would get
her nowhere, and might even hinder the task she had a hand.

And for another, Dana would want her to be this way.

So she blew out a calm, slow breath into the air, her large eyes
scanning the scattering of tourists moving in and out of the monument
and along the bank of the river behind her.

She tried to force herself to relax, to not appear to be shrouded in
the tension and grief she wore around her body. She could feel the
corners of her mouth, however, turn down. It was the expression her
face had found in the past three months whenever she wasn't forcing
it into some other shape, which she was usually doing for someone
else's benefit. Bill's. Charlie's. Her friends'.

A snowflake caught on her long lashes and hung there until she
blinked it away, like a light, cold tear.

She was still scanning the faces around the monument when she saw
him, his coat pulled tightly around him, his mouth a tight line. He
caught sight of her almost immediately and walked with purpose now
toward her, cutting across a square of lawn in the interest of
efficiency, leaving a faint dark line of prints behind him in the
newborn snow. His eyes darted from side to side behind his glasses as
he approached.

Stopping a foot or so in front of her, purposefully standing a
little too close, Skinner looked down at her. She gazed up at him,
saw somewhere in his expression a mirror of what she was feeling. And
something else.

Tension verging on fear.

He blew out a warm breath into the cold air, looked away from her.

She swallowed down on a lump in her throat, but otherwise did not
move. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Skinner," she said softly, trying to
pull his gaze to hers with the intensity of her eyes.

"Mrs. Scully, I'm sorry to be meeting you once again under such
circumstances." He managed to avoid her gaze, looking over her at the
water. His mouth barely moved as he spoke, just enough to form the
words and nothing more. "But as I told you over the telephone,
there's nothing I can tell you about the whereabouts of your daughter
or the circumstances of her absence."

"So you've said," she replied, her voice dead flat calm. "I've asked
you here to try to convince you to reconsider that."

His voice dropped to just above a whisper as he stood still, his
eyes still straight ahead. "I can't do that," he said. "We're being
watched. I'm certain of it."

"Mr. Skinner," she began, and now the bitterness did seep into her
voice. "I've had NSA and CIA agents interviewing me for the past two
months, at least once a week, checking to see if I've heard anything
from my daughter, asking personal questions about everything from her
eating habits to where we spent our family vacations. I am under the
impression that my phone and perhaps my house are being wire-tapped,
and that I am most likely being followed most places I go. Now you'll
have to pardon me if I don't react strongly to the thought of being
watched standing here with you."

"Lower your voice, please," he hissed, though he did not say it
unkindly.

"What's happened to my daughter, Mr. Skinner?" she asked, seeming to
ignore him except for the fact that she did indeed speak softly as
she said it.

Skinner pulled up a little straighter, and she could see his hands
clench in his pockets. He seemed to consider for a moment, selecting
and discarding words as he spoke slowly, carefully.

"She is under investigation by a joint task force for her
involvement in a classified operation."

It was the most she'd gotten out of any of them, and she nodded. The
vagueness of it still irritated her. It reminded her of some of the
nonsense she'd gotten during Vietnam when her husband was at sea. She
supposed she should be used to it on some level, but she wasn't.
She'd never gotten used to not knowing.

Now he did look down at her. "That's all I can tell you. To reveal
any other information would be violating my security clearance and
could cost me my job and possibly my freedom, Mrs. Scully. I ask for
your understanding of my rather precarious position in all this."

"It's that Irish man, isn't it?" she insisted. "The one that's been
all over the news since the embassy bombing. She has something to do
with that, doesn't she? And Fox. I know that he's gone, too. I've
tried to call him for weeks now and gotten nothing."

Skinner gaped, looking at her still, then the expression was gone in
a flash. "I can't confirm or deny her involvement with the embassy
bombing or anything else," he bit out. "I'm sorry."

She continued as though he hadn't responded at all. "That's when the
first agents showed up at my door. Right after that happened."

She watched him go quiet, still, in front of her. He was looking off
to the side, at a small knot of what looked like businessmen coming
toward them on the path beside the river. He watched them until they
passed.

She softened some in his silence, the grief taking hold for a
moment. She felt it breaking over her face, though the tears did not
come.

"I don't understand why she can't get word to me that she's all
right," she said, and there was something imploring in her voice, a
crack in the shell she'd placed around herself. "I don't understand
why she would be hiding from the FBI, from the government. It makes
no sense to me, any of it. This isn't like her. This isn't what she's
about."

"I'm sure she has her reasons." He said it with a gentle conviction
that she found somehow comforting. He was trying to reassure her as
best he could. She could tell that. But she found herself shaking her
head, trying to make it all make sense. She could not.

The snow gathered on Skinner's shoulders in tiny dots of white.

"I'm sure..." He hesitated for a beat, drew in a breath, let it out.
"I'm sure she's doing everything she can to come home."

A memory came to her with the words, and a smile tugged at her lips,
a small sound coming from her. He glanced down, clearly confused at
the shift in her mood. But as the smile dawned, her eyes glistened.
She squinted against the steady breeze, looked off toward the grey
sky over the grey stone of the building before her. She began to
speak.

"I was just remembering something," she said quietly. "Something
Dana did when she was a child."

Skinner waited, saying nothing.

She pulled her hands from her pockets, folded them on her lap,
studying them. "Dana was about five years old and my oldest son Bill
was picking on her once again. I was in the kitchen, and I could hear
them arguing over....something. I can't recall what it was. He was
forever teasing her about one thing or another.

"Anyway, I went to the doorway to Dana's bedroom to watch them. They
couldn't see me standing there. Dana was packing one of her doll's
suitcases, saying that she was going to run away to get away from
him. She put two pairs of her little pants in the suitcase and a
crayon. Bill asked her what the crayon was for, and she said: 'In
case I want to color.'"

Skinner smiled at that, and Maggie returned it, though a tear made
its way from the corner of her eye down her cheek.

"So she closed up the suitcase and picked it up and went out the
front door to the house. I told Bill to keep an eye on Melissa and
Charlie in the living room and I went outside. She had made it a
couple of houses away, so I got in the car and backed down the
driveway, then followed alongside her as she walked down the street.
I didn't do anything...I just drove alongside her very slowly.

"She was so determined. She kept her eyes forward. I knew she knew I
was there, but she didn't look at me. She just kept looking ahead of
her, swinging the suitcase as she walked. I waited. I knew I couldn't
make her come to me. I knew she had to decide for herself.

"Finally she started to slow, and I could tell she was getting
upset. It made me ache, watching her like that, knowing how
conflicted she must have felt, even being as young as she was. Then
she stopped walking and turned to me. She was crying as she looked at
me, and I was, too, and I reached over and pushed the door open and
she came over and got in the car. She crawled up on my lap and I
drove around the block and we went back home. We never spoke about it
again."

Skinner looked down at her, swallowed, the stern mask gone.

The tears were flowing freely down her face now, and she reached up
and brushed at them slowly, carefully.

"I'm ready for my daughter to get in the car, Mr. Skinner," she said
softly, and her voice broke. She looked down, struggling for control.

"I'm so sorry," he said, and his voice was tender, low. "I wish
there was something I could tell you, but there's not. I promise you
I'll let you know as soon as I know something I can share."

She met his gaze again, nodded quickly. "I understand," she replied,
and she'd regained some measure of composure now, though the sadness
still gripped her like a fist. She wiped at her face again.

He reached his hand out, and she did as well, clasping his tightly.

A folded scrap of paper in his palm passed to hers, surprising her.

She did not let the feeling reach her face as she drew her hand back
and put her hands back in her pockets.

"Thank you, Mr. Skinner, for seeing me." She forced a smile.

"You're welcome, Mrs. Scully," he replied formally. He turned and
walked away.

After a long moment, she rose from the bench, the snow continuing to
fall, and blended in with the crowd as she made her way back to the
parking area. Her heart was racing by the time she reached it, and
she climbed in, fumbled for her keys in her pocket, started the car.

Only then did she reach for the tiny corner of paper. She unfolded
it in her lap, out of sight of the windows, squinted down at the tiny
writing.

"Somewhere in the southwest," it said. "Hurt, but is doing better.
With Mulder. Will have more as I know more."

She studied it for a long moment, the tears starting once again. She
reached up and covered her mouth with her hand until she'd brought
them back under control.

Carefully she ripped up the piece of paper, put the remnants back in
her pocket.

Then she put the car into gear and pulled out into the lunchtime
traffic, turned the block and headed slowly for home.


***********

NOGALES, ARIZONA
ON THE U.S./MEXICAN BORDER
1:35 p.m.


The falcon was blind.

Tom Lantham could tell that from the moment he looked at it, the
places where its keen eyes should have been covered over with a thick
patina of scar, the cups of lids blinking uselessly, instinctively,
over the ragged holes. It made him ill as he looked at it, both at
the sight of the eyes and at the thought of such a beautiful animal
being crippled so badly and then put on display.

A sign, written in English and Spanish, beside it said: "Photo taken
with bird on your arm, $5," and sure enough Rudy Gray was getting out
his wallet to pay the kid beside the falcon to have his picture taken
with the thing.

Lantham cringed, shook his head -- Gray could be such a kid
sometimes -- and turned his attention to the man who had exited the
storefront behind the poor creature on its stand. He was wiping his
hands on an apron, drying them as he looked at Lantham and Gray
suspiciously. The store was a small cafe that served food to go.

It was hard for Lantham to draw his full attention to the man. The
drive from Colorado, from Curran, had been a long one, and he was
already tired. Still, he pulled himself up and focussed on the task
at hand.

"Mr. Ruiz?" he said as the man approached him. Lantham squinted down
at the much shorter man as he stopped before him.

"Yes, I'm Pablo Ruiz," the man replied cautiously, his voice heavily
accented. "You police or something? Cuz I got nothing going on here
except selling food. You can search the place yourself and see."

Lantham held up a hand. "No, no, Mr. Ruiz, we're not police," he
said. "We got a tip that you reported having some information about a
woman who passed through here. You called a number to report it? That
you found on a flyer?"

Ruiz seemed to think for a moment, then nodded vigorously. "Oh, the
flyer up at the pawn shop. I almost forgot. S', I saw one of those
women. Y el nio, too. They came into my shop, oh, I guess six weeks
ago. Five. Something like that."

"You sure it was them?" Lantham asked. He had to step back as,
beside him, the bird's wings opened instinctively to balance itself
as it was placed onto Gray's heavily gloved forearm. The bird make a
high cry as it settled back down.

"S', pretty sure," Ruiz answered, his hands going to his hips now.
"She had the same long dark hair as the photo. Hermosa, she was.
Lovely to look at. Spoke ingls with a strange accent, her and the
boy."

Lantham nodded. The Polaroid camera clicked and whined as the kid
snapped the picture. "Yeah, that sounds like them," he said as Gray
fumbled the bird back onto the stand. It nearly fell as it stumbled
onto the perch, which Lantham found quite sad.

"Any idea where they were headed?" he asked, forcing his attention
back on Ruiz. "Did she give anything away about that?"

Ruiz seemed to consider again. "She said something about them having
a long drive ahead of them. She said it to el muchacho. That he'd
better eat two of my chalupas because it might be awhile before they
ate again. I asked where she was heading, you know, just to be
friendly, and she said they were going down into Mexico to...how do
you say?...see los lugares interesantes..." He snapped his fingers as
the word came to him. "To sight-see."

So Mae Curran had crossed the border, Lantham thought, pursed his
lips. That complicated matters for him, for sure. For one, he didn't
speak Spanish beyond the very basics (and Gray barely spoke English,
he mused bitterly), and it would be more difficult to get information
when they crossed into Mexico. For another, it was a big country. Mae
and Curran's son could be anywhere at this point, with a five to six
week head start.

"Where's my hundred bucks?" Ruiz asked expectantly. "The flyer said
a hundred bucks for informacin."

Gray was waving his Polaroid in the air in front of him, as though
the action would bring the picture up faster.

Lantham sighed and reached into his wallet, fat with bills. He
plucked out a crisp $100 bill and handed it to Ruiz, who folded it
over immediately and stuffed it into his apron pocket, as though he
didn't want anyone to see him getting it.

"Gracias, Mr. Ruiz," Lantham said, smiled stiffly. "You've been a
lot of help. If you happen to see her and the boy, or the other woman
on the flyer, make sure you give another call to that number."

"I will," Ruiz promised. "Pleasure to do business with you," and he
went back into the store.

Lantham turned to Gray, who was staring proudly at his photo. The
bird moved uneasily on its perch, its blind eyes blinking.

"You ready?" he asked, and Gray looked up at him.

"Yeah, we going to Mexico?"

Lantham nodded. "Yeah, we are. Make sure your gun's out of sight
when we go through the border crossing, just in case they stop us. I
don't think they will, though."

Gray nodded, still mesmerized by his picture. He turned it around to
show it to Lantham, who put a hand out, pushing the other man's arm
down.

"Come on, Rudy," he said, put out. "We don't have any time to waste."

Gray followed him obediently through the crowded street, back toward
the parking lot on the outskirts of town, only a few hundred feet
from the Mexican border.


********

BUCKHORN LAKE
DANIEL BOONE FOREST
OUTSIDE BUCKHORN, KENTUCKY
3:35 p.m.


The fish were biting, and for this, at least, Jimmy Shea was pleased.

Just off the side of the boat, a long yellow stringer trailed beside
the idle, aging motor, swaying back and forth slightly with the small
ripples of the lake and movement of the fish pinned to it through the
gills.

He'd caught seven fish so far and had only been out for a few hours,
just back from Tyner, a town north of Egypt, Kentucky. He'd found one
person in town who seemed to recognize the photo he'd shown around, a
manager at a motel on the main street of the town. But the man said
that he'd seen someone looking like that -- who also had an accent
like Shea's -- weeks and weeks ago, but not any time recently.

Shea had shown the picture around the whole place after that, which
didn't take long. It was a small town. He'd come up with nothing
else.

Curran may have been there, but he'd moved on. Of that Shea was
certain. He'd called Rutherford and told him just that.

He got a tug on his line and jerked the rod back, felt the fish pull
hard to the left beneath the water. As he began to reel in, there was
another sharp jab on the line and then it went slack again.

Shea sighed, reeled the line in, not surprised to find his bait gone.

He reached for the styrofoam cup of night crawlers, bought at the
shop where he'd rented the shabby boat and motor, and let the hook
swing into the boat. He dug through the damp dirt, finally pulling
out a frantic, fat black worm. He impaled it on the hook, twisting it
around to catch it in several loops on the sharp end.

He did it all by rote, dispassionately, almost with a sigh. As he'd
done most things in his life. Particularly in the last years.

He remembered a time when he had passion, ire for everything.

James Curran, Owen Curran's father, had been a part of that time.

And for an instant, in the battered boat on the dark lake, he went
back to it, the memories burned into him like a brand.

He was riding a motorcycle toward the outskirts of Ballycastle, up
into the sheep pastures and the brilliant green of the hills around
the sea.

Nineteen-seventy and the IRA was just beginning to organize, each
town given its own command, its own store of weapons. Discipline of a
sort. Training. And, since the polarizing events of 1969, purpose.

He was 31, still a young man, part of the Newry unit, in the time
before its reputation was ruined with its members cracking under
interrogation, before their damaging signed confessions.

He'd was riding to the home of one of the battalion leaders to see
about killing a man. There was a UDR officer named Norton who had
made the very human mistake of developing a routine, and the IRA was
going to do something about that while they had the chance.

Shea had developed a reputation as being the best shot in the
northern units. That's why he'd been called for the task.

He remembered the house on the hillside, a lovely place, and showing
a man who had some means. The owner was standing beside a low wall
made of stone, shuffling bags of feed from the back of a small truck.
A young boy stood beside him wearing high boots, a white fisherman's
sweater with simple pants. The man himself was dressed similarly, a
cap on his head. They both turned as the motorcycle came up the long
road to the house, even the boy seeming to watch his approach with
care.

He pulled up beside them, removed his helmet as the man came
forward. "Jimmy Shea?" the other man asked, brushing off his hands.

"Aye, I'm Shea. James Curran?"

The man nodded. The boy, who couldn't be more than five, had taken
up a place behind his father's leg, looking at Shea with his wide
blue eyes. His dark hair was cut close to his head, and spiked a bit
on top.

"And who do we have here?" Shea said, putting his helmet on the seat
of the cycle and turning again, crouching down with his hands on his
knees. The child smiled shyly, looked away toward the bike.

"Ah, this is my youngest, Owen," Curran said proudly, putting a hand
on Owen's head, palming his small skull. Shea smiled to him, but Owen
kept looking at the bike, a finger in his mouth.

"You like the motorcycle, do you then?" Shea asked, still smiling
widely. "You come over here to me I'll put you up on the seat. How's
that?"

Owen curled around his father's leg a bit more, smiling wider now.

"Come on," Shea prodded, holding his arms out in a welcoming
gesture. Curran watched Shea, amused.

"Go on, Owen. He won't bite."

Finally, the boy came forward, and Shea reached out to take him in
his arms, lifting up and bracing him with one arm while he moved the
helmet with the other. Then he sat Owen down on the seat, who leaned
forward, reaching for the handlebars, clearly pleased.

"What do you think of that, eh?" Shea said. "She's a nice one, isn't
she?"

The boy nodded. "But where do you keep your gun?" he asked, his
voice high and light.

Shea was taken back a bit by the question. "My gun? What do you know
about that?" He laughed a touch nervously.

James Curran crossed his arms over his chest, smiled even more
proudly.

"Don't you use your gun when you ride your motorcycle?" Owen asked,
looking back at Shea. Shea looked back, silent for a beat.

"Aye, sometimes I do," he said finally, his voice betraying his
surprise.

He wondered about the boy then, about his father. It was common
knowledge in the North that motorcycles and assassins went together,
but he didn't expect a boy of Owen's age to know that.

Now Curran laughed heartily, came forward and plucked his son off
the motorcycle, setting him on his feet. "Go on, Owen. Go find your
mother. Mr. Shea and I have some business to discuss."

"All right, Daddy," the boy said softly, and looked up at Shea,
smiling again. Then he scuttled off toward the house.

"Let's take a walk, Jimmy," Curran said, putting his arm around
Shea's shoulder and steering him toward the pasture.

Shea turned and went along with him, into the fields of green.

Now he looked out over the lake, at the trees lining the banks in
the distance. He shook his head, his gaze frozen on that distance for
a moment. Then, sighing, he swung the line out, cast it into the
water, and waited for the fish to come.


*********

END OF CHAPTER 6a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 6b.

Disclaimers in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 6b.

********

WHISTLE STOP INN
WILLIAMS, ARIZONA
11:17 p.m.


The creature lumbered through the clearing, its arms swinging in
long arcs beside its body, its strides long, unhurried. It was tall,
covered with dark hair. From the distance, its features were
difficult to make out, though as it turned slightly and looked back
over its shoulder, as though aware it were being watched, a pair of
dark eyes peered out from beneath heavy brows, its gait quickening as
it headed for the safety of the treeline.

"Mulder."

A man's voice floated into the room. "Recently, a group of
scientists led by Dr. Gene Robinson at the University of Oregon were
involved in an experiment to confirm the existence of the creature. A
mesh bag filled with fruit was placed in the low branches of a tree
around the area where it had been sighted.

"As morning came the following day, Dr. Robinson was able to make
plaster casts of both a set of footprints made as the creature
approached the tree, and also a right buttock print in the ground at
the base of the trunk where the creature had apparently sat down to
consume the bait."

"Mulder, don't start."

"Come on, Scully, listen to this."

Gene Robinson, as the caption on the screen identified him, held up
a plaster casting the size of a dinner plate, pointing to a series of
marks on it. "This print can be authenticated on the basis of its
hair patterns," the man said. "As you can see, the hair follows an
anatomically correct pattern of growth..."

Scully tuned it out now, though she could tell from how still Mulder
was against her in the bed, how his hand was poised in midair with
the remote, that he was enthralled. As usual.

"It really does follow the correct pattern," Mulder said, and she
knew that convicted tone all too well. "See how you can see the hair
moving away from the center area --"

"Mulder, I'm not going to do this tonight," she said, though she
rubbed her cheek against the soft material of his shirt at the crook
of his arm as she said it, nuzzling into him like a cat, her eyes
closing.

"Do what?" he asked, seemingly genuinely perplexed.

She smiled, her eyes staying closed, her arm gripping around his
chest a little tighter, her leg sliding a little higher on his thigh.
When she spoke, her voice was soft, drawled with impending sleep.

"Oh, argue with you about the veracity of hair patterns on a
buttprint of a man in a rented gorilla suit who has a taste for
mangos so that you can then launch into a treatise about the number
of Bigfoot sightings--"

He laughed, his chest vibrating beneath her arm.

"A 'buttprint?'" he asked. "Is that the scientific term, Dr. Scully?
Because if we're going to be scientifically correct about this, I
believe it's called an 'assprint.'"

A laugh bubbled up from her and she opened her eyes, leaned up a
little to look in his eyes. They were soft, looking velvet in the
shadows. The only light was from the lamp on the night table on his
side of the bed, and it threw his face into chiaroscuro relief. Two
pints of ice cream -- Phish Food and Peanut Butter Cup -- sat melting
beneath the lamp, plastic spoons protruding from their edges.

He was smiling at her as he reached over and curved her hair around
her ear.

Something seemed to hang in the air for a moment over them,
something warm and tender and ultimately welcome. Scully breathed it
in as she looked at him, feeling his fingers caress her lobe softly,
the sensitive skin beneath it.

Yesterday at Wupatki, she had felt as desolate as the stones
surrounding her. Trying to think of Fagan, trying to feel him, had
tired her, made her weary and lost. Sitting with Mulder on the ledge
overlooking the mesa and the grey sky, she'd found her way back
again, let the desolation move through her, as the heavy clouds had
moved over the dark ruins behind them.

She'd stroked his wrist and settled back into herself as best she
could, something growing quiet in her, quiet as the snow.

They'd gone back to the motel and eaten a simple dinner. Baked
chicken. Some apples. Some cheese. As she stood before the small
stove, Mulder quartering the green apples behind her, she'd felt
something in her unknot, the memory of them in her kitchen cooking
together, the sound of heavy plates on the wooden table, coming back
to her. The sound of empty wine glasses clinking in Mulder's hand as
they went to the couch afterward.

She'd slept soundly last night, the soundest sleep in weeks, spared
from the dreaming.

The morning brought sleeping in, a late breakfast at a local diner.
She'd spent the afternoon dozing, sometimes curled against him. Other
times, he'd risen, reading the newspaper he'd bought from a machine
at the diner or flipping channels from the foot of the bed as she
slept.

They'd spoken little, but the silence was not unwelcome. There was
an ease to it, something companionable in it. As though, for a little
while, words had become unnecessary.

At one point, lying against him, his breathing deep and steady, his
eyes fluttering beneath his lids as he dreamed, she remembered lazy
days in his bed, or hers, rousing to find his mouth, his hands,
moving over her body. The warm weight of the afternoons of lovemaking
had settled over her as she watched him, held him, while he slept.

"You're only saying you don't want to argue about this Bigfoot thing
because you know I'll end up being right," he said finally, breaking
her thoughts.

She rolled her eyes, slapped him lightly on the stomach, causing him
to suck in, a startled "oh!" coming from him as his hand left her ear
and went to his stomach as though she'd mortally wounded him.

He laughed, and so did she, the sound coming from her fast and
light, like sparrows.

She looked deeply at him. There was something so familiar to all
this. The banter over unlikely things. The closeness to him. The
teasing, tender light in his eyes as he looked at her.

It was as though they had finally managed to leave it all behind.

She smiled at the thought, a low heat rushing through her.

Maybe things could be the same after all.

Thinking this, she rolled over on top of him, her hands on either
side of his head as his hands went instinctively around her, resting
on the small of her back.

He adjusted his head on the pillow so that their faces were almost
touching. She could feel his slow, warm breath on her face as his
fingers traced small shapes in the material of her white pajama top.

"I mean, come on. When have I not been right?" His voice was just
above a whisper, and he smiled softly.

His words were meant to continue his tease, but the sentiment did
not reach his tone. The mischief had gone from his eyes. She rubbed
her thumbs over his bearded cheeks as she watched his mood shift. He
was very still beneath her.

The playful feeling had gone from her, as well, the smile leaving
her face. Keeping her eyes open, she closed the few inches between
them and touched her lips to his, pulling away almost immediately,
though she did not withdraw any further than she had been before.

His hands moved from her back to cradle her waist, his grip gentle
and sure.

"What was that for?" he whispered.

She could do nothing but shake her head, her lips curling as she
leaned in and kissed him again, longer this time. She opened her
mouth and pulled his bottom lip in, tugging gently. His hands slid up
her back and a small sound came from his throat.

Their lips moved over each other's for a long moment. Then she broke
the contact and pressed her lips to his throat, her hand pushing at
his shirt.

"Take this off." She breathed it against his skin, felt him shiver.

Then she placed her knees on either side of his hips and leaned up,
resting on his thighs as he pulled the shirt up over his head,
tossing it on the floor beside the bed, looking up at her with his
smokey eyes. His hands came to rest on her thighs, holding still
there.

She could sense his caution. Perhaps that was the beginning of it,
the feeling that sprouted in her. Just the hint of it sent her into a
fine tremor, her breath quivering as she let out a long exhale,
trying to calm herself, soothe.

She pushed it all down, willing it away.

As if to prove she had vanquished it, she reached for the buttons of
her top, pushing the top white button through its white hole. She saw
him swallow, and then found herself looking down shyly, unable to
meet his intense gaze. She watched her fingers work the buttons as
though she'd never touched them before. She did not push the sides of
the shirt apart.

As she undid the last button, her hands went to his belly, her
thumbs moving over the faint line of hair at his navel. She still
could not meet his eyes, and her faint trembling increased.

His hands went to her top, fingering the sides. With a slow motion,
he pushed them apart, revealing her body. She arched her back as he
smoothed the top off her shoulders, down to the center of her back.
Her nipples hardened in the chill of the room and under the burn of
his gaze. She slid her arms out of the sleeves, laying the shirt down
beside them on the rumpled bed.

Now she draped herself down over him, her arms going around his neck
as her breasts pressed against his body. She buried her face against
his throat, beneath the coarse hair of his beard.

He was still, except for his hands, which were reading the bumps of
her ribs on her back as though memorizing her. She felt his breath
deepen, quicken. She felt him hard against her belly.

The fear came up her like a current at the feel of him.

She shook against him, her eyes stinging.

No...

Her mind whispered the word to her, but she did not listen.

His hands curved around her sides to her breasts, and she arched her
back to allow him to cup them, his palms hot against her skin. His
lips were on her hair, his cheek rubbing against her, urging her face
up to his. His hands kneaded softly as she looked up, her eyes
clenched closed against the sight of him.

His mouth closed over hers and she struggled to meet him, her hands
gripping his hair in her fists.

No.

Her mind said it again, louder this time, with more finality.

(Hands on her back, rough. Pain. Pain piercing her with the shame of
it.)

She felt herself flush all over, turned her face away from him,
breaking her contact with his mouth.

"No..." She said it out loud this time, to herself, to the terror
gripping her. To him. She felt him freeze beneath her, his hands
stilling instantly.

"It's all right," he whispered. "We don't have to do this."

The first sob hitched her breath, nearly choking her. She pulled her
arms from around his neck as his hands went around her back, her
hands going to cover her mouth, her elbows jutting into his belly.
Her shaking was uncontrollable now, a cry crawling up her throat. It
sounded like an animal, or a terrified child.

She hated it.

Hated herself.

Fury ignited in her.

Fury and shame.

"Scully..."

She shook her head, pulled away from him quickly, gracelessly. Some
dim part of her wondered if she might have hurt him as she pushed
herself off of his body, ending up on her side beside him. Her hands
scrambled to her top, clutching it to her, hiding her breasts, as she
rolled again to the edge of the bed, facing away from him now, her
legs curling up until her thighs touched her belly.

Another sob wracked her. She jerked as though struck.

She could feel him moving up behind her, shifting toward her. His
hand brushed her shoulder.

"Scully, it's all right," he soothed, but there was something very
afraid in his voice, almost desperate, as though he didn't even
believe himself.

She didn't believe him, either.

As his fingers curled over the bone of her shoulder, she jerked away
from him.

"Don't," she bit out between the wracking. She couldn't breathe.
"Don't. Please."

"Scully, don't push me away. I want to help. Let me help you--" His
hand brushed her bare back again.

"DON'T!" Her voice rose to near shouting. "Don't touch me!"

His hand left her instantly, but she could feel it hovering over
her. She could tell from his breathing, from the trembling of his
voice as he'd spoken to her, that he was crying, as well.

Guilt ran through her now, as well. It was too much. The loathing.
It was all too much.

"Scully," he tried again. A plea.

Something in her hardened, froze over. She heaved in a deep breath,
her eyes closing tight, all of her closing tight.

"Leave me alone," she whispered, heard his breath catch at the venom
-- borne of shame -- in her voice, felt the weight of his stunned
silence.

He was still for a long moment.

"Please," she said again, but there was nothing kind or imploring in
the word this time.

Slowly he shifted, withdrawing across the bed. She heard him reach
down and gather up his shirt, felt him shift as he sat on the edge of
the bed, the sound of cloth over skin as he pulled the shirt over his
head.

He sat there for a long while. She could hear his breath shaking in
and out of him, muffled by his hands. She covered her face, tears
streaming, though her face was stone.

Then, finally, the light flicked off. She heard him slipping beneath
the covers, settling down far away from her.

They lay there in the dark, the television flickering, talking to no
one, the night closing in, filling the space in the bed that
stretched out between them.


*********

END OF CHAPTER 6b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 7.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 7a.

*******

FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON D.C.
MARCH 23
9:14 a.m.


Two chairs sat in front of Skinner's desk. They had been there for
years, he knew, but for some reason, today he couldn't take his eyes
off of them.

As he moved around the room, drifted in and out to various offices
and then returned to his desk, he found his eyes drawn to the chairs,
struck by their emptiness and the quiet of the room.

Finally, finding himself looking at them again when he was supposed
to be reviewing the expense report in front of him, he leaned back in
the chair and dropped the pen. His glasses soon followed. He rubbed
his eyes roughly, heaved out a frustrated sigh.

His meeting with Margaret Scully the day before had left him feeling
hollow, his guilt about the woman's worry and grief over her
daughter's absence filling him instead. Passing her the note had done
little to alleviate that guilt, though he did at least feel better
knowing that Mrs. Scully now knew something about her daughter's
whereabouts and condition.

He'd told her the truth. Somebody needed to do that.

He'd returned to the office yesterday morning deflated, lost in the
immensity of the task at hand.

The weekly phone calls to Mulder made him feel worse. His gut ached
every time he had to tell Mulder that he and Scully needed to stay
out, keep running. He felt like the constant bringer of bad news and
felt completely useless. Especially in the face of Mulder's
disappointed, weary tone when he told them to stay away, when he
heard the cagey responses Mulder gave to his inquiries about Scully's
well-being.

He stewed in those feelings the entire afternoon, reviewing what
he'd done so far.

He'd been trying to look at the big picture for weeks now, taking
his case to whoever would listen to him, doing everything he could as
the Assistant Director of the FBI.

Then, standing in front of the windows in his office, looking down
on the maddeningly normal world bustling below him, he'd started to
wonder if he was doing this all wrong. He stopped thinking like an
Assistant Director. It was getting him nowhere, and was actually
bringing more attention to *him*, attention he didn't need if he was
going to continue his covert contact with his agents.

Instead, standing there yesterday in the sunlight struggling to come
through the clouds that had brought the unseasonable snow, he started
thinking like an agent again, about what he'd been taught in the
Academy all those years ago. The rules of investigating.

It was in the simple details, taken one at a time and examined
carefully, patiently, that one solved a case. Not what he'd been
doing -- standing back with this huge scenario in front of him, a
picture made up of puzzle pieces that seemed to go together but which
revealed a picture that he knew to be wrong.

The picture Padden had made.

And everyone else was seeing that same picture as well. Ashcroft.
The head of the FBI and CIA. Padden had made sure that every avenue
was essentially cut off with the damaging case against Mulder, a case
made of bits of evidence turned the way Padden liked them to be
turned.

There was nowhere left to go.

So he returned to an agent's thinking before he'd left that
afternoon. He would start again on all this. He would take the pieces
that Padden had used so deftly to frame Mulder and look at them for
himself.

He started at the beginning, with the police report from the crime
scene at Mae Curran's apartment in Richmond. He'd had a police
contact at the D.C. Metro Police order it for him from Richmond so
that his name would not be attached to it, just in case Padden was
monitoring his activities or the report itself.

He'd seen most of it already, of course. The initial reports right
after the body had been discovered in the apartment, the forensic
evidence on the bullet that had killed Fagan. The fingerprinting. The
blood match on Scully and Fagan throughout the apartment, which still
made him wince when he thought about it.

There had been so much blood. From both of them.

He knew that more evidence would have come through, things that
would have taken more time but which would do nothing but add to the
picture he knew had happened in that apartment.

He replaced his glasses, stood and went to the window again,
watching the traffic, the cityscape, once again. Today he found it
soothing, and breathed it all in, calming himself. He didn't resent
the normal course of other people's lives. Instead, he found hope in
it.

When the knock came at the door, he was prepared.

"Come," he called, and Kimberly opened the door, a fat envelope from
FedEx in her hand.

"There's a package for you, sir," she said as she approached. He
reached out and took it from her. He thanked her and she withdrew,
closing the door behind her.

He went to the desk, placed the package in front of him. Clearing
his mind so that he could look at the contents with fresh eyes, he
tore into the envelope, pulled out the stack of folders, removed
their rubber bands.

There were pictures of blood smears going down the corridor of an
apartment, a knife stained with it, a small pool near the edge of a
worn rug. A man's body, shot through the head, a wound to the face.

It had been a hell of a fight, he thought. He was simultaneously
proud of Scully for surviving and pained for what she had endured.

He picked up the first folder, opened it, scanning the report. It
was the most recent information on the case, the forensic evidence
that had come in later, some of it only within the last month. He
hadn't seen a lot of this, and began reading intently.

Time crawled by as he lost himself in numbers, notes.

About halfway down the fifth page, tapping his pen absently as he
took in the figures of hair samples, fiber samples, additional
fingerprints, a word leapt out at him.

"Semen."

Every muscle in his body went taut. His hand unconsciously went to
his forehead, cupping it in his large palm.

"Location: Living room, 7 feet 3 inches from front door. Four-point-
five inches from rug edge. Non-secretor. DNA matches victim, John
Brian Fagan. Sample mixed with blood, type A+. Blood sample DNA
match: Dana Katherine Scully. Probable location of sexual
assault/rape."

Skinner clenched his eyes closed. The hand on his forehead curled
into a fist and dropped down onto the pile of reports. Hard.

"Oh Jesus."

He shook his head as he said it. He leaned down and cradled his head
in his hands, his eyes remaining closed. Pulling in a deep breath, he
forced the anger and anguish down as best he could.

It sickened him to think what she'd gone through, what she was
continuing to go through.

He took some comfort in the fact that Mulder was a psychologist, but
he also knew that there was little chance of her discussing the
situation in any depth, even with Mulder. He'd watched her hide any
sign of emotional vulnerability for as long as he'd known her. He
didn't think this would be any different. In fact, she might guard
her feelings surrounding any such attack even more closely because of
the personal nature of it.

But Mulder *did* know about it. He was certain of that. It explained
Mulder's reticence about discussing Scully's condition, answered
Skinner's nagging questions about what the other man was withholding
about her. What he was protecting.

God, and Padden probably knew about this, too. For all he knew, the
entire task force knew. He hated the thought of Scully's private
anguish, the horrible violation of her, possibly being so public.

Fuck....

Skinner sat rooted in place for a minute, looking down at the
report, his mind running through his options. He had to get her in,
and as fast as he could.

He would suggest to Mulder that they split up, that Scully come in.
That was it. He'd do everything he could to protect her with his own
resources at the FBI. He knew it was risky, but he had to get her in
where she could get help. He needed to get her to counselors.
Doctors. Her mother. Someone.

Even as he thought these things, he knew how doomed the idea was. It
would be impossible to separate them. Neither of them would agree to
that. Neither of them would leave the other without protection, no
matter what personal circumstances were going on. He'd watched them
work this way for years.

They had -- and would always have -- the other's back.

The only way to get her in would be to clear Mulder's name and catch
Curran so she wouldn't need to protect Mulder and she herself would
no longer be in danger. He needed to accomplish those two tasks as
quickly as possible.

Sighing, he came to the realization that there was no way to do that
on his own. He didn't have the resources, the contacts, the access.

He needed someone who did.

He needed Granger.

Though Skinner didn't feel he could completely trust the young agent
because of the position Granger was in with Padden, he had enough
evidence of Granger being on Mulder's side to think that he might be
able to get his help in clearing Mulder's name. Granger had alluded
to that himself in his office just a few days before.

Plus, he'd lied to Padden in the hospital room all those months ago
about not knowing where Mulder was when he'd just been talking to him
on the phone. He'd helped Mulder with the case in Richmond, despite
Padden's warnings for him not to.

It was going to take a leap of faith, Skinner thought, his hands
digging deep in his pockets. Time was ticking away. There was no more
of it to waste.

He reached for his cell phone in the inside pocket of his jacket,
which was draped across the back of his chair. He'd long since
decided the office phone couldn't be trusted. Holding it, he pressed
the intercom button for Kimberly.

"Yes, sir?" she responded immediately.

"Kimberly, I need you to find a number for me. The cell phone number
for Agent Paul Granger at the CIA."

"I'll get right on that, sir."

He thanked her and the light went off.

The reports stared up at him from the desk, and he couldn't face
anymore of it. Not yet.

So he went to the window once again, watched a plane make its way
across the sky, a trail of white motion stretching out behind it.

His body was poised to *do* something. He was taut with the need to
move. Instead he stood rooted in place, perfectly still. He pulled in
a deep breath, let it out, and did something he was not good at
doing.

He waited.


********


LIBERTY PAWN SHOP
FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA
2:33 p.m.

Beneath the classic three-balls-suspended-on-an-arch that symbolized
a pawn shop was a neon outline of the Liberty Bell, complete with a
neon crack that flickered slightly in the afternoon light. Beneath
that, and what Mulder was really interested in, was the familiar
yellow of a Western Union sign, along with a sign advertising that
checks were cashed on the premises, "no ID required."

Just the kind of place he needed, he mused bitterly. The underbelly
of society that he and Scully had begun to inhabit was starting to
rub off on him. He was actually happy when he found a place that
advertised things like this. It meant that anonymity was the order of
the day, their faces all but ignored as they went about their
business.

Scully was looking in the window at a row of musical instruments,
the remnants of what looked like a salsa band. A golden trumpet
hanging from its curve. A wide Mexican guitar. Prices hung like toe
tags from both of them.

She was staring intently. Quiet. Still. He would have given anything
to have known what she was thinking, what she'd been thinking all
day. Except for responding to basically "yes" and "no" questions, she
hadn't spoken to him at all, the time on the road oppressive and
filling him with a tension that he'd yet to experience, even with all
these weeks of running. He hadn't thought a new level of it possible.

But something had changed between them since last night. A shift
into a darker, more distant place. It was as if she had grown smaller
and smaller within her body overnight and somehow disappeared
completely, leaving behind this silent shell, a husk of the woman he
knew.

It filled him with a nameless dread.

The sidewalk was fairly crowded with people, tourists on their
stopovers either to or from the Canyon. He and Scully blended in well
- Scully in her jeans and white t-shirt, the black baseball cap
firmly in place to hide her hair, a ponytail protruding from the
back, him in his battered jeans and black t-shirt and denim jacket.
They looked like a couple of ecotourists camping their way across the
state, like a dozen other people who passed them on the sidewalk. The
anonymity of the street calmed him some, made him feel strangely
normal for a moment.

He went to her at the window and stood behind her. He was careful
not to touch her or stand too close. She'd kept her distance from him
all day, dressing in the bathroom after her shower. When he'd touched
her shoulder as they walked out the door of the motel, he'd felt her
tense, and would not make the same mistake again.

"You wanna pick up a guitar for the road?" he asked lightly, teasing
as best he could.

No reaction. She turned to him and her eyes were far away and dull.
Tired beyond anything he'd seen from her. She shook her head, nodded
toward the door.

"All right," he replied to her unspoken request that they hurry this
along, though how she could be looking forward to the silence of the
truck again was beyond him.

The bell jingled on the door as they entered, Scully following a few
feet behind Mulder. They walked past the glass counters filled with
wedding bands, gold chains, past the lines of guitars dangling by
their necks from the walls. At the back there was a counter with the
Western Union sign on its front. They headed for it.

A tall, muscular man was standing there, his gut balanced on the low
counter. His arms were splayed out to the sides and he leaned forward
leisurely, eyeing the two of them as they approached. Mulder smiled
amiably.

"Can I help you?" the man asked, in the exact bored tone that Mulder
had expected from him.

"Yes," he replied, stepping up the counter. Scully had stopped just
behind him, eyeing the watches in one of the displays. "We've had
some money wired to us, under the name Tim Garrett."

The man went to the computer on the counter's edge, tapped on a few
keys and studied the display.

"Two thousand dollars?" he asked, still bored.

"Yes," Mulder replied, hiding his surprise. The Gunmen must be
hacking into someone's account to get that kind of money this time.
He was pleased, though. They were running dangerously short on funds.

Without being asked, Mulder pulled out his wallet and pushed his
fake Tennessee driver's license across the counter. The man took it,
glanced at the picture, at Mulder's face, then wrote a few things
down on a form he pulled from a stack beside the computer. Then he
pushed it back across.

"I've got to get the money out of the safe," he said, and Mulder
watched his eyes move over Scully. And he wasn't looking at her face.
She didn't seem to be aware of it, but it pissed Mulder off. He
cleared his throat to get the man's attention, and when he had it, he
bared his teeth in an overly friendly - and warning -- smile, nodded
toward the back.

"Be right back," the man said flatly, looking Mulder up and down
now, as though sizing him up for a fight. Then he withdrew.

Mulder turned to Scully then, at what had drawn her attention. There
were a several dozen very nice watches beneath the glass, and Scully
was looking alternately at them and at the Omega she wore on her
wrist. Then, seeming to come decision, she reached down and took the
watch off, laid it flat on the counter.

"Your mother gave you that," he said softly. "You don't need to-"

"It doesn't matter," she said, monotone, still staring down at the
watches. "We need the money."

"But the guys have sent us more this time, enough to last until-"

Now she did turn to him with those same dull, tired eyes. "Until
when? We're out of this? I don't think so."

He swallowed at her tone, taken aback. There was something angry and
hopeless in it. As though she'd resigned herself to a life on the run
with him for the rest of her life. He didn't like her feeling that
way.

Carefully, he lay his hand next to hers on the counter, still not
touching her.

"We're going to get out of this," he said firmly. "Soon. This isn't
going to go on forever."

He had to believe that. To think otherwise - as he sometimes did in
his most pessimistic moments - would mean taking on his guilt at his
part in putting her in this position in the first place. And that was
more than he could handle along with everything else.

As if in answer to those thoughts, she returned her left hand to the
counter as though bracing herself, the arm trembling slightly, her
thumb shaking against the glass. He wondered for a moment if she'd
raised the hand on purpose, to remind him that some of this very well
might go on forever. That some of it couldn't be run from at all.

"Don't sell your watch, Scully," he murmured, his voice pitched low
enough that no one could hear him speak her real name. "I think
you'll regret it later."

"I'll get another one," she responded, her voice miles away. She
wasn't looking at him again, which frustrated him.

"But why now?" he persisted.

She turned her face a fraction away, as if she were putting him out
of her sight and out of her mind. For a few seconds, he thought she
might ignore the question entirely.

"Why not."

It was said with finality, bitterly. The tone surprised him again.

The man returned from the back and Mulder reluctantly turned his
attention to the Western Union countertop, stepping away from Scully.

"There you go, Mr. Garrett," he said, and laid a stack of bills on
the counter. "Now if you'll just fill out this information here on
this form for me and sign it, we'll have you all fixed up."

Mulder did as he was told, filling in a dummy address, telephone
number. He wrote down the name that Frohike was using to send the
money this time: Kurt Affair. He almost cracked a smile at that. Then
he signed his false name to the receipt and pocketed the money.

Meanwhile, the man was looking at Scully, at the watch on the
counter.

"You selling something, miss?" he asked, and Scully looked up at
him, nodded. He came around the counter to where she was standing,
picked up the watch and studied it, fingering the fine, smooth links
in the band.

"Omega," he said approvingly. "Nice."

She nodded, all but ignoring him. "How much?"

He seemed to consider for a moment, checking the crystal for
scratches, turning the beautiful watch over in his hands. "I'll give
you $150 for it."

Mulder balked. "What?" he began, standing next to Scully now. "That
watch is worth-"

"That will be fine," she replied firmly, cutting him off. Mulder
pulled in a breath, shook his head, but remained silent. The man
looked from one of them to the other, his eyes studying them both, as
though curious as to whether he was going to get a bit of fun and get
to watch a spat.

His eyes remained on Scully's face for a few seconds too long, his
face turning to the side as he looked at her.

Mulder leaned in again, close to her but not touching her. He didn't
like anyone looking at her like that, like she was this thing to be
admired. The rape had made him more aware of men's reactions to her,
and he had to say that for the most part, he didn't like those
reactions one bit.

The man took the hint and broke his gaze, then went to the register
and pulled out the money. He returned and laid the hundred- and fifty-
dollar bills in front of her. She took them without a word and
stuffed them in her pocket.

"Pleasure doing business with you," the man said, putting the watch
in the counter display.

Mulder met his eyes as he finished lining it up with the rest of
them. The man smiled back, then, as though deciding Mulder wasn't
worth it, he returned to the rear of the shop, disappearing into the
back room.

Scully had already headed for the door and Mulder had to hurry to
catch up with her as she returned to the sidewalk, walking briskly
toward where the truck was parked. He caught up with her quickly, his
long strides matching her short ones as she stared ahead of her.

"Scully."

"I don't want to talk about it, Mulder," she said softly. "Let's
just go."

He bit back his reply, frustrated. He'd never seen her like this
before, so remote. She'd never pulled away like this. Not to this
extent. It was like being with a stranger.

They reached the truck, parked just up from the shop on the side of
the street, and she stopped at the driver's door, reached her hand
out for the keys. "I'd like to drive for a while," she said.

He nodded, dug in his pockets for them and handed them to her. "All
right. Whatever you want."

She didn't look at him as she took them, unlocked the door and
climbed into the truck, leaving him standing there on the sidewalk.
She adjusted the seat to as far forward as it would go, then swung
the heavy door closed, started up the huge engine with a cough and a
rumble.

With the sound, he was struck out of his frozen place. He hurried
around the car, some part of him actually afraid that she might just
leave without him.


**

Back in the Liberty Pawn, the man stood before the bulletin board
above the fax machine. Over it, an eagle on a poster, its wings
spread wide over a set of crossed rifles, an American flag behind it.

The secret seal for the Sons of Liberty, from which the man had
coined the shop's name.

On the bulletin board, a grainy fax printout. Two pictures. A dark-
haired woman and a boy, and a single shot of another woman.

The woman who'd just been in the shop, selling her expensive watch
for a price that showed a level of desperation he'd grown accustomed
to from people on the run.

He went back into the shop, out onto the street. He stood there for
a moment, looking up and down the sidewalk.

Then he saw her in a truck going slowly by, her head and shoulder
peeking above the battered door, the man with her -- Tim Garrett,
he'd said his name was -- in the passenger seat, his face turned
away.

The man watched the old Ford Bronco nudge forward as the light at
the end of the street turned green, stepped out between two parked
cars to get a look at the license plate as the blue truck crept away.

Tennessee. RKL-319.

He went back into the shop quickly, went back into the back room to
the phone beside the fax machine. He picked up the receiver and
dialed.



*********

END OF CHAPTER 7a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 7b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 7b.

**********

THE TRADING POST
TUBA CITY, ARIZONA
NAVAJO INDIAN RESERVATION
4:35 p.m.


Scully sat in the driver's seat, her hands on the steering wheel,
precisely where they'd been when she'd stopped the truck beside the
gas pumps 10 minutes ago.

She stared forward, her eyes following an elderly Navajo man being
helped into the store by two younger women. He walked slowly, placing
his feet with care, and the women were speaking softly to him as they
walked.

The man had to be in his 90s, Scully thought. The women were most
likely his granddaughters, taking the man out to do his shopping at
the only store she'd seen in a hundred miles.

She glanced in the side view mirror, saw Mulder leaned against the
truck, one hand on the pump, the other his pocket. Though she could
not see his eyes behind his sunglasses, she could tell he was looking
down at the ground, his expression troubled.

She looked away, returning her gaze to the people milling in and out
of the store, a mixture of tourists and Navajos, the parking lot
crowded with cars and RVs. She couldn't look at him for too long. She
couldn't take watching the distance she'd placed between them take
its toll.

Lying in bed just before dawn, she'd made her decision that the
distance was the lesser of the ways that she could hurt him. Trying
to be close to him seemed to force her own troubles on him, and she
no longer wanted to do that. It was better that they have the space,
she'd decided. That way he wouldn't feel what she was feeling. If she
spared him that, she wouldn't have to watch his pain at what had
happened to her, what she'd become, any more than she had already.

Glancing back at him once again, at the grim set of his face, she
wondered about her decision. But even as she doubted herself for an
instant, the memory of last night stabbed at her, her face flushing
with shame.

God, how she'd wanted to just be able to just be herself with him
again. To meld into him, to become part of him.

But that wasn't going to happen. Her face hardened a bit more as she
resigned herself to that conclusion.

She would not make that mistake again.

And as far as being herself with him? she thought bitterly. The
person she was before was gone. She didn't know who she was any more.

And a part of her was ceasing to care if she ever found out again.

She took her sunglasses off, resolved to her silence, and placed
them on the seat beside her, then opened the door to the truck and
climbed down. Mulder forced a smile at her, but it was small and
nervous.

"I'll be right back," she said, averting her eyes. "I'll get us
something to drink." It was the longest sentence she'd spoken to him
since they'd left Flagstaff.

"All right," he replied quietly, still pumping the gas.

She went up the stairs to the store, her gait stiff. She entered,
pausing at the door to take in the place. Groceries. Garish souvenirs
and postcards. A post office window in the corner. A short-order
restaurant fronted by a long counter with wooden stools. People sat
talking over their greasy meals. A knot of tourists sat at one end, a
child playing with a rubber tomahawk that dangled red and blue
feathers.

The store was clearly the hub of the tiny town, intended to offer
everything for both those who lived there and those passing through.
People were everywhere. It made Scully nervous, and she hurried to
the cashier, leaning in so that the woman could hear her over the din.

"Where are your restrooms?" she asked.

The woman looked at her, then reached down and pulled up a large key
that was connected by a chain to a large brick. The thing must have
weighed five pounds.

"People keep running off with it," the woman said, seeing Scully
eyeing the thing. "We figure they'll notice if they walk off with
that in their pocket." She smiled and her own joke. "They're around
the side. Outside."

Scully thanked her and hefted the brick, going back out the front,
making her way to the detached smaller building with its signs for
women and men. She noticed Mulder paying the attendant, talking to
him, no doubt asking if there were any places to stay nearby. They
hadn't seen a motel since they'd entered the reservation.

Reaching the door, she held the brick in her shaking hand as the
other slid the key in and opened the door. She closed the door behind
her.

After, she splashed water onto her face, rubbing at her eyes. She
pulled out a paper towel and began drying herself off, her gaze drawn
to her reflection in the dim florescent light.

A woman's gaunt face stared back her. Tired eyes, dark circles
beneath them.

She held still as she looked at herself. She felt tears burn her
eyes, and blinked them fiercely away.

Finally, she picked up the brick, clamping down her iron control
once again, and opened the door, squinting her eyes against the
light.

A hand clamped down on her upper arm, yanked her hard to the right.

She was just about to scream when the man caught her around the
throat with his forearm and covered her mouth with his other hand,
jerking her head back hard. She moaned in pain instead.

"Keep quiet now," the man said, his voice low and threatening.
"Don't make me hurt you any more than I have to."

There was a car parked nearby, a driver in it, another man coming
forward fast and grabbing her legs, lifting her off the ground as
they hustled her toward the car's open door. She reached up with one
hand and grabbed at the arm around her neck. He was crushing her
throat with his grip and with her own weight as he carried her. She
couldn't breathe.

She felt the weight of the brick in her other hand, which she'd
somehow managed to hold on to. Frantically, she swung up, dangerously
close to her own face, and caught the man square in the temple just
over her shoulder. His grip disappeared and he dropped like a sack of
grain, dropping her at the same time.

She hit the ground hard, gasped in a breath, the brick flying to the
side.

"Goddamnit!" the other man swore, keeping a strong hold on her legs
as she kicked hard to get away. The driver had seen what had
transpired and was coming now at a run.

Scully's vision swam, blood rushing back into her head, her hand on
her sore throat. She just barely saw the blur of motion that came in
from the side.

The man who had her legs was struck from the side, crashing to the
ground as he released her in his surprise.

Mulder was on top of the man now, pinning him to the ground on his
back. His arm swung back and he punched the man in the face viciously
several times in quick succession, knocking him out cold.

Then Mulder spun, his hand going to the ankle holster he wore at the
same time. In one fluid motion he was up on one knee, his gun pointed
at the driver, halting him.

"Back the fuck off," Mulder snarled. The man put his hands up and
did as he was told, walking backward toward the car again a slow step
at a time.

"You okay?" Mulder called, though he kept his eyes on the man in
front of him.

Scully sat up quickly, shaking her head clear. "Yeah..." she said,
but her voice was hoarse.

"Oh my God! That man has a gun!"

The shout came from a woman who had rounded the corner to come to
the restroom. Her companions screamed in terror.

"Come on!" Mulder said, grabbing Scully by the upper arm as she
scrambled to her feet. They took off at a dead run for the truck, the
women at the corner pressing themselves up against the building and
screaming louder as they streaked past.

People were coming out of the store now to see what the commotion
was about. Scully ran to the passenger door of the Bronco as Mulder
went to the driver's, both of them flying up into their seats. Within
a second, the engine roared, overrevved, to life, Mulder throwing the
truck into gear and blasting out of the parking lot, a cloud of dust
kicking up behind them as he bumped back onto the road and sped away.

Scully turned in the seat, looking out the back window as they
headed up the highway, the truck continuing to accelerate. She
coughed, her hand on her throat again.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked, panting.

She was heaving in breaths herself, her eyes still trained behind
them.

"Yeah...yeah..." she said between breaths. Her voice sounded like it
had sand in it. "Bruised..." She forced herself to swallow painfully.
"But I'm okay."

The truck roared as Mulder continued to accelerate, pushing the old
engine up past 80 now, the desert streaming by.

A tense few minutes passed, the only sounds their labored breathing
and the V8.

Finally Scully turned around in her seat, pulled her cap off with
one hand, pushed back her hair from her face.

"They didn't...they didn't follow us," she said, forcing herself to
calm down. "Mulder, slow down...they're not coming."

Mulder seemed unconvinced as he pressed down on the accelerator
harder, rocketing them out of the town and into the high desert,
heading blindly for the red mountains and desolation in the distance.


*********

END OF CHAPTER 7b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 8.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 8.


***********

13 DUNKIRK AVENUE
VIENNA, VIRGINIA
9:38 p.m.


Skinner made his way up the walkway that led to the apartment
building, the lit stone path shining with the evening's rain. It was
a brownstone building, not too large, not too nice, and it fit the
image that Skinner had of Granger, seemed the kind of place the young
agent would live. Granger wouldn't splurge, Skinner thought, but he
wouldn't skimp, either. The building reminded him of Scully's that
way.

Even at this late hour, people were coming and going through the
front doors, a Friday night party pulsing with music going on
somewhere on the first floor. He could see the moving shadows of the
party goers behind the curtains on one of the ground floor windows.
He was glad for the party - it made him less conspicuous should
anyone be watching the place.

He brushed past a couple coming out of the building, cigarettes
already being lit up as they stepped into the misty rain. He went
into the foyer beyond and more signs of taste greeted him. Hardwood
floors, a large tasteful rug in the foyer just beneath the brass
mailboxes.

He was looking for apartment 3E, and went to the elevator at the end
of the foyer. The doors opened immediately and he stepped in, took
his glasses off and cleaned them on the bottom of his black
turtleneck as he rode up, replacing them once he'd cleared away the
dots of rain.

The apartment was at the end of the hallway, an oriental runner
leading the way toward the window and the door just beside it. He
knocked. Waited. He looked up and down the deserted corridor as he
did so.

Granger unlocked and opened the door after a brief moment, though to
Skinner it felt like a long time. Granger wore jeans, a black sweater
with the sleeves pushed up, no shoes. He wasn't as nervous as Skinner
expected he would be, or as formal.

"Sir," the younger man said by way of greeting, and stood back
immediately to allow Skinner to enter. Skinner did, and Granger
closed the door behind him, turned the lock.

Skinner moved from the small entrance hallway into the apartment
beyond, his eyes adjusting to the dimness of the room he entered. It
was small living room, simply furnished but with pieces that looked
carefully chosen and nicely made. An overstuffed dark green couch. A
squat black leather chair and ottoman. Dark wood for the tables and
the cabinet that held the television, which was on, the sound turned
down low. Metal lamps with off-white shades, the one by the couch the
only one on in the room. An oriental rug on the floor -- real,
looking worn and antique. Black and white photographs on the walls. A
painting of bare trees on the far wall, a lone figure walking a path
between them.

The kitchen was beside it, separated from the larger room by a long
half-wall topped with a wooden counter. Pots hung from a rack
suspended from the ceiling. A hallway led toward two darkened
doorways in the back of the apartment, and the shades and curtains
were drawn on the windows.

The place was warm and cave-like and smelled like tea.

"Please," Granger said, coming up behind Skinner, who had stopped
and was shouldering out of his jacket. "Have a seat."

Skinner lay the coat across the back of the leather chair and sat.
He glanced at the television -- hockey was playing. Skinner looked
from the television back to Granger, who was taking his place on the
couch and reaching for the remote.

"I didn't know the Flyers were playing tonight," Skinner said.

Granger gave a small embarrassed smile as he flicked off the
television. "Last year's playoffs on tape," he said. "I keep hoping
if I watch them enough times they'll end differently."

Skinner grunted. "Good team," he said, doing his best to be casual,
though he was so keyed up it was difficult to pull off.

"Yeah," Granger replied, replaced the remote on the coffee table.

There was an awkward moment of quiet.

"Did you call those people I asked you to?" Skinner said vaguely.

"Yes," Granger replied. "The place is clean, from what they said."

"Good," Skinner replied quietly. "Thank you for doing that."

Granger shook his head as if in disbelief. "I could make career out
of two of those guys if I'd gone into private practice," he replied.
"They could only be friends of Mulder's."


Skinner nodded. "Yeah, they are. They're good help."

Granger put his elbows on his knees and regarded Skinner seriously.

"I must admit," he began, seeming to choose his words with care,
"that I was surprised when you called me. You made it seem like you
didn't want me near you at the FBI the other day. That I couldn't be
trusted."

Skinner looked toward the windows, clenched his teeth, nodded. "Yes,
I did make it seem that way," he said, then turned his attention back
to the other man. "But I've come to the conclusion that I don't
really have anywhere else to turn *except* you."

"Thanks. I think." Granger said it dryly.

"Agent Granger, you have to understand that I would have some
misgivings."

"I understand that you would," Granger replied. "But you also know
that I believe Mulder is innocent of these charges. That given that
belief I would be doing everything in my power to clear him. And I've
given you information already to help he and Scully avoid capture by
the task force that *I'm* supposed to be working on. I don't know
what else I can do to convince you of my intentions."

Skinner nodded. "That's why I'm here," he said bluntly, but he
looked away as he spoke, avoiding the other man's intense gaze.
"You've convinced me."

Granger leaned back slightly, studied Skinner for a few seconds.

"I don't think so," Granger said, shaking his head. "You have
changed your mind, but not because of me. Something's happened to
*make* you change your mind, to make you risk talking to me."

Skinner felt color rise in his cheeks.

"I can tell something's different," Granger persisted.

Just my luck, Skinner thought wryly. I have to try and be evasive
with the best profiler at the CI-fucking-A....

"Yes," he said finally through gritted teeth. "Something's happened."

"Are they all right?" Granger asked instantly, leaning forward, his
voice lowered but weighted with concern.

Skinner hesitated, still unable to look at Granger. He warred with
his instincts, one that told him it was imperative to tell what he
knew and one that warned him against it, the latter a knee-jerk, like
an old habit he was having a hard time breaking.

Christ, he thought. Somewhere along the way he'd gotten as paranoid
as he'd always accused Mulder of being. The thought amused him in a
gallows-humor sort of way.

"If we're going to get anything done on this, sir, we're going to
have to tell each other what we know." Granger's voice was still low,
but frustrated now. Urgent.

Skinner heaved out a frustrated breath, nodded and finally spoke.
"As far as I know, they're all right," he said. "As much as the
circumstances allow, that is."

"So you *have* been in contact with them."

"Yes. Since Tennessee." The words still came from him haltingly,
quietly. "Though I never know their exact location. Mulder won't risk
revealing that."

"Well, four days ago they were in El Centro, California," Granger
said, and leaned down, drawing up a briefcase from beside the coffee
table.

Skinner froze. "The task force knows this?"

Granger shook his head, rummaging through the briefcase and pulling
out a folder. He handed it to Skinner.

"No, they don't," Granger said. "Only I do."

Skinner looked at him in confusion, still alarmed, and Granger
nodded toward the folder. Skinner opened it, looked at the picture
clipped to the inside.

His hand came up, a finger covering his mouth. Otherwise he was
still.

The tension between Mulder and Scully radiated from the scratchy
surveillance photo. And Scully...

God...

"What's wrong with Scully?" Granger asked, concern in his voice.
Skinner knew the younger man must have read the anguish in his
reaction, despite his attempt at hiding it.

Skinner didn't take his eyes from the photo as he spoke. "She was
exposed to Owen Curran's drug," he said, his voice flat.

"Jesus..."

He hurried to continue. "She made it through the withdrawal and
she's okay, but there have been some residual effects."

He nodded toward the photo.

"As you can see." He shook his head, let out a deep, tired breath.
"Mulder won't go into any specifics about what they are, but seeing
this..."

He could sense Granger studying him again in the beat of silence
that followed.

"There's something else then," Granger urged. "Something you didn't
know before that's made bringing them in more urgent."

Again Skinner hesitated. "Yes," he said at last, and now he did look
at Granger. "Have you looked at the police report from Mae Curran's
apartment recently?"

Granger seemed confused by the turn in the conversation, but nodded.
"Yes, I just looked at the task force's copy yesterday in fact. To
see if anything else had come in."

Skinner locked eyes with the other man. "And? Had anything new come
in?"

Granger seemed more confused, and shook his head. "No," he said.
"Not that I saw. Why?"

"Nothing in there..." He had to force himself to say it. "...about
evidence of a rape."

Granger's mouth came open in shock, his eyes widening. Then his
mouth closed, his expression sad. "God no," he said quietly. "Nothing
like that."

"Well, there's one good thing I can say about that son-of-a-bitch
Padden," Skinner said, bitter. "He's keeping that quiet from the
whole goddamn world."

"Apparently so," Granger said, his tone matching Skinner's, though
his expression remained stricken. "He seems to be pretty selective
about information, so I'm not surprised. For once that instinct was
right."

Then Granger seemed to breathe the ire about Padden out, relenting,
and his voice softened again. "God, I'm so sorry for her," he said,
shaking his head. "I won't mention this to anyone. She'll never know
that I know."

"I appreciate that, Agent Granger," Skinner replied formally. "I had
to tell you to find out what the task force knows or I wouldn't be
talking about it myself."

"I understand," Granger said. "I see now why you came to me. Her
situation is more dire than you thought."

"Yes."

They sat in a heavy silence for another moment. Skinner noticed a
clock ticking somewhere in the room.

"What do you want me to do?" Granger asked finally.

Skinner had never been so glad to hear that phrase in his life.

"I'll be talking to them again in a couple of days," he said, and
the words came quickly now. This part he knew. "I'm going to tell
them what you told me -- that they need to find a place to hole up
for a while. In fact, I'm in the process of making arrangements for
that place right now. What I need from you is help diverting
attention from where I'm going to send them."

"I take it," Granger gestured toward the folder still in Skinner's
hands. "that you're not going to be sending them to the area around
El Centro, California."

Skinner smirked a bit at that. "No," he replied. "Far from it."

Granger nodded, leaned back against the back of the couch. "So you
want me to wait until you speak to them, give them a day or so, and
then suddenly come up with that picture for the task force to throw
them on the wrong trail."

Skinner looked at the man for a reaction, but Granger gave none. He
knew he was asking Granger to do something that would ruin any chance
the young agent could have at a career in law enforcement for the
rest of his life.

"Can you do that without putting yourself at too much risk?" Skinner
asked.

He was relieved when Granger considered for a few seconds and then
nodded.

"Yes. I get stacks of possible sightings of them and Curran every
day. I'll just pretend it came in a current stack. No one will be
able to tell when it got to me. We get so many."

"All right," Skinner said, pleased. That part was taken care of.
Between the two of them, they could keep Padden away from Mulder and
Scully until he could tuck them away.

He just hoped the place he planned on putting them would come
through.

"I've been working on a couple of things," Granger said,
interrupting his thoughts. "Things about verifying where Mulder was
during some of the times that Padden is trying to say he could have
been meeting with the Path."

"Yes, that's what this is going to take," Skinner said. "We're not
going to be able to take this out with one blow. We're going to have
to chip away at it, a little piece of information at a time."

Granger nodded. "Yes, and I might have a small piece. I'm trying to
find a woman named Nancy Rand who was working at the gate where
Scully was supposed to board the plane to Boston, to see if she can
ID Mulder from the gate area. She's left the airline and I'm having a
hard time tracking her down, but I'll find her."

"Good," Skinner replied. "That's good. Another big piece of this is
those two days Mulder was gone in January. January 12-13. That was
right before the bombing and is one of the more damaging pieces of
Padden's case against Mulder -- that he would leave the task force in
Richmond without telling anyone like that, and be so cagey about
where he'd been, even to you. We need to find out where he was during
that time, as well."

"Yeah, Padden's been all over that with me," Granger said, his
frustration clear in his tone. "I could never give him a good enough
answer because I didn't know anything myself."

"I'll see what I can do about that," Skinner continued. "I'll ask
Mulder about it and see if there's some way to support what he tells
me. I haven't been talking about any of this with him yet. I've been
too worried about our contact being monitored to get into anything
like that with him. But we'll have to risk it."

He looked down at the photograph again, at Scully's thin face. He
shook his head.

"We've got to do something. And soon."

He handed the folder back to Granger. The younger man stared a hole
in the photograph for a moment. Skinner watched and concern pricked
him.

"You sure you're up for this?" he asked.

Granger didn't look up. "We could go to jail for this," he said, his
voice softer and touched with disbelief. "Everything both of us have
worked for...just gone."

Skinner's jaw pulsed. "Yes." He said it without apology.

After a few more seconds, he asked Granger the same question again.

"Yeah," Granger replied, and closed the folder. "Yeah, I'm in."


**********

OFF RESERVATION ROUTE 58
HOPI INDIAN RESERVATION
11:35 p.m.


One thing that Scully could never quite get used to was that the
desert, so warm during the day, could be so cold at night, the ground
so barren and the blank slate of black above it so unforgiving that
the earth itself seemed unable to hold even the smallest bit of
warmth.

She curled closer around herself in the back of the Bronco, tucking
herself deeper into the sleeping bag, pressing her face closer into
the small camp pillow they'd bought at an outdoor store weeks ago.
Her hand rested near the butt of her Sig beside her.

She was on her side on the pushed down back of the rear seat, which
they'd dropped down to allow them both to stretch out, Mulder lying
beside her. There was a small space between them.

It wasn't often they were forced to sleep in the truck, but they'd
bought the supplies just in case the need arose. The few times they
had done it, they had zipped the bags together, making one large sack
that they both slept in, pressed against each other for warmth. But
this night when she'd settled in after doing her ablutions as best
she could and changing her clothes outside the truck, she'd simply
unstuffed her bag from its sack and slipped inside, turning toward
the marred side window without a word.

Mulder had said nothing and had done the same, but she knew the
slight was not lost on him. She could feel it in his silence.

They were far out on a dirt road off the rural route they'd been
driving on, a remote area on this, one of the poorest reservations.
Mulder had driven for a good ten minutes off the paved road,
following the twisting near-trail over a small rise and parking
beside a small thatch of scraggly trees. It was too dark to see much
outside, though the full moon had cast a pale golden glow through the
trees as she'd stood beneath them, layered in bunting and sweats.
She'd brushed her teeth with the help of an old Army surplus canteen
full of metal-tasting water. Nearby, Mulder had done the same,
finishing up and then pulling layers of clothes out of his suitcase
for warmth.

They had said little for hours, but not because of what was between
them, really. It was more that they were both completely exhausted,
the adrenaline rush of the afternoon giving way sometime around dark
to a fatigue so complete that she'd been forced to keep an eye on
Mulder to make sure he didn't fall asleep at the wheel.

They'd crisscrossed side roads off the main highway, trying to stay
away from the few towns on the map. That was one of the problems with
the area they were in. There were only so many places a person could
actually stop to get what they needed, and putting people at all of
them wouldn't be that much of an expenditure of manpower. Though
they'd stopped once without incident for gas at one small town, they
hadn't stopped again until now.

Behind her, Mulder shifted, his breathing slow, signalling his
impending sleep. Usually she took great comfort in that sound. But
not tonight.

She put a hand to her bruised throat, worrying it with her fingers.
Her lids were heavy, her eyes slowly losing their focus on the view
outside the window, the curve of stars across the dome above her.

Who were those men?

Certainly hired by Curran -- she had to trust that even Padden
wouldn't attempt to bring her home with that kind of force. Plus, it
seemed more likely that Padden's men would take Mulder before they'd
take her.

But who?

Were there only three of them -- bounty hunters out for quick money -
- or were there more? The men were American, or at least the two
who'd spoken were, so it probably wasn't Path. Some other group,
someone Curran had had dealings with, perhaps...

Mae had told Mulder that Owen had "long arms," even in the U.S. That
she was fleeing the country to escape this fact, and had urged Mulder
and her to do the same...

Too tired...

Her lids slipped shut, her fingers still moving absently across her
throat for a moment. Then they grew still.

**

And then she was swimming, deep, light filtering through the surface
in streaming beams, reaching for the bottom, which she could not see
in the blue beneath her. The surface was dozens of meters away, and
she glided smooth through the water.

Her lungs drew in huge breaths of water, breathed them out, her arms
pulled her along. On one pull through the water, her legs fluttering
effortless behind her, she caught sight of a scrap of gold on her
left ring finger, a band shot with what appeared to be tiny diamonds.
They caught the light and held it as she swam, the world heavy and
liquid and filled with faint echoes rippling through water.

A huge school of silver fish appeared below her, their tails
twitching in near unison as they moved along. She watched them for a
moment, then turned and swam deeper, joining them. They parted just
enough to let her in amongst them, turning, angling away from her
body. She could see strands of her hair float within her vision as
she kept pace with them, their tin wide eyes following her, their
mouths opening and closing as though they were all speaking at once
in a silent language she couldn't understand.

Slowly they turned and formed a circle, moving around her in a
spiral stretching toward the bottom, like a slow tornado of silver
bodies swirling around her. She stopped in the center, felt their
small bodies, hundreds, brush against her fingertips as she reached
out toward the wall of them surrounding her.

She drew in another deep breath, the sound in her ears, echoing,
hollow sounds, as though she were breathing low rumbles of thunder
underwater.

She hung, suspended, nothing but blue above her and below, the
spiral of silver around her, all of it weightless, sunlight dancing
on her skin from the surface far above her...

The harsh sun as she exited the bathroom. An arm across her throat,
jerking her back against the hard shape of a body, warm harsh breath
on her ear...

Fagan's hands on her throat, squeezing, lifting her slightly against
the sink, her hand groping for the cold handle of the knife as the
other clawed at his wrist...

Breathe she couldn't breathe she couldn't breathe

Her head smashing against the hardwood floor, hands pushing at her
robe. His body flat against her back, the long bone of his arm
pinning her neck back...

The man lifting her, carrying her, a hand across her mouth and nose.
She sucked in for air and got nothing but skin, the taste of salt...

Salt in her lungs. Sea water burning down her throat as she inhaled,
choking now, bubbles of air appearing before her face and racing
upward. She screamed, the sound muffled, otherworldly...

She shot for the surface, the fish scattering in alarm. She could
see it above her. A bluish light she struggled toward, her arms
clawing out in front of her, leaving trails of tiny bubbles like
motion.

Her vision hazed from lack of oxygen. The brick in her hand,
swinging back, blindly.

The knife swinging forward, the sound of metal on teeth. A scream of
outrage. Pain.

The surface was just a few feet away. Her hand reached up to break
the surface, her lungs burning...

Her hand hit hard on something cold. Bluish white. Flat and smooth
against her palm.

Ice. The surface was ice.

Her head knocked up against it as she fought the instinct to pull in
a breath. She skittered along the underside, arms flailing, searching
for a break, a crack, a weak spot, anything.

Her face pressed against the thick surface, she opened her mouth and
screamed.

**

Mulder's sleep was dead, his mind completely empty, his body
perfectly still.

That didn't stop him from shooting into a sit the instant the sound
began, the hoarse scream tearing around the interior of the truck's
cabin.

His eyes were wide, his hand going for the gun beside him without
him even thinking of it. He pulled in a panicked breath and his eyes
shot toward Scully beside him.

She thrashed as though the sleeping bag were squeezing down on her,
her left hand up on the window, her nails scratching across the glass
as her arm shook violently, its tremble only slightly greater than
that of the rest of her body. The hand turned into a fist and slammed
against the glass.

"Scully!" He put the gun down, scooted over to her, put a hand out
and grasped her wrist. His own arm shook with the force of her
tremor.

"Calm down...calm down..."

She pulled in a harsh breath, gasping, hyperventilating from the
sounds of it, screamed again, this time the word "no," high and
shrill and terrified. She jerked her arm away from his grasp, her
hand fumbling out in front of her blindly, her eyes still clenched
closed.

Her fingers grazed the butt of her Sig. She grasped it quickly, the
other hand joining it as she hefted the thing, her finger on the
trigger instantly, lifting--

"NO!" Mulder said, loud, and threw himself out of his sleeping bag,
flattened his body on top of hers, his hand going for the gun. Her
grip was iron, her strength adrenaline- and terror-fueled, and Mulder
had to slam her hands down on the floor of the truck to keep her from
raising the weapon.

"Scully, no!" He tried to keep his voice calm, but it was hard to
muster under the circumstances. "Let go...just let it go..."

She didn't listen, her breath wheezing, too fast. He did manage to
get her shaking left hand off the gun, the finger off the trigger.
Then he pulled that arm in against her body and held it there with
one of his own. He grasped the Sig with the other, grappling with
her. Finally he got it away from her, clicked over the safety with a
finger and tossed it haphazardly toward the tailgate.

"Get off! Get them off me!" she shrieked, and he knew he must be
crushing her, his chest flat against her upper arm and back, pinning
her to the floor and holding her arms in against her body. She
screamed it again, desperate, jerking violently in his hold.

Keeping her arms against her with one forearm as she struggled, he
rolled until he was behind her now, pushed an arm beneath her body
and pulled her back to his chest, his arms pressing her elbows to her
sides. Her breathing was still shallow, stentorious. He put his cheek
against her head, his lips close to her ear, stilling her thrashing
head as best he could.

Her nails sunk into his forearms where his sleeves had pushed up,
her fingers curled like claws, raking up skin, drawing blood. He
winced, but held on.

"Okay..." He was panting now himself. He pressed a kiss to her ear,
shushing her.

She kicked back at him with her legs and he got one knee over them
to protect his shins and groin.

"I can't breathe..." Her voice was high, reedy, filled with air as
she gasped.

"You know what to do, Scully...we can do this together...listen to
my voice now." He tightened his hold as she thrashed again.
"Twenty...nineteen..."

She was crying now. "God, I can't...can't breathe..."

"Eighteen...seventeen...sixteen..."

"He's...he's crushing my throat..." A sob. Her arm shook harder
against his, her nails still digging in. She pulled in a desperate
breath.

He kissed her lobe again, holding her tighter.
"Fifteen...fourteen...come on, Scully...come with me..."

He kept counting, felt her back heave against his chest. Slowly her
breathing grew deeper as her tears came freely.

"Eleven.."

Then finally, she answered: "Ten," pulled in a deeper ragged breath.

"Nine...eight...come on..." He whispered it into her ear, felt her
begin to relax, her body softening as she breathed more easily now,
her hands relaxing some.

"Seven," she choked out. "Six..."

"Five," they said in unison, and their voices melded together
through the last of it, Scully still breathing hard but calmer now.
As they reached "one," he loosened his grip on her until she simply
lay in his arms, pulled his leg back until it rested behind hers.

"You're okay," he said softly. "Everything's all right."

They lay still for several minutes.

Then he could feel her coming back to herself. He could tell by the
way her hands pulled away from his arms, how her legs came up and
away from his. She pushed her head from beneath his, bending her head
down and away, and he lay his own behind hers, feeling the distance
set back in.

It was as if she'd placed him in a skiff and gave him a slow push
off her shore.

She scrubbed at her eyes, her hand shaking as she pushed her hair
off her face.

He sighed in the quiet that followed. She allowed him to hold her
still, but he knew it was only to spare his feelings. Not because she
wanted him to. The thought made him ache inside.

"Everything's all right," he said again, and this time he was trying
to convince himself as much as her.

Then, as if in answer, footsteps outside the truck. A horse coming
nearer.

He pulled away from her, rolled toward his gun, heard her sharp
intake of breath at the sound. He picked up the pistol, turned
carefully around so that he was facing the back of the truck now, the
gun in front of him.

The horse stopped. Then the heavy sound of someone leaping down and
landing on both feet. The sound of walking, then a dim shape outside
the back window, a beam of a flashlight dancing through the foggy
glass.

Neither he or Scully seemed to be breathing. They were frozen still.

A knock on the window.

"You in there," a man's voice said sharply. "Open up."

Mulder kept still. A drop of sweat raced down his temple despite the
chill.

"I heard you in there all the way from half a mile away. I know
you're in there. Now open up."

Mulder lay the hand that held the gun down on the floor, edged
closer to the door and turned the handle to the back window slowly,
the gun aimed at the tailgate. He pushed the window open, the man
standing back as it swung out and up.

Mulder looked out, squinting in the beam of the flashlight the man
shone right in his face. Mulder put a hand up to shield his eyes. He
could make out the man's face dimly -- Native American. Late fifties.
Jacket. Plaid shirt. A shotgun in the hand that didn't hold the
flashlight.

"What the hell you doing out here?" the man asked.

"We...we were just stopping to sleep for the night," Mulder replied.
"There was no place to stay, so we--"

"You're 100 feet from where my sheep are penned," the man
interrupted. "You're not welcome to stop here."

"We won't be any trouble," Mulder said, and there was a hint of
pleading in his voice. He couldn't face the road again so soon. "Just
for tonight--"

"You've already been trouble," the man grumbled in reply. "I had to
come out here to see who the hell you are. This is my land. You're
not welcome here. Get back on the road and get on out of here." He
hefted the shotgun for effect.

"All right," Mulder said. His hand held tight to the gun in case the
man followed up his words. "We'll be on our way."

The man made a small affirmative sound in his throat, a grunt. "You
want some place to stay get off the Hopi reservation. We don't like
people *staying* here."

"All right," Mulder said again, and the man turned, going toward the
horse that stood a few feet from the truck, its grey back bathed in
moonlight. The man swung himself up into the saddle, gave the horse a
nudge with his heels, and turned and walked slowly away.

Mulder wiped his forehead with his hand, releasing a breath. He sat
up straighter, pulled the window back down and closed it. Behind him,
he could hear Scully starting to breathe again herself.

"I'll drive," she said, began to sit up. He put a hand out to stop
her.

"No, I'll do it," he said softly, resigned. "You stay back here and
try to get some sleep. I'll find us somewhere to go."

"But you're exhausted, Mulder," she said, looking at him with
concern and a touch of exasperation. "You were falling asleep at the
wheel before."

"I'm all right," he said, and shifted toward the front of the truck.
He climbed over the seat, took his place behind the wheel.

"Mulder--"

"You can relieve me in a couple of hours if I can't find a place by
then, okay?" he offered peevishly, cutting her off. They were both in
strung out shape. There was nothing to be gained by having a contest
about who was worse off at this point, and he was too tired to argue.

"All right," she said, and her voice sounded very far away. He
hadn't meant to silence her quite so harshly.

He shook his head, regretting it.

He placed the gun beside him on the seat. His bare feet reached for
the cold pedals and he turned the ignition, the truck coming to life.
He shook himself awake harder, squeezing the steering wheel tightly.
Then he flicked on the headlights, threw the truck into gear, turned
and crept down the dirt road, the headlights doing little to cut
through the darkness around them.


**********

END OF CHAPTER 8. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 9.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 9.


*********


THE ISABELLA
BAHIA SAN JORGE
MARCH 24
6:12 a.m.


The nets dragged deep.  They strained against their braces as the
ship rose and fell on the sea, a spray of foamy water coming up as
the bow slapped down against the waves heading into the Point.  The
air was filled with the sounds of water and creaking wood, the
ubiquitous sound of the seagulls that followed the boat, hoping for
the leavings once the nets were pulled in.

Joe Porter stood at the bow, a plastic mug filled with chicory
coffee in his hands.  He turned his face away as the spray washed
over him, over the yellow slicker he wore, the top gaping open to
reveal the high loose matching pants that hung from their red
suspenders, his battered white t-shirt.  Pushing his wet hair out of
his face, he returned his gaze to the shore, his eyes squinting
against the sharp beams of light coming up from the sun as it dawned.
The sky burned orange as though it were on fire.

Behind him, the Mexican fishermen were laughing over a game of
cards.  Even when they laughed, he mused, they laughed in Spanish.
They were all waiting for the boat to finish this circuit, waiting
for the nets to be pulled in.  This was his favorite time.  The
waiting.  The heavy smell of the sea and the shrimp already hauled
in, the bitter coffee in his hands.  His head was clearer out here.
It gave him time to think, though sometimes the thoughts pained him.

This morning that was the case.  He was thinking about California,
the last terrible weeks he'd spent there.  He thought about the
sleepless nights he'd given over to the partying and the drug, the
heroin sending a warm rush into his arm as he pushed the needle down
in the bathroom stalls of a dozen clubs.  The music pounding through
the walls.  The money exchanged, both into and out of his hands, with
a dozen strangers every night.  And then leaving alone to walk the
warm streets, lost, feeling both the best and worst he ever had in
his life.  The drug made sure of that.

The morning he'd come home to find the police moving in and out of
his apartment just before dawn, he'd known that life was finally at
an end.  Though he'd been terrified at the sight, a part of him was
relieved, welcomed the end to the space his life had placed between
him and the rest of the world, the way it had turned everyone around
him into convenient acquaintances, the drug the only thing that
passed for connection with anyone in his life.

Without stopping, he'd driven his Jeep right by his apartment and
headed south, his wallet and pockets stuffed full with cash from the
night's dealings, his head still humming, the world gauzed from his
lingering high.  He had enough product to keep him going for awhile.
Enough to wean himself off if he was careful.  And lucky.

Then the long drive through the desert, down past San Diego and
across the border by midday, through Tijuana and Mexicali, skirting
the Arizona border to Sonoita and then west to the Point, perched
right on the Gulf.

Then the nights of shivering in the dingy motel room as the drug ran
out.  The pain, the screaming need of his body, lying all night
drenched with sweat, shaking, caught in fitful, fevered dreaming.  He
hadn't gone out, even to eat, for days as the drug worked its way out
of his system like a slow and painful burning.

When it was over he vowed to never go back.  He'd gone out, still
weak, into the town and gotten a job, a place to live on his
dwindling money, and begun this new life.  Quiet.  Simple.  Solitary.

Until now.  He gave a small smile to the thought.

The sun coming in warm now, he pulled off the slicker and tossed it
near the wheel house, took a sip of his coffee.  On his tanned arms,
the needle scars stood out like pink and white tattoos, like points
on a map following the battered veins down toward his wrists.  He
would carry the scars of that life forever.

The physical, at least.  Some other part of him was coming back to
life.  Healing over.  All he had to do was think about her and he
could feel that part of him, a tough bud, opening.

"Oye!"  the captain called, coming out from the wheelhouse.  The
engine rumbled into idle and the boat slowed, buffeted harder by the
waves as its forward motion waned.  "Estn subiendo las redes!"

Time for the nets to come in.

Joe didn't move right away, though the captain was already throwing
the wench into motion, the rope that held the nets off the side of
the boat like great wings grinding over the pulleys, wood and metal
whining.  Everyone on the deck sprang into motion, grabbing small
wooden rakes, pulling on thick gloves that covered all the way to
their forearms.  Rubber boots squeaked on the deck.

"You, too, El Callado."   The captain, Esteban, slapped Joe on the
shoulder as he passed him on the way to the bow, a good-natured smile
on his face.  Joe smiled back at the name he'd been given by the
captain and crew -- "Quiet One."  He really did do much to keep to
himself.

He put his coffee down against the side, went for his gloves and
rake, as well, joined the men on either side of the boat.

The sea foamed as the nets were brought up.  They rose heavy and
dark from the water, men with grappling hooks snagging them and
pulling them over the wide stern. Then, with the pull of a handle,
the ropes released, the catch slapping to the deck in a huge heap of
shine and motion.

Joe moved in with the rest, first using his rake to push away the
frantic crabs, reaching down and tossing them over the side back into
the sea.  The shrimp they sought lay in huge clumps, barely moving
amongst the blankets of shocked silver fish.  The men worked quickly,
pulling the fish out and sending them over the side, as well,
seagulls drawing neat parabolas in the air to catch them before they
hit the safety of the surface.

A small shark lay in the middle of it all, thrashing, its mouth
desperately drawing in useless air.  Joe went to it immediately,
grasped the thick tail with both hands and threw it over the side.

It was a good catch.  Several hundred pounds of shrimp.  The boat
would earn out its trip between this load and the three previous.
The men would get paid.  Everyone was in good spirits as they worked
because of this.

Someone started a song and the men picked it up.  Joe smiled but did
not join in, though he knew the song well.  It was about a sailor
coming in from the sea.  The men's voices rose and fell over the
clatter of claws, rakes; the wet slap of fish hitting the water; the
engine rumbling.

The sun continued to rise, a golden eye.

The catch secured, they headed back to port, the men smoking,
singing, clustered at the stern, their legs dangling over the sides.

Joe stood apart from them as he always did, up near the bow again so
he could watch the port edge closer.   He thought of her again.  Her
beautiful face.  The blue of her eyes.  The tiny smile she gave him
as she looked away when she caught him watching her.

It seemed to him she'd been wanting to be closer to him lately.
They'd spent the night together again last night.  He'd slipped from
the bed hours before dawn, leaving her there, her soft, nude body
bathed in moonlight.  It had been all he could do to leave.

He was still troubled by her secrets.  But there was a warmth to her
now, a slow opening to him that hadn't been there before.

He knew he was in love with her.  And he thought she might be
falling in love with him, as well.  Thinking this, he, too, warmed
inside.  He felt less empty somehow.  As though he were somehow
emerging from the brittle shell of his past.

He watched the land approach, looming nearer now.  Other boats were
already back with their catches, men swarming the pier, trucks
honking, a bustle of movement everywhere he looked.

Two men came forward and grabbed the ropes that would secure the
Isabella to the dock once again.  Joe stepped out of the way,
scanning the dock

No, he corrected himself.  There wasn't movement everywhere.

Mae stood perfectly still in the center of a swirl of activity, a
maelstrom of men carrying crates of shrimp, holding huge gutted fish
by the tails.  Her hair was pulled back, and her pale skin was
luminous in the morning light.  Sean was with her, standing against
her leg, watching the activity around him with a child's interest.

Joe looked at her and their eyes locked, their gazes hanging.  She
gave him that same shy smile, looked away, then back up at him again,
something pleased and tentative in her eyes.

He gave her a tender smile in return, raised a hand to her as the
boat touched gently in to shore.


*************


FRY CANYON, UTAH
HIGHWAY 95
8:36 a.m.


Scully pulled herself back toward consciousness and the effort was
like dragging her body out of sand, her sleep had been so complete.
Her face was cold, the rest of her warm within the sleeping bag, and
she pulled the flap of it up and over the side of her head, willing
the chill away.

She opened her eyes then.  Something was different.  The lull of the
tires rolling on pavement was gone now, the truck still.  Sunlight
was coming in through the dirty side windows of the Bronco, and she
could make out the shape of a gas station canopy out the window, a
loud sign advertising a two-liter bottle of Coke for 99 cents.  Then
the sound of liquid rushing into the truck somewhere at her feet, the
hiss of gas entering the huge tank.

She sat upright quickly, orienting herself, and saw Mulder leaning
with his back against the tailgate, his head bowed forward.  He
wasn't moving,  his shoulders sagging within his denim jacket, the
hood of the sweatshirt he wore beneath it pressed against the dingy
glass.

She wondered what time it was.  Early, she gathered, from the way
the sunlight glowed on the horizon in the distance out the front
windshield.

The memory of the night before came back to her now, seeming a
lifetime ago.  She ran it over in her mind, the images suffocating
her until she pushed them away.  She remembered Mulder's conversation
with the man out the back of the truck, then him crawling over the
seat, promising to wake her in two hours if he didn't find a place to
stay by then.

Thinking all this, she returned her gaze to Mulder, and ire started
to rise in her.  He hadn't woken her up as they'd agreed.  She'd bet
anything he'd driven all night while she slept, not stopping or even
looking for a place to stop.

She disentangled herself from the sleeping bag, the morning chill of
the truck's cabin hitting her full on.  It was too early for the sun
to have warmed anything yet, the desert still cold and still from the
night.  She edged closer to the tailgate and knocked on the window at
Mulder's back.

He jumped at the sound as though she'd startled him awake, then
turned around and stepped back as she opened the back window.

"Good morning," he said softly.  He did not smile.  His face didn't
seem up for it.  His eyes were deeply rimmed in red, smudges beneath
his eyes.  He looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

"Why didn't you wake me up?"  she asked by way of greeting, her
voice still sleepy but with a sharp edge to it.

He shrugged.  "I thought it would be good for you to sleep," he said
gently.  "I could handle it.  I was pretty awake."

She shook her head, and now the exasperation did touch her voice.
"You could have fallen asleep at the wheel, Mulder, especially
without me there to keep you up.  It was dangerous and it was
stupid."

He seemed taken back by her tone and her words.  "I didn't think it
was a big deal," he offered, shifting his weight from one foot to the
other uncertainly.  "I'm sorry, Scully."

She reached over for her suitcase, unzipped it hard and pulled out
her small toiletries bag.  "You're not sorry," she grumbled.  "I'm
sick of you trying to shelter me, Mulder.  We're partners, before
we're anything else.  I'm still an FBI agent, for God's sake, and I
expect to be treated like one.  Not like a child who needs
coddling."

"Scully, I know you're my partner.  But you've been hurt badly and
have been very sick," Frustration leaked into his voice, as well.  "I
mean, Jesus, look at what you've been through --"

She glared at him, pinning him.  There was a warning in her eyes and
she could tell from the way he swallowed down the rest of what he was
going to say that he saw it.

"What I've been through has nothing to do with this," she said
dismissively.

"It has everything to do with it," he said instantly, and he was
angry now.  "You may be trying to pretend like it doesn't, but I've
been with you for weeks now and I've seen the toll this has taken on
you.  Hell, the toll it's taken on both of us.  If there's anything I
can do to try and alleviate that, I'm going to damn well do it.
Especially if it's something as simple as driving for a few extra
hours so you can rest."

His words stung her.  She felt herself flush at what he'd said about
the effect this was having on him.  It was the first time he'd said
anything like that aloud.

After a few seconds, she pulled herself together, anger simmering in
her along with the blossoming guilt and shame.

"Then do these things to protect yourself and not to protect me if
it's taking such a toll on you," she said, the feelings warring in
her, and she pushed the tailgate down, scrambling down and grabbing
her shoes.  She pulled them on, then stood and faced him, looking up
into his weary face.

She let the anger rise again.

"But part of protecting yourself is not playing the macho hero in
all this and running yourself into the ground.  You're no use to
either of us that way.  Any more than I would be if I were doing the
same thing."

She saw him chafe at the "macho hero" comment as he jammed his hands
deep in his pockets and looked down, his jaw pulsing with an unspoken
response.  He relented, blowing out a breath as the gas nozzle
snapped, signaling that the tank was full.

"Yeah, well, I'm going to call Skinner," he said, brushing the
previous conversation away.  "Tell him what happened yesterday.  See
if there's any change."

"I'll call him this time."

He looked at her in surprise.  "What?"

She glared at him again.  "I can give and receive information as
well as you can, Mulder," she said.

"Yes, but he's used to dealing with me on this -"

"Well, I think it's time for that to change, too," she replied
firmly.  "It's not like I don't know the man.  Give me his cell
number."

Mulder looked at her, his expression uncertain and worried.

She looked at him and her heart jumped.  "What have you told him?"
she asked.  "Is there something you've said to him that you don't
want me to know about?"

His mouth gaped, then shut to a thin line for a few seconds.

"God, no, Scully, I would never tell him anything without asking you
first.  He knows about the drug, and that's it.  How can you even ask
me such a thing?"

She sighed.  "You just seemed to not want me to talk to him, that's
all.  And I wondered why."

He said nothing to that.  He reached into his back pocket and drew
out his wallet, pulling out the slip of paper with the phone number
on it.  Then he dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of
change, all quarters.  He'd obviously already gotten the money for
the call when he paid for the gas.

"There," he said quietly, offering both to her.

She tossed her toiletries bag back into the truck - she would get
cleaned up afterward - and took the number and the handful of change
from him.  Then she stalked off toward the phone booth at the far end
of the lot.  She could feel his eyes following her.

It had been a long time since she'd had this much feeling about
anything, certainly any feeling other than the panic that so often
gripped her in the wake of the dreams, the anguish she'd felt in the
bed with him that night in the hotel, her shirt pressed to her
chest.

This anger was something new.  She didn't know where it came from.
But a part of her welcomed it, welcomed the power that surged through
her with it.

She would not be a victim of any of this.  And she would certainly
not let Mulder - or anyone else - treat her as one.

She reached the phone, spread the coins out on the small ledge
beneath it.  She picked up the receiver, dialed the number, putting
in the right amount of coinage for the first five minutes with her
good hand.  The phone began to ring.

"Hello?"  Skinner called, picking up on the second ring.  His voice
was tight and alert, as though he'd been expecting the call.

"Assistant Director Skinner," she replied.  "It's Agent Scully."

There was a beat of silence, then:   "Scully, has something happened
to Mulder?"

"No, sir, he's right here with me," she said evenly.  "I just
thought it would be good for you and I to make contact this time."

Another beat.  "Okay.um, sure, Scully.  That's fine."

There was something in his tone that she didn't like.  A hesitancy.
An awkwardness that hadn't been there in their interactions before.
She pushed it aside.  She was probably just being paranoid, she
thought.

"What's the status of things?"  he asked.

She told him about what had happened at the gas station the day
before, about their night of running.  She said it all
dispassionately, as though she were talking about someone else, or a
case they were working on.

"But.you're all right?" Skinner asked with care.

"Yes, sir, I'm fine," she said formally.

"Have you shaken them?"

She glanced around the lot, down the deserted stretch of highway
beyond them.  It occurred to her that she had no idea where they
were.

"It would appear so, yes," she replied finally.

"They'd have to be working for Curran," Skinner thought aloud.  "The
question is who.  I'll get on my end and see if I can come up with
any leads about people he might have had dealings with.  Any
intelligence on groups with ties to the area you're in.  I'll see
what I can find."

"There's no way to know, I suppose, if these might just be people
he's hired, or if they're part of a larger group," she rejoined.
"It's hard to tell how widespread they could be, hard to know where
to run to get away from them."

The phone beeped and she put more coins in the slot.  Skinner waited
until she was done before he began speaking again.

"Well, that's not going to be an issue anymore," Skinner said.  "I'm
working with Agent Granger now and he said that you're going to get
caught if you keep running.  There have been sightings of you all
over the place.  I saw a picture of the two of you myself last night."

"Where?" she asked, and was suddenly afraid.

"Southern California.  I hope you're away from there now?"

"Yes," she said, relieved instantly.  She knew not to tell him where
they were, even if she did know.

"That's good," Skinner said.  "Look, Granger says you've got to stop
running or the task force is going to find you eventually."

"But what about these men that were after us yesterday?"  Scully
asked.  "Won't staying put make it easier for them to find us?"

"Not where I'm going to send you," Skinner replied.  "I've made
arrangements for a place for you to stay.  Someplace safe.  Out of
the way."

"I can't imagine where that would be," Scully replied, dubious.

"You remember a few years ago you two met up with a Code Talker out
that way, a Navajo man named Albert Hosteen?"

"Of course," she said.  "He saved Mulder's life.  He protected us
both."

"Well, I've spoken to him and he's prepared to protect the two of
you again.  I've explained the situation to him as best I can, told
him Mulder was being wrongly accused by elements of the government
and that you're with him for your own protection.  He remembered you
both well.  He didn't even hesitate to say he would hide you on the
reservation, even when I told him what the penalties could be for
him."

Scully leaned against the phone, feeling something in her unhitch.
It would mean an end to the running, at least temporarily.  And they
would most likely be safe there, as Skinner had said.  Out of sight.

"He's a very good man to do that for us," she said finally.  She
felt choked up at thought of someone risking this much for them,
someone they barely knew.  She pushed the emotion down as she cleared
her throat.  "Thank you for arranging that for us."

"I'm glad to do it," Skinner replied gently.  "I know you two need
to stop.  You've been running for a long time.  And I know it's got
to be hard on you both.  Especially on you."

Scully looked down, feeling exposed.  It was hard for her to hear
that tone from Skinner.  It seemed familiar in a way that made her
feel vulnerable and she wasn't comfortable with it.

"Thank you, sir," she replied, her voice formal and even again.
"How do we find him?"

"He's in Two Grey Hills, New Mexico," Skinner said, all business
again himself.  "He told me to tell you to head for Farmington, then
go to the reservation from there.  There's a gas station over the
reservation line just as you cross in, an Exxon station with a
market.  His son owns it.  He said for you to go there and his son
would give you directions on how to find him.  He's expecting you any
time.  He said everything would be arranged by the time you got
there."

"All right," Scully said.  "I'm not sure where we are right now, but
we'll head that way immediately.  Get there as fast as we can."

"Good."

Another beep, saying time was running out.  Scully pushed more coins
into the machine.

Then there was a strange, long pause from Skinner.  Her brow creased
as it stretched.  She could almost see him starting to say something
and yet remained silent.

"Is there something else, sir?"  she asked finally.  She looked
across the parking lot, saw Mulder standing by the truck, watching
her, his hands still in his pockets.

"Yes, there is, Scully," Skinner said quietly.  Another pause.  She
grew more nervous in the midst of this one.

"I'm actually glad you were the one who called this time, because
there's something I thought you might want to know," he said at last.
His voice was so quiet and hesitant it was almost difficult to hear
him.

"What is it?"  A feeling of unnamable dread came over her.

"I've gone over the reports from the crime scene at Mae Curran's
apartment.  The autopsy report on John Fagan," He stopped again,
trailing off.

Her heart clenched like a fist at the mention of the name.  "Yes?"
she replied, forcing her voice into a normal pitch.

"I thought you might like to know.well, that he was clean," Skinner
said, something sad in his voice.  "No sign of diseases at all.  No
HIV.  Nothing."

She sucked in a breath.  Blood rushed to her neck and her face,
making her feel suddenly boiling hot.  Her stomach plummeted as her
trembling hand went up to brace her against the booth's glass.

He knows.

God, they probably all know.

She clenched her eyes closed as they stung.  She felt stripped.  Raw.

"Scully?"  he called.  "Are you there?"

She pulled in the breath, willing the shake in it away.  She swiped
her eyes.  Her hand shook harder as she pinched the bridge of her
nose.

"Yes, I'm here," she said, and her tone did not quite reach its
normal tenor.  She had to get off the phone.  "Thank you, sir.  Thank
you for the information."

He was silent for another beat, as though he were sizing her up.
"Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine, sir.  Just fine.  Is there anything else?"

He cleared his throat, and his awkwardness was tangible in the air
around her.  As were her own emotions as they crashed into her.  The
anger she'd felt so recently, the power it had given her, was gone.
The other feelings - the guilt and the shame - settled over her like
a heavy black cloak.

"I need to talk to Mulder for a moment, if he's available," Skinner
said finally, and she stood up a bit straighter, turned her attention
to Mulder, who was still leaning against the truck, still watching
her.  She waved for him to come over and he started across the lot.

"He's coming," Scully said, and she still couldn't force her voice
down.  She coughed to hide it.

"I'm glad to hear from you, Scully," Skinner said quietly, warmly.
"I'm glad you're doing better."

She nodded absently as Mulder made it to the side of the booth.  It
was showing on her.  His face looked worried as he gazed at her.

"Thank you, sir, for all your help.  Here's he is."  And she handed
the phone off as she brushed by Mulder and headed back to the truck.

**

Mulder took the phone, turned and watched her retreating toward the
truck, her gait hurried, her strides purposeful and long.  Finally,
he put the phone to his ear, still watching her.

"Yes, sir," he mumbled into the phone.

"Mulder, I need some information from you," Skinner said, and Mulder
was relieved that he sounded all business.  His normal tone made
whatever had set Scully off seem less acute for some reason.

"Granger and I are working together now, working on a few things,
trying to poke some holes in Padden's story about your whereabouts
right before the bombing."

That sounded hopeful.  "Okay," he said, pleased.

Skinner heaved in a deep breath.  "There were two days you were gone
from Richmond in January.  January 12-13.  A night you didn't come
back to the hotel and a day you didn't show up for work.  You
wouldn't tell anyone where you were, not even Granger, and Padden's
been all over that, thinking that's when you were meeting with Curran
or making an explosives run or some such shit."

Mulder froze.  The day Danny Conner had died.  When Scully had
called him, demanding to see him and he'd gone to get her at the bus
stop in the darkness, driven her all the way to Afton Mountain to
hide with her there for the night.

They'd made love that night, and again that morning.  It was the
last time they'd been that close, that free.  He closed his eyes
against the pleasure and pain of the memory.

"Well?"  Skinner asked, breaking him from his thoughts.

"Well what?"  Mulder asked, his voice far away.  He watched Scully
get her toiletries bag and a pair of pants out of the back and head
for the store.  Her face was down, and she was still moving at that
strange, hurried pace.  It was as if she were afraid someone were
watching her and she needed to get inside as fast as possible.

"What the hell do you mean, 'well what'?"  Skinner snapped.  "I need
to know where you were, Mulder, so we can get some confirmation on it
and hopefully get rid of that piece of Padden's theory."

Mulder hesitated again.  To tell where they'd been would risk Scully
being reprimanded for leaving her undercover position to see him
without authorization.

It meant possibly exposing their relationship.  To Skinner.  Padden.
All of them.  And after so long of managing to keep that a secret, he
was resistant to giving that away.  Especially now.

"Goddamnit, Mulder, answer me!  The time for screwing around is long
since over.  Things couldn't get a whole hell of a lot more serious,
for Christ's sake."

Mulder ignored him, thinking.  The phone chirped at him and he
pushed the last of the coins into the battered machine.

Maybe they wouldn't have to know she was there at all.  Maybe the
manager never saw her.  He'd signed in alone, used his cover name,
and paid for the room in cash.  Maybe Skinner could get confirmation
on his being there and clear those days up that way and they'd never
have to know Scully's part in it at all.

He would have to risk it.

"I was on Afton Mountain in Western Virginia," he said finally.  "A
motel at the top of the mountain.  I can't remember the name of it.
But you can see it from the highway as you go over the crest.  It's
one of the few up there.  I signed in as George Hale."

"You picked a hell of a time to go on a little vacation, Mulder,"
Skinner grumbled.

"I had my reasons," he replied vaguely.

"Yeah, well let's just hope Padden doesn't think you were meeting
Curran up there, that someone can vouch for the fact that you were
alone that night.  Or it could  just compound your problems."

Mulder winced.  The only way to confirm that was for Scully to vouch
for him, to expose herself that way.  And she'd been exposed enough.

So he said nothing in response.

"Granger's trying to find someone from the airline that can say you
were at the airport gate while Fagan was being killed.  We're working
on it."

"I appreciate what you're doing for me, sir," Mulder said quietly.
"I really do."

Skinner grunted.  "Well, anyway, Scully knows where you're going.
Call me from there in a week and I'll give you any new information
I've got."

Mulder thanked him and said goodbye, hanging up the phone as he
watched Scully coming back toward the car, her bunting top off now,
just a long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans and boots on now.  Her hair was
pulled back beneath her baseball cap again, her sunglasses in place.
She went to the driver's side of the truck and climbed in, slamming
the door behind her.

He peeled out of his jacket as he made his way back across the sandy
lot.  The sweatshirt followed, leaving him in a white t-shirt and his
jeans.  He scrubbed at his hair and beard as he went to the passenger
side and climbed into the truck, tossing the extra clothes in the
back on top of their makeshift pallets.

He looked over at her.  Her fingers were white on the steering
wheel, her eyes hidden behind her sunglasses.  They were still for a
moment, her gaze down in her lap as he watched her, his face creasing
with concern.

Something was wrong.  And he meant more than usual.

"What is it?"  he asked gently.

"It's nothing," she said, and he'd never heard a voice so monotone
and distant and cold.  She didn't move.  "I'm fine."

Though the anger she'd aimed at him earlier had not exactly been to
his liking, he preferred it to this.   She was a shell.  He could
tell by her voice, the way her shoulders drooped, her body slumped
forward as though something had finally beaten the rest of her down.
As though she'd somehow given up.

"What's happened?"  He whispered it. "Talk to me, Scully."

She cleared her throat, and her face rose to look out the
windshield.  "We're going to New Mexico," she said quietly.  "Help me
find Farmington on the map and how to get there from where we are."

He shook his head.  "That's not what I mean."

"Help me find it on the map," she continued in the same tone, as
though he hadn't spoken.  "And then you'll probably want to go ahead
and get some sleep."  She reached down and started the engine, the
truck shaking to life.

Her voice was so strange.  As though she were talking, but not to
anyone else.

He pursed his lips, shook his head again as he looked away.

This was going to stop, he decided.  He'd had enough of all of it.
It was starting to hurt too much to continue like this.

He reached for the map, unfolded it roughly, slapping it down on his
lap.

All right, he thought.  I'll find Farmington.

And when we get there, some things are going to change.

He would make sure of that.



END OF CHAPTER 9.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 10.


Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 10.


* * * * * * * * *

OUTSIDE MEXICAN WATER, ARIZONA
HIGHWAY 191/160
2:37 p.m.


The silence had grown oppressive.  It hung in the air of the truck's
cabin like a spring snow cloud, cold and dark and ultimately
unwelcome.

Mulder had tried to doze through the quiet after it became apparent
that she wasn't going to speak to him.  He'd leaned against the
rickety door, his arms crossed over his chest, closed his eyes
against the sight of the desert going by the window.

But his mind was busy - wondering what had crushed her so
completely, hollowed her out.  He thought about this, his mind
turning it over.

Stewing.  That's what he was mostly doing now.  And it was
impossible to sleep when he was doing that.

He'd glanced over at her every once in awhile, hoping to see
something cross her face.  Anything.  He would even have welcomed
tears at this point.  Just anything to show that the person he knew
was still there beside him.  But her face remained blank, her mouth
tight, her eyes focused on the road ahead of them.  He did not have
to see behind the sunglasses to know that her eyes were dull.
Empty.

It was as though she were sinking below the surface of a lake,
disappearing into black water right in front of him.  And it had to
stop before he lost her completely to the darkness.

He didn't care what he had to do, and he was prepared to do it.  He
didn't feel that there was a choice anymore.

So when he saw the signs for Mexican Water, the familiar blue signs
of forks and spoons, the outlines of beds, he sat up straighter in
his seat and turned to her.

"I need to stop," he said, his own voice sounding alien to him after
so many hours of quiet.

She remained still for a few seconds, her eyes not moving from the
road.

"I'll find a gas station," she replied, monotone.

He shook his head.  "No, I mean for the night.  I can't sleep in
here today.  I need a motel."

Now she did turn to glance at him, her expression perplexed.  "But
we could make it to Farmington by tonight.  We could be there."

"I know," he replied.  "But the night is catching up with me.  We
can get there tomorrow and it won't make that much of a difference.
I think we've doubled back and gotten lost enough that those people
are long since gone.  I think it's okay to ease off a little bit."

She turned her face to the road, clearly against the idea.  Then she
exhaled and nodded, put on the turn signal to take the next exit,
which had the sign for a motel beneath its number.

"Thanks," he said quietly, and now his nerves kicked up, a twinge of
anxiety about their stopping.  He shoved it down, hardening himself,
getting prepared.

It's just Scully, he said to himself.  No matter what state she's
in, it's still her.  And he knew her better than he knew anyone,
didn't he?  Even now?

He comforted himself with that thought, and it calmed him.

* *

The motel, called the Desert Rose, was a dingy-looking one-story
sprawler, the kind of place that Mulder could tell by looking at it
that it charged somewhere between $24-$30 per room and wouldn't have
been renovated since the gas crisis.

He went into the office, got a key to a room near the end of the
building and returned to the truck.  Scully had already parked it
near the end of the lot.

As he walked toward the truck, he saw she hadn't moved.  She seemed
to be staring at some point far away out the windshield, something
hard and sad in her expression.

He moved into her line of sight and she looked at him.  He could see
her eyes dart to his face and then away behind the thick dark plastic
of her glasses.

"You coming?"  he asked.

She nodded.  "Yes," she replied, and pulled the keys out of the
ignition, pushing the door open and dropping to the ground on both
feet.

They hustled their suitcases into the room, the ritual dully
familiar to him now.  There were two double beds in this room, a room
he'd chosen because of its location away from the rest of the few
guests.  The place looked like it had thin walls.

She tossed her suitcases onto the far bed, pulled her hat and
glasses off, ran a hand through her hair.  He knew what she would do
now.  He knew it all by rote after so many weeks.  She would reach
for her shampoo, head to the shower and stay in there for as long as
she could.

But not this time.

He put his own suitcases down on the other bed as he watched her
rummage through one of the bags.  He watched her face in the large
mirror over the bureau against the far wall, the blank set of it.  No
one was home.

She pulled out the shampoo, her bag of toiletries.  Then he saw her
pause, reach through the folds of things and draw something up.  She
stood with it in her hand, and he moved to the side to see what it
was in the reflection.

The snowglobe he'd given her for Christmas.  Somehow it had made it
all this way with them.  He swallowed.  The sight of it saddened him
for some reason.

She looked at it, deep in thought for a few seconds.  He thought he
saw her eyes shining, then it was gone.  Then she dropped the toy
back into the suitcase as though it burned her to touch it.

She turned for the doorway to the bathroom, toward the large vanity.
The shower and toilet were a separate room off to the side.  He
walked around the bed as though he were going for the sink, got in
between her and the bathroom just as she was heading there herself.

She tried to go around him, not looking at him.  He took a step to
the side and blocked her way again.

Now she did look up at him, clearly confused and a touch irritated.

"What are you doing?"  she asked.

"We're going to have a talk before you shower," he replied, looking
down at her, forcing her to meet his eyes.

Her eyes were imploring for a fleeting second, then hardened again.

"No, we're not," she said flatly, and tried to push by him again.
He took another step, his hands coming up and lightly gripping her
upper arms.  He felt her tense up in his grasp, though he was holding
her as gently as he could.

She dropped the shampoo and the bag of toiletries, looking up at him
in surprise.  They thumped at his feet.

"Let me go."  She said it so softly that he barely heard her, but
the tone was filled with warning.  She was looking at the center of
his chest, avoiding his eyes.

"Will you agree to talk to me?" he asked, leaning down to try to
look into her eyes again.  She averted them, looking to the side.
Color had risen in her cheeks.

"Will you?"

She swallowed, nodded once.  "Yes," she said.

She stepped back and he let her go.  She went to the small aisle
between the beds and sat down on the corner of the one her suitcases
were on, her arms across her chest, looking down.

"What is it."  It came out as a statement, the same dead tenor to
her voice.

He went to her, stood a few feet away, his hands in his pockets,
looking down at her.  She looked like she were being punished by
having to face him.

"How can you even ask me that?"  he said, but there was no reprimand
in his voice.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Scully.  This has to stop."  He fought to keep the emotion welling
in him out of his voice.  This was no time for it, he reminded
himself fiercely.  "We can't go on like this."

She was still for a moment, her hands folding in her lap.  The left
trembled and she covered it with the other.

"Yes, you're right," she murmured.  "We can't."

All right, he thought, pleased.  They agreed on that.  There was
room for progress, for forward motion, if they could agree at least
that there was a problem.

"Okay then," he said, nodding.  "We've got to figure out a way to
get through this then.  You've got to start telling me what you're
feeling--"

"No."

The word stopped him cold, confusing him and throwing the relief
he'd felt for a moment off kilter.

"'No' what?"  he asked.

She drew in a breath, let it out shakily, her hands gripping each
other as if for reassurance.  "That's not what I meant when I said we
can't go on like this."

He grew very still.

"What did you mean then?"  he asked.

She looked to the side, pulled in another breath.  "I've been
thinking about it...for a long time.  A lot today while I was
driving..."

A wave of cold came over him and his teeth grit down.

"Don't say it, Scully."  His eyes burned.

She looked up, the blank expression firmly in place.  "I want us to
separate."

He was struck dumb for a few seconds.  His mouth opened and closed
as he struggled for words.

"I hope you mean that you just want us to travel separately for
awhile, though I think that would be a foolish--"

"You know what I mean," she interrupted softly.  She might as well
have shouted it, the effect it had on him.

He shifted on his feet, as though he wanted to move toward her.  He
held his ground though.

"I won't accept that."

"I'm not giving you a choice, Mulder," she said, returned her gaze
to her hands.

He couldn't believe how calm she sounded.  It angered him.  He felt
the feeling rising in his throat like acid.

"May I ask why at least?"  The emotion leaked into his voice, and he
could tell by the way her head came up that she heard it.

"I've been thinking a lot about this..." she said haltingly.  "I've
been thinking...that it's been over between us since...since this all
happened.  We just haven't faced the truth.  We've run from it, just
like we've been running from everything else."  She pinned him with
her gaze.  "And I think it's time we both stopped running from this,
at least."

He shook his head, looked toward the window.  The tears were coming,
anguish and anger and his own helplessness crushing into each other
within him.  "You're wrong," was all he could think to say.

"I'm not, Mulder."  Her voice was steady and sad.

"I love you."  The anger was rising now.  He'd never said those
words with as much of it behind them.  He'd hoped he'd never have
to.

She nodded.  "And that's part of the problem," she said.  "You love
me too much.  It's blinded you to the truth of what we've become.
You can't see that there's nothing left.  And you're so loyal that
you would never leave me.  So I'm going to do what's right for both
of us and leave you."

"How can you say that?"  he snapped, suddenly furious and loud.
"How can you tell me that I love you too much?  That I'm too loyal?
How can you say those things like they're faults instead of what they
really are?  And you love me, too.  Or have you buried that along
with every other goddamned feeling you have these days?"

Her head jerked up and her eyes glinted with resin light.  "I love
what we USED to be, Mulder.  Not what we are now.  And what we used
to be is NEVER going to be again.  Can't you see that?"  Her volume
and tone were matching his now.

"That's only because you've made the CHOICE for that to be true,
Scully," he replied hotly.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"  she said, her hands going
out to the sides as though she meant to rise.

"You won't talk to me!  You've shut me out of your life!  You've
shut US out of your life!"

"You act like I've done all this on purpose," she replied.

"Part of you has," he snapped back, and she turned her face away.
He could see her hands clench on the coverlet.

Good.  She was getting angry, he thought.  It was about fucking time.

He paced a couple of steps toward the window, ran a hand through his
hair in frustration, spun on her.

There had to be a way to put this to right, he thought desperately.
There had to be a way.  Her emotions were close to the surface.
Maybe he could drive them out of her, bring them up and out into the
open...

Now if he could just get his own rage and hurt under control...

"What did Skinner say to you today?"  he bit out.

She said nothing, and he could see her struggling with her control.
She was breathing hard now, her cheeks blood red.

"What did he say?"  He enunciated each word, loudly.  When she
hesitated again, he roared at her.  "With what I'm about to lose here
you owe me an explanation of what set this off at least!  You OWE
me!"

She didn't look up.  "He knows about the rape," she said, her teeth
clenched.

He stopped, his hands on his hips as he turned this new fact over
quickly in his mind.

"It makes sense that he would find out," he replied.  "There had to
be forensic evidence in the apartment--"

"Don't you get it?"  she shouted, bolting up from the bed and taking
a step toward him.  Her chest was heaving and there were tears in her
eyes now.  "Mulder, they ALL know.  Padden.  The task force.  ALL of
them."

"Nobody will think any less of you, Scully," he replied, matching
her tone.  "For God's sake, the man was huge--"

"That doesn't matter, does it?"  she interrupted.  "It doesn't
matter how big he was, or if he was armed, or if he fucking beat me
half to death, Mulder.  It still HAPPENED."

"And what?  You think you let it happen?  You think it's your
fault?"

"YES!" she screamed.

He took a step toward her, frustration rearing in him.  "Scully, for
Christ's sake--"

"That's what they'll all think, Mulder," she said, panting.  "That's
what every one of them will think.  It's over!  My credibility is
over!  That whole life is over!"

"How can you fucking say that?"  he said, anguished she would even
think such a thing.

"Have you LOOKED at me lately, Mulder?"  she said.  She held her
hand up, the tremor worse with her emotions.  "Look at this!  You
think they're going to let me near an autopsy bay with this?  Or back
out in the field?"

"You don't know that the damage is permanent, Scully," he began.
Something in the back of his mind was growing concerned as her rage
escalated.  She looked wild now, her eyes wide.

"It's been months," she replied.  "MONTHS.  It's not getting any
better and neither is anything else, as you well know..."

He winced, but didn't take the bait of that.  His anger crested
again, his frustration so long held in check.

"That's because you keep everything so bottled up, Scully," he
shouted.  "You don't talk about any of this until you're ready to
give up on everything!  Even on us!"

The look that came over her face now did frighten him.  She didn't
even look like herself anymore, something primal coming down over the
features like a mask.

"What do you want me to say, Mulder?" She waved her hand wildly at
him.  "WHAT?"

"I want to hear what you need to say," he replied.  "You've got to
SAY it, Scully."

"All right!  Is this what you want to hear?"

And then it came, streaming from her in one long raging burst.  He
was stunned as the shouted words blasted images into his mind,
searing him.

Her head slammed down on the floor, her vision swimming.

Hands on her, tearing at her robe, pushing it up her bare back,
exposing her body to him as Fagan knelt behind her, hauling her to
her knees.

A hand on the back of her neck, pinning her to the floor.  The sound
of a buckle.  A zipper.

Knees holding her knees apart, his body crushing down onto hers,
pushing into hers.

Her battered face pressed down, her shoulders straining as her hands
were caught behind her back beneath him, blood from the wound in his
cheek warm and wet on her shoulder where he rubbed his face, panting
against her, rasping into her again and again.

Then dropping her in a heap, pushing her onto her side.  Her body
slamming hard into the floor.

Mulder cupped his forehead, cringing.  Tears ran from his clenched
eyes and her screaming continued.  He took it all in, forcing himself
into control.  It was agony to him, the words.  The knowledge.

Then, suddenly, something crashed against the wall.

His eyes snapped open and he saw the remnants of the cheap lamp that
had sat on the bureau raining down on the pressed wood, the shade
tumbling.

She was sobbing, covering her face with her hands, staggering
towards the middle of the beds.

"Oh God..." she cried.  "My God...why did you make me tell you that,
you
son of a BITCH..."

"Scully..." His voice broke and he went toward her.  "Scully, I'm
sorry.  My God..."

What had he done?

"You son of a bitch..."

She reached down and swept the closed suitcase hard, sending it
flying toward the bathroom.  She reached down into her open bag,
clothes flying.

Then her hand closed on the snowglobe.  In an instant it was out of
her hand, smashing into the mirror against the far wall, shattering
the small globe and her image, and his as he made it next to her,
into a hundred wet pieces.  The sound was amazing.

He got hold of her then as she was going for the lamp on the night
stand, grabbed her by the upper arms again, pulling her against his
body.

"Okay, Scully, it's okay...shhhh..."

"NO!" she screamed.  "Let me go!"

He struggled with her as she reached for the lamp again, pulling him
along with her as she lurched forward.  He moved his hand to get an
arm around her waist, and it gave her enough room to spin around in
his grasp, her hand coming up.

The blow caught him on the cheekbone, turning his face sharply to
the side as the pain shot through his face, his eye.  His arms
dropped from her in surprise, his expression shocked.

She looked at him in horror, covered her mouth.  Then she was crying
again, her body going limp as she covered her face with her hands.

"It's over, Mulder," she keened.  "It's over...just get out...get away
from me..."

He took a step back instinctively, his face still hurting from where
she'd struck him, the rest of him aching from her words.  Tears ran
freely down his face into his beard.  His chest heaved as he swiped
at them.

"Scully, don't do this.  Please."

She shook her head.

"Go," she said, and it was little more than whisper of air.

He didn't know what else to do, what else to say.  He backed away
from her, going around the bed to where his suitcases lay still
unopened.  He lifted them both by the handles, turned to look at her.
She did not look back.

"I'll be here in the morning," he said softly, and his voice shook.
"We can separate on the reservation.  You won't have to see me once
we get there."

She jerked a nod, her breath hitching.  She turned her back toward
the door.

He turned and went out it.


* *

A few minutes later, inside his own room down a few from hers,
Mulder dropped his suitcases on the double bed, staring around the
empty room.  The tears, which he'd managed to stop long enough to get
the room, started again, and he crossed his arms over his chest as
though he were holding himself.

He couldn't believe how his intentions could go so horribly wrong.
He couldn't believe what he'd seen, a side of her he didn't even know
was there, a side so filled with fury and pain.

He backed up against the closed door, a sob catching in his throat.

He let it come, his back sliding down the door until he was seated
against it, his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide and frightened and
filled with disbelief.


* * * * * * *

END OF CHAPTER 10 AND OF PART 1.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 11 AND PART
2.
TITLE: City of Light
AUTHOR: Bonetree (bonetree@gmail.com)

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 11a.


********


UNKNOWN LOCATION
NEAR ALDER CREEK, COLORADO
MARCH 25
6:03 a.m.


The gun felt good in his hands.  Owen Curran gripped it easily, the
weight and presence of it familiar and comforting to him.

He adjusted himself carefully on the hard bench seat of the tree
stand, pulled his camouflage jacket closer around him.  His
companion, a 13-year-old inhabitant of the Sons of Liberty compound
named Thomas, sat with his own rifle cradled in the crook of his
elbow as he blew into his hands, warming his fingers, which were
uncovered by the fingerless hunting gloves.

Neither had spoken for some time, Curran enjoying the quiet, both of
them watching the clearing just a few dozen feet away for any sign of
deer.

Curran had never been hunting like this before, and Thomas had
instructed him on what to do as they'd climbed into the stand, snow
falling from the ashen branches of the tree as they went up the rungs
nailed into the trunk.   They would sit with their Browning rifles,
downwind of the clearing, and wait for a buck to come.

They'd been up there for a little over an hour, with no sign.  Just
a low note of wind coming every now and then through the thick forest
they sat in.  A snowshoe hare that had scampered across the field,
almost hidden against the background of white.  No birds.  Nothing.

Thomas reached down and pulled something out of his rucksack he'd
been wearing as they'd hiked through the woods to the stand - a
thermos full of something warm.  Tomato soup, steaming a cloud from
the mirror surface of the interior.  The boy poured some into the
thermos' top, offered it to Curran.

"Aye, I'll have a bit.  Thank you, Thomas."  He took the cup, blew
on the thick surface of the soup and took a sip, handed it back to
the boy.   Thomas did the same, and they settled in again.

Curran reached into his pocket and drew out a smoke and some
matches.  He put the cigarette in his mouth, struck the match,
sending up a flare and the smell of sulfur.  He took a long drag,
blew it out.

Beside him, Thomas was looking at him, at the cigarette.  Owen
squinted a bit at him as he pulled in another breath of smoke.

"Can I have a drag?"  Thomas asked, doing his best to sound tough.
The boy's sandy blonde hair ruffled slightly in another push of the
cold wind.

Owen smiled around the cigarette, shook his head.  "Not good for a
boy your age," he said, cupping the cigarette in his hand.

"You sound like my dad," Thomas replied, returned his eyes to the
clearing.

Curran stopped at that, looked away from Thomas.  The boy's words
were like someone pushing on a bruise deep inside him.  He couldn't
help but think of Sean.

He wondered once again where he was, how he was.  He wondered if he
would see him again.

He stared off into the clearing, his blue eyes ice.

And then, he wasn't thinking of Sean any more.  It was always the
same when he thought of his son, of Fagan.  And Mae.  Especially Mae.
The one person he had trusted completely in his life.

The image of Dana Scully entered his mind, fury coming soon after.
He felt it flush through his system, a shot of heat.  He took another
drag on the cigarette, held it in until he could blow it out without
it shaking from him.

His hatred was like a living thing inside him, clawing at him.  The
images he had of what he would do to her when he caught her flooded
his mind.

Torture.  He would kill her slowly.  She would pay for everything
that she had done to him with her body, a piece at a time.

And he would break her.  He would control her before he killed her.
He would find a way.  She would beg him to kill her.

He let the breath out slow, smoke seeping from his lips as though he
were on fire inside.

A rustle of movement caught his eye at the edge of the clearing, on
the other side.  He tossed the cigarette and raised the rifle quickly
in one smooth motion, his eye looking through the scope.  Beside him,
Thomas did the same.

Curran looked at the creature.  Soft tan sides.  White chest.  Large
dark eyes glistening in the morning light as it cocked its head from
one side to the other nervously.  It took a tentative step further
into the clearing, its hooves crunching in the snow.

Beside him, Thomas lowered his gun.

"It's a doe," he said, dejected.

But Curran did not lower his own weapon.  He kept the scope trained
on the doe's forehead, above the wide eyes, the ears pricked forward,
soft and dark.

"Mr. Curran." Thomas said, perplexed and a little nervous.  "You
can't shoot a doe."

Curran ignored him, waited until the doe's face was in the
intersection of the sights.

Then he pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed, tearing through the woods and sending up a black
cloud of crows from the tree tops.  The rifle kicked back against
Curran's shoulder, the force nudging a smile from him.

Thomas gasped beside him.

In the clearing, the doe staggered, her head thrown back.  Her front
legs buckled until she knelt, struggling to stand.  The snow around
her was spattered with red.

"Mr. Curran!"  Thomas cried.  "You shoot for the heart!  You didn't
have a clear shot!"   He dropped his rifle on the wooden deck,
shocked,  nearly sending it over the edge, gaping at first Curran,
then the doe.  He reached over and touched the barrel of Curran's
rifle.

"Get your fucking hand off," Curran snarled, jerking the rifle away.
He bolted the rifle, then he sighted the doe again, fired.

This shot hit her in the chest, right at the triangle of white at
the base of her throat.  The doe's head flopped forward, digging into
the snow as she toppled to the side, sending the snow into bunched
piles around her, brown on red on white.

He bolted and fired again.  And again.

"Mr. Curran, stop!"  Thomas implored.  "Please stop!"

Something in the boy's tone reached through the clamor inside him,
the rage.  Thomas' voice was high.  Sounded younger.

He turned and looked at Thomas, found him crying, his chest rising
and falling, fast as a hare's.

He lowered the gun, looked out at the clearing.

The doe lay in a twisted heap, blood seeping into the snow.  She was
still, the only movement her fur as the wind moved over it.

He put the butt of the rifle on the deck, pushed himself into a
standing position.  He bent over and retrieved Thomas's rifle, shoved
it into the boy's hands.

"Get your things," he said, slinging his own rifle over his shoulder
by the strap.  "Let's go back."

Thomas looked up at him, his eyes wider.  "You're not just going to
leave her!"

"I fucking said we're going back!"  Curran spat.  "Now mind me.  Get
your things."

Thomas kept his eye on Curran as he closed up the thermos, zipped up
the bag and shouldered into it, slung the rifle, then followed him
down the makeshift ladder to the white below.


***********


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
NAVAJO INDIAN RESERVATION
11:34 a.m.


Albert Hosteen sat on the concrete porch outside his double-wide
trailer, rocking slowly in a rocking chair and nibbling on the end of
his pipe.  His eyes were on the long dirt road that connected his
house to main road of the reservation, dark pools set into the
pleasant crags of his face.  His long white hair was pulled back,
gathered behind his head with a rubber band, and it trailed down the
back of his flannel shirt toward the low back of the chair.

The chair made a soft squeak as he moved, rocking himself slowly
with one booted foot, deep in thought.  He pulled on the pipe, most
of the smoke leaving his mouth before he inhaled it.  He really
simply liked the taste of the tobacco, not the strength of the
smoke.

They would be there today.  He was sure of it.

He thought once again about the choice he had made.

When the man from the FBI had called him, asking him for a favor,
there had only been a moment when he'd had trepidation at the
prospect.  There was a part of him that thought he had paid his dues
to the U.S. Government, paid more than his dues for what he'd been
given in return.  His time as a Code Talker during the second World
War had made him invaluable to them at the time, but then he'd been
cast aside, paid a small pension for his efforts at creating a Navajo-
based code that baffled the Germans and the Japanese and eventually
helped the Allies win the war.

It all felt very distant to him now, that part of it.  And they were
not the memories that caused him the knee-jerk of fear when the man
from the FBI had called him.  It was the more recent ones -- the
boxcar filled with bodies buried in a canyon a few miles away.  Men
in his house, the beatings, the efforts to kill the other FBI man for
uncovering their secrets.

It had all solidified something he knew from his time with the
government before -- that they were not to be trusted.  That they
would do anything they could to protect their lies and their plans
for things he knew of but would rather not think of now.  He was an
old man.  He would let it be.

He'd made one stand against them, though, before he'd returned to
the reservation and the silence of all that he knew --  he'd memorized
the more damning of the lies, the machinations, and relayed them to
others, passing the story along like a folk tale.  He'd done this to
protect two people whom he'd somehow grown to trust.

The FBI man whose life he had saved -- this man Mulder -- and his
partner, Scully, a woman he knew less of but whom he probably
understood better than he did the man.

He'd protected them then because they were worth protecting.  They
both had a pure human sense of what was right.  The woman even more
than the man in some respects, because her actions were not tinged
with the rage of his.  After all, she had shot Mulder in an effort to
protect him from snaring himself in the trap those men had laid for
him.  She was willing to do anything for what she believed in.

And Mulder, despite his personal anger over what was happening, had
proven the same.

They both sought nothing more or less than the truth, and the truth
was like a faith to Hosteen, the basis for all he did and knew.

So when the man from the FBI had called, telling him of the
accusations against Mulder, the danger that Scully was in, he knew
the right thing to do.

The door to the trailer banged open and his grandson, Victor, came
out, stood next to his grandfather.  Victor looked older than his 28
years, age burned into him with days spent at the corral caring for
the family's small herd of horses and sheep.  He had deep lines
around his eyes, much like his grandfather's, his hair -- jet black in
a short cut that had grown out, ruffling lightly in the wind coming
in off the valley around them.

"What makes you think they're coming today?" he asked, his eyes on
the dirt road, as well.

Albert quirked a smile.  "I feel it on the wind, in the trees, off
the mountains...."

He said it hugely and dramatically, raising his arms for effect.
Victor laughed.

"Yeah, right," he said, still laughing.  He jammed his hands in the
pockets of his Levi's. "Just one of your feelings, huh?"

"Hm," Albert said thoughtfully.  "Yes.  But it makes sense that they
would come as fast as they could.  Been running for a long time."  He
took another pull on his pipe, breathed out.

"I'm still not sure this is such a good idea, grandfather," Victor
said, though his tone was resigned.  They'd been having this argument
for days.

Albert nibbled on his pipe, grunted softly.  "It's necessary," he
said cryptically.  He couldn't explain that feeling, but he was sure
of it somehow.

Victor, who was used to this kind of response from him, he knew,
nodded and said nothing.

Movement caught Albert's eye down the highway and he grew very still
for a moment, watching the car come around the wide curve that led
into town.  He could make it out from where he sat -- an SUV of some
kind.  Older model.  He followed it as it approached.

When it reached the end of his road and took the turn, he stood,
pulling himself up to his considerable height.  He turned and tapped
out the pipe, the glowing tobacco raining down onto the concrete and
snuffing out.  Then he lay it down carefully on the arm of the chair,
faced forward again.

The truck came slowly, as though unsure of itself, bumping up the
uneven road.  Hosteen could make out two figures through the dirty
windshield and recognized them as they pulled up next to Victor's
pickup.  Mulder was driving.  His partner, Scully, was looking out
the side window.  Albert came forward as the truck's engine died into
quiet.

Mulder exited first.  He looked leaner than the last time Hosteen
had seen him, bearded, his hair longer than he remembered.  His eyes
were guarded by sunglasses, which he removed as he came forward.
Scully was just opening her door as Mulder closed the distance to
him, his hand extended.

"Mr. Hosteen," he said, and he sounded ragged.  Albert looked into
his face, saw his eyes rimmed with red, bloodshot.  He hadn't slept
in awhile; Hosteen was sure of that.

And there was swelling at the corner of his left eye near his
cheekbone, a bruise forming beneath his lower lid.

"Agent Mulder," Hosteen replied, keeping his face neutral.  He
smiled kindly as he shook Mulder's hand.  "So you made it, eh?"

Mulder smiled weakly.  "Yes, we made it," he said softly.  Scully
came up, and Albert turned his attention to her as she stood a little
off to the side behind her partner.

He swallowed, and his face fell as he looked at her.

So thin.  Her face pale.  Faint bruises around her neck.  She, too,
removed her glasses and Hosteen looked into her eyes, though her gaze
darted from his as soon as she saw him studying her.

 Something haunted in those eyes.  Pain-filled.

Something terribly wrong.

He smiled to her, regaining his composure.  "Agent Scully."  He
closed the distance between them and reached out.  She took his hand
almost reluctantly.  The smile she gave looked like it would crack
her face.

"It's good to see you again, Mr. Hosteen," she said, distant.
"Though I wish the circumstances were better."

Hosteen chuffed softly.  "They were not so good the last time we
met."

"That's true," Mulder said, and Hosteen turned to see him rubbing
his shoulder absently, as though the gunshot wound Scully had given
him suddenly hurt again.  He smiled at Mulder faintly.

Then he stepped back so that he could face both of them again.
Scully had made no move to stand next to her partner.  Albert
wondered at the distance, his head cocked as he looked at them both,
gauging what he saw.

An awkward silence fell.

Hosteen was so distracted by the feelings rising off of both of them
that he forgot Victor was even standing there until his grandson came
forward himself, breaking the strange moment.

"I'm Victor Hosteen," he said, shook hands with Mulder and nodded to
Scully.  She nodded back.  "One of you is going to be staying next
door to me.  There's an empty trailer there that we've put a few
things in.  It's got two bedrooms, so you could both stay there if
you'd like, but we have another place, too,  if that's not what you
want."

Mulder seemed to look uncertain, wary.  He glanced at Scully, who
did not glance back.  "How safe are these places?"  he asked.  "I
mean...are they secluded enough that people won't see us there?"

Hosteen nodded.  "Yes, both are secluded, Agent Mulder.  No one
comes out this way who doesn't live here -- all my family --  and no
one here will tell anyone of your whereabouts.  They consider it my
business, my concern, and they will not interfere with that."

He studied the two of them again.  Scully was looking away, as
though the conversation didn't involve her at all.  Mulder was
chewing his lip nervously.  He considered for a few beats, finally
nodded.  "We want separate places then, if that's not too much
trouble," he said, and Hosteen heard the sadness behind the remark,
though Mulder had tried to sound nonchalant and business-like.

Hosteen slipped his hands into his pockets, nodded as he began to
understand.

Two things wrong, he thought.  Something wrong with Scully herself.
And something between the two of them.  He could almost see the wall
that separated them, thick and wide and made of stone.

And newly built.  The tension in them was too acute for it to have
been there very long.

"The other place to stay is a smaller trailer here a ways out behind
my house," Hosteen said.  "It's not much, either.  One room.  This
one on wheels, you know.  You'll have to shower at my house, but it's
got propane.  You can cook."  He looked at Scully intently, his head
tilting again.  "Why don't you stay in this one, Agent Scully?  It
would be more...private.  So much coming and going at my grandson's
place with the livestock to care for."

She avoided his gaze again, nodded.  "That would be fine," she said.

"It's about a mile and a half to my place from here, down the road,"
Victor chimed in, and Hosteen could tell the agents' tension was
making his grandson nervous.  "I'm sorry it's not closer.  I see
you've only got the one truck, but I'll be happy to drive you back
and forth if you want to leave the car here--"

"Agent Mulder can have the truck," Scully interrupted, looking away.
"I won't be needing it."

Her meaning was clear.  She wouldn't be going anywhere.  Not even to
see Mulder.

Victor was looking at Scully, then turned to the other two men.
Mulder was looking down at the ground, scuffing a stone with his
foot.   Albert held Victor's gaze for a few seconds, nodded,
reassuring him.

"That's fine," Albert said gently, trying to diffuse the crackle in
the air.  "Why don't I help you get your things and take you back
there, Agent Scully?  It won't be hard with both of us carrying the
load."

Scully nodded and turned, going for the truck.

Now Hosteen chanced a look at Mulder.  The younger man's eyes had
yet to return from the ground, but his jaw was working, his face
hard, fiercely controlled.

Yes, Hosteen thought.  Whatever was between them, whatever had dug
this chasm, was new, indeed.  Mulder's pain was rising off him like
smoke.

"Go on with Victor, Agent Mulder," he said, his voice soft.  "I'll
see to Agent Scully."

Mulder met his eyes then, and their gazes hung.  Then Albert smiled
that same half smile, and walked past him to where Scully was pulling
her suitcases out of the back of the truck.

She didn't look at him as she slammed the back of the truck closed,
replaced the spare tire on its hinge against the tailgate.  He
reached down and hefted the larger of the two suitcases, and Scully
picked up the other and a sleeping bag.

"It's not too far," he said.  "Come with me."

Scully nodded.   "All right," she said, gestured ahead of them
almost impatiently.

Albert's lip curled, but he hid it as he started toward the house.
Scully followed close behind.

Neither she nor Mulder looked at the other as they passed, Hosteen
noted.  Mulder simply turned and went toward his truck, Victor
hurrying to his own to lead the way down the road.


* * * * *

END OF CHAPTER 11a.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 11b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 11b.

*  *  *  * *


LAKE McCONAUGHY
OUTSIDE OGALLALA, NEBRASKA
12:13 p.m.


Jimmy Shea hooked the minnow through the side, checked the sinker
and the hook, then cast the small fish out into the water toward the
shore of the black lake.  There were submerged logs there, overhangs
of branches, and he knew that there would be bass hovering just
beneath the surface, dozing beneath the tree limbs and waiting for
tap on the water, for food to come.

He'd read it all in the guidebook he'd bought in Belfast, The Best
Fishing in All Fifty States, all this information about the bass and
catfish that inhabited the lake.  A quick stop at the tackle shop at
the marina, $30 to rent the boat for the afternoon, and he was back
out on the water, waiting for the fish.

He was just down from Ringgold, a tiny town northeast of the lake he
now bobbed on, the place where Curran had last been sighted.  He'd
gotten the call from Rutherford two days ago, and had immediately
packed up his things and headed west.

Shea had been all over the town, just as he'd been in Tyner, tracked
down the lead that Rutherford had had leaked to him from someone on
the NYPD who was following the case, an Irish cop with ties to the
underground IRA in the boroughs.  The lead was a motel on the
outskirts of town where surveillance video had picked up someone
matching Curran's appearance, and on looking at the still photos
Rutherford had decided that the resemblance was close enough to
warrant notifying Shea about it.

Shea had gone to the motel, shown pictures of Curran to a clerk who
apparently wasn't aware of the manhunt and the manager's report of
the sighting to the CIA and FBI.  The woman had looked at the photo,
said "yes," that Curran had indeed been there, but that it was weeks
ago since he left.  He'd stayed for a week, she said, and then, like
everyone else who stopped in the tiny town, he'd moved on.

So Shea had checked the map in the pickup, called Rutherford on the
cell phone and told him the news.  Then he'd said he was going
fishing until Rutherford called him again, that he'd be staying down
in Ogallala in a cheap motel that had free cable and a restaurant.
In other words, everything that Shea would need.

His back creaked as he leaned back on the small seat in the center
of the boat, and he stretched.  He was feeling his age on this trip.
There had been times when he could hole up in a building for days,
weeks if he had to, sleeping on floors or hunkered in corners.  All
those years of doing the work and then hiding out afterward, waiting
for the heat to die down enough for him to vanish back into the
woodwork.

All those assignments from James Curran.  Those meetings at the
lovely house near Ballycastle overlooking the sea.  Curran's children
growing up before his eyes over suppers.  The smaller James, always
so quiet and serene and growing more so as the years went by.  Mae,
the only girl, lovely and so full of life, always getting into
everything.

And then there was Owen.  Always at his father's side, listening in
on the business at a chair at the table as he played with his toys.
Some of what Shea and the elder Curran had discussed Shea felt
uncomfortable talking about in front of the boy, but James didn't
seem to mind.  He seemed to want Owen to hear.  The younger James was
too introspective, destined from a early age for the priesthood by
his disposition and his faith.  And Mae was just a girl, after all.
Owen was where James had his hopes for the family continuing in the
Cause, the boy fascinated by everything his father said and did, a
slight shadow that followed James almost everywhere he went.

Shea reeled the hook in slowly, giving the line a slight jerk every
few rotations or two of the silver reel.  Nothing.  He pulled the
bait in all the way and checked it, the boat drifting down a bit
further along the grassy bank.  When he saw a good shady spot, he
tossed the bait back out, landing it right against the shore and
giving it a gentle pull down the slope and into the deeper water.

He thought of Ruby back home suddenly, a vision of her as she
bustled about in the morning around him, picking flowers from the
garden as he drank his tea, read the news.  Her coming to him in the
shed behind the house where he worked his wood, bending it, smoothing
it.  She would fuss at him to come for dinner most nights.  He got
that lost in his work.

The small boat he'd been building was nearly done when he'd gotten
the call, and he longed to get back to it.

He missed Ruby.  The thought made him smile sadly.  After all those
years of losing friends, he'd thought himself beyond missing anyone
or anything.  But Ruby was somehow, thankfully, different.  She
proved that something was still alive within him, something that
they'd been unable to completely take with the years of loss and
sacrifice.

He'd thought he'd just been left with his resignation about the work
-- how it was never done, how many of the sacrifices seemed worthless.
Resignation tinged -- and more often these days -- with something like
regret.

For a moment he let the line go slack, the sinker bumping on the
bottom.

Car bombs going off outside the UDR police station in Derry, bodies
staggering from the raging hulks, screaming, engulfed in flame.

A faked road block outside Belfast, two women, 18 and 19.  Heads
shaved and shot in the temples for snitching and fucking the Brits.

Dozens of men at the point of impact, their stunned faces.

The glassy, open eyes of the dead.  Their ghastly faces becoming so
familiar to him when he was younger that he had difficulty, at times,
telling them from the living.

Glass shattering in a hundred store fronts, distant siren wails.
Bombs of Sinn Fein hate and carpenter nails.

He closed his eyes against it, turned his face up toward the midday
sun, shining on the surface of the lake.  He took a deep breath, let
it out slowly.  Then he opened his eyes.  It was like waking from a
bloody dream.

The boat had drifted further down the bank, his line dragging across
the bottom.  Pulling himself together again, he reeled the line in,
pulling up mud and clumps of reeds.  He cleared the hook, tossing the
debris back into the water, laid the pole down in the boat and
reached for the motor.

Enough, he thought, tired.

Enough for one day.


* * * *


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
NAVAJO RESERVATION
5:34 p.m.


The sun was sinking, sending the sky into a pale gold over the bare
landscape of scrubby trees, the rises of the mesas and buttes in the
distance.  Scully watched it as it fell, sitting on the small bed
built into the side of the Winnabago trailer, her back against a
cupboard that acted as a headboard.  Her knees were drawn up against
her chest, her arms looped around them, pulling them in close.  She
wore her shoes still, the soles on the blanket.

She didn't move as she looked out the window, as she felt the cold
creeping in through the metal walls of the trailer, through the blue
bunting top she wore, her jeans.  She'd have to turn on the heater
after all, she thought absently.  There was nothing around her to
hold any warmth.  Just red stones, low dry bushes.  And silence.

She did not think of Mulder.  Or at least that was what she told
herself.  But trying so hard not to think of him was the same as
thinking of him, she thought bitterly, and sank down further against
the cupboard, sighing.  She ran a hand up her forehead, pushing her
hair out of her face where it had fallen, partially occluding her
eyes and the view out the window.

She'd been alone the night before, but had been so numb that that
fact had hardly seemed to matter.  After Mulder had gone, she'd sank
down between the two beds, her back against one of them, curled in on
herself like a shell, and simply sat there.  Occasionally, she had
cried, tears silently streaking her face, but more often she'd just
stared at the draped window, her mind spent and blank as snow.

She'd stayed like that until the light behind the thick curtain had
faded from gold to gray to black, then she's risen, stiff, and
slipped beneath the covers in the darkness, still wearing her clothes
and shoes.  She'd fallen asleep almost instantly.

Now here she was, finally truly away from everyone.  This was what
she had wanted all these weeks, she thought.  To be completely alone,
to have time to process everything that had happened in the past
months.

But now that she had it, she was still as paralyzed as she'd been
the night before, struck into an impasse with her emotions.  It was
as though, since her outburst yesterday, she'd rescinded her
permission to feel anything at all.  What she'd done yesterday had
frightened her, the way she'd given in that much to the anger and
pain.  She did not want to do that again.

She didn't know who that person was, the one who had struck Mulder
across the face with the hard blow, finally driving him away.

This was not to say that she thought what she had said to him before
that had been a mistake.  The things about their relationship being
over.  She truly felt that, and thought that it had needed to be
said.  She should be alone now, unattached.  Perhaps permanently.

The old person she was could give herself that way.  This new one
could not.

The outburst about the rape, she was not so certain was the right
thing to have done.  But it was done now, and there was nothing she
could do about it.

Weary, she rose and went the short distance to the tiny kitchen, the
two burner stove.  She opened the cupboards over the stove, found
soup, crackers, rice.  In the small refrigerator beside it she found
a quart of milk, a few apples.  Butter.  A container of orange juice.
A loaf of dark bread.

Hosteen had given her enough to feed her for the first couple of
days, at least.  She would not have to ask him for a  ride to the
market right away, and she was glad for that.  She felt like a
stranger to the outside world and did not relish the thought of
joining it.

She closed her eyes.

Maybe if she stayed out here long enough, she thought, she might
just disappear.  Mulder could forget about her.  They all would.
Curran.  Padden.  Even Skinner.  They would forget her and all that
had happened to her.

And maybe she could, as well.  She longed for forgetting more than
she'd longed for anything in her life.  For a kind of white amnesia.
Maybe by forgetting, it would stop the hurting, the grief.  Maybe the
outburst yesterday to Mulder had been all the feeling she had left,
and she could let it go, feel nothing.

Maybe that was who she was now, this new person she'd become defined
by that.

And perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing in the end, she decided,
and closed the refrigerator, no longer hungry for anything.

Distantly, she heard a sound, the first in hours.  Footsteps coming
down the road.  A horse, walking slowly, the easy cadence of hooves.

She went to the flimsy door, peered out its small window.  Her gun
was nearby, balanced on the edge of a built-in table.  She eyed it as
the figure drew nearer.

Then she relaxed some as the horse and rider drew nearer.  It was
Albert Hosteen, sitting tall on a beautiful dapple-gray horse.  He
wore a denim jacket, a plaid flannel shirt beneath it, worn jeans and
cowboy boots.  There was a plastic bag slung by the handles to the
horn of the western saddle he sat on.  It swung slightly as the horse
shifted its weight from one side to the other as it walked.

The corners of her mouth drew down.  She was not in a good state for
visitors.  In fact, she couldn't foresee a time when she would be.

Still, she opened the door, stepped down onto the sand, walked
toward him as he stopped a dozen feet from the trailer, looking down
at her kindly.

"Hello," Scully said, forcing her face into something she hoped was
friendly.

"Agent Scully," Hosteen replied, his face kind.  "I came to see how
you were getting on, and to bring you some dinner."

Scully looked down.  "I'm doing fine," she replied.  "And thank you,
but I'm not hungry.  And what you've left for me will be fine for a
few days if I do want something to eat."

Hosteen smiled, dismounted carefully so as not to disturb the bag.
"My wife, Eda, before she died, was a wonderful cook, you know," he
began conversationally, reached up and lifted the bag off the saddle.
"She could make fried chicken and fry bread like no one for miles."

"Is that so?"  Scully said, being polite.

"Hmm," Albert said, turning to her.  "She taught me how to make both
of them before she died.  Said I'd starve to death, me and the boys,
if I didn't learn to do for myself."

He opened the bag, and warm, inviting smells came from it.  Scully
looked at the bag, then at him again uncertainly.

"Well, I made some this evening, some of both, and since my son Keel
couldn't come to eat, I thought I'd come out and eat with you."

Scully tried to smile, but didn't quite make it.  "Really, Mr.
Hosteen, I'm just going to go to bed really early.  I'm very tired
and--"

"Can't let it go to waste," he interrupted.  "And you really should
try them.  They're the best you've ever eaten, I promise."  He smiled
again.  "Eda knew how to make them best."

He walked right past her now, and Scully stepped aside, watched him
go to the cluster of wooden chairs outside the trailer, set just a
few feet from a fire pit that had been dug into the ground beside the
trailer.   There was a pile of ragged branches and old lumber next to
it, a collection of kindling.  Hosteen eased himself down into one of
the chairs, began looting through the bag.

Scully looked at him, not sure what to do.  Finally she sighed.  It
was just a meal with him.  And the sooner she ate it, the sooner he
would most likely go, leaving her to the night of solitude she had
envisioned.

So she went to the chair beside his, watched him pull out a plate
encased in tin foil, which he handed to her.  It was still warm.  He
took out another for himself, setting it on his lap.  She did the
same, removed the foil to reveal three pieces of chicken, the flat
disc of a piece of fry bread, some beans cooked in heavy spice.

She had to admit -- it smelled delicious.  Her stomach rumbled as the
smell drifted around her.

He handed her a spoon from the bag, and she slowly took a spoonful
of the beans and ate.  They were as good as they smelled.

Hosteen was digging into his own plate, eating the chicken with his
fingers, using the fry bread to mop at the beans.  Scully followed
his lead, though with a bit less enthusiasm.

They ate in silence.  Off somewhere, a coyote called, another
answering from the distance.  The sky turned a bruised blue, then
faded to black, lit by a canopy of starlight.  Scully looked up at it
as she finished off the last of the bread.  The number of stars one
could see in the desert always astounded her.  It was like the sky
was more star than night.

The only light besides the stars, the bulb over the stove that she'd
left on.  It threw a small yellow square around them from the window
above their heads.  Scully couldn't see Hosteen's face, but he set
the plate down on the ground in front of him when he finished eating.
Then she saw the flare of a match illuminate his face and eyes, the
burning circle of the interior of the end of a pipe.  The smell of
sweet tobacco came toward her, and she found it somehow comforting.

She set her own plate on the ground, looked down at it, surprised to
have left nothing but bones on her plate.  Maybe she was hungrier
than she had thought.

The quiet stretched again, and she let it.

"You look different than the last time I saw you," Hosteen said
finally out of the darkness, the pipe's end growing brighter as he
inhaled.

She looked up into the sky.  There was a small light moving far up,
drawing a curve across the night.  It was a satellite, she realized,
after watching it a few moments.  Mulder had said you could see them
in the desert if you looked hard enough, but she had never believed
him.  The sight of it and the memory of his words made her smile
sadly.

"I imagine I do," she said at last.  "It's been a long time since we
last met."  She paused.  "It's strange though -- you look the same."

"Not had the years you've had, I should think," Hosteen replied.

She looked down.  "Probably not," she said vaguely.

"Hard years."   He inhaled again, the tobacco glowing like a dim
bulb and then fading out.

She hesitated, unsure of the turn in the conversation.  "Yes.  Some
of them," she replied cautiously.

Another long moment of silence.

"You were so young when I saw you last.  Young in many ways."  His
voice was calming, serious but not probing.  His words and the way he
said them made a lump rise in her throat, and she swallowed it down
hard.

"I'm not so young anymore," she replied, some bitterness coming in.
"In many ways."

"Hmm," Hosteen said again.  "Losing so much will do that to you.
Seeing too much will do it.  Pain will do it."

Something rose in her now at his words as she chafed.

"What do you know about what I've lost or seen?"  she asked flatly.
"Or about my pain?"

He shifted in the chair.  "I know only what I see in front of me,"
he said obliquely.  "That's all any of us can know."

He was turned toward her now, though his face -- and hers, she knew --
were lost in shadows.

"What do you see in front of you, Agent Scully?" he asked softly.
His voice had grown quieter still, now like a voice but like a
phantom of a voice.

She looked away, as though his eyes were penetrating her through the
darkness.

"I don't know what you mean," she said, and recalled saying the same
words to Mulder the day before.  She realized what a lie they were as
she said them to Hosteen, a lie she'd hidden behind with Mulder and
that she was using again to hide from this man, as well.

"I think you do," Hosteen countered, his voice gentle.  "I think you
see a lot in front of you, but you don't want to see it.  And I think
you want -- and need -- to see more, but you can't right now.  But
part
of that is because you don't know where to look."

She said nothing for a long moment, emotions rising.  Sadness.
Anger at the presumption of his words.  A strange feeling of exposure
and vulnerability at being so easily read.

She bent to get her plate, stood suddenly.

"Yes, well..." she said stiffly, turning toward him.  "Thank you for
dinner.  You're right.  It was excellent.  But I think I'm going to
go off to bed now."

She saw the small rain of embers as he tapped out the pipe.  Then
the creak of the chair as he stood with his own plate.  His lean form
threw a thin shadow through the box of yellow on the ground from the
window.  She could see his face now, his kind smile, but she could
not hold his gaze.

"If I think of a place where you can look, I'll let you know," he
said, not seeming to mind her brush off.  "I'll think on it."

She looked away, a feeling of vulnerability coming over her.  "All
right," she said, awkward.  She didn't know what else to say to
that.

He nodded, reached for the bag on the ground and placed both their
plates into it.  "You are welcome, " he replied.  "Sleep well, Agent
Scully."

"You, too, Mr. Hosteen," she said, and watched him disappear toward
the dark shape of his horse, who had waited patiently in front of the
trailer just outside the light the entire time.  She'd almost
forgotten the animal was there.

With a squeak of leather, he mounted, turned the horse around and
disappeared into the dark.

Scully stood there for a long moment, staring up at the blanket of
stars.  Then, tired in more ways than she could name, she turned and
went back into the trailer, closing the door for the night.


* * * * *

END OF CHAPTER 11b.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 12.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 12a.

*********

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
NAVAJO RESERVATION
MARCH 30 (FIVE DAYS LATER)
8:24 a.m.


The sounds of a truck engine starting up, of sheep bleating in the
distance, the deep sound of horses, punctuated by an occasional high
call from one of the stallions. All these sounds had grown strangely
familiar to Mulder, his usual wake-up call here on Victor Hosteen's
land.

He lay beneath the open window, clad only in green boxers, his lean
body lit by the gold morning light. Though they were a ways away from
him, he could still hear the Hosteen boys calling back and forth,
their rich laughter. They laughed a lot.

He rolled onto his side, his back to the window now, drawing his
knees up in the twin bed. It was the only way he could lay without
his feet dangling over the end, which made him feel like a man
sleeping in a child's bed. It didn't bother him too much, though.
After all, he'd spent the better part of the five days in this bed,
alternately sleeping and staring at the wall or the window, listening
to the men work in the distance in the pens and corrals.

When he wasn't in the bed, he'd spent some time sitting on the
battered sofa in the living room area off the kitchen, watching the
lousy reception on the television, or, more often, out on the front
patio in a white plastic chair. The patio faced Victor's place,
several hundred yards away, and beyond that, the stable, which he
could always spot by the cloud of dust that seemed to linger over it
and the smell that wafted his way if the wind was right. He didn't
mind the dust or the smell. He wasn't up to minding much of anything.

He drew in a deep breath, eased it out, reached up and ran a hand
over his chest. He was cold, the spring morning here in the desert
bright but chilly. Rather than pull the covers over himself, he sat
up instead, reached down onto the floor where his jeans were still
hunkered, right where he'd stepped out of them the night before. He
pulled them on as he stood, rubbing at his beard as he made his way
down the narrow corridor toward the kitchen.

Water in the kettle, the squeak of the flimsy faucet as he turned it
off. The popping of the stove as it lit, the blue flame bursting
beneath the kettle's shining surface. He stretched, shivering, his
bare feet cold on the linoleum floor.

He supposed he should get a shirt, he mused absently, then discarded
the thought. He stood before the stove until the kettle began its
slow whistle, then poured the water into a mug for the Taster's
Choice he'd found in the cabinet. The date on the stuff was two years
ago. He didn't think, wincing at the bitter taste, that it being more
fresh would make a difference.

He shuffled through the living room, breathing in the smell of dust.
The place had been shut up for months before his arrival, the former
home of one of Albert Hosteen's brothers. The man had died of cancer,
and the trailer seemed to carry the melancholy of a long illness with
it.

Outside on the patio, Mulder took his seat in the flimsy chair,
crossing his legs in front of him at the ankles, crossing his arm
across his ribs as he sipped the coffee. He watched the shapes of
horses, small at this distance, move around the corral, men milling
back and forth.

He wondered how she was, what she was doing. If she was awake yet,
what she was thinking as she started her day. He'd seen nothing of
her or of Albert Hosteen since he'd left the house all those days
ago, doing his level best not to look behind as he'd driven away.

He was still trying his best not to look behind. It hadn't worked in
the truck as he'd bumped after Victor down the road, and it wasn't
working now, either.

He reached up and rubbed his eyes roughly, the beginnings of a
headache coming over him already. He was so tired and he felt useless
and ancient.

He heard a soft noise off to his right and he jerked his head
around, instantly alert. When he saw the source of the sound, he
relaxed, however, simply stared.

The dog was back.

Mulder had first noticed it on the first morning he'd been there, a
charcoal-colored hound of some kind that skulked around the perimeter
of the property. It was so thin he could count its ribs even from a
distance, see the sores on its sides. It walked tentatively, each
step hesitant as it watched Mulder watching it. Its tail was firmly
curled between its legs, its ears and head down. It would linger for
a few minutes, and then scurry away, disappearing into the scrubby
brush behind the house.

Mulder took another sip of the acrid coffee, watching the dog. It
had stopped as he'd turned toward it and was watching him with its
dark, frightened eyes. Mulder held still for a moment, then let his
free hand slowly drop over the arm of the chair. He snapped his
fingers.

"Come here," Mulder said gently, and the dog took a step to one
side, then the other, seeming to grow smaller with the sound of his
voice, closer to the ground.

"I won't hurt you," he continued softly, snapped his fingers again,
made a small whistling sound. The dog's ears pricked for a second at
the sound, as though it recognized something familiar in it. It took
a hesitant step forward.

"That's it," Mulder said, inordinately pleased for some reason.
"Come here."

The dog licked its lips. A small chirp of a whine came from it.

Moving slowly, Mulder put the coffee cup down on the ground in front
of him, rose and went into the trailer. He kept an eye on the dog,
which had taken a few steps back as he'd risen but did not run away.

Inside, Mulder fished in the cabinets for a bowl, settling instead
on a silver pot. He filled it with water at the sink, then carefully
carried it back out the front door.

The dog was still cowering a few dozen feet away, eyeing him warily.
Taking small, slow steps, Mulder moved toward it, the pot in front of
him.

"Want some water?" he asked softly, taking another step, then
another. The dog backed up a step. "I've got some water. I'm not
going to hurt you. I just have some water...."

About 15 feet from the dog, Mulder squatted down and placed the pot
on the ground. Then he stood and began to back up, moving just as
slowly.

The dog eyed him and the pot alternately, its ears flat against its
head in fear. It whined again faintly.

When he'd returned to his chair, Mulder picked up his coffee cup and
crossed his arm over his chest again, shivering again. He took a sip,
pretending to ignore the dog now, though he was watching it out of
the corner of his eye.

It got even closer to the ground now, licking its dry lips again,
and began to creep toward the pot, watching Mulder the whole time.
About five feet away, it was on its belly, crawling now.

Mulder sipped his coffee, waiting, barely breathing.

Finally the dog reached the pot, sniffed, pressing its nose over the
edge. Then, its eyes still on Mulder, it began to drink.

And, for the first time in days, Mulder smiled.

**

Albert Hosteen watched all this with interest from the back of his
horse, up on a rise beside the trailer, a small smile on his face, as
well. He gave the dog a few moments to drink and then started down
the rise toward the trailer, now visible to Mulder on the patio,
though Mulder was watching the dog.

Suddenly, the animal stood upright, catching sight of Albert on his
horse. Instantly it shot off, running behind the trailer and into the
desert beyond. Mulder watched it go, then turned his head to see what
could have startled it and saw Hosteen. Albert couldn't miss the
hopeful look on the younger man's face as Mulder stood, walking to
the edge of the patio nearest him, his free hand jammed in his pocket
for warmth.

Hosteen maneuvered the horse up in front of him, stopped.

"Hello, Agent Mulder," Hosteen said softly. "I see you have met Bo."

"Bo?" Mulder replied, clearly confused. "Oh, you mean the dog?"

"Yes," Albert said. "My brother's dog. Nobody has been able to get
near him since Larry died. He just hangs around the house as though
he is waiting for Larry to return."

"Ah," Mulder said.

Albert dismounted now, stood before Mulder. "You look cold."

"Yeah, I am a little, I guess," Mulder replied, embarrassed. "I just
woke up and was too lazy to find a shirt."

"Huh," Hosteen replied. "Yes, I hear you do not do much with
yourself here. Victor said he rarely sees you and that you never go
anywhere."

Mulder looked down. Around the fringe of his beard, Hosteen could
make out a faint glow as Mulder blushed. "I guess I don't, no," he
mumbled. He looked around, a sad expression on his face. "Where would
I go?" His voice sounded very far away as he said the last.

"Not good for you," Albert replied. "You should get out. Busy
yourself with something." He gestured toward the corral and Victor's
house in the distance. "Victor can always use an extra hand with the
livestock. You should let him put you to work up there."

Mulder shifted from foot to foot. "I'm afraid the closest I've come
to a sheep is a sweater," he said, and Albert laughed. "And I've
never ridden a horse."

"Easy to learn. You will be good at it. I can feel it." He looked
down at the cup of coffee in Mulder's hand. "You have more water on?"

Mulder seemed struck out of his somber mood. "Oh, yes, I'm sorry. I
should have offered. Please, come in."

Albert followed him into the house, the screen door banging shut
behind them. Mulder put the kettle back on.

"I'm just going to go get a shirt," Mulder said, awkward. "I'll be
right back." And he disappeared down the hall.

Hosteen sat on the couch, looking around. He hadn't been back in
this place since just after his brother's death. There just hadn't
been any need. He smiled looking at the beat-up recliner in front of
the television, remembering nights here with his brother over the
years. The place had always been filled with laughter, a warm place.

He hoped some of that still remained for the man living in it now.

The kettle was already whistling again when Mulder returned in a
dark blue sweatshirt, his boots on. Albert watched him pour another
mug of coffee and then come forward to the living room. Mulder handed
it to him and sat down in Larry's chair, perched on the edge, clearly
nervous.

Hosteen sipped the coffee, made a face. "This is awful," he said,
bemused.

"Yeah," Mulder said, a small embarrassed laugh coming from him.
"Yeah, it is. Sorry about that."

"Tastes like ashes," Hosteen said, and took another sip. It wasn't
so terrible the second time around.

Mulder was looking into his own cup, then around the room, glancing
at Hosteen every now and again.

"You want to know how Agent Scully is doing," Albert said finally.
"I can see it on your face."

Color rose around Mulder's beard again, but he tried to shrug, sound
nonchalant. "Yeah, I had wondered how she was holding up," he said,
took a draw from his mug.

Hosteen smiled a bit at his attempt at lightness, when it was clear
from his body language he was more than anxious for news.

"She is doing all right, I would say, considering," he replied.

Mulder looked up at him now. "Considering what?" he asked, his voice
edgy.

"Whatever it is she has been through," Albert replied, echoing
Mulder's previous casual tone. "She will not speak to me about it, of
course, but I know something must have happened."

He did not say that he had already guessed what that something was,
choosing to keep that bit of information to himself.

"How often do you see her?" Mulder asked, changing the subject --
which only confirmed Hosteen's suspicions further. Mulder was still
trying to sound casual, as though they were discussing the sheep or
the sagebrush or the weather.

"A couple of times a day," he replied. "She comes in the morning to
shower and I see her briefly. Then I come to her with dinner every
night."

Mulder looked surprised. "And she *eats* it?"

Hosteen smiled. "She is too polite to refuse, so yes. We sit and
have a little talk while we eat. She tells me things sometimes.
Sometimes she is quiet."

Mulder gazed down at the floor, turning the mug in his palms. "I'm
glad she's talking to someone," he said, his voice tinged with
sadness. "Even if it's just 'sometimes.'"

"Hm," Hosteen replied, taking another sip of the bitter coffee. "She
will talk more, I think, as time goes by. I think there is something
in her that wants to in a way. But her nature holds her back. She is
warring against her nature right now." He looked at the other man
deeply. "I believe you both are."

"What do you mean?" Mulder asked guardedly. "How am I warring
against my nature?"

Hosteen smiled faintly. "You are used to *doing.* You are looking
for something to *do* when this is not about doing. It is about
letting things happen." He cocked his head, watching as Mulder looked
away as though caught.

"Do you know anything about geese, Agent Mulder?" he said after a
beat of silence.

Mulder turned back to him, his expression puzzled. "Geese? Um...I
think they mate for life. I remember hearing that somewhere. But
that's all I know."

"You know how geese fly in formation? That 'V' across the sky?"

Mulder nodded. "Yes."

"Well," Albert said, leaning back a bit on the sofa. "When a goose
becomes hurt in some way, sick or shot from the sky, it will fall out
of the formation. And when it falls, the goose in front of it and the
one behind break away from the group and follow the injured goose
down to the ground. Then they both stand in vigil over the injured
one, waiting for it to regain its strength or for it to die.
Sometimes it takes a long time for one of those two things to happen,
but the geese continue to wait, no matter now long it takes."

"What do they do if it dies?" Mulder asked softly.

Albert sipped his coffee. "If the injured one dies, the two geese
will take off again, finding another flock to fly with until they
catch up to the group they came from." He paused. "But if the goose
lives, they help it take off again, putting it in the middle of them
once again so that there is less wind for it to push through, making
the flying easier, until they find their own flock once again and
rejoin the formation."

Mulder stared into his coffee cup, and Hosteen could see him turning
it over in his head.

"We are waiting, you and I," Albert said gently. "And healing takes
time."

The other man looked up at him and their eyes met. Hosteen nodded,
smiled kindly. Mulder nodded in return.

"All right," he murmured. "I'll try. To be patient."

Hosteen nodded. "I should go," he said, and stood now, placing the
mug on the table in front of him. Mulder stood, as well, and together
they walked out the door, out onto the patio where the grey horse was
waiting, its white tail swishing absently. Albert touched its soft
nose gently as he walked around, mounted slowly.

"Hey," Mulder said from the ground. "How do you know that stuff
about the geese, anyway? There aren't any geese here, are there?" He
indicated the desert around them.

Albert smiled. "'Animal Planet,'" he said, smiling wryly. "Eight
o'clock on Wednesdays. Victor got me satellite TV a few months ago."

Mulder barked a laugh at that.

"I will check back on you in a few days," Hosteen said, turning the
horse to the side. "In the meantime, go help Victor with the horses.
Always good to be around animals. And people, too." He winked and
Mulder smiled back.

"Okay," Mulder said. "They might not like having me, as useless as
I'll be, but I'll give it a shot."

Hosteen nodded. "Goodbye, Agent Mulder."

"Goodbye, Mr. Hosteen."

Then Albert nudged the horse in the side gently, turned and headed
back home.


**********

PUERTO PE`ASCO, MEXICO
9:02 a.m.


Mae Curran awoke slowly from the dream, a dream where she was
running through a field, Sean in front of her, laughing as he enjoyed
his game. She'd been trying to get him to stop for hours, it seemed,
watching him pull further and further away from her as he ran.

The dream was so real that when she finally opened her eyes,
shielding them from the morning light coming through the open window,
she wondered if he'd really gotten away from her, and had an
irrational urge to rise and check on him in his small room just down
the short hallway.

She looked at the other side of the bed, the pillow rumpled and the
covers turned back, the only evidence that Joe had been there the
night before. That and the fact that she was wearing his t-shirt,
loose on her, covering her otherwise nude body.

And the faint musk smell of their lovemaking lingering. She breathed
it in, sighed it out. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, an
expression she was unaccustomed to but was finding came more
naturally these days.

She was in love and was helpless against it.

God help me, she thought, and closed her eyes, letting the smile
come now, felt it blooming over her.

She lay in the sunshine for a long time, letting it warm her skin,
her arms thrown over her head languidly on the bed of her long thick
hair on the pillow.

Then the dream came back to her, the memory of the panic she felt
running after Sean, pleading for him to stop as he pulled far out in
front of her, laughing...

It bothered her on some visceral level she couldn't quite put her
finger on. It was enough to strike her out of her morning ease and
she sat up, threw her legs over the side of the bed, and pulled on a
pair of sweatpants from the shabby dresser in the corner of the small
room.

She padded into the hallway, down a few feet to Sean's room, its
door closed. She knocked.

"Sean?" she called. She didn't like the silence from within one bit.
She pushed the door open without waiting for a response.

Sean looked up from the floor where he was sitting, a piece of paper
on a wide book on his lap. Crayons and markers and pencils were
spread out around him, and he looked up, his hand stopping its
movement across the sheet where it had been leaving a trail of cobalt
blue across the surface.

"What's wrong, Aunt Mae?" he said softly, fear in his voice.

She relaxed, realizing that her tone when she'd said his name had
been frightened, as well, and had triggered the response in him. "No,
no," she said hurriedly. "There's nothing wrong. I was just worried
when I didn't hear anything from you in the house."

"I was coloring my picture," Sean replied, and his hand started
moving again, the faint dry sound of the crayon filling the room.

She entered completely now, went to him, sitting beside him on the
floor. "What are you drawing then?" she asked with interest. "Do you
mind if I see?"

He shook his head, moved the book over a bit to allow her a better
view. A red ship floating on a jagged blue ocean, dark vague shapes
in the water. There were several stick-like figures on the boat,
three at the bow, two tall and one short. One of the tall ones had
bright yellow hair, one long black, and the smaller figure had hair
done in a reddish brown. The burnt sienna crayon lay nearby next to
the yellow. Sean was coloring the ocean now, cerulean blue.

"That looks like Joe's boat, doesn't it?" Mae said, scooting closer.
"Red on the sides like that."

Sean nodded, seeming pleased that she'd guessed what the drawing
was. "Aye," he said softly. "It is Joe's boat."

"Who are all these people then?" She pointed first to the ones at
the back, all bunched together, their hair all dark.

"Those are the other fishermen."

She put her finger on the figure with the long dark hair. "And that
looks like me, eh?"

He smiled and nodded, his small finger going to the yellow-haired
one. "That's Joe," he said, moved his finger to the smaller person.
"And that's me right there."

"Mmmm, I like the thought of us all on the boat," Mae said. "That
would be fun. We should do that one day. Get up really early and go
out with Joe. Would you like that?"

Sean smiled wider, but kept his eyes down. "Aye," he said softly.

Mae moved behind him, smiling, reached over to tickle him, causing
him to pull his arms down to his sides to protect his ribs as he
laughed.

She curled her arms around him, pulling his back against her front,
her legs bracketing his. He leaned his head back beneath her chin.

"What are these dark things in the water?" she asked, pointing at
the vague shapes. "Maybe seals? Like the one we saw the other day?"

He shook his head solemnly. "No, they're sharks," he said softly.
"Big sharks."

Mae's brow furrowed at the thought of that. "Well, that's a scary
thing, isn't it?" she said, trying to stay light. The image bothered
her, though. The fact that he would come up with that in an otherwise
pleasant picture.

Sean only nodded, went back to coloring his ocean.

As he did so, Mae suddenly noticed the room seemed very hot and
sweat broke out on her forehead, a cold prickle. Then, just as
abruptly, her stomach lurched.

"I'll be right back, Sean," she said quickly, scrambling to her feet
and going out the door, across the hall to the bathroom, barely
making it to the toilet before her stomach heaved again and she
vomited, the force of it sending her to her knees. It continued for a
few moments.

"Jesus," she breathed when she was finally finished, laying her
forehead against the edge of the seat as the toilet flushed. She was
holding her stomach. She felt like she'd pulled every muscle in her
belly.

"Aunt Mae? You all right?" Sean said from the door to the bathroom.
She turned her head to the side, her temple on the seat now, her
breathing heavy.

"Aye, Sean, I'm all right," she said, trying to sound reassuring.
She pulled herself upright as she said it, going to the sink.

"But you're sick," the boy said, unconvinced.

"I'm okay," she said again, turning on the faucet and running cool
water into her cupped hands. She splashed water on her face, dabbed
with a cloth, then reached for her toothbrush. She turned to Sean
again, who was still watching her with worried eyes.

"Go on back in and finish your picture, then get ready and we'll go
to the beach, all right?"

"Okay," Sean said quietly, and went back into his room.

Mae looked at herself in the mirror, color high on her cheeks. She
put her hand on her stomach again. The nausea seemed to have passed,
leaving her just feeling shaky and a bit overwarm.

Must be a little bug, she thought, brushing her teeth. With some of
the things they ate around town, she was surprised this didn't happen
more often to both of them.

She closed the door now, stepped out of her sweatpants and stripped
off Joe's t-shirt, breathing in his scent. Then she turned on the
shower and stepped into the steaming water, light pouring in through
the window and settling on her as she washed herself clean.

**

9:46 a.m.


Tom Lantham held the picture up again into the face of the bone
dealer, his nose wrinkling at the smells of bleach and rot around
him. He and Rudy Grey were standing next to a pile of cow skulls that
extended over his head, a cloud of huge black flies hanging over it
as the bone baked in the early morning sun. There were rattlesnakes
coiled to strike on the shelves behind the bone dealer's head.
Armadillos. Roadrunners.

"You sure you haven't seen this woman and this boy?" he asked again,
this time more slowly. The man -- Paco, short with a dark moustache
that trailed down around his mouth -- seemed to have a grasp of
English, but he was so reticent Lantham was having a hard time
figuring out if he didn't understand him, or just didn't want to
respond.

"No, nobody like that, no," Paco said stiffly.

He's hiding something, Lantham thought. The man was too simple to be
a good liar, and Lantham had a lot of experience with people like
that in his line of work.

"Uh huh," he said, putting the picture back in his shirt pocket.
God, he wished he still smoked. These people were driving him crazy.

Grey was toeing the sharp nose of a skull on the bottom of the pile,
threatening to send half the stack down on them, and Lantham grabbed
his arm, pulling him away.

"Let's go," he said gruffly, then turned to Paco.

"Thank you, seor," he said with false graciousness. "You've been a
huge help."

"Any time, gringo," Paco returned, a shit-eating smile on his face.
Lantham scowled and he and Grey walked away, into the crowd of the
marketplace.

"What do we do now?" Grey asked, hurrying to keep up with Lantham.
Grey was sweating in his sportsjacket, which he wore to hide the
pistol at the small of his back. Lantham wore one, too, for the same
reason. "Nobody has seen them here at all."

Lantham quickened his pace. "No, Rudy, they've *all* seen them.
Those two are here somewhere. I know it." He gestured toward the end
of the marketplace, where the view opened up onto the beach beyond.

"Let's go to the beach and see if we see anyone. Maybe we can find
someone there who'll fess up."

They wove their way through the marketplace, through the produce
carts, the fish market area smelling of fresh catch, the stands
selling firewood and fireworks for the beach.

They'd been driving for days, following sparse leads as they went.
Down through Santa Ana and Bonacita, to the coast to Puerto de la
Libertad and then north. There had been a definite sighting of them
at a town called San Luisito, where an old man had told them that if
foreigners passed through that town, they were most likely on their
way to Puerto Peasco, which he called "El Escondite," or "The Hiding
Place."

Lantham had shown the picture of Curran's sister and the boy to half
the town, it seemed, and everyone had the same quick negative
response. Too quick.

They made their way to the end of the market and climbed the dunes
that banked the shabby beach. There was trash blowing in the breeze
off the ocean, the smell of a dead fish wafting in the wind. A few
people had staked out spots on the sand, soaking up sun and listening
to Mexican music on portable radios.

Lantham put his hands on his hips and surveyed the scene, his face
dyspeptic. Grey was red-faced behind him, looking at the waves.

Lantham checked out each knot of people, wondering which to approach
first. Then something caught his eye.

A young boy at the edge of the ocean, squatted down, picking through
things on the sand. A woman stood next to him, long hair blowing in
the steady breeze.

He reached back and slapped Rudy in the gut. "Come on," he said,
keeping his eyes on the pair on the beach as though they might
disappear if he looked away.

Together, he and Grey made their way across the beach, heading for
the waves. They were walking parallel to the two, not directly toward
them. Lantham just wanted to get close enough to get a good look at
their faces.

They stopped at the edge of the ocean, where the sand gave way to
lava-like rocky tidal pools.

"Don't look at them," Lantham said below his breath as the woman
turned and started down the beach toward them, the boy in tow. Seeing
them, the woman headed off at an angle towards the center of the
beach to give them a wide berth.

But she got close enough for Lantham to see her face. Hers and the
boy's, both.

"It's them," Lantham said quietly, reaching down to pick up a shell,
which he skipped into the ocean, trying to appear as touristy and
easy as he could given his attire. Rudy obediently kept his eyes
forward, his hands in his pockets.

Lantham watched them as they went up the beach, up toward the dunes
and the street beyond. It would arouse too much suspicion to follow
them until they reached the street.

These things had to be handled delicately. Especially at this phase.

He looked down, biding his time as Mae and Sean Curran climbed the
dunes, saw a tiny purple crab standing on the rocks, one small and
one huge claw upraised in warning, its black eyes shining like beads.
He toed at it absently until it scurried away into the nooks of the
rock and disappeared.


***********


END OF CHAPTER 12a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 12b.


Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 12b.


************

THE OVERLOOK MOTEL
AFTON MOUNTAIN
AFTON, VIRGINIA
1:46 p.m.


Paul Granger pulled into the parking lot of The Overlook, a two-
story building perched on the edge of Afton Mountain, its windows
gleaming in the afternoon light. The place was mostly windows, he
noted, which didn't surprise him when he turned and looked at the
view the place afforded, a sprawling expanse of valley dotted with
farms and dense woods.

It was a fairly warm day, even for the mountains, and he peeled out
of the jacket he'd put on when he left the house that morning,
tossing it into the back seat of his black Jetta and pushing up the
sleeves of the light, dark sweater he wore. He was in his typical
Saturday attire -- jeans, running shoes -- and it helped him feel a
little less conspicuous on his errand. Though he'd technically come
as a CIA agent, he didn't feel like anyone could tell that by looking
at him. Getting out of a suit did wonders for that.

This had to be the place, he thought as he made his way across the
parking lot. His bad leg hampered him only slightly, the bone feeling
better as winter finally gave way into what he knew would be a short
spring. At this rate, he'd be back to light running in a matter of
weeks.

He headed for the office, the bell tinkling as he opened the glass
door and went inside. A woman came out from the back room -- slight,
blonde hair and holding out well in her mid-50s -- and smiled to him
kindly as he approached the desk.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her southern accent thick. She was from
further south than Virginia, Granger knew instantly. He smiled in
return, reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge.

"I hope you can," he said, flipping the cover open and showing it to
her. "I'm Paul Granger, with the CIA. I wondered if I might ask a few
questions."

The woman looked a little bewildered. The place didn't exactly look
like a hotbed of legal activity, so he wasn't surprised. And "CIA"
always sounded so damn serious, a fact which pleased him and made him
want to roll his eyes at the same time.

"Well, sure, Mr. Granger," the woman managed. "I'll answer anything
I can."

He pulled out a small spiral pad from his other back pocket, reached
for one of the pens behind the desk, looking to her for approval. She
nodded, her eyes still wide.

"What's your name, ma'am?" he asked gently in an attempt to put her
at ease.

"Sue," she said. "Scheiber. My husband Ed and I own the motel."

"Are the two of you the only ones who run the office?" he asked,
writing down her and her husband's names.

"Yes, it's just us," she said, still nervous. "Has something
happened here that we don't know about?"

"In a way," he replied, fingering a slot in his badge wallet. He
pulled out a wallet-sized photo of Mulder, his official FBI photo, a
copy of the one that had gone on his badge. He pushed it across the
counter toward her.

"I'm wondering if you might recognize this man," he said. "He stayed
here on January 12-13, I'm told."

The woman eyed the photo, holding it up to get a closer look at it.
"That was a long time ago," she said doubtfully.

"I know," Granger replied, trying to keep the anxiety out of his
voice. This *needed* to work. He needed someone to have seen Mulder
here.

"Do you know around what time he would have checked in?" she asked,
returning her gaze to Granger's face.

Granger thought back to the last time he'd seen Mulder that day.
They'd been with the task force through most of the day, and Mulder
had returned to the Marriott sometime around four or five that
afternoon, he recalled. Afton was about two hours from Richmond, so
that gave him some idea of his window.

"I'm guessing early evening," he said finally. "Or later."

"Then it would be Ed you want to talk to. I do the early morning and
afternoons here until around four. Ed takes the nights." She looked
at Mulder's picture again. "And I think I'd remember a face like
*that* one. What'd he do, anyway?"

Granger saw her eyes gleam with the intrigue of all this. It was
clearly more excitement than the woman had had in some time. He would
have smiled had the situation been less dire.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that really," he said. "Nothing
illegal, though. I'm just trying to confirm he was here. Do you keep
a ledger of who stays here? A guest book or anything like that?"

She nodded, placing the picture on the counter. "Yes, everyone signs
in in this here book," she said, and reached down for the thick
ledger, a battered green cover that had the word "Guests" embossed on
the front of it. "We thought we'd do that, you know, kind of like a
fancy hotel does." She blushed.

Now Granger did smile. "I see," he said, and reached for the book.
He laid it on the counter and opened it, flipping through the pages,
checking dates until he'd found January 12. He ran his finger down
the list of names: Long... Selby... Schulz... Reynolds... Brown...
Kucinski... Jolly...

Nothing there. His heart sank.

Then he turned the page over to the thirteenth, and was rewarded
immediately.

Hale. George Hale. The first entry of the day. And he recognized
Mulder's handwriting, as well, having seen so much of it scribbled on
files and legal pads as they'd profiled Curran together in Richmond.
He'd signed in at five in the morning on the thirteenth. Granger felt
a little jolt of adrenaline at the sight of the name.

"You find his name?" Scheiber asked. She'd noticed his reaction
immediately.

"Yes," Granger replied. "I need for your husband to try to identify
him in this picture, if he was the one on duty at five."

"Yes, it would be Ed," she said, excited herself over this little
bit of cloak and dagger at the Overlook. "I don't come on until six.
I'll go wake him up for you."

Granger smiled again, both at her enthusiasm and her words. "I would
really appreciate that, Mrs. Scheiber. Thank you."

Scheiber went around the desk. "Anyone comes to check in, tell them
I'll be right back," she said, and then she was out the door, the
bell chiming behind her.

Granger stood there, his eyes on the name still, looking at the
picture of Mulder. He was glad that he'd found some proof he was
there (though it would have, of course, been even better if Mulder
had signed in using his own name), but he was still puzzled as to why
Mulder would be out this way at five in the morning, what he'd been
trying to do.

Maybe he couldn't sleep and just needed a drive? He knew Mulder
didn't sleep well -- he'd caught him up too many late nights. But to
drive all the way out here? It seemed very strange.

He was still turning that over in his head when Mrs. Scheiber
returned, a haggard- looking man with his shirt untucked and his hair
in disarray behind her. He was cleaning his glasses on his shirt tail
as he entered, then put them on and regarded Granger with sleepy
eyes.

"Sue said you needed me to try to identify someone?" the man asked,
his voice gravelly.

"Yes, I'm sorry to wake you, Mr. Scheiber," Granger said, and showed
the other man his badge just to be thorough. "I was wondering if you
remember seeing this man here in mid-January. The thirteenth, to be
exact."

Scheiber took the picture, held it in front of him, looking down at
it through the bottom of his bifocals.

"Hm...no, I don't think so..." he said almost to himself as he
continued to look.

Granger's face fell.

"No, wait," the other man said, pointing at the picture with his
other hand, touching Mulder's face softly, tapping. "I remember him.
He came in in the middle of the night, or close to dawn, I think? It
was snowing that morning. Pretty hard. I remember that because I
couldn't get a damn bit of sleep that morning with keep the walk
shoveled and the parking lot plowed. I actually checked him out while
Suey was making lunch. Him and that woman he was with, though she
didn't come into the office. I saw her as I was shovelling, before he
came in to give me back my key."

Granger's brow knitted. "A woman?" he asked. "He was with a woman?"

"Uh-yeah, pretty little thing," Scheiber said, looking over the rims
of his glasses. "Red head. Real pretty."

Beside him, Sue Scheiber rolled her eyes. "Figures he would remember
that," and she slapped him lightly on the arm.

Granger groaned inwardly. Oh great, he thought. Now I've got Mulder
leaving the task force without authorization, AND Scully leaving her
cover.

This is looking better all the time, he thought sardonically.

He did, however, take heart in the fact that at least Mulder wasn't
here with Curran (not that he believed that for a moment), and that
someone was with him to vouch for his whereabouts.

Though the two of them meeting like that....it didn't look good on
many levels. Scully's credibility as a witness for Mulder's
whereabouts was a bit compromised, with her own breach of protocol.

And the likelihood that they met not as agents, but as lovers.

And even if it wasn't true, everyone would see it that way.

He had to ask, make one final attempt and making it look cleaner.
"One room or two? Do you remember?"

Scheiber thought about it. "Just the one," he said, handed the
picture back to Granger. "I figured she was his wife, but I didn't
ask no questions. I mind my business about things like that."

Granger nodded, placed the picture back in his badge wallet, then
reached back for the counter and picked up his small spiral pad.

"Could you write down everything you just told me?" he asked,
proffering both the pad and a pen to him. "It would be a big help to
me in my...investigation." He smiled wanly.

"Sure thing," Ed Scheiber said, taking the pen and the pad. He
placed it on the counter and began to write.


Back in the car, Granger sat still for a long time, trying his best
to figure out what to do. He would have to tell Skinner about Mulder
and Scully being there together, and he dreaded even that. After all,
Skinner was their superior, and what they'd done by coming up there
together looked very bad, professionally speaking.

The information solved one problem, but created a new one -- the
exposure of Mulder and Scully's relationship, which, though not
forbidden, was heavily frowned upon.

And it was becoming clear that Mulder was going to really only have
Scully to vouch for his actions, and for what really happened in Mae
Curran's apartment. That was a bad thing, as well, as Padden was
already questioning her conduct since she'd gone on the run.

The revelation that the two of them were lovers would make her
credibility even weaker -- Padden would say she was lying for Mulder
because they were together, that she would do and say anything to
protect him.

He shook his head as he started the car. He'd start with Skinner
first. See how he reacted. Maybe Skinner would know what to do with
all this once he knew about the two of them, though Granger hated to
be the one to give even a small part of that secret away if Skinner
didn't know already.

Sighing, he turned back onto the highway. He headed east, going back
toward Interstate 95, knowing he'd found the answer to one part of
this puzzle, but wishing he could feel better about what he'd found.


********

GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
4:17 p.m.


The agent's heels echoed through the empty corridors leading to the
closed door of Robert Padden's office.

He looked around as he walked, at the vacant offices, the closed
doors. It was Saturday, and there was no one in the building who
didn't have to be there, the usual skeleton crew of agents working
the weekends.

And the task force he was himself a part of. The one that met every
weekend -- and only on the weekends -- to share their gathered
information and to make their plans for the following week's
activities. And to report to their superior everything they'd found.

He reached the door, Padden's temporary office here at the CIA
headquarters. It was closed, as usual. Padden liked his privacy, even
when there was really no one around to disturb him. His office was
like a cocoon -- dark and insular and quiet. Not a sound came through
the heavy wooden door.

Tucking the folder he carried under his arm, the agent paused
outside the door, preparing himself to have the unenviable task of
being the bearer of bad news.

Unenviable particularly because it was to this man, and about this
subject.

Finally, standing up straighter, he cleared his throat, knocked.

"Come," came the faint response from inside the room.

He opened the door and made his way across the dark carpet to the
desk, where a single bulb glowed on the desk, the only light in the
room besides what little managed to leak through the closed drapes
and blinds.

Padden looked up from a file he was reading, dropped the pen he'd
been holding and took off his reading glasses. The agent stopped,
hesitated.

"Well?" Padden said expectantly, already sounding a bit miffed.

The agent cleared his throat again, gripped the folder in front of
him. Finally, he handed it over the desk to Padden, who did not take
his eyes off the other man as he took the folder.

"We lost them," the agent said quietly.

Padden pursed his lips, still for a moment, the folder held just
over the immaculate surface of the desk.

"How?" The word seemed to echo in the office.

"They got spooked in a town in Arizona," the agent said, choosing
his words with care. "Someone tried to grab her, and the two of them
took off. Our people couldn't keep up with them without looking too
conspicuous, so they hung back a bit. A bit too far, apparently." He
added the last apologetically.

Padden shook his head, clearly frustrated, finally set the folder
down and opened it.

It was filled with photographs.

"Those are the most recent ones we have," the agent added, trying to
sound helpful. "They're from a week ago, and a little before."

Padden fingered them, glancing over them one by one. Mulder and
Scully leaving a motel. Going into a restaurant. At a gas station,
Scully heading around the side of a building.

His hand stopped on one, which he lifted away from the others and
studied, replacing his glasses as he did so. The agent stepped closer
to see which one it was, though he could pretty much guess without
seeing.

Mulder and Scully sitting on a ledge, snow falling. Mulder behind
Scully and his arms around her, his head on her shoulder. The
intimacy in the picture was impossible to ignore or misconstrue.

"Well." Padden held the picture up a bit higher. "I guess there's
one thing we know for certain at this point, isn't there."

The agent nodded. "There is. And to think we thought they were just
sharing all those motel rooms for safety's sake." He smirked, hoping
the humor would lighten Padden's ire.

"You'd think," Padden said almost absently. "that she would have had
enough of that after that business with Fagan." His lips curled.

The agent forced a smile in return. "Yes, you would," he said,
though some dim part of him felt guilty for agreeing to that one.

"Doesn't seem to be agreeing with her one bit," Padden continued,
setting the photo down and picking up the one of Scully going around
the building. "Post-Traumatic Stress seems to have set in nicely."

The agent's smile faded. "Yes," he said, trying his best to sound
agreeable. "We've all noticed that, as well."

"Makes for an easier target for Curran," Padden continued. "And
it'll keep Mulder shaken up, too. That will all work to our
advantage."

"Yes." The agent shifted from one foot to another.

Finally, Padden dropped the photo. "Who tried to take her?"

"We're not sure," the agent replied, glad for the change of subject.
"The people at the station said three men. They all drove away after
they'd shaken themselves off. They were a little worse for wear
apparently."

Padden heaved out a put-upon breath. "Were our people close enough
to pursue if they'd gotten to her?"

The other man nodded. "Yes. They were right there. They didn't want
to take off after Mulder and Scully when they ran, though, since they
were expecting to be followed and it would have blown our cover for
sure. They tried to follow a bit later, since there are only a few
roads out where they were and they thought it would be impossible to
lose them." He looked down at his feet, then back up again. "But they
were wrong, apparently."

Padden leaned back, his face reddening. "How do we know that Curran
doesn't already have her? How the hell are we going to catch the bear
if we can't even keep an eye on the bait?"

The agent looked down again. This was the dressing down he expected.

"We'll find them. We're blanketing all the towns from southern Utah
to western New Mexico, all the way to Farmington. When they stop
again, we'll find them."

Padden scowled. "You tell our people I want them found
*immediately.* All this effort will have been for nothing if we're
not there when Curran gets to her. And I'm running out of things to
feed Granger's task force to keep them occupied. The fact that
someone tried to get her means Curran knows where she is and is
making his move. We'd sure as hell better be there when he does. If
he takes her out while we're not there, they'll be no way to get a
finger on him, nothing to follow to him."

"Yes, sir," the agent replied. "We're doing everything we can."

"Do more," Padden growled, and tossed his glasses back on the desk.

"We still think this would be easier," the man said cautiously, "if
you let us take Mulder out of the equation. Bring him in."

Padden shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "Leave him be.
Especially given this." He pushed the photo of the two of them on the
cliff toward the agent. "Curran's got someone working for him; that's
for certain now. And there's no better target than a man *in love*
willing to throw himself in front of a bullet."

The agent watched that same wry smirk pass over the other man's face
again. He swallowed.

"No, leave Mulder right where he is," Padden continued. "Knowing his
history, he has a way of taking care of himself. If there's a way to
get into trouble, he'll find it, and then he won't be our concern any
more."

The agent looked down, uncertain for a moment. Then he took in a
deep breath. This was what he'd signed on to when he took this
assignment. This was about catching a terrorist, he reminded himself.
About two people operating outside the law. They knew the possible
consequences of the path they'd chosen.

Sacrifices would have to be made, he reminded himself.

He comforted himself with that thought, and nodded to his superior.

"We'll find them," he said firmly.

"Good. I hope you'll pass on my...confidence...to the other agents?"
Padden sat still as he said it.

"I will," the man said. "By next weekend. When we meet again."

"I'm going to turn up the heat a bit," Padden said. "Redo the
posters and make them both wanted now. And I'll put a reward on it
this time, too."

"That would probably help us, yes," the agent admitted.

Padden nodded. "Very good," he said, and now went back to his files,
reaching for his glasses. "I'll leave you to your work. That will be
all."

The agent nodded. "Yes, sir," he said faintly.

Then he turned and headed back through the office, relieved to close
the door tight behind him.


***********


END OF CHAPTER 12b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 13.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 13a.

************

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
NAVAJO RESERVATION
10:37 p.m.


"Another one!"

Scully pointed up towards the far right quadrant of the sky, her
eyes wide as the streak of light shot a long trail across the dark
canvas of stars above her, the trail fading almost instantly, as
though the meteor she'd seen had never been there at all.

"I saw it, yes," Albert Hosteen said from beside her. "A big one.
Burned for a long time for a falling star."

Another puff of his pipe smoke reached her, lingering with the smoke
from the campfire they'd built in the firepit in front of the two
chairs. She found herself looking over at him in the flickering
firelight, his features thrown in black and gold relief, at his eyes
turned up toward the sky. They were glowing dark pools in his craggy
face as he scanned above. He looked content, and she borrowed some of
that feeling from him.

At first, she'd thought it a silly thing to do, to watch a meteor
shower. After all, she thought, it was nothing but a shower of space
debris burning up on entry into the atmosphere. But Hosteen had said
that it might be pretty, that she might enjoy it, and she'd relented,
let him build the fire after they'd shared their nightly meal.

She smiled at the memory of him coming down off Ghost -- his
obedient, almost silent, horse -- with the foil-covered pan.

"Have you ever had Navajo lasagna?" he'd asked, meeting her as she
came down out of the trailer.

"No, I haven't," she'd replied, already amused at the notion.

"That's good." Albert was smiling as he said it. "Because there is
no such thing. This is Stouffer's."

He had a knack for making her laugh like that. Easy laughter at easy
things.

After she'd fetched the plastic plates, the flimsy silverware, from
the trailer and they'd eaten the meal, he'd told her about the shower
that night, suggested they watch it together.

She had to admit, when he first started coming around with food
every night, there had been a part of her that had resented the
intrusion on her space, her grief. But as the nights had gone by,
she'd found herself welcoming his serene presence, a nightly respite
from her solitude.

She spent the whole day thinking, turning events from her life over
in her head like stones she was lifting up and examining one by one.
She'd grown to realize it had been years since she'd truly had the
time alone to really consider the things that had happened to her, to
allow herself to feel the pain and anger she had over some of them.

Her abduction. Her cancer. Her infertility. The deaths in her
family. Emily. Curran's manipulation of her with the drug.

And then the rape.

But now, with the time alone in the trailer, the hours spent walking
in the desert behind it, she had begun to feel these things. It was
as if the attack by Fagan had finally driven her to a break. It had
somehow simultaneously closed one door and opened another -- closed
the door on her openness to people and possibilities in the present,
but opened the door to her feelings about her past. Opened old wounds
she'd thought long since scarred over.

Apparently she'd been wrong about that. And she was seeping rage and
anguish like blood.

But not when she was with Hosteen. He calmed her during his nightly
visits, always ready with a good meal and his pipe and his stories
and gentle questions.

Another meteor streaked across the sky, this one fast as a wink, but
both of them saw it. Scully smiled, shifting back in her chair. So
child-like, this pleasure. So simple.

As if reading her thoughts, Albert blew out a puff of smoke and
said: "Used to do this with my son Keel when he was a little boy. Sit
out here and watch the sky at night. He still loves to be out at
night. He even has a telescope now and sometimes he shows me things
through it." He turned to her. "You ever think about having children,
Agent Scully?"

Her face flushed and she looked down, into the fire.

"I am sorry if I pry too much," Hosteen said, regret in his voice as
he saw her reaction. "I was just wondering. You don't have to answer
if you do not want to."

"No, it's fine," Scully said, her chin coming up. She wouldn't allow
herself to hide from the truth of that. To do so made her feel like a
coward, and she wanted to appear strong, particularly to this man she
respected. "I...I'm not able to have children."

"Hm," Hosteen said. "I am sorry." He looked into the fire. "It is
strange though. I see you with a child for some reason."

Scully looked down again, this time at the ground. "I had a child
once," she said hesitantly. "I didn't carry her, but she was mine."

"The government project." He said it as a fact. She looked up at him
in surprise. She had forgotten that he knew about that, and wondered
to what extent he was familiar with it. At the same time, she was
relieved not to have to explain.

"Yes," she said at last. "I was taken and left unable to conceive.
But Emily...she happened some time after that. I'm not sure how. I
only found out about her by accident. I was never meant to know."

"But you did know. You found her."

Scully studied her hands. "Yes. I took her away from them when I
found her, but she was very sick because of what they'd done to her."
She hesitated. "She died a few days later." Her voice had dropped to
just above a whisper.

A log fell in the fire, sending up a rain of sparks that swirled in
the air and then blinked out.

"You did the right thing to take her away from them," he said, and
for the first time she heard something hard in his voice, the
simmering of anger. "To try to give her a life away from all that.
From what those men do. It is evil." He looked over at her, his eyes
shining in the flames. "I hope you do not blame yourself for her
death. What you did was right."

Scully looked back at him, nodded, hesitated.

Should she tell him? She hadn't spoken of it to anyone -- not even
to Mulder, though he'd been a part of all of it...

But something about the quietness of the night, the cocoon of warmth
and light of the fire, and something about Hosteen himself, made it
seem safe to speak.

"I forgave myself for it because...she told me to," she said, now
unable to meet his eyes.

Did she even believe it herself that it was more than a
hallucination or dream? How could she expect him to believe it was?

"Before she died, she told you?" he asked, pulling on the pipe.

Scully looked down. Shook her head. "No."

Hosteen nodded. "Hm. Tell me the story."

She pulled in a deep breath. "It was two years to the day after her
death. Mulder and I...we'd been in a terrible car accident and no one
could find us for a long time. We were both injured very badly.
Dying. That's when she came to me. Right into the car, in fact." She
looked down, embarassed. "I know how it sounds..."

"No, never apologize for the truth," he interrupted gently. "No
matter how it might sound to people who do not understand it. You
were close to death. It is a time when we can touch death, the world
of it. It makes sense, I think." He paused. "What did she say to
you?"

Scully's gaze returned to his face with his acceptance of what she
had to say. It relieved her, made her believe herself. It opened her
a bit more.

"She said that what happened wasn't my fault. For me to forgive
myself for her death." She balked. "And she told me...I didn't have
to be lonely anymore."

Hosteen nodded. "A kind child," he said softly. "A good child, to
care for you that way." He pinned her with his eyes. "Though you
don't seem to have listened to what she had to say."

"What do you mean?" she asked, confused. "I told you I've forgiven
myself for what happened to her."

"You didn't listen to the last thing she said," Hosteen replied.
"You might have at first, but you are ignoring it now."

Scully flushed, looked away. "Things are not the same as they were
then," she said quietly. A touch of defensiveness had crept in.

"Not the same in you, you mean," he said. He took another drag off
his pipe.

"No, I mean things are not the same," she insisted, more defensive
now.

"Hm," he said softly, and she was irritated by the blitheness of his
response to her.

"You don't believe me?" she said.

He studied the end of his pipe. "I saw Agent Mulder this morning
after you left the house from your shower," he said. He put the pipe
back in his mouth, spoke around it. "Things seem the same to him."

Angered and feeling invaded, she stood now suddenly, gathering her
dishes from the meal. "Mulder has nothing to do with this," she said
under her breath. "You have no idea what I've been through. But I
will tell you Mulder's not a part of it."

"You have to forgive him, too," Hosteen said as though she hadn't
spoken, and she shot him a look, grabbed up his plate from beside him
with her other hand.

"What are you talking about?" she snapped. "There's nothing to
forgive him for. Mulder didn't *do* anything."

"And that is what you must forgive," Hosteen replied, unaffected by
her tone, the fire catching on his face, the even challenge of it.

Scully pulled in a breath, stilled by his words. She looked at him,
her eyes wide with surprise.

"As you must forgive yourself for this thing that has happened to
you," he continued. A puff of pipe smoke, but his eyes did not leave
hers. "Forgive yourself for not being able to keep it from
happening."

She was stunned now, feeling the now-familiar burn of shame. But it
was more than that, this coming from him. It felt like something
tearing loose in her. Her eyes filled and she swallowed hard.

"How...how do you know these things?" she said incredulously, hoarse
around the lump in her throat. She was still frozen in place in front
of him, a plate in each hand. The left shook so that the fork
chattered on the plastic surface faintly.

"There was a woman here a long time ago," Albert began, looking not
at her but into the fire again. "Went into Farmington one day and a
man took her, kept her for several days and then left her in a
parking lot. Once she got better she came home, back to her family
here. She could not go out. She would not eat. The man she was
supposed to marry waited a long time for her to come back to herself,
but she never did." He gnawed on his pipe end, took a puff. "He gave
up after some time, married another."

Scully swallowed again, struggling to contain her emotions.
"What...what happened to her?" she asked faintly.

He looked back at her, away from the fire. "She stayed with her
family for the rest of her life, which was short. Something in her
had died and the rest of her, it was not far behind."

He paused as she looked down, then back up at him again, desperate,
her eyes rimmed with tears.

"I hated to watch that," he said into the quiet. "We all did. It was
hard to lose someone like that."

Scully looked away, and twin tears escaped as she clenched her eyes
closed, fighting for her badly taxed control. She did not have a hand
free to wipe them, so she let them fall, though they shamed her.

Albert leaned forward. "It was a terrible thing, what was done to
your body," he said softly. "But you are still alive. Your body is
still alive. And what was done to you is not who you are or what you
must become."

She shook her head. It was too much.

"Please..." she whispered, bit her bottom lip, her face still turned
away.

"You can be who you were again," he said with conviction. "You
*will* be her again. You just have to search out what you need to
find her."

She was shaking now, a fine tremor, his words crashing through her.
Her brow knitted over her closed eyes, and she bit her lip so hard it
hurt. But she held on, riding it out. She still could not look at him
as she opened her eyes finally, heaved out a long, trembling breath.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him lean back in the
chair, set his pipe on the arm of it. Then he reached out and took
the plates from her hands, set them on the ground at his feet.

His voice was supremely gentle when he spoke. "Why don't you sit
down and watch the shower and I will put another log on the fire? We
can sit quietly and watch together for a while."

She didn't know what else to do, every part of her feeling flayed.
Like she had lost a layer of skin, a hard dead layer like a shell.

So she went back to her chair and sat, wiping her eyes quickly as
Hosteen rose and put a piece of wood on the fire. Flaming ashes rose
and winked out as he returned to the chair beside her. He refilled
and relit his pipe.

For a long time she sat with him and watched the sky in a
companionable silence, the night cold but the fire warming her, stars
shooting across the sky's dark face like tears made of light.


**********

PUERTO PE`ASCO, MEXICO
APRIL 3 (THREE DAYS LATER)
6:37 a.m.


"Katherine, try to drink this."

Joe Porter spoke softly, kneeling on the cracked tile floor of the
bathroom. He proferred Mae a glass of water with one hand, stroked
her back softly through the thin material of his own shirt she was
wearing with the other hand. She was on her knees, as well, panting,
her head over the toilet.

"No..." she said between breaths, and she retched. He set the glass
down quickly and pulled back her long hair, holding it in a ponytail
as she vomited again. He winced. It sounded like it hurt this time.

Sean appeared in the doorway, sleep still clinging to him, the
imprint of the sheets on the side of his face. "Joe?" he asked,
uncertain, his voice tinged with fear.

"It's all right, buddy," Joe replied, doing his best to sound
calming. "She's just sick again. I'll tell you what I want you to do,
though. Go ahead and get dressed and put a few of your coloring books
and toys in your backpack, okay?"

"Are we going out?" Sean asked, rubbing at his eyes.

"Yes, Sean, we're going to go to the doctor's," Joe replied, and saw
Sean's eyes widen. "But it's okay," he added hurriedly. "We're just
going to get your aunt checked out, that's all. Now go ahead and get
ready to go."

"Okay, Joe," Sean said softly, and disappeared from the doorway.

Mae's hand shot out to the side of the bathtub for support as she
leaned back slightly. He looked at her, worried at the paleness of
her face, and let go of her hair, his hand trailing over her
shoulder.

"I don't need to go to the clinic," she said hoarsely, not looking
at him. "It's just a bug. It's nothing."

"You've been sick like this for days," Joe insisted gently, and she
turned to him now, her eyes tired but surprised. "Yes, Sean told me
last night," he said. "Though I wish you would have told me yourself.
Now you're getting weak and dehydrated. It's time to go in and get
some antibiotics or something. This happens to a lot of tourists down
here and it's not serious as long as you get it treated. It won't
just go away."

She sighed, leaned all the way back now, then swooned, her eyes
lolling. Joe moved forward quickly to catch her before her head could
knock against the wall behind her and held her gently, cradling her
against his chest.

"Jesus, Katherine, you're going to be lucky to stand," he said,
stroking her hair. "Now don't argue with me for once, all right?"

"All right..." she said faintly, turned her face into his chest, her
eyes closing. "I'll go then."

**********

END OF CHAPTER 13a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 13b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 13b.

**********

LA CLNICA DE SANTA MARIA
8:48 a.m.


Joe sat in the hard plastic chair at the end of the long hallway
that led to the examining rooms of the town's small clinic, and
realized suddenly that he was tapping his foot anxiously and he
stopped abruptly.

He blew out a breath and checked his watch. Patience had never been
his strong suit, especially when he had worry piled on top of it. He
shifted in his seat, stretched his long legs out in front of him,
trying to appear nonchalant now for Sean's sake.

Sean sat next to him, his hair still awry from sleep, his brow
knitted in concentration. He had drawn what Joe considered to be a
pretty good picture of a crab, and was now coloring its claws and
body a bright purple.

Joe looked at the boy, at the seriousness of his face, and knew that
though Sean was quiet about it, he was worried, as well. In the time
that Joe had known him, Sean had shown himself to be a very sweet,
very sensitive child, often lost in introspection. Joe knew that
something like this was bound to affect him deeply, though the child
had inherited his aunt's ability to be silent about his thoughts most
of the time.

It was a trait that worried Joe about both of them.

He reached over and cupped the back of Sean's head in his calloused
hand, gave him a small shake. The corner of Sean's lip came up in a
tiny smile, then was gone.

"How you holding up, buddy?" Joe asked softly.

"I'm all right," Sean replied, but didn't look up from the picture,
his hand continuing to scratch the crayon over the paper.

Joe rubbed absently at his hair, looking at the picture, as well.
"She's going to be all right, you know," he said, trying a different
tact in an attempt to get Sean to open up a bit more. "It's just a
little thing she picked up in town, I bet. They'll give her some
medicine and she'll be good as new."

Sean seemed pensive for a moment. "But Aunt Mae hardly ever gets
sick," he said, still not looking up. "I can only remember a couple
times she's been sick like this."

Joe's brow knitted in confusion and his hand stilled on the back of
Sean's head where he'd been stroking the boy's hair down. "'Mae'?" he
asked, and as he said the word, Sean's face shot toward his, flushing
deep red, clearly afraid.

Tears were beginning in Sean's eyes as he searched Joe's face. "I
wasn't supposed to say that," he said, and his voice quivered.
"She'll be mad at me for telling."

Joe let out a tired breath, nodded. A dull ache had lodged in his
chest.

"It's okay, Sean," he said tenderly, stroking Sean's hair down again
to soothe him. "It's okay that you told me that."

"No, I'm not supposed to." The tears were falling now.

Joe reached down and cradled the side of Sean's face in his hand,
brushing at the tears with his thumb. "It's *okay.*" he said firmly.
"You can trust me, Sean. I would never do anything to hurt you or
your aunt. No matter what."

Sean searched his face for a few seconds, his lip trembling.

"Come here," Joe said gently, and he leaned over, put his arms
around Sean and embraced him. Sean slowly brought his arms up, as
well, curled them around Joe's broad back, the purple crayon held
tightly in his fist. The picture slipped to the floor, disappeared
under the row of chairs.

They stayed like that for a long moment while Sean's chest heaved,
his breath fast as he cried. Joe rested his cheek against the top of
Sean's head and let him cry. He wondered at the weight the small body
in his arms had been carrying all this time. He wanted to lift it all
away.

A nurse appeared around the corner, coming from the hallway. She
stopped, met Joe's eyes and smiled kindly.

"Seor Porter?" she asked, her voice gentle.

"S'," Joe replied, letting Sean lean away. The boy rubbed his face
on the short sleeves of his shirt, struggling for his control.

"You can come back now," the woman said in Spanish. "But she only
wants to see you right now." She looked at Sean. "I'll sit with the
boy while you go."

Joe's anxiety ratcheted up a few more notches and he struggled to
keep it off his face as Sean looked at him.

"What did she say?" Sean asked, afraid.

Joe looked down at him. "She's going to sit with you for a minute
while I go back and see...Mae," he said. "I'll be out to get you in a
minute, all right?"

"Okay," Sean said, and Joe stood, pushed his sandy hair back from
his face, nervous.

"Examination room three," the nurse said, and bent down to retrieve
the picture that Sean had been working on that was near her feet,
then sat down next to him. Joe nodded and went down the corridor.

At room number three, he stopped, steeling himself, and knocked
faintly. Mae's shaky voice told him to come in.

She was sitting on the examining table in a gown, her long bare legs
over the side of the table. She wiped at her eyes, which were rimmed
red and wet with tears. She did not smile as she looked at him.

"Where's Sean?" she asked without preamble.

"He's with the nurse. The end of the hallway." He looked at her,
frightened by her state. "My God, what is it?" he asked, his heart
beating hard now.

Mae rubbed her eyes once more, pushed her hair back, kept her hand
on her forehead as she closed her eyes and blew out a breath.

"Joe, I'm pregnant," she said, her eyes still closed as she spoke.

His heart, already running to catch up with his nerves, now nearly
screeched to a halt. His mouth hung open. "You're pregnant?" he
repeated, incredulous.

She nodded, and now she did look at him, drew in another trembling
breath, let it out.

"But I thought we--" he stammered.

"Not even a diaphragm is a sure thing," she said, and her hand came
up to cover her face. She shook her head. "Jesus *Christ*...."

He swallowed down his shock as he saw how upset she was. He couldn't
stand to see her this upset over this, over anything.

So he came forward until he was standing almost against her knees.
Not knowing what else to do, he did as he'd done with Sean -- he
folded her in his arms, tucked her face beneath his chin, her fast
breath on his throat.

"It's okay," he said softly into her hair. "Mae, it's okay. We'll
work with this. Work it out."

She melted into him for a few seconds, then she stiffened, pulled
away quickly, looking into his eyes, the same frightened expression
on her face as Sean had worn at his mention of the name. Her tears
began again.

"Yes," he said gently. "I know your real name. Sean slipped it out.
He didn't mean to. He was just upset." He cupped her face in his
large hands. "And it's all right," he said with conviction. "It's
*all* all right."

She choked on a sob, and her arms came up and around him, pulling
him to her so tightly it almost hurt him. He returned the embrace
gently, rubbing her back in small circles. He turned his face and
kissed her cheek, lingering there.

"Joe, I'm so afraid," she whispered against his shoulder. "You don't
understand. If you knew...God, I've done...terrible things--" She
stopped on another sob.

"I know you're afraid," he said softly, holding her tighter. "But
we're going to work this out. I don't care who you're running from or
what you've done. I know who you are *now* and I love you." He pulled
her face away, looked into her eyes. "And you can trust me. You have
to believe that, all right?"

She looked at him, and he could tell from the way her eyes ran over
his face that she wanted desperately to believe him, even if she
couldn't bring herself to do it yet. He knew it would probably take a
long time for her to trust him like that, but he was prepared to
wait. For as long as it took.

Finally she nodded, accepting the gesture in what he'd said. He did,
as well, and leaned forward. Moving slowly, with a sort of reverence,
he kissed her forehead, then her cheek, and finally her lips.


**********

UNKNOWN LOCATION
NEAR ALDER CREEK, COLORADO
2:23 p.m.


Larry Kingston, fresh off the plane from Tyner, Kentucky and rattled
by a five-hour drive from Pueblo, listened to the chains grate on the
snow as the jeep he was riding in crawled its way up the mountain
toward the town of Alder Creek.

He knew they were getting close now. As the Grand Marshall of the
Sons of Liberty, he was familiar with this place, having chosen it
for his most secret base of operations himself on a hunting trip ten
years ago. So he knew the way like he knew the lines on his own hand.

First the bend around the big tree at the top of the mountain; then
the slow downhill for a few hundred yards, and the turnoff into the
base, marked only by an orange cone and a sign that warned everyone
to keep out -- private property.

The man driving the jeep, a resident of the compound who'd been
called upon to pick him up from the tiny airport in Pueblo, followed
the way just as he expected, and the snow was just beginning to fall
as he went down the mile-long driveway into the compound, the faint
cotton of smoke hanging in the trees the only sign that there was
life up ahead of them at all.

The snow was coming down more now, heavy lazy flakes, as they pulled
up outside the mess hall and the jeep stopped. There was a knot of
people there to greet him.

He stepped out of the jeep, immediately greeted by Jeff Haskell, the
leader of the compound. The two men shook hands, then embraced
quickly in the stiff way of country men in parkas.

"How are you, Larry?" Haskell asked. "Good trip?"

"Long trip," Kingston corrected. "But it was all right, I reckon.
Could use a pipe and cup of coffee, though."

Haskell smiled. "You've got the pipe, I've got the coffee," he said.
"Want to come into the mess hall? We might be able to scare up
something from lunch, too."

Kingston waved him off. "I will. I'll meet you in there. I want to
do my errand first." He looked around. "Where's he at?"

The smile faded from Haskell's face. "He's in his bunk, getting
packed up. You're lucky to have caught him at all. He's leaving
today."

"Huh," Kingston grunted. "We'll see about that. Take me to him, if
you would."

They moved through the group of people, Kingston smiling and
greeting them as they reached out and touched his arm, shook his
hand. He'd forgotten that these people -- most of them up here to
hide out from some job that he himself had had them do -- needed to
see him to be reminded of what it was they were fighting for in the
first place.

He needed to make more of an effort to get up more often, he told
himself as they made their way across the compound. And not because
that Irish sonofabitch was causing trouble. But because these people
needed him to lead them, even here.

There might be another Bush in the White House who wore a cowboy hat
now, but there was still a lot of work to be done.

The bunkhouse was a small shack in the corner of the property, smoke
curling from the metal stovepipe chimney. Haskell took him to the
door, and then Kingston put his hand on the other man's shoulder.

"I'll take it from here," he said. "Let me talk to him by myself."

"No problem," Haskell replied. "We'll be in the mess hall for when
you're done." And Haskell walked through the faint curtain of snow
back the way they'd come.

Kingston reached into his pocket and pulled out his pipe and tobacco
pouch, filled the pipe with the sweet-smelling flakes. Then he lit
it, puffing out a cloud of aromatic smoke, gathering himself. Then he
knocked on the door.

"What is it?" came the suspicious voice inside, and Kingston didn't
wait to be asked before he opened the door and walked inside.

Owen Curran was at his locker, tossing a few things into an open
suitcase on the small cot. His eyes narrowed at Kingston as he
entered the space, clearly not liking the intrusion. Kingston put the
pipe in the corner of his mouth and held it there.

"I hear you're going away, Mr. Curran," he said, pinning Curran with
his eyes and daring him to speak.

Curran stood for a few seconds, the two men regarding each other
silently. Then Curran went back to the locker, reached in for
something else. "Aye," he said. "That I am. How did you hear about
that then, I wonder?"

His voice was drippingly nice and tinged with sarcasm. Kingston
didn't like it one bit.

"Mr. Curran, this may come as a shock to you, but those two men down
there in Mexico work for me. So they called *me* when they found your
sister and your boy down there. I'm just sorry they called you
first."

"We had a talk, Lantham and I, about that. We have an agreement that
I'm to be there when he takes them." He looked at Kingston with
narrow eyes. "He did as he was told."

Kingston pulled on the pipe, leaking smoke out the other corner of
his mouth. "What I'm wondering, Mr. Curran, is who the hell you think
you are that you can tell my people what to do like that."

Curran stopped rummaging in the locker and squared off with Kingston
now, silent and clearly accepting the gauntlet thrown down.

"Lantham said you threatened him with non-payment if he didn't call
you, as though those orders came from me, so that's why he called
you." Kingston's face iced over. "Who said you could do that?"

Curran pulled in a slow breath, put his hands in his pockets almost
casually. "This is my show, Mr. Kingston," he said softly,
dangerously. "This is my family and my business. We do it my way. And
my way is that I'm there to make sure your men don't cock the thing
up on their way to doing it."

"You need to stay here, Mr. Curran," Kingston said in a tone that
didn't want an argument. "You're under my protection, in my hiding
place, and I say you stay here and let those two men do their jobs
and bring your kin up here to you like you said you wanted in the
first place. I can't have you down there with them if they happen to
get caught. I don't want to be tied to you in any way with the police
should that happen. I don't want nothing to do with you or what
you're standing for."

He puffed out another cloud of smoke into the cool air as Curran
looked at him.

"No offense intended, of course." He added this last with a crooked
smile.

"Of course," Curran said, and returned the smile.

"Apparently nobody wants much to do with you these days," Kingston
continued. "Not even your own people I hear. Not after what you did
in D.C." He shook his head. "I think you should stay up here with us
for a little while until we get these three in for you. Then I wash
my hands of you."

"You've only got the two for me so far," Curran snapped, returning
to packing. He tossed a pistol in its holster into the suitcase
haphazardly. "The deal was for all three and the debt's paid,
remember?"

Kingston nodded. "Almost got the other one, that woman, in Arizona a
few days back. Won't be long until we find her, as well. Got a lot of
people looking around for her now. We'll find her right quick."

Curran froze now. "How did that get fucked up?" His chest was
heaving with emotions that Kingston couldn't quite name. Excitement?
Rage? He couldn't tell which it was.

Kingston took the pipe out of his mouth, studied the end. "She's got
someone with her. A man who's armed. He got in the way. But don't
worry. We'll find her again and we'll be ready this time."

"I should fucking hope so," Curran said angrily, then he turned and
pointed at Kingston, something wild in his eyes. "In the meantime,
I'm going to Mexico to get my sister and my boy. And you're not
stopping me. And if your men move before I get there, I'll be making
a call to the papers about this place and then you'll have the
trouble you're asking for."

Kingston put the pipe back in his mouth. He could feel blood behind
his eyes as he looked at Curran but outwardly he stayed calm, puffed.

Somewhere along the line, Kingston thought, swallowing his rage into
cold hate, this sonofabitch had gone completely crazy.

Nothing worse than a cause gone personal, he thought bitterly. It
sickened him to see it.

"Just so we understand each other," Kingston began softly. "You
potato-eating sonofabitch. You breathe one word about this place
after my good faith in you and my hiding your sorry ass and I'll make
sure all the right people know just where to find *you*. And I ain't
talking about the FBI and the CIA who will treat you pretty, either."

"Call them," Curran said. "I don't give a good fuck what you do.
I'll have what's mine soon enough and I'll be out of your way and
theirs. You won't know where to point them, you country fuck."

Kingston went to the stove now, opened the door and tapped his pipe
into it. The flame hissed in return.

"All right, Mr. Curran," he said evenly. "You go on there down to
Mexico. You call me with where you end up after that. Keep Lantham
and Grey with you until you're done, and I'll send the woman your way
when we get her. Then you and me will be done with each other and we
can just go our ways. How's that sound to you?"

Curran nodded. "That sounds just fine, Mr. Kingston." He turned
toward his locker, dismissing him. Then he spoke, facing the locker.

"You'd better fucking keep your word to me. You owe me, after all."

"Yes, I do owe you," Kingston replied, and turned to go. "And I
always pay my debts. Not to worry. Have a safe trip." Then he was out
the door and in the snow, moving across the compound.

Fury boiled in him. Nobody talked to him like that. And certainly
not some crazy foreign bastard like the man he'd just left behind.

I need to do some phone calling, he thought to himself, calming down
as he made his way to the mess hall.

And he knew just who -- and when -- to call.


***********


END OF CHAPTER 13b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 14.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 14.

***********

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
NAVAJO RESERVATION
APRIL 4
5:38 a.m.


"Hey Mulder! GET UP!"

The heavy, fast thumping of a fist on plastic startled Mulder from
his dead sleep and he bolted upright in bed, his hand immediately
going for the gun he kept beside his pillow against the wall. His
chest was heaving, his eyes wide as they shot toward the window, only
to find Victor's smiling face peering in at him between his open
hands, which were pressed to the plexiglass.

"*Christ,* Victor, don't scare me like that!" Mulder exclaimed,
laying the gun back down and cupping his forehead.

"Sorry," Victor said, though his smile didn't fade. "I knocked on
the door, but you didn't hear me, I guess."

Mulder shook his head, clearing it, noted it was just getting light
outside. "What time is it?"

Victor's smile widened. "It's a little after 5:30. You're late."

Mulder reached for his watch on the sill as though he didn't believe
the other man, shivering in the early morning cool, his bare legs
having slipped out from under the covers. He looked at the watch --
sure enough. The man was right.

"Late for what?" he asked, cranky.

"You said you wanted to help with the sheep and horses--" the young
man began firmly.

"Yeah, but for God's sake--"

"-- and this is when we start with them for the day," Victor
finished, ignoring him. "We've all already eaten. Time for you to get
at it."

Mulder groaned, rubbed at his face and beard with both hands.

"Come on," Victor cajoled. "You sleep too much as it is. Get
*moving,* man." He pattered on the window with his hands as though he
were drumming, making an enormous hollow racket. Mulder put his hand
up in defeat.

"All right, all right," he said, throwing his legs over the side and
reaching for his jeans on the floor. They'd started living there when
they weren't on his body.

"Hurry up and fix something to eat and come on," Victor said. "Meet
us at the corral. We're going to break horses this morning."

"Sounds messy," Mulder quipped, putting one leg, then the other, in
the worn denim. He stood, pulling the jeans up over plaid flannel
boxers, then turned toward the window as he zipped up. "I'll be there
in a few. Let me burn some bacon and eggs."

Victor grinned again. "Go for it," he said, and then he disappeared.

Mulder reached for a t-shirt from his suitcase, which was tossed on
the floor and overflowing with unfolded clothes, dirty mixed with
clean. Scully would be horrified, he thought, at how his messy habits
had returned so quickly. Her sense of order had worn off in a matter
of days.

He pulled on his socks and boots, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Thinking of her tugged at him, and he struggled to shove it off, only
half succeeding. He sighed and headed to the kitchen, scrubbing at
his mussed hair as he went.

True to his word, the kitchen was soon filled with a faint layer of
whitish smoke, heavy with the smell of overdone bacon, dry eggs. He
picked at them straight from the pans with a fork, not even bothering
with pepper or salt.

After only a few mouthfuls, he gave up. One thing that Scully *had*
managed to pass onto him now that the neatness was gone was her lack
of appetite.

Tossing the eggs into the bacon's skillet, he went out the front
door, looked around the trailer for a long moment. He whistled
faintly.

It took a minute or two, but Bo finally appeared from the side of
the trailer, low to the ground, as usual. His ears pricked up for a
second as he saw Mulder, his nose coming up to sniff the air.

"Want to eat, Bo?" Mulder called, walking slowly to the edge of the
patio. About 15 feet away the silver pot sat, filled with fresh water
from the night before. Mulder was able to walk to the pot without Bo
spooking too much, the dog having become accustomed to getting water
from him there. Then he placed the heavy skillet next to the pot,
turned and headed back toward the patio.

About five feet away, he stopped, considering.

He'd been making progress with the dog slowly, baby steps every day.
He no longer ran when Mulder was out on the patio, even if Mulder was
moving about a good bit while out there. Bo only ran when other
people came around now.

Trying to get Bo to trust him had become a sort of challenge to him,
something he used to mark the days. The dog was Mulder's only real
companion here in the desert. Earning his trust had become, for some
reason, important to Mulder.

So today he thought he'd try adding something, pushing it a little
more.

With that thought in mind, he turned slowly, squatted down on the
ground, his elbows on his knees, holding very still. Sure enough, Bo
had already started coming for the skillet, but he stopped suddenly
as Mulder added this bit of uncharacteristic behavior. The dog's ears
flattened more and he took a step backward.

"It's okay," Mulder said softly. "Come on." He added a little
whistle, which the dog had always seemed to like.

Bo took a step toward him again, two back. Then he began to come to
Mulder slowly, belly scraping the ground. The smell of the bacon and
eggs was quite an enticement for the emaciated dog, and Mulder
watched the black dog's black eyes dart back and forth from the
skillet to him as it approached. The now-familiar whine started in
the dog's throat.

"Bo..." Mulder cooed. He reached his hand out, snapped his fingers
lightly. The dog whined again, but began to come forward, taking the
steps to the skillet in little jerks and stops until he was in front
of it, his nose coming over the side, his eyes still on Mulder.

"That's it," Mulder murmured, his hand still out. He watched the dog
scarf down the food in huge mouthfuls, barely chewing.

From here, Mulder got a good look at him -- patches of hair missing
on his sides, juts of vertebrae lining his back, large scabbed sores
here and there. His ribs were like long fingers gripping him beneath
his skin. But his head and face looked soft, long ears like black
velvet flaps leaned over the pan.

Bo finished off every last morsel from the pan, looked up at Mulder,
licking his chops.

"You still hungry?" Mulder asked, and a thought came to him. A can
of Spam in the cabinet he remembered seeing on one of his forages
through the ancient supplies Hosteen's brother had left behind. Since
he'd rather die than eat the stuff himself, he thought Bo might like
it.

After all, the stuff was basically dog food anyway, wasn't it? he
mused.

He rose slowly and Bo continued to look at him, crouched and
nervous, but did not run away. Then he returned to the trailer,
fetching the can and opening it as he walked back outside. The dog
was still waiting, sniffing the air again.

Mulder squatted down as before, held the can out as far toward the
dog as he could. The can emitted the unmistakable odor of something
meat-like into the air, and Bo turned his attention to it
immediately. His ears came up again.

"Come on..."

It took several moments of the dog shifting from side to side, a few
faint whines. Then, slowly, he came forward, putting one foot in the
skillet as he walked over it toward Mulder, closing the space between
them. Mulder held so still his legs began to cramp up, but he ignored
them, unwilling to move.

Bo reached the can, stretched his neck out toward it, gave it a
sniff, his eyes on Mulder's face. His long tongue came out and he
licked the flat surface of the meat, like someone testing his food
for poison.

He must have found it all right, because once he'd finished off the
glistening layer of fat on the top and sides, he tried to fit his
mouth into the can. His teeth knocked against the sides, no matter
which way he tried to turn his head.

"Here, hang on," Mulder said in his most gentle voice. Moving
slowly, he pulled the can toward his body, turned it upside down and
gave it shake. It didn't come out, and Mulder realized he probably
needed a can opener for the other end, or a knife to work it out. He
had neither handy.

Sighing, he dug into it with his other hand, pulling out a mottled
pink chunk of meat. Then he reached his hand toward the dog. Bo's
ears went down again and he shied, and Mulder wondered immediately if
he'd gone too far, if this was too much to ask of the animal, too
soon to ask it.

He mentally chided himself at the image he must present -- a nearly
40-year-old man squatting in front of a frightened dog, holding a
handful of Spam. He chided himself for feeling the hopeful feeling he
was, as if the dog eating from his hand meant something spectacular
to the world.

He shook his head at himself, feeling foolish and pathetic.

But then Bo took another step forward, pushed his face toward
Mulder's hand, sniffing again. There was a small sliver of meat
clinging to the end of one of Mulder's fingers, and Bo's tongue came
out, picking it off carefully. Mulder flattened his hand out a bit
more, offering the main hunk.

With one final look at Mulder's face, the dog put his nose into
Mulder's hand, pulling the meat into his mouth. Mulder felt Bo's soft
muzzle rooting around on his palm as he ate and he found himself
smiling. When Bo was done, Mulder reached in, pulled out another
small handful, offered it again. Bo repeated his action, this time
without hesitating at all.

This continued until Mulder was digging around in the rounded
corners of the can with his fingers. Bo licked Mulder's fingers in
earnest, his ears no longer flat against his head. His belly was even
off the ground a bit.

As Mulder offered the last of the Spam to the dog, he set the can
down, moving slowly. Then he touched the top of Bo's head with his
fingers.

The dog slumped immediately but Mulder kept his hand where it was,
since Bo did not run away. He cupped his palm around the dog's crown,
chanced a light stroke. The dog allowed it, though he whined again.

"That's it," Mulder said quietly. "That's it..." He stroked his
head, reached around and smoothed the dog's ear back, his thumb on
Bo's cheek. "Good boy. That's a good boy..."

Bo's eyes darted away from Mulder's face then back again, cowering a
bit under the touch still, but not moving away. He opened his mouth
and began to pant. Mulder scratched his neck, moving underneath the
frayed nylon collar that the dog still wore like some remnant of a
previous life.

Mulder was still smiling at the simpleness of the gesture, though
his eyes stung for a few seconds. He had no idea why.

"Mulder!" Victor Hosteen yelled from behind his house. "Quit messing
around with that dog and come on! We're waiting for you!"

Bo turned quickly at the sound and saw Hosteen, every muscle going
taut under Mulder's hand. Then he bolted for the land behind the
trailer once again.

Mulder's hand was still poised in front of him for a few seconds, as
if the dog were still beneath it, as he watched him go.

Then he stood from his crouch, raised his hand in defeat to Victor
for the second time that day.

"All right," he called. "I'll be right there." And he turned to go
back into the trailer to get his denim jacket and clean himself up.


*********


8:36 a.m.


Scully made her way down the dirt road that connected the trailer
where she was living to Albert Hosteen's house, her toiletries bag
tucked underneath her arm, a towel thrown over her shoulder. It was a
fairly long walk, and she took it slowly, looking at the barren
landscape around her as she went, soaking in the early morning sun,
her face turning up toward it as it peeked back from where it had
been hidden briefly behind a cloud.

She'd felt some calmer the past few mornings, since her talk with
Hosteen the night of the meteor shower, four nights back. The
conversation had initially upset her in many ways. But since then it
had released something in her, like a clenched fist easing open.

Hosteen knew about what she'd been through, but hadn't treated her
any differently. He continued to come nightly with some concoction
from his kitchen for them both, built fires, sat with her.

They'd talked less since that night, seemingly by some unspoken
mutual understanding. It was as if he had said what he'd meant to say
to her that night, and since then, he was letting it simmer, not
pressing for any further information or offering any further advice.
He'd simply told stories about his children, stories from when they
were young or ones about what they were doing now. Sometimes he
talked about Eda, his wife. She'd listened with genuine interest,
though it was hard for her to engage with him much herself. Her mind
was always occupied, her feelings churned.

Sometimes he seemed to sense this and would let the quiet stretch,
appearing to be deep in thought himself. He'd been that way last
night especially. She wondered about it as she walked, wondered what
might be concerning him.

She made it to Albert's double-wide trailer, came around the side
and was immediately confronted by Ghost, who was standing, looking
half asleep, next to the patio. He was fully saddled and bridled,
several things secured to the saddle at the back. There was a tent, a
sleeping bag. A large full bag was situated behind them, sitting high
on the horse's gray rump.

She put her hand on the horse's nose as she passed, then rubbed the
soft skin of his chin. The animal responded by nuzzling into her
hand, rooting around for a treat. The thought made her smile,
remembering holding sugar cubes flat on her palm up to the horses she
spent time with from time to time when she was growing up.

She knocked, and was immediately told to come in from the kitchen.
Entering, she was aware of the smell of things cooking. Many
different things. She followed the smells to the kitchen, where
Hosteen stood, stirring in a big pot.

"Good morning," she said, and he turned and smiled to her. She
smiled faintly back.

"Good morning," he replied, returned his attention to the pot.

"What are you making so early in the morning?" she asked, gestured
to the dirty bowls and pans laying around the room. There was a
skillet on the stove filled with cooling oil from fry bread, which
she'd grown to love the taste of.

"Indian chili," he replied, reached over and picked up an empty
packet of seasoning. It said "Old El Paso" on it, and she smiled
wider, shook her head as he turned back and winked.

"You're going somewhere on Ghost, I see," she said, lifting a paper
towel off a plate and revealing the pile of fry bread.

"No," he said, finished stirring and tapped the wooden spoon on the
side of the pot, set it down on a napkin on the counter.

Her brow creased in puzzlement. "But I saw him out front -- he's
loaded down with camping equipment and things."

Hosteen was nodding now. "Yes," he said simply. "But I am not going
anywhere on him." He looked at her, a serious expression on his face.
"You are."

She was so surprised she actually laughed. "I am?" she repeated, and
the smile came off her face as looked at his more closely. "You're
serious."

He nodded, checked the oven, where heavy-topped blueberry muffins
were baking. "Yes. Remember I told you that I would tell you if I
thought of where you might look to find your answers?"

She looked at him, confusion coming over her. "Yes, but I thought
you were speaking figuratively," she replied, and let the napkin drop
again on the fry bread.

He shook his head and went to the other side of the table. He picked
up a map with a red line squiggled on its surface to a red "X,"
handed it to her.

It was a topographical map, not a city. Nothing but land,
elevations, small lines all over it, the blue of a river or wash. And
then a red path that led from the only road visible on the map into
the desert beyond it.

"That place," he said, stepping closer to her and tapping on the
"X." "That is where you will find everything you need."

Scully looked at the map, then up at him. "There's nothing there,"
she said.

"It's not on the map, what's there," he replied. "You will see it."

Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes dropped. "Mr. Hosteen, if it's a
hogan or a ceremonial place, I should tell you that I don't share
your faith, and I don't think--"

"You can bring your own faith with you. It will be welcomed there."
His voice was gentle, but he was clearly not going to take much
argument from her.

"Welcomed by whom?" she asked, getting baffled now.

He smiled a touch. "By who you find there."

She looked at him for a few seconds, cocked her head, trying to
figure him out. Her mouth opened and closed as she tried to find
something to say. He was being so strange and cryptic. If she didn't
respect him so much, she might have gotten irritated by it.

Then she looked down at the map, glanced at the legend, then at the
line again, which snaked along the thin river on the map.

"That's got to be several days ride away," she protested. "And I
haven't ridden since--"

"I know, since you were young," he said quietly. "You don't ride
Ghost -- you sit on him and he goes. Not to worry about that. It will
all come back to you. And this place is only one day and half of
another away from here, depending on how much you stop. You'll find
places where the boys and I have camped along the way. Fire pits,
that sort of thing."

"But with these people looking for me...it wouldn't--"

"No one will find you out there," he said with conviction. "Anyone
looking for you will come in on the road to do it, not through the
desert. You will be safe, I promise you."

He reached down and touched the spot again. "It's time for you to go
to this place."

She looked at the map, at his face. "Why is it time?"

He quirked that same tiny smile. "You are ready to go there. You
were not when you first got here. But I think you are now." He
shrugged. "Plus that, what good does it do you to sit around that
trailer all day? You might as well go out and see the land. And that
trail along the wash is the best way to do that."

When she hesitated again, shook her head, he continued. "It's bound
to be good for your spirit to get out some. And you will still be by
yourself, as you've wanted to be." He gestured to the kitchen. "I
have made food for you to take with you. Everything is taken care
of. "

She shook her head firmly this time, bristling at the cryptic
quality of what he was saying, at him doing so much.

"No," she said quietly. "I'm sorry. I won't go."

He looked at her for a moment as she lay the map on the table. She
could feel his eyes on her, probing her. She felt her cheeks flush
again under the intensity of his gaze.

"What?" she asked finally, unable to bear the scrutiny or the
silence any longer. She was once again defensive with him.

"Hm," he said, his face blank. "I was trying to understand what it
is you are so afraid of."

Her mouth hung open for a second before she snapped it closed again.
"Afraid?" she repeated. "I'm not afraid."

"I think you are," he said gently, and picked up the map, looked at
it and not at her now.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," she said, looking at the map,
too. The thought of him thinking of her that way made her more
indignant.

He smiled at her. "Then go," he said, and handed her the map.

She blew out a frustrated breath, then she looked around the room
for a long moment, at the bowls, the pans, the food all around her.

She had to admit that besides being annoyed, she was also touched by
his efforts. This made her relent a bit, giving way to a new feeling
to replace the ire.

It *was* fear. It coursed through her, low, like an undertow.

She pushed it down fiercely.

Then she looked at him, and nodded, folding the map as she did so.

"All right," she said, composing herself. "I'll go."

He smiled, and returned to the stove, nodding, stirred the chili.
Not knowing what else there was to say, she went down the hallway
toward the bathroom to shower before she got on her way.


************

11:33 a.m.


The black and white Paint horse let out a cry, high and shrill in
the air, and its front legs came up as it reared suddenly, tossing
its head from side to side in a clear display of anger and sending up
a cloud of dust around it.

Mulder held onto the horn of the saddle as hard as he could, but in
doing so he let go of the reins, leaving the horse's head slack. It
stomped down, then reared again, and this time there was no holding
on. Mulder went tumbling off the back, over the horse's pied rump and
onto the sandy ground of the corral in an undignified heap.

The horse trotted off across the corral, still shaking its head
against the slack reins, its tail swishing.

Mulder groaned as he rolled over, caking himself with dust, and he
pushed himself up slowly from the ground into a sitting position. All
around him, the sound of laughter and clapping.

He looked up at the corral fence where the other men were sitting,
like a bunch of birds on a wire, watching this bit of sport. His face
screwed up in pain. This was the fourth fall from the horse in the
past hour, and the laughter was starting to piss him off.

He slapped hard at the sand on his knee, shaking his head. He could
feel a flush rising on his cheeks as anger rose in him.

"Very funny," he growled, standing, tenderly stepping down on one
leg as his hip protested for a few steps. The laughter pealed again
at his comment.

"Go get that horse, Mulder!" Victor called from his perch near the
gate.

Mulder eyed him, then the horse at the other side of the corral.
"Are you sure this horse is actually one of the ones you've already
*broken,* Victor?"

Another cloud of laughter.

"Oh yeah, he's the one everyone learns to ride on."

Mulder looked at the horse, who was glaring back at him. "Does he
have a name, this wonderful animal I'm learning on?"

"Yes," Victor replied, and said an elegant word in Navajo.

"What does that mean in English?" Mulder asked, dusting off his sore
ass.

Victor flashed his thousand-watt grin. "'Killer.'"

The men roared again.

Mulder gaped. "You're teaching me to ride on a horse named
'Killer'?" he asked, indignant.

"Yes," Victor replied. "He's the one to learn on, like I said. Kind
of like learning to drive stick-shift before you learn automatic. If
you can ride him, you can ride anything. You've just got to learn to
keep the right pressure on his mouth -- not too tight, not too loose -
- and not show any fear to him. Then you won't get thrown."

Mulder looked at the other horses saddled around the edge of the
corral outside the fence, pointed to a white horse with longish hair
that was standing with its eyes closed, gnawing absently on its bit.

"What about that one? That one looks like a good one to learn on.
What's his name?"

Victor said another word in Navajo. "It means something
like...'Wimpy.'"

"That sounds better," Mulder grumbled.

"Nope," Hosteen replied. "Get that horse, Mulder. You know what they
say about getting right back on. It's true, you know. You'll get it."

Mulder sighed, pulling his dignity around himself as the men talked
amongst themselves, chewing their tobacco, still laughing now and
again to one another. He made his way across the corral to where the
horse stood, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Show him who's boss!" one of the other men called. There were
general grunts of agreement from the others.

Mulder slowed as he approached, thinking that approaching the horse
from the back might be better this time. Sort of sneaking up on him,
he thought. Maybe he could seem less threatening if he didn't
approach him head on?

With this thought in mind, he walked up to the horse from behind,
running his hand over the horse's flank as he did so.

"Mulder! Don't!" Victor called.

Mulder heard the warning, but it was too late.

Killer kicked out hard with his back leg, catching Mulder in the gut
and nearly knocking him to the ground again. Instead, Mulder
staggered back a few steps, holding his stomach, gasping for breath
from the blow to his solar plexus.

There was no laughter this time. Just winces and general sounds of
sympathy from the fence. He could barely hear them over the rasping
cough he let out and the roaring of blood in his ears.

Behind him, Mulder was vaguely aware of someone jumping down from
the fence, of footsteps coming nearer. Victor came up beside him,
leaned over with him so their faces were level, Victor's hand going
on Mulder's hunched back.

Mulder coughed again, wheezed in another breath.

"You okay, man?" he asked, and Mulder turned to look at him. His
face felt purple, his eyes suddenly too small for their sockets. He
jerked a nod.

"Yeah," he managed, and stood straight slowly, his hand still on his
stomach.

"You never come at a horse from behind," Victor chided. "Especially
not a nasty sonofabitch like this one."

"I see that now," Mulder rasped. He looked down at his white t-shirt
and saw the perfect brownish print of a horse's hoof right beneath
his rib cage.

Jesus...

He felt like an ass, and had a sudden wave of pity for himself. This
past couple of weeks had not been his best, and it didn't appear to
be getting any better...

Victor went around him, up to the horse, and took the animal by the
reins. "I think that's enough for you for one day," he said kindly.
"You can watch us break a few, pick up some things that way."

Mulder watched him take hold of the reins, give the horse a tug, and
a part of him wanted nothing more to agree with Victor, to go sit it
out and lick his wounds.

But something else in him balked at that, flaring in him.

He'd spent the past two months without control over anything in his
life, treading carefully everywhere he stepped. Running. Walking on
ice with Scully, waiting for a crack to appear beneath his feet. He'd
lost his job, his credibility, his future as he'd envisioned it. He'd
lost Scully to the ghosts that haunted her.

He was sick of losing things.

And the last thing he wanted to do now was lose himself, even in
small ways. Through resignation. Self-pity. And the sadness and
loneliness that clung to him now, coated him as finely as the dust.

So he drew himself up a little straighter, shook his head, reached
his hand out toward Victor and the horse.

"No," he said, regaining his voice a bit. "No, I want to try again.
Just..." He blew out a still-painful breath. "Just keep telling me
what I'm doing wrong. I want to get this right."

Victor stepped closer, put his hand on Mulder's arm. "Hey, I know
we're all laughing at you, but we don't mean anything by it. Everyone
gets laughed at when they're learning like this. You got nothing to
prove with us. Really."

Mulder shook his head again, took the reins, pulled the horse toward
him. It came reluctantly, its neck stuck far out as it tried to hold
its ground.

"I'll be fine," he said, and, holding the reins a bit tighter around
the horn, he put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself, weary,
back up into the saddle.


***********

6:13 p.m.


For hours, nothing but the sound of Ghost's footsteps on the hard
trail, the creak of old saddle leather as her body rocked back and
forth with each step, the faint clatter of her supplies in the nylon
bag secured behind the saddle. The day waned into the blue and gold
of dusk, darkness coming soon.

Scully had begun looking for a campsite a ways back, wanting to get
settled in somewhere before it got too dark, and she finally found
one, the obvious crater of a fire pit filled with black ash logs, a
pile of ragged wood next to it, a flat expanse around it surrounded
by sagebrush.

The thin river in the wash, which she'd stopped beside several times
to give the horse drinks and to splash the heat and dust off herself,
was behind her, just down from the rise where the campsite was
situated. She could see it shining like glass in the fading light,
hear its soft whisper in the quiet.

Satisfied with the spot, she dismounted, her legs and hips
complaining bitterly at the day's ride, and began to unpack the
equipment from Ghost, who stood lightly tied to the branches of a
small mesquite, looking as tired as she felt. When she'd taken all
the things off his back, she removed the saddle, the sweaty shape of
it still pressed to his gray sides.

There was no need to remove his bridle, since he wore a simple
halter with reins attached, no bit in his mouth. Hosteen had been
right about riding the horse. You sat on him and he went. It had been
an easy day for her that way.

Hosteen had given her several small blocks of chemically treated
pressed wood to start her fires, and it didn't take but a few moments
for her to have the dry wood flaming, sending up small bits of red
ash into the falling night that burned for a few seconds and then
went out.

Beside its light and heat, she set up the small tent, tossed the
sleeping bag into it and then opened up the nylon bag. She pulled out
a blackened tin camping pot, poured some chili into it and set the
pot at the edge of the flames with a long stick through its thin
handle.

While she waited for it to heat, she pulled out the feedbag for
Ghost, filled it with the small sack of oats Hosteen had sent along
on the back of the saddle. She put the feedbag on the horse and he
began chewing idly, seeming too tired to be bothered with eating.

She understood the sentiment. She stretched, her back popping in
protest.

Her hands on her hips, her jeans feeling thick with dust and the
tanktop and denim shirt she wore doing little to chase off the coming
chill of night, Scully stood beside the fire, staring into it. A
small wind came, rustling the flames and sending a soft note into the
air.

She closed her eyes, let out a long slow breath.

He was there, in the glow of the lamplight beside her bed, his chest
gold in the light, rising and falling in the shadows as he slept. She
was on her stomach beside him, nude, watching him sleep, her chin on
her folded arms. Then she rolled onto her side, languid, her hand
reaching out to touch the soft skin of his cheek, smoothing her thumb
over his lips to awaken him. The warmth of the desire she felt and
that came from him as he rolled over on top of her, her hips cradling
his, his hands cupped beneath her head. No words as they covered
themselves with the room's velvet shadows, becoming nothing but heat
and sweat and the rhythm of breath.

Her eyes stung with tears beneath her closed lids, her brow
furrowing. Her hand came up to cover her mouth.

Her guard against the memories of him had been slowly weakening
since the night with Hosteen. God, she missed him. Not just his body
and what her body had with his. She missed all of him.

The small smile he gave her in the basement office as she looked up
from her work and saw him watching her. Her smile in return...

His hand in hers on a park bench, a story he told her, eyes she'd
seen darkened with sadness for years filled with laughter as he told
it...

The tears fell now, slipping beneath her clenched lids. Her hand
shook against her mouth and she pulled it away, folding it into a
fist.

Then Hosteen's words came back to her:

You can be who you were again.

You *will* be her again.

You just have to search out what you need to find her.

She opened her eyes and looked out over the desert, wondering what
she was doing out here, wondering what it was she was searching for,
what she hoped to find.

There's nothing out here, she thought sadly. Nothing out here at all.

The wind picked up a bit, ruffling the strands of hair not pulled
back from her face, pushing the flames back.

Around her, outside the halo of light the fire threw, night had
completely fallen. She felt alone within it for a moment, the tears
still rimming her eyes.

Then, way off in the distance, the lights of Farmington shone, a
patch of brightness, dots of color clustered together like fallen
stars still glowing on the earth. She looked at it and it comforted
her somehow in a way she couldn't name, even though it was dozens of
miles away.

Around her, a silent world of darkness.

But across the desert, a city perched on the rim of the horizon as
though waiting for her.

A city like an unspoken promise.

A city of light.


*********


END OF CHAPTER 14. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 15.
TITLE: City of Light
AUTHOR: Bonetree (bonetree@gmail.com)

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 15a.

***********

FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON , D.C.
APRIL 5
9:14 a.m.


Walter Skinner sat, unmoving, at his desk, staring down at the piece
of paper in his hand while he rubbed his forehead with the other,
massaging hard enough to nearly leave a bruise across his brow.

He'd been staring at the piece of paper for several minutes, since
Kimberly had crept in with it and lain it on the corner of his desk,
putting it far away from him and not answering when he asked what it
was. She'd waited for him to look at it first, given him time to scan
it.

An official government "Wanted" flyer, this one from the NSA. Two
pictures. Mulder and Scully. Both pictures now equally sized across
the top. Beneath both the pictures, words in bold letters.
"Conspiracy." "Terrorism." "Murder."

Not just referring to Mulder now. Referring to them both.

"This was on the news last night at eleven, as well, sir," Kimberly
said softly, like an apology. "I saw it before I went to bed."

He'd looked up at her in surprise, feeling like an ass that his own
secretary had found out about this recent development before he had
himself. And she knew it, too, judging from her reaction -- the
apologetic, worried expression on her face.

Padden, the master of keeping things quiet when he wanted to (the
bastard, he thought bitterly) had done it again. Skinner had felt his
face redden as he looked at Kimberly.

And now he was taking his little trick and going public with it on a
large scale for the first time. Turning up the heat on all this.

It would get a huge reaction from the higher ups. More pressure for
the FBI to step up its own investigation, which it had been wary of
doing because of the task force, wary because it wanted this as quiet
as it could get. The FBI had taken enough hits lately.

But that was all about to change. The FBI would have to act now if
the media were involved.

He fingered the poster. "What are people saying." It came out flat,
a statement.

Kimberly shook her head. "No one knows what to think exactly, sir,"
she said. "But from what I've overheard this morning, I think it's
harder for people to believe the charges about Agent Scully, and it's
casting doubt on the charges against Agent Mulder, as well." She met
his gaze. "I think it might be working against the task force to draw
her into this. Just from what I've overheard so far."

Skinner nodded, returned his gaze to the flyer. He was pleased to
get this piece of news from the FBI gossip circle, in which Kimberly
was an enthusiastic participant. He'd come to rely on her to keep her
finger on the pulse of the Hoover Building.

"How many calls from the press so far?"

"Nine," she replied. "I'm telling them all you're unavailable for
comment."

He nodded again. "Keep doing that," he said. "And refer them to the
Public Relations Office, if you're not already. I'm sure the Director
has come up with something to say by now. I'll let him do the talking
until I come up with something."

She'd nodded. "All right, sir." She turned to go.

"And Kimberly?" he said softly.

She returned her gaze to him, and he met it solemnly.

"Thank you."

She did not smile, the same concerned expression on her face.
"You're welcome." And then she did go out the door, closing it behind
her.

Skinner had kept his eye on the poster ever since, staring at the
faces, the words that were underneath them that had no place there,
beneath these faces he knew so well. Anger simmered in him, but not
surprise.

He knew this was Padden's doing. And *all* Padden's doing. The
clandestine meeting he'd had with Granger two days ago had told him
that. There had been no mention of it in their brief conversation in
the car ride from the Mall at 14th and Constitution where Skinner had
picked Granger up, the young agent camouflaging himself with the
tourists.

But other things *had* come up.

Complicated things.

He sighed as he remembered it, now swiveling his chair toward the
window, the hand with the flyer in it falling into his lap as if it
were too heavy to hold up any longer.

"I wish there were an easier way for us to meet during the week than
this," he'd said tightly to Granger, getting lost in the traffic
going down Constitution. "This still feels risky."

"Any way we meet, even on the weekends, is going to be risky,"
Granger'd replied, pulling the camera off over his head and laying it
on the seat between them. "And this was hard enough to manage, with
Padden watching my every move at the CIA."

Granger had reached into his leather jacket pocket and drawn out his
spiral notebook, flipping the cover over.

"I've got the task force combing the El Centro area, just as we'd
planned," he said, adjusting his small silver glasses, a habit
Skinner had come to associate with him. "They're still concentrating
their energy on Southern California, so they should be safe wherever
you've got them as long as it's not there."

"It's not there," Skinner had replied.

Granger had nodded. "I went to the motel in Afton this past
weekend," he'd said, and Skinner could hear some strange tone in his
voice that made him more nervous. Something was wrong there.

"What did you find out? Something bad, I can tell that."

"Well, it's bad and it's good," Granger had begun. "Mulder WAS
there, under the name 'George Hale,' just like he said. I've got a
positive ID from the motel owner who checked him in and out. That's
the good part."

"Was he there by himself?" Skinner asked. He recalled snapping a
little in his impatience.

Granger had hesitated. "No," he said at last. "That's the bad part."

"Who was he with?" Again, he could remember the words coming out
clipped.

Granger balked a bit, looking down at his notebook.

"He was with Agent Scully."

Skinner remembered the sinking feeling, the inward groan.

He'd cleared his throat, glancing out the side window, trying to
appear casual. "It's strange that he would keep a meeting with her a
secret," he said as though he were discussing the mileage on the car.

Granger looked at him. "I think if we're both honest with ourselves,
sir, we know the answer to why he would do that." He paused. "And
that's how everyone else is going to see it, even if it weren't
true."

Well, no use trying to play dumb anymore, he remembered thinking
when he'd looked back at Granger's sympathetic expression. Not to
himself, not to Granger. Not now that there was proof of it for God
and all the world to see...

Skinner rose, going to the window, his habit when he had a problem
to solve that didn't readily present a solution. He sighed, crossing
his arms, a finger coming up to cover his tightly closed lips.

Of course he had always suspected there might be something going on
between the two of them. They were too dedicated to each other, too
much so in some way he couldn't quite name to just be partners. And
the way they looked at each other...hell, he envied it sometimes.
Envied Mulder especially (he had to admit) and envied them both for
what they appeared to have together.

But if something *had* been going on, he thought they'd managed to
keep it out of the work, out of the way.

Not anymore.

It was in the way now, for certain. No one but Scully to vouch for
Mulder, and no way to do it without damning herself for
unprofessional conduct for violating undercover protocols in the
process.

He took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes as cars nosed around below
him on the street, a mass of early-morning traffic weaving for
positions.

What they were doing wasn't forbidden. It wasn't that. It looked
like shit, he thought dejectedly, even in good times, though.
Unprofessional, at best. And given these circumstances, it looked
even worse. Their relationship could be used to bring them both down.
The task force and OPR could discount their cover stories for each
other, and blame their running on the basis of the relationship, two
lovers who would do anything and say anything to keep the other out
of trouble.

"Dammit..." He rubbed his eyes harder as he mumbled the curse to
himself. He could vaguely hear Kimberly's phone ringing again and it
made his stomach ache.

He stood for a long time looking out the window, his arms crossed.
He wondered how this could get any more fucked up for him.

The answer came with the door bursting open.

He spun at the sound, irritated at the intrusion, his mouth open to
say so. Then his mouth snapped closed.

Margaret Scully.

Kimberly was behind her, holding her arm, which she jerked away hard
enough that Skinner could hear the fabric whooshing from between
Kimberly's fingers.

And if looks could kill...

Oh, shit.

"Mrs. Scully, please," Kimberly was saying, putting her hand out
again. Skinner put his own out.

"No, Kimberly, it's all right," he said gently. "Thank you, though.
Hold my calls, if you would."

Kimberly looked at him with concern, then nodded and closed the door
behind her again.

For her part, Margaret Scully had stopped about five feet from the
desk, still as a statue. The only movement was the rising and falling
of her chest -- fast and shallow. He was almost afraid to speak
again. He jammed his hands in his pockets, the gesture's unconscious
attempt to guard his nuts not lost on him. He looked down at the
floor, then back up at her. She was still staring at him, accusation
shooting across the room like poison arrows.

"Mrs. Scully," he said. "Why don't you sit down."

She didn't sit. But she did move. She reached down into the purse
slung over her shoulder and pulled out a sloppily folded piece of
paper, unfolded it and held it toward him.

"Mr. Skinner," she said, low and dangerous. "Would you mind telling
me what this is?"

He winced as he saw the flyer, the same one on his desk. "Where did
you get that?" he asked gently.

"From a reporter from the 'Washington Post,'" she snapped. "Who came
to my house this morning at seven a.m. He was in front of three
camera crews from the local television stations, by the way."

He shook his head, looking away, his jaw clenching. "I'm so sorry,"
he said, looking into her face now, his voice soft. "I'm so sorry for
all of this."

"How could you let this happen?" she asked, her voice rising in
volume now as she shook the flyer at him. "You *know* this isn't
true. About either one of them. But especially about my daughter! How
could you let this HAPPEN?!"

Tears flooded her eyes as she said the last loud enough to rattle
the picture of Ashcroft over his shoulder.

He looked at her, guilt smashing into him like a right cross. He
took a step toward her. "It's not coming from the FBI," he said,
though the words sounded hollow to him even as he said them. "I don't
have any control over what's being done. I can't stop it yet."

"Well, what the hell ARE you good for then?" she said, her voice a
low, hard growl now, the tears racing down her cheeks. Her hand came
up to cover her mouth. It was shaking. She choked on a sob, her eyes
squeezing closed.

What the hell am I good for *indeed,* he thought, cringing. She'd
said aloud a question he'd been asking himself for months.

"Please..." he said as tenderly as he could, his hands coming out of
his pockets as he came toward her. He got close enough to put a hand
on her shoulder, and gestured to the chairs in front of his desk with
the other. "Please sit down."

She let him guide her to the chair, and she sat stiffly, wiping at
her face, her hand still trembling. He angled the one next to her
toward her and sat himself.

"Can I get you something?" he asked. "Some water, coffee..."

"No," she said, her voice hoarse, as though the yelling she'd just
done had ruined her voice. "No, nothing." She levelled her gaze at
him again, the look more pleading than venomous now.

Her hand clenched around the flyer in her hand, crinkling it.

"Who is this coming from?" she asked, her eyes shining with tears.
She was trying to pull her control back around her, straightening her
sweater. It was like watching someone try to cover themselves with a
dish towel.

Skinner leaned close when he answered. He'd never quite trusted his
office, though he'd had it swept twice by the Gunmen and once by his
own people. He couldn't help his paranoia. Not with all the things
that were going on.

"It's coming from the NSA," he said quietly. "A man named Padden who
is in charge of a task force that is investigating Owen Curran, the
man suspected of bombing the Irish Embassy a few months ago."

"What does Dana have to do with that? Or Fox?" she asked sharply.

Skinner bit his lip. "I can't tell you specifics, because it
involves classified things, but there are...circumstances that this
man Padden is using to try to implicate them both with Curran. He was
only after Mulder at first, but now he's going after your daughter,
as well, apparently. I just found out about this about a half an hour
ago myself."

She sniffed. "It's because she's running, isn't it? Running with
Fox."

Skinner nodded. "I think that has a lot to do with it, yes," he
replied.

She looked away as though deep in thought. A tender expression
crossed her face, though it was still tinged with sadness.

"She won't leave him," she said softly, and gestured with the flyer.
"Even with this. She won't come in unless they come in together."

"I know," he said, nodding.

She cocked her head as she looked up at him, as though weighing his
response, its implications.

"Yes," he said. "I *know.*"

Her gaze softened, as did his. She nodded, looked down, almost
seeming... embarrassed?... to be speaking about this. He knew the
feeling. It felt intensely personal.

He cleared his throat. "Look, I'm trying to do a few things," he
said, and she looked back up at him expectantly. "I'm trying to find
some evidence for at least Mulder's whereabouts during some key
timeframes that are under suspicion. I've got information on one of
them that might help clear both of them because they were together."

Margaret nodded. "Good," she said faintly. "That sounds good."

Skinner continued. "I'm working on one other lead I have for Mulder.
I'm going to see about that as soon as I can. Hopefully with those
two things in place, I'll be able to go to Padden and he'll call this
off and look where he *should* be looking. At Curran."

Her eyes looked very young as she looked at him, though the rest of
her looked like it had aged 10 years since he'd seen her at the
Memorial. "You think that will convince him?" she asked.

Skinner pursed his lips. "I'm not sure," he said. "I hope so. The
evidence against Mulder and your daughter is very circumstantial. It
shouldn't be that hard to undermine with a few solid facts."

I hope, he thought, but he didn't say it out loud.

She looked at her hands as they held the poster, her eyes on it
again. "What do I tell all these reporters?" she asked, sounding
lost.

"Do what I assume you're already doing," he said firmly. "Deny that
she's involved. Call the charges false and tell them what she's like,
who she really is. And keep doing it. But don't mention any of what
I've told you today. It's better if no one knows I've told you about
this until I get things in place."

She nodded. "All right," she said. To his surprise, one of her hands
came out and settled softly on his forearm. "I'm...I'm sorry about
what I said before. This isn't your fault. I just..."

"I understand," he said, and covered her hand with his own. "There's
no need to apologize. I know you're going through hell with this
right now. Between her being gone for so long and now this."

She managed a tiny smile. "Thank you for your forgiveness," she
murmured, and he nodded, mustered a gentle look in return.

With that, she stood, and he with her.

"I'll be in touch with any information I can share," he said.

She reached her hand out. "Thank you, Mr. Skinner. I know you'll do
your best. For both of them."

"I will." He said it with conviction as he took her hand, gave it a
squeeze. "Try not to worry, if you can. They'll be all right. They've
always been lucky that way."

She nodded. "Luck's a funny thing, though, isn't it?" she murmured
sadly. "You never know when it's going to run out."

He said nothing to that. They both knew she was right.

He watched her go, watched the door close almost silently behind
her, a calmer, but almost resigned, sound. It was a stark
juxtaposition to the noise it had made when she came in.


***********

ALONG DEAD MAN'S WASH
NAVAJO RESERVATION
NEAR TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
2:39 p.m.


Scully was high on the trail beside the wash, a light rain falling
steadily, pattering the surface of the thin river that ran through it
into a million ripples, the sand beneath the horse's feet growing
darker as the rain continued to fall.

Off in the distance she could see the heart of the storm
approaching, miles off. A dark canopy of cloud that seemed to reach
nearly to the ground, the occasional flare of lightning dancing off
the tops of the mesas. Thunder echoed, catching on the crags of rock
that climbed all around her.

She wore an army surplus rain poncho that seemed to grow heavier
with the rain, draping down her sides to cover her legs, the musty
smelling garment keeping her dry. She did not wear the hood, though,
preferring to allow the rain to settle on her pulled-back hair, her
face. Wet strands of hair framed her cheeks from the earlier downpour
of the early edge of the storm. She pushed them back, curving them
behind her ears.

Ghost sneezed, a ruffling sound, tossing his head down in the
process. She had the reins so slack that his tug on them with that
movement jolted her out of the introspection she'd been in for hours,
the nervous anticipation that had gripped her despite all her efforts
to hold it at bay.

She pulled out the map from beneath the poncho, checked the
landmarks she could identify on the terrain around her, the sharp
bend of the wash the map showed visible in the distance. The area
marked by the "X" on the map was at that bend. She was getting close,
and felt herself tensing up more at the thought.

What would she find there?

She'd been asking herself that question for hours, since she'd risen
and awkwardly packed up the tent, the cooking supplies, rinsing the
metal dishes in the wash before she'd placed them in the nylon bag.
Since she'd mounted Ghost and gotten on her way, the sky already
darkened with wool-colored clouds, the color of the horse's soft back
and ears.

She folded the map up, tucked it back under the poncho to protect it
from the rain. She really didn't need it at this point. The trail was
well-trodden, easy to follow and the only path in sight. Scrubby
plants squatted around it, the color of green ash.

There it was -- the stinging in her eyes again. Her emotions were so
close to the surface today, and she pushed at them. It was like
pushing a spider web off herself.

She reached up and wiped her eyes roughly, blew out a breath. The
emotion was without thought, nothing in her mind to anchor it to. The
memory she'd had last night of making love with Mulder had been the
only attachment to any feeling she could pinpoint. But these feelings
welling in her today were different from the bittersweet sadness she
felt over her thoughts of him. They were heavier, darker, and almost
desperate in their intensity.

She needed to reach the clearing marked on that map. She needed to
know whom she would meet there, the person or persons that Hosteen
had referred to, what she would find at that place that would give
her all her answers as he'd promised.

Unable to fully push the feelings down, she tapped Ghost with her
heels lightly, and he obediently picked up his pace, coming as close
to a trot as he could without breaking his gait. It made her feel
somewhat better to be moving more quickly now, though the emotions
still crackled in her.

Up a large rise, down the other side. Another rise, the bend of the
river edging closer. She scanned the ground ahead of her, looking for
any sign of life. She wondered about anyone who could live this far
away from the knot of farms that made up the town of Two Grey Hills.
She wondered what kind of person would be out here at all.

A rocky outcropping ahead, the trail curving around it. She followed
it around, the ground rising again in elevation. She pulled the map
out again, noted the rise in elevation on the USGS map at the "X."

Then she found herself in a large clearing, a single mesquite tree
in front of her. She was on a cliff overlooking the river, a view of
a butte in the distance. And beyond that...

Nothing.

The trail ended here at this precipice, the tree guarding the edge,
half its roots seeming to extend out into the air. A fire pit sat
like a small crater in the middle of the clearing, a small stack of
wood beside it.

Ghost stopped on his own, bobbed his head again toward the ground,
sniffing.

The rain began to fall harder, the storm coming closer from the west.

Scully looked around, her chest beginning to rise and fall quickly.
She slid off the horse, her feet hitting the wet ground, the rain
setting off a patter on the slick material of the poncho. She made
her way to the cliff edge, looking at the river below. Then she did a
slow 360 turn, her hands going to her forehead to shield her eyes
from the rain.

Ghost stood in the middle of the clearing, one of his back ankles
turned up as he stood in repose. He cocked his ear at her as she
looked at him, frustrated tears coming fast now as her chest heaved.
She bit down on her bottom lip, turned back toward the river, which
also just stared back, indifferent as the rain.

"Son of a *bitch*..." she said, gripping the stray strands of hair
not caught in her pony tail with her fists and pulling, her face
screwing into a sob. She felt sick to her stomach, the sob wrenching
her.

To have come all this way. And for what?

For *nothing,* she thought, anguished.

She thought of Hosteen back in his home, pictured him smiling at his
private joke at tricking her into getting out of the trailer.

Fury surged in her.

"You bastard," she said bitterly, and coughed out another sob,
covering her eyes as though afraid someone would see her tears.

She sank down, feeling beaten down by just the rain, until she sat
near the edge of the cliff. She pulled her knees up against her chest
and leaned forward, her forehead on them, her arms covering her head.

Her sobs broke over her, one after another, like harsh waves.

The lightning stayed off to the north, but the rain continued to
fall on her even harder, unforgiving.

Gradually, the storm pushed eastward, darkening the sky in a palette
of grays.


*********


END OF CHAPTER 15a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 15b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 15b.


********

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
4:50 p.m.


Despite the enormous pain in his side, like a stitch after running
too hard for too long, Mulder scampered after the lamb that had
broken away from the herd.

He and the other men were rounding the sheep up, moving them through
an unfenced area to the pen where they spent the nights. All of them
carried long sticks to bump them into one moving mass, and dogs
darted in and out from the perimeters of the herd, nipping the
stragglers into line.

This lamb didn't seem to take the hint and had taken off for the
house. Mulder caught him just as he was about to make the front yard.
Mulder reached down and picked him up, an arm behind the lamb's back
legs and the other around his front, hefting the animal against his
chest along with his stick. The lamb mewled in protest and fear.

"Good catch, Mulder!" one of the men called, tapping at the herd
with his stick. The front of the group was entering the pen,
bottlenecking through the gate. Mulder walked to the end of the clump
of animals, keeping the line moving. Once the last of the sheep had
entered the gate, he set the lamb down, gave its rump a pat as it
rushed into the pen on its pink hooves.

Eric, Hosteen's other grandson, was there to close the gate, and
smiled up at Mulder.

"You did that really well. You're a natural at this! The FBI is a
waste for you!" And he laughed, slapping Mulder's back.

Mulder smiled tiredly. "Thanks," he said. "There have been people
saying *I* was actually a waste to the FBI for years now. So I've
never heard it put quite that way before."

Eric smiled wider as Mulder brushed off his grey t-shirt, slapping
at the dust on his jeans.

"Come on," Eric said. "They're almost done with the vet, and then
it's Miller Time." He winked at Mulder, and Mulder smiled at the
joke. None of the men drank. "Miller Time" would mean a strong cup of
coffee with whipping cream in it, if yesterday was any indication.

"Sounds good to me," Mulder said, and meant it.

They made their way across the yard toward the house, where a mobile
vet was checking three of the pregnant mares. Victor was standing at
the head of the horse currently being examined, looking for all the
world like a nervous father. He nodded to Mulder as he and Eric
approached.

"Good day at work," he said simply, and Mulder nodded, acknowledging
the compliment.

"Thanks," he said, a little embarrassed.

Victor looked over his shoulder, nodded toward the area behind the
house. "Looks like your friend has come to see what you're up to," he
said, smiling.

Mulder turned toward the house, in the direction of his own house,
and saw Bo sitting there, his mouth open on a pant, watching Mulder.
Mulder found himself smiling a bit at the dog's proximity to the
other men and the house he'd seemed so afraid of.

"Must be hungry," Mulder said, dismissing the significance of the
dog's appearance.

"First time he's come over here since Larry died," Victor replied.
"Hungry or not."

Mulder turned back to the dog, watching him.

"I'm all done here," the vet announced, pulling off a rubber glove
that extended all the way to his upper arm. "Everything looks fine,"
he said to Victor, who nodded, clearly relieved now. The vet, John
Oxford (Mulder had read his name on the side of his truck), turned
and looked at the dog, as well.

"Ah, I haven't seen Bo in a long time," he said warmly. "I'm glad to
see he's coming back around a little bit."

"Just since our friend Tim got here," Victor said, slipping into
Mulder's cover name easily in the presence of this outsider.

Oxford looked at the dog closely. "Looks like he's got mange or
something from here."

"Yeah," Mulder said. "There's something on his sides. Scabs or sores
or something."

Oxford looked at him. "You think you could get him and let me have a
look? Since I'm out here anyway."

Mulder looked at Bo, considering. It seemed like a good idea. The
dog was clearly suffering with whatever he had. But he wondered if
hauling him over here would just traumatize Bo more, make him more
skittish and make him trust Mulder less.

Still, it seemed important if the dog was sick with something. And
Victor was right -- there was no one but him to do it. Bo didn't
trust anyone else.

"I'll try," Mulder said, and he started slowly across the yard
toward the dog.

He got about ten feet away and Bo cowered, going belly-down on the
ground.

But he did something else, as well. His tail began to beat the still-
damp ground hesitantly behind him, his eyes darting from Mulder as he
slowed his approach.

"Hey Bo," he said gently, smiling and reaching his hand out. Bo
stayed still as Mulder closed the distance until he stood before him.
The dog's tail continued its hesitant shake, and Mulder reached down
and touched his head again, just as he'd been able to do for a second
time the night before. He stroked gently.

"That's it," he murmured. Bo lifted his head into Mulder's hand now,
though he was still panting nervously.

Moving carefully, Mulder reached down and took hold of the dog's
collar, gave it a tug. Bo rose, though his tail stayed wedged between
his legs. He didn't even try to dart though. With that, Mulder leaned
down and picked the dog up as he had done to the lamb, the scabs on
the animal's sides rough on his forearms.

Bo was a fairly large dog, but he weighed about the same as the lamb
had, Mulder noted with chagrin.

The dog was tense in his grasp, but allowed himself to be carried
over to the vet. Victor and Eric had led the mares over to the
corral, leaving Oxford there by himself. Mulder was glad that the
other two men had withdrawn, because the dog was nervous enough with
just the vet there.

"Hey there, Bo," Oxford said, and stroked his back. Mulder didn't
move to put him down, knowing he would run. He also felt strangely
possessive and protective of the animal, which surprised him.

Oxford began checking the patches of scabs on the dog's sides, the
areas missing hair. "Yeah, he's got mange," he said. "Sarcoptic from
the look of it. That's what those scabs are. Him biting at himself to
relieve the itch."

Mulder nodded, not knowing what to say to that. He had never had a
dog, and had no concept of the implications of what the vet was
talking about.

Oxford went over and began rooting around in his truck. He drew out
several vials of medication and a few syringes from the containers in
the back of the pickup. He came forward again, drawing the medication
into the syringes.

"I'm going to go ahead and give him his shots," the vet said, and
scruffed what little skin he could from the dog's neck, jamming the
needle home. Bo whimpered, and Mulder instinctively squeezed him
tighter.

"This is an antibiotic for the infection, and a steroid called
Ivermectin to kill the mites causing it. It'll also keep the itching
down." The vet drew and injected two more shots into the dog. On the
second shot, Bo began to struggle in Mulder's arms, who held him
fast.

"You might as well let him down," Oxford said. "I'm done with him."

Mulder leaned down and let Bo down on the ground, and the dog loped
away toward Mulder's own place. Mulder was relieved when he didn't
disappear into the desert beyond it, but rather stopped next to the
porch and sat again.

"What do I owe you?" Mulder asked, returning his attention to
Oxford. "I've got my wallet in the house and --"

"You don't owe me anything," the vet said kindly. "I'm just glad
he's coming around. He was a good dog for Larry. I'm glad to help him
out."

Mulder smiled, strangely pleased. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

Oxford smiled, reached out and shook Mulder's hand.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Garrett," he said. "I'll be back in a couple
of weeks to check the mares and I'll check Bo again then, give him
another dose."

If I'm still here, Mulder thought, but outwardly he nodded. "All
right," he said, and said goodbye, heading toward Victor's house now,
where the men were all gathered on the porch.

He stood still for a moment, feeling something lighter in him now as
he listened to the men talking back and forth.

He couldn't help it. As always happened when his mind was calmer,
his thoughts turned to Scully, an image of her smiling at him, curled
in his bed on her side as he came forward carrying coffee. The
comforter was pulled up to her chin, but the light caught on the
creamy expanse of her bare back, almost seeming to make her glow in
the morning sun through the window...

Around him, the light was beginning to enter the gloaming of early
dusk, and he smiled at the memory. Then he went toward the men at the
house, toward the sound of their loud voices and their persistent,
welcome laughter.


**********

BESIDE DEAD MAN'S WASH
6:34 p.m.


Scully awoke to two sensations.

The first was a chill that seemed to go straight into her bones,
most of her still damp from being caught in the rain. There was a
slight wind on her, and it raised her skin to gooseflesh, sending her
into a shiver.

The second was a gentle nudging against her belly.

She opened her eyes onto the sapphire of night falling, a thick blue
darkness surrounding her. But she could still make out a set of pale
hooves in front of her, and looked down slightly as Ghost nudged her
belly once again with his long nose, nearly pushing her over onto her
back from her side.

She was curled like a question mark on the packed ground in the
center of the clearing, the sky and its dusting of the night's
newborn stars stretched out above her.

She reached down and touched the horse's nose, cupping it gently. He
rooted around, blew a breath into her palm as he sniffed for
something to eat.

"You hungry?" she said softly, groggy, and then pushed herself into
a sitting position, the heavy poncho still gathered around her. She
reached down and pulled it off over her head, leaving it in a heap.
The long-sleeved shirt she wore was nothing against the chilly wind,
and it was enough to wake her completely and move her to her feet.

She'd been asleep for a long time, she realized.

She remembered lying down after some time of crying in the rain,
feeling tiny there on the cliffside beneath the storm. She hadn't
even tried to cover her face as exhaustion had overtaken her -- the
exhaustion of the hours of riding and from the weight of the emotions
that had crashed into her with her arrival at the clearing.

She brushed dirt off her face, her damp hair, her jeans. Then she
turned her attention to Ghost, still standing and watching her
expectantly. For a moment, she felt the fear over having left him
untethered, realized she could have been left here with no supplies
as the horse wandered off, probably back toward home.

But not this horse, she thought, and smiled faintly as she brushed
at his neck, smoothing down his silver mane.

"Let's get you something to eat," she said, and she began to unload
the things from his back -- the nylon sack, the tent, the sleeping
bag, both of which had been covered by the bag and were still fairly
dry. Then she pulled down the sack of oats and fixed Ghost's feedbag
again, slipping it over his head.

She led him to the mesquite, tying the reins to a branch that
extended far back from the edge. She removed the saddle and pad and
dropped the heavy leather and blanket onto the ground beside the
horse as he began to eat.

Then she looked around at the clearing, at the fire pit with its
halo of damp wood.

A fire first, she thought. She would need the heat. The light.


When Scully was a child, a nun had told her that if she stared long
enough into a fire she would see the Devil's face looking back at
her. The thought had terrified her at that age, and even at
Christmas, her mother popping corn in the fireplace with her sister
Melissa beside her, she had always averted her eyes from the flames,
afraid of what might be looking back at her.

That had been when the Devil had seemed something not of this earth,
an entity that lived solely in the fires in the ground beneath her,
some realm that didn't quite touch her. It was a place that the right
amount of prayer and penitence could hold at bay, those two things
keeping her as safe and as warm as she'd felt in her bed when she was
young, her mother having tucked her and Melissa in for the night, her
father home from the sea.

As she'd grown older, she had seen that this belief was false. That
evil could be found anywhere, in any form. Medical school and her
time in the morgues -- with bodies ripped apart in rages of violence
and misfortune -- had taught her these things first, hard lessons for
someone whose beliefs were as sheltered as hers has been. It was not
that she had been naive exactly -- she knew that evil existed around
her. It was that she believed it could not touch her in that way,
that there were no flames for her to stare into that would enable
those red eyes to find her and stare back.

But her life since then had shown her otherwise. Her work with
Mulder on the X-Files had taught her about fire, about what could
look back. She'd seen more of the evil that existed in the world
through her dealings with that than she ever thought imaginable, felt
the loss and anguish it left in its wake when it punched a hole
through that mythical place of her childhood and reached out with its
hands of flame.

She was thinking this as she sat before the blazing fire in the
clearing, the chemically treated pressed wood Hosteen had given her
drying the wood enough to set it aflame. Once it had started, she'd
put on branch after branch, making the fire climb higher into the
night, leaving her in a circle of orange, flickering light.

She sat cross-legged, her spine straight, her hands resting on her
knees, utterly still. And her eyes were on the fire, not wavering
from it, not looking away, daring whatever lived inside it to come to
her there in the quiet.

She'd resigned herself to her surroundings for the night, to
Hosteen's trick of leading her to this place more barren than the
place she'd left, and as devoid of answers. She didn't know what
she'd expected to find here, if she was really honest with herself.
There was nothing that could repair what had been done to her, no one
to repair it. What had happened to her simply was.

Maybe that was what he had tried to show her by sending her here.
That there was nothing to help her after all. That she would have to
simply go on living with the charring and scars of what had happened
to her, and it was time she resigned herself to that, as bleak as
that was to contemplate.

She sighed, her brow creasing at the thought.

Surely Hosteen, who had been so gentle with her to this point, would
not teach a lesson that harsh like this? Reinforcing her aloneness
with the solitude of this place?

She turned the thought over in her mind, weighing it and discarding
it, weighing it again. And as she did that, her eyes on the fire, her
mind began its own journey, as long and as barren as the one she'd
been on for the past days.

A drill coming toward her face, her body immobilized on a table, a
world washed in white and smelling of bottled air. Faces above her
wearing masks, Penny Northern's dry hand in hers, soothing her as her
abdomen bloated with a obscene imitation of new life that the
experiment also ensured would never be possible for her again.

Then at her mother's house, going through a box of Melissa's things
after her death. She was still aching from the hour she'd spent
sitting by the empty hospital bed, too late to see her sister before
her death from a bullet meant for her. Only Mulder joining her had
softened the brittle grief that had threatened to shatter her there,
his arms around her.

In the box, she'd found a braid of Melissa's hair, cut off from a
long strand when her sister had taken her hair from flowing down her
back to her shoulders in high school. Her mother had saved the braid
in a box, the yellow ribbon that secured it still in place, knotted
at the end. She remembered putting it to her face and inhaling
Melissa's scent from it, faint, like perfume and dust.

But even then, the tears would not come.

The sound of machinary around her, the bob of a red light breaking a
line, her heartbeat filling the room. Her skin like paper, and pain
beneath her eye, the tumor growing, pushing against its confines,
taking her.

She would lie awake in the hospital when her mother, when Mulder,
had gone home, and watch the streetlights flood in the window, a
puzzle of light and dark. Death with its leathery wings in the
shadows, waiting. The disease given to her to strike at Mulder, her
body -- her life -- a pawn in a game she'd never agreed to play.

Then the small body beside her, a furnace of fever. Emily's still
form, her hair pressed around her face with sweat, her body dying
beneath Scully's hands, and her helpless to stop it. The glint of the
cross as she held it above the casket, dangling light on the chain.
Her fist had closed around it. Mulder's hand reaching out and closing
over her fist, the other tipping the lid of the snow white coffin
closed.

The rose dropping down into the car between she and Mulder, Mulder
dying beside her, pink froth of blood on his face, Emily's knowing
smile as Scully looked up at her, terrified.

Snow falling in her room in Richmond, blue flakes like blue stars,
her hands catching them as Owen's drug took hold, sending her out
into the night and into her nightmares...

Then she remembered the final vision she'd had as the drug had
finally left her, in the cabin in Tennessee, Mulder holding her
tightly in his arms. The fire coming in off the lake toward the
island she stood on, the doe consumed by it, the wall approaching and
faces living within it.

Fagan's face.

The floor beneath her head. His face against her shoulder. Rasp of
breath.

She remembered it now, the figure made of flame. She stared at it in
her memory, looking into the fire in front of her...

The red eyes stared back, seering her, trying to turn her to ash.

The scream crawled up her throat as the tears burst from her eyes.
The sound tore from her into the night, Ghost shying from it, tossing
his head in distress at the far edge of the fire's light.

Her hands clamped down on the sides of her head as the sound
continued from her, mixed with unintelligible sounds like words, but
not words.

There was no language in the country she had been brought to.

The sound spread out around her, echoing off the stones and
darkness. Above her, the stars watched in their silences, their eyes
wide and white and seeping light.


**********

END OF CHAPTER 15b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 16.


Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 16a.

********


PUERTO PE`ASCO, MEXICO
APRIL 6
3:35 a.m.


When Mae was a very little girl, she had felt safe in her father's
arms.

He would hold her on his lap at the old wooden table in the kitchen,
holding her like a baby, even though she was five or six years old,
the rich smells of her mother's cooking surrounding them both, the
clatter of pot lids, wooden spoons on the sides of heavy pots. And he
would tell her stories while she gazed up into his face, her thick
curly hair trailing over his arm.

If she concentrated very hard, she could remember the laughter the
stories would bring from her, each part of the story that was
intended to make her giggle punctuated with a tickle to her
midsection. Then he would bury his face at her throat, hugging her
almost too tightly as she laughed, and he would laugh right along
with her.

She didn't know why she was thinking about that now, lying naked in
Joe's arms, her face pressed beneath his chin, both of them still
breathing heavy, his breath fanning her hair as his hands smoothed
down her slick back.

Perhaps this was the first time she'd felt truly safe since those
days. Before her father's arrest and imprisonment. Before her life
for the Cause began, a life with an enemy on every corner, possibly
lurking behind every face.

She'd had lovers in the years since then, but none of them had ever
felt this way, this protected. It was as if when she was in Joe's
arms, the rest of the world couldn't touch her, the demons of her
past swept away.

Joe leaned back and kissed her forehead, lingering there. His hands
continued their slow stroke along her back.

"Was that all right?" he asked, just above a whisper.

She smiled against his skin, nodded. "More than all right," she said.

"I didn't...hurt you or anything?" He kissed her forehead again,
just brushing her with his lips.

She shook her head. "I'm only pregnant, Joe," she replied, her tone
teasing but still quiet. "You're not going to break me, you know."

She felt him smile, a soft chuff coming from him. "I'm sorry," he
murmured. "It's just...well, it's new to me. I'm not sure what's the
same and what's different, that's all."

She leaned back slightly, looked into his eyes, her hand coming up
to push his hair from his forehead. "It's all the same," she said
gently.

He looked at her for a beat, then nodded, kissed her softly on the
mouth, then her cheek. She put her arms around his neck and pulled
him closer, holding him tightly.

She hoped he could feel from her the words she couldn't bring
herself to say. Though she felt them. Completely.

On the bedside table, the small travel alarm began to chirp, and Mae
released him reluctantly so he could roll away from her and turn it
off. Her hand smoothed down the sweat on his flat stomach, the covers
slipping to his hips.

He turned back to her, leaned up on one elbow, pushed her hair
behind her ear, his eyes on her, his brow creased. She could see the
look on his face that she'd seen every morning since the day in the
hospital.

He hated leaving her now. Even to go to work.

"Go on then," she said, the teasing back in her voice to break the
intensity of his gaze. "Off with you, or the boat'll go without you."

He hesitated, despite her playfulness. "I hate thinking of you back
here by yourself with Sean if you get so sick again," he replied. "I
could take the day off and stay with you."

She shook her head. "No, I don't want that," she said, and reached
up to take his hand and hold it in front of her, putting some
distance between them that way. "I'll be fine for the few hours
you're gone. Not to worry. I'll probably sleep the whole time."

He still looked uncertain, but he finally nodded. "All right," he
said, and brought her hand to his lips, kissed it. "I'm just going to
take a quick shower. Go to sleep. I'll try not to wake you while I'm
getting dressed."

She nodded, smiled at him. "Go on then," she repeated, and he let go
of her hand and rose. He slipped into his boxers beside the bed in
case Sean should be up and about, then picked up his jeans and tossed
them over his shoulder. He padded almost silently to the bedroom door
and out into the hall.

The night air coming through the open window chilled the sweat on
her skin almost instantly with his absence. Still on her side, she
pulled the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes. She heard the
shower come on, and began to drift in the hazy place between sleep
and wakefulness.

Her hand moved down to her belly beneath the covers, touching just
below her navel. As she did so often now, she thought of her baby. In
her mind the baby was a little girl, dark hair like hers and with
Joe's kind, bright eyes. She pictured Joe with her on his lap in a
warm kitchen, her child laughing in his arms, as well.

This baby's life would end up differently, she vowed. It would not
be touched by the things Mae herself had been, would not lead the
life she had.

All of it would stop with her, like a disease she refused to allow
to be passed down another generation. She had the same hope for Sean
now that he was away from Owen's life. Perhaps it wasn't too late for
him, either...

She hummed softly on an exhale, feeling sleep begin to take her, a
pleasant weight on her body. Sounds were muffled around her. The
shower going off. The door opening softly, footsteps in the room...

She pushed it all away, going toward the gentle darkness...

A hand clamped down over her mouth.

She was jolted into consciousness, a sound like a scream coming up
from her throat as her eyes shot open.

The silencer that pressed into her temple stopped the scream
instantly, leaving only the sound of her breathing, fast and
panicked.

"Hello, Mae," Owen Curran said from right beside her ear, his voice
coming through clenched teeth. "I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner, but I
had to wait for you to *finish.*"

He hissed the last word, jerking her head back sharply. She
whimpered, closing her eyes, feeling tears stinging them.

"Some things never change I see," he continued, his breath hot on
her ear. "You still can't keep your bloody legs closed, can you?"

She clenched her eyes closed more tightly and a tear slipped from
them, over the bridge of her nose.

The baby was her first thought. Sean, she knew he wouldn't hurt. But--

Oh God. Joe.

"Now I'm going to take my hand away from your mouth, all right?"
Owen said as though he was speaking to a five year old. "And when I
do, you're not going to make a sound or I'm going to blow your
fucking brains all over this bed."

He leaned closer, whispered in her ear. "And don't think I won't do
it. You understand me?"

She whimpered again, but managed to jerk a nod against the force of
his hand. He paused for a moment, and she opened her eyes to see him
leaning over her, looking into her face, his face awash in shadow.
Then he slowly withdrew his hand and stood.

She didn't move. Her body began to tremble all over.

"Sit up," he snapped. "And for fuck's sake keep yourself covered."

She complied, easing her legs over the side of the bed, keeping the
blanket up at her throat. She stared at the pistol in his hand,
pointed at her forehead. Then she looked into his face.

His ice blue eyes stared back at her in the streetlight coming
through the window. His face was thinner than it had been the last
time she'd seen him, more chiseled. Fury rose off him like steam.

Their gazes hung as she pleaded with him with her eyes. He answered
her with his silence and the stillness of the gun pointed at her
head.

A commotion from the hallway brought her attention away from his
face to the door, and she saw Joe come in, his jeans on, barefooted,
his hands on top of his dripping head. A man was behind him, a tall
solid man wearing a sports jacket and dress pants. He had a gun
pointed at Joe's back.

Owen turned and regarded Joe coldly, looking him up and down. Then
he pulled back the hammer on the pistol, turned and pointed it at
Joe, whose eyes were large as dinner plates, his bare chest rising
and falling quickly.

"Please...please don't hurt him," Mae said, and her voice shook
almost to the point of being unintelligible.

"Look, whatever you want," Joe said, and Mae loved him for his
composure, "you can have. I've got some money in my wallet and--"

"Shut the fuck up," Owen snarled at him, then he spun on Mae. "And
YOU, I told you not to make a sound, didn't I?"

His hand shot out, his palm catching Mae across the jaw and jerking
her face to the side.

"For Christ's sake!" Joe said, anguished, the man behind him's hand
going out to his shoulder, halting his forward motion. "Don't hit
her! She's pregnant!"

Oh God, Joe, Mae thought as blood trickled from her lip. Don't have
just told him that...

Suddenly Owen had a handful of her hair, his face in hers. "You're
*what?* You're fucking WHAT?" Then he released her hair and hit her
again.

This time Joe did come forward, cursing, his hands going off his
head and reaching for Owen's throat. Owen spun on him, the gun coming
up and pressing against Joe's forehead, stopping him. Then the man
behind Joe pulled him back again, holding him still. Owen had yet to
move the gun, though, following Joe back.

"Please don't hit her any more," Joe said softly, keeping his voice
steady.

"So you're the sonofabitch who knocked up my sister then," Owen
said, cocking his head at Joe, his eyes narrowing. He turned the gun
sideways, as well, and Joe stiffened even more. "I'd be more worried
about myself if I were you."

Owen's hand moved so fast it was like a blur of motion. He struck
Joe across the face with the butt of the gun, and his knee came up
into Joe's groin, sending him crashing to his knees, a hoarse cough
coming from him. One of Joe's hands went to his belly, the other to
his face.

Mae could see blood dripping from between his fingers. She began to
cry in earnest now, frustrated tears of fear and helplessness.

More sounds from the hallway, and now Sean came in, another man
behind him. The man didn't have a gun out on Sean, and she was glad
for that. He did have a hand firmly on Sean's shoulder, though, as
though to ensure he wouldn't run.

Sean gazed at Owen for a few seconds, his expression very afraid.
Then he looked at Mae and Joe. Mae swiped at the blood on her mouth
so he wouldn't see it, but it was too late. She could tell by how the
boy's eyes had widened even more and how his breathing had begun to
come fast and shallow. Then Sean returned his eyes to Joe, who was
still hunched over, blood seeping from his cheek.

"Joe?" Sean said in a high, frightened voice.

"I'm all right, Sean," Joe managed, but it sounded like even words
hurt him.

Mae's eyes darted to Owen, whose face had twisted up in even more
rage. "You can't say hello to your own dad first, Sean?" he said, his
teeth clenched again.

Sean looked up, backed a step into the odd-looking man behind him.
"Hello, Daddy," he said, his voice faint and terrified and his lip
trembling. His eyes brimmed with tears.

Owen looked at him, and Mae could see the pain in his face from
Sean's reaction. Then Owen turned his attention back to Joe, pure
hatred in his eyes, and he kicked out again, pushing Joe onto his
side roughly. Joe lay there, still holding his abdomen. Mae saw the
huge gash in his face as he moved his other hand down to his belly,
as well.

"Owen, please...not in front of Sean, all right?" Mae said meekly.

Owen glared at her, his hand going up to rub roughly at the scar
down his face, which he always did when he was agitated. Then he
seemed to relent a bit, to regain some measure of composure, though
Mae recognized it for the front it was.

"Rudy, take Sean to his room and get him to pack up his things," he
said calmly, and the strange-looking man nodded, angled Sean toward
the door and guided him out. That done, Owen turned to Mae.

"Now get up and get dressed," he said. "We're going for a little
ride, all of us."

"Let Joe go," she begged. "He doesn't have any part of this. This is
between you and me."

Owen seemed to consider for a few seconds, looking down at Joe, who
was watching him warily.

"No," Owen said finally, almost conversationally. Mae found this
tone more chilling than the rage he'd spoken with before. "No, I
think Joe here will be coming with us, as well."

Mae sucked in a breath. "But why?"

Owen stared at her again, a faint smile on his face. "Because you
want me to let him go," he said. "And plus, he's *family* now, isn't
he? We should all stay together, don't you think?"

He kicked Joe again, this time in the side. "Now get the fuck up and
find a shirt and some shoes," he snarled.

Joe struggled into a sitting position, stood slowly, Owen's gun on
him the whole time.

"All right," he said quietly, putting his hands up in a placating
gesture. "I'm not going to try anything."

"That's good," Owen said. "Because the minute you try something, I
shoot *her.*" He jerked his head toward Mae. "And the minute you do,
I shoot *him.*"

Mae swallowed, gauging Owen, tears still running down her face.

He was serious, she thought. He would do it.

She nodded to him then and stood, bringing the covers with her. She
wrapped herself in them as she went to the bureau, her back to the
men in the room, and silently began to dress.


*********


NEAR DEAD MAN'S WASH
NAVAJO RESERVATION
5:34 a.m.


The fire had long since gone to embers. Scully had sat in the
darkness the fire left behind for more than an hour before the sun
began to paint the horizon with a line of gold, high nimbus clouds
lighting up amidst the persistent starlight.

She hadn't slept the whole night, watching Orion spin slowly across
the sky, her mind filled. She'd cried off and on, wrenched by her
feelings for the first time in years, bringing them out and casting
off their shadows in the light of the stars and fire.

Somewhere around the time the fire had died, a calmness had settled
over her and the tears had ceased, leaving her still and silent, her
knees pulled up against her chest, the bunting top she wore pulled
out over them. She felt utterly spent, as though something in her
that had been impossibly heavy and full was now empty.

Years of anguish she'd kept closed within her, anguish for herself,
now finally open, like a black flower that had finally bloomed,
showing her its terrible beauty and then withering away.

She watched the sun come up, a half an eye at the edge of the world.
The sky turned pink, the red rocks glowing in it, a light wind
rustling the brush around the edge of the clearing, ruffling the
stiff dry leaves of the mesquite. Behind her, the thin river surged
with light.

She glanced at Ghost, asleep, one hock turned up in the sand, and
thought again of Hosteen, replaying his words in the kitchen, the
room simmering with the smell of things cooking:

It's time for you to go to this place, he'd said.

That is where you will find everything you need.

It's not on the map, what's there. But you will see it.

She looked around her, looking for it. The world was birthing this
new day, slowly lighting the desert, chasing away the chill. There
was a strength to it, a vastness. And it was as though, for the first
time in months, she looked around and saw things not as they were but
how they could be.

As new. Like a child. So full of possibilities.

A silver thread unwound in her. A faith she thought she had lost.
Faith in herself. In the simple yet inexplicable ways of things.

Again her thoughts returned to Hosteen in his cluttered kitchen,
stirring with his worn wooden spoon.

What was it he'd said about faith? He'd said her faith would be
welcomed by whomever she found in this place.

But there was no one here, she thought.

Then a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

*She* was here. And she did welcome it.

She was here. And she did have everything she needed to find her
answers, and always had. Within herself.

She shook her head, the smile blooming as she wiped at her tired
eyes. Her estimation of Hosteen, already very high, went up another
few notches.

He couldn't have told her any of this. He knew she had to find it
out on her own, in her own time. It was a journey she had had to make
alone to reach the end of it, to the place she now walked inside
herself.

To this quiet land that offered her, at last, some sense of peace.

She stood, walked to the edge of the cliff, watching the river run
slowly along its wide banks. Ghost awoke at the movement and turned
his head to regard her with his plum eyes.

The thoughts of Mulder, which she'd tried for so long to keep
buried, came to the surface in a warm rush. She wished he could be
here to share this feeling with her. She wanted more than anything to
share it with him, to feel his arms around her as she watched the sun
climb, an eye of light wide open now, the stars retreating to
pinpoints and then to nothing at all.

She would share this with him. She would give him this, offer it up
to him to try to make right what she had -- by necessity -- torn
apart between them. She wanted him to feel as whole as she did at
that moment.

Whole except for one thing.

Him.

Her eyes stung again, but this time she was smiling as the warm
feeling spread in her like water. The smile came easily, her eyes
closing and a breath leaving her in a long, slow exhale.

Finally she opened her eyes, turned and went to the fire pit,
kicking sand into the embers, covering them until they finally faded
out. She hadn't even bothered to set up the tent the night before,
the sleeping bag still rolled up beside it.

She ate quickly, a muffin, a swallow of water from the canteen she
carried with her.

Then she saddled Ghost, loaded up her supplies and mounted him,
heading back down the rise on the trail that would lead her home.


*********


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
NAVAJO RESERVATION
7:28 a.m.


Mulder pressed his heels into the horse's sides, urging it a bit as
they headed toward a small hill on the outskirts of Victor Hosteen's
property, the sun just beginning to glare on him, though he welcomed
the way it warmed his skin.

The horse, an even-tempered black mare named Chaco, took the hill in
stride, Mulder's grip on the reins reasonably sure but his pressure
on her mouth minimal, just as Victor (and Killer) had taught him.

At the top of the rise, he stopped her, but not to enjoy the view,
though it was a nice one.

He stopped because Bo had fallen behind again, the dog picking his
way along the trail, weaving in and out of bushes, panting, his head
down as he followed Mulder out into the desert.

Once Bo had gotten to the top of the hill, as well, Mulder touched
his heels to Chaco's sides again and they went down the other side.
He leaned back in the saddle, bracing his feet in the stirrups, just
as he'd been taught, until they reached the bottom and continued on
down the trail.

He'd been lost in his own thoughts all morning, his mind wandering
as he'd helped Victor and Eric and the others with the sheep and
horses. Finally, after Victor had caught him staring off into space
once again when he was supposed to be doing something else, Victor
had told him to take a horse and "get lost" for awhile until he could
get his mind back on his work.

The friendly swat on the back he'd given Mulder as he urged him
toward the corral had taken any hint of reprimand out of the comment,
and Mulder had smiled to him as he went to saddle the horse.

His hips had gotten used to the easy roll of the horse's long gait,
and he'd learned to handle the horse halfway decently, though the
activity still plagued him with nervousness, his side aching as a
reminder of what could happen if he did the wrong thing again.

But he was at least beginning to understand why people enjoyed this,
though a few days ago he couldn't fathom feeling this way. He felt
very authentic in his worn jeans and his boots, the grey t-shirt he
wore not quite warm enough for the morning, but comfortable
nonetheless.

He looked around at the landscape, finding solace in the simplicity
of it, its clarity. Things were very cut and dried out here. There
were no shades of gray to confuse him, no middle ground. He liked
that a lot, and was beginning to align his feelings with the
starkness of his surroundings, and with the barren terrain of his own
heart.

Maybe being alone wasn't such a bad thing, he thought, urging Chaco
up another small incline, keeping a watchful eye on Bo.

But even as he said it, he knew he was lying to himself again, and
the contradiction of that sentiment and the worry and hurt he felt
over Scully made him feel lost again.

Maybe Scully had been right when she'd told him that he loved her
too much, he thought sadly. That he was blinded by that love. Because
somewhere along the way he seemed to have misplaced something
important.

Himself.

And he was just now getting himself back, getting to know how he
looked and felt without her again.

He didn't know if it was a better or worse version of himself he was
looking at or not. It was just different. Solitary, like his life had
been before her. Familiar in that way and thus somehow comforting.
And he had to admit, begrudgingly, he liked that only he could alter
things about him now. He felt more in control than he had in a long
time, less accountable.

He found an painful kind of peace in all of this, he realized, as
Chaco went around a bend, Bo padding along beside him.

It was the feeling people settled on in grief, when they faced the
hard realization that they were going to have to rise every morning
and go about their lives without the person they'd lost, even though
they might be dying inside themselves.

He'd come to this difficult conclusion. That his life would go on,
even without her in it, if that was what she continued to choose for
him. He couldn't fight her in this, though there was still a part of
him that wanted to. Badly. And in his pain he'd somehow become
resigned to this new life, though his memory of the one he'd had with
her, his love for her, still throbbed in him like the phantom of a
limb taken away.

He would bear that pain and go on, he told himself harshly, his eyes
flinty as he watched the trail ahead of him.

Even if it meant turning in on himself, pulling in like an animal
going into its shell.

He could feel himself hardening inside even as he thought of it all,
and the feeling dulled the pain.

Beside him, Bo whined and sat down on the trail, panting heavily.
Mulder pulled up the horse, looked down at him. The dog was tiring,
he could tell, though he hadn't exactly invited Bo along for this
ride in the first place.

"You ready to head back, Bo?" he called down, and the dog looked up
at him, his long pink tongue wagging out of his mouth as his tail
thumped the ground, still a bit uncertainly. Bo whined again softly.

"I'll take that as a 'yes,'" Mulder said, and smiled slightly, then
turned the horse around awkwardly and headed back towards Victor's
house, barely visible in the distance.


*************


END OF CHAPTER 16a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 17.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 16b.


********


2679 RANDOLPH AVENUE
CHANTILLY, VIRGINIA
APRIL 7
9:14 a.m.


Nancy Rand looked carefully at the picture of Mulder Skinner had
handed her, her other hand at her waist, toying with the black belt
she wore knotted there around her karate uniform, or gi. She was
shaking her head but had yet to speak, which Skinner was taking as a
promising sign.

Around him, the karate class continued without her, another black
belt having taken over when he arrived to question her. Around him,
students went through drills, some off to the sides practicing forms,
other sparring wearing helmets and pads on their feet and hands.

He'd come in casual clothes so as not to draw too much attention to
himself, trying to blend in with the students of various ages
peppered throughout the room. He could be a prospective student
himself, just in the dojo to sign up for classes. That was exactly
the way he'd wanted to look.

He noticed, though, that he was still getting some odd, territorial
looks from the people around him. Clearly they weren't used to new
people coming in very often. It made him shift uncomfortably as he
waited for Rand's verdict.

She started to hand the picture back to him, then looked at it one
more time. Skinner's stomach tightened.

"He was waiting for a plane," she said, and now she nodded. "Yes, I
remember him now. My last week of work. We almost called Security on
him -- he was showing all the classic signs of someone up to
something." She looked at Skinner as he cocked an eyebrow in
confusion. "You know...standing around the gate with big carry-ons
and not boarding right away, watching everyone who got on the plane.
He looked really anxious about something."

"But you didn't call Security?" Skinner asked. He almost hoped she
had -- more witnesses. But she shook her head.

"No, I went up to him right before we were about to close the doors
and asked him if he was getting on, and he said he wasn't. Picked up
the bags and left. We were all really relieved when he left."

She handed the picture back now, her hands going to her trim hips
beneath the thick black fabric of the gi. She looked eager to get
back to what she was doing, restless.

Skinner nodded, finally breathing normally again. It all jived.
Mulder with his things packed up waiting for Scully to board the
plane bound for Boston, for her to get clear of her cover. It was an
escape route she never got to take.

Behind him, a woman was breaking boards held by other students, the
cracking startling him back into the present.

He cleared his throat. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your
attention to this, Ms. Rand," he said, tucking the picture back in
his pocket. He pulled out a small notepad and a pen, proffering them
to her. "I wonder if you might take the time to write down everything
you just told me, for my records."

Rand pushed her blonde hair back from her face where it had fallen a
bit from a loose French braid in the back. "What's he wanted for,
anyway?" she asked, though she took the pen and pad. "*Should* we
have called Security?"

Skinner shook his head. "No, no. You did the right thing. I'm afraid
I'm not at liberty to say what the investigation is about, though."
He looked at her, forced a small smile. "But you've been a huge
help."

She shrugged, smiling shyly. "No problem," she said, and went to the
counter at the front of the dojo to write down what she'd seen,
Skinner following behind her.


Thirty minutes later, Skinner was back in traffic, his suit swinging
on its hanger in the back seat as he wove his way through the mass of
cars heading into the city.

He hated that it was too late now to call Granger without getting
him at the CIA, which they'd decided was a bad idea.

But they had proof now. Facts that disproved the two most damning
pieces of Padden's circumstantial evidence against Mulder. Between
that and Scully's testimony about what really happened in Mae
Curran's apartment (which he could take down over the phone from her
for now), they should be able to put enough doubt into these charges
to put footprints on Padden's head and go to Ashcroft. Then he and
Granger would put this thing to rest and get Mulder and Scully in --
and Scully into his OWN Protective Custody -- as soon as he could.

Something in him unwound a bit as he drove back toward the city, as
he felt some kind of control over this for the first time.

But he didn't let it go all the way.

After all, this was Mulder, he reminded himself.

And that meant nothing was as easy as it might seem.


*********

LAKE OAHE
NEAR FAITH, SOUTH DAKOTA
2:25 p.m.


Jimmy Shea remembered the pub, the dark corner made of dark wood,
smoke from three or four pipes catching in the bowl of the light
above the table like aromatic webs. The faces around the circle of
light were grim, the pints in front of the men all, for the most
part, untouched.

"What the bloody hell are we going to do about this then?" Pauly
Connell said, tapping his tobacco out into the large tray at the
table's center. He immediately reached into his pocket and loaded the
thing again, pressing it down with his thumb over and over, worrying
over it.

"I don't know what can be done," Shea replied, his own pipe in his
mouth. It made him feel older than his 36 years in the crowd of older
men. "You all know James Curran as well as I do. He *will* keep this
hunger strike up. He'll starve himself to death without even thinking
about it if it'll draw attention to the work."

"Aye, that's so," Seamus agreed, nodding sagely. Shea watched him
carefully, looking to him for some sort of solution, since the man
was a Brigade Leader and could do something if anyone could.

"And no chance of getting him out of there?" Paddy -- young and
stupid -- asked, and everyone shook their heads.

"That would be daft," Pauly said.

Seamus leaned forward, deep in thought. "We need to do something to
show that we're with him, though. We'll make them pay for how he's
paying." He turned to the other men. "I say a strike at the bastards
in every county. At the police. The ones who brought him in in the
first place."

There were general nods of agreement around the table, though Shea
was, himself, a bit shocked at the notion. An operation of that scale
would take every man they had. And probably a few they didn't.

"You sure that won't just make things worse for him?" Shea offered,
tapping out his own pipe. He said it casually, so as to appear to
assent but just be curious.

"What more can the bastards do to him that he's not already doing to
himself?" Paddy asked, and the other men grunted their assent. "He
can't even lay down on his back anymore, I hear, because his bones
cut into his skin. And he should see that we're behind him, even if
this comes out for the worst." The men grunted again.

"All right," Shea said, nodding now.

Seamus looked around the table. "I'll get with the other Brigade
Leaders and we'll come up with a time for us to strike, ways in, then-
-"

"How can I help then?" a small voice piped up from in front of the
table. Everyone's eyes turned toward the sound, including Shea's. His
eyes widened.

Owen Curran, all of ten years old but dressed like a man, stood at
the head of the table, looking at the men solemnly. His eyes were
cold blue, staring. His voice had been flat as the dead calm sea.

"Owen, you should be home with your mother," Paddy said gently. "And
what are you doing standing there listening to men's talk, eh?"

"You're talking about my dad," the boy said. "What you're going to
do about my dad."

"Go home, Owen," Seamus said softly. "This is work for men now, not
boys."

Shea watched Owen chafe, his small chest rising and falling. "I know
how to make things. I can listen and know things without being
noticed because everyone thinks I'm just a boy. I can get into places
none of you can get in. I can help you."

The table just stared for a long few seconds. They'd used children
before for small errands, but this... Shea wanted to shake his head
but didn't. After all, the boy was losing his father in this. There
would be no saving James Curran now, not with the hunger strike on
for this long and things having gone as far as they had.

Maybe it would make James' death easier on the boy if he felt like
he was doing something about what was happening...

Shea looked to Seamus, who was looking at Owen.

"All right, Owen," Seamus said finally. "You come back around to my
house tomorrow after you're done with school and I'll find something
for you to do for me. How's that then?"

Owen nodded, meeting the eyes of the men around the table, unafraid.

"Yes, sir," he said softly, and he pulled on his small cap and
turned and was gone.


Jimmy Shea was thinking all this as he watched the tiny trout spin
in the sunlight from the almost invisible line, its tail curling a
bit, its gills flooded and crisp with blood. It was still struggling
now and again, though he had no idea how long he'd been looking at
it, lost in his thoughts.

He'd hooked it through the eye, he realized, struck back into the
present, and he carefully worked the hook out of the foil orb, being
as careful as he could with the fish, which was too small to keep
even if he'd been inclined to do so. He wasn't catching to eat today,
the motel he'd found without a kitchen. He was just catching to
catch.

There was a crackling as the hook popped loose and he worked it out
the gaping mouth, holding the fish by the lip. There was a trickle of
blood on his thumb, and he tossed the fish back into the water,
rinsed the blood quickly in the lake as though the blood had burned
him.

From his pocket, his cell phone began to chirp, and he dried his
hands on his pants quickly as he reached for it, hit the talk button.

"Aye," he grunted into it.

"Mr. Shea?" came Conail Rutherford's voice, crackling with static
from a spotty signal in the middle of the vast lake.

"Aye," Shea repeated. "What do you have for me then, Conail?"

"I've gotten a phone call," Rutherford replied. "A strange phone
call. Someone who's been putting our friend up here and there. He
told me where he might be going to next, if you want to catch up with
him there."

The ambiguity had become part of their conversations. Always talking
about friends meeting up. It made Shea sad every time Rutherford said
it, though he knew, of course, why he did.

"All right then, where is it?" he said, still rubbing his hand
absently on his pants.

"Alder Creek, Colorado," Rutherford replied. "Where are you now, if
you don't mind me asking?"

"I'm in South Dakota," Shea replied, looking at the lovely blue-
green fir trees lining the banks of the deep blue lake. "Not too far
away. I'll just finish up an hour of fishing here and then I'll be on
my way."

"That's fine," the younger man replied. "Take your time. It looks
like this man who called...he's interested in the same thing we are,
it seems. Said he'd keep in touch."

Shea nodded. "That's good then," he said quietly, distracted. "Call
me in a few days. I'll be there. Sooner if you know anything else."

"Aye, that I'll do," Rutherford said. "Travel safe, Mr. Shea."

"Will do," he replied, and hung up, tucking the phone back in his
pocket.

He looked out over the lake, a sudden wind rippling the lake into
waves that turned the boat with its small hands.

He should be happier with the news, he knew. But he couldn't muster
it. Only when he thought of Ruby, being back home with her, was he
cheered, though just a bit.

Sighing, feeling all his sixty-plus years settling over him, he
turned to the outboard, pulled on it roughly and it coughed to life,
sputtering. Then he angled the boat against the wind, heading back up
the lake.


**********


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
NAVAJO RESERVATION
5:34 p.m.


The path to Albert Hosteen's house was going a burnished bronze as
the sun set over the desert, the clouds that had persisted all day
gathering on the horizon and surrounding the last of the sunlight
like hands.

Scully was half asleep on Ghost's back, lulled by the horse's slow
gait as he made his way toward his home. Her head lolled forward and
she snapped awake just as they reached the back of the house. She
could see Hosteen looking at her through the back window, and raised
her hand in greeting, coming more awake.

She came around the house, stopped Ghost at the front porch and
dismounted, landing on both feet in the dust, stretching her stiff
back.

She was pulling the reins over Ghost's head to hitch him to the
porch post when the screen door creaked open and Hosteen came out,
his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans, a flannel shirt hanging
on his thin frame. His long silver hair was in a ponytail at his
neck, and there was a small, knowing smile on his face.

She finished tying the horse up and turned, regarding Hosteen and
returning the smile.

"How was your trip, Agent Scully?" he asked, his voice quiet. She
could hear the television mumbling to itself inside the screen door,
and smelled fry bread cooking. It was a smell she knew she would
forever associate with this time in her life, this man. It comforted
her that much.

"It was good," she replied, looking down shyly. "It was very good."

"Hm," he said, nodding. "Did you find what you were looking for,
what you needed, while you were there?"

She hesitated, felt her eyes brimming with tears suddenly, fatigue
and the emotions of the past three days welling in her suddenly. She
looked away, her hands on her hips as she pulled in a calming breath.
Her head bobbed once.

"Yes," she said, keeping her voice steady. "Yes. I found what I
needed."

Now she did look at him, into his eyes, which caught the light from
the porch and held it like starlight.

"All but one thing," she added just above a whisper.

Hosteen walked to the edge of the porch, standing before her,
looking down into her face. She didn't flinch from his gaze, from the
way he studied her, smiling as though he was pleased with what he
found. She smiled back, reached out tentatively and touched his
forearm.

"Hm," he said again. "Well, then come in and have some dinner, have
a shower."

He paused, and his hand reached out to cover hers on his arm.

"Then go to him."

She nodded, and now the tears did come. She closed her eyes.

"Thank you," she breathed, her voice escaping her.

He only nodded in return, and, stepping back, he held the door for
her and led her into the house.


**

6:48 p.m.


Mulder sat on one side of the ancient brown couch, the fuzzy
reception of "The Andy Griffith Show," the only show that would come
in, scattering the room with its flickering white. There was a lamp
on beside him, throwing light on the 1953 National Geographic he was
flipping through. He turned the pages slowly, looking at the pictures
and breathing in the smell of old books and dust.

He turned to look at Bo beside him on the couch, who was sprawled on
the other cushion, his long legs crossed as they hung over the edge.
He was lying on a battered towel Mulder had found at the bottom of
the linen closet, his head resting on the arm of the couch's arm. The
dog's eyes were half-closed, his breathing slow.

Mulder reached over and touched Bo's flank, gave him a pat. Ever
since the visit with the vet the other day, since the long walk in
the desert with him yesterday, Bo had seemed to be under the weather,
lethargic and not quite as interested in eating as he'd been before.

Mulder was worried about him all day, and thought there'd be no harm
in letting him in the house since Bo had come to the door wanting in.
Mulder had had to lift him up onto the cushion, though, when he put
the towel down, afraid Bo's sores would stain the fabric.

Not that it mattered, he thought ruefully. The couch was already
covered with cigarette burns, and must have been older than he was,
or close to it. But he was still mindful of being a guest in this
house, dilapidated as it was.

It was beginning to feel homey in its disrepair and its relative
silence.

He kept his hand on Bo's rump as he turned the page with his other
hand, put his ankle up on his knee as he sunk further into the
cushion. He sighed and looked at the picture on the next page.

Ah, the naked Pygmies from his youth...

It almost teased a smile from him. Almost.

There was a knock at the door, faint. Had the sound on the
television been up any higher, he probably wouldn't have heard it at
all.

He glanced at his watch, wondering what Victor could want at this
time of night, the horses all in the corral for the evening, the
sheep in their pen. Wind creaked against the plexiglass windows,
signalling a storm coming up.

Maybe Victor wanted help putting the horses in the stable, in case
the storm got too bad. The lightning out here was the fiercest he'd
ever seen.

He rose, tossed the magazine onto the couch, retucking his white t-
shirt into his jeans in the back as he headed for the door. Bo opened
his eyes and followed Mulder with them, though he didn't move beyond
that, Mulder noted. Not even for the knock.

He must really be feeling badly, Mulder thought as he watched Bo,
still going toward the door. The dog wasn't even spooked at the
prospect of someone outside coming in.

Mulder reached the door and flung it open, thinking to ask Victor
about Bo's state --

And was confronted by Scully standing there on the other side of the
screen door in the yellow porchlight. The light gleamed on her still-
wet hair, threw a gold glow on her long-sleeved shirt. She had her
hands on her thin hips and was looking at him uncertainly, her eyes
on his face.

His heart finally started beating again after a few seconds and he
regained his composure from the gape he had frozen into on seeing
her.

Now he found himself looking away. He could feel a flush rising
beneath his beard.

"Hi." She said the word softly, sounding almost a little afraid.

"Hi," he replied, and it came out stiff. He was looking down at her
booted feet, over her shoulder. Anywhere but her face and into those
eyes.

There was an awkward moment of silence. A dog barked somewhere off
in the distance. The screen door still separated them, and he made no
move to open it.

He chanced a look at her face. She was still trying to get him to
meet her eyes.

"Is there anything wrong?" he asked, unable to bear the silence any
longer.

She shook her head. "No, no," she said, her voice still quiet.
"There's nothing wrong."

"That's good," he replied hurriedly, nodding. He glanced at her face
again, this time for a few seconds longer. "You look tired."

She smiled slightly. "I've been out...camping for a few days," she
said. "Not the most comfortable sleeping conditions."

"Camping," he repeated, nodding again, looking down. "Good. That's
good. Did you have fun?"

She shook her head. "No."

The word stilled him and he did look up into her face now. Her eyes
were sad and tender and pleading all at once, and he didn't know what
to do with any of it.

"Oh," was all he could think to say. "I'm sorry."

She shifted from one foot to the other, shaking her head. "No, don't
be sorry," she said, and he could hear frustration seeping into her
tone now. "I just...I was just wondering..."

She paused, and it was her turn to stare down. He watched her,
something in him growing inexplicably afraid as she struggled for
words.

"You were wondering what?" he asked, trying to sound casual. He
failed.

"I was wondering if I could talk to you," she said finally, and her
eyes met his again. He wondered if his expression gave away his
nervousness.

She took a step closer to the door, put her hand on the screen, her
fingers brushing against it. He saw her swallow and realized she was
as nervous as he was.

"Can I come in, Mulder?"

He hesitated, taking a step away from the door, from her hand on the
screen.

He tried to remember what he'd felt yesterday out in the desert, his
resolve at having himself back, at being all right with being alone
and unaccountable. Emotions tinged with bitterness and anger and a
strange sort of power.

The feelings reared in him, very real, but even as they did so, he
recognized them as the defense that they were, thrown up to cover his
nervousness and his fear.

Fear of her. Of being hurt by her.

He didn't think he could bear it again.

It was an admission to himself that made his eyes burn with tears,
which he blinked back. He hadn't realized he was still this raw. He'd
felt so numb for so long now, so closed.

But here she was, opening him with her small hands again.

He almost resented how easily she could do it.

"Mulder, please," she murmured, and the pleading was in her voice
and her eyes now. "Please let me just talk to you."

He balked for another few seconds, waiting until the emotions were
back under some semblance of control. Then he met her eyes, nearly
getting lost in their familiar blue, and knew there was only one
thing he could do.

He reached for the door handle, and she stepped back as he pushed it
open and held it for her. He could not bring himself to speak,
however, not trusting his words or his voice.

He could see the sadness come over her face at his silence. But she
nodded, angled her head in thanks, and walked through the doorway and
into the living room beyond.

He stood still for a moment, his eyes down. Then he finally let go
of the door, turned, and closed the wooden one behind him.


*************


END OF CHAPTER 16b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 17.


Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 17.

**********

6:58 p.m.


Scully stood in the space between the kitchen and the living room,
her hands in the pockets of her jeans. Her heart was pounding and she
drew in a deep breath, let it go, calming herself as best she could.

It's still Mulder, she reminded herself. It's just Mulder.

The thought didn't comfort her much. She didn't know anything about
how he was, how he felt. She didn't know what he thought of her, or
how much anger he might have at the things she had done to drive him
away.

She wondered just how far away he'd gone in the time since the fight
in the motel, since she'd struck him, cursed at him.

The distance was definitely there. She could feel it. It was like
they were looking at each other from two islands, each stranded on
their separate shores.

"Can I get you something?" Mulder asked, coming up behind her and
then going for the kitchen. "I have some coffee that's still warm,
fairly fresh..." He trailed off as he lifted the percolator from the
stove, as if to prove he was telling the truth.

She didn't want coffee, but she nodded nevertheless. "Sure. Coffee
would be nice. Thank you."

He nodded, his eyes still darting away from her as fast as
frightened birds. It pained her to see that he could not look at her
for more than a few seconds before he had to turn away.

She watched him for a moment as he went into the cabinet, pulling
down a dingy looking mug, its bone-white surface battered. He poured
the coffee, went to the fridge and took out the milk and a small bag
of Domino sugar.

She took a small comfort in the fact that he remembered how she took
her coffee. A ghost of their previous life.

She looked around the living room, the television's picture barely
visible through the static, Andy playing the guitar and humming on
the porch through the hiss. There was only one light on, a lamp by
the couch that faced the television. There was a stack of National
Geographics on the coffee table, Mulder's own coffee mug beside it,
which didn't match the one he was presently filling for her.

The place was warm and dark and cave-like. Neatly kept, which
surprised her. He rarely kept his own apartment clean. She wondered
why he did here.

She took a step toward the back of the couch and saw legs splayed
out from one of the cushions. Leaning over the back, she found
herself looking into the face of a terribly thin black dog. She
winced as she looked at the sores on its visible side, the starkness
of its ribs.

"Hey," she murmured, and reached down to pet its head, finding it
surprisingly soft considering the state of the rest of the dog's
body. The dog whined faintly as she did so, nervous eyes the color of
oil blinking up at her.

"Where'd you get the dog?" she asked, continuing to stroke the
animal's head, smoothing back its ear.

"He sort of found me," Mulder replied, and finished stirring her
coffee. "His name's Bo. This is his first night in the house. I don't
think he's feeling very well."

Scully walked around the couch now, moved the coffee table back a
little so she could get to the dog more easily. She checked him over,
feeling his head and ears more carefully. The dog pushed further into
the couch, turning his head away from her.

"It's okay," she said softly, and the dog whined again.

Mulder came forward from the kitchen, around the couch. He kept his
distance from her, though, she noticed.

She pulled on the dog's neck, watched the skin slowly fall back into
place.

"He's a little dehydrated, for starters," she said, then checked the
sores. They seemed to be all right, most of them closed over and
healing. "He needs a vet, though."

"He's seen one," Mulder replied, his voice still nervous. "A couple
of days ago. He got a bunch of shots."

Scully glanced at him, then down at the dog. "That's probably all it
is, then, if the vet didn't find anything serious," she said.
"Sometimes they can have a reaction to the medications. Especially if
they're already weak, and he clearly is."

"That's good to know, that it's just the shots," Mulder said as she
stood, still regarding the dog, sprawled on his towel as though
someone had dropped him there.

"He's got a bowl of water in the kitchen," he continued. "He's been
drinking some. Maybe he'll be okay in the morning."

Scully nodded. "I'll check him tomorrow for you, if you'd like."

Mulder looked uncomfortable, but nodded, as well. "Okay...thanks."

Bo took one final look at her, still unmoving, then closed his eyes
and exhaled a deep breath, falling asleep.

Mulder shifted from one foot to the other as she turned her
attention from the dog to him. He offered her the coffee and she took
it.

"Thanks," she said quietly. Mulder picked up his own cup, and they
regarded each other for an awkward beat.

"So..." Mulder said, gesturing to a chair beside the couch. She
moved toward it and sat, and he took the empty side of the couch,
sitting on the very edge. She did the same in the chair. "What did
you want to talk to me about?"

She looked down into the milky surface of coffee, hesitated. Her bad
hand trembled it into ripples. Then she glanced up at him, and he was
looking at her solemnly. He took a sip of his coffee, half his face
lit by the lamp on the end table.

She smiled, embarrassed, and shook her head. "I don't know where to
start," she admitted faintly, looking down.

Silence hung between them again, wind pushing on the windows,
creaking the trailer.

"Tell me...tell me how you are," she said quietly, returning her
gaze to his face. His expression was unreadable, as though he'd put
on a mask.

"Me? I'm great for a guy that's been thrown off half the horses in
Victor Hosteen's corral." He turned the coffee mug around in his
hands, took a sip. Then he looked up at her again. "How are you
doing?" His voice sounded far away.

She cringed inwardly. He had shut himself off from her so much. It
hurt her to feel it, even though she knew that she was the one who
had caused him to do it. She hated knowing that.

"I'm doing much better," she replied. "I've had a lot of time to
think."

He nodded. "I'm glad you're doing better," he said, and some warmth
leaked into his voice. He cleared his throat. "I've been...worried
about you. You know, wondering how you were."

"I've been worried about you, too," she replied earnestly, sensing a
tiny space in his considerable armor.

"I'm fine," he said flatly, sipping his coffee again. He said it
with a note of finality, as though he didn't want to talk about it
anymore. It verged on defensive.

"Mulder, I'm..." Emotion rose in her and she struggled to stifle it.
"I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. For what I did and said before.
I was just--"

"You don't need to apologize," he interrupted. "I understand."

Again, that firm tone. Almost dismissive.

"No, I *do* need to apologize," she persisted, treading carefully.
"I should never have treated you like that. Not given how much I--"

"It's okay, Scully," he interrupted again, and stood now, going into
the kitchen.

She watched him go, feeling tears climbing behind her eyes. She
pushed them down.

He poured some more coffee from the pot, draining it. He set it down
a little too hard on the burner, making a loud clap of metal on
metal. He stayed beside the kitchen sink, his eyes down.

"Mulder, please don't walk away from me," she murmured into the
quiet.

He turned his face to her and stared. She withered a bit under it.

"I know...I know you're angry with me," she stammered. "You'd have
to be."

"I'm not angry with you, Scully," he said, monotone. "You've been
through a lot. How could I be angry at you knowing that?"

"What I've been through doesn't give me the right to do what I did
to you." She said it softly, meeting his eyes.

She could see his jaw working from here, the tense line of his
mouth. He put the coffee cup down carefully, leaned against the sink,
facing her, his arms crossed.

"What do you want from me, Scully?" he asked, and the question took
her off guard.

"I..." She looked down, unable to meet his hard gaze. "I guess
that...even though I know why I did what I did to you, that it was
necessary on some level, that I want you to forgive me for it." She
shrugged as she said it, her voice growing very faint at the last.

A flash of lightning popped at the window like a flashbulb going off.

"You're forgiven," he said, unmoving. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

She looked at him. "And I came here to ask you to give me another
chance."

"Another chance at what?" he snapped. It was there now. The anger
was coming.

"To give *us* another chance," she said softly.

"There is no *us* anymore, Scully," he said. "There's just me and
there's just you."

"Please don't say that." She looked down at her hands, feeling the
frustrated tears rim her eyes at last.

"You know, I've had a lot of time to think, too, Scully," he
continued, the words coming hard from him, his volume rising. "And
I've realized something myself. You were right when you said I loved
you too much, that I was blinded by it. I *lost* myself when I was
with you. I forgot who I was. And I've finally gotten myself back and
I'm not going to go back to that again. Not for ANYTHING."

His anger was so roiling now, his face like stone, his jaw pulsing.
He leaned away from the counter and had it not been his place, she
might have been afraid he would leave.

"I said that to hurt you," she said, trying to keep her voice steady
in the face of his rage. "Mulder, you have to know that. I'm sorry I
did it, but that's why I did. And I didn't believe that was true when
I said it, and I don't believe it now. If you'll think about what we
had before all this happened, you'll know that it's not true, too."

She paused, looking at him intensely. "I would have said anything to
drive you away because of the pain I was in. It was never really
about you, Mulder. Please try to understand that. But I hurt you
terribly, I know. I'm so sorry for that--"

"Stop saying you're fucking sorry!" he roared, stunning her.

Another flash of lightning, and Mulder spun, picking up the coffee
mug in a fist. Then it was out of his hand, flung at the wooden door
where it crashed, sending a dark splash across the door's white
surface as the pieces tumbled to the floor.

The dog bolted upright, his ears down. Then he jumped off the couch
and scurried, almost on his belly, behind the television, wedging
himself against the wall. Thunder rolled again, and rain began to
spatter the windows.

Scully looked at Mulder in surprise, covered her mouth with her
trembling hand. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen now, the
heels of his hands dug into his eyes. She could see his chest rising
and falling as though he'd been trapped in a box with no air and had
just now gotten out.

"Mulder..." She rose, set her cup down, and went to him, anguished.
She bit her lip, tears coming fast now as she stood before him. She
murmured his name again.

"Go away," he whispered. "Please get away from me."

"No," she replied, and her voice shook. "I'm not going to go away.
Not like this. I love you too much."

"Don't say that," he pleaded, his hands still over his eyes. His
chest lurched on a sob.

She reached up and gripped his wrists. He resisted her gentle tug,
and she drew them down more firmly until she revealed his eyes,
clenched closed, his long lashes wet with tears.

"Don't..." he said, hoarse. "Leave me alone, Scully."

She took a step closer, let go of one of his hands so she could hold
the side of his face. Her hand trembled against him, her thumb
brushing at the tears.

"I *am* sorry, Mulder," she murmured, her voice tender but sure. "I
was protecting myself. Protecting you, I thought. I was wrong. Let me
help you now..."

She leaned forward, not knowing any other way to prove what she was
saying to him. So she pulled his face down gently and brushed her
lips to his cheek. When he didn't pull away, she went to his throat,
tracing his skin with her mouth. She pressed a kiss to his forehead,
feeling a tremor beginning to course through his tensed body.

Finally, she moved to his lips, touching her open mouth to his.

She felt something give in him with that, as though he'd been
carrying something impossibly heavy and had finally set it down.

He pulled his arm away from her, shook his head against the emotions
she could feel storming from him, the last of his resistance falling
away.

His arms opened and she was suddenly in them as he nearly crushed
her against his chest.

Her arms went around his neck, pulling his face onto her shoulder.
He wept openly now, his body shaking with it. She cried with him, her
hands stroking his hair, her lips on the side of his throat.

"Just let it go..." she murmured to him.

She lost her sense of how long they stayed together like that, the
only sounds their hitched breathing and quiet cries.

Then a crack of lightning, and this time the lamp and the television
went off, the room awash in darkness. The trailer creaked again in
the wind, rain clambering on the window beside them.

There in the darkness he pulled back slowly from her, loosening his
grip, his hands going to either side of her head, sliding through her
damp hair. He rubbed his coarse cheek against hers, his lips grazing
her closed eyes and the tears there. She pulled in a breath as he
kissed her forehead, the skin beneath her eye, then finally her lips.

The kiss was not careful or gentle. It had the pull of a drowning
man in it. She leaned her head back as he pressed into her, his mouth
opening and hers with it. She teased his tongue with hers, surprising
herself with her need to touch him like that. He responded
immediately, stroking the inside of her mouth. She made a soft sound
in her throat like a faint moan.

Then she couldn't breathe, a panicky feeling passing over her. She
pulled back from his lips but held his face close to hers, their
labored breathing mingling, tears still coming from both of them.

"You okay?" He held her face between his hands, his thumbs smoothing
her tears over her skin.

She nodded. "We just need to slow down a little...we have to go slow."

"We don't have to do anything at all," he murmured, his voice still
shaking. He started to pull away.

"No," she said, holding his forehead to hers. "I want to feel this.
I want to feel everything." She whispered the last word against his
mouth before she kissed him again, soft, searching. "Even the things
that make me afraid."

He shook his head. "I don't want you to be afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid of you," she said with conviction, and she released
him, stepped back and took his hand.

"Show me the way," she said, and he hesitated. She saw the doubt in
him as a flash of lightning flickered, illuminating his face for a
few seconds.

"Please," she said, giving his hand a squeeze.

After a moment he squeezed back. She could hear him let out a slow
breath, and knew he was gathering himself, calming.

Then he turned and led her down the hallway through the darkness.



His voice is my voice.

She thinks this in this dream-like world where they are twined,
curled into each other.

Breathless words, half spoken in the language of sheets:

Here?

His voice in her ear, then his mouth on hers, searching. Careful.

Yes there...

Kiss after kiss, soft as rain.

His hands on her breasts, rough thumbs grazing her nipples. His
tongue, warm and smooth, on them, his beard teasing the soft skin.

More...

Her voice stretches to a whisper with her need. His dark eyes answer
from above her, saying yes.

Hands moving down her belly, between her legs. She opens herself to
him as best she can, a hand gripping his arm.

Beautiful...

She smiles at the word. Time holds still.

Then his body on hers, the slow slope of his back her hands follow
down, her leg pulled up to his waist.

Press of weight. Her fingers curling.

A gasp, her face turning away as he fills her, her body taut,
resisting.

Shh...Relax...

His words like anchors, her, a small boat on a storm-tossed sea.

Please, Mulder...

Tell me...

No, don't stop...

Then the pleasure is there, beginning, mingled with tears she can't
stop.

Shhh...it's all right. You're all right, Scully...

The quick rise and fall of his chest, her heart beating like a
bird's, a strand of hair catching in the corner of her mouth as she
turns her head, her eyes on his.

His hands on either side of her, his body moving, rhythmic, growing
faster. His lip caught between his teeth, brow creasing, an
expression like pain.

A pressure building in her, flush of heat, spreading like water
through her belly.

Mulder...coming...

Yes...

I can't...

Yes, you can...

And a burst of light, her eyes closing against it, her mouth on his
shoulder, teeth bearing down as wave after wave washes over her and
she struggles to breath beneath them.

A moan wrenches from him.

He shudders in a rush of warmth. In a cry.

Then he is beside her, their foreheads pressing together. They relax
into sweat. His fingers brush at her tears, gathering them.

Her hands in his hair, smoothing the wet hair at his temples.

His body, a harbor of light.

....love...

Love you...

The rain outside continues to fall, the storm raging, all of it
feeling very far away.

Their pleasure ebbs between them like a tide, his lips on her damp
hair, her face against his throat.

She finally drifts into sleep against him, her last thought that,
despite everything...

We made this.


*****

APRIL 7
5:40 a.m.


Mulder lay awake on his side, propped on one elbow, the sky going
from black to a brighter blue-grey and beginning to illuminate the
room around him, the last of the night falling away.

Scully lay beside him, facing him, deep in sleep. Her right hand
held the covers up close to her bare chest; the left reached across
the scant space between them, her fingers curled against his belly,
the hand and arm trembling faintly even in her sleep.

Her hair spread out behind her, red across the pillow, her eyes
shifting beneath her closed lids as she journeyed in the midst of a
dream.

He felt like a Christmas child looking at her in his bed again, a
small smile on his face, his head turning to get a better look at her
features.

He reached out and fingered a strand of hair that had fallen across
her face, stroking it back, smoothing her hair down and brushing her
temple with his fingers. He worried about her dreaming, memories of
the nightmares overtaking her burned into his mind.

Since he'd awoke, she'd made one small sound, a troubled sighing, so
he kept his vigil over her as the dawn spread out around them.

Then, a knocking at the door, loud and insistent.

Victor...

Mulder carefully climbed over her from his place against the wall,
trying to disturb her as little as possible as he made his way to the
floor. Scully moaned softly at the movement, but did not awaken.

Once he got his feet over the side, Mulder nearly tripped over Bo,
who had taken up a place at the side of the bed in the night. Bo
opened his eyes and watched Mulder loot through the strewn clothes
for his grey boxers, the dog's tail thumping lightly on the floor.
Mulder smiled, stepped into his boxers and reached down to stroke
Bo's head gently, then headed for the hallway before Victor could
knock again.

The screen door was opening as Victor prepared to bang another time,
and Mulder opened the door quickly, shards of the shattered mug
pushing with it on the floor. Victor was holding the screen door and
his hand was in the air in front of Mulder's chest in mid-knock.

"You're late *again*!" he exclaimed, and Mulder cringed at his
volume.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, Victor," he said quickly, keeping his own voice
quiet, hoping Victor would follow suit.

Victor stared at him, at his hair, which Mulder knew must look a
sight after a night of alternately sweating and sleeping, and at his
red-rimmed eyes. And he was standing there in his underwear, as
well....

"What the hell happened to you, man?" Victor laughed, banging him on
the arm. "You look like you just got laid or something!"

Mulder grimaced, and he blushed from his mid-chest up. He put a
finger over his lips, smiled an embarrassed smile.

Victor stilled, glanced over Mulder's shoulder, then back at his
face. His smile melted away and he cringed.

"Oh," he said, and the new look on his face matched Mulder's. "Guess
you get the day off, for sure," he said, and his voice was quiet now.

"I'm sorry," Mulder said again. "I know with the storm you must need
some clean-up help, but I--"

"No, no," Victor said. "It's fine. It's all good. You can help me
later today if you get the chance." He grinned, winked. "Or not."

Mulder reached out and grabbed hold of the screen door, shaking his
head, but he was smiling. "Am-scray," he said softly, and Victor
chuckled, put his hands up in a gesture of surrender, and backed away
as Mulder closed both the doors.

He turned and went back down the hallway to the spare bedroom where
Scully lay, the room with the full-sized bed Mulder had avoided all
this time because he couldn't stand to sleep in a bed with one side
empty.

He turned the corner and stood in the doorway, stilled.

Scully was on her back now, her arms thrown over her face to cover
her eyes, the sheet slipped down to her waist. A beam of light fell
through the gap in the curtains from over the bed, splashing onto her
breasts, the creamy white of her belly.

Mulder stared for several long seconds, captivated.

He smiled as he made his way to the bed, touching Bo's head again,
who was now sprawled in the pile of clothes. Then Mulder sat on the
edge of the bed slowly, carefully, put an arm over her, his hip
barely touching hers.

He wanted to press a kiss between her breasts, wake her that way,
his mouth moving over her skin...

Then something caught his eye beside one of her breasts.

A faint patch of red there, a chafe. He looked her over further and
noted another on her shoulder near her throat, a spot of red beneath
her jaw.

He reached down and lifted the covers, saw more. A streak on her
smooth belly. Another half visible on the inside of her thigh.

He cringed, shook his head ruefully.

Oops.

He covered her up, and she turned fitfully, going back onto her
side, mumbling something. He touched her gently and stood, padding
silently out of the bedroom to the bathroom at the end of the hall,
throwing on the light.

His toiletries bag was there, gaping open like a mouth. A can of
shaving cream was on the counter, and he turned on the water,
splashed it onto his face, drenching his beard to the skin. Then,
taking a handful of foam, he worked it into the hair, rinsed his
hands and pulled out his razor and an entire pack of refill blades,
snug in their plastic holder.

Wetting the blade, he lifted his chin and began to shave.


A long time later, he was wiping his face with a towel, dabbing at
the dots of blood on his face. Around him on the sides of the sink,
the refill blades scattered, clogged with dark hair, whiskers all
over the porcelain surface.

He wiped his face again, cleaning stray lines of white foam from
around his ears, his sideburns, the towel feeling almost too rough on
his overly sensitive skin.

He looked at himself in the mirror.

A man he used to know stared back at him.

A man he hadn't seen in a long long time.

Mulder smiled to him.

"Welcome back," he murmured to himself. "Welcome back."


**

In the bedroom down the hallway, Scully dreamed.

She and Mulder at an airport, the gate crowded, choked with people,
all carrying tickets made of light. Mulder held one in his hand,
fumbling it as he pushed his black trench over his arm, lifting his
suitcase with his free hand.

She looked at him, taking in his appearance as though she had never
seen him before and never would again.

Black suit. Crisp white shirt. Black tie patterned with silk
outlines of birds in flight. His hair was shorter than she remembered
from the night before, no beard. The suit hung on him beautifully,
elegantly.

A suit good enough to be buried in, some voice in her said darkly.

She pushed the voice away, stared up Mulder, the crush of people all
around them.

"Seats fifteen and higher may board," the attendant said, and Mulder
looked down at his ticket.

"That's me," he said, and smiled at her. "Gotta move on, you know."

She looked down at herself. She was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt.
There was a gun on her hip and something warm in her hand. She looked
down at it.

A child stood there. A little girl holding her hand. At first she
thought it might be Emily, but this was not Emily. It was another
child. Dark hair, long and curled down her back. Eyes as blue as her
own, but deeper, almost navy, and shining. The girl smiled up at her.

This is not my child, she thought in the dream, the part of her that
was trying to wake her from it reasoning with her, almost pleading.

She looked back up at Mulder, who was still looking at her
expectantly.

"Don't go," she said. She said it as warning. "We need to stay here,
Mulder. We need to go home."

"I have to go," he replied kindly. "You know that." He reached up
and touched her face with the hand that held the ticket. When he
touched her, his hand was colder than ice. The light from the ticket
all but blinded her.

She stepped back from him, terror coming over her, though at what
she couldn't say. As the ticket receded, her eyes widened, panicked
and disbelieving.

"I'll see you," he said, and leaned in to kiss her quickly. He
gestured to the child. "Take care of her, all right?"

She nodded mutely, frozen in place, and he took a step back, his
trench swinging as he turned and joined in with the line.

Someone came forward and took his ticket, and he disappeared down
the dark tunnel of the gate.


Her eyes shot open, her hand going out to the worn mattress beside
her. Sunlight beat in the window over the bed, and she shielded her
eyes, struggling to orient herself.

"Mulder?" she called, the fear from the dream in her voice.

She rolled over, sitting up, drawing the sheet up to cover her
chest. She looked around the room, at the battered dresser, its
drawers crooked as teeth, the cheap rug, the rumple of clothes on the
floor, on which the black dog from the night before was lying,
looking up at her warily.

She leaned down and touched his head as if for reassurance that
something in the room was real.

"Mulder?" she called again, and now she heard footsteps coming down
the hall toward her.

He appeared in the doorway, a towel around his neck, his brow
creased. "I'm right here," he said quickly, coming toward the bed.

She swallowed as he sat on the edge of it, looking into his face.

"You...you shaved your beard," she murmured, her eyes still wide.

He smiled, reached up to cradle the side of her throat, his thumb
rubbing on her cheek.

"Yes," he said, his voice tender. "Some of us have sensitive skin."

His hand dropped down, pushing the sheet down, a finger brushing
over the red spot beside her breast. Looking at the beard rash made
her smile, as well, though it was a nervous one.

"You okay?" he asked, and she returned her eyes to his face. There
were a few dots of blood on his face, and she reached her hand out,
touching them with her fingers.

She looked at her hand. At his blood on her hands.

"Yeah," she said, trying her best to shake off the dream. "Yeah.
Just a bad dream. Nothing new about that."

He nodded. "You want to talk about it?" he asked.

Good enough to be buried in....

She shook her head, pulled in a deep breath. "No," she said. "Could
you...would you lie down with me again though?" She looked at him
almost shyly as she said it, feeling like the words were a great
concession.

He simply smiled back at her. "Sure," he murmured, and tossed the
towel onto the floor, scooted over as she drew up her knees to give
him room. Then he slipped under the covers, lying back, pulling her
into his arms, urging her to curve her body against his.

She put her cheek against his chest, an arm around his ribcage,
holding him tightly. Almost too tightly.

He sensed it. "It's okay, Scully," he whispered gently. "It was a
dream."

She nodded against him, turned her face into his chest and kissed
him there. He pressed his lips to the crown of her head, rubbing his
face in her hair, inhaling deeply.

We need to go home...

Good enough to be buried in...

She thought about it, closing her eyes as she drew a calming breath.

"Mulder, I want to go home," she said finally, and felt him go
still. His breathing all but stopped for a long moment.

"You must have an overwhelming desire to see me in a day-glo orange
jumpsuit behind three-inch glass," he quipped, stroking her hair.

"No," she murmured, not rising to the joke. "I'm terrified of that,
in fact."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Padden won't protect you, Scully," he said. "We've been over this.
Even Skinner says he won't. You're safer out here. We both are, until
Curran's caught or Skinner tells us otherwise."

She leaned up, her chin on her forearm across his chest so she could
look into his face. "Mulder," she began quietly. "Do you
remember...when I had cancer...when I was in the hospital in
Pennsylvania."

His face darkened, despite the dawn sun streaming on it. "Yes."

"Do you remember what you said to me in the hallway?" She didn't
wait for him to respond as he looked into her eyes. "You said: 'The
truth will save you. I think it will save both of us.'"

"I remember." He swallowed.

She pulled in a breath, let it out, gathering herself.

"We're running from a lie," she said. "You and I know the truth. And
the truth will clear these charges against you. It will bring the
investigation out of Padden's control and allow Skinner to protect
me."

She reached up, stroked his face, soft now, smooth. "It *will* save
both of us. And it's not out here where we are. It's back at home.
And that's where we should be, too."

She inched forward, kissed his lips softly, bracing herself on her
hands on either side of his body. His hands went to her back, her
sides, his fingers brushing the sides of her breasts.

"Just think about it," she whispered as they parted, and his hands
moved down her back, an urgency in his touch now that she recognized
as his warm, familiar desire.

"I will," he replied, and leaned up to kiss her again.


**********


END OF CHAPTER 17 AND PART 2. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 18 AND PART 3.
TITLE: City of Light
AUTHOR: Bonetree (bonetree@gmail.com)

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 18a.

********

2819 GRAYSIDE TERRACE
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
7:46 a.m.


The man sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his hand over his short-
cropped hair as he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. The
covers were rumpled behind him, evidence of yet another sleepless
night spent tossing while his mind ground like the gears on a clock.

He'd had many such nights in the past two months. And he was growing
tired of it, in more ways than the obvious.

Reaching over to the night table in his sparsely furnished bedroom,
he picked up his wallet, opened it and thumbed through the large
flap. He looted through receipts, dollar bills, until he found what
he was looking for: a small slip of paper with a phone number written
on it.

The numbers stared up at him. He stared back, thinking.

He could remember her so clearly if he let himself.

The weight of her hand on the center of his back. He was leaning
over the empty autopsy table beside the one where she had been
working as she took his class from the CIA through a forensic
pathology lecture.

His stomach had been heaving, his face bright red both from the wave
of nausea that had come over him and from his shame for swooning in
the first place.

"Agent, are you all right?" she'd said gently, her other hand
holding the glove she'd stripped off in haste to be able to touch
him.

"I'm fine..." he'd said, forcing himself to stand, then he turned to
look at the ruined corpse as if to prove to her and everyone else in
the room that he could handle it after all.

Bile rolled up into his throat again at the sight of the entrails,
all the blood...

"Maybe you should step out for a few minutes," she said gently, and
he turned instead to her. So small beside him. Blue eyes looking at
him with concern. "You can come back in a few minutes. This happens
to a lot of people. Don't worry about it."

She'd said all that loud enough for the other ten agents to hear,
putting his dignity back over him like a blanket laid over his
shoulders.

He'd admired her by reputation for a long time. Now he admired her
for her kindness to him, the respect with which she treated him.

It was a small thing she'd done for him, true.

But he never forgot a kindness like that. And he never forgot how
much he respected her for her keen intelligence, her quiet strength,
and for the difficult work that she did, and did so well.

He sighed, fingering the slip of paper. He'd been so idealistic
then. He thought he'd join the CIA to do some good, to do something
important that he could be proud of.

He was not proud now. And he was not doing good. Those were about
the only two things of which he was certain.

The man stood now in his pajama bottoms, set down his wallet and
picked up his keys from the night table. Then he went through the
bedroom to his office across the hall, the phone number still in his
hand.

Swiveling his leather chair so he could sit, he sifted through the
keys on the ring, choosing a small silver one and separating it from
the others in between his fingers. Then he leaned over to the file
cabinet beside the desk, unlocked the top drawer, leaving the keys
dangling, clattering metal on metal.

He shifted files, going to the bottom of the drawer to the accordion
folder, easing it out from beneath his tax returns and appliance
manuals, then set it in front of him, opening its flap and lifting
the contents out.

Color copies of photographs. Copies he was not supposed to have, but
had been secretly making over the past few weeks as his doubts about
what he was doing had begun to fester, making him more and more ill
with guilt.

Her at a gas station, so frail now, so thin, her clothes hanging on
her.

She and Mulder coming out of a motel room.

And then the picture that he now regretted having shown Padden at
all. The one of the two of them on the cliff, seated in what was
clearly a lover's embrace. Mulder's arms around her as though he were
sheltering her from the forces that were closing in on them.

Little did either of them know who some of those forces were, or how
close. Standing right beside them at that moment, in fact. Watching.

And waiting.

Post-traumatic stress seems to be setting in nicely...

The words had made him wince when Padden had said them then, and
they did the same to him now as he looked at the photographs.

She didn't deserve this. To suffer like this. Neither of them
deserved this. To be sacrificed like lambs at Padden's personal
slaughter.

He had to do something. He couldn't live with himself if he didn't.
It might cost him everything, but he knew what the right thing to do
was. He'd known for a long time. He'd just been too worried about his
own hide to do it.

He laid the pictures down, set down the piece of paper with the
phone number on it and reached for his phone there beside him on the
desk.


*********


GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
8:03 a.m.


Paul Granger sat with a new stack of photographs in front of him,
flipping through them, studying the faces of a dozen strangers caught
on videotape in a dozen different gas stations and convenience stores
across Southern California.

He had his office door open, hoping he looked suitably busy to the
rest of the task force milling in the hallway, though he was, of
course, just killing time with this stack. Mulder and Scully were
about as likely to be seen in Southern California as he was at this
point.

What he was really waiting for was the stack of possible Curran
sightings that was supposed to come through around noon. That was his
only interest at this point. The stacks he'd been looking at for
weeks now had yielded nothing.

Wherever Curran was hiding, he was hiding but good.

Granger considered this. He'd decided that Curran couldn't have
stayed this out of reach for this long unless he was staying
somewhere, most likely being hidden by someone.

He wondered, for the hundredth time, by whom.

Word from MI6 was that the IRA wanted nothing to do with Curran
anymore. That they might, in fact, have gone so far as to put a hit
out on him. There'd been a lot of suspected IRA members moving in and
out of U.S. Customs for the past couple of months. More than usual
since the embassy bombing. It concerned the CIA and the other
intelligence communities greatly, to have their presence becoming
more entrenched on U.S. soil, so many of them fleeing Northern
Ireland now that the uneasy peace had finally come.

Granger leaned back in his chair, took off his small silver glasses
and cleaned them absently on his maroon tie, thinking.

Between the drug that Curran had used to kill the group in Richmond,
all of them dying horrible deaths over the course of week, and then
some clear hits on members in the Northeast corridor, the Path was
all but decimated. So they couldn't be the ones hiding Curran...

And who were those men who had tried to grab Scully in Arizona?
Scully had said they were American, or at least a couple of them
were.

Someone in the U.S. then, he decided. Perhaps some extreme group
that would condone Curran's obsessiveness and his methods. One of the
militias, perhaps?

But hired by someone who was not American? The militias hated
outsiders as a general rule, distrusting even the UN, thinking that
the U.S.'s contact with other countries was tantamount to giving the
country away to "the New World Order."

Granger shook his head just thinking about that level of paranoia.

How would Curran get a militia to go to work for him?

Granger thought about this, replacing his glasses. Then he swiveled
around to his computer, already logged in to the CIA's databank. He
tapped in "Militias -- Southwestern United States," and waited while
the computer cycled through the database.

From inside his black suit jacket, his cell phone rang, and he
reached to where the jacket was draped over his chair, pulled it out,
answering it almost absently as his eyes stayed glued on the screen,
a row of names coming up, a description beneath each of them.

"Granger," he said, distracted.

"Agent Granger?" a man's voice asked.

"Yes, this is he," Granger replied, reading and listening at the
same time.

A long pause.

"Hello?" Granger said finally, his attention pulling away from the
screen now as his brow furrowed at the silence.

"Agent Granger, I have...some information for you about your current
investigation. Into the case against Agents Mulder and Scully." The
voice was steady and hesitant at the same time.

Granger sat up straighter now, going still.

This person knew about him heading the task force, which was not
exactly common knowledge outside the agencies involved.

He knew about the task force's investigation being not just into
Curran and the bombing.

And he knew Granger's cell phone number, to boot.

In other words, he knew too much to be one of the dozens of cranks
who called every day, claiming information on some aspect of the
case, phone calls usually filtered to him through the main
switchboard.

An agent. Someone from the FBI, National Security...

Or the CIA itself?

He pulled the phone from his ear and checked the number of his
caller ID.

Blocked. No surprise there. He replaced the phone at his ear.

"What sort of information?" Granger said, not giving away any of
these thoughts in the evenness of his voice.

Another beat of silence. "I'd rather not discuss this over the
phone," the man said. "I'd like to meet with you. I have something to
give you that will clear a few things up for you, I think."

Granger was completely perplexed at this point, red flags having
begun to wave in his mind's breeze. But he was intrigued as well. He
glanced nervously at the door to his office, gaping open like an eye.
He rose and went to it, closing it quickly, turned his back to it and
stood in the center of the office, his free hand on his hip.

"All right," he said. "Where would you like to meet?"

"There's a parking deck on the Metro station in Silver Spring," the
man said. "Meet me on the lower level. I'll be there at noon. In the
furthest corner from the elevators."

Granger felt a smile tugging at his lips. "I think you've seen 'All
the President's Men' too many times," he quipped, "but all right."

"I don't want you to see my face," the man replied. "It's not safe
for you to see my face, to know who I am. Not safe for me. I'm being
watched off and on. You are. We all are. I think you know that."

Definitely an agent, Granger decided, the words stilling him even
more.

But why would an agent want to have a clandestine meeting like this?
Why not just come into the office and talk to him?

Unless this was about something internal...

A chill settled over him. Something was wrong here, he thought. Very
wrong indeed.

"I'll be there at noon," Granger said solemnly. "I'm about 5'10,
black--"

"I know what you look like, Agent Granger," the man interrupted
calmly. "Thank you for doing this. And please..." A beat. "Come
alone."

"I will," Granger replied, the hair on his arms standing on end. And
then the line went dead.


***********


UNKNOWN LOCATION
ALDER CREEK, COLORADO
8:08 a.m.


Jimmy Shea sat in the barren tree stand, his touring cap on, blowing
on a cup of strong coffee he'd been given by one of the other two men
who sat around him, their rifles across their laps and pipe and
cigarette smoke curling around them. There was a young boy there, as
well -- Thomas, Shea recalled now -- who was sitting very still,
watching the clearing through the trees, glancing at Shea
uncertainly.

Something about Shea himself made the boy nervous, almost afraid. He
wondered what it was as he sipped the coffee, its rich-smelling steam
rising to his nose and eyes.

Shea's own rifle leaned against the tree, a lovely Browning loaned
to him by the men who had invited him to go hunting with him that
morning. He'd driven all night from South Dakota and arrived at the
compound some time after midnight, barely finding the place. Only
Rutherford's careful directions, given to him by this man Kingston
who he'd met at breakfast, had gotten him there in the darkness.

The people had treated him well since his arrival, even extending
the generous invitation to come out on the morning's hunt.

Shea wondered how much they knew of his errand. If they did know
what it was, they seemed to welcome it. From a few comments made over
the morning meal when the subject of "the last Irish feller" came up,
he'd gotten the impression that Owen Curran had not been well-liked.

There was a slight chilly wind, and he pulled his camouflaged jacket
closer around himself, happy for the fingerless gloves. Springtime
seemed to be coming slowly this high in the mountains.

Shea yawned despite himself, and one of the men chuckled softly next
to him. "Should have let you go back to bed, Mr. Shea," the man,
Freddy, said amiably.

"Nah, I'm fine," Shea said, smiling back. "I'll perk up any time
now. Just a long drive last night is all. And I'm afraid I'm not as
young as I used to be."

"Ain't none of us that are," the other man said, spitting tobacco
over the side of the deer stand. This man, Boyce, had an accent that
was thicker than that of the others, Shea noted. He was from the
mountains of West Virginia, he'd told Shea earlier, and had added he
couldn't wait to get back home again.

Shea knew the feeling well.

He'd called Ruby that morning before breakfast, spoken to her
briefly. Her voice had been sad, though she'd been trying to hide the
feeling from him, trying to sound strong and easy, telling stories
about the neighbors. A good one about Glen O'Reilly's boat that he'd
built and put in the sea. It had taken on enough water within the
hour that by the time he came home, just the top sides were showing
above the water.

Shea had laughed, though he knew the story for the cover that it
was. He knew her far too well after so many years.

"There's one," Freddy hissed, and Shea looked up, saw the bobbing of
a set of antlers over the brush at the far edge of the clearing. He
set his coffee cup down without a sound, picked up his rifle just as
silently. The other men did the same. Thomas took the thermos of
coffee from Boyce, the pipe from Freddy, his eyes wide as he watched
the deer.

Slowly it emerged, tentative, its head stretched up, turned from
side to side as it left the cover of the trees. It was huge, Shea
noted, admiring it. Strong mature antlers with many points. He knew
the more it had, the more desirable it was. A massive, muscled body
and wide chest.

He sighted it through the rifle. A tree blocked his way. He lowered
the rifle.

"No shot," he whispered.

"Me neither," Freddy said at the same volume. "Boyce?"

"Yeah," Boyce said, his eye squinched closed as the other looked
through the scope. "I got him..." His finger went to the trigger, the
gun already bolted...

A clatter of noise as Thomas dropped the thermos, the plastic cup on
top falling from the stand to the ground below.

Shea looked at him, then at the deer. It had taken off with the
sound, running parallel to the treeline, streaking across the
clearing at top speed.

"Aw, Thomas, for God's sake..." Boyce said, lowering his rifle.
Freddy did the same.

"I'm sorry!" Thomas said quickly. "I didn't mean it, I swear!"

Shea ignored him, watching the deer as it continued to fly across
the field. It wasn't going back into the trees...

He raised the rifle, following the animal through the scope.

"Mr. Shea, it's too late," Freddy said. "He's gone now."

He tracked the deer, his body swiveling quickly, locking the animal
in the cross-hairs. It was 200 feet or more away now and still moving
fast.

It was all dully familiar to Shea. He didn't even have to close his
other eye to sight as he followed it.

He took in a breath, held it, and pulled the trigger.

The shot tore through the trees, the sound echoing around them like
thunder. Freddy and Boyce were standing now, their guns loose in
their hands and their mouths agape.

The deer stopped almost instantly, a ragged hole in its chest, shot
straight through the heart. It fell, digging up dead grass with its
antlers as it skid to a halt.

It didn't move again.

Shea lowered the weapon, bolted out the cartridge. It pinged on the
wooden deck of the stand and down onto the ground below, glinting
gold.

"Jesus H. Christ," Freddy breathed.

"I ain't never seen a shot like that," Boyce rejoined, shaking his
head. "Not never in my whole life."

Shea turned and looked at the three of them. They all looked back, a
mixture of awe and fear on their faces.

Especially on Thomas', Shea noted. The boy swallowed as he looked at
him, his face blanched.

Shea smiled to them, not proud of their reaction. He shouldn't have
done what he just did, he told himself. He should have let the deer
go. He didn't even know why he'd done it at all.

"Got lucky, is all," he tried, waving a hand. "Just blind luck."

The men said nothing to that. They weren't going for it.

Shea smiled again, cringing a bit with it, and took off his hat. He
wiped his forehead, replaced the cap snugly.

There was a long beat of silence where none of them moved.

"Now how do we get it back then?" Shea asked finally, his voice a
little firmer now.

With that the men were struck out of their staring and began to
hurriedly gather their things.


**********


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
NAVAJO RESERVATION
8:16 a.m.


The pleasure washed through her, throbbing him.

Her heavy breath was caught in the cup of his ear and he shivered
with the moan that came from her, felt it vibrating up from somewhere
deep in her chest. He could feel it rising through her, his hands on
her shoulder blades, stroking her soft, slick skin with his rough
palms.

She shuddered in his lap, his name coming from her in a shaking
whisper.

He smiled with it, pressed a long kiss on her jaw.

She loosened her grip around his neck, reached for his wrists behind
her and moved his hands, slow, down to her hips. She was still
pulsing against him, pushing, urging him on as she offered her body
to him.

He knew the tears would come.

The night had taught him that.

Her breath drew in sharply, trembled out, and he felt the first
tears on his temple. She gasped.

"Oh God..." she said, and her voice broke. Her hands gripped his
wrists hard. "I'm sorry..."

"No, you don't have to be sorry..." he murmured against her,
soothing her as she buried her face against the side of his throat.
"It's okay. Don't hold it back..."

She shook her head. "No," she whispered. Her hips surged against his
again.

His breath caught and his fingers tightened their hold around her
thin hips.

"Scully, we can stop..." he whispered as he released the breath. "We
can stop right now..."

"No," she said again, more firmly this time.

And then she moved, kissed his mouth, staying there, their breathing
growing harsh and mingling, his open lips lightly touching hers.

He closed his eyes...

When he came, her lips were still against his, his whole body
shaking as he moaned into her mouth.

He struggled for breath against her for a long moment, holding her
in a firm embrace.

He breathed her name.

Then he kissed her lips gently, the taste of their lovemaking water
and salt.


**

11:33 a.m.


Scully stood at the sink washing the skillet, warm water and soap
running over her hands. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, her
forearms drenched. She was enjoying the simple pleasure of the task,
lingering over it, filling the skillet with water and emptying it,
filling it again.

Mulder was taking a shower down the hallway, the water pressure in
the sink struggling against the pull. She'd just taken one herself,
her wet hair pushed behind her ears. Her hair was long enough now
that it touched her shoulders, making her shirt slightly damp where
it touched.

She hummed softly to herself, off-key as usual, but she smiled
nonetheless.

She felt better than she had in months, a tenuous sense of peace
settling over her.

The problems were all still there, of course. It was her attitude
about it all that had changed. She saw ways out now, not the
unscalable walls she'd been confronted with everywhere she turned
before.

She and Mulder were together again. The pain between them would no
doubt linger for some time, she knew, the ghosts of what had happened
still lurking in the shadows. She didn't fool herself into thinking
otherwise.

The tears from a few hours ago and last night told her that.

But they had still come a long way in just the past night. Mulder
had ridden through the storm with her, staying with her, patient and
tender.

They would get through the rest of the journey together.

And it seemed there was something new between them now, something
warm and honest and strong. She could feel it stretching between them
like a golden thread, even at times like this, when he wasn't really
with her.

It made her smile as she emptied the skillet again.

A soft whine from beside her, and she looked down to see Bo sitting
there, hunkered in on himself, his head down, but his eyes glancing
up at her.

"What is it, Bo?" she asked softly. "You hungry?"

He stood and shifted from foot to foot, his ears coming up a little.
She smiled. The dog knew that word well.

She put the pan in the drainer, reached for the plates then, the
remnants of their eggs, Mulder's bacon, crusts of bread. She scraped
it all onto one plate and set it down on the floor. Bo looked at her
doubtfully, then put his head down and began to eat.

She looked fondly at the dog as she rinsed the other plate. Another
thing she learned in the past night and this morning: Mulder loved
this dog. It was a strange thing to see from him, a man who had
killed enough tropical fish to fill the National Aquarium in just the
time she'd known him.

And a man who had treated her own dog getting eaten by an alligator
with something akin to relief.

She shook her head, her lips curling up. That was a long time ago.
He was so different now.

And she found the whole thing with Bo endearing. Like a new facet of
him she hadn't know was there.

The dog seemed to tolerate her fairly well, too, which she was happy
about. Mulder had said he usually ran when others came around.

She heard the water cut off, the bathroom door open, flooding the
hallway with steam and the smell of crisp deodorant soap. She
continued with the dishes, washing her mug from the night before, the
bent forks and battered knives, listening to him bumping around in
what had been his bedroom.

A flash of the dream from the night before. The little girl looking
up at her with such trust, smiling. And Mulder walking away, getting
lost in the darkness...

Arms curled around her waist, startling her enough that she dropped
the handful of silverware she was holding into the sink with a
clatter. She didn't realize she'd been staring out the window over
the sink until then, until she felt him nuzzling the hair from her
neck, felt his warm breath and lips against her there.

"I'm sorry," he murmured against her skin. "I didn't mean to scare
you."

"It's okay," she replied, her voice the same tone. She leaned back
into him. "I was just thinking about something and forgot where I was
for a second."

"You're right here," he said against her ear, and she shivered. Then
he added in a whisper. "With me..."

She made a soft sound of assent in her throat, reached for his
forearms, gave them a squeeze. Then she turned her head so their lips
could meet. It was a chaste, soft kiss, devoid of the urgency of
before, the desperate need to touch and be touched. It was familiar.
Somehow contented.

Their lips parted, and she released his arms and picked up the
silverware again, rinsing them. He kept a loose hold on her waist as
he stood up straighter, his chin almost on top of her head.

"What's on tap for today?" he asked. "Anything you need to do?"

She nodded, putting the flatware in the dish drainer's basket. "Yes,
I need to take Ghost back up to Albert Hosteen's place. And I was
thinking I might go to my trailer and maybe move a few things down
here, if that's all right with you..."

She could feel his smile. "Hmm...I don't know..." he said, nuzzling
her hair. "How long do I get to think about it?"

She smiled, as well, jabbed him lightly. He sucked in a breath.

"Oh Mulder, I'm sorry," she said, reached back and put her hand on
his belly beneath his ribs. She's forgotten the giant bruise for a
moment, big as a dinner plate, that stretched from his side to just
below his sternum.

"It's okay," he said, put his hand over hers. "It looks a lot worse
than it feels at this point."

"I certainly hope so," she replied, looked down. "Could you hand me
Bo's plate?"

The dog was still standing there, looking up at them plaintively. He
was the most worried looking thing she'd ever seen.

Mulder released her, bent down to retrieve the plate, giving the dog
a stroke as he did so. He stayed bent as he handed the plate up to
her, rubbing the dog's back and sides gently. Bo leaned against
Mulder's knees, panting.

"Good boy," Mulder said softly. "That's a good boy."

Scully smiled and washed the plate.



A few minutes later, they were out the door, walking the few hundred
yards to Victor's house and the corral beyond, Bo trotting along
beside them. The sun was high overhead, hot today. Scully squinted
against it, wishing for her sunglasses or her hat.

They passed Victor's double-wide, the sprawling concrete front porch
littered with coffee mugs from the men's morning meal, which Victor
made almost every day for his workers, most of them family.

In front of the corral, a large pickup truck with a camper top on
it. Across the side, a huge American flag, and the words "American
Blacksmithing." Scully looked near the stable and saw the blacksmith
at work.

On Ghost, in fact. Victor was holding the horse's head as the
blacksmith stood, Ghost's front leg caught between his knees as he
pounded a shoe onto the horse's pale hoof.

"Hey! Come on over!" Victor called, waving them forward from where
they'd both stopped at the sight of a stranger. They looked at each
other, wary.

But Scully felt safe here, felt the Hosteen's would protect them as
best they could. So Victor's trust meant a lot to her.

With that thought in mind, she started forward, Mulder following. Bo
hung behind, sitting beside the truck.

They approached and Victor smiled at both of them.

"Tim. Lisa," he said, tipping the brim of his hat to Scully.

"Hello, Victor," Scully said, gave him a small smile in return.
Mulder said the same.

"What are you two up to this afternoon? Besides shaving Tim's rough-
looking beard off?" Victor grinned. "Did you both come to work for me
today?" He winked at Scully.

Scully smiled a bit wider. "Not exactly," she said. "I was going to
take Ghost back up to your grandfather's, but I see--"

"I'm almost done with him," the blacksmith panted without looking
up. His voice was muffled a bit by the fat nails he had hanging out
of the corner of his mouth, but he was clearly used to talking around
them.

"It was good he was down here," Victor said. "We usually have to go
get him anyway when Jim comes."

Now the blacksmith -- Jim -- did look up, waved a greeting to both
of them with his hammer. He was a heavy-set man, blonde crewcut and
stubble on his cheeks. He wore thick glasses to protect his eyes, and
a black t-shirt underneath his leather apron, the words "Born to..."
peeking up from above the bib. Scully wondered, bemused, what the man
was, in fact, born to do.

"Hello," she said, her voice a bit hedged but friendly.

Jim looked at Mulder, then at her. He froze as he looked at her,
looking her up and down, then settling on her face for a long few
seconds. A nail dropped out of his mouth.

She squirmed a little under his strange gaze. It was leering, but
also not. She didn't quite know what to make of it, but she didn't
like it. She knew that much.

Mulder didn't, either. She felt rather than saw him chafe beside
her. He took a step closer to her.

"Hi there, Jim," Mulder said, drippingly friendly. "Tim Garrett.
This is my wife, Lisa." Scully could swear she heard a little extra
emphasis drop on the word "wife." It made her want to roll her eyes
and laugh at the same time.

They'd settled on the cover as a married couple many many weeks ago
to avoid flustering the dozens of motel managers they'd had contact
with while on the road. But Mulder seemed to be taking the cover a
bit more seriously all of a sudden.

He could be so protective sometimes, she thought, but loved him too
much for the intention of it to be truly irritated.

It had the desired effect, however. Jim looked up at Mulder, his
face flushing an even deeper red than it already was from the sun and
the exertion of bending over his own sizable gut.

"Good to meet you," he said hurriedly, then with one final glance at
Scully -- this time at her chest in the white shirt, as though he
couldn't quite help himself -- he went back to work on Ghost's hoof.

"You taking the Bronco up to Grandfather's, or you want a horse?"
Victor asked Mulder, breaking the moment with one of his wide, amused
smiles.

"We're...ah...going to be picking up a few things," Mulder said. "So
I think it would be easier if we took the Bronco. Let Lisa ride him
up there and me drive beside."

"That's good," Victor said. "Just go slow. He's an old man." He
rubbed the horse's nose affectionately.

"All done," Jim said, and dropped the horse's leg, tossed his hammer
toward his tool chest as he stood. He reached behind him and pulled a
dirty-looking bandanna out of his back pocket, mopped at his face.

"Come on," Victor said to both her and Mulder. "Let's go get him
saddled." He looked at Jim. "Go ahead and start on you-know-who." He
pointed.

Scully watched Mulder turn and look off to his right, where a black
and white horse stood tied to a post. Scully could swear the horse
scowled at him.

"That's the one, isn't it?" she said, and he turned back to her,
rubbing his belly.

"You guessed it," he replied, a chagrined smile on his face.

"Let me get my goddamn football helmet," Jim grunted, and went
toward the horse.


***********


END OF CHAPTER 18a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 18b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 18b.


**********


METRO PARKING GARAGE
LOWER LEVEL SILVER
SPRING, MARYLAND
11:55 a.m.


The place was thick with shadows and the smell of oil, the musty
smell of the dark. It met Granger's expectations of a meeting place
for this type of thing so well that he felt strangely comfortable
with it, his nerves under some semblance of control as he walked to
the farthest corner of the lot. His footsteps echoed in the cavern-
like space.

The lot was full, not a space left from the crush of morning
commuters, which he expected. There would be little traffic down here
to spook whomever this person was who had called him. As it was, he
didn't see another soul moving around this far away from the
elevators, hundreds of feet and cars away.

Granger began to weave in between the cars, going around vehicles
and cement supports, headed toward the corner, which was bathed in
near-darkness.

"Stop."

The voice came out of nowhere, the echo of it bounding off the
walls, a hollow sound. Granger froze instantly, trying to orient the
direction the voice had come from.

Somewhere in front of him. Three supports that he couldn't see
behind, and which were already poorly lit.

The man must be behind one of them, he thought, though he couldn't
tell, with the acoustics, which one it was.

He shifted his weight, then held his ground, his hands going to the
pockets of his black trench coat. He wanted to appear unruffled, and
hoped that was what he was doing.

Silence stretched for a moment.

The man was having doubts. Second thoughts. Granger could sense it
from here.

"You're doing the right thing by talking to me," he said quietly.
"If you have any information that could help me, you're doing the
right thing."

Again a beat of silence.

"You said you had something to show me. Please show it to me."
Granger held his breath, hoping him taking the lead on this, prodding
the man like this, wouldn't scare him away.

From the shadows in front of him, something slid along the floor
with a hiss, stopped at his feet. It was a brown accordion folder, an
elastic band holding down the flap. Granger looked into the darkness
in front of him, then down at the folder.

"Open it," the voice said.

Middle support, Granger decided. That's where he was. Though he
could see nothing.

Granger bent slowly, picked up the folder and unwrapped the band
from it, reached in. He pulled out a thin stack of paper, tucked the
folder under his arm. He turned slightly to get a look at the sheets
in the dim electric light.

His eyes widened as he looked carefully at each picture, his heart
picking up speed.

"Where did you get these?" he asked. "And how recent are they?"

"The last one is from about three weeks ago, I think. The one of
them on the cliff. The others have been taken over the past months."

"Where did you get them?" Granger repeated, urgent.

"I'm on a task force run by Padden, too, Agent Granger," the voice
said. There was no inflection in it at all. "We've been tailing
Mulder and Scully for months now, since they disappeared. We caught
up with them about two weeks after Mulder left Richmond."

Granger's head was spinning as it tried to catch up with what he was
hearing. He looked down at the pictures, then toward the support.

"So Padden's known where they are all along," he said.

"Except for where they are now, yes," the voice replied. "We've lost
them in the past couple of weeks. Padden's about to have heads
rolling over it."

Granger nodded, understanding -- as bitter as it was -- coming over
him. "He's watching them to wait until Curran gets to them. Gets to
Agent Scully."

Another beat. "Yes. And, he hopes, kills Agent Mulder while taking
her."

Granger felt heat rise on his face. "You can't be serious," he said
incredulously. "Not even Padden would--"

"You don't know Padden the way I do, Agent Granger," the voice
interrupted. "He'll do anything to catch Curran at this point, to
save face over what happened at the bombing. And he'll do anything to
get Mulder, because it's Mulder who has tainted his reputation in the
first place by figuring out where the bombing would take place. He
wants Mulder out of the way. First disgraced so that Padden being at
the British Embassy will seem the more correct course of action --
the only one to take without supposed 'inside knowledge.' That's
where these charges are coming from."

Granger shook his head in disgust. "So he also knows the charges are
false."

"Yes. And he has no real intention of letting Mulder live long
enough to risk prosecuting him on them. He knows they won't stick
with what you know. What Walter Skinner knows. What Agent Scully
knows. He knows Mulder didn't shoot John Fagan. The ballistics don't
even match Mulder's service weapon, though that's being suppressed,
as well. Along with everything else."

The man paused. "He's waiting for Curran to clean up the mess for
him. And Curran's gotten close already. It's only a matter of time
before Padden gets what he wants. Mulder *will* die to protect her.
Everyone is sure of that. And whoever Curran's got working for him
won't be as careless -- or as shorthanded -- the next time they
come."

Granger nodded again. His breathing had picked up as his mind raced
with what to do with all this. "We can bring them in, given what you
just told me. We could--"

"Mulder and Scully are expendable," the voice snapped, sounding
irritated. "As long as Padden is still operating in the dark, their
lives are in danger. As soon as they're no longer of use to catch
Curran, Padden will find a way to get rid of them both. Here *or* out
there. He'll blame Curran for whatever happens to Scully. Mulder
would just meet up with an unfortunate accident, after Padden
finished ruining his reputation to save himself."

Granger swallowed hard. "What do we do then?"

"The only hope you have to save them is for you to take those
pictures and what I've told you and go to Ashcroft as quickly as you
can. Get Skinner to do it. He's got more connections, and still has
come clout. And then hope Ashcroft will listen to him this time."

"Okay," Granger said. He felt sick in his stomach with all he was
hearing, at the blackness of what was going on. It pained him to look
at it, to even tangentially be a party to it.

"It's going to be hard to convince Ashcroft," the voice continued.
"He trusts Padden implicitly. But the pictures will lend credibility
to what Skinner says. He might listen with those in front of him,
knowing that Padden's been using your task force as a cover for what
he's really doing. Ashcroft doesn't know about that and it will cast
considerable doubt on Padden."

"All right," Granger said. "I'll go to Skinner right away and tell
him everything you've told me."

"I'm assuming Skinner knows where Mulder and Scully are. Padden
assumes he knows. That's how they've stayed hidden for this long.
Wherever they are, get to them. Warn them. And once Padden is
exposed, get them some backup from the FBI. The FBI isn't involved.
It's the only agency that's got clean hands in this thing, that isn't
under Padden's control in some way. Skinner's presence has made sure
of that."

Granger nodded. "I'll get to them as fast as I can."

They fell into silence. Finally Granger broke it.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked. "Why would you tell me all this,
knowing what it could mean for you?"

"I..." The first sign of hesitation, regret, in the voice now. "I
didn't join up to do this kind of work. I have no stomach for it. And
I've been swallowing it for a long time now. I'm full. Plus..."

"Plus what?" Granger asked as the man hesitated.

The voice responded quietly, almost shyly. "Agent Scully treated me
like a friend once. I'm just returning the favor."

Granger nodded. "Thank you. What you've given me, what you've
said...it will save her life. And Mulder's."

"If you get to them in time," the voice said, hard and business-like
again. "You've got to hurry. Curran's close. We're sure of that. No
matter how well Skinner's hidden them."

Granger replaced the photos in the folder, closed it. "If you need
protection...if you get in any danger...go to Skinner."

"They'll be no protecting me if I'm found out," the voice said
grimly. "But thank you anyway. Now go. Please."

Granger nodded, turned, and did as he'd been told.

He did his best not to look back.


********


KOKOPELI PAWN AND THRIFT
FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO
4:38 p.m.


The man watched Jim Rupert, owner of American Blacksmithing and a
proud member of the New Mexico Militia, hold the flyer closer to the
light overhead, looking carefully at the face beside the picture of
the other woman and a young boy. Rupert switched his toothpick from
one corner of his mouth to the other, nodding.

"Uh-yeah. That's her all right," Rupert said to him there behind at
the desk, handed the picture back. "Same one on the flyer we got at
the Militia meeting. She don't quite look that good anymore, but she
looks good enough."

"You're sure?" the man said, holding up the flyer in front of him
again. Rupert nodded.

"Sure as shit," he said. "Now what about that reward for
information?"

The man sighed, reached over and began turning the combination lock
on the safe, the sound of metal rolling in metal filling the small
office.

"Victor Hosteen's place, you say?" he asked as he turned the wheel,
tumblers falling.

"Yeah," Rupert said. "There's a trailer out behind Victor's place.
Used to belong to old Albert's brother Larry. They're staying there."

"Who's 'they'?" He pulled the safe open with a heavy creak.

Rupert shrugged. "She's got her husband with her. That's who he said
he was. Some man named Tim Garrett. She's going by Lisa Garrett, but
that could all be a bunch of horseshit for all I know."

The man reached into the safe and pulled out a stack of hundred
dollar bills, pulled five crisp ones of the top and handed them over.
"I know where to find you through Kevin at the Militia if you're
lying to me or you're wrong, right? And you'll be good enough to give
that back if that's the case."

"I know you can find me," Rupert said peevishly. "I wouldn't be here
if I didn't know I was right."

The man nodded. "It's good of you to come and tell me, Jim. The boss
will be mighty happy to hear the news. And I'm glad we can all work
together, despite our little differences here and there."

Rupert nodded. "No problem," he said, and waved the cash. "Much
obliged. Good luck bringing her in for whatever is she done. And
don't go mentioning my name when you go to get her, all right? I been
working at the Hosteen's for years now. Don't want to lose no
business over this, you know."

The man nodded. "Not a word," he said, and turned back to his desk.
Rupert took the hint and left.

He reached over to his Rolodex, flipped through it slowly until he
got to the number he wanted.

L. Kingston. Kentucky.

He reached over and picked up the phone.


**********


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
NAVAJO RESERVATION
6:39 p.m


Honey. Oil. Salt. Yeast. Flour.

Albert Hosteen watched Scully mix the ingredients together from
beside the counter, smiling a bit despite himself. She kneaded the
dough until it was firm and came clean off her hands.

He sat on a stool next to her, his pipe held in the corner of his
mouth, the room smelling like the fat seeping bubbles in the deep
skillet and the sweet smell of tobacco. Mulder was in the other room,
watching "Animal Planet."

"Okay, now what?" Scully asked, wiping her hands on a tattered
kitchen towel on the counter.

Albert pushed a greased bowl toward her. "Put it in there and turn
it over so the top gets some grease on it, as well. Then cover it
until it doubles in size."

Scully did as she was told, taking great care with the dough. Albert
watched her hands as she worked, the left trembling as it held the
heavy mound and turned it over.

She pulled the hand back, squeezed it into a fist for a second and
the trembling subsided slightly. Then she reached back into the bowl
and finished, covering it.

He was glad she wasn't as self-conscious about the injury now. She
seemed to have come to some kind of acceptance of it, some peace.

As she had about many things, he thought, and he smiled wider around
the pipe as she wiped her hands again. She looked at him and returned
it, looking down almost shyly.

"A natural," he said. "You sure you are not part Navajo somewhere in
all that Irish?" He winked at her, and it teased a chuckle from her.

"Pretty sure," she said.

Mulder came in now, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He
looked better than Hosteen had seen him look yet, though there was
something bothering the younger man. He could see that.

"Something is on your mind, Agent Mulder," he said, took a puff of
smoke into his mouth and let it out. He watched Scully look into
Mulder's face, then down again.

Mulder stood beside her now, looking down at what she was doing.
"Yes," he said softly, and he and Scully exchanged glances again.
"There's is something on my mind."

Hosteen nodded, gnawing on the pipe end. "You are wondering if you
should go home or not," he said matter-of-factly, and both agents
looked up at him in surprise.

"Yes," Mulder replied, snapping out of it.

"Hm," Albert said. "Agent Scully wishes to go back, but you are not
so certain."

Scully shook her head, stifling a small smile as Mulder continued to
look surprised. The poor man was not used to this kind of talk,
Albert recalled. Scully had had so many nights of him, when he
guessed things right it no longer phased her or made her feel
exposed.

Mulder was blushing on his newly shaven face. "Yes," he said again.

Albert took his pipe out of his mouth, studied it. "Would you like
to hear my thoughts?" he said.

"I would," Mulder said after a beat. He looked grimly serious.
Scully glanced at him again.

"You were right to run all the time you did before you came here,"
Hosteen said, choosing his words with care. "So much was unknown,
both outside of you...and between you, if you do not mind me saying
so."

Mulder nodded, accepting what he said and urging him to continue.

"Many things, I think, are known now," Hosteen continued, looking at
Scully and then back into Mulder's face. "What they could do to you
with these charges against you cannot touch what is most important
now. You have strength now that you did not have before. Anyone who
looks at you will see that. That is how I see things."

Mulder looked at him. "I don't think that will be enough to stop
these charges against me, Mr. Hosteen," he said. "Or enough to
protect Scully from this man who wants to kill her."

"You can face these charges, Agent Mulder. They are lies. They will
show themselves as lies in the face of who you are. Especially who
you are now." He looked at Scully. "And Agent Scully...she can
protect herself. And with your help, she is doubly safe."

Mulder shook his head, leaned against the countertop.

"Listen to him, Mulder," Scully said softly, looking into his face.

"If you stay out here, they will find you eventually. Even here." He
gestured around him. "And this man Skinner at the FBI...he will do
what he can. And you are safer with his people around you than you
are with me or Victor or, if you leave here, no one at all."

Mulder looked down at his feet, and Hosteen could feel him relenting.

"Check your dough," he said to Scully, striking her from where she
was watching Mulder's face. She lifted the cover off the bowl, and
Hosteen nodded.

"It is ready," he said. "Now take it out and pull it half, then pull
it into eight parts and make them into balls."

Scully busied herself doing what he said, Mulder still quiet beside
her, deep in thought.

"Now take one and flatten it out with your hands," Albert instructed
softly when she was done. "Then poke a hole in the middle of it or
the center will not cook."

Scully did as she was told, pulling the ball flat, poking a large
hole in it. She turned to the pan of fat on the stove, and Hosteen
nodded.

"About a minute on each side," he said, and Scully carefully placed
the dough down into the pan. It began to sizzle instantly. Scully
stood over it as though she were standing guard.

Finally, Mulder looked at Hosteen, and Hosteen nodded to him. Mulder
nodded back after a beat.

"All right," he said, and Scully looked back over her shoulder at
him. Hosteen watched the look they exchanged, the warmth and the
worry in it. "We'll both go home."

"You have to be sure, Mulder," Scully said softly.

He nodded. "I am sure."

Scully smiled at him faintly. Hosteen noted the look in her eyes, at
what passed between them.

"Turn it over," he said softly, and Scully returned her attention to
the pan, turned the dough over with a spatula. Fat crackled.

Mulder came forward and stood beside her at the stove but did not
touch her.

They were in a place where they could touch without touching, he
noted with something like pride. They'd come so far from the two
people he'd seen get out of the truck that day. Very far indeed.

"Is it done?" Scully asked, looking at him. Hosteen stood and went
to the pan now on her other side.

He noted the gold of the bread, the rich smell, the center a creamy
white but cooked through.

"Perfect," he said, smiled broadly, and Scully pulled the fry bread
out and laid it on the paper towel on the plate he'd placed there on
the stove, the paper darkening beneath it.

With that, Scully turned back to the counter, began pulling the next
ball of dough flat with her palms.

Hosteen watched her, then Mulder as the younger man reached down to
the disc of bread, carefully pulled off a hot edge and brought it to
his mouth to taste.


**********


UNKNOWN LOCATION
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA
NEAR THE SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION
8:47 p.m.


The sound of dripping water seemed to echo around her, a drop at a
time from the sink above her head. She lay on her stomach, her cheek
against the cold tile floor, cooling the sweat on her pale face. Her
arms were tied behind her back and her shoulders ached from the
strain of it.

She tried to ignore the drops of water tapping at the sink,
listening instead to the silence in between them, the house outside
the closed door quiet.

Too quiet.

Her breath came fast as she thought about it, her eyes closing tight.

"No..." she whispered, her face clenching to tears again.

Someone was walking around outside the door, down the long wooden
hallway that led to bedrooms and the large living room on the other
side of them. The person stopped at the door, stood still to listen.

She didn't make a sound, not even daring to breathe while whomever
it was stood there.

Then the footsteps moved on.

Mae took a deep breath as they receded. She didn't know if it had
been Owen or not, but she doubted it was him. He'd thrown her into
the bathroom, crushing her to her knees as a round of vomiting had
struck her, pushing her head toward the toilet in disgust and then
slamming the door behind him.

Now she lay still, the nausea passing from her, though her stomach
was still clenched, but this time from her helplessness and fear.

Owen had sent Sean out with the taller of the two men, out into the
forests around the lodge-like house they'd come to. The house was
dark cedar, hidden in the dense woods up on the hillside, far off the
main road.

She was glad he'd sent Sean out, but feared what it meant. What Owen
was trying to shelter his son from hearing or seeing.

Mae had tried to reassure Sean as he'd stood in the doorway, the
tall man's hand on his small shoulder. The other man -- the one who
didn't look quite human to her -- was sitting in the corner of the
room like a guard dog waiting to be called.

"It's all right, Sean," she'd said, trying to keep the shake out of
her voice. "We'll be right here when you get back."

She'd looked at Owen then, who stared back at her with his pale
face, still as wax.

She'd looked at Joe, seated on the bed in the large room. Neither of
them were bound at that point, Owen's gun tucked away for the moment.

The blood had long-since dried on Joe's face.

"We'll be right here," Joe had said to Sean, as well, and Owen
glared at him, took a step closer to him but did nothing in Sean's
presence.

His restraint didn't make much difference. The boy had the back of
his hand in his mouth and was sucking on it hard as the man led him
away.

That's when the other man had moved and the ropes had come out. The
silver tape.

The order for silence, the gun removed from the back of Owen's pants
once again.

Neither of them had resisted, complying for the safety of the other.

Just as Owen had wanted.

That's when the nausea hit her, sweat beading her forehead. She'd
swooned with it, making a sound in her throat unintentionally.

"I told you to shut the fuck up!" Owen had roared, and his hand was
across her face again. She barely felt the sting of it, her head
jerking to the side.

"She's going to throw up," Joe had exclaimed. "For Christ's sake,
she can't help it!"

"Not in here you're not," Owen had snapped, and hauled her to her
feet, hustling her out.

Now she lay there, listening. Waiting.

Water dripped into the silence, a drop at a time.

Then the screaming began.


***********


END OF CHAPTER 18b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 19.


Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 19a.

***********

APRIL 9
5:47 a.m.


Mae was dreaming troubling dreams -- Sean running out in front of
her, laughing, across a field of flowers.

"Sean!" she called. There was fear in her voice, and she was gasping
for air, as though she'd been running for miles. She stopped and
leaned over, her hands on her knees as she struggled to breathe.
Something in her belly ached, sweat beading her forehead.

Sean didn't listen, but she could hear the sounds of his laughter
echoing towards her, too loud for how far away he was. She looked up
and saw him going up a steep rise, the flowers up to his waist, his
hands out to his sides as he brushed the flowers' red and yellow
heads.

She stood and took off at a run after him again, staggering now and
again on the uneven ground. She kept her eye on him, almost a dot in
the distance, seemingly growing further away instead of closer as she
ran.

She called to him again, but her voice came out a whisper. She tried
to scream his name next, but her voice was gone. Panic overcame her
as she felt her body finally give in to the exhaustion and the
stabbing pain in her belly.

Labor. I'm in labor, she thought, and as she fell onto her side, her
hands reached down and gripped the swollen mound of her abdomen, felt
it tighten beneath her fingers.

The flowers closed in around her, leaning over, their single black-
eyed centers staring down at her, obscuring all of the sky except for
one small circle. Pain lurched through her again and she cried out
with it, again no sound coming from her throat.

The flowers leaned in closer, nearly touching her body now. She
pushed at them with her hands, willing them away.

Someone was stroking her hair, pushing it back behind her ear. A
voice spoke her name.

Owen's voice. Something sing-songy in it as he said her name again.
Mocking her.

Sean's laughter. Echoing.

Then turning to shrill screaming, the unmistakable terror of a child--


Her eyes snapped open, her breath heaving in. She was on her side,
facing the toilet, almost pressed up against the foot of it and the
front of the vanity. Her hands were no longer bound behind her.

And someone was behind her, stroking her hair.

"Maaaaaaae," Owen sang again.

Her hand went to her belly, felt the flatness of it. No pain. Her
baby was all right. All right...

Owen's hand pulled on her shoulder, urging her onto her back. She
went slowly, looked into his face. He was squatted down behind her,
wearing a long-sleeved grey t-shirt and faded jeans, heavy boots next
to her face. There were spatters of what looked like dried blood on
his shirt.

He smiled at her, too wide, his teeth showing. He smoothed her hair
down from her forehead.

"Joe?" she whispered, tears starting. "Please tell me you didn't
kill him, Owen..."

Owen shook his head. "No, no...Joe and I just had a little...talk.
We had to clear a few things up. About him talking to Sean. I think I
got my point across good enough that it won't be a problem again. He
was stubborn at first, but he saw it my way in the end."

Mae swallowed, looking at him as his hand kept petting her hair. The
pressure of his hand increased.

"You feeling sick again?" he said, and had she not known him better,
she would have thought he was genuinely concerned.

She shook her head. "No," she said, her voice shaking. "I'm...I'm
all right now, I think..."

"Good. Good." His hand stopped. "Time for us to have a little talk
now."

Mae looked at him, at the spatters of blood, the memory of the
screaming from the night before still fresh.

"Here," Owen said, and his eyes glinted, his smile vanishing as his
jaw clenched. "Let me help you up then."

And he gripped a fistful of her hair and started dragging her up by
it.

She cried out, scrambling with her hands and knees to get herself up
and avoid the pull. He kept his fist tight in it and he pushed her
through the open door and into the dim hallway. She whimpered as he
guided her down the hallway by her head, but dared not reach up to
touch his hand.

They entered the bedroom, and Mae pulled up short as she saw Joe,
tied to a chair, his chin on his chest, unconscious. She couldn't see
his face, but there was blood on his shirt. The shirt was wet, as was
his hair, and the floor beneath him.

On the floor beside him, a car battery, two metal paddles on cords
attached to it. A bucket of water with a sponge in it.

"Joe?" she called, and got no response.

Owen jerked her to the side, toward the bed, and forced her down
onto it. She sat still, her hands out to her sides. She looked up at
Owen, who was blocking her view of Joe now.

She stared up at him. He stared back, his arms crossed at his chest.
No one else was in the room, the odd-looking man now gone.

"Why don't you tell me what happened in your flat that morning,
Mae?" Owen asked softly. "I've been curious about it for some time
now, you know."

She swallowed, said nothing.

"Oh come on now, Mae," Owen chided softly, began to pace in front of
the bed slowly. She saw the gun jammed into the back of his pants.

"I know you waited until I was gone to meet up with the boys at the
truck, and then you packed up Sean's things, took the gun..." He
turned to look at her, his eyebrow raised, questioning.

"Yes," she said, looking down.

Owen turned and paced back toward her a few steps. "I'd sent John
there on an errand. And you met him there, right?"

She hesitated, but nodded. There was no hiding from this now. And
lying would get her nowhere, she knew. She could tell by the way he
was talking that he'd already guessed what had happened and was
merely doing this to intimidate her.

It was working.

He stopped in front of her, took a step closer so that he towered
over her. He took her chin in his hand and turned her face up toward
him.

"When exactly did you decide to kill John?"

She swallowed again. "I..." She trailed off.

His grip on her chin turned bruising now, and he jerked her hard,
his face twisting in rage at her hesitancy.

She hurried to speak now. "I shot him because...because he was
hurting Katherine."

Owen leaned forward, his face inches from hers. "Let's get it right
now...her name's Dana. Dana Scully."

She nodded in his crushing grip. Tears started in her eyes, ran down
her temples.

"He was...he was hurting Dana," she said obediently.

Owen jerked her again. "Of course he was hurting her, Mae. I sent
him there to kill the bitch because she was a fucking FBI agent
*spying* on us. Like I told you at my flat right before this bloody
mess at your place happened."

She looked into his eyes. "I...couldn't let him rape her again."

Owen's eyebrows squinted down. "'Again'?" he asked.

"Yes," she said faintly.

She watched emotions cross his face. He seemed genuinely puzzled for
a second, at a loss for words, then deeply angry. His face flushed
red.

"It doesn't matter," he snapped, and released her chin, turning his
back on her, his hands on his hips.

She could tell it mattered, though. It mattered quite a bit to him.

She'd always suspected that John had done what he had to Dana to get
back at Owen in some way. That John had intended his violation of her
to not only satisfy his own frustrated attraction and his desire to
control her, but also to punish Owen for allowing his feelings for
her to put a rift between he and Owen. It was the first time the two
had fought over anything with one another in their lives.

And he did it to punish Dana for causing that. Though she'd had
nothing to do with it at all.

Owen's reaction to this knowledge proved that John's treatment of
Dana had indeed punished him, hurt him. Killing her was one thing.
This was something else.

Finally, Owen turned around again, stared her down. "So you shot
him," he said flatly, brushing the previous subject away.

"Yes," Mae said softly, staring at her feet again.

"Then you took her and Sean and ran."

She nodded.

A pause.

"Where is she, Mae?" he asked, his voice dangerous and low.

She glanced up at him. "I don't know," she said. "We split up in
Tennessee and I have had no contact with her since."

Owen seemed to consider. "She had to be ill from the drug," he said
finally.

Mae said nothing, kept her face down.

"Who was she with, Mae?" he asked. "I know it's a man she's with.
Who is he?"

She hesitated, not wanting to give anything away about Dana or her
partner. They were safer if she kept quiet--

Then something cold against her forehead, the sound of a gun being
cocked. She raised her head slowly, hardly daring to breathe.

"Who *is* he?" he hissed. "And don't make me fucking ask you again."

She looked into Owen's eyes, pleading with them again. "He's...he's
her partner. In the FBI."

"What's his name?" He pressed the muzzle of the pistol harder
against her head.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry as a desert. "Mulder," she
whispered. "His name is Mulder. I don't know his first name."

Owen seemed to consider for a beat. "Running with her like
that...he's just her partner, you say? Nothing more?"

Mae said nothing, clenched her eyes closed as though preparing for
the shot. Tears came down her face from beneath her lids.

A phone rang from another room.

Owen looked toward the door for a second, then back at her. On the
third ring, the phone was picked up.

She opened her eyes and looked at him, her lip trembling.

"Never mind," he said, removing the gun from her forehead. She still
felt the coldness of it against her there. "You just answered my
question."

**

Owen went to the door, the gun still in his hand, waiting for word
about who was on the phone this early in the morning. It had to be
Kingston.

He glanced over his shoulder at Mae, who was looking at Joe, every
muscle in her body poised to move toward the poor bastard. It made
him sick, the way she mooned over the man, and he turned his back on
her, waiting by the doorway and staring down the hallway instead.

He pictured Mae running with Sean, running with Dana Scully. Running
away from him. He closed his eyes as the rage seared into him, and he
clenched his jaw hard enough to grind his teeth to powder.

Mae was a child. She always had been a child. It was this Scully who
was at fault for this. She'd turned Mae against him, ingratiated
herself with his sister to gain protection for herself should
anything go wrong with her cover. That was it. She'd brainwashed Mae
into thinking they were friends, into thinking that Dana cared about
her in some way. And she'd talked Mae into taking Sean away from him
because of the things he was doing that Scully knew about. The drug.
The bombing.

Yes, that had to be it. Mae would never do this on her own. But it
was too late to forgive her for it. He couldn't trust her any longer.
Her loyalties were no longer a sure thing, and when that
happened...with anyone...there was only one way to deal with it.

He would have to kill her. Pregnant or not.

He rubbed at the scar on his face, thinking.

What if this Scully *did* care for Mae? What if they *had* developed
some sort of friendship?

He thought about this, waiting.

Scully might have taken Mae away from him. She might have won that
round. But now, Owen had Mae...

He'd known for some time that killing Scully wouldn't be enough. He
wanted to control her. He wanted to break her before he killed her.

His mind turned over the possibilities.

Finally, footsteps from the living room, and Lantham appeared,
carrying a cordless phone.

"It's Kingston," he said, and handed the phone to Owen. Owen took it
with a nod. Rudy Grey wandered in from the living room now, stood at
the far end of the hallway.

"I hope you've got good news for me, Mr. Kingston," Curran said by
way of greeting.

"I do," came Kingston's rough voice from the other end. "We've found
this woman, Scully. She's staying on the Navajo Reservation outside
Farmington, New Mexico. Not running, so she should be easy for you to
pick up. She's with some man claiming to be her husband, but it
should be easy to get her alone or to get him out of the way long
enough to get her."

Curran smiled faintly, pleased.

Then a thought hatched in his mind.

"You there, Mr. Curran?" Kingston said into the silence.

"Aye, I'm here," he replied. "But there's been a change of plans.
I'm not going to go pick her up. I'm going to stay here with Mr.
Lantham and my family here. I'm sending your man Grey down there
instead. I guess you'll have a few of your locals there, as well?"

"Yes," Kingston replied, and Curran could hear from his voice that
he was wary. "I've got six or seven men standing by. We won't lose
her this time."

"All right then," Curran said, signalling Grey forward. He came
obediently, Lantham staring at Curran suspiciously. "Mr. Kingston,
here's what I want you to do..."


*********


END OF CHAPTER 19a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 19b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 19b.


************


GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
11:02 a.m.


Paul Granger walked down the center of the hallway of the CIA
Headquarters, heading straight from the elevator down the long
corridor. His heels tapped on the marble floor, slightly out of
rhythm as his still-ailing leg faltered him slightly. But his head
was held up, his shoulders, in their black suit jacket, squared, a
grim expression on his face.

People stared at him as he went by them. He didn't spare them a
glance.

There was a door at the end of the corridor he was heading for.

The secretary looked up at him in surprise as he made it clear that
he wasn't stopping at her desk.

"Agent Granger, you can't go in there right now--"

He held a hand up to silence her, the hand not holding the folder.
The woman looked at his hand, flustered as a guinea hen as she
scrambled to rise and block his way.

Too late. He was at the door and had it opened, the woman clucking
after him into the dim office.

Padden sat at the end of the immense space, a man standing next to
him behind the desk, going over something in front of them both. Both
men looked up in surprise as Granger came in, calmly ignoring the
woman behind him who had gotten a hand on his sleeve. He pulled his
arm away and kept going until he stood before the desk.

He turned to the young agent leaned over the desk, Padden trying to
wither Granger from behind his reading glasses all the while.

"I'd like you to leave, please," Granger said politely but firmly.

The agent looked from Granger to Padden and then back again.

Padden put up a hand, clearly urging the agent to stay.

"You're interrupting, Agent Granger," Padden said quietly. "I
suggest *you're* the one who should be leaving this office."

Granger held the folder up in front of him. Padden looked at it.

"Sir," Granger said, dripping faux politeness onto the word. "I have
something to discuss with you. Now it's your choice. We can either
discuss it in front of these two people here," He glanced back at the
secretary. "Or we can do it alone. It's your choice."

Padden looked at Granger's face and Granger stared back hard, not
even blinking, the folder still held up in front of him.

Finally Padden took his glasses off and closed the file on his desk.

"Leave us," Padden said softly, and the agent came around the desk,
and he and the secretary made their way to the door, closing it
behind them.

Granger slowly lowered the folder, stood still in front of Padden,
who was likewise still.

"Well?" Padden asked, finally sitting back in the chair and tossing
his glasses onto the desk. "What is it that you find so important
that you had to come huffing in here, Agent Granger?"

Granger looked at him, spoke quietly. "I think you know, Dr.
Padden," he said.

"No, I don't know," Padden asserted, sounding put out now. "Why
don't you enlighten me?"

Granger's lip curled up and he took a step toward the desk, opening
the folder. He started to lay the color copies of the photographs of
Mulder and Scully out in front of Padden like tarot cards.

Padden looked at the first one, then up into Granger's face. Their
gazes hung again as Granger continued to lay them out.

"You've found them then," Padden tried, and Granger shook his head.

"No, sir, YOU found them. Quite some time ago, I hear."

Padden's face was like concrete, the wrinkles like cracks. "I don't
know what you're talking about, Agent Granger," he said softly.

"Oh, but you do, sir," Granger said, emboldened. "You found them two
weeks after Agent Mulder left Richmond, from what I understand, and
have been following them ever since. Using a covert task force, I'm
told, to monitor them until Owen Curran makes his move on Agent
Scully so you could catch him then."

Now Padden laughed. "I don't know what you've been listening to,
Agent Granger, but I assure you--"

"Don't," Granger interrupted, his face grim. He put a hand up.

Padden stilled, the smiling melting off his face.

"Where did you get these photos?" Padden said into the quiet that
followed.

"You're not the only one who has secret task forces, Dr. Padden," he
said. "And fortunately, not all of us can turn our consciences off
while you try to kill both Mulder and Scully to cover yourself for
your mishandling of the bombing."

"A secret task force?" Padden scoffed. "That's ridiculous." But his
face had begun to redden.

"Is it?" Granger said calmly. "It's the only thing that makes sense,
really. With the combined forces you've got at your disposal, it
doesn't make sense Mulder and Scully could have stayed hidden this
long, unless you wanted them to stay hidden. Unless you were feeding
my task force bones every now and again to keep us going, make us
feel like we were getting somewhere, when in fact we were chasing our
tails the entire time. Looking for Curran, certainly, but...not
Mulder and Scully."

Padden leaned further back in his chair. "All right, Agent Granger,
I will admit..." He spoke slowly, carefully. "...that there are some
aspects of this operation that you have not been privy to. This is a
matter of national security, and some aspects have been 'eyes only.'
And not your eyes."

Granger stood there, waiting.

Padden's face was red as a tomato now, despite his exterior calm.
"What I'm doing isn't illegal or unethical. And if you would like to
be part of these operations, I'm sure there's a way that can be
arranged."

Granger just looked at him. "You want me to join your task force?
The real one?"

Padden nodded. "You'd be an asset. I didn't think of it before, but
I see now you're a man with a knack for finding things out. You could
be of use to me that way. It would be wonderful for your career, I
assure you. Quite an opportunity for advancement for a junior agent
like yourself."

Padden smiled, and the expression looked strange on him. Like it
didn't belong there and never had. Granger felt a chill as he looked
at it.

"No, thank you, sir." Granger smiled as he said it.

Padden leaned forward. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear, Agent
Granger," he said quietly. "Maybe I made that sound too much like an
request. It's more like...an order."

"An order?" Granger repeated, his expression dead flat.

Padden picked up a pencil and started to push at a paper clip with
it. "Yes. You know too much to be on the outside of this still."

"I *am* on the outside of this," Granger said softly. "Still."

Padden shook his head. "Let me spell it out for you," he said. "You
have two choices. Either you join my task force, or I use what you've
just given me to ruin your career. I can make this look any way I
want."

Now Granger smiled.

"No, sir, you can't," he said. "For two reasons."

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and drew out his
badge in its leather holder. He tossed it across the desk, nearly
hitting Padden in the chest.

"One? I quit. So you going after my career is a moot point."

Padden looked from the badge to him.

Granger shook his head. "I don't want any part of this agency
anymore, where things like this can go on. It makes me sick."

Padden continued to stare.

"And two..." Granger gestured to the photos on the desk. "When I
showed these to Ashcroft with Assistant Director Skinner this
morning, he didn't seem to think what you were doing was 'legal' or
'ethical.'"

Padden locked eyes with him. "You're bluffing," he said softly.

Granger just shook his head.

Behind him, the door opened, and Walter Skinner walked in, dressed
in his best suit, the secretary following him, as well, to no avail.

He came forward until he stood beside Granger, glaring at Padden.
Padden shooed the secretary off with his eyes and she went.

"Walter," Padden tried as the door closed again. "You and I have
known of each other's work for a long time. You know the kind of man
I am."

Granger looked at Skinner, who was still boring a hole into Padden
with his eyes.

"Yes, Bob, I do know what kind of man you are," Skinner growled.
"Now I do, at least." "How fucking dare you play with my agents'
lives like this. And just to cover your own sorry ass."

His voice rose as he spoke, and he ground the words out between
clenched teeth. Granger could see the veins standing up on Skinner's
neck.

"Now wait just a minute," Padden said, and bolted to his feet. "You
can't talk to me like that. Not to *me*! And you can't prove any of
this, either! I'll make sure you can't prove it!"

Granger looked at him solemnly. "I'm wired," he said simply.

Padden looked wild-eyed now, his breath huffing slightly as he was
stunned to silence. Granger looked back at him impassively.

"It's over, Bob," Skinner said. "All of it. Ashcroft has dropped the
charges against Mulder and Scully. He's got someone new to look into
now."

It was then that the phone began to ring.

Padden looked down at it as though it would bite him.

Ashcroft.

Padden knew it, too. He looked back and forth from the two men in
front of him to the phone.

All three of them held still.

Finally, on the sixth ring, Skinner spoke, his voice low, bitter.

"Get your phone, you son-of-a-bitch."

*

They made short work of the hallway, both of them walking as fast as
Granger's slight limp would allow, so fast that everyone stopped and
stared at them as they passed.

"Did you really quit?" Skinner asked, glancing at him.

"Yes, sir, I did," he replied.

"You didn't have to do that, Granger," Skinner said. "This would
have all blown over and it probably would have made your career."

They entered the elevator, Skinner waving two men off who tried to
enter with them. The doors tapped closed and they started down.

"Like I told Padden just now," Granger said. "I don't want any part
of this agency anymore. There are other ways to do the work that I've
been trained to do. If this can happen once, it can happen again."

"Yes, Granger, but it can happen *anywhere,*" the other man
responded firmly. "It's happened at the FBI. Ask Mulder and Scully."

"I'll find a place for myself, sir," Granger replied. "Don't worry
about me. I'm doing what I feel is right. It's all I've ever wanted
to do."

Skinner pursed his lips, blew out a breath. "Well, your place for
right now, at least, is as a civilian consultant with the FBI. You
packed your personal weapon?"

The elevator doors whooshed open, depositing them on the ground
floor. They shot out into the hallway.

Granger watched the floor as he crossed over the CIA seal. He
remembered how proud he'd been the first day he'd come into this
building as an agent. He never thought he would leave like this, and
so soon.

"Granger?"

He snapped out of the thoughts. "Yes," he replied. "I've packed the
ammunition in one suitcase, the unloaded 9mm in the other, just like
the airline specified. I've got my permit to carry it in my wallet."

"Good," Skinner said as they breezed out the glass doors. "Your
temporary status with the FBI should keep you out of any trouble with
that. If they give you any shit at the airport, have them call me."

"Have you figured out your plan yet?" Granger asked.

Skinner nodded. "Yes, I'll be at Justice until this thing gets
rolling, then I'm coming your way to head up the agents in
Albuquerque as soon as things start being dismantled here. I need to
stay for now to make sure this doesn't get buried. Ashcroft is
looking for a head on a platter, but this isn't going to be popular
once it gets going. I don't want him chickenshitting or Padden
finding a way to slither out of this."

"What about my backup?"

"I've just gotten authorization to begin mobilizing agents from
Albuquerque and Phoenix. You should have them by morning at the
latest. I tried calling Albert Hosteen, but there's no answer and he
doesn't have a machine. I'll keep trying."

Granger nodded. "Since Padden doesn't know where they are, we should
be all right until the agents get there."

Skinner checked his watch as they hit the parking lot.

"Come on," he said, quickening the pace even more. "We've got to get
that wire off you and hurry if you're going to make these flights."


*************


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
NAVAJO RESERVATION
5:45 p.m.


Mulder stood stirring the spaghetti sauce, the sun starting to go
down out the window beside him. Scully was busy in the trailer's
small laundry room, folding a load of wash as he cooked.

They were really going to do this, he thought, and something seized
in his chest. They were going to go home and face this thing down.

He knew it was the right thing to do, that running was becoming too
dangerous. But the thought of trying to defend himself against the
charges from Padden...frankly, it scared him. He knew what could
happen.

He looked out the window, deep in thought about it.

The truth will save you...I think it will save both of us...

He thought of his own words that Scully had given back to him,
turning them over. He wanted to believe them.

He would believe them.

Scully entered from the hallway, dressed in a green t-shirt and
faded jeans. Her hair was soft and lovely, pushed behind her ears.
She looked at ease, and he was grateful for that.

They exchanged smiles as she came to stand beside him, on the side
that Bo was not on. Scully touched the dog's head as she passed him.

"Spaghetti a la Mulder again?" she asked, and he nudged her with an
elbow.

"You know it's really the only thing I can make that comes out
halfway decent," he replied, and she leaned into him, stood on her
toes to give him a kiss on the cheek.

"It's very good," she said. "You know I'm just teasing you."

"You'd better be or you're cooking from now on," he said, and turned
to kiss her on the lips.

There was a knock at the door, and Bo sat up from where he was lying
next to Mulder, his ears up and alert. Scully broke the kiss and they
both looked toward the door.

"Mulder?" It was Victor.

Scully went to the door and opened it, let Victor in. He said hello
to Scully, forcing a little smile. The young man looked harried or
pissed off, Mulder noted.

"Victor, what's wrong?" Mulder asked, setting the wooden spoon down
and wiping his hands on a towel.

Victor heaved out a breath. "Somebody left the goddamn gate open and
all the sheep are out," he said, angry. "I know it's late, but I
can't get hold of Keel or Henry to come help me round them up. I left
messages, but those sheep could be on Hopi land by the time they get
here."

"I'll help you get them in," Mulder said, looked at Scully, who
nodded.

"I'll keep dinner warm while you do that," she said.

Mulder nodded, came forward and grabbed up his denim jacket, pulled
it on over his white t-shirt. Then he sat, pulling on his boots.

"Thanks, man," Victor said. "I've got two horses saddled already. We
can get them in before it gets dark with both of us doing it."

"No problem," Mulder replied, and Victor went out the front door,
tipping his hat to Scully and smiling again as he left.

Mulder finished tying his boots, stood. Scully had withdrawn to the
kitchen, taken up the spoon and started stirring the sauce again. Bo
had come forward to Mulder, ready to follow him out the door.

Mulder stood and went to the door, his hand on it. Then he looked
back at Scully for a few seconds, the way her skin looked so soft in
the light from the window, her profile as she looked down into the
simmering pot.

"Scully, I love you," he said, surprised by the words. He didn't
know he was going to say them until he did.

"I love you, too," she said, still looking down as she licked her
finger where sauce had clung.

Something tugged at him and he took a step toward her, his hand
still on the door.

"No, I mean...I really love you." He said it solemnly, and she
looked up at the seriousness of his tenor. Her eyes shone in the
waning light.

"I love you, too," she said again, this time matching his tone, and
she smiled.

He smiled back and went out the door, Bo following behind.


****

6:55 p.m.


On Chaco's back, way up on the dirt road that led out behind
Victor's house, Mulder walked a group of straggling sheep back toward
the house, their heavy white bodies bumping along as they mewed
softly, the sun going down and leaving the world in a hazy bluish
light.

Victor was behind him somewhere far off over a small hill. Mulder
couldn't even hear him calling to his dogs anymore, or their yapping.

He yawned, angled the horse over to the side of the small herd to
tap a lamb back into the group.

Bo panted beside him, trotting along. Mulder smiled down at him
faintly.

He looked ahead and saw a vehicle turn up the dirt road, its
headlights on. It looked like a large truck or a van from this
distance, but he couldn't be sure.

Keel and Henry must have gotten the messages after all, he thought,
tapping another animal into the fold.

The van came closer, coming neither fast or slow. Mulder paid it
little attention as it approached.

Finally it pulled up alongside him. Two men, both smiling amiably.
Mulder tensed up as he realized he'd never seen either of them before.

"Hey there," the driver said easily. "Where's Victor? We heard his
sheep were out and came to help him out."

Mulder nodded back, relaxing some with that. "Yeah, he's up over the
rise there chasing after a bunch of them. I think we've about got
them in, though. Thanks for coming out anyway."

The man nodded. "All right then," he said, then he pointed to
Mulder, snapped his fingers. "You're...Tim? Tim Garrett? I met you
once before here. Staying in Larry's old trailer, right?"

Mulder nodded. "Yeah, that's right." He was perplexed a little by
the man's statement that he'd met him before, however. Mulder never
forgot a face. "Though I don't think we've met before, Mister...?"

"Aw, my name's not important," the man said, and his friend in the
passenger seat laughed.

Alarm bells blared in Mulder's head.

His heels jerked into Chaco's side and he took off, going back up
the road toward where he'd last heard Victor and leading the men away
from the house, away from Scully.

If they didn't have her already in the back of that van, he thought
grimly, staving off panic.

Chaco was running at full speed, but he urged her on with his heels
and his voice.

He could hear the van coming after him, the roar of a V8. Coming
fast, gaining.

Jerking her head to the side, Mulder pulled Chaco off the road and
onto the open desert, hoping to slow the van down with the scrubby
trees and brush and stones. He heard the axle protest as the vehicle
left the road, bouncing after him, skidding around obstacles, still
closing.

Mulder hunched down in the saddle a bit more as the horse, spooked
now, darted around bushes, the sounds of her hooves going fast rising
around him. He glanced back over his shoulder.

The van was there, the passenger hanging out the side window, a
strange looking gun pointed at him.

He fired.

Mulder jerked Chaco to the side again, but too late. He saw the dart
lodge in the horse's rump like a blue and white flag.

Fuck...

He leaned back as far as he could without falling and grasped at it,
pulling it out and letting it drop. The van got closer.

"Come on! Come on!" Mulder chanted to the horse, digging his heels
in again. The engine sound roared around him.

Then a stumble, the horse's head going down. Mulder was nearly
thrown off as she staggered again, slowing, her gait unsteady.

"No!" he shouted, and the horse ground to a halt, falling forward
onto her front knees and then tumbling onto her side, sending Mulder
flying from the saddle.

He ducked and rolled, hitting the ground hard, scrambling.

The van was circling now as he shook his head clear, got to his feet
and started running.

He'd never run like he ran then. His chest was thrown out in front
of him, his legs and arms pumping fast enough to blur. Air burned in
and out of his lungs. His feet seemed to barely touch the ground as
he streaked along, leaping over and around things, running serpentine.

His eyes scanned the dim landscape ahead of him, desperately
searching for somewhere to hide. Anywhere.

Goddamn the desert, he thought, the van coming closer now. He looked
over his shoulder and saw the man out the window again, aiming...

He heard the shot, a hollow popping sound. Then the sharp pain of
the dart striking him the back, in the soft place between his hip and
his shoulder blade.

Reaching back, he pulled it out, yanking hard to get the long needle
out. He dropped it and kept going.

There was a sharp rise up ahead, one that the van couldn't get up.
He could make it...

His mouth went dry, his tongue feeling swollen in his mouth
suddenly. A wave of nausea and dizziness struck him and he tripped,
fell hard.

No...Can't...

He pushed hard with his hands, struggling to stand, and got to his
feet. The world swam in colors and blurs around him, but he staggered
forward, kept going, though he couldn't feel his feet hitting the
ground anymore. His lids felt impossibly heavy....

The van had stopped and he heard footsteps behind him now. A lot of
them.

Two more steps and he fell again on his chest, his hands not even
coming up to break his fall. He couldn't control his limbs, couldn't
control...

He saw boots around him, a circle of them.

He lurched forward, crawling now.

"No!" he shouted, but the word sounded strange to his ears, more
like a groan than a word. His tongue wouldn't work right either.

Laughter around him as he crawled a few more feet, the men following
him patiently. Then he collapsed, scratching up sand in his hands,
clenching it.

A boot reached out and turned him onto his back roughly. He looked
up into the circle of strange faces. Their mouths, their teeth
showing as they laughed...all of it too big, swimming out of shape
like the men were in funhouse mirrors.

He tried to reach up, his head turned at an uncomfortable angle, his
ear almost on his shoulder. His eyes lolled and a stream of something
warm came out of his mouth as he tried to speak again, ran down the
side of his face.

"Christ, Sam, how much did you give him?" one of the voice said.
"The poor bastard's drooling!" The man's voice seemed to echo,
sounding hollow and far away.

"Shit, I don't know, Tom -- the same as I gave the goddamn horse! He
didn't get much of it pulling it out so quick, but goddamned! Look at
him!" There was a roar of laughter that sounded like a tape of
laughter playing way too loud...

"Come on now, Mr. Garrett," another voice said, and then there were
rough hands on him, pulling him up. His head swiveled on his neck as
he struggled to look up, a man under each of his arms.

The front of his feet on the ground as they dragged him, his chin
against his chest. He couldn't hear anything now but the faraway
sounds of rough voices and laughter, snippets of it.

"...sonofabitch...."

"...too easy..."

"....kidding?...ran like a fucking rabbit..."

He got his head up as they reached the back of the van, the back
doors open. Two men climbed up in front of him, swimming in his
vision, grabbed him from the others and hauled him up. He was vaguely
aware of his knees knocking hard against the bumper as they lifted
him into the dark interior of the van.

"Scu..." he tried, his heartbeat fast and roaring in his ears.

Then the world went to black.


*********


END OF CHAPTER 19b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 20.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 20a.

**********

7:56 p.m.


There was a small wind coming in off the desert as night fell heavy
and silent. Scully stood on the porch, her hands on her hips, her
brow knitted as she looked toward Victor Hosteen's place, watching
for any sign of activity. She saw none, and wondered for the dozenth
time how Mulder and Victor could still be looking for sheep with it
being as dark as it was.

Something was prickling at the back of her mind, a nagging sense of
concern that she tried to push down, chalking it up to paranoia.

They were safe here. They had been for weeks now. There was no
reason to think that anything would have changed about their
situation here.

She sighed, calming herself as she thought of this, rationalizing
the fear away.

He'd be back any minute now, ready for the dinner she'd already made
and left warming on the stove. He'd been hungry before he left, he'd
said. He would be starving now.

Finally, from behind the trailer, in the dark of the desert behind
her, she heard the bleating of sheep, the sounds of bells as the
animals drew closer.

There he is, she thought, and went to the side of the trailer, where
a light on a post lit up the backyard. She saw the sheep coming into
the circle of light, waited for the sound of horse's hooves amongst
them.

She heard none.

She stood, looking down in confusion as the sheep brushed past her
on their way back toward Victor's place and the food there. She stood
in a mass of them as they milled about, bumping against her as she
held still.

"Mulder?" she called into the darkness beyond the light. No answer.

"Victor?" she tried again, and got no answer once again.

The sheep were on their own, she realized as the last of them made
their way past the front of the trailer, nosing into everything they
passed. They left her standing there, quiet in the buzz of the gold
electric light.

Then another padding of footsteps and she returned her attention to
the edge of the light.

Her heart dropped into her belly at what she saw, her eyes widening.

Bo, coming fast toward the trailer, panting as though he'd been
running a long way. He caught sight of her and stopped, shifting from
one foot to the other, rocking from side to side. He let out a long
high whine as he looked at her.

"Bo?" she said faintly. It was hard to breathe suddenly.

The dog whined again, still moving from foot to foot uncertainly.

Oh God.

She went into the house quickly, found the keys to the Bronco on the
night table in Mulder's bedroom. Then she was back outside and
heading toward the vehicle parked on the far side of the trailer. She
moved first at a fast walk, then broke into a run as the panic began
to overtake her.

Her breath heaved in and out, too fast and shallow as she opened the
door and threw herself up into the driver's seat, the engine roaring
to life with the turning key. She slapped on the headlights and took
off down the dirt road toward Victor's, made a right, and headed out
into the desert on the narrow access road, bumping along, the
headlights sending bobbing cones of light out in front of her.

She looked from side to side, searching for anything.

"Come on, come on..." she breathed. "Be here. Be out here..."

Off in the distance, off the road a good ways, she saw a pinpoint of
light bobbing around near the ground.

A flashlight.

Without even thinking, she swerved off the road and took off across
the desert toward it.

After a few moments, the headlights were bathing Victor and his
horse in their white light. Victor was kneeling next to a dark shape
on the ground and stood quickly as Scully bolted out of the truck,
leaving it running.

"What is it?" she said in between her too-quick breaths. "Where is
he?"

"I don't know," Victor said, his tone heavy with concern. "But I
found Chaco, the horse he was on. She can't get up."

Scully went toward the horse now, Victor following behind her with
the dancing beam of light.

"Here, give me your flashlight," she said quickly, and he handed it
off. She knelt down next to the animal's head, noted the horse's slow
breathing, the half-closed lids, the line of saliva coming from her
mouth. She shone the flashlight in the black mare's eye, saw the
pupil dilated impossibly large.

"She's been drugged," Scully said, again pushing down the panic.
"Did you see anyone out here?"

Victor shook his head beside her, removed his cowboy hat. "No, no
one. I thought I might have heard a car at some point, but I figured
it was Keel coming to help out. I didn't pay it any mind."

"Oh God," Scully breathed, pushing her hair back from her forehead.
"Someone's got him. Someone's taken him."

Victor put a hand on her shoulder, gave it a squeeze. "You don't
know that for sure now," he said calmly. "Let's go back to the house
and make sure he's not there, all right?"

"He's not there, Victor -- Bo came back to the trailer without him.
Bo would never leave him if he was still here."

Victor was silent to that, and she could see his expression grow
grim in the headlights.

"Let's just make sure," he tried again, and this time Scully nodded.

The realization of what had happened sunk into her heavy as stone.
She blinked back tears, then rose and went back to the truck, climbed
in and turned the car around, heading back across the desert to the
road.

Who had him? She thought. Padden and his agents? Curran's men?

Surely not the latter, she thought, dismissing it. Why would Curran
want to take Mulder and leave her behind, when she could have been
taken so easily, alone in the trailer while the two men were out
looking for the sheep?

Her mind spun with the possibilities as she bumped back onto the
road, took off toward the house. Victor was behind her, galloping on
his horse, keeping fairly good pace with the truck, his sheep and the
downed mare left behind in the desert.

She rounded the corner at the house, slowed as she saw a dark car
parked in front of Victor's house. She was about to come to a full
stop, fear at another intruder coming over her, when Albert Hosteen
came out the front door, one hand in his pocket. He was gesturing for
her to come forward with the other, and she edged the Bronco in
behind the car -- a rental, she noted -- and cut the engine.

"Is Mulder in the house?" she asked hurriedly as she hopped down
from the truck. Hosteen looked confused.

"No, I have not seen him," he replied, his brow knitting. "Is he
missing?"

Scully nodded. "We found his horse, drugged, in the desert."

Hosteen looked stricken. "I heard a vehicle on the road between my
house and here, a truck by the sound of it. Something big. But I
assumed it was Keel or Eric."

"When was this?" Scully asked.

Hosteen considered. "About thirty minutes ago, give or take."

Scully cursed under her breath, pushing at her hair again. "Who's in
the house?" she snapped.

"A friend of yours, he says. I had him call your man Skinner before
I would tell him where you were, let me talk to him to make sure. He
is waiting inside."

Victor pulled his horse up, dismounted quickly. "Is he here?" he
asked quickly.

Scully shook her head and led the two men into the house.

And was immediately confronted by Paul Granger, who stood from the
couch as she entered. He was dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt and
a light leather jacket, his silver glasses gleaming in the overhead
light in the living room.

"Agent Granger?" she asked, pulled up short. "What are you doing
here? Do you know where Mulder is?"

He was taking in her appearance, forcing his face to remain neutral.
She knew, though, that he was surprised by her thinness. She knew she
looked very different than the last time she'd seen him.

"No, I don't know where Mulder is," he said, shaking his head. "He's
not with you?"

"Padden must have taken him," she said, her breathing picking up
again. Victor and Albert looked at her, then at Granger. Granger
looked stricken.

"No, no," he said. "Padden doesn't know where you are, and plus,
Ashcroft is on his ass now -- we've got him on the run. I don't think
he'd risk taking Mulder now, not with everyone knowing what he's been
doing."

"What he's been doing?" Scully repeated. "What the hell are you
talking about?"

"He's been framing you and Mulder both, following you. He's been
following you since you left Tennessee, basically. But that's all
over now. The charges against you both have been dropped and an
inquiry is underway."

"You mean we could have gone *home* already?" Scully asked, her
voice rising. She watched Granger cringe a bit at it.

"This all only happened this morning," he said, his voice showing
his regret. "I got here as fast as I could. I've been travelling all
day to come help protect you until the agents from Albuquerque and
Phoenix could get here." Granger looked down. "I'm sorry, Agent
Scully. I really am."

Scully looked at Victor and Albert, Albert holding up a hand, urging
her to calm. Her chest was rising and falling as though she'd been
running, fear and rage and worry colliding in her.

"How would Curran even know about Mulder to take him?" she implored.
"And why would he take him?"

"Perhaps he heard about Mulder from the time those men tried to take
you before," Albert offered. "Perhaps they wanted to make it easier
to get to you by taking him first?"

"No, they could have *had* me," she replied, coming to some
semblance of control as she listened to Albert. "I was alone in the
trailer when they came. They had to have known that. They wanted
Mulder, not me."

"That doesn't make any sense," Granger said. "Unless--"

He was interrupted by the phone ringing. Victor hurried to the
kitchen to answer it, said hello into the receiver of the cordless
phone.

"Unless what?" Scully asked, urging Granger to continue.

"Agent Scully," Victor said grimly from the kitchen. All eyes turned
to him. He held the phone toward her. "It's for you."

Scully's blood turned to ice, and she could feel it leaving her face.

She got it now. It all made sense.

In the silence that followed Victor's statement, she made her way
slowly to the kitchen, took the phone from Victor and placed it
against her ear.

"Owen," she said by way of greeting.

"Dana," Curran replied, his voice smug. "I'm glad I caught you
there. How are you then? Having a rough night now I imagine."

"Where is my partner, Owen?" she asked, forcing calm into her voice.

"On his way to me, as you've clearly guessed," Owen said. "He's
alive." There was a pause. "For now."

Scully closed her eyes, pulled in a calming breath. "It's me you
want, Owen. Not him."

"That's right, Dana," Owen replied, anger creeping in now. "It is
you that I want. And I want you to come to me now. To give yourself
up to me. I'm tired of chasing you halfway around this bloody
country."

"I come to you and you'll let him go." She opened her eyes and put
her hand up, halting the forward progress of Albert and Granger.
Granger had his mouth open to protest and she shook her head, put a
finger over her mouth.

"Yes, and not just him," Owen replied, clearly pleased. "I'll tell
you what I'm going to do. I'll trade you four lives for your one.
How's that for a deal for you, eh?"

"Four lives?" Scully replied. "What do you mean?"

"I've got Mae, too," Curran said softly. "And her boyfriend, some
pathetic fuck she picked up in Mexico where I found her. I know you
don't care much about him personally, but Mae does. And I know how
much you and Mae care for one another."

His voice dropped to a growl. "I know you wouldn't want her to
grieve something like that. And I know you don't want me killing her
either, given all she's done for you, after all."

Scully breathed out, trying not to let the shaking of it be heard
over the phone. "No," she said softly. "I wouldn't want that. Any of
that." She paused. "But you said four lives for my one. Who's the
fourth?" She knew it wasn't Sean.

A heavy beat of silence. "Mae's pregnant," Owen said finally.

Scully clenched her eyes closed again, frustrated tears coming now.

Mulder and Mae...and a baby now, as well. And probably the baby's
father...

She was vaguely aware of Granger coming forward until he stood
beside her. She opened her eyes, met his charcoal gaze. There was
sympathy and strength in the look he gave her, and she drank it in,
nodded to him, thanking him with her eyes in return.

"Tell me what you want me to do, Owen," she said, her voice calm,
sure now. "I'll do whatever you ask. Just don't hurt them."

"That's what I wanted to hear, Dana," Owen replied, pleased. "That
you'd do whatever I ask. It's about fucking time I heard that from
you."

"Tell me," she said again, not wanting to hear him gloat.

"All right. This is what I want. There's a little town in Arizona
called Show Low. You'll find it on the map. It's not too far from
where you are now. Six hours. There's a motel in town called the
Deuce of Clubs near the hospital, right on the edge of town. I want
you to check in there tomorrow afternoon. Check in under Katherine
Black. I'll call you there at four o'clock and tell you where I want
you to meet me to make the exchange."

"All right," Scully replied. "I'll do that. I'll leave first thing
in the morning."

"And Dana..." Owen's voice was soft and dangerous now. "If I see one
fucking agent, one ANYTHING, check into that motel with you, I start
killing, starting with your man Mulder. I've got people watching the
motel. They'll be waiting for you to get there. If you're not alone,
it's over. You understand?"

She swallowed. "I understand," she said quietly.

"Good. Have a safe journey tomorrow. Goodnight, Dana."

Then a click as Owen hung up.


************


UNKNOWN LOCATION
ALDER CREEK, COLORADO
10:30 p.m.


Larry Kingston made his way across the compound, the first hardy
crickets of the spring singing in the woods around him. There was a
thin blanket of clouds obscuring the moon and the stars, though their
light made the sheet of vapor glow blue in the night.

The light was still on in the cabin he was approaching, and he was
glad for that. He didn't want to wake this man Shea up if he didn't
have to, but he didn't want to sit on what he had to say, either.

He climbed the two stairs to the door, reached out and knocked on
the door lightly. He heard a shifting from inside, and then the door
opened, Shea's face lit by the bluish glow in the sky and the small
bulb on the outside of the one-room cabin.

"Mr. Kingston," Shea said, nodding amiably, a small smile on his
face.

"Good evening, Mr. Shea," Kingston said, and reached in his pocket
for his pipe and pouch of tobacco. "I've got some news for you, if
you're interested in hearing it. I'm sorry for the late hour and
all."

"No, that's fine," Shea replied, and opened the door a bit wider,
letting Kingston in. Once inside, Kingston stood in the center of the
small room, stuffed his pipe full and, looking to Shea for approval,
he lit the pipe up, blowing out a cloud of sweet smelling smoke.

"What have you got for me then, Mr. Kingston?" Shea asked, his hands
in the pockets of his corduroys. The man still had his shoes on, as
well, Kingston noted, and his light jacket over his sweatshirt. He
always looked like he was on his way out no matter when you saw him.
Always ready.

"I've got your Mr. Curran settled down in a cabin that belongs to
one of my people. Down in Arizona. A little town called Show Low.
He'll be staying put there for some time, it's looking like."

"Ah, I see," Shea said, nodding. "That's good then."

"And I'm done with my business with him, my debt to him paid as of
tonight. So I thought I'd let you know all that."

Shea nodded again. "Business with finding these people, like you
were saying earlier?"

Kingston nodded, gnawed on his pipe. "Yep. I got him the last one he
wanted just a few hours ago. He's got his sister and his boy back.
Now he's got this man he was after. God only knows what he's doing
with them, but that was the deal I had with him. To find these folks,
and I'm done it now. I reckon it's time to let you all handle him
from here on out."

Shea nodded. "I appreciate what you've done, Mr. Kingston. Letting
us know all this."

Kingston blew out a puff of smoke. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long
to come clean with it all, but I wouldn't have felt right if I hadn't
done what I promised the sorry sonofabitch. I know that probably
don't make no sense to you people, but..."

"No, it makes perfect sense," Shea said quietly. "We're in the habit
of keeping our word with the people we work with, as well. Most of
us, that is."

Kingston nodded. "I see that now," he said. He reached into his
pocket, drew out a sheet with writing on it. "Anyhow, here's the
directions to where you can find him. I guess you'll be leaving in
the morning?"

"Aye," Shea said, taking the sheet. He folded it carefully and put
it in his pocket. "Most likely before breakfast. So I won't see you
again, I suppose."

Kingston reached his hand out then, and Shea took it, shook it once.

"Good luck to you then, Mr. Shea. I hope you find your way back home
soon enough."

Shea smiled. "I will do," he said. "Soon enough."

Kingston gave him a small smile in return. "Goodnight."

"Goodbye, Mr. Kingston. Many thanks again."

And Shea opened the door for him and Larry Kingston went back out
into the night, trailing a light stream of smoke behind him in the
dark.


**********


END OF CHAPTER 20a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 20b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 20b.


***********


UNKNOWN LOCATION
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA
APRIL 10
4:34 a.m.


Mulder...

The word seemed to echo around him, sounding like the half-whispered
voice that persisted after dreaming, though he had not been dreaming.
His mind was too confused for even that, lost in a darkness so
complete he wasn't aware of his mind or his body.

Something tugged at his chest. A breath going in, burning. He let it
out, the sound too loud, a rasp. Another tug and release.

"Mulder, wake up."

His mind latched onto the voice, somehow familiar, and he hauled
himself up from the darkness, anchoring himself to it, forcing his
eyes to open.

A dimly lit room, him on his back on a cold hard floor. He tried to
reach up to touch his forehead where a pain stabbed at him, but he
couldn't. His hands were bound in front of him with electrical tape,
secured with rope to his legs, which were similarly restrained. He
tugged on the rope. A good knot.

His vision blurred in and out, and he had to force his eyes to stay
open. There was a face above him, a hand on his shoulder.

Long hair pulled back, face lost in shadows.

"Mulder? How do you feel? Can you speak to me?"

He opened his mouth to do just that, his tongue stuck to the roof of
his mouth.

"Water..." he breathed, looking up into the face.

"I'll try," the woman said. "I'll be right back."

He closed his eyes as she rose, heard her go away, heard her speak
softly to someone.

He drifted. Something in his back hurt like hell.

Then she was back, a hand going beneath his head and tilting it up.
He opened his eyes as a glass was placed against his lips and he
drank, draining the glass. He was breathing harder as she lowered his
head back down with the utmost care.

Awareness dawned on him as he caught the woman's face in profile
when she turned to put the glass behind her.

"Mae?" he croaked, his voice back but in disrepair.

She nodded, looking down at him. "Yes," she said softly.

"Where's Scully?" he said, looking around frantically.

"She's not here," Mae soothed. "Just stay calm. You've been through
a lot already." She paused. "How do you feel?"

He took a quick inventory as the relief flooded him that Scully
wasn't there.

"Druggy," he pronounced finally. He turned his head, saw a chair
there, a heavy looking recliner. "Can you help me...help me sit up?"

Mae nodded and put her arms around his shoulders and together they
lifted him until his back was against the front of the chair. He took
in the room now. A large bedroom, fireplace in one wall. A large bed
against another. There was a man tied to a chair just off to his
right who was looking at him, his face battered, lip swollen and one
eye swelled closed.

"Joe," the man said. "Joe Porter." He puffed out the "P" around his
lip.

Mulder nodded to him, confused by everything he was seeing. His
thinking was like walking on sand, each thought slipping some beneath
him.

"Somebody...somebody chased me...I was running." The memory swam
into focus. Running. Yes, he'd been running...the shot in his back.
Crawling. The halo of boots on the sand.

"Aye," Mae said with sympathy. "Owen got some men to fetch you.
You're in Arizona now. I'm not sure where. You've been here for about
three hours."

Mulder nodded to Joe. "Who's he?" His eyes lolled and he clenched
them, then opened them wider.

"He's..." Mae hesitated. "He's with me."

Mulder chuffed. "You sure know how to pick 'em, Joe."

"You do, too, apparently," Joe replied blithely, and Mulder chuckled
at that.

"Touch."

He struggled to make sense of it. Owen had taken him, but not
Scully? He could have had her so easily, her there by herself...

Then it dawned on him. He looked at Mae again now.

"Owen's luring Scully," he said, his mind catching up now and
becoming more lucid. "He wants her to come to him. To give herself up
to him."

"Yes," Mae replied. "He's trading our lives for hers."

Fury bloomed in him. Scully would come, he knew. She would come
without thinking about it. Owen knew that, too. He must have surmised
he and Scully's relationship somehow. Maybe Mae told him. Maybe she'd
had to.

He looked at her with regret. He didn't exactly like being in his
position right now, but he would hate like hell to be in hers.

Mae looked down as she sensed his feelings, her voice dropping to
just above a whisper. "He might let you go, Joe go. But he's not
going to let me go."

Mulder nodded, spoke quietly. "You're right. He's not. He wants you
and he wants Scully. But he might use Joe and me to punish you both.
To hurt what you care about. None of us are guaranteed a way out of
here, no matter what Scully does."

"So he's awake," a stern voice came from the doorway, and Mulder and
Mae both turned to see Owen standing there, leaning against the
frame.

Mae scrambled up to her feet and withdrew to the bed, where she sat
quickly, still now, not meeting Owen's gaze as he followed her with
his eyes.

Mulder could feel the terror coming off her and wondered what she'd
been through already with her brother.

Owen approached him, stood in front of him with his arms crossed
over his chest. He smirked as Mulder looked up at him with a gaze
cold and unafraid.

"Mr. Mulder," Owen said. "Good to see they didn't kill you with that
tranquilizer they gave you. You weren't breathing too well when they
brought you in, so I'm relieved you're all right."

"I'm sure," Mulder replied, his voice cracking. "I bet you were
beside yourself."

"No, no," Owen said, his smile widening at Mulder's tone. "I'm being
sincere, Mr. Mulder. I've got no quarrel with you. You're just a
means to an end. I don't want to hurt anyone unnecessarily, you
know."

Mulder glanced over at Joe. "I can see that," he said.

"Ah, that's a bit different. Joe got me pissed." He cocked his head
as he looked at Mulder. "I'm sure you won't be doing that, will you?"

Mulder said nothing, simply stared up at Curran, who paced a few
steps, then came back.

"Your girlfriend is coming for you," he said, clearly pleased.
"She'll be in town tomorrow afternoon. So not to worry. You'll be
free soon enough. You just need to hold tight until she gets here."

Mulder seethed, hated Curran for talking about Scully, hated knowing
that Curran's using him as a lure had worked so easily.

What Scully must be going through, knowing Owen had him. And Mae. He
knew Scully would be concerned for her, as well.

It all burned in him, and, despite his better judgement, his temper
flared.

"You won't be rid of me that easily," he rumbled, his gaze turning
to ice.

"What do you mean then?" Curran asked lightly. He seemed amused.

"I mean that you even touch her and I'll kill you." Mulder's eyes
didn't waver.

Now Curran's smile melted away, his expression flattening.

"Threats from someone in your position don't hold much weight, Mr.
Mulder," Curran said quietly. He leaned closer to Mulder's face. "And
if I were you, I'd shut the fuck up with them, as well, before you
end up like Joe here." He jerked his head toward Porter.

"Fuck you." It was out of his mouth before he could stop it.

The boot that caught him across the mouth was no surprise.

"You don't know me very well, you stupid fuck!" Curran shouted. "You
wouldn't talk to me like that if you knew me."

"I know all about you," Mulder said, and spit blood toward Curran's
feet. "I know about your father, how he starved himself to death and
left you with nothing but your Cause. I know about your wife, about
the IRA killing her. I know everything about you."

Curran's eyes turned wild and dangerous. "Where do you get off
talking about my family like that, eh?" He reached down and grabbed
Mulder's t-shirt collar, bunched it up, shoving his face into
Mulder's. "Eh? Where the fuck do you get off? You don't know shit
about me."

"Mulder, stop," Mae called from the bed. "Please stop! Don't--"

"You're so fucking predictable it's sad," Mulder said into Curran's
face, the words tumbling from him as his voice rose. "Revenge is all
you know. It's the only thing that makes you feel anything anymore,
isn't it? The British took your father and the IRA took Elisa and now
you're after Scully because she turned out to NOT be Elisa. And
you're after Mae for feeling anything at all, aren't you? For not
being as dead inside as you are."

Curran's hand shot up and clenched around Mulder's face, squeezing
hard. "What are you, Sigmund Fucking Freud?" he spit, enraged now as
he pushed Mulder's face to the side hard. "Don't you say my wife's
name again, you hear me? I don't want to hear it come out of your
mouth again. And what's between my sister and me is none of your
fucking business!"

He bolted up and his foot was out again, this time catching Mulder
in the belly before Mulder could react at all. He hunched, coughing,
unable to breath for a few seconds.

Next his face, the side of his head, across his mouth again. A
flurry of strikes as Curran's rage boiled out of control.

Finally Curran stepped back, his breath heaving.

Mulder shook his head clear, his face throbbing. When he got his
voice back, he rasped at Curran, looking hard at him.

"You leave Scully alone, or I swear to God--"

"That's it!" Curran said, and went to the night table where a roll
of electrical tape sat. He ripped out a length, tore it off with his
teeth and was squatted in front of Mulder again. His hands shot out
and pressed the tape across Mulder's bloodied mouth hard, pushing his
head back in the process.

Mulder snapped his head back up, glared at Curran, made a loud sound
and kicked out with his legs. Curran stood and stepped easily out of
the way.

"I think..." Curran said, still breathing hard. He took a few more
breaths and struggled for calm, pushing his hair off his forehead. "I
think we've all heard enough from you, Mr. Mulder." His voice was
even now, strangely quiet.

He turned, going toward the door, where an odd-looking man had been
standing all this time, watching the proceedings without interest.

"You keep watching them," Curran said to the man. "I'm going to lie
down for a little while."

"All right, Mr. Curran," the man said dumbly.

Curran turned to Mae. "You take that tape off and I'll put it on
you," he said, pointing at her. Mae nodded mutely, looked away.

Curran turned back toward Mulder, hatred clearly burning in his eyes.

Mulder gave him the look right back until Curran turned and left the
room.


**********


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
NAVAJO RESERVATION
5:20 a.m.



Scully pulled the last load of laundry from the dryer, bunching the
jumble of she and Mulder's clothes into a basket, then hefted it and
quietly took it into the bedroom. Their suitcases were open on the
bed, which was still made. She hadn't been in it all night.

She dumped the clothes and started folding them, putting them in
their respective suitcases with care.

She didn't know why she was doing this. She shook her head at the
sight she must present, but couldn't keep her hands from moving.

Perhaps it was simply the need to do something productive to make up
for the sleepless night. Perhaps it was to prepare to leave this
place, in preparation for the actual leaving she would be doing soon.

And there was something else, as well, some small way it made her
feel like she was doing something for Mulder, gathering his things so
they would be ready for him when he was with her again.

His t-shirts, jeans, boxers. All folded neatly and placed just so.
She did it as though her care would somehow make a difference. In
something.

She finished with his suitcase, went into the other room to the
closet, pulled out shoes, then his thick garment bag and carried both
into the other room, tossing them on the bed. The shoes she placed in
a zippered side of the suitcase, then closed the bag, his toiletries
bag tucked in beside the clothes.

Then her eyes went to the garment bag, which clearly hadn't been
opened since their arrival here. In fact, it had only been opened a
few times since they'd left Tennessee, and then only for Scully to
draw out his dress shirts to wear over her tank tops as the desert
got warmer and she got thinner, needing something to hide within.

She reached down and unzipped the bag's long front, found his white
shirt there on top. She pulled it off its hanger and put it on over
her white t-shirt without another thought, rolling the sleeves and
tying the tails in a knot at her waist. Then she reached in further,
pushing the shirts to the side until she revealed one his dark suits,
the jacket cradling a collection of multicolored ties.

She fingered a black silk one that was covered with tiny olives. She
remembered a day in the basement office, on their way to a chewing
out by Skinner, when she'd reached up and tightened the knot where
he'd loosened it, smoothed it down. She'd given him a tiny smile as
she tucked the report under her arm and squeezed his hand just before
they'd opened the door and set out the face the music together.

The memory made her smile, but it also brought the threat of tears.

Her eyes went back to the dark suit, the dream coming back to her.
Him at the airport, the suit hanging on him perfectly...

She pushed the dread away, rearranged the shirts and zipped the bag
closed once again.

Around her, the house was silent, though it was full. Albert Hosteen
and Granger had sacked out in the living room in on the couch and
chair, just in case the men returned for her. Victor, she knew, had
stayed up most of the night, coming in every now and again for
coffee, carrying his shotgun. He'd prowled the property like a guard
dog.

Albert had gone to bed around one, falling asleep in the recliner.
He'd been mostly silent, watching her move around the house and argue
with Granger. Granger had wanted her to stay and wait for the agents,
tangled in red tape, who would be arriving in the morning as Skinner
had assured him before he left D.C.

"Granger, I told you what Curran said," she'd insisted, losing her
patience. "I have to go alone. Any sign of something suspicious and
I'm endangering Mulder's lives and the lives of the others. Don't you
understand that?"

"Does that mean you're not even going to let *me* go with you?"
Granger had persisted, following her into the kitchen where she'd
rinsed the plates from their late dinner -- she and Mulder's dinner --
that she'd fed to the men.

She'd turned on the water hard, plates clattering. "Yes."

"Agent Scully, for God's sake, you can't--"

"I'm not risking their lives. Bring the agents to Snowflake or
Shumway and wait for word from Mulder or me there."

"That's insane!" Granger had blustered, gesturing toward her in
frustration. "You can't risk your life like this. I won't let--"

"I don't want to talk about it any more," she'd snapped then, and
Granger had bitten off what he was going to say, turned and huffed
into the living room, sitting down on the couch and pretending to
watch the fuzzy rerun of M*A*S*H on the television.

Scully had turned to gather more dishes from the counter behind her
and saw Albert Hosteen watching her, his pipe in the corner of his
mouth, his expression serious. When he saw her looking at him, he
waited a beat, his eyes meeting hers, then returned his attention to
the television. He hadn't said another word for the rest of the
night.

Scully reached down onto the bed now, lifted her Sig. She checked
the clip, slapped it home, then put it beneath her shirt in the
holster there. Next she picked up Mulder's gun, identical to her own,
and slipped into the front waistband of her jeans, the dress shirt
obscuring both weapons.

Then she turned to Mulder's ankle holster, the pistol snug in it.
She put a foot up on the bed, pulled up her jeans and tried to put
the holster on. Even in its last holes, it hung on her, and she
cursed beneath her breath.

There had been some electrical tape on the shelf in the laundry
room. She went to fetch it.

And met Granger in the hallway, still in his black t-shirt and jeans
from the night before, his eyes red.

"Agent Scully," he began.

"I'm not going to argue with you anymore, Granger," she said
tiredly, brushed past him to the laundry room. He held his ground as
she got the tape and went back into the bedroom. Then she heard him
in the doorway behind her.

"Can I just ask one question?" His voice was quiet. Even. No longer
exasperated as it had been the night before.

"Sure," she said, resigned, as she put her foot up on the bed again,
tore off a length of the silver tape, biting it to tear it. Then she
started winding the length of it around the hard form of the holster,
securing it to her calf, the gun on the inside of her left leg where
her right hand could reach it easily.

"Why are you going to do this?" Granger asked softly.

She turned and looked at him like he'd grown another head.

"Why the hell do you think I'm going, Granger? I'm going to get
Mulder. And the other people involved in this thing."

"I know that," he said, not taking the bait of her tone. "I
mean...are you going to try and fight Curran or are you going to give
yourself up to him?"

She turned back to her leg, pressing down the tape. She tore off
another piece and repeated the action. "I'm going to do whatever it
takes to free him. To free all of them."

"So you *are* going to turn yourself over," Granger said. "Well,
that clears a lot up right there."

"I don't know what you mean," Scully replied, not looking back at
him.

"I was just trying to figure out why you don't want me to come with
you," he said, his tone as though he were thinking aloud. "Why you
won't even allow that. It's because you're going to sacrifice
yourself. You don't want to fight him."

"Thank you for the profile, Granger," Scully said under her breath,
getting ticked now. "But I do want to fight him. I don't usually go
around putting industrial tape on my legs if I'm planning on walking
into the slaughter."

"You can't beat him on your own," he replied, and she pushed her
jeans leg down and turned to him now. He didn't flinch from the look
she gave him. "You know you can't. You can't negotiate with him --
he's too crazy and filled with hatred for that -- and you can't take
him out while he's got three hostages and God only knows how many
people helping him with this."

"I'll cross that one when I come to it," she said, dismissing him.
She started toward the door and he wouldn't budge. She looked up at
him, angry now.

"You can't cross it," he said quickly. "He'll kill you. He'll
probably kill all of you. I doubt he intends to let Mae go, for
starters. He's bluffing you, using these people to draw you in, to
make you helpless. And if you go alone you're letting him win
already."

She looked down, said nothing for a long moment. Then she met his
gaze again, her frustration and sadness rimming her eyes with tears.
She held them back. "I won't risk his life unnecessarily," she said,
almost keeping the tremor out of her voice.

"Curran doesn't have to know I'm there," Granger said firmly. "We
can take two cars. I'll come later in the day, after I scramble the
agents to one of those towns you mentioned last night. I'll check
into the motel and no one will know we're together. You can call me
and I'll follow you to the exchange place. He won't know about me,
and that will give us an edge."

She shook her head, looked to the side, thinking.

Some part of her knew he was right. She *was* willing to sacrifice
herself, to walk into Curran's grasp, in necessary, to free Mulder
and the others. She owed Mae her life, after all. And with the baby,
the stakes were doubly high.

She knew she couldn't really fight him. At the bottom of all her
bravado, she knew that was true.

Now she returned her gaze to Granger's earnest face.

"You *need* me on this," he said quietly. "I understand you not
wanting the agents swarming all over a town that size, but you need
someone. And I'm all you've got."

That teased a smile from her, which faded the instant it curled her
lips. "You're a lot," she said softly.

She paused for a long moment, warring with herself. Then she nodded.

"All right," she said. "But you can't tell Skinner where we're
going. He would insist on a full-scale extraction on this, and we
can't have that. It's better that he not know where we are or he
might try it anyway."

Granger cringed. "He'll have both our asses for that," he said, and
Scully nodded.

"I know," she said. "I'll find a way to make him understand. When
this is over and Mulder's back safe."

Granger nodded, though she could tell he had some doubts. About all
of this. She did, as well. So much was unknown, like a game they were
playing where they didn't know all the rules. But the rules they did
know they would have to follow.

She went back to the bed, hefted two of the suitcases and came
forward again. This time, Granger stepped back to allow her to enter
the hallway, and they both turned to see Albert Hosteen standing
there, Bo sitting beside him as though they'd been there for some
time.

"You are going together then," Hosteen said, and Scully nodded. It
didn't surprise her he'd heard everything they'd said.

"Yes," she said quietly. Beside her, Granger nodded, reached down to
take one of the suitcases out of her hand. She allowed it.

"That's good," Albert said. "I was afraid you would be so stubborn
you would go alone. You are as stubborn as Agent Mulder that way. As
stubborn as me." He winked, lightening the mood. Scully smiled,
looked down.

"Yes, I am, I suppose." She gestured to Bo. "I see you've got a new
friend."

Albert shook his head, made no move to touch the dog. "No," he said.
"He has been outside since I woke up, looking for Agent Mulder. He is
Agent Mulder's dog now."

The thought made the tears come again, and she blinked them back,
finally reached up and rubbed at her eyes.

"When you find Agent Mulder," Hosteen said gently. "When he is free
again, you call me and I will bring Bo and give him back to him."

Scully nodded, and a tear did fall now. She wiped it away, and felt
the warm weight of Granger's hand on her shoulder.

"All right," she said, nodded, moved away from the two men and
headed toward the front door.

She stood for a long moment on the front porch, gathering herself,
looking out over the horizon.

The tears receded and something harder settled over her, something
cold and determined and welcome.

Then she went to the Bronco, waiting by the side of the house, as
the sun began to rise.


**********


END OF CHAPTER 20b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 21.
TITLE: City of Light
AUTHOR: Bonetree (bonetree@gmail.com)

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 21a

**********

HIGHWAY 77
NORTH OF SNOWFLAKE, ARIZONA
11:35 a.m.


There wasn't a break in her expression until she saw the signs for
Snowflake, five hours into her drive from Two Grey Hills. She'd held
the emotions at bay for all that time as she'd angled the Bronco down
the narrow two-lanes in New Mexico, through western Arizona, then
south, weaving her way through the rising mountain roads, the tan
desert giving way to Ponderosa pines and green.

But when Scully saw the signs for Snowflake, her eyes filled with
tears.

This was where they had stopped after the first month of running,
Mulder insisting on the break because of her lingering illness from
the drug and the holdover of her headaches and weakness from the
concussion she'd suffered at Fagan's hands.

She's been so weak that month, at first unable to even walk without
his help.

She could still remember rubbing her cheek against his belly in the
lodge where they'd stayed in Snowflake. His torso was bare from where
she'd pushed his shirt up, his hands on the sides of her head,
gentle, his eyes on her face. If she thought about it hard enough,
she could remember the feel of the sparse line of hair on his abdomen
against her mouth, the smell of his warm skin.

She remembered how helpless she'd felt then, how dependent.

It was in stark contrast to how she felt now. Three guns hidden in
her clothes, her mouth a thin line, her eyes guarded by sunglasses as
they met the road in front her.

She pushed her fingers beneath her glasses, wiped the tears roughly
away.

She was a little more than an hour from her destination, the little
town of Show Low on the edge of the Salt River Apache Reservation.
She could feel herself growing more still inside as she approached
it, seeing the first signs for the town beginning to appear on the
road sides.

She would be there so soon. And she was ready to be there.

But ready for what?

One of two things was going to happen this day, she knew.

The first was that she would somehow find a way to free Mulder and
the others and get away herself, as well, hopefully taking Owen out --
killing him, if necessary -- in the process.

The other was that she would sacrifice herself for the lives of the
others. For Mulder's life, which she would do without even thinking
twice about it.

But also for Mae's life. The life of her lover and her unborn child.

Vague recollections gathered in her mind. Mae in the back of the
pickup, some truckstop somewhere on the road, them running from Owen
after Mae had killed Fagan. A cup of soup in Mae's hand, which she
tilted to Scully's lips, making her eat something, despite the drug,
despite her injuries.

Come on, help me now, Mae had said gently.

Then another memory. Mae dressing her in pajamas in the cabin in
Tennessee, the drug-fever raging as Mae tucked her beneath the
covers, Mae's hand lingering, protective, on her forehead.

A cloth on her forehead in a bathtub of frigid water, Mae's voice as
she spoke softly to Mulder....

Her eyes hardened at the memories.

She owed Mae her life. Despite how strangely and under what false
circumstances the friendship with Mae had begun, it was a strong
friendship nonetheless. Scully felt connected to her in some way she
couldn't quite name.

She heaved out a breath as she thought all this, as she entered
Snowflake. She remembered the sleepy looking lodges well, the small
stores in the tiny town.

Her thoughts returned to Mulder. Worry filled her, concern at how
Owen would treat him. She just hoped Mulder would keep quiet. Owen
had no tolerance for disrespect, and Mulder could be most
disrespectful. She didn't like the thought of the two of them
together, especially with Owen knowing something of she and Mulder's
affiliation, and being as vengeful as he was right now.

She pushed the worry down as best she could, considering her options
carefully.

Owen had weaknesses, some of which centered around her, his
attraction to her and his association of her with his wife, Elisa.
There had to be ways to exploit those feelings, to undo him in some
way, throw him off and give her the chance to take him out or at
least get away once the others were freed.

Either that or the association of her with Elisa would make him
somehow worse -- less rational, more manipulative and with more of a
desire to control her. It was going to be one or the other.

She sighed, shaking her head at the thought.

She would do anything that could be done. Especially to protect the
lives of the hostages. And she was ready to pay the consequences for
what she might have to do.

Even if it meant her death.

A feeling of calm came over her with that thought. A determination
that fought the aloneness she felt as she drove the truck filled with
suitcases.

Nothing but the sound of the tired engine as she drove out of
Snowflake on toward Show Low, the sound of worn tires pounding the
road.


**********

INTERSTATE 40
WEST OF HOLBROOK, ARIZONA
11:35 a.m.


Paul Granger looked at the map, fumbling the unfolded thing in front
of him as he followed the line of Interstate 40 to Holbrook. He was
steering with his knees, looking for the number of the highway he was
supposed to take to get to Show Low. The rental car purred along on
the highway, the brand-new engine barely making a sound as the exits
for Holbrook began to appear.

Finally he found it -- Highway 77, south toward Snowflake and
Taylor. He watched for the exit and saw it coming in the distance. He
switched lanes to take it, stuffing the map in the passenger seat.

He'd driven in silence since he'd left Albert Hosteen's house, an
hour behind Scully on the road. He was tense, his tension beginning
as he'd watched Scully say goodbye to Hosteen and his grandson
Victor, Scully and the elder Hosteen's hands hanging in a long grip
as they'd looked at each other, saying nothing but "goodbye" and the
other's name before she'd climbed in the truck and gotten on her way.

The scene had made him uptight because there seemed to be such
finality to it, Hosteen and Scully looking at each other as though
they might not ever see one another again.

And that was exactly what he was afraid of.

He took the exit, going down the more narrow highway, circling the
outskirts of the town of Holbrook and then heading out into the
nothing beyond, the road rising onto hills in front of him.

His hand gripped the steering wheel harder as he thought of the
conversation he'd had with Albert Hosteen before he had left himself.
The one about what to do with the agents Skinner had sent to Two Grey
Hills who Granger was supposed to be coordinating so that Mulder and
Scully could be protected from any unlikely last minute strike by
Padden and the more likely appearance of Curran and his men.

The agents would arrive in the tiny reservation town to find no one
but an old man to greet them who would *not* be telling them where
Granger and Mulder and Scully actually were. Instead, Hosteen would
be sending them to Shumway, a town close to Show Low Granger had
found the map. There, Hosteen would tell them, the agents would meet
at the sheriff's headquarters to wait for further instructions from
him or from Scully.

Whichever of them was alive to give the order for the agents to
scramble to contain Curran, on the off-chance that Granger or Scully
let him get away.

Granger shook his head, looked out the side window at the trees,
which had recently appeared as he went up in elevation, streamed by.

Skinner was going to kill him. After all these weeks of the two of
them working together, planning, sneaking around behind Padden's back
to clear Mulder and Scully's names, to allow them to come in safe,
here he was, breaking off on his own and leaving Skinner completely
in the dark.

And just when things were looking up, too. Or had seemed to be at
the time...

"Dammit," he said under his breath.

It was a good thing he didn't have a career to ruin anymore, he
thought, shaking his head again. Because this wouldn't help matters
much at all.

The picture of his father, Thomas, stiff in his Baltimore City
Police uniform, came into his head, and he felt the nagging sense of
shame he'd been struggling to keep at bay over his leaving the CIA.
He wondered what his father would think of his decision to turn his
back on a career he'd spent his life preparing for.

He knew, on the one hand, that he'd done the right thing by leaving.

But why?

Skinner was right. What had happened at the CIA could have happened -
- *did* happen -- anywhere. If he was going to stay in law
enforcement at all, he ran the risk of corruption everywhere he went
because of how easily the power that came along with it could be
misused.

But on another, he felt he'd given up in a way, chosen NOT to fight
that abuse of power, that he should have stayed to fight the fight.

So why had he done it?

He went around a wide bend, a sign for Snowflake, 78 miles, coming
into view, as he pondered this.

He'd done it for Mulder and Scully, he realized. To stand with them
against what was being done to them.

He wondered at this realization now, wondered at his sense of
loyalty to two people he actually barely knew. Especially Scully,
whom he'd only met a few times, and whom he'd just spent more than an
hour with for the first time the night before.

Another memory came to him as he thought of this. His mother this
time, chiding him for his nervousness, his shyness he'd struggled
with throughout his life, even at the CIA before this case, even
though he'd graduated at the top of his class in Behavioral Sciences,
even though he was considered the best new profiler the CIA had ever
produced.

You forget who you are, his mother had told him every time she saw
him hiding from something, refusing to stand up for himself or
others. She'd shake her head, cradle the back of his neck, and say it
again.

But he knew who he was now. In fact, he'd never been more certain of
who he was, what he believed in. And Mulder and Scully had taught him
this, taught him his own beliefs by their treatment of him and this
case and, most importantly, each other.

There was an honesty to them, an integrity, that went beyond what
he'd been taught and took him to what he knew to be right.

*That* was why he'd stood with them. That was why he'd quit, in a
kind of thanks for the knowledge he had now, the understanding of
what was worth standing up for and what was not.

And the CIA, with all its machinations, was something that was not.

That was why he was out here, driving through the Arizona high
country, about to risk his life to protect two people he barely knew,
but whom he considered to be, in a strange way, friends.

He remembered who he was now. He was sure of that person, this
person he had become.

That was what he would say to his mother when he told her about his
leaving the Agency.

If he got the chance.

Surely that, he decided, she would understand.


**********

INTERSTATE 40
PINTA, ARIZONA
30 MILES WEST OF HOLBROOK
11:35 a.m.


Jimmy Shea changed lanes around a tractor trailer, carefully
returning to the right hand lane as he continued on his way to
Holbrook, doing the speed limit to the number.

Almost to the turnoff, he thought, rubbing at his moustache
absently. And the closer he came to the road that would take him to
Show Low, this Highway 77 that would take him south through the
mountains, the more he was certain he couldn't do what it was he was
being asked to do.

He should just turn the truck around now, he thought. Head back to
New York. To Ruby back home minding the house, to the shell of his
boat there by the sea.

There was a picture of a boy in his head -- the boy on the
motorcycle, the boy in the pub.

There was a picture of a man he'd respected more than anyone at that
time in his life, lying in a coffin at the wake, every bone showing
through the dead white skin, the suit looking five sizes too large
for the corpse it encased.

And again the boy was there in his mind. Owen had stood with the men
in the corner, ignoring his mother's grief, his sister's silence, his
brother's prayers beside the body of his father.

Shea remembered standing there by the coffin, his hand on the
younger James' shoulder as the young man prayed. He remembered
brushing down Mae's unruly dark hair as he passed her, her shy smile
through her tears, his own in return.

No, he couldn't do it.

But he had always done what they'd asked of him. It felt strange to
even consider doing otherwise.

Perhaps if he went to Show Low and got a look at Owen, saw that he
wasn't this mad dog the others seemed to believe he was, he could
report back what he'd seen, that his task wasn't necessary after all.
Maybe he'd even talk to Owen, to Mae. Find there was a perfectly
reasonable explanation to all that had transpired. A simple
misguidance on Owen's part, perhaps. Something that Shea could put to
right.

Shea knew he himself had a reputation for keeping his head about
him, coming to the right ideas about situations. Surely they would
listen to him and this whole thing and it could be avoided.

This tragic ending that didn't have to close the story of James
Curran and his family.

Shea sighed, sorrow settling over him like fallen leaves as the
signs for Holbrook came into view now, as he started looking for the
turnoff to 77 headed south.

The turn toward the one place on the earth he did not want to go.


*********


UNKNOWN LOCATION
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA
NEAR THE SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION
2:35 p.m.


Mulder was finally asleep.

His legs had been unbound to allow him a trip to the bathroom an
hour or so before, and now he lay in a heap on the floor, curled on
his side, his breathing slow and a little too loud through his
swollen nose above the length of tape across his mouth and cheeks.

Owen had stayed out of the room since his run-in with Mulder early
that morning. Mae hated that Mulder had had to take the beating he
had. But she was grateful to him as well -- for keeping Owen away
from the three of them for the rest of the day. His words had more
power than he knew.

She lay on the bed facing both Mulder and Joe, who was also
sleeping, his chin on his chest where he sat, still bound and damp,
in the chair. She had dozed off and on herself as best she could,
woken by bouts of vomiting earlier in the morning that had passed,
leaving her weak and shaky. The strange looking man whom Owen
referred to as "Rudy" had brought her some water with ice from the
kitchen, and she was doing her best to fight off exhaustion and
dehydration.

Were she out of this place, she would probably check herself back
into a hospital. She felt that badly. The duress wasn't helping her
physical state, either.

She looked at the car battery and paddles next to Joe, shuddered.

Then she was on her feet, eyeing Rudy sitting just outside the door,
his arms crossed over his chest. He appeared to be asleep, as well.

Satisfied with that, she made her way to Joe slowly, her knees
trembling as she walked the few steps to him.

When she reached him, she put a hand gently on his battered cheek,
and he jerked awake immediately, his eyes wide. She covered his mouth
to keep him from crying out.

"It's okay," she murmured, looking at Rudy to see if he'd reacted to
the sound. He hadn't. "It's just me. I want to check you over, all
right? That thing is designed to hurt a lot more than it's designed
to do damage, but I want to see just the same."

"I'm all right," he replied, keeping his voice low as she knelt in
front of him. "A few burns. I'm okay."

She pushed his shirt up, looked at his chest, the dark mottling of
burns in the shape of the paddles there. Her hands shook as she
traced them.

"Joe, I'm so sorry..." Tears raced down her cheeks suddenly as she
looked at his body, then she looked down, unable to meet his eyes.

"Hey," he whispered, and she looked back up at him, into his eyes,
trying to ignore the bruising around them. "It's okay. I'm okay."

He turned his head, studied her, a concerned look on his face. She
knew she must look terrible given his expression.

"I'm more worried about you," he said softly.

She shook her head. "God, how can you say that?" she asked. "We're
in this because of me and--"

"No, we're in this because of your brother," he asserted. "You were
right to take Sean and run with him. Just from the little bit I've
seen." He paused. "He's that terrorist everyone's been looking for,
right?"

Mae nodded. "Yes," she whispered.

"The one who bombed the embassy in Washington."

"Yes," she said again, and she met his eyes steadily again. "But
Joe...I helped plan that bombing, too."

Joe said nothing and she pressed on quickly. "I helped buy the
explosives. I helped with surveillance of the embassy. I'm as guilty
for that as he is."

Still Joe said nothing. He merely looked at her, his eyes gentle and
inquisitive. Finally he spoke.

"Why did you do it?" he asked softly.

"Because..." she began, and trailed off, her gaze going down.

"Because why?" he persisted.

She thought about that hard. Why had she done it? Did she even have
an answer for that?

"Because Owen wanted to do it," she said finally, faintly.

"Have you always done what Owen wanted you to do?" Joe asked. He
shifted in the chair as much as his binds would allow, leaning closer
to her.

She nodded now without hesitation. "Yes. My whole life."

Joe nodded in return. "But something changed."

She looked down, then toward Rudy again, watching the doorway as she
spoke. "Yes," she said softly. "I'd had enough of the killing. He
killed my friends. He was going to kill this Agent Scully who he's
after now. She's my friend, as well."

Joe looked at her, cocked his head. "Now you sound like the person I
met in Mexico," he said finally. "The woman I fell in love with."

"I still have done horrible things, Joe," she said, shaking her
head. "You can't dismiss that."

"No, I don't dismiss them," Joe replied, keeping his voice low. "I
think they were horrible things, too, and that's something that we're
going to have work through between us. The same way you're going to
have to deal with some of the things *I've* done."

He looked at her until she met his eyes.

"But I'm not that person anymore, no matter what I did," he
continued in a whisper. "And you're not that person anymore, either,
Mae. *You* have changed. That's why your brother wants to kill us.
You've turned your back on him and started a life without him. "

Mae nodded. "I'm the only family he has left. We've been all the
other has had for most of our lives."

"And you don't think that could protect you?" he replied.

She shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "I've betrayed him. And
there's only one way he deals with betrayal."

Joe swallowed. "You don't think the baby..." He trailed off as she
shook her head. Then he grew silent.

"He may let you go," Mae said into the quiet that followed. "He may
let Mulder go, though with what Mulder said to him last night I'm
wondering about that. But he will not let me go. Or Dana go. He won't
stop until we're both dead."

"I won't let him kill you." Joe looked at her fiercely.

"I want you to get away if you can, Joe," she whispered, brushing at
his cheek. "Promise me you'll go if he lets you. For me."

He shook his head. "I won't let him kill you, Mae. I'll die first."

She covered her face miserably, her face flushing and twisting to
tears. She sobbed quietly, fear and frustration overcoming her.

Joe leaned closer until his forehead rested against hers. He kissed
her, lingering there. He told her it would be all right.

"Hey."

Both Mae and Joe's faces shot toward the door, where Rudy was
standing, his gun in his hand.

"Mr. Curran said no talking," he said, waving the gun at Mae. "Get
back on the bed."

Mae stood, her hand lingering on Joe's leg as she composed herself
as best she could. Then she withdrew to the bed once again.

"I won't tell him this time," Rudy said, "but next time, I will. So
make sure there isn't a next time, all right?"

Mae nodded. "Thank you," she said, sitting on the edge of the
mattress. She looked at Joe across the vast space between them.

Then Rudy withdrew, tucking his gun back into its holster as he
returned to the hall.



**********


END OF CHAPTER 21a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 21b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 21b.

***********


DEUCE OF CLUBS MOTEL
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA
3:25 p.m.



The stationery was torn-out pieces from a spiral steno notebook, the
top edge still ragged from being ripped from the pad. Beside the
loose pages on the desk, the cheap black ballpoint she'd borrowed
from the front desk, a small box of envelopes, the cheapest she could
buy at the drug store she'd passed on the way into town.

She'd been writing for hours now, her neat cursive filling page
after yellow page. She had the television on for background noise,
and it calmed her nerves and forced her to concentrate on the tasks
she had at hand.

First, the letter to Skinner. Explaining what she'd done and why
she'd done it. It was short, to the point, and, except for the last
paragraph, all business. Only at the end did she break the formal
tone she'd used in the explanation of Curran's demands in how she
should go to get Mulder. Only there did she tell him how much she
respected him and the difficult work that he did. She thanked him for
what he had done for her and Mulder over the years, the support of
their work on the X-Files, even when that support took the form of
dressing downs designed to make them look more presentable to the
higher-ups at the FBI. He'd done a lot to preserve their reputations,
to give their work some small measure of credibility, and for that,
she told him, she was grateful.

Next, a letter to her mother, one she hoped she would never have to
write. She found the letter beginning by talking of memories she had
of her childhood, fond memories, difficult ones. Things her mother
had taught her over the years, things she had tried to emulate. She
told her mother she hoped that she had made her proud in some small
way with the life she had chosen to lead, with her dedication to what
she believed.

And then, after much searching within herself, she had told her
mother about this case, the one that very well might be her last. She
told her everything about what happened in Richmond. Everything. Even
the rape. She told her so that she could understand the person she
had become now in the face of it, so her mother could know what she'd
overcome to come to the place of strength she now stood within. It
was the place that allowed her to take this risk for Mulder's sake
and for the sake of the woman who had once risked everything for her.

She asked her mother not to blame Mulder for anything that might
happen to her, for any action she might take for his sake.

Then Scully told her she loved her, and she said goodbye.

And lastly, in the final few minutes before she would take the call
from Curran, she wrote a letter to Mulder. She guessed it could be
considered a love letter, though there was so much sadness in it, so
much imploring for him to understand her decision to trade her life
for his, that most of it was hardly romantic.

She did tell him a few things, however -- how he had completed her
life, filled a space she hadn't even known was there before she met
him. She told him how making love with him made her feel more alive
than she thought possible. She told him how loving him had saved her
from the solitary, desolate parts of herself.

She apologized for the time she had not spent with him in the past
months, the time with him and yet apart from him, for the time she
had needed to heal but that she now wanted back. She had not known
that time could be so short.

She stopped not when she was finished saying what she meant to say,
but when she couldn't write any more, when the tears, which she could
not afford to entertain at this moment, threatened to overwhelm her.

She folded the letters carefully, placed them in the small envelopes
and addressed them each carefully, placing stamps, also purchased at
the drugstore, in the corners after she'd closed them.

She left the return address blank.

Then she picked up her key and the envelopes and went out the door,
walked to the office, down the long walkway in front of the other
doors to other rooms. She chanced a look at the closed door of room
14, the room Granger was hiding within. He'd called her room when
he'd arrived and said nothing but that number before he hung up.

The bell on the door to the office jingled as she entered, the clerk
on duty kicking his legs down from where they were up on the desk, a
newspaper in his hand. He smiled to her as he stood behind the
counter.

"Miss Black, what can I do for you?" he asked. She had never found
out his name.

"I was wondering," she began, fingering the envelopes. "Could you
put these in the mail for me? I'm going to be leaving early in the
morning and won't have time to find a mailbox myself."

"Sure thing," the clerk said, smiling that same smile, wide as a
jack-o-lantern. "I actually get off here in a few minutes, at four,
and I go by the post office on my way home. I'll put them in then and
they'll make the five o'clock pickup. How's that?"

She smiled in return. "That would be great, thank you. Have a good
evening." She turned to go.

"You, too, ma'am," the man replied, and Scully went out the door,
the bell jangling behind her.

It was warm for the time of day, and she found herself pushing up
the sleeves to Mulder's shirt a bit higher, getting more of the thick
air on her.

Back inside her room, she turned on the air conditioning unit, the
ancient thing rattling to life and sending out a stream of cool stale-
smelling air. Then she sat on the bed, the phone beside her, and
waited.

Five minutes went by as she sat in the near-silence, the television
burbling faintly behind the sound of the air conditioning unit.

Eight minutes.

At 4:04 the phone rang.

"Yes," she said without inflection.

"You're doing well so far, Dana," Curran replied. "Word has it you
checked in about one and came alone. That's good. You ready to come
get your friends then?"

"Yes," she said again, equally as flat. "Just tell me where you want
me to go."

She could almost hear Curran smiling. "Get back on Highway 60 and
follow it onto the reservation. About ten miles in you'll find a
turnoff marked with a cone, a dirt road. That'll take you into one of
the access points to a canyon. Park your car at the trailhead and
come in on foot. There's a clearing in the middle of the canyon, and
a wash there, I'm told it's called, a little river of a sort. Come
from the trail to the edge of the wash and I'll be on the other side
with your people. We'll make the exchange from there."

"Let me talk to Mulder first," she tried, and Curran chuckled.

"I put a big piece of tape over his mouth. He was giving me a good
bit of lip earlier, the bastard. I'm not taking that tape off for
anything. But rest assured he's alive. They all are. Whether they
stay that way is up to you, isn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose it is," Scully replied evenly. "What time?"

"Be there in an hour," Curran said. "I should be all situated by
then."

"I'm on my way," she said, and she waited for him to hang up before
she replaced the receiver herself.

She stared at the phone for a long moment, feeling her heartbeat
pick up. She drew in a calming breath, let it out, closing her eyes.

She would only have one chance to do this right, she thought to
herself, her teeth gritting down.

She forced herself to even out, to take it in.

Then she picked up the phone, pulled in another long breath, and
dialed room 14. Granger picked up on the first ring.

"He called," he said by way of greeting.

"Yes," she replied.

"Okay," Granger said, and he was breathing a little hard himself,
she noted. "Give me the layout, and tell me what you want me to do."


************

UNKNOWN LOCATION
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA
NEAR THE SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION
4:18 p.m.


Tom Lantham stood in the doorway to the bedroom with Rudy Grey, his
gun still in its holster, his expression grim. Curran brushed past
him and went into the room, his gun in his hand, and Lantham watched
the woman, Mae, tense up and begin to tremble slightly at the sight
of her brother.

He hated to see that. A pregnant lady frightened like that. He
didn't care what she'd done.

And he had to admit that Curran made him nervous, too. The man's
cheese had slipped off his cracker for sure, he thought, rubbing at
his mouth absently.

He watched Curran go toward the man, Mulder, who was still sleeping
on the floor beside the recliner, his face pale beneath the bruising
and slack.

"Wake the fuck up," Curran spit, kicking Mulder hard in the side,
and Mulder jerked awake instantly, though his eyes were still
lolling. The drug that Curran had had Rudy give the poor man was
still in him. Lantham could see it in his face.

Curran had moved past him to the other man, this man Porter, and
began untying his hands from the back of the chair.

"Get Mulder up," Curran called over his shoulder to him and Grey,
and Grey went forward obediently, helping Mulder into a sitting
position and then hauling him to his feet. Mulder stood a bit
unsteadily, his eyes, over the wide length of tape, on Curran, his
wrists secured in front of him.

Curran was taping Porter's hands in front of him, like Mulder's, and
he glanced at Lantham, still standing in the doorway.

"Well, don't just stand there. Go take her to the car." Curran
nodded to Mae, who looked at Lantham, her eyes wide and pleading.

Lantham shook his head. "No," he said, and shifted against the
doorway.

Now Curran stopped, looked back at him steadily. "What are you
saying to me?" His voice was soft, that dangerous tone Lantham had
grown accustomed to from him. He refused to be cowed by it, though.
He knew Curran wouldn't risk going after him. Not with Kingston and
the entire Sons of Liberty behind him.

"I'm saying no," Lantham repeated. "I don't know what you're
planning to do with these people, but I don't want any part of it. I
didn't sign on for murder on this trip. You can have all that."

Curran stood straight, facing him now. Grey was looking from Lantham
to Curran and back again.

"You're supposed to be at my disposal, Mr. Lantham," Curran said. "I
need help moving these people. But you help me move them into the car
and Mr Grey and I will do the rest, if you're too squeamish. Mr. Grey
isn't, I'm sure."

Lantham looked at Rudy, who was smiling slightly at the perceived
compliment. The poor son-of-a-bitch was too stupid to know what
Curran was up to, really. Rudy would simply do what he was told,
though Lantham doubted he would actually shoot anyone.

The people in the room didn't know that, though.

And with Rudy, you never really knew.

"All right," Lantham said, returning his attention to Curran. "You
take Mr. Grey here and I'll help you put these people in the car and
you do what you've got to do. I'll stay here with your son. Make sure
he stays safe while you go about your business."

"All right then," Curran replied, though Lantham could tell he
wasn't happy with the turn of events. "Get my sister in the car."

With that, Curran hauled Porter to his feet, and Lantham went to
Mae, took her by the arm gently. She allowed it and stood.

"Come on," he said quietly, and led her out the door, Grey hustling
the staggering Mulder behind him, Curran behind Porter, bringing up
the rear.

**

Outside, lying on his stomach by a tree on a small rise beside the
house, Jimmy Shea looked down at the house through binoculars,
looking for any sign of activity, peering in the windows with the
curtains opened.

He saw nothing for a long moment, waited, his hand on his rifle
there beside him on the ground.

Then, the front door opened, and he recognized Mae Curran
immediately, though he hadn't seen her in years. She was walking
slowly out the front door toward a large American sedan parked beside
the house. There was a man behind her, his hand on her arm. Shea
couldn't tell if he was armed or not, but decided he probably was.

He refocussed the binoculars on the door as another figure appeared,
a dark-haired man, beaten about the face from the looks of him, with
tape over his mouth and his hands taped together in front of him. He
was being pushed along at gunpoint by a shorter, stocky man. The dark-
haired man was unsteady on his feet, and the one with the gun kept
having to reach out and take hold of him to keep him going in the
right direction.

Then a fifth figure, another man Shea didn't recognize, bound the
same way as the staggering man, but no tape over his mouth.

Then Shea saw him. Owen. A gun in his hand as he gave the man in
front of him a shove toward the car.

They were all going somewhere, that was for certain.

Shea put the binoculars down silently, began slowly crawling
backward away from the edge of the rise, barely rustling the ground
as he crept back.

His truck was parked on the road, hidden off the side in view of the
driveway. Once he knew he was concealed by the trees, he stood, slung
the binoculars around his neck and picked up the sniper's rifle,
heading quickly and quietly back to the truck.


************


NEAR HAWK'S EYE CANYON
SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION
4:40 p.m.


Paul Granger drove his dark sedan down the dirt road, the road a
good half a mile from the turnoff Scully was going to be taking once
she arrived from the motel. They'd decided that he would leave 20
minutes ahead of her, just in case she was still being watched, so
that it would look like he was just another guest at the motel
leaving for an early dinner or an errand.

He'd driven onto the reservation, the town of Show Low giving way to
desolation, the long winding highway that cut through forest -- no
houses that he could see, no stores or gas stations. Just woods.

He'd driven by the turnoff, marked by a faded orange cone, then done
a U-turn and headed back, to another dirt road that led off in the
same direction as the one Scully would be taking. He was glad for the
privacy the weaving dirt road and the woods afforded.

He'd checked the map -- the canyon, Hawk's Eye, was a long one,
stretching some five miles, gradually widening until it became Salt
River Canyon, the wash in Hawk's Eye a small tributary to a larger
river.

On the other side of the canyon, there was another road, with other
entrance points. Curran would be coming from that side.

The road he was on led to a trailhead almost identical to the one
Scully would be taking into the canyon, only this one was a bit
further north. He would be able to pick his way through the forest to
the place where she was meeting Curran, getting as close as he could
without leaving the safety of the rise or the trees.

He'd still be close enough to get down to the wash if necessary.

Finally he reached the dead-end, where a small trail led into the
woods. He stopped the car, cut the engine, then climbed out. He could
hear water flowing somewhere in the distance.

A woodpecker tapped suddenly a tree beside him, and he jumped at the
sudden ratchet of hollow sound, pulling his gun and pointing it
toward the tree.

The bird was startled by the movement and stopped instantly, staring
down at him with its bead eyes.

Granger put his hand on his forehead, pushing out a breath as he
shook his head at himself. He felt the urge to burst into laughter,
and barely kept it at bay.

"Shit," he said under his breath, blew out another breath.

Composing himself again, he checked his 9mm, tapped the safety off.
Then he tucked the gun back beneath his black leather jacket in his
shoulder holster, closed the car door quietly and headed up the road
to the trailhead and the woods beyond.


*******


HAWK'S EYE CANYON
SALT RIVER WASH
SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION
4:57 p.m.


They were a grim procession, the two men with their hands bound
stumbling on the uneven ground, Mae leading the way with Owen behind
her, his gun drawn and tapping at the center of her back every now
and then. Rudy Grey brought up the rear.

The trail began to descend a little, and Mae could hear water
rushing ahead of them, saw a brightening in the trail, a clearing
coming into view.

"Keep moving," Owen grunted as Mae slowed a bit, a feeling of
intense weakness coming over her.

"Owen, I'm sick," she said under her breath, and she halted, pulling
the line up short. She turned to her brother then, meaning to plead
with him one last time, to try to make him stop this.

And was greeted by the pistol on the center of her forehead, his
face clenched into a snarl.

"I. Said. Keep. Moving." His voice was monotone, devoid of anything
even close to emotion. He pulled back the hammer on the gun, replaced
it on her forehead. Mae froze, closing her eyes.

"Owen, please," she whispered. "Please."

She opened her eyes then and looked at Joe, who was struggling to
keep his mouth closed, but his eyes were saucers, huge and panicked.
Mulder's weren't much better, though his lids drooped every now and
again as he worked at staying upright.

Owen's hand shot out and pushed her shoulder roughly, spinning her
around. He shoved her forward, toward the sound of the water and the
light.

Then they were in the clearing, a huge sandy expanse between the two
sloping canyon walls. There were small groves of trees here and
there, giving way to a wide creek, the water running white in some
places. In others, it was deeper and glassy and black, but still
moving swiftly.

Across the clearing, on the other side, she saw another wide opening
in the canyon, another place where a trail came in. Owen angled her
toward it, toward the bank, then stopped her abruptly. Her stomach
churned, sweat beading her forehead, but she knew it was mostly her
fear now.

Fear mixing with a sort of resignation about what was about to
happen. To all of them.

"Put them on their knees here and here," Owen said to Rudy, pointing
with his gun. Rudy did as he was told, pushing Joe down onto his
knees on one side of Curran, and then placing Mulder on his on the
other side.

Owen put a hand on Mae's shoulder and pulled her back against him,
his chin over her shoulder, his gun pressed to the side of her head
and an arm across her chest.

A human shield. In case Dana came armed. Which Mae knew she would.
Mulder was too tall and too unsteady on his feet to serve the
purpose. But Mae would be an adequate deterrent.

Mae hated knowing that. Hated being used this way. Especially since
she knew that Owen had no intention of letting her go.

She looked down at Mulder and Joe, kneeling, their hands out in
front of them. Mulder turned and looked back at her as though he
wanted to say something, but the tape prevented it. Instead he
nodded, opened his palms and lowered them to the ground.

Stay calm, he was saying. She drew in a deep breath and answered him
with her eyes, afraid to even nod.

"Stay to the side," Curran said to Grey. "But keep your gun on these
two. And shoot if either of them tries anything. I want them still as
stone. Everyone understand that? No sudden movements."

Rudy withdrew, and Mae saw Joe and Mulder both nod. She bobbed her
head once, as well, and Owen tightened his hold on her, pressing
himself closer against her. Mae's breathing picked up as the fear
began to overtake her.

Then they waited, watching the other side of the creek, the running
water and Mae's breathing the only sound around them.


**

High on the cliffside, Jimmy Shea reached the edge, crawling on his
belly, his rifle out before him. He had a clear view from here.
Curran in the center, the two men on either side of him. His sister
in front him.

And a gun to her head.

Holy Mother, Shea thought, closing his eyes and shaking his head.
His own sister? He was using his own sister to shield him? From what?

He was bluffing. He had to be. Surely Owen wouldn't hurt Mae, he
decided. Owen had loved his sister his whole life. They'd been nearly
inseparable since James' death, and since the death of their older
brother, the priest shot in the square in Belfast.

He must be using her against someone coming to meet him. A pawn in a
game he was playing, a bit of strategy and nothing more.

But something else was in the back of his mind. A worry. Everything
he'd been told about Owen, how he'd lost his mind, lost control.

Thinking this, Shea quietly pulled the rifle up, bracing it in his
hands, the butt's familiar end at his shoulder. He put his eye to the
scope, not even closing the other as he sighted through it, trying to
get Owen's head in the crosshairs.

Mae was right there, her head right next to her brother's. Through
the scope, he could see the terror in her eyes.

This wasn't a bluff or a game, he realized. Mae was afraid for her
life, her skin pale as a spirit's. She was trembling faintly.

And the look on Owen's face. Hatred. Determination. Something else,
too. Something wild and dangerous.

Not quite sane.

Shea sighed, deeply saddened.

There was movement from the other side of the canyon, which Shea
noted from his peripheral vision. He kept his eyes on Owen though,
who was jerking his sister closer to him, their heads pressing even
closer together.

"No shot," Shea whispered, pursing his lips.

He kept still, the scope on both their heads now, his only movement
his finger, edging, as if on its own accord, onto the trigger.


**

On the other side of the canyon, tucked in a fold of trees right at
the edge of a slope that led to the sand of the clearing, Granger lay
on his belly, peering from behind a tree, watching Owen with Mae and
Mulder and a man he didn't know who he assumed to be Mae's lover.
They were all arranged around Owen like chess pieces, the two men
looking battered and worn.

Mulder especially. He looked like he was having a hard time even
remaining upright. It worried Granger, first for his well-being in
general, and second, because it appeared Mulder wouldn't be able to
do much to help himself escape if the opportunity arose.

But there were only two of them, Granger thought, taking it all in,
his pistol in front of him. Owen and the man off to the side, who had
his gun pointed at Mulder, with a clear shot at the other man, as
well.

And Owen had Mae up against him, keeping him from having any sort of
shot without endangering her.

Then, movement off to his left.

Scully.


**

Scully walked slowly into the clearing, onto the sand from the dirt
trail and saw the scene before her as soon as she entered it. Owen
watching her from over Mae's shoulder, Mulder and another man -- the
father of Mae's child -- kneeling in front of him, on either side.
The man was looking at Scully, wary and curious.

She met Mulder's gaze as she kept her slow pace toward the creek
that separated them. He was shaking his head almost unperceptively,
his eyes darting to the side toward Owen.

Don't trust him, he was saying. Don't believe him.

"Stop," Owen said, his voice echoing in the canyon.

Scully halted instantly, about ten feet from the edge of the creek.
She kept her hands to the sides, stood still. Owen looked at her for
a long moment in the silence that followed.

"Dana, the months have been hard, I see," he called across the
creek. "You don't quite look like yourself anymore."

Scully said nothing, only looked at him, looked at Mae, whose eyes
were more afraid than anything she'd ever seen. She tried to reassure
Mae with her eyes, but Mae did not break her gaze, not even to blink.

The warning in them was as clear as it had been in Mulder's.

Owen seemed displeased by her silence, his expression hardening even
more.

"How about you take that shirt off you're wearing?" Owen said. "The
top one."

Scully stood and stared at him for a few seconds. Then Owen jerked
Mae backward hard, pressed the gun against her head harder. Tears
started down Mae's cheeks, her lip trembling.

"Don't make me fucking tell you anything twice," Owen warned,
looking at the men, then back up into Scully's face. "For any of
their sakes."

Scully swallowed, looked at Mulder again, his face battered, blood
staining the tape over his mouth. His eyes did not move from her
face.

She remained silent, reached up and began to undo the knot at her
waist.

"Slow, Dana," Owen said. "Do it slow. I don't want any sudden
movements of you going for the gun I know you've got hidden
underneath there."

Scully slowed her movements down, opening up the shirt's tails. Then
she reached up and began undoing the buttons one at a time until the
front was open, exposing the thin white t-shirt underneath. She
peeled out of the shirt and let it drop to the ground beside her.

Her gun was clearly visible in its holster now.

"Take that thing out and throw it in the creek," Owen called. "I
want to be able to count the hairs on your hand while you do it."

Scully reached for it and lifted the Sig out, holding it for a
second. Then she tossed it the few feet to the creek. It landed in
the black water and disappeared.

"Now put your hands up and turn around," Owen said, and Scully
swallowed again, raised her arms and did as she was told.

She knew what Owen would see. Mulder's gun in the back of her pants,
the butt of it protruding from above her belt.

"Take that one out, too," he called. "And do the same thing with it."

Scully reached behind her, drew it out, and turned back around,
tossing it into the water, as well.

"Any other surprises in those clothes of yours?" Owen asked.

She shook her head.

"That's good," Owen said.

They stood in silence for a few seconds, Owen's eyes on Scully's.
Scully didn't flinch from his intense gaze, from the hatred burning
in it.

"Aren't you going to say anything to me?" Owen asked, tightening his
hold on Mae even further.

Scully shifted her weight, lowered her hands. "You have me now," she
said, just loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the rushing
water. "It's time to let them go."

"All of them?" Owen said, and he smiled, showing his teeth.

"That was the deal," Scully said, keeping her voice composed, though
she didn't like the turn in the conversation. "Me for all of them.
Send them over and I'll come when they're all on this side."

Owen levelled his gaze even more at her. "Think hard about that,
Dana," he said. "Think hard. Because what John Fagan did to you is
nothing compared to what you're going to go through with me before
I'm finished with you."

Scully felt a flush come up on her cheeks at the mention of the
rape, but her chin lifted up defiantly, as well, her eyes not leaving
Owen's.

She heard Mulder make a sound from behind his tape, turn to Owen,
who spared him a glance and a smirk before returning his eyes to
Scully's.

"How was that, anyway?" Owen continued conversationally. "Was it
*good* for you, Dana? Because I'll be better, I promise."

Mulder made another sound, clearly a curse, digging up sand with his
hands. Owen looked at him again, then back up at Scully. He laughed,
and it echoed off the canyon walls.

"Send them over," she said, refusing to take the bait. Mulder's eyes
were on her again, his head shaking. She nodded to him once.

Yes, I will do this, she said across the space between them. I will.

Owen seemed to consider that for a moment, the smile vanishing from
his face. Scully realized she was disappointing him by not playing
his game.

A dangerous strategy, she knew.

"I tell you what," Owen countered. "I'll give you a free one. I'll
send this pathetic fuck Joe Porter over there to you. I don't have
any real interest in him anyway, even though he did knock up my
sister and I should kill him for that."

Porter looked at Scully, then at Owen, then back at Scully.

"All right," Scully said evenly. "Send him over."

Owen looked down at Porter. "Get up and walk over there."

The man was looking at Mae, Scully noted, and Mae at him.

"Go, Joe," Mae implored. "I'll be all right. Just go."

Again the man hesitated.

"Get up and fucking go or I'll kill her right here!" Owen roared,
and Joe scrambled to his feet then as Mae cried out from another hard
jerk.

"NOW!" The word tore off the canyon around them.

"Okay..." Porter said. "Just don't hurt her..."

And with that, he turned and went to the bank, then into the water,
sloshing up to his knees as he stumbled, off balance with his hands
bound, along the bottom toward where Scully stood.

Once on the other side of the bank, Scully looked at him.

"Get behind me," she murmured, and Porter nodded and did as he was
told.

Scully returned her attention to Owen. "Mulder and Mae," she said,
her voice flat and calm.

Now Owen smiled, and Scully grew cold with it.

Here it comes, she thought.

"Choose," he said, the smile on his face growing wider.


**********


END OF CHAPTER 21b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 21c.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 21c.


**

"Oh fuck," Granger whispered from behind the tree. He peered around,
praying for some movement, for a shot. Anything.

He was going to have to do something. He knew that now. No matter
what it took. Scully still had the gun at her leg. He needed to give
her a chance to get to it.

But with Mae in front of Curran like that...

"Fuck," he hissed again beneath his breath.

**

"What?" Scully's heart filled with iron and plummeted to her
stomach, and for the first time panic began to crawl up her.

"I said 'choose,'" Owen said, nodding first to Mulder, then pushing
at Mae's head with the muzzle of the gun. "My sister and her baby, or
your boyfriend there. You only get one of them. The other one dies
right here as soon as the other one goes to your side of the water."

"That wasn't our agreement," Scully said, forcing her voice to
steady.

"I changed my mind," Owen said, the smile, like quicksilver, gone
and replaced with grit teeth. "Now hurry it up and pick. My sister
who saved your life by killing *my* friend and the little bastard
she's carrying or your mouthy fucking boyfriend. PICK!"

Scully looked from one to the other. Mulder was shaking his head
again vigorously, making sounds from beneath the tape.

"Dana, pick Mulder," Mae said calmly.

"Shut the fuck up!" Owen screamed, and got his hand around her
throat.

"He's going to kill me no matter--" Her voice strained from his hand
around her throat.

Scully looked from one to the other, and frustrated tears rimmed her
eyes.

She couldn't choose that easily. Mulder wouldn't want anyone dying
for his sake, and it wasn't just Mae -- it was her baby, as well.

There had to be a way to save them, she thought, desperate.

Mae and her baby and Mulder.

There had to be a way...


**

Jimmy Shea shook his head, hearing all this. His sister *pregnant*
and him going to kill her like this.

The boy on the motorcycle.

The boy in the pub.

James Curran laughing.

Mae's shy smile at the wake.

Shea closed his eyes, sent up a prayer.

God help me, he implored.

James, he thought. Forgive me.

He looked through the scope, and this time he did close the other eye.


**

"Do...it..." Mae rasped, and Owen squeezed down on her throat
harder. She tried to cough, clearly unable to breathe.

"ALL RIGHT!" Scully screamed. "All right, Owen! Just stop it!"

She knew Mae was right. Owen would never let Mae go. And he *would*
kill her.

The two women locked eyes. Mae jerked a nod.

"Just..." Scully began, swallowed, breathing hard. "Send Mulder.
Send him over now."

She still had her gun. Maybe there would be a
distraction...anything...a chance...

Owen's hand relaxed a bit and Mae gasped for breath, coughing.

"That's more like it," he said. "How's that for your friend now,
Mae, eh? The person you turned your back on me for, and she's willing
to let you and your baby die."

"You're not giving her a choice," Mae said.

"I did give her a choice," Owen insisted, pushing her head to the
side roughly. "She chose Mulder."

Owen watched Scully, who was looking at Mulder and Mae, stricken.
Then he turned and looked down at Mulder.

"Get up, Mulder," he said, his voice menacing once again. "Get up
and go."

Mulder was panting, breathing hard through his nose as he stared at
Curran. Scully could see the hatred that passed between them,
Mulder's hesitation. Owen pushed the pistol harder against Mae's
temple.

"Go now," Owen said. "Last chance."

And with that, Mulder struggled to his feet, his knees trembling. He
staggered to the side, shook his head clear, and turned, walked
unsteadily toward the bank.

Scully locked eyes with him as he reached the edge of the water,
began to wade in, the water to his ankles, his calves, his knees. He
stumbled even more than Porter had.

It happened so fast.

The gun from Mae's temple, pointed forward, pointed at Mulder's back.

A shot rang out. A scream, the word "no," tearing from Mae's throat
as the gun went to her temple again.

The sound still continuing, Scully looked at Mulder, who had stopped
in the middle of the stream. He was crumbling in on himself.

That's when she saw it. A red blossom at his stomach, the shirt torn
around it like the petals of a crimson flower. He looked at her, his
eyes lolling, then he tumbled forward into the water.

"MULDER!" Scully screamed, the sound joining Mae's shrill cry. Then
she dropped to a crouch, going for the gun...

**

"SHIT! SHIT!"

Granger jumped to his feet and tore from the treeline, sliding down
the slope into the clearing, kicking up a cloud of dust around him.
He hit the ground at a dead run, the gun still in his hand but
forgotten.

He saw Owen turn toward him, his gun coming up. Owen fired...


**

Mae felt the gun leave her temple, saw the man breaking from the
slope, charging them. She felt Owen's grasp on her loosen with his
distraction, saw Dana rising with a gun in her hand, and she knew
what she needed to do.

She swung her elbow back, catching Owen in the ribs just as Owen's
gun went off, knocking his arm off target.

He let her go and she dropped to the ground as though thrown there...

**

Scully shot to her feet, her stance sure, her left hand coming up to
cup the butt of the pistol in her hand, bracing it, despite the fine
tremor coursing through it. She fired...

**

Granger threw himself to the side, even though he knew Owen's aim
had been knocked off when Mae had struck him. The bullet whizzed by
overhead, too high. Then he saw the ragged hole appear in Curran's
shoulder from the bullet Scully had just fired. It staggered Curran
backward a few steps, but he held onto the gun, raised it toward
Scully.

"NO!" he screamed, his arms and legs pumping as he tore for the
creek.


**

Jimmy Shea adjusted his aim as his target staggered. It took only a
second to do so, to line up the crosshairs on their target.

Anguish flared in him.

He fired.


**

Scully saw Owen's gun coming up, knew there was no time to get out
of the way of this one. She raised the gun to fire again, but knew it
was too late.

A strange feeling of calm came over her. Her eyes went to Mulder,
who was bobbing slightly, floating with his face in the water down
the creek.

She waited for the bullet to come.

The shot rang out, sounding strange and too loud and too-faraway.

Then, as she watched in fascinated horror, the top of Owen's head
came right off, a spatter in a cloud of red beside him.

Owen dropped to the side, the gun tumbling from his hand as Mae
screamed, scrambling away toward the creek.

Another shot, the same faraway sound.

The man Curran had hired, standing there dumbfounded, was suddenly
struck backward, a huge hole in the center of his forehead. He fell
back into the sand and didn't move again.

"Get down!" Porter yelled from behind her, and shoved her hard with
both his hands, pushing her to the ground.

Scully fell forward on her belly in the sand, her eyes going to
Mulder just as Granger hit the water, throwing himself at Mulder and
hauling him to the bank closest Scully. He shielded Mulder with his
body as his eyes darted around for the source of the shots.

Ten seconds, she realized.

The whole thing had taken less than ten seconds.

"Mulder!" she called, struck out of her state, and, despite the
danger, she began to crawl forward, leaving the gun behind,
scrambling crab-like in the sand toward Mulder, who was sprawled
across Granger's lap, his torso covering him.

Mae was coming from the other side. She entered the creek, splashing
across. Porter was behind Scully, coming forward on his belly, as
well.

Scully reached Mulder now, cradled his head in her hands as she
looked into his face.

He wasn't breathing.

"Oh God..." she said. "Help me get this tape off his mouth." Her
shaking fingers were working the corner up, and Granger worked the
other corner. Finally they tore it off, exposing his swollen lip.

"He's aspirated water," Scully said, her voice quaking. Mae had made
it beside her now, Porter behind her. Scully glanced down at Mulder's
belly, where blood was seeping from the exit wound.

"Mae, put your hand over that bullet wound and press down as hard as
you can. Granger, get him on the flat ground. And get the tape off
Joe's hands. We need them."

"But those shots--" Granger began.

"Don't worry about them," Mae said, breathless, but her face was
grimly set. She was still crying. "I think...whoever it is...he got
what he came for."

Granger looked at her, as did Scully and Joe. Scully glanced up at
where Owen's body lay, nodded.

Then Granger hauled Mulder up from the bank, lay his soaked body on
the ground as Scully and Mae swarmed over him. Granger reached over
and started unwrapping the tape from Joe's hands.

Scully scrambled up until she straddled Mulder's hips, leaned his
face to the side. Then she performed a modified Heimlich, thrusting
up on his abdomen beneath his ribs, trying to ignore the jagged hole
in his belly. They would deal with that after he was breathing again.

On each thrust, some water came out of his mouth.

Mae clamped both hands on the exit wound, pressing hard around
Scully's hand.

On the fourth thrust, Mulder jerked, sputtered, a huge cough coming
from him as a spray of water came out of his mouth.

"That's it," Scully said, climbing off him and stroking back his wet
hair from his pale face. "That's it, Mulder."

Mulder coughed again, water dribbling from the corner of his mouth,
his eyes wild, looking at the faces around him. He looked dazed, and
he hunched in pain from Mae's hands on the wound in his belly,
moaning. He wheezed in a breath.

Granger had Joe's hands free, and Joe came forward on his knees.

"Tell me what to do," he said quickly, and Scully nodded toward
Mulder's legs.

"We've got to get him out of here. Get his legs. Granger, get him
underneath the shoulders. Let's get back to the truck."

With that, the two men lifted him, and Mae kept her hands on the
exit wound as Scully reached to Mulder's back, her hand over the
small entrance wound. The four of them walked quickly, as much in
unison as they could manage, rushing back up the trail toward the
Bronco.

Mulder was looking up into Scully's face, struggling to focus.

"It's okay, Mulder," she soothed as they tussled him along. "You're
going to be okay." She looked down at the bleeding coming from
beneath Mae's hands. It was bad.

Mulder gagged slightly, his eyes rolling back in his head. Then
there was blood in his mouth, red around his teeth.

Scully felt panic overtake her now as she realized the extent of his
internal injuries. His stomach had been perforated. He was bleeding
into his belly.

They reached the Bronco, Scully throwing open the doors as Granger
and Joe loaded Mulder into the backseat, Scully climbing up after
them with Mae. She got Mulder situated on her lap, his head against
her breast, then she tossed Granger the keys. Granger caught them,
climbed into the driver's seat, Porter taking the passenger seat,
though he was facing behind, his face stricken.

Scully and Mae leaned back down on the bullet wounds, pressing hard,
despite Mulder's groans.

"Granger, drive fast," Scully said, breathless, as she looked into
Granger's grim face. "We don't have much time."


**********


END OF CHAPTER 21c and PART 3. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 22 and PART 4.


Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 22.

*********

ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA
11:34 p.m.


The statue of Mary was fronted by a stand of candles, all in
multicolored holders so that the iron stand looked like it was
covered with stained glass made of light.

Scully knelt before the figure. The statue's hands were pressed
together in prayer beneath her alabaster chin, her eyes looking down
at Scully with the patience of stone. There was a rosary in between
Scully's hands in front of her, given to her by a priest who'd been
doing rounds in the surgical waiting room, and the black plastic
beads on their kite string slipped between her fingers almost
absently, trembling from her left hand, her mouth moving over the
prayers in silence.

Now and at the hour of our death...

Deliver us from evil...

Now and at the hour of our death...

No tears. She was too tired for them. Her body, running on over 36
hours without sleep, couldn't muster them if she tried.

Granger had gone back to the motel earlier, let himself into both
their rooms and gotten a change of clothes for each of them. She was
out of the bloody t-shirt and jeans, dressed in a clean pair of Levis
and a light, loose black turtleneck. It guarded against the air
conditioning of the hospital, always set, she thought, a few degrees
too cold for the living.

Around her, complete silence. The smell of candles, sending up their
smoke prayers. The lights were out in the chapel, all except for
single spots on the statues of Mary and St. Jude at their kneelers,
and another on Christ hanging on the cross, the latter suspended on
the back wall. The fifteen rows of pews were empty, the door to the
chapel closed. She'd shut it behind her when she'd come in.

She reached the long single strand of the rosary, almost finished,
one hand coming up to cover her forehead. She leaned forward,
slumping on the kneeler slightly as the exhaustion settled over her,
a crushing weight.

Heavy like Mulder had been in her arms, the Bronco racing along the
deserted reservation highway, his eyes on her face, then closing
against the pain, his breath hissing in an out between clenched
teeth, blood on his lips. A noise had started in his throat, like a
whine.

"Okay...okay..." she'd said into his face, though her adrenaline was
pulsing as she staved off panic. "We're almost there. Just hang
on..."

Mae straddled his thighs on the seat to hold her hands over the hole
in his belly. She and Scully's eyes had met, Mae's expression grim.

Scully had had to look away from Mae then. Instead, she'd returned
her gaze to Mulder's face, his eyes coming open lazily. She'd stroked
his forehead with one hand, the other beneath him on the entrance
wound. Blood was warm on her thigh beneath her hand.

He was dying. She could tell from the way he looked at her that he
knew it, too.

She could almost see him slipping out of his body as his eyes rolled
and closed and he lost consciousness, his face turned to her breast.

She stared into the candles, mumbling the prayers a bit now,
concentrating on the words to block the images from her mind.

He'd been in surgery for five hours. There was no word on when he
would be out.

Finally, after sitting there with Granger, who was either silent and
looking at her helplessly every few moments or doting and trying to
get her to sleep or eat, she'd needed time to herself.

The chapel had seemed the place to go.

She was vaguely aware of the door opening behind her, creaking
closed quietly. Then footsteps, heavy and measured, coming toward
her. She clenched her eyes closed, dared not turn around. She didn't
know what would be waiting for her there.

The footsteps halted just behind her as the person stopped.

A hand came out and settled on her shoulder. She recognized the feel
of it, though she couldn't really remember feeling it before.

Her fingers moved over the beads, finishing the prayer seeming,
suddenly, very important. Three Hail Marys, then the Apostle's Creed
and she was done.

She opened her eyes, held the plastic cross in her fingers, the rest
of the dime rosary hanging down. She did not turn around.

"Hello, sir," she said softly, but her voice sounded terribly loud
in the heavy quiet of the chapel.

"How are you, Scully?" Skinner replied, his voice tired.

"I'm all right," she said, her voice even more quiet. She still did
not turn, or acknowledge his hand on her.

"Granger told me where to find you, about Mulder..." he said. "I
hope...I'm not disturbing you. I just wanted to see you, see if you
were okay."

Now she did rise, stepped back as he removed his hand. She faced
him, and saw him take in her appearance, his face going more
concerned, though he tried to hide it.

He was still dressed in his suit from work, his dark trench over it.
There was something so familiar about seeing him like this, something
that was a poignant reminder of the life she'd been worried she'd
left behind for good. It choked her emotions to look at him.

"When did you get here?" she asked, and her voice tremored.

"About an hour ago," he said. "I was on my way out here today
anyway, after I got a few things taken care of DC this afternoon. I
wanted to be here to head up the agents. I just got a report from
them, incidently. They've already been out to the canyon and gotten
everything they can in the dark. Owen Curran and the other man --
Rudy Grey, according to his driver's license -- they're both in the
morgue here now."

She nodded, trembling slightly as she struggled to contain what she
was feeling, to concentrate on what he was saying. He noticed, she
could tell.

"I've spoken to your mother," he said, jumping to what he considered
to be a safe topic, she knew. "I told her the charges had all been
dropped, that agents were on the way to you. This was yesterday,
before I knew about Mulder and Curran. She doesn't know about any of
that. I told her yesterday that it might be a good idea for her to
stay away until we got you into protective custody. Of course, all
that's moot now..."

She nodded. "Thank you, sir," she said, looked down. "I'll speak to
her myself when things with Mulder are a little more settled." She
couldn't think about her mother at this point. She couldn't think
about anything clearly. She put a hand on her forehead, rubbed at her
eyes.

"You sure you're all right?" Skinner asked, bending slightly to try
to look into her eyes. She dropped her hand, met his gaze, nodded.

"Yes," she said. "I'm just tired. I should get back to the waiting
room, though, in case there's any word."

She looked at him and could tell he felt dismissed, but was being
understanding with her. She shook her head.

"I'm sorry," she added quickly. "I'm very grateful for everything
you've done for us over the past months. I don't mean to seem--"

"It's okay," he said, and reached out to grip her upper arm as
though he meant to hold her up. "I know you've got a lot on your mind
right now. You don't have to apologize. I was glad to do everything I
did. I just wish I'd been faster with it all. Maybe none of this -- "
He gestured around them. "-- would have happened."

She shook her head. "We could all drive ourselves crazy thinking
that way," she said. "Don't blame yourself for any of it." She
paused. "Though I understand. I'm trying not to blame myself, too."

Now her eyes did rim with tears, and she put a hand to her forehead
again, pushing her hair back roughly.

"He's going to be all right," Skinner said firmly, tightening his
hold on her arm. "You have to believe that."

She pulled herself together, nodded quickly, wiped at her eyes.
"Yes," she said, though she didn't even convince herself. "I need to
get back now."

"Okay," he said, and let her go. Then he walked beside her down the
long aisle and out into the cold corridor beyond.


**

APRIL 11
12:04 a.m.


Upstairs on the fifth floor, Joe Porter, still dressed in the blood-
spattered jeans and t-shirt he'd had on since leaving Mexico, sat
next to Mae's bedside in a recliner, watching her sleep.

She was turned on her side, her legs drawn up, an IV coming from the
back of her hand. She'd been shivering in her hospital gown earlier,
and he'd layered blankets on top of her, gotten one for himself,
which he now huddled beneath.

Mae's face was still pale in the room's florescent light, a light
sheen of sweat on her face. She was still shocky -- dehydrated and
exhausted from their ordeal.

When they'd gotten Mulder into the ER, Mae had collapsed in the
waiting room, Joe barely managing to catch her as she'd slumped to
the floor. She'd been rushed back to the ER herself then, and the
doctors had examined her and decided she needed at least 24 hours of
observation and a steady regimen of fluids and bland food.

Joe stood and went to the bedside, leaving the blanket on the
recliner, leaned over Mae and kissed her temple, barely touching her.

The baby was all right, the doctors had said. Mae was going to be
all right.

He couldn't believe how lucky they'd gotten.

Then he thought of Mulder and reconsidered that sentiment.

Joe wondered how he was doing. He'd told Dana which room Mae was in
so that she could call and let them know any news, but there'd been
no word yet. Though he didn't know Mulder well, he had grown to
respect the man for how he'd talked to Owen and for his unwillingness
to leave Mae when Dana had been forced to choose between them. He
wanted to go down while Mae slept and check on how he was doing, how
Dana was doing.

But then he remembered the hard truth of things -- Joe was, himself,
wanted for drug dealing in California, the ghost of his past that
still haunted him. And Mae...the fact that Dana hadn't had her taken
into custody already spoke volumes of their friendship. He wondered
if, as more and more agents poured into Show Low, Scully would be
able to continue hiding Mae.

And now this man Granger was involved, as well. Joe wasn't sure what
he would do with all this...

He sighed, shaking his head as he smoothed Mae's long hair back on
the pillow behind her.

His thoughts turned, as they'd been doing over the hours, to Sean.
Joe couldn't think of how to find his way back to the house where
they'd been held. What would that man -- Lantham -- do with Sean when
Owen didn't come back?

Surely Lantham wouldn't keep him. He would want to give him to
someone, to Mae if he could find out she was alive. Lantham had
struck Joe as a man of some compassion, some conscience. The fact
that he hadn't participated in Owen's torture of him the way Grey had
-- and that he'd wanted to avoid the showdown in the canyon - showed
that he was probably wanting to extricate himself from all this as
quickly as he could.

A nurse drifted in almost soundlessly and checked the drip on the
IV, then came around the bed toward Joe. He moved out of the way as
she touched the inside of Mae's wrist gently, her eyes on her watch
for several long seconds.

"Is she okay?" he whispered, and the nurse looked at him kindly.

"Yes, she seems to be doing all right," she replied, her voice
quiet. "Just let her keep sleeping. She'll be much better by
morning." The nurse looked at his shirt, the blood staining it. "Do
you want me to get you some scrubs to wear until you get a change of
clothes?"

He considered, nodded. "Just a top would be good," he replied.
"Thank you."

"I'll bring one back when I come back in to change her IV in an hour
or so," she said, and then she withdrew.

Joe took his place beside Mae again, his thoughts returning to Sean.

There was only one way Lantham knew to contact any of them -- the
motel where Scully had been staying. He would know her name, that she
was checked in there. That would be where he would call if something
went wrong.

He would have to risk going down to find Dana after all. He needed
to get her to check and see if there were any messages for her at the
motel, any word at all yet. And he knew the motel clerk wouldn't give
that information to him if he called himself.

Emboldened now with his plan to get Sean back, he leaned down and
kissed Mae's temple once again, whispered into her ear.

"I'll be back," he said. Mae made a soft sound in response, but did
not awaken.

Then Joe went to the door, flicking the light off as he left the
room.


*****

DEUCE OF CLUBS MOTEL
12:45 a.m.


Tom Lantham sat at the foot of one of the two beds in the dingy
motel room, eating a bag of Soy Nuts and trying to do it as quietly
as he could so as not to wake the boy on the bed beside him. Sean had
finally cried himself out and dropped into an exhausted sleep about
an hour before, just as Lantham was watching the top news story on
the television, something about a double-murder in Hawk's Eye Canyon
on the outskirts of town.

"The bodies have yet to be identified," the reporter had said, then
talked about the strong FBI presence at the scene, the strangeness of
the secrecy surrounding the two victims.

No mention of anyone else there, he'd noted.

The bodies had to be Curran and Rudy. Why else wouldn't either one
of them return to the house? Curran wouldn't leave without his son,
that much was certain. And Rudy wouldn't take off without Lantham.
Both of them being dead seemed the only answer to that riddle.

But what had actually happened in the canyon, he couldn't begin to
fathom.

All he'd known was that when no one had come back to the house after
about 9 p.m., he'd gotten the hell out of there, expecting the cops
or the FBI or someone to come raining down on him any second. So he'd
packed up his and Sean's things and left, going the only place he
knew he might have a chance of meeting up with someone who could take
this kid off his hands. Then he could get back to Colorado as fast as
he possibly could.

After he'd checked in, he'd left a message at the desk for
"Katherine Black," the name he'd overheard Owen tell Scully to use.
Sure enough, she was still listed as a guest, though she was not in
her room. He'd told the clerk to have her call room 18 when she got
in, and he'd heard nothing since.

Nothing to do now but sit and wait, he thought, gnawing on the Soy
Nuts, the package crinkling loudly in the room. He glanced back at
Sean to find him still asleep, the boy's hand clenched around a
chipped metal car like his life depended on the thing.

Poor little sonofabitch, Lantham thought, shaking his head. He hoped
someone would come and fetch him soon. Lantham was out of his league
with this one.

The sound of the phone ringing nearly sent him out of his skin, Soy
Nuts flying as he dropped the bag, cursing.

Beside him, Sean was sitting bolt upright in the bed, as well, his
small chest heaving.

"It's all right," Lantham said, waving Sean off as he rose and went
toward the ringing phone. He picked it up.

"Yeah," he said into it.

"Mr. Lantham?" came a vaguely familiar voice. The man sounded
nervous. "This is Joe Porter. I got the message you left for
Katherine Black. Do you have Sean there with you?"

"Yes, he's here. You coming to get him?"

"Yes," Porter replied, relief evident in his voice, though he still
sounded guarded. "I'm in her room now. I'm coming right down."

Lantham looked at the door. "You coming by yourself, Mr. Porter?
Because I don't want no cops or anything here."

"I don't want any cops or anything, either," Porter replied. "I just
want Sean."

"All right," Lantham replied. "Come get him," and he hung up, then
turned to Sean, who was still breathing hard, his eyes wide.

"That was Joe then?" Sean said, his voice pitched higher than usual.

"Yeah, that was Joe," Lantham said, and stood, weary. "Get your
things gathered up. He's going to take you from here on out."

Sean climbed from the bed, began putting his things in the small
suitcases he had open at the foot of the bed. There wasn't much to
pack up. Sean had put everything away before the knock came at the
door.

Lantham drew his gun just in case, looked through the peephole. Just
Porter standing there, his black-and-blue face looking wide in the
front from the fish-eye view. Lantham opened the door for him.

"Mr. Lantham," Porter said, nodding to him. Lantham gave him credit
for looking fairly sure of himself. Somewhere along the way, the man
had managed to find a clean white t-shirt, which made his face look
not quite so bad.

Lantham looked around Joe to see if anyone had come with him, and
when he saw no one had, he reholstered the gun. Sean hustled from the
foot of the bed and around Lantham to Joe, who squatted down to hug
the boy. Sean had begun to cry again.

"It's okay, Sean," Porter said softly against the boy's ear. "You're
okay now."

Lantham watched the reunion, the sight making him disgusted and
somehow sad. This whole damn mess had disgusted him. He was glad to
be getting out of it now. No amount of money made what he'd seen
worth seeing.

"Does he have his things?" the younger man said to Lantham, and
Lantham nodded, went and gathered the suitcases and tried to hand
them to Porter. Sean didn't seem willing to let Porter go, his small
arms tight around his neck. Joe rose and got his arms around Sean,
who gripped him with his small body. The boy keened quietly. Lantham
saw that Porter had his hands full.

"Aw, for Christ's sake..." he said, shaking his head. "You got a
room here?" he asked, and Joe nodded.

"Yes, just now," Joe said, cautious.

"Then I'll take these down. You take the boy."

Joe looked at him, still wary, and nodded, then turned and carried
Sean out to the walkway, down a few doors to number 22, Lantham
following with the small suitcases. He watched Porter fumble the door
open, push it and carry Sean inside. Lantham followed, tossed the
suitcases down on the nearest bed.

"I'll be taking my leave of you now," Lantham said as Joe turned to
him, looking over Sean's trembling shoulder. "You don't know me and I
don't know you, okay? I did what I was paid to do but I didn't
believe in hurting anyone the way people got hurt. And I've lost a
friend in the process, I assume?"

Porter nodded. "Yes, you have."

"Well, then my debt's paid, with me bringing the boy back to you. I
hope you'll just let me go on."

Joe nodded. "I will. Thank you for bringing Sean. You did right by
us to do that."

"I did what I had to under the circumstances," Lantham grunted.

Porter nodded again, his arms tight around Sean's back. Lantham
could tell the other man didn't believe him, and he really didn't
give a good goddamn.

And then Lantham went out, closing the door behind him.

He walked down to his room, his suitcase not even unpacked. He
hoisted the dark bag, flicked off the television, and headed to his
car, leaving the key on the dresser.

He'd paid for the room in cash, to make the leaving easier and less
conspicuous. That was how he always did it. Starting up his car, he
threw on the headlights, backed out, and headed down the main strip
of Show Low, past the hospital and the town all gone to sleep,
disappearing into the night.


**********


ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL
1:02 a.m.


Scully was sitting, tense, on the edge of one of the vinyl couches
in the surgical waiting room, Granger trying to stay awake on the
other side, a copy of Good Housekeeping on his lap. Skinner was
pretending to be engrossed in a Sports Illustrated, but he was
turning the pages too quickly to be reading anything. Scully looked
down at her hands, then watched the door to the OR as if her will
alone could bring the doctor out.

After about ten more minutes, it worked.

The doctor appeared, his mask still around his neck, pulling off the
surgical cap he wore. His outer surgical robe had been removed so
that he was just in clean scrubs now. He was peering around the
waiting room, and Scully stood to make it easier for him to see her.

He came forward, and the smile he gave her as he made his way across
the room was wan at best. She swallowed as he looked at her, pushing
her hands into her pockets. Granger stood behind her, and Skinner
from the other side, both men's tension like a tangible thing in the
room around her. She did her best to push it away.

"Dr. Scully, isn't it?" the doctor asked as he put his hand out.

"Yes," she said, and her voice sounded strange to her, too breathy.
"Dr. Kellerman, right?"

The doctor nodded. "Yes, John Kellerman," he said as they shook
hands. "Agent Mulder's still quite critical, but he's out of surgery
and in the ICU. We just moved him down there."

"What...how much damage was there?" Scully said, relieved and
concerned all once. It wasn't the best news they could have gotten,
but he was alive. Something in her unhitched with that knowledge.

"It was quite extensive, I'm afraid," Kellerman said, shaking his
head. "The bullet hit his kidney going in and clipped his stomach
going out. There was a lot of hemorrhaging from the kidney, rapid
blood loss. And of course, the contents of the stomach drained into
the abdominal cavity, and you know what that can mean."

"What?'" Granger asked. "What can it mean?"

Scully kept her eyes on the doctor's face as she answered him.
"There's a great risk of peritonitis, an infection of the lining of
the abdomen," she said softly. "I assume you've got him on high doses
of antibiotics."

Kellerman nodded. "Yes, of course," he said, though he clearly
didn't take offense at the comment. "We're on top of that. The bigger
problem right now is the bleeding from that kidney. We managed to
save the organ itself, but with the blood loss being so fast and so
severe, I'm afraid he's slipped into a coma for now."

"A coma?" Skinner asked, clearly alarmed.

Scully nodded. "Yes, that can be a complication from rapid blood
loss," she said faintly.

"We've got him on life support at the moment," the doctor continued
quietly. "I understand he was in a creek for a short period of time
and aspirated some water. So we're going to give his lungs a rest in
case there are any respiratory problems from that. Shouldn't be for
more than a day or so. Just until we get him a little more stabilized
and see what his body's going to do. It's still touch and go right
now. The next 24 hours are going to be critical."

She nodded. "Of course," she said, looked down. She heard Granger
move up closer behind her, but appreciated that he didn't touch her.
Not in front of the doctor.

"When can I see him?" she asked, returning her gaze to Kellerman's
craggy face.

"Give them an hour down there to get him settled in a little bit
better," Kellerman said. "Then you'll have to go on the ICU visiting
schedule. I know you're an MD and his medical power of attorney, and
I will keep his chart open for you to look at. But those are hospital
guidelines, and without you having privileges here, well... I can't
bend them too much."

She nodded. "I appreciate you letting me see his chart," she said,
swallowed again. "I'll try not to backseat-drive."

Kellerman chuckled once, a strange sound in the room. "You can say
anything you need to. I don't promise to take your advice, but I am
willing to listen. Why don't you all move on down there? They'll let
you back in about an hour."

"Thank you," she said, nodding again and forcing a small smile she
didn't quite mean.


******

THE PENTAGON
WASHINGTON D.C.
2:14 a.m.


Dr. Robert Padden walked the seemingly endless corridor, the floor
shining in the building's dim, night lighting. He crossed into a
large open area, an homage to men who'd won the Congressional Medal
of Honor, then through, passing into another maze of corridors that
led to the heart of the building.

He remembered taking his son down this same corridor once, years
ago, when Ben was just a boy. He remember how proud he'd been, both
of showing the boy the building and of showing his son to the people
in the building.

Those days were not going to be over, he vowed to himself. He would
walk these halls again, and with the same regard he was held in then.

He was going to see to that.

The walls went from plaster to dark wood paneling, the pictures on
the wall from prints to oil portraits. Across one circular open area,
carpeting picked up, rich and green.

He was getting close now. He could see the door at the end of the
hallway, partially ajar and bleeding brighter light into the
receiving area.

When he reached the door, he stopped, straightening the tie and suit
he still wore from the day's proceedings.

"Come in, Dr. Padden," a voice from within said. A pleasant voice.
He entered and the room smelled of books and leather and the
unmistakable scent of power.

A figure sat behind a desk at the far end, and Padden went toward
the man, stopping before the desk.

"Please," the man said. "Sit down."

Padden turned to the leather wing chairs in front of the desk,
settled himself into one, his arms on the chairs delicately curved
arms. He regarded the man behind the desk coolly.

"What is it I can do for you, Dr. Padden?" the man asked. Padden
tried very hard to read his tone, but it was impenetrable.

"I think you know why I'm here," Padden said, looking down at a
nail, then up again.

"Yes," the man replied. "There have been some...issues...as of late,
I understand. This business with the two agents in the FBI. With Owen
Curran."

"Yes," Padden said, and met the man's gaze, though it was difficult.
"Perhaps if I can still bring Curran in--"

"Curran's dead," the man replied. "I don't know if Agent Scully or
Agent Mulder killed him, but he's dead. One of my operatives sent
from Phoenix just reported that to me a few hours ago. So capturing
Curran won't help you, I'm afraid. You are, as they say, 'on your
own' with this situation now that Ashcroft is involved. We can't risk
involving the President in our affairs." The man levelled his gaze.
"I'm sorry. It will be a shame to lose you."

Padden felt his face reddening and struggled to keep the emotions
down. He leaned forward slightly, pinning the other man with his eyes
in a manner that he'd never done before. He'd never had the nerve.

"I know things," he said softly. "You know what I know. Now I need
your help with this, a way to get out of this. I don't expect to
remain head of the NSA. But I expect to be moved within the
organization."

The man paused, leaned back in the chair. "You say you know things,"
he said quietly. "Is that a threat, Dr. Padden?"

"No, it's a fact," Padden replied. "There are a lot of people who
would profit from the things I know, both personally and financially.
I think I'm too valuable an asset to be lost at this point. You all
have made me that way. So I'm asking for your help now. A favor,
perhaps. For years of service."

The man seemed to consider. "And if I say no? What then?"

Padden met the man's gaze again, a faint smile growing on his face.

The man smiled back, nodded. "Yes, I think you're right, Dr.
Padden," he said. "I think there are some things that can be done.
And you're right -- you're too important at this point to be lost
from the organization. Give me 24 hours. I'll set things to right as
much as I can."

Padden nodded, relief washing through him, though he didn't show it.
"Even with Ashcroft?" he asked.

"Yes," the man replied. "Even with him."

Padden stood now, reached across the desk. The man shook it, his
heavily lined face twisted into a wider smile.

"We'll be in touch," the man said. "Try not to worry any more."

"Thank you," Padden said. "I appreciate your loyalty in this. I've
been concerned."

"Don't be," the man replied. "Goodbye, Dr. Padden. I'll be in touch."


********


ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA
2:22 a.m.


The ICU waiting room was designed to look more like a living room,
which made sense to Scully, since most of the people there were,
literally, living there while their family members or friends were in
the Unit. It had cloth couches, coffee tables, recliners, lamps
instead of overhead lighting. Two televisions cornered the room, one
with a VCR so people could bring in movies to watch.

The waiting was hard. The hospital was doing everything it could to
make it easier.

There was a priest and a nun there, as well, seemingly stationed in
the room. The priest was a different one than the one who'd given
Scully the flimsy rosary, but he was kind and didn't impose himself
too much. Father Hammond. That was his name.

Scully felt pleased to have remembered that given everything else on
her mind.

Granger was asleep in one of recliners, finally giving in to the
fatigue, his glasses askew on his face as he slept. Skinner had gone
off a little while ago, saying he'd be right back. He'd been trying
to catch her up on the news from the FBI, other news from Washington,
but she'd only been half-listening to him, and she knew he could
tell. He'd drifted into silence eventually and taken his leave.

After a few moments Skinner returned, looking awkward as he came up
and stood in front of her. He looted around in his pockets, pulled
out two triangular-shaped plastic containers, each holding pathetic-
looking sandwiches from a vending machine.

"Turkey or tuna?" he said, proffering them both.

She smiled faintly. "Sir, I appreciate the gesture, but I really
can't eat right now."

"Scully, you've got to have something. Granger told me you haven't
eaten yet since you got here." He pushed the sandwiches closer to
her, looking at her sternly.

She was too tired to argue. She reached up and took the turkey
sandwich, peeled back the plastic covering and took a bite. It tasted
exactly like it looked.

Skinner reached into his pocket again, brought out another sandwich,
set it on the coffee table in front of Granger. Then he sat beside
her, pulled the cover off the other sandwich and started to eat.

She ate half the sandwich, set the rest down on the table in front
of her. She could see Skinner looking at her from the corner of her
eye, though she kept her eyes on the television, the canned laughter
of a sitcom mumbling in the room.

"I can't imagine how you must be feeling right now," Skinner
ventured, and she saw him look down. "Your life has changed so much
in just the past day, to say nothing of the past few months."

She chuffed softly. "Yes," she said. "Just not having to be hiding
or running is something to get used to. And now with Mulder being
hurt so badly... I can't even begin to think about being able to go
home and pick up my life again." She looked down. "I just hope I
won't be going back alone."

She appreciated that he didn't dismiss her feelings by saying
something easy about Mulder. It was a real concern and he treated it
like one.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but...your hand," Skinner said
quietly. "Has it gotten any better?"

She hadn't really thought about it being better or worse, with
everything else that had been going on. But now that she considered
it, it probably was some better than it had been. The loss of
strength she'd had in it at first was definitely better.

"It shakes more when I'm overtired or stressed, but the rest of the
time it hasn't been that much of a problem. I haven't seen anyone
about it, of course. I'm hoping that once I do something more can be
done."

Skinner nodded. "I hope so, too." He looked toward the door, where
two nurses had just come in. "I hope--"

"The family of Fox Mulder?" one of the nurses called, though she did
not do it loudly. Scully stood and the nurse came forward. The
woman's faint smile eased Scully's nerves.

"I'm Sarah Gabriel," the nurse said, reaching a hand toward Scully.
"I'm Mr. Mulder's care plan nurse while he's in the ICU. You must be
Dr. Scully?"

"Yes," Scully replied as she shook Gabriel's hand once. She
introduced Skinner, who had stood and was there beside her, by his
FBI title.

Gabriel smiled that same stiff smile at him, shook his hand, then
returned her attention to Scully.

"Since you're a doctor, I don't have to prepare you too much for
seeing him, I'm assuming."

"No," Scully replied. "I know what to expect. Can I see him?"

The nurse nodded. "Both of you can go back, but only for fifteen
minutes. That's the hospital policy for ICU. Fifteen minutes out of
every hour. You've been told he's in a coma?"

Scully nodded, swallowed. "Yes."

"There's no hard evidence that he'll know you're there, but you
might consider talking to him, letting him know you're with him." The
nurse looked at Scully, smiled gently.

Scully considered Gabriel's words. She thought back to her time in a
coma after her abduction, the strange world she'd inhabited while in
it. The one thing she could remember for certain were the voices
around her. Mulder's voice.

She knew he would be able to hear her, as well.

"I will," she said to Gabriel, and the tears -- both from the
present situation and from that memory -- started to ache behind her
eyes.

"I'll take you back," the nurse said, and turned toward the door.

Scully looked up at Skinner, and she knew the sadness she was
feeling was on her face now. She didn't want him to see anymore of
that than she had to show him.

"Sir, if it's all right with you, I'd like to see him alone this
first time." She looked down, knowing the words were a concession.

"Of course," Skinner said, and she met his gaze. "I'll be right here."

"Thank you," she replied, and turned and followed Gabriel into the
corridor, leaving Skinner behind.

The double doors whooshed open, admitting them both. The large room
she entered had a nurse's station in the center, monitors glowing
from it. Then, in a circle around the station, tiny rooms with glass
windows, all the patients visible from the central area of the
station.

It looked too familiar to her. She heaved in a breath, let it out,
as Gabriel took her to the right.

She could see Mulder there behind the glass, tubes all over him, a
bank of lit screens behind.

It was like she was moving in slow motion. Like everything was.

Starting with Mulder's breathing -- slow and too-regular from the
respirator.

"I'll leave you with him," Gabriel said softly. "Let me know if you
need anything." Scully didn't acknowledge her as she left.

She took him in as she moved around to the side of the bed, her hand
gripping the guardrail next to his arm. His face was turned away from
her slightly. There were small pads taped to his forehead and temples
to record his brain activity, the respirator at the corner of his
mouth. His arms trailed IVs, an oxygen monitor biting lightly on his
finger. She could see the bulge of the surgical dressing beneath his
gown just below his ribs. He was covered to the waist with a white
blanket that smelled too much of bleach.

A breath was pushed into him, let out slowly. Then again. It joined
the sounds of beeping around her.

How many times have I been here, she thought bitterly. Right here?

She reached down and took his hand. It was cold, and she bent his
arm up, holding his hand against the soft material of her shirt,
trying to warm it against her.

"Mulder?" she called softly, her hand coming out to smooth down his
hair as she leaned over him, the tears coming now. She didn't even
try to stop them.

What could she say to him?

Finally she pulled in a breath, her hand lingering on his hair, and
said the only thing she had needed to hear from him when she'd been
lying as he was now. The only thing that mattered in the end.

"Mulder, I love you," she whispered. "And I'm right here."


**********


END OF CHAPTER 22. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 23.
TITLE: City of Light
AUTHOR: Bonetree (bonetree@gmail.com)

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 23.

***********

13 STONELEIGH ROAD
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
APRIL 13 (TWO DAYS LATER)
2:23 a.m.


Robert Padden walked down the long hallway that connected the study
to the living room, his gait a bit unsteady. He was on his fourth
scotch on the rocks, the dark liquid burning a trail down his throat
with each sip. He was looking into each room as he went down the hall
-- the last, the darkened guest room where his son slept when he came
to visit with his wife.

The room looked sterile and unused.

It had been a year since Ben had visited. Or was it more than that?
He couldn't remember. All Padden remembered was the stiff dinner at
the dining room table, Ben's tense smile as Padden had asked him
about his new assignment, how the new ship was treating him. Ben's
life in the Navy seemed a safe enough subject, a topic that wasn't
Ben's mother or Padden's work, which he couldn't discuss at all.

It had been a lifetime of secrets from Ben, some by necessity and
some by choice. The affairs he'd kept to himself until he couldn't
any longer, until that night Diane had taken Ben and left his life
forever.

Padden flicked off the light, the ice cubes in his highball glass
clinking softly against each other as he stepped a bit off balance
from the doorway.

The years of silence between he and Ben had stretched between them.
They'd lingered for so long that they'd become two men who kept
almost everything in their lives a secret from the other, most
notably their own hearts.

He grunted at the thought, took a sip from his glass, and pulled his
rich green robe around himself like a cape. He continued down the
hallway into the living room, Part Two of Act Two of "Madame
Butterfly" bleeding from the Bose speakers set into the walls.

"Con onor muore chi non pu serbar vita con onore..."

Padden grunted again. He was drunk now, for sure, and he didn't care.

He went for the bar against the far wall, refilled the glass with
Glenfiddich and headed toward the open area in front of the huge bay
window. It overlooked the vast woods behind the house.

He sipped, listened.

Another terrible day. Another meeting with Ashcroft, the formal
notice of his termination from the NSA. A hearing before the House
Intelligence Committee scheduled for tomorrow. Talk of charges.

And still no word from the Pentagon.

The music swelled around him, filling the room. He closed his eyes,
his head buzzing with it.

It was time for him to make his contacts with the other sides. The
men at the Pentagon thought he was bluffing, clearly. But he was not
a man to bluff, and he would show them this. He would show them all.

He put the glass to his lips, tilted it up and drained it,
swallowing fire.

As he pulled the glass away from his face, something strange caught
his eye.

Red in the glass. The ice cubes glowing.

He stared at it for a few seconds, his brows squinting down.

Then he noticed a thin red line of light, stretched like a taut
string from the window to the glass.

He realized what it was a second too late.

The pinch of breaking glass, a perfect hole through the thick bay
window, the bottom of the highball glass falling away, ice and glass
raining to the floor.

A bullet in his throat.

Choking, he dropped the glass, his hands going to his neck to quell
the font of blood. He hunched and fell, his back hitting the white
persian rug beneath him. He turned on his belly, air gurgling from
him, one arm reaching out to help pull him back away from the window.

"No..." he managed, his voice ruined, blood coming freely from
between his fingers.

Beside him, the red circle of light moved next to his face, an inch
from his cheek. He pulled himself another foot. The light moved with
him.

Finally, he stopped, both hands going to the wound now, the circle
of light holding beside him. He rolled onto his side, one arm falling
in front of him, reaching for the light, his hand a red claw.

The light sat in his palm, then began its slow and measured
movement. The music continued, rising. The light reached his elbow.
His upper arm. He lost sight of it for a moment and then it was
there, a line from the window going onto the side of his face, up
until it touched his eye, steady and far too bright.

He did not close his eye.

Glass broke.


**********


ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL SHOW LOW, ARIZONA 9:04 a.m.


Scully worked among the relative bustle of the changing of shifts in
the ICU, using the little bit of time she had with Mulder the best
way she could. She was working his limbs carefully, doing range of
motion exercises on him, rubbing at the muscles in his arms, moving
his elbows, his shoulders, his wrists. Then she moved down to his
legs, uncovering them to his knees as she gently lifted each one,
bending his knees slightly and massaging the long muscles of his
calves.

The whole time, she talked to him.

She talked some about the status of the investigation. She told him
that Skinner had contacted his mother, and that she would try to see
him when he got back into Washington. She talked about Granger and
Skinner and what they'd been doing to keep her occupied when she
couldn't be with him, about Granger's penchant for rummy and for
reading crosswords out loud, and how the latter drove her crazy. She
told him the Yankees had won their opening day. She'd even remembered
the score and who was pitching from the week-old newspaper she'd
found in the ICU waiting room.

She wanted him to hear her voice. So she kept talking as she worked,
glancing every once in awhile at his still features, the respirator
and naso-gastric tube across his stubbled cheek, his eyes still
beneath their lids. His chest rose and fell, but otherwise, he was
still.

It felt good just to touch him, as well, she had to admit.

She reached down and flexed his ankle, her hand on the curve of his
arch. It was then that Kellerman came by, looking down at Mulder's
chart as he entered the tiny room.

"Dr. Scully," he said, a slight smile on his face. "Our patient's
doing better today, I see."

Scully returned the small smile, kept working on Mulder's foot,
pushing it forward and back. "Yes, his brain activity is getting
better. More responsive. And the early signs of peritonitis seem to
be under control."

Kellerman nodded, reviewing the chart as Scully spoke. "I'm going to
go ahead and set up a pump for him for when he regains consciousness.
I see he's allergic to morphine. What have you used on him in the
past?"

"Demerol seems to work well with him," she replied.

"All right," Kellerman said, scribbling on the chart. "We'll do
that, then."

Scully liked the turn in the conversation on many levels. She and
Mulder's doctor had reached a good "working" relationship over the
past two days -- she tried not to push too hard and he tried to
respect her for what she knew. She also liked that Kellerman was so
certain of Mulder emerging from the coma soon -- introducing a device
that would allow Mulder to dose himself with a painkiller as he
needed it showed Kellerman's faith in that.

Kellerman moved around Scully to the side of the bed, checking all
the equipment himself, the readouts. He turned Mulder's head gently
toward him, reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen light, shone
it Mulder's eyes one at a time. Then he lifted the covers and pulled
up Mulder's gown, checking the dressing.

"Looks good. No sign of infection."

Scully nodded. She'd checked all this herself when she'd come in.
"I'm glad," she said, to be polite.

Kellerman returned to the doorway, marking on the chart again. "I'm
going to pull that respirator when he wakes up," he said, almost to
himself.

He paused, and Scully looked up from Mulder's face at the silence,
saw the doctor's serious expression.

"He's going to be hurting badly when he wakes up," Kellerman said
softly. "You're aware of how painful belly wounds can be. And how
long they can take to heal."

She nodded, moved to Mulder's other foot, flexing it, looking down
at it. "Yes," she said. "I know what we're in for."

The "we" slipped, but she did her best not to be embarrassed by it.
It was a fact, after all. And she doubted it was a secret to
Kellerman at this point...

Behind the doctor, someone appeared in the doorway, and Scully
looked up to see a nurse, and, to her surprise, Albert Hosteen
standing there, a gentle smile on his face.

"Mr. Mulder has another visitor," the nurse said to Scully. "Only
about ten minutes more, all right?"

Scully nodded mutely and the nurse withdrew. Scully's gaze was
hitched to Hosteen's. Something in her unknotted at seeing him, and
she felt her lips curling in the first genuine smile for days.

Kellerman turned and looked at the tall Native American man with his
denim shirt and his long hair around his shoulders, then returned his
gaze to Scully.

"Take fifteen minutes," Kellerman said. "I'll have them get that
pump and I'll be back to check in on him later, if I'm not needed
sooner." Scully thanked him and he took his leave, letting Hosteen
enter the room.

"Hello, Agent Scully," Hosteen said into the murmur of machinery in
the room.

"Mr. Hosteen," she replied, shook her head as she looked down at
Mulder's face again. "Once again, we meet under grim circumstances."

"Not so grim," he replied. "He is alive. From what Mr. Granger just
told me in the waiting area about what happened in the canyon, that
is in itself a remarkable thing."

Scully chuffed. "Yes," she said, and set Mulder's foot down, then
reached up and covered his legs again. "I guess you're right."

She went to the far side of the bed, tucking the blanket around
Mulder's waist gently. Hosteen went to the other side, his hands on
the guardrail.

They were silent for a long moment, Mulder's breathing hissing
between them.

"You think he is very far away," Hosteen said, and Scully looked him
in the eye again. "But he is right here. And you have your lives
again, now that this man is dead and these charges have been dropped
against you."

Scully nodded, and she found herself fighting tears again for the
first time in awhile. Her association with Hosteen had left her
vulnerable to him, to his kindness, in a way that she wasn't usually,
even to Granger, who had proven to be a loyal friend.

"I know," she said softly. "I know we have our lives back. It's just
so hard to believe that when I see him hurt like this." She reached
out and brushed Mulder's hair back behind his ear, his face away
still turned away from her.

Hosteen nodded. "I know that, in a way, it hurts you, too," he
replied. "You have a bond that way. It is both the greatest strength
and the greatest weakness between you. But only a weakness because
people may see it -- like this man Curran -- and use it against you."

Now the tears did come. "It saves us both," she whispered, met his
eyes. She had never spoken this openly about her relationship with
Mulder, not even to her mother. But then no one had seen it the way
this man had over the weeks in the desert. No one had spoken to her
about it this way, either.

"You will have to learn to guard against that," Hosteen said softly.
"But you will learn."

Again a beat of silence.

"Victor is with me," Hosteen said, brushing the previous quiet tone
aside. "And I brought Bo, as I said I would."

Scully grimaced. "We're not in much of a position to take care of a
dog at this point, Mr. Hosteen."

"I will be staying for awhile," Hosteen soothed. "Victor wants to
buy a new truck, sell some horses here at the reservation. We have
some business. Victor and I will see to him."

"I really don't think--"

"Trust," Hosteen said, putting a hand up. "Things will turn out the
way they should. I have feelings about things like this. And I think
you have learned the value of listening to feelings, even when they
don't seem to make the most sense here." He tapped his temple.

She swallowed back her reply then, smiled faintly and wiped her
eyes, then braced herself on the guardrail. There was no point
arguing with the man. She'd learned that long ago.

They stood in the same companionable silence.

"How long do you think--" she began after a moment, and Hosteen held
up a hand, silencing her. She looked at him in confusion.

Then he lay the hand on Mulder's forehead, right at his hairline,
and closed his eyes.

Scully looked at the monitors behind her, at Hosteen's brows knitted
in concentration, then down at Mulder again. For a long few seconds,
nothing happened.

Then, just beneath Hosteen's hand, Mulder's eyelids fluttered and
slowly slid open, staring at the ceiling above him.

Hosteen removed his hand, smiled at Scully, who was looking from
Mulder to Hosteen, her eyes wide and more tears rimming them.

"Mulder?" she called, reaching out to put her hand where Hosteen's
had been. She turned his face toward her, his eyes rolling a bit, his
throat working around the respirator. A small sound came from him, so
faint it was like a breath.

"It's okay, Mulder," she said, the tears still coming. "You're all
right."

She watched his brow squint down, his eyes closing tight. Another
soft sound came from him, this one full of pain. As she looked at
him, twin tears slipped from the corners of his eyes and raced down
his temples to his hair.

"Okay...okay...I'm going to get you something for the pain," she
said, and looked up at Hosteen, who had reached down to grip Mulder's
forearm in sympathy.

"Could you get the nurse, Mr. Hosteen?" she asked quickly. Hosteen
nodded, released Mulder and stepped toward the doorway.

"How..." Scully said, halting him. "What did you just do?"

Hosteen gave her a small smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"His hand was moving," he said. "I saw it. You did not." And then he
winked, went toward the nurse's station, moving fast.

Scully looked at the spot where he'd stood, a smile coming to her
trembling lips. Then she looked down at Mulder as he opened his eyes
again, his gaze on hers, his hand inching toward her to touch her
belly with his fingertips through the railing.

"Everything's going to be all right now," she said to him, stroking
his hair.

People had been saying it to her for days.

And this time, when she said it herself, she even believed it.


*******

2:38 p.m.


"So there was an old fox that had three young kits, and when the
time came for the fox to teach the kits how to fend for themselves,
the old fox took them down a country road to a house..."

Mae stroked Sean's hair as she spoke, the boy spooned into her, his
face turned up toward the television that hung from the ceiling in
front of the hospital bed. Joe had found some cartoon, the sound
almost all the way down, but Sean's eyes were glued to it
nonetheless, a small action figure gripped in his hand near his face.

"So they reached this house and there was this enormous racket of
talking going on inside it," Mae continued, continuing to stroke
Sean's hair. She looked over at Joe, sitting in the recliner,
watching them both, his lips still red from the split. "You know what
the old fox said to the kits then, Sean?"

Sean shook his head, but his eyes did not move from the screen.

"Well, he asked the first one if he could tell him who was in the
house, and he couldn't. Then he asked the second one, and he couldn't
tell the old fox either. So then the old fox asked the third kit who
was in the house and he said: 'Either two women or twelve men.' And
the old fox said to that one: 'You'll do well in the world, my boy.'"

She reached down and gave Sean's side a poke, and it got at least a
smile from the boy, which she was glad to see. She laughed and he
pressed himself back into her as she tickled him again, though she
could not get him to laugh.

Again her eyes met Joe's over Sean's dark head. Joe smiled to her,
but the smile had some sadness still in it. Since they'd told Sean
that his father was dead two days ago, Sean had nearly vanished into
himself, into his grief. Mae knew Joe ached for Sean as much as she
did.

"Hey buddy," Joe said softly. "You hungry?"

"Aye," Sean replied, barely audible.

"You want to come downstairs with me and pick something out?" Joe
asked, and Sean nodded.

"All right, Joe," he said, and with that, he started to rise, Mae
kissing his temple as he sat up, her hand on his back as he slid to
the floor. Joe stood and put his hand on Sean's head, smoothing down
his hair.

"You want anything?" he asked, his voice tender.

She smiled to him. "If you can manage some fries, I'll have a few,"
she said, and put her hand on the back of his neck as he bent down to
kiss her softly. They lingered there.

"I'll be right back," he said, and she nodded.

Alone, she closed her eyes, breathed out slowly. They were going to
release her this afternoon now that her dehydration and exhaustion
were under control. One day in the hospital had turned into almost
three, the vomiting only getting better in the past 24 hours. She
suspected that stress had had a lot to do with her being as ill as
she'd been, even in Mexico. Living hiding from her brother had taken
its toll on her even there.

She was only now beginning to feel the freedom from that, beginning
to believe that part of her life was over.

Now she just had to decide what the new life was going to look like.
But she felt somehow calm in the face of that. She felt, for the
first time in a years, a sense of hope that things could be different
than they had been.

No matter what ended up happening.

She knew it was entirely likely she would go through this pregnancy
in jail, that Joe would end up raising this child -- and Sean -- on
his own. And though the thought anguished her, a part of her was
ready for the life she'd led to be completely over, to be paid for
and done with.

She was filled with regret for the things she had done. They felt
like weights on top of her, and she knew she would carry those
weights for the rest of her life.

There was a knock at the door, which struck her out of her
introspection. She turned onto her back.

"Yes?" she called, and the door opened.

Dana Scully walked in.

Mae closed her eyes, opened them, her heartbeat picking up.

This is it, she thought. It's over.

**

"You weren't asleep, were you?" Scully asked, closing the door
behind her. She saw the resignation settling over Mae, though Mae was
trying to return her smile.

"No, no," Mae replied. "Just lying here. Joe and Sean are fetching
something to eat."

Scully came around the side of the bed, standing in front of the
recliner. Mae was taking in her appearance, she saw, with concern.
She knew she looked a bit rumpled, a men's dress shirt on over a
black t-shirt, the t-shirt tucked into her jeans, the top shirt tied
at her waist. The sleeves were cuffed up above her elbows, and her
hair was pulled back in a pony tail. She was a far cry from the very
formal "Dr. Black" Mae had known in Richmond.

"I look like hell," she said, looking down and blushing. "You can
tell me."

"No, no, you look fine," Mae said, though Scully could tell the
other woman was having to struggle for a normal tone of voice. "But
you do look like you're ready to get in that truck of yours and head
for the border."

"Not anymore," Scully replied, and they both grinned at that, though
Mae's was brittle.

They looked at each other for a moment. Scully regretted the
awkwardness between them that cropped up in those few seconds, the
tension in Mae's face and carriage.

"How is Mulder doing?" Mae asked, and her voice shook a little.

Scully smiled faintly. "He's just come out of a coma this morning,
and he's off life support," she replied. "He's still critical, but
he's going to make it."

"Thank God for that," Mae breathed. "I feared the worst in the truck
on the way here."

"I did, too," Scully replied. She gestured to Mae. "How are you
doing? They've kept you for a long time."

"Yes," Mae said, and her voice shook again as she spoke. "I've been
so ill -- morning sickness that lasts half the day -- but it's
getting better now that things have calmed down a bit."

"Your baby...it's all right?"

Mae nodded. "Aye, they say it's fine. Somehow it's managed through
all this."

A heavy silence hung between them, neither of them able to look at
the other. Scully started to speak, but Mae beat her to it.

"You've come up to arrest me, haven't you?" Mae asked softly.

Scully heaved in a breath, her eyes going to the door, then back to
Mae's face.

"No," she said. "I haven't. And I'm not going to."

She saw Mae sink a bit on the bed, as though every one of her
muscles had relaxed at once. Mae closed her eyes for a few seconds,
and Scully saw tears slip from beneath them. She reached out and put
her hand on Mae's arm, and the two of them ended up with their hands
locked together.

"I owe you my life," Scully said quietly. "And I know you're not the
person you were before. So I want you to run. I want you to get out
of here and get out of the country and start your life over again. I
want that for you. For Sean. And for your baby."

Mae sat up and reached for Scully, who went into her arms, pulling
her close for a long moment.

"What about that man Granger?" Mae asked as they separated. "Won't
he tell that I'm here? That you're letting me go?"

Scully shook her head. "Granger and I had a talk before anyone got
here. He knows what you did for me in Richmond, and he's not law
enforcement any more, anyway. He's left this up to me. We never
mentioned that you and Joe were at the canyon at all. My supervisor
doesn't know. As far as anyone knows it was a hostage situation with
just your brother and Mulder. There were dozens of footprints where
we were so there haven't been any questions."

Mae sniffed, wiped at her eyes. "Thank you," she said softly after a
moment. "That sounds so empty for what you're doing for me."

"It's plenty after what you've done for me," Scully replied, and
squeezed Mae's hand as Mae covered her face again, the tears of
relief still coming.

"It's okay," Scully whispered to her, her own emotions welling.
"It's all going to be okay."

"Mae?"

Scully looked toward the doorway at Joe Porter standing there, still
wearing one of Mulder's t-shirts that she'd told him to get when he
went for Sean. He had an order of fries in one hand and Sean's hand
in the other. Sean was looking at her, clearly very afraid.

She kept Mae's hand in hers as Mae looked behind her.

"It's all right," Mae said to them, and Joe went to the other side
of the bed, setting the food down on the nightstand. "Everything's
all right."

Joe's eyes settled on Scully, something warm in them.

"Thank you," he said softly. "You've given me my life once already.
Now you're doing it again."

Scully nodded to him. "You're welcome," she murmured. Joe seemed
such a good man -- how he'd treated Mulder at the canyon, how much he
clearly loved Mae. Scully wish she'd gotten the opportunity to know
him better.

She dug into her pocket, pulled out the keys to the Bronco and
proffered them to Joe. He took them.

"I won't be needing the truck anymore," she said. "Granger and I
snuck out earlier while I couldn't see Mulder and when no one was
around and cleaned it up some. There's about $500 in the glove
compartment for you, all that Mulder and I had left. Take it and go."

Porter nodded. "Thank you. We'll go today." Scully nodded in return.

Then she and Mae looked at each other, emotion passing between them.
Gratitude. Respect. All that made up their strange but very strong
friendship.

"We won't ever see each other again," Mae said finally.

Scully shook her head. "No," she said. "We can't."

Mae nodded, leaned forward, and the two of them kissed on the cheek.
Then Scully let her hand go and stepped back.

Sean was standing at the foot of the bed, looking at Scully. She
turned to him, walked to where he stood and squatted down in front of
him so she was looking up into his face. He looked down with his
wide, sad eyes.

"You okay, Sean?" she asked, and he nodded immediately. Too fast.

"Aye, I'm fine," he said, but she could see his anguish in his face.
She reached for his hand and held it lightly, rubbing her thumb over
the back.

"Sean, I want to tell you something I've learned in the past few
months," she began. "Things happen sometimes...terrible things.
Things that hurt us so much that we don't think we can ever come back
from them, that we'll ever be like we once were again. But we can
come back. We can even be happy again."

He cocked his head as he looked at her.

"I know it's hard to believe that," she continued softly. "I know
you must be hurting a lot right now. But you're going to be happy
again. I promise you will be."

Sean's eyes filled with tears, and he looked away, as though ashamed
for her to see them.

She thought of Sean's father when she looked at him, the hatred that
had grown in him. She didn't want that for Sean. She didn't want any
of that to touch him. She hoped it wasn't too late.

"Just remember to be kind, all right?" she said, her voice breaking.
She reached up and stroked his cheek. "Stay kind."

Sean looked at her for a long few seconds. Then, finally, he nodded,
wiped at his face, and stepped away from her toward Joe, who put an
arm around Sean's shoulder and pulled the boy against him, rubbing at
his chest, soothing him.

With that, Scully stood and turned toward the bed again.

She shook Joe's hand, no words passing between them as they nodded
to each other. Then she looked at Mae once more. Mae wiped at her
eyes just as Sean had, forced a small smile.

"Goodbye," Scully said softly. "Take care of each other, all right?"

"We will," Mae replied. "You and Mulder, as well. Goodbye."

Scully hesitated only a second as she and Mae looked at each other
one last time. Then she went out the door.


*******


5:05 p.m.



"Two more minutes, Mulder," Scully murmured, stroking the hair back
from his forehead. "Just two more minutes."

Mulder ignored her, his thumb pressing down the button attached to
the IV pump that dosed him with his pain medication. The machine
beeped softly, telling him that it was too early for another dose,
the light on it glowing red. Mulder hit it again anyway, his eyes
closed, his face away from hers. His chest was heaving as he panted
shallow breaths.

Stricken, she reached down and covered his hand with her own, moving
his thumb off the button gently. "It's okay," she whispered. "I know
it hurts. Just try to hang on with me. Try to think about something
else."

He turned his head toward her now, his glazed eyes opening and
settling on her face. She smiled to him, gripping his hand, keeping
her other hand on his hairline. "It's going to get better," she said.
"I promise it will." She leaned down and kissed his forehead,
lingering there. It seemed to calm his breathing some as she stayed
next to him.

"Scully?"

She looked up, saw Skinner standing there looking uncomfortable. She
felt a flush rise in her own cheeks, as well, but pushed it away.

"I'm sorry to intrude," Skinner said softly, coming into the room
fully now. He was finally in casual clothes, the business with Curran
closed on this end. He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets,
looking uncertain, but something was clearly on his mind. His jaw was
working.

"You're not intruding," Scully replied, leaned up, her hand still on
Mulder's where he held the pump's button.

"How's he doing?" he asked, going to the side of the bed. Scully
nodded toward Mulder, and Skinner looked from her to Mulder as Mulder
turned his head and swallowed.

"How you doing, Mulder?" Skinner asked again.

"Okay..." Mulder breathed. The pain was still deeply etched on his
face, however.

"That's good," Skinner said. "I'm glad you're awake because this
concerns both of you."

"What is it?" Scully asked, her brow creasing.

Skinner pulled in a breath, let it out. "Padden was found murdered
in his home this afternoon. I just got the word. It looks like a
professional hit."

Scully gaped. "My God," she said softly.

"Don't..." Mulder swallowed again, blinking slowly up at Skinner.
"Don't make me...laugh..." he whispered.

"There's a hell of a commotion about it in D.C.," Skinner said
tersely. "They've launched *another* inquiry into this whole thing --
Padden's death now -- and Deputy Director Rosen is coming out here to
interview both of you. They want to close this all out as quickly as
they can before the media starts to have a field day with it. The
press is already starting to dig into the story about the two of you -
- especially Mulder's part in the embassy bombing -- and Rosen wants
to have your official statements as fast as he can to head off
getting the Bureau embroiled in anything worse than it's in already."

"Mulder's not ready for something like that," Scully protested.

"I know," Skinner said. "I tried to tell him that. He's coming
anyway. Granger and I did some digging to help clear Mulder's name
and Rosen wants to go over that information with you both, to
separate you from Padden as much as he can."

"Both of us?" Scully asked. "I didn't have anything to do with
Mulder's hunch about which embassy. I don't have any information
about Padden at all."

Skinner looked uncomfortable. "Some of the information Granger and I
found that helps clear Mulder...has to do with you."

At Scully's impatient, quizzical expression, Skinner pressed
forward. "The Overlook Motel on Afton Mountain," he said softly, and
looked away.

Now Scully really did blush.

"Ah," Mulder breathed.

The pump beeped then, the light on it going from red to green.
Mulder turned his face slowly toward it and Scully nodded down to
him, releasing his hand. Mulder's thumb leaned on the button, the
painkiller flooding into the IV port.

"He wants everything that happened in Mae Curran's apartment, too,"
Skinner continued. "He wants to have a clean story to tell Ashcroft
so we can get this whole thing over with."

"I see," Scully said, watching Mulder's eyes loll and glass over as
the high dose of painkiller entered his system. His breathing calmed
almost immediately. "I'll tell him everything I can, of course."

"Your relationship is going to have to come out," Skinner said, and
Scully looked up at him. Mulder turned to look at him again, too,
blinking in slow-motion. "Maybe not to the press, if we're lucky, but
to Rosen, definitely. I'm sorry."

No use denying it now, she thought.

"We're not doing anything wrong," Scully said firmly. "You know
that."

"No, you're technically not just by being in a relationship,"
Skinner replied. "But going to that motel together was a breach of
professional conduct for both of you. I think the best-case scenario
is a formal reprimand from Rosen for that."

Scully felt her frustration rising.

"And the worst-case scenario?" she asked, pinning him with her eyes.
Skinner looked from one to the other, then finally settled on Scully.

"He might want you separated," Skinner said softly.

Scully shook her head, looking away. She was angry now, but there
was no place to put it. Skinner was merely the messenger. And she
already knew he would do everything he could to keep she and Mulder
from being pulled apart.

"I'll do what I can," Skinner said, as if reading her thoughts.

She nodded, and she saw Mulder nod, as well, though he was beginning
to drift off, his eyelids getting heavy.

A nurse appeared from the station, came in the doorway. "Dr. Scully,
there's someone else who wants to come back," she said, and drifted
away as Scully thanked her.

Skinner reached down and touched Mulder's shoulder. "Get some rest,"
he said, and Mulder nodded once. Then Skinner turned to Scully. "I'm
going back to the motel. I've got some business I need to handle
about all this. But I'll be back."

"Thank you, sir," Scully said quietly.

Their gazes hung, then Skinner left the room.

Mulder turned back to her, his hand dropping the button and going
for the knot of his shirt at her belly. "Don't worry..." he breathed.
"They...won't do it."

She reached down and took his hand again, being careful of the IV in
its back. "Don't think about that now," she said gently. "Just rest.
Let yourself rest..."

She let her voice drift off, soothing him, leaned down and kissed
his lips carefully, just a brush, being careful of the gastric tube
and the canula. When she pulled her face away, he was asleep.

She leaned back up, and pulled in a breath in surprise.

Margaret Scully stood in the doorway, tears streaming down her
cheeks as she looked at her, one hand over her mouth.

In the other, pressed against her chest, an open envelope, yellow
paper showing.

The letter, Scully thought, closing her eyes. She'd forgotten all
about it in everything that had happened.

"Dana?"

Scully looked at her mother. Tears rushed in.

She was around the bed in an instant, her mother meeting her
halfway. The embrace they shared was so tight they could barely draw
breath. Scully lost herself in it, as if nothing to could touch her.
Like when she was a child in her mother's arms. She felt that safe.

"Thank God..." her mother breathed, stroking her hair and rocking
her small body lightly. "Thank God...."



*************


END OF CHAPTER 23. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 24.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 24a.

**********

APRIL 16
(THREE DAYS LATER)
10:35 a.m.



When Scully had first entered medical school, bright and young and
with a life behind her that was mostly untouched by tragedy, she had
seen nothing but possibility in front of her. She'd entered the
University of Maryland with the intention of being a surgeon, a
person who would do intricate, difficult work with the living with an
unwavering faith in her ability to save those lives.

Perhaps it was that her life had been so devoid of real hardship
that made her initially taken with the dead her first year of medical
school. Her first cadaver had fascinated her, the secrets that it
seemed to hold. It had been a homeless elderly man, unclaimed by
anyone on his death. No affiliation. No history. Lifeless, it seemed,
in more ways than simply the absence of life within him.

But as she worked, she found herself wondering about him, and
finding answers to her questions within his body -- bones brittle,
liver swollen with cirrhosis, the ghosts of malnutrition and of the
man's drowning himself in alcohol to hide from some pain she could
never know.

But she did know. She saw his life written on his body, a braille of
suffering beneath her instruments and hands. And she honored that
suffering. By the time she covered him for the last time, she felt
she understood the life he had led, one that had brought him to her,
a woman he did not know but who would be the last to touch him, if
anyone had ever touched him before her at all.

She didn't know why the man, known only to her as "John Doe #311,"
was on her mind this morning. Why that body among the hundreds of
others she'd seen over the years.

Perhaps it was because one often returned to beginnings when endings
seemed in sight. And she was looking at an end to that kind of
discovery and affiliation that she'd found with others, even in their
deaths.

Sitting in the examining room of the hospital's well-staffed clinic,
a battery of testing and bloodwork behind her from the past three
days, she stared at her hand and saw that ending. Curran had quite
possibly taken that part of her life away with his drug, as surely as
he'd tried to take Mulder from her, coming so close to succeeding in
that that even now, with Mulder finally stable in the ICU one floor
down, she still felt the fear at losing him.

Hope, she reminded herself, watching the faint trembling of her hand.

If the past weeks had taught her anything, it was the value of that
gossamer feeling. She would hold onto it. She clenched her left fist
in her lap and held onto it, waiting for the doctor to come through
the door and tell her future, tell what exactly Curran *had* managed
to take away.

She was nervous, but she was ready to hear the truth. She was
through running. And that meant from everything. Even this.

After another moment, her doctor, a man in his late-40s named
Conlin, came through the door, a grip in his hand and a folder
stuffed with her test results in the other. He smiled stiffly to her,
and she returned it.

"How are you, Dana?" he asked, approaching her where she sat on the
edge of the table.

"I'm fine," she replied. "I've been...anxious to know what you've
found, of course, but I'm fine."

He nodded, handed her the grip, which she took in her left hand. It
was a "V" of metal and rubber, with a digital readout set into one
side of it. He flicked it on, stood back with his arms crossed, the
folder still in one hand.

"Squeeze," he said, nodding at her hand.

Scully leaned in on the device, closing its metal jaws with her hand
until the two sides nearly touched. She gritted her teeth, bearing
down on it.

"Release it now."

She did as she was told, and Conlin took the grip from her and
checked the readout. Then he had her repeat the process with her
right hand.

When she was done, he checked the reading again, his expression both
pleased and perplexed.

"What does it say?" Scully asked, nervous.

Conlin shook his head. "This shows the same thing I've been seeing
all along. There's only a slight discrepancy between the strength of
your left hand and your right."

Scully nodded. She knew this. "What about the nerve conduction
study?" she asked. "What did it show?"

Conlin opened the folder and looked at it, then proffered the sheet
to her. She looked at it, reading over the results.

She released a breath, closing her eyes.

"No damage that we can perceive," he said. "The nerves in your arm
and hand are fine."

Thank God...

"The only thing that I *did* find, in fact, is this," he said, and
pulled out another sheet from the folder, handing it to her. "You
said you were exposed to some sort of drug -- a serotonin-inhibitor,
right?"

She nodded, looking at the printout.

She gaped at it.

"The drug's still there," she breathed.

Conlin nodded. "Yes, it would appear so," he said. "Though there is
also the presence of several other compounds which would appear to be
derivatives of the drug itself. Which I would infer to be a good
sign."

Scully looked up at him. "It's breaking down then."

Conlin nodded. "That's my guess. I can't be sure, of course -- I've
never seen a drug like this -- but that's my guess."

She stared down at the paper, a smile teasing her lips, though she
was afraid for it to come. "The drug is most likely causing the
tremor then."

Conlin shrugged. "I can't see any other cause for it. There's
nothing physically wrong with your arm or your hand. You know, I've
seen this before with some other drugs. Risperdal, for example. It
gives symptoms similar to Parkinson's Disease. Tremors and such, and
often only in one area, like a hand or a foot or on one side of the
face. It wouldn't surprise me if that was the case with this, as
well, though we'd need to do a lot more study to nail that down."

He looked embarrassed now. "We're not exactly equipped for that kind
of research here. But I'm sure once you get back to Washington you'll
be able to find someone who can do it, if you don't want to undertake
it yourself, of course. There might be some chemotherapies that can
be done to hasten the breakdown of the substance. I just don't know."

She kept her eyes on the paper for a long moment, considering what
it all meant. This explained so much. Like the continuation of the
almost hallucinatory dreams over the past months. Much like those
she'd had when she'd first been exposed to the drug. Some of the
dreams she'd had since Tennessee were only slightly less vivid
versions of what she'd experienced then.

When she looked up at Conlin, he was smiling.

"I'm glad to have been able to give you good news," he said. "I must
tell you, on my first examination, I feared what we might find with
all these tests."

She nodded. She'd been fearing it for so many weeks now. She hadn't
even realized how tightly she'd been holding herself until she began
to slowly unclench with the news.

"Thank you," she said softly. "I appreciate you rushing all this
through for me."

Conlin handed the chart to her and nodded. "Like I told you when you
came to me -- we push things through for law enforcement. Here you
go. These are your copies to take back east with you. Let me know if
I can do anything else between now and the time you leave."

"I will," she said, and slipped off the table. She offered him her
hand, and he took it, and now her smile did come.


**********


CHESAPEAKE BAY
OFF WILLOUGHBY SPIT
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
11:13 a.m.


Jimmy Shea steered the thirteen-footer around the bridge point,
heading out from Willoughby Bay near the naval base over the tunnel
of Interstate 64, the brown/green water stretching out as far as he
could see. The boat rocked on the chop as he headed out away from the
bridge that led to the tunnel entrance, the interstate choked with
traffic even at this hour.

He needed to put some distance between him and the cars, and he
headed out into the open bay now, leaving a greenish wake behind him,
the hulk of three aircraft carriers perched on the horizon behind
him. He watched them for a long moment, the new pipe he'd just bought
on the trip back from Arizona clenched between his teeth, the wind
burning the tobacco within it.

Ruby would have his head for smoking the thing, he thought. He'd
have to pitch it before he got on the plane. But that wasn't until
later that afternoon. He'd enjoy the sweet tobacco while he could.

The engine growled its way through the cold water, taking him out
past the point of Ocean View, around towards the mouth of the bay
where it would eventually meet the Atlantic. Once he'd reached a
place well out of the sight of land and where there were no other
boats to be seen, he cut the engine, the boat rocking even more as it
slowly came to a halt in the water.

He got up from the seat behind the steering wheel, went for his
duffel bag that he'd stowed at the stern. He had good sea legs, and
rode the boat well as it rose and fell. He didn't even have to hold
onto the sides as he made his way to the rear. Reaching the long
duffel, he took one final look around, then unzipped it.

The rifle case was there, his fishing tackle laying beside it,
jumbled together. He braced his feet a bit more, then drew the long
case out, set it on the deck, and unhooked the latches, pushing the
case open in grey mid-day light.

The rifle, still assembled. The rich wood of its stock. The well-
oiled workings and barrel. The trigger's black showing signs of wear,
the only part of the gun that did.

He studied it for a long moment, settling down onto the side of the
boat, his hands on his knees as he looked at it with his tired pale
eyes, the pipe still between his teeth, smoke leaking from the corner
of his mouth and getting pulled away by the wind.

The gun had been with him for as long as he could remember. How many
nights had he lain awake on watch, hidden away in some safehouse, the
rifle across his lap? How many times had he lain in wait, just below
the ledge of a window, peering over through broken glass at someone
below, someone walking down the street, alone and unaware?

There had been a time in his life, long long ago, when the memories
of these things would have given him some measure of pride.

But not anymore.

Now they only made him tired, and deeply sad. What he'd given his
life to seeming...if not wrong, terribly empty. He had done what he'd
done for reasons, of course, and he knew this.

But now?

Now he had only the vision of Owen Curran in his mind, the boy he
had known grown into a man who had grown mad in the face of all that
Shea had once believed in. Shea saw only the shot as it had hit home.
The spray of gore. Owen's body dropping onto the sand and lying
there, instantly still. As though it had never been alive at all.

Perhaps, in the end, it hadn't, he thought, and shook his head,
reaching up to remove the pipe from his mouth. He stared into the
bowl, then back at the rifle on the deck.

Perhaps, in the end, there had been a part of him that had never
been alive, either. His life lost to the Troubles. To the killing.
Were it not for Ruby, he would have felt he'd come away from his life
with nothing. Nothing at all.

Back home they had cobbled together an uneasy peace. Looking down at
the rifle, he looked within himself and decided, sitting there with a
noontime storm rolling in from the south, to do the same.

He replaced the pipe in his mouth, reached down and picked up the
rifle, feeling the familiar weight of it, catching the faint
fragrance of gunpowder and oil as he lifted it, holding it front of
him.

With two steps toward the side of the boat, he stopped. Then,
thrusting out with both arms as hard as he could, he threw the rifle
as far away from him as he could, watched it arc into the air, then
disappear into water's darkness.

He was not quite satisfied as he stood there for a long moment,
pulling on his pipe. A gust of wind kicked up and nearly took off his
fisherman's cap, and he reached up and held it on, tugged it more
tightly into place, his eyes on the spot where the gun had entered
the water.

Then, seeing the storm clouds coming in, he turned, went back to the
duffel. A few more tosses and the ammunition followed the gun into
the water, the gun oil. All of it. Until the case was empty. Then he
picked up the gleaming rod and reel, laid them in the rifle case on
all the padding, hooking the hooks into the foam.

He closed the case, replaced it in the bag, and stowed it again,
heading back to the wheel. The engine coughed as he touched the
ignition, the rented boat coming to life.

In four hours, he'd be at the Norfolk Airport, the truck left with
one of Conail Rutherford's friends. A puddle-jump to Dulles, and he
would be on his way home, to Ruby and good bread and his boat, upside
down, its spine and ribs waiting for him to come and close them over,
to prepare the boat for the sea.

He thought all this as he pushed the throttle up, sending the boat
into a wide arc as he turned and headed back toward the Spit, leaving
behind him a wide wake of motion.


***********


ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA
1:08 p.m.


"Mulder, puff out your cheek for me."

Scully swished the razor in the kidney-shaped basin on the
nightstand, lifted the tubes once again from Mulder's cheek. She
reached in carefully, scraped the razor up his cheek, leaving a line
of skin in the shaving cream. She rinsed the razor, repeated this
until his cheek was clean of both foam and stubble.

"You don't have to do this, Scully," Mulder said faintly, looking up
at her as she rinsed the razor again, cleaning out stubble with a
washcloth that was hanging over the rail of his bed. "Rosen isn't
going to care what I look like when he chews us out. If anything the
stubble might get me some sympathy."

Scully smiled at that, more of a cringe. "I think you're going to do
fine in the sympathy department," she said.

"I look that bad still?" he protested, but his voice could still
barely manage.

"No, you look fine," she lied, reaching in and tilting his chin up
slowly, running the razor up from his throat. "I just meant that you
being in the ICU and the chewing out being limited to as close to
visiting time as possible will probably save you from getting too
much." She smiled mischievously. "I just don't want to ever see you
with a beard again."

"Hey..." he said in a wounded voice as she rinsed. "I thought you
liked the beard."

She smiled. "I did. But that doesn't mean I want to see it again."
The smile waned. "Too many associations."

He nodded, met her eyes seriously, what they'd been through passing
between them once again in a fleeting few seconds. Then she tilted
his face and continued shaving him.

It took her a few more minutes, but then his pale face was smooth,
the layer of dark stubble gone. She wiped his face gently with the
clean side of the damp cloth, moving the gastric tube and the canula
as she worked off the last of the white. When she was finished, she
bent down and kissed him softly.

"Thank you," he whispered while her face was still close.

"You're welcome," she replied, and kissed him again.

She stood back then, straightened her suit, lay the washcloth over
the basin and set the razor beside it.

"You look good," he said, and she smoothed the front of the jacket
down.

"I don't," she replied, looking down at the black suit, the skirt
hanging on her. "This suit is almost two sizes too big for me now.
But I figure it's better to meet Rosen like this than in my jeans and
one of your shirts. We need to appear to be taking this seriously.
Because it is serious."

She watched his face darken as he looked at her, something fierce in
his exhausted eyes.

"I won't let him separate us," he said, but the strength of his
words was tempered by the crack that formed in his voice, the last of
it coming out as a whisper.

She smiled faintly to him, affection in her eyes. "I know," she
murmured, and reached down to take his hand, their fingers lacing.
"We'll do the best we can."

He nodded again, gave her hand a squeeze.

"You've got to be tired," she said, stepping back and releasing his
hand. "I'm going to leave and let you sleep some before Rosen gets
here. Skinner said they'd arrive at about 2:30 or so. You've got some
time to rest."

"I'll try," he whispered, and they both knew he wouldn't. There was
too much on both their minds, too much at stake.

"I'll be back," she said. It was what she said to him instead of
saying anything close to goodbye. She trailed her hand down his leg
as she went around the bed and left the room.

Outside in the waiting room, her mother was waiting. She stood,
smiling warmly, as Scully went to her on a couch on the far side of
the room. Other families clustered around, though the place was more
empty since it was the visiting interval. Scully was glad for the
relative privacy. It helped her already-jangled nerves.

"Is Fox all right?" her mother asked. "You look worried."

"No, Mulder's fine," Scully replied, shaking her head. "I'm
just...nervous. About this meeting coming up."

Her mother nodded sympathetically and they sat -- close together,
almost touching, as they had been every time they were together since
Margaret Scully had arrived.

"I know a lot is at stake right now," her mother continued. "I'm
sorry that after everything the two of you have been through you're
having to do this, too. But I'm sure it will work out just fine."

Scully shook her head, looked down. "He has every reason to separate
us," she said, something angry in her voice. Angry at herself. "What
I did was...stupid. Calling Mulder like I did that night. Meeting him
like that while I was on assignment."

"You were upset," Margaret Scully replied. "From what little you've
told me it sounded like you needed someone with you that night. I
don't think you should be punished for needing someone."

"Mom," Scully said softly. "I was undercover. I could have
jeopardized the entire operation if someone had followed me and seen
me with Mulder. It was irresponsible. Rosen will blame me for calling
Mulder, but he'll blame Mulder for coming, and say it was our
relationship that clouded both our judgements." Her voice grew more
faint. "And he'll be right. In some respects, at least."

Her mother was quiet on hearing this, and Scully let the silence
stretch, looking down at her hands.

"You know, seeing you in that suit..." her mother said softly, and
she smiled. "It reminds me of that time when you were in high school
and your father and I had to go with you to see the principal.
Remember that?"

Scully chuckled. "When I got caught for sneaking off campus?" she
asked, and she laughed again. "Now *that* was stupid. All that to
make sure I got tickets to the Billy Joel concert."

"Which your father then didn't let you go to," her mother rejoined,
her voice mock-stern.

"Of course," Scully said. She looked down at her suit. "And I
insisted on wearing one of your suits in to see Mr. Speldman. I
thought it would make me look more 'adult.'"

Her mother nodded, smiled wider. "And what you really looked like
was a teenager wearing her mother's church clothes."

They laughed together -- quietly, considering the space.

"I couldn't tell you that at the time, of course," Margaret Scully
said. "You were going to go in there and try to meet him as an equal,
suit for suit. And you did. You admitted you'd done wrong, but you
didn't exactly apologize for it, either. It had been something that
mattered to you, and what mattered to you was more important than the
rules."

"I was still in the wrong," Scully replied. "The policy was very
clear."

"Yes, you were still in the wrong. And you were willing to take the
punishment for it, including not being able to go to the concert. But
you weren't ashamed of doing something that was important to you."

Scully's smile faded a bit as she returned her gaze to her lap.
"This is a little bit different than that, Mom," she said softly.

"It's different, yes," her mother said, reaching up to push a lock
of Scully's long hair behind her ear. "In some ways. In some ways
not. I was proud of you for how you handled that. You had a sense of
yourself that I admired."

"You were proud of me then?" Scully repeated, incredulous. "You
could have fooled me." She looked into her mother's face now, the
other woman's eyes warm.

"Sometimes we can't tell our children things like that when they're
young," she replied, reaching out to lift a small piece of lint from
Scully's otherwise pristine suit. "But fortunately we get to do it
when they're older. And I am proud of you. I'm proud of what you've
done through all this."

Her voice dropped, and she reached out to touch Scully's hair
softly. "Especially given what you've been through."

Scully looked down again, nodded. It still struck her that she'd
told her mother about the rape. She was also struck how relieved she
was to have done it.

Her mother cleared her throat. "And I'm proud of what you have with
Mulder," she continued. "I don't think you should apologize for any
of it."

With that, her mother stood, gathered up her purse. "I'm going to go
down and get some lunch. Why don't you come with me? I think it would
do you some good to get away from here for a little while, before all
this happens. And you need to eat."

Scully nodded, still considering everything that her mother said.
She felt a flush at hearing her mother say the things she had. The
flush of a child who speaks to a parent and who finally feels, in
some respect, completely understood.

"All right," she said, stood, and followed her mother out of the
room.


***********


2:43 p.m.



Mulder had done his best to doze since Scully had left, but as the
time when Skinner and Rosen would arrive drew closer, he'd found
himself getting even more keyed up and frustrated. The pain in his
belly and back throbbed through him, as well, since he'd refrained
from taking any more painkiller since Scully had left. He wanted to
be as alert as he could, and the drug doped him up, made him tired
and his thinking fuzzy. This was no time for that.

He looked down at the small wand with the button on the end dangling
over the railing and sighed. He'd hoped it wouldn't hurt *this* much
to go without, and the strength of the pain surprised him.

His breathing was more shallow now as he tried to keep his belly
from rising and falling as much as possible. He also lay very still,
staring up at the ceiling, to keep from aggravating the surgical
sites with movement.

He hated being so helpless. He didn't want to appear this way to
Rosen when he came in. He wanted to appear as strong as he felt
inside about what he and Scully had done, what they'd been through.

He wanted to be ready to fight if necessary. He hoped he was up for
it, because he might not get another chance.

He closed his eyes, tried to let out a normal breath. His stomach
burned.

"Mr. Mulder?" a voice said from the doorway. He opened his eyes and
saw Debbie, one of the day nurses, standing in the doorway, looking
at him with concern.

"Yes?" he said, and the pain was in his voice.

"Are you all right?" Debbie asked. "Your respiration and pulse are
up."

He nodded. "I'm okay," he replied, holding up a placating hand.
"Thank you, though."

She looked unconvinced, but relented. "Let us know if you need
something, especially if the pain gets too bad," she said, and when
he nodded, she disappeared back toward the nurses' station.

He closed his eyes again, tried to slow his breathing back down. On
top of everything he had to admit he was nervous. That wasn't helping
matters much.

He and Scully had actually had very little contact with Rosen. He
was fairly new -- on the job since the previous summer, but Mulder
and Scully had gone on to Richmond in December, limiting their time
under his supervision. Mulder had, in fact, only met him once, a
meeting about the budget of their division, in which Rosen had been
formal and no-nonsense, but had allowed their expenditures based on
their solve rate. He'd struck Mulder as a reasonable man, but also a
man who followed the book to the letter.

That latter part might be what would cause he and Scully the
problems, he thought, sighing.

He turned his face toward the monitors, his eyes still closed,
listening to the cadence of his own heart for a long moment.

"Mulder?"

Scully's voice this time. He turned his face toward the door, opened
his eyes, and she was standing there, looking at him with concern.
Behind her, Skinner stood, clearly tense.

And beside him, Deputy Director Jack Rosen, looking for all the
world like a Deputy Director in his graying hair, flawless suit and
bland tie.

"I'm awake," he said, and cleared his throat to force his voice to
work, even though the action caused him pain.

Scully nodded and led both the men in, Scully going to the side of
the bed furthest from the door as Rosen took up the foot, Skinner
staying near the door.

The room was crowded with three people in it, he thought. No wonder
they had a "two-person" rule, which Skinner had gotten permission to
break in the interest of "official FBI business." Kellerman had
agreed reluctantly.

"Agent Mulder," Rosen said, nodding down to him. "How are you
feeling?" He had a rich voice, his accent pure New York. Agents
called him "The Godfather" behind his back.

"I'm all right, sir," Mulder replied, nodding back.

"Agent Scully tells me you've been making steady improvement," he
replied, looking at Scully, then back at Mulder. "I'm relieved to
hear that."

"Thank you," Mulder said faintly. "I'm doing my best."

Rosen shifted his weight, leaning on the foot of the bed, leaning
closer. He addressed both Mulder and Scully, pursed his lips. "Well,"
he said. "We have some talking to do, I think."

Skinner shifted, as well. "Deputy Director Rosen and I have been
discussing the situation in the car on the way down from Winslow," he
said, intent on his shoes.

"Yes, I've been fully briefed at this point," Rosen said. He spoke
slowly, quietly. As if to himself. "I know about how you, Agent
Mulder, came to the conclusion that it was the Irish Embassy that was
going to be bombed, how you extrapolated that. I know about what
happened in Mae Curran's apartment in Richmond."

He paused a beat and looked at Scully, clear regret in his eyes, and
Mulder saw her look down, her cheeks pinking slightly, and was proud
of her when she looked back up and met Rosen's gaze.

Then Rosen continued. "I know about your actions following that,
Agent Mulder. About what's happened here. And I, of course, know
about Robert Padden's involvement with all this, his apparent motives
and his actions." He shook his head. "To say there were extenuating
circumstances in this entire affair would be a gross understatement.
Don't you agree?"

Mulder nearly cracked a smile, though Rosen didn't intend for the
statement to be light at all.

"Yes, sir," Scully replied for them both.

Rosen continued. "And to say that you both are owed apologies for
what you've been through with this would also be an understatement."
He looked down. "You'll both be compensated for the time you were
away, of course. I think, given the circumstances under which this
all occurred, you've both handled this, for the most part, in the
best manner you could. And you'll both have whatever time it takes
for you to recover from your ordeal, as well."

"Thank you," Scully said softly, and Mulder nodded as Rosen looked
up at both of them.

"There is one thing that I'd like to know from you both, however,"
he said, standing straight again.

They waited.

Here it comes, Mulder thought, and he could see the same thought
cross Scully's mind as her eyes came down again.

"How often can I expect to get reports of two of my agents violating
procedures and tenants of professional conduct while on an
investigation because they are involved in a personal relationship?"

Mulder felt heat rising in his own face at the blatant mention of he
and Scully's relationship. It had been a secret for so long that
hearing it spoken aloud by the Deputy Director was jarring as hell.

Then he considered how to answer Rosen's question. He knew the
answer Rosen wanted to hear, but he also knew that given the same set
of circumstances, he would do the same thing again.

Scully's momentary silence seemed to indicate she had come to the
same conclusion.

"Sir," Scully began at last. "The situation I was involved in at
that time of the operation warranted my contacting Agent Mulder. He
was the Chief Profiler on the case, and Dr. Padden had made it
impossible for us to have contact. I was concerned about the status
of my cover and afraid for my life."

"Agent Scully," Rosen said, crossing his arms. "I understand you had
some compelling reasons for your actions. But I hope you're not going
to stand here and try to convince me that your personal relationship
with Agent Mulder had nothing to do with your decision to call him."

Scully met his eyes, and Mulder saw something flare in them.

"Agent Mulder's expertise and our relationship as partners for seven
years prior to this incident was the basis for my call," she said
evenly. "Our personal relationship is a part of that partnership at
this juncture, admittedly. So no, sir, I'm not going to try to
convince you of that."

"And you, Agent Mulder?" Rosen asked. "Are you going to tell me your
feelings for Agent Scully had nothing to do with your decision to go
to her that night?"

"No, I'm not going to tell you that, sir," Mulder said, as
unapologetically as Scully.

"Well, I have to tell you, Agents, that causes me some concern."
Rosen put his hands back on the footboard, tapped lightly with one
hand. "A great deal of concern, in fact. Agents who are willing to
put their feelings for one another ahead of things like proper
investigative and tactical procedures...they're not much use to the
Bureau."

Mulder drew in a deep breath through the canula, spoke. "Agent
Scully was being put in a situation of tremendous and unnecessary
risk. She knew that. I did. Granger did. And so did Padden, as we
well know now."

He stopped, took another breath. Pain throbbed as he inhaled, and he
had to close his eyes for a second. He felt Scully shift beside him,
noting the pain he was in. He opened his eyes, nodded to her, then
continued.

"Given those circumstances, it was entirely appropriate for her to
do what she needed to do to protect herself." He looked at Rosen with
his tired eyes.

"That wasn't her decision to make, Agent Mulder," Rosen replied, but
he sounded more fatigued than angry. "Not according to regulations."
He looked at Scully, who was nodding.

"Yes, sir," she said. "That is true. It was not my decision to make.
I did violate procedure by doing what I did, and I'm prepared for the
consequences of that violation."

"Yes," Mulder added. "I am, as well."

Rosen seemed to consider this. Mulder watched Skinner looking from
Rosen to them and back again.

"You still haven't answered my initial question, Agents," Rosen
said. "How many times am I going to get a report like this?"

Mulder looked up at Scully, and she at him.

"I would hope that the same sort of circumstances wouldn't arise
that would warrant such actions on either of our parts," Scully said
quietly.

Rosen nodded. Mulder could tell Rosen was aware that neither he or
Scully had apologized for what they'd done, and that he didn't like
it.

"But if they did?" Rosen pressed.

"Then my guess is we would both do the same thing we did, sir,"
Mulder said, and his voice was hoarse now. "But short of those
circumstances...no. You would not receive that report."

Rosen looked to Scully, who nodded.

Rosen sighed, crossed his arms again, regarding them both.

"Convince me that I shouldn't separate you, Agents," he said after a
moment. His voice was harder than it had been.

"Our solve rate comes to mind," Mulder said instantly, unable to
keep the edge out his voice.

"Yes, there is that," Rosen said, nodding. "But there's no saying
that you both wouldn't be equally as effective with other partners,
in different divisions." He paused. "I need a better reason than
that."

Again, Mulder and Scully were silent, considering.

"I'll make it easy on you," Rosen said. "Give me *one* reason why I
shouldn't separate you. The one thing I can't refute."

Mulder felt his heart sinking at that. That didn't make it easy on
them. It made it impossibly hard. Scully looked down at him, and he
told her he had no answer with his eyes.

Then something came over Scully's features. She raised her chin,
pulled in a breath, and looked at Rosen. Her eyes were flint.

"That," she said. "Despite everything that was put up against us,
everything that's happened to us, we're both still alive. And that is
*only* because we were together through it."

Mulder thought about that in the silence that fell among them. As if
to prove Scully's point, the only sound in the room was that of his
own heartbeat on the monitor, an even sound, comforting to him in its
predictability.

He glanced at Scully, loving her for the answer.

Rosen regarded Scully for a long moment, his arms still crossed.
Then, something softened in him, and he glanced at Mulder, then
turned and looked at Skinner. Skinner nodded.

"All right, Agents," he said, uncrossed his arms. "We'll give it
another go. But I must warn you now. I want separate motel room
receipts while you're in the field. I want the personal out of the
office. I want things neat and clean and by the numbers from now on.
Am I clear on that?"

"Very, sir," Scully said.

Mulder nodded, pulled in another deep breath, and this time the pain
hitched in him, a bolt going from his belly to his back. He couldn't
help it, but he cringed, stiffening as he held his breath, his eyes
closing.

"Mulder?" Scully said softly, concern in her voice. "You can have
another dose now. Go ahead and take it."

Mulder opened his eyes, nodded. He fumbled for the small wand and
sunk his thumb on the button, the pump beeping.

"I'm going to leave you alone, Agent Mulder," Rosen said. "Let you
get some rest. I'm going to be coming back this afternoon to get a
few gaps filled in from Assistant Director Skinner's accounts to me.
But that can wait."

Mulder nodded, the familiar buzz starting in his head from the
painkiller. His eyes drooped, but the pain became a touch more
tolerable.

"I'll answer anything I can," he said, almost too quietly to hear.
He felt sleep tugging on him, its irresistible pull. But his
breathing had picked up again with the pain.

Debbie returned to the doorway, her concern etched more deeply in
her features. "You're all going to have to go," she said. "We're
getting concerned about his vitals."

He was vaguely aware of Scully turning to the monitors. "Yes, he
needs to sleep," she said. She turned back to Rosen and Skinner. "If
you'll both step out with me now?"

He smiled faintly, despite the pain. That was Doctor Scully talking.
He'd know that voice anywhere. And not even Rosen outranked *her*.

The last thing he was aware of was the sound of footsteps, his eyes
already closing as a drugged sleep touched him and pulled him under.


**********


END OF CHAPTER 24a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 24b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 24b.



**

Granger saw Rosen, Scully and Skinner outside the door to the ICU
waiting room. He'd stationed himself at a couch across from the
doorway so he could watch when they came out, so he could be
conspicuous should Rosen decide he needed to talk to him.

He wanted to be of any use he could in all this, so he'd made sure
he'd gotten back from the motel in time for the meeting.

He watched Rosen reach out, offer his hand to Scully, who shook it.
They were speaking, but he couldn't make out all the words. He did
hear the word "sorry" pass from Rosen to her. He wasn't sure what to
make of that. Rosen could be sorry about a lot of things, splitting
Mulder and Scully up one of them. He pursed his lips, trying to fill
in the gaps.

Then Rosen turned toward the door and saw Granger sitting there. He
led the way into the waiting room, Scully going to the corner where
her mother was sitting, doing one of the crossword books Granger had
brought back from the Walgreen's.

As she passed him, she snuck a glance at him, gave him a small
smile, and nodded.

Granger let out a sigh. It had worked out all right. He felt a smile
curling his lips, which vanished as Rosen made his way over to him,
Skinner right behind.

Granger stood, wiped his hands on his jeans. His palms had been
sweating.

Rosen stopped in front of him, Skinner beside him. Both of their
faces were unreadable.

"Mr. Granger," Rosen began.

"Deputy Director Rosen," Granger replied, and Rosen reached his hand
to him, and Granger shook it once.

"You've been enormously helpful in this whole business, Mr.
Granger," Rosen continued, nodding to him. "Were it not for your help
in this matter, I'm not sure things would have worked out as well as
they have." He glanced around the waiting room. "If you can call this
'well,'" he added.

"I do call it 'well,' yes," Granger said, and chanced a smile. Rosen
gave him a rough approximation of one back.

"I understand you've left the CIA," Rosen said, and Granger nodded.

"Yes," he replied. "That's not the kind of work I want to do
anymore. I'm a bit disgusted by the whole thing, if you'll pardon my
saying so."

Rosen nodded, pinned Granger with his gaze. "What kind of work is it
that you do want to do, Mr. Granger?"

The question took him off guard, and he was silent for few seconds.
"I'm not sure what you mean," he said finally.

"I mean, is it profiling you don't want to do, or being in law
enforcement in general, or being an agent? What would you like to
keep and what would you like to leave behind?"

Granger considered. "I've spent my life learning to profile. I'd
like to find some capacity -- somewhere -- to do that. I'd like to
stay in law enforcement in some way, as well. But being an
agent...that I will be leaving behind."

Rosen nodded again. "I see," he said. "Well, why don't you come work
for me?"

Granger gaped, looking from Skinner to Rosen and back. Skinner's had
a slight smile on his face. He nodded to Granger.

"In...what capacity?" Granger asked.

Rosen put his hands behind his back, stood straight, regarding
Granger even more seriously. "Violent Crimes. As a civilian profiler.
I think I can make room on the staff for you, if you're interested.
You would advise the agents on various cases. Not a lot of field
work, but it would still be profiling. And you'd still be in law
enforcement."

Granger was quiet for a few seconds, and Rosen pressed forward.

"It might be a slight pay cut from the CIA, but not much." He
paused, still regarding Granger with his business-like gaze. "What do
you say, Mr. Granger? You need a job. I need someone with the clear
investigative talents and dedication to the work that you've
demonstrated."

Granger found himself smiling now. He nodded.

"Yes, sir," he said at last. "That sounds like a wonderful
opportunity. I'd be very interested in that."

Rosen nodded, looked at Skinner, who did the same. "Assistant
Director Skinner will see to the details. When can you start?"

Granger looked around the room, glancing at Scully and then back
into Rosen's face.

"I was intending on using some of the time Agent Mulder is in the
hospital here to go do some sightseeing," he said, and looked down
shyly. "Grand Canyon, that sort of thing. I've never been to the
Southwest before and, well, I'd like to see more of it than I have."
He met Rosen's gaze again. "Then I thought I'd make myself available
to help get Agent Mulder back to Washington. I think Agent Scully
will probably need some help with that."

"I see," Rosen said, his face coming up with that same stiff smile.
"See this thing through to the end, as it were."

Granger nodded. "Yes, sir," he said. "It feels like the right thing
to do."

"Well, that would be fine," Rosen replied, and he reached his hand
out again and Granger took it. "I'll expect to see you in the Hoover
Building in a few weeks then." Rosen shook his hand and let it go.

"Thank you, sir," Granger said.

Rosen nodded, and with that, he headed for the door.

Skinner stood there, his face amused.

"What's so funny?" Granger said, smiling back.

Skinner looked to the side, back at him again. "I'm just really
looking forward to having someone else at the FBI who's willing to
break every rule in the book," he said wryly.

Granger chuffed. "I only do that when it's clear that everything
going on around me is wrong," he replied. "Much like yourself, if you
don't mind me saying." He grinned. "Not to worry, sir. I'll be good."

Skinner shook his head. "They should have never put you with
Mulder," he said, and reached out to shake Granger's hand. "God help
us all."

Now Granger laughed aloud, and Skinner's smile widened.

"I'll be in touch," Skinner said as their hands dropped, and they
said goodbye, Skinner going to where Rosen had paused beside the
door, waiting for him. The two men went out, leaving Granger, who was
still smiling, behind them.


***********


APRIL 23
(ONE WEEK LATER)
9:28 a.m.


"Trust."

Albert Hosteen said the single word softly as Mulder put a hand up
over his bare stomach, as if by reflex, to grip the older man's wrist
and keep him from touching him. Hosteen reached with his other hand,
took Mulder's, easing his grip off and then laying Mulder's hand back
down beside him.

Scully watched all this, feeling for Mulder, but amused at Mulder's
indoctrination into Hosteen's cryptic, gentle ways. She smiled to
him, reassuring him.

Around them, morning sunlight pooled in the room, falling across the
bed in warm bars through the open blinds in the spacious, private
room. Scully closed her eyes as it warmed her where she sat in one
the chairs in the room, the recliner where'd she spent most of the
last three days since Mulder had been moved from the ICU.

Scully's mother was still back at the motel, Granger there, as well,
just back from his week-long roadtrip around the state. If they were
true to form, she thought, both would be in shortly.

Only Victor and Albert were here now, Victor sitting still in one of
the chairs and watching his grandfather work.

She watched Mulder lean his head back down on the pillow. He
swallowed nervously and nodded for Hosteen to continue.

Hosteen, dressed in a dark green shirt and his jeans, a wide red
ceremonial headband around his forehead, leaned back over Mulder, a
soft leather bag filled with things that clinked softly together as
he shifted it in one hand. He rolled it in his fingers. The other
hand he carefully lay on the bump of the dressing over Mulder's
stomach.

He said something in Navajo, rolled the bag again, gently moved his
hand from side to side over Mulder's bandage. Mulder lay very still
as he did this, but his fists were balled at his sides.

Scully watched, interested and warmed by Hosteen's intention with
the ceremony. She'd learned to be open to Hosteen's ways, and though
she didn't share his faith, she could see no harm in what he was
doing.

And who knew, she thought, letting out a calm breath. It might even
do some good.

She smiled as she opened herself to the possibility.

A few more phrases in Navajo and Hosteen removed his hand, set the
bag down. Then he reached for a small box, no larger than a ring box,
that he had laying next to Mulder's thigh. He opened it carefully,
pressed his finger into it, darkening the tip of his finger with the
contents.

Then he reached up to Mulder's pale forehead, smoothing Mulder's
hair away from his face. Once he had Mulder's skin completely
exposed, he drew a line down the center of Mulder's forehead with the
dark substance -- ash, she guessed by the way it flaked, sending dark
flecks onto Mulder's brow.

Then he dipped his finger into the box again and crossed the line
horizontally. Scully was reminded of Ash Wednesday with the mark that
Hosteen had left, though the mark was much larger.

Hosteen finished by laying his hand on Mulder's hairline, his eyes
closed, for a few seconds. Mulder's eyes drifted closed at the touch,
as well.

Scully watched, and for some reason the sight made her eyes burn
with tears. She blinked them back.

"There," Hosteen said, and removed his hand. He looked down at
Mulder and smiled, that same twinkle in his eyes. "You are cured."

Mulder laughed stiffly. Scully smiled.

"All right, you are not cured," Hosteen amended, snapping the box
closed and lifting the bag. He pressed both into this pockets. "But
it will help. I promise."

"Thank you," Mulder said, and he clearly meant it. He'd only
recently regained his full voice, the full tenor, and Scully was
happy every time she heard the strength of it. Mulder was coming back
to himself slowly but surely.

"You are very welcome, Agent Mulder," Hosteen said, reached up and
took off the headband, holding it in his hand. He looked at he and
Scully. "Time for us to go home now."

Scully nodded, stood, as did Victor. Victor touched the brim of his
baseball cap as he looked at Scully.

"Take care, Agent Scully," he said, and Scully found his shyness
around her sweet. Victor wasn't used to being around women much, and
sometimes it really showed.

"I will, Victor. Thank you for everything."

"Any time," Victor said softly. "I'm glad you're doing so much
better."

Scully angled her head, accepting what he said.

Then Victor turned to Mulder on the bed. He gripped Mulder's hand
hard, tugging on it slightly. Mulder grinned at him.

"When you coming back to learn how to break horses?" Victor asked.

Mulder chuckled again. "Yeah, right. As if I haven't had my ass
kicked enough lately."

"Oh come on," Victor chided. "You'll be good at it. Chaco's all
right, you know. I'll keep her ready for you. You get your holes
healed up and come take a vacation with me. I'll show you what to
do."

"All right," Mulder relented, and Victor let go of his hand,
satisfied.

"All right," he repeated. "Be well, Mulder."

"You, too, Victor," Mulder replied, and Victor drifted out of the
room into the hallway.

It was Mulder who reached his hand toward Hosteen first, and Hosteen
took it, held it for a few seconds, shaking it slightly.

"I owe you my life again," Mulder said, his voice quiet, somber. "We
both do. I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay you for what
you've done for us."

Hosteen let go his hand. "No need to repay me, Agent Mulder," he
said. "You have done and continue to do what is right. That is all
the payment I need. I was glad to help you again. Someday perhaps you
will return the favor to me. Who knows what may happen. Just see to
Bo for me, all right? If he does not fall in love with your friend
Granger, who has him in his motel room now." Hosteen winked.

Mulder nodded, smiled, as Scully always saw him do when Bo was
mentioned. It made her smile, as well.

Man and his dog, indeed, she thought, shaking her head.

"I will see to him," Mulder replied.

Hosteen looked at Scully, then at him. "And remember what I told you
about the geese, Agent Mulder. One goes down, and the other waits. Do
not worry yourself about the time on the ground. It is the cycle of
things. Especially when one is bound for life."

Mulder nodded, glancing at Scully. "I'll remember," Mulder said
softly, smiling again. "Goodbye, Mr. Hosteen."

"Goodbye," Albert said, and then he looked at Scully, nodded toward
the hallway.

Perplexed by their exchange but understanding his intention now, she
followed him out.

Victor was down at the end of the hallway at the elevators,
something unspoken having passed between them about Albert's need to
be alone with the agents. Scully looked at Victor, then up into
Hosteen's face. He was smiling.

"I hope you will not find this to be a condescending thing for me to
say," Hosteen began. "But I am very pleased with all you have done. I
hope you are pleased, as well."

He did not say "proud," but Scully knew that was what he meant. The
tears stung her again, and she had to look away, down at his booted
feet.

"No," she said. "I don't find it condescending at all. I'm glad to
know that. And yes, I am pleased." Her voice grew faint at the last,
trailing off.

"You should be," Hosteen replied, but she still could not meet his
gaze, though she could feel it. "What you have been through, what
you've done since...it is a very difficult thing to do. Shows a
strength that everyone around you can see now."

Now she did look up, and the tears were there. "I..." She hesitated,
glanced down, then up again. "I couldn't have done this without you,"
she finished. "I don't know if you'll ever know how true that is. How
important what you've done for me has been." She wiped at her face
quickly, sniffed, looked down again.

"You did most of it yourself," he said gently, reaching out to tip
her chin up, leaving a dot of ash on her pale skin. His eyes were
shining. "You just needed a guide. I was simply your guide. Nothing
more."

"You underestimate yourself, Mr. Hosteen," she said.

"You have done the same," he replied. "But I do not think you will
so much anymore."

She smiled a small smile at that, though the tears were still
coming. "I hope you're right," she whispered.

"We are not saying goodbye," he said, his chin coming up. "You and
Mulder will come see me. I have feelings about things like this. We
will see each other again."

"I've learned to trust your feelings," she replied.

Albert smiled to her, and she smiled back, wiping her eyes again.

"It is not considered proper for me to do so, but I know in your
culture it is a sign of friendship for two people to embrace on
leaving one another." His voice was very formal, but there was a
warmth beneath it.

"It is," she agreed, nodding.

He opened his arms to her then and she went into them, her head
barely reaching his shoulder. As his arms closed around her shoulder,
she let the tears come.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything you've done."

"You are welcome," he replied, and then he let her go, turned and
started down the hallway toward Victor and the elevators.

She watched him go, stood there in the hallway as he waited for the
elevator to come. Then he and Victor got in, and she met his eyes
until the doors closed and he was gone.

She remained there for a long moment, nurses passing back and forth,
a patient with a walker moving slowly down the hall, a nurse beside
him with her hand on his arm.

She gathered herself, pulled in a breath and let it out, her eyes
closing.

Then she opened them, feeling good. Feeling whole.

She turned and went back into the room, back toward Mulder and into
the warm morning light.


*********


SKY HARBOR INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
PHOENIX, ARIZONA
MAY 3 (TEN DAYS LATER)
3:23 p.m.


"Come on, old man," Granger teased.

"Hey," Mulder protested, though he was panting. "Easy with
the...'old man' stuff. I already feel...112..."

Scully walked backward down the aisle of the plane, poised should
Mulder lose his balance or have his knees buckle on him. But then
Granger was behind him with his arms beneath Mulder's, his hands
barely reaching Mulder's shoulders but supporting him nonetheless. He
was basically holding Mulder up.

Mulder took one slow step after another. His hands gripped the
headrests of the plane's seats as they went through the first-class
section toward the first row of seats in Coach, the wider aisle at
the front of the section that faced the bulkhead. Scully had
requested the row of two on the left side of the plane, thinking it
would be easier for Mulder to turn and sit down there. His walking
was still unsteady at best and she didn't want him having to twist
too much.

"You okay, Mulder?" she asked, watching his face flush.

He nodded. "It's hurting a little," he admitted softly.

She swallowed. It must be hurting a lot for him to admit to it at
all.

He'd been stoic since they'd left the hospital that morning, the
four of them -- her mother still with her -- piling into an airport
van they'd called all the way from Phoenix to carry them and Bo to
Phoenix for the long trip back to Washington. The van had been almost
full between the people and all their things, including Bo's rather
large airline carrier that Granger had picked up for Scully at the
local WalMart in Show Low.

She still remembered Bo shifting from side to side in the carrier as
the baggage handlers had come to get him, Mulder speaking softly to
him from his wheelchair beside the counter as the handlers took him
away. The dog's familiar whine as he disappeared from sight through
the doorway.

"I'll give you another shot when we get settled in," she said to
Mulder now. "We're almost there. Just a few more steps."

He nodded, started walking again, Granger half-carrying him down the
aisle.

They reached the front seats and Granger let Mulder go, Margaret
Scully coming behind him with her and Scully's carry-ons, a flight
attendant coming from the other direction.

"Is he okay?" the man asked. "Do you need anything?"

"A blanket and a pillow would be nice, thank you," Scully said
quietly as Mulder eased himself into the seat nearest the window. He
reached up and loosened his tie a bit, looking uncomfortable in his
dark suit.

It was Skinner who had suggested the suits for them both, and for
Granger. Skinner would be meeting them on the other end with a Bureau
van to take them to Scully's apartment, but there had been a leak to
the press -- most likely from the hospital or from someone at the
airline. The press was involved in their story now and how it
intersected with Padden's and Curran's.

Skinner had said to expect television cameras at Dulles.

The whole thing made Scully cringe. Mulder was still so weak. She
was glad to have Granger and her mother there to help run
interference.

Her mother had kept sandwiches coming and crackers in her purse and
kept Scully's spirits up through the long waiting as Mulder slowly
gained back some strength. And Granger had been taking of care of Bo
for her since Hosteen had left Show Low. Things wouldn't have gone as
smoothly as they had so far without their help.

Her mother handed her the carry-on bag, and Scully sat and began
looting through it, pulling out a small bottle of Demoral and a
syringe. Mulder still had an IV shunt in the back of his hand (pills
weren't yet a good option, given his stomach), and Scully began
drawing the medication as the attendant came back with a blanket and
a pillow. He set them on the floor.

"Let me know if you need anything else," the man said. "We're just
about to start general boarding."

"Thank you," Scully said again. "I appreciate you letting us get on
first."

"No problem," and then he drifted back up the aisle.

Granger and her mother took the window and the aisle across from
them, buckling themselves in. Scully tapped the syringe, cleared the
air from it, then braced Mulder's arm with hers, careful not shake
him with her trembling, as she injected the drug into his hand.

"Thank you," he said, and she stood in front of him, fumbling around
his hips for the seat belts, clicking them in place over his hips.
Then she settled back down in her seat and buckled herself in.

People began bumping their way down the aisle, a line of normal
faces -- older couples; women with children, men behind them carrying
car seats; younger people with headphones already in place and t-
shirts that spouted designers' names and slogans; businessmen talking
on cell phones before the doors closed behind them.

It was so normal that Scully found it surreal. She and Mulder could
be anywhere, going home to Washington from any case. She shook her
head, struck by how much of her life she'd been away from, and for
how long.

So much time gone by -- more than five months since she and Mulder
had gone to Richmond, and so much change since then. So much pain,
first, and then so much more than that. The ease that comes at the
healing from intense pain. The simple joy of that.

It choked her to think about it.

She turned and saw her mother leaning forward, looking at her
through the line of people.

"You okay?" her mother said softly, and Scully nodded, forced a
smile. Her mother nodded and leaned back.

Soon the heavy pull of take-off, the buckskin desert and mountains
out the window.

Beside her, Mulder slept, tucked beneath the flimsy blue blanket
emblazoned with United Airlines' logo. He'd forsaken the pillow and
had his face turned toward her but not quite touching her, his hand
lightly clasping hers, even in his sleep.

She watched the window, watched the sky turn from cerulean blue to
dark blue to navy, and finally into darkness as the plane left the
sun behind it.

Three hours into the flight, Mulder still asleep, she gave him
another shot, being careful not wake him, so they would not arrive in
Washington with him in pain.

Then she sat back, felt herself ease as the plane nosed further
east, and after a few minutes, she finally slept herself.

*

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the Captain has turned on the 'fasten seat
belt' sign in preparation for our descent into the Washington D.C.
Metropolitan Area..."

Scully pulled herself awake, took in her surroundings with some
surprise, then she relaxed, pulling her suit jacket back into place,
uncramped her neck. Looking to her right, she saw her mother
engrossed in a book, the light over her seat illuminating the
paperback in her hands. Granger was asleep, his glasses slightly
askew.

She turned her face toward Mulder, who was still dozing next to her,
almost touching her shoulder now, his face supremely peaceful in his
sleep.

She let go of his hand, leaned forward as far as the seat belt would
allow and looked out the window.

Below her, the headlights of the beltway, the cluster of brightness
that was D.C., far off in the distance.

The city where her life was waiting. Her and Mulder's life.

She smiled as she saw the lights draw closer, leaned back to her
seat and inched her face toward Mulder's, touching her lips to his
cheek, which didn't stir him. Then she moved over to his mouth and
pressed her lips to his, staying there until she felt him draw in a
breath, though his eyes did not open.

Instead of speaking, he leaned down and kissed her again, lingering.
His hand tightened around hers.

She reached up, touched the side of his face, stroking his smooth
cheek.

"Mulder, wake up," she whispered, and he opened his eyes. They were
shining in the cabin's dim light. She nodded toward the window and he
turned to look out it, then back to her face.

"We're home, Mulder," she said softly, gave his hand a squeeze. He
smiled.

Then she leaned back up in the darkness, her hand still on the side
of his face.

The plane banked north, the city of light stretching out beneath
them.

Smiling, she kissed him again.


**********


END OF CHAPTER 24b. CONTINUED IN EPILOGUE (CHAPTER 25).

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is the Epilogue (Chapter 25).

**********


GEORGETOWN
WASHINGTON D.C.
DECEMBER 24
CHRISTMAS EVE
(SEVEN MONTHS LATER)
8:35 p.m.


Scully opened the door to her apartment, Bo's nose going through the
door first, his black muzzle pushing the door all the way open as he
pressed his body into the living room. Scully was right behind him,
already tucking the mail beneath her arm as she reached down to
unclip the dog's green-and-red striped leash from the matching collar.

Scully smiled as she looked at the collar and leash -- both of which
had appeared during the time they'd left Bo with Granger while they
went to Pennsylvania on a case. Granger was such a wonderful sap, she
thought. Only he would think about getting his "foster dog," as he
called Bo, a Christmas leash and collar.

She'd found the whole thing corny but decidedly sweet. Granger
really did like keeping Bo. He said a part-time dog was the best kind
of dog to have, and with the amount of time she and Mulder spent in
the field, she was glad for the sentiment on his part. He made
keeping the dog possible.

"Did he eat already?" she asked as she entered the apartment, Mulder
right behind her.

"Yeah, Granger fed him before we got there for dinner," he replied,
already loosening the rich maroon tie he wore with his black suit.
"He's been out already, too, he said."

She handed the leash back to Mulder, and he gathered it into his
hand and set it on the armoire by the door as Bo trotted into the
living room as if he owned the place.

He basically did, she thought, watching the sleek dog go for the
floor in front of the couch where he'd left his Booda Bone, his
winter coat thick and making his well- muscled body look soft and
shiny.

Bo whined as he found the big yellow bone and settled down in front
of the coffee table with it gripped between his paws, gnawing
instantly as if he'd been thinking about the thing the three days
he'd been gone from the apartment.

Mulder closed the door behind them, turned the lock and went
immediately to the tree in the corner of the living room, plugging it
in. The tree lit up with its dots of white light, the ornaments
gleaming and the packages beneath the tree bathing in the soft
shadows of its needles.

Scully smiled as she saw it, going to the tall table that reached
the couch's back, setting the stack of mail down with her keys and
stretching, smoothing the back of her black dress down.

"So you like Robin then," Mulder said, loosening his maroon tie and
stripping out of his dark suit jacket.

Scully nodded. "Yes, she seems very nice, and she seems to make
Granger happy. He dotes over her." Her smile widened. "It's very
funny to watch."

Mulder came up to her then, curled his arms around her waist and
tugged her against him. "And I don't dote over you?" he asked, his
voice teasing but deep.

"Not like that, thank God," Scully said, her arms going around his
neck. They kissed softly once. Twice. She felt his hands going up to
her shoulder blades, then down again to the small of her back. The
beginnings of an urgency she knew so well from him, one that she
loved.

"It feels good to be able to touch you," he said against her cheek.

"It's only been three days, Mulder," she said, but the words pleased
her.

"Three *long* days in the field..." he replied, and his hands
cradled her hips, pulling her closer against him.

"The case was your idea," she replied, nuzzling him. "It wasn't mine
to go out three days before Christmas chasing--"

"Don't say it."

"--a lonely 50-year old man in a Yeti outfit scaring children and
cows." She couldn't help herself, and the laugh bubbled out of her.
He leaned back and rolled his eyes.

"Now how was I supposed to know that?" he asked, pressed his
forehead to hers. "The pictures looked very authentic and you know
it."

She laughed again. "If I'd looked more carefully I would have seen
the zipper," she murmured, and kissed him again. He tried to deepen
it, his hands tightening on her hips, but she pulled back slightly,
her fingers in the fringe of his short-cropped hair above his stiff
white collar.

"You promised me we could open gifts tonight," she said softly.

"We can..." he replied, his voice thick. "Later."

She shook her head and stepped back now, straightening her dress for
effect.

"I've just had a wonderful dinner with Granger and Robin and I'm
pleasantly stuffed with chicken curry and good wine. It's Christmas
Eve and we have until noon tomorrow before we have to be at my
mother's." Her eyes twinkled with a childlike pleasure. "And I've
been shaking that box you have for me under the tree for two weeks
now when you weren't looking and I'm ready to know what's in it."

He smiled, put his hands in his pockets. "All right, all right," he
relented. "Can we at least change first? I want out of this suit."

"Agreed," she said, and gave him another smile, and they headed for
the bedroom.

The drawers on the right side of the dresser were his now, and
Scully watched him rummage through them for his sweatpants and a t-
shirt. Most of his clothes were here, in fact, his apartment nearly
abandoned since their return from Arizona. He spent maybe two nights
a week there, just enough to give them each a taste of their previous
solitude and make them appreciate both the time alone and the times
when they were together more.

She pulled off her shoes and black hose, watching the smooth plane
of his back as he undressed, the scar on it a small distraction from
the lovely play of muscle as he pulled the t-shirt over his head,
stepped into the sweats, drawing them up over his navy boxers.

She went for her side of the dresser now, pulled out a pair of white
silk pajamas, began to unbutton her dress.

"You want tea?" he asked, and she nodded. "I'll go put on the
kettle." And he moved out of the room.

She undressed languidly, dressed just the same. She heard Mulder
turn the radio on in the living room, instrumental Christmas carols
lilting back to her. She smiled and rejoined him just as the kettle
began to whistle.

He was in the kitchen, Bo leaned up against his legs, the bone in
the dog's mouth. Mulder was petting him absently as he poured boiling
water into the teapot. She gathered the cups and took them to the
living room, and he brought the tea, not far behind her. He sat on
the couch, laying the pot on the coffee table next to the cups.

Bo sprawled out beside the couch closest to Mulder, letting out a
slow breath as though he were deflating, and she began looting under
the tree, pulling out boxes, looking for the one she'd been so
interested in. It was a smallish rectangular one that was quite
heavy.

"Just one tonight, remember?" he chided. "That was the deal."

"I've got it," she replied. "Which one do you want?"

He pointed to a gold-foil wrapped package close to the base of the
tree. "That one. The one with the green bow that's kind of small that
it looks like you've been trying to hide."

She balked as she reached for it. It was the gift she had the most
apprehension about, the one she'd thought long and hard about giving
him at all.

"You sure you want that one?" she tried.

"I do," he said, mock-stern. "You got to pick yours and that's mine."

"All right," she said, and picked up the package, replacing the
boxes before she returned to the couch, sitting beside him.

"You first," he said, smiling to her. She smiled back, looking down
at the box in his hands. She was nervous looking at it.

"You okay?" he asked, touching her chin to make her look into his
face.

"Yes," she said, and gave him a smile with a little less anxiety
behind it. She did her best to shake the feeling off. "Okay, I'll go
first."

She picked up the heavy box, started on the paper carefully.

"Are we saving paper?" he asked after a long few seconds.

"I hadn't planned to," she said, intent on pulling the paper apart
at the joined seams.

"Then RIP IT OPEN," he said, and she laughed with him.

"Okay," she said, and did as she was told.

A plain white box, heavy cardboard, giving nothing away. She worked
the top open, peered inside.

A globe of glass in the dim light of the lamp behind her. She
reached for it, cradled it in her palm as she turned the box upside-
down and let the globe slip into her hand.

She held it up to the light. Her eyes stung, but she was smiling.

A snowglobe. This one glass with a heavy metal base. Inside it, a
carved castle with spires topped with tiny ribbons, the windows
looking like stained glass.

"Oh, Mulder," she said softly.

"Here," he said, reaching over. "It does this, too." She let him
take it from her and watched as he turned it over in his hand,
winding a butterfly winder in the base. He returned it upright, snow
falling inside it, as he handed it back to her.

Pachebel's Canon in D started to play, and as the music started, the
windows in the castle lit up, the whole globe glowing with red and
blue and golden light.

"It's so beautiful," she whispered.

He smiled to her. "I thought..." He hesitated, continued. "I thought
you might like a new one."

She looked at him, and the tears did rim her eyes now, remembering
that day in Arizona at the motel. That terrible day.

Then she looked at the beautiful thing in her hand now, at his
smile, his hand coming out to push her hair behind her ear.

"I didn't mean to make you cry," he said, and she shook her head,
leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, cradling the side of his
head in her hand, her thumb stroking his ear.

"It's okay," she said, still close to his face, and he nuzzled at
her, nodded. She leaned back, looked down at the snowglobe again.
"Thank you so much for this."

"You're welcome," he murmured. She set the snowglobe down on the
table gently, folded her hands in her lap as she regarded him with
his box.

"My turn?" he asked, and she could see he was watching her face,
confused by her reaction to the gift he held. His voice sounded a
little uncertain.

She swallowed. "Yes," she said, nodded.

"Scully," he said gently. "You know I'll like anything you give me
because it's from you."

She nodded. "I know. Go ahead and open it."

He gave her one last quizzical look, then pulled the bow off,
reaching down and sticking it on Bo's head to get her to smile. The
dog didn't stir, but she did smile. Then he started in on the paper.

In a few seconds he had the thing out, and was holding it up into
the light to get a good look at it.

"My God, Scully," he murmured.

She looked at the gift. A shadowbox picture frame, gold at the
edges. And inside it, professionally mounted against the backing --

A pressed pink sweetheart rose.

"It's..." She saw him swallow and keep himself from continuing.

"It's Emily's rose," she finished for him, and his face shot toward
hers. She nodded at his stunned expression.

"Yes," she whispered. "I do believe that now."

Emotion crossed his face -- surprise, then a touch of sadness at the
memory of that time, then a tiny smile.

"I got it from my mother a few weeks ago," she continued. "I wanted
you to have it. I thought it was right that you should have it."

"But...but why me, Scully?" he asked, looking from the rose to her.
"Why give this to me? My God. It's what you have left of her."

She took in a breath, let it out, unable to meet his eyes as she
spoke. "The one thing you have always wanted from me, since we first
met, has been my belief," she said quietly. "And I haven't been able
to give that to you for most of the time we've been together."

She paused, and now she did look up at him. His eyes were filling
with tears.

"And now...with everything we've been through...with so many things
I can't explain and with the trust that I have in you, the love I
have for you...I offer you that belief. As much as I'm able to give
it."

She watched a tear come down his cheek, catching in the light as he
looked at her.

"It is what I have left of her," she whispered. "And I want to share
that with you. I want her to be, like everything else in our lives
now, ours."

She was in his arms then, his grip almost too tight as emotion swept
over him. She was crying, as well, but pressed her lips to the side
of his throat, feeling his breathing hitch.

"God, I love you," he whispered.

"I love you, too," she replied in the same voice.

"No one's ever given me anything like this," he said, the tears in
his voice. "Not in my life..."

She smiled, the tears still coming. "You're welcome, Mulder," she
murmured, and turned, tasting salt on his lips as she kissed him
again.

This time the kiss did deepen, his hand cradling her face, their
faces angling. Her hands trailed down his chest, her palms pressed
flat against him.

"Let me make love to you now," he murmured, breathless, as they
separated, coming up for air. "Please..."

She nodded. "Yes," she replied, wiping at his cheeks, and he kissed
her again, set the frame carefully down and stood.

"Give me a minute," he said, and he touched the side of her face. "I
want...just give me a minute."

"Okay," she replied, gave him a smile as she turned her face and
kissed his hand. "I'll wait."

With that he withdrew, going down the hallway toward the bedroom. Bo
rose and fell in behind him, the bow still on his head. They both
threw shadows from the bedroom light as they went.

She closed her eyes, blood singing in her veins, giving her a warm
flush. She could feel it already. The cool of night air against her
bare skin. His warm mouth on her body. The press of his weight as he
wrapped himself around her, over her. The opening of her body to him,
the feel of the soft skin of his hips against the insides of her
thighs.

The feeling of fullness, and the heat, and the sweat.

All of it as natural to them as air and breath.

She opened her eyes, gazed down at her hands as she smiled with it,
her body quickening. Readying.

Both her hands were calm and still, her palms open in her lap,
holding shadows and light.

The smell of scented candles came from the bedroom, the light going
off in the doorway, replaced by the flickering of tiny flames.

She rose then, went to the kitchen and switched off the light,
washing the room with darkness. Then she moved to the table behind
the couch, reached beneath the gold glass shade to turn the lamp off,
as well.

Then something caught her eye, there in the pile of mail. A splash
of something pink against a background of white.

She reached down and drew it out from the pile, looked at it for a
moment, puzzled.

A footprint. Pink. A baby's footprint pressed to the back of a plain
white postcard. She turned it over, saw her name and address printed
neatly on the front, the postmark a General Delivery. Somewhere in
Australia.

She turned the postcard over again, looked at the footprint. Beneath
it, in tiny neat lettering, two words.

Katherine Ann.

The smile that broke over her face was wide and open and delighted.
She traced the footprint with her finger -- the tiny lines. The
wrinkles of it. The dots of toes and the curve of a tiny heel. She
touched the postcard to her chest.

"Scully?" Mulder called from the doorway to the bedroom, and she
turned toward him, saw him backlit by the light of a dozen candles,
the light playing over the bare skin of his back.

"I'm coming," she murmured, and he nodded, returned to the bedroom.

She slipped the postcard back in with the mail, hiding it in the
flyers and bills.

Then she reached for the lamp and flicked it off, the Christmas tree
the only light in the room now as she went to the bedroom, faint
music filling the room, and the lights on the tree small and warm and
bright as starlight.


*********

END






AUTHOR'S NOTES:


Hey everyone. You still with me? Long trip, eh? :o)

Many thank yous to say. Many many. And I'm going to forget someone,
and let me apologize in advance for that. I try to keep notes on the
people who help me along the way but sometimes I lose the notes! :O}
An overall thank you first then -- if you wrote me an email giving me
ideas, helping me with research, correcting me on something I was
doing not-quite-right (that I actually listened to!).....my thanks to
you!

THANKS TO:

The readers: The emails of encouragement, the stalking, the
occasional analysis, the general cheerleading...it feeds a WIP
writer's heart and soul. It's great to know you're not writing into a
void, and many of you have made me feel like this mattered to you on
some level, and I appreciate that so much.

Thanks especially to Amy at the Haven and the Haven Stalkers for all
the support. Thanks to Missy J, csw, Linda, deb, Jen (the Screamer!)
and everyone else who wrote me regularly. I've loved hearing from
you.

The "Readers:" These are people who were not official betas to the
story, but who read for me, giving me general reactions and
occasional suggestions. Sue, Nlynn, Jean, Arwen, and Beth.

The Community: A great great big thank you to Scullyfic for the
support and the research help, on everything from what Spam looks and
tastes like (too many to name!), to the Irish neighborhoods in NY
(Mara and Lil Barb and others) to rock bands of the early 80s (Jill
and many many others). And everything in between. What a great place
to be. To Gwinne for her fondness for Pottery Barn furniture and her
friendship.

* Special thanks to Cindy for the medical advice. It's always good
to have a paramedic in your corner. Everyone should go out and get
one. ;o)

* To Kris at the Imaginarium for the wonderful website.

* To Sue and Nlynn for the great collages to augment the story.

And finally, the Betas: I know everyone says this, but I have the
greatest beta team on the planet (okay, so I'm a little biased on
that...):

To Shari: for everything from kicks in the rear to PR work, and for
keeping my website spiffy and up-to-date. For formatting and for
careful "eagle-eye" editing on the text itself and on
characterization. Nobody catches better. For her friendship and
concern through this experience. I feel privileged to have become her
friend through all this.

To Sheri: for the best fiction-writing lessons in the world and for
being hard on me once again so that I didn't take the easy way out of
what I was doing and so that I kept learning. For her friendship and
advice and cheerleading and support (like taking me fishing on the
Chesapeake Bay when I'd spent three days on a scene and couldn't get
it right. Caught some croaker and fixed the scene!) The best friend a
writer -- and a person -- could hope to have.

To Dani: my comrade-in-arms, who rolls up her sleeves and gets dirty
with me in this, helping me keep up with the plot (not an easy task!)
and telling me what a reader wants and how to make it fit with what I
want. For her loyalty and her companionship through long days of
writing. For her friendship, which means the world to me.

Writing can be a solitary and sometimes lonely activity, and they
have made sure that, for me, it has not been.


This story is dedicated to Shari, whose strength gives me strength,
whose faith gives me faith. I would not have started writing
fanfiction were it not for her, and it has given me more than I can
say, including some of the best friends of my life. I owe her a great
debt, and I hope this story is a small repayment of that debt.


My next book will be called "The WIP Diet," and will deal with how
to work off the weight from 14 months of eating a pan of brownies a
week. (Kidding! Where would I have been without my brownies? If
you're blocked, you should try it.)

(Thanks, incidently, to my official corporate sponsors, Duncan Hines
and Twinings Tea. ;o))

Seriously though, my next story (which will probably be a novel,
knowing me) will continue this story and is tentatively called "The
Road Not Travelled." I hope to begin it over Winter Break in
December.

I'm staying in the Goshen Universe, folks. So you AU fans....here
you have it. :o)


Thanks so much for reading, everyone. It's been a great experience
for me.


Bone
Bonetree@gmail.com