Letting the Demons Go (1/5) Summary: What happened from the time of Scully's phone call on Friday to the time Mulder wakes up on Sunday and beyond. Spoilers: Demons (yes another one), mention of Our Town Rating: PG-13 Category: V, A, UST Surgeon General Warning: I'm ignoring the cancer arc. It's a fabrication, so I'm not 'believing the lie' Disclaimer: I won't infringe. Now, go and write an entire SEASON just like Demons, and I'll be happy :) XA disclaimer applies. Dedication: This one is for Summer, the best Mulder voice I know. You taught me a lot--thanks :) Archive as you please, but Mulder Torture gets first crack at it Comments: vmoseley@fgi.net Letting the Demons Go (1/5) By Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net "So, where are you calling from, Mulder?" Scully asks in that 'Sister Mary Dana' voice she has. The one that tells me to eat less red meat, stop using salt, and cut down on the porn before I really screw up my eyesight. I usually ignore her when her voice gets that tone, but tonight, it rubs the wrong way. "I'm at home, MOM," I emphasize the 'mom' part. Sometimes, she really does think she's my mother. Or my keeper. I don't know which is worse. "Then why are you calling about the Houston file?" she fires back at me with that speed of light interrogation method I've come to know and love. Love--when it's used on anyone but me. "Because I figured I'd look it over. I mean, the game comes on later, and I had a little time. . ." I'm fidgeting and I can tell she knows it. She had threatened me within an inch of my life ("I can still shoot you in the OTHER shoulder, Mulder") if I didn't lay off this weekend. She should lay off. And not just this weekend. She needs some time--a vacation. Some time when she isn't worried about me. "Mulder, even if I could answer your question, I wouldn't. You need to spend the next 48 hours forgetting about our jobs, forgetting the office, forgetting about the X files." Oh, God, now the 'doctor is in' voice is taking over. It never ceases to amaze me how Scully can deny the existence of channeling spirits when she's such a perfect example, all to herself. "But there is nothing on TV." I hate this. She gets to play 'doctor' to my 'whinny nine year old'. I don't need this shit. Not really. "Rent a video. Call a 900 number. Blow up an inflatable woman and give yourself a headache. Just forget about the office. And that's an order," she says--and for a second I think she almost believes that I'll do as I'm told. Sheez, what a chump she can be. "You're boring me, Scully. I'm going to bed," I finally figure out a way to dig myself out of this hole of a conversation I've dug for myself. "Sweet dreams, Mulder. See you Monday morning." Ah, yes. Now I remember why I put up with the snide comments about my sexual urges, the way she bosses me around, the way she deflates my ego. God, sometimes, the woman's voice is pure silk when she speaks. "G'night, Scully. Sweet dreams." I really did want to go over the Houston file, but that idea is now thrown to the winds. I can't stand sitting in this apartment when there is nothing to keep my mind occupied. In desperation, I pick up my mail that has been piling up since Nixon left office and try and convince myself that I'm not the pack rat my parents turned out to be. Bills. Several bills. Some bills in white envelopes with angry little red borders peeking through the cloudy windows. Shit, how long has it been since I paid the VISA account? Too long, obviously. I really should consider retaining an accountant. Or a bill payer. Or maybe moan about it in front of Scully when I'm coming off a bad case and see if she'll volunteer to take them off my hands. Yeah, much cheaper. More bills. Publisher's Clearinghouse. Geez, I need to do this more than once a year. A letter that fell off the top of the pile and landed in my lap first now peers at me from under the mess I've made. A hand addressed letter. The return is Providence and for a second I wonder who the hell in Rhodes Island would be writing me when almost everyone I know either calls or e-mails. I rip open the letter and pull out the two sheets. The letter is on 'writing paper' as my mother used to call it. The fancy stuff with a border and watermarked. Nice. The handwriting is feminine, almost artistic. The loops aren't closed and I know that means something, but I'm too engrossed in the words on the page to allow my mind to work on the analysis. Her name is Amy Cassandra. She's been married for 39 years, next July. Her husband David is a wonderful man, but he just doesn't understand. I'm getting a sick feeling in my stomach and I try to remember if any of the 'ladies' I've had late night 'talks' with have been named Amy. Then the letter settles down into familiar territory. "I was abducted first when I was a little girl. I remember now that it was the summer I was 9 years old." UFO abduction. No wonder she wrote me. The boys down at the Magic Bullet have been writing my address on the men's room walls again. Damn, Frohike. Ever since I convinced Scully to change to an unlisted phone number, he's been vowing his revenge. This was probably his idea. But the more I read the letter, the more interesting it gets. Amy has never had clear memories of her abduction. This has changed recently. Just a year ago, she underwent a new 'treatment' for her repressed memories. A bit unconventional, but it's making tremendous breakthroughs. Now, she has to deal with the things she is remembering. She got my name from a 'friend' and decided it would be safest to write to me and let me contact her. She included her phone number at the bottom of the letter. I finish the letter and stare at my phone. It's early. Only 7:30. Even a woman who has been married for 39 years is likely to be awake at this hour. As long as her husband isn't the jealous type-- The phone rings twice and is connected. I introduce myself to the female voice on the other end. It's Amy, and she is delighted I called. She had almost given up hope--she wrote me over three weeks ago. I apologize, make up an excuse that sounds plausible, ask what I can do to help her. Before I know what I'm doing, I'm promising to meet her in Providence in the morning. It's warm as I leave my apartment in the early hours. I didn't waste too much energy on sleep. It's highly overrated, anyway. I was doing my morning four miles while the trucks were still delivering the morning Post to the paperboys. I wolfed down an English muffin with some of Mrs. Scully's strawberry jam (at least one of the Scully women loves me) and threw some clothes in an overnight bag. Who knows, I might stop over in Greenwich and fix that kitchen drawer Mom asked me to look at. When was that? Christmas? It's now April. That must be a new world's record for me. The ride to Providence is not as boring as I remembered. Here I am, taking a busman's holiday. I drive 1000 miles some weeks, and that's good weeks. Most of the cases we manage to pick up are in remote locations. Dudley, Arkansas is not the site of an international airport, alert the media. So we fly to the cheapest hub (ever thoughtful of those precious tax dollars) and then rent the same blue Taurus to drive to the locale of choice. So here I am, on my day off, driving my blue Taurus up I-95 toward Providence, RI. I should have taken Scully's advice and called the 900 number. Except phone sex can get so tiring since you have to do all the work yourself. Scully. She's gonna kill me when she finds out where I'm going. I've decided--and rightly so--not to bother her with this. There are several reasons. One, she wants me to 'relax' this weekend. Yeah, right. The amount of drugs required would put a strain on the black market. Two, this is an abduction case. She hates those--again, rightly so. Three, Amy asked for me specifically when I called. No mention of a partner. I know that last one is lame. I'm sure if I'd told Amy that I was bringing my partner, she wouldn't have objected. But damn it, I really don't want to screw up Scully's weekend, just because I was bored. Besides, what she doesn't know can't hurt her. If I just keep telling myself that, I might someday come to believe it. It's not hard to find the Cassandra house. Mr. David Cassandra opens the door. He's about my height, bearded, graying, and looking like he'd do anything 'for the little woman' but he'd just as soon not be doing this. I introduce myself and suddenly, I'm in the living room having tea. Amy reminds me of one of my aunts--Aunt Rose. Timid at first, but she quickly warms to the room. She's not a looker--probably never was, but David thinks otherwise, I'm sure. She's got a quiet strength that I can see in the way she stands, holds a tea cup, answers a question. No, she remembers nothing of the actual abductions. They all took place at the same location--the house were she grew up. I'm asking about the 'treatment'. "Dr. Goldstein--he's been a Godsend! Why, without his treatments, I don't think I could have remembered any of this." Oh, boy, I'm thinking, I can't _wait_ to meet the good Dr. Goldstein. And what are all those experimental drugs doing in your medicine cabinet, Dr. Goldstein? Last time I looked at MY degree in psychology, I wasn't allowed to prescribe anything. Not even aspirin. Now, my curiosity is starting to take over everything. I've got to know more about this treatment. I ask Amy, or Mrs. Cassandra as I've been calling her in deference to her age and her husband who is watching me like a hawk, if she could arrange for me to meet Dr. Goldstein. She is delighted and trots off to phone him immediately. David sits there for a moment, still quiet. Finally, he gets an expression on his face that I've come to recognize as someone who has had just about enough of something and he speaks. "I'm not too sure I 'like' Dr. Goldstein, Agent Mulder." I bet. I ask him to elaborate. He sighs, then looks at the doorway his wife went through, making sure she isn't about to walk in on our little side discussion. "Amy was in a bad way, no doubt about it, when she decided to see a psychologist. He was recommended by a friend of Amy's. I was glad she was seeing a professional. But these . . . these 'states' she goes into, these trances--I'm afraid for her. They're so erratic. And the pain she in--it's so intense. I've never seen her in so much pain in my life. It frightens me. I called Goldstein immediately, I was going to take her to the emergency room. But before I could get through to him, she came out of it. And she felt fine, or so she told me. Amy's not one for pain, but she told me she couldn't remember any pain. Just the memories. She begged me to let her continue and so I did. But I don't have to like it. No sir, I don't have to like it." I want to ask more about the 'trances' but Amy has returned and informs me that the 'doctor is in' and we could go see him right away. David starts to get up, but Amy stops him. "I'll take Agent Mulder, dear. I know you wanted to work in the garden. We'll be back soon and I'll fix us a nice late lunch, just the three of us." David's face shows he's not really happy about this turn of events, but he forces a smile, kisses his wife on the cheek and leaves for the back of the house. Amy and I walk out to the front yard and I open my passenger side door to allow her to get in the car. I feel a little like 'Driving Miss Daisy', but I figure Scully won't be as worried if she knew I was escorting senior citizens on doctor visits. Real Boy Scout stuff. Do my Mom proud. The doctor's office is just up the road, in a suburb (Rhodes Island is big enough for suburbs?), set in a little medical strip mall. Amy is talking the whole time, how she never knew why she had such a fear of small places, how she never realized until recently why she has to have a nightlight on all the time. How now she understands why she and David were never able to conceive a child. The pain this woman has lived with is driving stakes in my heart. It hurts to listen to her calmly catalog all the horrors of her existence and how she now knows why those horrors are present. It's too much like clinical--and I always dreaded clinical as a student. Give me a psychopath any old day instead of digging around in the mind of a perfectly normal everyday person just trying to cope with the pain. It's too damn much like looking in the mirror. Gratefully, we are at the office now, and Amy is too busy making sure I park in the right spot to continue with her story. The office looks like a thousand of these places. It could be a psychologist, a neurosurgeon, a chiropractor. Dr. Charles Goldstein. It doesn't look like he's doing bad. Then again, it doesn't look like he's making money hand over fist, either. His receptionist smiles at Amy and then buzzes the doctor on the intercom. She gets up to usher us to the door, but Amy waves her back, saying she knows the way. Dr. Goldstein is a little man. Only 5' 8", 5' 10" tops. Not NBA material, that's for sure. And old. This guy's diplomas look hand printed. One from William and Mary. Well, if you have to go domestic-- Still, I'm impressed. He shakes my hand. Amy has neglected to mention my occupation. She's calling me a 'friend' who is interested in his therapy. He seems overjoyed at the prospects of another patient. I decide it might be useful to play along. He takes us both into a 'treatment room'. To tell the truth, this place looks more like a dentist's office and I get that queasy feeling in my stomach that I always associate with a trip to my dentist. My thoughts on my stomach are interrupted by Dr. Goldstein talking to me. "Is there something you feel you need to remember, Mr. Mulder? Something in your past that you can't explain? I can help you. I can help you access those memories. Just as I've helped Amy and many others like her." He's smiling and he reminds me of a helpful gnome, eager to grant my every wish. Scully is really gonna kill me now. But then, curiosity killed the cat. I consider my options for a full two seconds and tell the little gnome, yes, I there are some things I want to remember. He smiles. He's so happy to be of service. I'm not looking forward to his bill. He reaches into the glass enclosed cabinet and pulls out a small bottle of some liquid and a syringe. I balk. "I don't take drugs." My voice is low and full of warning. "Tut, tut, my boy. This is harmless. You will be experiencing stimulation of the optic nerve through a strobe light attached to a blindfold. This is merely a sedative. Very mild. Used primarily on small animals. Your dosage is the same as would be given to a house cat." Again, the cat analogy. I swallow, but the curiosity is taking control again. Damn, I really have to curb that thing someday. I can feel the needle prick the skin on my hip and can't help but think back to all the times I've gotten stuck in the last couple of years. Antibiotics for abrasions, sedatives, pain killers, not to mention those damned anti-virals I was on forever. This stuff is STRONG. I feel my knees start to buckle almost before Dr. Goldstein has removed the needle from my backside. My heart is pounding as he helps me sit in the dentist chair. Pounding? I thought this stuff was a sedative. It doesn't feel like a sedative. Oh my god, Scully. What the hell have I done? Flashes of light. Bright. Orange to yellow to white. Hot colored lights searing into my eyes, leaving traces on my retinas. I slam my eyes shut against them, but they cut through my eyelids like fire through ice. My eyes are tearing--or am I crying against the pain? I don't know. I've lost all awareness of anything around me. I have no sound, no feeling. Only sight. Only the lights. I see only the lights for a long time and then there is intense pain, right at my forehead. IT HURTS! It fucking hurts so bad--I'm going to pass out, I'm going to-- Samantha? She's laying in the bed in the loft of the summer house. "Fox. I'm scared." I can hear them. My parents. They're fighting. They always wait until they think we're asleep to fight. They hold in their anger until at times I think one or the other will explode into a ball of fire right before my eyes. But they never do. Still, when they think I'm asleep, I listen. I listen now. "What are they saying?" Sam asks, in that scared 8 year old voice. I can't hear, so I shrug an answer. I creep forward to the edge of the loft and look over. I wake up in the back of a car. I don't recognize it, it's not my car. I try to move, but my head hurts too much and I just lie back and listen to the voices in the front seat. It's David at the wheel, Amy in the passenger seat. "We should be taking him to a hospital," David is saying, and I can hear the tension and anger in his voice. "He'll be fine," Amy assures him, but her voice doesn't sound as confident as her words. "What if he isn't?" David asks in return. At least someone is concerned for my welfare. "We'll deal with that if it happens. Just get to the house. He'll be safe there. We'll be safe there." Oh God, Scully, I've screwed up again. The flashes subside a little as the car rolls to a stop, but I'm too weak to do much more than lean on poor old David as he half carries, half drags me into this really dilapidated farm house. He gets me as far as the parlor. There is no furniture here, he leans me against the wall as gently as he can. Amy is ignoring both of us. She's staring at something on the wall, or maybe it's something in her mind that she's seeing. She's smiles, then her face becomes ravaged with pain. Tears are streaming down her face. FLASH. The lights are back. Amber, beige, bright yellow, gold. Not so bright this time, not as many. Sam, in her nightgown, coming toward me. "What are they saying, Fox?" "I can't hear," I answer this time. I'm still looking over the edge. My mother gets up off the couch and storms into the bedroom. I watch my father chase after her. This is my chance. I can get down and get closer. They'll close the door, but I'll still be able to hear more than I can now. Carefully, I climb down the ladder, making sure I don't stumble, don't make a noise. Sam is looking down from the edge now, her face showing me how frightened she is even if she didn't keep telling me so. I smile at her--I'd like to reassure her. But to tell the truth, I'm scared, too. BANG! I open my eyes as my breath catches in my chest. Wide-eyed, I stare around the room, seeing just a glimpse of movement. I turn my head, and see David fall to the floor just under the window. Blood. Blood everywhere. His back was turned, he didn't see it coming. Oh my God, where did the shot come from? BANG! I twist around and see Amy fall. When she hits the ground, a gun falls from her grasp. Blood spurts from a hole in her chest. I scramble forward, but my legs won't carry me very far. By the time I get to her, she's dead. I pick up the gun, checking my own holster at the same time. No need. It's my gun. Amy must have taken it from me while the lights were flashing in my mind. I put the gun in my holster, rock back on my heels. I crawl over and check David--I was right, he's dead, too. Why would this sweet old lady kill her husband? Why would she kill herself? My mind is reeling, I can't think. I want to call Scully. I need to call Scully. I fumble around my pockets, searching for my phone. It must have fallen out when David was getting me out of the car. I have to get to a phone. I have to call the police, report the murder, the suicide. I have to call Scully. I have to-- I get up on my feet and stumble to the door. By chance, Amy has left her keys in the lock in her haste to get me in the house. I grab them and head for their car. The flashes come again. I'm standing in the living room, trying to hear through the bedroom door. Mom is screaming. I hear her say 'not my baby, not my baby' over and over. Dad is screaming back, calling her names. I've never heard my father talk like this before. "Whore, you fucking whore, what am I supposed to do about this?" I jump back, startled at the words he's using. I bump into the coffee table and I'm afraid they'll hear me and come out. The car stops because I've stomped on the brakes and I realize I have no idea where I am. I'm shaking. I can't believe I've been behind the wheel--I should be crashed into a ditch by now. The thought makes me sick. I wrench open the door and run to the shoulder, falling to my knees in time to toss my breakfast on the gravel at the side of the road. Even when the English muffin with strawberry jam and the three cups of coffee are now a temporary modern art work on the pavement, my stomach won't stop. Dry heaves. Nothing to come up. The noon day sun is hot and beating down on my head and back and I'm waiting for the blood. I know I've ripped my guts open by now. Finally, it stops. Blessing upon blessings. I just sit back, unable to move for a long time. I shouldn't be driving. I need to rest, lie down. I need to call Scully. I look up and notice a sign for a motel not a block down the road. Close enough. I figure I can make it that far. The flashes give it a rest long enough for me to check in. The desk clerk stares at me--I look down at my shirt and see the blood. "Nose bleed," I lie. He shrugs and throws me the room key. As I walk past the car to the room, I notice that either David or Amy has put my overnight bag in the backseat. I grab it and open the door to the room, just before another wave of sickness hits me. I make it into the bathroom for another round of dry heaves. When I'm too weak to walk, I crawl into the room, not even making it into the bed and darkness becomes my blanket. end of part one Letting The Demons Go (2/5) By Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net "Fox." I open my eyes and I'm laying in my bed in the summer house. The loft is dark, it's night outside. Samantha is in her nightgown. "Fox, I'm scared." She's leaning over me, motions me up to look over the edge, down to the living room below us. I start to get up and I see--myself? I'm watching myself, but I'm not me, not my own age. I'm a kid. I recognize the shirt I'm wearing--I wore it to bed because it was getting too small. But that was back in the summer of '73. I walk over to the edge to look over-- And wake up on the floor. I'm soaked with a cold sweat. It's dark and it's not my floor I'm waking up on. I'm laying next to a bed, and I use it to get up, but a blinding headache drops me to the edge of the bed. My shirt feels stiff, I look down and in the sliver of light from between the heavy curtains, I see a dark stain on my shirt. Black on white. It smells like blood. There is something in my pocket. I pull it out and see that it's a room key. I'm in a motel in Providence, Rhodes Island. What the hell am I doing here? And where is Scully? The light from the window is getting a little stronger, and the pounding in my head won't tolerate electric light, so I fumble for the phone in the half darkness. My fingers dial Scully's number on auto-pilot. I could dial her number in my sleep. Come to think of it, I have dialed it in my sleep before. Two rings. Four rings. God, please, Scully, pick up. Pick up the damned phone. "Hello." Her voice is so scratchy. She was sound asleep. Ordinarily, I'd expect a couple of good jibes for waking her up, but not this time. "Scully." It's the most my mouth will form right now. Oh God, my hands won't stop shaking. "Mulder? Is that you? Do you know what time it is?" Scully, I don't even know where the hell I am, I sure as hell don't know what time it is! But I'm more politic than that. Honestly, I couldn't say all those words right now if I tried. "No, what time is it?" "Almost five o'clock. Where are you?" OK, I can sort of handle that question. I look at the room key again. "I'm at a motel in Providence." "Rhodes Island?!" Geez, for a masters in physics you'd think she'd be quicker on the uptake. But then, it is five in the morning. "Yeah. And Scully, there's blood all over me." Just want to toss that one in, since it's what's causing my hand to shake like I've got a bad case of palsy. "Mulder, are you hurt?" Is that Dr. Scully, or Scully who sat by me in Alaska? It sounds like a combination of both. "No. At least I don't think so. Scully--I don't think it's my blood." It's only now, speaking the words, that their full impact hit me. What the hell is happening to me? "OK. Mulder, listen to me very carefully." It's that voice she uses when she's sure that either a straight jacket or a trip to the ER are very close on my horizon. "Tell me the name of the motel. I'm leaving right now, I'll be there as soon as I can. And Mulder--STAY PUT!" Not a problem, Scully. I couldn't go anywhere if I wanted. I hang up the phone and lay back down on the bed for a minute, just to see if the shakes will stop. They aren't stopping. And now, I"m getting cold. Really, really cold. I can't stop shaking and now my damned teeth are chattering, too. This is not good. I feel sick to my stomach, and realize that my stomach is pretty sore anyway. I have that awful taste in my mouth and my throat burns like it does when I've had the flu. How long will it take Scully to get here? I fell asleep, I guess. I wake up and I'm no warmer for being under all the blankets on the bed. I lay there, in the quiet and hear a shower start somewhere in one of the adjoining rooms. A shower. All hot water. Steam. It sounds like a little piece of heaven. But it means getting out of bed. I lay there, getting ready to do the hard part. With a quick flip of my wrist, the covers are off me and I jerk up to sit on the edge. The whole room swims in front of my eyes. Shit. I'm so dizzy. How long have I been sick? I realize that there is at least 10 feet between me and the shower stall. Might as well be ten miles at this moment. I sit very still and make the room come into focus. Then, slowly, I get up and walk into the bathroom. I sit on the toilet and pull off my shoes. Next my shirt, which I handle like it's got the plague. Who knows, maybe it does. My undershirt, then pants, boxers and socks go next. It's so damned cold without any clothes on. It hurts, it's so cold. I reach over and turn on the hot water. It takes a few seconds to warm up, and I can only shiver while I wait. Finally, I feel the steam coming off the stream of water, and I get in. Damn it, it's hot! But after the initial scalding period, it's feels good. In a few minutes, though, the good wears off and I'm back to feeling cold. And dizzy. Damnation, I hate being dizzy. I can't stand any longer--my knees are giving out and Scully will shoot my ass if she walks in and I've busted my head open in the damned bathroom. So I do the only intelligent thing I've done all morning (besides call my partner)--I lower myself to a crouch, conserving as much body heat as possible and making a smaller target for the stream of water coming from the shower head. Now, there is very little of me not being hit by the water. I just pray there's an artesian well of hot springs under this motel, or this idea is limited at best. I think I'm going to write the owners, because the water is still hot and I hear Scully calling out my name. Their hot water heater must be the size of the state. Scully comes in and finds me. I tell her I can't get warm. She informs me immediately that I'm in shock. OK, I'll buy that. Now what? She turns off the water and gives me a towel--my mind flashes on the number of times my partner has seen me in my all together and the very limited number of times the tables have been reversed--and orders me out of the tub. She goes to gather up all the blankets. As I walk out of the bathroom, Scully meets me with a blanket. She wraps me up like a mummy and makes me sit on the end of the bed. Here it comes. Dr. Scully, Medicine Woman. I never had to put up with this shit when I was partnered with Jerry or Reggie. But then, neither one of them could tell the symptoms of rigor mortis, much less a concussion. Trade offs. Life is so full of trade offs. It never ceases to amaze me how the woman can be such a walking contradiction. Here she's just wrapped me in the blanket, only to open the damn thing up, letting in all the cold air and letting out all the warm. But I've learned my lesson long ago. I suffer in silence. It's her usual Mulder's-done-something-lethal-to-himself exam. My neuro responses make her pause for a moment. Her own little version of the popular 'uh-huh' that most doctors use when they don't want to tell you what they're thinking. She spends a long time examining my head--don't knock on it, Scully--I'd rather not discover that it's hollow. All the time she's asking me if I hurt myself. Am I sure? Yeah, as much as I'm sure of anything right now, I'm sure I didn't hurt myself. Now come the Double Jeopardy questions. What day is it? Not a clue. She tells me it's Sunday. OK, which Sunday, I wonder, but I don't express that in words. Last thing I remember is talking to her Friday night. Did I take anything?--I know she means those sleeping pills the damned doctor at NWGMC keeps pawning off on me. Damned if I know. I don't think so. Was I alone? Shit, it sure looks like it. The bed hadn't been slept in when I woke up on the floor. Most 'women of the evening' prefer to use the bed--even when they get kinky. And the room doesn't have any 'amorous' odors. I think I'm safe there. Next question. Where's my weapon? Shit. Where IS my weapon? She finds it, in the overnight bag--I packed for this trip? She checks the ordinance. Two rounds fired. Two rounds fired? Two rounds unaccounted for because I sure as hell don't remember firing my weapon. Blood on my shirt. Two rounds fired. I'm so fucked up I can't remember anything past 48 hours ago. I'm feel sick. Scully is talking. Something about going to a hospital. Something about encephalitis. I'm not listening. I have to find out what I've done. I tell her we have to find out if I've committed a crime. Or if my weapon was used in the commission of a crime. She's going on about aneurysms and 'dropping me in a second'. So what? Might save the state of Rhodes Island the price of lengthy death penalty appeals. God, I want to throw up. I finally override her immediate need to call in the medical community cavalry. I find a set of keys with the nameplate 'Amy' on them. They aren't her keys. Sure as hell aren't mine. Amy might just know something. If we can find her. She tells me to get dressed--guess my neuro responses weren't THAT bad, and she goes to find out what she can from the motel office. I walk past the shirt, laying on the dresser. I stare at it, hoping it will jog something in my memory. I've got a goddamn fucking photographic memory and it's not doing me a damned bit of good right now. How could I forget something like this? Easy. I've done it before. At least this time, I'm not catatonic. Three weeks. Three fucking weeks in the hospital. Dad came every day, Mom told me. He came every day--right until the day I woke up. After that, he called me twice, just to see how I was doing. He wouldn't come see me. Mom said he was busy with the police, the investigation. Yeah, right, sure. I bet. I don't even realize that I'm biting my lip until I taste the blood on my tongue. I gotta stop that. Scully is worried enough without me dragging my past into this. Neither one of us needs that land mine to stroll through now. I dress in jeans and a tee shirt and go out to find Scully. My car isn't in the parking lot. How the hell did I get here? Scully is coming down the walk from the office. I checked in yesterday--yesterday? About noon. OK, how did I get here? By car, apparently. Damn good thing Scully went to the FBI Academy, because right now, no one would ever guess that I had. The desk clerk in the office remembers me from my check-in. I forgot to fill that in, so he went out later and got the number. He has the number of the plates on the car I was driving. Scully is looking around the lot and I'm telling her that I don't see my car when she spots the one matching the registration. I hand her the keys, they open the car door. Big surprise. She reaches in the glove box for the registration. David and Amy Cassandra. Address here in Providence. I've never heard of David or Amy Cassandra before in my life. As far as I can remember. It's not a far drive to the Cassandra residence. All the way over, Scully decides to 'educate' me on the horrors of encephalitis. Viral brain infection. Transmitted by mosquitoes in warm summer months--it's only April, Scully, for God's sakes. She's quick to remind me that's not the only way it's transmitted. Headaches, chills, vomiting--my stomach is not setting well and mentioning that word is no help. Seizures. Suddenly, she has my attention. Personality changes. OK, now she has my FULL attention. But later. I'll go the nearest hospital and let them take their pound of flesh and four quarts of blood and then I'll either go home or stay there till Scully let's me out. Or go to jail. God, if I could just remember SOMETHING! It's a nice house. I probably should remember it. I don't. Nothing is coming back to me. We walk up to the door, and for a moment I kid myself into believing that this is just another case--just another X file. Too bad _I'm_ the X this time. Unexplained. I knock. I usually do. Something about Scully's knock--she 'raps'. I pound. I want someone to open the fucking door and right this fucking minute. But no one comes and I start to put the key in the lock--and the door opens before us. A young woman is standing in jeans and a denim shirt, with a feather duster in her hand. She eyes me suspiciously--she's seen the keys and figured out what I was doing. Scully speaks. "Are you Amy?" Turns out, she's not Amy. She's the housekeeper. Amy and David aren't at home. Then the housekeeper asks who we are. What, it's somehow suspicious for two casually dressed people to show up on a doorstep at 8:30 on a Sunday morning and almost break and enter? Geez, this girl is paranoid. Scully flips ID and she let's us in. We ask about David and Amy. Apparently they are out. She can't reach them. There's a painting on the mantle. A farmhouse. I recognize it, and that alone is unusual for this morning. But I can't place it--it just looks familiar. According to the housekeeper, Amy Cassandra is a painter. And her only subject is that house. She opens a parlor door and there are dozens of paintings--all of that house. A house here in Rhodes Island. Just a few miles away from my parents summer house. Scully is not happy that we're not going to an emergency room, but I have to see that house. I don't have any feelings about it one way or another, but it's the only familiar thing I've come across in the last 4 hours and I want to know if it contains some answers. As we drive to the house, Scully asks me how I'm feeling. I decide not to be a bastard about it, I don't tell her 'I'm fine'. I don't know how I'm feeling. I'm sore. A little tired. Confused. But other than that, I'm not feeling bad. I just don't know. The house looks just like Amy's paintings--give or take a few decades. The place is in ruins, no one has lived here for a long time. Scully stops the car and we get out. The sun is bright, the house is whitewashed and glares against the blue sky. We walk toward it-- FLASH! Pain! Incredible pain is tearing through my head and I'm falling and then They're fighting again. My parents. Don't they know how much that frightens Samantha? Am I the only one who considers how she feels? I climb down the stairs because they've taken the fight into the bedroom. I'm just beginning to understand that fighting is not what a parent's bedroom is supposed to be for. My father sees me. I stop dead in my tracks. I wait for the belt that I know will be coming, but he gives me a look, almost an apology with his eyes and he slams the door. I turn to go back to Sam and see a man. Standing in the hallway. He's smoking and the smoke encircles him, like a shroud. He speaks to me. He calls me a little spy. "Mulder?" I feel Scully's hands on my shoulders. My eyes are shut, I open them and the bright sunlight is tempered by Scully's shadow over my face. I'm lying on the ground, on my back. I have no idea how I got here. "Mulder, are you all right?" I'm struggling to get up, and finally Scully realizes that she's holding me down. She helps me sit up. "What happened?" At least this time I have an eye witness. "You grabbed your head like you were in intense pain. Then you collapsed. I think you lost consciousness. You were completely unresponsive." Nice, clinical. Thank god Scully isn't one to fall apart in an emergency. Come to think of it, I take that for granted a little too much. "What was it?" Hey, the woman graduated third in her class in med school. This should be a piece of cake. "I think it was a seizure of some sort. A physiological disturbance in the brain." This is not what I was hoping to hear. "Do you remember what happened?" "I remember what I saw. I had a vivid flashback to my childhood." "How are you feeling?" A nickel for all the times either of us have uttered those words. OK, a penny. I'd still be rich beyond my wildest dreams. "Good. Really. I feel good." I'm not bullshitting her. I feel absolutely great. No headache, the soreness in my stomach is like a fading dream. I feel on top of the world. And now I'm curious as hell about this house. Enter Scully the Destroyer. What is the difference between a pitbull and my partner?--One's a red head. "Mulder. You are NOT 'Good'. This is very serious. You need to be checked out." I wonder if seeing me unlock the door and walk into the house has clued Scully to the fact that I'm ignoring her. Yep, she's following. She probably figures we'll do a walk through and then she'll take me to the nearest hospital and let the nurses line up to stick needles in my ass. Big, thick, dull needles. Scully is not happy with me right now. I do a look see upstairs. Typical old farm house. Two bedrooms. A dormer once converted to a bathroom with a big claw footed tub. No furnishings. Nothing I can recognize, nothing I remember. I hear Scully calling my name and I head down the stairs. Scully is crouching over something. As I come closer, I realize it's a body. Dead. "She's been shot in the heart." It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that we've probably found Amy Cassandra. And over by the window, also shot through the heart, is David, her husband. I should be losing it, right? I should be blubbering on my hands and knees, begging Scully and the universe to forgive me of this hideous crime. Two people are dead. It all points to me. I should take my gun and put a bullet in my head right here, in front of Scully, before she can stop me. But I don't feel remorse. I don't feel guilt. I know exactly how guilt feels and there's none of that old familiar pain. I'm numb. I'm empty of all emotion save one--total confusion. The 'good' feeling is pretty much gone now. Scully has called the locals out, notified them of the crime scene. The ME has been alerted, too. Naturally, the detective calls enroute, makes sure that we are planning on being there when he arrives. Scully agrees, reluctantly. She's more convinced than ever that I need to be checked out, if only because of my reaction. I have no reaction. I'm not scared, at least I don't think so. I'm not horrified, though I probably should be. Hell, I don't think I've ever been to a crime scene that has affected me less. Curious, yes. I'm curious. But I don't have anywhere to start, don't have any piece of the puzzle that I can fit together. If I'd been handed a piece of paper and a pen, there is no way I could have sketched out a profile on this one. I'm waiting. Hoping someone, Scully, anyone, will give me a clue. end of part two Letting the Demons Go (3/5) By Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net Scully practically straps me in the front seat of the car while the team starts the investigation. Then I watch her as she saunters off to 'oversee'. Is she always like this? I've never noticed. By now, I'm usually up to my eyeballs, literally, in the details of the scene that I never notice what is going on around me. They remind me of ants--the forensics team. I used to lay on my stomach for hours in our back yard at home and watch the ants burrowing into the sand. Four of the ants carry empty gurney's into the old house. Several minutes later, they return with black bags on them and load them into the waiting ME wagons. Two dead bodies. Just like the ants used to do. Scully comes over and her voice is really starting to annoy me. It's her 'bedside manner' voice. She usually reserves it for times when I'm too out of it to yell at her. Times when I'm coming out of a coma or something. I hate that voice, it doesn't sound like her. She tells me that the Detective in charge wants to talk to me. Wow, that's a big surprise. These guys are a step above most of the other locals we end up dealing with. Scully tells me, again in that voice, that I don't have to talk to him--that she's already told him about my 'episode' and that should cover me for now. I shake my head no. I want to talk to the guy. I don't want to cover up anything. Even my own lack of knowledge. I tell her I need to talk to the guy. That as it looks now, two bodies dead, two rounds from my gun missing, blood on my shirt--OJ Simpson deja vu. What a stark contrast they make. Scully, worried, concerned that even talking to this guy might be too much for me. I'm sure she's decided I'm in shock again, just from my lack of response to the scene. I'm not. I'm OK, physically. The detective, his name is Curtiss, is looking at me like I've got Clyde Barkers submachine gun pointed at him. He's not ready to believe a word I say. To tell the truth, I don't really blame the guy. But I also know that so far the evidence is circumstantial. I need to know more. Detective Curtiss wants to take me down to the station for questioning. Scully wants to take me to the hospital for tests. Decisions, decisions. Personally, I think the jail is my choice at this moment. A strip search sounds better than blood drawn and poking and prodding. But Scully wins. Curtiss is fuming silently. Funny, looks like I'm not the only one that happens to. Still, the detective has the last laugh. I have to ride in the squad car with him and after the hospital, we're going to the jail. I hope Scully doesn't notice the relief on my face as he escorts me over to the car. It's not that I don't appreciate her worry. I do. I mean, there is no one else in my life who gives a damn if I live or die. Mom would mourn for a while, but I think she's pretty much resigned herself to the fact that one of these days she'll get a knock at the door and later the flag that covers my coffin. She probably doesn't think on it much, but it wouldn't be a surprise to her. I know she doesn't worry about it. Scully, on the other hand, worries about it. And I guess I worry about it with her, too. But with Scully, well, I don't know how close they came to planning out my memorial service when I was considered dead in New Mexico, but from the sounds of it, it was all set. That has to shake you up a little. So I give her this. I let her worry. It's just that sometimes, I'm grateful for things like unconsciousness or big bully police detectives like Curtiss here getting between us so I don't have to worry about her worrying about me. The trip to the hospital is quiet. This detective isn't an idiot. To interrogate me, he'd have to read me my rights. And before we know what's wrong--if I'm having seizures or not--any information he'd get could be tossed out of court by any two-bit public defender. So he's biding his time. He probably figures 'why rush it'? He has the prime suspect under close scrutiny. It's not like he's on a manhunt or anything. I'm thankful for the silence. It beats the hell out of Scully asking me how I am every five seconds. I know, I know, I do it to her. We do it to each other. It's almost down to an involuntary muscle reflex. Blink. Breath. Ask 'how are you'. Blink. On and on. How am I? Actually, it's a pretty good question. I feel . . . well, normal sure isn't the right word. I'm not in pain, not now at least. I'm not tired. I'm not hungry. Not sad. Not angry. I'm just . . . not. Not anything. I wish I was something. Anything. This void is almost worst than being sick. Because I don't know what it means. We pull up to the same hospital that Mom was at. Oh, good. Such happy memories. Crying at her bedside. Knowing that I had Samantha, or at least a missing link, in my hands and I let it slip away. Saying 'goodbye' even though Scully told me over and over not to lose hope. Oh, there were some bright moments, too. Sticking my gun in the Black Lunged Bastard's gut comes to mind. Yeah, that one helped me get to sleep a number of nights since then. I wasn't there when Mom woke up. She called me and talked to me, but I wasn't there. Story of my life. I miss all the Kodak moments. Scully ushers me into the ER, leaving the detectives to cool their heels in the waiting room. Bet they love that. But this is her turf now. And she is my 'next of kin', so she even has legal standing. Next of kin, sometimes attending physician, partner and confidante all rolled up in one five foot package. And she packs a gun. Who needs a wife? From what I hear, married people don't have sex, either. Scully is talking to the ER doctor, flipping credentials (she's learned to keep them with her now) and tells him what she suspects. He mentions doing an Immunoblot and she smiles like he just offered her a trip to Bermuda, all expenses paid. A nurse, a cute nurse, comes into the cubicle with one of those little lab baskets that contain mostly needles and empty tubes. By the time she's done, my blood is in most of the vials. The doctor comes in, followed by Scully. He does a cursory exam--let's me keep most of my clothes on, and pretty much decides that I'm OK for now. So basically, I don't get a hospital bed, I get to go over to the jail. How sick is it that I'm relieved by this turn of events? That doesn't satisfy my partner, however. Scully wants a CT scan, and EEG and a bunch of other tests I've had before when really whacked on the head. Well, there's a problem. This fine institution of medical science is 'remodeling' their x-ray department and they are down to one CT scan. And it's booked until Wednesday unless it's an emergency. I'm sitting here, looking pretty much normal--I don't qualify. Now, if I was writhing on the floor and foaming at the mouth, they might be able to squeeze me in. I can see on her face how much Scully would love it if I put on a little performance right then, but I just can't in all honesty do it. I'm not a 'perform on demand' kind of guy. Detective Curtiss is relieved that I'm not getting admitted, Scully is pissed that they won't fit me in for a scan and I just want to go somewhere and sit where they're not likely to stick needles in me. Before we leave, Scully calls down to the morgue and discovers that they're just about ready to autopsy Amy. Now, she's in a quandary. I know she wants to go down to that autopsy. I also know that she doesn't want me to go to the jail alone. I give her a grin, or what I hope passes for one and tell her I'll handle the paperwork this time. It's as close as I can come to letting her know that I'll be OK. The ride to the jail is short. I'm just here for questioning, not an arrest. For now. A uniformed officer escorts me to an interrogation room and here I sit. I try some old tricks that Weber taught me. I relax my breathing, try for a trance. Maybe I can access some of the time I'm missing. Before I get very far, the Detective Curtiss is back. I have to admit, I like the guy's style. Not too much like mine, I tend to go for the psych approach, but effective, none the less. He's got a paper grocery bag in his hands. OK. I figure we're not on a snipe hunt, so it's got to be evidence. He asks me if I want to change my story. What story? I've said I don't remember. He seems to want to believe that I'm not really some homicidal maniac but just a normal FBI agent in the clutches of some life threatening brain tumor or total nervous breakdown. That I murdered those two people in a moment of complete insanity and I won't get the death penalty--just a lobotomy. I stick to the story. The truth as I know it. I don't remember. My prints were in the house. More circumstantial evidence, but it now begs a question. Even if I didn't kill them, why didn't I stop them from being killed. I know this line of thought isn't going to get me anywhere, so I ask what's in the bag. My shirt. Of course. Bet that search warrant took no time to get. They already have my weapon. Ballistics is checking it now against the rounds found in the Cassandras. I think he expected me to be surprised. Or maybe try to hide my guilt. I disappoint him, I'm sure of it. He's not telling me anything I don't already know--he's got nothing new. But it's enough to call an arraignment. It's circumstantial, but it's enough to indict. It's funny when you hear the Miranda card being recited and this time it's being recited to you. So funny, I could just barely keep from crying. Strip searches are not what they are cracked up to be. Thankfully, they allowed me to forego the full body cavity search. Guess being an officer of the law has some advantages, they aren't expecting me to have drugs or a file stuck up where the sun don't shine. Orange jumpsuits are NOT my color. And I just want to go to my cell and go to sleep. Maybe if I sleep something will come to me. More of that dream of whatever I had at the farm house. Something that will tell me what happened Saturday. Scully is all righteous indignation when she sees me. I know she's just trying to protect me, but I don't need it or want it this time. Not that I could do anything to stop her. But at least she has some good news. Or some news, whether good or bad is a matter of opinion. Amy Cassandra had been injected with the drug Ketamine. I've heard of it, it's making the rounds. It's primarily a vet's drug, an anesthetic. But, as far too many of our young adults are discovering, if injected into a human, it produces strong hallucinations. It's like LSD only in most states it's still legal and not that hard to get. I'm more than a little shocked to discover that there are traces of it in MY bloodstream. Scully is convinced that it was injected into me, too. But there is more. Amy Cassandra had a small puncture wound, right at the top of her forehead. It went all the way down to the derma mass of her brain. Somebody has been drilling a hole in her head. Now that is dangerous. Scully wants me released, but the detective isn't convinced, just yet. I don't know that I'm convinced of anything, either, but I'm getting closer. And more than anything, I know that if it can be found, the evidence to prove either my guilt or my innocence, Scully will find it. That thought alone gives me hope. She doesn't look happy, but she accepts that for tonight, I'm probably safest as a jailbird. I'm just getting settled in my cell when I hear a gunshot. The guards assure us that everything is under control, but one of the inmates is saying that a uniformed cop just shot himself in the head. I don't know if it's true, but I hope so. It's means it wasn't Scully that was involved. I feel so helpless. I'm stuck here, no way out. I know Scully is doing her damnedest to get me out as soon as possible, but I can't help but think that this has all the markings of a very well executed set up. Executed. That's a good word. It's not escaped my notice that the dark forces always seem to leave me alive. Even in New Mexico, there was plenty of time for me to crawl into the rocks, to get away from the fire in the boxcar. So, if they haven't killed me, maybe they are coming up with new and more elaborate forms of getting me out of the way. Involuntary commitment to a mental institution for the criminally insane sure fits the bill. No martyr. No hero. Just a pathetic man who couldn't endure all the pain in his life. Someone who was always chasing shadows, and finally became a shadow himself. Just like Bill Patterson. Oh god. I need to sleep. It's probably the most productive use of my time right now. Scully is good, but she needs time to work. I can't help myself by sitting here wallowing in self pity. And this cot is only slightly less comfortable than the bed at the motel this morning. Who knows when I really slept last. This time the flashes come in my dreams. The fighting. I'm getting more of the words they are saying now. Mom is crying, saying, 'she's my baby' over and over again. Dad is not just angry. He's angry and--terrified. I can see that look. I remember that look. When Sam fell and broke her collarbone, he had that same look all the way to the ER. What would make my father that afraid? I'm not sure at what point it comes to me, but suddenly, I know that I didn't kill those two people. I had nothing to do with their deaths. I have to tell Scully. Only I don't have a tin cup. One of the guards comes in and tells me politely to 'shut the fuck up'. Several other inmates echo his request. Why won't they just get Scully? Another guard informs me that it's 'four in the fucking morning' and they'll call her when it's daylight outside. I don't think I can wait that long. I need her here and I don't care if she takes me to the hospital and has a hundred stupid tests run as long as I can leave at some point. The cinderblock walls are cold and the blanket is too scratchy and all I can think of are people I've known that have disappeared in these places. People like Brad Wilczek, who's only crime was that he didn't want to hand over a monster to society. It's so easy to disappear in places like this. My throat gives out long before I want it to. I end up sitting up the rest of the night, waiting. I can see the shadows from a window at the end of the hall and I can pretty much tell when it's sunrise. If Scully doesn't show up soon, I'll have my voice back and I'll start up again if I have to. No way am I gonna disappear here. end of part three Letting the Demons Go (4/5) by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net I'm sitting calmly on my cot, willing my vocal chords to quit hurting from all the yelling I've done. I can hear her heels on the cement. Hear her stride as she walks down the hallway. She's got something to tell me. She's in a hurry, but doesn't want to show it to Curtiss. I know an 'excited Scully' walk anywhere. She asks to see me alone. Bet that one will start a few rumors. Like there aren't enough already. Curtiss nods. He knows something now, too. It wouldn't be Scully if she didn't bust my chops about not sleeping. I don't bite, why should I. It's doesn't matter. I know I'm innocent and now I have to prove it. The great part is, when we agree, there is nothing that can stop us. And Scully is three steps ahead of me. The forensics report is finished. The blood splatter pattern on my shirt did not occur from being at close range when the gun went off but the wounds were definitely close range. I probably went over and checked them, tried to see if they were alive, and got blood on my hands. It's a bad habit, wiping my hands on my shirt. Mom used to want to kill me for it when I was a kid. Now, I'm damned glad I have stupid habits like that. The police are ready to release a statement that the Cassandras were victims of a murder/suicide. Also, the cop that committed suicide and Amy have the same drill holes in their foreheads. Somewhere there is a connection. I still don't know all the details, can't remember them and maybe never will--but for the first time in days, something rings true to me. My arraignment is in an hour. Just enough time to look like I'm really an innocent FBI agent and not a fugitive from justice. A shower sounds nice. Especially one that doesn't come with it's own de-lousing. And food. I'm actually hungry. Something greasy that Scully will glare at me for all the time I'm eating. But her eyes always smile. What is it about women and watching men chew? I'll never know. The judge is a woman who listens patiently while the Detective explains the evidence so far uncovered. It takes her less than two seconds to gavel me a free man. I give Scully a quick hug for all the good work and even find it in my heart to shake Det. Curtiss hand. He suggests I follow my partner's advice and get the CT scan done--preferably at home, in DC. The 90's equivalent of 'this town ain't big enough for the both of us' I guess. At least he's polite about it. But I still have some questions that need to be answered. Not to mention, a car to find. Scully has discovered that Amy Cassandra and the cop who shot himself were both seeing the same psychologist. We decide to start there, at Dr. Charles Goldstein's office. The doctor agrees to see us, the Cassandra deaths are already headline news. He's a little man, impressed with himself. Reminds me of a few of my psych profs at school. And he knows more than he's telling. He seems upset when Scully tells him that another patient of his, the uniformed cop, committed suicide last night. I ask him if he had any indication that his patients might be suicidal. The good doctor contends that the treatment he does is 'non-invasive'. Yeah, right. This probably is the bastard that has been drilling holes in people's heads. Bullets are non-invasive, if that's the case. He waxes poetic on how Amy Cassandra's Waxman-Geshwin Syndrome actually led her to a period of great creativity and insight. I've heard the same said of heroin addiction. I've seen enough for now. I leave first, Scully has to get her licks in. When she joins me in the hallway, I tell her that I know I was here. She goes a step further and says she's sure that Goldstein has been treating Amy Cassandra, the cop who committed suicide, and even did a number on me. I think she expects me to balk at that suggestion, but it occurred to me while in the office. Scully's just a little taken back when I agree with her one hundred percent. But she's quick on her feet and in a split second, she's hammering me for doing something that stupid. I would never admit it, but that bothers me, too. Why on earth would I let someone give me a drug that I know full well is dangerous? I'm not the experimenting type--aside for one 'youth indiscretion' at Oxford and one graduation party in high school, I'm so clean I could run for President. I saw too many drugs going into my Mom in my adolescence to think of them as anything other than a prison for the mind--a way to leave you incapable of dealing with even the most mundane tasks of life. For her, they were a doctor prescribed escape. For me, no thank you. We hit the sunlight outside and at first I think that's the cause of the blinding headache that attacks me. But then, the flashing lights are back. Who the hell is this man and why is he holding my mother?! I've seen him before, he called me a spy. He works with Dad. He has no right--no right at all to grab her arms and hold her that way. Where is Dad? Mom is afraid, I can see that. I should call for Dad or find the phone and call the police, but I can't move. And then, after a second, I look in her eyes. To a twelve year old boy, her eyes show fear. To a thirty-six year old man, her eyes show betrayal. A lover's betrayal. And it's directed at this man holding her arms--not my father. This time at least I'm not lying on the ground when I come back to the present. Doesn't make Scully any happier, though. I try the 'I'm fine' bit again, but she's not buying it. She pulls out all the stops. I need to be monitored. I'm a danger to myself. I'm a danger to her. That tears it. She's right, I shouldn't be working. OK, enough about the Cassandras. If I'm going to figure out these visions I'm having, they are the wrong direction for the investigation anyway. There is only one other person still available who can tell me what I'm missing here. I need to talk to my mother. I try to get the keys from Scully, but she's not going to let me have them come hell or high water. Really, right now I think she'd let me drown. But she is willing to drive me to Greenwich. It's about an hour's drive and I make her happy by pretending to sleep the whole time. For some unknown reason, Scully is convinced that sleep will solve all my ills. At least until she can strap me down to an x-ray table and stick my head in a CT scan. It's just as well that my eyes are closed. I'm half sick to my stomach at the implications of this latest piece of the puzzle. My mother--I've always, always put her on a pedestal. She's the one who was there when I woke up in the hospital. She's the one who held me while I cried for my baby sister. She's the one who fought the doctors when they didn't want to let me come home, who wanted to put me someplace where they would 'help' me 'cope' with the trauma I'd experienced. Coping to them meant a nice array of drugs that would keep me in the corner, drooling on myself. Not allow me my nightmares, my only means of expression for so very long. All my life, my father has played the heavy. He was the master of the house, his word was law. He ruled our home with a iron fist. Or a leather belt. Whichever was handy. I wasn't more abused than any boy growing up in the seventies, but the rod was never spared in raising me, that was for certain. And when it came, my father's arm was swinging that rod in my direction. Mom was the one who would step in, tell him I'd had enough. Stop it before it strayed from discipline into battery. I was always grateful for Mom making him stop. The once or twice before we moved out that she was too sedated to stand up for me were bad. But then, I always knew that was the reason we left, too. Mom wasn't willing to risk losing _both_ of her children. So why was my mother looking at that man (who was not my father) the way I looked at Phoebe after her last great fling? The one where my darling Phoebs slept with my best friend, in my bed, while I was taking finals. Where they were asleep when I came in to find them, naked, together. I recognized that look in Mom's eyes because I've had it in my eyes, too. It's a look you never forget. I don't want to believe the things I'm thinking about my mother. It would skew my whole world. I had a hint, last year when X showed me those pictures of my mother and that bastard, but I didn't want to believe it then, either. And after she got better--I was too busy thanking whatever had intervened on her behalf to give it a second thought. But now, I have to know. Something happened that night at the summer house at Quonochontaug and my mother is going to tell me whether she likes it or not. As we pull up to the house, my hands are sweaty and my heart is racing. I'm almost ready to believe that it's another 'episode'--as Scully keeps calling them. My training tells me I should know better. It's an anxiety attack, plain and simple. I have never been good at confronting my family, not my father on those damned non-custodial visits nor my mother--ever. Even when I went to her while I was chasing those missing little girls who John Roche had murdered, I found myself backing off before I got the answers I was hoping to find. I'm not relentless with my mother. I always let her off too easy. Not today. Not anymore. I don't bother to knock, even though I don't have a key to this house. For all intents and purposes, I've never spent more than a couple of dinners here. But it's my mother's house, damn it. And I know where she hides the key for the times she forgets and locks herself out. I can't look at her. I'm so upset at what I'm thinking, so frightened that what I suspect is true, that I duck my head and avoid her eyes. She knows something is wrong and looks to Scully for the answer. Typical for my mother--she'd never bother to ask _me_ what was wrong. Or if she did, she wouldn't expect a real answer. Scully mumbles something about a treatment and remembering and I've had just about all I can take. I want to talk to my mother in private. It's not that I don't want Scully to hear, but I'm about to ask the woman who gave birth to me about her sex life and I have managed to retain enough propriety to feel that conversation should be confidential. Besides, I'll end up spilling my guts to Scully soon enough if my suspicions prove correct. I won't be able to help myself. We go into the parlor and she closes the French doors. She's all innocence, and I think she's even a little concerned. I don't show up unannounced very often. The last time was pretty much of a disaster, since if was only a day and a half later that I was suspended for a month. John Roche is dead and won't hurt anymore little blonde haired girls ever again so a month without pay was worth it. One bastard down, so many left to go. I want to know just how closely related I am to one of the ones that are left. I confront her with it. I ask her directly. She evades the question, feigns ignorance. I can't take this anymore, damn it, I just can't. All the lies, all the deceit. Never telling me anything, always keeping me in the dark. She didn't even tell me she was divorcing Dad until I came home from school to discover the station wagon packed with our things. It was as if telling me was an afterthought. Make sure the mailing address on the Redbook subscription is changed, and oh, yes, don't forget to tell Fox. I give her one last chance. I ask her who my father was. Her answer surprises me. She asks me if I want to kill him again. I ignore her snide comment and ask her again about the man my father worked with--did she have an affair with him, how long did it go on. This time, she reacts just like my father would have. She slaps me. She tells me that she is my mother and she will not tolerate any more of my questions. Then she notices that I'm bleeding from my forehead, and uses that as an excuse to flee the room. Fine. Great. I'll find out what happened on my own. It's time to put some questions to rest. Dr. Goldstein looks to be making a hasty exit from his office. He's putting files in his trunk at 9:30 at night on a Monday. A quick getaway before the cops arrive, no doubt. But I'm here to detain him. Not for the local law enforcement, though it's probably a good idea. No, I'm here to demand he finish the job he started with me. I know that he didn't complete the treatment with me. Only once probably isn't enough. I don't know for certain that twice will do the trick, but I'm willing to take that risk. He doesn't look real happy, but the good doctor must be considering his Hypocratic Oath. He agrees to take me inside, to do another treatment. I follow him inside the office. This really pissy little voice in the back of my head is telling me to think this through or at the very least, call Scully so she doesn't worry. I ignore it. Scully's smart, she'll figure it out. Now that we're up in the office, all I can think about is getting back in one of those 'episodes'. Maybe, if I concentrate going in, I can direct them, like focusing a dream. I see these things as tools now. That's not to say that there haven't been a lot of severed fingers from the misuse of chainsaws, but I'm fairly certain I can handle this. I'm getting used to the feeling now. I welcome it. Dr. Goldstein has a whole little lab set up. A nice dentist style chair, even paper on the head rest. I wonder just how many people have had holes added to their heads in the name of remembering. He fills the syringe and I realize that I'm due for another puncture wound to my backside. Look hard, doc, there must be someplace back there that isn't scar tissue. For a Ph. D. he's not bad with a needle. I can see the attraction of this particular drug. Fast. Real fast. I'm sagging as he helps me over to the chair. The most I can do is mutter. I want to remember. I want to remember . . . the lights come and take me back. My mother. Frightened, betrayed. Angry but powerless. And that bastard, holding her. Hurting her. He's too rough with her. My father was always gentle when it came to Mom at least around me. Hit me any time, but he never raised a hand to my mother. Samantha. Calling to me. Just like every nightmare I've had about her since the first regression session. But this is different. She's floating out the window, but now She's falling. Falling and calling my name as she falls. I try to reach out and catch her, but she's out of my grasp. Pieces of a game. Stratego. Hostages taken to be exchanged. We were hostages, both of us. Her more than I. They left me behind and took her. I'm a hostage to my past. Sam's a hostage to war. She's calling me, she's waiting for me to help her. And the glass shatters, the mirror breaks and I face him. The man that is her father. It's not my birth that was the betrayal. It was Samantha's. end of part four. Letting the Demons Go (5/5) by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net The contrast is stark. I feel so lucid and then so fuzzy, so confused. The flashes come and go and yet, I'm somehow connected in the here and now. I ask the old man to remove the straps he's placed on my hands. I have to get out of here, I have to follow through with this now that I've begun. Now that I've met the demons, it's time to exorcise them. He doesn't want me to go. He thinks I'm not in any condition to drive. But he does nothing to stop me as I stumble for the door. By the time I'm in the parking lot, I'm walking better. My vision is clear--most of the time. The flashes are leaving me alone for a while. It won't take long to get to the house. They can wait. I feel almost like I have control of the situation now. That I can make the flashes come and go on command. But that is foolishness talking. This is a respite, nothing more. I hope that I can get all the way to the house before the lights come and drag me back there. I really don't want to wreck Scully's car. Not on top of everything else. My skin is tingling, I'm sweating. My heart is racing, I can hear it in my ears. A high ringing that I know is not good, but there is no time, nothing I can do about it now. Scully was concerned about my heart back at Amy's farmhouse. Right now, that's the least of my worries, but it's one more possible barrier to stop me--a heart attack right now would definitely put the brakes on this operation. The breeze is stronger off the water. I can smell the salt in the spray. It reminds me of all the time I spent, running along the beach, watching the waves. Playing with Samantha. My sister. My half sister. It makes no difference to me whether she's my whole sister or my half sister. She's my sister. But if I'm right, it would explain so much. So many of the clues are so close to fitting now. So much of the puzzle is falling into place. I know why they would keep me alive. Why he keeps me alive. A last request from a lover you've betrayed. Don't hurt my son. He could manage that, I bet. It would make the game a little more challenging. Beat me, but never kill me. Drive me insane, discredit me, take everyone I love and care for away from me. But never kill me. Keep me alive. I don't remember entering the house, but I'm here. Kneeling on the stones in front of the fireplace. My gun is in my hand. I'm not sure why I need it, it just feels comfortable in my grasp. A security blanket. The flashes are so bright now, and I can feel the humid stillness of the night air. I can smell the cigarette smoke as it floats toward me. I can hear my father's voice, arguing with my mother. Again and again she is begging him to stop this. 'Not my baby. Not my baby.' It's become a mantra and her voice is raspy from having said it so many times. 'What do you expect me to do?' he shouts at her. 'Let them kill them both?' My mother is in tears and my father is kneeling before her. The look in his eyes--that same look of betrayal. How long has he known? Did he know before this? The daughter he has loved since her birth--to find out she's another's child. Not his. But for all of that, his anger is not directed at my mother. It's directed at the other man in the room. 'What the hell do you want from us?' my father is demanding of the man with the smoke ring halo. "Mulder?" Scully's voice is coming through and it's louder than the vision. I want her to shut up, to go away. I'm so close now, so close to discovering why my sister was taken. I have to make her leave me alone so I can hear what's being said. I shout it out. I tell her to go away. But I know Scully and that won't dissuade her. Not Scully. Not this particular red haired pit bull. I'm so hot. The sweat is pouring off my face now and the gun feels so cold next to my skin. It feels good. My head feels like splitting it open is the only way to release the pain. Maybe a bullet would accomplish the same, but that's not my design. I'm not holding my gun to use it, only for the feeling of control it gives me. Scully is talking again. If she'd just shut up and go away, I could hear what that bastard is saying to my father. Something about the project. About loyalty to his country. About the threat that we must all defend against. I can't understand most of it, Scully's voice is so loud in my ears. Samantha. I heard him mention her name. And Fox. He's talking about me. Goddamn it to hell, Scully, shut the fuck up!! Be quiet, just let me hear this! The pieces are starting to fall into place. She won't be quiet, goddamn it! I stare at her through the flashes of light. After a moment, the fear in her eyes registers in my mind and I realize that I'm holding my gun on her. If it will make her go away-- But no, not Scully. Now, she's more determined than ever. God, Scully, don't you understand? I have to hear what they're saying. I have to understand what they were doing. I have to know. "Does it mean that much to you, Mulder?" she asks. Fuck yes, it means that much. Wouldn't it mean that much to you? Didn't you at least get some small measure of revenge when Luis Cardinal was found hanging in his cell? I want that, Scully. God help me, I want that. And if you'd just leave me alone, I'd have it. "Let it go, Mulder. Let it go." Her words are so soft. Almost a caress. I've heard that voice before, too. It's the one that talked to me through the fog that Robert Modell shrouded me in when he wanted me to kill her. It talked me off the ledge. Please, Scully. Not right now. Just a little longer. Oh please. Just a few seconds longer-- Another bright flash and I see him again. He's got my sister and he's holding her close. No, that can't be. It's almost tender, the way he holds her. God damn him, he took her, he destroyed my family, my life. How dare he hold my sister that way! I pull the trigger and watch as he falls. I'm not back there any more. My head is splitting, the ringing in my ears is so loud that it muffles all other sound. The gun is still smoldering in my hand. I've shot out a window. It's too heavy. The gun is too heavy. Too heavy-- I can feel her arms around me as I drop to the floor. They are a sweet blanket. I'm so cold. So terribly cold. I know the floor is hard, I can feel it under me, but I can't seem to move to get on to the couch. I'll just lie here a little while. Just a little while longer. Little bits of the waking world come to me. I remember snatches of the night Samantha disappeared. I feel the web belting cinched tight across my chest so that I won't slide off the gurney. I can smell the antiseptic in the ambulance. The cold shock of sterile water as it hits my veins, but I can't feel the needle. Oxygen mask over my face. I wish I could open my eyes. The flashes are still coming. Even with my eyes closed, I can see my mother, bending over me. She's talking in Scully's voice. She's brushing the hair off my forehead, and then touching my neck. She turns to my father and tells him that he should monitor my heartrate. She's telling him to do a 24-hour Holter to record the palpitations. He's asking if there's a problem and she says yes, that I have a mitral valve prolapse, but it's not serious. He tells her that the ETA to base is less than 20 minutes, and they'll start me on antibiotics. Dad's voice sounds funny. The flashes are so strong and my chest is hurting. The belts are too tight. I don't want to go to the hospital! I want to find Sam! ***** I've been in that twilight place, as Tinker Bell called it in _Hook_. The place between sleeping and wake. The place of lucid dreams and flights of fancy. I've been there a long time. I've always heard conversations going on around me. When they brought me home from the hospital, after Sam was gone, I heard them in my sleep. I was so tired. The doctors had sent me home with a truckload of pills, but the minute Dad got me in the house, he went into the bathroom and flushed them all away. After that, I slept for days. Mom let me sleep on the couch downstairs, since sleeping in my room meant going past Sam's room and I couldn't do that. So as I was lying there on the couch, in the twilight place, I would hear them talking. It was the only time they would talk about the investigation, the search, in front of me. Only when they thought I was asleep and couldn't hear. I hear their voices now. Scully and my Mom. Scully must have called her, and after our last 'talk', I'm a little surprised she came. Waiting for that flag draped coffin again, no doubt. Maybe I'm being too harsh. I think, on whatever level, she loves me. She just doesn't know how to deal with me. She's been full of questions, and as a result, I have a fairly good idea of what has been going on. The Ketamine was not a good drug for me. It aggravated my mitral valve prolapse. Usually, I have this 'nothing' condition that means the a valve in my heart sometimes 'flops' the wrong way. When your heart starts pumping too fast, the MVP doesn't 'flop' properly at all and blood leaks in the wrong places. Or at least, that's the psych major's version of the forensics' specialist's answer. They've got me on digitalis to slow my heart during the seizures. Add to that the hole in my head. That, apparently was a BIG problem. Dr. Goldstein needs to get better with his aim. Or at least the depth of the drill. He nicked one of the tiny blood vessels just under my skull. That resulted in blood loss, which resulted in intercranial pressure, which resulted in some pretty hairy seizures from what Scully was saying. They did some surgery to stop the bleeding and relieve the pressure. But they had to pump me full of antibiotics first, because any bacteria in my bloodstream could really screw up my heart. All in all, it's been a lousy couple of days. Guess I was lucky to be out of it. Wish I could say the same for my partner. From the sounds of it, and admittedly, I was off the planet quite a lot of the time, she's been here for the past 48 hours. Eisenhower Field, all over again. And who says there's no such thing as deja vu? There was a time, I'm not sure if it was last night or this morning, I heard her typing at her computer. Amazing, how loud that sounds when there are no other sounds to compete with the clicking of the keys. She was probably doing a report on the Cassandras deaths. I know Scully's worried about me. I know she feels that I'm on the wrong path--that I've strayed from the right road. Of course, Scully is always looking for the scientific approach to problems, and digging into the past, into my own memories is in direct conflict to that approach. I wish I could reassure her. But my actions, and the fact that I'm once again suffering the stupidity of my actions, is not even that reassuring to me. Even I can admit that my course this time was reckless. If there had been any other way, I would have taken it. All I know for certain is that I can't do this by myself. I may have thought I wanted Scully to leave me alone with this, but I realize that was a mistake. I need her beside me, to ground me. To drag me back from the edge. I wish I knew how to tell her that. Maybe, I should try. "Scully?" My eyes are just barely open and my voice sounds too soft to my ears, but she lifts her head from the book she's reading and smiles at me. "I should pound you to a bloody pulp, Mulder." It's not a casual threat, but her eyes tell me that she'd probably stop before she got too far. "Nah, shooting me is faster," I return. Not my best, but I'm never up to my usual after this much medical intervention. "I'm sorry." Someday, those words aren't going to have enough punch packed in them to make a difference. I hope that day isn't today. She looks at me for a minute, trying to gauge my intentions, if I'm really sorry, or just trying to get back on her good side. After making me sweat it out, a twinkle forms in her eyes--she knows that I know--and she smiles again. "I know, Mulder. I know." She fiddles with the IV line for a while to give that a little time to sink in. "Your Mom should be back up in a couple of hours. I called her, since it was bound to be in the papers, anyway. I didn't want her to read about you over her grapefruit at breakfast." "Thank you." I mean it. Usually, I don't want her to call Mom. Especially since the stroke. But she's right this time. A berserk FBI agent that ends up in the hospital is bound to make the front page--even more so since he's an 'almost' hometown boy. The twilight place is calling to me again. Scully's hair turns this really pretty shade of burnished copper as my eyes slide closed. I have to pop them open to keep looking at her. "Get some sleep, Mulder. If you're good, you can get out of here in two or three days." That thought gives me little comfort. I wasn't ready for the demons that were loosed from the Pandora's box of my mind. But now that they are out there, I have no choice but to hunt them down and destroy them. I can only hope that Scully will be there to help me. I have a lot of work to do. the end.