By Amanda Finch
[email protected]

Disclaimers, etc. w/ first part.

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Georgetown, W.V.
3:53 PM

I had no idea until I began to speak that she knew so little. She survived on
sparse information, vague ideas. Did this make it worse, or better? I didn't
ask. Bill sat next to her, but I didn't address him.

I told her about the case handed to us at the Lincoln Memorial. I told her
how I found a sister who didn't want to be rescued, and about how the person
we'd gone in search of in the first place had found me first. Then there was
the woman, only incidental to the case, that he'd killed just moments after I
guaranteed her safety. Because he wanted to. Because it had seemed like a
cool idea to have me distracted by her lying there, dead on the carpet.

Monsters. Couldn't she see? I used my stare like a prod.

The last I'd seen of Scully was in my sister's house, right before we'd split
up to head to the airport. I could remember her wanting us to go in the same
car.

Oh, god, if only I had done at least that much.

She interrupted me by touching my hand. What had Dana said? When I last saw
her?

I couldn't remember.

How could I *forget* something like that?

Then there was the decontamination chamber. The thought that their gas had
also bought them a four-day head start still kindled a pain in my side that
made it impossible to sit down. Soon, I was pacing there and the story lapsed
into that of a fraudulent letter, of a box in Nebraska.

I didn't mention the tattoo. The fact of its removal was as gratuitous as the
act itself. No use in re-breaking a broken heart with a senseless image like
that one.

Lori Maciver and her acquired cruelty were next, then Cindi Baron and her
screaming. I told her about the call, and the words that were said.

The third is at peace. I delivered those words the way anyone would tell
another that the person they'd mutually loved with such intensity was gone: I
sobbed them out and stopped breathing.

Maggie Scully shed no tears. I'd braced myself in vain. Instead, she started
at the beginning of the cycle that I was ending, with rage and fury.

But I was tired now. My anger had flattened into a single, unrelenting hum
that my body could no longer withstand. Maybe it would become the same for
her.

There were those things now that needed to be said.

For the first time since I walked into the dim apartment, I looked Bill in
the eye. The words weren't going to be said before him. It wasn't because of
any personal shame on my part, just the knowledge that, tired or not, the
first smug words to come out of his mouth were going to be directly
proportionate to the number of teeth I knocked out of it.

"About Lori Maciver," he said.

Maggie widened her dark eyes towards him. She'd forgotten he was there.

"What about her?" I asked softly.

"She's the one who can't remember. Right?" We answered him by not debating
the point. "Couldn't even remember her kids. Isn't that what you said?"

I raised my chin.

"So there's a chance," he continued, "that Dana might not remember you."

"Bill," threatened his mother, her voice a preemptive strike.

I lifted my hand in her direction. Cease-fire. "The chance is that she
wouldn't remember *anybody.* Not just me."

"I'm not really concerned with her remembering anyone else." He smiled, teeth
bared just behind his lips. "Mostly just with her forgetting you."

Maggie's jaw dropped, in shock. I closed my eyes, hinged my jaw and forced
down the overwhelming bleakness of it. My fist closed on my fingers. I felt
them cutting into my palm. "I'm concerned with finding out if she's still
alive. I would think, as her brother, that this would be your concern as
well."

His mother stared at him pointedly. "So would I."

"He just sat there and talked about her like she was already dead!" He stood
up now, even with me, but still facing Maggie. "He's given up on her!"

I stepped between them, pushing him back, but not forcibly. "I have *not*
given up on her! Until I find out what happened to her, one way or the other,
I can't stop looking."

He drew up now, stiffening his spine. "So what's with the sob story, huh? You
*look* like you've given up. You look like I could knock the shit out of you
right now, and you'd stay on the ground where you fell. That's what I see."

"Bill!" Maggie yelled.

I held her back, keeping my expression neutral. "I have given up. But not on
her."

"What in the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Maggie moved me aside and I let her. "Bill, you're going to San Diego - "

"Mom, we've been *through* this! And it keeps happening! How many more times?"

" - and you're not going to - "

He took a fevered step towards me. "People keep dying! As long as you keep - "

"GO!" His mother screamed, and all of his words froze somewhere in his throat
as she stabbed her finger at the front door. "You're going back to San Diego,
and you're not going to stop until you get there. If you're needed out here,
I will be the first to call you. Until then, get out."

"I can't believe you're taking his side," he muttered sharply.

"This isn't about sides," she contended, piqued to her last nerve. "This
isn't about you, Bill."

"She's *my* sister," he argued hollowly.

No one spoke, and the moment stretched on so interminably that I thought
maybe time itself had chosen to pause here. But when Maggie Scully spoke
again, her words were weighted with the menace of a grudge that could be
carried through to the next twelve holiday get-togethers. Hell, to her next
lifetime. "Since I called you, you've done *nothing* but complain about how
this is being handled. You haven't stepped in once to offer your assistance
in finding her, and every time someone tries to get through to you, you
antagonize them like you're antagonizing me right now. Before I say something
I'm going to have to confess, I want you to get your things, and go home."

He stood there for a moment, unmoving, a weak attempt at a dare. With the
anger of the whipped-down, he got his coat and slammed the door behind him.
The sound made me hinge my jaw again.

She touched my shoulder. "Fox?"

I didn't jerk away this time.

"Don't say you've given up."

I still wouldn't look at her. "I'm going to find her."

"That's not what I meant. You *know* what I meant."

Closing my eyes, I sank down into the chair across from the sofa, across from
her. "There's going to be a call. Maybe in a few hours, maybe in a day
about... the third one. Drake will call me, and I will go - wherever. I
seriously doubt that I'll be coming back." Before she could interrupt, I
added, "There's no negotiations here that you can make. I'm going, and I know
what they have planned for me. They told me. I think they need her, and that
there's a chance that if the tests didn't kill her, the men won't either. A
shift in power has occurred. I'm no longer useful. If it means I might have a
chance of saving her... or at least, talking to her before..." I couldn't
make myself finish the sentence. "Then I'll go."

"But if she may still be alive, then you can stay here," she protested. "And
she'll find you and - "

"It won't happen that way," I said wearily.

"Why not?"

"Because it never does!"

She sat there quietly, and I began a slow pacing walk through the living
room. She'd cleaned up. I hadn't even noticed. The books were back on the
shelves, the broken dishes all swept away.

I tried to imagine this apartment as a home that she and I shared. But that
was too implausible. Even if we both called off the hunt - and the days when
we had now seemed painfully far away - they would never leave us alone. But
maybe, if I took myself out of the equation...

She'd be better off. Wouldn't she?

I turned to Maggie and asked the question silently.

The conversation was over.

Pulling the door closed behind me, I walked into the bedroom. I crawled
across the bed, numb with fatigue as I spread myself out and closed my eyes
so tightly it hurt. What had been held in refused to be suppressed a moment
longer. The blankets under my face were soon soaked through. Nothing here
smelled like her anymore. It'd been too long.

For the second time today, I surrendered.

x

10:38 PM

The call came even sooner than I expected, in the form of a constant knocking
on my door. Half-awake, I imagined it was the end, that the end always
knocked before it came and swept the slate clean.

Maggie Scully stood behind the door like a sentinel. She hadn't been asleep.
Her eyes didn't look as heavy as mine felt.

"Didn't you hear the phone?" She asked. "I answered it. He said it was
urgent."

"Who?"

"Someone named Drake."

"I'll take it in here."

She closed the door softly behind her. I raised the receiver to my ear
cautiously. If it had been the sabotaging call, it would've already sent me
sprawling. Waiting for the click of the phone in the living room, I stayed on
the line. "Yeah?"

"I tried calling you on your cell phone, but no one picked up."

Well, no wonder. I didn't even know where the damn thing was. "This is fine."

"Who answered?"

"Scully's mother." Swallowing a yawn, I tried to stretch. Too painful. "Why
did you call?"

"The woman who runs the Baltimore MUFON chapter just called me about fifteen
minutes ago." His voice begged me to guess the rest. "An unidentified
woman's description was just released over a police scanner in Salisbury.
They can't get down there to confirm this, but... we think it's Scully. Down
to the height, weight, blood type, hair and eye color and..."

I wanted to scream at the pause. "Don't spare me, Drake. Spit it out."

"The, uh... the patch of skin missing... on the lower back." He seemed to
bite the words back, in dread.

I couldn't breathe.

"Mulder?"

What came out was too close to a wheeze. I reined it all in, talking through
my teeth. "I'm here."

"They didn't go apeshit over it until they found out the EMT who escorted her
into the hospital wasn't legit."

"How'd they know?"

"Because he signed into the lobby ledger at the ER as Fox Mulder. Needless to
say..." Drake cleared his throat. "Her condition was reported as comatose. I
couldn't find out much more."

I was standing up now. "Which hospital?"

"Methodist West. It's in - " Realizing the question, he drew in the rest of
his words. "No, Mulder. Let us go first and make sure."

"This is where they want me to be. That's why she's there. That's where I'm
going." I pulled my shirt over my head and around the receiver. "It's the
only way I can follow them around."

"You're not following them. They're *leading* you."

"I know that. I'm counting on it," I said shortly. "Now - " Grunting, I
pulled on a clean shirt. "Methodist West. Is there only one?"

"Mulder! They could be waiting to kill you!"

This tack stirred nothing in me whatsoever. For a moment, that scared me more
than the possible impending doom itself. I'd had death wishes before, of the
bile-black and self-destructive variety. I couldn't remember them feeling
like this. "I'm heading up there. At this time of night, it's only a couple
of hours by car. It would take me that long to try to book a flight out."

"I can't believe you," Drake vented incredulously. "You *know* it's a trap."

"If you didn't want me to go," I told him, in lieu of goodbye before I nudged
the phone back into its cradle, "then you shouldn't have called."

I opened the closet, trying to think of what I would need. A change of
clothes for Scully?

(That goes beyond wishful thinking.)

(That's just damned stupid.)

I grabbed a pair of her jeans and a sweater anyway. They hung next to a bulky
garment bag that made the closet rod bow in the middle. Kevlar. I put my hand
pensively against the bandages on my chest. A precaution couldn't hurt. I
yanked the shirt back off, actively ignoring my shoulder, unzipping the
garment bag and untangling the huge panels of snaps on the vest.

(What are you going to say? What are you going to do?)

One thing at a time. I stuck the cup in the bathroom under the tap and held
the four No-Doz in my cheek until it sloshed over the top. Choking them down,
I splashed water on my face. Time to wake up. Time to make the plays that
mattered. I watched as my own hand shook, as casual as if I was waving. I
checked my waist for the gun that was no longer clipped against it, swearing
to myself. Scully had never invested in a second weapon, and her only piece
had disappeared with her in Minot. Given the questionable steadiness of my
hands, I probably would've just popped a cap in my own knee anyway.

I left the bedroom like I was making a tactical escape. Part of me thought
that I should take a look back, snapping a mental picture of a place that I
might never see again. But this wasn't the way I wanted to remember
*anything.* If the past month could be neatly excised from my brain and
destroyed...

Nothing there was worth the total recall. That was why it persevered.

My trenchcoat was on the sofa. No wonder I hadn't heard the cell phone. I
slid my arms into it, half expecting Maggie Scully to come out and see me on
my way.

Her door didn't open. I guess I wasn't the only one who chose to remember
things the way I wanted.

It was raining again outside. The few hours of sleep I'd gotten hadn't helped
my senses, but only reminded my body that there was much more sleep owed
where that came from. I visually located my car outside, and noticed the one
parked next to it under the yellow streetlight.

Jonson's car.

Warily, I walked up to it. He was head down on the steering wheel, arms in
his lap.

(What *now*?)

I stumbled backwards about a foot when my tentative knock on his window
yielded him snapping awake. I thought for sure he was dead. He hurriedly
rolled his window down. "Damn. I fell asleep."

"No shit. What are you doing here?"

"April and Skinner sent me."

I rolled my eyes. "So you could get some rest?"

"No," he replied groggily. "April got pissed off when you wouldn't help her,
so she called me. All I really gave her was the name. That Maynard guy." His
face was steeled against the memory the moment he mentioned him. "She got a
pass into the Pentagon, to get some stuff Ray had there. Waylaid a computer
on her way out. She put the guy's name in."

He handed me a poor facsimile of what looked like a photo of enlarged
microfiche. This was practically antique. "Why does she want me to have it?"

"Because nothing on it meant anything to her. She thought you might be
looking for something else." He shrugged. "She really wants to help, you
know. So do I. Seriously."

I scoffed at him over the top of the page. (You've got to be kidding.) I
folded the paper double, pretending I wasn't interested in it, not giving
April even the second-hand satisfaction of a job well done. "Who told Kersh
about that box?"

"I never talked to that motherfucker."

"But you told Skinner."

"Look." He dug around inside his jacket, fidgeting for a nicotine fix.
"Skinner didn't have word one with Kersh until that meeting. I got it on good
faith."

My teeth seemed to bare themselves in disgust. "That must be a nice feeling.
A nice warm glow."

He cupped his hand around his lighter and snuffed in the fire at the
cigarette's tip, half-exhaling, half-coughing his next breath. "I think it's
a no-brainer, man. Griffin about damn soiled himself every time you looked at
him. That *look* on his face when you told him to push the button." Jonson
shook his head, chuckling, and I could hear echoes of this story having
already been relayed to someone at the next stool in one of the cop bars
downtown. "I'm on your side. April's on your side. Skinner's on your side."

"One out of three isn't bad," I mumbled.

"You're still mad at me," he said lackadaisically, without surprise or
argument. "I know that. But Skinner..." He rummaged around in the passenger
seat. "Skinner said to give you this."

It was a lumpy manila package. I pressed into it with my thumbs. It was
cushioned on the inside, probably with bubble wrap. "I never *did* get my
complimentary clock for ten years of service."

"It's his service weapon," Jonson noted blithely. "He staged a break-in at
his apartment, reported it stolen this morning. Filed the serial number off
really nice. In'trim S.C. came down on him like a sack of shit, too." He
indicated the empty holster clipped to my pocket. "Were you just going to
keep your cell phone in there from now on?"

"Shove it," I murmured, working on the brown strapping tape that had been
overzealously wound around the end of it before giving up and prying through
the bubble wrap with my pocket knife. I let it slide out into my fingers.
Damn. I flexed my fingers around it. The Bureau went through weapons
contracts like it did those for in-service vehicles, and Skinner's weapon was
in good shape, but probably issued about seven years ago before the FBI got
the service agreement for Sig Sauers. It was a Smith & Wesson .44, packed
with a full magazine. He never bothered to have it replaced, though he'd had
the option. Of course, once the Bureau handed down the promotion of Assistant
Director, they were more likely to experience stigmata than to actually fire
the damn thing. I holstered it and poked around inside the envelope. "Is
there a list in here of people he wants me to kill?"

Jonson stubbed out his cigarette. "He just wanted you to have it."

I shook my head. "I'll send him a thank-you note."

"I'll tell him you said so." He glanced to his side, taking stock of the
kevlar under my t-shirt. "Where you going with the flak jacket?"

I feigned preoccupation with the empty package in my hands. "I'm not going to
say."

"You should take me with you."

"You should go home."

His head came halfway out the window. "I'm your sniper, Mulder."

"My sniper's dead." I spotted a metal waste container to my right,
free-throwing the unmarked package and barely making it in. "Go home, Jonson."

He contested the order with a derisive glare. I glared right back. Wheels
spinning, he left, no doubt calling me a "dope on a rope" all over again.

I walked to my car. The drive up to Salisbury was going to infuriate me to no
end, but I wasn't going to be trapped at an airport. Not on a rainy night
like this one. I settled in, dug the maps out of the glove box and plotted an
expressway route.

Now that I was sure Jonson had truly left and not just circled around the
parking lot and back to follow me, I took the sheet of paper April had sent
with him out of my trenchcoat pocket, flipping on the interior lights.

It was a copy of an application for employment that the Pentagon had, like
every *other* piece of paper it touched, kept filed away until space demanded
that the information, like this one, be poorly photographed or scanned and
put on film. Anyone with the ability to write could fill out a damn
application. No wonder April hadn't thought it was remarkable.

John Maynard had graduated from NYU with a degree in political science. On
paper, he looked like an ideal candidate for government work. The date field
said 4/12/61. Maynard had two kids - Jacob and Kelly - and a wife, all of
which made it impossible that he was the man Jonson and I had met.

His most recent job listing at the time of the application was with the CIA.

And he was applying for a position with the State Department.

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