Til Death Do Us Part

	by Gail M. Eppers

	He stood solidly in the middle of the tracks, the wind whipping his open coat until it
curled around his left hand and arm, which hung at his side.  His right arm was extended, the
hand wrapped comfortably around the handle of his pistol.   "Stay back!"  he shouted.  "Stay back or we'll both die!"   He could feel it coming through his shoes.  The track was beginning to vibrate.   Distantly, a train whistle sounded.  He didn't look down the track to see how close it might be.   No, his gaze, as solid as his stance, remained on the redheaded woman he was holding at bay.
	The woman did glance down the track, sprinkled with little faded purple pom poms of clovers, bright yellow tufts of ripe dandelions, and littered with cigarette butts. "Please, Mulder!"  She shouted over the wind, ignoring the strands of hair that kept blowing in front of her face.  "You don't have to do this!"  
	"I told you, Scully, there's no point anymore.  I can't keep trying any longer.  I've had
enough."  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the locomotive rounding into sight about a mile
away.   He raised his head defiantly, "You shouldn't have followed me."  Mulder's short, squat shadow moved almost imperceptibly between the tracks, its head now brushing the polished reflective surface of one rail.
	Above them, cottony clouds drifted carelessly across the sky.   From the east there was a
low toned, guttural bark of a large dog, aroused by the approaching train the way other dogs alert their masters when the paperboy is coming.  Scully was aware that not far away, people were living their lives, with no knowledge of or concern for the drama unfolding nearby.  She wanted to call them, wanted to plead with them to help.  Please stop this man from destroying himself. But there was no time.  It was unreal, looking at Mulder standing on the tracks with a gun pointed directly at her, as if all their years of working together meant nothing.  
	She was crying now.  She knew he'd been upset when they shut down the X-Files,
transferring them from Assistant Director Skinner's supervision to that of Kersh.  In the past,
Skinner had been their supporter, staying at his desk, wrapping the two of them in a protective
paper shield, translating their unusual case reports into something the higher ups just might
understand.  Kersh was different.  He was by the book.  He wouldn't protect them the way
Skinner had.  And to Mulder, that meant an end to his research.  No more hope of finding his
sister, or the elusive proof of extraterrestrial intelligent life.  She had known it would be difficult for him, but had hoped he would adjust.   Instead, he'd gotten more and more sullen as one menial job after another was assigned to him.  
	Risking a glance down the track again, she saw the train speeding toward him.  She
wanted more than ever to rush forward and push him out of the way.   As if reading her mind, he
cocked the pistol.  She heard the click of it even over the wind and approaching train.  It seemed to echo, bringing an air of the surreal.  Instead of moving faster, things seemed to slow down. The sound of the wind, the chirp of the birds, the rumbling of traffic on adjacent streets all disappeared.  It was just she, and Mulder, and the train.  "Mulder, get off the track!  We'll get you help.  I promise!"
	"No one can help me, Scully.  Not even you."  Never taking his eyes off of her, he
swallowed thickly, intensely aware of the nearing train.  It wouldn't be long now.  "Let me die, Scully.  It's the only way!  I'm sorry."
	Then, right in front of her horrified eyes, the train sped past, moving in slow motion at the same time, slamming into her partner.  For an instant, Mulder became a locomotive hood
ornament, his body supported by the cow catcher, limbs flailing helplessly, before being flung to the far side of the train, which now squealed its brakes in a futile attempt to stop.  Mulder's gun, his grip lost by the force of the engine, flew through the air, spinning, then clattering onto the blacktop of the street near Scully's feet.  As boxcar after boxcar flew across her field of vision, Scully screamed  . . . 
	And sat up in bed, her heart pounding, her hands shaking.  She could still hear the
squealing of the brakes.  No, it was the phone ringing.   She waited, taking deep breaths to calm herself, before picking up the receiver.   "Hello."  She whispered, hoping whoever was on the other end would take any irregularities in her voice as sleepiness.  Her bedside clock told her it was 3:47 A.M..
	"I'm sorry to wake you, Agent Scully," came a familiar voice that woke her even further.
	"A.D. Skinner,"  she acknowledged.
	She sensed some hesitation on the other end of the line, then Skinner said, "I  . . .  Agent Mulder's been in an accident."  Scully's heart skipped a beat, and her hand on the receiver grew limp with shock.  "He's at George --"
	"I'm on my way."  She threw the receiver in its cradle and jumped out of bed.  She was
out the door in five minutes.


George Washington University Hospital
4:00 A.M.


	"Drascic is dead, isn't he?"  Mulder said when he opened his eyes to find A.D. Skinner
watching him, from a chair placed against the wall just inside the door.  
	"Yes."
	"Then that means --"
	"Yes. We have to assume.  If what you told me means anything." 
	Mulder's eyes closed for a second.  "You should leave, sir."
	Skinner ignored Mulder's warning.  "I called Scully.  She's on her way."
	Despite all his injuries, Mulder clearly tried to jump from the bed, but fell back in
frustration.  "You can't let her come in here!  Why did you do that?" His left hand formed a fist and slammed the top of the bed, the IV tubing flopping gently.
	Looking helpless, Skinner replied, "How could I not?  She's bound to find out what
happened.  How would it look if I hadn't called her?"
	"But it's not safe.  You know that.  Damn,"  Mulder muttered.
	"I know."  Skinner offered no other apologies.
	There was a stark, forbidding moment of silence.  Then, "What does Kersh think about
it?"
	Skinner shook his head.  "I haven't told him that part.  He won't believe it.  But he'll
follow my recommendation.  Scully won't stay long.  She'll be assigned the follow through."
	Mulder's head fell to his pillow.  "Good.  Send her somewhere.  Anywhere."  He raised
his head again, "Don't let her come in here.  Please."
	"It's too late, Mulder."  Skinner said.  "What am I supposed to tell her?  She's on
her way, and she'll want to see you.  Even if I tried to keep her away, she wouldn't go for it, and you know it.  I can't just send her off to Utah.  She'll insist on seeing you first.  All I can do is make sure she doesn't stay."  There was a moment of quiet as they both accepted the facts. "What are you going to do?"
	"I don't know."  He stared at the ceiling as if the answer were written there.  "It's not safe. You wouldn't be safe either, if I wasn't in traction . . . "
	Skinner grinned sourly, and thought, "But ya are in traction, Blanche, ya are!"  Aloud, he said, "Eh, I could take you with one arm tied behind my back." He was pleased by the self-conscious smile on Mulder's face, at least some of his tension relieved for a moment.  
	Licking dry lips, Mulder became serious again.  "You know what you have to do, sir.  As
soon as possible.  Talk to the doctor.  We have to stop it here."
	"It's not that simple, Mulder."
	"You're assistant director of the FBI.  Use your authority, damn it!  Get the DNR before
it's too late!"  
	Skinner lowered his eyes.  He didn't want to think about that inevitability.  He'd known
Mulder for a long time now, understood his nature.  Frustrated, unsatisfied, uncertain about his past or his future.  Skinner genuinely liked Mulder and hoped that someday Mulder would find the answers to the questions that haunted him.  He deserved those answers, and Skinner wished, not for the first time, that he could supply them.  He wanted  . . .  but there were a lot of things Skinner wanted and knew he'd never have.  It concerned him especially now that perhaps those simple things he wanted for Mulder were among them.  He really didn't see any way out of this except the path that Samuel Drascic had taken.


	Even before he had opened his eyes, Mulder knew.  He felt the evil thing burrowing into
his mind like a wood sandpiper setting up housekeeping in another bird's nest. By the time he had opened his eyes, the thing had begun to settle in, a cat kneading a blanket with its claws into just the right shape before curling up for a nap.  It made his brain itch.  But the transition had exhausted it and the itch subsided to a low buzz like tinnitis in Mulder's ears.  He saw Skinner, but he seemed further away than the hospital room would allow.  Blinking failed to bring the image into focus and he finally stopped trying.  
	He remembered the accident.  Mulder had been chasing Drascic through the train cars, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.  The rhythmic rattle had seemed like music to him.  He was finally closing in on his quarry, the man he'd been tracking for weeks, and here, oddly enough on a train, the track would come to an end.  Mulder stepped into the last car of the passenger train feeling triumphant.  Drascic was cornered and he knew it.  The man looked at him in a panic, whipping his head from side to side in search of a way out, seeing nothing but trees speeding past so fast they looked like green ribbons.  Mulder had a hand on his gun, but it wasn't drawn.  "Don't make this uglier than it already is," he said quietly as the other passengers in the car gave each other questioning looks.  Without taking his eyes off the man, he spoke to them, "Everybody out of the car, please.  Walk. No need to panic.  This is an FBI matter and it's under control."  Silently, they began to file into the next car up.
	Except now, he could picture two viewpoints in his mind. He saw the same scene with Drascic's eyes.  Felt the panic of being trapped.  Saw the man in the gray suit in front of him with his hand on a gun holstered under the open jacket.  Saw the trees rushing past like green ribbons, feeling the unrelenting speed that blocked his escape.
	That was when he first heard the screams.  The shaking of the train car changed, the
rhythm broken into a screeching din.  Instantly, Mulder realized what was happening.  The train was derailing, and he was at the tail end of a large heavy steel whip.  As he turned to try following the other passengers to a relative safety zone closer to the handle of the whip, he saw Drascic smile, realizing the same thing.  It wouldn't have made sense to anyone else.  He sensed he was about to die, and he smiled.  Mulder saw Drascic dive toward him.  But with the other passengers, now panicked and screaming, jamming the doorway, Mulder couldn't get past them.  He felt Drascic's hands grasp his left ankle like a vise as the entire train car began to tip.  NO, his mind screamed, PLEASE GOD, NO!  
	Then he was in a jumble of spinning, bumped by people and loose belongings for an eternity of pain as his leg twisted.  His head struck something hard and he had only enough time to be grateful for the loss of consciousness. 
	When Drascic realized the train was going to crash, he knew he was probably going to
die.  But it was okay, because there were people here.  He smiled because he realized the closest person would be his pursuer, the man who had made the last few weeks of this life an endless game of hide and seek.   It wouldn't be easy.  The guy might not know exactly what to expect, but he knew what the score was.  It was worth the effort to get him.  To get HIM.  In the few microseconds before all hell broke loose, he knew what he had to do.  He leaped forward, reaching, somehow grasping the man's leg.  And held onto it as he tumbled.  When the falling was over, he was bleeding profusely from a wound on one side of his head, covered with nothing but shattered bits of bone.  His spine had snapped like a twig and his legs now lay behind him, as useless as a losing lottery ticket.  He'd lost his grip on the man's leg, but he still had the trouser cuff.  He used it to pull himself closer.  Nearly an hour later, the searchers found him still hugging the man's leg like a frightened two-year-old clutching a teddy bear.  Drascic was dead.



	Assistant Directors Skinner and Kersh were both sitting on chairs in the corridor outside
Mulder's room.  As she approached, Skinner stood and faced her.   Kersh acknowledged her
presence with a nod, then turned away.  Skinner prevented her from rushing into the room with one  hand on her upper arm.  Scully was finding it hard to maintain any appearance of calm
as she looked at Skinner, "What happened, sir?"
	His jaw worked as he looked for the words, finally deciding to depend on his professional
persona.  "Agent Mulder was pursuing a suspect, a man named Samuel Drascic, who's wanted
for the murder of three people in Utah.  He followed the man onto an Amtrak train, which
derailed shortly after one A.M.   Fifteen people were killed, including the engineer and Mr.
Drascic.  Mulder sustained serious injury, but is expected to recover."  He watched her face as
she absorbed the information.  Her sigh of relief made them both feel better.  Skinner continued, "Mulder suffered a concussion, broke and twisted his left leg -- he's in traction --,  and punctured his spleen, along with the usual bruises and contusions.  He did go into arrest, but they brought him out of it.  He just regained consciousness a few moments ago."  Skinner paused briefly. "He asked for you."  Skinner dropped his eyes as he said the last sentence, ashamed of himself for saying it.  Lie or not, it was the only thing to say.
	Scully nodded that she understood, and Skinner released her arm.  As she placed one
hand on the doorknob, she saw a short, frail older woman pulling a large garbage bin heaping
with overstuffed black garbage bags down the hallway.  For some reason, it brought to mind
Max, the dog from "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," with a single antler tied to his head,
pulling the huge, overloaded sled filled with all the Who's Christmas trappings up the side of
Mount Crumpet.  The image brought an amused smile to her face before she could stop it. 
Fortunately, she had her back to Skinner and Kersh so all they saw was a slight hesitation before she cleared her throat, opened the door and walked into Mulder's room.  "I know you always like to get your man, but I think this is a little extreme," she quipped.
	"Scully!"  Mulder said with a broad, natural smile.  Inside, he congratulated himself on
his acting skills.  His left leg was in a straight cast to just below his hip and suspended in midair several inches above his bed, and his head was heavily bandaged.  There were purple bruises on both cheeks, and there were several stitches above his right eye.   The soft, regular beep of a heart monitor accompanied their conversation.
	Scully smiled in return.  "How are you feeling?"  She stepped up to the edge of the bed,
noticed him squirm nervously and moved down to the foot, then around to the other side, visually examining his injuries from all angles.  "I think you have a new record, Mulder, if you don't count being dead," she said, referring to a period of time in which he'd been presumed dead although he was seriously ill and being nursed back to health by a group of Navajo Indians.  
	"Well, you still have me beat.  I haven't been in a coma, yet,"  he returned, reminding her of her long recovery after apparently being abducted by aliens.  "And I really don't care to compete with you in that arena."  Mulder looked down at his leg rather than at Scully, avoiding eye contact.  "I'm glad you came, but I'm kind of tired . . . "
	"Mulder,"  Scully began, "I  . . . Mulder, I had a dream that you got hit by a train."
	As if by reflex, Mulder did look at Scully now.  "Have you ever had precognitive dreams
before?"
	"No.  But in my dream, it didn't derail.  You got hit standing on the tracks."
	"So your dream came true.  I may have been on the inside, but," and he rubbed the
bandage on his head, feeling the sore lump underneath, "I definitely got hit by a train."
	"Mulder, if my dream had come true, you'd be dead."  She paused, a confused expression
on her face.  "No, wait a minute.  That didn't come out right."
	But Mulder was smiling, his eyes looking down.  Then the smile disappeared abruptly as he grimaced in obvious pain.  
	"Mulder?"  
	His hands flew to his chest and clutched reflexively.  "Scully, get out!"  he gasped.
	Scully's head whirled to look at the monitor, its beeping now out of control.  He was in
defib.  She rushed to the door only long enough to poke her head out and yell, "I need a crash
cart in here, stat!" to anyone who could hear her.  Hurrying back to Mulder, who had lost
consciousness, she pulled down the bedcovers, trying to stabilize his heartbeat with chest
compressions.  Behind her, there was some commotion as the crash cart team entered, just as she heard the monitor fall into the monotone of flatline.  She didn't notice Skinner slip into the room.  She felt something push her backwards forcefully, then she was pulled back, feeling multiple hands on her shoulders, as the crash team muscled its way to Mulder's bed.  Astonished by what she had just felt, she stood back, allowing the team to work, and watched the monitor.  After Mulder was shocked twice with the paddles, the beeping, suddenly a beautiful sound, returned to its steady rhythm. 
	Skinner approached her quietly.  "What happened?"
	"I don't know, sir."  She watched the rhythm stabilize on the screen, still trying to figure out what had pushed her backwards.  There had been nothing in front of her.  Except for Mulder's unconscious body.
	"Kersh would like to speak with you."
	"Yes, sir."  After another glance at Mulder, his vital signs now being taken by the medical staff, she stepped out of the room.  
	Kersh rose when he saw her approach.  "Agent Scully, I have an assignment for you."
	"I'm not leaving,"  Scully replied immediately.  "I'm not going anywhere until Mulder is
out of the woods."  
	"The case Mulder was working on --"  Kersh tried to explain.
	Scully interrupted him.  "--is closed.  The suspect is dead.  If there's anything else, it can be handled by any of a hundred other agents."
	Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Skinner come out of the room.  He stepped up
behind her, and nervously scratched the side of his neck.  "Take the assignment, Scully."
	She whirled on him.  "No, sir.  With all due respect."  Pointing to the doorway from
which they had both come, she added, "My partner just experienced an unexplained medical
episode.  I'm a doctor.  What do you expect me to do?"
	"I expect you to do as you're told."  Skinner replied matter-of-factly.  
	As she stared from one assistant director to the other, feeling like a small child whose
parents were putting up a unified front against an unauthorized pre-dinner cookie, she saw the
crash team leave the room, pushing the cart ahead of them.  "I'm staying right here," she insisted, pushing Skinner gently aside to return to Mulder's room.
	Mulder was sleeping.  Scully pulled a chair up close to his bed, and sat as if she would
never get up again.  After a moment, quietly, Skinner re-entered the room and after exchanging a warning glance with Scully, pulled another chair to the wall and sat there, exhaling a sigh
through his nose.


	The buzz rose in volume as Scully spoke to him.   It became a voice, but it wasn't
Drascic's voice.  It wasn't a voice he knew by sound at all.  A voiceless voice, just thoughts, only distinguishable from his own by the content.  It was angry.  It didn't want to be confined to a bed. It wanted to be moving, to be killing or planning to kill.  Profanity ran through the thoughts, word and phrases with which Mulder held only a passing familiarity.  **Hospital**, came the thought.  **Hospitals have nurses, and doctors.  Lots of people.  People are possibilities.  I have to move again.  Hey you,** it spoke to him.  **FBI man.  I got news for you.  I only control what I want to control here.  This is a hospital.  If your heart stops beating, people will come.  When you're gone, I can move.  I haven't been a doctor in a long time.  I bet they have all kinds of new toys for me to play with.  So I'm not going to control your heart, or your breathing.  You'll have to do that, if you don't want to die.**
     	(What?  How can I control those?  They're autonomic reflexes.)
     	**Better figure it out fast, buddy.  I'm letting go.**
     	The chest pain was his too, apparently.  (DAMN IT, NOT WITH SCULLY HERE!)  She
was bending over him.  (Too close.  You're too close.)  Although he had no control over any of his limbs now, he pushed instinctively, and was surprised to see Scully move back.  Strangers
pushed their way in, concerned but unfamiliar faces floating across his field of view.  (Control it, he said.  Heartbeat.  C'mon heart.  Buh-Bum.  Buh-Bum.)  If he could move Scully, he could make his heart pump.  (Concentrate!  Buh-Buh-Buh-Bum.)  The pain eased as his heart began pumping normally again, but it took a lot of concentration.  
     	His view of Scully grew even fuzzier.  Decidedly myopic now, and glaucomatous.  The
right and left edges were getting darker. The world more than a few inches from his face seemed to fall away.  He could feel his limbs, but was unable to move them.  HE moved them, though, the other thing in his head.  It was as if his own brain were quicksand and he was slowly sinking.  And there was nothing he could do about it. 
     	**Yeah, I know.  After about a  week, you won't be here at all anymore.  If I let you live that long.**


George Washington University Hospital
11:27 A.M.

     	Several hours later, Scully awoke with a start, lifting her head from the bed, stretching
and rubbing her neck.  Checking Mulder's monitor, seeing that he appeared to be sleeping, she
nodded to herself then ducked into the bathroom.  After taking care of her bodily needs, she
washed her hands, then her face in cool water, and dabbed it dry with a towel.  Emerging from
the bathroom, she stopped suddenly, seeing that Mulder was now lying on his bed with a pillow
firmly over his face.  "Mulder," she gasped and rushed to him, throwing the pillow aside and
feeling for a pulse by this throat.  
	But she didn't have her hand on Mulder's neck. Someone's hand was on her own neck, pulling her back from the edge of the bed where she'd fallen asleep.  Looking up sharply, she saw Mulder was sleeping quietly.  Then she turned to acknowledge Skinner's hand on her shoulder. "Sir,"  she gasped, the adrenaline rush from the dream making her breathless for a moment.
     	"Scully, there's something I'd better tell you."
     	"Sir?"  
     	Skinner licked his dry lips, motioning with his eyes at Mulder, "I know you don't want to
leave him, but I need to speak to you in my office.  In an hour.  Go on home, freshen up first."
     	She sensed he was telling her to prepare for the threatened assignment.  "I'm not leaving Mulder."
     	Quietly, Skinner replied, "Please, Scully.  Wait until you hear me out."
     	After a confused glance at Mulder, then another at Skinner, she said, "yes, sir."
     	With Scully gone, Skinner stepped up to the head of Mulder's bed and lay a gentle hand
on his shoulder.  "Mulder," he said.
     	Mulder's eyes opened slowly, "Sir."  He blinked rapidly, squeezing his eyes shut tight as if he was nursing a headache.  
     	"I'm going to tell her everything we know.  I'm sending her to Utah."
     	"No."  His breathing was shallow, but rapid.  "No.  Don't.  I want her to stay."
     	Skinner stood there a moment longer, staring into Mulder's eyes, then slowly backed
away.
     	An hour later, Scully sat across Skinner's desk just like old times, except that the other chair, where Mulder would have been sitting, remained empty.  She wore a charcoal gray skirt and jacket outfit that was crisp and clean.  Skinner pushed a manila envelope toward Scully, "This is the file on Samuel Drascic," Skinner said.  On top of the folder lay several computer printout pages, stapled in one corner, "and Mulder's report on his investigation, which he emailed to me before getting on the train."  Scully briefly locked eyes with Skinner, then grabbed the report.  "You'll be able to read both of them in detail on the plane --"
     	"Plane?"  She said absently as she rose, pacing while paging through the document.  She
didn't look up from her reading, her eyes quickly scanning several pages.  Instead of waiting for an answer to her one-word question, she began reading from his closing paragraph, "'As you can see from the evidence I've presented, it is my belief that Samuel Drascic was not responsible for the murders attributed to him.  It is my belief that his physical being was under the influence of an outside force, which internalized without his knowledge and/or against his will, causing him, for some as yet unknown reason, to become violent.'
     	"Sir, is he saying the man was possessed by evil spirits?"  she asked, now flipping back
and forth between the pages in search of her own answer.
     	"I'm not saying anything," Skinner replied.  "I don't consider this investigation complete, and I'm keeping the case file open.  I'd like you to continue where he left off."
     	Sliding back into the chair, with the report and file firmly held in her lap with both hands, she scrutinized Skinner's expression.  "There's something else, sir, isn't there?"
     	Skinner looked cornered but resolved.  "If you ask him, he'll say he doesn't want you to do it."
     	"If he's concerned for my safety --"
     	"I don't think that's it."  At Scully's raised eyebrow, he continued nervously, "I  . . .  can't help thinking that he wants to keep you here."  He paused, then pointed to the report, "If his suspicions are correct, the entity that inhabited Drascic  . . .  moved out when he died."
     	"What are you saying?"  
     	"Scully,"  Skinner explained, clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to say, "It's in him."  He paused a moment to let that simple phrase settle, then, "I don't really understand it, but I've felt it."
     	"If that's true, why would  . . .  'the entity' want to keep me around?  You'd think he'd want to get rid of me.  I know Mulder better than anyone.  I would be more likely to discover its existence, expose it for what it is."  She couldn't quite believe what she was saying,  but it was an argument.
    	"I'm not quite sure, but I do know that Mulder would want you investigating.  You're the
only one who can solve this case and give him the answers.  And give me the answers.  It's in
him.  How do we get it out?"
     	Smiling a little, Scully argued, "Sir,"  -- she was tempted to add her usual 'with all due respect', but skipped it -- "What you're saying is ludicrous.  I've been with him, too, and I didn't see anything wrong.  Perhaps your perception was influenced by knowledge of this report?"
     	"Perhaps your perception is clouded by lack of it."  
     	That brought up Scully short.  Until now, she hadn't considered the idea that her viewpoint on this could be mistaken.  Mulder possessed?  How could that possibly happen? Yet how could she deny what Mulder had written?
     	While Scully wrestled with her conscience, Skinner ground his teeth, "I'm not sending you out there to be a bastard, Scully.  All things being equal, I think Mulder would do nothing but benefit by having you here to monitor his medical treatment.  But all things are not equal, and I can't trust this investigation to anyone else."
     	"The suspect is dead.  The FBI will consider it a closed case.  Kersh, sir, will consider it closed."  
     	"I'll deal with Kersh, Scully.  But if we don't stop it here  . . . " he couldn't even speak aloud what could possibly happen to Mulder.  
     	My God, Scully thought, he's serious.  His eyes fell to his desk, and she took a long, slow breath.  "What time is my flight?"
     	As soon as Scully left his office, Skinner looked at his watch.  Then he picked up the
phone and began to dial, to arrange a Do Not Resuscitate order on a patient by the name of Fox
Mulder.


Drascic residence
6:10 P.M. local time

     	Somewhere in the Utah wilderness, a rented red Pontiac Sunfire left a dusty trail behind it as it moved down the road.  Behind the wheel, Scully, only slightly the worse for wear after her plane ride and car trip, opened the window a crack to let in some fresh air, and turned off Smokey Robinson on the radio.  The quiet brought her thoughts once again to the forefront.  She felt a tinge of unreality, driving through Utah to interview the wife of a dead man to find out if he'd been possessed by an evil spirit that may or may not be residing in her bedridden partner. She'd done stranger things in the line of duty, true, but this felt different.  She glanced to her right, at the empty passenger seat, and shook her head.  It wasn't like she'd never handled an investigative task on her own, but she couldn't recall a time when she wished he'd been with her more.  Never mind that if he were, this interview wouldn't be necessary.  
	Ah, there was the intersection.  It looked like a road, but according to the directions she'd been given it was actually a very long driveway.  As she turned, she saw the farmhouse in the distance.  It had been white once, but much of the paint had peeled.  She could see a young man on a ladder trying to remedy the situation with a paintbrush.  He looked down at her as she parked the car and got out.  "Hello,"  she called up to him.  "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully of the FBI.  I'm here to talk to Mrs. Drascic."
     	The man propped his paintbrush across the open can and climbed down the ladder,
followed by a shadow that rippled at each rung.   "I don't know if she'll be wanting to talk to anyone, Ma'am."  He pulled the painter's cap off, revealing a head of bushy black hair.  "She's about had it with you people."
     	She decided to let the implied insult slide.  "I'm sorry she feels that way.  I promise I'll be brief.  Could you let her know I'm here, please?"
     	He nodded, giving her a suspicious look as he went into the house, letting the screen door bang behind him.  Scully looked around as she waited and noticed a barn about a hundred yards away, also in need of paint, with yellow straw bulging out of the hayloft just like in a painting.  A tractor was parked midway between the farmhouse and the barn.  Faintly, she could hear cows lowing inside the barn.  The sweet scent of the fresh hay hovered in the air, mingled with the odors of manure, old gasoline, fresh-cut grass, and mud forming that distinct farm smell that Scully found both pleasant and unpleasant.
     	"Please come in."  The woman's unexpectedly friendly voice pulled Scully's attention
from the barn.  She was at the screen door, holding it open with one arm and motioning with the
other.  She was middle-aged, with black curly hair peppered gray, and wore faded denim jeans
and an oversized T-shirt decorated with remnants of what had once been no doubt a very scenic picture.
     	Scully climbed the two wooden steps up to the door.  "Thank you," she told the woman as
she passed through the door. 
     	"Have a seat on the couch.  I apologize for my son.  The past several months have been
very hard for him."  The woman followed Scully to the couch and they both sat.  The couch was
a pastel flowered pattern, with at least one button missing from the tufts in each cushion.  The carpet was threadbare.  The furnishings, Scully noticed, were in poor condition, but they were clean and free of clutter.  Various figurines of dogs, cats, cows and other animals sparcely adorned shelves and the top of the console television set, which also supported a set of rabbit ears and a table clock that ticked audibly.  "Can I offer you something to drink?"
     	"I'm fine, thank you.  I just want to ask you a few questions about your husband."
     	Scully could see that the woman was still wary of her, but she seemed resolved to the ordeal.  "Perhaps I should just have a booklet printed and start handing it out whenever
someone comes to call."  At first, Mrs. Drascic's face seemed utterly sad, but then she forced
herself to smile at her own joke.  "A lot of people have been dropping by since I got the telegram about the train accident.  I can't say I'm sorry to hear he's dead, but there was a time  . . .  "  Her lower lip trembled a little, and she stilled it with visible effort, hiding it behind one cupped, calloused hand.  The hand dropped back to her lap and she said, "Go ahead, Miss . . . ?"
     	"Dana.  Call me Dana.  I'm very sorry for your loss.  And you're . . . ?"
     	"Mrs. Samuel Drascic,"  she said as if she were convincing herself.  "I'm sorry.  Call me
Peggy."
     	Scully placed one hand on Peggy's knee.  "I know this isn't easy for you, Peggy, but I'll do everything I can to make it as easy as possible.  Please tell me about the day your husband left."
     	"Certainly."  She took a deep breath.  Her son came up behind her and gently put a hand
on her left shoulder.  Scully tried not to notice the angry glare he was sending her way as his
mother began, patting his hand affectionately, "He'd gone to town to buy some parts for the tractor.  I don't think he even got there.  He came back about half an hour later and it takes a good forty-five minutes one way.  Well, I was inside washing dishes and I saw him out of the window.  He saw me, too.  He parked the truck, got out, and looked right at me.  It scared me right then, 'cause  . . .  well, he didn't look right.  His eyes were  . . .  empty."  She stopped, coming out of memory for a minute.  "Seems silly."
     	"It's all right.  Go on."
     	"He looked at me for a full minute.  Just stood there and looked at me.  Then he got back in the truck and drove off.  He never came back."   Her expression grew sadder.  "I heard he killed three people.  At first, I couldn't believe it.  He was really a gentle man.  But when he didn't come back, and remembering that look in his eyes, I guess maybe they was right.  Maybe it was an accident.  I don't know.  A lot of things can change a man.  It doesn't mean he wasn't good once."    
     	"I understand.  Which town was this he was going to?"
     	Peggy cleared her throat.  "Trout Creek, almost an hour west of here, where he was born
and raised.  He had friends there, and could get good deals on supplies."  
     	Scully pulled out her folded Utah map and unfolded just a section.  "Can you show me
what route he would have taken?"  Mrs. Drascic pointed out the route on the map for her. 
"Thank you,"  Scully said.  "And thank you for your time."



George Washington University Hospital
5:45 P.M.


     	Nurse Hunter carried the meal tray, which she'd just removed from the cart which stood in the middle of the hallway, in two hands as she approached the room of Agent Fox Mulder.  On a chair outside the door, his superior, a Mr. Skinner, sat attentively, almost nervously.  She lifted the tray an inch to indicate it, "May I?"
     	He hesitated.  The Chief of Staff himself had made it clear to Skinner that he wouldn't be allowed to disrupt the hospital's routine.  His bid for a DNR had been denied out of hand, and although he found the situation tense, he had to admit that there was no evidence that Mulder was a candidate for non-resuscitation.   If he tried to explain what he believed to be true it would only accomplish his own committal to the psych ward.  He couldn't afford to take that kind of a chance, and leave the room unguarded.  Reluctantly, he nodded to the nurse.  Balancing the tray momentarily on one hand, she pushed open the door and went in.
     	A few moments later, Skinner heard the clatter of the tray hitting the floor, a shriek cut short and followed by the sounds of a struggle.  He jumped up and entered the room to find the nurse bent backwards over the bed, her neck firmly in Mulder's grasp.  The tray lay upended on the floor, surrounded by splatters of food and flatware.  "Mulder!"  he called out as he rushed to the nurse's aid.  "Mulder, stop!"  He pried at the hands on her throat, joining her own weakening efforts, but each time he pried one finger loose another one clamped down in its place.  Red marks were developing on her neck, and the color of her face was darkening to a brick red hue.  Mulder's eyes were glued to his objective, but his demeanor seemed curious, as if even he was wondering why he was doing this.
	Skinner's shouts had been loud enough to attract attention, and in seconds Skinner was joined by two doctors and a male nurse.   The two doctors, one male, one female, moved quickly to either side of the bed, elbowing Skinner back.  "Out of the way, please!"  said the female.  Together, they pried Mulder's hands off the nurse's neck.  The nurse was immediately pulled away to the attentive care of her male colleague.   
	"Hold him down, Alex!" The female doctor ordered.
	Meanwhile, Mulder began to thrash in the bed.  "Let me go!  I want to get out of here!  I don't like it here!"  
     	With Alex sprawled across Mulder's torso like an army medic protecting his patient from falling debris, the female doctor bent over him and said, "If you don't calm down, Mr. Mulder, I will have to sedate you."  Mulder continued to struggle against the arms holding him down, his leg swinging in the sling, his IV line flapping wildly, then seemed to recognize the sincerity in the doctor's voice.  Finally, he stopped struggling, averting his eyes downward, glowering darkly.  "That's better.  Brooding is allowed.  Thrashing isn't," she said. Skinner looked at Mulder, saw smoldering fury he'd never seen before.  "You've dislodged your IV.  I'll have to fix it.  Are you going to behave?"
     	Mulder didn't reply, but when he continued to make no movement, she gestured to Alex to let up.  Slowly, experimentally, he did so, finally standing upright with his hands in the pockets of his lab coat.  When she nodded again, he left the room.
     	The female doctor, still outwardly calm, now had Mulder's chart in hand and was writing on it. Her hair was jet black, and cut short in a simple, practical style.  She was nearly as tall as Skinner, and muscular arms filled out the sleeves in her medical coat, but her pale skin and slender form announced her femininity without question. "You have something to say, Mr. Skinner?"  she asked.  She glanced at her wristwatch, then made another notation.  "His pain meds were late.  I'll have to speak to the nurse about that."
     	"No more pain medication," he heard himself say.
     	The doctor hung the chart up and turned to him.  "You've got to be kidding.  Do you have
any idea what kind of pain he's in?  That leg wasn't just broken, it was twisted completely
around, the knee separated, the hip separated.  There was an enormous amount of muscle and
tissue damage.  At first glance I thought I was looking at an amputation.  He's lucky to still have that leg, and thanks to me, there's a better than even chance that he'll walk on it again.  And pain medication isn't just a convenience.  It speeds the healing process because the patient is comfortable.  He needs all the healing he can get and I'm not cutting off his meds.  You can complain all the way to the Hospital Board, but they'll back me on this.  Now, if you'll excuse me."
     	"Wait."  During her rant he'd had a chance to gather his thoughts, as well as read her name tag.  "Dr. Marquette, I'm not saying I want him to be in pain.  I'm sorry.  What I meant is I don't want people coming into this room.  You can see he's a danger right now, even in traction."  He kept his voice calm and even.  "Believe me, this is for your safety as well as his."
     	She measured him with her eyes up and down, noticing that the left lapel of his suitcoat
was askew.  "What do you expect me to do?  He needs the pain medication.  He has to eat.  His
vitals must be checked.  Medical care is an ongoing thing, and --"
     	He cut her off.  "Let me do it.  As much as possible, anyway."
     	"Don't you already have a job, Mr. Skinner?"
     	"I'm on vacation."
     	"You have no medical training.  I'd be exposing this hospital to a tremendous lawsuit, if I allowed you to provide medical care."  Shaking her head in disbelief, she wrote more on the
clipboard, probably something about the patient's extremely demanding colleague who seemed
unable to leave his presence.  
     	"I'll sign any kind of waiver you want.  You'd have my personal guarantee that no action
would be made against this hospital, no matter what the outcome here."
     	"His family may feel otherwise."
     	"As far as medical matters are concerned, I'm his family.  I have full authority for any
decisions that may come up.  If you want to see the legal papers I can have them messengered
here within an hour."  As was required in the FBI, all agents had a living will on file. With no living relatives, Mulder's Power of Attorney fell to Skinner. 
     	She paused again, measuring his sincerity and commitment.  She found them both in
abundance.  "There will be his bedpan to tend to.   Medications, some with food, some without. 
He may develop bedsores that will need to be cleaned and dressed.  Injections into his IV tubing.  This is how you want to spend your vacation?"
     	"Yes.  Show me how."
     	"Very well.  But there is one more thing you should know."
     	"What?"
     	"Because of this incident today, I'm ordering a psych evaluation.  Someone from the
Psych Department will be here tomorrow morning for an interview.  They normally don't permit
observers.  It tends to influence the results, particularly if there is a personal relationship
involved."  She read the plea in his eyes without his having to put it into words.  "I'll see what I can do."
     	"Thank you, doctor," Skinner replied.  "But after that, I'm the only one authorized to enter this room.  And yourself, of course."  She nodded in agreement.  "Now, about that DNR ..."
     	"Don't push your luck, Mr. Skinner," she said, straightening his lapel.  "And by the way,
it's Marquette-Shilgate."
     	Glancing at her motherly way of fixing his clothing, Skinner replied, "That's a bit
unwieldy, isn't it?"
     	"I suppose so," she admitted, adding over her shoulder as she left, "I tried using Dr. MS for awhile, but it wasn't good for my reputation."

Trout Creek, Utah
7:15PM

     	After driving for about fifteen minutes, Scully slowed to a crawl and watched both sides
of the road.  She knew that the chances of seeing anything significant were infinitesimally small after the passage of several months and a number of major snowfalls, but she needed to look just the same.  Fortunately, there was no other traffic at the moment. She drove no more than five miles per hour for at least half an hour, and in all that time saw only a semi cab, sans semi, rattle past her going the other way.   Finally she saw what had to be Trout Creek rise over the horizon.  She rolled into the small town a short time later, and parked in front of a wood and brick building labeled "General Store".  She got out her notes of the conversation with Mrs. Drascic and read through them again.  It was quite possible that Samuel Drascic hadn't made it into town that day, but there was nothing else to try but to ask around.  If this came up dry, she was at a dead end trying to follow Samuel Drascic's movements. According to Mulder's report, he also had no history of the man until he arrived in Salt Lake City, which had been three months after he'd left his wife.  
     	She was startled by a knock on her window.  Looking up, she saw a man in greasy blue
coveralls and a cap, wiping his hands on a once-white rag and chewing gum.  He motioned
for her to roll down her window.  When she did, he asked, "Can I help you, Ma'am?"
     	"Excuse me?"  Scully wondered where he'd come from, and guessed the gas station
across the way.  
     	"Well, I seen you drive in and I don't recognize the car.  Believe me, I know all the cars here, inside out.  And when you didn't get out of your car, I figured you weren't here for
groceries," he nodded his head toward the General Store, "so I reckoned you maybe needed some
help."  
     	Scully couldn't argue with his reasoning.  She popped open the door, and he stepped back
to allow her room as she got out of the car.  Closing the door behind her, she pulled out her ID and held it out for the man to see.  "My name is Agent Dana Scully, with the FBI.  I'm
investigating a man by the name of Samuel Drascic.  Did you know him?"
     	"Sam?  Heck, this whole town knew Sam.  Damn shame what he done to his wife,
though."  Casually, he turned his head and spit into the dirt, "Never can tell about folks these days.  Seems they'll turn on you like a rabid dog."  He tucked the rag into his back pocket, and Scully had a hard time suppressing the image of Gomer Pyle.  
     	"His wife doesn't believe he ever arrived in Trout Creek the day he left her."  She checked her notes, "September 23rd, 1999.  Do you know anyone who may have seen him any time after that?"
     	His eyes moved to the upper left as he considered.  "Gee, lemee see.  I was in
Salt Lake that whole week."  Suddenly remembering, he said, "Yeah, that's when my sister got
married.  Why, I ain't seen him since he bought gas from me just before I left.  Is it true he's dead?"
     	"Yes, he is."
     	The man shook his head in disgust, "I wonder what got in his head.  He loved his wife
more than beer.  To just up and leave like that."  He glanced back at the gas station to see if there were any customers, but no one was there.  Scully almost felt guilty.  "Well, I best get back.  You can ask at the Store, though.  Name's Mr. Druckle.  Chuckle Druckle, we call him.  You'll see why.  Good day, Miss."  He tipped his hat to her, then replaced it on his head.
     	"Thank you," she called back, and headed into the Store.
     	The man standing behind the counter quite possibly could not have walked down the aisle without clearing the shelves as he went.   His large round face was red, but his nose was even redder.  Produced by a cheerful smile, dimples were visible through the graying stubble on his cheeks.  He wore huge denim overalls over a red checkered short sleeve shirt.  Standing at the counter was a young woman with a child in her arms who appeared to be about two years of age.  She hefted the child higher, then took a large brown bag of groceries in her other arm.  "Thanks, Chuckle."
     	"Here, let me get that door for you,"  he said with a small laugh, starting to come around the counter. Looking up, he saw Scully, who obligingly held the door open so the lady could exit safely.  She nodded her thanks to Scully with a smile and walked away.  Scully allowed the light screened door to swing shut, its small bell tinkling gently, as she herself entered.  It was a small store, with just two aisles to either side of the door, shelves on all the walls filled with ordinary things like Campbell's Soup and Minute Rice and Brillo Pads.  The Brillo Pads, in fact, were on sale, evidenced by a pyramid display just inside the door.  The shelf behind it was bare of all but two boxes, and several boxes were missing from the upper layers of the pyramid.  Scully almost expected a pickle barrel by the counter and a checkerboard propped up with two sawhorses, but neither of these quaint objects were visible.  A shorter aisle led up the center of the store to the counter, where Chuckle waited.  "Well, howdy there," he said.  "Ain't often we get such a pretty lady in here. What can I do you for?"
     	With her ID still in hand, she raised it, "Dana Scully, FBI.  I'm investigating Samuel
Drascic."
     	The perpetual smile disappeared.  "I see."
     	She smiled herself to lighten the suddenly tense atmosphere.  After all, it wasn't like she was trying to find a dangerous criminal.  The man was dead.  "Did you see him on or after
September 23rd of last year?"
     	"The 23rd...." he muttered, thinking.  "Yes.  Late in the day it was.  After seven, I think."
     	So he had come to town after driving away from his farm the second time.  "You
remember?"
     	"Sure.  That was the last time I saw Sammy.  After hearing what he done, can't say I'm
sorry about that."  Chuckle kept looking up at the doorway, probably hoping a customer would
come in to interrupt this uncomfortable conversation, but the door remained closed and the bell
silent.  "I remember 'cause he was strange that day, too.  He bought a whole carton of cigarettes and he don't even smoke."
     	"Cigarettes?  Did he say why?"
     	"Said they was for a friend.  That he was going to be gone for awhile visiting this friend and he didn't know when he was coming back."
     	"Did he purchase anything else?"
     	"No, Ma'am.  Just the cigarettes.  Marlboro, I think they were.  But I think he was lying
about that friend."  Chuckle winced, almost unwilling to continue.  "The man wasn't right.  I don't know how, exactly.  He just didn't seem like Sammy.  'Sides, after what we found the next
morning, I think I know why he left town."
     	"What did you find?"
     	"Old Fuzzy.  He was I guess what you'd call the Town Drunk, though he wasn't always. 
Anyways, we found him the next morning at the side of the road about a mile outside town.  He
was old, mind you, older than dirt, but they called it a hit and run.  He was busted up bad.  I ain't the only one that thinks Sammy done it, though why he run off after, I don't know.  Had to be an accident.  Sammy wouldn't have hit him on purpose, at least not the Sammy we knew then. Now, who knows?  I suppose he got scared he'd be in big trouble fer it and ran," Chuckle
speculated. "Then the Lord only knows what could have happened to him later to make him do
those things.  To be honest," and here Chuckle leaned in close over his own bulk as if there were someone to overhear them, "I'd really like to know."
     	Scully was curious, "You said Old Fuzzy wasn't always the Town Drunk?"
     	"That's right,"  Chuckle replied, straightening stiffly.  "Years ago, he was more like the Town Grampa.  Great with kids, read 'em stories, even just told 'em stories out of his head.  But about ten years ago he'd started drinking, after his daughter died of pneumonia.  It wasn't a lot at first, but it got to be regular.  Then he got bad and started to pass out in the street, wherever.  Folks would take him to the Sheriff and he'd let him sleep it off in a cell if the weather was bad.  You know, like that Otis guy on Andy Griffith."
     	Nodding her understanding, Scully said, "It's hard to watch that happen to a person."
     	"Well, it looked like he was trying to drink himself to death.  At first, he'd dry out now and then and be his old self for awhile, a few days or a week.  Then, I think it was '97, spring maybe, he'd come out of the jail and go right to the liquor store.  Wouldn't listen to anyone, just piddled his life savings on bourbon and rum.  Kids stayed away from him by then.  When we found him on the road that day, folks said it was merciful his suffering was over."
     	Almost without thinking, Scully asked, "Was Samuel Drascic acquainted with Old Fuzzy?"
     	For the first time since the beginning of the conversation, Chuckle actually chuckled.  "Darlin', wasn't no one 'acquainted' with Old Fuzzy!  Sammy was one of the kids that used to sit on his knee.  That was back before he was Old Fuzzy, though.  He was just plain Fuzzy for a long time afore that.  'Cause of his beard."  He chuckled again.  "My goodness, Old Fuzzy must have been like a grandfather to Sammy if he was to anyone."
     	Putting that information in her mental filing cabinet, Scully said, "Thank you for talking to me.  You've been very helpful.  I'd just like to know one more thing."
     	"Yes, Ma'am?"
     	"What's a good place to stay?  It looks like I'll need to spend the night here."
     	Chuckle's smile came back like someone had flipped a switch in his back.  "You need to
stay at Auntie Em's!"  he proclaimed.  "Auntie Em's Boarding House, west on Main Street until
you hit Fourth, then turn left and it's right there."
     	It wasn't hard for Scully to commit those directions to memory.  "Sounds good,
Mr. Druckle.  Thank you very much.  I just need to make a quick phone call --"
     	"Would you like to use my cell phone?"  Chuckle asked
     	Scully glanced at the small black piece of technology he proferred with such obvious pride, then pulled out her own.  "Thank you again, but I'll use mine," she said, stepping toward the doorway to hide the wide smile forcing itself onto her face.  She stepped out into the relative cool of early dusk; the little bell jingled her a goodbye.  Glancing down the street, she began to process what she'd heard.  She had intended to call Skinner and supplement Mulder's report on Drascic's history, but instead changed her mind and tucked her phone back in her pocket.  Most investigators would stop here.  They knew all they were going to find out about Samuel Drascic.  His trail in Salt Lake had been verified by both the Salt Lake City police and Mulder's original investigation.  After a few weeks in Salt Lake City, during which his most interesting activity had been some drunken revelry and a night with a prostitute, he had spent a night at a bed and breakfast, slaughtering the three guests in the next room before he left.   What the police report didn't say, though Mulder's did, was that the people weren't just killed.  They were mutilated.  Decapitated.  The woman gutted like an eight point buck.  Where Drascic had been between here and there wasn't relevant, now that he'd died. And Scully knew that, despite what she was telling people, she wasn't really investigating Samuel Drascic.  She was investigating a theory.  If something had indeed passed from Drascic to Mulder, then someone must have passed it to Drascic.  
     	A scenario began to form in her mind.  She could see Samuel Drascic driving toward
town in his truck, going down the same roads she had just used, making the turn onto the road
into town probably without thinking, having driven it a hundred times before.  Only this time,
Old Fuzzy, in a drunken stupor, had wandered onto the road, had not seen the truck coming.  She could hear the brakes squealing as Drascic tried desperately to stop in time, recognizing the man who'd been like a grandfather to him and horrified as he felt the jolt of physical contact.  Coming to a halt, Drascic would have jumped out of the truck and run to his victim, probably cradling the dying man in his arms, too distraught to think clearly. But something had happened to change him.  Later, Old Fuzzy's broken body had been found on the shoulder, and Drascic had mysteriously gone back to his farm to gaze at his wife and drive away again, eventually coming into town to purchase a carton of cigarettes before heading onward.  
     	Scully's instincts told her she needed to backtrack from here -- not move forward to Salt
Lake City, but to retrace Old Fuzzy.  And thinking about that reminded her of what had brought
her out here in the first place, and she began to worry about Mulder.   At the same time, she
wasn't ready to check in yet.  Skinner would ask what she was doing and why and she didn't have
an answer yet.  For the theory to play through, there had to be a chain of events or people linked by association, one person to the next like dominoes.  What she needed to find out was, if that link existed, were the characteristics consistent?  Did one host have to die to allow another?  What enabled the transfer, and how could it be prevented?  Were there any clues in what she had heard so far?  There were far too many thoughts jumbled in her head to speak coherently with Skinner just yet.
     	She got back into her car, receiving a friendly wave from the man at the gas station, then pulled out Mulder's report again.  "It is my belief that his physical being was under the influence of an outside force, which internalized without his knowledge and/or against his will, causing him, for some as yet unknown reason, to become violent." she read again.  Outside Force.  Finally, she put the car in reverse, pulled into the street and headed for Auntie Em's.  She had a lot of thinking to do.
     	It appeared that the proprietor of Auntie Em's had brought his obsession with him from
his home state of Kansas.  Rather than the farmer's widow that the name of the establishment
implied, it was run by a gentlemen who, as he approached the right age, had begun to take on the attire and habits of the Great Wizard of Oz himself.   The lobby floor was done in yellow brick, although he had apparently resisted the urge to pattern it in a spiral, and was colorfully decorated with large flowers.  She stepped up to the receiving desk, carrying her purse and a carry-on bag.  "I'd like a room, please."
     	"My dear, you've come to the right place!"  he said, sounding amazingly like Frank
Morgan.  "I'm afraid our Emerald Room is taken, but I have vacancies in the Barnyard, and The
Witch's Tower....I know!"  He held up one finger to indicate he had an idea, then pointed it at her, "You, dear lady, will stay in the Wizard's Castle."  Deftly, he reached behind him for a set of keys with one hand, and rang for the bellhop with the other.   By the time the bellhop arrived, she had signed in and provided her credit card number.  "Show this lady to the Wizard's Castle, please, John."
     	John politely took her bag and the keys, "right this way, Ma'am."
     	He lead her up a curving staircase and past several doors in the open hallway
overlooking the lobby, then stopped and, fumbling briefly with the keys in one hand, opened the
door.   She followed him in.  A large bed was the first thing she saw.  A green satin comforter
was neatly spread over it, topped with matching pillow shams.  The bedframe was solid
oak and intricately carved with wizard-like designs.  Above the bed hung a large portrait of the Wizard's face partially concealed in green smoke.  A disturbingly normal looking desk was in one corner, near another door that apparently lead to the bathroom.  A bay window was covered with green satin drapes which were closed, revealing only the toes of a pair of men's shoes at one side.  Curious, she walked over and peeked behind the drapes, realizing the bellhop was watching her all the while.  She saw a male store dummy dressed in a tuxedo.  Closing the drapes again, she turned to the bellhop with a questioning look.  With an expression bordering on apologetic,  he told her "Pay no attention to the mannequin behind the curtain."
     	"Ah,"  she said.  She motioned for him to set the suitcase on the bed and gave him two dollar bills.  "Thank you."  
	He nodded his own thanks with a large smile.  "Complimentary breakfast is served downstairs from 6 to 8 A.M.  Have a good night."  
     	After showering and changing, she pulled down the covers and climbed in bed, realizing as she did that if she sat on the edge properly her feet would not touch the floor.   It was a big bed.  She wondered if she would be able to sleep at all in this environment, but the long day of travel and worry had tired her.  Thinking of Mulder and vowing to call Skinner first thing in the morning, she slept.
	And dreamed.  This time,  Mulder was walking down a hospital corridor, bare feet and legs visible below the hem of his skimpy hospital gown, apparently oblivious to the fact that his briefs were clearly visible from the back.  He wore no cast, and walked with purpose and confidence.  And strength.  In her sleep, Scully sighed in satisfaction. He was going to be all right.  Then, as if he'd been hit in the stomach with a fast ball, Mulder doubled over, staggered a few steps, hit the wall hard with his shoulder then slid to the floor in pain.  Pain in his head.  Pain in his stomach.  Pain in his joints and suddenly cramping muscles.  His skin quickly developed the light sheen of perspiration as he fought to keep control.  His lips moved, but she couldn't hear him.  Her view zoomed in to his face, to the panic in his eyes, to his mouth where she could see the sweat on his upper lip.  "Please help me, Scully."  His whisper was even at this distance barely audible.  "God, help me!"  She wasn't sure if his last statement was directed at her or at his deity, but it didn't matter.   


George Washington University Hospital
10:20 P.M.

     	With little else to do, Mulder began to explore his limited abilities.  After a time, he got the hang of making his heart beat, and his lungs take in and expel air on a regular basis.   In a few hours, the effort needed to accomplish these tasks had halved.  He knew Skinner had sent Scully to Utah, had heard Skinner tell him that he was going to tell her everything.  That was exactly what Mulder wanted.  He realized that while Scully's mind was relatively open, there would be a certain amount of skepticism about his conclusions.  That was her job.  So when she did find a solution, it would be the right one.  But he wasn't sure how long he would be able to continue this way.  What about when he needed to sleep?  How long could he fight?Even though he knew Scully was a good investigator, he wanted to somehow communicate to her the urgency of the situation.  He concentrated.  He'd caused Scully to move backward before.  That little trick had nearly cost him his life when he'd lost control of his heartbeat.  Tentatively at first, he pictured Scully as clearly as he could -- clearer than his actual vision was at the moment -- pictured her from the tips of her little feet to the top of her persimmon hair.  Like a mantra, he repeated her name over and over to himself, Scullyscullyscullyscullyscully, a magical Mary Poppins word, hoping to buy himself just one more ride on the carousel horse.   At the same time, a small part of his attention remained on those physical tasks he'd been assigned.  Maintaining the image, he thought, so far, so good.  
     	He didn't even presume to believe he could actually see her.  It was just a mind picture, no matter how many details he added.  Could he make his mind picture move?  He imagined her
shaking her head, her smooth red hair swaying from side to side, perhaps bouncing lightly off her cheeks.  Saw her eyes glitter with curiosity, her own chest moving in and out with his own. 
Scullyscullyscullyscully.  Her red lips moist, her mouth opening with a small gasp of air, her
voice ... could he? ... Mulder, it's me...
     	Pain gripped him and he realized with horror that he'd lost the hold on his heartbeat.  But he couldn't stop now.  He had to make sure she knew.  "Please help me, Scully", he thought at her as hard as he could.  The image he had built dissolved into dust and blew away.  "God, help me!" He gasped, jolted back to the hospital room feeling as if a brick house lay on his chest.  Trying not to panic, he pulled his attention back, but he was tired now.  Buh-Bum.  Buh-Bum.  Had he forgotten already?  How did this work again?


     	Skinner slept in his chair just outside Mulder's room.  He didn't dream.  Not because he
couldn't, but because he hadn't been sleeping long enough.  Even closed, his eyes were rimmed with red, and his unshaven face spoke volumes to anyone who knew his normal hygiene habits. The noise of speeding metal wheels broke through his exhausted doze and shattered it.  He jumped up out of his chair even before opening his eyes, and saw the crash cart go into the room.  Panic woke him further, completely, and he rushed in after the crash team.  "No!"  He yelled, "Get out!  Everybody out!"
     	Ignoring him completely, or so he thought, the doctor on call, someone Skinner wasn't familiar with, began yelling out orders.  After issuing a string of medical demands, the doctor added, "And someone call Security and get this man out of here!"
     	The beeping was still erratic, but soon it would flatline, and Skinner knew he wouldn't
have much time.  Too many people.  Too many chances.  With no other recourse, he pulled out
his gun.  "I'm Assistant Director Skinner of the FBI.  Everybody out of this room.  NOW!"
     	Most of the people -- Skinner counted six all together without thinking about it -- froze.  Two of them continued placing wires on Mulder's chest and lubricating the defibrillator paddles. The doctor on call faced him angrily.  "This man is in arrest.  If we leave he'll die."
     	There was no time to worry about how it sounded.  "If you stay he'll die," he corrected, leveling the gun at him, "and he'll probably take one of you with him.  Now clear the room and let me handle it."
     	Now the remaining five were looking at the doctor, though one held paddles at the ready. 
Reluctantly, the doctor motioned with his head for them to do as the madman instructed.  
Slowly, with the erratic beeping as accompaniment, they filed out.  "You've just killed him, you know,"  the doctor said as he left.
     	Once the door had closed, Skinner quickly holstered his gun and pounced on Mulder,
placing one hand on either side of his head and locking his elbows.  "Listen to me, you bastard!" he growled.  "You better take good care of this body, because if he dies, YOU die.  I'm not letting you get out, you son of a bitch.  Do you hear me?  I'm not letting you out.  Not that way."  He stared down at Mulder's face looking for a sign of understanding, listening to the beeping.  Mulder's eyes were closed, but slowly, like the Grinch, he smiled, showing no teeth, but letting the corner of his mouth turn up sharply.  As the smile grew, the beeping calmed down to its normal pattern.  
     	His eyes popped open.
     	Startled, Skinner immediately pushed himself off from the bed and backed away,
struggling for breath like a landed fish.   Mulder's eyes tracked and Mulder's mouth smiled, but Skinner didn't see Mulder there at all.


George Washington University Hospital							
8:05 A.M.

     	An hour later, Skinner sat in the outside chair again, sipping his fourth cup of hot black coffee.  His stomach was objecting, but he drank it anyway.  He didn't look up, but he knew Dr. Marquette-Shilgate was coming down the hall.  She was accompanied by a young man with dark, deep-set eyes who was dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt that said "Psychiatrists do it on the couch".  "Mr. Skinner,"  Dr. Marquette-Shilgate said as she stopped in front of his chair.  He still hadn't looked up.  "This is Dr. Anthony Smith, from our Psych department."
     	Taking one more sip, Skinner looked up.  "Do you really think that's appropriate?"  His
eyes indicated Dr. Smith's t-shirt.
     	"My information says that Fox Mulder prefers a casual atmosphere.  It's important he be
relaxed and open for this interview."
     	Marquette-Shilgate was paging through a clipboard, "I see he arrested again early this
morning."  Her brow furrowed, "I'm going to schedule another EKG, there's got to be something
I'm missing."
     	"You've missed nothing," he muttered.  Nothing but the truth, he added to himself.  
     	"You'll excuse me if I decide to practice medicine, won't you?  Hearts don't just fibrillate for no reason, especially one as otherwise healthy as his."  She went to the next page, "And I see you were involved as well."  She closed the clipboard, hugged it to her chest with one hand and held out the other, palm up.  "Hand it over."
    	"Excuse me?"
     	"The gun, Mr. Skinner."
     	Skinner was suddenly very conscious of the psychiatrist watching him.  Was he here for
Mulder or for him?  Shifting his grip on the coffee, he leaned to one side enough to extract his pistol, flipped it so he held the barrel and handed it to her.  "Are they pressing charges?"
     	"No," she told him, sounding disappointed.  "I explained to Rich and the others that you are very concerned for your colleague, and that you've been here more than 24 hours with little sleep or food.  Will that change or do I have to admit you as well?"  Skinner replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.   "Given that Mulder appears to have stabilized regardless of your recklessness, I talked them into not filing any charges against you.  But that doesn't mean I won't if you try a stunt like that again.  Clear?"
     	"Crystal."
     	"Good.  Now, as I said, this is Dr. Anthony Smith and he's here to interview Mr. Mulder. 
You will allow him fifteen minutes alone with the patient, after which he will allow you in at his discretion.  Have a good day."  She walked away.
     	Dejected, Skinner remained seated, staring at the floor between his knees as the
psychiatrist entered the room.  The back of his shirt read 'For an Hour'.  Skinner listened, expecting to hear the same commotion he'd heard after the nurse had gone in with the meal tray.  Instead, there was only the low indistinguishable sound of a one-sided conversation, punctuated by short periods of silence as Smith waited for a reply.  Skinner took a gulp of coffee and held it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing it.  He'd blown it. His credibility was gone.  How could he help Mulder now?  Sighing heavily, he leaned back in the chair and rested his head against the wall.  'I'm sorry, Mulder,'  he thought.  'I'm trying to be your friend and I've ended up signing your death warrant.  Who are you going to attack when they let you out?  Might as well be me.  Come and get me, Mulder.  I deserve it.'   He was so tired.  Dr. Marquette was right.  Despite all the coffee he'd been drinking, he felt his eyelids growing heavy.  Before he could spill it, he set the dixie cup on the floor under the chair, then leaned back again and closed his eyes.  
     	"Mr. Skinner?"  
     	He woke him from the doze he'd fallen into.  Dr. Smith was leaning out the
door with one hand on the edge of it.  "Would you like to come in now?"
     	He hadn't been expecting this.  He had expected that he'd been written off by the whole
medical community by now.  But he didn't have to be asked twice.  "Thank you,"  he said as he
rose stiffly and followed the doctor into the room.
     	"Mr. Mulder, tell me again why you attacked the nurse, please."  Dr. Smith said as he sat
in the guest chair.  Skinner stood behind him, curious.
     	Mulder's answer was simple.  "She hurt me."  His demeanor, however, seemed to ooze
self-confident arrogance, as if that simple phrase should be all he'd have to say.
     	"How?  How did she hurt you?"
     	The self-confidence slipped away.  Mulder's brow, what Skinner could see of it beyond
the bandage, furrowed.  "I don't know.  She hurt me."
     	Dr. Smith looked up and back at Skinner.  "According to my information, he is an FBI
agent.  Is that right?"
     	"Yes."
     	"Shouldn't he be more eloquent, then?"
     	"He hasn't been himself lately," Skinner responded.  
     	The doctor flipped through papers in his lap.  "His CAT scan came out negative.  They
haven't found anything but external damage from the head injury.  But personality changes
indicate something.  You've known him a long time, Mr. Skinner.  How has his personality
changed?"
     	Moving toward the far side of the bed in order to face the doctor, with Mulder's eyes
following his every move, Skinner said, "What would you say if I said it was classified?"
     	"I'd say you weren't being cooperative."
     	"Did Dr. Marquette-Shilgate give you the impression I was cooperative?"  Skinner gave
him a half smile, leaning one hip against Mulder's bed.  He wanted the man out of the room. 
Repeating "no comment" was probably the fastest way to accomplish it.  Glancing down at Mulder,
he noticed that the cold gaze in those eyes had turned to the psychiatrist now.  
     	With an impatient sigh, Dr. Smith shifted in the uncomfortable chair.  "No, she most
certainly did not give me that impression.  Look, I can't help your friend if I can't get answers.  He tried to kill someone.  He won't be released until we find out why, except into police custody. Unless you want to put your friend through that, maybe you should tell me what I need to know. I need to determine what caused his violent behavior, and if he will require medication to prevent it from happening again.  He may be suffering from post-traumatic stress, in which case a temporary insanity plea would apply."
     	"That nurse was not seriously injured."
     	"Don't be naive, Mr. Skinner.  The victims aren't the only ones who can hold someone
responsible.  The hospital board would most certainly take steps to ensure that a violent man
does not re-enter society on their say-so."
     	Mulder was licking his lips, though they didn't appear to be dry.  Or was he licking his
chops? Skinner thought.  "She hurt me,"  he said again.  "Here."  He pointed to his head wound.
     	"Fox,"  the overly casual psychiatrist commented, "that happened when your train
derailed.  Do you remember the accident?"
     	Nodding slowly, Mulder repeated, "She hurt me more.  See?"
     	Suddenly, Skinner knew with certainty where this was going, and stood straight.  "Stay
back, doctor."
     	But the doctor had already risen from the chair and set his notebook on it, moving
forward to examine Mulder's head wound for the supposed further injury.  In less than a second,
Mulder had yanked him forward by the neck of his shirt, forcing a head butt that cracked loudly, and causing the psychiatrist to grab his head, rather than free himself. Mulder, who apparently felt no pain from the head butt despite his own injury, yanked again, bunching the shirt in his fist.
     	"Mulder, no!"  Skinner said as loud as he dared.  He didn't want another scene like
yesterday when the nurse had been attacked, when his shout had attracted far too many people. 
"Stop it!"  He pried at Mulder's fist, unable to reach the fingers which were well-wrapped in the lump of shirt, Mulder's free hand loosely pushing him away.
     	The doctor, for his part, rubbed at his forehead, but remained otherwise calm.  "Did I hurt you, Fox?"  he asked as if he were talking to a friend in front of a roaring fire. Then, more sternly, "Skinner, back off.  I can handle this. I've dealt with violent patients before."
     	Skinner took one step back, noticing that Mulder had used the uninjured side of his head for the headbutt, avoiding opening his own stitches and leaving a telltale patch of blood on the bandage. 
     	Dr. Smith's efforts were rewarded with another forced head butt, this one breaking the skin at his temple and releasing a trickle of blood.  His hands this time wrapped around the one at his neckline.  "That's enough.  Let go."
     	Then Skinner saw something he thought he'd never see.  Mulder's left leg, in its plaster
cast from toes almost to hip, lifted until it had cleared the traction sling and swung over, striking the doctor's side.  The doctor cried out in pain, then he was quickly pushed backwards as if by unseen hands.  Mulder was getting up from the bed!  He was standing on the leg, walking on the leg!  The doctor's calm demeanor vanished and terror entered his eyes, his hands still pulling at the hand still wrapped in the neckline of his shirt.  Only the IV line dangling from Mulder's left hand connected him to the bed.  He reached for the Smith's throat, causing the IV stand to tip forward.
     	Skinner raced around the bed, trying to intervene.  But he froze in his tracks as seemingly out of nowhere Mulder pulled out a fork he had must have stolen from his breakfast tray and held it at the side of the doctor's neck, just under his ear.  "Mulder, no."  He stared at Mulder intently, noticing that Mulder was perspiring.  His breathing had taken on a ragged quality as if he were in severe pain, though he showed no other signs.  No grimace.  Not so much as an eye twitch.  Smith, now visibly shaken, was on the verge of hyperventilating. Then the hand with the fork trembled as a shudder ran through Mulder's body.  When Mulder blinked tightly several times to squeeze sweat out of his eyes, the doctor brought his arm up sharply under Mulder's fork arm and the utensil fell to the floor.  Mulder crumbled as if to follow it.


     	No one could hear him, but he was screaming.  He felt broken edges of bone scraping
against each other with each step, biting at the highly sensitive nerve endings whose messages he alone received.   The pain easily eclipsed the pounding in his head from the butting.   And that voice, that thought voice that wasn't his, was laughing.  When the muscles gave out and his body fell to the floor, Mulder was not unconscious.  He hadn't had the freedom to be unconscious since he'd first wakened here in the hospital.  He noticed the black edges of his vision move out almost imperceptibly and, as the pain dulled to a throb after Skinner gently replaced his leg in the sling, he knew why the thing had done it.  (You did that deliberately), he told it.   (A demonstration?  Of what?  That pain keeps me here?  I need the pain to hang onto, but they'll keep pumping painkillers into me and you'll let them).  
     	** If I told them to stop, do you think they would?  Is that what you want? **
     	(No, they wouldn't stop.  It's a hospital.  Interesting dilemma, though.  If you cause me
pain, you keep me here, even though ... you want to keep me here to cause me pain.  You need
me to feel the pain, or else you will.   That's it, isn't it?  Until you can move out, you need me).
     	** I don't need you.  It's just easier this way, and I'm impatient.  I've been patient before, far too patient.  You know I've waited decades before.  I'm not waiting that long again. **     
     	And without being told, Mulder knew what it wanted.  It wasn't going to wait for the leg
to heal.  It knew it needed to move to a new host, one that was ambulatory, healthy.  And
something about Skinner wasn't good enough.  It was sadistic, planning to take the person
Mulder was trying to protect.  The very last one he wanted put through this.  Like him, it was
waiting for Scully to come back.  


     	Skinner wasted no time.  "Help me," he said to the startled psychiatrist and together they got Mulder back in the bed, leg once again held in the sling.  As they finished, Skinner realized something.  It wasn't that Mulder felt no pain, but that he ignored the pain.  Only the intense agony of walking on his injured leg had broken that concentration, allowing the pain to overcome whatever blocks Mulder, or whatever was in charge of him, had put on it, allowing the pain to take Mulder's brain into blissful unconsciousness.  He hoped.
     	"Dr. Smith, I have to ask you not to report this."
     	"Are you insane?"  It certainly seemed so.  The man was still bleeding from the gash at
his temple.
     	Skinner stepped into the bathroom, retrieving a wet washcloth.  He gently applied it to the wound.  After a moment, the doctor held it there himself.  "No one in this room is insane, Doctor.  I want you to put in the report that your interview went off without incident."  It was time to forget trying to prove Mulder was a danger.  It was more important now to keep a low profile.  To prevent things from running out of control before Scully could get back with a solution to this mess.  He hoped it wouldn't be much longer.  
     	"How do I explain this?"  Dr. Smith indicated his wound.
     	Skinner kicked the chair over.  "You tripped on the chair.  You hit your head on the
door."
     	"And why do you think I would do this?"  
     	"Because I'm assistant director of the FBI.  And I happen to know your license was
revoked four months ago."
     	Dr. Smith was stunned, but met his eyes.  "How?"
     	"I'm assistant director of the FBI."
     	If looks could grow hair, Skinner would have had enough to braid.  The tension was
broken by the chirp of Skinner's cell phone.  He tilted his head toward the door, mutely
asking the doctor to leave.  Dr. Smith gathered his papers and left.
     	"Hello."
     	"Sir, it's me."
     	Skinner sunk into the chair vacated by Dr. Smith.  "Anything, Scully?"
     	"No.  Not yet.  How's Mulder?"
     	Looking sadly at the man sleeping in the bed, he replied, "No change.  Are you still in
Utah?"
     	"Yes, sir.  A small town named Trout Creek.  Drascic stopped here before going to Salt
Lake City."
     	"And?"  Skinner prompted.
     	There was a moment of silence at the other end.  "And ... I don't think I'll be going to Salt Lake."
     	Now an equal silence from Skinner, "Scully, what are you on to?"
     	"I'm not sure yet, sir.  Just ... take care of Mulder."
     	"I will, Scully."  Skinner told her.  "I will."  He hung up, wondering just how he was
going to continue doing that.



Trout Creek Town Jail
10:38 A.M.

	Her stomach growling audibly, Scully decided to partake of the complimentary breakfast the bellboy had mentioned.  She found the dining room easily enough and enjoyed the Witchy Waffles (touted as 'wickedly good' on the menu), Scarecrow Scramble, Tin Man Toast, and a large glass of Munchkin Milk.  She was thankful to leave Auntie Em's and get back to work.
     	The jail did indeed strongly resemble the one she'd seen on the old Andy Griffith show, at least on the inside.  There were only two cells -- both empty at the moment -- one on either side of a cluttered desk. Behind the desk sat a uniformed woman, her soft, fine gray hair cut short in a simple style.  She looked to be between fifty and sixty years of age.  Scully had spoken to the woman on the phone from Auntie Em's earlier, and was gratified to see her smile a welcome, rise, and extend her hand. "Good morning, Agent Scully.  I'm Sheriff Winthrop.  How can I help you?"  She sat again, setting aside some of the clutter.
     	Scully had considered how to begin her questions.  She had to start with Drascic, though
by now that part of the investigation was closed in her mind.  But asking flat out when Old Fuzzy had become possessed would probably not endear her to this woman.  "I've been investigating Samuel Drascic and I have some questions about the incident that preceded his leaving town."
     	She swivelled her chair and ran a finger down a well-used bulletin board. "Drascic . . .
 Drascic . . . ah, he's reported deceased."
     	"Yes, I know."  
     	Winthrop swivelled back.  "Sounds like an easy investigation, then, Agent Scully."
     	"I understand he apparently killed another resident, known as Old Fuzzy?"
     	Folding her hands on the desktop, she replied, "Yes.  Hit and run.  His first offense, but I guess everyone's got to start somewhere, right?"
     	"Yes, right," Scully agreed.  "Mr. Druckle informed me that Old Fuzzy used to sleep it off here.  I was wondering if . . . anything unusual happened during any of his stays."
     	Confusion was obvious on Winthrop's face.  "I don't see what this has to do with Sam."
     	"I'm just trying to be thorough, Ms. Winthrop."
     	"I see.  Let me think  . . ."  Winthrop scratched her neck with one finger.  "I'm not sure what would be considered unusual.  There was a long time when he didn't come in here on a regular basis, so just his being here was unusual.  It did seem to pick up, though, after his night with that escaped convict from Illinois."
     	"What happened?"  Scully came to full attention.
     	"That was back when my Dad was still here and I was just deputy.  He had collared a
convict on the run from the Illinois State Penn.  We had a woman in one cell -- I forget what she was in for -- but we naturally had to put the con in the other cell.  Then when Old Fuzzy came in -- I think George and Vern carried him in that day -- we had to double him with the con."  
     	"Do you remember the convict's name?"  She already had out her notepad and a pen.  
     	Winthrop shook her head, "Not off hand.  No.  But I can look it up."  She stood up and
took two steps to a four-drawer metal filing cabinet.  "Damn, what the hell did we file Old Fuzzy under?"  She laughed, "That's the trouble with nicknames.  They love nicknames around here.  Old Fuzzy.   Brain Wash.  Ish Mail --"  
     	"Ishmael?  As in 'Call me Ishmael'"?
     	With one hand on a random drawer handle, she smiled, "No, Ish Mail,"  and she spelled
it.  "Our mailman.  He's never on time.  He gets in at nine-ish, starts his route at ten-ish ... But after awhile you forget a person's real name, and that's what *we* have to work with.  With.  Wait a minute, Wethin.  That's it."  She crouched down to reach the bottom drawer and started rifling through it.  After a moment, she pulled up a folder stuffed with odd sizes of papers in white, pale yellow, and pale blue.  Putting it on the clear spot on the desktop, she sat down and paged through it.  "Here it is."  She handed Scully a yellow carbon of a typewritten page.
     	It was a daily report, dated May 8, 1997.  It only took Scully a moment to find the pertinent paragraph which interested her.  Old Fuzzy had indeed been carried in by two gentlemen noted as George Cruz and Vern Thompson, and had been temporarily incarcerated with George Carson.  Carson, the report stated, had escaped from the State Penitentiary in Illinois on April 10, 1997 and had been captured by Sheriff Merl Winthrop on the morning of May 8th.  Scully looked up when Winthrop handed her a similar paper.  "You might want to read this one also," she said.  This was the following day's report, May 9th.  It began by stating that the body of George Carson was found in the cell with Old Fuzzy, referred to by his legal name of Leonard Wethin.  When questioned, Wethin described Carson having a heart attack, and admitted that his uneducated attempts to help him had obviously failed.  
     	"No law enforcement officials were on duty overnight?"
     	"On duty, yes.  Dad was sleeping in the on duty room over there." She indicated a door in
the far corner of the room with a tilt of her head.  "He hadn't heard anything, and he's a light sleeper.  But an autopsy was done and heart attack was confirmed as the cause of death.  There was no reason not to believe him."  She waited patiently while Scully transcribed what details she wanted into her notepad, then took the papers back and filed them, leaving the folder itself where it was.  "You know, it sounds more like you're investigating Old Fuzzy.  He never hurt anyone."
     	"I understand that.  After this event," she asked, pointing to her newly copied notes, "he began drinking more heavily?"
     	"Almost constantly.  We never doubled him up with anyone again.  In good weather, he
slept in the park.  In winter, well," -- she obviously hated to admit this -- "we let him use the on duty room. When he woke up he was free to leave.  He didn't have to wait for us to let him out.  Most of us around here," and a hand waved around the mostly empty room, indicating the township around them, "grew up at Old Fuzzy's knee.  It was awful seeing him like that, but no one had the heart to say anything.  His daughter died of pneumonia when she was ten, you know.  The only kid he had.  That was after his wife left him.  He owned a bakery for about a week.  It burned down before he could afford any insurance on it.  He had a hell of a life."  Her eyes were misty with tears, and she stopped to blink them away and clear her throat.  "Drascic deserved whatever he got."
     	"I'm sorry for your loss,"  Scully said with sincerity.  "Do you have any further
information on George Carson?  What was he convicted for?  When and where?"
     	Wiping stray tears with one thumb, Winthrop squinted at her.  "Are you following some
kind of trail?  You're backtracking something, aren't you?"
     	"I'm not at liberty to discuss it.  Be assured, that as far as the object of this investigation goes, you and Trout Creek are perfectly safe."  Scully had begun to see worry and fear in Winthrop's still glistening eyes and hoped to give her comfort.  From the still guarded expression on her face, Scully wasn't sure she had succeeded..   "Now, George Carson?"
     	Taking a quivering, steadying breath, Winthrop rose again and went to the top drawer of
 the filing cabinet.  Pulling a thin folder out, she returned to the desk and opened it.   Then she closed it and slid it across to Scully.  "What is it?  What did I let go?  Some kind of virus?  Did Carson have AIDS?""
     	Unable not to provide some kind of answer for her, Scully replied, "Not AIDS.  That
much I know.  The rest, well, that's what I'm trying to find out."  She rotated the file folder a hundred eighty degrees, flipped it open, and began to read.
     	George Carson had been a construction worker in Chicago, Illinois.  He had killed an intruder at his home with a large wrench.  Though he'd been defending his wife, the intruder had turned out to be unarmed and Carson had been convicted of murder in November of 1992. It was also later discovered that his wife had been having an affair with the man, although at the time of the attack he had been in the house uninvited.  Carson was given fifteen years, but had escaped in 1995 and had been on the run since then.  Apparently, while on the run, he had attacked a total of seven people, killing them all with hand tools.  One poor man was cut to pieces with bolt cutters.  Merl Winthrop, acting on an anonymous phone tip, had trapped Carson at the Ace Hardware when he tried to purchase a bundle of barbed wire.  Oddly enough, Carson had cooperated and allowed himself to be taken, saying nothing.  
     	Scully finished writing her notes and handed the folder back to Winthrop.  "Thank you." 
The woman, although a professional, still seemed nervous.  "Believe me.  You are safe."
     	"That just means that someone else isn't, or you wouldn't be doing this."  She grabbed a
Post-It Note and scribbled on it quickly, handing it to Scully.  "My name and number.  Call me
when it's over?  Will you be able to tell me the details then?"
     	"I'm not sure," Scully fibbed.  "It's a sensitive case.  It may remain classified for some time."  Tucking the paper in an outside pocket of her purse, she added, "I'll tell you what I can."
     	"Thank you.  Being in law enforcement, closure is kind of a big deal to me."  Winthrop
tucked her hair behind her left ear.  "You know?"
     	Scully nodded, thanked the woman for her time, and headed back to her car.  Checking out of Auntie Em's was yet another process shrouded in Auntie Em parlance (A small sign on the night table in the room said "All guests must click their heels by 2pm or be charged for another day.  Thank you!"  It was, of course, signed, in an elaborate script font that was almost unreadable, "The Wizard").  Scully, muttering "there's no place like home", lost no time leaving Trout Creek behind her, calling the airport as she drove.  



George Washington University Hospital
3:17 P.M.

     	"I'm done!"  Mulder called.
     	Skinner entered immediately, took the bedpan from under Mulder and took it into the
bathroom.  After disposing of the waste, he sterilized the bedpan as he'd been instructed, then
placed it on a shelf.   "Are you in pain?"  He asked, as usual.  The answer was usually a
resounding yes.  It was probably a lie.  How could anyone who felt pain have swung that leg out
of the sling and stood on it?  It was almost a comfort to believe that somehow, pain was getting blocked.  Skinner didn't want to think about the alternative.  And just in case, he made sure Mulder got the Demerol on schedule.  What a conflict, supplying painkillers to that thing that probably didn't need them, on the off chance that the real Mulder might.  
     	"Yes," Mulder replied, wriggling in the bed as if uneasy.
     	Checking his watch, Skinner realized that another dose was due.  "I'll be right back."  He left the room and went down to the nurse's station.  "I'd like Mulder's pain medication, please."
     	The nurse on duty, who looked at him as if she expected him to pull a gun -- had she been
there that day?  He couldn't be sure -- said, "Yes, sir," and produced a small tray with two dixie cups on it.  One cup held a single pill, the other was three fourths full of water.  The tray also held a syringe, partially filled.  "Time for his blood thinners, too.  Wouldn't want any clots to form, would we?  Might break lose and kill him, you know."  She turned back to her previous activity, as if he'd never been there in the first place.				
     	Carefully, he carried the tray back to Mulder's room, and set it on the wheeled bed table, swinging it over Mulder, who was raising the head of the bed with the button in his right hand, allowing him to reach both cups.  The motor made a noisy hum that reminded Skinner of a dentist's drill.  He grabbed the syringe and walked around the bed.  Raising the syringe in front of his face, he checked for air bubbles, snapping his fingers against the needle until a tiny amount of liquid escaped, then inserted the needle into the Y-junction of Mulder's IV and pushed the plunger all the way down.  By the time he returned to the bed table, both dixie cups were empty.  Parking the table to one side, he closed the door, wishing it had a lock, then sat down, sliding the chair out of Mulder's arm's reach.  "It's time we had a little talk."
     	"A talk?"
     	"Look, I know you're not Mulder, and you know I know you're not Mulder, so let's cut the
crap.  Who are you?"
     	Mulder didn't answer right away.  He was smug, relishing Skinner's anger and frustration. 
"Pick a name."
     	Asshole came to mind, but Skinner didn't say it.  "Where's Mulder?"
     	Mulder's head tilted, and his eyes shifted, as if he were listening to something only he
could hear.  "He's here."
     	"Can I talk to him?"
     	"He hears you."
     	"Let him respond."
     	"No."
     	Resisting the urge to jump forward and strangle him, Skinner asked, "What do you
want?"
     	Mulder acted as if the answer were obvious.  "To survive."
     	"Why don't you attack me, then?  I'm here almost all the time.  I'm within reach at least
part of that time, but you've never even tried.  You go after a nurse, you go after the shrink, but not me."
     	"I will if I have to."  Mulder wasn't looking at him anymore.  
     	Skinner leaned forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees, a light bulb going on in his head.  "You're waiting for something."
     	The corners of Mulder's mouth curled upward just a bit.
     	"Oh, damn,"  Skinner whispered, the answer coming to him as his back stiffened with
fear.  "You're waiting for Scully, aren't you?"  
     	"Aren't we all?"


     	Buh-Bum.  Buh-Bum.  Mulder was tired.  With the pain medication finally giving him
some respite, he found himself getting sleepy.  He wished Skinner would stop giving him the
pills.  That's why the thing took them.   It knew.  The pain kept him awake.  Alert.  Kept him
fighting.  It was exhausting, but he needed it.  But now, fatigue and dullness made him drowsy. 
His heartbeat slowed.  (No), he thought, (no.  I have to keep going).  His vision hole had shrunk further; visible light now existed in a perfect circle surrounded by darkness.  The circle of light held only vague blobs of color which sometimes moved.  Even those outside voices and sounds were fading.  He couldn't tell what was going on anymore, was losing track of time like someone in a sensory deprivation tank.  
     	**Relax.** the voice told him.  **It's okay.  I'll handle things for awhile.  I promise.  I've decided to wait for Scully.  She'll come back.  I want her to be the last thing you see.  The last thing you hear.   There should be time before you die.  I won't let you go until then.  You believe me?**
     	(Yes).  He did believe it, but knew it wasn't for altruistic reasons.  The thing wrapped itself tight around his mind, offering a deceptive support that made Mulder uncomfortable.  Slowly, tentatively, like a golf student allowing the instructor to guide the club, he let go of his own heartbeat.  It was frightening, probably the most frightening thing Mulder had ever done.  He waited for more than two minutes, waited for the beat to stop and his chest to constrict, waited to hear the thought voice laughing at his gullibility, but none of that happened.  With whatever the mental equivalent of having one eye open was, Mulder rested.  He did not sleep.
     	**I want you to see me take her.**

     
A Utah Highway
3:36 PM

     	"Sir, it's me."
     	"Scully!  What have you got?"  He sounded awful to Scully.  His voice was low and
gravelly.  Quickly, she filled him in on the facts that she had now confirmed and told him that she had booked a flight to Chicago and was on her way to the airport now.  Then she asked about Mulder.  
     	For a long moment there was silence on the other end of the line.  "Sir?"  she prompted.
     	"He's the same."
     	"Has he been violent?"  Deftly, she steered through the cloverleaf onto the freeway with
one hand.  
     	Reluctantly, he told her, "Twice.  He attacked a nurse yesterday and a psychiatrist today." He debated how much to tell her, then decided to just tell her the truth.  He described both attacks just as they had happened.  Then he cleared his throat, which had constricted around his Adam's apple.  "How much longer, Scully?"
     	"I don't know, sir.  I don't want to come back with maybes.  If I follow the back trail a
little more, maybe I'll find a survivor.  I have to find --"  Her voice choked on her and she had to stop talking.   Originally, she had hoped she would find a dead end.  She had imagined going back, to reveal some past event that disproved Mulder's theory.  Instead, it was all staying stubbornly together, a chain of death that was inarguable.    And she refused to go back to Mulder with a death sentence.  There had to be something.  There HAD to be.  
     	Now it was Skinner's turn to prompt her.  "Scully?"
     	He needed something to do, Scully realized.  Skinner was there, unable to help Mulder,
just biding time until she found the solution.  And she did have some ideas for what could be
done.  "Isolate him."
     	"He's already in a private room.  His doctor and I are the only ones who have access to him."
     	"See if you can do better.  Is there a room where you can watch him from outside?  It
looks like the entity needs physical contact, but I don't want to take any chances.  If it got out of the sling once, it might do it again.  Only go in when you absolutely have to."
     	"Understood."
     	"As soon as you've got him in there, sir, get some sleep.  Doctor's orders."  
     	Skinner agreed and closed his cell phone.  He didn't tell her what he knew.  That it was
waiting for her.  
     	He flagged down the first hospital employee he saw and requested Dr. Marquette-Shilgate.  About fifteen minutes later she approached him impatiently.  Too exhausted to stand, he remained in his chair. "What is it, Mr. Skinner?"  
     	He thought about inventing a quarantine situation, but discarded the idea.  It would force her to move Mulder to more isolated quarters, but it would also require sequestering everyone who'd been in that room.  The idea could backfire completely if, as was the usual case, the people under quarantine were herded together.  So, instead, he tried the direct approach, "We need to move Mulder to a different room."
     	Her reaction was guarded and he didn't blame her.  From her point of view, he'd been
nothing but a bureaucratic pain in the ass.  "You're still not sleeping, Mr. Skinner," she
observed.  "When was the last time you had some solid food?"  
     	She tried to grasp his wrist to check his pulse, but he shook it off.  "Listen, Doc, I'll do both, after we move him."
     	"The last person that called me 'Doc' in that tone of voice," she told him evenly, glaring down at the arm he had pulled away before meeting his eyes, "ended up needing my services.  And in case you don't remember, I'm an orthopedic surgeon.  I rearrange joints for a living."
     	Skinner was not intimidated.  "I can't tell you exactly what I do for a living, but believe me, you wouldn't want to trade."  His eyes narrowed, "And I really don't have time to argue about it.  We have to isolate him."
     	Her patience had worn paper-thin no.  She demanded, "Why?"  She crossed her arms and looked down at Skinner in the polyethylene chair to which his posterior had apparently been glued.       
     	"I need to be able to watch him from outside the room," he said, stressing the preposition.  "We also need to tighten the security and make sure no unauthorized personnel, meaning anyone other than you or I, goes in.  I ... I'm too worried about him to sleep.  I don't dare leave him unguarded."
     	"You didn't answer my question.  You never seem to answer my questions.  Is his life in
danger?  Is someone trying to kill him?  Then why aren't you out looking for the suspect?" Her
hands flew as she spoke, then slapped to her sides in exasperation.  "Assistant Director on guard duty?  Come on!" 
     	Skinner put his exhausted head in his hands and rubbed vigorously.  "Look, I hoped this
would be over by now, but it's not.  I don't know how much longer I can do this.  For once, just take my word for it and don't argue.  Is there a secure room available with an observation
window?"
     	The staring contest seemed to last forever.  "I'll find out," the doctor finally said.

Chicago, Illinois
4:40PM

     	By the time she landed at O'Hare Airport in Chicago, Scully had determined that George Carson, while far from a model inmate, had never been linked with any deaths during his incarceration.   He'd been repeatedly disciplined for violence against other inmates and guards, but no fatalities had occurred, and all the people involved were accounted for.  Scully used her phone to track down the construction company Carson had worked for and arranged to visit their current job site.  It was then a simple matter of hailing a taxi to take her to the towering metal framework near the shore of Lake Michigan, purse over one shoulder, bag over the other.   She walked with care over the uneven, unlandscaped ground, following the chain link fence to the gate.  To one side, a small shack housed a single, bored guard.  Seeing her badge, he buzzed the gate open for her.  "Ma'am!"  he called after her.
     	She turned just in time to catch what he had tossed at her.  A yellow hard hat. 
Obediently, she placed it on her head, where it immediately tipped forward covering her eyes.  She pushed it back, then scanned the area for the foreman.  He had spotted her, and was
coming toward her carrying a clipboard and wearing his own hard hat.  "Agent Scully?" The man towered over her by several inches.  His neck and upper arms seemed to be about the same size, and the legs of his coveralls bulged at the thighs.  Aside from being a bouncer at a bar, Scully guessed, he was in the right business.
     	"Yes.  I called about George Carson.  He was in your employ in 1992?"
     	"Yeah," the man confirmed.  "Casper Perkowitz,"  he said wiping one dusty hand on the
front of his overalls then offering it to her.  She took it briefly.  "Call me Caz.  Yeah, he worked for me since '85.  Best riveter I ever had.  He got framed and they sent him up.  What more is there?"
     	"I'd like more information about the intruder he was accused of killing."
     	Caz muttered something under his breath that Scully couldn't quite hear, then, "He was
defending his wife."  The man's eyes grew dark and hard as he took the defensive.  "And on
second thought, that's Mr. Perkowitz."
     	"I understand that.  Did they identify the intruder?"
     	"Well, you know they did!  The bitch was cheating on George with him.  She drove him
to do it.  She DROVE him!"
     	Perkowitz had obviously been a close friend of George Carson felt he needed to defend his
friend's character.  "Please calm down, Mr. Perkowitz.  I'm not here to belittle George Carson.  I'm sure he was a good friend."
     	"Damn straight!"
     	"Can you tell me what happened that day?"  She asked, blinking at the sun in her eyes.
     	Seeing her discomfort, and he casually stepped around her to put the sun in his eyes instead.  He was used to it.  "It rained.  I had to send him home early, and when he got there he found the guy trying to ... you know ... with his wife.  This is how he told it at the trial, anyway.  He had a wrench with him, one of the big ones we use on the wheels of dump trucks and stuff like that.  It was his, he bought and paid for it, so he took it home every day.  Well, he hit the guy with it -- bam! -- in the head.  And kept hitting him.  That's what the jury couldn't let go, see.  The way he kept it up.  There were more brains outside the guy's head than inside by the time he was done.   Then he ran off, disappeared for about a week.  Folks said it was the guilt of killing made him run.  But he kept the wrench."
     	"What can you tell me about the intruder?"
     	He shrugged.  "Nothing to tell.  Your basic cheating scumbag.  Jerry, his name was. 
Underhill, I think."
     	Once again, Scully had to push the hard hat up out of her field of vision.  "Did he have a violent history?  Had he ever been in legal trouble before?"
     	"No," he said.  "Not at all."  His eyes shifted left and right, as if he were embarrassed to admit it.
     	The sudden disappointment stunned Scully.  Here was the dead end she'd been looking for. 
Mulder's theory had crumbled with those three little words, not at all.  The pit of her stomach
hardened like the concrete foundation on which she stood.  There was no satisfaction, no 'I told you so'.  Just indescribable terror that Mulder's theory was true, but she had picked the wrong path.  Somewhere, there was a death and a transfer that had gone unnoticed.  
     	"Follow me,"  Mr. Perkowitz said quietly, tapping her elbow to get her attention.  He led her into a trailer parked at the far corner of the lot.  It rocked slightly as they climbed the small, metal steps.  Inside was a makeshift office.  To the front of the trailer was a drafting table with a blueprint pinned to it that curled up at the edges.  Just behind this was a desk with a computer, some small hand tools, and miscellaneous wires and paraphernalia on top of it.   Perkowitz leaned back to allow her to pass him, then reached behind her and closed the door, pushing the lock button in.  
     	Scully glanced at the movement behind her, making it obvious that she was aware of it,
then looked at Perkowitz.  The defensive anger had left his eyes.  In his dark brown irises she
now saw the shadow of years old horror.  He lead her to a small dinette with a single cramped
chair on either side, offered her one and then sat across from her.  Nervously, he wiped his hands on his shirt before folding them on top of the table.  "The way you went from George to the scumbag," he started, removing his hard hat, revealing a bald pate ringed by pepper gray hair, and placing it in his lap, "it . . . can't be a coincidence."
     	"Coincidence?"  She asked, also taking off the infernal hat.  She placed it on the table,
next to the wall, across from Perkowitz' hat.  His had a flat part on the front of it that said
'Foreman' in brown block lettering.
     	"Where is it now?"
     	"Excuse me?"
     	"The blasted thing that made George do it."
     	She could not believe what he'd just said but his gaze stayed steady on her face. "You
believe there was something, some entity, causing this?"
     	He nodded solemnly.  "Yes, Ma'am.  I don't say so, anymore.  No one believed me then,
and it didn't take me long to figure out no one was going to.  But I knew George since the fourth grade and from the day he killed Underhill he was a different person.  And it wasn't grief or shock or any of that psychobabble the papers liked to say."
     	Scully kept her attitude under control, trying to appear as if she might not believe him
either.  It was, after all, a crazy idea.  "What convinced you that he had changed?"
     	"The next day," Mr. Perkowitz continued, "I was in the cemetery digging Underhill's
grave -- I do that on the side now and then to make ends meet -- and I saw George there.  He didn't see me.  I was behind him.  But he was there, standing in front of his daddy's grave.  He stood there some ten or fifteen minutes, hardly moving at all.  Then he kicked it.  Kicked that headstone over and over again until it tipped.  He stepped on it on his way back to his car.  The George Carson I grew up with would NEVER have done that.  And I could see it in his eyes, later, too.  At the trial.  He didn't give a damn about what he'd done.  He didn't even give a damn about his wife after that.  That wasn't George."
     	"I see."  Until recently, she would have called this a classic case of sour grapes.  A close friend he had trusted had gone bad.  Therefore, something neither of them had any control over had been at fault.   Any other explanation was out of the question.  "Unfortunately, that theory doesn't follow here. "If," and she consulted her notes, "Jerry Underhill had no violent history, it couldn't have moved from him."
     	"I didn't say it did,"  Perkowitz said.  He paused, knowing the truth would dawn on her.
      And it did.  "His wife?" she asked.  He nodded once.  "I don't remember reading anything about his wife passing away."
     	"She didn't."
     	Scully's heart skipped a beat.  "She survived?!"  Please God, she thought, say yes.
     	"You could call it that.  She's a vegetable, withering away at her brother's house."  The
variety of emotions that must have showed on her face prompted him to repeat his previous question.  "Where is it now?"
     	"My partner," she whispered, her mind reeling.  A survivor, but a vegetable.  What now?
     	"I'm sorry."  She could have called him Caz now.  Hell, she could have called him
anything she wanted.  Caz knew what partnership meant to her.  It wasn't like a bridge partner, but more like a marriage partner.  They got close.  And knowing now where she was coming from, Caz redefined how he felt about her.  "Can I give you a ride?"  At her questioning look, he added, "You want to go see her, don't you?"
     	On the way to see Mrs. Carson, her bag riding in the back seat behind her, Scully's
analytical mind began to reconstruct the story, but she kept coming to a problem.  If George
killed Underhill and ran, how had the thing moved from his wife to him?  Had the thing made
him kill Underhill, or had it truly been a crime of passion and jealousy?  And if it had resided in his wife, did his wife have any violent history?  And when and under what circumstances had it invaded her?  While Perkowitz drove, Scully pulled out her notepad and pencil and began going over the details yet again, but kept shaking her head.   Caz noticed her confusion.  "I know, it don't make sense the way he told it, does it?"
     	"No, it doesn't.  Not if he ran.  And not if it wasn't in him when he killed Underhill."  She rubbed her tired eyes.  "Do you have a theory?"
     	"Sure," he said, making a left turn.  "It didn't happen that way.  Here's the facts.  George called 911 as soon as he heard the ruckus.  Cops had to go in first, before the paramedics.  George was gone.  Underhill was on the floor of the living room. Next to him was George's wife, not a mark on her.  They let the paramedics in and they did CPR, not expecting it to work, but they kind of have to try anyway, you know?  Well, her heart started up and she started breathing, but she never woke up.  What I'm thinking is, chances are George didn't kill Underhill at all.  I think Mantha did.  That's his wife.  Samantha.  And that's what George walked in on.  I think he was going to cover up for her.  I wouldn't be surprised if Underhill was already dead when George bashed his head in, if that was George.   I expect he told his wife what to tell the cops, and that he was going to run to make it look like he did it.   And before George could get out, she grabbed him.  That's when it took him.  
     	"Eight days later, they tracked him down by the lake, and took him into custody for trial.  He never asked about Mantha.  Not once.  And he never confessed to the murder."
     	"If he was covering up for her, wouldn't he have confessed?"  Scully asked.
     	"Sure.  But it already knew there was no one to cover up for anymore.  If he even cared."  He tapped his fingers impatiently on the wheel as they waited at a red light.  "I was best man at their wedding.  George was head over heels for that woman, and nothing, I mean, nothing, would have made him turn against her.  But that's what he did that day.  It probably didn't even know she was still alive."  Smoothly, he swung the truck into a parking space by the curb in front of a two story house with blue vinyl siding.  "C'mon."
     	They got out of the truck and walked to the door.  Perkowitz rang the bell.
     	The interior door opened and a man, probably in his early forties, dressed in worn jeans, a white undershirt, and an open red flannel shirt, looked out.  One hand rested on the doorknob
behind the open door, the other held a Sports Illustrated with two fingers between the pages holding his place.  "Hi, Caz.  Who you got there?"  His attitude was guarded, as if he thought Scully had come for malevolent reasons.
     	"Paul, this is ...." Embarrassed, he looked at Scully, having forgotten her name.  She supplied it and allowed him to continue.  "Dana Scully.  Dana Scully, this is Paul Tigiano,
Mantha's brother.  Let us in, Paul."
     	Though still unsure, Paul opened the screen door with his free hand.  There was a
soft whoosh from the hydraulic arm.  Paul shifted the magazine to his other hand, left fingers
replacing the right fingers between the pages, and stepped back, extending his right hand.   Scully shook it.  "Friend of Mantha's?"  He asked.  They stepped into the living room.   Light blue wall-to-wall carpeting complimented an impeccably matched couch and loveseat.  In front of the couch sat a coffee table containing two cork coasters and a single coffee table book -- Ansel Adams, Scully noticed.  Against the opposite wall was a twenty-five inch color television displaying Wheel of Fortune with no sound.  A plump blonde woman in jeans and a lavender short-sleeved sweater sprawled on the loveseat, watching the television.  She looked up briefly, then went back to the show.
     	"No.  I'm an FBI agent, investigating --"  Caz cleared his throat loudly, interrupting her, and she remembered that his beliefs had not been popular.  "Conducting a murder investigation," she finished.  "I'm also a medical doctor.  May I see your sister?"  At his hesitation, she pulled out her ID and showed it to him, holding it patiently while he leaned in to read the small print.  Finally, he nodded, and led them up carpeted stairs, to a back bedroom.   On the bed, made up with sheets but no blankets, lay a dark-haired woman who seemed to be sleeping.  She lay on her left side, facing the exterior wall, curled slightly into a fetal position.  Scully moved around the bed to face Mantha, taking one limp wrist in her hand and feeling a normal, resting pulse.  Then she bent closer and peered into her face, opening each eye in turn to see a pupil which contracted reflexively to the light.  There was no resistance from the eyelid, no squint reflex.  Now she turned back to Paul, "I'd like to ask you some questions about Mantha's condition, if you don't mind."
     	"What would that have to do with anything?"
     	"I'm afraid I can't discuss the details with you.  Are you willing to answer my questions?"
     	Paul hesitated a moment, glancing from Caz to Mantha to Scully and back again.  "All
right," he relented, pointing with the magazine to a padded kitchen style chair against the wall.
     	Scully sat.  "Have the doctors found any medical reason for her comatose state?"  she
asked as she crossed her legs and pulled out her notepad and pen, her attention moving to Paul's face only at the end of the question.
     	"No,"  he replied, then added, "no brain damage, no nerve damage, no anything.  She just
doesn't wake up."
     	"And this is since the attack, in 1991?"  Scully asked.  Paul Tigiano nodded.  "Can you tell me anything about her life before this incident?  Has she ever been what could be termed
violent?"
     	Paul's face grew grim.  "Violent?  What the hell are you trying to say?"  Paul glanced at
Caz, who had been standing quietly next to the bed, glancing sadly now and then at its occupant.  "Caz, you've been talking to her, haven't you?"  He pointed an accusing finger, causing Caz to back up all the way to the wall.  Paul's magazine fell to the floor in a forgotten curly heap.  "I told you to shut up about that stupid theory of yours.  Mantha didn't kill Underhill!  They got the bastard who did and put him away.  I think Mantha saw it all, and just couldn't handle it and that's why she's like this."  The burst of anger dissipated, and he sank to the edge of the bed.  "She used to be a nurse, for crying out loud.  She wouldn't kill anyone."
     	"Sir,"  Scully said, keeping her voice level, "I'm not saying she killed anyone.  That's not what this investigation is about.  I'm merely gathering some data that MAY be related to another case.  That's all I can tell you about it.  You have nothing to worry about."  She gave  Tigiano a moment to absorb her concern and calm himself.  "People can be violent without causing others physical harm.  It's important, Mr. Tigiano.  Was she known to throw things?" she suggested.  "Break things?  Did she and her husband have screaming fights?  Fights in which she used profanity and name calling?  Anything like any of these things?"  
     	"I guess I can't say for sure.  They were living in Wisconsin for a long time before they
moved down here.  But to the best of my knowledge, no."
     	Damn, Scully thought.  What am I missing?  Where's the connection?  "You said she was
a nurse.  Where did she work?"
     	The poor man was almost squirming, as if her questions were leading him somewhere he
didn't want to go.  "Well,   since they moved down here, she stopped working.  She said she
couldn't handle the work anymore, that's why she left Mendota."
     	"Mendota?"
     	"Mendota Mental Health Institute in Madison.  She was there so long, I guess she got
burned out.  They moved down here summer of 1984," he said, scratching the back of one
earlobe, "and she hasn't worked since.  That kind of work is hard enough with sane people, and
most of the patients there were crazy as loons.  I can't say I blame her."
     	Something began to tickle Scully's brain.  She couldn't remember why, but there was
something about "Mendota" that worried her.   It made her very uncomfortable, but she pushed it
away for the moment and concentrated on what she was being told.  The woman had not been
violent.  How could that be, if Mulder's theory was correct?  In her head, she heard Sheriff
Winthrop repeat, "He never hurt anyone," referring to Old Fuzzy. Then she had the question she
needed to ask.  "Mr. Tigiano, was your sister an alcoholic?"
     	He was biting his bottom lip.
     	"Tell her,"  Mr. Perkowitz, who until now had remained silent, spoke up in the silence
that followed Scully's question.
     	"Yeah, okay," Tigiano admitted.  "She drank.  Ever since she left Mendota.  That's why
she couldn't hold a job, although I don't think she even tried.  She pretty much stayed home a lot.  Let George take care of her.  I --"  He looked up at Mr. Perkowitz.  "I'm sorry I called him a bastard.  He stayed with her for seven years of hell, watching her destroy herself."  His eyes misted with tears, and he looked back at Scully, "Was it the alcohol?  Did the alcohol do this?"
     	Paul wanted answers, answers he could never be sure of anyway.  Scully wished she
could give him those answers, tell him exactly why his sister had been sleeping for the past nine years, but she couldn't.  She could give him some comfort, though.  "No, sir.  I don't think her drinking caused this condition.  She didn't do this to herself."  Her mind was running ahead, and a sense of urgency was developing in her.  The only reason for Mantha's condition that she could come up with was that by the time the paramedics had revived her, there had been nothing left there to revive.  What did that mean for Mulder?  Was her investigation already pointless?  Was he already gone?  Her gut reaction was no, but doubt nagged her.  If not now, then how long did they have?  Somewhere between 1984, when she had left Mendota, and 1991, when she was found comatose, the part of her that made her Mantha had disappeared.  And why did the word "Mendota" fill Scully with absolute dread?  "Thank you, Mr. Tigiano, for your cooperation.  I'm sorry about your sister's condition.  She'll be in my prayers."
     	Apparently unable to trust his voice, he nodded, wiping the mist from his eyes with both
hands and taking a deep breath.  When Scully rose from the chair, he reached for the fallen
Sports Illustrated.
     	Scully and Mr. Perkowitz stepped into the hallway and let the bedroom door close.   "The
library,"  Scully said to no one in particular.  "Can you take me to the library?"  she asked
Perkowitz.
     	He nodded and followed as Scully hurried down the stairs, thanking Paul's wife as well on the way out of the house.  "What did you figure out?"  he asked when they'd reached the porch.  "What happened to Mantha?"
     	"I'm not sure yet --"  
     	Perkowitz reached out and calmly stopped her from descending the porch steps to the
sidewalk, and to the white truck that awaited them, "I can see it in your eyes.  You're on to
something.  We're not moving until you tell me."
     	She could tell he was serious.  And she didn't have time to argue with him.  "The
paramedics revived Mantha's body, not Mantha.  She was already gone, possibly years before. 
Which means I'm working on an unknown time limit.  It could already be too late to save my
partner."  Before she had finished speaking, he had released her, and they headed for the truck.  "But I still don't have a way to even try.  Alcohol seems to make it controllable, but it doesn't drive it out.  That's why Mantha drank," she said to no one in particular, talking out a chain of logic, as she waited for Caz to unlock the passenger door, "she was still there, enough there to keep drinking, so what happened to make her lose control?"
     	"AA."
     	"What?"
     	The lock popped up, and she opened the truck door.  They climbed in, but Caz didn't
answer her until they were both belted in with the doors closed.  He let the engine idle
for a bit.   "Paul didn't know.  George dragged Mantha into AA.  Threw out all the liquor,
watched her like a hawk.  Trying like hell to save her soul, I guess."
     	"Why didn't he tell Paul?"  George would have wanted to share his goal with his wife's brother, Scully thought, hoping for support at least.  
     	"Jeez, Paul would have killed him."  Caz twisted in the seat to face her.  "You see, the
tactics he used weren't exactly, well, kosher.  When I say 'dragged', I mean it literally."  He
looked reluctant to say more, but steeled himself and continued.  "I gave George two weeks off. 
He said he wanted to dry Mantha out once for and all.  He couldn't take seeing her like that
anymore.  He called it Tough Love, same as how they cure drug addicts.  And he got tough, all right.  He kept her locked in the house, except for AA meetings.  Stayed with her twenty-four hours a day -- I don't know what he did when he needed to sleep -- and made sure she didn't drink, no matter what.  He said she begged, she pleaded, she cried like she was going to die.   He was cruel.  And Paul would make him pay for it if he found out.  But he didn't do it to be mean.  He did it because he loved her and wanted her back the way she was before.  It was just as hard on him as it was on her, take my word for it."  He turned again in his seat, revving the engine gently and moving the stick shift out of park.  "That day, it was George's first day back to work after.  He thought she'd be okay. She'd been stone cold sober for maybe a whole week when it happened."
     	"Sober?  A week?"  She looked at Caz confirmed that she had heard correctly.  She voiced a theory of her own, unconsciously jabbing the air with her index finger as she thought it out, "what if alcohol stops it from taking over completely, and keeps the original personality live?  Once she was sober, she basically died and it took control then."  She took out her cell phone,  dialed Skinner.  When he answered, she said, "I don't have time to explain why, sir, but get Mulder to drink an alcoholic beverage.  Keep him lightly drunk.  Careful, though.  Don't give him alcohol poisoning.  We're looking for a blood alcohol level no higher than point two.  I don't know how much longer I'll be, but this will buy us some time."  She waited until Skinner acknowledged her instructions, then closed the cell phone.  "Let's get to the library."
     	"Why the library?"
     	"There's something about Mantha's connection to Mendota I don't like.  It'll be faster to look it up than to fly to Madison."  She pictured her laptop computer wished she had brought it with her, but it was currently in the hands of the Lone Gunmen, getting the processor upgraded.
     	"I'll get you there."  He swung the car away from the curb, and into traffic.

George Washington University Hospital
7:56PM

     	Skinner looked through the window at Mulder, feeling both more and less safe.  Dr.
Marquette-Shilgate had been able to move him to an isolation unit in the ICU.  It had been quite an adventure moving a man in traction down three floors, but Skinner, the doctor, and one
orderly had accomplished it.  They could have used more help, but Skinner made it perfectly
clear that the rule of fewer is better still applied.  During the move, Mulder had been quiet and cooperative.  He'd even wished Skinner a pleasant rest.  Once Mulder was settled in, Skinner allowed Dr. Marquette-Shilgate to show him to an on call room, where he'd fallen onto the thin mattress of the first bunk.  He'd slept, but only fitfully, plagued by dreams that mixed his current situation with scenes from The Exorcist -- Mulder spitting up green goo, Mulder floating above his bed, Mulder spinning his head completely around.  
     	After four hours in the bunk, Skinner had felt rested enough to return to guard duty.  He helped himself to the facilities, and was able to straighten himself up somewhat, although he'd brought no personal items along such as a razor.  The stubble was now getting past the grubby look to the Miami Vice look.   As he had examined himself in the mirror, his stomach had rumbled, so his next stop had been the cafeteria, where he'd purchased basically one of everything and then had eaten it.  And now he was back at what he was considering his post, and at heart it held all the appeal of a military assignment.  He longed for his desk and his paperwork, the simplicity of day-to-day tasks like sharpening pencils and straightening his desk drawers.  He would never be bored with those activities again.
     	Inside the room, Mulder was very bored.  Being an ICU, there was no TV to distract
anyone from the concentrated care a patient here would normally receive.  There was an exterior
window, but not much of a view.  A parking lot.  Maybe if he stared long enough, a butterfly
would flit by, or a squirrel or chipmunk would scamper across the lot to climb a telephone
pole.   And there was the observation window, looking out into the bland hospital hallway.  He
could see Skinner there, watching him the way one watches the slowly rising water in a clogged
toilet bowl, anticipating a foul-smelling flood.
     	Inside Mulder, Mulder spent time mentally measuring those dark edges of his vision, trying to feel a way to control them the way he controlled his heartbeat and breathing, but they seemed to be beyond his abilities.  The circle of light in the middle continued to shrink, ever so slightly, hour by hour, though the measurement of time had become difficult.  His clock was the throbbing of his leg, dulled to manageability by Percodan and Demerol.  (Remember), he told the thing, (you said you won't let me go until she gets back).
     	** She's taking too long.  I have limitations here.**
     	(No.  You're stronger than this, aren't you)?  Mulder taunted.  (You could hold me here for weeks, maybe even months, I'll bet.  You're unstoppable).
     	** Don't be naive.  Don't you think I know what you're doing? **
     	(Sorry.  I just want to see her one more time.  I don't want to go yet.  Please).
     	** I'll do what I can.  You know that.  I want you to be there as much as you do.  You
chased me.   You made me get trapped here.  You deserve to watch me take her. **
     	(Thank you).  
     	Deep in his growing darkness, Mulder shuddered.


Chicago, Illinois
6:15 P.M.

     	Perkowitz shifted with his right hand and pushed harder on the gas pedal.  Nervously,
Scully watched the speedometer needle rise to sixty, then slide over it.  He was weaving through the traffic on Lakeshore Drive, using his blinkers each time, but passing, always passing.  His eyes flitted from road to left mirror to rearview mirror, and then he'd turn his whole head to get a clear view of his blind spot.  Scully wanted to tell him to ease up, don't risk a ticket on her account, but she couldn't bring herself to voice any objection.  The word "Mendota" drummed through her head.  Time was slipping, she could just go to the airport and head back, but she still didn't have a strategy to beat this thing, and she needed to figure out the Mendota connection.  "'Mendota'," she muttered to herself.  "Does 'Mendota' mean anything to you?"
     	He shook his head in mid-spin and moved to the left lane.  "No.  Just where Mantha used
to work.  Something different about that looney bin?"
     	"I think so, but I can't remember what!"  She rubbed her forehead in frustration.  
     	"The harder you think about it, the less it'll help," he offered.  "You should know that."
     	She had to grin at the aphorism.  "I suppose you're right."
     	"Damn."
     	"What?"  Scully saw the expression on his face, and his lingering gaze in the rear view
mirror.   Looking back, she saw the flashing blue light.  "Oh, no."
     	"Agent Scully, if it's all right with you  . . . "  he didn't want to say it specifically, but asked the question with his eyes.  Do we start a high speed car chase?  How deep are we going into this?
     	"How close are we?"  She asked, glancing around at the buildings to see if anything
looked like a library.
     	"Three, four minutes."
     	With her eyes on that blue light, she was tempted to say "Punch it, Margaret," but her
long ingrained respect for the law wouldn't allow it.  "Don't.  Just pull over."  He was looking at her now, but didn't let up on the gas.  "Pull over," she repeated.  She just couldn't allow Perkowitz to get into that much trouble over this.  Yes, it was Mulder's life at stake, but there was no way to prove that.  And despite what they showed in movies, a car chase would be hugely destructive.  She knew from personal experience the aftermath that was never shown at all -- the calls to insurance companies, the city expense for street damage, even the possibility of injuries or fatalities.  Perkowitz would be held accountable for it.  While she had every confidence in Perkowitz's driving skills, having witnessed his expert maneuvering, she couldn't do that to him.  A ticket, no matter how much, was preferable.
     	Carefully, Perkowitz steered the car onto the shoulder, slowed and stopped.
     	The patrol car sped past, blue light still flashing, but no siren to warn the cars up ahead.
     	They simultaneously heaved sighs of relief.  "Let's take that as a sign, Mr. Perkowitz."  
     	"A sign of what?"
     	"One, that we're meant to get to the library.  And two, that we have the time to spare."  She crossed her fingers, "But just that much.  Let's go, Mr. Perkowitz."
     	"Caz,"  he corrected as he restarted the engine.  "Don't make me hit you," he added with a wink, pulling smoothly back into traffic.  He took the speedometer up to fifty and left it there.  
     	"I want you to know I really appreciate your help, Mr.  . . .  Caz," she amended at his mock-angry look.  "No matter how it turns out."
     	"Just save him, Agent Scully," Caz replied grimly.  "Don't let him be another George
Carson."  He cleared his throat loudly.  "So, what are you looking for at the library?"
     	"The Mendota Connection, I guess," Scully told him.  "I'll do a web search."  Again, she
tried to pull the answer out of her own head.  The effort was fruitless.  "What the hell happened at Mendota?"
     	"I'll wait here for you.  Take you anywhere you want to go after that."  He slid into a
metered parking space.
     	"You don't have to do that.  You have a job to get back to, Caz.  I can get a cab."
     	"I'm the foreman.  I can do what I want.  And I want to follow this through.  I NEED to
follow this through."  His voice crackled toward the end of this last sentence and he cleared his throat again.  "I owe it to George."
     	As much as she wanted to jump out of the car and get started, she couldn't leave Caz like
this.  "No matter what I find, you can't help George."
     	"I know he's dead.  I know I can't bring him back.  But I know now I was right about what
happened.  And I want to help it end."
     	"You already have."
     	"Get going already."
     	With Caz agreeing to stay, she left her bag in the car, swung her purse over her left
shoulder, and walked quickly to the Harold Washington Library Center steps.  Fanciful green stone gargoyles stared down from the corners of the roof of this large red brick building.  A man with a cane worked his way slowly out the door.   A group of tourists, wearing camera necklaces, clustered near a charter bus, alternately posing and taking pictures.  A man and woman held a small girl between them and swung her, giggling, over the curb and onto the sidewalk.  Caz watched the activity as the FBI agent with the coppery hair rushed past them and wondered if any of them knew how fragile their lives actually were.
     	Scully didn't consciously remember seeing anyone on the way in.  She was concentrating on finding the computers.  As she passed through the metal detectors just inside the door, sirens went off and two security guards came running toward her.  "I'm sorry, officers.  I'm an FBI agent.  I'm here on official business.  My ID and gun are in my purse."  She handed the purse to one of the guards, who opened it, pulled out the gun and handed it to the other.  He then found the badge wallet, opened it, and examined it.  "I'm here to research something.  If you want to hold on to that and follow me around, go ahead."  The guards nodded at her suggestion.  Replacing the items in the purse, one guard folded the straps down and tucked it incongruously under his arm, then waved her through.
     	Putting them out of her thoughts for the moment, she hurried inside, seeing a library
directory with the various departments listed.  The Computer Connection, according to the sign, was on the 5th floor, so Scully followed the arrow to the twin elevators, accompanied by the guard with the purse, to the 5th floor, where she found a bank of computers.  Taking only a moment to find an available terminal, she sat down and mouse-clicked an internet search engine.  In the search window, she typed "Mendota Mental Health 1984", then tapped her foot impatiently until a list of websites came up.  She scrolled down, not really knowing what she was looking for, clicking on anything that seemed to do with the history of the Institute, scanning it quickly, then clicking back to the results list and scrolling again.  She found a site about the Indian burial mounds located on the site of the Institute, and a site in German about who knows what.  Then, clicking a link before even clearly reading the title, she found it.
     	A face stared out at her from the webpage, making her mouth go completely dry.  He was
slight in build, scruffy, with a Humphrey Bogart "African Queen" type beard, probably in his late fifties, wearing a beat-up old farmer's cap and a smile no more revealing than that of the Mona Lisa. His eyes were slightly crossed.  She scrolled down this page, scanning the text, switching into clinical mode to view the picture of the decapitated, nude woman hanging by her ankles and wrists, partially slit down the middle like a grotesque experiment in the symmetry of the human body that had been interrupted by a phone call or a knock on the door.   Further down was a picture of a dilapidated farm house, next to text that had been highlighted by the search engine.  "Oh my God,"  Scully whispered.  Her hands, the left on the keyboard, the right curled around the Microsoft mouse,  grew cold. 
     	This was the man who had worn women's skins, and eaten from their skulls, and built
furniture out of their bones.  This was the man who had inspired the films "Psycho" and "Texas
Chainsaw Massacre".  This was the man whose evil essence now resided in Fox Mulder.  Ed
Gein had died in the geriatric ward of the Mendota Mental Health Institute in Madison,
Wisconsin in April of 1984.  
     	Scully's heart pounded in her chest and her knees grew weak.  She grasped the edge of the
desktop.  "Oh, God."
     	"Ma'am, are you all right?"
     	She stared at the security officer for several seconds before she realized it was he that had spoken.  Licking lips with a tongue as dry as the Nevada desert, she managed to gasp, "Yes.  Yes, I'll be fine.  Thank you."  Pressing her cold hands to her face helped her gather what few wits remained.  "I found what I was looking for."  She took the purse he held out to her and hurried back to the elevators, the guard right behind her.  At the lobby, she shot out of the elevator like a bullet and headed for the door, ignoring the alarms that blared once again, knowing in the back of her mind that the security officers would take care of it.
     	Her heels clicked as she ran from the library and down the sidewalk, thankful that Caz had been watching and now pulled the truck right up to her.  Panting, she told him, "Airport."  Again, she rubbed her face with icy hands, rubbed the nape of her neck, forbidding herself to pass out.  She had to get back to Mulder.  There was no time to look further, not with the possibility of THIS being on the loose again.  
     	"What did you find?"  Caz was asking her, but she didn't hear it.  What am I going to do? 
she was screaming at herself.  What the hell am I going to do?  
     	At least Caz had the presence of mind this time not to try to force an answer as he had  at Paul Tigiano's house.  He gunned the truck and headed for the freeway, and drove silently while Scully's mind worked.  When her breathing seemed to be under control, he asked again, "Agent Scully," he began, making sure he had her attention, "what did you find in there?"
     	Some moisture was coming back to her mouth.  "Have you ever heard of Ed Gein?"
     	She didn't have to say more.  The horror in his eyes told her he had.  The car even
swerved slightly, but he regained control, his hands holding tightly to the wheel.   "So, the
airport.  Where are you going?  Heading home?"
     	Absolute terror still filled her throat and she swallowed hard.  "I have to get back there.  I have to see him."  The truth of the whole matter was hitting her like a thrown brick.  The reality.  
     	"What are you going to do?"  
     	Staring out the window at the houses speeding passed, she answered, "I don't know."  She
had to make a conscious effort to push the panic down inside her.  The situation looked hopeless to her, and irrationally a line from Apollo 13 popped into her head.  What had Ed Harris' character said, when the shit hit the fan and people were starting to panic?  "Let's work the problem, people."  Okay, the problem.  Letting her mind roll over ideas, she pulled out her cell phone, calling the airline on her speed dial.  She booked the next flight leaving O'Hare for Washington D.C.
     	After she hung up the phone and slid it back into her totebag, Caz asked, "So what is this thing?  An evil spirit, or something?"
     	"What?  Oh, I guess you could call it that,"  she answered absent-mindedly.  She began to work the problem verbally.  "It seems to be a pure energy form with the ability to inhabit a body, inhabit a brain in order to perform physical tasks.   These tasks are normally violent in nature ..."
     	"Unless the person's drunk," Caz supplied.
     	Scully looked at him as if she'd never seen him before.  He continued to drive, unaware
that his comment meant anything.  "You said Mantha had been sober for about a week, right?" 
He nodded.  "And George Carson disappeared for a week before they caught him."  Another nod. 
A week.  This would be the third day already.  She hoped Skinner had been able to get some
alcohol into Mulder.  
     	At the airport, Caz carried her totebag all the way to the concourse, where the metal
detectors were located.  She lay the bag on the belt, then her purse right behind it, and turned to him. "Thank you for your help, Caz.  You don't know what all this means to me."
     	"I have an idea," he said simply.  "Would you do me a favor?"
     	"Anything."
     	"Let me know how it turns out?  I'd like to know that ... "  he stumbled over words for a
concept he could barely understand, "I'm kind of hoping that ....maybe George will at least, you know, rest easy, if it's been taken care of.  I know I would."
     	She nodded wordlessly, then accepted a gentle hug from the man.  
     	As she stared out the window, watching mile wide patches of land pass beneath the plane,
it seemed to her that even 600 miles per hour was far too slow.


George Washington University Hospital
5:47 PM


     	Skinner's first problem was finding an alcoholic beverage.  It was a hospital; liquor were hard to come by.  The closest he could find was a half-filled bottle of isopropyl
alcohol.  He even scanned the label, hoping, but was not surprised when it said "for external use only".  Like it or not, he had to leave the hospital.  He was about to page Dr. Marquette-Shilgate to let her know he had to leave, but not why, when she came briskly down the corridor, hugging her ever present clipboard.   He approached her.  "Doctor, something's come up and I have to leave for about half an hour."
     	"Leave?"  she asked.  "You're kidding.  I was about to have your mail forwarded."
     	Heaving a sigh at her sarcasm, he censored himself.  "I was asleep about an hour when I
got the call about the accident.  And I was in your on call room about four hours, not all of it sleeping.  That gives me less than five hours of sleep in about fifty hours, so I really don't need the attitude right now."  He glanced at the door to Mulder's room.  "I have to pick up something from home."
     	She was tempted to say "I hope it's a razor," but stopped herself.  Instead, she said, "You shouldn't be driving, then.  Let me get someone to drive you.  Dr. Clazmer is going off duty.  She could --"
     	"No, thank you," Skinner said.  "I'll be fine.  It isn't far, and I won't be long.  I just wanted you to know I'd be away."  Again, he couldn't stop his eyes from straying to the door, as if he could see Mulder through it.  "Keep an eye on him."
     	Concerned more for Skinner than for Mulder at the moment, she assured him she would. 
"Drive carefully, Mr. Skinner."
     	She watched him turn the corner toward the elevators, feeling uncomfortable about the
whole encounter, then pushed the door open and went into the room.  Mulder was lying
comfortably, his bed at a forty-five degree angle.  "Mr. Mulder, your keeper's stepping out for a little while."  She opened her clipboard and began checking the readouts on Mulder's monitor, then gave his IV line a cursory inspection as well.  "He seems to be a pretty good keeper, though."  She smiled at Mulder, but he didn't smile back.  He poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table.  "What is it between the two of you, anyway?" she asked.  "I've dealt with gay couples before, but --"
     	A fine spray of cold water spewed from Mulder's mouth.  "Gay?!"  The thing inside Mulder was disgusted at the idea.  
     	"You're not?"
     	He shook his head.  "God, no.  He's just my boss."  It was an interesting game, pretending to be Mulder.  Not his favorite part of his conquests, but this one was turning out to have little else to offer.  
     	"Just your boss.  But he doesn't want to leave your side.  Whatever he had to leave for
just now must have been pretty damn important."  She was still trying to figure it out.  There was something she wasn't being told and she didn't like it.  
     	Hmmmmmm, it was thinking.  Skinner left.  That means something.  It couldn't be sure,
of course, but Mulder's insight told him that the plan had begun, whatever it was.  He also felt a good degree of confidence from Mulder, confidence that the plan would save him.  How dare he.  It wanted to get out now, forget waiting for this Scully person to come back.  She wasn't worth it.  It felt it was wasting its time lying here like an area rug.  With Skinner away, now was the time to make a move.  A lateral move, it specified to itself, laughing.  It was tempted to take the doctor, but it would be impossible to kill Mulder's body here.  Each time it had tried, their resuscitation efforts had thwarted it.  It needed to get out of the hospital.  Mulder's eyes lowered, then met hers.  "He knows I hate it here.  I hate hospitals."
     	Automatically, she began to fluff his pillow.  He leaned forward for a moment to give her
room, then eased back, and she ran her hand over the top sheet, making it flat.  "Everyone hates being in the hospital.  You're not alone there."
     	"No, I mean, I REALLY hate hospitals.  I hate this bed.  I hate the food.  I hate that cast, and the fucking broken leg!"  Allowing the anger to surface was easy.   He pounded the bed where she'd just smoothed it, "I'm tired of lying here with my leg in a sling staring at the damn ceiling.  And no, I don't want anything to read.  I want to get the hell out of here."
     	"Well," she said, "a touch of cabin fever is my diagnosis.  How about I get you a
wheelchair and take you for a spin?"
     	"I don't know."  Something told him too much enthusiasm would spoil his chances.
     	"I'll be right back."  She left the room, then came back a few minutes later without the
clipboard, pushing a wheelchair in front of her.  "C'mon.  I'll give you the fifty cent tour."
     	"Will you take a check?"  He pushed himself up with his arms.  
     	After she parked the chair next to his bed, she went to the foot and took down the sling
carefully.  "How's that?"
     	Raising himself off the bed, he maneuvered himself into the chair, and waited patiently
while she adjusted the leg support under his cast, then rolled the IV rack around, careful not to kink the tubing she did so, gave it to Mulder to hold in his left hand, then undid the brake and began to push.  Things went smoother once they were in the hallway.  "This is better.  Thanks.  Where should we go?"
     	She walked slowly down the hallway, pushing the chair in front of her, Mulder's left hand
wrapped around the pole of the IV stand as it rolled beside him.  "Well, the fifty cent tour usually starts at the morgue," she joked.  "but you don't have to do that.  What would you like to see?"  
     	Bending his head back to look at her, he said, "Anything.  Everything.  I feel like I've
been in here for years."
     	"Okay.  Let's take an elevator ride."  
     	She took him down to the main floor and steered for the cafeteria.  Hated the food, huh? 
"Had dinner yet?"
     	It watched the surroundings carefully as they traveled.  Further ahead of them, it could see a multiple doorway that seemed to lead outside.   He knew better than to just jump up and try to run, although that is exactly what its instincts were telling it to do.   "Well, to be honest, yes.  But I could eat some more.  Is the food down here better?"  She parked him sideways next to a table, the leg in the cast sticking out too far to fit underneath.  
     	"Food is always better when someone buys it for you."  She winked at him.  "Be right
back.  Don't go away."  Then she disappeared behind the partition that hid the buffet line from the eating area.  
     	As soon as she was out of sight, it looked around at the others in the cafeteria.  Being
dinner time, there was a fair sized crowd.  Many of them had looked up to see the newcomer, but
by the time Dr. Marquette-Shilgate had finished parking him they'd all gone back to eating, some of them reading as well.  It wouldn't be invisible.  Someone would see Mulder's body, no doubt, but this was the time.  Casually, it disconnected the IV from Mulder's left hand at the Y-junction, leaving the needle cris-crossed with clear medical tape in place.  Less  conspicuous.  Then it leaned forward and carefully lowered the leg support.  Gathering as much energy as it could -- Mulder wasn't going to like this -- it stood.
     	In his darkness, Mulder came abruptly out of his self-induced semi-coma boredom. 
What's happening?  If he'd had teeth where he was, he would have been gritting them.  He's
standing on the leg again.  Oh my God.
     	It knew it didn't have much time before Mulder's muscles gave out, just like they had
before.  It felt that with it's own determination, it could make it outside the building, maybe even more than a block away.  By then Mulder's body would fall, someone would come, perhaps even the doctor if she gave chase, but too late.  Too far away from their equipment.  So it began to walk out of the cafeteria, the heavily cast left leg forward, arms pumping to keep balance and provide enough momentum for another step.  It looked like Chester on "Gunsmoke".  It felt the sweat break out.  It felt the shortness of breath as the muscles pushed to contract without enough oxygen in their cells.  But it didn't feel the pain of the sharp bone edges grinding against each other, the ache of the hip socket, ligaments and tendons stretched to capacity.  With a single-minded concentration, it Chester-walked toward the the hallway.
     	Someone noticed.  A man in street clothes, there to visit his daughter and newborn
grandson, saw the injured man rise from the chair and walk away as if oblivious to
everything else.  Remembering the doctor who had accompanied him, the man hurried to the
buffet line to warn her.  He saw her by the salad bar making two salads.  "Doctor, your patient!"  
     	"What about him?"  she asked, spooning sunflower seeds.
     	"He's walking away."
     	She dropped the spoon, scattering sunflower seeds into the chopped olives.  "What?" 
Without waiting for an answer, she abandoned the tray and rushed from the buffet line.  He was nearly at the doorway when she spotted him, her jaw dropping.  She noticed the wheelchair, parked just where she had left it, and the IV cart, its tubing hanging limply.  "Agent Mulder!"  she called after him as he disappeared into the hallway, then rushed to follow him.
     	Even as she stepped into the hallway, he had reached the lobby, making incredible
progress, dragging the cast along like a heavy piece of luggage.  Every other step, he used his
hands to push the leg forward.  His hair was already drenched with sweat, plastered to the sides of his face as his head swung with his leg, his mouth hanging open, sucking in oxygen like an Electrolux.
     	She caught up to him easily and grabbed his left arm.  "Where do you think you're
going?"
     	"G-getting out of here," he gasped.  
     	Regretting it even as she did it, she pulled back on his arm roughly.  He teetered for a moment on the thick cast, then toppled backwards landing hard on his buttocks.  Losing her own balance, she fell next to him, nearly getting her own leg caught under the cast.  Puffing, he sat there, his eyes vacant, sweat dripping from his chin and nose.
     	The man who had warned her came up behind them, pushing the wheelchair, the IV cart
in tow.   She didn't see him right away.  She was staring at Agent Mulder.  How had he done that?  He couldn't possibly have done that!  When the man pushed the wheelchair close to her, she put one arm on the seat to push herself up.  "Help me get him back in the chair."
     	Mulder didn't cooperate at all.  He was dead weight, and even the two of them couldn't
get him properly seated in the wheelchair, resting on his good hip.  She raised the leg support, then found the open end of the IV tubing and reattached it.  "Thank you, sir.  I can take it from here.  Thank you very much.  Sorry to disturb your dinner."
     	"My pleasure, Doc."
     	Forgoing any idea of dinner, she pushed Mulder back to the elevators and back to his
room, guiding the IV stand herself.  She parked the chair near the bed and closed the door. 
Keeping an eye on him all the time, she went to the bathroom and ran a cloth under cold
water, then came back out and wiped his face, forehead and temples.  "Agent Mulder?" she asked as she patted the cloth against the back his neck.  
     	His eyes finally moved and focused on her.  
     	She found herself staring back at him.  The movement of the cloth slowed, then stopped
in the curve between his left shoulder and neck.  The loose collar of the hospital gown was damp.  She could feel the cold against the side of her hand.  "A-agent Mulder?  Fox?"
     	"Nobody calls me Fox."  
     	She was relieved to hear him speak.  After a glance behind her to judge the distance, she
groped for the chair and pulled it under her.  "I'm sorry.  Agent Mulder, is that all right?"
     	He nodded slowly.  "I freaked, didn't I?"
     	Leaning back in the chair, the cold rag flopping into her lap, she also nodded.  "You sure did.  Feeling better now?"
     	"Not really.  Just tired.  Can I get back in bed, please?"
     	"Sure."  She helped him get back into the bed, then directed the IV stand and tubing back to its old place, put his leg into the sling, and moved the wheelchair to the far corner of the room, draping the rag over the back.  Skinner should be returning soon.  Examining Mulder's
appearance, she hoped the effects of his adventure didn't show.  He still appeared sweaty, though not as profusely as before.  
     	"Do me a favor,"  he said as she stared at him.  "Don't tell my boss.  It's embarrassing."
     	She sat on the edge of the bed now instead of the chair.  She didn't want to tell Skinner about it, anyway.  "No problem.  Our little secret."  Suddenly, she said, "Oh my God, you must be in agony.  Let me get you something." She jumped to her feet and before he could object she had opened the door and stepped out, returning in moments with a prepared injection, which she administered through the IV.  "There," she said, as if it were a major pronouncement.  "You rest.  Your boss should be back soon.  I think he's got something for you, if I understood
correctly.  I'll come back later."
     	"Thanks for ... the tour."
     	"I don't think you got your money's worth, but you're welcome."  She smiled, and left,
dismissing the uneasy feeling in her stomach as post-traumatic guilt.  I'm feeling responsible for Mulder's little bid for freedom, that's all.  Feeling like I shouldn't have taken him downstairs.  But it was his own problem.  He's the one who got up and tried to walk away on a broken leg.  She kept telling herself that, trying to forget that blank look in his eyes, the feeling that she'd been manipulated.  That something was going on here that she was going to regret being involved in.



     	With a knot in his stomach the whole time, Skinner drove to the first grocery he
came to.  He had intended to drive home -- he hadn't lied to Dr. Marquette-Shilgate; it really wasn't far from the hospital -- and grab some liquor from his own bar, but on the way he spied the grocery store with its "liquor" sign.  He hurried in, weaving his way to the liquor department and grabbing a bottle from the first end cap.  It was Jim Beam.  At the checkout he showed his driver's license, paid, and took the brown bag from the cashier, ignoring her raised eyebrow and the sad shake of her head.  Driving almost recklessly back to the hospital, it occurred to him that he should have grabbed a disposable razor and can of shaving cream as well, but then he decided he probably wouldn't have the time to shave, even if his hands were steady enough to do it without slitting his own throat.
     	The walk from the elevator to Mulder's room seemed to take forever.  Maybe because
he hadn't been more than twenty feet away since Mulder had been admitted.  Even the on call room where he had slept those fitful four hours was just across the hall from Mulder's new room.  He entered and went into the bathroom, looking for a cup or glass as he pulled the bag off the bottle and let it fall.  He found a plastic wrapped Dixie cup and ripped it open.  Holding the bottle between his knees for leverage, he twisted the top open, letting the cap fall wherever, and poured until the cup was three fourths full.  Setting the bottle on the toilet tank, he took the cup in to Mulder.  "Got something special for you, Mulder.  Keep it quiet.  I don't think your doctor would like it."
     	Pushing himself up higher in the bed, Mulder looked suspiciously into the cup, but didn't
take it.  He sniffed it.  "No thanks, sir.  I don't need a drink."
     	"Go ahead.  You have my permission.  I won't turn you in for drinking on duty.  Hell,
you're not ON duty.  You deserve this."  Skinner continued to hold the cup out.  Then he sat it
down on the night stand, "Just a second.  I know, you don't want to drink alone.  Hold on."  He
ducked back into the bathroom.  There were no more cups so he came out with the bottle in hand and took a quick swig.  "See?  Let's toast our friendship, Mulder.  We've never toasted our friendship, have we?"
     	"I'm not thirsty.  Sir."
     	It knew.  Damn it, Skinner thought, the thing knew what he was doing.  Scully was right.   Trying to force him to drink would probably be futile.  He barely noticed the warmth he had swallowed.  "Okay,"  he agreed.  "Maybe later."  He took the bottle and Mulder's cup back into the bathroom, trying to think.   He got a glimpse of himself in the mirror and was taken aback.  He did look like hell.  The Jim Beam had tasted good going down, but he knew that getting himself drunk was not going to help Mulder.  Quickly, he ran some cold water on his hands, touched his hands to his face to avoid splashing his glasses, then wiped dry with a towel. Scully had given him a job to do, and by God, he was going to do it.  
     	He dried his face and neck, then once again faced the image in the mirror.  He heard Dr. Marquette-Shilgate ask him, "Don't you already have a job, Mr. Skinner?"  Yes, he did.  He was taking care of Mulder's.  He got an idea then, but knew that if he tried it too soon, the thing in Mulder might make the connection, and cause a scene trying to stop him.  He had to wait.  And as Tom Petty had always told him, the waiting was the hardest part.


Continental Airlines Flight 216
Seat 29C

     	Her lap looked like a filing cabinet.  Again, she paged through Mulder's report,
now with her own notes sketched in the margins, and flipped through the pages of notes she'd
gathered in her own investigation which were laid out, some on the tray table, some on her lap, like a college freshman cramming for finals.  And she would have preferred to be a college freshman cramming for finals, as well.  During her years working for the FBI, she'd overcome many obstacles, caught many criminals, solved many crimes.  But this dilemma was different.  Here was an adversary she couldn't handcuff.  She couldn't point him out in court, or even shoot him down in cold blood.  He wouldn't respond to threats such as "freeze, or I'll shoot", or be intimidated when she flashed her badge.  And with the enemy inside Mulder, she couldn't hope it would slip away and disappear like the Figi Mermaid, and she couldn't leave it behind like the parasitic worms they had found in the antarctic or the strange green bugs that decimated the logging camp.  She was going to need a different approach here.  There had to be a back door, and she would find it.  Her mind began to put it together.
     	At least for now, it began with Ed Gein.  Scully had no doubt that the history would go
back even further, perhaps for hundreds of years, but for now, it began with Ed Gein.  Old, tired, dying Ed Gein, calling for help from his bed in the Mendota Mental Health Institute.  And Samantha Carson, perhaps his regular nurse, perhaps just the lucky nurse on duty that day, had answered his call.  What would it have been like for Mantha?  A trained, compassionate nurse, called to the bedside of a dying man.  Would it have been unlikely for her to hold his hand as he died?  Then, after the rape of her mind, her medical background may have given her an inkling of what needed to be done.  She drank to save herself.  For six, nearly seven years.  Waiting for it to die.  Searching for a way to rid herself of this unwanted border.  Drinking to control it, to stop it from using her body to do unspeakable things.  For six years.
     	Who knew why she'd had the affair with Underhill?  Maybe she wanted to keep someone
around for it to take, if it came to that, someone who wasn't George.  But George had disposed of all the alcohol in the house, forced her into a sobriety she didn't want, letting the thing finally finish devouring her soul.  Then one day Underhill came for his usual nooner, not knowing that Mantha was no longer there.  She responded to his advances with surprising force and violence, starting a struggle.  And George came home.  What had it been like for George?  Dripping from the rain, he would have used the back door, coming into the kitchen to avoid getting the carpet wet.  He'd heard the struggle, dialed 911 on the extension -- didn't everyone have an extension in the kitchen? -- and hurried to his wife's defense.  Except his wife was not the one that needed defending.  Had she managed to kill Underhill before George came in?  Had Mantha, catching George unawares, grabbed the wrench and bashed in Underhill's head, or had George himself begun swinging, telling Mantha to run, ready to take the fall for her without even knowing why.  
     	In any case, before he had left the house, his soul had been bitten.  The thing had moved from his wife's now barren body to his own, relishing the strength, and then hidden him away, like a snake digesting a mouse, until it had devoured what was left of George Carson.  With no alcoholic haze, George could not resist.  Thinking its previous host was dead like all the others, it attempted to stay out of jail by blaming the murder on her.  But his prints had been on the wrench, and the victim had been sleeping with Mantha, and that was all the motivation the jury needed.  So, it probably tried to find someone in prison, but they were all in the same boat, trapped.  It became angry for a time, picking fights, bringing the familiarity of violence back to its world.  It had managed to escape the prison and run.  It didn't matter how.  But it enjoyed its freedom, killing and terrorizing its way across the Midwest, until it was captured again by a small-town sheriff in Trout Creek.
     	What had it been like for Old Fuzzy?  A man who had once been happy, had enjoyed not
just his own child, but the children of those around him, until his world fell apart in a few  short years.  His wife left with no forwarding address, and suddenly he was the single father of a young girl.  Then she became sick, and died.  Suddenly people looked at him with sorrow and pity instead of delight.  He tried to make a new start, watched his life savings burn before it even began.   He couldn't take it anymore and sought solace in drink.   Slowly at first, of course, but like a child's playground slide all he had to do was get over that first hump and down he went.  Then one day he woke in a cell with a dead man, not remembering how he'd gotten there, surprised to discover that even though he was alone, he wasn't alone.  Had he killed the stranger in a drunken rage?  The guilt of this possibility gave birth to a simple heart attack story, while the remnants of the alcohol buzz in his head harmonized with a new voice.   And it scared him.  He instinctively reverted to his old coping mechanism, somehow knowing that even if he wanted to quit drinking, he didn't dare.  Condemned to spend the rest of his life as incoherent as possible.  Any time sobriety threatened, he drowned it.   Until by the end, he barely saw death coming.
     	And what had it been like for Samuel Drascic?  A simple farmer living just outside of a
simple town, driving in on the same road he'd used for years, a road so familiar he could  drive it blindfolded.  On his way to pick up supplies.  What had been on his shopping list that day?  Bread?  Eggs?  Some flour so his wife could bake a cake?  He was probably repeating the list to himself as he drove, never expecting the man to stumble into the road.  Feeling the bump, braking, then getting out and rushing back to see what he'd hit, praying to find a raccoon or an opossum.  But it was a man.  And not just any man, but a man he had called Grandpa.  Tenderly,  he would have gone to him, taken the man's head into his lap and sobbed as the old man's life drained away, too distraught to think of going for help, somehow knowing it would have been useless.  Realizing then that although a man had died, something else had survived.  And knowing that he couldn't go back to the life he'd had before.  He did go back, before the thing won its place in his brain, to look and see what he could never see again.  
     	All of these ideas formed in Scully's mind on the plane trip to Washington D.C.   But
there was one more link in the chain.  What was it like for Mulder?


George Washington University Hospital
9:53 P.M.

	     Mulder was singing.  Skinner looked through the window, and saw Mulder mouthing
words and shaking his head as if to music.  But there was no television here.   No radio.  Mulder was making his own music.  Skinner sidestepped to the door and opened it a crack.
     	"Now we're up in the big leagues, gettin' our turn at bat," Mulder sang as he leafed
through a Newsweek, the bed inclined slightly, "As long as we live, it's you and me baby, there
ain't nothing wrong with that.  Well we're movin on up, to the east side, to a deluxe" -- he
stressed the first syllable so it came out 'DEE-lucks' -- "apartment in the sky.  Movin on up, to the east side, we finally got a piece of the pie-eye-eye."  As he finished the chorus, Mulder lifted his head and looked at the sliver of hallway that showed through the open door.  He glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at the door.  
     	Skinner stepped in with his hands clasped behind his back.
     	"Name that tune," Mulder said.
     	"What tune?"  Skinner asked.
     	"Theme song from The Jeffersons.  I like it.  Don't you?"  
     	"Yeah, it's a nice song."  Skinner's extended his right hand with the wrist turned so he
could see his watch, revealing his sleeve open, and folded back.   But he didn't really see the
watch at all.   It didn't matter to him what time it actually was.  "Time for your meds."
     	"Good.  It's starting to throb."  
     	It was throbbing, throbbing to the beat of Copacabana, and Mulder had never hated Barry
Manilow so much in his life.  But the Mulder that Skinner was talking to didn't feel it at all.  It just wanted the medication to keep the other Mulder weak.  As if it had to establish a pecking order here.  That Mulder was in near darkness now, with little more than a single dim pinpoint of light, a lone twinkle in a night sky and it couldn't even be a real star.  He was in silence, hearing only what thoughts it allowed him to hear.   Mulder wanted the pain to continue.  He didn't like the dull, dopey feeling that made it hard to stay awake, stay aware of the nothingness into which he was sinking.  But when he started to feel the bone-deep ache in his leg he felt connected again.  It was like the pain was the rungs of a ladder, making it easier to hold his place.  And when the rungs disappeared he had to cling desperately to one side, like a reverse fireman on a pole, trying not to slide down any further.  At the moment, he had rungs.
     	Skinner had his doubts.  He had his doubts about anything Mulder said these days, but
especially about the pain.  He didn't act like a man in pain, yet demanded the medication each
time it was offered.   He'd been tempted more than once to withhold the Demerol,  shoot it down
the sink so the doctor wouldn't know, but he couldn't do it.  There was no denying the damage to Mulder's body.  There had to be pain, and if the Mulder he kept asking wasn't feeling it, the other one was.   But why would it keep demanding the painkillers then?  Didn't it want to hurt Mulder? Wasn't that the idea?  Trying to relax, he brought out his other hand which held the pre-filled hypodermic syringe.  "Let's do the blood thinner first this time.  Then I'll go get your pill.  This won't hurt a bit."  If Scully was right, maybe doing this would get him some answers.  The uncertainty of everything he was trying to do for Mulder was getting to him.  
     	"I know."  Mulder reached across his body with his left hand, bringing the Y-junction of
the IV up to Skinner's reach.  
     	"Thank you," Skinner said as he inserted the needle and pushed the plunger.
     	Mulder put his hand back down, barely glancing up from the Newsweek.  
     	The door banged open again.  "Just what do you think you're doing?"   Dr. Marquette-Shilgate stormed in, lab coat flapping open, and pulled Skinner away from Mulder.  Skinner didn't get angry.  The eagle had already landed.  
     	"I'm giving the patient his medication.  As we agreed."
     	She grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him to the far side of the room.  "That's not
medication and you know it!" She kept her voice low, so as not to alarm the patient.  "One of the nurses saw you fill that syringe.  I don't care what our agreement was, you've just broken it.  I could have you up on charges.  In fact, I should have a long time ago.  I don't care if you are FBI, you can't just come in here and take over like this.  I've been a fool to let you get this far, and I'll be paying for it.  If the chief of staff hears about this, I'm history, thank you very much, and if you've compromised my patient, I'll --" 
	Skinner opened his mouth to defend himself, but only got as far as, "Listen," before a croaking noise interrupted their argument.  They turned to see that Mulder had dropped the magazine.  He sat straight up, his back as stiff as a broom handle, a difficult position given the angle of his left leg, his hands lay limply on the bed, his head tottered on his neck like a badly handled marionette.  His eyes stared straight ahead, blinking repeatedly, his breathing shallow and calm.  They were purposeful blinks, carefully regulated.  Skinner drew closer. "Mulder?"
     	A pause, then a single blink.
     	"One blink for yes, two blinks for no.  Is that right?"  Skinner guessed, noticing the doctor also moving closer to the bed, just behind him.  A single blink answered his question.  Yes.  Relief flooded over Skinner.  The horror wasn't over yet, he knew, but Mulder was still there. He had begun to doubt that.  Now he could get an honest answer to the question that haunted him.  "Mulder, are you in pain?" he asked.  
     	One blink.  Yes.
     	"I'll get you some Demerol."  He almost turned away, almost missed Mulder's frantic
reply.  Double blinks, repeated again and again.  "Percodan?"  Two blinks.  "Morphine?"  Could his pain be so bad that only Morphine would control it?  Mulder was still blinking twice, and Skinner suggested, the very idea disturbing him, "You don't want any pain medication?  None?"  One blink.  "Why?"
     	The doctor, realizing that Skinner's question could not be answered in blink, offered her
own answer, in a voice filled with disbelief.  "It lets him know he's alive."
     	Skinner's head swung back to look at the doctor who was watching both of them in
amazement, then returned to Mulder.  His jaw was working, but no sound came out.  He blinked once.  Concentration showed on his face.  Determination.  "More," he croaked, taking
exhausted breaths through his open mouth.
     	"What did you give him?  What's happening here?"  But Skinner was already moving toward the bathroom.  In his haste, he pushed her aside.  She could hear him in there, the swish of the shower curtain being pulled back, the slosh of an open bottle of liquid, the clink of the syringe against the mouth of the bottle.  When he came back with the loaded needle, Dr. Marquette-Shilgate was peering into Mulder's eyes, and taking his pulse from a limp,
yielding wrist.  "What did you give him?" she demanded.
     	"Hair of the dog," he replied, pushing past her to the IV and injecting several more units.  
     	"Mr. Skinner!"  the doctor objected.  
     	Mulder turned his head as if it might float away.  "Listen to him, doctor."  The words
slurred, only intelligible at all because of the deliberateness with which he spoke them.
     	"Mulder?"  Skinner asked.  "Mulder?"
     	The inflatable head turned with effort, "Sir," he said, breathing in short, shallow breaths.  "Scully?"
     	"Mr. Mulder," the doctor interrupted, "what's going on?  What did he give you and why?"
     	His swallow looked painful.  "Can't explain."  As they watched, his neck muscles
strengthened, his head steadyied, and his eyes began to clear.  His back relaxed and he eased himself back against the pillow, grimacing with the pain the movement caused.  Blinking, this
time to focus, he began to smile, and Skinner felt relief weaken his own legs.  It wasn't
the Grinch smile.  It was Mulder's own smile, reflected in his eyes, brightening the room.
     	"What?"  Dr. Marquette-Shilgate asked more forcefully.  "Would you mind telling me
what just happened here?"
     	Straightening from bending over Mulder, Skinner turned to the doctor.  "Mulder just woke up.  That's what happened."
     	"But this patient has been conscious --"
     	"That wasn't Mulder."
     	The doctor didn't say anything right away, but met Skinner's gaze.  "Are you --?"  She
couldn't come up with the words, but Skinner sensed her struggling to accept the unbelievable concept.
     	He put a hand on her shoulder.  "Agent Fox Mulder was, for lack of a better word,
possessed, at the scene of the train derailment."
     	"Don't be ridiculous,"  she said, more to herself than to him.  She ignored the hand on her shoulder.  Her mind was obviously elsewhere.  "Possessed?  Are you saying he's possessed by
evil spirits?"
     	"In essence, yes."  Let her use those terms, if it made it a little easier to understand.  "But just one evil spirit.  At least I hope there's just one."
     	"As near as I can tell, sir, that's correct,"  Mulder supplied, his teeth now gritted against the pain.  They turned back to the bed, getting the news from the horse's mouth.  "It's been controlling all my muscles.  I had the nerves, I could feel everything, but I couldn't move so much as an eyelid.  I could hear everything for awhile, but when it's in charge my sight is blurry, with tunnel vision.  It was alcohol, Doctor, in the syringe."  He said this last as if he were just realizing it himself.  "It was the only way to control it.  To give me a chance.  I have a voice again, and I can communicate and it's the most wonderful feeling in the world, other than being free of it all together."  He held his right hand, the one without the IV, in front of his face now, turning it back and forth, then flexing the fingers, gazing at it with a look of wonder, punctuated by grimaces as spikes of pain shot through him.  His left hand gripped the top sheet, forming pleats that splayed out from his fingers and ran over the edge of the bed.  With each spike, he gripped tighter, then relaxed a little, then gripped  again.  "It's drunk now, practically passed out, but it's still here,"  his eyes moved, listening to an unseen voice.  "It can hear us."  He raised his eyes to Skinner.  "Where's Scully?"
     	"She's on her way back.  She --"
     	"Don't,"  Mulder interrupted.  If she was coming back, she must have some idea of what
to do.  "Don't tell me.  It'll hear.  It'll fight you."
     	"Understood,"  Skinner replied tersely.  He didn't tell Mulder that Scully didn't have a
plan, didn't have an answer, but was coming back anyway.  
     	Observing the conversation, as well as her patient, Dr. Marquette-Shilgate looked
stunned.  She licked her lips.  "Mr. Mulder, what is this thing that's in you?  How did it ...?"
     	More relaxed now,  Mulder answered, "Believe me, you don't want to know what it is,
who it was.  It came in while I was unconscious, from a suspect I had tracked onto the train,
Samuel Drascic."    
     	"Drascic?"  the doctor asked.  "He's the man who was found grasping your leg.  Your
broken leg.  He died from his injuries."
     	"Technically,"  Mulder offered, "he was dead more than eight months ago.  It used his
body to commit at least three brutal murders, probably more.  Doctor, it's violent.  Extremely
violent.  And now, thanks to being stuck in this hospital and being drugged with alcohol, it's also extremely angry.  If we don't find a solution soon, it'll kill me."


George Washington University Hospital
10:26 PM


     	By the time she finally arrived back at George Washington University Hospital, Scully
had a risky, but workable plan.  She only hoped Skinner would back her up.  She called him
on the cell phone as she pulled into a parking space in the visitor's lot, got directions to Mulder's new room.  She went directly there, carrying her briefcase, and found Skinner and a female doctor in the hallway, watching through a large window.  It would have been easy to mistake them for proud parents in the pediatircs ward down the hall, were it not for the grim expressions on their faces.
     	"Dr. Marquette-Shilgate, this is Agent Dana Scully.  Scully, Dr. Marquette-Shilgate. 
She's ... in on it."  Skinner explained, "She was in the room when I gave him the alcohol."
     	"So that worked?  What happened?"  Curious, she joined them in front of the window,
and looked in at her partner, sitting up nervously in his bed, taking deep breaths, wincing now
and then at the pain in his tortured leg.  His face was turned away from them, looking at the
bleak alley view out the smaller window on the opposite wall.  He'd chosen a spot, Scully
suspected.  A pain control technique he'd heard about.  Concentrate on a particular spot, put all your attention on that spot, and supposedly the pain was easier to manage.  From the looks of things, the technique wasn't working.
     	Skinner and the doctor exchanged a glance, and Skinner allowed the doctor to answer Scully's question.  "Agent Mulder became coherent.  He refused more pain medication, and said we should NOT inform him of anything.  Do you ...do you know what to do?"  She was taken aback by the pained expression on Scully's face as she gazed through the window.  
     	"Coherent.  Perfect." Forcing her eyes away, Scully looked at the doctor, and at Skinner.  "I think so.  Could we use a conference room?  I have a lot to explain."
     	Nodding, the doctor lead them down the hallway, turned left at the corner, then right at the next, entering a room at the end.  After they were all in the room, she closed the door and pushed in the lock.  The room held a large round table surrounded by a dozen chairs.  On one wall there was a whiteboard, with several colored markers in its tray.  Two windows on the outer wall looked out on the street, where people passed on foot or in their automobiles, a couple of teenage boys on skateboards, all unaware of the evil in their midst.  Dr. Marquette-Shilgate sat down, with Skinner and Scully on either side of her.  Scully placed her briefcase on the table popped it open, its lid temporarily obscuring her view of Skinner.  She took out a stack of papers, closed the briefcase and put them on top of it.  
     	Impatient, Skinner asked, "Scully, do we have time for this?"
     	She replied calmly, "Yes. We do," as she sifted through the papers.  "I think I should start by explaining what I think is happening.  May I?"  She stood and stepped to the whiteboard, and at the doctor's nod of assent she picked up a marker at random.  It was green.  She drew a rough circle on the board and divided it into six sections, labeling the sections A through F.  "This is the brain.  Each of these sections, in general, represent functions we've been able to map.  A is reasoning, B and C are language and fine motor skills, D is gross motor skills, E is voluntary reflexes, and F is involuntary reflexes, vital functions.  We haven't mapped consciousness, and it's quite possible that it's a function of the whole and can't be mapped.
     	"Now what I believe happened is that this other consciousness, which I'll call Sam for
simplicity's sake, moved in -- by what mechanism I don't know -- and took command of all the
higher brain functions, at least A through D, possibly all or part of E.  Eventually, Sam could
control F as well, but only when it's necessary.  I think Mulder, his consciousness, is in F,
crowded into F with everything else.  It's like having two high-energy appliances plugged into the same outlet."
     	"Eventually, one of them is going to blow up,"  the doctor said, staring at Scully's
diagram.
     	"More or less.  Most likely, Sam will have to 'unplug' Mulder to continue using his body
or risk its vital functions shutting down.  What the alcohol did was weaken Sam's hold on these upper regions," and she pointed to sections A through D with the back end of the pen, "allowing Mulder to regain control of them.  But it doesn't drive Sam out.  Alcohol affects the brain in alphabetical order on this chart.  If Mulder's coherent, he has to exist in an unaffected area, the last one, F. We can't give him enough alcohol to drive Sam out without destroying E and F in the process, physically destroying the brain cells and effectively killing both of them.  There is only one way to get rid of Sam, but it's very risky."  She paused, waiting for objections.
     	"Go on, Scully," Skinner prompted.
     	She returned to her seat and folded her arms on top of the briefcase.  "The best way to
explain it is to use another analogy for the brain.  Instead of appliances, think of the whole brain as a computer.  Sam is a virus.  How do you get rid of a computer virus?"
     	"Reboot," the doctor answered immediately.
     	"But sometimes that doesn't work.  Sometimes the whole system is trashed," Skinner
objected.
     	"That's right,"  Scully conceded, "but remember that Mulder is still present.  Mulder
represents the collection of programs, utilities, games, and other software one accumulates over time.  Human memory is like the hard drive."  She again indicated the diagram on the board, "Areas A through E would be considered random access memory, RAM, which pulls data from
the hard drive to perform tasks.  When you shut down a computer, RAM gets wiped out.  F would be read-only memory, or ROM, which holds instructions for starting up."  She could see that both Skinner and the doctor were beginning to get the gist of it.  And neither one liked it.  "Normally, this particular computer never reboots.  Everything stays in RAM for the life of the system.  But in this case, the virus, Sam, has pushed the normal contents of RAM, in fact, the entire hard drive, down into ROM.  If we can clear out RAM, the contents of ROM can return to their normal places."
     	Dr. Marquette-Shilgate said aloud what the other two were too afraid to say.  "You're talking about killing him.  Brain dead is dead.  That's why it's the legal definition now. I can't support that."
     	"I understand your objections, doctor,"  Scully reassured her, "but if you think either of us like this any better you're wrong.  I said this plan was risky."
     	Skinner's eyes were unfocused.  He was trying to absorb the ideas behind Scully's words.   She waited for him to voice a question, then, when he didn't, continued.  "In Chicago, I saw a woman named Samantha Carson who'd had Sam in her for over six years.  She was an alcoholic for most of that time.  Until her husband forced her to dry out.  Literally, forced her.  About a week later, she died when Sam transferred, but was revived.  Now the only thing left in ROM was those basic vital functions - heartbeat, respiration, digestion -- SHE was gone.  She'd been unplugged.  We still have time to do the same thing with Mulder; we know he's still there.  It can work.  If we're the ones in control."
     	"When?  How much longer can we wait?"  Skinner asked.
     	"We have to wait for the alcohol to wear off."
     	Skinner's chest constricted in fear.  "We have to -- let Sam take over again?  Why not now?"
     	"Sir, we have to be sure all of Mulder is back in F.  He's not now.  The alcohol has given him freedom.  If there's any of him in those other sections, in RAM, that will disappear too.  We can't do anything until Sam comes back.  Completely."
     	"How would you --?"  He still didn't want to say it.
     	"50cc's of potassium chloride.  It'll stop his heart.  He'll go brain dead about four minutes after that.  We'll have to revive him immediately.  Doctor, we'll need to add a continuous EEG.  Maybe you can do that while Mulder is coherent, but don't explain to him why it's being done.  Make up something, or do it while he's sleeping.  As soon as we can determine that Sam's back in control, I'll inject the PC into Mulder's IV line."
     	"No, Scully."  Skinner remembered what Sam had told him.  That he was waiting for
Scully.  "It's too dangerous.  I've been giving him medications through the IV.  It won't look
suspicious if I do it."
     	Dr. Marquette-Shilgate leaned back in her chair.  "I can't let either one of you do it.  That would open this hospital up to a huge lawsuit.  You may have a medical license, Agent Scully, but you are not on staff at this hospital.  And we're not talking about a prescribed course of treatment here, Mr. Skinner.  This is euthanasia."  Just as the two agents, assuming  she was backing out on them, gave her dirty looks, she added, "If anyone does it, it has to be me.  My malpractice insurance will cover it if anything goes sour."
     	"Doctor, I can assure you that there will be no action taken against the hospital no matter what the outcome here.  You have nothing to worry about on that account."  After a moment, he added, "the FBI and Mulder's family have complete trust in Dr. Scully's medical advice.  If it doesn't work, it will be because it couldn't work.  Scully will give him the injection.  You'll need to be prepared to begin resuscitation if Scully can't." 
     	"What time did you give Mulder the alcohol, sir?"
     	Skinner thought a moment.  He'd looked at his watch more than once, but couldn't
remember.
     	"About 10 P.M.," the doctor supplied.
     	"Then we'll do it at ten tomorrow morning.  Twelve hours should be enough to be certain.  I'm sure there will be other indications to go by as well.  Don't forget that EEG, doctor.  And now I suggest we all get a good night's sleep.  We'll need to be at our best tomorrow."


George Washington University Hospital
3:12 A.M.

     	Not long after he was left alone, Mulder pushed the button to recline the bed fully,
holding it until he was horizontal, easing the tension on his hip.  He stared at the ceiling.  Damn, not even any holes to count.  It was plain, flat plaster.   Although he felt more or less like himself, things hadn't changed much.  He was still waiting for something to happen.  He'd noticed Skinner and the doctor watching him through that big bay window, knew somehow that
Skinner had been nearly a permanent fixture there since he'd been moved, even though he
himself hadn't seen him.  The thing had seen him.  But Skinner wasn't there now.  The exterior
curtains had been drawn for the night, but no shadow told of his presence.  
     	When he'd first felt the effects of the alcohol, Mulder didn't know what was happening. 
But it didn't take long to notice that the other thought voice was growing weaker.  His vision
began to return, the little pinpoint of light he had left, like the white dot in the middle of an old television screen after you turned it off, began to grow.  Blurry shadows appeared and he began to hear outside voices again, then the blurry shadows took on color and began to clarify.  Before he knew it, he was blinking his eyes.  His own eyes!  He heard Skinner talk to him and he could answer in rudimentary fashion, and felt he had no right to expect more.  His jaw moved, could he speak?  Noticing Skinner held an empty syringe, Mulder knew he'd been given something.  Whatever it was, he wanted more.  He heard himself ask for it!  And he heard that other voice telling him to stop Skinner, that he was poisoning us (did he use the word us, like they were friends?) with alcohol.  
     	By the time he was staring at his flexing hand in wonder he felt like Superman, standing
on top of the world with his arms akimbo, the flag waving behind him while a booming voice
intoned "truth, justice, and the American way".   Coming back was almost like a narcotic.  He
knew it wasn't over yet.  The thing was still there.  He sensed it.  But this was progress.  All that was left was for someone to get the dirt out from under the rug and sweep it out the door.  The worst was over.
     	Relaxing into his pillow, Mulder was taken off guard when the first flash of memory hit. 
He saw a woman screaming, her disheveled blonde hair,  dirty streaks of tears running down her
cheeks.  A butcher knife came down.  An ax swung high to his right and descended toward his
left.  A smoking, red-tipped fireplace poker jabbed forward and back, forward and back.  Blood
splattered on a window, running down an arm, pooling on the floor, gushing like Old Faithful
from a man's opened throat.  They were not Mulder's memories.  But it seemed to him as if they
could be.  He remembered being there, hearing the screaming, the pleading, the choking sobs. 
But worse than all that was remembering what it had felt like.  The overbalanced weight of the ax head as he held the light wood of the handle.  The handle had been wrapped with friction tape for gripping, but it was old and peeling.  The thin, octagonal rod of the poker had felt cold, even though the tip had glowed red, sending a pleasant wave of heat back towards him.  Warm, wet spots hit his face, like a warm rain, but the drops were glistening red.   The impact of a metal wrench into someone's head sent shock waves all the way up to his shoulders.  The warm, oily slick of blood on his hands, thick and plentiful.  
     	It horrified him now, but he also remembered the emotions connected with these flashes. 
There was no horror then.  There had been some anger, but mostly just ... curiosity.  Simple curiosity.  A need to see everything, touch everything, even if it was something normally surrounded by bodily tissue.  There was no remorse.  No regrets.  Even now.  But now there WAS anger.  Mulder could sense a fury smoldering in that other mind.  The thing felt it had been tricked, and vowed revenge as soon as it regained control.
     	Mulder rubbed his forehead and eyes with both hands, feeling the light touch of the IV
line against his left forearm, trying to stop the memories.  Wherever you're going, take these
damn things with you!  He kept his hands over his eyes, somehow finding comfort in the absolute
darkness.  Had he grown used to it already?  
     	The door squeaked, and Mulder opened his eyes, bringing his hands down just enough to
see.  The lights in the room were dim, and the open door let in a triangle of bright hallway light.  It backlit the drawn drapes of the observation window, making them look like a wrinkled movie screen embedded in the wall.  Silhouetted in the doorway, a dark shadow stood with one hand on the doorknob.   It could only be of her.  "Mulder, it's me."  The door closed, and he could see Scully clearly.  Before the light disappeared, he was able to distinguish her lime green satin pajamas, but in the dark they seemed to glow white.  She was waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light, but he saw her as clearly as if it had been broad daylight.  "Are you awake?"
     	"Scully."  He'd begun to think he wouldn't see her again.  How long would that pinpoint
of light have lasted if they hadn't injected the alcohol?  Would he have disappeared with the light, or existed for a time in the total darkness?  He didn't want to find out.  Scully must have told them about the alcohol; it certainly wasn't something that doctor would suggest.  It gave him confidence to believe that there was enough of a physical basis at work here that Scully could figure it out.  He felt safer now that she was here.
     	Slowly she stepped forward, padding over the floor in her matching Isotoner slippers,
closer to the bed, finding a chair by feel and sitting in it, then inching it close until her knees touched the mattress.  With a little more confidence, she found his right hand and grasped it tightly.  There was a sadness on her face that Mulder didn't like.  "What time is it?"  he asked.
     	"About three A.M."  she said.  "I couldn't sleep."  Dr. Marquette-Shilgate had shown her
to the same on-call room that Skinner had used before.  He slept there now.  She didn't know how.  She avoided Mulder's eyes and he got the sense that she left the lights off not out of courtesy to him, but because she didn't want to be seen clearly.  He watched her examine the machine readouts, the tiny red and green lights, the on-screen spiked lines that represented his heart rate, and the new one that the doctor had just installed.  He recognized it as an EEG unit, knew it had to do with whatever strategy had been set into motion and avoided asking the doctor any questions.  She had taken care of it quietly, professionally, with a nice fake smile and "good night" when she left.  "I had to see you,"  Scully whispered, also pointedly ignoring  the monitoring machines.  Mulder said nothing, but enjoyed the touch of her hand.  He moved his a little, splaying the fingers so they intertwined with hers.  He heard her breath catch in her throat.  She cleared it loudly, nervously.  "Mulder, I have some questions to ask you.  You told Skinner that whatever you know, it knows."
     	"Yes."
     	"Is the reverse also true?  Do you know what it knows?"
     	Could she have suspected?  "I didn't before.  I do now.  Not everything, but a lot."  He
didn't want to get into specifics.  He hoped she wouldn't ask for any.
     	"You know Skinner put me on the case."
     	"I told him to."
     	"I tracked it backwards.  Do these names seem familiar to you?  Old Fuzzy.  George
Carson.  Samantha Carson."
     	"Ed Gein."  Mulder finished the sequence.  "Yes."  Scully's red hair looked dull in the dim light.  The shimmer was gone, and not just from her hair.  He could barely stand to look at her face.  Maybe he was the only who could see it, but she was barely in control.  She seemed on the verge of breaking down, he was sure of it.  "And a hundred years before that, it was Jack the Ripper in London,"  he told her, knowing that facts would help her keep hold of it.  He couldn't handle it if she broke.  Not Scully.  Never.  "That's why they never caught him.  It was three different men that year, none of them named Jack.  It thought that was funny.  It came over in 1925, in a fourteen year old boy who lived on the streets of New York like the Artful Dodger had done in 'Oliver Twist'.  Stealing wallets and purses.  Then stealing lives.  It made the boy drop in an alley on the Lower East Side and took the prostitute that found him and tried to save his life.  In 1928, it took one of her clients, a rising stock broker.  When the crash hit, he lost everything.  The papers said he jumped, but he was pushed.  From the inside.  It was a close call.  For awhile it thought no one would come before he died, even though he called for help before he jumped, but he managed to take one of the three doctors who worked on the stock broker.  It stayed in the doctor for a long time.  In 1937 --"
     	"Stop," Scully whispered.  "Please, stop."  Her fingers pushed tighter into his.  
     	He could feel the pressure on the little webs in between.  He stopped talking then, and
just looked at her.  Even though it hurt him.  She acted as if she wouldn't be able to help him, but he knew that had to be wrong.  He didn't dare ask her about it, but there had to be a plan by now.  Right?  The alcohol was part of it.  The start.  Now tell me what I have to do to push him the rest of the way out.  The wheels were in motion, he told himself.  Scully's here.  She has an answer.  She'll help me.  But that wasn't what the expression on her face was telling him.
     	Scully could see Mulder better now than when she'd first come in.  His eyes were
twinkling, she could see that.  He was happy.  Not ecstatic, he knew there was still a problem, but happy.  He was in control again for the first time in three days.  Optimism was there.  And trust.  Trust in her to solve the problem.  But she wasn't nearly as certain about this tactic as she had let on in the conference room.   It occurred to her that this dimly lit shadow might be the last time she saw Mulder, the real Mulder.  This plan could fail.  Oh, they'd succeed in destroying Sam, she was reasonably sure about that.  But she wasn't that sure she could do it without destroying Mulder, too.  After all, Dr. Marquette-Shilgate had been right.  Brain dead was brain dead.  And the sight of his trusting face looking up into hers twisted her heart like someone wringing out a wet rag.  You trust me, and I'm going to kill you, she thought.
     	Neither one of them knew how long they sat there.  Looking at each other.  And hurting
each other.
     	Until Scully felt herself being jiggled awake.  "Scully.  Scully, wake up."
     	She'd fallen asleep, her head on Mulder's chest.  Immediately, she checked the clock on
the wall, her eyes focusing without a problem.  It wasn't as dim in here as before.  It was just after six A.M.  Her head spun back to Mulder, who was breathing hard, in panic.   His eyes appeared to see nothing.
     	"Mulder, I'm here."
     	His unseeing eyes didn't move toward her.  They stared upward.  "I need a drink, another
shot.  More alcohol.  It's coming back."
     	It was then that Scully realized her hand was still entwined with his.  Carefully, she
extracted it and his fell limply back to the bed.  It was beginning.  He'd lost major muscle control already.  
     	"Please hurry, Scully.  I don't want to go back."  He was fighting, she had to give him
that.  Fierce concentration furrowed his brow, punctuated with swallows and gulps.  It wouldn't be long before the words he spoke no longer belonged to him.  She took a step back from the bed.  "Don't make me go back.  God.  Get me a damn drink!"  He was afraid, more afraid than she'd ever seen him because this time he knew exactly what was happening, where he was going, and worse, no doubt wondering why she wasn't hurrying to grant his request.  Returning to solitary confinement with only the pain, raw, alive, unaffected by any numbing drug, to keep him company.
     	And just like that, he was gone.  Maybe not completely yet, but incapacitated.  The
Mulder in the bed turned his head toward her, the ripples on the pillow caressing his cheek, moist with perspiration from his mental struggle.  He took a few more deep breaths, then growled at her in complete rage, his lips curling in a wolf-like snarl.  "You bitch!  You motherfucking whore!  Wait until I get you, you'll be sorry you were ever born!"
     	Scully didn't even hear it all, although he yelled louder as she disappeared from view. 
She turned at the first snarled word and raced from the room,  running down the hall, the leather soles of her slippers hardly making any noise, to the single-stall hallway restroom. She closed and locked the door behind her, then fell against it.  She slid down and sat, her knees pulled up tight, her elbows drawn in.  With a muffling hand over her mouth, she let go.


George Washington University Hospital
9:55 A.M.

     	Back in the suit she'd worn to Utah, not quite crisp but fresh enough, Scully stood in the hallway outside Mulder's room.  Skinner stood beside her.  Apparently, she'd been wrong about him sleeping.  He certainly didn't look it.  The beard did not look good on him, though it might after a week or two.  If it weren't for the clean suit, he could have been mistaken for a street bum, bloodshot eyes bleary with fatigue.  "Did you sleep?"  she asked him.
     	"Did you?"  he shot back at her.  He had tried, probably dozed a little.  He hadn't
heard Scully leave the on-call room, but had remembered waking a couple of times, noticing her
absence.  Using his Marine Corps discipline, he'd tried to force himself to sleep, really sleep, but it hadn't worked.  He felt old, tired, and dirty even though he'd showered again.  The beard felt strange, but he didn't trust himself to shave.  His hands shook just holding himself to urinate, he certainly didn't need to put a sharp implement into them.  Scully's eyes dropped in response to his question.  "I'll be all right,"  he told her.  "You have the hard part today.  Are you sure you're up to it?"
     	At the implication that she was not, she looked up at him sharply.  "I have to be.  He's
counting on me."
     	Dr. Marquette-Shilgate was approaching them now, pushing a red crash cart in front of
her.  She wore a long white lab coat over her street clothes, with another one slung over one arm.  "Good morning," she said, parking the cart by the wall.  It was not a cheerful greeting, and it seemed the night had been long for her as well.  The doctor held up the extra lab coat by its shoulders, allowing Scully to slip into it.  "PC in the right pocket.  Epi in the left."
     	Scully nodded, understanding.
     	"Epi?  Epinephrine?"  Skinner asked.
     	"To revive him.  Get his heart beating again," Scully explained, then, to the doctor, "It's in a heart needle, right?"
     	The doctor nodded.  Scully's hands dipped into the pockets to examine their contentsand she nodded as well.  The doctor stepped to the side of the observation window and pulled
the cord, opening the drapes.  The three of them looked in at Mulder, who lay quietly on the bed, his eyes open.  On the opposite wall, the drapes over the exterior window remained
closed.   
     	"I'll be engaging him in conversation first," Scully said, still watching the man on the bed, "but it won't take much to determine if the time is right.  After injecting him, I'll come back out immediately.  The EKG should flat line quickly, but we can't do anything until the EEG flat lines.  We all know our parts, then, right?  There won't be time for questions."  Her two companions nodded, but she only saw it out of the corner of her eye having already started for the door.  "Let's get it started."  
     	"Scully."  Skinner couldn't stop himself from grasping her arm to detain her.  She turned her face turned toward him expectantly.  "Be careful.  I ..."  There was too much to say, and not enough time to say it.  He didn't want to be leaving here today minus one agent in the FBI, much less minus two.  Should he tell her about its plan to use her next?  That it had been waiting for her just as they had?  Would it make a difference in what she did in that room, or in the outcome of this whole thing?  No.  It would just add one more layer of worry, yet another idea to distract her from what needed to be done.   She was looking at him calmly, waiting for him to finish the sentence.  "Be careful,"  was all he could manage to say.
     	"Good luck," Dr. Marquette-Shilgate said, her voice soft.
     	Scully opened the door, and stepped inside, intensely aware of the audience standing at
the window.  The door closed behind her with a click.  "Good morning, Mulder."
     	"Yeah."  
     	"How are you feeling this morning?"  Her fingers played with the plastic cylinders in her
right-hand pocket.  She forced her hand out of the pocket, scratching the right side of her neck nervously.  She stayed a healthy distance from the bed.
     	"Better," he said, his eyes dark and lackluster, watched her.  "Much better."
       "I'd like to check your dressing."  She indicated the bandage on his head.  "Is that all right?"  Slowly, she walked around to the left side of the bed, where the IV apparatus would be within easy reach, knowing that side would also put her within easy reach.  The butterflies in her stomach began to swarm as she leaned over Mulder's body to reach the bandage.  She had been thinking of Sam as an it, but now it looked at her with Mulder's eyes; spoke to her with Mulder's voice.  He looked at her steadily, at her arms floating within inches of his face, the loose sleeves of the coat hanging down, and the taut face above them, her eyes directed at the bandage but, he knew, watching him as well.  Carefully, she lifted the cotton pad to see the stitched wound underneath, was relieved that there appeared to be no infection present.  "It looks good,"  she said.  As she straightened, she reached quickly into her right hand pocket and pulled out a syringe.  "The pain must be bad by now.  I'm sorry last night's dosage got lost, but this will help you feel better soon."
     	Mulder's left hand came up, whipping the IV tubing from her hand, and gripped her forearm  below her wristwatch.  "No."  Just one word, and the iron grip on her arm.  
     	Scully's stomach tightened into a knot.  It knew.  Somehow it knew this wasn't just a
painkiller.  Mulder must have guessed what they might do, unable to stop Sam from picking up on it in the same instant.  Thinking quickly, she brought up her left hand to take the syringe.  It would be difficult to accomplish with her off hand, but not impossible.   She moved to plunge the needle home, but Mulder's right arm shot, catching her hand inches away from its goal.  His hard, cold eyes were locked onto her face, not even trying to observe anything else.  He just knew.  This was a mistake.  Sam knew Scully as well as Mulder did, and Mulder always knew what she was going to do.  They'd worked together too long, and Mulder was too good at reading people to hide it, especially from Sam.  
     	In the hallway, Skinner grew nervous.  At least he could see both Mulder and Scully,
didn't have to guess what was going on, but he didn't like it.  He longed to walk away, to tell the doctor to call him when it was over, but he couldn't.  As Mulder locked his hands on Scully's arms, he ran to the doorway, but stopped himself and crept into the room quietly, to stand just inside.  Unnoticed, he hoped.
     	"So."  Scully said.
     	"Get ready.  Here I come."  His upper lip curled in an Elvis Presley sneer.  Are you lonesome tonight?
     	"No, you don't,"  she told him.  "You'd have to kill Mulder first, and his hands would let go.  I'm not going to hang around when that happens.  Not like Samuel Drascic hung around for Old Fuzzy.  You'll have no where to go, so you might as well give it up."  His grip grew tighter instead, causing a sudden pain to shoot from her wrists to her fingers.  With effort, she kept from wincing.  He held both arms below her wrists, where she had no hope of twisting away.
     	"I can do worse than kill him.  You have no idea.  Drop the syringe."  
     	"No."  Scully threw his own concise answer back at him.
     	"When I tell you to drop it, you drop it."  With the last two words, he banged Scully's arm into the square box of the EKG twice for emphasis, sending the syringe flying.  Skinner saw it land, slide partway under the closed bathroom door needle first, the flange too large to fit under.
     	Scully heard the soft clatter as it hit the floor, then hissed as he forced her arm painfully up behind her back.  "You're hurting me."  The more she struggled the tighter he held her, until the pain forced her to stop trying.
     	"That's the plan.  See, *I* tell you my plans.  You should return the favor.  What's in the hypos?  Can't be what you told me it was.  More alcohol?  You're far too late for that."  His head shook slightly from side to side, his eyes remaining tiveted on her the whole time.  Like a vampire, he brought her right hand toward his mouth, playfully licking the air and biting, but instead of clamping his teeth on her numbed fingers, he took the thick plastic IV fixture from the back of his own hand in his mouth and tore it away, tape and all, ripping a wound that bubbled blood.  He spat the fixture and it landed on his pillow, slipping down to the mattress with a soft plop.  Still his eyes stayed on Scully's face.  
     	She tried to hold his gaze, too, not wanting to back down, but the doctor in her had to look at the wound.  Blood flowed down his forearm to his elbow, dripping steadily onto the sheet, which absorbed it in a growing, feathery circle.  "Let me tend to that, Mulder," she begged.  "You're on blood thinners.  It might not stop on its own."  The steel bands wrapped around her arms did not loosen.  She could see his pulse as the wound in the back of his hand burped blood with each beat.
     	Imagining their universe reduced to the foot of air between them, Skinner stepped lightly past the window, exchanging a glance with the doctor still watching outside, then moved to the bathroom door, crouching to retrieve the syringe.  Nudging it out with one finger, he picked it up between thumb and forefinger, holding it like a dart.
     	"One more step, and I'll kill him right now.  You'll never get him back."  It was talking
to Skinner, but never moved Mulder's head.
     	Skinner stopped, standing in the middle of the room.  They'd had this planned, he thought.  How could it have gone so badly so quickly?  Again he looked at Dr. Marquette-Shilgate.  Two hospital workers walked past behind her, talking and gesturing.  She ignored them, mouthing the words, "Do it." 
     	It would take two steps to get there.  Mulder and Scully were immobile, like high school kids in a staring contest.  Skinner could see the blood streaming down Mulder's arm.  It
looks like more than it is, he told himself.  That's the way blood is.  It always looks like more.  He counted down silently to himself.  Three.  Two.  One.
     	Skinner shot forward, holding the syringe curled in his fingers like a dagger. He pulled back for momentum, and with a mental "Bonsai!" brought his arm forward, aiming for Mulder's right shoulder.  With lightning-fast reflexes, Mulder's right ahnd shot out ot grab Skinner's wrist. Skinner tried to plunge the needle in anywhere he could, but the angle wouldn't work.  His hand just wriggled uselessly in the air.  He hand clawed at Mulder's hand, then gave up and reached to take the syringe into his left hand.  Mulder's grip tightened suddenly. Skinner's trapped fingers splayed in pain and the syringe fell harmlessly to the bed.  A soft kick from under the sheet sent it off the bed on the far side, where Skinner couldn't see.  The sound of it hitting the floor seemed loud.  
     	Scully took advantage of Mulder's distraction to slip her left hand into her right pocket, forcing her stiff, bloodless fingers to cooperate, pulling out a second syringe.  She plunged the needle deep into the open wound on the back of Mulder's left hand, managing to push down the plunger through the pure luck of having picked it up with her fingers in the right position.  If she had grabbed it any other way, the movement would have required her to shift the position of her hand with the needle in the target, but the plunger still up.  The brief pause while she shifted to push the plunger would have been enough to allow Mulder to fling it away.  Mulder released Skinner and grabbed Scully.  Once again he had her by both arms, smiling slightly.  "Get out, sir!" she shouted.
     	"Scully!"  It was touching her.  That was all Skinner could think about it.  The transfer took physical contact and it was touching her.  He took a step toward the door, but then froze again, unwilling to leave Scully.
     	"Sir, get the hell out of here, now!"  she yelled, twisting painfully in the grip.   Mulder wasn't talking now.  All his concentration was set on maintaining his hold on her arms.  She heard the EKG's beeping start to fluctuate, saw Mulder's breathing turn to gasps, saw his eyes cloud over, then close.  The beeping became more rapid, speeding up as if it were on fast forward.  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, his hands loosened on her arms.  She was able to twist free of his left one, weakened by loss of blood, and was able to pry his fingers off her other arm and pull free.  Momentum flung her backward onto the floor.
     	The EKG flat lined.  The EEG display continued, without so much as a blip.  She scrambled to her feet, racing for the door, half a step behind Skinner, whose paralysis disappeared as soon as she rose to her feet.  They escaped into the hallway, letting the door close behind them.  Leaning with one hand on the wall for support, she fixed her eyes on her wristwatch, which had somehow escaped being damaged in the scuffle.  And waited.  Her forearms now sported purple, spotty bruises like matching bracelets.  Skinner moved to the window, where the doctor stood watching Mulder.  "Oh my God," the doctor said.
     	"Scully ..." Skinner rasped.  "He's convulsing."
     	"Impossible."  His heart had stopped.  His tissues were getting no oxygen.  There was no
way the muscles could contract.  But as she joined them at the window she saw they were right. 
Mulder's body was spasming violently, making Linda Blair's bed hopping in Exorcist look restful.  Blood sprayed from the wound on his hand and made an erratic pattern on the floor that almost reached to the observation window.  The heavily cast leg in the sling swayed wildly, and the doctor grimaced and turn away.
     	"I think he just dislocated his hip again," she said, unable to watch further.  She took her position at the crash cart, her knuckles white on the handlebar.
     	"It's something we can fix."  Scully looked from her watch to the EEG and back again,
barely noticing the thrashing.
     	"Can't you do something?"  Skinner croaked.
     	She looked at Skinner with sympathy in her eyes.  "I don't know how he's doing it, but he
just wants us to go back in there.  It's a trick."  She hoped she sounded more sure than she felt. "You don't have to watch."
     	"Yes I do."  He couldn't explain it, not now.  After spending so much time watching
Mulder, watching that thing become Mulder, he couldn't very well not watch this.  If these were its death throes, he wanted to see everything, even if Mulder went with it.  
     	Suddenly, the sounds of the machinery stopped, causing Scully to look up.  "His sensors
fell off,"  Skinner told her.  He had seen them spin away, like phone wires in a hurricane.  Without the machines, how would they know when to revive him?


     	Mulder didn't understand why Scully hadn't given him more alcohol when he had asked
for it.  She had just stared at him like he was turning into the Wolf Man, then his sight became blurry and then he was back in the hole.  What was worse, the thing wasn't talking to him, either.  Not even to taunt.  Its attention was elsewhere, because, Mulder thought, the jig was up.  Scully and Skinner were finally doing something and it was paying close attention.  What plan could they have that would require that he be put through this again?  He was in the dark in both senses of the term now.  Depression overwhelmed him, and he began to believe that death really was the only way out.  
     	Until his heart stopped beating.  
     	He'd gotten so used to it, that it surprised him when it stopped.  Had he let his control
slip?  As he'd done before, he pictured the heart, imagined it pumping, yet his own did not follow suit this time.  His chest tightened, and he knew he wasn't breathing.  He meant to.  It just wasn't happening.  The ball of fear he'd been holding onto began to unravel into a long thread of panic.  Was the thing merely taking those activities away from him, preparing for the final move to the full control of his body, or was his body, either on its own or with help from Scully, dying?  Had she determined that forcing the issue was the only recourse? 
     	He had no time for any further coherent thought.  Unable to see or hear anything, not even the unwanted thought voice, the new pain came out of nowhere.  It made the throbbing agony of his mangled leg seem like a stubbed toe by comparison.  The tiny point of light he could see jumped around erratically, as if he were riding a violent roller coaster in the dark, but without the safety harness.  It meant nothing.  Not when someone was playing 'loves me -- loves me not' with his nerve endings.  He felt his left hip pop out of its socket.  Was he dying?  If so, he hoped he was the only one in the room.  His body was moving violently, slamming up and down on the bed.  Over and over.  One of the ropes holding the sling in the air frayed through, letting the heavy cast fall like an anchor, but it too rose and fell, though not as high.  Each time his body hit the bed, an exclamation point of pain shot through it.  He felt muscles being pulled, ligaments being torn, but could not hold himself still.  His shoulders ached as momentum flailed his arms around, threatening to disjoint them as well.  He waited, drowning in a sea of white hot torment, for his neck to break.  It might have.  He didn't know.  Because everything stopped.


     	"Don't take your eyes off him.  Tell me the second the convulsions stop."  With Scully
staring at the second hand on her watch, Skinner pleaded with his eyes.  It seemed like hours that the thrashing had gone on.  Scully was muttering under her breath.  Finally, he was able to make out the words.  "Too soon.  Too soon." 
     	Finally, just when it seemed Mulder's body might come apart at the seams, he flopped
like a rag doll and stayed put, resting on the disjointed hip, the cast partly off the bed, ready to overbalance him onto the floor.
     	"Now!"  Skinner said.
     	The three rushed into the room, Skinner and Scully behind the doctor with the crash cart, but Scully reached him first, pushed his torso flat to the mattress, and yanked the hospital gown up, baring his chest.  Her fingers felt for the right spot while her other hand reached into the lab coat pocket, pulling out a syringe with a longer, thicker needle.  Without a second thought, she plunged it into his chest, making Skinner cringe.  Tossing the empty syringe on the floor, she pinched Mulder's nose and breathed into his mouth, then began chest compressions. 
     	While Scully worked, Dr. Marquette-Shilgate set up the defibrillator.  A soft
whine indicated the charge building, and she squeezed clear jelly on the two metal paddles, then rubbed them together.  "Clear!"
     	Scully moved back, allowing the doctor to place the paddles on Mulder's chest and activate them.  Mulder's body leaped as the shock passed through him.  By this time, Skinner had gathered the sensors from where they had fallen and handed them to Scully, a bouquet of disc-tipped wires.  Deftly, she placed them on Mulder's chest, and the machinery came alive.  The EKG machine still showed a flat line, beeping its monotone, but the EEG showed activity.  Small peaks ran across the display.  Encouraged, Scully pushed another breath into Mulder's mouth while Dr. Marquette-Shilgate recharged.  "Clear!"  Scully moved back.  Again, the charge passed into Mulder's body and again his back arched then relaxed.  
     	"Turn it up," Scully said when the monitors showed no effect.  "Again."
     	A third charge, and even the doctor looked disappointed.  Although the EEG improved
slightly, it was still far below normal, and the EKG remained stubbornly flat.
     	"Again."
     	"Agent Scully, it's been too long."
     	"You'll stop when I tell you to stop,"  Scully said.  "Now do it again!"
     	The paddles recharged, the doctor uttered a dispirited, "Clear," then sent a fourth  charge through Mulder.  And a fifth.  A single peak appeared on the EKG.  Then another.  Long pauses in between, but the peaks now came steady.  The three waited in tense silence, watching the machines, their own breathing short and rapid.  Gradually, the rhythm on both machines stabilized, returning to normal levels.  
     	He was back.
     	Dr. Marquette-Shilgate pulled a roll of gauze from a well-stocked lab coat pocket, and began gently wrapping Mulder's left hand.  She looked like a trainer wrapping a boxer's hand before a fight, but as the gauze soaked through, she kept wrapping, until the bandage looked like a the boxing glove itself.  He might need a stitch or two, but this would hold it for now.  "It's still not over, is it, Agent Scully?" she asked, using a butterfly clip to secure the bandage.
     	Realizing she was feeling faint, Scully reached behind her for a chair.  Skinner slid one under her, resting a steadying hand on her back as she doubled over to send oxygenated blood to her brain.  "He has to wake up," she told her knees.  
     	"After what Sam just put him through, that could be awhile."  All business, Dr. Marquette-Shilgate walked to the foot of the bed.  "Mr. Skinner, could you hold his torso,
please?"  She grasped the plaster encased leg in two hands, waiting for Skinner to get into position.  "Hold him tight."  She yanked backwards, hard, aligning the ball of his hip with the socket, then pushed forward even harder, reuniting them.  An audible pop announced her success.  "Thank you."  She was now examining the broken rope and pulley.  "I'll get him a new sling later," she told Skinner as she dextrously tied a knot in the rope.  "As long as he doesn't struggle, this should do fine until then."  
     	Raising her head, Scully said, "Give him Demerol.  Full dose."
     	"You all right, Scully?"  Skinner asked, moving his hand from her back to the back of the chair, while the doctor stepped out to get the Demerol.  
     	Her breathing slowly returning to normal, Scully watched Mulder resting on the bed.  "I'm
still shaking," she said.  "The convulsions were bad.  I wasn't expecting them."  Pulling herself out of the chair with a grip on the bed, she moved slowly, stiffly, as if she had been the one convulsing, to the other end, reaching slowly to lift the head bandage again.  Maybe she was hoping for him to react as he had before, grabbing her.  It almost felt like he did.  If she closed her eyes she could feel the iron grip around both forearms, just past the wrists.  They were purple with bruising, but this time no lightning reflexes lashed out to catch them.  Under his bandage, the wound looked the same as it had before.  The stitches hadn't pulled or broken.  The pillow had cushioned Mulder's head enough to prevent that, at least.  She folded the cotton pad back down, adjusting the gauze around his head slightly to hold it in place.  Then she opened each eye and, satisfied by the pupils reaction to the ambient light, returned to her chair.
     	Coming back with the Demerol, Dr. Marquette-Shilgate injected the painkiller into Mulder's left bicep.  Pulling out a penlight, she also opened each of Mulder's eyes in turn, shining the light into them.  "So far, so good.  He didn't blow a pupil."  With one hand, she brushed her hair back away from her face.  "Even with the Demerol, he'll feel like he's been hit ... well ... by a train." She looked up at the clock on the wall so she could log the medication time on his chart.  It was 10:07.
     	"Scully," Skinner said.  "I have a question.  I was holding the syringe of potassium chloride in my hand, it fell to the floor and you pulled out another.  You couldn't have known he'd make you lose one.  Why did you have two?"
     	Looking up at Skinner, noticing his protective hand now on the back of her chair, she
explained, "The second one was for me.  If ... if I couldn't get away, I would have had enough time to use it on myself.  I wasn't going to let him win."  
     	"It looks like we succeeded with that much.  Sam is gone."  He didn't say it, but he was
thinking that no matter what happened with Mulder, they could at least take comfort in that.   It wouldn't have been in vain.   But he didn't want to express the possibility that Mulder was gone, too.  The machines suggested otherwise; but the only proof he and Scully would accept would be to hear it from Mulder himself.  
     	The doctor stepped out again, this time returning with two more chairs.  "We might as
well get comfortable," she said, passing a chair to Skinner, who straddled it, folding his arms
across the back.  Skinner sat on Mulder's left, Scully at the foot of the bed.  Before she sat down, the doctor pulled a spray bottle of disinfectant and a cloth from the crash cart.  "Don't get up," she told them, "I can handle this."  Eying the room, she began to spray and wipe each spot of blood she could find, sometimes crouching down, sometimes stretching on tiptoe to reach a spot up high on the wall.  Finally satisfied, she put away the spray bottle and disposed of the rag in the contaminated waste bin in the hallway.  The hands on the clock inched around slowly.  The three of them spoke very little, moved very little beyond rubbing their tired eyes, or massaging their aching necks, occasionally straightening self-consciously from a slouch.  
     	At 11:39, Mulder groaned.  Scully, at the foot of the bed, still reached him first.  "Mulder?"  She called down to him, her voice slightly louder than normal.  "Mulder, talk to me."
     	His eyes fluttered open weakly.  "Scully?  What ...?"  He paused, remembering, then
smiling in relief, closing his eyes in silent thanks.   "He's gone.  Thank God, he's gone."  Even those few words seemed tiring, but it pleased him to see the smiles on the faces surrounding him, Skinner, Scully and . . .?  "Do I know you?"
     	"No, I guess you don't,"  Dr. Marquette-Shilgate confessed.  He'd remember her face, but
she hadn't introduced herself before.  "I'm Dr. Rose."
     	Skinner shot her a look.  All this time, she'd made him wrap his tired tongue around
that freight train of a name, and she told Mulder to call him Rose?  He saw that she was taking
pleasure in his reaction, saw her consciously soften her face with a gentle smile at Mulder.  What is it about him? Skinner thought. "Mulder," Skinner said and waited for the exhausted man to turn his head.  "What do you remember?"
     	Mulder's face became thoughtful.  "Too much," he said.
     	"Do you need anything?  Are you hungry? Thirsty?  Did you get enough Demerol?"
Scully asked.
     	Scully's obvious concern made Mulder grin.  "No.  No.  No.  And yes," he said.  "For
now, anyway."  With effort, he turned his head to look directly at Scully.  "Thank you."  His head fell limply to one side as he repeated "Thank you," and drifted into a painless, restful sleep.
     

Personal Journal
Dana Scully

     	It occurs to me that this experience could be construed as proof, not incontrovertible by any means, but at least a strong indication of the existence of the human soul.  Of something beyond the physical that consists of that aspect of ourselves known as personality.  Not just our memories, nor our day-to-day thoughts, nor our sense of self, nor our emotions, but some combination of all of these things and perhaps more.  As a Catholic, I may be biased in calling it the human soul, but whatever name we give it, karma, pagh, spirit, the concept is virtually universal.  Our desire to outlive our own corporeal bodies is a part of human culture dating back to before recorded history.  Here, then, do I accept that, though I may not understand the mechanism behind it, we have accomplished something that may in the future be proven to have a physical, scientific basis for its success, or call it a miracle?  Reach for that spirituality, the promise of the human soul, and embrace my private knowledge of it even though I cannot say with any certainty that it truly exists?  For if I admit to myself that Mulder survived because of his soul, I must also admit that Sam survived as long as he did because of his.  
     	It's been a full week now and Mulder appears to be recovering well, showing great
determination to regain his former physical condition.  He'll be in the hospital at least two more weeks, maybe three, and will be on crutches for quite awhile after that.  It'll be a long recovery, including physical therapy after the cast comes off.  Physically, I have no doubt he'll make the full recovery the doctor expected from the beginning.  But emotionally, I'm worried.  In the history of our work together, he's been shot, beaten, tortured, almost every physical trial a human can endure.  But he's never been raped.  I've tried to discuss with him the repercussions of being mentally violated and he assures me he's dealing with it, yet I can't help seeing him with a new understanding.  He's kept private about the experience, either changing the subject or concentrating on the physical manifestations of it, rather than on what REALLY happened to HIM.  Sam is gone, he tells me, it's over, and that's all that matters.  I'm hoping that in time he'll be able to open up about it more.  
     	The day after we drove out Sam, I made my phone calls to both Sheriff Winthrop and Caz
Perkowitz.  They were both glad that the situation had concluded and thanked me for calling.  I
went no further with Sheriff Winthrop, to whom I continued to imply a viral infection, but it was satisfying being completely honest with Caz.  We talked at length about the possibility of more Sams being responsible for other crimes and about the nature of evil in general. How it endures along with good, neither with the force of will to permanently overcome the other. 
     	What is the nature of evil?  Is it a true propensity of human nature, embodied in a long
ago eaten apple or a malevolent spirit from Pandora's Box?  Or is it a separate population, intermingling with ours as if by instinct, only trying to survive like any of us?  A race of beings composed of electrical energy slipping from corporeal body to corporeal body in a parasitic relationship?  We would be nothing more than vehicles to them.  Temporary lodgings.  Yet I have come to the conclusion that while the idea of more beings like Sam, unseen forces possessing people, controlling them, forcing them to commit atrocities for their own sordid pleasure is not appealing, it is still preferable, to me, than the idea that people are capable of committing these acts of their own free will.

THE END