*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 5 of ? (5/?)
by Kronos (kronos1@adelphia.net)
*******************************************


September 3, 1986
Wednesday, 10:07 a.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


Walter ran his hand through his hair, then over his eyes in frustration.  This Bill Patterson 
was an incredible asshole.  He could understand having pride in your work and in your 
capabilities, and a certain degree of arrogance was a given for any successful agent or 
department chief, but this was an all new level of conceit.  He took a deep breath and told 
himself to count to ten.  He made it to five before saying, "So can one of your people 
help with this or not?"

He saw Doug shift in his chair nervously but didn't really give a shit about playing nice 
with this character.  

The man smiled at him with disdain and replied, "Agent ... Skinner is it?  Well, Agent 
Skinner, I've had two of my best people try their hands at this case already.  If it's 
miracles you want, you should try a priest."

He clenched his jaw and tried to avoid the words that had immediately rushed to his 
tongue.  He lost the battle, however.

"I don't want a miracle, Agent Patterson, just some competence."

Doug stood and began to stammer an apology, but the BSU Chief just waived him to 
silence, eyes never leaving Skinner's own.  There was silence for a good half a minute 
before Patterson spoke again.

"Agent Skinner, what you have on your hands here is a bona fide enigma.  My best 
people have already spent too many hours on this case, to tell you just that. So, until 
more information is gathered, or another crime is committed that yields new insights, my 
people won't be able to do anything more for you."

The man stood then and gestured to his door.  "Let me know if anything new turns up."

Walter gripped the arms of his chair tightly and then forced his fingers to release.  He 
wondered fleetingly if it were possible to strain your jaw, but managed finally to relax a 
bit and stand.  With more nonchalance than he thought he'd be able to muster, he held out 
a hand and said, "Thank you so much for all your time and help."

Patterson smirked again, knowing he'd been insulted, but reached out and gripped his 
hand anyway, shaking firmly.  "Good luck, Agents."

Walter nodded to Doug who still stood frozen next to him and turned for the door.  It was 
a tremendous relief to head out.  They walked down the depressing cinder block hallway 
and stopped by the elevator, neither speaking.  It wasn't until they exited the building that  
they both stopped and turned to one another.  As if by prearrangement, they both 
muttered, "What an asshole."

They immediately broke out in laughter, causing several trainees to eye them 
suspiciously.  Doug slapped him on the back and said, "Got any other bright ideas, 
Walter?"

He smiled and laughed again before turning to look out over the complex.  It hadn't 
changed much.  There was a group of trainees off to the left, just coming up from the 
obstacle course.  They were a bedraggled lot, covered in dirt and sweat, but still moving 
pretty well.  He turned to Doug and said, "I guess we should head back to DC."

Doug must have sensed his hesitation, because the man asked, "What else are you 
thinking?  Come on, Walter, give."

"Let's talk with Dean again.  I thought of something else to ask.  We can go in through 
the back of the room, wait for his class to get out, then hit him up real quick."

Doug glanced around, looked at his watch, then shrugged.  "You're on.  Let's go."

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

They entered quietly from the rear, with no one the wiser to their presence.  Walter sat 
down in the last row, leaving the aisle seat for Doug.  The last two rows were completely 
empty, as were the seats that were farthest to the outside.  He estimated that there were 
some sixty or so trainees and National Academy participants in the room.  The two 
groups sported different color shirts, but even without such a distinction, it was easy to 
tell who was who.  It wasn't age really.  After all, the typical FBI trainee was in their mid 
to late twenties.  Quite a few of the law enforcement officers attending the National 
Academy were in that age group as well.  No, it was the air of innocence that 
differentiated the two groups.  The NA participants were mostly seasoned officers, 
having seen their share of violent and senseless crime.  To the trainees, the slides being 
shown on the screen and the stories accompanying them were someone else's story and 
someone else's problem.  They hadn't been baptized in blood just yet.

Walter focused on Dean's presentation then, curious about the case he was laying out for 
the class.  It must have been a new one, because he didn't recognize the victims or the 
crime scene slides. 

Dean was saying, "So what do we make of this?  Victims 1 and 2, both male and black, 
working at the local convenience mart.  Both shot with a .38 caliber handgun, head and 
chest, middle of the night, a few hundred dollars missing from the register.  A day later, 
Victim 3, also male and black, shot with a different .38 caliber weapon, four times, while 
walking down the street around mid-night. No obvious robbery. Day after that, farther 
south, Victims 4 and 5, both white, shot coming out of a McDonalds with yet another .38 
caliber weapon, multiple shots each, this time at just after 8 p.m."

Dean paused, then looked up at the screen which held an image of the wrecked car of the 
fourth and fifth victims.  The assailant had opened fire on them, causing the driver to lose 
control and head into oncoming traffic.  Both had been dead long before their car was hit 
by a pickup truck and thrown into a light pole.

Dean turned and looked back into the class, then asked, "So, the question of the day is, 
were these victims killed by the same assailant?"

There was a silence as those in the room considered it.  One of the NA participants -- a 
forty or so year old burly type with curly brown hair and an unruly mustache -- raised his 
hand and said, "You've got victims of different races, different m.o. for each, different 
weapons, different cities, and different times of day.  That would suggest different 
assailants."

Walter wished he'd heard the earlier details of the case, sensing there was a hell of a lot 
more to it than that.  He was curious whether anyone else would offer an opinion.  
Towards the middle of the room, another NA officer, a bit younger than the other one, 
raised his hand and said, "It doesn't make a lot of sense.  The first assault appears to be a 
botched robbery.  The second perhaps gang-related or a targeted hit.  The third was 
possibly a random drive-by shooting.  Wouldn't make any sense for them to be related."

Dean continued to remain silent, waiting for any more brave souls to offer an opinion.  
He appeared ready to break the silence finally when another voice spoke up from off to 
the left.  Walter craned his neck a bit to get a better view and discovered it was the jock 
from earlier.  The kid was saying, "Do we know whether there were any other crimes in 
these cities by an assailant with a .38 within a couple weeks of these crimes?"

Walter could see the slight smile that came to Dean's face as he answered, "No shootings 
in these cities or nearby cities with the exception of a single family retribution murder."

The kid then said, "These cities all connected by an interstate?"

Dean nodded.

"The violence in each represents an escalation.  Also an increased confidence.  It's got to 
be the same guy.  It might have started as a botched burglary, but more likely that was his 
test case.  It seemed to have essentially been an execution."

Dean nodded and asked the kid, "What's the motive?  And what can you tell me about the 
UNSUB?"

It had become a private conversation at that point.

"The motive isn't anything obvious.  His actions are psychologically-based, therefore 
only have to make sense to him.  I'd say he's an assassination-type, paranoid or even 
paranoid schizophrenic.  Black, mid to late twenties."

"What color car does he drive?"

Everyone was completely entranced by the conversation and there was now total silence 
as everyone waited to hear whether the kid would actually come up with the answer.  He 
did.

"Black or dark blue."

"What else do you know about him?"

Walter saw the kid tilt his head to the left, then look down at his hands for a moment.  He 
raised his head finally and said, "He probably owns a dog -- maybe a German Shepherd.  
He probably has a record denoting some sort of assaultive behavior."

"Why do you say that?"

"He's overcompensating.  It can't be new behavior.  He's probably been picked up for 
some sort of inappropriate or even criminal behavior or has possibly even been 
institutionalized."

"And the dog?"

"He's paranoid and would want a power dog for protection."

"The different guns?"

"Can't ever have too many guns when you're paranoid."

The silence stretched then and finally Dean moved.  He crossed his arms and turned to 
look around the room.  Then asked, "What do you think?  You've heard two different 
views."

Walter was impressed and pretty damned sure which view was the right one.  He was 
more curious than ever now about the jock with a brain.

Dean uncrossed his arms and propped his hands on his hips.  Then paced back to the 
center of the room.  "All right, I'll tell you.  It was a single assailant.  He was black.  
Twenty-seven."

Dean turned to the kid, smiled a bit more broadly and said, "He owned two dogs -- a 
German Shepherd and a Doberman."

There was a smattering of laughter, then he went on.  "The assailant had four different 
weapons, all .38 caliber.  And drove a dark blue car."

There was some whispering amongst those in the room and Dean asked, "So how's it 
done?  Trainee Mulder, how'd you know the age?"

Walter could see the kid shift, as if uncomfortable in being in the limelight.  "Paranoid 
schizophrenia as well as assassin syndrome both surface in mid-twenties."

"And how did you determine race?"

"Highest comfort level."

Walter immediately appreciated the answer, but could see a smattering of curious looks 
below.

Dean said, "Could you expand?"

The kid squirmed again and answered, "He'd start with his highest comfort level.  That 
means he'd start with what he knows.  Black victims, black assailant."

Dean nodded and, as if sensing the kid's discomfort in being on the spot, he turned to the 
other side of the room and said, "There's an answer for everything, and a reason for 
everything.  The problem with violent crime is that motivation isn't necessarily clear or 
obvious.  It's up to the investigator to keep his or her mind open to extreme possibilities."

Dean glanced at his watch and then said, "Okay, we'll take a fifteen minute break.  Be 
back on time, please." 

Walter watched as a few of the fellows in the class playfully harrassed the kid on their 
way past.  It all seemed to be in fun, and the kid had a resigned grin on his face when he 
stood and stretched.  Walter stood himself and waved at Dean.  His old acquaintance was 
heading his way already, evidently having spotted them earlier.

"What, I can't get rid of you guys?"

Walter smiled and jerked his head to the left.  "See what you mean about him.  What's his 
background?"

"Graduated top of his class from Oxford in psychology.  Recruited when he got back to 
the States.  He'd evidently already accepted a teaching position at some university when 
the Bureau tracked him down and convinced him that he belonged in the FBI."

Walter was even more impressed.  He looked past Dean's shoulder and watched the small 
cluster of trainees and NA students around the kid.  One of the NA guys was speaking to 
the little group, arms waiving in the air.  After thirty seconds or so, everyone started 
laughing.  At least there didn't seem to be any petty jealousy or resentment aimed at the 
kid for being good.

He realized then that Doug had been talking to Dean.  "So this Patterson guy's a real 
piece of work, huh?"

Dean laughed a bit, then said, "Why do you say that?  What exactly happened during 
your meeting?"

Walter snorted.  "I don't think I'd go so far as to call it a meeting.  We asked for his help, 
he told us to go to hell, we left."

Doug shook his head and inserted, "It wasn't exactly like that, but ...  Well, I suppose it 
was, actually."

They laughed companionably again, then Dean said, "He's Chief of the BSU for a reason.  
He knows how to read these sick bastard's and he's damned good.  So are his people."

Walter ran his hand through his hair in frustration, and shifted his weight from one foot 
to another.  "That may be, but all his people have told us is that they can't help."

He shifted once more, then crossed his arms.  "Look Dean, I'd really appreciate it if you'd 
look the files over.  I can leave this set with you.  What do you say?"

"I say that if you think I'll be able to come up with something Patterson's people couldn't, 
then you're crazy."

"But?"

"But I'll look.  Just don't expect anything, Walt."

"Who me?  I wouldn't dream of it."

Dean shot a disgusted look his way and held out his hands.  Walter passed the thick pile 
over with a smile.  

"Later today?"

Even Doug snorted at that.  

"Maybe tomorrow."

Dean turned and started down to the front of the room, but turned two steps down and 
looked back.  "No miracles, Walt."

There was silence for a heartbeat or two and then he replied, completely seriously, "But I 
always expect miracles from you, Dean."

The other man looked disgusted, then turned away again.  Walter turned to Doug then 
and said, "Time to head out."

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


Present Day, Hour 5 of the Wait
Sunday, 3:52 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Scully felt the need to move, so stood carefully, making sure to avoid all the tubes and 
wires.  She stretched her neck to the right, then the left, finally allowing her head to drop 
forward for a second or two.  A smile came to her face as she thought about Mulder back 
then, waiting for the others to put forth their opinions, probably hoping that someone else 
would offer the right answer so he wouldn't have to.  Then when they hadn't, he had to do 
it himself.  There was no way he could let it go by without stating what he believed to be 
the truth.  Even back then, almost fifteen years before, he just couldn't sit back passively.

She looked across the bed to Skinner and felt a sliver of amusement at the thought that 
her former boss could have been so unrealistically demanding. "You had some slightly 
high expectations, wouldn't you say?"

He actually looked embarrassed and just shrugged.  A nurse came in then, saving him 
from having to explain or reply.  They all watched the woman, Shannon, move from one 
monitor to another, as if she would somehow proclaim Mulder cured.  The CC doctor 
assigned to Mulder's room came in then and nodded to them all before conferring with 
the nurse.  He turned to Skinner and said, "Could you step back for just a moment, sir?  
We're going to shift his position.  It'll just take a minute."

Scully felt an alarm wash over her at the doctor's statement.  They'd just moved him a 
little over an hour ago.  "Dr. Patrick, is there a respiratory problem we should be aware 
of?"  

The doctor continued working with the nurse, moving Mulder onto his back, then looked 
up at her when he was done.  He crossed his arms and the gesture immediately set off 
alarms.

"Dr. Scully, as you know, the possibilities of contracting pneumonia increase 
dramatically for patients with broken ribs, and even more so for those in a coma.  We're 
merely trying to head off any potential problems by moving him hourly.  That's all."

She bit her lip and considered his words, then decided it was what she'd do as well were 
she the one making decisions.  She nodded finally, then sat back in her chair and 
readjusted her light touch on Mulder's arm.  She moved her left hand down to take his 
hand and wrapped her fingers through his.  She thanked the man then and looked across 
once more to her boss, no longer paying attention as the doctor and nurse moved out of 
the room.  

Skinner pulled his chair closer to the bed again and sat down.  She watched as he got 
settled, then started getting curious again about this man who had been her and Mulder's 
boss for five years.

She'd always wondered about his history and what kind of man he'd been before she met 
him as an AD.  Now she was learning not only about the kind of person Mulder had been, 
but also the kind of man her former boss had been.  And she was more fascinated by 
these insights than she was about the actual case Skinner'd been working.

Her mother spoke up then, entering the conversation for the first time.  "Mr. Skinner, if 
Fox was just a student, a trainee, how in the world could he have gotten involved in such 
a serious case?  Surely, it can't be FBI policy to use untrained Agents in the field?"

Scully could hear the accusation that resided just below the surface of her mother's words 
and felt compelled to jump in to defend the Bureau.  Before she had a chance, though, 
Skinner clarified.

"No, Mrs. Scully.  It's not policy.  In fact, Mulder's involvement broke just about ever 
rule we have.  But you could say that these were pretty exceptional circumstances and 
that his involvement happened in such a way that it wasn't really anyone's fault."  Her 
boss paused then, but it was obvious he was going to say more.  It appeared that he was 
clenching his jaw, considering whether to say any more.  Then he added, "But his 
continued participation -- once we discovered his involvement in the case -- that was 
because of me.  All because of me."

She was curious about how such a thing could have happened.  She remembered back to 
her own time at the Academy and couldn't even imagine it.  "Sir, how did it happen?  
What were the circumstances?"

Skinner leaned forward, raised his left hand and rested it gently on her partner's forehead.  
She wasn't sure if he even realized that he'd done it.  He had a thoughtful expression on 
his face and she wondered just what he was thinking.  He must have been remembering.

His tone was just as thoughtful as he said, "I didn't know about it first hand, but Dean 
told me how Fox first learned about it."

The switch from Mulder to Fox caught her by surprise, but it was obvious that her boss 
was thinking about her partner as he'd been fifteen years ago, not as he was now.

"It was that same day, in fact.  Dean never forgave himself. He blamed himself for 
everything that happened to Fox after that."

That was ominous.  She wondered just what the heck had happened to her partner. "Tell 
us what happened, sir.  I'd really like to know."

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


September 3, 1986
Wednesday, 11:56 a.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


Dean looked down at his watch and knew he had to wrap this lecture up quickly.  He was 
supposed to be across the complex at five after and would really have to push to make it 
in time.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen, I believe I'm due to see you again sometime next week 
for another lecture.  I'm afraid I won't be able to hang around to answer your questions 
today, but I'll be available tomorrow between noon and one and then again from five to 
six.  Feel free to track me down then."

He waved quickly, then turned and headed out the nearest door.  It was only some hours 
later that he learned what had happened next.

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

The students in the class started moving out in groups of two and three.  The trainees 
were due at Hogan's Alley at 1:30, we so every minute was valuable.  A small group 
stayed behind, however.  Fox Mulder still stood by his chair, talking with a couple of the 
NA students.  He was fascinated by their experiences and insights and actually found 
himself enjoying these discussions.

He'd formed a friendly relationship with these two men, initially because of their interest 
in basketball.  Every Tuesday and Saturday night from 8 p.m. on, Fox was guaranteed to 
catch these two on the court, ready for a friendly but sometimes violent pickup game.  

Jarrod McKnight was shaking his head.  "Okay, Fox, it all makes sense in retrospect -- of 
course, it always does -- but I have to admit that in my fifteen years on the force, we 
never saw anything so strange.  What about you, Clay?"

Clayton Baker shrugged, leaned back more comfortably against the table in the row 
behind them and replied, "Not that I can recall.  You have to remember, though, that 
Detroit's main problem is its gang and drug related-crimes.  We don't really have a 
history of anything too bizarre."

Fox stretched a bit and then sank his hands in his pockets.  "Have you seen any serial or 
spree killers in the St. Paul area, Jarrod?"

"We've had a couple since I've been on the force, actually.  One in St. Paul and one in 
Minneapolis.  The Minneapolis case was interesting.  We all followed it pretty closely.  
The guy was a sexual sadist.  Incredibly violent.  He cut the heads off his vics -- all 
female of course -- and moved them from one spot in the house to another until he was 
finally satisfied.  He arranged the decapitated bodies in the living room, generally on the 
couch or a chair facing a television."

Both Fox and Clay grimaced and shifted a bit.  Fox hadn't read about this case, but was 
curious.  He'd definitely look it up in the library.  

Jarrod continued his description, almost with a guilty pleasure.  "The heads would 
sometimes be on the mantel, once on a kitchen counter, once in the bedroom, facing the 
bed.  Really creepy.  All the vics had the same physical appearance.  Kind of hefty but 
pretty.  All around mid-thirties in appearance.  They finally caught the guy in the act of 
killing his fifth victim.  Turned out the guy was trying to kill his mommy over and over.  
Pretty typical as far as motivations go for these assholes."

Fox grinned a bit, remembering his classes on sexual sadists and the havoc they'd been 
known to wreak.  "So what about the case in St. Paul?"

Jarrod shrugged a bit, as if tossing the question off, but replied, "It was pretty 
straightforward, actually.  Another sicko, but so disorganized we caught him before he 
got to victims 5 and 6.  The only twist was that he killed couples.  He was abused as a 
child, both physically and emotionally, but he was also retarded."

Fox cringed internally at the use of the R word, but merely nodded.

"Had an IQ of around 76 or so.  Kind of felt sorry for the sick bastard, but not sorry 
enough to cry when they finally fried him a couple years ago."

Fox shuddered once again, uneasy with any discussion of the death penalty.  It was an 
issue he'd struggled with internally, but hadn't yet definitively decided on a stance, one 
way or the other.  As a psychologist, he could appreciate the undeniable fact that one's 
environment was a major determinant for behavior later in life.  But he was unable to 
resolve in his own mind whether such facts should ever excuse violent behavior or 
relieve one from suffering the consequences of their actions.

Clay broke the silence that had settled by picking up his belongings and saying, "I'm 
outta here guys.  Jarrod, remember we've got anti-terrorism class this afternoon.  Fox, I 
hear you guys are going to the Alley."

Fox grinned and nodded.  "Yep, bank robbery I think."

The two NA men grimaced and he wondered what their experience had been that had 
caused such a reaction.  Clay said, "Have fun, boy.  Just remember, it's never as easy as it 
looks."

He smiled back and nodded as they headed out, saying, "Catch you on the court old 
men."

He looked around then, suddenly realizing he was the last in the room.  His eyes fell on a 
stack of files on one of the tables up front and he remembered Agent Waring dropping 
the pile on the desk just after the last break.  

He should probably alert someone.  He picked up his pad, mostly empty with the 
exception of doodles and some minimal notations, and wandered down to the front of the 
room, then stepped up on the platform.  His eyes were focused on the pile, and he felt 
drawn to it.  

He wandered over to the table and stared down at the pile of packed folders.  The words 
'Eyes Only' were typed in large red letters on the top file.  The corner of a photo stuck out 
from the file just enough so he could make out a bare foot.  It was so tempting.  The files 
sat there and taunted him.  He turned and looked around the room, confirming that he 
was alone.  

He felt his heart start to race and a trickle of sweat tickled at his neck.  This felt like a test 
of some sort, even though he knew that was ridiculous.  He'd always thought of himself 
as a moral person.  He'd never cheated on exams, never lied to his parents -- well, no 
serious lies, just the little white variety.  He tried to act in good faith at all times.

He knew this was wrong, but it was as if he were powerless to avoid the temptation.  He 
whispered out loud, "And the serpent said, 'Eat of the fruit of the tree, for you will surely 
not die'."  He licked his lips nervously and wiped at his forehead with the palm of his 
right hand.  His eyes never left the files.

He reached out slowly, almost reverently, and rested his fingers on the top.  Ran them 
over the big red letters that had been stamped there.  He raised his hand again and ran it 
over his mouth, wiping away the sweat that had gathered on his lower lip.

Then, in one decisive movement, he reached out and flipped the file open to stare at the 
photo.  It was of a young girl, a teenager, with blonde hair and blue eyes.  She was 
dressed in a long-sleeved blue dress, with a dainty white collar.  She was laid out on her 
back, her hair spread across her shoulders carefully, and her hands crossed on her chest.  
Her legs had been straightened out with great care, but she had no shoes, socks, or hose 
on.  

Her eyes were open, and if it hadn't been for the purple bruise around her neck and the 
bluish tint to her lips, he'd have thought she was staring up at the sky.

He absorbed the seen, memorizing every detail.  This was a real case.  Something 
ongoing, not one that was over and done with.  He wanted to learn about it.  He knew it 
was wrong and that what he was about to do could probably get him kicked out of the 
Bureau, but he just had to know more.

He raised his head once more and glanced around.  No one in sight.  A look at his watch 
revealed that he still had an hour before he had to be at the Alley.  Plenty of time.  A 
photographic memory came in damned handy on occasion.

He pulled a chair over and situated himself so that he would have full view of all the 
doors, then sat down and opened the file to the first page.  He began reading about Lorri 
Kiley, a sixteen year old high school student who disappeared after a youth bible study 
class at her church.  The teenagers had scattered, as always, mostly walking home of 
riding with friends.  When she hadn't arrived home by ten, her parents started calling 
friends.  Those who'd attended the class with the girl, had all said the same thing -- she'd 
said good-bye and headed off on her own.  It was Falls Church, after all.  One of the 
safest cities in America.  

He read through the file, finding the actual ordering and compilation of reports, photos, 
and notes almost as interesting as the content, itself.  When he finished, after fifteen 
minutes of straight reading, he shifted a bit to get more comfortable and reached for the 
next file.  This one told the story of the very first victim -- Alan Hanover.  

While Lorri Kiley had been strangled to death, this man had been shot in his own home.  
It had originally been assumed to have been a burglary, since it appeared there were 
items missing from his house.  A burglary wherein something went wrong, forcing the 
robber to murder Mr. Hanover.  It had been originally speculated that this had sent the 
burglar over the edge, causing him to act out by spreading the blood around the house 
and the furniture.

The Alexandria PD had been completely stumped, unable to compile any possible 
suspects, since Hanover had been assumed to have been a random target.  The note 
received two weeks after Hanover's body had been discovered hadn't originally been 
linked to that crime.  It wasn't until many months later, that a connection could be 
established, with the aid of the Bureau and the Detectives from Falls Church and 
Arlington.

The next file contained information on Jesse Smith, the third victim.  It dawned on him 
suddenly, as he read through the files, that this was a real serial killer -- in operation right 
now.  And these were real victims, real people, who'd been killed in violent and unnatural 
ways.  He started to feel angry.  

He wasn't a violent or demonstrative man and never had been, but he felt the urge to hit 
something.  To pound on someone or something until he felt better.  He dropped his head 
to his chest and closed his eyes.  Tried to concentrate on slowing his breathing.  He had 
to clench his teeth to avoid screaming out loud in frustration.  He counted to ten, and then 
to twenty.  He ended up counting all the way to sixty before he could finally start 
releasing his fingers from the clenched fists that still threatened to cut off all blood 
supply.

He opened his eyes again finally and discovered he had to wipe away some moisture that 
had pooled there.  He sniffed loudly, then reached for the folder of Jesse Smith once 
again.  

The man was a happily married father of a one year old with another on the way.  He'd 
left the store where he was Assistant Manager to run a quick errand during a break and 
then hadn't been heard from or seen again.  His pregnant wife called the store when he 
didn't get home from dinner and panicked when she was told he'd never returned.  She 
called the Arlington police, only to be told that it was too soon to file a missing person's 
report.  By the next morning, she'd convinced them that something horrible had to have 
happened and they began investigating Smith's disappearance.  When the dismembered 
remains of a black man were discovered later that day, they were able to immediately 
identify them as Smith's.  The man had officially died from cardiac failure, but in reality 
had died from blood loss and shock as his arms and legs had been cut from his body, 
while still alive.  The crime scene photographs were gruesome.

The Arlington PD had immediately suspected the man of being involved in drugs or 
organized crime, despite the protestations of his wife.  When the note arrived, they 
figured out quickly they had something pretty unusual on their hands.

He pushed the completed folder to the side and pulled over the last one.  This was Ellen 
Haggerston, a second grade teacher, who'd been killed in her own home.  Jesus, a 
goddamned elementary school teacher.   The woman had been killed with a knife.  What 
the hell was this about?

He shook his head in amazement.  He was no expert on violent crime, granted, but even 
he knew that this was all damned unusual.  This was both similar to the case Agent 
Waring had reviewed earlier and not.  It was similar in that one would not normally 
assume these crimes to have been committed by the same individual or even individuals.  
It was substantially different in that this had both organized as well as disorganized 
elements.  Some of these crimes appeared to have been thought out and planned, while 
others were substantially more violent and spur of the moment.  It was all very confusing.  

He closed the last file and moved it on top of the pile, arranging the stack neatly.  He 
stood and stretched, then started to look at his watch when the door to the left opened 
abruptly.  He jerked in surprise and then felt his face flush with guilt and shame when he 
came face to face with Agent Dean Waring.

The man had taken two or three steps into the room before seeing him and now stood 
frozen.  Fox swallowed, then hastily cleared his throat.  Without really having any 
particular plan of attack, he said, "Hello, sir. I was just getting ready to bring these to 
you.  You left them after class." 

He hadn't lied -- not really.  He was pretty sure he was going to bring them to the man, 
after all.  He stood with one hand resting lightly on the stack and the other clutching his 
pad of paper from class tightly.  He concentrated on appearing to be calm as he waited 
for a response from the man across the room.

Agent Waring moved finally, approaching him slowly.  The man stopped on the other 
side of the table and just stared directly at him, as if daring him to move or speak.  
Waring said, "Just now, Trainee Mulder?"  The man looked down at his watch and then 
back to Fox, eyes squinted and forehead creased.  

Fox merely nodded in acknowledgment, then waited for the inevitable.

Waring had been staring at him for a full minute before he spoke again.  In a dangerously 
quiet voice, the man asked, "And did you find them interesting, Trainee Mulder?"

Fox briefly considered lying, but discarded the notion immediately.  It wasn't his way.  
He swallowed noisily and responded simply, "Yes, sir."

Waring's eyes narrowed even further, and for the first time, Fox was actually frightened.  
"Do you know what the words, 'Eyes Only' mean, Trainee Mulder?"

He licked his lips and nodded, saying, "Yes, sir, I do."

"But that didn't stop you?"

"No, sir, it didn't."

"Can you tell me why?"

He paused then, considering his answer carefully, but in the end, it was really quite 
simple.  "No, sir.  I really can't.  I just couldn't help myself, sir."

The other man seemed to relax slightly, or perhaps it was just wishful thinking.  "So 
you're saying that you're using the 'I couldn't help myself' defense?"

He couldn't tell whether the man was ready to kick him out on his butt or laugh at him so 
he took the question seriously.  "I guess so, sir.  It's no excuse, of course."

Waring moved forward so quickly and abruptly then, that he fell back in his seat in pure 
surprise and shock.  Waring's voice was hard when he said, "It damned well isn't, mister.  
I could have you kicked out on your ass for what you've done."  The man leaned over the 
table then so that he was only six or so inches from him.  "If I ever hear that you've done 
something like this again, I will make sure you hit the road so hard you get friction burns.  
Am I clear, mister?"

Fox was actually trembling now, both in relief that his career as an Agent hadn't ended 
before it had even had a chance to begin, as well as in shock that he'd actually allowed 
himself to get into such a predicament.  He nodded, then added hastily, "Yes, sir, very 
clear, sir."

Waring pushed himself away from the table and crossed his arms, then just glared down 
at him.  Fox sat straighter in the chair and reached for his pad of paper with trembling 
fingers.  He didn't know whether it was safe to leave or not, but decided he'd wait until he 
was dismissed.  It might not be the military, but these men took training just as seriously.

Waring finally broke the silence, saying, "You are dismissed, Trainee Mulder."

The words sent a chill down his spine as he realized just how close he'd come to ending 
something that he really wanted.  There hadn't been all that many things in his life that he 
wanted badly.  He'd wanted his sister to be returned to them.  He'd wanted to be eight 
inches taller so he could play professional basketball. He'd wanted a dog.  As he grew 
older, he came to understand that some things just weren't meant to be.  He'd gotten the 
dog, but had to do without the extra eight inches or his sister.  

And he knew now, more than ever before, that he wanted a career in the Bureau.  He 
wanted it badly.  And he would do anything to avoid fucking it up.  He stood hastily and 
nodded in grateful relief, saying, "Thank you, sir."  

Then, in the largest surprise yet, Waring said in a friendly tone, "You're good, Fox, and 
you'll go far in the Bureau if you give yourself a chance.  I'd hate for you to screw things 
up for yourself at this point in your career."

He was consumed with shame and guilt then, so that he had to force his head up to look 
in Agent Waring's eyes.  "I appreciate that, sir, and I really am sorry.  It won't happen 
again."

Waring actually smiled at him then and said, "You're going to be late to Hogan's Alley if 
you don't double time it, Trainee.  Get your butt out of here."

He looked at his watch then and was horrified to see he had only five minutes.  He 
nodded and mumbled a quick thanks yet again before running out the door.

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


Present Day, Hour 6 of the Wait
Sunday, 4:27 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Skinner shifted in his seat, leaned forward and rested his arm on the bed rail.  He raised 
his right fist and propped his chin on it, then rotated his head to the left and looked at his 
former agent.  It had been a hell of a long time since he'd first seen the kid.  That was 
how he thought of him now.  That Mulder of fifteen years past had been so very young 
and innocent.  He also seemed to be content.  Maybe even happy.  And definitely excited 
about the Bureau.  How things had changed.

His musings were cut short by Mrs. Scully, who said, "I would have liked to have known 
Fox back then.  It's hard to imagine him so ..."

Skinner smiled and finished the sentence for her.  "Normal?"

She laughed lightly and even Scully smiled.

"He was and he wasn't.  I don't think anyone would ever accuse Fox Mulder of being just 
normal -- at any age."

He saw movement at the door and turned his head to see a nurse with an elderly woman 
in tow.  With a shock, he recognized Mulder's mother.  He started to stand, but she 
gestured him to stay seated, saying, "You're right, Mr. Skinner.  Although I've always 
thought of my son as being exceptional."

Both Scully and her mother jerked around in surprise, and Scully stood, with Mrs. Scully 
and he, himself right behind her.  He walked to the door and put his right hand on her 
shoulder and his left on her arm.  He pulled her gently towards the left side of the bed, to 
where he'd been sitting, then said, "Always exceptional, Mrs. Mulder."

Scully was still standing, tears pooling in her eyes, her hands still resting on her partner's 
arm as if letting go would mean she was giving up on him. Her mother wrapped her arm 
around her daughter and raised her hand to Scully's head to stroke her hair.

He knew Scully was pleased to see this woman, for Mulder's sake, and he found that he 
was touched as well.  There couldn't have been any flights leaving so late, so she had to 
have driven and must have left right after she received the call.

"Mrs. Mulder, you must be tired.  Please, sit down.  Would you like anything to drink?"

The woman merely shook her head, eyes focused on her son.  Tears streamed down her 
cheeks, but she said nothing.  She moved as close to the head of the bed as she could, 
carefully avoiding the tubes and wires, and stroked her son's forehead gently.  With her 
left hand still on his head, she leaned forward to kiss him lightly.  

He heard her whisper something, but couldn't make out the words.  She moved away then 
and seemed to collapse in slow motion.  He guided her to the chair and settled her, before 
glancing across at Scully.  

His former agent had turned into her mother's embrace, the emotional impact of Teena 
Mulder's reaction causing her barely maintained equilibrium to waver. Even so, she still 
had her right hand wrapped around Mulder's limp fingers.

Mrs. Mulder was sobbing, quietly, softly, into her cupped hands.  He wasn't sure what to 
do or what to say, but finally rested his hand on her shoulder.  It took a long minute, but 
everyone quieted finally.  Mrs. Mulder rubbed her face, almost angrily, then raised her 
right hand to rest on top of his own.  She looked back and up at him and said, "Thank 
you, Mr. Skinner.  Thank you for calling me."

He nodded, still not sure what to say, and wasn't surprised when she looked across her 
son's still form to focus on his partner.  "Ms. Scully, thank you also.  For being here for 
him.  I know it means so much to him."

He could tell that Scully was struggling to maintain her fragile control.  She merely 
nodded to the older woman, biting her lower lip hard.  He felt incredibly uncomfortable 
in the silence that had settled over the room.  Mrs. Scully came to the rescue once again.

"Mrs. Mulder, I'm Dana's mother, Margaret."

Mulder's mother tore her eyes away from the tubes and wires she'd been staring at to look 
across the bed.  Scully and her mother had sat down once again.

"It's so nice to meet you finally.  And please call me Teena.  Thank you for being there 
for my son so often in the past.  He's talked about you often with great respect and high 
regard."

Skinner was touched once again to know that mother and son had remained in contact.  
He'd never really been sure about Mulder's family situation and it reassured him 
somehow to know that there was someone who cared about the younger man.  Someone 
besides his partner and himself, that is.  And he acknowledged to himself that both 
Mulder and Scully meant quite a lot to him.  He'd considered them to be much more than 
just his agents for a very long time.

Margaret Scully nodded her thanks and caressed her daughter's back in a soothing circle 
once more.  He could tell that Scully wanted to speak, but hadn't yet collected her 
frazzled nerves.  

Mrs. Mulder turned her gaze to the younger woman then and said, "Ms. Scully, we never 
really seem to get the opportunity to talk, do we?  Perhaps when Fox gets out of here, we 
can remedy that."

He knew the woman wasn't trying to deny reality, but was rather trying to remain 
optimistic, for her own as well as for Scully's sake.  It was an incredibly generous offer 
that wasn't lost on Scully.

He was proud of his former agent as she attempted a smile and managed to say in a 
wavering voice, "That would be very nice, Mrs. Mulder."

The older woman pushed herself forward in the chair and took her son's hand in her own.  
Without even realizing it, she'd mirrored Scully's own position.  

He looked around the room and decided that another chair would fit.  No one had come 
to kick them out yet, after all.  He decided to adopt Mulder's policy of 'it's better to ask 
for forgiveness than permission' and said, "I'll be right back.  Can I bring anything for 
anyone?  Coffee, perhaps?"  They all nodded and he excused himself quietly.  

As he headed down the quiet hall, he took note of all the patients in the CCU.  Despite 
the lowered lights and lack of any visitors (except for them), there was still a great deal 
of noise and activity.  This place never went to sleep.

He let a nurse know he'd be right back and she kindly propped the doors to the CCU ward 
open for him.  He also let her know they'd need another chair in Mulder's room and she 
merely nodded, evidently aware of the unusual circumstances that allowed them to 
remain despite the stringent CCU rules.  The knowledge only depressed him further.  
After all, if they'd dispensed with all the rules, it couldn't be good.

He filled four cups and stuffed his pants pockets with sugar packets, creamers and stir 
sticks.  Balancing the cups carefully, he headed back to the forbidding double doors and 
into the darkened unit.  He saw a nurse and then a doctor leave from Mulder's room and 
knew they'd turned him once again.  Every hour like clockwork.

He nodded to them and headed into the room, surprised to see that Scully was more 
animated now than she had been for the past few hours.  Teena Mulder had evidently 
relayed some anecdote about her son that had made both Scully and her mother laugh.  
He wished he'd been there to hear it.  Then Mrs. Mulder said, "I bet he never told you 
about his plan to be a basketball star, did he?"

This sounded interesting.  He handed out the coffees and settled into the extra chair that 
had been pulled in, content to be the one to listen to a story for a while instead of being 
the one telling it.

Mrs. Mulder was saying, "They knew already, you see, that he had a gift for it.  From the 
time he was just a little boy, he spent hours and hours in the driveway, working on 
sinking that ball from anywhere he stood.  He was always patient with Sammy, though, 
and worked hard to teach her how to shoot the right way -- not like a girl."

She'd said the last part with a grin on her face and he could just about imagine a young 
Fox saying, 'No, no, Sammy, you look like a girl when you do it that way.'

"When he was ten, his little league team won their Division.  Believe it or not, we 
actually had scouts calling to try to get us to send Fox off to their school.  It was really 
quite crazy.  Ten years old."

It was obvious to Skinner what the Mulder's decision had been.

"Well, let me tell you about just how determined my son could be, even at that age."

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


January 19, 1971
Monday, 4:53 p.m.
Mulder Residence, Martha's Vineyard


Teena Mulder leaned over the back of the couch to look out the front window.  She 
craned her head to the right and caught sight of her wayward son then.  He was supposed 
to have been in by 4:30 to do his chores but instead he was outside in twenty degree 
weather, shooting hoops with only a sweatshirt and jeans.

She watched him for a full minute, filled with pride.  He was a good boy, if sometimes 
trying.  He'd been working on the same shot for the past week and hadn't yet let the 
frustration of not getting it hold him back.  It was a shot that recreated the exact play he'd 
missed in the last game and required a tight angle where a bank off the backboard wasn't 
possible.

She felt arms come around her and she jerked in surprise before settling into the embrace.  
Bill was home and it wasn't even 5 yet.

"What are you doing home so early?"

"Got my marching orders again.  I have to go down to West Virginia for a bit.  Shouldn't 
be gone for more than a week."

She tried to hold back the disappointment as she turned in his arms to face her husband.  
She was surprised by the look of sorrow that he just couldn't hide from her.

"Darling, what is it?  Is there anything wrong?"

He was quick to smile, then.  "No, nothing at all.  I just hate being gone from you and the 
kids."

She returned the smile and leaned forward, kissing him softly.  The kiss deepened but 
was interrupted by a high pitched giggle, followed by a screech.

"Daddy, you're home."

Teena knew what would come next, and so did her husband.  She saw him brace himself 
as Sammy launched herself across the room and into her father's arms.

He pretended to fall backwards onto the floor, sending Sammy sprawling.  But then he 
was on his knees and tickling her, even as she tried to roll away.  

Teena laughed at the sight and knew they were blessed.  It wasn't every father who'd roll 
around on the floor with his kids while still wearing his business suit.  The kids were 
everything to Bill, just as they were to her.  And the thought propelled her into action 
then, as she remembered that one of her children was still outside and likely to catch 
pneumonia if she didn't get him in and warmed up.

As she headed towards the garage, she heard her daughter filling Bill in on everything 
that had happened at school that day.  She heard her husband laughing at one point and 
knew that she was the luckiest woman on the planet.

She grabbed her coat and pulled it on quickly, then took Fox's off the hook.  She shivered 
as she stepped into the garage and walked a bit faster.  She unlocked the side door and 
walked around to the front, pausing for just a moment as she got there to allow her son to 
finish his shot.  The ball sailed up and went into the hoop in a perfect arc.  

He stood there, frozen in surprise, and then smiled so widely she thought he'd strain his 
jaw.

"Did you see that, Mom?  Did you see?"

"I did, sweetheart.  That was wonderful.  I knew you'd do it."

Despite the fact that she could see him shivering even fifteen feet away, she gave him the 
time to enjoy his achievement.  It had been hard won and he deserved to bask in his 
success for a few moments at least.

He moved finally and she could tell he was planning on continuing to practice.  She cut 
him off at the pass and held up the coat, then said, "I think you've practiced enough 
tonight, Fox.  And what better way to end for the night?"

She almost gave in as his face crumpled.  "But, Mom, I just want to practice for a few 
more minutes.  I think I know what I've been doing wrong and now that I got it right, I 
just need to reinforce it."

That was a favorite expression of his coach -- reinforce the good shots.  She wavered, and 
then was convinced as he said, "I've already finished all my homework.  I know I have 
chores, but they won't take long.  I promise I'll be responsible and do them tonight."  
Then came the word that always did her in.  "Please??"

She sighed and zipped up his coat to his neck.  She took his hands in hers and rubbed 
them, trying to instill some warmth, then said, "Just for fifteen minutes more.  That's it, 
okay?"

She was surprised when he threw his arms around her and hugged her.  He'd been pulling 
back lately, not wanting to seem like a baby in public.  It felt good to have her little boy 
in her arms, even if it were only for a few brief moment.  She felt him start to pull away 
but grabbed him tighter and whispered, "Love you, sweet boy."

His reaction was expected.  He pulled away then with an "Aww, Mom" and glanced 
around, worried that a friend might have seen him.  She ruffled his hair and turned back 
to the garage, saying, "Fifteen more minutes, Fox."

"Yes, ma'am."

When she got back into the house, Bill had changed out of his suit and sat in the living 
room with the paper spread out on his lap.  He looked up as she entered and she could tell 
he was looking behind her for Fox.

"I told him he could stay out for another few minutes."

He dropped the paper and smiled at her, saying, "You old softy."

She had to laugh.  He was right, after all.  She leaned on the arm of the chair and said, 
"Yes, but would you want me any other way?"

"Not on your life."

He'd moved the paper over to the side and picked up a letter that had come in the mail 
that day.  "Do you believe this?"

She shook her head in disgust.  "He's only a little boy.  What could they be thinking?"

He looked just as disgusted as she was.  "I'm going to talk with his coach tomorrow at the 
game.  The last thing we need is for Fox to get wind of this.  We'd never hear the end of 
it."

She nodded wordlessly as he went on.

"I can't believe they'd think we would ever send our just turned ten year old off to 
boarding school just so they could get him on their damned basketball team.  Jesus!"

Ever the devil's advocate, she felt compelled to say, "I imagine this kind of thing would 
be important for some families.  It might be the only way their child could get a decent 
education."

"Well, Fox won't need anything like this.  He'll have colleges begging him to just come 
and look at them.  And not because he can play basketball, either.  It'll be because he's a 
damned smart kid.  Smarter than I could ever be, that's for sure."

She smiled again at his passion and leaned over to kiss him.  God, how she loved this 
man.  She whispered, "I can't imagine not having my children with me as they grew up.  
How sad that some parent have to make that decision -- to send their kids away."

Her husband moved so quickly then that it shocked her.  He grabbed her around the waist 
and pulled her into his lap, then kissed her passionately.  He whispered, "I wish I didn't 
have to leave tomorrow.  I wish I'd never have to leave you."

Just as the kiss deepened, the slamming of the kitchen door alerted them to their son's 
presence.  She pulled back again with a sigh, slipping off Bill's lap.

She could hear Fox in the kitchen.  Then he yelled, "Mom!"

She called out, "We're in here."

He came into the living room a few moments later.  "Hey, Dad.  Guess what?"

Bill had a smile on his face and looked inordinately proud.  "What, Fox?"

"I got it.  Once, five times in a row and again, four times in a row."

"That's fantastic.  I never doubted you."

She could see her son stand even taller at the praise.  She hated to burst his bubble, but 
life moved on.  Even when you'd just made five baskets in a row.  But she never had to 
say anything.

Fox waved at them and turned back to the kitchen, saying, "I'm gonna empty the garbage 
in the house now, Mom.  I'll take care of bringing the trash out to the street right after 
dinner."

She smiled and nodded at him, saying, "All right, sweetheart.  Just remember to wear 
your coat and gloves when you go out."

He groaned good naturedly but didn't argue as he headed out.  He really was a good kid.  
Both of them were.  She turned to her husband and said, "How'd we ever get so lucky?"

He just shrugged and said, "Good living, I guess."

She swatted him on the head as she went into the kitchen.  Time to get dinner on the 
stove.

The next day passed quickly.  She sighed as she looked down at her watch, realizing that 
Bill wouldn't be back for almost an entire week.  Well, it was almost time for dinner, and 
Fox still hadn't shown himself.  Three guesses where he might be.

She leaned on the couch and started to crane her neck when it dawned on her that it 
wasn't necessary.  Fox was in clear view, standing at the end of the driveway, talking 
with some stranger.

She felt a surge of anger competing with curiosity.  This was a safe neighborhood, so she 
doubted there was anything harmful going on, but she was still perturbed that her son 
didn't show more sense.

She ran out the front door without even putting her coat on and hurried to the end of the 
driveway.  When her son realized she was there, he turned to her.  The excitement shone 
clearly on his face.  "Mom, this is Coach Andrews from the Hartford Academy.  They 
want me to come and play basketball there."

She was so angry she could spit.  Without even looking at her son, she said, "Fox, get 
inside, please.  I need to talk with this man."

"But, ... "

"No buts.  Get in the house now."

She knew she wasn't being fair to him.  He hadn't done anything after all except get 
excited, but she had to try to end this now.  She watched as he disappeared into the house 
before turning back to the man in front of her.  Did they even realize the impact they'd 
have by approaching a child directly?  Of course they did.  What was she thinking?  They 
knew exactly what they were doing.  At it made her even angrier.

"Look, Mr. ..."

"Coach Andrews, ma'am.  I'm pleased to meet you."

She had to give him credit.  He was charming and suave, standing there with his hat in 
one hand and the other stretched out to shake.  She ignored it and said, "Mr. Andrews, I 
do not appreciate you coming to my house and talking with my son before you speak 
with me.  You have no right."

She took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down a bit.  She could see he was 
getting ready to speak and cut him off before he could even try.  Her voice was firm as 
she said, "No.  I don't want to hear it.  We are not interested in your offer.  Fox is ten 
years old and he belongs here with us."

The man actually had the nerve to try to talk her out of it.  He got this patronizing look on 
his face and said in an oily voice, "Mrs. Mulder, I understand that you want the best for 
your son, but you need to appreciate that this will be an incredible opportunity.  Seventy-
two percent of our boys are offered college scholarships when they graduate, regardless 
of grades."

If he thought this would help his case, he was miserably mistaken.  She forced her jaw to 
relax before saying, "Mr. Andrews, Fox was tested in the genius range just last year.  
He's a year ahead in school and still completely bored.  He won't need any basketball 
scholarship to go to college." 

She felt a guilty pleasure as the man realized he hadn't done his homework well enough.  
She crossed her arms, shivering now that the heat of anger was passing, and said, "Good 
day to you, sir."  She stood there, daring him to even try to say anything more, and 
merely nodded to herself as he got in his car and left.  When she turned to go back into 
the house, she saw the curtain in the living room swish closed.  Now came the hard part.

As she entered the house, Fox met her.  He stood some six or so feet away from the door, 
leaning against the wall, with arms crossed and a determined expression on his face.  She 
wasn't sure if she had the energy for this tonight.

"Fox, I really don't want to talk about this right now.  That man had no right speaking to 
you before discussing it with your father and me."

"But, ..."

"No buts.  There are no buts here.  You are ten years old.  You will live with us until you 
are old enough to go to college on your own.  Not sooner."

She saw the lower lip jut out and knew he was thinking up arguments.

"You let me go away to camp by myself."

She closed her eyes, disgusted that she'd forgotten the obvious.  "The only exception is 
camp.  It's not the same, Fox, and you know it."

His eyes narrowed then and she started getting nervous.  "How is it different?  If I went 
to play basketball at the Hartford Academy, it would be like basketball camp except 
there'd also be school."

She fought to keep calm when she answered.  "Basketball camp is one month out of the 
summer.  These people are talking about nine months of the year.  It is completely 
different."

She could practically see the wheels turning as he shifted his feet and said, "Coach 
Andrews says that almost all the boys get college scholarships and a lot of them go on to 
play in the pros."

"A lot of them do, huh?  And how tall are those that go on to play pro ball?  Fox, I have 
no doubt you're going to be a tall young man, but there's no one on either side of our 
families over six foot two.  Have you ever heard of a pro ball player that short?"

She knew it was a mistake as soon as she said it.  The fierce light of determination went 
out of his eyes and his shoulders slumped.  He looked absolutely devastated and she 
couldn't believe she'd said it.  For years when he was younger he'd pray every night that 
God would make him tall.  He'd stopped praying for it out loud, but she had no doubt he 
still hoped, deep down, that it would happen.

She knew she had to try to make it right and quickly said, "Fox, I didn't mean it.  For all I 
know, we have giants in our family history."

Without a word he pushed himself away from the wall and headed down the hallway to 
his room.  She called out to him, but he ignored her.  She didn't blame him, really.  She'd 
crushed his heart not once, but twice in a matter of minutes.

She muttered out loud, "Bill, I wish you were here.  I need you."

She heard a movement to her left and looked into the living room.  Sammy was there, 
crying.  God, what had she done to her daughter?

"What's wrong, baby?"

"I don't want Fox to go away."

"What?  Sammy, what are you talking about?  Fox isn't going anywhere, sweetheart."

"But I heard.  He wants to go away to play basketball."

She pulled her daughter onto her lap and smoothed her hair back.  "Yes, he does want to, 
but he's not going to.  Fox isn't going anywhere, baby.  Now, come on.  Why don't you 
help me set the table for dinner, okay?"

Sammy sniffled and ran the back of her hand across her eyes, but nodded in agreement.  
She got up and wandered into the kitchen, and Teena followed a few moments later.  If it 
wasn't one thing, it was another.

She stopped at the door to watch her daughter as she pulled over a stool to get the plates 
down from the cupboard.  Her hair was getting more unruly by the day, but Teena 
couldn't bear the notion of cutting it.  Besides, while she'd never admit it, she actually 
loved the five minutes she spent every morning braiding her daughter's hair.  It was a 
time for just the two of them and she looked forward to continuing the tradition for years 
to come.  She looked at the clock and decided she needed to get moving.  Dinner was 
going to be a bit late tonight.  

The rest of the evening was relatively uneventful.  Fox excused himself early on and 
spent the rest of the night in his room.  Right before bedtime, she knocked lightly on his 
door.  When he didn't answer, she said, "Fox, can I come in?"

There was no answer, so she turned the knob and entered the darkened room carefully.  A 
sliver of moonlight shone in through the window, and fell across the room and onto his 
bed.  She dodged a half-built robot from his erector set, avoided a pair of well worn 
basketball shoes, and made her way over to him.  He was fast asleep, still dressed and 
lying sprawled on top of the covers, his basketball next to his hip.  Tear tracks were clear 
on his cheeks.

She shook her head at the sight and felt an almost choking sorrow at having had to 
disappoint him.  She moved to the bottom of the bed and picked up a blanket, then spread 
it over him.  She tucked it around him gently, then brushed his unruly hair from his 
forehead.  She leaned down to kiss him goodnight and whispered, "Sleep well, my sweet 
boy."

The rest of the night was spent in a sleepless misery as she tried to figure out how to 
make things better for him the next day.  He was still quiet the next morning, resistant to 
entering into any kind of light banter or even serious discussion.  She'd decided the night 
before that he just needed some time to get over it.  He was a smart child and was 
generally able to see multiple sides to an issue.  He just needed a bit of time to see the 
other side to this one.

When it was time to leave for school, she stopped him as he headed out the door and said, 
"Fox, you know I would never do anything to hurt you.  I only want what's best for you, 
sweetheart."

He looked at her with the oddest expression and finally said, "I know you do, Mom.  
Good-bye."

She watched as he walked up the street to the school bus stop.  Then continued watching 
until the bus drove up.  She sent silent well wishes for a good day before heading off to 
check on her daughter's progress.  

The day was long and she waited breathlessly to see whether Fox was more himself when 
he came home.  But when the bus passed by, her son was not on it.  She didn't grow 
concerned immediately.  He often visited with friends after school, although usually only 
after arranging it beforehand.

She started calling all his friends, only to get more and more concerned.  Paulie 
suggested that he hadn't seen Fox since early afternoon.  She called the school then and 
was shocked to hear that Fox gave his teacher a note stating that he was to meet his father 
outside the school promptly at 1:30 p.m.  The teacher was horrified to learn that Fox's 
father was out of town and had definitely not written any note.  She hung up the phone 
quickly, then immediately dialed the number Bill had given her for emergencies.

She recognized the voice that answered after four rings, and said, "Grant, this is Teena 
Mulder.  I have an emergency here and I really need to speak with Bill.  Is he there?"

The man responded quickly, saying, "Of course, let me get him."  The five minute wait 
was almost unbearable, but finally her husband came on the phone, obviously worried.

"Teena, what is it?  What's happened?"

She spent another five minutes filling him in.  He said, "Call the police immediately.  I 
know it doesn't sound like something Fox would do, but it's possible he could have run 
away.  I'll get home as soon as I can, Teena.  I'll call in every hour or so until I get there, 
okay?"

She felt reassured, just knowing that he was on his way.  "I'll call now.  Hurry back, 
Bill."

Four hours later, she'd still heard nothing of her son. It had turned dark hours before and 
was freezing out.  She knew he only had a jacket on that morning.  His winter coat still 
hung behind the door. 

The police had come to the house immediately and had taken the case very seriously.  A 
child wandering the streets alone was always taken seriously.  At a little after eleven, the 
phone rang and she jumped to pick it up.  It was Bill, again.

"Any word?"

"Not yet.  Where are you?"

"Close.  Be there soon."

"All right."

There was silence for several long moments and then Bill said, "Don't worry.  We'll find 
him."

Bill made it home soon after, but there was still no word about their son.  It was a 
sleepless night, filled with tense calls to the police every hour or so.  Around six in the 
morning, the sun started to rise, casting a pinkish glow through the front window.  

She sat on the couch with Samantha in her lap.  Bill was in the chair, his right hand 
resting on the phone, his left rubbing his temple.  She couldn't imagine not having her 
son in her life.  It was a thought that was too terrible to even consider.  She couldn't help 
the tears that started to flow then, and the sobs that shook her shoulders.  Bill raised his 
head and looked at her, his own face starting to crumple.  He moved then, pushing 
himself out of the chair to come to her.

He sat on the arm of the couch and leaned towards her, wrapping his arm around her 
carefully.  She leaned into him, and closed her eyes, barely able to think coherently.  She 
was terrified.  Terrified that her little boy was dead, kidnapped, injured and dying.  
Terrified that he was alone and frightened with no one to help him.

They sat quietly for almost a full hour, and both jerked when the phone rang.  Sammy 
stirred on her lap and sat up sleepily as Bill answered the phone.

She could only hear his side of the conversation but knew almost immediately by the 
relief that flooded his face that Fox had been found.  

He'd made it all the way to the Hartford Academy outside New York City.  The Coach 
was shocked to find him sitting shivering outside the gym's entrance around seven in the 
morning.  He'd immediately called the police there and they'd told him to stay put with 
Fox.  As soon as the police confirmed the child's identity, they called the local police 
who then contacted her and Bill.

She was filled with relief and heard Bill making arrangements for Fox's safe return.  He'd 
be put on a plane directly by the police, and they would meet him at the airport in a little 
over two hours.  She wasn't sure if she could wait that long.  She picked up Samantha and 
brought her back to her daughter's room, setting her down gently.  She kissed her cheek 
and said, "Help Mommy, now, okay, Samantha?  We're going to pick up Fox in a little bit 
and Mommy and Daddy have to get ready.  Do you think you can get changed by 
yourself?"

The little girl nodded slowly, her expression intent, then said, "Do I get to come too, 
Mommy?"

"Yes, sweetheart.  You sure do.  We're all going to go."

"I'll wear something special, okay?"

"That sounds nice, sweetie.  You get dressed and then we'll all eat breakfast.  Then we'll 
go to the airport and pick up Fox."

Her daughter got a serious look on her face and asked, "Is Fox in trouble, Mommy?"

She could see the tears already starting to form.  Samantha always wanted to protect her 
big brother from any punishment, no matter how deserved it might be.

"Just a little trouble, baby.  Don't worry, he'll survive it and be just fine."

She smiled at her sensitive daughter to show she wasn't really angry and was relieved to 
see Sammy's features lightened.  She loved her big brother with a passion and would do 
anything to keep him out of trouble.

"Go on and get dressed now, okay, Sammy?  We'll see Fox real soon."

"Okay, Mommy."

The two hours felt more like twenty.  By the time the plane arrived, her nerves were 
almost shot.  She felt Bill's hand rest on her shoulder at one point and it calmed her.  The 
door to the gangway opened and the passengers started exiting.  It seemed as if it took 
forever.  She was starting to look around nervously, wondering if somehow they'd missed 
him, when a stewardess came off with their son in tow.

Her first reaction was to grab him to her in a tight hug and kiss him.  Her second was to 
hold him at arm's length, shake him and say, "Fox, what were you thinking?"  Then she 
felt her husband's grip on her shoulder again and looked closely at her son's face.  There 
would be time for recriminations later. Right now, it was time to go home.

She pulled him close again, more gently this time, and whispered, "I was so scared.  
Please don't ever scare me like that again."

Bill patted her on the back and said, "Come on, everyone.  Let's go home."

She felt Fox tense as his father spoke and could guess why.  The last he'd known, his 
father was in West Virginia for a week.  He was smart enough to figure out why his 
father was now here.  The trip to the car was made in silence, as was the thirty minute 
trip home.

Even Samantha seemed to realize that she needed to be quiet.  Right before they pulled in 
the driveway, she looked back and saw that Sammy was plastered next to her big brother. 
Fox was holding his sister's hand, as if it were she who were in trouble.  When they got in 
the house, she sent Samantha off to play in her room, whispering, "It's okay.  Everything 
will be all right.  Go on now."

She waited for her daughter to close her door and then moved into the living room.  Fox 
was already sitting in a chair, looking like a death row prisoner.  She sat down on the 
couch across from him and waited for her husband to join them before speaking.  She 
wasn't looking forward to this.

Bill joined them after a few minutes and said, "I just got off the phone with Officer 
Adams.  I need to go over in person and talk with them when we're done here."

She nodded to him, then looked over at her son.  

Bill spoke to him first.  "What do you have to say for yourself, son?"

Fox raised his head and looked right at them.  "Nothing, sir."

She tensed, wondering why her sweet, obedient son was suddenly being so defiant.  The 
anger in her husband's voice was clear.

"What do you mean by that?"

Fox shifted in the seat and said clearly, "I mean I don't have anything to say, sir."

She turned to her husband and raised one hand to rest on his knee. She said, "I don't 
understand, Fox.  Do you realize how worried we were?  Do you realize what could have 
happened?"

He was thoughtful, not appearing to be intentionally disobedient at all.  He finally said, 
"I'm sorry that you were worried.  I wasn't in any danger, though.  I was very careful.  I 
didn't talk to strangers."

She was still mystified.  "But, Fox, don't you see how we'd be worried when you didn't 
come home?  Can't you see that?"

He appeared to be getting upset now, with tears pooling in his eyes.  He was emotional 
when he said, "But I had to show you I could be independent, Mom.  I had to show you I 
could live on my own.  Then you'd let me play basketball at the Hartford Academy."

She felt her stomach lurch at the thought of a ten year old trying to prove he was so 
independent he didn't need anyone or anything.  Tears rolled down her cheeks and she 
couldn't speak.

Bill said, "Fox, it's not a matter of you proving that you're independent.  That's not what 
this is about.  This is about us being a family.  Families stay together.  Do you understand 
that, Fox?  We love you.  Sammy loves you.  We don't want you leaving us before you 
have to.  There's no reason for it.  Do you understand that, boy?"

Fox was crying in earnest now, but managed to say, "But I want to play basketball, Dad."

Bill moved from the couch and walked across the room to kneel down in front of his son.  
He rested a hand on the child's shoulder and cupped Fox's face with the other.  He wiped 
away the tears then and said gently, "I know you do, son.  But you don't have to be away 
from home to do that.  If the team you're playing on now isn't challenging enough, we'll 
see what else we can do to make it a bit more exciting, okay?  Deal?"

She was relieved when she saw her son nod his head in agreement.

Bill then said, "But you have to promise me something, Fox.  You have to swear to me 
that you'll never do anything like this again.  You can't run off and leave us behind like 
this.  You scared us, son."

She could hardly hear her son when he said in a trembling voice, "I'm sorry, Dad.  I didn't 
mean to scare you.  I just knew I could do it and that I could prove it to you.  I just 
wanted to prove it, that's all."

She moved across the room, too, then and knelt to the side of her son.  She ran her hand 
over his head gently, then leaned forward and kissed the top of his head. "You don't have 
to ever prove anything to us."  She kissed him again and said, "I love you, sweet boy.  
You know that?"

He grimaced a bit and nodded, but then said, "I do know, Mom.  I'm sorry."

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


Present Day, Hour 7 of the Wait
Sunday, 5:07 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Scully was absolutely entranced by both the story as well as the woman telling it.  In all 
the years she and Mulder had been partners, she hadn't really appreciated the fact that 
Mulder had led a relatively normal life before his sister had been taken.  His parents had 
loved him.  And she had no doubt whatsoever that the woman sitting across the bed from 
her still loved her son.

This fact was reinforced as Teena Mulder picked up her son's hand in hers and kissed it 
gently before laying it back down on the covers.  The older woman said, "The thing that 
was so amazing about the whole situation was the planning that he'd put into it in such 
short order.  We found the details out later."

The smile on Mrs. Mulder's face was nice to see.  Teena Mulder was obviously still 
remembering the events of so long ago.  Scully was curious to know more.  This look 
into her partner's past was not only fascinating, but was providing a valuable insight into 
many of his actions over the last six years.

She ran her hand over her partner's arm, then through his hair, in what had started to 
become a ritual.  When she looked up from his face, she saw that Mrs. Mulder was 
watching her.  She felt as if she'd been caught at something, but the smile the woman 
gave her set her at ease.  

Mrs. Mulder said, "He forged a very convincing note for his teacher, then convinced the 
poor woman that his Dad was right there waiting to pick him up.  He got on a bus and 
rode across town to the bank where he withdrew $200 from his savings account.  The 
teller swore his mother was waiting for him by the door."

The woman was shaking her head in what appeared to be a combination of fondness and 
amazement.  "I would have sworn before that incident that my son couldn't lie to save 
himself.  But he evidently discovered he had quite a talent for it.  He played the same 
trick on one person after another.  Whenever someone questioned his being alone, he'd 
point to some adult and swear the person was his mother or father.  Then he'd wave at the 
person and when they waved back, it would seem like they did indeed know each other."

She shifted in the chair and laughed a bit out loud.  "When we found out the details, Bill 
didn't know whether to be proud or furious."

They all could relate to that.  Scully herself had been faced with that dilemma enough 
times herself.

Mrs. Mulder continued with her story.  "After he withdrew the money, he caught a cab to 
the bus station, then bought a ticket to Harriston, via New York City.  The layover in 
New York was for three hours.  I still shudder to think what might have happened to him 
there, all by himself."

And the woman did seem to shiver before continuing.  "He caught the bus into Harriston, 
bought something to eat at a local diner, then walked more than five miles to the 
Academy.  By this time, it was well past midnight.  He parked himself in front of the 
gym doors and spent the night there."

Scully was surprised when the woman stood and looked right at her. "Like I said, my 
son's always been determined, Ms. Scully.  And I know he'll pull through this, too.  He 
just has to decide he wants to."

She nodded, knowing intuitively that the woman was right.  She felt her mother's hand on 
her shoulder and turned to her with a small smile, happy to have such support.  She 
sighed deeply, and wished for the hundredth time that she could rewrite history.  God, 
she was so tired.  She wanted to sleep.  Wanted to lie down and rest.  But she knew she 
wouldn't be able to until Mulder showed some sign of making up his mind to live.

She looked back over at Mrs. Mulder and said, "AD Skinner was telling us about another 
situation where Mulder was more determined than was good for him.  When he was at 
the Academy.  The ..."

"DC Murders case.  Oh, I know all about it, Ms. Scully.  Believe me, I do know about 
that one."

Scully saw the woman glance to her right to where Skinner sat.  They exchanged a 
significant look, then the AD said, "I just told them about the day Mulder got hold of the 
files for the first time."

Mrs. Mulder nodded and with a sad expression said, "I often wonder if things might have 
gone differently for Fox if he hadn't gotten involved in that case.  But, ultimately, a 
person's who they are.  If it hadn't been that case, I have no doubt it would have been 
another."

Scully realized then that the woman was sending a message to Skinner, and by his 
expression, he'd gotten it.  He nodded in acknowledgment, then said, "Probably, Mrs. 
Mulder.  But I've always wondered, too."

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

End Part 5 of ? 

*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 6 of ? (6/?)
by Kronos (kronos1@adelphia.net)
*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 7 of the Wait
Sunday, 5:23 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Another nurse came in and went through the routine they'd now become so used to.  
Skinner watched closely as the woman moved around the bed and machines, checking 
monitors and flipping switches.  It dawned on him then that everyone else in the room 
also sat breathlessly, waiting as he was to hear whether there had been any change.

The woman smiled at them before leaving and he breathed deeply in relief.  He smiled a 
bit as he heard other sighs echoing his.  His relief was short-lived, however, as a doctor 
came in just moments later followed by the exact same nurse.

He stood quickly, hands thrust in his pockets.  "Is everything all right?"

The doctor nodded, then glanced around at those in the room before replying.  "There's 
been no change.  He's still holding his own. However, I do need about a half hour so we 
can run some tests and change bandages.  If you could sit out in the CCU Waiting area, 
I'll come out as soon as I'm done."

Skinner glanced about nervously, wondering if there was more to the story than the man 
said.  But, when he focused on Scully, she didn't seem overly concerned so he merely 
stood back to allow the ladies to precede him.  He took a last look at his agent lying so 
still in the bed and swallowed heavily.  He prayed it wouldn't be the last time he saw the 
younger man.

The doctor pulled the sheet down far enough to look at the wound on Mulder's ribcage.  
Skinner watched the man shake his head, as if in puzzlement or disgust.  A little sliver of 
fear shot through him so that he was distracted.  So distracted that he had no idea where 
the nurse who now stood in front of him came from. Her voice cut through his daze, 
finally.

"Sir, could you step out for a bit, please?"

He flushed a bit in embarrassment, but nodded and stepped out, feeling somewhat lost.  
The curtains were pulled in front of the window and past the open doorway.  He turned to 
the CCU doors and saw that Scully stood there waiting for him.  He summoned up a 
smile he didn't really feel and started the long walk towards her.

He couldn't remember ever feeling as helpless as this.  But then, he'd never been in this 
position before, watching it all unfold.  This was what Scully had been through time and 
again.  This was what Mulder had been through all those times Scully's life had hung in 
the balance.  He hated this.  He hated not being able to do anything.

"Sir, is everything all right?"

Great.  Now he'd gone and worried her.  "Everything's fine, Scully.  I was just thinking 
how ... frustrating this is."

Her features lightened a bit, but her own worry was still evident in her every move and 
expression.  Still, she tried to appear strong, and he admired her for it all the more.  
"Believe me, I understand what you mean."  She gestured down the hall to the waiting 
room then.  "Come on, sir.  I'll buy the coffee this time."

"Agent Scully, I do believe you're trying to perpetrate a fraud.  You know the coffee's 
free here."

At least he got her to smile.  Her hair was mussed and the light make up she'd worn 
yesterday was smeared and uneven from tear tracks.  She looked so young and 
vulnerable.  He was filled with the desire to protect her somehow, but knew he had no 
control over what was going to happen in the next hours.  What she needed, he couldn't 
give.

As they walked into the room, he saw that Margaret Scully and Teena Mulder were 
sitting next to one another on a couch, each with a cup of coffee in hand.  They were so 
alike and yet so very different.  Both strong women who'd do anything to protect their 
children.  Teena Mulder was tall and statuesque, while Margaret Scully was even more 
petite than her daughter.  But the strength that shone from both had nothing to do with 
any physical attributes.  He felt honored to be spending this time in their collective 
company.

He handed a cup to Scully, then filled his own.  He moved to sit in a chair to Mrs. 
Scully's right, while Scully sat in a chair next to Mrs. Mulder.  Mulder's mother reached 
out with her left hand and rested it on Scully's for a moment.

Skinner glanced at his watch and decided this might be a very long thirty minutes.  He 
raised a hand to his eyes and rubbed them, finding it more difficult to keep them open.  
He and Scully had been here now for more than nine hours and he knew already it would 
be quite a while before either of them would leave.  At least he prayed it would be a long 
time.  There was only one thing that could happen that would cause them to leave before 
Mulder was out of the woods.

He breathed deeply, telling himself to stop thinking along those lines.  A movement in 
the doorway drew his eyes to the left and he noted a very tired looking Jerry Friedman 
waiting there.  The man seemed unwilling to enter the waiting room so Skinner excused 
himself and went out to the hallway.

He nodded a greeting toward the younger man and said in a low voice, "Agent."

Jerry looked nervous, fidgeting with the papers he held, practically bouncing from foot to 
foot.  "Sir, I've brought the report on our UNSUB.  SAC Landers felt you should be kept 
in the loop.  I hope I'm not interrupting."

He reached out to take the file Friedman held when he noticed the man trying to look 
around him into the waiting room.  He realized then that neither he nor Scully had 
provided any updates on Mulder's condition.  The team members his former agent had 
worked with for close to a week were probably concerned about him.

"Mulder's still in critical condition.  He's in a coma and on a respirator.  Temperature's up 
due to infection.  But ... he's still hanging in there.  I'll be sure to keep you apprised of 
any developments."

He could see the news hit Friedman hard.  The man's shoulders drooped even further and 
his face wore a scrunched, tight expression.  "Thank you for the update, sir.  The most 
they'd tell us was that he was in critical condition."

He nodded, then waved the file somewhat aimlessly, saying, "What did you find, Agent?"

Friedman did an admirable job of pulling himself together, standing straighter after 
taking a deep breath.  "Sir, the UNSUB's been identified as Harold Stevens -- a thirty-
three year old, white male.  Single, never married, no children.  No living relatives."

Friedman wore a painful expression, prompting Skinner to ask, "What's the problem, 
Agent?"

The man sighed and shifted his feet, obviously nervous.  "Sir, it's Agent Mulder's 
profile."

"Yes?"

"Well, sir, this man both does and does not fit."

"But that's not all that unusual.  A profile is intended to be a guide, not a bible.  Even 
Mulder's not always a hundred percent."

His words didn't seem to sway Friedman though, who now looked painfully unconvinced.  
He glanced at his watch felt a pressure to get back to the waiting room.  At the same 
time, he knew that Friedman had been of great help to his former agents.  The man's 
opinion, or even his gut feeling, was worth a little bit of time and a great deal of respect.

"Agent Friedman, tell me what has you concerned."

The man seemed to be wavering, obviously doubting his own read of the situation, and 
Skinner reached a hand out to the agent's arm.  As if this were a trigger, Friedman finally 
started talking.

"Sir, Agent Mulder had profiled a man who was intelligent -- of above average 
intelligence.  A man without a prior record who had tried join law enforcement, perhaps 
even the Bureau, but who would have washed out because of psychological imbalances."  
Friedman was agitated now, his voice rushing on more quickly.  "Mulder's profile 
suggested a man who was self-assured and cocky.  This man, Harold Stevens, did attempt 
to join the Richmond PD, but was found to be unacceptable due to three primary reasons 
-- a prior record involving a string of misdemeanors as well as a larceny charge which 
ended up being thrown out due to lack of evidence, a borderline schizophrenic with a 
suggestion of a paranoid personality, and also a below average intelligence.  And the 
RPD are pretty damned sure he had something to do with the death of his mother a 
couple years ago, but they haven't been able to collect one shred of evidence to support 
it." 

He understood then why Friedman was bothered.  This was no small discrepancy.  This 
was the grand canyon of discrepancies.  And he wasn't sure what it meant.  Friedman was 
staring at him as if he'd have all the answers, be able to find some reasonable explanation 
as to why Mulder would have been so far off.  He raised a hand to forestall the man and 
opened the file that had been handed to him earlier.

He glanced over the details of Stevens' early years and began reading about the petty 
crimes, the larceny charge.  Read about the death of the man's mother a couple years ago, 
under questionable circumstances.  Read the results of the tests for the police academy 
last year.  It was obvious that the man was a misfit -- a bomb waiting to explode who 
probably should have been behind bars years before.  He could actually see a man such 
as this carrying out the crimes in this case.  But the problem was that Mulder evidently 
could not.  Did not.  Mulder saw a very different kind of person perpetrating these 
crimes.  And for all the disagreements, for all the arguments over the years, there was one 
thing he knew.  Knew more surely than anything.  And that was that he trusted Mulder's 
profiling abilities more than any other person's in the Bureau.

He sighed and closed the file, tapping it against his hand.  He looked at Friedman again 
and saw the understanding there.  Neither of them believed this case was completely 
resolved.  There was more to be learned.

"Agent Friedman, please tell SAC Landers that I'd like to speak with him at his earliest 
convenience.  In the meantime, I think it would be wise to continue investigating this 
man Stevens.  Dig into every aspect of his life.  I want confirmation that he's the man 
we've been looking for.  Absolute confirmation."

Friedman nodded, looking relieved, and said merely, "Yes sir."  The man turned to go 
and then paused, turning back more slowly.  "Please give Dana my regards, sir.  And 
please let me know if there's anything that any of us can do for Mulder."  He paused 
again, obviously unsure how his words would be taken, but then said, "He's a good agent 
and a good man.  We're all pulling for him."

Skinner nodded, then watched as Friedman walked down the hallway and eventually 
disappeared from view around a corner.  He leaned back against the wall, feeling tired.  
Tired and old.  He looked across the hallway at a clock hanging on the wall and 
discovered that it was a little past five-thirty in the morning.  His stomach rumbled and it 
reminded him that he hadn't eaten since lunch time the day before.  

He pushed himself away from the wall and stood straight.  Maybe in an hour or so he 
could force the ladies to have some breakfast.  In the meantime, it certainly wasn't 
necessary for Scully to know about Friedman's news.  He sighed and blinked his eyes 
hard, hoping to clear his vision as well as his head, then walked back into the waiting 
room.

He sat down once more next to Margaret Scully and attempted a smile.  They all 
appeared drained and depressed.  He searched his memory for an appropriate installment 
of the Mulder Story Hour and remembered a tale that had been told and retold over the 
years, each telling adding new and ever more daring exploits.  But he knew the truth, and 
it was a story to be proud of without any embellishments.

Just as he'd decided to launch into it, a nurse came to the door, a smile plastered onto her 
face.  "You can go back in now."

And before they had a chance to question, the woman was gone from the room.  He didn't 
know whether this was a good thing or not, but stood anyway.  

The trek to Mulder's room seemed to get longer with each passage, but they were there 
finally and nothing seemed different to his eye.  Mulder had been shifted once more and 
it appeared that the bandage on his forehead had also been changed.  The antiseptic smell 
hit him more powerfully than at any time before, almost making him gag at the 
pungency.  

He waited as Scully and Teena Mulder took their places, with Margaret Scully following 
close behind.  He took his own place, the chair that had somehow become 'his' in the last 
several hours, and sat back.  

There was a heaviness in the room -- a despair that worried him.  If Mulder was the least 
bit aware -- if he could sense anything, it shouldn't be this gloom.  He cleared his throat 
to get the attention of the ladies and said, "You know, the day Mulder discovered the files 
was the same day he made Academy history in Hogan's Alley."  He could tell that his 
abrupt words caught them by surprise, but he ignored it and continued on.  He turned to 
Scully with a slight smile and asked, "You know what I'm talking about?"

She leaned back farther in her chair and crossed her legs, an upturn of one lip revealing 
that she did, indeed, know something about it.  "I heard about it during training.  It was a 
tough precedent to follow."

Mrs. Scully was obviously curious.  She leaned forward towards him a bit and asked, 
"What do you mean?  What did Fox do?"  Mrs. Mulder appeared to be curious as well, 
and he wondered if perhaps her son hadn't filled her in on this little adventure.

"Mrs. Scully, Mrs. Mulder, you know about Hogan's Alley?"

Scully's mother nodded almost immediately, but Teena Mulder hesitated. He decided it 
wouldn't hurt to give them some background.

"Hogan's Alley was built in the mid-seventies to be the primary training ground for our 
Agents when they go through the Academy.  It's meant to represent a typical town, with 
the All-Med Drugstore, the Bank of Hogan, the Co-Op Laundromat, the post office, and 
the Biograph Theatre.  All of those are reasonably respectable, but there's also a seedy 
billiards parlor, a pawnshop, a no-tell motel, and the Pastime Lounge."

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and clasped his hands between them.  "We have a 
couple situations that are constructed in such a way that they're basically unwinable.  Sort 
of like the Bureau's equivalent to the Kobyashi Maru."

Both ladies just stared at him, obviously not understanding the reference.  He shook his 
head and continued.  "You see, sometimes what we're really interested in is seeing the 
trainee's reactions to certain situations regardless of what the end result might be.  So the 
Academy instructors take great pleasure in coming up with circumstances that would be 
incredibly challenging even to the most experienced of agents.  Then they throw in some 
additional ethical or moral dilemmas and turn a group of trainees loose to see what 
happens."

He was getting into the story now, and placed his coffee on the small table beside him to 
free up his hands.  "That very afternoon, Mulder was put in charge of a team handling a 
bank robbery."

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

September 3, 1986
Wednesday, 1:34 p.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


He slid to a stop at the back of the group, praying no one would notice.  No such luck.  

Agent Philip Ramey yelled out gruffly, "Trainee Mulder, it's so nice of you to join us."

He groaned internally, but merely stood straighter, trying to avoid the smirks of some of 
his classmates.  He was still breathing hard, having run across the complex in mere 
minutes, and was trying to appear nonchalant.

Ramey had pushed his way through the group until he stood just a foot away from Fox.  
The man had only an inch of height on him but was much broader and more muscular.  
His hair was dark brown with just a dash of white at his temples, and he wore wire rim 
glasses.  Despite the only slight advantage in height, Ramey somehow gave the 
impression of looking down his nose in complete disdain.

"Since you're so full of energy this afternoon, you're going to have the pleasure of leading 
the team during our little bank robbery."

He didn't know whether to be pleased or terrified.  In six weeks of play-acting, with some 
sixty hours already spent in Hogan's Alley, this was his first opportunity to call any of the 
shots.  

"What do have to say about that, Trainee Mulder?"

He smiled tightly and said, "I look forward to the opportunity, sir."

Fox had already experienced a bomb threat in the Drugstore and a raid on the Dogwood 
Inn, but today was a bank robbery and it looked like he'd be directing some of the action.  
He glanced around at his thirty-one classmates, wondering who'd be on the team with 
him.

Agent Ramey answered the question by yelling out eleven names and directing them all 
to the left, along with Fox.  "All the rest of you are with Agent Seymour.  She'll give you 
your background and positions and explain your roles.  Be prepared to be tellers and 
hostages."

The day was bright and warm, and a gentle breeze blew from the west. All the team 
members were dressed alike, with light windbreakers over their tee-shirts and khaki 
pants. Fox knew that in mere minutes they'd be donning the heavy assault armor that he 
despised so greatly.  The damned equipment made it almost impossible to move with any 
ease and was so loud you could hear it clanking from thirty feet away.  What was the 
worst of all, in his opinion, was that the helmet restricted head movement so that 
peripheral vision was reduced.

He glanced around at his classmates to see that they were all excited, with none of them 
appearing to hold his 'in charge' status against him.  They were waiting for Ramey to 
come back from the other group and start filling them in.  He was filled with a nervous 
energy and started tapping his hand against his leg.  He wanted to get this show on the 
road.

He glanced around to see his classmates evidencing similar signs of agitation.  He caught 
Shirley Kudla's eyes and smiled back at her.  She'd made it quite clear that she was a 
woman who usually got what she wanted and she'd told him she wanted him.  Badly.  He 
hadn't dismissed the notion.  She was nice enough.  Intelligent.  Certainly a looker.  Five 
foot nine, long legged and trim.  Blonde hair with sun bleached tips, long and straight.  
She always wore it pulled back in a pony tail during training exercises so it bobbed out 
behind her. He could do worse -- and had on many occasions.  He winked at her before 
turning his gaze back to the rest of the group.  They'd gone through this on several 
occasions so the silence was comfortable.  

He crossed his arms and forced his feet to stay in one spot.  When he turned his head 
back to the left, he saw Jimmy looking at him in curiosity.  He raised his eyebrows and 
said, "What?  What is it?"

The guy was a good five years older, some four inches taller and thin as a rail.  Fox had 
tried to get him on the basketball court, but it had been a complete disaster.  The man had 
a background in accounting and law and had evidently avoided team sports like the 
plague while growing up.  Jimmy had a strange expression on his long face when he 
answered.  "You know, I've heard they enjoy killing people in this exercise."

That got everyone's attention.  Fox had to admit that he'd overheard some comments here 
and there that had suggested the exercise could be a difficult one.  Before he could ask, 
someone else said, "What do you mean, Jim?"

"I overheard some guys from the 84-3 class talking in the library.  They didn't realize I 
was there.  I couldn't hear everything, but it certainly seemed from what I did hear that 
the instructors like to use this exercise to instill a little humility in the participants."

This comment sparked a flurry of discussion which Fox listened to with one ear, even 
while considering what it might mean.  He remembered Clay's words from that morning, 
along with the painful grins on both the NA men's faces. 'Just remember, it's never as 
easy as it looks.'

He was sure that Jimmy was right.  There would be nothing straight-forward or simple 
about this exercise.  They'd been challenged this morning to consider extreme 
possibilities.  Now was the time to start thinking along those lines.  Avoid linear 
thinking, avoid the trap of carelessness due to overconfidence.

He stuffed his hands in his pants pockets and turned to look at the little town.  They were 
on the outskirts right now, but the main street was visible from their present position.  
The bank was partway down the street, with an alley behind it, streets on the front and 
right side, and a shared wall with the town hall to the left as you stood looking at it from 
the front.  He nibbled at the inside of his cheek as he considered the implications.

Access could be gained through the front double doors and two glass windows.  To the 
right of the building as you looked at it was a side street.  The bank had another two 
windows on the side, the lower sills seven feet off the ground.  The top of the windows 
was some six or so feet from the roof, which was flat.  He wasn't sure about the back, but 
knew there was an alley that ran parallel to the main street.  What was really intriguing 
was the fact that the bank was attached to the town hall, actually sharing a wall.  He knew 
none of these buildings had basements, so any assault from below was out.  But that 
shared wall ...

He sensed someone to his left and tore his eyes away from the Alley.  Shirley was there, 
looking at him with a knowing smirk.  "You have an idea, don't you?"

He laughed a bit before replying.  "I always have ideas."

He enjoyed the look of disgust that flitted across her face.  He still wasn't sure about her, 
but one thing he did know was that if they were ever going to be more than friends, she'd 
better have a sense of humor, or develop one fast.  

She elbowed him in the ribs and said, "Come on, Fox.  Give.  What are you thinking?"

He glanced back at the main street, imagining how to best use twelve bodies.  "I'm 
thinking that it would be interesting to see what the wall between the town hall and the 
bank is made of."

Shirley looked shocked for a moment and then grinned broadly.  She leaned in close so 
that her hair actually tickled his chin.  "Do you think they make the trainees pay for any 
damaged property?"

He laughed with her and just shrugged.  "Would be interesting to find out, don't you 
think?"

She turned so she could look down the main street as well.  He could tell she was getting 
into the swing of it when she said, "Would definitely be easiest to swing in those 
windows from above.  And you know, now that I'm thinking about it, I bet that roof has 
some access through the ventilation system."

He nodded and asked, "How strong do you think the brick is out front?  Would a car be 
able to drive through it?"

Chris Hanson had overheard them at some point and now joined in.  "I got a look at the 
back once.  There's an alley, and across from that is just a grassy area.  Plenty of room to 
pick up some speed if necessary."

Fox had to smile at the guy.  Chris had been a cop in San Diego.  He'd managed to go to 
school part-time and had received a Master's in Political Science.  "I'm not sure if the 
Bureau would appreciate our wrecking their building as well as a vehicle."

Shirley quipped, "But I thought we were interested in saving lives."

He nodded and grew more serious.  He looked to Chris and asked, "Were you ever 
involved in any bank robberies?"

The man paused in thought before answering.  "Yes and no.  Not in the actual assaults or 
negotiations, only in the management during and the clean-up afterwards.  Keeping 
people back, taking statements after it was over, that sort of thing."

Shirley asked, "What kind of negotiations were necessary and how were any negotiations 
initiated?"

Fox knew they were good questions and looked to Chris for a response.  They'd had 
several hours of lectures and classes on bank robberies, but there was no substitute for 
first hand experience.  By now, several of the other students had made their way over to 
the little group and were also listening with interest.

"It depended on the circumstances, of course.  In each case, a teller had hit the silent 
alarm.  One time, the bank robbers didn't even realize the cops were there until they 
started to head for the street.  Then they see all these flashing lights.  A minute later, the 
phone starts to ring.  I took witness statements in that one.  One of the tellers said that the 
phone caused the head guy to flip out.  She thought he was going to start firing at first, 
but eventually he had someone answer it."

Everyone was listening with rapt expressions.  "It was the police of course.  Actually, it 
was one of the local Bureau negotiators.  The man calmly explained that the bank was 
completely surrounded and there was absolutely no way out.  Then asked what the bank 
robber wanted to do about it.  The teller said that after twenty minutes on the phone, the 
robber was in tears.  That one ended peacefully with the robbers giving up."

Chris looked around at the group surrounding him.  All the remaining eleven of them 
were there and listening.  "The one that really stands out, though, was a case where the 
bank robbers really weren't interested in the money.  They were out to make a statement 
and were determined to blow the entire bank up.  They knew the teller had hit the alarm 
and were just waiting for the FBI to show up."  Fox discovered he was quite interested in 
how this situation had been resolved.

"The cops called first and the guy inside told them not to call back until the Bureau was 
there.  When the Bureau negotiator showed up, the guy gave his demands, then calmly 
hung up the phone.  He said they had a bomb and they'd take out the entire building if 
they didn't meet his demands."

Fox asked the obvious.  "And what were the demands?"

Chris wore a grimace now.  "Oh, basically world peace.  The guy was an absolute kook."

There were nervous laughs around the group.  Fox was pretty sure he knew where this 
was going.  He saw Ramey approaching and decided to cut to the end.  "Were there any 
survivors?"

It was obvious by the confused expressions surrounding him that most of the other 
students hadn't yet made this leap.  Chris shook his head slowly.  "Nope.  And we lost 
five cops, too."

The story merely reinforced the morning's lesson.  Irrational people do not act rationally 
or have realistic expectations.  He had this weird feeling that the lesson was about to be 
driven home even  harder this afternoon.

By the time Ramey reached them, he found twelve trainees lost in thought, each with 
deadly serious expressions.  The man turned to Fox and gestured toward the town.  
"Trainee Mulder, bring your team along.  I'll brief you.  We have fifteen minutes."

Fox nodded and smiled back at his classmates.  They all followed along silently, eyes 
glued to the bank that sat half way down the little main street that ran through the Alley.  
The briefing, such as it was, lasted all of five minutes.  They sat in rows of chairs in one 
of the twenty-four rooms of the no-tell motel.  It had been converted to a little classroom 
for briefings just such as this.

Ramey stood in front of the room with a pad of paper in hand.  "This is what you know.  
A silent alarm has been triggered.  In addition, a call to 911 some two minutes after the 
alarm was triggered claimed there were gunshots and screams from inside the bank.  The 
first cop car arrived three minutes after the alarm was tripped.  By seven minutes, the 
bank was completely surrounded and by eight minutes, the Bureau negotiator was onsite 
with an assault team ready to go, if necessary."

The man looked around the room, his gaze finally settling on Fox.  "That's you."

Fox shifted nervously, suddenly feeling as if the fate of the world was in his hands.  His 
throat was uncomfortably dry and he tried to generate enough moisture so he could 
actually speak when he needed to.
  
Ramey continued.  "There's been no contact whatsoever as yet.  There's no intelligence.  
The cops have secured the area and are available for limited assistance."  The instructor 
paused and swept his gaze around the room.  "I'll be your primary contact with the cops. 
Captain Ramey at your service."  He smiled grimly.  "There'll be eight cars and sixteen 
cops at your disposal.  Getting ahold of any building plans will take a minimum of an 
hour."  The man looked at his watch then and said, "Technically, you have eight minutes 
before you arrive on the scene.  You have typical assault gear available, as well as 
equipment.  Get your butts into any necessary gear and start making decisions."

Ramey gestured towards a side room where the assault gear hung on hooks, and then 
approached Fox, with another glance at his watch.  His last words were, "Trainee Mulder, 
they're all yours."  The man handed Fox a slip of paper with the bank's phone number on 
it, then turned and left.

Fox nodded and stood. "Let's get suited up, people."

Even as he moved towards the room and started handing gear out to 'his' people, his mind 
was working.  After about a minute, while everyone was still engaged in preparation 
mode, he started his own briefing.

"It's clear we need intelligence.  I want to make sure no one inside is aware of our arrival.  
We stay out of sight so that the robbers don't know we're actually there.  Let them see the 
cops, but none of us, is that clear?"

There were nods and curious looks, but no dispute.

"It's either a robbery gone bad, in which case the assailants are going to be looking for a 
way out that won't involve the gas chamber, or it's something else entirely.  If they're 
wanting to make a statement, we deprive them of that opportunity for as long as 
possible."

Chris spoke quickly, "And if there are injured people inside?"

Fox nodded, already having thought of this.  "That's why we need intelligence ASAP.  I 
want Handley on the right side on the ground.  Come up from the alley and avoid the 
possibility of being seen.  I want Kudla, Hanson, and Shriver on the roof, ready to go in 
the side windows and one of the front windows if necessary.  Approach from the town 
hall roof."  

Shirley Kudla was grinning, obviously more than ready for the challenge.  He added, 
"But see if there's roof access through the ventilation system.  Quietly."

He glanced around, making sure everyone was doing what they were supposed to.  "The 
rest of us will go into the town hall, right next to the bank.  We'll gather what intelligence 
we can through the wall."  He looked at his watch and realized they had four minutes.  
He had to relay as much of his thinking as possible.  "If there are injuries, we have to 
attempt to assess the severity.  If it looks like there are serious injuries, we'll have to try 
to end it quickly.  If they're not so serious, we can afford to be a little more patient.  If 
there are no injuries, the plan is to never let the guys know what's going on outside and to 
avoid even talking with them.  We make them wait, and try to gather more intelligence.  
Delay will be the name of the game."

He glanced at his watch again and started to feel the pressure.  Two minutes.  "Those 
who are with me, once we're in the town hall I want Lieber and Reed to handle sight and 
sound.  Handley, you need to start reporting as soon as you're in position."

He turned to one of the older students, known affectionately as 'the Hankster'. The man 
was a stocky, red-faced and red-haired thirty-four year old who'd just made Detective on 
the Boston police force.  He'd dropped it all in a heartbeat when the Bureau accepted his 
application.  "Hank, I want you on communications.  Make sure all intelligence is being 
coordinated and distributed appropriately.  We'll use channel 3 for Hank, 6 for 
emergency broadcasts to all.  Got that?"

Everyone nodded without question or comment.  They'd already heard way too many 
stories about failures due solely to lack of communication.  

With a last glance at his watch he said, "Time to go, folks.  We approach from the east 
side down the alley.  Hank, Farrady, Lancaster, and Morrow, get the rams, tools, and 
other equipment.  Everyone else, make sure you have what you'll need for your own 
tasks.  Let's go, people."

In mere minutes, his entire team was in position, right on schedule.  Hank started 
relaying information from those on the roof and from Handley, even as Lieber and Reed 
were setting up their equipment at the common wall.  Fox worked with the rest of the 
team to lay out equipment and discuss strategy.

Hank said softly, "Handley reports no visible injuries, but she does not have an 
unobstructed view.  Requests verification from our team.  She has three assailants in her 
sights, all with what appear to be assault rifles.  She reports leader is in middle of room, 
one by wall nearest to her, one pacing near front of bank.  She counts five tellers standing 
in front of counter with hands on their heads.  She counts eight people lying on the floor, 
between the tellers and the leader.  No other obvious people."

Fox nodded and turned to Hank, "Report from the roof?"

The man nodded and again said in his quiet, but confident baritone, "Kudla is 
investigating.  Looks promising.  Hanson in position at front, Shriver in position at side."

"Tell all to hold positions until further intelligence is gathered."

He heard the man's murmur, but tuned it out.  He closed his eyes and thought hard.  
Could there be injured people that they weren't aware of?  He turned to Lieber and asked, 
"Do we have sound yet?"

The man nodded and raised a hand, then reported, "Got it."  The static filled, but audible 
discourse from the bank then filled the room.  It was obvious there were some problems 
in the chain of command inside the bank.  They heard a voice screaming.  "This is totally 
fucked up.  I can't believe I let you talk me into this.  The cops are everywhere you 
asshole.  They've got us fucking surrounded!"

There were shots fired then and even though intellectually Fox knew they were blanks, it 
was still shocking.  He turned to Hank and waited for the inevitable report.  It came 
moments later.

"Handley reports the leader fired shots at the ground, in front of the assailant towards the 
front of the bank.  She reports substantial tension."

He snorted at that and gestured to Farrady and Lancaster.  "Got the sketch ready yet?"

The two had been assigned the task of sketching out the floorplan of the bank based on 
reports from Handley and Lieber.  They nodded and he walked over to them, even as 
more scratchy yelling could be heard from the bank.

"If you don't shut up and stand still, the next shot will be in your worthless head, you 
moron."

Hank's voice drifted quietly, "Handley reports assailant in front of bank has stopped 
directly in front of doors, eight feet away."

Fox nodded and said, "Morrow and Ellicott, I want you out front, ready to take someone 
out or to enter through the doors if necessary.  Stay out of sight."  He said to Hank, 
"Coordinate with cops, let them know they are NOT to give away the fact that we are 
here."

He glanced at his watch and knew that decision time was coming.  Couldn't delay the call 
much longer.  Or could he?  What would happen if no one called.  If they just let the guys 
inside sit.  They might just kill each other.  Of course, they could also flip out and start 
killing the hostages.  He was pretty sure that would be the result, in fact.

He licked his lips and listened to the ranting, even as he looked at the sketch.  It was a 
new voice, the third guy.  "Jack, we have to get out of here.  We need to give it up.  
Harry's right.  This is crazy."

There was some loud noise then.  A crash which shook them all.  He stared at Hank, 
waiting for the report from Handley, when Reed said, "I got pictures over here."

Fox walked the few feet necessary to bring him to the little monitor and watched, even as 
Reed moved the little camera from one angle to another.  It was a bad view in that they 
couldn't really see any of the hostages on the ground.  They could see the back of the 
tellers who stood against the counter and they could also see the leader and the assailant 
who stood at the far wall, near where Handley was. 

He had Reed swivel the little camera from left to right and then back again.  What looked 
like the remains of a display case lie on the ground in pieces, evidently the source of the 
crash they'd heard earlier.  He wasn't about to trust anything though, so had Reed do it 
again.  He saw it on the second pass.  A suitcase, some four feet from where the leader 
stood.  At first he'd assumed it was someone's briefcase, but knew now that it was 
nothing of the sort.  Without even realizing it, he whispered, "Holy Christ."

He sensed the halt of all movement in the room and glanced around.  He backed up and 
said, "Reed, Hank, Lancaster, take a look at the suitcase four feet to the right of the 
leader.  What do you make of it?"

He could tell by their expressions that they knew, also.  Hank said quietly, "Boom."

During their exchange, the yelling next door had quieted.  The leader spoke now in a 
confident monotone.  "We knew what could happen when we decided to do this.  We 
came prepared.  We will ultimately prevail.  We'll relay our message soon.  I know we'll 
win this."

With the knowledge of what was in the suitcase, the words took on a completely different 
meaning.  He looked over at the phone and thought hard.  There had to be a way to delay 
long enough to come up with a workable plan.

His eyes rested on Gloria Lancaster.  There was something about her.  Something was 
niggling at the back of his mind.  He just needed to bring it to the forefront.  What was 
it??  

She must have noticed him staring at her, because she said, "Fox, you okay?"

And when she spoke, it came to him.  Her voice sounded like those recordings you hear 
when you can't get through on a phone line.  He grinned at her and grabbed at a piece of 
paper, writing carefully.  At the same time he said, "Hank, let the cops know that any call 
out from the bank is to be routed here directly -- immediately.  They are NOT to answer 
it.  Let them know quickly please."

He glanced over what he'd written and gestured Gloria closer.  He handed her the slip of 
paper and said, "Think you can say this as if it were a recording?"

She read quickly, then looked up and smiled at him in understanding.  He grinned back 
and turned to Lieber and Hank.  "We need to tape something and have it ready to play by 
phone if they call out.  Can we do that quickly?"

Hank nodded and said, "Affirmative."

He watched the two men scramble to get equipment ready and walked over with 
Lancaster.  Hank nodded and said, "On three.  Three, two, ..."  He held his finger up on 
one and then pointed to Gloria.  She read in a nasally voice, "I'm sorry.  We are 
experiencing difficulties.  This line will be out of service while repairs are implemented.  
Please try again later.  Thank you."

Hank made a cutting gesture at his throat, then smiled.  "Nice."

Fox patted Gloria on the arm and said, "Can you have it ready to go fast?  Might be any 
second."

They both nodded and were working quickly with the equipment.  He saw Hank pause 
and put a hand to his ear.  Then the man said, "Shit.  Handley reports the leader's gone for 
the phone.  Come on, Lieber, we gotta work fast."

Thirty seconds later the phone rang.  Fox stared at Hank and watched the man move a 
plug from one location to another in a piece of communications equipment.  Then Hank 
signaled to Lieber who threw a switch.  They all sighed when Gloria's recorded voice 
repeated her message.  After the message, they could hear the bank robber say, both over 
the phone and through their sound hook-up, "What the fuck?"  There were a few seconds 
of silence and then Gloria's message started repeating.  Then there was a loud click.

They all waited then for a report from Handley.  Fox was looking over Reed's shoulder at 
the little camera monitor and could see the leader standing in the middle of the room.  All 
the man needed to do to complete the picture of utter confusion was to scratch his head.  

One of the other assailants said, "What?  What's wrong?"

The leader replied, "There's something wrong with the damned phone.  I can't fucking 
believe this."

Fox wasn't sure if this was a true reaction of the agent or whether the man was still in 
character.  He found out by the man's next words.

"Well, shit!  What the hell are we supposed to do now?  Send a goddam telegraph?"

One of the other bank robbers asked, "Should we call a halt to this?  Let Ramey know?"

Fox had to smile.  They'd managed to throw the instructors for a loop.  The agents really 
thought there was something wrong with the phone.  He glanced around and saw grins on 
everyone's faces.  He realized, though, that they could still continue, even if those inside 
had stopped playing their parts.  The grin left his face as he considered it, even while the 
prattle continued in the background.

The first assailant who'd been stationed by Handley's wall said, "Try again, Farley.  
Maybe it was just a temporary thing."

They were completely out of character now.  One of the supposed hostages said, "We're 
still gonna get paid, aren't we?" To which the lead assailant replied, "Everyone stay 
where you are.  We need to decide whether we're continuing with this or not.  Just give us 
five."

Hank said, "Handley reports they're going for the phone again."  Sure enough, a few 
seconds later it started ringing.  Fox cued Hank who again signaled Lieber and the same 
switch was thrown.  They listened to the recording intently and heard the lead bank 
robber, evidently an agent named Farley, say, "Same damned thing.  I can't believe this.  
Now what?"

Fox turned to Hank and said, "Get a report from Handley."  He moved over to the 
monitor even while he was saying it.  He wanted two views on what was happening 
inside.  From the monitor he saw the three 'robbers' all in a cluster, guns draped over their 
shoulders.  They were obviously trying to decide what to do.  

Hank's voice reported on Handley's view from the other side of the building.  "All 
assailants together in a cluster.  Hostages relaxed."

"Any idea of where the trigger to the bomb might be?"

He couldn't tell from the image he was seeing.  It had to be on the leader's body 
somewhere.  There had to be a trigger or a remote control.

Reed shook his head.  He turned to Hank who said, "Handley hasn't seen anything."

"Find out from Kudla if she's got a way inside from the roof."

He propped his hands on his hips and chewed at the inside of his lip.  Hank nodded, 
saying, "She's in the ventilation system.  She'll come through at the north side, along the 
back wall."

He turned to those in the room and switched on the channel 6 so that the entire team 
could hear him.  "Folks, those inside think the game's over.  They've stopped playing 
their parts but we're going to finish ours.  We're moving in approximately one minute.  
On three we'll be going in - wait for my mark. Morrow and Ellicott from the front 
through the glass doors.  Hanson and Shriver from the side through the window.  Kudla 
through the ventilation system.  We're coming through the wall."

He waved a couple of the heftier men towards the ram while still relaying orders.  
"Handley, you stay where you are to give us intelligence up to the last second on channel 
6.  First one in and stable MUST make sure the three assailants can not reach anything 
that might trigger the bomb.  Shoot them if you have to but just make sure the bomb 
doesn't blow.  Also make sure we're not in each others' crossfire.  Adjust quickly as soon 
as you're in and stable."

He got his own team ready and nodded to them.  Reed said, "They're straight in front of 
us, twenty feet in.  All of them still in a cluster and approximately six feet from the 
bomb."

He nodded and stepped back, saying, "Get us in on the first try, boys.  Three, two, one - 
go!"

And in a cacophony of shattering glass, collapsing ceiling, splintering wall board and 
screams all around, they made their entrance.  Fox was first through the opening in the 
wall with the others right behind him.  He saw Hanson, Shriver, Morrow, Ellicott, and 
Kudla surrounding the assailants on the other side.  The robbers were frozen in surprise 
and shock, but Fox could see it was fading fast, to be replaced with embarrassment.  

He strode towards the three assailants and stated clearly, "Federal Officers.  Raise your 
hands slowly.  Do not make any sudden moves."

He jerked his weapon upwards, making it clear that he meant business.  He saw the three 
men look at one another and decided to help convince them.  He raised his weapon so it 
was trained on the leader's head.  His voice was hard and allowed no room for 
misunderstanding when he spoke. "Raise your hands now."

The leader closed his eyes and shook his head, but raised his hands.  The three were 
quickly disarmed and cuffed.  Fox assigned Hank to watch over the suitcase until they 
could alert the bomb squad, then gestured for Kudla and Hanson to escort the hostages 
out of the bank.

Everything seemed to happen quickly then.  The trigger for the bomb was found in the 
leader's jacket pocket.  It was placed on the counter with utmost care.  Fox directed his 
people to secure the area and then called for the police to come in.  The first one in the 
door was Ramey.

The man strode in the front door and stopped six feet in to survey the damage.  The scowl 
on his face was almost frightening.

Fox was still coming down from his adrenaline rush now and he was completely soaked 
with sweat. He was just now starting to realize how uncomfortable he was.  He removed 
his helmet and wiped at his face, then tried to dry his hand on his pants.  Ramey came 
over to him and stopped just a foot or so away.  The scowl was even worse now.

"Trainee Mulder, were you or were you not aware that Agent Farley and his team were 
under the impression there were mechanical problems that were impacting the 
continuation of this exercise?"

"I was indeed aware of that fact, sir."

"And yet you continued with the assault anyway?"

"Yes, sir."

The man seemed to be grinding his teeth in frustration or anger.  Fox wondered briefly 
whether the instructor expected him to answer in more detail.

"And why would you do that, Trainee Mulder?"

Fox thought about it for a moment and bit his lower lip nervously before answering.  "We 
were instructed to bring the encounter to a peaceful conclusion and rescue the hostages.  
Just because there was some momentary confusion inside, this did not change our own 
objectives.  Sir."

He must have answered correctly because he could sense a slight smile playing at the 
older man's lips.

"Do you have any idea how much damage you've caused here, Trainee Mulder, and how 
long it will take to rebuild?"

He glanced around the bank and took in the completely shattered windows, the destroyed 
doors, the hole in the ceiling and the collapsed wall.  He looked back to Ramey and said, 
"Not really, sir."

The man leaned forward and Fox felt as if he were absolutely entranced.  He couldn't 
look away from the instructor's eyes.  Ramey got to within mere inches before speaking.  
"Congratulations, Trainee Mulder.  I do believe you've managed to set a record."

Ramey pulled back, a big smile on his face now.  The man looked around at those agents 
still in the bank before saying, "You not only created the most wreckage in Alley history, 
you've also managed to actually beat the bank robbers.  Never been done before without 
loss of life.  Congratulations, everyone."

There were whistles and claps all around.  Ramey gestured towards the door.  "Let's meet 
up in the motel classroom.  We need to discuss what happened.  Five minutes, everyone."

Fox turned to head out when he felt a hand on his arm.  He turned back to Ramey, trying 
hard to fight the pride and excitement. "Yes, sir?"

Ramey looked around, obviously waiting for the others to clear out.  He was thoughtful 
when he looked back to the trainee.  "Did someone tell you what was going to happen 
here, Trainee Mulder?"

Fox was actually shocked by the question.  And then he started to become angry.  He 
shifted a bit, anchoring his feet solidly.  "No, sir."

It was obvious that his anger got through to the older man.  Ramey was immediately 
defensive.  "Look, Fox, I was just asking.  I didn't mean any offense."

His tone was friendly and it put Fox at ease.  Enough so that he nodded, accepting the 
apology for what it was.

"You all did good.  Real good.  Get your butt over to the classroom and I'll be there in a 
couple minutes."

"Yes, sir."

He made his way out the front doors, careful to avoid as much glass and debris as 
possible.  The sun was still shining brightly and he had to squint for a bit until he could 
see clearly.  A few of his team members had waited for him outside and greeted him with 
smiles. 

Chris whacked him on the arm and said, "Good job, boss."

The others laughed and made similar comments.  Fox felt as if he were floating by the 
time they got to the little motel.  He was grinning so broadly his jaw hurt, but damned if 
it didn't feel fantastic.  His entry into the motel classroom was met with clapping and 
hoots, whistles and stomping feet.  

It made him feel good.  More than good.  Euphoric.  He knew, down to the depths of his 
soul, that this was what he'd been intended for.  He was meant to be an FBI agent.  He 
knew the Bureau would be like family to him for the rest of his life.  He was so damned 
happy at that moment that his eyes actually teared up a bit.  He sat down with his 
classmates, secure in the knowledge that his future would be filled with success and the 
camaraderie of his colleagues.  Life was just about perfect.

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


Present Day, Hour 8 of the Wait
Sunday, 6:05 a.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia 


Scully was still smiling from the story when she saw a doctor she didn't recognize pause 
outside the door.  He was older than the others they'd met, of Indian or Pakistani descent, 
with silvered hair and an experienced gate.  She watched him turn around, as if waiting 
for someone, and then saw another doctor, the one who'd been responsible for Mulder all 
night, join him.  They conferred in quiet voices, reviewing the latest test results, before 
entering.  

She dropped her crossed leg so abruptly that everyone around her jerked from the noise.  
She couldn't bother with apologizing just yet.  She needed to know what was happening.

Before she could make any further moves, the new doctor waved her to stay seated and 
stood at the foot of Mulder's bed.  His voice was resonant and sure when he spoke, his 
slight accent suggestive of the UK. 

"Hello.  I'm Doctor Singh.  I'm a neurology specialist and was called in by Dr. Shalin for 
a consult."

She couldn't speak at first as her mind tried to fully appreciate the implications of the 
man's statement.  After all, several specialists had already been called in, there wasn't 
really any reason to suspect that this act should be ominous.  No one spoke, as if waiting 
for the doctor to continue.

"Dr. Shalin felt that with the head injury, coupled with the swelling and obvious 
infection, and Mr. Mulder's weakened condition, that there were possibilities of 
unforeseen problems."

Despite her earlier thinking, she now knew that this was indeed something to be alarmed 
about.  She pushed herself to her feet and asked, "What are you saying?" The man waved 
her to be seated, but she ignored him, asking again, "Are you talking about brain 
damage?"

The man sighed and glanced around at the others before settling his gaze on her.  
"Frankly, ma'am, that's always a possibility with an injury such as this.  It would be 
irresponsible of us not to consider it."  His eyes were intent on her own when he added, 
"But after looking at Mr. Mulder's records -- his very thick and sizable records -- I see no 
reason to assume the worst."

The doctor smiled at them, then added, "The coma isn't a great concern right now.  It's 
the body's way of preserving strength.  What's important is that you try to reach him.  
Make sure he knows there's something worth opening his eyes for.  The rest will take 
care of itself with a little time."

Scully allowed herself to breathe again, somehow reassured by the man's calm words.  
The other doctor, Sam Shalin, had moved to the head of the bed and was checking 
various indicators.  Her eyes followed him and she could see a frown on his face.  She 
became alarmed once more.  "Is there a problem, doctor?"

The man straightened in a jerk, as if he'd forgotten they were there.  "There's not really 
much of a change."

"What does that mean, exactly?  Not 'much' of a change."

"His temperature's up slightly.  Other than that, his condition hasn't changed."

She felt her breath catch and her stomach clench.  "But his temperature's been over a 
hundred for hours.  What is it now?"

She could tell the doctor wasn't anxious to go into specifics, but he did finally answer.  
"It's gone up to a hundred-three."

She felt her knees start to tremble and decided she'd better sit after all.  She sank into her 
chair and then realized her entire body was shaking.  She looked to her left, first at her 
mother and then at Mrs. Mulder.  They didn't fully understand, she could tell it from their 
eyes.  They were confused by her reaction, but her mother reached out to take her hand 
anyway.  She gripped her mother's hand tightly, then turned back to the doctor.  "Are you 
trying other antibiotics?"

"Yes, of course."

"What's next?"

"We're going to get him under a cooling blanket now."

She closed her eyes, knowing what the others could not.  That this would only sap his 
strength even more.  That the fever would weaken him to the point where his body could 
no longer fight back.  To the point where he'd want to give up.  

When she looked back to the doctor, she felt a kinship in their shared knowledge.  She 
had to struggle a bit to find her voice and was shocked at how faded it sounded when she 
said, "Thank you for the information."

Both doctors nodded, then left the room silently.  Only seconds later, two nurses came in 
with the cooling blanket, fixing it over her partner in mere seconds.  She knew that the 
water that passed through the tubes inside was ice cold and was the best chance of 
helping to get his body temperature down before serious damage could occur.  

She watched the nurses leave and walk down the hall before turning to those waiting with 
her.  She could tell they knew that something serious had happened, but she wasn't 
prepared to explain just yet.  All she knew was that she had to speak to Mulder 
immediately -- by herself.

She tried to swallow and forced the words out past the tightness in her throat.  "Would 
you mind if I spoke with him for a minute?  A few minutes, maybe?  Alone?"

She turned towards Mulder's mother when she said the last word, knowing that the 
woman had a far greater right than she did to see him.  Teena Mulder stood immediately 
and leaned across the bed, her arm outstretched.  Scully took the woman's hand in her 
own and felt it squeezed tightly with an unexpected strength.  

Mrs. Mulder said, "We'll wait down the hall. You talk with him for a bit, dear."  

Scully wiped away the wetness on her cheeks and tried to smile at her partner's mother.  
She stood and said merely, "Thank you," as the others walked out the door and down the 
hall without a word.

She was having a hard time thinking clearly.  Memories of past conversations and 
arguments with Mulder flooded over her so that she was consumed with guilt and self-
recriminations.  Her last words with Mulder had been said in anger.  They came back to 
her now, haunting her.  'Are you trying to kill yourself?'  She shook her head, trying to 
chase the memories away.  She knew it was a waste of her energies.  She knew she was 
being unfair to herself.  She knew, most importantly, that none of these thoughts would 
bring her partner and best friend back to her.  

She stood next to the bed and surveyed the room.  The gentle hum of the new machine 
attached to the cooling blanket added to the beeps and gurgles, the buzzes and whirs of so 
many others.  

Her partner was turned so that he was elevated slightly on his right side, away from her.  
She moved around to the other side of the bed and leaned close to his face, whispering, 
"What have you done, Mulder?"

She gently rested her forehead against his, careful of the wound, and allowed the tears to 
fall.  She moved her right hand down and slipped it under the blanket so she could wrap 
her fingers around his.  She moved her left hand to his head and ran her fingers through 
his hair, feeling the heat emanating from his skin.  Her breath hitched, and she couldn't 
hold back any longer.  She let herself cry then, in great wracking sobs.  

She knew something that no one else knew.  Not her mother, not Skinner.  Certainly not 
Mrs.  Mulder.  This was the first time her partner had ever continued to get worse after 
being injured.  Even in Alaska, when he was so near death, he'd improved day by day, 
hour by hour, if only slowly.  But this ... this was different.  And she was terrified that 
she was the reason.  Always before, he'd come back to her, despite the odds.  And she'd 
secretly believed it was because he loved her and that he believed she loved him.  But 
lately ...

Their relationship had been so strained before this case.  Everything had been difficult.  
They hadn't faced their unfinished words of the summer and she'd rebuffed Mulder's one 
stab at confronting it with an 'Oh Brother.'  Their motto had become Scarlett's, so that 
they kept putting off the discussion until some later day. And then Kersh had split them 
up, with disastrous results, so that the day might never come.  

She knew that if she'd been with her partner from the beginning, this wouldn't have 
happened.  She was sure of it.

Mulder kept going farther out on that damned limb, and she'd done nothing to stop him.  
All it would have taken was three words.  He'd said them to her and she'd brushed them 
off.  Taken the easy way out.  She'd set him adrift and now he was paying the price for 
her cowardice.  She had to convince him now.  Had to let him know that what he'd 
believed all those times was in fact the truth.  That she was there for him.  That she 
trusted him.  That he was her life.

She tried to control her tears and her shaking hands.  She stood straight then and reached 
out with her left to the box of Kleenex.  She pulled out several, wiping her eyes and her 
nose with fiercely, fast, abrupt movements.  She started to get angry then.  Angry at 
Kersh for splitting them up.  Angry at herself for letting it happen.  Angry at Mulder for 
not waiting for backup.

She swiped at her eyes again and threw the wadded up tissues in the trash can.  Her 
breath caught when she looked back at her partner.  It appeared as if he'd also been 
crying, with tears rolling down his cheeks.  Tears she knew were her own.  She pulled out 
more tissue and wiped his face gently, careful to avoid the cuts and bruises.

She rested her left hand on his right shoulder then and tried to decide just what to say.  
There were so many thoughts flitting through her mind that she wasn't sure where to 
start.  Then she realized that it really wasn't that difficult.

She breathed deeply and told herself she could do this.  She could say the words out loud 
that she'd been saying to herself for so very long.  The words she'd said in the dark 
loneliness of the night, when the rain beat against the window in sheets.

"Mulder ..."  Here voice caught in her throat so that she had to pause, but she found the 
courage finally, and took the plunge.  "Mulder, I do love you."  She gasped with the relief 
of finally admitting it out loud.  She leaned forward to speak directly in his ear then and 
repeated, " Do you hear me?  I love you." She felt an exhaustion settle over her and could 
only whisper to him softly then.  "I love you, Mulder.  Don't leave me alone.  Please 
come back to me."  

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

Scully sank into the chair, feeling drained, but oddly content.  At least she'd finally said 
it.  She sighed deeply, rested her hands on her arm and let her head drop onto them 
wearily.  Five minutes later, she heard a scuffle at the door and looked up to see Mrs. 
Mulder entering the room.  Scully was sitting in the chair the woman had been in earlier 
so she moved to stand.  Teena Mulder waved her to stay where she was and even came 
over to sit next to her.  

Scully was surprised at first to find the woman alone, but then realized that Skinner and 
her mother were giving them both this gift.  The time to sit with Mulder alone.  Just the 
two of them.

She turned to Mulder's mother, not sure what to say, but Teena Mulder solved the issue 
by placing her hand on Scully's arm and saying, "Ms. Scully, I know that the last time we 
saw each other didn't end well.  I'm sorry for that."

Scully merely shook her head, not really wanting to go into it just then.  

Teena Mulder's voice started to shake and she seemed to be consumed by sorrow and 
regret.  "It doesn't matter now, though.  All that matters is that Fox gets better.  I would 
do anything to make my son better."

Mrs. Mulder started crying softly then and Scully was once again touched. She switched 
her grip on Mulder's hand to her left, freeing her right to take hi mother's.  In all the years 
she and Mulder had been partners, they'd rarely spoken of family matters.  His past was 
one of those topics that was strictly off base.  She'd never had the nerve to ask him 
anything too personal, for fear of bringing up memories best left alone.  But she knew 
undeniably that he was loved by this woman, at least.

She tried to sound sure when she said, "I know you would, Mrs. Mulder, and so does he.  
He knows it."

Her voice cracked on the last word and she clenched her jaw to try to keep it from 
trembling.  

"Thank you for that, Ms. Scully."

They sat in silence for at least a minute, just watching Mulder breathe, each reassured by 
the other's presence.  Scully watched his chest rise and fall under the cooling blanket and 
found her thoughts wandering.  Without even realizing it, she found herself speaking out 
loud.

"I wonder what would have happened if Mulder hadn't gotten involved in the BSU. From 
what AD Skinner said, he was happy at Quantico.  He had friends and the respect of 
peers and instructors.  He could have done so many other things than profiling."   It was 
still such a foreign notion to her.  Mulder happy.  The words just didn't seem to go 
together.  Mulder driven.  Mulder obsessed.  Mulder determined.  All those couplets 
made sense.

"I don't think it would have mattered, Ms. Scully.  It was in his blood.  It was inevitable."

The woman turned towards her, a sad smile on her face.  "Fox always had a gift for 
profiling.  Or maybe I should say a curse."

Skinner's deep voice spoke out then from the doorway.  "It is a curse, Mrs. Mulder.  But 
your son has saved many, many lives over the years because of it."

Skinner and her mother had come back and now made their way to the opposite side of 
the bed.  She waited until they were settled, watching as both Skinner and her mother 
reached out to touch Mulder, as if both needed a physical reassurance.

"Sir, I still don't understand how he got involved in the case back then.  Reading case 
files is one thing.  Actually becoming involved in a case is something completely 
different."

A nurse came in then and everyone waited as she moved through her motions of 
checking various readings.  She smiled at them after making her recordings and left 
silently.

Scully found that she'd been holding her breath and let it go finally in a relieved exhale.  
She turned her head back to her former boss then and he continued as if there had been 
no interruption.

"That night, after the bank robbery exercise, Mulder's entire class went out to celebrate.  
From what Dean told me, Fox had a bit too much to drink.  Whether it was that or 
something else, I don't know.  But that night -- that night ..."  

He shook his head in what she took to be a combination of frustration and sorrow.  She 
thought at first he wasn't going to continue, as the silence grew longer.  But then he 
raised his face to her and she saw the regret clearly etched there.

"I suppose you could say it was an eye opening night for both of us, in totally different 
ways."  

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

September 3, 1986
Wednesday, 5:27 p.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, DC


Walter leaned forward over the cluttered desk and rested his head on folded arms.  He 
needed sleep.  He and Doug had been running full out for way the hell too many days 
now.  His head pounded, his muscles trembled, and his stomach growled, reminding him 
that he'd neglected his body a bit too much.  His eyes had actually started to water a few 
minutes ago from the headache and lack of sleep.  God, he wanted this to be over.

Doug's tired voice sounded by the door, causing him to raise his head wearily.  "Hey, 
Walter, how you doing?"

He had to squint at his fellow ASAC just to bring the image into focus.

Doug seemed to be smiling when he said, "That good, huh?"

Walter merely shrugged, unable to manage words just yet.

"Listen, Walt, I say we call it a night.  I don't know about you, but I don't think I could 
add two and two just now.  I think we need a break.  What do you say?"

Walter raised his right hand and wiped at his still watering eyes, then just nodded in 
agreement.  The thought of a bed was particularly enticing just then.

Doug took a step into the room and added, "You look worse off than me.  Listen, I just 
talked with Angie.  She's holding dinner for me.  Come with me and join us."

As good as food sounded, Walter wasn't really sure he'd be able to stay awake that long.  
Then Doug was next to him all of a sudden and he discovered his arm being pulled.

"Come on, Walt.  We both need a break and a real meal.  No burgers or sandwiches 
tonight.  Come on.  You can't say no."

He managed a groan in protest, but Doug still pulled at him.  He swallowed painfully and 
allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.  "Doug, my head is killing me.  I really don't 
think I'd be decent company tonight."

"Walter, the reason your head is killing you is the same reason mine is killing me.  We 
both need a break from this case, food, and rest.  Come on.  We'll take a cab.  It's only ten 
minutes from here."

He couldn't argue any more.  It just wasn't in him.  He managed a small nod and 
stumbled out the doorway after Doug.

Twenty minutes later, he woke up to his arm being jostled.  He opened his eyes to see an 
equally tired Doug gesturing towards an apartment complex.  He forced himself out of 
the back of the cab and concentrated on watching his feet and Doug's just ahead of him.  
He figured all he had to do was keep putting one after the other and eventually he'd be 
able to stop.

After an almost agonizing five minutes of trudging up stairs and down hallways, he 
forced his head up to look into the eyes of his partner's wife.  The woman wasn't 
beautiful, but had a sweet warmth that made its way even through his own muddled 
thoughts.  She had light brown shoulder length hair that curled up at the ends with a little 
flip. He attempted a smile and reached his hand out to shake hers.  

Her voice had a lilting quality to it that was soothing.  "Hello, Walter.  It's good to meet 
you finally.  I'm so happy you could join us."  She pulled him into the cozy apartment 
and turned to her husband. "You both look absolutely wiped out. Doug, why don't you 
take Walter into the living room and relax for a few minutes.  I'll let you know when 
dinner's ready.  Okay?"

Walter managed a smile at the sight of the two exchanging greetings.  The smile faded as 
a feeling of unease settled over him.  Angie kissed her husband once more with an added 
passion, then finally disengaged and swatted him towards the living room.  

He looked around the little room and once again felt uneasy.  It was an unease born of a 
growing awareness of something he lacked.  He'd always scoffed at domesticity.  At 
those who'd made so much of family.  He'd always known what he wanted out of his 
career and had assumed that a sacrifice was necessary.  He'd been willing to pay the 
price.  So had Sharon.  But now he wondered if it couldn't be different.  Doug had 
managed to do both.  Why couldn't he?

He sank into the recliner, while Doug collapsed on the couch.  He pushed the chair back 
so that his feet were raised and closed his eyes.  The wonderful smell of home cooking 
emanated from the kitchen and wafted through the room.  He sighed deeply and smiled 
when he heard an echoing sigh from Doug.  This was nice.  He could get used to this.

Some unknown time later, he was once again awakened to his arm being shaken.  It was 
Doug again, but this time, Walter actually managed to open his eyes without squinting.  
He reached his left hand up and brushed his hair out of his eyes.  Time for another hair 
cut.  

Doug extended his hand to help him out of the chair.  "Come on, boy.  Time for dinner."

Even as tired as he was, Walter enjoyed the dinner.  Halfway through the meal, though, 
he was shocked to hear a wailing come from the back of the house.  He stopped mid-
chew and looked over at Doug.  The man was pushing himself away from the table.

"I'll get him.  Sit still."

It was obvious Doug was speaking to his wife, and he watched with interest as his fellow 
ASAC came back into the dining room holding a baby to his shoulder.  The man sat 
down at the table and turned the little one around, putting him on his knee.  

His face was filled with pride when he said, "Walter, this is Daniel."

The headache from earlier in the evening was long gone, but that feeling of unease crept 
back once again.  He smiled at both Angie and Doug.  "He's a cute little guy.  How old?"

Angie couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from her baby and her smile was wide when 
she answered.  "He'll be seven months next week."

Daniel was drooling on Doug's suit, but the man didn't seem to mind.  In fact, it was 
obvious his fellow ASAC was in his element. Walter felt an overwhelming sadness at the 
realization that he himself would most likely never know that kind of completeness.  He 
and Sharon had committed to making the most of their careers and had decided that 
children would only slow them down.  He sighed a bit as he tore his eyes off Doug and 
Daniel.

The rest of the evening passed quickly, with both men fading fast.  Afterwards, Angie 
insisted Walter stay in their guest room.

"Walter, why waste time going all the way to Alexandria when you can just crash here?  
We have the room and Doug can lend you something to wear.  I insist."

And so it was settled.  As he lay on the small bed, before drifting off to sleep, he realized 
he never called Dean about the case.  He'd do it first thing in the morning.  Time was 
running out.  Victim number five was due soon.  But he fell asleep thinking not about the 
case, but rather about wives and babies.  About the compromises he and Sharon had 
made, naively believing it was the only way to get where they wanted to go.  But deep 
down, he knew their choices were rationalizations.  Lies to themselves that would color 
every moment of their future.  It was a sobering thought to fall asleep to.

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

PAST
September 4, 1986
Thursday, 2:34 a.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


The day was unseasonably warm and the sun shone so brightly outside that it reflected 
off cars and the sidewalk to bounce in through the window of the little music store.  The 
street outside was busy, the cars filled with people rushing to work and play.  There was 
a bakery two doors down that also served pizza in the late afternoon and the smells of the 
Italian spices and tomato tang wafted down the street and into the music store.  

Fox was there, observing the happenings of the day and enjoying the crispness of the air.  
Inside the store, business was slow, the lull coming before the after school rush.  An 
album by Eric Clapton was playing over the speakers.  The two people inside looked 
bored, one of them a young woman, idly rifling through albums, occasionally moving 
one a couple places back or a few forward, the other a young man, leaning over a 
counter, working a crossword puzzle.

The man was black, dressed sharply in khaki's and a crisp white shirt with a thin blue tie.  
He looked to be in his mid twenties and wore a wedding ring on his left hand.  The 
woman was white, in her late teens or early twenties, and wore her hair up on her head, 
with pale blonde wisps falling out to float around her face.  Her designer jeans were worn 
and her tee-shirt was tight, the outline of her bra straps clearly visible.  She made an 
enticing picture, but one that the man was obviously not interested in.

The young woman evidently tired of her arranging and came over to the counter where 
the man worked on an eight letter word for tip.  "Jesse, I'm going crazy here.  There has 
to be something to do for the next two hours."

The man stood straight and smiled at her, as one would an anxious and impatient child.  
"Hannah, I told you to bring your textbooks.  That it would be slow at times.  You didn't 
listen to me."

She sighed, with an testy harumph.  "Please."  She drew the word out long, for added 
emphasis.  "I get enough lectures from my parents.  Please don't go adding to them."

The man laughed and said, "Okay.  No lectures."  He glanced at his watch then and said, 
"I'll tell you what.  I need to run to the bank to make deposits for yesterday and this 
morning.  Mr. Angelo had to leave early and is out for a couple days.  So I'll give you the 
responsibility of watching things here for the next ..."  He made a show of looking at his 
watch, then tilted his head up so that he stared at the ceiling for a good ten seconds before 
looking back at the girl.  "... fifteen minutes.  You think you can handle it?"

Hannah groaned again, but good naturedly nodded her head.  "Go on, I'll hold down the 
fort.  I'll circle the wagons.  I'll sacrifice myself so that you might live."

Jesse laughed harder then, before saying, "You know, you're taking that acting course 
way too seriously.  I'm starting to get concerned about you." 

Their good natured camaraderie followed the man out the door as he made his way to the 
sidewalk, the bank envelope stuffed carefully in the inside pocket of the jacket he'd 
donned.  Fox followed, unobtrusive and curious.  He had to squint, the sun was so 
brilliant, and he picked up his pace as Jesse did, to get to the bank a few blocks over that 
much faster.

The Arlington streets were still busy, despite the time of day, but they were alone on the 
sidewalk.  Jesse must have felt secure in the brightness of the busy day, because he cut 
down an alley that would bring him more quickly to the bank.  It wasn't a dark, unused 
alley, but rather a thoroughfare for the many delivery trucks that stocked the stores there.  
But it was empty today, devoid of activity.

There was the sound of a vehicle from behind, a rumbling of an untuned engine, when 
Jesse was halfway down the street, and he moved over to the side so the car could pass.  
It slowed, though, and Jesse turned, then bent slightly to see inside the car that stopped 
next to him.  He must have trusted the person inside, perhaps even known him, because 
he leaned on the window sill, a friendly smile on his face.  

Fox watched from his position behind Jesse, an unseen observer.  Jesse and the driver 
talked for a while, then Jesse looked at his watch and waved his hand in the air, a gesture 
that clearly stated he was anxious to get going.  But the driver must have been persuasive, 
because Jesse got in the car, slipping into the passenger seat with a smile.  Then they 
were driving and Fox was there, sitting in the back seat, looking out the window.

They drove past the bank and Fox felt his chest tighten with anxiety, but Jesse still 
smiled, talking to the driver with an easy assurance.  The man didn't seem to be worried, 
even though Fox felt the tension course through him.  He wanted to call out, to warn 
Jesse Smith, to tell the man to get out of the car and run.  But he couldn't move, couldn't 
speak, could do nothing but watch.

The driver was just a darkness, without features, without definition.  But he knew more 
surely than he'd known anything that the driver was evil.  He didn't know why Jesse 
Smith couldn't feel it.  Couldn't sense that his life and the lives of his family were about 
to be irrevocably altered.

They were driving down yet another alley, this one obviously less used than the other, 
and the car slowed to a stop.  Jesse turned his head to the right, then gestured with his 
hand out the window, as if giving directions or providing information about what lay on 
the other side of the fence to which he pointed.  He didn't see the brick that slammed into 
his temple.  Didn't know it was coming and couldn't defend against it.

Fox saw it happening though and screamed silently, tears of frustration coursing down 
his face.  He looked at Jesse and saw the man was slumped sideways, head bobbing 
forward and to the right bonelessly.  He couldn't tell whether the man was alive or dead.

The car was moving then, moving fast and sure through the alley, pausing only slightly at 
the end to take the right turn onto the main street.  Fox prayed for someone to notice 
Jesse's blood soaked head and shirt, but no one paid any attention.  They drove for 
several minutes before coming to a dilapidated warehouse.  The windows were broken, 
the remnants of paint peeling in long strips from the walls, a 'For Sale' sign barely 
readable tacked to the fence out front.  Trash lay in heaps along the side of the building 
and small furry rodents scurried into hiding.

The car drove into the building through the open loading dock doors and came to a stop 
several feet in.  It was dark inside, in spite of the brightness of the day, with little squares 
of light falling in patches here and there.  Time shifted, the laws of physics were 
suspended, and suddenly Fox found himself standing five feet away from the body of 
Jesse Smith, who was tied, wrist and ankle, to stakes that had been pounded into the 
concrete floor of the warehouse.  

In some macabre twist, the assailant had taken off Jesse's coat and tie and had rolled up 
the man's sleeves, as if to make him more comfortable.  Fox stared at the man lying on 
the ground and was horrified to discover that Jesse was alive.  He found himself wishing 
that the store manager would remain unconscious, so that he wouldn't know what was 
happening to him, but that wasn't to be.

Jesse started stirring, the last vestiges of unconsciousness falling away, and he opened his 
eyes, blinking quickly to clear them.  Fox saw him start to breathe faster, to practically 
hyperventilate as the man realized what had happened.  There was a movement to the 
side and Jesse turned his head sluggishly.  Fox looked also, but again saw only a 
blackness that undulated sickly with each move, simultaneously formless and 
recognizably evil.  But there were whispered words -- words that frightened him even 
more.

"We're going to play, Mr. Smith.  We're going to have some fun.  Play with me, Mr. 
Smith."

And Jesse started to cry then, knowing that he was doomed and that escape was unlikely.  
Still he tried.  "Please, I don't know what you want.  I have money.  You can take it.  It's 
in my coat pocket.  Tell me what you want and I'll do it."

A the sibilant voice said, "Don't fret, Mr. Smith.  You'll give me what I want.  All in good 
time."

And despite Jesse's pleading, despite his words about his pregnant wife and baby boy, the 
dark figure went about his business with no more discussion.  The figure's movements 
were economical and terrifying.

He took off Jesse's shoes and socks and rolled up his pants.  Took off the store manager's 
watch and tucked it into the discarded suit jacket's pocket.  Fox prayed that Jesse would 
struggle.  Would somehow escape his bonds, but it was obviously futile.  The stakes were 
pounded several inches into the concrete and could not be dislodged easily.  The ropes 
around Jesse's wrists and ankles were tight and knotted securely.  There was no hope of 
escape.  And then the dark figure approached Jesse and knelt beside him, tying a gag 
around the store manager's mouth.

And Fox was bound just as securely by the invisible bonds that kept him fixed to a single 
spot, with mouth closed so tightly he couldn't scream for help and could barely breathe.  
He couldn't close his eyes or turn his head, but had to watch as the black figure picked up 
an ax and held it out in front of Jesse Smith to look at.

The whisper came again, somehow heard over Jesse's muffled screaming.  "Don't worry, 
Mr. Smith.  I know the rules to this game.  All you have to do is follow my lead."

And the ax swung high in the air and came down fast, chopping through Jesse's right calf 
as if it were made of butter.  Sparks flew when the metal hit the ground, and blood 
spurted in bright red geysers.  

There was an unholy silence for a fraction of a second so that only the scrape of the ax 
head and the assailant's heavy breathing could be heard.  But then the pain indicators in 
Jesse Smith's mind were overloaded and the scream that erupted in spite of the gag was 
heart-wrenching.  The man's body started twitching and the stump of his right leg waved 
in the air for a moment before falling to the ground again with a sick splat.

Then Jesse was gagging, throwing up the breakfast and snack he'd eaten earlier, but the 
cloth tied around his mouth prevented him from expelling the vomit so that he started 
choking, unable to breathe past the mess.  A urine smell filled the air as the man lost the 
ability to control the most basic of human functions so that he suffered further indignity 
on top of torture.

And Fox could do nothing but watch and cry.  The tears streamed down his face and he 
wanted nothing more than to escape this torture.  He was consumed with guilt because he 
knew that a part of him wished Jesse would just die faster so he wouldn't have to view 
the agony any more.  

He saw a movement to the side then and once again saw the rising ax.  It was moving fast 
again and this time partly missed its objective, cutting through only a portion of Jesse's 
right thigh.  The ax swung again within moments, finishing the job, so that Jesse's leg lie 
totally detached in two pieces on the ground, the ankle still tied to the stake.  Jesse's body 
convulsed in the last throws of death, but the man was still alive as his left leg was 
chopped off in a similar fashion.  

Fox started gagging himself then and lost the dinner and drinks that had had flowed in his 
team's victory celebration.  He couldn't stop retching.  Tears streamed from his eyes and 
he prayed for release.  

The creature with the ax paused then, as if hearing Fox's silent plea, but instead started 
masturbating over Jesse's still twitching body.  The grunts and gasps and other little 
sounds were almost too much for Fox then and his mind refused to accept what his eyes 
were telling him.  He threw up again, this time managing only dry heaves due to the 
emptiness of his stomach, and grasped for a religious practice he'd spurred for most of his 
life.  He prayed for deliverance from a God he suddenly believed in again, because to not 
believe would mean he'd have no hope whatsoever of escaping this hell.

And again time jumped so that in just a single second, he was transported hours ahead.  It 
was night and the dismembered body of Jesse Smith was being loaded into plastic bags 
for easy transportation.  The car's headlights were beams that cut through the darkness to 
illuminate the red and black pool of blood that had already begun to coagulate.  The bags 
were thrown into the back of the car and in a short minute, the driver got in, ready to 
leave.

The car started backing up, slowly at first, then gaining momentum, and Fox was still 
stuck on his spot unable to move, the smell of vomit, and urine, and blood surrounding 
him.  And he knew, to the depths of his soul, that he had to do something.  He had to 
move.  Had to scream.  Something so that he could at least say he tried.

With every ounce of his being he forced his mouth to open and he screamed, a lone 
strangled cry. "No."  And before he knew it the assailant had grabbed him and was 
shaking him.  And again he cried out, "No."  And then the man was calling his name, 
over and over.  But then it wasn't the assailant at all.  It was someone else, saying his 
name.

"Fox, wake up.  Goddamn it, Fox, come on.  Wake up."

The assailant was gone.  The car was gone.  Jesse Smith was gone.  He was crying now 
for the man's loss, and was having a hard time catching his breath.  The voice that had 
broken through to him earlier was now saying, "Open your eyes.  Come on, Fox, you're 
scaring the hell out of us.  Wake the fuck up."

It started to make some sense to him then, as he attempted to calm down and collect his 
scattered nerves. He dragged his eyes open, despite the fact his lids were so very heavy.  
He had to pry them open by sheer force of will. His heart clamored in his chest and his 
stomach rolled as if he were on a ship in a stormy sea.  His eyes watered in the harsh 
stabbing light, but he could make out the blurry face of his roommate, Rob Morrow, and 
to the other side Chris Hanson.  Both had his arms in a death grip so that he couldn't 
move. Behind Rob stood another four or five men who'd crowded into the small room, 
obviously disturbed from their sleep.  He was soaking wet from sweat and was covered in 
his own vomit.

He pulled his right arm free from his roommate's grip and raised his shaking hand to his 
face.  His entire body started to tremble then as he began to understand what had 
happened.  He heard Rob speaking to the others, as if from a distance.  "Show's over, 
guys.  Out.  Outta here, please."

Then Chris' voice was next to him, saying softly, "Hey, Fox.  You okay, man?"

He pulled the arm away and dragged his eyes open.  Chris and Rob were on either side, 
the concern obvious.  Chris had a towel and was trying to clean him up.  Rob had a hand 
on his forehead and was frowning.  He tried to tell himself it was just a dream.  A lousy 
dream.  Nothing to get all worked up about.

His body seemed to have a different opinion.  His entire body shook, no matter how hard 
he concentrated on regaining control.  He couldn't speak, yet, either.  Couldn't get his 
mouth to work.  He was powerless to convince Rob and Chris that he was all right, 
because he didn't think he was.

He heard Rob say, as if from far away, "I don't know what's happening but I think we 
need to call someone from the infirmary."

He closed his eyes again and pulled the arm back over his face.  He was tired and so very 
cold.  He was freezing.  He couldn't remember ever being so cold in his life.  What the 
hell did Rob have the air conditioner set at, for cripe's sake?  All he could think about 
was how miserable he was, so he never even heard movements at the door some five 
minutes later.  He never heard the voices of the onsite paramedics or the agent assigned 
to the housing facility.  Never heard the diagnosis that he was in shock.  But was so very 
relieved when they piled blankets on top of him.  Even more relieved when, after feeling 
a prick in his arm, he was able to drift off to sleep, blissfully unaware of everything and 
able to effectively block out the dream that had been so very traumatizing.

*******************************************
End Part 6 of ?
(Feedback to kronos1@adelphia.net is greatly appreciated)
Ascent to Hell
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