*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 9 of ? (9/?)
by Kronos (kronos1@adelphia.net)
Rating:  NC-17
*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 14 of the Wait
Sunday, 12:31 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Scully followed Skinner and the mothers down the hall and into the room she'd become 
so accustomed to over the past fourteen hours.  A few things had changed in their 
absence and she was pleased to notice that the portable dialysis machine had been pushed 
back against the wall.  The cooling blanket had been removed although the machine that 
circulated water through it still sat at the foot of the bed.  A smile came to her face and 
she began to feel more than just a glimmer of hope.  

She paused inside the door and watched as Teena Mulder went straight to her son's side.  
Mulder's mother placed both hands on his now exposed arm, her left sliding down to take 
Mulder's hand in hers.  The woman sank into the chair with a contented sigh, with 
Scully's own mother sitting close by.  The sight made Scully smile even more.

She swiveled her head to the readouts on either side of the bed, studying them intently.  
They reassured her, letting her know that her partner was on the way back, slowly but 
surely.

Teena Mulder and her mother seemed to have become close in the past several hours.  
They sat next to one another again, leaving the seat next to Skinner, at the head of the 
bed, for her.  She took the few steps necessary to bring her to the bed and took a good 
look at Mulder.  There was a light sheen of sweat coating him, his cheeks and nose 
flushed red from the fever that had finally broken.  One of the nurses had left a washcloth 
and bowl of water sitting by the bed.  She dampened it and ran it over his face and neck, 
careful to avoid the cuts and bandages.  

The flush in her partner's face made him look years younger. She caught a whiff of a 
cleaner that had a pine smell and immediately flashed on the image of a much younger 
Mulder, sitting on the floor by the side of his bed in a darkened motel room, candles 
flickering, surrounded by woods that held a town's dark secret.  It had been six and a half 
years before.  It was a time of innocence for them, and lasted such a short while.  A time 
before heartbreak and conspiracies.  But it was also a time of openness.  A time when she 
could turn to him when she was in fear and a time when he felt comfortable telling her 
about his past.  She could admit to herself now that they'd started their partnership with 
more honesty than they'd showed each other in more recent times.  

Standing here, looking at Mulder now, she could finally admit to herself that she'd been 
the more dishonest of the two of them.  He had reached out to her over and again.  She'd 
rebuffed him.  Turned his overtures into jokes or pretended not to understand.  She was a 
coward who couldn't face the fact that she needed another person.  That she needed him.  
She was so used to thinking that she was strong and independent that she'd forgotten the 
most important thing.  That there can be strength in admitting need.  And that it takes 
more strength to admit a need than in pretending not to have one.

She'd closed herself off, denying her feelings, denying that she felt anything more than 
friendship.  But deep inside was a fierce loyalty and respect, a kinship and a love that she 
just couldn't deny any longer.  She made a promise to herself that she'd be honest with 
her partner and friend.  When he opened his eyes and looked into hers, she would tell him 
the words that she'd only whispered to herself in the dark of the night.  The words she'd 
only admitted out loud when no one else could hear. He deserved that much from her.

Skinner clear his throat noisily and she turned towards him, coloring slightly.  She 
realized then that she'd been standing by Mulder's side for many silent minutes, evidently 
making the older man uncomfortable.  She smiled at him briefly and then sank into her 
seat gratefully, taking hold of her partner's hand in hers.  Her fingers dropped down to his 
wrist to feel for the pulse in a habit that was long ingrained.

She sighed and tried to turn her thoughts to Jerry's visit.  Tried to decide whether there 
was anything they could do here to help make better sense of the case.  And before she 
could bring the subject up, Skinner himself did.

As if they had just left off with the conversation a minute before instead of twenty 
minutes, he said, "I think the DC Murders case is relevant here, Scully."

Skinner sat back, obviously trying to get comfortable.  She watched him shift in the chair, 
and knew that part of his unease came from the story itself.

"Doug and I worked the case all weekend.  The autopsy report was consistent with our 
earlier assumptions, but didn't answer our questions about what the girl had been 
assaulted with.  It did state that she was very much alive when assaulted and conscious 
when she died.  I met with Dean again that Monday morning and he told me an 
interesting story."


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


September 8, 1986
Monday, 10:16 a.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


Walter didn't have to search this time, and managed to find Dean working in his office.  
The man had all the lights out, except for a small desk lamp.  Dean looked positively gray 
and Walter was filled with concern.  His mentor didn't look at all well.

"Dean, you look like you could use a few days off."

He'd tried to say it jokingly but knew there was nothing funny about the situation.  When 
the older man merely raised an eyebrow at him, he felt like an idiot for even bringing it 
up.  Dean had been working VCS cases with the Bureau for well over twenty years.  The 
man didn't need him to make suggestions about how he should go about that work.

Walter licked his lips nervously and sat down in Dean's visitor's chair.  "I brought the 
autopsy reports.  Nothing much new, really."  He opened his briefcase and passed the file 
over.  He sat quietly, watching his mentor read.  The play of emotions was subtle, but 
Walter could see the flush of red that colored the man's cheeks.  Dean was definitely 
angry. 

"How the hell do sick bastards like this manage to roam around in society without being 
identified?  How is it possible, Walter?  In all the years I've worked in this job, I've never 
been able to understand that."

Dean physically turned towards him then, swiveling in his chair so they faced one 
another head on.  Dean leaned over, as if to get closer to share a secret and said in a low 
voice, "What always amazes me is that these sociopaths look normal.  They act normal.  
Their friends swear they couldn't be guilty, because they're just too damned nice.  Except 
you go back far enough and you discover they had a penchant for killing small animals as 
children.  They liked to play with fire.  Parents will say, little Billy was sick for a while as 
a child, but he got better."  Dean made a loud harrumphing sound.  "But the truth is that 
these creatures aren't sick, they're just evil.  They are without conscience.  Without soul."

Dean sat back, obviously spent, and his voice grew reflective.  "That's where the word 
psychopath comes from, you know.  It's Greek for 'disease of the soul'.  Now, it's 
somehow more socially acceptable to call them sociopaths, as if their only problem is that 
they never learned how to socialize with others."  Dean snorted in disgust.  Walter felt 
confused, not sure where his mentor's meanderings were taking them.  He found out from 
Dean's next words.

"I ran into someone in the library last night.  We had a conversation about evil.  Evil 
versus true mental illness, and the fact that the legal system doesn't sufficiently separate 
the two concepts."

Walter asked, "Mulder?"

Dean nodded.  "I checked into his records a bit more deeply.  He graduated top of his 
class from Oxford.  Psychology.  Did his thesis on 'The Mad and The Bad: Societal 
Paradox or Legal Pretext?'  Despite the fact that he had the gall to take a stance that 
opposed that of his faculty advisor, he was awarded first place honors for his work."

Walter shifted uneasily, again unsure of where Dean was headed.  The man reached 
across his desk to a pile and pulled an almost two inch thick oversized book towards him.  
He caught a glimpse of the name Mulder stenciled in gold type along the side.

"It's an interesting piece of work.  He's got thirty case studies dating back to 1275, when 
the first recordable use of an insanity defense was recognized by English common law."

He was getting antsy.  He didn't see how this discussion could possibly help them with 
their present case.  He took a deep breath, prepared to interrupt, but Dean continued on.

"One of the cases he cites is that of James Hadfield who, in 1800, fired a shot at King 
George III as he entered a theater in London."  Dean turned towards him again, with a 
look of intrigue on his face.  "What is it, do you think, about assassins and theaters?"

Walt just shook his head, confused and unsure of his part in this particular play.

Dean said, "Where was I?  Oh, yes.  He also covered M'Naghten, of course.  Amazing to 
think that so many of the states in our own union still use the M'Naghten standard to 
define insanity.  Old Queen Victoria wasn't particularly happy when the man got off after 
attempting to kill her prime minister."

Walter wondered whether his old friend was seriously losing it.  They didn't have time 
for this.  He leaned forward and said, "Dean.  What does this have to do with our case?"

The man leaned back in his chair and propped an arm on his desk.  Dean rested his chin 
on his fist and stared at Walter intently.  "Know thy enemy, Walter, because you can be 
damned sure he knows you."

Walter felt a chill run down his spine at the words.

Dean continued.  "You see, when I ran into young Mr. Mulder last night in the library, he 
had a stack of books in front of him and had been reviewing pretty much the same ground 
as I had the couple days before.  When I asked him what he was looking for, he said, 
'Understanding'."

Walter grasped his hands and let them hang between his legs, starting to appreciate the 
history lesson.


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


PREVIOUS NIGHT
September 7, 1986
Monday, 11:16 p.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


Fox stared at the ceiling, his eyes focused on a little spot of light that had made its way in 
through the blinds.  He'd almost convinced himself that it wasn't moving at all.  That the 
world had stopped revolving about its axis.  Had frozen in space, somehow halting time 
in the process.  The little splash of light was shaped like a car.  He'd been trying to figure 
out for the past hour at least just what kind of car it looked like.  Some kind of sports car.  
A Corvette or a Jaguar.  He couldn't make up his mind, but had gone through all the specs 
of each, and decided that the 'vette would have been his personal choice.  Always good to 
buy American, after all.

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and rubbed his face hard with his hands.  He rolled over 
on his side, and stared at the window, eyes focused now on where the shaft of light 
entered through a gap.  He had no sleep in him.  He was exhausted, wanting nothing more 
than to close his eyes and sink into blissful oblivion.  But he knew it wouldn't happen 
anytime soon.  Thoughts of Jesse Smith kept intruding, the vision of the man's mutilated 
and tortured body flooding through him.  Even thoughts of a shiny red Corvette couldn't 
keep dreams of the terrible murder at bay.  

He was overwhelmed with the need to know more about men who could do these things 
to another human being.  He'd spent three years at Oxford studying sociopaths, but knew 
that he'd never really understood.  Not until he'd seen the files.  Not until he'd seen the 
photos.  Lorri Kiley, looking like an angel, even in death.  Jesse Smith, mutilated beyond 
recognition.  

He swallowed hard and shifted in bed again, so he was on his right side. Clenched his 
eyes tightly shut and tried to convince himself that he could sleep.  Sleep was a good 
thing.  All he needed to do was put these thoughts of a case that he wasn't supposed to be 
involved with aside.  It wasn't his business.  He rolled onto his back, almost violently and 
brought his hands up to his face.  He scrubbed hard, hating that he had so little control 
over his own mind.  

A voice called softly out in the darkness.  "Hey, Fox.  Everything okay?"

It was Rob.  Damn.  He'd obviously woken the other man.

He tried to keep his voice low, so they wouldn't wake Chris up, too.  "Yeah.  Sorry, Rob.  
Just can't sleep."

"Wanna talk about it?"

He thought about it, but knew it wasn't really what he needed.  He sighed and rolled to a 
sitting position.  "No, I think I'll go for a short walk.  Maybe drop by the library.  I want 
to check something out."

Now that he'd made up his mind, he felt as if a weight had lifted.  He stood and padded 
across the room to his closet.

He could hear the concern in Rob's voice when the other man spoke again.  "It's kind of 
late, Fox."

He smiled in the darkness.  It warmed him to know that he had friends here who cared 
about his welfare.  "I know.  I won't be too long.  Don't worry."

He threw jeans and a tee-shirt on quickly, then pulled on his running shoes.  No need to 
worry about socks.  He was just going one building over, after all.  He pulled his jacket 
out of the closet as an afterthought and headed for the door.

Just as he turned the knob, he heard Chris say, "Don't do anything we wouldn't do."  

He could hear Rob snickering and joined in the laughter.  As he headed out the door he 
muttered affectionately, "Assholes."

The hallway was empty and quiet.  After all, it was a Monday night following a weekend 
off.  Everyone was recovering, just as he should be.  He smiled at the remembrance of 
how he'd spent most of the weekend.  He and Shirley had become good friends.  Very 
good friends.  Many times.

His heart was slightly lighter as he walked outside and jogged down the steps.  He headed 
towards the next building over, glancing up at the top floor.  Lights were still blazing 
through about half of the building, but the top floor was completely lit.  The library was 
housed there and he'd become quite familiar with it over the past several weeks.  It 
reminded him of his time at Oxford.  There were cubicles behind the stacks where you 
could lose yourself for hours.  It was quiet.  Peaceful.  And the best part was the old case 
files.  Even a trainee had access to them and they made for fascinating reading.

When he got to the library, he stopped just inside the entrance.  He hadn't really decided 
completely what he was going to do there, after all.  It was just an instinct that had 
brought him to this place.  He looked around and his eyes settled on the large room off to 
the right.  It was where the files and reports of the most famous and heinous crimes ever 
documented were filed.  

He wandered that way, his steps becoming more certain as he approached the desk.  He 
knew the man there by name and nodded to him.  

"Hi, Jake.  I won't be long."

He relinquished his badge to the man and didn't allow the gruff response to bother him.

"Make sure you sign out with me when you're done."

"No problem.  Thanks."

He walked into the room and looked around, wondering what to look at first.  He moved 
to the card catalogue and started looking under the subject of serial killers.  It was a 
familiar topic.  He'd spent three years researching sociopaths at Oxford.  At least two-
thirds of the case studies he'd used had been serials.  Still, Quantico had information that 
he'd never seen before.

He was lost in the pile of books and files in front of him so didn't notice the person 
standing next to him at first.  Then there was a shuffle and clearing of a throat.  When he 
turned, he was surprised to see Agent Waring there, looking simultaneously nervous, 
concerned, and irritated.

He wasn't sure what to say, so decided to keep it simple.  "Hello, sir."

Waring sounded merely curious when he spoke.  "Trainee.  What are you doing here?  It's 
..."  The man glanced at his watch before continuing.  "... almost one in the morning."

Fox was surprised.  It hadn't seemed like he'd been there so long.  He licked his lips and 
stared at the pile of books on the table in front of him.  "Just doing some reading, sir.  I 
couldn't sleep."

It seemed like Waring slumped a bit.  "What are you reading about?"  The man pulled a 
chair out and sank into it.  Pulled one of the books closer to him.

"Just reviewing some serial cases, sir."

Waring flipped the book open, letting the pages turn until he stopped at a photo.  It was 
an old case from the sixties.  Still, it was brutal in execution and mystifying as to purpose.  
The victims were chosen at random, having been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Fox looked up at Waring again to see the older man staring at him intently.

"Fox, you shouldn't be getting involved in this any more than you are."

Again, he wasn't sure how he should respond.  He ran his fingers over the case file he'd 
been reading and chewed on his lip for a second.  Then raised his eyes to meet Waring's.  
"Sir, I can't really explain this, but ... I feel like I was supposed to be involved.  Like it 
was meant to happen."  

He could see the growing frustration on the other man's face so hurried to explain.  "I 
spent three years researching sociopaths for my dissertation.  Trying to understand how 
their evil could have been missed for so long.  I read hundreds of cases.  Maybe even 
thousands.  I read about the case details, the investigations, the criminals ...  I read about 
the victims and their families."

He could see Waring's interest now.  "It was all just academic, though.  I read about them.  
I wrote about many of them in my dissertation.  I thought I understood them.  But, they 
weren't real.  The evil that they'd perpetrated with their acts were still just words on a 
page."  He licked his lips and glanced again at all the books and files piled around him, 
knowing they contained details of numerous tragedies.  When he looked at Waring again, 
he could tell he'd struck a chord with the man.

"And in all this, no one ever really called them evil, despite all the terrible things they 
did. They wrote them off as 'sick' instead. Mentally unbalanced.  I thought I understood, 
but I didn't.  That's what I'm looking for tonight, sir.  Understanding."

The other man nodded slowly, a sad smile on his face.  His voice was almost as sad.  "I 
wish you luck, Trainee.  But be careful ... Sometimes when you find the thing you've 
been looking for, you realize you would have been much better off not even starting the 
search to begin with."

Waring pushed the book back, then stood from his chair slowly.  The instructor looked ... 
weary.  It was the only word that came to mind.  Weary of the case, weary of work, 
perhaps even weary of life.  

When the older man was upright, he said, "Truth, justice, honor -- these are important 
things, Fox.  But they can sometimes be expensive ideals.  They can cost more than 
they're worth.  Be careful that you don't ask too many questions, Trainee."

Fox was so surprised by the agent's words that he merely nodded, then watched as 
Waring walked slowly out the door and out of his sight.  He couldn't imagine how a man 
who was an agent in the FBI, a good agent, who'd dedicated his life to stopping injustice, 
could possibly make such a statement.  Fox was consumed with confusion.  He prided 
himself on understanding the motivations and character of others, but was at a loss to 
understand Agent Waring.  It was almost fifteen minutes later that his introspection was 
interrupted by a touch on his arm.

This time when he turned, he was met with one of the most beautiful sights he'd ever 
seen.  Shirley was there, hair tousled, sweat pants bagging in delightful ways, an 
exasperated expression painting her features.

"Shirl, what are you doing here?"

She crossed her arms over her chest and grimaced at him.  "Me?  Fox, it's after one in the 
morning.  And I know you haven't gotten much sleep lately.  What are you doing here?"

He was baffled as to how this came to be.  "Shirley, come on.  Spill.  I asked first.  Why 
are you here?"

She dropped her arms and propped them on her hips.  "Rob called."

He could feel his jaw drop, then clench as the frustration, horror and anger overtook him. 
He couldn't believe that his roommate had done such a thing.  Shirley must have 
understood his conflicted emotions because she rushed on quickly with her explanation.  
"Don't get upset.  Rob and Chris were just worried and they ... well, I guess they knew we 
were ... friends.  They just thought ... I mean ... That is ..."

He couldn't stay angry.  Her flustered response, coupled with the blush in her cheeks was 
too much for him.  He had to fight to keep a straight face.  "Thought what?"

He lost the fight to avoid smiling when she rolled her eyes and cocked her hip.  He 
laughed and reached out to grab her.  She danced out of his reach gracefully.

"Don't you dare.  Don't even think it.  Now put all this away and come to bed."

He could feel his eyebrows shoot up and the grin on his face grew even wider.  "Oh baby, 
you know what I like."

She gave him such a disgusted look, he was almost convinced she was mad at him.  Then 
a corner of her mouth curved up just a bit and he knew she wasn't serious.  "Don't even 
try that crap, buster.  Come on, Fox.  I'll walk back with you."

He sighed and realized that the exhaustion was catching up with him big time.  He stared 
at the stacks around him and nodded, then pushed one pile towards her.  "Okay, tell you 
what.  You take these and I'll get the rest."

She smiled back and said, "Deal."

They made fast work of it, then walked side by side back to the sleeping quarters.  When 
they got to the stairs that would bring her to her room on the floor above his, he grabbed 
her hand.

"Hey, Shirl."

"Yeah?"

He smiled broadly.  "Thanks."

He let go of her hand and was rewarded when she raised it to his cheek briefly.  "What 
are friends for?"

He turned his head fast enough to kiss her palm as she withdrew her hand, feeling 
inordinately proud of himself for the feat.

She laughed, a tinkling sound that lightened his heart.  "Go to bed, Fox."  Her expression 
grew serious then.  "And try not to think about that case.  The only dreams you're allowed 
to have are about me."

They parted on that note.  But that night, he did dream, unable to escape the images of 
innocents slain.  Murderers who evaded justice.  And loved ones who were left to try to 
understand why.  And the night was long.

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


September 8, 1986
Monday, 10:31 a.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


Dean stared at Walter intently. "His thesis traced the use and misuse of the insanity 
defense over a seven hundred year period and he drew the conclusion that since the 
fifteen hundreds, the loss of the word 'evil' from the legal and psychological lexicon has 
done more damage to our ability to prosecute and deal with true sociopaths than anything 
else."

Walter swallowed heavily as Dean added, "But even more, that the loss of the word has 
made it difficult for us as a society to adequately identify these individuals or even know 
the signs for recognizing them when they're in operation.  He suggests that it's because 
it's easier for society to think of them as ill, rather than evil, since otherwise the devil 
incarnate might just be their next door neighbor."

Walter nodded slowly.

"That's what you're looking for here, though.  Make no mistake about it."

He nodded again.

"I'm going to bring the Margie Connor case to the class this week.  The entire class.  John 
Malloy and I were supposed to lecture on crimes against children.  I'll use this as one of 
the case studies.  I'll hit this one tomorrow."

He nodded understanding.  "Thanks, Dean."

As he stood to leave he understood something else.  That this case was driving a wedge 
between his mentor and himself and he didn't like it at all.  He knew that Dean didn't 
approve of some of his decisions.  Walter had felt the chill almost from the beginning, but 
he didn't know what to do about it.  It was almost as if Dean disapproved of him doing 
whatever necessary to solve this case.  Walter looked back as he reached the doorway and 
added, "I appreciate your help, Dean."

The older man looked at him finally and he could see the sorrow there.  Dean understood, 
too.  The man nodded slowly, without a word.

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


Present Day, Hour 14 of the Wait
Sunday, 12:54 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


"On Tuesday, I got there early and met with Dean briefly.  Doug and I had been trying to 
figure out just how our suspect list should be investigated.  I wanted to run a few ideas 
past Dean.  I never really got much of a chance, though.  He and John Malloy had a bit of 
a disagreement about using Margie's murder as part of the case studies."


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


September 9, 1986
Tuesday, 7:13 a.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


Walter settled himself into one of the chairs in the AV room and decided to wait the 
discussion out.  Dean and John Malloy were down in the front of the room and had been 
arguing for a good ten minutes.  The discussion had started going in circles about a 
minute ago and now there was a stiff silence.  The two men stood at opposite sides of the 
platform, and both of them were obviously angry.  Their stances were similar, each with 
crossed arms and set jaws.  John was a large man, a few inches over six feet, with a 
muscular bulk that made him a threatening figure.  Despite his smaller stature, Dean still 
held his own, giving up no ground.

John broke the silence first, his voice almost pleading.  "Look, Dean, you know this isn't 
right.  We have strict policies about these things.  We can't present a current case that's 
under investigation.  Not to trainees."  The man dropped his arms to his sides, as if in 
defeat.

"I know the policies, John.  I helped to write most of them."

"Then why are you so insistent?"

The silence stretched and it was as if Walter could see the tension begin to dissipate from 
the room.  Dean stuffed his hands into his pants pockets and John stood with hands on 
hips.

"Because this case is different, John.  I can't tell you everything right now, but there are 
exceptional circumstances."

John seemed honestly interested.  "What's so exceptional, Dean?  I understand that we 
don't get little girls strung up nude every other week.  But still, what makes this so very 
different from any of the hundred child violence crimes we get every year?"

There was a beat of silence and then Dean said, "I guess I'm just asking that you trust me 
on this.  Please."

The door to the left slammed open and everyone jumped, including Walter.  A couple 
trainees took a step into the room and then froze, obviously aware that they'd walked into 
the middle of something.  He had to smile as they turned as one and walked out again, 
closing the door much more quietly this time.

The interruption had served to break all tension. Malloy merely nodded, then walked 
towards the steps.  "We need to reorganize things, then.  That one should go last.  We'll 
replace the Franklin kidnapping.  Sound all right to you?"

Dean turned also and headed after the larger man.  "That's what I was thinking as well.  I 
had some slides made up.  We have time to review them before class today."

Walter stood as they approached the door.  John Malloy stopped at the threshold, 
obviously surprised to find him there.  He stuck out his hand and introduced himself.  
"Hello, sir.  My name's Walter Skinner."

He didn't know just how much the other man knew about the DC Murders case, but 
decided it would be prudent to keep the details to himself for now.  Malloy looked at him 
with suspicion until Dean said, "I'm working with Walter on the Conner case."

Malloy glared at him for a moment and he shifted awkwardly, feeling very much out of 
place.  The older agent said, "So you're the reason Dean's lost his mind, huh?"

He kept quiet, not wanting to feed the discussion further.  The man pushed past him 
gruffly, and reached for the slide carousel.  Walter moved back to the corner to allow 
them room to maneuver.

The two older men spent the next fifteen minutes rearranging slides and discussing the 
presentation.  The room below had been surprisingly quiet and Walter had a suspicion 
that the word to keep clear had gone out.  He settled down on the corner of a table and 
propped his elbow on the sill of the glass window that opened onto the classroom.  

At five before eight, the doors opened and a crowd of trainees and National Academy 
participants entered the room.  They were a relatively quiet group, subdued and 
respectful.  The seats filled quickly and Walter kept his eyes open for one man alone.

The kid was one of the last to enter the room.  He seemed to move slowly, his steps 
unsure.  He paused at the doorway and looked around, then moved to one of the last rows 
to sit by himself.  

Walter saw a couple heads turn back to look at the kid and at least one person waved his 
hand to gesture him to come down.  Fox either ignored him or just didn't see him.  The 
younger man was dressed in the standard khaki pants and tee-shirt all the trainees wore, 
but somehow he looked messy.  Walter realized that Fox's tee-shirt was only partly 
tucked in, as if he'd dressed in the dark or with too little time.  The kid definitely looked 
distracted.

Fox was only a few rows down from Walter's location, over towards the left side, and he 
could see part of Fox's face from his angle.  The word pensive came to mind.

Class started a few minutes later, when Dean and John Malloy walked down the stairs 
together.  If Walter hadn't seen and heard the argument from forty-five minutes before, he 
never would have known the two men had ever had a disagreement.  Walter stayed in the 
AV room, but kept the door open so he could hear the lecture and any discussion.

They got to the case a little over an hour later.  Dean presented it.

"This next one is something a little different.  We'll call the victim Jane Doe.  Twelve 
years old.  Found hung with an electrical cord from a light in a classroom of her junior 
high school."

Dean hit the button for the slide projector and the nude image of Margie Connor, hanging 
from the neck, was flashed onto the twelve foot tall screen.  There was a murmuring 
throughout the class and Walter knew it was due to two things.  First, he was certain that 
most of those in the room below probably had heard about this case on the news or in the 
papers.  Second, this was one of the more graphic and disturbing slides the class had seen 
that morning.  

He looked to his left and saw that Fox Mulder sat with his elbows propped on the table, 
hands clasped in front of his face.  The younger man's head was bowed, but it was clear 
he watched the screen with the rest of the class. 

"Jane was an average student, well-liked by teachers and classmates.  She had no history 
of trouble.  She was on the swim team and in the school band."  Dean hit the button again 
and another picture of Margie flashed on the screen.  This time she was alive, just 
climbing out of the swimming pool, her arms in the air in a victory sign.  A teammate 
was slapping her on the back and it was obvious the girl had just won a race.  This was 
the photo that was intended to drive home to those in the class that this was a child who 
had everything ahead of her.  A happy child whose life was taken prematurely and 
unnaturally.  

Again Walter looked to the Mulder.  He hadn't moved a muscle, appearing frozen in 
place while others in the room shifted in frustration or unease.  Dean's monotone 
continued in the background.

"She was an only child.  Her father was an electrician and her mother was an elementary 
school teacher.  On a Friday afternoon she stayed after school to practice with her band.  
At 3:40 p.m. her bus left the school.  At approximately 4 p.m. it dropped her off down the 
street from her house.  A classmate saw her get off the bus.  She never arrived home."

Dean clicked and a close-up of the girl's upper body and head flashed on the screen.  
"Sometime between 4 p.m. and 10 p.m. that day, she was bound at her wrists and ankles 
with cloth.  Her mouth was covered with duct tape.  She was transported to some location 
where she was stripped.  The clothes were cut from her body."

Walter watched Mulder bow his head a little further.  It was no longer clear whether the 
man could see the images on the screen or not.  

A click again and a photo of Margie's backside was flashed on the screen.  A slight slash 
could be seen running almost six or seven inches along the length of her back.  "We 
know the clothes were cut because of the residual slice marks that were left behind on 
legs, arms, and back."  A click again showed an autopsy photo of the girl, obviously on 
her back, her vaginal area covered with a green cotton drape.  The blood on her thighs 
showed starkly against the almost white skin.  "At that location, the girl was sexually 
molested.  Autopsy results suggest a wooden implement.”

The silence in the room was so thick Walter felt that he could hear their every breath, 
even from his lofty position.

There was yet another click and a photo of her neck was projected, the electrical cord still 
tied in tight knots.  "The cord came from something on the order of a vacuum cleaner.  
Forensics were unable to narrow it down to a specific brand.  It's been used for a variety 
of small appliances for over ten years.  The knots were tied inexpertly.  The tape and 
bindings were removed when she was hung.  She was alive and aware when she was 
strung up and left to die."

Fox Mulder still sat in the same position, his head bowed so that his forehead rested on 
his linked hands.  Walter was curious, wondering what was going through the man's 
mind.  Wondering whether the kid was saddened, sickened, angry, or all of the above.

Dean clicked again and a close-up of the girl's face was projected, her open eyes filmed 
and pale in death.  "The janitor found Jane on Saturday morning and called the police.  
The parents had already called the police the night before when it became obvious that 
Jane was missing.  No one in the area saw anything, except for one woman who claims 
she saw a car driving slowly towards the school on Friday night around nine, and then the 
same car driving away more quickly later that night."

Dean let the silence hang then and it stretched uncomfortably long.  The man broke it 
with a series of questions.  "What was the motive?  What was the purpose?  Why her?  
What did the assailant get out of this act?"  Dean clicked again and a picture of a 
laughing Margie was projected.  Her hair blew behind her in the sun, bright and coppery.  
She was dressed in blue jean shorts and a red striped shirt.  She could have been Little 
Orphan Annie, with her freckled face and huge smile.  She was caught cavorting in the 
grass, with green stains on her knees and elbows.  It was a bittersweet ending to the slide 
show.

Walter looked down at Fox and saw the kid had raised his head and dropped his arms.  
They were stretched out in front of him now so that they gripped the far end of the desk 
tightly.  There were no raised hands below.  No one anxious to be the first to speak.  And 
the kid surprised him.  The last time Walter had watched this class, Mulder was 
obviously content to let others speak first.  This time was different.

Fox Mulder's voice rang out from the back of the room, clear and precise.  "She was an 
angel.  She was the antithesis of the assailant.  The assailant wanted to destroy her 
innocence, her purity."

A few heads swiveled around to stare at Mulder.  It didn't deter him.  "She was a bright, 
shining beacon that said 'I'll always be better than you'."

The silence held until John Malloy broke it.  "I think we'll need to end it here.  Instructor 
Waring and I have a meeting to get to.  We want a paper from each of you at the 
beginning of the next lecture.  Cite the facts as you know them.  Analyze them.  Suggest 
responses to the questions that were posed.  I think you all have an hour or two break 
before you have to be anywhere."

Malloy and Dean walked towards each other on the platform and Walter could see them 
conferring.  Malloy held the file under his arm.  The trainees and NA participants started 
filing out, in twos and threes.  Walter was interested to see a young woman walk up the 
steps to stop next to Fox.

She was pretty, tall and leggy, with a blonde ponytail bobbing out behind her.  She 
stopped next to the younger man and Walter could tell they exchanged words.  Fox 
reached out and took her left hand in both of his.  She leaned over close, to whisper in the 
trainee's ear. Then the woman nodded and stepped back, as if reluctant to leave.  But she 
did, moving slowly.  When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she turned back and 
waved.  Walter saw Fox raise his hand in return.  

When the classroom was empty except for Fox and the two instructors, the show was on.  
Fox stood and started down the stairs, seeming to hesitate almost between steps.  In the 
front, John Malloy held the file up and said to Dean, "I'll need this back tomorrow."  The 
man set it down on the table and turned to leave from the left exit.  When he reached the 
door, he glanced up at Fox, then back to Dean.  He said, "You coming, Dean?  We need 
to get over to the Lab."

Dean nodded.  "I'm coming."  He walked past the table, leaving the file in clear view.  
Walter could see Fox stop on the last step, his head following Dean as he moved towards 
the door.  In the threshold, Dean turned back and said, "I'll see you tomorrow, Trainee."  
Then he was gone.

Walter watched carefully, curious as to what the younger man would do.  The message 
couldn't have been more clear, but the question was whether Fox would go along with it.  
The man took the last step down and walked towards the table, each step looking as if it 
were bringing him closer to hell itself.  And perhaps they were.

Fox stopped by the table and stared down at the file.  Walter watched him run his hand 
over it and then sink down into the chair.  The younger man pulled the file closer towards 
him and sat staring at it for long minutes.  Walter waited him out, holding his breath.  
And then it happened.  The kid flipped the file open.

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

PAST


Fox was filled with apprehension.  The half inch thick casefile sat closed in front of him.  
He knew that it was stuffed with reports, interview statements, and photos, but had no 
desire to prove it.  Photos that were most likely ten times more graphic than those used in 
the presentation.  His heart seemed to flutter in his chest and he began to feel his stomach 
turn with nausea.  His throat was so tight he could barely swallow.  He felt a tickling at 
his temple and reached up with his left hand to swipe at it.  His finger came away wet 
with sweat.  He licked his lips and ran his hand over the file again.

The words were there, just like last time.  'Eyes Only.'  The last time he'd opened a file 
marked with those letters he'd come damned close to ending his career before it had even 
begun.  Now, the same man who'd threatened to kick his butt out of the Bureau if he ever 
did it again was the one urging him to get involved this time.

He didn't fully understand it.  There had to be something going on that he wasn't aware 
of.  Why in the hell would they want him to look at the file?  What did they want from 
him and why?  He was a trainee, for God's sake.  

There was a pressure behind his eyes.  It kept building until he had to close them tightly.  
He'd never felt so out of control in his life.  But deep inside, in the dark recesses of his 
soul, he could admit that he wanted to do this.  Wanted to know what was inside the file.  
To catch a glimpse of the evil creature who could do such a thing to a child, and maybe 
even contribute towards catching him.  He recognized the pride.  The hubris within him.  
He realized then that Instructor Waring had recognized these things as well. 

With a deep breath and a shaking hand, he grasped the corner of the file and flipped it to 
the first page.

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


Present Day, Hour 16 of the Wait
Sunday, 2:31 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


A shuffling to his left caused Skinner to turn in his seat.  Teena Mulder stared at him, an 
expression of dismay on her face.  

Her voice shook with repressed feeling when she spoke.  "He called me.  I didn't know 
what was wrong at the time, but I could tell he was upset.  I remember now that it was 
right after that little girl's death made the news.  I had no idea at the time that Fox was 
involved."

Skinner wanted to turn away from her accusing stare but he couldn't.  He knew that 
ultimately he'd been to blame.

Mulder's mother spoke softly but with determination.  "He sounded distracted.  Distant.  
Not at all like himself.  I asked whether something had happened.  Whether there'd been a 
problem during training."  

She finally turned away from him and he felt an incredible relief.   He could see that she 
now stared at Mulder, and her expression softened.  Her voice was low and without 
inflection.  "He insisted everything was fine, but I knew different.  I let it go, assuming 
that he'd tell me when he was ready."

She seemed to shrink in her seat then.  "He never did, though.  Not really.  And that case 
..."  Her voice drifted off so that he could hardly hear her.  "It was the start of our 
problems.  We'd always been close.  He always talked to me.  But that case was the start 
of the end for us.  He became more and more withdrawn."

He didn't move when she stood.  He could see that both Scully and her mother were also 
frozen in their seats.  Teena Mulder walked past him, but paused for just a moment when 
she said, "I cursed that day, Mr. Skinner.  My little boy was gone for good.  I'd already 
lost one child and then I lost another, even though the losing took years."

He raised his head, knowing he couldn't avoid the confrontation.  But she only looked at 
him with sadness and regret, not with accusation.  

"I feel that I've been given another chance, now."  Her voice was like steel again when 
she added, "And I intend to take it."  She took a deep breath and then turned away from 
him to look over at Scully and her Margaret, obviously forcing a small smile.  "I'm going 
for a little walk.  I'll be back in a bit."

The door closed with a soft whoosh and he couldn't help the feeling of relief that washed 
over him.  He looked across the room, wanting absolution.  Hoping to find it in Scully's 
eyes.  But her eyes were glued on her partner's face and he had nothing but his own 
memories and thoughts to keep him occupied.  

He looked to the left and focused on Mulder's sweat-covered face.  Remembered back to 
that day.  He wondered again, as he had so many times since then, whether he should 
have done things differently.

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


September 9, 1986
Tuesday, 9:51 a.m.
FBI Academy , Quantico, Virginia


Walter felt like a voyeur.  He needed to move.  Needed to leave.  The first few minutes 
he'd been fascinated, watching as the kid tried to decide whether to look at the file or not.  
Now he began feeling a little ill as the realization of what it was doing to the trainee took 
root.  He could see it.  With every move Fox took and every anguished sigh that escaped, 
it was obvious that this was tearing the kid apart.  

Walter walked to the door of the AV room and opened it carefully, making sure that no 
noise would give him away.  He turned to the right and pushed at the door leading out of 
the auditorium, not even looking back as it closed behind him.  He made it out into the 
sunlight finally and stood still.  He closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his 
breathing and unclenching his fists.  When he opened his eyes finally, he was surprised 
that everyone around him continued to move as if nothing was wrong.  As if everything 
hadn't been turned upside down and inside out.

He drew a shuddering breath and turned to his car.  It was out of his hands now.  He'd 
loosed a monster and he had no choice but to try to follow its tail.  It was time to get back 
to Doug and the team.

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


PAST


Fox heard a sound in the back of the room and turned his head.  There was nothing there.  
Only the stillness that signaled an empty room.  He was all alone in the dimly lit 
auditorium.  It had been a long time since he'd felt so alone.  

He turned back to the thick file that lay open in front of him and caressed the photo with 
trembling fingers.  It was the same picture that Agent Waring had ended the briefing 
with.  Margie Connor, laughing and playing in the sun, cheeks red from activity, hair 
damp with sweat, but shining brightly.  

He turned the page to the medical examiner's report and devoured the details.  Read about 
the wounds, the catalogue of injuries.  Details on stomach contents, estimated time of 
death.  Studied the series of photos that showed every angle of little Margie's abused 
body.  Flipped the pages again and soaked up the interview statements.  Flip.  The police 
reports.  

He closed his eyes and tried to understand the kind of creature that could have 
perpetrated such horror.  A devil dressed in men's clothing. 

He felt empty.  Like there was a hole, deep inside, waiting to be filled.  But all he could 
summon was anger and hate.  A part of him knew that if he gave himself into those 
emotions, he would become lost.  He felt the sweat start at his temple and raised a 
shaking hand to swipe at his forehead.  

He lowered it again and closed the file, staring once more at the words stamped on the 
front.  He wondered to himself, almost idly, at the sequence of events that had brought 
him to this place and time.  He shook his head slowly, and wondered how the hell he was 
going to get out of this mess.

He looked around the room and saw the emptiness.  It matched the hollowness in his 
soul.  He gathered the energy to lift his arm and looked at his watch.  He had about a half 
hour before he had to be at the training grounds.  He couldn't just leave the file here.  The 
wrong person might see it.  He laughed to himself at the irony of the thought and pushed 
himself back wearily from the table.  Then picked up the file and headed towards the 
door.  Agent Waring's office was close by.  He could drop off the file and perhaps find a 
way to speak about what he was feeling.

The trip took a couple minutes only and he found himself standing in front of a closed 
door along a corridor that was oddly empty.  He was nervous, not completely sure of the 
reception he'd receive.  His stomach churned and he felt disconnected somehow.  As if it 
weren't his hand raised in the air in front of him.  He breathed deeply and knocked, a few 
raps that sounded out loudly.  After a half minute or so, he finally realized that Agent 
Waring wasn't in.  It was only then that he realized there was yelling coming from down 
the very hall he'd just walked up.  

He couldn't help but hear what was being said and he glanced around, embarrassed to be 
hearing it.  He'd have to walk past the door to leave and was hesitant to do so.  He took a 
few steps and then froze at the words coming from behind the closed door.

"I'm tired of hearing excuses.  I've just about had it with you.  Just do what you're told.  
And the next time you call me at work you better have a broken limb, a gushing wound 
that won't stop bleeding, or a robber at the door."

Fox shook his head and started down the hall, deciding to leave the file in his room.  He'd 
bring it to Agent Waring later.  But just as he started walking, the door down the hall flew 
open and Agent Malloy stormed out.  Fox again froze, only a few steps away from the 
obviously angry man.  His stomach clenched in fear and anxiety.  He didn't need this 
right now.

The older man saw him almost immediately and a strange thing happened.  Malloy turned 
from furious to cold in a mere fraction of a second.  The man's face was like stone, his 
expression betraying nothing.  

Fox swallowed hard and licked his lips.  He raised the file a bit and held it out to the 
older man.  "Sir, I was bringing this to Agent Waring but he's not in.  I finished ... that is, 
I found this in the lecture hall.  I didn't want to leave it there."  His voice dropped off as 
the insecurity crept over him.  He became even more uneasy as Malloy flicked his eyes 
down at the file he still held.  Then the man finally reached out to take it.

"Thank you, Trainee.  Wouldn't want it falling into the wrong hands now, would we?"

The sarcasm made Fox flush with embarrassment.  He shook his head, even though he 
knew Malloy didn't really expect an answer and was surprised when he saw a break in the 
other man's demeanor.  There was a flash of something that he couldn't quite describe.  
He stepped back from the agent, disliking the confrontation, wanting nothing more than 
to get away from the entire nightmare.

He was filled with relief when Malloy finally said, "Don't you have somewhere to be, 
Trainee?"

He mumbled a quick, "Yes, sir" and took off at a quick clip down the hallway.  He had 
twenty minutes or so to get over to the training area.  No need to rush, but he wanted to 
be away from Malloy.  He was barely aware of the door that shut again behind him.


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


Present Day, Hour 18 of the Wait
Sunday, 4:12 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


They'd actually been kicked out of Mulder's room and it was the best news she could 
have been given.  The doctors had evidently revised their opinion on her partner's 
chances and were now trying to reassert their rights. They'd been banned to the waiting 
room while the nurses and doctors changed bedding and bandages. Despite their 
objections, the lead doctor had insisted they wait until the next visiting period before they 
returned.  Scully was willing to stay away for now, but only for a bit.  Only while she and 
Skinner worked with Jerry.  Then the doctors had better prepare for war.

Scully moved away from the files and printouts spread out on the table and walked to the 
window.  She and Skinner had spent the last hour reviewing the latest findings on the 
case with Jerry Friedman.  They'd staked out a corner of the CCU waiting room and had 
tried their best to ignore the looks of apprehension and curiosity that occasionally came 
their way.

She twisted to the right, then left, rotating her head quickly, and grimaced at the crack 
that sounded loudly, even over the muted roar of the television and surrounding voices.  
Evidently Jerry had heard it, too, because he said, "Jeez, Dana.  That sends chills down 
my spine.  Do you mind?"

She turned back to him and summoned a tired smile.  "Sorry about that."  The smile 
remained and she realized that she felt oddly carefree, despite the utter exhaustion that 
robbed her of the energy to do more than lean against the window.  She glanced down at 
her watch and noted that they had another forty or so minutes before they'd be allowed in 
again.  More than enough time to get things moving with Jerry.

She turned back to where he sat, sprawled limply in one of the waiting room chairs.  His 
suit was worse than rumpled, his legs stretched long in front of him.  He was obviously 
running on near empty.  When she turned her gaze to Skinner, she saw that he wasn't in 
much better shape.  He was also in one of the chairs, a file spread across his lap.  His 
head was tipped back so far he might have been staring at the ceiling -- if one arm hadn't 
been draped across his face.  She wasn't sure if he was even awake.

She stumbled to the chair across from Jerry and sank into it, thankful for the soft 
cushions, regardless of how ratty they were. She had to fight off the desire to sleep.  
There would be time for that later.  She kicked off her shoes and stared down once more 
at the file in her hands. It contained printouts of Mulder's computer files.  She turned to 
the pages marked 'profile-notes' and read them again.  Her eyesight blurred from 
exhaustion and finally focused on the words:

similarity -- DC Murders
schizophrenia/sociopathy -- happening here?? yes.  

She'd wondered what it meant and had patiently waited for Skinner to connect the dots.  
They were still waiting on the list of names that Mulder had asked for days ago.  She 
rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes, unable to concentrate on 
the problem any longer.  She finally succumbed, drifting off to the sound of Skinner's 
breathing and Jerry's light snoring.

She knew only moments had passed when she heard someone clearing their throat just a 
few feet away.  She heard Skinner jerk in his seat and a shuffling across from her that 
was probably Jerry.  She dragged her own eyes open to see SAC Landers standing 
awkwardly in front of her.

Skinner had lowered his arm from his face and was now struggling to sit up straighter.  
Jerry was pushing himself to his feet.  She stayed where she was, but made something of 
a concession by putting her shoes back on.  

Landers sounded nervous when he asked, "How's Mulder doing?"

Skinner answered first.  "Holding on."

It was obvious that he wasn't going to say more so she added, "He's starting to show some 
brain activity.  It's good news."

Landers looked towards her and smiled a bit.  He looked so relieved that she took pity on 
him.  "Sir, do you have something for us?"

He nodded and held a file out towards her.  She leaned forward and took it, arching an 
eyebrow enquiringly.

He cleared his throat again and said, "The list Mulder wanted.  Of people who'd applied 
to the Bureau and were either not accepted or kicked out within the first few months.  It's 
a longer list than I would have expected."

Both Skinner and Jerry came to attention at Landers' words, obviously interested.  She 
pushed herself out of the seat and tore open the envelope.  She pulled out the sheaf of 
pages and laid them out on the little table they'd claimed for their work area.  Skinner and 
Jerry hovered behind her as she ran her fingers down the names.  There were so many.

And as if he read her mind, Landers said, "Five hundred thirty seven unacceptables.  
That's the ones from just the last three years."

Jerry muttered a soft "Jesus" close to her left ear.  She turned towards him and was struck 
by a feeling of deja vu.  How many times had Mulder stood looking over her shoulder?  
How many times had he muttered that very word in her ear?  She drew a shaky breath 
and turned back to the list.  "It'll take forever to go through this.  There's got to be a way 
to refine the parameters of the search."

Skinner sighed behind her.  "Let's think it through."  She felt a touch on her shoulder and 
turned towards him.  "Scully, is there anything in Mulder's notes that might help?"

She stood and wrapped her arms around her chest, then shook her head.  "No, sir.  At 
least not that I can understand."

Skinner looked grim, but then obviously made up his mind.  He stood straight and put his 
hands on his hips.  "Well, there's nothing for it.  We need to cross-check every one of 
these bastards against our assailant.  See whether our man's path crossed with any of 
theirs.  Find out where these characters are now."  He turned to Landers and asked, "How 
many people can you put on it?"

The SAC grinned slightly when he replied.  "I've already got about ten people working it.  
Our entire analysis group is committed to it and we have a few others from headquarters.  
We'll hear as soon as they learn anything."

Scully breathed deeply and nodded, meeting Skinner's gaze.  The older man glanced 
down at his watch then and a look of alarm crossed his features.  "Two to five, Scully."

She nodded and was out the door before in moments.  She heard him explaining to 
Landers in the background.  "Time to see Mulder.  Will you stay here for a bit, Carl?  
Watch the files?"

SAC Landers must have agreed because a minute later, Skinner joined her in front of the 
CCU doors.  There was a crowd of about twenty or twenty-five other people standing 
with them.  Scully knew from experience that the friends and relatives took visiting times 
very seriously.  She'd generally been able to talk her way past the rules, using her status 
as M.D. coupled with Federal Agent as ammunition.  She started lining up the arguments 
again, knowing that there'd be fireworks if they tried to keep her out for the rest of the 
night.

She heard her name called from the right and turned to see her mother and Mrs. Mulder at 
the back of the crowd.  The doors opened then and she only had time to wave before she 
and Skinner rode the crest of the wave into CCU.  She walked quickly down the hallway 
she'd come to know too well in the last day and paused just inside the doorway.  

He looked worse, but she knew it was because of the fever that had finally broken.  His 
hair was soaked, laying in matted strands against his oddly pale skin.  Pale except for the 
bright red patches on his cheeks and forehead.  They'd turned him again so that he was 
partly on his left side.  There was a nurse just finishing replacing the bandage on his 
shoulder and she smiled at them as they entered.

Teena Mulder's voice took her by surprise.  "Any changes?"

The nurse smiled again and said, "Temp's down a bit.  The wounds are healing nicely."  
The woman nodded to them as she left.

Scully watched Mrs. Mulder approach her son and stroke his arm. She was touched as the 
woman dampened a cloth and ran it over his face and neck.  There was a touch at her 
shoulder and she looked into her mother's eyes.

"Dana, why don't you sit down?  We only have fifteen minutes."

She could feel her teeth clench at the statement, but merely nodded, moving towards what 
she'd come to think of as 'her' chair.  There was silence then for long minutes, each of 
them lost in their own thoughts.

The minutes passed quickly and before she knew it, the nurse was at the door again.  Her 
mother and Skinner stood immediately, but she looked across the bed at Teena Mulder 
and saw a look of rebellion that matched her own feelings.  She turned to the nurse and 
said, "I need to speak to the doctor in charge of the ward, please.  Mrs. Mulder and I will 
wait."

She merely nodded to Skinner and her mother, both of whom left without question.  She 
took a deep breath and reviewed all the arguments one more time.  Teena Mulder's voice 
broke through her reverie.

"Dana, do you think he can hear us?"

She shifted in her seat uneasily, not really knowing what to say.  "I'm not sure, Mrs. 
Mulder.  I'd like to think he can."

The older woman was staring at her, somewhat measuringly, and it was making her feel 
uncomfortable.

Teena Mulder said, "The night Samantha was taken, we found Fox, lying on the living 
room floor, in shock.  He was completely unresponsive.  His eyes were open but it was 
like he stared right through us.  I went to the hospital with him.  Bill had to stay at the 
house with the police at first.  When he made it to the hospital, we just sat there all night 
and into the next day, talking ... and waiting.  Waiting for word on Samantha.  Waiting 
for Fox to come back to us."

Scully was fascinated.  In all the years she and Mulder had been partners, they'd never 
shared such intimate details.  As if they were to do so, they'd be crossing some line that 
would somehow change their relationship or threaten their partnership.  He'd told her 
about Sam's abduction, but only in the most abstract means possible.  And while she'd 
known of the impact on his life, on his very being, she'd always wondered about the 
details.

She nodded in understanding, waiting for Mrs. Mulder to continue.  Wondering just what 
had happened the night her partner's life changed forever.

"It was almost fifteen hours later before Fox finally woke up.  One moment he was 
staring at the ceiling in a daze and the next he started screaming.  He was hysterical, just 
screaming and crying out Samantha's name."  

Hearing it like this, from Mulder's mother, made it seem that much more real. She'd 
imagined how it must have happened.  The impact it must have made on her partner.  But 
this... this was real.  Scully felt the tears well in her eyes and roll down her cheeks.

"They had to sedate him and it was hours until he was calm enough to talk to us.  And it 
was days later that I found out he'd heard every word we'd said.  He told me it helped him 
to find his way back.  That it was like he was lost in the dark and the only thing that gave 
him hope was the sound of our voices."

Scully wiped at the tears on her face and said nothing, knowing that there really wasn't 
anything to say.  

The door opened then, and she was caught by surprise.  Mrs. Mulder's story had 
distracted her so that she'd forgotten all about her impending confrontation.  But then the 
older woman surprised her again by speaking before she herself could.

"Doctor, Ms. Scully and I intend to stay with my son.  You said yourself that he'd 
improved because we were here.  He needs us to be here so he can find his way back to 
us."

While the woman's voice had started out strong, by the time she'd ended, she sounded as 
if she were pleading.  Scully turned to the doctor to add her arguments and found the man 
with his hand raised to cut her off.

"I understand your desire to be with him, ma'am.  However, you have to appreciate that 
his systems have been seriously compromised.  What he needs more than anything is 
time to heal.  His body needs rest and that will happen easiest if he's left alone."

Scully stood straighter and fought the tiredness that sapped her will.  "What you have to 
appreciate, Doctor, is that his body will heal that much faster if his mind has decided it's 
worth the effort.  Give us the chance to reach his mind and I guarantee that his body will 
heal."

It was obvious the man was wavering, so Scully moved in for the kill.  She pointed to the 
thick sheaf of pages in the medical file at the foot of the bed.  "I have been at his side 
through every one of those injuries.  I know my partner, Doctor.  He would want me 
here."  And almost as an afterthought, she said, "And he'd want his mother and friends to 
be with him, as well."

The man seemed to wilt just slightly, but then smiled a bit.  "All right, Mrs. Mulder.  Dr. 
Scully.  I'll allow two people in here at any time.  I'll let the staff know so you can get in 
and out of the ward easily."  The man smiled at them and added, "Your Mulder's a 
fighter.  It seems he fights best when he has family close by."  Then he left before either 
of them could say a word.

She let her breath out explosively and turned to Teena Mulder.  The older woman looked 
as shocked as she felt.  Then the relief won out and they both smiled.

She settled back and gripped Mulder's hand a little tighter.  She ran her other hand up his 
arm, careful to avoid the IV.  Touching him like this, feeling his skin under her fingers, 
calmed her and reinforced the fact that he was still there and would be back by her side in 
time.  She drew a slow breath and closed her eyes, imagining the day when they'd be 
back together, strong and healthy.  Her smile grew at the thought.

Teena Mulder's voice cut through her thoughts.  "Before Samantha was taken, Fox slept 
so deeply it would take me forever to wake him up in the mornings.  After Samantha 
disappeared, he could barely manage to sleep half the night.  He had the most terrible 
dreams."

Scully had known about her partner's sleeping problems for years, of course, and it came 
as no surprise to her that it began with his sister's abduction.

"We didn't know at first.  He never said anything to us.  I understand why, of course, but 
still ... it hurt to know my son was in such pain.  And I couldn't do anything for him."

It was obvious that Teena Mulder was lost in a memory and Scully decided to wait her 
out.  

"Bill and I grew further and further apart.  We argued about everything.  We knew, both 
of us, what we were really upset about.  The accusations became more hurtful.  We 
thought, naively, that we were successful in keeping it from Fox."

The older woman snorted and laughed harshly.

"We were wrong. Bill was the one to find out and he ended up moving out the week after 
it happened.  It was years before he told me about what happened that night, about six or 
seven months after Samantha was taken."

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


May 2, 1974
Thursday, 2:34 a.m.
Martha's Vineyard, Mulder Residence


Bill jerked awake, immediately alert.  He froze, straining his ears to catch the sound 
again.  There.  In the kitchen.  He pushed the sheet and blanket to the side and rolled off 
the couch soundlessly. He padded across the room, pausing part way there when he heard 
it again.  A clink.  Glass.  He was sure of it.  

He reached up to the top of the hutch and pulled down his gun box.  He reached inside 
and gripped the pistol tightly, then moved towards the kitchen.  They wouldn't pull this 
twice.  They'd be sorry they came back to his house.

He moved slowly, making sure of each step, until he was right next to the kitchen 
doorway.  He took a deep breath and then swung around to plant himself directly in the 
entranceway.  

His voice was dangerous, brooking no argument.  "Freeze, asshole.  Make one move and 
I'll blow your god damned head off."  And at the last word he flipped the light switch, 
bathing the room in light.

The sight that met his eyes shocked him more surely than anything else in his life.  His 
son stood frozen, glass of milk in hand, eyes wide with shock and fright.  And in a 
heartbeat, he realized what he'd done, but it was too late.  

The glass of milk fell onto the floor with a crash, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from 
his son to make more than a passing note of it.  Because Fox was shaking, first just 
mildly but then so hard that his entire body moved as if he were suffering a seizure.  

He threw the gun onto a counter in disgust and took a step forward, his voice pleading.  
"Fox, I'm so sorry.  I thought it was ..."  He couldn't finish the thought and he couldn't 
move.  His eyes were still glued on his son and the sight filled him with fear.  

Fox stared through him, obviously not seeing him, lost in his own private hell.  The boy's 
eyes were wide and glazed.  And then Bill was shocked to see the child's pajama pants 
become wet, in front of his eyes.  The small puddle that formed at his son's feet verified 
that the boy had lost all control.

He choked back a sob and took the remaining steps forward, hugging his son tightly.  
And as if it had been a signal, Fox went limp in his arms.  He lifted the boy up, cradling 
him against his chest and almost cried at the sight.  Fox's eyes were still open, staring 
without recognizing what he was seeing.  

Bill hugged the boy tighter and carried him down the hallway to the bathroom.  He closed 
the door and sat down on the side of the bathtub, then loosed one arm long enough to get 
the water running.  He whispered words of encouragement as he pulled off the boy's 
pajamas and slipped his limp body into the water.

"We have to get you warmed up, Fox.  You're cold.  In shock.  I'm so sorry, son.  Please 
wake up.  Please come back to me."

He was stunned at how slight the boy was.  All skin and bones.  Gangly limbs without an 
ounce of fat.  Where had all the baby fat gone?  And when had it happened?  

"Come on, son.  It's Daddy.  Can you hear me, Fox?"

The shaking hadn't stopped.  Hadn't even lessened.  He took several towels off the shelf, 
then pulled the boy into his lap.  He wrapped Fox tightly and rubbed his arms and legs 
vigorously, hoping to bring warmth back into the boy's body.  He picked his son up again 
and carried him into the boy's room.  He knew how critical it was to keep a person in 
shock warm.  He dressed his son quickly in sweats and pulled thick socks onto the child's 
frozen feet.  Then he cradled him once more to his chest.

The boy was so light, he wasn't a burden at all.  It scared him to think Fox had lost so 
much weight without his even knowing it.  Where the hell had he been these last months?  
How could he have missed it?

He walked back to the living room.  Slowly.  Hugging his son tightly to his chest.  Then 
sank down onto the couch.  He pulled the blanket around the boy, tucking it in carefully 
at the chin.  He leaned back and rocked just slightly, praying for things to go back to the 
way they'd been.

"Fox, I'm sorry.  I tried to protect you both.  I swear it.  I never would have let them hurt 
you.  Either of you.  I love both my babies."

He raised a shaking hand to wipe at the tears that rolled down his cheeks and cursed his 
own helplessness.  He had no control over anything.  He'd lost control over his work 
years ago and now it had complete control over him.  And over his family.  He couldn't 
keep any of them safe.  He couldn't even keep his family intact.

He tried to keep his voice even when he said, "It's Daddy, Fox.  Come on, baby, look at 
me.  Please, son.  Can you look at me?"

His throat was so tight, he could hardly get the words out.  Memories flooded him, 
overwhelmed him.  He remembered his boy's first step.  How proud he was when he'd 
learned that Fox spoke his first words.  Little league games and basketball tournaments.  
Bragging about how bright his son was to anyone who'd listen.  He wanted so much for 
both his children.  Most of all, he wanted them to be happy and healthy.  There was still a 
chance for Fox.  He'd do whatever was necessary to keep his boy safe.

"Come on, son.  It's Daddy.  Please look at me, baby.  Can you look at Daddy for me?"

And whether it was because of his words or just a coincidence, Fox shuddered in his arms 
and jerked his head. Bill was sure his son was looking at him and seeing him for the first 
time that night.

"Fox, son, can you talk to me?  Say something."

And the whispered response made him almost collapse in relief.  

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, baby, it's Daddy.  It's okay.  Everything's going to be just fine.  Close your eyes, 
Fox.  Daddy's got you.  You're safe.  I won't let anything hurt you.  I'm here and I'm not 
going anywhere."

The boy's shaking had subsided and there remained only a light shivering.  He ran his 
hand up and down Fox's arms and legs, rubbing him, letting him know he was there.

"It's all right, son. Daddy won't let anything happen to you.  Just go to sleep."

And with the trust of a child who hadn't yet learned the realities of betrayal, Fox fell 
asleep in his arms.  He pulled the blanket tight again and patted the boy's chest lightly.

He whispered into the dark, "I'll be with you, son.  I'll look out for you."

The night was long, but he didn't mind.  It gave him time to reflect about what was 
important.  It had been a long time since he'd been able to think so clearly.  He knew 
what he had to do.  It would be hard, but it was necessary.  He had to keep Fox and Teena 
safe.  It would be easiest if they weren't with him.  He'd distance himself from them.  It 
would be best for them all.

It was a little after six when the room started to lighten with the first rays of the spring 
sun.  Fox hadn't moved for hours.  The boy was clearly exhausted.  Bill lifted him enough 
to slip out from under him and settled him onto the couch.  He smoothed the hair back off 
his forehead and kissed him gently.

"I'll keep you safe, son.  If it's the last thing I do."

He pushed himself up and made his way into the kitchen.  It was still a mess and he didn't 
want Teena to know what had happened.  Not yet, anyway.  There'd be time to explain 
later.  

He mopped up the remains of the milk and glass, as well as the evidence of Fox's 
accident.  He threw the glass away and rinsed out the towel in the sink.  He looked 
through the cabinets under the sink until he found the bleach and mopped the floor 
quickly.  The smell burned his eyes, but seemed to bring a clarity that had been long 
missing.  The challenge would be in convincing Teena.  With the way things had been 
going lately, it probably wouldn't be all that hard.

He ran the rag under the water again and put the bleach back where it belonged.  One of 
the other cabinets had opened just a bit and he moved to shut it.  His fingers lingered 
there a moment and he opened the door wide.  Reached in and pulled out the bottle.  He 
wasn't a man who drank much except for social situations.  This particular bottle had 
been under the cupboards since the last party they'd had, more than a year ago.  But it 
looked awfully inviting right now.

He opened the top, twisting it slowly, and stared at the half empty bottle of Vodka.  His 
fingers trembled and then he lifted the bottle to take a long drink.  It burned his throat on 
the way down and left him coughing.  But then there was a warmth that remained and a 
feeling of strength that he'd been missing for a long time.  He took another long drink and 
wiped at his mouth with the back of a now steady hand.  

He put the bottle back in the cupboard and stood straight.  He still had to clean up the 
bathroom before Teena woke up.  He headed to the living room and paused at the 
doorway, catching sight of the gun, still lying on the kitchen counter.  His stomach 
twisted at the sight. He picked it up and brought it into the dining room, replacing it in its 
box, placing it high above the shelves.  He'd make sure his son would have no need for 
such things.  

He stopped by the couch and looked down at his son, face lit now by a ray of light that 
stretched across the floor and up the couch.  Fox looked so young.  So very innocent.  He 
swallowed hard, knowing it was his job to keep his son innocent.  Keep him safe.  He 
reached down and touched Fox's head, running his fingers lightly over the silky hair.

Then he went into the bathroom and gathered the soiled pajamas.  Rounded up the still 
damp towels from Fox's bedroom.  He brought all of it into the kitchen and placed it in a 
bundle.  He knew what he had to do now.  It would be all right.  They'd all be okay.  He 
brought it all down to the basement and put the bundle in the wash machine.  Maybe it 
wouldn't be necessary to tell Teena at all.  It would be better if she never heard the details 
at all.  And maybe ... maybe Fox wouldn't remember.

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


Present Day, Hour 19 of the Wait
Sunday, 5:54 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Scully could almost imagine it happening.  And for the first time since she'd known her 
partner and understood something about his past, she almost felt sorry for his father.  
She'd never thought it possible before, but now ...

Teena Mulder was hunched over, arms wrapped around her chest. She seemed so alone.  
Devastated again by the retelling of the story. "He left us.  I believe he truly thought it 
was the best thing for us.  He was wrong."

Scully couldn't speak.  Couldn't respond.  She couldn't begin to understand the nightmare 
they'd lived through.  Her own childhood had been a happy one, with parents who loved 
her and brothers and a sister who were always there.  Not abducted from under their 
noses, leaving them to have nightmares about it years later.

Teena continued, speaking as if to herself.  "Fox had been having trouble sleeping all 
those months.  He'd spend half the night up, reading or watching television.  When Bill 
moved out to the couch, Fox knew all about it.  We thought we were so smart."

The older woman laughed harshly and shook her head.  Gazed at the wall above Mulder's 
head, as if she could see through it.  "Fox was lost when Bill left.  I think... I think he 
thought it was his fault.  And nothing we ever told him could convince him otherwise.  
But we tried."

Scully nodded to herself, knowing well the guilt her partner carried with him.

"Bill knew Fox took the separation hard and, although I didn't know about that night until 
much later, Bill did.  He was determined to get Fox help.  He found a child psychologist 
in Boston.  He brought Fox there that summer, right after school was out.  He rented an 
apartment and brought Fox several days a week."

Scully was surprised by this news.  Her partner had always scoffed at therapists of almost 
any kind, despite the fact that he'd gotten degrees in psychology.  His mother was smiling 
now, and she couldn't help thinking the story would somehow have a happy ending.

"I think it helped.  Fox came back to me after that summer much happier.  I could almost 
pretend that nothing had changed.  That everything was all right.  He played basketball 
and baseball in school.  He seemed to be okay with the divorce.  Not happy, of course, 
but at least he seemed to handle it all right.  He understood it.  Bill stayed close and had 
Fox over every weekend and most of the summer.  Fox seemed to thrive through school."

Teena's mood had lightened.  "He was a good boy.  And he grew into such a handsome 
young man.  He was always so smart.  And funny.  Everyone always liked him."

Scully was surprised when Mulder's mother turned towards her and caught her gaze.  

"Ms. Scully, I wish you had known him then.  Before the Academy.  Before he got 
involved in the X-Files.  I know you would have liked him then."

And for the first time, she felt the urge to speak.  "I'm sure I would have, Mrs. Mulder."  
And after only a brief pause, she reminded the woman of something.  "As I do now."

The older woman seemed taken aback but recovered well.  "I didn't mean it that way.  
And I know you do.  You've been a good friend to my son.  I'm happy he found you."

Scully relaxed a little and nodded.  "And he's been a good friend to me, too, Mrs. 
Mulder."

"I know that."

There was silence again for a little while and then Mrs. Mulder spoke again.

"Bill and I were so proud when Fox went to Princeton to study psychology.  And when 
he was accepted to the doctoral program at Oxford ..."  The woman's voice became 
choked.  "You should have seen us, celebrating like it was old times."  Teena laughed a 
little, light and airy.  "We all went out to dinner, all three of us.  And it was so wonderful.  
It was almost like ... like we were a family again."

She smiled at the older woman, letting her know she understood.  They sat in comfortable 
silence then for long minutes.  She traced Mulder's fingers with her own and thought 
about everything his mother had told her.  She knew something now that she'd never 
understood before.  That his parents loved him and they'd done the best they could.  That 
they were human and made mistakes.  That they'd made plenty with their son, but that 
they'd tried to protect him as best they could.

But there was a little kernel of doubt.  A spark of frustration that couldn't be avoided.  
What she'd learned over the last several hours hadn't explained what she'd seen with her 
own eyes.  The tension between Mulder and his father.  The evasiveness of his mother 
when it came to the subject of Samantha's disappearance.  She had to know how it came 
about.  

"Mrs. Mulder?"

The older woman sighed and turned towards her, a small smile making Scully feel guilty 
at what she knew she was about to ask.  

"Hmmm?"

She swallowed hard and sat straighter, her fingers unconsciously tightening around her 
partner's hand.  "Mrs. Mulder, what happened?  What happened between Mulder and his 
father?"  She stumbled over the words a bit, aware that they weren't very clear, but 
knowing from the woman's expression that Teena understood exactly what she was 
asking.

The older woman looked as if she'd been slapped.  It was understandable, of course.  
Scully had asked the question out of the blue.  She watched Teena sit back in the chair 
and straighten, much as she herself had done not a minute before.  Then it was as if a 
mask fell into place so that Scully could read nothing from the older woman's expression.

Teena Mulder's voice was initially cold.  Defensive.  "I don't see how that's pertinent, Ms. 
Scully."

Scully bit her lip for a moment, then decided she had to pursue it further.  "I saw Mulder 
right after his father was murdered.  He was devastated.  I could see how much he loved 
his father, Mrs. Mulder.  But I also know that something had happened at some point to 
cause them to drift apart."  

She left it there, hoping that Teena Mulder would relent.  She practically held her breath, 
then exhaled loudly as she saw the older woman nod.  Teena's shoulders slumped a bit 
and Scully knew an explanation was finally coming.

"It started when Fox decided to join the Bureau, and only got worse after that.  Bill tried 
to forbid him to join."  Teena laughed harshly and Scully could just imagine anyone 
trying to forbid Mulder at any age to do something he'd set his mind on.  "Bill hated the 
idea.  He was absolutely furious at the thought that Fox would throw his future away.  
Those were Bill's words."  Teena Mulder looked so sad that Scully began to regret 
bringing the subject up.

"We were just so surprised, you see.  Fox had already accepted a faculty position at 
Harvard.  We were so proud.  I hadn't seen Bill so happy in years.  Then Fox attended a 
conference in Vienna.  Someone from the Bureau was there and saw him speak.  They 
started pursuing him, then.  We didn't know about it at first.  In fact, Fox never even told 
us that he being recruited until he'd already turned down Harvard."

Scully understood how disappointing it must have been, but even more, could see just 
how terrified Bill Mulder must have been at the news.  The man must have known that if 
his son joined the Bureau, the chances were high that his own history would be at risk.  
That his son might find out that his father was involved in his sister's abduction.  Teena 
never confirmed it directly, but it was clear to Scully what the real reason was for the 
break between father and son.

"Bill became crazy.  He screamed at Fox and cursed him.  It was horrible.  In all the years 
I'd known him, I'd never seen him like that.  He said that if Fox joined the Bureau, it 
would be the end of their relationship.  That Fox could forget about ever coming back 
home."

The woman was crying softly now, obviously hurting at the memory.  Scully didn't know 
what to do or say, so merely sat still.

"I didn't know what to do or say.  Fox was devastated.  He'd always looked up to his 
father.  Wanted his approval.  And then this."

Teena looked at her beseechingly.  "All Fox ever wanted was for Bill to be proud of 
him."

Scully nodded in understanding.  It was the same thing she'd wanted from her own father.  
She understood better than Teena Mulder might know.

The woman sniffed and wiped at her eyes then reached out for her son's limp hand once 
more.  "I drove Fox down to Quantico.  Bill refused to even say goodbye to him. Fox was 
so confused and hurt.  I couldn't explain his father's reaction because I didn't completely 
understand it myself."

Teena leaned forward in her chair.  "All I ever wanted was for Fox to be happy."

Scully nodded, knowing that her partner's mother was sincere.  Still, both his mother and 
father had much to answer for.  She tried to determine whether to push further or not, and 
finally decided that Mulder deserved to know the truth.  She'd like to be able to tell him 
when he woke up.  "Mrs. Mulder, a couple years ago, when Mulder and I came to your 
house.  You exchanged words.  You became angry with him."  She could see the other 
woman was becoming angry with her now, but continued on in spite of it.  "He felt that 
you knew things that you weren't telling him.  That you even might have known 
something about ... about the night Samantha was taken."

The woman launched out of her seat, obviously furious.  "You don't know what you're 
talking about, Ms. Scully.  Because of that, I'll forgive you for bringing it up, but I will 
not talk about this.  Not to you.  Not to him.  No matter how much I love him ..."  Mrs. 
Mulder's voice broke at the words.

Scully was confused.  Torn between the desire to push further and the need to establish 
peace once again.  But before she could say anything to bridge the new chasm between 
them, an alarm sounded loudly in the room.  

Both women froze at the sound.  Scully searched the various indicators frantically, trying 
to understand what was happening.  A doctor and several nurses rushed into the room, 
and before she even knew it, she and Mrs. Mulder had been pushed into the hallway once 
more.  Scully tried to swallow past the dryness in her throat, and willed her knees to stop 
shaking. What the hell just happened?

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

End Part 9 of ?

*******************************************
Ascent to Hell - Part 10 of ? (10/?)
by Kronos (kronos1@adelphia.net)
Rating:  NC-17
*******************************************


Present Day, Hour 20 of the Wait
Sunday, 6:02 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Skinner pushed off the wall of the waiting room and resumed his pacing.  He was filled 
with a nervous energy and he felt the need to move.  He walked over to the glass doors 
leading to the CCU, as he had so many times in the past half hour or so.  It was the same 
thing, over and over.  Walk to the doors, look down the hallway, head back to the waiting 
room.  Either flop in a chair for a couple minutes or watch television.  Try to avoid the 
patient looks Mrs. Scully sent his way.  Then do the whole thing over again.

But this time was different.  This time he saw nurses running.  This time he saw a doctor 
pushing himself into a room halfway down the hall.  Right where Mulder's room was.  He 
froze in place, unable suddenly to breathe.  Unable to do anything but stare in horror and 
fear.  But when Scully and Teena Mulder almost staggered out into the hallway, both of 
them appearing to be in shock, he spurred to action.

He almost threw himself at the doors, but couldn't open them.  His hands were splayed on 
the glass and he fought the urge to pound his fists through it.  A nurse had Scully and 
Mrs. Mulder by the arms and was pulling them down the hallway towards him.  He could 
see Scully fighting the woman, not with rancor or anger, but with desperation.  He 
stepped back when they were a couple yards off and didn't even wait for the doors to 
fully slide open before speaking.

"What happened?  What's wrong?"

He wanted to grab Scully and shake her out of her stupor, but turned to Teena Mulder 
instead.  Impatience made his voice harsh.

"What's going on?"

Teena jerked at his words and he immediately stepped back, both literally and 
figuratively.  The poor woman looked on the verge of a nervous breakdown.  He took a 
deep breath and then felt a touch at his arm.  Mrs. Scully was there, pushing herself 
around him.  Margaret approached Scully and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"Dana, let's go into the waiting room and then you and Teena can tell us what happened, 
okay?"

Skinner took Mrs. Scully's lead and reached a hand out to Mrs. Mulder.  He swallowed 
hard and bit his lip.  Just a little patience.  He could wait for a minute, if he had to.

They reached the waiting room and went to the corner that had become theirs.  Scully and 
Teena sat down opposite each other, but he realized that neither looked at the other.  They 
both stared off into different directions, as if intentionally avoiding eye contact.  He 
turned his gaze to Mrs. Scully, who now sat next to Teena.  She was looking at him and 
seemed to nod.  He took a seat next to Scully and touched her arm to get her attention.

"Scully, what happened?  Is Mulder all right?"

He was relieved when she turned to him.  Almost listlessly she said, "His blood pressure 
went off the charts.  Heart rate shot up.  Respiration was affected."

He was appalled, not understanding how this had happened.  He thought Mulder was on 
the way back.  This came as a complete shock.  He shook his head, not knowing what to 
say.  Margaret Scully solved the problem for him by breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"How did it happen, Dana?  Why?"

Scully dropped her head, seeming reluctant to answer.  She was saved from doing so by 
the arrival of the on-shift doctor.  The man strode into the waiting room and planted 
himself in front of them.  The man did not look pleased.  Both his body language and 
words demonstrated just how frustrated he was.  Skinner moved closer to Scully to 
provide a little moral support.  He could see that Mrs. Scully had done the same with 
Mrs. Mulder, who sat hunched in the chair across the way.  At least they were presenting 
the appearance of a unified front.

The doctor's eyes focused first on Scully, then turned to Teena Mulder.  His voice was 
hard and left no room for argument.  "Ms. Scully, Mrs. Mulder, I'm not sure what you 
think you were doing, but if you wanted a response from Agent Mulder, you sure got one.  
Unfortunately, it's not the kind of response that does a patient any good."

Skinner saw Mrs. Mulder bend forward over her knees, hands cupping her face.  He felt 
Scully shiver beside him, then saw her wrap her arms around herself tightly.  He was 
almost afraid of what might come next.  If the doctor refused them entry, he knew it 
would be a disaster for all sides.  Scully at the least had to be there when Mulder woke.  
If Mulder were to wake.

The doctor must have recognized the impact his tone had on the ladies.  The man's next 
words were spoken in a much calmer voice, but his frustration and residual anger was 
still clear.  "I'll remind you that Agent Mulder is just now starting to exhibit brain 
function.  We still don't know whether there might be any lasting neurological damage, 
even if he does recover physically.  His physical condition remains critical and 
deterioration could occur at any time.  His state is still extremely precarious."

The last words were emphatic.  The man took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling 
for a few seconds before continuing.  Perhaps trying to collect his thoughts and calm 
himself.  When he looked back at them, Skinner could see that the anger seemed to have 
melted away.  "Agent Mulder has managed to hang on this long.  He seems to have 
turned a corner.  But I would be completely irresponsible if I were to suggest that his 
recovery is in any way assured.  I can not stress this enough."

Skinner looked at Scully again, wanting more than ever before to wrap an arm around her 
lightly shaking shoulders.  Margaret had not felt so inhibited and sat close to Teena, 
holding the other woman's hand in between her own.

The doctor sighed lightly and Skinner actually felt a bit sorry for the man.  "It's almost six 
thirty.  We're in the middle of shift change anyway.  Agent Mulder is doing just fine now 
and could use a little rest.  From everything."  The doctor's words were quite emphatic. 
"You can not upset him again.  Not with your words and not with your tone."

Skinner finally broke down and placed a hand on Scully's arm, whether to restrain her or 
reassure her, even he wasn't sure.  

The doctor glanced at his watch before continuing.  "Agent Mulder was first brought to 
us about twenty-three hours ago.  It's been almost twenty hours since he came out of 
surgery.  He's holding his own.  Starting to wake up and become more aware.  This is a 
good thing."  

Skinner could tell the words were now being offered to reassure them all and the doctor 
was speaking in a conciliatory tone.  

"Agent Mulder's responding well to the antibiotics and I believe he's getting stronger with 
every minute.  Despite the trauma he has suffered, I have great hope that he will awaken 
from the coma with minimal, if any, impact.  But ..."  The man stared at Scully and Teena 
Mulder, one after the other, before turning his gaze to Skinner.  "He can NOT be 
distressed as he just was.  If any of you are going to have arguments or fling accusations 
around, do it outside of his hearing.  Do you understand?"

Skinner was looking at Teena Mulder, but felt Scully nod in agreement.  Mulder's mother 
hadn't moved in the last minute.  Not since she'd covered her face with her hands.  But he 
was reassured then to see her nod as well.  The older woman dropped her hands and he 
was shocked by her expression of despair and the tears that streaked her face.  He hadn't 
even realized she'd been crying.  

This time spent waiting to see whether Mulder would live or die had been enlightening in 
more ways than he could count.  He'd seen a side to both his agents that he'd never known 
existed.  Margaret Scully had been a steadying influence on them all, and Teena Mulder 
had proved to him that regardless of the choices she might have made to cover up her 
own and her husband's activities, she did love her son.  

Skinner's throat tightened and his eyes clouded. He understood a bit more how tragic 
Mulder's childhood had been.  He was filled with admiration for the way the younger 
man had continued on, despite the hardships and roadblocks of his youth.  And despite 
the fact that his parents might have contributed, either knowingly or unknowingly to that 
tragedy, they did try to make it right.

He sighed deeply and realized the doctor was still with them.  The man met Skinner's 
own eyes, as if seeking someone to connect with.  It seemed that the ladies' attention was 
focused elsewhere.

The doctor said, "We need to run some more tests.  He's strong enough to handle a little 
trip and we need another CT scan, so I think it's reasonable that you come back at the 
next visiting period.  That's 8 p.m.  That will give us enough time to do what we need to 
do and it'll give you some time, as well."

Skinner nodded and gripped Scully's arm a bit tighter, hoping to stave off any verbal 
objections she might have, but she surprised him with her continued silence.

The doctor now seemed to be dealing with a guilty conscience at the way he'd chastised 
the ladies.  The man actually appeared contrite.  "Maybe you could take a little rest.  Eat 
something.  Then I'll see you at eight.  I'll be staying until midnight tonight.  All right?"

None of the ladies responded, so Skinner took the initiative.  "Thank you, Doctor.  We'll 
see you then.  And perhaps we could discuss the possibility of staying a bit longer than 
the fifteen allotted minutes.  I'm sure you'll agree that Agent Mulder still needs the 
support of his family and friends.  And I'm sure you'll also recognize that any ... 
disagreements or arguments that might have occurred before were unusual and will 
definitely not occur again."

He figured it was worth broaching the subject now, since he knew that Scully would do it 
sooner or later.  He could tell the doctor was eyeing both Scully and Teena Mulder, 
obviously assessing the likelihood of their upsetting his patient in the future.  The man 
merely said, "We'll discuss it,"  then turned on his heel and left without another word.  It 
was not at all clear whether they'd get visiting rights back or not.

Skinner could almost feel the tension leaking from the room.  He saw Margaret Scully 
lean closer to Teena and say something.  It was so soft that he couldn't hear what she 
said, but it must have been something kind, because Mulder's mother smiled a little.  
Then Margaret handed the older woman a tissue and Teena turned and thanked her, still 
sniffing quietly.

He sighed again and leaned forward so he could see Scully's face.  She seemed 
devastated and it concerned him greatly.  "Scully, are you all right?"

Her eyes were filled with unshed tears when she finally turned towards him.  Her voice 
was rough and he could tell she was fighting her own internal battle.  "I can't believe I did 
that, sir.  It was my fault.  I can't believe I did that."

His curiosity got the best of him and he asked softly, so only Scully could hear, "What 
exactly did you do?"

She seemed to be in something near shock and it actually scared him.  Her shoulders 
were slumped, what was left of her make-up was smeared, her hair lay limply and tangled 
against her head, and there were dark smudges under her eyes -- all sure signs of the 
exhaustion that had been wearing at them all for hours now.  

She sniffed slightly before answering and finally met his eyes.  "I basically called her a 
liar.  I accused her of knowing about Samantha and keeping it from Mulder."

Scully looked completely demoralized.  It actually hurt him to see her so wounded.  He 
made a command decision and stood abruptly, drawing all their eyes towards him.  
"Ladies, I think this is the perfect opportunity for a little break."  He turned to his agent 
first and said, "Scully, your hotel's not too far away.  I think you should go there, take a 
shower, change clothes, get something to eat.  In fact, I think I'll make it an order."

She'd started shaking her head after his first sentence, but he plowed on, before she could 
say anything, "And maybe your mother could go with you.  Both of you could use a short 
rest."

He turned his sights to Teena Mulder then. "And Mrs. Mulder?  I think you could use a 
break, also.  I'm going to have my secretary arrange for transportation and lodging for 
you close by."  Once again, he spoke quickly, looking at no one in particular.  "I'm going 
to stay here and I'll call you if there's any change at all in the next hour or so.  Then you 
can all be back here by eight to see Mulder."

He started walking away from them before anyone could argue and managed to make it 
outside without being stopped.  He stood in the little garden and enjoyed the peace and 
quiet for a good thirty seconds before reaching for his cell phone.  He hit speed dial and 
spoke with Kimberly for a few minutes, making the necessary arrangements.  It felt good 
to give orders and have them obeyed.  There hadn't been much opportunity lately, and it 
was reassuring somehow.  

After ending the connection, he turned to enter the hospital and was surprised to see 
Margaret Scully standing patiently by the door, obviously waiting for him to finish his 
conversation.  He walked over to her and asked, "Is everything all right?"  All he could 
think was that something had happened to Mulder in the few minutes he'd been outside.

The woman smiled and raised a hand.  "Everything's fine, Mr. Skinner.  I'm taking Dana 
back to her hotel.  I just wanted to find out what the arrangements were for Teena.  If 
she's close to us, we could drive together."

He sighed in relief and shook his head.  "Actually, I've arranged for her to stay just down 
the street, at the Hampton Inn.  You could drop her off if you like, but it's not necessary.  
We can have a cab take her.  I don't think it's a good idea for her to drive just now."

He realized how odd it was that he had no concerns about Scully or her mother driving.  
Somehow, Teena Mulder just seemed more ... fragile to him.  He was so distracted at the 
thought that he almost missed Margaret Scully's words when she spoke again.

"I understand, Mr. Skinner.  But we'll be happy to drop her at the hotel.  It's no problem.  
And we'll pick her up on the way back."

The woman smiled and started back for the door.  When she was partly through she 
paused, then turned back towards him.  "I don't think I've ever thanked you for taking 
care of my kids, Mr. Skinner.  I appreciate it more than you could know."  And then she 
walked out.

Her words reinforced what he'd begun to understand and appreciate the night before -- 
that Margaret Scully thought of Fox Mulder as one of her own.  He smiled at the 
knowledge and headed to a bench.  He sat down slowly, his legs trembling slightly, the 
exhaustion taking its toll.  He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, then 
scrubbed his face with his hands.  His head pounded and felt so heavy that it was a 
struggle keeping it upright and straight on his neck.  His left eye started twitching in an 
uneven cadence.  It made him feel completely out of control.  He closed both eyes tightly, 
wishing that he could get away for a rest, as well, just for a little while.

He was tired like he'd been only a few times in his life.  All night forays into the bush in 
'Nam.  Cramming for final exams in college while still travelling to wrestling 
competitions.  The DC Murders case.  Times that were stressful for completely different 
reasons, some in innocence, some in blood.  But all these times drained him of energy 
and left him feeling like a shell, waiting to be filled once again with the desire to go on.

This time, he was drained by more than just exhaustion and a heavy heart.  He was 
weighed down by the knowledge that as much as he might want to help Mulder and 
Scully, they were no longer his agents.  He'd allowed it to happen, even though he'd 
rationalized that his hands were tied.  That he had to support the decision to remove them 
from the X-Files in order to be of help to them later on.  It was a crock.  He had to help 
them somehow.  He had to take a stand or it would eat away at him as surely as if it were 
a cancer.  

He leaned into his hands and clenched his eyes even more tightly shut.  He hated what 
he'd become.  A pencil pushing bureaucrat who ordered others to do the dirty work.  A 
coward who'd allowed his integrity to be compromised.  He thanked God that his own 
parents were no longer alive to see what he'd become and angrily sniffed away the 
evidence that he'd been upset.  He scrubbed at his eyes and looked around the little haven 
to see if anyone had noticed him.  He was alone.

He leaned back and took a deep breath, trying to clear his head and his lungs.  He had to 
hold it together for another few hours.  At least until Mulder woke up.  Until they figured 
out just who else might be involved in little Christian's abduction.  Until he could leave 
with a clear conscience.  It wasn't his case and by rights, he shouldn't be involved.  But 
there were some things a man did because he had to.  This was one of them.

He stood up and walked to the right to lean against a tree.  There was a little brook that 
ran past only a couple feet away.  There was a fountain that fed the brook, and the water 
sounds were soothing.  He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, thinking how nice 
it would be to have nothing more to occupy his mind than bubbling brooks and spouting 
fountains.  But it was impossible.  His thoughts turned back, inevitably, to the DC 
Murders case.  He thought about where he'd last ended the story and remembered what 
happened after he met up with Doug again after he left Quantico.

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


September 9, 1986
Tuesday, 11:52 a.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.


Walter jogged up the stairs, anxious to get to the war room before the noon meeting 
started.  He'd hoped to touch base with Doug first, but there'd been an accident on the 
interstate.  He'd been forced onto back roads, along with hundreds of other displaced 
motorists.  He didn't think much else could go amiss this morning.  He was wrong.

He'd just passed by SAC Keenan's door, not even paying attention to whether the man 
was in his office or not, when he heard his name called out.  He stopped dead in his 
tracks, a little shiver of dread running down his spine.  He turned and headed back down 
the hall, pausing in front of Keenan's open door.

"Yes, sir?"

"Skinner, get your butt in here."

He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat and felt a little drop of sweat at his 
hairline.  He licked his lips and entered the lion's den, hoping like hell that the lion wasn't 
particularly hungry just now.  He snapped to attention and waited for enlightenment.

The silence stretched for an uncomfortable minute.  More sweat gathered between his 
shoulder blades.  He wasn't sure what he'd done, but it must have been a doozy, whatever 
it was.  He tried to remind himself that Keenan appreciated patience and raised a hand to 
wipe away the sweat at his brow.  

He hazarded a glance to the left to see what Keenan was doing and discovered the man 
was staring at him.  Like the proverbial bug under the microscope.  His curiosity turned 
to alarm.  "Sir?  What's wrong?"

SAC Keenan shifted back in his chair, moving for the first time since Walter had entered.  
"Walter, perhaps you can explain to me why I see Doug roaming these hallways hour in 
and hour out, but I don't seem to ever see you around at all?"

Walter felt relief then, understanding that all Keenan wanted was an explanation.  He 
opened his mouth, prepared to explain what he'd been doing, when Keenan continued.

"You see, Walter, it's the job of the ASACs to manage every aspect of the case.  To 
assign manpower.  To initiate new courses of investigation.  To coordinate with the SAC, 
not just daily, but hourly, if necessary, so that the SAC can give informed direction to his 
ASACs and, most importantly, so that the SAC knows what the hell is going on."  

The older man's voice continued climbing until he was essentially yelling by the end of 
the last sentence.  It was finally clear to Walter then that Keenan didn't really expect any 
kind of explanation at all.  In fact, despite initial appearances, this was most definitely a 
one way conversation.

Keenan continued his lecturing, quite loudly.  "I expect to see both my ASACs in these 
halls every day.  If there's a compelling reason to be gone for days at a time, I expect 
them to discuss it with me first."

Walter locked his knees, determined not to let this man see him shake.  When Keenan 
spoke next, his voice was much calmer.

"Now, Walter, I've spoken with Doug and he says you've been spending a lot of time 
down at Quantico consulting with profilers there.  Funny thing, though, it seems Bill 
Patterson doesn't know anything about it.  He said you haven't spoken to him since early 
last week."

And this time, Walter thought maybe there was a question being asked.  He paused for a 
moment to see if Keenan were going to continue yelling at him, then decided it was safe 
to speak.  He cleared his throat first, almost testing the waters. "Sir, I did consult with 
Chief Patterson but he felt that his people had already tried their hand at the case and that 
they couldn't help any further.  He said they'd need more data before a different profile 
could be developed."  He swallowed and continued, standing straighter.  "So, anyway, I 
took the case to Agent Dean Waring.  He was an instructor at Quantico when I went 
through the Academy.  He's been with the VCS his entire career and knows more about 
the motivation of serious offenders than anyone outside the BSU."

He swallowed again and shifted nervously, wondering whether he'd somehow screwed up 
his career before he'd really gotten a chance to advance it.

Keenan seemed a bit thoughtful when he said, "I know Waring.  He's a good agent.  A 
good man."  The SAC continued to stare at the far wall for a few moments and then 
added, "You could do worse."

Walter breathed a little easier, realizing that it was a concession of sorts.  

Keenan waived to a chair, gaze now focused directly at him.  "Sit your butt down, 
Walter."

Walter's legs felt like rubber when he collapsed into the chair indicated.

"So what did Waring have to say?  Did he make any suggestions worth pursuing?"

Walter considered how much to tell the SAC and finally decided full disclosure was the 
best course of action.  "Do you have some time, sir?  It's not exactly something I can 
explain in just a few minutes."

Keenan nodded slowly, his face expressionless.  "I'm all ears.  Tell me everything."

Walter slipped back in the chair and gripped the arms tightly.  No telling what SAC 
Keenan would think about Fox Mulder's participation.  There was only one way to find 
out, though.

"You see, sir, something happened the first day Doug and I saw Dean.  After Agent 
Waring received the case files, he accidentally left them out and a trainee read them."

Walter was feeling under fire again, not at all happy about the expression on the SAC's 
face.

"This trainee, Fox Mulder, has a doctorate in psychology from Oxford.  Did his 
dissertation on serial killers and their motivations.  No one really knew this kid had 
gotten involved until he woke up screaming bloody murder the next night.  He ended up 
in the infirmary, suffering from shock.  The next morning, Dean spoke with him.  It 
seems this Fox Mulder dreamed about one of the murders.  In explicit detail."

Keenan hadn't changed expression, hadn't spoken a word, so Walter continued with his 
tale.  "This kid dreamt about certain things happening that we hadn't really considered.  
The sexual psychopath angle, for instance.  And he'd also dreamt that the person who'd 
abducted these people was trustworthy in some way so that the victims went with him, 
willingly.  That was something we had hypothesized, but hadn't committed to paper."

Walter shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the clock behind Keenan's chair.  He could just 
imagine Doug in the briefing meeting, wondering where Walter was.  Probably getting 
pissed ... and worried.

He shifted again and cleared his throat.  "Some of the things this kid told Dean suggested 
that he had a unique ... perspective.  And insight."

Keenan nodded.  It was encouraging.  There was no yelling involved, so Walter told him 
the rest.

"Well, anyway, after Margie Connor, I brought her case file to Dean.  He decided to 
present the pertinent details to the class.  He convinced John Malloy to go along with it 
and they did it this morning."

Now came the really hard part.  He had to admit that they were intentionally bringing the 
trainee into the case.  An accidental reading of the case file was one thing.  This was 
something else entirely.  

Keenan interrupted his reverie.  "I'm still listening, Walter.  What else?"

Walter nodded and plunged on.  "Dean was planning on leaving the file for this trainee to 
read again.  He's convinced that Fox can contribute valuable insight."  And after a brief 
pause.  "So am I."  

He waited while the silence grew heavy.  But he was surprised by his SACs relatively 
laid back response.  Walter kept expecting yelling.

The older man shifted a bit, propped his chin on a raised fist.  "What's the impact on this 
trainee?  How's he handling it?"

Walter shifted slightly and ran a nervous hand through his hair.  Then he leaned forward 
and gripped his hands in his lap.  "I'm not completely sure, sir.  I know that the first night 
his dreams were severe enough to land him in the infirmary, but the next day he broke the 
speed record at the obstacle course.  I know that Dean ran into him in the library pretty 
late a night ago, so I guess it's possible, probable even, that his sleep's been affected."

Keenan was staring at him much the way that Dean had done earlier.  The older agent 
seemed to be considering something.  Weighing his thoughts and trying to decide what to 
actually say.

"Walter, I have to admit that I want this case solved, price be damned.  But it never 
occurred to me that the price might involve the well being of an FBI trainee."  The man 
stood up abruptly, and surprised Walter so much that he sat frozen for a few seconds 
before moving himself.  He finally stumbled to his feet just as Keenan started speaking 
again.

"Get off to the meeting and touch base with Doug.  I want to hear from you both this 
afternoon.  Bring the case to Patterson's people again.  Develop parallel profiles.  If you 
need to go to Quantico, just let me know ahead of time.  And Walter?"

He turned towards the SAC, wondering what the man wanted from him.  "Sir?"

"I told you it's the job of the ASACs to manage every aspect of the case.  Well, it's just 
become your personal responsibility to keep a close eye on this trainee.  You've just 
become accountable for his welfare, Walter.  Understand?"

He wasn't sure he did, but had learned one thing quite early in life.  Always say yes and 
then figure out how to make it happen later.  He nodded, saying, "Yes, sir."

"All right, Walter.  Keep me informed."

And just like that, he was dismissed.

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


Present Day, Hour 20 of the Wait
Sunday, 6:47 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Walter pushed himself away from the tree and almost stumbled towards the bench he'd 
started thinking of as his.  When he sank down onto it, he realized that things hadn't 
changed much in all these years.  Even though Mulder wasn't really his responsibility 
right now, he still was.

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

Present Day
Sunday, 6:42 p.m.
Saratoga Hotel, Richmond, Virginia


Scully stood in the empty hotel room and stared at the connecting door that led to a 
stranger's room.  Her mother had gone searching for dinner and she was supposed to take 
a shower and change.  She'd made it inside the room far enough to kick off her shoes, but 
now stood frozen staring at the door that would normally have brought her to her 
partner's side.

Mulder wasn't there.  His things weren't there.  He'd been staying at the Bureau 
conference room.  But, still, it was almost as if his spirit were there.

How many times had she knocked on the connecting door between their rooms and told 
him to hurry up?  How many times had he pounded on hers and asked if she wanted to go 
for a run? Memories of past cases flooded her and she felt her knees weaken.  She 
allowed herself to sink down onto the carpet, eyes still glued to that door, and took a 
shuddering breath.  She wanted him to be there, whole and safe and strong, so very badly.  
She needed him to be whole again.  She could feel the tears coming up on her again and 
she tried to fight them off.  She had to stay strong for just a few hours more.  Just until 
her partner and friend was awake again.  Just until she could tell him what she should 
have told him long ago.

A sob overtook her and she allowed herself to drop her head down on her outstretched 
arm.  She rolled onto her side and pulled her knees up towards her chest.  She let the tears 
come finally as wracking sobs shook her entire body.  She knew she had to pull herself 
together.  She wasn't important.  Her feelings weren't important. Nothing was important.  
Nothing except getting her partner back, safe and sound.

She told herself to stop crying.  Told herself to get up, but she couldn't force herself to 
move.  She was gasping now, hardly able to breathe.  Her nose was clogged and her eyes 
were so puffy she could barely open them.  Her throat was raw and her body still shook 
from the sobs that she couldn't stop.  

She didn't hear the door open and close.  Didn't hear the exclamation of surprise, or the 
shuffle of feet on the carpet.  But she felt the arms that wrapped around her.  Heard the 
soft murmuring in her ear.  

"Shhh.  It'll be all right, baby.  Everything's going to be okay.  Mama's here, sweetie.  
Everything's going to turn out okay."

She didn't know how long she lay there. Her limbs felt almost disconnected, both light 
and cumbersome at the same time.  She started to calm finally, enough so that she could 
at least breathe more easily.  Her eyes were so swollen that it was actually painful to open 
them.  She realized finally that her mother sat on the floor behind her, one arm wrapped 
tightly around her ribs, the other smoothing back the hair from her face.

A flash of embarrassment overtook her and she had an urge to turn away.  To hide herself 
away from her mother or anyone else who would see her this way.  So weak and out of 
control.  But it was exactly that approach to life that had nearly caused a chasm in her 
relationship with her best friend and partner.  She had to stop turning away.  It was time 
to grow up and admit to herself that asking for help wasn't a weakness.

She rolled over and felt herself wrapped tightly in her mother's arms, her head resting on 
her mother's shoulder.  Her voice was hoarse and broken when she finally managed to 
speak.  "Mom, I'm so scared.  I'm so scared."

"I know, baby.  I know you are.  But it'll be all right.  It will.  Fox is strong.  He's getting 
better now.  He's going to be fine."

She shifted slightly so she could look up at her mother.  "I accused his mother of hiding 
information from him. I basically accused her of knowing about Samantha's abduction. I 
did it in front of Mulder, Mom.  How could I have done that?  It was cruel."

Her mother's hands rubbed her back, smoothed her hair off her face.  "But you didn't 
mean for it to be cruel.  You did it because you wanted to help your friend find what he's 
been looking for all these years."

Scully nodded, knowing that she would always be on Mulder's side, even against his own 
mother, if necessary.

"I shouldn't have asked her then. It was wrong of me.  She loves him, Mom.  I'm sure of 
it."

"Yes, I know she does.  But that doesn't mean that she doesn't have a lot to answer for.  
Still, baby, I think your timing probably could have been a bit better."

Scully felt the small smile that touched her lips.  It felt so strange.  So out of place. And it 
faded as she thought again about what she'd done and the ramifications of her actions.  
"I'm afraid he won't forgive me.  I'm afraid I might have screwed up their chances of ever 
making it right between them."  She was surprised when her mother laughed.  

"Sweetheart, Fox isn't stupid.  Neither is his mother.  Whether they ever make amends or 
not is something that they'll have to figure out on their own.  Nothing you say will affect 
that."

Scully sighed and let herself relax finally, willing her muscles to unclench, one by one.  
She was utterly drained.  Hollow now of almost all emotion and feeling.  There was 
nothing left but a spark of determination.  With her mother next to her and an image of 
Mulder held firmly in her mind, she knew that she could do it.  She could hold on for 
however long it would take.  She'd be there for him, helping to make him well.  Whatever 
he needed, now or in the future, she'd make sure he got it.  And she admitted to herself, 
there in the darkening hotel room, that she'd go to the ends of the earth for him.  She'd 
accepted yesterday that she loved him, but it had been an intellectual realization only.  
Now she knew it in every cell of her body and corner of her mind.  

She rolled to her hands and knees, then pushed herself upright.  Her head bounced on her 
neck like one of those dolls you see on the back ledge of tacky automobiles.  Her mother 
was next to her, lending her strength, helping her rise.  She accepted the help thankfully 
and looked directly at her mother for the first time.  She was shocked to discover that her 
mother's face was streaked with dried tears.  She should have known.  Her mother would 
do anything to take away her children's pain.  

Scully attempted a smile and stood straighter, feeling her strength start to return.  "I'm 
fine, Mom.  I'll be fine.  And Mulder will be, too.  I know it."

Her mother smiled and nodded, letting her arms drop slowly.

Scully turned to the bathroom.  "I'm going to take a shower, Mom.  We have to be back at 
the CCU before eight."

She heard her mother's soft words as she closed the bathroom door.  "We'll be there in 
time, Dana.  Don't worry."

But she wasn't worried anymore.  She knew herself better now than she had in years and 
years.  She had a purpose.  She had a direction.  As the water hit her skin, she thought 
only of one thing.  One name that made her whole.  Mulder.

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


Present Day, Hour 20 of the Wait
Sunday, 6:52 p.m.
Mercy Hospital, Richmond, Virginia


Walter shivered a bit, realizing that the temperature was dropping now that the sun was 
setting.  He looked around the little garden area and saw a couple different groups of 
people.  He'd seen them before.  They'd passed by each other over the last day, each 
absorbed in their separate tragedies.  He wondered for a moment how their loved ones 
were doing.

A scuffle to the left caused him to turn and he saw Jerry walking towards him, looking 
like death warmed over.  Skinner slid over to the far right on the bench, leaving plenty of 
room for the younger man to sit.

Jerry looked on the verge of collapse, and it worried Skinner more than he cared to admit.  
But when the other agent nodded hello, Skinner could see the spark of excitement behind 
the weariness.

"AD Skinner, how's Agent Mulder?"

"He's still in critical condition, but he's starting to come out of the coma. There's reason to 
be at least slightly optimistic."

Jerry dropped his shoulders even more and sighed, his face clearly showing a heartfelt 
relief.

Skinner raised his eyebrows.  "Well?"  He knew the team back at the Bureau had been 
working round the clock and was curious as to whether they'd come up with anything yet.  
It wasn't really his place to be involved, but everyone had accepted that he would  be.  
Besides, he was pretty sure about what they'd ultimately find.

"Sir, the team's been divided as you suggested earlier. SAC Landers assigned a task 
group to investigate the list of those men who'd been rejected by the Bureau or had been 
accepted into the Academy but failed or dropped out."

Skinner nodded, encouraging Jerry to go on.  

"Based on the notes that Dana found in Mulder's computer referring to schizophrenia and 
sociopathy, SAC Landers established several different lists for cross-referencing."

Skinner shifted a bit, then nodded again.  He had hypothesized that Carl would follow 
that course of action.  It was the only thing that made sense, once the man had given 
credence to Mulder's request and the reason behind it.

"The SAC requested that the team give each rejected individual one or more of the 
following tags -- psychological disorder-schizophrenia, psychological disorder-
sociopathological tendencies, psychological disorder-other, physical inadequacy, 
personal choice."

Skinner was curious.  "Personal choice?"

Jerry nodded, then shifted on the hard bench in an obvious attempt to get more 
comfortable.  "Yes, sir.  Almost two hundred of the men voluntarily withdrew themselves 
from consideration at some point, so SAC Landers felt that these were not likely suspects.  
Agent Mulder had been adamant about checking on men who had been either 
unacceptable from the start or who had failed, not those who'd withdrawn."

Skinner pushed himself up from the bench and tried to stretch his back.  "All right.  I'll 
buy that.  So that leaves around three hundred suspects."

"Yes, sir.  Three hundred forty-four."

"Still a whole hell of a lot."

"Yes, sir.  But in addition, Agent Mulder had specified an age range that he believed was 
most likely.  He did this the very first time he asked me to check into these suspects.  By 
restricting our list to those men presently under the age of thirty-two, we were able to 
reduce our candidates to two hundred sixty-seven."

Skinner took a few steps away, then turned back to the younger man.  "Go on."

Jerry was now bent over a bit, elbows on knees, hands hanging down between them.  The 
younger man nodded before continuing.  "SAC Landers further prioritized by having us 
look at the last two years only.  This cut the list to one hundred seventy-three.  Of these, 
the team discovered that almost half had been unacceptable or had dropped out due to 
physical problems or lack of physical capabilities.  There were sixty-two men who'd been 
deemed unacceptable because of psychological problems."

Skinner stood with arms crossed over his chest, eyes focused intently on Jerry.  A list of 
sixty suspects was more than manageable.

"Of these, there were twenty-two who had been characterized as sociopathic or having 
substantial sociopathic tendencies."

Skinner propped one foot on the bench and leaned over his knee.  "Any of these live in 
the Richmond area?"

Jerry smiled just a bit.  "There were twelve men who lived within a three hundred mile 
diameter of the city.  Of these, seven of them live close enough to have what would be 
deemed easy access to the Richmond area."

"And what about cross-referencing to Harold Stevens?"

"Our team hasn't found anything yet, sir.  But they're still working on it."

"What about men who were rejected from police agencies other than the Bureau?  Why 
not look at men who'd been rejected from the RPD, for instance?"

Jerry dropped his hands to either side of his legs and laid them flat on the hard bench, 
seeming to flex arms and back simultaneously.  He took a deep breath, then nodded as he 
answered.  "Yes, sir.  SAC Landers put out alerts to PDs up and down the coast, but 
focusing on the Virginia area.  He requested that they put all available manpower on the 
search to see whether there were any likely suspects.  Those lists are being compiled, 
updated, and faxed to the Bureau.  We've got another hundred or so individuals that SAC 
Landers considers to be valid suspects.  From the Richmond area alone, we have fourteen 
possibles."

Skinner thought about it for a second, then stepped away and turned back to Jerry.  "So 
you have a little over twenty primary suspects right now, correct?"

Jerry nodded, then pushed himself upright, one hand on his back, the other running 
through his hair.  "That's right, sir.  The RPD is working with us on background checks 
for our primaries."

Skinner thought of something else.  "Do we have another analyst from ISU working the 
case?"

"Yes, sir.  Laura Jenkins drove down and has been reviewing everything, including 
Mulder's notes.  She's had his computer since early this morning.  She found another set 
of notes and is in the process of working up a revised profile.  We're making progress, 
sir."

Skinner breathed deeply and dropped his head, almost to his chest.  His neck was killing 
him.  When he raised his head to look at Jerry, he felt the headache that had flirted with 
him all night start to creep up on him again.  

"Agent Friedman, what about forensics?"

"Sir, there hasn't been anything yet from the Rossbacher's or from the crime scene at the 
warehouse that has indicated another perp.  They've rushed the autopsy on Stevens. They 
also collected as much as possible from Mulder's clothes in case there's evidence of a 
second assailant. They'll contact me if they find anything."

Jerry looked so despondent that Skinner took pity on him.  He took a step closer and 
gripped the other man's arm for just a moment.  "Something'll turn up, Agent Friedman.  
We have to just keep looking.  Sometimes, it's just a series of small things that only make 
sense when that last piece of data has been added to the pile."

The younger man nodded, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.  "I hope so, sir.  I hope it 
happens soon.  I'm afraid to think of what might happen otherwise."

Skinner knew very well what Jerry meant.  He glanced at his watch and saw he still had 
about a half hour before Scully and the others were likely to show up.  "Come on, Agent 
Friedman.  I'm going to get some dinner.  It looks like you could use something to eat, as 
well."

The younger man hesitated and glanced at his watch.  "Actually, sir, I was going to head 
back to the Bureau.  I really need to touch base with the SAC."

"When did you speak with him last?"

Jerry looked sheepish when he answered.  "Actually, right before I came here.  He asked 
that I deliver his regards and ask after Agent Mulder for him."

"And did he specify when he wanted you back again?"

"Well, not really, sir."

"Good, then it's settled.  You can keep me company."  He turned towards the door and 
smiled to himself when he heard the scuffle behind him.  Jerry had appeared to be on the 
verge of collapse.  At least he could make sure the younger man had one halfway decent 
meal in him before heading back to the Bureau.

It was a quiet trip to the cafeteria and in only minutes, Skinner found himself sitting at a 
table in a far corner of the large room, with Jerry across from him and a plate of meatloaf 
in front of him.  The silence stretched even longer as he buttered his roll and added sugar 
and cream to his coffee.  Jerry seemed to be playing with his vegetables nervously.  The 
younger man took Skinner by surprise by breaking the silence with a hesitant comment.

"Sir, I think I should tell you that there are some members of the team who are ... not 
convinced about this new theory.  They believe Stevens acted alone.  In fact, they think 
this entire line of investigation is a waste of time."

Skinner rested his elbows on the table and picked up his fork.  "It would certainly be the 
easier thing to believe."  He glanced across the table as he stabbed at his meat loaf.  
"What do you think, Agent Friedman?"

The younger man seemed to be confused. He played with his vegetables a bit before 
answering.  "I have to admit that I want it the be over, sir.  I can't help hoping that we'll 
find that Stevens thought this up, planned everything, and executed these kidnappings all 
by himself."

Skinner nodded in understanding.  "But?"

"But ... I guess I have more faith in Agent Mulder's profile and hunches that I originally 
thought.  I'm convinced."  Jerry took a bite and swallowed quickly.  "You're not bothered 
by the fact that they're questioning this, sir?"

Skinner smiled, then shook his head.  "It's only to be expected, Agent.  Besides, you 
wouldn't believe how many times I've been on the disbelieving side where Agent 
Mulder's concerned."

"But not this time, sir?"

Skinner paused, fork raised in front of him.  He felt a shiver run up his spine as a memory 
took him by surprise.  He cleared his throat hastily.  "No, Agent Friedman.  I know he's 
right.  Just like he was thirteen years ago.  Although it took us all a while to realize it.  
Including him."

Jerry took a sip of water and focused on Skinner.  "Sir, I went through the Academy 
about six years after Agent Mulder.  There were a few stories that circulated around then.  
Everyone called him Spooky, sometimes as if it were an insult and sometimes a 
compliment.  I don't understand it.  He's an incredible analyst."

Skinner waited the other man out, knowing a question was imminent.

"What happened, sir?"

"What do mean, Agent Friedman?"

The other man paused, as if considering just how much he really wanted to know.  "I 
know he was considered one of the best analysts in the ISU.  Then he left for the X-Files.  
Ever since I was assigned to this case, I've heard rumors and gossip.  It's hard to believe 
they're talking about the same man I've worked beside."

Skinner just nodded, again waiting silently.  He took a another bite of mashed potatoes, 
wondering how the cooks had managed to make them so incredibly boring.

"Anyway, sir, I guess I'm curious how someone who was the best in his class, the best at 
everything, ended up..."

"The butt of so many jokes?"

Friedman had the grace to blush, even though he hadn't said it himself.  "I guess so, sir."

Skinner picked up his glass of water, staring at it for a moment as if the answers were 
contained within.  He sighed deeply and said, "Even the best sometimes make mistakes, 
Agent Friedman."  He took a slow sip and stared out across the room.  "And sometimes ... 
sometimes, it's just that the rest of us don't realize that what looks like a mistake is just 
genius in disguise."

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


PAST
September 9, 1986
Tuesday, 10:52 a.m.
FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia


Fox walked slowly towards the group of trainees and National Academy participants that 
gathered outside the proving grounds.  He glanced around and lifted his head, enjoying 
the sunshine.  It had been unseasonably hot and the cool breeze that blew across his face 
was a little slice of heaven.  They had a few minutes still before they were supposed to 
start.  He wasn't really looking forward to this exercise.  He felt stretched, out of control, 
exhausted.  He didn't know if he could focus and prayed he wouldn't be selected as a 
primary player today.  He saw Chris and Rob, talking with Hank and Shirley, and walked 
towards them.  Chris saw him and nodded, a frown on his face.  Fox saw the other man's 
gaze sweep over him and he almost stopped in his tracks at the scrutiny.

"Hey, Fox.  How are things?"

Fox sensed the concern behind the question and saw the others turn to look at him.  He 
flushed in embarrassment at the attention and ran a hand through his hair nervously.  He 
cleared his throat and attempted a smile.  "Just fine.  What's up today?  Anyone know?"  
He was pleased that he'd managed to sound calm.

Rob gestured behind them towards the set of makeshift houses.  "Not totally sure.  We 
think it'll either be a hostage scenario or standard bash and grab."

Fox nodded, not really caring at this point.  He just wanted it over with.  Wanted to go to 
bed and stay there for the rest of the week.  Maybe the month.  His musings were cut 
short by the appearance of Instructor Ramey.  Fox felt a surge of relief.  If Ramey were in 
charge, then chances were he himself would be a minor player, since Ramey had been the 
one to put him in charge of the bank robbery.

Fox sighed and let his shoulders drop a bit.  He hadn't realized how tense he was.  He felt 
someone brush against him and saw Shirley looking at him searchingly.  He tried to smile 
to reassure her but knew it fell flat.

Philip Ramey called them all to order then, dispelling any further interaction.  "Today 
we're breaking you into six groups.  Each group will have roughly six members to it.  We 
have six different stations that you'll be circulated through.  Each of you will have an 
opportunity to lead your team at one of these stations."

Fox groaned inwardly and was surprised when Ramey walked over towards him.  
"Trainee Mulder, do you have some problem with what I've outlined?"

Fox felt himself burn with embarrassment, even as he struggled to stand as straight as 
possible. He had no idea he'd made any sound out loud.  "No, sir.  I'm sorry, sir."  He 
swallowed dryly, wishing he'd be delivered from this hell.

"Trainee Mulder, you've just earned the honor of being first up at station one."  The man 
stepped back and turned then, saying, "The rest of you listen up as I give assignments.  I 
want you in your groups as soon as I call out your names."

Fox stood rooted to his spot, feeling the sweat start at his forehead and the back of his 
neck.  Jesus, it wasn't enough that he felt completely wasted, worse than any drunk he'd 
ever been on.  Now he was supposed to lead a team in some sort of hostage rescue 
situation.  He was breathing harder, unaware of the shuffle of bodies as students and 
National Academy students organized themselves into the appropriate groups.

It wasn't until he heard his own name called that he realized there were five others 
standing close by.  Clay, Chris, and Jarrod were there, along with Jimmy and Alison.  A 
nice mix of experienced NA students and trainees.  He swallowed again and nodded to 
them all.  Everyone looked tense.  He wondered idly if he'd missed an important 
instruction or if it was because he'd screwed up already.  They were probably worried 
he'd already given them all a black mark.

Clay swatted him on the arm lightly.  "You playing tonight?"

Fox was filled with confusion at first, his mind still focused on the upcoming exercise.  
"What?"

"Tonight?  Tuesday?  Basketball?"

He finally understood and felt stupid for not realizing it before.  He shook his head 
quickly.  "Doubt it.  I need sleep.  I'll probably turn in early."  He crossed his arms and 
hugged his chest tightly.

The other man laughed.  "You're not that old, boy."

Fox smiled, appreciating the other man's attempt at humor.  He relaxed a bit and tried to 
clear his mind.  

Clay spoke again, this time to Chris.  "What about you, buddy?  You claiming old age, 
too?"

"Not hardly, my friend.  I'll be there, never fear.  No lame excuses from me."

He knew Chris was trying to get him to lighten up and he wanted to oblige.  "Ha ha, old 
man.  Just wait until I'm a hundred percent.  I'll kick your ass."

"Yeah, yeah.  You talk big.  You know what they say about guys who have to resort to 
empty boasting."

Fox smiled more broadly and raised an eyebrow.  "Yeah?  Just what exactly do they 
say?"  He watched Alison out of the corner of his eye.  Despite Chris's talk, he knew the 
other man was a gentlemen.  It was going to be fun watching him get out of this.  There 
was no way the older man would make dirty comments in front of the female trainee.  
Sure enough.  Fox called it right.  Chris glanced at the woman standing across from him 
and turned red.  His mouth was open but no sound emerged.  After several seconds of 
uncomfortable silence, Ali started laughing, then moved to throw an arm around Chris.  
The other men in the group joined in the laughter, enjoying Chris's discomfort.  Fox felt 
freed by the laughter and the camaraderie.  It felt good.  Made him feel secure.

Fox sighed and dropped his arms to his hips, turning for the first time to see who was in 
what group.  He caught Shirley's eye and smiled.  She was standing with Jay and seemed 
to be flirting with the older man.  Fox grinned at her and winked.  They had an 
agreement, after all.  Good friends.  That was it.  Neither of them wanted or needed 
anything more just now.  There were just too many other things to think about.

He saw that some of the other instructors were already giving their briefings and 
wondered who they'd get for the first station.  He knew immediately when he caught 
sight of Agent Ramey heading their way.  He made sure to keep the groan to himself this 
time.  He stood straighter, eyes on the instructor, but sensed his classmates doing the 
same.

"All right.  Here's the drill gentlemen ... and lady."  The instructor nodded his head 
cordially to Alison.  There was what could only be called a feral smile on his face and it 
made Fox extremely nervous.  The man pointed to the warehouse behind the class.  
"We're starting here -- station one.  You'll run through your drill then proceed to that 
corner, Main and 3rd Street, where you'll receive your instructions for station two."

The man turned and waved his arm for them to follow, even while keeping up a running 
commentary.  "Here's the situation.  We've received a call from someone who was 
outside the warehouse. He claims he heard what sounded like gunfire.  The person who 
reported it said he didn't think the warehouse had been used for years.  That it was 
abandoned.  He claims to live nearby and said he was walking his dog.  Said it sounded 
like two or possibly three shots.  The warehouse had been targeted as being part of a drug 
smuggling operation involving multiple countries.  This is where we come in."

They'd reached the side of the warehouse and Fox saw a van with gear and weapons.  
Ramey gestured towards it.  "Get suited up.  You have two minutes."

Fox waited until a space opened and grabbed his gear quickly.  They'd gotten pretty good 
at suiting up fast.  He pulled the vest over his head and cinched the straps tightly.  Pulled 
on a heavy jacket, a helmet and radio.  An agent stood towards the back of the van with 
weapons.  Fox checked out a side arm and rifle, then took stock of those around him.  
Everyone was pretty much ready.  

Ramey stood in front of the warehouse so Fox walked towards him, rifle gripped tightly.  
He knew the others were following him.  He could hear the clinking from behind.  He 
stopped near Ramey and turned to look at the warehouse closely.  

Earlier in the day the sun had been bright and the day clear.  It had been clouding up all 
day and the temperature had dropped.  The sun was completely hidden now and it seemed 
almost as if it were late in the afternoon rather than mid-day.  The wind had picked up 
and the occasional burst of wind caused the sweat on his forehead to cool.  Fox could feel 
his hair plastered to his head, soaked already from the hot helmet.  He resisted the urge to 
try to wipe it away, knowing it was a futile desire.  Instead, he focused his attention 
solely on the building. He was already running scenarios through his head, trying to 
figure out what the situation might be inside.

Ramey's voice disturbed his thoughts and he forced himself to refocus his attention on 
what was happening.  He could practically feel the excitement of the men around him.  
And Ali, of course.  Testosterone and ... whatever the hell it was Ali exuded when she 
was psyched.  He smiled a bit at the thought and realized with an embarrassed start that 
he'd  been looking at her.  She was staring at him, not in challenge but in curiosity.  He 
shook his head slightly and turned back to Ramey.  He didn't need two of those particular 
problems in his life right now.  Although he had to admit they were the perfect kind of 
problems to have.

"I'm going to assign each of you a number.  You will be leader when you get to the 
corresponding station."  The instructor pointed to each in what appeared to be a random 
fashion, but ended with a finger pointed directly at Fox.

"You're number one, Mulder.  Get your team organized.  You have five minutes to 
prepare.  And one minute to ask questions."

Fox nodded and looked at his classmates.  He forced his earlier thoughts to the farthest 
reaches of his mind and considered the task ahead.  He licked his lips and turned to 
Ramey decisively.

"Do we know anything about the warehouse?  What might be in it?  The possible 
layout?"

Ramey shook his head.  "All we know is that it seems to have been unused as a real 
warehouse for several years.  We haven't yet received intelligence on what it used to be."

"What about exits?"

"There's the front door which you can see, and the three sliding doors at the loading areas 
here in front.  Then there's another door around the back."

"Do we know where it leads?"

"Inside?"

Fox grimaced at the other man's joke and was thoughtful for a few seconds.

"Windows?"

"Nothing near the ground."

"Any roof access?"

"We don't know."

"Has there been surveillance on the warehouse in connection with the drug smuggling?"

Ramey seemed to smile a bit, but Fox couldn't be sure.  "Off and on.  Always when one 
of the men being tailed has been inside."

"And are any of those who've been tailed present now, sir?"

"No."

"What kind of support do we have outside?"

"You're a special talk force that makes first entry.  There's a SWAT team waiting for your 
word to advance. Standard weaponry outside."

"Would those inside have been alerted to police presence?"

"Possibly.  There are several black and whites, unmarked cars, and the SWAT van.  
They're supposedly out of sight but it's always possible someone was careless."

"And the teams have approached silently?"

"Yes, and out of view of any windows."

Fox paused, bit his lip slightly.  He was missing something but couldn't think of what.  
He turned to his classmates and lifted an eyebrow.  "Anyone?"  He received only head 
shakes from them.

Ramey said, "Minute's up.  You now have four."  The older man walked away, heading 
towards the van.  Fox knew there were cameras inside, recording the event for later 
review.  He prayed he wouldn't make a total ass of himself.

He surveyed the building again, then looked back to his team.  "Okay, I want Ali, Clay, 
and Jarrod around back.  Jimmy and Chris are with me.  We stay in communication until 
entry and enter on my command.  Keep the radios on A band.  Radio silence once we go 
in."

Everyone nodded.  

"We're entering into a complete unknown here."  The thought grabbed hold of him and 
left him cold.  It was true.  They knew nothing at all about what might or might not be 
waiting for them inside.  It seemed the worst kind of recklessness to be barging in.  He 
glanced over to where Ramey stood by the van and considered asking one more question.  
He knew it would be useless, though.  He'd already spent his minute.  Time to move 
forward.

"Stay smart inside and relay intelligence as soon and often as possible.  Keep it low and 
quiet as long as you can."

He turned to Clay.  "You're in charge of decisions back there.  Keep everyone moving 
forward, making sure there's no opportunity for anyone to get behind you."

Clay nodded and glanced at his partners.  They were both smiling.

Fox turned to Jimmy and Chris. "Same holds true for us.  We'll all meet in the middle, 
hoping there's nothing more exciting inside than dirt and bugs."

They all smiled.

"Any questions?"

Fox nodded and gestured towards the building.  "Just remember, there might be armed 
suspects inside.  We don't know how many.  We don't know if there are rooms inside 
where the suspects might be hiding.  We don't know anything.  Be smart.  Now set your 
radios everyone."

He watched as Clay and his team disappeared around the corner and pulled his radio 
close to his mouth.  "Can you hear me okay?"

Clay's voice sounded out.  "Loud and clear."

"Everyone else check in."

"Alison here."  "Jarrod."  "Chris."  "Jimmy."  

"Okay, how you guys doing back there?"

"We're at the door.  I'm checking the lock."  

Fox and his team had approached the front door while the others were circling the 
building and he'd already checked it over.  Jimmy pulled out a lock pick and knelt down, 
waiting for the word to start working on it.  Fox spoke into the radio again, keeping his 
voice soft and low.  "Open or locked?"

"Locked.  Rusty, but we can open it.  We need about a minute."

Fox nodded to Jimmy.  "Same here.  We're starting.  Keep me informed."

Fox held his breath as Jimmy worked.  After only thirty seconds or so, the other man 
looked up and smiled.

"We're set out front.  How you guys doing?"

"Just about."

Another fifteen or twenty seconds passed before Clay's voice crackled over the radio.  
"We're set."

Fox breathed deeply and nodded.  Gestured for Jimmy to get to the right of the door and 
Chris to the left.  He'd go in first.  "You in position?"

"Yep."

"Okay, we go on three, but keep it quiet as long as you can."

"Yep."

"Everyone turn your sound down as low as you can manage.  Once inside, maintain radio 
silence unless it's an emergency."  He lowered his own sound and said, "One, two, three."  
On two he'd raised the rifle in front of him and on three, Jimmy turned the knob and 
pushed the door inward.

There was no sound whatsoever and the interior was very dark, with little light making its 
way inside from the broken windows up near the second floor.  In the instant he stood 
there, he realized he couldn't see to the back.  There were crates stacked up in the middle 
of the floor, blocking the view.  He moved immediately in and to the right, then used his 
left hand to wave the others in. He saw that there were no rafters or upper floor.  
Nowhere for anyone to hide above them.

There was no movement and no sound.  He panned from right to left then back again and 
was certain there was no one visible.  He whispered, "Chris, go left.  Jimmy, check out 
those crates and sweep the middle.  I'll head right."

He saw two rooms to the left, each with glass fronts.  It would be easy to tell whether 
there was anyone inside.  There were no lights on anywhere.  Dirt and trash on the floor.  
No visible signs that anyone had been here for years.  He knew intellectually that couldn't 
be true, seeing as how this was a testing area, but still, it sure looked damned deserted to 
him.

There were more crates shoved against the right wall.  They were stacked three or four 
high.  It seemed as if they formed walls that cut into the warehouse floor, jutting out 
basically perpendicular from the building's wall.  He kept his eyes riveted to the right, 
knowing that his partners would be taking care of the middle and left.  He moved slowly, 
making sure each foot was solid before picking the next one up and advancing.  He heard 
nothing except his own occasional scuff and the pounding of his heart.

There was a faint crackling at his ear and he paused, breath held.  There was no other 
sound from the radio.  No sound from anywhere.

He came even with the first line of crates and carefully looked around the edge, rifle held 
at the ready.  The crates were stacked up in such a way that he couldn't tell what was 
behind them until he physically moved into the aisle.  It made him more than nervous.  
Once he was sure the first aisle was clear, he started towards the second.  There were 
about four of them and he guessed that one of the team who entered from the rear would 
be approaching from the other side.  

He took a few more steps forward and paused at the end, listening for any movement.  He 
still hadn't seen anyone from the other team and it occurred to him that it was odd.  
Someone from Clay's team should be paralleling his own movements.  He considered 
asking for an update but decided that maintaining silence was probably the best course of 
action.  He swallowed past the dryness in his throat and once again resisted wiping the 
sweat from his forehead.  He had a horrible feeling that something was wrong, but he 
didn't know what it was or how it had happened. 

He leaned against the end of the row of crates and turned his head to the left for the first 
time.  He saw absolutely nothing.  No sign of anyone on his team anywhere.  He heard 
nothing.  He licked his lips and tried to figure out what the hell was going on.  Why he 
had this feeling of impending disaster.  He gripped the rifle more tightly and turned back 
the way he'd come.  

He knew what he was doing broke all sorts of rules.  He could be putting his team in 
danger by not continuing to clear the right side of the warehouse.  By heading back, he 
could be allowing a suspect to get around their perimeter.  Still, he knew it was the right 
thing to do.  He couldn't explain it or even identify exactly what was spurring him on.  
But he knew he was right.

His heart was pounding now and he was having trouble breathing.  The sweat poured into 
his eyes and he had to blink fast in order to clear them.  He shifted his hands minutely on 
the rifle and gripped it tightly.  He moved around the crates and checked the aisle he'd 
just cleared a minute ago.  There was nothing there.  He walked a bit faster and eased 
himself around the first set of crates.  There was nothing there.  He leaned back against 
them and stared across the empty space to the door where they'd entered.  It was still 
open, almost beckoning to him.

He felt like an idiot.  There was no one behind him.  He'd been imagining trouble where 
none existed.  He turned once again to retrace his steps and felt the jab from behind that 
bit into his lower back, despite the vest and heavy coat.  Felt the chill at his throat that 
signaled metal.  There was a pressure on his left hand, preventing him from moving it.

The whisper in his ear sent chills down his spine.  "Don't move, shithead.  You're 
busted."  Something pushed him forward a step, something hard and pointed, even while 
the cold of the metal remained at his throat.  Then there was someone beside him as well, 
grabbing his rifle.  Then his helmet was jerked off, taking away any chance of using his 
radio.

The whisper sounded again in his ear.  "Hands up.  Don't move.  Don't speak."  He was 
shoved against the crates, his face pushed against the rough wood.  Still, there was no 
sound.

Fox closed his eyes, trying to understand what had happened.  There was a man behind 
him and another beside him.  He had no idea where they'd come from.  Fuck!

The man to his side was dressed in black from head to foot. Even his face was covered 
with a black mask.   For the first time in the last ten minutes Fox relaxed.  Why not?  It 
was basically all over.  But then the anger started to build.  He couldn't believe he'd been 
taken like this.  There had to be a trick.  There was no way they could have got him from 
behind.  No fucking way!

He expelled an angry breath and tensed.  His jaw was clenched so hard he thought he 
might crack a molar.  God damn it!  How did this happen?!

He started considering his options, trying to find a way out.  Before he could make any 
decisions, though, the man behind him leaned close.  The whispered voice made Fox 
almost ill.

"Couldn't quite cut it this time, could you, pretty boy?"

Fox went completely still, realizing this man was no longer playing a role.  This was 
someone who seemed to be pissed off at him.  The worst part was that he didn't know 
who it was or why anyone would be angry with him.  

"The little fox got caught.  I'll fucking hang you by your balls this time."

Fox started to shake his head, started to open his mouth to speak, but a hand pushed his 
head hard against the wood of the crate.  There was a crack in the silence, the result of his 
forehead meeting the hard wood with force.  A stabbing pain shot through his head, 
emanating from his forehead and he resisted the urge to throw up.

The man's hand was wrapped around his neck, with long fingers pushing up into his hair, 
forcing him to stay still.  He started to shake when he realized that his other attacker was 
no longer there. It was just this man and him.  A man who seemed to hate him, for some 
reason.

Fox tried to shift but felt the man's entire body against him.  Felt the cold at his neck.  
Then there was a pressure and pain and he couldn't breathe.  Couldn't think at first.  Shit!  
Fuck!  It was a real knife and the bastard cut him.  He whimpered, softly, but was 
punished for it when the man pulled his head back and forced it into the crate again, this 
time both forehead and nose meeting the wood painfully.  He barely acknowledged the 
tears that came to his eyes and clouded his vision.

He knew he was in trouble.  Knew he had to do something.  This wasn't just a training 
exercise any longer.  He allowed his body to go soft as if he'd fainted, forcing the bastard 
to either grab him or let him fall to the floor.  His attacker dropped the knife and gripped 
both his arms.  Fox let his head flop back bonelessly and had to resist a smile when the 
man cursed softly. Evidently an unconscious trainee would be difficult to explain.

He felt himself lowered, not necessarily roughly, but had to avoid a groan when the back 
of his head met the concrete floor.  He heard muttering from above and opened his eyes 
just enough to see through the slits.  His attacker wasn't looking at him.  Perfect.

He placed his hands flat on the floor for support and kicked both legs simultaneously, 
knocking the bastard to the floor with enough force to leave the man stunned.  At the 
same time he yelled as loud as he could, "Head for the exits.  It's an ambush!"  He rolled 
over to his knees, fighting the nausea, and was just pushing himself upright when the 
muzzle of a rifle was pushed under his chin.

Then the man in front of him said, "Bang, you're dead."

Fox allowed himself to drop back to the ground on hands and knees.  He lowered himself 
to his elbows and rested his pounding head on the floor.  Damn, he hurt.  

The man standing over him yelled out, "Everyone report to the back of the warehouse.  I 
want you all there in two minutes."  

Fox dragged his head up and squinted.  He recognized the voice.  The man had removed 
the mask that had covered his face and he was shocked to discover Agent Malloy 
standing over him.  

He managed a confused "Sir?", but the other man had eyes only for his attacker, who Fox 
could hear moving behind him.

Malloy said, "Jack, what the fuck's wrong with you?  You know there's no physical 
attacks on a training exercise.  Are you crazy?  What the hell did you do?"

Fox finally rolled himself to a sitting position and let his aching head rest against the 
crates.  He was starting to understand now.  His attacker had pulled his mask off, as well.  
It was Jack Seabury, the agent who'd been in charge of the bank robbery exercise.  The 
one who'd evidently become the butt of a few jokes after Fox's team won the exercise.

Fox sighed and closed his eyes, wondering idly if this is the way it would always be.  One 
step forward, two back.  Do a good job and someone else thinks you're making them look 
bad.  He tuned out the angry interaction between the two men.  It wasn't his concern, after 
all.

He raised a hand to his forehead and felt the bump there.  Ran a finger under his nose and 
wiped at the small stream of blood.  Then down to his neck and discovered more blood.  
Jesus, he hated the sight of blood.  Especially his own.

He felt a nudge on his boot and looked up.  Malloy was there, looking like a thundercloud 
in human form.  The man had a hand outstretched and Fox reached out, understanding 
now that it was time to go.

It was strange.  His thinking was both clear and muddled.  He didn't think he'd been 
seriously hurt, but it was as if his thoughts were moving at a speed too fast to interpret.  
As if they'd gone off on their own without his express permission.

He found himself standing upright and wondered how that had happened.  Last he knew, 
he'd just reached a hand out.  Then there was an arm around his waist and a hand at his 
arm.  He walked, putting one foot in front of the other, allowing himself to be led.  A part 
of him was amused.  Another bemused.  And then there was the part that was screaming, 
silently.  Unable to understand what was happening.  The time shift happened again and 
he was outside, sitting on the back ledge of the van.  Someone was speaking to him and 
he wondered if it had been going on for a long time.  The words coalesced into something 
with meaning and he felt an urge to reach out and try to grasp them physically.

"Fox, can you hear me?  Do you know where you are?  Come on and answer, now."

He squinted and opened his mouth, fully intending to answer, when his stomach objected.  
He practically threw himself around Malloy and was retching into the grass, his arms and 
legs shaking with the effort to hold him up.  He knew he should be embarrassed.  
Horrified at the undignified picture he was presenting.  But he couldn't summon even an 
ounce of pride.  All he knew was that he was fucking miserable.  He wanted to go to bed.  
Wake up and have it be last week.  Roll the calendar back and be innocent again.  That 
was his last thought before collapsing into a pile of his own vomit and blood.

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

End Part 10 of ?
(Feedback to kronos1@adelphia.net greatly appreciated)