TITLE: "Querant III:  The Lovers"
AUTHOR: Suzanne Bredlau Turgeon
ARCHIVE: As you wish.
SPOILERS: 2:14; bits from 8, Via Negativa; The Gift; continues 
directly from "Querant: The Chariot" with reference to the first 
"Querant" story, "The Hanged Man."
RATING: Ehhhh....PG-13+.
CATEGORY: Angsty drama, or dramatic angst, or dramatic action, 
or angsty action.... well, whatever....
SUMMARY: Doggett comes through his Dark Night of the Soul with 
Scully's able assistance.
FEEDBACK TO: [email protected]
DISCLAIMER: These are, of course, Chris Carter's wonderful 
characters, profiting only the exercise of my own overactive 
imagination.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Done for the pure enjoyment of writing and 
reading.

Title: QUERANT III:  THE LOVERS
by: Suzanne Bredlau Turgeon

Prologue:

The minutes following Special Agent John Doggett's arrival at 
her apartment devolved with frightening rapidity into total 
breakdown. Horrified, Agent Dana Scully watched her partner, 
finally, slam squarely into the paranormal wall of the X-Files.  
Now he was in the peel-down phase as his struggle to navigate 
this otherworldly territory these last few months took an 
unanticipated toll.  

Initially, all Scully could do was hear his confession of 
failure, agonized words triggered by the devastation of seeing a 
young woman die in an unbelievable manner despite his best 
efforts. Then, faced by his wretched tears, all she could do 
was be there for him.  She had helped Mulder through emotional 
trauma, had been helped in turn by him through hers. But with 
John Doggett, it was different. Utterly.  

Realization blasted through her mind that she had filed Doggett 
somewhere into a category between invulnerable and impenetrable.  
His stolid, by-the-book, black-and-white mentality was so 
opposite Mulder's: oak to willow. And then the tornado had 
struck. Obvious the inevitable outcome. So obvious that she 
hadn't seen it coming.

From that reality checkpoint, she shifted automatically into 
triage mode.

Somehow she managed to persuade Doggett up from the floor, where 
his collapse had taken him, and onto the couch before he lapsed 
into complete insensibility.  

"God, I'm so tired...so tired...." he gasped out from the cusp 
between incoherency and unconsciousness.

"You've been constantly on the go without sleep for days," she 
hushed him. "You've been through hell and back. It's okay. You'll 
be okay."  

Kneeling beside him, Scully eased a pillow under his head. Then, 
crouched close, she rendered what aid and comfort she could with 
gentle words and touch, clutching his hand and brushing soothing 
fingers across his forehead and temple.  

With frightening swiftness, he sank into the oblivion of total 
exhaustion.

In that pause, she became aware of her own heaving breath, and, 
unexpectedly, tears on her cheeks. Forcing herself to momentary 
stillness, she wiped at her face while assessing him. Still in 
his overcoat, Doggett was probably as warm as he needed to be 
there in her apartment, though she would get something extra for 
his legs. But the night's extreme event had left him shocky.  
Cautiously, she loosened his tie. She considered removing his 
shoes, but his words over the phone came back to haunt her:  
"Don't let anybody in until I get there." The implication that 
nothing was over took on equally extreme importance. She 
doublechecked to make certain that she had indeed put on her own 
shoes earlier instead of just her slippers. In her heart, Scully 
knew the girl's real killer, whatever Ms. Paddock was, had not 
been apprehended. And there was no way of gauging what that event 
ultimately had unleashed. What might yet come their way.

Silently, Scully rose to quickly check the apartment's door and 
window locks and raise the thermostat a little. Retrieving a 
pillow and the comforter from her bed, she dropped the bedding 
by the couch on the area rug.  The couch throw she slipped over 
her partner's legs. Placing her gun and cell phone on the coffee 
table, she settled onto the cushioning pillow. Wrapping herself 
against a stray winter floor draught, she grimly faced the 
remaining night and her task of providing whatever protection 
was needed for this mentally wounded warrior.    

Sleep was his most important ally.

She intended that he receive it.

I
#
Since taking up vigil at his side, she had not released her hold 
on his hand. If he was not consciously aware of that contact, 
perhaps subconsciously he might sense that he was not alone, 
that she had his back. And that would deepen his rest. It was 
something that she actively prayed for during those solitary 
hours.

As she also prayed for Mulder's return.

Later, in the early morning's first muted light, Dana Scully 
heard rain striking the living room windows. Against that 
background symphony, she listened carefully to the soft 
breathing of the man lying beside her on the couch. She 
monitored him as a doctor and as a partner, and, increasingly, 
as a friend.  

Absently, her thumb strayed across Doggett's knuckles. Her eyes 
followed the gesture, the curve of his hand as it had originally 
fallen to the brushed twill cushion and not moved since except 
involuntarily as she had slipped hers around his. She could not 
help the comparison:  Doggett to Mulder to Doggett....she 
studied the hand, then the carved, linear strength reflected in 
his somnolent features as her eyes wearily shifted focal range.  

For these last months, she had been so self-involved with 
Mulder's disappearance, and with her miraculous pregnancy. She 
was still resistent to the new man on the block, the unwitting 
usurper to Mulder's position at her shoulder. It was 
self-defense on multiple fronts. Not sure whom to trust, whom to 
let in, whom to confide in, except a bit for A.D. Skinner and 
the Lone Gunmen, she had blinded herself to the rest of humanity, 
to anything except what served her survival instincts to protect 
and serve herself, her baby, and to recover her one true 
partner. Everything else had been put on hold, receiving only 
cursory acknowledgment. Even when she might have thought she 
had been accepting Doggett, she knew now she hadn't. Not 
really.  

And now, in his most desperate moment, he had trusted, had 
turned to her.

She would not let him down.

#
Leaning on the couch, she had hardly shifted her position on the 
floor. He, not at all. Sometimes cushioning her head on her 
forearm, she wanted sleep, but it either would not come or she 
would not allow it. Atavisitic awe of the night's peril ate at 
the fringes of her mind despite her scientist's rationalizing.  
It seemed all important to their survival for her to stay on 
guard during that night's remaining hours. Periodically, she 
checked his wrist pulse, listened to his breathing. She had 
seen no sign of REM activity, he was so deep in sleep.

Dawn unfolded into grayness.

Finally, the basic need to go to the bathroom forced her to 
relinquish her post. When she returned, he still had not moved.  
It was a little after 8AM. She picked up her cell phone and 
slipped into the bedroom to change into her jogging outfit.  
Then she made her call. 

"Sir, it's Dana Scully," she said in a low tone when Skinner 
answered. "I'm sorry to bother you on the weekend but I need to 
fill you in on something."

"What is it, Agent?" The concern in the A.D.'s voice 
immediately allayed some of her anxiety.  

"I'm at my apartment. Agent Doggett is here with me. Sir, he's 
had a bad time of it." She explained as briefly as the complex 
situation would permit."I think he'll be okay. But in case 
not, I wanted to give you a heads-up."

"Thank you, Agent Scully. Keep me informed. If you need 
anything, you call."

On returning to the couch, Scully stood for a time looking down 
at Doggett. A hand pressed to the small of her back, she 
stretched backward, eased the stiffness there. Pulling her 
sweater down, she smoothed it over the nascent bulge in her 
abdomen.  Then she resumed her post.

#
The first image came to him as burnished copper. It made no 
sense. Doggett blinked and slowly focused. The cascade of red 
metal flowed and led his gaze back to the immediate foreground 
where it began to resolve the confusion into the inexplicable 
fusion of hand overlapping hand. Then he understood. Sort of.

"Dana?"

His voice emerged as a dry-mouthed croak.

She was instantly awake and lifted her head to look at him.

Even sans make-up, her blue-green eyes at close range were 
stunning. 

Then she was straightening and he understood even more.

"Easy," she said the next instant as, taking stock of his 
surroundings, he started to rise. She let go of his hand to 
place hers on his shoulder. "Just stay put awhile. You don't 
want to move too fast."

"How long -- what time is it?"

She checked her watch. "Twelve-twenty-five, just afternoon.  
You've only been asleep since about four A.M. You're probably 
still in sleep deficit."

"How long have you been here, like this."

"Since then."		

"I -- don't know what to say."

"You don't need to say anything. It was all said when you came 
in."  Slowly she rose.  "I want you to take it easy.  I'm going 
to get you a glass of water.  I'll be right back."

He watched her leave his vision field, then stared straight 
ahead across the room.  The eery feeling of the Universe having 
been put on hold settled in around him, the apartment, the two 
of them.  For awhile, he lay there on the couch and blinked at 
the graininess in his eyes.  Then, as he heard her footsteps 
returning, he realized that very little time had passed.  

She came up to the couch and knelt and he tested himself, found 
that he had no trouble pushing up to a sitting position. But, 
again, her hand was there on his shoulder to restrain, yet 
steady him, just in case. And there was the water glass, being 
passed into his grasp, hands that had been connecting them 
throughout the night and into day now touching as though 
partaking in solemn rite.

Their eyes met as he sipped at the water. In silent communion. 

She placed her hand against his forehead, checking temperature.

"How are you feeling?"

"I -- I'm not sure." He downed the rest of the water.  

She took the glass, setting it aside and seating herself beside 
him. A medical practitioner's eyes studied him in solemn 
concern. "Check in with yourself. I want to know exactly how 
you feel in the best words you can find."

Leaning forearms on his knees, Doggett inventoried himself 
physically and mentally. "Tired. I could use some more sleep."

"Okay."

"Sinuses are plugged."

"Okay."

"Feel like I've been through a rusty double ringer."

She smiled softly, empathetically.

He rubbed his hands over his face, then rested in them. Finally, 
he looked at her.

"I feel -- different."  

Scully angled her head inquisitively.  A finely arched brow rose 
slightly, prompting him.

He thought, then plumbed deep, deeper than he had in a long time, 
maybe than ever before. "It's hard to put into words. But...I 
feel...cleansed. Yeah, cleansed.  Like I got rid of some sort of 
poison in me. Does that make sense?" 

Scully nodded. "You may well have. It's possible some remnant 
of that drug designed for Tipet was still in your system.  
According to the lab report, it certainly had some intriguing 
organic properties that defied analysis. As to how that might 
interact with the body and brain biochemistry, well, there's so 
much we still don't yet know about normal brain function or the 
substances the brain produces and uses. You've been under 
incredible stress. That probably exacerbated the drug-augmented 
effects and maybe tears were the body's way of neutralizing the 
drug or purging it from your system." She paused, her eyes 
searching his. "And, I have no way of assessing what happened 
to you in that cave in Pennsylvania. Maybe there's additional 
after-effect from that."

"Sounds reasonable."

"But?"

"You're the doc here, Agent Scully."

The wise understanding in her eyes gave him a new appreciation 
of the partnership that she and Mulder shared. 

"And the doc prescribes nourishment." She stood. "I'll fix 
some breakfast...well, very late brunch or very early supper."  
Her smile was genuinely warm though her eyes were tired.  "I 
want you to stay here awhile. Doctor's orders.  I'd feel more 
comfortable monitoring you for the next several hours."

Doggett nodded as she picked up her gun and cell phone and 
headed for the kitchen.

"You were expecting trouble, weren't you?" he said.

"After what you said on the phone and when you arrived? Yes.  
Don't you remember?"

"Sort of."

"It's not over," her voice said back from the kitchen.

He thought about that. All his street cop's instincts agreed, 
very quietly but very emphatically, that it was far from over.  
"There was no sign of this Paddock woman, or Braddock, as she's 
calling herself now. She took the girl out into the alley, she 
had to have, and then flat disappeared. There was...just that 
unholy snake, wrapped around the girl."

Scully came back into the room with a tall glass of orange 
juice. "Hold your hands out in front of you."

Doggett glanced up at her, saw the doctor. He extended his arms 
and they both watched rock steady control. She gave him the 
glass. "Bacon, eggs and toast. Wheat okay?"

"Great. Fix it any way you like. I'll eat a horse."

"I like the sound of that. That's a very good sign. Just sit 
back, relax, and take it easy."  

#
With his head laid against the couch back, he sat listening to 
the kitchen sounds. How long had it been since he had heard 
that in just that way?  Why did it seem so clear in his mind?  
He shut his eyes, drifting for a time with a remembrance that 
seemed as sharp and distinct as if he was in that previous time 
-- a time of wife and son, before things went so terribly 
wrong.... From dream state, he jolted upright against the 
piercing moment of loss.

Standing to get away from that lucid agony, he shrugged out of 
his crumpled overcoat and then his jacket, cast them aside over 
the arm of the couch. He was slightly surprised to find his tie 
loosened, but immediately guessed that Scully's fingers had 
taken care of that.  He finished the job and got rid of the tie.  
In shirtsleeves, he checked his service weapon with that sense 
of preparation against a coming danger and then realized that he 
might well find the Colt Commander useless against the kind of 
enemy he had seen.  

And how might this enemy mount the next attack?  And against 
which one of them?  And how did he know this would happen?

Yes, he did feel different.  

Something had changed.

Something inside him had been changed.

Holstering his automatic, Doggett examined his surroundings with 
an inexplicable heightened awareness.  He moved across the room, 
gathering data and a new sense of the woman that was his partner 
-- a partner who had taken all things in her stride and taken 
him in in his hour of need to care for him and help put him back 
together.  He found her an amazing woman.  Mulder was one hell 
of a lucky man to have won her favor.   

Still acutely aware of that sense of inner change, Doggett felt 
something else, another kind of curiousity or an enhanced hunch, 
as though his street sense had stepped up a notch. 

As if drawn like a magnet, his gaze found her desk.  

And there rested the Tarot deck, atop the book that Scully had 
purchased a couple of months ago to aid them in piecing together 
the ephemeral clues of a mystic Gypsy tradition in order to 
solve a strange double murder.  That had been yet another step 
into a whole new realm.  He had become the inquirer then, as he 
came to learn, the "Querant" in Tarot terms, and now it looked 
as if Agent Dana Scully was taking her turn at what the cards 
might reveal.

He picked up the book, opening it to the pages separated by a 
folded sheet of paper. On the paper, Scully had diagrammed a 
card layout. Accompanying the Tarot reading was a single 
card --  the number 6 card, entitled the Lovers, the title of 
the matching section marked in the book. He examined the card 
which showed a naked woman and man in the foreground, standing 
before two stylistic trees. The tree behind the woman bore 
symbolic fruit and a snake twined up its trunk; the man's 
displayed flaming leaves. In the background, a mountain separated 
the couple's extended, but not touching, hands. Above the couple 
and the mountain, rising out of the clouds against the dominant 
sun, was an angelic figure, arms and wings protectively 
overspreading the tableau.

Doggett stared at the snake image and felt trepidation welling 
inside him.

He began reading as if his life depended on it. Maybe both 
their lives.

II
He felt her presence. Doggett turned to find her standing in 
the kitchen doorway, watching him.

"Breakfast is ready."

"All right." He looked back at the book in his hands.

Scully crossed the living room to where he stood. She seemed a 
little abashed at finding him reading the Tarot book and he 
couldn't ignore the irony of his own awkwardness at being caught 
in the act.

"I brought the cards home to try a reading for myself and 
Mulder, night before last. Exploring possibilities." Her 
downcast eyes spoke of the silent desperation to seek any sort 
of lead back to her lost partner. Her admission to him bespoke 
a new level of trust between them.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry. I -- just *had* to pick it up 
when I saw it." 

"It's okay," she said. "Actually, part of my reason for 
bringing the cards and book home was also to -- get it away from 
you."

"Get it away from me?"

"I was concerned that you were becoming too involved with the 
Tarot thing. It's silly, I know, but I was afraid ...."

"Afraid?  Of what?" He stared down at her in bemusement.

"That you might start relying too much on them in hopes of 
trying to get a better handle on the X-Files. That, somehow, 
you might lose your cop instincts to a reliance on something 
that is -- not exactly accepted police procedure. And not you.  
You've got good instincts, Agent. The best. I think I started 
to realize that after you saved me in Utah, when I couldn't 
trust you enough to let you back me up. I've seen people get 
too wound up in these things, lose their sense of proportion, 
their way. I don't want you to lose that ability."

"Listen to what you're saying, Dana." Deeply moved by her 
admission of concern, he smiled gently and placed a hand on her 
arm. How could one person feel so fragile, yet so resilient all 
at once? "Aren't you using the cards in hopes of finding 
Mulder? What's wrong with this picture?"   

Her self-effacing smile of embarrassment charmed him totally and 
pierced his heart at the same time. Moistness glimmered in her 
eyes as she looked away and he wanted to take her in his arms, 
to assure her that somehow they would get Mulder back. She 
said, "Breakfast is getting cold."

He followed her to the dinette, but he brought along the book. 

#
It didn't take him long to scan and digest the article on the 
Lovers or to note the card's link to the Chariot card that, in 
the last two days, had brought him to this remarkable point in 
his life. Even as Scully's worries echoed in his ears, the 
implications seemed unavoidable. He must find a path to address  
his and Scully's remaining inability to communicate openly and 
honestly.  Otherwise, according to the card's mythology, the 
result would be a rocky romance, marriage, or partnership.  
Since they were neither romantically linked nor married, but 
very much partnered, he must somehow put himself into harmony 
with Scully to resolve her problem and his own. 

Since she had already read the material, he wondered how closely 
her thoughts might have followed his own line of reasoning.  
Might be tracking with his thoughts even at that moment.

They ate together mostly in silence.

"My compliments to the chef," he said when they had finished and 
she began to clear the table, with which he was quick to assist.  

At the sink, Doggett said, "Look, I feel okay, maybe just a 
little short on sleep, but pretty much okay. Even fine. I'd 
like to run back to my house for a fresh change of clothes. And 
I want to swing by the office to go back over the original 
Paddock file. Then I'm going to check back with the Washington 
police about the girl's death to see if anything further's 
turned up."

Back to the doctor mode, she assessed him, looking him squarely 
in the eyes. Then a joking smile twitched over her lips and she 
gave a little shake of her head.

"What?" he said.

"Just what you said. The way you said it. You started out sort 
of asking my permission to go home and ended by telling me what 
you were going to do." 

"Yeah, how about that?"  

"I'd almost say you were hot on the trail of something, Agent 
Doggett. Better be careful. You could be getting the hang of 
this X-File stuff."

He was still smiling when he let himself out the door. Indeed, 
he was almost beginning to feel at ease with the job's 
strangeness. In that odd new euphoria, he didn't notice the 
analytical concern in his partner's expression.

#	
He hadn't been gone very long when the door bell chimed.

Scully looked through the peephole and her heart leaped into 
her throat. "Mulder!"

Tearing at the door locks, she couldn't act fast enough to 
remove the barrier between them. She flung open the door.

#
Studying the New Hampshire case file, he wondered how he might 
find a productive angle on this woman who had presented herself 
first as Ms. Paddock, New Hampshire highschool biology sub, and 
then as Ms. Braddock, Belt Way college biology prof, almost 
certainly -- somehow -- the killer of a naive young female 
student whose outrageous death by a morphing snake had brought 
him to his knees on Scully's doorstep. Leaning against the file 
cabinet, Doggett paused to look around the office, at the 
welter of documents, books, objects, and other esoterica 
summarizing one man's singular passion and obsession. How many 
years had Mulder profiled humanity's weird side? The missing 
agent's genius operated from an encyclopedic accumulation of 
arcane knowledge; how the hell could he hope to even scratch the 
surface of that data base line in order to nail this demonic 
woman?  

*I saw you once in here, man,* Doggett thought, recollecting 
Mulder's specter from such a short time ago. *How do I invoke 
inspiration from you? Or were you just my stress-induced 
hallucination?*

The office remained silent, occupied only by himself. He sighed 
and sought that inspiration in the case facts, thin though they 
were....

If Paddock really was whatever this file implied, she required 
human sacrifice to feed her perverse survival need. Where and 
how many times had she struck before her appearance in the quiet 
New Hampshire town of Milford Haven? And since then, before the 
girl had become her most recent victim? Would he find a 
signature M.O. in other unsolved cases lurking in old police 
department files scattered around the country? Years of work 
lay ahead digging all of it up -- but it wouldn't be the first 
long-term case he'd sunk his teeth into.

Yet, why had he been thrown into proximity with this...witch 
woman? This mirage.

It was daylight, safe broad afternoon daylight, with the return 
of sanity rooting him firmly into the cement of the F.B.I. 
Headquarter's finest basement accommodations. And a reclaimed 
well being lulling him into a false sense of security. On the 
night before when he had called Scully to ask if he could come 
talk to her, he had told her not to open the door to anyone else 
*before* he got there. For good reason. But, in his altered 
mental state, he had not thought it all the way through.  

Only now did the full implications hit him.

With a sick chill in his stomach, Doggett listened to the 
telephone back at Scully's apartment ring on and on, unanswered.

#
Taking the Paddock file along, Doggett burned rubber getting 
across town. At her apartment, he found the doorknob to her 
apartment unlocked, and went in armed and ready. The living 
room was empty and a vacant solitude hung in the air. 

"Agent Scully?"  

No answer.

Starting across the living room, he saw a small rectangular 
object on the rug and knew immediately what it was. He picked 
up the Lovers Tarot card, the only immediate physical clue that 
something suspicious had occurred. Quickly, he searched through 
the flat. He found her purse and car keys on the telephone 
table. Her weapon and cell phone lay on the kitchen sink 
counter. Her handcuffs were missing. He checked her parking 
space and saw her car.  

Scully was gone. 

His hand was so unsteady that he had to concentrate to key the 
cell phone correctly.

"Sir," Doggett said over the phone when he had been patched 
through to A.D. Skinner, "something's happened to Agent Scully.  
I think she's been taken." 

#
Waiting for the assistance that Skinner was mustering, Special 
Agent John Doggett was forced to yield to the great need to sit 
down on the couch before his legs quit. With that otherworldly 
euphoria trashed, he had to marshall his own internal forces or 
be swallowed by a metaphorical serpent.

If ever he needed a supernatural uplink, it was now. He didn't 
know precisely how to pray or meditate but gave it the best he 
had, begging for some sort of assistance. Then he retrieved the 
case file from his car and got down to the only work he really 
understood. With the Tarot card and book and case file open on 
the coffee table, he desperately sought meaning.  

In the card, that serpent, twined around the Edenic tree behind 
the woman, meant temptation. It was a wrenching reminder of the 
snake killing the girl in the alley behind that night club a 
short night ago. And Scully? From the file data, he must 
assume that Scully was the target.  

And her unborn child?  

God! If only he had remembered what his first instincts had told 
him. Maybe if, as he had left her apartment such a short time 
ago, he had reminded her to not open the door to anyone except 
him, maybe she wouldn't be in this current predicament. If he 
had not left her alone....

Trembling, Doggett knew instinctively that the Paddock woman's 
aim must be to consume not only Scully, but her baby, 
Scully's -- and Mulder's -- miracle. What kind of power did that 
woman, if that was what she was, seek from such a sacrifice?
What would such destruction bestow on her?

He reviewed the information on The Lovers. According to one 
aspect of the card's interpretation, the woman -- read Dana 
Katherine Scully -- represented some Secret Law of Providence, 
instead of merely the Biblical temptation, that through her, the 
man -- read Special Agent John Doggett? -- could become 
complete, knowing his greater psychic self, the knowledge 
depicted by the flaming leaves in the Tree of Knowledge.  And 
between the man and the woman, that mountain to be scaled,  was 
a mutual attraction, a kind of love, and the trials they must 
face together and overcome. 

But the true lovers' position belonged to Scully and Mulder.

It didn't matter. He knew his place in the order of things. He 
would accept anything, so long as he could find her, alive and 
well.

He looked over the Tarot diagram Scully had drafted out on 
notebook paper. What meaning could he hope to decipher from it 
and then apply to real-world answers? He had to go with what 
was tangible now -- and his instincts. He grabbed the case file 
and, with desperation's goading, moved to Scully's computer and 
switched it on.

III		
A rolling motion and an engine sound inserted itself into 
fragments of Mulder's reaching out to take her hand, to take her 
away....Scully awakened slowly, seeing golden light glinting 
metallically off a fuzzy shape through her eyelashes. Gradually 
she focused and the pentacle pendant defined itself. Then she 
gasped at the predatory snake-slit eyes looking down on her from 
above that sinister symbol. Confused images raced through her 
mind as she stared up at the harsh female features. She thought 
Mulder had come back -- where? -- then the tumult of forced 
entry swept over her again as the unlocked door admitted 
strangers and a plunge into nothingness with the crush of a 
chloroform-laced cloth over her face.

"Yes, we meet again, my dear," cooed Ms. Paddock, and icy 
fingers brushed across her brow. Scully felt the light but 
meaningful pressure of the woman's hand on her belly. "There 
is work yet to be done. Just lie still. There is nowhere you 
can go."

Scully tried to speak and realized something was strapped across 
her mouth. It didn't stick or pull like tape. A cloth gag. The 
attempt to move her hands was instantly thwarted by unyielding 
restraints of some sort. Handcuffs! Probably her own. She fought 
rising panic, thrusting herself into the survival strategy of 
information gathering. She was in a moving vehicle, a van...she 
twisted her head around to take in as much of her surroundings 
as possible. Under gray skies, trees sped past the front and 
forward sides windows. Two men were in the driver and passenger 
seats. She lay strapped down to the rear bench seat and Ms. 
Paddock, who was taking much pride in her captive, was leaning 
towards her through the space between the second row of bucket 
seats.

How in the hell had they done this to her?  

In the van interior's half light, as Ms. Paddock gazed 
blissfully down on her, Scully saw the older woman's eyes again 
-- normal eyes. Not the golden night predator eyes that she had 
glimpsed moments ago. Had she been mistaken? But she had been 
mistaken at her own door in thinking that Mulder had been on the 
other side. She forced herself to breathe slowly, deeply, to 
think about all the possible impossibilities.

Had that been a psychic projection onto her wishful thinking or 
was this woman a shape-shifter, as previous X-File cases seemed 
to indicate? Agent Doggett's recent experience and her own with 
morphing aliens and other strange entities over these last years 
certainly vouched for that ability in some individuals. Was her 
captor such a creature? Her mind raced through the implications.  
Was there some sort of overarching connection between all these 
aberrant beings' paranormal abilities? Some underlying genetic 
link that tied together all the loose ends of seemingly 
disconnected extraterrestrial and terrestrial stories...?   

Even in her dire straits, the concept excited her imagination.

*Oh, God, Mulder, why can't you be here? Are you listening?  
Somehow you have to listen to me!* 

In the clouded afternoon light coming in the van windows, Scully 
craned her neck again to try to find a bearing on their location. 
Trees still sped by. She felt the van slow and heard the turn 
signal.  She watched the window. A street sign briefly came into 
view through the right hand glass. She caught a quick glimpse of 
a green and white metal plaque on the top of a steel post, and
 the name, Raphael Lane, as the vehicle made a sharp right. Some 
little country road somewhere in....? God knew where. 

The street surface became rougher.  

But the name stuck.

Raphael Lane....Raphael.

Her thoughts flew to the foolishness of the Tarot card, the 
imagery therein. God, if ever she needed a guardian angel to 
look over her! She squeezed her eyes shut against the 
triumphant stare of her captor, against the hot sting of 
fear-driven tears.

#
Doggett intently studied the monitor. He had accessed the FBI's 
government satellite map archives. The image zoomed in on the 
aerial of the New Hampshire county around Milford Haven, the 
town where the case had taken place. He didn't know what he was 
looking for, but that inner instinct was telling him to return 
to the scene of Paddock's first crime involving Scully and 
Mulder.  If Scully trusted his cop's street sense, then he sure 
as hell had to. No other option existed. 

Double-screening, he compared the photographic record with the 
mapped streets and landmarks. "C'mon, c'mon, gimme something," 
he hissed through clenched teeth as his fingers raced over the 
keys.

Alternately, he scanned back and forth over the pertinent pages 
of the open Tarot book, looking for any clue to their enemy.

Then an alarm bell went off in the back of his mind.

He froze, looking down at the image of the card. Something...the 
angel above the man and woman seemed to beckon. Quickly, he 
searched the explanatory text again.

A paragraph of the article described the archangel figure Raphael 
in the Tarot card. Extending his blessing of health, balance and 
harmony over the Tarot's human figures, the archangel was, above 
all, associated with healing. The province of doctors. Somehow, 
it meant something.

"Dana," he whispered in agitation. "C'mon, there's gotta be 
more."

He turned back to the map on the screen.

#
Dull sunlight was turning into twilight as the van jolted to a 
halt after a rough ride off asphalt. The two men got out of the 
vehicle and one of them opened the side panel door. As Ms. 
Paddock got out and waved a finger at Scully in silent and 
imperious instruction to her helpers, two other men garbed in 
coarsely woven cowled robes came out of the woods.

Scully was pulled from the van. Together, all five of them 
surrounded her and marched her along a winding pathway walled by 
an overgrowth of trees and brush. Scully assessed her chances 
of struggling, breaking free and getting away. Being handcuffed, 
surrounded and held by four men all much larger than she, and 
her pregnant, dissuaded her from seriously entertaining the 
foolhardy notion of putting up a fight. Yet she had to do 
something! 

In a few minutes they reached the path's end and a doorless 
stone cabin. Inside was a wood bench and a utility cot with a 
thin mattress. She was roughly thrust onto the bed and held 
down as her arms were jerked up over her head. One  handcuff 
was released long enough to secure the chain of her restraint 
around the steel frame, then reset around her wrist, shackling 
her effectively and painfully. 

Rage seized its opportunity as the robed figure who had pinioned 
her legs straightened. She lashed out and nailed him in the 
groin with her foot, sending him gasping and staggering away. 

Scully rubbed the side of her face hard against her shoulder, 
loosening the gag. "You bastards!" she cried out around the 
rolled cloth. "What do you think you're doing? I'm a Federal 
officer. Don't you realize the kind of manhunt you're 
unleashing on yourselves?"

"Ignore her.  Lash her feet down," Paddock instructed harshly.  
"And secure that gag."

Taking that cue, Scully began screaming with all the volume she 
could muster in case their location was within earshot of aid.  
Quickly, one of the men stifled her with a hand gripped over her 
mouth and she was roughly seized at the knees by another of 
Paddock's toadies. Her ankles were harshly bound like the 
hapless victim of a goat-tying contest. The gag was retied into 
her mouth and this time she heard the tearing of duct tape. A 
strip of gray adhesive was added with unceremonious punishment 
to her lips by thin bony hands.

"Midnight, dear," Ms. Paddock whispered sweetly close to 
Scully's face as she tucked a light blanket in around her prey.  
She lingered, hovering over Scully for an excruciating moment as 
her hand lowered to caress the mound of her captive's belly.  
"Such a bonus."

Scully felt her stomach rebel and give an involuntary heave at 
the obscene threat. She fought to keep control, tears welling.  
She forced herself to breathe as deeply and regularly as 
possible through her nose.

"And now," the woman purred as she straightened, "I must go to 
prepare."

When the woman and her two helpers had departed from the 
doorway, Scully looked around, searching the shadowy interior of 
the old cabin. Clad only in her sweatsuit under the inadequate 
blanket, she shivered against the rain-dampened coldness and the 
nightmarish surroundings.  

*Midnight! God! Why did evil fixate on that arbitrary hour?*   

Trying not to think about what might lie ahead, Scully 
concentrated her energies instead upon avenues of escape, which 
seemed extraordinarily limited just then. She had to assume 
that she had only herself to rely on for rescue. Yet she began 
to think of what had been written about the Lovers' card.  
Knowing that Doggett had also read the book's same material 
provided an unexpected measure of hope. She focused on that 
hope.

She began to see the Tarot's image of that angelic drawing.  

Raphael!  

The third human-like element depicted in the card, that 
archangel allegedly represented many things. Knowledge of the 
past, present and future. The perception of inner, invisible 
realms.  Super or spiritual consciousness, a powerful connection 
to the Force within.  

For a quicksilver moment, it seemed as if she were being 
envisioned by the angelic figure, as if one of them was the 
image of the other's imagination, as she traded positions with 
an unexpected third member of their team. In past times, she 
had seen things -- beings -- of supernatural nature ... had this 
been what or who she had seen?  

She struggled to recall what else had been written about that 
Tarot card. Something about....about Raphael's presence 
indicating contact with the soul or spiritual essence through 
the man's conscious choice to tap and utilize the feminine or 
subconscious powers of time through altered states, meditation 
and travel across dimensions.  

Bound and gagged and secreted away in a rustic cabin deep in a 
woods, Scully found herself speculating on whether paranormal 
contact might be her only chance at salvation. She had been 
given one tiny bit of physical direction, her only clue. It was 
the long shot of her life. She shut her eyes, visualized, and 
prayed.

#
The final pieces leaped out at him. It was insanity to believe, 
but a drowning man grasped at any lunacy to save himself or 
those most important to him. Doggett held on like grim death. 

Minutes later, A.D. Skinner was on the threshhold of Scully's 
apartment with a crime lab technician and a couple of agents.  
Doggett greeted him with a thin sheaf of printouts and the old 
case file. "I know where they've taken her."

"And I want to know what the hell has been going on with both of 
you," Skinner said in a low tone as he assessed Doggett's 
intense state of mind. He pulled Doggett off to the side.  
"Scully called me this morning with a cryptic message about you 
and now she's the one in trouble?"  

"Just bear with me, sir." Doggett was in overdrive and Skinner 
began to see why the man had gained the nickname "Bulldog."  

Rapid-fire, Doggett briefed him on what had happened in the last 
two days, ever since Skinner had told him not to write up the 
report on his Pennsylvania encounter. The Assistant Director 
rubbed a hand over his mouth and glanced sideways at the three 
men he had brought with him who were trying to look busy or not 
there or not conspicuous.

"I don't care how wild it sounds," Doggett ground out in a 
tenacious undertone. "I *know* what has happened here. Agent 
Scully has been taken. By the woman in this file. And I've got 
a location on this New Hampshire area satellite map." He grimly 
jabbed at the feature on the print-out. "It's near the town of 
Milford Haven where this Ms. Paddock first put in her appearance 
in this early X-File that Mulder and Scully worked on together."  
He flagged the case folder at Skinner. "The initial death, of a 
teenager, occurred in a location reputed to be haunted or 
inhabited by something supernatural. Well, nearby," he pointed 
to another print-out, "is an ancient stone alignment, a 
henge-type circle, that was recorded recently by the New Hampshire 
State Archaeological Society. It's within a mile of the end of 
a country road called Raphael Lane. And this card that I found 
on the floor, as wacko as you or anybody else might think it is, 
is the link point because that's supposed to be the angel 
Raphael. There's a structure nearby, here, looks like a stone 
cabin. The most recent overflight I got from one of our 
classified satellite downloads a day ago shows a van and a car 
parked nearby. So it's a place in occasional use. My bet is 
it's all connected. Call me crazy but that's how I'm calling 
it."

"Are you trying to think like Mulder?" Skinner asked.

"I'm just trying to think with what I got. Let's say I've got a 
new perspective on things. Go with me on this, okay?"

"I'm going.  You'll get no argument from me."

"I've already put in a call to the local police up there to 
start moving in and secure the boundaries of the area. We'll 
need a helicopter to get us there before midnight."

"Why midnight?"

"Hell, can't you guess? The witching hour during a full moon?  
You don't need to be Mulder to know what that means," Doggett 
said without humor.

IV
With navigation lights off and the muffling system minimizing 
rotor slap, their helicopter came in high to pinpoint their 
target zone. Radio traffic over their headsets followed the 
activity of the ground support. At distant locations marking 
the shielding forest's edge, emergency vehicle lights flashed, 
tiny beacons rallied to aid that could become meaningless, 
Doggett thought, if he hadn't made the right calls.  

In the darkness below, defined only by coordinate tracking in 
the helicopter cockpit, would be the ancient rock circle 
encroached upon by a second-growth woods that in the printouts 
showed only recent partial clearing by archaeologists. Under 
cloud-broken moonlight, fog had rolled in. A pinpoint of 
firelight was dimly visible to the naked eye from a distance.  
Night vision scopes and binoculars revealed more -- the 
clustered presence of humans.  

The pilot put down in an open space on the paved lane bordering 
a farm field a mile and half away. Here the local police chief 
was waiting with a couple of units and a perplexed team chafing 
for action but consigned to hang back, wait for the FBI and 
provide only perimeter control. After a quick coordination 
meeting that left the local constabulary to their frustrated 
secondary role, the FBI team started in. It was close to 
midnight.

As they penetrated the forest and picked up the narrow dirt rut, 
Skinner watched Doggett move silently like a wraith possessed.  
He barely kept his subordinate in view in his night goggles as 
the agent served as point for their six-man team.  

Before the others picked up the remote flickering of firelight, 
Doggett signalled a halt with a raised arm. Then, backlit 
against a scrim of moon-tinted misty night, his figure crouched.  
Everyone followed suit. An unearthly chanting drifted their 
way. Doggett took that as a positive indicator that the 
helicopter's muting technology had successfully secreted their 
arrival and the enemy had not been alerted.

Concerned that any unintentional sound might give them away now, 
Doggett assessed the environment briefly. He checked behind to 
locate the rest of the team. There was no break in the eery 
harmony. It was minutes off twelve o'clock. Continuing to 
crouch, he moved carefully forward. The chorus grew louder and 
the view began to resolve itself. He paused for a quick recon 
of the scene.  

Ahead on either side of the path, two trimmed-down kerosene 
lanterns hung from low oak tree limbs. Beyond, a candle-marked 
circle eerily lit the night, flames flickering and guttering as 
fog drifted across the small meadow, tendrilling through the 
ancient granite monuments marking the clearing's edge. A 
central fire burned brightly as five cowled figures in dark 
robes moved in hypnotic ritual around the flames.

And, next to the fire, a woman's figure cloaked in white lay 
spreadeagled, gagged and struggling, wrists and ankles lashed to 
stakes driven into the earth.

All time and motion accelerated.

"F.B.I.! You're all under arrest! Don't move!" Doggett yelled, 
advancing with a rush, his gun ready.  

The menacing, shadowy figures were, afterall, mere humans.  
Aware of mortality through the thin veil of their misplaced 
faith, they shrank from the revealing firelight and encircling 
candles.  Four of them broke and ran for the protection of the 
surrounding trees.

However, one figure remained, standing perfectly still, and 
giving no sign of being intimidated. Then, turning, it pulled 
back the cowl from its head, revealing a familiar thin female 
form with dark hair harshly drawn back to the nape of the neck.  
The central antagonist of their forest drama turned toward 
Doggett, away from Scully's form at her feet. A golden pentacle 
at Paddock's neck glinted in the firelight. Even at that 
distance, the woman's eyes, if woman she was, seemed to gleam 
inhumanly. An illusion of vertically slit pupils dilated 
widely, taking in the FBI agent's charging image as harbinger of 
what lay ahead. 

Then an unearthly rage began to coil up in front of Doggett. He 
heard Scully's muffled cries as human transformed into serpent 
creature before their eyes.

Reflexively turning himself into a moving target, Doggett 
emptied his weapon into the creature, to no apparent avail.  
Writhing powerfully, it whipped around, following him as though 
vexed by a pesky gnat. Then it twisted back to the hapless 
Scully. For an awful moment, Doggett flashed on the alley 
outside the goth D.C. night club when he had been forced to pry 
away the mouth of a giant constricter snake from another 
helpless young woman -- a very dead young woman.

He'd be damned if he would allow that to happen again.  

He remembered the Tarot card, the image of the tree with the 
flaming leaves, the tree of knowledge of good and evil, a vague 
memory of a Sunday school lesson told him eons ago.

Holstering his weapon, Doggett swiftly snatched one of the 
nearby kerosene lamps from its tree post. He ran forward, 
loosening the reservoir base from the wick. Behind him came a 
shout to hold fire as he unavoidably blocked their target.  
Skinner yelled orders to fan out in pursuit of the rite's 
escaping participants.  

Doggett was into the circle. He trod hard on the creature's 
tail, drawing it away from Scully. As it swung towards him, he 
smashed the lamp against the hissing serpent's upper body.  
Kerosene splashed upward, drenched the shiny scaled hide but 
failed to ignite.  The serpent struck at the upstart attacker.  
Leaping aside over Scully's helpless form, he grasped the end of 
a burning piece of wood from the fire and dashed clear of his 
partner, drawing along the creature's attention. 

"Come on, you bitch!" he yelled. "I know who you are. And you 
can't have her!" 

In reflex, it struck out at him again.  

Doggett was, simply, quicker. He thrust the burning log from 
the ceremonial fire into its gaping mouth as the snake head 
missed its target, and dodged away as the kerosene flared.  
"Damn you back to the hell you came from!"

The torching form began to writhe and whip in front of him. The 
shrilling banshee wail hissing from the immolating body 
resembled nothing he had ever heard or wanted to hear again.

Doggett dashed back to Scully. With his razor-sharp pocket 
knife, he sliced the bindings pinioning her wrists to the 
stakes. Scully twisted upright, yanking free her mouth gag as 
Skinner joined them. Doggett sliced away her ankle ties.  
Before she could bend her knees to gather her feet under her, 
both men had lifted her up and were carrying her clear of the 
demon's fiery death throes. 

Reaching the entrance to the clearing by the remaining lantern, 
Skinner turned his attention back to the circle as Doggett 
quickly guided Scully down the narrow pathway by his flashlight 
beam. Two of their agents stood gaping at the incinerating 
wonder. The Assistant Director shouted for them to get after 
the remaining cult followers before the perpetrators escaped 
into the night.  

At a safer distance down the dirt trail, Doggett and Scully 
paused to look back at the flames roiling in the ancient altar's 
center point. The strange multi-colored light played wickedly 
over their faces, illuminating their mixed fear, relief and 
disbelief. An arm around Scully's shoulders, Doggett looked 
questioningly down at his partner. "You okay?"

She nodded, still staring fixedly back at the hellish sight.

Then Doggett was holding her head between his hands, closely 
examining her. "You are okay?" 

"I'm okay," she repeated, breathlessly, nodding. She was 
shaking involuntarily in the foggy cold.

"You're safe now."

"Yeah, I'm...safe."

"Okay." With that he enfolded her in his arms, and they were 
leaning against each other in the sanctuary of mutual support.  
He whispered, "Okay."

#
"Jesus, what was it?" Skinner finally said a short time later 
while the other members of the strike team waited at the trail 
head for ground support to arrive to remove the captured quartet 
of Paddock's followers.

In the center of the archaeological site, there were only 
scattered white ashes under their feet. It seemed impossible 
for any body, human or otherwise, to be so reduced under those 
circumstances.  

Scully hugged Doggett's jacket around her as she surveyed the 
forlorn surroundings, lighted by the remaining kerosene lamp 
placed on the ground nearby and turned up brightly. "I'm not 
really sure. I don't think we can ever know that for certain.  
But Agent Doggett had its number, I'd say."  

Dourly, John Doggett studied the earth around his feet. He toed 
dirt and saw a metallic glint. Reaching down, he retrieved the 
melted remnant of the pendant from the ashes that had been the 
Paddock/Braddock woman or whatever else she had become. What 
earthly mortal fire could have burned so hot as to melt gold 
into the lump that he held here in his hand? Doggett dropped 
the artifact, still warm, onto Skinner's palm. "Have a 
souvenir."

Epilogue:

Around ten Monday morning, Special Agent John Doggett was 
wrapping up the report when Scully entered the basement office..

"Feeling better?" He stood to hand her the paperwork for her to 
review.

"I shook off the chill. Yeah, I feel better," she said with a 
small smile as she took the proffered file and began reading.  
"You?"

"Yeah." He sipped at his coffee as she walked slowly to the 
desk while perusing the print-out. "Normal."

Scully looked up. "Good. You had me worried there for awhile."

"I had *me* worried." He contemplated his coffee, one hand on a 
hip. "I think I'm starting to get used to this paradox."

"Paradox?"

"Yeah." He gestured around the room with the cup. "Here we are, 
normal office activity, mundanely typing up and reading reports 
about -- stuff that a day or so ago shouldn't never exist in 
the real world outside of weird fiction. And it's -- like it 
never happened. But that's starting to feel routine, normal.  
That's really scary."  

She smiled.

"Makes me aware of how *now" everything is."

"That's all there ever is." She handed back the report.

Doggett placed the paperwork into its manila jacket and tossed 
the folder onto the desk. "Well, hey, we won one, sort of."

"You won one." Dana Scully stood nearby, staring at the file.  
"Maybe the devil in the details will drive Kersh over the edge 
one of these days." 

"Possibility.  But I'm not sure what happened, how it all 
happened.  Or why."

"You followed and acted on your instincts, and the facts as they 
were presented."

"But what was the truth behind it all?"

"Facts and truth are not necessarily the same thing. Just like 
the answers we get are not necessarily the ones we get to the 
questions we ask. Especially when we may not be asking the 
right questions to begin with."

"So who was this woman?  What were the facts and the truth 
behind her?"

"Mulder would say maybe a demon. Maybe the demon that lurks 
within us all."

Doggett thought about the image of the Tarot card's Lovers, the 
nakedness of the man and woman symbolizing the honesty in their 
relationship. "No," Doggett said, then smiled back at Scully.  
"Not all."	

-Fini-