Profiles in Caring - The Collector's Edition by Daydreamer Contains: Profiles in Caring I: The Emerson Case Profiles in Caring II: The Emerson Case, continued Profiles in Caring III: The Roberson Case Profiles in Caring IV: The Roberson Case, continued Profiles in Caring V: The Nibbler Case Rating: NC - 17 for violence and disturbing imagery - no sex Category: SA - character exploration Spoilers: Part 1 set post Redux II Part 2 and 3 set post Kill Switch reference is made to many episodes, but no major spoilers Keywords: MSR - M/Sc/Sk friendship Archive: Yes, please. Feedback: Yes! Please! Web Page: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113/ Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Production, Fox Television Network, etc. They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor and have nothing material they can profit from. Comments: This is a series of hurt/comfort, angst, support, care and concern, friendship/love vignettes, wrapped around a loose plot. I definitely have more fun making the characters interact with each other than making them solve crimes. Part 1 Summary: After her release from the hospital, Scully follows Mulder to where he is working on a case for VCS. Part 2 Summary: Mulder, Skinner, and Scully are called to testify at the trial. Things quickly turn dangerous as Emerson escapes and Scully goes missing. Part 3 Summary: Mulder, Skinner, and Scully are home and recovering. When a self-purported alien abductee decides to take Mulder for a show and tell ride, Scully is there too, and Skinner must find them before it is too late. Part 4 Summary: Mulder discovers Harold Roberson is not in the Federal Institution for the Criminally Insane. In searching for Roberson, he finds more than he bargained for. Part 5 Summary: Mulder is called to testify when a serial killer he caught and convicted in 1991 is extradited to another state to face charges. As he and Scully are transporting the convict, a sudden storm causes problems, the killer escapes, and begins tracking our injured duo through the mountain woods. "Any society that needs disclaimers has too many lawyers." Erik Pepke "Fan fiction is a way of the culture repairing the damage done in a system where contemporary myths are owned by corporations instead of owned by the folk." Henry Jenkins, director of media studies at MIT Author of "Textual Poachers: Media Fans and Participatory Culture" Part 1: The Emerson Case Chapter 1 "What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies." Aristotle "What are you doing here, Agent Scully?" Skinner barked. "You haven't been released from medical leave yet." Scully stood quietly in the gentle drizzle, her eyes fixed on the tall man who knelt, oblivious to the rain, in the middle of a dirt field surrounded by yellow crime scene tape. She watched as he carefully felt the earth before him, moving so slowly across the area, it almost seemed he wasn't moving at all. His hair was plastered to his head, his suit coat drenched and sticking to his back. He had apparently removed the ubiquitous trench coat to avoid having it drag as he worked his way across the scene. "Agent Scully." Skinner spoke again, not quite so sharply this time, but demanding her attention and an explanation. "I know I haven't been cleared for active duty yet, Sir," she started, "but you have him in VCS again! Profiling, no less. You know he can't do this - shouldn't do this, and certainly not alone - you know that and yet you sent him here and didn't tell me!" She knew she sounded petulant, but seemed unable to suppress it. "Scully - Dana - I didn't send him," Skinner responded. "One of the agents assigned to this case knew you weren't - available - for a while and took advantage of the situation to request a consult directly from Mulder. You know how he is - won't say no if he thinks he can make a difference. He thinks he saw something the others missed, and well, here he is." Skinner turned his gaze from Scully to the man kneeling in the mud, then stated, "And none of that explains how you found out and why you are here when you haven't been cleared to return to duty yet." Scully continued to watch the man in the field, half focused on what Skinner was saying, but primarily interested in what Mulder was doing. "I feel fine, Sir," she said rotely. At Skinner's silence, she paused, turned to look at him, then added, "I really do. I would have been released on Monday. But right now, I need to be here." "Scully," he began gently, "You know you can't be here until you are cleared. That's not my rule - you know that. We don't have any options here." "You can get me cleared, Sir. Monday is only 4 days away. I am not going back." She looked directly into the AD's eyes, willing him to agree to her continued presence. He paused, assessing her level of determination, then grunted, all the acknowledgment and acceptance she was likely to get, and turned again to watch Mulder as he continued to work the field in the rain. Scully released a breath she didn't realize she had been holding. Her muscles relaxed, and tension began to slowly seep out of her. "How long has he been here?" she asked. "Five days," Skinner replied. "How did you find out?" "He's been calling me, daily, sometimes twice, since I got out of the hospital. It was almost annoying. But then, he started to sound distracted and two days ago, the calls stopped. I checked around and found out he wasn't even in town, dug some more, and found out he was here. I guess he remembered to call the first few days, but as he slipped further in, he forgot." She shrugged. "I'm glad, in a way. If he has to be here, he shouldn't be alone." Skinner gave a rare smile. "In case you hadn't noticed, I am here. I didn't exactly send him alone into the fray." Scully looked up at the unexpected remark from the AD. She stared at him seriously for a moment, then gave a slight smile of her own. "Do you have an umbrella?' Skinner started at the abrupt change of topic. He recovered, "In the car. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. I'll get it." He darted over to the rental car, retrieved the umbrella, raised it, and came back to where Scully stood. She was almost as wet as Mulder by now. She continued to watch him as he worked his way across the field. "Where are the crime scene techs?" she asked, as Skinner moved next to her, shielding her from the rain with the umbrella. "They're across the way, out of the weather, waiting for him to get done. After the body was removed, he wanted to do a sweep himself, to get a feel for what's happening. He didn't want anyone else in the way." "Oh." Long pause as they both continued to watch Mulder work the pattern he had laid out for himself. "Can I have the umbrella?" Skinner looked down at her. Her attention was still focused on the man in the field. He passed the umbrella to her and watched as she took it silently. She walked slowly toward the crime scene tape. As she approached the tape, she stopped and continued to watch. When she was confident that she could approach Mulder without walking or stepping in an area he might not want disturbed, she ducked under the tape and headed across the field. ************************************************************************ The rain suddenly stopped. Mulder paused for a moment, shook his head to clear the water from his eyes, grateful for the relief from the ceaseless drizzle. He continued to work his way across the field. The ground was still wet but at least it wasn't raining on him. After another three quarters of an hour, he paused and looked outward. He looked up and saw the umbrella held in a small hand. His eyes followed the hand up an arm, and across to a very familiar face. "Hello, Mulder. I missed hearing from you." He wiped his eyes again, trying desperately to shift his focus from the killer he was stalking to the woman standing before him. The woman he had sworn to call daily and then promptly forgotten about. The woman, he reminded himself, who was just released from the hospital, weakened by her battle with cancer, and yet had stood here, holding an umbrella over his head to keep him dry. Well, sorta dry - drier - he hastily amended. "Hey Scully, whatcha doing here?" he grinned foolishly up at her. "I thought you might need someone to keep you out of trouble, partner, especially when I heard Skinner was here," she responded, smiling fondly at him. She reached out and brushed a wet lock of hair from his forehead, her thumb gently tracing the eyebrow beneath it. "But I see you mostly need someone to keep you dry. Are you almost done here?" He looked up at her for a minute longer, then rose shakily to his feet. He stretched the kinks out of his back, and brushed the worst of the mud from his knees. He straightened and then reached out and took the umbrella from her hand, stepping in close to her as he did, covering them both. "Yeah, I am. This wasn't our guy - I can't explain it, there's just a different feel to it. I don't know if it's a copy cat or not." He placed his hand on the small of her back and they began to walk slowly back across the field. "Some of the elements are the same, but the killer is not extremely individualistic with his signature anyway, so this could just be a random murder, with enough similarities that we had to look twice. It took a long time for anyone to connect that we had a serial loose here anyway. There is such an element of randomness to his kills, it's hard to see the pattern. I know it's there, but I can't see it yet" Scully listened as he spoke. She looked sharply at him, studying his face, pale and tired looking. His eyes, darkly ringed and bloodshot. His clothes, already beginning to hang from his lean frame. After his brief spate of attention on her, he had already begun to turn inward, focusing on the hunt again. She needed to get him back before he was gone for several more hours. She reached out and took his arm. He stopped in his tracks and turned to look at her. "Mulder," she asked gently, "have you eaten yet?" ************************************************************************ Skinner continued to stand in the rain as he watched Scully cross the field. He noted the way she carefully studied Mulder, his pattern, what he was doing, before she crossed the tape and approached him. Even then, it didn't appear she spoke. She just took up a position behind him, and held the umbrella over him, shielding him from the ongoing drizzle. And he never even noticed! Skinner was amazed at the way this man could tune everything out when he was on the hunt. For almost an hour, Scully followed Mulder, holding the umbrella. Skinner noticed she held it out, over him, and she stood quietly in the steady rain. He stood and watched, astounded at the level of Mulder's concentration, amazed at Scully's forbearance. At one point, the crime scene techs had approached him with complaints that they needed to get started, but he had waved them away, telling them to wait. Finally, Mulder seemed to notice that it was raining everywhere but on him. He looked up, startled, and saw Scully. Skinner couldn't hear what was said, but he saw the grin that burst across Mulder's face. Scully seemed to be looking down on him fondly. Skinner watched as she reached out and touched - no - caressed - his face. Mulder reached out to her, then rose to his feet, albeit unsteadily. He stretched, then brushed the mud from his pants. He stood for a moment looking at Scully, then reached out and took the umbrella from her. He stepped closer to her - very close, Skinner noticed - and placed his hand on her back. They turned and began to walk across the field toward him. As Skinner realized Mulder was finished, he pulled his cell phone and called the techs. "The area is yours. Mulder's done." He hung up brusquely, not wanting to listen to the repeated complaints and gripes that were sure to come up again, his attention already refocused on his agents crossing the field. Mulder seemed to be speaking tiredly, but with feeling. Scully was listening, but she was also examining Mulder. Skinner looked more closely at the man, trying to see what Scully was looking for. As the two drew nearer, Skinner began to see it as well. The suit, while wet and bedraggled, was looser than it had been 5 days ago. His face was pale, unshaven, with bruised looking circles under his eyes. He walked stiffly, as if it was an effort to stay on his feet. How could he have missed it, he berated himself. He had specifically come on this assignment, leaving his desk job for the field, so that someone - he, himself, Skinner - could make sure Mulder didn't get so far in, he hurt himself, and already the man looked like death warmed over. He shook his head ruefully. How does Scully do it? Skinner watched her continue to lead Mulder gently across the field. When they reached the tape, he leaned down and lifted it for her. She stepped under as he kept the umbrella over her head. She reached out, took the umbrella, and waited while he stepped under the tape. When he stood again, she handed it back to him and they continued walking. Scully seemed to have finished her surreptitious exam of Mulder and she reached out, placing a hand on his arm. Skinner saw Mulder jolt to a stop, and look, first at her hand, then into her eyes. She seemed to be asking him something. ********************************************************************** Mulder looked down into Scully's eyes. "Sure, Scully, I ate a while ago." Scully looked down, "Oh," she said. She seemed disappointed. "When did you get in Scully? Have you eaten yet?" His effort was rewarded as she ducked her head to hide the slight smile that graced her face. "I sorta left in a hurry, Mulder, and I didn't get a chance to get anything. I was hoping you would join me. I hate to eat alone." "Sure, Scully, we can get a bite. Have you been to the hotel yet?" He gestured down at himself. "Can we swing by there and get into some dry clothes first?" "No, I haven't checked in yet; I came straight here. But changing sounds like a wonderful idea." Mulder glanced sharply at her then, realizing how very wet she was. She must have held the umbrella over him the whole time, leaving herself exposed to the rain. Why did this amazing woman care for him like this? She continually astounded him. They reached Skinner and stopped. Mulder straightened and began to report. "Sir, I don't think this was our guy - it just feels different to me. I don't know if it's a copy cat or not. Our killer is not overtly individualistic with his signature, so this could just be a random murder, with enough similarities that we had to look twice. Some of the elements are the same. It took a long time for anyone to make the connection that this was a serial killer because there is such an element of randomness to his kills. There's nothing I can learn here. I still can't get a handle on the killer's pattern." At that admission, Mulder seemed to fold into himself. The nights without sleep, days without food, the sheer physical exhaustion began to catch up with him. But he forced his mind to focus on the task - he had to catch a killer. He half stumbled as he stood before Skinner. ********************************************************************* Scully saw it happening again. She reached for him at the same time Skinner did. They each held an arm, and Mulder gazed blankly at them for a moment then, shook them off, and straightened again. He was slipping back into his profiling mode. Well, not until he was dry, had eaten, and, if she had her way, had gotten some sleep! She took the umbrella from his hand, and turned to Skinner. "Sir," she began. "I haven't had a chance to check in yet. I had the airline send my bags to the hotel, and took a cab here. I think all of us could do with some dry clothes. Is that your rental?" She indicated the vehicle he had gotten the umbrella from and began heading that way, half leading, half pulling Mulder. "Yes," Skinner replied. "But I need to stay here for a while. I'll have another agent take you to the hotel." Skinner reached out and unlocked the car. Scully opened the rear door and helped Mulder inside. She watched as he sank back wearily, leaning his head far back on the seat and closing his eyes. She helped him with the seat belt, then murmured soothingly to him, stroked his arm, stood, and shut the door. "Sir, you said you came to watch out for him. Well, he needs it now. He's exhausted, he's already lost weight, and I know he hasn't been sleeping. He'll fight me - but you - you can make him rest." She chuckled dryly. "Or at least order him to stay in the hotel. I need you to come with me." Skinner studied her appraisingly, then relented. "All right, Agent Scully. Get in." He moved to the driver's seat and slid behind the wheel. Scully went around to the other side and got in beside him. Skinner was surprised; he realized he had expected her to get in the back with Mulder. Scully looked over her shoulder and, sure enough, Mulder was asleep. It amazed her that the man couldn't sleep nights for more than a couple hours at a time, yet could fall asleep anywhere else at the first opportunity. It had to be his own, finely developed, coping mechanism. Skinner had started the car and begun the trip back to the hotel. He was currently on the phone, giving guidance and direction to the team still at the last crime scene. He released the agents assigned to the serial hunt, accepting Mulder's conclusion that this murder was not by the same killer. Those agents went back to the command center. Scully looked at Skinner as he made his assignments. He looked tired as well. "So, Sir, want to bring me up to date?" "There have been 5 murders over 10 weeks. It wasn't until the third one that anyone began to suspect a serial killer. It was a fluke anyone caught it. The murders themselves have been by strangulation, different ligature each time. Electrical cord, belt, scarf, a rawhide boot lace, and wire coat hanger. The bodies were all face down, in obvious display, but the positioning was different for each. That's the extent of it for now. You can review the files later this evening." "Later this evening? Sir, Mulder needs to rest. He is dead on his feet. You don't look so good yourself. I know we're on a timetable, but could we at least do the review at the hotel? Maybe he'll get some sleep if he's not 'on display' for the rest of the team. He puts such pressure on himself to produce in these cases." "I'm OK, Scully," Mulder spoke up from the back seat. "Really, Sir, I'm fine." Scully snorted and shook her head. They were just reaching the hotel. Skinner parked and then looked at each of his agents. Mulder was exhausted. He had tried to straighten himself in the seat to give credence to his 'I'm fine' argument, but was already slumping back again. Scully looked tired as well. The hours in the rain had cleansed her skin of makeup, and she was pale as well. He made a decision. "Agents," he declared, "I want you to get checked in, Scully, and both of you get changed. Scully, go ahead and order meals for the three of us. We'll use your room tonight if that's OK. I'm going to change out of these wet clothes as well, and then I am going to the command center to get the files and other pertinent material and will be back in about an hour. When I return, we will eat, spend some time reviewing the case and bringing Scully current, and then, everyone, and I mean everyone, Agent Mulder, will get some rest." Skinner exited the car and strode off, not waiting for the argument he expected to come from Mulder. It didn't take long either, as Mulder caught him at the elevator. "Sir," he began. Skinner cut him off. "Mulder, this is not just for you. Have you looked at Scully? She's just out of the hospital, she had a long flight here, she stood in the rain for hours. She is worn out. But you know and I know she will not rest if you don't." Skinner turned and looked at Scully as she stood at the hotel desk. His voice turned thoughtful. "She's thinner, too. She needs to eat." He looked back. "Mulder, you can't let this case consume you. I don't think she is strong enough to deal with you on a tear right now. Offer what help you can, but don't - don't - drag her into this too far." Mulder had also turned and was watching Scully. "Why is she here, Sir? Did you call her?" "No, Mulder," Skinner sighed. "When you didn't make your 'annoying' daily call, she got worried. She started looking for you, found out you were here on a case for VCS, and she just showed up. I was going to send her home, but she was very - persuasive - when it came to why she needed to be here." "Refused to go home, eh, Sir?" Mulder grinned. "In a word, yes," Skinner said shortly. "And she is not to get sick because you can't take time to eat and rest, understand?" "Understood, Sir." Mulder turned and headed over to Scully at the the desk. Chapter 2 "Genius not only diagnoses the situation but supplies the answers." Robert Graves The bell captain had retrieved Scully's bags from the storage area where they had been placed on arrival from the airport. Mulder deftly removed them from the bell boy, and asked, "Where to, Agent Scully?" Scully gave a small smile. Mulder was trying. "I had them put me in the room adjoining yours. That'll make this late night meeting a little easier on us both. Ok? You don't think Skinner will question adjoining rooms, do you?" "That's fine, Scully. I think Skinner is firmly on our side on this one. You know, 'do what you need to do to do the job, and get out.'" Mulder monotoned in a reasonable imitation of Skinner. They both smiled. "No, seriously, Scully, Skinner has been great on this. He's been working with me, getting me what I need, keeping everybody else away. It hasn't been that bad. He nags me to eat and to sleep, or at least rest." He looked down, embarrassed. "He even sat with me in the evidence room when I went through everything - you know - so I wouldn't have to do it alone. He was quiet - respectful - didn't interrupt, but knowing someone was there, well, it helped." "Then I'm glad he's here Mulder." They entered the elevator, the doors closed, and Scully reached out and laid her hand on Mulder's arm. "So, how are you holding up, partner?" He looked at the hand on his arm, then lifted his eyes to her face. "I'm tired, Scully. I can't get a bead on this guy. He could go again anytime now, and I don't think I'm any closer than I was when I got here. I really need you to look at the autopsies for me. I need you to look at the pictures and the reports. I've got to get a fresh perspective, something's got to give, I've got to . . ." He broke off as she placed her finger against his lips. "Shh - Of course, I'll look at everything. That's why I came. But you - you are NOT single-handedly responsible for stopping this, do you understand?" The elevator opened and they walked to the rooms. Mulder put Scully's bags down outside her door, and moved down to his own. They each entered their room and went directly to the connecting doors. Each opened their own door, propping it to keep it open. Mulder came through immediately. "Don't sit on the bed, Mulder - you're still wet." He arrested in half sit, and stood again. Scully had pulled dry clothes from her bag and was heading for the shower. Mulder moved to a chair and was again stopped. "Not the chair either - Mulder - go clean up and get changed - you're wet and you're filthy." Mulder smiled. "Ok, Scully, you win - I'm going to shower and change. Shall I put on something 'more comfortable' too?" he leered at her. She ignored his innuendo. "Shave, too," she called back over her shoulder as she closed the door to the bathroom. "You're positively scruffy!" *********************************************************** Skinner arrived with the room service waiter. He was dressed casually in jeans and a polo shirt, a briefcase in one hand, laptop in the other, and a huge box balanced precariously between them. Scully relieved him of the box, placing it on the bed, and directed the waiter to the small table by the door. Mulder was already sprawled on one of the beds, in sweats and a tee shirt, hair still wet, remote in hand. The TV was on low, and every few seconds, there was a click as he surfed the channels. He seemed completely zoned out, asleep, or barely awake at best, and yet, there was that steady click from the remote. One arm was thrown carelessly over his eyes, the other holding the remote and extended out toward the TV. He had shaved, Skinner noted, and while he still looked worn, he did look better. What made the difference? He was clean, he looked comfortable, he wasn't 'on display' as Scully had put it, so he was more relaxed. And, of course, Scully was here. The last was the most important point, Skinner was sure. Scully, too, had showered and changed he noticed. She had on jeans and an oversized sweater. Seeing her in casual clothes, with her hair pulled back, no make up, and that huge sweater, she looked much younger than her 34 years. She, too, looked tired and drawn. He decided right then, to try to make this a short session. Skinner took note of the open doors between the rooms. He glanced into Mulder's - just what he thought - disaster. He had been right in choosing to meet in Scully's. He looked back into the room and caught Scully watching him. He gave a slight shrug and headed for the table. He watched as Scully went to the bed where Mulder lay, and sat quietly for a moment. No response. She shifted and moved closer to him. Still no response. The remote continued to click, the TV shifted from screen to screen, but Mulder didn't move. Interesting, thought Skinner as he watched the two. She's dealt with this before. Scully gently spoke. "Mulder. Mulder, come on, it's time to eat." Slowly, he seemed to come back to himself. The arm came down and he turned to look at her. His eyes were at half mast, and a slow, lazy smile crossed his face. "Hey, Scully, you're back." She reached out to take the remote from his hand, but he dropped it and his fingers captured hers instead. He turned her small hand over and began to stroke the palm with his thumb. "I missed you, Scully. I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you didn't die." She smiled down at him, then stroked his arm with her other hand. "I'm glad I'm here, too, Mulder." She paused, giving him a few more moments to come back to himself, from wherever his brilliant, driven mind had taken him. He continued to make small circles in her palm as he gazed at her. Finally, she glanced up, looking at Skinner where he stood by the table. Skinner had watched this small interaction, almost mesmerized. As Scully looked at him, he saw a small crease appear in her brow and she colored slightly. She seemed concerned he had witnessed this decidedly intimate moment between the two of them. He gave a suggestion of a smile and nodded, and she turned back to Mulder. "Mulder, are you with me now?" she asked, still speaking gently, quietly. "Yeah, Scully, but I really did miss you. It's a lonely place out there." He still held her hand, unwilling or unable to let go yet. "I know, Mulder. I know. I'm here now. But right now, you need to get up and eat. I'm hungry and you said you'd keep me company. And you need to eat too." At the mention of food, Mulder had turned slightly green. But when Scully had mentioned her own hunger, Skinner watched as he swallowed hard, and bit back the response he had been about to make. Hmmm, considerate Mulder - who'd have thought? Skinner chuckled in his mind. "And AD Skinner is here, too, Mulder," Scully continued. *********************************************************************** Mulder dropped Scully's hand and jumped up off the bed. He looked at Skinner, face burning, stammered a brief greeting and turned back to his partner. "Scully," he said, gathering his composure, "what's on the menu?" Scully had watched this little scene with humor. She rose gracefully from the bed and went to the table. She and Skinner began to lay out the plates from the room service cart. "Soup and salad for everyone. One chicken, one fish, one pork. Which do you want, Mulder?" "Uh, Scully, I think I can manage the soup, maybe the salad. I don't know if I can do more." "That's fine, Mulder. I know it's hard for you." A gentle touch. "Start with the soup and we'll go from there." Mulder took the bowl of soup, moved to the desk and took a seat. Scully brought a glass of iced tea. She rejoined Skinner at the table and began to eat her salad. Skinner was already eating his soup, but looked up when she placed hers aside and began on the salad. His eyebrows went up - a silent 'what?' Scully glanced at Mulder - idly stirring the soup - and Skinner knew. She wanted to have more for him in the event she could get him to eat at all. "Mulder, bring the chair and join us," Skinner said. "The table's not that small." Mulder dutifully got up and moved, bringing the tea, but conveniently leaving the soup. Scully started to get up, but Skinner gestured and rose himself. He retrieved the bowl, and placed it before his agent. Mulder grimaced, shot a covert look at Scully, and picked up the spoon. Within 30 minutes, they had all finished, Mulder eating all of his soup, some of Scully's, and even nibbling at his salad. Skinner had been surprised at how hungry he had been, and had eaten both the chicken and the pork entrees. Guess I'll have to be more careful myself about being sure to eat, he thought. They worked together and cleared up the remains of the meal, stacking it on the cart and moving the cart into the hall. Once that was done, they were ready to get to work. *********************************************************************** Two hours later, they were still at it. Scully had read everything there was to read, Mulder had gone over everything again, Skinner had retraced every step that had been taken so far. They were no closer to answers than they had been. Scully stood and stretched. At this, Skinner too got up. They both looked at Mulder. He was seated cross legged on the floor, staring at pictures of the victims, taken at the crime scene. He picked the first one up and began again. His breathing slowed, and he stared at each one for a long time before moving to the next. His eyes began to unfocus. His hand froze. Scully's breath caught. "He sees something," she said. Skinner nodded in agreement. They both waited. Five minutes, ten, fifteen. Skinner looked at Scully, willing to take his cue from her. She glanced down at her watch again - 20 minutes - no movement. She moved toward Mulder, gesturing for Skinner to stay where he was. Moving carefully in front of him so as not to startle him, she knelt before him. "Mulder," she said. "Mulder, what is it?" His eyes slowly came into focus and fixed on her face. "Scully." She reached out and took the picture from him. Her hand lingered on his for a moment, then retreated to her side. "What did you see?" "Is Skinner still here?" looking around. "Oh, Sir, I think you'll want to see this." He rose stiffly, then reached back down and helped Scully up. He sat on the bed, pulling her down beside him. Skinner came and stood next to them. Mulder pointed to the first picture. "Does that look like an 'M' to anyone?" Scully and Skinner stared. "It's possible, Mulder. Why?" from Skinner. "Because, this," he pulled the next picture up, "looks like an 'A' to me." Next picture. "And this could be an 'I' and this may be an 'L.' The last one is another 'M.' I think we need to check connections with the post office." He looked at Skinner. "I know it's weak - but it's something new to look into." Skinner studied the pictures, then he studied his agent. "All right, Mulder. We'll look into it." Mulder started to rise. "Just let me get ready, Sir, I'll be with you in a minute." "Agent Mulder, the only 'getting ready' you are going to do, is getting ready for bed. I will call the night team at the command center and tell them what we've got. They will do what preliminary work they can for the rest of tonight. Tomorrow, when you and Agent Scully" - a discreet look in her direction - "are rested, we will begin a more active investigation into this line of inquiry." Skinner looked meaningfully at Mulder, then at Scully. "I am going to my room now, to get this started. I will see you both at 0700 hours in the morning. I'll tell the team we'll be there by 0730. Get some rest." "Uh, Sir, could you make it 8:00? That way we could get breakfast." Mulder spoke hesitantly, with a sideways glance at Scully, she smiled approvingly. Skinner studied them, sitting side by side on the bed, each worrying over the other. "Yes, of course, Mulder," he replied. "0800 hours it is. I'll see you both in the morning." He turned and left the room. ************************************************************************ Scully stood and looked down at Mulder. He fell backwards onto the bed and looked back at her. She cocked an eyebrow. "Letters, Mulder? Could it be that cliché?" "You never know. This guy isn't exactly playing with a full deck. Who knows what pops his cork?" "All right. We'll deal with it in the morning. At least its a new avenue to explore." She gazed at him - he looked like he was settling in for the night. "Up, Mulder. You're next door." He grinned and rose. "Ah, Scully, you're no fun." He headed for the door to his room. As he passed her, he reached out and took her hand. "Thanks for coming, Scully." She looked at his hand, holding hers, then raised her eyes to meet his. "Where else would I be, Mulder?" He laughed. "Yeah, but I still don't know why." He reached out and stroked her cheek, then turned and went into the other room. But both doors remained open. Chapter 3 "Well, Darkness has a hunger that's insatiable, And Lightness has a call that's hard to hear." Indigo Girls Mulder was trying to be good. He went into his room and lay on the bed He turned the TV on, but kept the volume low. The blue light made flickering patterns on the ceiling. He lay there and watched as they danced over his head. He made himself lay still, thinking, but not moving. He knew that sleep would not come. An hour passed. Halfway through the second hour, he got up quietly and moved to the connecting door. He peeked into the room and saw Scully asleep in her bed. She lay on her side, her hair spilled over the pillow. She clutched the blanket to her chin. He moved toward her, then stopped. He didn't want to risk waking her - she definitely wouldn't approve of him being here - so he contented himself with a long look - drinking her in - reassuring himself that she was really here. Then he turned and padded over to the table, lifted the box of materials they had been using last night, and returned to his room. He settled back on the bed, and began again. After several more hours of relatively fruitless work, Mulder got up. He pulled out his shorts and running shoes and got dressed. One last look in on Scully - still sleeping soundly - and he slipped out the door. He started slowly, working his way up. After half a mile, he was settled into a steady rhythm. He continued on, following the 5 mile path he had laid out for himself the first day. Running helped. It cleared his mind of extraneous things. His body was occupied, no distraction, he could focus on the things that needed to be looked at. As his feet pounded onward, his eidetic memory began to pull up the reports again, going back over them, again and again. Looking for the one thing he had missed that would make that connection. As he reached the turn that would bring him back to the hotel, the sun began to make its way above the horizon. He began to slow, cooling down, finishing the last block or so at a walk. He needed more background information on the victims. It was there, but it didn't go back far enough. He would ask Skinner to put someone on it today. He entered the hotel, crossed to the elevator, and rode up to his floor. As the doors were opening, he heard a familiar voice scream, "Mulder!" ************************************************************************ Skinner had just gotten up and was headed for the shower when the air was split by a loud scream calling Mulder's name. He grabbed his gun, flew out of his room and across the hall to stand outside Scully's door, ready to force his way in. He looked up, as a panicked Mulder came flying down the hall. He had obviously been running. He didn't even stop at Scully's door, but went right to his own and entered. Skinner followed, weapon at ready. Mulder grabbed his own weapon from the table by the bed and entered Scully's now quiet room. The room was empty - no intruders - and he put the gun aside and went to where Scully lay, fighting with the covers on the bed. Skinner stood by the door and watched as Mulder spoke softly to the woman on the bed. "Scully, I'm here. Don't fight. Wake up." He reached out and gently pried the blankets from her fingers, gathering her hands into his own as he did. He held them loosely for a moment, then said again, "Scully, I'm here." With a guilty glance back over his shoulder at Skinner, he reached out and began to stroke her hair. With the other hand he stroked her shoulder and pulled her toward him. Suddenly, with a cry of "No!" she jerked away. Tears began to flow down her cheeks and she began struggling again. With a tremendous surge, she pulled away from Mulder and struck him, hard, across the face. He fell backward and tumbled from the bed. Skinner darted forward and grabbed her wildly flailing arms. "Are you all right Mulder?" he asked. Scully continued to fight him and he tightened his grasp. Mulder looked up, and seeing Skinner holding Scully, said, "Don't restrain her, Sir. It frightens her more. Let her go and move away." Skinner looked doubtfully at Mulder, but released Scully and backed away. She quieted almost immediately, but tears still flowed down her cheeks. "Mulder, you're bleeding," he stated. Mulder reached up to his lip, touched it, and brought back a bloody finger. He rose and headed for the door to his room. "Just watch her for a minute. I need to wipe the blood off. If she remembers this, she's going to be upset enough as it is." Pondering that cryptic comment, Skinner sat on the other bed, and watched as Scully alternately lay quietly or struggled and fought, crying soundlessly the whole time. He debated on whether or not to try to wake her, but decided to wait for Mulder's return. He came back quickly and moved to the bed where Scully lay quietly now. Just as he sat, she again surged upward, but this time he was prepared. He grabbed her arms and spoke sharply, "Scully!" Her eyes flew open, and she froze in mid-fight. She stared at Mulder, eyes glassy at first, then slowly clearing. At last she seemed to collapse into herself. Mulder caught her as she sagged and pulled her into his arms. She began to sob. "It was so real, so real. It was happening all over again." "What, Scully, what was happening?" A small sniff. "I don't remember. I just know it was awful. Nothing could make it stop." Mulder began to speak soothingly to her. He cupped her face in his hands, erasing the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. She seemed to settle somewhat as he spoke, relaxing under his touch. She instinctively moved toward him, and he pulled her tightly into his arms. Skinner was fascinated as he watched the tableau unfolding before him. Mulder continued to hold Scully, stroking her hair, and speaking gently. Her body began to slump, as if from exhaustion, and Mulder slowly lowered her from his arms to his lap. She nuzzled into his thigh, relaxing under his ministrations. When she was completely at ease, Mulder started to pull back and rise. But she reached out and clutched him, gave a wordless plea, and held him in place. He risked a quick look at Skinner again and said, "She has these nightmares, Sir, since the abduction. Not often, but when she's under a lot of stress. It's happened a lot since the cancer." "Then it's a good thing she has you to help her, Agent Mulder," Skinner responded. Mulder nodded, his attention focused on the woman who lay on his lap. He gently stroked her, making soothing, nonsense sounds for another minute, then responded quietly, "No, Sir, it's a good thing I have her. I don't know what I'd do without her." Mulder extricated himself from Scully's grip, and pulled the covers back over her. He smoothed her hair one last time, his touch lingering. He tucked both arms under the blanket and ran his hands over the spread, chasing away the wrinkles. He rose and went to join Skinner in the doorway to his room. "It's time for us to get up, Sir. She's not going to like you being here. She doesn't even like me being here, but she tolerates it." "I understand, Mulder, but I would like to assess Agent Scully's condition for myself, if you don't mind. I'm not completely satisfied that she should be working after all." "Oh, I don't mind - she's the one you'll have to deal with." Mulder grinned at Skinner and went back to Scully's bed. "And YOU will be the one to tell her she can't work. That I want to see." The last was half muttered under his breath. Mulder approached the bed again. He reached out and gently shook Scully. "Hey, you, wake up. It's time to get up." Scully rolled toward Mulder and raised one eyelid. "What are you doing in my room?" she began, but then noticed his swollen lip. She sat up quickly. "What happened to your lip?" Mulder darted a guilty glance in Skinner's direction, then lied, "I fell when I was running." Scully followed Mulder's glance and saw Skinner standing in her room, still in night clothes. "Why are you here, Sir?" Mulder cast a pleading look at Skinner. Skinner looked at them both and then said, "I came to wake Mulder early. We're needed at the command center. You have half an hour to get dressed. We'll still have time to grab a quick bite to eat before we meet with the team." Skinner turned and exited through Mulder's room. Mulder shoulders sagged in relief. "You awake now?" At Scully's nod, he continued, "I'm gonna grab a quick shower - I'm ripe." He rose and headed back to his own room. ********************************************************************** The three met in the hotel lobby and crossed the parking lot to the coffee shop located next door. Both men had on standard business suits, though Mulder's tie was anything but standard. Scully wore a skirted suit, with her ever present heels. As they walked Scully fell back a bit behind the men, studying Mulder. He turned, "What? What are you looking for now?" he asked in exasperation. "I'm watching you walk." she stated flatly. "I want to make sure you didn't hurt yourself more than you're telling me in your fall." Mulder flushed and looked guiltily at Skinner. "And here I thought you were just checking out my ass, Agent Scully." "You wish, Mulder," she replied. "But, actually, you don't look too injured. Are you sure you're ok?" "Yes, Mom." Mulder answered. "You didn't sleep, though. I can tell. AND you worked last night." "How can you tell that?" Mulder was surprised, he thought he looked pretty alert this morning. "You cut yourself shaving - you never do that unless you're tired. And, you forgot and left the box in your room. It was on the table in mine when we retired." "With those investigative techniques, Agent Scully, you should ask for a raise." Skinner watched the interplay with amusement, then cleared his throat. Both Mulder and Scully jumped, as if they had forgotten his presence. "We need to get a move on if we're going to make the morning meeting on time." They all resumed their steady pace toward the coffee shop and breakfast. They entered and were seated promptly. The waitress appeared to take their orders. Mulder started, "I'll have coffee, the largest you have, black, and another to go." Scully cocked her eyebrow at him, and he ducked his head. "He'll have orange juice, half a cantaloupe, and toast. I'll have the same. Sir?" Skinner looked at the waitress, who looked in confusion at Mulder. He just nodded sheepishly and studied the table. The waitress turned her attention to Skinner. "Actually, that sounds very good. I'll have the same, but bring me a danish instead of toast." The waitress nodded and hurried off. "Mulder, you have to eat," Scully started, but Mulder waved her quiet. "I know, I'm sorry, I'll try. Listen, I decided while I was running that we need more background information. What we have doesn't go back far enough. Could you get someone on that this morning, Sir?" "All right, Mulder, how far back do we need to go?" "Let's try to go back to when they first left the parents' home. All the vics were fairly young, but had lived on their own for at least three years. Track where they lived, when, roommates, everything back to when they left the nest." Their meals arrived then, and conversation turned to more mundane matters. As they finished, Mulder looked at Scully and quipped, "I cleaned my plate, Mom, can I have that coffee to go now?" Scully frowned across at him, then beckoned the waitress. "One large coffee to go, please." She turned to Mulder, "Happy now?" "Oh, Scully, you know what I like," he teased back. Mulder's coffee arrived and they all headed for the rental, and the long day ahead of them. Chapter 4 "He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." Nietzsche As the car slowed and then stopped, Scully's voice broke into Mulder's reverie. He was grateful. He'd spent the drive over thinking about getting into the killer's head, his thoughts, the why's and wherefore's of his actions. It was exhausting work, going to a dark and disturbing place, a place he didn't want to enter. Sometimes entry seemed to cost him both his sanity and his soul. He knew what he needed to do, but any break in this sort of work, while postponing the inevitable, was a welcome relief. As the three entered the command center, a phone rang. An agent answered, listened for moment, the hung up. He turned to Skinner, "There's been another one, Sir." Mulder visibly sagged at these words, reaching out and gripping the table edge to keep himself on his feet. Skinner quickly moved to him, and seated him in a chair. Scully moved behind him and placed her hand on his shoulder. Skinner stood by the two for a minute more, then faced the waiting team. "Those who were working on the possibility of a post office connection, finish up with that, get a report together and be prepared to share your findings at the briefing this afternoon. I want another team on deep background. We need more information on the victims. Trace them back to when they left their parents' homes. Make sure you include the latest victim. This team should also be prepared to report this afternoon. I want the crime scene people with me. Any questions? All right, people, look sharp and get busy." Skinner gave a last look around then focused on Mulder. Scully still stood behind him, her head bent toward his left ear, murmuring to him. He still looked pale, too pale. Her thumb moved in small circles over his shoulder blade, her fingers resting near his neck. He was tense, but seemed soothed by her presence. He walked to them and cleared his throats. "You're both with me." He lowered his voice, leaning down slightly, "Are you all right, Mulder? Do you really have to come to the crime scene?" But he knew the answer even as he asked the question. Mulder straightened in his chair. His hand rose and joined Scully's for an instant, fingers intertwining. He looked back and up at her, a slight smile on his face, deep sadness in his eyes. She gazed back at him with compassion, caring, concern. Then the moment passed. Both hands fell and Mulder stood. Skinner wondered if he had imagined the interplay; the professional masks were both so firmly in place now. "I'm fine, Sir." A glance at Scully, her slight nod - agreeing? encouraging? "We're ready." As they entered the car, Scully slipped into the back with Mulder, leaving Skinner by himself up front. The drive to the crime scene was silent. Skinner looked in the rear view mirror several times. While the distance between his two agents never varied, at some point, Mulder had reached for Scully, and held her small hand in his. Yesterday, her mere presence had been enough to calm and comfort him. Today, especially after the latest murder, he seemed to need more tactile reassurance. The body lay in an abandoned gas station near the edge of town. Strangulation - this time using a man's necktie. The yellow tape was up, but once again, the techs had been held off, waiting for Mulder. He stood in the doorway, staring at the young woman lying face down on the dusty floor. She was nude and had been abused. The garrote was still wrapped tightly about her throat, the trailing ends carelessly spilled across her back. "Our next letter, Scully," Mulder said, pointing to the woman's back. "E." "Mail me? What does it mean, what does he want?" Scully asked. Mulder shrugged. He motioned for the techs to come and take the body. Then he moved into the room, taking up a position by a window covered with plywood. Scully moved with Mulder, stepping closer to him. She spoke. "I need to go with . . . " She gestured at the victim. "Will you be all right until I get back?" Mulder shrugged again. "I'll be fine. Go. Do. It's all right." Scully reached out and laid her hand gently on his arm. She looked up and captured his eyes with her own. They stood there, motionless, until Mulder finally covered her hand with his own. In a soft, gentle voice, he said, "Scully, go. It's all right." She continued to search his sad eyes, then at last, nodded agreement. "Remember, Mulder, Skinner is here. You are not alone. You don't have to do this alone. You are not responsible for stopping this. You can only do what you can do." Scully pulled her hand free, turned, and walked away. Mulder followed her with his eyes until she left the building and he couldn't see her anymore. Then her returned his attention to the scene before him. ******************************************************************** Several hours later the crime scene analysts and forensic detail people had left. Skinner had spent that time supervising the work, overseeing by phone the investigations going on from the office, and watching Mulder. Scully had left with the body in order to expedite the autopsy. Mulder had found a corner, settled in, and not moved. He had watched the others working, had gazed at the spot the body had occupied, and had spent time staring into space. He was currently hunched down in the corner, legs open, arms draped over knees. He had removed his tie, and held it loosely in his hands, gazing at it with unfocused eyes. He alternately inhaled, pulling the tie tight, then exhaled, allowing the tie to fall loose again. Skinner went to him, standing in front of him, waiting. When Mulder didn't acknowledge him, he knelt, trying to catch his agent's eye. Still no sign of recognition. It was as if Mulder wasn't there. Skinner cleared his throat. Nothing. It was frightening, the way he sank so completely into the killer's mind and motives. "Agent Mulder." Skinner spoke quietly, but clearly. "He chokes them." Mulder said in a small, tired voice. The tie pulled taut. "He gets off on choking the life out of them." One end knotted around his hand - pulling tight. Voice deepening. "They choked him somehow - choked his self-respect, choked his social life." His hand turning red, the tie tightening as he pulled, harder and harder. Voice sinking, "Maybe he choked sexually with one or more of them. Now he's choking them back." His hand was turning purple now, cut off. Voice choked, lowering. "They cut him off - from sex? From love? From life? What? From what he needs. They cut him off from what he needs" Voice lowering more - impossibly low - gasping for breath to speak. Hand completely purple, still pulling on the tie. "So he cuts them off from what they need - the breath of life - no air for those who cut him off." Shudder, gasp. "no circulation for him - no circulation for them." Pulling harder on the tie - hand beyond purple - swollen. "He has to choke them so that he can breathe." The last was uttered barely above a whisper, and Skinner found himself staring into eyes glinting with a shifting lucidity. Mulder began to wheeze, unable to catch his breath. "Mulder - Agent Mulder." Skinner spoke sharply but Mulder continued to gasp. He reached out quickly and unknotted the tie from around the man's wrist, throwing it across the room in disgust. As the blood began to flow back into Mulder's hand, his breathing began to even out. Skinner cradled the abused hand in his own, massaging the palm and fingers, trying to help work the blood back into the starved appendages. He captured Mulder's gaze, trying to ground him, but Mulder stared back, unresponsive. Skinner reached out and felt for a pulse at the neck. It was racing. He was cold, frighteningly cold. "Mulder?" Skinner lowered him all the way to the floor, seating him with his back still in the corner. He rose quickly and went to the door, calling for a blanket. He pulled his cell and called Scully. "Come back now." She didn't even answer, just silence, rustling, and a click at disconnect. Skinner assumed she was on the way. After his commentary on the killer, Mulder had retreated completely into himself. Skinner gave orders for no one to enter the abandoned room, keeping the curious away. He wrapped the blanket around Mulder's shoulders, then, hesitantly, almost uncomfortably, took his hand again. "Come on back, Mulder. Scully will be here soon. You don't want her to see this, do you?" Skinner felt terrible using Scully to invoke guilt in his already guilt ridden agent. But there was no response. Skinner pulled the blanket tighter around Mulder's shoulders, then seated himself on the floor in front of him. He continued to hold Mulder's hand, hoping that the contact would keep him tethered to the here and now, at least until Scully arrived. Seeing Mulder like this, lost in a killer's world, was a new and unsettling experience. If this was what it took to be a profiler, Skinner gave silent thanks that he had never shown an aptitude in that direction, and settled in to wait. ********************************************************************* Scully was assisting in the autopsy of the latest victim when her cell phone rang. Having the diener extract and open it, holding it up for her, she answered, "Scully." Skinner's voice sounded in her ear, "Come back now." She didn't even answer. She began stripping off the gloves and issuing instructions for the body to be held until she could get back. She reached out, took her phone, closed it, and left. When she arrived at the crime scene, she immediately noticed an agent standing by the doorway to the interior of the gas station, almost as if on guard duty. She crossed to him and he waved her inside. She stepped in, pausing to let her eyes adjust to the darkened room. She saw Skinner first, sitting in the dust in the far corner. She moved in his direction and he made as if to get up. She motioned for him to stay put. Idly, she noted he was holding Mulder's hand. Now, that was intriguing. She had long known that Skinner was caring and compassionate, especially where she and Mulder were concerned, but she was surprised by this overt demonstrativeness. Her eyes passed over Skinner to rest on Mulder, still hunched into the corner, sitting unmoving, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His tie was gone and there were angry red marks around the wrist of the swollen hand Skinner held. Scully knelt next to Skinner and asked, "What happened?" "He seemed ok, watching, taking things in, not commenting, but at least alert and responsive. He squatted down here and took his tie off. I thought he was getting comfortable, settling in for the long haul. I - I didn't realize . . . " Skinner's voice trailed off. "I know. It slips up on you. Did he tell you anything?" "Something about the killer needing to choke the victims, because they had choked him. I missed a lot because he seemed to be trying to cut his hand off with his tie at the same time. I was more interested in restoring circulation and trying to get him to reconnect with the rest of us." Skinner was frustrated, distressed, and feeling a bit helpless. Scully nodded and focused on Mulder. She took his hand from Skinner, carefully examining it for signs of damage. She began to stroke his hand, then up his arm, all the while making soothing sounds and quiet noises. She moved closer, her knees touching his thigh. He blinked and began to focus, her quiet voice pulling him back into the here and now. He jerked back, then looked gratefully at her, drinking in her presence. He leaned forward into her arms for a moment, murmuring, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I wasn't going to do this, I didn't mean to. . ." His voice trailed off as he pulled back and sat up. In a clearer voice, "Thanks, Scully. I got a little deep here, huh? Is everything ok? I didn't ..." He stopped, blushing. She smiled softly and withdrew her hand from his arm. "A little deep? You could say that. I think you scared AD Skinner." She smiled, turned slightly to look at the ruined tie lying on the floor, then quipped, "At least the tie is no great loss." Mulder chuckled dryly, " Scully, you wound me!" She turned serious and looked back at him, reached up and brushed his hair from his eyes, then cupped his cheek. Leaning forward, she touched her forehead to his for a long moment. "Mulder, you have to quit doing this. It's not good for you." He captured her hand in his own, holding it to his face, and leaning in to her strength. He just looked at her; there was no response he could make. They both knew he would do what had to be done. ********************************************************************** Skinner looked up in relief when Scully slipped in. He watched as she stood quietly for a moment, then headed over. He started to rise, but Scully walked over, and joined him on the dirty floor, asking what had happened. He briefly told her what had occurred, feeling she was only half listening to him, her attention was so focused on the man before them. She surprised him by acknowledging his report, then reassuring him that he could not have prevented this slide into the murderer's madness that Mulder seemed to have taken. "It slips up on you." she had said. How often has she seen this, dealt with this side of Mulder, he wondered. He resolved to be more careful of what he assigned them, and what he allowed them to take on. Skinner looked on as she reached out, taking Mulder's hand from him carefully, as if it were an injured baby bird. She cradled his larger hand in both her own, gently assessing any damage. With a slight glance in his direction, she began to caress Mulder's hand, a slow, almost sensuous movement up and down the palm, and over the back. All the while she spoke softly, quietly, encouragingly, as one would to a frightened child or a wild animal. The words were not important, it was the tone they conveyed. Safety. Security. Trust. Compassion. Caring. Belonging. Love. Mulder seemed to blink, as if trying to refocus himself. Scully's hand began the same slow stroking movement up his arm. She moved closer to him, her knees tight against his thigh. One hand held his, the other stroked him, almost like a trainer would gentle a wild horse. Skinner watched in awe as Mulder blinked again, his eyes shifting into and out of focus, until finally, he jumped, pulling back slightly, then leaning into Scully's arms. He murmured to her, too quietly for Skinner to hear. She shushed him and held him tightly, grounding him to the present, until he slowly, obviously reluctantly, pulled back and sat up. Skinner was surprised when Mulder thanked Scully, in a fairly clear voice. He said something about getting in too deep. Too deep, Skinner thought, that's gotta be the understatement of the year. Scully must have agreed, for a second later she made the same comment out loud, adding "I think you scared AD Skinner." Scared - shit, that didn't even begin to cover it, Skinner thought. No wonder they call him Spooky. How does Scully deal with this obsessive behavior on a regular basis? Skinner was rapidly developing even greater respect for Mulder - for his abilities and persistence in spite of the obvious pain and discomfort his pursuit caused him; for Scully - for her strength and steadiness, her intelligence and commitment, her resilience and willingness to take on some of Mulder's burdens; and for the partnership itself - they complemented each other so well, like two halves of a whole, each bringing what was needed to achieve completeness. Skinner laughed to himself. Those bastards thought these two were dangerous - but they didn't have a clue - not a fucking clue - exactly how dangerous they could be. If that cigarette smoking bastard every found out - Skinner didn't think he could offer sufficient protection, no matter what he was willing to risk. He would have to find a way to temper the passion these two brought to whatever work they were doing. Skinner looked back at Scully and Mulder just as she made some comment about his hideous tie being no great loss. He was relieved to hear Mulder's dry chuckle and quick response. But then, Scully reached up to caress Mulder's forehead, stroking his hair back, then resting her hand against his cheek. Skinner watched as she leaned forward, touching her forehead to Mulder's and held him for a long moment. "Mulder, you have to quit doing this. It's not good for you." Skinner couldn't have said it better. They had to find this guy and get Mulder out of here. This couldn't go on. He began to think of ways to pull him off the task force and send him home, knowing it was futile. Mulder didn't take direction well, not when he felt he needed to finish something. Skinner watched, slightly envious of the closeness his two agents shared, as Mulder captured Scully's hand against his cheek, leaning into her, seeming to draw strength from her presence. He didn't respond to her comment. Skinner knew there was nothing he could say. Instead, he rose himself, saying, "Let's go, Agents. Time to head back to the motel, change and grab a bite to eat, then meet the teams for briefings this afternoon. Hopefully, something will break." Chapter 5 "I have always thought the actions of men the best interpreters of their thoughts." John Locke Once again Skinner drove, this time with Mulder in front and Scully in back. She gave her findings thus far from the partially completed autopsy of the latest finding. She then leaned back into the seat, sighed, and closed her eyes. Mulder glanced cautiously over his shoulder and saw her sitting with eyes closed. He took the opportunity to study her a little more closely. What he saw concerned him. He made a decision. He caught Skinner's eye, then pointed with his chin over his shoulder at Scully, resting in the back seat. "Sir, can we move the briefing to this evening? I need a few more hours to look at what we have so far." His quiet sigh of relief was echoed from the back as Skinner looked at him for a moment, and then responded, "I believe that can be arranged, Agent Mulder. How does 1900 sound?" "Sounds like you're back in the Marines, Sir, but 7:00 p.m. sounds great!" Mulder quipped. A groan from the back, and when Mulder chanced a quick look, was pleased to see a half smile on Scully's lips. Skinner pulled his cell and began the process of moving the meeting back. He also arranged for any reports, complete or partial, to be copied and messengered over to the hotel for their review. He also ordered meals to be delivered to Scully's room again. As they walked into the hotel, Mulder held Skinner back for a moment, "After we eat give me about an hour, Sir, and then you can bring the reports to my room. I'll even clean up a bit!" Scully had stopped and turned to look at them, so they hurried forward to catch her. As they exited the elevator, Mulder was secretly pleased, for Scully's sake, and dismayed for his own, to see the room service waiter outside Scully's door. "Looks like you get yet another chance to make me eat, Scully," he groaned. She just arched her eyebrow and looked at him. Scully opened the door, gesturing the waiter in, then the two men. Skinner busied himself with the server and the food. Scully went to the far bed and almost collapsed onto it. Mulder watched as she seemed to remember that she wasn't alone, and pulled herself stiffly up. She sat with her back to Skinner, looking out the huge picture window. Mulder made his way around the bed and knelt before her. He felt like he was facing the executioner. She might just shoot him again for what he was about to do! He reached out and removed one small, heeled shoe. Scully didn't move. She gave him a quizzical look, but didn't pull her foot away. Mulder began to massage her foot, with slow circular motions. She sat utterly still, watching him, but he kept his head down, focused on his task. He could just see her from under his lashes as she looked at him as if he had grown another head. Finally, she began to relax, closing her eyes, and allowing her shoulders to slump. Gradually, she placed her hands on the bed behind her and leaned back, semi-reclining. Mulder chanced a glance at Skinner. The waiter was gone, the lunch laid on the table, and he stood watching them both. Mulder offered a small, sheepish smile, and Skinner responded with an encouraging nod. Mulder removed the other shoe, and offered the second foot similar treatment. Finished, he gently took both her ankles in his hands and sat back on his haunches. Scully sighed, then slowly pulled herself up and looked down at Mulder. Her eyes were still half closed and she seemed to struggle to pull herself upright. Mulder reached up and took her arm, pulling her forward slightly, and steadying her. She placed her hand over his, and leaned down to him, murmuring, "Thank you." Mulder glanced at Skinner, then said, "Scully, after we eat we're all going to try to grab some sleep. You look tired - please - tell me you'll try to sleep." He hated the pleading whine he heard creeping into his voice, but he didn't know how to extract this agreement to rest from her. He was getting really worried. She could be so stubborn - and she really did look exhausted. Just getting out of the hospital - he knew she should be home on her couch, with a good book, resting, not out chasing serial killers and supporting half crazed profilers. "All right, Mulder, I'll rest. But you will too." She turned and looked at Skinner, including him in the next statement. "And whatever plans you two have made to get together when I'm asleep, scrap them now. You both need to rest as well. No excuses. I agree to rest - so do you, ok?" Mulder nodded, then gave Skinner a guilty look. He rose to his feet and helped Scully up. Skinner cleared his throat, then said, "Agreed, Agent Scully. A little rest will only help us this evening. Now, agents, lunch is served." *********************************************************************** After eating, they cleared the table and put the serving cart out in the hall again. Skinner excused himself and returned to his room. Scully took comfortable clothes and went into the bathroom to change. When she came out, Mulder was asleep on her other bed, TV on low, remote in hand, but sound asleep. He was still fully dressed, having only shed his suit coat. His shoes hung over the end of the bed. She smiled down at him fondly, then stroked his hair. She took the remote from him and turned the TV off. She pulled the blinds on the window, darkening the room. Then, she removed his shoes and unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, trying to make him a bit more comfortable. She found an extra blanket, covered him, and crawled, exhausted, into the other bed. Mulder was half aware of the blanket being put over him. Even in his state of semi-sleep, he inwardly rejoiced. He snuggled down into the warm comfort of the blanket and that thought, and sank more deeply into unawareness. Sometime later, when he heard her begin to moan in distress from the other bed, he got up. He looked down at her, struggling against unseen enemies, and made a decision. He took his socks and pants off, then removed his dress shirt, leaving on his boxers and t-shirt. He pulled back the covers, joined her in the bed. He lay down with her, and took her in his arms, surrounding her with himself. He needed this as much as she did. He held her gently, stroking her back, and murmuring soothingly in her ear. She settled almost immediately, rolling willingly into his arms, placing her head on his chest. He continued to stroke her, her back, her hair, her arm as she slipped back into a deep sleep. He, too, drifted off to sleep - all thoughts of serial killers and murders chased away by dreams of a small, redheaded woman who lay nestled trustingly in his arms. ********************************************************************* Skinner wanted to let his agents sleep as long as possible. When he could wait no more, he called Mulder's room. No answer. Now that was strange. Mulder had promised Scully he would rest, and while he didn't always follow instructions, he would never have left after telling Scully he would rest. He might bend the definition of rest, but he would stay in his room. Skinner hung up, then tried Scully's room. He had wanted Mulder to wake her, just in case she became distressed again. But . . . Mulder seemed missing in action at the moment. The phone rang once, then a sleepy male voice answered, "Mulder." Mulder? Skinner eyebrows shot up. Well, not missing in action anymore. And he's obviously been asleep - in her room. In her bed? Skinner's forehead creased - this could prove difficult. "Hello?" from the phone. "Hello?" Mulder sounded more awake and seemed to be getting pissed off. "Oh, sorry, Mulder," Skinner finally spoke into the phone. "I wasn't expecting you to answer." Wish I could see his face now, Skinner thought wryly. That would be a sight! "Agent Mulder, it is time to go to the command center for this evening's briefing. Would you wake Agent Scully - I presume she's there with you since it is her room - and both of you meet me in the lobby in 30 minutes." Long pause. "Uh, hello, Sir. I, uh, fell asleep in Scully's room. I, uh . . ." The voice trailed off. After all, what else could he say? Skinner chuckled to himself. "Did you hear me? It's time to get moving. And Mulder, don't worry about the sleeping arrangements, just don't flaunt it." "Uh, yes sir. Thirty minutes. Lobby. Thank you, Sir." Click. Skinner laughed again. This could be difficult, but it was bound to happen sometime. Anyone could see the commitment these two had to one another. He put the phone down. And besides, as tired as they both were, they probably just slept. ********************************************************************** Mulder was awakened by a tickle in his nose. He reached up to brush it away and found a handful of hair. He opened his eyes, and looked down. Red hair. Red hair sprawled across his face, his chest, his arm. He sighed contentedly. THIS was where he belonged. This felt so right. He didn't ever want to move again. He tightened his arms around the woman he held, and closed his eyes again, breathing in her scent. His mind began to work out ways to stay here, blow off the briefing, blow off the case, just stay here. And, of course, because he was happy, content, hopeful, something had to happen to shatter that. The phone rang. Without thinking of anything but not waking Scully, he reached out and grabbed it. "Mulder." He murmured sleepily. No one answered. He shifted slightly, waiting, then said, "Hello?" Still no response. Now he was coming fully awake, alert. Again, "Hello?" a touch of anger in his voice. Skinner's voice responded. Skinner began talking about the briefing, time to get ready, wake Scully. But Mulder couldn't take it in. He was stuck on the thought that he had answered the phone in Scully's room, obviously asleep, and it was Skinner who had called. Skinner knew he was sleeping in Scully's room. "I, uh, fell asleep in Scully's room," he stammered. That wonderful feeling of just a few moments ago was gone, replaced with fear and panic. What would Skinner do? A chuckle - did Skinner just chuckle? Don't flaunt it? What is going on here? "Uh, yes sir. Thirty minutes. Lobby. Thank you, Sir." He hung up. Skinner wasn't upset. He lay back, relief flooding him. He pulled Scully close for one more minute, engraving this moment in his mind for all eternity. She snuggled trustingly into his side, tightening her hold on him as he tightened his on her. "Hey," he whispered in her ear, "time to get up." *********************************************************************** Scully was scared. She was alone. They were coming for her again. She looked for Mulder, but he wasn't there. She wasn't going to let them take her again, never again. She turned and began running, away from the light, away from the forms within the light. She looked back over her shoulder and tripped. As she fell, a moan escaped her lips. As she lay there, waiting in horror for what she was sure would come next, suddenly, Mulder was there. He wrapped her in his arms, and lifted her up. He turned and carried her away from the light. She clung to him, feeling his heart beating beneath her head. She wasn't alone anymore. She slipped willingly into the darkness, secure in Mulder's arms. Someone was breathing in her ear. She slowly began to wake as she felt arms tighten around her. Mulder. She lay in his arms and felt so safe. She felt better rested than she had in what seemed like years. This nap was the best sleep she could remember. She tightened her own arms around him and snuggled in closer. "Hey," he whispered in her ear, "time to get up." "Mmmmm - five more minutes, ok?" she responded sleepily. Somewhere in the far recesses of her mind, she wondered why Mulder was in her bed, why she was in his arms. But it was so comfortable and comforting, she refused to think about it just now. He laughed softly, "No can do, Scully. Skinner wants us in 30 minutes. Gotta get a move on." He reluctantly began to pull away. She groaned, then held him tightly as he tried to pull away. "Wait, Mulder." He looked down into her face questioningly. She opened one eye, looked up to see him looking at her, expectantly. "I just wanted to say, that is, er, thank you, Mulder. I really slept well. Thank you for being here." He continued to look at her, then reached out and cupped her face in his hand. He slowly leaned down, his lips reaching for hers. He kissed her lightly on her lips. He pulled back, watching, waiting. Looking into her eyes, still not speaking, he leaned into her again and kissed her softly, gently, tenderly, but with a hint of passions yet to be explored. She let him, needing the love that he was offering. She opened herself to him, letting him hold her, touch her, kiss her, need her, because it was what she needed too. She shivered from the force of the emotion in his kiss. This was right - she knew it in her heart. This was right for both of them. Why had she waited so long? She needed to be in his arms right now. Strong arms that made her feel safe and warm and cared for. She reached up and pulled him in for another kiss, harder, deeper, making the spiritual connection that was between them real in the physical world. They parted slowly, lingeringly. The naked emotion, the sheer need, the overwhelming love in Mulder's face almost broke her heart. They needed to explore this, she knew. But not now, not here. Chapter 6 "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?" Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (The Sign of Four) Mulder and Scully rode down in the elevator in silence. Every time he tried to say something, he throat closed up. It was an unending litany in his head. But he couldn't bring himself to actually say anything. It was like, if he verbalized it, it would evaporate. But here he was in the elevator, growing more anxious by the minute - panic attack just around the corner. He began to fidget, shifting his weight from foot to foot, then to twist his fingers in his hands. He stared at the floor - convinced he had dreamed it all. And then - Scully reached out - rescuing his already sore hand from self-inflicted abuse, and spoke. "Mulder, we need to talk about this. I know that. But not here, not now. When we get home, ok?" He looked up from the floor, meeting her gaze, and fearfully asked, "But is was ok, right Scully? It really happened and it was ok, right? I didn't hurt you - you're not mad? We're ok, right?" He was desperate for reassurance. Just realizing the depth of his fear, she released one hand, turned and pressed the button to stop the elevator. She recaptured his hand and stepped closer to him. "It was definitely ok, Mulder." She smiled. "And I want to explore where this will take us. But not while we're hunting a serial killer. I want to be able to focus all my attention on you, on us. Is that ok with you partner?" Mulder swallowed hard and nodded. "I just wanted to - needed to - know that everything is ok with us, Scully." A strangled sob. "I couldn't bear to lose you." He dropped to his knees. "I couldn't bear it if I hurt you." Scully pulled him in to her, cradling his head against her abdomen and stroking his hair as he cried softly. "I know, Mulder. I'm sorry, I didn't realize how scary my silence would be to you. I just need time to work things out in my own head - that's why I was so quiet. Not because you hurt me or upset me or anything. We kissed - wonderful kisses - full of joy and hope and promise. I don't want that marred by this case." She joined him on her knees, and he took her in his arms, holding her close and showering her with feather light kisses. Then he bounded up, pulled her up with him, and pushed the resume button. The elevator opened and they went to meet Skinner. ********************************************************************* They met Skinner in the lobby as directed. Both had showered quickly, dressed, and were ready to return to work. Skinner noticed immediately that they both looked more rested than they had since this whole thing began. "Scully, Mulder," he began, "we have time for a sandwich as the coffee shop before the briefing this evening." Once again, the trio headed across the parking lot to the coffee shop. Skinner noticed that Mulder couldn't seem to take his eyes off Scully. His face wore a perpetual smile, that broadened into a grin every time he looked at her. Something happened this afternoon, Skinner thought. They entered the restaurant and took a seat. The same waitress from the morning was still on duty. She approached and asked to take their order. This time, she addressed Scully, asking, "What will he have?" nodding at Mulder. Skinner and Mulder both burst into laughter. Scully colored a bright red, and ducked her head in embarrassment. "Yeah, Scully," Mulder teased, "what will I have?" She looked up and met his eyes, then laughed softly at his playfulness. "Ok, ok, you win," she sighed. Turning to the waitress, she said, "Better ask him this time." The waitress looked at the three of them, laughing. They were all nuts she concluded. She took the orders and left them to their merriment. All through the meal they discussed the case quietly. Though each was rested, and in good humor, Skinner knew that it was temporary. As soon as they entered the command center, and the case was right there, real and immediate, he knew that Mulder would begin to go under and Scully would quickly wear down. They needed to wrap this up, now. He sighed to himself. Maybe the reports from the two teams working on background and mail connections would reveal something new. He sat back and listened as Mulder and Scully argued minute details. Mulder reached out and took her hand, offering a comment, then released her. She answered, touching his arm. He brushed her hair back from her face, speaking intently. She stroked his leg, responding calmly. Yep, Skinner thought. Something had definitely changed. He had never seen them share such open, unaffected contact before. Mulder was very tactile - Skinner knew this and had witnessed it many times. He took any opportunity to touch Scully - a hand on her back, guiding her by her elbow, a gentle touch to hand or arm to assure her attention. But Scully was more reserved - usually only initiating contact in fairly extreme circumstances. And even then, she often sought privacy, or relative privacy, before touching Mulder. Yet she was practically holding his hand here in a public diner. Yes, indeed, something had happened. ********************************************************************** They arrived at the command center and Skinner immediately called everyone to order and began the briefing. Mulder grabbed copies of the teams' reports and went off by himself to a corner to read. Scully gave her report on the autopsy - thus far - with assurances she would complete it the next day. The crime scene and forensics agents reported and the deep background team was up next when Mulder suddenly stood up. "It's him," he said quietly, pointing to a name on one of the lists he had been reading. The room erupted. Questions, comments, even accusations were flying fast and furious. Skinner banged on the table for quiet. Scully went to him, looking at the list, and asked, "How can you be so sure?" "You said it yourself, Scully, when you asked me 'Letters? Could it really be that cliche?' Yes, Scully, it could be that cliche. Liam Emerson - mail me - an anagram that fortunately he hasn't completed all the letters to. He's connected to 3 of the victims and to a fourth victim's family, though distantly. The other connections are there, we've just missed them. It's him, I'm sure of it." Just then, the phone rang. One of the local agents answered it. Mulder looked at Scully - his face crumpling. "Oh God, I finally know who it is, and it's too late. He's got another one." He collapsed back into his chair. Scully gripped his arms, forcing him to meet her eyes. "You don't know that Mulder." They both looked at the agent on the phone and at Skinner. The phone went down, and the expected announcement was made. "A girl reported missing by her friends - fits the victim profile. Missing 2 days." Mulder jumped up. "She may be alive - we have to find him." Skinner looked at Mulder, assessing him and his pronouncement. After a long pause, he finally turned and said, "Assemble a team - work with local law enforcement QRT. Let's find this guy and find him now." Mulder immediately headed for the door. Skinner's voice stopped him. "Agents Mulder, Scully, a word please." The room emptied of all but Skinner, Scully, and Mulder. The partners waited anxiously to see what Skinner wanted. "Agent Scully, you are only provisionally back at work. You will not participate in this phase of the operation." Mulder nodded approvingly, as Scully sputtered and began to protest. Skinner held up a hand, demanding silence, and she quieted. "And Agent Mulder, you are physically not in any shape to participate in this operation." Now Scully nodded and Mulder sputtered. "You will both join me in the van, the mobile command post. We will observe, but not participate - is that clear?" Both nodded and they all followed the others out and up to the street. ********************************************************************** The van was parked outside a non-descript farmhouse. The owner was one William Emerson - father of Liam. Inside the van it was hot, noisy, and crowded. Mulder stood behind Skinner, watching a video monitor and trying to hear the audio feed. Scully couldn't jockey a position to see, so she concentrated on listening. The QRT members were working their way up to the house on all sides, when all of a sudden the front door burst open and a terrified, half naked young woman came racing out. In pursuit was a young man waving a gun. The team members began racing toward to the two, but it looked like no one would get to them before the man caught the woman. Mulder took all this in, glanced quickly, almost apologetically, in Scully's direction, and bolted out of the van. Scully cried out, "No, Mulder!" She and Skinner both dove out of the van, following him. Mulder raced across the road. The man looked up, saw that trouble was coming and lowered the gun, taking aim at the woman's back. Mulder redoubled his efforts and, as the gun went off, launched himself at the woman, efficiently tackling her and taking her out of the line fire. QRT tackled the man at the same time, subduing him quickly. Skinner reached Mulder first, as he was trying to rise. As he reached down to help the younger man up, Scully stopped him. "Don't move Mulder." She knelt down next to him, looking reproachfully back up at Skinner. "He's bleeding." Skinner looked again, and saw the blood on Mulder's hip, seeping through the torn trousers. Skinner called, "Paramedics, we've got an agent down here!" "Geez, Scully, it's just a nick." Mulder complained. "And where did you get your medical degree, Dr. Mulder?" she asked sarcastically. "Just lie still and let me look at you." She unbuttoned his pants and began to unzip them, when Mulder cleared his throat. "Um, Scully, as much as I'd like you to get into my pants, I'd prefer a little more privacy, please?" Skinner laughed. He couldn't be hurt badly if he was concerned about his modesty. ********************************************************************* Mulder lay in the hospital bed, sighed and tried not to pick at the IV. Sure enough, Skinner and Scully had ganged up on him, insisting he go to the hospital. And then, the doctors from hell had decided he was dehydrated and suffering from exhaustion. He was stuck here overnight. Where was Scully? She said she was just going to change. Mulder sighed again. The door opened, and Scully peeked in. "I should have known you wouldn't be sleeping." Mulder's face brightened, "Scully, I missed you. What took so long?" She held out a bag. "Peace offering? I stopped and got you a burger and fries." "Ah, Scully, you do know what I like." Another sigh, this one of contentment. Scully put the bag on the table by the bed and sat next to Mulder. She took his hand in hers and took a deep breath. "Mulder, I don't know if I can do this." She shuddered, then continued. "When you jumped out of the van, I wanted to kill you. And then, when the bullet hit you, I wanted to die. I feel like I've just found you, and I don't want it to be over before it ever begins." She shuddered again, swallowing a ragged sob. Mulder pulled her down to his chest, putting his arms around her. "Shhh - it's ok. I'm ok. We're ok." She began to cry and he murmured to her - the same repetitive words - trying to calm her with the steady drone of his voice. She began to calm, and he pulled her completely into the bed with him. He rocked her gently and rubbed her back. "Scully, you won't lose me. Having you here with me - this is more than anything I ever expected in my life. I used to think if I could just kiss you, hold you, one time, I could die happy." He lifted her chin and looked seriously into her eyes. "But Scully, I am a selfish man. Once is not enough. I want this everyday, for a hundred years, and then I want to renegogiate for a new contract. If that's ok with you?" He leaned into her, lightly touching her lips with his own. Reminding her of their new beginning. She gripped him tightly and deepened the kiss, opening herself to him, sharing all that she was. "We have forever, Scully. And when we get home, we'll start making our plans. But for now, just rest." She burrowed into his chest, holding him as tightly as she could without hurting him. He stroked her hair and listened as her breathing evened out and she slipped into a deep sleep. Mulder closed his eyes and settled into sleep, looking forward to sleeping for once in his life. Looking forward to dreaming of a small, redheaded woman, and the life they would make together. Part 2: The Emerson Case, continued Chapter 7 "To fall in love is easy, even to remain in it is not difficult; our human loneliness is cause enough. But it is a hard quest worth making to find a comrade through whose steady presence one becomes steadily the person one desires to be." Anna Louise Strong Mulder stood leaning lazily up against the cabinets in the kitchen, eyes at half mast, as he watched Scully finish up the dishes. He held the cloth he had used to dry the glasses, silverware, and plates. It felt wet against his shirt front - but his attention was not on a wet shirt - but rather on a compact red head who had just shared a fabulous meal with him. He watched as she concentrated a bit more on a stubborn place in the pot she was washing. Her tongue peeked out of the corner of her mouth and the muscles of her back and shoulders bunched as she exerted additional effort. Scully could feel his eyes on her - moving slowly over her - like a lover's caress. She felt, rather than saw, when he moved toward. And then, his arms were around her, his hands holding hers in the soapy water. She tensed at his first touch - this was still so new - then relaxed into his arms. His long, elegant fingers holding her small hands, his arms tight against her own, he leaned over and placed a chaste kiss at the corner of her mouth. She turned in his arms, looking up at him with love and concern. Since the change in their relationship, Mulder was so careful not to move too quickly. He had iron self-control, she thought, and he was determined for them to progress slowly, learning each other completely, and enjoying every moment of it. She lifted herself on her toes, catching his mouth with her own, and kissed him deeply, amazed at how her heart overflowed with feelings for this complex man. "Come on Mulder, this pot isn't going to wash itself you know." She started slightly as he took the rag from her hand and finished the last pot, placing it in the other sink. He let the water out and began rinsing their hands in clean water from the faucet. She leaned back into him fully, and felt his arousal as her weight settled against him. He reluctantly stepped away, and picked up the still damp towel. He dried his hands quickly, then hers, more gently, more thoroughly, taking his time to enjoy the feel of her small hands in his. Hands that were so strong, but hands that could be so gentle when they touched him. Having come to learn many new things about her since their return from the Emerson case, he knew she always put on lotion after doing the dishes. He grabbed the tube from the window sill over the sink and lead her to a chair at the table. Seating himself, he pulled her into his lap. She came willingly, with a slight giggle. He opened the lotion and squeezed some into his own large hands. "You know you'll smell like roses now, Mulder, " she laughed. He laughed with her, delighted by her happiness, then turned serious. "No," he said, inhaling deeply, "I'll smell like you." His shifts from playful to serious often caught her by surprise, sometimes confusing her, but almost always pleasing her. She ducked her head as her eyes filled with tears. He lifted her hand, cradling it in his own and began spreading the lotion over it with his thumb. He started with small circles in the palm. He worked up to her fingers, rubbing, stroking, working the lotion in. He turned her hand over and began long, sensuous movements up the back of her hand. She watched as he began to work the lotion into her hand. He massaged her palm, her fingers, the back of her hand. It was incredible! This man took the simple act of applying lotion and turned it into one of the most sensuous experiences of her life. She settled more deeply into his lap, leaning back into him, and purred with contentment. At the sound that escaped her, a deep throaty half sigh, she felt him hug her to him, and she felt him stir beneath her. She smiled. Their time was coming. She leaned back into his chest, closing her eyes, and made a sound of contentment, deep in her throat. He tightened his hold on her briefly, a small hug, felt the tightening in his own groin, then focused his attention on her other hand. She remained still in his lap, relaxed in his arms, and he thought he could die happy at that moment. He finished his ministrations and wrapped her in his arms, holding her to him. Her head was nestled in the hollow of his shoulder, and he tilted his head downward, kissing her hair. She sighed - seemingly pleased with the world - and he was happier than he had ever been in his life. It seemed every new experience with her exceeded the last. They sat that way, quietly, together, for a long while, content and at peace with the world, until the silence was shattered by the ringing of the phone. *********************************************************************** Mulder reluctantly released Scully, watching as she rose gracefully from his lap and went to the phone. He followed her to the doorway, unwilling to let her leave his sight. "Scully," she said crisply. "Yes, Sir. He's here, sir." She mouthed to Mulder, 'Skinner,' and indicated he should pick up the extension. He turned back into the kitchen and lifted the receiver from the wall phone. "Yes, Sir, I'm here." "Well, Agents, I'm sorry to disturb your evening. A situation has arisen in the Emerson trial. Our depositions are not being accepted and we need to return to testify after all." Muffled groans from both phones. "But, Sir," Mulder began, "we just got back from our last case, days without sleep, physically exhausting surveillance. Scu - we just aren't up to this, Sir." Skinner heard the implied - Scully's not up to this. They had returned from the Emerson case and been on the road almost constantly ever since - for almost 3 months. Mothmen, a monster from a bad movie who turned out to have a soul, the whole debacle with Scully's daughter, and all the questions that had raised. Pusher and his sister. Killer trees, killer dolls, killer computers. Then this last case with hours and hours of watching for a madman. It never seemed to end. They were both physically and emotionally exhausted. Skinner spoke regretfully, "I do understand, Agent Mulder. Believe me, it was not my idea. But we can't let them turn Emerson loose, now can we?" "No, Sir, we can't." Scully spoke up. "When do we have to leave?" "Early tomorrow - that's the only reason I interrupted your evening. Let's meet somewhere for breakfast tomorrow, then head over to the airport for the flight." Skinner smiled as he spoke. "See, Mulder, I'm still trying to make sure you both eat!" Scully and Mulder both laughed at that, and the plans were finalized. Skinner said his good nights, with apologies once more, and Mulder was left alone with Scully. She stood quietly looking at the phone as he walked up to her. He reached out and touched her arm, then slowly ran his hand up to her shoulder. She turned to him, taking his hands in her own, pulling his sleeves up so she could look at the still healing wounds on his wrists from his run in with the VR computer. She stroked his healing flesh carefully. He watched the expressions crossing her face. Sadness, concern, worry, fear, wistfulness, tenderness. Her expressiveness when they were alone never ceased to amaze him. She could be so professional in public, schooling her features into bland masks, and yet, with him, like this, her face was alive with her heart's feelings. He let her touch him gently for a minute longer, then gathered her to himself. "I'm ok, Scully," he murmured into her hair. "This trip will be a piece of cake after the last few months. Think of it as a break from the DC winter, a trip to warmer climes, compliments of Uncle Sam," he smiled at her. "And Uncle Walter, too, of course." At that she grinned at him, and pulled back so she could look up at him. He loosened his hold, but didn't let go. "Well, since 'Uncle Walter' is accompanying us, we should get some rest and be ready to go on time, don't you think?" At that, he stepped back reluctantly, his hands still resting on her arms, longing for the day he would never have to let her go. "I guess I'd better go, then," he muttered, his fingers teasing the silky skin of her arms as he spoke. She stepped back into his embrace, reaching up for his lips. He kissed her hungrily, pulling her tightly against his chest. She squirmed against him slightly as she lifted herself to her toes, and he felt his groin come alive again. Holding her to him, he entered her mouth as she opened herself to him, inhaling her essence, drinking her in. He kissed her until she broke away, gasping for air. "Do you want to stay?" she asked shyly. Did he want to stay? What kind of question was that? Of course he wanted to stay. He wanted more, he wanted it all, but he wanted it in the right way, at the right time. So many things had gone wrong in his life, this was one thing he wasn't going to risk messing up. "I'd better not," he answered. "I need to pack and get ready as well. Tomorrow will be here all too soon." He smiled ruefully. "Someday soon, I'll stay Scully. I will, I promise. I just . . ." His words trailed off. She smiled at him, catching his hand again. She brought it to her lips and kissed each finger gently. "I understand Mulder, it's ok. Someday soon." A new thought occurred to him. "Will you be ok tonight, Scully?" he asked with concern. "Can you sleep? Is that why you asked me to stay? "Cause I will, you know, if . . ." Once again he broke off, unsure of what to say. She still didn't like to discuss her sleep difficulties. She smiled again, shaking her head. "No, Mulder, I'm ok. Don't worry. If something happens, you're number one on my speed dial." He laughed a little, appreciating her efforts to lighten things for him, but he still looked closely at her, assessing the truth behind her words. She stood patiently under his penetrating gaze, having resigned herself to this part of him. This need to reassure, to reassess, to be certain of things in his own mind. Finally, he nodded too. "Ok Scully, I'd better go then." They walked hand in hand to the door, he kissed her softly, just touching his lips to hers, and stepped into the hall. "In the morning, then," she said. "Yes, in the morning." She closed the door, and he was left in the dark hallway, bereft of the light that was her. He waited till he heard the click of the lock, and the rattle of the chain, before turning and trudging tiredly out to his car for the long drive home. ********************************************************** Skinner was already seated when Scully came in. She wore a beige suit, with a cream colored blouse, and her heels. The consummate professional, all business, ready to go. Skinner smiled as she approached, and rose to greet her. "Agent Scully," he said, nodding, "Good morning. Where is Mulder?" "Good morning, Sir. I assume he'll be here shortly." He raised his eyebrows quizzically. He had expected them to come in together. After all, they had both been at her apartment when he called. Maybe things weren't as they seemed. He watched as she seated herself. "Is everything - all right - with you and Agent Mulder?" he asked cautiously. "Yes, Sir, we both just had a lot to get done to get ready for this trip." She smiled at him, then turned serious. "He's still not himself, sir. Whatever he saw in the VR setup has really shaken him. He was already tired, run down, when that happened, and now, just coming off this last one - he's not up to a lot. I'm worried about him. This is just a simple 'go and testify and come home,' right?" "As far as I can tell, Scully, that's all that will be needed. It should be two to three days, at the most. Non-strenuous, plenty of time to relax at the hotel. It may even give both of you a chance to rest more than if you were here, on call." He smiled at that thought. During the Emerson case, he had resolved to be more careful of what cases his two agents were assigned and what he allowed them to take on. So far, he felt he had been singularly ineffective in reducing the risk factor they were exposed to. Mulder arrived, appearing from no where and took the chair next to Scully. "Good morning, Sir." He nodded at Skinner. "Hey, you," he whispered to Scully, his hand snaking out to stroke hers. "Morning." Skinner watched with interest as Scully caught Mulder's fingers in her own for a brief moment, before replying, "Hi yourself. You're late." Mulder grinned mischievously. "Traffic." Scully looked at him, then rolled her eyes. "You came on the metro, Mulder." He shrugged, then quickly kissed her fingers. The waitress came and took their orders, and Skinner was again reminded of how these two looked out for one another. Scully raised her eyebrow at Mulder's request for pancakes, eggs, hash browns, and sausage. His eyes skittered to her, and he hastily amended his request, dropping the eggs and potatoes and adding a melon. He was rewarded with an nod and a happy smile. When Scully ordered toast and juice, Mulder gave a pointed look at her already slender waistline, and she added a poached egg and fruit to her order, raising her brow as if to ask, "Happy now?" He gave an encouraging smile and reached out, squeezing her hand. Skinner had ordered grapefruit, eggs, bacon, and toast. He was slightly embarrassed but secretly pleased to see both his agents give him approving smiles as well. It was nice to be somewhat included in their circle. Skinner informed them of the travel arrangements and hotel accommodations as they waited for their meals to arrive. "Kim couldn't get seats together on the first plane, as this was so last minute. We change once in Charlotte, then go on and arrive around 3:30 p.m., their time. We're staying where we stayed last time. That was satisfactory, wasn't it?" "It was fine, Sir." Mulder excused himself from the table. Skinner watched as Scully's eyes followed Mulder questioningly as he headed towards the restrooms in the back of the restaurant. Their meals arrived and after the waitress left, Scully said, "Did you get adjoining rooms for Mulder and me, Sir? He - doesn't - can't always sleep and it helps if I can hear him when it gets bad." She looked down as she spoke. "Yes, Scully, I did. I remembered from our last trip together. I'm right across the hall from the two of you," he paused, unsure of whether to go on or not, then plunged ahead. "I hope you know you can call me if you need - assistance - with Mulder, at any time. Or if you need ..." He trailed off, unwilling to bring her own nightmares onto the table without her permission. Skinner looked at Scully and watched in amazement as her hand reached across the table, and took his. "I do, Sir. Thank you." She squeezed his hand, then pulled her arm back. He sat, dumbstruck by her action, but nonetheless, touched by her graceful gesture. They began to eat and soon Mulder rejoined them. They briefly discussed the case as they completed their meal, then Scully excused herself from the men. Mulder and Skinner both followed her with their eyes as she walked purposefully to the back. As soon as she was gone from sight, Mulder turned to him and said, "She's afraid to fly, you know. We always sit together because she gets nervous." "No, Mulder, I didn't know that." Skinner replied. "And I don't know what I can do about it at this late date." "Are you sure you can't get us seats together?" Skinner rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'll see what I can do, but . . . " He trailed off as Scully walked up. "Ready?" she asked. As answer, both men rose, gathering coats. Mulder helped Scully on with hers, placed his hand at the small of her back, and the three of them headed out to the airport. *********************************************************************** Scully drove, as both men had taken the metro in from their homes. She left her car in long-term parking, and they shuttled over to the airport, arriving early. Skinner left Scully and Mulder to check the luggage and went in search of a ticketing agent. Though he hated to 'pull rank' so to speak, the request for adjacent seating shouldn't be too hard to grant. After a short wait, explanations that the three were federal agents and needed to confer prior to testifying at a serial killer's trial, he was successful in having secured three seats together. He didn't want to ask what the airline agent had done to make that happen, but as he walked away, he heard her paging two other ticket holders to come to the counter. Mulder and Scully met him at the gate, Scully carrying a briefcase, Mulder with laptop, and a large attache with all their notes and papers from the case. Skinner presented them with their tickets, and led the way onto the plane as boarding was announced. As he stopped by their row, Scully paused also, puzzled. "I thought we weren't together on this leg of the flight?" she questioned. "I asked for reassignment. I figured we could use the time to discuss the testimony and review before the trial." From over Scully's shoulder, Mulder shot him a grateful look. It surprised him how pleased he felt to have been able to do this small thing for them. Skinner placed his briefcase, laptop, and coat in the overhead, then turned to take Scully's. He assumed that she would have managed if she was alone, but she handed them to him gratefully, and seemed glad not to have to struggle to reach so far over her head. Skinner took the window seat, and Scully slid into the middle. Mulder stowed his gear, and was seated on the aisle. Skinner noticed Scully had immediately buckled her seat belt, and then claimed both armrests, holding tightly to them. He looked more closely at her and saw every muscle was tensed. Indeed, she seemed prepared for impending doom. He shook his head ruefully, and started to say something, when he saw Mulder shaking his head vigorously out of the corner of his eye. He closed his mouth and pulled a magazine from the pocket in front of him. Still watching Mulder, he saw the agent visibly relax, sagging into his seat. His hand came up slowly, and carefully covered Scully's on the armrest. She gave him a quick, tight smile, but did not release her hold. Skinner watched as he began to slowly stroke her hand with his index finger, from wrist to finger, back and forth, back and forth. It was a light touch, a gentle caress, but slowly, Scully began to relax. As the plane began to taxi, she tensed again, holding her breath for the take-off. She flashed an embarrassed grin at Skinner and ducked her head. "I get a little nervous when I fly," she explained. "Really," he replied blandly. "I hadn't noticed." She snorted in response, and then glanced at Mulder. He was grinning unabashedly, and still gently stroking her hand. She suddenly seemed to remember where they were and pulled her hand back from Mulder's, giving Skinner a sheepish look. She yawned, then, and Skinner noticed she looked tired. "Why don't you try to get some rest?" he said kindly. Mulder nodded in agreement, "Yeah, Scully, go ahead. We can do the briefing on the next leg. I'm a little tired myself." Mulder rose, pulling a pillow and blanket from the overhead. He unfolded the blanket and tucked it around Scully, then seated himself and placed the pillow on his shoulder. Scully cast a quick look at Skinner, then yawned again, and leaned into Mulder, settling against his shoulder. Though he couldn't tell for sure, Skinner thought he saw her hand slip across the armrest and take Mulder's again, under the blanket. As both of his agents settled in, Skinner turned and looked out the window, feeling a bit left out of the closeness these two shared. ********************************************************************* About an hour into the flight, Mulder looked up and called to Skinner quietly. He gestured to Scully and asked, "Do you mind, Sir?" as he made to move her head to Skinner's shoulder. "I need to make a bathroom run." Skinner straightened in his seat, thinking how many years it had been since someone had used him for a pillow rest. "No, Agent Mulder, I don't mind at all." Mulder made the move quickly and stood, heading for the back of the plane. Skinner sat looking at Scully. She seemed so young to him. Had he ever been that young? And she had gone through so many horrible things for her job, things she seemed willing to endure if they brought her and Mulder one step closer to the truth of it all. As he watched her, she began to tense. It seemed to him, she instinctively knew that Mulder was no longer here. Her brow creased and her mouth tightened. She began to move jerkily under the blanket that still covered her sleeping form. Skinner had seen this before. But he wasn't sure he was up to it here, in a crowded plane, without Mulder to help him bring her awake and calm her fears. He reached up and stroked her hair, afraid to say anything, knowing instinctively that the only voice she would hear in whatever place she was now, would be Mulder's. Where was he anyway? Her movements stilled as he continued to stroke her hair, but when his hand strayed to the base of her neck, she jolted upright, a strangled "NO!" coming from her lips. Her eyes were wild and her hands were coming up in a defensive posture. Skinner released her completely, and tucked himself into the farthest corner of his seat, trying to give her space, and make himself as non-threatening as possible. Where the hell was Mulder? Scully looked through him with unseeing eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks. She clutched the blanket to her chin, and people were beginning to turn and stare. Just then, Mulder came striding up, took in the situation, and called her name, softly. She turned quickly to him, eyes clearing, and reached out. In a little girl's voice she said, "I looked for you and you weren't there." He seated himself and pulled her to him, as the tears began to flow freely. He murmured into her hair, and stroked her back, then lifted her and pulled her into his lap completely. She settled down immediately, the tears ceasing. Skinner watched as Mulder continued to hold her, and speak soothingly, stroking her and caressing her as she began to drift off to sleep. Finally, Mulder looked at Skinner, and said, "Sorry, Sir, it hasn't been like this in a while. I knew she'd be nervous on the plane. I shouldn't have left." Skinner shrugged and said, "You couldn't have known, Mulder. I'm sorry I wasn't more help." "No sir, you did the right thing. Give her space, be as non-threatening as possible, she would have come around for you, too, sir. She just knows me better." "This is the second time I have seen this, Mulder. What the hell is going on?" "I'm not sure, Sir. She rarely remembers it even happening. I think it's flashbacks to whatever happened during her abduction." He grinned at Skinner. "But there is no way I'm gonna tell her that!" He paused, turning serious. "It doesn't affect her field work, Sir. There is no one else I would trust at my back." "No one, Agent Mulder?" Skinner raised his eyebrow. "No one on active field duty, Sir," Mulder replied, looking Skinner in the eye. Skinner nodded, and watched as Mulder shifted uncomfortably. "Want me to put her back in her own seat, Mulder?" Mulder looked at Scully, deciding how soundly she was sleeping, and then accepted. Skinner rose, lifted Scully just enough to place her in the middle seat again, then reseated himself. The remainder of the flight was uneventful and Scully remembered nothing of what had happened when she awoke. By tacit agreement, the men did not speak of it either. Chapter 8 "Doing easily what others find difficult is talent; doing what is impossible for talent is genius." Henri-Frederic Amiel While the men retrieved the bags, Scully decided to solve one problem in advance. She went and rented the car, thereby eliminating the need for a male power struggle over who would drive. SHE would drive - though both men might end up in the back, just for the leg room. She giggled to herself at that thought. Scully went and picked up the car and came back to the terminal to meet Mulder and Skinner. Though she had not wanted to come on this little trip, she found herself hopeful that the trial would end quickly, or at least their part in it. Then maybe she and Mulder could spend some quiet down time together. Time to explore the new facets of their relationship. As she pulled up to the curb, Mulder and Skinner both reached for the front door handle. Scully shook her head ruefully - maybe there was no way to resolve these male power struggles after all. After a brief contest of wills, Skinner yielded gracefully, apparently letting Mulder exert his 'partner' rights over his own 'supervisor' rights. Once at the hotel, they went to the desk to check in. Scully pulled Mulder to the side, giving Skinner room to handle the transactions for them all. "What do you mean, rooms 312, 519, and 802?" he asked. "No, that is not acceptable. I gave very specific instructions regarding our requirements." Mulder and Scully exchanged a glance. Skinner was in full AD mode, and the desk clerk didn't stand a chance! It took a while, and Skinner had to work his way through several layers of management, but in the end, they had the rooms that had been requested. Skinner huffed over to them, and passed out room keys. As they rode up in the elevator to their rooms, Skinner suggested getting together for an early dinner, before heading over to the local Bureau office for a preliminary briefing. They debated the merits of Chinese versus Italian, Italian winning, and a time and place were set. ***************************************************************** They parted in the hallway, each entering their own room. As was their custom, Mulder and Scully each went directly to the adjoining doors, opening them and Mulder stepped through. He flopped down on Scully's bed, bouncing once or twice, and then settling. He looked up at her through lazy eyes and leered, "Wanna join me gorgeous?" Scully stood, hands on hips, looking at him in exasperation. "Mulder, why don't you ever unpack? We're going to be here at least three days. Don't you want to settle in?" Mulder stood sheepishly, then returned to his room. She heard clanking of metal, zippers opening, drawers opening and closing, and a loud thud as something hit a wall. In about 60 seconds, he was back, jumping into the air and landing on her bed again. "All done," he grinned cheerfully. "NOW do you want to join me?" Scully shook her head in amusement, "Well, I don't want to hear you complaining if your suits are wrinkled." She watched as he rolled over and took the remote, turning the TV on, but muting it. "He waved a hand in her direction, eyes on the TV as he clicked the remote "Don't let me bother you, Scully, go ahead. Do your unpacking or whatever." She looked at him. He always invaded her space, but usually not so brazenly. She knew something was bothering him but she would wait for the right time to bring it up. Or maybe he would bring it up this time. She began her unpacking, hanging her suits neatly in the closet, shoes soldier-straight beneath. Underclothes in one drawer, nightclothes in another. As she began to hang her jeans up, Mulder laughed. "I should have known you would hang jeans, not fold them," he sang out. "Yes, well, at least I don't keep them in piles on the floor," she retorted. "Mulder, it amazes me how you always look so good when you are such a mess!" She sighed as he laughed again. "Hey, Scully, you think I look good?" he teased, standing up and reaching out to her. She turned, gave him a long look, and stepped into his arms, wrapping her own tightly around his waist. She let him hold her for a few moments, then asked "So, Mulder, what's bothering you?" her voice muffled in his chest. She felt him tense, arms tightening around her. "I just have a bad feeling about this, Scully. Even though I know it's silly, I just don't like this whole Emerson case. This guy is just too close to me. I mean, look at what he did. And why he did it - at least his excuse for why. So he wasn't popular in school, in college, in life. He couldn't sustain a relationship with a woman. He felt alienated." Scully felt him pull back from her. She let him go, but held onto his hands, trying to keep him grounded to her presence. She reached up and pulled his head down, until he was looking into her eyes. "And. . ." she prompted. "And there isn't anyone more alienated than I am, Scully. What makes these guys go in one direction and keeps me from following? I just don't understand it." He pulled his hands from her, eyes roaming the room frantically. He began to pace. She stepped back, out of his way, and let him work off some of the energy that suddenly crackled in the room. She watched as he paced, his hands pushing roughly through his hair. "Why them, and not me? What is it that keeps me sane?" At this, he paused his frenzied pacing, and gave a sheepish grin in her direction. "Well, as sane as I am likely to be," he hastily amended. "What makes my obsessions less deadly than theirs? Or are my obsessions really less deadly?" He began to move again. Scully watched, knowing he needed to get this out, and knowing she needed to let him. It pained her to watch him torment himself like this, but she realized it was a big step that he was talking to her about it at all. Before the Emerson case, he would have gone off by himself to brood; at least now, he was willing to talk about these demons he carried with him, and fought constantly. She stood quietly, waiting for the right moment to go to him. "So many people have been hurt because of my obsessions. I probably have a higher body count than most serial killers." He laughed macabrely and shook his head. "Who am I to think I am any better than these killers? Why else do I know them so well? I am them - I've focused on what I want to the exclusion of all else. It's how I can get into their heads so quickly and so completely. I am them." He laughed shortly. "Remember Eve 6? 'I am he and he is me and we are all together.'" He sing-songed in a quick, high voice. He paused again and looked pleadingly at Scully. His voice broke, "Scully, I don't want to be like them." She walked to him and took his hand. He followed her willingly and she seated him on the bed. She parted his long legs and stepped between them, pulling his head into her stomach, cradling him against her. She felt the tension in his back, across his shoulders, as he held himself stiffly against her. She held him gently, stroking his hair, and murmuring, "Mulder, you are not like them. You are not like them at all. You are strong and kind and caring. You're a good man, Fox Mulder." As she spoke his name, she felt him take a shuddery breath, the tension broke, he loosened in her grasp, and began to sob against her belly. She held him, still whispering in his ear, cooing words of comfort, and her hands stroked and soothed him. He cried for long minutes, his arms coming up and wrapping around her waist, clinging to her like a drowning man clings to a life ring. She stood like that for a long time, how long she wasn't sure. He finally began to calm, his long limbs relaxing even further as the physical exhaustion caught up with the emotional. She loosened her hold slightly, encouraging him to lay back on the bed. He moved where she directed, never taking his eyes off her, never speaking. She loosened his tie, slowly pulling the knot apart, then unbuttoned his shirt, pausing frequently to stroke his cheek or his arm. She pulled the colored strip from his neck, then leaned over and cupped his face with her hands. She kissed one eye, then the other, and he left them closed when she pulled back. "I'll be right back," she murmured. His eyes flew open, but he didn't speak. She walked into the bathroom, and wet a wash cloth with cool water, wringing it out. She returned to the bed and began to gently bathe his tear swollen face. His eyes closed again, under her gentle ministrations. She stroked him gently, watching as his breathing slowed and he slipped away in sleep. When she was sure he was asleep, she rose quietly, and finished her unpacking. When she was done, she changed out of her work clothes into casual wear. She stood looking at Mulder. They still had several hours before they had to meet Skinner. She went to him and took the shoes off the feet that hung over the end of the bed. He stirred, but didn't wake. She moved around to the other side of the bed, again giving him a long look. Making her decision, she crawled onto the bed, sliding over next to Mulder. She curled up next to him, placing her head on his shoulder, and wrapping her arm across his chest. She heard him sigh in contentment and his arms pulled her in more closely. He turned his head, and whispered huskily into her ear, "I missed you, Scully. I'm glad you're here." She smiled softly into his chest and closed her own eyes in sleep. *********************************************************** When he woke, it was dark. Mulder lay there, looking down at Scully sprawled across him in sleep. Her hair cascaded over his chest and wisps of it tickled his nose. Her head was pillowed on his shoulder, and her right leg was drawn up across his groin, which was already fully awake. He sighed quietly in contentment, then began gathering her hair. He stroked the silky strands together, tucking them behind her ear, then gently kissed her forehead. She stirred and he pulled her closely to himself. "Hey sleepyhead," he murmured, "time to wake up." She made an unintelligible sound, deep in her throat, and nuzzled deeper into his body. He chuckled, and reluctantly began to pull away. She tensed, and wouldn't let him go. "Sorry, Scully, believe me, it's not my idea. But we need to meet Skinner soon." She opened one eye and looked at him. They hadn't 'slept' together yet, but they had shared a bed on several occasions since that first time several months ago. He treasured the closeness they shared when they did so. Scully was at her most open and honest when she first awoke, more vulnerable to emotions than at any other time. "Don't want to," she muttered sulkily. He chuckled softly. She didn't come awake quickly, either. He clasped her to him for one last hug, then sat up quickly, bringing her with him. She came fully awake then, and fixed him with a baleful glare. He cupped her face in his hand, saying, "I'm sorry, I'd like to stay too, but we can't." He leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, touching soft lips with the tip of his tongue. Her eyes softened at once, and she returned his kiss, opening herself more fully to him. He clung to her for a long moment, then pulled away, reluctantly. He rose, hand lingering on her face. "Scully, I . . . That is, earlier . . . well, thank you." She nodded and they shared an intense look, then he said, "I gotta shower before the meeting, Scully. Meet you in 45?" She nodded and he turned and went through the open door, into his own room. ********************************************************** Skinner stepped into the hall and crossed to Scully's room. He had relaxed, watched a little TV, checked in with the office in DC and the local office here, then rested during the afternoon. He was once again dressed in his suit, a fresh white shirt being the only change he had made. He knocked once, then waited. Scully opened the door promptly. She had completely changed from earlier, and was now wearing a navy pantsuit. Her hair and makeup looked freshly done. He glanced over her shoulder into the room, expecting to see Mulder. Instead, he and Scully both turned as Mulder exited the next room, looking sharp as always in this gray suit. They each carried something, Skinner an attache, Scully had her lap top, and Mulder carried a box with case notes and other pieces of information that they felt might be needed. They went to the car and stored the materials in the trunk, then crossed the street and walked down a block to the Italian place they had chosen earlier. After being seated and ordering, Skinner began. "Mulder, there seems to be some concern over how you were able to identify Emerson as the perpetrator from nothing more than a list and a partial anagram of his name." Mulder nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I can see how it might raise questions, but there wasn't any question that Emerson was our guy, right?" He stopped and looked closely at Skinner. "Was there? I mean, he had the next victim at the farm and he tried to shoot her in front of dozens of law enforcement officials. What more do they want?" "I agree absolutely, Mulder," Skinner said, "but the legal system is questioning if we had sufficient cause to even be at the farm to begin with." He paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. "The difficulty with the depositions, and the - intuitive - way that you made the connection. . ." "You mean 'spooky,' don't you, Sir?" Mulder interrupted bitterly. He tensed, hand tightening into a fist where it lay on the table. Scully reached out and laid a hand on his arm. He looked at her and took a deep breath. "AD Skinner is not the enemy here, Mulder," she said gently. "Let's not shoot the messenger, ok?" He took another deep breath and calmed visibly. He placed his hand over Scully's where hers still stroked his arm. He shot Skinner an apologetic glance, and mumbled, "Sorry, Sir." "No, Mulder, I mean intuitive - remarkably intuitive - resulting in the saving of the last woman's life. Your performance in this case was magnificent, and something to be proud of." He paused again, trying to gauge Mulder's reaction to his next comments. Shaking his head slightly, he plunged ahead. "However, Mulder, the lack of concrete evidence to make the connection prior to our move on the farm, has created some difficulties for the local office with the courts. It has generated some - animosity - toward our participation here." As Skinner talked, Mulder stared at the tablecloth, his face white and pinched. He ran his hand through his hair, raking the already unruly strands into further disarray. His left hand clenched and unclenched where it lay on the table. Finally, he shrugged. "I've been where I'm not wanted before," he said. "I'll survive." He gave a weak grin to Scully. "I'll even behave." He looked down at the table, retreating into himself. Skinner looked at Mulder, then at Scully, who was watching Mulder with obvious concern. She glanced in his direction, and he met her eyes with concern in his own. Suddenly Mulder paled even further. He pushed back from the table, mumbling "Excuse me," and headed for the rear of the restaurant. Skinner and Scully watched him vanish into the narrow hall at the rear. Then Scully turned, saying, "He doesn't feel good about being here to begin with. This is not going to help." She looked accusingly at Skinner. "I thought this was a simple 'show up and testify' situation. He hates having to explain what he does - mostly because he can't explain it." "I know, Scully, I know," Skinner nodded agreement. "I hadn't realized how many difficulties there were until I checked in with the field office this afternoon. I'm sorry. I'll try to smooth the way - I'll do what I can." She looked steadily at him. "He -" her head jerked towards the back the building, "needs to know that. I think he's feeling pretty alone right now." Skinner rose. "You're right. I'll go. I know he won't want me "mother-henning" him, but he needs to understand, I am on his side on this. I think he did great work, and I won't let him be torn apart by others who can't appreciate that. Excuse me." He rose and followed Mulder's path to the back. Chapter 9 "One friend in a lifetime is much; two are many; three are hardly possible." Henry B. Adams. When Skinner entered the restroom, Mulder was standing shakily at the sink, face pale and blotchy. He gripped the sides tightly, while leaning heavily forward. As Skinner took in the scene before him, Mulder paled even more, and began to drop like a rock. Though Skinner moved immediately, he was unable to get to his agent before his head connected with the porcelain sink, making a sharp 'crack' ring in the tiny room. Skinner grabbed Mulder before he hit the floor, totally disregarding the blood flowing freely down the front of Mulder's head and onto his shirt. He lifted him and moved him against the wall, lowering him to sit and lean against the wall. Mulder was semi-conscious again, and feebly plucked at Skinner's hands. "Stop fighting me, Mulder," Skinner ordered. "Just sit down and be still for one minute, please." Mulder stopped resisting and sat where Skinner placed him. Skinner rose and wet several paper towels in the sink, returning to squat in front of Mulder and hold the towels to the wound on this head, still bleeding freely. Skinner looked in Mulder's eyes, and saw pain, embarrassment, fatigue, confusion, and a bit of fear. "Can you hold this Mulder?" he asked, gently taking the man's hand and lifting it up to hold the towels in place. He held his own hand over the towels for a minute, his other hand against Mulder's chest, helping support him against the wall. When he was sure Mulder was steady for the moment, he rose quickly and went to the door. Sticking his head out, he roared, "SCULLY!" He returned to his position in front of Mulder, who had begun to slump. "She's coming, Mulder. She'll be here in a minute." Skinner seated himself on the floor next to Mulder and pulled him into his arms, Mulder's back against his own chest. Though he felt awkward in this position, he was glad he had done it when he felt Mulder relax and slump into him. "What the hell is going on here, Mulder?" Skinner murmured quietly as he held his once again unconscious agent and waited for the cavalry - in the form a small red-headed woman. *********************************************************************** Scully sat at the table thinking how quickly Skinner had turned from suspected adversary, to supportive supervisor, to caring friend in the last few months. Oh, yes, he could still be a real hard-ass at times, a stickler for details, insistent on protocol. That was the Marine in him, she assumed. But he could also be amazingly sensitive, and seemed to be genuinely concerned for her, and for Mulder. She knew that this was a new experience for Mulder, an older man who actually cared about his welfare. She knew his relationship with his father had been quite strained, and she suspected that there had been abuse - perhaps quite a lot. But Mulder hadn't talked about it yet, and she was going to let him reveal himself in his own time. She felt that Mulder had cast Skinner in a pseudo-father figure role, perhaps without even being aware he was doing it. She sometimes felt Mulder was testing Skinner - seeing how far he could push before the older man either exploded or completely rejected him. So far, Skinner was standing up to it admirably. He'd earned big points the day Mulder had hit him while drugged, and he had not retaliated. She smiled to herself. Mulder was still talking about that. "Even though I hit him, Scully, he didn't hit back!" There was amazement and pleasure in his face and voice, every time he mentioned it. She settled back, waiting for the two men to return, when suddenly the air was split with a loud roar - "SCULLY!" Skinner's voice. She leapt to her feet and took off for the men's room. When she entered, she saw Mulder unconscious in Skinner's arms, head bleeding freely from a deep gash. Skinner was trying to hold Mulder, support his head, and keep pressure on the wound. "What the hell happened?" she demanded as she knelt to assess Mulder's condition. "I came in to talk to him, like we discussed, and he was leaning against the sink, very pale. Then he dropped, cracked his head on the side of the sink, and that was all she wrote. He came to briefly, that was when I hollered for you, then slipped away again. You're the doctor, you tell me what the hell is going on." Mulder began to stir again, then stiffened when he realized where he was and who was holding him. He began to pull away from Skinner. Skinner tightened his grip, saying softly, "Settle down, Mulder, you're hurt. Scully's here - she needs to look at you." Scully pushed gently against his chest, forcing him back into Skinner's arms. "Lean back, Mulder, let Skinner hold you. I need to see what happened." She gingerly touched at the edge of the wound, feeling him wince as she did so. "Mulder, what happened in here?" She felt him lean back, still stiff, but he was trying to do what she asked. 'Good,' she thought. 'At least he's aware of what's going on, and understands what is being said.' She took several more towels and began to clean the wound. "So, Mulder, care to share with the rest of us just exactly what happened in here?" She grazed the edge of the gash, and Mulder grimaced. "Sorry." "Come on, Scully, let me up. I'm ok, now." His voice was hoarse, whispery. "Ok as defined by who, Mulder? You apparently fainted, knocked your head so hard you were unconscious twice for several minutes each time. And you're bleeding all over the place. If this is ok, would you like to tell me what 'not ok' is like?" She looked at Skinner. "I think we may need to take him to the hospital." "NO, Scully, no," Mulder cried out, panicky. His eyes darted to his wrists, barely visible beneath his long sleeved shirt, and the red flesh that could just be seen there. "No hospital. I'll sit quietly, you clean it up. Please." His eyes sought hers, pleadingly. Mulder straightened in Skinner's grasp. He winced again at the pain the movement caused, closed his eyes, and slumped back once more. "Please, no hospital." Skinner spoke up now, "Agent Scully, what is your medical opinion?" Scully took in Mulder's obvious distress at the thought of the hospital. "Well, Sir, it's deep, but not too deep, and I think I can close it with butterflies - so he doesn't have to have stitches. I'm more concerned about concussion." She looked at Mulder again, then reached out and gently lifted his chin so his eyes met hers. "What is going on Mulder? You need to be a bit more forthcoming if you want to avoid the hospital." Mulder took a breath, then said. "Fine, let's just go back to the hotel. I know Skinner doesn't like sitting on the floor in the bathroom any more than I do." "Can you stand, Agent Mulder?" Skinner inquired. "I think so, just give me a minute." Skinner released Mulder slowly, then got to his feet and reached down to help him up. Mulder reached up a hand for Skinner to pull him up with, and was surprised when the older man leaned all the way down, wrapped his arms around him again, and lifted him to his feet. Scully moved quickly to one side, putting her arm around Mulder's waist. Skinner let go, letting him move under his own steam, with Scully's assistance. He held the door and Scully lead Mulder through. "Take him out to the entry and sit down. I'll take care of the bill, then run back to the hotel and get the car. I'll be back in a few minutes." Skinner headed off. "Please grab my purse, Sir," Scully called to his retreating back. With a nod and a wave, Skinner was gone. Scully lead Mulder to the entryway and seated him, staying close to his side. "I can walk to the hotel, Scully, I'm feeling a lot better. Except for a killer headache." He flashed a lopsided grin at her. Scully fixed him with a pointed look. "You are not charming your way out of this one Mulder. How long have you been feeling sick?" *********************************************************************** "I was a bit light-headed on the plane, Scully. Just a touch of a headache, a little queasy, a little dizzy. I just figured I was coming down with something - nothing serious." He looked at her. "Really, Scully, it just started today." She nodded, then said, "Well, it may have not been serious before, but now you've added cracked skull and concussion to the list, so you have to take it easy, ok?" Mulder started to nod, then thought better of it. "Ok, Scully. Geez - what a worry wart you can be!" "Someone needs to worry about you, Mulder," she retorted, somewhat exasperated. "You certainly don't worry about yourself." Mulder leaned back gingerly, still holding the makeshift bandage to his head, but letting his eyes close. "Please don't be mad, Scully. This one wasn't my fault," he sighed. "I know, Mulder" she responded. "I'm not mad, just concerned. You should have said you weren't feeling well. We didn't have to come out to eat. You could have stayed in the room and rested, even skipped the briefing. Then you would have been rested by tomorrow." She reached out and took his hand, holding it in her lap. "Just rest, Skinner will be here soon." Mulder laughed to himself at that. "Scully," he began gently, "You need to eat, too. You still haven't gotten back up to your normal weight. I'm not going to give you excuses not to eat. You have enough of them without my help." He peeked at her from under his lids and watched as color filled her face. "It's ok, Scully, really." He turned his hand in her lap, till he was the one holding her hand. "I'm ok, not hurt too bad, and I know that with some sleep this headache's gonna go right away. Relax, will ya?" He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her palm gently. He watched her take a deep breath, struggling for control, then she smiled in his direction. "Let's just get you back to the hotel and get this taken care of. We'll deal with other things later, ok?" He let his hand drop back to her lap, and smiled in agreement, letting his eyes close fully. ******************************************************************** Skinner stood by the open door to Scully's room, and watched as she cleaned the gash on Mulder's head. They had gotten Mulder back to the hotel and up to his room without further incident. He had helped her remove Mulder's coat and shirt and he now lay on the bed in just his pants and t-shirt. Mulder lay quietly for the most part, but every now and then, when she got too close, he winced or pulled away. By the third or fourth time he did that, Scully snapped. "For God's sake, Mulder, be still! This is hard enough without you moving all over the bed." "Anybody ever tell you you have a lousy bedside manner, Doctor?" Mulder retorted. "Which is why I work on dead people, Mulder, remember?" He pulled away again. "Which could be arranged for you if you don't BE STILL!" "It hurts, Scully," he whined. She softened immediately. "I know, Mulder, I'm sorry. I'm being as gentle as I can." He winced. "But you WERE in a bathroom, and I have to be sure it's clean. I don't want to risk infection. Just hang in there a little longer, ok?" Skinner chuckled to himself. These two were amazing. Only Mulder could manage to split his head open on a case that only involved testifying at a trial. And only Scully would threaten to kill him, when he was already in pain. He cleared his throat. "Can I be of assistance, Agent Scully?" he asked. She looked up in surprise, as if she had forgotten he was in the room. "Well, Sir, we have to keep him awake for at least 6 hours and then wake him every hour until morning. What shift do you want?" He was about to reply, but his cell phone rang. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled it out and answered, "Skinner." His mouth immediately tightened as he barked out, "When?" "All right. One of my agents is injured, fell and split his head open." Another pause. "Yes, Mulder." Skinner began to pace. By now, Mulder was sitting up, watching as well, and Scully turned back to him, trying to push him back down to the bed. "That certainly wasn't the tune you were singing earlier," Skinner continued. "I've told you how valuable he is, what an asset he can be." Pause, listening. "I'll see what I can do. IF his doctor clears him, we'll be in tonight. If not," hand over phone, he turned to Scully. "Will he be able to work tomorrow?" with a nod towards Mulder. She looked at Mulder and then back at Skinner. "I would think so - if he rests like he's supposed to." "Can he go in now? Or in a few hours?" "Maybe in a few hours - he needs to get some painkillers in him, and I don't want him moving about for a while." Skinner removed the hand covering the mouthpiece and continued, "If not tonight, then tomorrow. Do what you can with what you have. We'll be there around midnight, if possible, first thing in the morning otherwise. Call me if anything new arises." Skinner hung the phone up and stood looking at it in silence. He turned slowly to face Scully and Mulder. "Liam Emerson has escaped." Chapter 10 "Refuse to be ill. Never tell people you are ill; never own it to yourself. Illness is one of those things which a man should resist on principle." Edward George Bulwer-Lytton "What??" Mulder and Scully cried simultaneously. Mulder immediately began to get up, pushing Scully to the side. "I have to go, Scully," he began, then stopped as a wave of nausea and dizziness rolled over him. His arms flailed as he began to topple and he caught Scully across the face. She stumbled and fell backwards calling, "Sir, get him, please." Skinner strode over, caught Mulder, swiftly redepositing him on the bed. He was more than a little annoyed with his stubborn agent as he turned to assist Scully from the floor. Her face bore a large red mark where Mulder's hand had connected. Unable to focus, Mulder sank back on the bed. He lay there for a minute, dark spots dancing in front of his eyes. He closed his eyes, thinking he would ask a few questions in just a minute, when the bass drum in his head quieted. He lay there, fighting the nausea that threatened to overtake him, focused only on not heaving his guts up. As he got his stomach under control, he became aware that someone was calling his name. "Mulder, damn it, Mulder, answer me. Shit, Sir, I think he's out again." "Then leave him for a minute, Scully. Let me look at your face where he hit you." He heard movement, then "It's not too bad. Does it hurt? Of course, it does, what am I saying? I'll get some ice for you in a minute. Let's make sure Mulder is going to stay in one place for a while." Mulder was confused. "I'm not 'out,' Scully. Just moved a little too quick, that's all." Scully sat back on the bed, keeping her face in profile. "Mulder, that is why you have to be still for a few hours. You need to let your body deal with the trauma it has received. You have to stay awake, but you need to be quiet and rest." "Scully, look at me." He reached up and gently turned her face toward his own. He gasped at the bright red mark that was visible on her cheek. His eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Scully . . ." Skinner spoke up. "Mulder, I am staying right here, for the next six hours. You pull a stunt like that again, and I will personally carry your sorry ass to the hospital and see you are on bed rest for a week, you got that mister?" "Yes Sir," Mulder responded in a small voice, tears slipping out of his eyes. One hand was on Scully's cheek, gently tracing the imprint there, and he cradled her hands in his other one. Hearing the distress in Mulder's voice, Skinner softened. "Look Mulder, just stay put. I'm going to go get some ice for Scully, ok?" "Yes sir." Skinner wasn't sure Mulder had heard anything he had said. He was totally focused on Scully, tears still sliding down his cheeks. She was murmuring to him, a long, low stream of 'I'm ok, Mulder's' and 'Shh's,' but none seemed to be calming him. She stroked his hair gently and continued cooing to him. He, in turn was reciting the 'I'm sorry, Scully' litany. He gripped her hands, repeating the words over and over. Skinner watched for a moment and figured it was time for a tactical retreat. He grabbed the ice bucket and headed down the hall. ************************************************************** When Skinner left, Scully slid down onto the bed, gathering Mulder into her arms as best she could. He was so tall, it was hard to hold him, and she had to be careful of the injury to his head, but eventually, she had him cradled against her breasts and was stroking his back, still making soothing noises. He continued to whisper, "Oh God, Scully, I am so sorry." and variations on that theme, but he was calming. She felt the tension ease out of him as she stroked him, and his head grew heavy on her breast as he relaxed himself against her. The tears stopped, and he grew quiet. "Mulder," she said, shaking him gently, "Mulder, don't get too comfortable. You can't sleep yet." He moved against her, murmuring, "I'm not asleep. Oh God, Scully, I'm sorry." "Enough, Mulder, I know. You didn't do it on purpose. Now, let it go." She moved slightly, and he wrapped his arms around her more securely. "I have to get up, Mulder. I suspect Skinner has been giving us some private time. He's been gone way too long to just get ice." She slowly disentangled herself from him, and rose from the bed. He rolled onto his back, and lay looking at her through eyes filled with pain and misery. "Mulder," she said again, "It really is ok." She leaned down and kissed him gently on the lips. "I'm ok." She kissed him again, deeper, longer, and felt a flame of desire sweep through her. She rose. "I'm going to go look for Skinner. You -" finger pointing - "Stay awake! and Stay put!" She shot him a serious look. "I'll be right back." Mulder gave a half hearted mock salute and said "Yes, Ma'am." She laughed at him and stepped out the door to search for the AD. Three steps to cross the hall and a sharp knock on the door brought Skinner immediately. He had changed out of the blood stained shirt and was dressed casually in khakis and a polo shirt. "Everything ok over there?" he asked. "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir, for your - discretion. But I don't want to leave him alone." "Fine, I'll come over now. I've been making phone calls." Skinner paused, uncertain. "Since he has to stay awake, can we go over what has happened so far? Or should we not talk about it." Scully smiled up at the older man. "Just try and sit with him for the next few hours and NOT talk about it!" Skinner smiled back and gathered his notepad. They walked back to Mulder's room. "I just want to check on him, Sir, and then I am going to change as well. You watch him. He's actually being very good since he hit me." She smirked. "Guilt can be a wonderful motivator." She paused, then looked at the AD. "But don't start without me." ****************************************************** When Scully and Skinner reentered his room, Mulder was laying quietly on the bed, counting the cracks in the ceiling. His head still hurt, but the painkillers Scully had given him were kicking in. Unfortunately, as the pain receded, he was getting drowsy. Scully went immediately to the bed and took his chin in her hand. Looking directly into his eyes, she asked, "How do you feel?" He focused on her face, and said, "It doesn't hurt as much, but I am a little drowsy." She took out a pen light and shone it in each eye, checking pupil dilation. Apparently satisfied with what she found, she checked his pulse and respiration, then looked closely at the wound itself. "Ok, Mulder," she said, "you look all right. The drowsiness is to be expected, but you need to stay awake for a while. You're still apt to be very dizzy when you move around. Skinner is going to stay with you while I get changed and then we are going to talk about Emerson, and where he might have gone." "Scully, can't I move around some, if I'm slow and careful?" Mulder whined. "I mean - what if I have to . . . you know?" "Do you need to go to the bathroom?" Scully asked. She looked appraisingly at him. "Mulder, how long has this been going on?" Her hands were on her hips and he felt sure he was in trouble, and he even thought he might know what for. "How long has what been going on, Scully?" "Frequent urination, Mulder, that's what. I have seen you go to the bathroom more in the last 24 hours than I have in a normal week. What gives, partner?" Mulder cast his eyes at Skinner and said, "Scully, do we really need to discuss my toileting habits, right here, right now?" "Yes, Mulder, we do. And Skinner needs to know, because one of us is going to be accompanying you for the next few hours, even into the bathroom. So how long has it been going on?" "Frequent urination?" "Yes, Mulder," tapping her foot, "frequent urination - I'm sure with your Oxford education you are familiar with the term?" Scully asked sarcastically. She was rapidly losing patience with his stalling. "How long has it been happening, and how often do you need to go? And do you actually go, or just have the urge but can't relieve yourself, or do you just dribble?" "Geez, Scully," Mulder flushed beet red, "is this absolutely necessary?" Skinner had been quietly watching them but now decided to get involved. "Apparently so, Agent Mulder. Would you please just answer Scully's questions?" "Ah, shit, all right. It's been happening for about a week, and I need to go almost all the time. I usually try about once an hour or so, and I don't always go, but I certainly feel the urge. And yes, Scully, to use your technical term, I dribble!" Mulder closed his eyes and folded his arms over his chest. "All right, Mulder," she sat on the bed and rubbed his arm. "I'm sorry. Like you said, I don't have the best bedside manner." She grinned when he cocked one partly opened eye at her. "Or any bedside manner for that matter. I'm pretty sure you have a bladder infection - and a bad one from what you've said. Do you need to go now?" Mulder looked at her in misery, "Yeah, but I really don't want an audience, Scully, please?" She reached out and gently laid her hand on his brow, away from his wound, and brushed wayward strands of hair away from his eyes. "I know, Mulder, and I'm sorry, but you need help. You are still way too unsteady to stand alone, and with Emerson loose, you are going to be working much harder and much sooner than I would like." She paused and took a deep breath. "I need a specimen, as well." He groaned. "I'm sorry, but I've got to get it cultured and find out what you've got and get you on antibiotics." He closed his eyes again, anticipating the next question. "Now, who do you want to help you? Me? Or Skinner?" ************************************************************* When he had been promoted to Assistant Director, Skinner had assumed many responsibilities. Chief among them, in his mind, was responsibility for the safety and welfare of the agents under him. He had not, however, ever imagined that would include holding onto an injured, unsteady, extremely unhappy, Fox Mulder, as he tried to give a urine specimen. Skinner chuckled to himself. He didn't know who was more uncomfortable with the current situation - Mulder or himself. Well, at last, something was happening. Mulder finished and gave a sigh of relief. Skinner took the container and seated Mulder on the closed toilet. "Scully said to change while you're in here," he ordered gruffly, handing over sweatpants and a clean t-shirt. "Do you need help?" Mulder shook his head stubbornly, immediately regretting it as a bomb exploded in his cranium and he began to list toward the wall. Skinner caught him and said, "I'll take that as a 'yes.'" He knelt and removed Mulder's shoes and socks, then helped him stand and lowered his pants. He replaced them with the sweats and reseated the man. Mulder looked miserable. He was almost green, where he wasn't red from embarrassment. He swayed on the seat, as he tried desperately to remain upright. Skinner moved in close to him, pulling his head against his abdomen, giving the sick man a place to lean his weight. He pulled the dirty t-shirt off, and realized how clammy it was. Skinner leaned over and wet a wash cloth with warm water and quickly wiped down the trembling man's back, chest and arms. He pulled the new shirt on over his head, and then stood still for a minute, allowing Mulder to rest against him, before he helped him back to the bed. By the time Mulder was settled in the bed again, Scully had returned and she had changed as well. She now wore jeans and an oversized sweater and looked much more comfortable. Skinner had called and had an agent sent over to retrieve the specimen and take it to a local lab for culture. In the meantime, Scully had contacted a local doctor and gotten a prescription for an broad spectrum antibiotic phoned in for Mulder, and the agent would be bringing that back shortly. With Mulder resting, his injury cared for, and the infection soon to be under control, they began to review what was known about Emerson. They had just started when Skinner's cell rang. "Skinner" he barked. He listened for a minute, then said, "When?" He listened some more. "I understand that." Pause. "No. I told you he was injured. He can not come to the crime scene." Pause. Skinner sneaked a look at Mulder. He was following every word of the conversation. 'I should go next door to Scully's room,' he thought. 'Aw, fuck it! He's gonna hear soon enough.' He refocused his attention on the phone. "I understand. Messenger copies of both notes over to me here at the hotel. I want pictures of both crime scenes, and I want both scenes left as intact as possible. Have forensics go through them, but keep the detectives at bay. We'll be there as soon as we can." He replaced the receiver and said without preamble, "A body has been found. There was a note. And a second woman is missing. And there was another note." ****************************************************************** It took several hours for photos to be developed and the case files and new information to be gathered, copied, and sent to them at the hotel. Mulder had behaved admirably, staying calm, and in bed, ostensibly resting, though Scully and Skinner both knew his incredible mind was frantically sorting through information, possibilities, looking for something that would give them a clue as to where Emerson had gone. He had come up with several avenues for investigation, and Skinner had called the local office and gotten things moving in the directions Mulder laid out. When there was a knock on the door, Skinner went. Mulder started the sit, then stopped himself. He looked at Scully, and asked, "Can I sit up now, please? I really need to see what's happening." Scully looked at him. "How do you feel?" He smiled. "Better, really. Far from great, but better. My head still hurts, but it's a dull ache now. I'm not nauseous, and I only get dizzy if I move too quick." The smile turned to a frown. "I need to go to the bathroom again, though. I thought you said these pills would take care of that." He sounded petulant, like a little boy who had been promised ice cream, and then never gotten it. Scully laughed. "They will, but they need a little time to work, Mulder. You just took the first one an hour ago. Try to be patient. I know that's not your strong suit, but do try, please? And who do you want this time, Skinner or me?" Skinner came back on the last part of the conversation. He and Mulder exchanged a glance, then he said, "I'll go with him, Agent Scully. We worked out a system last time." Mulder chuckled wryly. "Yeah, he does all the work and I just sit there." "Well, Agent Mulder, not ALL the work," Skinner quipped, and they all laughed. When Skinner and Mulder returned, Scully had set up a work area for Mulder near one of the room's chairs. She beckoned them over, and Skinner helped Mulder sit. Scully pulled the ottoman over and Skinner lifted Mulder's feet. "All right, Mulder," she began. "You can sit - for a while. BUT, you must tell me if you feel dizzy, nauseous, or the pain increases, understand?" Mulder had already picked up the top file folder and was reading as he mumbled, "Yes, Mom." Skinner and Scully looked at each other. "He's needed, Agent Scully. His unique abilities may be all that will catch this guy." He took in the concern in her stance, the worry in her eyes. He softened his voice. "I'm sorry." She nodded once, then went to pick up a folder and begin her own reading. They worked quietly as the new material was read by all. At one point, Mulder had asked for some information from the previous case, and Skinner had gone down to the car and brought up the box they had stored there. While he was gone, Mulder took the copies of the two notes and laid them in his lap. "What do you make of this, Scully?" he asked. "Last time, letters. This time, whole words. But do they make sense?" He continued. "Here we have the first note - found on the dead woman. N O W I N But what is he telling us? We don't win? She didn't win? He can't win?" His voice began to deepen, and his breathing grew harsh. Scully went to him and took his hand. "Not now, Mulder," she said. "You can't do this. You aren't strong enough to do this." He focused on her, and his eyes cleared. He smiled at her and took her hand, raising it to his cheek. He held it there a long moment, then kissed her fingers slowly, lingering over each one. "I'm stronger than you think, Scully," he said softly. Skinner came in, and Scully pulled away, going to help him with the boxes. "He's trying to profile, Sir. I don't think he's up to it. But I don't think we can stop him." Skinner reached out and gently touched her shoulder. "We'll keep him safe, Scully. It'll be all right." They returned to Mulder. He had pulled the second note out. It had been found at the scene where the second woman had been abducted. It read: M A D L I F E M He looked up as they approached. "Letters, now words. It means something." He paused, took a deep breath "Ah, Sir, I need to, uh . . . Oh shit, Scully, I hate this!" He dropped his head in disgust. "Can I please go alone this time?" "All right Mulder, but leave the door unlocked. You have 5 minutes, then I'm coming in - got it?" Mulder nodded, and got slowly to his feet. He walked carefully to the bathroom and closed the door, pointedly not shutting it completely. Once he realized he was a lot better, not nearly as shaky as he had been, he freed his mind to return to the case. NO WIN - MAD LIFE - M - What was this all about? He finished and flushed, went to the sink and began to wash. He stopped in mid-wash, soap held loosely in his hand. His breathing began to deepen, as he went further into his mind, chasing the elusive thought that he knew could give them a hint into Emerson's mind. His head jerked up, and he began to write on the mirror with the soap. NO WIN MAD LIFE M His knees began shaking, and he thought he heard Skinner at the door, but there was no time for that now. He almost had it. His heart was racing, and he was growing cold. Idly, he wondered, why was he always cold when he did this? He stared at the letters on the mirror. He began to write - crossing letters off as he went. F I N D M E N O W L I A M The door opened and Skinner entered. Scully stood behind him in the doorway. He was swaying, dragging in deep ragged breaths. Skinner went to him, trying to pull him away, but he fought. "NO - there's more." It came out in a husky whisper. "Leave me" Skinner looked at Scully. He maintained his grasp on Mulder, holding him erect and supporting him. They both watched as Mulder began to write again. F I N D W O M E N L I A M Mulder stared at the mirror. "Before, he was taking revenge, getting back at a world he felt hurt him, getting even for his pain." He turned slightly and looked at Skinner. "It made sense, in a really warped kind of way. And he was taking credit - he wanted us to know it was him, so he left us his name - one letter at a time." Mulder turned back to the mirror, his face reflecting the growing horror he felt inside. He swayed in Skinner's arms, almost falling, and said, "But now, it's not about getting even, or past hurts. Now," Mulder shuddered, "he likes it. Now, he just wants to play." Chapter 11 "Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished." Elizabeth Barrett Browning They continued working, Mulder sorting through pictures, papers, notes, lists, everything that had accumulated in the first case, and now the new information from this one. Since Emerson had escaped, a huge paper trail had been created. Mulder pulled a list of properties owned by Emerson's family, and the few friends that had claimed him. He kept looking from that list to the file on the latest victim - Sara Teffy. He was again sunken deep in himself - gone to a place he hated. That place where he was one with a killer - he knew what was felt, knew the whys of what was done. In that dark and scary place, it all began to make sense. He didn't want to be there. Admission cost too much of his humanity, and he knew he had little enough to spare. If not for Scully, he wondered if his own humanity would even be credible, or if his own alienness would overshadow all aspects of humanity. Scully was watching him - he was pale and drawn, but he had stayed in his chair, and followed all her instructions. It was nearly midnight now, and she knew he was chafing to get up. To go. To do. To be involved. She went to him, standing in his field of vision, waiting for him to acknowledge her. When he didn't look up, she spoke his name softly, "Mulder." Still no response. Skinner had turned and was watching now, too. She looked at him and saw only concern in his eyes. She reached out and touched Mulder, stroking his arms. He was so deep in himself, he barely reacted. But as she kept rubbing, and speaking softly to him, he began to register her presence. His eyes lifted and the fog cleared, and he saw her in front of him. She began to caress the still red flesh around his wrists, remnants of his encounter with the AI. "Mulder, I know I said you could get up at midnight, but I would still like you to go to the hospital and let them check you out." He looked at her hands, and his own arms under her gentle fingers, and an unexpected shudder surged through him. "No, Scully, no hospital. You're my doctor and you checked me out." He sought her eyes with his own. "I'm ok, much better now. Please, no hospital." She sighed. "Well, at least let me look at you one more time, then." She pulled her pen light and did the neuro check, then took his pulse and respirations. She felt his head for fever, then used the aural thermometer for confirmation. "Ok, Mulder, get up. Let me see you walk." He rose steadily to his feet, if slowly. He walked over to the door and returned, no shakes, no trembles. Skinner and Mulder were both looking at Scully now, awaiting her decision. She looked back at them with hands on hips, finally saying, "All right, Mulder, you can go." As he immediately moved to the closet to pull out new clothes, she stopped him with a blunt, "BUT . . ." He froze and turned again to face her, hands falling to his sides, his body stiff. "You stay with me or Skinner, you got that?" He nodded and when she fixed Skinner with a look, he nodded too. "And, absolutely no running off and chasing people, no matter what happens, understand?" Mulder nodded again, and turned to closet for clothes, then went into the bathroom to dress. *********************************************************** Sara Teffy - He kept coming back to the woman. They were at the site where Sara's body had been found. An abandoned office in an abandoned warehouse. Dust covered everything, including the floor. Thick layers of dust, everywhere but where it had been stirred by feet, and where it had been darkened by blood. There was something here, he just knew it. He could feel it deep inside him. He looked up to find Skinner watching him. The AD had the first 'shift,' staying with Mulder, while Scully went to the morgue to look at the body. Sara had been beaten to death. No subtle messages of choking, it wasn't swift, it wasn't clean, and it certainly wasn't painless. It looked as if she had run and been caught, then been released to run again, only to be caught once more. And that it had happened over and over again. Each time Emerson caught her, he beat her a little more, and each time he let her go, it was harder for her to run. He was like a cat, playing with it's prey. Mulder dropped his head. Why Sara Teffy? All the victims from before were connected to Emerson in some way. But they could find no connection for Sara. So why did Emerson choose her? Mulder dropped down against a broken desk and wrote in the dirt on the floor. SARA TEFFY He played with the letters for a while, but couldn't make them tell him anything. He got up and began to prowl again. He opened the desk drawers, one at a time, each one empty till the last. And there, waiting for him, a clean, new phone book. He pulled on latex gloves, and took it out, opening it to the Ts. And there it was, circled in red - SARA TEFFY and the address. So Emerson had sought her out - but why? He called Skinner over and showed him what he'd found. Skinner bagged the book as evidence, and went to call Scully, to see if she had anything new to tell them. Mulder sat in the dirt, and began writing again, anagramming Sara's name. Suddenly, it appeared to him - SAFETY. But that still left A R F. He tried other variations, but kept coming back to SAFETY. That had to be it. He pulled out the copies of the notes. The second one was almost signed - with an M. M for Emerson? Was it a shorthand signature? And when you add the M to the A R F, you could make F A R M. That was it! He jumped up, running out the door, calling to Skinner. "He's got the other girl at the farm, Sir. They're at the farm! *************************************************************** Skinner stood close as Mulder emerged from the car, ready to offer a hand if needed. But Mulder never even looked his way. He only had eyes for the farmhouse in front of him. "It's been under constant surveillance since Emerson escaped?" he asked again. "Yes, Mulder," Skinner answered, "no one in or out." "Well, it's time for someone to go in," Mulder muttered. The two men walked toward the house and were met by the local police Lieutenant who reiterated what Skinner had just told Mulder. Constant surveillance - no one in or out. Skinner brought the Lieutenant up to date on Mulder's latest suspicions, and was rewarded with a snort and a disbelieving look. He pulled the man aside, out of earshot of Mulder and hissed, "Look, his methods may be unorthodox, but he gets results! Now, you keep your subjective opinions to yourself and get some people in here to open that house up. We're going in, understand?" Skinner walked back to Mulder while the Lieutenant strode off angrily. Within minutes, the police had the door open and Mulder and Skinner were entering the front door. Skinner watched as Mulder paused in the doorway. What was he doing? Adjusting to the light after standing in the dark outside? Getting his bearings? Or something more? Absorbing a killer from his surroundings perhaps? Skinner shuddered and gave thanks again that he had never shown an aptitude for profiling. He was roused from his introspections by his name coming from Mulder. "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder, what was that?" "I said, is Scully coming, Sir?" He sounded forlorn, like a young boy who wanted his mother, or an ill and injured man, doing a dirty job, who needed his support system. "I called her. She is still working on the body but will join us here when she's done." Mulder nodded, but still hung back. A deep breath, - gathering his courage? - and he moved into the house. He began to move methodically through the house. He entered each room, pausing in the door, then moving into the room and standing in the center. He would look around, sometimes walking closer to something that caught his attention. He never touched anything. The whole tour of the house took almost 45 minutes. The local police were obviously bored and unimpressed with the master profiler's results. Even Skinner found himself getting slightly impatient. Mulder came back to the front room, Skinner still trailing behind him. He began muttering to himself, "Must be south. Sara for south. Can't be north or west. No N or W. Could be East - there's an E in Teffy, but that's a stretch. It must be south, south for Sara." "Which way is south, Sir?" he asked. "South?" Skinner was startled. "South, Mulder?" He thought for a minute, then pointed back toward the kitchen and the rear door of the house. "That way I think. Why?" "I'm not sure yet." Mulder began to walk toward the kitchen. The stove was on the back wall, next to the door. Mulder stopped in front of it and studied it. "What are we looking for, Mulder?' Mulder waved him quiet and continued to study the stove. Finally, he reached out and pulled it from the wall. It was unplugged. "Look, Sir, the right rear burner is set at 3. All the others are off. And it's not plugged in." Mulder stopped with a self satisfied grunt, as if that explained everything. Skinner, however, had the feeling he had missed a very important piece of the puzzle, that no matter how hard he tried and how much attention he paid, he just wasn't quick enough, sharp enough, smart enough, to keep up. "Mulder, what does it mean?" he asked. "I think it means the other woman is three miles south of here." ************************************************************* The team had assembled outside the cabin that was, as Mulder predicted, three miles south of the farm. Mulder and Skinner stood in the woods on the outskirts of the small yard surrounding the cabin. As Skinner looked at him, Mulder swayed, his arm reaching out to balance himself against a tree. "That's it, Mulder," Skinner began. "You either sit here, out of the way, or you go back. You have no business being out here to begin with." Mulder started to object, then noting the determination in his boss's demeanor, he lowered himself to the ground, and leaned up against the tree. His head was pounding again, and the dizziness was back. He needed a pain pill, but Scully wasn't here yet. Skinner crouched down next to him. They watched in silence as the local QRT made their preparations. As they began to advance on the cabin, Mulder suddenly hissed, "Something's not right. Sir, stop them!" He was becoming increasingly agitated. "What Mulder, what's not right?" "Look, Sir, stay with me here. He wants to play. He's set everything up as a game and so far I'm keeping up, right? We're here, right where he wants us. He set the board, he made the rules, he invited us over, and now, HE WANTS TO PLAY!" As the deadly meaning dawned on Skinner, he was on his feet and moving, running full out to intercept the team about to knock the door down. As he got half way through the yard, the team swung the ram, the door fell inward, and the night erupted in a blaze of explosives and machine gun fire. The team on the porch was dropped immediately, blood flowing freely. Mulder watched in horror as Skinner, too, was dropped in mid-step. He pulled himself to his feet, hitting '1' on his cell as he began moving toward the AD. When Scully answered, he gasped out, "It went bad, Scully. I think Skinner is hit. Oh, God, Scully, it went so bad. I blew it big time." "I'm on my way Mulder, I'll be there in about 5 minutes. Hold it together, partner, I'm coming." He dropped the phone as he reached Skinner and was relieved to see he was not only alive, but aware, and beginning to sit up. Blood seeped through a hole in his pants, halfway down the calf. "Just stay still, Sir, please, lay down and stay still. Help will be here soon." "How bad is it, Mulder?" Mulder looked at Skinner's leg and made as if to lift the trouser leg, but Skinner waved his hand away. "No, Mulder," he gestured at the cabin, sitting part way up and turning to look, "how bad is it?" Mulder stood and looked at the police swarming over the porch and yard by the door. He hadn't heard any indication that anyone had lived through the explosion or gunfire. He knelt by Skinner again, shaking his head. Skinner hissed, in pain and remorse. "Aw shit." He lay back on the ground, arm thrown over closed eyes. "Shit." Mulder sat on the ground next to Skinner, waiting for the medics to get to the AD. As they waited quietly together, the Lieutenant walked over. "The girl is alive, badly beaten, tied to a chair and surrounded by enough explosives to light up the county. It's a miracle it didn't go off when the door went." He paused and looked down at Skinner. "You hurt bad?" Skinner shook his head. "Good. All my people - they're dead. The whole damn team. Thought they could save Cathy, but she bled out right in front of the medic." He rubbed his face. "She's got two little kids. And Jackson, his wife is pregnant - first kid." He rubbed his face again. "Jesus. What a fuck up." Mulder just hung his head in shame and misery. The Lieutenant again looked at Skinner. "You be ok for a few minutes?" When Skinner nodded, he continued, "I want your boy here, to see this girl - she's got a note nailed - yes, nailed - to her chest." He turned and headed off, calling back over his shoulder, "I'll send the medics - God knows they can't help my people. You coming, Mr. Profiler?" Mulder started to rise, but Skinner reached out his hand and stopped him. "You couldn't prevent this, Mulder. This is not your fault. Emerson did this. Don't you forget that. Emerson is the bad guy here, not you. You got that? That girl is alive - one life saved - you did that. Emerson killed the rest." Mulder nodded miserably, and stumbled off after the Lieutenant. Skinner knew he hadn't gotten through, but maybe Scully could. She should be here any minute now. ***************************************************** As Mulder walked through the bodies strewn in the yard, he felt this must be what war was like. There were people crying all around him, men and women alike. Bodies everywhere. Blood all over the place. He clamped down on his emotions, and his stomach, and followed the Lieutenant into the house. The young woman sat tied in the chair, gagged, surrounded by a sea of unstable looking explosives, beyond the reach of any of the officers in the room. She was badly beaten, bruises standing out against her fair skin. Her horrified eyes flicked frantically back and forth between the people surrounding her, searching for someone to help her. There was a crudely lettered paper nailed into her left breast. S H E I S W R Y C L U E L Mulder began to speak to the girl, reassuring her that help was forthcoming, they would get her out, she would be ok. He murmured it as a mantra as he played with the letters on the note in his mind. Suddenly, he froze and went silent. "Oh, God, NO!" he cried. He turned and raced out the door. He flew across the yard skidding to a stop by Skinner, and fumbling on the ground for his cell, where he had dropped it. Skinner was being treated by the medics, and was frantically calling, "What is it, Mulder? What's going on?" Mulder found the phone, opened it, and hit '1' again. His face relaxed as he heard the familiar click of the answering phone being opened. But his features slid to horror as a male voice asked, "W H E R E I S S C U L L Y?" Chapter 12 "Let these describe the indescribable." Lord Byron Skinner watched in horror as Mulder collapsed onto the ground, and into himself. He fell to his knees, rocking, a keening wail coming from his throat. He wrapped his arms around his chest, almost as if he were trying to hold himself together. Tears poured unchecked down his cheeks. The medics had just finished stitching Skinner's leg. One was gathering their things, while the other put a final bandage over the wound. Both had stopped, and were staring at the sight in front of them. "What the fuck?" one of them breathed. Skinner yanked his leg out of the medic's grasp and pulled himself over to Mulder. He gathered the younger man to himself, trying to still the desperate rocking that had to be painful to his still injured skull. He began to shush him, gripping him tightly. "Mulder, what happened? You've got to talk to me." Skinner was getting frantic, Mulder seemed to be totally slipping away from the here and now. He held him still more tightly, totally constricting his movements, and the rocking stopping. The younger man was still in his arms, but stiff as a board. The keening stopped. "Mulder, talk to me - what did you see?" Mulder began to rock again, despite Skinner's hold on him. "Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully, Sculleee . . ." With the last wail, Mulder collapsed into Skinner's arms, slipping into unconsciousness. The medics had watched this amazing display in total disbelief. But upon witnessing the collapse and subsequent unconsciousness of one of the two men, they were back on familiar ground and raced over to assist. Calling for a gurney, they lifted Mulder and strapped him down. He was already beginning to come around again. Skinner stayed by his side, dodging the medical personnel as they took vitals, and made the initial assessment. "He's got a slight concussion from a fall earlier. And he's just started on antibiotics for a bladder infection." Skinner offered what little he knew of his agent's medical history. "Allergies, blood type?" he was asked. He just shook his head. Scully would know, but she wasn't here yet. Skinner looked around, then hobbled over to Mulder's phone. He was afraid he was beginning to figure out what had happened. Resetting the phone, he, too, hit '1' and waited. "The cellular customer you have called has turned off their phone or traveled outside the local calling area." Skinner slammed the phone shut. He stood in place, breathing hard, hands clenched into fists by his side, as he fought for control. Damn it to hell, that bastard had Scully! ****************************************************************** Scully came to slowly. It was dark, which was probably good, because her head hurt. She lay on the floor, her left arm under her. She lay quietly trying to assess her situation. She hurt all over, but some places stood out more. Her head, her left wrist, her right side. She rolled onto her back and struggled to sit up. She was in a basement, with thin windows high on the wall. It seemed to be morning, the sky had that glow that signaled the sun was coming, but it hadn't arrived yet. She felt the back of her head, finding dried blood matting her hair and covering a large swollen lump. Her left wrist was broken. She looked around for something to immobilize it with, finding several wood strips in a corner. She secured them to her wrist, using the belt from her pants. No food, no water, no phone, no weapon, no way out. She walked her prison, surveying it. No way to reach the windows, and they were barred anyway. She designated a corner as the bathroom facilities, relieved herself, and returned to her 'bed,' the area where she had awakened. She sat again, thinking of Mulder. "Please stay strong, Mulder. I need you to come get me," she thought. "Please come get me." She sat there quietly, cradling her broken wrist in her lap, and thinking of being clean, being well, and being free. She heard the approaching footsteps, before the door began to move. She got to her feet, ready to face Emerson. He was tall, surprisingly slender, and not unattractive. His brown eyes glittered with excitement. He rocked on the balls of his feet as he stood, staring at her. He seemed unconcerned with the closed, but not locked door behind him, and Scully felt the first glimmer of hope. He advanced toward her, and she stood her ground. He stopped, looking quizzically at her. "I am a federal agent, Emerson. Every cop, trooper, and agent in four states is looking for me - and you. If you don't want more trouble than you've already got, you better get away from me - get far away from me." She was pleased that her voice had been forceful, and the tremors she felt inside hadn't come out. She had spent hours this evening, no, last night, looking at what had happened to a woman whom Emerson had gotten close to. It wasn't pretty. He laughed at her, then lunged, and she instinctively backed away. He smiled as if to say, 'Now you're getting into the game.' She realized then, that she had to stand up to him. Any show of weakness excited him more. She took a step forward, inwardly pleased as she saw hesitation cross his face. It flickered briefly and was gone, and he reached out, grabbing her broken wrist, twisting the makeshift splint off, and slamming his fist into her face. He then threw her to the ground. Pain exploded in her head and her arm. She fell heavily, and he kicked her in the side. She gasped as the breath was knocked from her, and she struggled for oxygen. He grabbed her hair, and pulled her to her feet, slapping her face as he held her. He aimed one last punch, striking her full force in her left breast, and then watched curiously as she bent double in pain. His hand still held her by her hair, and he watched with interest as she struggled to breathe. Tears streamed down her face, and she knew she was bleeding in several places. He watched her for a few moments more, then, as a child loses interest in a toy, he dropped her, turned and walked quickly to the door, and exited. She heard the heavy locks slide into place and then, at last, his footsteps receded up the stairs. She slumped back to the floor, still crying, and sank blissfully into unawareness, her last thoughts, 'Come quickly, Mulder. Please come get me.' ******************************************************************** Mulder emerged to full consciousness as they were loading the gurney into the ambulance. Skinner was there, and immediately reached out to calm him as he began to fight against the straps. "Let me go, damn it," he cried. "Sir, get me out of this. Emerson has Scully!" "I know, Mulder, I know." Skinner studied him closely. "Calm down. You must calm down. How are you feeling now?" "My head hurts - and I'm sick when I think of that bastard with Scully." Mulder did indeed look sick. "Get me out of here. I've got to get to the office. I need resources. I have to find her." His voice rose as he spoke, growing louder and increasingly agitated. "Mulder, I want nothing more than to get you out of here, and out finding Scully." Skinner gave a pointed look at the medics who were watching, then said, "Are you in control enough to allow that to happen?" Mulder took a deep breath, then said, "Yes sir. I understand." He paused, then said, "Just give me something for my head, Sir, and then I'm ready to go." Skinner patted Mulder's arm approvingly, then nodded to the medics. "You heard him, let him go." "No way," the medic stated. "He's clearly injured and out of control. The doc at the hospital wants us to sedate him and get him on in." "No!" Mulder cried. "Absolutely not!" Skinner echoed at the same time. "But, sir," the medic began. "There is no but," Skinner interrupted. "This man's partner has been abducted by the mad man that had the young woman in the house, the same man that orchestrated this little event for us. Now, let him go!" The two medics looked at each other, visions of lawsuits and joblessness clearly in their thoughts. Mulder started to speak, but Skinner laid his hand on his arm, quieting him. He watched the two medics in silent debate, and decided to try one more time for Mulder's release. "Look, do you guys work with the cops here a lot? Do you - did you - know the people who were killed?" Both medics focused on Skinner, nodding their heads slowly. The older one spoke, "Yes, to both questions. I went to school with Cathy, the only one still alive when we got here. We couldn't save her." His voice broke. Skinner gripped Mulder's arm tighter, willing him to be quiet and look sane. "This man," he gestured to Mulder, "is the best, hell, maybe the only, chance we have of catching the bastard that did this. You have to get him up, and get him functional. It is not an option." The medics exchanged one last look, then the older one walked over to the gurney. Mulder was unstrapped, and sat up rather unsteadily. Skinner limped over to him, placing an arm on his shoulder. "Mulder, you have to tell me if it gets to be too much. I don't - I can't - read you as well as Scully. She knows what to look for and I just don't. I'm sorry. But she needs you, and you have to help me make sure you can do what you have to do." Mulder looked at the older man, and saw his concern for Scully, but also, a deep concern for him. "I understand, Sir. I'll try." He paused, leaning into Skinner for a moment, then lifted his head and added, "She needs you too, Sir. She needs us both." Skinner nodded grimly, then helped the younger man off the gurney. He stood for a moment, getting his balance, then he and Skinner turned and went to find a ride to the station. ***************************************************** The police had taken them to the local FBI office. Skinner had briefed the local SAIC, while Mulder made a list of what he needed. An agent had been dispatched to the hotel to pick up all the case materials. He also brought a change of clothes for Skinner and Mulder's meds. Skinner checked on Mulder, saw he was busy with the materials he had requested. "You ok? You need to take some pills." Mulder nodded. He slipped his glasses off and went to the cooler for water. He obediently swallowed the pills Skinner placed in his hand then went back to his lists. Skinner called the agent that had been semi-designated as their gopher. All the other agents were working in teams either following leads Mulder had given them, or assembling information he required Skinner beckoned their gopher over. With his clothes in one hand, he nodded at Mulder. "You stay here, with him. If he needs something, send someone else. You don't leave him, you understand?" "Yes sir," the young man replied, looking at the disheveled profiler and wondering what he was supposed to watch for. For a 'wunderkind,' this guy seemed to leave a lot to be desired. But the AD certainly seemed impressed. "If there's a problem, send someone for me. I won't be gone long anyway." He fixed the young man in his steely gaze. "Just don't leave him, got it?" Again, the young agent nodded. What the hell was going on here? What was going to happen? And why did he have to draw the short stick, stuck here fetching and carrying for these two outsiders, one half crippled even if he was an AD, the other just half crazy. He watched as the AD maneuvered his way out, on the crutches that had been requisitioned earlier. Then he turned and left the room, leaving the man he wasn't supposed to leave, alone. Mulder sat staring at an empty piece of paper. His head pounded, feeling like the top was going to blow right off. He still had to go to the bathroom almost constantly, and still wasn't producing when he did so. But all of that paled in light of the empty paper in front of him. He had read everything on Emerson at least twice now. He had gone through lists of properties, jobs, activities, schools, residences, friends and acquaintances. And he still came up with the same thing - nothing. Scully was depending on him, and he was doing nothing. He was so tired, and his head hurt so badly, he could hardly think anymore. He looked up, expecting to find Skinner, but instead saw only an empty room. He bent back to the empty paper, then suddenly, pushed his seat back and rose to his feet furiously. He ripped page from pad, tearing it into little bits and flinging them into the air. He stood for a minute, then turned and raced into the far wall. He began pounding the wall, in time to the pounding in his head. As he beat his fists into the concrete wall, the agent who was assigned to him, rushed in. "Hey, Mulder, stop that!" he cried, hurrying over to him. When Mulder didn't respond, and didn't stop, he reached out and tried to grab his arm. Mulder whirled and placed the next blow against his face. The young man sat down, hard. "Fuck this, you asshole. You're nuts." He stood, but kept his distance. "Your keeper can deal with you." He went to the door and hollered, "Somebody get the AD. His pet profiler's gone nuts." Skinner had heard the commotion and was already on his way back to the room. He heard the young agent's comments as he rounded the corner, and was pleased to the see the young man colored when he realized Skinner had heard him. Skinner stopped by him and said, "Agent, you are dismissed. Tell the SAIC I require someone else for assistance. Now, go!" Skinner entered the room to find Mulder still beating furiously against the wall. His hands were bleeding, and the wall was slick with his blood. Skinner hurried over to him. "Mulder, Mulder, come on. You've got to stop." "I can't let him win!" Mulder howled. "I won't let him win!" He stopped, freezing as he realized what he had just said. "NO WIN," he whispered. "NO WIN." He stood there, mind working furiously through the fog of pain, struggling to chase the train of thought that was trying to pull away from him. He began to mumble. "NO WIN. He knows he won't win. He's 'playing,' but he knows he won't win. He's not a winner, never has been. He only knows how to lose. He'll - structure - this so he loses in the end. But how many more will die before he's ready to lose?" Skinner listened in chilling silence as Mulder journeyed through a madman's mind. When Mulder stopped speaking, Skinner said gently, "Mulder." When there was no response, he reached out and took the agent's bloody hands. "Come with me, Mulder. Come sit down for a minute." The younger man was freezing cold. His heart was racing, his eyes unfocused and cloudy. Skinner seated him, then went to the door and called for a medic and a blanket. As he returned, he offered a silent prayer that he would be able to see his agent, his friend, through whatever was happening in his brilliant, complex mind. Mulder sat quietly now, totally immersed in what he knew of Emerson's mind. Time stopped and the bits and pieces he had read, had studied, began to coalesce in his head, and Emerson began to emerge. He began to see where he would go. He followed, determined to go to hell itself if it would bring Scully back to him. How long he sat, he didn't know. But he slowly became aware of sound outside himself. His face was wet. He looked up, scared he would still be alone, and was relieved to see Skinner standing by him. His hands were bandaged, and he was covered in a blanket. He blinked twice, and looked down again. Skinner was rubbing his arm and talking in a low voice. "Mulder," Skinner said, relief evident in his voice. "Welcome back, my friend. I thought I'd lost you and Scully would not be pleased if that happened." Skinner grinned. "I think you just saved my ass by coming back to me." Mulder gave a half smile in response. "Uh, sir, he knows he won't win. NO WIN, remember. Everything he does is part of the larger picture. His MAD LIFE, he still has enough vestiges of humanity to see his own madness and know he won't win. He's been treated in a mental hospital, somewhere. We need to find it." Skinner rose, "I'll get someone on it right now. But you are going to lay down and try to sleep." He helped Mulder up and walked with him to the couch on the left wall. That Mulder didn't protest was testimony to his exhaustion and the pain he was in. Skinner stepped out and got the team researching mental hospitals. When he came back, Mulder was sleeping. ******************************************************* Scully didn't want to wake up. It was nice here, wherever this was. She knew that whatever lay on the other side of this place, was no place she wanted to be. But there was a steady pounding against her side, and she was forcefully pulled back to wakefulness. Emerson stood there, looking down at her, and kicking her steadily in the ribs. She went to move back from him, and felt excruciating pain. At least one was broken. He saw her movement and said, "Oh good, you're awake." He looked at her as a entomologist studies a an interesting specimen. "You can go now." She just lay there, unable to comprehend what he was saying. "Did you hear me? We're done now." He leaned forward, and smiled when she flinched. "YOU CAN GO." She struggled to her knees, still watching him, expecting him to strike out at any moment. The door was open and beckoned her. She lurched to her feet, and began to stagger towards freedom. It took all her concentration to stay on her feet. She focused on moving one foot in front of the other. She was almost there when she heard it. A giggle. Emerson. She redoubled her efforts to reach the door. Once outside she could lock him in and go for help. A foot tripped her and she fell heavily. Emerson leered down at her. "Oops. Sorry." Another giggle. "I changed my mind. You have to stay." And a fist connected with her chin. Her nose exploded and blood flowed freely. She tried backing away, but could no longer move. The foot resumed kicking her, on the small of her back this time, over her kidney. He dragged her over to the wall, and grabbing her by the hair beat her head against it until blood flowed again. She felt the darkness calling her, and longed to drift to it. But something, someone was holding her here. She looked up, struggling to focus, and saw Emerson staring at her. In his hand he held a hammer and a nail. He took a step toward her and she was powerless to move. "Oh Mulder, where are you?" she thought, as merciful darkness carried her away. ************************************************* Emerson had been a mental patient, at a hospital now closed. Skinner came back into the room. Mulder had been asleep a little less than two hours but Skinner knew he would never forgive him if he didn't wake him for this. As he moved to the couch, the still figure began to twitch and moan. He hurried forward just as Mulder surged up, screaming, "Let her go!" Skinner dropped his crutches and grabbed Mulder's wildly flailing arms. He spoke calmly and soothingly, "Mulder, it's Skinner. Wake up." Mulder slowly focused on his boss's voice, speaking gently into his ear. He turned and looked at him. "Is there any word on Scully, Sir?" "Not yet," Skinner answered. "But your idea that Emerson was a mental patient panned out. The hospital is closed but it's not too far from here." Mulder was already rising. He looked around and saw the crutches Skinner had dropped. As he retrieved them, he said, "We have to go there. I have to see it." Arrangements were quickly made and they traveled in anticipatory silence to the old hospital. When they entered, Mulder immediately went to the second floor, the ward Emerson had been kept in. He walked quickly to the common room, as if he knew where to go. Skinner and the locals trailed him, Skinner moving as quickly as his injury would allow. Mulder pulled open the door and froze. From behind him, he heard the sound of retching. Someone said, "Oh Jesus!" There, in the center of the room, split from neck to navel, was the body of yet another young woman. A brightly lettered sign taunted them: N O T H E R E Mulder ignored them all and immediately set to work on the anagram. "Somebody who knows this area, is there a place called THE RENO, or THE REON, or THE NERO?" "The Nero," a voice answered. It's an old movie theater from the forties, been closed for years." "Let's go," Mulder turned. "Scully's there." ************************************************** When they got to the theater, a large sign met them on the outside door. R U S H T H I S E They lost valuable time as the bomb squad and QRT tried to determine if the building was rigged. Mulder once again played with the letters, a ragged sob being wrenched from his throat as he realized the message. S H E I S H U R T Once the team cleared the building for entry, Mulder went straight to the basement, following an invisible cord that pulled him. But was Scully or Emerson on the other end? At the bottom of the stairs, a heavy wooden door was locked with numerous slide locks. "Scully," he called, frantically pulling the bolts to get through the door. He slid the last one and pulled the door open, only to be met with blood, blood and more blood. Blood everywhere. He scanned the room in panic, slowly realizing he was too late. She was gone. But on a makeshift pallet on the floor, her shirt lay, torn and bloodied. Nailed to the shirt, over where her left breast would have been was she wearing it, and on top of a huge blood stain, was another note: P A I N S H I N E S Skinner had come in late behind Mulder. Navigating stairs on crutches was neither easy nor quick. He walked up as Mulder collapsed, clasping Scully's shirt to his chest. His haunted eyes looked up, finding Skinner, and he croaked, "SHE'S IN PAIN." Chapter 13 "There was never a genius without a tincture of madness." Aristotle Mulder had collapsed completely. Skinner didn't know how he was going to keep him out of the hospital this time. He knelt on the blood stained pallet, holding - clutching - Scully's shirt to his heart. Tears streamed down his face and a continual moan escaped his throat. He rocked back and forth on his knees. He ignored every attempt Skinner made to get his attention. The local agents milled around behind Skinner, unsure of what to make of this. Mulder had been right on in every instance so far. They hadn't come up with anything new or helpful that hadn't been suggested by Mulder. They knew he was the only way they would ever catch this monster. And he was a weeping, trembling basket case. Skinner rose and turned. Using his best AD voice, he ordered, "Clear this room! Right now! This is a crime scene. Where the hell is forensics?" All movement ceased for a moment, then agents began sheepishly backing toward the door. It grew quiet, and Mulder's moans seemed louder in the absence of other sound. When everyone had left except Skinner and the SAIC, he said, "I need to be alone with him. He'll come around, but it may take a few minutes. Get the forensics detail over here. We need to confirm this is Scully's blood, and get an idea on whether or not she's . . ." he paused, swallowing hard, "Whether she's lost too much blood. God forbid, but we need to know - are we looking for a live agent or a body?" He shuddered as Mulder's moan turned into a wail at the thought he had just voiced. But, curiously, that gave him hope. Mulder was in there, he was listening, he could be reached. The SAIC left, posting an agent outside to insure privacy, and went to arrange for the next team to come in. Skinner stood looking at Mulder as he tried to figure out how to approach him. He went and touched his forehead briefly. Just as he suspected, cold. He called to the guard requesting blankets. And Mulder's pain medication. He was going to need it after this. Concussion was a bitch. Mulder's moans had quieted some, and he now sobbed quietly into Scully's shirt. Skinner took the blanket and walked over to him. Approaching him cautiously, aware of what he had done to the agent back at the station, he spoke. "Mulder, you're cold. I'm going to put this blanket around you now." No response. Skinner wrapped the blanket around him, being careful not to go near Scully's shirt. As he tucked the blanket tightly around, he began to rub the younger man's shoulders. Mulder tensed even more, but he stilled his frantic rocking somewhat. Ignoring the pain in his own leg, Skinner knelt behind the tortured man, still steadily rubbing Mulder's shoulders. Skinner thought back to how Scully had reached Mulder in the past. It involved talking soothingly, being tactile, and lots of patience. He knew Mulder could hear him; his response to the thought of Scully's body had proven that. He began to speak in a low, soft voice, assuring Mulder that Scully would be ok, telling him he was needed, praising him for the work he had done thus far. He stroked the younger man's back and shoulders, trying to connect him to the present, as if he could physically pull him back from wherever his mind had taken him. Slowly, so slowly that Skinner didn't realize it was happening at first, Mulder began to still. He relaxed in tiny increments, leaning back into Skinner's bulk, allowing himself to be supported. The tears began to dry, and no new ones fell to take their place. The pause between sobs grew longer, and the sounds themselves grew quieter. When Mulder had not moved or made a sound for almost five minutes, Skinner reached his arms around, and pulled him to him in a fierce hug. Holding him tightly, he whispered, "You're ok, now, I've got you. Mulder, you must come back now. I can't find Scully without you. We'll find her together, Mulder. I'm here, I won't let you go." Skinner continued to hold the younger man, waiting to see if he had gotten through. Skinner felt, rather than saw, as a bandaged hand came up and tightly gripped his arm for a long moment, before falling back to it's owner's lap. They remained that way a bit longer, Mulder tightly wrapped in Skinner's embrace, leaning heavily against the AD, but still, calm, quiet. At length, Mulder stirred. His voice was husky, whispery, and cracked as he said, "You must be getting sore by now. How's your leg?" Skinner tightened his hold for a minute, then let go, pulling back slightly to give Mulder some space. "It hurts. How's your head?" "It hurts." "You functional?" "For now." "I'll get your pills. What else do you need?" "The lists. Where he's taken her is on the lists. I just need to find it." Skinner struggled to his feet, then reached down and pulled Mulder up as well. Scully's shirt was still tightly clasped in his bandaged hands. But he rose without complaint, and waited patiently while Skinner got his crutches. Without looking up, Mulder said, "Thank you, Sir." Skinner went to him, and gripped his shoulder tightly. He nodded, then said, "Come on, then. We've got work to do." ************************************************* It was raining. The cool water felt wonderful to Scully. She opened her mouth to drink it in, and it tasted wonderful too. She could feel the individual drops as they fell on her eyelids, her nose, her hair, in her lips. It was wonderful. She lay there quietly, letting the wonderful rain bathe her wounds, soothe her cuts, erase her thirst. But all too soon, the rain ceased. With difficulty, she pried her swollen eyes open enough the peer out. Different room, she noted. Bedroom? When did he move me? How? She tried to turn to get a better look and Emerson appeared in her field of vision. He stood over her, a dripping rag held loosely in one hand. "Ah, you're awake," he said. Don't let him see your fear, Scully reminded herself. She thought her jaw might be dislocated, it hurt to try to talk. She croaked, "Get the hell away from me Emerson." She thought she saw that flashing of surprise again as he shifted his gaze to meet her eyes. "You're very - interesting - you know. You don't beg - you just give orders. It's really rather refreshing." He looked away for a minute, then returned his gaze to her. "Rather stimulating, actually." His eyes dropped to her bloodstained bra, all that covered her from the waist up. She closed her eyes as his hand moved toward her, and her stomach heaved as he stroked the skin along the bra strap. She released a breath she didn't realize she had been holding when she felt his hand withdraw without touching her further. He reached down roughly, and pulled her to her feet. "Stay up," he threatened, and she did her best to comply. If she could just stay on her feet, maybe she'd be able to do something to get out of here. He held her loosely by her arm. She cradled her broken wrist in her right hand, and was bent over, protecting her broken ribs from further assault. Her left breast ached terribly and was bleeding. The sudden movement up had broken open half a dozen smaller wounds, so she bled from several other places as well. She breathed shallowly through her mouth, and thought her nose might be broken as well. "I require my women to beg," Emerson's voice rang out, interrupting her catalogue of injuries. "Since you obviously will not, you must go." Scully didn't move. 'Uh unh, you bastard,' she thought, 'we've played this game before.' He began to walk her slowly toward the door. She came, not willingly, but without much resistance either. He walked her into a living room of sorts, and seated her on the couch. She noted that the door was not locked. Emerson looked at her, like a bug on a microscope, and said, "You can't go out like that. You need to clean up first. I'll be right back. " He stood and left the room. Scully sat for a minute, trying to decide what to do. Could she make it to the door and out before he came back? And what was outside? If nothing was nearby, she didn't have a chance. No way could she move fast enough to stay ahead of Emerson. She struggled up and hobbled over to the window. There was a car right outside. She looked around. And keys on the table by the door. She looked around again, then made her decision. Sweeping the keys off the table, she made her way to the door as quickly as she could. It opened silently and she slipped outside, not bothering to shut it behind her. She half hopped, half fell down the three steps to the ground, and went straight for the car. As she reached for the handle, a voice spoke, "I told you you couldn't go out like that, now didn't I?" Scully froze, a sob strangled in her throat. She felt his hand on her arm, and as she was roughly turned to face him, the back of his hand caught her across the face. She staggered from the blow, but he held her upright. He hit her again, then a third time, holding her tightly as she tried to avoid the blows. He reached out, and taking her broken wrist in his hand, yanked her forward. As she collapsed in the dirt, she felt him kicking her - her back, her legs. She curled into as small a ball as she could trying to protect as much of herself as she could. She refused to give him the satisfaction of making her beg, but in her mind she begged, she pleaded, she cried out, 'Mulder, please come get me!' His foot moved up and down her body, kicking her repeatedly. At last, he connected sharply with her exposed temple, and she slid away into the blackness that beckoned her. ******************************************** Mulder sat staring at a table full of lists. Scully's shirt lay across his lap and one hand fingered it while the other rested across the papers. His eyes were unfocused, but this time it was exhaustion that was the cause. Skinner watched as he slowly leaned forward, his head lowering onto his arm. Skinner let him sleep undisturbed for a few minutes, then he eased his glasses off, and pulled the blanket back around him. He stepped to the door and spoke to the new agent assigned to them. "He's asleep. No one goes in or out without my say-so." When the young woman nodded her agreement, Skinner told her to have sandwiches sent up in a couple of hours, and knock gently when they arrived. He reentered the room, saw that Mulder was still sleeping and began his own tour through the many lists that covered the conference table. He felt very out of his league here. Shit, Mulder wasn't even sure what he was looking for, how the hell was he supposed to find something or make a connection? But he felt he had to try. He'd done all he could as an AD. A full team was on alert, ready to move at a moment's notice. Skinner had mobilized everyone he could lay his hands on, and every lead Mulder produced, no matter how slim, was being investigated, researched, followed up on. Emerson's former neighbors, teachers, co-workers were all being interviewed. Former dwellings were being searched. Distant relatives were being sought out. They'd turned up enough evidence to link Emerson to the previous murders, that the 'difficulties' the court had with the case, were no longer even a distant concern. Skinner sorted through the lists, looking desperately for something, anything, to jump out at him and give him a reason to wake Mulder. But the harder he looked, the less he saw. He took his responsibilities very seriously, always had, and right now, one of his agents was in the hands of a sadistic madman, and there was nothing he could do. A wave of pure rage poured across him, and he rose quickly, moving to the center of the room, away from things to pound that would make noise and wake Mulder. He stood rigid, ramrod straight, hands clenched into fists by his side, breathing ragged, as he struggled to control the fury that washed over him. His leg hurt, so he deliberately put more weight on it, using the pain to focus away from the rage, and back onto constructive avenues of exploration. He stood for long minutes, letting the pain consume him, chasing the anger back into a manageable corner of his soul. Skinner started as a gentle knock sounded at the door. He limped over and pulled it open. The young woman stood before him with sandwiches, coffee, and soda. Skinner glanced disbelievingly at his watch. Had two hours really passed? He took the food and drinks from her and turned to reenter the room. A slight clearing of the throat arrested his movement. "Yes?" he inquired. "Is there something else?" "Yes, Sir, this just came up. One of the neighbors that knew Emerson as a child remembered he had a summer job at an old amusement park down on the gulf. It's closed now, but thought you should know." "Very good, thank you. I'm going to wake Mulder now. Let me know immediately if anything else comes in." Skinner cleared a spot on the table, and put the bags down. He stepped over beside Mulder and softly spoke his name. Mulder stirred, but didn't waken. Skinner reached out and shook the sleeping man gently. "Shh, Scully, go back to sleep," Mulder whispered. Skinner smiled, then shook him again, harder, and called, "Come on, Mulder, time to get up." Mulder opened his eyes, blinking owlishly as he left the dream state and entered the state of reality. The slight smile that had graced his lips disappeared completely as he came to full awareness. "Aw, shit, Sir, how long have I been out?" "A couple hours, Mulder, and don't start with me. You were dead on your ass, and not getting anything done. At least now, maybe, we can all be a bit more alert." Mulder swallowed the retort on his lips, and nodded reluctantly. He reached up and rubbed his temple. "I've got to go," he mumbled and started to rise. As he got to his feet, a wave of dizziness washed over him and he began to fall. Skinner reached out and grabbed him, holding him steady. "You need to eat, Mulder. With the head injury you'll be fighting dizziness anyway. Starving yourself won't help." "I bet Scully's not eating," Mulder muttered under his breath. "And even if she's not, Mulder, you starving yourself won't help get her back. Especially if you end up in the hospital or unconscious. Now, let's get you to the bathroom, and then you eat." Mulder nodded miserably, and let Skinner lead him to the bathroom. He finished , washed, and exited the restroom. Skinner was leaning against the wall, waiting for him. "Feel better?" "Yeah, a little. My head still hurts." "Time for another magic pill. Come on, let's eat." They ate rapidly, Skinner filling Mulder in on Emerson's job at the amusement park as they ate. Suddenly, Skinner stopped in mid-bite. "Hey, Mulder, if this guy wants to play, like you've been saying, then what better place than an amusement park?" Mulder froze, dumbstruck. He closed his eyes and tasted the idea. He rolled it around in his mind, fitting it in with all the other bits and pieces that were stored there. He pulled it out and looked at it under bright lights, then dragged the concept into shadowy recesses and squinted at it. He slowly opened his eyes. It fit! "Where?" "About 30 miles southwest." "How soon?" "Now. The team's on standby." Skinner studied Mulder. "Are you sure?" Mulder stood and helped Skinner up. "I'm sure." ************************************************* Skinner and Mulder stood near the mobile command post, following the progress of the team as they swept the old amusement park. "Clear" "Clear" "All Clear" rang from the radios. Mulder began to sweep the area looking for other possibilities. She had to be here, but where would he go? "Is there a caretaker's house on the grounds? Anything like that?" He waited as Skinner consulted a printout, then replied, "Yeah, Mulder, around back in a wooded area that wasn't open to the general public. But employees would have known about it." Skinner radioed the SAIC and arranged for a team to meet them there. When they assembled, the team commander assigned positions and they prepared for entry. Skinner and Mulder hung back. Both being injured, they couldn't afford to be a hindrance. But as the team was moving into position, there was a resounding 'crack' and a scream shattered the air, "Mulder!" Mulder broke and ran. He hit the front door full force and didn't stop, screaming, "I'm here Scully, I'm coming!" as he followed the sound of her cry. Skinner was behind him, following as quickly as he could. Mulder went down a hall, pausing outside a bedroom. He turned the knob, threw open the door, and there she was! Scully was hanging, mercifully unconscious, from a hook driven into the ceiling of the small bedroom. Her face was a swollen mess of bruises and blood. Her left breast was covered in dark, dried blood. The bone in her broken wrist had pushed its way through the skin, pulled by the weight of her body hanging from it. Mulder immediately moved toward her, but before he had taken two steps, his head exploded, and all went dark. When he came to, he was shirtless, his right arm pulled out from his body along the wall, and tied to a desk. His legs were loosely tied down, obviously a rush job. Blood trickled from the wound at the back of his head. His vision was blurry, and he felt faint and nauseated. Emerson stood beside the closed door, talking to someone on the other side. "I have all of them, and if you come in I will kill them." Skinner lay unconscious across the room. His stitches had pulled out and his leg was bleeding freely. A large purple knot decorated the brow above his left eye. Emerson turned to Mulder and saw he was awake. "So glad you decided to join us." His eyes glittered madly. "Though I prefer to play with women, you and your companion offer some interesting possibilities." "Emerson, let Scully and Skinner go," Mulder croaked. "I'll stay and play with you." "That's very kind of you, Fox, but I think I prefer to keep all of my playmates for the time being." He advanced to Mulder, holding a note out. It read I T S R E A L L O V E "I made this one just for you and the formerly lovely Miss Scully." He cut the rope that held Scully and let her fall. He lifted her and brought her over and placed her next to Mulder, her head nestled against his chest under his raised right arm. She flopped bonelessly against him when Emerson let her go. Emerson turned and checked on Skinner. Still out. He turned back to Mulder, lifted the note and held it to his right bicep. Mulder watched in horror, as Emerson pulled a hammer from his belt, took a nail and began to nail the note - and Mulder's arm - into the wall. Pain stormed through Mulder's body as he tried to recoil. He screamed once, and passed out. When he came to, Emerson was tying the still unconscious Skinner. "Emerson." Mulder called out, barely above a whisper. Emerson turned from where he was trussing Skinner. He looked quizzically at Mulder. Mulder's right arm was still nailed to the wall. Scully was tucked into his side, under the arm, unconscious. The bloody note still proclaimed I T S R E A L L O V E But Mulder had freed his right leg from the rope, and pulled it up, and his left hand was at his ankle. "Read the note again, you asshole," he sneered at Emerson. "Play the game." Emerson looked at the letters on the note. His brow scrunched in concentration as he worked on rearranging them to form a new message. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he looked at Mulder. The pistol from the ankle holster was in Mulder's left hand. He looked into Emerson's eyes, pulled the trigger, and said, "That's right, you bastard, ITS ALL OVER - E." Chapter 14 "The pain passes, but the beauty remains." Pierre Auguste Renoir Skinner woke again and looked toward the window. It was dark now. His head still hurt, but it was a dull ache, just barely noticeable. His leg was bandaged and he could feel the stitches beneath the gauze. No IV, so he hadn't been out too long. He had awoken earlier and moved to sit next to Mulder's bed, but been chased back to his own by an officious sounding nurse. Once there, sleep had recaptured him all too quickly. He turned the other way and saw Mulder in the next bed. Still sleeping. He looked at the bandages covering the young man, his head now sporting a turban, and his arm was tightly wrapped and immobilized. An IV ran into one hand and a catheter snaked out from under the bedclothes. As he watched, Mulder began to moan. Skinner pulled back his own covers and slipped out of the bed. He walked carefully over to the chair he had placed next to Mulder's bed, and resumed his self-imposed vigil. Gently cradling Mulder's hand, careful of the IV, he began to speak soothingly to the sleeping man. "Shhh, Mulder, it's ok. We made it. Scully's ok. When you feel better, we'll go see her. She's gonna be fine, Mulder. You did good, son. You did so good. I'm really proud of you." Skinner kept up a running stream of commentary, hoping that his voice, and his sentiments, would reach Mulder where he tossed uneasily, crying out now and then. Skinner reflected on how sensitive this young man was. Given the trials he had faced in his life, it would have made sense that Mulder would have cut himself off from his feelings, isolated himself for protection. That's how he had handled all the emotional issues from the war. It made him strong, but it also kept him alone. How much more Mulder had suffered, and yet, he faced those painful demons as needed when it would help another. Though he never would have thought it of himself, he was envious of Mulder's ability to release his emotions, whether through tears and other emotional display, or by reaching out for comfort, and being willing to accept it. The only emotion he himself had ever been comfortable with, was anger, and that certainly created more problems than it solved. And his own unwillingness to accept those other emotions had led him to a lonely place, a place he lived alone. His new - friendship - with Scully and Mulder had provided him opportunities to witness how Mulder's sensitivity and emotional availability was really an asset. And while he wasn't able to express himself that freely yet, or possibly ever, he had become much more willing and able to be supportive, and to offer comfort when it was needed. That was progress, wasn't it? His quiet monologue seemed to be working as the younger man was more settled when Skinner talked to him. As Mulder stilled again, Skinner released his hand and tentatively reached out to brush the hair back from his eyes. His hand lingered on Mulder's brow as he thought of how much the young man had suffered, how close it had been for them, how incredibly, Mulder had saved them all. As he stroked Mulder's forehead, his eyes slowly came open. Skinner pulled his hand back, touched him gently on the arm and said, "Well, hello. I wondered when you'd be joining us." He smiled. "How are you feeling?" Mulder ran a dry tongue over cracked lips and croaked, "Scully?" "She's ok, Mulder." Skinner poured water and held it to his agent's lips. "She's going to be fine." Mulder drank greedily, and Skinner pulled the cup away. "Slow down. There's more if you want it." He held the cup out again and Mulder took several more sips, pausing between each. "Thanks. Where is she?" "She's next door. I've been over a couple times already." "I want to go." "I know, but you can't, not yet." Skinner paused. "You're pretty sick Mulder. They had to put a catheter in - your infection was way out of control." Mulder looked down, then scrunched his face in distaste. "Scully wouldn't have let them. She knows I hate that." "Sorry Mulder, she and I were both out at the time. Your arm is pretty torn up, they had to do surgery to repair the damage from that nail. It's just muscle and ligament though, you should heal and be fine. And your head was not helped by all this." Skinner paused. "When I came to, you were strapped down. Apparently, you hadn't been the most cooperative patient, even unconscious." He shook his head ruefully. "Why am I not surprised? Anyway, I made them unstrap you, but you have to stay in bed." "I want to go see her." "Mulder, she's still out." He looked carefully at the young man, trying to gauge his reaction to his next words. "There was a lot of trauma, Mulder. They had to induce coma." As Mulder's eyes filled, he rushed on, "But, they're going to bring her up tomorrow. If you rest and stay in bed like you're supposed to, your catheter comes out tomorrow, and you can be there when they wake her. Deal?" "Can you go? I don't want her to be alone." "Yes, Mulder, I understand, but I've already been, several times. She's out, not in pain, letting her body heal. I know you don't want her to be alone, but right now, there is someone else who's sick, and hurt, and shouldn't be alone either." Skinner reached out gently and took the young man's hand, holding it tightly. As the meaning of Skinner's words reached Mulder, the tears in his eyes began to fall. Skinner stood and pulled the young man into a strong embrace. He held him as he cried, rubbing his back, and murmuring encouragingly. As Mulder gulped in a last shuddering sob, Skinner laid him back into the bed. He gently brushed his hands over Mulder's eyes, saying, "Go to sleep, Mulder. Rest. Heal. Tomorrow will be here soon." ********************************************************** Mulder woke as the curtain was pulled around his bed, separating him from Skinner. An overly cheerful voice said, "Good morning Mr. Mulder, and how are we this morning?" "Is that the royal pronoun, or are you ill also?" Mulder asked snidely. The nurse colored and a deep voice from behind the curtain threatened, "Behave, Mulder, or I'm coming over." Mulder rolled his eyes, then looked up sheepishly and said, "Sorry, I can be a real bastard when I don't feel good." The nurse smiled forgivingly, and said "Well, I don't think you want to antagonize me. As soon as the doctor comes round, I'm going to be removing the Foley for you." Mulder groaned. "In that case, I'm really sorry." >From behind the curtain came a loud chuckle. The young woman took his vitals. She unwrapped the bandage to look at the healing gash on his head, smiling approvingly. "Much better. Now just let me measure your output." She leaned down, clamped the tube and removed a partially full bag. "Very good." A new bag was attached, but the clamp stayed on. "That will help you recognize that full feeling." She pulled the curtain open and breezed out of the room. "When are they waking Scully, Sir?" "After you're mobile. I talked with her doctor and he agreed it would be best if you could be there. Your doctor agrees, but she wants you to pee on your own before she lets you up. Better start saving it up, Mulder." Mulder groaned again, and closed his eyes. Skinner looked over at the determined look on Mulder's face and said, "And don't be making plans to jump ship. I've got an agent outside this door, and outside Scully's. I know how you operate." He smiled as Mulder's eyes popped open and he turned to look. "I just - I need to see her, Sir." "I understand that, but she needs you whole, or as whole as you can be. She's got a lot of healing to do, and she's going to need a lot of support." "What ..." a strangled sound, "what did he do to her?" "He beat her pretty badly. Her left wrist is broken, compound fracture, and two ribs. Her nose is broken. And the note that was nailed to her shirt - that was done while she was wearing it." Tears slid down Mulder's face as he took this in. "Why the coma?" "He beat her, and kicked her, a lot. Her kidneys were slightly damaged, and her spleen ruptured. It was fortunate you found her when you did, she wouldn't have made it much longer with the amount of internal bleeding she was doing. And he kicked her repeatedly in the head. Brain swelling. The coma was to allow time for the swelling to recede." Skinner sat up and fixed Mulder with a stare. "But, Mulder, she is going to be all right." Mulder returned Skinner's look appraisingly, looking for anything the indicated he was withholding or sugar coating the truth. Finally, he nodded, and said, "Just so you know, I am outta here at noon, so that doc better get here soon. Just then the door opened and the doctor entered. "Good morning Mr. Mulder. Since you've been asleep every time I've been in, you don't know, but I am Dr. Albertson. Your cultures look good and your fluid intake and output are in the right range. Are you ready to get rid of the catheter?" Mulder nodded vigorously. "Absolutely, the sooner, the better." "Ok, then, I'll send Allison back in to do the dirty deed. I've heard about you - don't give her a hard time, you hear?" She chuckled and started to leave. "Excuse me, Doctor, when can I get up? When can I see Scully?" "You can get up as soon as you urinate on your own. You produce like you should, and you can go see your partner right after, ok?" Mulder nodded again, "All right, thanks." Allison came back in, slid the curtain shut again, and pulled back the blankets. Covered only by his short hospital gown, Mulder flushed slightly. As she gripped the thin tube, Allison asked, "Are you ready? Good, then bear down and here we go." Mulder clenched his teeth and tried to swallow the groan that immediately came to his lips. "All done," Allison chirped. "Now, be sure and let me know when you need to urinate. We have to measure your output if you want to be released." She opened the curtain again, and swept out of the room. Mulder nodded again, still breathing hard and thinking that Foley catheterization could easily be considered torture in some third world nations. He sighed, then leaned back closed his eyes, waiting for the urge to relieve himself, so he could get this over with and get over to Scully. It better happen soon; his patience was at it's breaking point! ******************************************** Mulder had rested and then produced, as requested, right on schedule. He and Skinner now sat in Scully's room, waiting for her to wake. Her doctor had discontinued the meds keeping her under, and they were all waiting for her to awaken naturally. The two men talked quietly, Skinner taking the opportunity to tell Mulder, again, that he had done a good job all through the case. He didn't think Mulder was buying it, but at least he wasn't arguing. And he seemed somehow pleased to be hearing any praise at all. Mental note to self - be sure and tell Mulder when he does good - he obviously hasn't heard it enough. Mulder sat as close to Scully's bed as he could. He had taken a position on her right side, so that he could hold her hand. He couldn't help himself from touching her. Everywhere he could see, if it wasn't swollen, or cut, or bandaged, or bruised, he reached out and touched her. That left him limited to her ear, a small spot under her chin, just above her elbow, and, of course, holding her hand. But he repeatedly made the circuit, just to reassure himself that she really was here, she really was alive, and he really could touch her. Skinner watched as Mulder went through his ritual - Scully's hand in his, and with his other hand, a gentle stroke of the ear, a finger's bare touch under her chin, a tender kiss to the elbow, then sit for all of 30 seconds and start again. As he watched, Mulder's kissed Scully's elbow and she stirred. Her eyes fluttered and Mulder immediately spoke, "Hey Scully, come on, wake up. How you doing sleeping beauty?" Scully opened her eyes a bit more and focused on Mulder. "Oh Mulder, you came." she whispered. "I knew you'd come and get me." Her eyes slid shut and she drifted off again. At Scully's expression of confidence, Mulder's eyes again filled with tears. He gently moved her arm aside and laid his head on the bed by her. "Oh, Scully, I'm so sorry - I was so late in coming." He began to cry, telling her everything that had happened, everything he had seen and done and experienced and felt. Skinner listened quietly, again impressed by Mulder's sensitivity and the depth of concern he showed for everyone but himself. They sat for some time more, before Scully began to stir again. Skinner saw the movement and rose quietly to allow some privacy for his two star agents. He went to the door, then paused, looking back, watching over these two people whom he had come to care about. This time, as Scully opened her eyes, she looked straight at her partner. "Mulder," she sighed, "You're here. I thought I dreamed it." "Where else would I be?" he replied. "How do you feel?" "Foggy. I must be on some pretty good stuff, huh?" "Only the best for my girl." He tried to smile but it was more a grimace. He started to speak again, trying to maintain the lightheartedness, but the words caught in his throat. "Oh, Scully," he cried, "Oh, Scully, I thought I lost you." A sob escaped. "If I lost you, I would be lost forever." She reached out to him, pulling him in closer, and whispered, "Never, Mulder. Never. You can never lose me." Part 3: The Roberson Case Chapter 15 "When a friend is in trouble, don't annoy him by asking if there is anything you can do. Think up something appropriate and do it." Edgar Watson Howe Skinner walked slowly down the hall of the old apartment building. Though he had been here before, this would be the first time he had come in his new role as 'friend.' He shook his head - if he could be a friend and if they would let him. Since the Emerson case began last fall, his relationship with his two agents had changed greatly. No longer just a supervisor, someone they reported to, he had become mentor, sometime co-worker, and, as he could still hardly believe, friend. The AD paused outside the door, thinking of the two people he knew were inside. Oh, yes, this was Dana Scully's apartment, but Fox Mulder would be here. If Skinner was correct, Mulder's guilt would have kept him here since they had returned a week ago. He shook his head again as he thought of the fight that Scully had waged to be released. Within 48 hours of regaining consciousness, she was hammering the hospital staff to let her go. Finally, on day 4, a threat to check herself out AMA got one of the doctors to agree to send her home with strict instructions that she stay on bed rest for another week, at least. Mulder had fussed so over her on the plane back, that he was lucky not to have made the last half of the journey consigned to the baggage compartment. And now a week after their return, he stood in the hall and wondered why he hadn't come to check on them sooner. 'This friend stuff really is new to me,' he thought. Though he had been injured in the Emerson situation as well, his was the least serious of the three. His head had healed completely, and the stitches in his leg had come out several days ago. He had been checking in with his agents by phone since they had returned to DC, but this was the first time he had come to see them. He felt pangs of guilt that he had, again, let duty and responsibility to his work keep him from something he should have done sooner. It was a phone call he had received this morning, at the office, though it was Saturday, that had motivated him to come and see these two, rather than just check in by phone. He hadn't even realized Mulder was staying here since he had been using the cell to check in. But this morning, Margaret Scully had called, from San Diego, to ask him to get a message to her daughter since Dana was on a case. Her brother Bill was recovering well from the fall he had taken from the elevator to the flight deck of his ship. She would be gone at least two more weeks, and would Dana please call when she had a few minutes. At the realization that Mrs. Scully was not here, that Dana was hiding her injuries from her, Skinner knew that Mulder had to be staying with her. There was no way he would leave her alone when she was still so weak from her injuries. He gave himself a mental shake. 'Well, time to see if I measure up as a friend,' he thought, as he knocked twice on the door. **************************************************************** "So, how is she doing?" Skinner seated himself on the couch, taking the glass Mulder held out with his good arm. He began with a question about Scully, knowing that would get Mulder talking, but he was actually more concerned with the appearance of the young man before him. His right arm was still bandaged, and should have been taped down, but Mulder had obviously freed himself from the restraint, and had most probably been using it since it was his dominant arm and hand. His forehead still sported a bandage over a deep gash and the back of his head still had that shaven, fairly stubbled look, covering a matching wound. His hands were scabbed and rough looking from his fight with a concrete wall. Those were, however, injuries Skinner knew about, and actually, they seemed to be healing as expected. But the deep circles under his eyes, the sunken cheeks and the way his clothes hung from his frame, these were all new, and not good signs. Skinner knew, from working with him in the field while pursuing Emerson, that these were symptoms that Mulder was severely stressed, and not sleeping or eating. "She sleeps a lot, Sir." Mulder paused, frowning. He walked to the window, looking out. "Well," he amended, "she tries to sleep a lot. She's still in a good bit of pain, and taking a lot of meds for it - maybe more than she should be. Or not enough. She won't take them when she's up, then seems to use the pain meds to induce sleep. But," he shrugged, a sort of 'who am I to question?' kind of movement, "She's the doctor. And her night terrors are in full swing." Mulder tensed visibly, his hands clutching into fists at his sides. His brow furrowed as he thought back over the past week. Skinner could see the carefully attempted concealment of his obvious distress falling away. "She won't talk to me - keeps insisting that there's nothing to say. That it wouldn't be 'helpful' for me to know what happened." He choked back a sob. "I think her old nightmares are getting mixed in with visions of Emerson, and it's tearing her up. And when she wakes up now, I know she remembers at least some of what she dreams." He shook his head in despair. "But she won't talk about it - says she's afraid SHE'LL hurt ME." He gave a strangled little laugh. "Afraid. That's a good word for the two of us. I'm afraid to touch her. I don't know what he did to her and I couldn't bear it if I touched her and . . " He trailed off, a strangled cry barely escaping. "I'm afraid I'll hurt her even more than she's been hurt. We walk around each other on egg shells, afraid to talk, afraid to touch, afraid to sleep." He paused, gathering himself together, then continued on, almost to himself. "It's like she's here, but she's not. We're here, but we're not together. At least she hasn't tried to make me go home yet." Skinner listened, nodding, taking it in, but still focusing on the haggard young man standing by the window. Noting the determined look on his face at the last comment, he knew Scully would have a real fight on her hands when it was time for Mulder to go home. 'Then again, maybe not. He really looks awful,' he thought to himself. 'Like he's going to collapse any minute.' Skinner watched as Mulder retreated into himself, sinking into thought. He just barely made out words, whispered so softly he would have missed them if he hadn't been totally focused on Mulder anyway. "I miss her." Skinner gave Mulder a minute, then called softly, "Mulder." Mulder started and turned to face Skinner inquiringly. Skinner met his eyes for a long moment, then stated, "You are staying here at Scully's, right?" The young man flushed, then looked away briefly. He nodded, a quick, jerky, up and down motion, then spoke, "Well, uh, yeah, I am, uh, on the couch. She, uh, isn't, well, umm, she doesn't want, that is . . ." He trailed off as Skinner rose and crossed to him. He reached out and gently turned the younger man to face him. He left his hand on Mulder's arm as he spoke. "It's ok, Mulder. You're taking care of her." Mulder flushed again, looked at Skinner's hand on his arm, and ducked his head. "Yeah, well, I'm trying." Skinner squeezed Mulder's arm gently, until he lifted his head and met his gaze. "And who is taking care of you?" Mulder blinked in surprise, his brow furrowing as if trying to make sense of the question. "Me?" He looked around in confusion. "I'm ok, Sir. Scully's the one that got hurt - hurt because of me." Skinner felt a flash of anger. When would this young man ever learn that everything bad in the world was not his fault? With the risks inherent in the job they all held, things were bound to go sour occasionally and people would get hurt. And sometimes, it would be Scully who was hurt. But that was a discussion for another time. Skinner checked his anger and spoke softly. "No, Mulder, not because of you. Because a madman who was killing women decided that Scully would be fun to play with. Not because of you in any way." Skinner pulled gently on Mulder's arm, leading him into the kitchen. He seated him at the small table there, then went to the refrigerator, opening it. "Tea, soda, juice. Which do you want?" Mulder just looked at him. "Sir?" "A drink, Mulder," Skinner explained patiently. "Which do you want? You haven't been eating or sleeping from the looks of things - so, let me fix you something to drink, we'll have lunch, and then you sleep and I'll watch Scully for a while. How's that sound?" Mulder continued to look at him with confusion. Skinner pulled the tea out and fixed a glass for him and then began to search for the makings for sandwiches. He found the bread, then dug in the refrigerator for mustard and mayo. He found a package of ham and one of cheese. He found a beginning to wrinkle tomato, and a slightly wilted head of lettuce. As he worked, he kept up a light running patter of non-consequential things, the weather, the Redskins, office gossip. He was searching his mind, trying to pull up another topic to prattle on about, when Mulder suddenly spoke. "Did you know, if you don't experience REM sleep for 96 hours, you'll have a psychotic episode?" Skinner paused, knife in hand, then turned slowly. "No, Mulder, I didn't know that. Are you telling me you haven't slept in FOUR days?" He shook his head ruefully. "How long have you been here?" Mulder scrubbed his face with his hands, then sighed heavily. "Since we got back." He laid his head on the table for a minute, then pulled himself back up. His whole body tensed as he asked, "And why are you here, Sir?" Skinner froze. There were layers in that question, layers upon layers; it wasn't what it seemed to be. Mulder doesn't trust people, yet he has been letting me in, more and more. He turned slowly and looked Mulder in the eye. Oh yeah, this question was a test. "Well, Mulder, the superficial answer is that I got a call at the office from Margaret Scully. Know anything about that?" Mulder flushed and dropped his gaze. "Scully's idea, not mine," he mumbled. "I wanted to tell her the truth." "Brother Bill is doing well and Margaret expects to be there a couple more weeks. She wants Dana to call." Mulder nodded, then said, "And the non-superficial answer, Sir?" "The non-superficial answer is - I was concerned about you two." "But not so concerned that you couldn't wait a week to come by," Mulder said in a quiet voice. "Afraid, Mulder. It's a word that can fit more people than you and Scully." He paused, turned back to the counter and fiddled with the sandwich makings, then faced Mulder again. "I'm not good at personal relationships." Mulder visibly relaxed. Both men expelled breaths they had been holding and tension slipped out of the room. Mulder flashed a quick grin. " 'S ok, Sir. We're all in a learning mode around here." Skinner nodded again, then served the sandwiches. He had half expected Mulder to pick at the food, and was pleased when he began to wolf it down. When he finished, he looked around as if to ask, 'Is there more?' Skinner had eaten half of his own sandwich, so he passed the other half to Mulder, who looked up in surprise. Skinner nodded, "Go ahead, eat, I'm gonna make another." Mulder took the sandwich and began to eat, a bit more slowly this time. "This is really good, Sir, thank you." He chuckled. "Maybe I AM having a psychotic episode. Instead of pink penguins in tutus, I'm seeing my boss in my partner's kitchen, fixing me lunch." Both men laughed at that, and Skinner quickly made another sandwich, passing one half to Mulder and digging in to the other half himself. "Well, Mulder, maybe you're seeing your friend, trying to help out a bit." He smiled. "Ever think of that?" He turned serious. "I'm truly sorry I didn't come by sooner. Why didn't you tell me things weren't going well?" Mulder just shrugged in response to Skinner's question. The two men finished the sandwiches, and quickly washed up the few dishes. Mulder excused himself to walk down the hall and check in on Scully. Still sleeping. When he returned to the living room, Skinner had pulled out a pillow and blanket and made a bed on the couch. "Time for you to sleep," he announced. "And I am not listening to any excuses. You are dead on your feet, and if this continues, you won't be any good to Scully or yourself. So, down boy, sleep well." "You'll stay awhile, Sir, in case . . ." Mulder started. "I'll stay as long as I'm needed. Get some sleep, Mulder. I'm here. You don't have to do this alone. We'll talk again when you've rested some, ok?" Mulder sat on the couch and began to take off his shoes. "She's going to wake up within the hour, Sir. She never sleeps more than two or three hours at a time," he warned. "Promise you'll wake me." Skinner looked at Mulder. "If she wakes up, I'll try to handle it. And if I can't calm her down, I'll wake you. Otherwise, you sleep. Deal?" Mulder skinned out of his jeans, nodding, then began fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. The injured right arm and tender healing patches on both hands made buttons a chore. Skinner stepped toward him, "Here, let me do that. At this rate, you'll still be awake tomorrow." He quickly finished unbuttoning the shirt and helped the younger man take it off, pulling gently over the injured arm. Mulder lay down on the couch, pulling the blanket up loosely to his waist. "Why are you wearing a dress shirt anyway?" "Um, all my clothes are dirty," Mulder yawned, his eyes already drifting shut. "I didn't want to leave her to go do laundry." Skinner nodded. 'Of course,' he thought. "All right, Mulder, once you've rested, we'll figure out laundry and groceries and all the other things that need to be done around here. But for now," he paused, looking over at his agent and seeing that sleep had already claimed him. He moved over and pulled the blanket up a bit more, tucking it in around the younger man. "But for now," he repeated in a whisper, "Sleep." ************************************************************* Scully couldn't move. She tried to fight against whatever was restraining her, but it hurt so badly, she had to stop. She lay quietly for a moment, and then a voice told her, "You can go." She tried to move, but she was still restrained. There was a light, a bright light, shining over her, blinding her as she tried to see what held her, why she couldn't free herself and go as the voice ordered. The voice spoke again, "YOU CAN GO." But she still couldn't move. She fought, struggling against the bonds that held her, and she tried to speak, to explain, that she wanted to go, she was trying to go, but she couldn't. She opened her mouth, but no words emerged. From somewhere far away, she heard a strangled moan, a sound of someone in pain. Was it Mulder? Where was he? Why couldn't she move? And then, someone, something began to hit her. She was struggling, trying to get away, the light and the voice were getting confused, telling her to go, making her stay. And the pain, God, the pain was incredible! She struggled harder, fighting to get away, and then . . . Strong arms reached for her, pulling her up and into the safety of a warm embrace. She clung, burying her head in the safety of a warm shoulder, feeling the wetness from her cheeks transfer to the starched white cotton beneath her face. Wait a minute - starched white cotton? Her mind groggily tried to piece things together. A deep voice was calling her name, strong arms held and rocked her as gentle hands stroked her back. She stayed where she was for long minutes, waiting for her breathing to even out, and the tears to cease, and then pulled back and away. She tilted her head up, and looked not into Mulder's face, as she had since they had returned, but rather, into the surprisingly compassionate face of AD Skinner. She remained where she was a bit longer, meeting his gaze, but not speaking. At last, Skinner broke the silence. "Well, Dana, are you feeling a little better now?" Scully continued to stare into Skinner's eyes, and slowly nodded her head. As her sleep fogged mind tried to reconcile the different portions of her dream, and her waking mind tried to figure out how she had come to awaken in her boss's arms, a third part of her began to make assumptions. "Mulder," she gasped. "Is he . . ." "Shhh," Skinner said, "He's fine. Well, he's exhausted, but he's ok." He pulled back from Scully releasing her to sit on her own. "I came by to see how you two were getting along, and he was dead on his feet, barely functional, and so," he shrugged, "I fixed him a sandwich, made him eat, and then put him to bed. I was supposed to wake him if you had a problem, but . . ." It was Skinner's turn to trail off. "No, don't wake him," Scully immediately responded. "He's hardly had any sleep since we got back." She straightened a bit. "I'm ok now, Sir. Thank you." Skinner looked at her appraisingly. The massive swelling on her face had receded and the bruising had faded to vague spots of yellow and green. Her nose was covered with a small, but stiff bandage, giving her a nasal sound when she spoke. Her left arm wore a cast from wrist to elbow. He couldn't see it, but he had felt it beneath her shirt, a heavy bandage still covered her left breast. However, as with Mulder, those injuries he expected and they were healing. It was the pinched look about her face, the hollow, gaunt look of her eyes, the dark circles surrounding them, the skeletal thinness he had felt as he held her, that concerned him most. "Well, Scully - Dana - you look better than you did when we came home, but you still don't seem 'ok' to me." Skinner paused, then went on. "I don't think Mulder is the only one not eating or sleeping here." Scully flushed and turned away slightly. "I've had some problems with keeping things down," she admitted. "And I'm not sleeping real well. I keep dreaming about Emerson." She lowered her head. "It's not - pleasant," she finished. "Dana - look, this may be none of my business, but, I know you haven't been sleeping well for sometime, now. I've been present twice when you've woken screaming from some nightmare that you didn't even remember later." Scully looked at him in astonishment. She shook her head in disbelief. Skinner paused, debating on whether or not this was the time to get into all of this. It was bound to cause her further distress, but, damn it, it needed to be dealt with. He looked at her, assessing. Though she had just awoke, she seemed lucid enough. Whatever meds she was on didn't seem to be making her too foggy. 'Fuck it,' he said to himself. 'Someone needs to make her see what she's doing to herself, and to Mulder.' "It's true," he said. "When you came out to join Mulder last fall, he went out running one morning, and as he was coming back in, he and I were both shocked out of our shorts when you started screaming, calling his name. We went in, and Mulder was able to calm you down and you went back to sleep." She waited for him to continue. "When you woke up, you didn't even remember it had happened. Mulder indicated that it wasn't the first time - it had been going on since your abduction - and you rarely, if ever, remembered." Skinner stopped, looking at Scully, gauging her reaction so far. She continued to shake her head slowly, not moving as she looked at him. He didn't want to cause her additional stress, but this was hurting her and Mulder both, and it had to come to a stop. "Then, when we flew out for the trial, it happened again on the plane. Mulder had gone to the restroom, and you woke up screaming. He got back just in time and again was able to settle you. And again, you didn't remember what had happened." He paused again, waiting to see if she would speak. When she remained silent, he plunged ahead. "Dana, you know you have to get to the bottom of this. Mulder told me after the incident on the plane that it didn't affect your field work, but it seems to have gotten worse, much worse. He says you don't sleep more than two or three hours at a time, and you seem to be remembering some of what the nightmares are about. You have to face this, deal with it, and put it behind you." She gazed into his eyes, listening to his words, and taking in what he was telling her. "How?" she asked fearfully, "how do I do that?" He reached out and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Talk to Mulder, he'll know what to do. After all, he ought to be able to use that Oxford education every now and then." He smiled encouragingly. "And he'll be there every step of the way for you." He stopped a moment, then squeezed her hand again. "And so will I, if you'd like me to be. I'll help you both in whatever way I can." He pulled his hand back, and rose from the bed. "For now, why don't you get dressed and I'll fix you some lunch as well." He walked to the door, then turned and asked, "Will you be all right?" He paused, flushing slightly, then added, "Do you need any help?" She was sitting on the bed, looking at her lap. She shook her head, whispering, "I'm fine." When he didn't move, she lifted her head and offered a slight smile. "Really, I'll be fine. You've given me a lot to think about. Let me get dressed and I'll be out in a few minutes." He nodded acquiescence and said "Call me if you need me. I'm going to check on Mulder and then I'll be in the kitchen. " He turned and walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. ****************************************************************** When Mulder woke, it was dark. He lay quietly for a few minutes, luxuriating in the joy of feeling rested. He looked at his watch and realized he had slept almost 8 hours - an incredible length of time for him! He could hear voices from the kitchen, a soft, low alto , alternating with a deep bass . He got to his feet and slipped his jeans back on. Deciding to forego a shirt for the time being, he padded barefoot into the kitchen to join them. Skinner and Scully were seated at the small table, eating soup and talking quietly. Skinner looked up as he entered the doorway. "Well, look who's up. Thought you might sleep the night away as well as the day." Skinner rose and pulled another bowl from the cabinets and began to fix a portion for Mulder. "Have a seat, Mulder." "First sandwiches, now soup." Mulder moved toward the table. "I didn't know you were so domestic, Sir." "Not all bachelors live on take out and videos, Mulder." They all laughed and Mulder went to Scully, leaning over to kiss the top of her head quickly. "How are you?" he asked quietly. "Better, Mulder, really," she responded. "I've been talking with the AD, and he's helped me to clarify some things." She smiled up at him. "Why don't you get something to eat first? We can talk about this later." At his pained look, she continued, "No, Mulder, this is not a stall technique. There's a lot I need to talk about, and I want you to be the one I talk to." "You look a lot more alert, Scully," he said, taking in her appearance. "You look like you've slept some, too." She nodded, "And I cut back on the pain meds some, Mulder. I know you tried to tell me I was taking too much, but . . ." She stopped and shrugged helplessly. "I just couldn't face things. Skinner helped me see I have to face them - and with your help - I think I can now." "Scully, you know I'm here for you - to talk - to listen - whatever you need." "I know, Mulder, I know." She reached up and pulled him down to her level, stroking his cheek with her fingertips. As he leaned down to meet her, she captured his lips with her own, and kissed him. He froze, unsure of what to do. Skinner was right here, in the room. And Scully was hurt, injured, vulnerable. Since they had returned, he had been very careful to keep from touching her in any way that might make her feel threatened or unsure. And she had been beaten badly, her face bruised and bloodied. He hadn't wanted to add to her discomfort in anyway. But as all of these thoughts crossed his mind, his traitorous body began to respond hungrily to the contact on his lips and he found himself reaching out and pulling her tightly against him, kissing her more deeply, his tongue invading her mouth gently. When he could no longer breathe, he pulled back and laid his head on her shoulder whispering, "God, Scully, I've missed you." She reached up and gently embraced him, pulling him down all the way to her. He knelt, holding his injured arm against his side, and wrapping the other one around her. "I know, Mulder, I'm sorry." She kissed his hair, next to the shaved spot over the wound on the back of his head. "We'll talk and it will be better." They stayed like that, time standing still, enjoying the touch and scent of one another, until Skinner quietly cleared his throat. Rather than pulling away guiltily as they would have done in the past, they broke apart slowly, each one's touch lingering on the other. Skinner stepped over and placed a steaming bowl of soup on the table for Mulder, then leaned down and helped him rise to his feet. "Come on, you, time to eat." He helped him to his seat, then went and fixed a drink for him. "Crackers?" he asked. Mulder nodded and Skinner pulled the box out and placed it on the table. The three of them ate, talking of unimportant things, and then quickly cleared away the dinner dishes. As they finished, Skinner went and got a pad from Scully's desk and reentered the kitchen, ready to make a list. "I'm going to get your laundry done," he began, "and make a run on the grocery store." He waved away the protests that were rising from them both. "These things need to be done, and you two need to spend some time talking." At that, Scully and Mulder exchanged a quick glance. They did need to talk, and they needed privacy for that to happen. "So," Skinner continued, "Mulder, you get those dirty clothes together, and Scully, help me with this list. You're in dire need of fresh fruits and vegetables." Mulder went to gather the clothes as assigned and Skinner and Scully composed a grocery list, working together. When the preliminaries were done, Skinner folded the list and stuck it in his pocket. He grabbed the basket of clothes and detergent, and headed for the door. "Now," he said, turning to face them, "is there anything else you need done while I'm out?" As they both shook their heads, Skinner said, "Ok, then, I'm outta here." He reached for the door handle. "I'll be back in a few hours and then it's bedtime for you both, got that?" he added with mock sternness. Scully chuckled, and Mulder laughed outright, flippantly saying, "Yes, Dad." Skinner joined their laughter, then went out the door. Chapter 16 "Fear is a question: What are you afraid of, and why? Just as the seed of health is in illness, because illness contains information, your fears are a treasure house of self-knowledge if you explore them." Marilyn Ferguson Harold Roberson looked around in disgust. 'So this is where the big FBI agent lives,' he thought. 'Big whoop. He doesn't even have a bedroom.' Harold had expected this moment to be much larger, much more meaningful, something to stand out in his memory. Instead, he found himself standing in a rather dark and dingy, extremely small apartment, a layer of dust covering everything. A fish tank burbled in the background, devoid of occupants. Papers, books, printouts, photos, and magazines covered all available surfaces. But of the resident, the purpose for Harold's being there in the first place, there was no sign. And more disturbingly, no sign that he had been there in some time. Harold made one more sweep of the apartment, just to make sure his quarry wasn't hiding in a closet or behind the shower curtain, then he sat heavily on the couch to rethink his plans. Since he was just a boy, serving his country in Viet Nam, Harold had been a multiple abductee. That was the term those UFO nuts used, multiple abductee. He had tried to tell those folks his stories, all the things he'd seen and heard. But for some strange reason, they didn't seem to believe Harold. He'd finally given up on trying to get others to help him, and he had devised a plan all on his own. He thought back to all the times, over and over again, THEY had come for him, taking him to their place, or ship, or whatever it was, and doing terrible things to him. It had started when he'd volunteered for that special detail in Nam, and then it had never stopped. Harold wasn't sure how the Army was mixed up in all this, but he was sure they were. And now it looked like the FBI was involved as well. It was a damned conspiracy. Harold clenched his fists in barely restrained rage. >From just plain beatings for not being obedient, to horrendous pseudo medical tests, Harold had experienced it all. And THEY thought their mind wipe worked - but Harold had them fooled. He remembered it all - and he was going to tell the world what was happening. As he thought of that moment, the moment when he, Harold Roberson, saved the world by revealing the evil plot against humanity, he grew excited. He would be a hero. Never again would he be locked up, put on tranquilizers that quieted his mind and killed his soul. He would be recognized, approved of, exalted even. The world would owe its very existence to Harold Roberson. And the first step toward that goal was finding the resident of this apartment. The last time he had been taken had been the worst. THEY had beaten him, and done some kind of surgery, because he could see the faint scars just under his hairline. He had been awake and aware during the painful testing, and had overheard a conversation by some of the so-called humans who were assisting them. As he lay there on the table, long needles penetrating his abdomen, he could vaguely make out an older man, smoking, and talking with several others. "I've told you to keep a closer eye on his activities. He's losing his belief system, which could work to our advantage. But if they come now, as they are threatening to, the whole plan could be ruined." "And how will keeping a closer eye on him help us?" the younger man had asked. "This whole damn thing is his fault. Look around you, why do you think we're still testing the vaccine? So far, Mulder is the only success we've had. And it wasn't even our success - it was Russia's. We can't afford to lose him." Harold had blissfully passed out from the pain at that point, but the memories were still there when he had awakened, back in his own bed in the hospital. It had taken him weeks to plan and execute his escape. Once free, long months of painstaking research had gone into finding the right Mulder. More time to track him down and find where he lived. And now, he sat dejectedly in this empty apartment, having to rethink his program, moving back the timetable he had established for the salvation of the world. As he struggled to think through a new plan, he vowed that it wouldn't be enough to just take this monster out of the picture, he would have to be punished as well. Harold had figured it out. The man with the cigarette had said that the whole thing was Mulder's fault. That must mean that the threat THEY posed was caused by something this Mulder had seen or done. Maybe he had been the first one to contact THEM and invite them on down. Harold chuckled wryly at that thought. And if Mulder was responsible for that, then he was responsible for all the horrible things that Harold had endured as well. Whether those things were done by THEM, or by humans trying to thwart THEM, it didn't matter to Harold. There was an evilness at work, and he had suffered. By God, there would be atonement. Mulder would pay! Harold thought of how he could find the FBI agent now. Perhaps his partner would know where he could be found. Harold pulled a dog-eared notepad from his pocket and opened it, checking to be sure he had the partner's address as well. Hell, maybe this guy was over at the partner's house, who knows? Harold let himself get lost in his fantasy of saving the world one more time, before refocusing on the task at hand. He stood for one last look around. "I found you once," Roberson said aloud to the empty room, "I can find you again. And when I do, Fox Mulder, you will regret the evil that you have worked in this world. You will atone for your sins." ******************************************************************** Scully and Mulder stood for a minute, just looking at the door that Skinner had gone through. Then, she stepped forward to turn the locks and engage the chain. Before she completed her movement, Mulder reached out and gently pulled her to him. She resisted for just a second, then came willingly to him. Ignoring the pain in his own injured right arm, he pulled her close, tightly wrapping his arms around her, holding her captive against him. "Mulder, your arm," she started, twisting back to look up at him. "Shhh . . ., it's ok," he responded as he pulled her head back to nestle in the hollow of his shoulder. He began to stroke her back, her hair, her arms, reveling in the feel of her, thrilled to be touching her again after his own self-imposed exile. They stood together for a long time, not talking, their bodies melded together, enjoying the sensation of being close, of caring and being cared for. At length, a muscle in Mulder's injured arm spasmed involuntarily, and he winced. Scully pulled back, looking up at him, and saying, "Come on, Mulder, come sit down." She took his left hand and gently tugged him toward the couch. "It's time we had a little talk." As they sat on the couch, he noted that Scully chose to sit at the other end, as opposed to next to him. As Mulder sat quietly, giving Scully time to gather her thoughts, he realized it was cool in the room. Without her in his arms, he was actually cold. He shivered, and she noticed immediately. "You're cold, Mulder," she stated. When he nodded, she added, "Why didn't you put a shirt on?" "Too hard." She rose and pulled the blanket back out from the closet, wrapping it around his shoulders gently. He pulled it together with his left hand and settled in to wait for her to begin. As she sat staring at her lap, obviously waging a battle with herself, he realized it was going to be a long wait. He filled the time by studying her. It was a source of continual amazement to him, that even now, after working with her for almost 6 years, seeing her day in and day out, he never tired of looking at her. And now, now that they were changing their relationship, moving into more and more intimate areas, he never tired of touching her either. Every look, every glance, every touch, every caress, was a moment to be cherished forever, engraved in permanence in his eidetic memory. He kept them safely in his heart, like rays of sunshine to be pulled out and re-experienced to get him through his darkest days. "Mulder." He jumped, lifting his eyes to meet her quizzical gaze. "Are you even listening to me?" "Uhmm, sorry Scully," he apologized, "I was distracted by thoughts of this really gorgeous redhead." He cast puppy eyes and pouty lips her way, and watched as she melted before him. "What were you saying?" "I said, I need to know what you know, or think you know, about my sleep disorder - or at least the sleep disorder that Skinner says that you say that I have - if that makes any sense." She half smiled at her own longwindedness. "Scully, I know I've been after you to talk about this for a long time," he smiled sheepishly, "but are you really up to this right now?" "I'm not ready for long-term therapy, and you, brilliant as you may be, would not be my first choice for therapist. But I really feel I need to know what is happening in my own mind and to my own body." Mulder nodded cautiously. "I don't think it started until after your abduction," he began. Sometimes, when we were on a case, I would hear you at night, in the next room." He flushed slightly. "I didn't want to invade your privacy, but I just couldn't let you cry like that and not come to you." He turned sad, thoughtful eyes on her. "You never seemed to know where you were, but you always seemed to know me." He paused, gazing steadily at her. "What do you want to know?" She dropped her gaze, embarrassed, then said, "When . . . how often . . ." She couldn't bring herself to go on. "The first time was out in Delta Glen, Wisconsin, the Church of the Red Museum. I was watching TV when suddenly you were screaming from next door. I grabbed my gun and ran into your room, sure you were being killed, and found you crying on the bed. I talked to you, rubbed your back, and you calmed down and went back to sleep. The next day, you never mentioned it. I thought you just didn't want to talk about it, but later I came to realize, you didn't even remember." He shook his head. "That's some pretty heavy denial you've got going, Scully." "Apparently," she said quietly. "When else?" "Pfaster, when you broke down and cried in my arms after we found you, I thought that might be a turning point. But it wasn't. Oh, you remembered everything about Pfaster, even crying, but that, you didn't want to talk about, at least not to me." A tinge of bitterness crept into his voice and he stopped, trying to regain control of his own emotions. "Then again, in North Carolina. Colonel Wharton and the voodoo gang. There were enough bad dreams going around then to upset anyone. And again in Arkansas - Chaco Chicken." "By then, I was beginning to see the pattern. Severe stress, whenever you were in danger, sometimes when I was in danger and you were worried about me, those were the triggers." He reached out and took her hand, pulling her a bit closer on the couch. "I was lost; I just didn't seem to be able to do anything to help you, to make it better. You would be in such pain, such raw emotional pain, at night, and then you were 'fine' the next day." He suddenly found a spot on the floor, under her coffee table, extremely interesting. As he studied it, he continued. "I rarely slept well, after, you know . . . after Samantha. But once this started, I could hardly sleep at all except when we were on a case and I was there with you. At home, I'd lay there all night thinking, 'What if it's happening and I'm not there? What if she needs me?'" He flashed a quick grin her way. "Why do you think I keep calling you in the middle of the night?" He paused, fighting once again to keep himself under control. "It was killing me, but I couldn't talk to you about it. Every time I even tried, you'd get all cold and shut me out completely." "When we were down in Aubrey, you could talk about BJ's dreams. Even though it went against your rational nature, you accepted that something might be going on with her. But when I tried to bring up your dreams, you just stared at me, and walked away." His eyes were sad, filled with remembered helplessness. "On the Ardent, you were willing to talk about feeling near death, of some of your experiences in the coma. But, again, when I tried to talk about living, what the dreams did to you, you turned cold and silent. I was weak," he shrugged helplessly. "I couldn't stand you shutting me out, so I stopped trying to talk about it." "Oh, Mulder, I'm so sorry." Tears filled her eyes. "Should I keep going, Scully? Do you really need to hear this?" With a combination of fear and loathing, she said in a small voice, "There's more, isn't there?" He nodded. "Incanto, Pusher, after Queequeg died - I'm still sorry I was such an ass, Scully, - when you were affected by the TV signals, then when Gerry Schnauz grabbed you. Roche, Leonard Betts - I was off there. I thought that was because you were attacked by him. It wasn't until you told me about the cancer that I really understood what happened that time. When Penny Northern died. After I faked my death, and you collapsed, and then your remission." His voice broke and he stopped, shuddering. "Mulder, Mulder, oh God, I'm sorry." He shrugged again, then nodded, rubbing his face. "I thought the remission might put an end to the nightmares, but it didn't. The Emerson case - Skinner was there for that one. And then, in Florida, the night before we were stuck in the woods. Linda Bowman. Not only was it not stopping, it seemed to be increasing. That's partly why I called you so much when you went to Maine." "Partly?" she asked. He ducked his head, talking to his lap. "I was worried you'd have a nightmare and I wouldn't be there to help you back. And," he turned his head again, now looking away from her, staring at the closed door, "I missed you." She looked at him, amazed and appalled. She reached out and touched his arm gently, giving small tugs until he turned and faced her. His eyes were filled with pain and tears threatened to spill over onto his raspy cheeks. He was as distressed now as she knew he had been each of the times he had mentioned. "You remember every time," she whispered. He shuddered again. "Yeah, well," he tapped his head, then quickly swiped at his eyes, "photographic memory, remember?" She moved closer to him, reaching out for comfort for herself, and to reassure Mulder. "My God, Mulder, why didn't you tell me?" She shook her head. "No, you did try to tell me. Why didn't I listen? How could this be happening for so long, and I didn't know?" She was shocked. Losing three months of her life was hard enough. She'd tried very hard to put it behind her and move on, and had thought she'd done quite well. But now, to find that it wasn't behind her at all - it was shocking. There was no other word. She felt that her own mind had betrayed her in ways she couldn't even comprehend. "Mulder, what do I do?" she asked. The tears that had filled her own eyes began to spill over as she looked pleadingly at him. She began to cry - tears of grief for the lost months, tears of mourning for loved ones lost in the search, tears of sadness for lost opportunities - the times she held herself alone and wouldn't let anyone close. "I can't - I won't - let this take over my life, Mulder," she said through her tears. "How do I ever put this behind me?" He took a deep breath, then gathered her all the way to himself, pulling her over and into his lap. He held her tightly and rocked her small body as she cried. He stroked her hair, murmuring soft words of comfort and assurance. Scully didn't cry - not awake - he amended to himself - so this was an enormous step forward in their new relationship. He was overwhelmed that she trusted him enough to let him see her like this, to let him hold her, to let him in. She cried until she could cry no more. Exhausted, she lay heavily against his shoulder, the shudders from her exertion slowly subsiding. He continued to hold her and felt, rather than saw, as she began to drift off into sleep. He shook her gently, saying, "Scully, hey Scully, come on - that's enough talking for now. Let's get you into bed." She looked up at him sleepily, then nodded. They sat there a bit longer, then she stretched, lifting her arms high over her head, pushing her bottom down more deeply into his groin. He felt himself leap to life. And so did she. She froze, then looked at him. Her eyes darkened and took on a thoughtful look. She lowered her arms around his neck and leaned into him even more. He was hard, and he felt himself grow even harder, impossibly hard. She wriggled in his lap a bit, then touched her lips to his. His mind played all the 'no' reasons - she's injured, she's vulnerable, it's not the right time, I didn't want it to be like this, I don't want her to regret this, I'm injured, I can't do this right . . . But his body sped past his mind and he was kissing her intensely. He wrapped his injured right arm around her, pulling her in to him, oblivious to the pain this caused in the still healing muscles of the arm. Most of his conscious thoughts were centered in his lap, where her every movement heightened his arousal. Idly, in a far corner of his mind he thought 'So this is what it's like to think with your cock. God, don't let me ruin this.' With his left hand, he cupped her face in his hand, holding her gently against him. His fingers brushed back her hair and then traced a slow, lazy line down her cheek, her neck, and finally, her breast. Her breathing quickened and she arched under his touch. He stroked her breast, feeling her arousal feed his own. He kissed her again, then lowered his head to her neck and began to kiss her throat, her neck, the hollow of her shoulder. When he could get no further because of her shirt, he lifted his head and said, "Buttons." She kissed him hungrily, then pulled back and began to undo the buttons on her shirt. As she revealed herself to him, the heavy bandage on her left breast stood out in stark contrast to the creamy smoothness of her right. His eyes again filled with tears as he thought of what she had been through. He lowered his head and placed a gentle kiss - benediction - over the bandage, his lips barely touching it. Then, he lifted his head, kissed her again, and . . . The still unlocked door flew open and a stranger stood there, a gun pointed at them both. Chapter 17 "Nobody is more dangerous than he who imagines himself pure in heart; for his purity, by definition, is unassailable." James Baldwin Harold Roberson stood just inside the door, gun pointed at the two people entwined on the couch. He kicked back with his left foot, slamming the door behind him. "Well, well, Agent Mulder, you seem to give new meaning to the term partner." Mulder came to his senses first, pulling Scully's blouse together, then quickly shifting her off his lap and beside him on the couch, his injured arm straining with the effort. He pulled himself forward, half shielding her with his body. "Enough." Harold barked at them. "Both of you be still. And, much as it pains me to be cliche, please keep your hands where I can see them." Scully buttoned her blouse and placed her hands on her legs. She had neither spoken nor taken her eyes off the stranger in her living room. Mulder gave thanks that he had been able to move Scully behind him before this maniac started giving his 'be still' orders. It was no guarantee that she was safe, but it took her out of the first line of fire, and also partly hid her from the man's view. He hoped she'd be able to use that to their advantage. Scully spoke first. "Who are you? What do you want?" "Well, the first is simple enough. I am Harold Roberson." Harold paused, as if waiting to be recognized. When Mulder nodded slightly, he continued. "Ah, you've heard of me, Agent Mulder." When Mulder nodded again, Scully looked at him quizzically. "Harold here, is rather - well-known - in alien/UFO circles." She cocked an eyebrow at him and he shrugged. "I still keep up." "Indeed. How fascinating." Harold said sarcastically. "Go ahead, tell her who I am." Harold was almost preening as he realized he had been recognized. "Harold is a self-purported multiple abductee. He claims to have been taken numerous times over the past 30 years." Harold jumped forward, waving the gun at Mulder, and cutting him off. "Not 'self-purported,' Agent Mulder. Don't you dare trivialize what I've been through." Mulder twisted to face Harold, trying to keep Scully behind him. "Ok, Harold, I'm sorry." He spoke soothingly, keeping his voice even and his face neutral. "All right, then, just so we understand each other." Harold calmed somewhat, and stepped back slightly. "Go on." Mulder paused, thinking how ironic Scully would find his next statement. "However, his claims have been rejected by MUFON, NICAP, and the other - reputable - organizations." Mulder looked at Harold. "Harold has been institutionalized on several occasions, most recently in '95 when he was found guilty but insane in the murder of an Army Colonel and her family." "She was a traitor, Agent Mulder. I should have been lauded as the hero I am, not locked away in some hell hole, tranquilized beyond the ability to see straight, left to rot for all eternity." "And her husband? Was he a traitor, too? Or her 8 and 11 year old children? What exactly did they do to deserve your wrath?" Harold lunged forward, swinging the gun and connecting sharply with Mulder's temple. The bandage over his eye flew off, and the still healing gash opened and began to bleed. Mulder's eyes closed and he pulled back, slumping heavily into Scully. She wrapped her arms around him, supporting him, as his head fell backward onto her shoulder. She winced as his weight settled against her injured breast. Harold stood several steps from the sofa, breathing heavily, the gun trained on them while the fingers of his other hand clenched and unclenched into a fist. "I warned you not to trivialize my experiences, Agent Mulder. Need I say more?" Mulder opened his eyes briefly, then slowly shook his head. He pulled himself up to a sitting position, pushing Scully back when she tried to restrain him. "Don't Scully - I'm ok." Scully stood angrily, facing Harold. "What the hell do you want?" "Ah, yes, that was your original question, wasn't it? I must say, Agent Scully, you certainly are living up to your reputation as a 'spitfire.' But for now," he waved the gun back toward the sofa, "please be seated." When she didn't immediately comply, he said, "I could always just shoot him instead of hitting him." Mulder reached out shakily, and pulled Scully back to the couch, saying, "For God's sake, Scully, sit down. Please." He reached up and gingerly touched his forehead, his hand coming away covered with blood. Scully reluctantly sat, turning Mulder to face her. Using a corner of the blanket he had been wrapped in, she gently wiped the blood away. She folded a small section and held it to the wound, stanching the blood flow. Mulder leaned into her touch, gently resting his head against the palm of her hand. Her left arm, still encased in a cast, moved out, and her finger softly caressed his arm. Harold watched and waited in silence. When Scully pulled back, Harold nodded and resumed. "As for what I want, my desires are totally altruistic. I want to save the world from the evil that is descending upon it." He paused, as if waiting to be commended and seemed disappointed when Mulder and Scully just stared at him. "And how does that involve me, or my partner?" Mulder asked. "Oh, I think you know how it involves you, Agent Mulder." Harold had a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "THEY thought I wouldn't remember, but I heard them talking, the last time I was taken." He fixed Mulder with a steely, half-crazed stare. "I know that you are responsible for all of it. And it's time for you to atone." Mulder and Scully exchanged a glance. "All right, Harold," Mulder began. "if I'm responsible for all of it, then you have no need of Agent Scully. She's not involved in anything. Why don't you and I leave, and you can show me what it is that I am supposed to be responsible for." "Mulder, no," Scully started, but Harold quickly interrupted. "That's correct, Agent Scully. 'Mulder, no,'" he mimicked. "I think we'll all go together, Agent Mulder. It's a place I believe you are familiar with, Dana. May I call you Dana?" When Scully did not respond, he pointed at her with the gun, and waved toward a chair across from the couch. "Move," he directed, "or do you need an inducement as well?" As Mulder looked at the determination on Scully's face, he spoke pleadingly. "Go, Scully, please." He lowered his voice to a mere whisper. "Remember, pick your battles." She gazed at him for a long moment, then rose and walked to the chair Harold had indicated. Keeping the gun raised, Harold circled around to behind the chair. As she started to swivel to face him, Harold muttered, "Uhn, uh, face your 'partner,' please." As Scully sat stiffly facing forward in the chair, Harold stalked slowly around to the rear, holding Mulder's gaze with his own. Scully's eyes sought Mulder's desperately, but he kept his own fixed on Harold. "It's ok, Scully, just be still for a minute," he said calmly. "We can work this out, can't we Harold?" "Of course we can Agent Mulder," Harold responded as he lifted the gun, swung heavily downward and connected with the back of Scully head. She fell forward onto the floor, unconscious. As Mulder leapt to his feet, Harold again waved the gun. "No, Agent Mulder. Sit down. Now. Or I can finish the job." Mulder froze in mid-step, hands clutching at empty air by his side. His face was a mask of rage, and his mouth worked, but no sound emerged. Time stood still as Mulder stared first at Harold, then in horror at Scully, watching as the floor beneath her reddened with her blood. Harold again spoke, almost in an understanding tone. "Sit down, Agent Mulder. You can go to her in just a minute." As Mulder sat, Harold came around the chair and quickly searched Scully. He paused at the feel of the bandage over her injured left breast. As he began to unbutton her blouse, Mulder again came to his feet. Harold simply placed the gun to Scully's head, never speaking, and Mulder reluctantly sat back down. "I am not a pervert, Agent Mulder. I merely need to know what this conceals," he said as he continued unbuttoning the blouse. "It conceals a fairly massive wound, asshole," Mulder retorted angrily. "Language, language," Harold admonished, as he pulled back the bandage and then made a disgusted face. "Guess you're right. Yuck. What did that?" "A nail," Mulder said shortly. Harold rose to his feet and backed away, returning to stand behind the chair. "You can go to her now, Agent Mulder." Mulder rose and crossed the short distance quickly. He knelt by Scully, carefully brushing back her hair to see the wound. An egg sized knot had risen up around the small gash buried in her hair. The blood was already clotting, matting her hair to her head. "I need to get her to a hospital." "Fraid not, Mulder. You'll have to do what clean up you want now, and then we have to leave." As Mulder started to protest, Harold simply shook his head. "This particular matter is not open for discussion. If you wish to have the option to negotiate at some point in the future, you should obey me now. Do I make myself clear?" Mulder glared at Harold, then said, "I need water, a washcloth, and bandages." "In there," Harold responded, pointing with the gun. Mulder rose and walked quickly to the kitchen, Harold following closely. Mulder opened a cabinet and pulled down a large mixing bowl, filling it with warm water. As he started to open a drawer, Harold stopped him. "No, use this." Harold tossed the dishtowel at Mulder. "Bandages?" Mulder asked. "Make do," Harold answered. Mulder returned to the living room and gently began to clean the wound on Scully's head. She moaned softly once, but didn't return to consciousness. He finished the wound, then washed her hair, almost bathing each strand separately. He talked soothingly to her, a running stream of 'You'll be ok, Scully's' and 'I'm so sorry's.' As he worked, he managed to write in the blood under her head, a hurried message for Skinner. When the wound was cleaned and the blood wiped away, he carefully rebuttoned her blouse, then pulled Scully up into his arms and dropped the bloody towel over the stain on the floor. He looked up at Harold. "Now what? She's still unconscious; she can't travel. Leave her here." "No, Agent Mulder. She comes with us. Pick her up and let's go." "Look, Harold, she's injured. She'll slow you down. He paused, pointing to his bandaged right arm. "I'm injured. I don't think I can carry her." He touched his head. "And I think you have re-concussed me. I'm nauseated and I'm dizzy." He paused again, looking down at himself pointedly. "And in case you hadn't noticed, I'm not exactly dressed for DC in February. No shirt, no shoes." He looked up at Harold, his eyes glinting with anger and determination. "No service." Harold made a tsking noise, then said, "Really, Agent Mulder, this grows tiresome. Let me explain your options to you. You can pick her up and carry her down to the car. Or you can come with me to the car, where I will tie you up, knock you unconscious and put you in the trunk. I will then come back up here and drag Agent Scully down to the car, taking no care whatsoever as to her existing injuries or the creation of new ones." "Or I can shoot you, then knock you unconscious, and drag you to the car, then come back and drag her. The end result is that all three of us will be in the car. He stopped and looked at Mulder. "Make a decision, Mulder, I'm ready to leave." Mulder cast a glance filled with loathing at the madman, then reached back and pulled the blanket to the floor. He maneuvered Scully into it, then lifted her in his arms. He supported her head and body with his left arm, holding her under her knees with his injured right one. He rose unsteadily to his feet and swayed a moment, then regained his balance. "Very good, Agent Mulder." Harold indicated the door. "Let's go." ************************************************************** Walter Skinner paused outside the door, balancing grocery bag and laundry basket as he struggled to reach out and knock on the closed door. When no one responded, he put the bag down and knocked again. When there was still no response, he reached out and slowly turned the knob, calling softly, "Hello?" The apartment was dark and Skinner hoped that meant his two rogue agents were sleeping, and to hell with who knew about the sleeping arrangements. As he shut the door and turned the locks, he frowned at the thought that they had left the door unlocked, even if only for him. He groped for the light switch, made silent apology to Mulder if he really was sleeping on the couch, and turned on the lights. He turned back to the room, and froze. Mulder was not on the couch, but there were fresh bloodstains everywhere. Skinner instinctively pulled his weapon, and cast his eyes across the room. On the floor in front of a chair was a bowl filled with bloody water, and a bloodstained towel lay on top of an even bigger bloodstain on the floor. The room had that coppery smell, peculiar to blood and violence. Without moving, Skinner pulled his cell phone and hit 911. He reported what he knew, giving the location and his name and badge ID. He reached behind himself and unlocked the doors again. He then called the night operator at the Hoover building and had a team sent to meet him. By the time he had completed this, he could hear sirens wailing in the distance as Annapolis PD responded to his emergency call. He moved cautiously through the apartment, checking all the rooms. Mulder's shoes still lay under the bloodied couch, and his coat hung in the closet. Skinner had all of his shirts. What the hell was he wearing? The blanket Mulder had used when sleeping earlier was missing from the closet though. Missing also were Mulder and Scully. He was just coming back into the living room as the local police burst through the door, guns pulled, yelling at him to drop the weapon and get his hands up. He complied, explaining that he had called the report in. He carefully reached into his coat pocket and pulled his ID, relaxing gratefully as the officers lowered their weapons. "Sorry, Sir," one mumbled. Skinner waved the apology off. "Two of my agents were here when I left about 3 hours ago. They are not here now." He gave a meaningful glance at the room. "I want to know where they are." The officer that had apologized began to speak into her radio, informing the dispatcher of the situation and requesting detectives be sent to the scene. There was enough blood to certainly warrant the suspicion of foul play. When she had finished, Skinner told her that a team from the FBI was on its way. For a moment he thought the woman was going to argue jurisdiction with him, but she wisely held her tongue. As they waited for the local and FBI teams to arrive, Skinner gave the officers the basic information on his agents. Names, ages, descriptions, what he suspected they were wearing, and, most importantly of all, that both were still recovering from serious injury and not in their best form. When the officer asked "Known enemies?" Skinner just shrugged. Where could he possibly begin on that one? "They're in law enforcement. Mulder worked as profiler for a number of years, and still assists on request. Scully is a forensic pathologist. She's testified at dozens of trials on everything from murder and rape, to drugs and slavery. Take your choice." "We'll need specifics, Sir," the officer persisted. Skinner nodded, "When my team gets here, I'll get somebody on it." There was so much blood everywhere. On the couch, pooled on the floor, splattered on the back of the chair, and the towel looked as if it had been dipped in blood. So much blood. Skinner closed his eyes, thinking of other times he had seen this much blood. Times in hot steamy jungle clearings, small villages, make-shift garrisons. A faraway time in a faraway place. He opened his eyes and looked again. So much blood. But whose? Skinner focused on the towel on the floor. For some reason, his eye kept being drawn back to it. It seemed almost too casually laid over the bloodstain, too centered to have been accidental. He walked over to it, still studying it. He went back to the officer by the door and asked, "Do you have gloves?" When she nodded and pulled one out of a pouch at her waist, he thanked her and then tried to stuff his 'extra large' hand into the 'small' glove. When that didn't work, he resorted to holding it between thumb and fingers as he walked back to the towel. The officer called out, "Better wait for forensics, Sir," but Skinner ignored her. He reached down and grasped the towel with the latex glove, and lifted straight up. There, in the blood beneath the towel, were the letters UFO-SL. Skinner smiled grimly. Leave it to one of them. Then he frowned in consternation. 'You couldn't be a little clearer?' he thought. 'The first part I get, but SL?' Had to be Mulder. Only he would leave riddles, assuming that others could follow the leaps of logic he made. Did that mean it was Scully's blood? Damn it, there were too many questions, and no answers. He shook his head, then looked up, asking in frustration, "What the hell happened here? And where the hell are they?" ************************************************************** Mulder came to in the trunk of a car. Cold. All over cold. Except along his side. Warm. Wonderful warmth. There was a body in his arms. Scully. Breathing. Warm. Alive. He gave a sigh of relief. The last thing he remembered was gently placing Scully on the back seat and then, a burning sensation in his ass. He shrugged mentally. His head was bleeding again though, and each jolt the car took, shot spears of agony through his cranium. He began to assess the situation. It was dark in the trunk. It made it impossible to see what had been done. He pulled with his legs slightly, and could tell Harold had tied their feet together. The cold bite of steel around his wrists told him his arms were handcuffed behind Scully, and a further tug indicated he was then attached to the clasp of the trunk. He could feel Scully's arms wrapped tightly around him, and the scratchy sensation against his bare back told him her arms were tied as well. Another loop of rope stretched across his chest, partially anchoring him in place. Scully seemed to be less restrained than he. The blanket was draped loosely over them both. Mulder shivered in the cold. His bare torso was covered in goosebumps and he could feel that peculiar laxity that set in when hypothermia threatened. He shifted slightly, pulling Scully's head off the floor of trunk and onto his bare shoulder as he maneuvered to lay somewhat on his back. Between the chest restraint and his long legs, it was hard, but he finally managed a bit more comfortable position. At least now Scully's head wasn't bouncing unprotected against the bottom of the trunk. Though his was. He winced as Harold hit a particularly nasty hole in the road. Scully stirred in his arms, and he immediately focused on her. "Hey, Scully, come on. Can you wake up, please? You're beginning to worry me, partner." He nuzzled the top of her head with his nose. Straining hard, he was just able to pull himself up enough to place a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Scully, please . . ." he said softly. She moved again, and he could feel her begin to struggle. All he could think of was how terrifying this was going to be for her - abducted, injured, in a trunk. He offered a silent prayer that his presence would be enough to help her through. She jerked against him, pulling up and away. The rope against his back bit deeply into the skin. Her struggles intensified and she began to moan. He felt her knee come up, and was very glad he had rolled onto his back. As it was, his side felt the impact. Her whole body was tensed against his. "Oomph! Geez, Scully, be still, will ya?" He forced himself to speak more softly. "Shhh. It's me. Calm down." He crooned words to settle her into her ear. "Mulder?" she questioned hoarsely. The tension flowed out of her and she relaxed into him. "Yeah, Scully, it's me." He tightened his arms around her. "You're hurt. Don't aggravate it. Just be still, please." He chuckled softly. "And stop trying to disable me. I don't think I can take another assault from you." He placed another kiss on the top of her head. "Glad you're back with me." "Dark. What . . . how?" she croaked. "Yeah, it's dark. What do you remember?" She coughed softly, clearing her throat. Her speech was slightly slurred and she spoke as if it took a great effort. "Sitting in the chair, looking at you. Then - nothing." He nuzzled her again, and stroked her back as far as he could. "Shh, it's ok. Harold is taking us on a little trip. If he's going where I think he is, then we've got a ways to go." "Trunk?" "Yeah, 'fraid so. You ok?" She shuddered and pulled herself closer to him. Her voice was weak and she trembled in his arms. "I can move more than you, can't I?" "Yep. Apparently Harold is a sexist and didn't view you as much of a threat. Think you can surprise him?" He grinned in the darkness. At least she was coherent enough to have made a few assessments of their situation. "Can you free your hands?" He felt the rope bite into his back again as she began working her hands within it. It rubbed back and forth against him and he felt the skin abrade and then break. The cast on her wrist had made it difficult to tie the cord tightly, and within minutes, she was free. She collapsed back onto his chest, her breathing ragged. "Head hurts - dizzy," she gasped. He rubbed her back in tiny little movements. "Ok, you did real good, Scully. Just rest a bit." He could feel her relaxing into him again. He stretched again, and leaned down to kiss her gently once more. "We're gonna be ok, Scully. Remember that. We're gonna be ok." After a short rest, she pulled herself onto his chest and twisted downward, toward their feet. His were secured to the bottom of the trunk as well, but she was tied only to him. She freed her feet quickly, then settled into place, lying half over his thighs and groin, her face towards his feet. "Scully," he called, concern tingeing his voice when she didn't move. "Hey, Scully, you ok down there?" A soft slow response. "Yeah." She began to scootch back up his body, slowly righting herself and then snuggled back into his arms, the air 'whooshing' from her as she relaxed her body against his. "I'm out, Mulder. But I don't feel real good." She spoke slowly and deliberately, her voice still slurred. He lay quietly as she placed her head on his shoulder again. He shivered involuntarily and she said, "Mulder. Freezing. No shirt?" There was just the slightest inflection to her voice. With what seemed to be the last of her strength, she pulled the blanket tightly across him, tucking it into place behind him. "Shhh. 'S ok Scully." He paused, trying to organize his thoughts. Despite their precarious predicament, he was all too aware of her lithe body pressed tightly against his. The softness of her breasts against his side. Her arm across his bare abdomen, her fingers on his hip. The weight of her leg as it lay over his thigh. Her soft hair spread across his chest and wisps of it tickled his nose. He felt a stirring in his loins, and forced his mind in another direction. "When he opens the trunk, Scully, you're going to have to take him out. It may be our only chance. Do you think you can do it?" "I'm tired, Mulder, I'm dizzy, and my head hurts. I feel like I want to be sick. I don't know how effective I can be." "Shh. It's ok, Scully. If the moment presents itself, and you're up to it, take it. For now, just lay still and try to rest." He paused, then kissed her again. "I think we're going to need all the rest we can get." Chapter 18 "It is easier to exclude harmful passions than to rule them, and to deny them admittance than to control them after they have been admitted." Seneca Skinner paced the length of the bullpen. Throughout the room, agents made calls, and answered phones, sorted through printouts, reviewed case files, and, in general, attempted to figure out what had happened to Scully and Mulder. Using his position as AD, he had pulled every available agent onto this search, and had even wangled a few who weren't exactly available, stealing from existing task forces with no guilt, no remorse. He had people tracking all the criminals Mulder or Scully were responsible for putting in jail. He had people tracing the ones they had assisted in putting in jails. Each case was being checked for recent release of the convicted, and all relatives of the convicted were being tracked as well. He had agents sitting on Mulder's apartment and on Scully's, just on the off chance that they returned. He had both their cell phones, and had arranged for traces to be put on any call that came in, to their home phones, the cells, their office, his office, or his cell. He had a separate team combing the X-Files themselves. While these cases rarely involved a criminal who could be prosecuted, there were a few that fit that criteria. There were also people who had been affected by the resolution of an X-File, or even by the investigation itself. He thought specifically of that nursing home case in Massachusetts. From his review of the case file, the nurse that had originally made the charge the caught Mulder's attention, had then been very angry at the way the investigation was carried out. Then there was that case with the zoo in Montana, was it? Idaho? Somewhere out west. The director ended up charged with murder or manslaughter or some such. Better get someone on that as well. He paced, knowing that people were reading the files he was trying to bring up from memory, but still feeling a need to DO something. Until the forensics came back on the blood, - so much blood, he thought bleakly - and fingerprints were IDed, he was at a standstill. There was that kid in Oklahoma, the one with all that weird lightning shit. 'Mulder can really pick'em,' he thought. Wasn't the kid locked up somewhere? And that Van Blundht guy. Though he hardly seemed the type to take revenge, you could never tell. Better get someone on those, too. That doctor in Providence - Goldberg, Goldstein? Scully's testimony based on what he had done to Mulder and others had caused him to lose his license. Where was he now? Skinner stopped pacing and looked around the room. Agents worked furiously, all seemingly focused on the task at hand - to recover their own. But they just weren't getting anywhere. Skinner let out a roar of outrage and turned, slamming his fist through the drywall behind him. The room went completely silent. He stood there, trembling with rage, aware that every eye was on him, and that he had just made a complete and utter ass of himself. 'Well, that was a stunt worthy of Mulder. Fine example I set,' he thought. He slowly pulled his hand out of the hole he had made. He placed both hands against the wall and leaned into it, breathing heavily as he fought for control. This overwhelming rage, and the difficulty he had in controlling it, was a large part of why he let no one get too close to him. As he stood there, the room slowly resumed its former feel of activity as the agents returned to their assigned tasks. No one came near him. No one spoke to him. Aside from the initial shocked reaction of those in the room, no one even acted as if anything out of the ordinary had occurred. He stood alone, no one daring to come near him. Despite the circumstances, he found himself selfishly thinking that Mulder and Scully would never have let him reach this point. They looked out for each other, and now he had been included in that circle of caring. It was a new experience for him and he already missed it. He knew, if he had put his hand through a wall with either of them present, they would never have left him to deal with the frustration, the anger, the rage, alone. As he stood leaning heavily against the wall, his breathing began to slow and even out. He slowly pulled himself erect, smoothing his shirt front and unobtrusively checking his hand for damage. His knuckles were raw and scraped, little dots of blood scattered across them. He brought his fist to his mouth, and shook his head ruefully. When he turned back to the room, he noticed a young man, standing at a distance, but eyeing him cautiously. "Can I help you?" he barked. The young man gulped nervously, then held out a packet of papers. "Forensics, Sir. Blood and fingerprints." He gulped again. Skinner stepped forward, and chuckled inwardly when the young man stepped back. 'I'll have a real reputation after this,' he thought. "Be still. I'm not going to hit you." The young man froze, arm extended, still gripping the papers he carried. Skinner reached out and took the packet, turning to the blood results first. Mulder's on the couch; Scully's on the floor and chair. What the hell had happened? He scanned and found nothing more of interest. He turned to the fingerprints. His. Mulder's. Scully's, of course. Unknown - probably her mother's. The super's - he'd been in the military and was on file. And a Harold Roberson. Now, who the hell was Harold Roberson? Skinner looked up, relieved to have a firm lead to focus on. He spoke to the young man still standing before him. "Get me Larson and Bouvier. We've got work to do." **************************************************** The car glided to a stop and the loss of motion jarred Mulder awake. He mentally kicked himself. He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He knew that with recent head injuries, both and Scully needed to stay awake. He shook her gently and was relieved when she responded almost immediately. "I'm awake, I'm awake." Her head lifted slightly from his shoulder and he felt her listening intently. "He's stopped." "Yeah, we may not have much time." Mulder rolled back on his side and slid as far into the trunk as he could, stretching his arms out towards the lid catch. Scully slid down and out from between his arms, and rolled onto her side as well. She would have been spooning with him except his arms, stretched out and anchored to the hasp, prevented her from nestling tightly against him. She was completely free now, and her small body was tensed, and ready to move when the lid opened. They lay quietly, waiting. They didn't have long to wait, for as they listened, Harold turned the car off and opened the door. They lay in the dark, cramped interior, waiting, wondering, afraid to talk for fear of being overheard. At length, there was a pounding on the top of the trunk. "You two awake?" Mulder answered promptly, as they had agreed. "Harold, let us out. My partner is still unconscious. Please, she needs medical attention." There was just the right note of fear and concern in his voice, and he felt Scully smiling in the dark. "You be still, now, Agent Mulder. Don't make me do something you'll regret." "Just open the lid, Harold. I'm really worried about her. Her head is bleeding again." The key entered the lock. There was a tiny, muted 'click' as it turned, and then . . . Scully was up and moving. She slammed open the lid, quickly pulled herself into a crouch, and launched herself at Roberson. He was knocked backwards but didn't fall. She landed on the ground, and immediately swept her legs out and pulled Harold's out from under him. He fell heavily, and she reached up and slammed him in the face with her cast. His head shot back, impacting with the ground and his nose began to bleed. Scully pulled herself up and reached out for the gun. As her hand touched it, Roberson pulled back, but she had his arm in her grip and she grappled for the gun. Harold brought his other hand up and over, and his fist exploded into the side of Scully's face. She let go and fell backwards into the dirt, unmoving. Mulder lay in the trunk, unable to see, but following the fight by sound and hoping it was Scully who was winning. Roberson was a big man, he outweighed Scully by at least 100 pounds, and was a good foot taller. He prayed the element of surprise had been enough. When it went silent, he called, "Scully. Scully, are you all right?" He heard labored breathing, but couldn't tell whose it was. "Scully, damn it, answer me!" He struggled to get free, to rise up and see what had happened. Why wasn't she answering? But the ropes held him tightly in place, and he couldn't get loose. Suddenly, the face of Harold Roberson loomed above him. His nose bled, and one eye was already swelling shut. "That was very stupid, Agent Mulder. You shouldn't have let her do that." "Where is she, you bastard? What did you do to her?" The anguish was clear in his voice and on his face. "So far, I haven't done anything, except knock her out again. Tsk, tsk, Agent Mulder, this can't be very good for her, you know." Mulder's stomach tightened and he felt sick as he thought of the things this man could do to Scully. "Leave her alone. You don't want her. You want me." He bargained frantically. "Leave her here and I'll come with you - no fuss, no problems, I promise. Just leave her alone." Harold looked at Mulder, as if assessing the truth of his words. Emotions flickered across his face and he finally seemed to accept what Mulder said. "All right, Agent Mulder. Let's see if you mean what you say. I'm going to let you out - you get out slowly and don't give me any trouble." He dropped the keys to the handcuffs into Mulder's hand. Mulder fumbled with the key, finally getting it into the tiny lock and hearing the welcome 'snick' as it released. He struggled to untie the chest restraint and then slowly sat up. Harold had the gun pointed directly at him. He looked over and could just make out Scully's limp form in the hazy moonlight. He leaned down and untied his feet and then stopped. "I'm loose. What do you want me to do now?" "Very good, Agent Mulder. If you maintain that cooperative attitude, we'll get along just fine." Harold glanced at Scully, then looked back at Mulder. The gun never wavered. "I bet you'd like to put that blanket over her, maybe get her off the cold ground? And you could probably stand to get in out of the cold as well, right?" Mulder nodded. Harold, waved the gun toward the ground and Mulder slowly extricated himself from the trunk. As he climbed to his feet, he forced himself not to jump at Harold, and not to rush to Scully. He stood, shivering, bare-chested and in bare feet, on the cold ground. Harold moved toward Scully. He knelt next to her, then looked up at Mulder. "Get the blanket." Mulder reached back in to the trunk and pulled the bloody blanket out. He stood, awaiting his next instruction. He looked at Scully, longing to go to her, but afraid any action of his would put her in even more danger. He lifted his head slightly and caught Harold's eyes. The two men stared at each other across 20 feet of barren dirt. As Mulder watched, Harold lowered the gun, placed it against Scully's right calf, and pulled the trigger. Mulder jumped, an anguished "No," pulled from his throat, and he started towards Scully. "Stop, Agent Mulder. The next one will not be in her leg." Mulder froze, then fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. "Let her go, Harold, let her go. No more, please, no more." "Agent Mulder, you are an evil man, and you are here to atone for the evil you have done. I suggest that you be extremely cooperative with me from now on. Or she will be the one to pay for your sins." Harold rose and stepped back several feet. "You can wrap her in the blanket and pick her up now. We're going that way." ************************************************ Skinner was pacing again. He had a file on Harold Roberson now, and there a firm direction to pursue. This was much better than the total feeling of frustration from before. At least, now, he was doing something. He forced himself to stop for a moment, trying to think of how they would find this lunatic. He went to the table he had commandeered, and sat down, pulling pen and paper before him. He began to write. Harold Carl Roberson - SWM - 48 parents deceased, no siblings Viet Nam - 1968-70; drafted recruited for special project '69 code name: Invasion (find out more about this - who?) Section 8 discharge 1970 - claimed to have been abducted by aliens Reported multiple abductions thereafter In and out of mental institutions (Dates? Where?) No close friends, no steady employment (Track jobs and dates) Involved in fringe religion groups - those with ties to alien scenarios (Who? Where? When?) Killed Army Colonel Marie Kinsley and family - 1995 Note - No more invasions (Was Col. Kinsley involved with Viet Nam project? How?) Found guilty but insane - sentenced to life in a secure mental facility - (How the hell did he get out???) Skinner stopped writing. He put the pen down and took of his glasses. His right had wore a rough bandage over the skinned knuckles, a reminder to stay in control. His brow furrowed as he thought back over what he had read, and what he had written. He sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, then put his glasses back on. He tore the paper off the pad, and beckoned to the same young intern who had originally brought him the forensics reports on the blood and fingerprints. The young man was making a very good gopher. "Copies for everyone." Skinner opened his cell phone and dialed. "Larson, this youngster," he looked at the young man quizzically. "Kincannon, Sir." Skinner nodded, and continued into the phone, "Kincannon, he's bringing copies of my notes to you. You assign specifics to the teams - but I want every one of my questions and notes addressed." Skinner closed the phone and put it back on the table. He rose, pulling his jacket from the back of the chair and putting it on. He picked the phone up again, and slipped it into a pocket. "Excuse me, Sir?" the intern asked timidly. "Where will you be?" "In the gym. Call me if something breaks. And have someone fix that wall." The young man nodded and scurried off to make his copies and carry Skinner's notes to the task force members. Skinner walked quickly through the bullpen, and strode down the corridor to the elevators. Once inside, he pushed the button for his floor, then sagged against the wall. His feelings of anger, frustration, and helplessness were becoming overwhelming, and he knew he needed to get control over himself before he made a serious mistake. The elevator beeped, announcing his floor, and he stepped off. He glanced up and looked out the window at the end of the hall. The sky was bright with winter's morning sun. He had been up for over twenty four hours now and he was beginning to feel it. He walked to his office and quickly slipped inside. Grabbing the gym bag and the clean suit he kept in the closet, he stepped back out and retraced his steps to the elevator, then rode to the basement level, and exited into the gymnasium. At this hour, he was alone, and he was glad of it. He changed quickly, putting on his gym shorts and an old USMC t-shirt, faded and torn. He pulled on battered Adidas, and did a couple of deep knee bends. Ready at last, he took the phone out of his coat pocket and took it with him to the exercise room. Once there, he walked over to the bench press and set the pin at 220. He sat, straddling the bench, and then lay back. He placed the phone under the bench, then, reached up and grabbed the bars. He breathed in deeply, and pushed. As his arms worked steadily, lift and release, the tension began to ease through his back and shoulders. He felt the sweat as it trickled down his face and chest. He did a quick 30 reps, then stopped and swiped at his face with the hem of the t-shirt. Working out always helped him to clear his mind, allowing him to focus on things with a new clarity. He traced back over what had happened. Harold Roberson had been in Viet Nam, as he had. They had both been very young, just turned 18 when they were uprooted from family, home, and country. It was in Viet Nam that Skinner had his first experiences with uncontrollable rage. His father hadn't held with boys being emotional. He had never tolerated tears or 'mushiness' from his sons. But anger was ok. Anger was a 'man's' emotion. It had always been all right to be angry, and so Skinner had learned to express all his emotions through anger. If he was sad, he got angry. If he was worried, he got angry. If he was afraid, he got angry. In Viet Nam, he was often afraid. Therefore, he was often angry. Very angry. Uncontrollably angry. He eventually realized how destructive that one emotion could be, but not before he had spent some time in the brig for assaulting an officer who had ordered a village torched, regardless of the civilian lives that would have been lost. Skinner had been cleared of the assault charges, and even been promoted over the event, but it had taught him he must learn control. So, what gave one man the strength to get through war and emerge relatively intact, having learned from the experience, while another was never the same? He shifted the pin to 200 and did 30 more reps. Sweating profusely now, his muscles beginning to burn, he again moved the pin, this time to 180, and began the steady up and down press. After 15 reps, he stopped, sagging in place and breathing heavily. After Viet Nam, he had come home, and while he could control the rage better, he still needed an outlet. So he had begun working out. He had always been tall, but as he began to channel his anger into weights, he filled out, his shoulders broadened, and he put on weight. As he settled into life state- side, some of the anger faded, but he continued to deal with his emotions by working out. He rested briefly, then rose and moved to the leg press. He set the weights at 300, then stepped over the bench, fitting his feet in the rest, and leaning back onto the angled bench, squatting. With a deep breath, he rose fluidly, held it, then went down again. He went through 30 reps, stepped off, changed the weights to 280, and did 30 more. As the steady up and down motion soothed his mind, he was able to think on his relationship with his two renegade agents. 'Though, in reality,' he mused, 'Mulder is the renegade, Scully is usually trying to rein his ass in.' He missed them both, and the new camaraderie that had developed between the three of them. He had to find them, and soon. His calves were just beginning to burn and the sweat was rolling down his back and chest as he reset the weights to 260, settled again, and pushed out 30 more. Rising one last time, he set the weights down another 20 pounds, and forced out a last 15 before collapsing fully against the bench. He lay there a moment, his body trembling, then rose and walked shakily to the water fountain. A few sips later, he crossed to the weight room and began to a series of curls, using the dumbbells. Starting with 100 pounds, he hammered out 20 reps, switched to 80s and did another 20, then picked up the 60s and did a final 20. His muscles on fire, he put the dumbbells down and walked back into the exercise room. Shedding his shirt, he climbed up on the tread mill and set it for three 8 minute miles. Beginning at a trot, the pace gradually picked up until he was running at a good clip, having to work to keep up. He took his glasses off briefly and wiped his face with his already sweat soaked t-shirt. Replacing his glasses, his mind continued to worry with the hows and whens of finding his two agents, his two friends. He smiled unknowingly as he thought of them as friends. He was an honest man, a loyal man, and he demanded a lot of himself. The drive that he meet his own standards had often caused him to set high standards for others, and to be unforgiving and non-understanding when they were not achieved. It had been an ongoing difficulty in his marriage and had caused him to avoid close friendships for fear that he would set unrealistic expectations. And, to be truthful, some of the things he found himself required to do in fulfillment of his duties were distasteful enough to himself; he didn't want to risk involving friends or families in those things. Mulder and Scully were both a lot like him; honest and loyal, setting high standards for themselves and those around them, intelligent, persistent, diligent to a fault at times. Yet they had found each other and each was tolerant of the other's weaknesses, supportive and nurturing in time of need. He had been included in that circle of care, and briefly berated himself for not having been there when Roberson appeared. Where had he taken them? And why? Both had lost blood, Scully more than Mulder. And she was already weak from the injuries she had sustained at the hands of Liam Emerson. Mulder was still feeling some pain in the healing muscles of his right arm, and was not supposed to be using it. There was no way to know what Roberson had done to either of them, but from the amount of blood in the apartment, it hadn't been pretty. Skinner grimaced; he knew the depths of depravity that existed in man quite well. The tread mill began to slow as the preset time ran out. Skinner slowed to a jog, then a fast walk, and finally a slow stroll as it wound down. With more questions than he'd had when he came down, he hopped off the machine and headed for the showers. Thinking of Emerson and the injuries Mulder and Scully had sustained, and then Roberson, abducting them for who knows what reason, Skinner felt his frustration begin to build, erasing all the good work his strenuous workout had done. He stopped and stood looking around. Over in the corner was what he wanted, what he needed. Grabbing his t-shirt, and picking the cell phone up from under the bench press, he made his way to the heavy bag, hanging off by itself. Dropping shirt and phone, he began to pound away. As he attacked the bag, he attacked all the injustices that had led to this point, beginning with whatever had happened to Samantha Mulder. That one event had hurt Mulder so badly, there was no hope that he would ever heal completely. It had also inadvertently, created the situation that existed now. Everything that had happened since he had become AD and inherited Fox Mulder, golden boy of VCS, had stemmed from that event. Mulder's obsessiveness that led to that unique ability to empathize so deeply with a killer, he could literally become the killer, and by so doing, know what would happen. Mulder's recognition that working in that field would kill him. His fortuitous finding of the X-Files and wangling his own division to explore them. It was only his prodigious solve rate that had kept him going for a while there, and then, Scully being assigned to work with him. Someone had made a big mistake in reading her when they thought she would have loyalties to something other than the truth. The people who had died, Mulder's first informant, then the so-called Mr. X. Scully's sister, Mulder's father. Hell, even Scully's father's and his own wife's deaths were likely to have been part of this whole sorry mess that went back to Samantha's abduction. Skinner pounded relentlessly at the bag. Each blow reverberating up his arms, through his shoulders, down his chest and back. He pounded for all the good people who had died, for all the good causes that had been defeated, for all the good ideas that had been silenced. He slammed the bag harder and harder, pushing back all the misdeeds, all the injury, all the evil that had been done to those he cared for. Yes, cared for. As his mind shaped that thought, in clear and pristine words - 'I care for them' - his eyes filled with unaccustomed tears, and his breath caught in his chest. 'I care,' he thought, amazed that he could. 'I care,' he thought, as the tears slid down his cheeks. His arms burned and his hands were battered and bloody. He slowed and caught the bag, clutching it to his chest, lifting his head to the ceiling. "I CARE!" he roared to the empty gym. He lowered his head, burying it against the bag. "I care," he whispered, "I care. I will find you both, I will. I will bring you home." Chapter 19 "You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, 'I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.' You must do the thing you think you cannot do." Eleanor Roosevelt: Scully roused slowly. Her head was pounding, an unending pain behind her eyes, in her temples, and by the point of impact on the back of her skull. She opened her eyes slowly, then winced. She was laying on a small bed in a darkened room, boards nailed across the window. It was still dark outside as well. Her shirt was open and she could feel the room's cool air across her chest. A hand lay against her left breast, pressing down against her wound. "Mulder." It came out as a raspy whisper. She swallowed and tried again. "Mulder?" "Here Scully, shhh, I'm here." He was sitting on the only other piece of furniture in the room, a battered wooden chair. "Didn't work, huh?" Her voice was still not working right. "Sorry." "Shhh, 's ok. You almost had him." He moved and sat next to her on the bed, then kissed her gently on the forehead. "How you feeling?" He shifted his hand, and looked at her breast, then replaced the makeshift bandage. "Mmmm, not too good, Mulder. Hurts." "Where, Scully? Where does it hurt?" "Head - really bad. Dizzy. Nauseated. Arm. Breast." She paused and struggled to look down at herself. "Bleeding again? Leg, Mulder?" Her eyes drifted shut. "Scully, listen to me." Mulder touched her gently on the arm, and she struggled to lift her lids and look at him. "I know you don't feel good, but I need your help here. Can you help me for a minute, please?" "Mmmm, try," she slurred out. "He knocked you out again, Scully. You've been unconscious for a long time. You need to stay awake. What else do I do?" "Just, umm, stay 'wake." "Ok, stay awake. Got it. And Scully, he shot you in the leg." Her eyes flew open and she struggled to sit up. He caught her in his arms and forced her to lie back. The sudden movement had increased her nausea, and she suddenly began to heave. Mulder held her and helped her lean over the side of the bed as she suffered through a number of dry heaves. As her shuddering subsided, he gently laid her back in the bed. He carefully wiped her mouth. She closed her eyes in pain, wincing. "Scully, shhh, no more. Don't do this to yourself. Be still. It was a clean shot, through the calf. I wrapped it, the bleeding has stopped. What else should I do?" "Water?" "No, none to drink, none to wash with." "Need to wash wound." "I cleaned it as best I could with the sheet, then bound it in strips of the sheet." "Bullet?" "Went through. Entry and exit wound." "Mmmm. 'k." Scully's eyes were closed and she began to drift off. "Scully, Scully," Mulder called, wanting to shake her but not daring to. "Don't go to sleep, Scully, please." "Hmm, not," she replied drowsily. "Hurts." "I know, Scully, I'm so sorry. But, please, be strong. Stay awake. Stay with me. Don't leave me alone." "Not. Going. Anywhere." She reached out blindly, groping for his hand. Even in her pain dazed state, she knew Mulder would need the contact. "What else?" "The nail wound, it's pulled open. It won't stop bleeding." "Lot?" "More a steady trickle. I keep blotting it, waiting for it to clot." "Bind it. Tight." "Scully, that'll hurt. I don't want to hurt you." She gritted her teeth as another wave of pain and nausea assaulted her. "Mulder, do it." She paused, breathing raggedly. He held her hand and she could feel the tears as they fell from his eyes onto her skin. He kissed her hand, then quickly pulled her unbuttoned shirt apart. Tearing more strips from the sheet, he pulled up into a sitting position, her head leaning against his shoulder. He placed a pad of the linens against her wound, then struggled to wrap the sheet strips tightly over her breast. He finished as quickly as he could, then laid her back gently on the bed. She lay with eyes closed, a grimace on her face, for several long minutes. Then she opened her eyes slightly, and looked at Mulder. Even through the pain and the blurred vision, she could see he did not look good. Still shirtless, he was cold and dirty. The wound over his eyes had begun to seep at some point and there were tracks of blood running down his cheek, and in his hair. He had been crying, too; she could see the clean streaks through the grime on his face. The bandage on his right arm had come completely off. The wound itself was puckered, torn in several places, and bled slightly. When he wasn't using the arm by necessity, he cradled it carefully against his body. "Mulder," she said softly. "Come. Lay with me." "I can't, Scully, I'll hurt you." "Yes. Cold. Need to." He looked at her, but she had already closed her eyes again, content that he would obey. He shifted her over slightly, wincing himself as he saw her tense. He crawled carefully onto the bed, next to her, but not touching her. "Cold." She coughed weakly. "Get under." He slipped under the covers stiffly, his injured right arm held tightly to his body. She forced herself to roll toward him, trying desperately to suppress the wave of pain and nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. He gingerly took her in his arms, pillowing her head against the hollow of his shoulder. He pulled her tight against him, selfishly absorbing the heat of her small body as he struggled to warm himself for the first time since this whole ordeal began. She shivered once, and he pulled away. "No. Mulder," she whispered. "You need. Warm. Stay." She tried to snuggle closer to him, every movement a symphony of pain. Her head felt as if it were going to explode. Her breast throbbed under the tight wrapping. Her leg sent shooting pains up her thigh and into her abdomen. "Scully." She heard him, as if from a distance. "Scully, come on, you gotta stay awake for a while." He was crying again. Somewhere above the pain, her mind wondered why she always seemed to make him cry. "Tired." She moaned. "Hurts." "Scully, we're gonna get out of here." He tightened his grasp on her, holding her against him, feeling her with every fiber of his being, willing her to be all right. "Scully, we're gonna be ok." He felt the panic rising in his chest. He could feel her slipping away, and was powerless to stop it. "Scully," he pleaded. "Don't leave me." He felt her tense in his arms, her whole body going taut. She opened her eyes and looked into his, her right hand coming up to slowly brush against his cheek. She pursed her lips, and he leaned into her and kissed her softly. She tensed even more as another wave of pain crashed across her body. "Mul. Der," She gasped. "Gonna. Pass. Out." And she did. *********************************************** Skinner showered quickly, the warm water relaxing him as the sweat was washed away. He was tired, so tired, but he knew there was no hope of sleep for him in the near future. As he finished soaping himself, he stepped fully under the flowing water, then turned the faucet to cold. As the heat disappeared, he felt himself abruptly growing more alert. He stood under the cold flow for long minutes, forcing himself to accept the punishing temperature, penance for his failure to find his friends yet. He finally turned the water off and stepped out, shivering. He dried himself, then dressed in the clean clothes he had brought from his office, skivvies first, then t-shirt, socks, shirt, and trousers. He threaded his belt through the loops on his pants, then tucked his shirt in, zipping, buttoning, and finally, buckling. He slid his feet into his shoes, then folded up the collar of his shirt, sliding the tie around his neck. As he stood before the mirror, he had a sudden sense of de ja vue; after Emerson had escaped, Mulder had gotten his break as he stood before a bathroom mirror. Skinner stared into the fogged glass, willing an explanation to the cryptic letters - SL. When nothing new came to mind, he sighed, then tied his tie, picked up his bag, and headed back up the stairs. He stashed his gym bag back in his office, glancing at the clock. 'Going on noon? How long was I down there?' he wondered to himself. He walked to the elevator for the ride back down to the command center. As he waited for the elevator to arrive, he pulled his cell phone and made a call. "Larson," he barked, "I'm on my way back. I'll be there shortly. Get everyone together. I want an update." Within five minutes, the team had gathered and team leaders began to report. Nothing new from the teams investigating Roberson's family. A bit more comprehensive list of employers, but nothing that stood out. An interesting list of church and religious affiliations, none mainstream, all with UFO/alien/outer space tenets of one sort or another. As the reports continued, Skinner sat quietly, listening, occasionally making notes. He watched as Larson ran the briefing. She had taken her blazer off and was wearing a monogrammed silk shirt. He found himself staring at her left breast. His thoughts drifted to Scully. It was her left breast that had been so cruelly pierced with a nail. His mind wondered from the meeting as he allowed himself once more, to wonder how his agents, his friends, were faring. As the next team began a report on property owned or occupied by Roberson or his family, Skinner continued to stare at Larson. She had noticed his intent gaze at her chest, and had flushed slightly. She met his gaze, glaring at him pointedly. He returned his gaze to her breast. There was something there. As the real estate team leader began to recite his list of properties, Skinner suddenly stood up. He walked to the front of the room and reached out to Larson. There were audible gaspes from across the room and she froze as his large hand traced the monogram on her shirt. "What's your name, Larson?" She colored again, and looked at him. "Sara, Sir." she replied tightly as she removed his hand from her shirt. "SL," Skinner said. "Mulder left SL for me. Why?" Skinner felt himself drifting away from himself. He seemed to step back and watch himself. Had he really just fondled a female agent in front of dozens of others? He shook his head. There was no time for that. It was very close. He was very close to understanding what Mulder had been trying to tell him. As he focused again on the shirt, he felt himself growing cold. How does Mulder do this? How can he stand this feeling of disconnectedness? Skinner was tempted to shake himself, to drag himself back to the present while he still could, but he knew that Mulder and Scully were depending on him to figure this out. SL - what did Mulder mean? He reached out for Larson again, his fingers brushing the letters once more. She stood still under his touch, seeming to know that something else, something serious was happening. "SL," he said again. And then, like a bolt of lightning, it hit him. UFOs, abductions, Scully's abduction to be exact. "Skyland Mountain." he said. "Check the property list for Skyland Mountain and surrounding areas." The room was silent, everyone waiting as the team leader scanned the list. "I have a cabin in Luray, Virginia." "That's it. Scramble, people, we're moving. Get everyone going. Call Luray locals, whatever else is around there. Get Virginia State Police, SBI, local Bureau, shit call out the fucking National Guard. We are gonna make the raid to end all raids. We are taking that fucker down." Skinner stood as people raced to make their preparations for the rescue. He walked carefully over to Larson. "Agent Larson - Sara - I apologize. My behavior was inappropriate. You are within your rights to bring me up on charges." Larson's eyes glistened with unshed tears as she said, "No, Sir, I didn't understand at first. It was my initials. You figured it out. None of us could. No apology is necessary. Let's go get our people." Skinner held out his hand, and as Larson took it, said, "Thank you, Agent Larson. And, yes, let's do go get our people." ************************************************************** Mulder woke, and the first thing he realized was that he wasn't in the bed with Scully anymore. The next thing was that he was tied again, this time to the floor. And the next thing was that he wasn't in the bedroom anymore, but rather, on the floor of the living room. Harold had driven large pegs into the floor of the cabin and Mulder was tied spread-eagled to them. He turned his head and looked to see if he could see Scully. No sign of her. That could be good or bad. No sign of Harold either. "Scully," he called quietly. No response. He tried again. Still no response. Hopefully she was still sleeping safely in the warm bed. He pulled against the ropes restraining him. Nothing. He was tightly secured. Both arms were pulled tightly away fromhis body, over-extending the muscles. It was painful, regardless, but for his already injured arm, it was excruciating. He had a very bad feeling about this. He looked around for anything he could get to, anything he could use, if he could just get free. Nothing. He closed his eyes in pain and frustration. He opened his eyes when he felt a heavy boot prod him, not too gently, in the side. Harold. He looked up but didn't speak. Harold stood above him, a bag in his hand. His eyes gleamed with a manic excitement. "Well, Agent Mulder, at last you are going to begin to atone for what you have done." "What exactly have I done, Harold?" Mulder tried to keep his voice neutral, his face composed. Harold looked at him, almost surprised that he would ask. His face turned quizzical as he tried to puzzle out the meaning of Mulder's question. "I'm not sure," he said in a small voice. But then the anger seemed to take over, and his voice grew stronger as he went on, "You know what you've done. That man, the man at the place, he said this was all because of you. You are the only success that THEY have." Even Mulder could hear the capitals as Harold said THEY. "Who, Harold, whose success? And what is all because of me?" Harold dropped the bag and put his hands over his ears. "Stop it," he screamed, "just stop it! You will not confuse me." He paused, gathering himself. "I am going to show you what they did to me. Harold pulled his shirt out of his pants and lifted it, showing his abdomen to Mulder. "See this." He pointed to the pock like scars covering his belly. "Every time, Agent Mulder, every time, THEY put these needles in me. Over and over, hundreds of needles. I would pass out from the pain." He bent and retrieved the bag. "I am going to share that experience with you." Mulder shuddered as he watched Harold pull the first needle out of the bag. It was long, and thick, and shiny, and all it needed was a syringe to complete one of his worst nightmares. "Harold, there's no need for this," he began. He broke of in mid sentence as the first needle was plunged into his bare abdomen. "Shit!" "Harold, please, stop, let's talk about this. Oh fuck!" The second needle was rammed home. "Jesus, Harold, stop this!" he cried as the third needle was plunged mercilessly into his tender belly. Mulder continued to plead, his breathing growing ragged and his words turning to sobs as Harold relentlessly stabbed needle after needle deeply into his smooth stomach. At last, Harold stopped and rose. Mulder lay panting, sobbing, tied to the floor. Twenty large needles rose unevenly from his belly. Harold reached down and ran his hand over all the protruding needles, pushing them further in and wiggling them about. Mulder had clung to sanity, clung to consciousness during the whole deal, but at this last action, he finally gave up, screamed, and passed out. Harold stood looking at him. "This is what it's like, you self-righteous prick," he snarled to the unconscious man. He went to the kitchen and filled a bowl with water. As he reentered the living room, he looked at the hall to see Agent Scully clinging to the door frame. As he watched, she whispered, "Mulder, I'm here." and collapsed, unconscious again, in a heap on the floor. Harold laughed. "Oh yeah, one tough cookie." He dumped the water on Mulder and laughed as he sputtered back to awareness. Every breath, every movement was torture. Harold knew how much the needles hurt. He had been there himself, but now, this was retribution. Mulder looked up, trying to attain a neutral facade to speak to this madman. "Harold," he began, "please, I haven't done anything to you. I investigate alien activity. I may be able to help you figure out what was done to you." Harold just stared at him, unmoved by his little speech. He lit a cigarette and put in on the edge of a small table. As Mulder watched, Harold unbuttoned his pants, and began to remove them. Mulder began a mantra in his mind as he began struggling desperately against his bonds, heedless of the pain this caused. Harold looked up, puzzled, as Mulder suddenly began to thrash about. As he realized what Mulder was thinking, he began to laugh. "Oh, no, Agent Mulder, not that." He laughed harder. But before we're done, you may be wishing that was all I had done to you. You must atone for your transgressions." Mulder stilled and watched as Harold lowered his pants to his knees and then turned, putting one foot in front of the other, so that the tender inside of his thigh was visible. Mulder winced as he looked at the hundreds of tiny scars that covered the sensitive flesh. Burn scars. "Harold, no, you don't have to do this." Harold pulled his pants back up and picked up the burning cigarette. As he advanced, Mulder began to moan. As the cigarette touched denim, the moan turned into a scream. He screamed for a long time, until his voice was hoarse, and he had no energy left to scream. Then he cried. Then the cries turned to whimpers, and finally, blessedly, the whimpers turned to silence as he, once again, passed gratefully into unconsciousness. Harold put the last cigarette out, just behind Mulder's knee, and rose. "God, I'm hungry. Time for breakfast," he announced to nobody in particular. Checking Mulder's bonds one last time, he grabbed his keys and walked out the door. ************************************************** Mulder came to again as a soft hand stroked his cheek. Scully was laying next to him again. "How did you get here?" he asked dazedly. She had untied his left hand, and now lay against him, fighting to stay conscious, but unable to move anymore. Every last ounce of strength had been taken in crawling from the doorway where she had collapsed over to where Mulder lay. She had untied his hand, and tried to move to his other side to untie his other hand, but her strength had given out. "Mulder," she whispered, "couldn't help you." Her eyes filled with tears as she thought of what he had endured, his screams still echoing in her ears. She kissed his chest, all she could reach without moving again. "Let you down. Sorry. . ." her voice trailed off as he pulled his hand up and stroked her hair. "Shhh, Scully, I'm amazed you were able to get here at all." He paused, his own exhaustion making words difficult. "We have to get out of here, Scully," he whispered urgently. "Can't make it Mulder." she panted. "You go. Get help." "I'm not leaving you, Scully." "Hurts, Mulder. Can't move anymore." "I'm not leaving you, Scully," Mulder said again, more determined than before. "I'll carry you if I have to, but we have to go." He started to reach over and untie his other hand, but the movement reminded him that the needles were still in his abdomen. He gritted his teeth, and began pulling. When he had removed the last one, he lay back, panting, his breath ragged, tears streaming down his cheeks. After a moments rest, he sat up, his whole body tensing in pain as his legs screamed, his belly screamed, his head screamed. He ignored it as best he could, and untied his feet. Free at last, he turned to look at Scully only to find she was once more unconscious. He rose, struggling with every movement, pain washing over his legs and belly, and lifted her to the couch. Laying her gently down, he began to look around. He knew they had to get out of there, before Harold got back. Neither one of them was strong enough for another round with Harold the Insane. He searched the small cabin. On the table in the small kitchen was a map of Shenandoah National Park. There was a red marker line tracing its way from the main roads onto the Blue Ridge Parkway and finally, through back roads to what he assumed was the location of the cabin. Looking at the map, he saw a ranger station. By road it was about 15 miles away. But if he could cut across country, it was only about 3 miles. Mulder stopped, thinking. Could he carry Scully three miles in his condition? Did he really have a choice? Shaking his head in answer to both questions, he took a large knife from the drawer, and went to strip the bed linens. He took all the linens he could find, fashioning a poncho type shirt for himself from the bedspread, tying it around his waist with the rope he had been tied to the floor with. Going into the second bedroom in search of more linens, he was surprised to find a phone. It hadn't occurred to him to even look for a phone. He lifted it, and was even more surprised when there was a dial tone. He stood staring stupidly at the phone for a minute, then swiftly punched in a number he knew by heart. His heart was pounding so hard, he could hardly hear over it, and he was feeling light-headed from lack of oxygen. He forced himself to breathe, waiting impatiently as the phone finally connected and he heard the first ring. "Skinner." Mulder had never heard a more welcome sound. He cleared his throat, and tried to speak. His voice was raspy, ruined from the constant screaming, and he could barely raise it above a whisper. "Sir," he began, but was interrupted when Skinner cut in. "My God, Mulder, is that you?" Mulder could hear the combination of panic and relief in the older man's voice. "Yes, Sir, I . . ." Once again, he was cut off. "I'm on my way, Mulder. You're at Roberson's cabin in Luray, right? I've got every available officer converging on the scene now. My official ETA is about two hours - but, Mulder, I'll be there in an hour and a half. Are you all right? Is Scully all right?" "Sir, we can't stay here. Scully's hurt bad. Get medical." A sob broke from Mulder's throat. "I'm taking her to the ranger station near Stanley. Meet me there." He paused, not sure what else to say, but not ready to give up the connection to the outside yet. It was amazing how quickly Roberson had succeeded in psychologically isolating him. Skinner seemed to sense Mulder's hesitation, his aloneness. He was sure that Scully wasn't the only one in need of medical attention. "Mulder, I'm coming." He spoke with passion, channeling his long controlled emotions into his voice. "Do you hear me, Mulder? I'm coming to get you and Scully. It's going to be all right. Mulder? Mulder?" Mulder swallowed hard. "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. The ranger station. I'll get her there as quick as I can, but it's a long walk." "Mulder, wait, Mulder, you can't walk! Mulder? Damn it, Mulder, don't you dare try to walk!" Skinner was yelling into the phone, but it was too late. Mulder had hung up and walked back to the living room to attend to his final preparations. He tore the sheets into strips and wrapped his feet, working quickly now as he grew increasingly concerned over how long Harold had been gone. He bandaged his thighs with strips of sheets as well, trying not to look at the raw, oozing mass of burns, trying not to feel anything. He took the remaining blankets, and went to the couch. Wrapping Scully as carefully as he could, he bent and lifted her into a modified fireman's carry. Hefting her across both shoulders, he tried to balance her weight as evenly as he could. "Sorry, Scully," he whispered, I know it's undignified, but we've got a long way to go and I won't make it any other way." With the knife tucked into the waist of his jeans, he crossed the room, went out the door and set off toward the ranger station. ******************************************************** Harold took his time in town. They were both out, the women may never regain consciousness, and the man was securely tied. Why rush? He had a nice breakfast, then went to an early movie. 'One good thing about tourists,' he thought, 'they make the stores and theaters keep reasonable hours.' After the movie, he made a run on the grocery store. No point in coming in to town every day, after all. He packed the groceries into the trunk of the car, the handcuffs he'd used on Mulder glinting as the sun, shining almost straight down, caught them. He scooped them up carelessly, swinging them in his hand as he thought of other things he had experienced; things that the FBI man would have to share if he was ever to atone for his sins. Harold shook his head. Thinking of what had happened to him, and what he was doing to Mulder confused him. He knew that Mulder was responsible; someone had to be responsible. Things didn't just happen. But exactly what Mulder was responsible for - that kept shifting in his mind. Was it the aliens? Where there really aliens? Or was it all part of the Invasion project? It got mixed up in his head. Was it the military? They could be in on it? Or was it the FBI? This Mulder was an Agent for the FBI - maybe they were responsible. Mulder had said he investigated things like this. Could that be true? Harold shook his head again. This train of thought was not productive. It confused him and made his head hurt. It was like every time he tried to focus on what had happened to him, a fog rolled in and a pain broke out. It was easier not to think about it. The man had said Mulder was responsible. That was all that mattered. He got in the car, ready to return to the cabin and resume Mulder's atonement. There were so many things that he could still do. He thought back to Colonel Kinsley. She had tried to atone, but in the end, her whole family had to pay. It had been such hard work and his head had hurt for weeks after. But he had done it. And he would take care of Mulder as well, no matter what the cost to himself. He drove back to the cabin, ready to resume the work that had to be done. When he pulled up in the driveway, he was surprised to see the front door open, flapping loosely in the wind. He jumped out of the car and raced into the house. The pegs on the floor were empty, their prisoner gone. He ran to the bedroom, empty, the bed stripped. The other small bedroom was empty as well, the linens also missing. Where the hell did Mulder think he was going to go? Everything was locked down for the winter. He was on foot, carrying the woman. Where would he go? Harold went to the kitchen and pulled out the map. He studied it for a bit, ruling out places one by one, until he came to the ranger station near Stanley. About 15 miles by road, but much closer across country. Harold's eyes narrowed as he thought it through. He might just try it. Mulder was strong, and he was determined. He might be able to carry the woman the three miles across country. Well, Mulder would be in for a surprise, if he got there! Chapter 20 "Dwell not upon thy weariness, thy strength shall be according to the measure of thy desire." Arab Proverb Mulder paused for a moment, his heart racing, chest heaving, as he tried to catch his breath. He lowered Scully to the ground, leaning her against a fallen tree trunk. She had neither moved nor spoken since they left the cabin and he was worried. It was cold, but he was moving, generating heat. She was cold too, and not moving. At least the sun was out, that had to help some. But she was so still, so quiet. He was worried about her head, her chest, her wrist, her leg. He forced himself to his knees beside her, struggling through the pain from the burns on his thighs. "Scully, hey Scully," he called softly, as he stroked her cheek. He brushed her hair back from her face, and leaned in, kissing her gently. "Scully, please . . ." His voice drifted away as he waited in vain for her to respond. He kissed her again, then checked her bandages, pulled the bed linens and blankets that he had wrapped her in more securely around her, and sat beside her on the log. He looked at the cloth he had wrapped around his feet. The bottoms were dirty and the cloth was beginning to tear and fray. He tightened the bindings, knowing he needed to protect his feet as best he could. He looked down at Scully again, propped bonelessly against a rotted log. How had he managed to get her into this? All he wanted to do was take care of her, and look what happened. Tears formed in his eyes, and he brushed them roughly away. He clambered to his feet, then stood a moment, fighting dizziness. He was tired, in pain, weak. His back and shoulders ached from carrying Scully. His injured arm screamed with every step he took. His feet felt every rock, every stick, every root on the ground. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep everything away, but Scully was waiting. He shook his head to try to clear the fog, then leaned carefully down to touch Scully again. His hand smoothed her hair, and he softly called her name. "Scully, we need to move again. Hey Scully, could you just let me know you're with me?" His voice caught and he swallowed a sob. "Please? Scully, you know what trouble I get into when you leave me unattended." He gave a strangled laugh, and bent to lift her. As his arms went around her, her eyes fluttered open. He quickly dropped to his knees, heedless of the pain. "Hey, Scully, you're with me!" His voice was pure joy. "Mulder," she whispered, her eyes slipping shut again. " 'S ok." He buried his head in her hair, holding her close, and a few stray tears fell as he sobbed silently. "Scully, it's gonna be all right. Skinner's coming. We'll be all right." "Hmmm, 'k," she slurred. Mulder was suddenly energized. "We gotta move, Scully" He rose shakily to his feet again, then lifted her. "Up you go." He struggled for a minute to get her settled across his shoulders again, then took another minute to get her balanced. "Scully?" he called once he had her positioned. No response. "Scully?" He hoped for an answer, but she was unconscious again. Realizing this, he set off once more, determined to reach the ranger station, and Skinner. He padded along through the woods, relying on the sun to keep his direction. It had climbed high in the sky, and was almost directly overhead now. Mulder figured he'd been walking about an hour, and still had a mile or so to go. Scully was unmoving across his shoulders. He worried that with no support, and the blood pooling in her head, he was injuring her even further, but he couldn't have left her behind! As he struggled to continue, putting one tender foot in front of the other, trying to ignore the many pains throughout his body, he tried to think of what he would do when he reached the ranger station. His mind was fogged, his thinking cloudy. He knew that he was injured, probably in shock. The combination of the wounds Harold had inflicted on him, the cold, and his own already weakened condition, was making him very dazed and confused. 'Skinner will be there,' he thought. 'He'll know what to do.' Even as the thought crossed his mind, Mulder was startled at the ease with which it had come. When had he begun to think of Skinner as someone he could turn to? How long had it been since he had someone he would trust, besides Scully? He shook his head. He needed to be making a plan. But again, the thought came unbidden, 'Skinner will take care of it.' He shrugged and focused on keeping his movement steady. Scully was hurt badly as it was, he didn't want to add to it if he could help it. He shrugged his shoulders, reseating her across them, shifting under her weight as he unconsciously tried to ease the burden. He looked up again, judging the time, trying to figure out how much further he had to go. He was exhausted. He had pushed on so far on almost pure adrenaline and determination, but he was wearing down and wearing out, fast. He closed his eyes, briefly, just to give himself a short rest, taking a few more steps in his self imposed blindness. As he opened his eyes again, he realized that he was about to step right into a muddy creek. He tried to halt his forward movement, but it was too late, and he only succeeded in overbalancing himself, coming down hard on his left ankle. Then as the soft creek bank gave way, the ankle twisted hard, and he slid heavily down the short bank into the icy water. Landing heavily on his left knee, he thrust his right hand out and caught himself before he fell completely forward. So far he had managed to keep Scully from getting wet, but with only one hand to hold her, he felt her begin to slip. Pulling his right leg entirely into the frigid water, he quickly sat back on his heels, submerging himself to the waist. He struggled to regain his balance, and to balance Scully once more. When he finally had her secured, he was shivering, his teeth chattering. The left ankle was definitely sprained, possibly broken. He had to get out of the water, but he couldn't put Scully down, and he couldn't get up holding her. Walking on his knees, he crossed the tiny creek, and then leaned all the way down, almost laying on the bank. He rolled Scully over his head and onto the bank. He paused, panting, then struggled to his feet, bearing his weight on his good right foot. Once upright, he gingerly placed the left foot down, and tested it. Not broken, it would bear weight, but it hurt like hell. His wet jeans clung to him, the burns on his legs newly awakened and making their presence known quite clearly as the cold, muddy water soaked into the open wounds. He shivered uncontrollably, and felt himself slipping into the early stages of hypothermia. He climbed out of the water, and went to Scully on the bank. He stood staring down at her for sometime, before his mind made the connection that he had to pick her up again. He reached down and hefted her, throwing her over one shoulder this time, and began to move. As he plodded steadily along, his shivering grew worse and his teeth began to chatter. He tried to focus on movement, keep going, almost there, get Scully to safety. Every step was agony as his weight came down on the injured ankle and the wet burns chafed against each other. Desperate for relief, his mind would drift away, then he would suddenly start to awareness, not remembering where he was or where he was going. He had to pause frequently, to shift Scully, to rest his ankle, to catch his breath. He began his own survival mantra "Get Scully to the ranger station. Skinner will know what to do. Get Scully to the ranger station. Skinner will know what to do." He chanted it out loud, through chattering teeth, using his own voice as a focal point to keep himself from slipping away, to keep himself moving, to keep himself from giving up. At last the woods began to clear, and in the distance, Mulder could see the small, concrete block building that was the ranger station. He crossed the last few yards more quickly, and approached the building eagerly. He looked around, hoping to see anyone but Harold. There was a bench outside the building, and he gently lay Scully there. No one was around, the parking lot devoid of cars. Mulder limped to the door and grabbed the knob. A turn and push. Nothing. Mulder pounded on the door, calling hoarsely, "Help! I've got injured. Help! Isn't anyone here?" But the building was empty, and locked. ******************************************************** Skinner closed the phone, tempted to throw it through the window, but managed to hold onto both it and his temper. He did bring his hand up and slam it down on the dash, his one concession to the growing rage that was threatening to overwhelm him again. The driver, Bouvier, said, "It was Mulder? Where are they? Are they all right?" "Scully's hurt, I think Mulder is too, but he didn't say anything." Skinner paused, rethinking the short conversation. "They were at the cabin in Luray. They're on the move now. I'm not sure what happened or how they got loose, but Mulder said it wasn't safe for them to stay at the cabin and wait for us. He's carrying - carrying - Scully to the ranger station at Stanley." "Shit, that's miles from Luray, isn't it?" Bouvier asked. Skinner suddenly began to dig furiously through the maps, searching for the detail map of Shenandoah National Park. He studied it a minute, then looked up. "It's 15 miles from the cabin," he said in amazement. He lowered his head again, took another measurement using his finger, then added, "Or three miles if he goes cross country. Which I'm sure he will." He sat quietly a moment, then picked up the cell and called the operator who was channeling communications for the team. "I need to speak to the ranger at Stanley station," he demanded. "And while you're getting that call for me, get the medical coordinator as well. We have at least one injured." He waited impatiently until, at last, a slow southern drawl said, "Mr. Skinner, Sir? This is Ranger Clyde Bohannon. Can I help you Sir?" "Are you at Stanley Station, Bohannon?" "Uh, no sir, I'm not. I'm at Massanutten." "Then why the hell are you on the phone?" Skinner was frustrated and it was showing. "I asked to be patched through to Stanley." "Uh, well, yes, Sir, I guess you did. But there's no one at Stanley, Sir. It's closed in the winter." Skinner was silent, his mind working furiously. This meant the station wouldn't have transportation out, and Mulder and Scully would still be vulnerable should Roberson get to them before he did. Well, he would just have to get there before Roberson. "I see. Well, thank you Mr. Bohannon." Skinner disconnected. The phone chirped again and Skinner opened it. "Mulder, is that you?" he asked hopefully. "Medical for you Sir," the operator said. "Patch them through." "Medical, Sir." "I've been in contact with Agent Mulder. He has advised me that Agent Scully is injured and in need of medical assistance. I want two units dispatched to the ranger station at Stanley. They are to get as close as they can, but not be observed. The perp is still unaccounted for, and may be occupying the station. Get your units into position and ready to respond as soon as I give the all clear." "Yes, Sir. Two units, Sir?" "I suspect Agent Mulder is injured as well. Be sure that copies of my agents medical data is made available to the responding units. Make sure the correct blood types are available. Do whatever it is that you do to assure - do you hear me? - assure that my agents will not experience any delay in securing appropriate treatment for their injuries." He paused, then added, "Wait for my call." and hung up. He sat quietly, thinking, then opened the phone again. "Get me Larson," he said without preamble. When she answered, he said, "Who do we have within immediate response to the ranger station at Stanley?" "Stanley, Sir? I thought they were in Luray?" "They're on the move, should be at Stanley soon. Now who's already there? Anybody really competent for this type of thing?" He heard her pause, knew she was weighing the pros and cons of slamming her fellow law enforcement officials to her boss. At length she said, "No, sir, only locals are in position and ready to move." "Shit, that's what I was afraid of." Skinner paused, furiously trying to work out a new plan. "All right. Here's what you do. Send the locals to the cabin. I suspect it will be deserted, but we've got to cover it. My team will be at Stanley in," he paused, looking at Bouvier. "Twenty to thirty minutes, Sir. These mountain roads are a bitch." "Fifteen minutes, Larson. Any locals still at Stanley are to wait for me. I don't want Sheriff Andy getting killed by this lunatic. And I don't want Mulder or Scully further injured through incompetence. You make that clear, you hear?" "Yes, Sir. And Sir? Good luck." Skinner grunted and closed the phone. "Move Bouvier, fifteen minutes." He closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat as he felt the car accelerate. 'Hang on guys, I'm coming." *************************************************** Mulder sagged against the door. He had come so far, and now, shelter, warmth, perhaps safety was within reach, and he couldn't get to it. He stepped back from the door, backing into the parking area, and appraising the building. Windows. He looked down, his eyes scanning for ground for a good size rock. He spotted one, hobbled over, then bent and picked it up. Limping slowly back to the building, he raised his arm and heaved. The glass shattered with a satisfying crack. Using the rock, he cleared the bottom ledge and crawled through. He came around to the door, opened it, and went to Scully. Lifting her carefully in his arms, he carried her in and kicked the door shut behind. The station was small. It was warmer than the outside, but not by much, and that advantage would dissipate quickly with the now 'open' window. A tiny reception area was separated from the ranger's work area by a chest high counter. A bench was under the broken window, and a swinging gate opened into the work area. He pushed through the gate, and walked over to the desk. Using his left knee, he balanced Scully with one hand, and swept the desk clear with the other, then laid her down again. He paused a moment to straighten her head, and brush back her hair, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her softly on her lips. "We're here, Scully. We made it. Skinner will be here soon." He kissed her again, then moved to see what else was in the building. A short, narrow hall led to a back storage room, a tiny bathroom. There was a small living/sleeping area in the storage room, complete with cot. Mulder thought of bringing Scully back to it, but was worried that she would be vulnerable alone if Harold got to them before Skinner. How could he keep Scully safe, away from Harold, yet not outside. He was aware enough of his own depleted reserves to know he could not hope to prevail if it came down to a physical battle with Harold. He looked around, taking in the room, the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The ceiling? It was a drop ceiling, with tiles that could be pushed up. He went into the bathroom. Standard home commode. He could use it to climb up to the ceiling. He climbed up and pushed the tile aside, then hoisted himself up. Thin metal rods held the tiles in place. The tiles themselves were too flimsy to support even Scully's weight, let alone his own. But someone had laid a plywood crawlway, over the metal, leading to the ventilation ductwork. He wasn't the first person to access the 'attic' this way! He went back and picked Scully up and carried her to the bathroom. "Sorry, Scully," he apologized, as he pulled her over his shoulder for one more trip. Using the wall for support, he managed to get up onto the seat of the toilet, and then onto the tank. He stood for a moment, gathering the last of his strength, then lifted Scully up, feet first, through the hole in the ceiling, almost dropping her onto the plywood. He held her hand for a minute, kissing each tiny, cold finger. He climbed down and went out to the storage area, pulling blankets and the small pillow off the cot, and then returned to Scully. He covered her with what he had found, trying to tuck her in securely, the slid the pillow under her head. His lips traced her eyes, her nose, and finally her lips, and he whispered, "Hang in there, Scully. Hang in there for me, please." Then, reluctantly, he left her and slid the tile back in place. He climbed down, and turned to go back out to the front office, intending to call Skinner again. He hobbled out to the office, lifted the phone and dialed Skinner's cell. "Mulder?" Skinner answered. "Yes, Sir. We're here." Mulder was exhausted. He could barely stand, and speaking was taking entirely too much effort. "Where are you?" he heard himself whine. Skinner's voice was soft, patient, understanding, full of concern as he answered gently, "I'm coming, Mulder. I'm coming. Just a few more minutes, ok? Can you hold it together for a few more minutes?" Mulder nodded, then stared at the phone as he heard Skinner ask, "Mulder? You still there?" He shook himself out of the daze he had fallen into and murmured, "Yeah, few more minutes." He was silent for a moment, then added, "I put Scully in the ceiling, just in case." "In the ceiling? Mulder, what are you talking about?" Just then, a vicious pain exploded in Mulder's side, he dropped the phone, and collapsed on the floor, screaming. The phone lay unheeded next to his head, as he writhed and sobbed on the floor. In the car, Skinner was screaming frantically into the phone, "Mulder, Mulder, answer me! God damn it - what the hell is going on there? Mulder, come on, Mulder!" As he lay there, gasping for breath, agony erupted all up and down his left arm. He pulled it across his body, clutching it in his right arm, and tried to roll onto his stomach, but as he was completing the move, something hit him in the small of his back, and he screamed again. He curled into a fetal position, trying to push away from the instrument of his torture. His mind had lost all ability for coherent thought. 'Must get away,' was all he could think. Skinner's heart stopped as he heard Harold faintly through the phone, "Hello, Agent Mulder. "You've been very bad." **************************************************** Skinner was counting the minutes now. According to the map, they should be at the station just - about - now. He could see it in the distance, but there was a vehicle, a lone vehicle in the parking area. He pulled the radio and yelled, "Abort. Abort. Our perp is in the building. He has hostages. Abort." Turning to Bouvier, he said, "Slow, and drive by." As they rode past, Skinner could see the broken window on the front of the building, but that was all. When they were out of sight on the other side, Bouvier stopped the car, and they got out. Skinner spoke into the radio. "Approach on foot; use the surrounding woods for cover, and remained concealed. Team 2, take south. Team 3, east. Team 4, north. When you're in position, check in." He and Bouvier set out through the trees, angling back to the small building. "We have west, Boo, that puts us in the front, no cover." They got to the fringe of the woods on the northwest corner and stopped, waiting for the others to get into position. As they waited, an ear shattering scream split the air, and Skinner was on his feet and running. As he ran, he yelled into the radio, and into the air, "Move, move, move, all agents, this is a go! Move!" ************************************************** Mulder came to, arms over his head, handcuffed to the ceiling fan in the work area, his whole body aflame. He moaned, and regretted it immediately when he was greeted with another touch of the stun gun. He writhed, unable to breath, wondering if his heart had stopped. And if it hadn't, he kinda hoped it would. Harold watched patiently, until Mulder was still again. Then he asked, "Where is the Agent Scully?" Mulder shook his head. "I had to leave her." Tears rolled down his face. "I couldn't carry her." "I don't think so, Agent Mulder," Harold said, and leaned forward with the prod. Mulder jumped, pulling back as far as he could, and a whimper of fear escaped his throat. "I couldn't carry her, I couldn't," he babbled. His mind was so pain fogged, he really wasn't sure where Scully was. Did he really leave her in the woods? "Not good enough Agent Mulder." Harold leaned in again, laughing as Mulder twitched at the brief contact. "It's not pleasant, is it? Do you know how many times THEY did this to me? Do you know what project Invasion is?" Mulder shook his head furiously, "No, no, I don't, Harold, tell me. What is it?" Harold laughed again. "I'll trade you one answer for one answer. I go first. Where is Agent Scully?" Mulder sagged. He was going to die. Skinner would come, he would find Scully. She would be all right. He had to believe that. But, if Harold touched him with the electric prod again, he was going to die. Harold stepped forward, grinning as Mulder whimpered and tried to pull away. He chuckled as Mulder feebly kicked out at him with his injured left foot, almost hanging himself as he lost his balance. As Mulder struggled to get his feet back under him, and take his weight off his arms and shoulders, Harold pounced. This was no brief wisp of a touch, but solid and complete contact. Harold planted the electric prod firmly against Mulder's belly, and didn't pull back. Mulder screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and then he passed out. *************************************************** Skinner went through the broken window in one leap. Weapon drawn, he landed in a crouch, and then rose, gun pointing directly at Harold Roberson. "Drop it, Roberson," he ordered, "Now!" Harold released the stun gun and turned, arms already rising. As he took in the sight around him, his shoulders slumped and he seemed to shrink in on himself. He looked at Skinner and the other agents as they filled the small room. "I guess I have to go back to the hospital now," he said in a small voice. Agents had stepped forward and cuffed Harold and were leading him from the room. Skinner pulled himself over the counter and went quickly to where Mulder hung, unconscious from the fan. "Support him, Boo," he said, as he pulled the desk over and climbed up to uncuff his injured friend. His keys fit the cuffs, and Mulder slumped down into waiting arms. Skinner hopped down and reached out for Mulder. "There's a cot back here," and agent called. "Bring it," Skinner ordered. As quickly as they set it up, Skinner laid Mulder on it and called for water and a cloth. "And get the paramedics rolling. Tell them the scene is secure. And get that asshole out of my sight." Agents bustled Harold out the door, as Skinner gently bathed Mulder's face. "Somebody find a blanket. He's freezing. And help me get these wet clothes off him." Willing hands came to gently help. The strips of sheet were unwound from around Mulder's feet, causing gasps when those gathered saw his bloody soles and the severely swollen ankle. 'How the hell was he able to walk?' Skinner wondered. As Skinner began to unwrap the strips from Mulder's thighs, the younger man stirred. "Sir," he croaked. "I knew you'd come." "Sorry I wasn't here sooner, Mulder." "Yeah, traffic's a bitch." He closed his eyes again. "Mulder, hey Mulder, don't go to sleep on me here." Skinner was feeling panicky; this man was seriously injured and he didn't think he had begun to catalog the injuries. "Mulder, stay with me, please." "Scully," Mulder began, then stopped as he was overcome by coughing. "Ahhh, hurts," he moaned. "Scully - shot." Skinner made an upward gesture to the agents still in the room, saying, "Check the overhead." They fanned out, all eyes appraising the ceiling. "It's all right, Mulder, we're getting her now." >From the back, an agent called, "Found her. She's unconscious. I need some help here." Several others scurried to assist, and Mulder sighed. "Been out - long time. Hurt bad." His eyes were closed, but he was making an effort to stay awake, be aware. "Bastard shot her - because of me." He coughed again. "Shhh, Mulder," Skinner soothed, "don't try to talk. Medics will be here any time now. Mulder, what happened to your legs?" Mulder tried to look down at himself, but it was too much effort. "Legs?" he asked foggily. "You mean the burns?" "Burns? Jesus, Mulder, what did that bastard do to you?" As Skinner spoke the sirens were heard and within minutes Scully was being loaded onto a gurney and heading out the door. Mulder began struggling to rise. "Scully," he cried. Skinner held him tightly. "Hush, Mulder, she's going to the hospital, and so are you. Just hold on a minute more. Your ride is coming." As the medics pulled the second gurney into the building, Skinner rose, lifting Mulder in his arms, and placed him gently onboard. Mulder moaned slightly, then settled. "It's ok, now Mulder." Skinner murmured. "Scully's ok, and you're going to be ok too." He paused, and took the younger man's hand, heedless of the agents that stared. "I'm sorry I wasn't here before, but I'm here now, and you can rest. It's ok to rest now." Mulder lifted his eyes briefly, meeting Skinner's own, then closed them, whispering, "Get Scully to the ranger station. Skinner will know what to do." As Skinner watched, startled by his friend's statement, Mulder drifted into unconsciousness. "Hey, Mulder," Skinner leaned over, whispering into his ear. "You did it. You did real good, son. I'm proud of you." Chapter 21 "Be courteous to all, but intimate with few, and let those few be well tried before you give them your confidence. True friendship is a plant of slow growth, and must undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity before it is entitled to the appellation." George Washington Skinner was dozing in the big chair that had been brought into Scully's room for him. She stirred in her sleep, and he was immediately awake, going to stand beside the bed. When she didn't move again, he took her hand for a moment, then went and reseated himself. >From his visit to his recovering agents, through their abduction, torture, and rescue, until now, with them both safely ensconced in the local hospital, the past 72 hours had been a blur of activity. After his arrival at the ranger station, Skinner had overseen Mulder and Scully's transport to the hospital, in Harrisonburg. The catalog of injuries was incredible. Scully had a concussion, and a gunshot wound to the leg. Her wrist had been damaged again, and the doctor had had to reset it. Her breast was heavily bandaged, the healing that had occurred since the initial injury having been erased by the new trauma. But, in reality, she had fared better than Mulder. She had apparently been unconscious for much of the time they were under Harold's control, and he had left her largely alone. Mulder, on the other hand, was a completely different issue. But then, wasn't he always? He had a hairline fracture of the skull, over his eye, and, of course, concussion. Then there were the burns. From his groin to his knees, the inside of Mulder's thighs were covered in tiny, but deep, cigarette burns. Skinner shuddered, just thinking of it. Mulder's arm had separated again, the muscles that were torn by Emerson's nail, pulled apart, and more surgery had been required to repair the damage. And then there was the ankle Mulder had turned, then walked on, eventually earning himself a stress fracture there as well. And his feet. The soles were little more than hamburger, raw and lacerated, tender beyond belief. And more burns from contact with the electric stun gun. How in hell had an escaped mental patient managed to get one of those? Skinner shook his head ruefully. Nothing could ever be easy with Mulder. Of course, the fall in the creek had exposed the open wounds to all sorts of little microorganisms, happy to get in out of the cold, and he was battling numerous infections. His feet, his thighs, and his arm, all had angry red streaks radiating out from the injury. And all those little pin pricks on his abdomen. Needle tracks? Until Mulder was able to tell them exactly what had happened, those were still a question mark. Skinner had ridden to the hospital in Harrisonburg with Mulder, pleased that they had complete records on both his agent. Scully was quickly taken to surgery, to repair her leg, and Mulder was trundled off to the OR as well. While waiting for word on their conditions, Skinner had arranged Roberson's transfer back to DC. He had also used his position as Assistant Director of the FBI to arrange medevac transport for both his agents, to Georgetown Medical, as soon as they were stable. Scully had emerged first, her leg repaired, full recovery expected. Skinner had insisted on being with her in the recovery room, and was pleased when she woke naturally as the anesthesia wore off. They had talked briefly, she asking about Mulder and he giving her the edited version, then she drifted back to sleep. Within the hour, she had been moved downstairs to her own room. Skinner had returned to the waiting room, anxious for word on Mulder. His surgery had taken longer, but at last, he too, had gone to recovery. Skinner had once again stood next to the bed in recovery, waiting for his agent to awaken. It was no surprise when Mulder pulled himself up to consciousness, looked around, then croaked, "Scully?" He had reassured the younger man that she was ok, and that he would be too. Mulder had gazed steadily into his eyes, then raised his hand slightly. Skinner had taken Mulder's hand into his own, and squeezed gently, as Mulder had said, "I knew you'd come. Didn't even have a plan, just knew you'd come." Skinner had soothed him, saying, "Shh, Mulder, it's over now. You did good. But now, you need to rest." Mulder had nodded and his eyes slid shut obediently, but his fingers had remained clutched around Skinner's hand. It was a long time before he relaxed enough that Skinner could pull away and sit back down. But he hadn't minded it at all. Mulder had finally been moved downstairs to a private room as well. Skinner had planted himself in the younger man's room, concerned that he would awaken and become distressed if he was alone. He had been very groggy from the anesthesia, never seeming to come fully awake. And then he had spiked a fever, despite the antibiotics they were pumping into him through the IV. He had awakened at last, feverish, delirious, intent on getting out of the bed. Skinner had physically restrained him, not allowing the hospital to strap him down. Almost climbing into the bed with Mulder, Skinner had held him, wrapped in his arms, as Mulder had thrashed and fought with unseen demons. Skinner had listened helplessly as his friend had cried for Roberson to stop, had begged for Scully's freedom. At last, the doctor had elected to sedate him, hoping that he would be calmer, the fever induced delirium under control, when he woke again. So, secure in the knowledge that Mulder would be out for a while, Skinner had moved into Scully's room. He had an agent stationed in Mulder's room, with strict orders to come for him if the man even turned over in his sleep. But so far, all was quiet across the hall, and here as well. He'd managed to sleep some, though the chair wasn't the most comfortable, and had gotten something to eat. He'd made the necessary phone calls to process Roberson, delegated the paperwork to Larson and Bouvier, had the evac copter on call for transfer to DC as soon as his agents were ready, and now, had put his official position aside, and was here as a friend, watching over those he cared about. Scully coughed, and he jumped up, going to her quickly. Her eyes opened and then widened when she saw him standing there. "Hey, Dana, I don't look that bad, now do I?" he joked, his hand reaching out to touch her arm. She cleared her throat and tried to speak, but only the merest whisper emerged. He offered her water, and she sipped, then tried again. "Mulder? Where . . ." she stopped, a weak cough cutting her off. "Shh, Dana, it's ok, he's all right." At Scully's raised eyebrow, he amended, "Well, he'll survive." She nodded and he continued. "He was hurt pretty badly, but nothing that wasn't fixable. At least nothing physical. Torture is always . . ." he stopped at her gasp. "Torture? I remember hearing him scream, and I tried to get to him, but I passed out in the hall." Her eyes took on a faraway look as she struggled to recall the details of what happened. "I came to, and he was tied down to the floor. I crawled over, and untied his hand, then - well, that's all I remember." She closed her eyes, then asked tightly, "What did he do to Mulder?" "He burned him. First with cigarettes, then by shocking him with a stun gun." Scully shuddered. "But he's gonna be all right?" "He should be. He's strong. He's got an infection in the wounds, but he's on massive antibiotics, so it should be under control soon." "Why are you here? Instead of with him?" Skinner chuckled. "You two are incredible. Two weeks ago, Mulder wakes up and I'm by his bed, and he tells me to go sit with you." He smiled, then added, "Is it my personality or what? "Actually, he's been awake, and it wasn't pretty. He was feverish . . ." Scully interrupted. "Mulder doesn't handle fever well." "No kidding. You need to get that in his records, Scully. Anyway, he was thrashing about, trying to get out of the bed, trying to fight Roberson, I think, and definitely trying to find you, and the doctor decided to sedate him for a while. He paused, assessing her strength. "Dana, do you know what triggered this? Why did Roberson focus on Mulder?" Skinner chuckled to himself as he watched her visibly pull on her 'Special Agent' persona, preparing to respond professionally to his inquiries. "No, Sir, it was not clear. The man was clearly delusional, rambling, violent when challenged. Mulder asked him why he was doing this, and the man hit him and nearly knocked him out!" Scully was still outraged. "That would account for the skull fracture then," Skinner mused out loud. He looked at Scully. "We weren't sure where he picked that up." "Skull fracture? Oh, God, what else can happen to him?" Her eyes filled and she began to shudder, trying to control herself. But Skinner was already moving. He lowered the rail on her bed and sat next to her. He pulled her up to his chest carefully, cradling her head with one hand. His strong arms encircled her, and he rubbed her back gently. "Ok, now, it's all right," he crooned to her. "Go ahead, it's all right." Casting aside her barriers, she buried her head in his broad shoulder, and cried. Too much had happened in too short a time, and she just couldn't carry it all alone. She needed this, she needed to cry, she needed a friend to hold her, to help her through this. To help her and Mulder through this. As her sobs quieted, she turned her head and rested her cheek on his chest. She relaxed into his arms, and let him hold her, enjoying the sense of safety his strength and presence brought. He held her quietly until, at length, she pulled away. He helped her lie back down, fluffing her pillows, and fussing with the covers. "I need to tell you something," she began. "I'm not good with emotions, personal relationships, that sort of thing. I - I don't like being emotional. I've always liked science because it was rational, and I try to be rational myself. And I don't cry. Ever. And certainly never in front of anyone." Skinner nodded as she paused, gathering her thoughts. "I always have to succeed. I never learned how to fail. But the reason I never learned how to fail, wasn't because I was so good, it was because I only did the things I knew I could succeed at." She paused again, taking a deep breath. "You're like that, too, aren't you? You keep your distance so people won't know that you're afraid to try." She looked up at him, as he nodded again. "I've closed myself off to so many possibilities in life, in relationships, in my career, just because I was afraid I might fail." "But Mulder isn't afraid to fail. He tries, over and over again, until he succeeds. Nothing is impossible to him, because he is always willing to make an attempt. He's teaching me that it's ok to fail, as long as you keep trying." "And when you care about someone, you can never fail if you just keep trying." She reached out and caught his hand, holding his large one in her smaller one. He stopped and looked at her. "Thank you, Walter," she said. "Thank you for being here. Thank you for everything." He nodded gravely, recognizing the gift that her words expressed. He leaned over and kissed her, a simple kiss on the forehead, but a symbol of how much things had changed between them all. He smiled as he straightened and said, "What are friends for?" ********************************************** Scully was sleeping again, peaceful slumber, when there was a quiet knock. Skinner rose and crossed the room, opening the door. "He's moving around some, Sir." the young agent reported. "Ok, you stay here with Agent Scully for a while. I'm gonna go sit with Mulder." The young man nodded and entered the room, moving toward the chair by the bed. Skinner looked back at Scully, checking to make sure she was still sleeping soundly. This separate rooms rule was bothersome, and the one thing his rank as AD hadn't been able to get past. In Virginia, males and females did not share a hospital room, no matter what the situation. Skinner had managed to get them on the same floor, the rooms across from each other. He had spent a good bit of time crossing that hallway as he went from one room to the other. He entered Mulder's room, and sure enough, he was moving some under the covers. Skinner expected Mulder to be groggy, possibly becoming agitated again, when he woke enough to realize he had been sedated. Mulder hated to be knocked out. Skinner smiled. 'Can't stand the thought that he might miss something.' He was thinking of Scully's words, how fear of failure could limit your possibilities severely. He was guilty of doing that; she had him pegged. But here, in this friendship, with these two people, he wasn't going to let fear of failure govern him. He was going to be here for them, to help them through their recoveries. And then, as their supervisor, he was going to try to be more active in the cases they took on, or at least available for support. Mulder groaned, and Skinner walked to the bed, speaking softly. "Mulder, you coming back to us now?" Mulder groaned again, then opened his eyes and looked at Skinner. "Didn't we just do this, Sir?" Skinner laughed. "Yeah, we did. What, once wasn't enough for you?" Mulder gave a weak smile, then asked, "Scully?" "She's ok, Mulder. She's across the hall, sleeping. I have an agent in the room and I've been bouncing back and forth from here to there myself. She's all right, and she's safe." "When can I go see her?" "Mulder!" Skinner snorted in exasperation. "Do you have any idea what condition you're in?" "Apparently not ambulatory, from your reaction. I'll use a chair, please?" Skinner smiled again, fondly. "I'll check with the docs in a bit. She's asleep now, anyway." As Mulder pouted, Skinner laughed aloud, then added, "I promise. We'll work something out." Mulder smiled then, joining in the laughter. "Don't say it - I already know - I'm obsessive." As Skinner shook his head, Mulder turned serious. "How's her leg? And her head?" "She has a concussion, but she's been awake and aware on several occasions. I was just talking to her a few minutes before you woke up. They did surgery on her leg; she'll make a full recovery." Skinner caught Mulder's eye, then said, "As will you, IF you will follow doctor's orders this time. You're a mess, Mulder, and we need to know what he did to you." Mulder grimaced, then looked away. "I don't want to talk about it." "Mulder, you have to talk about it. I have to know how to charge this man. We need to know what he did to you." Mulder shuddered, and closed his eyes. "He hit Scully in the apartment. He knocked her out. He made me carry her to the car. "She got loose in the trunk. She attacked him when he opened the trunk, but he knocked her out again. Then he shot her. He just shot her, no warning, no hint, he just shot her. She was fucking unconscious and he shot her!" Mulder's eyes filled with tears and began to slide down his cheeks. "Whatever he did to me, I deserved. I told her to sit down, and then he hit her. I encouraged her to attack him, and he knocked her out. And I just watched as he shot her. I just stood there and watched." Mulder was crying now, huge gulping sobs torn from his chest, shudders wracking his frame. Skinner moved closer, and looked for a way through the maze of monitors, wires, and tubing, to reach the anguished man. He finally sat on the side of the bed, and scooped him up, much as he had done Scully, holding him as the tears fell, soothing him with his presence. Mulder sobbed for long minutes, then began to quiet. As his sobs lessened, he started to stiffen in Skinner's embrace, embarrassed. But Skinner just tightened his hold, murmuring "It's ok, Mulder, you can let go now and then. It's ok." Mulder relaxed again, leaning heavily against Skinner. "You know, Sir, all the way through the woods, I kept trying to think. But I was so tired, and everything hurt so much, and Scully was so heavy, and I just couldn't think. I knew I needed a plan, but I just couldn't think." He sighed, remembering his fear, and exhaustion. "But then, I kept thinking, 'Skinner will be there. He'll know what to do.' I just sorta abdicated it all to you in absentia. I'm really glad you showed up when you did." Skinner hugged Mulder, pulling him tightly to his chest. "Mulder, I am so proud that you felt you could count on me. I'm glad I was able to get there. I just wish I'd been sooner." Mulder pulled back, looking at Skinner, and then tried to lay down. Skinner helped him lay back in the bed, then started to rise. "No, stay," Mulder said, catching Skinner's wrist in his hand. "You were there when it was important. I think he was going to kill me, and you kept him from doing that. You made him stop hurting me." His eyes turned introspective, and his voice lowered, becoming soft and vulnerable. "When someone was hurting me, there's never been anyone who would make them stop before." Skinner swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. There was an incredible amount of information in those few words, and he didn't want to say the wrong thing. Instead, he took the younger man's hand, and gently squeezed. He reached up and brushed a wayward strand of hair from Mulder's eyes, and said, "You're welcome, my friend." *************************************************** Skinner was back in Mulder's room. It was late. He had been back and forth as both his agents slept then woke, then slept again. He was about to head back over to Scully's, and the comfortable chair, when he realized Mulder was awake and staring out the window. "Mulder?" Mulder's head never moved, his eyes never left the window. "Did you know I am afraid of needles? Have been ever since I was a kid. After Samantha, I was - sick - for a while. Shit, I was catatonic. Anyway, they were always sticking me with needles. A shot for this, a sedative for that, a test here, a test there. I felt like a fucking pin cushion." "And?" Skinner prompted. "Harold hit me. He almost knocked me out when he hit me with the gun. It hurt. Still hurts." He winced as his hand touched the bandage over his eye. "He burned me, cigarettes, right through my jeans. I could feel it get warm, then the cloth caught fire, then the tip actually touched me, and he just pushed and pushed, twisting it in. It hurt, too. "And then, when he hit me with the cattle prod, or stun gun, or whatever the hell that was, I thought for sure I was going to die. I couldn't breathe, my heart seemed to stop beating, I could feel this intense searing pain radiating out from the point of contact." Mulder stopped, and shook himself. His voice dropped and Skinner had to strain to hear him. "He stuck needles in me. All in my belly. Over and over again - twenty needles. I counted them. Long needles. Deep in my belly. He tied me down and stuck fucking needles in me!" Mulder shuddered and a sob caught in his throat. Skinner tensed, unsure if he should go to him, or wait for the rest. "I hate needles, and that bastard just shoved them in me. And I think," he paused again, voice dropping to the merest whisper, "I think, it has happened to me before." "What?" Skinner's voice was loud in the silence. "When?" "After Samantha." He paused. "You know about," he tapped his head gently. "Your memory, yes." "I don't remember a lot from around that time. Things from right before, things from right after. And I especially can't remember exactly what happened. Were we in the loft? Or in the living room? Did I get the gun? Or did I just wake up and she was gone? I just can't remember. And now, I can't remember what happened with the needles." "It's ok, Mulder," Skinner could see his friend growing agitated. "You have to stay calm. You're sick, you're tired, you're hurt. Let yourself heal. When you're stronger, you can deal with all this." He reached out and took Mulder's hand. "I'll help you if I can. And if you'll let me." Mulder nodded, then changed the subject. "I want to see Scully." "Mulder, the doctor says in a few days. Please be patient." "Sir, after our little bonding events," Mulder smirked, "I feel I should warn you, I am about to be a real pain in the ass." He sat up. "I am going to see her, now. And nothing short of tying me up and shooting me full of drugs is going to stop me." Skinner's eyes locked with Mulder's and a long time passed. Finally, Skinner sighed in defeat. "Let me see if I can get a chair. Promise you won't get up until I get back? Your feet and your ankle just can't take it, Mulder." "I'll wait." Skinner slipped out into the hall and walked quickly down to the equipment room. He grabbed the wheelchair and pushed it back up the hall. He had already scoped out where it was kept, because he knew it would come down to this, Mulder's insistence on seeing Scully the one constant in this world. He was actually surprised Mulder hadn't pulled this sooner. He pushed the chair into the room, only to find Mulder busily unhooking monitors and leads. "What are you doing?" he whispered fiercely. Mulder looked up, eyes wide with innocence. "What?" "Mulder, I should make you walk after all!" "And you were going to leave them on?" His hand moved to the hated IV. Skinner just shook his head. "Leave the IV in Mulder. No negotiation on that one. You pull it and the Skinner express is history." Mulder looked up, gauging Skinner's seriousness, then nodded in agreement. "Help me onboard?" "You are so lucky that I work out, Mulder," Skinner grunted as he lifted Mulder bodily and positioned him in the chair. "Shit, Sir, I didn't mean you had to carry me," Mulder groused, embarrassed again. "No weight on the feet or the ankle, Mulder, no weight. Got that? That means you stay in the chair, understand?" "Geez, make him an AD and he thinks he runs the world," Mulder muttered. Skinner snorted, then pushed Mulder out the door, across the hall, and into Scully's room. "You do realize, you've just made me an accessory to escape, or transporting fugitives, or, even worse, disobeying hospital directives." Skinner dismissed the agent sitting next to Scully's bed. "Take a break, get a cup of coffee. I'm gonna watch them both for a while." Mulder chuckled, then grew quiet as Skinner pushed him near Scully's bed. She was sleeping and Mulder just sat, looking at her as if she were the most wonderful thing he had ever seen. Skinner positioned the Mulder up next to the head of the bed, then stepped back, and retreated to the door. As he watched, Scully's eyes fluttered open, and then widened as she saw Mulder sitting next to her bed. "Mulder! What are you doing here? How did you get here?" "Shh, Scully, keep it down. Skinner is an expert in covert operations." He waved his hand in the direction of the door, and Scully smiled at Skinner. "Scully, you ok, really?" She pulled her attention back to Mulder. "Of course. Just a few bumps and bruises. Hurts some, but not too bad. Good meds." She indicated the IV in the hand nearest to him. Mulder nodded, then tentatively reached for her hand. As he gently cradled it in his own larger one, he asked, "Is this ok? I don't want to hurt you." "Oh Mulder, you could never hurt me." She reached up and pulled on him "Come here." He lowered the side rail, then leaned over and laid his head on her shoulder. "But Scully, I did hurt you. I let him hurt you. Oh Scully, I'm so sorry. . ." He began to sob, and she soothed him quietly, rubbing his back and stroking his hair. "It wasn't your fault, Mulder. Shit happens. You know that. I know that. It just happens." Skinner listened, embarrassed to be eavesdropping, but unwilling to leave them. He was fascinated at the openness Mulder displayed with Scully. He was needy, dependent, insecure, and willing to lay it all before her, secure that she would make things right. And she did. As he watched, Mulder calmed and lifted his head. Skinner could see he was stronger, surer, more in control. Scully was truly his touchstone. "Mulder, you saved me. You kept going when anyone else would have given up. Skinner told me you carried me 3 miles on a broken foot! It wasn't your fault, Mulder." He looked deeply into her eyes, assessing the truth of her words. Finally, he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, kissing her softly, tenderly. "I couldn't leave you Scully. You are my life." He cupped her face in his hand and kissed her again. His hand played with the hair around her face. "You are my life, Scully," he said again. "I love you." Part 4: The Roberson Case, continued Chapter 22 Scully was running, flying through the woods in bare feet, wearing nothing but a sheer white shift, her hair loose and swirling about her face. How had she gotten here? Where was her clothing? Her gun? Her phone? Where was Mulder? She was gasping for breath and still she ran on. The sharp sticks and small stones abused her feet, slowing her as she struggled to escape. Escape? From what? From who? Why? She tripped suddenly, falling to her knees, the thin cotton shift ripping as she went sprawling face down in the wet, muddy leaves covering the ground. She could feel the panic rising up again, threatening to overtake her, and she forcibly shoved it back as she rose shakily to her feet. She looked around the darkened wood. Where was she? Which way to go? Was she lost? What was she running from? Who was she running from? Where was Mulder? There was a small clearing to her left and she walked there gingerly on her damaged feet. Oddly enough, it seemed safer to be in the open, where she could see if someone approached. She shivered in the cool night air as she sat on a fallen log. What the hell was going on? Why was she in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the night, with no clothes? As she sat, trying to calm her still racing heart, attempting to puzzle out the rationale for her being here, she heard footsteps, and she leapt to her feet, lifting a solid branch, ready to defend herself. She slid to the side, slipping back into the cover of the trees as a large shape approached. She again felt the panic rising, an overwhelming fear consuming her, and a name rose unbidden in her mind - Roberson! She raced from the trees, directly at the man, and swung with all her might ... ******************************************** Mulder caught Scully's flailing arm again and looked ruefully down at the blood that was flowing from his nose onto the bedding. Whatever was happening this time, she'd been battling it for over five minutes, an inordinately long time for her nightmare to continue once he started talking to her. It must have been really bad. And waking to find blood in the bed wasn't going to help get her to talk about it. "Scully," he said again, more urgently than before. "C'mon, Scully, wake up!" He gave her a little shake and felt her arm try to draw back again, but he'd learned the first time and he retained his grip. "Wake up, Scully," he called loudly in a firm, even tone, and was rewarded as her eyes flew open. Those same eyes were unfocused, confused, dazed, and he struggled to make her see him. She was rigid in his grip, his hands clutching her arms as he knelt on the bed, supporting her in a semi- sitting position. She continued to struggle a bit more, then awareness slowly slid across her features, and she slumped forward against him, into his embrace. He held her trembling body and stroked her back as he made nonsense soothing noises to her and she slowly relaxed. At length she looked up, the smile on her face quickly changing to a frown as she took in the blood on his face, the sheets, and on herself. "Oh Mulder," she whispered, as her hand gently traced the side of his face, "I'm so sorry." She flushed and he could see her shame as it passed over her. "Shhh," he responded, "it's OK. I'm OK. No permanent damage, I assure you." He smiled, and was rewarded with a weak smile in return. "You better now?" He'd learned not to ask what happened -- she wouldn't answer and the question would hang heavy in the air between them for days. She nodded and pulled away from him slightly. He took his cue to release her and sat back, slowly. "I'm just gonna clean up a bit, OK?" She nodded and he knew this one had been bad. She'd struck him before, even drawing blood once or twice, but never had she let him leave the bed without her looking at his injury. He frowned as he padded, naked, into the bathroom. He washed quickly, expecting her to join him any moment, and was further puzzled when she didn't. He wet a washrag to take to her, so she could clean up as well, and was surprised to find her still sitting, unmoving, on the bloody sheets. He walked cautiously toward her, softly calling her name before he got too close. It took several attempts to get her attention, but at last she met his eyes. She looked at him without recognition for a minute, then smiled slightly. He gestured at himself, "All better now," and gave her a goofy grin, one that usually managed to win a response. But this time, she just nodded absently, her thoughts turning inward before his eyes. "Hey, Scully," he said softly as he sat beside her on the bed. "How about I clean you up? The hemoglobin look isn't exactly haute couture this season." She looked startled at his words, then glanced down at her own nude body. Flecks of blood streaked her breasts and abdomen, and clung to her legs and shoulders. She looked up, eyes wide in astonishment, and asked, "What happened to me, Mulder?" This was not like Scully at all. What the hell was going on here? "I had a nosebleed and managed to get you in the process," he managed to say. "Sorry." He reached out tentatively, and when she didn't recoil, he began to wash the blood from her body. She submitted passively to his ministrations, until at last he was satisfied she was clean. He rose and went to the dresser, took out a pair of boxers and pulled them on, then pulled out one of his own T-shirts for her. He gently tugged it over her head as he pulled her to her feet. She was still trembling so he pulled the blanket from the bed and wrapped her in it. He led her to the small chair in the bedroom and seated her. He knelt before her and whispered, "I'll be right back." She gave a barely noticeable nod and he rose again and quickly stripped the linens from the bed. He walked to the kitchen and put on water for tea, then loaded the sheets in the washer and turned it on. He went back to the linen closet in the hall, pulled out clean sheets and returned to the bedroom. She was unmoving in the chair. "Hey, you," he said, smiling, "I'm back." No response. He made the bed with the clean sheets, carefully placing a new blanket beneath the comforter. He looked at Scully several times as he worked, but she never lifted her head, never acknowledged him. When he finished, he walked to the chair and looked at her. Was she even really awake? He shook his head, then peered more closely at her. She was still trembling, but with cold or fear, he couldn't tell. What the hell had happened in her dream to affect her like this? And why wouldn't she talk about it with him? He felt the familiar coil of frustrated anger rise up in him, and he forced himself to swallow it down and tend to her needs now. But, he promised himself, this was going to be dealt with -- and soon. The kettle whistled from the stove and he moved to the kitchen. He busied his hands with making the tea, hot and sugary, while his mind swirled madly around the issue of what to do about the nightmares. Finally he lifted the mugs, carried them into the living room, and placed them on the table in front of the couch. He returned to the bedroom, lifted Scully into his arms, and carried her to the living room. He loved to carry her -- some sort of recessive caveman thing he supposed -- and she usually at least playfully resisted. But once again, she lay passive in his arms. He sat her on the couch then sat beside her. He placed the mug of sweet, warm tea in her hands, curling her fingers around the cup, and was pleased to feel her actually grip it securely. He slowly loosened his hold and was gratified to see her lift the mug to her lips and take a deep swallow. "Mmmm," she sighed. "Good." She looked at him, really seeing him this time, and said, "Thank you." He breathed a sigh of relief and answered, "Any time." He reached around her, pulling her into his side, and was again pleased as she responded and snuggled closely against him. "Rough night, huh?" he fished. She took another swallow of the soothing tea, and murmured, "Mmmm." He pushed no further, but renewed his vow to himself that the time to deal with these nightmares was fast approaching, and like it or not, Dana Scully was going to have to face them. She finished her tea and handed him the cup, which he placed on the table again. "Tired?" he asked. "Yeah," was her sleepy response. "I'll do the sheets." She started to rise, but he pulled her back, worrying. At least she remembered his nosebleed, but why didn't she remember that he had already changed the sheets? He was growing more anxious by the minute. He looked at her again, eyes narrowed in concern. "All done," he answered. "Come on, you, off to bed." He pulled her to her feet and was surprised when she lifted her arms up to his neck, as blatant a plea to be carried as he'd ever seen from her. He lifted her up again, and padded back to the bedroom, slipping her T-shirt clad body gently between the sheets, then quickly sliding in himself. She lay facing away from him, and he pulled her back, into himself, spooning around her. He heard her mumbled "Mmmm, nice," as he felt her breathing even out and she dropped back into a sound sleep. He, however, remained awake the rest of the night. ************************************************* "Scully, won't you come with me?" Mulder stood by the door, his arms extended in entreaty. He looked across the room to the petite, redheaded woman who was glaring at him. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest. "Absolutely not, Mulder! I *do not* understand what this fascination is that you have with Roberson. It's all I've heard about all summer!" "Sculleee!" Mulder whined, "I just feel a need to figure out what went on. The man may have been an abductee!" "The man *may* have been nuts, Mulder! What else does he have to do to you to convince you of that?" "Yeah, but Scully, it may have been something that happened to him during one of his abduction experiences that drove him round the bend. Who knows? He may have been a perfectly sane, normal individual until he was taken, and then it all went to hell. A phenomenon I am more than a little acquainted with, I might add." He walked across the room, intending to take her in his arms and was shocked when she reached up and slapped him. He stopped, head pounding from the force of her blow, and stared at her in astonishment. "You can't make me go. You can't. I won't let you make me." Mulder was appalled. Was that what she thought of him? That he would force her into something she didn't want? "I would never make you come, Scully," he said softly. "Please, tell me you know that." She stood ramrod straight, staring at him, and he felt she didn't even see him there. Her eyes seemed slightly unfocused and there was an aura of absence about her. "Scully?" He spoke in a low voice, almost afraid he would startle her. "Hey, Scully? You with me?" Slowly, she shifted her gaze slightly and looked at him, her eyes widening in astonishment at the red palm print visible on his left cheek. She reached for him, then checked her movement. "Mulder," she whispered, "I -- What did --? She dropped her eyes and mumbled, "I'm so sorry." "We need to talk about this, Scully." His voice was still quiet, but his tone was firm. She nodded. "I know. Not now. I can't do this now." "When?" he persisted. She sighed. "Soon. When you get back." Scully shook her head, and slowly lowered her arms. "Mulder, I'm not going with you. I don't understand this obsession you've developed over Harold Roberson. I don't want to see the man. I don't want to talk to the man. I don't want to hear about the man. I don't want to know where the man is. I simply want to try to forget everything that happened when we were with him. Why can't you just leave it alone for once?" "I can't leave it alone, Scully." Mulder frowned. "You should know that." He seemed lost as he looked at her, suddenly adrift and alone. As if he wondered what had happened to the Scully who understood him so well. Scully softened slightly as she gazed at him. She walked slowly over to where he stood, and took his hand. She gently caressed the still red mark on his cheek. "I know, Mulder," she said, "it's just part of who you are. But you've got to understand. It's not who I am." She sighed, then said, "Roberson -- just the thought of Roberson -- he -- he frightens me, Mulder. And you know that's hard for me to admit." She lowered her eyes and added, "I'm *not* coming this time." Mulder took a deep breath. Scully -- frightened. That was a big admission. Maybe there was more to these nightmares than he was aware. She had steadfastly refused to talk about them all summer, and he had reluctantly honored her unspoken request. This would bear discussion, when he returned. But for now, he pulled her into a tight embrace, wrapping his arms around her, and resting his head on top of hers as she leaned against his chest. "All right, Scully. You don't have to come, but I just couldn't go knowing you were mad at me." "I'm not mad, Mulder." Her voice was muffled against his shirt. "I don't always understand, and I certainly don't always agree you do things for the best of reasons, but this time, I'm not mad. We need to talk about this, but not now. You go, do what you have to do. We'll talk when you get back." She lifted her face to him, and he looked down at her, seeing the dark circles under her eyes from the nights of sleep interrupted by nightmares. He leaned down, capturing her lips with his own. He kissed her softly, hesitantly at first, and then with greater surety. At last he pulled away and his hand crept up to stroke her hair. He cupped her face in both his hands and said, "I'll be back as soon as I can." She nodded, and he leaned down again and kissed her on the forehead. He turned, opened the door, and was gone. *************************************************** It was a hot, hazy, Indian summer day as Mulder set off for the drive to the Federal Institution for the Criminally Insane. It was hard to believe it had been almost a year since this whole crazy chain of events had begun. First Scully had been returned to him, her cancer in remission, though be it from divine intervention, or a chip in her neck, he neither knew nor cared. No one could agree on the cause, and for him agreement was not necessary. All that mattered was that she was alive, and well, and most importantly, still willing to be his partner. He shook his head as he thought back to how close he'd come to losing her again in that whole debacle with Liam Emerson. The injuries they'd suffered had been severe, and he had feared for her life once more. They hadn't really recovered from that experience when they'd been abducted by Harold Roberson, and once again, it seemed as if they wouldn't live through the experience. Looking back on it all now, he chuckled as he thought that the real miracle was that they'd managed to get any work done at all in the last year, as much time as they'd both spent on sick leave, recovering from the various injuries they'd sustained. Being transferred to Anti-Terrorism hadn't been that bad after all. It gave them a chance to do something different, and they'd still been partners after all. But losing Scully in the summer, and the trip to Antarctica, had sorely tested him. It had helped him through his own crisis of belief and achieved the reopening of their department. It had also made him realize, once again, how important Scully was to him, what a vital part of his existence she was. It had also helped to nudge their relationship along a bit, and they were both enjoying a new level of intimacy. It was still quite new and they were both nurturing it quite carefully. Which was why Mulder had gone to such lengths to be sure Scully at least recognized why he needed to go see Roberson, even if she was unwilling to join him. It was also why he was determined that Scully was going to face her nightmares, whatever they were, and learn to sleep again. He had hoped that having him around would make a difference in her sleep and at first it had. She seemed more comfortable with him, slept more deeply and more soundly in his arms than she did alone. But then, after the trip to the Antarctic, Scully had begun having nightmares again. He had hypothesized that the new nightmares stemmed from her experience in the alien craft, but he was not so sure anymore. Just before their big summer, he had come across material that indicated Roberson might be involved tangentially to the colonization conspiracy. What little solid evidence he had had been destroyed in the fire, but the information was indelibly inked in his eidetic memory. That Roberson might be connected had intrigued him and he had begun making plans to go talk to the man. He and Scully had spent the entire summer fighting over these two issues. He wanted her to go talk to someone about her dreams. She wanted him to forget Roberson existed, and to *not* go talk to the man. He sighed, his thoughts caught in a seemingly unsolvable maze. He needed to know about Roberson; it frightened Scully. She ignored the nightmares; it frightened him. They'd been at a stalemate all summer. Maybe his trip to see Roberson was the first step in moving beyond the stalemate. He sincerely hoped it wasn't the first step in something else. He pushed those thoughts to the side to contemplate the change in season. All around him, the fall colors blazed in all their autumnal glory. A year had passed since the beginning of the shift in his relationship with Scully -- a shift from partners and friends, to something much more. Though spring was the traditional harbinger of new beginnings, he felt it much more appropriate that they had found their beginning in the vivid colors of fall. Strong, vibrant colors, fighting for survival in the face of the coming winter. It was an apt metaphor for him and Scully. And now fall was upon them again and the year had turned. With the progression in his relationship with Scully, he found himself happy in his life for the first time in a very long time. If he could just put this one thing with Roberson behind him, if just this once, he could actually find a few answers, then maybe, just maybe, he would be able to move along. And with that done, perhaps Scully would be willing to face her own demons, and the two of them could move forward together. With the meeting in the diner, there had been some closure over his sister. And with the information he'd learned from Agent Dales, there had been some closure over his father's role in things. And while there were still mysteries to solve, and conspiracies to uncover, it all didn't seem as pressing as it had before. Was this what being happy did? Made you want to shun the dark and live in the light? But at what cost was such illumination achieved? His thoughts moved to Roberson once more -- the current darkness threatening his light. Given what the man had done to Scully, given the hints of connections to other, more sinister things, this case had become very personal to him. Finding out what had driven Roberson to choose him as his target seemed a very important thing to know, something he needed to understand. The connection to the events of summer was tenuous at best, but hell, tenuous had panned out before. Mulder had struggled with the whole Roberson issue, trying to figure out why it felt so important. He'd finally come to the conclusion that his mind wasn't ready to let the rest of him know yet. His mind had always worked in a slightly -- different -- way from everyone else's. He was able to see things in ways that other people didn't, able to make connections that other people missed. Nonlinear thinking, they called it. Sorta like they trained you in cop school. In surveying a scene, most people only look around them, left and right, before and behind. They forget to look up, or down. So you have to learn to take in all aspects of a situation. You can train yourself for certain situations. But there are other times, other places, where you either think that way, or you don't. He had always been able to think that way. It was both his gift and his curse. It enabled him to see things that others missed. It helped him to remain open to new and strange possibilities. But it was also part of what made him so good at profiling. And it was part of what made it so impossible for him to ever completely let go of the past. ************************************************ He arrived at the Federal facility, following all the prescribed safety procedures. He checked his gun at the door, and after passing numerous security gates, a body search, and a computer verification of his credentials, he was finally admitted into the inner sanctum. The corridor rang with the mixed sounds of tears and rage and laughter, as he was escorted down the hall past metal doors with small barred grills at eye level. Sanity was an odd concept, he mused, walking briskly behind the guard, but taking in the faces that peered through heavy bars. Curious faces, angry faces, tormented faces, faces devoid of humanity. The sheer volume of sound was overwhelming. He felt that anyone incarcerated here, if they had any vestiges of sanity upon entering, would certainly have it eradicated by the sheer cacophony that seemed to echo nonstop. His escort stopped outside a door, rapped once, then looked inside. "Roberson," he called, "you've got a visitor." Mulder peered through the grill in the door. There was a shape laying on the small cot, covered in a dull gray wool blanket. Faintly he could hear a muffled voice call, "Who?" The guard banged on the door. "Roberson! Get up!" Very slowly, the form on the cot rose to a sitting position. In the dim light, it was hard for Mulder to make out the man's face. He watched as the man rose and moved to the small opening. As he entered the more lighted area of the cell, Mulder took in the complete lack of recognition on the man's face, and knew it was mirrored on his own. Then, the man who wasn't Harold Roberson asked, "Who the hell are you?" Chapter 23 "What do you mean, it's not him?" Skinner snarled. He paused, reminding himself 'This is not just my subordinate, but my friend I'm talking to,' and softened his voice. "Who else could it be?" He listened for a minute then said, "I don't understand it either, but if you're sure it's not Roberson, let me see what I can find out down here." He stood, phone still to his ear, and began pacing as he listened to Mulder on the other end. "All right, all right, Mulder, I'll come up there. Let me get things going down here, see what we can find out on this end, then I'll get Scully and we'll drive up. We'll join you." He paused again, listening intently. "What do you mean, don't tell Scully? What's going on Mulder?" This was not good. Mulder *never* declined Scully's assistance. He stopped pacing, listening with growing concern as Mulder briefly related the argument he and Scully had had over his trip to see Roberson. He ended by saying Scully didn't want anything to do with Roberson and he didn't want her forced into anything. Skinner sighed. This was more serious than he had thought. He stood silently, lost in thought until Mulder's repeated, "Sir? Are you there, Sir?" registered, then he said, "All right, Mulder, I won't bring Scully. But I may need to talk to her." When Mulder began to protest again, Skinner cut him off. "You know she'll be furious if you don't at least keep her apprised of this situation. Keeping her informed does not necessarily translate as involvement. Now, I'm going to get things going here, then I'll be up as soon as I can." Skinner hung up the phone and stood looking at it for a minute, his mind racing through possibilities. First and foremost was why did this sort of strange thing, prisoners who weren't who they were supposed to be, always have to happen to Mulder? And how the hell did someone get out of a federal institution for the criminally insane? And how did someone else get in? Skinner sighed, then slowly picked up the phone and began to place calls. "Kim," he began when his assistant answered, "I need to know who's in town and unassigned. He could hear the muted 'tap, tap, tap' of the keyboard as she retrieved the requested information. At length she spoke. "Jefferson and Callahan." "All right," he responded, "have them come see me right away." He sat back down at his desk and halfheartedly began to work through the unending stack of reports awaiting his signature. After rereading the same paragraph for the third time, he gave up in frustration. He rose and walked to the window. He stood, lost in thought, staring out over the busy DC streets. This whole thing with Roberson was obviously a mistake. In a way, it was fortunate that Mulder had decided to make a visit to see him. Who knows how long it would have taken for anyone to notice that the wrong prisoner was in Roberson's cell? It would take a while, but they'd track Roberson down, find out where he'd been sent, and straighten this whole thing out. He was more concerned with Mulder's obvious reluctance to have him contact Scully. That was strange. Normally, whenever anything was going on, the only person Mulder wanted to be involved was Scully. But not this time. First, she wasn't even with him, and second, when he ran into a problem, Mulder had called him, instead of calling Scully. Then when he had offered to call Scully and bring her up with him, Mulder had told him quite emphatically not to involve her. He'd even admitted the two had argued over the situation. He frowned. He didn't like this at all. If ever there were two people who were made for each other, it was those two. They needed each other. They depended on each other. It was almost as if they completed each other. This was definitely not good if they were arguing and Mulder didn't want Scully involved. Skinner sighed. He would have to think about this. Perhaps it was time for him to get involved. He turned in response to a quiet knock at the door, and said, "Enter." Jefferson and Callahan came in. "You wanted to see us, Sir?" Callahan said. "Yeah." Skinner walked back to his desk and sat. He motioned for the two agents to be seated in the chairs before the desk. "Both of you were involved in the search for Agents Mulder and Scully last winter?" Two heads nodded. "Well, it appears that Harold Roberson is not where he's supposed to be. Agent Mulder went up to interview him, and determined that the man the facility has recorded as Harold Roberson, is, in fact, not Harold Roberson." The two agents exchanged a glance, then Callahan spoke again. "Who is it then?" "And where's Harold Roberson?" Jefferson added. "Both excellent questions," Skinner responded, "but we have an answer for neither at this time. I'm driving up to join Agent Mulder at the facility to see what we can find on that end. I want you two responsible for working down here. I want you to go back and track the chain of custody on this man. Find out who transferred him, who transported him, who signed for him every step of the way. I want the names of anyone else he was in transport with, and their final destinations. Those would be the most obvious choice for where the real Harold Roberson is. The upshot is - I want to know where the man is, and I want to know who's responsible for this mix-up." The two agents rose. "Yes, Sir, we'll get right on it. Do we report directly to you?" Skinner nodded. "Do you have my cell number?" Jefferson pulled a small pocket planner and scanned it. "Yes, Sir." "Then call me the minute you locate Roberson, or if you get a lead on what happened." Jefferson and Callahan excused themselves and left. Skinner sat slumped behind his desk now that he was alone again. With the investigation underway, his thoughts turned to Mulder and Scully once more. He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He didn't like this. He was getting ready to meddle, something he'd sworn he'd never do. It wasn't part of his nature to get involved in other people's affairs. But these were his friends, and there was no way he was going to let whatever was happening between them go on without trying to help in some way. And besides, he rationalized, Mulder was upset. He could hear it in his voice. There'd been almost a sense of -- fear -- when he'd talked to the man about Roberson. And then there had been extreme sadness when he'd offered to bring Scully and Mulder had declined. Sadness that quickly turned to borderline panic when he'd gently probed for reasons. Whatever had happened between the two of them, it was obvious that Mulder was feeling alone and vulnerable, and he needed Scully. And it was just as obvious that she didn't know that, or she would have been at his side, regardless of her own concerns about Roberson. Hmmm. Roberson. Well, he'd just have to bring her up to date on the situation. And maybe, just maybe, he could allay some of her fears over Roberson at the same time. Skinner picked up the phone again. "Kim, would you ask Agent Scully to come up and see me?" He was sitting at his desk, unmoving, head cradled in his large hands, when the intercom buzzed. His glasses still rested haphazardly on top of a pile of paperwork awaiting signature. "Yes?" "I'm sorry, Sir," Kim had said, "Agent Scully didn't answer. I took the liberty of inquiring with Security and was informed she left around 2:00 this afternoon." "Oh. I see. Well, thank you, Kim. You might as well go ahead and go on home as well. Have a good evening." "Sir? Before I go, will you be in tomorrow?" Kim was always so perceptive. "No. It looks like I'll be driving up to the FICI to join Agent Mulder. Reschedule me for the next few days, please. You can reach me on the cell if I'm needed." "All right, then. I'll be leaving now, Sir. Good night." "Good night, Kim, and thanks." Skinner replaced his glasses and slowly rose. So Scully had left early, and done so without telling him. Not that she needed to be accountable for her every movement, but she was normally more protocol oriented than this, and her abrupt departure was decidedly out of character. 'Well,' he thought, 'there's no help for it. I'm just going to have to see her.' ********************************************** Mulder lay on the bed, papers and notes scattered next to him on top of the bedspread. The muted TV cast flickering shadows on the bed, the walls, the ceiling. The small bedside lamp was the only other illumination in the room. He had spent some time trying to unravel the puzzle of where was Harold Roberson. They had, of course, taken the fingerprints of the man occupying Harold's cell -- a man who refused to talk at all now. The results had not come back yet, but Mulder had little hope that there would be a record of this man's existence. Unlike Skinner, who had repeatedly indicated he felt it was just a typical governmental, bureaucratic snafu, Mulder was more convinced something much more -- sinister -- was going on. Mulder knew that Skinner had started an investigation on his end, tracing the chain of custody of the prisoner. While that was occurring on the DC end, Mulder was trying to work backwards. He'd gotten copies of the custodial documents that had accompanied the prisoner upon his admittance into the facility. He had copies of records relating to the man's incarceration, but had been unable to secure the more important records of his mandatory psych counseling sessions due to doctor-patient confidentiality. He had even produced evidence of his own Psych doctorate, something he rarely was willing to do since he had completed it post Oxford, during his time with the VCS, and his dissertation was a walk through madness and evil, but it hadn't been sufficient to secure the information he wanted. He snorted. It was amazing that people like Harold Roberson -- or whoever was masquerading as Harold Roberson -- were given any privileges at all -- let alone privileges of confidentiality. And while he had devoted a good portion of his evening to working on the Roberson mystery, there was a deeper mystery that was bothering him: what was going on with Scully? Things had been going so good with them. He thought back to the severe injuries they had both received at the hands of Liam Emerson, injuries that had threatened their lives. But they had survived and come through the experiences together, strengthened in their commitment to one another, and in a gradually deepening personal relationship. Mulder smiled as he thought back to their first hesitant coupling, both of them still injured, both still in pain, and both unwilling to wait any longer. It had almost been a feat of engineering to even manage their joining, and it was comical in retrospect. But they had succeeded and things had only gotten better from that point. For his part, Mulder knew that he had met the woman he wanted to be with for the rest of his life. It was a sure, clear feeling that resonated from the bottom of his soul. His biggest fear was that Scully didn't feel the same way. And the argument that they had had right before he left, had chilled him to the bone. For almost six years now, she had been a stable influence in his wildly unstable existence. He counted his blessings every day, giving thanks that she knew him, she understood his need for answers. Yes, it was obsessive at times. Yes, it bordered on the fanatical. But Scully's ongoing tolerance and forbearance had been the one thing he had come to rely on over the past years. This last argument with her, an argument that capped months of petty bickering over the same topics, had frightened him. He was convinced she was reconsidering the wisdom of a relationship with him, and terrified of what he'd find when he got home. He lashed out in frustration, knocking the papers from the bed. He rose to his feet and began a frenzied pacing within the confines of the small room. The thought of a life without Scully was more than he could handle. Already he missed her steadying influence. He longed to open the door to the connecting room and find her there, as he had so often in the past. He closed his eyes, and felt the hot prick of tears behind the lids. Not tears, he would *NOT* cry. He shook his head angrily. No, he wasn't going to do this. Skinning out of his clothes, he pulled on a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt. He dug out his battered shoes, grabbed his wallet and room key, and headed out into the night. With Scully's absence, running was the only way he had to try to soothe his spirit. The first mile flew by, then the second, and then the third. As his feet pounded out a rhythm on the pavement, his unforgiving mind tormented him with visions of a life alone. His apartment, empty of all the little things that had made their way there over the last few months. Things that reminded him by their presence that Scully was there. He pictured her apartment, devoid of his personal items. No longer a refuge, but a place he would be allowed to visit by invitation only. Even more frightening -- what if she requested transfer? What if she no longer wanted to work with him? He had told himself that if she ever reached the point where she didn't want to continue a relationship with him, a personal relationship, he would accept that, he would let her go. As long as he could continue to see her. As long as he could continue to work with her. She was as vital to his existence now as the air he breathed. And if she chose to go back to teaching at Quantico, or transfer to another department, he didn't know how he would survive. As the fourth mile passed, a new thought reached out and grabbed him, choking the air from his lungs. What if she transferred out of DC completely? A field office across the country. What if he never saw her again? The tears that had been threatening all night suddenly broke free and he pulled himself to a stop and stood, chest heaving, hands on knees as he struggled to breathe through the tears and fear and anger. He allowed himself a few moments release, then brushed the tears angrily away. He pulled himself erect. His body was fatigued now, bordering on exhaustion, and he would probably be able to sleep. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. It was the middle of the night, he was in a strange town, and he hadn't been paying attention to where he was running. He was lost. He looked for a pay phone to call the hotel and get directions, but of course, there was not one to be found. Giving a tired sigh, he picked a direction and set off at a slow jog, figuring that eventually he would come to a phone. And sure enough, about half a mile up the road, he came to a gas station -- and a phone. Using his calling card, he called the hotel, explained his predicament, and was given instructions to find his way back. After taking a long drink of cool water from the outside spigot of the station, Mulder set off at a steady trot back to the hotel. He was definitely tired now. He'd run the first four or five miles a much faster pace than he normally did, and he could feel it. His trot slowed once more to a jog, and he pushed his tired body forward toward the hotel and the bed waiting for him there, and the eventual sleep it would allow. After ten more minutes, he paused again, looking around to take his bearings and estimating he was still about a mile and a half away. As he began walking, exhaustion etched in his every move, a long black sedan pulled up next to him, the first car he'd seen all night. He took several steps back as the car stopped, the rear door opened and a man in a military uniform emerged. "Mr. Mulder? Sir?" "Yes?" he answered cautiously. "I'm Lieutenant Paul Thornton. Your interest in Harold Roberson has come to our attention. Would you come with me, Sir?" While Thornton had been talking, three other men had emerged from the vehicle and Mulder found himself surrounded. He instinctively reached for his gun, and came up empty. He hadn't brought it on his run. He mentally regrouped, then said, "Lieutenant? Lieutenant in what? I'm afraid I don't recognize the uniform." "That's not important, Sir. Please get in the car." "I don't think so," Mulder said, eyeing the three men warily. Thornton sighed. "Mr. Mulder, I have orders to bring you in. Please don't make this difficult. All of us," he gestured at the other men, "are combat trained in hand to hand, we're in excellent shape, we're not exhausted from a 6 mile run, and there *are* four of us to your one." "And me without my weapon," Mulder smirked as he began angling for a clear space. "Exactly. Now, you can get in the car yourself, or we will assist you. But I assure you, you are going to get in the car." Mulder looked at the men around him once more, snorted in disgust, and got in the car. ************************************** Skinner had been surprised to find Scully was not at her apartment. He hadn't called, so when she didn't answer her door, he pulled his cell phone and tried to reach her. She answered promptly, a professional "Scully." "Scully, this is Skinner. I tried to reach you at work today, and Kim told me you'd left early." "Oh, God, Mulder!" she gasped. "Is he ..." "No, no, no," Skinner cut in. "He's fine as far as I know. I talked to him this afternoon. That's what I want to talk to you about." He cut her off as she began to stammer an apology for leaving early. "No, that's all right, too. I wasn't looking for an explanation." He sighed softly. This was hard. "Actually, I was a little concerned. And I'm at your apartment now. Where are you?" He paused, listening, then said, "I can meet you at Mulder's then. Will you be there in half an hour?" At her acknowledgment, he made his good-byes and closed the phone. The drive to Mulder's was not too long, and he spent the time worrying about his friends. In addition to the tension, the fear, the panic he'd heard in Mulder's voice when he asked about Scully, there'd been a borderline depression creeping in. And Scully. When he'd talked to her, he was willing to bet she'd been crying. The tap on Mulder's door was gentle, but the door was opened almost instantly. Scully stood there in a pair of jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, Mulder's Oxford sweatshirt Skinner noted, and her hair was pulled up in a pony tail. She looked about 16. Her eyes were red from crying. He'd been right about that at least. She opened the door, then indicated he should enter. He stepped in, shut the door, then stood looking around. To his right, on the floor, was a box containing what were obviously Mulder's belongings. Clothes, a razor and shave gel, a framed picture of him with his sister, another of him and Scully. By the sofa was another box. It contained Scully's items, and he could see she had been going through the apartment and packing them up. She watched his silent inventory and knew he knew what was happening. She stood there, head down, arms wrapped tightly around herself. "I just don't think I can do it," she said softly. Skinner was shocked. This was worse than he had thought. He looked at her, standing there so forlornly. Normally, she was quite a commanding presence despite her diminutive size. But now, she seemed tiny, fragile, and so alone. Operating purely on instinct now, he took two large steps forward and enfolded her in his arms. And was shocked again. She not only let him, she collapsed against him and began sobbing into his chest. He held her as she cried for several long minutes, and then as she began to pull herself together, he led her gently to the battered old couch, and sat her down. Leaving her alone for a few moments, he went to the bathroom and wet a face-cloth. Handing it to her without a word, he then went to the small kitchen and put water on for tea -- hoping that Mulder actually *had* some tea in his apartment. He busied himself hunting through the cabinets, finally meeting success in a small box tucked in the deepest corner of a drawer. He slowly made tea, allowing Scully additional time to compose herself, then finally emerged with two mugs. Walking across the small living room, he handed her one, then sat next to her and said, "Dana, tell me what's going on here." "He made me tea," she said wistfully. "Can you imagine Fox Mulder doing anything vaguely domestic? But he does, for me." Skinner was confused. "He made you tea," he prompted. "I had a nightmare. I hit him and made his nose bleed. He made me tea." Her voice was so sad. "So what's going on now?" She was quiet for a long time, and he began to think she wasn't going to answer him. But at last she began, "Things have been really good. Things have been so good, almost too good. We haven't had any arguments at all. I mean, we hardly disagree about anything at all. But, Mulder just can't let anything go. I don't know why, but Roberson -- frightens -- me, and I don't want to have anything to do with him, or his case. So, of course, that has to be Mulder's newest obsession. I tried to explain to him that I just *can't* detach enough to keep hearing about, knowing about, learning about Harold Roberson. But Mulder just will not let it go. "We had this big fight before he left to go up there. A huge fight for us." Her voice dropped to an embarrassed whisper and he had to strain to make out her words. "I -- I hit him." There was a long pause then she went on. "And it was confusing. I wasn't even sure we were talking about the same things the whole time. He left, and we agreed to talk later, but I don't know if I can. I don't know..." Her voice trailed off and she looked up at Skinner. "Why is this so hard?" "Scully -- Dana, this is not about Harold Roberson. Not really. So you had a disagreement with Mulder. It happens all the time. So you have different feelings about something. That happens too. Just because you fall in love with someone, and want to have a life with him, doesn't mean you give up being who you are. And it doesn't mean he gives up being who he is either. You work through it -- together. You reach a point of compromise. You find a way to make it work. And you two will be able to do that. It will take time, but this," he waved at the boxes, "is not the answer." "It's not that easy," she said. "It's not that hard, either," he countered. "It's new to you both -- there are bound to be some hitches." "I suppose," she tentatively agreed. "Dana, you know I'm right. Look, I'm hardly one to give advice in these matters, but in this case, I know one thing: you two belong together." He pointed at the boxes again. "This is just wrong." Scully was nodding and she seemed calmer now. "I guess I knew that. I guess I just needed someone else to say it." She lifted the tea and took a sip. "Thank you -- for tea and sympathy, and a healthy dose of common sense." They sat in companionable silence for a while until she said, "Now what did you need to see me about?" Skinner smiled. "Well, oddly enough, it's Mulder." "He's all right?" Scully was immediately alarmed again. "You did say he was all right." "I think so," Skinner said. "I mean, he's not in any danger as far as I know. But apparently Harold Roberson is missing." Skinner quickly related the situation, telling Scully of everything Mulder had been able to determine and bringing her up to date on his own efforts and the tasks he had assigned Jefferson and Callahan. "And we still don't know who the man in Roberson's cell is?" Scully asked when he was finished. "Not yet. Mulder had him printed, but last I heard, the results hadn't come back." "Where is Mulder?" "He's staying in a hotel about 30 miles away from the FICI. It's the closest one to the facility." He shifted, slightly uncomfortable, then said, "I actually came to talk, not so much about the case, but about you and Mulder." "About us? Why?" Skinner flushed now, slightly embarrassed. "Well, I was worried. Justifiably so, apparently," he said as he waved at the two boxes. "Dana, I know you were upset, but would you really have gone this far? What were you thinking? Was this going to make things right?" Now it was her turn to flush. "I was thinking maybe Mulder and I both need some space." "You know that would devastate him," Skinner commented. "I hadn't thought it through. I don't want space. I want Mulder." She smiled up at the older man. "Maybe with a few less obsessions, but I still want Mulder." Skinner smiled back. "You want him enough to ride up to the facility with me tomorrow?" Her smile blossomed into a full grin. "Absolutely!" He rose. "Good. I'd like you there as well. I want this man in Roberson's cell examined, and I want someone I trust to do it." She stood as well and reached out for Skinner's arm, squeezing gently. "Thank you. For everything." Skinner looked at her hand on his arm. "You are most welcome." He walked to the door and she followed. "Now, unpack that stuff and get some sleep. I'll pick you up tomorrow at 8:00." He started to leave, then turned back again, asking "Uh, Dana? Um, where will you be?" She laughed then, slightly amused at his efforts to protect her privacy. "I have clothes here. I've got an extra travel bag in the car. Do you mind another trip out here in the morning? Or I could take the Metro in and meet you at the Hoover." "No, no, I don't mind. I'll pick you up here, then." He stepped into the hall and she said, "I'll be ready and waiting. Good night." He nodded and walked away. Chapter 24 Mulder was glaring angrily at Lt. Thornton. He was tied to a chair, wrists and ankles secured tightly. It had begun as a normal interrogation, but when Thornton had decided he was being uncooperative, it had quickly turned physical. And now two of the men who had assisted in escorting Mulder to -- wherever the hell he was -- seemed to be taking great enjoyment from using him as a punching bag. His lip was split and his nose was bleeding, and one eye was swollen almost shut. There were several small cuts on each cheek, and he hated to think of the vivid purples, yellows, and greens he would be sporting tomorrow. They had taken a few shots at his chest and belly, but had focused most of their attention on his face. He gingerly felt the inside of his mouth with his tongue, checking to see that no teeth had been lost -- yet. And he was here because of his own stupidity. Stupid to go running in a strange city without his weapon. Stupid to have gotten in the car without a fight. Stupid to have refused to answer the questions -- especially since he had no real answers anyway. Scully was not going to be pleased with him. He gave a sigh, then redirected his glare at Thornton. "Agent Mulder, we know you have received information about Harold Roberson. We need to know exactly what that information contained." Mulder coughed, and then spit. "And I need to know why it is suddenly so important. Anything I received, I received over six months ago. Why is it so critical now?" Thornton shook his head slowly, then caught the eye of one of the men next to Mulder. He nodded, and a fist lashed out again, slamming into Mulder's jaw. The force of the blow rocked his head back, and he impacted the wall behind the chair. His head exploded, he grew dizzy, and his vision blurred. He could feel a warm sticky mess oozing over his hair and he knew they had broken the skin this time. He moaned quietly, then sat silently, head on his chest. As he gathered his strength and concentration, he slowly lifted his head and caught Thornton's attention. "I still need to know why this is so important." Thornton grinned, then shook his head. "They told me you were stubborn, and I didn't believe them." He gave a wry little laugh, then said, "Agent Mulder, why do you persist against the inevitable? You are overpowered and outnumbered. Surely you can see that it is not reasonable to continue to resist. This could get very unpleasant for you." Mulder smiled, an almost feral grin that gave credence to his name, and snarled, "I have never been known for being reasonable. But I have an incredible memory -- and I will remember you." Thornton shook his head sadly. As he nodded to the men again, there was a knock on the door. He lifted his hand, halting the next blow that would have come, and went to the door. Opening it, he began to whisper to the man in the hall. Mulder strained to overhear, but he could only catch fragments. "... disappeared." "What? When?" That was Thornton. "... looked everywhere." "...notified the ..." " ...no luck." "He'll go underground." Thornton again. "...Mulder." " ... find him..." Mulder strained harder. How was he involved in this? "...have to let him go." Mulder heard that all right. "...only one..." "... find him." What the hell was going on? If these people thought he was going to help them, they were sadly mistaken. Mulder was pulled from his thoughts as Thornton spoke again. "OK. We have to get him out of here. This matter will have to wait till later. Finding Roberson..." Thornton stepped fully into the hall, pulling the door shut behind him, and Mulder could hear no more. There was a long period when no one moved, no one spoke, as they all waited for Thornton to return. When he did, he called one of the men over and spoke quietly to him, then turned and left the room again. Mulder was untied, given a cloth to wipe his face, and then led to the car. He was driven back to the hotel in total silence, and released in front of his room, if released was the right word. He was basically shoved out of the car onto the pavement by his own car, his room key and wallet thrown out behind him. Exhausted, he stumbled to his room, got the ice bucket, and walked tiredly to the machine. He filled the bucket, then returned and made a makeshift ice pack with the liner for the bucket and a washrag, and placed it gingerly over his eye. Lying wearily back in the bed, he was asleep within minutes. *************************************** At 8:00 the next morning, Skinner stood outside Mulder's apartment. He knocked twice and was surprised when Scully didn't answer immediately. He knocked again, then reached down and gripped the knob. When the door swung open effortlessly, he took a step back and pulled his weapon. He stepped cautiously into the small entryway and looked around. The box of Mulder's things still sat on the floor untouched. The partially packed box of Scully's things from last night, however, was now devoid of contents. Had he not been so worried over Scully's non-response, he would have smiled at the sight. But he was concerned, so he pushed aside his pleasure and stepped forward carefully, gun still drawn. He was already afraid of what he would find, but he still had to go through the motions. He moved silently through the apartment, checking each room carefully, not surprised to find that all were empty. Though there was no sign of a struggle, Scully was not here. He pulled his cell phone and tried to reach her, then frowned in dismay when he heard ringing from the hall. Walking quickly back, he closed his phone in disgust as he saw her phone and weapon on the small table. A sense of sheer terror gripped his soul and he had to shove down hard on a tendency to panic. "Dear God, not again," he breathed. Why were the people under his command always in such danger? Opening the cell phone again, he began the all too familiar process of getting a team together to sweep the apartment, verify that Scully's apartment was also empty, and start the search for his missing agent. He already knew he wasn't going to stay for the preliminaries this time. He would have to entrust Callahan and Jefferson with thorough oversight, because he intended to get in his car and head straight for Mulder. There was no way he was going to let him hear about this over the phone. ****************************************** Room 119. Here it was. Skinner pulled into an open parking slot, exited the car, and walked to the door. He knocked and was surprised when Mulder's voice called, "Come in." He opened the door, took one step into the room, and froze when he realized Mulder was standing directly in front of him, weapon aimed at his chest. Skinner took a step back and raised his hands, as Mulder slowly lowered the gun. "Jesus Christ, Mulder, what the ..." Skinner stopped as he took in his agent's battered appearance. "Sorry, Sir," Mulder mumbled, thumbing the safety on the gun, and placing it back on the bedside table. He swayed as he moved and every movement was an obvious effort. "What the hell happened to you?" Skinner asked. Mulder had collapsed on the bed, once more holding an ice pack to the side of his face. "Oh -- I went for a run last night, and had a little run-in with some folks who want to remain anonymous." "A little run-in? What the hell did they want? What did they do to you? You look like shit." "Well, thanks, Sir, that's just what I need to hear this morning. Anyway, you should see the other guys. Not a mark on them," he retorted sarcastically. "Other guys?" Skinner said. "It's a long story, Sir," Mulder replied wearily. "Well, we have some time," Skinner responded. He walked toward the bed. "Here, let me take a look at you." Mulder smiled weakly. "You, Sir? When did you start specializing in first aid?" "When I inherited you and your department," Skinner shot back. "And since Agent Scully isn't here to patch you up, you better let me look." "Yeah, Scully would be kinda useful about now," Mulder commented wistfully. Skinner made his decision then. Mulder would have to know of Scully's disappearance, but not this minute. He could get the man cleaned up, and hopefully in a stronger frame of mind, and then he would tell him. He glanced quickly at the bed and saw the bloodstains on the pillow and sheets. "Sit up and let me look." Skinner reached out gently and examined the man's face, then carefully ran his fingers over his head, pulling back quickly when he hit the hard, dried mess on the back of Mulder's skull. He looked down in time to see Mulder suppress a groan, and watched as he winced even as Skinner was pulling his hands back. He shot a sympathetic look at his agent, then said, "You're a mess, Mulder. How long ago did all this happen?" Mulder shook his head slowly. "Eight? Maybe ten hours ago?" "All right. Are you all right? Can you stand long enough to take a shower and clean up? We've got to get rid of the blood for me to see anything." "I can stand," Mulder mumbled. "Then shower -- quick. If you need stitches, it's not too late. They'll stitch up to twelve hours after the trauma. I'll look at it again when you get out." Mulder nodded and rose. He headed for the bathroom, then turned, "Sir? Did you see Scully?" "Yes, I did. I talked to her last night." "Is she ...?" Mulder's voice trailed off. "She was fine last night. She's not upset with you anymore." Mulder gave an audible sigh of relief. "Thank you." Skinner nodded, thinking 'Don't thank me yet.' "Now, go take your shower." Mulder disappeared into the bathroom and Skinner listened as the water began to run. 'Oh God, this was gonna be hard,' Skinner thought. Mulder was either gonna go completely off the deep end, or he was going to bury himself in the search for Scully. There was no telling how the man would react. He busied himself with picking up the scattered papers from the floor of the room, finding himself intrigued by Mulder's notes and comments. He read the files Mulder had assembled from the FICI, the reports he'd had faxed in from other places, and the old file from their last encounter with Roberson. Just as he finished, Mulder emerged from the bathroom. His face was still battered, but he looked better than he had when he went into the shower. Skinner stood and said gruffly, "Come over here and let me look at the back of your head." "It's all right, Sir." Skinner gave an exasperated sigh. He should have expected this. "Get over here and sit down, Mulder. Let's not make a production out of this." Grumbling, Mulder walked to the desk chair and sat. Skinner carefully separated the dark hair, until he could see the actual gash. It was long, but it didn't look too deep. He probed gently at the bump surrounding it, muttering "Sorry," when Mulder winced. The edges weren't too ragged and it was clean now and not bleeding. "I think it'll be OK without stitches." He withdrew his hands and asked, "What caused this?" "High velocity cranial impact with a nonporous stationary object." "Slammed your head into a wall?" Skinner chuckled. "Yep. And *thank you* for your sympathy." Skinner snorted, then said, "Get dressed and bring me up to date." As Mulder dressed, he told Skinner about the men who had picked him up the previous night, citing Lt. Paul Thornton, the only name he had learned. He related the events dispassionately, telling of what information they were seeking and his own refusal to assist them. "And I think they had Roberson, Sir, or knew where he was." Mulder was growing excited, his mind racing through possibilities. "But he escaped and now they're more intent on finding him than on finding out what I know." "And what exactly do you know, Agent Mulder?" Skinner was back in AD mode. This was serious and there was still the matter of Scully's disappearance to be dealt with. "I don't *know* anything, Sir, but I suspect that Roberson has been the unwitting subject of some type of government project code named 'Invasion,' and now the people in power are running scared because he's gotten loose. I found him before, or he found me, so I think they're going to be expecting me to find him again." Skinner was taking it all in. In a warped, Mulderesque kind of way, it all made sense. And there was a possibility they would be able to track down some information on 'Invasion' and give credence to Mulder's theories. The biggest concern in all of this was that if Roberson was missing, there was a good chance *he* was the one who had Scully. "It all goes back to Project Invasion," Mulder was saying. "I'm sure of it. I don't have the proof, but I saw the threads. I made the connections. It was destroyed in the fire. Roberson was involved in the late 60's in Viet Nam. And I need more information on it. That's got to be the connection. Paramilitary organizations with the ability to get Roberson out of the FICI, and cover it up? This is big. People in power are involved." "Mulder," Skinner spoke to the man who was pacing frantically as his thoughts poured out of him. He could take it no more. "Mulder, stop." Skinner spoke forcefully. "Be still for a minute." Mulder froze. He turned slowly to look back at the AD, standing by the small desk. "Sir?" "Sit down. I need to tell you something." "Yes?" Mulder sat on the bed. "I went to see Agent Scully last night." "Yeah, you told me." "She wasn't at her apartment. She was at yours." "She was at mine?" "She was -- distressed -- over an argument you two had yesterday." Mulder nodded his head thoughtfully. "Yeah, it was a pretty bad one. She OK now?" Skinner cleared his throat and his eyes skittered away from Mulder's. "She was OK when I left last night. I brought her up to date on the situation with Roberson, and I asked her if she would be willing to come up and help with the investigation." Mulder frowned. "I told you she didn't want to be involved in this." "I know you did, but she really didn't seem to mind. She said she'd be glad to come up. She wanted to see you." Mulder smiled at that. "She wanted to see me, huh?" Skinner laughed. "Yeah, well I can't imagine why. Don't get a swelled head here." He cleared his throat again and sobered. Mulder looked at him at that point, as if something had just clicked. "So, uh, where is she?" Skinner looked at the younger man, pain etched into his features, and said, "She's missing, Mulder. From what you've told me, I suspect Roberson's got her." Mulder sat in stunned silence then his breath began to quicken. Before a minute had passed, he was hyperventilating. Skinner was afraid he was going to pass out. "Slow down, Mulder," he said, "you're breathing too fast." Skinner looked around for a paper bag. Finding a used take- out bag, he handed it to the younger man and said, "Breathe into this." Mulder stuck the bag over his face and gulped greedily. After half a dozen breaths, his breathing began to slow and he lowered the bag. Skinner reached out to forcibly place it back over his nose, but Mulder waved him off. "No. I'm all right. I just. Can't. Believe this." He sighed. "All right." He got up and began to dress. "We've got to find her. And I've got a pretty good idea of where to look." "How on earth can you know where to find her? We're not even sure Roberson took her." "I know for sure Roberson took her. And he doesn't want her, he wants me. Remember, I told you when I was with my *friends* last night?" Mulder was dressing as he spoke. "I was sure they had Roberson, they were responsible for the switch. And Roberson is loose now. He's out there as a wild cannon, and obviously dangerous to them. When I was with Roberson last time, I tried to convince him that I could help him. That I had some personal experience with abduction. And I had some experience with the military and their involvement in the whole thing as well." Mulder paused, strapping the shoulder holster on over his shirt. "You said she was at my place, right?" Skinner nodded. "Well, Roberson went there looking for me. I wasn't there, so he took whoever was. He's not too stable, our boy Roberson. So when he couldn't get me, he took Scully." "All right, Mulder." Skinner was at the door, watching as Mulder finished securing the ankle holster and slipped the small gun in place. "What do we do?" The younger man rose smoothly to his feet. "You coming with me?" Skinner nodded. "Let's go then. I want to see the cabin. The one in Virginia." Skinner nodded again, then said, "Maybe you better let me drive. I'm the one that knows how to get there in an hour and a half." The two men left the hotel and walked to the car. As they climbed in, Mulder commented, "It sure would impress me if you could cut that 90 minutes even more." As they took off, Skinner pulled his phone and began to make calls. "I'm calling this in. We don't need to go in unprepared. And we don't need to be picked up for speeding on the way." Mulder nodded. They were about 45 minutes into the trip when Mulder's cell phone chirped. He looked at Skinner, then opened the phone and said, "Mulder." ***************************************************** Scully awoke slowly. She was cold, she was wet, she was cramped, and she was pissed. Being abducted in the middle of the night and stuck in the trunk of a car was getting to be just a little too routine, thank you. She stretched slightly, trying to maneuver in the tiny, cramped space, and work some of the kinks out of her neck and back. She had no recollection whatsoever of a break in; she had no idea who had taken her, or why. But, damn it, she knew where she was. The fucking inside of a car trunk. She'd been out for a while. Though dark in the trunk, she could catch enough glimpses of the outside to see it was full daylight. She looked down at herself and saw that she was still dressed in her standard nighttime attire -- a pair of oversized silk pajamas. And, of course, nothing on her feet. And more importantly, no phone, and no gun. She grunted in disgust. The last two times she'd found herself in the trunk of a car, she'd been seriously injured. And the last time, despite her injuries, she'd almost managed to take out a man that outweighed her by 100 pounds and had a good foot's height on her. But this time, she didn't care how big her abductor was, his ass was going down. She lay quietly, her anger building as the car continued its journey. After a long period of time, she felt the shift in the surface as they moved off paved roads and onto a dirt, or gravel road. The car stopped and she immediately shifted to get into a better position for attack. She heard muttering and knew that her captor was a male. She lay perfectly still, poised for action, waiting for the trunk to open. She heard the car door open, and then close. Footsteps crunching on the gravel. A big man, a heavy man, walked slowly back to the rear of the vehicle. There was a light knock on the lid of the trunk and a voice called, "Agent Scully?" This was strange. Whoever it was, his voice was tentative, almost as if he were apologizing as he spoke. Well, too fucking bad. I'm not accepting any apologies at this point. "Agent Scully?" the voice called again. "I don't mean you any harm. I really just need to get in touch with Agent Mulder." And you haven't heard of the phone? Her anger was rising. Oh yeah, whoever he was, he would get in touch with Agent Mulder all right. But first, he was going to get in touch with Agent Scully. Intimately in touch. She braced herself. "Please? I just want to let you out. And then we need to call Agent Mulder and tell him where we are. I really need to talk to him." This was too weird. "I'm gonna open the trunk now. Please, please just get out. Please don't make me hurt you." Right. Every muscle in Scully's body was coiled, ready to explode. She was tense. She was keyed. The adrenaline was pumping. She was ready. The trunk opened and she sprang. The man had attempted to open the trunk from the side, keeping himself out of her range, but she took in his position instantly, adjusted her trajectory, and launched herself straight at him, catching him square in the chest. He went down and she landed on top of him and proceeded to beat the shit out of him. She was like a wild animal, every trick she'd been taught in self-defense and survival training coming to the forefront. Lifting herself up as far as she could without losing her grip on the man, she came down hard on his belly, knocking the wind from his lungs. As he struggled to catch his breath, she pounded his face and chest and soon he was a mass of blood and bruises. He lifted his hands feebly, taking a defensive posture, then began to strike back at her. Leaping off of him, she stepped back, and before he could fully rise, she launched herself again, full force, and caught him directly in his groin. He dropped like a stone, clutching himself and moaning. Her rage beginning to dissipate some, she looked at him and determined he was not going anywhere for a few moments at least. She looked around, finally spying a good sized brick. Walking back to the defeated man, she took another good look at him. Roberson. Her mind screamed the name, and a sudden surge of panic began to overtake her. She stood staring at the man as he writhed on the ground before her, then lifted her brick and knocked him unconscious. Throwing the brick to the side, she stood bent over, shaking from exertion and a slowly subsiding rage in the chill air. Panic, fear, and a weird exhilaration warred for dominance within her. Finally she pulled herself erect, and said, "I have really had enough of being stuffed into trunks. Let's all remember that, shall we?" Walking gingerly on her bare feet, she stepped over to the open trunk, and peered inside. A small coil of line lay within the spare tire wheel well and she used it to tie Roberson up. Once he was secured, she gazed at him speculatively. He was too big to try to drag up to the cabin, and she really wasn't all that concerned about his comfort at this point. He could just lay on the gravel until reinforcements arrived. She turned and made her way into the little cabin. 'Been here,' she thought. Roberson certainly isn't very creative. Though she had been unconscious the majority of the time she had been there before, she knew that Mulder had been able to make a call from the cabin. Checking the house, she entered the second bedroom and went to the phone, hoping it was still in working order. Lifting the receiver, she dialed Mulder's cell. "Mulder, it's me." Chapter 25 Roberson came to quickly. One of the benefits of his *special* training. He had learned to go from asleep or unconscious to fully awake in a lot less time than the normal person could. He wriggled around on the gravel a bit, both testing his bonds and looking for a more comfortable position. He quickly concluded that comfort when lying on gravel was not to be had. And the female agent was good with her knots. He was bound securely. He smiled grimly in the midday light. He really hadn't been thinking clearly when he took her. He should have remembered how much trouble she was. He worked quickly, slipping off his shoe, and then contorting his body to reach the small blade he kept secreted there. A few more awkward gyrations and he was free. This had not gone as planned at all. He gingerly felt his face and head and acknowledged that not only was Agent Scully good with her knots, she was good with her fists and -- he winced, unconsciously holding himself -- her feet. He stood quietly for a moment longer, debating on taking the car or not. He looked at the dense tree line -- he knew these woods. And if Agent Scully was half as efficient in her investigative capacity as she was in self-defense, she'd track the car in a heartbeat if he took it. Shaking his head grimly, he headed off into the forest. He needed to rethink things. When he'd escaped last time, he'd eluded capture for much longer than he had estimated would be possible. Tracking down Agent Mulder had been difficult, and the actual confrontation with him had been disappointing. The man had steadfastly contended that he was *not* responsible. Harold knew he hadn't been thinking straight then either. He should have listened when this Mulder had offered to help. He had seemed to know what he was talking about. And if what he'd since found out, that the woman had been abducted just like him, was true, then, he had been wrong to do the things he had done. His arrest had just given them a chance to get him back in their custody. He'd known they would never let him go this time and so, had begun looking for a way out immediately. It had taken almost six months, but the opportunity had finally presented itself, and he had run as quick as he could and as far as possible. All he could think of was tracking down Mulder again -- maybe he would still be willing to help. But now he'd screwed up again. Mulder was attached to the woman, and he'd never help him now that he'd taken the woman again. And, he smiled ruefully and gently rubbed his jaw, that had certainly been his biggest mistake so far this go round. Or had it? He stopped, turning to look back in the direction of the cabin. Maybe he could still turn this around. The woman would call Mulder. Mulder would come. Maybe he could still talk to Mulder. Maybe he could still get help. *********************************************** "Scully, are you all right?" Mulder was almost screaming into the phone. "Where are you? Did he hurt you?" "I'm fine, Mulder. And I'm at the cabin. And, no, he didn't hurt me." "Where's Roberson?" Mulder demanded. "Are you safe?" "Roberson is currently tied up and lying in the driveway outside. And yes, I think I'm safe. Where are you? We need to get him into custody." "We're on our way." "We?" "Skinner is with me. Hold on a minute." Mulder looked at Skinner who was obviously exerting great self-control to refrain from ripping the phone out of Mulder's hand. "It's Scully," he said for no apparent reason other than it made him feel good to say it. "It's Scully." Skinner nodded. "And?" he prompted. "She's at the cabin all right. She took out Roberson." Mulder was almost preening with delight. "Took that fucker down!" He was grinning, an ear-splitting smile that showed no signs of abating any time soon. Skinner laughed. "That's our Agent Scully. She's all right?" "Yeah. She just took that SOB right out. Got him tied up in the driveway, waiting for us." He was still grinning. "What's our ETA?" "Less than half an hour, I'd say." Mulder nodded then spoke into the phone again. "Half an hour, Scully," he said. "Want us to bring lunch?" Scully laughed. "Nah -- I'll let you take me out -- after I have a chance to change. I'm still in my jammies." Mulder laughed, then said, "Anywhere you want, Agent Scully. It'll be the AD's treat." He cast a sideways glance at Skinner and saw the smile that stole across the older man's often stern features at that. He grew serious once more as he asked, "You sure you're OK?" "I'm fine, Mulder, really. I won't say this is my favorite way to pass the time, and I would appreciate a little backup, if you two don't mind hurrying along, but I'm OK. As long as Roberson stays where I left him, I'll be fine." "Can he get loose?" "I don't think so Mulder. I tied him up, and remember, I'm a sailor's kid -- I know my knots. Besides, I was pretty annoyed at the whole situation and I conked him with a brick -- knocked him out." "Look, Scully, check on him, OK? If he shows signs of waking, knock him out again. I don't want you with him alone. Please?" She sighed. "I'll check him, Mulder, but I'm pretty sure he's down for the count." "All right. Look, fifteen more minutes -- we'll be there." *************************************************** Scully hung up the phone, then sighed. The adrenaline high had faded and she was feeling a bit wiped. Knowing Mulder and Skinner were on their way helped, but she still had an eerie feeling about being with Harold Roberson. She did not want to walk out to look at him, but Mulder was right. She did need to keep an eye on him, and keeping him unconscious was probably for the best. She smiled grimly. Not that she'd be that upset to have to belt the bastard again. She walked back to the front door and opened it. Stepping out onto the small porch, she froze. Her eyes were glued to the large space in the gravel drive by the car. The space that had been disturbed by the fight. The space where the formerly even layer of rocks and stones was jumbled, with large patches of dirt showing through. The space where Harold Roberson *had* lain. The realization that he was loose hit her like a physical blow. This was the stuff of her worst nightmares. Alone with Harold Roberson. She looked frantically around, seeking where he could be, her eyes darting from place to place. She raced to the car, hoping against hope that the keys would be in place, but was not surprised that they were gone. Her heart was racing and panic was rapidly overtaking her. She had to get out of here. Hide. Mulder and Skinner would be here soon. She had to stay away from Roberson. If she could just stay away from him, she would be all right. She had taken him down this time, but she'd had the advantage of surprise. She held no illusions that she'd be successful again. She looked around once more, this time checking for potential places of concealment. There was the trunk, but if Roberson came back and drove off, she'd be trapped. That wouldn't do. The woods? That was too close to her recurrent nightmares. There had to be another option. She was scanning the tree line now, her thoughts whirling, when she saw him. Roberson! He was shuffling back toward the cabin and when he saw her he began to run. Fast. At her. Dimly she heard the sound of a car pulling up the drive, but the blind panic she had been fighting overtook her, and she launched herself off the porch, away from Harold Roberson, and into the woods on the far side of the cabin. And then, she was running, flying through the woods in bare feet, and it was her nightmare come to life. Instead of a sheer white shift, she wore her pajamas, but the other elements were the same. The fear was surrounding her, an almost palpable presence that slowed her steps and stole her breath. Gasping for air, she ran on. Her tender feet, already abused from the gravel of the drive, were further tortured as she raced unheedingly over sharp sticks and small stones, and the unsure footing slowed her more. She tripped suddenly, her ankle twisting brutally beneath her and she fell to her knees. She went sprawling face down in the wet, muddy leaves covering the ground. The panic was rising up again, threatening to overtake her, as she struggled to sort this reality from the dream landscape she had visited so many times before. She lay still for a moment, breathing harshly through her mouth, then rose shakily to her feet. She looked around, instinctively knowing that there would be a small clearing to her left and she hobbled there gingerly on her damaged feet. Her twisted ankle would barely hold her weight and she struggled to remain upright. Here, in reality, there was no illusion of safety in the open area. She shivered as she slowly made her way to a fallen log and sat. What the hell was going on? This was her nightmare come to life. Her brain refused to work and she felt almost drugged. As she sat, trying to calm her still racing heart, attempting to puzzle out how this could be happening, she heard the footsteps she had known would come. She leapt to her feet, her ankle almost giving out beneath her, already swollen and painful. She lifted a branch, ready to defend herself. Some small part of her rational mind cried that this was wrong, she was about to make a mistake, and the fear swelled even higher. She slid awkwardly to the side, slipping back into the cover of the trees as a large shape approached. She again felt the panic rising, an overwhelming fear consuming her, and a name rose once more in her mind - Roberson! Her vision was blurred, tears and anger and confusion clouding her sight and her judgment. She was watching the man moving toward her, stepping cautiously along the edge of the clearing. So focused on his approach was she, that she never heard the other man come up behind her. Strong hands reached out and grabbed her shoulders and a voice hissed in her ear, "Scully!" She whirled smoothly, the twisted ankle forgotten, the branch she held rising of its own accord, and she connected solidly with the man behind her -- Mulder. She watched in shocked horror as he went to his knees, moaning, and then fell face forward to the ground. Her thoughts suddenly seemed to clear, and realizing the other man was upon her, she fell onto Mulder's still form, searching frantically for his weapon, finally unholstering it and rolling onto her back to point it up -- at Skinner. Skinner and Scully stared at one another, then she dropped the gun, and rolled back over onto her knees to look at Mulder. He was beginning to move now, but there was a nasty gash above his right ear and blood flowed down his neck and onto his coat and shirt. He looked up and smiled weakly, and said, "Hey, Scully. We came to rescue you," then closed his eyes and passed out. As Scully examined Mulder, and Skinner scanned the woods, both could hear a car starting up, then pulling away. Roberson was gone. ************************************************ "Mulder, be still," Scully commanded. Skinner watched in amused affection as the younger man struggled to sit up, only to be held in place by his partner's strong hands. "C'mon Scully, let me up," he whined. "The ground's wet." "How do you feel? And don't you dare lie to me," Scully warned. Mulder closed his mouth in mid word, thought for a moment, then said, "My head hurts. I feel a little nauseated. I'm not dizzy anymore. Can I sit up now?" Scully nodded from her perch on a rock near him, and released him from her grip. She watched carefully as he slowly sat up, finally leaning back somewhat when he seemed stable. "I'm all right, Scully," he said. "Oh yeah," she snorted bitterly, her hand reaching out to gently graze the bloody streaks on his ear and neck. Her fingers traveled to gently trace his swollen eye and the split lip. "I did my share of this damage, but I'm not responsible for it all." Her hand gently ran through his hair, stopping at the gash on the back of his skull. "Mulder, what happened?" He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. "Don't worry about it now. I'm OK, Scully," he repeated as he kissed her fingers. She shook her head in dismay at his stubbornness, then whispered, "I'm sorry, Mulder," her eyes filling with tears. "It was my nightmare all over again -- I just couldn't think." He was nodding carefully now, still holding her hand. "I know, it's OK." Skinner cleared his throat and Mulder dropped Scully's hand as she flushed slightly. "I hate to break this up," the older man said, "but we need to get back to the cabin. I can't get a signal on the cell phone and we need to get a search started for Roberson." Both agents nodded. Skinner looked at Mulder, then asked Scully, "How bad is he?" "Concussion, I'm sure. He needs to go to the ER. Did you see the gash on his head this morning?" "Well, yes, but I didn't think it needed stitches." "It's not stitches I'm worried about. It's what's going on inside." "Can he walk back to the cabin, or should I leave you two here and send paramedics back?" "No!" Mulder said sharply. "I don't think we should split up. There's no guarantee Roberson is really gone." "I think he'll be all right to get back to the cabin," Scully said. "I don't like the idea of splitting up either. And, knowing Mulder, I'm sure he'll be fine despite my best attempts to put him out." Mulder reached up and gingerly touched the wound over his ear. "Don't be knocking your best attempt, Scully. I'd say it was pretty damn good." "Well, I'd say you have a pretty damn good story to tell on the rest it, as well." She fixed him with a serious look. "A story I want to hear when we get out of here." "Let's get moving then." Skinner reached down and pulled Mulder and Scully to their feet. Both men turned to stare as Scully gasped and collapsed again, her injured ankle refusing to bear her weight. Mulder looked down, then dropped to his knees and said, "Scully, you're barefoot." He lifted her uninjured ankle, then winced at the raw and bloody mess that was the bottom of her foot. He lowered that foot and went to lift the other, noticing the bruised and swollen ankle for the first time. "Oh, Scully," he whispered. "Why didn't you say anything?" Scully raised both eyebrows at him, and pursed her lips as she asked, "And what good would that have done? We all still need to get back to the cabin." "I'll carry you," Mulder declared as he stood. He swayed slightly and Skinner reached out a hand to steady him. "I don't think so. You can barely carry yourself." Skinner held Mulder in place a moment longer, allowing the younger man to get his balance, then he bent and lifted Scully in his arms and said, "Keep your eyes open, Mulder. As you pointed out, we can't be sure Roberson is gone." Scully had opened her mouth to protest against Skinner carrying her, when he looked down and said, "And you, save it. This is the most practical and most efficient way to get us all back to the cabin. You can file a formal complaint later." He laughed softly as Scully snapped her mouth shut and frowned. When they reached the cabin, all three agents looked in disgust at the four flat tires on Skinner's car. Roberson had been thorough. With no transportation and the cell phones out, they could only hope Roberson hadn't disabled the land line as well. Setting Scully gently on the porch steps, Skinner pushed Mulder down beside her then darted into the cabin in search of the phone. He returned shortly and said, "Roberson was too careful. The phone's been ripped out of the wall." "Try the cell again, Sir," Scully suggested. "Maybe it will function here in the clearing." Skinner nodded and obediently flipped open the phone. His faith was rewarded with a fuzzy, but audible signal. Dialing quickly, he contacted the local police and rescue units and arranged to have them come to the cabin immediately. He then called the Bureau garage, to make arrangements for them to pick up the car. As he was discussing the condition of the vehicle, Mulder spoke up. "Can you have them get my car from the motel too, Sir? I don't relish another drive up there just for that." Skinner nodded and relayed the information to the dispatcher, then closed the phone, grumbling. "Man thinks he can give *me* the third degree over the car's condition." Mulder looked up with a grin and said, "Maybe you'll be a little more understanding about my expense reports when I have car trouble now." Skinner snorted and said, "Ha! I have flat tires, Mulder. I haven't wrecked the car, or blown up the car, or had the car spontaneously combust into flames, or, God forbid, *lost* the car the way you have." Scully burst into laughter as Mulder's face fell and he realized he would not be able to needle his boss on this after all. But then his demeanor changed and the serious FBI agent was back. He looked up and said, "Sir, I can't impress upon you how important it is that we find Harold Roberson. I strongly suspect that his taking Scully was little more than an attempt to reach me." Scully nodded, saying, "Yes, he did say he wanted to get in touch with you. I remember thinking he could have saved us all some trouble if he'd just used the damn phone." Mulder smiled, then went on. "I suspect he was trying to get my help. And not being able to secure that, as well as having this little impromptu kidnapping go sour on him, may have been enough to send him round the bend. He may no longer be interested in getting help. He may be ready to embark on some personal crusade to right whatever wrongs he feels have occurred. "All right, Mulder," Skinner asked, "what do you suggest?" Mulder paused thoughtfully, then said, "I think our first step is to find out everything we can about this project Invasion. Track down all records, but I think especially, we need to know who was involved. This is personal to Roberson. He's going to go after people, not information. As you recall, he's already killed one person, Colonel Kingsley, and I think if we look into her background far enough, we're gonna find that she was involved in the project. And I think it was for her involvement that she died." "But Mulder," Scully interjected, "he killed her whole family as well. The husband and both children too." "Yeah. He's not just out to take care of the people that hurt him. He's bent on retribution." Skinner and Scully watched in concern as Mulder visibly slipped away, his profiling skills coming to the forefront. He rose to his feet and began to pace. "Anybody we can find who was involved with the project needs to be warned. We may need to establish some surveillance on some of them. Especially once we narrow down who is the most involved, who the leadership is." Mulder stopped suddenly, then reached out to lean on the porch rail for support. "I have a feeling that's who Roberson is going to go after next." Chapter 26 "Mulder, I'm concerned about you, too." Scully seconded the local doctor's opinion. "I think having you stay overnight for observation is a good idea. I know you're still dizzy, I know your head is still hurting, and you look a little green around the gills." Mulder sat on the examination table, his arms folded tightly across his chest. "I am *not* staying, Scully," he enunciated very clearly. "I'll leave AMA if I have to, but I am not spending the night in this backwater hospital." "Mulder!" Scully scolded. "This backwater hospital has staff that seems very competent. Short of following the ER doctor's recommendation and transferring you somewhere where they can do the head scans I'd like to see, keeping you overnight is your best option." She stared at her partner, then turned to look at Skinner. "I could use a little help here, Sir." Skinner nodded, then looked thoughtfully at the two. They were definitely at a stalemate. "Doctor Scully," he began, using her medical title for emphasis, "if we take him home with us, can we put him on bedrest and observation at your place?" Mulder was nodding agreeably now, but Scully was annoyed as hell. "That was not the kind of help I was looking for, Sir," she said. "I understand that Agent Scully," Skinner placated. "But I am concerned that with Roberson loose, we are going to need to be as close to headquarters as possible. And I'd like to keep you both under watch for a bit -- just for safety's sake. Now I can station agents here to watch you, and go on back to DC alone, or we can travel back together and I'll be your guard dog for the time being. If Mulder's concerns over Roberson pan out, we're going to need to be where we can respond quickly." Scully was nodding as well now. "All right," she said slowly, "that makes sense. But," she turned and glared at Mulder, "you have a concussion." She reached out and gently touched his battered face. "Absolute bedrest, is that understood?" When Mulder nodded, she looked at Skinner and added, "*You* can be responsible for making him honor his agreement. I plan to sit on the couch and prop my ankle up." "Yes, Ma'am," Skinner said in mock seriousness. "I'll make sure he rests." The two men exchanged a brief, congratulatory glance. Scully took in the silent interplay, then, only half assured that her orders would be followed, she again glared at both men. Mulder was wearing his best "innocent" look. She shifted her gaze to Skinner, who stared back in unconcern. His unsmiling countenance reflected an 'I'm the AD, you can't give me orders,' attitude, but the small crinkles around his eyes belied his stern appearance. She'd been had and she knew it. "I'm going out to the car," she said in disgust. "You?" she tilted her head at Skinner, "You're so eager to take him home? You can get his stubborn butt out there. And you can deal with the nausea and vomiting that's gonna follow." She turned back toward Mulder, who had opened his mouth to protest. "And you," she added, "don't even think about complaining. I will not listen to your whining, got that?" She hobbled slowly to the curtain that surrounded the small ER cubicle, pulled it open, and slipped out. Both men watched in silence as she limped down the hall. "She seems a bit moody," Skinner commented, as he helped Mulder up from the bed. "Yeah, well, Scully doesn't approve of injuries, particularly head injuries, and especially my head injuries." He sighed, fighting a wave of nausea, then said, "I would venture to say that seeing as how she is the cause of my current head injury, she's feeling just a trifle guilty. And Scully doesn't do guilt well either." He smirked as his eyes gazed down the hall where Scully had disappeared. "Don't be thinking your fancy rationale to spring me had anything to do with Scully letting me go. You just gave her a graceful way of letting me have my way. I may be able to get a couple days of getting my way out of this." Skinner laughed and said, "I wouldn't count on it, Mulder. I have a feeling you're going to be flat on your back and out of the loop for several days. Probably longer than you would have been if you'd just acquiesced nicely and stayed the night." A look of dismay crossed Mulder's face. "Do you really think so?" Skinner laughed again, saying, "I'd bet on it." The two men made their way to the front of the hospital. The rental car Skinner had arranged for had been delivered while Mulder was having his wound cleansed and Scully was in X-ray. He'd done the appropriate paperwork and then moved it to the front parking lot. Scully was seated on an uncomfortable looking bench, leafing idly through an old magazine. Mulder walked cautiously over and joined her as Skinner went to get the car. "Hey," he said softly. "Would you believe me if I said I'm sorry?" "No," she murmured back. "How'd you get Skinner on your side this time?" "I really am concerned about Roberson, Scully. That's not a scam." She nodded and he continued. "Skinner knows that. And we do need to be near our resources. I just know something bad is gonna happen. We need to be in DC." He met her eyes, swirling hazel pleading with crystal blue. "I'm not feeling too good, Scully," he admitted, "but I can make the trip. Really. I'm gonna be OK." Her eyes filled with tears again at his admission of discomfort, but she nodded in understanding at his explanation. Dropping her gaze, she reached over and gently stroked his arm. "I'm sorry, Mulder," she whispered. He reached out and pulled her to him, tucking her into his side. "Shh," he murmured. "I'm OK, Scully." He took her chin in his hand and lifted her face to his. "I'm really OK." He leaned down slightly and gently brushed her lips with his own. She sighed then, and moved slightly closer to him, resting her hand on his leg. They were still sitting that way when Skinner walked back into the lobby. He allowed a smile to cross his features as he thought that at least the 2 hour ride back to DC would be more bearable since these two had obviously reached some sort of accord. He strode over to them and indicated the car parked in the loading zone. Both got up and headed for the door. He observed them as they walked across the hospital lobby. Scully was still in some pain; she limped in a useless attempt to keep off her battered feet, and he could see the occasional grimace that she made as she put too much weight on her damaged ankle. Mulder alternately stood and swayed, or stumbled and walked. But both stubbornly made their way to the car and sank gratefully into their seats, Scully in front, Mulder in rear. Mulder immediately moved to lay down on the back seat and Scully turned to say, "Mulder, no, you can't sleep. You know the drill for concussion. Gotta stay awake at least twelve hours. You've got several more hours to go." Mulder nodded wearily and pulled himself erect. He pulled the shoulder harness around himself and buckled in, laying his head back onto the rear door panel. He closed his eyes and said, "I'll stay awake, Scully, but I gotta shut my eyes for a bit." She nodded sympathetically and said, "All right, but you're gonna have to talk to me so I know you're awake." A wicked grin flashed across her face and she teased, "Or maybe I should make you sing?" Mulder chuckled, then said, "Nope. No way. Uh-uh. Not gonna happen. I'll talk -- as long as I don't have to think to do it." "Since when do you ever think before you talk?" Skinner asked and was rewarded with laughter from both his agents. He was laughing too as he pulled away from the curb and began the drive home. ********************************************** They were almost to DC, and Mulder and Scully were arguing again. Skinner sighed to himself, resolved to stay out of it this time. "But, Scully," Mulder was saying, "I need to be at my place." "Why? My apartment is bigger, it's cleaner, you'll be more comfortable there." "I know all that. But I need -- we need," he glanced over at Skinner, including him in his comments, "we need to be at my place. Roberson knows where I live. You moved over the summer." "May I remind you," Scully said archly, "Roberson managed to find me once before." "I know, but my, shall we say, *unofficial* sources of information are more comfortable contacting me at my own digs." He reached out to touch her arm gently, then said, "C'mon Scully, you know what I'm saying here." Scully sat quietly, contemplating this information, and Skinner could see that Mulder was literally on the edge of his seat, waiting for her decision. He was pleased to see that Mulder had used the honest, direct approach this time. Scully didn't like getting scammed and he felt bad for his earlier participation. Finally, Scully nodded and said, "All right, Mulder, we'll go to your place. You can stretch out on the couch for a while -- the AD has been working to get some material on the project and Roberson put together while we've been en route, and I know you're gonna want to review it." Mulder nodded vigorously, then winced as pain lanced through his skull. Scully smiled sympathetically, then admonished him. "Slowly, Mulder. It's gonna hurt for a few days." His eyes were closed again, and he made a sub-vocal noise of agreement. "Anyway," Scully continued, "you still have to stay awake for a while. But once you can sleep, you are going to go back and use that bed that I know you have buried in that closet you call a bedroom. Capice?" Mulder's eyes were still closed and his head rested in the corner of the door and seat. "Anything, Scully. I'm ready to go anywhere, do anything. Just get me out of this car and give me something for my head, OK?" "Easy, partner, we're almost there." She turned to Skinner and said, "Looks like we go to Mulder's after all." Skinner had already gotten on the DC beltway and was headed for Alexandria. The remainder of the trip was made almost in silence, punctuated only by the occasional moan or groan from Mulder in the back. As they pulled into the parking lot outside his apartment, he sat up suddenly, clutching at the door handle and said, "Gonna be sick." He pushed the door open and leaned out, heaving. Scully twisted in her seat to lean over the back and gently stroke his back. She rubbed his shoulders as he finished, then wiped his sweaty face as he pulled himself erect. "Better?" she asked. When he nodded, she turned back around and got out of the car. When she began to hobble toward the apartment building, he asked plaintively, "Aren't you gonna help me?" "Nope," she called back over her shoulder. "That's the AD's job. You enlisted him in your scheme to get home, no matter what. He can clean you up." Mulder and Skinner both stared after her in open-mouthed astonishment. Then Mulder turned to look at his boss, his face coloring in embarrassment. "Uh, sorry, Sir," he muttered. Skinner wrinkled his nose in distaste, then got out and opened the rear door on his side. "Maybe you better slide out over here, Mulder. It might be a bit easier." Mulder nodded carefully, then slid across the seat and out of the car. He stood slowly, Skinner's hand a reassuring presence on his upper arm. "Can you make it now?" the older man asked. "Think so, but I don't feel so good. What the hell's happening?" "I suspect the pain medication is beginning to wear off and you're just now getting the full effects of that blow to the head." Skinner sighed, already regretting his rash decision to throw in with Mulder's scheme. "Well, what do you expect?" Mulder grumbled. "The damn doctor didn't give me anything but Tylenol." Skinner was immediately sobered by this comment. Mulder, the man who refused all medications, complaining that he had *only* been given Tylenol? That was not a good sign. He sighed again. "C'mon, let's get you inside," he said, and the two men walked slowly up the walk, following Scully. By the time they reached the hall to Mulder's apartment, Scully was standing by the door, waiting. Mulder looked up at her, then froze as he took in the yellow crime scene tape that still sealed his apartment. He shuddered as the full impact of how close he had come to losing Scully once again washed over him. Skinner tugged gently and he moved slowly up the hall. He dug in his pockets and pulled out his keys handing them to Skinner. While the AD opened the door, Mulder reached out and hugged Scully. One hand gripped a piece of the yellow tape and he whispered into her ear, "I'm sorry I wasn't here. I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I couldn't leave it alone." She nodded then kissed his cheek and gently led him into the apartment. Once inside the door though, he froze once more, this time his eyes riveted to the still packed box of his things that Scully had brought over from her apartment. His eyes filled with tears and he squeezed them shut tight, swallowing hard. She looked, following his gaze, then gasped and turned to him, saying, "No, Mulder, it isn't what you think." He was shaking his head now, oblivious to the pain the movement created. He swayed, then leaned back against the door frame, lifting his arms and wrapping them tightly around himself. Skinner was standing in the door to the living area, watching as Mulder began to visibly collapse. Mulder slid to the floor, his long legs pulled up against his chest, his arms hugging his legs to his body and his head falling forward to bury his face in knees and elbows. He started to move forward, but Scully was already kneeling beside Mulder. Skinner cleared his throat. When he got no response, he said, "I'm going to go see if the bedroom is set for Mulder. For when he's ready." Scully nodded, then glanced briefly up at Skinner. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears and she looked pleadingly at him. Skinner gave her a sad smile and nodded in encouragement. "I'll be in the bedroom," he repeated, "if you need anything." He turned and walked through the living room to the short hallway and disappeared. Scully refocused her attention on the man on the floor before her. "Mulder," she said, "look at me." When he didn't respond, she reached out and slipped her hand between elbow and cheek and lifted his face to hers. His eyes opened slowly and the pain in them was clear. "Mulder," she said softly. "I was confused. I made a mistake. I wasn't thinking of getting away from you to get away from you. I was thinking of keeping you safe from me." He hitched one eyebrow and tilted his head slightly, her cue to elaborate. She looked pleadingly at him, and a single tear ran unchecked down her face. "I hit you," she whispered, the self-loathing evident in her voice. "I was so afraid, so self-centered, so out-of-control. You know that's not like me." He nodded slowly, watching her, and she released her hold on his chin to gently rub his arms. "You've been after me all summer to see someone, figure out why I can't sleep, and I've been running from it. That's not like me either." He nodded again, then looked down at her hand traveling back and forth across his arm. He captured her fingers, stilling her nervous movements, and squeezing gently to encourage her to go on. "When you said you were going to go see Roberson, it all came back to me. What happened before. The dreams. It was like I spaced out for a minute -- and then I hit you. I was so ashamed." She lowered her head now, the tears running freely down her cheeks. Spreading his legs around her, he reached out and pulled her to him, settling her in the V of his legs, with her back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, and tenderly kissed her neck, just below her right ear. "Don't be ashamed," he whispered. "I was pushing, and I shouldn't have been." "When you left, I thought it was worked out, Mulder, really I did. I went to work, but then I had a -- a panic attack, I guess you'd call it -- and all I could think of was how I kept hurting you." Her breath hitched and she released a little half sob. "Shhh, you could never hurt me." He held her tightly to himself, nuzzling her neck as he murmured soothingly into the soft skin there. "All I could think of was getting some space, some distance, keep myself from lashing out at you again. I was scared, and confused." "So what happened? My box is there." Mulder nodded across the small entryway. "Where's yours?" "Skinner happened," she said simply. "He showed up here. I was packing, almost done actually, and we talked. And I came to my senses." He could hear the smile in her voice now and it made him smile as well. "Scully." Mulder took a deep breath. "I don't want to make you unhappy. I couldn't live with myself if I made you unhappy." "You are what makes me happy, Mulder." She sighed, then added, "I was being an idiot -- what can I say?" The tension began to flow out of him, and he felt himself start to sag again. Black spots danced before his eyes, and the room began to spin. As he loosened his hold on her, Scully sensed something was wrong, and she twisted in his arms just in time to catch him as the day's events overcame him and he passed out -- again. *********************************************** Skinner was pacing the living room furiously. Mulder lay unconscious on the couch and Scully sat beside him. They were waiting for the paramedics. When Mulder had not responded to her gentle attempts to bring him around, Scully had called for Skinner. He had lifted the younger man and placed him on the couch while Scully dialed 911. Mulder was still unresponsive, and Skinner was kicking himself from here to Tuesday for allowing his headstrong agent to enlist him in his plans to get back to DC. There was a knock at the door and Skinner had it open and the medics inside in an instant. Scully stood unsteadily and stepped to the side as the paramedic began to make her assessment. After the initial set of vitals were taken, Scully began to recite Mulder's history. The second medic was taking notes. "So he's had two serious head traumas in the last 24 hours?" the man asked disbelievingly. "Why isn't he in a hospital?" Scully sighed, then started to explain, but Skinner interrupted. "Dr. Scully is overseeing his care." The man shot Scully a withering glance and said, "Then *Doctor* Scully should have known he needed to be in the hospital." He looked at his partner. She had an IV started in Mulder's hand now, and he was ready for transport. "Let's move him, and roll," she said. Mulder was transferred to the gurney and the two medics headed for the door. As Scully started to follow, her ankle gave again, and she almost fell. Skinner caught her, holding her still for a moment, before gently pushing her onto the couch so recently vacated by her partner. The medics were at the door, watching. "Is someone riding with him?" the man asked. Scully started to rise again, saying "Yes," but Skinner held her in place as he answered "No," at the same time. Scully glared at him, but he turned to the paramedic and said, "You go. We'll follow in my car." The medic nodded and they were gone. "I want to go with him," Scully said, as she tried to rise again in vain. "You're injured too," Skinner responded. "Last night and today has been too much for both of you." She was still glaring angrily at him, and he was surprised at how tightly he had to hold her to keep her on the couch. "For God's sake, Dana, you still have on your pajamas!" he exclaimed, frustrated by her one track mind. "You're wearing shower shoes from the Harrisonburg hospital." Her eyes widened as his comments sank in, and she slowly looked down at herself. He felt her relax under his grip and risked letting her go. He looked anxiously at the red mark his hand had left on her arm, then said, "God, I'm sorry. I've hurt you." She looked at him then looked at her own arm, following his line of sight. She took in the red mark, then shrugged. "I'm fair skinned. I bruise easily. 'S all right." His eyes were closed and he was shaking his head in dismay, but she reached out and gently touched his arm. "Sir," she said, seeking his attention. He opened his eyes to look at her, and she softened her tone, then said, "Walter, it's all right, really. Once again, you've caught me being foolish. But," she tightened her grip on his arm, "I would like to change and get to the hospital as soon as possible. I don't want Mulder there alone." He was nodding. "You're right. I'm sorry. Bad time for self recrimination." He pulled his cell phone, and punched in the Bureau number. "I'll get a couple agents sent over to stand guard over him. And Internal Security at the Bureau can contact the hospital and have him watched until either we or our people get there." He finished his arrangements, then asked, "What do you need?" "I have clothes here," she answered. "Just help me get to the bedroom and give me about ten minutes. My shoes from the other night should be around here somewhere as well." As she started to rise for the third time, Skinner reached out and helped her. Her ankle still gave, and she half stumbled as she fought to remain erect. "Screw this," Skinner mumbled under his breath. He scooped her up and hauled her to the bedroom, relieved he had already cleared the bed of the piles of books, papers, and clothes that had been cluttering it earlier. She was sputtering as he put her down, and he barked, "See here, Agent Scully, I am already responsible for one very bad decision that resulted in my agent having to be taken to the hospital by ambulance. I *will not* allow another agent under my command to suffer needlessly from my neglect. Now -- where are your clothes?" She pointed silently at a dresser and Skinner opened the drawer to pull out jeans and a sweater. He held them up for her inspection. "Are these OK?" She nodded, and he threw them to her. She flushed, then said, "Uh, one drawer up, please?" He turned back to the dresser, opened the drawer, then stood for a moment. His face quickly flushed as well, but he reached in and took out a pair of underwear and a bra, and wordlessly walked to the bed and handed them to her. "Uhm, thanks," she stammered. "I'll just be a minute." He nodded, then left the room, pulling the door behind him. ******************************************** Roberson slipped silently into the bushes by the back door. The house was huge, and securely locked. But it was almost daylight now, and if General Oldham was still following his usual schedule, he would be up for a run at dawn. He could *talk* with the general when he came out. Harold waited patiently for another twenty minutes, then, just as the first rays of sun peeked over the horizon, the door opened and a man in sweatpants and a T-shirt stepped out. He took a few steps onto the walk and began to stretch. Oldham had aged quite well. He was still fit and trim, a distinguished looking man of 57. He had been a 27 year old Lieutenant when Harold had known him last. Assigned to Lt. Oldham's infantry unit, Harold had been one of the best point men there were. But sometimes, he had disappeared on point. Days would vanish, hazy memories of pain and torment and mind-numbing confusion all that remained when he would reappear and Lt. Oldham would welcome him back as if nothing had happened. Harold watched as Oldham bounced lightly on his toes, stretching his calf muscles. The man had lost his first wife and three children in an unfortunate accident in the mid-eighties. The *accident* had coincided with one of the times Harold had been free, but no one had connected him to that event. But Oldham had not taken the warning Harold had provided. He had remarried, bringing another child into a world his father was working to destroy. Well, he wouldn't be working to destroy the world anymore. His work for the enemy was over. Harold threw himself out of the bushes and fell upon the his old CO, knocking him to the ground. He sat astride the older man, one hand pinning his arms to the ground, the other holding a knife to his throat. Leaning in closely to Oldham's face, Harold asked, "Remember me?" When the general shook his head, Harold said, "I'm your point man, Lieutenant. Roberson. 231-00-5555. Private First Class. United States Army." Oldham's eyes were wide with shock and he struggled to break loose but Harold had the advantage in size and strength. He pushed the knife in slightly and Oldham stilled. "You didn't heed my warning, Sir," Harold said. "Wh - what warning, Roberson?" "When I ended your family in 1984. You should have ended your involvement in things. You should never have married again. Now I have to do it again." Oldham's mouth hung open, and he shuddered as the meaning of Roberson's words sunk in. "Harold, please," he pleaded, "I'm not involved anymore. I haven't been for years. But if you have to hurt someone, I'm here. Leave my family alone." Harold was shaking his head. "No, Sir. I'm sorry, but I don't believe you, Sir. You knew what they were doing to me and you acted like nothing ever happened." "I knew, Roberson, I knew something was happening, but I didn't know what. I was under orders to just ignore your disappearances. I thought you were on covert ops, but I had no way of knowing for sure -- and I wasn't supposed to know." "Covert ops," Harold snorted. "Is that what they called torture of American soldiers?" "Roberson -- Harold -- it is Harold, right? I didn't know you were being tortured. I was following orders." "We all have our orders, Sir," Harold said as he slid the knife in deeply and watched as the blood ran thick and red down the front of the man's white T-shirt. He rose and wiped his blade on the grass, then entered the house. He dispatched the new wife easily; she didn't even wake. But the boy was a different matter. He was sleeping as well, and Harold was taken by the look of complete innocence on the child's face. He stood staring at the boy, lost in thought as he began to alter his plans once more. Perhaps the children could be saved. If they could be purged of the contamination of the evil parent, then maybe, just maybe, the children could be saved. This one would be the first. Chapter 27 "Here," Skinner said, as he held the sandwich and drink out to Scully. She shook her head, never lifting her eyes from the sleeping figure in the hospital bed. Skinner sighed, then placed his offering on the small bedside table. "Scully," he began, but she interrupted him. "Shhh," she whispered. "He's asleep now. I don't want to wake him." Skinner sighed again. Mulder had roused slightly in the ambulance, and in his usual Mulder way, had managed to endanger himself even more with his movements. First resisting the paramedics, pulling out the IV and attempting to get up from the gurney. Then, fighting the doctors as they attempted to get his vitals and then the critical head scans. They'd had to sedate him, the results of which he was sleeping off now. In his defense, he was severely disoriented from the head trauma, and the doctors weren't holding his behavior against him -- this time. But Scully was another matter. She was feeling guilty and that guilt was going to make things very difficult. He knelt beside her chair and lowered his voice. "Scully," he tried again. She refused to look at him, still staring at Mulder's unmoving shape. He reached out and took her hand, startling her, and her eyes jumped to him, then skittered away. "Dana," he said very softly, but with enough force for her to know he was demanding her attention. She slowly turned her head and met his gaze. "Remember what I said at Mulder's place?" he asked gently. She shook her head again, a look of puzzlement crossing her features. He shifted slightly, uncomfortable in this half-kneeling, half-squatting position, but unwilling to risk losing her attention. "I said," he pinned her in place with his eyes, "that I had already made one bad decision resulting in one of my agents being harmed." Her eyes widened and she shook her head again. "Not your ..." she began, but he cut her off. "Yes. It is," he said shortly. "And I can't change that decision. But I won't make that mistake again." Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him, and he could see she was mentally girding herself for battle. They'd gotten to the hospital a mere thirty minutes behind Mulder, but she had been sitting vigil here for six hours since. Given that she had been abducted by Roberson last night, then the race through the woods, the trip to the community hospital in the mountains with Mulder, the trip back to DC and Mulder's subsequent collapse, she had to be running on no food and next to no sleep for over 24 hours now. Getting her out of this room and getting her to eat was going to take every bit of his tactical acumen. Getting her to rest just might be impossible. "Dana," his voice was soft, and he let the affection he had for her show, "please. Come sit with me and eat. Just a bit." His carefully crafted offensive was falling apart as he heard the pleading whine creep into his voice. But perhaps that was what swayed her, allowing her to see his need for a moment. Letting her know that he felt guilty as well, and was struggling with this situation, much as she was. He saw her eyes soften and he used the opening, squeezing her hand and saying again, "Please?" He gave her a crooked little smile. "Mulder will never forgive me if you completely exhaust yourself." She smiled slightly at that, and her eyes darted back to the bed, then returned to him. "I don't want to leave him alone," she murmured. "I'll have Agent Gerrolds come sit with him. Just for a little while?" Damn, the whine was back. What was it with these two? They brought out a side of him he thought would never see the light of day again. He cleared his throat softly, then said in a more normal tone, "We'll get a quick bite, something a bit more appetizing than a sandwich from a machine, then we'll come right back, OK?" She was gazing at him fondly, her eyes soft and he could feel her appreciation for his gesture and her own concern for his welfare radiating from her. She reached out and gently laid her hand on his cheek and said, "You're a good friend, Walter Skinner," and he was shocked when he felt tears prick at his eyes. He quickly lowered his head and covered her hand with his own. He remained motionless for a long moment, then released her and rose to his feet. "Let me get a wheelchair for you," he said as he started to leave. Her eyes widened as she followed his movement toward the door. "Wheelchair?" she asked indignantly. He smiled, then said, "Well, you don't expect me to carry you *all* the time, do you?" ******************************************* It had been hard trying to figure out what to do with the boy. He was sleeping quietly in the back of the car now, but he had awakened when Harold first went to pick him up. Harold had clamped a hand over the child's mouth and quickly carried him to the car. He had been careful to keep his supply bag with him, and he had managed to hold onto the child with one arm, freeing his hand to plunge blindly in the bag for the bottle of GHB. Unsure of how much to give someone so small, he forced a small swallow into the child's mouth. The boy continued to struggle a bit longer, but slowly, the drowsiness, then deepening sleep, that was the drug's trademark overcame him, and he stilled. Harold laid the child on the back seat, and talked soothingly to him until his eyes closed and his breathing evened in sleep. Then he climbed into the front, started the car, and drove away. Finding a place to take the boy presented difficulties. That was one of the problems with changing plans in midstream. Harold decided to drive back toward the mountains. He couldn't go back to the cabin. They'd found him much too quickly there. But he'd marked several other places on the mountain as potentials, thinking he might someday need a place to disappear. He'd found his potentials by looking at the obituaries and then following transfer of property activity. Any of the three he had identified would work, but he chose the one that was furthest away from the cabin. With that decided, Harold was free to plan his next moves. Somehow, in all that had happened in the last year, he had lost his focus. He needed to regain that focus, to recover his clarity of thought. After he had killed Col. Kingsley, they had put him away and he thought they had forgotten him. He had *hoped* they had forgotten him. But then, they had come for him again, torturing his body and destroying his mind. He had escaped and spent six long months free -- searching for the reason, the cause of his years of torment. He'd dug up obscure records, from even more obscure sources, and slowly began to piece together a history of a governmental project he hadn't even been aware had existed -- a project in which he was apparently a test subject. And during one of his later experiences, he had heard a name, a name he recognized and remembered. A name he clung to through all the things they did to him, refusing to let it drift away with the rest of his memories. He had been returned, and then he escaped, spending months in hiding as he searched for a way to set things right. He looked back on that time as a period of fading lucidity. There were long stretches he had no recollection of at all, and he worried that they really had made him lose his mind. His clarity of thought seemed to shift from moment to moment, and when he was clear, like now, it frightened him. During his brief freedom, he had searched all the records he could find, even resorting to a fake name and PO Box to get records from the Viet Nam era now available through the Freedom of Information Act. One name had appeared a number of times -- Mulder. It was a name he had focused on and in pursuing it, had come across the FBI agent Mulder. The one who investigated paranormal phenomenon. The one who knew there was a conspiracy. The one whose sister had been abducted before his eyes when he was twelve. The one who *believed.* Harold looked in the rear-view mirror, checking on the child, and saw he was still asleep. As he contemplated the child he realized that Mulder, the FBI agent, would have only been a child himself during Viet Nam. It was an interesting thought and he again wondered how that could have escaped him before. There must be another Mulder, perhaps the father. He opened the small cooler on the front seat and took out a soda, then snagged a bag of chips from a brown grocery bag tucked in the passenger seat floorboard. Taking his bearings and estimating he still had about an hour and a half to drive, he munched steadily and let his thoughts return to his plans, both past and future. He'd been mistaken when he'd tried to lay the blame on Mulder. It was much higher than him. More involved. Mulder might really be just a victim, just like he was. He needed to get the ones who were really responsible. And that went back to the military. He finished his munchies, then reached out to fondle the notebook he had created, the notebook with the names and locations of as many of those involved as he could locate. He sighed to himself as he realized how very easy it was to obtain information in this light security environment of the post-cold war era. Oh, you might have to spend some time piecing things together from separate sources, but it was all there, just for asking the right questions. 'So,' he mentally shook himself, 'focus.' He would track the leaders and take them out. Then, the children would be liberated. He would test them, and if they passed, he would let them go. But if they were contaminated -- from their parent or some other source -- Harold still wasn't sure what role the extraterrestrials he had seen played -- then they would have to die as well. If he was successful in tracking them all down, eliminating the leadership, then maybe his actions would end the torment others suffered, perhaps even end the conspiracy between the government and the alien visitors. Harold smiled as he settled on his plan. Focusing on the children had its advantages. People were inordinately attached to children. If the message didn't get through when he killed the leaders, surely people would understand when the children disappeared. Harold was focused now -- he could feel the surge of righteousness, that purity of purpose that made him sure he was on the right path. He chuckled in pure delight as he thought how simple it all was. And somewhere, in the deep recesses of his mind, in the last vestiges of sanity, another part of Harold screamed wordlessly as his monomania claimed dominance over any hope of rationality. He glanced again in the rear-view mirror. The boy still slept. He would be the first. If he didn't pass the test, Harold shrugged, well, there would be others. ****************************************** Skinner was dozing lightly in an almost comfortable rocking chair next to Mulder's bed. Scully was finally asleep in the recliner he'd managed to procure for her. It folded out into some kind of bed, but she had refused to lay it all the way back, instead allowing herself to relax somewhat in a semi-reclining position. Mulder had awakened earlier, and still been disoriented. He'd recognized them both, but not known where he was or how he got there. He did, however, recognize the catheter that had been inserted, and had been quite vocal in his requests to have it removed *immediately.* Scully had used an interesting mix of cajolery, scolding, pleading, outright orders, bribery, and a healthy smattering of kisses to get him to settle back down and try to go to sleep. He had seemed on the verge of drifting off when he'd been overcome by nausea again, and they'd had to clean him up and change the bed. Settled once more, he was sleeping fitfully now, the hated catheter still in place. Scully had at last fallen into an exhausted slumber and he now sat alone, keeping the watch over his two friends. He was just beginning to drift off himself, when the door opened and a nurse peeked in. "Mr. Skinner?" she asked. She glanced down at a piece of paper in her hand. "Assistant Director Walter Skinner of the FBI?" He was rising, moving toward the door before she finished the long mouthful that was his title. "Yes, that's me," he said as he slipped into the hall. He nodded at his agent sitting by the door, then looked down the hall to the other agent stationed by the stairwell. "You have a phone call," the nurse said. "This way." "One moment," he replied. "Gerrolds, would you mind sitting inside for a bit? Scully's asleep and we don't want Mulder to move around too much. Unfortunately, he's still pretty disoriented and moving seems to be his first thought when he wakes." The agent nodded as he rose and entered the room, closing the door softly behind him. "Now," Skinner said, "a phone call?" "Yes, Sir," the young woman replied. "You can take it at the desk." Skinner followed her, grumbling about hospital policies and cell phones being turned off as he went. They reached the nurse's station and the woman handed him the receiver. "Skinner," he barked. He listened for a moment. "When did it happen?" He was silent as the other person spoke. "The general is dead? And the wife?" The nurse had looked up as he spoke, eyes wide in prurient curiosity, and he turned his back to her. "Keep me informed. I especially want to hear immediately if there is any word on the son." He snorted at the following question, then said, "No, you'll have to reach me through the switchboard. No cell phones in the hospital." He smiled at the next remark, saying, "He's OK. Well, OK for Mulder, that is. He'll live. Got a hell of a whomp on the head, concussed again, but he'll survive. Scully's with him. If he's a bit more oriented when he wakes next time, I'll come on in. Or if you need me there. In the meantime, call me here with priority items. Messenger everything you have so far over to me, and messenger me hourly updates. Thanks, Stevens. You did right to call me. If you have anything come up with any of the other names I faxed over to you, get in touch immediately." Skinner returned the phone, then said to the nurse, "There'll be a messenger with a packet of information for me. She'll be here in about 45 minutes. Please have her sent to Agent Mulder's room." The nurse was visibly bristling at being placed in the role of receptionist and errand girl. Skinner noted her reaction and moved quickly to quell the gathering storm. "I apologize for having to ask you to do this." He smiled at her. "I know it's way outside your job description, but," he pulled his useless cell phone and waved it in her general direction, "I'm really at a loss without this. If you could see your way clear to helping us out, it would be much appreciated." The woman nodded, and Skinner smiled again as he turned to walk back to Mulder's room. 'All those mandatory Bureau classes in managing people, diplomatic direction, and conflict resolution may actually have had some merit.' He smirked at the thought, then cleared his features as he entered the room. Agent Gerrolds was seated in the rocker, and Scully was still asleep. Mulder seemed half-asleep, moments of stillness punctuated by sudden, jerky movements. He nodded at Mulder, then raised a questioning eyebrow in Gerrolds' direction. "No change, Sir. He's been moving like that since you left, but never really coming fully awake." Gerrolds shot a look at Mulder, then added, "If you don't mind my saying, Sir, he seems to be in some pain." "I think you're right, Gerrolds," Skinner replied, "but as long as he's asleep, I'm going to let it be. Scully will know what to do, but she's exhausted and I'm not going to wake her unless it becomes necessary." "Wake me for what?" a sleepy voice called softly. Gerrolds and Skinner exchanged a glance, then Gerrolds slipped out of the room. Skinner stepped to Scully's chair, then squatted down beside her. "Mulder," he began. Her eyes shot to the bed, and he watched, fascinated, as her face shifted. First fear, gradually relaxing as she recognized that he was still here, still alive. Then a soft, loving look that filled Skinner with a pang of unaccustomed jealousy. How long had it been since someone had looked at him like that? And finally, the doctor appeared. Skinner could see the neutral appearance that took over her features as she began cataloging Mulder's condition, taking in monitors, watching his fitful movements. "He's in pain," she commented. "Let me check his vitals while you buzz for the nurse." She had pulled the chair back to an upright position and was sitting on the edge. He reached for the call button, slid the rocker closer to her and wordlessly pointed at her ankle, then the chair. She made a moue of disgust at him, but obediently propped her ankle on the pillow he placed in the seat of the chair. He smiled in sympathy at her, then said, "I'll go get the nurse. I need to make a phone call anyway." She nodded absently, already engrossed in Mulder's chart, and he patted her on the shoulder as he left the room. He walked briskly to the nurse's station, made Scully's request for assistance, and asked to use the phone again. The nurse pointed at the phone behind the station counter, and hurried away towards Mulder's room. Skinner slid into the work area, and lifted the phone, dialing the Hoover. "Kim," he began, when his assistant answered the phone. "Stevens is putting together information on a recent double homicide in Alexandria that may have ties to the Roberson case. Would you get Callahan and Jefferson to put whatever they have together as well, and have the courier bring it when she brings Stevens' material?" He paused, listening. "Yes, include the reports that the FICI faxed down. Good catch, Kim, thanks." He listened a moment longer, then said, "He'll be OK. And Scully is all right as well. She's tired and she sprained her ankle, but nothing life threatening for either of them." He laughed, then agreed, "Right. Not this time, that is. Thanks, Kim. Mulder's starting to wake and I want to get back in there. You can reach me here if you need me." He replaced the receiver and headed back to resume the vigil. ************************************* The boy had been a disappointment. If he was an example of what they were all like, they wouldn't last long. Harold was driving back toward DC, needing to get rid of the body, and not wanting it anywhere near his new lair. He was, of course, saddened that the child couldn't be saved, but it was rather exhilarating to watch someone else go through the tests he himself had experienced so many times. He shivered as he relived being the tester, instead of the testee. It was a heady feeling. He had the next target picked out. A retired major, a nurse who still lived in the DC area. Her children were all grown, but there were grandchildren that could be tested. Harold quivered with excitement and savored the intoxicating anticipation as he thought of his next goal. He caressed the small notebook again, his guidebook to the future. And now that he had a solid purpose, he had a solid future. He felt very focused now. He was a man on a mission. He knew his purpose and knew how to achieve it. He glanced at the small body on the back seat. It was really a shame the boy had not been stronger. But this failure could be used as a message. Where could he leave the boy so that they would understand his warning? Chapter 28 Skinner dozed throughout the night. The nurse had agreed to wake him if anything came in for him, and he managed to get several stretches of uninterrupted sleep. Scully had slept as well, curled up in the big recliner. She had been up and down through the night as well, tending to Mulder as they worked to get his pain under control. When the nurse came in to take Mulder's vitals and do his neuro check at 6:00, Skinner gave up trying to sleep, and rose. He glanced at Scully and saw that the light blanket he'd given her had slipped to the side. He pulled the blanket up gently, then slipped out to the hall in search of coffee. As he headed for the nurse's lounge to filch a cup of decent coffee, the courier came in with a cardboard box of papers and files. He shifted direction and walked over to meet her. Exchanging a quick greeting and taking the material, he headed back for Mulder's room. Scully was up when he returned, the blanket folded neatly on the back of her chair. She was reviewing Mulder's chart as the nurse took his vitals. "How is he?" She glanced up at him, smiled slightly, then looked back at Mulder who was watching her through pain-filled eyes. "He's better," she responded. "We still haven't found a pain med that he tolerates without nausea, but his doctor has an order for something new now." She nodded at the nurse, and she injected a syringe into his IV. Mulder grimaced as it flowed in, and muttered petulantly, "It burns, Scully. Why does everything have to hurt?" She chuckled as she reached out and smoothed his hair back. "Patience, Mulder," she said, "this should make you feel better soon." "Hmmpf," he snorted, "you keep saying that and I keep puking my guts up." "Give it a little longer, Mulder," she answered, her hand caressing his face. Skinner watched as Mulder relaxed beneath her touch, then grimaced again as the nurse bent to empty the urinary output bag. "Scully, please," he whined, "can't you take the damn catheter out?" "You know I can't," she answered. "You can ask the doctor when she makes her rounds in a little while." "If I get a bladder infection, I'm holding you responsible," he grumbled. Her face fell and she stepped away from the bed, still limping on her injured ankle and turned to busy herself in the papers Skinner had placed on the small table by the door. "I am responsible," she murmured, a mere whisper that only Skinner heard. He cleared his throat and both agents looked at him, but he addressed his remarks to Scully. "The papers you're looking at are everything we have on Roberson and the project. I'd like to start going through them and I'd appreciate your input." "Yes, Sir." She answered at the same time as Mulder said, "Well, what about my input? I'm not dead you know." She turned then to look at him, and said, "No, you're not, but you need to rest." "Well, I can't rest if you two are working in here," he retorted. "You might as well let me help." "NO!" Skinner and Scully answered simultaneously. "You have to let your body rest, Mulder," Scully went on. "You've had a serious trauma. I know you're still dizzy and I can tell the nausea hasn't gone away yet, despite the Compazine." He pouted, but remained silent. "And if we're going to disturb you," Skinner said, "we'll go work in the visitor's lounge." When Mulder started to object, Skinner raised his hand in warning. "I'm not going to listen to your complaints, Mulder," he said. "You're obviously feeling better because you are making a complete pain in the ass of yourself already. Now, I'd concentrate on resting until the doctor comes round, then you can ask for the catheter to be removed and maybe get an estimate on when they're gonna cut you loose." "I can check myself out," Mulder mumbled threateningly. At that, Scully swirled, her body rigid with anger, her face furious. "You try that, Mister, and I'll shoot you again, I swear I will! And it won't be in your shoulder this time." She watched as Mulder visibly recoiled before her backlash, and she softened her tone and stance slightly as she said, "Mulder, I'm concerned about you." She nodded at Skinner, including him, as she added, "The AD's worried too. It's hardly been 24 hours since you were abducted and beaten, then I nailed you with that branch. You always push too hard. Please, please, give yourself some time this time," she pleaded. Scully shot an uncomfortable look at Skinner, who moved to the table and quickly sorted out files into several stacks. Scooping two up, he said, "I'm going to make some calls and then I'll be in the visitor's lounge." He looked at Mulder, "Listen to your doctor, my friend," he admonished. He turned his attention to Scully. "Can you join me in a few minutes? I'll have coffee waiting." Scully nodded at Skinner as he slipped out the door, but her eyes were fixed on the man in the bed. Her own exhaustion was evident in her loss of control. Her eyes filled with tears and she clung to the door frame for support as she waited for Mulder's reaction to her waning tirade. "C'mere," he murmured, holding out his hand. When she didn't move, he added, "Please? I can't very well come to you." She smiled slightly at that, then hobbled back to the bed and took his hand. He looked up at her and asked, "Lower the rail, please?" She obliged and he pulled her down to sit next to him on the bed. "I'm sorry, Scully," he said, "I always seem to worry you." He tugged at her, insisting that she lay beside him in the bed. She reluctantly complied, settling gingerly against him. Then he hugged her tightly to himself, adjusting so that her head rested on his shoulder and her arm lay across his chest. "I'm so sorry, Mulder," she whispered as the tears began to fall. "I can't believe I hit you like that. I didn't even know it was you. That's three times in two days I hit you. I just can't believe I did it. I don't know what's the matter..." "Shhh," he interrupted, stroking her back soothingly. "Stop this. You were asleep the first time, and running for your life the last time. And not thinking straight the time in the middle. And, Scully," he lifted his head slightly to gaze into her eyes, "I really am OK." He gestured down at himself, taking in the bed, the monitors, the IV. "All this is precautionary. Yes, my head hurts. Yes, I'm still a bit dizzy and my stomach isn't back to it's usual cast-iron condition. But I could walk out of here now, and I would be all right." He kissed her gently, brushing her lips with his own. "You've got to believe that." She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded gravely as if finally accepting the truth of his words. He kissed her again, then pulled her head back to his shoulder. "I've got to go meet Skinner," she protested. "He'll wait," Mulder said confidently, and she relaxed into his embrace, allowing him to hold and comfort her. He kissed the top of her head, then settled back on the bed, closed his eyes, and gave a contented sigh. "If they'd let me stay like this," he murmured, "I'd stay another day without complaint." "Only a day, Mulder?" she teased. "Well, it *is* observation," he chided. He opened his eyes and looked down at her again. "Sorta puts a damper on how I'd like to spend my time." He smiled as she snuggled against him more closely, then closed his eyes and let himself drift off to sleep. ************************************************* Skinner made a note on his notepad, then closed the last file in disgust. "Incredible," he breathed. "It's the biggest knot I've ever seen. Every name leads to two more, which lead to two more, and they're all connected." He glanced up to see Scully nodding in agreement from her perch on the sofa in the visitor's lounge. She, too, had a notepad with a list of names and connections. Skinner looked down at his list again. There was a name he recognized -- John Bikowski, his old CO from his own time in Nam. He hadn't been that much younger than the young second Looey, and they had formed an odd, awkward friendship. It had strengthened upon their return when he had met John again at a Bureau sponsored social affair some years back. They'd renewed their acquaintance and kept in touch periodically, even getting together once or twice a year for a beer after work. It bothered him to see John's name in one of the files, but it was a lead and he had to pursue it. Hopefully he wasn't involved, but maybe he knew something that would be useful, or could provide additional names to look into. He cleared his throat, attracting Scully's attention, and set his pen down on the pad next to him. She made one last note, then closed her folder and took her glasses off. Skinner stood and stretched. They'd been at it for several hours now. He walked to the service cart and lifted the coffee pot. "More?" he asked, then filled her cup as she lifted it to him. He filled his own cup, took a sip, then said, "We need to compile our lists and get people running down the connections." "It's the same names, over and over again," Scully commented. "Oh, there are lots of names in here, but I've counted 10 that show up repeatedly. Colonel Kingsley and General Oldham are dead; that leaves 8 we need to be concerned about." Skinner nodded grimly. "I can get this out to Callahan and Jefferson, have them track the remaining ones down. We need to move on to the connections between the projects and the military. I've identified 4 different project names -- how many did you find?" "Hmm," she lifted her notepad, counting. "Looks like 6 for me. What do I have that you don't?" Skinner took her pad and added two more names to his list. "I'll see what I can find out on any of these. Stevens can put Research on it and we should have some information in a few hours." "How did you identify the initial folders we've been looking at?" Scully asked. "Roberson's connections. That's what Jeff and Callie were working on to begin with. I had them vary the search and pull records on anybody that Roberson had been assigned to when he was in the military. Then I had them cross-reference with others who served with Roberson, and pull the names that were common." Skinner was pacing as he talked. "We need more information. A lot of this is blacked out and I'm willing to bet the names we really need are under the black ink." He stopped pacing and looked at Scully. "Do you see the pattern? The common names tend to be medical personnel. They were running medical experiments on troops in Nam." He closed his eyes and shuddered. "And did you note how many of the men who served with Roberson are dead now? The percentage of suicides has to be off the charts." "And several of the non-suicide deaths are very strange," Scully agreed. She pulled a folder. "George Orton, killed in a single car crash. He was traveling a straight stretch of highway, in broad daylight, with nothing on either side of the road for miles, but the car was found totaled in the middle of the road, not another vehicle to be found. He was dead at the scene." "Whatever Roberson was mixed up in, whether through his knowing involvement or not, it's left a strange trail." Skinner scooped up the folders. "You done with these?" At Scully's nod, he said, "I have some preliminary information on a couple of the projects -- Invasion being the main one because we knew Roberson had been linked to that one from the last time we ran into him. I left the rest of the stuff in Mulder's room. I'll take these back, check on him, and bring the others." As Skinner walked down the hall, he saw the nurse open the door to Mulder's room, step forward and then be propelled backward as she grappled with a man much larger than her. A man in a hospital gown. A man with a large bandage on his head. A man named Mulder. Skinner broke into a trot and managed to catch them both before they made it to the floor. The nurse slipped out of his arms, leaving him to support Mulder, who was bleeding from his head wound again. "What the *hell* are you doing out of bed?" he roared at his recalcitrant agent. The man had a file clutched in one hand and was swaying even within the sturdy embrace of Skinner's arms. "I was looking at this ..." Mulder slumped to the floor, leaning up against the wall. His breathing was uneven, labored, and his eyes were unfocused. "Roberson started out to find out what had been done to him. He was looking for answers. But somewhere along the line, the search for answers became the search for who to blame. He's taking out the people he blames. He killed Colonel Kingsley, and now General Oldham. He killed the family. That's significant, Sir." Mulder was panting now, his face working furiously as he fought pain, dizziness, and nausea. "I looked at the crime scene photos. I need to see it. I need to go there. We've got to find him. Sir," Mulder reached out and clutched Skinner's shirt front, "he's not sane." He gave a slightly crazed laugh of his own. "I mean, what killer is? But they usually follow their own internal logic. Harold doesn't have an internal logic that I can see." Mulder was deadly pale, swaying on the floor, his hand still holding Skinner's shirt as he fought to remain upright and finish. His eyes were wide and his breath came in ragged gasps. "I need to see it, Sir. I need to see the scene, and I need the other files. I can't find him, if I can't see it all. He's gonna kill again. Please," Mulder's voice broke as he strained to get the last words out, "please, let me see it. I can't stop him if I can't figure it out." "Mulder!" Scully was hobbling down the corridor. "You're bleeding!" she exclaimed. "Get Doctor Martinez," she ordered the nurse. "And get him back in the bed," she commanded Skinner. She lifted Mulder's hand, then said, "You pulled the IV? Damn it, Mulder, would it have killed you to wait for the doctor just once?" Mulder blinked, coming back to himself, the frantic, pleading man of a moment before vanishing before Skinner's very eyes. "Scully?" he questioned. He looked around the hallway. "Where ... ?" He looked at Skinner, his hand still clutching the man's shirt as Scully examined the small wound on the other hand. "Sir?" He blinked then shook his head, apparently a big mistake as he immediately winced and pulled his hand from Scully to hold his temple. "How ...?" "Get him up," Scully commanded again. "We've got to get him back to bed." She rose from beside them, then reached down to help Skinner lift Mulder to his feet. Skinner was maneuvering his exhausted, semi-conscious agent back towards the door to his room, when Scully suddenly darted forward, lifted the front of the injured man's gown, and said, "You pulled the catheter too, didn't you?" "Scully!" Mulder was suddenly alert and struggling in Skinner's grasp, trying desperately to cover himself as Scully seemed intent on completing her examination in the hall. "Shut up, Mulder," she ordered, releasing the hem of the gown, and grabbing his arm to propel him forward. Since Skinner was supporting most of the man's weight, this action propelled him forward as well. "You are back to bed, you hear me?" Mulder suddenly stopped, eyes closed and fighting to remain erect. Scully yanked on him again, but Skinner spoke, "Wait, Scully, I think he's gonna be sick again." Mulder nodded and then lost everything. All over himself. All over the hall. All over Scully. And all over Skinner. When he was done, he looked sheepishly at the damage he had wrought, then said, "I'm sorry, but I found something you need to see." Skinner looked strangely at Mulder. It was as if he didn't remember the strange episode in the hall. "It can wait." Skinner looked down at himself, then at Mulder again. He was shaking, almost ready to fall over, so Skinner moved him quickly back to the room, and helped him strip the soiled gown. He was too far gone to worry about his modesty anymore, and that alone edged Skinner's concern up several notches. The nurse was back now, and she brought a clean gown which she helped Skinner slip over Mulder's arms. "The doctor is on her way to look at your wound. I'll fill your basin so you can clean up." She took Mulder's arm, guiding him and Skinner back to the bed, and this time, Mulder sank down gratefully, closing his eyes against the pain that throbbed behind them. " 'S important," he whispered. "Shhh," Scully was there now, taking charge as they waited for Doctor Martinez. "How did your head start bleeding?" "Fell," he mumbled. "Getting to the files." His eyes were still closed but he waved vaguely in the direction of the box Skinner had left on the table. Scully took inventory of the room. The IV pump had been turned off so it wouldn't beep to give him away. The hated catheter lay on the floor by the bed. The fresh gown was already soiled from the blood that seeped through the bandage and the remains of Mulder's latest sickness. She glanced down at herself. She was pretty soiled as well. The nurse returned with the basin. Scully reached out and grabbed it. "I'll bathe him. Can you get me a set of scrubs to change into?" The woman nodded and left the room. Mulder was half asleep again, eyes closed against the pain, and mumbling about something he'd found in one of the files when Doctor Martinez entered the room. She moved quickly to the bed and began to strip the bandage from Mulder's head. "Why do you have to make things difficult, Agent Mulder?" she asked good-naturedly. "I was ready to let you go, but now?" She shrugged. "Now, who knows? Now, we wait and see. Now, you must learn patience." Mulder moaned slightly as the doctor pulled the last of the bandage off. "I need to clean this again," she said, "and since you won't cooperate and rest like you need to, I'm going to sedate you before I start." The nurse was entering with the scrubs for Scully, and the doctor called her over to give the order for a sedative. She noted it on the chart, then passed the chart to the woman. The nurse left and quickly returned with a syringe. "No," Mulder protested weakly, "you need to listen to me. Roberson's dangerous." "I know, Mulder," Skinner said soothingly. "You told me. Don't you remember?" "I told you?" "In the hall, when you first came out of your room." The nurse was pushing Mulder to roll onto his side, and she injected the sedative into his hip. "Ow," he complained, "still hurts." "Stay in bed and rest, and you won't have to put up with it," Doctor Martinez responded. Mulder's eyes were growing heavy, and he looked up at Skinner one last time. "Dangerous," he said. "You gotta find him." His eyes slid shut and he was asleep once more. Scully gave a long-suffering sigh. "God, this man is stubborn." She looked at Skinner. "You need to go change." He looked down at himself. "Yeah. I'll go home and clean up. I need to check in at the office, meet with Stevens, Callahan, and Jefferson. I want to get a team together and pursue this as one case, instead of two. When I finish there, I can swing by Mulder's and get clothes for him -- for when they let him out, if he ever cooperates enough to get out -- and then come back." "I should have another set of clothes at Mulder's, if you don't mind," Scully said. "I wear scrubs enough at work; I don't want to wear them when I don't have to." Skinner chuckled. "No problem. Just keep our boy down until I can get back, OK?" She smiled in response. "I'll try, but where he's concerned, there are no guarantees." ************************************************** Skinner had showered and changed, packing a small overnight bag so he wouldn't have to go home again the next day. He had called Kim before he left the hospital and arranged to meet Stevens, Callahan, and Jefferson, as well as a liaison from the local police force that was investigating General Oldham's murder and the search for the missing child. When he got to the Hoover, the team had assembled and was waiting for him. He brought everyone up to date, beginning with Mulder's discovery that the man in Harold Roberson's cell was not Harold Roberson. The connections between Agent Scully's abduction, Agent Mulder's *meeting* with the still unknown men in uniform -- Paul Thornton being the only name, or lead, they had -- General Oldham's murder, and the missing child. He shared the lists he and Scully had compiled, making assignments for agents to find the people on the list, and put them under surveillance. He steered the local police to the murder of Colonel Kingsley several years before, explaining Roberson had been responsible then as well, and was surprised to learn they had already made the connection. They also offered him a new piece of information -- Oldham's first wife and three children had died in a mysterious auto accident. Perhaps there was a connection there as well. With all the assignments made, Skinner dismissed his people and sat thinking. Mulder was right, Roberson was dangerous. The missing child was almost certainly in Roberson's hands, and God only knew what he was doing to the boy. The experiments -- Skinner shuddered as he thought of what he had read -- that Roberson had been part of were gruesome and he prayed Roberson was not reenacting them with a child as he had attempted to reenact them with Mulder last spring. Finding the boy -- that had to be the top priority. Warning the others who had been involved, that was a close second. And last on the priority list -- figuring out who was behind whatever had happened to Harold Roberson that had spawned the monster he had become. Skinner sighed, then lifted the phone to call his old CO from Nam. The phone was answered and Skinner spoke. "John? Walter Skinner here." He paused, then said grimly, "I'm fine John, but this is really not a social call. I've got a situation that I think you can help me with. Can you meet me?" He listened for a moment, then said, "I really don't want to go into it over the phone." More waiting as the other man spoke. "All right, tomorrow, 7:00 am. By the Wall?" He was nodding as he said, "Thanks, John. I appreciate this. See you in the morning, then." He replaced the receiver, then rose slowly and pulled his suit coat back on. He'd done everything he could to get things moving for the time being. Unless a new lead appeared, or something else broke, it was time to wait and see. He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his eyes. He was tired. He was running on way too little sleep, and it looked to be another night at the hospital with Mulder. He needed to pry Scully away from Mulder and get her to do the autopsies on the general and his wife. She would know what to look for, what Mulder would need to know. He headed for the parking garage, to get his car and make the drive to Alexandria and Mulder's apartment. Scully was still pretty tired herself, he thought, as he started the car and pulled out into the early evening traffic. He busied himself with reviewing the case, retracing the steps they'd taken so far, and looking for additional avenues of exploration. As he pulled into the parking lot at Mulder's building, he realized, until something else happened or some new evidence was found, he was at a standstill. He walked into the building and made his way to Mulder's apartment. Pieces of the yellow crime scene tape were still secured around the door frame. Using the key Scully had given him, he opened the door, then froze. Directly before him was a large, black trash bag, obviously holding something. Stacked beside it were several piles of papers and notebooks. He pulled his cell phone, calling the Hoover and arranging for immediate assistance, then notified the local PD. As he waited for the first response team to arrive, he went to Mulder's kitchen and pulled a latex glove from a small cache stored in a drawer. He returned and teased the bag open, then groaned as its contents were revealed. The battered, bloodied body of a small child lay curled within. Chapter 29 "How is he?" Skinner said into the phone. "Better," Scully replied. "He's awake again, and not in as much pain. He's oriented, but still nauseated. We just can't seem to find the right drug to control the nausea. He's not responding to what I usually give him." "Can he travel?" Scully sucked in an audible gulp of air, then asked, "Why?" "We found the general's son." "Is he ... ?" "Yeah." Skinner paused as he thought of the small body crammed so thoughtlessly and uncaringly in a plastic trash bag. "We really need Mulder to look at the scene before everyone else tears it apart." Scully sighed. "All right. He can wear scrubs as well. Can you send a car for us?" "Just have Gerrolds bring you." "Oh. Right. I wasn't thinking." She paused, already struggling with the mechanics of getting Mulder out, and the potential risk it exposed him to. "Uhmm, where exactly is this crime scene?" "You are not going to believe this, Scully." Skinner gave a harsh, unpleasant laugh. "Roberson left the body at Mulder's apartment." "Oh, shit. I'm not the Oxford trained psychologist and even I can see the significance of that. Mulder is going to try to assume full responsibility for this and everything that happens from here on out now." "I know," Skinner said softly, "but we just have to make sure he doesn't." "We can try, but you know Mulder. Stubborn to a fault." "Stubbornness is strength, Scully. Don't forget that." She laughed at that and said, "Then Mulder is the strongest man I know." Skinner rewarded her with a chuckle of his own before he closed the phone and returned his attention to the body and the files surrounding it. ******************************************** "Doctor Martinez, I understand you want to keep him a while longer. Hell, I want him to stay a while longer. But it's out of our hands at this point. A child has been killed and Mulder is needed on the investigation." Scully was frustrated. Having to argue for Mulder's release in the face of the obvious -- that he still needed to be in the hospital -- made her feel extremely incompetent. And given that she had already agreed to his premature release once, with near disastrous results, she was extremely uncomfortable pressing the issue. Skinner would never have asked her to bring Mulder if it wasn't vital. Mulder was sitting on the edge of his bed, trying desperately to look as if he wasn't about to pass out, fall over, or be sick, all three of which seemed distinct possibilities at the moment. He was very aware of the internal battle Scully was waging, and knew, too, that things were critical if Skinner was sending for him in this condition. He looked at the two women squared off by the door and chose that moment to speak. "Dr. Martinez. Scully. Both of you stop talking about me like I'm not here. Don't either of you want to know how I feel about this?" Both women turned to gaze at Mulder, and he tried to pull himself slightly more erect. He flushed under their intense scrutiny, but forced himself to remain still. "Well, Agent Mulder," Dr. Martinez asked, "how *do* you feel? And you might as well lay back down; you're not impressing either of us with your macho act." Mulder sighed, but remained upright. "All right, Doctor, if I'm not fooling you, then you know how I feel. My head hurts. I feel like I'm about to fall over -- the room keeps spinning. And I think I'm gonna be heaving my guts up again at any minute." Martinez had a triumphant look on her face as she looked at Scully, a look that quickly changed to one of chagrin as she watched Scully immediately move toward Mulder. She was totally focused on him as she walked to the bed. "Mulder, maybe this isn't such a good idea if you feel so bad. Please, lay down. You don't have to prove anything to me." "Scully," he responded, taking her hand as she reached the bed. He lowered his voice, speaking only to her. "You and I both know we have no choice here. Skinner would never have sent for me if he could have avoided it. Now, do I meet the criteria to check myself out?" "Well, you're awake, you're oriented, and you're an adult -- most of the time." She smiled at him, her hand reaching out to trace his still swollen lip. He caught her fingers in his hand, and kissed them one by one. "Good. Then stop messing around with her, and get me outta here, 'k?" He gave a lopsided grin, then added, " 'Cause I gotta tell you, Scully, after we view the scene, I won't argue if you make me go to bed." The grin changed to a leer. " 'Specially if you join me." She laughed, then turned to Martinez. "We have to go. Either discharge him with orders, or give him the paperwork to go AMA. We don't care one way or the other, but we're leaving immediately." She ignored Martinez' reaction and turned back to Mulder. "Lay down for a few minutes. It'll still take a bit to get the paperwork together. I'm gonna have Gerrolds get the car and bring it to the front and I'm gonna find you a lovely outfit to wear." She gestured down at the blue scrub suit she wore. "Can you make mine green, Scully? Blue's just not my color." She laughed at him and watched as he gingerly lowered himself back into the bed, eyes closed against the dizziness. Once he was settled, she limped to the door, followed closely by Martinez. "This is that important?" the doctor asked. Scully nodded. "Critical. Mulder is -- well, Mulder is unique. He has a gift, a talent, for finding killers. If he'd talk to you about it, he'd tell you it was a curse, but whatever it is, he can find them when no one, and I do mean *no one* else can." She sighed then turned to look at Martinez. "I can't explain it all, but the man that we're looking for, well, Mulder has had contact with him before. That makes Mulder the best chance for finding him quickly, before he kills again." "Again?" Martinez looked shocked. "Yes, again." Scully was losing patience. "Why do you think the AD had guards on Mulder's room?" "I thought it was -- standard procedure," Martinez stammered. Scully softened a bit. This really must be throwing this doctor for a loop, and she wasn't the enemy after all. "Doctor Martinez," she began, "I know this situation has been stressful for you and the staff. Having the guards in the hall and couriers in and out. And I appreciate all you've done for my partner. He's not the easiest man to deal with when he's ill." "You have a gift for understatement, Agent Scully," the doctor replied. Scully smiled. "Yes. Well. We *do* need to go. Are you going to discharge him?" "Yes. Against my better judgment, I might add, but since he seems determined to go ..." "Standard head trauma precautions?" Scully asked. "Yes. And watch the wound on his head. Clean it and change the bandage twice a day. Extra-strength Tylenol for pain." Scully was nodding. About what she had expected. "And whatever you can get that works for nausea. Can you write scrips for him?" "I can if I have to, but the Bureau doctor will write for me," she responded. "Ethics." She rapidly scanned the hallway. "Now where can I get him a set of *green* scrubs?" Martinez smiled at that, and pointed to a closet at the far end of the hall. "Check there. I'll get the paperwork done and send for an orderly." ************************************************** "We're here," Scully said into the cell phone. "Stay put. I'm coming down," Skinner responded. Scully closed the phone, then reached out to restrain Mulder as he opened the door. "Skinner's coming down. You wait for him." Mulder leaned back into the seat, nodding carefully, and closing his eyes again. Scully's hand still rested on his arm, and she slid it down to his hand, twining her fingers with his. "Can you do this, Mulder?" she asked gently. He swallowed hard, then slowly nodded again. "I just want to get it over with, Scully." He opened one eye and peeked at her. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but, I'm looking forward to sleeping." She squeezed his hand, then looked up as Skinner opened the door. He leaned in to help Mulder out, and Scully turned to find Gerrolds holding her door open, waiting to assist her up the walk. She wrinkled her nose at her own weakness, but accepted the arm Gerrolds offered. Leaning heavily on the young agent, she slowly followed Skinner and Mulder up the walk and into the building. Mulder was still slightly ataxic, relying on Skinner's strength to keep him upright and moving in the forward direction. They all made it up to the hallway, which was filled with FBI agents, forensics people, local police, and the coroner. Everyone was waiting for Mulder, and the steady buzz of conversation gradually died as all eyes turned to focus on Mulder. He closed his eyes briefly to the intense scrutiny, but continued on towards the door to his apartment. He paused just outside the door, clutching Skinner's arm tightly, and closed his eyes again. "Scully?" he whispered. "I'm here," she answered from behind him. He nodded, then took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He stepped through the door, then stopped and began to survey the room. The plastic trash bag was directly in front of him, about 5 paces. There were stacks of papers, notebooks, files and folders surrounding the bag. From his vantage point of the doorway, a cursory examination revealed that nothing else had been disturbed. He took another breath, then shook off Skinner's hand and stepped forward to the bag. He dropped to his knees, swaying as he fought for balance and control. "Gloves?" he asked, reaching up behind him. A pair was dropped into his hands and he pulled them on. Scully appeared next to him, her hands gloved as well. She looked at him, took in the paleness of his face and the sheen of sweat that covered his brow, and said, "Let me open it, Mulder." He nodded gratefully and pulled back slightly. She opened the bag, rolling the sides down to reveal the small body curled inside. She sighed as she looked at the broken body, a child so young, treated so callously and then discarded as rubbish. "Can you get him out, Scully?" Mulder was green now, fighting the waves of nausea. "I need to see the wounds." She looked up at Skinner. "Have the photos been made?" He nodded grimly, then said, "I'll move him. Where?" "Just get him out of the bag so we can see him better." She looked at Mulder again. His eyes were closed, his face scrunched up -- but against the pain, or the situation, she couldn't tell. The coroner's assistant laid a piece of plastic on the floor and Skinner lifted the child and set him on it. The child wore brightly colored pajamas, decorated with trains, boats, and airplanes. He was curled into a semi-fetal position, and the body remained stiff as Skinner moved it to the matting. Scully moved in and knelt beside the boy. "He's been dead at least 8 hours; no more than 36," she commented. "He's still in rigor." She rolled the child on his back, then looked at Mulder. "What do you need to see?" "His abdomen. And his thighs." He shuddered slightly. "I know Roberson's attraction to those areas." Scully nodded and lifted the boy's pajama top, exposing his blood-covered belly. Mulder swayed again, then turned away, reaching blindly for Skinner's hands as he sought to rise. "I've seen enough. The marks are there, aren't they Scully?" One of the techs handed her a cloth and she wiped the blood away. Sure enough, there were track marks on the child's stomach. She pulled his shirt back down, then tugged the bottoms of the boy's pajamas down, revealing the burns that desecrated the formerly soft skin of his inner thighs. She covered him once more, then rose, stripping off her gloves. "The needle tracks and the burns, Mulder," she said softly. He nodded, eyes still closed. "You do the autopsy?" he asked. "Yeah," she replied. "I'll look at the general and his wife as well." She moved to stand beside him and caught his chin in her hand. He opened his eyes to look down at her. "Tomorrow. I'll look at them all tomorrow." He nodded, overcome with weariness, and Scully indicated Skinner should move him toward the door. The larger man took a few steps, still holding tightly to Mulder's arm, and Mulder followed obediently. As they entered the hall, Skinner asked, "Can I release the scene now, Mulder?" "Yeah," he said, then stopped suddenly. He looked around, suddenly lost and unsure of himself. "Scully? Am I gonna stay with you tonight?" "Of course you are, Mulder. Why would you think different?" He flushed again, uncomfortable with the question. "You were -- I mean, I wasn't..." he trailed off, confusion evident in his face. "I didn't want to impose." Scully sighed. Repairing this would take time. "You are not an imposition, Mulder. Though I am a little concerned about your safety." She spoke to Skinner next. "What are you going to do about security?" "I'll put a car outside, an agent in the hall, and -- if you don't object -- an AD on the couch." Scully laughed, and even Mulder managed a weak grin, then he said, "Well, AD, your agent is about dead on his feet. Can we go now?" "Of course. Do you need anything from the apartment before we leave?" The look of confusion was back on Mulder's face. "Do I need anything?" He turned to Scully. "My stuff -- Scully, do I ...?" Mulder was beyond uncomfortable now; he was miserable. He looked back into the apartment, the box with his things still visible in the entryway. Skinner turned and followed his line of sight to see the box Scully had brought over from her place. "We'll bring that box," he said. "That should do it." Mulder relaxed slightly, then said, "Make sure somebody feeds my fish. And I want every one of those papers and notebooks. Not copies, I need the originals. They can make copies for the records for the time being." Skinner nodded to Stevens, who was hovering in the background. "You heard the man. Originals only. Send them to Scully's as soon as the copies are made. I'll be there tonight as well. If anything else breaks, call me on my cell. At least I can turn it on now. And don't forget to feed the fish." He turned back to Mulder, still holding on to him, and began the trek back to the waiting car, and Scully's apartment. *************************************** "I can't believe he went to bed that easily," Skinner remarked as Scully reentered the living room from her hallway. "He's exhausted. And still in a lot of pain." She growled, frustrated. "I just don't understand why I can't find a workable combination of painkillers and anti-nausea drugs. If I get the pain under control, he's sick. If I get the nausea down, his head hurts. I'm running out of options." "Time heals, too, Doctor," Skinner said. "He'll probably feel a lot better in the morning." "He would, if he'd sleep. But I can guarantee he'll be up the minute the files from his apartment arrive." "We'll all be up, I would imagine," Skinner said. "Which means we should take advantage of the few hours we have now and try to sleep." His brow furrowed as he looked down at Scully's ankle, still bandaged, and still obviously giving her some difficulty. "You should get off that foot, anyway. All this moving around can't be good for it." He raised an eyebrow, silent inquiry as to his assessment. She sighed. "You're right. It does hurt. I'm almost as bad as Mulder with meds." She sank down onto the couch. "I'll join Mulder in a minute. But first, we need to compare schedules. I'm going to go do the autopsies in the morning. What's on your agenda?" "I'm meeting a friend -- from the military -- first thing in the morning. He may be able to help find out what exactly has been done to Harold and how the government fits in to all of this." "So, who's gonna watch Mulder?" "My meeting is at 7:00. Can you do the autopsies when I get back?" "Yeah, that'll work. I really don't want to leave him with anyone else yet. At least he listens to me and you -- most of the time." She smiled, then rose and said, "I've got a guest room, you know." He shook his head. "I want to be out here. I feel like I have a better grasp on anything that might happen if I'm more in the open." He gestured at her open living area, then pointed toward the door. "I'll hear the door more easily, too. Maybe Mulder will sleep through it." She snorted. "Don't hold your breath. He was already tossing when I left him." She limped slowly toward the hall, then opened the linen closet and took out sheets, a pillow, and a blanket, handing them to the man behind her. "Help yourself to anything in the kitchen, and you know where the towels are," she indicated the recently closed closet door, "if you want to shower in the morning before your meeting." He nodded, then said, "Thanks, Scully. Try to get some sleep, OK?" "You, too. And, Sir? Thank you." ******************************************** Harold had watched only long enough to see the big man, Skinner, go into the building. He was important and he would make sure the message got to Mulder. He slipped away and returned to his car, pulling out a map to trace his way to the next target. A woman again. A nurse whose name had appeared in the records repeatedly. She had left the military shortly after Nam, returning to her home in central Virginia. She still lived there, with her husband and a grown daughter who had brought two children back to her childhood home after a divorce. Harold felt a thrill of excitement as he thought of being the one to do the tests again. He could almost understand how the ones in charge, the leaders, like Cheryl Watkins, could do the things they did. There was an intoxicating pleasure in being in charge for a change. He stifled his growing anticipation, reminding himself that the testing was not his main purpose. It was the message. The message of what had been done. The message of what was still happening. The message that it all had to stop. The message was the important thing. It was too late for the adults. They wouldn't understand the message, no matter what he said. They would have to be eliminated. But the children. If the children were strong, like he was, they would survive the tests, and they could help spread the message. And if they were weak, he shrugged, then they would *become* the message. ******************************************* It was almost three in the morning when there was a knock on Scully's door. Skinner was up in an instant, gun in hand as he walked to the door and peered through the peephole. A young agent, she was new and Skinner couldn't remember her name, stood in the hall with a box of papers. He pulled the door open and beckoned her in. "Just put that on the chair there," he waved his gun in the general direction and was amused to see the agent's eyes widen as she took in the incongruity of seeing her new boss, barefoot and dressed only in sweat pants, giving her directions as he waved his weapon. "There's another box, Sir," she said nervously. "And there's also the material that was in Agent Mulder's room at the hospital? Agent Gerrolds had me bring that as well. I just couldn't carry it all in one trip." "It's all right, uh ..." Skinner paused apologetically. "Jacobs, Sir, Sara Jacobs." "Yes, well, Jacobs, sorry about that. I won't forget again." "It's all right, Sir, I am still pretty new. And we only met once. But let me run back down to the car and get the rest of the boxes now." Skinner looked down at his own bare feet, and waged a quick battle between the opposing forces of sexual equality, his own standards for treating women, even women who worked for him, and the more selfish matter of his own comfort. His standards won, and he said, "Just a minute, Jacobs, let me get my shoes, and I'll give you a hand." "No, Sir, that's not necessary. I'll be right back." Before Skinner could say another word, she had darted out the door and was gone. There was a laugh behind him, and he turned to find Scully standing in the hall, watching him. "Just couldn't let her go without offering, could you?" she teased. "It's the way I was raised," he growled. "I don't mean anything by it." "I know," Scully murmured. "I was laughing at Agent Jacobs. She reminds me of myself. I was always so afraid that if I let anyone, especially a man, help me with anything, it would hurt my credibility as an equal in their eyes." "I can't imagine anyone seeing you as anything but equal, Scully," Skinner responded. "Well, you might be surprised. You've always been very fair-minded, but not everyone is like that. And really, the FBI has to be one of the biggest bastions of the 'Old Boy's Club' left." She snorted in disgust. Skinner walked over to help her to the couch, but she shook off his offer of assistance. "You still don't accept help very easily, Agent Scully," he grumbled. She looked up, a slightly abashed expression on her face, and smiled. "Sorry." She took his arm and made her way to the couch. "I am better than I used to be. Now I let the deiner move the 200 pound bodies for me." Skinner smiled and nodded his head toward the bedroom. "Is he still sleeping?" "He was. How long did we get?" She looked at the watch on her arm, then muttered, "Four hours." She shrugged. "Well, that's better than it could have been. God, I'd kill for coffee." She started to rise but Skinner stood first. "As an expression of my non-sexist attitude, I'll get the coffee." He smiled then padded into the kitchen, his gun tucked into the waistband of his sweats. She heard cabinets being opened and shut, and the water had just been turned on, when there was another knock at the door. Skinner was back before she could get off the couch, and was peering through the peephole again, his weapon once more in his hand. He opened the door, sliding the gun back into his pants, then turned to take one of the two boxes Jacobs had balanced precariously in her arms. Just as he started to grab one, she stepped forward, tripped on the rug, and the top box slid off, hitting the floor with a loud crash. The crash was echoed a second later from the bedroom, and Scully and Skinner both raced to see what had happened, Skinner beating Scully as she was still hampered by the sprained ankle. Mulder was just getting to his feet when they reached the door, and he looked up sheepishly at them. "Um, sorry. Guess I'm still a little dizzy." He rose slowly to his own feet, and reached out to the bed for balance. "I take it that crash in the living room wasn't an emergency?" Skinner shook his head. "Agent Jacobs was delivering the material you requested." "Guess it's a good thing I woke up then, huh?" Skinner shook his head ruefully. "That's debatable, Mulder. How do you feel? Are you up to looking at the stuff Roberson left?" "Do I really have a choice?" Skinner shook his head slowly, "No. Unless you are too incapacitated to handle it, then, no, there is no choice." He turned to Scully. "I'm gonna go reassure Jacobs she didn't kill Mulder and send her home. I'll finish the coffee, too. Can he," he flicked his thumb over his shoulder, "have some?" "Yes," Mulder answered. "Absolutely not," Scully said simultaneously. She focused her attention on Mulder. "You're still off caffeine, Mulder." To Skinner, she added, "There's juice in the fridge. He can have a glass of that." Skinner nodded and disappeared back up the hall. "Ah, Scully, you're no fun," Mulder whined. "How am I supposed to function on juice?" Scully smiled at him. "Hey G-man, never mind the juice. You're doing pretty good at staying on your feet over there." Mulder looked down at himself, surprised. "Yeah, I am." He lifted his hand and touched his head gingerly. "Still hurts though, but I'm not as dizzy." He stood still for a minute, taking inventory. "And I don't feel like I'm gonna heave any second anymore. I'm sorta hungry, but I don't want to eat, if you know what I mean." "Give it a little more time, Mulder," Scully said. "Your appetite will come back." She could hear the door close in the living room. "That should have been Jacobs leaving. Let's go see what she brought us, OK?" They made their way to the living room and Scully sat on the couch. Before Scully could say anything, Mulder had snagged one of the boxes and placed it on the coffee table before the sofa. He sat in the middle of the couch, eyed the box, then glanced at Scully. Bending over carefully, he lifted her foot and placed it in his lap, his fingers lingering on the skin above her ankle. They exchanged a long look, then Mulder rubbed his hands together and said, "Let's see what Harold has left for us, shall we?" Chapter 30 It was cold in the early morning, and Skinner shivered within his trench coat as he waited for his friend to show up. He paced silently before the black granite of the Wall, his feet making ripples in the low hanging fog, as he slowly read the names of fallen comrades. How many of the names in the folders, the suicides and unusual accidents, were really names that should be here, victims of a nation's tragedy? He was lost in thought, mourning again for the boys who had died in a faraway land, for what seemed a faraway cause. His reverie was broken when a voice said, "You never really get over it, do you?" He shook his head, and both men stood in respectful silence for a few moments. Finally, he turned, and forced himself to smile in greeting. Extending his hand, he said, "John. Thank you. It was good of you to come on such short notice." "Well, it seemed rather important from your tone, Walt. What's up?" Skinner looked around, then began to walk. "John, I'm investigating a case. A man we arrested last spring who escaped. There were some mitigating circumstances with regards to his mental state and he was sent to the FICI, but apparently never arrived." At his friend's questioning look, he shook his head. "Long story -- lack of time. Anyway, this man has ties to Nam. From the same time we were there. He may have been involved in something called Project Invasion." He stopped and turned to face the other man. "John, your name was in the records, too." Bikowski blanched and took a step away. He was shaking his head as his hand scrubbed his face. "I thought they were dead," he whispered. "I thought they were all dead." Skinner's face hardened and he reached out and gripped the older man's arm. "Tell me, John. I need to know." Bikowski shook his hand off and snarled, "No, Walt, you *don't* need to know. You're not cleared; hell, I'm not cleared anymore. It was a long time ago and it's over." Skinner stepped forward again, a menacing presence to the smaller man. "It's not over John. This man, Harold Roberson," he watched as Bikowski's eyes widened in recognition, "is killing people. He almost killed two of my agents 6 months ago. He kidnapped a woman who works for me, a doctor, and now he's leaving dead children in my other agent's apartment." He narrowed his eyes and dropped his voice to a growl. "I *need* to know." Bikowski was still struggling to take in all that he'd heard. He looked at Skinner and asked, "Children?" Skinner nodded grimly and watched as his former CO paled even further, his eyes closed against the vision the words called up. "John," he softened his tone, "you may be in danger. He's not just killing people involved in these projects, he's killing their families as well. I can't help you if you don't talk to me. Now, how involved were you?" "I've got a family, Walt. You know that. Marian and I married late. We only have the one son -- Thomas. He's twelve. What do I do? How do I protect them?" "Talk to me. Tell me what you know. I'll get you protection." Bikowski stood silently, eyes closed as he weighed his options. Skinner waited patiently, knowing the man would talk, but letting him come to that realization himself. At length, the older man opened his eyes and looked away, across the open expanse of land toward the Capitol. "Roberson was a point man in Gerry Oldham's unit." "Oldham? He stayed in and made General, right?" Bikowski nodded. "Why?" "He's dead. It was his child that was left in my agent's apartment." Bikowski shuddered, then went on. "Roberson was weird. Used to disappear for days at a time and then show up, all spaced out and totally stoned. The guy used to burn himself. Some big show of fearlessness or something. I didn't know how Olds put up with it. "We were on leave together one weekend, down in Saigon, and we got to talking about it. I told him about McNamara." He turned to look at Skinner. "You remember Mac, right?" "Killed on patrol. I was supposed to be out that night. I remember." Bikowski was shaking his head. "Not killed. Missing, presumed dead. Big difference." "That's not what you told us." "I told you what I was ordered to tell you." "So what happened to Mac?" "He was a pothead. Stoned all the time. More trouble than he was worth." "What happened to Mac?" "You can't run a unit with someone like that. I mean, everyone was using, but not continually, not like Mac." "What happened to Mac?" "I was drunk in Saigon, with Olds, and I asked him about Roberson. Why the hell did he keep him in the unit when the guy went missing for days at a time and then stayed stoned when he was around? He just laughed. Told me it was a special project." "John, what happened to Mac?" Bikowski glanced at Skinner, then his eyes darted away. "I told Olds I had a special project of my own - McNamara. But I didn't want mine to come back." His eyes returned to Skinner, pleading. "I was drunk. I was 26 years old, responsible for all those lives, making decisions that had people live or die. I didn't mean it. I just ..." He turned away again, coughing into his hand to cover a choked sob. Skinner reached out and gently turned the man back to face him. "John. Tell me what happened to Mac." The man's face was a mask of anguish. "I don't *know,* Walt, I just don't know!" He pulled away again, turning to bury his face in his hands. "I just don't know." "I was supposed to be on patrol that night. You pulled me for guard duty and sent Mac." "I got an order, McNamara on patrol, Skinner on guard. I followed orders." "Who gave the order, John? Was it Oldham?" "No, it came from Command." "Who?" "Mitchell. Major Mitchell." "Mitchell?" Skinner was puzzled. "Mitchell wasn't Command. He was ..." Skinner's eyes widened and he drew a deep breath as things became clearer. "He was Medical." ********************************************** It was the middle of the night now, and Frank Watkins was dead. Sandy Manetti, the daughter, was dead as well. They had gone first. Cheryl Watkins was pleading for her grandchildren. And Harold Roberson was rapidly losing patience. None of these people seemed to be able to see the big picture. All they could see was their precious families. All they wanted was to protect their own. Couldn't anyone see that he was trying to protect the world? A sudden knife of pain stabbed through his head and he clutched his temples in agony. Protect the world. That was what he was doing. It seemed so clear a minute ago. What was he trying to protect the world from? He shook his head, trying to clear it. He would put an end to what was happening. Then people would believe him and he would be a hero. But what was it, again, that was happening? There was a noise in the background that was making it hard to think. He looked around and saw the woman, still babbling before him. "They're babies," the woman begged. "Please, please, leave them alone!" She was crying, sobs torn from the bottom of her soul, and part of Harold wanted to take pity on her and grant her request. But another part of him thought how unfair it all was. No one had ever tried to save him. No one had taken pity on him when he had sobbed like that. No one listened to him when he begged and pleaded to be spared. He glanced at the children. One really was a baby -- still not walking. Maybe 6 months? He wasn't sure. He just wasn't good at estimating children's ages. The other one was about the age as the general's son. The little one was in one of those fenced pits -- a playpen, and couldn't get out. But he'd had to gag and tie the older one. He turned back to the woman kneeling before him. Really, she hadn't aged well at all. She must be in her late fifties and she looked every bit of it. 'Well,' he thought smugly, 'that's what comes of a guilty conscience.' "You were part of it," he accused, suddenly angry again, any vestiges of sympathy he may have felt washed away in the wave of rage that swept over him. "I wasn't," she wept. "I don't know what you mean! I was just a nurse. I took care of the men going home, and the ones going back!" "You were there. You remember. You were part of the experiments. You were the one that used to keep us awake." He shuddered as the memories rose to the forefront. "You wouldn't let us sleep -- for days at a time it seemed." Her sobs were louder now, and her head hung low, resting on her chest. "I didn't know! I was only there for 8 or 10 hours at a time! I didn't know you weren't sleeping when I wasn't there! It was Doctor Mitchell. I just did what Dr. Mitchell ordered." She lifted her face to him again, tears still flowing freely. "Please, don't hurt the babies." Mitchell? Mengele Mitchell? Oh, man. She was right. It was Mitchell. How could he have missed that? The name had to be in his book. He looked at the woman kneeling on the rug, the rug that was covered with her husband and daughter's blood. "ENOUGH!" he roared. "Stop that wailing!" She choked on a sob, and begged again, "Let the children go, please. Please ..." She just would not listen. He reached out and cuffed her, hard, the blow knocking her over onto her dead husband's body. With her hands bound behind her, she would have trouble pulling herself upright again. Maybe that would keep her quiet so he could think. He pulled his little notebook and looked at the names on his list. Bikowski was next, but maybe he was going about this in the wrong order. Mitchell was number one. Maybe he should be working from the top down, instead of from the bottom up. His head was hurting again now. The woman was still crying as she struggled back into a kneeling position. Falling against her husband had seemed to put an end to any hope of rational behavior from her. She was babbling, sobbing hysterically now. Her noise was distracting him. He couldn't focus on what he needed to do if she wouldn't be quiet. And she obviously wasn't going to accept her responsibility in all this. He looked at her, eyes narrowing as he realized she just wasn't going to help him at all. With one swift movement, the knife flashed out, and the noise stopped. ******************************************* While Skinner was at his meeting, Scully had made a phone call. Reaching the office of the Lone Gunmen, she had given a brief overview of what was happening to Byers, and put in a request for some "research" on the projects, the people involved, and anything else the guys could dig up. She, Skinner, and Mulder had worked through the night. Mulder had insisted on reading every one of the notebooks, papers, and files Harold had left for him, and was only about halfway through. Scully had continued working through the material the hastily assembled task force had provided, and she had put together an impressive list of interconnecting names, all government, most military at one point or another, and a large percentage medical in some capacity. She'd identified two project goals, one with regard to sleep deprivation, and one regarding pain tolerances. She'd also come across a link through a number of different files, that when put together, indicated that Mulder's father may have been tangentially involved in providing 'merchandise' for parallel experiments, as well. She had not shared this information with her partner yet, and she wasn't sure she was going to. Mulder groaned, and she looked up, watching as he pulled off his glasses and gently rubbed his temples. He looked up and caught her staring, smiled, then rose cautiously to his feet. She started to rise as well, but he waved her back down. "I'm better, Scully, really. Not dizzy at all." Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him, and he answered her silent inquiry. "Really. See?" He made a quick circle standing in the same place, then looked at her again, smiling. "Head still hurts some though." "You can have some more Tylenol," she offered. "I'm gonna hit the bathroom first, then I'll take a couple. And Scully? Could I have a cup of coffee now? Please?" She smiled at the little boy quality in his voice. He certainly knew how to get his way around her. She looked up at him. "A few more hours, Mulder. When Skinner gets back, and *after* you eat something solid, OK?" He frowned, but nodded in acceptance, then padded off to the bathroom. She returned to her piles and papers, and was rapidly absorbed in reading again. She had just opened a new folder when she was jarred from her note taking by an urgent, worried call from Mulder. "Scully -- uh, could you come look at something for me?" Mulder? Asking for help in the bathroom? This could not be good. She got up and moved quickly down the hall. She rapped once, then stuck her head in the door. "What? Are you all right?" Mulder was pale again, paler than he had been in a while now, and a worried frown creased his brow. "Uh ..." He colored slightly, then pointed down at the toilet. "I think I'm bleeding." She hurried in to look and, sure enough, the water in the bowl was tinged red. "Oh, Mulder," she sighed. "I should have known. Is this the first time you've gone since you pulled the catheter?" He hung his head and nodded. "You probably broke the skin a little because you didn't deflate the balloon before you pulled the damn thing out." She sighed again, exasperated this time, and moved back to the doorway. "You'll be all right, but it may hurt for a few days till it heals." "It already hurts," he whined. "It burns." "Consider it your penance for lack of patience." "Scully! How can you be so callous?" "You get in enough trouble without your self-inflicted problems, Mulder. You've really got to learn to be a better patient." He looked at her then, grinning wholeheartedly. "Hey, doc," he said, "Wanna help me learn to be a better patient?" He motioned at himself. "Maybe you could -- you know -- examine me or something." His grin turned into a full-fledged leer, and she frowned to cover the giggle that threatened to emerge. It just wouldn't do to encourage him. "I don't think so, G-man. I've already checked you out and you're out of commission for a while." The giggle broke through and he laughed with her, then stepped to the door and gave her a quick hug. "OK, you win," he said, conceding graciously. "I don't think I'm up for anything anyway. But I would like a shower, if I can get my doctor's approval for that." She patted his arm, then said, "Keep your head out of the water, make it fast, and I'll change your bandage when you're done." "Deal," he replied, then kissed her quickly and pushed her out the door, shutting it almost in her face. "But I get privacy!" he called through the now closed door, and she laughed again as she returned to her couch and her notes. ******************************************** Skinner stopped by the Hoover after his meeting with Bikowski. He had learned that John had had some distant contact with Mitchell over the years, mostly in the form of occasional contracts thrown to his consulting firm. John had admitted he hadn't been totally convinced he'd just gotten lucky and been low-bidder, but had not wanted to rock the boat, especially in the early years when he was just getting established. Skinner had used the older man's sense of honor and his guilt to persuade him to set up a meeting with Mitchell. Bikowski should be calling before noon with particulars. In the meantime, he wanted to check in with his team before heading back to free Scully up for the autopsies. Several phone calls and a hurried meeting later, he was on his way out the door when the phone rang again. He paused waiting to see if Kim was going to put it through. She was excellent when it came to knowing who to screen and who to let in. The phone on his desk buzzed again, and he walked back over to lift the receiver, once again trusting his assistant's judgment. "Skinner," he said. "Ah, yes, Sir, that'd be who I'm looking for," a deep voice with a heavy Southern accent replied. "This is Sheriff Hunter Talbot, down 'yere in Cumberland County. In Virginia?" "Yes, Sheriff. How can I help you?" "Well, Sir, I am in receipt of your advisory requesting information on unusual murders in Virginia or Maryland." "And ..." Skinner prompted. "Well, I've got one." Skinner perked up immediately. "Where? When?" "Here in Cumberland, the city, that is. Well, the outskirts of the city. That's why I'm involved. You see, Sir, the city does have a small police force, but when something happens on the outskirts ..." Skinner interrupted, "Sheriff? The murders, please?" "Ah, yes, the murders. It is a puzzlin' one." "Could you tell me about the murders, Sheriff?" Skinner was rapidly losing patience with the fabled Southern long-windedness. "I've got me three dead people. Frank and Cheryl Watkins, and their daughter Sandy. Such a shame, too. Nice people. Cheryl done lived here all her life. Came home and married Frank after serving in Viet Nam back in the sixties. Been here ..." "Viet Nam? Sheriff, this is important. Was she a nurse in the war?" "Why, yes, Sir, she was. Came home and married Frank. They were high school sweethearts, I guess you could say. Frank couldn't serve 'cause of flat feet. But Cheryl, she..." "Sheriff," Skinner cut in again. "How were they killed?" "Knifed, I reckon. That'd be the most obvious cause, less'n it was something cain't be seen." "Look, Sheriff Talbot," "Call me Hunter, Sir." Skinner shook his head in frustration. "Sheriff," he repeated, "I'm sending a team down. Don't move anything that hasn't already been moved." Skinner was unfolding a map and measuring distances. "Two, two and a half hours, tops. Wait for us, before you do anything else." "This fit your profile, Sir?" "It certainly sounds like it, Sheriff. My profiler needs to view the scene as is, with the bodies in situ -- in place, that is." Skinner winced at his gaffe, hoping he hadn't offended the man. "Yes, Sir, in situ. Anything else we need to do?" "Just hold the scene for me, and try to keep this quiet for a bit longer. I'll be in touch when we're almost there for specific directions to the crime scene. How can I reach you?" Talbot reeled off a number and Skinner scribbled furiously. "Thank you, Sheriff," he said. "I need to mobilize my team now, but we'll be in contact shortly." He went to hang up, but halted in mid-movement at the anxious voice that reached his ears. "Mr. Skinner, Sir?" He brought the phone back to his ear and impatiently asked, "Yes, what is it?" "What do you want us to do about the children?" Chapter 31 They were traveling through the Virginia countryside, about 20 minutes from the crime scene in Cumberland, when Skinner's cell rang. It was Bikowski. "I've got another murder, John," the AD said. "A nurse who worked Nam for a couple years. I'm in Virginia, but I'll be back by 7:00 this evening. Get Mitchell to come to the Hoover then. You, too. We've got to get to the bottom of this if we're going to put an end to it." He listened for a moment, then spoke soothingly. "I've already put agents at your house, John. Look out the window -- you should see the car at the curb. "Yes, twenty-four hours, until this is resolved. I'll see you tonight, John." He closed the phone and sighed. He looked over his shoulder towards Mulder and Scully in the back. Mulder was sporting a new bandage, and the swelling on his face was almost gone. The previously vivid purple and red bruises had faded to lighter greens and yellows -- a sure sign of healing. His eyes were closed, but Skinner was sure he was not asleep. More likely, he was mentally preparing himself for the trip into Harold Roberson's mind. His hand clutched Scully's, and his fingers twitched periodically. When that happened, she would speak softly to him, and Skinner could see the man's tension ratchet down a notch or two. But despite Scully's efforts, Mulder was wound tighter than an overstrung violin, and proximity to the scene was only making it worse. He cleared his throat. "Did you two eat anything this morning?" he asked. The driver, Gerrolds again, shot the AD an incredulous look before returning his eyes to the road. "I can't eat, Sir," Mulder mumbled, eyes still closed, hand still holding onto Scully. "It's all right, Sir," Scully said. "This is probably not the best time to be eating right now anyway. But," she directed her comment to Mulder though she was answering Skinner, "we *will* eat after we leave the scene." Skinner watched as Mulder winced but remained silent. He dug in his pocket for Sheriff Talbot's number, then opened his cell again and placed the call. After getting the directions and passing them on to Gerrolds, he asked if there was any word on the children's location. He was surprised when his answer came from the back seat of the car. "You won't find them down here, Sir," Mulder said. His eyes opened and he asked, "Did you put someone at my place? I don't think he'll go back there, but just in case." "One moment, Sheriff," Skinner said into the phone. "Yes, Mulder, I've got a couple of people at your apartment. Why do you think he won't go back there?" Mulder shrugged. "Just a hunch at this point. I may know more after we view the scene." Skinner returned his attention to the phone. "My agent doesn't feel that the children are in the immediate area, Sheriff." He paused as the sheriff spoke, then said, "Yes, the profiler. We'll hope to know more after we see the Watkins' house." Skinner closed the phone, then turned in his seat to observe his agents in the rear. He watched as Mulder closed his eyes again, and returned to his mental preparations, face screwing up in -- what? Fear? Disgust? Anger? All of the above? Well, anger and disgust were understandable, but fear was something else. "Mulder," Skinner said softly, and waited until the man opened his eyes and looked at him. "You are not going in there alone, you understand? Scully is here. I am here. You are not doing this alone." Scully smiled at him then, and Mulder's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. He took a deep breath and murmured, "Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir," his eyes holding Skinner's for a moment. "You can take a break, leave or ask for help -- whatever help you need," Skinner looked pointedly at Scully and Mulder's intertwined fingers, "at any time. Just remember, you are not alone, and," he flushed slightly and glanced at Gerrolds from the corner of his eye, "you are not to leave us, physically, or mentally, got that?" Mulder gave a small, tight smile, and responded, "I'll try, Sir, on all counts." They pulled into the driveway of a mid-sized suburban home, and were greeted by the sheriff. The forensic van was behind them and agents from two other cars piled out as well. Within moments, the yard was swarming with people and equipment, as Skinner made the introductions. "SAC Stevens, my lead man on this investigation. Special Agents Jefferson and Callahan -- they did the preliminary investigative work into our suspect's whereabouts. Special Agent Scully -- our pathologist. She'll need directions to the morgue when we're done here. I want her to do the autopsies." "I don't know how our coroner will feel about that," the sheriff commented. Skinner's face tightened, but he forced a smile. "Sheriff, I have been most impressed with the level of interdepartmental cooperation you have shown thus far. And especially appreciative of the lack of jurisdictional argument. Let's not change that now, shall we?" The sheriff snorted, then said, "They teach you to shovel that shit in FBI school?" "As a matter of fact, yes, they do," Skinner replied, a genuine smile on his face now. "It's a management requirement." Everyone laughed at that, except Mulder. His attention was focused on the front door, and he was slowly taking one or two steps at a time in that direction. Between each forward movement, he'd stop, staring at the door, then force himself to move again. Scully hurried to catch up with him, and the sheriff asked, "That your profiler?" "Yes," Skinner said shortly. "Agent Mulder. This is a difficult job for him." Talbot was nodding. "Not surprised. I've heard they take this kinda thing right into them. Must be pretty hard." Skinner looked at the sheriff, surprised by the man's level of understanding, then nodded gratefully. "If you could keep your people away for a bit, Agent Mulder prefers to work with a minimum of audience." The sheriff was nodding again, and turned to speak to a deputy. Within minutes, brown shirts were filing out of the house and moving to lean against or sit in cars. Mulder reached the front door, and stopped. "Hey, Scully?" he whispered. "I'm here, Mulder." "I'm gonna go in now. You, uh, wanna come with me?" His voice was hesitant, unaccustomed to asking for help in these matters, but there was an undercurrent of pleading that rang through clearly to Scully. "Wouldn't be anywhere else, partner," she answered. They stepped in together, and Mulder froze. The living room was a charnel house, blood covering many of the surfaces, two bodies lying in the middle of the room, another slightly off to the side, near an empty playpen. "Cause of death, Scully?" "Sheriff says knifing. Want me to look?" He nodded and she asked, "You OK?" He nodded again and she walked to the body by the playpen. A cursory glance told her the sheriff was probably right in his assessment. A quick look at the other two confirmed it. She walked back to Mulder, observing him closely. His eyes were wide, but unfocused. It was as if he was taking in the whole room at one time, but not really seeing it. Was he visualizing what had happened in this room? "Mulder?" she said softly, and he started when he heard his name. "It does look like they bled to death from multiple stab wounds." He nodded again, then said, "I need to think for a few minutes." She patted his arm, then stepped to the side and slightly behind him, out of his range of vision. She had been standing there for about 10 minutes when Skinner quietly entered the room and joined her. The two stood together, watching Mulder, staring at the bodies and the blood, and exchanging increasingly concerned looks. Mulder shivered within his suit coat, then folded his arms tightly about himself. He stood unmoving for nearly twenty minutes, eyes staring unseeingly at the vision before him. He suddenly looked up and asked, "Did he leave the weapon?" Skinner shook his head and Scully answered quietly, "No. No weapon." Mulder was still directing his comments to the air before him, his back rigid, arms still circling his chest. "Was it a big knife, Scully?" "The blade was fairly large from what I could see, yes. I'll know more after I complete the examination." Mulder was nodding. "I have to go look at them," he said, but he made no effort to move. Scully and Skinner exchanged a quick glance, then Skinner stepped forward and said, "I'll come with you." Mulder shook his head. "I can't explain it, but I need to be alone with them." He shuddered, then stepped forward and began the short journey to the first body -- the woman lying near the playpen. There was blood everywhere, and he stepped carefully to avoid treading in it. When he reached the young woman, he rolled her over, so that she was lying on her back, and knelt beside her. He stared at her eyes for a long time, then gently reached out and touched her face. He moved his hand and began to stroke her hair, brushing it away from her face. His own eyes were glazed, and he began to rock in place, then began to mumble inarticulately under his breath. Scully moved closer to hear what he was saying and Skinner followed her. His garbled mutterings slowly became coherent thoughts. "She wasn't first. The man was first. He had to take out the man first, then he could get the women. But she resisted. Her children. The baby was in the playpen. She just wanted to get to the baby." His voice broke and a single tear rolled down his cheek. He rocked faster, his movement becoming almost violent. "He thought she was trying to run, and so he came after her. He was angry. That's why there are so many wounds -- so much blood. But she just wanted to get to the baby." His hand was still stroking the dead woman's hair and his breath caught on a ragged sob. "She just wanted to protect her children. She only wanted to protect the children." He grew silent again, and the frantic rocking began to slow. He eventually stilled, then settled back on his haunches, his fingers still twined in the woman's hair, blood streaking his face where he had rubbed his eyes as he spoke. He closed his eyes, and Scully and Skinner could see him drawing away, the inward focus consuming him. They let him sit like that for some time, exchanging increasingly worried glances until Scully finally could take no more. She knelt beside him, then reached out and gently touched her partner, murmuring his name. He was cold, like ice, and she unconsciously jumped slightly at the chill feel of his skin under her fingers. "Cold," she said to Skinner, and he nodded and removed his own coat, wrapping it around Mulder. He didn't respond -- not to Scully calling his name, or to the additional warmth the coat offered. He was lost in a trance- like state, seemingly sliding away from friend and lover as they watched. Scully took his hands, prying them from their nest within the dead woman's hair, and began to rub the frozen digits in her hands. Skinner knelt beside his agents, taking one of Mulder's hands from Scully and beginning his own warming massage. He was taking his cues from Scully, watching her to see what to do next. She was talking to Mulder, murmuring softly, repetitive phrases meant primarily to draw him back to the here and now, to ground him in reality. It took some time, but slowly Mulder began to respond. His eyes cleared first, and he actually looked at them. Then he spoke haltingly, "I can see it." His eyes were haunted, and tears threatened to spill over at any moment. Skinner dropped Mulder's hand and rose quickly, pulling the younger man to his feet, retaining his grip on his arm as he swayed slightly. Skinner reached down again and pulled Scully up, and watched as she stepped beside Mulder and wrapped her arm around his waist, offering him her support. He shuddered again, then closed his eyes. "He just came in and killed the man. One wound, right, Scully?" Skinner looked at her in time to see her shrug helplessly. "I'm not sure, Mulder. Do you need me to look now?" "No. I know. There's only one wound. One strike, between the ribs and into the heart." Mulder's hand was moving, mimicking the action he was describing. "The blood spurted out, over his hand, warm and sticky, and the odor filled his head. He pulled the knife, hard to the right, extending the cut." Mulder opened his eyes, huge, pain-filled orbs, and said, "That's why there was so much blood. He liked the blood. "It scared the daughter." He gave a short, bitter laugh. "Shit. I guess that's an understatement. She ran to the baby, and Harold misunderstood. He thought she was trying to get away." Mulder closed his eyes again, face screwed up against the images unfolding in his mind. Skinner wondered if the man was actually having visions, or just making connections in a way that went far beyond what most could do. However he did it, it was an incredible ability. Skinner had no doubt that the murders had occurred just as Mulder described. "He was angry. He chased her down." Mulder's eyes opened, and he pointed at the bloody footprints traced on the rug and floor. "She reached for the baby, and he stabbed her in the back." His arm was moving again, a repeated stabbing motion, and his face was blank. His voice had dropped to a dull monotone as he gave his recitation. "She fell and he just kept stabbing and stabbing and stabbing. She rolled to get away from him, and he stabbed her chest and abdomen too. She was crying, and the baby was crying and the older child, too. There was just so much noise." He lifted his hands to cover his ears, then shook off Skinner's grip and stepped away from Scully's partial embrace. Scully looked at Skinner and mouthed, "Blanket," and he nodded. She turned and stepped out of the room. Mulder walked to the two bodies in the center of the room. He stood over them, looking down at Cheryl Watkins. He put his hands behind his back, imitating the position hers were in, then knelt awkwardly on the floor. He remained on his knees, motionless, eyes closed again, as he relived an experience he had never had. He was pale, his face a sheet, and beads of sweat adorned his brow. He swayed and Skinner went to stand over him, ready to catch him if he fell over. Mulder opened his eyes, then looked pleadingly up at Skinner, who was looming over him. "She begged," he said. "It was the worst for her. She begged for the babies. Her husband was dead. Her daughter was dead. But she was just a distraction for him. He thought she was what he wanted, but it wasn't. She wouldn't be quiet, so he made her. He made her be quiet." Mulder was panting as he spoke, his voice a ragged whisper now, and his chest heaved as he struggled to get the words out. "Mulder," Skinner said, extending his hand downward. The agent's eyes were staring through Skinner and he was quite sure Mulder did not even see him. What demons did the man see? His breathing was growing more erratic and Skinner reached out to touch him, to give him a physical connection to hang on to. The man was like ice, his skin clammy and the beads of sweat cold as Skinner brushed them away. "Mulder," he called again. When he received no response, no recognition, he knelt down in front of his agent, his profiler, his friend. Mulder's neck was still pulled back, his eyes focused upward at something only he could see. Skinner slid to the side and gently placed a hand on Mulder's shoulder. "C'mon, Mulder," he said, "you've done enough here." "The baby is dead," Mulder said in that same dull monotone. "He'll leave the baby in a medical facility. Try Walter Reed." Skinner blinked in amazement, then shook himself. His eyes flicked down to the agent's hands, still clasped tightly behind his back, and he was shocked to see blood dripping from his wrists. Abandoning any pretense of gentleness, he leapt back to his feet, roaring "Scully!" as he wrenched Mulder's arms apart and pulled them back to the front of the man's body. Scully came hurrying in, blanket in hand, and gasped as she looked at Mulder kneeling on the bloody rug, his eyes staring unseeingly at the ceiling, his hands held firmly in Skinner's grasp. The older man lifted them slightly as he looked at Scully. She stared at the blood dripping from beneath Mulder's cuffs, then looked at Skinner again. "What happened?" "I think he clawed his wrists open," Skinner responded. She turned her attention to the kneeling man. "Oh, Mulder," she breathed. "Everything is so hard for you, isn't it?" She gently wrapped him in the blanket, then took his hands from Skinner. "Get my bag, please?" Skinner nodded and ducked quickly out of the house. Scully knelt in front of Mulder, cradling both his hands in her lap. She stroked his face, his arms, his shoulders, and spoke to him. "Mulder, partner, come on back to me." He tensed at her voice, then slowly brought his head down until he was looking at her. "Scully," he croaked. He blinked in confusion, then looked down at himself. His pants were covered in sticky, almost dried blood from where he had been kneeling. His shirt was smeared with the blood of the dead as well as his own fluids that had dripped from his mutilated wrists. "Scully," he said again, "I'm dirty." "Shh," she murmured, "it's OK. You can change. We'll get you more clothes." He looked down again, then said, "Not my clothes. My head. He's in there." He pulled his hands from Scully's lap and gripped his head tightly. "I'm dirty," he sighed. "I don't think I'll ever be able to get rid of him." She reached out and tugged his hands free, holding him just above his still bleeding wrists. "Hush now," she whispered. He turned his haunted eyes to her, then twisted his hands within her grasp. Lowering his gaze, he stared at his palms for a long moment, then murmured, "Their blood is on my hands." He shivered violently, then leaned forward, and she caught him in a tight embrace. She rocked him slowly, still whispering soothing noises to him. They were in that position when Skinner came back in with her bag. She looked up at him over Mulder's head, where it was snuggled against her shoulder. "Help me get him out of here." Mulder shivered again within her grasp, and she added, "He's got to get out of here. Now." Skinner nodded, then bent down and bodily lifted the younger man to his feet. Scully scrambled up beside him and between the two of them, they walked Mulder to the door and out into the sun beyond. Stevens and the sheriff moved forward, Stevens asking, "Can I help, Sir?" "No, thank you," Skinner responded shortly. "Let the techs in now. Mulder is done." He looked around. "Where is Gerrolds? We're heading back to DC immediately." Scully shook her head. "No -- not yet. A motel." "A motel, then. What's close, Sheriff?" "And a store, Sheriff? Where I can get him some clean clothes?" The sheriff looked at Mulder, sagging heavily between the AD and the small woman doctor. Not a job he would want. Ever. If getting the man some clean clothes would help, well, it was the least he could do. "C'mon," he said. "I'll take you. Your man Gerrolds can stay and help here. I'll take you over to the Days Inn, then I can run up to Wal-Mart and get your boy here a sweatsuit or something." He turned and lead the way to his cruiser. He opened the back and watched as the two gently settled the profiler into the seat. The woman hurried around to the other side and climbed in beside him, pulling him down into her lap, and resuming her nonsense noises. The AD shut the door, then got into the front. The sheriff settled behind the wheel, took one more look in the rear-view mirror at the man in the back, and breathed a sigh of relief that he didn't have to journey into a murderer's madness to do his job. ************************************************ Mulder was sleeping now. He had been slightly more alert when they reached the hotel, following Scully obediently into the bathroom and letting her strip him down and shove him under the steaming water of the shower. He had stood there for a long time until the warmth finally began to break through the cold that had gripped his soul. He had finally emerged to find Scully standing by the sink, patiently waiting for him. He took the towel she extended then stepped to the toilet. "Uhm, Scully? Give me a minute?" She gave him an appraising look. "You look better but I'm not leaving." "Scully ..." "Me or Skinner, Mulder. You're not going to be alone for a while." "Turn your back then," he said, too tired to fight. She obliged and then whirled again when she heard his sharp intake of breath as he began to urinate. "What?? What's the matter?" "Burns. I told you." "So you did. I'll see what I can get you for that, OK?" He nodded, then asked, "Clothes?" She handed him new boxers, then a pair of sweat pants, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt. He was almost dressed, seated on the now closed toilet putting on socks, when there was a knock at the door. "Everything OK?" a deep voice called. Scully opened the door, and Skinner stood there, a worried frown creasing his brow. "Help me get him to the bed. I need to change his head bandage and wrap his wrists." "I can get myself to the bed, Scully," Mulder said petulantly. He rose quickly, then reached out blindly for the wall when a sudden wave of dizziness overcame him. He was teetering, black spots dancing before his eyes, when a pair of strong arms caught him, holding him tightly and steadying him. "Slowly, Mulder," Skinner said, "let's get you over to the bed." Mulder nodded this time and walked carefully to the bed, Skinner's hand on his arm the whole way. He sat and silently let Scully change the dressing on his head. He held out first one, then the other hand for her to wrap the wounds he had caused on his wrists. As she finished, he looked up and whispered, "I didn't do it on purpose." "I know, Mulder," she responded. "I don't even remember doing it." "Shh, it'll be all right. It's not as bad as it looked." She looked at her watch, then said, "We need to leave by 4:00 or so for the AD to make his meeting with Mitchell. Can you eat something?" Mulder blanched at her words and shook his head. "All right," she sighed. "You can slide for now, but I want you to sleep for a few hours and you *will* eat when you wake up, OK?" "I'll try, Scully, that's the best I can offer." She leaned down and kissed him softly. "I'll always take what you offer, partner." She kissed him again, slower, longer, deeper, and his eyes widened in surprise. He glanced uncomfortably in Skinner's direction, and caught the approving look the AD gave just before he turned his back and busied himself with some papers at the table. "What was that for?" he murmured. "I want you to remember why it's a good idea to stay here. I don't want you to forget what you've got here, what we've got. I don't want to lose you, not to anything, but especially not to a nightmare like Roberson." He pulled her to him, and this time he kissed her. "I'll remember," he vowed. "I could never forget this." She settled him in the bed and sat beside him until he fell asleep, then moved silently to the small table where Skinner sat. "Anything?" she asked. "I had them search Walter Reed for the baby's body, but they didn't find it." Scully slumped, then brightened slightly. "Maybe the baby is still alive." Skinner shook his head. "I had them search Bethesda Naval, too." "And?" "In an old duffel, in the laundry room." "Dead?" "Oh, yeah." "Oh, God." She looked at her partner, sleeping peacefully for a change and shook her head sadly. "He's gonna be so upset." "We need him to write it up." "I know." She shuddered, then turned to Skinner and gave a weak smile. "Can it wait till we get home?" Skinner nodded. "Yeah. It can wait that long. How long do you want to let him sleep?" "I *want* to let him sleep until he wakes up rested for a change. But I imagine he'll be awake well before we need to wake him. Let's just wait and see what happens." "I'll go for food," Skinner said. "I called Stevens and had a car brought over while Mulder was in the shower." She nodded in agreement. "Chinese? You can get him egg-drop soup. He might be able to get that down and keep it there." "All right. I'm gonna go back to the scene for a while, then find the food. I'll be back around 3:30 or so." He rose and walked to the door. "You should rest, too, you know." He smiled warmly at her, then laughed as she blushed. "I was planning to." Skinner waved and disappeared out the door. Scully stood watching the door for a moment, lost in thought, then kicked off her shoes and crawled into the bed. Even in sleep, Mulder reached out to her, pulling her into his embrace, and nuzzling her hair. "Scully," he sighed contentedly. "I'm here, Mulder," she whispered, "I'm here." Chapter 32 Skinner was once again met with a scene of industrious activity when he returned to the Watkins' home. Local deputies and FBI agents swarmed in the house and yard as samples were taken, pictures made, and any potential evidence collected. He scanned the street and saw that interviews were being conducted on two porches, and that was just what he could see from the yard. Stevens had his people working furiously on gathering every scrap of information that could potentially prove useful, and Skinner found himself anxious to let the man know he approved of the job he was doing. As he exited the car, the Cumberland sheriff walked over and inquired after Mulder. "Asleep," Skinner replied. "Yes, but how *is* he?" the man persisted. Skinner stiffened and stared at the man, but only saw sincere concern in his eyes. Mulder had suffered enough, both from using his abilities as a profiler, and from the concurrent or subsequent reactions it frequently caused in other law enforcement officials, but this man seemed genuinely interested in Mulder's welfare. "He's exhausted," he said simply. "It devastates him. I don't understand what he does, but it absolutely tears the man apart." "But you're there to put him back together," the sheriff continued. "Agent Mulder is my employee, and my friend. I am responsible for his welfare." "Don't get all stiff with me, Mr. AD," the sheriff said affably. "I'm not implying anything. I just meant that I was impressed with what little I saw of your man's commitment, and equally impressed with the support you and the lady doctor provided for him." Skinner relaxed marginally, then said, "Agent Scully and Agent Mulder are partners. They've been together for almost 6 years now, and have the highest solve rate in my unit." The sheriff was nodding. "They work well together, then." "The best." "Well, I never did hold with the idea that people involved with each other shouldn't be partnered." Skinner's eyes widened in surprise as the big man went on. "I mean, the argument is that if you're involved with your partner, you'll be worrying more about keeping him or her safe than about following good procedure yourself." He snorted. "But have you ever seen a good partnership where that *wasn't* the case?" Skinner relaxed all the way now and smiled. He genuinely liked this small town sheriff. He seemed to be a good officer, had an incredible understanding of people, and was open and honest. It was a refreshing change from his usual dealings with other jurisdictions. "That was certainly true of those two long before they became *involved,*" Skinner responded. "Sheriff, I appreciate your concern, and," he waved at the numerous brown-shirted deputies who scurried about, carrying equipment, holding lights, and taking notes for the agents who were working the scene, "your department's cooperation and assistance. I'm going to need to leave in a few hours and I'm going to ask you to continue to assist here, if that's all right with you?" The experienced law enforcement professional was back as the sheriff replied, "Yes, Sir. We all knew Frank and Cheryl, -- he pronounced it Shurl -- and a lot of us either watched Sandy grow up, or grew up with her. We want to see the bastard that did this brought down." "So do we, Sheriff, so do we." "Did your profiler tell you anything useful?" Skinner grimaced, then nodded slowly. "He thought the baby might be dead. Told us to check military hospitals." The sheriff closed his eyes as he asked. "And?" "We found her. Bethesda Naval, in Maryland." The sheriff gave a little shake and both men stood in solemn silence for a moment, mourning a life ended before it could begin. The sheriff finally said, "Your other murders were in the DC area, too, weren't they?" Skinner nodded. "Man must have a lair somewhere up there then. Somewhere close, within a few hours. Hell, we're not really all that far away when you think about the size of the country." Skinner looked at the sheriff. A lair. Not the cabin -- Roberson would never be careless enough to go back there. But he was familiar with the territory. And it was within a few hours drive. "You may be more right than you know, Sheriff," Skinner said. "I'll talk to Mulder about it when he wakes up. Good catch, by the way." The sheriff flushed slightly, pleased with the praise. "Well, now," he said, deflecting attention from himself, "what is it that you need from me?" "I'll be taking Agent Mulder back to DC, but Agent Scully will be staying to do the autopsies. I'm planning to leave one of my agents to drive her back afterward, but I'd appreciate a guard or two, and a full time escort. She's already been abducted twice by this madman." "No problem, Sir. I'll put two deputies on them, and I'll do escort duty myself." Skinner held out his hand. "Sheriff Talbot, it's been a real pleasure meeting you and working with you. I'm just sorry it was under conditions of the loss of your friends." The men shook hands warmly and Skinner walked off to confer with his ASAC on immediate plans. ******************************************* Another one was dead. Harold finished wrapping the small body in a plastic shower curtain, and stowed it in the trunk. His initial hope of saving the children was not working out at all. This one had fought him -- and fought him hard. He'd even bitten him. Harold looked down at the small row of teeth marks on the back of his hand. The child was evil, no doubt about it. They were all weak, and gave up way too easily. But this one was just plain evil. There really hadn't even been any point in trying to save this one. Well, there was nothing to do but keep trying. You just couldn't give up on children. He'd seen on the news where they'd found the baby. He wondered if Mulder had made the connection to the Navy hospital. But the larger question loomed now; where to leave this one? He was driving back to DC, sure that the right place to leave his message would be revealed to him. His mind would go foggy every now and then, and it would be difficult to think. His head was hurting again, and his purpose was not so clear. What message was it that he wanted to convey anyway? He shook his head, then pushed the worrisome detail away. It would come. It always did. In the meantime, he needed to plan his next move. He was going to go straight to the top -- Dr. Mitchell. No one would call the doctor by his nickname to his face, but he had earned it by his participation in government sponsored tests on cold water survival -- Mengele Mitchell. Those tests were documented, publicized, and apparently legit. The volunteers had been real volunteers and had been free to withdraw from the studies at any time. It was one who had exercised that option who had given the good doctor his nickname. And now, Harold was planning on visiting the man. His name had appeared repeatedly during the course of his research. Much of the so-called 'testing' seemed to have been ordered by Doctor Mitchell. Harold stopped, a new thought flashing through his mind. He pulled over to the side of the road, and frantically dug out his battered notebook with his list of names and addresses. Mitchell lived in Georgetown. His wife was deceased. A teenaged son still lived at home with his father. Georgetown. University of Georgetown. That was where he would leave his next message to Mulder. If the man was as smart as he seemed, he would know what Harold was saying, and he would be able to end the torment that was still going on. ******************************************* Mulder's nose itched. He reached up to rub it and found his hands tangled in hair. Without opening his eyes, he knew it would be a burnished auburn swath of hair flowing from the woman who lay curled in his arms. He tightened his hold slightly, and allowed himself to slip back to that wondrous place between sleep and wake, where things were good, and he was happy, and life was peaceful. He felt Scully shift against him and knew she was waking, too. "Hey," he whispered hoarsely. "Mmmm," she responded sleepily. "You awake?" "No," she responded, and he laughed softly. "Well, me neither, but, I need to know something." He looked down and saw her peeking at him through one partially opened eye. "Where are we?" "Days Inn - Cumberland." "Why?" "You were pretty stressed, Mulder." She was coming fully awake now, moving within his embrace and she turned first to face him, then to sit up next to him. "I didn't want you making the trip back to DC until you rested and got something to eat." At the mention of food, Mulder groaned. "Scully, you know how I am about food at times like this." "I do know, Mulder." She shifted slightly away, then folded her legs under her, sitting Indian style. She reached out and took his left hand, her fingers gently tracing the bandage that covered his wrist. "But you have to make an attempt. I'm worried about you." He turned his arm and caught her hand in his own, then pulled it to his lips, kissing her palm. "And here I thought you were the one having problems with Roberson." She sighed. "I'm not totally comfortable with all this, no. But I think you are more at risk now than I am. And since there is very little I can do to reduce that risk, I am going to make sure that you take care of yourself, so that you don't find yourself weakened or compromised by your own stubbornness." He nodded, looked at his wrists and saw only the wrappings, then asked, "What time is it? And where's my watch?" "I've got your watch, and it's almost 3:30. Skinner will be back any minute. He's bringing lunch." Mulder pulled himself up to sit in front of Scully, crossing his legs as she had. He reached out and took both her hands in his. "What happens next? I need to get back to DC." "I know," she said. "And I need to do the autopsies here." She cocked her head as she thought. "I also need to do the autopsies on General Oldham and his wife, but they've waited this long, they can wait a bit longer." "So you're going to stay?" "Unless you want to let the locals do the bodies." He shook his head. "No. I need you to do it. You know what to look for. I don't think there'll be any surprises though. They were all pretty straightforward kills." He sighed. "I just don't like the idea of you being down here by yourself. I don't think Roberson had targeted you last time, but I don't want to take any chances." "I'll be all right, Mulder. Don't fuss." He snorted. "And exactly what is it called when you are worried about me?" "Concern. Caring. Love." "So why is it when I worry about you, I'm fussing?" He gave her a lopsided grin to show he wasn't angry, but waited for her to answer nonetheless. "OK, OK," she smiled. "Point taken. Maybe Skinner can have someone stay with me. How's that?" "Not as good as me staying with you," he leaned forward and kissed her gently, "but it'll have to do." He placed his forehead against hers, and murmured, "Please be careful." "You, too," she whispered back. "You, too." ************************************************** Mulder and Skinner were back at the Hoover shortly before 7:00. As they waited for Bikowski and Mitchell to arrive, Skinner told Mulder they'd found the baby's body. "She was in an old duffel bag in Bethesda Naval." Mulder nodded. "Interesting. Navy, not Army. I wonder why?" His eyes took on that faraway look as he worked to put the pieces of the puzzle together. "Oldham was Army. Watkins was Army. Mitchell was -- is -- Army? Why Navy?" He looked at Skinner then asked, "Do the Marines have a medical corps?" "No. We use the other services. Why?" "Well, Marines are more closely aligned to the Navy, right?" Skinner nodded, hesitantly, but furrowed his brow in query. "Maybe he went to Bethesda because of a Marine connection." Skinner blanched. "Mulder, John Bikowski was a Marine. My old CO, remember?" "Do you have a guard on him?" "On his house, yes. On him? No." "Well, when he leaves here, be sure and put one on him." Skinner nodded, then jumped slightly as his phone buzzed. "Skinner," he snapped. "Security, Sir. I have two gentlemen to see you." "Can someone escort them up?" "Yes, Sir." Within minutes, Mitchell and Bikowski were in the office. Bikowski introduced Mitchell and Skinner introduced Mulder. "Mulder?" Mitchell asked. "I know that name." "Agent Mulder is the agent who discovered Harold Roberson was missing. He is also an experienced profiler and is assisting us in the capacity." "No, that's not it." Mitchell closed his eyes, thinking, then shook his head. "Never mind," he said. "It will come to me." He pointed loosely at Bikowski. "John was most forceful when he extended his invitation that I accompany him tonight. What exactly can I do for you, Mr. Skinner?" Skinner produced the lists he and Scully had compiled and showed them to Mitchell. "Doctor," he began, "we have identified six different projects, which we feel are interconnected, and which Roberson seems to have been involved in. We need to know what the projects were, how Roberson was connected, if Roberson is still involved. We also have a list of names of people we believed to have also been involved in these projects. Your name appears repeatedly in all the files we cross-referenced. Other names appear with varying degrees of frequency. There is a distinct possibility that anyone on that list may be at risk from Harold Roberson." "At risk? What do you mean?" Skinner looked at Bikowski. "You didn't tell him?" Bikowski shook his head. "I wanted to be sure he came." "Tell me what?" Mitchell demanded. "Harold Roberson has killed an active duty Army general and his wife, and a former Army nurse, and her husband and daughter. The general's young son was also killed, though not at the same time, nor in the same manner." Mulder was talking, relating the facts in a dispassionate voice, trying to keep himself separate from words he was speaking, the story he was relating. "The former nurse -- I believe she served with you in Viet Nam, Doctor -- Cheryl Watkins, was just killed last night. Her grandchildren were abducted. The baby girl was found this afternoon -- dead. The boy is still missing." Skinner was observing Mulder closely. He spoke quietly, but his left hand was clenched tightly into a fist, and his jaw muscles twitched periodically. He was pulled from his musing on what more he could do to assist Mulder when Mitchell began to speak. "I have been involved in a variety of special projects throughout my career, Mr. Skinner. Most of them were classified, and have remained so. I must confess, I am both amazed and impressed you have been able to put together this much information." He indicated the lists that lay on Skinner's desk. "However, as much as I might like to assist you, I am not able to discuss these items with you." "Doctor Mitchell, I understand the need for security. However, I hold the highest clearances, and can assure you that anything you say will be held as strictly confidential as possible." The doctor was shaking his head. "It's not that simple. These projects fall well within the realm of national security, and remain classified to today." Mulder spoke again. "They remain classified because they are still active. Or at least some of them are. Isn't that correct, Doctor Mitchell?" "I am not at liberty to discuss that, Agent Mulder," the doctor replied formally. Skinner could see that Mulder was growing angry. "Can you discuss your son's safety, Doctor?" the younger man snapped back. "Because Roberson kills the people he thinks were involved," Mulder looked slyly at Mitchell, "or *are* involved, but he *tortures* the children." Mitchell started slightly at the word 'torture,' but quickly regained his composure. "Mr. Skinner, Agent Mulder, I don't believe there is anything I can offer to assist you." He glanced covertly around the room, almost as if scanning for listening ears, then added, "I can only say that you are not the only people searching for Roberson, and I have every faith that he will be found, and soon. And now, gentlemen, I need to go. My son is playing tonight and I promised I'd be there before the game is over. Good night." Mitchell turned quickly and left, before anyone could protest. "Should I have him stopped on the way out, do you think?" Skinner asked. "No," Mulder replied. "He's not going to talk unless he has a better inducement than we can provide. He doesn't strike me as being empathetic to other people's pain. Can you put a tail on him?" "Already arranged. And a car at his house." Bikowski had remained silent through the entire meeting. He looked at Skinner and asked, "This man Roberson is not going to just go away like Mitchell says, is he?" It was Mulder who replied. "I don't think so. I think Harold has been killing specific people for specific reasons, and I don't think he's going to stop until he gets his point across. And I don't think he's going to be very easy to catch this time either. Not unless he decides he wants to be caught." "Walter," Bikowski was speaking again. "My family. What do I do? I'm not involved and haven't been for over 20 years." "We'll keep an agent at your house, and I'll put discreet surveillance on you, your wife and son for the time being. It's going to feel a bit like living in a fish-bowl, John, but it's better than being totally vulnerable." ******************************************** Mulder was sitting on the couch in Skinner's office, nibbling at some crackers Skinner had put beside him. He was reading the notebooks Roberson had left, trying to determine what was rooted in fact, and what was a madman's fabrications. The notebooks told of medical experiments, repeated injections into the abdomen of unknown substances, of being kept awake for days on end, of painful burnings and electric shocks that ended only with unconsciousness. Mulder was pretty sure these things had occurred in some form or another. They also told of powerful conspiracies, of whispered conversations where the takeover of the world was discussed. Of a secret military that was set to emerge and enforce martial law when the day came. Of aliens being experimented on, and aliens being the experimenters. Mulder was less sure of these, but felt that there was some truth in them somewhere. He finally completed the last notebook, closed it, and rose. He walked to the window and stood looking out over the lights of the city. As Skinner watched, he could see the man's thoughts turn inward, the steady drawing away from the world as his focus shifted totally to whatever was happening in his mind. As Skinner watched, Mulder's hand began to tremble. The tremor crept up his arm, across his shoulders, and down the other side. Before Skinner realized what had happened, the man was shaking uncontrollably. Suddenly, he turned and rushed to the wastebasket next to the desk, and was violently ill. He half stood, half leaned, his arms on the desk supporting himself, as he struggled to regain control. Skinner stepped to the small washroom and wet a paper towel in cold water. He filled a paper cup and returned with both. Placing the cup on the desk, he handed Mulder the towel, then took his arm and led him gently to the couch. After seating the man, Skinner reclaimed the cup and offered it to Mulder. Mulder wiped his face, then took a few sips. He leaned back onto the couch, resting his head on the back and stretching his long legs out in front. "I hate this," he muttered. In a louder voice, he said, "Sorry about that, Sir." "Don't worry about it, Mulder," Skinner responded. "But I do need to know. What made you sick? Was it what you were thinking about, or are you having a recurrence of the nausea and dizziness from your head injury?" Mulder just shook his head. "I'm OK, now," he said. Skinner walked over to the couch and knelt in front of Mulder. "Don't do this, Mulder. I don't have the time or energy to play games with you. I want a straight answer and I want it now, or you'll be explaining to Scully why you're getting sick in my wastebasket." Mulder closed his eyes and breathed a heavy sigh. "I *really* hate this," he muttered again. Skinner softened his tone and reached out to awkwardly pat the younger man on the knee. "I know you do." He paused, then rose and took a seat on the opposite end of the couch. "But I still need to know what just happened, and why." "I'm really tired," Mulder admitted. "And I don't feel like I'm getting anywhere on this." "You knew where the baby would be," Skinner said. "I knew where the *dead* baby would be," Mulder corrected. "That's not exactly helpful information. And I don't have a clue where the other child is." Mulder shuddered. "But I suspect I know what the child is going through." His eyes filled with tears and he brushed them angrily away. "And I can't do a *fucking* thing to prevent it." "Mulder," Skinner rose again. "It's not the most comfortable couch in the world, but I want you to lay down and try to take a nap. Until we hear from Scully, there's not much else you can do." Mulder was shaking his head -- no -- and he started to rise, but Skinner gently pushed him back down. "That was not a request, Agent Mulder," he said firmly. "You are of no use to anyone if you can't function. I want you to rest until Scully calls. If it's 15 minutes or two hours, I want you to try to get some sleep." He looked sternly at the worn down man before him. "And you never answered my question about your head." "It hurts," Mulder muttered sulkily. Skinner stepped back to the washroom and filled another cup with water. Opening a bottle of Tylenol, he shook out two, then pulled two prescription bottles from his pocket and added another pill from each. He returned to the office and offered both cup and pills to Mulder. Mulder looked up, eyeing him suspiciously. "What is this?" "These two are Tylenol." Skinner pushed two pills away from the others. "This is something Scully had the Bureau doctor fill for you for some discomfort you are having. She said you'd know what it was for." Skinner raised an eyebrow, but Mulder remained silent. Mulder took the Tylenol and the other pill, swallowing them down in a single gulp. "And that?" Skinner sighed again. "Xanax. Scully thought it might help you rest." Mulder was shaking his head vehemently even before Skinner finished speaking. "No. No way. Absolutely not. Those things make me fuzzy and I need a clear head. I need to be able to think. If we're going to find that little boy, I've got to put things together and make sense of this. I can't afford to be all whacked out on meds." Skinner nodded. "That's what she said you'd say. But I'm telling you that if you don't lay down and rest, I'm going to be inclined to try to force-feed you this little pill. You said it yourself. You're at a standstill. Why not rest and come at it in a few hours with a fresh perspective?" "Fine," Mulder said grumpily. "I'll rest for a while. I need some time to put the stuff I read together anyway. But I want to know the minute Scully calls." "All right, Mulder. I'm going to sit in Kim's office for a while and make a few calls. You'll hear the phone when it rings, OK?" Mulder agreed and leaned back again, closing his eyes. Skinner rose and went to his desk, surreptitiously turning the ringer on the phone off. He grabbed a few files, a notepad, and his cell phone and slipped out the door. He sat at Kim's desk and began to work on recompiling the list and developing a projected target ratio. But his mind was not on the task at hand. He was thinking of the man in his office. He sighed. There was nothing he could say that would ease the man's pain. He was still grappling with what to do, what to say, when his cell rang. Opening it quickly to stifle the noise, he answered, "Skinner." "It's me, Sir," Scully replied. "Gerrolds and I are on our way back. Nothing unexpected in the autopsies. I'd say the wound patterns support Mulder's hypothesis of what actually happened. How was your meeting?" "A bomb. Didn't gain a scrap of useful information beyond confirmation that Roberson was involved in some kind of covert project or projects, and that we are not the only ones looking for him. All of which we knew before." He snorted in disgust. "And still no word on the other child." "How's Mulder?" "I made him rest. I tried to get him to take the Xanax, but he refused. It did give me enough leverage to get him to agree to rest until you called." Skinner chuckled. "But I turned off the ringer in the office. "You can wake him when you get here." "I should be there in about 2 hours or so." "Dana? Um, maybe you could try to catch a nap as well?" Scully laughed. "You only call me Dana when you're worried about me. But in this case, don't be. Despite my nap this afternoon, I'm dead on my feet and planning to let Agent Gerrolds do all the driving while I get as much sleep as I can. I still have to do the general and his wife when I get back." "Mmm. Maybe not tonight. And I'm glad at least one of my two hotshot agents is being sensible. Rest well and I'll see you in a couple hours." Skinner had no more closed the phone than it rang again. He opened it to be met with a hysterical male voice, babbling in his ear. "He's gone. Didn't come out from the gym. I should have waited for him. I didn't think he'd go after me. Not me. Didn't go after me. Went after Michael. He's gone. What do I do now? He's gone ..." The voice trailed off into loud sobbing and Skinner listened for a moment longer then said, "Dr. Mitchell? Is that you?" There was an audible sniff, then a muffled voice said, "Yes. And he's gone. Michael. My son. He's gone. Roberson has my son." Chapter 33 Skinner made arrangements for a team to collect Mitchell and start an investigation into his son's disappearance. He was trying to get as many of those details taken care of as he could before he woke Mulder. The younger man would have to be informed of this new turn, and he would probably end up directing the investigation. He closed his phone after the last call, and sat, slumped, in Kim's desk chair. He was tired, too. He'd been going nonstop it seemed like since this whole thing began. He sighed. No time for this. He'd wake Mulder and see if he had any ideas beyond what Skinner had already done. He glanced at his watch. Scully should be here in another hour or so. In the meantime, he needed to get Mulder up, put him back to work, and keep him functioning. The case was taking its toll on him already, and he was not fully recovered from his most recent injuries. He was pushing back from the desk, in the process of rising, when his phone rang again. "Skinner." "Assistant Director Skinner?" "Yes. Who is this?" "Um, I'm Sergeant Lascano, Georgetown Campus Police." Oh, God. Skinner could feel it coming. They'd found one of the missing children. "Yes, Sergeant?" "Well, Sir, the Georgetown police told us about an advisory you put out? On a missing child?" "Yes?" "Well, I don't think he's missing anymore." "Alive?" "Oh, no, Sir. Definitely not alive. To be frank, we're not equipped to handle this kind of thing." "I understand. I'll be over shortly, and send several of our people as well. Are the local police there?" "Yes, Sir. Their detectives arrived just a little bit ago." "Don't -- DO NOT -- let them touch the body or move the body or even get near the body! Do you understand, Sergeant?" "Yes, Sir, I'll do my best." "Just make sure your best is successful. I need the scene undisturbed. Have someone meet me at the campus entrance. We'll be there shortly." He closed the phone, then lowered his head to the desk. Children's deaths were the hardest. Mulder would not take this well. He was ready to rise and go and wake the man, when he heard a noise from the doorway. Looking up, he saw Mulder standing there, clutching the door, face pale. "Where?" he whispered. "Georgetown University." "I need to find him," Mulder murmured. "He's talking to me and I don't understand." Skinner rose wearily and walked to the doorway. He gripped the younger man's arm, waited until he met his eyes, then said, "You're doing the best you can. The man is insane. You can't be expected to understand that." Mulder stared into Skinner's reassuring eyes, then nodded slowly. He dropped his head and asked quietly, "Scully?" "About an hour away. We'll call her from the car." He walked briskly into his office and picked up both his and Mulder's coat. Returning to the doorway where Mulder still stood, he handed the agent his, and said, "Now, let's roll." ******************************************* As they drove to the university, Skinner filled Mulder in on Doctor Mitchell's missing son and what he had done to try to locate him. "You need to keep a close eye on Mitchell. If Roberson has the son, and he stays true to his pattern, he won't kill him, until he kills the parent. If we can keep Mitchell alive, maybe we can save the boy." They reached the university and were quickly taken to the building where the boy's body had been found. Mulder stepped slowly out of the car, then walked up the steps and into the corridor. Following their escort's lead, he went down the steps and into the basement. As they walked through a rather narrow corridor, his steps began to slow, and Skinner moved up to be a bit closer to him. "You OK, Mulder?" he asked. The agent nodded and hurried forward to follow the security guard around a corner. There before him was the eviscerated body of a small child, neatly laid out on a plastic shower curtain. The curtain rested on a wooden sign that had been laid on the concrete floor. Mulder stopped abruptly and Skinner almost knocked him over. Straining slightly to see over Mulder's shoulder, Skinner took in the gruesome sight and the deliberate placement of the child. There were several campus cops off to the side, talking quietly with two men in suits whom he assumed to be the Georgetown detectives. The FBI agents he had had paged should be here any time now. He touched Mulder on the back, briefly, then slipped by him to go and talk to the detectives. As he introduced himself and exchanged what information could be exchanged this early in an investigation, he kept a close eye on the man he'd left standing at the corner of the hall. "A profiler?" one of the detectives asked curiously. "This a serial killer?" "In a manner of speaking, yes. Though really it's more a man committing multiple murders. We know who we're looking for; we just can't find him!" Skinner heard the frustration in his voice and made a deliberate effort to regain control. As Mulder began to move into the room, Skinner turned to face him fully, watching his every step. Behind him, he could hear the one detective whispering to the other. "You ever seen a profiler in action before?" The response must have been negative because the first speaker went on. "I did. Once. Years ago. Just like this guy. All spaced out like there wasn't anybody else in the room. Then he started talking, saying what the killer had been doing, why he was doing what he was doing. Talking like it made perfect sense for a man to be killing teenage girls." Skinner glanced over his shoulder in time to see the speaker shudder. "It was spooky," the man finished, and Skinner winced. He stepped forward, both to distance himself from the men behind him and to be closer to Mulder in case he indicated he needed something, or had something to say. But Mulder wasn't talking this time. And, as Skinner observed him closely through narrowed eyes, he really wasn't all that 'spaced out.' He looked, well, he looked *sad.* And guilty. Mulder walked over to the child and studied the careful display of intestines that surrounded the small body. The gaping hole in the abdomen was partially covered with a newspaper, the wording obscured by blood. "Gloves?" he asked, holding out his hand. Skinner looked up, caught unprepared, but one of the detectives produced a pair of latex gloves and Mulder pulled them on. He lifted the paper carefully and set it to the side. "This needs to go to the lab. I need to know where it came from and what it says. And I need to know *now.*" He squatted down beside the child, reached out and gingerly grasped the edge of the plastic curtain, then tugged, pulling the body off the wooden sign. "Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?" one of the detectives demanded. "We don't have photos yet!" "Sorry," Mulder mumbled perfunctorily. His attention was on the sign now. Georgetown Testing Center. "The first child was in my apartment. A blatant plea for my attention. OK, he's got my attention. The second one was in a hospital. A military hospital. A Navy hospital. And now a university. A testing center. What the hell are you trying to tell me, Harold?" Mulder remained beside the sign for a moment longer, then rose. "When does Scully get here?" he asked Skinner. "I'm here, Mulder." He whirled and saw her standing behind him, Agent Gerrolds still in tow. "Scully! I need to know if anything is missing." She cocked an eyebrow at him. "You know -- anything inside." She nodded. "Guess you want me to get started." "Can you? I mean, if you're not too tired." "No, I'm fine." She smiled at the slightly panicked look that crossed his face. "Really, I'm OK. I napped in the car. Wasn't much company for Gerrolds here." She smiled at the young agent. "Is the van on the way? I can get started as soon as we can get the body out of here." "Um, Scully? I really don't need a full exam. I just need to know if anything is missing. Could you, like, look around inside?" "Here?" He nodded. "And I suppose you want now as well." He nodded again. "What exactly do you think is missing, Mulder?" "Surprise me." He smiled. "I need to go. Mitchell's kid is missing too." Her eyes widened in surprise. "When?" Mulder looked at Skinner as he answered. "About 8:30." He spoke to Mulder. "You need anything else?" Mulder shook his head, then Skinner turned and spoke to Gerrolds. "When did you sleep last?" "I'm all right, Sir," the agent answered. "That's not what I asked, Agent Gerrolds." The man visibly deflated. "It's been a while." "All right. Denali and Irvington are on the way. You stay with Agent Scully until they arrive. Then one of them takes over, and you get some sleep. I don't want to see you back before 6:00 am." He paused to let his words sink in. "When you get in in the morning, report to me." At Skinner's words, the young man brightened visibly. At least he wasn't to be cut from all involvement. He nodded his agreement, then headed over to talk to the detectives while Scully prepared for her exam. Skinner watched as Mulder reached for Scully, halting himself guiltily before he touched her. He smiled to himself, then said in a low voice, "Scully, would you accompany Mulder to the stairs for me? I need to talk to the detectives before we leave. I'll be there in a minute." It was the best he could do to give them a moment of privacy, away from prying eyes. She nodded and Skinner watched as the two slipped around the corner and down the hall. When Gerrolds started to follow Skinner stopped him, and began telling him how much his efforts had been appreciated thus far. He managed to keep the young man's attention for several minutes, then said, "Well, let's go get our charges, shall we?" As they approached the two, standing at the foot of the stairs, Skinner's phone rang once more. He answered, listened for a few short moments, said thank you, and hung up. He looked at Mulder and Scully and said, "Mitchell has disappeared." ********************************************* The tension was climbing. Mulder could feel himself winding up, like a spring coiling tighter and tighter about itself. He was frantically shuffling papers, making notes in margins, on pads, and muttering under his breath. Skinner drove silently, not wanting to interrupt if his agent was onto something, but growing increasingly unsure that silence was the correct response to Mulder's unusual behavior. Finally, he spoke quietly and said, "Anything I can help you with, Mulder?" There was no reaction from the man, and the hurried note taking and almost sub-audible commentary continued. Skinner reluctantly decided to give it a bit more time and refocused his attention on the road. But he kept a close watch on the agitated young man beside him. Mulder was reading again, pulling papers from folders and collating them in his own internal order. He moved a paper on sleep deprivation to rest under one on studies of various psychoses, then added information on a study of pain tolerance -- supposedly conducted on laboratory rats. 'Rats, my ass,' he thought. It was there, he could feel it. The connection he needed to make it all click. The key to unlock the door to Harold's internal logic, the key to understanding what was happening. If he could just fit a few more pieces together, he knew it would all make sense. He closed his eyes and shuddered as he realized where his thinking had turned. Once again, he had slipped into a place where the thought processes of the insane were beginning to make sense. The feeling of being dirty was back -- he felt tainted, as if his own thoughts had been contaminated and were no longer to be trusted. His head hurt, right behind his eyes, and he could feel himself growing angry and impatient, with Harold, with himself, with everyone. The car made a sharp right and then slowed suddenly, causing the loose papers on his lap to slide to the floor. He jerked within the confines of his seat belt, and tensed, then caught himself before he said something ugly about driving skills. He glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw Skinner staring straight ahead, seemingly unconcerned over the fact that the last 45 minutes of painstaking work had just slid onto the floorboards of a government issue Crown Vic. He shook his head. He was just on edge. The papers were unimportant; what he needed was already in his head. They pulled up to a large, stately turn of the century home, and Skinner said, "We're here." Mulder looked up from rearranging his papers, an out of sorts confusion evident in his features, and asked crossly, "Where is here?" "Mitchell's house." "Why are we here?" Mulder snapped. Skinner gave Mulder a strange look, then answered in a soft voice, "This is where Mitchell was last seen. The agent I put on him brought him home from the school ..." "No, not here," Mulder interrupted impatiently. "There's nothing I can do here. I need to see where the boy went missing." "Why is there nothing you can do here?" Skinner persisted. "Because he's *DEAD!*" Mulder hissed. "He's already dead and there isn't anything anyone can do about it. We have to focus on finding the boy." Mulder lifted his hand and ran it through his hair, leaving a disheveled trail in his wake. "He was as good as dead the minute Roberson got him." Skinner was worried. He was used to Mulder in a funk, Mulder disconnected, non-speaking, non- responsive Mulder. He didn't like to see it, but he was familiar with those aspects of Mulder as profiler. This angry, almost manic Mulder was new, and very disturbing. "Would you know where we should look for the body?" Skinner asked quietly. "Yes! Yes! I know where to look. Send somebody to find some cold water. Really cold water. Like a pool in the mountains, or a really deep lake. Shit, just for grins and giggles, maybe you should have someone check the penguin pit at the National Zoo." "How can you be so sure he's dead?" "Because I know!" Mulder raged. "Isn't that what I do? Become the killer so that I can know what he does, feel what he feels, *be* what he is?" Skinner stared at Mulder, allowing the silence to grow until the younger man opened the car door and jumped out, slamming it behind him and muttering under his breath. He stormed off about 10 yards away and began pacing furiously. Skinner was about to follow his agent, growing more concerned over his bizarre behavior by the moment, when his phone rang again. "I've finished the preliminary look-see that Mulder wanted, and he was right. Big surprise, that, eh? The spleen is missing. What do you suppose that means, and how did Mulder know?" "I don't have a clue," Skinner said distractedly, "and frankly, it's the least of my concerns right now. Mulder's acting very strangely and I'm getting worried." "Strange? What do you mean strange?" The concern was quite evident in Scully's voice. "And where are you?" "We're at Mitchell's residence, but apparently I was supposed to know to go to the school where the boy disappeared, and not the house." "Where is he now?" "When he demanded to know why we were here, instead of at the school, we had a short *discussion* that resulted in him telling me Mitchell was already dead. When I questioned him, he jumped out of the car and stormed off. He's currently pacing, rather frantically, I might add, about 10 yards away." "It's the tension. I bet he's got something, or he's close to it, and it's making him even more unsettled than usual." "Should I go and try to talk to him?" "Maybe you should let me. I'm leaving now. Denali and Irvington aren't here yet, though, so I'm on my own." "NO!" Skinner thundered. "Absolutely not! Is Gerrolds still there?" "Yes, but, really, I'll be OK. I just don't think I need a full-time escort slash guard anymore. Roberson is obviously not after me." "Agent Scully," the AD said, "that is my decision to make. And I require you to have someone with you at all time for now. Is that quite clear?" "Quite, Sir," Scully answered formally. Skinner sighed. "Dana, we don't have time for this. You really need to get over here fast." Scully's tone softened somewhat as she replied. "I figured you were going to be insistent so I already had Gerrolds in tow. We're in the car and moving now. We should be there in --" she paused and Skinner could hear her ask, "How long, Gerrolds?" -- "about 15 minutes." "I'll watch him. Get here soon. This is unnerving." *************************************** The boy had hardly been a boy. He was almost as big as Harold and it had not been easy to convince him to leave quietly from the gym's showers. Only a sufficiently embellished tale of his father's 'accident,' made credible by references of the doctor being en route to a meeting had persuaded the youth to accompany him. Even then, he had followed hesitantly, suspiciously -- a suspicion that was rewarded when Harold turned suddenly and hit the boy, knocking him out. He had waited until they were by the car, and then quickly hefted the boy and stowed him in the trunk. Once inside, Harold had forced a large swallow of his 'sleeping potion' into the boy, and closed the lid, locking him inside. It would be a two hour trip to his mountain retreat, and he didn't want any surprises along the way. This one was different. He had done the adults first in the others, trying to save the children in the end. And though all the children had failed to measure up thus far, Harold was hoping there would be at least one that could withstand the test. After all, he'd made it, hadn't he? So many others were dead, but he was still here, still functioning, and they still wanted him. The pain in his head was back -- rising to cloud his mind whenever his thoughts turned to his experiences. He struggled to retain his train of thought, but as he lifted his hand to wipe away the tears that suddenly threatened to blind him, it was gone, and all he could recall was that he needed to make plans on what to do with the boy in the trunk. He would take him to his new place in the mountains -- much nicer than the cabin had been. Far enough away from the old one to be safe, but near enough to be familiar, and, more importantly, to keep him close enough to the city -- and the people he needed to see. He wondered what Mulder thought of him now. When he had been with the agent six months ago, he had seemed disbelieving of Harold's experiences. But if he was following Mulder's activities accurately, he must have had second thoughts, or he would not have sought him out. The furor that unplanned visit had caused had provided the catalyst for Harold to implement his escape plans and get out. And now, he could tell the world his story. Only I know the truth, and Mulder will be my messenger. Chapter 34 Scully, trailed at a discreet distance by the young agent Gerrolds, walked quietly to stand beside Skinner, her eyes on Mulder. He paced less frenetically than before, but was working on wearing a path between a large oak and a much smaller dogwood that graced the yard by the drive. He still mumbled the occasionally half-heard, and even less understood comment, but was broodingly silent for the most part. Shortly before Scully arrived, he had darted past Skinner to the car, yanked open the door, rummaged amongst his papers, and emerged with a notepad covered in his tight, spidery writing. He looked at it for a moment, then dropped it on the ground and went back to his pacing track. Skinner had slipped over and picked up the discarded pad, looking down to see it was the same type of list as he had started when he had begun to develop target ratios. Mulder's list was quite similar to his own with one very noticeable exception. On Mulder's list, John Bikowski had been moved up to beneath Mitchell. Skinner had his friend quite far down on the list. "Well," Scully said softly, "guess I better go talk to him. He's really on a tear, isn't he? Any idea what set it off?" "He saw something? Figured something out?" Skinner held out the tablet, pointing at the rearranged list of names. Both stood with heads lowered slightly as they studied the list, each working in their own way to fathom the changes Mulder had made. Scully tapped Bikowski's name with her fingernail, and opened her mouth to speak, but before she could complete her thought, Gerrolds exclaimed, "Hey, is he all right?" Both Scully and Skinner turned to see Mulder standing before the old oak, fists clenched, chest heaving, staring unseeingly into the weathered bark. "I don't think so," she said, and began to run in her partner's direction. As she moved, Mulder let out a roar of desperation, lifted his fists, and began to slam them into the tree. His display of temper was short-lived, as Scully simply kept moving and tackled him, preventing him from taking more than three or four shots at the tree. Mulder rolled beneath Scully, almost dislodging her smaller form. He was gasping for breath, hissing from between clenched teeth, "You won't win, you son of a bitch. You can't have *me!*" Scully was calling him, almost chanting his name, but he showed no signs of recognition. He drew back his fist, and she slipped to the side to avoid the blow he aimed at her head, but found her move unnecessary, as Skinner caught Mulder's arms and held him immobile. At the feel of Skinner's restraint, Mulder stopped fighting. He lay still amongst the last of summer's grass and the sporadic covering of leaves on the yard. His eyes were glazed and his thoughts turned inward as Scully scrambled to her knees and crept to his side. "Mulder," she crooned to him, "c'mon, Mulder. You need to tell me what's going on here. What's happening that's so bad?" She continued to speak softly to him, her voice low and her tone gentle and accepting. She touched him frequently, stroking his chest and arms, rubbing his shoulders. Her fingers delicately caressed his face and she bent often to kiss his now still form. When he closed his eyes, she looked up at Skinner and indicated he should release him. Skinner complied reluctantly, but Mulder only brought his arms down and crossed them over his chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Skinner patted Mulder's shoulder, then rose and beckoned Gerrolds to follow. They walked a short distance away, but both continued to observe Scully and Mulder. She was whispering to him now, and he responded at times. His eyes were still closed, but he'd relaxed his arms and Scully now held one of his hands in her lap. She reached out and placed her hand on his brow, letting it linger for a long moment, then drew it down his cheek before returning to place it on the hand she held resting on her knees. "You feeling better?" she asked after a while. He nodded. "Ready to take on sitting up?" She helped him shift to a sitting position. "I acted like an ass, Scully. I'm sorry." "It's all right, Mulder. But I want to get you up off the ground. Can you stand up?" "Head hurts. And I'm dizzy again." "OK, we'll take it slow. I'm gonna get Skinner over here to help." She lifted her head and waved the big man over. "Mulder's feeling a bit dizzy. Would you mind helping him up?" Skinner extended a hand to Scully first, helping her rise, then he leaned over and took Mulder's forearms in his hands in a tight grip. "You ready, Mulder?" The agent nodded and Skinner pulled. Mulder came easily to his feet, but swayed as another bout of dizziness swept over him. "Scully? What's going on? I thought I was better?" "Maybe you better tell me what brought this -- rage attack -- on. Then we can try to figure out why you're feeling bad again." Mulder nodded, then said, "I need to sit." Skinner walked with him to the car, then opened the back door and assisted him in. He sank gratefully into the seat, leaning back fully and closing his eyes again. Scully and Skinner stood by the open door, quietly observing as Mulder visibly relaxed. "I suddenly realized I knew what Roberson did with Mitchell. And then I realized I knew, because it's what I would have done, if I was Harold." He opened tortured eyes and looked up at them. "I knew what he would do, and I understood why. It all made perfect sense. And then I realized," he paused, shuddering. He tensed again, then clutched his stomach and leaned out the door. Skinner and Scully both took hasty steps backwards as Mulder began heaving. In between choked gasps for air, he fought to get the words out, "I." He gritted his teeth and drew a deep, shuddery breath. "Understood." He began to choke and Skinner stepped forward, pounding him on the back until the choke turned into a cough that eventually subsided. He leaned back into the car and sighed. "Do you know what a sick fuck you have to be to *understand* a man like Roberson?" ********************************************* The drive back to the Hoover was surprisingly quiet. Mulder was subdued, sitting silently in the rear with Scully, her hand clutched tightly in his own. She spoke to him softly several times, but he seemed most content to have her next to him, the physical reassurance of her presence more settling than her words at this point. Though Skinner was a friend, Scully was very aware of the ever present Agent Gerrolds, and had been reluctant to compromise Mulder's professional reputation any more than the stress he was reacting to had already done. Scully had initially been uncomfortable in being overtly physical with Mulder in the car. Her earlier actions in the yard had been done without thinking, her whole world having narrowed to the man she loved and the pain he was suffering. And now, his need once more outweighed her reserve and she had slipped over on the back seat, moving close to her lover until she was snuggled in next to him. He moved again, slightly agitated, and she whispered reassurances to him, running her hand gently up his thigh and resting her head more fully against his shoulder. He lifted his arm and encircled her, pulling her against his chest and began to stroke her hair with a rhythmic motion she was sure was intended as much for his own comfort as to reassure her. She murmured against his shirt and he leaned down to hear her better. "Hmmm?" His ear was next to her face now, and she snuck a quick peek at the front seat as she lifted her head and whispered to him. "I said, I'd really like some *alone* time with you." Her tongue snaked out quickly and tickled his ear, as her hot breath brushed against his neck, and she felt him stir beneath the hand she had laid in his lap. His other arm came across and he wrapped her in a tight embrace, murmuring, "Oh, God, Scully, I need you so bad. I'm losing myself in this monster and I'm so afraid I won't be able to find my way back." His breathing shifted again, and she felt as much as heard the beginning of a ragged sob as he fought to contain it. "Shhh," she whispered. "I'm not going to let you get lost, you understand? You're too important, much too valuable to allow that to happen." She lifted her head and kissed him gently, her lips brushing softly against his own. She met his eyes, willing him to accept the truth of her words, then dropped her own as she confessed, "I need you, too, Mulder. I'd be just as lost without you." Mulder's hand had dropped from her hair to her back and he was gently rubbing small circles around and beneath her bra. She felt a rush of warmth as his hand strayed to her side and grazed against her breast. She looked to the front, but saw only the backs of Skinner and Gerrolds' heads, then looked up to see Mulder smirking slightly as he recognized her reaction to his touch. She discreetly moved her hand across his lap, feeling him jump once more, then drew her fingers up his chest to settle against his cheek. "This case *will* end. You'll get through it. *We'll* get through it. And then," she drew his head down and whispered directly into his ear for a long minute. Skinner glanced in the mirror at that moment and smirked as he watched Scully murmuring to Mulder, a huge blush rising from the man's chest to completely cover his face. When she finished whatever she was saying, she ducked her head again, a satisfied smile just visible on her face, and rested her head in the hollow of Mulder's shoulder. Mulder rode the rest of the way in silence, his face flushed and Scully pulled close to his side. ********************************************* It had taken a long time to get Mulder to sleep. It was nearly three in the morning now, and they were all back at the Hoover. Skinner had not intended to have them spend the night there, but it was secure, Mulder's meds were there, and when he'd suggested they return there in the late afternoon, he'd had no idea it would take hours to convince Mulder to move beyond his afternoon's outburst and get some sleep. Scully had finally persuaded him to take the Xanax, under pain of a return visit to the ER, and he had reluctantly complied. He was now sleeping on the couch in Skinner's office, and he and Scully were conferring in Kim's office. "They actually found him in the penguin pit?" Skinner nodded. "Naked as a jay bird and blue as a summer sky. From the amount of water splashed in and out of the pool, they're hypothesizing that he was made to get in and out a number of times before he was too cold to pull himself out anymore." Scully shivered, and Skinner nodded again. "Yeah. It does seem like an awfully fitting death, doesn't it?" "How the hell does this man get in and out of mental institutions, college campuses, high school gymnasiums, and the kind of security Mitchell had on his place? To say nothing of the National Zoo?" Scully asked in frustration. "That's one of many I'd like an answer to," Skinner replied. He yawned. "We both need to get some sleep." "I'm good," Scully said. At Skinner's speculative look, she repeated, "No, really, I am. I napped for several hours with Mulder this afternoon, and then I slept in the car on the way back from Cumberland. What I'd really like to do is go look at the body myself, maybe have something else for Mulder when he wakes up." Skinner nodded. "Take -- hell, who's here tonight? Anyway, take whoever's on duty -- don't go alone. And I need to call the lab and see if the duty tech has anything on the paper that was over the last child we found." He started to pick up the phone, then looked at Scully. "Did Mulder say how he knew internal organs would be missing on the last body?" "Yeah, he did. When he saw the evisceration, he figured there had to be a meaning to it since none of the other children were desecrated in that manner." "And?" "The spleen was missing. And the spleen is often considered to be the seat of ill-humor or malevolence. And there was blood on the child's teeth. Mulder thinks the boy bit him and this was Harold's way of getting even." Skinner shuddered. "Pretty heavy way of getting even." Scully shrugged. "He's insane." She looked over to where Skinner was still seated behind Kim's desk. "Mulder thinks we made him insane." "We?" "Yeah. Us. The military. The government. Whatever was done to him. We did it. He's not only sick at himself, he's sick over what was done to Roberson." Skinner shuddered again, exhaustion cracking his usual emotional control. "How the hell does Mulder do this? How does he know this stuff? Or guess this stuff? Or figure it out when no one else can?" Scully shrugged again. "Who knows? All I know is that he really wishes he couldn't. This is one gift, or talent, or ability, that no one should have." "His ability lets us put killers away," Skinner reminded her. "But at what cost to him?" she retorted. "At what cost to him?" They stared at one another across the room, until Skinner finally dropped his eyes. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I know," she responded softly. "He doesn't blame you. Neither do I. We're all just doing what has to be done." Scully excused herself and went to arrange for her escort, while Skinner placed his call. When she returned, he was sitting behind Kim's desk, a thoughtful look on his face. "What did you find out?" He looked up. "Mmm? Oh, the, uh, paper. It was from a town not all that far from the cabin. Couldn't get a date, but there was an almost complete article and the paper is doing a search on when it ran. If it's old, then it probably doesn't mean anything." "But if it's new," Scully completed the thought, "he could still be in that area. At least some of the time." Skinner nodded grimly. "Sheriff Talbot commented that Roberson had to have a 'lair' -- his word -- somewhere within a couple hours of DC. This certainly would fit." He shook his head, then smiled slightly. "I need to grab a couple hours sleep. Can you be back by 6:00?" "I'll come back, even if I'm not done. I'm gonna check on Mulder, then I'm outta here." She walked to the closed door to Skinner's office and peeked in. Mulder's long, lanky frame filled the couch and a trench coat served as a loose blanket. He lay on his back, mouth open, and a lock of hair flopped across his brow. She was tempted to go and push it back from his face, but she restrained herself and quietly closed the door. Skinner had already moved to the couch in Kim's office and was stretched out as best he could, his 6 foot plus frame dwarfing the smaller sofa. She smiled as she watched him shift uncomfortably, then said, "Sleep well." He snorted. "Oh, yeah. Sure." She giggled, then said, "Well, sleep fast then. It'll be 6:00 before you know it." ***************************************** Everything was happening at once. In his dream, Skinner was pursuing Harold Roberson, and he held a small child under his arm. As the suspect ran out of the woods, he crossed a street and a bell began to ring. Skinner slowly came to full awareness and the bell dissolved into a ringing phone. He picked it up and croaked, "Skinner." Another bell rang as the elevator dinged its arrival and Scully soon entered the office. She walked in, smiling in greeting, until she took in Skinner's countenance. He was totally AD -- all traces of the exhausted man from three hours ago were gone as he listened intently to whoever was speaking into his phone. "All right," he said grimly. "I'll have people there immediately. Don't let anyone move or touch anything. This is a repeat killer and we need the scene as intact as possible." He closed the phone then looked up at Scully. "I put Denali and Irvington on Bikowski. Neighbor out for a jog this morning found them both dead in the car. Called for police. They confirmed identity, then correctly assumed they were watching one of the houses in the area. No one answered at Bikowski's. They entered and found the wife dead, husband and son missing. Turned out John had gone for donuts as a breakfast surprise for his family. He walked in on the police -- then fell apart. They've had to sedate him." "Oh, God," Scully moaned, "what else can happen?" She closed her eyes, taking a moment to gather herself. "No, don't answer that, I don't want to know." She took a deep breath, then said, "Denali just got married." "I know," Skinner said. "I went to the wedding." "We have to wake Mulder. He's got to know. And he needs to get out there." "I know that, too. C'mon -- let's do the deed." They walked together to the office door and Skinner reached out and opened it, then indicated Scully should precede him into the room. She stepped through and looked at the couch. The empty couch. Skinner pushed past her, and swept the room with his eyes. He strode to the washroom and pushed the door open, uncaring of courtesy or modesty. But the small room was empty as well. He walked back out to his desk, his eyes lighting on the panel across the room. The panel that concealed the other exit from this room. The panel that let unwanted people in at times, and kept them hidden from view at other times. The panel that was now slightly ajar. Chapter 35 Scully looked up from her papers. "The cabin area. It's the only place I can build even the flimsiest case for." "Let me see if we can get any more info on that paper," Skinner said as he lifted his phone. "I'm getting a car," Scully said distractedly. "We need to head up there." "Gerrolds will be here any minute. Let him get the car." Skinner glanced up from his desk. "I don't want to be separated from you, even in the building." He returned his attention to the phone, speaking urgently to the lab tech on the other end. Scully nodded reluctantly, then went and sat on Skinner's couch, pulling Mulder's coat onto her lap. There was a knock on the door as Skinner hung up, and Gerrolds stuck his head in the door. "Sir? Security said you wanted to see me first thing?" "Agent Mulder went missing last night and Agent Scully and I will be leaving shortly to try and track him down. Would you requisition 2 vehicles and meet us in the garage in," he looked at his watch, "15 minutes. Find out if Mulder took a Bureau car while you're at it. And I've already informed Stevens you'll be with us." "Yes, Sir," Gerrolds responded, ducking out the door with alacrity. Skinner went and sat by Scully. She held herself rigid on the couch, her fingers clutched in the folds of Mulder's coat. "Scully?" "Yes, Sir?" she whispered, her voice breaking as she struggled to maintain her control. He watched her, thinking how much he respected this woman. Even now, she grappled with putting her feelings to one side to focus on the immediate task of finding Mulder. But he could see the strain she was under already, and knew it would only increase with each passing minute. "The techs said they haven't heard from the paper yet. Parker is trying to reach the owner at home and get her in to resume the search. We can help when we get there." "We're going?" She looked up, her eyes slightly more hopeful. "Now?" "Yes, now." He reached out and touched her lightly. "And Dana? We'll find him." **************************************** It was a long drive and Mulder's head was pounding. His nausea and dizziness were back in full force. Despite the pain in his head, he was inclined to believe that his bodily pains were more manifestations of his increasing stress levels, than any real somatic injury. After all, he was not a psychologist for nothing. Even he could self-diagnose with the proper incentives. 'Yeah, right,' he thought as his vision blurred again, and he raised his hand to clear his eyes. The upcoming confrontation with Roberson was doing nothing to alleviate those rising stress levels. And the sure knowledge that, if he lived through said confrontation with Roberson, Scully was quite likely to kill him anyway, was not a reassuring thought. The sun was coming up now, but it was still dark enough that he had to turn on the interior lamp to glance at the dog-eared map he had placed on the seat next to him. If he'd managed to read the damn thing correctly, the little town he was seeking should be coming up in another mile or two. He turned the light back off, and half folded the map with one hand. By the time he had completed that task, he'd reached the town. It was a slice of Norman Rockwell's Americana, complete with a grassy town square and gazebo, surrounded by the courthouse/jail, two churches; the Baptist a white frame building and the Episcopal church made of stone; a library, post office, volunteer fire department, and -- what he was looking for -- the town weekly. This small town business district was deserted in the early dawn hours, but Mulder knew that small town work ethic would have people streaming in within the hour. He drove slowly around the small square, admiring the beauty and calm of this apparent piece of the country's history -- a place that seemed to recall different times, a different era. An era when children could be left alone to roam in summer, when people didn't lock their doors, and everyone was on a first name basis with their neighbor. Mulder shivered slightly as he thought of how this small town in the mountains reminded him in so many ways of Chilmark, another small town that showed its charming, peaceful side to visitors, but wars were waged beneath the smiling exterior. He lifted his hand and rubbed his temple. The headache was in full force. Thinking of the past only seemed to intensify the agony in his skull. It felt as if he was caught in a vice, unable to release the pressure, unable to stop the increasing tension. He pulled his dark blue Taurus around to the back of the newspaper office and slipped out. And though his hands shook as he worked, opening the locked door was a mere minute's work, and he was inside. As the sun continued its steady climb, the sky was growing progressively brighter, and the large plate glass window fronting the square allowed enough light in that he could just make out the details of the crowded interior. Off to one side was a closed door, a hand-lettered sign indicating "Press." In front of him were two desks separated from the tiny reception area by a chest high counter. To the other side was another door, this one marked "Archive." That was what he wanted. He opened the unlocked door, entered and shut it behind him. With the door closed, he was in complete darkness, and he risked turning on a light. The room was surprisingly tidy for a newspaper office, with neatly marked hanging files holding the archival copies of the paper for at least - Mulder checked a rack at random - 6 years. On the table in the center of the room lay several racks of paper, and it was obvious that a research project was in progress. Mulder glanced at the papers and realized they were still trying to get a date on the scrap of newsprint that had been found with the dead child. He shook his head and moved to the racks. He was not interested in the date on the paper. He *knew* Roberson was in the area. He knew it in the same way he had known where to find the dead baby, and where Mitchell would be found. It was what he would do, if he were Roberson. He'd want the security of familiar territory, but just enough distance to be safe. "Or," Mulder muttered grimly, "at least to give the illusion of safety." What he needed were the obituaries. He needed to know who had died in the past year -- and left an empty house. He began to run through the papers, starting with the older ones first. There wasn't time to re-rack them, so he left them lying on the table and just placed the next rack on top. It would be obvious that someone had been in here, but he knew that Scully and Skinner would be behind him anyway. Leaving a trail at this point wouldn't hurt. He should be finished with his business with Roberson before they could find him. At 7:15, he walked out of the office and started the car. He had a more detailed map of the area he had lifted from the counter in the reception area, and, more importantly, a list of potential hide-outs for Roberson. He spent a few more precious moments marking out a circuit on the map that would let him check the houses, then pulled out and began the hunt. *********************************************** "Try his cell again, Scully," Skinner ordered. She dutifully flipped open her phone, pushed speed 1 for Mulder and waited as it rang without answer and the cellular company's recording kicked in. "Still not answering," she said wearily. "Well," Skinner muttered under his breath, "I hope to hell we're annoying the shit out of him!" Smiling in total understanding of Skinner's frustration, Scully asked, "How long?" Skinner glanced at his watch, then his eyes darted to the speedometer, noting that he was still doing in excess of 90, and returned his entire concentration to keeping the car *on* the road at those speeds. "We were at least 3 hours behind him, damn him. He had to have taken off right after you slipped out of my office, thinking he was asleep." "He *was* asleep. I know him, and he can't fake it with me." The double entendre slipped out, and she found herself blushing furiously, but Skinner seemed not to notice. "Yes, well, the garage showed he checked out at 3:42 am, not too long after we left him alone." His grip tightened on the wheel, and he mumbled, "When will I ever learn?" Scully nodded her head, then said, "But we're moving much faster than he would have dared." "I won't be able to buy us much more than 45 minutes, maybe an hour. It was slow getting out of the city, and once we hit those winding mountain roads, speed goes out the window. Still," he paused, calculating in his head, "I think we'll be there by - 8:15? Maybe 8:00 if we're lucky." "But then where do we go?" "Try the town PD again. See what they've found at the paper. Or anywhere else for that matter." Scully nodded and began to dial, then stopped. "When's the team due to arrive?" "As fast as Stevens can get them assembled. Gerrolds and that young woman, Jacobs, should be close behind us. She was on duty and available, though I'm not sure I like taking an untried rookie into this situation. At least Gerrolds has been around a few more months." "Don't worry about Sara, Sir. If she got through the shit they throw at women at the Academy, a run of the mill, crazy murderer like Roberson should be nothing." She smiled to take the sting from her comments, but Skinner glanced sharply at her anyway. "Now, chasing Mulder -- that might require a whole 'nother level of experience." "And what experience would you suggest, as someone who has had the privilege of chasing Agent Mulder on numerous occasions?" "Well, Sir," Scully said in mock seriousness, "I've found a medical background to be extremely helpful in working with Agent Mulder. I'm quite sure that I've saved the Bureau thousands of dollars by treating him myself, instead of hauling him off to the hospital." Skinner grinned and Scully smiled back. "And a forensic specialty has been most useful in stress reduction." "Stress reduction? I'm afraid I don't follow." "I am quite well versed in death and its many manifestations. You would be amazed at the painful ends I can cook up for Mulder when he pulls a stunt like this." Though her words were said lightly, they served to remind them both that Mulder was quite probably facing, or going to be facing one of those manifestations of death at any time now. There was a long silence as the two people who cared for Mulder contemplated just what could come of his rash behavior. Skinner eased the accelerator down just a bit more and watched as the speedometer needle crept up. Scully took a deep breath, then lowered her head and began to dial. Maybe Spencerville would have something worth hearing. *********************************************** The first two houses Mulder had checked had been wrong. Too visible, too close to the neighbors, just not what was needed for stashing and killing kidnapped children. But this third one? This was perfect. Empty since the elderly owner had died 8 months ago, the only relative a nephew in the Navy, currently stationed in California. It was situated on almost 5 acres of land on the side of the mountain, the house almost in the middle of the acreage. Mulder pulled down the road a bit, left the car on the shoulder, and set off parallel to the gravel road bed that led to the old homestead -- and to Harold Roberson. He'd been walking for a while when the cell phone in his pocket began to chirp. He glanced around hurriedly, then, realizing he was entirely in the middle of nowhere, shamefacedly pulled the phone and answered. "Hey, Scully." "Mulder! Where the hell are you? What do you mean taking off on me like this? I thought we had an agreement?" She paused, taking a deep breath, then added in a softer tone, "Are you all right?" "Yeah, I'm OK. I'm sorry I left on you like that, but I need to do this alone. I can't risk Roberson hurting you, and I did promise I wouldn't involve you in this. I know it -- bothers -- you." Mulder resumed walking towards the house at the end of the road. The phone was still pressed to his ear, and in his inmost heart, he was reveling in the sound of Scully's voice. He glanced at his watch, buckled awkwardly over the bandages that still covered his wrists, then added, "Where are *you,* Scully?" "I'm with Skinner and we're, mmm, wait a -- " he could hear her muffled voice as she conferred with the AD. "We're about half an hour out of DC, Mulder. Now where are you?" Mulder laughed into the phone, "No dice, Scully, but good try. I bet you're within an hour, at the most, from here. And I'm where you expected me to be. Spencerville. You can find me when you get here." He paused, knowing he needed to hang up, but not ready to break the connection, possibly the last connection he would have with the woman he loved. "Mulder," she was saying, "please be more specific. Tell me how to find you. Please, please, don't go face him alone." "You'll find me, Scully, you always do." Despite the desperate pleading in her voice, Mulder found himself smiling. She was telling him, in every way except by saying it, how much she loved him. "Mulder, don't do this, please. We're coming, we're not that far away. If you won't wait for the team, just wait for me and Skinner. You don't have to do this alone, Mulder. You don't." "Scully," Mulder said soothingly, "hey, Scully." He waited for her to wind down, then started again. "Scully." His voice was low as he sought to let his feelings flow through the phone. "I have to do this. He's got at least one of the boys here, maybe both. And I'm worried about Michael Mitchell. At 17, Roberson may not consider him a child." He paused again, rubbing his still throbbing temple, then said, "But Scully, I don't want to talk about Roberson. I want to talk about us." "Us, Mulder? What about us?" "You weren't really going to leave me, were you?" Scully looked at Skinner who had been concentrating on the road, and yet still listening attentively to her side of the conversation. She flushed slightly, then answered, "I told you, I was confused. And no, Mulder, I would never leave you." Mulder sighed, content, then said, "Hey, Scully?" "Yes?" "I love you." He closed the phone and tossed it behind him, then broke into a trot as he caught sight of the house on a ridge a ways before him. ***************************************** Scully sat looking at the open phone until it began to buzz, then slowly closed it and set it on the seat, next to Skinner. "He says we'll know how to find him." "Damn it!" Skinner roared. He raised his fist and pounded on the interior ceiling repeatedly, as he let out an angry "Grrrrr." The car veered suddenly and he quickly lowered his hand and grasped the wheel. He eased off on the gas pedal, noting that the road had begun the characteristic winds and curves that led to the mountain. "Spencerville is still about half an hour away." He looked at Scully, but her eyes were averted, her head turned toward the window. He continued to ease up on the accelerator, till the car was traveling at a more reasonable 65 mph, then he tentatively reached out and touched her arm. "Dana?" She shook slightly beneath his touch, but did not respond. "Dana?" he asked again. "Please look at me." She shook her head, and he watched as her hand stole up to her face, then wiped quickly at her eyes. "You don't have to hide from me, Dana," he said softly. "He, uh, said he loved me." "Ahh." Skinner was silent for a moment, then let his hand find hers, taking it gently into his own. She finally turned to face him, eyes still brimming with tears, but otherwise, more in control. He squeezed her hand, then said conversationally, "We're going to find him, you know. If only so that I can write his ass up for this little stunt." He gave her a crooked smile, and was pleased to see she tried to return it. "We'll go to the paper," she said in a still shaky voice. "The locals said there was a break in there last night. Could've been Mulder." He squeezed her hand once more, then let her go, and returned to his driving. "Check in with Gerrolds and Jacobs, then touch base with Stevens, find out when they left." Scully nodded and lifted the phone again. ******************************************* Mulder crept up to the window and peered in. There was a car in the drive and several lights still burned within the house. The kitchen, however, was empty. As were all the rooms he could see from the outside. He was going to have to go in blind. And this was as good a door as any to go through. He slowly turned the knob and was surprised to find the door moved at his touch, sliding open silently. He took a cautious step into the room, weapon drawn, eyes moving all around the bright, airy kitchen. Though several months worth of accumulated dust covered many surfaces, others had been wiped clean, and a cup, a bowl, a spoon, and a small pot rested in the dish drainer by the sink. He was just about to move to the next room, when he heard a faint sound from within what he had taken to be a broom closet. He hurried over and opened the door, to find a terrified teenage boy staring up at him from where he was tightly bound on the floor. Mulder knelt and whispered, "Michael? Michael Mitchell?" The boy nodded, eyes huge as saucers. "All right, Michael, I'm an FBI agent. I've come to get you out." He stuffed his gun in the waistband of his pants, and then he was cutting the cords that bound the boy as he spoke. "Michael, I need you to be absolutely quiet. Can you do that?" He spoke softly, soothingly, as one would to a child much younger than this youth. But the boy was terrified and the gentle tone of voice, the nonstop murmur of reassurances seemed to be helping to calm him. Mulder removed the gag, and the boy said, "My Dad?" "Not here. Let's just get you out, OK? One thing at a time. You go by Michael, or Mike?" "Michael," the boy responded in a muted whisper. He started to rise, then sank back to his knees. "What's the matter, Michael? Are you hurt?" A brilliant flush colored the boy's cheeks and he lowered his head as he said, "I'm, uh, you know, wet." "It's OK, Michael. Happens to the best of us." Mulder had taken the boy's arm and was pulling him slowly to his feet. "I'm afraid I've been in that condition myself a few times. Nothing to be ashamed of; just the way we humans react to stress at times." The boy was on his feet now, moving slowly and painfully as the circulation was restored to his extremities. They were at the door and ready to step out, when a voice from behind them said, "Leaving so soon, Agent Mulder? And here I thought you had come to see me." Chapter 36 The editor of the town paper met them at the door. "You're the FBI people I've been waiting for?" "Yes, Ma'am," Skinner replied, showing his ID. "I'm Assistant Director Skinner, and this is Special Agent Scully. We need to know what happened here last night, take a look around if you'd let us." The woman nodded then ushered them in. "Broke in through the back door. Didn't take anything but one of these maps I keep for the tourists in color season." She extended a small map with pictures of vividly colored trees covering the front, and Scully accepted it. Leading them through a cut-out in the counter, she turned and opened a door marked "Archive," then stepped inside and flipped on the light. She waved at the stacks of racked newspapers laying on the work table in the center of the room. "All from about 6 months to a year ago. You know what they were looking for?" Skinner shook his head and stepped to the papers. The top one was open to the obituaries and one name had been circled. He turned and looked quizzically at Scully. "Is this for real? Would he leave us such a clear trail?" Scully shrugged, writing the address from the obituary onto a small notepad she had produced. "Find the next one," she ordered. Skinner began to work through the pile backwards, eventually reaching the bottom. They had made note of 5 addresses, all clearly circled, all fairly recent deaths, all with no local relatives. "Mulder, what are you doing?" Scully murmured as she stared at the list, willing it to explain itself. "Nothing to do but start checking them out," Skinner said. He turned to the older woman, waiting patiently, and said, "Thank you for your assistance. I'm sorry about the mess." He nodded at the table. "If there are any damages or expenses," he extended a white business card, embossed with the FBI logo and his name and title, "you can reach me here and I'll make good on it." The woman nodded. "Good luck on finding your man," she said. Scully was already almost to the door, when Skinner stopped and called her back. "Mrs. Carleton, could you show us where these addresses are?" "Most likely," the woman answered. "Let me see that list again." Scully held the notepad out, and opened the map on the counter. Mrs. Carleton looked at the list, then began to trace the map with her finger. She stopped and placed an X on the map, using a bright yellow highlighter. "Middle of town, that," she commented. Scully and Skinner exchanged an understanding glance. "Ma'am," Scully began, "just the ones that are isolated, please. Out from town, away from neighbors." "Oh, that's easy, then." The yellow marker was tracing a line out from the center of town, winding through the outskirts and finally heading up what appeared to be marked as the mountain itself. "Only one like that. Right," she drew a bold X, then circled it, "here!" Scully grabbed up the map. "That's got to be it!" she exclaimed. Turning back to the older woman, she added, "Thank you so much," and dashed for the car. Skinner followed closely behind and within moments they were heading out of town, following the yellow trail on the map as they raced toward Mulder -- and Harold Roberson. ********************************************** "Michael," Roberson said, "I want you to take hold of Agent Mulder's hands. Both his hands. I want you to hold hands and walk into the living room." The boy didn't move, and Roberson waved his gun again. "Michael? Do you remember what I said would happen if you didn't listen to me?" The boy was frozen in place, his fear making him unable to move, and Mulder knew he couldn't get his own weapon fast enough to prevent Roberson from firing, and the gun was held once more on the youth. Moving very slowly, and speaking in the same soft, reassuring tone, Mulder extended his hands. "Michael," he murmured, "you need to take my hands now. C'mon, you can do that." The boy's hands twitched, and Mulder continued. "That's right, just take my hands." The boy moved with an agonizing lack of speed, but Mulder waited patiently, and so, surprisingly, did Roberson. Once their hands were linked, Mulder looked questioningly at Roberson. The gun moved marginally, pointing to the living area, then returned to Michael. With Michael walking backward, and Mulder uttering encouragement every step of the way, they made it to the living room. Once inside, Roberson ordered them to stop, then stood silent as the seconds stretched into minutes. Mulder was growing more concerned as the calm and collected Roberson seemed to change before his eyes. Never taking his eyes off the boy, he began to mutter, "Not a child. Why is he here?" "How old are you, boy?" Roberson suddenly demanded. Michael was frozen again, unable to move, unable to speak. Mulder looked at the boy, taking in his height and build, the obvious signs of beard that shadowed his still youthful face, and rapidly calculated down. How low could he get away with? "He's only 15, Harold," he said. "Just turned 15 two weeks ago." "I'm 17," Michael said, his voice suddenly returned to him, his adolescent pride stung. Mulder's shoulders sagged as Roberson glared at him. "Give me the gun, Agent Mulder," he demanded, "and let's let Michael answer his own questions. After all," his voice dropped and a threatening, icy chill crept into the tone, "he *is* almost a man." Mulder dropped Michael's hand and carefully pulled his weapon from the waistband of his pants. He stood there, gun dangling from the middle finger of his left hand, and waited for Roberson to tell him what to do. He cocked his head and asked, "Where's Thomas? He's just a boy, too." The added emphasis was for effect, but Mulder had a sinking feeling that Roberson had already categorized Michael, and it wasn't as "child." "Thomas is my last message," Harold responded. "You think you understand. You think you know what happened. You don't know anything. You don't begin to understand. But when you find Thomas, you'll finally understand it all." "He's just a child, Harold," Mulder pleaded. "They both are." "Then they need to be strong, don't they? Now, the gun. On the floor, then kick it to me." Mulder complied, whispering reassurances to Michael, who appeared to have lost his voice again. The boy looked panicked, well aware he had betrayed himself, and unsure what, if anything, he could do to fix it. While Mulder continued to speak softly to Michael, Roberson bent carefully, and retrieved Mulder's weapon. "Sig? Very nice," he commented. He rapidly switched weapons, replacing his own with Mulder's. Looking at his watch, he glanced to the side and said, "I believe your rescuers are here, Mr. Mulder. Or shall we just call them additional hostages?" ************************************************** "This is it, Sir," Scully said. "Go on a bit, and we'll cut through to the house." Skinner drove on then stopped when they came to the blue Taurus Mulder had taken. "Well, that answers any lingering question over whether or not he's here." He made a Y turn and headed back for the drive. "What are you doing?" "We don't have time to mess around, Scully. Jacobs and Gerrolds are still 20 minutes away, Stevens' team is further behind them. We're going straight in. I don't think even Roberson will be expecting a full frontal assault." "But we don't have an assault team," Scully reminded him. "And Mulder is probably in there. We can't risk him being in the line of fire." Skinner was driving slowly up the gravel drive, the car bumping over the uneven surface. He glanced at the woman who sat beside him, took in the fear and concern that etched her features, and said, "I don't think we have time to wait, Dana. I think we need to move. Now." She was watching him, her eyes wide as he spoke. "We'll both be very careful where we aim our weapons, OK? And we'll get him out." He smiled encouragingly at her, and received a tremulous smile in return. They could see the house now, and with the cloud of dust they had been kicking up, anyone looking for them would have easily been able to see them as well. This wasn't going to be a surprise attack, unless Roberson was occupied elsewhere and hadn't noticed their approach. Skinner pulled the car halfway off the dirt road, and turned off the engine. "We'll go in on foot from here. Even if he's seen us, we'll come in from each side, and he won't be able to cover them both." He looked at his watch, then estimated the distance to the house. "Left or right?" It was probably a bit longer to come in from the right, but there was a tree line fairly close to the house on that side, offering some cover. The left was more direct, but it was also fairly open. She shrugged. "No difference. You call it." She climbed out of the car, and he followed. Circling to the trunk, he popped it and they both pulled vests from its recesses. They pulled the bulky Kevlar on over their clothes, then each made their own weapons check. Skinner looked up first, then nodded when Scully met his eye. "Time till backup?" she asked. "About 15 minutes." He looked at his watch again. "We go in together, ready to roll and raising a ruckus, you got that? Get in position, then hold. We rumble at 9:00 sharp." She nodded, checked her own watch against his, then slipped off to begin the longer climb to the right hand side of the house. Skinner bent low and set off at a jog over the open ground and his self-assigned position. He reached the side porch with two minutes to spare. Panting, he willed himself to wait, consciously working to slow his breathing, watching as the seconds ticked by. He turned to look back up the driveway, longing for Gerrolds' vehicle to come over the slight rise, but no such vision appeared. He glanced at his watch again, saw the minute switch to seconds and began his countdown. He crouched by a window -- it wasn't the neatest way in but it would raise a ruckus as he had said, and he wouldn't have to worry about not being able to get through a locked door without a ram. As he counted off the last ten seconds, he pictured Scully in similar position on the other side of the house. With 5 seconds left to go, he silently wished her Godspeed, then launched himself through the window, into the house, and rolled forward into a crouch. He heard the crash from the right as Scully rolled through the window. Almost simultaneously, he moved, and there was a second crash. He could see Scully rising in the living room, her weapon trained slightly past Mulder. Skinner moved to the doorway of the dining room and crouched, his gun pointing directly at Harold Roberson. "Drop the gun, Roberson," Scully ordered. "Do it now," Skinner growled. "Actually, I believe that you two should drop your weapons." Then, without pausing, he raised the Sig, took aim, and shot Mulder in the leg. There was a yelp of pain, and Mulder collapsed. "The next one will not be in such a healable area. Now, you drop your weapons." "They can't do that Roberson, you know that." Mulder bit the words off through teeth clenched in pain. "They have no choice. I don't want to kill you Agent Mulder. You're my one hope that my message will get out, that people will know what they've done, and that it will finally be stopped." His eyes narrowed as he glanced again at Skinner and Scully, both unmoving and both still holding their weapons on him. "But I will if your friends don't *back off,* right now!" Neither Scully nor Skinner moved. The stand off continued. Mulder was clutching his leg in a vain attempt to stem the bleeding, and hoping that nothing vital had been hit. He could feel himself growing weaker, and the headache, dizziness, and nausea he had been fighting all morning were threatening to overwhelm him. He pushed the blackness away by force of will, and said, "What message, Harold? What message am I supposed to spread?" "What they did to me. To me and all the others. They didn't *ask* us. We didn't *volunteer.* We were *taken.*" "Like you took the children, Harold?" "No! I didn't want to hurt them. They were bad, contaminated. I thought they could be saved but they were weak. They couldn't withstand the tests." Michael chose that moment to moan, and Roberson's attention was pulled to the youth. "Harold," Mulder called hoarsely, "talk to me. Tell me about the tests." But it was too late. Harold's attention was firmly on the boy. "Come here, Michael," he ordered. The youth shook his head. "I'll shoot him again, if you don't move." Michael looked at Mulder, his leg bleeding, then turned pleading eyes on Scully, then Skinner. Neither moved, afraid to break the tableau, afraid their action would cost someone's life. "No, Michael, don't move," Mulder gasped, but the boy was already dragging one reluctant foot behind the other. Mulder reached out, attempting to grab the boy, but from his position on the floor, he couldn't reach him. "Don't get near him." But the boy was moving, eyes fastened to Roberson's, seemingly mesmerized as he took the last few steps to the murderer's side. "You're 17, right boy?" Harold asked. Michael nodded. "And you've shown compassion for someone else. You put Agent Mulder before yourself, knowing that I would have shot him if you didn't move." The boy nodded again, and Mulder knew with a certainty what was happening. "Harold," he begged, "he's just a boy. He's not -- *he's not* an adult. Not yet." But Roberson ignored him. Michael was standing docilely next to Roberson now, head bowed, tears running down his cheeks. Roberson reached out and gently patted the boy with the hand that didn't hold the gun. "Now, now, young Michael," he said, "it's always hard at first. But you've shown yourself to be a man. That's something to be proud of." "He's not," Mulder cried hoarsely. "He's not a man. He's a child. Scully, tell him, he's still a boy. He hasn't fully developed yet, he hasn't begun to live." Mulder was struggling to rise, grappling with furniture to pull himself to his feet. "Harold, listen to her, she's a doctor, she'll tell you. Seventeen is not an adult. Scully, say something. Tell him!" Mulder could hear the panicked frenzy in his voice -- he knew where this would lead. "Roberson," Scully said, trying to adapt the right tone of placating understanding and forceful knowledge, "Mulder's right. He's just a boy. Seventeen is a long way from adult." "Don't hurt the boy, Harold," Skinner called. "Nothing so bad has happened yet, here, that you can't walk out of here alive. Everyone knows that you've been wronged. Your message did get out. You've done what needed to be done. Don't do anything more." "You don't understand!" Roberson roared. "None of you understand! They're all dead. All but me! I'm the one success from the whole damn thing." He stopped ranting, his chest heaving from the exertion, and his prisoners could see him make a visible effort to pull himself together. "I'll walk out of here alive, no matter what. Well, I may not walk, but I'll be alive." Roberson's voice dropped to a whisper, and he said, "I can't be killed. No matter what they do, I don't die." Shocked silence filled the room, and Scully murmured, "Everyone dies, Roberson. Everyone." "Not me," Harold said plaintively. There was an ineffable sadness in his voice, and Mulder found himself sympathizing with the sorrow just being alive could bring. There was a long stunned silence, and then Roberson's eyes clouded, he cocked his head and turned to Skinner. "How old were you when you went to Nam, Mr. Skinner?" he asked. "No!" Mulder cried again. "Michael is not Skinner. He's not you. He can't be judged by your standards." Mulder was on his feet, swaying as he fought the dizziness and pain. Roberson looked thoughtful for a moment. "How old, Mr. Skinner, or I shoot the boy." Skinner's face turned ashen, then he lied and said, "I was 19." "Liar," Roberson said. His voice dropped to a deeper register and he began to speak in a monotone. "You were 17. I looked you up. I was 17, too. They were so hungry for bodies, they took us at 17. Were you a man, Mr. Skinner?" Skinner looked at Mulder. What to say? He was the psychologist for Christ's sake. "No. No, I was still a child." "So was I," Harold commented, his voice ringing dully in the silence of the room. "But death makes you a man, doesn't it, Skinner?" Without even realizing he was doing it, Skinner was nodding in agreement. His eyes met Mulder's and he knew he'd made a fatal mistake. He tensed to attack, but Roberson saw the movement and fired at Mulder, missing his shoulder by inches. "I don't miss unless I want to," he said. The room was totally still. No one moved, no one spoke. At last, Mulder broke the silence, "Harold, tell me about your message. Talk to me about what happened." "You are trying to divert my attention from this fine young man, Agent Mulder, and I won't have it." Mulder felt the panic rising again. Roberson was going to kill Michael and there was nothing he could do, nothing any of them could do. His mind churned as he sorted through one thing after another, anything he could say that might turn the tide. All it would take was for Scully or Skinner to fire, but neither of them would, not unless they were certain Roberson was ready to shoot. And Roberson was too canny. He wouldn't give any warning at all. Mulder looked at the trembling boy, took in the tears that fell from his eyes, the trembling body, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, and the large wet stain on the front of his pants. 'Michael, keep your mouth shut this time.' He offered a silent prayer, then said, "Roberson, look at him. He's pissed himself. Is that what a man does?" He loaded his tone with as much loathing and disgust as he could muster. Roberson looked down at the boy's crotch, then met Mulder's eyes. And in that moment, Mulder knew that of all the wrong things to say, that had been the most wrong. He looked in Roberson's eyes and saw the years of fear and torture and rejection, and realized he had made the biggest mistake of his life. Or even worse, the biggest mistake of Michael Mitchell's life. Before Harold could open his mouth to speak, Mulder was moving, launching himself forward, his injured leg dragging crookedly behind him as he struggled to get to Roberson. Roberson continued to stare at Mulder as time slowed, and he watched Mulder's struggles to reach him. "It's all part of becoming a man. Right, Skinner? He raised the Sig, took aim, and fired straight at Mulder, saying, "As a matter of fact, I wet myself the first time I killed someone." He was turning as he spoke, firing again, the second shot hitting Michael, and then he went down as both Scully and Skinner unloaded their clips into the man. Time suddenly began to move at its normal pace, and chaos reigned in that small living room. Scully went to Mulder checking for a pulse. "To the abdomen. It's bad. We need to get him out of here now!" She raced over to Michael, knowing it was a lost cause, but forcing herself to check. A small entrance wound marred the boy's unlined forehead, but the back of his head was missing. Scully had felt sure there was not hope for the boy, as she was wearing a good bit of his blood and gray matter splattered across her vest and pants. "He's gone," she pronounced, then scuttled back to Mulder. "Where the fuck is Gerrolds?" Skinner asked, rummaging in Roberson's pockets for car keys. Successful at last, he stood and raced to the front door, yanked it open and was met by the barrel of an automatic assault rifle. Chapter 37 Oh shit! AD Skinner was gonna have his head. Gerrolds looked at the men in military style uniforms, holding rifles on both him and Jacobs, and wondered for the 167th time in the last 15 minutes, who the hell they were, and why they had chosen to stop him. He stood with his hands palm down on the hood of the car, legs spread-eagled behind him. Agent Jacobs stood in a similar position on the other side of the car. They hadn't taken his gun, or Sara's, but from this position, there was no way he could pull himself erect and get to his gun fast enough to be able to do anything except get himself or Sara shot. He groaned softly, and thought again, 'Why did they stop me?' The leader of the group was standing a short distance away, speaking animatedly into a cell phone. "Yes, Sir," he said, "I've got the chase car stopped. The other team is still not within distance." The man paused, as he listened intently, then said, "Yes, Sir, the primary subject has been located. When alternate subject one was lost, we pursued the secondaries, and they led us straight to him. And *he* had located the prime." He moved restlessly, and Gerrolds wished he could work off some of his tension that way. Gerrolds forced himself to remain still and to listen and remember as much of this one-sided conversation as he could. "One moment, Sir," the man said, then switched to a hand-held radio. "Thornton," he said. "Shots fired, Sir!" an excited voice exclaimed through the crackle of radio static. "We have shots fired!" "Can you confirm who was hit?" "No, Sir, we cannot get a visual at this time." "Damn!" Thornton returned to the cell phone. "We need to move immediately, Sir. Shots have been fired. We need air support with full medical." He paused, as if weighing his words. "Dispatch the civilian air rescue as well. Have them arrive 10 minutes behind us." Thornton turned and addressed the men milling about the roadblock. "Let's go." He pointed at the makeshift barricade of cars, each marked Spencerville Police Department. "We're moving out." He walked back to Gerrolds' car and raised his gun. Gerrolds could see Sara's jaw work as she struggled for control and knew his own features revealed a similar battle. Thornton took aim, then dropped the gun and shot the front tire between Gerrolds legs. He then shot out the rear tire on both sides. "Give me your cuffs, and the keys." Gerrolds slowly stood and reluctantly produced keys and cuffs, watching as Jacobs did the same. Thornton rolled the windows to the car down, then cuffed to the agents to the door frame. "Your AD should be here to get you shortly. And if he doesn't make it, SAC Stevens is on his way." ******************************************** Skinner froze, unmoving, as the barrel of the rifle connected with his abdomen. Another man reached out and relieved him of his gun. He was prodded, none too gently, and he stepped backwards into the living room again. Men in uniform swarmed into the room, and Scully was jerked to her feet, away from Mulder, her gun taken from her as well. Skinner looked down at Mulder. He was barely conscious, bleeding from leg and belly, his face a pasty white. A thin line of sweat beaded his upper lip and forehead, and he seemed to be having difficulty breathing. In the distance he could hear the roar of a helicopter, and he wondered who these men were that they commanded such silent power. The leader, a youngish man with short blonde hair, ordered, "On the couch, now." Skinner looked at him, then said, "Lt. Thornton, I presume?" He was rewarded with a slight widening of the man's eyes. Good. At least they couldn't plan for every contingency. The roar of the chopper was much closer now; in fact, it was right outside. Were they landing in the clearing before the house? Thornton prodded Skinner again, and he began to move toward the couch, where Scully already sat. "She's a doctor," he began. "Let her help him." Thornton glanced at Mulder, then back at Scully. "Medical is on the way for him. They'll be here as soon as we leave. I've arranged an airlift to Georgetown where he'll be met on arrival. The copter coming for him has plenty of blood for him. He's gonna be uncomfortable for a while, but he'll live." As Thornton was speaking, his men were loading Roberson onto a gurney, and Skinner was shocked when he thought he saw the man move on his own. No, it couldn't be. He looked again, but the man was still now, and there were no further movements while Skinner watched. The men were out the door with Roberson, Thornton the last to leave. "I'll leave your weapons outside. I know what a pain it is to explain how you lost your gun." He grinned at them, then nodded to Mulder. "Hey, Doc, you can go to him now." He stepped out the door, pulling it shut behind him, and raced to the copter. Roberson was already loaded and the others were in their vehicles and driving away even as the copter lifted off. Skinner pulled the door open in time to see Thornton throw the guns onto the ground as the helicopter took off. He started to go through the door, when Scully's voice halted him. "No!" she called. "The bleeding's worse. I need your hands." Skinner stood for a moment, eyes closed as he battled his desire to pursue, then turned and went back to help his friends. ********************************************* Soft. Everything was soft. That was his first thought. Under his back was soft. Under his head was soft. The hand stroking his arm was soft. But most importantly, the lips caressing his own were very soft. He moved just slightly, and his tongue snaked out to lightly touch those soft lips. They pulled away, and for a moment he was bereft, but then they were back, and he sighed softly. "Hi," he whispered into the lips and they answered, "Hi, yourself." He could feel her pulling away and he wanted to stop her but he couldn't bring himself to move. He struggled with eyelids that weighed 6 tons each, finally prying one partly open, and he gazed into two crystal blue orbs not 6 inches from his face. Directly under them were those wonderful lips, those delicate lips, those so soft lips that he wanted back so badly. "You're going to be OK, Mulder," the lips said again. "Are you in any pain?" He thought about it for a moment, then tried to shake his head, but that required more energy than he had. The soft hand trailed down his arm, and small but strong fingers grasped his own. "Can you squeeze?" He focused all his energy into closing his hand, concentrating harder than he'd ever done before, and finally his fingers twitched. "Good. That's very good. Now once more if you are in pain." Mulder didn't move, didn't attempt that earth-shattering feat of strength, and didn't know if he would have been able to, even if he was in pain. As it was, he was in -- languor -- yeah, that was it. If you could be in languor. He was drained of all energy and vitality, but not in a bad way, at least not now. There was no pain, and he was floating in a cloud of contentment. Scully was here, her hands tender as they stroked him, her voice gentle as she crooned to him. He could no longer make out the words, but the tone alone brought a smile to his face. 'Hey,' he thought, 'smiling was easy. Really must take fewer muscles than a frown.' And her lips. Those wonderful soft lips were wandering around his face, a butterfly's touch to his closed eyelids, grazing his cheeks, returning to caress his own dry, cracked lips, soothing them with delicate pressure. He sighed again, then let himself go and drifted away. ******************************************* "He only woke up for those few minutes, enough to recognize me and tell me he was in no pain. That was almost 36 hours ago." Scully was speaking quietly to Skinner as they sat at Mulder's bedside. She was slowly breaking off pieces of a sandwich, and then putting the pieces back on the plate. "That's not doing you any good on the plate," Skinner observed. "You need to eat." "I'm not hungry." "I know. But you still need to eat. Mulder's going to be here a while, and you can't let yourself get sick. If you get rundown while he's still like this, you'll never be able to keep track of him once he starts feeling better." Skinner smiled and Scully gave a small laugh, but she picked up a piece of the sandwich and popped it in her mouth. Skinner sighed contentedly. "I think I may have missed my calling," he mused. Scully's eyebrow went up and she asked, "Really? And what do you think it should have been?" "Well," he said slyly, "I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to feed you or Mulder. Not at all what one would expect from an Assistant Director of the FBI. Perhaps, just perhaps, mind you, I should have been a Jewish mother!" Scully broke out into a full laugh at that and she shook her head. "No," she said, still laughing, "it's just not you! You better stick with AD work!" They both laughed a bit more, then a weak voice said, "Hey," in a raspy whisper. Scully put the plate on the table by the bed and went to take Mulder's hand. "Hey, yourself," she answered. "How you feeling?" "Water?" Mulder asked hopefully. "Not yet. Your belly is a mess. I can probably get the OK for some ice chips though.' Mulder sagged. "How long?" he croaked. "How long what, Mulder?" Skinner asked. "How long have you been here? A little over two days. How long were you out? About 36 hours. How long do you have to stay? Until the doctors release you. How long till you can eat?" He shrugged. "You'll have to ask your doctor that one." Mulder focused on his hand again, concentrating to get his fingers to close, and was rewarded as they twitched once more within Scully's grasp. "My doctor," he whispered, his fingers relaxing and his eyes sliding shut as he drifted off once more. "Damn," Skinner commented. "I've never seen him this docile. Whatever they're pumping into him, it might be nice if we could keep some around for his more truculent moments." Scully was still standing by the bed, and Skinner went to stand behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, kneading gently. "He's going to be fine, Dana," he said in a soft voice. She nodded, then released Mulder's hand and stood stiffly for a moment. "It was close," she whimpered, "so close." Beneath his hands, Skinner felt her shoulders quiver as she fought back the sobs trying to escape. He turned her to him, and pulled her into his embrace. "Shhh," he murmured soothingly, "Shhh, now, it's all right. He's all right. He's just weak. And tired. But he's all right." He continued to speak softly to her as the pent up tears crested and then broke from her overfilled eyes. He held her as she cried, marveling at the strength of this woman, and honored that she would turn to him when she needed this release. As her sobs quieted, she stilled in his arms, and he stood there holding her, offering comfort and receiving it, united by the care and concern they shared for each other and the injured man who still lay sleeping. ***************************************** "I swear to God, Scully, I'll take the damn thing out myself if they don't remove it -- *today!*" "God, Mulder, I think I prefer you unconscious," Scully said in exasperation. "I've told you and told you, your insides are a mess. Everything was damaged. You've got more stitches inside you than my grandmother's handmade quilt. Let the catheter do its job, and you do yours. Rest and let yourself heal." Mulder had been silent through this tirade, waiting patiently for her to finish. "Are you done?" he asked when she paused. She narrowed her eyes at him, "What are you planning? Mulder?" She was studying him closely, then jumped as she saw the bed covers move over his groin. "Damn it, Mulder!" She leapt to the bed, yanking back the covers, and easily grasping his weakened hands in her own. "Do I have to have them restrain you?" "Restrain him?" a deep voice asked from the doorway. Skinner strolled in and took Mulder's hands from Scully as she examined him to see what damage he had managed to do. "Didn't you learn the last time that removing the catheter yourself was not the way to go?" He looked pointedly at the open door, then back at Mulder in his very exposed position. Mulder flushed, then said, "It hurts and I hate it. I hurt enough as it is. Why can't it come out?" He was whining as he continued. "I always get a bladder infection when I have a catheter in." "Mulder, will you keep your hands off if Skinner lets you go?" At Mulder's nod, Skinner released him, and Scully asked the AD, "Would you go get the nurse, please?" "Anyone in particular?" "Someone he hasn't completely pissed off yet, please. And get them to page his doctor. I think the catheter is going to have to come out or we'll be fighting this battle every hour." Mulder was smiling in satisfaction, but the smile disappeared when Scully turned to him. "However, you will stay right here, in this hospital, for at least another 48 hours. And if you give me any -- and I mean *any* -- crap about it, I'll shoot you so full of dope you won't know up from down. *********************************************** She was almost asleep, curled in the chair by his bed. He didn't really need 24 hour observation anymore, and hadn't for several days, but he got into less trouble when she was there. And, let's face it, she wanted to be there. The room was dark and she could feel sleep stealing over her when she heard it. A sniffle. She remained perfectly still, listening. There it was again. Definitely a sniffle. And that was a gulp. Was he crying? She jumped up and went to stand by the bed. Mulder was curled in a ball, his face buried in his pillow and sobs wracked his long body. She reached out and stroked his back, feeling him stiffen, then relax beneath her touch. "What is it?" she asked. "What's wrong? Are you in pain?" He shook his head, then buried his face again, his whole body shaking. She walked around to the other side of the bed, lowered the rail, and sat beside him. Tugging the pillow from his grip, she nudged him toward her lap. He was resistant at first, then launched himself at her, burying his head in her belly and weeping uncontrollably. She stroked his hair and rubbed his shoulders, murmuring to him as one would to a fussy baby. "Hush, now, shhh. It's all right." She bent and planted little kisses all along the side of his face, his ear, and in his hair. "Shhh, now, please, Mulder, tell me what's wrong. Let me help." At this, he began to cry even harder, his body shuddering from the force of his sobs. "Mulder," she asked, concerned, "what *is* it?" He was beyond answering, and she let him cry a bit longer, but as 15 minutes turned to 20, and then 20 to 30, she grew more and more apprehensive. Something was definitely wrong. "Mulder, you have to stop, you're going to injure yourself again. Your insides are too newly knit to take this abuse. Please," she pleaded, "please calm down. Tell me what it is. We can talk about it." But it was no use, he was beyond hearing her now. She reached out and hit the nurse's button. When the woman answered, Scully said, "Doesn't Mulder have a sedative ordered, sort of a just in case thing?" "Why, yes, he does, Doctor Scully. Is there a problem?" "I think you better get it and come down." The nurse appeared in a few minutes, syringe in hand. She took one look at the huddled mass on the bed, arms wrapped around Scully's waist as his shoulders heaved and sobs were ripped from his chest. She swiftly injected the contents of the syringe into the IV, and within minutes, Mulder's sobs quieted, his breathing began to even out, and he was sleeping. As the nurse helped Scully to stretch him back out on the bed, sponging the sweat from his body and straightening the linens beneath him, she asked, "What was that about?" Scully shrugged helplessly. "By the time I realized he was in distress, he was beyond talking. I couldn't get a word from him." She leaned over and kissed him gently, pushing the wayward lock of hair back from his brow. Her hand lingered on his face, and she added in a whisper, "But we'll talk tomorrow, won't we, Mulder?" ************************************************ "I killed him, Scully. Me. I did it as surely as if I had pulled the trigger." "No, Mulder," she responded vehemently, "You *did not!*" "I was the one who made that comment about his wet pants. That was what set Roberson off. I should've known. He's the perfect type for incontinence under stress. I bet he was a bedwetter as a child too. I just didn't see it." He was sitting up, his first time out of bed since the shooting, and he dropped his head into his hands. He'd lost weight and the shabby hospital gown hung from his gaunt frame. Scully eyed him appraisingly. He needs to eat, and he needs to get this off his chest -- now. "Mulder, Roberson was going to kill that boy, no matter what you said or did. You were backed into a corner with no way out. Roberson made his decision; anything you said, he would have twisted to support the decision to shoot." "You don't understand, Scully, you just don't understand." "Then enlighten me. Make me understand." She softened her tone and moved to crouch before him. She rested her hands on his legs, careful of the wrapping that protected the wounded thigh, and murmured. "I want to understand." Mulder laughed harshly and looked away. "No," he said, "you don't. You don't ever want to understand that part of me." She took his chin in her hand, and turned him back to face her. She took a deep breath and said, "Mulder. I love you. All of you. Every last bit of you. Even the parts you think are unlovable, I love." She leaned forward and kissed him, not surprised by his lack of response. "Who you are, the person that I love, is the sum of all those parts. Those parts good, and those parts not so good. It all goes into making you who you are." She sighed. She still wasn't getting through. She kissed him again, then rose and pushed the wheelchair away from the window and in front of the chair. This time she sat, just on the edge of the seat, her hands back on his legs, her knees brushing his own. She drew a deep breath. This would be hard, but, God, this man was so stubborn sometimes. He wouldn't take sweet and loving? OK. She could deliver the same message another way, and hopefully, it would sink in. "You think you let that boy down because you couldn't read Roberson's mind." Her voice was harsh, her tone accusing. Mulder blinked as he looked at her, then he muttered, "You don't understand. It's not mind-reading." "Then what is it, Mr. Wunderkind? What is it that makes you so capable of doing what you do? How exactly did you fail that boy?" Mulder was getting angry now. She could see it in the tense of his shoulders, the slightly sharper tone he used to answer her. "I don't have to read minds, because their mind is my mind, his mind is my mind. How the hell do you think I knew where he'd be?" Anger, petulance, annoyance. Excellent. "So you can become someone else? That's what you do, Mulder? You *become* someone else?" Her voice dripped with scorn and disbelief, but her hands still touched him gently, reminding him on some subconscious level that she was still there, she still cared. He exploded at her. "Yes! That's exactly what I do. I walk willingly into the sewers of Hell and consort with the filth that resides there. I take up their mantle, and champion their cause. I know what they know, I feel what they feel, I want what they want. Oh, God, the things I want." His voice dropped to a moan, anguish evident on his face. He was struggling beneath her hands, and she knew if he could, he would have risen and walked away. Walked away and probably never made it back alive. She clutched at him, trying desperately to ground him, but it wasn't all done yet. They weren't through, not yet. "So you feel, and you know, and you want," she jeered. "Prove it to me. Prove to me you became Harold Roberson." He looked up at her, tears filling his eyes, anger and pain etched into his features. Her heart was pulled apart and she almost broke, but she held herself coldly, staring him down, even as her hands played lightly across his thighs. "Prove to me that you became Harold Roberson." "I knew where he went. I knew where to find you, back at the beginning." He was spitting words at her now, each comment an attack on its own. "I knew where the baby would be. I knew where Mitchell would be. And I knew where Roberson would be. I knew everything, Scully! I knew it all! Is that proof enough for you?" She arched her eyebrow and asked ruthlessly, "Everything, Mulder? You knew everything?" "Yes, damn it, yes! I knew everything!" "And you knew everything because you became Harold Roberson?" "It's. What. I. Do." Each word was an epithet, standing alone, accusingly. "It's. Who. I. Am." "So you were Harold Roberson?" "Yes!" The word was torn from his lips. "Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes!" "And you knew everything?" she continued implacably. "Yes!" "Then why didn't you know he wet his pants?" Mulder mouth was open to respond, but it just hung there. He stared at her, as his mind worked to make sense of her words. She dropped her angry pretense, and let the tears fill her eyes as she reached out and gently nudged his jaw shut. "You do not become these killers that you seek, Mulder. You do not become them. You do not know everything, and you *are not* responsible for Michael Mitchell's death." He was staring at her hungrily now, all hope for his absolution resting with her. Without her acceptance, her understanding, her love, he could never go on. And she was offering it all to him, right here, right now. He need only accept. "I don't know how you do what you do, Mulder, but it's not by becoming the killer. You are you. Mulder. *My* Mulder." She leaned in and kissed him thoroughly, reclaiming him through her touch. "And you are all I want, or need." Chapter 38 Three weeks later "That was good, Sir," Mulder sighed in contentment. "We really do need to let you display your culinary skills more often." Skinner snorted but was inwardly pleased at the compliment. He had always enjoyed cooking, and it was more fun to cook for an appreciative audience. Even Scully had taken seconds, and Lord knows, she could stand to gain some weight. He smiled, satisfied with life for the time being. It was a rare enough feeling, and finally, at this point in his life, he'd learned to accept the pleasure when it occurred. "I'm sorry, I must have been drifting." Skinner smiled again at Scully. "What did you say?" "I said, maybe you could help Mulder into the living room and I'll get these dishes into the dishwasher." Skinner nodded and rose to assist Mulder. "I can make it on my own, Sir," he muttered. "She's just being overprotective." "Then let her. You give her enough scares as it is. If she wants to hover a bit, why not relax and go with it?" He had Mulder on his feet now, and despite the younger man's protestations, Skinner could feel how very weak he still was. "Here," he slipped an arm around Mulder's waist, careful of the still noticeable bandage that wrapped his abdomen, "lean on me a bit." Mulder's weight shifted slightly and Skinner took up the slack. As the two men made their way over to the couch, Mulder said, "We do, you know." Skinner was eyeing the coffee table and planning how best to get his injured friend around it and safely ensconced on the sofa. Behind him he could hear the patter of Scully's feet as she ferried dishes and silverware into the kitchen. "Excuse me?" "Lean on you." Skinner stopped and met Mulder's eyes. There was a caring, a concern, a welcome and acceptance in them, that he had seen all too infrequently in his life. He swallowed hard, then nodded, incapable of speech, and patted the younger man's shoulder. They stood for a minute more, then Skinner said gruffly, "Let's get you off your feet." Mulder laughed. "You hover too, you know." "Yeah, but my hovering isn't as much fun is it?" Skinner teased. "Well, Walt, old buddy, old pal, I hate to break this to you but, no, it's not." Both men laughed and Scully stuck her head out of the kitchen, "You two all right in there?" "Fine," Skinner replied. "We're just fine." "Good. I'm almost done. Anyone want coffee?" He eased Mulder down onto the cushions of the sofa, settling him as comfortably as possible. "I do," Mulder muttered, "but she won't let me have anything but that decaf crap." "I'll take a cup, Scully," Skinner called, "and Mulder wants decaf." "Yeah, right, Mulder *wants* decaf," Scully chortled. "But decaf he gets, whether he wants it or not." Both men sat for a few minutes, then Skinner rose and said, "Let me go see if she needs help with the cups. Then, Mulder," he caught his agent's eye, "I need to ask you something." Mulder nodded and Skinner rose and disappeared into the kitchen. Mulder leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. He was better, much better, but he knew he was still weak and he tired easily. He felt himself nodding off and jerked awake when he heard Scully say, "Mulder, you look done in. Do you want to go to bed? I'm sure the AD will understand." Mulder was shaking his head. "It's the first time we've all been able to spend any peaceful period of time together. I'm not ready for it to end." He made a sound in the back of his throat, "Jeez, Scully, I feel like a little kid who has to ask to stay up with the adults." She went and sat by him, taking his hand, "I worry about you," she said softly. "This was too close." "I know, I'm sorry. I'm just being grumpy. Here, give me the damn decaf," he smiled crookedly to take the sting from his words, "and come sit with me." He pulled her closer to him, his arm snaking out to wrap around her shoulders. He sipped the coffee she handed him, grimaced, then said, "What did you want to ask me?" Skinner looked cautiously at Scully. "I'm not sure this is the right time. I don't want to upset you or wear you out any more than I already have." "I'm OK, really. C'mon, people, you gotta cut me some slack here. Yes, I get tired. Yes, I still ache a bit. Yes, I move a bit slower and may need help now and again, but I'm OK." He lowered his voice, deliberately waiting until his breathing evened out and his heart rate slowed. "I need to be included in what's going on around me. I need things to start getting back to normal." "All right, Mulder," Skinner said, "this should make you feel involved. John Bikowski called me again today. And there's still nothing I can tell him about Thomas' whereabouts. Is the boy dead?" Scully glanced reproachfully at Skinner but he only shrugged. Mulder was a grown man, after all. And his arguments made sense. Too much coddling wasn't good either. He only hoped he hadn't gone too far the other way. "I've been thinking about it, really I have," Mulder was saying. "Roberson said Thomas was his last message, the one no one could misunderstand. I think that means he's alive. I just need to figure out where Roberson could put him and keep him alive this long, without someone ... finding ... out ..." Mulder's mouth fell open, "Of course!" he whispered. "Of course. I am so blind. It all makes perfect sense." He looked up and met Skinner's eyes. "I need to go back to the FICI, back to where it all started." "No, Mulder, you're not ready. It's too early for you to think about something like that." Skinner was definitely feeling guilty now. Scully was likely to hand him his head for starting Mulder on this. "I have to," the man was saying. "If the boy is still alive, that's the only way I'm gonna find him. I have to go back to the beginning. And we have to go now." Mulder was struggling to his feet, pushing off Scully's attempts to hold him down. He stood, swaying, before them both, then said, "C'mon, we've done this before. I know I'm not 100%, but sometimes you just have to go with what you've got. And I'm what you've got. And we need to go. Now." He stepped cautiously toward the door and pulled his jacket on. "Now, is someone going to drive me, or do I need to take a cab?" Scully rose and picked up the coffee mugs. "So much for a quiet evening at home with friends," she muttered. As she reached the kitchen, she called back, "I'm coming Mulder, let me get my shoes." They could hear the water running as she rinsed the cups, then she disappeared down the hall to the bedroom, appearing moments later, sturdy shoes on her feet, and her shoulder holster in hand. She looked at Skinner, "You have yours?" He nodded, and at her quizzical look at his obviously unholstered shoulders, he added, "Ankle." "Mine?" Mulder demanded. "NO!" Scully and Skinner responded simultaneously. He shrugged, then said, "Let's go. It's a two hour drive." *********************************************** The drive up had been completed in almost silence. Mulder had nodded off shortly after they pulled out and Scully and Skinner had talked quietly of everything but the trip they were making, allowing him to sleep. It was after midnight when they reached the FICI. Skinner's credentials got them through the gate and into the compound, despite the hour and despite the fact that Mulder looked either deathly ill or horribly hung over. As they entered the facility, Mulder walking between Skinner and Scully, and leaning heavily on Skinner if the truth be told, the older man said, "All right, Mulder, we're following blind here. You need to explain." "Think about it. Think of the power that would have been necessary to make the switch with Roberson and the other man, the man who is now dead and beyond any attempts at questioning. How do you get away with something like that? How do you pull soldiers off the combat fields of Viet Nam and never have anyone ask questions? How do you lock people up in institutions, and never have anyone notice that there is a basis in reality for the patient's psychosis? Who have we come in contact with who has that kind of power?" "You mean ... ?" Mulder nodded grimly. "The conspirators. The syndicate. The consortium. Whatever they are. Who else has their own army, and the power to keep it secret? Who walks where they want, when they want, with impunity? Who else has a proven track record in illicit experimentation?" They were approaching a desk now, and Mulder shook off Skinner's hand, standing on his own as he identified himself, and said, "I need to see room 116." The woman's eyes nodded. "Oh, no Sir, you can't do that." "What do you mean, I can't do that?" "That patient is segregated from the population. There is a separate guard that takes care of all that room's needs." "Are you saying you don't know who is in the room, and you've never seen the patient?" Mulder was floored. "Yes, Sir, that's right. Regular staff has nothing to do with that one. It happens like that sometimes, for the especially violent ones." "You have a key?" "Well, yes, but it's only in case of emergency, like a fire or some other need to evacuate." Skinner decided it was time to speak up. In his best command voice, he said, "Get the key. We are going in that room, and we are going now." "But, Sir ..." the woman stammered, "I can't. It'll be my job." "And what will happen to your job when three FBI agents open fire on the lock on that room?" Skinner boomed. The woman looked pleadingly at them, then opened a file cabinet. Rifling through the folders, she withdrew one and bent to a small safe. She worked the tumblers quickly and soon produced the key. "Let's go," Skinner said, jerking his head towards the corridor. "I can't leave my desk unless it's an emergency," the woman said, with a glance at the phone. "This is an emergency," Skinner responded. "Now move!" They walked down the hall, Skinner again supporting Mulder; Scully keeping abreast of the nurse. They reached room 116 and waited as the woman inserted the key and began to turn the lock. "Think of what it would take to make someone disappear in a place like this," Mulder murmured as they waited. "If Roberson *did* live, this could be his ultimate bargaining chip." "What do you mean?" Scully asked. "His cooperation in exchange for this." Mulder waved at the door, beginning to open. "Exchange for what, Mulder?" Scully asked again. "You're being cryptic." The door was open now, and Skinner pulled the nurse back as Mulder pressed forward to see. He was searching the wall, then fumbling with the light switch, and suddenly the room was ablaze. Mulder took another step forward, Skinner and Scully crowding in behind him. >From the bed on the far wall, a small form raised itself and two brown eyes stared forlornly at them. "Exchange for this, Scully. The ultimate message. What does it take to make a 12 year old disappear into a federal institution for madmen?" Mulder took a few steps forward, then said softly, "Thomas?" The boy nodded. "Are you all right?" Mulder extended his hand and the boy looked doubtfully at him. "It's OK, Thomas, we've come to get you." The boy was sitting now, watching them with wary eyes. Mulder took another step forward. "It's all over, Thomas, it's all over." The boy remained rooted to the bed for another long moment, and no one dared to move. He seemed to be searching Mulder's face, and then, like a dam bursting, he leapt out of the bed and into Mulder's open arms, almost knocking the weakened man over. Mulder held the boy tightly and whispered, "It's time to go home, Thomas. Let's go home." Part 5: The Nibbler Case Chapter 39 October 14, 1998 5:10 p.m. "Explain to me again why I am 'lucky' to be with you on this assignment, Mulder?" Mulder sat slouched in his seat, eyes closed, his long legs splayed loosely against the floorboard in front of him. "C'mon Scully, a trip to the mountains at the height of the color season? Do you know how hard it is to get reservations at any hotel this time of year?" He grinned. "It'll be fun." One eye opened mischievously, as he darted a glance in her direction. Seeing the gathering storm surrounding them, he straightened in his seat, and turned toward her. "It's really getting bad out there. You want to stop for a while? Or want me to take a turn driving?" "I'm fine, Mulder," she responded. "I'll drive." Lightning flashed against the darkened sky and the van pulled to the left in the increasing wind. It began to rain, huge, heavy drops that splashed forcefully against the windshield, and hammered on the roof, their pounding drowning out the engine and making it necessary to speak up for simple conversation. Mulder reached out and patted her shoulder. "All right. Just don't be too stubborn to stop if it gets too bad, or ask for help." "You know me too well," she said, flashing a quick smile, but keeping her eyes focused on the highway ahead. The wind continued to batter the van as the road was brightly lit, then a heavy roll of thunder crashed around them. "Anything is better than having to keep checking on 'Nathan the Nibbler' back there." She gave a delicate little shudder. "He really creeps me out." The smile on Mulder's face disappeared and worry lines immediately creased his brow. He stiffened in his seat, then forced himself to relax again. "I really thought I'd be OK with this when I asked you to come along. I thought, with all the time that has passed, it would be easier." "Why don't you go over your testimony again, Mulder?" Scully suggested as she tightened her grip on the wheel yet again. "I know my testimony, Scully," Mulder responded with a sulk. "I hate talking about it." "I know you do, but you still get -- upset -- when you relate it, and Legal wants you to go over it until you can get through the whole thing calmly." "Nobody should ever be able to get through that calmly," Mulder retorted. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and stared unseeingly out the side window. "I know," she soothed, "but you have to be credible on the stand. You know that." "I know, I know." Mulder turned to look straight ahead, then lowered his gaze to his lap for a few seconds. His right hand rose and scrubbed at his forehead. He placed his elbow on the door's armrest, and leaned his head heavily into his palm. "I really hate this, Scully," he sighed. "They want me to relive one of the most horrendous experiences of my life, and explain how I knew what was happening." He sighed again. "All right, Scully, here goes." He took a deep breath and began. "In 1991, I was assigned to the Violent Crimes Section, working serials. I was sent to assist the task force working on what was then called the 'Munchie Murders.' People were turning up dead, having been bitten multiple times and left to bleed to death. The bites were human. At the time I was called in, there were eight deaths in Virginia, all in the Shenandoah Mountains. Though we weren't aware of it, there had been three deaths in the West Virginia mountains as well. It didn't attract attention at first, because the deaths were occurring in rather backward communities." "Mulder," Scully interjected, "you can't say that! You'll piss off the local authorities even faster than you usually do. Try saying 'rural communities without access to up-to-date technology,' OK?" Mulder slowly turned and looked at her. "All right, Scully, but don't interrupt again. Just make mental notes and tell me later. This is too hard, and I can't keep stopping and starting." "Fair enough, I'm sorry." She reached out and squeezed his hand, then quickly gripped the wheel again as a gust of wind caught the vehicle broadside, causing it to shudder and pull. They were both silent as she brought the van back under control. When they were once again securely in the right lane, she gently encouraged him with, "Go on, Mulder." "Anyway, the deaths didn't attract attention at first, because they were occurring in rural communities without access to up-to-date technology," he paused giving her a 'happy now?' look, then went on. "Due to the state of decay the bodies were in, it took the local law enforcement officials some time to determine that the bite marks were human, and it took even longer to figure out that the deaths were related. "At the time I was assigned to the task force, the Virginia deaths had been linked. The last body had been discovered just over the state line in West Virginia, opening up the possibility that more related deaths had occurred in that state as well. A bulletin was issued to all law enforcement offices in West Virginia seeking matching deaths. While awaiting responses on that request, I began to review the information that had been collected on the deaths we knew of thus far." Mulder paused and gave a deep sigh. He rubbed his hand over his face again, beginning with his forehead, then covering his eyes, and finally pinching the bridge of his nose. He turned slightly, and gazed out the window into the storm. He leaned his head against the glass of the window, and sat still, taking slow deep breaths. "This is really difficult for you, isn't it?" Scully asked gently. He was silent, watching the lines on the road pass beneath his window, counting the reflectors that flashed by, briefly lit by the van's headlights. What was making this so difficult? It wasn't his first case. It wasn't even his worst case, but this one had left deep scars, the sheer brutality of the crimes so against society's norms, that he still gagged when he thought of the bodies he had seen. And he'd been alone. All through the case he'd been alone. Alone with the victims -- their trauma branded into his mind. Alone with the perpetrator -- crawling into the darkest recesses of his mind to find what it was that drove a man to murder by biting his victims to death. Alone amongst his colleagues -- no one believing him, no one listening to him, no one to trust his instincts. Every step in solving that old case had been a battle. He sighed again, his breathing settling into a steady 'in, out, in, out' rhythm that kept time with the tires on the road and the rain on the windshield. It was deceptively soothing to him, lulling him into a false sense of security. Scully's hand had crept across the space between them and she twined her fingers with his own. That contact, that connection, helped push the nightmares of Nathan the Nibbler back away from his conscious mind. For this moment, this frozen slice of time, he was safe and he was secure. He squeezed his partner's hand and felt her answering pressure on his own fingers. For this moment, he was cared for. He allowed himself a few more moments of peace, then reluctantly pulled away. He freed himself from the seat belt and pulled himself into a half-erect stance, moving to stand unsteadily between the seats. He peered through the small window, and could just make out the form of the prisoner, shackled to one side of the van, and the guard seated across from Nathan. "I'm going to see if he wants anything," Mulder said, waiting for Scully to nod. He rapped on the window and the guard looked up. Scully pressed a button and the door to the rear slid open. Mulder held up a thermos. "Coffee?" "Sounds good," the guard responded. Mulder moved into the back compartment, half kneeling before the guard. He opened the thermos, and began to pour the still steaming liquid into the guard's cup. Across from them, their prisoner stared unemotionally as the guard brought the cup to his lips and said, "Good. Thanks." "No problem," Mulder answered. "You all right back here?" He knew he was avoiding contact with the prisoner, even his eyes skittering away when the man rattled the manacles that held him locked to the wall. "Sure," the guard said. "How much longer do you think?" Mulder looked at his watch, then jumped slightly as the interior of the van was brightly lit by a sudden burst of lightning. Following the lightning almost immediately, was a deafening roar of thunder, and the van shuddered as the wind suddenly gusted. Mulder clambered to his feet, one hand braced against the side wall and moved shakily toward the front again. Through the window he could see Scully outlined by a second flash of lightning, her jaw tight and knuckles clenched on the wheel as she struggled to hold the vehicle on the road. This bolt of lightning was also followed by thunder -- no need to count to see how far away it was. It was here. It was now. There was another sound, a loud crack as if a tree had been hit and then the van pulled sharply to the left, causing Mulder to stagger across to the other wall, his hand coming out to catch himself, bracing himself above Nathan's head. The mere proximity to the man who had visited his nightmares so often caused his stomach to lurch, and he pulled back quickly. The van was still pulling to the left and Mulder was fighting the combination of gravity and centrifugal force as the van struck something hard, then skidded, still left, turning in increasingly fast circles as it slid off the road and onto the shoulder. Mulder staggered again, then lost his balance and fell to the floor. The guard was also on the floor, grappling for a handhold and trying to pull himself back up to the narrow bench. Only the prisoner remained in his seat, manacles around his ankles and wrists holding him secure against the forces that buffeted the van. There was another crack of lightning, and Mulder pulled himself up, clutching the bar beneath the window. He gaped in horror as he realized that Scully was unconscious. She lay draped across the steering wheel, and before the light was swallowed by the dark of rain and setting sun, he could just make out a splash of crimson across her cheek. The van continued to spin out of control, sliding further from the road until it reached a drop-off and began to roll. As the vehicle rolled down the hill, Mulder and the guard tumbled madly about the rear compartment, crashing first into floor, then ceiling, limbs tangling as they rolled together and then apart. The van finally shuddered to a stop, resting on its side and Mulder dropped, barely conscious from the wall to land against the bench on the other wall. He lifted his head, straining to see, then pushed with spaghetti-like arms as he tried to raise himself. One thought consumed him as he forced reluctant muscles to work, stubborn limbs to move. 'Must reach Scully.' It was his chant, his mantra, forcing him to action. 'Must reach Scully. Must reach Scully.' There was a sound and his head swiveled, his eyes meeting the soulless grey orbs of the Nibbler. For a moment he stared, feeling himself being drawn into the sewers of the madman's mind. Nathan made another sound, his mouth contorting, but Mulder couldn't make out what the man was saying. He could, however, make out the boot heel that kicked out swiftly and connected with his temple. As the darkness rushed in completely, he twitched convulsively and his mantra changed. 'I'm sorry, Scully,' he thought. 'I'm so sorry.' ******************************************** October 14, 1998 7:20 p.m. There was a pounding in his head and it wouldn't stop. It was a steady drumming sound, incessantly beating at his consciousness, waves of pain crashing through his skull with each percussive movement. It took time to sort out the pounding in his head from the pounding of the rain, and the heavier beat of the thunder as it rolled through the heavens. The wind battered the outside and he could feel the van shake with each new gust. He remained perfectly still for a moment, trying to get oriented, trying to remember. There'd been a wreck. He opened his eyes and let them scan the interior of the van. Too dark. He thought back. There had been a guard -- and a prisoner! Mulder groaned, then forced his head up, trying in vain to see in the inky blackness of the truck. There was a sound, a tiny mewl of helplessness, from the front of the vehicle, and Mulder froze. It was so soft, so small, it was almost lost as lightning split the sky, briefly illuminating his prison, and thunder roared in its wake. Scully! Scully had been driving. Fuck! He was so damned foggy -- he just couldn't think straight. He pushed himself up, and inched toward the front. The van was on its side now, and as he moved, he touched something. Someone. Hands groped and he felt the guard's uniform, and lots of blood. He felt for a pulse, found nothing, then moved his hands to the man's waist, searching for his weapon. Again, nothing. He paused a moment, felt for his own gun, and came up empty. Patience, Mulder, he cautioned himself. It doesn't mean anything. It could be anywhere; we were tossed around like shells in the sea back here. The guns are probably laying on the floor somewhere. Another little sound from the front refocused him, and he used that as his excuse to avoid checking on the prisoner. After all, the man was chained to the wall and shackled to the floor. He certainly wasn't going anywhere. Damn this ache in his head. He just couldn't think straight. No thought lasted more than a second, and he'd already forgotten Scully twice. He moved forward determinedly, ignoring the pain in his side and leg. The sliding door to the front compartment was open, wrenched out of its frame in the force of the crash. He slipped through quickly, having to brace himself between the panel and the dashboard, to keep from falling onto Scully. The visibility was a little better here, but still not adequate. He could make out her form, the seat belt holding her in place, her head lolled back against the window, which was now the floor considering their contorted position. He touched her gently, and she moaned, so he spoke. "Scully? Hey, Scully? Can you hear me?" She moved slightly, her neck twitching as if she wanted to turn to him but could not. She made another sound, "Mmmm?" and he was at a loss as to whether is was a question or his name. "I'm here, Scully," he said, his hand slipping out to brush the hair back from her face. The lightning flashed again, and in its brief flare, before the thunder swallowed it up, he could see a darkly-colored splotch covering one side of her face. Blood? Bruises? Both? He cursed the shadowy grayness, shuddering as the darkness rumbled around him and the wind buffeted the van. "Light?" Scully whispered, and he was once more aware of the cloud that hung over his thinking. The throbbing in his temple was only growing worse, a pressure behind his eyes that lunged and pushed against his orbs and made it impossible to follow a train of thought. What was it Scully had said? The sky brightened again and he remembered 'light.' He rummaged briefly in the glove box, then emerged triumphant. Exercising little used prayer muscles, he offered up a petition, then slid the button back, giving thanks when the light shone forth. He turned back to Scully and stared. She half hung from the sideways seat, half-laying on the driver door. Her head rested between the seat back and the window and her face was streaked with blood. One side was rapidly darkening as bruises made their appearance known, and it seemed her eye was swelling shut even as he watched. Her hands were free and arms unbroken, but both were covered in blood as well, and from where he sat he couldn't be sure where the blood had come from. Her legs looked OK, but one foot had become jammed under the brake pedal, twisted at an unnatural angle, and he winced as he watched her try to shift. "Mulder," she murmured, and he played the light upward, illuminating her face, but not blinding her. "You're bleeding." She reached up and touched his face, feeling carefully for the wound. " 's OK, Scully," he mumbled. "No," she said sharply, expanding her search till she found the injury buried in his hair on the top of his head. She pressed gently, pulling back when he winced beneath her fingers. "Does your head hurt?" "Yeah, yeah, Scully," Mulder was anxious to shift her focus off of himself. She was injured too, and didn't need to be worrying over him. "I've probably got a slight concussion. I was rolled around a bit back there." He smiled to make sure she didn't think he was blaming her. "Nothing I haven't lived through before." She stared at him a moment longer, then nodded. "The prisoner? Mulder, where is the prisoner?" "In the back, Scully. He was chained to the wall." Mulder paused a moment, then added, "The guard is dead." Scully was stirring some now, moving on her own, pulling her head upward and trying to straighten in the awkward confines of the seat. "Are you sure? Mulder, I should go check." He gently pushed her down, holding her still as he wiped her face with a jacket sleeve. "You need to be still. You're hurt." "Hmmph," she snorted. "And you're not?" Rather than relaxing beneath his touch, if anything she grew more restless, renewing her efforts to release herself, and reaching out to touch his head again. Her fingers grazed the wound and he moaned slightly. "Mulder," she ordered, "give me the light." "I'm OK, Scully," he murmured. "You can look at me once we're out of here." "Mulder, this is serious. I need to look at you." She looked around the cramped interior of the driver's compartment. "We have to get out of here and get help." She looked up at him again, "Are the phones working?" Mulder shrugged. "I have no idea. I can't find mine. Do you have yours?" Scully felt in her pocket, then pulled out half a phone and passed it to her partner. She reached in again, removed several other pieces, and handed them over as well. "I have most of mine," she said, smiling humorlessly. Mulder snorted. "We have to get out of here." The dark was briefly chased away again, and then the silence was split as the light's echo rolled around them. Like gravel avalanching down a mountain, the rain beat the van, usurping the pounding in Mulder's head, and conspiring with the pain to make clear thought impossible. He stared at the passenger door -- above his head now, and their best way out. "You," Scully started, but was stopped as she began to cough. When her airway cleared, she tried again. "You have to go check on Nathan," she insisted. "Take the light," she gestured at the torch he still held loosely in his hand, "and go back there." "You sure you're OK?" Mulder pushed her hair back again, tucking it carefully out of her face and behind her ear. "Go," she whispered. "The sooner you check, the sooner we can decide how to get out of here. Try and find the phone. You know what Skinner is going to say if you lose another one." "Bossy, bossy," Mulder murmured, bending over to touch his lips to her uninjured cheek. "Wait for me. I'll be right back." She smiled up at him. "Not going anywhere, G-Man." Mulder slipped back through the panel, shining the light first on the guard. The man was definitely dead. Even from this distance, Mulder could see that his head was at a distinctly *wrong* angle, and there was no sign of breathing. He panned the light to the other side, now the ceiling, fully expecting to see a man suspended there, the waist chain and manacles at wrist and ankle holding him in place against gravity's pull. But the seat was empty. The shackles had been unlocked, the key still dangling from the left ankle, and the chain swayed loosely before his astonished eyes. He panned the light around again, as if he expected to find the man somewhere in the van's interior. But, of course, it was barren. The blood hammered in his skull, keeping time with the tattoo of rain on the roof, and he lifted a weary hand to wipe at tired eyes. The guard was dead, the prisoner loose. The van was wrecked, he and Scully both injured. He used the light and searched for the cell phone, coming up empty. He rifled through the guard's clothing, looking for phone or radio, but he, too, carried nothing. Mulder sat back on his haunches, hands on his knees, thinking. His head hurt. His side hurt. He hadn't even looked at that. The leg hurt too, but not so badly. He could move. He could use it. He could walk. But Scully was hurt. He couldn't even be sure how badly until he could get her out. But that foot. It had to be broken to be cocked at such an angle. That would make movement hard or almost impossible for her. He was still in that position, reviewing options, when there was a roar, and Mulder was at first startled, thinking it was thunder. But it had not been preceded by the now familiar flash of light and the sound vanished way too quickly. A shot! That had been a shot! Mulder grabbed for his gun, finding only an empty holster, then scrabbled at his ankle, but that holster was bare as well. He looked back at the guard -- no weapon there either. With a roar of rage and frustration, he jumped forward, slamming through the opening, and found Scully staring up at the passenger door, a look of horror on her face. It was cocked slightly open as a trickle of rainwater ran down the floor and over the seats, pooling at her feet and in her lap. "He was here, Mulder," she hissed through clenched teeth. "Jesus Christ, he was here!" "What? What did he do? Did he hurt you?" Scully held out a scrap of paper in her left hand, her right hand wrapped around the left wrist, holding it steady. Mulder took the note, shining the light on it and read: "I didn't have dinner, Agent Mulder. Did you?" He looked up, features contorted with fear and disgust, then slowly reached out and took Scully's hand. With infinite care, he pried the fingers from around her wrist, slowly revealing the deep and jagged human bite mark hidden there. Chapter 40 October 14, 1998 7:50 p.m. "There," Mulder said triumphantly, easing Scully's foot gently from under the pedal where it had been wedged. He touched it carefully, watching her wince, but he was able to manipulate it. "I don't think it's broken," he finally announced with a small smile. "But I'd say it's one of the worst sprains I've ever seen." "Thank you, Doctor Mulder," Scully said, drawing the foot up to look at it herself. "I think I can take it from here." She twisted further in the seat, awkwardly pulling her knee to her chest, and took hold of the injured foot. It *did* move, but it was painful, and she swallowed a gasp as the tendons protested her treatment of them. She moved the foot a bit more, then looked over at Mulder. "I think you're right. Not broken, but I don't think I can walk on it." She looked out into the storm. "Maybe we should wait till morning, then we can try to make the road and flag down some help." Mulder looked uneasy. "I don't like the idea of waiting here. He's already come back once, and Scully, I can tell you, that means he'll be back again. My guns are gone, both of them, the guard's weapon is gone, and yours is missing as well. Those are not the actions of a man who plans to head for the hills as fast as he can." He stared out the window, into the dark, and the wind, and the rain. "He's playing a game. His game." Scully touched him carefully, and he jumped, then turned and looked at her. "It's what he does." He took a deep breath. "I know." "Tell me," she said quietly. "Well, I wasn't met with open arms and welcoming cheers when I was assigned this case. As a matter of fact, some of the guys were downright hostile." He flashed a quick grin, just visible in the streak of lightning that accompanied his words. "No! Really? How could that be?" Mulder chuckled. "Perhaps my reputation preceded me," he said dryly. "You have a reputation?" "Don't get cocky," Mulder warned, as he leaned over to lightly brush her lips with his own. "You do too now." Scully reached up and caught his head, holding him close for a moment as she kissed him, harder, longer, this time. "So I do," she murmured. "Am I living up to it?" She kissed him again. Mulder gave a strangled groan. "You have no idea. This is one of my all-time great fantasies. Making out in a car." He laughed ruefully. "Of course, in the ideal version, the car isn't wrecked, you aren't injured, and there isn't a serial killer loose in the vicinity." He shrugged. "But, hey, this is us. *Of course* we do things differently." Scully laughed, then began to cough, a cough that went on for a long time and wouldn't seem to end. Mulder was growing concerned as she struggled to breathe between spasms, and he tucked her upright, supporting her away from the seat, trying to ease the discomfort. When she finally stopped, gasping for air, he asked, "You OK?" She nodded once, then nodded again when he continued to look at her skeptically. "Finish," she whispered, "the story." "Not pretty," he warned. "Consider it my 'heads up' to what we're facing." He nodded, the lightness of the moment vanishing in the face of his renewed recital. "So anyway, there I was, Wunderkind of the VCS, and no one wanted me to be there, no one wanted to listen to me. I was battling the Bureau, the victims, and the perp." He sighed heavily. "It was such a mess. I was convinced from the beginning, that he was preselecting his targets, that it wasn't random, but no one wanted to believe me. Tenejkian was sure it was random, and it was his case. I was just the pet profiler called in to help out. No authority, no control -- hell, they didn't even *have* to listen to me." "Vasken Tenejkian? The SAC out here? He was the Agent in Charge on the original murders?" "Yeah. And you know how thrilled he was when he heard I was coming out to testify." Scully could hear the mounting frustration in Mulder's voice, and she reached out and took his hand. "And how did you handle this situation? With your usual delicacy and subtle diplomacy?" She arched her eyebrow as she spoke. Mulder laughed. "Yeah, you could say that. I sort of went on a rampage at the command center and ripped down the existing set-up, declared it to be totally wrong and -- I believe the word I used was *asinine* -- and then tried to establish my own domain." Mulder lifted a hand to his face. "God, even I can't believe what an arrogant little shit I was back then. "My little stunt didn't go over well, and it didn't encourage anyone to want to 'play nice' with me. All it did was serve to alienate me even further. So I insisted on copies of everything -- had to go to Patterson to ram it through -- and I set up my own war room, in the hotel." He paused again, watching the rain beat down around them, counting the pulses on both the van and in his head. "Not a good move on my part. It meant that I didn't have anywhere I could go that the case wasn't staring me in the face." He shuddered slightly and Scully tightened her grip on him, her thumb rubbing gently on the back of his hand. "I could see those people all the time. 'Before' pictures of normal, everyday folks. People who had families, and jobs, mortgages, and debts, and hopes, and dreams, and desires. And then there were the 'after' pictures. When everything had been destroyed. The damage Nathan did was so extensive, so invasive, they had to be identified by dental records. Even the fingerprints were gone." Mulder shuddered again. "I saw it first thing in the morning. I stared at it all day and into the night. And on the rare occasions when sleep caught me with my guard down, I lived it in my dreams." He lifted his eyes and met hers. "I knew him so well. I was learning the victims, too, working on a victim profile for prevention, but it was the Nibbler I was living with. He was in me -- trying to take over and make that kind of carnage make sense. Trying to explain the unexplainable. Trying to convince me that the unreasonable could be reasoned out." He sighed. "God, Scully, I never talked about it. I never could. I came so close to losing myself on that one. It was always there with me. He wouldn't leave me alone." Scully pulled then, tugging Mulder over, forcing him to bend and shift and come into her arms. She fought straps, and steering wheel, seats, and gravity, but she pulled him down and wrapped her arms around him. No words were necessary. There were no more words. What he needed now was the silence. The peace and tranquility of a safe silence, and the physical reassurance that he was not alone. She held him tight, and could feel him relax into her touch, letting himself be held, and letting himself accept her comfort. Around them, the storm seemed to gentle, the wind shifting from a battering force that rocked and shook the van, to a softer movement of air that forced the clouds to continue on. The rain no longer beat them, but it fell in friendly patter, its softer touch a comforting reminder of its cleansing power. And the lightning still flashed and the thunder still followed, but it was a light in the distance and an echo of its former violence. The storm was drawing to a close. Within the circle of her arms, Scully could feel Mulder's shakes, and then the increasing heaviness as he relaxed until the shakes would overtake him again and he would tense. She held him as he moved through his own revisit to the horrors of those years ago, his shudders moving farther and farther apart, the moments he lay heavy in her arms increasing. She ran one hand up to tangle in his hair and she stroked the dark locks there, rubbing at his scalp and temple. He shook once more, then settled, and gave a contented sigh. "Guess we will wait till morning," he said, and she could tell that he was growing tired. She kissed his head, nodding into his hair, and he snuggled in closer. "He's out there, Mulder," she said warningly. "We need to stay awake." "I know. I am," he responded. "Just enjoying the moment." He paused, then added, "Isn't it odd that our *moments* are so often like this? I wouldn't wish this for you for anything, but here we are, over and over again." " 's OK," she murmured. "I'm where I want to be." "I know," he whispered, and Scully could hear the awe and amazement in his voice, knew that he was still astonished that she would choose to stay with him. And yet, she could not imagine her life without him now. In the six years she'd known him, in the one year they'd been together, she was so intricately mingled into his soul, and he in hers, that she couldn't imagine life without him. She leaned over again, pressing a kiss into his hair, breathing deeply. She stiffened, then pulled up from her embrace of Mulder, pushing him away slightly, and breathed again. "Mulder, do you smell that?" "Smell what?" he mumbled sleepily. "Mulder!" She shook him gently. "Stay awake! Do you smell smoke?" He sat up, slightly more alert. "Smoke? It's raining, Scully. You can't smell smoke." She filled her lungs again. "I do," she said insistently. "I smell smoke." She pushed him again. "I think you better check. Mulder, the van may be on fire." He was shifting now, moving to access the passenger door, their predetermined method of egress. "Gonna get wet again," he warned, pushing the door open and pulling himself up. He was back in a minute. "Shit, Scully, you're right. There's a fucking trail of fire heading straight for the van." He was unstrapping her, pulling her up. "Motherfuckingsonofabitch! He did this, I fucking know it!" Scully was half through the door, and Mulder placed his hands on her behind and shoved. She emerged, rolling onto the wet ground and then he was out next. "You OK?" he asked as he helped pull her to her feet. She nodded, accepted his hand, and then rose shakily to stand balanced on one foot next to him. "We gotta get out of here. Fast." "Let's head for the road," he said and he wrapped an arm around her and began to move in that direction. The rain still fell, but it was a steady pelting of fat, round drops, enough to wet them quickly, but with no force or violence behind them. It was warm rain, a counterpart to the chill autumn wind that blew through the foothills. Scully shivered as a gust caught her, and Mulder wrapped his arm more tightly about her. They made for the road, Scully doing an odd hop-jump step, leaning heavily on Mulder for each forward movement. He was supporting her steadily, making good forward progress, and they were halfway up the incline in short order. It was hard work, and Mulder was reminded of his own injuries, the ones he had forestalled telling Scully about. His head still pounded unrelentingly, and something was wrong with his leg. If he had to guess, he would go with a gash or some sort of open wound, because he could feel bleeding with each movement, and his pants chafed the injury almost unbearably. His side still twinged every now and then, but it seemed to be the least of his worries at this point. Scully did her little hop, step, and lean, and Mulder stumbled this time, the muddy incline refusing to give purchase to shaky legs. He dropped to one knee, the injured leg giving way, and Scully slipped down beside him. "What? What is it?" she demanded. "It's dark, Scully, and raining. I just slipped." "You did not slip," she said flatly. "You're hurt." Mulder looked around, avoiding her eyes, avoiding her question. He was pulling himself to his feet when there was the distinct sound of a shot, and then, the van exploded. Mulder flattened himself on the ground again, pulling Scully down beside him. "We've gotta move," he hissed. "He's here." He got to his feet again, then tugged Scully up. They had started up the incline when there was another shot. This one hit a bush to their left, and Mulder could feel a spray of leaves fly past his face. "Shit! He's shooting at us, now!" They dropped and began to crawl up the embankment, but another shot rang out and this time it was right in front of them. "Down! Down!" Mulder screamed, yanking Scully backward, and scuttling down the hill they had been working their way up. He moved quickly, half crawling, half sliding in the mud, and kept a firm grip on Scully, afraid to become separated in the dark and rainy night. "What does he want?" she asked as they rolled and slipped down the embankment. "He sure as hell doesn't want us up the hill." Mulder looked at the still burning van. "And he doesn't want us in the van." They reached the bottom now, and Mulder pulled her up and began a desperate hop-run-drag for the tree line and relative obscurity. They made the woods, and Mulder continued on, doggedly pulling, dragging, carrying Scully, her ankle protesting with every movement. Mulder's leg was bleeding again. He could feel the sticky warmth beneath his pants, and the ache in his side was persistent now. They ran on, not long enough by Mulder's count, and hours too long by Scully's as she struggled to keep moving, ignoring the pain in her foot. Finally, she grabbed her partner. "No more," she panted, "I need to rest." Mulder slowed, then stopped, helping her to a fallen tree, sitting her on it. He was pacing, scanning the forest, looking through the rain and the dark as if he would be able to see Nathan if he approached. "Mulder," Scully called insistently. "I don't understand. Most people in his position would be running as far and as fast as they can." The rain still fell, but the clouds were drifting. Here and there stars peeked through the gloom and the moon itself was intermittently revealed as the storm continued on. Mulder nodded grimly, then walked over to stand by her. "He's not most people." He reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. "He's never been like most people. He's sick and he's twisted, and he likes to play games." "This is all a game to him? Blowing up the van? Chasing us down the hill and into the woods with gunfire? Biting me?" A look of deep disgust crossed her features and she trembled where she sat. Mulder took her hand and tenderly traced the outline of the bite. "This is the biggest part of the game. He's marked you now." Mulder looked up at the heavens, the rain and clouds occluding the stars, and said in a childish, sing-song voice, "Nathan has come out to play." *********************************************** October 14, 1998 11:15 p.m. "When was the last time they checked in?" Skinner asked as he fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table. Normally he wouldn't be in bed this early, but he'd been fighting a cold and had been hoping a good night's rest would forestall it getting any worse. "And you haven't been able to raise either of my agents, or the guard?" Fuck! Why did things like this always seem to happen to Mulder? Skinner listened as the voice on the other end of the phone detailed the check-ins that had occurred and then the one that hadn't. "A storm?" he interrupted. "How bad?" Double fuck! Horrid thunderstorm, almost zero visibility, winds, rain. No telling what had happened. A wreck in this weather could be either the best case or worst case scenario -- depending on how bad it was and if anyone was hurt. He wasn't immediately concerned about a planned escape -- George Nathan was not known for his friends. He'd be hard-pressed to find someone to call acquaintance, let alone friend. Skinner smiled grimly. Eating one's acquaintances was hard on developing friendships. "All right," he said in the phone. "Get the search going, and I'll fly out as soon as I can. I'll be in touch when I get there." He hung up the phone, then dialed again, and made his flight reservations. Another call to notify his assistant of where he'd be, then he rose and headed for the shower. If this went the way things usually did, who knew when he'd see a shower again. As he stood under the spray, letting the heat erase his weariness, he was making plans of his own. And the first one was to try and contact his agents! He smacked himself on the forehead, then turned the water off and wrapped a towel around his waist. Still dripping, he tracked back into the bedroom, and grabbed his own cell phone, punching in the speed dial number for Scully. Recording. He disconnected, then hit the number for Mulder. It rang once, then twice, then again, and he sighed when it was answered. A sigh that turned from relief to horror as an unfamiliar voice spoke. "Agent Mulder can't come to the phone. He's playing a game right now." Chapter 41 October 15, 1998 1:30 a.m. "Here," Mulder said, pulling Scully into a very small, cavelike opening in the side of a small incline. Hardly room enough for both of them, but it offered a bit of shelter from the relentless rain, and an opportunity for respite from their desperate flight from the madman. He helped her sit, then propped her injured foot in his lap, fearing it was too late for elevation to help the swelling. "I need to look at your head, and your leg, Mulder," she said, and Mulder could recognize the 'I'm not taking no for an answer' tone of her voice. He handed the light over wordlessly, then winced when she shined it into his face. He suffered quietly through her exam, opening his eyes on command, and allowing her to run her fingers over his head and around the edges of the swollen lump that marred his skull. He obligingly dropped his pants on request, too tired to offer the expected witticism, and that alone scared Scully more than the gash that had ripped his thigh muscle. The rain had cleansed both wounds as well as she would be able to in this environment, so she reluctantly turned off the light and let Mulder dress again. She was shivering now, her jacket being heavy cloth and therefore soaked, while Mulder's was nylon and water-resistant. Somewhat. Enough that his shirt and T-shirt were basically dry compared to Scully's shirt and bra which were also soaked. He pulled his pants up, then took the jacket off, unbuttoned and removed his shirt, and then the T-shirt. Pulling his hands up over his head seemed to pull his side, and he was reminded again that something had happened there. Something he still hadn't looked at or told Scully about. Probably just a bruise. The shirts were off and his hands were down now, and the suddenly sharp pain that accompanied the movement receded to the slight ache that had plagued him all night. "Take your shirt off, Scully," he said, this time offering the leer she had come to expect. "What?" she said, teeth chattering now. "Your shirt. Your coat, shirt, and bra. Get 'em off. You have to get dry." He was fumbling with her zipper and had the coat off before she could protest again. "You can't give me your clothes, Mulder. You'll be too cold yourself." "Not giving you all of them, just a couple layers -- and I'm going to make you share." Her shirt was off now, and he exhibited his prowess by deftly unhooking her bra and sliding it off. He pulled the dry T-shirt over her head, then handed her the jacket as he put his long-sleeved shirt back on. He sat next to her now, and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. "C'mon, Scully, time to share some of that body heat," he murmured into her hair. She came willingly into his embrace. He was leaning against the back wall of the hollow, and she turned on her side to lay half over him, her head pillowed on his chest. "What are we going to do?" she asked quietly. "Try and stay out of his way. Stay ahead of him. He's marked you, Scully. That's his signature. Once he marks someone, he always comes back for them." He sighed heavily, shifted to ease her body more comfortably against his own, then let his head drop to rest against hers. "That was what I knew that no one else would listen to. On two of the victims, just two, the old bite marks were still visible. Tenejkian thought it didn't matter. Nathan had escalated so much there at the end, that the time between the time he marked them and when he took them wasn't enough to remark on. He was definitely in that fugue state that serial killers slide into just before they get caught. But in the beginning, especially now that he's been linked to these murders out here, he would mark them way in advance. Before he got impatient. Before he forgot how to wait." He closed his eyes and dropped his head, nuzzling her hair and neck, seeking comfort in her touch. "Before the thrill of the game consumed him. "The early ones, the first ones, some of them were marked months, even years in advance. A small wound, a nip, just enough to leave a mark. Happening in the night, the victim would wake up and not even realize what had happened. Just an unexplained injury, a little blood in the bed. It wasn't until later that he started taking deep bites." He pulled her arm over to him, and brushed his fingers over the jagged wound on her wrist. "We really need to clean this, Scully. You know how dirty human bites can be." She shrugged. She did know, but they had nothing to clean it with, so what was the point in belaboring it. "Nothing to be done for it now, Mulder," she said. They sat together quietly, but Scully could feel the tension in her partner's body. He stared out the small opening, watching the rain fall steadily onto the carpet of leaves that covered the forest floor. "Mulder, I don't understand why they wouldn't believe you," Scully said into his chest. "I know you pissed everyone off, but once you had hard evidence, the old bite marks, why didn't they believe you then?" "Tenejkian hated me. And I didn't help things. I tended to present new evidence in the worst possible light, making him look foolish and incompetent. And my *evidence,* as you call it, was questionable." He shrugged, frustration over that long-ago case still evident. "There were only discernible marks on two of the bodies, and their origin was really unknown. *I* was sure it was our killer, but I couldn't sell it to anyone else. And I still didn't have a clue as to *who* the killer was. "But all the victims were found in abandoned buildings. And I got to where I couldn't stare at the walls in my room anymore. So I started haunting empty buildings in the local towns. Little towns that sort of ran together in what I had determined was his *feeding* area. I was running blind, wandering through the night, not sure where I was going or what I was really looking for. But doing something, even that, was better than sitting in that room alone, staring at those faces." He shuddered and Scully tightened her arms around him, planting a light kiss over his heart. "I could see their eyes. Everywhere I went, I could see their eyes. They were watching me, following me, pleading with me to catch him. But I still didn't know who *he* was. And then one night, I got lucky." He gave a mirthless laugh. "If you could call it that. "There was activity in one of the buildings I was cruising, and I got out to take a look." "By yourself." "Yeah. I know. Not my brightest move, but I didn't have anyone I felt I could call." He sighed. "So there I am, sneaking into the building when there's this god awful shriek, and I start running for the sound, and then there's a 'whoosh' and something flies by me, shoving me to the side. I stumble, fall, then get back up, and turn to follow, but there's crying from in front of me, a sort of whimpering sound that's getting quieter as I stand there trying to decide what to do. "I pull the damn cell phone -- those things were really clunky back then and I almost hadn't brought it with me -- and call it in, spending some more time trying to convince the locals that I'm legit and they better respond. Seems Tenejkian had gotten wind of my midnight meanderings and sorta warned them off about me. I'm arguing with Dick Local on the phone, got my gun in the other hand, and I'm moving into the building. It was an old office building -- long hallway with doors on both sides." Mulder took a deep breath, waiting as Scully's hands ran comfortingly up and down his chest. He winced slightly when she brushed the sore spot on his side, but she didn't seem to notice, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "I finally had the locals on the way, and I crammed the phone back into the pocket of my trench coat. I was still half expecting whoever it was to come flying out of a door or up behind me, so I was moving slow, careful, you know? But the sound was still coming from in front of me. The shriek had faded to a memory and even the little whimpering I'd been following was drifting. It had turned into a really tiny little mewl, almost too quiet to hear, and I finally reached the last door, swung around it, and looked in." He paused, and Scully pulled away from his chest, looking up into his face. The night was still dark, but their eyes had adjusted, and she could just make out his features. Mouth held tight, a jagged wound in his anguished face. His brow was furrowed, and his lids held tightly together, giving him a pained expression. As she watched, he opened his eyes and stared down at her. "It was a kid, Scully. I found out later she was eight." He swallowed hard. "She was covered in bite marks, but what killed her was the wound at her throat." Mulder paused again, a sudden uncontrollable shaking overtaking him. "He'd ripped her throat out with his teeth." *********************************************** October 15, 1998 6:22 a.m. Mulder stretched in his sleep. He was slightly cold. It made him smile. Scully must have stolen all the blankets again. And he was uncomfortably wet. His smile grew even broader. She must have made him sleep on the wet spot. He wriggled in place, crampy muscles demanding movement, hands searching blindly for his other half. He came up with an armful of sleepy Scully, and he pulled her closer, tucking her into his side. "Mulder, c'mon, wake up," Scully said softly as she gently shook the man beneath her. "We need to get up." "Nnnnn," he mumbled groggily. " 's too early." He pulled her tighter, then wondered what the hell they had been doing last night that left him with such a pain in his side. It was like a stitch you got from running, but this intensified with movement, and showed no signs of receding. He smiled again. Scully must have really put him through his paces. "Mulder," she ordered, "get that ridiculous smirk off your face and wake up." Yep. That was Scully. It must have been one hell of a night. She was always a little uncomfortable the next day when she'd been the wild one. Seemed to feel it went against her self-image of reserved and self-contained. He smiled again, this time in self-satisfaction. He was the only one who could make her let go like that. Make her drop the reserve, lose the inhibitions, the only one she let see the total woman, the only one she shared her innermost self with. Only he. "Mulder," she said again, the shaking growing more persistent, and the concomitant ache in his side increasing accordingly. " 'Nuff, Scully," he finally muttered. Why couldn't she just be still and let him bask in the afterglow for once. He'd always thought women were the ones who did that, but not Scully. She was just as likely to jump up and start in on a case file, while he was generally useless for several hours after. Hell, he was frequently *unconscious* for several hours after. Scully was just plain *awesome* in bed. "I fell asleep." Her tone was both embarrassed and sheepish, and as Mulder opened his eyes he could see the flush of color in her cheeks. " 's OK, Scully," he whispered back. "We were both pretty wiped out." Scully smiled at him quickly, leaned over and brushed a kiss against the corner of his mouth, and said, "Mulder, I don't know where your dreams took you, but you need to come back to reality. We've got a problem here." He opened his eyes and looked around. The dawn sun shone through the autumn leaves, and colors swirled in the air. The just-rinsed scent of clean earth that so often followed rain filled his nostrils with each breath he took. From where they huddled, muddy, wet, cold, he could look out into a forest wonderland. Golds, and reds, and oranges covered the trees and the ground and danced in the gentle wind that moved slowly past them. The sun was a mottled pink, moving steadily into shining yellow, and already he could feel the air begin to warm. "Oh shit! I fell asleep. That bastard's out there, and I fell asleep." He looked at Scully, then reached out to touch the cut on her head. A trickle of dried blood ran a quarter inch down from it, and he wet his thumb and scrubbed at it. "I was dreaming." "From the looks of it," she nodded at his waist, "they were pretty good dreams." He nodded. "You figured heavily in them." He yawned, then stared out into the woodland clearing and his eyes began the back and forth pattern Scully had come to recognize as Mulder on the hunt. He sighed in relief when his scan revealed no sign of Nathan, then lifted his arm and checked the time. "Almost twelve hours since the last check-in." He nodded approvingly then stroked Scully's back. Disentangling himself from Scully's embrace, he crawled out of the hollow, rose, then pulled her out and up as well. "I need to visit the boy agent's tree." Scully giggled. "Well, I could stand to visit a tree as well." He looked at her. "How's the foot?" "Swollen. Sore. I still can't put any weight on it." He nodded and looped an arm around her waist, helping her to a tree a few yards away. He watched as she reached out, balancing herself against the rough bark of the old pine, but made no move. "Uh, Mulder? A little privacy, please? I think I can manage this." His eyes swept the area carefully, then returned to her. "I don't want to leave you." "I'll be fine," she promised, "but, really, I need you to give me some space here." She could see the inner struggle in his face, watched as he tried to decide if he could get away with insisting, then knew he had given in when his shoulders slumped minutely. "Just don't forget me," she called as he turned to go. He kissed her again. "No way. I'll be right back." He took a few steps away then turned to look back at her. "Better be quick so you don't end up embarrassed. They've probably found the van and have agents crawling the woods by now." *********************************************** October 15, 1998 7:10 a.m. "What do you mean you haven't found the van yet?" Skinner thundered. "You haven't even started a search? Did you *not* understand me last night? Did I *not* make myself clear? Who the hell gave you the authority to disregard my orders?" He was livid, beside himself, and if this man didn't start coming up with some answers -- *immediately* -- there was a very good possibility he was going to take a swing at him. "Mr. Skinner, sir," the man stammered, "I was all set to get the search in gear. It was *your* man who called it off. I assumed on your orders." Skinner could feel the blood in his face, the pounding in his temples. He idly wondered exactly how high his pressure was at this moment and if he was in danger of stroking out. "Who?" he demanded through clenched teeth. "The other agent that's here to testify. Agent Tenejkian." Fuck! Mulder, you just can't make friends to save your life, and even the people you pissed off seven years ago are still out to get you. Skinner looked at the local sheriff standing before him. "What precisely did Agent Tenejkian say when he instructed you not to start a search? In direct countermand to my orders, I might remind you." The man swallowed hard, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "He had been here since about 5:00 yesterday afternoon. Waiting for the prisoner, but I got the feeling he was really waiting to see your other man. Said they went way back. He'd gone for coffee when I called you, sir, and when he came back and saw me starting to get things rolling, he laughed and told me it was not necessary. Said Mulder did stuff like this all the time. Probably pulled over at a small motel somewhere to ride out the storm." "And you didn't think it odd that he didn't call and check in, inform you of his whereabouts and the change in plans?" "Your man Tenejkian said it was typical of Mulder. And he *is* the SAC in the Bureau office in the capital. Said Mulder screwed up like this all the time. Said he wasn't too sharp; kinda implied he'd been carried at the Bureau because he had some powerful contacts. Said the guy was an arrogant little prick, but not one you wanted to cross because of those contacts. Tenejkian implied I'd be hurting myself and my department if we started searching and found the guy, especially in a motel with that female partner of his." "Jesus H. Christ!" Skinner blew up again. His pressure must be through the roof by now. "Get that asshole Tenejkian in here *now!* And get your god damned people out there. Get *everybody* out there. Neighboring jurisdictions. State. Fish and Wildlife. Shit! Get the Boy Scouts if you think it will help. Just find my agents." He glared at the man. "Do you understand?" "Yes, sir," the man said sharply as he turned and almost ran from the room. Skinner leaned over, resting his hands on his knees and took a deep breath. No help. He breathed again, willing himself to calm. Nothing. If anything, he was getting angrier. He had to get a hold of his temper or he was going to *kill* that shit Tenejkian when he came in. He drew breath again, rage suffusing him, no attempt to calm himself having any success. With a mighty roar of anger and frustration, he pulled himself to his full height, turned and took two steps and put his fist through the door. He stood there trembling for a moment, then felt the fury begin to subside. Ah, that was much better. Pain exploded in his hand as he pulled back, looking ruefully out into the corridor at the deputies who had begun to gather there. He cradled his hand in the other, rubbing gently, and made a note to himself. Definitely time to look into those damn stress management classes Mulder had been advocating. ***************************************** October 15, 1998 7:32 a.m. "Sit, Mulder," Scully said quietly. "You already look done in." She cast an appraising eye over him. "Head still hurting?" "Yeah, some," he mumbled as he lowered her then himself to the ground. "Leg?" she went on, even as her hand reached up to ruffle through his hair, searching out the source of his headache. "I'm OK, Scully," he said, gently catching her hand and pulling it down. "How about you?" "I'm passable." She quickly felt her face, then said, "Not going to win any beauty contests this week, but nothing major seems damaged." She paused a moment, then added, "My head doesn't even hurt anymore." He reached out and touched her cheek, bruised and abraded, the eye still swollen almost shut. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I should never have asked you to come." She looked up at him. God, the man was a funny mix. He could be so endearing one moment, infuriating the next, and totally dense at others. And sometimes, he managed all three at once. "Mulder," she began, "we've been over this. You know I don't do things I don't want to." She stroked his cheek, her hand lingering on the morning stubble of his beard. "I'm where I want to be." He was staring at her, gazing into her eyes, losing himself in their fathomless depths. It was a source of continual wonder to him, that out of all the world, she chose him. And not just once. She chose him over and over again. Every evening, she chose him when they went home together. Every morning she chose him, when she woke with him. Her choice. And a hundred different times a day, times when she could walk away, or move on, or take a different road, she chose him. He was leaning over, moving toward her, wanting to scoop her into his arms, and then crawl into her soul. To be with her forever, to never be apart. He was bending, head lowering even as hers lifted to meet him, when a shot rang out, bullet flying over their heads so close, Mulder could feel the wind it created, hear the tiny 'zing' its passage sounded. He reached for Scully as she reached for him, each yanking the other lower, laying on the wet leaves of the forest floor. "Move!" she hissed, as they began to wriggle through the brush, hardly daring to rise to hands and knees and crawl. They slipped forward as fast as they could, rolling at times for speed. They were scrambling madly, propelled by fear and anger and frustration that this madman was calling the shots, forcing them to play his sick game. Mulder moved ahead, one hand reaching back to grab Scully. He gave a mighty surge, then cried out as his side burst into agony and he lost his grip on Scully. He was rolling down now, slithering and sliding in a flurry of decomposing leaves, landing in a broad ditch that scored the forest bed. Scully threw herself after him, tumbling uncontrollably down, landing at his side, her arms and legs thrown out in complete abandon. They lay there a moment, panting, then jumped in shock when something heavy, something metal, landed between them. Mulder's ankle gun. Both turned instinctively to see where it had come from, looking up the slope of the ditch to see Nathan standing at the top, looking down at them. "You only get one," he said in a flat monotone. "Use it wisely." He held up a bullet, balanced between his thumb and forefinger. He continued to stare down at them for a long moment, then tossed the projectile into the ditch. "There," he murmured softly, "isn't this fun?" Chapter 42 October 15, 1998 8:15 a.m. "You wanted to see me, Sir?" Tenejkian stood in the hall, shifting nervously from foot to foot as he alternately eyed the hole in the door and the big man who was now seated behind the room's only desk. "Agent," Skinner said icily, indicating that the man should enter the room. The SAC stepped into the room, still hovering hesitantly by the entry. He was not a large man, but he wasn't small either. Average height, about 5' 9", average build, about 160, average age, about 40. His dark hair was graying at the temple, and his dark coloring revealed his parents' births in their native New Delhi. He watched the AD closely, seeing the rage that simmered in the man's eyes, observing the tightly controlled movements, and not for the first time he thought to himself, 'I am seriously fucked here.' "Am I to understand that you took it upon yourself to countermand my directives last night, Agent?" Skinner demanded as he rose and came slowly around the desk. Tenejkian swallowed hard, following Skinner's every move. It was all that shit Mulder's fault! The man had some kind of lucky charm that seemed to make everything he did, no matter how stupid, irresponsible, unreasonable, or unbelievable, work out in the end. And it was obvious he had the AD in his corner on this. The smaller man's eyes darted back and forth around the room, almost as if he were sizing up options, or looking for alternate exits. He stayed near the door, unconsciously taking a half step back as Skinner continued to advance. "I didn't see the need for a full search last night, Sir," he equivocated. "I've worked with Agent Mulder before, and I am well aware of his propensity for taking action outside the accepted Bureau norm." He drew himself up to his full height, but was only reminded that if it came to a physical confrontation, he was woefully outmatched by the muscular man that stood before him. "Agent Tenejkian," Skinner began, then paused, hands clenched as a wave of fury crashed over him. He forced himself to step back, deliberately putting some distance between the man who stood before him and his temper. "Two of my agents, *your colleagues,* are missing, and your actions have delayed the search for them by over twelve hours." He drew a deep breath, struggling to remain calm. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?" "I acted as I saw fit, Sir," the man responded. "I have experience with Agent Mulder's -- eccentricities -- and I refuse to allow his unorthodox behavior to impede the ensuing trial." The man puffed himself up and went on pompously, "May I remind you, I am the SAC here, and it is my case, my investigation into these murders that linked them to Nathan?" Skinner trembled with rage. The man was a complete idiot. How the hell had he gotten promoted to SAC to begin with? He made a mental note to himself to find out who had been on his promotion board. He was willing to bet at least one name would be Kersh. This was just the kind of plodding, by-the-book, uninspired jerk that Kersh would love. "And may I remind you, that Agents Mulder and Scully, the guard, and the prisoner are all still unaccounted for? And that we are just now beginning the process of putting together a team to look for them? A team that could have been assembled and functioning by now if you had performed your duties as SAC appropriately?" "I took action as I saw fit," the man retorted. "*You* took action to fulfill some sick need for retribution against Mulder. I saw the files. I read the case." Skinner returned to the desk and picked up a folder, throwing it across the room at Tenejkian. "I know that Mulder tracked this man Nathan down and was responsible for putting him away. And I know that you created every obstacle you possibly could for him -- forcing him to work outside the system and totally on his own." Tenejkian was staring wordlessly at Skinner as the AD continued to pace back and forth like a caged tiger readying himself to pounce. He clutched the folder to his chest, papers slipping from it slowly to glide gracefully down to pool at his feet. Could this man really know what had happened? He hadn't put it in his report, and Mulder hadn't either. He eyed the AD again, thinking furiously. Skinner was angry enough to know the truth. It just didn't seem possible that someone like Assistant Director Skinner, he of the iron sense of duty and holder of a reputation of being unbendable, unbreakable, would possibly actually be *concerned* about a fuck-up like Mulder. "I know that Mulder almost died on this case, and that you -- you -- were there and could have helped him, but refused to take action at the critical moment." Skinner was pacing furiously now, his hands clenched so tightly, he wondered if he was drawing blood. And still the SAC stood silent, unmoving. The AD forced himself to stand still, then glared at Tenejkian. Well, maybe it was best that the man was silent. If he didn't say anything, he wasn't going to piss him off anymore. He watched the man more closely, could almost see the wheels turning as he tried to figure out exactly how much trouble he was in. Skinner snorted, pleased when the other man jumped at the sound, then picked up another piece of paper from his commandeered desk. "Special Agent Vasken Tenejkian, you are hereby demoted from your position of Special Agent in Charge, and suspended without pay, pending a hearing to review your actions of the last twelve hours." Tenejkian's eyes grew wide, and his mouth opened but no sound emerged. He stared dumbfounded for a long moment, then said, "You can't demote me. I'm the SAC." "And I'm the Assistant Director. And I certainly can." Skinner smiled, a smile that was totally without warmth. "And I just did." He passed over a piece of paper, faxed in from DC with all the appropriate signatures in all the appropriate boxes. "The original will be sent to you at your address of record." Tenejkian stared wordlessly at the paper, disbelief etched in his face. In less than twelve hours, he had gone from a man on the rise, a man with a future, to an unemployed middle-aged man, with little hope of re-employment. He'd controlled himself as long as he could. It was obvious that whatever Skinner's reputation had been before, being around Mulder had completely corrupted him. Where before he had been nervous and concerned for himself, he now began to burn with a righteous indignation at the shabby way he was being treated. He hurled the half-empty folder back at Skinner. "You don't know anything about what happened seven years ago. You weren't there." He took two steps forward, his voice rising as his temper increased. "You can't know what happened. You didn't see how out of control that prick Mulder was. Wouldn't consult with the team. Wouldn't follow directions. Wouldn't even come to the office. Worked out of his hotel. Wandered the streets at night. A fucking ghoul, he was, searching out victims with no contact with the rest of us. Spouting off bizarre theories with no possible basis in fact." He paused, ran his hand through his hair, then stepped forward once more. "And you don't *know* Mulder," he went on, his fury propelling him to speak faster and faster until the words were tumbling over one another from his lips. "This little stunt of last night is *just* the sort of shit that arrogant son of a bitch would pull. Always thinking he was better than everyone else. Always thinking rules didn't apply to him. Always looking for ways to make himself look good at the expense of others." Skinner had stood through the man's diatribe, standing motionless, arms folded over his chest, dark brown eyes flashing as he listened to this self-centered asshole attempt to explain away his own incompetence. First the incompetence of seven years ago, and now his incompetence of last night. "I probably know Agent Mulder better than anyone in the Bureau with the exception of his partner. And while his methods may at times be unorthodox, Agent Mulder gets results. And results are what matters. If it wasn't for his habit of reviewing closed cases, these early murders of Nathan's would never have been linked to the man. *Mulder* was the one that made this case. You just got to claim the glory." "That's not true! I was investigating this case even before Mulder decided to stick his head in where it wasn't wanted." He moved forward again, the fax crumpled in his hand, and shoved the paper in Skinner's face. "You have no right to take this action against me!" Tenejkian was almost screaming now, and Skinner watched in disgust as a dollop of spittle flew from the man's mouth. "You *can't* do this to me!" "We've been through this, Agent," Skinner said. It was curious, but as Tenejkian lost his control, Skinner seemed to be regaining his own. "You are ordered to leave the premises, and not to involve yourself in this investigation unless you are notified to do so." "This is all about Mulder, isn't it?" Tenejkian demanded hoarsely. "How'd he get you in his pocket, Skinner? What does he know about you? I heard you used to be pretty good, but I can see there's no truth to that rumor. Mulder's probably holed up somewhere, humping that pretty little partner of his, and your actions are nothing but tacit approval of his behavior." Skinner could feel his temper begin to rise again. The man just didn't know when to stop. "That will be enough, Agent," he said firmly. "Your actions are not only an embarrassment to yourself, but to the Bureau as well." He gestured at the closed door, and the hole he had put there that allowed the sheriff and his deputies to see and hear what occurred in the tiny office. Seeing the hole reminded him of his own out of control behavior of earlier, and he felt a sudden sense of pity for the man standing before him. "Go home, Vasken," he said quietly, "before you do something you'll really regret." Or push me into doing something I'll regret, he added silently. "Like this?" the man sneered, his fist coming up to make contact with Skinner's jaw. The AD rocked back on his heels, a curtain of red falling over him. He lifted a hand to gently rub his jaw, all the time chanting to himself. 'Control, Walter, control. Control, Walter, control.' He stared at the men who were gathered in the hall, crowding the hole in the door. What a fucking show the FBI was putting on for the locals. He shifted his eyes back to Tenejkian. The man was staring at him in horror, seemingly shocked at his own behavior, and Skinner could almost smell the fear that radiated from him. His pressure was rising again, and he felt the same overwhelming rage that had so overtaken him earlier begin to work its insidious way over him. 'Control, Walter, control.' He watched in bemusement as his own hand came up, doubled into a fist and lashed out at the man who stood before him. "Fuck control," he muttered as he watched the former SAC crumple to the ground. He looked up and addressed the door. "Somebody get this asshole out of here, and find the sheriff. I want an update on the search for my agents." ********************************** October 15, 1998 9:30 a.m. "How do you know he's not following us just out of sight, Mulder?" Scully asked quietly. "It's not his style. Would take away from the game," her partner responded shortly. He was focused on keeping them upright, keeping them moving. The pain in his head was better, but he seemed to have traded it for a steady ache in his side, and this morning, when he'd relieved himself, the stream of urine had been red. He snuck a glance at Scully, but she was concentrating on her feet, trying not to be any more of a burden to him than her injured foot made her. He knew he should tell her, but she'd only want him to rest, and resting was one thing they couldn't afford. He looked around, scanning for signs of Nathan but there was nothing to indicate he was near. Or that he wasn't for that matter. It just didn't *feel* like he was near. That was one of the things he'd developed in his last encounters with "The Nibbler," an uncanny ability to sense the evilness that seemed to travel with the man. Mulder shuddered, then paused, and Scully looked at him with concern. "You look pale, Mulder," she said, one hand coming up to touch his face. "Are you sure you're OK?" "Head's better, Scully, honest." He glanced down at his leg. "And my leg's not bleeding either." He sighed. "I'm just wishing the cavalry would come." He smiled down at her and he could tell she was thinking of the tall, strong AD, the man they both called friend now. "Think he's been notified?" Scully asked. "I'm sure of it. Like I said, he's probably got agents crawling all over these woods by now. They'll find Nathan before we will." He tried to inject some force, some believability into his tone, but he could tell it didn't come off. "What happened with this guy, Mulder? What was it that made this so awful for you?" "It was a lot of little things. Just the crime itself was enough to turn my stomach. People thought he was a cannibal, but he wasn't really. He just liked the taste of blood, and he got off on watching people bleed to death from his bite marks." He shuddered again. "We found semen at several of the sites." "But you caught him, right? Weren't you the agent who apprehended him?" "Not really, no. I was there, but Tenejkian was the one who actually put the cuffs on him and placed him in custody." "But I thought you were injured in his capture?" "Well, I was. But I was already injured when the final showdown arrived." They were still moving now, but slowly, and as Mulder's thoughts turned inward, she took up the job of scanning the trees for Nathan. She listened as Mulder spoke, but she kept her eyes on the woods that surrounded them. "I was the only one that believed he was marking them. I started running a check on hospitals for anyone who came in with a bite mark, explained or unexplained. I didn't think anything would come of it, but I was desperate. I didn't know what else to try." His hand came up and he scrubbed at his face, new growth beard and dirt and grime covering his cheeks. "I got a hit, though. One night, out of the blue. This ER nurse calls and reports a woman was in earlier. Said she got bit in some club she was in. Nothing major, just enough to draw blood. They cleaned it and sent her home." He sighed, and Scully tugged him to a log, dropping gracelessly onto it, then pulling him down as well. He resisted at first then gave in and settled down beside her. He held the gun, with its single bullet in one hand, staring at it as if it were the one who beckoned forth his memories. "It was an apartment, second floor, near the river. Beautiful view. I remember when I went in, the first thing I saw was this floor to ceiling window, took up one whole wall, looking out over the river. It was breathtaking." He shook himself, gave her a small smile, and continued. "I had gotten the address and headed on over. I *did* try to get Tenejkian, anyone, to listen, to help me, but no one was going to follow my lead, no matter what I did. So I went alone." She had been cradling his hand, but he sounded so alone, so forlorn at this admission, that she shifted her hand, and wrapped an arm around his waist. He was taller, heavier, broader, than she, but he still managed to fit against her side, seeming to snuggle in as if he desperately needed the reassurance that he was not alone here. She could feel his isolation, his anger and fear, the overwhelming frustration. It was all brand-new, fresh, just happening in Mulder's memory. "Her name was Anna Torrence. Anna Renee Torrence. I remembered thinking her initials spelled ART. And her apartment was full of it. From the view of the river -- that was a work of art in itself -- to paintings on the wall, to small sculpture and antiques, it was a beautifully eclectic mix of what was obviously this woman's very good taste. "I started across the living room, gun in hand, my head whipping around as I tried to figure out what it was that seemed so familiar about this setting. I was almost to the window wall, the private deck just outside through an unpaned French door off to the side. I could see terraces and decks off the other apartments, and the river just flowed by, huge and slow-moving, ignorant of humanity's evil. I was still looking around, trying to place the sense of knowing, of recognition that had overtaken me from the minute I first walked in, when it suddenly came to me. It was not something I saw that was familiar -- it was something I smelled." He paused a moment, nose wrinkling in distaste as his mouth twisted in disgust. "Blood." A single word, spoken in a low monotone, but it spoke volumes beyond its abrupt syllable. Blood and bone were the parts of their job he left to her when he could. Seeing them, smelling them, or worse, touching them imprinted memories too hard to erase for him. "Mulder," she whispered, stroking his arm once, then reaching up to turn his head to look at her, and caressing his face, "you don't have to finish." He shrugged, an almost helpless gesture, then went on quietly. "I could feel my heart pick up, then slow again, as I tried to dismiss it. Just a weird olfactory memory from all the crime scenes I had visited, brought on by the tension of the situation. But that was less likely than the reality. I'd smelled blood before; I knew what the odor was. "I moved toward the window -- it almost seemed to call to me. From there I could see all of the living room, the dining area, the doorway into the kitchen, and the hall down to the bedrooms and bath. It was a great vantage point to see everything, the center of the apartment. It made sense that the view was the focal point around which the rest of the apartment was built. "I stood for a minute, frozen, I guess. I should have been moving, going to help Anna Renee, but I was just standing there, holding my gun, smelling the air like some bloodhound on the scent. I just kept thinking I should have someone there -- that I wasn't enough." His voice dropped, and Scully could hear the tell-tale crack that only emerged when Mulder battled his strongest emotions and darkest demons. She clutched him harder, realizing anew how very real a thing memory was for a man like Mulder. It wasn't just his almost perfect memory, a mind that stored experiences as clearly as if they had just happened. It was his empathy as well, his emotional makeup that made him *feel* things so keenly, that let him *know* things that others couldn't know. It made a trip down memory lane like this one almost as bad as the experience itself had been. It certainly felt as real to Mulder, and Scully felt helpless to comfort him. Her touch and her presence were all she had to offer him. "I've never been enough ..." It was whispered to his lap, almost too soft for Scully to hear, and a part of her wanted to shake him and remind him how many times, again and again, he had been all that stood between her and death, and how she was still here, still living and loving because he was enough, he was more than enough, he was all she needed. The other part of her wanted to wrap him up and hold him, and protect him from all of this. To fix the world so he would never have to hurt, or question, or doubt himself again. He lifted haunted eyes to hers, and went on. "I stood there, staring, listening, breathing, and then footsteps whispered on the carpet from the bedroom. A soft, almost soundless noise. I turned to look down the hall and there was this muted *thump* from one of the bedrooms. I moved toward the hallway, stopping at the entrance from the living room. The odor was stronger there, pungent and more persistent. The door at the end of the hall was open and I could just make out movement on the bed." He flashed a wry smile at Scully. "My first thought was that I'd interrupted Anna Renee with her boyfriend. All I could think was what a jerk I was going to look like when this got out. But my heart was still pounding, and there was this scent, and something else, something I couldn't place. The hall was dark, but there was light from the living room, and from the windows, and it made the walls seem to glow. I could hear my feet on the carpet, that same whispery sound I'd heard earlier. "I was moving down the hall, creeping really, and then I was suddenly there. I pushed the door open a little more -- I don't know what the hell I was doing, procedure was out the window at this point -- and I looked in. I could see her on the bed. She looked like she was sleeping, crumpled, on the bed, lying on her side, her arm flung over her head." He paused a moment, clinging to her, and she could feel hot tears against his cheeks. "The -- the bathroom light was on. It lit the bottom of the bed, and cast enough of a glow to see the room. It was done in white. A brass bed with white linens, white dresser, a white floor length cloth draped over a bedside table. White and gold. The brass bed. The hardware on the dresser. And the picture over the bed. It was one of those huge abstract things -- almost covered the wall. It was in a gilt frame with a light of its own over top, and a small brass plate beneath it. It was -- crimson and scarlet and cherry and wine, vermillion and ruby and fuschia and carmine. Big, bold strokes, the paint was slashed onto the canvas almost violently. All the reds of the painting just seemed to merge onto the red of the bed. The sheets and the pillows and the comforter were all red. And Anna Renee -- she was red too. Blood red. But all I could see was the little brass plate. The title of the painting." He lifted his eyes to meet hers for a moment, and a silence stretched between them, broken only by the hitch in his throat as he drew breath. "It was called 'The Misuse of Red.'" He stopped abruptly and shuddered, then pulled away from her and leaned to the left, one hand clutching his side, the other balancing himself on the log. He heaved viciously, unable to contain the sickness the memory brought back. He gagged several more times, gulping desperately for air between, and held his belly. Scully rubbed his back gently, then helped him sit erect again when he was done. He was exhausted. This race through the woods was wearing on them both, but Mulder seemed to be more worn than she was, and her first inclination was to assume it was because of the extra burden she represented with her injured foot. But she looked more closely and saw that there was a sheen of sweat covering his brow and upper lip, and his face was stiff, as if he was fighting to keep himself under control -- or to keep the pain under control. She lifted her eyes, looking around the surrounding woods, seeking any hint that they were being followed or observed, but the trees were still. She turned back to her partner. He was still staring at his lap, face and neck tensed, body held stiffly and he clutched his side with one hand. She narrowed her eyes, staring at him. There was the head wound -- painful but not life-threatening. There was the leg wound, but that wasn't even really impeding his mobility. And still he was stiff, tight, holding himself, and struggling to keep his face calm. She caught him wince, then bite his lip before he snuck a quick look in her direction. She took a deep breath, then looked around again. The hairs on the back of her neck had risen inexplicably. The forest was quiet, no sign of movement. She looked at Mulder again. He was fading where he sat, head still down, hand still holding his side. The stillness of the woods seemed to amplify the harsh sounds of his breathing, a ragged in and out that appeared to pain him. Her hairs were still bristling, and she couldn't place the feeling of disquiet that had stolen over her. That Mulder was more injured than he had admitted, she was sure. And while she understood his reticence to admit his injury, it had to end here and now. He needed to tell her what had happened, what was bothering him. Not just the memories of what had happened seven years ago, but the reality of what had happened fifteen hours ago. She opened her mouth to speak, to talk to Mulder, to tell him it was OK, she wasn't mad, she understood. To coax from him what happened and to pray it wasn't life-threatening. She opened her mouth to break the silence, to speak into the quiet of the autumn woods at mid-morning, to tell this man beside her that they would get through this, and it would be all right, and that she loved him. She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it. "He's here, Scully. He's here." Chapter 43 October 15, 1998 9:45 a.m. Skinner walked quietly into the conference room, nodding approvingly. Sometimes it was quite useful to lose one's temper. It was amazing how quickly the task force had assembled once he decked his own agent. The men and women present seemed to be watching him with wary eyes, and as far as he was concerned, that was a good thing. Let them worry about the Assistant Director from DC, the big man who couldn't keep his cool. If they wondered about him, it would keep them on their toes, and hopefully, keep things moving. He reached the front of the room, hiding a 'we're going to kick butts now' smile, and turned to face his audience. He looked out at a sea of dark and light blue, forest green, and khaki -- representatives from the local and surrounding PDs, the County Sheriff department, State Police, Forestry Service, and Fish and Wildlife, as well as a couple of Corrections Officers from the prison. Sitting attentively and respectfully off to the side were several agents from the Bureau's local office, called in to replace Tenejkian and assist Skinner as needed. He stared out at the assembled law enforcement officials, cleared his throat and began. He stifled another urge to grin, though there was nothing humorous or happy in the almost feral expression Skinner wore. It was more the baring of teeth that a wild animal does as it prepares to attack, and Skinner was feeling quite wild at this point, and ready to attack anyone who made the mistake of standing between him and the hunt for his agents -- and his friends. He introduced himself first, trying to maintain the civilities, though by now surely everyone in this room had heard of the infamous Walter Skinner, he of fast retort and faster fist. An idle thought wandered through his mind as he wondered if Tenejkian would be so stupid as to bring charges against him, but he dismissed it as unimportant. He needed to stay focused on the search for Mulder and Scully. Introductions completed, Skinner glanced at his watch, then addressed the men and woman before him again. "It's 9:45, people. That means it's been almost sixteen hours since we've had contact with my agents and Officer Grasso. I want this group divided into teams and on the streets within the hour. I want mixed groups; combine with other agencies and make sure we have a variety of experience on each team. If we need additional resources, I want to know immediately." He looked down at the papers he held clutched in his hand, a map and notes relating to the Nibbler and his upcoming trial. "As you all know, the prisoner is extremely dangerous, and there's a good possibility, according to Agent Mulder's profile from seven years ago, that he may already have targets in the area selected. We can't afford any more lost time on this one." He paused again, letting the silence punctuate his final words, "It's not just my agents whose lives are at stake." *************************************************** October 15, 1998 9:50 a.m. "He's here, Scully," Mulder repeated, head up now, suddenly alert. She watched him grimace as he pulled himself erect, head turning as he looked for physical evidence of the presence his senses told him was real. She, too, scanned the area, but nothing seemed out of place. There was still no sign of Nathan, not that he had been there, or that he might be watching them. And yet, Mulder was so sure, and she could still feel the pinpricks of disquiet at the base of her neck. "I don't see anything, Mulder," she whispered, even as she rose to stand, hobbled by her injured foot, beside him. "You wouldn't, not until it was too late." Mulder bit the words off, eyes growing wild as he searched for a place to go, a path to take that might get them away from the menace he was sensing. He turned suddenly, wrapping her in a fierce embrace and burying his head in her hair. "Scully," he murmured, "he'll give us this. He'll think it's decent to let us have this last embrace before the hunt is on again." She stiffened in his arms at his words, then slowly relaxed into his hold. "What do we do?" His head was still down, he was holding her tightly and nuzzling her hair, her neck, her cheek. "We get ready to run." His lips traced a delicate trail to hers, and he brushed her mouth with his own, moving on toward her other ear. "In a minute, I'm going to step back and head for that incline behind me. You're going to have to move with me, and move quick, and when we reach the hill, be ready to roll." His hands roved over her back and stroked her sides even as he spoke, and between words, he peppered her face and neck with tiny kisses. "If we're lucky, there'll be cover at the bottom, and we can use it to get away. If we surprise him sufficiently, he'll be impressed and he may not even follow, preferring to start the game over again." Mulder's hands stilled their exploration of her back, and he tugged her closer to his body, enfolding her completely in the circle of his arms. "I'm sorry, Scully. Sorry for bringing you, sorry for involving you, sorry for putting you at risk again." He took a deep, shuddery breath, and she could feel his heart begin to race beneath her head where it was pillowed against his chest. "But I promise you one thing, I won't let you die like Anna Renee." He prodded her with his hip, and she could feel the hard metal of the gun with its single bullet as it pressed her tender flesh. "I won't let him do that to you." She lifted her head to him, eyes wild with confusion and fear, not sure she followed him, and yet, somehow, afraid that she did understand all too clearly. "Mulder," she whispered, reaching up to draw his head down and kissing him this time, "*You* did not put me anywhere I didn't want to be. I'm here because this is my job, and you are my partner, and here is where I should be." She stroked his cheek gently, letting her fingers graze the rough stubble there, then lifted on a single tiptoe and kissed first one eyelid, then the other. Beneath her touch, she could feel him sigh softly, and felt her hair lift slightly in the tiny breeze his expulsion of air created. "I'm not sorry for this, Scully." He spoke directly to her, his eyes meeting her own, drinking her in and drowning in her presence. "I'll never be sorry for this." He leaned down and captured her lips in a long, deep kiss, and for a moment it was as if they were the only people in the world. Then the moment ended and he whirled, his hand clinging tightly to hers, pulling her roughly behind him, almost dragging her the ten feet to the incline, and then they were there. He threw her down before him, shoving her hard and she began to roll, gaining momentum with each revolution until she was tumbling wildly down a hill that was much steeper and longer than it had appeared. She could feel rocks and branches, and even stumps punishing her as she bounced out of control, moving steadily downward, turning faster and faster, heading for a line of trees and scrub that waited at the bottom. She couldn't see, she couldn't hear. She could only hope that Mulder was behind her, moving down the hill at whatever cost to temporary safety, and perhaps, eventual escape from this hellish race through the forest that this brutal fall extracted. She tucked her arms and legs in as much as she could, which both offered some protection from the earth's beating and served to accelerate her roll, and when she could breathe again, she was sprawled against a tree, dazedly staring up the hill as Mulder tumbled in her wake. She was panting hard, drawing desperately for air, when he collided with a tree and stopped -- hard. She could see the pain lines etched in his face now, and he clutched at his side in obvious distress. "Up, Scully," he called weakly. "Move into the trees, out of sight." She was getting up all right, but not to move into the trees. She stumbled determinedly toward him, a little half hop-step that reawakened the ache in her head with each jarring movement. "No," he cried hoarsely, waving her away and gesturing toward the trees. "Scully, go! Get out of here!" Ignoring his words, she reached his side, and bent to help him up. She risked a peek up at the top of the hill, but there was no one there, and for some reason she felt they were alone. Mulder's assessment that Nathan might hold back and start the chase again seemed accurate. She was bent over, using the tree that had stopped his forward movement for support, and she shouldered herself under his arm, holding him tightly and forcing him to rise or pull her down onto him. He rose, but she could see from the way he bit his lip and continued to hold his side, that he was in considerable pain. "C'mon, partner," she grunted, and she started her little hop-steps toward the trees. "Let's get both of us out of sight, then you can tell me what is really hurting you." ************************************************* October 15, 1998 11:10 a.m. "There! Look!" Skinner called breathlessly. "Stop the car. I want to look at that slide." The car stopped obediently and the AD was out of it in an instant, even as the agent assigned to drive him was radioing the other cars to advise them of their location. There was a small cleared spot on the side of the road, and some broken and trampled-looking bramble bushes. Skinner walked through gravel and mud, and stood staring down into what appeared to be a newly formed ravine, probably created in the storm from the previous night. The violent rains and winds had erased any evidence from the road that a vehicle had been here, but the bushes and the mudslide betrayed the possibility that the ground's erosion had been aided by the weight of something big. Like an armored van. Skinner lifted a pair of field glasses that hung around his neck and scanned the bottom of the incline. Trees, as well as rocks and shrubs had washed down the hill as well, and there was a pile of debris at the bottom. A pile that seemed impenetrable. The AD sighed in frustration, almost ready to turn and move on when the sun peeked from behind a cloud and a glint of metal caught his eye. He raised the glasses to his eyes again, and searched once more, this time settling on the corner of the overturned van. "Got it!" he called to the agent behind him, even as he began a rapid descent down the mud covered side of the hill. "Get everyone over here! Now!" Skinner slipped, sliding about ten feet with arms flailing madly as he fought for balance. He hit a dry patch and pulled himself up, turning to look back up and make sure his instructions were being followed. Sure enough, another car had already arrived, and brown and blue and green shirts were pouring out to join him in the climb down to the van. "Get me a radio," he hollered back over his shoulder as he resumed his descent. "And have everyone converge here." He finally reached the bottom, and stood a moment, catching his breath as he waited for the others to reach him. One of the forest rangers had a hand-held radio and he passed it to the AD wordlessly. Skinner pressed a button, then spoke. "This has just become the new command center." *************************************************** October 15, 1999 11:35 a.m. "Enough." Scully dragged Mulder to a halt, wheezing as she fought to catch her breath. "Enough, Mulder." He stopped beside her for a moment, half-holding her, half-holding himself as he stood bent over with an arm wrapped tightly around his waist. The sun had risen high in the sky and the woods were painted in cheerful reds and greens and golds with autumn's touch. Birds chirped and twittered in the trees above them, and through the quiet you could hear the swoop of their wings as they flew from tree to tree. Squirrels rustled in the branches above, and the hushed sweep of leaves drifting to the ground made the scene seem peaceful, tranquil, calm. Very much at odds with their mad dash in search of safety and their attempt to avoid Nathan. "We have to keep moving, Scully," Mulder panted. "He'll be following, and he's not injured." "You can't keep moving," Scully declared. "I'm not sure what happened to you, but I can tell you're injured. And you're getting weaker." She reached up to touch his fevered brow, slick with sweat from exertion. "You have to rest." She paused a moment, watching him waver then decide she was right. "And you need to tell me what happened." Mulder looked around. They had traveled further down the hill and were in a clearing at the edge of yet another drop-off on the side of the mountain. He thought back to last night's accident. They'd gone over the side of the mountain in the storm, and then seemed to travel on relatively flat land until Nathan caught them. Then it was over the side again, rolling downward, followed by more lateral movement until now. Now they had reached another incline, another downward slope. They needed to be working their way up, back to the road, but Nathan was chasing them further down and further away from the road, the van, and their hopes of rescue. He turned to stare upward, trying to estimate how far they needed to go to get back to the road. Squinting in the sun, he studied the steep inclines, heavily forested in places, sparsely in others. Rocks, from car-sized boulders to gravel, peppered the hillside, and broken limbs and ravaged bushes littered the ground. Too far for Scully to go on her twisted ankle. And, he finally admitted to himself, too far for him to go with this steady pain in his abdomen. A pain that was growing stronger and more intense with each passing moment. He looked around once more, then nodded at his partner. "We're going to have to hide," he muttered, "and you're going to have to look at me." He dropped his head, embarrassed now that he had to admit his omission. "I think I hurt my side in the wreck." Scully straightened at once, slipping on her medical persona, and demanded, "Where? Let me see, Mulder." He shook his head. "In a minute." He traced the area with his eyes again. They stood on a relatively flat ridge, extending sixty or seventy yards in front and behind them. It was probably another sixty or seventy yards wide, from the slope of the hill they had rolled down to the edge that led to the next drop-off. It was as if the hillside was terraced, with steep inclines broken by semi-plateaus. Mulder hobbled over to that edge and peered down. This was it. One more long downward slide, however it would occur, and they would be in the valley. And this was not a slope that could be easily climbed or rolled down. Scully waited patiently while Mulder looked around once more, then nodded at one of several clumps of bushes and vines. She hopped over to the thicket her partner had indicated, then knelt and began to tunnel through to the interior of the shrubbery, hoping that the branches would fade in the center and that the vines would not have thorns. Behind her, she heard Mulder take a quick intake of breath, then begin to crawl in behind her. In short order, he was wriggling up beside her, carefully moving branches and greenery to erase any sign of their passage into the scrub. Once they were safely embosked in the foliage, she again waited until he was settled, trying to ignore the panic that was welling up in her as she listened to his increasingly labored breathing, and watched him disregard the pain she knew he was feeling. Once his head was down, and he lay on his back, snuggled up beside her, she lifted her head from his shoulder and looked down into his face. "I want to examine you," she said. "Now." ********************************************** October 15, 1998 12:15 p.m. It had taken almost an hour to pull all the teams to the site of the crash. With everyone finally assembled, Skinner was ready to send them out to search. There wasn't really any easy way to do this, and the rain of the night before had washed any tracks away, making dogs useless. Skinner was watching as agents and officers, rangers and deputies milled about, talking quietly with one another and making their own assessments of the situation. There was a sense of unease about the group and more than one face bore an expression that seemed to say that person felt this whole exercise was a waste of time. He walked through the group, not really going anywhere, but trying to look as if he was, and making note of the snatches of conversation he caught as he passed. " ... impossible for them to have made it out uninjured ..." " ... kills by biting people, then letting them bleed ..." " ... not much hope ..." " ... partner worked with Mulder in VCS. He says the guy really is *spooky.*" " ... does the AD expect us to find them ..." Skinner stopped here, and turned to address the suddenly abashed deputy. "I expect you to find them the same way you would find anyone missing out here -- by diligence and perseverance." He raised his voice to speak to everyone. "I expect everyone to conduct the most thorough search you have ever conducted -- and the most cautious." He stared at the group congregated loosely around the van, watching with self-satisfied pleasure as shoulders straightened and commitment was renewed. "My agents are out there -- your colleagues. And they are probably injured, possibly being held hostage by a killer." He waited, gauging reactions, and was pleased to see the seriousness of the situation reasserting itself through the group. "Many of you don't know Agent Mulder and Agent Scully. But they are two of the finest agents I have ever worked with. Two of the finest you will ever be privileged to have on your team." He stopped again, then surveyed the group, taking time to meet each person's eyes as he finished, "I want them brought home -- alive. And I know you can do it." Chapter 44 October 15, 1998 12:15 p.m. Her limited examination had done little but cause Mulder more pain as she poked and prodded his already tender abdomen. She wasn't able to make a firm diagnosis, of course, but Mulder's pain, labored breathing, and the blood in his urine certainly pointed toward internal bleeding. He was tachycardic and exhibiting classic symptoms of hypovolemia now -- weak, dizzy, his face pale, his skin cool and clammy. And the pain seemed to be getting worse, despite his best efforts at denial. She lowered his shirt as gently as she could, then allowed herself to rest carefully against him, her head falling naturally into the hollow of his shoulder, his arm coming possessively, protectively around her. "So, how's it look?" he asked quietly. She paused a moment, trying to think of how to phrase her concerns, and he spoke again. "That good, huh?" "You know I can't tell anything definite out here, Mulder," she gently admonished him. "But, yes, I am concerned. I think we need to get out of here as quick as we can." "Good idea, Scully," Mulder said dryly. "Any suggestions on how to accomplish that?" She was silent for a moment, stung by his words, and then his lips were against her ear, his breath hot against her skin, and he was whispering, "God, Scully, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded." He nudged her with his nose, tickling the underside of her jaw until she lifted her head to look at him. "I don't know what to do, Mulder, and I'm frustrated, too. I imagine Skinner has the cavalry out in force by now, but I'm not too keen on laying here and waiting for them." "I can keep going a bit longer, Scully, if you can." "I don't think so, Mulder. I'm more than concerned about your injury -- I'm really worried, and that just makes it all the more critical that we get out of here." She took a deep breath, knowing what he was going to say, but needing to make the effort anyway. "I think you should stay here and I'll circle around and head back up to the road." "Absolutely not." Scully was surprised. She had expected his refusal, but she had been anticipating more of a roaring response, not this deadly quiet, monotone statement. She looked quizzically at him, waiting for more. "You don't know what he does, Scully." Mulder shuddered against her, then winced as the movement triggered a jolt of pain through his belly. "You don't know what he would do to you." "What he did to Anna Renee Torrence?" Mulder nodded. "You really want to hear this?" "Do you really want to tell me?" Mulder was silent for a long moment. Did he want to tell her? It wasn't something he'd ever told anyone about. It wasn't something he wanted to think about. It wasn't something he ever wanted to remember, and certainly not something he wanted to relive. But, his hand strayed to the gun with its single bullet -- reminder that a killer stalked them. Reminder that it was a killer he knew, one he'd faced before, one he was intimately familiar with. Reminder of Anna Renee and his own failure. Maybe it was time for a new perspective on that whole debacle. Scully must have sensed his decision, because she reached up and cupped his cheek, saying, "The Misuse of Red. You were talking about the painting." "It was more than the painting. It was the irony of the whole thing -- the red and white color scheme, the beauty of the whole apartment, the stark orderliness of the bedroom. And then, there was Anna Renee, or what was left of her, in a bloody mess on her pristine bed, the red pouring from her in dozens of places, pooling beneath her, flowing through the runnels her struggles had made in the sheets. And over it all, proclaimed in expensively engraved, carefully backlit brass, 'The Misuse of Red.'" He gave a sardonic laugh. "How rich. 'The Misuse of Red.' It was actually quite apropos." He was agitated, and Scully murmured wordlessly to him, stroking his arm where it encircled her. Silently, she willed him to keep talking, to keep fighting the drag of pain that threatened to pull him under. "If it hadn't been for the blood, she could have been sleeping. She was crumpled on the bed, laying on her side, her arm flung over her head. The lights in the bathroom shone on the bed, and then there was the obscenely titled painting, shining down on her, shouting colors, shades of blood, red strokes on white canvas, red splatters on white walls, rivers of red on a white coverlet. "I was shocked, in shock, I guess, and I couldn't move for a minute. I felt my knees buckle and I went down by the side of the bed, burying my face in my hands. I wanted to go to her, to talk to her and touch her, but I couldn't make myself move. I chanced a look at the bed and I saw her chest move -- she wasn't dead yet -- but I could tell she was dying. I'd seen dead people, Scully, lots of dead people, and she may have been breathing, but she was dead. But then, her eyes opened and she looked at me, and I could feel her calling me, begging me. 'Don't let me die alone. Don't make me do this by myself.'" Beside her, she could feel him shrug, then pull away as the movement sent ripples of pain through his belly. "So I went to her. I stayed with her, touching her, my emotions pushing away the intellectual part of my brain that screamed to stay away, this was a crime scene, there would be others who would need to see this, needed to piece things together." He smiled wanly. "It was her luck and her curse that I found her. Someone else would have run screaming from the room. Or called for medics, at least tried to breathe life into this woman beyond hope or repair. But I knew that there was no miracle in store for Anna Renee, knew with a certainty that this was her last day on earth. So I stayed there, stayed with her, talked to her, cried for her, thinking all the time that I should have been there sooner, I should have known, I shouldn't have let this happen to her. I cried, I told her I was sorry, I begged her to forgive me, and she just looked at me with enormous eyes, too weak to speak or even move." Scully was silent, still, afraid to say or do anything. Mulder was so lost in the story, so lost in his memory, that even as he spoke tears rolled down his cheeks and his voice grew hoarse with barely suppressed emotion. "I was kneeling there, covered in her blood -- it was sticky, and had that peculiar metallic smell that fresh blood has -- when there was a sound from the bathroom and I realized I'd made a rookie's mistake. I hadn't checked the house. I heard that sound and realized we were not alone. I tried to move slowly, carefully, reaching for my gun, when I felt a shadow rush me. My face was flushed from my mistake, I was so ashamed, and then he was on me. I lunged for the end of the bed, the motion bounced Anna Renee in an eerie parody of living movement, and I could feel how worn down I was. The endless days alone, the nights of hunting by myself, the isolation and ridicule and exhaustion. It had all beaten me down, eroded whatever I may have had to offer at one time. I knew I wasn't fast enough, wasn't quick enough, or clever enough, or strong enough to get away. The shadow fell on me and it had substance and mass and muscle and strength. My gun flew out of my hand and skittered across the floor, stopping by the door to the hallway. I remember protesting, screaming 'NOOOOooooo!' in a sort of long, drawn-out breath, and then I was down and twisted on the floor and a knee slammed into my back. "The blow drove the wind from my lungs, my face was mashed into the carpet, and I was paralyzed, trying to scream, trying to move. I pushed my knees up, grunted with the effort, and then I was crawling toward the open doorway, my only thought that I had to get out. I thought I was going to make the hall, when a pair of powerful hands caught me. I kicked, gasping for air, as he flipped me over and I came face to face with the man I had been searching for. He was just a face at first, looming over me, shadowed by the backlight from the bathroom. I slammed my arm straight up into the face, the blow glancing off his cheekbone, his flesh feeling cold and wet. "He flinched, then his arm drew back, blocking the light, raised to strike, and I could feel myself tense, waiting for the blow. My head slammed back against the bed frame, my vision dimmed and my eyes were watering, and then, just as suddenly, the face was gone. It was as if he had reached the bottom of a cord and been yanked back abruptly. I was trying to breathe, but it was ragged and weak. I struggled to sit up against the bed, then pushed myself across the carpet and away from the last place he'd been. I was thinking 'I gotta get my gun -- gotta get my gun,' and 'I seriously need help here.' "I got to my feet, headed for the gun, and he tackled me. We crashed into the dresser, fighting, struggling in some sort of silent, evil choreography. I'd swing at him, then he'd swing at me. He caught me in the face and I could feel blood instantly -- it knocked me back against the bed again. I lost all the ground I'd gained in trying to get to the gun. But then, Anna Renee made a sound, it was too quiet for a moan, too soft for a groan, but I could hear her, and I just got up and threw myself at the man, knowing this man had done this unspeakably vile thing, and he'd done it before, and he'd do it again unless I stopped him. I was quick, but he was quicker, and he hit me with his forearm, knocking me backwards again. This time, I hit the dresser, crumpled on the floor, and lights were exploding in my head. I rolled, grabbed the gun, and came up firing. Four shots went in the wall where his head had been, then one in a picture of Anna Renee and two other young women that hung near the door. Even as I was firing again, following him -- God, he moved fast! -- I could see the glass fragments raining down the wall, glittering in the light of the hall and bath. "I fired again and again, and then there was only one bullet left. One more shot. And I'd lost track of where he went." Mulder paused now, and Scully wondered if he was even aware of her presence as he mused out loud to himself, "How the hell could I lose track of the man? I still don't understand how I lost him in a confined space. My vision was a little blurry, but I still shouldn't have lost him." He looked down at her then, and she knew he knew she was there. She had been there the whole time. He knew he was not alone anymore, not even as he relived the horrors of a seven year old murder. "And then I did the unthinkable, even worse than not checking the house. I saw him again and pointed the gun at him, then I ordered him to freeze. He did, and then she spoke. The thing on the bed, the thing that used to be a woman before he mutilated it beyond recognition, the thing that was Anna Renee, she spoke to me. 'Use it on me,' she whispered, and I turned, just for a second to look at her, and he was on me, the gun was ripped from my hand and I felt it impact my temple. I could feel myself slipping away, but I heard him, 'Next time, you should save one for yourself.'" He lay quietly now, the energy and emotion he'd displayed as he'd told the tale dissipated quickly upon its completion. The silence seemed too sudden, too abrupt, and then she realized it wasn't the silence, it was the return to the woods, to being huddled in a bush, instead of being in an expensively decorated apartment, watching a woman die. "Mulder?" she queried quietly. "Mmmm?" He sounded exhausted, and she wondered if he'd used his last reserves to tell her this story. To explain what drove him when it came to Nathan the Nibbler. To help her understand the meaning of the single bullet. She wondered if he would be conscious in another five minutes. "What happened, Mulder?" "I came to. She was dead. I called it in. Tenejkian blamed the whole fiasco on me. He tried to have me removed from active service." His voice dropped. "He was right, in a way. I blew it. There were so many things I could have done differently." He shrugged. "But I fought him, and I came out looking like a hero for finding the woman to begin with, for tracking Nathan down, and Tenejkian came out looking like an obstructionist." Mulder's voice dropped, and the last words were slurred as he spoke. "He never got over it." ************************************************* October 15, 1998 2:40 p.m. Two and a half hours into the search and Skinner was feeling the frustration mount. The sky had turned dark and overcast again, the temperature dropping fast, and a fine mist hung over the trees, rapidly turning into drizzle. He moved almost reluctantly through the dark and dripping forest, anxious to find his friends, but growing more concerned with the lessening visibility and the poor tracking conditions. He had one of those rubber poncho things, slick with moisture now, and was cold where the wind blew beneath it, but sweating under the hood, his glasses fogging repeatedly as he moved determinedly through the wooded hillside. The only sounds were the steady patter of rain on the hood of the poncho, the rain dripping from the limbs of trees and leaves of tangled vines, the trickling of water runoff down runnels at the edges of the overgrown path he followed, and the footsteps of the forest ranger who walked with him. The scene was dispiritingly gloomy and forlorn and he found himself wishing he'd had the forethought to insist on thermoses of coffee for his team. The trail, if you could call it a trail, was harder to move through than he had originally anticipated. It was unmarked and decaying, corroded and rutted by innumerable seasons of rain and rockslides, obliterated in places by determinedly hopeful intrusions of ferns, and vines, and half-stunted saplings. Still, it was passable, and with no firm direction, Skinner had decided he might as well follow this and see where it led. The towering pines and creeper-draped oaks and maples almost made the path visible, hemming it in even where it was overrun with smaller plants. He was walking steadily, determined to combat the feelings of helplessness and uselessness that he'd been battling all day. Obstructions, wild vegetation, and sinkholes not withstanding, he was settled into an easy stride, making headway, but to where? The walking warmed him, and the rain sliding down his face was fresh and sweet-tasting when it ran into his mouth. It was an odd dichotomy, cold wind darting beneath the rubber poncho, wet hands and feet that tingled from the chill, yet sweating in his rubber hood, glasses fogging repeatedly as warm breath met cold air, and the cool rain washing his cheeks and quenching the tendrils of thirst that lurked in the back of his throat. After another mile or so, Skinner checking in regularly with the other team members, the trail came out on a ledge, a ridge that circled the hillside, extending out around him. His eyes on the uneven and suspect trail, he first noticed the air had lost its greenish, underwater cast, and he looked up to see the trees had thinned. He was on the flank of the mountain, with what would have been a clear view to his left if the rain would lift again. He found a relatively dry spot under a rocky overhang, and sat down to look at the scene before him, the ranger staying with him but maintaining a discreet distance. Below him lay an unnamed valley, an endless, wet, billowing blue-green carpet, humped and bulging in places, like a stupendous, lumpy mattress tossed carelessly down the side of the mountain. Here and there he could see an equally unnamed stream glinting dully through the mist-shrouded green. Off to the west, a body of water could be seen, mirroring the sky but with hints of pink and gold and slightly luminous, rather like the opalescence of an abalone shell. He stared out over the terrain, trying desperately for some sort of intuitive leap that would tell him where to go, what to do, how to find Mulder and Scully. He grunted softly in frustration, then pulled his radio again, and began to make the check-in calls. *********************************************** October 15, 1998 2:45 p.m. Mulder was unconscious now, his head pillowed in her lap. He'd grown increasingly disoriented, the pain pushing him toward delirium as his belly began to swell. He'd finally faded out completely a little over thirty minutes ago, and she'd shifted within their makeshift hiding place to cradle him in her lap. It was an awkward posture, made all the more uncomfortable by the steady drizzling rain that had started up again, and the rapidly dropping temperature. She felt his head, chilled brow and clammy cheeks, then traced her hand down his soaked shirt sleeves to touch the cold, wet skin of his hands. She leaned precariously forward, probing his belly again, and he didn't stir at her touch, his lack of movement scaring her more than a cry of protest would have. Leaning over oh so carefully, she gently brushed his lips with her own, offering a kiss of apology, of sorrow, of regret. He was not going to be happy when he found out what she was going to do. She kissed him once more, this time on his rain-slicked hair, and smiled ruefully as she consoled herself with the thought that by the time Mulder found out, it would all be in the past. She took one more look at him, pale and unmoving, and mentally added 'If he lives to find out.' She recoiled physically from her own traitorous thought, and spoke sharply to the man in her lap. "You better live, Mulder," she warned. "I swear I'll come after you myself if you dare leave me here alone." She shifted him out of her lap, gently laying him on the damp, leaf-covered ground, and pulled her own jacket off, covering his torso for what warmth it would offer his vital organs. Regardless of her injured foot, she was going to have to go for help -- and she was going to have to find it, and fast. Mulder couldn't wait much longer. She backed out of their leafy bower, then climbed unsteadily to her feet. The injured ankle would bear weight, but not much, and not for long. She needed a staff. She began hobbling east, intending to circle back behind where they had last seen Nathan, then begin the long and arduous climb back up to the road. She scanned the surrounding area as she moved until she found a stick, the right size and thickness, a bit too tall for her height, but she could make it work. She picked it up, oblivious to the slimy moss that coated the underside, and immediately picked up her pace, moving more rapidly through the thickening trees. With the valley below her as a reference point, Scully set a steady pace, moving confidently toward her intended path, and eventual safety. Thirty minutes later she was as lost as she had ever been in her life. The trail she was -- following? forging? -- descended slightly, then began to climb, dipping into heavily wooded growth then through barren, rock strewn areas with scrub brush the only green to be seen. She worried vaguely about being so visible, should Nathan pick up her trail, but Mulder was the bigger concern and she trudged on. She thought she lost the trail -- deer trail, maybe? -- but then it picked up again, gently ascending, though overrun with wild blackberry brambles, ferns, and fledgling trees. It required more concentration than she was giving it, occupied as she was with managing her own pain, planning Mulder's course of treatment, and wondering where in the hell the AD was. How hard could it be to find them? They'd gone practically straight down the mountain from the time Nathan chased them away from the van and into the trees. She suddenly realized she was no longer on the trail, and looked around to find the valley and her reference points. But all she could see now were trees: rough-barked loblolly pines, soaring pintail oak, the occasional massive trunk of an overgrown spruce. She turned slowly in a complete circle, searching for anything that might restore her bearings and get her back on the trail. There was nothing. Even more unsettling, she wasn't exactly sure when she'd gotten turned around; she was no longer sure which way she'd been heading, and she didn't know which way she'd come. It shook her completely, and she felt a prickle of unease. The rain was falling more heavily now, and shaggy gray moss hung from water-heavy branches like thick, sodden draperies, oozing and slimy. A gray-green, swampy mist, thickening even as she watched swirled over the ground, threatening to turn into full-fledged fog even as she watched its sinister and theatrical wisps. It was ominous and unreal, just like this whole damn situation. Stop, she thought to herself, this is no frame of mind to get into. Time for some positive thinking. The other part of her mind was remembering why she hated to hear the words 'forest' and 'Mulder' in the same breath. She drew a deep breath, sighed, then said out loud, "All right then. Positive thinking. How far astray could I have gone?" She looked around and decided to try and find her trail by working a wedge-shaped search pattern, traveling out from a central point until she crossed the path she had been following. She picked a tall pine, slightly deformed by a broken branch and seemingly unique and identifiable from its deformity. She set off, planning to walk to the limit of her vision, about a hundred feet away. She walked halfway, then turned to check her home tree, and was astonished to find it was gone, vanished into obscurity amidst a hundred others. The uneasy prickle was becoming a stabbing worry now. This was not her forte, she was out of her element here, an unwelcome intruder and the trees themselves seemed to be conspiring against her. She wiped rain from her face, and shivered in the cold mountain wind. The air seemed to be made of water now, hard to see through, harder to breathe. It was confining, restricting, a weighty burden to add to the others she carried. She drew another heavy, moisture filled breath, then picked another landmark. Two trees this time. One behind and one before. She would move more slowly toward the further one, checking constantly on the one behind her, moving as straight as possible. If she didn't find the trail, she would return, and repeat the process until she had managed to orient herself, and get back on the right track. If she worked methodically, she was bound to cross the path if it was within her search radius. And it would have to be, she couldn't let herself think about things like trails that snaked and curved through trees and bushes. If this pattern didn't work, she would just have to expand the area, using new landmark trees as her focal points. She set out toward her first goal, checking back and forth between the trees, pleased that her reasoning seemed to be working. What she hadn't counted on though, was the sheer number of trails -- deer, and elk maybe? Were there elk out here? Some sort of large animal anyway, bear perhaps. Some seemed natural, meandering channels through the undergrowth. Others seemed almost man-made, straight and clear for yards before petering out into impenetrable growths of mismatched greenery. She followed several false leads, one of them for almost half a mile, before she stumbled on the trail she felt she had been following, only thirty feet from where she began. It had taken her almost an hour. Much more observant now, humbled by Nature's cruel reminder of her superiority, she began walking again, carefully following the trail as it moved eastward and gently ascended. She was beginning to regain some of her confidence when she entered a clear area and stopped short, awed by the opening up of a long view out over the valley. The same view she had seen within the first ten minutes of her travels. The exact same view. Exactly. She collapsed onto a convenient fallen log, only puzzled at first, thinking she must have been following a trail that looped, that had led her in an unerring circle. But then the truth hit her, and tears began to battle the rain making its way down her face. Cold and tired, hungry and in pain, desperately worried for the man she loved, and she had retraced her steps *backward.* All the time she had spent, the energy expended, had been for naught. She was within half a mile of where she had left Mulder. She had, quite simply, been walking in the wrong direction since she rediscovered the trail. With no sun to use as a guide, east had become west, and she was back where she started. She sat there awhile, slumped over, wet, and miserable. The wind had picked up and she shivered in her sodden clothing, no protection to be found from the chilly gusts. The temperature continued to drop; her hands were red and raw, and from the feel of it, so was her face. She would go and check on Mulder, then try again. She couldn't give up. She levered herself to her feet, clinging to the staff and clamping back the pain that washed up from her feet and down from her head. She moved quickly toward their bush, ready to crawl inside and seek a little warmth and comfort from her unconscious partner, determined to get out and back up the hill before it was too late for him. She had reached the ledge again, the thicket where Mulder lay securely hidden away was in sight now, when she felt it. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she could feel goosebumps lift on her chilled skin. He was here, watching her. She turned casually away from the bush that sheltered Mulder, eyes scanning furiously for sign of the watcher, but there was nothing. She stood silent and unmoving, the rain sheeting off her, for a full ten minutes. She had just about decided that it was all in her head, when a hand grabbed her arm, and she squealed. He yanked her around roughly, the staff falling uselessly at her feet. She opened her mouth and screamed, one loud, lingering sound that echoed in the clearing and rang from the mountains, then Nathan's hand came up, her head rocked back, and blackness swallowed her whole. Chapter 45 October 15, 1998 5:00 p.m. Did this damn forest never end? Was there no bottom to this godforsaken mountain? Did the sun ever shine in this sullenly wet climate? He felt like he'd been out here for hours. Dispirited and weary, he was almost ready to admit defeat for the day. The sun had gone AWOL for most of the day, and the evening shadows were swallowing what little light was left. There was no way he could hope to hunt for Mulder and Scully, or for the killer, in this ceaseless rain, in the dark of night. And he couldn't expect his team to continue on much longer. A choppy, erratic wind drove the rain needlelike into his face, stinging his cheeks and eyes, and sometimes even streaming upward into his nostrils to make him cough and sputter. Which would, of course, fog his glasses. Again. And he had no more dry clothing to wipe them on. His trousers, poorly protected by the flapping poncho, were soaked, and any waterproof quality his shoes may once have had was long gone. The rough up-and-down trail had long ago slowed his stride to a foot-dragging, mindless trudge. When he found himself under a little open sky, he stopped and looked up at it gratefully. It was malevolent and an eerie yellow-gray, but anything was better than that tossing, dipping roof of solid green. Even the rain didn't seem so bad out here, falling more gently in soft, fat drops. He was on another ledge, another of the seemingly endless plateaus that circled the mountain, cropping out from hilly inclines covered with trees and rocks and the dross of rainy slides. He found a flat, open space, still with a view of the drop to the valley, but surrounded by thick brush and trees that blocked the wind and offered a little protection, more psychological than real, against the rain. For a few minutes he simply stood there with his eyes closed, catching his breath, thoroughly sick of rain and mud and the inexplicable dangers that always seemed to find his two prize agents. Though he had, as yet, to confirm that the missing killer was still in the area, that his agents were still in the area, that they were together, or apart, or injured or whole. In fact, there was a whole shitload of items he had yet to confirm. Only Mulder and Scully could have compelled him, their office dwelling, button-down boss, to be here, standing in this gray-green mist, drenched and shivering, halfway down a muddy mountainside at on the verge of the evening dark. Swaying slightly, with rain pelting his eyelids and each breath fogging his glasses anew, steady drops of water thrumming on his poncho, Skinner waited for some sort of answer or direction to appear in his mind. But he waited in vain. When no clear decision on how to proceed made itself known, he decided to continue on as he had before. Not that he had a lot of choice; he *was* halfway down the mountain, Mulder and Scully *were* still missing, and Nathan's whereabouts were *still* unknown. He sighted a good-sized boulder a dozen yards away, and moved to its lee. Pulling the radio from its semi-protected spot inside his rain gear, he spoke, "I'm heading down another of these damn drop-offs. Jackson, run another check-in for me. Make sure everyone is accounted for at all times. We'll continue the search for another hour, then meet back at the van. If it gets too dark to see before that, head back sooner." He released the button on the radio and sighed. It was cold and getting colder and the rain only added to the problems the encroaching night would bring. He was increasingly worried that the search would have to be suspended until tomorrow, losing valuable time, and allowing who knew what to happen to his friends. He stowed the walkie-talkie back beneath the slick rubber of the poncho, then began the slippery descent down to the next level of the mountain. He reached out to steady himself, hand grabbing a low, stubby tree limb. It was strong and sturdy looking, but when Skinner pulled on it, it squashed like papier-mache, oozing water between his fingers and dropping pulpy fragments to the dark mountainside ground. This bothered Skinner more than it should. It made the whole mountain seem suddenly more deceitful, more untrustworthy. He looked around and realized that the whole hillside seemed filled with nurse logs, felled trees on which seedlings had taken purchase, gradually straddling them with roots that ran down to the ground. Eventually, the original trunks rotted away, leaving the roots straddling nothing but air. The effect was eerie. Skinner felt as if he were surrounded by giants' hands, their splayed, gnarled fingers grasping out of the ground, reaching out, threatening ... When he glanced at the forest ranger, he found the man waiting patiently, tired but ready to go on. Skinner shook off thoughts of giants, chiding himself for flights of fancy in the middle of the search and made his way down to the next level place, slipping and sliding, precariously balanced on the slimy mud and rotting leaves. He had paused again, assessing, planning, looking around and taking stock, when he heard it. A woman's scream split the air, echoing against the rocks, the sudden sound so surprising coming after the hours of woodsy silence broken only by the patter of rain on his poncho's hood, that he recoiled for a moment. Then he turned and began to run. He'd found Scully. ********************************************** October 15, 1998 5:00 p.m. Mulder dragged himself awake. No, not awake. Back to consciousness. He'd been unconscious often enough to know the difference. He was muzzy, his head hurt, and thinking seemed to take great effort. Movement was hard too. There was a lancing pain that permeated his whole abdomen, even breathing was painful, and he quickly found himself taking shallow little breaths to reduce the torment moving his lungs caused. He was trying to reconstruct things, to bring his memory into focus, when he suddenly stiffened, alert, the back of his neck tingling. There had been a sound, clearly audible over the unvarying beat of raindrop striking leaf and ground. A branch breaking under the weight of accumulated water? A large bird startled into flight? But by what? It came again, a scuffling sound, and then again: someone or something moving, brushing against the foliage just over his head. He jumped, then hissed as agony exploded across his belly and blackness threatened to pull him under again. He could hear his heart pounding crazily and was amazed that whoever or whatever was out there couldn't hear it as well. The sounds stopped abruptly, then continued more firmly, someone circling his bush. His bush. That was the second time he'd thought that. He tried it again, 'My bush.' It was right, but something was missing. Damn this confused thinking! The sound came from just outside his bush. He could hear the squelch of footsteps now. His breath came hard and fast, shards of pain splintering below his ribs with each breath he drew. There was another sound now, more steps coming from farther away, heading toward him and his bush. His bush. What the hell was missing from his bush? He lay still, straining to hear over the steady beat of the rain, listening as the first steps grew silent and the second set came closer. Set one moved again, sliding around to the left of his bush. Set two, lighter, slower, somehow *smaller* he thought, since the steps came more closely together, moved toward him from the right. Two people were converging on his bush. The second steps were closing in, the first were silent now, and he found himself holding his breath, listening with every fiber of his being. There was another rustle from his left, and the smaller, lighter steps froze. He could almost feel the tension in the woods outside his little coppice. There was no sound now, and no movement anywhere. His heart was pounding again, thudding like the hooves of a three year old in the back stretch of Churchill Downs. He wanted to move, to shift into a better position, to get ready to get *out* and get away, but the slightest motion would be heard in this preternatural stillness that surrounded them all -- Steps One, Steps Two, and himself. There was something he was missing, something *vital* that still escaped him, and he worried the edges of it in his mind. Something just wasn't *right* -- something more than this pain in his belly and the fact that he was hiding, embosked in a thicket of summer green, liberally laced with autumn's reds and golds. The silence stretched on and he fancied he could hear the others breathing: deep and slow, nerve-steadying breaths from the one on his left, faster, shallower, tense little puffs from the one on his right. He took a deep breath of his own, let it out almost immediately, and winced as pain reignited in his abdomen. He took several shallow drafts of air, then hissed through clenched teeth, waiting, poised on the edge of ... what? There was a movement now, to his left, stealthy and noiseless, and Mulder could feel the pressure tighten, stretching across the ledge, pulling tauter and tauter. He got into position noiselessly, ignoring the pain as he shifted, managing to crouch on fingertips and toes. His muscles were so tense they vibrated as he waited, counting out the agonizingly slow seconds. His eyes were on the narrow opening, obscured now, that he had come in through. No, that wasn't right. He shook his head. There was something there, just on the edges of his pain-fogged consciousness, something that teased his mind, tickled his senses, tested his memory. Not *something.* *Someone.* That was what was missing! Someone. His mind fogged again, pain from his belly soaring up to cloud his brain, clog his synapses, eclipse the dawning light in his thoughts. There'd been the accident. They'd been running. Scully was hurt. And they'd come here to hide. He looked around, stupidly, as if looking again would make her appear. But she was still gone, and he was still alone. Alone with two unknowns just outside his hiding place. His ears pricked again. He'd heard something; the squishy sound of a shoe sucked into mud and decaying leaves. Not coming toward him anymore, but already past, around the bush. Steps One advancing on Steps Two. Was one of them Scully? He could wait no more. The sudden mental vision of Scully, held tight in Nathan's grip, his mouth descending toward her, and he moved, scuttling out of the bushes, disregarding the noise he made or the pain he felt. He rose shakily to his feet, blurry vision, rain and cold wind making it hard to focus. He was looking around, scanning the area, when she screamed. He'd found Scully! ****************************************************** October 15, 1998 5:20 p.m. "So good of you to join us," Nathan said amiably as Mulder tottered forward, "but I'd like you to stop right there please." He had Scully clutched up against his torso, one burly arm encircling her chest, the other holding Mulder's gun tight against her cheek. "No," Mulder mumbled. "Not her. You want me." "Indeed I do," Nathan responded. "But this," he shook Scully slightly, the nose of his own gun biting deeply into her tender flesh, "is a fine appetizer." He dug the weapon in deeper, the sight on the top of the barrel breaking the skin, and then watched, mesmerized, as a drop of blood welled up from the wound. He turned his eyes back to Mulder, staring silently at him, then lifted his arm from around Scully's chest, one finger coming up to delicately wipe the blood from her cheek. Then, without another word, he popped the blood covered digit into his mouth, and sucked, smiling evilly around his finger. Mulder watched this little scene, trying to remember that this man was deliberately trying to provoke him, that his natural inclination to charge was *exactly* what the man wanted. He schooled his face to neutrality, fought down the waves of nausea and pain that threatened his facile expression, then asked, "What do you want, Nathan?" Nathan took a step back, then looked behind him. "I want a little distance for the moment." He pulled Scully and the two of them half slid, half climbed about ten feet down the incline to a narrow ledge that was all that stood between Mulder's position and the valley floor, fifty or more feet further down. Mulder looked around, hoping to find anything he could use as a weapon, then remembered the gun tucked in his own belt. He pulled it, mentally berating his slow thinking, and pointed it down at Nathan. "Let her go," he ordered in a strong but hoarse voice. "I don't think so," Nathan responded. He studied Scully for a moment, then looked back up at Mulder. "Does this remind you of anything?" Mulder grunted. "The last time." "The situation is eerily similar, isn't it? Circumstances have certainly conspired to make things interesting." He looked at Scully again, then pressed the gun harder to her face when she began to speak, effectively silencing her. "Though I do believe this one is more attractive than the last one." "You didn't get away with it then, Nathan. You won't get away with it now. She's a federal officer, for God's sake! You have to know there is no way you are going to walk away from this." "No way?" Nathan raised an eyebrow. "I would imagine that if both of you were dead, it would be quite easy for me to walk away." "I -- will -- kill -- you," Mulder threatened, his voice low and menacing. The gun in his hand wavered slightly as his vision blurred, and he swayed where he stood, but he had no doubt as to his ability to kill this man. If he could just get a clean shot. Because he'd only get one shot. Nathan looked around the area behind Mulder. "It's a shame your friend Tenejkian isn't here to *help* you again," he commented, and Mulder felt himself tense despite the preparation he had been making for the comment, or one like it. "I did just fine on my own before. I can do it again." He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, drawing blood, trying to distract himself from the nearly crippling agony that was consuming him from the inside out. "Ah, yes, but it was such fun to watch him ignore you. To watch him let you suffer alone. To watch him as you lay bleeding and know that he would never move against me. It was a very strange thing to realize that he, an officer of the law, would never move against me because of his hatred for you." Nathan paused, as if the concept still baffled him, then smiled. "It was as if I were given carte blanche to deal with the woman." But then his eyes grew dark and his face grew hard. "Until you surprised me." The gun moved from Scully's face, and pressed tight against her chest, over her heart, eliciting a cry of pain from her. Mulder stepped forward, then stopped when Nathan began to put pressure on the gun. Time slowed and Mulder could actually see the muscles under the skin of Nathan's fingers bunch as he continued to pull back on the trigger. There was a sound behind him, another voice ordering Nathan to stop, but it was too late. Scully made another sound, a strangled cross between a cry and a squeak, and then Mulder was screaming, "Noooooo..." He launched himself over the edge without thought. It was a long jump and he put everything he had into it: the cold, the pain, the fear, the blood in his mouth, the hammering in his chest. And above all else, above everything, Scully. He plunged from the rim like an avenging angel, arms outstretched, gun forgotten as his fingers reached for contact. This was a one shot, success or failure, make it or not chance. Mulder flew through the air, stretching his long body, willing himself forward, and landed -- two feet short of Nathan. ************************************************* October 15, 1998 5:30 p.m. Skinner watched in horrified disbelief as Mulder leapt over the side of the ledge and disappeared from his view. Since he entered the clearing in time to see Mulder emerge from some bushes, to see Nathan jab Scully mercilessly with what looked like Mulder's gun, to see her try to speak and be cruelly silenced, he had been a nearly silent observer. His own weapon had been trained on Nathan, he'd ordered the killer to surrender, but then the man had dragged Scully over the edge and disappeared from sight. Mulder had immediately moved to the edge and Skinner had been afraid to advance and upset the fragile balance that seemed to have been established between the two men. He'd listened in confusion as Nathan and Mulder had alluded to their last encounter. He knew from reading the official reports that Mulder had been injured -- badly -- and Tenejkian had been present, but this cryptic conversation seemed to imply that the older agent had been there, but had not assisted Mulder. Indeed, it seemed he may have aided the killer, though whether it had been active assistance or passive, Skinner was still not able to determine. From the report, Nathan had shot Mulder, a belly wound that should have totally incapacitated him. Tenejkian claimed he'd been unable to approach, or get a shot at the suspect without further endangering Mulder. Mulder had not commented, claiming he was unaware of the other agent's location or situation, as his attention was focused on the suspect, and the woman he held hostage. Nathan had been in the process of biting the woman, numerous deep, blood-draining bites, when Mulder had surprised everyone and launched himself at the killer. They'd tumbled away from the victim and fallen over the lip of a shallow ravine. In the ensuing fight, the suspect was apprehended. Tenejkian claimed to have made the actual capture; Mulder had been unconscious. But Skinner had noted something in the photos in the file that he felt everyone else had overlooked. As Mulder was being loaded into an ambulance in the background of one shot, Tenejkian had stood, one hand on Nathan's arm, the killer's hands cuffed behind him. And there, visible inside the agent's coat, were his own pair of shiny handcuffs. Which raised the interesting question of who had actually subdued the Nibbler, and what had really happened in the field that day. And now Mulder had gone over an edge again with Nathan, in an eerie recreation of events from seven years ago. But this time, there was someone who wasn't going to watch passively. This time, Mulder had an ally he could count on. **************************************************** Nathan had lost Scully. She had broken free, then tumbled over the side of the narrow ledge. Mulder could see her fingers, clinging determinedly to the rocky outcrop just behind Nathan. Nathan had tried to bring the gun up and around to shoot Mulder, but he hadn't been fast enough. Mulder had then launched himself at Nathan. Nathan had been fighting with Scully, then let her go to try and aim at the howling thing that fell from the sky on him. But his timing was off, and the weapon, swinging wildly, only smacked Mulder in the chest, a hard blow that fell below his left lung. Mulder's howl of rage mutated into a cry of agony, but he clamped a hand around the weapon, then dropped his own single-bullet gun, and managed to get the other hand around it too, just up the barrel and over Nathan's hand. He shifted to get a better grip, then pulled. Nathan hung on, staggering momentarily before he set himself. The two men stood, straining and glaring at each other with their faces only inches apart, like fencers with crossed rapiers. Nathan's face was scarlet from the strain, his cheeks distended. Mulder was pale, dangerously so, and even as he clung desperately to the gun, he could feel his adrenaline-fueled strength begin to ebb. "You won't make it, Nathan," he said through clenched jaw. "Don't make it worse for yourself." The killer moved then, kicking him in the hip with a size twelve boot, and releasing the weapon. Mulder stumbled over a rock and went down onto the seat of his pants, clinging to the barrel of the gun even as he struggled furiously to turn it and point it at the man before him. There was a shot, and Mulder looked around, puzzled, but then Nathan was coming at him. He kicked him again, catching him under the arm this time, and tugging at the gun simultaneously time. Flinching with pain and dragged over the stones by the larger man, Mulder held on grimly, forcing the muzzle of the Sig to the side. Letting go would be the end of everything, for him and for Scully. He glanced over to see her small fingers still tenaciously clinging to the rocks. The bullet was in the chamber, the gun was cocked, and Nathan's finger was on the trigger. A quick, simple squeeze was all it would take for Mulder to die. Scully wouldn't be long following. Somehow, he managed to scramble to his feet again, helped inadvertently by Nathan hauling on the gun. But although he got his other hand on the Sig again, his grip slipped and the sight was digging agonizingly into his palm. He almost lost his hold altogether. He *was* losing his hold. He was winded now, the last kick had taken his last reserves out of him. Nathan was wrenching at the gun, and Mulder could feel his arms begin to tremble. A sudden sense of despair overcame him. It was like the last time -- all over again. He was wounded, Nathan had the best of him, and he was all alone. Only this time it was Scully who would pay for his ineptitude. He suddenly realized that he was going to lose this one. Nathan was fresher. He was heavier. He was stronger. This man was going to kill him, and then he was going to torture Scully until she died, the life blood stolen from her through obscene parodies of a lover's kiss. Nathan was staring, watching as Mulder acknowledged that the end was near. He saw the desperation creep into Mulder's eyes, then the flare of anger and fight, then acceptance and resignation. He smiled maliciously, then sneered, "God ... damn ... you ... Let go!" And Mulder let go. Nathan rocketed backward like a man shot out of a canon. He fell heavily, but rebounded quickly, rising to take aim at Mulder's head. But another shot rang out, and this time Nathan's arm exploded in bright red. There was no cry or curse, no futile scrambling for balance, no surprised expression of horror. His eyes, fixed as they were on Mulder's, showed only curious interest. His mouth opened, even as he was stepping backward, momentum from the shot driving him toward the edge. "Oh my," he said in a clear voice even as he reached the edge and began to plummet backward, "I guess you weren't as alone as I thought." Chapter 46 October 15, 1998 7:25 p.m. "Scully, you can't do anything for him now. Let them take a look at you." His voice was hard, loud, echoing out brusquely over the unceasing hospital sounds of gurneys rolling, metal instruments clanking, phones ringing, the low murmur of voices -- doctors, patients, family and friends. Just behind them, in the OR waiting room, a young man could be heard crying, his harsh sobs ringing over all the other sounds combined. But from Scully, there was no sound at all. Just the worn out stance, weight shifting from foot to foot, the uneven breaths that betrayed her inner emotions, and the rare sigh that slipped between her battered lips. She was standing -- leaning really -- by the wide double doors to the operating room, peering uselessly through the windows into the empty corridor on the other side. She'd refused all attempts at treatment, growing increasingly hostile, until finally the medical people had left her alone. But now she looked exhausted, on the verge of collapse, and her expression had changed from fiercely protective and borderline pugnacious to simply tired, worried, and fretful. One side of her face was a purply-red, lividly bruised in stark contrast to her fair complexion. She was in obvious pain as she listed awkwardly to one side, her body's subconscious reaction to the injured foot that she insisted on using, insisted on standing upon. A gash decorated the top of her brow and while it no longer bled, and didn't look as if it had for some time, it bothered Skinner to see it -- a palpable reminder that she had been hurt and was still untreated. "Scully," he said again, deliberately softening his tone and lowering his voice to a near whisper. "What?" she mumbled, beyond anger, beyond frustration, entering a space where her body was threatening to shut down on her. She didn't turn to look, never even really acknowledging him. He waited patiently, refusing to move, refusing to speak again, just staring at her steadily until she finally, slowly, resentfully, turned her head and gazed up at him. The naked pain in her eyes, not physical pain -- that had been dismissed from her mind the moment Mulder had collapsed on the ledge -- but emotional pain, anguish, worry, even fear for her partner's life -- that pain struck him like a blow, and he actually took a half-step back before he caught and collected himself. Her eyes were fastened on him now, waiting for him to say his piece, and he wondered if it was out of respect for him as her supervisor, or a recognition of him as her friend that she even gave him, albeit grudgingly, this much attention. He met her eyes and held them, then took a deep breath and gently reached out to pull free a strand of auburn hair that was stuck to her cheek with old blood. He tucked the hair behind her ear, then let his hand linger for a moment against her bruised face. He was surprised to see tears spring to her eyes, though none actually fell, and he had to remind himself that this independent young woman was still unused to allowing people to care for her -- even her friends. "Mulder's in good hands, Dana," he murmured, his hand dropping slowly from her cheek to shoulder, even as he took a step closer to her. It was like approaching a wild animal, injured and afraid. She was skittish, unsure of what he wanted, unsure of what she herself wanted. He held her shoulder carefully, still unaware of what injuries might be hidden beneath her clothing, and spoke again, "They're taking care of him. They said it looked good, that we got him to the hospital in time." He advanced again, another step closer, his hand sliding from her shoulder to her back. She trembled beneath his touch and he wondered again at the strength her compact body possessed. "It's your turn, Dana," he whispered as he pulled her into his embrace. "It's time for them to look at you. Time for you to be treated." She was standing against him, body rigid and shaking, her weight resting on the uninjured foot. Her hands hung stiffly at her side and her chin was down, her eyes fastened to the floor. Aside from her one word question, she hadn't spoken. "You can let go now, Dana," he murmured. "It's OK to let go. I've got you now." Inside the protective circle of his arms, he could feel her fight, body stiffening even more, then finally relaxing, and the tears began to fall. "He almost died, Walter," she whispered, her face plastered to his broad chest, a damp spot already beneath her face, growing wetter by the minute. "He came so close, all because of me." "Shhh," he soothed. "It's not because of you, you know that. It's because Mulder is who he is. It's the way he's made. But he's going to be OK. You understand? He's going to be OK." Skinner had dropped his head until his face was buried in Scully's hair and he was whispering his words of encouragement into her ear. Wisps of silky fine hair tickled his nose and chin, and he could smell the woods, and blood, and dirt in her hair, and under it all a faint hint of shampoo. "I --" she stopped, a sob eclipsing her words, "I just can't stand to see him hurt like this. Over and over again. It's going to kill him. It *is* killing me. There's nothing I can do to protect him, nowhere we can go, no place that would be safe. It seems as if Mulder operates under a curse -- if something can go wrong, it will." She sniffed again, then leaned heavily against him, letting him hold her, taking what meager comfort he could offer. He had no words for her now. What could he say? He'd often felt the same way. Mulder was unique -- nothing he did was ever *usual.* But Scully loved him, and in his own way, he did too. The man certainly needed people to love him -- he'd known little enough of it in his life. But Mulder was being cared for. Well-trained people were putting him back together one more time. Piecing him back into shape so that, like the phoenix, he could rise from his own ashes and live to fight another day. For now, it was Scully who needed his care and concern, and -- he slowly admitted to himself -- his love. It was still a surprise that these two had come into his heart and engendered in him emotions he thought long dead. Learning to be a friend, learning to care, learning to love. It was all a new and frightening feeling, but Walter Skinner had never backed down from a challenge, and he wasn't going to start now. He looked down at the woman in his arms. She was looking up at him expectantly, waiting for whatever he would say that would make it all right. As if he could wave a magic wand and make the past two days disappear. But he had neither magic wand or words, so he settled for a quick kiss on her forehead, then he scooped her up, turned, and walked down the hall. "Mulder will be fine," he said again, silencing her protestations with a look. "But I may not be so lucky if he comes to and finds I've let you go unattended." He smiled down at her, snagged a passing physician, then added, "Be still," in a mock stern voice. When her eyes widened in surprise at his sudden gruffness, he added, "Either you're not as small as you look, or I'm not as young as I pretend to be, but you need to be still or I just may drop you." He smiled at her, then at the doctor who had followed them into a room further down the hall. He put her gently on the bed, then whispered in her ear, "Do you want me to stay, or shall I go stand watch for Mulder?" "Mulder, please," she murmured back, and when he started to rise, she surprised him by catching him about the neck, and tugging him back down. She certainly was strong; her arms were like a vise and while he could have pulled away, he didn't want to. She held him tight, forcing him to stay bent over, with his head hovering beside her own. She leaned over an inch or so, and planted a soft kiss on his scratchy cheek, then hugged him close. "Thank you, Walter," she said in a strong, even voice, the first he'd heard from her all night. "For everything." ******************************************* October 16, 1998 5:30 a.m. "I don't like this," Skinner muttered to himself, staring at the pallid face of the man who lay in the bed. "I don't like this at all." He glanced up as a white-coated woman entered the room, then rose to meet her at the foot of Mulder's bed. "Why isn't he waking up?" he demanded. "Mr. Skinner, sir," the woman soothed, "he's been through a lot. I'm amazed the man was able to move at all yesterday, let alone fight someone able-bodied." "But he should still be waking up," Skinner insisted. "You don't know Mulder. *Nothing* keeps him down for long." "Well, this is going to," the woman responded. "The lacerations to his kidney were deep and profuse. We took a piece of his spleen out, repaired nicked blood vessels, and sewed up his kidneys and liver. He's got over a hundred stitches inside his belly, and, quite frankly, sleep is *just* what he needs." Skinner looked away, slightly abashed at the woman's intensity, then returned his gaze to the man in the bed. "I'm telling you," he repeated, "Mulder *doesn't* stay down like this." He turned to the woman, hating the note of desperate pleading that crept into his voice, and asked, "Are you *sure* nothing else is wrong?" At Skinner's troubled concern, the doctor softened somewhat, and said, "We're keeping a very close watch on him, sir. He's being monitored twenty-four hours a day. Medically, there is nothing more we can do but give him time." She paused a moment, studying the older man, then tentatively reached out and laid her hand on his arm. "Your friend will be all right, Mr. Skinner. Give him time." Skinner looked at the capable hand that rested on his forearm, then looked up to meet Dr. Esposito's eyes. "I -- He *is* my friend, and I worry," he admitted softly. "I understand. But he's strong and healthy and he's going to be just fine, given time. You just have to trust me on this." Skinner smiled gratefully, then walked back to his chair by the bed, resuming his vigil. He heard the doctor leave, and heard her words once more. 'You just have to trust me on this.' It always surprised him how easily most people spoke of trust. And how hard it was for people like him. ***************************************** October 16, 1998 7:00 a.m. Skinner started awake, a hand on his shoulder. He looked around quickly, just barely restraining himself from flipping the frightened-looking young man who had touched him onto the floor. He released the aide's wrist, then mumbled an apology. "That's all right, sir," the young man responded. "I didn't mean to startle you. But the woman? Your other agent? She's awake, and she's causing a fuss." 'I just bet she is,' Skinner thought to himself as he sighed and rose. Finally getting Scully to submit to treatment had been amazing in and of itself, but actually getting her to sleep had been nothing short of miraculous. Said treatment had revealed a hairline skull fracture, and a chipped bone in the injured ankle. To say nothing of bruises, bumps, and bang-ups. Scully had been treated and assigned a room for the night for observation, which she had promptly vacated to resume her watch outside the OR. Skinner had tired of arguing with her, and let her stay until Mulder was out of surgery and settled in his own room. But he had put his foot down at her intent to spend the night in a chair by her lover's bed. Threats had not worked this time, and he had finally resorted to a tried and true method -- one he'd used before when she was being particularly intransigent. He'd picked her up, hauled her to her own room, placed her firmly in the bed, and posted an armed guard outside her door. It was beginning to be a habit. He was really going to have to work on his persuasive skills as he didn't think he'd be as successful in manhandling Scully when she wasn't injured and exhausted. He took a last look at Mulder, then ducked into the little bathroom and washed his face and scrubbed at his teeth with his finger. It was a poor substitute, but it would have to do. He took a towel and dried his hands, then straightened, and walked briskly out the door and over to Scully's room. Different rooms, same floor. It was the best he could arrange. And an agent on guard duty outside both doors. He'd left the clean-up in the woods to the others, accompanying his friends to the hospital. And while Nathan should be securely in custody at this point, he was taking no chances for the time being. "I want to see him," she demanded as soon as his head cleared the doorway. "Good morning to you too, Agent Scully," he responded in his best AD voice. She had the decency to look chagrined, but it only lasted a moment as she said, "Good morning, Sir," and then repeated, "I want to see him." Skinner had expected as much, and had already made sure a wheelchair was available. With Scully fully awake and aware, he didn't think much of his chances of carrying her again. He sighed at her determination, then said, "Give me a minute to get a chair, OK?" She nodded and he stepped out, returning quickly with her conveyance. She was putting on a second hospital gown, this one going on back to front to serve as a robe, and had already slipped one foot into a rubber-footed sock. The other foot was bare, the ankle in a splint, and Skinner assumed it wouldn't be in a shoe or sock anytime in the near future. She was sliding off the bed now, balancing on the stocking-covered foot, and he hurried around to help her into the chair. Once she was settled and the footrests were down and the locks disengaged, he wheeled her back across the hall and parked her by Mulder's side. "Has he been awake at all?" she asked, and Skinner shook his head. "That's not like him," she murmured, more to herself than to the older man. Skinner nodded again, thinking of the conversation he'd had with the doctor just a few hours ago. "He lost part of his spleen and had severe lacerations on the kidney and liver. Lots of surgery, lots of stitches. The doctor says sleep is the best thing for him right now." Scully looked unsure, but she nodded as well. "I suppose," she said, her voice trailing off. "I guess I should be glad he's actually sleeping for a change." She reached out and took Mulder's hand, cradling it carefully in her own, her fingers rubbing the back and smoothing the skin around the IV site. She leaned over, placing her lips against the dry skin. Her head was down, her shoulders bunched, and she leaned precariously forward in the chair. Skinner wanted to go to her again, to tell her it would be all right, but in some strange way he knew he had been dismissed. And he didn't mind. Scully needed this time with Mulder. He backed quietly away, then settled into a chair. He couldn't leave completely -- he just didn't feel right leaving them unattended -- but he could be discreet, he could be quiet, and he could give them as much distance as possible. ************************************************** October 16, 1998 8:30 a.m. Scully looked at Mulder again. She reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from over his eyes -- again. She checked the monitors, straightened his IV line, and rubbed his arm -- again. She sighed, then leaned over and kissed his cheek -- *again.* She looked at his face, noting that his eyes were still cl -- hey, wait a minute! They were not still closed. They were open, a swirling green/gray/gold of shocking intensity, and they were staring at her. She drew a quick breath to compose herself, then smiled down at her partner, her lover, her friend. "Hey, you," she whispered, "it's about time you let us know you were still around." Her hand was still on his hand, and she moved it lazily upward, over the sinewy muscles of his arm, until she cupped his cheek gently. It was surprisingly quiet in the room, muffled noises from the hall could just be heard -- a woman's voice, a ringing phone, a page over the intercom -- but in the room there was only the sound of the IV drip, the monitor's beep, and the occasional soft snore from the corner where Skinner nodded in his chair. She looked around, her eyes lingering on the rain still visible through the narrow window, then she turned back to him and said, "I'm sorry," as if it were her fault the rain still fell. He gave a rusty chuckle and she wet his lips with a rag, wishing she could do more. This soon after surgery, he was still restricted from eating or drinking, but she could at least moisten his chapped lips, and wipe his face. He smiled, then turned his head so she could swipe at his neck, washing away the bed sweat and left-over grime from the forest. It saddened her that it was a routine they knew all too well -- Mulder in a hospital bed, she in a chair beside it -- and her mouth dipped down in a frown. He nodded, acknowledging their routine, acknowledging her sorrow and she wondered at his ability to tune into her so completely. How could this man know her so well? Understand her so intimately? He was staring at her now, waiting, and she put the rag on the table, then fussed with the basin, opened a box of tissues, and otherwise occupied herself with busywork until he reached out and simply put his hand on her arm. He didn't grab her, or close his fingers around her wrist; he didn't pull, or tug, or even gently press. He just touched her, and a jolt of electricity shot through her, from the contact on her hand, up her arm, across her shoulder, dropping down to tighten her chest and make her heart hurt and breathing become hard, and upward to her face where her eyes began to drip and her nose began to run with the curse of all redheads who cried. "Hey," he said, so softly she had to lean over to hear him. "Guess you're going to need those tissues after all." He cast a crooked smile at her, the unspoken words so much more important than the ones he gave voice to. His canted head that said, "I'm sorry." The hand on her arm that said, "I'm here." The deep breath that reminded, "I'm all right." And the eyes, those damnable, deep, dreamy eyes that spoke volumes as they called, "I love you, Scully," over and over again. She threw herself down on his chest, forgetting his wounds, forgetting his stitches, forgetting everything in her intense need to connect with this man. If it had been possible, she would have made love to him right then, right there, regardless of who or what saw them. The need was upon her. Need to be with him, to be part of him, to do something life-affirming, something that would banish Death, chase him away, and make him stay on his side of the Styx for a while, and leave her Mulder alone. She sobbed raggedly again, and she could feel his hand stroke her back, hear the gentle rumble of his voice, sense the soft vibrations of his chest. "I thought you were going to die," she murmured against him. She sat up quickly, and blew her nose, then wiped her eyes, and rose. She was angry now, embarrassed, tired of it, a whirling, swirling mass of churning emotions that made no sense to her, or to anyone else she was sure. She moved to the window, hobbling quickly, and turned her back as the tears continued to fall. Behind her, she could hear him calling her, but she couldn't turn, she couldn't go, she couldn't face him right now. But then she heard a sound. Skinner was awake and she could hear a soft duet between his deep voice and Mulder's hoarse and broken one. Skinner wiped his brow, and then they talked some more, but she wasn't part of it, couldn't be there. She wanted to go to him, her mind ordered her to, her heart cried for her to, but her body was in rebellion. The sounds of the men's voices stopped and she could hear Skinner's feet as he approached her. She was almost surprised he'd let her stand here this long -- she wasn't supposed to be on her foot at all. He reached out and took her arm, tugging slightly, but she refused to turn. "He wants to talk to you, Scully," he said gently, then went on when she shook her head. "He's tired. He's going to drift off soon, and he wants to talk to you." She shook her head again, her mind filled with the thoughts that drove her away, that frightened her and angered her and confused her so. "He almost died," she murmured, her voice so low even she couldn't hear it though she knew quite well what she'd said. "He almost left me." "What's that?" Skinner asked. "What did you say?" "He almost left me," she repeated. "He almost left me." "But he didn't," Skinner said, "and he wants to talk to you." He tightened his hold on her arm, pulling again, and this time she turned. When she looked at Mulder, he was smiling, a gently understanding smile that made her cry again. Skinner didn't embarrass her by picking her up again, but she was willing to bet the thought crossed his mind. However, he did support her the whole way back to the wheelchair, then leaned down and whisper in her ear, "It's going to be all right, Dana," before he returned to his own chair in the corner. "I'm sorry," Mulder said when she focused on him. "I'm sorry I scared you." "You almost died," she said, hating the accusation in her voice, but unable to control the raging emotion. "You were dying and I would have been all alone." She sounded like a spoiled child, petulant because she didn't get her way, but she was so subsumed by the feelings inside, she couldn't get control, couldn't stop the words that tumbled from her lips, even as they were spoken and left her appalled at her own self-centeredness. He chuckled again, then pulled her over. She leaned into his arms, but he was still pulling, so she leaned across his chest. He was still pulling her, tugging inexorably, and she was beginning to slide out of the newly reclaimed chair. She resisted slightly, but he would not be denied. He pulled again and she rose, sneaking a quick peek at Skinner, but his eyes were deliberately closed, so she slipped into the bed with Mulder, settling carefully against his side. "I would never leave you, Scully," he whispered into her hair when she was still. "Don't you understand?" She shuddered slightly, then shook her head. No, she didn't understand. How could he promise to never leave? "You're my heart, Scully, my other half, what makes me whole. You're my life." He sighed, then took a breath. "If I died without you, I'd go straight to hell." She looked up, shocked at the seriousness in his eyes. "Don't you know, Scully? You're my soul." End If you hate cliff-hangers, STOP HERE! But ... For those brave souls who want a peek at what is to come, read on. ********************************************** October 17, 1998 10:00 a.m. They were sitting together comfortably, Mulder propped in the bed, Scully ensconced in the recliner/bed thing that the nurses had brought in for him to sleep on, and he was settled into a wooden rocker, unearthed from the nursery or peds ward no doubt. Mulder had slept well, which meant Scully was happy. And if Scully was happy, after the emotional ups and downs of the past few days, Mulder was ecstatic. And he was content to see them that way for a short while. "Sir?" Mulder was speaking, and Skinner looked up, distracted from his ruminations. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "What did you say?" "I asked if Nathan's trial went on as scheduled. Am I still going to have to testify?" Skinner shook his head. "I've been out of the loop. Took myself off things once you two were settled here. Someone called yesterday but I was talking to your doctor and I hung up on them." He smiled sheepishly, then straightened as he pulled his AD persona together. "I can check if you'd like." Mulder nodded. "I'd like to know what I'm facing here. Do we get to go home, or do I still have to see him again." Skinner had his phone out and was dialing. "This is Assistant Director Skinner," he said when a woman answered. "I need to speak to Jacobson." There was a pause while the line was transferred, then he went on, "Mulder is awake, Jake. Oh, yes, he's doing much better, thank you. Look, he wants to know if he still has to testify, and if so, when." Skinner was silent, and as Mulder and Scully watched, the blood drained from his face. "Are you sure?" he whispered hoarsely into the phone. "No, no, I'm sorry. Of course you are." Skinner pulled himself together, then spoke one last time. "Well, I'm sorry about that. I won't hang up on you again. Keep me informed at all times and I'll get in touch with DC and allocate additional funding and manpower for you. Just keep looking." He closed the phone, his head dropping for a long moment, then he lifted his eyes to meet his agents'. "When they got down the side to reclaim the body, Nathan was gone." To be continued ... Author's Notes: I would like to thank Kitty for the use of the title of her poem "The Misuse of Red." While I have used the title for another purpose, it's an excellent poem and can be found on the Poetry Archive at http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dungeon/9727 Feedback to: Daydream59@aol.com http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113/