<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> ARIZONA HIGHWAYS by Fialka <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Summary: Visions of Melissa lead Our Heroes on a case confirming the existence of a series of Emilys. But does Melissa really have a message, or is it all in Scully's head? Spoilers: Rewind to a time when no mud monsters have appeared and nobody is pregnant. Anything up to Season 6, Two Fathers/One Son. We begin just after... Category: X, A, M/S Rating: 17+ to be on the safe side, but if it were a film it would go R. Archive: DO NOT ARCHIVE AT XEMPLARY. Gossamer, Ephemeral okay. Others please write for permission, though I generally give it. Disclaimer: Don't own them, just borrowing, promise to put them back...somewhere. WARNING: It's a ride. Buckle your seatbelt and hang on tight. That's all I'm going to say. First posting: September 2000 More candy? Missing parts?: http://welcome.to/TheCandybox The Real Meal - The Annotated X-Files: http://smart.issexy.com Put a little gas in the car: fialka62@yahoo.com <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Forenotes: This story is dedicated to my family, who care not one whit about XF, but allowed me to be the madwoman in the attic for a solid month to get it finished, because they knew that it was important to me: To I and W and W -- three of the most beautiful people on this planet. No good fic is without its good betas, but anything this long takes special endurance. My gratitude to the following people -- all but one of whom I had the wonderful fortune to meet during the year I was working on this casefile -- is boundless. -MANDY, Obi-Wan of the All-Beta, who stuck with the journey even when it meant typing her beta into a Cyrillic keyboard; -REVELY, keeper of the cooler and supplier of episodic sanity; -PUNK MANEUVERABILITY, she of the Comma Extractor(tm) and Adverb Slicer(tm); -COFAX, who kept climbing through plotholes to show me how they could be navigated; -M SEBASKY, who gave my head a place to lie and my heart a place to rest; -JET, who continued to keep me honest, even when her cries of SCHMOOP! scared the cat; -SARAH ELLEN PARSONS, for sharp insight, warm hugs and the fabulous soundtrack; -LYSANDRA, for braving colds and codeine to rescue me at the last minute; and -THE MIGHTY MARASMUS, who got in the car a few miles from the start and held the map for the entire journey. This story belongs to them, as much as to me. Enjoy the ride. Yes Virginia I am, Fi <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> ARIZONA HIGHWAYS BOOK ONE: MONSTER SLAYER by Fialka <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PROLOGUE <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> FBI HEADQUARTERS MARCH 2, 7:58 AM They moved down the corridor, a unit unto themselves -- a tall man with an oddly handsome face and a small solemn woman, matching him stride for stride. The man's hand rose as if to guide the woman's steps, fell without touching her. She didn't seem to notice. "Looks like Spooky and the Missus are in trouble again," someone whispered as they passed. A low, derisive male laugh. "You think he's in her pants?" Dana Scully's face registered nothing. Fox Mulder, on the other hand, turned to favor the speaker with a hard, blank stare. "Jesus, he really is spooky," the laugher said, when the two agents had disappeared around the corner. "I'd like to be in her pants," the first speaker mourned. "She'd freeze your dick off, Atkins." Mulder let his partner precede him into the Assistant Director's office, firmly shutting the door on the corridor. He wished Scully hadn't heard that last comment, but there was nothing he could do about it. Skinner's secretary was mumbling on the phone. She gestured towards the open inner door with her chin. Mulder grimaced. An open door could only mean Skinner was pissed off and waiting for them. Scully shot him a quick look as they took their seats. Checking him out, making sure he was okay. Mulder might have laughed with the irony, if laughter hadn't become so inappropriate between them. Instead, he tried to give her an encouraging little grin. Scully gave him her official smile back -- a polite, mirthless flick of the corners of her mouth. It was the smile she reserved for interviews with her superiors, for condescending local law, for the taking of unavoidable photographs. Mulder looked away. He wasn't quite sure what he'd done to deserve that. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> "Well, I'd like to say welcome back, but I doubt my heart would be in it." Skinner picked up a familiar red-edged folder and glared at his two agents. Alvin Kersh had wished him a happy headache when their assignment had reverted back to Skinner, and damn if the muscles at the base of his skull weren't already clenching in protest. "You are aware that this report makes no sense?" "We've explained the matter to the best of our capability, sir," Mulder replied. "The report makes no sense because the event makes no sense unless you're willing to embrace certain ideas." "We are not alone," Skinner intoned, letting the report fall back to his desk. Some things changed so much they just went right back to the way they'd always been. He turned back to Mulder's scrawled 302, making a show of studying it. Then studying Scully's face, which always told him more than Mulder's did. Today it was closed, her mouth set. That was her I-know-it- sounds-crazy-sir-and-I-have-no-solid-evidence-yet-but-I-think-we- should-go-with-him face. That face meant that he could argue, cajole, chastise and threaten, but there'd be no moving them. Mulder would do what he wanted, hang the expense report, Scully would cover his ass, and Skinner would let her. They both knew Mulder got himself into worse trouble when she wasn't there. "You want me to override the Section Chief and assign you two to the team investigating El Rico," Skinner stated. Mulder leaned forward eagerly. "Not exactly, sir, you see--" "Shut up, Agent Mulder." Skinner caught Scully's gaze, held it. "Agent Scully. Am I to believe that you wish to be part of an investigation which has so far yielded no actual information?" "No, sir." "No, I am not to believe it, or no, you don't wish to investigate this?" "Sir, in regard to actual forensic evidence from the hanger, no, I don't believe the team will come up with anything useful. I do, however, believe these events warrant further investigation." "So precisely what is this suspiciously vague 302 referring to?" "There are certain unanswered questions..." Scully paused a moment, giving her partner a quick glance. Mulder's face remained impassive. "Questions regarding the events at El Rico," she continued, a faint wash of reluctance tinting her voice, "and their connection to...other cases we were investigating at the time of our removal from the X- Files. We would like to pursue some of those connections." "Which are?" Scully's eyebrows rose in earnest unison. She shot Mulder a look that was the visual equivalent of a kick in the ankle, but Mulder only looked blankly back at her. "Well, sir," she finally answered, embarrassment or anger beginning to color her cheeks. "That would be what we're investigating." Bad sign, when Mulder just sat there letting Scully give evasive answers. Normally, it meant they had something up their sleeves, something she didn't want to lie to her boss about, but also didn't want tell him. This time it seemed Mulder hadn't bothered to explain his intentions to Scully either. It would hardly be the first time he'd left her dangling over a procedural abyss. Skinner watched as Scully gave her partner another cutting look, clearly waiting for him to elaborate. "I have a case for you," he interrupted, before Mulder started bleeding all over the carpet. Skinner had received that look of pointed betrayal from Scully once or twice himself, and he knew how deep it went. Let them argue it out downstairs, out of his sight, as he presumed they usually did. It unnerved him to see these two visibly at odds with each other. Even when they privately disgreed, they usually managed to present an indivisible front to everybody else. Skinner opened his top drawer and tossed a thin file across the desk. "I've been told to put my best on this." The agents exchanged looks. A rather long silent debate, which Scully seemed to win. She reached for the file as Mulder settled back, his eagerness vanished, arms folded against his chest. "All right. Tell us," he said. Skinner chose to ignore Mulder's show of temperament. Six months of scrub work under Kersh hadn't tamed him one bit. He bit back a little smile of satisfaction -- Mulder must have given the old drill sergeant in Kersh a four-Excedrin headache daily. His attention went back to the file in front of him and he put the thought aside to be savored later, getting back to business. "John and Jennifer Wallace. Their four-year-old daughter disappeared from her daycare center in Flagstaff, Arizona yesterday afternoon. No explanation, no ransom note." "And you want *us* to investigate?" Mulder asked. "Wouldn't the local field office already be on it? Or get the Child Abduction Unit out there." "Are you questioning the assignment, Agent?" "Sir?" Mulder's look of disbelief was almost amusing. "That's all, agents. I'll look forward to a preliminary report after you've interviewed the parents." Skinner flipped the El Rico file closed and dropped it onto the stack on his left, already reaching for the next file in the stack on his right. "But sir..." "Agent Mulder, I believe your desks in the bullpen are still vacant. I'm sure Assistant Director Kersh would be thrilled to see you again." Scully rose almost immediately, glaring impatiently at Mulder. He held up his hands in mock surrender and followed obediently as she strode out the door. That's a good boy, Skinner thought. Listen to Scully. And keep your mouth shut. He forced himself not to glance at the tiny hole in the cabinet where the video camera now lived. Thinking about the camera made his skin crawl, brought back the unwanted memory of a deadly buzzing in his blood. Whatever the real reason he'd been told to put them on it was, they'd have to figure it out for themselves. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 1 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> INTERSTATE 17, NORTHERN ARIZONA MARCH 2ND, 4:45 PM Scully fell asleep half an hour out of Phoenix. She'd been doing that a lot lately; at some point in the middle of one of his rambling monologues he'd look over at her and she'd be gone. Mulder was always surprised by her ability to sleep like that -- sitting straight up, hands folded neatly in her lap. Only her head, fallen back against the seat, gave her away. Mulder stole a glance at his partner from time to time as the road wound north, hoping she would wake. He'd been through here once before, on his way to some UFO sighting nearly ten years ago, and again he was amazed by the way the golden sand of the lower desert slowly changed to sandstone and red clay, then to dense old-growth forest. He wanted Scully to see the giant red mesas rising from the pines outside Sedona. He'd thought they might even stop for a rest in the old town center, the one part of Sedona that hadn't turned into faceless surburbia since the area became over-run with aging New Agers. Scully slept through it all, and he didn't have the heart to wake her. It was not even two months since she'd been shot -- he himself had taken that long to heal from the thigh wound he'd suffered years ago, and his condition had been nowhere near as critical as hers. Scully had been cleared for active duty just in time for the whole El Rico disaster two weeks ago, a hell of a thing to come back to, he supposed. Since then she'd been unusually irritable, easily fatigued. She admitted to nothing, of course, but Mulder was beginning to suspect that she had come back to work too soon. A kidnapping case, he thought, with a return flash of irritation towards Skinner, was not going to improve anyone's spirit. Hadn't they been put back on the X-Files to investigate the truth behind the burning at that airbase? Something big was going on; even Skinner had admitted as much when they were debriefed. Unless the Wallaces were going to say their daughter was abducted by aliens, this wasn't an X- File. Of course that possibility, awful as it was, might make him a bit more enthusiastic about this case. Mulder sighed, annoyed at himself. Sometimes, he really could be a one-track-minded jerk. He coaxed a sunflower seed from the bag between his legs, biting it between his front teeth so it broke open with a satisfying crack. He shot a guilty glance at Scully, but he didn't even get a mumbled "not out the window, Mulder," though that noise would normally be enough to wake her. Right now, Scully was so deeply asleep that her head was beginning to loll from side to side as he took the turns, as if she were arguing with someone in her dreams. After Sedona, the forest grew sparse as they approached Flagstaff. Random blank areas began to appear. Controlled clearcutting, they called the acres of surprised stumps. Mulder called it just ugly. He'd once had a bright idea to take Scully on a case in the forest and he could still clearly recall the giant tracts of devasted land. Clearer still was the memory of sitting beside Scully on a camp cot for half the night, watching a light bulb burn and wondering if they would live to see the sun. She had seemed so much smaller in those days, and not just because her heels were lower then. He'd wanted to put his arm around her, say something about being glad she was sent to spy on him, but they hadn't known each other very well and so he hadn't dared. Not that he dared much more now, he acknowledged, as Scully suddenly opened her eyes, glanced vaguely around, then closed them with a shuddery little sigh, immediately falling fast asleep again. They were almost into Flagstaff when the sign for Sunset Crater appeared on his left. Mulder checked his watch, then the sky, which was just beginning to darken. Good. They'd be there right on time. He turned off the I-40, bypassing the city and heading north, towards the Navajo reservation. A few minutes later he reached over and touched Scully's hand. She woke instantly. That was normal, that was good. Scully had always been the lightest of sleepers -- he was the one who normally sank into a coma when he slept. "Where are we?" she asked, peering up through the windshield at the ancient, towering trees. "Near Sunset Crater. A little side trip." Mulder waggled his eyebrows, but Scully's face remained serious. "Mulder, we just got the X-Files back. We don't need to get into trouble again." She turned away from his gaze, staring out the side window. "It won't take long," he promised, returning his attention to the twisting road. "It's not an unauthorized investigation. It's just something I want you to see." Scully didn't move, didn't answer. "Go with me on this," he said softly, glancing at her stiff form out of the corner of his eye. "Please." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She went with him, as she always did. Old habits never died, Scully thought, they just took on a different aspect. She allowed Mulder to take her hand, trying not to wince as he pulled her up a steep place in the rock. She hated needing his help, but there was no other way she was going to make it. There were natural steps, but her legs were too short to reach them, and her stomach muscles were still too stiff to be much help. Once at the top, though, the view was well worth the indignity of the climb. A black lava field stretched out below them, shimmering with the day's collected heat. Beyond it, the sunset had turned the spare, calcified desert into an unbelievable palette of orange, pink and purple, from which the red mesas jutted randomly like ruined Martian castles. It was the most astonishing landscape she had ever seen. "Looks like another planet, huh?" he grinned, obviously pleased at her reaction. She turned to give him the best smile she could muster. "It's beautiful, Mulder. Thank you." Mulder settled himself comfortably against the warm black rock, but Scully preferred to remain where she was, closer to the edge of their perch, where the light breeze from below lifted her hair. The distance here seemed to make for a quieting of the spirit, a lengthening of vision. She imagined she could taste the wind, could hear the sound of running horses. She wanted to leap from the cliff, arms outstretched, and soar on the updraft. She was aware that Mulder was watching her and tried to ignore him. These days he was like a black hole, a place into which her energy went, never to return. She could draw on his strength when he just stood there and let her, but he didn't really know how to give, no matter how much his heart might be in it. Whenever he tried, he only seemed to wind up taking whatever energy she had left. That wasn't a lot at the moment. Maybe it had just been too much to encompass in too short a time -- first the shooting in New York, then the whole mess out at El Rico and then the day they finally got the office back. She had gone downstairs with her little carton of possessions, excited to get back to their real work. Skinner had said that the basement would be cleaned and ready by five, and sure enough, it was. There was even a new brass plate on the door. Below it, the faint outline of a neat rectangle marked the place Fowley had had her name. Or the place Spender had had his. She couldn't remember and it didn't matter. What mattered was that for a little while there had been two names on that door, and now, again, there was only his. Mulder was already inside -- she could hear him moving about, doing an awful rendition of Our House. Scully almost turned around and went back upstairs, annoyed that something as silly as a nameplate should bother her so much. She finally decided it wouldn't, and pushed open the door. Mulder was happier than she'd seen him in months; tie askew, shirt sleeves rolled up, a big grin on his face as he unpacked a strange assortment of objects. She knew his toys had burned with the office; he must have run right out and bought new ones as soon as the keys were back in his hand. "Hey, partner," he smirked, as if they had gotten away with something really good. "Take off your coat. Stay awhile." Scully set the box down and looked at her watch. 7:18 pm. Normal people were at home by now, discussing the news, sitting down to eat meals together. Tomorrow she'd worry about arranging a new work space for herself. Today was finished. "Actually," she said, keeping her voice far lighter than she felt, "I was thinking about buying us a celebratory dinner." His mouth opened in genuine surprise. "You're not going to stay? Get settled in?" He gestured to a table in the far back corner, the one she'd always used. She felt herself sinking as she looked at it and suddenly the idea of inviting Mulder to dinner seemed utterly ridiculous. She'd had enough dinners with him over the years. Thank God he'd ignored it. "You're fine by yourself," she answered. "You don't need me for this." "No, I guess not." Once he might have teased her about a hot date, but that kind of innuendo had stopped being funny years ago. She supposed she ought to be grateful he was aware of that and spared her from it. He stared at her a moment, rubbing the end of his nose, obviously trying -- and failing -- to understand what was going on inside her head. Finally, he turned back to his box of goodies. "Okay, Scully. Go have a long soak and an old movie. Enjoy yourself." Was that his idea of *her* idea of a good time? A bath and an old movie? A sharp rejoinder stood poised on the tip of her tongue but Mulder was already thumbing through a stack of photocopied newspaper articles, searching for things to hang on the bare walls, and talking to him seemed pointless. She wished him a good night and left. At home, the answering machine was blinking three messages. She tried to be pleased that her brothers had bothered to call, though she was sure her mother had reminded them to do it. "Well, I guess you're out somewhere having a lovely thirty-fifth," came her mother's cheery voice. "Happy birthday, sweetie, and call me when you get back." She stabbed erase without even listening to the ones from Bill and Charlie. She was still in her coat, keys still in her hands. She could get back in the car, go out to her mother's. God knows she'd be welcomed -- she hadn't been there since the day she got back from New York. She wanted to call Melissa, wanted to go out and get once-a-year roaring drunk, like they had on birthdays past. Three years and there were still moments like this, moments when she missed her sister so fiercely it was like a ball of thorns lodged fast in the middle of her chest. Scully let her coat slip from her shoulders, dropped her keys and her weapon on top of it and sat down on the couch. Then lay down. Then pulled the quilt from the back of the couch and wrapped it around herself. She kept meaning to get up and do something with the evening, but somehow that never happened. Instead she'd fallen asleep right there, waking to a dream of the too-bright light, of something scraping her insides until she was hollow. She hadn't slept a night through since. Probably the dreams were to blame for way she felt these days, over-reacting to things she'd normally take in stride. Scully gave herself a slight shake, returning to the present. Move or sink, she reminded herself, her father's advice when he'd taught her how to swim. She sighed, wishing she could give her thoughts to the rising wind, let it carry them away. Mulder was back on form, that at least was something to be glad about. She, meanwhile, would take her father's advice, keep putting one foot in front of the other as if nothing but the work really mattered. Maybe if she could keep doing that long enough, she would find that nothing else did. "So, how did you know about this place?" she asked, keeping her back turned. "I was here before." The scrabble of rocks told her he'd gotten up to join her at the edge. She almost wished he wouldn't. Mulder had a way these days of boxing her into corners and gazing into her eyes as if trying to redecorate the inside of her head with the same pictures he'd used to redecorate the office. She preferred her own mental decor -- drab and grey though it might be at the moment, it was at least hers. "Remember Albert Hosteen?" he asked. "After I got well we drove up here. Sat against these rocks, right here, eating blue corn tortillas. Not bad once you get used to the taste. He said the corn mush was supposed to be cleansing." She gave him her attention then, intrigued by the confidence. Mulder had never really talked about what happened to him during the time he was supposedly dead out here. "He told me a story. Actually, several stories, but there was one in particular." He grinned, lolling against the sandstone wall with the kind of studiously careless attitude she always thought of as his GQ pose. The beautiful tortured boy. He didn't have the right hair for it now, didn't even have the right face any more. Scully turned back to the horizon and tried not to sigh again. They were both getting old. "I always meant to tell you," he was saying, unaware that her mind had wandered. She heard the note of excitement in his voice that always signaled a truly good piece of evidence and tried to let it nudge her out of her mood. "What?" she asked, turning around, placing her customary answer in the customary pause. "About the alien monsters." Mulder waggled his eyebrows again, looking so pleased with himself that she managed to smile. It was comforting to know that no matter what happened, the core of Mulder never really changed. Even through the last six months of boredom and frustration his delight in the strange and inexplicable had remained miraculously untarnished. Sure, he lost sight of it from time to time, as she had lost sight of her curiosity, her sense of adventure. The thing about Mulder was that he always found his again fairly soon. She was beginning to think that hers was gone for good. "Are you going to tell me the story before it gets dark, or shall I gather wood for a campfire?" A feeble joke, but enough to be rewarded with a widening of his grin. "It's not going to sound anywhere as good when I tell it. Okay, basically, First Man and First Woman came to this land to hide from the alien monsters." He caught her look and nodded seriously. "The alien monsters, Scully. That's exactly how Albert said it. They heard a baby crying on top of a mountain, but when First Man went up there, he only found a turquoise statue, about the size of a baby, but made like a grown woman. So, he brought it down and gave it to First Woman to take care of--" "Of course," Scully couldn't help interjecting. Mulder laughed, obviously not against the idea of audience participation. "--and that was Changing Woman. Now the holy people who created First Man and First Woman saw that they had Changing Woman and since nobody should be alone, the holy people gave them White Shell Woman, who was just like Changing Woman, but made of white shell. Then a ceremony was performed, and Changing Woman and White Shell Woman were given life." He paused, as if in one of his slide show monologues, waiting for questions. She shook her head for him to go on. "Okay, well, this is the fun part. First Man and First Woman went back down the mountain but the others stayed up there and I guess they got lonely, because one day, Changing Woman opened her legs to the Sun and got with child. And then White Shell Woman got jealous, so she opened her legs to the running water and she also conceived a child. And the child of Changing Woman was called Monster Slayer and the child of White Shell Woman was called Child of Water. And it was their job to slay the alien monsters." He stopped and regarded her with an air of triumph. "Is there a moral to this story?" Scully asked. Mulder tilted his head. "You don't find it interesting?" "Yes, it's a lovely story, Mulder, and an interesting choice of words. Was there another reason you finally decided to let me hear it?" "He said something else. Let me see if I can get it right." Mulder closed his eyes, as if reading the text off the back of his eyelids. "This thing you seek, this truth, it's like the air. It's everywhere around you, but you cannot hold it. You can only know it's there." He opened his eyes, his expression taking on that searching look which she was coming to hate. "Wise words," she acknowledged. "He said you would see that in time. That you had a different spirit. But the seeing would bring you great danger. I thought-- When Melissa was shot, I thought that was what he meant." She turned her head towards the desert again, desperately trying to banish her last image of her sister. "I just wonder what you see these days, Scully. You've gotten so quiet." He put a questioning hand on her back, right below her shoulder blades. It was the wrong moment. His touch stirred the grief, paralyzed her with the force of its waking. She tried to step away from him but her legs collapsed. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 2 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She was lying on her back. She knew this place, knew its smell. Smell was all she had to identify it; her eyes would not open and no one spoke within her hearing. Scully drew in air through her nose, trying to remember where she was, listening fiercely for anything, any indication that she wasn't alone. "Dana." Her head snapped up. Yes, it made sense now; she was hallucinating. Possibly from the altitude, the lack of water. She'd eaten nothing for hours, not since breakfast, not really even breakfast. Just coffee and a slice of toast. Her blood sugar must be way down, she was overtired, and the strange landscape could easily promote-- "Dana." Melissa's hands covered hers, fingers sliding into her clenched fists. Scully fought for air against the thickness in her lungs, clutched Melissa's fingers as if she could drag her sister back into the world -- or go with her into whatever place was waiting. "No, Dana. Listen. Are you listening?" She nodded. Suddenly she *was* listening, with her ears, her fingers, her entire being. "It's time to know what you know, Dana. It's time to stop pretending. Do you understand?" She opened her mouth to answer, but no sound came out. "They need you, Dana. Trust your heart, trust what you know, but be careful. This is more dangerous than you think." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She woke to Mulder's face, blank with terror, his mouth forming her name. She was lying on the ground, legs twisted painfully beneath her, and Mulder was touching her face, her arms, little helpless pats as if he wanted to grab her but was afraid she might break. The bands across her chest snapped open and she dragged in a huge lungful of air, the dirt gritting between her teeth. "Scully! Talk to me!" She swallowed carefully, tasting clay and something else, something burnt and ancient. "Scully?" Mulder's questing hands came to rest on her cheeks. He bent closer, looking into her eyes, relief flooding his face when he saw her behind them once again. She tried to tell him she was okay, but her mouth was filled with dust, her tongue too thick, too heavy. She tried to move, but couldn't. No part of her seemed to be working. Mulder straightened her legs and tucked his jacket around her, making her as comfortable as he could against the hard ground. "Scully, I'm going to go down to the car. I'm going to bring up your coat and some water and call for a MedEvac. Okay?" No. No, it was not okay. The last time something weird like this had happened and Mulder called an ambulance, she'd woken up wet and frozen with him pulling some kind of umbilical cord out of her throat. No ambulance. No way. Mulder saw the refusal in her eyes. "Look, I can't carry you down," he pleaded. "It's too steep." She managed to swallow again, though it seemed to take all the strength she had. "Fine," she mumbled. "Mm fine." Mulder's face turned bright red. "Scully, you just passed out. You are not fine." "I am." She waved her fingers to show him her strength was returning. "I am, just give me a minute." Mulder pounded a fist against the ground and flung himself away. She heard pebbles grinding underfoot as he stomped back and forth, working off his anger. Okay, she told herself. Let him calm himself down, you have your own problems right now. She was beginning to regain the use of her arms and legs, the muscles responding reasonably well as she flexed each limb. It was over, whatever it was. A few more minutes and she could make it back down to the car. Some food, a hot bath and a good night's sleep and she'd be all right. No need to panic. No need at all. Scully sat up slowly. The world stayed level and her head stayed clear. Mulder came back immediately, crouching by her side, his face creased with lines of worry. She knew that look; she'd seen enough of it when she was ill. Right now, his recent indifference would be easier to handle. "Can we go?" she asked, holding his jacket out to him. "I feel better." She let him help her to feet and tried not to see the anguish in his eyes. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> BIG MESA MOTEL, FLAGSTAFF MARCH 2ND, 10:22 PM His knock on the bathroom door woke her. "Mulder, I'm fine," Scully answered, more sharply than she'd intended. It would be just like him to kick the door open if there wasn't some immediate response. "Don't drown in there, okay?" he called back. "I just got us two pizzas and I'm not *that* hungry." Scully slid back down into the water. It was still warm enough to be comforting. She tucked her thumbs inside her fists and felt Melissa's hands again. Her throat grew sore and tight, but she would not give in. Not right now. The faces of redheads hold no secret tears; Mulder would certainly notice if she walked out of the bathroom with a Rudolph nose and swollen eyelids. The last thing she needed tonight was him hovering over her, smothering her with a concern that would be withdrawn as soon as something else caught his attention. As soon as she had begun to rely on it. That was not going to happen again. Scully opened her eyes and sighed. The thought of him, just outside and waiting, did at least give her the impetus she needed to get out of the tub and get on with it. He was lying on her bed flipping channels on the TV when she joined him. For a moment she flashed anger that he always made her room his own, then the smell of the pizza hit her. She went and opened the boxes. One pepperoni, one with ham and extra mushrooms. She couldn't be angry when the grateful rumbling of her stomach took precedence. He knew her too well sometimes, damn him. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Mulder rolled over and watched his partner sniffing delicately at the pizza. She had come out of the bathroom fully dressed, as if she were on her way back to the office. "Jesus, Scully. Where do you think you're going at this hour?" "I thought you said you were hungry," she answered. "I am." "Well, then stop messing up my bed and get over here." Mulder smiled as he turned off the TV. That sounded like the Scully he knew. She brought the casefile to the table, eating her pizza carefully off to one side while she read the scant information for the tenth time. She had dressed, but she hadn't bothered to blow-dry her hair and it fell around her face in damp waves which she kept tucking behind her ears with the same finger she was keeping clean to turn pages. She looked younger, softer than she usually did and Mulder had a hard time not staring. He treasured these bits of Scully, these moments when he got to see some tiny part of her the rest of the world didn't. He popped a loose bit of pepperoni into his mouth. "You feeling better now?" he asked, the tone of his voice as offhand as he could make it. She lifted her head and looked at him at last. "I'm fine, Mulder. Really." Scully's eyes always looked huge without makeup and Mulder lost his battle with the grin that wanted to escape his control. She just looked adorable, sitting there with that earnest expression on her face and pizza sauce in the corner of her mouth. "Why are you looking at me like that?" The sudden color that rose in her cheeks made her appear even younger and Mulder began to laugh. God, it felt good to laugh, felt like he hadn't done it in ages. He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "I'm just glad you're all right." She automatically slid her hand out of his, and that was the end of Mulder's laughter. An uncomfortable silence fell over them, heavy as a winter blanket. Mulder ate the rest of his slice without enjoyment, keeping his eyes on his dinner, growing cold and greasy now, soaking through the cardboard box. He looked up and saw that Scully had gone completely still, her slice of pizza forgotten in her hand. "Scully, where are you?" he finally asked. She looked at her pizza as if she wasn't sure how it got in her hand, before laying it back in the box. "I'm here, Mulder," she said quietly, picking up a napkin to wipe her hands. "What more do you want?" "You say that like you don't want to be here." "It's not a matter of what I want. This is my job, this is the case we've been assigned. I'll do the best I can, like always." He searched her face, knowing there was something he was missing, some message he should understand being conveyed beneath her words. There were days when Scully's face was an open book, one he'd read a hundred times. Then there were days, like today, when her thoughts might as well be written in Cyrillic for all the sense they made. She bristled under his gaze and began packing the pizza boxes together. "I don't know what you're looking for, Mulder, but if it's an argument, it'll have to wait till the morning." "I'm not looking to argue." The softness of his voice caught her, made her look at him, and he was shocked by the depth of sadness in her eyes. "Take my pizza if you're still hungry," she offered. She spared him a small smile before she turned her back and started unbuttoning her shirt, a clear sign that it was time for him to leave. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> He woke hours later, listening, certain he had heard someone cry out. The Home Shopping Channel, his nightlight of choice, exhorted him silently to buy a ten piece set of kitchen knives. Never need sharpening! the mute screen shouted. Mulder grabbed for the remote and turned it to something else. He threw the box down on the empty side of the bed and fell back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. He didn't need a ten piece set of knives. He had Scully to slice and dice him. He heard the noise again, quite clearly this time, something that sounded uncomfortably like the approach of orgasm, a sound he could not reconcile as coming from Scully's room. For an embarrassing moment Mulder thought he might actually be eavesdropping on a very private act. No. He wouldn't say the act itself was out of the question, but he definitely had his doubts about the soundtrack. Another strangled cry made up Mulder's mind. He wouldn't normally go into her room while she slept, but he didn't want to hear Scully's unconscious torturing her through the paper thin walls all night. She'd left her side unlocked, as they usually did when their rooms had connecting doors. Mulder took that as an invitation, cracking the door open and quietly tiptoeing over to the bed. Scully was curled tight on her side, wearing the same dark, intent expression she wore when he was telling her something she didn't want to hear. Beneath their closed lids her eyes darted wildly back and forth. She was mumbling under her breath, words tumbling one over the other in a rising panic. He put a hand on her shoulder, shaking her lightly. "Hey, Scully, you're dreaming. Wake up." She gasped and sat up, her eyes opening. In the dark of the room they were black and bottomless. Mulder stepped back from the bed. "You were having a nightmare," he said quickly, excusing his presence. She nodded and lay down again, rolling away from him and pulling the covers up to her chin. Feeling vaguely like an intruder, Mulder left. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> WALLACE RESIDENCE MARCH 3RD, 8:32 AM The house was more modern than he expected, a comfortably large wood and adobe single story, sitting on three acres just outside of Flagstaff. Mulder got out of the car and looked around. The land here was black volcanic sand, dotted with twisted juniper trees. In the distance, jagged mountains with snow-capped peaks gleamed in the sun. Across the unpaved road, there was a pond with a cackling family of ducks; behind a stand of juniper, an older, more weather-beaten house. Fragments of the rich blue sky looked up at him from Scully's eyes. "Not bad, huh?" He smiled down at her. "No," she agreed solemnly. "Not bad at all." The door was opened by Jennifer Wallace. According to the file Skinner had given them she was thirty-two, but today she looked like a student - long black hair pulled into a ponytail, wearing jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers. John Wallace wore the same style clothing, even had a similar ponytail, though his skin was lighter than Jennifer's warm brown. He and Scully held up their badges and introduced themselves. Mulder smiled his own official smile, shaking Wallace's extended hand. He noticed the man wore a heavy silver bowguard on his wrist, inlaid with ovals of polished turquoise. "Nice bracelet. Got that on the reservation?" he asked. "It was made for me," Wallace answered, "by a member of my family. My wife and I are Dineh." "Oh, Navajo, right." Mulder smiled again. "I knew a man, a few years ago. Maybe you know him? His name is Albert Hosteen." "There's 180,000 of us. We don't all know each other." Wallace turned away, his demeanor noticeably cooler. Mulder glanced back at Scully, silently asking her opinion. She shrugged, walking around him to follow Wallace inside. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Wallace led the two agents into a large, open room. A round stone fireplace took up the center. On the far side, a drafting table was set up, along with a worn couch facing a small television. On the near side, a newer couch and two matching armchairs were set for gazing at the fire. Wallace took a seat on the couch, close to Jennifer, gesturing for Mulder and Scully to use the chairs. Mulder sat, while Scully, suddenly restless, did a tour of the room. There was something wrong here, something she couldn't quite place, a feeling that came from the walls and the floor and made the back of her neck tingle as if touched by a whispered breath. "Mrs. Wallace," Mulder began, in his most gentle voice. "I'd like to start from the end and work our way back, all right?" The woman nodded, glancing warily at her husband. "Can you tell me what happened the day you went to pick up Amy at the daycare center?" Jennifer shrugged. "Nothing happened. She just wasn't there. Everyone said she was, but no one could remember the last time they'd seen her. We searched everywhere." "And what time would that have been?" "I left her there just after noon and went to get her at about three, three-thirty." Scully wandered over to the fireplace. The heavy stone mantelpiece was covered with family mementos and photographs in handmade frames. She touched a baby-sized pair of beaded moccasins and felt a knife go through her abdomen. You can do this, she told herself, glad she had her back to her partner. Count to four. Breathe. Relax. She opened her eyes. "Mulder." Mulder stopped himself in mid-question, alerted by the tone in her voice. He got up quickly and came to her, following her pointed finger. The shocked look on his face reassured her that she hadn't gone mad. "Is this your daughter, Mrs. Wallace?" He held the photograph out to the young woman. She nodded, head dropping into her hands. Scully turned and walked out of the room, ignoring Mulder, whose eyes seemed to be drilling questions into her back. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She was sitting in the car when he came out of the house, her body rigid, staring straight ahead. Mulder opened the passenger door and stuck his head inside. "Do you want me to drive?" "No." She turned the key and waited for him to get in. They drove back to the motel in silence. Scully parked haphazardly across two spaces and got out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition. She went into her room, letting the door slam behind her. Mulder waited a respectable few minutes before locking up the car and knocking on her door. No answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He let himself into his own room and tried the connecting door. She hadn't locked it. He tried not to consider that a good sign; she'd probably forgotten it was even there. He opened the door slowly. Scully was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tight together, staring at the floor. Mulder went and sat down beside her, careful not to sit too close. "Do you want to know what I found out?" A moment, then she nodded her assent. "Amy is the adopted daughter of Jennifer and her first husband, Paul Mason. He died when she was eleven months old. Jennifer and John were married about two years ago. "That was a picture of Emily. You saw it, Mulder." "No. That was Amy Wallace. I agree that the resemblance is remarkable, that it may not be coincidence, but this is a different child, Scully. Emily is gone." "There was no body." "She's dead, Scully. You know that. You were there." She stood up abruptly, putting the length of the room between them. "There's more," Mulder said gently. "Do you want to hear it?" "Go on." "Paul Mason apparently worked for a pharmaceutical firm. He was a researcher on a project testing experimental drugs." "Roush." "Yes. The same place Wallace worked until about a year ago." "Is that all?" "No." Mulder stood up. As if by reflex, Scully moved away, until she had literally backed herself into a corner. "Scully, we never found out if Emily was born with that condition, or if it was something she developed later." Scully's voice turned suddenly bitter. "You mean something she was given." "Maybe." He moved closer, shoving his hands into his pockets to curb his impulse to reach for her. "The thing is, Amy doesn't have it. According to Jennifer Wallace, Amy has always been a perfectly healthy, perfectly normal little girl." That, at last, made her look at him. "What does that mean?" "It means," Mulder said carefully, "that she may be the control in an experiment. It means--" Scully finished the sentence for him. "There may be others." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> RED EARTH DAY CARE CENTER MARCH 3RD, 10:17 AM Mulder stopped the car in front of a cheery frame house with kids' paintings taped in the front windows. He opened his mouth, but before he could even say her name, Scully cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Just stop hovering, Mulder," she snapped. Damn her for never letting him care. Mulder threw his door open and stalked ahead. None of the adults had seen anyone hanging around. They asked to speak to the children and were led outside, to the playground behind the house. Mulder wandered around, observing Scully as she went from child to child. That was not hovering, it was normal procedure. Mulder was good with kids but the very small ones simply didn't respond as well to being questioned by a man. Back when teasing was a conversational option between them, Mulder had liked to say that Scully was closer to their size and therefore less threatening. He leaned against the wall of the house, watching his partner talking to a particularly nervous little boy. Scully was soft, patient, thorough, hunkered down to four-year-old height with her arms wrapped around her knees for balance. Her warmth washed over the child, calmed him, drew him nearer. It was a gentleness she rarely exhibited elsewhere. She would have made a wonderful mother, Mulder thought, then quickly caught himself. That was unprofessional and so was he, watching Scully for clues when he should be watching the kids. He waited until she was finished, then left her in the car, scribbling her notes against the steering wheel while he went to look around the building. Twenty minutes later he'd still found nothing. Rounding the building from the side, he caught a glimpse of Scully through the windshield -- eyes closed, head resting wearily against the back of her seat. It stopped him cold, as if he'd just caught her on her knees, rosary in hand. She's tired, he told himself. And scared. To tell the truth, he was a little scared himself. He relied on Scully's strength, on her ability to hold things together, far more than he liked to admit. No matter how much her recent stubbornness had annoyed him, he knew he needed her to be exactly the steadfast, logical creature that she was. To be the still center around which he moved, always knowing where to return. It frightened him to see her so obviously shaken. He made sure to shuffle his feet in the gravel of the parking lot as he approached the car, giving her fair warning. "Let's go," she said, as soon as he'd opened the door. He stole a glance at her as he buckled up. She was sitting very straight, hand on the keys, her face composed. No tear tracks, no expression. Surrounded by glass. All right. If she wanted to pretend she was fine, he would let her. He knew better than to try to push Scully when she was in this kind of mood. "Did you get anything useful?" he asked as she started the car. "Not really. She was there and then she wasn't. No one remembers any strange adults hanging around." Scully looked carefully both ways before turning, then put her foot to the pedal in a way that made his breakfast briefly threaten reappearance. She was a demon for speed; it was one of her less charming quirks. "Are we catching a plane?" he asked. "I want to get online. I've got a theory." "You wanna share it?" "Later, when I have a better idea." She rounded another corner, then stopped the car abruptly in front of the library. "Pick me up at seven, okay?" She got out, leaving the engine running. Mulder got out as well, watching as she strode away, heels clacking like horse's hooves on the pavement. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 3 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> CLINE LIBRARY, NORTHERN ARIZONA UNIVERSITY MARCH 3RD, 11:42 PM Scully bought a floppy disk from the young girl at the supplies desk and wondered when college students had started to look like kids to her. She had never thought of herself as a different generation -- from within, her own age seemed static. Static like my life, she thought, finding a free terminal and shoving the disk into the drive. She wiped her hands across her face to banish such stray ideas, fished in her pocket for her glasses and set to work. Mulder liked to run through the streets, chasing down truth with a gun in his hand, but Scully had a quieter spirit. She chased her truth on the Internet, through a microscope, in the bodies of the dead. Never one to miss a chance to learn something new, in the time they'd been stuck doing background checks, Scully had amassed a head full of useful URLs. The obvious resemblance implied the obvious connection. That, coupled with the neatness of Amy's disappearance could only mean the involvement of the nameless, shadowy Them. But who was that, now that most of Them were dead? As far as they knew, Spender Senior had not been burnt in the hangar, but then so many of the bodies had been incinerated beyond easy identification. Of all the open cases lying on his desk, what made Skinner put them onto this one? It could not be coincidence. When it came to your average kidnapping, there were other teams as good as she and Mulder were, probably better. Someone must have directed him, and history would point to the smoker. Skinner could not have known what happened the year before in San Diego. She had never told him herself, and she couldn't believe that Mulder would have made an X-File out of Emily after she had asked him to keep the matter private. There would be no point. It was not official business and they had wound up with almost no evidence. Apart from a photo and some memories held by a woman she never knew as her mother, Emily might as well have never existed at all. Scully took a deep breath, refocusing on the matter at hand. Anonymous, she decided, was safer than the FBI's server for the moment. She logged onto the university's system as 'guest', just as she felt the tingle of a familiar presence slipping up from behind. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> "Mulder, what are you doing here?" she snapped. Her face, when she turned to him, looked as if she'd been in the middle of something secret; embarrassed and annoyed at the interruption. He pulled up a chair just behind hers, hung his jacket neatly over it and loosened his tie before he finally answered, "Two heads are better than one." Her right eyebrow lifted slightly, enough to signal wary acceptance. "You have no leads of your own to run down?" "Actually, no," he admitted, stretching his neck to work the top button of his collar open. "Trail's as cold as a witch's--" "Don't." "--nose," he finished, waiting for her usual eyeroll of derision. It didn't come. She regarded him without expression, her eyes a cool, impenetrable grey. Mulder started on his cuffs, hitching his chair a little closer and pointing at the terminal with his chin. "California Births?" he guessed. She nodded, her gaze shifting away. "I should have thought of it last year." "I think the one was enough to deal with at the time." "I'm an investigator. It's my job to think further," she answered, pounding the URL into the keyboard. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Scully." She didn't answer, her attention focused on the monitor. "Ah, the joys of a T-1 connection," Mulder murmured as the site popped up, drawing closer so he could watch over her shoulder as she went through the advanced search screens. Live Births. San Diego County. November 2, 1994. Female. The search yielded eleven names. She tried clicking on the first, but nothing happened. "Never heard of hypertext, I guess," Mulder tried to joke. Scully just sat with her hand clenched around the mouse. Mulder reached over her hunched shoulder and picked up her notebook. He scribbled the names quickly, glancing at her tense face when he was done. "You want me to do this?" he asked. "No." She drew in air and let it out in a slow sigh. "Give them to me one at a time." Mulder read the names back to her as she searched the records one by one. Five were sealed by adoption. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> THE WHOLLY GRAIN MARCH 3RD, 1:05 PM "A, B, C, D and E," Mulder was saying, having finally dragged Scully away from her fruitless search for further records on the pretext of his own starvation. The choice of venue had been hers and Mulder was surprised to find that he'd actually enjoyed his vegetarian lasagna. Maybe he'd been hanging around Scully and her health food fetish long enough that he was beginning to acquire the taste. "Amy Wallace, Bethany MacEntyre, Caitlin Jenkins, Denise Hampton and Emily Sim." He ticked the names off on his fingers, watching her for some kind of reaction. Scully nodded, sipping coffee. The lack of useful leads seemed to have sapped her energy. She looked like she wanted to curl up in a corner and go to sleep. Mulder had spent the last half-hour on the phone, and her notebook was now filled with his scrawl. It seemed odd to him, to see his own handwriting in that familiar black binding, interspersed with hers. "Frohike got inside the database and found the mother's names -- they were all over sixty, just like the patients I saw in the nursing home I found last year. Probably from the same place, but that was shut down, so I don't think we're going to find anything useful by pursuing it. Until we can come up with the full names of the adoptive parents we're stalled on that end." He waited. Nothing. "And none of this is going to help us find Amy Wallace," he added. Scully toyed with her salad, scraping the excess dressing off a leaf of lettuce with careful concentration. "I think we need to run full background checks on John and Jennifer Wallace and Paul Mason," she finally answered. "Something isn't right in that house." "You mean besides the obvious?" "I just had this feeling, Mulder. When I was there, before I even saw the picture. Maybe it was..." Her voice trailed off and she shook her head as if to clear the last of that thought out of it. "What?" "I don't know. It's a nice house, but it felt...dead somehow. Did you feel that too?" His mouth quirked in an involuntary smile. "Is the skeptical Dr. Scully trying to say the house had bad vibes?" Her wounded look made him want to stand up and kick himself in the ass. She shrugged and busied herself not eating her salad. Mulder watched her for a moment, assessing her mood, then leaned over the table, so close he could almost whisper in her ear. "Scully," he said, "I just want you to know, I won't think less of you for one second if you tell me that you need to back away from this." She slapped her fork down on the table. "How could you possibly think I could back away from this?" "Scully, last night-" "I had a bad dream," she said sharply. "You don't ever have them?" "I have plenty, but we're talking about you right now." They glared at each other a moment, then -- as if by tacit agreement - - both leaned back in their seats, letting some fresh air come between them. "What was it about?" Mulder finally asked, when he was certain they'd both calmed down. "The dream?" "I don't remember." "Okay, fine. This dream you don't remember--" "Mulder," she cut him off. "This is perfectly normal in our line of work. It doesn't mean a thing." He watched her lips pinch together and the individual pieces of her recent behavior suddenly sorted themselves into a recognizable pattern. "Scully...how long has this been going on?" "It's no big deal, Mulder. I had something like this happen before, a couple of years ago. It'll stop on its own." She slipped out of the booth and began to gather her things together. "Are you coming?" "Where?" "To Window Rock. That's where they keep the tribal enrollment records. What do you want to bet John Wallace isn't Navajo?" <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> OFFICES OF THE NAVAJO NATION MARCH 3RD, 4:53 PM It took three hours to drive to Window Rock and barely three minutes to answer the question. The Navajo Nation had no one registered under the name of John Wallace. Jennifer, on the other hand, was the real thing, her family traceable all the way back to the start of the tribal rolls. Scully was still standing in front of the Council Building when Mulder rejoined her, staring at the circular hole in a large red rock formation looming above the parking lot. He leaned over to whisper in her ear. "Reckon that's why they call it Window Rock." "Do you remember Albert Hosteen?" she asked suddenly, as if he hadn't asked her exactly the same question the night before. "Yeah." Mulder came around to look into her face. She looked dazed, her sky-blue eyes focused on some distant point through the hole in the rock. "Farmington isn't too far from here. We can go there tomorrow, if you want to talk to him." "No." She closed her eyes and when she opened them again she was back with him, a painful thought drawing down her brows. "No, we brought him nothing but trouble the last time. I'm certain They're watching us, Mulder." She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering violently, though the sun was still pleasantly warm. "Are you all right?" "I think I got too much sun this morning." "Didn't you bring any sunscreen?" She shivered again. "I put some on." "Well, by the toasted look of you, not enough. Even your part is sunburnt." He put his hand on Scully's arm, turning her towards their car. "Okay, so now we know that John Wallace isn't a member of the Navajo Nation. I can't see what more we can do here tonight. Let's head back to Flag--" Scully suddenly stopped walking. "What's the matter?" he asked. "What did I say?" She turned around. Mulder saw it in her eyes, growing huge and frightened as it overtook her. This time, he managed to grab her before she hit the ground. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Emily was clinging to Melissa's hand, peering at Scully without recognition. No. Not Emily. This girl was taller, thinner, her strawberry blonde hair cut close to her head. "Her name is Denise," Melissa said, stroking the girl's head against her hip. -No. No. Not again, please. "Dana, you're not listening. What you need to know, it's already inside you." -There's nothing inside me. "That's not true. You need to go back. Back to the beginning. It starts in the first place you remember." From behind her sister came another, smaller girl, her shoulder-length hair falling over her cheeks. Melissa swung the child into her arms, smiling at the girl as if she knew her well. Emily turned to Scully with the same solemn eyes she remembered, laying her head on Melissa's shoulder. Scully tried to reach for the child but Melissa stepped away. Bright green blood began to run down the back of Emily's neck. -No, Scully whispered. Melissa held the child closer, rocking her gently. "Sometimes," she said, laying her cheek against the small blonde head, "sometimes I miss the sea." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Mulder went down hard on one knee, clutching an unconscious Scully to his chest, trying to keep her from slipping through his arms. Holding her was like holding a human-shaped sack of rice -- limbs trailing in the dirt, heavy and disjointed, her head hanging loosely over his arm. "That's a nice case of sunstroke," said a voice just to his left. Mulder looked up and saw a Navajo woman about their age, neatly dressed in the kind of mismatched suit Scully had worn in her younger days. "Bring her inside, out of the sun." The woman strode towards one of the mobile homes that made up the Nation's offices. She unlocked the door and held it open, waiting patiently while he struggled with Scully's limp weight. "Put her on the couch." The dim interior flooded with harsh fluorescent light. Mulder saw a large, comfortable sofa against the far wall and laid Scully on it, carefully adjusting her arms and legs. "There's water over there," the woman said, pointing to a large cooler behind her desk. She bent to open Scully's jacket and pressed a hand across her ribs. "Good. The heart is strong. She'll be fine." Mulder came back with a glass of water and knelt beside the couch. The woman took the glass and dribbled half the cold water carefully over Scully's face. She opened her eyes with a little gasp. The woman smiled down at her. "Well, hello. Nice to have you back." Scully tried to answer, but all she achieved was a trembling kind of grimace. Her eyes roved the room wildly, finally calming when Mulder leaned over Leonora's shoulder so she could see him. "It's okay," he reassured her, and she nodded, as if to say the same to him. The woman patted her cheeks with more water and Scully's mouth opened and closed like a bird seeking to be fed. The woman laughed. "Yes, I'm sure you're thirsty." She handed the empty glass back to Mulder and ordered him to fill it. He leapt to his feet, only too glad to be of some use. When he returned, the woman had helped Scully sit up and was removing her jacket. "Rule number one. Black attracts heat and is not a good color for the desert. If you have to wear this kind of clothing, at least leave the jacket open so your body can breathe." She took the water from Mulder and carefully poured it over Scully's head, patting it into her hair, smoothing it down her face and the back of her neck. "You're going to ruin your couch," Mulder said apologetically. "Hah. Be dry in five minutes. More." She handed the glass to Mulder again and turned back to her patient. "Rule number two. Drink water. All day. If you get a headache, immediately assume you're dehydrated. If you're thirsty, it's too late." She reached for Scully's wrist with one hand, the other making an expert doctor's flip to expose her watch. Thirty seconds ticked away, then she released Scully's hand and smiled, patting her shoulder gently. "Your pulse is almost back to normal already, so you haven't done yourself too much damage. And I've got to go. I'm late for a meeting." She stood, pointing at the glass Mulder held. "You. She needs to drink that in very small sips or she'll get sick. Don't let her gulp it. And then she needs something salty with something sweet. Two pinches of salt in a glass of orange juice is the best. And then more water. Lots of water. You too. You should both be peeing buckets before you go to sleep." Mulder nodded, silenced by the woman's authoritative manner. "And you," she continued, turning back to Scully, "have been very silly. And I think you know that because you're looking pretty ashamed of yourself. You are in a high altitude desert. Do not be fooled by the nice cool weather, that sun is no friend to anyone with your skin. Buy a hat. And wear cotton. Everything. No nylons, and no silk. They don't breathe." "Thank you," Scully managed to say. The woman touched her shoulder again. "There's nothing to thank. The door will lock behind you. Feel free to stay as long as you need." She bustled out the door, grabbing a handful of files and a briefcase on her way. Mulder picked up a carved wooden nameplate from the ugly green government-issue desk. "Well, your nurse appears to be a member of the Navajo Nation Council. Leonora Hattaway, Health and Education. Nice going, Scully. Only pass out in front of the best." Scully managed a small smile, one which lifted his heart out of all proportion. He brought her another glass of water, helped her hold it to drink. "Slow. You heard what Councilor Hattaway just said." "Mulder..." "Whatever you've got to tell me, Scully, it can wait." He caught the glass as it began to slip from her hands. "The university has a good hospital back in Flagstaff. And I'm taking you there. Now." "Mulder...please." She was looking at him in that soft, wide-eyed way she had that guaranteed he'd do anything she asked. It was Scully's version of his lost-boy look, but she never used it the way he did, with deliberate intent. Maybe that was why it invariably hit him behind the knees. "I'm not sick. I'll drink some water, and eat, and sleep, and I'll be fine in the morning. Okay? There's no reason to worry." Her arm fell over his, and he took her hand, squeezing it gently. For a moment he was back in the hospital in New York, watching her chest rise and fall, rise and fall, terrified that the stillness between each frail breath would go on and on and on. Fear rose in him, the wild panic that came whenever he thought of losing her. It had been his constant companion the long months that she'd been ill, driving him forward even while it drove her away from him. That had always been his problem. He'd bash his way through any obstacle to reach her, even if that obstacle was Scully herself. "Scully..." he began, surprised to find himself suddenly on the verge of tears. He rubbed her cold hand between both of his. "Talk to me, please. What is going on?" She shook her head slowly. "It's private, Mulder. I'll work it out." "Scully, I'm your friend. I realize I hurt you, but there are things about me and Diana that you don't understand. Reasons why I owe her the benefit of the doubt. It doesn't mean that I don't trust you, or that you can't tell me if something's wrong." A tear rose in her eye and remained, balancing delicately on her lashes. "But I haven't earned the benefit of the doubt." Mulder touched the tear with the edge of his thumb, watched it roll down his finger and melt into his skin. He felt like a demon baptized with Scully's tears, welcoming the pain, hating himself for having caused them. "I came back for you,' he said. 'I stayed with you. Please don't forget that." She turned her head so he could no longer see her eyes. "I never left." The weakness of her voice, the dull quiet, was almost as frightening as watching her fight for breath. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 4 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA MARCH 3RD, 11:47 PM They ate a late dinner at the 24-hour diner around the corner from the motel, huddled against the noise of a pack of NAU students stuffing their rather inebriated faces. Mulder had his leather-bound journal held open with the sugar bowl and his side of fries, Scully's laptop hummed as she paged through three days' worth of email. Where do we start? he wondered, staring at his few notations. Come on, brain. Do something spooky. Leap. No leap. At last Scully took off her glasses and pressed her thumbs just under her eyebrows, rubbing at the pressure points hidden against the bone. "I'm fine," she mumbled, as if she could feel him watching her without even looking at him. "I'm still dehydrated, that's all." She reached for her water and drained the glass in one long gulp. "Doctor Councilor Hattaway said to drink slow." He got a small, pained grimace for his effort. The sunburn gave Scully's face the illusion of health, but up close Mulder could see the fragile skin around her eyes beginning to darken with fatigue. He looked past Scully, toward the pack of students. One skinny guy with glasses had his arm slung around a pretty girl whose long brown braid was trailing on the table. He was whispering in her ear, making her giggle softly as she squirmed against him. Mulder looked back at his partner with her tired face and her sad little mouth, wondering what it would be like to have her giggle in his ear. "Hey, Scully," he said. "When I hand you something, some cockamamie theory you don't believe in, what do you do?" She looked up at him with her shadowed eyes, and he was glad she couldn't see the kids. The girl was answering the boy now, pressing soft little kisses against his temple while he grinned like a happy idiot. "You mean before or after I tell you that you're nuts?" Mulder smiled with relief at the faint flicker of humor in her eyes. "After." "I guess...I guess I attempt to prove your theory as if I believe it's true, hoping that in the attempt, I'll uncover some solid piece of evidence we can use." "So. You want to hear my cockamamie theory now, or should I save it until we're back at the motel?" "When we're back at the motel, Mulder, I'll be thinking of bed." He paused a moment, wondering if she had meant to give him that opening, if she was trying to keep it light, or if they were simply out of practice at this kind of conversation. He decided to play it serious. Serious was always safer where Scully was concerned. "We're assuming the Consortium went up in flames, right? What if we're wrong about that? What if all that's gone is the top layer? There'd be a lot of scrabbling for control about now." She nodded slowly. "So you're saying that a part of the Project would still exist." "Five girls. One control, four experimental subjects." He watched her face closely, but she gave no sign that this line of reasoning was disturbing her. "Why would they steal the control, Scully? What does that do to the experiment?" "It depends on the nature of the research. If the plan is to manipulate the girls' DNA in-vitro, then allow them to be born and see what happens as they grow up, they need her. If it's to make an alien- human hybrid through a process that resembles gene therapy, then I'd say the control is not only unnecessary, but invalid. Which may mean they've taken Amy because it's her turn to undergo the therapy. Or because two have died already and they need another subject." "Who's the second?" Scully blinked at him in surprise. She seemed utterly unaware of what she'd just said. "What makes you think they've lost two?" he asked. "No, I--" She flushed suddenly, as if she'd only just now heard her own words. "I don't know that," she said quickly, "I don't know where that came from." Her lips came together in a line, an expression he knew far too well. We Will Not Talk About This Now. A loud whoop from the table of students caught their attention before he could protest. Skinny Boy was kissing his girl, one hand held high. His fingers ticked off their friends' countdown -- five, four, three, two. On the one they broke apart as their friends began to sing 'Happy Birthday.' Scully turned back to face him as dear Becky received birthday smacks from all directions, squealing happily under the onslaught. He caught Scully's quiet smile before it faded from her lips. "Fond memories?" he teased. The smile abruptly faded. Mulder looked away, wondering if there was anything he could manage to say these days that wouldn't make her withdraw from him. When he dared to look again, she was buried in her laptop, squinting slightly as she tried to read without her glasses. "Did Frohike come up with anything else?" he asked. "Only his usual wild speculation. On the official side, the team at El Rico still haven't identified seven of the bodies." She looked up at him so quickly that he didn't have time to hide his expression. "It's okay, Mulder. They're all male adults. They just can't come up with names." He nodded. What a strange pair they were, forever passing little balls of comfort between them. It reminded Mulder of the way he used to play tennis with Samantha, the two of them in the backyard hitting the ball over a rope stretched between two trees. The object of their game had not been to hit a serve the other couldn't return, but to keep the volley going as long as they could. Their high, reached in the summer before Samantha disappeared, had been sixty-seven. Somewhere along the line he had begun playing to win. He'd let Diana blindside him -- again -- let her make him forget who had left whom for the betterment of whose career. Scully's sharp eyes had seen that, and he'd hated her for it. He'd started acing serves into her side of the court, as hard and fast as he could. Then he'd been angry when she finally threw down the racquet. And yet, she hadn't given up on him. She'd hung around, just as Samantha always had, waiting for him to come to his senses and play nice again. She lifted a hand as she read through the next message, catching a thick lock of hair between her fingers and tucking it behind her ear. Half of it fell forward again as she began to type a reply. The urge to touch her arose within him, as if to make certain she really was still there. "What?" she asked, without lifting her head. Mulder hesitated, turning back to his notebook. He picked up his pen, drawing idle circles around the edges of his notes. After a moment he felt her looking at him. "I was just thinking about Samantha." His voice was calm, quiet, his concentration focused on the little arrows he was adding to his drawing. She put her hand on his for a moment. He saw Samantha's small hand placed over his larger one, his hairless boy's hand, the nails bitten to the quick. He didn't want to look up to see the expression on Scully's face. Once it had been mere sympathy, but after she too had lost her sister it had become one of communion, a shared grief. No wonder her brother hated him. He hated himself for teaching her such things. "When you were little, did you look up to Bill?" She started at the question, drawing back her hand. Mulder dared a glance and found curiosity written on her face, not pain or anger. He began to add whorls to the ends of his arrows. "My sister worshipped me. We used to argue all the time, but if she needed something done for her, or some kind of comfort, she'd come to me, not our father. He was gone a lot, like yours was. And I just wondered if you had the same relationship with Bill." "You mean do all little sisters hero-worship their big brothers?" "I guess." "Mulder," she said, her eyes kind but serious, "I'm not your little sister." "I know that." He dropped his own eyes, embarrassed. It was true that sometimes he thought fate had given him Scully to make up for having taken Samantha. Most of the time, he just wondered what he'd done to deserve such loyalty from both of them. "I guess I looked up to him when I was very little," she answered, breaking into his thoughts. "My mother says I used to follow him everywhere, but I don't really remember. I do remember wanting the privileges he always got, for being a boy, for being older. But I didn't want to be like him." Her mouth twisted in a swift ghost of a smile. "I wanted to be like Melissa." "Why?" Once again, she'd succeeding in surprising him. He couldn't imagine two people from the same gene pool being more different than Scully and her sister. Scully sighed and turned back to stare into her screen. "Because living seemed to come so easily to her. She never questioned what she did, never worried about whether our parents would approve. She was this beautiful butterfly flitting over our heads, while I...I was a caterpillar. Firmly grounded. Slogging my slow way through the path my parents had laid out." She shrugged, without emotion. "I guess I thought the FBI would be my big chance to distinguish myself as myself. To choose my own path." "Which took you straight to the basement." "I'm not sorry about that." Their eyes caught and held. "Caterpillars do turn into butterflies," he said, daring to touch her cheek. She tilted her head away. "Not this one." Her voice held no self-pity; she spoke as if stating a mere scientific truth. And as he watched, the glass that always surrounded her shimmered, became a one-way window reflecting him back upon himself. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She was lying on her back, looking down at the swell of her abdomen. A soft breeze fluttered the curtains, bringing the smell of spring into her apartment. It was Saturday and she had nowhere to go, nothing to do but lie here all morning, warm and lazy as a cat. Slowly, Scully moved her hands over her bare skin, loving the feel of her new belly, the hardness beneath the covering of soft flesh. She raised her arms over her head to stretch and for the first time felt the child move within. Eyes closed, bathed in joy, she lay caressing her body as her child turned and kicked. And kicked. And kicked. Scully's eyes snapped open. Light -- white light -- blinding. Joy became pain, terrible tearing pain as her belly grew and went on growing. Her legs were wrenched apart, her feet bound into stirrups, her wrists tied to the sides of the bed. She was splayed before Them, helpless as her body convulsed in waves of agony, as something huge forced its way deep inside her, as they removed the babies, one by one. She woke, shaking and sweating, clutching Mulder's arms. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> "Okay." He made it a statement, not a question, letting the level tone of his voice provide a stable place for her to ground herself. "Okay," she nodded, still trying to catch her breath. He let her go and she lay back on the pillows, wiping her face with trembling hands. Mulder reached over and snapped on the light, tipping her chin up to look into her eyes. Scully shivered violently at his touch and drew the blanket up to her shoulders. Beneath it, he knew, the sheets and her clothes would be soaked through with sweat. "You have another pair of pajamas?" She looked at him blankly for a moment before nodding her head. "It helps if you change into something dry." He patted her arm to get her moving, and went back into his room to add a t-shirt to his own sweatpants. When he returned, five minutes later, she was just coming out of the bathroom, red flannel having replaced the white silk she'd been wearing. She looked better now, more herself, apart from her hair, tangled from being rubbed dry with a towel. "You know," he said, settling himself in the vinyl armchair, "I've been thinking about something." "What?" He noted she got into the opposite side of the bed, the one that happened, by chance, to be closer to him. It also happened to be the dry side, but Mulder wasn't fussy about that kind of detail. He settled himself onto the base of his spine and regarded her through lowered lashes. "The hybrid clones. I saw them, Scully, clones of my sister and a little boy, clones of Samantha as an adult." She nodded faintly, curling up on her side and tucking the blankets beneath her chin. "So you told me." "You saw the Samantha one. And there were other adults. The Gregors and Jeremiah Smith. So, what I've been wondering is, why would they still be trying to make a human-alien hybrid, like Cassandra Spender? Haven't they already succeeded in splicing our DNA with theirs?" "Maybe not." Her eyes had started to close and she blinked twice before continuing her thought. "For one, the clones you saw were grown in tanks, correct? Apparently, they need to grow to the level of maturity of the human whose cells were taken before they can function independently. Not very human." "So what's the purpose of these experiments? A better mousetrap? A more human hybrid?" "People want to have children, Mulder, they want leave something to the next generation. The way we breed is part of what makes us human. Clones are sterile. The Project isn't designed to build a better mousetrap, it wants to build a better mouse." She reached for the remote control, flicking the TV on. "Nick at Nite?" He'd guessed correctly, by the sheepish quality of her nod. She put the remote on the night stand and curled up on her other side, her back to him now. "You know where we need to go, don't you?" he murmured, watching her shoulders fall and rise with her breath. "San Diego." She sighed deeply, curling further into herself. "I know. But first we need to talk to Jennifer Wallace again." "I'd agree with that." He sat with her through the last half of 'Happy Days' and most of 'The Wonder Years', until she fell asleep again. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> WALLACE RESIDENCE MARCH 4TH, 8:07 AM Jennifer Wallace answered the door, half-hiding behind it with a forbidding frown. "Yes?" Mulder gave her his friendliest smile. "We were wondering if we could just ask you a few more questions, Mrs. Wallace? We won't take much of your time." "Questions about what?" she demanded, her wary eyes moving to Scully and back again to Mulder. Strange behavior for a woman who was expecting them to find her missing child, Mulder thought. A glance at his partner told him that Scully's radar had also just gone on alert. "Mrs. Wallace, is your husband at home?" Scully asked politely. "No, he's not. He's at work." "Ah." Scully looked at Mulder. He nodded, letting her take the interview in the direction they'd discussed over breakfast. Plan A if Wallace was there, Plan B if they could get Jennifer alone. "Would you mind if we take a walk?" Scully asked, gesturing toward the road. Jennifer followed her out into the yard, arms crossed against the early cold. "What is this about?" "Just some questions we had. It may not be important. Your husband said yesterday that you were both Dineh. We were wondering if there was a reason he isn't on the tribal rolls?" Jennifer pulled her head back in surprise. "Of course he is. And why on earth would you be looking at the tribal rolls?" Scully looked up at Mulder. Lie number one caught, said her eyes, and he nodded at her to continue. "Does he have family on the reservation then? He said his bracelet was made by a relative." "My uncle gave it to him when we got married. John grew up in Phoenix. Some of us do live in cities, you know." "But you met him up here?" "No. We knew him in San Diego. Paul and I. He worked for the same place Paul did." Mulder studied the woman's face, her body posture. The folded arms were defensive, but that could also be explained by the chill. Her glance, shifting between himself and his partner, seemed more confused now than wary, but there was definitely something she was hoping they wouldn't ask. "Amy is adopted, yes?" he asked, trying another tack. "Yes." "I don't mean to pry, Mrs. Wallace, but was a there a reason you and Paul didn't have children of your own?" "Yeah." Jennifer shoved her hands deep into her pockets, angry now. "I went to the Indian Health for menstrual cramps when I was fifteen. They told me I needed a D&C and while they were messing around in there they just happened to sterilize me." She lifted her head high and gave him a razor-edged glare that could easily rival Scully in one of her most righteously furious moods. "The government did a lot of shit like that to Indian women back then," Jennifer snapped. "Probably still do. You ought to investigate your own people sometimes." Mulder kept his mouth shut and his focus on the ground, not wanting to see what might be in Scully's eyes. "I didn't find out until I married Paul," Jennifer continued, talking only to Scully now. "We tried for a year before some doctor asked me why I was surprised I couldn't conceive when I'd already had my tubes cut. He probably thought I was some kind of idiot." "That must have been a bad time," Scully said, the sympathy in her voice pricking Mulder with its honesty. Jennifer started to walk down the road, scuffing up black dirt as she went. "Paul was the one who wanted to adopt, he was the one who arranged it all. I think Amy's mother was related to someone he worked with. Anyway, it went very fast. We decided, and a week later she was ours." She stared at the low gravel mountains rising directly ahead of them. "He was a good man, a good father. He really adored her. I'm sorry she'll never know him." "How did he die?" Mulder asked. "Some kind of virus got out at the lab where he worked." Jennifer scuffed up some more dirt, frowning at her shoes, now black and dusty. "Ebola or something like it. I didn't even get to bury him. They had to incinerate the bodies right there." "Ebola?" Mulder said, puzzled. "What was he doing working with that?" "I don't know. He wasn't allowed to talk about his work." "And what happened then?" Scully asked. "Then I went and did what all Indians do when we're freaked and can't handle the world. I took Amy and went back to the reservation. I followed the sheep around and tried to make some sense out of what had happened. That's when I found out who Paul had been working for." "And who was that?" Mulder prompted. "Some very bad men." Jennifer started walking again. "They found me up there, told me I had no legal right to Amy and they would take her away if I didn't come down off the land and do what they said." "And what did they want you to do?" "Go back to San Diego. They wanted to run some tests to make sure Paul hadn't somehow infected us with that virus. It was bad enough for me, but for Amy..." Jennifer stopped to wipe at her eyes with the back of her hand. "She was so little, you know? Just a year old. They had to take a sample of her bone marrow. You know how painful that is?" Scully's pinched expression said that she did, at least through her medical training. "Did they tell you why they needed that?" "They didn't tell me anything. They were horrible people in that place. Just poked and prodded and then said we were clean but not to leave San Diego." "Do you remember the doctor's name, or the clinic, by any chance?" "Someplace private. The doctor was Caldron or something like that. I always thought witch's kettle. Dineh are scared to death of witches, that's how I remember. He seemed nice on the surface, but he gave me the creeps. Like he was too nice. Like he wasn't real." Mulder caught Scully's glance, her signal to take over. She'd gone pale beneath the sunburn, gritting her teeth as if there was something she didn't want to say. Hang in there, he thought, hoping the message could be read in his eyes. She nodded as if she'd received it, and he turned his attention back to Jennifer. "So you stayed in San Diego?" "Yeah, I did. I mean, that's how scared I was." Jennifer looked at Mulder as if she now expected the sympathetic ear to be his. "They weren't just threatening to take Amy away, they were threatening to get the BIA on us, take away my grandmother's sheep, kick her off the land. You have to understand, that happens to people up there. My grandmother is a very traditional woman. She doesn't know anything else, she doesn't even speak English very well. You take away the sheep, you take away her life. I couldn't let them do that. And anyway, John's job was down there, so once we got married, it didn't really matter." "But you came back up here eventually?" "Yeah, about a year ago." "And no one gave you any trouble about that?" At last her fear rose to the surface. Whatever it was, he'd hit it at last. "John said I shouldn't tell you. He said I shouldn't have called you in the first place. He was so mad." "Tell us what?" "Last week, I came home with Amy from the daycare and there were some men in suits out at the house. John said they were business associates from back east. He said I should go up to the land for the weekend, that he'd be busy, so I did. I go up there whenever I can." "And when you came back?" "Nothing. Everything was fine. I didn't think anything about it until Amy disappeared." "These men that came to the house," Mulder asked. "Was one of them an older man, about 60, smoking cigarettes?" "No, they were about our age, both of them." Jennifer stopped to wipe her tears again. "Do you think those might be the people who took Amy? I mean, why would they do that?" It was Scully who pulled herself together enough to answer. "I don't know, Mrs. Wallace, but we're going to find out." "John thinks so. He said he had to go down to Phoenix for business, but I think he went to San Diego. I think he thinks he can find Amy himself." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 5 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> DELTA AIRLINES, FLIGHT 410 TO SAN DIEGO MARCH 4TH, 11:55 AM Scully was silent as they drove to the airport, silent while they waited for the plane, silent as they left the ground. In the tiny bathroom Mulder splashed cold water over his face, but he couldn't quite wash away the images playing out behind his eyes. Scully on another silent journey, mere hours after Emily's funeral, a statue staring at three thousand miles of sky. Scully in the doorway of her apartment taking her suitcase out of his hand, thanking him for bringing her home, wishing him a Happy New Year. Then the sound of her door closing softly, the locks clicking into place as he stood there, empty-handed, bereft. That was the problem with a mind like his. His whole life was stored in his memory like neatly catalogued video tapes. So many were labeled 'Scully'. So few were anything he could stand to watch twice. She had her eyes closed when he came back and he tried to settle himself with the least motion possible, doing his usual geometric formula and finding that once again there wasn't going to be enough room for his knees. "Sometimes it's good to be short," Scully murmured, without opening her eyes. She shifted her legs over towards the window, offering him the extra space. "Now you know why I like to drive everywhere," he said, stretching himself gratefully towards her. "I thought you just liked to be in control." He smiled at her effort to tease him, but she still had her eyes closed. "You faxed Skinner the report?" she asked. "Such as it was. Lots of words about nothing. I sent it through the field office. That should delay it a couple of days with plausible excuse." "Good." Her voice trailed off, as if she was about to fall asleep. Mulder pulled at his tie, glancing around, already bored. "Hey, Scully," he said softly. "Yeah?" "Why would they want Amy's bone marrow?" She finally deigned to open her eyes. "Are you asking for my scientific opinion?" There was an undertone to her voice that he didn't like, a reproach he didn't want to answer. All right, he thought, you tried to hand me the science on Gibson Praise and I wouldn't listen. That was months ago. Can we get over this now? "Of course," he answered in a deliberate monotone. She turned back to the window and sighed. "Bone marrow transplants are often used in therapy for acute leukemia." Her voice began to take on the slow, hypnotic quality he associated with Scully thinking out loud, thumbing through her mental textbooks as she spoke. Despite the content, there was something comforting about it, like the sound of his mother's voice reading bedtime stories when he was a child. "A transplant has the effect of stimulating the marrow to function properly. Hemolytic anemia resembles leukemia in the way the body fails to produce an adequate number of healthy red blood cells, so yes, it's very possible that they were using Amy's healthy marrow to treat the other girls. If they have the same DNA, there'd be little chance of rejection." "How long would the effects of a treatment like that last?" "It's hard to say. With leukemia it might induce remission for a few years, but there are a significant number of patients it cures. There are also a number it fails." "And it's painful?" "Very. That's probably why Roberta Sim wanted Emily's treatments stopped." She turned her head, catching the worry before he could wipe it from his face. "I'm not made of glass, Mulder. I can keep my personal feelings under control." Boy, do I know that, he thought, but he only gave her an encouraging nod. "Autoimmune diseases are usually caused by a virus invading the lymphocytes in the blood stream," she continued, looking back out the window. Safety in the only distance at hand, he supposed, crammed in as they were. "The virus causes the immune system to create antibodies that destroy the body's own tissue." "That sounds evil." "It's more common than you think. Multiple sclerosis, lupus erythematosis, infectious mononucleosis -- those are all autoimmune diseases. In autoimmune hemolytic anemia the antibodies attack red blood cells. Since red blood cells also carry oxygen, in its acute stage the surrounding tissue is deprived of oxygen, which leaves it open to infection by anaerobic bacteria -- bacteria which live in low- oxygen environments. The infection spreads, causing necrosis. In other words, the tissue turns gangrenous and dies. Since the disease is also an immune system failure, the infection can become fatal within 24 hours." Mulder shivered involuntarily. Scully didn't seem to notice his reaction, for which he was grateful. "The use of bone marrow transplants makes medical sense up to a point, but then I'm not sure how they'd be able to extract enough marrow from a year-old baby to treat four others. Marshall Sim said Emily needed daily injections. They may have been able to synthesize something from the marrow donation that kept those antibodies from forming. Or maybe Emily was one case where the transplant failed and they were trying other methods." "So, if the girls are getting sick again," Mulder summed up, "that would explain why they need Amy badly enough to take her." Scully nodded. "Maybe the remission is over." "But if they're using human bone marrow to counteract the effects of an alien virus--" "Mulder, I'm a pathologist," she interrupted sharply. "I can assure you that however it was induced, this is a very human illness. Incurable and inevitably fatal. That's what I know." She turned away from him, folding her arms and settling herself as if she was going to sleep with her head against the window. Mulder stared hard at his tray table, still neatly fastened in its upright position. "Any preference where to start when we land?" he finally asked. It took her so long to answer he was beginning to think she was ignoring him. "I think I have an idea." Her voice was soft with conciliation, but he was too tired of being snapped at to simply accept it and move on. "Fine. It's your call. Wake me when we're there." He closed his own eyes, and they spent the rest of the flight in silence. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SAN DIEGO POLICE DEPARTMENT, SOUTHEASTERN DIVISION MARCH 4TH, 3:18 PM "Scully FBI. I don't believe it." He came out of his glass-walled office, shaking his head. "Detective Kresge," she replied, reaching out to shake his offered hand. "This is my partner, Fox Mulder. I don't think you two ever properly met." "Fox?" The corners of Kresge's eyes wrinkled up. "Mulder," he said quickly, taking his turn at shaking the detective's hand. "Mulder," Kresge affirmed. His smile grew wider as he turned back to Scully. "So. To what do I owe the pleasure this year? Email messages from heaven.com?" Scully felt the smile that had so briefly warmed her cheeks fading. Kresge saw it and immediately raised his hands. "Foot. Mouth. Sorry. You're here on business, I take it. What can I do to help?" She glanced up at Mulder, who still had the closed expression he'd worn on the plane. "Could we speak somewhere else?" she asked the detective. Kresge nodded. "Sure. I know a good greasy spoon. Let's go get some caffeine and talk." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> HOT POT COFFEE SHOP, SAN DIEGO MARCH 4TH, 3:30PM The two men watched Scully make her way through the empty diner, towards the rest rooms in the back. "Bad year?" the detective asked. "Why do you say that?" Kresge tilted his chin in the direction Scully had taken. "She looks worn. You both do." Mulder shifted uncomfortably. "It's a bad case," he finally said. The waitress came by and Mulder ordered coffee for Scully and an iced tea with lemon for himself. Kresge began again as soon as the waitress was gone. "I'm assuming this relates to the Sim case, or you two wouldn't be here." Mulder narrowed his eyes. "We met last year. Do you remember?" "I thought you looked familiar." "You shot a man in an old age home. He was...carrying something that made you sick." Kresge's grimace said he hadn't forgotten the incident, so much as shoved it to the back of his mind and buried it under a ton of unfiled paperwork. He'd probably had some interesting explaining to do, trying to explain to his superiors how he'd managed to be exposed to some unidentifiable pathogen that had caused instant and near-fatal clotting of his entire vascular system. Fun, too, as Mulder remembered from his own exposure, was waking up in the hospital with every cell on fire and no clear memory of what had happened to him. "So what does your case have to do with the Sims?" "There was a child, a little girl about three." "I remember." Kresge was all attention now, his right forefinger tracing an unconscious pattern on the table as if taking notes. Mulder studied the man carefully. Scully had said he could be trusted, that he was open-minded enough to pursue a line of investigation even when it veered off into the impossible. The resources of the San Diego field office were open to them, but they had both agreed that to make their presence known there might be dangerous, and not only to themselves. Without some official liaison they would be cut off. No backup, no access. They needed this guy, whether Mulder liked it or not. The waitress brought their coffee and Mulder wished Scully would hurry. She didn't normally linger. "And?" Kresge prompted. "We've uncovered evidence that Emily Sim may have had...siblings. One of whom has since disappeared." He poured a packet of sugar into his tea, stirring it intently. Kresge shook his head. "I'm missing something." Mulder sat back, feeling he had somehow failed a very important examination. "I'm homicide," the detective continued. "I'm not child abduction. And as far as I know, you guys have got your own office right downtown. So why are you here?" "We believe the girl may have been brought to San Diego." "That still doesn't tell me why you're talking to me about it. I doubt I made such an impression on Agent Scully that she was looking for an excuse to see me again." Far back in the shadows of the diner, Mulder saw his partner exit the bathroom, looking noticeably fresher. Thank whatever for small favors. The case was personal to her, better she should answer Kresge's questions. Mulder didn't feel like getting his head handed to him again. "You've already seen some of the more, um, unusual elements of this case. Agent Scully feels you can be trusted. She doesn't trust a lot of people, so that's quite a compliment." "Consider me flattered. But my question isn't answered." "Favor to a friend?" Mulder stood to let Scully slide into the booth, cutting off any questions Kresge might have wanted to ask about what favor or whose friend. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> The briefing was not long, but it was still a relief when Mulder roused himself and finally took over. Despite the coffee, Scully was becoming foggy with drowsiness, not capable of discerning which facts to share, which to withhold. It was good to see Mulder playing the circumspect partner, the one citing scientific evidence, careful not to introduce theories built out of nothing more than a hunch. At a better time, it might have made her smile to know that he had learned this from her. Some days she really missed the bright-eyed young agent who told everything he knew, no matter how ridiculous it made him sound. That Mulder had been far closer to insanity than the man who now sat beside her, but his passion had been exhilarating, as inescapable as a fast- running river. Once having ventured into it she had found herself pulled along, bashed sometimes upon the hidden rocks, but more often riding high on the current, thrilled and frightened, more alive than she had ever been. Who could have foreseen the hidden waterfall, the tumble to oblivion, a memory so unbearable she didn't dare allow it to surface? And though she floated now upon a calmer river, she was cold and exhausted, unable to pull herself to shore even on the days when she could see it. Mulder nudged her and she realized she'd blanked out in the middle of the conversation. "I'm sorry," she muttered, reaching for her coffee. "What were you saying?" "I want to take a ride to Chula Vista, where Prangen was," he repeated. "See what's going on there now." Scully nodded, fighting a wave of weariness. "I'd like to go down to City Hall before it closes, see what I can dig up on Wallace and Mason." "You won't get much done now. Why don't you get us a motel and you can sleep for a couple of hours?" Mulder suggested. "I'll meet you later." "There's a place not far from the station we use when we need to put people up," Kresge added, smiling at her like a parent trying to trick a child into doing something unwanted. "Fine," she answered sharply. "I'll trust you to arrange that while I'm downtown." The two men exchanged glances, increasing her sense of outrage. She might be tired, but she had no need to be babied. Scully gathered the anger close, letting it energize her, grateful to anything that might keep her going right now. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PRANGEN PHARMACEUTICALS, CHULA VISTA MARCH 4TH, 4:52 PM The building itself was no different from the year before, still a nice-looking office complex in a leafy industrial park. Chula Vista, according to Kresge, who seemed to know his local history well, was attempting to become the Silicon Valley of biotech. In the same park as Prangen, there was a small company handling computer programming for high-throughput screening, and another lab involved in the genetic engineering of garbage-eating bacteria, among other fun pursuits. Mulder entered the building, noting the lack of lobby security with interest. Just a desk with a couple of guards who nodded and let him pass. He had a brief moment of worry that someone might recognize him as the lunatic who had threatened that poor Dr. Calderon with a gun the year before, but no one did. A brass and ebony plaque by the elevator listed office locations for Prangen's star personnel. Aaron Hatch, the Director of Research, had his offices at the back of the 5th floor. Much like Skinner, Mulder mused, arriving off the elevator, though Hatch's secretary looked more decorative than useful. Mulder smiled his best ladykiller smile and asked if Mr. Hatch was free that afternoon. His ladykiller smile had obviously grown rusty with lack of use. Either that or he'd forgotten that while smart was sexy, there was equal opportunity for sexy to be smart. Hatch's secretary gave him a singularly unimpressed glare and took her sweet time fishing a black leather appointment book out of her top drawer and turning to the correct page. "Sorry. Mr. Hatch is booked solid today. You'll need to make an appointment." She held the pen expectantly. Mulder tried the smile at less wattage. "It will only take five minutes of his time. I'll just wait." "We don't tolerate salesman," the woman informed him, already picking up the phone. "I'm not selling anything. Honest." His look of hangdog worry seemed to work best of all and Mulder filed that information away in case he needed to deal with the woman again. "It's a private matter. I don't mind waiting, but I do need to speak to Mr. Hatch today." "Mr. Hatch sees no one without an appointment, but if you want to waste your time, go ahead and wait." The woman gestured to a seat with a wave of disdain. Mulder thanked her and settled himself in one of the expensive leather chairs. What he was waiting for, he was not quite sure. This was one of those by-the-seat-of-his-pants situations. Until Scully came up with some solid leads to investigate, the seat of his pants would just have to do. He thumbed through a brochure listing Prangen's marketable products, a couple of Pharmaceutical Worlds and a ratty People magazine from 1997 before he was finally joined by a small group of older Japanese businessmen. The men bowed as if apologizing for interrupting his vigil, seating themselves with polite formality. Ten minutes later a fifth Japanese man arrived, the same age but American-born by his more casual demeanor, and obviously no stranger to the premises. He passed a few words of easy greeting with the secretary, welcomed the other men in a more traditional manner, and within a minute and a half the group had been neatly ushered through the inner door. The whole thing had the precision of a theatrical event. A moment later the secretary's intercom buzzed, and she bustled out of the office, giving Mulder a glare that threatened dire consequences if he touched anything he should not. Mulder took his chance, sidling up to the desk and flipping the appointment book open again. 'Hirotake,' said the square for March 4th at 5pm. Beneath it, in a slightly looser hand, were the words 'A.K. to tr.' Mulder glanced at the corridor, held his breath and quickly flipped through the secretary's Rolodex. Bingo. Before the secretary returned, Mulder had memorized the address and phone number of one Akira Kogawa, certified scientific translator, and pocketed the Prangen catalogue. Of course, he thought, slipping out of the office and down the fire stairs, he had no way of knowing if any of this was useful information. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SDPD SOUTHEASTERN DIVISION MARCH 4TH, 10:03 PM "Hey. Scully FBI." Scully looked up from her work, her bleary eyes taking a long moment to change their focus. She hadn't seen Kresge since he'd installed her at this desk, a good three hours ago. She'd actually assumed he'd gone home. "You doing okay with this setup?" He gestured to the temporary work station he'd allocated the agents -- two desks side by side behind a shoulder-high screen and an old 486 Dell that was at least hooked up to the department's network. "It's perfect," she acknowledged. "Thanks." "No problem. Let me know if there's anything else you need." He picked up the photograph she had propped against the computer monitor. "That's the Sim kid, isn't it?" "No. That's Amy Wallace, the little girl we're looking for." "Twins?" Scully hesitated a moment before answering. "Possibly quintuplets." The information plowed furrows across Kresge's forehead as he tried to process it. He returned the photo to its place against the monitor, tapping it with a thoughtful finger. "Why do I get the feeling there's a lot more to this than you let on before?" She sighed. "Probably because there is. But even we aren't certain what it is at the moment." Kresge pulled the chair from Mulder's empty desk and sat beside her, turning it around to lean his folded arms on the backrest. His gaze had a force to it that made her nervous, yet the feeling wasn't unpleasant. Scully tried not to look at the picture of Amy Wallace, tried not to notice Kresge's scrutiny, tried to process some piece of information from the papers before her, but she couldn't. She was suddenly aware of him the way she was sometimes aware of Mulder, a stirring of interest brought on by an instinctive animal reaction to his maleness, his proximity. "Hey, Scully," he growled, almost in her ear. "Don't you ever call it quits?" She made a conscious effort not to draw back or bristle. "What do you mean?" He leaned back, gesturing to the half-empty police station, and her awareness of him faded to an ordinary, more comfortable level. "It's ten o'clock. You planning to work all night, or just until Mulder gets back?" "Oh." She looked around, suddenly aware of the tension in her neck and shoulders, the dry ache behind her eyes. "I didn't realize..." Her voice trailed off as he drew near again, close enough that she could smell the last traces of whatever aftershave he'd slapped on his face that morning. "Come on, Scully," He gave her a one-sided smile that reminded her of Mulder's trust-me grin. "Let me take you to dinner." "That's okay. I'm fine." "I didn't ask if you were fine. I asked if I could take you to dinner." She blinked at him through her glasses, too surprised to answer. Dinner as what, she wondered. Colleagues on a case? Or...something else? He stood up, breaking the mood, changing it into something lighter. "Come on, you must be hungry. I know a nice place around the corner. I don't get much chance to charge a good meal to the SDPD so don't deprive me of the pleasure." "Mulder--" "Call him, tell him where to meet us." She removed her glasses slowly, glancing at the papers spread all over the desk. Colleagues, then. She felt a slight twinge of disappointment, which she immediately dismissed as inappropriate. And she was actually hungry, now that he'd mentioned food. He picked up her cell phone. "Let me guess. Speed dial one?" He hit the button, a brief spark lighting his features as the name MULDER appeared in the window. She held out her hand for the phone, but instead, he locked his eyes on hers and put it to his own ear. I dare you, his expression said. She felt her cheeks growing warm and realized to her annoyance that she was blushing like a girl. Kresge's smile deepened. Damn it, was there anything he didn't notice? "Mulder? Kresge here. I'm gonna take Scully to get some food. You wanna join us?" See? she told herself. No big deal, nothing to blush about. "Sure," he grinned. "She's right here." Scully was grateful to see that her hand remained steady as she held it out for the phone. "Yeah, Mulder?" "Did you find anything?" His voice sounded tinny and faraway, like an echo from one of her dreams. "Nothing urgent." "Okay," he answered. "I may be on to something. I'll check in with you later." "Where are you?" Dimly, she heard noise in the background, a low level of chatter which suggested that it was a public place. "Better not to say." "Mulder." She lowered her voice to barely audible. "Mulder, you're not about to do something dangerous, are you?" He made a noise that sounded vaguely annoyed. "Nothing like that, Scully. Just some good old fashioned surveillance." He clicked off and she was left standing with the dead phone in her hand, and Kresge's too-sharp eyes searching her face. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 6 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> LA GRANDE JATTE MARCH 4TH, 10:49 PM Kresge had been trying all night to get Scully to relax -- refilling her wine glass every time it went below the halfway mark, cracking what he'd thought were charmingly awful cop and lawyer jokes. By the second bottle her face had lost ten years and his joke barrel was almost empty, but he still could not get her to laugh. She had smiled a few times, that was all, smiles that should have lit up the room, but didn't. His squab en brochette was starting to grow cold, and he shifted his concentration there, filling his stomach instead of the silence. "You know," she said, at last. "I think I've forgotten how to do this." He lifted his head, fork halfway to his mouth. "What? Eat?" "In fancy restaurants with strangers." "Hey, I'm not that strange. And my fingerprints are on file." She dropped her head to hide another tiny, close-mouthed grin. "It's okay. I don't get out much either," he said, picking up his wineglass and raising it to her. "So, thanks for making me feel human for an hour." She looked back at him with an odd expression. "Something about the work, don't you find?" He gestured at the hushed, elegant room, the people in expensive clothing murmuring at tables set with crystal and china, their faces lit by long white candles. "Sets you apart from this kind of thing." Her eyes followed his gesture. "It's pretty much greasy spoons or takeout at the motel with crime scene photographs spread all over the table," she admitted. "Well, if it would make you feel more at home, I'd be happy to run back to the station and find something suitably gruesome for you to look at." Her smile grew a little bit wider. "I think I could get through a meal without that, thanks." She lowered her head again, the smile fading as her eyes drifted to the cell phone lying on the table between them. "Worried about Mulder?" Scully gave up chasing her scampi and sipped at her wine. "Mulder has a knack of getting himself in trouble," she answered, putting the glass down with careful precision. "Sometimes no news is good news, sometimes it's not." "You and he, do you work well together?" "Are you trying to interrogate me, Detective Kresge?" Her tone was not exactly angry, but not quite joking either. "I'm just curious. Tell me about yourself. Who is Scully FBI when she's at home?" She shrugged. "Someone who curls up on the couch with a book, I guess. I don't really have that much time off." "Not involved with anyone?" She looked at him a long, cool moment before she finally answered, "No." He changed direction, sensing he had just stumbled into sensitive territory. "How long have you and Mulder been partners?' "About six years." "Ah. That explains a lot." She cocked an eyebrow at him, an expression that made him feel as if he were standing on a frozen pond and had suddenly felt the ice crack beneath his feet. "This job requires that we close off our normal human response to certain stimuli," he explained, carefully watching her face. "That we become hardened to other people's blood and misery, that we spend our days swimming in things that most people only see on a movie screen. I don't need to tell you how different a crime scene looks when you take away the background music and add smell-o-vision." "No, you don't." "It does something to us. Separates us from the rest of the world, makes it hard to relate to anyone else. That's probably even more true for the women." She leaned away from him, looking as if she had picked up a scent she didn't like. "I'm not one of those cops that think women don't belong on the force," he quickly amended. "The opposite, actually. I think women bring a kind of compassion to the job that's sadly lacking in a lot of the men, especially after they've been around for fifteen, twenty years. And male/female teams are much better in terms of dealing with the public. I just think psychologically, it's difficult to balance the kind of intensity that's normal for a police partnership with the fact that we're socialized to pair off as couples. It tends to get very proprietary, especially on the part of the male partner." "I'm going to assume that you're speaking from your own experience." "Yeah," he managed to answer, after a moment. "Yeah, I suppose I am." Her expression changed, told him he was once again standing on solid ground. "I didn't know you had a female partner. I don't think we ever met." Kresge backed carefully away from the subject he had so stupidly broached. "My previous partner. I have a male partner now. Barney." She smiled a little at that. "Well, for his sake, I hope his last name isn't Miller." He breathed a small sigh of relief, feeling the conversation move safely past the dangerous topic of Elizabeth. "No, but he is kind of a big, sloppy guy and he hates his name, so we bought him a Barney dinosaur for his birthday. I guess that could have been mean, but he really likes the damn thing. Keeps it taped to the top of his computer and bangs it in the nose when he gets pissed off. He says it keeps him from tangling with the chief." She laughed out loud. "Maybe I should buy Mulder a stuffed fox." "Jesus, Scully," he blurted, the total change in her throwing him off guard. "You gotta laugh a little more. That's gorgeous." The light immediately faded from her face. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." "No. No, you didn't." She reached for her wine and he saw the liquid trembling in the glass. Just like Elizabeth. He had never been able to say that sort of thing to her either -- she would either tell him he was full of shit, or get so flustered she'd drop whatever was in her hands. The first time he told her she was beautiful, she'd spilled an entire bottle of champagne in his bed. He picked at the tiny bird on his plate, giving Scully time to recover. Giving himself a moment to get the image of Elizabeth out of his mind. That time, those extraordinary last eight months of their partnership, was something to think about alone in the dark, if at all. Never when anyone else could see his face and ask him what was wrong. When he finally looked up, Scully's forehead was once again drawn down in the tired, somber lines he'd seen earlier that day. They were a pair, really, a couple of aging workaholics so out of the loop of ordinary social interaction that they couldn't even remember how to make a little pleasant small talk. Three, if he included Mulder, and by the disconnected, solitary air the guy projected, he probably should. And his own partner while he was at it. Barney, who cried drunk on his shoulder one night because he was forty-five years old and no woman had ever loved him. At least Kresge would never have to cry over that. He might cry for Elizabeth till the day he died, but at least he could say that once in his life he had been truly loved. "I should go," Scully was saying, reaching for her phone. "It's almost midnight." "Do we turn into pumpkins?" She looked up at him, her gaze steady now, inscrutable. He tried to keep his tone light. "Stay awhile. At least finish your food." "I'm here on a case," she said quietly. "I still have work to do." "I know." He picked up the wine and filled their glasses again, setting the now-empty bottle to the side. "But sometimes forgetting that for a couple of hours is the best thing to clear your mind. Helps you see something you might be missing." Unless, he thought, catching a flash of regret before she wiped it off her face, what you might be missing is the last thing you want to see. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> MOTOR INN MOTEL MARCH 5TH, 12:32 AM Scully put on her pajamas, brushed her teeth, washed her face. Everything in order. Everything as always. She leaned over the sink and stared at her face in the mirror, almost expecting to see her sister appear behind her, as Melissa always had until she dropped out of college and moved away from home. Tell me about your date, she'd say, perching on the side of the tub, and invariably the answer would be, it wasn't a date. We just went to a movie, out for coffee, worked late in the lab. How could she explain the lack of interest to her sister, when she could hardly explain it to herself? She was a tomboy, a science geek, she'd always been surrounded by boys. She was one of them. Of course they wouldn't date. Sure, she could do what her sister did, hang around in the bars off- base or flirt with the midshipmen from the Academy. As Missy liked to say, the pickings in Annapolis were pretty damn good. She could, but she never enjoyed it when she did. Flirting was too close to lying for her tastes, and she wasn't interested in a quick fuck in the back seat of someone's car. She wanted something real. She'd been in her last year of college when she realized that nothing had changed since high school. That the men she found attractive would be like the boys, looking over her head for someone sexier, livelier, more daring. Someone like Melissa. The ones that did look at her were somehow never right. That was the year she stopped going on dates, put her head in her books and set her sights on getting into medical school. The years went by, her sister went through one disastrous relationship after another, and most of time Scully was grateful to be made the way she was. Whatever need drove Melissa in and out of people's beds, Scully didn't seem to have it. Didn't want it. She didn't have time to waste on brief, mad, passionate affairs that would leave her in tears for weeks. She wanted someone to love, something that would last, and she'd always been a patient creature. The man would appear, and until he did, she had other things to accomplish. She was twenty-six years old, in the last year of her residency at Johns Hopkins, when he finally showed up. If that was love, it was terrifying. Nothing she ever wanted to have happen again. She had never imagined that she could want anyone so much that she would consider destroying two other lives to have him. She had never given so much of herself to any man, never let anyone else get that close. All but for the final act, the one she would not allow, knowing that the moment she let him inside her she would lose her last vestige of control. She had never told Melissa. Melissa would have encouraged her to go for it, married or not. Love is all you need. Love conquers all. Scully imagined how she would have felt at twelve if her father left for another woman and knew that love was no excuse. If she did that to Daniel's daughter she would never forgive herself. The FBI's recruitment offer came as both her residency and her strength to resist were running out. As if God himself had stepped in to show her there was another path she could choose, one in which she was no one's other woman, one where the work would be perfectly suited to her interests and skills. She grabbed the offer with both hands, and fled Baltimore with Daniel's fury burning in her ears. It was a decision she would never regret, but it was almost ten years ago now. If she was truly the kind of person who would have only one great love -- as she had always believed she was -- did that mean she had already had it? There had been one more try, one relationship, right after Daniel. If she thought about it now, she could see that Jack had been her attempt to recreate Daniel without the wife and child. Without the overwhelming passion. She had never tried to fool herself into thinking it was love, but she had enjoyed his company, and she was no longer the naive girl waiting for her great romance. After eight months of dinners and movies and chaste doorway kisses, she'd finally gotten tired of his chivalry and thrown herself at him. It was when she nuzzled her lips against his ear and whispered 'take me to bed' that he finally told her he considered her a friend. That sleeping with her would not be honest. Scully closed her eyes as the old shame washed over her, fresh as blood from a new wound. Of course they had stayed friends. It had been her way of saving face. But there were no more nights with Jack sipping wine on her couch, talking about everything from classic Hitchcock to new genome mapping procedures. She spent her evenings studying forensics journals, preparing lessons. Learning how to teach the skills she herself had only recently acquired. She had not been happy, but she had not been miserable either. She'd still been young enough to believe that in time someone else would reach through whatever it was that kept everyone so distant and capture her attention. Until then she had her work, her family, her friends. It was enough. She'd made sure it was enough. Then she was assigned to the X-Files and her world had grown increasingly narrow. Narrowed down to one single thing: Fox Mulder and his impossible, all-consuming quest. Scully turned on the tap and splashed cold water on her face, as if she could wash away that thought. She would not allow herself to think of Mulder when she was feeling like this. She cared for him too much to jump on him in a frenzy of loneliness. The woman she saw when she lifted her head was a distorted image of the one she normally managed to present. Distraught and haggard, water dripping from her chin. Scully dragged her pajama top over her head and twisted around, looking at her back in the mirror. The tattoo was still there. She hardly ever looked at it, as if not looking could make it disappear. She'd done that in a mood much like this. Perhaps she'd hoped the tattoo would bring out something in her that was unpredictable and wild, would remind her that there was still a desirable woman hidden beneath the pale gaze and the conservative suits. Instead, she got what she deserved, just as the Russian tattooist had promised. A snake swallowing its own tail. A closed, empty circle. I didn't want this, she thought. I didn't expect this. It just happened. She caught a glimspe of the other side of her back, the scar of the bullet's exit, and the familiar fist pressed up into her throat. This time she didn't try to swallow it away. She wanted to cry, now, while he wasn't around to hear. Then she would sleep and in the morning Mulder would be back and she'd be clear again, ready to work. In the morning there would be a lead and she would find it. Scully put her top back on and lay down, waiting for the first tears to emerge. Nothing happened. She simply lay there, listening for the sound of a key in Mulder's door, for his familiar footsteps telling her that he was okay. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Beneath the blinding light she watched the needle enter her arm, the anonymous gloved hand slowly pushing the plunger down. Liquid fire ran into her veins. She was lifted from the gurney, her head falling back and back and back and she tried to cry out but she could not make a sound. She was Ophelia drowned, the Lady of Shalott in her barge, words passing overhead like arched willows as she floated beneath them, the language a pattern of soft sounds she could not make out. Images began to come and go, fragments of her childhood, the sea running through her fingers, the smell of her mother's neck. She felt the life moving inside her swollen belly, anxious now, restless. The barge stopped and her legs were spread wide, shoved back, locked into the stirrups. --no ohgod ohgod ohgod-- don't scream just don't scream just don't water in her nose in her mouth and her father you can float -Mulder float dana float --stop, please no-- though i walk through the valley of there something's there something's inside something MONSTROUS -NO! --I can't float I can't float daddy please I can't-- girl there's my girl there's my good floating waves and it's up and it's down and it's PAIN and it's PAIN and it's -Mulder, where are you? the shadow of death i will fear no scream don't scream no she opens her lungs and the water comes burning her nose and her throat and she's going to die and she doesn't want to die and she wants to go home she wants evilforthouartwithme --stop it stop it stop it PLEASE-- "It's a dream. Scully, you're dreaming. Listen to me." -MULDER! "Scully, wake up. You're having a dream and you need to wake up." "Mulder!" "I'm here, I'm here. Scully, please, wake up." She opened her eyes and he was there and she buried her face in his neck and breathed in long desperate gulps of him. "Mulder," she choked. "Mulder." "Shh, it's okay." He rocked her slowly, back and forth, back and forth. "It was only a dream." "Oh god, I thought you'd never come." "I'm here," he repeated and she realized that he really was there, that she had spoken out loud. "I'm sorry," she whispered, shivering as she made herself let go of his warmth. "Shh." He pulled the covers down and slid in beside her, nudging her onto her side, her back to him. He slipped one arm under her neck and wrapped the other around her waist, shifting and wiggling until he had settled her firmly in the curve of his body. "Mulder..." "Don't worry, Scully. I can be a good boy." She closed her eyes and caught her answer between her teeth. What if I don't want to be a good girl? "Okay?" he mumbled, into her hair. She nodded. It was strange to have him in her bed. Strange, and yet as familiar as having him standing behind her, touching her waist, guarding her back. "Try to sleep again." He stroked her stomach lightly, once, twice, then let his hand rest. She wasn't sure, but it felt like he'd just placed the softest of kisses on the back of her head. What would he would do if she moved his hand, placed it somewhere else? She would never dare. It was enough to be held. Tonight she didn't have the strength to pretend she didn't need that. Tonight she was beyond exhaustion, beyond professional ethics, beyond anything but sinking into the warmth that was Mulder and feeling absurdly grateful for his insistence on being there. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 7 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> MOTOR INN MOTEL MARCH 5TH, 5:42 AM He woke to Scully's head resting heavy in the hollow of his shoulder. In sleep she had fitted herself to him like a lover; one arm flung across his chest, one knee drawn up over his abdomen, her body pressed along his side. Mulder could not feel pleasure at having her so close. This was not Scully giving herself to him at last. This was a drowning woman, clutching at the only life preserver she had left. She woke and the limbs draped comfortably over his body grew lighter, stiffened. He felt her breath cease beneath his arm, felt her heart speed up against his ribs. He stayed absolutely still, and finally she began to breathe again. Relief coursed through him. He'd expected her to pull away, but she seemed content to stay where she was, warm and close, her body slowly softening as she fell asleep again. He held her until the tenderness he always tried to hold at bay threatened to break free. He didn't dare let it. Touch her with that in his hands and Scully would put a wall between them so thick that he would never be able to breach it again. She woke as he slipped out of bed, blinking up at him with heavy, trusting eyes. The desire to kiss her was almost more than he could stand. "Sleep," he said, moving to a safer distance. "I'm going for a run. I'll wake you when I get back." She mumbled a reply and curled up on her side, hands tucked beneath her chin, her lips softly parting as her face smoothed out. Outside, the air was damp and cold, his favorite weather for a good run. Mulder loved the muffled quality of a misty dawn, the acute, familiar loneliness of running through quiet streets, watching the world prepare for its day. He stretched quickly, bounced a couple of times on his toes and began a leisurely jog. One foot after the other, he pounded through the first hideous half mile until his muscles lost the stiffness of sleep and began to flex and contract with ease. His breathing fell into a comfortable, steady rhythm and he set his autopilot to watch for cars, letting his mind drift free. Of course, it immediately drifted back to Scully. He wasn't going to fool himself about what had happened that morning. It was an intimacy born of familiarity and need. And trust. Scully trusted him not to misunderstand, not to misinterpret her actions according to his own wishful dreams. She should not be on this case, she should not be in the field, he should have seen this coming, he should have seen she was not well. Mulder pounded down the pavement, picking up speed as if chased by the litany of guilt. Screaming his name like that, she had sounded exactly as she had on his answering machine the night Duane Barry broke into her apartment. That was a sound he'd never wanted to hear again. Nervous breakdown, memories rising to the surface, post-traumatic stress from any number of long-suppressed events. The psychological explanations were only slightly more bearable than the physical ones, all of which ended in one word: cancer. If the tumor was back, if it was pressing on her brain, it could be inducing not just the nightmares, but the blackouts back in Arizona. It might also explain her odd behavior the last few weeks, the edginess and abrupt mood swings. It wasn't like Scully to be so easily distracted, fading in and out of conversations as if listening to something else. Mulder stopped dead in his tracks. It suddenly occurred to him that whatever was going on inside Scully's head might be neither emotional nor organic. It might be the goddamn chip waking up again. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Scully was still asleep when he got back to the motel, looking so peaceful he decided not to disturb her. He showered and changed in his own room, scribbled a note and left for the station. He and Kresge were bent over the Prangen catalog, comparing the drugs they manufactured with a list of current clinical trials, when Scully finally appeared. Mulder smiled, reviewing the last picture his mind had taken of his partner -- snoring softly into the pillows, her hair a tangle of red around her sunburnt, freckled cheeks. It pleased him to think that no one but he knew what she looked like so unguarded, no one but he was allowed to see her secret face. She was her public self now, suit carefully pressed, hair smoothed and sprayed into place. Even the sunburn, by an act of will and clever makeup, seemed to have faded. Her gaze roamed the area, but her expression remained detached until she saw him. Her eyes sparked. Mulder doubted that anyone else would notice the subtle change in her -- the slight heightening of color, the infinitesimal bounce to her step as she made her way through the obstacle course of haphazardly arranged desks. "Scully FBI. How nice of you to join us," Kresge teased as she came to stand before them. She lowered her head, a shy smile gracing her lips. With a sickening lurch of his stomach, Mulder realized that she had never been looking at him. "Coffee?" the detective offered. "Yes," she said. "Thank you." "You won't thank me when you've tasted it." Kresge loped off, leaving the two agents standing in an awkward silence. "You look like you got some sleep," Mulder finally managed to say. She looked up at him in that way that made him feel a hundred gawky feet tall, her head slightly down with only her eyes raised to level their height difference. "Mulder, I--" She shook her head a little, as if clearing away something she didn't want to say. Here it comes, he thought. Denial. Anger. Leave it alone, Scully. I still respect you. I know you didn't really need me. He waited her out, surprised when she touched his arm instead. "Just...thanks." She took her place at her desk, still littered with the information she'd gathered the day before, leaving him nonplussed by that uncharacteristic display of tenderness. Finally, he took his place at his own desk, picked up Kresge's original casefile on the Sims and tried to absorb himself in it. There was nothing there he hadn't already seen. Most of the file recorded the history of Scully's tenacity, scribbled notes referring to her as 'FBI.' FBI insists autopsy, results attached. FBI observed possible suspects leaving prison. Went to see FBI at brother's home. FBI currently had her head down over her notes, looking like a student with her glasses hanging on the end of her nose and her hair tucked neatly behind her ears. He thought of the birthday celebration at the diner back in Flagstaff, the skinny intellectual nerd so like his own twenty-year-old self. He wondered what it would have been like to know Scully when they were that young, if it would have made any difference. Stupid thoughts, he chastised himself. He could rewind the tape, but he couldn't record his life again. Kresge came back and put a cup of the station's dreadful coffee down in front of each of them. He leaned over to Scully, whispered something in her ear, and she laughed. It was a laugh Mulder had not heard from her in years, a sweet, husky giggle. Kresge lifted his head and smiled at both of them. "I've got some paperwork to clear out, then I'm yours for a couple of days. Barring any really nasty murders, of course. I'll be in my office, so just holler if you need anything else." Mulder nodded, wishing the guy wouldn't be so damn congenial. It was hard to dislike someone who seemed to have a sincere desire to be helpful. Especially when he knew he should be grateful for the help. Scully's eyes followed Kresge as he walked away, then drifted down towards the coffee, studying it the way she would a doubtful piece of evidence. "You think it's a plot to kill us?" she asked. "Don't worry. They say you never taste the arsenic." She gave him one of her patented little noises, a single explosion of air. It was about the only kind of laugh he ever got out of her. "I'll meet you back here at five." He picked up the Sim file and the stuff from Prangen and walked away before she could see his face, before she could ask him why he was looking like he'd just lost his only friend. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Scully spent the afternoon downtown, finishing the background checks on Wallace and Mason, digging up whatever else she could manage to find. It wasn't much. The real adoption records weren't anywhere Frohike could hack, and without the names of the parents they were grasping at air. Kresge was bent over her desk when she came back, quite openly going through the papers she'd left. "Have you got a search warrant for that?" she asked, lightly elbowing him aside to get to her seat. He flashed that charming grin of his and perched himself on the edge of the desk. "Is this how you work? You and Mulder? He runs off and leaves you with the paperwork?" "Actually, it's a matter of choice. I like digging up facts, he likes to stick his hands in goo and get beaten up on occasion." Kresge looked towards the doorway. "So where is he?" She opened her laptop case and took out her notebook, tossing it on top of the stack. "We said five. He should be here any minute." Kresge pulled Mulder's chair over and spun it around, assuming his usual posture, leaning his arms on the back. "So what have we got?" Scully's mood dipped as she looked at the papers before her. "Well, I can't say I came up with much. In fact, the lack of records is the most conclusive piece of evidence I managed to turn up." "You think the names are false?" "One of these identities may be manufactured, yes, but I don't know how we can verify that. If it's the Witness Protection Program, those records require a security clearance to access, one I don't have. I might be able to get someone else to do it, but then I would have to explain why I need the information, and at the moment, that's too risky for a long shot. It might draw a kind of attention we're hoping to avoid." "From your own people?" She nodded, lifting her laptop out of its case, using her elbow to clear a space for it on the desk. Kresge stopped her from turning it on with a hand over hers. "Scully..." She slipped her hand out from beneath his, pretending she merely wanted to put the laptop case on the floor. Casual though it was, she found his touch unnerved her. "Just what the hell are we into?" Kresge continued, appearing not to have noticed her discomfort. "The usual stuff. Big, bad and dangerous. And very real, though to you it will probably sound ridiculous." "More ridiculous than getting tip-offs from the twilight zone?" Her head came up sharply, and he slid back in his chair. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "No more jokes." She sighed and removed her glasses from their case, settling them carefully on her sunburnt nose. "I told you the girls might be quintuplets. That's not all. We believe these children are the result of unlicensed medical experimentation. The one that's missing may have been taken in order to further the aims of the experiment." "That's what you think may have happened to Emily Sim?" Scully could feel herself immediately drawing together, as if preparing for a blow. "That may have been somewhat different." "Scully? I need to know, if I'm going to be any use on this." "Emily Sim died of an illness whose cause no one could fathom," she answered harshly. "It would appear that my intervention last year may have inadvertently caused her to be abandoned by a treatment program that was, in fact, keeping her alive." "I'm sure that whatever you did, you acted correctly based on the information you had." Scully lifted her head and made herself look him in the eyes. "I had all the necessary information. I just didn't want to believe that I had it." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Mulder entered the area, his steps slowing as he saw Kresge and Scully huddled together. The detective looked up, saw Mulder and patted Scully's shoulder. The face she turned to him had become entirely too familiar since the last time they were here. Eyes wide and glassy, lips held tightly together. A face that would tell him nothing, yet demand understanding. He never knew what to do for her when she looked like that. He waited until Kresge had gone into his office and Scully was alone, cleaning her glasses while her laptop booted up. "Starbucks' Special Blend," he said, putting a large coffee cup down in front of her. She murmured her thanks, apparently preoccupied with the information on her desk. "So what have we got?" Mulder shoved his chair right into her space, practically leaning up against her, something he hadn't done in years. To his relief, she didn't seem to mind. "Not a hell of a lot." Up close like this he could see how much makeup she'd put on that morning. It gave her skin a papery cast, the tiny lines around her eyes catching powder and something else, something that looked like rubbed-off mascara. He wanted to take her home and wash her face, wash it back to freckles and sunburn, the Scully that only he was allowed to know. "So, are we ready?" came a cheery voice to his left. Kresge drew a chair up to Scully's other side and smiled at Mulder over her bent head. Mulder made himself smile back. If Scully liked the guy, then he would like the guy. If the guy hurt her, Mulder would break him in half. Simple as that. "So," Scully began, apparently unaware that anything was going on in either man's head. "John Wallace is a very interesting man for someone who was never born or naturalized in the United States. At least, he wasn't born on the day he gave as his birthday on the police report that was filed when Amy disappeared." She leaned back in her chair, her voice assuming a slight sing-song quality as she recited from her notes. "Jennifer checked out, born in Tuba City Indian Health Hospital. No father listed. The mother was Christine Boy, she died of complications due to diabetes mellitus in 1973. I assume that the grandmother raised Jennifer from then. No birth certificate for the grandmother or the mother, but apparently that wasn't unusual for home births on the reservation at the time and they were on the rolls in Window Rock. Jennifer went to Flagstaff High, then Northern Arizona University, did well, graduated in 1991. BA in graphic design." Mulder picked up the photocopy of Jennifer's birth certificate. "Survey says?" he asked. "She's legit." Scully handed him Amy's folder. "John Wallace is not," she continued, "but who he is remains a mystery. I couldn't find a trace of him until 1986, when he appears to have been awarded a Masters of Science in biochemistry from UC San Diego. I say 'appears' because the degree is registered, but the university has no transcripts, no admissions records, and -- most important -- no thesis filed in their library." "Survey says nope," Mulder agreed, filing a page of notes written in her precise hand. "I could try to run a check on men born on the day he gave on the police report and see if that matches the death of any biochemists around 1986." "Too much pain, too little gain. What else?" "My theory would be that he knows where Amy is. The question then, is how do we find out what connections he has, when he doesn't appear to exist? I'd like to get Fr--" Mulder pressed her knee under the desk, getting her to come to a halt. "Um, your friend," she amended, "to see if he can connect Wallace to Sim in any way." Mulder nodded, throwing Kresge a glance. The detective had caught Scully's retrack, but obviously wasn't sure what to make of it. "What about the other girls?" Scully shook her head. "Couldn't get access. There probably is something on paper, but we're going to need a court order to get the adoption records open, and I don't think we're going to be able to prove pressing need. The courts are very meticulous when a young child is involved." "If the records are there, he'll find them," Mulder said confidently. "Well, that's just it, Mulder. There are no records. I've tried searching along every parameter I can think of. I can't come up with a real birth certificate filed under the adoptive last name, and there should be one. I can't even come up with Emily's death certificate. I know one was filed, but it doesn't appear." Mulder sat back and sighed. If he could erase some of his mental videotapes as easily as these men erased entire lives, he would be a happy, uncomplicated man. "So," he asked her, "what do you suggest?" "Obviously we need to identify the families of the other three girls. Even one might help us form the connections we need to pinpoint where Amy has been taken. The chances are good she's been brought to some kind of research facility, but there are dozens in the city." "Which, short of us bursting in..." Kresge offered. "I'd like to try to pursue this without ringing any bells," Scully answered. "Literally. I believe Amy is worth more to them alive than dead, so I don't think time is as important as caution. If they know we're close they might move her. Or hurt her, which might not have been their original intent." She pulled several sheets of printout from the pile and laid them before the two men. "Without any actual names, it's rough going, but we can try the low-tech version. I used San Diego County phone books, looked up everyone with the last name MacEntyre, Hampton or Jenkins, cross-checked them with the state birth and marriage records, and came up with these. There are nineteen males between the ages of 35 and 45, married, with one of those last names. It's a shot in the dark, but we might get lucky. We might get one." "We could drive by now," Kresge suggested. "Look for evidence of a young child living on the premises. No confrontation, just see if we can narrow down the possibilities." "Exactly." "I'll take the south side," Mulder said, reaching for the list. "I've got something else I want to check out down there." "Relating to what?" Scully asked. "The head of Prangen. I tailed him last night, but all I came up with was a meeting with some Japanese businessmen and dinner alone. Oh yeah, and the guy likes to read Agatha Christie in bed." Kresge looked from one agent to the other. "So?" "Yesterday I stumbled across an interesting name. Akira Kogawa. He's a translator used by chemical firms for contract negotiations with corporations in Japan. Lives in Chula Vista, not far from his main client, which just happens to be Prangen. I had a look at his house last night and I tell you, I'm going to quit the FBI and learn Japanese. The place is a palace. I got a couple of other addresses off our friend this afternoon, all in the same area. I'd like to drive by and see where these people hang out." "Okay, good," Scully nodded, finishing off the last of the Starbucks with an appreciative sigh. "If you're going south then I should do north. We've got a cluster of addresses out that way. If we split up it will cut down the time." It took Mulder a moment to realise that if Scully was headed north, Kresge would be supplying the transport. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 8 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Scully and Kresge rode through the darkened streets, cocooned in silence. The warm drowsy feeling she associated with sitting in the passenger seat while Mulder drove wasn't there, but the quiet between them felt comfortable enough. "Don't feel bad," Kresge said finally, glancing at her as they stopped for a light. "It was worth a try. And there are still a few left to check out." She nodded to show she'd heard. She didn't feel bad, so much as spent. "I hate to end a day no closer than when I started." "Maybe Mulder got lucky. And there was that one back on Mercado, looked like the people might have been away." They fell into silence again until he turned into the motel parking lot and pulled in a few spaces down from her room. "It was nice riding with you, Scully," he said as she was about to slip out of the car. 'Barney's a good guy, but I kind of miss the woman's touch.' Something in his voice sent a tiny shiver up her spine, a quality of sadness she recognized. She let go of the door handle, wanting to say something comforting, not knowing what. She leaned toward him. He met her halfway. His lips were soft and warm, undemanding. As kisses went, it was as sweet and chaste as a Catholic schoolgirl's first date. Beneath the surface, there was nothing chaste about it. They moved back at the same time, staring at each other. She wanted to lean forward again, saw in his eyes that he wanted to as well, just as she knew that they wouldn't. She pulled the door open and got out, shutting it quietly behind her, heart pounding as she walked away. Mulder was already back, the familiar sound of flipping channels greeting her through the inner doors as she let herself into her room. His side was wide open, his standard invitation. She kicked off her shoes and stuck her head through. Mulder was sprawled on top of the covers dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of sloppy, stretched-out sweatpants, remote in hand. "Any luck?" she asked. He rolled over and regarded her through sleepy eyes. "Two non- existent, one an office building, four tenants who didn't recognize the appropriate name, all but one having lived at that address for over five years. You?" "I thought we weren't going to ring any bells?" "Yeah, well, I was selling cable TV subscriptions, okay?" His hard, flat tone took her back a step. The way they'd been parked, she was sure he couldn't have seen what had just happened with Kresge, and anything else was beyond her capacity to decipher right now. "Okay," she answered. "I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning." "Hey, Scully." He swung his legs over the side of the bed and flipped on the lamp. "Why are we doing this by Kresge's book?" She deliberately raised an eyebrow to warning height. "Because it's his turf and we're hiding behind his badge?" "Do you really trust him?" His voice was suddenly dangerously soft, the tone he used to pry information from the reluctant. She tried to read his eyes, but couldn't. "Yes," she answered. "I do." "How much have you told him?" "Nothing he doesn't need to know." His eyes narrowed, searching her face. She let him look. "Is that it?" she asked, after a moment. "Cyrano de Bergerac is on AMC in five minutes. Jose Ferrer." Well, that was a 180 degree turn-around. She had two secret film addictions, '70s horror and Golden Age Hollywood, both of which he had no qualms about exploiting when they were on the road. He took one of the pillows from behind his back and placed it on the empty side of the bed with exaggerated care. "Come on, Scully, you know you love that film. I'll even let you hold the remote." Apologies, then, and his most persuasive look, just in case the apology wasn't enough. Scully felt a reluctant smile tugging at her cheeks. What was she supposed to do with this man? <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> MOTOR INN MOTEL MARCH 5TH, 11:58 PM She returned in pajamas and a fluffy white robe, her face scrubbed bare. Climbing on the bed, she sat with her knees drawn up, tucking only her bare feet under the blankets as if to signal she had stopped by for no more than a minute. Mulder watched her as the opening credits began. Scully's body posture made her look about sixteen, but the weary set of her face had nothing of the girl left in it. "I was thinking," he said as Roxane made her first appearance, oozing purity and sweetness. "You shouldn't do that after midnight, Mulder. It's dangerous." Her tone was easy, but her body told a different story. Scully was folded up tight now, arms wrapped around her legs, the blue light from the television turning her hair a strange shade of green. Mulder took a deep breath. "Maybe it would be a good idea if you stuck around for a while when we're finished. Go see your brother or something. You've certainly got enough vacation time coming." She didn't look at him. "Maybe I'll do that." Thunder rolled above them, a warning as ominous as the toneless quality of her voice. He turned his head as the rain began, turned back to see her face also raised, as if listening for something. He poked her lightly. "Isn't this the part where I get to check you for mosquito bites?" She gave him a fragment of a laugh. "God. I was so innocent." "You were adorable." He waited for her to take his head off for that, but she didn't. She just looked at him for a moment, her face unreadable in the darkness, then turned back to the television. Cyrano's pretty young cousin was now begging him to introduce her to the handsome soldier, Christian. "What did you think?" Scully asked softly. "The first time we met?" The question surprised him. "I thought...I think I thought god, she's short." Again he waited for fire and didn't get it. "What did you think?" he finally asked. She smiled without looking at him. "I thought...what a jerk." Mulder chuckled briefly. The light in the room reminded him of Scully standing in front of the slide projector that day, head high, holding her ground while he towered over her, poking, prodding, baiting. Yeah, he'd been a dick, but she'd been a snotty little know-it-all, her arrogance a match for his in every way. "So why did you stick with me?" She dropped her chin onto her knees and he knew she wouldn't answer. "I don't know why I like this story so much," she said at last. "Cyrano's a fool. He knew Roxane wanted a man with a sharp mind. He should have trusted her to love the rest." "She was in love with someone else." "No, she wasn't. The soul she loved was his. And he knew that." He looked over at her, but she was focused on the television, her features suddenly unfamiliar in the changing light. He couldn't tell if she was trying to say something to him, or if he was being a fool himself, reading a meaning into her words that she didn't intend. "He thought of himself as her friend," he said carefully. "Yes," she murmured, stretching her legs out in front of her and lying back on the pillow. "Yes, he was her friend." He kept his eyes on the TV, the tension stretching out until the entire room seemed to vibrate with it. "Maybe," he said at last. "Maybe the problem was that they were so close she never saw him." No answer. He looked over to find Scully asleep. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She woke with her head against someone's shoulder, her body tingling with remembered pain. Warning whispers kept her silent, while in the darkness a hand found her mouth, replaced itself with a cup of water. She drank, desperately thirsty. Not too fast, a soft voice murmured, close to her ear. -More. Her lips formed the word against the other's hand and must have been understood. Another cup pressed itself against her lips, the cool water spilling down her chin. -Where...? Shh. It's over for now. She thought she knew the woman's voice, remembered hearing it whispering encouragement as the pain took her over and paralyzed her other senses. We'll be here a while. Until they're ready. -Why can't I see you? Where am I? Again, the first voice. You're in the Place. You've been asleep for several days. She felt a feather touch around her eyes, careful fingers peeling something away. She shot bolt upright, gasping for air, as the light burned straight into her brain. "Scully?" Mulder. She was in a motel in San Diego, and it was dark and the voice was Mulder. Scully lay back, wiping the sweat from her face. Fine. Everything was fine. She was safe. She heard Mulder fumbling for the light and reached out a hand to stop him. "Leave it off. I'm okay." His hand came to cover hers. He lay back down, facing her, holding her hand clasped against his chest. The heavy curtains blocked out most of the light, leaving only the faint shadow of furniture. "Is this your room or mine?" she asked, the darkness saving her from feeling too foolish. "Mine. You fell asleep." "I should go back to my room," she mumbled, but Mulder made no effort to release her hand. "Scully, what do you dream?" he asked softly, his thumb tracing the hard bone of her knuckles. She couldn't tell him. It was the kind of thing Mulder would take upon himself. Swallow the blame then stare at her with eyes burning with guilt, the way he did whenever the subject of her abduction came up. He didn't need any more of that. Her nightmares were not something he could share. "I don't remember," she lied. She started to get up, but he caught her around the waist and pulled her towards him. "You don't have to go," he whispered against the side of her head. His warm, familiar presence seem to seep through her pores, drawing forth an unmistakable sense of arousal. Pheromones, she told herself. A perfectly normal physiological reaction. Mulder nudged her onto her side, curling up against her back the way he had the night before. Of course this was all he meant, to be her shield against the dreams. "Sleep well," he murmured, hugging her close, and the strangest thing of all was that she knew she would. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> MOTOR INN MOTEL MARCH 6TH, 7:10 AM Mulder woke to the muffled screech of his phone and had to beat his sleepy way through the pile of yesterday's clothes to find it. "It's Kresge. I've got something." "What?" "Just stay there, I'm on my way." Mulder clicked off as the inner doors opened. Scully stood before him, already showered and dressed, her mouth full of toothbrush and scary blue toothpaste. "Kresge," he said, saving her the trouble of asking. "He's on his way over." She made a face that said *here?* "He said he's got something." She regarded him for a moment, then shrugged and headed back to her room. Kresge arrived just as Mulder finished getting dressed. "Get this," the detective said as soon as he opened the door. He sounded as excited as a rookie. "Scully, you were right when you said the girls might be getting sick. I had someone phone all the hospitals in the county last night. A little girl fitting the description died at Children's Hospital three days ago. Denise Hampton. I got an address from her admission records. It's one of the ones we didn't get to check out last night." "Did they tell you what she died of?" Scully asked. Mulder shot her a look, but she seemed perfectly calm, almost uninterested. Kresge gave them both a tight smile. "Complications from a rare form of anemia. Just like Emily Sim." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> HAMPTON RESIDENCE, EMERALD HEIGHTS MARCH 6TH, 8:58 AM The woman who answered their knock was small, with long red hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She wore a black top over an ankle- length skirt printed in dark colors and a faded wine-colored cardigan, stretched at the pockets and elbows. Kresge held up his badge. "Jane Hampton?" he asked. The woman nodded, blue eyes wide in her pale face. Mulder could not help staring. He looked over at his partner and found her with the same surprised expression. It reminded him of a 'Voyager' episode where a glitch in the transporter beamed two crew members together into one person. Whoever had beamed Jane Hampton onto this planet had amalgamated Scully and her sister. "Can I help you?" the woman asked, looking from face to face. "Did you want to see my husband?" Kresge smiled reassuringly. "We just want to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Hampton. It's nothing to be nervous about." To Mulder, it seemed that Jane Hampton was looking more upset than nervous. Her eyes were as shadowed as Scully's had been that morning, before she painted on a layer of confidence. This woman didn't wear makeup, nor did she have Scully's control. She looked about to burst into tears at any minute. "Questions about what?" she demanded. "About your daughter." Mulder had to admire the firm gentleness of Kresge's manner. He might be rough, but he was far from heartless. "My daughter is dead," the woman snapped, rubbing an angry hand across her eyes. "Whatever you want to know can't help her." She stepped back, about to slam the door. Kresge's arm shot out and held it open. "Mrs. Hampton, I can come back with a warrant," he said, in the same gentle voice. "Or you can give us five minutes of your time voluntarily, and I doubt we'll need to bother you again." The woman bit her bottom lip, then turned away, leaving the door open. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Jane Hampton led them into a spotless kitchen. For the first few minutes, Kresge's patient questions received only closed-off glances and shrugs. Finally, Scully suggested he and Mulder go talk to the husband. "Go and try. He's in his study down the hall." Jane pointed through the arched entrance to the kitchen, back the way they had come. "If you can get him to move his ass from the computer to open the door." Scully waited until the men had gone before trying again. "We really are very sorry to disturb you at this time, Mrs. Hampton," she began. "But the information you give us may save another little girl's life." She tried not to shudder as the other woman's eyes came to lock with her own. This was a mother's grief, wild and wailing, not the ice cold dagger through the heart she had felt when Emily died. This was a mother who had scolded and fed and rocked her child to sleep. Her own grief was as minuscule next to this as her experience of motherhood had been. She didn't want this, didn't want to know what Jane Hampton felt. Scully swallowed hard, looking away as her vision blurred. As if Jane's eyes had been the conduit through which her own tears arrived, she immediately felt calmer. She was not part of some community of the bereaved, but a federal agent with a job to do. "I'll try to be as brief as possible," Scully made herself continue, "And then you can go back to whatever you were doing." "Arranging the funeral. Fun job, believe me. You ever buried a child?" "I have." Scully clamped her mouth shut. She hadn't meant to say that. Professional, she reminded herself. Keep your distance. At least her outburst seemed to have silenced the woman's hostility. Scully reached into her overcoat pocket and pulled out her notebook. Tucked neatly between the pages were two photographs. She drew out the first. "Do you recognize this girl?" "It looks like my daughter." Jane leaned closer, inspecting the child's clothing. "Wait-- Where did you get this? Denise hated dresses, she would never wear one for a picture. And her hair was never that long." Scully took the photograph back from the woman's reluctant fingers. "Mrs. Hampton, this isn't your daughter. This is a little girl named Amy Wallace, who disappeared about a week ago. And this," she added, handing the woman the other photo, "is Emily Sim. She died last year of the same illness that your daughter had." Jane reached for the first photograph again and held the two together for a moment. Suddenly she jumped up, left, and came back with a large framed photo of her own child. She propped all three up on the counter and stood back contemplating them. "I don't understand." Her voice had changed -- gone past wavery, through defensive, and come out uninflected. "It looks like the same girl." "Mrs. Hampton, how much information were you given about your daughter when you adopted her?" Jane turned to look at Scully as if she were crazy. "She wasn't adopted. I gave birth to her on November 2, 1994 at 4:52 in the morning after twenty-two hours of hell. The episiotomy wasn't done right and she tore me. I can show you the scar if you have a liking for that sort of thing." "No, I--" Scully retreated a moment, flustered. "I'm sorry, but the information we have states that you are Denise's adoptive parents." "Well, we're not. You think I would have married that ASSHOLE if I wasn't pregnant?" Jane turned and shouted the word out towards the study, her too-familiar face twisted in a very unfamiliar fury. "I'm the one that's adopted and that son-of-a-bitch blames me for Denise being sick. He says it's my 'mystery genes' that killed my baby." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Wedged into a back booth at the local Denny's, Scully was not paying attention to the conversation. Kresge and Mulder were like two kids with a football, tossing theories back and forth between them, impressing each other with their dexterity, their velcro hands. Scully stared at her notebook while the men talked over her head. Jane Lee Hampton, maiden name Adams, born in San Diego on May 16, 1962. "I think Scully can get that," Mulder was saying. "Can't you? Scully?" She became aware of a hand on her upper arm, shaking her lightly. "Scully, are you with us?" Mulder asked. "This woman, Mulder." She shoved her notebook towards him, clumsy with pain. "This woman was born on the same day as Melissa." Mulder's hand tightened on her arm. His eyes found hers and immediately the whirl of her thoughts slowed. He could do that sometimes, reach right in and catch her when she thought she might fall, his eyes as warm and steadying as if he had her face cupped between his hands. "I want an autopsy done on Denise Hampton and I want to run PCRs on the entire family." Scully felt herself calming under Mulder's gaze, gathering strength. "Jane Hampton swears she gave birth to that child. I want to contact her OB/GYN, get a medical history. Something here is very, very strange." Mulder nodded, releasing her arm with an encouraging squeeze. She turned to Kresge, who was looking out of the loop and not very happy about it. "What does it take to get Social Services to make their records available to law enforcement in California? I want Jane Hampton's adoption records, and I want to know why they have Denise listed as adopted if she isn't." "Okay." Kresge's eyes tracked from her face to Mulder's. He folded his arms, leaning back in his seat. "But first I'd like to know what you two aren't telling me." She looked at Mulder at the exact moment he looked at her. Once again, he gave her that gentle steadying glance, then dropped his eyes, signaling that it was her question to answer. Scully took a deep breath, held it and let it out. "There may be a connection to another case we've been investigating. The anomalies in this one are significant enough to warrant pursuing certain parallel lines of inquiry." Kresge wasn't buying the evasive explanation. "You want to enlighten me on that other case?" She looked again at Mulder, who shook his head so slightly she doubted anyone else could perceive it. "If it becomes necessary. Until then I'd prefer not to discuss it." "I prefer not to work in the dark." Mulder cleared his throat and sat up straighter, giving his attention to Kresge. "In this particular case, it may be safer." "Gee," Kresge answered sarcastically. "Why do I not believe that?" This time it was Kresge who caught and held Scully's eyes. Her stomach clenched, reading his anger. "It's a personal matter," she said, keeping her voice low. Kresge opened his mouth to protest, then seemed to change his mind. "All right." He gave Scully another long look as he leaned back against the faded vinyl of the booth. She had the feeling that his anger had mutated into something else, but she was not sure what. "I'll see what I can do about getting an autopsy arranged." "I'd like to go back to City Hall." Scully tried to keep the relief out of her voice. "My first search had eleven girls, but we dropped the ones that weren't adopted. I want to have a look at those other birth records and see if anything fits. I also want to get the official information on the Hamptons now that we have names and birth dates for the parents. See if the information Jane gave me was correct. Mulder?" Mulder tapped the table, staring out the window at the cars parked in the lot. "I think...I think I'd like to stick around, keep an eye on the house. See if we spooked Hampton into doing anything interesting." "Fine," Kresge stood. "I'll drop Scully off downtown." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> HAMPTON RESIDENCE MARCH 6TH, 4:42 PM Between Scully and himself, Mulder thought, Frohike must be hopping like a frog today. "Those cells are not secure," he grumbled, the second time Mulder checked in for information. "I know they're not. What do you want me to do about it?" "Try calling from a land line." "Frohike, if they're on to us, they're on to us. We're staying as low as we can. I don't think we've rung any bells." "Well, you're going to, as soon as you start digging into this one." Mulder slipped down further in his car, balancing the phone on his shoulder and his notebook against the steering wheel. "Give it to me good." "You wish. Mirant Chemical, incorporated 1996. Hampton's been on the payroll from the start. He's ranked manager level." "I know. What about his employment history?" "We got access, but everything's encrypted. Langly's working on it." "What, that's it? That's the big, scary factoid that's gonna bring the men in black down on us?" "Factoids, Mulder. Just shut up and listen. In 1996, Mirant opened with a slew of high-level contracts. One is from UC San Diego. The Human Genome Project." "There's about 10,000 universities and private research firms working on that. Come on, Frohike. I want nice, juicy plums. You're giving me prunes." "You're gonna wish you had prunes, Mulder. The money comes from a federal HGDP grant. The funds are allocated to a Dr. Potts. Biochemistry professor, about 50, been at UCSD his whole career. Couldn't get much else on him, but Byers did a little cross-checking and the man's on the payroll as a consultant to a couple of private pharmaceutical firms." "And one of them was Prangen?" "No. Better. One of them *is* Roush." Mulder stopped writing. His mouth went suddenly dry, while his heart began pounding hard and steady. "Mirant is basically a research outfit," Frohike continued, a clear note of triumph in his voice. "One project is the UCSD thing. It's listed as genetic mapping. Circulatory disorders, the heart attack gene, that kind of thing. All very respectable. Mirant, however, has a little side-project listed. Fetal therapy. That involves early detection of circulatory anomalies through genetic testing, and treating those anomalies through gene therapy in-utero." "Cutting edge and controversial, but still on the up and up." "Along with this project, Mirant had a contract for the supply of fetal tissue. Do the words 'funky poaching' still mean anything to you?" "It was coming from there?' "Until about two years ago." Mulder caught his breath, let it out slowly. It had been two years since they'd broken into Lombard. Two years since Scully's cancer was first diagnosed. "Be careful, Frohike." A snort from the other man. "Now he's telling me. I got one more megafactoid for you, Mulder. The new third party on this project is a privately-funded clinic running trials on chemotherapy for infertile couples. You want the name?" Mulder was practically panting now. "I want the name." "So about that date with Scully...." "In your dreams, Frohike." "You don't wanna know about my dreams." "You're right, I don't." Mulder sat up, his danger instinct suddenly baying like a pack of hounds. Get off the phone, get the hell out of here. Now. He slid further down in the car, keeping his eyes on the Hampton's house. "Just give it to me, Frohike. I suddenly don't have time to mess around." Frohike sounded hurt. "Mulcahy Clinic. 1412 3rd Street, San Ysidro." Mulder scribbled the address without looking at the paper. "Did you give Scully what she needs?" "Yeah." Definitely hurt, if Frohike let an opportunity like that slide by. "Look, Frohike, it's not that I don't appreciate your work. But I think I was wrong." Shit. Beyond wrong. Smug, stupid, son-of-a-bitch. Mulder cursed himself silently, sliding almost onto the floor of the car as a trim black sedan cruised slowly, slowly past, drove into an empty space just past Hampton's house, and parked. "Frohike?" he whispered into the phone. "I gotta go." He clicked off, speed dialing with one hand, adjusting the side mirror with the other. Behind him, the passenger side doors of the sedan slowly opened. Two men dressed in neat black suits and sunglasses got out, leaving the driver behind the wheel. They stopped, surveying the quiet street. One adjusted his cuffs neatly, as if preparing to walk onstage. At last, a click on the other end. "Scully," he hissed, before she even had a chance to say her name. "Mulder?" "Check your watch." He hung up as the two men began to walk towards him. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 9 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SAN DIEGO COUNTY HALL OF RECORDS MARCH 6TH, 4:53 PM To live in the world, one needed a certain level of trust and Scully needed to preserve what little of that she had left. She had to believe that what she saw was what it seemed, that people were who they said they were, that she was small and insignificant and generally not worth the effort to kill. Lose that trust and a friendly stranger would be a spy fishing for information, the guy driving home to Georgetown would be a tail, the new neighbor an assassin. Lose that trust and she would live surrounded by fear, until her life was no longer worth protecting, until she began to grow careless, half-wishing they would finally come and get her. To end it, so that in death she could feel safe again. When Mulder first mentioned the idea of code words, she had laughed. It was the kind of game the Gunmen played, an exercise in the sort of paranoia she refused to give in to. Then he had gone missing, presumed dead in the desert, and the moment he reappeared, they'd been forced to run for their lives. There had not been much to laugh about after that. Mulder had worked out the codes as soon as they were home, an intricate set of provisions to be used in case they had to run again. At that point, it had not been out of the question -- the DAT tape that had caused all the trouble was still out there, and despite Skinner's assurance that he had taken care of the smoking man's threats, it had been months before Scully felt safe enough to enter her apartment without her gun in hand. Somewhere, she knew, there were still papers and bank accounts, wherever the Gunmen hid such things. Scully preferred not to think about that. She hadn't heard Mulder say those words since the awful night Melissa died, and had hoped she would never have to hear them again. Check your watch. That meant, I'm about to be nabbed. Scully clicked her phone off, feeling the blood rush away from her head. She raised her eyes and slowly surveyed the people around her. A clerk, busy behind the high desk. A young guy in sandals and a tie- dyed t-shirt at one of the computer terminals, an older woman in a grey suit, squinting into a microfiche viewer. Scully gathered up her papers, stuffed them blindly into her laptop bag. Calm, calm, she needed to be calm. Think of it as a fire drill. She breathed slowly, carefully, willing her trust in the world not to break, willing the people that surrounded her to be nothing more than strangers, going about their innocent lives. She made herself walk out of the building at a sedate pace, searching for a man in a dark suit with his hand to his ear. Nothing. Scully disappeared into the downtown lunch crowd, letting herself be carried along towards the intersection. She pulled her phone out of her pocket again, dialing as she went. "Kresge." "It's Scully. Mulder needs backup, ASAP. He's at the Hamptons." "I'm on it. Where are you?" "I'm getting a cab to the motel. Can you send a car ahead? Tell them just to keep an eye on our rooms, make sure no one goes in or out." "Sure, but what's going on?" "I think we rang a bell somewhere. I'm going to grab our stuff, then I'll ride back to the station with your men." "Okay, I'll wait for you here. Hey, Scully?" "Yeah?" She turned abruptly out into the street, eyes scanning the parked cars for a tell-tale black sedan. "Be careful, okay?" The softness in his voice made her catch her breath. "Okay," she promised. A click and she was alone again as a taxi cruised to a stop beneath her outstretched hand. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Scully kept her gun unholstered and by her side, but the driver was a driver, and no one seemed to have followed the cab to the motel. The two young cops Kresge sent seemed vaguely amused as she unlocked the door to her room and threw it open, taking a position just to the side before entering, her weapon extended, held firmly in both hands. They seemed to be treating the whole thing as an academy exercise. All she could do was say a brief prayer that they wouldn't be wrong, before moving further in. She kept the gun ready in her right hand, quickly opening the closet, the bathroom door with her left. No one. She made one of the young officers check under the bed while she went into Mulder's room through the connecting doors, leaving the other officer outside in case someone made a break for it. Still no one. Scully holstered her gun, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. It was like a whisper at the back of her neck, almost like the feeling of being called, but this time it told her there was something here to find. It was the same odd sensation she'd had at the Wallaces'. She went back into her own room, methodically opening the drawers. Her clothes were still there, neatly folded as she'd left them. Mulder generally lived out of his suitcase, but a childhood of constant change had left her with a need to nest and she always unpacked hers and put everything away. The two young cops were standing by the inner doors, exchanging amused glances. Rookies both, bright and shiny in their new uniforms. It was hard to believe she had once been as innocent as that. "You about ready, ma'am?" one inquired politely. She stared him down. It did not please her to be called ma'am. "No, I'm not," she answered, voice sharp with authority. "I'd like one of you to go across the way and ask the manager if anyone's entered these rooms since this morning." "Well, the maid's been in this room," the taller, dark one offered. "See? The bed's been made." He glanced back into the other room. "Maybe she didn't get next door yet." The maid. What if the maid was one of Them, looking through the papers they left? What if she was paid to tell Them when they came and went, to tell Them that two federal agents of different sexes were not only consorting in the same room, but sleeping in the same bed? Now you are getting paranoid, she warned herself. The maid is the maid. No one cares where you sleep. She turned back to the dark cop. "Would you please do as I asked?" God, her voice was rattling like ice in a glass. She had to pull herself together. A few calming breaths helped, but her skin was still tingling with a feeling of invasion. Someone had been in here, and it wasn't the maid. Someone good enough to leave nothing out of place. Luckily she'd had all the files with her today. She turned slowly, almost sniffing the air, expert eyes noting every detail of the room. What did They want, what did They think she had? Or had They merely left something behind, some spying piece of themselves? Her phone rang in her pocket, making her jump. "Scully." She turned her back on the blond officer lounging in the doorway, face twisted in a smirk as he tried not to laugh. "Kresge. We may have trouble. I'm at the Hamptons. There's no sign of Mulder. No car. Nothing." "Shit." "Yeah, it gets better. Jane Hampton just tried to kill herself. Fortunately, because we were looking for Mulder, we got here before she bled out. She's on her way to County Gen. Looks like she'll make it." "And the husband?" "Dead. She appears to have walked up and shot him in the back of the head while he was trying to win the European Downhill Skiing Championships." "What?" "He was playing a computer game. Good score, too. Probably never even heard her come in." "No, I mean--" She caught herself before she spoke, wondering if they were being listened to, right now. "Are you sure that's how it happened?" "That's how it's looking at the moment. I mean, they weren't exactly Romeo and Juliet." "Don't get too complacent. Remember the Sims." He sighed and she could imagine him running his hand back and forth through his hair. "Point taken." She hung up just as the dark policeman walked back into the room. "Manager says no one's been here." "Fine," she answered, throwing her suitcase onto the bed. Maybe she was getting paranoid, but there was no way she could stay in this room again. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Kresge looked up, relieved to see Scully entering his office, lugging two suitcases and a laptop and ignoring the stares of the other officers as if she was used to running a gauntlet of her peers. "I'm sure he's fine," she said immediately, sounding like she meant to convince herself more than him. "If the car was there, I'd worry. The fact that it's not and his phone is off is actually a good sign. He's probably chasing something." "Is this normal behavior for him? Running off every ten seconds?" Scully's mouth twisted slightly. "It's not abnormal." "Well." He looked down at the two black suitcases, one soft-sided, the other molded plastic Samsonite. The impenetrable Samsonite was the smaller. He'd bet anything it was hers. "What do you want me do? I've got people searching the immediate vicinity. I can put out an APB." "No. If he's onto something we'll only blow his surveillance. If They've got him, an APB won't help." Scully lowered herself into one of the chairs on the other side of his desk. "You have a team on Jane Hampton?" she asked, and he nodded. "Let's go over there. I'd like to ask her some questions." "She's out cold, Scully. Not likely to be coherent any time today." "Put me on guard. She might wake up." "You can't sit there all night." She waved his objection away. "I need something to do." Kresge sighed. That he understood. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SAN DIEGO GENERAL HOSPITAL MARCH 7TH, 1:17 AM Scully took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, hard enough to make fireworks. It reminded her of being a child -- knuckling her eyes, staring at the sparks in the darkness. She'd been full of wonder then, confident every question could be answered. Now, every answer only brought a new set of increasingly unanswerable questions. She put her glasses back on and stared at the chart in front of her. Jane Hampton lacked a mole on her upper lip or the dark map of Texas that Melissa had on her left forearm, but her bloodtype was the same. B positive. William Scully's gift to both his daughters, along with the tendency to early male baldness, double-jointed thumbs, and the particular shade of their hair. Scully could still remember the fee-fie-fo-fum of her father's footsteps entering his kingdom of noisy children, his huge hand coming to rest on the top of her head. She was four or five and she had hit a boy for calling her carrot-top. She was expecting Big Trouble, but instead her father had swung her up in his arms and told her never to be ashamed of her hair, that it was a fine gift brought by their ancestors from Ireland, that it marked her as a true Scully. And now here was this woman who bore such a similarity to her sister, who had the same color hair. But if Jane Hampton was a Scully, was she also an O'Donnell? And if this woman was not a child of her mother's body, what did that make of good Captain Ahab? Scully's hands ached with the desire to pick up the phone, to wake her mother on the other side of the country and demand some answers. How like Mulder she was getting. She took her glasses off again and closed her eyes, just for a moment. The next thing she knew, someone else was there. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Mulder entered the room quietly, hushed by the sight of his partner slumped over the table. Kresge, if he'd known her better, would have been wise enough not to put Scully on graveyard shift by herself. After a certain point in the night, the woman could and would sleep just about anywhere. He knelt beside her and touched her arm. Suddenly he was flat on his back on the floor with Scully's SIG three inches from his nose, and his hands in the air. "Whoa! Scully, it's me!" He waited for what seemed like an eternity before her eyes cleared and she recognized him. She had looked frighteningly dangerous for a moment, not quite awake, the gun finding its way into his face by pure instinct. "Jesus, don't shoot the messenger before he even delivers the news." "I'm sorry." She holstered her weapon with an embarrassed shrug. "I'm a little on edge." Hanging over the edge would be more his assessment, Mulder thought, as he accepted the hand she offered to help him up. Scully looked wrung out, lines carved into her face and her hair flipping every which way. Her makeup had long ago been rubbed off and the dark shadows surrounding her eyes gave her the look of another century, of half- starved immigrants standing worn and patient at Ellis Island. She moved toward him. Small square hands fussed with a patch of dust on his coat, a loosened button. "Where the hell have you been, Mulder?" Her words were sharp, but her tone was hoarse and worried. He put his hands over hers and made her look at him. "I found something, Scully. I need you to see it, too." "What?" "Just come with me." "I can't, Mulder. I'm on watch here until two." Her eyes closed and for a moment she seemed about to collapse against him. He reached to hold her, but she stumbled away, catching the foot of the bed beneath her questing hands. "I'm all right," she immediately insisted. "Sit down, Scully--" "I'm not going to pass out." She let go of the bed, deliberately ignoring his light touch on her arm. "That was probably some kind of hypoxic reaction to the altitude. It's not that uncommon. Changes in blood pressure, dehydration. All and any of the above." Mulder clenched his hands into fists and shoved them into the pockets of his overcoat, watching while she righted her chair and sank into it again. "Let's not forget stress, insomnia and the fact that two months ago you almost bled to death," he added, watching for her reaction. She shrugged, dragging her hand through her hair, leaving it parted on its opposite side. There was something hopeless about the gesture, something he was not used to seeing from her. "Considering it hasn't happened here, the evidence points to altitude." "Well, I sincerely hope that's all it was." She sighed and looked away. Mulder followed her line of vision, turning to look at the woman in the bed. "Were you able to get anything out of her?" "No, not yet." Scully reached for the little rolling table and its burden of papers. "I've asked for some tests to be run, but it will be a couple of days before we get the results back." "You really think she may be some kind of relative?" "Yes." No dissembling, no beating round the bush, no elaborate scientific theory. Just one word with a weight of hope and fear behind it. He started to put a hand out to her, then thought better of it, letting it fall in his lap. "Don't go too fast, Scully." "Mulder, I know that. I'm not on the phone accusing my mother of selling a child to the conspiracy, am I? I'm waiting to gather as much information as I can." He said nothing. Scully was rubbing at her eyes again, unaware of the sharp edge to her words. "Do we have anywhere to sleep tonight?" he asked. "No," she admitted. "I panicked and packed up our stuff. It's all down at the station." "Yeah, I talked to Kresge. He told me what happened. You did the right thing, Scully. I think we're being watched." He wondered if she was aware that her spine suddenly straightened, or if the reaction was pure instinct, like the hand that went to check the placement of her holster. Her eyes were alert now, her fatigue momentarily banished. He looked around for another chair, and not finding one, settled on the floor at her feet, filling her in on the information he'd gotten from Frohike. He could see her processing each bit, filing and cross- filing, that ever-logical brain of hers rearranging the facts she had, to accommodate these new ones. Mulder might be the hare bounding first to the finish but it was Scully's methodical tortoise mind that catalogued each pebble along the way, each blade of grass. It was Scully who would, in the end, be able to explain how they'd gotten there. She sat back, contemplating the sleeping Jane. When she spoke, long minutes later, she too spoke in whispers. "I had something of an epiphany myself. Something I'm surprised I didn't notice before." "What was that?" "The information that I found in the Birth Registry when I was looking for Emily's records -- it's all backward." "I don't understand." "Adoption is a legal fiction. The adoptive parents' names and information are placed on all the child's records, wiping out the birth parents and in most cases the child's original name along with them. In other words, a birth certificate for Emily Sim should list Roberta and Marshall Sim as her parents. It should look like any other birth certificate." "And it doesn't." "There apparently isn't one. According to the database, her records are sealed by adoption. The only way I should be seeing that notice is if I were looking up the original name. Emily Sim would have to be the name of the baby that Anna Fugazzi put up for adoption. Now how could that be, unless somebody knew she was going to the Sims? The sealed record should be filed under Fugazzi." Mulder leaned back against Jane's bed, running his fingertips across his stubbled cheeks, considering that information. "Why are the names of the adoptive parents being hidden, when legally these children are supposed to belong to them? Jane showed me Denise's birth certificate, but that cert number isn't on file at the Hall of Records. Someone forged it and gave it to her and I think she believes it's real. Now why would They do that, Mulder?" "I'm not sure." She fell quiet for a moment before continuing. "I think when I get Jane's medical file I'm going to find that she did give birth to a little girl on November 2nd, 1994 just like she said." "But, Scully...Denise and Amy and Emily are identical, as far as we've been able to tell. And you know that Emily was your biological child. Are you suggesting that Jane was somehow impregnated with your ova?" "I didn't say that Denise was necessarily the child Jane gave birth to. Maybe Jane's baby died. Maybe that child has been properly adopted. If she were, the database wouldn't tell us." Scully picked up the files from the table and got down on the floor with Mulder, spreading papers before him as she spoke. "I think when I match Denise's DNA to Emily's I'll see they're identical. And Jennifer mentioned a connection between her first husband's job and their ability to adopt Amy so quickly. What if the husbands are in on it? I asked Frohike to background check the fathers, see what he could come up with, but we already know there's some kind of connection between Mason and Wallace. Now we have Hampton, whose daughter was going through those horrible treatments and then suddenly got sick again and what if he knew how they'd cured it the first time? What if he was involved in taking Amy to treat Denise? Jane said they had to take Denise for checkups once a month, and when they went this month the place was shut down. Maybe Tom was making threats or maybe, once Denise was dead, someone wanted to wipe out all the evidence of the experiment and that's why they tried to kill the Hamptons." Scully's words were beginning to tumble one on top of the other, her voice rising in pitch, though her volume stayed low. "We know the Sims were getting money from Prangen for putting Emily into Calderon's program -- what if Wallace married Jennifer for a piece of the action? What if They took Amy because he'd raised his price or he was getting out of hand? Maybe he's even hiding her himself, holding her for a kind of ransom. And the other girls, Mulder -- if they were part of the same program, if they have the same pathology, they'll be getting sick too. We have to--" "Scully, stop, okay? Just stop a minute." He held her gently by the shoulders, forcing her to shut up, to look at him. Her eyes were bright now, too bright, rimmed in the red of total exhaustion. Mulder felt the world spinning, as if they had switched places and he was looking at himself through her eyes, seeing the manic light of inspiration illuminating her face as so many times she must have seen it in his. Had she been this afraid of him? For him? And was she right, as he had sometimes been? "Scully," he said, "I need to ask you something, and you need to give me an honest answer. If we found Amy in time, and you could use her to treat those other girls, would you do it? Would you keep on doing it over and over every few years, knowing that you couldn't win, that you couldn't make them well?" She swayed beneath his hands, but he held on, hating himself as he watched the brightness fade from her eyes. "That's not a fair question," she finally answered, pulling away and getting to her feet again. "I just want you to be prepared," he said. "Because I think we may have been sent out here to make this stop. If that's the side we're on, Scully, we may be siding with some of the people we're normally against." "Why do you say that?" "Because I followed the men who came to the Hamptons'. And they led me somewhere. To something they wanted me to see. And I think--" His throat tightened and he had to stop to lick his lips. "I think I'm supposed to bring you there." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> MULCAHY CLINIC, SAN YSIDRO MARCH 7TH, 3:23 AM Mulder's hand on her shoulder woke Scully from a cloudy, lethargic dream. "We're here," he said. "You sure you're up for this?" "I'm sure." She unbuckled her seat belt, reaching under her jacket to move her holster back where it belonged. Mulder slipped from the car, shutting the door softly, slinging a coil of rope around his neck. He pointed across the street to a large fenced-in lot. Behind the trees that grew near the perimeter, she could see a three story building, late '60s modular style. She started to head toward the electronic gate across the driveway, but Mulder caught her arm and beckoned her in the opposite direction. "How good were you at climbing trees when you were a kid?" he whispered. "Never fell," she whispered back. "Good. Let's hope we're not too old for this." Scully followed him to a twisted apple tree with a strong branch extending over the top of the fence. She allowed Mulder to boost her into the tree, her stomach muscles straining painfully as she searched for footing in her totally inappropriate shoes. She paused on a stout branch to pull them off and stick them in the pockets of her jacket, feeling an odd echo of her former self, the nine-year-old tomboy with her calloused feet. Mulder climbed up, and passed her, shimmying across the extending branch and landing on the other side of the fence with a ground- shaking thump. He dusted himself off, looking rather proud, and held his arms out as she made her own way over the fence, waiting to help her down. Scully ignored him, reaching under the branch with one arm to clasp her hands together on top of it. Her grip solid, she slid over the side, wincing at the pull in her abdomen as she let go and dropped noiselessly to the ground. She took her time putting her shoes back on, giving the burn deep inside a minute to cease. She was not ready for this kind of exercise, not by a long shot, but she was damned if she was going to let him see that. She stood, nodding at Mulder to say she was ready, and they began to make their way across the empty field. Another painful boost, this time up to a fire escape ladder. Great, Scully thought, taking the shoes off again. One slip of a heel through the metal grid of the fire escape and Mulder would be carrying her back across that field. At the top of the fire escape they found a set of handgrips to pull themselves up and over onto the roof. She padded unsteadily over the coarse gravel on the roof, wincing as the loose stones bruised her stockinged feet. Mulder was already at the target, a three by three foot skylight. "You are not lowering me down into that," she whispered, crouching beside him. "No, I'll go first." Mulder tied the rope securely to a jutting pipe and climbed down, holding the rope steady at the bottom. He had made periodic knots, close enough to allow for her size, and she found she was actually able to get down without too much pain. The cold tile floor felt wonderful on her sore feet. Mulder held a finger to his lips and she nodded. All right, I got this far. Lead the way. He turned her around, and she realized there was no way to lead; they were already where Mulder wanted them to be. In the darkness she was just able to make out a double row of tables, surfaces that reflected dimly as Mulder turned on his flashlight and slowly moved the beam around the room. He clapped his hand over her mouth before she could scream. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 10 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Scully closed her eyes, tasting rust from the fire escape railing where Mulder's hand pressed against her lips. She shook his hand away and fumbled for the flashlight in the other. He let her take it from him, stepping back as she moved the light slowly across the room. Tanks. Tables of tanks, and in them, what might have been humans. Scully forced herself to move forward, walking between the rows. She was a scientist, but this was not science. This was beyond scientific curiosity. This was madness. Arrogant little boys fumbling with the building blocks of life, punished for their hubris by the begetting of monsters. This was playing God, and badly. Scully stopped at a tank, letting the light play over the creature inside it. A child, a girl by the genitalia, perhaps a year old. One of their better creations, but not good enough to sustain life. The child's body was almost right, but her arms were too long, the hands too thin, possessing only a thumb and three fingers. It was the face that brought a swell of nausea, the perfect tiny nose and mouth set in the oversized triangular head. It was the creature's eyes, a cool greyish blue, huge tilted almonds the size of a large spoon. She turned away, the light turning with her, illuminating a fetus, its distorted face grinning hideously. The next tank held an infant almost without features; beside it another, horribly, heartbreakingly human. Scully moved away from the tables, the light playing over the walls. They looked like they were made of glass, like the doors of giant cabinets. She moved closer. Not cabinets, she realized. Freezers. She went to the nearest and opened the door. The glass was heavy, double-layered, holding the arctic air within. Inside, she saw a wall of tiny drawers, like an old-fashioned system for filing index cards. She opened the first one she touched, her hand surprisingly steady, as if she already knew what she would find. A rack of tubes, neatly labeled. Scully whirled, the beam of her flashlight searching for Mulder. He was still standing below the skylight, the knotted rope held tightly in one hand. She turned back to the wall, searching the names on the drawers, almost running along the sides of the room. P...R...Salinger...Sayers...Schultz...Scully Scully, Dana Katherine 2/23/64 10/29/94 121336540-009 JFEY80 A hand on hers stopped her from opening the drawer. She pushed him away. His hand came back, his breath heavy in her ear, whispering her name. She turned to him, hissing, furious. "Why did you bring me here, if you didn't want me to see this?" "There's something I need to tell you first." "Too late." She pushed his hand away again, and opened the drawer. A rack of tubes, neatly labeled. Six of the slots were empty. Scully lifted out one of the remaining tubes and held it up to the flashlight. Inside it, the future, frozen in saline. She pulled her shoe out of her pocket and replaced it with the tube. Another. All of them. The alarm sounded just as she turned to Mulder. He grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the rope, but she wasn't finished; there were other names to look for. One in particular. She broke away, running back along the wall. "Scully!" he hissed. R...P...Paley...O'Sullivan...O'Malley...O'Grady...O'D-- The flashlight fell from her hand as Mulder grabbed her by the back of her clothes, dragging her away. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SEA COURT MOTEL MARCH 7, 6:22 AM She came back to awareness sitting on the edge of a double bed in a new motel room. Mulder was undressing, readying himself to sleep, though day poured bright below the curtains. She herself was still fully dressed, cold, though he had wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. She felt something wet and icy against her side and reached into her pocket, pulling out one of the vials. Her future, her stolen children. Scully tilted the glass tube, watching the sludge inside slowly drifting towards the lower end. She opened the vial and let the half- frozen mixture pour into her palm. Primordial sludge, the great soup from which they all came. She closed her eyes and imagined she saw faces, hundreds of tiny faces, all the possible children she might have had. Each one imprinting itself into her mind for one split second, like a photoflash, as the ova died warming in her hand. "Scully! Jesus, what are you doing?" Mulder leapt in front of her, arms flailing as he realized it was too late. She looked up at him. "What did you think, Mulder?" she asked. "Did you think I could just put them back inside me?" She reached into her pocket and pulled out another tube, began to uncap it. "No. Scully, don't. Please." It was the tenderness in his voice that reached her, stilled her murdering hands. Was it murder, what she was doing, spreading her progeny across her palms like butter? Could she kill what was already dead? She lost track again, staring at her hands, so that she jumped slightly when Mulder slipped the vial from her numb fingers and recapped it. He gave her a towel he'd brought from the bathroom, watching as she slowly wiped the residue away. "Are you absolutely sure there's nothing you can do?" he asked, and her hands stilled. She reached into her pocket and retrieved the other four vials. They were still ice cold. It was possible that they still contained life. Scully closed her eyes and imagined the soft weight of an infant sleeping in her arms. Oh God, yes, she wanted that. Then Emily's face swam before her, frightened, uncomprehending, green poisoned blood dribbling down her back. Scully's eyes flew open again. No. She would not bring a child into her world. Better that it would never be an option, could never happen by accident or be engineered again. But what was she to do with these pieces of herself? Flush them down the toilet? Wash them down the sink? Dead though the cells might be, the symbolism of such an act was more than she could stand. Dazed, she let Mulder take the vials out of her hands. He placed them in the freezer of the little refrigerator in the kitchenette and stood there, leaning his head against the wall. "Mulder?" "Yeah." He stayed where he was. She wanted to tell him about the other drawer, the one he'd prevented her from looking for, but the words stuck in her throat. For the first time since they'd arrived in California she felt the pull of that darkness, the undertow that would drag her out to the place where Melissa was. Scully closed her eyes, ready to give herself up to it, but it was only a wave of exhaustion. In a moment it had passed, leaving her numb and cold. "Why?" she asked. "Why did you want me to see that place?" Mulder shook himself, walked over to his pile of discarded clothing and pulled out his undershirt, handing it to her. "Here. You can wear that if you don't want to sleep in your clothes." He crossed to the other side of the bed without looking at her, and got under the covers. "You'd better lie down. We've got about three hours, then we need to meet Kresge. They're going to raid the clinic for conducting unlicensed human experiments. He's out getting the search warrant now." "Mulder. I need to know." He kept his back to her, his voice muffled by the pillow. "I just...I thought it might be your one chance to take back what's yours. I thought it might help." She stared at the back of his neck for a long time before she finally stood to slip off her clothes. Pain shot through her left foot and she stifled a cry. Mulder rolled over. "What is it?" She turned her foot up. Shredded stockings and dirt, through which she could see several suspiciously shiny fragments. "I've got glass in my feet." "Wouldn't surprise me." Mulder crawled over behind her for a look. "I wonder what they'll think if they ever find your shoe." He rolled off the bed and headed for the bathroom, talking over his shoulder. "Get undressed. Let's see what we can do." A few minutes later Scully had worked off her slacks and peeled the remnants of her stockings from her legs. She hobbled into the bathroom, where Mulder was swirling two small complimentary soap bars in a shallow, hot bath. He glanced once at her bare legs, then politely looked away. Scully perched herself on the edge of the bath and lowered her feet into the water, reaching for the washcloth. Mulder took it from her and knelt beside the tub. She closed her eyes as he began to bathe her feet, gently scrubbing away the rust and dirt. By the time he was done she was barely able to remain upright, all her muscles relaxed into an overwhelming, sensuous fatigue. Mulder hooked an arm behind her knees to lift her from the edge of the bath. "Gotta keep the feet clean," he whispered, over her drowsy protest. She gave in and wrapped her arms around his neck, secretly relieved to be carried those few steps, to give up pretending to a strength she didn't have. Mulder sat her on the bed, holding her against his chest to work her jacket off. "Go on," he said, and she crawled under the blankets, sighing as he tucked them tight around her chilled flesh. A motherly kiss, soft against her forehead, was the last thing she felt. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She woke to the sound of a key in the door and panicked, fumbling for her gun. "It's me, it's me," Mulder called, moving slowly into the room. He had an armful of paper bags, one of which smelled deliciously like coffee. Scully lay back, willing her heart to slow down. "What time is it?" "Ten fifteen," he answered, setting the bags down on the table and beginning to unpack. "I called Kresge. He's got the warrant, got the team. We need to be there at eleven." Scully kicked the blanket away, looking down with surprise at the bandaids on her feet. "Mulder, did you get any sleep?" "Some. You slept hard enough for both of us. You slept right through my surgery." He was grinning, obviously proud of himself, though he looked deathly tired. She lifted the edge of one bandaid and peered beneath it. Nice clean wounds, nothing that deep. "Nice work." "Yeah, this friend of mine's a doctor. She taught me. Here, I got you something else." He opened the last bag and fished out a pair of black dime store sneakers. "Mulder, you shouldn't have," she said dryly, turning the shoes over and over in her hands. "Sorry. I know they're not your style, but I didn't have time to shop for heels. At least they go with the suit." Scully blushed slightly, ashamed of her ingratitude. She undid the laces and slipped one on, surprised to find that they fit perfectly. "How did you know what size to get?" "Well, I have become intimately acquainted with that part of your anatomy." He held up one of his broad, long fingered hands, measuring so big. "Did you know that your feet are not a lot bigger than my hands? I had to get those in the kids' section. I would have got you something more colorful, but I didn't know if you preferred Pokemon or Teletubbies." Their eyes found each other, locked, a subtle frequency beginning to vibrate. "Thank you for taking care of me," she said softly. He shrugged, his cheeks suddenly flushed. "Put it in the ledger, Scully, you'll see I'm still way in the red." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She caught Mulder watching her as the team assembled and managed to give him some kind of smile. Grim but excited, ready to do what she was trained to do. They were both ready for some action, ready to get their hands on that lab and the monsters who ran it. Kresge gave the nod and everyone got into their various vehicles for the ride. Neither she nor Mulder spoke as they followed the patrol. Getting in was easy, with only the weekend guards at the entrance to detain and move past. Part of the team stayed behind on each floor, gathering materials. Mulder, Scully and Kresge kept going with a small backup. Up the stairs, first floor, second. A wait for the electronic door to the top to be grudgingly opened. By tacit agreement, the men let Scully go first. Her cry of despair brought them all up short. The room was a different place now, the tanks gone, the tables filled with ordinary lab equipment, dusty from disuse. Scully all but ran to the glass wall. The drawers were still there, but the refrigeration had been turned off and all the labels had been changed. She yanked one drawer open. It contained index cards. Another and another and another, and still nothing but index cards. It was gone. Everything. Again. Gone. She felt hands on her shoulders, a man's hands, strong and certain. Without thinking, she turned into them, pressing her face against his chest. The hands became arms, holding her tightly. She clutched him back, for once not caring who saw, not caring what they thought. It was like pressing down the plunger of a hypodermic, slow and steady, sending all her emotions as deep as they could go. It wasn't until the plunger hit bottom that she realized the feel of him was completely wrong, that the man she was clinging to was not Mulder. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Mulder wanted to turn away, but could not make himself do it. It was the way he felt sometimes when watching Scully perform an autopsy. A kind of sickening fascination, not with the body, but with his partner's calm detachment as she eviscerated, examined and weighed every slimy, blood-soaked element. In the sneakers he'd bought, Scully was so small that Kresge's shoulders completely blocked Mulder's view of her. He could only see her arms crossed over his back, white-knuckled fists clenching the fabric of his police jacket. Mulder had other things to do and he knew he should be doing them. He could not. He needed to see her face, needed to know if she was crying. He might accept the idea of Scully giving her body to another man, maybe even her heart, but her tears were his. Only he had earned the right to see them. He walked around the tables until he could see them from the other side. Scully's eyes were closed, but her cheeks were dry and he felt a faint note of triumph. The triumph disappeared as Kresge's hand came up to cup her head. That gave him the impetus he needed, finally, to turn away. There were some things he just didn't want to see. Busying himself by fiddling with the dusty glassware, he heard Scully murmuring an embarrassed apology. "We'll get them," Kresge promised. She said, "No. We never do. This is always what happens." Mulder moved to the next table. This one contained a distilling apparatus. He ran a finger over the top of the central beaker and stared at the dark smudge left on his skin as if analyzing the dust particles he found there. A moment later he felt Scully's hand on his arm. He turned to her. She seemed so far away, looking up at him from a much greater distance than usual, her eyes dark with some emotion he couldn't name. Mulder drew himself taller, increasing the distance between them. He knew she would interpret his behavior as frustration over the failure of the raid, would see only what she wanted to see. Fine. He had no desire to let her see how he felt. Everything was far too dangerous. She slid her hand down his arm to clasp three of his fingers, trying to bridge the gap between them. The gesture melted his heart as it always did, threatened to dissolve his resistance. He slipped his hand out of her grasp, again relying on the fact that she would not assume his actions had a personal element. Had she taken it personally when the office burned and he stood there like a store window mannequin while she grasped his arms and held on for dear life? No, of course not. He was in shock, she'd realised that. "Mulder," she said. "I have an idea. Something I'd like to check out." He drew in a deep breath, dragging his eyes away from her to scan the room. There were a couple of uniforms logging items, going through the motions, shaking their heads. Kresge was off in a corner now, making his hair stand on end by tugging on it while he paced with a cellphone in his hand. The bust was worthless, they all knew that. "Mulder?" He brought his attention back to Scully. Her bottom lip was bright red. She must have been biting it the whole time she stood in Kresge's arms. He took a step closer, so she had to tilt her head back to see him. Her mouth was slightly open, as if there was something else she wanted to say, as if she were waiting to be kissed. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to tell her she was his. That as much of a shit as he was sometimes, his life was worthless without her in it. Mulder rubbed a hand over his face, wiping that thought from his features. Scully was only professionally his, and only for as long as she chose to put up with him. Which would not be long if he chose to be jealous. "Mulder, are you all right?" She loves you as a friend. That's all it's ever been. He made it a mantra, chanted it inside his head until he could breathe again, until he could dare to look at her and not be afraid of what his face might give away. "There's something you want to check out," he said. She stepped back, a look of relief washing over her face. "Yes. Can I take the car?" She held her hand out for the keys. "Careful, Scully. You talk like that someone might think we're married." Wrong. Wrong time to joke, wrong thing to joke about. Scully frowned at him and Mulder took another deep breath, made his face relax, erasing whatever he'd unconsciously written there. He managed to dredge up an empty half-smile along with the keys to the rental. "So. Where are we going?" "It's personal, Mulder. I'm sorry, but you can't come with me." She reached up to take the keys and his fist closed instinctively around them. "No, Scully, you haven't had enough sleep to be driving around." "Mulder, you haven't slept at all, so how is that better?" "I haven't been having blackouts. If I give you the car and you pass out behind the wheel--" He faltered as her lips slowly pinched together. "--I would feel responsible for anything that happened." She nodded sagely, as if accepting his advice. A minute later he saw her on the other side of the room, accepting a set of keys from Kresge. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SCULLY RESIDENCE, SAN DIEGO NAVAL STATION MARCH 7TH, 7:28 PM "Dana!" Her sister-in-law grabbed Scully around the waist, almost waltzing her inside the house. "I couldn't believe it when Bill said you were coming," Tara chortled. "You've got perfect timing, you know. He's shipping out in the morning for three months." "I know, that's why I came down tonight." Scully returned her sister-in-law's hug with real affection. Sometimes Tara's easy radiance was a burning coal sticking in Scully's throat, but sometimes, like now, it was a winter hearth. Soothing, comforting, a good place to warm herself for a while. "I won't stay long," she said, still in Tara's arms. "I know it's late." "Stay as long as you like," Tara said. "At least stay for dinner." She drew back a little, searching Scully's face, making her suddenly uncomfortable. Tara was getting mother eyes now that she was one. It was like arriving at her own mother's, having to withstand the scrutiny of someone who'd known her longer and better than she knew herself, someone who always saw everything she needed to hide. Thank god Tara had not known her so long, nor anywhere near so well. "I'll tell him you're here," she said at last, concluding her inspection with a brief kiss on Scully's somber cheek. "Matthew's still up. Go have a look. He's gotten huge since you last saw him." Scully nodded her thanks, moving into the living room for a dutiful look at her nephew. She loomed over the playpen while Matthew regarded her solemnly, two fingers shoved in his mouth and slobber dribbling down his chin. He had the round blue O'Donnell eyes and Tara's fine, wispy blond hair. Not the most beautiful kid in the world perhaps, but not too bad. "I'm Dana," she told him. "I bet you don't remember me, but I'm your aunt." Matthew took his fingers out of his mouth and rattled on the bars of his prison. "Out," he said, or something that sounded very much like it. Scully lifted the boy out of the playpen, balancing him on her hip. She wiped his mouth with his shirt and he laughed, grabbing for her hair with his chubby, uncoordinated little hands. "Sorry, Matthew, I think that's attached." She moved her hair out of the way and hugged him close, pressing her nose against the top of his head. He smelled of bananas and baby-safe detergent, with a faint undercurrent of urine that probably only his mother or a forensic pathologist could easily detect. "You look good with a baby in your arms," Bill said, from somewhere behind her. She closed her eyes. Had he always been like that, or had he grown more tactless in the last few years? "Anyone looks good holding a baby," she answered. "Even you, Bill." She smiled to soften her words, handed the son to his father and accepted a kiss on her cheek in return. "It's good to see you," he smiled, shifting Matthew to his shoulder. "A nice surprise." Scully moved out of reach, disturbed in a way she had not expected. Bill not only sounded like their father, but since his hair had started to recede, he was even beginning to look like him. "It's funny," he continued, rubbing Matthew's back. "But I was talking to Mom just this afternoon. She said that last night she dreamt of us all on a picnic, the kind we used to have when Dad was home. We were still kids, laughing and having a good time, chasing each other around. Then you turned into a bird and flew away, and we were all running after you, calling to you to come back. And now here you are, flitting by for ten minutes when I haven't seen you in over a year." Scully's mouth opened in shock. Her hatches had not yet been battened down; she hadn't expected the storm to come up quite so fast. "I did make the effort to come, Bill. I didn't have to." "Because of a case, Dana. Because you have some questions to ask. Not because you want to spend some time with your family." "Bill, please. I didn't come here to argue." "I know. You wanted some information." He laid the baby down on a pad on the floor, and began to unsnap his romper. He ticked his son's belly, watching in satisfaction as the baby squirmed and squealed. "Go ahead," he said calmly, digging a clean Huggies from a box half- hidden behind the couch. "What do you want to ask?" He looked up, catching the surprise on her face. "Don't look like that. I used to diaper you. And that was in the days of cloth and pins." "You never." "Ask Mom. She'll swear to it." She walked over to the window, staring out of it while Bill changed Matthew's diaper, suddenly at a loss. "I'm not sure how to ask this," she said finally. She turned around and perched on the windowledge, hands on her knees for balance. "I'm not saying he did but...do you believe that Dad might have ever...do you believe he would ever have been capable of having an affair?" Bill sat back on his heels, a curious look on his face. She'd been prepared for outrage at the mere suggestion, but he seemed to be seriously considering it. "I don't think so," he said, after a moment. "I really don't. You know what he was like about family, and honoring commitments. I'm not going to say he never felt the urge, but I don't think he would have acted on it. No." "Not even when he and Mom were young? Before we were all born?" "Come here." He got up and guided her over to the family gallery on the wall by the living room door, a giant collage of framed photographs. Their mother had made one too, in the same place, in almost every house they lived in. "Look at them," Bill said, pointing to a copy of one of her favorite pictures. Her parents young, her father in his dress whites with his arms around her mother, still chubby from the pregnancy that had resulted in Melissa. Her mother was laughing at the camera and her father was looking at her like he never wanted to take his eyes off her again. "I don't think a man that loves his wife as much as Dad loved Mom would ever cheat on her. I just don't." Scully reached out to touch the photograph next to the one of her parents, a studio portrait of the four of them as kids. She could barely recognize herself as the sweet-faced two-year-old sitting in Bill's lap. Melissa was standing next to them, holding the newborn Charles, a proud smile stretching her mouth from ear to ear. "Do you ever remember Mom being away?" she asked. "Not for a day or two, I mean a week, maybe longer?" "Dana, what is this about? What does this have to do with the case you're on?" Scully realized she was stroking the picture, as if trying to feel Melissa through the glass. A Melissa she could not even remember. She turned away. "Doesn't it scare you sometimes, Bill? How much your life is like ours was?" "No, it doesn't." He lifted his son into his arms, hugging him close. "I'm happy, Day. It's exactly what I want." Bill put Matthew back in the pen and folded the used diaper neatly, ready to be thrown away. "Was that what you needed to know?" "There was something else. Do you remember when we were kids and we lived here, how we all had to go take these tests once a year? IQ, psychological, basic checkup?" He blinked in surprise, so hard she could almost hear it. "Yeah. I do, now that you mention it. What on earth brought that up?" "It was a study of some kind, I remember that. I was sure it was done at the university, but I just spent half the day there and I can't seem to find any record of it. I was about nine when we left San Diego. You were thirteen, maybe fourteen. I was hoping you'd remember something I don't -- a name, a doctor, a place that we went?" "Jesus, Dana. You're going back how many years now? I haven't thought about that in ages. Why don't you just call Mom and ask her? She'd be the one to remember." "No. It's okay. I don't want to bother her with this." She walked over and gave his shoulder a quick squeeze in lieu of her normal farewell hug. "I've got to go. Say goodbye to Tara for me, okay?" "Oh, come on, Day. You just got here and god knows when I'll see you again. Tara said you were staying for dinner." She might have stayed on another night. On a day that hadn't begun in disaster. Tonight she was not prepared to watch Bill playing Superdad. Turning into their father -- the family man who adored his wife and children and the sea in pretty much equal measure. It made her feel off balance, like the flat shoes, like driving through the base and finding it all just as it had been twenty-five years ago. "I'd like to," she said, speaking around a sudden thickness in her throat. "But I'm afraid I can't." "Dana, wait." He was suddenly towering over her, blocking her exit. "Look, do me one favor. Call Mom. Talk to her. She misses you." "I talk to her all the time, Bill." "You call and say you're going out of town on a case, you call and say you're back. That's not talking. That's just being the dutiful daughter. That's barely better than what Melissa did all those years." "Don't. Don't you dare..." Her voice caught, cracked. There were suddenly tears in her eyes and she was horrified to think that she might not be able to stop them. "Don't what?" he asked, coming closer, his voice growing soft. "Don't bring up Melissa?" She shook her head, but her hair was not as long as it had been when she was a girl, she couldn't hide behind it. "Jesus, Dana. Do you think I blame you for Missy getting killed?" He put a hand under her chin, lifting her face to make her look at him. "I don't. Mom doesn't. No one does, no one would. Don't do that to yourself." Scully swallowed, found her voice hiding somewhere beneath her rapidly unraveling surface. "You don't understand, Bill." He looked at her with eyes that seemed to be able to read every thought that had been in her head since she walked in. "I'm not Dad, Dana. Don't make me him." She choked on that, fighting hard now to keep her control. This time she let her brother hold her, her anger gone. This is what she'd come for then, the Billy who could hug her strong again, the one who secretly cheered her on whenever she stood up to him. The one who always told her she didn't act like a girl, when acting like a girl had been his greatest sneer. She suddenly remembered a night years before, a New Year's Eve party that had ended in disaster, and how Bill had hugged her just like this. How he had needed to lean down to whisper in her ear, as he still did. "I know you miss them, Day. I do too. It's okay, you know, to cry about things like that." She hadn't cried that night. She had walked away, fifteen years old, already too proud for tears. Scully pulled herself gently out of her brother's grasp. It was years too late to give in. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 11 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> CITY HEIGHTS, SAN DIEGO MARCH 7TH, 10:50 PM Kresge's house wasn't much to shout about. A small frame bungalow in a rough section of town -- peeling beige paint, the lawn untended, the front porch bare apart from a black plastic mat that had only the W and final E left from 'Welcome'. The lights were out and Scully stood before the door, car keys in her hand, wondering what she was doing here this time of night. He'd told her to bring the car back to the station in the morning. She didn't know how long she stood there undecided before she finally tugged at the screen, the hinges protesting being disturbed at such an hour. She knocked on the wooden inner door, hesitantly at first, then louder. At last she heard someone shuffling across the floor. "Yeah?" Even with his voice muffled by the door, Kresge sounded only half-awake, and she wished she had gone back to the motel. She would just give him the keys and ask him to call her a cab. "It's me," she called back. "Scully." Sure enough, when he opened the door he had that sleepy look she found so disarming on Mulder. Bed hair falling into squinted eyes and an expression of sweet confusion on his face. "Hey. Scully. What's up?" "I just wanted to return the car. And say thank you." She held up the keys. He didn't take them. "It's okay, I already arranged a ride for the morning. You'll need it to get back to your motel." She shrugged. "I'd prefer to take a cab." He ran a hand through his hair, as if trying to make it fall into some kind of reasonable arrangement. "Okay. You better come in then. Cabbies aren't exactly hanging around this part of town this time of night. It might take a while." She followed him into the living room, immediately conscious of the smell. Socks and old newspapers, though she saw none of either lying about. Mulder's apartment had the same musk to it, though his was tinged with a trace of old leather. It was the scent of a place that got tidied but never cleaned, where meals were eaten but never prepared. It was, she realized, the smell of loneliness. Kresge turned on a lamp, illuminating a plain room with an old couch and two overstuffed armchairs facing a battered television. Two cheap bookcases crammed with legal textbooks and paperback thrillers were the only personal furnishings. The walls were bare. Kresge followed her eyes. She hoped her face didn't look as sad as she felt. He shrugged, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. "It's a shithole," he agreed. "Why spend a fortune on rent when I'm never here?" She shrugged as if he'd directed the comment at her. She knew she spent far too much of her salary on her own apartment, but with her life, what else was there to spend it on? She rarely went out and she didn't need any more clothes. She needed a refuge, an oasis. A home. She had thought it was a home. For the first time, she wondered how her apartment might smell to a stranger. "Phone's over there." Kresge broke into her thoughts, pointing to his desk, shoved into the corner behind them. She hadn't noticed it at first glance, a beautiful antique rolltop piled with files and empty coffee cups, papers spilled onto the floor around it. It was the only part of the room that looked like someone lived there. "You want some coffee?" he asked. "I've got the real thing." "Please." He went into the kitchen. She listened to him filling a kettle, striking a match to light a gas stove. He came back to lounge in the doorway while the water boiled, arms folded against his chest. She still hadn't made that call. "So. Did you find out what you needed to know?" She didn't know how to answer that. She settled for a shrug, so tired she could feel it vibrating in her bones. Much too tired for complicated questions and labyrinthine explanations. Too tired for Mulder. It occurred to her that she was afraid of going back to the motel, afraid of seeing him. In the morning, perhaps, when she had rested and felt stronger. Not now. Kresge moved closer. She found herself looking at his bare chest. Nice muscles, more hair than Mulder had. She wanted to feel him against her skin. He took a step closer. She caught her breath as he touched her cheek, stroking softly with his fingertips. 'You know, you're welcome to stay.' Warmth flooded her belly, rose up into her face, her cheek tingling where he had touched her. "Come on," he said, indicating the kitchen. "It's more comfortable in here." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Comfortable, Kresge supposed, surveying the kitchen table, may have been an overstatement. "I don't bring a lot of people home," he apologised, pushing a pile of unopened mail to one side, clearing a place for them to sit. "Actually, I don't bring anyone home, so please excuse my lack of hosting skills." "You don't have to do anything," she said softly, her eyes following her finger, tracing the pattern of an ancient stain on the wood. He tipped her chin up and smiled at her. "Neither do you." She nodded. He would never tell her, but looking at him in this way she reminded him of Elizabeth. Both of them skilled and strong enough to take a man down with their bare hands, both so shy when it came to saying what they felt. His hand was still beneath her chin and he let himself caress her cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned ever so slightly towards him. "Hey, Scully," he whispered, drawing his thumb lightly across her lips. Her eyes flew open at that and she drew back, her color much higher than it had been a moment ago. He felt his own heart racing and grinned -- at her, at himself, two burnt-out cops acting as awkward and nervous as teenagers. The kettle was beginning to steam up the room and he moved away to turn the gas off. "Still coffee?" he asked, digging a cafetiere out of the half empty lower cupboard. "Or something stronger?" "I'm not much of a drinker," she said. "This won't get you drunk." He fished a bottle of Amaretto out from behind a selection of opened boxes of cereal and plunked it on the table. Up at the top, where the nice dishes sat covered with dust, he found two small cut crystal glasses and ran them under the tap, then polished them carefully with a clean dishcloth, holding them up to the dim light to inspect his work. He dumped two tablespoons of fine roast into the cafetiere, filled it with water and fit the plunger inside, then set it on the table with a small flourish. She was staring at him. "Yeah," he said. "I used to have a life." He sat at the corner near her and popped the top of the Amaretto, carefully filling the tiny narrow glasses to a polite half inch below the rim. "I used to have a place over by Sunset Cliffs, overlooking the ocean. Nothing too fancy, just nice. Light. Airy. A Kharmann Ghia. That was Elizabeth's indulgence. She loved that thing." He reached for the coffee pot and busied himself with the slow press of the plunger. He could feel Scully's gaze on his skin like the sun burning through an early morning mist, suddenly not certain whether he wanted the warmth. These were not things he wanted to talk about, yet in her presence they kept slipping out. He poured their coffee and sat sideways in his chair, leaning against the wall and stretching out his legs, sipping at his Amaretto while the coffee cooled. "Did these come from her?" Scully asked, running a finger up the side of her glass. "No. Family." He lifted his glass with a moment of bitterness. "Halloran Rutherford Kresge, Junior. Ever hear of Kresge Drugs?" "I thought your name was John." "Confirmation." He touched his chest, mirroring the cross that rested below the hollow of her throat. "You still go to Mass?" "Sometimes." She shrugged. "It's familiar, like going home." She ran her fingers up and down the glass, evidently having no idea how sexy the gesture was. "Elizabeth was your lover?" He took a breath. "She was my partner." He saw her put the two together. "How long were you involved?" "Depends what you mean by involved. We worked together for two or three years, I guess, before we finally admitted we were attracted to each other. Another year before we did anything about it. We had this bond, you know, this thing between us that worked. Didn't want to mess it up." She nodded, one finger tracing the base of her glass. "We had eight months," he finished, hearing the trace of bitterness in his voice. Still, after all these years. "It broke up the partnership?" "No." He tossed his head back and drained his Amaretto, pouring another before he found the voice to speak again. "She was killed. Some fucked up rich kid with a head full of crack and his daddy's pearl-handled pistol." He tried the coffee this time, burning his tongue. "God," she said softly. "If I lost Mulder like that--" She stopped, rubbing at her forehead as if it hurt too much to finish. "I was mad for a long time." He kept his focus on his coffee mug, avoiding her eyes. "I mean, certifiably mad. No one knew why. No one knew we'd been involved. I was overreacting to losing my partner, that's what the official record said. Made me do eighteen months of desk duty before they proclaimed me fit for the streets again." He stroked his thumb over the hot porcelain as if it were Elizabeth's cheek. "She's been dead, I don't know, five or six years now. I don't count. I don't even know why I just told you all that." He took another burning sip, finally putting the cup down and daring to meet her eyes. "I guess I just wanted you to know," he shrugged. "I come with baggage." She reached for his hand, taking it in both of hers, fingers exploring the shape of bone and muscle, as if she were trying to diagnose where the hurt was. "Tell me I don't remind you of her." "Only in the sense that you're both strong. And smart." He trailed his free hand up her arm, and around the back of her head. Her hair was cool against his palm, soft and thick between his fingers. "And she was small, like you, but big and loud and tough as old boots. I'm not even sure you would have liked each other." She closed her eyes as he drew her towards him, lips barely meeting before he let her move away. Her eyes looked darker when she opened them, heavy with arousal. "I guess I come with baggage, too," she murmured. "Mulder?" "Not quite like that, no. But in some ways, yes." "I know." He filled his hands with her hair, brushing it back from her face. "Is there something else?" She looked at him another moment, then shook her head. This time she met his kiss halfway, her lips soft and cool, parting against his. She tasted of coffee and almonds, of too little sleep and too much sorrow, of hope and hopelessness. She tasted alive and he drank her in. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She lay naked beside him, running her hands up his arms, over his shoulders, down his chest. Such fine skin he had, surprising her with its softness. She hadn't imagined a grown man could have such skin. She slipped one arm around Kresge's waist and hugged him. Nice. He felt nice. Warm. She moved closer, getting used to the feel of him. "You're shaking," she whispered. "Dana, I'll tell you a secret," he said. It had been so long since she'd heard anyone but a family member speak her name that it sounded strange in her ears. "What's that?" He turned on his side, so they were facing each other, moving one hand slowly up and down the length of her back. "I'm beyond out of practice. I haven't been with anyone in years." Relief washed over her in huge, cleansing waves. "Me too," she sighed, snuggling close. "Women get hungry. Men get adolescent." She laughed as he rolled them over, pulling her to lie on top of him. "God, I forgot," he murmured, his face buried under her hair. "I forgot how good this feels." Scully lifted her head. "This isn't the first time since...?" Her voice failed her, suddenly uncertain at the softness in his face, the tenderness of his touch. She couldn't remember being touched like this. Groped, of course, stroked and caressed, but not like the act itself was all that mattered. As if she were something precious, something to be savored. "No." He spread his fingers wide, claiming her hips, making her body melt as his thigh parted hers. "I've had lovers since. Nothing real. That was by mutual consent." He moved her hips as he spoke, pressing against her so that little waves of pleasure began to radiate from her pelvis. She nodded, swallowing hard as he coaxed her legs further apart. "I haven't wanted anyone in a long time," he whispered. His hands rose between her thighs, acquainting themselves with the peach-soft skin there. "I don't know why. You?" "Years." His hands rose further, over her bottom, smoothing her body over his, tucking her head into the hollow of his shoulder. She felt his fingers move to trace a circle at her waist and shivered, knowing what he had seen. "Surprise, surprise," he whispered. His fingers moved again, the sensation appearing and disappearing as he ran them over the nerveless scar on the other side of her back. Don't ask, she prayed. He didn't. She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, leaning on one elbow so she could touch him. She liked the way he felt, muscles firm under her palm. She found herself outlining their contours, naming them in her head. His fingers rose up the curve of her spine, pressing on the knotted muscles to either side. "Mm. Know a nice cure for that," he said, drawing her down to lie on top of him again. She groaned softly as he began to massage her back, carefully working the tension down her spine to a place just below her shoulder blades. "Nice?" he asked. "Oh, god," she breathed. "Glorious." "Good. I'll continue." A great lassitude washed over her, not familiar, but not unpleasant. It was wonderful just to lie here like this, to feel Kresge's skin against hers. A good man, one that didn't carry danger stamped all over him, the way Mulder did. Mulder was a Pandora's box, beautiful and mysterious, but never to be opened. Not if she wanted to go on working with him. The massage became a long, continuous caress, his hands moving up and down her body. Gentle. Soft. Desire melted into the fog of tranquillity, her mind growing quiet for the first time in weeks. "John?" "Mmm?" Every muscle was so lax now she could barely move her lips. "Would you be very disappointed...?" His arms slid over her back to embrace her. "Dana," he said softly, "I went to bed alone at the end of a lousy day. And now I'm with you, and it's tomorrow. How could that be disappointing?" She sighed contentedly into his shoulder. His hands began to move again, stroking her, cat-like, until her body grew loose and heavy, until she slid gently into sleep, still lying on top of him. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> KRESGE RESIDENCE MARCH 8TH, 6:06 AM There was a bell, an alarm. Voices shouting. Around her, chaos. Within her, nothing. Absolutely nothing. "Oh shit, all right, all right, hang on a minute." Her landscape shifted as someone struggled beside her, the excess motion rocking her, paralyzed, in a sea of waves. A male voice echoed within the dark of her sinking down, down... "Yeah. Oh." She rose again, hearing the tone change between words, from annoyed to careful. "No, that's okay, what's up?" Scully rolled over, rubbing at her gritty eyes. Mulder. Not beside her, on the phone. Her heart began a guilty pounding. She was seventeen again, parked in front of her house with Marcus Peterson's hand up her shirt, opening her eyes to see her father peering through the windshield. "Oh. She's here," Kresge was saying. "She's fine. She brought my car back late and I told her to stay." A pause, then, "Mulder, it's okay. Just hang on a second." She closed her eyes as she saw Kresge padding naked back into the room, half erect and bobbing away. He threw himself across the bed, the springs screeching in protest. "Scully?" He rubbed her cheek with the back of one finger, kissed the tip of her nose. "Hey. Dana. Wakey, wakey. Your partner's on the phone." "I know." She rolled back onto her stomach, pressing her face into the pillow. Her head felt like it was full of water, sloshing as she moved. She didn't want to talk to Mulder. All she wanted to do right now was pull the covers over her head and go back to sleep. For about a week. Maybe forever. "You want to go talk to him? I think he's worried. Or does he normally call people at six o'clock in the morning?" Scully groaned and stumbled out of bed, dragging the blanket with her. In daylight, the living room looked less barren than it had the night before. Scully wrapped the blanket around herself and fell into the chair by the desk, fumbling the receiver to her ear. "Mulder, I'm fine." There was a moment of silence before he responded. "Listen, I'm sorry to disturb your little tryst, but there was a case I thought we might look into while we're here." She caught her breath, stifling a host of responses, not the least of which was slamming down the phone. "I'm going to give you an opportunity to restate that," she told him when she could speak again, making an effort to keep her voice low. "You disappeared, you had your phone turned off." There was suddenly something in his voice she hadn't expected, something lost and childlike. "Mulder, you do that all the time." "Yes, but you don't. Not when you're on a case. And the last time..." The last time she woke in a hospital in New York with a hole in her gut and Mulder glued to her side, two days unshaven, eyes wild with exhaustion and panic. Scully put her head down on her arm. "I'm sorry," she conceded. "You're right. I should have called." He sighed loudly and she knew the sigh contained all the other questions he wished she would answer without his having to ask. "Listen," she offered. "Remember that coffee shop we went to the first day? I'll meet you there in an hour. There's something that happened yesterday I want to tell you about." "Yeah? Good. I'll be there." There was relief in his voice and her stomach unclenched, went back to where it belonged. Stick to work. Safe territory. It would be okay. It had to be okay. She heard Kresge come up behind her as she put the phone back in its cradle. "Everything all right at home?" he asked, leaning over the back of the chair to wrap his arms around her shoulders. She nodded, laying her cheek against his bare arm. God, it was so easy with him. No expectations. No history. Just for a moment, could she not have that? Kresge nibbled softly on the side of her neck. "It's early yet," he murmured. "Come back to bed." She slipped from the chair. "I can't." He stared down at the place she'd so recently occupied, his hands clutching the back of the chair. "Is that a specific can't, or a general can't?" She blinked back a sudden wetness in her eyes. "I think," she said hoarsely, "I think it's a general one." He nodded, rocking back and forth on his heels. She wanted to go to him, wanted to smooth her hand through his hair and wipe the pained lines off his forehead. She stayed where she was. "John," she said, "it's not my intention to hurt you." He looked up finally. "I wouldn't say I'm hurt. Confused maybe. I mean, you don't strike me as a one-night woman. I guess I thought if you were in my bed, it meant something." "It did." She swallowed hard, carefully putting each word in place to keep the whole thing from sliding away. "I'm not sorry. But I have a case to solve. That's what I have to do right now." Kresge nodded again, straightening up, running a hand through his hair. "Okay," he said quietly. "I can't object to that." She looked at his wan face, his averted eyes, and wanted to cry for both of them. Instead, she pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders, shivering in an imagined draft. "I'm sorry," she murmured. He reached out and stroked her cheek with one finger, smiling a little when she didn't flinch. "Scully FBI," he said sadly. "See you out there." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 12 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> HOT POT COFFEE SHOP MARCH 8TH, 6:45 AM Mulder got there fifteen minutes early, grabbing a booth overlooking the parking lot. Glutton for punishment, he told himself, but he wanted to see her with Kresge, before she had the chance to put her usual mask on. He needn't have bothered. Scully's face was already set when she drove up, alone, in Kresge's car. "You're early," she said, sliding into the booth, not quite meeting his eyes. "So are you." They ordered coffee and waited. The silence felt sharp as a bed of nails and about as inviting. Scully was staring out the window. He wondered if she was waiting for Kresge to arrive. The coffee came and Mulder busied himself measuring a teaspoon of sugar, stirring, laying the teaspoon down precisely on the saucer. "Mulder," she said at last. "Mulder, look at me." He did. Hungry himself, he searched her face for signs of feasting. He could find none. She looked tired and strained, the same -- more or less -- as she'd looked for weeks. "I'm sorry that I made you worry," she said. "But you do that to me all the time. Now you know how I feel when I don't know where you are." "At least when I disappear, I'm looking for answers." He saw her eyebrows dip down, the first warning of anger. "Mulder, you have no--" "You're right," he agreed quickly. "I don't." He picked up his coffee and drank, set it back down carefully. "You said you found something yesterday." Relief washed the tension from her face. He breathed deeply, feeling the tightness in his chest and shoulders begin to ease. Yes, he could be adult about this. He could convince himself that as long as she was still his partner, he could ignore anything else. They rarely socialized after hours, not when they were home, and Scully had always kept the rest of her life private. He could deal. Nothing between them needed to change. "I don't know if found is the right word," she began. "I went to see Bill. There was something I remembered about a program at UCSD we were part of, all four of us. I wanted to see if he remembered it too." Mulder nodded, careful to keep his opinion of her brother out of his face. "And did he?" "Yes." She sighed deeply. "You have no idea how much I needed to hear that. I spent all afternoon on campus trying to track down the records and no one seemed to know what I was talking about. There's no record of UCSD or anyone affiliated with it conducting any such study through any department at any time in the '60s or early '70s. I was beginning to think I'd imagined the whole thing." "So what was it?" "Some kind of long-range study charting military kids. How growing up in that environment affected us. We went once a year for a whole battery of tests, physical, psychological, developmental. I was very young, so I don't remember much, but I think I actually enjoyed it, running on the treadmill and doing puzzles. I was nine when we left San Diego, and I think that was the end, but I'm not entirely sure." The atmosphere between them was lighter now, and Mulder felt himself relaxing gratefully into their normal pattern of give-and-take, inform-and-clarify. "What aren't you sure about?" "Well, we moved around so much, it seemed like I was always taking some kind of test to see where I was supposed to be placed in school. When I was twelve I went through some kind of three-day evaluation, which seems a bit strange now for your average Catholic school, and when I was fifteen I went through something similar to get into a high school for students gifted in science. I never thought about it before, but I don't remember my siblings having to take any more tests. Only me." "What about your mother? Did you try asking her?" She dropped her eyes, staring into her coffee cup. "I don't really want to involve her right now." She grew quiet, a particular stillness of the body he recognized as preparation for something she didn't really want to say. He leaned forward until he was as close to her as he could get without actually lying on the table. "Tell me what you're thinking," he said softly. "No matter how weird it sounds." For a moment it was like old times; Scully's eyes locked with his, her attention absolute, like there was no one else in the world. "Mulder, you said once that you didn't believe in coincidence. That you and I seemed destined to ask certain questions." He nodded, waiting for her to go on. "Well, what if none of this has ever been coincidence? What if we've both been watched and tracked our whole lives?" He laughed. Not a derisive laugh -- in fact, it was closer to crying. "Jesus, Scully, maybe we have been spending too much time together. You're beginning to sound like me." Scully wasn't finding that funny. She pushed her hair behind her ears with an impatient gesture. "Listen to me, Mulder. You and I didn't decide to join the FBI, we were both recruited. They sought us out. And then they put us together. We've always assumed it was for me to debunk your work. To spy on you. But what if it wasn't?" "Then why?" "I think...this study I was part of, Mulder...maybe that's how They choose the people They take. Maybe the reason They took me has nothing to do with stopping our work. Maybe I was meant to be taken all along and They put us together because they knew that, They knew what it would do to you. Only it didn't have the result They wanted. Instead of being able to direct you by dangling information about where I might be, you went out of control. So They gave me back. In a coma I was never supposed to come out of, true, but somebody wanted you to see me like that, Mulder, or they would have just killed me and disposed of the evidence. They could have, and you would never have known what happened. I would have been your second Samantha and you would have eventually gone insane looking for both of us, and that would be the end of whatever threat you posed. Discrediting you would be far safer than killing you. No one to pick up the torch. Only someone didn't want that. The smoker, I suppose, since he seems to have been behind this from the start, and I'm obviously useful to his purpose, since he did save my life." "Scully, I can't believe I'm hearing this from you. That bastard gave you cancer." "We don't know that, Mulder. What we do know is that he told you where to find that chip. He saved my life, yes, but in a way that put me under the ultimate control." "Scully, I don't--" He stopped, staring at her. She was starting to get the same look of manic genius she'd had in Jane Hampton's hospital room the other night, her eyes so intensely blue it made him want to reach over and close them. He shifted his gaze to the table, worry gnawing at his stomach. To hear her sounding like himself, like one of the Gunmen, was no longer remotely amusing. It was actually beginning to scare him. "Scully," he said, trying to keep his voice neutral, reasonable, "This is not sounding like you. I don't understand why you're suddenly thinking like this." "It's not sudden, Mulder. The pieces have been there for years. We just never put them together the right way." He looked up again. She seemed calmer now, her expression more like the Scully he recognised from their countless debates. "I was driving around, coming back from my brother's," she said. "Thinking about everything that's happened in the last few years. About--" She abruptly shifted her gaze away from his. "About what?" he prompted. "Control." It obviously was not what she had been about to say but he let it pass, nodded at her to continue. "It's all about control. We're the mouthpiece, the censored media. Whoever controls us controls what gets out and what doesn't. But there are others, people with their own agenda. People who have used us. Whatever we've found, we've found it because someone led us there. Like Strughold's mine. Like that lab the other night. They give us a part of the truth for their own purpose because it doesn't really matter if we see it. We can never prove what we know." "That doesn't change the fact that it is the truth." "Truth is perception, Mulder." She picked up her coffee mug, turning it so the handle faced him. "If you see the cup from this side, you'll insist there's a handle. If I turn it, you'll say that there's none. That's the kind of truth we've found. The handle may mean the difference between this being a mug or a vase, but we have no way to know if we've seen it all." "I'm not following you." "Why does Skinner suddenly send us on a kidnapping case, when the kidnapped child is--" She stopped short, leaning back to wipe a rough hand over her eyes. They looked feverish when she opened them again, puffy and bloodshot, but somehow still dry. "Someone made Skinner put us on this. It all goes back to something we've been asking for years, without ever finding any real answers." He shook his head, still unable to pick up her fractured logic. To hear the ever-methodical Scully leaping from A to E to C was completely unnerving. "What is the Project, Mulder? Vaccines, hybrids, bees, what? All of the above, none of the above? And who's running it now? I'm sure the smoker is still around, but most of the men involved with him burned at El Rico. He'd be trying to consolidate his power right now, and controlling the Project, whatever it is, would be the way to do that. Amy is part of that Project -- for all we know, she's the desired end result -- so that means whoever has her, has the Project. The smoker is not the one who sent us. We see what he wants us to see -- if he wanted me to know those children existed, he'd have led us to them years ago." "Then who?" "Someone who's not on our side, exactly, but who might be for now. Someone who knows how these girls were made, knows whose genes they carry. Someone who knows us, and is making us serve his purpose. That's why we've been shown the handle of the mug." "Krycek." She nodded. "They're vying for control in a territorial war, and we're part of the territory they're squabbling over." "Okay, but if we're serving Krycek's purpose, what is he using us for?" "To stop the Project. Stop the Project and he stops the smoker. Stop the smoker and Krycek winds up in control." "Well, isn't stopping the Project what we've been trying to do all along?" "The thing is, Mulder...the thing I don't know anymore...is whether that's the right thing to want. If the aim of the Project is to create a vaccine to allow us, as humans, to survive some kind of viral plague -- wherever it's supposed to be coming from -- is it the right thing for us to try to stop that? Shouldn't we simply be worrying about getting our hands on it to ensure equal distribution to everyone?" "Scully, these men are monsters. How can you even begin to say we shouldn't stop them, after everything you've seen, after everything they've done to you?" She rubbed at her eyes again, making them look even more raw. "I don't know. I don't know. I thought I knew what we were doing, but the longer I think about it the more it just seems like we've been used all along, and I'm so tired, Mulder. I don't even know why I'm doing this anymore.' She stopped, putting her hands over her face, her breath hitching her shoulders. He watched, appalled, as tears began to slide through her fingers. Mulder stood slowly, coming around to her side of the table. He knew he was not supposed to touch her, not supposed to even take notice. He was supposed to wait until she recovered by herself, dignity intact, then pretend he hadn't seen her lose control. That was what he always did, that was their tacit agreement. He didn't dare break it now. He sat beside her, his hands clenched on the table. Slowly, she calmed, her breath smoothing out. The moment of danger passed. "Scully," he murmured, "There's only one thing in all of this that I'm certain of. There's a little girl out there who needs our help. Whoever sent us, we still need to find her." She looked up at him with something he hadn't seen in her eyes in a very long time. Something he might have once dared to call love. "You're right," she said, laying a hand against his cheek. He nodded and slid out of the booth, before his own tears got the better of him. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SDPD SOUTHEASTERN DIVISION MARCH 8TH, 8:41 AM Kresge looked up as Scully and Mulder passed by the open door to his office. Mulder, looking in Kresge's direction, seemed to have manufactured a deliberately blank expression, his hand resting possessively in the curve of Scully's waist. Kresge gave the other man a nod. He had no intention of doing the caveman thing with Mulder. Their partnership was sacrosanct, the rest was up to her. A brief, hushed conference ensued between the two agents, then Scully came into his office. She held up his keys and laid them carefully in his outstretched hand. "I need to change," she said, slipping past him to get at the suitcase she'd stored behind his desk. He swiveled his chair around to face her. "You doing okay?" he asked, in a voice meant only for her ears. She nodded, her eyes on some neutral point. Her profile caught his attention, as if he'd never really seen it before. He imagined tracing the proud line of her nose, his finger falling off the end to land in the softness of her mouth. Kresge stopped himself with a small shake of his head. He was definitely not a poet. Just astute enough to recognize the indulgent wonder that marked a man in danger of falling in love. He gave Scully directions to the women's locker room and tried not to watch her go. "Any news?" Kresge looked up. Mulder was leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded. "Jane Hampton was transferred out of ICU this morning," Kresge told him, holding up a scribbled post-it. "Technically, she's an attempted suicide. That means they'll hold her for psychiatric observation for another 48 hours. We need to have some idea whether she's a suspect or a victim before that time is up." "Do you really think she killed her husband?" Kresge ran a hand through his hair. "I might, if it weren't for the Sims last year. They weren't exactly happy campers. As it is, I'm prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt, but there are definitely some questions I want answered." Mulder nodded. "I'll go talk to her. Let's see if we can get her to cooperate without scaring her off." "You taking Scully?" Mulder hesitated a moment, fixing Kresge with that inscrutable look again. Kresge kept his face neutral. "No. She has some leads of her own to follow up." He watched Mulder go, suddenly feeling more sympathetic toward the man. Kresge had been there, done that, and worn the t-shirt for years before Elizabeth had finally ripped it off his back. Poor bastard had it bad. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SAN FRANCISCO GENERAL HOSPITAL MARCH 8TH, 9:30 AM Jane Hampton's face creased in distrust as Mulder handed her the flowers he'd purchased in the hospital gift shop. "A gentleman always brings flowers, huh?" she said, poking half- heartedly at the bundle of chrysanthemums. "What are these for?" "I'm here as a friend, Jane. The inquisitors will come later. But if it's any consolation, I don't think you killed your husband." "Then what do you want?" "I need to know what happened. What you remember." She put the flowers on the little rolling table and folded her arms protectively over herself. "If I told you the truth, you would never believe it." "You'd be surprised what I'll believe." Mulder picked up a chair and set it down by Jane's bed, trying not to stare. With her face drawn into a wary frown she looked more like Scully than ever. Scully in a dozen hospital beds, grey-skinned, her eyes too big, mouth pursed against fear. "I saw two men go into your house," he began. "Two men in black suits. Another was waiting outside, in a car with the motor running. They were in there for about ten minutes, then they came out. I followed them. I'm sorry about that. If I hadn't, if I had knocked on your door, I might have been more help." She was looking at him now with an expression he'd seen on Scully's face a million times. Disbelief, tinted with the faintest shade of hope. "They came to talk to Tom. There were always men like that talking to Tom. I heard something break, and I went into his study. I think they stuck me with something. At least--" She stopped and looked away, her face coloring slightly. "Okay, it felt like they stuck a needle in my ass. And that's the last thing I remember. I didn't see anything. I didn't even see Tom--" Her voice choked and she stopped again. Mulder waited, patient, until she was ready to continue. "The cop that was with you before," she said, quickly flicking at her tears. "The first time. He was here this morning when I woke up. He told me Tom was dead." "Yes." "I didn't kill him." "I believe you. We both believe you." She lifted her head and looked at him, eyes glittering bright blue. Again, her fierce expression was far too familiar. "Then what do you want? I already gave the cops a statement." "I wanted to ask you some other questions, Jane. About your family." Her face changed then, grew hard and bitter. He no longer saw either Scully or her sister; this was just another small woman who happened to have blue eyes and red hair. For the first time he began to wonder if both he and Scully were falling prey to paranoia, seeing connections that weren't actually there. "You told my partner you were adopted. Did you ever make any attempt to locate your birth parents?" "The State of California seems to think it has a God-given right not to give out that information. Anyway, they didn't want me, why should I look for them?" Jane folded her arms again, glaring at him. It wasn't Scully's glare, Jane's had something different in it, almost malicious. He made his voice very gentle. "What about your adoptive parents? Are they still alive?" She was silent for a long time. At last she shook her head. "How did they die, Jane? When?" "Why are you asking me all this? What can it matter?" "I'll explain it all to you," he promised, "but first I need to ask these questions." "I was sixteen. It was a car accident. They went out for dinner and a movie, I wanted to fuck my boyfriend so I didn't go. They never came back." She stuck her chin out, defiant, reminding him more of Melissa now than of Scully. Melissa had had that same sharp, pointed temper, that same way of spitting words in anger. He veered off in another direction, afraid of poking too hard at old wounds. He would learn nothing if he pissed her off. "How old were you when you were adopted?" "About twelve. I was in a kind of orphanage before that. I don't really remember." He sat back and thought about that for awhile. "In the orphanage, did you ever see a little girl with very long brown hair? She would have been about three years younger than you." Jane rolled over, curling on her side and frowning at him. "I guess there could have been. I told you, I don't really remember." Mulder forced himself to take a breath. "Do you remember the names of any of the other children?" "No." "Does the name Samantha ring any bells?" Jane considered that for a moment before shaking her head. "No. I'm sorry, but I really don't remember." Mulder nodded, swallowing a flash of disappointment. "Jane," he said, leaning close, "if someone told you, if someone were able to prove to you that you were taken as an infant from your real family...that they may not even know of your existence...and that if they did, they would be very anxious to have you back...would you want to know them?" Jane turned her head towards him. "Why would you think that? Why would someone take a baby from their family?" "I don't know. But I know it happens. I think maybe it happened to you." Jane drew the blankets up higher, as if guarding herself from the possibility of hope. "When I was a kid," she said, "we used to tell each other stories about our lives before. Most of us couldn't remember having parents, we were just making shit up. But we all did it. We all pretended there was someone out there looking for us, that one day they would come and take us home." She read the compassion in Mulder's face and shrugged. "Typical orphanage shit. You wouldn't know." "Tell me about the place. What it looked like." Jane sighed. "There were four buildings built around a playground. One was where we lived, one was the infirmary, and the other was the school. The fourth building, I guess it was offices. I don't know. It was always locked." "Do you remember where this was?" "Somewhere on the outskirts of town. It was quiet. Nothing much around. I only saw it from the outside once." Mulder sat up, all senses on alert. "You mean in all the years you lived there, you were never allowed out?" "We never saw anyone go in or out. There'd just be a new kid at breakfast. Or one wouldn't be there. I guess I was one of those." "Tell me about that." "There's nothing to tell. I went to sleep one night and when I woke up, I was alone in the back seat of a big car, just driving out. You know we told each other stories about that too, about what happened to the kids who disappeared, so I was pretty damn scared. The staff told us that they went to families, but we never really believed them. Then it turned out to be true." She stuck her chin out at him again, the same sharp defiance in her voice. "They were good people, my parents. They loved me. I was happy." Mulder stood on legs that felt slightly unsteady. "I need to make a call," he said. "I want to get my partner down here. I think she needs to hear this." "Why is that important?" He managed a steady, comforting smile. "Trust me. It is." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Mulder hit the speed dial as soon as he got outside the hospital doors, talking before Scully could even say her name. "Scully, you've got to come down to the hospital," he told her, almost dancing in excitement as he paced before the entrance. "You're not going to believe the story Jane Hampton is telling." Her silence stopped his feet. "Scully? Did you hear me?" "I did, but I can't," she answered. "At least not right this second. Can't you just tell me?" "Not over the phone. Where are you? What do you mean you can't come?" Another silence. He strained his ears, listening for background noises. He thought he heard the familiar rattle and hum of a car. He amended his question. "Where are you going?" "We got Denise Hampton's body released from the mortuary." "We? As in you and Kresge?" "Mulder..." "Look, the hospital's not far from the county morgue. I'm going to come meet you." "That's not necessary. I'm sure you can handle whatever it is." Suspicion suddenly formed a lead weight into his stomach. "Scully? You're not doing this autopsy, are you?" "It's okay, Mulder." "That's not an answer." "Just talk to Jane and call me when you're done." It took Mulder a minute to process the fact that the silence on the other end meant Scully had hung up. He turned, as if expecting to find her standing behind him, saying 'had ya.' Of course she was not there. Mulder turned again, sprinting for the car. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SAN DIEGO COUNTY MORGUE MARCH 8TH, 10:20 AM Scully walked around the autopsy bay, familiarizing herself with the layout. It wasn't much different from any other autopsy bay anywhere else. All that was different was the small body on the table. At last she could put it off no longer. She drew back the sheet. Kresge leaned over the other side of the table, inspecting the child's face. "Shit. You were right. She could be Emily Sim." Scully turned away, fiddling with her instruments, examining each carefully and laying them back in precise parallels. "Have you ever seen an autopsy?" she asked. "Um, no, not up close." "Then you'd better go." "Mulder doesn't stay with you?" "Only when he needs immediate information. And he's used to it." She looked up, trying to soften her voice. "Please, John. I don't need company when I'm working and I don't want to wind up holding your head over a basin. I'll call you if I find something." She reached up to flip the overhead recorder on. "I'm beginning at 10:23am, March eighth, 1999. Subject is Denise Ellen Hampton, aged four years, four months, one day. Subject died on the third of March and was delivered to the Sunrest Mortuary approximately twenty-four hours later. Subsequent embalming may distort our findings." She looked up to see Kresge still there, nervously waiting for her to begin. Another autopsy sprang to mind, six years ago almost to the day. She had been the nervous one then, angry at the thing before her, a shape only vaguely human. Angry at Mulder, dancing around the table taking pictures and babbling his insane theories, twisting his long body into elaborate shapes to talk directly into her face. Our first date, she thought wryly. And we argued all the way through it. She'd told him he was nuts half a dozen times on that first case alone, but the arguments...the arguments had been more arousing than foreplay. If true sex was in the mind they'd been making wild, passionate love for years. Oh god, where had that thought come from? Scully rubbed a sleeve across her tired eyes. She had lied when she told Kresge she wanted to be alone. What she really wanted was Mulder leaning over her shoulder, getting in her way, destroying her concentration. She wanted them back the way they were, when every day was full of revelation and her only personal involvement in the X- Files had been through caring about him. "Scully? Are you okay?" She stiffened, suddenly remembering that Kresge was still there. "I've asked you to leave," she said shortly, embarrassed to have been caught daydreaming. "If you're going to insist on staying, please don't disturb me." She began walking around the table again, reciting her initial observations in a clear, mechanical voice. If she could hold onto this facade, keep this purely in the professional realm, she might just get through it. The memory of having done it could be dealt with later. She looked up from the body to choose an instrument and noticed that Kresge had finally taken her request seriously and left the room. She regretted her sharpness, but it was too late to do anything about it right now. She shifted her focus to the job at hand. "I'll begin with the Y- incision," she informed the recorder. She readied the scalpel over the child's small rib cage. And couldn't move it. Scully stepped back from the table. She took several deep breaths and stepped back up, determined, but when she positioned the scalpel again she saw her hand shaking with nerves, as if she were a student cutting open her first cadaver. Sweat ran into her eyes and she used her left arm to wipe it away, keeping her right hand firm where it was. She began to breathe to a steady count of four, forcing her heart to slow, lulling herself into a state of calm readiness. It was a trick she'd learned in medical school, in the days when she still thought of going into surgery. Scully breathed, staring at the scalpel, willing it to remain still, willing herself to move her fingers and press it into the delicate flesh. She was concentrating so hard on that thin piece of steel that she heard nothing before it went flying out of her hand. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 13 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> "What are you doing?!" Mulder hissed, his hands twisted so tightly in her scrubs that he was almost lifting her off her feet. She heard running footsteps and knew it was Kresge. Her toes sought purchase on the floor, found it in time to see Kresge come up behind Mulder, about to wrap a forearm around the taller man's throat. "John, no!" she cried, throwing her arms around Mulder's shoulders to protect him. The strangeness of her embrace was not lost on Kresge, any more than the use of Kresge's first name seemed lost on Mulder. He shuddered beneath her arms, his grip relaxing until she had her feet firmly on the floor again, but his hands stayed fisted in her scrubs as if he could not bear to let her go. She caught Kresge's incredulous expression and shook her head. How to explain? There was no explanation. He obviously thought they had both gone insane. "It's okay," she said, to both of them. She reached for Mulder's hands, gently disentangling his fingers from her clothes. "Don't do this, Scully," he whispered, his warm breath ticking her lips. She made herself look at him, her fingers still entwined in his, a strangely tender feeling. "Mulder, it's my job." "Let someone else do it." "No." Somewhere inside herself she found the strength she'd been looking for earlier, the resolve she needed. "No, I have to be certain it's done right." "You can tell the medical examiner what to look for." Mulder's eyes were dark with pain and fear and she wanted to reach up and wrap her arms around his neck again, wanted to hold him long enough to reassure him that she understood, that she was grateful for his concern, even while she was refusing it. "It's okay, Mulder." She settled for squeezing his fingers for a moment before she dropped his hands. She was ready now, moving into that clear, empty place she often went when working on cases that disturbed her. She looked around for the scalpel she had dropped, found it, and disengaged the blade. She turned back to her instruments, seeking a replacement, and when she looked up again something else had risen in Mulder's eyes, a kind of anguish she had become familiar with seeing during the long months of her illness. "I'm sorry," she told him, calmly. "I have to do this my way." He looked at her another moment, then at Kresge, who seemed frozen in dismay at the scene he just witnessed. It was Kresge's presence that seemed to be the deciding factor. Mulder turned, throwing her an indecipherable look over his shoulder, and stalked away. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SEA COURT MOTEL MARCH 8, 8:18 PM Mulder was in the new motel room when she arrived hours later with her suitcase, feeling like a wayward wife. He opened the door to let her in, then immediately went back to a sheaf of maps that he had spread across the table. "Do I have a room?" she asked quietly, from the doorway. "I didn't think you'd be needing one." He too spoke in a hushed tone, though he kept his back to her, his voice carefully neutral. The deliberate absence of emotion told her he was hurt, rather than angry, but she had no energy left for either. She needed to wash the feel of the morgue off her skin and collapse. That was all she could manage tonight. "I'll go ask," she sighed, turning to leave again. His voice stopped her. "I already did. The only room available is on the other side of the parking lot. I'd rather you weren't so far away." She turned back to see him staring at her with the same unbearably intense expression he'd had in the morgue. "I thought you said you didn't think I'd be needing a room." She set the suitcase, now growing uncomfortably heavy, down by the door. He shrugged and turned his back again, making a careful circle at the top of one of the maps. She dared to move close enough to look over his shoulder. "What is that?" "Jane Hampton spent the first twelve years of her life in an orphanage somewhere in San Diego. A kind of school and dormitory complex. I'm looking for possible sites." She came around the table now to take the other chair. "You think that's where they're holding Amy Wallace?" He looked up at her, his expression almost pleading. "It's worth investigating." She nodded and he bent back to his work. Scully waited for him to say something else, but he seemed to have disappeared into the streets and tiny etched buildings. "I'm going to get in the bath," she said finally, rising with some effort. It had been an unbearably long day and every muscle in her body ached. He reached out and caught her arm as she moved past him, a touch so light she barely felt it. His expression had changed again, his unshaven face suddenly full of apologies and questions. Scully found a tiny smile somewhere and gave it to him. "Kresge thinks you're a jealous lunatic." "Well, you always knew that I was nuts." He managed a brief flicker of a smile back. "Are you jealous?" The question made him tighten his hand. "Should I be?" "No." She slipped her arm from his grip and turned towards her suitcase. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Mulder sat pondering her answer, wondering precisely what she meant. No, he had no right, or no, he had no need? He decided he didn't want to ask and turned the subject back to work. Dangerous in its own way, but at least familiar territory. "So what did you find? Anything?" "The same pathology I expected. Cause of death appears to be an extensive anerobic infection. In other words, gangrene, finally resulting in renal failure. In this case, there was also severe damage to the cerebral cortex, enough that the chances are good she'd lost sensory awareness long before the final stage." Mulder listened to the robotic quality of her words and felt his stomach clench. Scully was rooting calmly through her suitcase, rattling off the information as if speaking of her plans for the next day. "I've sent a complete spectrum of tissue samples off for analysis, but she'd already been embalmed so I wasn't able to get any fluids. Which means I won't be able to get a CBC to look for any trace toxins in the blood. The embalming process will probably corrupt the tissue as well, but we'll at least be able to get a DNA sequence to make comparisons and see if her genetic structure was altered in any way. I'm assuming it wasn't. I think the fact that we were allowed to get our hands on the body means we shouldn't expect to find anything out of the ordinary." She stood for a moment staring at her robe, as if she suddenly wasn't certain what it was. "Scully?" She looked up at him, frowning. "Are you sure you're okay?" "As a pathologist, I believe that if I can read the story written on the body, I can do right. Do good. Bring the truth to light, or help the next person who might fall ill with the same disease. But as a person, Mulder, I'm wondering -- what makes me so different from Them? They believe they're doing right based on the end result -- a vaccine or a genetically manipulated immunity. When I mutilate someone's body, looking for an answer, am I not doing the same thing?" "You don't make the people sick before you autopsy them, Scully. You don't kill them." "So I'm a vulture instead of a wolf. An opportunist, but still a predator." "Scully, don't--" She stepped back, her head coming up, proud and unreachable as ever. "It's just a thought I have from time to time. Don't worry about it." He watched, helpless, as she walked away. Mulder stayed at the table, staring blankly at the map, absently rubbing the cramping muscles at the back of his neck. Before Scully had arrived, he'd managed to keep his mind properly focused on the work, looking for areas to explore, places marked on the map as an unusual stretch of green, an unexplained cluster of buildings in the right shape. It was a needle in a haystack, but he'd succeeded on other cases, turning up something concrete with less. He tried refolding the map, moving to a new area, but it was pointless now. His concentration was gone. He didn't know which was bothering him more -- Scully's increasingly unfathomable behavior, or his own loss of control at the morgue. Mulder put the highlighter down and let his head fall into his hands. Maybe it would be better for both of them if Scully did get involved with someone else, if the attraction that sometimes crackled and sparked between them was finally dismissed as pointless. Then they could just get on with the work. Presuming, of course, that she wanted to get on with it. Maybe it would be better, at least from her side, if she didn't. Mulder rubbed at his eyes and listened to the comforting, familiar sound of Scully going about her bath. He imagined the tiny room filling with steam, imagined her clearing a place in the mirror to pin up her hair. The water went off and he heard the splash as she got into the tub, the audible sigh as she slid beneath the water, letting it close around her shoulders. Scully's pleasures in this life were so small, so simple. Mulder felt tears behind his eyes and sat up abruptly, surprised at himself. His stomach took that moment to alert him to its emptiness and he rose, glad of the distraction. "Hey Scully, you hungry?" he called, tapping at the bathroom door. "I could manage some of whatever you're having." Her voice sounded small and languid. Normal. He thought of her drifting in the hot water, eyes closed, her face softening as the tension left her body. It was hard to imagine. Even in sleep, Scully never seemed to completely relax. Mulder found a stack of takeout menus by the phone and called in an order. The pizza arrived with miraculous speed and he started on his as he continued to work, finally losing himself in the contemplation of spaces and structures. He was reaching for his fourth slice of pizza when it hit him that there was something wrong. Jesus, how long had Scully been in that bath? Mulder went to the door and listened. Nothing. "Scully?" He knocked, then -- getting no answer -- tried the handle. Unlocked. Thank god. "Scully, I'm coming in," he called, opening the door. She had turned out the main light, leaving only the dim nightlight to illuminate the room, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust. His heart stopped pounding, stopped beating at all. Scully's eyes were closed, her head lying awkwardly against one shoulder, one arm dangling lifeless over the side of the tub. The water in the bath was dark, dark had dripped from her hand, into a pool of darkness on the floor. "Scully?" he choked, her name a square, pointed object that would not pass his throat. She didn't move. He reached her in a step, hauling her up in one back-wrenching jerk. For a moment her head fell back, limp, then her eyes flew open and she woke, pushing at him with angry hands. "For christ's sake, Mulder, what are you doing?" He let go and she fell back with a splash, immediately covering herself by drawing her knees up to her chin. Mulder couldn't answer. His mind had plunged someplace rank and sticky, down the long dark well of no-Scully, and it was taking his eyes a moment to convince the rest of him that there was no need to be there. "Mulder!" "I'm...you looked..." He rubbed a wet hand over his face, into his hair. "I'm sorry, I was calling you and you didn't answer." "I'm okay, Mulder." Her voice softened. "I must have fallen asleep. Just go on, I'll be out in a minute." He nodded, mute with relief, and left. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She ate her pizza in her pajamas and robe, too tired to get dressed. It was one of her unwritten rules -- one of many for dealing with the proximity of Mulder on the road -- never to work or sit through even the latest of late dinners in her nightclothes, but propriety seemed pointless while they were sharing a room. The thought of that should have made her tingle with something, she supposed. Lust or fear or anticipation. All she felt was a strong sense of the surreal. Mulder met her eyes, then his attention drifted across the room, to the one double bed. "I can sleep on the floor, if you'd be more comfortable," he offered. "That's very chivalrous of you." "Practical, actually. That bed is too soft. It would be good for my back." She tried not to smile at that. Always just when she'd had enough, just when she thought he'd worn her patience to shreds, he would do something charming like this -- hold her coat, or open a door, or put his hand on her in a way that made her feel acknowledged, though she knew she would find it annoyingly possessive in anyone else. "Shall we put up a rope with a blanket?" she teased, knowing that 'It Happened One Night' was one of his favorite films. He smiled back, catching the reference, but his eyes still held that worried darkness. Intimate strangers, she thought. They knew each other so well, yet not at all. Who did you have a crush on in high school, she wanted to ask. How old were you the first time you got kissed, got drunk, got laid? What was the best day of your life, Mulder -- I already know the worst. Tell me about Diana -- who was she to you that you can't bring yourself to doubt her, even when the evidence is staring you in the face? "Scully, are you sure you're all right?" he asked, leaning forward to put a hand on her arm. She nodded. Sure. Sure I am, Mulder. Am I not always fine? The hand holding her pizza began to tremble and she put the slice back in the box. What was this now? He caught her chin and turned her face towards him. "Scully," he said carefully. "I think...maybe you're more worn out than you realize. Maybe you need to stop for a while, to rest." "Mulder, please don't make a big deal out of falling asleep in the bath." "It's not just that, Scully. It's everything all together. The dreams, the stress of this case. Blacking out, altitude or not. You're a doctor, you know you shouldn't ignore something like that." "I'm not. I'm not ignoring it, Mulder. It just isn't what you think." "What is it then?" She looked up at him, searching his face. Her own hesitation told her something she didn't want to know -- she trusted him with her life, yes, but not with things like this. Not anymore. Maybe there were some things he didn't trust her with as well. Maybe that's why everything between them seemed to have gone so wildly out of balance. "Scully?" "Visions," she answered, taking the chance, watching all expression evaporate from his features. "What kind of visions?" he asked at last. "Of Emily again?" "Of Melissa, with Emily. And the other girl." Worry folded his forehead, digging lines around his mouth so deep she could see what he was going to look like in another ten years. "That's not surprising, Scully, considering the nature of this case. And I do think it's an indication of exactly how much stress--" "I saw Melissa with Denise Hampton before I saw a picture of her. Before I even knew that she was dead." She watched the knowledge sink in. "Go on now, Mulder. Yell at me like you always do when I tell you something like that." "I've never yelled at you for something like that." "Emily, last Easter. Luther Boggs. Owen Jarvis. The woman with her throat cut. Shall I continue? No, you don't yell at me, Mulder, you just make me feel insane. Twice as insane for having told you." He stared at her. "Scully, are you looking for an argument?" The flame of irritation between her shoulder blades suddenly went out. "No," she answered, weariness pressing her down, into the ground. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> "Is this part of your theory?" Mulder made himself continue, not sure which was making him more nervous, Scully's revelation or watching her sag into herself. "That you're being directed to find these girls?" "If so, it would be by Melissa. It was a phone call from her that first led me to the Sims." "Assuming your theory is true, it could still have been from Them. Her voice, synthesized." She shook her head. "That wouldn't explain why I'm seeing her now." He folded his arms over the table, resting his chin on his fist and looking up at her so he could see her face beneath her hair. "There is one explanation that might fit that theory. These blackouts--" "Visions." Mulder hesitated before continuing. "These visions of your sister... You're the skeptic, Scully. The scientist. You're not going to believe some Deep Throat muttering conspiracy theories. If someone wanted to direct you, you'd need to be able to receive that information in a way that wouldn't be connected to the FBI and wouldn't have you stopping to investigate the source. So They chose your dead sister. Someone who you'd have to trust." "What do you mean, 'They chose'?" He gave her an apologetic look as he leaned across the table to slip his hand under her hair, one finger coming to rest on a certain point at the back of her neck. "No." "Scully--" "It's not the chip." The quiet, matter-of-fact way she said it knocked him back in his chair. "When?" he stuttered, "When did you take it out?" "A month or so after Ruskin Dam. I couldn't live with the possibility that it might happen again." "You never said you were even considering--" "You would have tried to stop me." She sat up straight, her face resolute. He knew that expression, he'd seen it the day she told him she was dying of cancer. She'd been calm then too. All at once his world was spinning, flying out of control. Up, he had to get up, had to get out of here, away from her. "Mulder?" He batted her hand aside, fought his way out of his chair, stumbling toward the door. Hand on the handle -- push no pull -- and he was out in the parking lot, his shaking hands fumbling in his pockets for the keys to the car. "Mulder." Keys, yes, now where was the car? Where was the goddamn car? "Mulder!" Scully grabbed him by the arm and spun him towards her, her grip as solid and inescapable as a pair of handcuffs. "Mulder, I'm fine. I see my doctor every couple of months. I'm still in remission. I'm fine." "For how long?" "Mulder, nobody knows how long they're going to live. I could be shot again, I could be hit by a car tomorrow. So could you. And it could be that the chip never cured the cancer to begin with, that the remission was entirely natural. We don't know. We'll never know." He looked down at her, so far away, helpless against an enemy that was inside her. Was part of her. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't protect her from that. "The only thing I know for certain," she said quietly, "is that the chip led me to that dam." "I love you, Scully. I can't watch you die again." The words leapt out of his mouth and fell, like ash, to land between them. He waited for her to say something, for her to say that she also loved him. She laid her head against his chest instead, let go of his arms and put her own around his waist. They stood there, locked together in silence, until the honk of a car wanting to pass by woke them and ended their embrace. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SEA COURT MOTEL MARCH 9TH, 5:53 AM She reached for him in the middle of a dream, crying out with relief to find him already there. Half-awake, Scully buried her face against his skin, drinking in his scent. There had been no smell in the Place, nothing at all, but this was the smell of all-night Mulder, this was his second-day stubble under her fingertips, this was his too-short hair. Everything was all right now, because if Mulder was here then she could not be there. She opened her eyes. It was early, just past sunrise, and Mulder was dead asleep on his stomach, his face jammed into the pillow and one arm draped heavily across her waist. Scully lay quiet, wondering what would it be like to wake every day like this, in the arms of a lover. To roll over and kiss his stubbly cheeks, not worrying about morning breath or rumpled hair, to know that she was loved, that it didn't matter. To go home at night, anticipation lifting her steps, knowing someone was waiting for her, or to wait herself, fingers clicking on the keyboard of her computer as he stole softly across the carpet, announcing his presence with a kiss on the back of her neck. She took a deep breath and let the awareness of Mulder come, let it wash over her in harsh, pounding waves. He was beautiful like this, his mouth slightly open, the rounded end of his nose bent a little sideways by the pillow. She so rarely saw him this relaxed. More often he slept as if waiting to be woken, as if his untiring brain were still working on some long-unsolved case. She traced the curve of his eyebrow with the tip of one finger. He didn't stir. Her fingers moved above his ear, to tickle herself with the ends of his hair. A swell of desire rose within her, taking her with it, far higher than she had ever allowed. High enough to make her heart drum in the rhythm of panic. She turned beneath Mulder's arm, burying her face in the other pillow. The linen felt good against her hot cheeks, smooth and cool, like the exterior she always tried so hard to maintain. The one that kept her from giving in when this kind of spark flared between them. She gave the man in her imagination John Kresge's face, let him walk across the carpet and take her in his arms. She could feel her body react to the thought but she couldn't hold the image. The man who held her turned into what he always was, someone dark and featureless, radiating a familiar warmth that she had always been able to deny was Mulder. The real Mulder mumbled into his pillow and wriggled towards her, fitting himself neatly around the curve of her back. They had ended last night in an odd sort of stasis, not angry, but not speaking either, curled up at opposite edges of the bed. Sleep told the truth, she supposed, the need to reach for each other making itself known when conscious thought could not intrude. She remembered what he had said the night before and the swell of desire became a riptide, dragging her out to sea, holding her beneath the waves. In so many ways she was closer to Mulder than she had ever been to anyone. She knew his anger and his hope, his warmth and his carelessness. Now she knew his heart against her back, his breath against her hair. This time, when she rolled over, he rolled back as well, one arm still beneath her neck, the other flinging itself out across the bed. As if offering himself to her, as if he hadn't been offering himself for years, every time he made a pass he knew she'd throw right back. "You're so predictable, Mulder." He mumbled some word with no vowels, and nodded, his captive arm curving around her back. "And unpredictable," she whispered, laying her head on his shoulder, moving her hand lightly across his chest to nestle in the warm curve of his neck. And I can't imagine anyone else, she thought, as she pressed her body close to his. I want to, but I can't. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> He was dreaming of Scully's hand moving across his bare chest. His skin felt like the dry red earth of Arizona and her hands were water, bringing life to his parched lonely body, one inch of skin at a time. She arrived at his shoulder and continued down his arm. Sides and hip and stomach now, and he wanted her to keep going, but her hand rose again to his face, his eyes, light fingers stroking his closed lids. He didn't want to open his eyes, didn't want to wake up, but the touch was too insistent. He woke to find not the familiarity of his living room, or even the empty expanse of a motel bed, but Scully herself, lying on her side looking at him, her face soft with something like wonder, her fingers trailing the length of his nose. "Cyrano," she said, and did not disappear, did not return to the land of his subconscious. "It's not that big," he managed to answer. She gave him her tiny smile, fingers moving back to his mouth. "Do you really love me, Mulder?" she asked, taking his breath so all he could do was nod. "Show me, then," she whispered, replacing her fingers with her mouth. He could not refuse her, even though he knew it was not a dream. A dream wouldn't taste of sleep, wouldn't make soft noises as he kissed her, wouldn't give the years of strangled tenderness a chance to breathe. He showed her with his hands and with his mouth, until finally she began to answer, showing him what he had never been allowed to think of as his. Herself, warm and willing, kissing him not with wild lust or uncontrollable desire, but with sweet, steady love. This was the Scully he'd always wanted to know, the woman whose lips he had watched in fascination as she argued and slept and ate and pored over impossible pieces of evidence, but tried never to imagine kissing like this. She moved over him now, heat against hard flesh, her breasts offered to his open hands. "Oh god," she breathed, as he accepted her offering, the buttons of her top slipping open almost by themselves. His gentleness dissolved as hunger took over, as drew her down and pressed his mouth her breasts. Her soft sighs turned to moans, her hands tugging at his sweats as her own hunger awoke. He could hardly stand to let go of her long enough to pull off his clothes. She sat up to slip her bottoms off, her hair tumbling into her flushed face as she bent over him and found his mouth again. There were sensible thoughts in his head somewhere, but they drowned as she stretched out against the length of him. He could only think that he had loved her so long and so without hope that to question this miracle would be an insult. Any other thoughts he had disappeared the moment she rolled them over, pulling him down to lie between her legs. "Scully," he groaned, the last word he had left. She drew his head from her shoulder, where he was calming himself by nibbling at the velvet edge of her neck. "Yes," she whispered, stroking his face, in that instant so exquisite, so unbearably precious to him, that his throat grew tight and he had to close his eyes, fumbling his way to find and point himself in the right direction. She rose to meet him and he pressed down in tiny, careful thrusts, sliding into her little by little, both of them crying out as she finally relaxed and opened and let him in. And then clenched hard around him. His eyes flew open to see her arching back, not in passion, but in agony, her face gone white. Pain exploded as one of her suddenly flying fists connected with the side of his face and he grabbed her wrists, the instinct to protect himself too fast to stop. He was no longer inside her now, but she was still somewhere else, thrashing violently against him, her screams strangled behind clenched teeth. He tried using his weight as a blanket to hold her, calm her, calling her name, trying to tell her it was him. She didn't see him, didn't hear his voice. She began to choke, her head whipping from side to side, as if she was trapped in one of her more terrifying nightmares. Holding her down, he suddenly realized, was only frightening her more. He let go and her elbow came up hard into his chest as her body twisted out from under him. She rolled off the bed and onto her knees, stumbling to her feet with one hand reaching out, searching for balance. The other stayed at her throat as she put her back against the wall, eyes wildly searching for an exit. "Scully?" he tried again. She nodded as if she finally remembered who she was, bending over as she fought for breath. "I'm sorry," he tried. "I'm so--" She looked at him, but before he could say any more, he saw the facade bend inward, then shatter. She groped for the door behind her, falling into the bathroom, and he leapt from the bed before she could shut him out. Too late. Mulder stood on the outside of the door, his hands flat on the thin plywood as if he could touch her through it, as if touching her could somehow undo whatever terrible thing he'd just done. "Scully?" he called softly. "Scully, please. Just...just tell me if you're all right." In the silence, the click of the lock was as loud as a gunshot. "Scully?" The shower was her final answer, coming on full blast to drown him out. Mulder turned back into the room. He found his clothes from the night before and dressed, his numb fingers fumbling with the laces of his running shoes. Behind him, muffled by the steady roar of water, he heard the first deep, choking sob. He ran before he could hear any more. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 14 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SEA COURT MOTEL MARCH 9TH, 6:43 AM She stood under the shower, hands braced against the wall as the water pounded against her forehead. Another sob ripped from her throat, as if the ball of thorns she carried inside her was finally trying to fight its way out. She wiped her nose and would not have been surprised to see blood on her hand. At this moment, she wouldn't care what that meant. Fire roared across her nerve endings, burning away the memory of Mulder's skin beneath her hands, searing her joy to ash. She made the water colder still, fighting the terrible urge to smash her head against the unforgiving porcelain, to replace one pain with another until the darkness opened up and claimed her, never to return again. Never to have to face him, to look into his eyes and see what she had done to him. Scully sank slowly to her knees, the water cascading over the back of her neck, over her face and into her mouth. She imagined it was the truth, icy and colorless, sinking through her pores and into her blood. This was what she had been most afraid of, that the moment she admitted what Mulder meant to her, it would all go wrong. Wrong beyond their capacity to pretend it had not happened, to fix with silence and getting on with it, wrong enough to destroy them both. It was one of the first things she learned in forensics. The body always remembers. Her body knew what had happened to her. Knew it was unable to make life, unable to make love. She had woken from one death-like sleep into another and never realized, but her body had known. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Mulder ran. He ran without direction, turning corners when the traffic would not allow him to pass. He ran without feeling his feet hit the ground, aware of nothing but the pain in his chest. He ran until white spots appeared before his eyes, until he could get no more air and was forced to his knees, gasping, until somebody finally stopped and asked if he needed help. The kind stranger led him to a bus bench, twittering over foolish people who ran themselves into early heart attacks. She sat beside him, a woman older than his mother, fishing in her enormous purse for a small plastic packet of tissues. This she gave to him as if wiping the sweat away could somehow help. "Blow," the woman nudged him. Only then did he understand that his face was covered in snot and tears, that he had been crying as he ran. Mulder blew his way through half the packet of tissues before he could speak again. "I hurt someone," he told his new friend. "Someone I've loved forever." She had the grace not to answer. Mulder put his head in his hands. His breathing was slowly returning to normal, but the raw ache in his chest was undiminished. He left the rest of the tissues on the bench and slowly began the long walk back. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SEA COURT MOTEL MARCH 9TH, 7:30 AM Master of repairs, Scully put the pieces back together. Hair neatly blow-dried. Suit quickly pressed. Makeup applied with precision, covering the remaining cracks. She closed her suitcase, collected their files and her laptop and left the room, leaving the door unlocked and Mulder's key sitting on the table. The room on the other side of the parking lot was still free and she took it, heels clacking as she crossed the long expanse of asphalt. This one didn't have a kitchenette, it was just a small dingy box with a single bed. Somehow, it seemed appropriate. Scully opened her suitcase and set about unpacking. Fifteen minutes later she was finished. What now? Work. Do something. Concentrate on something else. As if someone had heard her thoughts, her cell phone began to ring. Dry-mouthed, she picked it up and answered. "Good morning," Kresge said. "Got some results for you. And do you know where Mulder is? He's not answering his phone." "He went for a run. He doesn't usually take it." Her voice came out neutral, level. She almost sighed in relief. "Well, he left a message last night. Something about search teams?" "I don't know. You'll have to talk to him about it." Kresge let out air between his teeth. "Hey, Scully," he said. "You know those days that start out shitty and then get worse?" She looked around the dismal little room, hating it, hating herself for the damage she had wrought. "Yes." His voice changed, grew warm, close. "Listen, have you had breakfast yet?" "No." "Me neither. I'll come pick you up and we can hit the IHOP. This day needs maple syrup." "Thanks, but I'm not hungry. I'll get a cab in." "Scully..." She could hear his smile, the teasing one, and it made her wonder how she'd learned him so quickly. "You do not want to drink station house coffee on an empty stomach. IHOP's got that unending pot. I'm sure that will get your toes twinkling in a much nicer way." She opened her mouth to refuse again, but could not find the words. She could not hide in this room, she had to face them both eventually. She had to work. "Fine," she forced herself to answer. "I'm at the Sea Court on Imperial Avenue, room 62. Bring the autopsy results so I can look at them while you're eating." "Gee, Scully," he teased. "You want some crime scene photos while we're at it?" She clicked the phone off sharply, grateful he couldn't see her face. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> INTERNATIONAL HOUSE OF PANCAKES MARCH 9TH, 8:32 AM Kresge's cop instinct was annoying him as he sat drowning his blueberry waffles in syrup. Despite the menu full of enticing photographs of mouthwatering breakfast fantasies, Scully had ordered dry toast. Even the waitress had seemed disappointed. The toast sat cooling, forgotten, though she'd already downed two cups of coffee. She looked different this morning, gaunt and ashen. Perhaps it was the severe, unflattering way she'd brushed her hair back from her face. "Hey, there. You want a bite?" Kresge waved a fork full of waffle in front of her nose, at least succeeding in getting her to glance up. The hollow look was in her eyes as well, a veiled and distant grey. "No. But thank you." She immediately went back to the report. Kresge put his fork down on his plate. "Scully, what's the matter?" "Nothing. I just need to concentrate." "Did something else happen yesterday? After I left the morgue?" She shook her head and he thought he saw something about to break through, some sadness welling up. "Hey." He reached across to touch her hand. "Did you have some kind of argument with Mulder?" "Is this an interrogation?" she snapped, pulling her hand back, staring at him as if he'd just slapped her for no reason. "No," he answered, surprised at her reaction. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if gathering her temper back in. "I'm sorry. It's not a good day." "I can see that." He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "Are we not going to be able to work together?" "Yes, of course we can." He waited but she didn't offer any further comment. Instead, she was staring at the file as if trying to disappear into it. "Anything in there useful?" he finally asked. She shook her head, evidently relieved to have the focus of his questions move to the professional. "Not really. The genetic comparison isn't definitive and the tissue results don't tell me anything I didn't already know." "Whose genes are you comparing?" "Denise and Jane Hampton. Denise may not be Jane's biological daughter." "And what you have can't tell you that? I thought DNA testing was pretty conclusive." Kresge picked up his fork and put the bite of waffle in his mouth. "This is only a PCR, it's too general. We'll have to wait for the RFLP to test the mitochondrial DNA to determine an absolute maternal relationship." "What does it say now? The results you have?" "About a 60% chance. Not high enough to be certain." She closed the folder and put it aside, taking off her glasses and rubbing the red spots at the sides of her nose. "You sure you're okay?" he tried again. "I'm fine," she answered, clearly not. Kresge looked away, at a table with a family full of noisy kids, at another with a young couple giggling as they ate from each other's plates. The shitty day was getting shittier by the minute. "I need to rent another car," Scully said finally. "Is there a place you could drop me?" "There's one on the way in." "Good. Thank you." She dropped her eyes back to the folder and he knew she would not speak again. Kresge cut into his waffle, watching the syrup drip slowly down, no longer in the mood for sweetness. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Mulder wasn't surprised to find Scully's suitcase gone when he finally got back to the motel. He dragged himself off to the shower, dressed and shaved without meeting his own eyes in the mirror. In the motel office, his badge got him the number of Scully's new room. She was still here. He nodded his thanks at the manager, and walked slowly across the parking lot, the green door to her room half hidden behind someone's rental. Of course she would still be here. Scully was not going to walk out in the middle of a case. Her professional pride was something he could count on without fail. Match it with his own and they just might get through this. She opened the door to his knock, turning away to let him enter. Mulder remained in the doorway, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He found a sunflower seed in one and put it in his mouth, rolling it around without cracking it. The silence curled around them like thick grey mist, clinging damp and cold to their skin. "If you want to go back to DC," he said finally, "if you want to transfer--" He stopped, listening to her breath, caught then slowly exhaled. Both of them were still looking at anything but each other. "Do you want me to transfer?" The strain in her voice was barely masked. "I want you to do whatever you need to do," he recited tonelessly. "I don't want to transfer." She came around the bed to stuff some files into her laptop case and Mulder dared a glance. She looked the way she had for weeks after Emily died, wide-eyed and colorless, a plaster sculpture locked behind glass. "Scully." He swallowed hard, the name he had always used for her tasting flat and bitter now that he had spoken it with passion. He took the sunflower seed out of his mouth, wishing he could remove the rest of the bitterness so easily. "Scully, I can never tell you how sorry I am." "Please, Mulder, don't do this to yourself." Her voice had turned hard, the face she briefly raised devoid of life. "You did nothing wrong. Nothing was your fault. You have to believe that." She zipped her bag closed and slung it over her shoulder, straightening her back with effort. "I got the PCR results," she said, sounding only vaguely more like herself. "There's a possible genetic relationship between Jane and Denise but I'll need the RFLPs on both to be sure and to compare to mine. That'll take a couple of days. In the meantime, I'm due at the morgue. I requested the autopsy on Tom Hampton." Mulder nodded. "Okay, if you're ready, I'll drive you over there." "That's all right. I've rented another car." "Scully--" "I'm late, Mulder. Please, excuse me." She gave him a tense nod and walked stiffly out the door. He understood then, with a sinking in his gut, that they had probably just said everything they were ever going to say about what had happened between them. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SAN DIEGO COUNTY MORGUE MARCH 9, 3:48 PM She was almost finished with Hampton's autopsy when her cellphone rang, pulling her from the well of concentration into which she had descended. The work had been good, necessary, refocusing her to the matter at hand. She was not pleased to be disturbed. She stripped off her gloves with an impatient snap and grabbed the phone from the pocket of her jacket. Then snapped to attention at the voice on the other end of it. "Sir." "May I remind you that you are on a case, Agent Scully?" "Sir?" "A progress report, Agent Scully. Faxed or emailed but on my desk by the time I come in tomorrow morning and you know I come in early." Scully leaned heavily against the wall. She knew exactly who was going to have to write that report. A perfect end to a perfectly disastrous day. At least it would give her evening a focus. "And Agent Scully?" "Yes, sir?" "Would you like to tell me why the Phoenix field office has no idea that you're even out there?" "Ah. We're no longer in Arizona, sir." She could practically hear his jaw working back and forth over the line. "And would you like to tell me precisely where you are, Agent Scully?" Level voice, dead calm. On Skinner's seismograph, at least a seven. Scully walked slowly around the body lying open on the table, forcing her voice to remain level. "We're in San Diego, sir. We've been working with a colleague in the local PD. The, uh, the help he's been providing has been more than adequate." "Kidnapping is a federal matter when it's across state lines. You are to contact the San Diego Bureau immediately. And what makes you think the girl was taken to California?" Something hard and heavy squeezed the air out of her chest. She was on the cell. She was on the cell and she had just alerted any listener to where they were and what they were doing. Idiot. Idiot! "Scully? I'm waiting for an answer." Panic. No -- something else. Oh, god. Not now. "Sir, I have to..." Her voice wobbled and faded. She managed to hit 'end' before the darkness towered over her head and slammed her into the ground. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Grey. Grey all around, and through the wavering mist, Melissa. Scully ran across the great expanse of nothing and threw herself into her sister's arms. Melissa, warm and strong as she had always been. Older, taller, fearless. -Oh Missy. I've done something so awful. "Dana...Dana...you're looking in all the wrong places." She lifted her head, utterly confused. Melissa smiled sadly, put her hands on Scully's waist, and turned her around. A small girl was walking through the mist towards them. -Oh, god. Which one now? "Bethany." Melissa moved from behind her, placing herself between Scully and the child. She rested her forehead against Scully's for a moment, the way their mother always had. "Everything is right in front of you. You look and look and look, but you never want to see." -See what? "The truth, Day. You already know what it is." Then Melissa was gone and she was left holding only herself. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She woke to a strange face bending close, to the incessant shrill of a phone. Scully let her head fall to the side, seeing an expanse of tile floor, the rolling legs of an autopsy table. Morgue, her mind supplied. "Dr. Scully? Do you hear me?" Hands turned her head for her and she recognized the man as one of the assistant pathologists. She swallowed with difficulty, her mouth filled with dust. "Are you in any pain?" the man was asking. "Do you know where you are?" "No pain. Morgue." She closed her eyes in relief as her phone, mercifully, stopped. Scully stayed where she was, waiting for her strength to return. The assistant was rattling off a barrage of questions -- was she epileptic, diabetic, on medication? She murmured negative responses, wishing he would go. At last, she tried to roll onto her side to stand, but he immediately pushed her shoulders back again. "Dr. Scully, please. Lie still. We've called an ambulance." "No." She summoned all her will to make her voice stronger. "No, I'm all right." "Doctor--" "Please, call the hospital and tell them the ambulance is not necessary." The strength of her voice, its accustomed authority, made him finally back away. Scully rolled onto her knees, then carefully got to her feet. She tugged her scrubs into place, smoothed still-awkward hands through her hair. She was standing, but only barely. Her phone began to ring again and fear rose. She wanted this stranger gone, did not want to try to walk while he was still there. One step and her knees would surely give out. "A glass of water would be nice," she tried. He nodded, picking her phone up from the floor and handing it to her. He regarded her for a moment longer, then left. Scully staggered to the nearest wall, let herself slide down it until she was sitting. She stabbed gracelessly at the buttons, at last hitting the one that brought Skinner once again squawking into her ear. "Agent Scully, what the hell is going on?" "I'm sorry sir. I...someone startled me and I dropped the phone. I couldn't get it working again." "You dropped your phone?" "Yes." She listened to his silent disbelief, flexing her fingers, willing her dexterity to return. "Will that be all, sir?" "Scully, don't make me regret getting you and Mulder back." He put the phone down with a furious slam. She had made it back to her feet by the time the assistant returned, water in hand. "I can sew him up if you're finished," he offered, indicating the body of Tom Hampton, still lying open on the table. Scully sipped her water, contemplating the former Mr. Hampton. She had prepared the usual samples for tissue analysis, but she was already certain she would learn nothing more than she had during her preliminary examination. "Yes, thank you," she answered, dropping the cup in the proper receptacle. Something in Melissa's words had caught her attention. Everything is right in front of you. She moved quickly down the hall, toward the sign that said Records. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SDPD SOUTHEASTERN DIVISION MARCH 9TH, 8:18 PM The files were in the Records room at the morgue, waiting to be logged onto the system. She had been so thorough on her initial search through the databases that she had considered it a dead end. Precious days wasted, perhaps even precious lives, because she had not thought to go to the source for what might have come in since then. Scully gave the information to Kresge, letting him requisition the casefiles from the other precincts. Better handled as an inter- departmental matter, rather than the FBI nosing in -- her badge had nothing but piss-off value when questioning the competence of local law. "I want to start running these down as soon as they come in," she told him. "Bethany MacEntyre's parents died on the same day as Tom Hampton, but I wasn't able to find any record on her. And Caitlin Jenkins apparently died in a car accident along with her parents on March 4th, but I'm sure--" She hesitated, her tongue darting into the corner of her mouth before she continued. "I have a hunch she's still alive. I need to see the accident report immediately, and I need your bright colleague to make another check of the county hospitals. If they're using the same MO it's possible one or both girls were admitted within the last few days." "I'll have the files picked up as soon as they're ready," Kresge assured her. He caught her by the arm as she turned to leave, his rough face full of concern. "Let me give you a lift. You look about to fall over, and I'll be on my way home as soon as this is finished." "It's okay. I've got a car." "Scully." She held up a warning hand. "I'm fine. I am. Really." She backed away from his kindness, before it could soften the hard shell that she needed. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SEA COURT MOTEL MARCH 9TH, 10:21 PM Mulder was sitting in his car in the motel parking lot, staring at the rectangle of light framing the drapes in Scully's window. The entire rhythm of their partnership felt disrupted, as if an extra beat had thrown them into 3/5 time, instead of 3/4. Some unsustainable syncopation that their feet were not agile enough to maintain. Deep down, he knew he was stalling, hoping the light would go off and he could go to bed without having to tell Scully what he'd found. Coward, he chastised himself. Get in there and face her. She opened the door to his knock, her face still the wooden mask it had been earlier. Her mascara was gone and though she was looking somewhere in the vicinity of his left shoulder, he could see the color of her eyes through her lashes. They were a dull washed-out grey, never a good sign. "Where have you been?" she asked, hoarse with exhaustion. "I left you three messages." "I know. I just got them on the way over." He followed her into the room. "You wanted to tell me something?" "The MacEntyres and the Jenkinses all died within this last week. I'm not sure about the girls. I'll know more when I get the casefiles tomorrow." He absorbed that news in silence. She sat down at the table, wearily adjusting the angle of her laptop screen. "Where were you?" "At the Hampton crime scene, mostly." He looked around for a place to sit, but the room had only been provided with one chair and the bed was out of the question. "I knew you were at the morgue, so I didn't think you'd be trying to reach me. I just wanted to concentrate, see what I could pick up that the boys in blue might miss." She looked up briefly and he saw with relief that for once he'd said the right thing. "So what did you find?" He pulled his notebook out of the inner pocket of his jacket and found the right page, leaning over her shoulder so she could see his notes. The action had been so instinctive, he hadn't thought anything of it until he felt her withdraw from him. Not in any overt physical way, nothing so dramatic as a flinch or leaning forward. Just a change in her energy, the magnetic charge that had always pulled him towards her suddenly reversing to push him away. "I went through Hampton's desk," he said. He tried to remain where he was but the feeling was impossible to ignore. He moved away from her, choosing the bed after all, perching on the edge with his elbows on his knees as if he meant to get up any minute. Scully kept her back to him, but he couldn't help noticing the way her shoulders dropped a good inch the moment she felt him gone. Was this how it was going to be between them now? Had attraction become repulsion? Was he never going to be able to touch her again, even in the most innocent manner? The thought was unbearable and he shoved it into a dark corner of his mind to be dealt with later. Maybe never. "You know how the connection is sometimes the most innocuous thing imaginable?" he said. "A stain in a certain shape, a passage marked in a book. Or card someone forgot to throw away." She turned to look at him. "I spent almost eight hours going through all of Hampton's private papers and found nothing. This was sitting on the windowsill by his desk. Guess Hampton was a sentimental guy -- Christmas was three months ago." He opened the notebook and drew out a card with a Japanese ideograph on the front cover. "I guess Japanese corporations have gotten in the habit of sending Christmas cards to their Western clientele," Mulder said, leaning over to pass it to her. "That is from the head of Acquisitions for Hirotake Corporation. The very same people who were meeting with Aaron Hatch, CEO of Prangen, on March 4th. Tom Hampton was the I.T. manager for Mirant, that means he had access to all their computer files. Mirant does the research, Prangen runs the clinical trials -- are you getting the picture here, Scully?" "Hirotake is attempting a hostile takeover of Prangen aided by information stolen by Hampton?" "Not exactly. I think they were trying to buy or contract something controlled by Prangen. Maybe something Tom Hampton wanted, and couldn't get access to himself, so he was using the computer files to leverage some kind of deal. A deal which became moot on March 3rd, when his daughter Denise died." He hadn't thought Scully could get any paler. "Amy Wallace?" "Or the research she represents. Scully--" He faltered, knowing that the best of times were not good enough to ask the question he needed to ask. "I know you don't want to think about this but...I had a videotape once. It was supposed to be an alien autopsy. You watched it. You said you recognized one of the doctors." "Takeo Ishimaru," she whispered, her eyes glazing over. "The Japanese Mengele." He nodded, watching her carefully. "This translator for the meeting at Prangen, Akira Kogawa? He's Nisei. Second generation Japanese- American. Born in a concentration camp the United States set up during World War II to intern Japanese immigrants and their descendants." "Manzanar." "Scully, are you sure that you saw Ishimaru during your abduction?" He waited for some kind of reflexive dismissal, but she only nodded. "Our government was responsible for bringing Ishimaru to the US after the war," he said, "and for allowing him to continue his experiments to further the Project. Maybe Kogawa is trying to make sure that Ishimaru's research finally finds its way back home, to pay the US back for the internment by giving Japan a chance to develop the vaccine first." She bent her head, considering the possibility. "So. Not Krycek." "It would appear not," Mulder answered. "We may be dealing with a completely new set of players." Scully's shoulders rose as if she were expecting a blow. "I don't know which prospect frightens me more." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 15 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SEA CREST MOTEL, ROOM 62 MARCH 10TH, 5:07 AM Her cellphone woke her, screaming directly into her ear. Scully shot awake, heart pounding, her neck cramping in protest. Had she fallen asleep before she finished? No, the laptop was still on. Her dialup was on the screen, used then disconnected. She picked up the phone, groaned her name into it. "This is not your best work." She was silent. There wasn't any point offering Skinner the excuse that she had been awake around the clock, that she had done the best she could with her hands faltering on the keyboard and the text mutating into tiny beetles crawling across the screen. She checked her watch. Five o'clock in the morning, eight in DC. He hadn't even waited until a decent hour to call. "I see no major progress here, Agent Scully." "Sir, if I may ask, why were we assigned to this case?" "Are you questioning the assignment, Agent?" No, she thought bitterly. I'd just like that information, and since our listeners probably have it already I wouldn't mind if you shared it with me over an unsecured line. "No, sir," she said aloud. Always the good girl and charged a pound of flesh when she wasn't. Scully swallowed away the taste of self- loathing and drew a clean breath. "Sir, believe me, we're doing our best." There was a moment's hesitation on the other side. A spark of humanity, perhaps. She'd always had her ups and downs with Skinner, never quite certain how far he could be trusted, but he was not usually this hard on her. He saved his real vitriol for Mulder. She, he treated with courtesy at the least, generally with respect. "All right, Scully," he replied, his voice just one shade kinder. "Keep me informed. Now go back to sleep." Sleep, yes. The adrenaline left her body almost as soon as she put the phone down, replaced with a wave of loose-limbed weariness. She walked over and flung herself onto the bed, still fully dressed right down to her heels. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Light, white light. Herself on the table, arms and legs spread wide. Pain was an ocean, huge waves of it crashing over her head. She was the body at her own autopsy, unable to cry out even as they cut into her. -I'm not dead. Please. I'm not now and in the hour of our -dead. God, I don't want to die, not right hail mary full of grace -now I'm not finished drowning, air like water, choking on white hot molten agony spreading out from between her legs blessed is the fruit of thy womb jesus holy mary mother of -god, let him find me now and in the hour of our death leaning close staring with black eyes and he won't come he won't come not this time now and in the hour of our -oh god, Mulder, I'm so sorry nowandinthehourofourdeathprayforusnowandinthehourofourdeath reaching inside hand clenching her heart tearing it out from between her bloody beating something shrieking white in her brain, and she was lifted up, then flung downward, into darkness. She woke on the floor, alone, her cellphone screaming on the table. "Scully, it's me." Right words, wrong voice. She pressed her hand over the mouthpiece, trying to keep the sound of her ragged breathing out of the phone. "I've got those files you wanted," Kresge continued, tense and rushed, "whenever you want to come in and pick them up." "I'll be right there," she managed to answer, and hung up. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SEA COURT MOTEL, ROOM 46 MARCH 10TH, 8:01 AM Morning came too quickly, but with it also came an idea. Mulder lay half off the bed, having rolled over to slam his hand down on the alarm clock, trying to remember what it was. He'd been dreaming of a road, not an unusual occurrence for him, considering how much time he spent behind the wheel. It wasn't the road itself that was important, it was the feel of the road, as if he were headed out of a part of the city that abruptly turned to countryside, as opposed to dwindling down into suburban quarter-acre lots and hastily thrown-up strip malls. Mulder got up and sifted through the papers on the table -- Scully's file on the Hamptons and his own scribbled notes. The map was spread out below them like an architect's idea of an amusing tablecloth. He pulled it free and laid it flat on the floor, rubbing a hand across his sleep-sticky eyes to clear them. He couldn't explain why he'd become so obsessed with the idea of Jane's orphanage. It didn't have to do with Samantha, he told himself -- if Samantha had ever been there it was years ago. There was no guarantee the place even still existed, but his instinct was saying it did, and that it mattered, and until he'd seen it with his own eyes or exhausted every possibility of finding it, he was not going to be able to get it out of his head. Mulder looked up at the table where the Hampton file lay. Nothing new there, he was certain -- Scully would have told him immediately if anything conclusive had turned up at her autopsy. He reached blindly upward, grabbed the file, and opened it anyway. Scully's clear, oddly feminine writing covered the first page. Notes from her background check. Even when thinking to herself, she was so precise, so contained. He pulled out the two clear plastic sheets and held them up to the white ceiling. PCR results. Watching Scully read this kind of stuff reminded him of his mother reading music, humming what she saw on the page before putting her fingers to the piano keys. There was a kind of magic to it, though he knew it was merely another language to learn. He doubted that Scully would take as much pleasure from deciphering the contents of these sheets as his mother had taken from hers. Mulder jumped to his feet, suddenly needing to distance himself from that kind of thinking. This room was full of Scully, from the notes in her careful script, to the stray hairs he might find if he ran his hands over the carpet, to the faint lingering scent of lemon soap. He quickly dressed, then grabbed the map and his black backpack, still stuffed with the rope. This time, as he left the room, he made sure his phone was on. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Mulder was not in his room when she knocked on the door. Cheap motels, cheap locks, she thought, slipping his with one of her credit cards. He never seemed to worry much about that kind of thing. Time had proven that They could get in if they wanted to, no matter how many guards outside, how many locks on the door. Scully retrieved the Hampton file, noting that in her absence the room had exploded into Mulder's usual creative mess. She wanted to run her hands over his things, wanted to curl up in his unmade bed and see if it still smelled of him, if that could fool her brain into feeling safe enough to let her sleep without dreams. All it would make her feel, she was sure, was broken. Better to feel nothing. She was about to leave when the odd sense that she was forgetting something hit, making her turn around, re-assessing the room as she would a crime scene when first entering it. Bed, slept in on one side, alarm clock on the floor. Suitcase open on the little rack in the doorless closet, a pair of pants dangling out of it. Table with notes minus the file she'd come to get. The maps were gone, but Mulder probably had them. Kitchen, unused, empty pizza boxes sitting on the counter. Ah. Yes. In the bathroom, she grabbed a washcloth, came back and opened the tiny fridge. She wrapped the five vials in the towel, tucked them into the front pocket of her laptop case, and left. Kresge wasn't in when she arrived at the station, for which she was grateful. He'd left the files sitting neatly on her desk, their secrets waiting to be revealed. Scully got herself a cup of evil coffee, shrugged out of her jacket and began. Elaine and Robert MacEntyre were a pattern already too familiar. Husband shot in the back of the head, wife dead in the tub. Scully guessed that They had refined some elements after the inconvenience of having to slip into prison to kill Marshall Sim. She turned to the crime scene photos, immediately picking up what any half-assed coroner should have seen at first glance. The woman's wrists had been cut in a single horizontal stroke, a good centimeter deep. Both wrists. The murderers had made a mistake, a big one. Either the coroner was blind, or it had been deliberately passed over. There was little else in that file, no before-the-fact photos or background information. Just the bare necessities in terms of documents. Nothing relating to Bethany -- dead, ill, or alive and well. The second file belonged to the Jenkinses. This one did have a photograph, obviously taken from the family home. Decent-looking people, bland and blond. The child on the mother's lap was a thinner version of Emily, her long hair done in two neat braids tied with ribbons. The other photos were from the crash. Twisted metal and twisted bodies. The official opinion was that Alan Jenkins, the driver, had fallen asleep at the wheel. This file was also too thin, even for a routine investigation into a single vehicle accident with no witnesses. As with the MacEntyres, there was no next of kin for either adult. The bodies had been identified from documents found at the scene, verified with dental records. The whole process had probably taken a few hours. Again, there was no record of what had happened to the child. Scully went through the papers more carefully, dug her glasses out of her pocket and re-examined the crash photographs. There was no mention of Caitlin being there that night, nothing she could see in the wreckage that looked like a child's car seat. Of course it was possible that the Jenkinses didn't use one, but staring at those homespun, conservative faces, Scully found it hard to believe. These were quiet, law-abiding people. Susan Jenkins' hand, spread possessively over her daughter's stomach, spoke of a woman who was all too aware of the dangers of modern life. Car seats were a safety measure, and these struck her as people who liked to feel safe. Scully propped the picture of the Jenkins family up against the computer monitor, staring at Caitlin. Where are you? she silently asked. Caitlin stared back, her smile as bland as her parents', her eyes as familiar as Scully's own. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SDPD SOUTHEASTERN DIVISION MARCH 10TH, 11:15 AM Scully was bent over the files, scribbling in her notebook, when Kresge returned. She was both the last and the only thing he wanted to see at the moment. Attraction was a faucet he could turn on and off, but affection was harder. She'd gotten to him -- or rather, he'd let her get to him -- for the same reason Elizabeth first had. Because she was smart and courageous and she cared about her work in the same obsessive way he did. Now he was stuck with the feeling. He watched Scully grab another folder, obviously in the grip of inspiration, thumbing deftly through the pages. It was warm in the station and she had the collar of her shirt pulled away from the back of her neck, the vibrant edges of her hair a rich contrast to the ivory skin that never saw the sun. He imagined stealing up behind her and nibbling at that spot. He wondered if she would melt beneath his lips, or bat his head away, as Elizabeth might have done. Too late to find out, he told himself, and hardly in keeping with the grim news he had to deliver. She jumped when he called her name, so deep into her work she hadn't heard him approach her desk. The face that she raised was different than the one she'd worn last time he saw her. Just as washed-out, but a little less frozen. A little -- dare he say it -- excited? "This is unbelievable," she said. "Did you have a look at these?' "No, I didn't get a chance. I got called away so I just dropped them on your desk." "Here." She stood up and twirled one of the files around to face him. "Look at that. What do you see?" Kresge's fifteen years on the force had never really acclimated him to the mute invasion of crime scene photographs. Bad enough that ugly things happened to innocent people, but there was something he found disrespectful about immortalizing it on film, no matter how much he relied on the process. "Who am I looking at?" he asked, and a flicker of appreciation crossed Scully's face. He guessed she was more used to people asking 'what'. "Elaine MacEntyre, mother of Bethany. The coroner ruled it a suicide. What do you see?" He remembered something from the last time she showed him this kind of photo, and picked it up to examine the woman's wrists, turned upward and held in place by an anonymous pair of gloved hands. "No hesitation cuts." "Good. What else?" Kresge looked again, but failed to find anything obvious. Pulling clues out of forensic evidence really wasn't his specialty. He was more suited to pulling clues from live interviews, of amassing all the facts that others had gathered and putting them together. Scully took the photo out of his hand and picked up her pen. "Hold that like a knife, like you're going to use it to cut your wrist," she instructed. "I'm built about the same as Elaine MacEntyre. Even imagining that I'm not fighting back, that my hand is relaxed, to cut my wrist from side to side to a depth of 1.2 centimeters using only one stroke requires not just a certain amount of pressure, but a certain amount of speed and dexterity. Correct?" Kresge turned the pen this way and that. "You'd need to have control of the blade. A pretty good grip." She held out one arm, her hand palm up. "Do it." He took her hand in his and drew the pen across her slim wrist, throwing her a quizzical look when he finished. Scully took his other hand in hers and guided his fingertips to the tendons in his own wrist. "Do it again and feel how those move." Kresge felt the tightening of the tendons as he repeated the motion, trying to ignore the brief tingle of arousal awakened by her touch. "I think I'm beginning to see your point." Scully turned his hand palm up, tracing the line of the middle tendon up his bare forearm, pressing in on a muscle just below his elbow. "Palmoris longus," she informed him. "It starts here and goes down to the hand, becoming the common flexor for all four fingers. Without it, you can't make a fist." She picked up the photo again and pointed at Elaine MacEntyre's right wrist. "If the palmoris longus had been severed in this hand, do you think she'd have enough grip to hold a bloody knife and apply the pressure necessary to cut the other wrist? The initial findings state that both tendons were completely severed." "Shit." Not very articulate, but an accurate summary, he felt. "Shit is right. This woman was murdered. The medical examiner fudged the report, and the precinct buried it. Why?" Kresge sat down in her chair, letting his head fall into his hands. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know, every time I come out here I make your life a misery, finding complications in things that seemed open and shut." "It's not that," Kresge answered, his voice muffled by his hands. "Then what?" He raised his head. "My boss got a call from your boss this morning. Some Assistant Director Skinner. A very unhappy man who informed my chief that we have no jurisdiction in the Wallace case, or any other matter arising from it. I've just been ordered to turn all my files over to a representative from the San Diego field office. He'll be here in an hour to pick them up." He saw her eyes widen in fear, but her voice remained admirably calm. "You know you can't do that." Kresge spread his hands wide. "Scully, what am I supposed to do? My ass is in the fire. I'm not even supposed to be talking to you." She grabbed the MacEntyre file and shoved it under his nose. "These people were murdered. Like Roberta and Marshall Sim were murdered and probably for the same reason. You may not be Child Abduction, but you *are* Homicide and this is a clear case of murder covered up by departmental interference! How is this out of your jurisdiction?" "Because my god damn chief says it is!" In the sudden silence he became aware that they were shouting in a crowded room, and their voices had carried to just about every ear. Scully looked around and nodded, her cheeks coloring slightly with embarrassment. She bent over the desk to gather the files, her hair falling over her eyes, obscuring her expression. "Dana, I'm sorry," he said, pitching his voice for her ears alone. She straightened her back, her bag over one shoulder and the files clutched to her chest. "You've been a great help," she said stiffly, extending her right hand to shake his without looking directly at him. "Thank you for your efforts." "Dana." He tried to hold on to her hand, but she slipped it from his grasp. "I'll inform Mulder that your resources are no longer available to us." "Scully, goddamn it, you know I need those files. Don't make this worse than it is." She stopped, and looked at him. You're a coward, said that cold grey gaze, and Kresge felt shame wash over him. "Tell them the files are already in federal custody. That should save your ass." She turned sharply on her heel and walked out. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> NORTHBOUND ON IMPERIAL AVENUE MARCH 10TH, 11:57 AM Scully swiped angrily at her eyes as the tears began. She had sworn she was not going to do this. She was not going to snivel while there was a little girl out there who needed her help, especially not while she was behind the wheel of a car and already going much too fast. Promises were not very useful in this instance, she thought, wiping a second wave of tears with an impatient hand. She saw a strip-mall shopping center and hit the brakes, spinning the wheel hard to the right. The driver she cut off went by on her left, horn blaring, screaming about her craziness in Spanish. Loco, yes, she thought, pulling the car into an empty space and putting it in park. Her hands were shaking on the wheel, though whether it was from generalised nerves or the near-miss she'd just had, it was hard to tell. When this was over, she promised, she would take some of those vacation days that had been piling up for years, go away someplace quiet and deal with herself. Until then, she needed to forget about everything except the next lead to trace. Scully wiped her eyes clear, dug her phone out of her pocket and dialed the Gunmen. "Buffy's Mortuary, you slay 'em, we flay 'em," Langly answered. "Thank you, Langly. Now that I know your favorite TV show, can we talk sense?" "Oh, ah, sorry, Agent Scully." His crackly tenor sounded even more teenaged at the moment and Scully suddenly felt like the school principal chastising an unruly student. "I was expecting a call from someone else." "I hope so," she said, glad even of the distraction of Langly's silliness. "I have some more names for you to run down." "Sure, let me pass you to the man." She slumped in her seat, staring out the windshield at the passing traffic as she waited for Frohike to pick up the extension. "Agent Scully, how may I help you today?" Frohike asked, over- compensating for his friend, but somehow comfortingly familiar. "I have some names and birth dates I'd like you to run through the Social Security database, see if you can come up with an employment history." "Sure, go ahead." She gave him the information she had on the MacEntyres and the Jenkinses, listening to Frohike mumble it back as he wrote it all down. She wondered if he was one of those people who moved their lips when reading. It seemed sad somehow that she had never noticed. "Okay, I'll get back when I've got something," he finished. "Did you get the package we sent?" Scully sat up, putting the phone to her left ear and turning the ignition back on. Damn, she was slipping. She'd completely forgotten about it. "No, I didn't. Where did it go again?" Frohike sighed, giving her the address, slowly, as if she were a foreign speaker. Or an absent-minded idiot. "Under your name to Held Mail at the main PO -- 2535 Midway Drive. Should have been there this morning." She shrugged off a flicker of irritation, not sure if it was aimed at him or at herself. "Thanks, Frohike. I'll go pick it up now." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SAN DIEGO GENERAL HOSPITAL MARCH 10TH, 1:03 PM Jane Hampton was curled on her side, listlessly watching 'One Life to Live' when Scully arrived in her room. Jane sat up and turned the TV off, regarding Scully with shadowed eyes. Scully felt for her badge, comforted as always by the shape of it beneath her fingertips. With that little wallet in hand, she knew who she was, what she had to do in almost any circumstance. If only the rest of her life could be that certain. "Mrs. Hampton, I'm not sure if you remem--" "I remember you," Jane said, waving the badge away. "Are you here to take me home?" Scully stopped, surprised. "No. Was someone supposed to come pick you up?" "I was meant to get out of here today, but the nurses said I have to be released into the custody of a police officer." "I'm sorry, I'm afraid that's not why I'm here." She folded the wallet back into her pocket and sighed. The truth was that nothing -- no badge, no gun, no medical degree -- was going to help her do this. "I'm afraid I have some bad news," she began, in her most gentle tone. Jane's expression suddenly turned to one of desperate pleading. Don't say it. Whatever it is, I don't want to know. She turned her head away as Scully dug in her laptop case and extracted two clear plastic sheets. "These are the results of a genetic test we did on Denise," she said slowly, trying to give Jane some time to adjust. "And what did it say?" Scully shook her head. "I'm so sorry to have to--" "I don't believe you," Jane snapped, but the sudden reddening of her eyes told a different story. Scully moved up to the head of the bed, holding Denise's PCR over the white blanket so that Jane could easily see it. "This is a picture of Denise's DNA. When we matched it to yours, we got a 60% chance that she could be your daughter. But here--" She added Emily's PCR, placing it directly over Denise's. "--this is the DNA from another child, one of the girls whose picture I showed you earlier." Scully slid the plastic sheets together and laid them on the blanket, hiding her now-trembling hands behind her back. "It's a 100% match," she said thickly. "Which means Denise and this girl have the same DNA. They have the same biological parents. And we are 100% certain who this little girl's biological mother was." Jane had become so immobile that Scully had the urge to put her finger to the woman's throat to make sure there was still a pulse. Suddenly Jane lashed out, slapping the PCRs off the bed. She drew her knees up to her chin and buried her face in the blanket. "I'm so sorry," Scully said, bending to pick up the sheets again. Jane lifted her face and Scully saw Melissa before her, about to cry her eyes out. Scully sat heavily on the bed, pulling the woman close before she had the chance to think about it, to remember that this wasn't her sister. By the time she had, Jane's arms were wrapped around her waist and she was holding on so tightly that Scully could barely breathe. "Oh, god, it's true," Jane moaned. "He said it once, he said she wasn't ours and I hit him, I was so angry." Scully hugged the woman tighter. Too late to let go now, anyway. "Who said that? Tom?" Jane pulled away, as if she had suddenly remembered that Scully was a stranger. She sniffed heavily, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her hospital gown. Scully looked around for tissues, saw a box sitting over by the sink, and used it as an excuse to get up, to regain some kind of professional distance. "What did he say exactly?" she asked, handing the tissues to Jane. Jane took them and lay back on the pillows. She seemed frighteningly calm now, resigned to the truth, though tears ran down her paper- skinned face. "We were having a fight. Denise was about a year old. We had a lot of fights by then and we would say things...awful things. He said our baby was born dead." Jane wiped at another wave of tears, her voice sliding out of control. "But she looked like me. How could she look so much like me, if she wasn't mine?" She sat up suddenly, staring at Scully in horror. "Oh god, that's why my marrow wasn't any good. She needed a bone marrow transfusion and I wanted them to take mine but they said it wouldn't work, that the match wasn't right. They swore they had a donor, but something delayed that and she died." Scully shook her head. "Jane, that is not your fault. Even natural parents can't always donate organs to their children." Jane's stare did not falter, did not ease one bit in intensity. "But still, the truth is, I wasn't her mother." "Yes, you were." Scully heard the fierceness in her own voice, but couldn't stop it. "You loved her, you raised her. The other is...biology. Nothing more." She turned away to stare out the window with hot eyes, arms folded across her chest. "Would you do me a favor?" Jane asked, after a moment, her voice very small. Scully took a deep breath and turned to face her. "Yes, if I can." "Would you take me out of here? Please? I don't want to stay here anymore." "I don't think I have the authority to do that. It would need to be someone from the San Diego police. And I'm not sure it's such a good idea for you to go home. The men who killed your husband--" Scully stopped. Adding fear into the mixture was not going to help this woman at all. Jane was nodding at her as if she understood, as if she'd expected to hear exactly that. "I don't care if it's my house or somewhere else. But people keep coming past my room and looking in and hanging around and it's freaking me out. If I stay cooped up here with this in my head, I *will* need the psychiatric ward." Scully drew air in through her open mouth, coming back to Jane's side. "Has anyone tried to talk to you? Bothered you?" Jane shook her head, eyes sliding away. "No, but I'm scared." "Okay." Scully touched the woman's shoulder lightly, confirming her promise. "Okay, I'm going to get you out of here." Jane looked up, gratefully. "I don't have any clothes though." Scully nodded, her throat aching for no reason she could name. "I can take of that as well. I'll be back soon." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SOMEWHERE EAST OF CHULA VISTA MARCH 10TH, 1:23 AM Mulder wouldn't have thought being alone in a car could give him such an itchy feeling, but it did. He spat a sunflower seed out the window because he knew Scully would make a face if she could see him, and filled his mouth from the bag on the passenger seat. His tongue and the inside of his cheeks were raw and burned from the salt and the scraping of the shells, but Mulder couldn't stop himself. He'd bought the bag on his way out of town and it was already almost empty. There was a wild, reckless energy burning in him, one he hadn't felt in a long time. It was the same energy that had fueled most of his wilder escapades, sending him off to stare like a loon at lights in the sky or track some implausible lead to Samantha. The difference was that normally when he hared off alone, he knew Scully would back him up if he could reach her. No expense spared and no questions asked -- at least not until he was safe and sound, or at least safely in the hospital, and then it would be his pleasure to lie there, watching her cheeks bloom and her eyes go neon blue as she paced before him and gave him hell. He missed her, goddamn it, like an an amputee misses a limb. Even when he was sitting in the same room with her last night, he felt like he had lost a piece of himself. Mulder pulled into the next gas station he passed, his mouth parched from the road and the seeds and the taste of fear. He should have known, he thought, paying far too much for a bottle of Evian and draining half of it in a gulp before he even left the store. The minute she kissed him, he should have known that something inside her had finally snapped. Scully had never been more than passingly attracted to him, in the way that men and women who became close friends often experienced moments of attraction. It was only natural. Certainly she, of all people, would never mistake that for something compelling enough to seduce him in the middle of a case. In the middle of this case in particular. She wasn't herself. That was the only explanation. He should have seen the signs but she had been so remote for so long and then Diana had re-appeared and stood right in front of his face and he'd lost sight of Scully, had made himself deaf to anything she wanted to say. Had she reached for him since, tried to tell him she was slipping, and had he ignored that as well? He unlocked the door of the car and the empty passenger seat seemed to glare at him in accusation. Mulder threw the plastic bottle at it, got in and drove on. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Scully returned half an hour later, shoving her badge under the nose of the uniform sitting outside Jane's room. "We need to talk softly," she said, shutting the door to Jane's room and shoving a chair under the handle. Scully came closer, holding on to the facade of calm with both hands. "I tried to get you released into my custody, but I'm getting stonewalled and there's no reason for it. According to the SDPD you are no longer a murder suspect. So. Are you brave enough to try something else?" "Like what?" Jane asked, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "A little switch. You're going to walk out of here by yourself." "Dressed like this?" Jane gestured to the ugly hospital gown she wore. "Not quite." Scully patted her laptop bag, a grim smile stretching her lips. She opened it and drew out a handful of black silk. Less than fifteen minutes later, she was almost looking at herself. "Why do you wear these things?" Jane complained, trying to stuff her feet into a pair of Scully's heels. "How am I going to walk out of here in these?" Scully shushed her. "Just walk slow, keep your head up and look like you know where you're going," she advised, keeping her own voice low. "When you get to the elevator, press the button and just wait. Don't look around. One of the orderlies will come unlock the door when it arrives." She handed Jane the keys to the rental. "When you get outside, you'll find a white Honda Civic in the second row to your left, about five cars along. Go out of the parking lot and make a right. Drive three lights and make another right and pull over. I'll find you there. Okay?" She helped Jane tuck her hair smoothly inside the jacket. Puffed slightly over the collar it looked like a pageboy bob, longer than her own but she doubted anyone would notice. Scully went to the uniform guarding the door, smiled nicely and handed him a couple of dollars to go down to the cafeteria and buy a cup of coffee for Mrs. Hampton. For once, the FBI badge had brought her some respect with a local. Or maybe the young man was just bored, but he nodded amiably and took off at a respectable clip. Scully watched until he had gone down the hall and gotten on the elevator. "Ready?" Jane looked at her a moment and then nodded. She straightened her shoulders, mimicking Scully's tense posture, lifted her head, and walked out the door, the laptop bag slung over her shoulder. Ten minutes later the uniform returned, to find Scully sitting in a chair, calmly thumbing through one of the magazines Jane had borrowed from the hospital library cart. "Where is she?" "Mrs. Hampton?" Scully indicated the bathroom, where water could clearly be heard running. "She wanted to take a shower, wash her hair. She should be done in about half an hour." She stood, tossing the magazine on the bed. "I need to get going. I was just waiting until you came back." "What do I do with the coffee?" Scully smiled sweetly as she moved out the door. "I guess she won't mind it cold." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Jane was in the passenger seat when she got to the car, slumped down, her bare feet tucked beneath her and the shoes discarded on the floor. Scully took a moment to check the other cars around them, wishing desperately that she had Mulder's ability to take mental photographs. There was one late model sedan, dark with tinted windows, parked several spaces down the street. The kind of car They drove. Scully pulled out slowly, one eye on the rearview mirror, waiting for the car to start up and appear behind them. Nothing happened. Nothing continued to happen as she turned down one street after another, winding her way around until even she was lost. After a couple of miles or so of that non-excitement, she began to relax, enough to throw Jane an encouraging smile. Another few days like this, Scully thought, and I'll be as paranoid as the Gunmen. Jane's arms were folded tightly and she didn't smile back. She was upset and scared and Scully couldn't blame her. She rounded another corner, then pulled the car into an empty space by the curb and turned the engine off. She waited a moment, again watching the rearview mirror. No cars passed. Nothing. Scully rubbed her hands across her face, pressing into the ridge of bone above her eyes. There was the beginning of a headache thrumming upward from the base of her skull, the kind she usually associated with bending over days-old cadavers, breathing in the stink of decomposition overlaid with menthol. She leaned back against the headrest, staring down the leafy street. A nice, quiet street, full of nice, middle-class homes. People with families. Normal people. Until this week, Jane Hampton had been one of those. "Where are we going?" Jane asked quietly. Scully glanced down at Jane's hands, twisting in her lap, and saw her own square palms, her own back-bending thumbs. The only difference in their hands were Jane's nails, bitten ragged to the tips of her fingers. "First," she answered, "I think we'd better get you some other clothes." She started the car again and they drove in silence as Scully tried to work her way back to a main thoroughfare. Find a store, get Jane settled, get hold of Mulder. She nodded to herself. That was as far as she could think at the moment. "What do I call you?" Jane said finally. "It's going to sound a bit stupid if I call you Agent Scully in front of other people." Scully turned left, headed for what looked like a major intersection. "My name is Dana," she said. She caught Jane's arched eyebrow from the corner of her eye and arched her own in return. "What?" "I don't know. You don't look like a Dana." "No? What do I look like?" Jane turned away, her face growing impassive. "I don't know," she answered, and fell silent again. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Scully drove towards the suburbs, tensing slightly each time they passed a cruiser. Any one of them could be Kresge's people out looking for Jane. Then again, Kresge was off the case. It was entirely possible that no one would be looking for her. Only Them, whoever that was now. At last Scully saw the kind of store they needed. "Target?" Jane asked, incredulous, looking at the massive storefront ahead of them. "I'd never have picked you for a Target shopper." "It's got everything you need," Scully answered, finding a space and parking the car. "It's not a good idea to be out running around." Jane wandered dazed through the front of the store, obviously in no condition to shop. Scully commandeered a cart and moved Jane through the aisles, picking out what she would need for the next few days. Socks, underwear, bra. Moving quickly through the cosmetics section, she chose a toothbrush for herself as well, paused by the feminine hygiene products. She could just imagine the commercial. What the smart girl packs when she's on the run. "Do you need anything here?" she asked Jane. Jane stared at the shelves of tampons blankly as if she'd forgotten what they were for, before finally shaking her head no. Jane meandered off towards the clothing section leaving Scully to follow, tossing toothpaste and shampoo into the cart as she went. She found Jane standing in front of a rack, holding a long woven cotton dress. Azure, a shade of blue Scully loved but would never dare to wear. Too bright, too obvious. "Stick with simple stuff," she said, holding out her hand to take the dress away. Looking at Jane holding that thing hurt. It was exactly the kind of flowing, princessy dress Melissa would have loved. Jane ignored her hand, running her fingers over the soft cotton. There was something in her face, some kind of odd, sad distraction, as if the feel of the material reminded her of something. "Okay, fine, take it," Scully snapped, pulling the dress out of Jane's hands and tossing it into the cart. She didn't have the heart or the patience to argue with that face. She added a package of t-shirts and a pair of jeans, which Jane accepted mutely. The shoe department was their last stop, racks and racks of canvas and vinyl. Scully was reminded painfully of Mulder. Had he stood in a place like this, holding those cheap black sneakers, measuring so big against his palm? It was easier for Jane. She knew how big. Scully watched her choose a pair of plain white sneakers in almost the same style as the ones Mulder had bought for her. Her movements had slowed in the last half- hour, become apathetic. The news, Scully thought bitterly, had finally hit home. She paid for their purchases and guided Jane out of the store and back to the car. "Where to now?" Jane asked, though her tone suggested she didn't care. "Somewhere that no one but Mulder can find us." Scully put her hands on the wheel at ten and two, just like she'd been taught. She had always done as she'd been taught, followed orders, whether her father's or Skinner's or the ones she'd internalized over the years. The ones that said there were certain things she was never going to have and she was not to complain about it. Orders were orders and could not be questioned. Orders, however, could be interpreted. Like the time she'd talked about leaving medical school to join the police and her father ordered her to finish what she'd started. Well, she had finished. Of course she'd transferred her specialty from surgery to forensics and if the FBI hadn't recruited her she would have wound up in the Coroner's Office doing something very similar, minus the weirdness. Or married to Daniel, she thought with a shiver. "Am I in that much trouble?" Jane asked. Scully rubbed her eyes with both hands, then put them back on the wheel, gripping it hard. "The men that came to your house, Jane. Not just that last day, but the times before...we have reason to believe they're part of a select organization operating within our government." She glanced at Jane, who seemed to be taking this rather far-fetched piece of information with unusual calm. "Okay," she said, after a moment. "But what does that have to do with Denise? Or Tom?" Scully hesitated. "Tom may have been part of that," she said, as gently as she could. "And it may have had something to do with the illness that killed your daughter." "You think Tom did that to her?" "No," Scully said quickly. The other woman's eyes were bright with sudden fury, and Scully realized that no matter how careful she was, in this instance she could not be careful enough. It had taken her years to absorb some of the truths they had learned, and some of it she still didn't want to believe. Jane Hampton's world had already been all but leveled. No need to continue hurling bombs. "No," Scully repeated, the firm quiet of her voice calling Jane's attention back to her. "Tom had nothing to do with Denise being ill. But it was her illness that brought her to the attention of those men, because they know what caused it." "Could they have made her well?" She made herself meet Jane's eyes. "No. Not as far as I know." Scully started the car, ending the conversation. She turned right at the first intersection, glancing at the passing buildings as she drove north, the neighborhood slowly becoming familiar. She made a left, then a right, almost by instinct, finally recognising where she was. This was the neighborhood Emily had lived in, before she was taken to the Children's Center. You need to go back, Melissa had said. Back to the beginning. Scully felt her heart lurch to a stop, then start again, twice as fast. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SOMEWHERE NEAR SWEETWATER RESERVOIR MARCH 10TH, 3:35 PM Past the outskirts of Chula Vista, the land quickly became scrub desert and orange groves. Mulder drove along with the windows open and the radio on full blast. It was another small rebellion, a station that seemed to play endless rave and techno, one of the few forms of music that Scully loathed. He kept the map open on the passenger seat, as if she were still there to navigate in her usual efficient manner, one finger tracing their place as he drove. She would have liked this trip, he thought. It was hot and sunny and the wind felt like it was finally blowing some of the darkness of the last few days away, bringing his investigative instincts back to the fore. His phone rang and he put it to his ear without turning the music down. "Mulder, it's me." "Hey, Scully. Did you know you could Rave For Days with DJ Bob?" "Mulder, turn the radio down. This is important." He turned it off, feeling like a fool. Their joking days were over, at least for a long, long while. "Where are you?" she continued, as soon as the excess sound was gone. "It sounds like you're on the freeway." "Close. I'm in--" "No, don't say where. I need you to call me on a land line." The orange grove he'd been driving past for miles gave way to a white stucco wall. A wall, just like the one Jane had described, the one he'd been looking for. "Scully, listen, I'm kind of in the middle of something right now," he said hurriedly, pulling the car off the road. "You're either going to have to take a chance, or wait till I can call you back." "Mulder, I have things to tell you, and I don't want to do it on the cell." Mulder stopped scrabbling around for his backpack, listening closely now to the subtle vibration of panic beneath her voice. "Scully, what's up?" He tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible, trying to calm her without letting her know that he'd noticed her fear. "I can't call you back. Just tell me." Nothing on the other end. "Scully?" "The bells are ringing, Mulder. Watch your back." "What do you mea--" She hung up, leaving him alone, staring at the wall. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> END OF BOOK ONE Thanks for traveling with me so far. The journey will resume again soon in Book Two. Put a little gas in the car: fialka62@yahoo.com <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> ARIZONA HIGHWAYS BOOK TWO: CHILD OF WATER by Fialka <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 1 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SAN DIEGO CHILDREN'S CENTER MARCH 10TH, 3:40 PM Scully pulled into the parking lot in front of the center and stopped the car. Okay, calm down, she told herself. There was nothing so strange about this. If Caitlin Jenkins' parents had been killed and there were no known relatives, it was entirely possible she had been sent to Children's Services, just like Emily. Whether Emily would have been conveniently 'adopted' by a Project- approved family was a question she would never be able to answer. The reasons the social worker had given for rejecting Scully's petition were valid enough that she hadn't even considered the possibility that she may never have had a chance, that a family for Emily had already been chosen. For some reason, the people who created the girls had wanted their existence to be recorded, wanted it all to look legal. Which meant that Children's Services might at least have a record of where Caitlin had been sent. Scully looked over at Jane, who was huddled into her own embrace, staring at the dashboard as if she didn't care where they were or what might happen next. "I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?" Scully said. "I just have to go check something out." Jane nodded apathetically. Scully leaned into the back seat, opened the laptop case and selected a folder. Inside, Scully went the official route, using her badge and the voice that quietly demanded answers. It took only ten minutes before she was sitting across from the director of the San Diego Children's Center, handing the woman the photograph of the Jenkins family. "I'm trying to trace the whereabouts of this little girl--" "Oh!" the woman interrupted, taking the photograph into her hands. "That's our Jane Doe." "She's here?" "She appeared about a week ago. We called the police, but they haven't been able to trace any relatives. So, someone *is* looking for her. We assumed she'd been abandoned." Scully took a moment to breathe before she continued. "What do you mean she appeared?" "Someone rang the bell, and when we opened the door, there she was. People do actually do that sometimes." The woman looked at the photograph in her hands. "Funny, they don't look like the type, do they, but you never know." Scully's eyes flicked to the nameplate on the woman's desk. "Mrs. Osborne," she said. "This child was not abandoned. Her name is Caitlin Jenkins and her parents were killed in a car accident on March 4th." "Oh my. Well, I suppose we'd better alert the police then." Scully stood quickly, slipping the file from the woman's hands. "That won't be necessary. I'm here to take the child into protective custody." "Oh, I'm sorry." The woman looked up, smiling blandly. "The girl is a ward of the County until her identity has been officially established. I'm afraid you'll need a court order to remove her from the premises." Scully reached into her pocket and showed her badge again. "Mrs. Osborne, I'm a federal officer. I'm sure the County would have no problem with your releasing her directly into my care. This child is a material witness in a murder investigation and we have reason to believe her life may be in danger if she stays here. I'm sure you understand." "I understand that you'll need a court order to remove her from the premises, no matter who you are," the woman repeated, unperturbed. "If there truly is compelling reason, it should only take a day or so to obtain." Scully took a deep breath, forcing the irritation down, out of her voice. "All right, then, I'll do that. In the meantime I would like to see her. You're aware that I don't need a court order to speak to the child." The director shook her head. "She's not going to be able to give you any information." "You'd be surprised what children notice," Scully answered. Finally, the woman seemed to have been thrown somewhat off-balance. "No," she said. "That's not what I mean. I meant...oh, never mind. See for yourself." Mrs. Osborne pressed a button on her intercom. "Adelaide?" she said, to the answering squawk. "Could you get one of the volunteers to take Agent Scully over to the Special Needs section?" Deju vu ran up Scully's spine like a cold finger. The woman she was talking to must have been appointed since Emily had been there the year before, but everything else was beginning to play out with frightening repetition. "That's all right," she said, picking up her file. "I know where it is." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Caitlin Jenkins was in the daycare room, along with most of the other pre-school-aged children. Unlike the others, she wasn't playing with the stacks of brightly colored blocks, the numerous dolls, the clear plastic containers filled with Lego. Caitlin Jenkins sat in a corner, head down on her knees, ignoring everything around her. "That's her," one of the day care volunteers said. "Poor kid." Scully watched the little girl rocking herself, a tiny ball of despair. "Has she been examined by a doctor?" "Sure, it's routine when they come in. I heard she went ballistic, had to be sedated." The woman sighed, making tsk-tsk noises with her tongue. "She should really be in a psychiatric facility -- we're just not equipped for kids like that here." "But she hasn't been ill?" "Physically? No, she seems to be okay. No visible signs of abuse." The woman bit down hard on the word 'visible'. That someone had done something terrible to Caitlin at some point seemed obvious. "May I?" Scully gestured to the far corner. "Go ahead," the woman shrugged. "Be careful though. She's been known to scratch and bite when she's scared." Scully approached the child slowly, kneeling down beside her. She stayed there, silent, for several minutes, giving Caitlin a chance to adjust to her presence. Caitlin made no sign that she was even aware anyone was there. She went on rocking herself with the same short, fast rhythm. Autism would be Scully's preliminary diagnosis, though she had no way of knowing if it had been induced by recent trauma, or if Caitlin had been autistic before. Scully could almost feel the pain emanating from the girl. She reached out and put a hand lightly on the child's shoulder, prepared to pull back if Caitlin suddenly turned aggressive. The rocking stopped. "Caitlin?" No answer. Scully hunkered closer, speaking in a whisper. "Caitlin? I know you're scared, but I'm not going to hurt you. I just want you to look at me. Okay, honey? Just pick up your head and look at me, if you can understand." No response. Her hand moved tentatively to Caitlin's head, stroking the fine, tangled hair. It looked as if she hadn't let anyone near enough to brush it the whole time she'd been here. "Caitlin? Can you understand what I'm saying?" Scully lifted the child's hair away from her face and nearly cried out loud. The girl was wearing earrings. Delicate silver earrings, beaten by hand into a thin disk and etched with black scored lines in the shape of petals, around a center of polished turquoise. "Oh my god," Scully whispered. "Amy?" The little girl lifted her head, slowly, blinking her eyes as if waking from a long, horrible nightmare. "Amy?" Scully's own eyes were just as wide as the child's, disbelief stealing her breath. "Amy Wallace?" The little girl nodded, flinging her arms around Scully's neck. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SOMEWHERE NEAR SWEETWATER RESERVOIR MARCH 10TH, 3:40 PM Mulder's back was to the car, pulled haphazardly off the right side of the road. On the left side, ten or so rows back beyond the orange trees, the white stucco wall gleamed in the sun. Completely out of place in the middle of nowhere. Mulder's first instinct was to call Scully back. He was sure she thought he was wasting their time, trying to find a needle in a haystack that had rotted away a long time ago. His thumb had already hit the speed dial when he thought better of it and clicked off. He didn't know yet what he'd found and Scully's cryptic warning was so unlike her that he couldn't begin to figure it out. If she were in danger, if she needed help, she'd have asked for it, he told himself. And if she didn't want help from him, for whatever reason, she had Kresge, who certainly would not turn her down. Oddly, he found that thought a comfort. Mulder grabbed the backpack and the half-bottle of Evian and set out through the trees. The wall was long, enclosing a good ten acres, and Mulder was beginning to wonder if he was going to have to follow it all the around to the other side it when he finally came to a door. Not the big wrought iron gate Jane had described, but a shiny steel door, the stone around it showing evidence of having been cut and cemented not very long ago. And beside it, not at all new and far less shiny, stood a large industrial dumpster. There didn't seem to be any cameras on the outside of the compound, as if the idea of outside intervention was not worth contemplating. Mulder looked around, decided there was nothing to lose, and climbed up on the dumpster. The wall was far higher on the inside, the ground having been dug out when the compound was built. Too high to simply jump without the chance of breaking something. Mulder climbed down and considered his options. The place had obviously been built with an eye to keeping things in, rather than keeping them out. He still had the rope. He could tie it to the dumpster and climb down, but he would have to leave it hanging on the inside or he would have no way of getting back over. Not very wise to leave something so easy to notice, though what he'd seen in his brief glimpse over the wall hadn't convinced him there would be anyone there to see it. The compound looked abandoned; nothing but glaring white adobe and dust-whirls glinting in the sun. On the other hand, the door was new, the dumpster had a small amount of reasonably fresh garbage in it and a row of trees had been removed from this point onward, making a dirt road that followed the outside of the wall, stretching as far as Mulder could see. There really was only one option. Mulder heaved the dumpster a little further from the wall, enough to create a space he could hide in, and settled down to wait for night. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SAN DIEGO CHILDREN'S CENTER MARCH 10TH, 4:32 PM She was not conscious of making a decision, of following logic or reason. It was more like the irresistible pull of a magnet, like the game she had played as a child, inching the magnet closer to the nail, until the nail leapt across the floor. Scully looked up and saw that the volunteer was occupied with an argument between two small boys hell-bent on clubbing each other to death over a Tonka truck. She pulled Amy into her arms and stood, the child holding on as if she never meant to let go again. Scully began to move toward the door, only one thought in her head. Don't let them stop us, dear God, don't let them stop us. She could feel the holster pressing into her back beneath the weight of Amy's crossed legs. She didn't want to know if she would pull her gun in this place, didn't want to find out if she was capable of making that kind of threat. Scully walked and prayed with a determination that might have fried the circuitry of the chip if it had still been beneath the skin of her neck. No one tried to stop her. No one even looked twice. She left the Children's Center, clutching Amy tight, as if God had heard her prayer and made her invisible to everyone but Himself. Himself and Jane, gaping at her with horrified eyes. "Can you drive?" Scully demanded, pulling the passenger door open. The other woman nodded, mute. "Then do it. Now!" Jane gulped and scrambled over the gear shift as Scully climbed in with Amy still wrapped around her. "Not too fast," Scully cautioned, as Jane started the car. "Just normal. Don't attract attention." "My god, Dana, what have you done?" Scully dared a glance at Jane, saw a white face with huge eyes, her bottom lip held tight between her teeth. "I'm sorry," Scully said. Sorry seemed to be all she could say these days. Everything seemed to be spinning out of her control. "I didn't expect--" She cut off her own words and bent her head against the girl's. "I don't know." "Is this the one?" Jane asked tightly, "The one you were talking about? Denise's twin?" "This is Amy Wallace," Scully said. "The girl we were looking for." Amy looked up as she heard her name spoken, confusion written all over her small face. "I want my mommy," she said to Scully, her lower lip beginning to swell in a pout. "I know," Scully answered. She pressed the girl's head back against her shoulder. "I know." Amy began to cry, almost without sound, crushing Scully's lapel in one chubby fist. Scully held the girl closer, wanting to cry herself. It was only now beginning to sink in, the exact magnitude of what she had done. She had kidnapped a child. A federal offense. Whatever her life had been until this moment, it was over. "So where am I going?" Jane demanded, her knuckles golden beneath her pale skin as she strangled the wheel. Scully dragged herself out of the well of despair into which she was rapidly descending. Think. She had to think. "You know this part of town?" Jane nodded, refusing to take her eyes off the road, her expression grim. "We need let you off somewhere. A motel, someplace you'll be safe for a while. My partner will pick you up. Whatever happens now, you can't be involved." Jane cast her a long, hard look. "I'm already involved," she said harshly. "Jane, that's--" "Just tell me where to go!" Scully looked the woman sitting beside her, then down at the child, sniffling quietly now. The decision, it seemed, had already been made. Scully reached behind her to wrench the holster from her waistband, stuffing it into the space between the door and the seat. "The interstate then," she said, adjusting Amy's legs so she could slide back into her seat, holding the girl close and buckling the seat belt around both of them. "East. To Arizona." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> NEAR SWEETWATER RESERVOIR, SAN DIEGO COUNTY MARCH 10TH, 7:22 PM The compound was shaped like a hacienda, four graceful buildings around a central courtyard. The oldest and largest was actually part of the far wall, the graceful arched entrance to the compound built into the center of the ground floor. It was guarded by an elaborate, wrought-iron gate, rusted over now with years of neglect. Jane had described the central courtyard as a playground, but there was nothing left to indicate that children had ever played there. Or that anyone was here now. Up close the whitewashed adobe was dirty and faded, crumbling in certain places. Abandonment hung over the place like a shroud. If there had once been children, there had been little joy, of that Mulder felt certain. Mulder slipped from building to building, trying doors and dusty windows. Everything was locked. The third building he tried, the one furthest from both entrances, had a different lock than the first two. This was newer, electronic, maybe ten or fifteen years old and the dirt in front of the door bore the marks of having been disturbed recently. It was the first real sign of life Mulder had seen. He open his wallet and fished out a credit card and a thin sheet of foil he kept folded in an inside pocket for just this purpose, covering the card with the foil. It was an old trick, one Frohike had taught him years ago, but it would only work on certain kinds of electronics. He swiped the card through the lock, sure it wouldn't work on this one. The door popped open. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> MOTEL 6, EL CENTRO, CALIFORNIA MARCH 10TH, 7:52 PM Jane came out of the shower wearing the blue dress, her eyes red, her manner distant. Scully said nothing. Even if she thought Jane would welcome some kind of comfort, she wouldn't have known how to give it. Instead she concentrated on her hands, moving a brush through Amy's tangled hair. You go home, she told the girl silently. Be ordinary. Be special to no one but the people that love you. It's a strange thing to wish for a child, but for you it will be a miracle. Finished, she put her hand on the child's shoulder. It seemed unbearably thin and small, too fragile for the weight of her blessing. Too easily broken. "All done," she said and the child turned and flung herself into Scully's arms. Not yours, Scully told herself as Amy wriggled against her, wanting to be hugged. She held the child for one brief moment, then made herself let go. "Into bed with you," she said, forcing herself to sound cheery and light. Amy looked like she didn't believe the cheeriness for a moment, but she allowed Scully to tuck her into the cradle she had made by pushing the room's two armchairs together. Scully wrapped the girl in a spare blanket, tucking it tight around her shoulders. She almost leaned over to kiss her goodnight, then made herself stop. "Sleep well," Scully said. Amy nodded, her expression old and tired, then closed her eyes. She was asleep within moments. Jane was surfing channels with one hand and eating Kentucky Fried Chicken with the other, making Scully think desperately of Mulder. She picked up her phone and tried calling for the third time, but there was still no answer, not in his room and not on his cell. With Amy in her custody and Skinner breathing down everybody's neck, all Scully could say was, "Call me, it's urgent." She didn't dare leave any kind of explanatory message. Scully sighed and turned her phone off. Angry, worried, or all of the above -- that was the general choice Mulder left her with when he did this sort of thing. She didn't really want to return the favor, but she didn't have her charger and there was no point wasting her cell battery waiting. She'd check her voicemail in a couple of hours and see if he'd called. At last Jane chose a channel and lay back, tossing the bare chicken bone back into the box. The choice of dinner had been hers and Scully had too much experience with the horrors of hospital food to say no. "You ever seen this movie?" Jane asked, the first words she'd spoken in hours. "It's pretty good." Scully glanced at the TV. Harrison Ford was taking down some craggy blond extra in a blaze of gunfire. "I've seen too much of that to enjoy it as entertainment," she said, instantly wishing she hadn't. She didn't like the expression on Jane's face as the other woman turned to stare at her. "We can watch something else," Jane offered, her intonation flat and dull. "No, please." Scully bent her head, avoiding Jane's eyes, picking up a chicken wing of her own to nibble on. "By all means, watch what you like." "It's okay. I've seen it." Scully heard a cacophony of noise that reminded her of Mulder next door in a hundred motels, then Jane settled on the Sci-Fi Channel. "Brain candy," she shrugged, tossing the remote down and rubbing at her wrists. "Those stitches will need to come out in a day or so," Scully informed her. "Remind me." "You were the one who wanted to autopsy Denise," Jane stated, making Scully's stomach suddenly aware of the awful greasiness of its contents. "Yes," she admitted, pushing the remains of her dinner away. Jane sat up abruptly and shut the TV off. "Was it worth it?" she demanded. "To cut her up like that? Did you learn something you didn't already know?" Scully sat still, willing the nausea to go away. "It's my job, Jane," she said quietly. "If a death is suspicious, I try to uncover the story the body wants to tell me. I can't bring people back to their families, but I can try to find justice." She could feel Jane's eyes on her, frigid now. Blue could be such a cold, cold color. She wondered if this was how Mulder felt when she was angry with him. "Justice," Jane spat. "Is that what you brought me?" Scully kept her voice low, refusing to be dragged into an argument. "I brought you the truth." "Fuck you! Do you think I needed that kind of truth? Did I ask for it? Who the hell are you to come in and blow my world to shit? You ought to have to watch your own kid die like that, you ought to have to hold her hand while she cries from the pain or see the look in her eyes when the goddamn nurses come at her with another goddamn needle--" Scully held her breath and stared at her knee, hands contracting into fists pressed hard against the mattress. She fought to make her mind a blank, an empty screen upon which she wrote only the seconds she counted, refusing to let the image of Emily's terrified face coalesce in her brain. "Please," Scully managed, casting a look at the sleeping Amy. "She won't wake up," Jane answered. "Not if she's anything like--" She cut her words off, evidently fighting her own internal battle against things better not remembered. Enough, Scully thought, averting her eyes. "I didn't even get to bury her." Jane's voice had gone high and thin, all the anger drained out of her now. A short, harsh sob escaped and Scully realized that the woman had been crying for some time. "The funeral is tomorrow and no one will be there." Scully glanced up to see Jane wiping a shaking hand across her eyes. She quickly looked away again, giving whatever privacy she could, breathing carefully through her mouth as if the anguish in the room could be expelled with her breath. Focus on a point and breathe, the way a woman is taught to pant to rise above the pain of giving birth. There must be something similar to this, Scully thought, a wave that rose and broke and receded again, but the irony of the thought was bitter. There would be no cry of life at the end of this. Only empty relief. She closed her eyes as the moment finally ebbed and her muscles dared to relax. Dry-eyed and calm now, she rose from the bed, removing her watch and laying it on the dresser as she went. "I'm going to take a bath," she said to Jane. "Don't open the door for anyone." "Dana?" It was the change in Jane's voice that stopped her in her tracks, the shift from anger to compassion. Scully steeled herself to meet those eyes, to guard against whatever kindness she might find there. Kindness was not a gift she could accept tonight. It would be her undoing, and she couldn't afford the weakness of tears. "There were three girls, in the pictures you showed me. What happened to the third?" Scully made herself look at Jane. "She died last year." "Was she...?" Jane swallowed loudly and left the question hanging in the air, a presence so strong Scully could almost smell it. It smelled of sand and antiseptic and the sweat on a small child's skin. "Did you know her?" There was no answer Scully could give. To say yes was to cast herself as having experienced the same grief Jane had, to have mourned a life she believed she had carried inside herself. To say no would imply that Emily's death had meant no more to her than the death of any child. Both were lies. Anything she could ever say about Emily would be a lie. How could she speak truthfully about a child she'd lost, but never had? "I'll be out in a few minutes," she said instead, and escaped into the bath. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Jane padded silently toward the door of the bathroom. The changing pattern of the water told her that Scully was in the shower and she seemed like the sort that would stand under the hot spray for a while. Jane figured she'd have a good ten or fifteen minutes, maybe longer. She opened Scully's laptop bag, sitting by her bed. The bag was big, the kind meant to also hold a portable printer. The first pocket held the computer, a rolled-up towel wedged beside it, holding it firmly inside the case. The center one, meant for the printer, was filled with files. Jane saw her name on one and pulled it out. Lying on top were the plastic sheets Scully had shown her earlier. Jane shoved it back in. She didn't want to see those ever again. The front pocket held a couple of unlabelled disks, a laplink cable, the power cord for the laptop and an assortment of things that would usually be found at the bottom of a woman's purse. A heavy set of keys, a thin notebook and a couple of pens, a comb, a small, flat case containing basic makeup, a tube of coral-colored lipstick, and a wallet. Two wallets, in fact. Jane opened the first, running her finger over the FBI badge. The woman in the picture looked much younger than the woman in the bathroom, her face nearly unlined. Serious, but ready to smile. Jane tossed that back in and opened the other wallet. ATM card, credit cards -- Mastercard and Visa in the name of Dana Katherine Scully, the other an AmEx made out to DK Scully JTT0331613. Jane considered taking the Visa and doing a disappearing act, but the consideration was short. Stealing an FBI agent's credit card could only be listed under 'Phenomenally Stupid' in the classification of illegal acts. She looked at the sleeping girl and nodded to herself. Anyway, she was not ready to go. She pulled out Scully's driver's license, noted the Georgetown address with a snort. Yeah, she could believe the woman made money -- silk suits were not cheap. Scully had gone to the bank on the way out of town, and the money portion of the wallet now contained several hundred dollars in fifties. This time Jane gave in to temptation, slipping two of the bills out and folding them into a size small enough to tuck into her pocket. Only if I need to make a break for it, she reasoned. She wouldn't get very far, would she, with no clothes and no cash? Scully wouldn't even miss a hundred bucks. And if all went well and she didn't need it, she would find a way to put the money back. Jane slipped her finger into the hidden pocket behind the credit card flaps. It touched on something smooth and she coaxed it out. "Oh, Christ," she said aloud. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> The door opened onto a short hallway that led to a central area, a waiting room with no outside access. Mulder glided along the edge of the wall and glanced around before slipping inside. Had they been so certain no one would never find this place that they had barely bothered to protect it? There were just two guards, young men no more than twenty-one, as clueless as the night cashier at a convenience store. The consortium must have really fallen on hard times, Mulder thought, if these were the only foot soldiers they could afford. Slipping up behind one as he watched TV was so easy Mulder almost felt ashamed of himself. Candy from babies. It didn't stop him from pressing his gun to the back of the man's head, of course. "Don't even think about it," he said, as the second guard turned around. "Just put your hands over your head." He saw the second one glance towards the control desk and cocked his weapon behind the head of the first. "This is a semi-automatic. I can shoot whether or not I've cocked it, but now that I have, it will take only point-zero-two pounds of pressure to release it. That's a twitch of my finger, and I'm feeling pretty twitchy right now." The one whose head was threatened swallowed audibly. "Do what he says, Andy," he hissed at his companion. "I ain't dying for fifteen bucks an hour." Andy was a little braver. Of course it was easier to be brave when you weren't the one with the gun to your head. Mulder saw Andy's beady grey eyes flash, as if the guy were doing the math -- if a man with a hair-trigger shoots my friend how long does it take him to recover from the recoil and aim again at me and is that greater than the length of time required for me to pull my gun and shoot the fucker in the head? "Yeah," Mulder agreed easily. "You might be fast enough to get me before I get you, but your friend here will still be dead." Mulder regarded the friend -- now beginning to quiver with fear -- as if appraising a doubtful piece of art. "I don't know, Andy. He seems like a nice enough guy. What do you say we let him live?" Mulder looked back at Andy, putting on his best blank, unreadable expression. "What do you say we all live? I'm not here to hurt anyone, but I think you have something that belongs to a friend of mine, and if I have to kill you to get it back, believe me, I will." He saw the boy think again and smiled his sweetest come-on-Scully- you-know-you-want-a-french-fry smile. "Think about it, Andy," he cajoled. "Fifteen bucks an hour? Is that really worth someone's life?" "For twenty," Andy replied, raising his hands with surprising equanimity, "I might have tried." Mulder tied the men's wrists behind their backs with their own shoelaces, and left them sprawled on the couch in front of the TV. No need for the poor guys to be bored waiting for the next shift to arrive. It was the third door he opened that yielded the treasure. So innocuous, yet so enormous a moment, to stand in a windowless room painted institutional green and gaze down on Scully's child. Mulder picked her up, his hand automatically checking for a cyst at the back of her neck. There was nothing there, only warmth and the smell of a little girl put to bed in clean pajamas. The second bed in the room was empty. Mulder didn't have time to stop and wonder for whom it might have been intended. He shrugged out of his now-empty backpack and put it on from the front, threading the girl's arms and legs through the straps and pulling them tight, so that it became a kind of harness. The child must be drugged, he thought, to sleep through his tugging and nudging, but in a way he was grateful. Awake, she might have been too frightened to deal with. The easiness of it all suddenly hit him. Scully's theory about the handle of the mug was beginning to make a kind of inexorable, horrible sense. Fuck it, Mulder thought. Whether he had been led to rescue the child, or was being led into a trap, he had her now, and no one was taking her again. He wrapped one arm around the girl, gripped his weapon in the other hand and stepped out into the corridor again. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 2 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> MOTEL 6, EL CENTRO, CALIFORNIA MARCH 10TH, 8:22 PM Jane was staring at a picture of Denise that was not Denise. This girl had shoulder-length hair and wore a dress and stood in front of a birthday cake at a party Jane knew damn well Denise had never had. "What are you doing?" said a quiet voice above her head. Jane looked up to see Scully standing above her, clutching a towel around herself. She'd been so engrossed in the photo she hadn't heard the water go off, hadn't heard the other woman come in. Jane brazenly held the photo up to Scully's pale face. "You showed me this picture before. Whose daughter is this?" Scully blinked twice before taking the photo back, bending to retrieve her wallet from Jane's hand. "May I ask why you're going through my things?" she said coldly, carefully replacing the photograph in its private pocket. "She was yours." Scully lifted out the bills and fanned through them quickly. "There's a hundred dollars missing." "I know," Jane said, unrepentant. "I took it." Scully regarded her with glacial eyes. "May I ask why?" "Because I don't know who you are, I don't know what's happening and I can't go home and I haven't got a cent." A pause, then Jane added, "Look, I'm scared, all right? If I live through this, I'll send you a check." "If you need something, you only have to ask." Scully pulled another two bills out of the wallet and tossed them in Jane's lap. "I'm not your prison warden, and you're no longer a murder suspect. You asked me to take you out of the hospital and you insisted on coming here. I don't care if you stay or go, but if you stay don't ever touch my things again." She picked up her bag, dropped the wallet in and retrieved her comb. Trusting or stupid, Jane wondered, as Scully put the bag down exactly where it had been beside her bed, and headed back into the bathroom. Jane picked up the money Scully had given her, staring at the bills. At last, she fished the other two bills out of her pocket, smoothing the four notes together. She glanced in the direction of the little hallway that led to the bathroom, then at the door to the room. And then at Amy, asleep in her cradle of chairs. Trusting or stupid, Jane asked herself again. She felt suddenly awful, like a child that knows she's disappointed someone she loves. Carefully, she folded the bills in half and put them on Scully's side of the night stand. She took off her dress, wrapping it tight around her hands. A low sob broke from her throat. She saw Denise behind her closed lids, her baby with her sweet smile and bright blue eyes. Jane pulled her hands out of the dress and flung it on the floor. She got into bed and curled up in a ball, pulling the covers over her head. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SEA COURT MOTEL, SAN DIEGO MARCH 11TH, 3:04 AM Mulder lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He'd memorized the shape of the cracks hours ago, had summoned every image he could from the water stain above the bed. His arms knew the shape of Scully now, and they missed her. He looked over at the other occupant of the room, the child sleeping soundly on what he'd come to think of as Scully's side of the bed. He had no idea what was supposed to happen next. He'd been to Scully's room but she wasn't there, and once again her phone was off. Mulder didn't know what to make of that, didn't even want to try. The moment he did, his mind would be happy to supply him with all sorts of unpalatable scenarios -- everything from Scully lying unconscious and bleeding somewhere to Scully lying in Kresge's bed, legs wrapped around his waist. He closed his eyes and instead summoned up the image of Scully as he'd once known her, round-faced and eager. Imagined her trying not to laugh as he waved blurry UFO pictures under her nose; pretending to put a live cricket in her mouth; eating ribs in the days when she still ate like a normal person, light in her eyes and barbecue sauce in the corner of her mouth. He wondered if this was what she did on the nights when she did not know where he was, could not be certain he was even still alive. If she too ran through a series of beloved images, as if arranging them in a mental scrapbook in case he never came back. He doubted it. Scully didn't hang on to memories the way he did. She was a forward-moving person, one who tucked the past away and preferred not to think about it. Not like he did anyway, mulling and brooding and playing his mental videotapes over and over, as if this time he could freeze the frame, rewind just a little, and change the moment when it all went wrong. He turned over, blindly groping for the phone. He didn't care how embarrassing or childish it was any more. He had to know. It took five rings before the phone was picked up. "Kresge, what?" The man sounded pissed off, as if he knew who it was. Mulder ran a hand through his hair, for one second contemplating hanging up. But then he would have to go back to staring at the ceiling, wondering if she was safe in Kresge's arms, finding himself almost hoping she was, because the other possibilities were so infinitely worse. "Um, it's Mulder," he finally managed to mutter. "I'm sorry to call at this hour, but I need to talk to Scully if she's there." Silence. "Look, it's none of my business, and that's not why I called. Just put her on for a second, and then I'll leave you alone." "Mulder, she's not here." Mulder had to swallow a couple of times before he could take that in. He hadn't realized until now how tightly he'd been clinging to the hope that the explanation for Scully's absence might be so obvious. "Well, have you heard from her?" "No, I haven't. Didn't she tell you? I've been forbidden to talk to either one of you." "What do you mean, forbidden?" "I got yanked. Seems word came down from above. Your above." Mulder felt his patience beginning to wear thin. "What do you mean, my above?" "Whoever you take your orders from. Some Assistant Director. They told me to turn all my files over to the San Diego bureau." Mulder sat up abruptly, his feet slamming on the floor. "Tell me you didn't." "No, Scully got pissed off and took them with her." "Thank god," Mulder breathed, forgetting the phone would pick that up. "Yeah, well don't thank god yet. Jane Hampton is missing from the hospital and apparently the last person she was seen with was your partner." "When was this?" "About three this afternoon. And Mulder, I've got to say, the last time I saw her, she looked like she was hanging on the frayed end of her rope." She had called. Scully had called, had wanted to tell him something, something she was afraid to say over an unsecured line. Now she was out there somewhere, in trouble, alone. "Listen, Kresge. We need to talk." "What are we doing right now? Playing basketball?" "No. There's something I need to show you and I can't bring it over. Can you come here?" "Right now?" "Yeah." "Mulder, it's three o'clock in the morning. Can't it wait a couple of hours?" "No, it can't. Listen to me -- Scully wouldn't just disappear. Something is wrong, and I may know what it is. You'll understand when you get here." There was a pause. "I'm on my way," Kresge answered finally, managing to sound pissed off, tired, and worried all at once. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> MOTEL 6, EL CENTRO MARCH 11TH, 3:22 AM Hands pushing her down, hard, stuffing her mouth with foul bloodied cotton. Pushing her into darkness, into a space too small, where the air too was foul, where there was no air. She fought blindly with bound hands, seeing nothing, hitting nothing, yet the space was too small, there was still no air, still no-- Scully woke, choking, clawing at the blankets. Air. She threw her legs over the side of the bed and put her head down between her knees, breathing into her cupped hands. You're hyperventilating, she reassured herself. You're perfectly fine. There's plenty of air. She concentrated on her breath, big in, little out. Retain that carbon dioxide. Restore the balance. Slowly, her heartbeat returned to something more normal. Scully sat up, pulling at her shirt, clinging like cellophane to her damp skin. "You have some pretty wicked nightmares." Scully started at the voice. "Sorry," Jane added. "Didn't mean to scare you." She snapped on the light, and Scully flinched from the sudden brightness. This was not going to do at all, she thought. She was supposed to be the one in control. Not a trembling bundle of nerves, but a calming presence, making this woman feel safe. She wiped a sleeve across her forehead, shivering as the cool night air chilled her sweat-damp clothes, wishing she had something else to wear. "Take one of those t-shirts you bought for me," Jane offered, as if she understood nightmares quite well. Scully shook her head. "I'm fine, thanks." She got up to check on Amy, who had started to slip down between the two chairs. Not yours, she reminded herself again, lifting the child from her makeshift cradle and laying her on the bed. Scully untangled Amy's blanket from her arms and legs and tossed it on the floor, drawing the other covers up over her. The child took that moment to wake, her gaze drifting over Scully's face for a moment before she mumbled something indistinguishable and rolled onto her stomach. Scully slipped her hand under the pillow and retrieved her weapon, clipping the holster to the front of her slacks. She snapped off the lamp, picked up the discarded blanket and wrapped herself in the warm wool, curling into one of the armchairs with the remote in hand. She turned the TV on, flipping channels until she found Nick-at-Nite. "You should sleep," Jane said, her voice soft in the darkness. "I'm fine," Scully repeated. She turned the captions on and hit the mute button, resigning herself to another night of reading reruns. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> "Jane's orphanage," Mulder said, unable to hide the slight note of triumph, even now. "I found it." The place had been real. Looking at the child now, still sleepy, but waking up, Mulder could finally begin to believe that she was real as well. Kresge was wiping one hand back and forth through his hair as if trying to massage his brain into accepting what he saw. "You...what?" he finally asked. "You just walked in, picked her up and walked out?" "Pretty much." Kresge sat down on the bed. The girl's eyes were open, but they were dull and unfocused. He put a hand on the child's stomach, shaking her slightly, but she only blinked once in response. "This isn't right, Mulder. I don't know a lot about kids but if I were four years old and woke up in a strange place with strange people staring at me, I'd be screaming my head off." Mulder bent over, tickling an upturned palm. The child clasped his finger lightly, but that was all. "You're right," he said. "We need Scully." "Mulder, we need to get this kid to a hospital. You should have done it immediately. She may have been drugged, even poisoned." "Scully is a doctor. She'll know what to do." "What, like she knew with the Sim kid last year?" Perversely, his words brought Mulder the faintest glimmer of hope. She had never told Kresge that Emily was her child. Scully didn't trust him that much. And if she didn't trust him that much, then maybe Mulder hadn't lost her after all. "She's not a magician," Kresge continued, impatient now. "She can't pull poison out of someone by waving her hands. She can't cure the incurable. And we don't even know where she is." Mulder hesitated. Kresge had a point. Until Mulder remembered Gibson Praise, the boy who'd disappeared from a hospital bed with Scully not ten feet away and was never seen again. "No," Mulder said firmly. "If it's what Emily Sim had, there's nothing a hospital can do to help. And considering where I found her, it would be too dangerous. These people are going to want her back." "I will be with her every minute," Kresge answered firmly. He pulled back the blankets and gathered the little girl into his arms. "You better stay here, in case Scully calls. Try to get a hold of the parents." Mulder stopped him. "This isn't your decision." "The hell it's not. You involved me when you made me come over." "There are complications you don't understand." "Well, who's been keeping me in the dark?" Kresge hissed, holding his voice down with an effort, mindful of the child in his arms. "Look, I'm willing to lose my job to help this kid, but I'm not willing to stand around and watch her die while we try to figure out what the hell is going on!" Mulder looked at the room phone, willing it to ring. "All right," he said at last, bending over to take the girl from Kresge. "But I'll go. You stay here." Kresge nodded, standing up to wrap the blanket around the girl, surprising Mulder by clasping his arm. At first, Mulder had the absurd thought that they were about to wrestle for the child; then he realized what Kresge was offering. "We'll find her," Kresge said, and Mulder reached out with his free hand, holding tight to that pact. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SAN DIEGO GENERAL HOSPITAL MARCH 11TH, 5:23 AM Mulder watched as the girl was taken into an emergency cubicle and settled. She still seemed unnaturally docile, unresponsive. If it weren't for the fact that her eyes were open and tracking in a vague way, Mulder would have thought she was still asleep. A small, efficient ER technician bustled behind the curtain, hair in a ponytail rapidly losing wisps. She looked like a black-haired version of a much younger Scully and Mulder found an odd comfort in the resemblance. "You the daddy?" the woman asked. "Yes," he answered, another lie. He was full of them this morning, every line on the admissions form full of creative interpretation. She set her tray of blood samples down, and looked up at Mulder. "What's her name?" Mulder gave the name he'd filled in on her hospital forms: Amy Williams. "Just this one little prick, Amy honey," the young woman crooned, smoothing the hair back from the child's forehead. "That's all, and then it's over." She took the girl's wrist and swabbed the inside of her arm. Dull eyes came to painful life as the nurse held up the needle. The child turned her head and cast a mournful look at Mulder, actually focusing on him for the first time. "Wait." He knelt by the bed, wrapping his hand around the girl's chubby fist. For the first time, he was glad that Scully wasn't here to see this, another child tortured for the sake of evidence. She'd never forgiven herself for what she'd put Emily through, trying to save her. Mulder put his hand over the top of the girl's head, one finger gently rubbing her temple. She seemed to like that. Mulder leaned over and whispered, "Just this, Amy, okay? Just this and it will all be over in a minute." He nodded at the nurse, and she deftly slid the needle into the child's arm. The girl's mouth opened in a silent cry, her eyes once again going lifeless. She was still now, deathly still, all but the fist inside Mulder's palm, clenching rhythmically like a tiny, terrified heart. Shame, Mulder thought, was like falling down an endless hole. Each time he thought he'd hit bottom, he rolled off the ledge and found there was further to fall. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> MOTEL 6, EL CENTRO MARCH 11TH, 6:02 AM She was in a place where the sun was bright and she was walking with her daughters. Five little girls, bouncing in the tall grass, calling to each other, painting the air with high baby laughter. It was a dream, she knew, even as she felt the sun on her face and the soft wind playing with her hair. She wondered if she could manage never to wake up again. One of her daughters tugged on her hand. "I have to go." Scully looked up and saw clouds gathering on the horizon, towering high like thick, heavy smoke. She tried to gather her children together, but they wouldn't listen, running off just as she tried to draw them close. Then the storm was on her, the grass waving so violently she could no longer see them. There was only the one that kept pulling at her hand. "Dana," the girl demanded. "I have to go." She opened her eyes and Emily was standing in front of her, legs tight together. Scully gasped and sat up, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in the back of her head. Where was she? Motel. Not Emily. Amy Wallace. "Dana, I have to go." "Go? Go where?" Scully swiped at her eyes with her free hand. They felt like someone had sprayed the inside of her lids with powdered glass. "Now," Amy insisted, bobbing up and down. It took Scully a moment to comprehend what she meant. "Oh." "Mommy always comes with me." Amy tugged on her hand again, her little face twisting with need. Scully unfolded herself from the chair, back and neck and legs screaming in protest as she moved. She took the girl into the bathroom, helped her get her underwear down and lifted her onto the toilet. Amy held on to her shoulder for balance while she peed, her childish dignity at having a stranger witness such private functions somehow disconcerting. Finished, Scully tried to smile encouragingly into the little girl's eyes. They were like her own on the best of days, a bright, clear blue. Like Emily's, but the intelligence shining out of Amy's round face was very different from Emily's shyness. "Do you know my mommy?" Amy asked. "I've met her, yes," Scully answered. "She sent me to look for you." She led Amy over to the sink and turned the water on so she could wash her hands. Amy rubbed her hands together under the flow, over and over as if mesmerized by the motion. "Amy?" Scully knelt by the little girl, tapping her on the shoulder. She went on washing her hands. "Amy, what's the matter? You can tell me, I'm your friend." Amy shook her head. Scully shut the water off and turned the girl to face her. "It's okay, honey. I know you're scared and you want your mommy. But Flagstaff is a long way from here and we have to drive. It won't be today, but you'll see your mommy soon." She saw the tears start, and wiped them away with a gentle thumb. "You don't have to be scared anymore, Amy. No one here is going to hurt you." "What if they hurt my mommy?" Amy whispered. "Who?" Scully whispered back, hardly daring to breathe. "The bad men." "Amy...was it the bad men who took you away? Do you remember anything that happened?" "They said I shouldn't talk to anybody. They said if I was a good girl they wouldn't hurt my mommy. But I wasn't a good girl. I talked to you and then I went away." Her small face twisted and she began to cry at last, the way a small child should cry. "Baby, no, shh." Scully gave up any residual pretense at detachment and gathered the girl in her arms, rocking her until the tears stopped. "You are a good girl," she said, kissing Amy's hot forehead. "A very good girl. And a very brave girl. And I'm sure your mommy is all right." She let Amy snuffle against her shoulder for a few more minutes before helping her wash her face and blow her nose. God, please, she prayed, leading the girl out of the bathroom. Don't make me a liar. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SEA COURT MOTEL, SAN DIEGO MARCH 11TH, 6:42 AM It took three rings before Kresge was able to rouse himself to associate the noise with the telephone. At some point he'd finally stopped pacing with impatience and laid down on Mulder's bed for a minute. He must have fallen asleep. He rolled over, picked up the phone and mumbled a greeting. "Who is this?" A female voice, sharp with distrust. Hers. "Scully, it's me. Kresge." He sat up, awake now. "Jesus, you've got everybody in a panic. Are you all right? Where are you?" A pause, then, "Where's Mulder?" "He had to go do something. He told me to wait here in case you called." Another pause. "Scully, are you okay? Where are you?" "No." "No?" "You're not supposed to be on this case. You're not supposed to be talking to us. So what are you doing in Mulder's room?" The rising note in her voice was unmistakable. He hadn't thought of this, hadn't imagined his presence would be perceived as a threat. Jesus Christ, what had happened to her? "You're tracing this, aren't you?" "What? Dana, for god's sake it's me. John. I'm here to help." Another pause. Oh Jesus, he thought, don't lose her, don't lose her now. "Dana? I swear to god I'm not tracing this." He could hear a slight change from the other side, a slowing down of breath. He tried to keep his voice as level and soothing as possible. "Listen, you don't want to talk to me, you don't have to. Just call Mulder. He's worried about you. We both are." "I can't call him right now," she answered, her voice a tiny bit calmer, a tiny bit more like herself. "But you can give him a message." "What?" "Tell him it's going like clockwork," she said, and hung up. Kresge put the phone down slowly. If there was an inside loop with these two, he was definitely out of it. He dialed Mulder's cell, his hand nervously working back and forth in his hair. "She called," he announced as soon as Mulder picked it up. "Thank god. Is she okay? Did she tell you where she was?" "No." Kresge sighed. "She sounded strange, Mulder. I think it freaked her out that I answered the phone." "I thought she trusted you." "Well, obviously she doesn't," Kresge replied, annoyed. "She said to give you a message." "What was it?" "She said to tell you it was going like clockwork. That's all. Does that mean something?" No answer. "Mulder?" "Fuck," Mulder whispered. "Fuck. Yeah, it means something." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> DENNY'S RESTAURANT, EL CENTRO MARCH 11TH, 8:43 AM Scully and Amy sat across from Jane, waiting for the waitress to come take their order. "I want chocolate cake," Amy announced, in the kind of voice that would have been appropriate for the Queen of Hearts ordering some poor soul's decapitation. "How about something from the breakfast menu?" Scully suggested, ignoring Amy's tone. "And if you're still hungry after that, you can have some cake." Jane looked at the girl over the top of her menu. "I bet you like scrambled eggs." Amy shook her head, making a retching noise. The end of Jane's nose slowly turned pink, the way Scully's always did when she wanted to cry. Jane quickly buried her face in the menu again. The waitress came and took their order. Scully and Amy bargained on pancakes, which Scully ordered, along with dry toast for herself. Jane returned their menus without asking for anything, waving the waitress away. "Are you okay?" Scully asked quietly. "What happens to me when we get to Arizona? What do I do for the rest of my life?" The question caught Scully unaware. In truth, she hadn't thought much further than getting Amy home. There'd been no time to worry about the rest of anyone's life. "We have friends who can arrange certain things. New identities. I can contact them." "So I just go some place I've never been and pretend to be someone else. Forever." "It's not the worst that could happen, is it? Under the circumstances? To be honest, I almost envy you the chance." "Excuse me?" Jane stared at her. "I've just lost everything I ever had -- family, house, money, name, photographs. No big deal. You want that chance? Go on, take it." Scully felt her face burning with shame. She looked and saw Amy staring at her as well. Even a four-year-old had better sense. "I apologize," Scully murmured, forcing herself to meet Jane's furious eyes. "I phrased that very badly. I meant only that it would be better than--" "I know what you meant." Jane reached for her napkin and blew her nose, wiping it hard. "So call your partner," she said, wadding the napkin into a damp grey ball. "Let's get on with it." Scully nodded, worry flickering at her stomach. It'll be okay, she told herself, taking a deep breath. You'll talk to Mulder and everything will be fine. Well, she silently added, glancing at the stolen child next to her, as fine as it's ever going to be again. "I've left a message," she told Jane. "He'll call me at nine. Unless he's still out looking for your orphanage." Jane's brows twisted downward into an expression of disbelief. "What do you mean by that?" "He's looking for the place you grew up. He thinks Amy is being held there." "Dana, he's not going to find that." "Oh, you don't know Mulder. He'll find it. But we have Amy right here." "No, Dana, you don't understand." Jane leaned over the table, lowering her voice with a wary glance at the child. "He won't find it because it doesn't exist. I made it up." Now it was Scully's turn to stare, incredulous. "You lied to him?" "I tell that story to everyone," Jane pleaded. "I don't remember anything before I was eleven or twelve." "But then--" "They found me wandering around the zoo one day, after it closed. I didn't know who I was or how I got there. I still don't." Scully sat back, stunned. "Why would you make up something that elaborate?" "I had to tell the other kids something when I went to school, about where I was from. So I made up the orphanage. And then...I don't know, you tell a story over and over, it takes on a life of its own." "What else have you told us that was a lie?" Scully asked, letting her voice go as hard and cold as she felt. "That's all. I swear." Jane shook her head, wiping away the tears that had slipped her control. "I don't know how to convince you, but please believe me when I say I never meant to send your partner off on a wild goose chase. It's just what I say when people ask about my childhood. I've told that story so often even I believe it by now." "So you're a thief," Scully said. "And now you're a liar." Another tear slid down Jane's cheek. "I thought he was asking just to ask, to get me talking, or trip me up. How the hell was I supposed to know he'd go off looking for it?" Scully almost smiled at that. "You'd have to know Mulder." "Haven't you ever told a lie because the truth was nobody's business?" Jane demanded. "Haven't you ever taken something you needed because somebody else seemed to have enough of it to spare?" "That seems very self-justifying. You could simply ask." Jane's gaze fell on Amy, listening open-mouthed to the conversation. "Yeah, well, I guess your life has been a lot kinder than mine," Jane said, her expression drawing in and closing up. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Clockwork. In their private code, that was an all systems alert, an elaborate scheme for reaching each other. That meant Scully was in serious trouble. Mulder jogged out of the hospital at 8:57, looking for a pay phone. By 9am he was standing in front of a 7-11 a block from the hospital, dialing Scully on his cell. Voicemail. He caught his breath. Too soon, too early. Wait two more minutes, she'll turn it on. The litany failed to calm him. If he were sixty he'd be bucking for a heart attack the way that poor overworked muscle was convulsing inside his chest. The last time he'd felt so sickly nervous making a phone call he'd been fifteen years old, trying to get his first date. He waited until his digital watch ticked over to 9:02, then hit speed dial one again. One ring. A click. "Scully." The sound of her voice took his breath away. There was nothing else in the world at that moment, no other woman but this -- alive, healthy, safe. "Scully," he breathed, not caring what she picked up from his breathless pronunciation of her name. "Scully, it's me." Her voice was tight, repeating the accepted formula. "How's it going?" "Like clockwork." He heard her exhale sharply. What had she expected of him? That he'd ignore her? Leave her out there alone, hanging over some unknown abyss? "You ready?" Her voice was normal now, all business. She was okay. Everything was going to be okay. "Go." He had a pencil poised in his hand and scribbled down the number she gave him. "760-857-4897," he repeated, writing the last four digits of the phone number down backward. Double security. Langly's idea. Even if someone managed to trap the cell signals that quickly, it was unlikely they'd figure out Scully's actual position by tracing the number she'd given. He waited a moment after she hung up, then used the pay phone to dial the number as he'd written it. She picked it up on the first ring. "Scully, what the hell is going on? Are you all right?" "I'm fine. Where the hell have you been?" she shot back. He caught himself about to completely lose his temper, grabbed the phone cord and wrapped it tight around his fingers. They were both wound up. Now was not the time to start an argument. "Scully," he said in a much more reasonable voice. "I've been trying to call but your phone was off. Look, where are you? What's going on?" He waited for her to say something. Maybe she was trying to get hold of her own temper. "Why was Kresge in your room?" she returned, finally. Cold, but calmer. "I asked him to wait there. I had to be somewhere else and I was afraid to miss your call." "So where were you, Mulder?" Curiosity now. Oh, thank god. That was the Scully he knew. "Scully, I found it," he said, unable to keep a note of glee from his voice. "What we were looking for." "Mulder, that's impossible." Listening so intently, he was able to hear the fear rising beneath the surface of her voice. "Scully, what's going on?" he asked. Kresge was right, she sounded spooked in a way he'd never heard before. "Look, tell me where you are. I'll come get you." There was a pause. Mulder readied the pencil, though he didn't really need it. "Tell me what you found." "Scully, this is dangerous. Don't play games. You gave the signal. Did you mean it?" "Yes." "Then tell me where you are." "First tell me what you've found." "Scully..." They'd set this up so long ago -- had she forgotten what the whole clockwork scenario was for? "I want to hear you say it." "You want me to say it over the phone?" That was against every protocol they had set up, every precaution they were supposed to take. "Yes." She's scared, he told himself. Do what she wants. "All right. I found Amy Wallace in the orphanage, just like I thought." There was a long pause. "Mulder, why are you lying to me?" Her voice was liquid nitrogen, stopping breath. His world became a frozen lake of fear, and she was there, in the middle, the ice sagging beneath her feet, and he had to cross, he had to get to her before she sank. "Scully, I'm not lying." "Yes, you are." She was disappearing now, about to hang up. "Scully! Listen to me, wait!" "I don't know who you are," she said, in that same arctic voice. "Maybe you're not even Mulder." "Scully, it's me. I swear! Ask me anything, just don't hang up." "Then you're a liar," she spat, the slam of the phone like the last, fatal crack of ice. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 3 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> DENNY'S, EL CENTRO MARCH 11TH, 9:07 AM Scully gripped the sides of the phone booth, tiny bursts of light pinwheeling before her eyes, wondering how the cracking open of the world could be so silent. In all the years she had known him, Mulder had never lied to her like this. Lies of omission, yes, all the time. Withholding information, haring off without leaving her a clue, sure, right from the start. But outright, bald lies? No, not that she could remember. He would not turn against her. She could not believe that, not even with her trust lying at her feet in shards. He must have been told to bring her in any way he could. He must believe it was the best thing to do. Maybe they had arrested him. Maybe she hadn't even talked to Mulder, maybe it was one of those...those *things* that could look and sound like anyone. No. She made herself breathe, made herself close that thought and put it away, not to be looked again. If she started to think like that, she wouldn't be able to function at all. Scully fished in her pockets for change. Not enough. Not enough to call Arizona. She drew out her cell and the piece of paper on which she'd scribbled Jennifer's number. Take a chance, don't? Jennifer's phone was probably bugged anyway. Scully dialed. "Hello?" "Is this Jennifer Wallace?" "Yes." A pause, then, "Who's calling, please?" "This is Agent Scully from the FBI," she said. "Do you remember me?" "Oh, my god. Yes. Did you find anything out about Amy?" Scully drew in air. Careful. Careful. "Jennifer, I can't talk right now. I just want to know -- have you been all right out there? Has anything strange happened?" "No, no everything's been fine. I mean, apart from Amy being missing." Scully heard the woman's voice start to tremble. She was only getting Jennifer scared. "Good," Scully said quickly. "Jennifer, listen, I think everything is going to be fine, but I want you to be very careful today. I'm going to call you back later tonight with more information. Until then, don't let anyone in the house you don't know. Okay?" "Okay." "I'll talk to you then," Scully said, and clicked off, looking at her watch. Two minutes, twelve seconds. How quickly could a cell signal be trapped? She hurried back inside, where Jane was staring at the table and Amy was eating maple syrup by sticking her finger in the plate and licking it clean. "We need to go," Scully said tightly. "Now." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> OUTSIDE SAN DIEGO GENERAL HOSPITAL MARCH 11TH, 9:07 AM Mulder stood in the phone booth, listening to the dial tone. What the hell just happened? He swallowed painfully, forcing himself back into the present. He could replay the conversation later. Actually, he could replay it ad infinitum, it probably wouldn't help. Lately Scully's emotional landscape was a minefield -- all he could do was stand in the middle of it and wait for her to guide him out. He dialed the number she'd given him again. Please, Scully. Please be there. He let the phone ring until a gruff male voice answered. He tried her cell, left a brief message, but he already knew that would be pointless. It was a motion he had to go through. All leads followed. All bases covered. It wasn't real until he dialed the Gunmen. "Turn it off," he growled, to whoever picked it up. "It's off, man. It's off." Langly. He didn't want to talk to Langly. He wanted, actually, to tell Scully all about it but how was he supposed to do that? Hey Scully, listen, I just talked to Scully and she wigged out and I'm starting to get more than just a little scared. "Put Frohike on, will you?" "He's leaning over my shoulder. You're on the speaker. What's up?" "I don't know. Scully's gone..." He let the sentence hang in mid-air, not knowing how to finish it. Gone away? Gone off? Gone mad, in the quiet way that only Dana Scully could embrace madness? He would have wound up screaming in restraints, but Scully would simply crack, polite as ever, trying not to disturb those around her, trying not to demand anyone's attention. "Mulder?" Byers' voice, calm and boyish. "Is there something going on that we should know about?" Mulder swallowed. "She's on the clock." Stunned silence greeted him from the other side. "Scully called it?" Frohike squeaked. "Yeah. I don't know why. She's been...she's been hard to get anything out of for a while." There was a silence on the other end. Mulder could just imagine the looks they were exchanging. Yeah, fine, he thought. I treated her like shit and you all saw it. Let's just get on with this, okay? He sighed, lowering his head to his arm, resting on top of the phone. He heard one of them clear his throat, then a shuffling. Someone was changing places with Langly. "Hey, Mulder?" Frohike. Of course. The guy who wore a tux and brought flowers when Scully was in the hospital unconscious was not ever going to let Mulder forget what an asshole he'd been to her. "Listen. Yesterday morning, Scully gave us some more names to check out. Background on your boys. You in a mood to hear this?" "Yeah," Mulder answered, surprised and deeply grateful for the change of topic. "Hampton and Sim and MacEntyre used to work together, Mulder. Back in the mid-'80s. Probably their first real jobs." "Where?" "You're not going to like this. They were clerks at the State Department. They worked in the same division as your father." Mulder was glad he had his head down for that one. "Does Scully know this?" "She suspected something like that, but we never had a chance to confirm it with her. But this she doesn't know, cause we just cracked the files last night -- your human genome guy, Potts, out at UCSD. He's a consultant for Roush, right? Guess who was his teaching assistant about ten years ago?" "Paul Mason." "Go to the head of the class. Now, guess who was Mason's replacement? Short-lived replacement, because he seems to have had quite an argument with Potts, who may actually be on the up-and-up. Potts accused him of trading certain commodities on the medical black market. Nothing proven, but it was enough to have him stripped of his fellowship and thrown out. Any guesses what it was?" "Fetal material." "And again, we have a winner. Wanna try for the jackpot?" "The replacement was John Wallace." "Bingo." They both fell silent for a moment. "Hey, Mulder?" "Yeah." All the play had gone out of Frohike's voice. "There's something else. Some of the tissue Wallace was accused of selling? It wasn't exactly fetal." "What was it?" "Human ova." "Jesus Christ. Who was he selling it to?" "We don't know yet. And before you make a spooky leap, there's one more megafactoid you need to know. We were trying to hack into some of the stuff Potts has stored on the university mainframe. Most of it was pretty easy, your basic password protection. Guy's not clever, his password was genome. But then we came across this stuff -- 8-bit encryption, Mulder, the kind of code the military was using twenty, thirty years ago. You know Alan Turing? The Enigma codes?" Langly's voice came into the receiver. "Totally cool stuff, Mulder. Cambridge mathematician, basically invented the computer to crack the German military codes in World War Two. Pretty much saved our ass, or at least they'd be speaking English as a second language in London right now. And you know what His Majesty's government did a couple of years later--" "Not now, Langly, shut up," said Byers, his voice tinny in the background. "And get out of my face," Frohike added. Mulder heard a scramble, as if the three men were fighting for the mike. He looked up, across the busy street, and sighed. It wasn't just Scully -- they were all going insane. Kids soaked in gasoline, throwing lit matches into the air. We're going to get burned, Mulder thought. Burned, burned, just like El Rico. We're never going to get to the bottom of this thing, it's too big, it goes too far back. It's everywhere, like a cancer, carried from place to place by the very structures that allow us to function as a society. Attack it, and society dies. The world descends into anarchy, into chaos. Frohike was talking again. Mulder made himself focus. "--classified stuff. Can't imagine what a guy like Potts is doing with it. Best we can get so far is that it's some kind of tracking study. Looks like the original test subjects were coming from Miramar." "The naval air base down here?" "Yeah. They might have been looking for pilots for the space program - - the stuff comes in waves, each one at about the right time. Right after the war, and again in the mid-'60s. It's a pretty wide range of tests -- everything from motor skills to intelligence to red blood cell counts." It was like hearing the soft clatter of puzzle pieces falling onto the card table he and Samantha had set up in his room. His room, because it was bigger, because he was the one who could sit hunched over a puzzle for hours. "Kids. They were tracking kids from the base. Listen to me, guys. You've got to get that stuff cracked. You've got to find out what the purpose of that study was." "I don't get how that fits into this," Langly chimed in from a distance. They must have shoved him to the other side of the desk -- he sounded like a kid shouting down a tin can. "It was years before Wallace or Mason." "Because Scully was one of those kids. She grew up at Miramar." There was a long silence from the other side. It was the quiet Byers who broke it. "We're on it." Mulder heard the scrape of a chair. It sounded like Byers was making good on that statement right then and there. Mulder swallowed again, his mouth so dry that even the sides of his throat seemed glued together. He looked quickly at his watch. The girl would still be with the neurologist. He didn't want to be away any longer than absolutely necessary. "Frohike, you still there?" "I am." "I need you to do something for me." "Sure, Mulder, what?" "In my apartment, in my nightstand, there's a set of keys. They're for Scully's apartment. I want you to go there and get her credit card numbers. She keeps the bills in the bottom drawer of her desk. I want you to track those cards, see if you can tell me where she is." "Mulder, she's not going to like that." "I know." He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. Any way he looked at it, he was going to have the wrath of Scully to face when he saw her again. God, he was looking forward to it. "Is Langly still standing there?" he asked. "Nah, he went off with Byers to crack that shit." "Take me off the speaker." He heard the click and the sudden quiet as the phone transferred. "Okay, you're off," Frohike said in his ear. "What's up?" "Something I don't want published. Not even to Byers. I'm not sure how much of this is happening because Scully knows something that I don't, but when I spoke to her today she wasn't--" He took a deep breath and made himself say it. "She wasn't herself. She hasn't been herself since this started. Maybe before. I'm not sure, but there may be a reason why she's behaving like this. A physical reason." There was a long silence as Frohike took that in, replaced his euphemisms with the real words. "Tell me what you want me to do," he said finally, more serious than Mulder had ever heard him. "Her oncologist is a Dr. Zuckerman. He's at Trinity Hospital. I need you--" "No way, Mulder, I'm not doing that. The credit cards are bad enough but that's Scully's private stuff." "Frohike, I have to know." The silence on the other end stretched to interminable proportions. "Please," Mulder added, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye so hard that fireworks appeared. "All right, I'll try," Frohike said, at last. "Anything else?" Mulder stood up straighter, drawing a clean breath. "Just -- if she calls, don't try to talk her out of anything. Just give her whatever she needs, try to get her someplace where she feels safe. Someplace I can find her. And call me as soon as you have anything. I'll be on the clock." "Jesus, Mulder. What have you guys gotten into out there?" "I don't know, but it looks like the whole thing's about to come down on our heads." He closed his eyes, thinking of the strange quality of Scully's voice on the phone. "Maybe it already has." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> STATE HIGHWAY 95, NEAR LAKE HAVASU, ARIZONA MARCH 11TH, 4:08 PM Jane Hampton was driving through the desert, twisting the dial of the radio, looking for a song to fit her mood. She came in halfway through 'Running on Empty' and had to smile. Perfect soundtrack -- she'd been running her whole goddamn life. Running after memories that slipped through her fingers like mercury. Running from truths that rearranged themselves before her eyes, from people who suddenly shed the mask of normality, revealing the monster beneath. Tom had been one of those people. She'd thought he would be the big strong man she'd always wanted. A rock in the storm of her life, something to tie a rope around so that she couldn't blow away. By the time they met, Jane had been blowing from place to place for almost four years, the tethers having come loose when her parents died. The men who took care of their will had given her the creeps, but they had also given her a generous allowance and a guardian who made sure she finished school. From high school, she'd been advised that her parents' will stipulated she would get an allowance as long as she was in college, and nothing if she didn't go. Jane believed in her own capacity to take care of herself, and anyway, these guardians were starting to look at her as if toting up her value on the open market. The creeps turned into the jitters. She turned the money down and choose freedom in poverty, working an endless series of crappy jobs and going through an endless chain of equally poor-but-free boyfriends. Not as romantic as it sounded, and by the time Tom came along, with his nice apartment and his good job and his promise that everything was going to be all right, Jane had been so grateful that she fell in love with him almost at first sight. Denise had been a year old when Jane found out she'd gone from one set of guardians to another, that Tom had been put in her path and told to marry her by the same men who had controlled her parents' money. Whatever they had on Tom, she never knew. The two of them might have thrown their lot in together, disappeared with their child, but he laughed when she suggested it and she knew from that moment on that it had all been a lie. She'd been trapped by her heart, not once, but twice. She would never leave without her daughter, and if she took the child away she could never afford the treatment Denise needed to keep her alive. Jane looked in the rearview mirror, at Amy asleep in the back seat, haphazardly buckled in with Scully's jacket wrapped around her for a blanket. Her mouth was open and she was snoring quietly, the way Denise had when she slept on her back. Denise and not Denise. Jane reached behind her and touched the child's warm cheek. Amy slept on, her steady rumble supplemented by Scully's harsher, uneven breathing. She'd fallen asleep with her head against the window, frowning deeply, as if concentrating hard on her dreams. "Whatever," Jane said to no one in particular, glancing out her window. The sun was just beginning to go down and the sky had turned a rich, iridescent blue. She'd need to wake Scully soon; her eyes were beginning to smart and water from the dry air and the hours on the road. Jane took the map from Scully's sleeping fingers, checked to see how far they had to go. Scully had gotten all nervous after breakfast, worried about staying on the direct route from San Diego in a car she'd rented under her own name. They had chosen a less obvious course, picking up the state highway out of Yuma and heading directly north. The slower road had made the trip a few hours longer, but they would be coming in from the west now instead of the south, and the chances were good that if anyone was looking for them, it would be on a different road. Twenty minutes later, they hit the I-40. Jane pulled into the first service station she saw, cut the engine and reached over to shake Scully's shoulder. "Hey, sleepyhead. Wake up." "Go 'way Missy, lemme sleep, okay?" Scully mumbled. There was a moment when it seemed she had fallen back asleep, then she shot bolt upright, reaching for her gun. "It's me, it's me," Jane said quickly, pulling back against the door. Jesus, she thought, the woman was strung as tight as an overtuned piano. Some people watched too many damn movies. Scully looked around, took her hand off the gun. "Don't do that. You scared me half to death," Jane said, trying to get the pounding of her heart under control. It occurred to her that maybe Scully hadn't seen too many movies, maybe she'd just seen too much. A frightening thought. Why anyone would choose a life like that, Jane couldn't imagine. All she'd ever wanted was quiet. A child and a husband and a little love. Well, she'd thought she had it, and it had turned out to be no more real than a movie after all. "I'm sorry," Scully said, with a little half smile that seemed to be less about reassuring Jane than herself. She checked the back seat, where Amy was still asleep, her mouth a slack circle pointed upward. "Who's Missy?" Jane asked. Scully smoothed her hands through her hair, pulling it back from her face. "No one," she answered unevenly, unlocking her seat belt. "Do we need gas? I'll pump." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SAN DIEGO GENERAL HOSPITAL MARCH 11TH, 4:30 PM Mulder was trying to get the little girl to eat some oatmeal. She was looking at him, but without interest or comprehension until he tapped the spoon gently against her lower lip. That signal she seemed to understand. Her pouty little mouth opened, enough for Mulder to get the spoon in and deposit the cereal in her mouth. The girl chewed briefly and swallowed, her eyes drifting back over Mulder's shoulder to the television, where he'd tuned in the Cartoon Network. He tried another spoonful. Again the same thing, and again, as soon as she had swallowed, her face went slack. Mulder turned the television off, but the girl still went on staring in that direction. He wondered if she expected it to come back on, if she even registered what it was. "Mulder?" He turned to see Kresge standing in the doorway, turning a manila envelope over and over in his hands. "Did the doo-doo hit the proverbial fan?" Mulder asked. The man looked like he'd been hit *with* the fan, and several other heavy objects. Kresge came in, leaning over to look at the little girl. "How is she?" he asked. Mulder put the bowl of oatmeal down, and drew the blankets up over the child's shoulders. He clicked the TV back on, so at least she was staring at something. It made her face seem less vacant. Less unnerving. "No change. And I haven't been able to get a hold of her mother, which is beginning to worry me as well." Kresge nodded, looking down at the envelope in his hands. "Did you talk to Scully?" "We didn't really...connect," Mulder answered, fishing for a phrase that would contain the truth while hiding the fact that Scully had freaked out on him. "I've got friends of ours working on finding her. If she's left any kind of trail, they will." "You didn't speak to her at all?" "I did, but it was very brief. She wasn't able to give me any information." Kresge's look grew even stranger. "There's something I have to show you, Mulder." He pulled a piece of paper out of the envelope. "Apparently, a woman posing as an FBI agent walked out of the San Diego County Children's Center yesterday with one of the kids. They called me in because the director of the center dictated a composite that bore a remarkable resemblance to someone I've been seen with at the station." He held out the drawing. Mulder didn't need to look, but he did anyway. Just for a moment, just to bring Scully's face back before his eyes again. "I had to identify her, Mulder. There was no way out of it." "He's a good artist," Mulder said, handing the drawing back. "I'm suspended, pending review. Probably out of a job, out of my pension. I just threw away my whole career, Mulder. For what? Would you tell me that, please? What was she trying to do?" Mulder looked at the little girl in the bed. He felt like a whole dark corner of his mind had suddenly been illuminated. Maybe they'd been handed this case for just this reason. To drive them apart, to drive Scully insane, to make her do something that no one at the Bureau could ever sanction. People had been laughing his theories off for years, but Scully was too rational, too meticulous to simply dismiss. His report on El Rico was full of wild speculation, but hers relied on proof, on the analysis of cellular damage to the bodies, proving that no legal, hand-held weapon in the US arsenal was capable of that kind of incineration. It was same way she had, over the years, documented the implants, the tagging of civilians through genetic markers, the effect of an unclassifiable virus on human physiology, scientifically validating every piece of evidence they'd ever managed to hold on to, right down to the presence of a chimerical organism in her own blood. They'd had the answers for years, but they were always too busy being themselves to figure it out. Scully denying anything that upset her world order, him screaming 'alien' every time she came across something strange. And then he had turned, just as she began to believe, taken the DNA evidence from Gibson Praise and thrown it all back in her face. "Mulder." Kresge's hand on his shoulder brought him out of his fugue. "Mulder, has she lost it, or what? Because I've got to say, the last time I saw her, she looked like she was hanging on the frayed end of her rope." Someone else had been watching. Someone who had decided that Scully had gotten far too close, was far too dangerous. This would be the ultimate discrediting of all of her careful work -- ignore the message, the messenger is insane. His stomach turned as a name came into his mind, one he could not bear to suspect. "No," Mulder answered, pushing those other thoughts aside for the moment. He now understood why Scully's behavior had been so strange on the phone. She might be walking the fine edge, but she had not gone over. "No," he repeated, his voice gaining strength along with his conviction. "She was just trying to save her daughter." "Her what?" "The girl Scully took is her biological daughter." Kresge's mouth opened and slammed shut. He leaned over Mulder, his face lined with suppressed fury. "Listen," he growled, "I just gave you everything that meant anything to me. Now, once and for all, you are going to tell me what's going on here. The whole story. You owe me that much." "Once upon a time there was a bright young FBI agent named Dana Scully, who was abducted and experimented upon. Three years later she discovered that as a result of those experiments, a child had been created." He looked up at Kresge, who was standing straighter now, his eyes searching Mulder's face. "Emily Sim? Emily Sim was Scully's daughter?" Mulder nodded. "Biologically speaking, yes." "Then...?" Kresge looked at the girl lying beside Mulder, the one that was unmistakably a copy of the other. "One year later," Mulder said, watching Kresge's face for signs of disbelief, "while investigating a routine kidnapping, Agent Scully and her partner discovered that Emily was actually one of a series." "Jesus," Kresge breathed. Mulder nodded again. "There are five, as far as we've been able to determine. Two, possibly three, are dead of the same illness. The fourth is the kidnap victim, Amy Wallace. The fifth, the one Scully has, is Caitlin Jenkins." "Mulder--" He stopped his recitation as Kresge bent over the girl. "Say it again." "What?" "Caitlin Jenkins." The girl tilted her head to look at Kresge's face. The two men stared at each other. "The fifth is Caitlin Jenkins," Mulder repeated, sucking in his breath as the girl's head turned toward him. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 4 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SAN DIEGO GENERAL HOSPITAL MARCH 11TH, 5:15 PM Mulder was looking at a set of MRIs, wishing that Scully was there to explain them to him, even while he was grateful that she was not. The hysterical screaming fit Caitlin had thrown when they put her in the machine was one memory Scully could certainly live without. "How long do you think she has?" he asked the pediatrician. "I'm not sure. She could survive with limited brain function for quite some time, much like a patient in an irreversible coma." "And there's no treatment, no chance of reversing this?" "Nerve cells don't regenerate." The pediatrician pointed to the MRI of the girl's head, tracing the thick lines radiating out from the cerebellum and down her spine. "This has been growing for quite some time. When did she begin to show symptoms of brain impairment?" "I couldn't really say." At the doctor's incredulous glare, Mulder swallowed nervously, remembering he was supposed to be the child's father. "I, uh, I haven't seen her for a long time. It's complicated." "And her mother? Where is she?" "As I said, it's complicated. She was being treated for autoimmune hemolytic anemia, I know that." "Yes, the CBC bears that out, but that's not entirely responsible for what I'm seeing in this MRI. I'm not sure all the damage she's presenting is a direct result of her immediate condition." The doctor clipped another film to the light box and pointed to an area directly above Caitlin's left ear. "See this? That's the most heavily affected area. I'm seeing massive tissue death across the left hemisphere -- in both the parietal and temporal lobes. That's consistent with the lowered response to stimuli on her right side. It may also be why she apparently has no speech and no affect -- this area governs the ability to learn and to express emotion. But if this is the reason she has no speech, it's an older injury, probably incurred during her infancy. She hasn't lost her language -- she never learned to speak." "So what caused it?" The doctor shook her head. "A prior opportunistic infection, a gross injury? With no medical records, I can't tell without further testing." "And there's absolutely nothing you can do?" The woman's face registered a brief moment of despair. "I'm not a hematologist," she replied, "but as far as I know, there's no successful treatment for the kind of anemia your daughter has. According to Amy's blood workup she's already severely hypoxic -- her blood isn't carrying enough oxygen. Eventually that will begin to kill the surrounding tissue, and she'll be open to a host of secondary infections. My best recommendation is that we transfer her to Children's Hospital immediately. They'll be better able to care for her over there." She pulled the films from their clips and slipped them back into their cardboard sleeve. "It's none of my business, I suppose, but I might suggest you try to put aside whatever differences you have with the child's mother--" "I'll need those," Mulder said, pointing to the test results. The pediatrician looked at him. She too was a redhead, the kind that always looked hot and bothered, her pink face clashing with the bright orange of her hair. "I'm sorry, I can't release these to you. You're not her doctor." "Her mother is a doctor. And I'm a federal officer." Mulder held up his badge. "And I know of two other little girls who have died of a similar illness." "I don't understand. Is this the result of some kind of toxic spill?" "We don't know what caused it. The records have all disappeared. Just like these will disappear if I leave here without them. The only thing I know for sure is that this illness was deliberately engineered. If you give me those, I may be able to keep them safe long enough to prove that. To get the men who did this." He saw the woman hesitate and pressed on. "These are doctors, carrying on unlicensed experiments on children. Wouldn't you like to see them stopped?" There was a moment of silence, then the doctor put the envelope down on her desk and turned her back. "I have no idea how they got into your hands." Mulder grabbed the envelope and took the stairs, two at a time, back to pediatrics. "Any good news?" Kresge asked, as Mulder entered the room, breathless. He shook his head and sat down beside Caitlin, leaning over to rub his fingers through her soft, reddish-blonde hair. Even with her lack of expression, even through the layer of baby fat, he could still see Scully in the shape of the child's eyes, in the tracing of her eyebrows, in the full, soft lips. "You said her parents are dead?" Mulder asked. "In a car accident, according to the file Scully had." He lifted the girl from the bed and held her against his chest. Such a tiny life, not much more than heart and breath. Mulder closed his eyes, holding the tenderness back with a practiced hand. "Fine," he said. "Then there's no one to miss her." "Where are you going?" Kresge demanded, as Mulder stood, shifting the child onto his shoulder. "Mulder, you can't just--" "Yes, I can. I know where Scully went. I have to get to her and I'm not leaving Caitlin for those bastards to find again." The two men stood, challenging each other. "All right," Kresge said at last, picking up the MRIs. "Then you're going to need a ride." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SEA COURT MOTEL, ROOM 62 MARCH 11TH, 7:18 PM Mulder walked around the tiny room, touching Scully's things where she had left them. A hairbrush in the bathroom, the white robe. A copy of the latest AMA journal by the bed. Three black suits hanging in the closet beside five white shirts of roughly the same style. The black sneakers he'd bought for her lay below them, looking ridiculous sitting next to a pair of fashionable heels. He picked up one of the sneakers and held it against his palm as he had in the store, measuring so big. Once, he remembered, Scully had a deep red suit that matched her hair. He hadn't seen her wear it in years. Couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her wearing anything but white and black, not even in their off-hours. But then, they didn't spend much of their off time together. Never had. "Mulder?" He looked up to see Kresge standing in the doorway, holding Caitlin balanced on his hip. "I'll be there in a minute," Mulder answered. He opened the suitcase on the bed and began to fold Scully's things carefully into it. She wouldn't want her suits wrinkled when she got them back. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> BEAVER STREET, FLAGSTAFF MARCH 11TH, 10:07 PM Flagstaff was a strange place, Scully thought, half strip-malls and planned communities, half the original settlement. The downtown part still looked like a movie set of the old wild west, especially now, with the snow obscuring most of the modern details. Parking meters, streetlights, railroad tracks - all had disappeared beneath the white flakes falling thickly from the dark grey sky. Snow in Arizona. Who'd have expected it? Macy's European Coffee House appeared on her left, and Scully took it as a sign to pull over. "What's up?" Jane asked, sleepy from her turn dozing in the passenger seat. "Something to eat." Scully glanced into the back seat where Amy was sitting up as well, rubbing her eyes and yawning. "And I need to make a call." It was freezing outside, but Macy's was warm, smelling of cinnamon and ground coffee beans, of a normal life she hadn't been close to in years. It was the kind of place she and Melissa had sometimes gone on lazy Sunday afternoons, before the X-Files had taken over every waking moment. "I wanna brown muffin," Amy declared, standing on her toes to inspect the treats set out behind the high glass counter. "Please," Jane said automatically. "Wanna brown muffin please?" Scully spotted a pay phone over by the toilets. She handed Jane some money and asked for a large latte. "You don't want anything to eat?" Jane asked. "I'm starved." "Dana wants a brown muffin too," Amy said. She turned to smile at Scully, who felt her throat tighten painfully. Not yours, Scully told herself for the fiftieth time. So different than the days she'd spent gazing at Emily through glass walls, saying the word 'mine' over and over in her head, trying to squeeze some reality out of an idea that always ended on an upward note, a question. Her attachment to the girl had been clouded in shock, in disbelief. In brevity. Emily was gone before words like 'mother' and 'daughter' had found time to take on this strange, impossible new meaning. It was only later -- months later -- that she'd begun to understand that she had lost someone, not something. Then she had not known how to grieve. "A brown muffin," Scully agreed. She dared a brief finger along the child's round cheek, tickling Amy's dimple as her own mother used to tickle hers. She left Jane to get their order and headed for the phone. This time, she'd made sure to get change at the gas station. Everything in order. Every action planned. Except snow in Flagstaff and winter temperatures in March. Scully put the money in and dialed, leaning against the wall when she was done. Wrung out, that was how she felt, body and soul twisted and pulled tight until there wasn't a drop of energy left. Almost there, she consoled herself. She would bring Amy back...and then? Her mind skittered away from that thought, as it skittered away from trying to analyse what had happened with Mulder that morning. She couldn't begin to think about either. She had to focus what energy she had left on the task at hand. Scully turned her back to the phone and looked over the other customers while she listened to it ring. College students, radical activists, Indians -- all mixed together, murmuring in soft voices, intent on their own conversations. Nothing seemed to be out of place. No one seemed to be watching either her or Jane, giving their order to a young woman with blonde dreadlocks and the kind of septum ring that made her nose look like it needed to be wiped. "Hello?" Scully whirled back to face the wall, her attention abruptly shifting. She bent her head over the phone and spoke softly, one finger in her free ear. "Jennifer, it's Agent Scully." "Yes. Hello." Scully heard the shaky note in the woman's voice. It might only be the nerves of a woman whose phone is ringing late at night when her child has been missing for nearly two weeks. It might. It might also be that the Wallaces' phone was tapped and Jennifer knew it. "Did you find anything more about Amy?" Jennifer asked. "I have." "Oh, god. Is she okay?" That sounded like the first spontaneous thing the woman had said. With all the noise behind her it was hard for Scully to hear nuance, but Jennifer's responses were like notes struck on an old piano -- something that scratched at the back of the brain, a sense of the vibrations being just slightly out of tune. "Yes, she is. Mrs. Wallace, could you come into town to meet me someplace?" she asked. "I know it's late, but it's urgent." A pause. "Is Amy with you?" Someone was there. Not just listening, but telling her what to say. "She's someplace safe. That's all I can say over the phone. Look, it's very important that I talk to you. Tonight. Could you meet me in town?" "I...there's too much snow out here," Jennifer answered, her voice back to tremolo. "I can't get the car out." "Are you alone out there?" Again, the barest hesitation. "Yes." She definitely was not alone. Now what? "Mrs. Wallace, I want you to stay by the phone, okay? I'm going to call you back in an hour or so." "You'll call me in an hour," Jennifer repeated, in a flat tone that sent chills up Scully's spine. "That's correct," Scully lied. "Just lock--" she started to say, but the phone was already dead. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Kresge drove, while Mulder talked and talked and in the back seat, Caitlin slept. Even sensing as he did that he was being spared some of the wilder details, Kresge had a hard time making sense of the accusations tumbling from Mulder's mouth. From secret research projects to Scully's abduction by a rogue faction of the military or the government, to babies being created for nefarious medical research -- it was science fiction. It was stuff right out of the cyberpunk novels that Kresge was so fond of. "This thing exists," Mulder insisted. His face, illuminated by the green of the dashboard light, was haggard with worry and the road and the need to make Kresge believe him. "I've seen it. Fetuses in jars, waiting for implantation -- at that nursing home, the one where you breathed the gas that made you sick. Walls of vaults holding the ova of women who have all died since. People who go missing, returned with a chip implanted just under the skin of their neck, a chip that can't be removed without dire consequences, that we know is somehow controlled by whoever put it there. A chip that's been used to lure people out to central meeting places--" "Why Scully?" Kresge interrupted. "Why would these people kidnap a federal agent? Wouldn't that be stupidly dangerous?" Mulder thumped the dashboard in frustration. "I don't know. I always thought it was a warning. To me. To stop what I was doing. Now it looks like they may have targeted her before we even met." "And she has one of these chips?" A muscle flashed in Mulder's jaw. "She did," he answered tightly. Kresge absorbed that news with a sickening sense that he already knew what he was about to hear. "And the dire consequences?" Again, that muscle flashed. "Cancer," Mulder spat, and Kresge could clearly hear the loathing behind the words, the reluctance to voice the unbearable. "It's a tumor on the back wall of her sinus cavity, just below the cerebellum. She went into remission when we were able to replace the chip." "So she's okay now?" Mulder paused, clearly wrestling with some heavy, unwelcome thought. "I'm not sure," he finally admitted. "When she was with you that night...how did she seem?" Kresge threw the man a sidelong glance. "Are you asking as a federal agent or as something else?" "I'm asking as her friend," Mulder answered in a flat monotone. "As someone who knows her very well and knows that isn't the kind of behavior she normally engages in." Kresge glanced again. The muscle in Mulder's jaw had ceased jumping and was now permanently flexed. It was not the face of jealousy, but something deeper, something far more upset. "Then I would say she seemed lonely," Kresge answered. "In need of a certain kind of attention. Normal for a woman who works too hard and hasn't been involved with anyone in a very long time. She didn't seem unbalanced, if that's what you're really asking." Silence. He glanced at Mulder. The jaw was still clenched. "We didn't have sex," Kresge offered at last, taking pity on the man. "Does that make you feel better?" "That wasn't my question." Kresge let out a long, controlled sigh. Jesus, it was all over him. Didn't he realize? "Look, Mulder, she's a very intriguing woman," Kresge said. "And you spend most of your time together, under a terrific amount of stress. You know each other in a way no one else ever can. It's understandable that you would--" "Scully's private life is private," Mulder cut him off. "What she does on her own time is her business." "It's understandable that you would eventually form a very deep attachment to each other," Kresge finished. "And that attachment might understandably grow into something else." No answer. Kresge sighed again. "Once upon a time," he said, "there was a cop who fell in love with his partner." Mulder glanced at him, his customary blank expression finally beginning to falter. "And?" "They had a short, wonderful time together. And then she was killed." That silenced them both for several minutes. Kresge looked out the window, at the desert illuminated by a high blue moon, the familiar pain washing over him in bitter waves. "We had a bust that went bad. I saw her go down. Blew the fucker's head off. Emptied my entire clip into his face." Kresge let out a harsh breath. "It didn't help." "No," Mulder answered. A moment of silence then he added, "But I would do the same. I know that." A flash of furious impatience made Kresge grip the wheel so hard he thought it might break. "Mulder, you're wasting time. Just tell her." "I have." Kresge glanced over. The mask had finally slipped from Mulder's face, and Kresge wished he'd held his temper. Mulder caught the glance and shrugged, his features slowly growing expressionless again. "She's a smart woman. Most of the time I don't even make a very good friend." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> FLAGSTAFF INN MARCH 11TH, 10:55 PM It was late when they finally found a motel, and everyone was edgy and nervous. Amy fussed and fretted and wanted to go home NOW. Scully couldn't blame her. She wanted to go home too. "You know how you can't drive on the road to your house when there's too much snow?" Scully asked. Amy nodded, still pouting. "Well, we're going to have to wait until the snowplow comes, and that's tomorrow morning. But if you go to sleep now, the morning will be here before you know it." "Then I want a story," Amy said. She burrowed under the covers, pulling them up to her chin. "A big story. With horses and dinosaurs and stuff." Scully looked hopefully towards the other woman. Jane was standing by the window, peeking through a crack in the curtains, watching the parking lot. "Maybe Jane will do the honors?" "No." She didn't even turn her head. "Not tonight." "I'm not very good at telling stories." "She only wants to hear your voice," Jane answered, her tone sharpening. Scully tried to dig back into her own childhood, wondering if there was anything left of innocence in herself to dig out. She managed a wan equine rendition of the Three Little Pigs. Thankfully, Amy was so tired she fell asleep before Scully had to figure out where the dinosaur was going to come in. She tucked the covers around the girl's shoulders and began to make her own preparations. "I'm going to try to get to Amy's mother," she told Jane's stiff back. "These people who tried to kill me, they could be waiting there. They could be waiting for you." Scully checked her clip before attaching the holster to the waist of her slacks. "I'm aware of that. I'll be careful." "And what happens to us," Jane asked harshly, "if something happens to you?" A point. A point Scully had not thought about. She scribbled the Gunmen's number in the margin of a take-out menu sitting by the phone. "If I don't come back by dawn, you call these people. They're friends of mine. They'll help you." She held out the paper to Jane, who refused to turn around to take it. Scully laid it on the empty bed, along with most of the money in her wallet. "Jane," she said. "This is my job, to bring this child home." "Is it your job to get yourself killed?" "It's an occupational hazard. We accept that when we accept the badge." She touched the woman's arm lightly for goodbye. "I have to try. There's nothing else I can do." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> WALLACE RESIDENCE MARCH 11TH, 11:52 PM The house was sitting quiet in the middle of its snow-covered acres. The clouds had cleared by the time Scully arrived, and the full moon's light created a bleak, eerie beauty, all shining white earth and twisted black trees. Before her, Scully could just make out the silhouettes of two high hills, soft and rounded. Behind her the craggy-faced mountain, its white peak aglow, held up the crisp, starry sky. Scully gave herself a moment to take it all in. Such a place of contradictions. Male and female, harsh and soft. It would have been a beautiful place to grow up. The car could go no further than the first house along the dirt road, and she'd left it there. Dirty and bug-smeared, in the dark it almost matched the battered van already parked out front. She was on foot now, or rather, on rapidly freezing feet, her shoes already soaked through from the ankle-deep snow. There was no black sedan to be seen, but there were tracks in the road, lightly covered over. Whoever had come or gone had done it before the snow stopped about an hour before. There was nothing else to indicate the house might be watched, but they were here somewhere. She was sure of that now. Maybe in human form, maybe only in a small bit of electronic gadgetry hidden in the walls, but here. She touched the cross at her throat, thinking not of her mother, but of Mulder. He had worn this for her when she was gone, keeping the faith that she would return. Mulder the godless, the atheist. Who did he pray to, when prayer was needed? Reluctantly, she pushed the thought of him away. She had left a note inside the laptop case. Hopefully, if she did not make it back to him, the note would. Maybe it would matter, maybe not. She could do no more right now. Scully took a deep breath and moved the hand from her cross to her weapon, wrapping her fingers around that cold, familiar comfort. Either They had been waiting for her all along, or she'd succeeded in outwitting them, just this once. It was time to find out. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> INTERSTATE 8, YUMA, ARIZONA MARCH 12TH, 12:04 AM There was a terse, angry message from Skinner on Mulder's voicemail when they stopped to refuel. A small worry compared to the fact that there was nothing from Scully and her cell was still off. Mulder tossed his phone on the dashboard and leaned into the back seat, putting a hand over Caitlin's forehead. No fever. She'd been out for almost the entire trip, but he was beginning to think that this coma-like sleep was normal for her. He got out of the car, walking around it to calm himself. He would give anything to jam his sneakers on and run right now. Straight into the desert, until he passed out and woke in a hospital somewhere with Scully leaning over his bed, telling him that he'd been drilling holes in his head again and had hallucinated this entire case. "The Bureau's been notified," he told Kresge, as the other man came back with a cardboard tray containing two steaming microwaved burritos and the largest coffees the Quikstop had to offer. Mulder took the driver's seat this time. "Our boss is threatening arrest and dismissal if we don't identify our location and explain ourselves immediately." "Which I take it you're not planning to do?" Kresge climbed into the other side, handing Mulder his share of the food. "To arrest us, they have to find us." Mulder set the coffee between his legs and tore at the wrapper of the burrito. He'd give anything to have Scully sitting beside him right now, rolling her eyes as he wolfed down some pre-processed garbage, while she daintily opened a yogurt for her own midnight snack. "You don't want to leave that coffee there," Kresge said, as Mulder started the car. "Unless you're bucking to sue Quikstop for millions." Mulder gave a short grimace, setting his coffee in the cardboard tray at Kresge's feet. He put the car in gear and headed back out onto the highway. "If they think that Scully has Caitlin," Mulder said, thinking out loud, "there's no reason to presume she's left San Diego. And no reason to presume that I'm not with her. If I talk to Skinner, I'm going to have to lie to him. So I can't. Scully didn't go for the midnight call window and I'm not talking to Skinner until I've talked to her. That won't be until at least 6am." "Would there be a reason she didn't turn her phone back on?" "I'm hoping it means she's fast asleep in some safe bed somewhere." Kresge's face said he wasn't any more convinced of that than Mulder was. Mulder thumbed the wrapper back over his burrito, no longer in the mood for it. Yes, there had been a misunderstanding, but the one thing Scully had always given him was a second chance. He put the pedal down further, speeding into the night, hoping the wrath of Scully would be the worst thing they ran into on the other end. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> John Wallace opened the door to her knock. Scully stepped back, momentarily startled, her hand automatically raising her gun. "Agent Scully," he murmured. He didn't seem surprised to see her, so much as reluctant. Certainly he was less surprised than she was at the moment. She thought about it, then let her hand drop to her side. "I've come to see Jennifer." Wallace smiled, not a comforting sight. "You've come too late. She's gone." "Gone where?" Wallace's smile just grew colder. "It's important that I speak with her," Scully tried, her thumb rubbing lightly across the safety of her gun. She pulled it back as she spoke, hoping to hide the quiet click with her voice. Wallace took a step forward, still staring down at her with that frigid smile. It was more than moving forward a few inches. It was about intimidation, about making her feel small and unprotected. She wondered how often he'd used that kind of move on Jennifer. "Where's my kid, Agent Scully?" Scully held herself straight, refusing to be cowed. This man was nothing compared to some of the men she'd dealt with. Kersh in a mood was far more intimidating, and that had been on a daily basis. "I thought you went to San Diego to look for her," she replied, matching him for coldness. "So did you. And apparently you found her." He moved so quickly she had no time to raise her gun before his own was pressed calmly against her forehead. "I could quite happily kill you, so don't even think about it. It's very simple, Agent Scully. Tell me where Amy is, I let you live. Make the slightest move, your body gets auctioned to the highest bidder. And believe me, there are people who will bid on it." So, she thought, surprised at her own calm, it doesn't even end with a bang. The silencer on his Colt would take care of that. There would only be her own whimper of surprise as the bullet entered her brain, plunging her into that final darkness. It didn't sound half bad, actually. It would be quick. Painless. "Forward," he ordered, and since she was good at obeying orders, especially when facing the hollow end of a gun, she complied. He took three steps backward into the house and kicked the door closed before backing her up against it. Scully met his stare with an even icier one of her own. "May I ask who would be willing to purchase my dead body? Just out of curiosity, since it can hardly matter." "This is not a conversation, Agent Scully. Now where is my daughter?" "I haven't got the slightest idea." "You don't lie very well." "It's not a skill I've tried to develop." The words came from her mouth in a tone that was almost offhand. She blinked once, slowly, the way Mulder did when he was trying to throw a witness off-balance, and saw something flicker in Wallace's eyes. He had expected her to be stereotypically female -- fragile and easily frightened. It had just occurred to him that perhaps she was not. Speed was the key, before he could change mental gears. Speed and knowing how to use her height -- or rather, her lack thereof -- to her advantage. Scully simply unlocked her knees and dropped below the trajectory of the shot, while her left arm flew up to knock Wallace's hand away from her face. She heard the deadly *whffft* as his gun went off, but her right hand was already rising. Stupid, she thought, stupid man. He'd been so sure of himself he hadn't even disarmed her. She shoved her gun into his ribs but he'd caught up by then. She caught a flash of movement on the periphery of her vision and pulled the trigger just as the handle of his gun came smashing down on the top of her head. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 5 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> WALLACE RESIDENCE MARCH 12TH, 4:12 AM She couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't see even the red of her own blood moving through the delicate skin over her eyes. She's not gone, she's not gone, she's not gone. -Mulder? She could feel him like a flame, like a fire, and she wanted to huddle by him. He would make her warm. "Dana, I know you can hear me. I know you want to sleep, but you have to wake up." -Missy...you're so...far It was green where she was, and quiet and the light was soft. She was floating in grey water. There was no pain, but she was so cold, and he was warm and so close. He would hold her if she could only reach out, if she could only move and he was going no Mulder no don't go don't go don't go don't-- She woke with her hand over her mouth, as if some part of her remembered that it would not help to cry out. "That's good, Dana. Come on now, try to stand up." She tried to move and her stomach heaved. She closed her eyes, willing it to settle back down. "No. You have to get up, get up, get up." Her ears were ringing now, Melissa's voice tolling in and out. Scully rolled over, made it to her knees. She licked her lips and tasted blood. Blood. There was blood. He had punched her right through the window and she was so surprised he was on her before she could react and he slammed her head into the table and it was dark and she woke up in the trunk of her car and she had to get up or he would take her again and They would put things in and tear things out and she would die this time if only she could if oh god anything but the white light and the pain and the babies inside that would never be hers that would never-- "Get up. People will come. Please, Dana, get up." -Can't. Scene of the crime, can't leave. "Yes, you can. You have to. You have to get back to Jane and Amy. You've left them alone." She clutched on to Melissa and stood, shaking with nausea. Her doctor's mind took in her chill, the cold sweat running down her face and beneath her arms. She reached up and touched the painful lump on her head, her testing fingers coming away covered with blood. Concussion. Shock. Danger. Scully looked down. She was leaning against the wall, alone, and John Wallace lay sprawled at her feet, blood soaking through his clothes. Don't hold the wall. Fingerprints. Bloody handprints. Too late. Head wounds bleed. She was covered in blood, leaving evidence everywhere she touched. Scully sank to her knees as the dizziness threatened to overwhelm her. There was blood in her eyes now, running down her face and into her mouth. She rode up the crest of another wave of nausea and knew that next time it was going to slam her into the ground. Hand, knee, hand, knee, Scully crawled painfully towards the bathroom. She needed water. A towel. Someplace to be sick. She got there, eventually. She saw that John Wallace had not been lying. Lying in a bath of her own blood, Jennifer was well and truly gone. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> ROUTE 66, FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA MARCH 12TH, 7:05 AM It was morning when they finally reached Flagstaff, and both Kresge and Caitlin were snoring. Mulder pulled into the empty parking lot of a huge bookstore and stopped in front of a pay phone. Banks of snow greeted him, not compressed and dirty, as they would have been back in DC, but pristine, glittering softly in the early light. Now what? It was not safe to take the girl out to the Wallaces', certainly not safe to leave her behind. He nudged Kresge. "We're here." Kresge grunted as he woke, rubbing his hands hard over his face. "Sorry. I tried to stay awake." "I'm used to it," Mulder observed, with the pang in his stomach that was starting to become habitual whenever he thought of Scully. He checked his watch again -- 6:07, California time. Trust me, partner, please, he thought, hitting the speed dial. Just put the phone back on. Voicemail. "Damn it," Mulder snapped, one breath away from chucking the phone out the window. "What?" Kresge asked, looking around. "Her fucking phone is still off. Damn it." He threw his door open and stalked towards the pay phone, grabbing the receiver off the hook as he stuffed coins into the slot. His finger ached from the force he used to stab the buttons, but it was not enough pain to take away his fear. Kiss her or kill her when he saw her again, right now it was even money which he would choose. "It's Mulder," he said, as soon as the phone picked up. "Mulder," Frohike repeated, sluggish, as if drunk. "I know my name, Frohike. Any news?" Silence was not something he was used to hearing from the Gunmen's den. There was always something going on in the background -- the hum of computers, Langly droning on, Frohike fidgeting with whatever was in front of him. Silence was unnerving, coming from them. His anger evaporated, changing to panic. The heart-in-the-throat, Scully's disappeared, collapsed in a meeting, been shot in New York, ohgodjustletmegetthere kind of panic he never wanted to feel again. "Frohike? What the hell is going on?" "Mulder." "Spill it, Frohike," he hissed, sucking icy air between his clenched teeth, making them ache. "A woman named Jane Hampton called us, about an hour ago. She said Scully went out to the Wallaces' last night. She gave Jane our number to call if she didn't come back." Mulder rubbed away the pictures his mind wanted to form. "Where was Jane calling from?" "She wouldn't say. We tried tracing it back and she was using Scully's cell. She's supposed to call again at nine." Frohike drew a loud breath. "The good news is nothing's been called in on Scully's medical insurance, and no five-foot two-inch hundred pound Jane Does have turned up anywhere in Northern Arizona. I thought that might make you feel better." "Not really, Frohike, but thanks." "Mulder, I don't think you should go out there." "The hell I'm not." "Mulder, listen to me. Byers has been at those files all night. This is big shit you're into--" "Tell me later, Frohike. I gotta go find my partner." He hung up, silencing the man's final protest. Mulder got back into the car and sat for a moment, not knowing where to begin, warming his hands in his armpits. "Bad news?" "There's a string of motels down this road. I'm going to drive a little way out of town and drop you and Caitlin at one of them." Kresge blinked at him twice before replying. "No, you're not. I didn't come this far to play babysitter." "We don't have a choice. Someone's got to watch her." "Then take her to a hospital." "No." Mulder looked over the seat just as Caitlin's soft little mouth stretched in a sleepy yawn. She rubbed at her eyes with the backs of her oddly uncoordinated hands, then blinked at him. For a moment, he could swear she saw him and knew him, before she blinked again and her eyes lost their focus. "No," Mulder repeated. "No more hospitals. No more tests." He looked back out the windshield. He needed to start the car, needed to get on with this. Needed not to find what he was afraid to find out there. "Mulder." Kresge put a hand on his arm to get his attention. "What's going on?" "Scully went to the Wallace's last night. She didn't come back." Kresge's hand dropped away as he settled back into his seat to take that in. "All right," he said finally. "We're going to hope for the best. But just in case, you'd better let me be the one to go out there. You stay with Caitlin." "I can't do that." "Mulder, it could already be a crime scene. Your people could already be there. You can't get arrested. If you do, I'm helpless out here -- I have no gun, no badge, no contacts. And they'll have my car. How am I going to protect this kid with nothing?" "I have to find Scully." "And I have a better chance of doing that right now. You've been driving all night and you're way too close to this. You don't know what you'll be walking into out there. You're not fit." No, Mulder thought, I'm not fit. How can anyone ever be fit for something like this? <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> FLAGSTAFF INN MARCH 12TH, 7:10 AM Jane sat up, reaching out for something on the nightstand as Scully opened the door. "It's me," Scully whispered. Jane recognized her and relaxed, put the heavy glass ashtray down. Not much of a weapon, but something. Jane wouldn't go down without a fight, that was for sure. The dull grey light of a snowy morning was seeping through the curtains and Scully could see that Jane had Amy in bed with her. It looked as if they were both fully dressed. "Dana?" Jane was already getting out of bed, her voice shrill with long-repressed panic. "Are you okay? Where have you been? What happened?" "I'll tell you in a minute." She needed to clean up. Fast. Scully went into the bathroom and flicked on the light. Too bright too bright too bright. The room was upside down and the light was in her eyes, and her blood was frozen, her breath stopped. She heard the whir of the drill and she would not look down down, she would not, she would not, she did not want to see what they were doing to her. A familiar voice came to her ear, hoarse and gentle, melting the fear and letting her breathe again. "Dana? It's okay, I'm here." She forced her eyes open and Penny Northern was gathering her close, lifting her from the cold tile. -Oh god, what have they done to me, what have they done? "Dana!" A hand slapped her cheek, hard enough to sting, but not hard enough to hurt. Scully blinked and Penny's face had become Melissa's. -Missy? What...what... "Dana, look at me! Who am I?" Scully looked. Not good. Oh god, this was not good. "Jane," she managed to whisper. "Jane Hampton." "Oh, thank god." The room swirled again as Jane's arms tightened around her. "You were babbling like I was someone else. Oh Jesus, Dana, what happened?" "Jane, listen." She tried to lick her lips, but there was no moisture in her mouth. "If I pass out, if you can't wake me...don't take me to the hospital yourself. Just leave me someplace and send an ambulance." "I'm not leaving you anywhere. Forget it." "No. Listen to me. You cannot get caught." She struggled to sit up, prepared for nausea, but the room remained gratifyingly steady, Jane's face clearly in focus. "Amy's parents are both dead. If something should happen to me, you are all she has left. Just take her, go hide somewhere and call that number I gave you." "Dana." "Promise." "Okay, I promise, now just tell me -- is all this blood yours?" Scully looked down to where Jane's hands were tugging at her clothing. Her jacket and shirt were marked with spatter and residue from the shot, and her slacks were soaked through at the knees where she must have knelt in the pool of blood. Her hands, when she lifted them, were also stained and spattered and powder-burnt. There would be blood on her holster, on her gun, inside the car. She was a forensic team's dream suspect, a walking crime scene. She'd left them a dozen points of irrefutable evidence on which to convict. "No, it's not all mine." Scully closed her eyes and leaned back against the tub. The pounding in her head was sapping her strength with each heartbeat and she was so cold, so goddamn cold. "I'm getting you a blanket," Jane said. "Don't move. I'll be right back." If she sat here like this, she would pass out. Scully struggled to her feet, leaning over the sink to look into the mirror. No wonder Jane looked so appalled. Her face was the color of ash, streaked with blood and dirt, her skin shining with a thin, oily veneer. She shivered at her own icy fingers as she parted her hair to reveal an inch-long gash at the top of her head, already swollen into a large, ugly lump. Right side. Frontal lobe. Scully held her hands out and touched her thumb to each of her fingers. Fine motor coordination intact, large motor functions working reasonably well. She felt no more clumsy than she did anytime she was tired beyond endurance, and surely her present level of disorientation was as much the result of two nights without sleep as the blow to her head. Her speech was not slurred and her vision, moments of hallucination aside, was normal. She leaned closer to the mirror, closing her eyes and opening them one at time, trying to get an indication of whether the pupils were dilating properly. As long as they were, the chances were good that Wallace hadn't cracked her skull, though she wouldn't be able to discount that possibility for several hours. "Dana, you're in shock," Jane scolded, coming back into the room. "Sit down, before you fall down again." "I know what I'm doing, I'm a doctor." "If you're a doctor, then you ought to know you're being an idiot." Jane threw a blanket around her shoulders. "You are so stubborn," she chided, turning Scully around to wrap her up like a child. "Why can't you let someone help?" Scully blinked hard, her throat suddenly too thick for words. She let Jane lower her back to the floor, huddling deep inside the blanket while the other woman ran the bath. "As soon as we've got you fixed up, we need to get out of here," she said, when Scully had managed to get undressed and into the hot water. "Yes." Jane was looking at the pile of ruined clothing. "What do we do with these? Burn them?" "No. I'm a federal agent, I can't destroy evidence. And I might need them to prove self-defense." "You killed someone." Jane sat heavily on the closed toilet, pale and suddenly frightened. Scully looked up and saw Jane staring at her body through the water. She followed the woman's gaze to her own abdomen, to the fresh scar that ran from just below her ribs almost to her navel. The exit wound was far uglier than the neat surgical scar, but she sat up anyway, hugging her knees to her chest. Nothing like waking up in one of your own spy thrillers, Scully thought. "Amy's stepfather," she said at last. "He killed her mother, then he tried to kill me. He must have been there when I called. If I hadn't-- I don't know." She leaned her head against the wall of the bath, suddenly nauseous again. The hot water was making the headache worse, and not warming her at all. Scully closed her eyes and clenched her teeth as Jane took her right hand and began rubbing it with soap. With all the time Scully had spent in hospitals in the last few years she should have grown accustomed to this, learned to endure the necessary indignity of being touched and bathed by strangers, but she never had. "I can do that," she started to say, but the truth was, she couldn't. She was only a few shades of grey from falling into darkness again. "Dana," Jane said slowly, moving the washcloth to the other hand, "when you didn't come back, I got scared. I called that number you gave me." "Oh, god." "I'm sorry. I thought--" Jane stopped herself with an audible swallow. "The man there, he sounded really upset when I told him where you went." "It's all right. I'll call them." She managed to open her eyes to see Jane's face as the other woman took the shower nozzle down to rinse the blood and dirt out of her hair. Her expression was concerned, a little frightened but no longer panicked. Jane Hampton could take care of herself. She was strong enough to take care of Amy too, if it came down to that. "Close your eyes," Jane said softly, and for the few brief moments it took for Jane to wash the blood from her face, Scully allowed herself the indulgence of tears. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> They didn't have to wait long at the entrance to the highway. Not much threat, picking up two women and a child. The threat, Jane thought, was far more likely to be toward them. "We'll ride in the back," Jane told the driver, an older Navajo man, as weather-beaten as his pickup. She'd been expecting a stetson and a silver concho hatband, but the man wore a blue t-shirt and a battered baseball cap of his own, the insignia so threadbare she couldn't read it. Only his long greying ponytail fit her idea of what an Indian should look like. "You don't want to do that," the man said. "It gets pretty cold with the wind and all. Not good for the little one." "It's okay," Scully reassured Jane. She climbed into the cab, leaving Jane no choice but to hand Amy up and follow. It had been Scully's idea to leave the car in Flagstaff and hitchhike out; she'd insisted they'd be safe enough accepting rides from the Navajo since the men in black were almost always white. Jane hadn't hitchhiked in a long time, but what she remembered from her rebel days was that assholes came in every color. She closed the door and got Amy settled on her lap, watching warily as the driver offered Scully a hand to shake. Jane was surprised at the lightness of the man's grip when it was her turn -- the thick, rough fingers looked like he would have a crusher. She sighed and tried to relax. Maybe a federal agent knew an honest man when she saw one. "Where to?" he asked, when the brief formalities were finished and they were back out on the highway. "How far east do you go?" Scully's voice was as worn-down as the truck, a sound which made Jane hold Amy even tighter. The woman was obviously in pain, moving more slowly than normal, holding her head as still as she could. "Oh, I'll stay on the 40 till Gallup," the man was answering, "then head back onto the rez. I live in Window Rock, but it's a mess over by Ganado. Pony here don't do so good on them dirt roads. Road from Gallup's paved, so I got a better chance." "Gallup sounds good," Scully agreed. "How far is that?" "Coupla hours." The man popped a cassette into a tape deck a good fifteen years younger than the rest of the truck and fiddled with the volume. 'Nights in White Satin' filled the cab with surprising clarity over the whirr and clank of the ancient heater. He gave the women a bright smile missing two bottom teeth and turned his attention back to the road, humming along as they went. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> ARROW WHEEL MOTEL MARCH 11TH, 8:25 AM Waiting was not something Mulder did well. He was, however, an excellent observer and after the first near-miss he learned that a certain short, high whine meant that Caitlin needed the bathroom. He learned that she liked to pat her hands on the surface of the water when having a bath. A quick trip to the convenience store across the street taught him that she liked Gerber baby food, even strained carrots, which he had to hold at arm's length because he couldn't stand the smell; that her attention could be caught by movement, especially of something colorful; and though she couldn't hold a spoon, she could grip bigger things. The ears of a stuffed rabbit, a plastic ring, a banana -- though it was a bit hard on the banana, he conceded, wiping the mess off her fingers. He had learned one other thing by the time the phone rang, shattering the fragile quiet. Caitlin Jenkins remembered how to hug. Mulder picked up the phone, still holding the child with one arm, a prayer to no one whispered on his breath. "It's Kresge. I'm in. I'm gonna talk fast cause I think I need to get out of here soon, but I didn't find her. I'd be hopeful about that, considering what I'm looking at." Mulder tried to swallow, found he could not. "Which is?" "I'm standing in a crime scene, Mulder. I got a man and a woman, both dead. The woman's in the bath with her wrists slit. Dark skin, black hair. Looks Indian." "Shit. That's Jennifer Wallace." He sat down on the bed, shifting Caitlin to his lap. She put her head against his chest as if listening to his heart, beating hard and fast against her tiny ear. "What about the man?" "Shot just inside the front door. There's a lot of blood here, Mulder. Three, maybe four pints spilled. I think they got him in the heart, but I'm not turning him over to check. The angle of the shot looks extremely low, judging by the exit and the spatter on the walls. They might have been struggling for the murder weapon." "What does he look like?" "About six feet, one-eighty, trim. Long hair, dark brown, almost black. Can't tell about the face, he's lying on it." "Jesus Christ. Is he wearing a big silver bracelet?" "Yeah. You know who it is?" "I think it's the husband, but he's supposed to be back in San Diego. Anything else?" "Oh yeah. Lots of else. We got a bullet in the door, another in the wall, we got something dragged across the living room carpet. We got another small pool of blood about three feet from Wallace, and I'll bet you good money it isn't his. We got prints all over the place, on the walls, the furniture. All over the bathroom, where somebody got sick." Kresge sighed, and Mulder held the child closer, his free hand over her ear as if he could protect her from whatever the detective would say next. "I wish I didn't have to tell you this, Mulder, but we've got two clear palms on the bathroom floor. Small. About the size of Scully's hands." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> SHELL SERVICE STATION, I-40 MARCH 12TH, 9:00 AM Scully listened to the phone ring, the words from an old song going through her mind. Winslow, Arizona was not a nice place to be standing on the corner. It was, in fact, a damn ugly town. Her hand rose self-consciously to check her hat. She hated to have anything on her head, but she needed something to hide the wound. She was now the not-so-proud owner of a very touristy Northern Arizona University baseball cap. Maybe Mulder would like to have it, if she ever saw him again. Scully bit down hard on her bottom lip. Her chances of ever seeing Mulder again were getting exponentially smaller by the minute. Answer, damn it, she told the phone. How late could the Gunmen sleep? "Hello?" Scully felt an unexpected surge of warmth at the sound of Frohike's voice. She cut it off, harsh as her hand strangling the metal-encased phone cord. This was not the time to get sentimental. "Frohike. It's me." "Scully? Jesus!" She heard a scrabbling, as if the sound of her voice had actually made Frohike fall off his chair. "It's her! It's Scully!" he shouted, voice distorted by his hand haphazardly covering the mouthpiece. That was followed by more crashing, and a chorus of heavy breathing. Byers' voice came into the phone, vibrating with concern. "Agent Scully, are you okay? Where are you?" My god, she'd never thought she could engender such excitement in anyone, let alone the reticent Byers. "I'm fine," she assured him. "But you need to call me back. I don't have any more change." "Okay, what's the number?" "I don't know. There's nothing on the pay phone." "You couldn't find one with a number?" Langly now. Oh good. Glad to know she was entertaining them all. "I'm lucky to find one that works. Don't you have some hi-tech toy to trace your last caller?" "Yeah, yeah we do," Frohike assured her. "Just hang there, Scully, we'll be back in minute." "Don't go anywhere. Swear to it." Byers' normally quiet tenor was breaking like an adolescent. "I'll be right here." She hung up, hoping that Jane's earlier call was sufficient explanation for their panicked reaction. Surely it was too soon for them to have heard what happened at the Wallaces'. Scully pressed her fingers to her temples, but it didn't help alleviate the pain. At least the headache was keeping her awake. Drowsiness had moved in where adrenaline should have lived, making her feel thick and sluggish. She was past exhausted and into the place where sleeping forever was beginning to sound like a wonderful idea. This was how people slipped, made fatal mistakes. When they were so tired that death didn't sound half bad. She couldn't mess up with Jane and Amy's lives at stake. She had to stay alert. "Dana." Jane sounded low and controlled, but fear shimmered just below the surface. Their '70s-music-loving driver had finished paying for his gas and was getting back into his pickup, just as a Winslow cruiser was pulling in to the station. Scully looked at the cruiser, then back at the phone. "It could be a coincidence. It could be nothing." "It could," Jane agreed, already beginning to back toward the truck, pulling a confused Amy by the hand. Two cops got out of the cruiser and looked around. Jane swung Amy up into her arms. The child had a strange, glassy look to her eyes, as if she'd been here before, had felt fear radiating through the body of the adult that held her and knew to stay silent. For the first time it struck Scully that this morning, Amy had not once asked to go home. The phone began to ring. Behind Jane, one of the cops had reached through the window of the cruiser and was talking on his CB. The other, leaning against the car, seemed to be watching their every move. "Dana, get in the truck," Jane hissed, beginning to panic. The phone rang again. Scully reached behind her and picked it up. "The clock is broken. New Mexico." She hung up before they could say anything else. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 6 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> ARROW WHEEL MOTEL MARCH 12TH, 9:15 AM Mulder wondered how many years it took for people to rub off on one another. Feeding Caitlin her breakfast, making airplane noises to get her distracted attention, he felt like he was channeling Scully. Fox Mulder wouldn't know how to take care of this child. Finished, he wiped Caitlin's mouth and hands and went to throw the towel into the bathroom sink. An inarticulate cry from behind him made him turn around again. Caitlin was making the sound, a desolate wailing, reaching out across the table to where Mulder had been sitting, her chubby fists clenching on air. "Hey, there," he said. "I'm right here." She didn't react, didn't appear to hear his voice. It wasn't until Mulder came around the table and leaned over the chair he had been sitting in that she seemed to understand he hadn't disappeared. "Oh, hey, shh," he crooned, gathering the girl up. The wailing stopped immediately as she gave his neck her unique, stiff-armed hug, butting his cheek with the top of her head. Something inside Mulder broke open, spilled over. This was not a life that had grown coiled and safe inside her mother's body. Not a child made with love. And yet there was love in her. Like grass growing through a crack in the pavement, it still reached for the light to make itself known. "They're not going to hurt you again," he swore, fitting his hand around the back of the girl's head. "I'm not going to let them." Caitlin sighed into his neck, her face hot against his skin. This is what I learned from your mother, he silently told her, rubbing the wetness from his eyes. Isn't that funny? That I learned to love by loving her, when she finds it so hard to let herself love anyone? Caitlin, of course, didn't answer. His cell phone began to ring and Mulder laid the girl down on the bed, leaning over to kiss her forehead. It brought forth an opening of her mouth that was almost a smile. He let her hold onto his finger while he reached over to the nightstand. "It's me," Frohike said. "I've got news. Gimme a number." Mulder read him the number of the room phone, the last four digits backward, drumming the fingers of his free hand on the nightstand until it rang. "Okay," Frohike launched in. "She called. She *said* she was okay. She's in Winslow -- or she was. I think she's heading east on the I- 40." "Thank god. What about the other thing I asked you to trace?" "No go from where I sit. Doc keeps those files the old-fashioned way." A pause, then, "She said the clock is broken, Mulder. What do you want me to do?" Mulder bowed his head, gently disengaging his finger from Caitlin's hand, replacing it with the stuffed rabbit. She seemed blissfully unaware of the difference. It was supposed to be him going underground, him running away from some terrible danger. Not Scully. Not alone, anyway. He heard Frohike sigh, a sound very unlike him. "Mulder, these people I'll be sending her to...once she's with them it's out of my hands. You won't be able to find her unless she contacts you herself." "Well, she's obviously not going to contact me," Mulder said, "or she'd have done it by now." "She may just be trying to keep you out of it." "Well, I'm in it no matter what she wants," Mulder snapped. "All right, fine, give me the address. I'll catch her there." "No way, Mulder, I can't do that. You know, there's more to what I do than just waiting around for you to call. You show up on these people's doorstep and I'm dogmeat out here. I'll lose every contact I have. And I'm no help to either one of you then." "Frohike, she's out there and she's hurt and I don't know what's going through her head. At least give me a chance. Let me talk to her before she disappears." Silence. He heard a distant cough and realized that Byers and Langly were there, hearing the entire conversation, but he didn't care. "Frohike," he pleaded. "Just tell me where you're sending the papers." "Albuquerque. And that's all I'm going to tell you." "Okay." Mulder drew a shaky breath, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He sat down on the bed beside Caitlin, who had rolled onto her stomach and was now curled up with three fingers in her mouth, her eyes unfocused again. "Tell me about the other stuff," he said, calming himself by rubbing Caitlin's back. "What have you got decoded so far?" Chairs scraping. Crisis averted, people sitting down. Business as usual now. "We had to stop digging around on the mainframe, so we don't have it all." "Why'd you stop?" A nervous, all around rattle. "We got into some stuff...Mulder, this thing, this study they were doing. It links back to another study started in 1940, just before we got involved in the war. It looks like that was suspended for the duration, then picked up again and continued into the early fifties. The one that Scully was part of is Phase Two. Which supposedly stopped in 1985." "Okay, so remember how at first we thought they were testing for pilots for the space program?" Langly picked it up. Sometimes Mulder wondered if Frohike sat there like a symphony conductor with a note sheet, directing their little trio of off-key instruments. "Well," Langly went on, "that's because the stuff these kids were being tested for is the same kind of criteria they were using for potential astronauts. Strength, agility, inner-ear equilibrium. Everything right down to how long they could hold their breath. Then you have your standard Stanford-Binet IQ, combined with imaginary spatial-perception and a whole bunch of problem solving questions. Then there's an ethical component. It goes into stuff like if you and your best friend wound up on opposite sides of a war could you kill him, which is a hell of a lot to throw at a little kid, I think." Mulder sighed. "Can we cut to the chase, guys?" Byers came on the line. "There's something else, Mulder. Another file, the one we almost got caught trying to hack. The aggregate scores from this study, combined with aggregate scores from a bunch of other studies done at different times in different places, all cross- indexed. It's huge. Close to 250,000 entries." "But what is it for?" Mulder stressed the last word, running out of patience. "And where does Scully fit in?" "We're working on that," Byers answered defensively. "Mulder, these tests are so extensive it's impossible to figure out exactly what they were hoping to find." "Yeah, the scoring is insane," Langly chimed in. "It looks like the freaking Olympics." "Here's a question I want to ask," Byers continued over him. "Scully's mother. Do you know her maiden name?" "O'Donnell. Margaret Ellen, I think." "Okay. And yours?" "My mother? What does my mother have to do with it?" "Humour me, Mulder." "Christine Elizabeth Holt." "Hang on." Mulder listened to the distorted sound of the keyboard clicking. "Nothing there," Frohike reported. "Trying O'Donnell." "Oh wow," Mulder heard Langly whine. "They had how many kids in that family?" "Nine," Mulder supplied. "Old-time Catholic." "Their poor mother," Frohike remarked. "Okay, Margaret Ellen O'Donnell is not a primary subject but three of her siblings are. They're part of the first segment." "Hey Frohike?" Mulder was hunched over now with his elbows on his knees, head hanging heavy on his neck. "Try my mother again, under Holtzmann. H-o-l-t-z, two n's." Another pause during which he barely dared breathe. Then, "Yeah, she's here, Mulder. What's up with that?" "Her father was Jewish, he changed the name in '41. Apparently he was a little paranoid about the Nazis attacking the US. I seem to have inherited the paranoia along with the nose." "Well, she must have been entered into the pre-war study, because she's listed as Holtzmann. What did your grandfather do, Mulder?" "I don't know. He died when she was about seventeen. She never talks about him. Frohike, what is all this?" "Weirdness. Mulder, your father and Scully's father? They're both in Phase One. And Scully and all her siblings are in Phase Two, but she's the only primary subject. Out of a possible aggregate of ten, she's listed as a nine-point-six." "Must have lost a point or two on height," Mulder tried, but nobody laughed. "And my family?" "Well, this is weird. You're a secondary subject. You're down as having a female sibling, primary subject, but there's no cross- reference to your sister's file and she's not listed at all. It looks like they purged her record." "And by the way," Langly added, "Scully beat you by a mile. You're only a nine-point-two." "What the hell does this all mean?" Mulder asked, getting up and beginning to pace. "I never took a series of tests like the ones Scully described." "But you took tests in school, didn't you? Think back, Mulder. You must have been tested for IQ. What else? What about Samantha -- she was the primary subject, not you." "Oh, god." "What?" "My parents had us in a private school. We both had go through an evaluation to get in -- I think we must have been four or five. I remember my mother was upset when Samantha had hers because the whole thing took twice as long as mine." "That could have been it," Langly agreed. "Also, Mulder, some of this coding we haven't been able to figure out looks a lot like some other stuff we got into a few years ago. You know what files I'm talking about?" "The funky poaching?" "No, Mulder. Before that. Remember our friend who liked Rodin?" Rodin? The sculptor? Mulder's mind abruptly made the leap: The Thinker. The guy who got killed after hacking the MJ files and giving them to Mulder on a DAT. The very thing that had sent Scully and himself running in the desert the first time. Mulder turned around as if seeking someplace to run now. "Are you telling me this is it? This is part of that?" "Maybe," Byers answered. "Mulder, I don't think this has stopped. I think Phase Three may be going on right now." Mulder sat down on the bed again, pulling Caitlin into his lap with his free arm. She looked up at him with her vacant smile and shook her rabbit. "Listen to me, guys. Scully's name was in those other files. I want you to try something. Someone got a pen?" He rattled off the names he could remember. Penny Northern. Edna O'Brien. Lottie Holloway, Diane Frazier, Marnette Lawson, Betsy Hagopian. There were five more in the group that had been taken with Scully, but his mind couldn't summon them. Mulder felt ashamed of that, ashamed of the fact that they had never gone back to talk to those women while they were alive, to find the truth of what they remembered. Not until Scully herself was dying and all but Penny were gone. We never tried to save them, he thought, rubbing his cheek against the top of Caitlin's head. We ignored them because we couldn't bear to hear what they had to say. And now I can't even remember who they were. "Mulder?" Frohike's voice had that note he was coming to dread. "They're all there. Primary subjects, nine-point-five and over. Every one." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Scully needed to get off the road. The sun glaring off the hood of the truck was piercing her brain even with her eyes closed, every bump a small explosion. Jane had said nothing, but Scully felt the woman's eyes on her, and she knew that Jane was scared. There didn't seem to be much Scully could do about that. Any words of reassurance she might have spoken had long ago dissolved into the white noise inside her head. Their Navajo driver popped another cassette into the tape deck and the first strains of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' drilled their way into her skull. Scully tried not to think about how nice it would be to stop somewhere, to take a long bath and sleep until she was herself again. Farmington, where Albert Hosteen lived, was not too far north from where they were right now. Maybe she could stop there? No. Albert was an old man, let him live his life in peace. He was a known quantity to anyone who might be looking for her out here and it didn't seem fair to bring their nightmare to his doorstep again. Just keep heading east. It reminded her of a very strange case they'd had a few months ago, a man who'd needed to be driven west so his inner ear wouldn't burst. Scully had the opposite problem -- her head might explode if they didn't stop. What do we do when we run out of east? Do we turn around and head west again? Frohike would send the papers she needed to Albuquerque. She'd had no destination when they left Flagstaff, but that would do for now. She'd figure something out tomorrow, when the pain was gone and she could think again. She was drifting now, tears in the back of her throat. Freddie Mercury was wailing that he'd killed a man, thrown his life away. "Please," she managed to say. "Would you mind if we listened to something else?" The driver looked at her, then ejected the cassette, flipped it and popped it back in again. Elton John. Scully relaxed. "Dana?" Amy was leaning over to tug on Scully's shirt. Scully looked down and tried to find a smile for the girl. "You need to go?" Amy shook her head. She pointed out the window, to a thin road coming down to meet the highway from a beautiful stretch of red and gold desert. "That's where Gramma lives," she announced, her head turning, trying to follow the road as they passed it. She turned back to Scully, her lower lip starting to wobble a bit. "Can we go to Gramma's?" Amy whispered. "Maybe Mommy is there." Scully closed her eyes against the renewed pounding in her head, ashamed to have forgotten. Amy still had a family. A great- grandmother, a woman who needed to be told of her granddaughter's death. "Do you know how to get to your Gramma's?" Scully asked. Amy looked doubtful. "You go up and up and around the mountain and then down three tires." Scully patted the girl's leg. "We'll find it, okay?" she promised. Amy nodded and smiled, sitting back against Jane, who fixed Scully with a worried look and curled the child closer into her arms. "Excuse me. You said you were going to Window Rock?" Scully asked their driver, interrupting his rather good attempt to harmonize with 'Rocket Man.' "Could you drop us there, instead of Gallup?" "Ho," he nodded, immediately picking up the chorus again. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> WINDOW ROCK, ARIZONA MARCH 12TH, 11:52 AM Leonora Hattaway looked over the top of her reading glasses as Scully and Jane and Amy entered the trailer. "You're back. And on your feet this time." "Yes. We never got to meet properly." Scully summoned up her official smile, that mirthless curve of lips the best she could do right now. She reached into her pocket to draw out her badge and held it up for Leonora to see. "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully. I'm with the FBI." "Ah." The woman's demeanor changed, her warmth instantly withdrawn. "Well, that explains the silly black suit you were wearing before." Scully closed the badge, feeling as if she'd just tripped over an invisible rock. "I was hoping you might be able to help me with a case I'm on." Leonora's thick eyebrow did a reasonable imitation of Scully's own this-better-be-good-Mulder one-sided lift. "I can't imagine that I know anything that would interest the FBI. My area is health and education. I don't involve myself in intertribal politics." "I'm only trying to locate someone. This little girl's great- grandmother. She lives somewhere on the reservation." Leonora took a look at Amy, nestled in Jane's arms. Noted the porcelain skin, the reddish blond hair, the round blue eyes. She shifted her attention back to the sheaf of papers strewn across her desk, picking up her pen again. "We don't keep track of white people up here. I'm sorry I couldn't help." "Actually, her family is Navajo." Leonora looked up over the top of her reading glasses. "This child is Dineh?" she asked, disbelief written all over her features. "Her adoptive mother is, and it's the mother's grandmother that we're looking for." Leonora's eyebrow went even higher. "Well, that's the first case I've ever heard of Indians adopting a white kid. Usually it's the other way around." She took off her glasses and folded them neatly into a beaded leather case, regarding Scully with eyes that were distinctly more friendly. "I'm not the tribal registry. That's over in the council building. Do you know the grandmother's Indian name?" "Bima," Amy supplied helpfully. Scully felt a moment of hope. "Is that a common name?" Leonora's mouth twisted in a half smile. "If you're old enough. It means grandmother." Scully's hope sank heavily into the pit of her stomach, just as a flow of incomprehensible syllables came out of Amy's mouth. They all turned to look at the little girl, who continued to babble earnestly in Leonora's direction. In Dineh, Scully realized. Amy was speaking Dineh. Leonora rose, an odd look on her face. She spoke to Amy in the same language. Amy nodded and answered. Leonora looked at the two women. "She says the bad men took her away," Leonora translated. "And she thinks maybe they took her mother away too, but maybe she went up to Grandma's like she does whenever the bad men come. What does that mean? Which bad men are she talking about?" The other two women exchanged glances. "I'll take her outside," Jane said. "I think that's better." Scully nodded. She watched Jane go, murmuring softly to Amy. When she turned back, Leonora was still standing. Her expression was still somewhat wary, but she came out from behind the desk and walked over to the couch. "Sit," Leonora said firmly. "I think you have a story to tell." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> ROUTE 66, FLAGSTAFF MARCH 12TH, 12:22 PM Mulder and Kresge were walking toward a diner around the corner from the motel. The sun finally had some warmth to it and Mulder might have actually felt good were it not for the sweaty weight of Caitlin, half balanced on his shoulder, and the news he was receiving from Kresge. "The coroner figures the time of death was about eleven PM. The husband appears to have been shot about the same time, maybe a little later. Point blank to the upper abdomen. Whoever it was must have been wounded in that struggle and spent some time lying in the same place before they went to the bathroom to clean themselves up. They're not going to have a hard time getting an ID on the shooter." "What did you tell the local PD?" "I didn't. I called from a pay phone, then wandered back over half an hour later like a curious neighbor. I didn't ask a lot of questions. Mostly just stood around and listened." Mulder held his breath a moment. "What do you think?" he finally managed to ask. Kresge's answer was equally long in coming. "Yeah. I think it was her." Mulder swallowed painfully. "Friends of ours...they swear they talked to her this morning. They said she sounded fine." He hugged Caitlin a little tighter, taking a strange comfort in her empty presence. Fine, for Scully, could describe any number of physical states short of death. It really didn't help allay his worry. "She may not have been that badly hurt," Kresge agreed, sounding as if he didn't believe it much either. "And she is a doctor." "And the world's second lousiest patient after me," Mulder muttered, just loud enough to be heard. "I'll be honest with you, Mulder. I believe it was self-defense, but she's made it questionable by running. I don't know how long I can withhold my information from the locals before I'm in danger of obstruction. And your own people are all over this. I have a feeling they already know it's her." "Was there a big bald guy with glasses? About forty-five, built like a boxer, probably running the show?" "Yeah, there was. And Mulder, I've seen him before. In San Diego, the day they pulled me from the case. I saw him coming out of my chief's office." "Shit." Mulder stopped walking. The implications were impossible to assess. Sending Skinner could be merely damage control -- the FBI wouldn't want the media to get hold of this story, so of course they would want her direct superior out there to look into it. Skinner had not always been a solid ally, but he would never betray Scully. Not voluntarily. Mulder had to believe that. Then what was Skinner doing in San Diego, before they'd found either one of the girls? Mulder shivered in the warm sun, hoisting Caitlin further onto his shoulder. "Was there an older guy hanging around, chain-smoking cigarettes?" he asked. "Or a young one, good-looking, with a fake arm?" "No, not that I saw." "Well, that may be the first good news so far." "Mulder." Kresge put his hand on Mulder's arm to stop him before he could start walking again. "I have to tell you -- if I didn't know her, I would believe the scenario they're putting together. They're saying she killed the parents using the MO from the case so she can disappear with the kid." "Why would she do that?" "Because she thinks the girl is hers. They're saying she's snapped." Fury began to swirl inside Mulder's chest. Here it was, then. A truth sandwiched between two lies and this time they were going to shove that sandwich down Scully's throat and choke her with it. "Amy *is* her daughter," Mulder retorted, "But there's no way anyone at the Bureau should suspect she even thinks that." "How can you be so sure?" "Because we never told Skinner. We never filed a report. Even if someone went through her confidential personnel records and found she'd filed a petition to adopt a child, there's nothing on that form to indicate that Emily was biologically hers. And the lab guy who ran the tests did it as a personal favor. Nothing was ever officially logged. Someone is setting her up. Someone who knows exactly what we were looking into in San Diego." "Why would somebody want to take Scully down?" "To discredit her work. To get her fired, or killed, or land her in prison. To split us up for good, without launching a murder investigation. I think someone set a trap with that girl, and Scully fell right into it. And now the Bureau has legal cause to go after her with everything they've got." Caitlin began an odd mewling, struggling in Mulder's arms as if picking up his agitation. He switched her to his right side, making an effort to calm down, nuzzling his stubbled cheek against her head. "So what do we do?" Kresge asked. Mulder sighed, rubbing the girl's back in small circles. What do you say, Cait? he silently asked her. Do we trade ourselves for Scully and your sister? A life for a life, a heart for a heart? Caitlin remained stiff for a few moments, then slowly relaxed against him again, as if giving her assent. He said, "Scully took that girl because she knew if she tried to go through normal channels, Amy wouldn't be there by the time the authorization came through. She's risked everything to save that child. Maybe I can explain that to Skinner." "Okay," Kresge agreed, "but wait before you go clanking off to play the knight in shining armor. You go talk to Skinner right now, you may be the one walking into a trap, and Caitlin falls back into their hands." Kresge pulled out his cell phone and hit his own speed dial one. "Who are you calling?" "My partner. Scully had a rental car. Let's see if he can track it down while we're getting some food. Right now I'm so hungry my head's starting to spin." Mulder's arms tightened around the child he held. "Thank you," he said quietly, and began to walk again. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 7 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> WINDOW ROCK, ARIZONA MARCH 12TH, 12:32 PM To an Easterner born in a small state, the Navajo reservation was huge. With 180,000 people spread over an area about the size of Virginia, Scully couldn't imagine how it could ever be considered crowded. "Math," Leonora explained, "is different for Dineh." Living space wasn't divided among people, but sheep. Twenty-five sheep made a bare living for a small family and twenty-five sheep needed a lot of land to graze. Ella Boy, Amy's great-grandmother, had -- according to Amy - - 'alottamany' sheep. And lived in an old hogan. And didn't speak English. "I figured she'd be on the Hopi Partition Lands." Leonora ran her finger up the road Amy had shown Scully, colored yellow on the reservation map. "The southern part of the rez is mostly prefab housing, but up there most of the people still live traditionally. And Amy speaks a dialect of Dineh that's only found on the HPL." Leonora pointed to a rectangle in the middle of the map. "This is the Hopi Reservation. The Hopi live up on the mesas, here around Oraibi. This big triangle inside the rectangle is all theirs. We live in the surrounding areas, or did, until the government decided to move us out. Which helped me find Ella Boy pretty quickly, because the Land Commission office has every inch of this area mapped out." "This here," she pointed now to a small settlement just below the bottom of the rectangle, "is Teesto. That's the nearest town. The Boy land is about twelve miles further out, behind Star Mountain, on a dirt road. You might make it after dark or early in the morning when the ground is still frozen, but right now we have snow melting all over the place. That means our roads turn into nice oily clay. And there's no one out there to help you if you get stuck -- Star Mountain area has pretty much been cleared out by relocation." She handed the map to Scully, who accepted it with a grimace. "You want my advice?" "Please," Scully answered, beating off a wave of both exhaustion and despair. "Go back to Winslow, rent a four-wheel drive, and start out on the 87 just before dawn tomorrow. You should make it up there before everything melts, but you'll have to wait until after dark to come back. I can draw you a vague map, but you'll need to stop at the chapter house in Teesto -- you can't miss it, it's a big building, like a town meeting hall. Ask around there and you should be able to find someone who can give you exact directions. My other advice is don't wear a suit and don't show your badge. The FBI doesn't have a good name in Indian Country no matter where you go, but out there you'll scare people to death. They'll think you're coming to impound their livestock. If you're just two women and a baby, you'll get a lot more help." Scully stole a glance at Amy, who had found two little wood-and-wool sheep to play with, and was sitting on the floor happily making them converse in Dineh. It was the first time she'd seen Amy break her solemnity and act like a normal little girl. "I don't think we can wait another day," Scully said. "Maybe we could rent a jeep in Gallup and go tonight." "No, you can't. First, it would take you four or five hours at night, even if you knew where you were going, which you don't," Leonora said, brusquely. "Second, it's set to snow again, and I doubt you've brought sleeping bags or winter clothing. You'll freeze to death if you get stuck or lost. And third, you can't just go knocking on someone's door in the middle of the night. We don't do things that way." Scully walked over to the couch and sat down, letting her head fall into her hands. The constant dull throb was making it hard to concentrate on anything but how good it would feel to be unconscious right now. She was at the end of her rope, for once willing to admit it. Even to Mulder, if he had only been there. God, what she wouldn't give to talk to him, to hear his voice again. Whatever his reason for lying, she could forgive him. She reached into her pocket, fingertips tracing the outline of her phone, but she already knew she wouldn't call. She'd gone too far to ask for Mulder's help. She was not going to drag him into this. "Dana." Jane's voice was soft, almost seductive. "You need to sleep. I need to sleep. I can't do five hours in the dark on bad roads tonight, and neither can you. It's too dangerous." "I know," Scully said, rubbing her thumbs against the pressure points just below her eyebrows. This time it was no help at all. It only made the pain spread deeper into her skull. Hands closing around her wrists made her lift her head. "You're not well," Leonora said, kneeling to look into her eyes. "I'm okay." Scully made herself smile, though her lips felt stiff. "You just keep meeting me on bad days." Leonora shook her head. She drew the baseball cap carefully off Scully's head, wincing as she uncovered the gash. "I thought this wasn't quite your style." Scully reached up and touched the lump at the top of her head. It was noticeably bigger than it had been earlier. "What happened?" "The bad men," came a small, angry voice. "The bad men hurt Dana." Scully looked around to see Amy starting to curl in on herself again, the wooden sheep clutched to her chest. Jane immediately went and picked Amy up, smoothing the child's back until she relaxed and put her arms around Jane's neck. "I'm all right," Scully said faintly. She had a terrible urge to put her arms around someone's neck too, and be carried off to bed. "There's been no sign of anything serious. It's just a bump and a headache." "Uh-huh," Leonora agreed sarcastically, taking the cap out of Scully's hands and gently replacing it. "You're still not going anywhere tonight." Scully glanced at Jane, who was watching her with real concern. "There's brave and then there's stupid," Leonora said, catching that exchange. "You're bordering on the second, and I'm not impressed." "Why are you doing this?" Scully asked. "You must realize it's dangerous." "My mother taught me if you see what needs doing, do it." Leonora slipped one hand around Scully's upper arm and drew her up, her grasp light, but unyielding. Her eyes spoke inarguably of warm dark places, and hours of safe rest. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> HATTAWAY RESIDENCE MARCH 12TH, 2:17 PM Scully barely managed to stay awake on the short journey to Leonora's house on the outskirts of Window Rock. Leonora talked on anyway, explaining the land dispute to Jane, sitting quietly in the back seat with Amy. "We're from the HPL ourselves," Leonora was saying as she parked her car on a bed of coarse gravel. Scully opened her door and managed to pull herself out of the car, gazing up at the house. It was a BIA- built prefab rectangle, but it stood just below a pine-covered hill, hidden from the town, so that it seemed more isolated than it was. "I had a sister with rheumatoid arthritis," Leonora continued, coming around to Scully's side of the car. "So when the first wave of relocation came, back in the '70s, some suits knocked on our door and convinced my mother to take advantage and get a modern house with hot running water." She took Scully by the upper arm again, leading her slowly up a path made of boards set over the still-soft ground. "My mother didn't speak English very well, so she didn't realize she was signing away the whole family's land. We have some stubborn cousins still hanging on up there. It's a hard life, but it's how they want to live. I'm too spoiled for that." Leonora threw open the front door, which led right into the living room. She paused by a faded La-Z-Boy recliner to murmur something to the old woman lounging there, watching 'Jerry Springer' and flipping through a worn copy of Cosmo, her feet in stretched-out woolen socks comfortably crossed on the footrest. "Too much like white people, she'll tell you," Leonora added, patting the woman's shoulder. The woman responded in Dineh, calmly licking a finger to turn a page. Leonora laughed, but didn't translate. She indicated the long, overstuffed sofa in the living room. "Make yourselves comfortable, I'll be right back." The sofa faced a huge television in an old-fashioned console, the kind of thing Scully hadn't seen since she was a teenager. In fact, the whole house, what she could see of it through the living room arch, reminded her of her teenaged years, from the boxy layout to the oversized furniture to the extra-thin walls papered in a tiny fleur- de-lys pattern. Government housing was government housing, no matter for whom it was intended. Scully laid back against the sofa. Not having to hold her head up any longer helped alleviate the pain, but not by much. There was a great welcoming chasm opening below her feet, a merciful darkness she longed for, but she was afraid that if she fell into it now, she would never climb out. "Not yet," came a distant voice. Scully opened her eyes to see Leonora leaning over her. "Let me have a look at you, and then we can decide if it's safe for you to sleep." Scully cast a look at Jane, who returned it with a worried frown. Amy was sitting on the floor at Jane's feet, already mesmerized by the people arguing on the TV, watching with huge eyes and a half-open mouth. They would be all right for now. Scully allowed Leonora to guide her into one of the bedrooms, and sat obediently on the bed as ordered. She was surprised at the feeling of relief that flooded her body as Leonora removed the baseball cap. It had fit when Jane bought it for her. Could her entire scalp be that swollen? "How long ago did this happen?" Leonora asked, touching around the lump with the gentlest of fingers. "Sometime around midnight last night." Leonora felt Scully's forehead and frowned. "You've got a fever. And one hell of a headache, I bet." Her calloused hand felt wonderfully cool and Scully stifled the urge to lean into it. "Yes." "And you're worried there might be bleeding beneath the bone. Subdural." Scully tried to hide her surprise at Leonora's ease with the terminology. "I think I'm okay, really. I just need some rest." "Let's see about that." Leonora picked up a small flashlight. Scully's mouth filled with the taste of vague, unpleasant memories as the light hit her full in each eye. "I think you may be in luck." Leonora said, putting the flashlight down. "Your pupils are reacting fine. And you seem too coordinated, too lucid to have been hemorrhaging since last night. But you do have an infection starting to take hold in the wound itself. That's probably causing the worst of the headache." "You sound like a doctor." Scully smiled faintly. Leonora smiled back, patting Scully's folded hands. "No, but my mother had a good understanding of plants and how to heal with them. She taught me a lot." She pointed to the other side of the bed, to a bookshelf filled with medical texts, guides to herbs, a huge homeopathic materia medica. "That's the rest of my training. When my sons were little I ran for the books and dosed them with something vile every time they coughed. Now that they're grown, they'd have to be dying to admit they're sick. To me anyway." She had been moving about as she spoke, making a pallet of folded blankets on the floor. Now she came to stand over Scully, her face soft with compassion. "This is going to hurt like hell. I can give you some whisky to take the edge off, but it would probably be better if you could get through it sober." "You're going to open the wound and clean it, yes?" "Yes, but I'll use a sage brew instead of alcohol. It's a natural disinfectant. Works better and hurts a lot less." Scully drew in a shaky breath and nodded. "I can get through it." Leonora patted her arm. "I'll get Jane to come hold your head. You'll need to stay very still." "Please, no." The thought of anyone else witnessing this was more frightening than the procedure itself. "I can lie still." Leonora regarded her for a long moment. "You all think we're so stoic. Indians don't have a problem asking people for help." "I'm not an Indian," Scully answered softly. She laid down on the pallet Leonora had made, folded her hands against her waist and set herself to endure what she knew was coming next. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She was lying on her back, the lights bright in her eyes, and they were taking something out, they were inside her mind-- "Dana? Hey, Dana, are you with me?" Scully opened her eyes to find Leonora's dark face blocking the light. "You were starting to move around. Are you sure you don't want Jane here?" "I'm fine," Scully breathed. "I'm fine. I was just drifting away somewhere." "Try to keep your eyes open, then. Keep looking at me." Leonora directed the jointed lamp she was using for extra light away from Scully's eyes. "Better? Good. Look at me and listen to my voice. Okay?" "Okay." "So, long ago the people were camping." She gave Scully an encouraging smile and a quick pat on the cheek. Scully heard the sound of scissors snipping, her hair being cut away from the wound. "That's Indian for once upon a time. Long ago, First Man and First Woman came to Giant Spruce Mountain to hide from the alien monsters who had come from the sky and destroyed all their people." Scully's sharp intake of breath had less to do with the pain of Leonora probing at the infected area than the memory invoked by words she'd just spoken. That day on the rocks seemed so far away now. Another Mulder, another Scully. Tears slid from the corners of her eyes, and Leonora wiped them away with a pad of soft gauze. Scully tried to concentrate on the soft sound of Leonora's voice as it wove the story of Changing Woman and White Shell Woman, of Sun and Water and the birth of the two children who were meant to save the world. She was almost drifting away again when Leonora did something that sent comet-tails streaking across Scully's vision. She opened her mouth to scream, but managed to remain silent. "So, Monster Slayer and Child of Water knew that they were born to slay the alien monsters, so that First Man and First Woman could have children and they could all live safely between the four sacred mountains." Leonora words came more slowly as she worked, the rhythmic, emphatic quality of her voice making a rope for Scully to hold on to as she dangled over the abyss of unconsciousness. "Now the alien monsters knew that Monster Slayer and Child of Water had been born to kill them. So the monsters came and tried to kill the children while they were still young and not very strong. And the children ran away, so the monsters would come after them and their mothers and First Man and First Woman wouldn't be hurt. But they ran along the path of the rainbow, which was forbidden to all but the holy people. And so they were in great trouble." The fire beneath Scully's scalp was slowly being quenched by the warm, pungent liquid Leonora was pouring through her hair. "This is the sage," Leonora interrupted herself to explain. "It will also help protect you from bad dreams, but you probably don't believe that." "Anyway, in time, the children found Spider Woman and they told their story and she believed them. She told them they would have to go to Sun, to the father of Monster Slayer, to learn the skills they needed to defeat the monsters, but the way was very dangerous and they were young and not very strong. So she gave them a hoop to hold out in front of them, to protect themselves on the journey. So it was many years later when Monster Slayer finally found his father, and they were grown men by then, and all their adventures to reach the Sun had made them ready." Leonora lifted Scully's head and removed the low tin bowl that had caught the liquid. She wrapped Scully's wet hair in a towel, leaving the injured area clear. "And so Monster Slayer passed his father's tests, which is another very long story. And then Sun gave Monster Slayer his own special weapons, and Child of Water was given his own special weapons and they were taught the way to defeat the monsters." Scully shuddered slightly as she watched Leonora thread a suture needle. She had put stitches into people herself, but her patients tended to be beyond feeling. She could only dread having it done to her, awake. "So when Monster Slayer and Child of Water had learned all they needed to know, they went back to the land of First Man and First Woman and were able to slay the monsters. Except the ones that Changing Woman told them to leave. Necessary evils you might call them -- and I'm going to put the stitches in now so please hold very still." Scully spread her hands wide on the carpet and made herself breathe to counts of four. "So the first monster that was allowed to live was Poverty, because without Poverty no one would think of anything new to improve our lives and so the people's minds would not grow. And Hunger was the second because without Hunger no one would learn to raise and share food, and the third was Cold because without Cold the Sun would scorch the earth, and -- just one more -- without Old Age there would be no need for children. And First Man and First Woman danced in celebration and soon there were children among them, and more children and more, and these are the Dineh people." Leonora put her hands firmly on Scully's cheeks and leaned over to smile at her, upside down. "And there. I'm done. You did well." "And Monster Slayer and Child of Water?" Scully asked weakly. "What happened to them once the alien monsters were gone?" "They did what we all should do. Find someone to love, and build a hogan, and care for the earth and the sheep and the elderlies and the children." She laid Scully's head down and wiped the last tears from her face. "Sleep now," Leonora finished, getting up and covering Scully with a soft woven blanket. She began to move around the room, clearing away her things, singing softly as she worked. Scully let go of the rope, and found herself not tumbling down into darkness, but floating someplace warm and safe, rocked gently in the cadence of a strange melody, in a soft breeze of burning sage. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> ARROW WHEEL MOTEL MARCH 12TH, 6:04 PM Mulder had learned one other thing during a long, interminable day of waiting, a thing he found very surprising. Given a set of six large brightly-colored crayons and a pad, Caitlin could draw. He only had to remember to stop pacing now and again to change the paper or she would continue to draw right over the earlier images. Her drawings were no different than one might expect from a child of four -- shapes only vaguely discernible as houses, cars, people. What was remarkable was that she was able to convey anything at all. Mulder spread the pages out on the floor, walking around and over and through them. They were Caitlin's words, he realized, a story she wanted to tell him, but she was as hampered by her four-year-old fingers as by the effects of her illness. It was as if he had to explain his life to a Russian, using only the thirty or so words he knew of that language. One of them, he thought, looking at a balloon-headed figure that kept appearing over and over again, might be alien. He imagined Scully standing there, arms folded beneath her breasts, obstinate as ever, telling him that he was just seeing what he wanted to see. Was this going to be the rest of his life, having arguments with Scully in his head? By the time Kresge came back, Mulder was once again seated at the table, the girl perched on his knee. Caitlin was still drawing pictures while he stared off into space, pen poised above a piece of paper half covered with his scribbled notes. Another dozen or so pages sat beneath his elbow. "That looks homey," Kresge observed, closing the door behind him and fitting the chain into the lock. Mulder had to blink several times before he could shift his focus onto the man standing in front of him. "What's up?" the detective asked, coming closer to look at Caitlin's work. "Picasso is creating masterpieces," Mulder answered. He slid the paper out from under Caitlin's hands and replaced it with a blank page from his pad. Caitlin stared down at it for a moment, as if envisioning the great art she would make, then proceeded to put the worn tip of her red crayon to the page and draw an uneven circle. Mulder's eyes felt about as wobbly as he looked around and realized he'd been sitting in the same place for hours. The street outside the window was already growing dark. A whole day wasted. He looked down at Caitlin again, ruffling his hand through her hair. "Pretty amazing, huh?" "It is," Kresge nodded. He glanced at the floor, littered with dozens of similar pages, and back to the pile of Mulder's notes. "What have you got?" "I've been trying to profile John Wallace." Mulder tossed his pen down and rubbed his free hand over his face, up and down as if trying to get the circulation going again. "Is there a point, now that he's dead?" "Yeah. First, we haven't begun to figure out the answer to all this. How Amy got to the Children's Center. How Caitlin got to the orphanage where I found her. Who's behind this whole thing, how Wallace fits into it. Second, it's keeping me sane." Kresge nodded. That he obviously understood. He leaned over and helped himself to a swig of water from the bottle sitting open on the table. "Well, I have good and bad news here. We found the car. That was easy. Scully apparently phoned the rental company and told them where to pick it up." Good old Scully, ever the law-abiding citizen, even when she was breaking the law. "Is that the good or the bad news?" Mulder asked. "I guess it's the good. The bad is, I took that composite drawing to every used car lot and rental agency within five miles of where she left it. No one's seen her." "My people haven't had any luck either," Mulder said. "Nothing on her credit cards, no ATM withdrawals. She's too clever to leave a trail, she knows exactly where we'd look." "Well, the silver lining in that cloud would be that if you can't trace her, neither can anybody else." Kresge pulled a newspaper out of his pocket and spread it on the table. The Arizona Daily Sun. He pointed to an article right on the front page, next to a picture of Amy Wallace and the headline: Hunt for Suspect in Double Murder. "They haven't named her," he said. "Yet." Mulder stood, swinging Caitlin up with him. She seemed momentarily confused at the change of scenery, then laid her head down on his shoulder, the crayon falling from her hand as her body relaxed. She felt hot, even through his t-shirt, a condition that had been coming and going over the last day. "Mulder, put the kid down for a second," Kresge said. "We need to talk seriously here." "She's fine," Mulder answered mechanically. "She likes the contact." Kresge gave an exasperated sigh. "You have this clockwork thing going, right? A call window every three hours. Did Scully use that window any time today?" Mulder didn't answer. "No, I didn't think so. If she's not calling, Mulder, it's only one of two reasons. She either can't, or she's chosen not to. My guess would be she's chosen not to, and you know why." Kresge moved closer, his face growing kind and sympathetic now. Mulder recognized it as the good cop persona and wondered if Kresge's partner normally took the other role. "Mulder, I know you want to protect her. Believe me, I do too. But if you're going to continue to withhold information, you're on your own. I can't help you." Mulder spread his free hand wide, as if to show it was empty of secrets. "What do you think I'm withholding?" "What's the code she gave to your friends?" Mulder sighed. "She's going underground. She's picking up a new set of identity papers in Albuquerque tomorrow. I'm going to try to head her off." Kresge was doing a slow boil now, holding it in with admirable control. "And what? You're going to go with her, disappear into the sunset with your twins like some happy family and leave me holding the bag?" "No. That's not my plan. I don't have a plan, but I can't just let her disappear." Mulder shook his head, turning away. "I'm sorry. We should never have involved you in this." "Well, I am involved, Mulder. Up to my eyeballs. It's about time you started acknowledging that." Caitlin began to whimper in Mulder's arms, sensing his distress. He laid her on the bed, tickling her stomach until she grew calm again. Caitlin rewarded him with her funny, open-mouthed version of a grin, her eyes focused on the ceiling. He gave the girl her rabbit and turned around, making himself face Kresge again. The look on the detective's face wasn't quite what Mulder expected. It was the same expression that Scully often had when she was turning pieces of evidence around in her head, trying to find the edges that fit. "What?" he asked. "Scully found some stuff before she disappeared." Kresge licked his lips and swallowed some more water. "Information on the families of two of the other girls. The parents of this one," he said, indicating Caitlin, "were killed a couple of days before Tom Hampton. And the other couple, the MacEntyres -- it went to another division, so I didn't know about it until Scully dug it up. But it was the same MO. Husband shot, wife cut. Same day as the Hamptons." "A cleanup operation," Mulder supplied, coming back to take the chair across from Kresge. "Maybe. Maybe Caitlin's parents knew it was coming and tried to run. One of the houses Scully and I checked out the night we divided up those addresses was closed up like the people had gone away for awhile. It was probably theirs." At last, Mulder felt the spark of a lead ignite his mental engine. "Do you have those files? Can we get your partner to check out the address?" "Scully has them. She took it all with her when I was pulled from the case." "Damn it." Mulder spat, starting to pace again. "There was one girl we never found," he suddenly remembered, turning back to Kresge. "Bethany MacEntyre. Was there something in those files about her?" "I don't know. I never got a complete look at them." "When I found Caitlin, there was another bed in her room." He thought of something then, dropping to his knees, searching through the papers he'd tossed on the floor until he found the one he remembered. Two rectangles, one next to the other, with sticks coming out of the bottom, and a flattened red circle at the top. "The circle is her, I've figured that much out. But look at this." Mulder spread the drawing flat on the table in front of Kresge, pointing first to one rectangle, then another. "Two circles. Two Caitlins. Or rather, one Caitlin, one Bethany. She saw Bethany in that place." "Oh my god," Kresge said, picking up the drawing and staring at it in disbelief. "She is trying to tell you something." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 8 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> HATTAWAY RESIDENCE MARCH 13TH, 8:07 AM Light, white light. She could hear whimpering, and hated herself. She couldn't stop the soft cries any more than she could stop the hot tears she felt dribbling down from the corners of her eyes into her hair. -Oh God, why? Why are they doing this to me? A face appeared above hers, a woman's face, gentle and concerned. The woman looked grey and worn, as if she too had been subjected to whatever was happening to Scully now. "Shh," she whispered, laying a soothing hand on Scully's forehead. "The worst is almost over. There's only one more procedure. Then you can sleep." -Penny? "It's okay, Dana. I'm here to take care of you." -What are they doing? "Shh." Penny's eyes flicked upward, fear freezing her features as the other voices began to argue, but the hand on Scully's forehead never stopped its rhythmic caress. "I don't see the point in waking her. There's nothing she can do." "She needs to know." "She needs to sleep." -What? What do I need to know? Scully swallowed, paralyzed, hearing her own voice in her ears, not certain if she had opened her mouth. "Dana, you need to wake up now." She managed to open her eyes long enough to see Jane bending over her, shaking her shoulder. Above them, there was no light. Only acoustic tile. A ceiling. A house. Leonora's house. Scully filled her lungs with air. She was safe. "How do you feel?" Leonora asked, as Scully looked around. She let her awareness drift back to herself, running through the ritual she had developed, waking up in countless hospitals over the years. Arms and legs, check. Belly -- no pain, no nausea, check. Lungs working easily, heart beating at a normal pace. Nothing down her throat or up her nose. Her scalp still burned, but the pounding fullness of her head was gone. She felt a general lassitude, a blurred heaviness she associated with having recently been unconscious, but nothing more. "Better," she answered, and managed a weak smile. "Dana?" Jane's voice was quiet, but urgent. "We need to talk. Something's happened." She was alert enough to catch the warning look Leonora bestowed on Jane. "If you think you can sit up," Leonora added. Scully considered the possibility, thought she might be able to do it. She let the two of them raise her up and maneuver her around to lean against the headboard. Only then did she notice that she was lying in a bed. Leonora's bed, she guessed, judging by the collection of family photos sitting on the dresser against the opposite wall. Leonora took the opportunity to remove the bandage tied around Scully's head, prodding gently around the outer edges of the wound. "It's much better. You want to see?" Leonora asked. Scully nodded and was presented with a small hand mirror. She steeled herself and looked. It was excellent work. The swelling was nearly gone now and the cut itself looked pink and clean, crossed over with four neat, tidy stitches. "Sage compress," Leonora smiled, holding up the damp, stained pad that had been inside the bandage. "Works every time." Jane was staring at Scully's head, unconsciously rubbing at her own right wrist. Scully reached for Jane's hand, remembering now that she had never taken the stitches out. "Done," Jane said, pulling up her sleeve. "You should have been the doctor," Scully said to Leonora, letting the mirror and the hand that held it fall back to her lap. She suddenly felt drained in every sense. Even her voice sounded like air blowing through a hollow reed. Leonora put her hand on Scully's cheek for a brief, warm moment. "I'm going make you a nice echinacea tea. It won't taste very good, but it will help you get your immune system back up." She threw a quick hard look at Jane as she left. "You'd better tell her, since you woke her up." "Tell me what?" Scully asked, when Leonora was gone. She'd closed the door quietly, but Scully could sense an anger that wanted to slam it hard enough to rock the flimsy house. "Leonora sent her son out to Ella Boy's place early this morning. He just called from the chapter house in Teesto." "And?" "And. She's dead, Dana. Remember the snow we saw the night we got to Flagstaff? Apparently, up here it was one hell of a blizzard. It looks like she went out to find her sheep when the storm came up. She froze to death, not twenty yards from her house." Scully closed her eyes. An old woman got lost in a snowstorm. An old Indian woman who'd lived in the same place her whole life and probably knew a storm was coming days before it got there. Accidents like that happened, surely they did. Was it only paranoia that made her sense the hand of someone else? "We need to go," she said. "They probably haven't tracked us this far, but I'm not taking any chances. I don't want these people hurt for their kindness." Her legs, when she stood, were much steadier than she expected. In fact, now that she was moving, getting her blood flowing again, she almost felt rested. Not for long, she suspected, looking around for the jeans she'd been wearing, but long enough to deal with Albuquerque. Once she had those papers, everything would be easier. She'd be official again, able to move around without worrying that every cop out there was looking for Dana Scully. She would be someone else. She looked in the mirror and wondered what it would be like to have brown hair. "Sit down," said a cold voice. Scully turned, shocked to see Jane raising her hand, aiming at her with her own weapon. Scully sat down right where she was, her back scraping along the dresser. She couldn't have done much else at that point; her legs would no longer hold her. "I could kill you so easily," Jane said. "You could," Scully agreed after a moment. She drew in a careful breath, trying to take in this new situation. "Whatever you have a mind to do," Scully said tightly, "please don't involve Leonora. You've got hundreds of miles of desert to shoot me in. Don't do it here." "Why won't you tell me the truth?" Jane asked, the end of her nose beginning to go red. She sounded like she might cry at any moment. "I will if you will." "The truth about what?" If Jane only knew how many truths Scully hadn't told, she'd probably be lying on the floor dead right now. "Who is Amy's mother? And don't say Jennifer Wallace, you know that's not what I'm asking." The gun wavered in Jane's hand and Scully knew that the moment of danger had passed. She could take her weapon back, refuse to answer. Pick up Amy and leave, get a new name and disappear forever, leave Jane to fend for herself. Scully let her breath out in a sharp sigh, her head falling back against the dresser. She could. If only she were the kind of person who would do that. "Is it you?" Jane demanded. "Yes," Scully said, surprised at the relief she felt, finally admitting it. "How could you just let them take your children like that?" "I didn't. I didn't give them life. They were created, without my knowledge or consent. I didn't know any of them existed until last year, until I found Emily." "So where is she?" "I told you. She died. Of the same illness Denise had." Scully swallowed hard, as the relief quickly turned to something else and congealed in her throat. "It's a complicated story. One I'll tell you another time. Not now." They stared at each other. Not a contest of wills between them, Scully realized, but a contest within Jane. Truth or dare. "A man came to me," Jane said, her eyes full now, but still not spilling over. "When Denise got sick again. He promised he could make her well, they way they did before. He said he would come back for her when the treatment was ready. But she died before he did." So, truth. "Let me guess. An older man, who smelled like cigarettes?" Jane nodded. "You know him?" She gave Jane a grim little nod. Finally, the smoker had reared his ugly head. "Had you ever seen him before? Or since?" "Not before. But he came back later, when I was in the hospital. He said the people who killed Tom would come for me again and I should ask you to take me into protective custody. He was very specific about that. Ask Agent Scully." "Why me? Why not Mulder?" "He wanted me to watch you. To stay with you as much as possible. To call him whenever I could and tell him what you were doing. Where you went, or if you had bad dreams." Scully's hand flew automatically to the back of her neck. No. It was gone. There was no way. The man was making an educated guess based on what he knew about the functioning of the chip. Which meant he knew that she'd removed it and that after a certain time, her memories would begin to seep back. She put that thought away to look at later. "And what were you supposed to get out of this? Apart from your life, obviously." Jane raised her head, eyes full of tears. Scully's stomach clenched tight. "They promised you your daughter back." "He told me Denise had a twin, that she'd been taken when she was born, and he knew where she was. He said that if I did what he said, he would arrange a new life for us. A house and a job, anywhere I wanted. He said he'd see to it that we were so well hidden no one would ever be able to come after us." Her face crumpled, but the tears still didn't fall. "He showed me a picture. But it's not the girl in the one you have. And it's not Amy. I don't know who it is." Scully covered her own face with her hands. Fool. She'd been a fool. How could she have been so blind? She'd thought she was being overly paranoid. She hadn't been paranoid enough. "Tell me you never told him we were here," Scully said. "I, I called him from Flagstaff. When you went to get Jennifer," Jane sniffed, wiping at her eyes. "Then I thought you were dead and I thought I did it. I thought I killed you." The tears broke free at last and Jane sat heavily on the bed. Scully moved quietly across the room, and reached out to snake a finger through the trigger of her weapon, carefully sliding it out of the woman's hands. "You can shoot me, I don't care," Jane cried. "But I swear to god, Dana, I never thought they would hurt you. I'm not a bad person. I just wanted Denise back so badly I wasn't thinking straight." Scully moved away, holding the gun low, her finger off the trigger now. "Do you have that picture?" she asked. "The one he showed you?" Jane nodded miserably. She reached into the top of her dress and drew out a folded rectangle. Scully opened it against her hip, still gripping the gun in the other hand. The girl in this picture had hair to her waist, parted in the middle and growing thinner towards the ends, as if it had never been cut. Longer than Amy's. Closer to red than any of the others. It was Bethany MacEntyre, the girl Scully had seen when she blacked out in the morgue. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> ARROW WHEEL MOTEL, FLAGSTAFF MARCH 13TH, 8:32 AM Kresge woke with a start, surprised to find the sun well up. Yesterday had been exhausting, fruitless stomping from used car lot to used car lot, and he'd fallen dead asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. People who thought police work was glamorous watched too much television. During Kresge's now abruptly terminated career, solving crimes had been about 40% footwork, 50% sitting around shuffling papers of one sort or another, and 10% excitement. Some of which he definitely could have done without. He rolled over and found Mulder sitting in one of the vinyl armchairs, holding the girl. "I thought we were going to Albuquerque," Kresge said. Mulder didn't answer. "Hey, Mulder," Kresge repeated, louder. "I thought--" "Caitlin's sick." Kresge sat up, staring at the man. "She was running a low fever all day yesterday," Mulder went on, without inflection. "I checked on her at about midnight and she was burning up. She started having trouble breathing a couple of hours ago." "Mulder." Kresge rolled off the bed, padding in his socks to where Mulder sat. The man must be in shock. Kresge felt like he was looking at himself, kneeling by Elizabeth's body, wanting to scream to the heavens to bring her back, unable to even open his mouth. He looked into Mulder's eyes, sharp and hollow at the same time. Yes, Kresge thought, that's what I must have looked like. "Let me take her to the hospital," he said quietly, reaching to slip his hands beneath the girl's back and legs. "No." Mulder held the child closer. "I promised no one would hurt her again." He stood, adjusting Caitlin so her head was cradled on his shoulder. She looked so much like she always had, asleep or simply not there, that it was hard for Kresge to feel any grief. Ending that poor life could only be a blessing. "They could keep her comfortable until it's over," he tried again. "I saw what they did for Emily. It didn't help." "Mulder, we need to get to Scully. If we miss her now, we may lose her for good." "I know." Mulder moved to the table, where Caitlin's toys were still laid out. A stuffed rabbit, some crayons and a thick pile of drawings. He selected one of the pictures, a scribbled forest of red with a blue sun and a balloon-headed stick figure down in the corner, and held it out. "You go. Give this to Scully, if you find her," he said. "Tell her that there *was* an orphanage. And there was a child. Tell her--" He cut himself off, shoving the paper roughly at Kresge. "Here. Just take it." Kresge accepted the drawing reluctantly, turning it over and over in his hands. "What are you going to do?" he finally asked. Mulder had laid Caitlin down on the bed and her eyes were fluttering open then closed, in time with her labored breath. He tugged her t- shirt back into place, arranging her arms and legs before drawing the covers up around her and tucking it beneath her chin. The care with which he touched the child was heart-rending in its reverence and Kresge found he had to turn away from them. "I'm going to stay with Caitlin until it's over," Mulder answered, "and then I'm calling Skinner." Kresge turned around. "Mulder, you'll be arrested." "I don't care," he answered harshly. "If I can prove what those bastards did to her, I don't really give a shit what else happens." Mulder sat beside the girl again, ignoring Kresge, cradling Caitlin's small fist in his huge hand. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Jane had been sitting on the back porch for the last half-hour, watching Amy run around with Leonora's five-year-old grandson. For her entire life -- what she could remember of it -- she had been fascinated by the similarities of siblings, of parents and their children. Until Denise was born, Jane had never known what it meant to be part of another person. She had never tired of looking at her daughter. It made her feel real, to see a few pieces of herself in the shape and color of Denise's eyes, in her tiny rosebud mouth. Now Jane knew that Dana Scully had those same eyes, that same mouth -- even the same slight, delicate curve to her nose that Jane had always assumed came from Tom. Resemblances, she guessed, were easy to find when you were so desperately looking for them. Here, then, was the truth. Denise had never been a part of her. The promised child would never appear. And Amy belonged to someone else. They would go to Albuquerque, Jane decided, and that would be the end of her journey. It was as good a place as any to try to start again. She had no need for protection now that there would be no child to protect. Maybe They would forget about her. And if They didn't, well, to whom would it matter? She would pass through the world as if her entire life had been a clerical error. No more than that. Jane stood and brushed the dirt off the back of her dress. Might as well get on with it. The kitchen was the largest room in Leonora's house, a long bright rectangle divided into cooking and dining areas by a waist high- counter. Leonora was standing over a long table sprinkled with flour, working with a fist-sized ball of dough, pressing it flat and spinning it over the heel of her hand like a miniature pizza. Scully, perching on a stool across from Leonora, had another ball, but seemed to be doing little more than rolling it around between her hands. The two women fell silent as Jane entered, though at least Leonora looked up and gave Jane a smile. "You ever had frybread?" she asked. Jane shook her head. The old woman, Leonora's great-aunt, was working an old-fashioned loom in the corner of the dining room, and the clack of the shuttle sounded like intermittent gunfire in the quiet room. "Mine's pretty good, I'm told," Leonora said, laying her slab of dough down on the table, where it joined the ones she'd already done. She pulled another hunk off the big batch sitting in a wooden bowl by her elbow. "But my mother's was better." "My mother makes an Irish stew I've been trying my whole life to duplicate," Scully offered. "You can have the exact recipe, it just isn't quite the same." "The secret of mothers," Leonora smiled. "I bet our kids will say the same of us." Silence fell again, easy from Leonora's side, less so from Scully's. Jane reached for the bowl, avoiding looking at either woman. "How do I do this?" she asked. "Flour your hands first." Leonora looked up as gravel crunched outside the house. Through the dining room window, a shiny green pickup could be seen pulling into the yard. She shot a significant look at Scully and left, pulling the dishtowel she'd been using as an apron out of the waist of her jeans and wiping her hands as she went. Scully was still turning the ball of dough around and around in her hands, not rolling it out so much as squeezing it in. "Leonora has a hogan on the Hopi side of the partition," she said, keeping her head down. "She's going to go out there this afternoon. I want you and Amy to go with her." Scully glanced up, then quickly dropped her gaze again. "They're looking for two red-haired women and a child. It'll be safer for all of us right now if I go to New Mexico alone." Jane watched Scully's hands flattening the dough, replaying the words in her head to make sure she hadn't gotten something wrong. "Why would you trust me with Amy?" she finally managed to ask. "After everything I just told you?" "Because," Scully said quietly, laying her lumpy attempt next to Leonora's thin, evenly stretched circles. "I don't believe you would do anything to hurt her. And because you know if you try to disappear with her, we will all come after you. Myself, my partner, the FBI and whoever wants you dead. You won't stand a chance." "I would never do that." Jane pressed her hands flat on the table to hold them steady, staring at the top of Scully's head, at the gauze pad poking out from beneath the bandana she was using to hide the bandage. "Amy is your flesh and blood. I would never try to steal her from you." Scully looked up again, fixing Jane with an intense blue stare. "I'm trusting you with my life," she said. "If you call that man, he'll have me killed." Jane met those familiar eyes with a strength she hadn't thought she could still summon. "I know." She understood now why something about Scully had always drawn her, though the recognition had been subconscious. Part of Denise was still here, in this woman whose child Jane had fed from her own breasts. It was a connection she couldn't begin to fathom. "I'll go to Albuquerque and pick up my papers," Scully was saying. "As soon as everything is arranged, I'll come back." "And what about me?" Jane asked softly. "Where do I go then?" Scully reached over and clasped Jane's hand. "Just trust me, Jane. You will be taken care of." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 9 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> INTERSTATE 40 MARCH 13TH, 12:02 PM Robert Hattaway was a tall, stocky 25-year-old, with his mother's round face and curly black hair but little of her eloquence. He seemed content to listen to the wind blowing through the open windows of his pickup as they rode past the trading posts and filling stations that lined the highway to Albuquerque. The endless thrum was almost enough to make Scully miss their first driver and his faded collection of tapes. She tugged the baseball cap down over her face and sank into her seat, trying not to think about what might be waiting. A package, a squadron of police, a sleek dark sedan with men in suits and thin black ties. One night, years ago, she had driven down an empty road from Farmington, on her way to connect with this very highway. They had come from nowhere, jeeps and helicopters and the bright white light. If her abduction had left her with any trace of her former faith in the government she served, They took it with them that night when They took her files, disappearing as abruptly as They'd arrived. And she drove back to DC, alone, her hands empty of all but the fear that Mulder was dead, that she had somehow failed to protect him. She'd been given another responsibility now, not only for him, but for two other lives. Whatever she had to do to protect them, she was not going to fail this time. "Could we pull over soon?" she asked, tilting her head up so that she could look at Robert. "I need to make a call. And I could do with some coffee." Robert smiled. He was a man who liked his coffee, she'd seen that at breakfast. "Laguna," he offered. "Got a pay phone too." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> LAGUNA, NEW MEXICO MARCH 13TH, 12:12 PM Scully stood at the phone booth, hand on the receiver, wondering if They would be tapping her mother's phone, if their surveillance could really be as thorough as that. She could just imagine trying the clockwork scenario on her mother. Here Mom, I'm going to give you a number. Write the last four digits down backward. Now go to a pay phone and dial the number as you wrote it. Not as I read it, that's for the mean old men who are listening so they can run a trace and drive out to that phone while I'm nice and safe somewhere else. Now we're going to do this on the hour, every three hours, from 6 AM till midnight, until I can surface again. Out of the question. By the time Scully got her mother to understand what she was asking and worked through the resulting maternal anxiety attack, there would be cigarette smoke and someone forcing her into one of those featureless black sedans. "Hello?" Scully blinked in surprise at her mother's warm, familiar voice. She didn't remember dialing. "Mom? Hi, it's me." Gone were the days when that might be answered with "Which me?" Scully had not thought that she and her sister sounded much alike, but her mother had never been able to tell them apart on the phone. "Hi, sweetie. How are you? Are you home?" "No, I'm not. I'm still on a case." "Bill said you came by to see him. I didn't know you were out in San Diego." Great. Trust her brother to tell their mother everything, and probably a few opinions of his own on top of that. It was hard to believe that once upon a time they had kept each other's secrets. "I wasn't planning on being there." Well at least that was the truth, Scully thought, and took a stabilizing breath. "Mom, there's something I need to ask." "Okay." She heard a veil of wariness fall over her mother's voice. So light, only one of Maggie's children would pick it up. It was the sound of her mother when she knew she was going be asked something she didn't want to answer. Mom, how come you're mad at Daddy? I'm not mad at Daddy, sweetie, I'm mad at the Navy. Are we moving again, Mom? Nothing lasts forever, Dana, only the earth and God's love. "Dana? Honey, are you still there?" "Mom, this is going to sound really strange, but...I've been having these dreams." Dreams, yes, better than visions. Dreams, Maggie Scully understood. Talk to her about visions and her mother was likely to haul her off to Father McCue the moment she got home. If she got home. No, don't think about that. "Dreams about what?" her mother was asking. "I've been dreaming...Mom, I don't know how to ask this, but was Melissa a twin?" "A twin?" The veil of wariness lifted completely now, a note almost of relief in her mother's voice. "No, Dana, she wasn't. Where on earth did you get that idea?" "But were you awake when she was born?" "Awake? No, not for Melissa. They did tend to knock us out in those days. You, I was awake for. We were having dinner with Admiral Burdock -- well, he was still a Captain then -- and we were laughing so hard. I guess you wanted to see what all the fun was about because suddenly there you were, on your way. And your father couldn't get the car to start, he was so nervous--" "Mom." She didn't need to hear the story of her birth, practically on the Burdock's dining room table, one more time. "Okay, okay. So, what exactly were you dreaming?" Scully could almost see her mother settling back, phone caught between her shoulder and her ear, hands wrapped around a nice warm cup of coffee. It was a picture she'd seen a million times as Maggie consoled herself in new surroundings, talking to friends thousands of miles away. It had never really occurred to Scully before how hard her mother must have found their life. All the usual agonies of starting over in new places, compounded by four kids grumbling and whining and their father usually sent straight off to sea. "Mom, I love you." The words she spoke so rarely popped out of her mouth and she understood that this was really all she had called to say. "Dana?" Concern now, mother-radar on alert. Thirty-five years old and the damn thing still worked. "Honey, is everything okay?" Scully reached for the phone as if she could reach through it, stroke her mother's familiar face. She closed her eyes and bit her lip against the words she wanted to say. No, Mom. No, it's not okay. I've done everything wrong, screwed up with Mulder, screwed up with you, and Bill, and Missy, and if Dad were here he'd be reading me the same riot act he read Charlie when he got Marilyn pregnant. Responsibility for one's actions. The need for family. I did want a family, Mom, but I wanted a career too and now all the choices seem to keep making themselves and I don't know what's right, I don't know what to do. Like you used to say, the world will go as it will and not as you or I would have it. I know you always said you looked forward to my children, and I have one now but how can I raise a child on the run, how can I not run, how can I stick around, waiting for Them to take her, if I were even allowed to keep her after what I've done, and I've done things that you and Dad would not be proud of, things that can't be taken back, and even if I could, if I could just be what I was, then I'm just getting older, and I'm going to be alone and I know that you are too, but it's one thing when you've had your husband and raised your kids and another when you've always been alone and I know you can't live forever, Mom, and when you're gone I'll have no one, there'll be no one who knows me, who knows the real Dana -- and don't say Bill or Charlie because they haven't been part of my life for years and you know it. Or maybe there'll be no Dana left after this, I'll just be Scully FBI, I'll be like Skinner, like Nancy Spiller, my forensics instructor they call the Iron Maiden, all those people who work and work and work because there's no reason to go home, there's nothing else in their lives, and who am I fooling? I already am one of those people, and I don't want to be, Mom, but I don't know how to be anything else anymore, I don't know how to be with someone, I waited too long and there's something wrong with me now and I tried, I tried with Mulder and I destroyed everything that we ever had between us and I don't know if I'll ever see him again, and even if I do, I don't know how to make it right, and I'm scared, Mom, I'm scared, I don't know if I can ever come home and this may be the last time I even get to hear your voice-- "Dana? Honey, come on. Talk to me. What's the matter?" Scully forced her voice into a higher, brighter register. "It's okay, Mom. I'm okay. I need to go now." "You don't sound okay, Dana." "I am, I'm just tired. It's been a hard case." She paused, trying to gather herself back together. "I don't think I'm going to be home anytime soon, so don't worry if I'm not. Okay?" "You'll call when you are?" Scully swallowed hard. "Of course." "You know, Dana, you can call just to talk. You used to do that all the time." "I know, Mom. I've got to go." She slipped the phone gently back into its cradle, standing before it as she'd stood before her sister's casket, unable to turn around and walk away. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> CENTRAL POST OFFICE, ALBUQUERQUE MARCH 13TH, 1:37 PM He would not have found her, he was certain, if he had not seen the short woman standing near the held mail window lift a card to her face and squint at it in a way that was suddenly familiar. Even up close, Scully was almost unrecognizable. In cheap jeans and a grubby t-shirt, her bright hair pushed mostly under a baseball cap that didn't suit her face at all, she looked scrawny and waifish. More like a strung-out kid from the streets than the well-groomed federal agent he knew. He slipped up behind her and wrapped a hand around her upper arm. "It's me, Dana. Please. Don't run." Perhaps it was the fact that his voice carried a plea and not an order that stayed her feet. "I'm not here to hurt you," Kresge said. "I just have a message from Mulder." Her body relaxed a little, enough for him to believe that it would be okay to let go. At last she looked up and he could see what the days had done to her. She was not insane, not in the way he or Mulder would understand it, but something inside her had definitely cracked. This was not the same woman who stood in his living room a week ago, rising on her toes to kiss him. Not even the one who was so strange and distant over breakfast two days later. This was Scully stripped down to her bare essence, running on nothing but fierce determination. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and drew out the paper Mulder had given him. Scully spread it open between her hands like a king's proclamation, her face unreadable, her eyes flicking sharply from image to image. "What is this?" she demanded at last. "There was an orphanage, Scully. And there was a child. Her name is Caitlin." "Oh, god." She closed her eyes and swayed. He stepped forward without thinking, catching her around the waist and pulling her to lean against him. She did not hug him back, but she made no move to break away either. "Let's get out of here," he said, bending his head to pitch his voice only for her ears. "We have a lot to talk about." She didn't answer. "Scully?" He moved back to see her face, and she slid to the ground. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She was on the grey plain, featureless but for a dim shape on the horizon. Scully hurried toward it, urgency moving her across the vast expanse of nothing in giant, level steps. At last she was close enough to see the shape for what it was -- Mulder, sitting in an armchair, cradling a child. Scully took the last steps and knelt at his feet, gazing upward into his face. Something cracked open inside her, everything she had hidden for so long spilling out, sending the grey mist whirling wildly around them. Mulder and her daughter, so beautiful together, his hand cradling the back of the child's head, slender fingers softly rubbing at her scalp. For a moment, she was certain he saw her and she whispered his name, reaching for him, but her arms would not bridge the distance. Mulder closed his eyes, holding the child closer, tears spilling from beneath his lashes. And there were hands at her shoulders, moving her away. Melissa took her place, bending to lift the child from Mulder's arms. She moved in the direction from which Scully had come, whispering something that was lost in the wind. -Melissa? Her sister turned, face wan with disappointment. The girl yawned and stretched and looked around, rubbing her eyes as if waking from a long sleep. "This is Caitlin," Melissa said. -No. No, Missy, I tried. "That's not it, Dana. This is right." She indicated the girl in her arms. -Then what was it about? If they were all meant to die, what was this all about? "Look inside yourself, Dana. Feel yourself. Feel your heart." -My...? She turned around, but Mulder was gone. There was nothing left but a great heaviness in her chest. And then she was moving through space at a sickening speed. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> At last her eyes flew open. She saw whirling, opened her eyes again and saw the bottom of a man's chin, needing a shave. She wondered why she had bothered to notice something so mundane when Kresge looked down, and all motion stopped. "Dana?" He was carrying her, she realized. Carrying her and walking as fast as he could with her limp weight in his arms. "Just lie still," he said, hitching her up higher. "I've got you, you're safe." She swallowed and breathed, trying to force air into her stiff lungs. "You can put me down," she answered, her voice rough, but strong enough to carry. "I'm okay now." "The hell you are," Kresge retorted, but he set her back on her feet, holding her against his side as they slowly walked to his car. Kresge dug in his pocket for the keys, got them out and unlocked the passenger door. "You don't move," he ordered, putting his hand on her shoulder as she lowered herself into the seat. "I'm going to get you some water. I want you here when I get back." She nodded, still disoriented. Water sounded like a wonderful idea, the clear coolness of it running down her throat, washing away the last of the sediment lodged in her chest. Scully reached up and felt her head. The hat was gone, fallen off she guessed, but the bandana she had tied over the gauze bandage was still in place. She flipped down the mirror and adjusted the blue cloth, making sure the bandage was completely covered, frowning briefly at the awful picture she made. The papers, thank god, were still in her back pocket, where she had stuffed them after Kresge grabbed her arm. They were a bit bent now, but that only contributed to their authenticity. Birth certificate, driver's license, Visa card, social security, all in the name of Mary Margaret Wilson. The documents were clipped neatly inside a passbook for a savings account containing $5,000. Scully thumbed through the papers quickly. It was all as she'd expected. The only thing that had not been there when they put the package together years ago was the extra birth certificate. Mary Wilson now had a daughter -- Sarah Louise, father unknown. It was Frohike's blessing; the name of his mother, many years gone. Scully blinked away her tears and shoved the documents back into the package, pulling out a small blue envelope. It contained a postcard of the Washington monument. On the back, where the address should be, Frohike had written 'Truth or Consequences'. She was still trying to puzzle that one out when Kresge returned. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Truth or Consequences, Scully finally remembered, was a place, not a challenge. A small town on the highway heading south from Albuquerque, toward El Paso. "Just the place for me to retire, eh, Scully?" Mulder had said, and she had laughed. She was driving, god knows where, and he was playing his favorite road game, pulling strange names off the map. "Hey, Uravan! Urabus, Uracar! Loveland, now that would be the place. Flasher, where all the old men go." Scully stared out the window as the road wound south, but the scenery didn't change and her chest ached with missing him. She and Kresge arrived at the post office just before it closed. This time she showed Mary Wilson's driver's license when she was asked for ID. The clerk glanced at it, nodded, and handed over another blue envelope. Scully put it in her back pocket without looking at it. "This is where we part," she said, rejoining Kresge, who was leaning against his dusty car, arms folded as he stared off down the quiet main street of the town. "Dana, I'm not leaving you here alone." "John." She let herself move closer, touching her fingertips to the hair that fell over his forehead. She dropped her hand as he looked down at her, a curious hurt written in his eyes. "It's all been arranged," she said. "I'm not alone." "What do I tell Mulder?" he asked, his eyes still searching hers for clues. She held her expression carefully neutral. "Just tell him I'm safe. That he should do whatever he needs to do to save himself." "What about saving you? Scully, if you disappear now, it's like admitting that you're guilty. Forget about Mulder, about your work. What about your family? Do you want them to believe you went crazy and started killing people?" "No, I don't," she said heavily, "but I'm beyond believing that the truth will save me. These people will make sure that the evidence I need to prove the truth disappears. They'll have Amy and I'll be a cop doing life in a maximum security prison. Exactly how long do you think either one of us will last?" "Can you live like that? Without any of the people that love you? Lying every single minute of your life?" She closed her eyes as a wave of despair broke over her head. Just put one foot in front of the other and keep on going, she heard her sister say. You'll know where you are when you get there. Despair ebbed, then disappeared. "If it keeps Amy alive and out of Their hands, yes," she answered. "Yes, I can live like that." She rose on the balls of her feet and touched her lips to Kresge's cheek, surprising both of them. "Thank you for trying," she murmured. "You've been a good friend." She turned then, and made herself walk away from him. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> ARROW WHEEL MOTEL MARCH 13TH, 5:58 PM The motel was a slight cut above their usual fare, fancy enough for a paper strip over each towel, assuring him of its hygienic cleanliness. Mulder ran a washcloth under cold water and pressed it against his swollen eyes, wishing for Scully in yet another way, wishing to see the satisfied little smile she sometimes gave when his choice of accommodation actually showed a bit of taste. The irony of it was unbearable. Six years he'd spent bringing a beautiful woman to one motel after another and never making love. He straightened abruptly and stared at himself in the mirror. Four days unshaven, eyes rheumy, his uncombed hair sticking up on one side of his head -- he looked like he was living in hell. He had illegal custody of a child who was never meant to exist and Scully was out there somewhere, possibly wounded, possibly dead herself, while he stood here like an idiot thinking about taking her to a motel. His capacity for brain farts in the face of disaster was truly disgusting. He threw the washcloth back in the basin and retraced his steps to the bed where Caitlin lay. Mulder wished he had some faith, some ritual to guide him through what he had to do now. He drew the blanket up, but he could not bear to cover her face. All he could do was fold it beneath Caitlin's arms, lay her hands upon her chest. After a moment, he reached over and picked up the rabbit, already grey around the ears, and tucked it in the curve of her elbow. They would cut her up now, poke and prod and test. She was no longer a child, a life, however stunted. Only a body. Evidence. Mulder walked away from the bed and yanked the curtains open to the sunset, his eyes stinging with bitterness. Watching Caitlin's dim light fade out, he had begun to understand Scully at last. Where was there to put a rage so huge that it left no room to breathe, no room to think? Give him a target right now and he would lash out, unburden himself through violence. Scully, having a gentler soul, had directed it inward, stamping it down until it had coated everything with a thick black tar, leaving her no ability to feel anything else. The cell phone ringing in the pocket of his jacket effectively derailed his train of thought. He couldn't remember if he'd left it on after making the call to Skinner. "Mulder, it's me." For a moment, he couldn't breathe, stunned as he was to hear her soft alto on the other end. In that moment he knew he'd given up the hope of ever hearing her voice again. "Scully," he crooned, unable to hide the relief singing out of him. "Scully, are you all right?" "Fine. It's going like clockwork." He looked around frantically for a pen. Saw nothing. "Okay, give it to me. I'll remember." "505-575-8982." He repeated it back and hung up, then dialed from the motel phone, reversing the last four digits. "Hi," she answered. "Hi." A moment of silence, while he tried to assemble his thoughts, tangled inside his brain like a pile of pick-up sticks. He extracted the first, the most important. "How are you?" "I'm fine." Yes, of course she was fine. What else had he expected? Next question. "Where are you?" "It's okay, everything's fine." "Scully..." He listened to the silence, imagined he could hear her breathe. "Scully, the Wallaces are both dead." "I know." He let that thought sink in, followed it to its end. If she knew, she'd been there; if she'd been there, the blood was hers; if the blood was hers, she was not fine. Ergo, if she knew, she was not fine. He was proud of himself, able to pull such clear logic out of the mess inside his head. "Mulder," she was saying. "Listen. I can't talk. I just wanted you to know, whatever they tell you, whatever they try to make you believe -- I always knew what I was doing. Always, Mulder. Everything." Her use of the past tense sent him hurtling into panic. He gripped the bedspread as if it were her hand, desperate to hold on to that fragile connection. "Scully, please." He was begging now, a violation of her dignity as well as his own, but he didn't care. "Let me come with you." He heard her sigh, a long, shaky exhalation. He could picture her face, pale as plaster and just as lifeless. Except for her eyes. She could blank her face, but she could never blank her eyes. "No, Mulder. That would make you an accessory." "Damn it, Scully, do you think I care about that?" "Mulder...Mulder, you know how you once said that lines had to be drawn? Well, it's my turn to draw one, for you. You've always had your holy grail. This one is mine." "Scully--" "Please, Mulder. This time you have to let me go." She took a breath, as if there was something else she wanted to say, then there was a soft click, and she was gone. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 10 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES, NEW MEXICO MARCH 13TH, 6:10 PM Scully had been sitting in a nice little mom-and-pop diner, pushing around an order of baked chicken and potatoes while her watch ticked inexorably toward 6pm. Then the waiting was over. It was as her father had taught them. Never leave a place without saying goodbye to everything you'll miss. She had tried to say goodbye, but there was so much else she had not said. Words that wanted to tumble from her mouth and fall on him like thick snow, covering the ugliness of the past days with a blanket of crystalline beauty, each flake unique and radiant. She could not say even one without breaking apart. Scully turned from the phone, hands shaking as she pulled the blue envelope out of her pocket. The postcard this time was a picture of Alice in Wonderland. On the other side, it said only '1872N12.' "Your friends are weird," she remembered telling Mulder, after she'd met the Gunmen for the first time. "No," he had answered. "You just have to understand their tiny little minds." She paid her check and asked the woman at the register if she knew where she might find North 12th Street. "Oh, sure," the woman answered, taking Scully to the door of the diner and pointing down the road. "Third corner, then make a left." Scully smiled a goodbye and tried not to let her weary feet shuffle as she walked down the street. She knew the woman would be standing at the door, watching to make sure she took the correct turn. It was the kind of gesture her mother would have made for a tired stranger lost in Annapolis. Around the corner, Scully let herself slow down. She doubted she'd been followed, but she kept an eye out for any cars or pedestrians that looked out of place in this casual, working-class neighborhood. She couldn't afford to relax. Not yet. Number 1872 was a plain adobe house two blocks down the quiet street. Whoever lived there was at home in the desert -- unlike many of the houses she'd passed, there were no water-wasting attempts to create a lawn or grow flowers that were native to the more humid areas back east. This front yard sported a rock garden holding a dozen varieties of healthy-looking cactus and a carved wooden bench beneath a tall juniper tree. Scully made herself climb the porch steps, but she couldn't lift her hand to ring the bell. Instead she turned around, staring at the first reddish hint of sunset tinting the clear blue of the sky. Night encroaching upon the day, as Mary Wilson would encroach upon her now, until she could no longer remember the woman she had been before. The door suddenly opened behind her, revealing a middle-aged woman wearing hiking shorts and a loose t-shirt. Straight, greying hair fell to her shoulders in a feathered bob, a style that looked like it had been her haircut of choice for the last twenty years. "I thought I heard someone out front," she said, looking Scully over with narrowed, slightly suspicious brown eyes. The picture on the card suddenly made sense. Thanks, Frohike, Scully thought. And goodbye. "I'm looking for Alice," she said, stepping forward and extending her hand. The woman's face broke out into a smile that radiated from the corners of her eyes right back into her hair. "I was beginning to worry about you," she beamed, ignoring the hand to pull Scully into a quick hug. "Come right in, you look like you need a rest." She led Scully through a darkened living room, the last light painting the floor with thin golden stripes through the bamboo blinds. The kitchen at the back was obviously the place Alice lived; a room painted in soft desert tones, stacked with books, papers and magazines, the table doing desk duty for an old IBM Selectric. Alice dished up bowls of hot vegetable soup, content to eat in silence. Scully was grateful, both for the food and the lack of questions. She wasn't up to lying, and the truth was beyond explanation. "So you're a friend of Melvin's." Alice said, as they were finishing. Scully's mind had gone foggy from lack of sleep and warm tasty food, and it took her a moment to remember that Melvin was Frohike's first name. "I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head slightly to clear it. "Yes." "He's a nutcase," Alice grinned. "But a good-hearted one." Scully smiled, still surprised to think that Frohike would consider her a friend. He'd always seemed to be a guy's guy, not well-versed in the company of women. Too obsessed to be interested in anything else but work. Like Mulder. Like herself. Her smile faded. "How long have you known him?" Scully asked, chasing the last piece of broccoli in her soup. The nerves that had ruined her appetite in the diner were gone now, and she was actually hungry enough to eat another bowl. "Oh, years and years. We go all the way back to the Jane network. They arranged safe abortions, before it was legal." "I've heard of it. Frohike was involved in that? It doesn't seem his style." "Peripherally." Alice lifted her bowl to slurp the last liquid down. "I don't know what happened to him in Vietnam," she continued, wiping her mouth, "but when he came back he joined a group that was helping boys evade the draft. Our paths used to cross now and then. I took some boys across the Mexican border for him, and when I came across women who needed to run away from someone, Melvin would help us forge papers for them." Alice set her bowl back on the table. "So, this is how it works. I take you to El Paso. The Alice there will take you across the border, to Lucero. We have a safe house for you to stay in until things calm down. Then we'll see about a permanent location back in the US." Scully nodded, beginning to have trouble keeping her eyes open. "You've got time for a nap," Alice offered. "We don't have to be in El Paso until midnight. " "I'm going to have to request a change in plans," Scully said, forcing herself to sit up. "I had to leave my daughter with some friends on the Navajo reservation. I need to go back and get her before I can go anywhere else." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> COCONINO COUNTY JAIL MARCH 13TH, 10:32 PM It had been a long time since Mulder had seen the inside of a jail from this side of the bars. Long enough that he'd forgotten what his mind could do when he had nothing to focus on but the hard bench beneath his ass. "Hey, Mud," snapped the sergeant, a porky, sweaty guy with a Brooklyn accent that was almost comically incongruous in the Wild Wild West. He rattled the keys to Mulder's cage invitingly. "Got someone wants to talk to youse." "Charmed," Mulder replied, standing and holding his hands behind his back, wincing at the slap of the cuffs. "Take those off," Skinner said harshly, from somewhere behind him. Mulder turned slowly to face his boss. The twittering in the pit of his stomach was the same as he remembered from a sharp November night twenty-seven years before. It wasn't so much fear of the authority he was about to face, as it was knowing that he had done nothing and everything wrong. "Come with me." Skinner turned on his heel and led the way to one of the interrogation rooms. The room, Mulder noticed, was cinderblock on all four sides. No observation window. Skinner sat on one side of the collapsible table, gesturing for Mulder to take the only other chair. He saw no tape deck anywhere, no place for a microphone to be hidden in the seamless walls. The room, in fact, was so small that Mulder wondered if they'd cleared out a storage closet especially for this. He sat and folded his hands on the table, staring at Skinner with a blank countenance that was probably being mistaken for defiant. Defiance was actually the last thing on Mulder's mind at the moment. Defiance required a kind of energy he no longer had. "You look like shit," Skinner said at last. He rubbed a hand over his bald head, an odd gesture that might have been left over from the years when he'd had hair. Mulder waited. This was Skinner's show now; he was just here to answer the questions. "I had a look at the girl," Skinner said at last. He looked away, out a nonexistent window, his jaw moving from side to side the way it always did when he couldn't say what he felt and couldn't find an adequate substitute. "Does Scully know she's dead?" Skinner finally asked. "No," Mulder answered. "Not yet." "I don't understand!" Skinner exploded, slamming his hand down on the table. "Why the hell did the two of you go off on your own with this?" Mulder waited until Skinner had tugged his tie back into place and retrieved the temper that had skittered away from him. "It was private," was his quiet answer, and to his surprise, Skinner seemed to accept it. "These five girls," he said, leaning forward with his hands clasped on the table. "You have absolute proof that they're genetically Scully's daughters?" Mulder nodded. "Where is she, Mulder?" Mulder looked him straight in the eyes. "I don't know. At this point, I wouldn't tell you if I did." "Why not?" Rage pushed its way upward from beneath his ribs. Mulder tried to stop himself, but he didn't have the energy to hold his tongue, and to tell the truth, he didn't care. "Because, sir, we're still wondering if someone is using you, or if you deliberately threw Scully into a snake pit." The color draining from Skinner's features gave Mulder the answer that he needed. "Is that what she thinks? That I did this?" Mulder sat back, relief making his limbs twitch. "Does Scully think I set her up for this?" Skinner demanded. "We weren't sure. I took a chance. That's why I've turned myself in." Skinner folded his arms and settled back in his chair. "You said you had a story to tell. I'm ready to hear it." "Amy Wallace was taken from her parents. Scully found her in the Children's Center in San Diego. I don't think the people at the Center knew what was going on, but once having found her, Scully was afraid to take the chance of leaving Amy there. We'd already had other important evidence disappear." "What happened out at the Wallaces'?" "I'm not sure," Mulder admitted. "I wasn't there. But I think when the forensic evidence has all been examined -- provided it isn't tampered with -- you'll find it points to Wallace having murdered his wife before Scully even got there." "Her blood was found in the bathroom as well as through the house," Skinner said. "And Wallace didn't have Jennifer's blood on his clothes, or on his hands." "Get me out of here, sir. Give me access to the scene, let me see what I can find. I won't run. You have my word on that." Skinner sighed, once again looking for a window to the ordinary world, one that didn't exist. "Do you think she's all right, wherever she is?" he asked, and Mulder was grateful for the real concern in the question. "Yes," he answered. He had to believe that. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> WAGON TRAIL DINER, FLAGSTAFF MARCH 13TH, 11:23 PM Mulder slid into the booth across from an exhausted Kresge, accepting the waitress's offer of a cup of bitter, lukewarm coffee. "How you doing?" Kresge asked, his low tenor kind and sympathetic. "I'm fine." Great liar you're not, Mulder thought, hearing the words come out of his mouth in hollow tones. He had always understood Scully's reluctance to speak about things just after they had happened, but it seemed incredibly strange to be sitting across from Kresge while hearing her words coming out of his own mouth. Mulder shrugged, wishing the man wouldn't look so damned concerned. "Skinner's already having the autopsy done as high priority. They're keeping her body under lock and key until she's cremated." He looked away, unable to keep a grimace from passing across his face. "Damn shame nobody took such good care of her while she was alive." "You did," Kresge said. "She died in the arms of someone who loved her. How many of us get to do that?" Mulder nodded, accepting that small bit of comfort. "So what happened at the hearing?" Kresge asked, changing the subject. Mulder sighed, bringing his attention back to the matters at hand. "Released into Skinner's custody, pending investigation. I'm on a short leash, but at least I'm out." "And you've still got a job." "For the moment. Tell me about Scully." He took a tentative sip of his coffee, shuddered, and put the cup down again. "Did she seem okay?" Kresge sipped reflexively at his own coffee, obviously too tired to taste it. Either that or he considered it decent compared to the awful brew he'd gotten used to drinking back in San Diego. "I don't know," he said slowly. "I don't know how to categorize it. She's hanging on by her fingernails, you can see that, but she also seems very calm about it all. Very determined." "Do you think she's--" Mulder stopped, unable to say the word. "No," Kresge said firmly. "Not if you accept that the delusion she's operating under is true." "What delusion is that?" "That everyone is out to get her." Mulder managed a tight smile. "Did you give her the picture?" "I did." Kresge hesitated, wrestling with some kind of decision. "She said to tell you she was safe, and you should do whatever you need to do to save yourself." Mulder turned his cup around and around in his hands, staring into it rather than drinking any more. The handle appeared and disappeared and he could hear Scully's voice, strained with nerves. Truth is perception. "We still don't know who kidnapped Amy Wallace," Mulder said, "or if They're going to believe that the body they have is Amy's and stop trying to get her back." He pushed his cup away, lost in the memory of holding Caitlin hot against his chest, feeling the green nodule that had grown on the back of her neck in the last hours of her life pulsing against his fingertips. If this is what we'll do to save ourselves, Mulder thought, humanity shouldn't exist. He pushed the heels of his hands into his scratchy eyes, willing himself not to cave in. "You know," Kresge said loudly, "I've been thinking about Jane Hampton." Mulder looked up and nodded, grateful for the distraction. "Scully showed me something, the last day," Kresge continued, running his hand back and forth over his hair in a way that Mulder had learned meant he was far more upset than he wanted to show. "Something no one caught on one of the prior murders. Elaine MacEntyre's wrist tendons had been severed. Both of them." Mulder nodded. "So she couldn't have cut the second hand." "That's right. Which got me to thinking about the Hamptons." "I thought the evidence pointed to the same MO used on the MacEntyres," Mulder said, leaning forward in his chair. "And there are some pretty striking similarities to what happened to the Sims and to Jennifer Wallace." "I thought so too. I think I was thrown off by the fact that Jane Hampton didn't have any hesitation cuts, which was the first thing that Scully pointed out last year when she said Roberta Sim was murdered. Then I remembered something on the drive back up here. Jane's tendons weren't severed in either hand. Whoever did it didn't use the same amount of force as was used on Elaine MacEntyre." "You think Jane has something to do with the other murders?" "No, based on the way you found her, I think she honestly meant to kill herself. Which leads me to believe that she may have actually killed her husband. I think Jane found out what was going on, that her husband was somehow involved in Denise's illness. You followed the mysterious men, so we have no way of knowing if Hampton was dead or alive when they left." Mulder blinked for a moment, then stood up, signaling the waitress for their check. "Where are you going?" Kresge asked. "You said you were on a short leash." "I found something very interesting at Tom Hampton's back in San Diego. Let's go see what little souvenirs John Wallace might have kept." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> WALLACE RESIDENCE MARCH 14TH, 12:07 AM They entered the house quietly, lifting the yellow crime scene tape and pausing before the brown stains on the carpet near the door. Kresge let Mulder go first, his own mind replacing the taped outline of a body with the bloodied corpse he'd seen before. Mulder knelt on the carpet, squinting upward at the blood spatter on the wall. "She's not that short," he said distantly. "With the trajectory of the bullet, for the spatter to be so high she had to have been on her knees, with him leaning over her." "Ballistics isn't in yet," Kresge said, thumbing through the thick file Mulder had handed him before they started. "She was lying here, on her side," Mulder continued, oblivious to Kresge's presence, his hand tracing the air as if caressing the contours of Scully's body. "And then she got up. Here." He pointed to the smeared handprint on the wall beside the door. Wallace's body was in the way, or would have been if it were still there. Mulder followed the handprint, then veered off to his right, staggering as if drunk. "Here she fell again, but she must have stayed conscious because she kept going." Mulder followed the trail of smudged bloodstains past the fireplace and around the corner, down to the bathroom. "No prints on the door," he observed. "If she was crawling on her hands and knees, the carpet would have wiped off most of the blood." "But not all." Mulder pointed to the handprints on the bathroom floor. "The door was open. Would you kill yourself naked in the bath with the door open?" "I don't know. Probably not." "No," Mulder agreed. "Suicide is a private thing." He turned to Kresge. "You were first on the scene at the Sims' and at the Hamptons', yes? Were those bathroom doors open?" Kresge rubbed at his head. The Sim murders were too long ago to remember right now, after midnight, after hours spent behind the wheel. "I don't know," he admitted. "I'm not at my best at this hour. I think it was at the Hamptons'." "Sometimes when you're overtired your brain makes the intuitive connections you miss when you try to get too logical," Mulder said, craning his neck around the door, trying to see the entire layout of the bathroom without going in. "Yeah, Mulder, and sometimes you just start hallucinating things that aren't there." Mulder turned to him for a moment, one side of his mouth lifted, the other pulled down. It was the saddest excuse for a smile Kresge had ever seen. "You sounded just like Scully for a minute." Mulder held the half- smile a second longer, then his eyes seemed to cloud over and he turned away again. "Were Jennifer Wallace's tendons severed?" "Is this what Scully does? Keeps your facts?" Kresge asked, getting annoyed with the Dr. Watson role. "Yes," Mulder murmured, not turning around. "Keeps them and sorts them and makes the world make sense." Kresge sighed, annoyed with himself now. The guy was upset, with good reason. A great deal of slack needed to be cut. He thumbed through the pages until he found the coroner's preliminary report. "No. They weren't." "So, it might be possible that Jennifer killed herself. Though highly unlikely, since Scully wouldn't have come out here unless she'd talked to Jennifer first and why would the mother of a kidnapped child kill herself ten minutes before the kid comes home?" "I'm missing something here. Are you saying that Jane didn't attempt suicide either?" Mulder moved past him, down the hall. "You said the door was open. She struck me as someone who would do that sort of thing in private." "But if her husband was--" "Even so," Mulder interrupted, opening another door. It appeared to be Wallace's study. He turned to nod at Kresge. "Jackpot." The walls in this room were painted a deep gold, hung with two original ukiyo-e paintings. Set in the deep windowsill between them was a tiny juniper bonsai. "What do you mean, jackpot?" "You ever read a book called 'Ceremony', by Leslie Marmon Silko?" "No, can't say that I have." "A young Navajo man is sent off to fight the Japanese in World War II, but he can't kill them because they look too much like his own people." Mulder moved into the room, examining the contents of Wallace's shelves. "Terrific book, you should read it." "What does that have to do with this?" Kresge asked, feeling like an idiot, but too curious to give up. Mulder turned to him. "John Wallace wasn't Navajo. He was Japanese." Kresge looked around the room. "You say that based on what? A couple of Japanese paintings and a bonsai tree?" "No, I'm basing that on an illogical intuitive connection. The proof is in this room, someplace." Mulder took a stack of papers off Wallace's desk and seated himself on the floor. "Here," he said, dividing the stack and holding half out to Kresge. "Let's get to work." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> I-40, ARIZONA - NEW MEXICO BORDER MARCH 14TH, 3:07 AM Scully marked the towns that they passed, the journey rewinding. Albuquerque, Laguna, Gallup. In another two hours they would be back in Winslow, and there she would take a right-hand turn, onto the reservation and into motherhood, into someone else's life. She had wanted to get out of the car, had she not? Now the car would stop forever in a small town across the Mexican border, and the world would have to live or die without Dana Scully. Don't overestimate your importance, she chided herself. Your family will get on with their lives. Mulder will work himself into a frenzy whether you are there or not, trying to stop what could never be stopped. Not by two fragile people. We could no more change the future than we could stop a train with a couple of handguns and a car parked across the tracks. Scully sighed, leaning her head against the window. Hard as it was to stay awake, the effort was preferable to falling asleep and treating Alice to one of her technicolor nightmares. The more tired she was, the more intense the dreams always were. At this point she was so exhausted she would probably wake screaming her head off. "Sleep if you like," Alice said, rolling down her window to release the smoke from her newly-lit cigarette. "I'm a night owl, I won't have any trouble staying awake." "Not that I've been supplying much scintillating conversation," Scully apologised. She had, in fact, been silent almost the entire way through New Mexico. "No problem." Alice smiled in Scully's direction. "You're not here to be my entertainment." They passed the border into Arizona, the highway cutting now through one corner of the reservation. It was illogical as hell, but it made Scully feel better to be out of New Mexico. "Did Frohike tell you anything about me?" "Nope," Alice answered congenially. "And you don't need to. We don't ask." Scully looked out the window, where the Martian castle mesas were black silhouettes against a planetarium sky. "I've been given a choice," she said. "A gift I never expected, in exchange for everything I used to have. A relatively normal life in exchange for someone I--" She swallowed around the sudden roughness in her throat and made herself say it: "Someone I love." Once spoken, the words didn't seem so overwhelming. They seemed merely...right. She conjured that dearly familiar face behind her closed eyes, and wondered how she had managed to avoid admitting it for so long. "Sounds hard," Alice agreed. Scully opened her eyes and sighed, letting the image dissipate. "The thing is, I don't know if I really do have a choice. I don't know what's right or wrong anymore or even what's best. I don't know if anything is truly the way it appears." Alice reached over, surprising Scully by taking her hand. "Then do what your heart tells you is right. When all else fails, that's the only guide we have left." Scully smiled sadly, squeezing Alice's hand. "My heart wants it all. And that's the one thing I know I can't have." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 11 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> WALLACE RESIDENCE MARCH 14TH, 4:22 AM Kresge had finally given in to fatigue and passed out on the couch in Wallace's office, but Mulder refused to allow himself that luxury. The answer was here, somewhere. He was as certain of that as he was of the need to find it as soon as possible. It might not bring Scully back, not if she intended to make a new life for herself with Amy, but Mulder could not let her go as a wanted criminal. If he could do nothing else, he could at least clear her name. Her family would need that. Wallace's desk had yielded nothing out of the ordinary. Bills and correspondence, none of it containing anything of interest. The phone bills he put aside to be thoroughly analyzed later, but his cursory exam revealed no discernible pattern of calls, and nothing international. If Wallace had been doing business on the black market, he hadn't been doing it from home. He flipped on the computer, stacking the mess he'd made into piles while he waited for it to boot up. Kresge began to snore loudly and Mulder wadded up an old take-out pizza menu, making a basket right onto the man's chest. He rolled onto his side, batting the ball of paper away. A bit childish perhaps, but at least the snoring had stopped. Mulder sat down behind the desk, clicking the 'My Computer' icon on Wallace's desktop. Half an hour later, he had still found nothing. He'd opened Wallace's browser and clicked through his bookmarks, but nothing caught his eye and the cache had been dumped. E-mail was no more interesting than anything else, all the history folders were empty and so was the recycle bin. Hidden files? Mulder checked the folder settings, selected Show Hidden Files and went through the hard drive again. Nothing. "Bastard must have cleaned it out," he muttered aloud, shoving the mouse across the desk. He sat back, arms folded across his chest. The point of the night where he might be able to make spooky leaps of logic appeared to be over. He was still on an adrenaline high, clear-headed though he should have been exhausted, but nothing was coming. No ideas. Mulder pulled the empty drawers out of Wallace's desk. Nothing taped to the underside or to the back. Kresge had already gone over the rest of the house and found no secret boxes, no hidden safe. He got down on his hands and knees, feeling inside the footwell, in the hollow space where the drawers had been. Do you even know what you're looking for, Mulder? said Scully's voice inside his head. No, he answered her, as he had a hundred times before. But I guarantee I'll know it when I see it. He stopped for a moment, one hand across his eyes. God, if this is what he was like now, what was going to happen when he got back to the office? Would he find himself actually talking to Scully out loud, before he remembered that she wasn't there? Mulder stood and poked around on the top of the desk, looking for the lighter he'd seen before. He found it beneath a stack of household bills and crouched down again, illuminating the interior where the drawers had been. There, at the back. Marks on the cheap pressboard, two square areas where the top layer had been pulled off. Something had been taped back there. A small packet. A disk perhaps, or a CD. Something Wallace had taken with him to San Diego? Or something that had been removed later, the night he was killed? Mulder dove for the file lying by Kresge's dangling hand. Serology report, serology report -- there. All the blood samples taken from Wallace's body were B positive. Scully's type, as well as Wallace's. A small further proof of Mulder's theory -- B was the most common blood type among Asians, and the least common among Native Americans. DNA analysis was still underway, but Mulder was sure it would prove that all the B positive blood on Wallace was his own, apart from a smear along the thigh of his jeans. That would be Scully's, as well as the blood on the handle of Wallace's gun. He cold-cocked her and she fell against him. Easy. But where was Jennifer's O positive blood? If Scully had interrupted Wallace in the act, Jennifer's blood would have been somewhere on him -- his hands, perhaps a drop or two on his shoes. Either that or the forensics team would have found a pair of gloves. Wallace didn't have Jennifer's blood on him because Wallace didn't make the cuts. Mulder closed his eyes, imagining the scene. A man snapping on a pair of gloves, hauling the drugged Jennifer into the tub, slicing her wrists. The sound of the front door opening. Wallace, having heard of the abduction in San Diego, putting two and two together and getting back ahead of Scully -- barely. The mystery man hides, maybe here in the office. Wallace finds his wife's body, then Scully arrives. They tussle, she kills him, is knocked unconscious herself, perhaps presumed dead by the man in the house who then takes the information he came for and leaves before she regains consciousness. He shook Kresge's shoulder. "Wake up." "What? What?" Kresge shot into a sitting position, his eyes puffy with sleep. "John Wallace didn't kill his wife. And neither did Scully. There was someone else in the house." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PARTITIONED LANDS, HOPI/NAVAJO RESERVATION MARCH 14TH, 6:22 AM They drove up a packed dirt road which Leonora had affectionately called Big Mountain Boulevard, to a thinner road, to a two-track that wound seven miles across the open land. Scully held the map Leonora had drawn, ticking off the landmarks as they passed. The snow had been gone for a day or two, and though deep gouges marked the places where people had gotten stuck, the track was hard and dry now, easily passable. A small amount of worry lifted from Scully's aching shoulders. "There it is -- the infamous fence," Alice remarked as they passed through an opened gate. "We're on the Hopi side of it now." Scully looked out the dusty window and saw nothing very spectacular. Just the kind of three-stringed barbed wire fence often used for cattle. "Couple of bits of wire stuck on some poles." Alice shook her head. "Not much for what it's done dividing people in half, huh? At least the Germans got a bona fide wall." She lit another cigarette, unfazed by the dryness of the land and the way the car was bouncing and squeaking on its wheels. "Something I've noticed up here, I've never been able to explain. You know, I'm not one of those new-agey crystal-wielding Earth mothers. But if you stay a while, you really start to feel the land. Like you want to dig your toes in and root yourself. I've never felt that anywhere else." "You know this place?" Scully asked. "Not this particular homesite, but I've been in and out of Big Mountain for about fifteen years. There was a big group of us in the mid-eighties, when it looked like they were going to come in with tanks and haul all the grandmas out. A lot of people came and stayed up here, figuring the Feds would be afraid to do anything that violent with a bunch of white witnesses around. Worked pretty well. It got quiet for about ten years, then a couple of years ago Congress wound it up again." "What made you get involved in something like that?" Scully asked. "The same reason I get involved in anything. Because it's wrong. I may not stop it, but I do what I can. One kid that doesn't get shipped to Vietnam, one woman who doesn't have to use a coat-hanger or whose husband isn't going to beat her up again. One nuclear dump that doesn't get built. One grandma up by Red Willow Creek who's still hanging on to her hogan." They drove past a windmill water pump, still and silent, and continued on up to the sheep camp just below the ridge. Alice parked beside a dilapidated one-roomed octagonal house, its door standing open to receive the first rays of the sun. Leonora came out of the hogan, shading her eyes. A bright smile broke across her face. "Jane! Amy! She's here." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> ARROW WHEEL MOTEL MARCH 14TH, 7:03 AM Mulder dragged himself awake to answer the door, his back sore from falling asleep at the table, face-down in his evidence. "Your boss is in the diner," Kresge greeted him tersely, barging past Mulder and into the room, putting two cups of coffee on the table. "He wants to meet with you at eight. He wants to know what you've found." Mulder ran his fingers over the stubble on his cheeks, days old now. No longer stubble, really, what he had was a full-fledged beard, something he hadn't allowed to happen since he was a psych student at Oxford. "I'll get in the shower," he mumbled, heading in that direction. He probably stank too, now that he was thinking of it, and he was sure his hair was doing its best dead hedgehog impersonation. Not exactly keeping up the professional front. If Scully could see him-- She's not here, he reminded himself. That's why you look like this. "Hang on a minute," Kresge said. "You wanted something run through the NCIC database? Guy at the front desk just stopped me and handed me a fax." Mulder took it, settling himself on the edge of the bed to read. Thirty seconds later, he jumped up and shoved the fax at Kresge. "Did you see this?" "I know," Kresge answered calmly, sitting at the table and opening his cup of coffee. "Wallace's fingerprints match a John Wakawa, Japanese- American, born in San Francisco, 1962." He looked up to shoot Mulder a tired grin. "I'm impressed. Your late- night hallucination panned out. I'll have to try it next time I'm stumped. If I have a job left to be stumped with. At. On." Kresge sighed, tossing the lid onto the table. "Whatever." Mulder took the fax back. "Listen to this: in 1985, Wakawa was indicted on six counts of trafficking in stolen medical merchandise. He turned state's evidence and was entered into the Witness Protection Program as John Wallace." Mulder looked up from the fax to see Kresge's reaction. "And we know he continued his little side business while finishing his doctorate in biochemistry at UCSD. He was thrown out of there for the same reason, but no charges were ever filed." Mulder sat down at the table, opening his own cup of coffee. "I think Wallace posed as Navajo, courted Jennifer after her husband was killed, and married her to get control of Amy. He probably brokered the first deal for her bone marrow. I guess he got a little greedy with the second." Kresge nodded in agreement. "So someone took Amy to stop the deal." "But where They placed her...They had to know that eventually Scully would find her there. Maybe that's exactly what They wanted." "Why?" "First, it stops the Project. Second, They give Scully what They think she wants most in the world -- a child of her own. What better way to control her, and through her, me? How could we work with the threat that her child might be hurt or taken if we stick our nose in the wrong place? That's the end of the X-Files. We're neutralized, at least in terms of this line of investigation." "I thought your theory was that They meant for her to do exactly what she just did? Break the law, look like she's gone crazy." "What if there's more than one agenda at work?" Mulder pressed his fingertips to his temples and closed his eyes. Trying to solve this case was like trying to catch currents of air. Truth *was* like air, according to Albert Hosteen. Not something that could be held, but it could be known. "Talk it out," Kresge suggested, settling back in his chair, coffee in hand. "Let's see what we have." "Well, we know that Sim, MacEntyre, and Hampton used to work together. If we had Scully's files, I bet we'd find some connection between them, and Jenkins, and Amy's adoptive father, Paul Mason. Wallace is the wild card in the pack, the replacement for Mason, but the original five all appear to be have been working on different aspects of the Project." "And the Japanese connection?" "Hirotake wants in on the Project, but they're being kept out. Maybe they placed Wallace to snare Jennifer, more likely Wallace approached them. The girls start getting sick and Hampton tries to broker a deal -- he'll steal the research Hirotake wants for the marrow to save his daughter, which Wallace controls. Amy is taken by a rogue group who want to stop the Project, Denise dies, the whole deal goes sour. Hampton warns the others. The Jenkinses' take off and are caught by the people who started this, the ones that want to protect the Project. The second group -- Hirotake -- kills Hampton for revenge. Now it's all going to hell and by that point Scully and I are out there, poking around. The Project group goes to retrieve the last girl, Bethany -- that's why Elaine MacEntyre's cuts were different. It was someone else copycatting what happened at the Hamptons'." "So if Hirotake cut Jane, then they also cut Jennifer Wallace." "That would be my guess, if they knew Scully had Amy and was bringing her back. Then they wouldn't have to deal with John Wallace. They probably would have killed him themselves, if Scully hadn't saved them the trouble." "You said something was taken from Wallace's desk. Wouldn't that be Hampton's stolen research?" Mulder's stomach twisted as the entire landscape of the case changed beneath his feet. "That means Hirotake is in now," he said. "New players on a wide-open field." Kresge leaned forward, grabbing Mulder's arm. "You said you knew these people, that they didn't want to kill either of you, but Mulder...to Hirotake, Scully is nothing but in the way." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> HOPI PARTITIONED LANDS MARCH 14TH, 7:23 AM They had arrived in time for breakfast -- bowls of oatmeal sweetened with cinnamon and honey, and strong, black coffee. Scully couldn't begin to eat it. Her entire body was thrumming with nerves, making coffee redundant and the prospect of trying to choke down the thick oatmeal almost more daunting than anything else she would have to do today. It should have been a lovely breakfast. Amy was nuzzled warm against Scully's side at the scratched Formica table, happily sharing the last of her oatmeal with her wooden sheep. Leonora was having a great time getting acquainted with Alice. They sounded oddly like Frohike and Langly -- trading war stories, talking about conspiracies between the energy companies and the tribal councils and members of the US government. Everyone seemed content. It was only the sight of Jane, sitting silently across the table in front of her own uneaten breakfast, that reminded Scully how far this was from finished. She put a hand on Amy's head. "You want to show me around?" "Sure," Amy grinned, though Scully noticed that she looked to Jane for permission before getting up. Jane nodded, pointing to her own face, making a little circle with her forefinger. Amy licked the last of the oatmeal off her lips, wiping her wet mouth with her hands, and her hands on her none-too-clean sweatshirt. Jane sighed and shook her head, giving Amy a tiny exasperated smile as she left. Scully followed the girl up to 'the good place,' over the top of the hill and past the point where the power towers marched across the reservation, steadfastly ignoring the little hogan below. Here the desert fell off sharply into sandstone mounds and canyons, the red earth where they stood just beginning to be colored by a multitude of tiny green plants. Out in the distance Scully could see a thin wash filled with runoff from the snow melting on top of the higher mountains. Beyond that, a battered blue pickup was just passing the filling station at Rocky Ridge. Everything in its place, Scully thought, sitting on an outcropping of rock and drawing Amy into her lap. The water comes and the desert drinks it and gives it back to the air so it can come again. The sun will rise and set, rise and set, the children will grow and have children of their own. World without end, amen. From her perch high upon the rocks, Scully could see the desert stretching for miles. It gave her the closest thing to a sense of peace that she'd felt in a very long time. Amy seemed content be where she was, straddling Scully's lap, arms wrapped around her waist. Scully let her fingers run through her daughter's hair, watching the light play through the reddish-gold strands. "My mommy wasn't my real mommy," Amy said, after a while. "I'm not a real Indian." "I know." Scully nodded, stroking the girl's hair. "But you speak your mother's language. She raised you to be Dineh because you were her daughter, even if you didn't have the same blood." "Leonora says when people die, they come back in the rain. Then they can be part of the land. Is that true?" Scully thought about that for a moment. "Yes, in a way, I think it is," she answered, though it surprised her to hear herself say it. "I think if you love something or someone very much they're a part of you and you're a part of them and you never really leave each other. Just like your mommy will never really leave you." She turned the child's face upward, looking into those eyes that still surprised her by being her own. "Do you understand that? Your mother loved you, Amy. Very much." Amy nodded. "Mommy said my real mommy loved me too, but she couldn't keep me." Her small fingers twisted over Scully's. "Do you know my real mommy?" Scully blinked hard. "Yes," she said, when she thought she dared speak again. "Is she nice?" "Yes," Scully answered. "I think so. She tries to be nice." "Is she coming to get me now?" Scully drew the child close, letting herself drown in the soft baby smell of Amy's neck, in the feel of the tiny heart beating against her own. Out on the wind she thought she heard horses again, as she had standing up on the rocks with Mulder, and she remembered her sister's words. It's time to know what you know. It's time to stop pretending. At last, Scully knew what she had to do. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> It was there that Jane found them, rocking close together. Scully and her child. It hurt far less than Jane had expected. Perhaps she was glad to see them together, the way she had been glad to see the joyful reunions of other adopted people on daytime TV shows. Good to know that it happened to someone, even if it would never happen to her. She came up beside them and put a hand on Scully's shoulder. "Alice is asking when we'll be ready to go." "Okay," Scully answered, her voice muffled against Amy's shoulder. She hugged the girl tight for one more moment, then sat up. Jane's breath caught in her throat. Amy's face was red and swollen, as if she'd been crying nonstop for hours. Scully just looked destroyed. She gently rubbed Amy's back. "Go on down to Leonora, okay?" Scully said, her voice hoarse and trembling. "I'll be there in a few minutes." Amy cast a woebegone look at Jane, holding her arms out. Jane took her from Scully's lap, settling the girl on the ground, not at all sure what was going on. Amy flung her arms around Jane's waist. "Go on," Scully repeated softly, and the girl turned and ran down the hill. "What happened?" Jane asked, waiting until the child was gone. Scully was staring out across the desert, her face gaunt and ashen. "I told her who I am," she said, just when Jane had begun to wonder if she was ever going to speak again. "And she took it that badly?" "No," Scully answered. "Not at all." She reached into her back pocket and drew out a thick envelope, running the fingers of one hand along the edge. At last she let her breath out in a slow, heavy sigh and handed it to Jane. "This is for you." Jane took it, her own hands beginning to tremble as she reached inside and pulled out a small wad of documents. A plastic card fell to the ground and she bent to pick it up. It was a driver's license belonging to someone named Mary Wilson. Jane looked at the card more closely. For a moment she had thought the picture was of her. "This is you," she said, holding it up. Scully nodded. "It was made for me a long time ago, in case something like this happened." "So these are for you." Scully turned to her at last, eyes burning with furious purpose. "They're yours now. I want you to take Amy and go with Alice." Jane stared at her. "No," she said finally, stuffing the papers back into the envelope and thrusting it at Scully. "No way." Scully shook her head, refusing to take it. "You have to, Jane. I have to know she's safe." "And what happens to you?" "I have to go back." "Dana, you can't do that. They'll kill you, they'll throw you in jail, they'll--" "I have to go back. I thought I could run, but I can't. It's not who I am." "Even for Amy?" "Especially for Amy. Jane, there are things I need to do, things that are more complicated than I can explain right now, but those things are about keeping Amy safe. I can't do that if she's with me. She'd be a pawn in Their game and I won't have that. I won't let her be used." "But why would you want me to raise her? After what I've done?" Scully smiled, an odd contrast to the expression in her eyes. "Because I know you would lie and cheat and steal and probably kill to protect her. For this particular child, that's exactly the mother she needs." Jane turned the envelope over and over, her hands seeking to bring reality to the impossible through touch, since she could not possibly believe what she was hearing. Scully climbed down from the rock and laid a burning hand against Jane's cheek. "And you'll love her. I have no doubt about that." She withdrew her hand, stepping back as if embarrassed to suddenly find herself standing so close. "I'm not giving her up," Scully said, speaking now with an effort. "I told Amy who I was because she has a right to know. I want her to be able to contact me, even if we have to go through other people. I want her to know that I'm still there for her, that maybe one day we'll be able to--" Scully's eyes and nose suddenly grew red. She threw a quick look at Jane, who understood that silent plea for a moment alone. Jane turned and stumbled down the hill, everything about the day different now. She was sure that the sky was richer, the sun warmer, the air clearer and easier to breathe. There, standing by the camper shell that served as a woodshed, a small girl waited, hitting the side of the shell with a thin stick. Jane walked over and knelt beside her. Amy had a fierce, stubborn expression on her face that Jane had seen often enough on Denise. It was exactly the same expression she had just seen on Dana Scully. Mine, Jane thought, dazed with wonder. She reached out to touch the girl, as if she had never seen her before. The thin arms and soft round cheeks, the baby-fine hair. Mine, Jane thought again, astonished, as it began to feel real. "Amy," Jane said softly. The girl threw the stick away and looked at her with mournful eyes. Jane gave Amy an encouraging smile, brushing the hair back from her forehead. She lifted the delicate chain that was now around Amy's neck, letting the tiny cross rest on her finger. "Dana gave me that," Amy whispered, beginning to cry again. "So I remember that she's with me and I don't have to be afraid of the bad men any more." She threw her arms around Jane's neck, sniffling quietly into her shoulder. "We'll see her again," Jane promised, her own eyes welling up and spilling over. Amy nodded against her shoulder, her arms tightening around Jane's neck. Not mine, Jane amended. Ours. This child is going to need both of us. It was a strangely wonderful thought. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> ...continued in 11b ...continued from 11a ARROW WHEEL MOTEL MARCH 14TH, 8:17 AM It was unlike any other debriefing in which Mulder had taken part; Kresge in Scully's customary place, Skinner on the other side, sitting on the edge of the armchair Mulder had occupied the long day that Caitlin died. "I'm waiting," Skinner said, looking from one man to the other. His gaze tended to slide away from Kresge as if he too were more comfortable imagining Scully still sitting on Mulder's left side. "Several years ago, a man who called himself The Thinker hacked into the defense department and retrieved something called the MJ files," Mulder began. Skinner's jaw clenched. "I think I would rather not be reminded of that." "It's important, sir," Mulder continued, glancing at Kresge, who was once again out of the loop and looking like he was going to have very little patience with that. "We got a DAT tape of the files, but it was encoded in Navajo," Mulder said, quickly filling the detective in. "We never got it cracked. I went looking for something in the desert and some black ops came and lifted the paper copies off Scully while she was driving back to Washington. The tape disappeared." "Of course," Kresge nodded, trading Mulder a wry little smile for that information. "And you're telling me that all of this somehow has something to do with that?" Skinner asked. "In those files was a list of names," Mulder answered, turning back to his boss. "Scully's name was in there, along with Duane Barry's. We never found out the context. Maybe now we have." Skinner leaned back in the chair, needing only a pen to tap on the table to look like he was still in his office. "A few days ago," Mulder continued, "we got some information containing references to at least three interlocking tracking programs based on the same criteria that were used to choose the original test pilots for the space program. Only these studies appear to have been testing kids. Specifically, the children of high-ranking military and government personnel." "Go on." "I had people do some basic background checks. Did you know that Duane Barry's father was a Lieutenant Colonel stationed in North Africa during World War II?" Skinner grimaced. "No. I didn't." "Well he was. Penny Northern, a woman we believe was abducted in a test group along with Agent Scully, was the daughter of a Major Alfred Northern, who was attached to several classified defense department projects before his untimely death in a single-vehicle traffic accident in 1967." "Mulder, what are you trying to say?" Skinner snapped, growing impatient. "And what does this have to do with what you found at the Wallaces'?" "I will get to that, sir, but first you need the background. In 1969, the children of Captain William J. Scully were entered into a study sponsored by the US military. So were a number of other children. As far as we can see, over 250,000 US citizens were tested and classified during childhood under a variety of surveys, some disguised as school evaluations. People including Duane Barry, Penny Northern, Scully and myself." Mulder stopped, waiting for both Skinner and Kresge to absorb that information. "I remembered something my father told me, around the time that he and my mother were divorced. He said that at the beginning of his career, it was suggested to him by a very high-ranking member of the State Department that it would be in his best interest to marry within his own circle. The next weekend that man invited my father to a cocktail party at his home, where he was quite specifically introduced to my mother." "I don't see where--" "The original files have now been deleted from the mainframe where they were found, so the chances are very good that we'll never know exactly what this thing was for, or how big it was. But I can tell you what it looks like." "What?" "A breeding program." There was a moment of silence. "Mulder." Kresge now, frowning at him in disbelief. "You're kidding, right?" "No, I don't think so. I believe that certain people with top scores were encouraged to marry to produce superior children, children whose families would have a tradition of service to the country." Skinner leaned forward and slammed a hand on the table. "Mulder, this is beginning to sound insane and you know it." "Sir, I know it *sounds* insane, but is it? Or is it a logical hypothesis based on illogical evidence? Scully comes from Navy families on both sides, my father and his father were in the civil service, and she and I were both sought out by the FBI, an organization neither one of us had thought of joining before that time." Skinner's face changed, took on the pensive look that told Mulder the advantage was his to press. "Do you believe Agent Scully would steal a child and kill a man in cold blood, or do you believe someone set a trap, using a child she didn't even know she had as bait? Is Scully behaving like a paranoid schizophrenic, the way the local PD is characterizing her, or is she responding rationally to psychotic circumstances?" Skinner stared at him and sighed. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> HARDROCK CHAPTER HOUSE, NAVAJO PARTITIONED LAND MARCH 14TH, 8:38 AM They left the land together, Jane and Alice in the car, Leonora and Scully in Robert's truck. Scully remained silent during the short ride, her face buried in her daughter's hair, every atom of her being trying to absorb those last few moments. She shook hands with Alice in the parking lot of the chapter house, Amy still clinging to her neck. If Alice was surprised that she was taking away a different Mary than the one she had brought, she had either the grace or the experience not to comment. Scully knelt to set Amy down, wishing that this goodbye didn't have to be said in public. Child of my heart, Scully thought as Amy stepped away and nodded, as if agreeing that they had already said everything they needed to say to each other in private. Amy walked across the three yards of red earth separating Scully from Jane, head high, and did not look back. Scully turned to Leonora as Jane bent to settle the girl in the back seat of the car. That much, Scully could not watch. "You probably don't believe the earth is alive," Leonora said, pressing a small red stone into Scully's hand. "So, think of this as a comfort object. You can pray with it, or think with it, or just use it for patience. I'd tell you it will help protect you, but you probably won't believe that either." The stone felt cool and warm at the same time. Scully held it between her fingers the way Leonora had, tracing the faint indentation where a thumb had circled over and over. Years of thought and prayer had worn the unpolished surface to the texture of velvet. "Whatever you believe in," she told Leonora, "whatever ceremonies you have for protection, I think you should use them." "Oh, I will." Scully offered her hand for goodbye, but Leonora used it to pull her into an embrace. "Come back if you can," she whispered into Scully's ear. "I want to see with my own eyes that you made it." She nodded, releasing Leonora just as Jane ran up and thrust something soft into her hands. "Take this," she said fiercely. "It's all I have." The two women held each other tightly. "Jane," Scully said softly, "there's one last thing, something I almost forgot." Jane moved back to look at her, and Scully let her vision blur for just one moment, let herself see her sister standing there. She wanted to wrap a thick hunk of Jane's hair around her hand, the way she had often done when she and Melissa were small and close, cuddled in one bed. "What?" Jane asked, the wary cast to her features destroying the illusion. Scully blinked, pushing Jane's hair back over her shoulder instead. "Your orphanage," Scully said. "It was real. Mulder found it. The stories you made up, the details -- they must be things you didn't realize you remembered." Jane shook her head, eyes wide with tears. "You have a past, Jane. It's there, somewhere inside you." The woman threw her arms around Scully's neck. "If I ever had another family, I would want it to be you," she whispered, hugging Scully one last time. Then she was alone. She kept her eyes closed until the silence told her that both cars were gone. Only then did she look down to see what Jane had given her. Scully wiped her eyes, stuffed the azure dress into her laptop bag, and began to walk up the empty road. The chapter house was just above the last rise, a cinderblock rectangle on the Navajo side of the partition fence. It was a combination meeting hall, cultural center and district office, but Leonora had promised that there were enough white strangers coming in and out that one more hanging around would not attract attention. Scully's cell phone had died at last, and she took it as another sign that it was time for this journey to come to an end. She paused before the pay phone inside the hall, holding her money just at the edge of the slot, her heart slamming painfully against her ribs. She thought of her father, the stern face he put on whenever one of the children had done something wrong. Mistakes had been forgiven in the Scully household if honest amends were made. It was not owning up to one's mistakes that brought forth punishment and lectures, that brought the thing Scully had always most dreaded hearing -- her father's sad voice telling her she had disappointed him. I've made amends, Scully said to the face behind her closed eyes. I've fixed what I can. And I will face the rest, like you taught me. For you, and for Mom, and for myself. She let the money drop, and dialed. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> ARROW WHEEL MOTEL MARCH 14TH, 8:42 AM Skinner had still said nothing and Mulder was beginning to wonder if he was merely being given enough rope to hang himself. "The mapping goes back to our parents' generation," he went on, regardless. "If They were hoping to breed superior humans in the 1940s-- a goal that was all the rage in those days, I might add -- skip ahead to the 1990s. Technology has now produced what the Project needed: the ability to fertilize human ova in a test tube, to tinker with DNA, to re-implant an engineered embryo into the womb of a woman who didn't conceive it. No need to hope top women will breed with the correct top men. Just extract the top women's ova and you can make as many babies as you want, without interference." "So you think--" "All of the women in Scully's group were top scorers, single and childless, all past thirty, and all were barren after their return. I think the Project gave up waiting for nature." The ringing of Skinner's phone stopped him. "Yes," Skinner said tersely. His expression suddenly changed. "Yes," Skinner barked. He got up quickly, a finger pointed at Mulder's chair. You stay there. You do not follow. "Yes, fine. How do I get there?" Skinner was asking. No, Mulder silently wailed, watching Skinner's face. He turned anguished eyes to Kresge, who was obviously walking down the same cold, logical trail of thought. "We've got her," Skinner said, clicking off the phone. "She called the Flagstaff police and turned herself in. She's on the Navajo Reservation, at a place called Hardrock. They've alerted the tribal police to pick her up and detain her until we can get there." Mulder shook his head. This was not happening. No. "No," he choked. "It won't be the tribal police." "Hirotake," Kresge agreed. "They'd be monitoring the police bands. They'll know where she is." Skinner still stood in the middle of the room. "Mulder, what are you talking about?" "Argue with me on the way," Mulder begged, grabbing Skinner's arm. "Just get us a chopper. Now." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> HARDROCK CHAPTER HOUSE MARCH 14TH, 8:53 AM Scully was staring at the bulletin board in the front hallway, trying to keep the words in focus. Impoundment notices for livestock, meetings of various sorts: AA, church and Sunday school, strategy sessions for resistors. She put a shaking hand out to steady herself against the wall, closing her eyes to try to regain her equilibrium. It was over. They would pick her up and she would sleep and when she woke she would know if she had any kind of life to go on with. When she woke, perhaps Mulder would be beside her, as he had been so many times before. The darkness made it worse, spun itself around her. She opened her eyes again, panting for breath. The adrenaline she'd been running on for days was gone. She needed to find someplace to sit. Through an open door she saw a room at the back of the building, where a meeting was going on. Scully dragged herself down the hall, praying for an empty seat. Inside, it was mainly grandmothers, tiny brown-skinned women dressed in richly-colored velvet shirts over wide skirts and running shoes. One or two heads turned Scully's way as she slipped into a chair by the door, but no one stopped her. No one asked who she was. Better. She rested her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands, staring at the floor between her feet. Big in, little out. Slow. Oxygenate the blood. She had forgotten about the altitude, moving too quickly for her tired body to adjust. It will be all right, she promised herself, trying to slow the desperate clenching of her heart. It will all be over soon enough. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Skinner had believed him, thank god, and they were in the air now, buckled in tight and screaming over the roar of the blades. "It's a Japanese contingent," Mulder shouted. "Maybe new, maybe just moving into power." "What makes you so sure these people would want to kill Scully?" "We're useful to the smoker, that's why he keeps us alive. But these people don't know the X-Files. We don't have any use to them. They just want in and they don't want any competition. That's why they were killing the parents." "But Scully isn't one of those parents." "Of course she is!" Mulder cried, exasperated. Could the man not see what was right in front of him? "She's the mother! They may not have known about her before, but they do now. And if there is some kind of territorial thing going on, then They all know where she is now, and They're all going to come after her, because everyone thinks she has the thing that everyone wants." "What's that?" Mulder looked at Kresge, sitting silent and tense beside him. "Amy Wallace." "But Amy Wallace is dead," Skinner shouted. "I saw her body myself." "No," Mulder admitted. "She's not." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Scully was sure she saw hands reaching for her but each time she glanced around, there was nothing there. No one was paying any attention to her. Don't fall asleep now, she cautioned herself, but it was so hard to summon her guard back up, now that she had let it down. She tilted her head against the wall and tried to listen to the people telling stories of harassment, of their sheep being taken away and their hogans falling down because an act of Congress had forbidden them to make repairs. Scully couldn't quite grasp the idea that if things had been a little different she might have found herself up here in an FBI jacket, hauling these people off their land. She tried to listen, but the words began to blur and she could no longer tell which was English and which was Dineh. The room took on a clarity she found distantly mesmerizing -- the dark-skinned women in their colorful clothes and striking turquoise jewelry, the men in cowboy hats and baseball caps and worn flannel shirts. She saw her daughter in a child in the row in front of hers, peacefully asleep with her head on her mother's leg; the mother another version of Jennifer Wallace, a young woman in jeans and a t-shirt, her black hair spilling over her shoulders. It was all so beautiful, a world she had never seen. It took her a moment to register that it had disappeared, that the peaceful meeting had suddenly turned into a beehive of frightened people, not knowing where to turn. "What?" she asked the old man sitting beside her, but he shook his head and moved away. People were standing now, talking in excited voices, words that made no sense. Scully reached across the chairs to the woman she'd seen, catching her by the arm as she gathered up her child. "Please," Scully asked. "What's happening?" "Tribal police are coming up the road," the woman said, shifting her sleepy daughter onto her shoulder. "A lottamany police." "No, don't," Scully cried, as people began to head for the doors. "Don't go out there." No one was listening. Terror seized her, the awful knowledge that she had miscalculated horribly, that she had thought only of herself, her own safety, by waiting in a public place. "Stop!" Scully cried, her voice at last cutting through the melee. "FBI! Just stay where you are!" The authority in her voice brought the room to a total standstill. A hundred frightened eyes turned toward her, toward the badge she held above her head. "They're not here for you," she announced loudly, in calm, practiced tones. "No one here is in trouble. Just stay in this room and everything will be okay." She turned towards the woman with the child. "Do you speak Dineh?" The woman nodded. "Please," Scully said, in a more normal voice. "Please tell the people it's all right. Tell them they don't need to be afraid, but they have to stay inside." The woman nodded again, turning to the people closest to her, murmuring in their soft language. The words spread quickly across the room as some of the older people began to take seats again. Scully picked up the laptop case and slung it over her shoulder, almost toppling under the weight. In the distance now, she could hear the whine of a dozen sirens, the beat of a helicopter's blade. They had been wrong. Fatally wrong. She and Mulder might once have been valuable pieces on the board, but they had forgotten that the game could change. She slipped through open the door, closing it firmly behind her. This was the way she had felt upon receiving the news that her cancer had moved into the terminal stage. There were no more decisions to make now, no more avenues to try or wild hopes to hold out. There were only the final steps to be taken, toward an ending she was determined to meet with grace. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Mulder clung to strap by his seat, his head half out the door, trying to see. This what what he had always feared most, the worst nightmare he could imagine. It was Scully on the answering machine, screaming that she needed his help, it was him all but killing himself to reach her -- too late. Mulder closed his eyes, the atheist in a foxhole, and prayed. He started at a tug on his arm, turning to see Kresge pointing outside the chopper. They were circling now, over a parking lot rapidly filling with police. "Oh god," Mulder moaned. He turned around, screaming at the pilot. "Land us! Land us now! <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> "Dana Scully!" The amplified voice seemed to rock the building on its very foundation, echoing inside her head like the voice of God. "Stay inside," she ordered, waving a hand at the vague shadows at the edges of her vision, forcing her legs to move. She was walking beneath water now, every movement an act of pure will, the doors to the outside wavering and bending as she fought her way down the endless hall. She struggled to breathe beneath the weight of the ocean, her heart pounding sparks behind her eyes. Another grandmother grabbed a small boy and held him tight against her as Scully passed. "It's okay," she murmured through frozen lips, shuddering as something slithered out before her. A hand. Hers. The solid handle of the door pressed against her palm. She pushed it open and walked outside, into the blinding white light. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Mulder had his straps off before they were even near the ground, nothing but Skinner's strong hands keeping him from throwing himself out the door. They were all there, every 'They' that he could think of. Navajo Nation police. Arizona sheriffs. A series of open, unmarked jeeps, the late sun glinting off the barrels of a half dozen rifles. Another two helicopters landing on the other side, disgorging a stream of men in military garb. All for one small woman who stood, disheveled and disoriented, blinking in the hot sun as if all the monsters of the world had suddenly appeared before her eyes. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Light --and the voice from above and the great pounding inside and the order to put her hands above her head as she turned and saw-- Light --flashing through the blades of a chopper touching down-- hail mary full of grace the lord is with thee --and Skinner stepping out and-- Light blessed art thou among women and blessed --Mulder behind him stumbling face blank with panic-- Light -no dear god no don't let him see this no don't let Mulder see this --wrestling himself out of Skinner's grasp-- Light is the fruit of thy womb jesus --slamming jolt as her knees hit the ground and-- Light holy mary mother of god --Kresge running toward her, mouth open in a soundless scream and-- Light pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our --sharp crack of a gunshot echoing inside her chest and-- "SCULLY!" --darkness. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 12 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> -Is it finished now? Melissa laughed, lifting Scully from the ground. "Trust you, the quiet one, to come up with such a spectacular ending." Scully let her head fall to rest heavily against Melissa's shoulder. A great sense of peace washed over her, taking the strength of her limbs. She closed her eyes and relaxed against her sister's body, Melissa's arms warm around her, like a protective shawl. Like the quilt Missy had given her years ago, when she'd first left home. The one she kept by the couch and wrapped herself in on the nights when she was so lonely she didn't want to be anywhere near her gun. -Oh, Missy, I've missed you so much. "I know, Day. Me too." She drew back and lifted Scully's chin. "Now. You know what Dad always made us do, before we left someplace." -I don't need to look back. I'm ready to go. "Dana, listen to me. I chose the role I had to play in your life and how I had to leave it. And this is what you chose. But for you...there could be more." -I've done what I had to do, Melissa. Let me sleep now. Melissa tightened her hold. "I know you're tired. But you have to look back. You have to see where you've been before you can go on." Scully turned and looked. In that moment she felt the pain howling its way from deep in her gut, almost blinding her with its force. His pain. Not hers. She looked and saw herself lying in the dirt with Mulder straddling her body, crying her name as he tried to make her heart beat again; she saw Kresge, blood soaking through his jeans from a wound in his thigh, tilting her head back to breathe into her open mouth. Something cracked open inside. She gasped in agony-- --and felt him above her. "Scully..." The weight of Mulder disappeared, became hands softly touching her shoulders, her face. He brought his mouth close, brushed his lips against her ear. "That's good, Scully, breathe. Just breathe. Just...stay." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She was swimming in memories. She was in a boat on a lake; on a table in the light. She had cancer, she was dying. Mulder knelt by her bedside, holding her hand, weeping in silence. She knew he was there, but she could say nothing. She was so weak she could not even open her eyes. And then it was dark; it had been dark for so long and there was something in her throat, tape on her wrists, hands holding her down-- She fought and the fight brought the pain, searing her with it until the needle entered her arm, until waves of dizziness overwhelmed her and she fell back and back and back, knowing she could do no more, she could not save herself. Then there was Mulder, whispering in her ear, whispering that it would be all right, that she was safe now. She held onto that, and let the darkness close over her head. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> FLAGSTAFF MEDICAL CENTER, CARDIAC CARE UNIT MARCH 15TH, 4:20 PM The footsteps were familiar, but Mulder did not turn. He kept his eyes on Scully's bruised face, one hand pressing hers to his cheek, his other running up and down her forearm, as if hypnotizing them both into quiet. Deja vu kept spinning him around whenever he let go. Too many hospitals in their lives, too many respirators, too many tiny electrodes hooked up to too many machines, trying to map whatever energy remained. "How is she?" Skinner asked. "Still unconscious," Mulder answered, as if that couldn't be seen. "Mulder, there appears to have been a problem earlier--" "They put her in restraints." "Because she tried to tear the ventilator out." "You can't tie her down. That will only make the dreams worse." Mulder turned to glance at Skinner, seeing a face not much more rested than his own. "I'll be here. I'll watch her. She doesn't need to be restrained." "You need to sleep." "I'm fine," Mulder spat, turning away. "Mulder. Not sleeping is why Scully is on a ventilator in the first place. She ran herself into the ground and it's not going to help her if you do the same." "I'll sleep when she wakes up," Mulder answered. "As soon as I know she's okay." "Mulder, she's out of danger. She just needs a good long rest. Which she will get." He heard Skinner sigh, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "You're both suspended indefinitely, with pay, pending investigation." Mulder nodded. That was to be expected, though it was a nice conciliatory touch that the forced vacation would be paid. He heard the scrape as Skinner pulled up a chair beside him. "Her doctor's laid down the law to OPR. No hearing for at least fourteen days and then only if he thinks she can take the stress. You, I'm afraid, are another story. They want you back on Friday. Bright and early." Mulder nodded again. "If she's awake by then, okay." He heard Skinner lean back and sigh. "Mulder, I didn't order the cavalry in. No one knows who did. And I'm grateful to you for making me chopper up. I fully understand that we'd be sitting by Scully's grave right now if we hadn't." "And Kresge?" "Who?" Mulder turned for the first time and fixed Skinner with the blank stare he knew his superior hated. "Detective John Kresge, San Diego Police Department, Southeastern Division. The guy who took the bullet meant for Scully. Who is doing much better today, thank you for asking." Well, at least he has the good manners to be embarrassed, Mulder thought, as Skinner's jaw began to work. "Needless to say, everyone's extremely grateful for his--" "Put your thanks where your mouth is, sir. Make sure he keeps his job. It means a lot to him." "Agent Mulder." Mulder heard the warning note in Skinner's voice. Yeah, yeah, he thought, I've gone too far. You're right, I have. Right over the edge. And you know what? I don't give a shit. The only thing I care about is right here, in this bed. "Sir," he said tightly, "I believe that you did not knowingly betray Agent Scully. But I still want to know who told you to put us on that case. And until I do know that, and why, please understand that I cannot consider you anything but a possible threat." Skinner sighed, smoothing back his nonexistent hair. "I do understand that," he answered, rising to set something down on the small table by Scully's bed. "This was in my care. I have to fly back to Washington tonight. Please give Agent Scully my best." Mulder looked at the small funeral urn and nodded. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> FMC CARDIAC CARE UNIT MARCH 18TH, 6:28 PM Kresge had not expected to be the one sitting by the bed when Scully finally woke. "Hey there," he whispered, rubbing the unbruised side of her face with the back of his hand. "Wakey, wakey." "Hey," she managed to answer, her voice dry and gravelly. He sat on the bed and held her head up so she could sip water through a straw. "Mulder?" Kresge smiled, putting down the water. Of course that would be her first question. "Passed out, finally," he answered, slipping a pillow behind her head. "He's been sitting with you for the last four days." She tried to get up and he pushed gently at her shoulders, pressing her back down. "Not yet. You did a good number on yourself, Scully. You're not going anywhere for a while." "I feel all right." He shook his head. "Well, you're not." Her hand moved feebly across her chest, looking for bandages. "Was I shot?" "No. Your heart gave out. You came in at 220 systolic, plus severe exhaustion. They had to put you on a respirator for the first twenty- four hours. You didn't even have the strength left to breathe for yourself." She was quiet for a moment, then admitted, "That's pretty bad." "Uh-huh. So no getting up until your blood pressure comes down. No running around for a while. No stress." Her gaze shifted down to his leg, bandaged and stretched out beside the bed. "You're hurt." Kresge smiled. "Only flesh. I was released yesterday. I'm just keeping Mulder's place warm until he gets back." "John..." "Shh," he whispered, leaning over to kiss her forehead. "No stress. You woke me up, Scully, and I needed that. If I can return the favor, then it was a good thing, wasn't it?" <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> I've done this too often, Mulder thought. Too much sitting in hospitals, waiting for the news to turn better. Too many trips to the gift shop, wondering which flowers she'd like. Even now, he didn't know. He had never asked, as if asking would mean that he would need to buy her flowers again. The door to Scully's room was open and through it he could see Kresge sitting on her bed, his injured leg stretched forward. He was bent close, his weight supported on one forearm while her hand lay curved around his waist. They were talking so softly that Mulder couldn't hear what they were saying. He didn't need to hear it, really. The intimacy of their posture told the story. He couldn't say that Kresge didn't deserve this, but Mulder also couldn't pretend, even to himself, that he didn't care. Kresge leaned the rest of the way forward, kissing Scully softly on the mouth, and Mulder quickly backed several paces down the hall. He reached the door to Scully's room again just as Kresge was limping out. "Mulder, hey!" Mulder smiled perfunctorily, seeing only the image from moments before. "She's awake," Kresge grinned, gesturing towards the open doorway. "Asking where you were." I'm sure, Mulder thought dryly. "Glad to see you on your feet," he acknowledged. Kresge's grin spread wider. "I'm on my way home. Your boss put in a good word or ten, I guess. Apparently, I'm still employed." A real smile broke across Mulder's features. "Congratulations. I'm glad to hear it." "And Scully's all right." Kresge's smile slowly changed, grew serious. "That's all that really matters." "Is it?" Mulder asked, searching the man's eyes. Kresge looked as worn as they all did, but his was the open face of a man who had no secrets. "Yeah, Mulder. It is," he replied. He patted Mulder on the arm and started to limp away. "Hey. Kresge." The man turned and Mulder held out a hand. "I don't really know how to--" Kresge surprised him by throwing a rough arm around his shoulder, cutting off his words. "I had my reasons." Mulder nodded, giving the man a brief hug in return. "Go on," Kresge smiled, thumping Mulder on the back. "She's waiting." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She was not surprised at the way her heart sped up when she heard his footsteps. She only wished that they had disconnected the monitor so the little green dot would not betray her thoughts. He walked up to her bed, wearing the same concerned, sheepish expression he always had when she first woke and saw him again. This time, a full beard was the mute testimony to what he had gone through on his side of their separation. She'd never seen him go unshaven for so long. He gave her a shy grimace and held up a bunch of daffodils, looking around for something to put them in. Speak to him, Scully told herself, as he settled for sticking them in her water glass, the way he usually did, but she couldn't find a way to start. There was so much to say that the words seemed to have all turned sideways, creating a logjam in her throat. "Good to see you awake," he began. "How are you feeling?" "Better," she answered. A moment, then the conversation immediately fell into the chasm between them. "I saw your MRIs," he said, looking at her at last, a smile finally gracing his lips. "There's no tumor. But your EEG is showing some abnormal activity. Less now than when they first brought you in, but they want to run some more tests. They're worried you may have sustained some neurological damage, either when Wallace hit you, or when you were...while you--" "While I was in cardiac arrest." He looked away and she could see his throat work as swallowed down some unpalatable thought. "Mulder," she said, "I know what--" He shook his head. She looked over at the bank of machines. The spikes remained steady. "I'll need to have a look at the readouts myself," she said, trying to return to the original subject, "but I think I know what the abnormality is." "What?" She looked back and caught relief flitting across his face, though it was hard to tell if this was because she had an answer, or because they had found something marginally safer to talk about. "About a year after I removed the chip for the first time, I started having nightmares. I never remembered what they were about, I would just wake up in a panic. Then I was diagnosed with cancer. I guess I assumed the nightmares were somehow connected, either caused by the tumor or by some intuitive sense that something was wrong." Mulder nodded. "That would have been my assumption." "They finally disappeared around the time I went into remission." She shifted in the bed, trying not to let her face show the pain of the rib he'd cracked. "I took the chip out a little over a year ago. What if its effects take about that long to wear off?" His face immediately went blank. "You mean, the remission is ending?" The monitor skipped as her heart gave an odd, hollow beat, and she looked up to see him staring at that green dot, his eyes blind with fear. "I didn't say that," she tried to assure him. "I meant the nightmares. I think the nightmares are my memories coming back." He was silent for a long time, so long that she felt herself slowly drifting away again. The conversation, brief as it was, had drained the small amount of energy she'd recovered. "Scully," he whispered, leaning over her much as Kresge had earlier. "Scully, I have to go back to Washington tonight. I have to testify in front of OPR." "Okay," she whispered back, though she kept her eyes closed so he could not see the need that clenched her stomach. "I'll come back as soon as I can. Your doctor says you shouldn't fly for a while. I promised your mother--" Scully looked up in time to see Mulder's eyes fill with tears. He stood, blinking furiously, and moved away. "I promised your mother I would bring you home." "The other thing," she asked, desperate to change the subject. Mulder crying was not something she could bear right now. "The things I sent?" He looked over at her, his tears having given way to a kind of strange wonder. "Yeah," he said, a question in his eyes. "They arrived." A smile stretched her cheeks, waking the pain on the side of her face that had been bruised when she fell. Even that felt good for the moment, the ache in her cheek telling her she had not forgotten how to smile, the sharp stab in her chest reminding her that no matter what she asked, he would never let her go. This time, the thought was beautiful. Jane and Amy were safe, and Mulder was still here, awkwardly patting her foot as she closed her eyes. It was enough to know, for now. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> PART 13 <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> HOPI PARTITIONED LAND MARCH 25TH, 11:18 AM She came out of the hogan, into the sunlight. Her face was bare of makeup, warmly freckled, the mole she always tried to hide showing plainly. The sun lit her hair with a dozen shades of gold and orange, a bright halo framing clear turquoise eyes. Her eyes matched the long, light dress she was wearing, a soft woven cotton that caught the gentle breeze, outlining the curve of breasts and hips. He barely recognized her. "Leonora said you were supposed to be picked up today," was the excuse he offered for his intrusion into her retreat. "I talked her into letting me do it." She nodded, moving closer toward him. "I'm glad to see you," she murmured, her voice husky from disuse. Five days she'd been up here alone, according to Leonora. The thought of it had terrified him when he heard. What if she went mad in the solitude? What if she became ill again? Scully didn't look either mad or ill. She still seemed tired, but there was something else beneath the weariness, a kind of lively spark in her eyes that he hadn't seen for a very long time. "Nice dress," Mulder blurted, not knowing what else to say. She took up a handful of the thin blue cloth, peering at it as if she'd forgotten what she was wearing. "Jane gave it me. Good thing -- I lost everything else." He nodded. "I brought your suitcase back. The things you left at the motel." She slipped her hand into his, her whole hand, squeezing gently until he let himself curve his fingers around hers. She had never held his hand like this before; it had always been two or three of her fingers clasping two or three of his. He let her lead him away from the hogan, up the hill and over the top of the ridge, to the sandstone rocks on the other side. Below them, in a well created by a tiny valley between the hills, was an old horse paddock made of twisted juniper trunks hammered into the ground. Thin branches had been nailed to the upright poles and strips of bright cloth were tied around them here and there, blowing forlornly in the wind. "This is where I come every day," Scully said. Her voice was more alive than it had been in the hospital, but still too deep, too hollow. Mulder let himself absorb the feel of her hand in his, warm and trusting. He didn't dare look at her. The empty paddock was one of the saddest things he'd seen in a long time, something made for a purpose, waiting in vain for the horses who would never come back to make it live again. She squeezed his hand a little tighter. "I've been trying to remember. Trying to put the pieces together." "And have you?" "Some. Enough to build some theories. To think about where we need to look next." Scully stepped back from the edge, tugging on his hand to make him back up as well. He went, not knowing what else to do or what to say to her. He did not expect her to turn toward him, instead of away as she always had. She was looking up at him now, her face lined and bruised. A blue bandana held back her hair, neatly covering her newest scar. It hurt to look at her, to see her so battered, but he made himself do it. He knew it would hurt her more if he turned away. She took one step closer and laid her head against his chest. A moment later she slipped her arms under his jacket, holding him loosely around the waist. Mulder stared at the empty paddock, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. It was exactly how he had felt when she tried to hold him in the ashes of their charred office. If he touched her right now he would crush her to him so tightly she would break. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She let him go when he didn't hug back, and he slid up onto the rocks, high enough that his knees were now in the vicinity of her shoulders. High enough that she could not reach for him again. "Seems like this is kind of where we started," Mulder said, his gaze unfocused, his face turned out toward the land. "No, it's not," she said gently. "This isn't the same place and I'm not the same person who came out here." She raised her head to look at him, shading her eyes from the sun. "And neither are you." "Don't let the beard fool you," Mulder answered, avoiding her eyes. She let the silence unroll, watching his lashes as he blinked, the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. Beneath his chin, she could see a pulse and she longed to press her mouth to it, to feel his life beating against her lips. "Did the hearing go badly?" she asked. He looked down at her, his face blank. "Skinner's been a busy boy. Flagstaff agreed that Wallace was self-defense and the Children's Center in San Diego agreed to let it be handled as an internal matter. They're not going to file criminal charges. What OPR will do is probably another story." "What about you, Mulder? They're not going to try to hang any of this on you, are they?" He shrugged. "To be honest, I'm not sure I care. I'm not sure my heart's in it any more." "Mulder." She started to reach for his leg, then thought better of it. "When is my hearing?" she asked, sighing. "April first." That at least wrung a wry smile from his grim face. "Somehow it seems like an appropriate date." "Good. Then we still have a few days." "For what? You're not going back out there, Scully. Not right now. I don't care how fine you say you are." "I meant a few days here." She pushed off from the rock she was leaning against. Too long standing in the sun, and she would burn. Too long with Mulder in this kind of tense, edgy mood and he would wear her out, outweigh the fragile balance she'd finally achieved. "It's a good place, Mulder. Sit and listen to the quiet for a while. Maybe it will help you, too." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> He sat up on the rocks until his rear end ached, until the sun was nearly gone and he was chilled through. He understood now why Scully had picked this as her thinking place. There was something about the endless enduring patience of the empty paddock that made him feel better. Calmer than he had been since leaving her in the hospital a week ago. The hogan was aglow with warm light from a kerosene lamp set in the window, as if Scully had left it there to guide his way home. She was fast asleep on the small sagging bed, head on the mattress, wrapped in a thick woolen blanket. Her laptop was on the table, though without electricity he doubted it had been useful to her for very long. Some bureaucratic oversight had allowed her to keep the files she had gone away with, and they were spread out across the small Formica table, her notebook face down on top of them. Next to it, a pen and her glasses, lying as she always left them when she'd only stepped away for a moment, opened up and up- side down. Working, still, always. He knelt by the bed, lifting a lock of her hair from where it lay against the sheet, rubbing the soft strands gently between his fingers. She didn't stir and he couldn't bring himself to wake her. Mulder shivered and got up to put more wood in the fireplace, a sawed- off oil drum in the middle of the eight-sided room, its stovepipe extending upward through a hole in the ceiling. The fire pit itself was no more than a shallow indent dug into the dirt floor of the hogan and Mulder had to lie on his stomach, blowing into the cut-out door to get the coals to flare up again. "Indian Guide, my ass," came a sleepy voice from his right. He looked up to find Scully smiling at him, still curled peacefully under her blanket. "Eastern Indians, okay? We had things like forests. Twigs and leaves and tinder." "And matches. And lighter fluid." Her teasing tone took him by surprise, as much as her quiet beauty in the soft light. "There's another little door on the other side. Open that, and it's easier to get the fire going again," she said, making no move to help. Instead, she rolled slowly onto her back, rubbing at the center of her chest. "Are you all right?" he asked. "Mmm. Just being lazy." She punctuated the statement with a careful stretch, drawing the blanket back up to her shoulders when she was finished. "It's funny," she said, looking upward so that he was graced with her elegant profile. "My sister was always telling me to listen to my heart, but I never would. I guess it finally decided it had to go on strike to get my attention." Mulder held his breath for a moment, not sure what to do with that revelation. "So, what was it trying to tell you?" he finally joked. "Eat at Joe's? Don't invest in Microsoft?" "That I love you." She said it calmly, as a matter of well-known fact, her eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Mulder said nothing. He had just lost the facility for thought, for language. She turned her head and fixed him with large eyes, sea-green in the golden light. Mulder did the only thing he could think of to do under the circumstances. He started to cry. She was there in a moment, kneeling beside him, her fingers lightly running through his hair. One hiccup racked his body, then another as he gave in to the overwhelming need to touch her, to caress her face, to feel her skin beneath his hands. She bent her head and kissed him until the light seemed to flow between them, not banishing the darkness, but illuminating the twisted shapes within. Reducing them to their ordinary contours, the way a child's nightlight turns the monstrous shadows back into a chest of drawers and toys left on the floor. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She woke him in the night, not thrashing with nightmares, but alive with excitement. "Come with me," she whispered, tugging him out of the bed she'd tucked him into a few hours before. She made him put a t-shirt and jacket over his sweatpants, wrapped a blanket around him and led him to the door. "Close your eyes," she said, and he did, trusting her to guide him up the road. The ground was cold beneath his bare feet, but the dirt was so soft it made him want to dig his toes into the packed earth. Scully led him a few yards up from the hogan, until he felt wool beneath his feet and she told him to lie down. He heard a soft whoosh of air as she laid down beside him and snuggled against his side. Mulder unfolded the blanket she'd wrapped him in, enough to wrap her up in it as well. "You can open your eyes now," she said, and he did. Above him lay the entire universe, a canopy of stars so dense the sky seemed to be more light than darkness. There was no moon at all and the Milky Way stood out clearly, directly above their heads. Mulder's gaze traveled across the heavens as he sought orient himself by the constellations, but there were so many extra stars, so many more than he was used to seeing, that it was hard to pick out the familiar patterns. "Do you see that?" She pointed to a particular set of stars, three across, set close together. "Orion," he acknowledged. He turned to look at Scully, surprised to find her already looking at him. Her face was somber again and it made him ache to think that she had looked like that for so long that he'd begun to consider it her normal expression. "My father taught me the constellations when I was a little girl," she said, tracing star patterns on his chest. "He taught us all that kind of thing. But I could never accept that Orion was a boy. To me it was a woman in a long dress, arms out, trying to encompass the whole universe." He smiled at her, delighted in the confidence. "That was science for me, Mulder. To be a scientist meant that I could, one day, know everything. Or so I thought." "When you were a child." "Until I came to work with you. And was confronted with the impossible, the unexplainable, right from the start. You cracked my smug little world wide open, Mulder." "I'm not sure that deserves thanks." "It does." She lifted herself up, a slight wince flashing across her features as she settled on her elbow. "But what I've missed, Mulder...had already missed, long before I met you...was what everyone else seems to have had a dozen times by our age." "The flu?" he quipped, not sure if he wanted to hear what was coming. He didn't need to see her face to know that once again, he'd screwed up. "I'm sorry," he said quickly, reaching for her as she rolled onto her back and turned her face away. "Please, Scully. I'm not good with this kind of stuff." "This isn't easy for me either, Mulder." "I know it's not. Believe me, I know." He lay down again, tugging her gently back to her place in his arms. Her palm slid beneath his shirt to rest flat against his chest, and he reminded himself that she would never touch him like this if she didn't want to. For that he had years of proof, years of Scully touching him with only the tips of her fingers, if at all. She had let him touch her, sure, perhaps even liked it, but she had so rarely returned the gesture that he had come to believe she had no desire to touch him at all. "Scully," he said softly, playing with the baby fine wisps of hair at her temple. "I have to ask. Why did you come back? Why didn't you just take Amy and make a life for yourself somewhere?" "Because it wasn't the right thing to do." "But what if it turns out that our theory is true? That they tracked us, and recruited us, and put us together for a purpose?" She sat up, the millions of stars illuminating her face as clearly as a full moon. "Does it really matter, Mulder? Could they make us do what we're doing right now?" He ran a finger down her neck, to the place where her cross used to lay. "There's so much more you should have had." "No," she answered. "Listen to me. I'm not my mother, happy to stay home with a pack of kids, waiting for my man to come back from protecting the country. I'll never forgive Them for what was stolen from me, but I can make peace with the idea that I've chosen not to be a normal parent. I can't do what we do with a child in my daily life. And I've come to believe that you and I were meant to do this." "Monster Slayer and Child of Water?" A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Child of Water was a man, Mulder." "Hey, it's the '90s," he said, and for once in this long, strange day, the joke did not fall flat. "We should go in," he added, negating his own words by pulling her back down into his arms. "You need your rest." "I am resting," she answered. "I sleep out here every night." She lifted her head and smiled her rare, bright smile. "What a girl has to do, Mulder, to get you into bed." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> She was making tea, swimming in the sweatshirt she'd borrowed to put over her dress, the sleeves rolled twice and the bottom hanging almost to her knees, when she realized that something between them had changed. "What?" she asked, feeling his eyes on her, even with her back turned. "You look so different, Scully. I feel like I don't even know you," he answered. She tried to laugh it off, imagining how strange she must appear with her untamed hair and her mismatched clothes. A far cry from the prim and proper Agent Scully. "At the moment, I don't even know me," she answered, pushing their work aside to clear a space on the table for her mug. "Don't worry, I'm sure I'll be recognizable once I clean up and put a suit back on." "You're beautiful, Scully, just as you are." She looked down at him, at the almost unbearable tenderness in his eyes and reached over to draw one finger down his nose. "So are you." A breathless moment passed and then he laughed, scratching his fingers through his beard. "Even with this?" She bent over and kissed his upturned face. "I like the beard," she said when she was finished, feeling the first flush of arousal coloring her cheeks. "The beard can stay." "Maybe we should never leave this place," he said, no longer laughing. Scully shook her head, taking the seat across from him. "I know this isn't really us," she said. "Me in this dress, you with that beard. But it is us, Mulder. Would you rather go back to the way we were?" "No," he said quickly. "Me neither. And that won't change when we get back to DC." She sipped at the hot liquid, Leonora's gift. Hawthorne, good for strengthening the heart. Little did she know, Scully thought. And then wondered if Leonora, looking at them from the outside, had seen exactly what was going on. "So." Mulder got up and went to the propane stove, taking the lid off the pot of soup he'd made for their lunch. A rich waft of potato and leek filled the air and Scully's stomach gave a healthy rumble. "What else haven't we gone over? Jane Hampton?" He cast a quick look at her over his shoulder, wooden spoon in hand. "What do the RFLPs I brought tell you?" "Nothing conclusive except that we don't have the same mother. Humans share over 99.9% of their DNA with each other. Without a DNA sample from my father, or a very expensive procedure to subtract the mitochondrial DNA from ours and compare what's left, we're not going to get a definitive answer." He turned to look at her, his face shadowed. "And you're okay with that?" She thought about it a moment, surprised to find out that she was. "I think to know absolutely either way...maybe some truths don't need to be known." He accepted that, turning back to stir the soup. She watched the muscles in his shoulders move under his t-shirt, and was struck by how much pleasure it gave her just to sit here and let herself look at him. "Mulder," she said softly. "Tell me about Caitlin." His shoulders went stiff before he shrugged and resumed his deeply concentrated stirring. "You've seen the MRIs." "No, Mulder. Tell me about her." He stilled again. "I wouldn't know how to start," he finally answered, in a voice that sounded as if he were clutching it in both hands. She came up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist, pressing her forehead into the hollow between his shoulderblades. They didn't fit. They were ridiculously mismatched. And yet, when he turned in her arms, their very disparity had its own erotic attraction. Here, the still-soft bulge of Mulder's half-erection snuggled comfortably against her belly, while her small breasts found a hollow to fill in the dip just beneath his ribs. Her head did not quite clear his shoulder with her heels on the ground, but that only gave him room to tuck her neatly under his arm and spread his hands across her back. She could remember Daniel, the first time he had held her like this. How his arms had gone all the way around her and he'd said she felt like nothing, like he was holding himself. I love you, Mulder, she thought, because you've always made me feel like I was something, even when I was something you were angry with. She looked up and his eyes flared wide. She realized that her breath had begun to speed up, that she was wet with wanting him, and he could see it in her eyes. "Shh," she said, before he could speak, and twined her fingers in his hair, drawing him down so that she could reach his mouth. This was different than the other times they had kissed. Where before the kiss had been the main event -- and had lasted, on one memorable occasion, for what seemed like hours -- she felt it this time as a prelude, like the bow and curtsy before a formal dance. He moved her backward, around the blazing stove, then gently pushed her down to sit on the edge of the bed, wadding up the pillows and blankets for her to lean against. She watched from her place of honor as he sank to his knees and slowly slid the dress up her bare legs. Had she been unconsciously aware that this would happen today, that she was ready for it? Was that why she had insisted they both bathe this morning, despite the fact their water was running low? She shivered as his hands moved up and down the insides of her thighs, holding back the desire to twine her fingers in his hair and guide him down. He would find his way himself; she just needed to be patient. Had he not been patient with her these last three days? As if she were a wild pony that needed to be gentled, he had waited for her to get used to his presence, to come to him. He parted her legs further, rubbing his bearded face against her skin and she threw her head back, giving herself over to the strange sensation. His mouth came at last and she caught a low moan before it escaped from her lips. She was aware of Mulder tugging her to the end of the bed, aware of him draping her legs over his shoulders, but it seemed to be happening in an erotic dream, the kind she had on her loneliest nights, when she imagined her faceless, dark-haired lover and tried to pretend that her fingers were his. No more dreams, she thought, opening her eyes. No more nightmares. She was alive, pleasure coursing through her body, waking every nerve. He made love to her with his mouth and hands, and then she to him, until both of them were flushed and sweating, their discarded clothes crushed beneath them, and she closed her eyes as she slowly lowered herself down onto him. There was no pain this time, no awful memory exploding inside her head. Just something opening, expanding. She moaned softly, unable to stop herself. She was full of him, full to bursting, overwhelmed and close to tears. "Scully, stay with me." His hands on her face were gentle, his thumbs tracing the curve of her lips. "Look at me, Scully. I'm here." She looked. At first, it was just one more thing to add to the overload -- the depth of his eyes and the expression within. She had it on her lips to say stop it's too much, when he smiled and she melted against him, burying him still deeper. The boundaries she had guarded for so long shifted, expanded to encompass him. "When we dead awaken..." she whispered, and he laughed; a low, delicious sound. "Only you, Scully, would quote Ibsen in the middle of making love." He laughed again and she joined him, her own rusty with years of neglect. Was it, in the end, just this simple? Two warm, willing bodies and the mundane, everyday glory of this act? They spoke now in half sentences and whispers, in soft cries she no longer tried to suppress. Slowly, she began to tighten around him. "Butterfly," he whispered, reaching up to stroke her battered face. "Mulder..." His name was a wonder now, an astonishment. "I'm here." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> He had forgotten the feel of a woman in the grip of orgasm, the absolute and undying rapture of it. He watched Scully's face change as she closed her eyes and gave herself over to sensation, let her body take her into another dimension, a realm of light and heat and pleasure. He kissed her as she returned to him, eyes still shining with revelation. Her hand found its way to her ribs, pressing against the discoloured skin between her breasts. "I'm sorry," he said immediately. "No," she breathed, the soft smile never leaving her lips, "I forgot about it." He began to withdraw and she used her weight to stop him. "I'm all right, Mulder." Her eyes gleamed at him, heavy-lidded. Her smile turned wicked as she raised herself up, then slid slowly back down, making him groan with pleasure. He began to move again, and she bit lightly on his ear. "Shh," she whispered. "Let me." She leaned against him, arms around his neck, stroking his chest with the tips of her breasts, taking him deeper inside her, deeper than he would have dared. A delicious agony began to build as she moved, so slow he wanted to scream, so unbelievably giving. Scully making love was a whole new Scully, a lush uncharted territory, one he had obviously never allowed himself to adequately imagine. A slow, sensuous smile spread across her face as she felt him beginning to gather within her. He couldn't stay still any longer, couldn't stay quiet, he needed his arms around her, needed to feel her heart beating against his. She opened her eyes as he drew her down to him. So much love swimming in those rich blue waters, so much sweetness. It was the trigger he needed, the catalyst for his release. Their embrace tightened as his movements became faster, suddenly growing desperate. Her name on his lips, his lips in her hair, he gave it all to her, everything that he was, all of the good and all of the bad, hope and fear and dream and nightmare pouring out of him in a wild rush while she held on, dauntless, and took it all in. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Now, she thought, as Mulder pulled the blankets up around them, her body cradled in the hollow of his. Now, if we were legend, I would conceive the child that had been prophesied, the one who would grow to save the world. There would be no child, not from this union or any other. A wave of sadness washed over her. "Are you all right?" Mulder asked. He tried to move, to look into her eyes, but she held him in place, her arms over his. "Scully?" "Shh." She rubbed her cheek against his arm, letting the sorrow come. It was right to have loved him, just as it was right now to mourn what they would never have. Scully floated gently in the sea of her grief, but he was her raft, he kept her from drowning. He had always been there, but she had forgotten. This she would never forget, no matter what happened now. She pulled Mulder's arms tighter around her. The monsters would wait another day. They watched the sky darken outside the door of the hogan and after awhile, they slept. <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> EPILOGUE <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> MARYLAND COAST MARCH 31ST, 4:50 PM Mulder stood on the cement walk and watched Scully make her slow way towards the ocean. The east coast was cold, grey, a drizzle threatening within the hour, and the turbulent water seemed to be a reflection of whatever had been going on between them all these years. Pulled by unseen forces, at one moment inexorably drawing closer, until the forces released them and they receded, back to wherever they began. He wanted to believe that was over now. Scully had taken off her heels, leaving them like two small black creatures, forlorn and forgotten, half buried in the sand. Mulder's hands clenched the metal railing separating him from the beach as she walked straight into the sea, never once flinching as the cold waves rose and covered her feet. Deeper still she walked, until she was up to her knees and Mulder was poised to vault over the rail, the knight in tarnished armor off to save his beloved from herself. She stopped then, just in time to keep him where he was. Surely she knew that he was watching, knew he could only give her so much privacy for whatever she had come here to do. He was Mulder in hover mode, half of him wishing that she would finally go ahead and shatter so they could get on with picking up the pieces, the other half praying that the peace they had found out in the desert was not another cleverly constructed facade. She was kneeling in the water now, head high, her back straight as a mast. The coat billowing behind her as the hem slowly sank made her look like a child's stick-and-leaf sailboat, ready to blow away on the stiffening breeze. Mulder jumped the railing, angling outward across the sand to approach Scully from the side, rather than from directly behind. He had the sickening fear that he had gotten his wish at the worst of moments, that the salt water was undoing all the glue as he watched, that he would begin to see pieces of her floating away, too far out for him to reach. Her head bent slowly over her clasped hands and he realized she was praying. Mulder stopped, water swirling around his shoes, the laces already damp and caked with sand. Scully's prayers were private. He should not even look, yet he dared not take his eyes off her, afraid that if he didn't go on watching, she would slip beneath the waves and he would lose her forever. One hand moved from her lap into her pocket, and the wind brought him fragments of her voice, only the most delicate of sounds, no clear words to discern. He watched, paralyzed, as Scully opened one of the vials they had taken from the lab and poured its contents into the sea. She reached into her pocket again, and again, each of the five vials receiving this small ceremony, while her voice whispered and wept on the wind that filled his ears. She was finished, motionless when he reached her, staring with reddened eyes toward the horizon. He put a hand on her shoulder, shaking her slightly. Her distant focus didn't change and his throat closed in panic, wondering if her spirit had gone out there, never to return. "I'm all right," she said after a moment, her voice thick and hoarse. He opened his own mouth to say something, then found he had no words. This was the place in the script where he usually went away, his cue to leave her alone with her thoughts. He had never gone beyond that moment. He had respected her too much. Respect, or...or what? Cowardice, he told himself. You're a coward. You were grateful for her stubborn pride, relieved when she took her baggage back and shut the door in your face. It hurt because she didn't trust you, but you were glad too, because you didn't want to watch her go through it. He was not going away. Not this time. He wondered if maybe she had never wanted him to go, but hadn't known how to ask him to stay. She turned at last and looked at him. "Those were my children, too." He had no idea where the words came from, but the moment he said them he knew it had been the right thing to say. "Yes," she answered, her damp hand cold against his burning face. She lifted his arm and slipped beneath it, nestling herself against his chest. Her face was soft and open, and for the first time he could remember, she made no attempt to either hide her tears or to stop them. She simply wept, quietly, calmly, and he thought, with a sudden swell of hope inside his chest, that maybe this time she really was going to be fine. "Caitlin's ashes," he began. She shook her head against him. "I'd like to bury them by my sister." "That's a good place." Maybe he would find a way to talk about Caitlin by then. Shivering now, they helped each other to rise, slowly picking their drenched, bedraggled way back up the beach. They stopped to pull Scully's shoes out of the sand and the sky took that moment to open over their heads. Scully stepped back, looking upward to the angry heavens. "Isn't it strange," she said, wiping her wet face uselessly with her free hand, "that every time something important happens between us, it happens in the rain? Have you ever noticed that?" He smiled as he remembered her standing in a cemetery in Oregon, laughing hysterically with the rain streaming down her face. He knew now that he began to love her as long ago as that, had wanted to catch her up in his arms that night and whirl her around, crying "YES!" to the stars so they would know he had received their gift and was happy with it. She had aged a hundred years since that night. They both had. And so he only drew her close, his heart whirling as her arms slid easily around his waist and she rose against him. Her lips were wet and cold, but her mouth was warm, her tongue speaking its own language against his. She wrote poems inside his mouth until he had to pull away, clutching her close as the rain pounded on their heads, whispering his gratitude at last, in one simple word. "Scully." He smiled down at her and she was smiling too, her own smaller and more wistful than his. He wondered how many times he could fall in love with the same woman, if he would experience this same rollercoaster thrill of exhilaration every time he held her, for the rest of his life. "Mulder," she answered, giving it the twist of a question. He followed her gaze, looking over his shoulder to the hill high above the beach, where an elegant two-story structure overlooked the roiling sea. "What are you looking at?" he asked. "A hotel. A very nice hotel, actually." "Yes, it is," he agreed. She looked at him again, and the color of her eyes reminded him of the sky in Arizona, just before all the insanity began. "Your mother is expecting you," he said. She smiled at him, a wide radiant smile such as he had never seen from her. "You're going to use my mother as an excuse?" He smiled back and shook his head. "One more night," she said, turning serious again, reaching up to stroke the pale skin that marked the place his beard had been. "One more night before we have to go back and face them all. But as ourselves." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> FBI HEADQUARTERS APRIL 1ST, 7:58 AM They moved down the corridor, a unit unto themselves; a tall man with an oddly handsome face, and a small, delicate woman, matching him stride for stride. The man's hand lay firmly in the curve of the woman's back. She didn't seem to mind. Scully shot Mulder a quick look as they took their seats across from Skinner and the rest of the review panel. She knew he would have liked to reach out, to squeeze her hand, but it was not possible under the circumstances. Instead, he held her gaze for a moment, reassuring her with his eyes. "Agent Scully," Skinner began. "The panel understands that you became very ill as a result of this investigation. We'd like to ask if you now feel ready to begin the review process." Scully looked at the faces on the other side of the table and knew that most of them would be against her. She could only tell the truth, and then it would be in God's hands. She wished she could reach over to touch Mulder's arm, to tell him how strong she felt. A strength unlike the desperate holding together of broken parts that had characterized her for so long; what she felt this morning was a clear, steady light, like a candle lit for prayer. What she felt was the echo of Mulder inside her, the promise that whatever happened here, they would find a way to make a future, not only for the world, but for themselves. "Yes," she answered, her voice filling the room. "I'm ready now." <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> END OF BOOK TWO Put a little gas in the car: fialka62@yahoo.com <<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>>=<<+|+>> Author's notes: Hi . Fialka here. If, after 750k of this, anyone is still here (and if those who were reading as I posted have forgiven me ), I'd just like to say a word or two of thanks. First, all the eclairs on the planet to the monster-beta team, without whom this story would have been a good deal fuzzier, badly punctuated, and Britishly spelled. This was a hell of a story to write, not just for me, but for those who took any part of that bumpy car ride, which went through three complete drafts and umpteen revisions. Over a year and hundreds of pages later, some of my betas are even still speaking to me . The big thanks are in Book One, Part 0, but another word is necessary here: There are three people who patted my cheeks, sharpened my prose, and betabetabeta'd their little cotton socks to shreds through the final revisions done during these two weeks of posting. For beta services above and beyond and around and a hundred miles past the call of duty, please give a huge round of applause and virtual goodies to MARASMUS, JET and LYSANDRA. Any errors, inconsistencies or lapses of logic that slipped through are not only entirely my fault, but probably a result of my ignoring their good advice. Second, but very close to my heart, the issues brought up by the character of Leonora are all too real. Anyone interested in knowing more about the so-called 'Navajo/Hopi Land Dispute' will probably be able to make a good start here: Fourth World Documentation Project http://www.halcyon.com/FWDP/ Bob Dorman's Activist Page http://www.plix.com/~users/redorman/ Last, but never least, to everyone who has or will read this -- thanks for coming along on the ride. It's been a pleasure sharing it with you. Fialka 1 October 2000