Shield and Sword
By Maraschino and Anna Otto
Email: maraschino@ibm.net and anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer and other stuff in chapter 1

Part 3/4

	Assistant Director.

	Walter Skinner ran the title over his tongue, feeling his body 
parts becoming numb against the lumpy cot in his jail cell.  He closed 
his eyes, trying to recall what exactly was in the job description 
when the Director and FBI brass had offered him the job.  For some 
reason, however, his mind remained frustratingly blank -- he could not 
recall any of the terms he had so patriotically agreed to when he 
signed his contract.

	His job had metamorphosed over the years.  Most of the changes 
had stemmed from a certain division in the basement of the J. Edgar 
Hoover Building.  The stability of tedium had been replaced by the 
Excedrin-yielding spontaneity of two federal agents.  Paperwork -- the 
staple of bureaucratic monotony -- had been transformed to 
pseudo-prosaic confabulations about the paranormal.  And admittedly, 
Skinner had felt something for his agents, had admired their 
relentless pursuit for the truth, and their refusal to stoop 
to the Consortium's levels.

	And now Mulder was Assistant Director.

	And Skinner could swear he could still smell the salty tang of 
blood, from where he had been stabbed in the back.  Forget about 
Krycek the Rat, Mulder had become the new weasel on the block, and 
the squeaky mattress underneath Skinner groaned as his body weight 
abruptly shifted -- as his blood pressure rose, and his face grew red 
with thoughts of betrayal.

	Mulder was too brash; he clashed with the pot-bellied, 
hair-thinning FBI brass.  Skinner smiled -- Mulder would never 
survive as the Assistant Director, and he morbidly anticipated 
the younger agent to fail, and soon. Mulder knew next to nothing about 
dealing with authorities, about playing paper-laden ring around the 
rosy with the upper brass.  

	But, his mind countered, Mulder's past had been pot-marked by 
contacts, by government officials... by the legacy of his father.  He 
had been with VCS -- had been a part of the panhandling, paper work, 
and media frenzy that had continued past Bill Patterson's tenure into 
insanity.  

	Skinner was drumming his fingers against the cot, trying to 
make some semblance of the puzzle pieces in front of him.  

	The Consortium had planted evidence to implicate him for 
murder.

	And Mulder was promoted in his place.  

	So, either the young agent had suddenly developed a bout of 
ignorance, or he had finally succumbed to bastards on West 46th.

	Skinner shuddered, closing his eyes, knowing that it was the 
greater of the two evils that Mulder had fallen to. He wondered if 
Scully was unaware of her partner's betrayal or if she was involved as 
well and couldn't decide. As dependent as the two agents were on each 
other, it was highly plausible. . . and if she were involved, it would 
certainly explain her unwillingness to help him.

	He panicked -- wondering if Mulder had joined the Consortium 
willingly and if he felt any guilt.  Did he even give a second thought 
about putting his Assistant Director in jail?  Why would he have felt 
the need to...

	Skinner was tempted to laugh hysterically.  He was too aware 
of the suspicion Mulder still held towards him.  More importantly, he 
wondered where the sudden need to know in what esteem Mulder held him 
in came from.

	The agent's hesitance during their meeting at his apartment, 
his jerky, nervous behavior when he had requested that they look into 
his murder charge -- it was so goddamned clear now.  So much for his 
Assistant Director skills and his ability to read people.

	Because Walter Skinner had been blind to it all.

***

	In the end, the blood of Benjamin de Hecht -- Captain of the 
NYPD -- had splattered into a familiar blossom, reminiscent of the 
blood-stained window that John Lee Roche left behind.  The bullet 
from the silenced PP7 had charged the surrounding air, hiding 
everything behind a smokescreen that smelled 
like the salt of blood and the bitterness of burnt carbon.

	The head had been decimated -- sulci and dura matter had been 
flung in a circle with a constant radius.  Mulder stared numbly as 
blood pulsated out of the remaining eye socket in time to an 
increasingly faltering heartbeat.

	The assassin -- whom Mulder remembered as the man in black who 
perforated holes in the glass doors at Lombard -- was still busy at 
work, wiping the pistol clear of prints and placing it in the hands 
of the deceased.  A bag of crack cocaine was produced and shoved in 
the Captain's pockets.

	There was some wet, gray matter in the assassin's hair, and 
Mulder felt as if he were floating in a dream, as if cameras were 
rolling as he moved through this surreal scene.  Quentin Tarantino 
could make a film where Samuel Jackson could get brain guts in his 
hair, and pretty-faced John Travolta could brush it off with a 
straight-faced crack.  Put on a T-shirt, complement it with 
a ratty bathrobe, and things would be so freaking funny.  

	Mulder rubbed a gloved hand over his eyes, the smell of death 
momentarily overpowering him.  

	It sure as hell wasn't funny now.

	The trench-coated figure made a signal for them to leave, and 
Mulder felt his legs move of their own volition.  They left the 
federal safe house under the guise of night, and the newest Consortium 
member watched as the assassin drove casually through the gates.

	And Mulder heard nothing but the sickening click of his 
seatbelt as the uniformed guard at the gate waved goodbye as their 
Olds passed through.

	He stared out the window as lights played on the surface of 
glass.  The ninety-minute ride to the airport was accomplished in 
silence.  No names had been passed, personal agendas were hidden, and 
there was no need for pleasantries.

	The assassin was here to do a job -- a task that had been 
accomplished successfully many times before, and Mulder was here to...  

	He swallowed, feeling his innards grind as the car ran over a 
pothole on the highway.  He was here to learn a lesson.

	Benjamin de Hecht had been the celebrated Captain of New 
York's men in blue.  He was amiable and easy on the camera. He had 
reduced the inner city crime, and he could get the job done 
expediently when needed.

	He had also been a Consortium gopher from 1985, up until three 
weeks ago, when his child had been found in a ditch.  He had noted the 
abduction scar in her neck, and the pale blue face that spoke of an 
all-too-human monster.  He had abruptly resigned and silently turned 
State's Evidence.    

	The muted PP7 was sitting beside him, the gun barrel still 
smelling of burning lead.  The message to Mulder was far from subtle, 
and he understood completely what the Consortium was stressing.  
Double crossing and betrayal were not to be permitted.

	There was a pain in his stomach, and his nausea radiated in 
waves as the police cruiser wailed, speeding in the opposite 
direction. Mulder clenched his fingers together, closing his eyes, 
trying to convince himself that he had not killed the man.  He had 
not pulled the trigger.

	But the reel in his eidetic memory kept playing -- showing de 
Hecht's surprised green eyes and tense body. The bearded man had 
opened his mouth, issuing a surprised croak, flaying his hands for a 
weapon when his head exploded. There was the sound of tissue falling, 
hitting the floor messily before the torso collapsed.  

	And Mulder had watched as the silent spectator, his head 
growing leaden, the albatross around his neck becoming heavier.

	He remembered lecturing to Academy students once at 
Quantico -- describing visionary killers as those who maimed and 
tortured because they thought they were ridding the world of 
pestilence.  They were the kind of killings that were justified 
because black people were incompetent, or the Aryan people were 
superior.  

	And that even though the road to hell was paved with good 
intentions, it was still a road to hell.

	Did his dreams of Scully and Sam mean that he was visionary? 
Could he justify the deaths of those nameless informants and human 
obstacles, in the name of those he saw in restless dreams, night after 
night? And there were so many others who suffered by the invisible 
hand of the Consortium, whose lives were destroyed and whose sanity 
was threatened.

	The gaudy neon lights that cast a red hue to the interior of 
the car provided no answer, and Mulder bit his lip, once again eyeing 
the silenced PP7.  

	If this, indeed, was his road to hell, Mulder mused, it *was* 
paved with good intentions. 

	He looked to the assassin beside him and pressed his lips into 
a grim line. As he watched an oncoming car briefly illuminate the 
vehicle interior with white light, his heart grew warm with certainty.

	There, indeed, was too much pestilence in the world.  

	And he would get rid of it.

***

	Scully and Andrew stood silently in the X-Files office, their 
arms crossed over their chests.  She watched his eyes roam over the 
poster-adorned walls and buried her irritation, catching his growing 
smirk.

	"I take it this poster is Mulder's."

	Scully stared at the "I Want To Believe" poster, a smile 
growing behind her still lips. "Yes, it is."  She stared at it a 
second longer than necessary, absorbing what little it seemed her and 
her ex-partner had in common.  She watched Andrew with suspicious eyes 
-- not liking the way he was fingering Mulder's desk, or how he was 
rearranging the controlled chaos of files, notes, and folders.

	She wondered when she had gotten so possessive as she 
tightened her arms around the chest, dug her fingernails roughly into 
her side.  He opened up the file cabinet, played with the slide 
projector, grabbed a sharpened pencil, and began to play with it in 
his fingers.

	Scully's annoyance grew exponentially.  Was he purposely 
doing this?  Was he trying to antagonize her?  She pinched the skin 
underneath her rib cage so hard that she knew it would be raw 
tomorrow.

	She bit her lip, knowing the answer already.  Even without 
the psych Ph.D., she knew deep inside that Andrew was doing nothing 
wrong.  It was her. And Mulder.  It was the stupid situation that 
she had more stupidly agreed to, that was causing her skin to crawl. 
She watched the ex-VCS agent walk around Mulder's desk and heard 
the chair being pulled out.

	Scully failed to prevent the horrified sound that came from 
her mouth, and Andrew stopped his body's progression from sitting 
down, staring startled at her.

	Her arms quickly came from her sides to place themselves 
protectively at Mulder's desk.  "Why don't you... uh... why don't you 
take my desk, Agent Winters," Scully hated how breathless her voice 
sounded.  "I'll take Mulder's since I know where everything is."

	Andrew rose up slowly, hearing the hesitation, regarding her 
suspiciously.  "Sure."

	Scully breathed a sigh of relief, her heartbeat calming down, 
her vision returning to normal.  It was just a visual example of her 
dependence on Mulder, and it made her hands shake as she took up his 
chair.  It was what she had grappled with during her cancer, during 
the horrible inquisition when she had to convince her superiors 
that he was dead.
	
	And the dependence was mutual, despite Mulder's constant 
forays into danger without her.  It was true that they were each 
other's weakness.  While she became alternatively depressed and 
protective, Mulder would become combative and dour.

	A lovely pair of bookends, as Missy would often say.

	And it was becoming increasingly difficult to convince 
herself that her mood swings were in no way indicative of the 
increasing strain in her and Mulder's current long-distance 
relationship.  

	"Were you surprised at Mulder's promotion?"

	Scully shook herself out of her reverie, her arms 
unconsciously going around her sides once again.  "What do you mean?"

	Andrew shrugged his shoulders.  "I mean, don't you think it 
was a bit uh... premature?"

	"Are you asking me if I doubt my partner's credentials?"

	Andrew shook his head quickly, the incorrect use of the word 
"partner" not escaping him. "No... no..." he saw Scully waiting for 
an explanation.  "I mean, Mulder really hasn't endeared himself to 
the brass, and come on," he smirked,  "the X-Files isn't really the 
stuff Assistant Directors are made of."

	Scully ignored the joke, watching her vision threaten red 
once again. She marveled suddenly at how different this day was from 
the first time the young agent visited the X-Files department. There 
was little left of his obvious, and somewhat flattering, fascination 
with Mulder and her. It seemed any respect he afforded them was slowly 
disappearing, as well. "Why are you antagonizing me, Agent Winters?"

	Andrew stood back, wary of the daggers her eyes were 
shooting.  "Why are you being so protective?"

	"I just... I have a lot of respect for Mulder's abilities," 
she crossed her legs, and sat back into her ex-partner's chair.  
"I think after five years of being partnered with him I would be 
more able to make such a judgement than some young agent who has 
undoubtedly heard far too many Spooky stories at the Academy."
 
	Andrew watched his new partner's lips curve up into a smile, 
heard the voice inflect higher as she tried to pass off the statement 
as a joke.  But her blue eyes had smoldered holes into his suit, and 
her hands had turned white as her fingers balled into fists.

	The silent message to back off was heard loud and clear.

* * *

	Samantha had visited him in his dreams again last night.

	And she was no longer the waif eight-year-old with brown rope 
for hair. She had turned into a woman, with children who hung like 
parasites on her leg, with a husband who grew like an ugly protrusion 
out of her side. Yet she flashed him a blinding smile. . .

	She had disappeared, once again, and he could do nothing but 
stand still as she faded away into the ether of night.   

	And even though the stars had shone brightly, the night had 
remained black. The darkness engulfed her, and the ring around her 
finger glowed cruelly as the only source of illumination.

	Sam had not screamed, and she had not floated away.  The feet 
of her children had shuffled in time to the mocking laugh of her 
husband, and Foxy had not reached for the gun -- had only listened to 
her wishes as she disappeared.

	"Don't look for me..."

	"Don't think about me..."

	"When I'm ready..."

	"Let me go..."

	Mulder attempted to shake off the clinging gossamers of last 
night's illusion. He let out a hoarse cough, rubbing a hand behind his 
neck, feeling it slide against lubricating sweat.  He watched his 
shadow move stiffly along the corridor wall, and his jaw began to ache 
with the pressure he was gritting his teeth with.  

	When his feet finally stopped, when the door stood resolutely 
in front of him, Mulder's previous boldness had disappeared.  His 
heartbeat fluttered, his breath came out in nervous gasps -- and his 
hands were unable to muster enough courage to open the 
steel panel in front of them.

	"Don't look..."

	The door hinges squeaked, moaning their disuse, and Mulder 
once again wiped his sweaty hands on already-damp pants.  His mouth 
formed a tight circle as he inhaled sharply.

	The file cabinets surrounded him. Neatly labeled with numbers 
and letters, they stood silently, stoically, keeping their secrets 
hidden inside.

	He stood in the doorway, finding his bearings, hearing air 
particles collide.  He numbly forced his feet to walk, the steel 
cabinets rebounding their echo infinitely.  His fingers traced the 
labels as he made his way through the Western alphabet. His eyes 
were transfixed, and his heart stopped once again when the drawer 
labeled Mo-Mz beckoned him.  

	"Don't think..."

	He stared at the cabinet longer, fingers twitching at his 
sides, the sweat leaving his hands cold as it evaporated into cold, 
musty air.  As if spurned by an unknown source, his fingers harshly 
pulled the cabinet open -- flaying as they passed through the 
multitude of buff-colored folders.  As if fueled by a catalyst, his 
fingers moved faster, his eyes mirroring the dizzying movements 
desperately.  

	"Please..."

	And he stopped when he read his sister's name on the folder, 
and only debated for nanoseconds of time whether the past should 
remain buried. He pulled it out hastily, flipping through the 
contents, not really absorbing the information, dilated pupils 
tracking over random figures and comments.  

	"Let me go..."

	The cabinet was slammed shut, and Mulder paced the tiny 
corridor. Why couldn't he let go?  Why couldn't he have a white 
picket fence with a wife who was normal?  Why couldn't he have a 
normal job, with blessedly normal co-workers? Why did everything 
around him have to remain so frustratingly *abnormal*?  The questions 
remained unanswered as Mulder smiled ruthlessly and pocketed the file.

	Maybe Scully could decipher it.

	Scully could...

	Mulder's eyebrows furrowed with suspicion as he walked further 
into the steel-laden corridor.  His eyes tracked intently over the 
labels till he saw what he was looking for: Sa-Sn.

	"Don't look..."

	This file was heavier than Samantha's.  Thicker.  And the 
label on the folder was more faded, as if Dana Katherine Scully's 
folder had been passed through numerous, curious hands.

	"Don't think..."

	Mulder's eyes blazed as he flipped through the chart.  The 
letters on the page momentarily turned red as he read through the 
detached, impersonal analyses of her skin, her eyes, her.... 

	He could not swallow past the bile in his throat, violated, as 
visions of seeing Scully comatose came unbidden into his mind.

	"Let it go..."

	He shook his head resolutely.  His soul had already been sold. 
Scruples had long since been thrown away.  The folders rested so 
comfortably in his hand; they could be slipped out of the Consortium's 
watch so easily...

	Watching the double crosses, seeing the dealings of morally 
ambiguous shadows, Mulder smiled.  Like the chess game with Miller, 
like the hypnosis he was taught to perform, nothing was beyond his 
reach.  Five years of pursuing, running, and dealing had allowed him 
to sharpen his skills of deception.  He would get the bastards.  He 
would get the bastards no matter what had to be done.  

	Mulder smiled grimly when he imagined Milton's neck twisting 
like taffy in his hands.

	Taking a breath, looking nervously towards the door, Mulder 
released the ironclad grip he held on the two folders.  If not for the 
numerous Duane Barry's and VJ's in the cabinets, he would do it for 
Sam.  And if not for Sam, he would most certainly do it for Scully.

	And the thought made his heart fall to the pit of his stomach 
once again.

	Because he was spooky and his life would never involve a 
Lucy-esque wife, or friends who would drink trendy coffee and make 
funny faces.

	Deep Throat had been right: the shark dies once it's stopped 
swimming.

	And with the prey an arm's length away, Mulder offered a 
silent rebuttal to Samantha's plea.  Because he had to look.  Had to 
think.

	And this time, he would not let go.	

***

	Andrew came with a tangible apology five hours after their 
first fight.  He placed a file on her desk, the red and white border, 
and the black, stenciled "X" boldly proclaiming it to be an X-File.

	He perched on her desk, waiting for her to read it.  

	"I thought this would be a good place to start," she gave him 
a questioning glance, and he smiled.  "A good foray into the X-Files 
world, so to speak, at least for me."

	The accompanying photograph was the first thing to catch her 
eyes.  Hair as red as molten metal, eyes as blue as the clearest 
water, and a blank expression that spoke of the trauma she had been 
through.  Scully started to grow uneasy as the 4' by 6' photo of an 
abduction scar failed to pass her gaze unnoticed.  And the familiar 
refrain of missing time made her want to groan, hide in her apartment 
underneath the safety of her duvet.  

	In Sheila Freeman's case, three weeks worth of time hadn't 
been accounted for.  The report had gaps of nothing, where police 
and eyewitness accounts failed to turn up anything.  In other 
paragraphs, the accounts of onlookers and police conflicted. Where 
one saw an airplane light, the other saw a hovering UFO. Where one 
heard Sheila Freeman scream, the other heard nothing, save for the 
chirping of crickets.

	Scully closed the report and placed it on her desk carefully.  
"Have you met with her?"

	Andrew nodded.  "Yeah, actually, the case was originally VCS's 
because we thought a human perp was doing all of this."

	Scully silently nodded, muttering to herself.  "Human perp 
indeed."

	"By the way, you will notice that she also had a chip 
extracted out of her neck," Andrew continued softly, "the one you
could tell me nothing about."

	She glanced at him in annoyance, and he returned the stare, 
his teeth tentatively biting his lip.

	"What?"

	Andrew shrugged, offering the suggestion quietly.  "I don't 
mean to bring this up, but do you think that this could be related to 
you?"

	Scully's eyes blazed at the intrusion.  "How do you know?"

	Andrew stood his ground in front of his partner's desk, having 
expected the defensive response.  "Your disappearance involved many 
FBI agents," he studied the floor, shrugging his shoulders.  "They've 
all seen the reports... and uh... heard Agent Mulder's theories. I 
wasn't here when it happened, but I read all of it later."
 
	Scully remained silent, unable to offer a response.  The 
rational side of her knew that everyone in the Bureau had heard of 
her abduction -- had sidestepped it with polite conversation and 
frustratingly impersonal pleasantries.   It had been a preview 
to the hushed whispers that would come once she was diagnosed with 
cancer. The female federal agent took a deep breath, trying to keep 
her temper under control.  "Okay, Andrew," she said, regretting the 
condescending tone of her voice.  "Then what makes this case fall 
under our jurisdiction rather than VCS's?"   

	Andrew smiled grimly, and Scully wished she could slap his 
flair for the melodramatic out of him.  "Here's the kicker -- 
Freeman heard Mulder's voice during her abduction."

* * *

	Scully dialed the number reluctantly, never fully prepared to 
deal with the paranoid threesome who were The Lone Gunmen. But she 
very much doubted that anyone else would be able to help her in the 
current dilemma.

	"Lone Gunmen."

	"Byers, this is Agent Scully."

	"Oh, hey, we caught all this coverage on Baltimore hostage 
negotiation," he answered happily. "Mulder seems to be a popular man 
these days."

	And they had no idea just how popular, Scully thought 
sarcastically. "Listen, I need to ask you for a favor. . ."

	"Sure thing," now it was Langly on the phone. "Want us to 
hack into a computer or do you need some passes to a flu institute?"

	Scully rolled her eyes, though she couldn't help but smile at 
his jocular, slightly teasing tone. "Nothing that dangerous. Could I 
come by later on today?"

	She heard some noises in the background, and Langly answered 
momentarily: "Frohike wants me to tell you that he can't wait. You 
still remember where we are?"

	"I remember," Scully hung up, shaking her head ruefully. She 
scribbled a quick note for Andrew, feeling guilty for not including 
him. The Lone Gunmen's reaction to her bringing a new partner could 
be too much to deal with at the moment -- especially considering the 
nature of her request.
	
	She drove quickly, punishing her car with sudden stops and 
jerky turns, and tried not to think about the bizarre case that 
Andrew brought in to the X-Files. There was, almost certainly, a way 
to clear up this confusion - this misunderstanding - and 
then they could all move on with their lives.

	Byers answered the door, ceremoniously inviting her inside. 
Scully felt surreal here without Mulder - they were his friends, this 
was his territory. And she would be asking them to help her in. . . 
To help her in clearing his name, she answered her own 
question firmly. 	
	
	"Agent Scully, you look lovely as always," Frohike was 
already taking her coat and asking her to sit down on the spot he 
has just cleared off numerous papers, diskettes, and weird-looking 
things she dared not ask about. 

	"Thank you," she settled down carefully, unsure how to start, 
biding her time. "I see you got a new toy?" she pointed to a huge 
scanner whose wires were already a part of the breathing computer 
system.

	"State-of-the-art," Langly announced proudly. "Five thousand 
dpi resolution, keeps colors alive. . ."

	Byers glanced at him with impatience, then turned to Scully 
curiously. "Where is the man of the hour - Mulder?" 

	"Yeah, we haven't seen him in a while," Frohike reprised. 
"Not since you two got suspended."

	Scully shifted uncomfortably under three pairs of expectant 
eyes. "Uh. . . he was promoted to Assistant Director," she uttered 
finally. They seemed numbed by the news, and she added hastily: 
"Baltimore was high-publicity case, and the position needed to be 
filled."

	 "Well, that is a. . . shocker," Frohike offered finally. "And 
what about the X-Files?"

	She was suddenly angry. The department was not just Mulder's 
prerogative, she could do quite well without him. And it was the 
biggest lie she had ever tried to believe. "I manage them now - 
with Agent Andrew Winters, my new partner."

	The looks on their faces were priceless, and Scully wished 
that she had a camera to commemorate them. Byers and Langly and 
Frohike stared at her, then at each other for an interminable time. 
"I need your help with something."

	"Yes," Langly echoed. "Sorry. What is it?"

	"I was hoping you had some recordings of Mulder's voice," 
she looked away momentarily. "I need them."

	This request seemed to confuse them even more. "Why would you 
need that?" Langly eyed her suspiciously while Byers concentrated on 
coughing in his hand. 

	"To remember what he sounds like, I don't hear from him for 
days," the joke fell flat. "Actually, for identification purposes," 
Scully amended truthfully, promising herself that she wouldn't lie 
to them if she could help it.

	"Does Mulder know about this?" Byers asked softly.

	"No," Scully tried not to sound defensive. "Not yet."

	"Is this supposed to help him - or someone else?" Frohike 
played with a computer mouse absently.

	She didn't dignify that with an answer. 

	He looked down, embarrassed. "We have something, don't we, 
boys?"	

	Langly threw a tape in her direction. "This might not be very 
clear, but it is the best we have."

	"Bugging his apartment, aren't you?" Scully couldn't help 
returning the jab. "How does this help him?" Now, it was her turn 
to be ashamed. "Thank you though -- it helps us all," she got up and 
retraced her steps to the exit through the labyrinth of their office. 

	They haven't said goodbye, and didn't see her out. When she 
closed the door, the three men looked at each other, baffled and 
concerned.

	"This smells bad, boys," Frohike finally uttered. "To tell 
you the truth, it stinks."

* * *

	The courtroom buzzed with the incessant hum of nervous 
chatter from the eager media and eagle-eyed gawkers who had managed 
to find a seat in the crowded courtroom. Skinner took a breath, 
steeling himself, before looking over his shoulder for a familiar 
face. His eyes quickly scanned the rows, no pangs of recognition 
occurring.  His eyes stopped tracking momentarily when the stiff 
form of Agent Winters' came into view.  He noticed Winters' brow 
suddenly furrowing, as the agent looked up from his papers. Skinner 
turned his gaze away quickly, with no desire to make eye contact, 
and began concentrating on the water glass in front of him.

	Mulder and Scully hadn't been among the murmuring crowd in 
the federal courtroom.

	And the ex-AD wondered if the hole in his stomach was due 
to relief or worry.  

	His lawyer was clucking beside him, preening the collars 
of her navy blue suit, rifling through a torrent of papers, going 
through an endless cycle of placing folders in her briefcase, only 
to replace it with a similar blue folder.

	This lawyer differed from his divorce lawyer.  The law, 
then, had been distant and attractive --some prosaic words on a 
piece of paper that he merely had to sign. Annulment. Irreconcilable 
differences.  The words tried to say so much, but in actuality said 
so little.  They spoke of the need for him and Sharon to separate, 
but said nothing of the love he had still felt for her.  Behind the 
annulment and the morose judges in black robes was his inability to 
express his deepest fears -- his inability to express what he felt 
for his wife, for himself, for the future he had wanted them to have.

	And in this boring courtroom that was surrounded by worn 
cedar and cheap leather, the law was repellent.  Spiteful.  Ignorant 
of the American flag that limply stood in the corner gathering dust. 
It played into the hands of the corrupt and the malicious, became a 
catalyst to those who would silence the testimony of innocents, while 
taking their freedom away.

	Skinner chanced another glance behind him and was surprised 
to see Sharon offer a nervous smile of reassurance in his direction. 
The gesture made his chest hurt, and he had to stare at the opposite 
wall to get his breathing under control.  

	The judge came, his black robe trailing, his white beard 
giving him a prophet-like aura that immediately prompted everyone to 
stand silent, keen eyes watching his progress, expectant for the words 
he was about to speak.

	The pre-trial hearing would be short -- consisting only of 
a plea of guilty or not guilty. But at the thought of professing such 
words, Skinner could not fathom why his hands were starting to sweat, 
why his heart was threatening to palpitate out of control.  

	Despite his years in law enforcement, the voices of the 
magistrate seemed to be coming from far away, seemed to be speaking 
language he no longer understood.  The words dripped with impassioned 
disdain, an oxymoron in terms.  Even though it was the mouth of the 
robed creature that was moving, not its arms, Skinner could hear the 
incriminating gravel pound loudly in his ears.  

	Murder in the first degree.  Conspiracy to murder.  

	And somewhere in those hateful words, his name had been 
spoken.

	Eyes were peering expectantly at him, the stenographer had 
stopped typing and was watching him with bored, mascara-lidded eyes. 
The judge cleared his throat and shifted in his chair.  "Your plea?"

	Skinner opened his mouth, hearing the words come out haltingly.  
"Not guilty," a nervous pathway fired, past law enforcement training 
rearing its ugly head.  A breathless "your honor" was interjected, and 
the ex-Assistant Director suddenly wondered why his throat was so dry.  

	He wondered if he was imagining the look of doubt playing 
across the judge's face.  His hands grasped onto the edge of the table, 
something within him yelling directions to stand up and protest his 
innocence.  But a familiar mental film of children suffering, of 
headbutting with Mulder after refusing his desperate 302's started 
playing a familiar loop in his mind.  His legs were suddenly shaking, 
and he could no longer stand. His arms supported his body as he weakly 
settled in his chair.

	Any desire to protest had disappeared all too quickly.

***

	The house had been beautiful, once, but now was decaying.  
Limp, dead flowers that had once been painstakingly planted in the 
windowsills and front garden were now being decimated by the cold 
winter wind.  Brown, dirt-spotted lawn crawled over the sidewalk, 
made dense underbrush that was decorated by equally dead dandelions.

	Scully knocked on the door, pulling her trench coat tighter 
around her body, hearing the knocker squeak as its hinge protested.  
A woman with dull red hair, dressed in an old sweater and worn 
leggings, answered the door. 
	
	"Sheila Freeman?"

	The woman nodded.

	Scully smiled, trying to ignore the tired bags underneath the 
woman's eyes, needing to comfort her.  "I'm Agent Scully.  I'm with 
the Bureau," she turned to Andrew.  "And you remember Agent Winters, 
I take it?"

	The woman nodded again and stood motionless by the door.

	Andrew approached her and smiled warmly, placing two fingers 
gently on her arm.  "Can we come in to talk?"

	The woman nodded a silent affirmation once again and stepped 
inside.  Scully looked at Andrew, her eyebrows raised.  He merely 
shrugged his shoulders in response.

	Scully inspected the house quickly, grimly noticing that the 
interior was in worse condition than the exterior. A coat of dust 
covered the mantelpieces, and crumbs cracked as they died underneath 
walking feet.  

	Sheila led them to a set of couches, and the agents sat down 
gingerly.

	"S-sorry about the mess," she shifted uncomfortably under 
their gazes.  "Cleaning hasn't been one of my priorities."

	Scully nodded understandingly, watching the woman wring her 
fingers in her lap.  

	Andrew cleared his throat and gazed at Sheila pointedly. 
"We came to ask you some questions about the voice you thought you 
recognized."

	Her head came up suddenly, suspicion mirrored in her 
expectant eyes. "You told me that I must have imagined it?"

	Andrew shared a glance with Scully and shook his head. 
The admission to come was difficult. "I want to make sure, Sheila. . . 
Maybe, I was wrong. So we brought a tape with several voices recorded 
and we just want to see if you recognize one or more."

	The young woman nodded hesitantly, pointing to the tape player 
on the bookshelf that was gathering dust along with the books. Andrew 
popped in an audiotape and pushed play, returning to his seat. Scully 
smiled inwardly, recognizing some agents from VCS. She surrendered the 
tape from The Lone Gunmen to Andrew, and he perused it quickly, 
creating a collection of numerous voices on another tape. The sixth 
voice was Mulder's and she struggled to keep her expression neutral, 
concentrating on Sheila's reaction.

	She paled even further and seemingly fought for breath, 
digging her nails into the couch. "That's it. . . turn it off," her 
voice was a mere whisper, and Winters could hardly understand her. 
"Please, turn it off. I can't. . ."

	 He jumped across the room, bringing his finger down on the 
stop button.

	Scully watched numbly, immobilized by the sudden, overwhelming 
terror. There had to be a rational explanation for this recognition. 
Maybe this woman met Mulder a long time ago and now she simply 
remembered. . . what? Leaning forward, she reflexively pushed back the 
hair that had fallen into her face.  "Do you remember anything else?  
What he looked like?  What exactly had he said?"

	Sheila shook her head.  "I've tried... I've tried so hard ever 
since then."

	Andrew watched Scully's eyes momentarily dart in recognition 
and he swallowed, feeling a lump form in his throat.

	Scully smiled reassuringly, trying to momentarily dispel the 
oppressing atmosphere of the house and her own discomfort.  "Try one 
more time."

	The federal agents watched as Sheila closed her eyes, and 
Scully empathized with her feelings of helplessness.  She, herself, 
had often sat alone on her couch in her empty apartment, willing 
herself to remember... anything.  The knowledge that there was a 
wrinkle of time in her memory, a space in her hippocampus that was 
unaware of her time in space so many years ago, had often forced tears 
to her eyes.  And after each session of trying so hard, of squinting 
and looking into the darkness, she would hear only colored static, 
muted noises -- something that was fingertips away from her grasp.  
With a fleeting sense of familiarity, Scully fought for composure 
as she watched Sheila's fingers turn white with the strain of 
pushing them into her palm.

	Sheila licked her lips, took a deep breath, and closed her 
eyes tighter, shaking her head.  "It's a voice... I can't..." she 
shook her head again, biting her lip in concentration.  Andrew 
watched her intently, a hand against his mouth.  "It's a man's 
voice... and it's... his voice is..." she shook her head again -- 
gossamers of memory fluttering in front of her fingers.  "It's... 
tense... upset," she paused and her head tilted, as if she was trying 
to hear the voice better.  "He sounds so sad..." she opened her eyes 
and offered an apologetic shrug to Andrew's and Scully's look of doubt. 
"I can't remember what he says."

	He leaned forward. "Anything else?  Physical description?"

	Sheila shook her head. "No," she added as an afterthought.  
"Not yet."

	Scully tried to stretch her lips into a smile.  "We'll see 
what we can do."

	Sheila nodded, her eyes turning downcast.  "I'm sorry I can't 
provide more," her glance shifted to the tape player. "Can I. . . can 
I keep the tape? It might be helpful."

	Andrew nodded slowly, and Scully waited for the question that 
seemed inevitable, waited for her to ask them where they got the tape 
and if they knew the man whose voice she'd recognized. The question 
never came, and she was released from explanations and lies, but she 
felt no relief. The truth of the situation was that both she and 
Andrew were dishonest with Sheila.

	She had always cared about a victim, and now she was lying 
to one, denying the need of someone who was in trouble. Someone who 
needed their help.

	But Sheila was wrong and it didn't matter. . . 

	The woman led them towards the door, her feet shuffling 
reluctantly -- bones creaking as if not used to moving.  Sheila offered 
another apology, and Scully nodded sympathetically if distractedly, 
still dizzy from the conflicting emotions assaulting her.  A small 
smile was shared between the two women, before the door closed, and the 
cold wind hit them in full force.  Andrew had witnessed the exchange, 
and as he searched for the keys, he wondered as to what extent 
Sheila's abduction mirrored his own partner's tragic circumstances.

	Two pairs of shoes clicked rhythmically down the sidewalk, and 
Scully bit the inside of her lips, hearing the familiar jerk of a car 
door being opened. She caught herself thinking that it would have 
probably been a right thing to do if they brought Sheila some pictures 
and saw if she could identify Mulder visually, as well. She aborted the 
treacherous train of thought decisively.

	"So, what do you think?"

	Scully waited impatiently for her door to unlock, pulling it 
open harshly before fiddling with the seat belt.  "I don't know... 
I really..." she shook her head to convey the loss of words.

	Andrew nodded, silent momentarily.  "What do you think about 
her claims regarding Agent Mulder?"

	Scully quickly turned her torso within the confines of the 
seatbelt, her eyes seeking confrontation with her partner's.  "You 
seriously don't think that Mulder was behind this?"

	Andrew remained silent and Scully rolled her eyes.  "I don't 
believe this.  Are you suggesting that Mulder abducted her?"

	"I'm not saying anything.  I'm just not ruling anything out. 
You saw her listen to his voice and. . ."

	She shook her head, trying to block out her partner's words.
"You don't think that she just recognized his voice from all the recent 
media coverage about the Baltimore hostage situation? I don't even know 
why I am arguing with you though."

	"First of all, she recognized it before the Baltimore incident. 
Second, I severely doubt that Sheila Freeman watched any TV news in the 
last week," Andrew's voice faltered. "Or did anything else for that 
matter." At Scully's persistent glare, Andrew raised his hands.  "Okay, 
okay... it's very implausible.  But... I just have a feeling," he 
frowned, trying to spell out his thoughts.  "Directly, or indirectly, 
I just can't shake..."

	Scully wouldn't allow him to finish, sitting back in the car 
seat with an audible, annoyed grunt.  The car engine started, 
dispelling the uncomfortable silence that settled quickly, and when 
she caught Andrew staring at her, Scully turned away, suddenly 
interested in the goings-on outside the passenger window. 

	She tried not to think of Mulder, and his alibis, and his 
whereabouts during the past few weeks, attempting to push the thoughts 
down as stupid.

	But the seeds of doubt had already been effectively planted.

* * *

	Mulder sat in the chair and tried to hunch his shoulders 
together. His back was killing him, his head was pounding, and the 
agent in the chair across from him was whining about wiretap duty.

	He shifted in the chair again, noting that it was way too big.  
Mulder ignored the belittling voice in his head stating the obvious: 
that he was in way over his head, and that the chair really belonged 
to the ass of Assistant Director Skinner.

	Mulder dispelled the thoughts, trying to look interested, 
attempting to focus his eyes, as his mind failed to register any of the 
words spewing from the mouth of Agent Boulton.  

	He raised his hand, failing to withhold an audible sigh of 
displeasure.  "Look, Agent Boulton, we need you on the Dhalia case," 
he tried a different approach, using Patterson's tactic of pandering to 
the person's ego.  "Your reports so far have been excellent, and we 
really need your experience.  It's a crappy job, but someone has to 
do these embezzlement cases."

	Boulton opened his mouth to protest, but Mulder persisted 
raising a hand.  "Do wiretap here in DC, or do it in Alaska.  I don't 
care... take your pick."

	Boulton swallowed and nodded.  "That's all," he looked at 
Mulder with animosity brewing in his eyes, and added a terse, "sir".

	Mulder nodded and smiled inwardly.  "Good.  Thank you," he 
remembered just how effective Patterson's threats had always been in 
controlling his fellow agents. Worked like a charm, every time, 
because his former boss never bluffed.

	He waited until Boulton's receding figure was out of sight 
before immediately sagging in his chair.  He closed his eyes, the 
yellow and green spots caused by headache appearing in front of his 
eyelids.  

	There was a rapping on the door, and he sat upright, his brain 
protesting against the onslaught of light.  The lithe figure of his 
secretary stood in front of his desk, settling a stack of files to the 
right of his nameplate.

	"You were away yesterday and today, so here's the paperwork 
you need to catch up on, sir."

	Mulder accepted it, seeing the unspoken question in Kim's eyes.  
The secretary displayed no emotion when he had shown up during his 
first day of work, but she had briefly panicked when Skinner's 
personal belongings had been carted away.  The hesitance in her eyes 
was disappearing, but Mulder had yet to build a comfortable rapport, 
knowing that uneasiness was mutual.

	"Thank you."

	He flipped through the piles of finished paperwork and 302's.  
With a growing smirk, his hand stopped when it came across the 302 
originating from the X-Files office.  He opened it up curiously, and 
his eyes eventually widened in surprise, then horror, as they tracked 
through the typewritten request.  

	His coffee mug shook as he slammed his hand on his desk, 
letting out a string of expletives.

	His heart raced faster as he read the report, closed his eyes, 
tried to calm his breathing.  

	Sheila fucking Freeman.

	He put a hand over his mouth and forced himself to sit down 
and read the file carefully.  Objectively.  The FBI had nothing so 
far; Sheila remembered nothing save for a few vague details that 
Andrew failed to include in the request.  

	Mulder stared at the papers, his eyes wide.  Out of all 
the people who could blow his cover, the most threatening of all 
was an abductee in the suburbs of DC.

	He picked up the phone, trying to dispel panic.

	His fingers shook as they pressed the numbers.

***

	"Winters."

	"Winters, this is Ag... Mulder."

	Andrew's eyebrows shot up, and from his peripheral vision, 
he noticed Scully turning her head.  "Yes?"

	"Where are you?"

	"We're just coming back from interviewing Freeman," Andrew 
paused, considering his words carefully.  "We've expanded a bit, and 
I think that we may be able to catch the guy."

	Mulder ran a hand across his face, pressing the phone tighter 
against his ear. "I'm disallowing your 302."

	Winters almost dropped the phone, his mouth gaping open at 
the shock.  The car protested as Andrew hit the gas harder, as his 
fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter.  "What?"

	Mulder forced his voice to remain calm, pinching his leg as 
he could hear Winters sputter an explanation to Scully.  "I said, 
Agent Winters, that I'm disallowing your 302 on the Freeman case."

	Winters felt his face grow red with outrage. "Why?"

	Mulder felt queasy, as the only explanation he could come up 
with was an echo of Walter Skinner's words.  "Because it's a waste 
of Bureau resources, and the X-Files could be put to better use on 
another case."

	"But..."

	Mulder shook his head, trying to dispel the feeling that 
things were spinning out of control.  "Goodbye, Agent Winters.  
I expect to see your new 302 tomorrow morning."

	The phone clicked and Winters threw the phone onto the cheap 
upholstery of the car seat. "God dammit!  The bastard!!"

	Scully watched her new partner in numbing confusion.  Despite 
Andrew's cursing, the motor of the car was all she could hear.  Her 
uneasiness grew -- a gut churning, ulcer forming sense of dread.  
It overpowered her, making her nauseous.

	Her migraine extrapolated in direct proportion to her ill 
suspicion towards Mulder -- her ex-partner and her friend.

* * *

	The apartment was dark, as the blinds muted the bright D.C. 
sunlight, and Mulder stared at the file, his eyes tearing as the words 
started to blur. 

	He stared at the papers in front of his eyes again, blinking 
when the letters started to move of their own volition.  He licked 
his lips, staring intently, *knowing* that he was missing something, 
feeling it in his bones.

	He looked at Samantha's file once again, flipping absently 
through the photos, and the vague genetic and medical descriptions 
which swirled in his brain nonsensically.  He tapped the paper 
methodically, staring blankly at the wall, hearing the gears in his 
mind start to churn.

	The logic his mind dictated caught him off guard, but 
working and living through VCS for so long had taught him to follow 
its winding path.  He leaned over, hearing his back groan with the 
stress of having sat in an office chair all day, and picked up his 
father's letter.  He compared the two papers, hearing his inner mind 
chant louder, his cerebral cortex beginning to eagerly churn faster 
in anticipation.

	The letter his father had written was dated 10/25/75, and 
Mulder stared, squinting, knowing something had happened that day... 
something was important about that particular date. He attempted to 
cross reference the date to those stored in his brain, finding a 
match unsuccessful.  He hastily re-opened Sam's file, examining 
all the recorded dates -- again failing to find a match.  

	When the realization struck, Mulder stared dumbfounded at 
the pair of identical numbers.  Sam's case number was the same 
as the date of the letter.  Coincidence?  Mulder shook his head 
to the silent question -- there was no such thing where his father 
was concerned.  

	And if the past five years had been any indication, 
everything to do with Sam had long before been intricately 
planned.

	His eyes passed over the Sam's folder once again, darting 
back to the letter.  His brain was roaring, the gears and cogs 
working furiously as the new stimuli were processed.  The letter 
made many references to numbers, and Mulder put a hand over his 
mouth, the epiphany earth shattering.

	The papers sprawled haphazardly onto the floor as he stood 
upright suddenly, knowing that there was something important that 
he had been quick to dismiss.  He rummaged through the closet hastily, 
pulling out the book, "The Eleventh Hour."  He recovered the letter 
and Sam's file, laying his three new puzzle pieces delicately in 
front of him.  His eyes darted between the three, making 
comparisons -- and Mulder marveled at his father's ingenuity.

	He sobered momentarily, looking towards the ceiling to take 
a deep breath.  In all his cases with Deep Throat, X, and Marita -- 
with all the secret information they passed onto him - Mulder's heart 
always beat with anticipation.  His breath hitched slightly with the 
possibility of finding yet another tangent that could lead him to 
the truth.

	Staring at the letter, Mulder realized that his heart was 
ready to burst with excitement. The letter was a brilliant disguise. 

	For something far more important. 

	He paused, trying to maintain some semblance of control, 
as sweat rolled down his back.  He regarded the letter once again, 
and offered it a sad smile, of gratitude and regret. 

	He cursed his blindness that obliterated so many obvious 
clues that the letter offered. 

	He hoped that it wasn't too late as he whispered a silent 
thanks to his best and least appreciated informant. 

	His father.

* * *

	Scully watched J. Edgar Hoover's cement facade come into 
view as Andrew drove at a barely acceptable high speed through 
streets and into the entranceway of the Bureau parking lot.  He 
stopped in front of the parking pedway and waited patiently as 
Scully started to gather her things.

	"Aren't you coming in?"

	Andrew shook his head, cryptically adding:  "No, there's 
something that I want to clear up."

	Scully looked at him, confusion marking her features.  
"Okay.  Will you be back later?"

	Winters nodded.  "Yeah, I'll come and help you do some of the 
paperwork later, and we can file a new 302," at Scully's quizzical 
glance he stopped.  "What?"

	She smiled.  "Having a partner that offers to help with the 
paperwork seems foreign to me," she pulled her briefcase in front of 
her knees.  "I don't think Mulder has ever voluntarily subjected 
himself to paperwork in the five years that I've known him."

	At the mention of Mulder's name, Winters' mouth grew into a 
grim line.  "Yeah well... Mulder is his own man."

	Scully nodded, not really comprehending Andrew's words.  She 
decided to let the comment go when she took in the tense fingers 
around the steering wheel, his stiff posture in the Taurus car seat.  
She unfastened her seatbelt and stepped out, offering a small wave. 
"I'll see you later then."

	Winters reciprocated the wave, smiling, and proceeded to put 
the car into gear.  "Later."

	Scully watched the car speed away, all of a sudden feeling 
lonely.  Her steps felt naked as she walked a familiar path to the 
X-Files office.  Mulder was no longer her partner, would no longer 
be in the office at obscene hours.  Conversely, Andrew was too by 
the book.  Too much like her -- and Scully was suffocating in the 
newly claustrophobic working environment.

	The X-Files office was still the same, and she suppressed a 
sigh when she opened the door -- its trademark "Fox Mulder, Special 
Agent" having been torn off eagerly by Andrew during his first 
official day in the section.  She sat down at her ex-partner's desk, 
and her fingers began to play lazily with a pen.
	
	Mulder's behavior was beyond odd.  It was distant -- scarily 
so.  It went beyond professional detachment, and was too sly to be 
deemed paranoia.  Something was not right about his revoking of the 
302, something that she was well aware had to do with his precarious 
position in the Bureau.

	She didn't want to push; she didn't want to prevent him from 
doing his job, but she was beginning to become annoyed.  It was 
interfering with *her* job.  And although she had momentarily kept 
her doubts regarding Mulder's involvement in the Sheila Freeman case 
at bay, she was finding it increasingly hard to pretend she was 
ignorant when Winters was always pushing for answers.  

	She looked at the "maybe" pile of folders in front of her 
and started perusing them slowly.  She sighed, staring at a set of 
Sears-quality photos of a blond-haired girl. Demonic possession. 
Scully tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.  What the hell... 
it was a case that involved no aliens or smoke, and Andrew would 
finally find out what the X-Files were really about.  She closed the 
file, setting it aside with one hand, grabbing for the desk phone 
with the other.

	"Yeah, hi Gary, this is Agent Scully.  I need a rental car."

	The guy was unusually pensive, and after a seemingly long 
period of time Scully wondered if he had hung up.  

	"Is this for a case?"

	She raised her eyebrows at the question.  "Yes... isn't 
it always?"

	The guy hummed and hawed for a second before reluctantly 
replying.  "Uh... we had orders from the AD not to let you acquisition 
vehicles until you got the 302 okayed by him."

	Scully's cheeks flushed with outrage.  "What?  Mulder said 
that?"

	She could almost feel the guy cringe, and forced herself to 
breathe and regain control.  "Never mind, Gary," she ground out 
between her teeth.  "I'll find out myself," she gritted out an 
automatic thank you before slamming the phone back on the cradle.

***

	"I need to speak with a prisoner of yours?"

	"It's seven o'clock and past..."

	Winters thrust out his badge impatiently, trying to growl 
his way past the prison guard. "I don't care.  I'm a Federal Agent 
and I want to see Walter Skinner now."

	The guard got up slowly, rolling his eyes, taking an 
agonizingly long time to gather his keys.  "The visiting room is..."

	Winters shook his head.  "Take me to his cell," at the
 guard's dubious look, his face softened.  "It won't take long, 
I promise."

	The guard looked at him suspiciously, then headed in the 
opposite direction, indicating for Andrew to follow him.

	The ex-Assistant Director was sitting on his cot reading 
the paper. Winters was tempted to remark at the normality -- except 
the prisoner's bright orange overalls marred any potential for a 
Norman Rockwell-esque scene.   

	Skinner rose to his feet when he heard footsteps approaching.

	Winters stared hard into his eyes, cutting to the chase.  
"What do you know about Mulder?"

	Skinner balked at the question, gently setting the newspaper 
beside him.  "Pardon me?"

	Winters tapped his feet impatiently.  "I mean, I get a 302 
disallowed today from *AD* Mulder.  Coincidentally, or not 
coincidentally, it's the case involving abductions where one of the 
abductees believes she had heard Mulder's voice."

	Skinner stepped back unconsciously, his mind processing the 
news.  It seemed similarities abounded between the old and new 
Assistant Director.  Hadn't he done the very same thing to Mulder 
in the past?

	"Well?"

	Ex-AD shook his head.  "Mulder is his own man.  He has his 
own scruples."

	Winters stepped closer to the bars, breathing hard.  "Every 
time I've talked to Mulder and Scully I've been hitting walls; they've 
been talking in codes.  I see that they get it from you."

	Skinner shook his head, started to pace the cell to give his 
legs something to do while his mind churned.  "I don't know what you 
want to know."

	The young agent bunched his hands into fists.  "I'm so sick 
of this!!  You answer questions with questions. You talk in little 
signs and eye gestures," Andrew took a breath before nailing Skinner 
with a glare.  "All I want to know is, is Mulder clean?"

	Skinner looked at the floor.  "None of us are innocent, Agent 
Winters," he approached the cell, and reciprocated the agent's glare. 
"*None* of us are innocent, no matter how much you try to 
rationalize."

	The air deflated out of Andrew, as he watched the man across 
from him settle back onto the cot and pick up the paper once again. 
He tried a different tactic. "Did Mulder come at this job honestly?" 
he paused a beat.  "In your opinion."

	"Everyone has a little help."

	Winters smiled his appreciation at the answer. "Is it related 
to your predicament?"

	Skinner had to inwardly admit that Andrew was sharp -- it was 
sad that it would most likely get the green agent killed when he asked 
the wrong question from the wrong person.  He was about to say, "hell, 
yes", but his mouth couldn't open, his eyes watered as they tried to 
concentrate on the paper in front of them.

	Winters accepted the silence for what it was.  "I can't believe 
this.  And you let them do this?"

	Skinner shook his head.  "What can you do?"

	Winters started pacing, shaking his head. "I'll call the 
Director.  I'll talk to someone.  The Attorney General, if I have to."

	Skinner grimaced at the agent's naiveté.  It would be no shock 
if the Consortium had the Attorney General wrapped around their 
fingers.  Hell, it seemed, they had the entire Bureau, including 
Mulder, kissing their asses.  

	And no pounding, begging, or tale-telling would change 
anything.  

	Winters tapped a cell bar with his fingers, offering a 
tightlipped smile that Skinner recognized as pity.  "Thank you."

	He left as quickly as he came, and Skinner suddenly felt 
tired -- unable to complete the simple task of finishing the article 
he had started earlier. He settled into his cot, hearing the drip of 
faulty plumbing, the complaining of other inmates.  

	Oblivious to the mechanical eye watching his movements, and 
those of the Federal Agent who was leaving the penitentiary.  

***

	For the first time in three years, Scully felt nervous as she 
pulled out her key ring, glancing over her shoulder as she shook the 
rest of the keys away from the one that she wanted.  She had knocked, 
the fluttering in her stomach increasing exponentially when there was 
no answer.  Anger had quickly squelched any nervousness, and she opened 
the door more roughly than was necessary when the latch finally gave 
way.    

	She watched what little sunlight there was float though 
Mulder's curtains, play lazily with the dust in the air.  The 
atmosphere was heavy. Old.  She found it harder to breathe as she 
waded though papers and books, and she called his name once more, 
lest he think that she was an intruder.  

	She would wait, she decided, the keys biting her palm.  Her 
annoyance grew, as she thought of Mulder's absence.  She chastised 
herself for worrying about her ex-partner's welfare while he was paying 
unwarranted attention to her division.  With a resigned sigh, Scully 
threw herself down on Mulder's couch, trying to ignore the papers that 
were on his table.  Curiosity eventually won, and she bent forward, 
orienteering herself with the letters and numbers in front of her.  
Various scraps of loose paper were scrawled upon.  She recognized them 
as Mulder's messy cursive strokes.  A string of letters would be 
written, only to be crossed out, then start again on the next line.  

	Scully picked up the first paper, immediately recognizing it as 
the letter Mulder's father wrote to his son.  She quickly tossed it 
aside, noticing the children's book was also opened.  And very much 
perused.  She frowned, remembering her partner dismissing its 
importance seemingly years ago.  As she picked up the book, multitudes 
of torn paper fell out from in between the pages. Realizing her error, 
she bent down on her knees, scrambling to pick up the papers that had 
more of Mulder's nonsensical scrawls.  

	The frown on Scully's face deepened, as the words on Mulder's 
papers made little or no sense.  Strings and strings of letters and 
numbers.  Sometimes the letters and numbers were mixed; other letters 
were written sideways, or upside down.  Scully's dread grew -- a 
queasiness that was akin to how she felt when Patterson had revisited, 
or those awful hours where she had sat in her apartment, unable to get 
past her pride and call a desolate partner that she had blamed for her 
cancer.   

	She was about to rise, when a folder caught her eye.  Having 
been in so many hospitals, and having seen so many similar folders, 
Scully felt her heart skip when she saw the familiar buff color, the 
same strategic placement of white label.  She pulled it out cautiously, 
feeling its bulk, reluctantly turning her eyes down so that she could 
see the name.

	 Samantha Ann Mulder.

	And something in her chest dropped.  Her stomach felt heavy at 
the mere thought.  She sometimes forgot what it was that still drove 
Mulder -- the name that still fueled his quest.  It drove her crazy 
sometimes, to see him rush headlong into things because of it. She 
felt a multitude of emotions -- her anger weighed down by other 
depressing feelings.  She sighed, resolutely deciding that she 
would wait.

	Scully awkwardly made her way back to the couch, trying to 
restore the files to their original order -- deciding that worn 
leather was a more comfortable spot to wallow than the floor of 
Mulder's apartment.  

***

	The Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation matched 
the glare of the subordinate agent sitting across from him.  "Do I 
make myself clear?"

	The younger agent slowly shook his head, wrinkles forming at 
the corners of his lips -- the only outward sign of his distaste. 
"Yes, sir."

	Robinson smiled -- his ability to make the knees of younger 
agents quake was still in topnotch form.  "I will look into your 
claims, but I can't guarantee anything," the Director paused, 
searching for the right words, meeting the agent's eyes.  "I hope 
I can trust your discretion.  I would like this to be a private 
matter between us until an internal investigation can be completed."

	The agent's eyes twinkled; he sensed victory. "Yes, sir.  I 
understand."

	The Director smiled a Cheshire-like grin, knowing the trap 
had been effectively laid -- the agent's silence had been ensured.

	Andrew Winters stood up, offering his hand for a handshake.  
"Thank you, sir.  I wasn't sure who to turn to."

	Robinson smiled again. "Anything for my fellow agents."

	Winters nodded, disconcerted -- like nothing had been gained, 
despite the reassuring words.

	"Oh, Agent Winters," Andrew turned around quickly.  "You 
haven't told anyone, have you?"

	Andrew shook his head slowly, furrowing his eyebrows.  "No... 
sir," he replied after hesitating slightly.  The Director nodded, 
pleased, and Andrew numbly walked out of the office, not quite 
comprehending what the last exchange meant.  He had thought that 
after blowing Mulder out of the water, he would have had some sense 
of closure... perhaps some semblance of victory over getting the bad 
guys.  But leaving the Director Robinson's office, Winters felt 
strangely at unease.  Perhaps it wasn't the bad take-out that was 
causing his stomach to cramp up... maybe something much worse?

	He shook his head, pushing the elevator button.  He made a 
promise to pay more attention to the activities outside the Assistant 
Director's office from tomorrow on.  He could even contact his friend 
Rich from Internal Affairs upstairs for the lowdown.   

	As the elevator arrived, Winters rubbed his eyes, deciding that 
he needed a drink -- a good stiff drink to wash away the stiffness from 
his neck, to take away the cramp in his stomach, to melt away the sense 
of foreboding that was plaguing him so.

***

	Director Robinson watched the receding torso eventually 
disappear, before picking up his cellular phone and dialing a 
familiar number.  He recognized the voice of the gopher immediately, 
and after seconds of professional conversation, he was smoothly 
switched to Milton.

	"James... We have a problem."

	Milton's voice was happily curious.  Robinson couldn't recall 
many times where the English gentlemen was grim.  "Oh?"

	"One of the agents is being nosy.  He's a threat to our newest 
employee perhaps."

	There was a silence before Milton asked, "How dangerous?"

	"He's in a position to know things, and his suspicions are 
dangerous enough."

	Again there was a silence, and Robinson glanced towards the 
door, lest eager ears be listening.  There was only empty, white light 
filtering through, and the Director tuned his attention back to the 
phone, waiting for a response. 

	"Name," Milton requested briskly.

	"Andrew Winters."

	"I'll take care of it."

	Robinson hung up the phone swiftly, smiling at the 
accomplishments coming from a hard day's work.

***

	Eight miles had been done easily, but when he looked at the 
hallway between the elevator and his door, Mulder sagged, wondering if 
crossing the Sahara would be easier.

	"Too much coffee and doughnuts in the office make Fox Mulder a 
fat ass," he whispered under breath, pulling his key from the shoelace 
of his Reeboks.

	The sight of his partner, her blue eyes blazing as soon as he 
entered made him take a step back, startled.

	"Mulder," her voice was slightly shaking.  "I haven't seen 
you in so long."

	He nodded numbly at the forced joviality.  "I know, Scully."

	Her whole body was tense.  Mulder recognized the tell-tale 
signs: the paler than normal face, the way she hid her clenched fists 
in the trench coat pockets.  "Do you want to get a drink? You can 
tell me what's keeping you so busy, bossman."

	The words had been spat out; her laugh contained no humor.  
Mulder watched as her control slightly wavered, as she took her hands 
out of her pockets to cross them in front of her chest.

	"Sure, let me change, Scully," he cautiously walked around her, 
occasionally looking over his shoulder, seeing that she still hadn't 
moved from her original position.  In the bedroom, he hastily changed 
into a pair of jeans lying on the floor, grabbing for the first 
sweater hanging in his closet.  He quickly made his way to the living 
room, pulling the sweater over his head -- hearing his footsteps fall 
heavily onto the floor in the tense silence of his apartment.  He 
gathered the files and papers that had been on his coffee table 
silently, even though he knew that they had been disturbed.  He knew 
whose fault it was, and he kept his anger pushed down, stomping 
louder on the floor as he worked his way around the coffee table.  

	Scully's eyebrows rose, and Mulder scowled, shaking his head.  
He forced his voice to sound somewhat happy, appropriate for a night 
out on the town. "Shall we go?"

	The female federal agent nodded, her body still tense.  Mulder 
followed the loud steps of her high heels through the hallways, locking 
his door.  His partner was waiting impatiently at the other end of the 
hall, and Mulder looked at the distance between them.

	It seemed like miles had passed before he was finally able to 
join her for a car ride that would ultimately be driven in silence.

* * *

	Impossibly long legs approached Winters with a swagger that 
had a decidedly feminine stilt to it.  He warily regarded her, nursing 
the bottle of Budweiser in front of him.  She offered him a pouty smile 
and took the unoffered seat across the federal agent, the bangles on 
her wrist clashing noisily against each other.

	"Dumped ya, huh?" she spoke through a mouthful of gum.

	Winters smiled.  As if.  He hadn't even had anything remotely 
like a relationship since he moved to D.C.  The beer was warm in his 
belly, and he heard himself reply.  "Why.  Interested?"

	The woman smacked her heavily painted lips together, emitting 
a small moan, crossing her legs in such a way that the already high 
skirt rode further up her legs.  "So, I noticed you have a fast car."

	Andrew emitted a non-committal grunt, finishing off his bottle 
of beer in a dramatic final swig.

	The woman pouted, finally sighing and getting up to leave.  
She grabbed his left hand, slipping a napkin into his palm.  Rolling 
his eyes, he opened the folded fabric, seeing seven numbers that he 
would probably throw away once he got home.  When her footsteps 
threatened to disappear, Andrew finally turned to watch the receding 
figure -- finally allowed himself to drink in her curves.  He shook 
his head as she approached another solitary man at an equally 
solitary table, when something caught his eye.  Her hair contrasted 
with the dull surroundings of the bar, and Andrew stared at his 
partner, as she walked alongside Mulder.  He sat up straighter, 
pushing the empty beer bottle away, liquid courage coursing through 
his blood.

	He watched as the two federal agents got a table and sat 
stiffly, eyeing each other warily.  Andrew leaned forward, 
momentarily losing his balance, feeling the alcohol trying to pull 
his face closer to the floor.  

	Their words, however, penetrated cruelly through the fog 
in his brain.

***

	Scully's posture was tense as she watched Mulder intently.  He 
gingerly placed the papers in front of him, going through the ritual of 
smoothing them, putting them in a straight pile.

	She was about to open her mouth when Mulder put up his hand, 
calling the waiter with a forced calmness. 

	"Drink, Scully?"

	She shook her head, scowling at him. The waiter approached and 
after some hesitation, Mulder ordered an iced tea.  The waiter left, 
grumbling, and Mulder twisted in his seat, gazing at Scully,  "So?"

	She sat tightlipped, unsure of where to begin, how to say 
everything she wanted to say.  She opened her mouth, and no words came 
out. Mulder's expression was increasingly miserable as he played with 
the files in front of him. "What are those?"

	Mulder looked to the files, shifting uncomfortably.  "I need to 
ask your medical opinion on something."

	Scully watched her ex-partner flip through some of the folders, 
pulling out his father's perused letter.  "I figured out my father's 
letter," he proceeded cautiously.  At her nod, he continued.  "Okay, 
there are some connections between this and the book my father also 
gave me," he pulled out the book, flipping to a page that was already 
slightly wrinkled -- showing the wear it had endured over the last 24 
hours. "See this?  The 'I write this days after your fifteenth 
birthday?' If you turn to page fifteen in the book, you see that the 
border has a whole bunch of letters in it, right?"  Scully nodded. 
"From the first glance, it looks like it's a part of the book -- as 
this is a puzzle book.  But if you look closely, you can see that it's 
been doctored slightly to look like..."

	"... Like a base pair sequence."  Scully finished, noting 
Mulder's relieved smile.

	"Right.  That's what I thought - -there's only four DNA base 
pairs, right?  So, I was thinking that maybe this is a genetic code for 
something.  Or... I don't know.  But I need to know," he turned to her 
with expectant eyes.  "Do you?"

	Scully sat back.  "I don't know what you want them to say, 
Mulder.  I'm not a geneticist.  The human genome hasn't even been 
completely mapped out yet," she caught his disappointed expression 
and gave up, pulling the book closer to her. "Let me look."

	She examined the border, trying to note the genetic sequence.  
It raised a red flag, something she had read... but she couldn't quite 
place it.  She emitted a hmmmm, and Mulder sat more forward in his 
seat.  She pointed to the border, pulling some hair behind her ear.  
"You see this repeated sequence?" he nodded, looking at the repeated 
CTGG in the border.  "It's what's called a mutational hot spot.  Which 
means this area gets more frameshift mutations than say, any other 
normal spot in a gene."  

	Scully noticed him nodding, his mouth turning into a frown.  
"Why?"

	Mulder shrugged his shoulders.  "Just wondering."

	She shook her head.  "No really, Mulder.  Why?"

	He sipped at his iced tea to give himself something to do.  
"Really... it's nothing."

	Scully's temper grew so that her fingernails bit into her 
palms.  "It's always nothing, Mulder.  Isn't it?" her voice was 
deceptively calm. "I haven't heard from you in over three days.  
I don't know what you're doing. You still haven't told me what you 
do for..." she jabbed her finger angrily in the air, unable to find 
words, "...them," she leaned forward, her blue eyes shining, despite 
the dull light of the restaurant.  "I have a partner who suspects you 
of kidnapping, Mulder."  Scully gauged his reaction, and noticed him 
flinch.  She drew back as if burned, feeling her innards drop to the 
floor, soak up the smoke and whisky that was floating in the air.  
"You know," she said it matter-of-factly.  "You know about Sheila 
Freeman. You're in on it."

	She waited for his answer, and he refused to meet her gaze.  
"Mulder, answer me, damn it.  Are you in on it?  Do you know her?"

	At last he nodded, and she closed her eyes, feeling her world 
spin out of control -- as if the ground underneath her had fallen 
away. "What did you do?"

	"Scully, please," his voice came out broken.

	"No. I want to know."

	Mulder shook his head.  "It's not important."

	"Not important?" a few heads turned, and she lowered her 
voice.  "Not important, Mulder?  This woman has no memory, except 
for hearing your voice. You take me off a case, you try to regulate 
all my activities," she lowered her voice, taking the dispute out of 
it. "I thought we were in this together, Mulder. But you are keeping 
me in the dark. You're here, but yet, you're still ditching me, in a 
way."

	Mulder nodded miserably, his finger picking at the papers on 
the table.  "Scully, I'll tell you later," she opened her mouth to 
protest, but he held up a hand.  "Later, Scully.  I promise."

	He pushed the book over to her lightly. "The mutational hot 
spot you were talking about... could that lead to cancer?"

	Scully paused, the rage leaving her slowly. "Yes, Mulder," 
she replied wearily.

	He nodded, pensive. "What about this sequence?  What does 
it mean?"

	Scully breathed in impatiently, her temper rising again.  
"Why Mulder?  Why is what you need to know more important than 
what I need to know?  Is this about the file of Sam you have under 
your coffee table, Mulder?  Is this another tidbit of info you've 
come across in her file?"

	She regretted her outburst, knowing that the words 
themselves hadn't hurt him, but the disdain with which she had mocked 
his quest had.  He lowered his head, pulling the book towards him, 
protectively, closing it slowly, even though his fingers were shaking.

	"No," he croaked.  "I found it in yours."

***

	Andrew watched with smug satisfaction as his partner got 
into an argument with the Assistant Director.  After a heated 
discussion, they stopped talking suddenly, each of them lost in 
their own world.  Mulder was staring at the table, running his 
finger over the edge of the glass, while Scully stared blankly 
into space, occasionally glancing at him. At each turn of her head, 
he would nod gently.

	Finally, the two got up, and he watched, his anger growing 
as the two embraced awkwardly, but with casualness that indicated 
familiarity. Afterwards they looked around nervously, like teenagers 
on their first date.

	He stood slowly, feeling the whisky bolden his spirits, 
noting with satisfaction as Scully's eyebrows drew up in a 
surprised arch.

	"Good evening, *partner*."

	"Andrew, I can explain."

	Andrew waved his hand dismissively.  "Oh no, you don't need 
to explain anything to me, you double crossing spy," out of his 
peripheral vision, Andrew noticed Mulder trying to come in between 
them.  He shook his head.  "Oh, Assistant Director Mulder, I know 
about you. Although Scully probably already told you.  What she 
doesn't know is that you're up for an internal investigation by 
he director."

	Mulder blanched, and Andrew grinned smugly, hearing him 
whisper, "Director Robinson?"

	"None other."

	Mulder pulled Scully out of the way meeting Andrew face 
to face.  Christ, if the kid told Robinson his suspicions....  
"Look, Winters. You may have no reason to trust me, but don't go 
home tonight.  Don't drive home.  Take a taxi. Stay at a motel or 
something."

	Andrew rolled his eyes. "Threats don't work."

	Scully noted Mulder's panic, and she put a hand on Andrew's 
shoulder, only to have him throw it off impatiently. "Andrew, please, 
maybe Mulder is right."

	Mulder nodded. "Don't do anything routine tonight. 
Something... something might happen."

	Scully understood, feeling his dread infect her, settling 
heavily in her stomach.

	Andrew waved them off.  "I'm not so drunk that I can't 
drive home, and I'm not going to listen to a corrupt AD and his 
little... bitch spy tell me what to do."

	Scully stepped back instinctually, too hurt to respond, 
too numb to prevent his departure. Winters brushed roughly past 
Mulder's shoulder and left the bar.

***

	There was nothing on the radio.

	Andrew pushed the car into a high gear, flipping through the 
radio stations, hearing snaps of Puccini, Jewel, and Shania Twain 
complain through his speakers.  His cheeks were flushed, he was hot, 
he was....

	So god damned pissed off at his naivete.

	He worked his tie off roughly, throwing it into the passenger 
seat, pushing down on the gas pedal harder, hearing the motor whine 
contently.  

	So easy to believe, so easy to trust his new partner. His AD. 
His mind chanted expletives as he swore that tomorrow he would no 
longer look at the world through the rose-colored glasses.  He flipped 
through the radio stations again, swearing at it, swearing at the car, 
swearing at Mulder and Scully, swearing at himself.

	When it started to rain, he swore at the sky, as big fat 
goblets of water fell down, pounded loudly on the windshield.  The 
rain and the wipers were enough to drown out the radio, and he hiked 
the volume up, finally satisfied with the Rolling Stones.

	The rain grew heavier, and with a resigned sigh, and several 
swerves later, Andrew lifted his foot slightly off the gas pedal, his 
slightly muddled brain realizing he would be no good to the internal 
affairs if he was dead.

	Somewhere, something was ringing, and Andrew realized it was 
his coat pocket. Scully? He decided to ignore it, but the phone kept 
ringing, kept going over Mick Jagger's voice, despite the stereo going 
as full blast.  Andrew found his feet gunning against the pedal once 
again, as he gripped his fingers tighter around the steering wheel in 
anger.

	He reached for the phone, jabbing at the on button with one 
angry motion with his finger.  "What, you spy?"

	Her heard her silence, and then a soft voice, calm and 
controlled.  "Andrew, please don't go home tonight."

	"Why should I listen to you?"

	He heard her sigh, and then Mulder's voice coming over the 
line. "You could be in danger."

	Andrew shook his head angrily. "Your opinion means nothing 
to me."

	"Andrew, please."

	Winters held the phone away from his ear, too upset to listen. 
His finger hovered over the end button, ready to jab it, when an 
oncoming light blinded him.  He looked at the rearview mirror, at the 
high beam lights, and they left circles of blue and green behind his 
eyelids.

	He must have said something because Scully and Mulder were 
jabbering incoherently, occasionally calling his name.

	Something hit him, caused his neck to snap backwards, like 
it did sometimes when he was a kid, riding the wild horses on the 
farm.  Soon he was falling, seeing the darkness of a deep ditch 
rapidly approaching.  His forehead hit something. The seatbelt was 
where he had left it, when he couldn't be bothered in his haste, in 
his anger, to get away from the bar. His head was thrown forward, and 
there was an annoying sound of a horn somewhere.  Then something 
enormously heavy pushed into his back, crushing his ribs and spine, 
pushing all air out of his lungs.  His eyes bulged, the force of the 
steering wheel against his chest enough to crush his heart, turning 
the green circles behind his eyes to red, then white.

	Then disappearing into nothing.

* * *

	It's not too late, Scully thought stubbornly as she clutched 
the cellular closer to her ear, as she struggled to hear something 
except for the jarring beep. Line noise seemed louder than the 
sickening crash seconds earlier. 

	Her legs were numb, unable to respond to her simple command to 
move, as if the force of gravity had increased exponentially in the 
last minute. And then, she and Mulder were running towards the car, 
and she suddenly realized that she was chanting a prayer in her mind, 
and the last time she had prayed was months and months ago.

	"He couldn't have driven that far," Mulder pushed the gas to 
the limit before she had a chance to close the door. The wheels 
screamed in response, the car almost flew into the opposite lane of 
traffic, and Mulder barely avoided hitting a pedestrian in his haste.

	"Do you know where he lives?" Scully's hands shook while she 
was dialing 911. Oh please, she inwardly pleaded.  Please allow her 
to keep speaking of her partner in the present tense.

	"I am going in that direction. Just keep them on the line 
until we find..." Mulder couldn't finish the phrase, hitting the gas 
harder. He took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the road 
in front of him. There was no time to engage in self-recrimination.

	After this evening was over, he would have the rest of his 
life to do just that.

	Scully was giving her badge number and name to the 911 
operator, and Mulder could detect the slight waver in her attempt 
to speak with a calm, professional voice. 

	They heard the screaming of sirens before they saw the 
lights of police cars and ambulances, the crowd of on-lookers that 
gathered around the scene of the accident. "I am sorry, but the help 
is already here," Scully spoke in the phone with a trace of 
resignation. "Someone must have called before me. Sorry," she pushed 
the end button, not waiting for the response.

	"Oh God, Scully..." Mulder moaned in agony as they watched the 
EMTs work on extracting Winters' body out of the upended vehicle. There 
was little left of the new Taurus that Scully remembered riding in. And 
the man who drove it...

	She stepped out of the car and approached hesitantly, flipping 
her badge automatically. The people let her through, and she could 
finally see the light hair matted in blood, the neck that was bent at 
a slightly unnatural angle, and the broken frame of her partner. 

	She studied the tar lines marring the road, trying to shrink, 
to ignore the sounds and smells that were overwhelming her.  Oh, why 
did she have to lie to him...?

	The regret was a burning knife in her heart. "Andrew," Scully 
whispered brokenly and reached out a hand to touch his face, while one 
of the policemen tried to wave her away. "FBI, I am his partner," she 
turned to the resisting man and struggled to keep her anger and grief 
in check. "What happened?"

	"He was forced off the road. We are still trying to find 
witnesses," the policeman looked apologetic.

	Scully didn't finish listening, focusing her attention on the 
still form in front of her. Oh, but these bastards were fast and 
efficient. One of the paramedics threw her a sympathetic glance, 
putting a hand on her shoulder firmly. She wondered if she looked as 
terrible as she felt.

	"He is dead." He spoke the words softly, but with a certainty 
that was final. Inescapable.

	"I know," Scully replied inaudibly and straightened up slowly, 
trying to focus through the red haze that obscured her vision 
momentarily, through the deafening pulse in her ears. Mulder's face 
across from her was gray even washed in the lights of police cars 
and ambulances. 

	As he gradually turned to meet her gaze, she winced at the 
inhuman pain in his eyes. His breath hitched, and he moved his hand 
to cover his mouth.

	And Scully knew that nothing, nothing would ever be the same.

* * *

	Mulder stared at the glowing amber of the fireplace and 
wondered why he could not get warm. His teeth would start chattering 
if he didn't make a conscious effort to prevent it. Didn't the 
Consortium have enough funds for decent heating, for heaven's sake? 

	Of course, he admitted to himself, that the atmosphere in this 
room was superficially most pleasant. Here, subtle comforts were always 
taken care of; slightest needs were always tended to promptly. It must 
have been the ice running through his veins, and the cold heart that 
was pulsing inside his chest. And he knew that he would not get warm 
under the hottest sun of tropics.

	"Are you happy with my work?" he asked calmly, careful not to 
betray his discomfort.

	Beautiful hands with prudently manicured nails settled on the 
expensive material of the gray designer suit. "But of course," a 
measured voice answered. "You are a valuable addition to our 
organization."

	"And you trust me?"

	"Do we have a reason not to?" Milton answered with a question 
of his own, and Mulder correctly interpreted it as a maybe. It was 
quite a change from a resounding 'no' of the days past.

	He wondered briefly if he should be proud.

	"I did not know whether I could fill the shoes of Walter 
Skinner, and I am certain that I could not replace him, but I think 
I have been doing quite well so far," Mulder continued 
conversationally. "Even though bureaucratic work is not something 
I am fond of, I presume that the FBI business did not suffer from 
my involvement too much."

	"Personally, I think it benefited," Milton nodded, still 
not quite understanding where this current exchange was heading.

	"But I have failed one of my agents already, and it 
reflects badly on me," Mulder raised his eyes to gauge the reaction 
of his colleague. "I *am* the Assistant Director.  You promoted me 
to that job.  And that job involves being responsible, first and 
foremost, to my agents."  Mulder paused, feeling his bones shake 
as emotions threatened to overwhelm him.  "And *I* was 
responsible to  Special Agent Andrew Winters."

	"You cannot answer for every freak out on the roads, Fox," 
Milton shrugged sympathetically. "Some people just don't know how 
to drive."

	"And some people drive so well that they can execute a 
perfect homicide using a steering wheel and a pair of high beams," 
Mulder's voice raised a notch, and he noticed some heads in the 
room turning in their direction. There had been no traces left -- 
the pouring rain had effectively washed any such possibilities away, 
and any potential witnesses were either hiding or silent. The D.C. 
police ran around the city in circles, before raising a white flag 
in resignation. 

	Mulder tried to pin Milton with a glare.  "It's quite 
flattering to see that I am valuable enough to kill someone in 
the sake of my safety, but..."

	Milton's smile was ill and condescending. "Your safety means 
safety of the Consortium. Do not ever forget that."

	"Winters was my agent. He served my purposes, and he was 
doing a great job, as far as I was concerned," Mulder's voice cracked 
slightly, as he remembered the young man's passion and honesty. He 
underestimated Andrew's intelligence. Or maybe, he overestimated his 
own ability to live double lives without raising suspicion.

	"And what job was that exactly? Keeping the X-Files department 
open in your absence?"

	"Among other things, yes. And if he did cause trouble, I would 
have taken care of it." By now, all eyes in the room were focused on 
them, and he made sure that everyone heard his next words. "I am 
closing the X-Files department as of tomorrow."

	"You are the Assistant Director," Milton's voice held no trace 
of emotion. "It is your decision."

	Mulder closed his eyes for a moment, exhausted and heartsick. 
This decision cost him a couple of sleepless nights, but he could not 
risk taking chances with other people's lives any longer.

	"It is ironic, isn't it?" Northam offered, stopping by 
momentarily. "We have tried several times to close them down, and 
nothing worked. Director Robinson is a coward, and he preferred to 
avoid all these annoying arguments. AD Skinner had quite a conviction 
when it came to keeping your precious department open."

	Mulder's hands grew cold, and his vision clouded.

	"And now, you are the one closing them down. All I can say 
is," Northam stopped his tirade to shake his head in feigned display 
of amazement, "thank you."

	The two elder members shared a small smile, congratulating 
themselves on the job well done, on short-term goals accomplished, 
and on the long-term strategy reinforced.

	"Why didn't you just tell me to close them down sooner?" Mulder 
asked, too tired to play the guessing game anymore.
	
	"We prefer not to interfere with things important to you," 
Milton replied softly. "You are one of us. We would be nothing as an 
organization if we did not take care of our own."  There was a cruel 
smile playing on Milton's lips, and there were quiet chuckles coming 
from the back of the room.

	Mulder was unable to offer a suitable response, feeling his 
body become wooden. With every passing day, with every Bureau case he 
made sure was not investigated, with every session of hypnosis in a 
building with bright overhead lights, the humanity drained out of him 
steadily. 

	And every minute, he realized anew that he was becoming 
one of them.

* * *
	
	The light in the basement office was on, and Scully hesitated 
before opening the door. But she wanted nothing more than to finish 
walking this particular circle of hell and she turned the knob 
resolutely.

	Mulder sat in his old chair, feet propped up on the table, 
reading the case files. The sight was painfully familiar, infinitely 
dear, and for a split second, Scully tried to imagine that these were 
the old times. In a moment, he would raise his head, throw her a 
lopsided smile, and ask whether she had a bag packed in her car because 
they were leaving today, right now, to investigate bright lights in 
the sky of Nevada or some other similarly wonderful nonsense.

	He turned to look at her slowly, his eyes lacking the usual 
glint of excitement, and the illusion was effectively shattered. "I 
came to pack up," she said haltingly, as if the carton box in her 
hands was not indicative of her intent.

	Mulder nodded hesitantly, not certain whether she wanted him 
to stay or to leave. In the days since Andrew's death, the common bond 
of guilt seemed to drive them even further apart. Director Robinson 
persuaded his AD to eulogize the recently deceased Special Agent 
Winters, and during the entire funeral, Mulder was afraid to meet 
Scully's eyes, afraid to see the reflection of his own guilt in them. 
Such a tragic death. Such a young man. The lies dripped off his 
tongue, and the suppressed screams burned his throat. Such a tragic 
accident. Tsk tsk, nothing could be done.

	Rumor had it that the investigation into the death of Winters 
was closed down when the tox lab upstairs discovered that the agent 
had a blood alcohol level of 0.9. Not exceedingly high, but enough to 
tarnish the funeral and to cause an elderly couple who were his parents 
to alternately yell and sob at the casket as it was laid to rest.

	Mulder had been the only brass to arrive at the funeral. After 
the eulogy, realizing that the Director and Section Chief had failed 
to attend, he felt the chilly stares of his subordinate agents. And he 
quickly left the graveyard after the solemn ceremony, knowing that he 
was taking a coward's way out - lest any red-haired, blue-eyed women 
wanted to talk to him.

	They haven't spoken about anything but business since then, 
and Mulder stopped short every time his fingers began dialing the 
familiar number. And today, he decided to just leave her alone and 
continued to read over the cases that he would probably never get a 
chance to investigate.

	"Mulder, how I wish that you had done this earlier," she spoke 
suddenly, and his eyes watered at the regret in her voice. She couldn't 
have been more transparent while pointing an accusatory finger. "No," 
Scully continued softly, as if reading his thoughts.  "You don't 
understand.  I hope that one day, this department is reopened. And 
maybe there will be more than two agents working on these cases. And 
maybe it won't be located in the basement anymore."

	"Suffering from the delusions of grandeur, Scully?" Mulder 
quipped sarcastically.

	Scully smiled at the remark, stopping the frenzied search 
through the drawers and papers. "You don't have to answer if you don't 
know what to say, partner," she replied, refusing to take the bait. 
"This is not the right time for the X-Files. But I believe it will 
come again."

	Mulder listened to the inspirational speech sullenly, knowing 
that he should have been the one providing encouragement, that the 
death of Winters hit her harder than him, that she desperately needed 
some sign, some realistic indication that they were doing the right 
thing.

	And except for the wavering faith in the righteousness of his 
actions, he had nothing to offer.

	"Scully, could you please reconsider going to the VCS? Quantico 
would love to have you back," he asked finally.

	She shook her head negatively. "Mulder, we have been over this 
a thousand times before. Please don't ask me again."

	He turned away, starting to drum his fingers on the table 
nervously. "Do you feel that you owe them something? That you are to 
blame for the death of Winters and that you will serve as some sort 
of a substitute?"

	"That was a low blow," Scully's voice shook with indignation, 
and he raised his hand in a gesture of surrender.

	"I'm sorry. I am just... worried."

	The drumming continued, and she wondered if he wasn't so far 
from the truth, if her joining the VCS was not indicative of some deep 
masochistic tendencies. But going to Quantico would have been 
reminiscent of the last nightmarish time the X-Files were closed. 
And a teaching job would have meant no longer working in the field. 
And quite irrationally, it seemed to her that the distance between 
Washington D.C. and Quantico would symbolize the end, the ultimate, 
determining barrier between her and Mulder.

	And they were still partners, damn it.

	Mulder stood up decisively and took off the "I Want To 
Believe" poster, rolling it up tightly. "Here," he offered it to 
her, "I want you to have this."

	The gesture spoke volumes, and Scully accepted it reverently. 
"Just for safekeeping, Mulder. You will have it back when you need it."

	He smiled sadly and pointed to the little exquisite model of a 
Porsche sitting on the table. "Could I keep this?"

	Scully fingered the tiny car gingerly, wondering how she could 
have missed it. Andrew must have dragged it down here and displayed it 
in the prominent place. She hardly knew him, and this Porsche... it 
was a part of him.

	"Please," Mulder reiterated, and she nodded, a lump in her 
throat.

	He pocketed the toy and walked out of the office quickly, 
leaving her alone. After the door closed, she gave herself permission 
to lose the brave facade for a moment; her shoulders sagged and her 
eyelids drooped tiredly. The situation was only getting worse, and 
she had to restrain herself from begging Mulder to quit while it 
wasn't too late. And yet, she knew that they were both too involved 
to quit the game now, for if they did, all the losses would have 
been for nothing. 

	Her gaze fell on the poster, and her lips curved into a small 
smile. Though nothing was resolved, she had to believe that there was 
light at the end of this tunnel. She had to have faith that they would 
win at the end.

	She corrected her suit and picked up the box with all the 
useless things that accumulated in her desk over the years. 

	It was time to get to work.

* * *

	Milton returned a tiny teacup to the saucer, sighing 
contentedly. Getting old was not so bad if one had money and power. 
The new wrinkles on the face and the protesting bones were hardly a 
reflection on his lifestyle, since there were always people ready 
to do his bidding at a moment's notice.

	This weekend on the farm was a welcome vacation from the 
hassles of everyday work. The winter was coming to an end, it was 
unusually warm and dry: a perfect day for horseback riding. It was 
wonderful to see the children, too, for they rarely found the time 
to get away from the busy life in Chicago and visit.

	The phone ring interrupted his reverie, and he hesitated 
briefly before picking it up, reluctant to spoil the calm evening 
with banal problems and worries.

	"Milton," he answered finally, grudgingly.
	
	"James, have you been watching CNN today?" a thick voice 
filled the receiver, and Milton grunted unhappily.

	"My concept of rest does not include listening to the news."

	"Turn on the TV," Northam interrupted. "You will want to look 
at this."

	Milton reached for the remote and clicked on the news channel, 
slightly mollified by the pretty face of the female reporter that 
filled the screen. A frown creased her smooth forehead as she recited 
the latest news on the hurricane Yula, currently wrecking havoc on 
the shores of North Carolina. 

	"The path of Yula changed significantly and unexpectedly. After 
it visited the eastern seaboard of South Carolina, it should have gone 
away from the continent, in the waters of Atlantic Ocean. The 
meteorologists had not foreseen that the hurricane would continue in 
the northern direction, and the people had little or no warning to 
prepare for the deadly consequences of this change..."

	Milton's fingers on the remote tensed as he processed the 
information. "Manns Harbor?"

	Northam anticipated the question. "The phones are down. We 
don't know what's happening."

	"There is no reason for panic yet," Milton tried to contain his 
worry. "We will have to wait until the hurricane is gone and deal with 
it then."

	"Tell me again, James," Northam sighed loudly. "Why didn't we 
build the damn lab in Irvine, California?"

	The Englishman smiled mirthlessly.

	"Earthquakes."

* * *

	The children's book lay open on the twenty-fifth page, and 
Mulder struggled to understand the bizarre formula written beside the 
colorful pictures of animals frolicking on the grass. He remembered 
enough chemistry from school to recognize the typical elements of the 
organic compound: carbon, oxygen, and hydrogen, but its structure was 
too complex to be classified easily.

	Yesterday, he tore off a piece of the letter and sent it to the 
FBI labs for analysis. The answer he was looking for was quick and 
unsurprising: the letter was written only four years ago, much too late 
for his fifteenth or twenty-fifth birthday.

	Indeed, his father was a master of puzzles. But this one still 
had no solution, no easily decipherable meaning, and Mulder reached for 
the folder with Scully's name. Contrary to his expectations, and so 
unlike the discovery of the base set pairs corresponding to the 
fifteenth page of the book, there was no single mention of this organic 
formula to be found, though he saw a couple of equally strange 
schematics. He really should have shown this to Scully; she had a much 
more suitable background in this matter.

	Mulder purposely bypassed the rest of the information on the 
hundreds of pages in the folder. He didn't want to read about the 
procedures administered or drugs injected, though all of them had 
been documented thoroughly, meticulously, with a cold and exacting 
professionalism. He closed his eyes on the few strange photographs 
and tissue samples filed along with the description of every single 
one of the ninety days that his partner was gone.

	Every single day that he had struggled to find her... and she 
was still in the vicinity of Washington D.C., so unbelievably close 
and yet infinitely out of reach.

	Earlier today, he had erased the memory of a small attractive 
woman with green eyes and long brown hair. The procedure was so routine 
by now that he had hardly paid attention to the way she looked or what 
she talked about.

	She was a job.

	She had a husband who was grieving about her forty-day 
disappearance and a mother who shed tears for a daughter she thought 
was dead.

	At the whistle of the kettle, Mulder flung the folder aside 
and ran into the kitchen.  With the stove turned off, he hugged the 
scorching metal with a palm of his hand, welcoming the pain, feeling 
the blisters form. It wouldn't do to scare the neighbors, so he used 
the other hand to clamp his mouth and contain the scream of agony. 
The heat abated slowly, and he lifted his fingers, his eyes traveling 
indifferently over the first- and second-degree burns. The rationalism 
and fear of self-destructive behavior prevailed momentarily, and he 
turned on the cold water, shoving the throbbing hand under the 
healing stream with a sensation of regret.

	The pain was precious because it indicated that he could 
still feel.

	And if he could feel, he was still a whole human being, and 
his emotions had not disappeared completely.

	 The burnt fingers were now numb, and he looked at them 
calmly, evaluating the damage. Not bad enough to go to the hospital, 
though Scully would probably have told him otherwise. Mulder bandaged 
them carefully, if awkwardly. Damn, he really should have planned 
ahead and used his left hand. Driving tomorrow was going to be hell.

	Fresh coffee scalded his throat as he made his way back to 
the living room. He knew that to preserve what remained of his sanity 
and integrity, to guard Scully's cherished privacy, no one would read 
this folder again but her. If she ever wanted to know the truth about 
the months she lost, it was hers for the taking.

	Though he would never ask her to take it.

	His sister's file was easier to digest, and Mulder wondered 
if it was due to the fact that she was much more removed from his life 
by now.  With a glance at the shimmering streetlight outside, he 
settled down for a thorough examination of the thinner folder, 
marveling at his choice of the bedtime stories.

	The night was still young - and he had no time to waste.

* * *

	Edward Jackson, the sheriff of Manns Harbor, North Carolina, 
looked sadly at the remnants of the small building that had served as 
the City Hall. The recent catastrophe immobilized the entire town and 
the nearby communities. The electricity was gone for awhile; it would 
be a few days before water was back; and there was little hope of 
restoring any means of communication in the near future. He had to 
stop several times while driving into town today and haul off tree 
trunks and other debris lying on the roads. At least, he somewhat 
selfishly noted, his house had not been damaged significantly.

	"Good morning, sir!" a policeman greeted him happily, and 
Jackson glared at him, wondering how this morning could be classified 
as anything but horrible.

	"Morning yourself, Larry. How did you make out?"

	"Oh, not too bad. A tree fell on my car, so my head is touching 
the roof now while I am driving," the young man shared, still flashing 
a toothy smile. "But it could have been a whole lot worse. Why, look at 
the City Hall!"

	The sheriff grunted and glanced at the sky suspiciously, amazed 
at its blue color.  Such clarity seemed impossible several hours ago 
when the sky had been littered with dark, angry clouds -- deadly winds 
causing them to circulate furiously.  "Get in my car," he finally said. 
"We should go assess the damage -- see who needs our help."

	Most of the houses were deserted; what few people they met 
appeared busy trying to restore some semblance of order to their 
residencies. Larry twisted in his seat, looking around curiously. 
"Maybe, we should head back, sheriff? I don't think there is much 
out here."

	"A couple more miles," Jackson answered briefly.

	Larry nodded self-importantly and continued to stare out the 
window. "Wow, look at this place!" he exclaimed suddenly. "It will take 
awhile to rebuild."

	The sheriff turned off the engine and stepped out of the car, 
struggling to remember what the building in front of him looked like 
before it was destroyed. Three floors, simple and modern, security at 
the entrance, nothing interesting in his opinion. Nothing deserving 
of the second glance. 

	The two men walked around the ruins silently, glass and brick 
crumbling underneath their boots. Pieces of steel frame lay here and 
there, bent out of shape, and once again, Jackson marveled at the 
strength of the violent storm that visited their shore last night. 
Manns Harbor must have been in the direct path of Yula.

	"Sheriff," Larry called out, and for the first time this 
morning, his voice sounded grave and unhappy. "I think I found 
someone... or something?"

	Jackson walked over briskly and felt the hair on the back of 
his neck stand up. "Jesus, Larry... What is this thing?"

	The corpse could not be classified as human, for the back 
of its head was enlarged and out of proportion to the rest of the 
body. The color of skin approached gray, and the sheriff noticed 
with disgust a few angry red pustules and sores. And yet, its face 
was unmistakably human, and its open eyes retained a rather normal 
shade of brown.

	"Sheriff... there is another one over here," an expression 
of revulsion and horror replaced Larry's smile, as he started 
walking backward to the car. 

	Jackson knelt down momentarily, respectfully closing the 
dead brown eyes. "I think we should let someone know about this, 
Larry. These... *people* look like they could have used some help 
before the hurricane."

	Larry was too busy throwing up on the side of the road to 
reply.

* * *

	There was a knock on the door, and Mulder turned around, 
surprised to see the upset face of Miller. The old doctor never 
interfered in the sessions anymore, and Mulder came to greet him 
hurriedly. 

	"Fox, please see me before you leave for today."

	"Sure, as soon as I am finished here," he nodded vaguely in the 
direction of the woman.

	"Good. Sorry to interrupt," Miller spoke to the empty air and 
closed the door behind him loudly.

	Mulder wondered briefly what the hell this was about, then 
shrugged it off and resumed the session.

	Half an hour later, he stood in the office of Miller who was 
pacing the floor in monotonous, exhausting circles.

	"Fox - what happened to your hand?" he asked briskly, noticing 
the white bandages for the first time.

	Mulder hid the right hand behind his back unconsciously. 
"Nothing serious. I accidentally spilled the boiling water."

	Miller threw him a curious glance but seemed to accept the 
explanation. "With the money you are making now, you could afford 
paying someone to do these things for you."

	"I prefer to make my own beverages, thank you," Mulder replied 
coldly.

	"You really should have asked before taking the files," Miller 
stopped finally, pinning the younger man down with an unflinching gaze.

	Mulder's knees buckled and he suddenly longed to sit down. God, 
he'd hoped this would last a little longer - that he'd be able to do 
some real damage before he was found out. What had he accomplished so 
far besides killing Andrew, convicting Skinner, and permanently 
scarring dozens of young women?

	"I'm sorry," he squeezed through the gritted teeth.

	"Yes, well," Miller pointed him to a chair. "I presume you 
know what happened to your sister."

	Mulder nodded dully, waiting for the inevitable end to the 
charade.

	"She was treated well, you know?" Miller continued, ignoring 
Mulder's deathly pallor. "Davidson made sure of that. I still wonder 
whether he was her father - who knows, really? - but he cared for her 
more than he would have even for his own children. There were no 
invasive procedures performed on her."

	"Yes, I know that she had... privileges," Mulder said, 
suddenly seized by desire to clarify another point. "And he wasn't 
her father."

	Miller shrugged. "You would know better. It's your family, 
after all. But I bet you didn't know that Samantha had telekinetic 
abilities?"

	Mulder's eyebrows rose sardonically. "It was a surprise."

	"Her genetic make-up was altered - we were in the middle of 
this series of experiments..." Miller stopped uncertainly. 
"Nevermind."

	"Why are you telling me all this?" 

	"I enjoy working with you, Fox. I like you, and I think that 
our organization still stands to benefit from your abilities," Miller 
leaned forward, inputting all of his persuasive skills in the next 
statement. "That is why I hope that you will not quit, despite what 
you've learned."

	Mulder stared at the old doctor, flabbergasted and slightly 
amused. They still had no idea... no idea as to his true intentions. 
By God, he sarcastically mused, the Emmy committee would have a field 
day with his fine performance.  

	"Well... I don't know," he offered finally, deciding to milk it 
for all it was worth. "You were the one who erased her memory. And 
Scully's. I saw your signature in both files."

	Miller was now genuinely nervous, almost fearful. "I hope you 
understand, Fox. It was - it is - my job."

	Mulder nodded weakly, remembering his own thoughts to that 
effect.

	"It was never personal. In fact, I liked them both. And in the 
case of your partner, there were hardly any memories to begin with," 
Miller explained, as if that excused everything.

	Mulder raised a hand, stopping the flood of explanations. He 
truly didn't want to hear this. "I will have to think about it. I 
admit that I had thoughts about resigning."

	Miller looked away, accepting the statement. "While you're 
thinking... there is something you may want to consider."

	"What?"

	"Your sister's children are of some interest to us. She is one 
of the very few abductees who are fertile. And her husband served in 
the Persian Gulf War. Freaky coincidence, wouldn't you say? But it's 
quite a potent combination. And we would like to see what special 
abilities the offspring of such a union might possess," Miller 
concluded apologetically.

	Mulder's hands balled into fists. The bandaged fingers ached 
mercilessly, and he used the pain as a counter-balance against the 
turmoil in his head. "Why weren't they taken before?"

	"Not while Davidson was alive and a member of the Consortium," 
Miller replied dryly. "You might not realize this, but by coming to 
work for us, you have literally saved them."

	He could hardly breathe as his world shrank to a narrow cell 
of the prison he could never hope to get out of. "How old are they?"

	"The boy is four, and the girl is six. They are lovely."

	Mulder opened his mouth, wanting to ask more questions, but 
then fell silent.

	"I think your decision has just been made."

	The man could combine sympathy with a threat in the same 
sentence. It was a talent. Mulder got up and went to the door, the 
gift of speech returning to him. "Thank you for the information."

	"No problem," Miller was already busy writing something in 
his journal. "And the matter of stolen files will remain between us. 
Everyone else is too concerned with that North Carolina disaster, 
anyway."

	North Carolina? Yula? Mulder questioned for a moment how the 
hurricane could have possibly affected the measured pace of business 
at the Consortium. It's not like they would have sent medical 
supplies to the victims.

	And then, his thoughts turned back to the haunting memory of a 
little girl with braids, calling out for help. And to the two children 
whom he'd never seen, but whose life depended solely on him - and on 
how well he served the very force who could destroy them.

	* * *

	Skinner took a deep breath and tapped his foot impatiently. He 
had no desire to speak with Scully, preferring the uncomfortable cot 
in his drab cell to the excruciating silence that filled a small 
interrogation room. 

	"I am surprised that you are alone, Agent Scully," he offered 
coldly, eager to finally start and finish the conversation 

	She bit her lip and continued to stare into space. "Agent 
Winters is dead."

	Skinner shrunk back in his seat, the news hitting him like a 
physical blow. "How?"

	"Killed in an automobile accident," her eyes roamed over the 
walls nervously, searching for cameras and microphones. 

	"Accident?" Skinner repeated dully, and Scully shook her head 
negatively.

	So his suspicions were correct. It was one of the very few 
times when Skinner would have loved to be wrong. He felt as a 
spectator to a grotesque drama, knowing the reasons behind each scene 
played out before his eyes, but powerless to affect its outcome. 
"And I presume that Assistant Director Mulder," he spit each word 
out testily, "is too busy to visit?"

	Scully tilted her head and eyed him curiously, trying to 
figure out what, if anything, Skinner suspected. She ignored the 
barb, content to turn the topic of conversation to the predicament 
of her former boss.  "I have read the forensics report and I have 
evaluated all evidence, sir. Nothing at the crime scene points 
directly at you even though your fingerprints were found in the 
apartment. The pictures speak against you, but there is a chance 
that jury may be swayed..."

	So she would ignore the question. Skinner sighed, irritated. 
"Why are you here? Not to tell me what I already know, I hope?"

	"I am sorry, sir," Scully lost her wind momentarily. "I have 
tried, but there is so little that I can do..."

	"Oh really? Who are you working for these days, Agent Scully?"

	"Violent Crimes Section - as a forensic expert," she sounded 
shaky, recoiling from the expression of pity and horror on Skinner's 
face. "The X-Files were closed a few days ago."

	"By Mulder?"

	"Yes," blue eyes glared at him defiantly, answering all of his 
questions at once.

	Skinner couldn't believe that he started this journey into 
hell for Mulder and her, for the corrupted agent and his blinded 
partner. Neither one was worth the lives of people stung by the bees. 
Neither one was worth this jail sentence, no matter how much he may 
have deserved it.

	He should have warned Andrew to stay away.

	"I think you should go, Agent Scully." 

	She flinched and got up abruptly, her chair scraping the floor 
with a metallic screech. What was she doing here? It was obvious what 
Skinner thought of her and Mulder. She never could fool him. In a 
half-hearted attempt to fix the unfixable, she spoke urgently. "I came 
here to say that I believe you. That I believe in you, and that no 
matter what possible motive... or motives... you might have had to 
kill Cancerman, I know you wouldn't have done it. And so does Agent 
Mulder."

	Skinner shook his head tiredly. "That is very sweet. However, 
I need something more than faith to get me out of this predicament."

	"The trial is in a few weeks," Scully felt like she was about 
to choke on the next platitude. "And I have faith that something might 
happen in the meantime."

	She left in a hurry, and the guards stepped back in the room, 
ready to escort him back to his cell. He was accustomed to the click 
of handcuffs, and the way to his cell was familiar and everyday. His 
whisper didn't carry far in the stale air.

	"I don't."

	Outside, Scully leaned against the car door, her knees shaking. 
With an increasing frequency, she was forced to lie and cover for 
Mulder, while innocent people she respected and cared about were 
either killed or convicted of crimes they didn't commit. And at this 
moment, she hated herself, and him, and their misguided plans.

	She felt as if she were betraying not only her ex-boss, but 
also herself, and the very foundations of her beliefs. Apparently, 
the way to the truth was neither black nor white, but gray and 
shadowy.

	The list of the victims was growing.

	And time was running out.

* * *

	Kim entered the office carrying a load of folders in her hands. 
With a sigh of relief, she set them down on Mulder's desk and offered 
her boss a polite smile. 

	"What are those?" he was curious.

	"X-Files, sir. Now that the department is closed, I don't know 
where to direct them. And they are still being labeled as X - maybe, 
we should speak to the administration about it?"

	Mulder regarded the folders with a mixture of longing and fear, 
and she stopped, eyeing him sympathetically. 

	"Sir, if you want me to drop them at the office downstairs..."

	That would have been a wise decision, all things considered. 
"No," he interrupted her on impulse. "Let me look through them first 
and see if they can be directed to the other departments."

	"Absolutely. I'll bring you more coffee," Kim hesitated before 
leaving, and Mulder smiled ruefully, watching her depart. He must have 
been rather unlike her previous boss; the poor thing just didn't know 
how to handle him.

	He opened the first folder and touched the pages tenderly. A 
haunted house. Poltergeist. Mulder's lips curved upward and he closed 
the file gently. Not unless he could find a brigade of Ghostbusters. 
The second file spoke of a numb man who suddenly began talking and 
professing the end of the world, and claiming to have been touched 
by God. 

	What a bunch of crap.

	The third folder had him mesmerized. Two strange bodies, 
"half-human and weird," in description of Sheriff Jackson, were 
discovered after hurricane Yula in Manns Harbor, North Carolina. 
The building where the bodies were found was destroyed completely, 
and no one claimed ownership of it - or the bodies - yet. The 
remnants of strange apparatuses were found in the ruins, as well. 
The police of North Carolina had their hands full dealing with the 
consequences of the hurricane, and someone apparently heard enough 
of the X-Files department of the FBI to direct the case there.

	Mulder's heartbeat intensified. Could this have been the 
"disaster" that had the entire Consortium on the verge of 
hysteria? Was this the location of one of their labs? If it worried 
them so greatly, there had to be evidence that could blow the 
entire operation out of the water. He had no freedom to go to Manns 
Harbor and investigate any longer, but he could ask Scully...

	Kim came in carrying a fresh cup of coffee, and she had to 
touch him on the shoulder to gain his attention. "Sir, Dean Douglas 
is here to see you. Should I tell him to come back again?"

	"Oh? No..." Mulder accepted the cup gratefully. "Let him in."

	Dean Douglas strode into the office and settled down in 
the offered chair, obviously uncomfortable. 

	"So, what brings you here?" Mulder broke the silence 
impatiently, glancing at the open folder that still beckoned him.

	Douglas wiped sweaty hands on the pants nervously. Generally 
a fearless man, he always felt apprehensive around the new Assistant 
Director, and he would be hard-pressed to explain the reasons. 
Perhaps it was the ease with which Mulder ascended the career ladder. 
Perhaps it was the cold fire in his eyes. "I came here to talk about 
a rather disturbing trend I've noticed in my division."

	"Oh? Which is?"

	"High turn-around rate of my agents," the words were out, 
and Douglas appeared relieved. "Personally, I am glad to have Agent 
Scully working for us. She helped us out tremendously with autopsies 
and her excellent forensic expertise."
	
	Mulder watched him coldly. "But?"

	"But I question the reasons behind her transfer. Look at the 
facts. First, you ask for Agent Winters to work as her partner. He is 
killed in a few days by an unidentified vehicle. And that vehicle did 
exist, regardless of alcohol level in his blood. You quickly close 
the department and ask if the Violent Crimes Section could accommodate 
Agent Scully, though she clearly has no profiling experience. Going 
back further, Walter Skinner, a man whom I respect, is convicted for 
murder of the person whose name he didn't even know. And you're 
promoted in his place after a rather bizarre though triumphant 
resolution of the hostage situation."

	Mulder listened bleakly to the recitation, praying for the 
Chief of the VCS to stop. If he began asking questions, there would 
be yet another tombstone in the Arlington cemetery and yet another 
death on his shoulders. "What is your point, Douglas?"

	"My point is," he looked at the Assistant Director squarely,
"that I ask you not to use my agents so freely to fulfill your purposes 
whatever they may be. And that includes Agent Scully."

	So Scully was now "his agent." Mulder smirked contemptuously. 
"Let me remind you that your department is still answerable to me. If 
I feel the need to utilize its resources, I certainly will."

	Douglas seemed to ignore the rude tone of his voice, focusing 
on the tiny Porsche standing in the far corner of the table. "Mulder, 
I'm only saying this because I'm concerned. And I still hope that we 
will have a long and productive working relationship," his manner was 
soft, reconciliatory. "But I don't want to add more unsolved cases 
to this pile," he nodded to the load of X-Files, "or to our own. My 
agents are not disposable."

	Mulder stared downward with the unseeing eyes, gritting his 
teeth and wishing that his tearducts were less allergic to the dust 
in the air. "Certainly not."

	His point articulated, Douglas exited. Enthusiasm wavering, 
Mulder smoothed the papers in the folder with bandaged fingers. There 
were so many reasons to bury this case. Douglas' unhappiness. His 
concern for Scully. His own perilous position. Miller's precautions. 
And there were only a few unimportant incentives to give it a green 
light.

	Time was running out like sand through his fingers, while the 
danger of becoming someone he'd never wanted to be was becoming all 
too real.

* * *

	The screen glowed with a soft blue light, and Scully touched 
the smooth glass tentatively, feeling the cool crackle of electricity. 
They rarely spoke anymore using the monkey tongue, because Mulder was 
always too busy, and their schedules rarely coincided. But she was 
glad for this interlude, desperate to talk to him.

	"Skylark, you must see the formula I've found in my textbook."

	Oh, more news about the letter. It seemed to be the only thing 
Mulder was interested in these days.

	"Can you type it here?"

	The formula appeared on the screen as if by magic, and she 
stared at it without recognition. Her stomach cramped painfully as 
she typed the next question. "Did you see it in my lecture notes, 
as well?"

	The answer was quick and unsettling. "No. But there are a 
couple of similar compounds mentioned."

	"I do not recognize this. I need more time to research it."

	The next words cut through her like a knife, and she barely 
suppressed her anger. 

	"I have to fly out tonight. Let's talk about this later."

	"Where are you going?"

	"A weekly meeting. Gotta go."

	Scully bit her lip in frustration. So he got everything he 
wanted out of this conversation, and now he was running away. And 
the fact that he spoke of these meetings with such ease - such 
informality - worried her.

	"Wait! The presentation of the bald monkey is soon. We are not 
ready."

	Mulder's answer seemed impatient. "I know."

	"And you still haven't told me what kind of research you do."

	The words sounded as if he was stuttering. "Ddo yo really want 
to kknow."

	She envisioned his tired face, heard his resigned voice while 
another sentence floated on the screen.

	"Sorry. Hard to ttype with burnt fingers."

	The twinge of concern was almost an involuntary reflex, and 
Scully closed her eyes, fearing the rising headache and her obvious 
co-dependence on her ex-partner, but most of all whatever he was about 
to tell her.

	"How did you burn them? Is it serious?"

	"Spilled boiling water. An accident. Don't worry."

	Scully sensed that there was more to the story, but didn't 
push him further. "Do you want me to study my... lecture notes?" she 
typed finally, praying for a negative answer.

	His reply screamed at her angrily. "NO!!" Then, in a softer 
tone, he followed with, "Too difficult for you or for me."

	She swallowed hard, erasing the treacherous thoughts from her 
mind, fear uncoiling like a poisonous snake in her heart. "This cannot 
go on much longer."

	The pause lasted minutes.

	"I need you to do something for me. For us," he corrected 
himself quickly. "Research a case - meet me tomorrow."

	Confused but slightly reassured, she typed an affirmation. And 
then she thought about Sheila and Andrew. And about Skinner, who 
readily admitted what he had done for the Consortium. And about 
Mulder, who somehow managed to convince the Consortium that he was 
on their side.

	It must have been something that he could somehow live with. 
But it was also something that he thought she would disapprove of - 
something she would despise him for.

	"Scorpio?"

	"Yes?"

	"I don't want to know," Scully typed quickly, fully aware of 
her weakness, eyes wide open to her deliberate blindness.

	Before she turned off the computer decisively, his answer 
flashed as if chasing her. 

	"But you will."

* * *

	Scully drank in the fresh air of North Carolina, appreciating 
the smell of early spring flowers mixed with the salt of the ocean. 
She realized with surprise that she was falling in love with the 
little town of Manns Harbor, rattled by the hurricane, but still 
unique and charming. And for the first time in so many days, she was 
delighted to be working.

	Even without Mulder by her side, it felt right to be 
investigating an X-File, and Scully wondered when the 
now-extinguished department became so much a part of her life. No, 
she amended, not just a part. She would never settle for anything 
less - and she could not wish for anything more.

	"Agent Scully? Sheriff Jackson," a tall burly man introduced 
himself, and she smiled, shaking his hand. "So, I guess our problems 
reached the ears of the FBI itself."

	"Yes. I don't have much time," Scully spoke with regret, 
wishing that she could stay longer had there been no pressing matters 
waiting back home. "Could you point me to the ruins of the building 
where you found the bodies?"

	"Sure. Take this road down to Hawthorne, turn right, and you 
will see it on the right-hand side."

	"Thank you. How is restoration coming along?"

	Sheriff beamed. "We are doing very well. We should receive a 
large government grant, so people will have a chance to rebuild their 
houses."

	"Glad to hear that. Do you still have the bodies?" Scully 
asked hopefully.

	"We just shipped them to Quantico yesterday," Jackson was 
apologetic. "Didn't know someone would be coming all the way over 
here. And we don't have a place to keep them, anyway."

	She nodded, relieved that they haven't disappeared - at 
least, not yet - and prepared to drive off when sheriff stopped her 
tentatively. 

	"Agent Scully, thank you so much for coming. And I sure hope 
you can find out what was happening in that place. I worked here as 
a police officer for twenty-seven years, and I would be upset to 
find out there was something going on in Manns Harbor that required 
my attention - and I never even knew of it."

	"I will do my best, sheriff," Scully watched as he put the 
hat back on and swaggered to the old Wrangler. 

	Minutes later, she gazed at the ruins. There was little 
left here, and she wondered around aimlessly, picking up a few pieces 
of metal and glass and packing them in the evidence bags just in 
case. Suddenly aware of someone's eyes on her back, Scully turned 
around abruptly and saw a thin elderly man on the side of the road. 

	"Sir? Are you looking for something?"

	"No, no," the man gulped and looked around, clearly wishing 
to escape her scrutiny. "I just stopped by to look at the damage."

	"It is rather gruesome, isn't it?" she smiled, trying to put 
him at ease. "Do you know anything about what this place used to be?"

	He turned the cane in his hands nervously. "I thought... no, 
I'm wrong... nevermind," he started walking away, and Scully ran 
after him on some sixth sense.

	"Wait! I'm a Special Agent Scully, with the Bureau. If you 
need me for anything, here is my business card."

	The old man seemed to accept it gratefully, putting it in the 
wallet with shaking hands. "Can't imagine why I would... no, can't 
imagine."

	Then he limped back to the waiting car, and Scully stared 
after him, unsettled.

	Quantico was the next step.

* * *

	"Scorpio,

	I apologize for the shortness of this e-mail. It is only due 
to lack of time.
	
	First of all, I was amazed and very grateful to find the two 
rats from the destroyed laboratory still available. I have not 
expected such a gift, considering our terrible luck of the times 
past. I assume that parties interested have not been informed of 
their existence. Monkeys do love to eat rats, or so I've heard.

	I hid them, Scorpio. A scientist can't risk losing such 
valuable exponents. First time for everything, I suppose.

	Here is what I have found. In both rat corpses, the 
cerebellum, a part of the brain responsible for balance, movement, 
and coordination, was enlarged to almost twice the normal size. In 
order to accommodate this severe brain growth, the posterior parts 
of the skull were excised and replaced with metallic plates. Their 
pituitary gland's intermediate lobe was also enlarged. That is the 
lobe that has no known function in rat bodies.

	While I am at a loss to explain the functionality of both 
of these changes, I may have an answer as to their possible origins. 
There were multiple pustules and sores on both gray bodies. I had 
fluid inside of them examined, and there are traces of a compound 
which formula is reminiscent of the one you have shown me before. 
The chemists I worked with are certain only that this compound is 
synthesized, but they could not tell me what it was.

	These rats had also undergone extensive radiation, which may 
account for the amount of frameshift mutations discovered in their 
DNA. A textbook case, really.

	Quite obviously, our competitors were experimenting with a 
structure of this unknown compound, but I could only speculate about 
their purposes.

	I believe that I have also helped them in these experiments 
three years earlier. My lecture notes could be essential, to help us 
understand this case, as well as their larger goals. It may be 
painful but necessary.

	The cause of death in the first case was a broken neck. In 
the second, multiple injuries and blood loss are to blame. However, 
these rats would not have survived much longer. Their immune system 
was destroyed, and their defenses against any otherwise harmless 
infection were down. In fact, their immune response would have been 
slower and less effective than if they had a rat equivalent of AIDS. 
Their stomachs and digestive tracks had also been severely damaged.

	These are my findings so far. Today, I am flying out to meet a 
teacher who I feel may know some things about this case. 

	I truly hope that I will have more answers for you before long. 

	One last thing, Scorpio: I have lost too many colleagues 
already. People are burnt out quickly. I hope you are taking care 
of yourself. Don't work too hard.

	I will see you soon,

	Skylark."

	The phone rang, and Mulder shredded the letter on the spot, 
scrunching the sentimental regrets at the roots. His head throbbed, 
and he shook off two more Excedrin pills in the palm of his hand, then 
sent them down his throat without water. He was already over the 
allowed daily limit, but who was counting. People as rats. What an 
allegory.

	Distractedly, he picked up the phone, thinking that this 
letter was more disturbing than encouraging. Who was Scully meeting? 
Where was she? If they were still partners, he would imagine that 
she was executing a classic "I-just-ditched-you-Mulder-to-show-you-
how-it-feels" scenario. Complete with a melodramatic e-mail. And how 
did she manage to hide the bodies, anyway? 

	He could better maintain plausible deniability if he didn't 
know where she was. She promised to be back soon, and Scully was 
always true to her word. 

	But it was so hard to wait...

	"Mulder."

	"Fox, this is Milton. I am in Washington today - do you have 
some time to chat?"

	Mulder glanced at the clock. 7 PM. Highly irregular. He was 
anxious now, and he tried to remind himself of Miller's strange 
reaction to his indiscretions. But Milton was far more dangerous.

	"Of course," he replied smoothly, a smile in his voice. 
"I'd be delighted."

	"Meet me in one hour at the facility," Milton cut him abruptly.

	Oh, so no room for pleasantries. "See you there."

	The beep was his answer, and Mulder hung up gently. There was 
no reason to worry.

	No reason at all.

End of Part 3/4