Sanctuary



Sanctuary

(sequel to Paradise Lost and Walking Through Fire)

by bardsmaid

Chapter 1

Prologue

(Mulder)

Walking to the door of Albert Hosteen's house in the New Mexico wasteland for the very first time, the old man turned to me and said, "You are willing to sacrifice yourself to the truth, aren't you?"

At the time I didn't answer.  Where was the need?  Hadn't I given myself to the truth years ago?  The truth was what my life was about: figuring out what had happened to my sister Samantha, finding her again if I could.  Her disappearance was wrapped up inside a government conspiracy, a cover-up by men of wide-ranging influence concerning the existence of extraterrestrial life, and I was going to expose it.  When I finally had my proof in hand, I'd be able to show the world without a doubt what had happened to my sister and prove the reality of what I'd seen first-hand of an alien race already among us.  The world's eyes would be opened.

It was a young point of view.  For years I'd seen truth as a bandage--bind a wound with it and what was raw and damaged underneath would heal.  But the truth isn’t a bandage or a cure.  It’s not the same thing as justice.  It’s simply a fact you have to face in order to go forward without delusion.  Sometimes that fact--your truth, whatever it may be--saves you.  Other times facing it comes at a higher cost, demanding that you shed your old comfortable assumptions, present yourself buck-naked before the light and accept whatever that light reveals. 

             

Albert didn’t ask if I was willing to accept the truth's blessing raining down over me, but rather if I was willing--if I was committed enough--to step from my own shadow into the brightness of that light. 

[pic]

Monday

Once, before his sister Samantha was born, he took a trip--a surreal, terrifying trip--with his parents in the middle of the night. He was wakened by the sudden chill of the bedcovers being pulled back and his father pulling him up from the warmth of sleep, wrapping a robe around his shivering form and hurrying him out into the searing brightness of the living room. His mother wasn't there. He looked around, caught in a growing confusion, and began to cry.

"You're a big boy now, Fox. Cut it out," his father said, taking him by the hand and tugging him through the kitchen, toward the back door and then into the car.

He was lifted into the back seat. His mother was in the front passenger seat, silent, staring out the window. They'd been yelling again; he could tell already.

"I want to sit in the front," he said, trying to make his voice soft, compliant. "Can I sit in the front?"

His father's only response was to gun the motor and take off in a sudden burst of speed that knocked little Fox backward into the seat. His mother continued to stare out the window, unmoving like a store mannequin, though he could see little water trails on her face shining in the reflected glow of the streetlights.

Their silence scared him, the speed scared him, and something more--a feeling that something unspeakable was about to happen in the terrible, fast blackness of night.

"Can I please sit in the front?" he tried one more time in his small, three-and-a-half-year-old voice.

He couldn't say the word: scared. He was too big for that. In the hard silence that followed he settled himself back into the seat, pulled his robe more tightly around him, curled into a ball on the seat and closed his eyes. The car went up rises and down again, over bridges, made abrupt turns and stops that seemed too quick or hurried. At one point his mother screamed--they'd nearly collided with a truck lumbering through a dark intersection--and the tension that had been held at bay spilled out, his father's tone loud and strident, his mother's high and shaken with sobs. Fox pulled the collar of his robe up around his ears and pressed his hands hard against the sides of his head, hoping to block out the terror of their voices.

Eventually the car stopped abruptly, the arguing peaked and finally the silence of stalemate reigned. Then the car started again, pulled out into the road and proceeded on, quietly, smoothly. When he woke, he was being lifted from the car. He was in his mother's arms. He was carried back to bed and the covers were drawn up. There seemed no purpose to the trip, no point. It had been only an exercise in terror.

 ........................

Fox Mulder shifted in his seat. The steady roar of the bus engine echoed inside his head. He moved to stretch. His legs were cramped; he needed to move but there was no place to move, no way, no space. He took a slow breath of recirculated air and held it. They were stuck for another forty-five minutes at least, until they reached New York where they could get out, stretch, walk around. Where they'd change buses to keep from being traced, and then go on.

To where?

He closed his eyes but it didn't help. Every time he closed them he saw the same thing--Scully with Krycek's knife at her throat, the way he moved it, just a fraction of an inch, and her eyes--the sudden shock of quick pain--then blood trickling a crazy trail into her collar. He hadn't been able to breathe, to move, and how many times had he had to look at her like that, dying or in danger of it, wondering if she was already gone, if this was finally it--the end.

He looked out the window, straining to see into the black night beyond the dull, yellowish reflection of the bus interior. Scully was asleep against the window, curled into her seat like a child, her hair a deep copper in the weak light. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to reassure himself that she was really there, that she was alright. He made the motion in his mind, hand outstretched, reaching, barely grazing her cheek with the back of a finger so as not to wake her...

He couldn't actually make contact. His touch had a habit of turning this woman’s life to tragedy.

Old Smoky'd be after them; his patience had run out and he'd kill them if he got the chance. Krycek's 'get her out of here' had told him as much. They were cut loose now in the most definitive terms--on the run, traveling on fake ID's, hoping to find somewhere to hide, a way to burrow into normal life, to stay out of the spotlight, like a tick on a dog's back. But where? How? And he couldn't keep picking her paths for her.

Mulder leaned forward, ran his hands back through his hair and let his head rest against the seat in front of him. The trip he'd taken in the middle of the night as a child ran a loop inside his head, over and over in all its pointlessness and vivid terror. Now it was her turn. He'd never meant for it to be like this.

 

 

Sandy Miller emerged from the trees and paused a moment, listening for night sounds and watching the lights ahead in the two trailers on the hillside. Her own home was dark inside, thankfully; only the porch light was on. There were lights in the kitchen of the other one, though, where her mother was staying. She moved carefully onto the dirt path and kept her footsteps quiet, even. Her breath caught involuntarily as she passed through the light spilling from the first trailer's window. Like a tunnel she might have held her breath through as a kid--it seemed like that. Seemed like a lifetime ago. She was an old woman now, a sudden widow at nineteen.

She climbed silently up the stairs to her darkened, empty trailer. Her stomach tightened. The light was supposed to be on at this hour. Roddy, freshly bathed, should be curled up in his daddy's lap. Cy's dinner should be on the stove. Instead there was nothing--no light, no food smells, no little boy's giggles or soft, petal-smooth hands reaching up to her. Nothing but darkness. Darkness and nothing. Nineteen and her life was over.

She turned the door handle cautiously, almost expecting her mother's commanding voice to come out of the darkness, but there was nothing, which was better and which was worse. The knot in her stomach began to ache. It was creepy in the dark, scary and lonely and safe from her mother's intrusion. She sighed and threw a glance at the hall clock as she passed. 8:30. She was dead tired and how would she ever get to sleep like this, alone and haunted all at the same time, hungry and not hungry? Not hungry for food: she'd eaten something about two in the afternoon and then nothing, but it didn't matter; she had no appetite. The hunger she had, a gnawing, bone-deep hunger for Cy and Roddy, was one she had no way of filling. Not now or ever. Forever: she had no grasp of how long that was. Hopefully it would pass quickly.

Sandy went down the hall to the bedroom. She shut the door behind her and threw herself on the bed. She'd sat at the creek with her feet in the water, and then when darkness had come she'd listened to the sound of it and imagined the pictures it suggested. It kept her from thinking that Cy and Roddy had died surrounded by trees, too, just two empty bodies tilted in the front seat of a car with the radio still on. She couldn't listen to the radio anymore; almost any sound beside the sound of water was too loud.

She picked up Roddy’s teddy bear from the floor, reached up and pulled the curtains across the little window. Then she sank back reluctantly onto the surface of the bed and closed her eyes. She pulled the teddy bear close. It smelled of her son. The pillow held the scent of Cy’s hair. She pulled it from under her head and hugged it hard. It was one sorry substitute for her husband.

 

 

Isaiah Wilkins pulled his car into the vacant space across from Scully's apartment and reached over into the passenger seat. His curiosity was getting costly. Every time he pulled this delivery trick it cost him the price of a pizza, though he did get to eat it in the end, or at worst, share it with his intended target. He'd tried Scully repeatedly in the afternoon and early evening but had gotten no response, not at her home phone nor at her cell number. He hadn't been blatant enough to call her Quantico extension, but a little casual snooping at headquarters had netted him the scoop that Scully'd been in to see the shrink, Karen Kosseff, and that afterward papers had been filed for a leave of absence. Skinner was gone--everyone knew what had gone down there--the official version, anyway--and Mulder, who'd seemed to think he was on to something big when he'd shown up in Kentucky, had vanished completely. Hopefully Scully'd have a line on what was happening. At the very least he was hoping she'd still be safe, immune from the contamination of working the Kentucky case, but there'd been no answer and now he had to know. Maybe a little bit of Rita Johnston’s determination had rubbed off on him back there in the heartland.

Wilkins looked at the windows that should be Scully's. His face brightened. There were lights on in two rooms. He checked the rear view mirror--delivery hat on, earring in--always a good touch--and got out of the car. Foolish to come as himself; everybody who'd pushed this case had been turned to stone in some way and he wasn't ready for life as a statue. But he'd know something soon enough.

He waited for a lull in traffic, crossed the street and went up the stairs to the entrance. Through the door, into the hallway, Apartment 35 on the right. The door stood ajar. He hesitated, listened--there was some kind of machinery running inside, a vacuum cleaner or something--and knocked on the door frame. He paused. Nothing. He knocked again, on the door this time.

"Pizza delivery--"

Another pause. No more response than the first time. The machine was still running, whatever it was. "Pizza delivery..."

Wilkins knocked on the door and then pushed it open slightly. "Hey, is this Scully, Number 35?"

There was nobody in the front room. The machine noise, he could hear clearly now, was coming from what must be a bedroom. He ventured inside.

It was a nice place, comfy furniture, nothing overbearing or overwhelming, light colors. It seemed like a good place to be comfortable. Neat and organized. It seemed like her. Maybe she was cleaning. Maybe she hadn't eaten yet. He headed toward the sound of the machine.

"Your order's here--" he said, timing the words to his entrance. "Oops. We may have a mix-up here."

Two men in the room were working a commercial carpet cleaner over a three-foot diameter area that had been turned pinkish with water and carpet soap. Something in the darker part of his mind told him instantly what it was. He swallowed his shock and forced himself to play the role.

"Hey, is the lady who lives here at home?" A little bit of an out-of-body experience, watching himself force smoothness out of his mouth while his insides hammered. "You guys call in for a pizza?"

The first man looked at the second. They were both short, apparently Hispanic, and mumbled something Wilkins didn't catch. The second man looked puzzled and shrugged. They were both clueless; obviously neither one spoke English. Something was going down here, though.

"You didn't order?" he repeated to them, shaking his head. His chest felt tight.

Both shook their heads in response.

"Well, sorry then. Maybe a mix-up." He shrugged, took a step toward the living room. "Maybe a practical joke. Been known to happen."

He turned and headed through the living room to the door. Something was most definitely going down and the pictures in his head weren't pretty. He left the front door ajar after he went through it, hesitated, and backstepped. A handkerchief came out of his pocket; he wiped the door handle quickly and left the lobby.

The air outside was cool against the sudden sweat on his face. Neither man had had any identifying name or logo on his coveralls--all the easier to forget you with, my dear--and there was nothing outside here, van or truck or station wagon, from any place purporting to be a maintenance company. Wilkins crossed the street at a half-jog and got into his car. He tossed the pizza box into the passenger seat--his appetite gone, replaced by a steel knot--and took off the cap and earring.

"Some serious shit's going down, Ralph, old man," he said, half-turning around. "I hope you're ready for Act II."

A pair of soft beige ears popped up from the floor of the back seat, accompanied by a wooly face.

"Catch you in a minute, buddy," Wilkins said to the cocker spaniel, and he started the car and pulled out into traffic. He turned right at the nearest corner and parked halfway down the block. Then he casually pulled a cotton sweater over the button-down delivery shirt, pulled a beret from the floor on the passenger side, and reached between the seats for Ralph's leash.

 

 

"Annie..."

The voice came from behind a thick haze.

"Annie..."

It came again, soft but somehow too loud. Scully stirred slightly. Her legs were cramped. She was in a small space, a confined space. The air was stale and slightly smoky with a hint of... diesel fuel.

Soft pressure came on her shoulder and the word again--Annie--spoken quietly, close. Recognition coursed through her. It was meant for her. It was Mulder.

Her eyes came open almost against her will. People like thickly planted trees loomed above her, standing in the bus aisle, waiting. Travel bags hung from hands at eye level. Sleepy children peered down from high over shoulders. Night: it was black outside the window.

"Annie?"

It was Mulder's voice once again, deliberately soft so as not to spook her. She pictured him suddenly in her apartment, wide-eyed with unspeakable foreboding as she twisted, shot, fell. She'd just wanted to move, to be off Krycek, far away.

"Time to go," Mulder was saying. His voice was soothing. "You've been asleep since D.C."

She blinked and focused on him. He was real, large as life and close, a familiar line of concern creasing his forehead, the dip in the middle of his upper lip reaching slightly downward, the way it did when he was tentative. They were running, gone. They’d left everything behind.

She swallowed and shifted, sliding her legs down to the floor. They ached; one foot was asleep. She blinked against the thickness in her head.

Mulder nodded to her and started to stand. The crowd in the aisle had begun to thin. New York. It must be New York. They'd get off here. She was Annie now and he was Ben; they'd have to be to stay safe, to protect themselves.

Mulder reached up into the overhead rack and took down their bags. Hers was green. It was just a canvas sports bag, not one she'd ever thought to use for travel.

Mulder waited for the passersby and stepped out into the aisle, leaving her space. She took hold of the green handle and hefted the weight of the bag. Her eyes followed the striped pattern on the floor mat as they moved slowly forward. Mulder was close behind; she could feel him there.

Up the aisle, down the stairs, out into tepid night air. She shivered and looked up into the bright clamor of the station. She was Annie now. Annie from Nowhere in New York.

 

 

The hazy form in front of Krycek slowly resolved itself into the old man. He was sitting in a chair beside the bed. White walls, white ceiling. White sheets and door. Krycek tried to move but nothing happened.

"Welcome back, Alex," the old man said.

His voice was distant, softer than usual. There was pain somewhere in the murky distance, like a storm that had passed. His mouth was dry. He blinked and then had to work to make his eyes open again. He let them inch carefully over the room, tentative, like an unsteady old man taking slow, deliberate steps. He tilted his head slightly and the room began to tilt. He quickly closed his eyes. Nausea sat waiting, poised.

"It's nearly two," the old man's voice came again, still soft, almost comforting. "You spent three hours in surgery."

Krycek opened his eyes; the window beyond the chair was black, vacant. The old man reached unthinking for his pocket, paused, and settled his hand back on his leg.

"They say you're doing fine, now, though. You'll be as good as new."

There was an uncharacteristic soothing tone to the old man's voice, as if he were talking to a small boy who'd just had his tonsils pulled. He should say something, make some acknowledgement, but his mouth was too dry. He couldn't nod--not without the risk of throwing up.

Pressure came against his hand--the old man. He was close now.

"Do you need anything, Alex?"

"Water--" He could only mouth the word.

The old man turned and reached for a pitcher on the bedside table. Krycek watched him slowly pour water into a glass and put a straw in it. Every muscle inside him tightened; the old man was like a smiling poison. The hand came forward; a finger tilted the straw to his mouth. Krycek willed himself to take the straw and drink. Cold, clear water filled his mouth. He swallowed and let his eyes close. The glass was taken away.

He could hear the old man rise from his chair.

"I'll let you rest now," he said. His voice was still soft, clear, devoid of its usual smug superiority, the calculating iciness. Krycek listened until the old man's footsteps had left the room and echoed into the foggy distance of the hallway.

The old man had seemed as if he actually cared. Maybe it was his own hearing. Maybe it was the painkillers.

The hard knot in his stomach loosened just a little.

In the darkness of his mind he could see Mulder again, peering down at him as he lay on Scully's floor, runaway emotions jostling for dominance: betrayal, recognition, confusion. Mulder’s personal Darth Vader moment: "Luke, I am your brother."

She had to have told him. It was too much to hold. She must have told him something.

 

 

Teena Mulder woke to a stripe of moonlight across her bed. The room was too warm. She got up and opened the window slightly and stood a moment, letting the cool air stream in against her nightgown. Blackness filled the space beyond the glass. The emptiness, the vast opacity of it seemed appropriate. Alex had had his moment with her. He wasn't likely to come again--not if he knew Leland as well as he seemed to. Emotional attachments were handles Leland used to manipulate people; he would surely turn any Alex had against him. But he had no reason to return. He'd been scared, reluctant. He'd only needed his question answered.

Fox was another matter. Fox had spent his life coming to her. But that would stop now; surely it would. The letter she'd sent would answer all the questions he'd ever wondered about, and beyond that it would break him... or break him from her. It was a terrible choice, to finally give to him by offering what could only break him. But the alternative was worse: Fox not having the information that might save him in the end. Still, there was no way to forgive what she’d had to tell him. To finally come close, she’d had to give him what would separate them forever.

Teena found herself studying the window ledge, one finger smoothing along the curved surface. She looked up. Pale fog was beginning to swirl across the sky. Through the thin wisps two stars were visible, one brighter--closer--the other smaller and obviously farther away. Both were light-years from where she stood.

 

 

Mulder watched Scully poke a fork absently into the yoke of an egg. She'd eaten most of the egg, managed to get down a small glass of orange juice and half a piece of wheat toast but that was about it. Byers had said she'd only eaten a muffin while she was with him--nearly five hours--and who knew whether she'd had any breakfast before that? She seemed listless, but it was a natural defense, a drowsiness to calm the trauma of what had happened--Krycek, their sudden flight, the uncertainty of having her life upended, ripped away. He watched the bandage on her throat move and the images flooded in again unbidden, the knife against her neck, the sudden wildness--wildness immediately suppressed by strong will--in her eyes when Krycek...

He set his jaw and made himself focus on the bits of scattered food left on his plate. There was still an empty place--a nagging place--in his stomach that the meal hadn't filled. He'd slept ten minutes of the whole four-and-a-half hour trip from D.C. and he was running on pure adrenaline now. He could feel the buzzing inside him, the fatigue. He pushed the last of his hash browns onto the fork with the end of a piece of toast and put them in his mouth. Scully looked up; he caught her eye.

"Ready?" he said, swallowing the last of what was in his mouth.

She nodded without speaking, slid to the end of the booth and stood up. He could see it in her face, in her eyes: she was fighting to stay alert, to be her own person. If only he knew what she was going through, what was happening inside her head, he could figure out something to say, some way to help.

He stood, followed her to the cash register and paid. If it were six hours later he could rent a car and get them both out of here right away, give her some place to stretch, to rest.

Rest. He glanced at the clock on the wall behind the cash register: Two a.m. He pictured his little green room--the one he'd never even had a chance to sleep in--with the ivy around the window, the light subdued. Peaceful. Quiet. He just wanted to shut his eyes. But another bus was their only option right now… if either of them could face one.

The hand behind the cash register was holding out his change. He took it and shoved it into his pocket. He looked beside him: no Scully. Panic surged through him and he spun around.

She'd wandered out the door and into the terminal beyond. He hurried to catch up.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"Out. Away from the light."

"This is New York, Sc..." He caught himself. So many years of saying it, as a natural bookend to talking to her. "I think we need to decide where we're headed."

She turned abruptly. Her bag dropped to the floor.

"You got us here." Her eyes were wet, brimming with pain. It was last night all over again. She wiped at one of her eyes.

"I know. I know."

"Well, figure it out, Mulder."

Adrenaline flooded him. He gave her a look, a 'cut the goddamn names' look, but she wasn't persuaded. Half an hour he'd sat in the car at the airport, holding her. Half an hour she'd cried, letting out the accumulation of what had been building inside her over the last six years. Maybe longer than six years. Maybe from before she'd even met him.

"I can't do this, Mulder. I can't run for the rest of my life..."

“Shh!” He was flushed suddenly, hot. "Annie--"

People were starting to watch.

"I can't play this game. I won't." Her voice was shrill.

His pulse quickened. He tried catching her eye, the way she'd caught his in the apartment, but she deliberately looked away.

"Annie, please--" Scully. Please.

"What choices do I have?" Straight up the scale. They were staring now, people dropping their bags and turning to look. "Tell me what my options are, Mulder. I don't have any, do I?"

He was dead tired; she was tired. He just wanted to close his eyes. They'd both been pushed beyond the limit and he didn't need this; she wasn't thinking.

She wasn't. She was way past thinking.

He took a step toward her, buzzing inside as if the eyes on him were making him itch.

"Let me help..." Annie. Scully.

Don't run.

She had those wild eyes--terror eyes--like a cornered rabbit looking for the quickest way around your legs.

One more step. One hand out, slow, steady, heart thumping. It was hard to breathe. "Please--"

She flinched again at the sound of his voice, at his approach.

Don't.

Hold on.

Scully.

He touched her shoulder, got a flash of angry eyes in return, gathered her carefully in against him, smooth continuous motion, like a hook shot--they were watching--the other arm around her, back through her hair, cradling her head, his cheek against her forehead. A whisper. "Scully."

Tension melted from several faces around them. She was quiet now, the stiffness going; she was turning soft and pliant. An arm went around his waist. People began to turn away.

He nudged her toward a bench a few steps away, pushed her bag there with his foot. Sat down. She was warm against him, shaking now, holding onto him. Last night all over again: her crying as if she'd never stop, him suffering the pain of witnessing this incredible, strong woman crumble. If Scully could fall, what hope was there for anyone? Then taking her home as if he were leading a frightened child. And then Krycek. She'd shaken afterward, unable to stop. He'd sat her on the bathroom counter to clean her up and she'd just sat there, dazed, letting him take over, eyes vacant, mind frozen.

He smoothed her hair back, pulled the flap of his shirt around her for comfort. Lover's quarrel: it's what they'd be thinking, the looky-loos. Lovers.

His eyes closed. He wanted to leave them that way, just sink into beckoning unconsciousness and forget about the world, but they needed a plan. He had to see his mother, had to talk to her. He couldn't.

He wasn't ready.

His pulse was still heavy--inside, hidden--still too fast, but the gawkers were gone now, their entertainment finally over. Scully was crying quietly, dampening a spot against the front of his shirt. He dipped his head until her hair brushed his lips. A kiss, or a kiss by default. His arms shook from fatigue.

He wasn't ready. But he had to go.

 

 

Wilkins held the receiver to his ear, waiting for the call to be answered, and looked around his friend's apartment in the dim light. Two a.m; he must be crazy.

Three rings. Four. Pickup. He smiled.

"Rita, it's Will. You have any trouble doing this?"

She'd gone to the next door neighbor's house--she was house-sitting and had the key--and he'd come here, to Marcus' place, so they 'd know their conversation was secure.

"I apologize for doing this so late--"

No problem, no need for apologies. It was like her.

"...No, I've just had something really disturbing go down here. I went by looking for Agent Scully and she wasn't home, but there were some suspicious-looking maintenance guys cleaning up a blood stain on the carpet in her bedroom..."

Empty air on the other end, then a typical Rita rebound.

"I got their license plate number when they left and I'll run it in the morning... No, ma'am, I didn't stick myself out like a sore thumb. Sometime when we've got a little spare time I'll tell you all about my philosophy of disguise..."

She was a great defender. She and Joan of Arc would have gotten along.

"...Yes, I am being careful, but it's you I'm worried about. No playing that hero stuff; you've got a little girl to raise and I can tell you from personal experience"--he bit his lip--"that nobody--no body--should have to grow up without the benefit of a mother...

"...No, I am not pontificating. I just want to make sure... Okay... okay."

Wilkins sighed and looked out into the blackness beyond the window.

"...No, ma'am, I would have loved to be able to talk to Skinner but they don't give out that kind of information at the Bureau, even to employees. It's like schools, I guess--the principal's number is always unlisted or all sorts of irate people would be calling him day and night... Seriously? You do?"

He sat forward quickly, pulled a pen from his pocket and reached for the envelope on the far side of Marcus's coffee table.

"...Well, it may not be a phone number or a street number, but it's the next best thing. Okay, shoot... skinnerws@, right?" He wrote it down. "...You bet it was."

She'd gotten it from her brother Dale.

"I sure hope Skinner's keeping up with his e-mail these days. Yeah, I will right away."

He laid the pen down on the table and sat back.

"...You saw Mulder Sunday?"

Mulder'd gone to her house. He must have known something was going to go down because he'd set her up with one of those free e-mail accounts that were all over the Net and had given her an addy where she could reach him. If she used a computer at the local library, their contact would be virtually untraceable. It was a good plan--great plan. It would help keep her safe.

The knot that had been sitting in his stomach for the past four hours began to dissolve a little. Surely Mulder would know what had happened to Scully. Wilkins leaned forward and reached for the envelope again.

"Okay, yours first... Got it, m-e-r-e... Capitals? No capitals... And Mulder's?"

He wrote on the envelope.

"Okay, I'm going to pick up one of those accounts myself and I'll get back to you. Yes, I'll let you know what I find out, and in the meantime... In the meantime, Mother Johnston, you take... yes, I am...

"...You take very good care of that little girl of yours." He smiled. "Yes, I will. I'll be in touch. Goodnight."

Wilkins set down the phone and stared at the envelope in front of him. It was a start. There were definite possibilities here but he was dog-tired and he had a life to get back to in another five hours. And Ralph was waiting in the car, patient as a saint.

He checked the inside of the envelope. It was only junk mail. He slipped the letter out and left it on the coffee table. Then he pulled a five-dollar bill from his wallet and set it under the edge of the phone. Fortunately Marcus was a sound sleeper, sound enough that he'd have no memory of his crazy friend waking him in the middle of the night to use the phone. He'd just walk out in the morning, see the five-dollar bill tucked under the phone, smile and pocket it without a second thought, as if the tooth fairy had dropped by and been in a generous mood.

Wilkins stood and stretched and went to the door. He let himself out quietly and headed for his car and Ralph.

 

 

The old man locked the door behind him and stared into his darkened apartment. It was late--too late for television. At any rate, it was too petty now. Trivial. It was always trivial, but tonight... It had been one of those occasions that reminded a man he wasn't in control, that his plan--whatever it was, no matter how carefully conceived--was a game played on a paper-thin board, and that at any time, without warning, the fragile paper might tear and the pieces be instantly and irretrievably lost.

They had almost lost Alex.

The wound was clean--a wound Scully, who had shot him, would have surmised he would recover from. In surgery, though, things had shown themselves to be more complicated. Evidently Alex had eaten not long before going to Scully's apartment, and partially digested food could prove a perilous complication to abdominal surgery. For a time Alex was hanging on by only the thinnest thread, and then... It was unclear. Something had turned around, a fortuitous intersection of skill and small circumstances, and he was safe again. But still, it had been sobering to look down into the abyss. The solemnity of it continued to cling to him.

The old man walked through the shadowed room without benefit of lights and passed into a small kitchen. He reached for the switch on the stove hood and turned it, bathing the kitchen in the weak yellow light of a low-watt bulb. He searched his pocket until his fingers found a crumpled pack of Morleys. He pulled one out of the package, lit it, took a long drag, and rested his hand against the counter. His fingers shook slightly.

He'd been there, in the room. He'd heard the panic in the doctors' voices, watched Alex's face, pale and still, as if he were already beyond recall. He'd had to leave. He'd never left a surgery before; the sight of blood and entrails didn't shake him.

He took another long drag on the cigarette and snuffed it out in the sink. Smoke curled lazily upward. For some reason what he remembered was Alex's hand, fallen out from the sheets and suspended palm up, as if pleading for help. He could see it still.

The old man swallowed against a sudden dryness in his throat, poured himself a glass of water and drank it down. He reached for the light switch.

Darkness enveloped the room. The old man turned and moved off toward the bedroom.

 

 

Scully settled into the vinyl seat of the taxi and heard the door close beside her. A moment later the door on the far side opened and Mulder got in.

"Greenwich," he said to the driver. "And if I fall asleep, wake me up when we get into town so I can direct you."

He settled in and let his head drop against the seat back. He turned to look at her.

"Get some sleep, Mulder," she said.

"I don't know if I can."

He was in knots inside.

"Even if it's only a few minutes, Mulder. Even a few minutes will do you good."

He paused, nodded at her and closed his eyes.

She settled herself on her half of the seat and watched lights blur past the darkened window. It had been her idea. Why not just take a taxi? she'd said when the drawn, worn look on his face had jolted her into sudden clarity. It wasn't far and she had some extra cash with her, money she kept in a drawer and had remembered--somehow--to take when she was packing. It would let them relax a little and avoid another bus. He'd looked at her unconvinced at first but finally acquiesced, too tired or too unwilling to argue.

He'd barely slept on the trip to New York. The night before he'd gotten less than five hours on her couch and the night before that, nothing. For weeks, in fact, he'd been running, barely sleeping, trying to ride out one emotional tidal wave or another--his dismissal, the fire that had destroyed the Quonochotaug house, having to move out of his apartment, the fruitless day spent trying to get the Directors to look at his videotape with its evidence that would expose Cancer Man and his influence within the Bureau.

The letter from his mother with all its terrible admissions.

Scully glanced over. He wasn't asleep, though his eyes were closed.

She leaned back against the seat and watched his face in the slow strobe of passing street lights. His jaw was set, his cheeks and chin shadowed with stubble.

"Mulder--" she started.

He didn't move, didn't open his eyes.

She hesitated, then reached out and covered his hand with her own.

 

 

(Scully)

The growth of human relationships tends, in general, to follow a predictable pattern, one that might be compared to a road that passes over a bridge and continues on the other side. Generally when a man and a woman walk this road together, the stretch before the bridge is analogous to the process of becoming acquainted, the bridge over the chasm represents a commitment of sorts, a sharing, a union--physical or otherwise--and the continuing road on the far side a shared path born from the commitment made in crossing over the chasm, or from deeper understanding found on the bridge. It's a sequential path, road leading to bridge leading to road beyond. Sometimes the pact made in crossing is ephemeral, not lasting far beyond the bridge itself.

Mulder and I are anomalous in this scenario. We walk the road beyond the bridge without ever having crossed it. Almost from the beginning we have had occasion to see each other at our most unattractive, our most desperate, our most emotionally naked, and yet without the use of words as symbol or substance, without the offering of bodies, we have become in some very essential way fused, each of us having promised ourselves to stand by and support the other in time of need. Sometimes that very act of reaching out, of protection or support, has been our personal salvation. My foolish action in the square tonight, or perhaps Mulder's response to it, jolted me from a hazy emotional paralysis I'd been unable to escape for more than a day.

It has been said that strength comes to us when we need it, part and parcel of the task to be accomplished. I hold onto that hope now, for I sense the dread Mulder feels regarding this meeting he believes he must have with his mother, the results of which could strengthen him or leave him utterly broken.

 

 

"Mom..."

Teena Mulder stirred in the warm blackness. She could feel his closeness, then the hand--cool but soft--that went against her arm.

"Mom."

It was him.

She rolled suddenly. Tension flooded her.

"Fox?"

"Mom?"

She blinked. She could see his silhouette now, dark beside the bed.

"Fox, is that you?"

"Yeah, Mom..."

She swallowed, hesitated. Her heart pounded.

"Mom..."

He was waiting. Waiting for her to make the first move. She reached out, felt the sleeve of his shirt--it was cold--and let her hand close around it. His other hand covered hers. The silence throbbed to the rhythm of her pulse.

His breathing came quiet and close beside her, shallow, the breathing of nervousness, of waiting for something to happen. She could feel the small warmth of his breath. He was reading her, too, stretching for connection.

"Mom, he's after us--"

Her eyes widened. "After who?"

"My partner and I. She's here, too."

His voice turned away. She squinted into the darkness and saw a silhouette in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

"We've been traveling all night, Mom. We're going to have to keep going, but I need to talk to you... Not now. In the morning. I just wanted you to know we were here."

"The guest room..."

"Scully'll take the guest room. I'll sleep on the couch."

"But Fox, you'll never fit--"

"I'll take the couch, Mulder. I'm a lot smaller than you are."

His partner's voice was tired, dry. All night they'd been traveling and it was--she looked at the clock-a quarter after three.

Teena pushed up on one elbow. "Fox, there's the fold-away bed in the garage. Let me help you get settled."

"No, Mom, we'll be okay. It's better if we don't turn any lights on, or do anything to make it seem like anyone else is here." He paused. "I... I don't think he's followed us, but we need to be careful."

"Alright. You know where the spare blankets are, in the closet?"

"Yeah..."

She could feel the radiated warmth of his nearness. She reached up and smoothed his cheek with her hand. He hesitated a moment, then his head came closer and went against her neck. An ache swelled to fill her. She put her arm around him. His breathing was hot against her.

"Fox, I'm so sorry..."

He breathed against her, warm and steady. His body, tense at first, eased a little. He leaned against her shoulder. A long sigh came out of him, breath and tension.

"Fox, I..."

His head came up. A finger went against her lips.

"It'll be alright, Mom. We'll be alright."

His lips brushed her cheek and then he was up, standing.

"See you in the morning," he whispered.

She watched him go to the door, pause, put his hand on his partner's shoulder and turn her toward the hallway. Their footsteps were soft on the carpet, fading. The closet opened and closed, muffled voices spoke, and finally there was silence.

Teena Mulder lay wide awake in the dark.

 

 

Mulder busied himself with mindless work, with making a bed for Scully on the couch. He was past thinking; everything was warm darkness and shadow: the softness of blankets, the clean pungency of sheets dried outdoors, the braille texture of jacquard upholstery under his fingertips. The mantel clock dropped a muted rhythm into the quiet.

He sat down on the finished bed to wait. His eyes closed involuntarily and he leaned forward to rest his head in his hands. He was running on empty, nothing more than fumes now. It had gone as well as could be hoped. It was too late and he couldn't think about it; it was too much. His arms were shaking.

The bathroom door opened. A moment later Scully was in the room, feeling her way around the back of the couch. He stood. He just wanted to lie down.

"You doing okay?" he said.

"I'm okay, Mulder." A pause. "What about you?"

He nodded into the darkness. "Yeah," he said. The word came out dry and he had to repeat it.

He reached out, brushed a hand through her hair. "See you in the morning."

Then he was past her, moving around the couch, across the hall and into the spare room, the one he'd been in just two weeks ago in a scene from another life. He pushed back the bed covers, dropped his flannel shirt, peeled off his T-shirt. Tossed them in the corner. He could feel the pressure inside, a gradual, steady building. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he ned down and took off his shoes and socks. His eyes were closed, burning underneath; he undid the laces like a blind man. He was running on nothing now. There was nothing left.

He made himself straighten, then sank back into the softness of the bed. His muscles began to loosen. It was in his throat now. He made himself turn and roll and found the pillow. The room was too hot for blankets. His stomach was too warm against the flannel of the sheets but air moved across the skin of his back. It felt cool, good.

Behind his eyes he saw Scully in the plaza, her eyes flashing wet pain and desperation. He could feel the throaty vibration of the bus, smell the essence of stale diesel air. Smoky wouldn't check here. If he knew anything, Old Smoky'd know he and his mother had no relationship, no bond or tie, that this was the last place he'd look for sanctuary.

The pressure inside him continued to build. He could still feel his mother's hair against his face, the dryness of her skin, her breath warm in the small space between them. It had been okay. He couldn't have asked for anything more.

He stretched, felt his muscles flex up and down the length of him--feet, calves, stomach, shoulders, forearms--felt the blood flow. He folded his arms under his head. There were calls to be made in the morning but he couldn't think about it now.

Alex Krycek stared vacantly at him from a growing halo of blood on Scully's bedroom floor, pinning him with his gaze in spite of his body's shock, both of them caught inside the moment, neither able to move or look away.

Mulder forced his eyes open. He turned his head to the other side, toward the window. It was open slightly at the bottom, cool air drifting down. His eyes stung. The moisture in them began to condense and build. A trickle started at the corner of one eye, pooled near the bridge of his nose, cooled and ran. He let out a breath he'd been holding and let his lungs catch up. A hot streak of pain ran down the side of his neck and reached toward his shoulder. He swallowed and let his eyes fall shut.

Chapter 2

Tuesday

The girl walked carefully back to the bed and eased herself down, pausing to set the glass of water on the night stand. It had been happening less frequently, the nausea, and she was grateful.

She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes. It was early still; dawn was only a pale light on the eastern horizon. The pillow was flat, but he'd insisted on asking the man for an extra. So she'd be comfortable: he hadn't said so, but he was easy enough to read. He was a scared man, a hard man, but this was atonement for him in some way, something he owed himself or someone else--a spark of light in the middle of his overwhelming darkness. She'd been glad enough to accept the room he'd paid for. It was much nicer than the shelter she'd spent the night in after the money ran out, certainly better--safer--than the cardboard box she'd slept in the first night she'd come to Washington. The room gave her the gift of time, a week--five more days now--and then she'd need to know what she was doing, why she was here in Washington, what had drawn here to this place aside from the need to escape from Elleryville and everything it represented.

She eased herself onto her back and lay her hand over the small, quiet roundness of her belly. They said it would begin to move eventually, that she'd be able to feel it move inside her. It hadn't happened yet, though she could sense it there, a small candle flame waiting, building.

She hadn't seen the man again. He'd wanted nothing more than to do his penance, to toss his coin into the pot and move on.  It was a relief that he'd asked for nothing in return, the way people invariably did when they knew something about her. But something had gone wrong for him since he'd brought her here. He was hurt, injured in some way.  She'd known it since last night.

She knew his name. He'd neither told her nor had the man from the bar called him by any name, but it had come to her, the way things did. Her blessing or her curse.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: heron3@

The things you told me on Sunday have played out to be true--puzzling as well. Our mutual friend has apparently disappeared, leaving behind a blood stain on her carpet that was being cleaned--or erased--at the time I went to check on her. Needless to say, I'm very concerned. Please contact me with any information you have. I was given this mail address by meremaid. Awaiting your reply..

                                                                                                   -I. W.

 

 

To: skinnerws@

From: heron3@

Sir--The sudden change in my assignment has me concerned, but not as much as I am for what's happened to you, or to our mutual associate, who has apparently disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Please contact me ASAP.

                                                                                      - I.W.

 

 

To: meremaid@

From: heron3@

Just wanted to let you know you can now catch me at the above address. (The handle? Funny how that lake from my childhood still seems to have a hold on me.) Have mailed the others and am waiting to see what I hear from them. Keep your fingers crossed. Will let you know when I know anything.

                                                                                       -Will

 

 

He was lying on his back.

Everything was muffled, foggy; he couldn't see through the haze. The surface under him was hard. He struggled to move but his efforts gained him nothing. He could sense them--no, he could see them now, all around him, men and boys with only one arm, knotted sleeves dangling on the left sides of their coats. They were coming closer.

His breathing was slow, steady; he could hear it in his ears, as if the rhythm of his body surrounded him. His pulse quickened; they were coming closer. He was rising now, as out of deep water, the surface closer and closer, a rush of brightness and pain.

Alex Krycek opened one eye. Thin early morning light filtered through the window.

The recorder.

His stomach knotted. He swallowed against the dryness in his throat and tilted his head carefully. White walls, white ceiling. His side throbbed with a pulse of its own. Footsteps sounded in the hall.  A nurse passed by the door without looking in.

The recorder. The old man may have been concerned about him last night but he'd be focused on the recorder now, on finding out who'd placed it and paying them back for the inconvenience, the near-miss. It wouldn't take him long to go through the list of possibilities and when he ran out...

Somehow he'd have to find a patsy. But he was flat on his back, as helpless as he'd been by the fireside in Tunguska when they'd come to take his arm. It wouldn't take the old man long to do his checking--DOD, CIA, NSA, the Elders. He'd be thorough, relentless.

Krycek eased his head to the side, hoping to find the controls to the bed. No luck. Someone with two arms hadn't thought to put them on the side where he could use them. Or had purposely put them where he couldn't; they were always holding you back in these places, keeping you in bed until you were too groggy to stand, erring on the side that made it hard for you to get yourself going again. Just another element of the pampered American lifestyle.

He reached beside him for a second pillow and took a breath. He pulled up, grimacing against raw pain, forced it under his head and collapsed against the pillows, panting. It was better. Up a few inches. He'd get used to it. The water pitcher and a glass sat on the bedside table just out of reach.

The girl.

She'd been just a footnote but he could see her now, plain but pleasant, pale-skinned and... something.  There was nothing fake about her, no pretenses. This was--what?--Tuesday?  She had five days left--five days before the room money ran out. By then he'd be out of here.  He'd have to check with Gino and find out what had happened to her.  If she were smart, she'd have gotten herself together and left town by then. He'd call Gino... if the old man hadn't caught him by then and hung him out to dry.

It'd caught him by surprise, the offer spilling out of his mouth almost before he'd realized what he was doing: Alex Krycek, suddenly the new champion of downtrodden waifs. What was wrong with this picture?  But the streets weren't safe for kids like her, on the run and pregnant to boot.  Maybe the picture was just a little too close to home: girl carrying unplanned child.  Not exactly a way to start out ahead of the game.

Anyway, the room over the bar was the perfect place for her to catch her breath, plenty of people coming and going downstairs, enough activity so that the movement of any one person would never stand out.

If she were smart she'd take advantage, make her plans and move on.

 

 

When she stretched ,she smelled the air-dried sheets Mulder had used to make the bed and felt the sofa cushions move beneath her. The scent of coffee was beginning to drift in the air.

On the run.

They'd left D.C.  It was no dream.

Footsteps approached the couch. Scully opened her eyes.

"Good morning." Teena Mulder smiled tentatively.

Scully made herself smile back.

"Good morning."

"I... I don't mean to disturb you.  I'm going to be in the shower. I just wanted you to know there's coffee brewing in the kitchen and I've set out towels in the guest bathroom."

She was trying, making an effort.

"Thank you very much."

Teena glanced around the room and back to her.

"I hope you slept well."

"Yes... thank you. It was"--Scully smiled--"much better than last night... sleeping on the bus."

They were fugitives.

The chime on the mantel clock struck eight times; the sound echoed and disappeared and was replaced by silence. Scully swallowed and pushed up on one elbow.

"Mrs. Mulder, I don't mean to be rude, or disturb you, but do you think there's any chance the Smo...that  Leland--the man you call Leland--will look for us here?".

Alarm flashed through Teena's eyes and then was consciously put down. She paused before she spoke.

"Miss Scully..."

"It's Dana. Please call me Dana."

"Dana..." A pause. "You'll have to...excuse me if this is a bit difficult... all of this..." She glanced up toward the room where Mulder was sleeping and then back at her guest. "I'm very much out of practice; just... be patient, please."

"Certainly."

"Leland... If he knows anything, he knows there hasn't been any... relationship... no real... tie... or connection... between Fox and me for many years."

Scully felt her cheeks heat.

Teena shook her head. "It hasn't been Fox's fault."

"Mrs. Mulder..." Scully swallowed. "You don't need to explain yourself to me."

"Leland..." Teena sighed. "I believe this is the last place he would think to find Fox now. I was... completely shocked to find the two of you here last night, to think that Fox would actually come..." Her voice trailed off. She looked away, at the fireplace.

"He wanted to see you."

She nodded, still looking away.

"I just wanted to make sure..." Scully cleared her throat. "...that we weren't putting you in any danger. Mulder--Fox... when he needs to know something, when he feels he needs to know... that need sometimes overwhelms reason."

A smile of recognition passed Teena's face.

"Thank you," she said, "for being understanding."

She excused herself and disappeared into the hallway.

Scully lay back against the pillow and looked up at the ceiling. True to the state of mind indicated in her letter, she was making an effort. Understanding--reconciliation--was a process, though, not a single incident. Hopefully for Mulder's sake it would go well.

 

 

To: heron3@

From: skinnerws@

Your concern for my situation is misplaced. Watch your step if you want to salvage your career. I can't emphasize this enough. Don't compromise your possibilities, and with them, the possibilities of others who may depend on you.

                                                                                  -WS

 

 

The old man took the cigarette from his mouth and let out a stream of smoke.

“Yes.” he said into the phone. “Check every flight manifest, every rental agency.”

He hung up and took another drag on the Morley. Smoke spiraled lazily upward.

He'd been remiss in not starting this search last night, but he'd been too wrapped up in the accident then, in his concern for Alex. He wouldn't make the same mistake again, or underestimate Fox Mulder. He'd spared Mulder for years for Teena's sake, but he was a distinct liability now, too dangerous to leave to the whims of mercy.

 

 

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mulder pass through the corner of the room, headed for the kitchen, wearing only his jeans from the day before. His hair was wild. Scully looked up from her cup of coffee and the magazine in her lap.

" 'Morning," she offered.

He seemed not to notice. Her eyebrows went up slightly and she glanced back at the glossy page in her lap. The luxury of time to sit down and look at a magazine, especially a gardening magazine like this one, full of small backyards transformed into colorful oases... how long had it been?

"Scul..."

It was nearly a groan. Silence followed.

"Mulder?"

No answer.

She set aside her magazine and went into the kitchen.

"Mul--"

Her pulse quickened. He was sprawled on the floor, looking for all the world like the chalk drawing from a crime scene.  She knelt down and pressed two fingers against the side of his neck. He opened his eyes.

"Scul..." He struggled to focus. "Where...?"

"Lie still," she said gently.

He looked around, confused. "How did I get here?"

She eased him onto his back and felt his forehead. "Mulder, you're burning up."

"I know. I feel like shit. I was... I was coming out to get a glass of water..."  He grimaced as her hand passed his temple.

"You must have hit your head when you fell," she said, examining the area. "Not hard. Just a glancing blow."  She swallowed and looked up. If it was something serious...They could hardly afford to go anywhere, to be seen in a hospital or have records sent for. Nothing anyone could use to trace them.  "When did it start, Mulder? When you woke up?"

He shook his head. "Last night I think. Somewhere between New York and here..."

"Maybe it's just a simple flu," she said. "We'll have to watch you."

"Can I get up now?" He looked up, half-focused, at the ceiling. "I want to go back to bed."

"Here, sit up first..."  She helped him to a sitting position. "Now just take a minute, give yourself a minute..."  Her hand rested on his shoulder. It was too hot--smooth and baking from within.

"Fox?"

They looked up.

"What happened here?" Worry filled Teena's face.

"I... guess I passed out."

"He's got a fever." Scully said. "It may just be the flu." She turned back to Mulder. "Are you ready?"

Mulder nodded and got up carefully, Scully on one side, his mother on the other. They helped him back to the spare room and into bed. Teena excused herself and went for a damp washcloth and something to bring down the fever.  Mulder pushed the pillow farther under his head, grimaced and poked at it again.

"I've got things to do, Scully. How am I going to..." He looked up, at the ceiling. "I've got people I have to contact." His breathing was heavy; his skin flushed. Beads of sweat sat on his forehead.

"It's okay, Mulder. You need to take care of yourself first."

He bit his lip. "We need..." He sighed, looked at her--a long look--and shook his head. He let his eyes close.

"Get some rest, Mulder. That's the first step." She smoothed a hand back through his hair and watched the creases in his face slowly begin to loosen. He rolled onto his side, facing her.

"Can I have another blanket?" His eyes remained closed.

"Just a thin one. We need to make sure we get this fever down."

She reached for the blanket on the rocking chair and spread it over him. His expression seemed to ease again. His breathing was quieter; his eyelids began to relax.

"What about you, Scully? How are you doing?"  His hand came out from under the covers, searching, and settled hot against her arm.

"I'm okay, Mulder. I've got a patient to take care of."  

Half a smile passed her lips and she pressed his hand briefly. She looked up, through the window. The thick gray fog that had swirled so close to the house earlier had lifted into a pale, patchy cloud cover. The day was just beginning.

 

 

To: skinnerws@

From: heron3@

The role you wish to play is your call, but when I look for an associate and find only blood, I have to assume they've been seriously compromised. I've got to believe you're concerned about this situation, too. Not sure how secure your end of this communication is. Please advise me where/how we can meet without compromise.

 

 

"Sandy, what've you got, girl?"

"Nothin'." She folded the note and stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans. She looked up at her mother. "I got to get out of here; I can't take this sitting around." She looked around. "I guess I'll go for a walk."

"You sure you'll be alright?"

Sandy gave a sigh. "Well, if I take the last few days as any sign, probably not. But it don't matter." She shrugged. "If it's gonna happen, it's gonna happen anyway."

Her fingers reached for Rita's envelope next to the pile of junk mail and pulled it carefully behind her. She crumpled it with one hand until it was small enough to hide in her palm and stood up. "I'll be back later."

"When?"

Sandy gave her mother a look. "I don't live at home no more."

"Sandra Jo, you know we're just worried about you."

She nodded and looked down. "Couple of hours, I guess."

She pushed the screen door open, hesitated, then went down the stairs to the yard below. Roddy's fire truck lay overturned in the dirt. She could feel it--the pressure starting in her throat, the oversize ache in her heart. It was coming again but it didn't matter anymore; she was past shame and anyway, she was beginning to learn to ride it out. But not here. Not where her mother would be watching. She broke into a jog and made it to the first trees before the crying overtook her. She continued without slowing, arms aching for Roddy's smooth little body, legs on autopilot, going and going, instinctively darting around low spots and exposed tree roots, watching the passing scene through a blur of tears. When she got home again she'd pick up Roddy's truck. She'd bring it in the house and wash it off and rub it dry and put it up on the bookshelf.

A minute later she was at the creek's edge. The water moved smoothly, glossily over the little rock dam and spilled down the other side. It was only three feet high, the dam, but it created the perfect place to swim--shaded, undisturbed, peaceful. Sandy sat down on her rock and closed her eyes. She leaned forward and hugged herself hard and pretended her arms were Cy's arms. She'd wanted to ever since it had happened and yet she couldn't before. Cy had shot Roddy and himself and ended her world; she could never want that kind of touch around her.

But the letter she'd gotten in the morning's mail had said otherwise. It was full of promise and foreboding. Reluctantly she opened her eyes, loosened her grasp on herself and reached into her pocket for the note. It said:

Dear Sandra Miller,

I would like to express my sincerest sympathies on the loss of your husband and young boy. Although you and I have always seemed to find ourselves on opposite sides of the fence because of the longstanding disagreement between my son and your husband, I know too well what it means to lose your only child. My thoughts and prayers are with you.

It has come to my attention that what happened to your husband and boy was probably not done by his own hand. I mean no disrespect, and I know your people and Cy's are likely not disposed to believe me, but if you are willing, I would like the chance to talk to you about this. If it were me, I know I would take comfort in knowing his innocence.

May the Lord's arms circle you and hold you up.

Yours very sincerely,

              Rita Johnston

 

 

“How long till I can get out of here?”

Krycek's eyes moved methodically from one hook to the next along the top of the privacy curtain. The pain was building again; he had to work to keep it out of his voice, out of his breathing, but he wasn’t about to press that button while the old man was here.

“We have to be careful, Alex. Complications can be dangerous--risky.”

Krycek looked up at the ceiling. He bit the inside of his lip.  "You know I hate these places...."

"Yes." There was a moment's hesitation where the old man nearly reached for his pocket. "Yes, I know you do. But you have to be reasonable. We want to make sure you're alright--that it's safe."

The old man settled an appraising eye on Krycek and then stood.  "I'll go see if I can find your doctor."

Krycek watched him leave the room.

Safe. He wanted him safe to do his work, the way he'd want a pack animal in top condition. Or a woman he'd keep to produce his offspring. Healthy meat on the hoof. Krycek's hand curled around the bed rail and gripped it. Blood pulsed steadily through his tightened fingers.

The old man hadn't said a word about the recorder. Or Mulder for that matter. Maybe he was holding something back to wait for a time when the information would have more strategic impact. He was flat on his back. How would he find a patsy in time, before the old man got through with his checking?

Krycek let out a slow breath--measured breath--and blinked back the pooling moisture in his eyes. He looked up at the ceiling and wandered among the abstract patterns there, deliberate, determined to push the pain to the back of consciousness. The old man would be back soon enough.

Each time he woke he tried to think of some way to explain the recorder, someone he could pin it on who couldn't be traced, somebody whose motive would make sense, but every time he came up dry. He'd never come up dry before. It was the medication; his head still wasn't clear. He'd wake up and by the time he could think straight, the pain would be rising, jostling with reason, derailing it. He pictured himself suddenly an old man, wrinkled and lying helpless on a white hospital bed.

Krycek gripped the bed rail harder. He could count the pulsing now, deep inside his fingers, in his side, all around him. His stomach ached. It had been too long. Maybe the doctor was off-duty. He’d keep looking, the old man, until he found someone. He never gave up.

Just ten more seconds, fifteen.  He could wait that long.  His breathing was loud in his ears, ragged and harsh. The pain was rising up, swallowing him.

He grabbed for the button and pushed, then struggled to count the seconds--anything to keep from drowning in the hot, pulsing chaos. Sweat--he could feel the sweat--and then, gradually, coolness, distance. Time was suspended; he could breathe again. The haziness was approaching, thin and beckoning.

No. He could see the boy over him. A freeze-frame mask of terror haloed in brown curls, the boy stared at him, curious now, as if he were a beetle stuck on its back, flailing.

The door to the room closed, a distant sound, as if it were yards away. Footsteps approached and he could make out the old man looking down at him. He seemed concerned for a moment. He was talking, saying something. Three. Three or four.

The old man was hazier and hazier, but his face seemed to come closer. There was a touch he could barely feel, the old man's thumb wiping something from the corner of his eye.

Krycek swallowed and slipped away, suspended in a web of whiteness.

 

 

Teena Mulder looked down at her sleeping son. The covers were pulled up high around his neck, his face flushed with the heat of the fever. She wanted to reach down, to pass a hand through his hair or smooth over his cheek, to reassure him, or herself. Her hand reached halfway and stopped. It would only disturb him. He'd been disturbed enough already.

Teena turned slowly and left the room. She could see Dana sitting on the sofa, looking for something in her travel bag. She seemed listless except for the times when she went to check on Fox. But it was understandable. Teena took a few steps into the living room.

"Dana..."

Scully turned and looked up. Teena came around and sat in the wing chair opposite the sofa.

"If there's anything you need, anything that will make this time go more... pleasantly..."

"No, I'm alright, Mrs. Mulder. Thank you."

"Please, call me Teena. I... I know what it's like to be staying in someone else's home. I spent a week at my sister's recently and I know how ungrounded you can feel, despite your hostess's best efforts."

She smiled and Scully smiled in return.

"If you need anything, please don't hesitate..."

"Thank you. Thank you for letting us stay here. I know it means a lot to..." Scully shook her head, glanced down momentarily and back up again. "He's never let me call him Fox. After all this time I don't think I could say it.  But I know it means a lot to him."

Teena nodded and fought the urge to look away. There was a picture in Dana's hand.

"She's a beautiful little girl," Teena offered.

"...Thank you."

"Is she yours?"

Scully hesitated, then nodded again.

"I never knew..." She paused. "How old is she?"

Scully swallowed.

Teena flushed.  Somehow she'd said the wrong thing.

"Emily was... she was three and a half in this picture." Scully looked at her without focusing. "She passed away about a year and a half ago."

"...I'm so sorry." She had done the wrong thing, something unforgivable. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."

"You couldn't have known."

Dana's face was a sudden stark canvas of loss and emotion. She set the picture down beside her and got up quickly from the sofa.  "Excuse me," she murmured and hurried from the room.

Teena heard the bathroom door close and the lock button pop. She sat in the wing chair unable to move, one hand tight against the other. If she'd had a mirror, she wouldn't choose to look in it now. Once, when Fox was little, she'd been able to feel what mothers feel, to use that intuition to know what needed to be done, or said, to bring welcome or comfort. But the instinct had utterly gone, vanished with years of disuse.

The mantel clock dropped a single note into the silence.

 

 

To: heron3@

From: TinMan@

If I were to arrange to meet you somewhere, I would likely be followed. If you can come here unnoticed, meet me at my apartment at 2200 hours. Be discrete for your own sake. Address will follow in a separate mail. This is a new account and with precautions taken, should be untraceable.

                                                                                 WS

Walter Skinner read over the words on the screen tight-lipped. He paused, jabbed the 'enter' key to send and glanced at his watch. 1:15. The building engineer wouldn't be back until the half hour; barring anything unexpected he was safe for another few minutes. He walked to the maintenance office door, listened--nothing--and returned to the shadowed desk. The glowing screen confirmed that his mail had been sent. He leaned over the keyboard and typed again briefly. He clicked 'send' and went to the door, opening it carefully and looking out into the vacant hallway in the direction of his apartment. He pulled the door closed and returned to the computer.

Quickly he shut down the program, unhooked the phone line and reconnected it to the desk phone. He slipped the laptop back into his sports bag. Maybe he was a coward. Maybe he was a fool. Time would tell--whatever time he had left.

 

 

The girl stood at the edge of the park scanning for empty benches, then started forward toward a cluster of trees. The afternoon was hot--too hot, anyway, to sit comfortably in the sun. The benches under the trees were all occupied, but as she reached the second bench a man in a business suit stood and left. She sat down. She was hungry now. She opened her backpack and reached inside.

It had been a good day. There was part of a child's burger, another end of a burger--this one with a pickle and tomato slices--and half a fish sandwich. The old man combing the dumpster next to her had reached the fish sandwich first.  He’d taken it eagerly but then he’d looked over at her, paused, and handed her the bag with a little flourish, the small kindness of a man who had once had a daughter and not the barely-concealed gleam of the men who hoped they might buy her appreciation with their offerings.

She took out the child's burger and unwrapped it. It was plain, just meat and a bun with a swipe of sauce, but it would do for now. The fish sandwich she'd save for dinner.

The park was small, barely a square, paved and dotted with benches and trees. A statue presided from a pedestal in the center. She’d rather have been on the broad stairs beside the lake on the Mall, feeling the little bit of breeze that came off the water. She would have liked to see the man again, the one who’d lost his job, the one whose mind was in such turmoil, struggling with what to do. But he was gone, somewhere... far. And anyway, her instinct had led her here. It was close to the bar and she didn't feel like walking today.

The girl nibbled carefully at the meat patty, leaving the larger, unfilled part of the bun. She paused, peeled off a piece of the bread and tore it into little bits. When she had a palmful, she tossed them onto the ground. A small brown bird landed several feet away, hopped toward the offering, and was soon joined by several more birds. She smiled and tore off another piece of bun.

Maybe something would happen here. Maybe she'd discover why she’d come to Washington in the first place.

 

 

Mulder woke to his own heat. Every part of him ached. Gradually he opened one eye.

The room was bright with sunlight. He eased himself onto his back. Outside the window green leaves swayed lazily back and forth. He strained to hear through the silence but there was no sound.

Carefully he pulled himself to a sitting position. His stomach was sour, precarious. He stood, shaky.  He was cold, and if either of them walked in he was standing here in his underwear. But they'd both seen him in his underwear; it was no big deal. Not now, anyway. Making it to the bathroom and back without passing out--that was a big deal. He walked slowly toward the door and paused a moment to lean against the door frame. His mouth was thick and dry; he was baking from the inside.

From where he stood he could see Scully asleep on the couch. If she needed the rest then it was good she was getting it. He didn't see his mother, didn't hear any sound except the ticking of the mantel clock. It was after four, late afternoon.

He moved again, down the hallway slowly, like an old man, into the bathroom, bare feet hot across the cold tiles. He eased himself gingerly onto the toilet and rested his head in his hands.

Krycek had been here. He'd come looking for her but what had he wanted? Krycek had known: he'd seen the recognition in Krycek's face even as he lay in shock on Scully's floor. He knew she'd told him. And Krycek could figure easily enough that he and Scully would come here now; he'd understand how much he needed to talk to her.

He was shivering.

Mulder stood carefully and moved to the sink, watching his footsteps, monitoring his equilibrium. He looked up slowly into the mirror. Wild hair, pasty skin, eyes pinkish and half-squinting against the light; he looked like he'd been run over. Felt like it, too. The pressure in his stomach worsened and moved up into his throat. He leaned against the sink, head down, eyes closed. He was sweating, shaking.

The moment passed. He cupped his hands under the faucet and drank what he could, then wiped them on a towel, turned and went to the door with slow, careful steps. He paused in the doorway. He was tired already, worn out. There was a sound from somewhere outside, maybe the garage door closing. He moved down the hallway toward the bedroom, the mattress his only goal. He coughed once and paused to lean against the wall, then moved on.

Krycek could give them away. If he'd come here... He had come here. Here. For what? To look? To confront her? Had Smoky sent him?

A sudden flush of heat and sweat coated him.  He half-sat, half collapsed onto the bed. His cheek pressed against the pillow. His body was shivering, a subtle movement he couldn't seem to stop.

"Fox?"

His mother was in the doorway.

"Are you alright?"

She came in, came closer.

"I got up... for the bathroom, Mom. I just got back. Guess I ran out of gas."

She looked helpless, as if she wanted to reach out but couldn't.

He pulled his legs up onto the bed and fumbled for the covers. She came closer and spread the blankets over him, smoothing them up around him. He was shaking. He grasped the edges of the sheets with his fingers and pulled them up around his neck.

"Thanks." He looked up at her.

"Can I get you anything, Fox?"

He shook his head. "...Maybe some water."

She turned and started toward the door.

"Mom..."

She stopped.

"Mom, I have to know something. Why did he come here? Why did Kryc..." He forced his lips together and ground the word out. "... Alex... come here? What did he want?"

Her mouth had gone tight. Inside, he flinched.

She came closer, back to the bed. She stood there a moment, her expression gradually softening. The rocker was within arm's reach. She pulled it close to where he was, sat down and looked toward the middle of the bed.

"He wanted to know why.  He... I think he must have been wondering for a long, long time why I did it..." She sighed. "Why I went through with the pregnancy only to give him away."  She was looking out the window, light-years away in another place and time.  "He just..." Her hands went up. "...appeared on the front porch. I went to answer it and there he was. He was so... intense. He wanted to see me, to talk... I think he wanted to see who I was, to see who would give away a baby..."

"Did he threaten you?" He pushed up on one elbow. Cold air surrounded him. "Did he hurt you in any way?"

"He was already hurt when he came here, Fox. I think that's why he came..."

His mouth tightened.  "He kills people for a living, Mom. He killed my father." His voice was harsh and raspy; it made his head ache. "Ask Scully about his handiwork in Kentucky last week. Ask her about the little boy."

He lay back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. His pulse was loud, churning. He turned to look at her. She was shaking. Shaken.

"Mom..."  He reached out a hot hand and touched her knee.  "Mom, I... Cheap shot. Sorry... I just..." He stared back at the ceiling. "There've been so many times, so many incidents."

He turned and pulled his arm back into the warmth of the blankets. He ached all over.

"It's not your fault, Fox.--the things that have happened to you... between you." She wiped under one eyes with a tissue she took from her pocket. "It's taken many years to weave this... tangled web."

He swallowed. His eyes wanted to close. He wondered how long Scully'd been sleeping.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" He felt three again, small and insignificant.

"I... I couldn't see past myself to... what I was doing to you, until Alex..."

Mulder closed his eyes. He breathed in and held the breath until his lungs ached, his ribs ached.

"Will he give us away, Mom? Do you think he'll tell Smoky?"

"No."

He looked at her. His jaw ached from holding it tight.

"He was scared, Fox. He was like... a hunted thing. If I know anything--anything at all--he would never tell Leland.  He would never give him that advantage, that potential to use against him."

Mulder closed his eyes.  There was silence, then more silence, and then he heard his mother get up. The rocking chair was being moved back to its usual position. Her footsteps went toward the door and then hesitated.

"Fox..."

"Mmm..."

She was coming closer again.

"Fox, I think I did something terrible."

He waited, eyes closed.

"Dana--she had a picture of her daughter. I said something... I didn't know..."

Mulder opened his eyes and read the pain in her face. He pushed back from the edge of the bed and motioned for her to sit. She sat down carefully. Seconds passed.

He took a breath.  "She's made my life..."  He could feel his heartbeat, labored.

"...What, Fox?"

He closed his eyes.  "She's made my life..." They were hot.  He swallowed.

Empty, pulsing silence.  Her hand touched his shoulder.

"...I wanted to keep her safe, and..."

Breathe.

Her hand smoothed through his hair once, twice, gentle, and came to rest against his shoulder.  His eyelids tightened.

Breathe.

 

 

“...You found nothing?”

“We checked every passenger manifest, sir, from every airline.”

“From Dulles and National?”

“From both airports.”

"Baltimore?"

"Yes, sir."

The old man took the cigarette from his mouth and ground it out in the ashtray in front of him.  “And the rental agencies? Have you checked them all?”

“Every one. The information’s all in their database, sir. Once you’re in there you can check on every car they’ve rented anywhere in the country.”

The old man pulled another Morley from the package and put it to his lips.  “Then they must be traveling under assumed names. I’ll arrange to get you the security camera videos. I want them checked until we find our targets.”

“For the airports?”

“And the rental agencies.”

“...But, sir, that could take... days, it could take...”

“Get someone to help you, Mr. Colfax. You have people at your disposal. If you’re not. capable of completing this assignment...”

“No, I... I’ll get right on it, sir.”

“Good. Let me know as soon as you’ve found them.”

The old man hung up the phone and pulled a lighter from his pocket. He flipped it and watched the flame, the way it rose and danced. Then he leaned in slowly until the tip of the cigarette touched the flame.

 

 

The girl at the door looked younger than her nineteen years, her brown hair long and wavy, her cheeks rosy in spite of the nervous look on her face. She'd been running, or crying, or both.

"Miz Johnston?"

"Sandra?"

The girl nearly made a face but did a neat job of stifling it.  "It's just Sandy, ma'am. Nobody calls me Sandra but my mom."

"Well, come in, Sandy."

Rita held the door open and Sandy slipped past her. Rita led her into the living room, to the sofa.

"You must've got my message," Rita began, sitting down across from her guest. "I didn't think I'd see you so soon."

"Yes, ma'am. I guess I just..." She looked up, at the raised pine ceiling and back down again. "I guess I just needed to know about... what you said... in the letter. About Cy." She gripped one hand with the other.

"You might know," Rita began, settling back into her chair, " that the FBI had been looking into a matter at the plant when all this--this--happened. My son Andy had come down with some symptoms--lung troubles--and I'd watched my husband die from the same kind of thing. Bob worked 22 years at the plant. He wasn't the only one affected, either. He had friends at the plant who'd gone through something similar, though the plant doctor always said the cases weren't related. Bob went downhill slowly for quite a number of years. It's hard, you know"--she looked at Sandy--"to watch someone just waste away like that."

The girl nodded solemnly.

"And so when I saw it start happening to Andy, I just..." She stopped abruptly and looked down. She took a breath and closed her eyes. "''Scuse me, missy; I didn't intend..."

"It's okay, ma'am. I know what it's like."

Rita waited for the pressure to subside.  When she was sure her eyes were clear, she opened them. The girl was sitting forward in her chair, earnest.

"Yes, I suppose you do, don't you?" She smiled through her sadness. "I believe I've gotten sidetracked. What I meant to say was that the FBI was called in, and one of the agents who came to see me had a theory about what was going on here at the plant, and about your husband's... part in what happened."

The girl squirmed uneasily and looked away.

"It was his theory that there's something bigger going on here in Owensburg than meets the eye. Now I don't mean any disrespect by what I'm going to say here, Sandy, but his theory is that Andy's accident was no accident, that your husband ran him over on purpose..."

Sandy's lips twisted.

"...But that it wasn't his idea, that somehow somebody else had gotten him to do it, to get him out of the way so this investigation at the plant would stop. So I'd stop," she said. She paused and took a long, slow breath.

"But why would Cy do that?"

"I'm not saying he wanted to, missy, just that someone might have talked him into it some way.

"For what?"

"So that people would think it was just another part of the feud between them and never look any farther than that. And it worked pretty well, didn't it?"

"But I don't know why he'd do that. I know Cy's..." She shrugged. "You know how guys are. They want to be tough. They butt heads to see who comes out on top. I know Cy talked about your son.  But I don't think he ever really meant to do him no harm."

"I understand. It seems so silly, so... unworthy of a person's time, you know?... to keep on holding a grudge that way. It's not my way. Anyway, after the FBI medical examiner had gone back to Washington, I come home from church Sunday morning to find this fellow with the theory sitting on my doorstep. And he tells me that his former partner--the examiner--has been threatened by a man in Washington for working on this case, and that the Assistant Director who was in charge of it had been set up and involved in a criminal matter, all because they were looking into things here at the plant. Well, it sounded pretty far-fetched to me, like something off of a TV movie, but he's very serious, very... intense, this young man, and this is what he tells me. He says he thinks your husband was put up to running Andy down just like I told you, and that afterward somebody was sent to kill your husband so he couldn't ever tell what had happened. And he thinks he knows who might've done it. So off he goes to talk with the agents on the case, and he comes back right around supper time and says he had the agents show a picture of the man he thought had done it to your husband's friends, and that a couple of them remembered seeing this fellow that same day--the day it happened."

"Oh, my God."

"So it seems to make sense, what this man Ben is saying. He said the man who killed your husband and boy--who he believes did the killing--is an assassin who works for the man in Washington who's been doing all the threatening."

"Oh, my..." The girl covered her face and sobbed. "You know this is much better and it's so much worse. Oh, God..."

Rita watched the girl's shaking. Gradually it slowed and stopped. "You going to be okay, missy?" she said softly.

Sandy looked up. Her face was red. "Yeah," she said, nodding. "I'll make it some way, I guess. It's just... Oh, God. I mean it's... it's a comfort to know Cy didn't do that... didn't do that to Roddy. But someone just coming up to the car out of nowhere..." She closed her eyes. "How can people be like that?"

"I don't know, missy." Rita shook her head. "I honestly don't understand."

Sandy opened her eyes and wiped below one of them with the back of a hand. Rita leaned forward with a box of tissues.

"Thank you," she said, taking one and then another.

"It's quite alright, missy." She gave Sandy a knowing look. "I've been keeping them in every room, lately."

Sandy stopped in mid-wipe. She smiled momentarily. "Boy, do I know what you mean!" She shook her head. "Really and truly." She sighed, leaned back against the sofa cushions and shook her head. "Boy, life sure is strange."

Rita nodded. "It certainly seems to work out that way."

"So what happened? Are they going to look into that now?--that this other guy killed Cy and Roddy?"

"Not quite so easy, missy." Rita looked out into the garden again. "Yesterday, just like Ben said would happen, the FBI agents assigned to the case were sent home to Washington."

"So nothing's happening about all of this?" Sandy sat forward. Her mouth quivered.

"Nor the problem at the plant, either. Ben said it would happen. He seemed to want to get to the bottom of this himself. Set me up with an e-mail.  Do you know anything about computers?"

Sandy shook her head.

"Well, you can get this free mail thing, so you can send messages. He got me set up with an account, and I can go to the library anytime and check it, just like looking in a mailbox. But nobody can trace it like a phone call or a letter, which seems to be a smart precaution with everything that's been going on around here. So anyway, he said he'd stay in touch if he found out something that would help us here..." Her lips tightened.

"Oh, no. Something else happened, right?"

"Last night I had a phone call from the agent who'd been here--Agent Wilkins. He said Ben and the woman agent--the medical examiner, Annie Barrett, his partner--had both disappeared from Washington and he was afraid something had happened to Annie at least, if not both of them."

Sandy shook her head and wiped at the corner of her eye with the tissue she held.

"So where does that leave us?"

"Us?" Rita raised her eyebrows and attempted to look stern.

"Don't you just feel like you have to do something?"

Rita opened her mouth and stopped. She focused on her suddenly intense young guest.

"...Yes, I do," she said slowly. " I think you understand very much how I feel. But you can see what's happened already.  I'm just trying to keep a level head right now."

"Grammy?"

"She's the reason," Rita said, nodding toward the round-faced girl standing in the doorway. "She's my granddaughter. I don't want to go making her life any worse." She gestured to the girl. "Come here, sweetie."

The girl came to the edge of the sofa. She was a plump child, with pale skin and strawberry blonde hair.

"Bethy, this is Mrs. Miller..."

"Please, just Sandy." Sandy shook her head. "I'm no lady."

"...Sandy. She's come to visit us."

Bethy smiled shyly, then came closer to Sandy and sat down next to her on the couch.

"So as I was saying," Rita continued, "I'm waiting to hear from Will Wilkins. He's trying to find out what he can about Ben and Annie; they seem to hold the key to our being able to go forward here. If you'd like, I'll let you know when I hear something."

"Please, I'd like that."

"And in the meantime, there has to be some way to make this all right. I guess I've always believed that and now I seem to have run into a brick wall." Rita shook her head. "Shakes your faith in life... in everything."

Sandy nodded. The little girl rested her head against Sandy's arm. Sandy looked startled at first, then smiled at Bethy and put her arm around the girl's shoulder.

"Oh, I was meaning to ask," Rita said. "Do you have any... any source of income, now that...?"

Sandy nodded. "No, ma'am. I've gotta... I mean, I guess I'm going to have to find something... somehow. Or end up living back at my mother's." She sighed. "That's really hard to do--really hard--after you've been on your own, had your own place, your own..."

"...household?"

"Yeah." Her eyes were wet again. Bethy looked up, concerned. Sandy gave her a hug.

"I might know of something," Rita said. "Someone who might need some help. Let me check on it."

"Thank you. I'd really, really appreciate it. I..." She looked down. "I just can't see myself moving back home. Not after all this."

"Well, I'll check and let you know then."

"I wonder, you know," Sandy said. She sniffed and dabbed the ragged tissue at her face again. "It just struck me--what would Cy and your son think if they could see us here--like this--now?"

Rita was thoughtful.

"Maybe they'd learn something," she said quietly.

 

 

Scully paused at the doorway and peered into the darkness of the spare room. A streetlight spread a patch of dull light on the carpet. The room was warm--warm from closed windows and warm from the struggle Mulder's body was playing out against itself.  She took a careful step inside the room, then another and another until she was beside the bed. He was asleep, his breathing shallow, rapid. She bent down.

He rolled suddenly and groaned.

"Mulder..."  She reached toward him. Her hand was caught in a hot grasp.  "Mulder, it's me..."

He rolled toward her.  His hand burned her wrist. He opened his eyes and looked at her.

"Are you feeling any better?"

He paused, trying to clear his head, and grimaced. "No.--"

"I need to take your temperature again. It's been hours."

He let go of her hand. She reached for the thermometer on the bedside table, shook it, put it in his mouth and waited.  "Your mother went to bed early," she said.

"Mmm..."

"It's about 9:45. I couldn't sleep. I fell asleep this afternoon..." She looked out the window, to where the streetlight cast shadows across the yard. "I slept for three hours."

A hot finger brushed her forearm.

"I guess I needed it. But it's so strange... everything... like a dream, Mulder, no... no tether. I feel like a balloon floating with no tether...

"Mmm..."

She took the thermometer from his mouth and carried it to where the light from the streetlight spilled into the room.

"How am I doing?"

"The same," she said.

"Feels the same."

"At least it's not worse. You should take a couple more of these." She reached for the bottle on the nightstand.

She took the glass from the bedside table and went to the bathroom for fresh water.

It wasn't any better. But it wasn't worse. Cancer Man would check all the transportation records he could find going out of Washington. There were no records for bus tickets. But there would be security cameras in the terminal. They'd been... No. Frohike had pulled her aside while Mulder went in for the tickets. There were fewer cameras outside. They'd walked at first, when Mulder had returned. It had felt better to be moving, slow and steady. Then the bus had come.  It had boarded outside.

Scully turned off the faucet and carried the glass back to the bedroom.  She bent down next to the bed. Mulder propped himself up on one elbow. She held out two of the capsules.  Hot fingers picked them out of her hand, then reached for the glass unsteadily; together they guided it to his mouth, hot fingers over cool. Tipped it.

She heard him swallow, then swallow again. The glass came toward her and was relinquished. Mulder lay back against the pillow.

"We're spinning our wheels here, Scully."

"Can't be helped." She paused. "I think... I think your mother's making some progress. It's awkward but she's trying very hard to open up, to be welcoming."

"You think Krycek'll give us away?"

"No."

"That's what she said." His voice was dry.

"There's something... I've seen it in him, Mulder. At your apartment." She shook her head. "I don't think he will."

He sighed.  "I've got people to contact, Scully. Will you do something for me in the morning?"

"Of course."

"I've set up an e-mail account so I can contact the Gunmen, keep tabs on things. It's on the laptop but I don't want to send anything from here, anything that could compromise Mom. If you can get to the library, can you check it for me?"

"Yes."

She sat down on the floor and leaned back against the bed. Stars were visible through the darkened windows, winking from between wisps of swirling fog. He was quiet now, his breathing even. The carpet under her fingers was soft; it reminded her of the carpeting in her mother's room. Somewhere worlds away. Untouchable.

"Scully, have you ever thought about the fact that someday all of this will be gone, that the sun will have swelled up to engulf the earth and all this--everything we have here, everything that's been built up over centuries, over millenia--will have vanished with no marker, no evidence, not even a memory of it--as if it never was? And... and then why do we do it?--why do we keep on?  Why do we get up in the morning?"  His hand was near her head.

"I don't know, Mulder. I guess that if we... if we thought about it too much, we might... stop... getting out of bed in the morning." She reached up and took his fingers. "Would you stop, Mulder? Would you stop getting up in the morning?"

His head moved closer, to the edge of the mattress.

"No."

 

 

Walter Skinner took a sip from his glass and looked at the clock again. He pushed against the back of the recliner and let the foot rest come up. The lights were off but all the props of relaxation did no good. He might as well have been sitting in a dentist's chair.

He sat up again, stood and went to the window overlooking the balcony. City lights spread in patches to the horizon. He could end up someplace like Lompoc, out in the middle of nowhere, just minimum security fences and dry scrub chaparral on endless surrounding hills with blue sky overhead. And the occasional missile to rattle the barred windows, announcing the start of its twenty-minute trip to the Bikini Atoll. He grimaced and opened the sliding glass door. Muggy heat swept inside.

A knock came on the front door.  He strode toward it, setting his glass on the coffee table as he passed, and looked through the peep hole.

He turned the lock and opened the door.  "I don't recall advising you to come in costume," he said, scowling at his visitor.

Wilkins was wearing drab green coveralls. A wooden tool box was in his hand.

"There's a method to the apparent madness, sir," Wilkins said.

The corner of Skinner's mouth twitched and he nodded toward the interior of the apartment. Wilkins set the tool box next to the door and followed Skinner, who passed through the living and dining areas toward the balcony. He pushed opened the sliding door and stepped outside.

"I assume your note referred to Agent Scully," he said, pulling the door closed behind them. "I'm not entirely sure my apartment hasn't been bugged, but I think we're safe here." He sat down on a white patio chair and motioned for Wilkins to do the same.

"Mulder came to see me in Owensburg Sunday," Wilkins said. "He told me Scully'd been threatened by this smoking man, whoever he is, and that you'd run into trouble. Said we'd be pulled yesterday and shipped back here and he was right."

"And..."

"I went to check with Scully yesterday and she wasn't anywhere. So I did a little checking at headquarters.  She's applied for a six-weeks leave of absence. Were you aware of that?"

Skinner's mouth twisted. He shook his head.

"I just wanted to talk to her, compare notes." Wilkins said. "She wasn't answering her phone so I decided to drop by her apartment last night and"--his eyebrows went up--"that's when I found it."

"Found what?"

"A blood stain, sir. Nasty-looking. In the bedroom. Two cleaning service guys in unmarked coveralls were cleaning it up."

Skinner grimaced. He looked hard at his visitor.   "Agent Wilkins, are you aware that you've probably put yourself in grave danger just by showing up at Scully's apartment? Do you think the place wasn't being surveilled? Are you unaware of what's happened to everyone else who's been involved in this case?" His voice was rising.

"I know, sir. I took precautions."

"Precautions?"

Wilkins looked down at his coveralls. A patch over the breast pocket said 'Jamal'.  "It wasn't this one," he said, looking up. "I was the pizza delivery guy."

Skinner pursed his lips and waited.

"It's just a disguise thing I've developed, sir. Experience has taught me that I stand out about as much in some parts of this town as you would in inner city Detroit, sir, if you catch my drift.  And I've found that people's preconceptions strongly affect what they see... or at least, what they notice. So I've put those preconceptions to work for me. If I show up as the pizza delivery guy, the mechanic, the maintenance man, the janitor"--he nodded toward Skinner--"if I come as what people in this neighborhood expect me to be.. why then, they don't seem to notice me at all. I don't stand out." Wilkins held Skinner with his gaze. "I doubt, sir, that many people here are going to remember the maintenance man who came to your door just now. The fact is I just won't stand out in their minds."

The corner of Skinner's mouth creased. "Touché, Agent Wilkins."

Both men looked out into the night. The sound of horns honking drifted up from the street.

"I'm concerned about Scully, sir. Do you know what's happened to her? Apparently Mulder's left town, too. He moved out of his apartment three days ago."

"No, I don't know anything. I was... the plant was set up in my car late Saturday night. I've been on administrative leave; I haven't even been in to my office." He stared out toward the horizon.

"Scully saw the counselor, sir. Yesterday morning. Kosseff filed the leave petition on her behalf."

"I'd advise you to be careful, Agent. Putting your nose where it's not welcome is an excellent way to end your career."

"What would you have done, sir, if you'd been there? Would you have just let it go?"

Skinner shifted in his chair.

"Do you think they've gone somewhere together, sir?"

"I don't know. It's possible.  It's probable... unless something happened to her in her apartment." Skinner looked at Wilkins and then out into the night.

"Rita Johnston gave me an e-mail address for Mulder. I sent him a message early this morning, sir, but I haven't heard anything..."

"You pulled Rita Johnston into this?"

"She went to a neighbor's, sir. I called from a friend's house. If they've got either of us tapped, they didn't get to us. Besides..." He smiled. "She's the original guerilla granny. She knows how to be careful."

Skinner scowled. "I knew Mulder was out of his apartment. He came to see me outside the police station Saturday night. Said he was flying to Kentucky. He was looking for something on the Smoking Man. He thought all the pressure of the case was making the Smoking Man nervous, that he'd gotten sloppy with the Andy Johnston hit-and-run, that he was bound to trip up soon."

"And Mulder's stake in all this?"

"The Smoking Man's the reason Mulder was pushed out of the Bureau."

"For..."

"Mulder's looked into a lot of things over the years... stirred up a lot of mud in the stream bed."

"And he'd gotten too close to something?"

"That's what I figure." Skinner shook his head. "So what was this... blood stain... you saw in Scully's apartment?"

"Middle of the bedroom floor, sir. A good yard across by the time they'd gotten soap and water worked into it."

Skinner swallowed.

"Why would she have left town, sir? Mulder said she'd been warned to keep her nose out of the case. But why would she just up and leave like this? If she left... Do you know anything about the leave she requested, sir?"

"Agent Scully...Scully's been under a lot of pressure lately. I think a good part of it was Mulder's dismissal and her reassignment to Quantico. They've gotten to be very... close." He glanced at Wilkins. "Like soldiers under fire, they work off each other's strengths; they know how to anticipate one another." He shrugged. "Then as soon as she gets to Quantico I load her with these extra assignments--the first Johnston autopsy and then taking her along to Kentucky.  But I've never seen her complain or even contemplate asking for leave time. Quite the contrary. She prides herself on her sense of duty. This..." He shook his head. "This isn't like her."  Skinner leaned forward; his head dipped down.

"What about you, sir? Is there anything I can do to help you out?"

Skinner's head came up. "You can help yourself by staying out of my situation. Do you know who you're up against here, Agent Wilkins? I don't think you have any idea. These people act with impunity. They do whatever they want.  And they take out whoever gets in their way. Look what happened in Owensburg, Agent. Are you willing to have that happen to you?"

"People collaborated with Hitler for the same reason, sir--because they were scared shitless."

"Look, Agent, I thought I was doing the right thing by pushing this beryllium cover-up investigation in the first place. Rita Johnston is the sister of a man who once saved my life in Vietnam, and all I could see--all I could see coming out of this--was good. A chance to pay back my friend, a chance to help this woman who'd lost her husband and appeared to be losing her son... to help other people working in that plant who might otherwise become affected by this... disease." He turned to face Wilkins. "Now Andy Johnston is dead. Cyrus Miller and his two-year-old son are dead. I've been set up to where I can't do anyone any good, and Scully... I don't even want to begin to think about what might have happened to Agent Scully."

"So you're just not going to? You're going to leave it at that?"

Skinner stood abruptly.  "Agent, I don't think you have the right..."  He strode to the railing and gripped it hard.  The wrought iron pulsed under his hands. Below him car headlights traced a glowing, out-of-focus dotted line in the darkness.

"No, maybe I don't, sir," Wilkins' voice came quietly from behind him. "Maybe I'm just an uppity young agent who doesn't know his place. I just figured, sir, maybe you'd be willing to help me find a damn good agent you've shown a lot of respect for."

The chair scraped against cement as Wilkins got up.

"Thanks for your time, sir."

Footsteps crossed the patio and the glass door slid open.

"Wilkins..."

"Sir?"

"There are three guys, here in D. C.... friends of Mulder's, kind of... far out. They may know something."

 

 

To: meremaid@

From: heron3@

Went to see WS tonight. He's got a serious case of anti-Midas syndrome (everything he touches turns to muck.) He knew nothing about what has happened to Annie. I did manage to pull a few bits and pieces out of him, though, and will follow up. If you're a praying woman, Mother J, this would be a good time to be doing your thing. I'll be in touch.

                                                                                        -Will

 

Chapter 3

Wednesday

 

"Mom--"

Teena stirred in the darkness. The voice came again.

"Mom..."

A hot hand wrapped around her wrist. She opened her eyes.

"Fox--" She strained to see. "Fox, what's the matter?"

"She's gone, Mom. I got up just now... I looked on the couch... She's not here."

The voice was coming from beside her, below her. Teena rolled toward the edge of the bed. Her son was on his hands and knees.

"Fox, are you alright?"

"I just... I felt a little weak. Didn't want to fall again."

She sat up and put her feet over the edge of the bed. She reached toward him and rested a hand on his shoulder. His body was hot under her fingers.

"She's probably in the bathroom, Fox."

"I was in the bathroom, Mom..." His voice was dry and halting. "She'd not there."

His shoulder slipped from her grasp. He was lying on the floor.

"Fox--"

"I just need a minute, Mom, just...Will you look? Will you look for her... for me?" His breathing came in pained pauses.

"Yes, certainly. But come here. Lie on my bed."

He shook his head. "It's cooler down here, Mom. Just look... for her..."

Teena reached for her slippers and put them on. Tension filled her. "I'll be right back, Fox..." She could hear his breathing, loud behind her, as she left the room.

She checked the bathroom, Fox's room, the sewing room, the kitchen. She took hold of the back door handle. It turned readily in her hand, unlocked. She stepped outside. Thin fog hung over the back yard. Teena stopped and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The muffled sound of a foghorn sounded in the distance.

"Dana?" The air was pillowed, quiet.

Teena went toward the patio table in the shadows--nothing. The bench. The path to the garage. She swallowed as she stepped through the doorway. She could feel Alex here even now, lingering, an indefinable presence. Her breath caught and she stopped momentarily, one hand against the smooth paint of the door frame. Then she made her hand move, around the corner to the light switch. Sudden brightness made her squint. The car, stark in its whiteness. Boxes. Neat stacks of newspapers. Washer and drier. The foldaway bed. She swallowed. He'd seemed so anonymous, lying there nearly invisible under the old dusty blanket. The only other image her mind held of him--awake--was that last one from the kitchen, intense, exhausted and afraid.

She made herself reach for the switch and flipped it off.

Fox had been severely shaken; it had come through in his voice. Obviously it wasn't Dana's habit to go wandering around in the middle of the night... however much he might know of what she did in the middle of the night. They were close; it was easy to read in the small things, a kind of closeness she'd always craved but never found with Bill. Certainly not with Leland. But Fox had indeed found it. He was a relentless searcher when there was something he needed, or wanted.

Teena walked the last small section of path to the back gate and pulled the latch. She looked into the diffused light of the street lamp. Moisture particles danced in the dull glow. It wasn't likely she'd gone into the alley at night but Fox was worried. She stepped outside the gate and glanced at her watch. Nearly three. She recalled the look in Dana's eyes as she'd gotten up abruptly from the sofa, excusing herself, full to bursting with the sudden desperation of grief.

Teena started down the alley. Trash bins neat in their holders. Ivy reaching new tendrils out from fences. A climbing vine that had clawed its way through a crack in a stone wall and spilled purple blossoms like a frozen fountain. More trash bins. Hopefully none of the neighbors was up and looking out their back windows. Something low and dark.

She approached cautiously. There was a sound, muffled--crying. She bent into the shadows. Dana sat crouched against a fence, arms wrapped around her knees.

"Dana..." She could see her younger self.

Dana looked up at her, blankly at first, then understanding.

"Dana, it's late. Come back. Let me help you get settled."

She offered a hand. There was no response. Then a shadow of movement and a small, cold hand reached up to take hers. Teena helped her to stand.

"Dana, what is it? Is it your daughter? I know. I know what it's like, the way it feels. The way it catches you at the most unexpected of times." She put her arm around small shivering shoulders. "Fox is so worried. He got up and you were gone."

"I had a... a dream." She sounded distant. " I didn't want to wake anyone, I didn't want to burden..." She shrugged. "It was just a dream."

Teena stopped, held the younger woman's shoulders gently and looked into her.

"Dana, don't. Please don't. I know what it is to hold it all inside. It turns to poison in the end." She sighed. "My sister used to say something... I never used to believe her. I was a very foolish, very... stubborn person and she was patient, more patient than I deserved." She smiled. "It was so easy for her to be good, to do the right thing, not to... to fight everything, to fight life. She told me it's alright to lean. That when we lean, we're giving another person the opportunity to be strong." She smoothed a hand back through the younger woman's hair. "It's alright to lean, Dana. Take it from one who never would."

Dana's head came forward and touched her shoulder. It could be her own daughter. If her daughter were alive. If she were somewhere. Anywhere.

Fog particles swirled and dropped in the light of the streetlamp, lighting on Dana's hair, gleaming briefly and then going out. Dana's forehead was warm against her cheek.

She was standing in the alley in her nightgown.

 

 

"Fox?"

Two figures stood silhouetted in his doorway. He pushed up on one elbow.

"Mom?'

The figures came closer. There was a knot in his stomach, something beyond the sickness and the heat. "Scully?"

"She was in the alley, Fox. She'd had a dream."

"Scully--"

She came closer, ushered in--eased in--by his mother. He moved back to give her room and she sat down on the edge of the bed. He watched her in the street light's glow--looking down slightly, moistening her lips. Her mouth quivered, as if words were on the verge, waiting.

"Call if you need anything, Fox..."

The quilt from the rocking chair was let down around his partner.

"Thanks, Mom." His hand reached out for her but she'd already moved toward the door. He let his arm settle around Scully's waist. "What happened?"

"I was... I..."

His muscles ached. He eased himself back to the mattress, hot head resting on the quilt beside her leg. He watched her lips press together--the Scully small mouth of determination, but faltering now. She swallowed

"So many... things in my head, Mulder..."

"Emily?"

She nodded. "My mother. I don't know if she can take this again. Sooner or later she's going to find out, to hear... I need to get in touch with her, to let her know we're okay, before..."

"That's what e-mail for, Scully. We can contact the Gunmen in the morning. They'll get ahold of her." He paused. "They'll help her set up an account. She'll be able to access it from the library anytime, just like Rita Johnston." Another pause. "I'll bet Frohike has an old laptop gathering dust in a corner somewhere. If they thought she wasn't being tapped he'd probably give it to her just to impress you."

A smile flitted across her face and was gone.

"What else?"

"The dream. I..." She sighed and shook her head. "It was... it was only a dream."

"Scully, if it was just a dream you wouldn't have been wandering out in the alley like that. What was it?"

She sighed.

He waited. His mouth was dry, hot.

"I was in a hospital." She shivered. "It wasn't really a hospital, it was... in a warehouse, a showroom... some kind of industrial building. I was in a bed. I was feeling fine, but they... they were going to let me die, I could... I could hear them talking. I couldn't move, I couldn't get away."

"Was this any place you've actually been? Any place you remember?"

She shook her head.

"You sure?"

"No, it wasn't... It wasn't that."

He swallowed and tried to think past the pounding in his head. His thumb brushed slowly along her waist.

"Scully, you know..." He stopped and swallowed. "I'd do anything--anything at all--to help you..."

She nodded.

"...whatever you need. Sometimes... everybody needs help. Emily needed help. She let you give it to her. Scully, what if she'd pushed you away, told you it wasn't your burden, that she had to get through it on her own? It wasn't something she could get through on her own."

"I'm trying, Mulder." Her fingers sought him out. She was shaking. "I am. But I'm.afraid."

He pulled up, gritting his teeth against the broad band of pain that tightened against the front of his head. He sat cross-legged behind her, pulled the quilt up around her so as not to burn her with his heat and wrapped his arms around her. His head went against her shoulder. They moved gently with the beat of his pulse in the dark.

 

 

The girl opened her eyes and rolled toward the window. Thin, gray clouds spread across the horizon. The was a sound, a plink-plink-plink, barely audible. She got up and went to the window, then tugged on the stubborn wooden frame. She strained and strained until finally it came open. Cool, damp air poured in. She pushed the window up high. The sky held a yellowish tint, recasting trees and grass in vivid, living greens, and the air was filled with the acrid smell of first rain on dirt. She smiled at the wind blowing through her hair, billowing under her nightshirt. Something was going to happen. It would happen today.

 

 

"Still no trace of them?" He tapped the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and returned it to his mouth. "Check the security tapes again. All of them. Look for disguises--hats, atypical clothing--" He took a fierce drag on the Morley and forced the smoke out. His hand was shaking. "I don't care what it takes, Colfax. Just get it done."

He hung up the phone. His lips curled down.

Mulder had found another way. They wouldn't be found on any rental car or airline records.

 

 

Wilkins heard the sound of a lock being turned, then another and another. Then four more. He raised his eyebrows and waited.

The metal door came open a few inches and the balding head of a very short man showed between door and frame.

"Who sent you?"

Wilkins stood open-mouthed. The door promptly closed.

"Hey, now just a damn minute." Wilkins gave two sharp knocks on the door.

"Who sent you?" came the muffled voice from the other side of the door.

"This a timed quiz or something?" He waited. There was no reply. "Walter Skinner told me about you."

A lock turned once more, the door opened a crack and the receding hairline reappeared.

"I work for the Bureau. I had occasion to work with an Agent Scully on a case last week..."

The little man's face brightened.

"She seems to have disappeared. I found blood on the floor of her apartment. Skinner thought you might know something."

The little man looked hard at him. "Do you know Mulder?"

"I met him Sunday. He told me we were going to get reassigned off the case we were working, and we did."

"The beryllium exposure case outside Lexington?"

Wilkins frowned. Who were these guys that they knew Bureau business? After a pause and the door was opened wide enough to permit entry.

"Frohike," the short man said, offering his hand. "Come in. We have things to talk about."

Wilkins shook the offered hand and let Frohike lead him into what appeared to be a combination lab and bunker. Dim lighting revealed computers and electronic test equipment.

"Emergency session," Frohike announced. Obviously he wasn't here alone.

A conservatively-dressed man in a suit and neatly-trimmed beard appeared in a doorway, looked at Wilkins and nodded cautiously. A moment later another head--this one sporting a mane of wild yellow hair--appeared from another doorway. A toothbrush hung from the second man's mouth. Wilkins looked at the three of them. Skinner had said far out.

"He says there's blood on Scully's floor," Frohike said, casually waving a thumb toward Wilkins.

"Not any more. It was being cleaned up when I went to see her Monday night."

The neatly-dressed man frowned. "By whom?"

"Two cleaning guys. Coveralls, no ID. I watched 'em leave. They were picked up in an old station wagon. I ran the plate but I just came up with some Cuban guy, immigrant. Runs a cleaning service without reporting to the IRS as far as I can tell. Maybe a family operation."

"Convenient," Frohike said.

The neatly-dressed man looked concerned. "What's your connection to Agent Scully?" he asked.

"We were both working the Beeson-Lymon case. At least, my partner and I were. Scully was brought int to do some forensic work for us. I learned a lot watching her work, talking with her."

The neat man stepped forward and offered his hand. "John Byers," he said, and paused. "It wasn't Scully's blood. They left Monday night. We saw them off."

"They?"

Frohike looked askance at Wilkins.

"She and Mulder," Byers said.

"To where?"

"Are you kidding?" Frohike said. "They didn't even tell us."

"We haven't heard from them since," Byers added. "We're beginning to get concerned."

"I was given an e-mail address for Mulder. I tried it but I haven't heard anything, either," Wilkins said.

"Who gave it to you?" It was the wild-haired one.

"A woman in Kentucky. Mulder'd left it with her." He looked at each of them. "Apparently he thought something was in the wind."

"Or he was covering his bases, just in case."

"He's been doing a lot of that lately," Frohike said. "Ever since the Bureau gave him the boot." He looked at Byers who looked at Wilkins.

"I'm not sure we have anything further to tell you," Byers said. He nodded at Frohike. "Give him our e-mail addy."

Wilkins pulled a notepad from his pocket.

"Hey, don't write it down!" It was Yellow Hair.

"Somebody could trace it through you," Byers said. "Just commit it to memory."

Wilkins hesitated, then returned the notepad to his pocket. He shrugged. "Okay, lay it on me."

"It's Redwall," Frohike said.

"It's from a story," Yellow Hair explained. "Classic conspiracy."

Wilkins nodded. He was beginning to get the picture.

 

 

To: TinMan@

From: Vet24@

I hear by the grapevine that you've run into a bureaucratic ambush, also that you're wallowing. I imagine your addy speaks to that. Let us know of any way we can help, and don't give me any of that sacrificial crap. When you decided to try and save that kid outside My Tho, that was your decision, but my decision to try and save you was mine, not yours, as were the consequences. I haven't let them control my life and you shouldn't let them control yours. I imagine if that kid you were lying on top of had lived, he would have told you the same thing. Keep in touch.

                                                                                          -Dale

 

 

Teena paused in the hallway to look at the picture at the end of the row. It was the only less-than-formal portrait of the children displayed on the wall, though it, too, had been taken at a studio. In it, a nearly five-year-old Fox in a white shirt and pleated shorts sat with a not-quite-six-month-old Samantha in his lap. Fox was smiling, looking at his sister more than at the camera. Samantha was tilted to one side, oblivious of her precariousness, beaming as if she were in the most secure spot in the world.

"Teena--"

She turned. Dana was standing behind her, her eyes still sleepy, her cheeks colored.

"I wanted to thank you... for coming out last night, to look for me." She stopped to moisten her lips and made herself look up at her hostess. "I got a little confused. I lost track of which gate..." She looked down again. Silence hovered, waiting to take over.

Teena reached out and set a hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "I was just looking at this picture again," she said, her voice dry. "Funny how you stop noticing the things you've hung on the wall. For a long time I didn't hang this. I told myself it was too informal... but that wasn't it. It reminded me that Fox was closer to Samantha than I was. I've seen it before; some children seem to be born with a powerful caring for a younger sibling. Fox always had that strong connection to Samantha when she was little."

"He still does. He's never given up... looking for her, searching..."

"He cares that way about you, too, Dana."

She looked away. "I know."

 

 

The field was green, the grasses tall around him, soft beneath him where he lay. A tree rose overhead, a huge, twisted oak with thick, spreading branches that shaded them both. The girl sat near his head. She was pale, with pale blonde hair. On her head she wore a broad-brimmed straw hat. He didn't remember how he'd gotten here, or where the girl had come from, how he knew her, or why and how he could tell her this. He only knew there were no barriers.

"I'd been in-country maybe three weeks. Hadn't seen much action to speak of; I'd spent the first couple of weeks waiting with the 9th Army while the Saigon command got its paperwork together. We'd go out on patrols near the edge of the river and this one time we were ambushed, cut off from the rest of our patrol--five of us. We were surrounded. This one kid, Bronco... he thought he could get across this clearing to where he'd have a better shot, a better position. So he made a run for it, made it most of the way across... and then he was hit, he went down."

He tilted his head to look at the girl. She nodded, encouraging him. She seemed undisturbed by the topic. She wasn't old enough to know the meaning of war, but still, there was something about her.

He opened his mouth. He'd never been able to tell any of this to Sharon.

"We had to get to Bronco. The shots were... by then they were coming from just two positions. We figured two of us could keep them busy and I"--he looked up at her--"I'd go after Bronco."

"Was it your choice?" Her voice was soft, almost muffled.

He nodded.

"Why did you do it?"

"I don't know. Because I had to. Because it was the right thing to do. Because... I would have wanted somebody to go out there after me." He glanced at the girl again. The light above her haloed her face. "I didn't stop to see if he was moving, if he was still alive... And then my chance came and I ran like hell. I dived down on top of him, to shield his body... I got pinned down in the crossfire. I couldn't move. I had my head down, low as I could get it, pressing down to the ground, to safety..."

"Was he alive?"

"No, I don't think he was. There was no time to check, no... We didn't know until later, till the chopper came for Dale Lanier. He was... Dale came with the reinforcements. I was lying out there, my life flashing before me, bullets... were singing past me, hot, close... They'd whiz by and I'd feel Bronco jerk underneath me when they tore into him..."

"Did you wonder why you'd done it?"

"Then?"

She nodded.

He shook his head.

"There's no time to think. You only act, react... Your body takes over--survival."

He could feel himself waking, Sharon beside him, her arms and legs tangled with his, smooth and warm.

"And Dale Lanier?"

He glanced up at the girl. "He did what I did. He ran out there to save my sorry ass. He pulled me off Bronco... He had big hands, strong hands. Told me later he'd hooked hay bales half his life--big, awkward..." Mounded white clouds drifted slowly overhead. The girl's face looked down at him.

"He pulled me out, I was... dead weight. We were nearly to our line when the shot came, when Dale went down. He just dropped. Two guys ran out and pulled us in." He swallowed. "Dale's arm was shattered; even then it looked bad--really bad."

"And he lost it?"

"They had to take it off below the shoulder." He looked up. The clouds above him were streaked, running now.

"He did what you did," she said.

"If I hadn't gone out there, they might have left Bronco alone. I made him a target."

"He was dead, Walter."

He looked up at her, blinked. She wasn't Sharon. "If I'd left him alone, Dale Lanier would still have his arm."

"You said you would have wanted somebody to save you."

"I didn't check first. I missed that call."

"Every life, every day is in danger."

"Andy Johnston is dead. Cyrus Miller and his little boy are dead."

"Because of you?"

"I missed that call."

"Dale Lanier missed that call. Do you blame him?"

His eyes squeezed shut. Underneath, they were hot, burning. He could feel her hand close, passing over his forehead and eyes, her touch soothing, cool. He drifted. Her hand came again, soft against his cheek.

Skinner opened his eyes. He was in his recliner, in his own living room, face to one side, away from the midday brightness of the window, his cheek against the smooth leather of the chair. He sat up abruptly and lowered the foot rest. He leaned forward and paused, squinting into the hazy brightness, and rested his head in his hands.

 

 

To: heron3@

From: DaddyW@

I'm in one piece. Thank you for your concern; it means a lot at the moment. Ben has taken ill so we're in a holding pattern for a few days until he's strong enough to move on. Please elaborate about the stain cleaning. Will mail again as I am able. Don't stop taking those detailed notes.

                                                                                   -Annie

 

To: DaddyW@

From: Redwall@

Send us a word to let us know they haven't beaten you. Anything we can do to help, your wish is our command. How's Annie holding up? Viva la revolucion.

 

 

To: Redwall@

From: DaddyW@

It would be a great help if you could contact my mother and let her know I'm alright before she finds out about this unprepared. If you could help her open one of these e-mail accounts and show her how to use it I'd be very grateful. John F., thank you for the words and the walk. Ben has the flu and it will be a few days before we are able to move on. So far I believe we've not been traced. Thanks for all your help, without which our present path would be much more difficult.

                                                                                  -Annie

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: meremaid@

There is some concern going around about your safety. Hoping this finds you safe and well, and that you've taken the good doctor along with you. If you should ever need sanctuary, be assured you both have a place here.

I have a dilemma of sorts I would like to place before you. I spoke to the young widow the other day; I couldn't help but think she would be comforted to know that her husband was not to blame for what happened to their son. Now she is eager to get to the bottom of this situation and I get the feeling I've opened a hornet's nest and let the critters loose. I can put myself on the line for what I believe I have to do, but I am not nearly so comfortable with offering her up on the altar for sacrifice. As a man of convictions and action I thought you might have a thought or two on this.

Let me know if there is anything I can do to be of help.

                                                                                          -RJ

 

 

To: meremaid@

From: DaddyW@

For the present we are safe. I'll pass your message on to Ben. I know the sharp edge you speak of, the one that divides what you feel you must do from the actuality of pulling others into danger in order to accomplish your goal. At what point does your commitment to your goal violate your responsibility to those who work with you? I've found myself on both sides of this dilemma and the answers are never easy. My sympathy on the loss of your son; I haven't had the chance to speak with you directly since it happened.

Thank you for your generous offer of assistance. One of us will be in touch.

                                                                                          -Annie

 

 

"Fox, do you think she'll be alright?" Teena stood at the window, gazing out into the street.

"I hope so. She promised me she wouldn't run again. She has..." The voice behind her paused. "She can never find it in herself to ask for help."

"You know, Fox, last night..." Fog was beginning to gather somewhere beyond the shoreline. It would be coming in later, a blanket of pale, soundless gray.

"What, Mom?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. You should get some rest."

"I'm so sick of lying here. What did it say, Mom?"

Teena looked down at the thermometer she still held and sighed. "106."

"Dante would've loved it..." His attempt at a smile turned into a grimace. He was shivering. She'd take his fever on herself if it were possible to spare him this. She went to the bed and sat down on the edge.

"Fox, I can call my doctor. Doctors are sworn to confidentiality. I..."

"She is a doctor, Mom. She'll be back soon."

She sighed and smoothed a hand through her son's damp hair. "I feel so helpless. I wish there was something I could do..."

"You are, Mom."

He looked up at her--into her--and let his eyes close.

 

 

The doorbell sounded a second time. Margaret Scully set her book aside, got up from her chair and went to the door. She stood on tiptoe and looked through the peep hole. A man in a trench coat stood outside, a cigarette in his hand.

"Who is it?" she asked, still on tiptoe.

"I'm here about your daughter," the man said.

"Dana?"

"Yes."

Her pulse quickened. She hesitated a moment, then settled to her feet and turned the lock. She turned the door handle, pulled it open and looked up into the face of her visitor. "Why? What's happened?"

"There's some confusion," the man said, pausing to take a drag on the cigarette. "Apparently she's missing. No one at the Bureau has been able to reach her, but there's blood on the floor of her apartment."

"What?" Her heart skipped a beat, surged and began to race. "How do you know this?

The cigarette went into the man's mouth again. A stream of smoke came out. He seemed unaffected by the news he brought.

"I saw it myself," he said, and turned away. He started down the path to the sidewalk.

"Wait!" She was out the door barefoot and halfway down the walk. "What do you know about my daughter?"

The man didn't turn back. A car pulled up to the curb.

"Who are you?" Her voice was loud, rising.

The man stepped calmly into the car and closed the door.

"Who are you?" She was at the curb.

The driver gunned the motor and the car sped away.

Blood pounded in her ears. The license plate. She strained to see the numbers, but the car was gone now, fading into the distance. Her throat was dry. A minivan came toward her. It slowed and nearly came to a stop.

Margaret looked down and saw that she was standing in the street.

 

 

"Whatcha doin', bro?"

Wilkins looked up from his computer screen. Manny stood behind him, a can of diet soda in one hand.

"Looking for an old friend."

"In the hospital?"

"Hey, he wasn't always so quick on the uptake. Wouldn't surprise me. Worth a try, anyway."

Manny shook his head. "You pick up that phone transcription?"

"Yeah. You seen it yet?"

"No. You got it here?"

Wilkins lifted a folder on his desktop. "Be my guest." He offered it to his partner.

"We've got that stakeout tonight. You want first shift or graveyard?"

Wilkins thought. "What time's graveyard?"

Manny shrugged. "Midnight?"

"Okay, I'll take it. I've got some stuff to do first."

Manny raised an eyebrow. "You're just hoping I catch up with that dude before you get there."

"Hey, if you catch the dude tonight, I promise to go another three rounds with you."

"In the ring?"

"In the ring. That's what I'm saying."

"You're gonna die, Will." Manny grinned. "From shame if not my left hook."

"I always do, don't I? I figure it'll give you a lot more incentive to catch that guy early so I can get a good night's sleep tonight."

"Just make sure you've got your affairs in order," Manny said, shaking the folder at his partner. He turned and walked off with a chuckle.

Wilkins returned to his computer screen. He scrolled through the G's, the H's, I, J, K. The blood wasn't Scully's, Byers had said. Then it must have been from someone she or Mulder scuffled with, or shot. The Cancer Man was after one or both of them, and Alex Krycek, he knew from what Mulder had told him, worked for the Cancer Man. It was a possibility--worth a try, at any rate. This Cancer Man wasn't likely to do his own dirty work.

Wilkins scrolled down the endless rows of small black print and finally closed his eyes, leaning back in the chair. It was too obvious--to have checked in under his own name. If he were Krycek... Maybe a 'hospital name'. Or if he got knocked around fairly frequently, maybe better to use a different name every time, so no record would accumulate. A needle in a haystack proposition and he was on the searching end. He pursed his lips and rested his head against one hand. Big hospital where he would be more anonymous or small--somewhere the Cancer Man had people who would keep things hushed up? It could be he wasn't in a hospital at all, that he was being taken care of privately. Needle in a group of haystacks--one lone needle.

He looked back at the screen, scrolling up to the beginning and then down again slowly, hoping for something that would catch his eye. He had a stakeout at midnight and unless a miracle happened, three rounds in the ring against his iron-fisted partner to make good on. He wondered suddenly what his mother would think.

CA...CE...CH...CL...CO...CR...CY...Wilkins stopped. Cyrus. The name pulled on him. There were only two. Amber Cyrus, admitted Monday morning with a broken arm. Michael Cyrus, Monday evening. Gunshot wound. Fairfax Hospital.

His finger traced the entry on the screen. Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe it was him. Steal a man's life, steal his name. Fairfax Hospital. Good trauma unit, big enough to make any one patient relatively anonymous. Visitors could make it in or out with a minimum of notice. Or maintenance personnel--he hadn't done that one in a while, but this could be just the time to brush up. There might be something to learn... like what kind of man was capable of shooting little curly-headed Roddy Miller.

 

 

The girl stirred on the bed and opened her eyes. She let them travel the walls--shadowed pastels, gray-tinged moldings, picture wire dropping down to a heavy frame--to the window. There were shadows on the ledge. It was afternoon. She'd gone out looking for food, then come back and stretched out on the bed again. But why?

She sat up slowly and let her feet slip down to the floor. The small roundness in front of her was becoming more defined. She looked at it a moment, then stood and went to the window. The sky was gray with patches of blue, the morning's puddled moisture only damp spots on the gray cement. She had to return to the park.

She ran her fingertips along the peeling white paint of the window sill, smoothing them into the troughs, running lightly over the curled edges. She wondered what the man named Walter would do now.

 

 

"Know what I've been thinking, Scully?'

She dabbed a cool washcloth along his forehead. His body was worn and burning.  "What, Mulder?"

"I want to go to the beach." He watched her through wet eyes.

"I think the bathtub will have to do for now, Mulder. Your mother's running the water. We've got to do something more to bring this fever down." She dabbed at his temples. He let his eyes close.

"When I... when this is over... Scully, will you go to the beach with me?"

She nodded, smoothing a hand back through his hair. "Yes," she said as an afterthought.

The water was running in Teena's bathroom. They'd put him in the tub for a while; it had to help. Teena would change his bedding while the bed was empty. She looked down at him, at the sheen produced by his body's struggle, and bit her lip.

"Scully?" His eyes were open again. He was looking into her, holding her hard with his focus. "Scully, if--" His lips pressed hard together and closed his eyes. She could see the rhythm of the pulse in his neck, steady movement.

"If what, Mulder?"

He only shook his head and turned away.

 

 

Sandy heard the footsteps even over the murmur of falling water. They were footsteps taken in cowboy boots, but not noisy, careless footsteps. She lay sprawled over her rock, drying from her time in the water, eyes closed. She didn't open them. The footsteps came closer and stopped behind her.

Sandy let the silence play, like the patch of sunlight warming her legs. Then the pressure came, welling up, coming fast. There was barely any time. She opened her eyes and turned around. His hair was beginning to gray at the temples.

"I heard," he said simply. "Your mother called me."

He took a step forward and she was in his arms, pulling him down to sit on the broad expanse of smooth rock. She wasn't strong after all and the hurt was just as bad, seeping out around her defenses. She listened to the sound of her own crying--child's crying, girl's crying. It didn't matter now. He knew who she was.

"I was on my way to California with a shipment, and then I had to go back to Wyoming." His arms were strong around her, reassuring. "I'm on my way to Pennsylvania now..."

A hand smoothed through her hair. He smelled like her childhood. She let him hold her, let the ache and the sadness flow until there was nothing left. Wind played at the back of her legs. Stripes of sunlight and shadow made her a cold/warm patchwork. She was tired now, worn as if she'd come from a battle. Her arms were weak. She tried to sit up straighter.

"I'm still damp, Papa. I'm going to get your clothes all wet." She gulped back a last bubble of pressure.

"It don't matter..." He smoothed her hair again and paused. "You're still that little otter, aren't you, always running for the water?"

"I can't help it, Papa. It just... it's where I want to be. Everything makes sense there."

"Then it's your spot.," he said. "Your place."

Her arms went back around him and held on hard. Her breathing began to slow into regularity. Wind rustled the tree leaves overhead, soothing.

"I know..." she said into his shirt, "I know you have to be able to let go of people eventually. But I guess you never"--she sighed--"you never expect you're gonna to have to do it so soon." She bit her lip and felt fresh wetness leak out and stain the shirt.

"My mother," he said quietly, rubbing a thumb against her hair again. "I was five. It was too early. You would've liked her, Otter. She would have liked you." He shifted. "I've been to Stone Boy twice now..."

"The reservation?"

"We have a real community there--nothing fancy on the outside but a spiritual community. You know, I go all over; I see the land, huge expanses of it, in the West... But it's not the same as touching it. It's disappearing so fast..." He paused. "I miss the earth."

"It calls to you, don't it?"

"Yeah."

"You gonna stay a while--here, I mean? Tonight?"

"I... You know your mother and I..."

"Stay at my house, Papa. Just for tonight. I need you to help me do something."

His thumb smoothed her shoulder. "Okay." He was silent a while. "It's nice here, this place."

"It's my spot, Papa."

"I could tell."

 

 

Krycek lay with is head tilted to one side, half-watching the janitor wash the floor. Most of the people who came only wanted to disturb him, to wake him up to take his blood pressure or to probe or test him in some way that caused needless pain. This man wanted only to make the floor clean and he worked methodically, as if clean floors were the salvation of the world. He took long, even strokes with the mop and worked smoothly into the corners and edges. He moved furniture--what there was of it--rather than going around it.

Krycek looked up at the ceiling. What would it be worth to be able to mop a floor, to stack sacks of grain or even weed the muddy row of a vegetable field? Even in the cold of a place like the gulag.

The old man had yet to mention the recorder, and the longer the silence went on, the worse it was, speculating about why. The old man was focused on searching for Mulder. He was checking all the usual routes but Mulder'd be smarter than that, especially if he'd seen it coming. He would've planned something.

He would've gone to see his mother. He wouldn't have been able to resist.

Sudden coldness filled him. Mulder hadn't known long; the emotion in his eyes had been new and raw. He would've gone to see her and what would she have told him? What would Mulder do with the knowledge? Mulder'd always shown him a special brand of distain. It would be tempting for Mulder to give him away, especially after he'd threatened Scully and was helpless like a frail old babushka. All it would take would be a little note to the Bureau about the origin of a recorder he'd found in his old apartment. Mulder'd like that. Anyway, Mulder was like nitroglycerine disturbed, always leading with his emotions and not his head.

Krycek closed his eyes momentarily and focused on his breathing. The pain was growing again. It took a little longer, now, to become unbearable. A little more time to think, or at least to ponder what the old man would do to him because he hadn't thought of a single damn way to explain the recorder that would make any sense.

There was a metallic clank, the contact of bed frame and mop handle. He opened his eyes.

"Sorry," the janitor said, looking up.

"No problem."

"No, I've gotta watch that. Some people are in a whole lotta pain already and a jolt against the bed is a lot more than they need."

"Not many people around here interested in not causing you pain..."

"Ain't that the truth." The janitor nodded sympathetically. "Gets too easy to see case numbers and just bodies instead of people after a while."

The man continued his work without stopping. He was probably about his own height, though he looked tall from the bed. He had rich, deep brown skin and carefully carved features, his face broad and pleasant, his hair short, with tight black curls, his ears small, and just the hint of a moustache. He wore gold-rimmed wire glasses.

"Say, could you do something for me?" Krycek ventured.

The mop stopped moving.

"Bed control on the table there--" He gestured. "They always put the damn thing where I can't get at it."

"Maybe they figure you need to be lying down."

Krycek frowned. "Where I grew up, things were pretty basic. Not used to this pampering. The longer you lie here, the harder it is to get yourself running again." He nodded toward the bedside table.

The janitor picked up the bed control and held it out. There was the inevitable moment when the man realized he had only one arm, though his transition was smoother than most.

"Sorry about that," the man said, reaching farther across to where Krycek could grasp the control. He paused. "They always leave it on this side?"

"Every time."

"People don't think sometimes," the janitor said. "Did you know they've got braille labels on drive-up ATMs? Now how many blind people are going to be driving up to do their banking?" He smiled briefly and shook his head. A dimple showed in one cheek.

Krycek pushed the 'up' button and the bed rose behind him. It made the discomfort worse, but he could take it for a while; it would be better in the end. He focused away from the pain and watched the janitor, who dunked the mop up and down in his bucket, rung it out and began mopping near the foot of the bed with easy, fluid strokes.

 

 

To: meremaid@

From: heron3@

Dear Mother J -

I did a little snooping around tonight that's left me shaken. I believe it was my curiosity--maybe my morbid curiosity--that led me to it, because I put a few things together and located the man Ben believes murdered the Millers. He's in a hospital recovering from a gunshot wound that I believe may explain the blood in Annie's apartment. I guess I had to see for myself what kind of man could have shot that little boy. The truth is more common and more strange than I would have imagined. He's just a ma--a man with one arm who bleeds and feels pain, a man who speaks to janitors as an equal. This is the chilling part, to realize he's so much like any of the rest of us, and that he could be capable (and perhaps by extension we, too) of committing such a terrible act. I also saw a man who pushes himself even when it puts him in obvious pain, who would grip the railing of a hospital bed with white knuckles before he'd give in to the release of the painkillers at his fingertips, a man with a little boy's fear of the man who commands him. He heard the man's footsteps down the hallway and froze. By the time the man entered, he was completely composed--a facade, I imagine, he counts on to survive. The man who came to see him I believe is the man they say is behind everything that has happened. This older man carries a curious calmness about him, as if he were in charge of the world and has everything in place. A very disturbing person.

I received a message from Annie today; she is with Ben and they are apparently safe for the present, which is all to the good. I know from what has happened up to now that apprehending this man/men I saw tonight will not be as easy as it appears and thus I'm stuck with the dilemma of doing nothing in order to remain unnoticed for the present, or acting--for obvious justice but to the possible detriment of myself and others. I hope you have been more prudent than I of late, and that this letter finds you well.

                                                                                        -Will

 

 

We have managed to lower Mulder's fever by three degrees, but he is still worse off than he was Tuesday and I can't help but worry about possible complications, though there has been nothing apparent. Perhaps I am just feeding off the many fears I carry. There was a point tonight, though, when I sensed Mulder's utter fatigue with this battle, and what seemed like a hint of capitulation--or possible capitulation. With Mulder there has always been another way, another possibility--some light, however faint, beckoning at the end of the tunnel. I'm not sure he can see that light now, and that, perhaps more than anything else, terrifies me.

I have made myself look at a scenario where I would have to continue on alone, on the run, pursued, with only myself to depend on. Bill would be quick to point out that if not for Mulder, I wouldn't be in this situation, that I could have had a normal life with a successful career in medicine. But I also know what knowing Mulder has done to and for me, how he has made me question and grow, no matter how painful the process, and how I have come to know the passion of a quest for something as intangible--and perhaps as unattainable--as the truth. He has meant more than I could possibly express.

All these things swirl inside my head, things impossible, perhaps, to find answers for. I know there are realities that exist beyond the realm of reason, though I find no comfort now in the standard prayers and have been reduced to simply asking, "What do I do now?" Perhaps, in the end, this listening is the way. Teena and I have agreed to keep an hourly watch over Mulder through the night. We have come to an unspoken teamwork in sharing the burden and privilege of her son.

Chapter 4

Thursday

There was movement in the darkness.  It would be Scully this time, in her bare feet and robe. The footsteps came through the doorway, slowed, and continued to his bed. She looked down at him in the pale glow of the street lamp.

"Mulder, you're awake."

"Scully, we've got to move."

"What?"

"We've got to move. The longer it's been, the more likely he is to look for us here."

"I know. I know. But you're in no shape to go anyw--"

"The basement, Scully. We can stay in the basement for a day or two--a few days, whatever it takes. It just has to look normal up here, like nobody's here but her."

She paused a moment, looking down at him. "I need to check your temperature before you do anything, Mulder." She reached for the thermometer and put it in his mouth, hesitated and then smoothed a hand across his forehead and back into sweaty hair. The corners of her mouth twisted.

She sighed and sat down on her knees beside the bed. "Mulder, I..." She stopped and looked out the window, up at the street lamp's glow diffused by fog, and back again. "I haven't thanked you... for the things you brought along for me--the pictures, my copy of Moby Dick from my father..."

He attempted a smile around the thermometer.

"You picked all the most essential..." Her lips came together in a tight line. She let her head rest against the edge of the bed. There was silence and then her shoulders heaved. He reached out and stretched his fingertips toward her hair. She was cool and smooth against his heat. The mantel clock in the living room chimed twelve.

"Mmm..." he grunted finally.

She lifted her head, sat up straighter and took the thermometer from his mouth. She held it into the light. He worked to see her expression in the shadows.

"104," she said quietly, and turned away. She stood, took the glass from the bedside table, and left the room. After a moment the faucet ran in the bathroom.

It had touched her, too--that sense of futility, of hopelessness that had no business being there. He set his jaw and sat up. His head throbbed. The room was cold against his shivering skin; it felt good and awful at the same time. He waited for the dizziness to go.

"Mulder..."

She came close with the glass of water. He took the two capsules she handed him, then the glass, holding it with both hands. He held it up shakily and drank. Clear coldness flooded his mouth and throat. He paused and drank again and handed it back to her.

"Help me up, Scully, will you?"

"But, Mulder--"

"Scully, we've got to do this. We need to do it now. Help me."

She held out her hands; he took them, pulled and stood. An arm went around his waist. He grabbed her shoulder and waited not to feel wobbly. After a pause he took a slow first step, then another.

"Mulder, do you want me to get your mother? She'll want to help--"

"Don't wake her yet, Scully. Let her sleep... a little while. At least till we check things out."

They took another step, then another.

"Mulder, you could collapse on those stairs and I can't hold you from falling..."

Left foot. Right. "I'll sit down. I'll go down them sitting." They were at the doorway. "I'll have a sore ass in the morning but you know what they say about no pain, no gain." He tried, only moderately successfully, for a smile.

A step again. A second.

"Mulder, how are you doing?"

"We have to keep going, Scully."

 

 

"I think everything is taken care of."

Teena's voice came softly from the shadows. Soon she appeared, her face glowing warm in the light of the candle she carried. Scully moved to one side of the cot and let her sit.

"I brought in the last of Fox's bedding from the garage," she said. "There's really nothing extra in the refrigerator..."

"I cleared everything out of the bathroom," Scully said. She paused. "Do you think he'll come?"

Teena's lips pressed together. "I hope not. I don't see... We've seen almost nothing of each other for a long time--years. He's always called first in the past, on those few occasions."

"But he never thought you might be hiding your son before."

"No." She sighed. "These last few days have been... I guess I haven't wanted to see the danger. To have Fox here--both of you... I only wish it had been under more pleasant circumstances. She paused, then smiled. "I'm so glad to have gotten to know you."

"No, I should thank you. You've been very helpful."

"Do you know where you'll go?"

"Not yet." She nodded toward Mulder, asleep in the corner on an old chaise lounge propped with throw pillows. "We haven't really had a chance to talk. I haven't wanted to press it when he's felt so bad. I keep hoping..." She bit her lip and turned away. Silence swelled around her. She breathed in, breathed out, but the pressure inside her only continued to grow.

A warm hand touched her shoulder. Scully looked into the darkness, toward the corner where Mulder was. She could barely make out his silhouette.

"Lean, Dana. It's not really so hard."

Scully hesitated, then leaned slowly to the opposite side and let her cheek rest against Teena's shoulder. She closed her eyes. The image of the candle flame continued to bob and dance behind her eyes. "Anne Frank must have felt like this," she said at last into the quiet. "All that time in the attic..."

There was no reply, only the steady warmth of the hand on her shoulder. Gradually she began to loosen, to drift. They breathed in unison, in and out, steady rhythm, reassuring.

 

 

I lay there in the dark, half-asleep in my own misery, trying to see the difference between this--a simple, transitory case of the flu--and the days I'd spent burning in the Navajo hogan in New Mexico. Near death, I had taken my first steps onto the bridge that connects this life with what lies beyond. I'd been prepared to walk that span, but those I met there gifted me with the courage to turn back. I'd seen my father there, and Deep Throat. They'd encouraged me to return to this life, to continue for the sake of the work, of my search for the truth.

This time there was no bridge. But though the sickness did not threaten my physical life, it had bled my spirit, and the visions I saw this time were pictures of Scully brought to her knees by the burdens the quest had placed upon her, the definitive loss of our access, the possibility of the Smoking Man finding us or somehow taking his retribution on my mother.

It has been documented that people have died from the simple fact of giving up hope. I'd always had hope, or perhaps what I'd thought was hope had been nothing more than my own relentlessness, a textbook case of compulsion or obsession I'd been unable or unwilling to see for what it was. Now I found myself naked and without any of the familiar strengths. My partner's stability had been seriously compromised, we'd been reduced to aliases and windowless basement rooms for survival, and I seemed to have nothing to offer her. Through it all I continued in my own physical hell, for despite Scully's best efforts, my fever had begun to rise again.

Who can say what exact element is the agent of our release, the factor by which the tide is turned? I opened my eyes, a simple act repeated daily, hourly, without premeditation. In the dim light of a single candle I saw the silhouettes of two women huddled together: one learning to reach out, the other learning to lean. It was a vision that awed me as much as any evidence of the extraterrestrial life I'd so long sought. Here was an occurrence I'd had no hand in and it was perfect, like the structure of a crystal or the mystery of life itself.

 

 

"Did she get to you, Papa?"

"No, Otter." Harry took a second sip from his mug of coffee and set it down on the table. "She saw I was here from the window and she turned around."

Sandy turned from the steamy dishwater in front of her and shook her head.

"We were young, like you, Otter. She wanted a husband--a man." He pressed one hand against the warm surface of the mug. "She never wanted a half-breed."

"It doesn't matter where a person comes from."

"I know that, Otter. But you'd be surprised how many people don't."

Sandy wiped her hands on a towel hung from the refrigerator door handle and went to the counter, to where a small cardboard box was. It was large enough to fit a softball inside. She picked it up gingerly and brought it to the table.

"This is it, Papa," she said, biting her lip. She sat down across from him.

He looked at the box.

"Cy was buried. They wanted him with the rest of the family and I didn't figure that I had the right to object." She ran a finger lightly along the outside of the box. "But I couldn't put Roddy in a cemetery, with nothing but other dead people." She looked up at him. "I just can't. It don't fit."

"So what do you want to do?" He nodded toward the box.

"I want to put him outside somewhere. In the woods. Someplace the view is nice..."

"Your spot?"

"I don't think so. I couldn't." She shook her head. "I couldn't go there anymore like I do now if I did that." She picked up her mug from the table and drank. "She thinks I'm crazy, Papa."

Harry looked past her, out the window to the growing light. "The Creator puts that little voice inside each of us so we'll pay attention to it. If yours is telling you this, then you ought to do what it says."

"Will you come with me?"

Harry nodded.

 

 

To: heron3@

From: meremaid@

It appears we are neck-in-neck in the race of carelessness where this matter is concerned. I took it upon myself to speak to the young widow yesterday, believing it would put her mind somewhat at ease to know the truth of things, but now she is eager to seek some resolution to all this. Please take care of yourself and I will try to do the same, for the young widow's sake and for Bethy's if not my own. I, too, heard from Annie yesterday. It is a comfort to know they are safe. Handle your dilemma carefully, Will, and I will refrain from mentioning it for the present to the one it most affects here.

                                                                                    -R

 

 

"Mulder?"

She brought the candle closer. His eyes were open, wet.

"Have you been awake long?"

He shook his head. He looked at her. Slowly a smile formed.

"What, Mulder? What is it?"

He shook his head again.

She reached out and touched his forehead. "Mulder, your fever's broken."

She could feel her own smile form, feel the sudden flush of relief. His fingers reached up and settled against her cheek. His mouth opened but he said nothing. He only smiled.

 

 

"Ooh, we're in trouble here--"

Frohike's head appeared in the doorway. "What's the matter? Somebody catch you hacking a secure system?"

Langley didn't look up. The dull glow of a computer screen reflected off his glasses. "It's Scully. Somebody's started a police investigation into her disappearance." A pause. "Her mother." He looked up. "I thought you got in touch with her."

"I tried all day yesterday but I never made a connection. Maybe she was out starting this." Frohike frowned. "We dropped the ball. Scully's going to be pissed."

"Royally."

"Why don't you contact this new guy--Wilkins--and let him find out if she's talked to anybody at the Bureau. God knows that's all they need--to have the Bureau out looking for them."

Byers came through the doorway, adjusting the knot in his tie. "What's up?"

"Scully's mom's started a police investigation."

"How did she find out?"

"Who knows?" Langley shrugged. "Maybe she just dropped by Scully's place."

"I don't think so," Byers said. "From what Wilkins said about the cleanup, if anyone dropped by, there'd be no particular reason to suspect anything."

"Well, something happened."

"We'll have to get to Mrs. Scully before this gets any farther out of hand, gents," Frohike said. "Volunteers?"

"They may be watching her," Byers said.

"Then it'll have to be someone who won't stand out. I believe that eliminates me." Frohike cleared his throat and glanced at Langley. "You, too, Goldilocks."

Langley gave him a look.

"I'll do it," Byers said, resigned. "Do we have her address?"

"Coming up," Langley said. "Complete with directions."

 

 

"It's a nice place," Harry said, looking up. "It has trees. It has... peace."

"It has water." Sandy bent down and let her fingers touch the surface of the shallow stream. The water ran around her fingertips in cool, glassy ridges--clear water, clean as crystal. Small tan and green pebbles lay a few inches down. She closed her eyes a moment, letting herself feel the gentle drift of the current. But the pull of the box was urgent.

She stood and looked around.

"May apples, Papa," she said. She scanned the area around her: tall, thin trunks, drifts of soft brown leaves from the previous fall, muted greens gone electric in small patches of light. "He likes 'em a lot. He comes out with me..." She held her breath and waited for the sudden, painful pressure to subside. "He'd look... He knew to look..." It hurt like anything to refer to him this way. "...under the big umbrella leaves, to find the flowers."

She grasped the box more tightly and took a few steps into the blanket of brown leaves. She bent down toward a set of broad, umbrella-like leaves less than a foot from the ground and lifted them gently. Underneath, attached to the main stem, was a single perfect flower, like an apple blossom delicately carved from wax. She swallowed and crouched down. It was cold here in the winter. It rained and the rain ran into the stream, then into the creek and down toward Owensburg. It would be dark and shadowy...

...And then spring would come, and May apples again, and squirrel babies and warm, sweet, tree-scented breezes. It was the way life was, the way the world worked. She reached down and began to sweep the dead, crumbling leaves from the base of the plant. Her fingertips brushed away the soft, tan bits to reveal rich, brown soil. She moistened her lips and looked back at her father standing in the clearing. His eyes were closed.

Sandy took a deep breath, holding the box in both hands, and hesitated. On the top was a label with Roddy's name and address and date of death typed in black letters. She ran a fingernail carefully down the middle of the label and the flaps lifted slightly. She paused. It was everything--all she had left--and yet it wasn't him. It wasn't. She pressed open the flaps. Inside was a plastic bag, oversized for the box, it's top rolled over several times to fit.

She looked back at Harry. He nodded at her.

She lifted out the plastic bag until the contents showed--small, shiny grains and dust. After a moment she rolled down the top of the bag until she reached the ashes. The air around her ached and she couldn't breathe, but she had to go ahead. She rested the bag on the ground and reached carefully inside. The grains wanted to spill and fall; she let them slip between her fingers and onto the dark, rich soil. She sifted them in a circle around the base of the May apple, returning to the bag until there was only dust in the bottom. Tipped upside down, the last fragments drifted down and dusted the dark earth. Sandy smoothed the crumbling leaves back into place and stood staring. It was a dream thing, unreal-feeling except for the grit on her fingers. She stepped back to the stream, squatted, and dipped her fingers carefully in the clear water. Small particles lifted from her fingers, seemed to hesitate, and then moved off into the current.

Finally she stood. Her father was beside her, waiting. She threw her arms around him and held on hard, his shirt warm and smooth against her cheek. She closed her eyes and let his heartbeat fill her.

 

 

To: heron3@

From: TinMan@

Please send an addy for Sherlock Holmes. Have you heard anything further about Watson? Your prompt response appreciated.

 

 

A hand brushed back through Mulder's hair. He opened his eyes.

"How are you feeling?"

Scully and his mother sat on camp stools near the old recliner he was in.

"Weak. Clean." He paused. "Tired. I guess that shower was about all I could take, even sitting down. I fell asleep again, didn't I?"

Scully nodded.

He gestured toward them. "What are you doing?"

"Dana's been training me to access your e-mail account, so I can go check your mail for you." The laptop was set up on a box between them.

"How's she doing?" he said, nodding at Scully.

"I think she's ready, Mulder."

"You ought to open your own account, Mom, while you're there. So we can keep in touch."

"I will... if you want me to."

"Yeah, I do." He caught and held her with his gaze. "I want you to."

"Just make sure you choose a screen name that doesn't say anything revealing about you," Scully said.

"What about yours, Fox? What does it mean?"

"Scully's traveling as Annie." He shrugged. "It made me think of Little Orphan Annie, and that made me think of Daddy Warbucks. So that's it--Daddy Warbucks. Doesn't say anything; it's just a name."

"What will you choose, Teena?"

"Heavens, I haven't any idea. I suppose I'd better think about it on my way." She looked at her watch. "I should be going. I hope I don't forget anything."

Scully smiled. "You'll do fine."

They watched Teena go up the stairs.

Scully turned and leaned against the recliner. "Feeling better?"

"Weak. But It feels so good not to hurt, Scully. I almost couldn't remember what it was like."

She let her head down against the edge of the reclined chair back, facing away from him. Copper hair spilled in front of him. The room was quiet, close. "I think Little Orphan Annie is tired," she said finally.

"You've been up a lot." He ran a finger along a strand of her hair. "You should get some rest." He paused. "You saved me, you know."

"What? Who saved you?"

"You and mom."

"How?" She sounded a little distant, a little drowsy.

"You know what it's like, Scully, when you feel like you're falling and there's nothing to stop you--not physically falling--and you just keep going and going?"

"Uh-huh."

"It was like that. I could... I couldn't stop that slide, I couldn't..."

Her head came up. "I could see it. Feel it."

He pursed his lips. "And then you were there...you and mom..."

"What do you mean?"

"I just opened my eyes. You were sitting over there, on the cot."

"And?"

"I..." He shook his head. "I can't put it in words."

She was curious, waiting. But there were no words.

He leaned across the few inches between them and planted a kiss beside the bridge of her nose, then eased back, but she followed him, lips seeking his--sudden warm, damp contact that made them both reach--and then her head was turned again, resting on the edge of the chair, copper hair settling in front of him.

He swallowed back his surprise and the sudden heat. "Scully, are you indulging me?"

"No."

 

 

The girl sat nibbling on a few grapes she'd found. They'd been behind a small grocery along with three tomatoes and a peach that was too far gone to salvage, or carry. She had a plastic bag she'd found two days earlier--a nice bag--and now she'd take whatever she found, put it in the bag and take it away to some more welcoming place, like a mouse spiriting a treat away to a corner of his cage. It wasn't a good idea to stay long in the alleys. Every night she washed the bag and dried it inside out.

She tried to focus on the sweet, green fruit in her mouth instead of the buzzing inside her. It would happen today. Not like the other days--a preparation--but it would happen today. It had been happening all along, but today he would step forward and make that contact. She felt darkness, like a shadow leaning over her.

 

 

To: Tin Man@

From: heron3@

Watson is with Holmes and they are apparently safe, at least for the moment. You can reach Holmes at: DaddyW@. Apparently Holmes' mother has become alarmed and contacted police and the Bureau. How do we keep them from looking for her without causing more suspicion?

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: TinMan@

Obtained this addy from heron3; you seem to have found a strong ally in him. Apparently the Bureau has been apprised of your partner's disappearance. A quick response from her, if she is indeed on leave as rumor has it, should neutralize that particular threat to your security.

                                                                                     -WS

 

 

The girl sat on her customary shaded bench and waited. In her hand was a book she'd picked up beside an apartment dumpster, a paperback bestseller she had no interest in. She only pretended to read. The man had come before, two days in succession, though she hadn't looked up to see what he looked like. It was enough to know the darkness of his heart. When it was time, she'd look.

He'd come casually at first, to meet someone or merely to pass a few minutes in the sun. But he'd spotted her soon enough, had decided what use she might be to him and then waited, observing her every move and nuance to see what they'd reveal of her.

They made no sense, other people's lives: willfully shaped by personal motivations and desires--sometimes grand, more often petty--while she only listened and waited for life to take her where it would, waited to step, as it were, into a great flowing current. The key--the art of it--was to step in at just the right time and place, a point logic and human strategy seldom revealed. Other people seemed to pilot boats on the current while she floated like drifting wood, but it was no matter. They planned crossings, the current no more than a medium for them, a road, while she.... It was a matter of blending, of becoming one with the flow, knowing it would carry you to where you needed to be.

She sat and waited.

 

 

The overhead light went on and footsteps started down the stairs. Mulder squinted into the shadows.

"Fox?" she said quietly. "Dana?"

"Here, Mom."

"Goodness, it's so dim down here..." Teena reached the bottom of the stairs and came closer. She paused, looking at Scully.

He nodded toward his partner. "She fell asleep," he said quietly. "I don't think she got much sleep last night."

She hadn't moved since she'd turned her head away. She'd just stayed there, head on the chair, who knew if embarrassed or regretful or just immobilized by the thought of how one brief moment might bring a shift in things. Eventually her breathing had settled and slowed and he'd realized she was asleep.

"I have your mail, Fox."

"Have any problems?"

"Not really. Dana's a good teacher. I got stuck once, and then I stopped and thought through what she'd told me, and I was alright." She handed him the papers and turned to go.

"Have a seat, Mom." He patted the camp stool on the other side of the recliner.

"I...I really have some things to do upstairs, Fox. Thank you."

She hesitated and then started toward the stairs. He watched her go. There was something--a familiar stiffness, a holding back. Too familiar. He let his head fall back against the chair back and reached for one of the papers in his lap. He held it up and began to read.

To: DaddyW@

From: heron3@

Put a few puzzle pieces together and ran across AK. He's at Fairfax Hospital recovering from a gunshot wound to the side. I assume you know what that was about. Should I blow the whistle on him or are there more factors at work here? Please advise.

Mulder closed his eyes and swallowed. Always Krycek. Shifty, opportunistic, wheeler-dealer for anything that would get him somewhere or save his ass, a man totally lacking any sort of moral compass, and now, by the blessings of genetics...

His mother knew.  The printed-out mail had been right in front of her face.

It explained her stiffness. 

Damn Krycek.  Even from a hospital hundreds of miles away he could make your life miserable.  Now he'd have to do something, say something to his mother to make it right, or bearable, not that Krycek deserved as much. 

He sighed and glanced over at Scully. She was still asleep. He reached out a finger toward her, hesitated, and picked up the next sheet of paper. Where had it come from, anyway--the kiss? He smiled momentarily, remembering. But there was work to do; they were two days behind. He forced himself to focus on the words in front of him.

To: DaddyW@

From: Redwall@

Tail between legs, head down. We dropped the ball here, tried to connect with Annie's mom all yesterday--no luck--only to have Goldilocks discover this morning that Mom found out the horse was out of the barn and went to Georgetown P.D. and the Bureau. John Fitzgerald has been dispatched and is performing damage control as we speak. Hope we can patch things up sufficiently. She should be contacting you soon, I imagine. My apologies to Annie.

"Shit."

He glanced again toward Scully, arched his head back in the chair and stretched his neck. It ached from the position he'd been in. It had been too long, too many days spent lying around. His ribs were sore. His ass was sore. If he had the strength, he'd get up and not sit or lie down for a week. He'd go running. Or shoot hoops.

He dropped Frohike's mail into his lap and took the next one.

To: DaddyW@

From: Redwall@

I'm here with Annie's mother and have explained the situation. I've set up an account for her and have instructed her in how to use it. You should be hearing from her shortly. I would have offered her an old laptop we have; however, she apparently learned of Annie's disappearance through a visit from your smoking acquaintance. It would appear that he either meant to taunt her or came in the hopes she would set in motion an investigation that would find you or at least complicate your situation. Since she may be under surveillance, I thought it best to have her connect at the library. Please advise if there's anything more we can do.

Mulder set his jaw. He wanted to move but he couldn't raise the chair without waking her. She needed to rest, but he'd have to wake her soon enough. It had been a pleasant bubble, this morning--like a dream--but like a dream, it probably wouldn't last. She'd wake up and he'd wake up and life would go on. Besides, there was their safety to focus on; they'd lost valuable time in the last few days of inactivity. He picked up the next paper. It was Skinner's, advising her to call in. She still had her cell phone. It would give her some security against a trace but she shouldn't use it from here, which meant a trip out somewhere and possible exposure.

He closed his eyes briefly, opened them and took the last paper.

To: DaddyW@

From: dresswhites@

Ben, please see that this message reaches my daughter.

Dear Annie,

For a long time, even after your disappearance and reappearance, I tried to tell myself you lived a normal life like other people--that it was just your job title and the details of your schedule that were different. I can't do that anymore and it has left me feeling like I've lost you permanently--that I actually lost you a long time ago and just never realized it. I know it's impossible now for you to step out of the life you've chosen, but I'm so afraid for your safety. The visit I received yesterday afternoon from a man in a trench coat who talked so casually about a blood stain on your floor, almost gloating, was nearly worse than finding you gone from your apartment four years ago. I take some comfort in the fact that you are safe for now, and that you have friends who will help you along your way. I know Ben will do his best to protect you; he's very persistent man and obviously cares very much about your well-being. I apologize if my going to the police has complicated things for you but I didn't know what else to do at the time; I was just so afraid for you and wanted to help. You are in my thoughts and prayers. Hopefully this e-mail connection will give us a way to stay in touch.

                                                                                -Mom

Mulder sat forward slightly and let the chair back tip up a few inches.

"Scully..."

She stirred and looked up, uncomprehending, sleepy-eyed. Suddenly she blushed.

"Scully, we've got mail. We've got work to do. There's a letter from your mom."

 

 

"Mind if I sit here?"

His voice was pleasant, upbeat, but her stomach only tightened. The girl reminded herself to breathe, then looked up to see the man who spoke to her. He appeared to be in his sixties, unremarkable: brown hair laced with gray, dressed in a suit and tie. He sat down on the bench. The scent of tobacco was strong on his clothes. The girl's nose wrinkled.

"Pleasant afternoon, wouldn't you say?" he said with a smile.

"It's nice." She made herself go on. "Cooler than Tuesday. I enjoyed yesterday, though. I like the rain."

"Do you now?"

She nodded.

"I've noticed you here before," he said after a moment. "You seemed to stand out for some reason. As a matter of fact I have a job--temporary job--I need filled, and I wondered if you might be interested, or qualified, for a job that might last four or five weeks."

"What is it?"

"A friend of mine has just had some surgery and he'd like to be home again. Doesn't like hospitals. But he needs someone to be there, do things--run to the pharmacy, cook, that sort of thing--so he can rest properly and get his strength back. I'm an observer of people and you struck me as the kind of person who might have the skills or proclivities I'm looking for." He looked out across the park, giving her a chance to think. Inside he was impatient, hoping she wouldn't shy away, or turn him down. "There's a room--a modest private room with bath--that comes with this employment," he said. He paused. "Do you think you might be interested?"

She looked at him and after a moment nodded carefully.

"My mother was homebound," she said at last. "I spent quite a bit of time taking care of her a few years ago. So I do have some experience. A lot of people find it hard, but it doesn't bother me the way it does some people, dealing with someone who's bedridden."

"Well, excellent. My friend is scheduled to be released from the hospital tomorrow afternoon. Would you be available then?"

"Yes."

He pulled an envelope from his pocket and held it out to her. "This is the address where my friend lives; it's about eight blocks from here. There's a key inside for the room where you'll be staying--third floor, at the end beyond the stairwell.  The number's on the key." He stood to leave. "Do you need help with any belongings? I can send a cab."

She shook her head. "That's okay. I can make it."

"You're welcome to the room tonight as well," he said.

She grasped the envelope tightly. "Thank you."

"We'll see you tomorrow then, about three?"

He offered his hand; she reached out and shook it.

"Three," she said, and watched him turn and walk away.

Inside she shivered, a combination of dread and anticipation. It was a step into deep, dark water, but it was the step she was supposed to take. She could see it now, dim light showing a little of the path in front of her.

 

 

Mulder watched as Scully read over her mother's letter: a twist at the corner of the mouth, her lips--those lips--that would press together and then release, a gulp that would start unguarded and then be consciously smoothed as it moved down her throat.

"Mulder, I--" She looked away. "I did this to her.  I've taken away what's left of her family."

"It isn't you that did it, Scully."

"It doesn't matter how it happened, Mulder. It's done and now she has to deal with it. I--" She put the letter down and knotted her hands together.

"You know we've got to leave here," he said. "There's nothing to keep us here now that I'm over this. We should go in the morning. You can send her a message as soon as we're out of here."

She looked up at him and nodded. She looked worn again, the way she had when they'd left D.C. Maybe he'd just been too sick lately to notice.

"You need to go out, Scully, and make that call to the Bureau. Just tell them you're on a private retreat and you don't want to be disturbed. Tell them it was just miscommunication with your mother. Keep it simple." He eased himself forward in the chair. "I need to go talk to Mom."

She looked up.

"About what?"

His lips pressed together.

"That mail from Wilkins. She's figured it out, Scully; I could see it in her face when she came in. She knows who Wilkins found in that hospital."

Scully opened her mouth but no words came out. She only shook her head. Mulder stood carefully.

"Are you going to be okay, Mulder?"

"Do you mean can I make it up the stairs without collapsing or can I make sense of what's going on inside her head?" He stopped and turned. "Sorry."

"I'll go with you." She was at his side.

He took a first step and then another. He could feel her beside him, step for step.

 

 

The girl sat down on the bed and opened the envelope she'd carried with her from the park. Inside was a business card--Lafayette Apartments--and two twenty-dollar bills. She lifted one from the envelope and held it gingerly. It was still fairly new. It looked like play money. She wondered if anyone would think it was fake. She brought it to her nose. It smelled like money, like the hands and pockets it had passed through.

It was amazing. There was enough for a meal--not fast food, but Italian food--pasta and garlic bread and a salad. She rarely got vegetables anymore, except for the occasional tomato or tired carrot left behind the grocery. If she was careful, she could eat her fill and still come home with leftovers for later. She could get shampoo. And toothpaste. And other necessities besides, things she'd been putting off. She couldn't remember the last time she'd held twenty dollars and now she had twice that. She'd save the second bill for emergencies.

She went to the window and looked out at the hazy afternoon. The man had brought her full circle, right back to Alex. She wondered what light she would bring to his darkness.

 

 

"Mom, we need to talk..."

She was standing at the sink, her hands in dishwater. "You shouldn't be up here, Fox," she said, not turning around.

His hands curled tight. It was going backward, everything slipping back to the way it had been--the way it had always been.  And Krycek was the cause of it.

Scully's hand touched his elbow. He turned around. "Go back," she said, barely mouthing the words, speaking them with her eyes.

He paused, glanced a last time at his mother, then retreated into the hallway, to where he wasn't visible from windows or doorways. Scully's footsteps entered the kitchen. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

"Teena--"

There was silence for a long moment. Then he could hear her begin, her voice careful and deliberate.

"He was in my apartment... when I went home to pack. He was hidden in my closet--my bedroom closet--and when I reached inside, he grabbed me. I believe... He probably only meant to use me as leverage, to get what he'd come for. Mulder--Fox--had a videotape with the man you call Leland on it, a compromising tape; Krycek had been sent to retrieve it." There was a pause. "But he had a knife at my throat. I had no way of knowing--he's always been so ruthless, so efficient at what he does--that I had to assume we were in danger, that Mulder was in danger. And an opportunity presented itself... and I shot him. Our training teaches us... I didn't really have a choice. I had Mulder's safety to think about, too."

Mulder let his head go back against the wall.

"I know, Dana," his mother's voice came after a brief silence. "I understand--well, I'm sure I couldn't really understand--what you face almost daily. And how you've had to deal with Alex, over time."

Silence swallowed the conversation. Mulder's legs were weary. He was tired of standing.

"I suppose I just... I wish it had all been different," his mother's voice came again. There was a short laugh, or a cry. "I was led to believe--perhaps I led myself to believe--that the baby would have a home, that he'd be adopted. I never, ever could have imagined that Leland would use a child--an innocent child, his own flesh and blood--to shape what Alex has become. I feel like such a...a terrible fool for creating this... this danger to you, to Fox, and yet--" She sighed. "I can't help but--" Her voice was drier now, nearly gone. "He's my own flesh and blood. I can't feel nothing. And I know how that hurts Fox, the way it's hurt you."

Mulder eased himself away from the wall and started toward the bathroom.

"I know." It was Scully. "This must be very difficult now for you. I know how it is, to hurt someone unintentionally, how small it makes you feel. But what's happened here, in the last few days... I know it's meant more to Mulder than he'll probably be able to tell you. Please don't--"

He could barely hear them now. He should have talked to her himself, not left Scully to run interference with her, but what would he have said? What could he possibly have said? Soft carpet passed under his feet, carpet and then carpet and then cold, smooth tiles. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, fists clenched.

 

 

"Ever been along the central California coast?"

Skinner was staring past his guest, out the window that framed a bird's eye view of the area, a landscape of treetops and the upper floors of buildings. He took a sip from his glass and glanced at the coverall-clad figure seated in the chair across from him.

"No, sir, I haven't."

"There's this place--Vandenberg Air Force base. They'd planned on making it the western spaceport at one time, the Pacific launch site for the space shuttle. It's on the coast, foggy sometimes--windy--sometimes incredibly clear and bright.  Rolling hills covered with chaparral--miles and miles of open space. There's a place offshore, just a few miles south. They call it the Graveyard of the Pacific because of the treacherous currents, the number of ships that have run aground there." He took another sip from the glass, swirled it absently and then set it down on the coffee table. "There's a little town there that rises or falls along with the fates and budgets of the Air Force base, the ghost of an old Spanish mission, miles and miles of vegetable and flower fields. In the middle of some of those barren hills there's a federal minimum security penitentiary." His lips came together. The corner of his mouth pulled. "Some of the Watergate burglars spent time there, notorious white collar fraud figures." He stood and went to the window. "I've been doing a lot of thinking--about what it might be like to spend a long period of years there, or in one of a dozen other places just like it, nothing but wind and barren hills..."

"Do you have nothing you can use to defend yourself, sir?"

Skinner turned to look at his guest. "Agent Wilkins, I've watched men fall from grace within the Bureau. And I guess I just figured that was politics; it's what happens inside a government agency. Even with Mulder: there was nothing I could do to help once they'd taken the files away, nothing I could have done without compromising myself, making myself useless to him in the future."

Wilkins shifted slightly in his chair.

"And now it's my turn apparently, and I wish... that I'd done something more.  That I'd seen something more that could have been done."

"Save yourself, sir."

"How, Agent?" Skinner turned to the window again. "I've spent the last four days tearing this place apart--every wall outlet, every lamp or appliance, under furniture--looking for bugs. I haven't found a single one. I don't think they feel they need them; I'm as good as locked away. These men operate with impunity. They have judges, panels, strategic officials in their pocket. I have no way to fight that."

"Did you have a tail light out the other night, sir?"

Skinner shook his head. "I don't know. Not that I was aware of."

"Did they show you the faulty tail light, sir?"

"No. They... I was out of the car and into the police cruiser before I had time to think."

Wilkins reached for his own glass on the coffee table, drank the water from the melting ice cubes and set it back down.

"When I was a kid, sir," he began, looking at the polished metal leg of the coffee table, "my mama was shot--murdered--while sitting on our front porch one afternoon. It was a white man that did it, a man who drove by in a pickup truck shouting things that..., well, that nobody should be shouting at anyone's mother." He looked at Skinner. "I hope I'm not making you uncomfortable with this."

"No. Go ahead."

"It seemed pretty obvious what had happened, that it was just another example to chalk up in a long history of hatred. That there was nothing we could do, that the outcome of the trial was sewed up, that we wouldn't be done right by..."

"What happened?"

"It turned out the man had a mental condition. He'd been diagnosed bipolar. Come to find out he had a wife and kids who'd had to suffer through a lot of his outbursts, too. It taught me... that the truth is complicated, that there can be a lot more factors at work than we see--than we're ready to see--and that nothing happens in a vacuum, sir. No matter how much it looks like there's one all-powerful evil at work, there are always other factors, small factors, but sometimes, if you're willing to look at them, they add up."

Skinner cleared his throat. "Have you heard anything more from Mulder and Scully?"

"No, sir. Not since Scully's mail yesterday. But I found out Scully's mother apparently was told she was missing by the Cancer Man himself."

"What?" Skinner leaned forward in his chair.

"What do you think it means, sir? That he'd go to her like that?"

"Maybe he hasn't had any luck finding Mulder and Scully himself. He's looking for some kind of pressure to put on them through her. He enjoys"--he frowned--"twisting the knife once it's in."

"I'm going to look into the condition of your vehicle, sir," Wilkins said quietly. "You never know what we might pull up."

Skinner looked hard at him. "Why are you doing this, Agent?"

Wilkins shrugged. "Because it's not right, sir, to let it go like this."

 

 

"Hello, Teena..."

Teena's grip on the phone tightened. There was a sudden surge inside her, blood pounding. "What do you want?"

"I called to offer you my assistance, if I can be of help in any way. It seems your son has gone missing."

"What?" Her mouth was half-open. She closed it and made herself go on. "When? When did this happen?"

"A few days ago, apparently. He just... disappeared. Left his apartment. You were aware, weren't you, that he'd given up his apartment?"

"You know Fox and I don't talk. You saw to that yourself with your insinuations."

"The truth can be a painful thing."

"How do you know that something happened to Fox?"

"It's just speculation at this point. But it may have something to do with his former partner. She's missing, too. The Bureau's lost contact with her. A mysterious blood stain was found on her apartment floor."

Teena swallowed.  Dizzying heat swept through her.

"I believe the local authorities have been alerted, but so far they have very little to go on."

"Who should I... Who can I contact, to find out--?"

"Arlington P.D., I believe."

"Th... thank you. Thank you for calling. I'll look into it right away."

Teena hung up the phone and closed her eyes briefly, willing the trembling inside her to stop. Then she was on her way to the basement stairs, starting down, light forgotten, hand brushing past the chips in the painted railing.

 

 

"Hey, Will--"

Wilkins woke to a poke in the ribs. Manny glanced over at him from the driver's seat.

"You were snoozing, you know," Manny said as he switched lanes. "You do that on a stakeout, we're gonna lose these sons of bitches and we'll never close this case. With a little effort this one's gonna come right up and sit in our laps, you know that."

"Yeah. Sorry." Wilkins gave a self-deprecating smile. "Too much partying, I guess."

"You?" Manny gave him an amused look. "Right." He paused. "But something's going on with you, man. You better watch yourself. You're gonna lose your edge."

Wilkins sat up straighter in the seat. Manny was pulling off the expressway. They went down the off ramp and pulled up at a stop light. Cars soon filled all the spaces around them. Will worked to clear his head.

"...Cynthia's pregnant," Manny was saying, tapping the steering wheel, staring out into traffic, or beyond it.

"Hey, I thought you guys were going to wait."

"I wanted to wait. She was ready to get going . Guess she got her wish." He let his head fall back against the headrest. "I figured we should have some more money in the bank first, get ourselves prepared..."

"Sometimes life happens when you least expect it."

Manny looked over at him. "This the philosopher speaking?"

"Just something my mother used to say." Will looked out at the patchwork neighborhood beyond the window. Streetlights were beginning to come on. "That sometimes life happens when you least expect it."

 

 

Krycek shook himself awake.

In the dream he'd watched Cyrus Miller's kid patiently building a tower of blocks, just the kid sitting in the middle of a vast, speckled gray linoleum floor. When the tower would fall, he'd solemnly get up, gather the blocks and start all over again. Nothing stopped him, nothing frustrated him; he just kept on building, head down, his face hidden from view behind those curls. He hadn't looked up once.

Gradually Krycek's eyes focused on the scene in front of him. The room was heavy with shadow. Outside the window the last light of day was a thin glowing ribbon along the horizon, clean and well-defined. He walked the line with his eyes, glad to have the capacity again. He could focus today, think clearly, reason. Tomorrow he'd be going home. The old man had gotten the doctors to consent and had arranged for somebody to come and stay, to help out until he got back up to speed. Probably some poor disposable sucker. Not incompetent--the old man wanted every job done right. But somebody anonymous the old man could get rid of easily enough if he found out something he shouldn't. 

Use, crumple, throw away. Krycek swallowed involuntarily.

He had a plan now, though, or at least the hope of one, to get himself out of the mess with the recorder. Skinner might be willing to deal. The A.D. had his back against the wall and was looking at a long prison term unless the old man found a reason to back down, and he had no reason. Skinner could prove valuable at some point--he'd always seemed to have that potential--and if he could help keep Skinner out of prison, Skinner might be convinced to take the fall for having planted the surveillance. It would be no skin off his back. He could tell the old man he was concerned about Mulder's stability since Antarctica or come up with something else that would make sense for an assistant director.

Krycek eased his legs to the side of the bed and let them down over the edge. They'd given him a cane. It was supposed to help ease the pressure on the wound when he walked, and it might have been fairly effective if the wound and his one remaining arm had been on the same side. But they weren't, and as it was, the cane was little more than a stabilizer for his shaky legs. Still, they'd let him get up and walk to the bathroom a couple of times. He reached for the cane, positioned it carefully and eased himself off the bed. He took a first step, then a second, grasped the head of the bed and made himself straighten. The wound throbbed but it was a manageable throb now. He started slowly around the bed for the window.

 

 

"You should get some sleep, Scully."

There was only blackness in front of him. It could have been any time, day or night, and it would have looked the same in this windowless room. He raised his arm and looked at the glowing dial on his watch. 10:38.

"What makes you think I wasn't?" his partner's voice came from the matte darkness.

"I can hear you over there."

"Hear what?"

"You. Not resting."

There was no response. She was worried about her mother.

They'd go to Rita's. Smoky wasn't likely to look for them there, right under his nose, and there were a hundred ways to hide in plain sight. There'd be a place for Scully, something stable. They could just keep moving, go on and on, but there was no point. More than anything Scully needed stability right now and constant running would get them nowhere, anyway. It'd make everything they'd ever worked for a meaningless joke, a joke too big even to contemplate.

Samantha: how long had it been since he'd been able to do anything at all to try to find her, busy just keeping his own head above water, or Scully's? Every avenue he'd ever had--the files, informants--had been ripped away until there was nothing left--no resource, nothing to go on. She should've survived to adulthood. It would've been in their best interest to take care of her since they were using her as cloning material. The British man had told him she'd been taken to 'a cloning facility', but where? She could be here or she could be dead, or she could be somewhere out in the vast, dark reaches of space where he'd never find her no matter how long and hard he looked. He could picture her looking down at him from someplace out in the vast blackness of night.

The chaise springs squeaked again beyond the boxes.

It was working on Scully like a corrosive--her worry about what she'd done to her mother by her choices, how her mother would manage to get through a pain she knew to be unbearable from personal experience with a daughter of her own, how she'd keep that connection to her mother alive and healthy. His own appeared to be shriveling as he watched. He should make the first move, say something. His head understood what she felt for a son she thought she'd lost but reality kept intruding; he knew too much to feel anything but hard wariness where Alex Krycek was concerned. It was almost worse, this--seeing the door pull shut again--than never having had it open in the first place. No words would come, nothing he could pull up out of the core of himself, none that would make any sense or get them anywhere. What would he say to her? And Scully'd gone above and beyond the call in mediating between them already. She seemed to have retained her newly established connection to his mom and that was a good thing--good that at least one of them had gotten something from it.

He sat forward and let the back of the recliner come up behind him, then leaned forward and breathed into cupped hands. The chaise springs gave a tired creak; Scully'd sat up, too, and there was a lot of driving to do in the morning. He reached over the side for the handle that let the footrest down, pushed it, and stood. If only there were a window, something to give a tiny bit of light to the all-suffusing darkness. He felt the boxes as he went, going around the pile, the path to the chaise lounge clear in his mind.

In front of him, Scully sighed.

"Want company?"

She patted a spot beside her in the dark. "Sure."

He sat. The springs squeaked their protest.

"I don't know what to say to her, Mulder. I don't know what I can say. What can I say? I don't want her to feel..."

"...the way you've felt yourself?"

"Mmm. Yes."

He pursed his lips. "Scully, you can't make her feel better; you can only do the best you can to explain. You didn't do it to her Scully, it was just a side-effect of something that happened to you, something you were drawn into..."

"It's cold comfort, Mulder."

He let his breath out slowly. "I know."

She was warm up against him, their legs touching, hips, jeans against jeans.

"She has nobody now, Mulder. She's got Bill, and Bill is... Bill. Besides, he's on the other side of the country." A pause. "She has no daughters left."

"Yes, she does."

"...I can see Bill insisting on some kind of investigation, trying to find me, a crusade to bring his wayward little sister back to her senses, as if I'd been kidnapped by a cult..."

His lips pressed hard together.

"God, I hope not, Mulder. We don't need that." She sighed. "Neither does Mom. I just..."

She leaned against his arm. Silence, aside from the sound of breathing--two living bodies breathing in, breathing out. In less than nine hours the rental agency would open and she needed to be there to pick up a car. She needed to be rested.

Another sigh. "I keep having this dream, Mulder. It's very... disturbing."

"What happens?"

She paused. He could feel her hovering on the verge--to tell or not to tell, to open the gates, let down the walls so carefully built, so assiduously maintained, or...

"I'm in a warehouse. There's a group of us, actually--people I already know. People I've been with before..."

"Anyone you really know?"

"No." A pause. "We go into the warehouse, a huge warehouse. It's dark inside, with just a little light--yellow light. It's full of sand--six or eight feet deep, in drifts, like a desert. We've been there before. We'd been traveling through it, but we'd left things there." She paused. "I think I'd left Emily, I'm not sure...

"There's this woman in the group; she's very... forward, the kind of person who presses herself on you. She talks to me, she won't leave me alone. She keeps telling me about how her daughter died in there. She wants to show me the place, and she keeps asking me if I want to see her daughter. I just want to find Emily, but the woman won't leave me alone. Finally she comes up to me, she has... a bag in her hand, a big paper shopping bag, but the paper's thin, ivory-colored and thin, so you can see there's a body inside it... desiccated, just skin and bones, like a rag doll. I don't want to see it, I just want to go look for Emily, but she opens the bag anyway..."

He looked toward her. There was only blackness and the warmth of her body.

"It isn't... as bad as I imagine it will be. Where the little girl's face should be, there's a doll's face sewn from fabric--blue gingham--a sort of Raggedy Ann face, but much more primitive." She shifted. "But it's so... unsettling, so... The first time I had the dream I couldn't get back to sleep. I sat there on the edge of the bed and shook."

He waited.

"Am I like that, Mulder? Am I that woman, carrying a skeleton around with me?"

"No. Scully..." He slipped an arm around her waist. "You never had a chance to really know her. I think you're just... It's like a hungry man getting a taste of a food--just a taste. You take it away and he's still craving it, maybe more than he was before. You only had days--days with her. It's not enough time to be... satisfied, to be... filled.. .with her. To know her, make her a part of you, of your life. I think you're just trying to reach for that, to know her, what she was."

"But that's impossible now, Mulder. So what do I do? How do I deal with that, come to any sort of peace about it?"

He only pulled her closer. It was the same thing his mother was going through. It was clearer now and still he couldn't touch it; his gut wasn't buying. His mother was slipping away and he was letting her, like the anchoring rope for a boat trailing across the dock toward the water, a rope he couldn't quite bring himself to pick up.

He swallowed. It was cold, and cold was good, especially after the last few nights. But it was too cold here, now.

"We can go see your mother, Scully," he heard himself saying. "We can go that way. You can send her a mail and arrange to meet somewhere nobody will see you, someplace she's used to going, in case Smoky's having her watched."

She sat up straighter. "What do you mean?"

"Go see her, Scully. It'll make her feel better; it'll make you feel better. It doesn't matter if we go straight to Kentucky from here, just so long as we're careful."

"But..."

"Where would she be likely to go? Someplace particular. A shopping mall?"

"I don't... Sometimes she likes to look through Saks."

"Meet her in a dressing room, Scully. Plan the department, tell her what kind of shoes you'll have on, be there early. She'll be able to find you."

"Mulder, are you sure...?"

"Every life, every day is in danger--Skinner told me that once. But sometimes you just have to take that chance. Take it for her sake."

He could feel her hand warm against his back.

"Mulder, you're cold."

"I know. Finally." He shivered.

"You should wrap up..."

He closed his eyes and sat there, her arm warm around his waist, cold air against his arms and back. He had no warmth now; there was nothing but close blackness, like a starless sky. "I was thinking about Samantha, Scully."

"What were you thinking?"

"That its been forever since... since I've done anything at all to look for her, to find her, just trying to keep a step ahead of Smoky. The files are gone, our access is gone. Every informant we've ever had..."

"You'll find a way, Mulder."

He turned toward her. "You really believe that?"

Her breath was warm against his arm. "I just know that you--you--have to keep going, to keep trying. Mulder, if there's anyone who can find her, it's you."

He let out a breath that had caught inside him and shivered again. She took her arm from his waist and faced him.

"You've got to put something warm on, Mulder."

"Yeah, I guess." He stood and paused. "Come on."

"What?"

"Just come."

She reached a hand out; he took it and pulled her up. She followed him around the boxes--box to box feeling his way to the recliner. He pulled the blanket off the seat, tossed it over the chair back and sat down.

"Come on," he said. "Sit."

"Where?"

"Here."

"Mulder..."

"Come on, Scully."

She sighed, hesitated, then let herself down carefully onto his legs, sitting sideways. He pulled the blanket from the chair back and spread it over them. He could feel her tense, wondering.

"Going down," he said. He leaned over, pulled the handle and pushed back.

"Woo--" She landed against him, tucked against his side, her face beside his neck. She squirmed a moment, settling herself, and then quieted.

"There. Now I've got something warm on." He grinned into the darkness.

For a moment she was silent, but he was past second-guessing himself. It was stupid the way they hung back from each other, each trying to pretend the only things they knew about the other were what they'd learned sitting behind a desk.

"Mulder, this reminds me of a sleeping bag you were hoping for once..." There seemed to be a smile in her tone.

"Yeah, except you don't have to get naked."

"I guess we're not in Florida anymore, Mulder."

"Get some rest, Scully."

He put an arm around her and let his cheek rest against her forehead. Her arm slipped around his middle. Mulder stared open-eyed into the matte blackness in front of him, listening to Scully's breathing, feeling the way the rhythm of it pressed gently against him. Eventually a picture of Samantha began to form in his mind but the picture was unclear. It had been for years and all his efforts just made her fade that much faster, as if she'd never been more than the figment of a disturbed imagination.

"Maybe I lied, Scully," he whispered into her hair. "Maybe I would stop getting up in the morning."

The distorted vision of his sister blinked and went out. He put the other arm around his partner and pulled her closer.

 

 

Harry looked up from the yellowish light on his book into the darkened interior of the trailer. Beside him, Otter was curled up on the couch asleep. She didn't seem so very much older in a way. He reached out and smoothed a hand through her hair. She had Cree sensibilities, that was for sure--had had them, in a way, even when she was a small cub. She'd always gone running for the land--the woods, the water. It was an instinctual thing, calling to her in a voice that was silent to so many others.

Then she'd just wanted to be a woman, the way her mother had. Boyfriend, lipstick, fancy nails. Then the wedding and the baby only months after, but she'd made a stand of it. She hadn't just grown tired of the novelty. He admired that in her.

Harry looked at his watch. He'd have to be on the road to Pittsburg by 5 a.m. but he'd promised her he'd stay until then. He set his book aside, let his head rest against the back of the couch and listened to the ticking of the kitchen clock.

A noise--footsteps. He strained to listen, to determine if they were real and not just a product of his drowsiness. The footsteps came closer, climbing the stairs. Harry's stomach tightened. A moment later the door handle turned and his ex-wife's head peered in through the opening. Her hair was wrapped up in some kind of sleeping turban.

"How long are you staying?" she said, letting herself into the living room.

"I'll be out of here by five, " he said. "Good to see you, too, Raylene."

Raylene glanced at her sleeping daughter.. "She been out long?"

"Since about nine."

"Sometimes I see her light on up here in the middle of the night--two, three in the morning..."

"It takes time. She's just a kid."

"You're indulging her, Harry. You're just gonna make it worse."

"What're you talking about?"

"What did she do with the baby?"

"You mean, where did she put his ashes?" He paused. "She put them someplace that had meaning for her."

"That's what I'm talking about. You're encouraging her with all this... this stuff. She's like a stranger already. How's she ever going to fit in right if she keeps this up? What am I going to tell people? That Roddy's not buried proper; he's scattered out among the trees someplace, or floating along the creek into the municipal water system? 'Take, eat, this is my body?' I don't think that's what they had in mind."

"She has to do something that makes sense to her."

"She's got to be able to find her place, Harry. This is where she lives. These are the people she lives around. Sometimes she seems like such a stranger here." Her lips pressed together in an uneven line.

"Then maybe this isn't her place, Raylene."

Raylene raised her eyebrows. "Don't you go giving her any ideas, Harry Belfontaine."

He said nothing; there was nothing to say. He looked down at his daughter, cheeks rosy from sleep. He traveled the contours of her face until he heard the front door close.

 

 

Mulder sat in the recliner half awake. Scully had settled in, settled against him and relaxed after a minute or so, her body going slack. She was warm--they were warm together--and he hadn't done a damn thing about his mother, the time slipping away, only hours and they'd be gone, away from here and then even farther. Maybe farther had come already. Maybe it was her fault and maybe it was his. He didn't know; he couldn't tell anymore. He thought back to standing in the kitchen doorway when he was three, plaid shorts and sturdy brown shoes, the yellow paint on the walls and the gleaming chrome toaster and the way her face had lit up when she'd backed out from under the sink. He bit his lip, turned his head away from Scully and breathed out slowly, then breathed in the same way, in and out, in and out--three, four, five times. Slowly the pressure ebbed.

"Mmm?"

"He shook his head. "Nothing, Scully."

Her face tilted up toward him. He could feel her breath on his neck, could feel her looking.

"It's nothing," he said. He leaned toward her. Their lips nearly touched. He stopped.

He paused, mouth half open, lips suddenly charged, like atomic particles wanting to make that short leap to their opposites. They breathed into the same small space, in and out, warm and damp. He could count his heartbeats. Yes or no. Flip a coin.

This was like jumping from a plane. He leaned in.

Contact.

Their lips met, soft and slow, then drifting, grazing. For a moment he was breathing her breath, then roundness met him, and wet curves, hills and valleys, warm and slick. Smiles. Quick breaths, then more slow, slippery heat, deeper this time, her hand behind his neck now, her body drawing to him.

He begged the gods not to wake him.

When a pause came, their breath mingled in the small space between them. He reached up and kissed the tip of her nose, working to control his breathing, to smother the sudden flare of need. It was only a kiss.

It was a start.

It was amazing.

It was real and it was Scully and that was amazing. He replayed the feeling. God, it was good.  Better than what the bee stole.

 

 

Teena stood by the window in the dark, staring at the fragile spheres of cold, misty light that spread from the street lamps, and beyond them to a sky where no stars were. The last time she'd been up in the night there had been two, one impossibly distant, no more than a pinprick, and the other closer, brighter, but still impossibly far from where she stood. Fox was leaving and she wouldn't have another chance. There wasn't likely to be another.

She walked to the doorway and hesitated, letting her hand slip slowly down the smooth, painted frame. Her feet took her back to the window. She hugged herself and felt the heat of her hands through the thin fabric of her nightgown. Nearly an hour she'd been at this window. The time hadn't helped her and it certainly hadn't helped him. Goose bumps rippled the surface of her skin. Perhaps she only continued to stand here as some kind of penance, but if so it was empty, pointless penance. She hurt him; it was that simple. It was bad enough to know but unbearable to see reflected in his face.

She could still hear Leland's voice in her mind, smug, confident, casually probing, waiting for the anticipated slip-up. Her anger and shock had been her defense. She hadn't faltered, hadn't stumbled. If he'd suspected anything she told him, he would have probed immediately, but the probing hadn't come. She'd called the Arlington police department afterward, knowing he'd check to see whether she had followed up. There was indeed a missing person's report on file, one Leland had no doubt filed himself. Teena rubbed her arms again.

He'd taken one son and now, if he could, he would harvest the other.

She went to the closet and slipped on her robe. Fumbling with the belt in the dark, she tied it as best she could, put on her slippers and went down the hallway to the door that led to the basement. She grasped the handle, cold and smooth, her blood racing. Slowly she pulled the handle and reached inside to where the flashlight hung from a nail. She took it and switched it on. A small pool of light appeared on the gray stairway and she started carefully down into thick darkness. Ten steps, eight steps, five steps to go. It was warmer down here, close; she could hear the sounds of sleepers breathing in the dark. She hesitated. The sounds of shifting in the chair. She made herself step down, then down again until she reached the floor.

"Mom...?"

"Fox--"

"What is it?"

She shined the light toward his chair. "Fox, I..."

"Come here, Mom."

She took a few steps toward the recliner. She shined the light near the base of the chair. Her son squinted against the brightness.

"What is it?" He reached out from under the blanket and patted the camp stool beside him. There was a hint of a smile on his face.

"I... I didn't want you to go--like this." She sat down. "I didn't want it to end this way, and I don't know what I can say for myself, Fox, about the way I feel, about... the way it affects you. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is hurt you." She was falling, tumbling through the air.

His hand reached out and took hers, strong and warm. He looked past her.

"...I've tried so hard to find her, Mom. I don't even know what I'm looking for anymore."

"Your sister?"

He nodded. "She had to have grown up at least; she had to have... lived. They would have needed her to make the clones."

"Clones?" Her heart skipped.

"The Samantha we saw four years ago--the one who came to Dad's house..."

"She was a... clone?" It was the stuff of silly, black-and-white movies.

"There was a whole group of them; I ran into five or six. They were working against the Project."

"I thought she was just a fake, an impersonator."

"No. They were clones of her. That's how they knew so much about her, about us."

"My God." Her hand squeezed his without thinking. "Then she may still be... I always... It was easier just to think... that she was gone." She looked into the shadows beside the chair.

"Why did they take her, Mom?"

She looked at him, at the earnestness, the pain in his face. "Every family had to give a child."

He pulled up slightly. There was a stirring under the blanket. He turned his head away and made a shushing sound. It was Dana; she could see her now, in the chair with him, asleep against his shoulder. Dana moved, shifting slightly, and came to rest with her head against Fox's cheek. Teena felt herself redden. She tried to look away but found it impossible: it was the luminous story her son's face told.

"She couldn't sleep," he said, glancing at his partner. His lips brushed her forehead and he turned back to face her, his mouth struggling against the smile that wanted to bloom there.

For a moment she could only look, wordless. She knew that newness, the hope bound up in it. "She's very special, Fox. Take good care of her."

He nodded and looked past her, smiling. The air was quiet, the flashlight beam at her feet growing yellow.

"There's a candle on the box," he said finally, nodding toward it.

She got up and went to the box, found the matches and lit one. The flame bobbed gently. Finally it clung to the candle's wick and brightened. She blew out the match and returned to the camp stool.

"Who had to give a child, Mom?"

"Everyone who worked on the Project."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I never really understood what was going on. They never told the wives, except what they couldn't avoid. They told us... that without a child from every family as security, colonization would begin immediately, that no one would survive. But if the children were sent, it would buy time, time to think of a way to fight back." She turned away.

"It was supposed to be me, wasn't it?"

She looked back. "Fox, how did...?"

"We found files, Mom. Samantha's file. Thousands of files. Four years ago. Right after Dad died. My name was on the label under hers."

"Your father wouldn't let them take you." Her voice was husky. She looked at the floor. "You were the only one he had and he wouldn't... He had something, some kind of leverage he was able to use against Leland. I had no say in it, no choice."

"Did they tell you what they'd do with them, where they were taking them?"

She shook her head. "They didn't tell us anything, Fox. The children were supposed to be safe. But I don't think they really knew..."

"They cloned her right from the start."

"What?"

"I saw them, Mom--the clones. They were tending fields on a farm in central Canada, clones of Samantha just like she was when they took her, and clones of a boy--acres and acres of farmland. They were drones." His lips pressed together. "She had no speech--they hadn't given them speech. But I wanted her back so badly I tried to take one of them with me." He looked up at her, his eyes shiny. "It was when you were in the hospital, Mom. When you had the stroke." He let his head fall against the chair back and closed his eyes. "He showed me another one of them last year. One of the grown ones."

"Who did?"

"He did. Leland." She watched him swallow. "He tried to tell me it was really her. I found out later it couldn't have been, from a man who was my last source. He died in a car bombing last summer and now--" He opened his eyes and looked at her. "I have nothing--no access, no resources. I've got nothing to go on, Mom."

"Fox, there was very little I knew to begin with, and I really wanted so badly to forget. But I'll try to remember. I will. And if I think of anything I'll let you know."

"You get yourself that e-mail account this afternoon?"

She nodded. "I gave the address to Dana. It's 'Cranesbill'. It's a flower that grows in Trudy's garden." She paused. "I have some money, Fox; you're going to need money..."

"He may watch your bank accounts, Mom."

"It's in an investment. I could transfer the title to Trudy and she could cash it out."

"I have some friends in D.C.--electronics experts, hackers. They could figure out some way to reroute it, some way that can't be traced. I'll have them get in touch with you."

She nodded. "Thank you, Fox," she added after a pause. She smiled, a smile pulled with sadness, and took the hand he held out. "Don't tell me where you're going. I don't want to know anything he could try to get from me."

"We'll be in touch." He attempted a confident look. " You can meet us at the library."

He turned his head away. She squeezed his hand gently.

"Mom, do you remember a time, a long time ago... I think I was about three..."

Chapter 5

Friday

 

Mulder knelt down beside the chaise lounge and swallowed against the knot in his stomach.

"Scully--" There was no light, only the small warmth that came from her in the velvet blackness. The cement floor was cold against his knee. "Scully."

"Hmmm?"

"Scully, it's six. We need to go. I figured you might want time to get a shower. "

The chaise springs creaked. "Wha--?" She sat up quickly.

"I thought you might want to shower first."

A hand brushed past him.

"I--" She rolled. "Sorry. I'm waking up. I am. Just give me a minute." The springs creaked again. She yawned and leaned closer. "What about you, Mulder? How are you doing?"

"Better. My stomach's... I think I just need to get something to eat."

The blankets were pushed back and her legs came over the edge. "I don't remember being here, coming back"--there was a long pause--"here."

"You needed to stretch out." He put a hand on the edge of the chaise. "After we can finish here, if we can connect with your mom, we'll get away from the Corridor, away from all of this. It should give us a little breathing space."

"Did you sleep, Mulder?"

"Some. I think I'd been lying there too long to sleep much. Mom came down last night--late. We talked."

"And it went... well?"

"Yeah." He could feel himself smile. "It was good."

A warm hand settled on his shoulder.

"Scully, this may sound crazy., but there's something I need you to help me do."

 

 

To: heron3@

From: TinMan@

Do you have an addy for the three musketeers? I have a question for them. Thanks also for your concern re my circumstances. Waiting to hear from you.

 

 

"Goodbye. Thank you for everything."

Teena leaned toward the open passenger window and the hand Dana held out. She took it and squeezed gently. "Have a good trip." It could be her own daughter. "Keep in touch."

Dana smiled, a smile laced with the gravity of the business at hand. "I will."

Then she turned and crossed the parking lot to the rental agency. Jeans, sweatshirt, hair pulled back--nothing to draw attention, to make her stand out, or show her beauty so someone would notice her. Samantha had liked soft sweaters, pink angora with little pearl buttons down the front. Would she even remember that now? If... Would she have cut her hair? Would the obstinate streak she'd developed--her own trait mirrored back at her--have softened?

If.

It had been years--decades--since she'd dared to even touch the fragile possibility. Certainly she'd never handled or nurtured it the way Fox had. Samantha had always remained behind a heavily locked door. Teena blinked and then blinked again.

"Mom?" The voice came softly from the back seat. "You okay?"

"I'm fine, Fox."

"Is she inside, Mom?"

"Yes," she said, half-turning to look at her son lying on the seat. A thin hollowness had haunted her all morning, as if he were already gone. As if the body in the back seat were only a figment of her need for him to be there.

"Let me know if he comes looking for us."

She nodded and turned to face forward again. She was conscious of her body, the transit of air going in and out, the grip of her fingers against the cool smoothness of the steering wheel and the strange emptiness inside her. The scene around her might as well have been in black-and-white. She made her hand move to her purse on the seat beside her. She took out an envelope and handed it back between the seats.

"Take this, Fox. It will help you on your way."

He took the envelope, then her hand, without a word. It was a strong hand, at once soft and sheltering. She let him hold it, a lifeline nourishing her through the dream world that pressed at her from beyond the window.

"Fox, I... Thank you. Thank you for everything."

"It's okay, Mom."

She closed her eyes and focused on the warmth of his hand.

 

 

Sandy pressed the accelerator and glanced at the clock beside the car radio. She was going to be late--only by a minute or two, but it had been so long. Too long--she didn't know how long; she couldn't remember. But Roddy'd be there waiting, on the swing by the entrance to Gramma and Grampa's place.

The road forked, though there'd never been a fork before. She slowed down. Left or right? She held her breath, paused, and swung right. The road went up an incline, around a bend. There was a rock on the left hand side, a huge, broad rock she'd never seen before. Her stomach tightened. She put on the brakes, turned to look behind her and quickly backed up. She put her foot on the gas again. The car jumped forward and she headed back the way she'd come.

At the fork she turned left. Trees and the green of fields streamed past her. She could see the gate now, could just make out the big old oak and...

"Sandy?"

Someone shook her shoulder. She glanced behind her but the back seat was empty.

"Sandra--"

She glanced at the clock. Somehow twenty minutes had passed, but it had only been seconds, she could swear it. She was going to be late. She'd...

"Sandra."

Sandy's eyes came open. Her mother's face hung over her like a dark cloud. She'd missed him. She'd been so close, so close she could almost feel him.

"You got a phone call from the library. They say you've got a book overdue."

The face backed away. Sandy struggled up and watched her mother disappear through the bedroom doorway. She'd seen the oak tree. The swing hung from below it and she'd almost made out someone in its shadow...

The phone call was Rita; it was Rita Johnston's code. She'd have something, a job possibility or information.

She reached beside her and pulled the pillow--Cy's pillow--around in front of her. Her eyes were too dry, like cotton. She closed them, clutched the pillow to her middle, and rocked slightly. The adrenaline was still there, the awful tension of racing, reaching, hoping. She'd nearly touched him.

The hollow ache inside her echoed, rocking her in her own private blackness.

She'd missed him in the end.

 

 

The favor Mulder had asked me of me was simple--to re-braid his sister's hair. He wanted to give half the braid he'd discovered in the Quonochotaug garage to his mother, a token touched with the deeper symbolism of Mulder's world of absolutes, a tangible symbol of the newly-forged bond between them. Perhaps, too, he was finally ready to share the burden of his sister with another living being.

Samantha had always been an abstraction to me, a construct in Mulder's head, a motivator like pride or honor or duty. But in actually taking up the hair--thick, strong, dark hair--and working it with my own hands, the reality of a little girl, a life so close to him that to lose it meant the partial loss of his own, became clear to me. Mulder held the end of the hair while I worked. He watched with the same concern he'd shown for Emily in the hospital, as if every move were crucial, as if delicate surgery were being performed.

Braiding was an activity woven through the fabric of my childhood. My mother had braided our hair when we were small. Later, Missy and I had braided each other's. As I worked, I couldn't help but think of her--Missy and I playing hopscotch on the sidewalk, sitting in the base movie house waiting excitedly for the start of a Saturday matinee, or the two of us lying on our beds and talking about our futures. Though it had been none of my doing, she'd died for me as surely as if I'd shot her myself and what would I tell my mother now, in the few minutes I'd have with her?

Even as we rolled down the interstate, I had no idea what to say. What could I say to this woman whose daughters I'd taken away?

 

 

"Hey, Langley, it's me..."

Mulder pressed his hand to his ear to block out the noise outside the pay phone. Scully stood beside the car, leaning against it and then pushing away, nervous. She hadn't wanted to make this call herself--not this one or the one that would come in response to it.

"Look, will you call Annie's mom and have her go to a pay phone and call this number? Yeah." He read the numbers off the phone in front of him. "908-555-4336. Yeah, right away. Yeah. Yeah, thanks."

He hung up and nodded to Scully. He pushed open the door to the phone booth and she came closer.

"Message out," he said, raising an eyebrow, trying to look upbeat.

She bit her lip and looked up at him. She was jelly inside; he could see it.

She nodded toward the restaurant behind him. "You want a cup of coffee or something, Mulder?"

".Yeah, I guess. This could take a few minutes..."

"I'll bring you one." She turned to go.

"Hey, Scully--"

She looked back; he gestured for her to come. She took a few steps toward him and hesitated. "I'll only be a minute, Mulder."

He squinted into the morning light and watched her disappear into the restaurant.

 

 

Krycek pulled on the bedside table to bring it closer. On the far end was a shopping bag with new clothes the old man had brought the night before, things to wear when he left later today. Six hours. Six more hours and they'd spring him from this place with the white and the sterile and the hard corners that were the best money could buy, that were all too close to the gray and cold of the orphanage where he'd grown up. All that was missing were the rows of rounded steel bed frames fitted with thin white bedspreads, covers for the empty lives that dreamed empty dreams inside them.

He reached for the shopping bag and pulled it toward him. His old clothes were gone, blood-soaked and ruined. Even his jacket--his second skin--had been beyond salvation. He pulled out a navy T-shirt and a pair of jeans. The old man had outdone himself; the brands were far from cheap. Just so long as they worked. That was the important thing: pants with a zipper that wouldn't hang up mid-track and a workable snap at the top, one that could be managed with one hand. He ran his fingers across the surface of the shirt. It was soft, fine material. The old man could be setting him up with the gifts, just waiting until he got out of here to land on him about the recorder. He'd like that added touch--to have thrown him off with the nice clothes and the visits. The satisfaction of effective strategy.

There was something more in the bag. He reached in cautiously and pulled it out. A baseball-type jacket, navy fabric, nothing flashy--all the better. He let his head collapse against the pillow and breathed out. So far, so good. Leather would have been a bad sign. The minute he was home he'd send a message to Skinner. He'd send the old man's hired help to make the contact, make him earn his keep. Hopefully Skinner would buy; freedom was a powerful incentive. Skinner stood to lose little, if anything, by admitting to the recorder, and in return... It was a win-win situation, hopefully one with an even bigger payoff somewhere down the road.

The week was up for the waif he'd rescued on the Mall. This was the last night his money had bought her. Hopefully she'd already left D.C.; it didn't seem like her kind of place. There was a directness about her, an openness that would only land her in trouble here.

Sitting on those stairs just to watch the rippling of the water--it's what she'd told him when he'd asked what she was doing there, and the crazy thing was she seemed to be telling the truth. Mulder'd been on those stairs, too. If he was smart, by now he would have hidden himself and Scully someplace the old man would never find them.

He wondered where it might be.

 

 

Wilkins awoke to a sniffing wet nose against his face, then the warm, enthusiastic wetness of Ralph's tongue.

"Hey, no doggie kisses, man!" He rolled away, toward the back of the couch. Ralph's tongue lapped at his ear. "Oh, man--"

Wilkins suddenly sat upright.

"I am in deep shit, Ralphy. Deep, sticky..." He glanced at his watch. Only five minutes. It had only been five minutes after all. He let out the breath he'd held and buried his face in his hands.

Five.

He could still meet Manny without arousing suspicion.

"He knows something's up with me, Ralph." He reached out and rubbed the dog's coat vigorously and tried to clear his head. "He's not an investigator for nothing. But I think this little side show's best kept to itself."

Wilkins glanced toward the laptop on the coffee table. He'd only sat down to check his mail; this burning the candle at both ends was getting to be precarious. He looked at the screen. There was one message. He clicked on it and smiled. Skinner. Maybe the man was beginning to come around. One small step.

He leaned forward to key in a reply.

 

 

To: Redwall@

From: TinMan@

Do you have a source for local police reports? I'd like to find out who was in on my takedown. Any information appreciated. Have you heard from Watson and Holmes?

                                                                                                -WS

 

 

"We've got mail to send, Scully."

She glanced over at the reclined passenger seat. "Where are we going to do it?"

"Stop at some seedy little motel, I guess. Anything cheap with a phone line in the room. We pay for one night, or a few hours"--he gave her a look--"hook up, send our mail and get out."

"Can we afford to do that?"

"You mean money-wise?" He looked over at her. "Yeah, we can.." He was silent a moment. "My mom gave us some money when you went in to get the car. Eight hundred dollars. Cash."

"Mulder--"

"She said she has more." He looked out the window, at the blur of passing scenery. "I think she wants to keep us supplied, keep us going." He closed his eyes. He could see her back in the car at the rental agency, the ghost of loss that precedes actual loss written in her face.

"She's strong, Mulder. I think she'll do okay. You know--if he comes back to her, if he calls her again."

Mulder glanced at her, then closed his eyes and leaned back into the seat. "We've got to tell Wilkins what to do about Krycek, Scully. What the hell do we tell him? How's he going to understand? It's too dangerous to pull him in. Besides, if we did he'd probably turn around and name you as the shooter." He ran one hand back through his hair and left it to rest behind his head. "I need to let Rita know we're coming."

There was no reply. He opened his eyes again and studied her: tense, looking straight ahead, seemingly mesmerized. She was mesmerized. He leaned toward her.

"Scully, all she wants is you. To see you, to know you're okay. Leave all that other stuff you're carrying and let her have her daughter. We can deal with the rest of it later."

She attempted a smile. "Just let me know where you want to pull off, Mulder."

"In a few miles," he said. "I've been around this area before. I think there's a place a few miles from here that'll suit us."

 

 

To: TinMan@

From: Redwall@

A J. Framingham and a W. O'Rourke signed off on your paperwork. Framingham's a rookie, but O'Rourke's been around fifteen years or so. Framingham has a son with a rare bone disease and is in hock up to his eyeballs. Possible motive here? O'R seems to be a straight arrow, or at least is good at covering his tracks. Need more? We're here on the front lines. Heard from Ben this morning. So far so good.

 

 

Rita looked at her visitor curled into the corner of the sofa, Bethy up against her like a curious puppy. Bethy was worried; she knew hurt when she saw it and she saw it here.

"Have you ever had a dream like that about your son--that you saw him again?" Sandy's voice came from the sofa cushions.

"No, I haven't, missy." She glanced at Bethy, her head against Sandy's arm. "Truth to tell, Andy was one real experience. He always was, from the day he could walk. He tested me in every possible way. I'm not sure what a dream about him would do to me." She took a long breath and pursed her lips. "I used to wonder if I'd survive his growing up, and now I've survived him altogether. It's not so amusing, the thought of it." She looked out the window. "In a way he's testing me, to this day, with this."

Sandy's head came up.

"Don't get me wrong, missy, I loved him dearly--still do. I used to think I'd done something horribly wrong in raising him. But now I figure there are some people who are just plain adverse to growing up and Andy was one of those, bless his ornery little heart."

"I was mad at Cy." Sandy's head lay against the arm of the sofa. "All that week. He'd go off with his buddies after dinner and leave me and Roddy at home. We'd waited all day for him to come--"

"Everybody's human, missy. Some of us make our mistakes at more opportune times than others, but in the end we've got to look at the sum total of who someone is. Or what we did. Did we love them? Did we make a good effort? In the end I don't reckon they're going to remember the day of their death any more than the day they were born."

Sandy sat up and swiped below her eyes with the back of a hand. Bethy looked up at her with bloodhound eyes and Sandy slipped an arm around the girl. "I didn't mean to come apart like that."

"No apologies necessary." Rita smiled. "I think I've got something for you. You know I asked you about children before..."

Sandy swallowed and made herself nod.

"Do you know the Barkers? Up Sugar Creek?"

"Just by stories."

"David's had to take work off their place to make ends meet, and his wife's... Well, she seems to have lost her senses. It's nothing dramatic; apparently she just sort of floats around the place in a little world of her own, kind of like Ophelia sitting by the brook." She glanced at Sandy's uncomprehending look. "It's from a famous play," she said. "Anyway, they have a little boy--four and a half--and David was thinking he needs to have someone around who can look after the boy and keep an eye on Heather in the process."

Sandy stared across the room unseeing. She leaned forward slightly, her clasped hands coming to rest between her knees. Her mouth twitched to one side and then the other. "I guess I could try," she said, her voice small. She looked up at Rita.

"The boy needs someone," Rita said softly. "Think of it that way."

Sandy nodded slowly.

"They're two miles up the creek," Rita went on. "If you love the creeks and woods as much as you say, you could take that trail right up there. It's a nice walk."

"I could run partway," Sandy said. "Sometimes running feels good right now. You get going and it's almost like you could outrun your troubles. For a little while, anyway."

"They'd like you to start as soon as possible. As a matter of fact, sometimes David has to be gone real early in the morning. They've got a trailer up there they've offered if you want to stay in it."

Sandy shook her head. "I can't. I couldn't--not now. It'd be like leaving everything behind, like leaving Cy and Roddy behind, just... wiping them out of my life." She swallowed. "Out of my memory."

"Either way. They were just offering." Rita got up. "We should go ahead and give them a call. Come on out to the kitchen."

Bethy sat up, her eyes suddenly brightening. "Is something calling out there, Grammy?"

Rita looked at her quizzically.

"Grammy..."

Rita paused, then winked. She cupped her hand to her ear. "I can't quite tell."

"I hear it, Grammy." The girl began to smile.

Rita leaned toward the kitchen. "Hmm, I believe I might hear something..."

"I hear it. I do."

Sandy looked at Bethy, curious.

"It's ice cream," the little girl said almost in a whisper. "Come on."

She stood and tugged Sandy to her feet. Sandy let herself be led away to the kitchen.

 

 

"It's seedy alright," Scully said, looking around the interior of the small motel room.

"Yeah, but the price was right and we'll only be here a few minutes."

He pulled the laptop from its case and set it up on a small, scratched desk. Unhooking the line going into the phone, he slipped it into the slot at the back of the computer. Scully was right; it was shabby as hell. She stood at the window, the curtains parted a hand's width, looking out into a half-paved parking lot where a scruffy German shepherd circled a puddle. He turned on the computer and waited for it to power up.

They were an hour's travel away from the mall where Scully would meet her mother, with an hour's cushion to spare. They could stop and eat, but his stomach was still shrunken from the days he's spent at his mother's. He wouldn't be able to eat more than half a meal and Scully was probably too edgy to eat, either. She looked like she was waiting for her execution.

He glanced back at the computer screen. Windows had opened. He brushed a finger across the touchpad and tapped on the mail program. The bathroom door closed behind him.

Read mail. Old mail. Send mail. Mulder clicked again and set his hands at the keyboard. His lips pressed together and paused.

To: heron3@

From: DaddyW@

Keep an eye on AK--from a distance. Things are more complicated than they appear and we want to avoid having him turn the tables on Annie; her plate's more than full at the moment. Thanks for the extra eyes/ears in D.C. Anybody know how TinMan's cause is faring? On the move. Will stay in touch.

Mulder leaned back and breathed into cupped hands. It was almost impossible to trace the twisted trail anymore, at least as it would appear to a newer agent like Wilkins--how a calculating assassin like Krycek could kill again and again and not be brought in, how the son of a bitch who pulled his strings could continue to gloat in broad daylight, seemingly untouchable. How he himself could make a decision like this, one he never would have believed himself capable of when he'd been young and green and his idealism had blinded him to hard, inconvenient realities. Or had he just gone soft, sold out--given up and become like everyone else, too quick to step into the quicksand of expediency?

The toilet flushed. A moment later the bathroom door creaked open. Scully'd pulled the band from the back of her hair and brushed her hair out. It shone reddish-gold in the light from the bathroom window. She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked down at her shoes.

To: meremaid@

From: DaddyW@

We'll be arriving in a day or two. Stability could be a good thing right now, so your offer of help is much appreciated. We'll need separate accommodations in order not to draw attention to ourselves. Don't know what you can do but we're fielding all suggestions. Will let you know more as we get closer.

It was the fact he didn't want to look at, at least not now, but it was true. They'd need to be separated, living in different places so as not to arouse the curiosity of a close-knit local community. A relative come to stay here or a friend of a son's friend there would hopefully slip by unnoticed, but two strangers coming together... It was a small town, and people would talk about whatever was news, no matter how insignificant.

"Mulder, I'm going to take a walk."

"It's no five-star neighborhood, Scully," he said, sending the message he'd written to his outbox and clicking on a fresh writing screen. "Besides, I'll be finished here in a few minutes. If you need to walk, we'll go someplace where it's safe."

When he glanced up, she was headed toward the door. She had that air about her, as if something were pressing on her, suffocating her. "Scully--"

"Don't crowd me, Mulder." She looked down, at the carpet.

"I'm not crowding. I'm just trying to make sure you're safe."

"I can take care of myself." She crossed the room and reached for the door handle.

"What?" He pushed back his chair. "Like this, going out into an unsafe neighborhood to prove you're on top of this? Who're you trying to convince?"

"Shut up, Mulder."

He got up from his chair but she was gone, the door slammed behind her. He went to the door, stopped and leaned his head against the door. He closed his eyes. Blood surged through him, racing. It was happening already. He was crowding her. Worried about her, yes--her emotional state had been precarious lately. But he was messing with the delicate dynamics that had made them work all these years... or with the ones that had started to develop in the last 24 hours. He breathed in, breathed out. An ache circled him like an aura, a remnant of the pain that had held him for the last three days. He closed his eyes tighter and willed it away.

Kentucky. Roads over the Appalachians: he could see them, ribbons stretched out for miles, smooth, clear sailing and he was alone. Alone in the car, going who knew where for who-knew-what-the-hell reason.

 

 

Dear Mom,

Thanks for everything. I needed that and I guess you did, too. We're on our way--not sure to where at the moment. It's only been hours and I've fucked up already; wish I had your talent with her. Hope I figure this out. Somehow.

 

 

The door knob moved in his hand. His breath caught momentarily and then he turned it, allowing the door to open. She was standing there shiny-eyed, looking up, straight at him. Chin trembling. It must be killing her.

He opened the door wider, let her through and pulled her close against him. Her arms went around his waist. He closed his eyes and breathed into her hair, letting it fill him, shampoo and whatever else she smelled of--her. He was tired suddenly, wobbly. No, she was nudging; they were moving backward, to the edge of the bed. The mattress bumped against the back of his knees and suddenly they were sitting, then lying back. Scully lay against him--beside him--her head on his chest, the two of them breathing together like one person.

He just held her. A cobweb stretched across the corner of the ceiling above the drapes. Hopefully there weren't any cockroaches crawling in the corners, or in the beds. What kind of people spent their time in places like these, dodging dust balls and insects, falling asleep too tired and ragged to care?

She was looking up at him now; he'd felt her head move. He opened his mouth but a finger went against his lips, and then she was reaching and it was her mouth, sending him to someplace beyond the stars.

 

 

"Five minutes, man--"

"Five," Wilkins said.

He shut the passenger door and hurried with long, easy strides toward the chain link fence of the impound yard. There was a chance it wouldn't prove anything--whatever he found--but there was always that other chance, that gold nugget lying unnoticed by whoever chose not to stir the stream. He pulled out his badge and flashed it for the officer at the gate.

"I'm looking for a Mercedes, black, 500 series, coupe--"

The officer raised his eyebrows. "Dealer's car?"

"Oh, yeah. Big dealer."

"Figures. I drive a ten-year-old Toyota and these guys--" The officer was looking at his computer screen. One hand went up in the air. "Go figure. As a matter of fact, go in and take a look around. This terminal's been acting up for over an hour now." He looked up at Wilkins. "Go ahead. I hope you find something that'll put the guy away for life. Maybe I can buy his car at auction."

Wilkins smiled and passed through the gate. It was a stroke of luck, the messed-up terminal. He pulled the notepad from his pocket and flipped through looking for Skinner's license plate number. It was a white Lexus he was searching for. He looked out over the rows of cars and began walking, glancing at his watch. Three minutes. Manny was a stickler and there were plenty of white cars, both here and on the road.

He walked up three or four aisles, checking one side and then the other. Sleek cars, ordinary cars, the dinged and dented, rusty cars of the poor: each one held a story. He stopped, shading his eyes against the early afternoon brightness and scanned the lot again.

Bingo.

Right ahead: his fairy godmother must be on duty. He slipped in between Skinner's car and the one next to it and went around to the back. Broken driver's side tail light... Only Skinner hadn't said "broken tail light"; he'd said "tail light out". This particular light was broken, a crunch across the middle of it as if it had been hit with something--maybe even a nightstick. Maybe after the fact. If Skinner'd simply backed into something, or if someone had hit him, the whole tail light would most likely have been smashed.

Wilkins raised his eyebrows, glanced at his watch again and started jogging in the direction of the gate.

 

 

Maggie Scully looked at the clutter spread across the dining room table--pictures, keepsakes, mementos. She swallowed and began to put them slowly away. It was too much like a wake, or organizing someone's belongings after they died. How could you pick out just one thing, or a handful of things, for someone to hold on to, to represent a family and a lifetime? Dana wasn't dead, though there wasn't much practical difference; her daughter was out of reach and might never live a secure life again. She might be moving from place to place, looking over her shoulder, for as long as she lived.

Maggie's hand paused over the box top in front of her.

However long that life might be. Bill had gone, no warning really to let her know he would be leaving so abruptly. Missy was gone, also a chance accident. Dana had been taken with no warning, just a chillingly empty apartment left in her wake, blood stains on the phone table and window sill and a distraught partner who refused to give up and let her go. It might have been Mulder's crusade that had caught her daughter up in this surreal web of intrigue, but he would be her strength now, her protection, if she let him. He cared passionately about her in his own quiet, intense way. No one would give more for her.

She hoped what he had to give would be enough to keep Dana safe.

Maggie picked up the photo box and carried it to the closet, then returned to the table for another box, and another. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly time to go and she needed to be on time. Dana might be late, but she would wait for her daughter's arrival, however long it took.

Passing through the dining room one last time, she noticed something laying on the floor by the side of the table. She stooped down and picked it up. It was a bookmark of Melissa's, one she'd left in a book on one of her final visits, a scene with mountain tops on which Missy had written carefully with a gold pen. Maggie tucked it into her purse and and continued on her way to the front door.

 

 

To: TinMan@

From: heron3@

You did say 'tail light out' if I recall correctly. The light on your car has been smashed, and not through direct collision; it was struck by something, breaking only the middle section. Hope this information may be of some help. Forgot to mention yesterday that I located AK at Fairfax Hospital. Apparently Annie did the deed that caused what I found on the floor. Ben advised keeping an eye on him but not bringing him in. Perhaps you will understand the rationale better than I. Let me know if I can be of further help.

 

 

To: heron3@

From: TinMan@

Thanks for the research. Watch out, however, that your enthusiasm in this matter doesn't disrupt your performance of your official duties. You will be of no help to Annie or Ben, myself or anyone else if you lose your access. Take Ben's advice to heart regarding AK. Dangerous though he is, touching him is risky and likely to cause further repercussions. Above all, remain cautious. You never know who might notice your actions.

 

 

Scully eased the car into the parking space and turned off the engine. She paused a moment, one hand still on the steering wheel.

"Some things are easy, Scully," Mulder said softly, looking up from the half-reclined passenger seat. "You just have to stop analyzing them. Just love her. Let her love you."

His hand reached toward her. One finger traced a careful line down her hand and wrist.

"You'll be out there, Mulder?"

"We need to know if anyone's following either of you. I'll be around."

 

 

The dressing room bench was upholstered in tan embossed vinyl with a subtle pattern stamped into it. Scully leaned forward and traced the pattern with the tip of a finger. In the next booth two small girls giggled while their mother tried to decide on a dress. One of the girls sat on the floor; Scully could see her legs under the partition. She had small toys with her, packed into a clear vinyl purse. It made her think of the little ragged Cassandra from the homeless shelter, her blonde hair uncombed, and the dirty plastic figures she'd carried, the way she'd walked right up to a perfect stranger and engaged her immediately.

She looked down at the shoes she'd left by the door, an old pair of burgundy penny loafers with red socks tucked inside them. They should be a more distinguishable signal under the doorway than her running shoes. There was a knot in her stomach, a jumble of hunger and anticipation, her mother and Mulder. She tried not to think of him.

Shoes with feet and legs in them passed by in the corridor outside: flats, running shoes, the occasional orthopedic shoe of an old woman. Sandals, heels--it was a weekday, after all--she'd nearly lost track--foam platforms carrying red-painted toenails. A pair of shoes hesitated outside the door. Her heart skipped. But they were wrong--young girl's boots. They paused and moved away.

Hiding, like Anne Frank. A lightless basement or the small cubicle of an upscale dressing room, but a prison of sorts just the same. Though it could be worse. Kentucky would be a complete unknown, though Rita would be there, Rita like a beacon light, full of determination and the courage she so often felt wavering in herself.

Another pair of shoes stopped in front of the door--familiar shoes this time.

"Dana?"

A bubble of air filled her throat. Adrenaline surged. Her fingers tightened against the bench. She stood immediately and turned the handle, attempting composure for the sake of passersby. "Mom--"

She was in her mother's arms, door closed, bodies tight against each other, breathing each other, absorbing. Air--she'd been holding her breath. She let it go.

"Dana--"

"Mom--"

They started to separate only to hesitate and come together again. Scully leaned in and closed her eyes.

 

 

Sandy opened the screen door cautiously and looked around. "Mom?"

There was no answer, no movement. She let out the breath she'd been holding and stepped inside. Maybe having Harry here had offended her enough to make her finally go home. Though she'd been here this morning. Sandy shook her head. Her mother was a mystery.

She went to the sink, turned on the water and swabbed a sponge around inside the cereal bowls sitting there. She'd be leaving here. Not forever, but she'd be gone during the day, someplace else, doing new things. Other things, with someone else's child. A new life--different life. She hadn't asked for either. They said you had to move on, but why? Why would you want to let go? How could you?

She turned off the water, wiped her hands on the refrigerator towel and wandered to the bookshelf. Roddy's truck. She'd never brought it in.

She went to the door and down the dusty stairs into the yard below. The fire truck was lying on its side, dirt-spattered. She squatted down and picked it up carefully. Her fingers traced its smooth surface, places where Roddy's hands had been dozens--no, hundreds--of times. She could feel his hands--small, grasping hands, soft and moist, tugging at her pants leg or coming to rest up against her cheeks, squeezing, his body bouncing in her lap, toes digging in.

The old Labrador came up behind her, sniffing, and kissed the side of Sandy's face with her nose. Her backside turned several circles and plopped down in the dust beside Sandy. Sandy leaned against the dog and cried without sound.

 

 

"Is this... Is it safe, Dana, to be here?"

They were sitting on the dressing room bench, shoulders and legs touching.

"It was Mulder's idea. He insisted, actually. He wanted me to be able to see you." She gave her best attempt at a smile.

"But if someone is watching me, won't they...?"

"Mulder's out there, Mom. He'll be watching when you leave, to make sure nobody follows you."

Maggie nodded. The lines in her mother's face were ones she didn't remember seeing before.

"Be sure to thank him, Dana."

Scully nodded and reached for her bag. "I brought you something, Mom. It's silly, really--just a bag those caramels you always used to like." She placed a small sack in her mother's hand.

"I haven't had these in years." Maggie smiled. "Dana--" She paused and shook her head. "I was trying--" Her voice went wispy and she paused a moment. "--to find something at home, something to bring you, and I couldn't decide. And then I came across this bookmark of Melissa's." She held it out. "I thought you might like it."

Scully took it and looked at the picture. Pressure swelled to fill her throat.

"What? What is it?"

Scully smiled through filled eyes. "I have this--these words. John Byers gave them to me on a slip of paper when we left Washington. They're from a song, he said. I never knew... Missy must have... Obviously she liked them, too."

She pressed her lips together, then smiled again. Her mother's eyes were shiny, full. She put an arm around her mother's shoulder and felt the weight of Maggie's burden come to rest against her. She dipped her head toward her mother's.

"It's okay, Mom."

Mulder was right. It wasn't so hard after all.

 

 

Krycek stared out the window at the D.C. skyline. Only minutes now. Just the last of the paperwork to process. He shifted in the wheelchair. His side ached from sitting, a dull ache he could live with for now. It wouldn't be long. His place, such as it was, wasn't far away.

Something in his cheek twitched.  It was the same scenario he'd faced so many times before, everything in his life turned upside down in the space of seconds: one-armed men waking him beside a campfire; glancing up in a Hong Kong airport john to see a leggy brunette smiling at him; the door of an Upper West Side apartment opening to reveal not some graying bureaucrat with a secretly guilty conscience as Mulder's source, but a woman with a plan for making enough vaccine to save thousands--maybe millions. Maybe enough for the race to actually survive. Well, it had been a good plan until she'd taking off with the kid. They'd worked their asses off, he and the Brit, trying to salvage Marita's production network.  All for nothing, as it turned out.  The secret vaccine program was dead.  Any real hope for saving the human race had died with it.

Maybe he was as crazy as Mulder to keep on trying. Maybe Mulder'd had the right idea a few weeks back. Maybe he should have joined him that night instead of trying to stop him.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, coming closer. Krycek's fingers tightened around the wheelchair's armrest. The footsteps came up to the open doorway and stopped.

"Ready, Alex?"

Krycek looked up. "Yeah."

He moved the prosthetic arm so it sat more naturally on the arm rest and let the old man take the handles of the chair.

 

 

Mulder watched her make her way across the parking lot, passing from row to row of cars, copper hair shining in the sun. Her step was easy--lighter than when she'd gone in. It was over now, however it had gone, though he hoped it had gone well; she deserved for it to be good. He studied her face, head slightly down to watch where she stepped, cheeks flushed, mouth relaxed. She looked up, saw him and smiled slightly, a bittersweet expression.

Mulder scanned the sea of cars, looking for activity, for watchers. The driver's door opened and she slipped into the seat. Her head went back against the head rest. Mulder continued to watch the parking lot. No one had come out of the building near her except a middle-aged woman with two kids in tow.

Scully's hand went against his arm. She half-smiled and shook her head, then leaned forward and grasped the steering wheel. He made his hand stay where it was. Finally she turned toward him.

"It was... It was okay, Mulder. It was good, like you said. Hard, but..." She shook her head. "You were right. She only wanted me." A pause. "There wasn't much to say, much need for words. We just sat there together. I think it's what we needed."

"Sometimes it's all you need--being together." He breathed out and bit his lip. "Want me to drive for a while?"

"Do you want to? Are you up to it?"

"Yeah, Scully. I'm okay."

He got out and went around the car while she slid across the seat.

"I think I'm wired, Mulder,' she said when he'd gotten back in. "You know how you felt after finals were over? I feel like that."

She was beautiful and she was loosening. He made himself look away.

"Then let's get out of here." He reached for the ignition and turned it. "Let's just get the hell out of here and leave this all behind."

 

 

The knock came on the door as the girl had known it would. She went to answer it.

"He's here," the suited man said. "You should come down and meet him."

The man was darker--much darker even--than Alex. Amid the vast blackness of his soul was no redeeming patch of light, no pinprick she could see. She waited until he turned away to swallow her apprehension. She followed him down the hallway and then downstairs to Alex's room.

There was something about the relationship between the two men. It was going to jolt Alex to see her come in with him, as if she'd been corrupted by the old man's touch.  She would have to be careful. Her hand traveled the worn wooden handrail and then they were at the bottom of the flight of stairs, then in front of Alex's door. The dark man paused, lit a cigarette, took a drag and turned the door handle. She held a short breath and went in behind him.

It was a plain room, with a small desk under a window to the right, a larger desk without a chair against the back wall, and to the left a bed along the wall with a narrow window near the bed's foot that reached from floor to ceiling. Alex was lying down, propped up with pillows--more pillows than she would have thought comfortable. He looked very pale.

"Alex, this is Tracy--"

Alex's head toward them. She saw shock, quickly stifled. Inside he was a sudden maelstrom, panic and anger swirling with questions of strategy in his mind.

"Hi," he half-grunted. Inside, he was spinning, falling.

"She has a room upstairs for the time being," the dark man was saying. "I've given her a pager. She can be here anytime you need something." He turned to Tracy. "Don't let him exert himself too much." He paused and took a drag on the cigarette. "He's stubborn. He's strong, but he needs to rest and recuperate."

She nodded. Alex was staring at her, blood pumping, wondering if the old man had her in his pocket, whether she'd been a plant on the Mall that day.

"Everything you should need is herefood, medications, bandages."

"I can make do, if it comes to that," she said.

The man handed her an envelope. "Here's something extra so you don't run out," he said. He was gauging the possibility that she'd take the money and run.

"I'll keep all the receipts."

The man seemed to relax at that. He turned toward the door. "I'll check back tomorrow, Alex. Let me know right away if there's anything you need."

Tracy glanced at Alex, who was looking at her, then at the old man, who went out, closing the door behind him. Thick silence engulfed the room. She looked at the floor, then up at the man in the bed and took a few steps toward him.

"He doesn't know," she said. "He met me in a park. He watched me there for days."

He looked at her--into her--with eyes that were used to watching. Hard, wary eyes. "Maybe." She could be some kind of  trick. "Why are you doing still hanging around here? Why didn't you leave Washington when you had a chance?"

She shrugged. "I had... things to do here. I--"

"What things?"

"I didn't know. I never know, exactly. They... come to me. I think--" She took a deep breath and went on. "I think I was supposed to do this.  Help you," she said in an even quieter voice, because of course it would make no sense to him. She looked around the small room. The force of his skepticism was like a physical pain. "Excuse me." She reached for the back of the desk chair and sat down, slightly dizzy.

"What's the matter?"

"Just a little dizziness.  It'll pass." She looked up. "Is there anything you need?"

He nodded toward the bed. "There's a computer down here. I need it hooked up to the phone line."

She came closer, kneeled down and pulled a laptop from under the bed.

"Here, just put it here."

She put it on the bed beside him.

"There's a cord in a box down there. Phone cord. Now just put it in here, at the back."

He rolled slightly toward her, grimaced, and pointed to the place with his right hand. "Yeah. Now plug the other end into the wall jack. Over there."

She did as he asked. He flipped up the screen and turned the computer on. Tracy retreated to the desk and sat down on the hard chair. He used the computer one-handed. She watched him type, pecking out the letters. His other hand lay motionless on the bed. He typed briefly and then there was the sound of the phone dialing, connecting to the Internet.

"I'm going to need you to run an errand," he said, looking up. He let his head fall back against the pillows. His voice was softer now, some of the tension gone. "To deliver a message. You can pick up something to eat when you're out."

"Who was he?" she said, nodding toward the door.

Alex tilted his head back farther, toward the narrow window where gently moving green leaves filled the pane. "Head of the gene pool."

It sounded like a statement of defeat. His mouth was tight. He kept his eyes on the sway of the leaves beyond the glass.

 

 

To: skinnerws@

From: 03224@

Ten to fifteen not appeal to you? I may have an alternative you'll like better. Someone will meet you in front of the Map Store on Farragut Square at 6 p.m. Consider your future.

                                                                                          -AK

 

 

Teena Mulder stirred and opened her eyes. The center of the room lay in shadow. It was nearly six. She'd fallen asleep in the wing chair for the second time in as many weeks. She stood and went to the kitchen, conscious of the empty ticking of the clock on the mantel. The scene around her seemed oddly hollow, as if it had shape but no substance. It had been hard having them here--hard and wonderful--though she'd wakened more than one night from the thought that Leland might come, that she might open the door to find him, unnervingly poised, standing on her doorstep with his smile and his faux concern. He still might come, and she would do what she had to--whatever it took--to protect her son and his partner.

Partner.

Fox and Dana were being driven together by circumstances, by the outside pressures that assailed them both. It wasn't always enough, that pressure--to make a match, to forge a lasting link. When the pressure changed, or came from a different direction... But they had something--a respect, a mutual concern. A depth she and Bill had never touched.

Teena opened a cabinet, closed it and looked into another. She went to the refrigerator and stood with the door open, her mind far from dinner. She had no appetite: they were gone. She sighed, shut the door and filled a glass with water from the sink. She drank it slowly, looking out into the back yard, her eye drawn to the garage door. She would never look at that door again without picturing Alex there, asleep under the dusty packing blanket, weathered, used to anything, to survival. A man Dana'd had to shoot because he'd come out of a closet to accost her. He'd been holding a knife to her throat. Dana hadn't mentioned that. Fox had.

She remembered the trip to the hospital late at night, Bill anxious for it all to be over, to have the graphic reminder of her infidelity wiped from his daily life while she attempted to ride out the contractions, ready to have the painful ordeal past. If she'd known... What could she have done, to shelter her son, to keep him from becoming what he was? The woman had tried to warn her--Leland's wife--showing up unexpectedly at her door one afternoon, a frantic woman seemingly with a vendetta. She hadn't taken her seriously at the time, set as she was in her own shame. The woman hadn't come to confront but to warn her, to let her know what Leland was capable of. She'd left her name and address on a piece of paper, and though she hadn't known quite why at the time, she'd kept the paper and hid it.

Teena set the glass in the sink and went to the bedroom. She took Samantha's picture from the dresser, the one in the rose frame, and carefully worked the back off. Underneath the cardboard was a yellowed slip of paper with writing on it in green fountain pen. Cassandra Spender, it said. There was an address below the name, and a telephone number, undoubtedly out of date after all these years. She set the paper on the bedspread and sat down beside it. Turning the frame over, she traced her daughter's features with a finger in the weakening light.

 

 

"You hungry, Mulder?"

"Are you? We can stop."

"I asked you first."

"Yeah, I guess. Maybe I'm just tired of driving, Scully. Or sitting. Maybe I need to take a walk. I think my ass has been permanently flattened in the last few days."

"There was a sign back there. There's a restaurant about three miles ahead. They're becoming few and far between."

"Okay, we'll check it out."

She turned to look at a passing billboard, then settled back into her seat. "A walk would be nice. I can't remember the last time I went walking in the woods." She leaned her head back against the head rest. Her hair fell away from her face and neck.

"Well, you've got your wish. Thousands of acres of forest in every direction. Take your pick."

"It's beautiful..."

She was looking out the window. The bigger picture hadn't quite sunk in. She was still in that post-finals stage, relieved at having made it through the meeting with her mother, happy to be away from the Corridor where Smoky was more likely to be watching. But it was okay. A few hours without worry could only do her good. He'd spent the last few speculating about Kentucky, planning ahead... or maybe just trying to keep his mind off her and what she'd meant by that last kiss, if she'd meant anything at all. They'd need places to stay, ways to avoid attention. Something meaningful to do. Maybe it would just be a pit stop, a place to regroup and make a real plan. There had to be worse things than living your life out in a little town, working an ordinary job and hoping you'd end up with enough retirement to survive on when you were old and arthritic, but at the moment he couldn't think of any.

"It's here, Mulder."

She pointed to the right. He signaled and pulled off into a broad parking lot. At the back of the lot sat a restaurant and a modest motel surrounded by forest. To the left was an old, restored pioneer cabin, a monument of some sort.

"What do you think, Scully? Done enough traveling for one day?"

"We're not likely to do any better by going on. Yeah, I think I'm ready to stop."

"If we're lucky they'll have adjoining rooms. From the look of things they're not full. You want to eat first?"

"No. Actually"--she looked off toward the little cabin--"actually a walk sounds good. Eating... involves sitting down."

"Go ahead. Stretch your legs. I'll go check out the motel."

"I think I'm going to go over there." She pointed toward the cabin. "Looks like the view might be nice."

"I'll meet you there when I'm done."

She got out of the car and stretched. He watched her walk toward the cabin, toward the west where the sun was heading toward the horizon. Another hour of light and it would set behind a half a dozen gentle ridgelines fading from green to pale blue. He got out of the car and locked the door. It was quiet. There was a penetrating peace about the place. It was a good thing. Maybe the best thing they could have.

 

 

Tracy stood under the awning of the tiny map store, watching the reflection of the square behind her in the glare of the window, waiting. Inside, all sorts of maps were displayed: new maps, antique maps on yellowing paper, even one on what appeared to be thinly stretched cowhide. One was local, a map of downtown Washington from the early 1800's showing the square where she stood. It was a small town then, nothing like the paved, noisy one that bustled behind her. If she pressed her face against the glass she could read the clock inside on the wall. Nearly six. Whoever she was supposed to meet, to give Alex's paper to, should be here soon. He was her opposite, Alex was. He was a planner, a strategizer, always looking ahead to count the cost and the gain.

Footsteps approached and a man appeared at the window on the far side of the shop door. He stopped and appeared to study a sign posted on the glass. Tracy's heart stopped and then started again. He glanced toward her without recognition and then looked back through the window, his eyes roaming over the displays, but she recognized him--tall, bald-headed, with a strong jaw: the man from her dream, the old soldier. This was the one Alex was looking for, though the darkness inside him, what there was of it, wasn't anything like the kind that held Alex.

The man looked over a second time, caught her eye, knew her. His mouth pressed into a thin line.

"I have a message," she ventured, fingering the paper in her pocket.

He scowled.  "Do I... know you?"

She hesitated.

The tall man blinked once and stared. He took several steps toward her--close--close enough to make her uncomfortable. He took the paper she held out and read it. One corner of his mouth pulled up and twitched. He looked back at her. "Who are you?" He towered over her, though his voice was quiet, nearly a whisper.

She swallowed. "Tracy. My name is Tracy."

He breathed out slowly. "Do you know me? Have you ever seen me before today?"

His hand was on her shoulder now.

She shrugged. "Yes. No. Not... around here."

"Where then? When?"

"I can't... I don't know." She moved away from his touch.

The corner of his mouth pulled. "What do you remember?"

"Only... you talking about the man you were trying to rescue. And then I woke up. I was in my room."

She watched his eyes. He knew what had happened--he'd seen the same scenario she had--but he hadn't wanted to believe it. It fell outside his ordered universe.

"What are you doing," he asked, taking a step toward her again, "working for Krycek? He's a very, very dangerous man."

"I'm not. I'm just... It's just an errand. He needed help."

"The kind of help Krycek needs, you can't give him. Look, I can't emphasize enough how dangerous this man is." He paused. He was looking at her clothes. "If you need anything, a way to get to somewhere, money..."

She shook her head. "I have to do this."

"Why?"

"He needs it."

"What about what you need? Krycek is using you. You don't know who he is, what he's capable of."

She just looked at him. He could see it reflected in her eyes. She did know; she knew all too well. What he couldn't grasp is why she would stay with him, knowing it.

"He needs someone," she said, her lips unsteady. "You did."

He swallowed and took a step backward, his mouth struggling to straighten itself. She watched as he turned and strode across the square to the pay phone the note had instructed him to use.

 

 

There had been no tails. She'd watched the road behind them as Mulder drove and had seen nothing suspicious. They'd turned in the first car outside Baltimore, switched agencies and rented another. They should be completely untraceable...for a day or two anyway. And after that? But it was enough, this reprieve. She should take it and use it. Like Mulder had said, some things were simple. She'd spent a lifetime complicating them.

Scully let her hand run along the worn gray wood of the cabin's window frame and looked out across ridge after ridge of soft, hazy mountains. The air was still warm, a soft breeze coming in through the window, lifting her hair slightly from her face. She closed her eyes and let the air current play.

Footsteps came up the stairs.

"Jackpot," Mulder said, coming in and walking up to the next window. "Adjoining rooms. They're downstairs. They had two upstairs, separated. It might be quieter but I figured adjoining was better."

"You mean so if you find a really exciting TV special on Bigfoot you can come and tell me?"

He flushed. "Yeah. Something like that."

She was silent a moment. "It's so beautiful, Mulder, miles and miles, woods as far as you can see..." She turned to look at him. "But why would anyone build a house way up here, a hundred miles away from anything?"

"Maybe because it is so beautiful." He shrugged and half-smiled. "Hell, maybe the guy was watching for alien craft and everyone he knew laughed at him. Maybe he just wanted to get away."

She let her fingers travel the window ledge again. "Does it make you wonder who lived here, Mulder? Who they were and what their story was? A man tending a farm, growing crops and animals the best he could, a woman making butter and clothes..." Her throat tightened.

"...Drought, crop failures..." he said, not missing a beat, knowing exactly what she'd been thinking--what she'd left out. "Normal life?" he said softly, joining her at the window. He slipped an arm around her waist.

"Normal life." She let herself lean against his warmth.

"Want to walk, Scully? They wouldn't have built a house without a water source nearby. I bet there's a creek."

"Okay." She straightened. "It's so quiet. I think that's what I like the best."

 

 

"Good to get your call," the voice on the other end said.

"What do you want, Krycek?"

"To keep you out of prison blues for the next ten to fifteen years."

"Why?" Skinner looked across the square, to where Tracy lingered near the window of the map shop.

"Oh, I don't know. Seems like the right thing to do."

"I take it this is part of your own personal agenda, Krycek, since the man you work for is the one who set me up."

"Got to look out for yourself. He taught me that."

"Not interested."

"No? What? On your high moral ground? What's it going to get you, Skinner? A lot of years in a small cell. What can you do there?"

"I won't be your puppet, Krycek."

"Ten to fifteen. Think about it. You know what it's like to have your whole life programmed from the outside--when to eat, when to sleep, when to shit and shower? How old will you be when you get out?"

Skinner swallowed. "So what do you want from me and how are you going to keep me out?"

"There are a million ways to fight a conviction. Loss of evidence, a judge in your pocket..."

"Then what do you want from me? What's in this for you?" He looked across the square to the map shop. The girl was gone.

"There was a video recorder found in Mulder's old apartment. I want you to be the one who planted it."

Skinner's mouth tightened. "And why would I have done that?"

"Because you were concerned about Mulder's mental state. Because you were worried about whether he'd be stepping out of line outside office hours. You figure it out. A little creativity's worth a lot of years here."

Skinner breathed out. "It's a lopsided deal. What else are you looking for?"

"For the time being, nothing."

"And later?"

"I'll come up with something."

"It's a devil's deal."

"Hey, it's your life. You figure out what it's worth. You've got an hour. I'll call back then."

The phone went dead. Skinner held the receiver in his hand a moment and looked across the square into deepening shadows.

 

 

"It is beautiful. Did you ever play in the woods, Mulder, when you were a kid?" She stepped carefully between rocks near the stream.

"I guess you couldn't exactly call what we had woods. I visited Sherwood Forest once."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it was kind of a side trip. Some Oxford friends and I went to this town called Whitby, a little village on the eastern coast of England. The guy in Dracula--you know, the one who goes to the castle and discovers things are pretty squirrelly--was supposed to have come from there."

She gave him a look.

"And Sherwood Forest wasn't that far away. What?"

Scully suppressed a smile. "I want to cross the stream."

"You're just changing the subject."

"No, I want to. I want to see what's over there. Are you coming?"

"Yeah, if there's a decent place to cross. This is the only pair of shoes I've got."

"There are plenty of rocks. You've just got to walk carefully, test them first. Look, they're just like stepping stones."

"Scully the Indian guide."

She started carefully into the shallow water, going from one broad stone to another.

"Your feet are smaller than mine, Scully. You can find more rocks to step on."

"There are plenty, Mulder. Look here."

He followed her, stepping carefully, gauging his course from one to another. Clear, unpolluted water ran six inches deep between scattered rocks in a broad, shallow stream bed. Trees lined both banks, their canopies a clear, young green. Scully had reached the far bank. A small patch of grass spread near the edge and disappeared six or eight feet back into tangled vines. He watched his feet, gauging his moves like the moves of a chess piece, and stepped off onto the security of the grass. He was flushed suddenly, fine sweat covering him.

"You okay, Mulder?"

"Yeah, I just... You know how you feel for a while after a fever, the way you get this flush of heat every once in a while?"

"Why don't you sit for a minute?"

He sat on the grass. She put a hand against his forehead and then sat down beside him. From this angle the sun was beginning to sink below the treetops.

"Would you rather watch the sun go down from up above where you can see the ridge lines, Scully?"

She shook her head. He looked at her questioningly.

"It's--" She looked down. "When I was taken... where Duane Barry took me. It was--" She breathed out. "It was nearly sunset, in a place like this. It was part of this same range."

"Hey." He tipped her chin up softly with one finger.

She smiled and looked into the flowing water. He let his eyes fall closed. All around them was the spilling noise of the stream.

"You know, Mulder, I want to thank you. For making me do that, for making me go see my mother today. I think I would have... chickened out, just thinking about what my decisions have done to her, how they've changed her life."

"I didn't make you, Scully. I try not to crowd you."

She raised her eyebrows and then slowly shook her head. "I didn't mean that--what I said back there in the motel. I..."

"I know. I think you already told me."

She looked at him. The beginning of a smile was on his face. She blushed and turned away.

"But thank you, Mulder. I'm glad I have that memory to carry with me, seeing her..." She reached out, picked up a pebble and rubbed it carefully with her thumb. She turned it over and over and then tossed it lightly into the stream. It sank with a light 'plunk'. Water droplets rose from the place and fell again. She thought of slow-motion movies--water drops, thick like syrup, creating bowls where they hit, individual drops rising up slowly and cleanly like small balloons.

"Penny for your thoughts..."

"No, I..." She shook her head. "I'm just enjoying this." She gestured. "The trees, the water. No armed men jumping out of my closet, no going to your apartment and finding..." She stopped and traced a line in the sand between large pebbles.

"Let it go, Scully." His arm was on her shoulder now. "Just take this"--he gestured around them--"this, while you can. Come here."

He shifted and motioned for her to sit in front of him. She hesitated, then moved over his near leg and settled herself. His arms went around her waist and she let herself be pulled back against him. It was like the other night in his room, her with the blanket on, shaking, him burning up, nursing her pain in spite of his own.

"Close your eyes, Scully."

His words were close against her temple. She closed her eyes and let herself loosen. The stream poured its muted music in front of her. A cool dampness tinged the air now, settling a chill on her arms. Below them, under Mulder's arms, her middle was warm. The sweet scent of green growth filled the air.

"Mulder..."

"Shhh."

She settled again, let her thoughts dissolve. Leaves rustled in the breeze. Air wafted past her face, through her hair, near her ear. No, it was him.

She turned toward him. Mouths met, joined, lingered. Reached again. No warning bells, no jangling alarms. No need to pull back, only the need to go closer--don't hold back, Scully, he was saying without words. Come closer. And she did, eyes closed, loosening, like lying naked in sunlight after winter, warm and luxurious, her body softening, loosening. Come out and play, Scully. Wanting, breathless, warm, aching.

Her head spun. She worked to breathe, but his lips were a magnet, drawing her. Fingers filled with current traveled skin thirsty for touch, lazy, loosening, dangerous, welcome. Smiles bloomed. She was a flower, petals trembling.

Breathe. She reached for air, breathed him in.

"Mulder--"

"Shhh."

"Mul--"

"Mmm..."

Hands traced slow fire. She was a flower with petals falling open--soft, damp, tender. Trembling. Trust me, Scully. Wanting, aching.

Up.

He was lifting her, they were going, over the stones in the fading light, dreamlike, hazy, hurried, slow, hands clasped; lifeline. Up the stream bed, over rocks, upward on the small trail, panting, needing, stopping, pressed against a tree, smiles and wetness, hands and hunger; urgency. His hand, pulling her up the trail again--breathe--wanting, wanting to breathe him, have this. Have him.

Parking lot. Asphalt, feet moving, unfeeling, skimming distance, cold--cold air, arms cold--cars, focus, clarity. Doors: 7, 8, 9, 10, 11--hers.

They stopped. He nodded, questioning, silent, flushed. Needy. Eyes begging.

"Yours."

They moved again. Stopped. Keys, pockets, chilled air. Panting, cold. Door open, inside--burning warmth. Walking to the window. Clarity.

Clarity.

Hand against the glass, the door behind her closing.

Him, somewhere in the background, keys settling on a surface. Coming closer. A shiver. Pause: world suspended.

"Mulder, this is hard..."

Arms slipping around her waist, under her shirt, warm, steady; heat against her bare skin.

"No, it's not, Scully." Warm breath against her ear, making her body melt. "It's easy."

 

 

Skinner got up from the bench and walked the square again. He felt the weight of eyes on him, though there were none--not Krycek's, anyway. The girl could be watching. But no, she wasn't part of this. At least, not knowingly... and she seemed to know too much. Too deeply. 

She was just a ragged kid, a child.

Skinner shivered involuntarily and looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes. A quarter of an hour to decide his future and what options did he have? Give himself over to Krycek and hope for the best? He'd been under a thumb before; the Smoking Man had squeezed and squeezed. Like the mob, these people would bleed you forever, slowly but surely until you were drained. But the alternative? It left him nothing. Put away. Out of the way, no chance to make a mark, to atone... Mulder and Scully were still out there somewhere. The Cancer Man wanted them, too, and where would it all end if no one stepped out into the line of fire and made a stand?

The phone in the phone booth rang. He frowned and glanced at his watch. 6:50. It was like Krycek--to tighten the noose this way, calling early. He grimaced and sprinted for the phone.

"Yeah."

"You make up your mind?"

"How do I know you'll actually be able to do anything for me?"

There was a pause on the other end. "Guess you'll just have to trust me."

Skinner squinted toward the west, where the sun was sinking molten and fiery between two buildings. He took a breath. "Okay."

"Good choice. I'll be in touch."

There was a click and the phone went dead. Skinner remained where he was, lips pressed tight, phone held absently in one loosening hand.

Maybe there'd be a way to help the girl.

He'd tried to help Bronco. He could still feel the jolt of the bullets ripping into the kid's body.

 

 

Tracy paused in front of Alex's door, then knocked and turned the handle. Her charge was sitting on the edge of the bed, a cane in one hand, breathing back pain. He forced it away when he saw her.

"You get the food?" he said, his words tight and clipped.

She nodded and held out two cartons.

"Good. I need to take a couple of painkillers but I have to eat something first." He nodded toward the alcove at the end of the bed. "Bowls are over there."

She went to the alcove and got a bowl and a spoon.

"Some of each," he said, easing himself back onto the bed while she was turned around. She opened the cartons on the desk and put some of the contents of each carton into the bowl. It was Chinese and it smelled wonderful.

She turned and took the bowl to where he lay against the pillows. He had only one arm. There was just a stump of the left, cut off halfway between shoulder and elbow. She tried to look away but their eyes met. He shrugged and took the bowl.

"Get yourself some," he said, motioning toward the desk. "There's plenty. You probably haven't been eating too well out of those dumpsters and you've got more than just yourself to think about."

She lowered her eyes, went to the alcove and retrieved a second bowl and a plastic spoon. Moving to the desk, she spooned out some food, took it to the smaller desk and sat down. Delicious fragrances drifted up from the bowl. She took a bite, and then another, and then one more. She looked up. He was watching her. She tried to look away from the stump.

The room was stuffy, close. It had probably been closed up the whole time he'd been in the hospital. She took two more bites, and then another. She looked up and searched through the bag for a napkin.

"There are Cokes in the fridge," he said. "You should pick up some milk tomorrow."

She nodded. She looked into the bowl and filled her spoon again.

"Look--"

She looked up.

"This is stupid. One question each. You tell me about the kid and I'll tell you about the arm.  Get it out of the way."

She swallowed and nodded. "What happened?" she said.

"A group of guys in a forest in Russia cut it off. They were trying to save me from being used in medical experiments."

He watched her reaction. He was telling the truth, no matter how strange it sounded.

"What about the kid?" he said, nodding toward her.

"I.-- She put the bowl down. "I don't know. I don't... remember anything. Nothing." She looked at the rice grains in the bottom of the bowl. They always gave her 'the look' when she said it--the smirk, the 'wake up, clueless girl' look. Alex wasn't sneering, though; he was alarmed. She looked up.

"Come here."

She hesitated. He said it again.

She got up, crossed the room to the bed and sat down gingerly where he patted it. Her fingers curled tightly into her palms.

"No, turn." He gestured.

She swallowed and turned away. She could feel him move behind her, coming closer, then a hand touched the back of her neck. She tried not to flinch. Fingers brushed away her hair, careful, traveled the back of her neck lightly and then were gone. Relief she could feel flushed through him.

"What?" she said, half-turning.

"Nothing," he said, lying back against the pillows. He shook his head. "It was nothing."

 

 

Mulder shifted slightly and resettled his cheek against Scully's head. She was asleep, tucked against him; she'd been asleep for over an hour. He opened his eyes, lifted the blankets slightly and looked at the smooth, shadowed body of his partner. The bed smelled of sex, of her--of both of them mingled. He smiled and lay there listening to her breathing, feeling her warm and soft and smooth and alive against him.

It was a 'pinch me' moment, but if it was a dream he didn't want to know. Anyway, no dream could have brought him this stranger-but-better-than-fiction scenario, Scully finally walls-down, needy. Scully who trusted no one, opened up to no one, trusting herself to him.

 

 

Skinner stepped off the elevator and headed unseeing for his door. He bypassed a janitor polishing the floor, stopped in front of his apartment door and fished in a pocket for his keys.

"Krycek's gone, sir."

The voice came quietly from behind him. He turned to see the janitor and reddened.

"Do you think you could polish my entry with that thing?" he said, catching himself, projecting slightly.

"I think so, sir. I'll give it a try." Wilkins gathered his machine and the cord together and went through the door Skinner held open.

"I hate having to admit this but your philosophy of disguise is... disturbingly on target, Agent Wilkins," Skinner said, closing the door. "My apologies for not noticing you."

Wilkins shrugged. "A good disguise is one that works, sir." He paused. "I checked the hospital again tonight, sir. Krycek's gone. He was discharged early this afternoon. I guess we've lost him."

Skinner sighed and shook his head. "It's not quite that simple."

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: heron3@

Have learned it was AK who planted the device in your apartment. Now he wants to deal TinMan's freedom in exchange for TinMan taking the fall with his boss. He surely must be trembling like hell at the thought of that man. AK has been released from Fairfax and apparently--if this new development is any indicator--has lost little or no position or influence due to this ordeal. Respond if you're secure.

 

 

Scully picked up a pebble from beside Mulder's door and rolled it absently between her fingers. The sky was littered with stars. It had been years since she'd seen so many, galaxies and galaxies flung like dust across the face of matte-black heavens. In the west clouds were building, rising higher and higher into the sky, blotting out stars with their gray-white as they went. The step was cold underneath her. She shivered and pulled Mulder's shirt around her more tightly. Her stomach growled. She should shower. She should have showered when she woke up, Mulder lost in dreamy sleep. Somehow she didn't want to. She wasn't ready.

The door behind her creaked and opened a few inches. She turned around.

"What are you doing?" he said, stepping outside. He had just his jeans on. His hair was wild.

"Just sitting, looking at the stars." She looked up. He sat down beside her. "There aren't many places you can see this many."

He said nothing.

"Are you hungry, Mulder? I'm starving."

"A little. I guess I can wait till morning. There's a light on over there, in the restaurant, though." He pointed. "I bet they'd give you something if you asked."

"You mean if I went over and begged shamelessly, pleading raging hormones as a reason for not coming to dinner when they were open?" She shook her head and smiled, set a hand on his knee and looked toward the restaurant. "As a matter of fact, I think I will."

"Plead raging hormones?"

"No, try to get them to give me something." She stood. "Want to come?"

"No, I... It's probably better... you know, if we aren't seen together."

She nodded, stood and started toward the restaurant.

"Scully--"

She turned.

His voice was soft. He was standing in the doorway now.

"Scully, when you're done... come back and sleep with me."

Chapter 6

Saturday

 

Scully walked slowly across the parking lot toward the motel. Toward her room, or Mulder's. Come back, he'd said in that soft voice, the one he used like careful hands to cup something wondrous and fragile. Come back. Let me know it's real. Don't run.

He'd given the way he always did, unconditionally, and what had she offered him in return, aside from a body that cried out for his? She'd given only partially, body willing, mind silenced, heart trembling precariously at cliff's edge. He was her best friend. He was already there, in her heart whether she'd consciously admitted him or not. But there was reality to consider, the differences they both knew they had: hard science vs. his convictions, her belief vs. his incomprehension. Balanced meals vs. the year-old orange juice at the back of his refrigerator. And there was his all-engulfing passion. Would she lose herself in his love and then chafe, feeling restless and suffocated? And if she left him then? Would he deserve that? Would it break him?

She stepped between two cars that led her to her own door, a room she had yet to enter. She stood on the walkway, unwilling, and then turned, moving on, spanning the few steps to Mulder's door, to a window where her own hesitant fingerprints lingered on the glass. She stepped up, turned the handle and went into the warm darkness.

He rolled on the bed. "Scully?" He was half-asleep.

"It's me, Mulder."

"Mmm."

She took off her sweatshirt and hung it over the desk chair, cool air--then warmer air--touching her bare skin, caressing it. She looked toward the sound of his sleeping, swallowed and then approached. His clothes and her bra lay in a heap at the foot of the bed. She flushed, bit her lip and continued around to the far side. She watched him in the dark: wild-headed, passionate, exhausted. She pulled back the edge of the covers, reached for the snap on her jeans, undid it and slid down the zipper. She started to slip the jeans down over her hips, paused and looked again at Mulder's sleeping form. For the first night in too long he'd sleep well. She shifted her fingers, hooked her underwear with her fingertips and slid them down with the jeans. One step forward, knee on the bed, under the blankets, into the warmth. His warmth. An arm circled her and pulled her close, then drifted down her back and settled on her hip.

"They give you something?" he asked, his voice full of sleep.

"Yes." She let her head go against his chest. "Mulder..."

"Hmmm?"

"Mulder, you give so freely." She looked up. "What did I give you?"

He opened his eyes, blinking away the sleep. He smiled and then went serious, smoothing the hair back from her face with a warm hand. "You gave me your trust, Scully."

She swallowed. "Mulder, help me. Help me to do this."

 

 

Krycek woke to pain in his side. He tilted his head until he could read the alarm clock. 1:17. More than six hours; he should take another dose of the painkillers. But then he should eat something and he had no energy to poke around looking for food. He could always wait and not take the pill... No, not an option. The old man would expect him to call the girl, but it was the middle of the night and she was just a kid. A strange kid at that.

The room was stuffy and for some reason his body was clamoring for fresh air as much as for relief from the drumming in his side. Had to be a psychological thing, but he couldn't seem to get past it. The more he tried to push the sensation away, the more suffocated he felt. 

Slowly he eased himself up, breathed out and inched his way to the edge of the bed. The cane was a few inches away. He stretched carefully, touched it, reached... and watched it clatter to the floor. He closed his eyes, attempted to breathe away his frustration and opened his eyes again. Window. He took hold of the bed frame and eased himself up, waiting for the sudden flush of hot pain to pass.  

Carefully, he took a tentative step. Not great but he'd live. He took another step and another, grasping the headboard, easing himself around the end of it to the window. He let his right leg take the weight, turned the window lock, braced himself against the frame and pushed. Nothing.  He paused and pushed again. Nothing again, and then a sudden, searing pain. He panted quietly; he'd felt a tearing sensation in his side. And the damn window hadn't been opened since last fall. Might take a hammer and two working hands to get it operational in any event, and guess who didn't qualify?

The pain increased, throbbing. He took a step and reached for the headboard. A key turned in his door lock.

Sitting duck. 

He froze. If it was anyone but her, he'd be nothing more than a pathetic offering. He braced himself against the bed, arm shaking.

The door opened a few inches. "Alex?"

"Yeah."

"Do you need anything?" The door opened wider. The girl stood haloed in the hall light, peering into the darkness. "It's hot in here."

"I know. I was trying--" He gulped quick, shallow breaths.

She took a few steps inside and flipped the light switch.

"Don't."

Immediately the darkness returned.

"Here, I can get the window." She came closer, looked at him, quickly realized that he was stuck like a goddamn old man stranded without his cane. What the hell had the old man been thinking when he picked her up? There was no way to hide the pain now, and he couldn't move. She was looking up into his eyes.

"Alex, lean."

He stared at her, lost in the banging chaos inside him.

"Lean. Here." She was in front of him, a hand going around the back of his neck, pressing his head down against her shoulder. He didn't have the strength to move away. "Lean. Just stand a minute and we can walk you back." She let out a breath. "You need support over here, on your left side, but you've got nothing to lean on."

He breathed against her, his cheek pressed into her shoulder, letting it take the weight. For a moment the pain eased.

"Ready?"

"...Yeah."

They were moving, the girl inching backward, him leaning against her, the next best thing to a crutch on his bad side, his hand grasping at the bed's head board, fingers shaking. Step. Stop. Step. Around the corner. Almost.

Stop.

"Wait here, Alex. Can you hold just a second?"

He could only grit his teeth and nod against her. The pain echoed in every corner of him.

"Now you need to stand just a minute, and wait for me..."

Soft hands went against his chin and shoulder, lifting him. He tried to stand still.

"Okay, now here--" Her arm hooked under his armpit. "Now down, slowly. Let me do the work."

He couldn't do anything else. He let her.

He was sitting now, the bed under him. She moved the pillows up behind him and eased him down against them. He curled toward his right side.

"Alex."

He opened his eyes.

"Which is the pain medication?"

"The--" He tried to wet his parched tongue. Fuck, he couldn't stop shaking. "The smaller bottle. Small one."

She disappeared into the bathroom. His legs were awkward, hanging down over the edge. He couldn't lift them, didn't dare move for fear of the pain increasing.

"Here." She had a glass of water--his bathroom glass--and one of the painkillers.

He took the pill, hand shaking. She steadied the glass. He drank it down and lay back, eyes closed.

"...in a minute," she was saying when he surfaced momentarily from his haze. "Just give yourself a minute and then we'll put your legs up." She sighed. "You should have called."

"How'd you know?"

"My mom was an invalid for her last two years. I took care of her," she said. "She was a big woman. I learned to lift and do things--"

"No." He reached up and caught her wrist. "To come. How'd you know to come?"

She tried to shrug away. "I was just up. I figured I'd check--"

"You're a poor liar."

She turned away. "I know."

The pill was starting to take effect. He was beginning to feel thick and heavy. The pain began to recede, its place taken by fogginess. He still had her wrist; he could feel the wrist, though not his own arm. Then she was gone, slipped away. He caught sight of her at the window, pushing, nudging it up. Cool air flowed over him, chilling the sweat that covered his face. 

It felt so good. 

He ought to say something, thank her, but no words came.

He slipped into the haze.

 

 

"I don't know, Ralphy." Wilkins massaged Ralph's coat absently. "This is sticky shit, you know? I should write to Rita but what am I going to tell her? That we caught the killer but nobody'll bring him in and now he's gotten away?" He shook his head. "Waltzed off and now he's stringing the chief along, and Skinner's..."

He got up and went to the window. Ralph followed, tail wagging.

"He doesn't appear to have much choice, I guess. He knows what he's seen. Who am I to lecture him, this uppity new agent?"

Ralph put a paw up on Wilkins' knee. Will bent down and picked the dog up.

"You been gaining weight, old man? Guess I've been neglecting some of those walks we used to take. I'll be here tonight--promise."

Ralph's wet nose sniffed at his ear. Will grimaced.

"No kisses, man. We had a deal..."

Ralph looked repentant and settled his head on Will's shoulder, flashing his best bloodhound eyes.

"Guess I just wish everything was clear-cut, old man. You know--bad guys and good guys clearly labeled. One envelope of options labeled 'Right Things to Do', the other labeled 'Don't Go There'." He smiled ruefully. "Doesn't happen that way, does it? Maybe we'd just get flabby if things were that easy."

He rubbed Ralph's back and stared out the window. He could see his mother again, standing in the kitchen cooking pancakes, mountains and mountains of them with never a complaint. It was a gift.

 

 

A shaft of bright light glowed between the curtains.

"Mulder, it's morning, it's--" She rolled toward the nightstand where alarm clock numbers glowed red. "It's after eight." She sat up cross-legged and smoothed her hands back through her hair. She glanced toward her partner. He was lying with his back to her, facing the wall. "Don't we have to get going?"

He shook his head, refusing to open his eyes. "I told Rita a day or two. It'll wait. This is the first time"--a sigh--"the first time we've been halfway secure all week and you know we're going to have to watch our backs once we get to Owensburg." He rolled toward her. "I don't know about you but I'm not ready for it. Give yourself a day off, Scully."

"So you're just going to lie there and sleep all day?"

"I'm not sleeping. I'm just not opening my eyes."

"And you do this every morning?"

"No." There was a hint of a smile on his face. "Just today."

"Because..."

A warm arm reached out from under the covers and circled her waist. "Because if this is a dream, I'm not ready to wake up yet."

She flushed and looked at the light between the curtains.

"It's not a dream, is it, Scully?"

She didn't answer. His palm remained against her hip, hot against her cooling skin. She shivered.

"Come here, Scully," he said softly. "We've got all day. Take it easy while you can."

She glanced over at him and half-suppressed a smile. "Mulder, you are too looking--"

He raised his eyebrows and grinned. "Recklessly taking my chances."

The hand beside her was suddenly tugging, pulling her toward him. The covers were lifted and she was pulled in, rolling, over him, with him, to the far side of the bed.

"Mulder--"

She came to rest wedged against him, stomachs touching, chests, legs. She slipped an arm around his waist and closed her eyes. His fingers ran through her hair, smoothing it away from her face.

"You know, Mulder, the other night, when you were sick..." She paused and adjusted her breathing to match his. "I was... It seems silly now, because there was no evidence, no indication, but--"

"I know." His voice was suddenly solemn. His hand smoothed through her hair again and stayed there. "I felt it, too."  

His cheek settled against her forehead and he curled around her protectively. "We're here now, Scully. It's okay."

 

 

To: meremaid@

From: heron3@

Dear Mother J-

Just your sometimes-faithful reporter checking in. Things here have shifted a bit. The man involved with the Millers has been discharged from the hospital, at which point I lost track of him. Caught sleeping guarding the hen house, I guess, but he's still a player, having now dangled an offer of freedom in front of the chief in exchange for taking the fall for him on some apparently minor matter. Did verify that the chief had indeed been set up at the time of his arrest. I'd had no doubt about that anyway. Just doing a little time in limbo here, wishing, I guess, that life were a lot less complicated. Let me know if I can be of any further help to you.

                                                                                        -Will

 

 

"Scully--"

His arm stretched out full-length. She was off the bed now, her fingers slipping out of his. She shook her head. She was flushed, still breathing hard.  Beautiful.

"No, Mulder, I have to do this. I have to--" She struggled to wipe away the smile, to put on a straight face. "If I don't get up and go do something focused and productive, I'm going to--"

"...succumb to an unthinking existence of total, instinctive sensuality?"

She nodded, blushing. "Something like that."

She went to the window and looked out. He watched her, silhouetted by the light.

"It's raining, Mulder. Did you know it was raining?"

"I guess I heard it a little earlier." He smiled involuntarily. "I've been busy."

She turned. "I'm going to take that shower I've been meaning to take. Do you have my room key?"

"Door's unlocked," he said, nodding toward the door that joined their rooms.

"And my bag is..."

"Still in the trunk." He sat up. "Go on. I'll get it."

"Just leave it at the bathroom door, Mulder. No funny stuff." Her mouth was still half-open. She closed it, but it formed a smile. She went to the door and disappeared into the next room.

He watched her go. Surprising--that she hadn't rushed to cover up. It was nice. After he'd pulled her back under the covers she'd fallen asleep for maybe twenty minutes and then had wakened again, a small, warm bundle of drowsy-eyed, open-mouthed, unashamed need, a need she hadn't tried to hide this time, or rationalize away. 

Not that she'd changed from night to day; there was a war going on inside her head, a showdown between self and duty, need and self-control. Duty, responsibility, support, contribution, level-headedness:they were her framework, her structure. Now she'd faced another part of herself, realized it wasn't just weakness, or superfluous, and where did that leave her? Just how did she define herself where she was Dana Scully and not Special Agent Scully?

It wasn't something she'd take lightly and he couldn't afford to, either. She'd been fragile already, before they'd had to leave D.C., and then the stresses of running, hiding, the strain of insecurity had been added. He'd always taken it for granted--guarding her life, her mental well-being. Now there was more. Now he had her heart to guard as well.

Mulder crawled to the end of the bed, reached down for his jeans and set her bra aside. She'd be waiting for her clothes. She needed some space and maybe he should get some of his own--air his head out, make sure he wasn't pushing her. That he was thinking clearly, that all this wasn't going to his head, lulling him into a false security he could hardly afford to indulge for either of their sakes. Tomorrow was Kentucky--hiding again--and they'd be split up, this small, brief paradise just a tiny blip on the larger screen.

 

 

The old man let out a stream of smoke against the glass and looked out onto the street below. People moving, scurrying, absorbed in their small lives like ants, oblivious of the bigger picture. They were necessary for fulfilling the small tasks, the mundane, indispensable things like collecting trash and making the economy run: drones in the service of a larger plan. But without direction... Without someone with vision, all this would be for naught, vanished in a strange, barren landscape few of them would ever comprehend, much less survive.

He took another drag on the Morley, tipped his head up slightly and let the smoke billow out above him. Alex had been strangely silent on the subject of the woman who had shot him. He hadn't once asked about Mulder and Scully, or what avenues were being pursued to find them. Perhaps it was the effect of the injury--it was obviously extremely painful when Alex let the medication wear off too much, something he did with disturbing regularity; the white knuckles on the hospital bed railing hadn't escaped him. The girl would no doubt notice this sort of thing with that innate instinct women seemed to possess. She'd make him take his medication, keep him quiet and calmed as much as possible until his body mended.

Perhaps Alex's lack of concern about Mulder and his partner could simply be the effect of having been trained to the larger purpose. He knew instinctively, Alex did, that things were very seldom personal, that actions taken and consequences received were less often personal vendettas than mere intermediate actions designed to fulfill some larger goal, some more complex plan, in the same way Scully herself had lost her sister, or Mulder his father. Human beings were but small building blocks regardless of their illusions of greater grandeur.

He would visit Alex today, check up on the boy. Make sure there was nothing he was missing, that he wasn't seeing him through the rose-colored glasses of sentimentality.

 

 

To: TinMan@

From: heron3@

Do you know exactly what was on that tape of Ben's? Something compromising to the old guy at any rate--wasn't that the jist of things? If there's a copy somewhere (I can't see Ben not having made at least one), is there a chance of showing it to a panel or somebody upstairs who will listen? Just a thought, in case there's a way to get this monkey off everyone's back.

 

 

Krycek watched as Tracy eyed the contents of the small refrigerator.

"Ooh, yogurt.” She took a deep breath.

"Go ahead. Take one."

She turned and shook her head. "He got that for you, Alex. I've got my own money.  Anyway, I'm used to making do."

"Even when it's right there in front of you? Take one," he said.

"I could get another one to replace it," she offered, reaching toward the shelf.

"Just take it." He frowned.

She hesitated a moment and then picked out a tub of boysenberry yogurt, took a spoon from the box on top of the refrigerator and retreated to the small desk.

"You know, you've got that wheelchair," she said as she stirred the contents of the tub, nodding toward the chair behind the door. "The back reclines some; I checked it. You may not want to use it, but--" She looked up at him. "It might be safer--you know, than what you were doing last night."

He grunted and shifted his gaze to the ceiling.

"I could take you outside if you want.  A change of scenery can be a good thing."

"I don't go out. I keep a low profile." He turned toward her. "You know, you never answered me last night. How did you know to come down here?"

Tracy stared into the creamy purple contents of the little tub on the desk.

"Come on..."

She put the spoon down and rubbed one hand with the other. "I just know." 

"What do you mean, 'know'?"

"It's a feeling--the kind of thing that nudges your mind."

"So you just got this' nudge' to come down here and check on things at 1 a.m.?"

"No."  She set the spoon down.  "Your pain was like a howling in my head.  It woke me up."  She grimaced, remembering. "And no, I didn't come down here just to make the noise stop. You helped me once. I owe you for that."

Had he accused her out loud?  No, he hasn't said a damn word.  Which meant... 

Fuck. 

Silence swallowed the room.  On the bedside table the alarm clock ticked a muffled rhythm into the still air.

"I try not to let it out," she said finally, resigned. He refocused.  "But I'm no good at hiding it.  It's the beginning of the whole miserable cycle."

"Cycle of?"

"People find out and they--" She turned to look out the window. "They look at you differently. Freak show.  And then they get scared that you're going to expose things inside them they don't want anyone to see. Like you were going to strip them naked." She sighed. "Or they want something from you. They want to know things. They just want to use you." She turned back to face him, despair tingeing her face. The corner of her mouth twitched.

Krycek cleared his throat.  "And  what? You've always been like this--able to see or feel or whatever it is you do?"

She nodded. "My mom had a touch of it, too. She knew how people are, so she kept me close to home, to shelter me from all that. But then she died a year ago and I went to live with my aunt and uncle and"--she shrugged--"I wasn't used to hiding it. People found out, or they started stories, and..." She gave him a guileless, straightforward look. "And that's why I left Elleryville. I had to get away."

"And you came here. Why?"

She shrugged. "I didn't know. It was just a strong feeling I had." She smiled ruefully. "I figured it had to be right, because it sure wasn't what I would have picked--all the noise and crowds and traffic." 

She picked up the spoon and began to eat.  Krycek stared up at the cracks in the ceiling and exhaled sharply.  The old man had picked a real prize this time.  Whether he knew what he'd gotten was a whole different matter.

"I know just the place for you," her voice came a few moments later.  He glanced toward the desk.  "Have you been up on the roof?"

He shook his head.

"There's a patio up there. Nothing fancy, just a space you can be in, but it's quiet. Private. The top of your tree is up there"--she pointed to the narrow window with the spoon--"and it makes kind of an umbrella over the corner of the roof. It's nice under there." She dipped her spoon into the tub again and took another bite. "The elevator goes up to my floor and then it's just twelve steps up, I counted them. We could take the chair in the elevator to my floor.  Then I just pull the chair up the stairs backwards from there. I've done a lot of that before, and my mom's chair was the heavy old steel kind." She glanced toward the one behind the door. "This one's amazing. It's aluminum. It hardly weighs anything." She looked distant for a moment.

"I'm not going to have you hauling that much weight--"

"My mom was a big woman, Alex.  Besides, I'm strong." She looked straight at him. "I can do it."

 

 

Mulder tapped on the e-mail program and waited for it to load. There was a message to send to Rita and it would be a way to focus, as Scully said, on something beside... He worked to force the grin from his face. It was hard to do, and didn't they deserve a grin or two after all this time--all these years? But contacting Rita was critical, and it would be a way to keep some perspective. He paused, set his fingers at the keyboard and began to type.

To: meremaid@

From: DaddyW@

Taking a little more time than expected. I believe we haven't been traced and the idea of a day or two of not looking over our shoulders is… The truth is, we could really use the breather right now so it may be another day before we reach you. A quiet environment for Annie would be ideal, whatever you can work out. She's been under a lot of stress in the past weeks/months and could use the chance to rebuild. Anything will do for me. Thanks for your generosity. It's always nice to know the porch light's on.

                                                                                     -Ben

He hit 'send' and waited. The phone line gurgled and whistled and the transfer was made. One message out, one in; he clicked on it. It was from Wilkins. Krycek was out of the hospital and trying to work some kind of influence over Skinner.

Mulder breathed out, hit the shutdown button hard, and pushed back from the desk. He got up and searched through his bag, looking for the blue flannel shirt. Socks and T-shirts flew out onto the bed. Just one day, one single fucking day without having to think about Krycek or Smoky or hiding or running or keeping her--keeping them--two steps ahead of disaster: it wasn't so much to ask. It was what had made Scully wonder about the people who'd lived in the cabin. She'd known it wasn't a perfect life. She knew it was hard and unpredictable. But it was nothing like this.

He sat on the edge of the bed and laced up his running shoes. A run would feel good right now, all exertion and predictable rhythm, forward motion and...

Forward motion. That said it all.

 

 

To: heron3@

From: TinMan@

Nice try with the tape. Unfortunately the Old Guy has over half the members of any potential panel securely in his pocket. Trying to get anything through it is like walking a minefield; I believe that's what Ben ran into when he tried to present the tape himself on Monday. Remember not to let your interest in this matter take your focus from your official duties. Your access is at stake here.

 

 

Scully stepped carefully among the rocks beside the stream, looking down, watching her feet, watching the rocks pass beneath her. She felt her breathing, her movement, her body. Odd how this had heightened that simple awareness of being a body, a physical person: breathing, movement, muscles, skin. As if her body had suddenly become more than itself, supersensitive, swollen with its own sensuality. Her jeans moved against her but what she felt was Mulder--close, breathing, his skin grazing hers. She looked up, into the mist, and quickened her pace.

Water dripped from leaves overhead, each one trembling with the weight of perfect drops until finally the weight became too much and the leaf bent, tipped, drops running together, mingling, falling. The only sounds were the sounds of water: rushing through rocks, gurgling, dripping. Then something else--a voice. Several voices. Young voices. She looked up. Two children were hovering near the stream looking down at something, a younger one, a tow-headed little girl of perhaps five, letting herself lean backward from a tree trunk, eyes closed, long blonde hair dangling behind her.

"Hello."

The oldest child, blonde-haired boy of eleven or so, looked up first. "Hi."

"What are you doing?"

"Making a water wheel." He paused. "Well, getting it to work, anyway."

"It's all in where you put it," the other one said, looking up from under a nearly shoulder-length headful of dark, unruly curls. It was a girl, probably a year younger than the boy.

"Maybe what you need is to adjust the water flow coming toward your wheel," Scully said, bending down to look. "It's a very nice model. Did you make it?"

"He made most of it," the girl said, nodding at her brother. "He's the artist. I'm just the brains."

Scully smiled. "And you live around here?"

"At the motel," the boy said, pointing up the hill. "Our parents are the managers."

"It's a beautiful place to live. Pretty far from school, though, I bet."

The boy smiled. "We homeschool. This is it." He gestured around him.

"So this is a school project..."

"Yeah, kind of. I guess so."

"Brent's going to make this whole village"--the girl nodded at her brother--"a historical villa, and I'm going to make it work."

"Sounds like you'll learn a lot."

"Are you staying here?" the girl said. "At our motel?"

Scully nodded. "Yes. Just a little vacation, a... change of scenery."

"Where are you from?" Brent said.

"Wa... Boston. I've been living in Boston for a while now. I haven't been here--out to the mountains--for a long time now." Scully's lips pressed together.

"What did you mean about the water flow?" the girl said.

Scully bent down over the water wheel. "Do you see how all this water is rushing by on either side? And it has some strength, this current that you have, but if you channel it, make it all run in a narrower area, the force of the water will be greater, probably enough to make your wheel turn."

 

 

I spent nearly an hour with Brent and Cory and their younger sister Tara, showing them how the stream's flow could be changed to fit the requirements of their waterwheel, helping them to reshape the stream bed. The work was what I needed, a focus away from myself, away from my body and Mulder, from the overload of what had happened the night before and the burden of the problems we'd brought with us. The children were eager learners, bright and involved and most of all, unburdened by the kinds of problems that had become such givens in my life that I'd almost forgotten how very foreign they would seem to anyone else.

Watching Cory, I saw my younger self, eager to understand the workings of the world around me, ready to forge a plan and make a mark. The little girl, Tara, was a free spirit--looking for frogs, singing to herself, spinning circles around the smooth trunk of a young tree and laughing at the dizziness it caused. I tried to remember what it was like to feel that free, to know with assurance that life was a joy and not a burden.

 

 

Tracy set her bag of groceries in front of Alex's door and paused. The key was... But she wouldn't need it. Alex was there, and he wasn't alone. The dark man was there--her employer. She picked up the grocery bag, started toward the stairs that led to her own room and then stopped. She was supposed to be here. She turned back to the door and knocked softly. "It's me, Alex."

"Come."

She opened the door. The sharp scent of smoke filled the room. Alex's father was sitting on the desk chair, looking like a polite visitor, a cigarette in his hand, an ashtray on the desk beside him. He nodded at her as she came in.

"I got your things," she said, and went quietly to the refrigerator to put them away. She wanted to be somewhere else--anywhere would do. She put the food in the refrigerator and took the rest of the things into the bathroom. He'd noticed, Alex's father had. He'd noticed her work, straightening, organizing. He was pleased, but most of all he was pleased with himself for knowing enough to pick the right one. He was prideful of his skill.

"...haven't had any luck at all finding Mulder and Scully," the old man was saying now. "We've gone through every flight manifests, every rental agency record..."

"Mulder's no fool." It was Alex's voice. "He'll figure out a way to get out of town if he has to. Scully was kind of... off balance. Probably spooked him. Hell, they could have left D.C. in the back of a delivery truck and there'd be no way in the world to track them."

Alex talked logistics but he was thinking about the two people, about how Mulder depended on Scully, and how far he'd go to protect her. Tracy came to the door of the room and hesitated.

"Possibly. In any event, Scully's become a definite liability." The old man took a drag on the cigarette. His lips curled slightly. Smoke billowed out from between them. He smiled. "Or, in our case, an asset. She's always been a convenient tool for manipulating her partner."

"Yeah, except that if Mulder wins, we lose ground. She's a motivator for Mulder."

"True. True." He noticed Tracy in the doorway and waved her in. "Have a seat."

He got up from the chair and offered it to her. A quick stab of alarm ran through Alex, though on the surface only a small movement of his mouth gave anything away. Tracy went to the chair and sat down on it sideways, gripping the chair back with one hand.

"I think I may have a way to flush them out of the woodwork, though," the old man went on, his manner confident. "One at a time. If I can get Scully, then I've achieved two objectives. I will have eliminated Mulder's aid, and undoubtedly he'll come after her.  He always does."

"Yeah, but how are you going to get her to leave him?"

"I'm sure if there were a family emergency... say, if her mother were to have a health crisis"--the cigarette went between his lips and was removed a second later--"she'd be more than willing to leave. Quite often a person needs something to go to, not just a reason to leave where they are, especially if they're content."

"Mulder'll know it's a setup."

"Quite possibly. But it's not likely to stop her." He shrugged. "It may even drive a wedge between them, her wanting to rush to her mother's aid, him begging her not to. Could be effective. Very effective."

"Maybe." Alex was frowning, though the old man didn't notice.

 

 

Scully went up the back steps to the old cabin and through the doorway. Through the two windows at the front, ridgeline after ridgeline melted into the distance--an impressive sight when it had been visible. Now everything past the first line of mountains was shrouded in fog and mist. Still, it was beautiful, peaceful country. She went to the window ledge and looked out.

"Mulder?" He was sitting on the steps below the broad front porch.

He turned and smiled at her. "I figured you might end up here eventually."

She went to the front door, opened it and went out onto the porch.

"It's quiet," he said.

"Yes, it is."

She sat down on the step behind him. His hair was damp from more than just the mist drifting by. "Have you been out running?"

"Yeah," he said, not turning around this time. "Running, running away... Or maybe just wishing I could."

"Did something happen?"

"We got an e-mail from Wilkins. He said Krycek's gone from the hospital and now he's trying to bargain with Skinner for his freedom... if he'll take the fall for him on that recorder he put in my apartment." He let out a heavy breath. "What the hell was Krycek doing watching me, Scully?"

"I..." She shook her head. "I'd say he has some sort of... fascination with you, Mulder. You are related. Though I've never seen Krycek as the sentimental type..."

"Yeah, well I don't really want to think about it." His head went down. "Actually, I don't want to have to think about any of this. Maybe I just need a break, Scully, I don't know." He breathed into cupped hands. "I'm not going to check my mail again until we're ready to leave here."

"Mulder--" She put her hands on his shoulders.

He leaned back against her and she slipped her arms around his neck. He looked up. "Hope your morning was better."

"I re-engineered a river."

He turned to look at her.

"There were some children--the managers' kids. They'd built a waterwheel and were trying to get it to work in the stream. I"--she smiled--"spent an hour getting dirty, freezing my hands, moving rocks and watching the kids. I almost felt like a kid myself."

"Then it was a good thing, Scully."

She smoothed her fingers through his hair and looked out across the mountains.

"Yes, it was. I think I've gotten so bogged down in all of this... and you lose perspective, you forget that there's joy in life, that there's spontaneity, freshness. That raindrops fall from leaves overhead and when they hit you it's something to laugh about." She paused. "You should have seen that little girl, Mulder. You would have liked her."

"I kind of like the one I've got," he said, looking up at her.

He closed his eyes. She smoothed his hair back again and let her lips rest against the top of his head.

"Scully, if you were stranded in a deserted, bleak landscape, bad guys hot on your trail, your future looking like shit, and you could take just one other person with you, who would it be?”

“You, Mulder.” She smiled into his hair. “Only you.”

She tightened her arms around him. His hands went over her arms, warm and steady. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, in and out in the warm darkness, her rhythm against his reassuring, close, as if the whole world were concentrated inside the circle of her arms.

 

 

Krycek held his breath for a few moments, listening to the receding footsteps in the hallway outside. Finally he relaxed against the pillow. Another inspection passed. Hopefully he hadn't blown it, or given anything critical away. The old man still hadn't said a word about the recorder. It made him jittery.

The desk chair squeaked and he glanced toward it. Tracy sat with her head down, her long legs resting on a rung on the side of the chair.

"Why do you do it, Alex?" She looked up. "Why do you do what he asks you? Just because you're afraid of him?"

"I'm not afraid."  He frowned.

"Yes, you are."

Her words came out without anger or malice. Probably it was her... whatever it was she did, or saw, so it would be useless to argue with her. His jaw set and he looked away, at the corner above the window at the foot of the bed.

"Sorry, Alex."

A cobweb dangling from the molding moved slightly with the current of air.

"It's none of my business." She paused. "I got all your things--the ones you asked for at the market."

"Thanks."

Pale gray clouds drifted by outside the window, visible between the slightly waving leaves of the tree. It was getting warm. It would end up being hotter than yesterday.

"Is there anything you need, Alex?"

"Don't think so."

"Then I'm going to go up to my room to rest for a while." She looked up. "I've got the pager." She pulled it from her sweater pocket. "You can call if you need anything."

She got up from the chair and pushed it in under the desk, then picked up the ashtray and took it into the bathroom. The toilet flushed and he could hear water running. She came back through the doorway, set the clean ashtray on the desk top and went to where her backpack lay on the floor beside the door. She picked it up and reached for the door handle without looking back.

"Tracy--"

She looked up but didn't turn.

"Thanks for the help last night."

She nodded, opened the door without speaking and went out.

 

 

Mulder fished in his pocket for the room key. She'd said she was tired and was going to rest. The mist had retreated to a place beyond two ridge lines but the sky was still overcast, the air warmish and humid. He put his key into the lock and turned it. She wasn't here. He went inside. His bag was on the bed the way he'd left it, shirts and socks still scattered on the spread.

"Scully--"

The bathroom door stood open but the room was dark inside. He went to the door that separated their rooms and turned the handle carefully. A small mass was visible under the covers in the semi-darkness. He walked quietly to the bed. She lay facing the far wall.

"Scully--"

"Mmm."

"Just... just wondering where you were." He sat down on the edge. "Everything okay?"

A hand reached back to find him and touched his leg. "I'm okay, Mulder. Just a little sleepy."

"Okay." He leaned over and brushed her temple with his lips. "Yell if you need anything."

"Mmm."

He smoothed a hand over her shoulder and stood. It was a strange mood, strange atmosphere that had suddenly infused everything, like a sudden change in the weather. Something hollow if not exactly threatening, empty where there should be fullness. It was their day of safety and the place was beautiful. Somehow it should feel different.

He walked to the door and closed it quietly. It was dark, almost as dark as night except for the bright gray light coming through the narrow slit where the curtains met. Where she'd stood last night, waiting. He sat down on the edge of the bed and started to put his clothes back into the bag.

A knock came on the door. He went to open it.

"Could we make up the room now?"

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Sure. Go ahead."

He opened the door wider, let the two women in and stepped out into the parking lot. She hadn't gotten anything to eat. Maybe there was something he could find to bring back to her.

 

 

To: Cranesbill@

From: DaddyW@

Thought I'd drop you a line and let you know we're still safe so you won't worry--not as much, anyway. Thanks for all your support. It means a lot, especially now, to know we're not facing this alone. I think Annie is making some progress--that's a positive. Let me know if Smoky tries to contact you again. With any luck he'll leave you alone, but if not I'll do whatever I can to help out. Thanks, too, for coming downstairs the other night and spending some time. I'll be in touch.

                                                                         -Kid in the Plaid Shorts

 

 

Krycek eased himself a few inches to one side, stopping as soon as a twinge of pain flared. Lying around was losing its charm... if it had had any in the first place. He'd memorized the cracks above the windows, the patterns the leaves cast at different times of day, the floating handiwork of spiders.  Aside from the three or four slightly varied positions he was comfortable in, his days consisted of trips to the bathroom, pain, the constant nagging in the back of his mind about the recorder from Mulder's apartment, more pain and the kid. 

Who knew how much information she was pulling out of his head.  It was unnerving, but on the other hand, she was helpful and he was stuck with her.  She seemed to have no love for the old man, either.  If she could see inside him... well, she didn't seem like the type who'd cooperate any more than Scully'd been willing to rat on Mulder when they brought her onto the X-files. At the best moments the kid seemed like a lively intrusion, like a pup who comes up to you in a park, tennis ball in jaws, wagging his tail. Her confrontation could be a pain... or maybe not any more of a pain than the things his own mind could come up with. Nobody told him he was scared. Nobody asked him why.

She didn't have much of a future now, though--not since the old man had invited her in and then talked in front of her.  There was no need for that.  Should have kept his damn mouth shut. 

But then it was probably a given from the start that she'd be dead when this assignment ended. The old man wasn't likely to get someone for a job like this and then let them go, free to spread what they knew. It was nothing personal.

Krycek's grip tightened around a handful of sheets. It was no surprise, really, from a son of a bitch who'd handed his own daughter over to be cloned, a girl less than half Tracy's age. And if he'd kept her near that Air Force base he'd been sent to check out in '91, then it wasn't any group of aliens working on her, taking her apart piece by piece. 

She'd run in the end. Why else would the old man have had him looking into the deaths of unidentified children in the area?

Good for her. The old man deserved that.

She deserved it for herself.

Krycek slammed his fist into a convenient pillow and set his jaw.

 

 

Sandy watched from her perch on a kitchen stool as Heather Barker drifted from one window to another. She seemed as if she were on a permanent search for someone or something she'd lost, like a ghost or spirit, only visible. Whatever she was looking for, she never seemed to find it.

"Do you want me to make some pudding?" Sandy spoke up, anxious to be doing something. The little boy--Adrian--had asked for pudding.

Heather turned toward her, her face brightening. "That would be good. That's a good idea."

She had a nice smile. Her smile made her look alive again.

"Can you show me where the ingredients are? Do you usually make it from scratch?"

Heather puzzled a moment, then smiled again. "Adrie knows," she said. "Come on, Adrie."

Adrie looked up from his wooden trucks on the floor. He took the hand his mother offered and went with her to the pantry. It was a big kitchen, an old country kitchen with knotty pine panels and windows that looked out onto a broad, leafy woods. It was a beautiful setting. Sandy waited and watched a squirrel balancing on a tree branch outside.

Something tugged on her shirt. Adrie looked up, eyes big but restrained. "Mom's lost again," he said.

He led Sandy to the pantry. Heather was looking out a small window, talking quietly to herself, her thick yellow-blonde braid trailing down her back. Sandy swallowed and made herself move forward. She bent down to the boy.

"Do you know where the things are, Adrie? To make the pudding? Maybe we can surprise your mom. What do you think?" She forced herself to smile.

The boy nodded. "I know. I know where they are. Here..."

He took Sandy around the pantry, finding cornstarch and vanilla and sugar and salt. She gathered them and took them to the kitchen table.

"You gonna help me, Adrie?" she said. "I bet you're a good cook."

He looked at her and nodded slowly.

"Does your mom have something to stir with?"

Adrie went to a drawer and came back with an egg beater.

"Good. Now we're going to measure these things, and we're going to mix them..."

"I got a stool to stand on..."

"Good. Get your stool. You can show me how to do this mixing."

 

 

To: buzz38@

From: 03224@

I have a job for you. Will leave instructions at the usual spot. Don't fail me.

 

 

"Mulder--"

He rolled toward her voice and opened his eyes. She was standing beside the bed, tentative, wearing an oversize T-shirt that would have held at least two of her.

"Hey--" He stretched a hand toward her.

She sat down on the edge of the bed.

"What's up?" he said.

"Nothing really. I was just..." She pursed her lips. "I think I was lamenting my loss of time--the fact that we've got this... this breather... and all I can do is worry about tomorrow." She shook her head and smiled. "I figured if you were doing the same thing we might as well do it together."

"Yeah, I haven't been doing much better." He nodded toward the mattress. "They made up the room and then I just sacked out." He ran a finger along her leg. "I picked something up for you at the restaurant. You hungry?"

She smiled briefly. "Maybe so."

"It's in the fridge," he said. "Yogurt and some fresh fruit. I didn't know what else to get."

He watched her go to the refrigerator, disappearing into the shadows and then reappearing again with a styrofoam bowl. He pushed back the covers and she sat down cross-legged on the bed.

"Mmm. It's good. Where do they get melon this early?"

He shrugged. "California. Mexico."

She picked up a strawberry, took a bite and paused. "You know what worries me the most, Mulder?"

"What?"

"What we're going to be able to do that has meaning. Just running--" She shook her head and looked toward the window. "I need something to get out of bed for in the morning."

He made no reply. She turned back and caught him trying to squelch a smile.

"I need meaning, some kind of..." She was blushing now. "...larger purpose. What?"

"You should see yourself, Scully."

She pursed her lips, forced the excess color from her face and picked up a chunk of watermelon. "Do we have napkins, Mulder? This is messy." She licked the trailing juices from her fingers.

"I got rid of them all so I could watch you do that."

She gave him a look, but it was a different look this time, smug. She picked up a piece of pineapple and looked out the window. She ate it slowly, in tiny bites, tearing off small bits with her teeth. When she was finished she licked the juice from her fingers. Very slowly.

"Scully, did I ever tell you you're the bravest woman I know?"

"What, because I slept with you?" A pause and her face clouded. "Mulder, I didn't... I didn't mean that." She watched him for a reaction, cautious. After a moment one corner of her mouth pulled up.

"What?" He frowned.

First her face colored. Then she smiled. Then she laughed. "Mulder, you should see yourself--"

"What?"

She tried to wipe the smile from her face but it was no use. She laughed again.

"Hey, Scully, this is no way to treat a guy--"

She only laughed. "You should. You should see your face, Mulder--your expression. You have the most--" She laughed again. She laughed until she toppled over on the bed.

"You're going to hyperventilate, Scully."

She was pointing. "I had you, Mulder. I did. I got you." She was still laughing, dissolving into giggles.

"No. I got you." He reached for her and pulled her under the covers, still sputtering.

"No fair, Mulder. No fair." Her cheeks were flushed. Her chest heaved with every breath. The smile remained on her face. "...No fair."

"Oh, so now you want fair?"

She gave him a look and bit her lip. "Maybe."

 

 

Krycek set a book over the edge of the napkin to hold it and then wrote carefully, trying not to press hard enough to make the fragile paper skitter away from the pen. It wasn't a great neighborhood--it wasn't a safe neighborhood for a kid like her--but she was there to help him, wasn't she? That's what the old man had hired her for. And there was no one else to send on this little errand.

He stopped and lay back and stared at the ceiling.

 

 

"Are you sure..." His mouth was close. She could feel his breath. "...that fair is what you want, Scully?"

She could almost taste him. She squirmed and tried not to give herself away.

"Well, 'fair' this--"

Contact, soft and wet. Current spread through her, then dropped right through the center of her body.

"Mulder.. Mmm..." She pushed on his shoulders and then pulled, bringing him down against her. His lips left her mouth and drifted to her cheek, her temple, her ear. She shivered, caught her breath and cupped his face with both hands.

"What?"

"You like this, don't you?" she said. "This power you have over me."

"I cannot tell a lie." He kissed the palm she held against him.

"Just a kiss here, a touch there, and you've got your weak-kneed little partner feeding out of your hand."

He pulled back. The light in his face was gone now.

"Mulder, I--"

He rolled off her and let his head fall onto the pillow. He stared at the wall above the headboard, his mouth small and tight.

"Mulder, I didn't mean it that way. I didn't mean those things the way they came out."

She reached toward him, paused and let her hand fall onto the bed. It was too hard, too awkward. It was what she'd always feared. Everything had changed. Doing this had changed everything. She ventured a glance beside her. Mulder lay there like stone, his eyes shining from too much moisture.

"Mulder, I'm sorry. I think I was just... defending myself from... I think I'm scared, a little, of what this does to me, even though... I like it. It's beautiful."

Silence. The too-cool air from the air conditioner surrounded her, an amniotic sac of chill and emptiness. A hand came to rest against her waist. She took it and felt it circle her and pull her back to nest against the warmth of his body. She swallowed.

"Scully, you know"--his voice was gritty--"I would never do anything--anything--to compromise you..."

She nodded. "I know, Mulder. I do. I do trust you." She sighed. "I think it's just me I don't trust sometimes. And I panic, and then I say things that end up hurting you. I don't mean to, Mulder. I love you; I wouldn't..."

She stopped. The noise of the air conditioner filled the room, laboring on and on. He didn't move. She didn't speak. There was a kiss against the back of her neck, soft, and his arm tightening around her. She closed her eyes.

 

 

Tracy looked out the bus window at the passing buildings. It was one of those old, tired neighborhoods that had gradually come undone, where the vitality had left to take refuge in some more outlying area and now only the weary skeleton remained. The lamp posts were ornate, with shaped bulbs at the top of slim, ridged green poles. Brick buildings stood shoulder to shoulder with the occasional gap where one had been torn down, or had finally given up on life. Trash clustered in small piles near the curbs.

It was the next stop; Alex had given her explicit directions when she'd gone downstairs to answer his call. She was to take the bag--just an ordinary brown lunch bag with a beer and a napkin inside--to the bearing factory and leave it with Raul. There was a separate envelope for Raul which she had in her pocket. That was it. Just give it to Raul and come home. She knew where the stop was, that the bearing factory was two doors down from the corner on the left, that the street was one-way and that she could catch the bus back just around the corner and to the right half a block.

It was another of Alex's 'errands'--some kind of scheming, a plan to get him somewhere, to stay one step ahead of his father, to keep on running so he could... keep on running, endlessly going and going, motivated by fear, by the bitterness of his life and the way the old man had shaped and used him. And by the vision of a bleak future that scared him even more than his father did. That future--changing it, catching it before it exploded in his face--was what he lived for, even though he dreaded it. It was a puzzle, so empty and devoid of meaning.

Tracy stood and waited for the bus to pull over. She'd opened up the bag. It wasn't really cheating because Alex knew she'd figure it out anyway, written or not. The beer can was actually unopened--an advance of sorts, she guessed--and the napkin, unfolded, had instructions written on the inside: the bald man's name and a date--last Saturday's--and a time close to midnight. It was evidence he wanted gotten rid of, the evidence his father had planted to get Skinner out of his way. The envelope Alex had given her for Raul was sealed. She left it alone.

The bus stopped and Tracy went down the stairs behind an old woman with a dark-eyed little girl in tow. The girl kept looking backwards, up the stairs, as the old woman tried to coax her down to the street. The sign Alex had told her about was sticking out from the edge of the building; she could see it as she stepped onto the sidewalk. 'Universal Bearing' it said in faded paint. There was a globe behind the lettering in blues and greens. She waited for the bus to pull away, checked for traffic and started across the street. It wasn't a good neighborhood. He'd had his doubts about sending her here but had finally figured she'd look innocuous enough. She'd fit in. And he needed the message delivered.

The entrance was in a tired parking lot to the side of the building. A broad, wooden sliding door gave entrance to a darkened workshop where rows and rows of crankshafts stood on end on the floor like strange metallic plants springing from greasy ground. The building smelled of oil and machinery. There was a table to the left, an ancient picnic table with crankshafts for legs, where two men sat.

"I'm looking for Raul." She tried to make her voice strong.

The older man nodded at her and smiled. "You ask right over there, young lady." He pointed at a service counter on the other side of the door.

She swallowed carefully and walked to the counter. A man in the dingy office area beyond looked up from a darkened desk.

"Yeah?"

"I brought this for Raul."

The old man behind her was watching her, or more accurately, sizing her up as he might a steak. The younger one with him seemed only marginally less interested. Tracy tapped her fingers on the counter and shifted from one foot to the other.

"He's upstairs," the man said. "Hold on. I'll get him." He picked up an old brown phone. "Raul, you got someone down here for you. Yeah." He paused. "Yeah, okay."

He looked at Tracy. "He'll be a couple a minutes."

"Thanks." She made herself smile.

She turned back toward the two men. Predictably, they turned back to their work at the table. She could only see partway back into the dimness beyond them. The walls were of old brick. Above them arched a wooden framework in peeling white paint, as if the building might have been a barn at one time. Something about the place--the darkness and the brick and the ancient furniture--reminded her of old movies about gangsters. But they were like gangsters--Raul would be. He and Alex were the modern-day equivalent.

Footsteps came down the old green-painted stairway. Tracy turned to see. Raul wasn't expecting anyone. He looked at her curiously.

"Oh," she said, remembering suddenly, and handed him the envelope from her pocket.

He took out the note and read it. He appeared to be about thirty, with dark hair slicked back, not dirty like the other men but wearing the same uniform-blue pants and shirt. He seemed ordinary. After a moment he looked up. Tracy pushed the bag across the counter to him.

"Thanks. Come on," he said, nodding toward the street. "I'll show you where to catch the bus."

Tracy swallowed and flushed. Her heartbeats were faster now. She made herself move, trailing Raul, heading out into the late afternoon brightness.

It's not far," Raul said, looking back at her. Inside, he was mildly puzzled in an amused sort of way.

Tracy breathed out and counted the sections of paving in the sidewalk. Stairways disappeared up into shadow in the centers of buildings. An old man sat in near the curb on one set of stairs, nursing a cigarette.

"It shouldn't be long." Raul's voice was pleasant. He wore a wedding ring. He nodded into the distance. "There. There it is now. You lucked out." He turned to look at her. "I'll wait till it comes."

"You don't have to," she said.

"No, it's--" He shook his head and smiled. "It looks harmless enough, but it's not always such a safe place around here."

Tracy looked into the distance and watched the bus grow larger and larger. When it stopped, she got on. She moved to the back, hands slipping past chrome seat rails, and took a seat by the window. Raul was still there, watching as the bus pulled away. Finally she turned to face forward.

Maybe she was too curious for her own good, but she'd known she'd be able to figure out Alex's message when Raul read it. It had said, "Give this to Buzz and don't mess with the girl; she's mine. See that she makes it back onto the bus in one piece."

 

 

When Sandy opened the front door, she saw her mother sitting on the couch with Joe. Joe had his arm up behind Raylene on the back of the cushion. Sandy flinched inside and hoped her reaction didn't show.

"We wondered where you were, Sandra. We were worried."

"Sandy." Joe nodded toward her, pleasant, probably for her mother's sake.

"I was... I had a job. I've got work." She was flushed, from running home. She'd only wanted to come home and be alone, to let go of the afternoon.

"You never told me..."

"It was the first day. I wanted to see how it would go." Sweat trickled down the side of her face.

"Who you working for?"

Her mother's toenails were freshly painted. For Joe, probably. What she saw in him was a mystery. People in their right minds gave him a wide berth. What he saw in her... probably the fact that she slept with him had a lot to do with it.

"I'm just taking care of somebody."

"Who?"

She watched her mother's crossed legs, the top one swinging, her foot making little circles.

"It was a long day. I don't really want to talk about it." She turned and went toward the bedroom.

"Sandra Jo..."

Sandy dropped her pack inside the bedroom door and didn't stop. She headed for the back door and hurried down the narrow stairs, leaving the door swinging. At the bottom, she broke into a jog. Her chest and throat were tight, the images in front of her wet and streaky. There had to be a way to get away from all this and she wasn't a baby anymore, or a whiny child. She focused on the rhythm of her running, the movement of the muscles in her calves and thighs, the dryness of her throat, as if she were being chased on and on without any prospect of it ending. There had to be somewhere to go.

Her legs took her to Rita's.

 

 

"Scully, I wasn't kidding when I said that." His voice barely broke the room's silence.

"Said what?"

"That you were brave. It wasn't some smart-ass remark to throw you off. I just..."

"What?"

His cheek was against her shoulder. "I think sometimes you don't see it in yourself... when it's there all along."

She glanced over her shoulder to look at him. "What do you mean?"

"It's not the fears you have. Everybody has fears. You know, when you're a kid you think only you're afraid, that your parents"--he raised his eyebrows--"that they didn't feel thatm what you felt. And then you grow up and you see what they were going through. You understand it in a way you didn't when you were a kid. And you realize they were afraid, too. Sometimes I think about my father now, about what he had to deal with, knowing what the Project was doing, how that's probably the reason..."

"What?"

"The reason he was up so late in his study every night, cracking sunflower seeds. The reason he drank as much as he did." He looked up at her. "But I mean it, Scully. You..."

She waited.

"...You're passionate about the truth. You're ready to run right in there and find out what it is even when it scares the hell out of you. That's courage."

"Or foolhardiness."

"No, it's not." A finger went against her lips. "It isn't."

She kissed the finger in front of her and rolled to face him.

"Mulder, I didn't mean to make fun of you, or to make light of what you said." She moistened her lips. "I shouldn't have laughed, I--"

He shook his head and smiled. "Laughing's okay, Scully. You're so beautiful when you just let go."

A finger traced the line of her cheek. She closed her eyes. The finger drifted to her lips and circled them.

"Scully, did you mean that--what you said?"

"Mean what?"

"You know what I mean."

There was a short silence.

"Yes, Mulder, I did. I do."

 

 

The knock that came on Krycek's door was firm, louder than usual. He rolled as quickly as he could and grimaced, struggling to sit up. His side throbbed. "Yeah--"

"It's just me, Alex."

The key went into the lock, turned and the door opened a few inches. She was red-faced, sweating. "I didn't want you to think it might be somebody else." She dropped her backpack beside the door and opened it wide. "I found something," she said, smiling. "I hit the jackpot this time."

She disappeared into the hallway. When she reappeared a moment later she was dragging a recliner. It was a slightly faded blue-gray but apparently in one piece.

"Someone just set it out on the sidewalk in the next block--free. It works and everything." She straightened and looked at him, still catching her breath. "I tried it. It's comfortable. I figured it would give you someplace else to sit--you know, when you get tired of lying there in the same old spot." She pulled the small desk closer to the door and wedged the chair back into the corner between the two desks. "Come try it."

He opened his mouth.

"Here." She'd already noticed that the cane was on the floor again. She came and handed it to him and then turned--thankfully--leaving him to get up without an audience. He steadied himself and took a step, straightened, then took another. It was a little easier--just a little--than the day before. He made it to the chair and turned around.

"Hold on.  Let me help you sit." She looked up at him. "Just wait, Alex. It'll keep you from straining your injury."

Her arm slipped under his, so that her forearm rested under his armpit and he could lean. She felt hot. It was that crazy little sweater she always wore.

"Now down easy... there." She took a step back and eyed him, waiting for a reaction. "So what do you think?"

"Yeah. It's good." He reached carefully for the lever.

"Lucky they didn't put that thing on the other side," she said, nodding.

He cleared his throat. "Guess so."

Nobody ever joked about the arm.

He pushed the chair back. It was comfortable like she said. "There are drinks in the fridge." He looked up at her. "You look like you could use one."

She hesitated a moment and then went to pick one out. By the time she turned back he'd managed to make it up and out of the chair.

"Take a load off," he said, nodding behind him. "How far did you have to drag that thing?"

"Just a block."

"Go on," he said. "Sit. You do too much sometimes."

He made his way toward the window, not ready to lie on the bed again. "So you made it back across town okay?"

She nodded. "Raul took me to the bus stop. He waited with me there."

"Good."

It was hot this time, not just warm, and the air conditioning was broken. The leaves hung limply from the tree outside. Even the shaded glass was hot. He turned away from it.

"It was a strange place, Alex--like something out of an old movie. Have you ever been there?"

"Once."

She was stretched out in the chair. She'd taken off the sweater and left it hanging on the back of the desk chair but her cheeks were still red. Some time to pick to pull a recliner down the street. He started slowly for the bathroom. He was making progress, the way you'd measure progress for an old man, anyway: twice across the room. Big deal. It felt like a marathon.

"At least the guys there wouldn't have been looking you over like a piece of meat..."

Her words caught him at the doorway, bringing him to a stop. He gripped the cane tighter and stepped forward onto the tile.

She almost laughed. "Or if they did, at least you wouldn't have had to know about it."

He took the washcloth from the hook, put it in the sink and turned on the water until it ran cold. Then he folded it until it was small enough to fit in his hand and squeezed it carefully. He held it between two fingers, grasped the cane with the other three and made his way to the door and then across the room to the recliner. Tracy's eyes were closed.

"Here," he said, and held out the wet cloth.

 

 

To: Buzz38@

From: 03224@

Do not try to walk off with it. Just flush it and melt the bag. Let me know when you're done.

 

 

To: Vet24@

From: TinMan@

Through a strange quirk of fate, I may be looking at a second chance. Long story, but how like the war. (There you have it.) Don't know how long this will give me, or what I'll be able to do in whatever time I'm given. Time is always of the essence, I suppose. Let me know if there's anything I can do for your sister's situation.

 

 

She was asleep.

It hadn't taken her long, just a few minutes stretched out--the heat probably added to it--hers and the room's--and she was gone, mouth slightly open, relaxed as if she had no comprehension of what it was to live in danger. The mirror opposite of the clones in Alberta. They'd been under no immediate threat, but underneath the restlessness was there.

Krycek stared a moment at the sleeping girl, until he felt a weakening in his legs. He leaned in carefully and eased the drying wash cloth from her hand. Her fingers resisted at first, then stretched and let it go. Moving back, reaching for support, his hand landing on the sweater on the back of the desk chair. It felt warm, as if the material itself were a source of heat. He glanced down. It was soft and fuzzy, something obviously expensive at one time, though it had been worn until the knit showed through the soft surface. It was too small for her, really, but she wore it nearly all the time, a sweater that barely came to her waist, the sleeves ending just below her elbows.

He reached for the cane and paused. Maybe it meant something to her. He ran two fingers over the smooth surface.

 

 

"Is she going to be okay, Grammy?"

Bethy stood in the doorway of the guest bedroom, obviously worried by their guest's crying.

Rita gestured for the girl to come close to the edge of the bed where she sat. With her other hand she reached out and smoothed through Sandy's hair. "I expect so, Sweet Pea. She's just working all the sadness out so she can start over again. Don't you feel better after you cry?"

"But I don't like to cry..."

"I know, Bethy, we never do." She looked up at the girl. "Now can you go check those potatoes on the stove for me. They'll be boiling all over the place, wanting to hop right out of the pan."

Bethy gave a last glance at Sandy and left the room. Sandy's sobbing gradually slowed.

"The worst part is"--Sandy stopped to breathe--"that little boy's lost his mother. She was right there lookin' at him, but she was gone as sure as if she was dead and he knew it, too. He's a smart little kid."

Rita held out a tissue. Sandy took it and wiped her eyes.

"I don't think I can go back and watch that again. I mean, I tried. I tried real hard, but..."

"It's just your boy you're thinking about Missy, and that's only natural. But David needs someone up there. You need something to do. And that little boy... If that little boy were your Roddy, wouldn't you hope some mother would take him in and give him what he needed if he couldn't get back to you?" She smoothed a hand over Sandy's shoulder. "Give it a little time, Missy. Just say you'll try it a week. Five little days. You can do that."

 

 

He was sitting in a chair this time--Walter the soldier. He was eased back into it, his head against the chair back, talking to her, though she couldn't see herself in the picture.

"I keep thinking back," he was saying, "to that time, that incident." He glanced toward her. "And I've realized that what I hadn't seen before was that for all the terrible things that happened in Vietnam, I'd been given a second chance--in a moment, in the time it took for Lanier to decide to come in after me. I probably would have been killed if he hadn't. And yet that one second, one moment"--he glanced off into the distance, into memory, then back at her--"changed the lives of anybody I've ever helped since that time."  He paused a moment. "I guess it's just human nature to focus on the damage so completely that you lose sight of the positive that's happened, that can happen."

He could see her. Somehow he could see her, or sense her. She stretched her hand out tentatively in front of her but saw nothing.

"I"--he shook his head--"I have no idea how much time this will buy me--this deal wth Krycek.  If it works at all. He can maneuver all he wants but there's nothing to stop the Smoking Man from planting something on me again if it suits his purposes, nothing to stop him from having one of his goons just pull the trigger." He gave her a grim look. "Maybe this is my last shot. Maybe I have only a few seconds to move, but I figure... if I do, if I have any time at all, then I have to make it count, do something--"

"Worthy?" It was her own voice.

He nodded. "Something that makes a difference, and I need to be ready, to know how to decide what that something is." He sat up straighter. "The thing I hadn't seen before was how that split-second decision was Lanier's, not mine. It was his. And he's paid dearly. But so much has come from it." He paused and leaned toward her. "Is it wrong to see it that way? And what about you? Is there anything at all I can do to help you?"

She shook her head. "I'm fine. I'm... it's okay." She swallowed. If he could see her, why couldn't she see herself? Her blood buzzed, racing now.

"Tracy--"

She needed air. Suddenly there wasn't enough

"Are you sure?" Walter was looking at her, concerned. "There must be something I can do to help." He was reaching out; she could feel his hand on her arm but she couldn't see it.

"Tracy!"

There was a escalating tingle in her head--not enough air. She struggled.

"Tracy."

The hand was firm on her arm now. Her eyes flew open. Alex was sitting in the desk chair, leaning over her. The recliner. She was in his room. The air around her was hot. Alex's grip on her arm eased and he let go.

"You must have been dreaming."

She swallowed and nodded. She looked up at the ceiling, around the room, to pull herself back onto safe ground. He was watching her, concerned.

"What was it?"

She could only shake her head.

 

 

Wilkins sat in the darkness of the theater and glanced at the softly glowing dial on his watch. 6:10. She should be here any minute. He had her picture, one the Gunmen had dug up somewhere, and she'd said she'd be wearing a purple scarf. Good thing it was Saturday--no regular assignment. He'd stopped by the Gunmen's in the morning to see if they had news. Byers had been the only one there. Without the more bizarre company of the other two they'd sat down and talked, mostly about Scully. Byers was obviously impressed with her, too, though he'd shown more concern than anything else, recalling the last time he'd seen her. He didn't elaborate, merely mentioned that it had been Monday when she and Mulder had left D.C., but he described her as having been in a 'fragile emotional state'. Somehow the description didn't fit the woman he'd met, the woman who could explain what had happened to a two-year-old, curly-headed boy lying in an autopsy bay without coming undone, who could question an overwhelmed teenage widow and balance professionalism with caring.

Sudden light flooded the wall above him. He turned to look. A middle-aged woman walked tentatively in and glanced around the seating area. She knew he'd be in the left corner seat, back row. He squinted to see; she appeared to be wearing a scarf. He turned and looked half forward, waiting. She came closer and entered his row of seats.

"Are you reserving any seats?" she asked.

"No. You're welcome to any of them."

She looked relieved. "Will?"

"You found me, Mrs. Scully." He smiled and offered his hand.

She shook it, sat down next to him and smiled, apparently relieved, then paused. Worry washed over her face. "Is there any news?"

"Nothing today," he said. "Nobody's heard from them today that we can tell. As far as we know they're okay, lying low somewhere they won't be noticed. I was talking with John Byers this morning and he mentioned you might feel a little better having a visit from someone else who knows about what's going on."

"I do. It was very thoughtful of you. I'm sure Dana would appreciate your coming to see me." She glanced briefly at the movie screen. It was an older movie, Horton Foote's Tender Mercies. She turned back to Wilkins. "So you've worked with my daughter?"

"Last week. I was assigned to this case in Kentucky that got us all shut down. She was analyzing the forensics for us. I believe Skinner asked for her specifically because he trusts her work. She's quite an investigator, a real professional. She certainly was a lot of help to me."

Maggie looked down at her hands. "Her father was very concerned when she made her decision not to practice medicine. He believed that law enforcement wasn't the place for his daughter. I think he was afraid of something like this ha--" She looked up at him. "But it's reassuring to know she's very good at what she does, that she's made a contribution with her life." She turned away. Wetness showed at the corner of her eye.

"She's got a lot of support, Mrs. Scully. I'll do anything I can to help her. I believe the assistant director feels the same way."

"Mr. Skinner?"

He nodded. "And Byers and his friends."

"John Byers was very helpful. Very reassuring. Extremely patient with me, showing me how to use the e-mail. I haven't really had much experience with computers."

"Amazing how they're helping us stay in touch. I think Langley's been playing with their bank accounts, too--Mulder's and your daughter's--so they can access their money without it being traced. I don't believe anyone knows where they are."

Maggie studied him, as if gauging him. "I believe they're traveling now. I saw Dana," she said, glancing momentarily toward the door, as if to check for listeners. "Fox called me yesterday morning and told me to be at a shopping mall in the afternoon. I met my daughter in a dressing room." She tried to smile. "We had twenty minutes together. It was so strange, meeting like that with people all around you going about their everyday business. It went by so quickly. It was so difficult not to feel like it might be the last--"

She looked away and went silent. No movement, then a sudden intake of air. Wilkins reached out and rested a hand carefully on her shoulder.

"Mrs. Scully, I don't know what it's like to lose a child, but when I was eight years old I lost my mother. So I know what it's like to lose a parent, and I want you to remember that no matter how much it seems like she's gone, she's still out there somewhere and you need to support her, to let her know she hasn't lost her mother. I know it's not an easy thing. My mama was the kind of woman who would tell you to make lemonade when life gave you lemons, but when something like this happens, that's the last thing you feel like doing. You just want to hoard those lemons, to hug them close to you as you can because they're the only things you've got left, no matter how sour they are. But you know, after a while they just rot if you don't use them." He raised his eyebrows. "Use 'em or lose 'em. It's the way life works. Your daughter's going to live off your support now. It's going to keep her afloat--knowing you're there for her." He paused. "Have you written to her yet?"

Maggie shook her head. "I didn't know what to say. I...You know she almost didn't come? She said she was afraid to. She was afraid of what she'd done to the family--to me--by her choices. I've been thinking about that, whether I've condemned her myself... or condemned Fox for getting her involved in all of this..."

"Any assignment at the Bureau can be dangerous, Mrs. Scully," he said. "You can cross the street and get hit by a car, too. I've only met Mulder once, but he seems to regard her very highly."

"He does. He respects her. He's very protective of her, very concerned. It was his idea for us to get together yesterday."

"Then that's something you have to be thankful for."

"Yes, it is."

"And I'll be glad to stay in touch. If there's anything you need, anything at all... I've got a whole lot of mother-helping potential stored up inside me, just waiting to be used."

 

 

"How much farther is it?" Mulder stepped carefully between the stones near the stream.

"I thought it was right here." Scully paused. "It must have been a little farther downstream. I didn't even think about it at the time. I got so involved in the mechanics of what I was doing that I just set it down on a rock and forgot about it."

She'd left her watch down here somewhere when she'd helped the kids.

Mulder looked up, at the sun grazing the tree line. Nearly the same time as it had been yesterday when they were here. In a whole different lifetime. He smiled without thinking. Ahead of him Scully led the way beside the water's edge, her hips swaying gently, her hair swinging with her movement. He could picture her standing in the shadows by the window that morning.

"Do you think they left the waterwheel?" he said. "Without it, a lot of this is going to look the same, Scully."

"I don't know. I think I recognize this area..."

They went on. The clouds had cleared for the most part, leaving clear swathes of blue that were beginning to turn golden in the weakening light.

A sharp sound came from somewhere above them. Mulder stopped and strained to hear. In front of him Scully stopped, too.

"You hear that?"

"I heard something, Mulder. I couldn't tell what it was..."

He waited a moment. The only sound was the sound of water flowing. He nodded at her and they went forward. The cry came again and then was gone.

"Sounds like someone calling," he said. "Can you tell what they're saying?"

She shook her head. "I couldn't even tell if it was a person..."

The cry came once again--this time from two different voices. They looked up toward the motel. Figures could be seen running down the hillside.

"It's Brent and Cory," Scully said.

"Tara! Tara!" their calls came drifting down the embankment.

"They're calling their little sister." Scully waved. "Cory. Brent."

"Annie?"

"Is something the matter?"

Their eyes were big, their cheeks pink with running.

"It's Tara," Cory said. "Nobody can find her."

"How long has it been since anyone's seen her?"

"She was at home about two hours ago," Brent said, eyeing Mulder.

"Brent and Cory, this is my friend Ben..."

Mulder nodded. "What was she doing last?" he asked.

Brent shrugged. "Trying to get out of a nap. Mom still tries to get her to nap sometimes, but she gets out of it a lot."

"Has she taken off before?"

"She likes the woods," Cory said. "She's not supposed to come down here without one of us, but"--her face twisted a little--"sometimes she does and we haven't told on her. She's never been away this long, though."

"You know, parents make these rules for a reason," Scully said quietly, trying not to lecture. "Because they know sometimes bad things happen and they don't want to see you get hurt, or to lose a little sister. Mul"--she caught herself--"Ben and I would be glad to help you look for her."

"Thanks." Brent looked relieved. "Because if we don't find her we're in really hot water."

"What does she do when she comes down here?" Mulder said, stepping forward. "What does she like to do?"

"She plays in the water," Cory said.

"Are there any deep places in the stream?" Scully asked.

Brent shook his head. "Not in this part. Not anywhere she could get to easily."

"Not within an hour or so?" Scully's lips pressed together.

"She's a little kid, Annie," Mulder broke in. "She's probably not going to go trekking. Most likely she'll find something that interests her and stay pretty close to home. What else does she like to do?"

"Look for bugs and frogs," Cory said. "Spin around tree trunks. She likes to get dizzy."

"She rolls down hills, too," Brent said, rolling his eyes. "She climbs trees when she can find ones small enough, but she's not big enough for many of them."

"Ben--" Scully's eyes widened momentarily. She'd nearly called him Mulder again. "Why don't we split up? You and Cory take this area here and Brent and I will look farther downstream."

"Yeah, okay. But we'd better get moving or we're going to lose the light."

There was a knot in Mulder's stomach now, an nagging urgency. Cory looked up, giving this new stranger the eye. Scully and Brent turned and started down the stream.

"Does she ever go very far from the water, Cory?"

Cory shrugged. "Not usually."

"What's on the far side?" he asked, nodding toward the stream. "Does it lead to anywhere?"

"Just more woods, way way down to the gullies. She's never been down there." She bit her lip.

Not yet, he thought, and squelched the idea. "Then we probably ought to focus closer to here. Someplace she's familiar with, somewhere she's likely to be."

"But wouldn't she hear us if she were close by? She doesn't like hide and seek games. She'd answer if she heard us."

Mulder jaw tightened. Not necessarily. Not if she were hurt. "Cory, how about you take this side here. Call, but look around for anything she might have brought with her. Does she ever bring toys or anything down here with her?"

"She's got a family of clothespin dolls," Cory said, looking dubious. "Sometimes she brings them along."

"That's the kind of thing. Look for anything she might have brought. Or shoe prints. Was she wearing shoes?"

Cory shook her head; a smile passed her face. "Not my little sister."

"Okay, look for footprints. But we need to get going. I'm going to check the other side a little. If you find her, just call out. If I find her, I'll do the same."

Cory nodded and started along the bank, watching the ground.

Mulder started, too, looking for places where trails opened up on the far side, the kind animals or kids might have made. He crossed the stream as soon as he found one. It was close to where the kids had come down the hill. If it were their usual route, it'd be convenient for little Tara. He walked quietly along the trail. On the other side of the stream, he could hear Cory calling.

"Tara," he called out. "Tara."

What was it about little girls disappearing at night when it was getting dark? If she were a pioneer child--say, if she'd lived in that cabin at the top of the hill--she could have been carried off by a bear, or by local tribes frustrated at having their lands plundered, or any one of half a dozen other dangers, leaving a grieving family behind. Things didn't change so very much with time.

"Tara." He paused and cupped his hands. "Tara--"

He wasn't the only one. Scully wouldn't miss the parallel, either. She'd be focused on Tara, but the similarity wouldn't escape her. She'd be thinking about Emily. He paused to look up into the trees and went on. He could hear Cory's voice in the distance.

"Tara--" It wasn't a good sign, that there was no answer. Either she wasn't close by, or she couldn't hear, or she couldn't speak. Or...

He pushed on again, taking a cross-trail leading back toward the stream and Cory's concerned voice. There was more light here, the trees smaller, the understory given an unexpected chance to develop by the fortuitous death of a big oak that lay fallen across the path. He stopped and looked around. The sun glinted gold through low branches. He wondered how far Scully and Brent would've gone. He bit his lip and looked up.

He turned a circle, scanning the clearing and stopped. Behind a tree trunk at about head height was something that didn't fit in. He stepped over the carcass of the fallen tree and went closer. It was a foot, a small foot.

He swallowed and stepped through the undergrowth to the far side of the trunk and looked up. A little body was lying on a branch, butted up against the trunk of the tree. She had wispy blonde hair. She was asleep, hugging the branch she lay on. Small feet dangled below.

"Tara?" he said. "Tara..."

She opened her eyes, drowsy.

"Are you Tara?" he said, making his voice soft so as not to spook her.

She nodded slowly, big-eyed, only half-comprehending.

"I think you fell asleep."

"I got stuck," she said, sitting up. "I got up and it was too hard to get down."

"Yeah, well, that's why your mom and dad want you to take your nap in your bed at home. It's easier to get in and out of." He stepped closer. "Here, I'll help you down. Your brother and sister and my Annie are all looking for you. They were worried when they couldn't find you."

He reached up. "Here, put your foot in my hand. It'll be like a stair."

She slid to one side. A small foot on a pale, sturdy leg came to rest in his palm.

"Okay, now hold on to the tree, like bars at a playground. Both hands--that's good. Okay, now the other leg over... yeah. Now we're going down..." He lowered his hand slowly. "Okay..." He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her in against him.

"Do I get a piggyback?"

"This okay where you are?"

She nodded.

"Okay, because I'm not letting you get away again. Now we've got to find your sister. Go ahead, you call her."

"Cory," she said. She took a breath. "Cory! I'm here!"

 

 

"Feeling restless?"

Krycek grunted in reply and pressed harder on the cane. "Just need to move around. Tired of being stuck on my back." He turned away from the narrow window and toward the desk where Tracy was folding laundry. "It's too hot in here, anyway. If you, uh... if you're still up for that trip upstairs, I guess I wouldn't mind the change of scenery."

"Sure."

She retrieved the wheelchair, opened it and brought it close to the bed. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat. This time he let her help him, the now-familiar arm easing him smoothly into the chair.

"Comfortable?"

He shifted slightly. "Yeah.  As good as it's going to get."

"Ready?"

He nodded. She backed him across the room, opened the door and stepped through alone. She knew enough now to check the hallway. She had a habit of going above and beyond. Maybe she had yet to dig the curly-headed kid out of his head, or any of a dozen other things he'd done. He closed his eyes momentarily. Tracy took hold of the chair handles again and he was being pulled out into the silent hall, turned and pushed the few feet to the elevator. Cooler air drifted up the stairwell.

"It won't take long," she said, turning to him, one hand constant on the chair handle.

He wondered if she'd managed to pull the old man's intentions out of his mind this morning. Would she recognize them for deadly serious if she had?

The doors opened. Tracy turned the chair around smoothly and pulled him into the elevator. She pushed the button. The car lifted with a soft jolt, and a sinking feeling went through his stomach. Almost immediately the car was leveling out again and the door opened. They emerged into another vacant hallway and rolled to the foot of the stairs leading to the roof.

He looked up at her. "I don't want you pulling the weight of this chair up there."

She eyed him disapprovingly.

"Look, I can wait here. I can stand for a minute. You take the chair up--" He nodded toward the roof. "You help me, stand on my other side, I'll be able to make it up and the chair will be waiting at the top."

Her lips came together and her mouth pulled to one corner. "You sure you're strong enough for this, Alex?"

"You saw me down there. I'm doing better. Anyway, I need to move."

"Okay..."

Slipping her arm under his, she helped him stand. She waited until she was sure he was steady. He took hold of the railing.

"You okay, Alex?"

He nodded.

He could hear the chair being collapsed behind him and then she was starting up the stairs, going quickly up. At the top she disappeared; then he could hear the sound of the seat being snapped into position. Krycek leaned his head against the wall and let his right leg take the weight. It was the perfect window. He'd taken the last painkiller four hours ago. The grogginess had worn off and he'd have clear sailing for a good couple of hours at least. Tracy came floating down the stairs again, one hand holding up the hem of her dress.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

She stood on the left and slipped an arm around his waist, hooking two fingers through a far belt loop. She was tall for a girl, probably 5' 8" or so, and though she was a skinny kid, she was strong like she'd said; he could feel it every time she lifted him. They stood hip to hip, thigh to thigh.

"Ready? Get a grip on the railing."

He put his foot up, gripped the handrail and felt her lift; he was up. He breathed out.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"Alright, another. Just tell me when you're ready."

"Okay, ready."

"Up..."

"Up."

"Now wait. Give yourself a second."

"Okay." He let himself breathe. "Let's go."

"Up... Don't push yourself, Alex. You've still got eight more. Just take a second."

He had a sudden picture of himself--the invalid, one-armed assassin--challenging the Everest of a set of apartment stairs with a pale waif holding up his bad side. Crazy. But then life was crazy most of the time in one way or another.

"Ready to go?"

"Yeah."

"Up..."

He pushed hard on the handrail and let her lift. She was more of a find than the old man had realized.

 

 

Scully locked the door and slid the safety chain into the slot. She turned, lost in thought. Mulder stood in the darkness near the desk, watching her.

"What?" he said.

"You." She smiled and looked down. "You the way you looked coming up the trail with that little girl in your arms." She walked up to him and let her head rest against his chest.

"Jealous?"

Her arms went around his waist. "No. Just... It was nice--the look on your face, the way you carried her." She let out a breath she'd been holding. He'd know what this was really about. His hands came up and cupped her face but she moved back half a step and reached for his shirt buttons. Quiet. Deliberate. One undone. Two. Three.

"Scully, what--"

Four. Five.

"Just getting close," she said, and gave him a clear look, no embarrassment, no holding back. This was getting easier. She undid the last button and slipped her hands inside the shirt and around his waist. A pause and his arms went around her. Her breath filled the small space between them. "We're going to have to stay in separate places, Mulder..."

"I know."

She could feel the thump-thump of his heart under her cheek. He smoothed her hair back and cradled her head with one hand. They swayed gently, almost imperceptibly.

"I'll find you, Scully. I'll come to see you when nobody will notice."

His arms tightened around her. She pressed her lips against his chest. She could stay like this forever. She focused on their slight swaying and began to loosen.

"Scully--"

She felt drowsy. "Hmm?"

He nudged the top of her head with his chin. "Scully--"

"Hmm?"

"Scully, I need you to be my lover." He tipped her chin up. "Will you be my lover?"

She looked up at him, smiled and closed her eyes.

They swayed, standing in the middle of the room, close together, breathing, barely moving.

"Mulder, do we have to go tomorrow?"

"Not if you don't want to. A day or two won't make any difference." He spoke into her hair. "When you're ready. We won't go until you're ready."

She was warm. He was wrapped around her, close, alive, strong.

"Yes," she murmured.

"What?"

"The answer to your question, Mulder."

 

 

In the darkness under the overhanging tree Tracy could barely see Alex, half-reclined in the wheelchair, quiet. The city's lights had come on; now they winked on and off between patches of leaves.

They hadn't said much. Alex had walked a little and finally had sat when he was tired. Her own mind had been crowded with the afternoon's dream--not so much about Walter, the soldier, but about the strangeness of the dream itself.  The fact that she hadn't been able to sense herself should be nothing, a detail; it was a dream, after all.  And yet it had never been like that before. 

Beyond that, what would have happened if Alex hadn't been there to pull her out of the dream when the suffocating feeling had come?

Gradually she became aware that she was being watched.

"What will you do when the kid comes?" his voice came from the darkness.

She shifted on the old chair and tried to pull herself into the present. "I don't know. There'll be something."

"Kids don't survive on dreams.  You need to plan." He breathed out. "You may move by your own compass, but there may not be someone willing to pull you off the street when you've got a baby on your hip." He paused. "Kid deserves better than that."

"What happened to your mother, Alex?"

He tightened suddenly and turned away. Tracy's hands found each other and squeezed hard. She'd done it again--overstepped, asking questions that were none of her business. Horns honked in the street below, followed by a shout, then another. 

"She had an affair with him. Her husband found out. He didn't want a dirty little bastard in his house." He shifted on the canvas seat. "What happened this afternoon, Tracy? When you were asleep?"

"It was just... a dream."

"No, it wasn't. You can reach inside my head and pick out anything you damn well please, but you won't even--"

"No, I don't. I mean, I could, I guess. But I don't. I try to tune it out, most of what people think. It's like static that wears you down and makes you ache. It would drive you crazy to know everything people are thinking."

"So what happened in your dream? Whatever it was, it scared the hell out of you."

She bit her lip. "I'm too easy to read."

"I make it a point to read people. I have to to survive."

"I know you do. I..." She pulled one leg up to rest in front of her on the chair and paused. "There was this man in my dream. We were talking. We've talked before."

"In your dream?"

"In another dream. Usually I'm part of the dream, too--I'm there. But this time when he was talking to me, I couldn't see myself. I held my hand out in front of me and there was nothing, which was weird. It seemed like he could see me. He was looking straight at me and then he reached out... and I could feel his hand on my arm--but that was you--and... I couldn't see it. And then I couldn't breathe, I couldn't get enough air. Or maybe I just panicked."

"Anything like this ever happened before?"

"It was like I was invisible, a ghost or something. Like I was..."  Her mouth refused to form the word.

Alex cleared his throat.  "We should go," he said.

Chapter 7

Sunday

 

Raylene opened her eyes and squinted into the dull light of the lamp behind the sofa. She eased herself away from Joe, asleep with his head against her shoulder, and stood up abruptly.

"Why, I don't--" She looked around the darkened living room. "Ohmigod."

She blinked and hurried down the hallway to her daughter's bedroom. The covers were scattered the way they'd been when she gotten here hours ago, Cy's pillow on the edge of the bed. Sandy'd been hugging it again. But the bed was empty. She stared a moment at the empty sheets and glanced at the dresser clock. 3:17.

"Joe!" She hurried back to the living room. "Joe--" She pushed at his shoulder. "Joe, wake up. It's three in the morning and she never came in."

Joe opened his eyes.

"She's not here, Joe."

He stretched languidly and shrugged. "Maybe she found somebody. She probably needs the comfort of a warm body." He smiled--that smirky smile Sandy always told her looked like the yellow smiley-faces at WalMart.

"Joe Charters, you're a pig."

Joe only smiled. He waved her back down to the couch. "Calm down, Raylene. It's probably nothing. Maybe she just went to some friend's house and fell asleep. We fell asleep here, didn't we?"

"Yeah, but we were waiting up for her."

"So?"

She sat down next to him. He leaned over and kissed the side of her neck, hoping for a response that didn't come.

"Come on, Raylene. Let's go back to your place." He hooked a finger through the space between the buttons on her blouse. "She'll show up in the morning. You'll wonder what you were ever worried about."

Raylene's mouth crinkled and then pressed into a straight line. "Okay, I guess. But if she doesn't show up, you're in for it."

"In for what? I didn't kidnap her."

 

 

"Alex?" Tracy peered into the hot darkness.

"Yeah--"

She came in, leaving the door half-open.

"Close it."

She continued to the bed.

"Door--"

"I know, Alex, but it's baking in here." She reached out and smoothed a hand across his forehead. He flinched under the unexpected touch.  "Sorry. I just need to know how hot you are."  A pause.  "You should have called me."

"I thought"--he talked in short, pained bursts--"it was getting... better, that I could stretch it out, last... a little longer.  This time."  And escape the need to trade away the alertness that kept him alive for the muddy-headedness that came with the painkillers.

And then the pain had become too much for him to even get out of bed to get them.

Tracy slipped away to the bathroom, quickly got his pain meds and water and returned.  "Here," she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

His fingers reached for hers and took the pill with shaking hands. She steadied the glass and helped him drink.  Afterward he collapsed against the pillow, panting quietly, and turned his head toward the wall.

"I thought--" his voice came from the shadows.  "Hell, maybe I was just hoping."

"I'll go out and find a fan for you tomorrow, Alex. Your body has enough to do just mending itself.  It doesn't need to be fighting this heat, too."

He let out a long breath and his body seemed to ease. "He'll"--he nodded toward the narrow window at the foot of the bed--"he'll put in a new air conditioner if I ask."

"Well, then let him, Alex."

"You don't get it." He squeezed a fistful of sheets let his hand fall hard onto the bed.  He was sick of the old man's smug smile and his offers, which always came barbed, each one a reminder of who was the peasant and who the master.

"Turn the tables, Alex.  Use it to help yourself get better.  Stronger."

After a moment he nodded.  His breathing was quiet now, finally relaxed.

"Call me next time, Alex.  It's what I'm here for."

He looked up. "I woke you up again."

"Don't worry about it.  Think of it as an alarm system that works."  She shrugged and looked past him at the shadow patterns on the wall. "I can block it out if I try. When I'm asleep or distracted, that's when it hits me." She shifted slightly. "I'll close the door in a few minutes, when a little more air's come through here." She reached for a magazine on the floor beside the bed and began to fan him slowly. "Better?"

"Umm."  He nodded and closed his eyes.

The small flutter of breeze felt good against her own damp skin.  She focused on the relatively cool, rhythmic movement of air until suddenly something strange--a touch, a flutter inside--drew her hand to the side of her belly.  Her breath hitched and she reached mentally toward the sensation.  

Gradually the gentle sliding feeling slowed and then faded.  A prickly feeling crawled up the back of her neck.

The touch of a fingertip made her jump. "You stopped."

"I... I felt something, Alex. Here." She rubbed the spot with her palm. "It was strange."

"Hurt?"

"No."

"Never felt the kid before?"  

His voice was matter-of-fact, slow and a little thick, but the words stood out like an announcement. The hot air in the room pressed in on her like a solid thing. After a moment she realized he'd asked her a question and shook her head.  She stood.  "I'm going to go sit by the door a few minutes and open it a little more, Alex. We need to cool this place off."

"Tracy." He pulled up slightly but after a moment collapsed against the pillows wearing a puzzled look.  The drug had him now.

"I'll be right by the door, Alex. I'll know if anybody comes. It'll only be for a few minutes."

A soft grunt was his only reply.

She went to stand by the door and leaned back against the frame. Strange little pricks of anguish and emotion had flooded through him at the realization of the baby's movement. He'd started out the same way, an unwelcome complication to someone's life. 

She leaned against the door frame and listened to the even breathing coming from the far side of the room. The baby had always seemed like a dream in spite of her growing middle.  Now there would be no convenient waking up.

One hand drifted tentatively to her belly but there was no more movement.

 

 

Mulder sucked in air suddenly and rolled onto his back. A stripe of light came to rest across his face. He opened his eyes and squinted. Almost immediately he grimaced and pressed his fingers against his temples.

"Mulder?"

He pulled himself up to a sitting position, then leaned forward and rested his head in his hands.

Scully pushed up on one elbow. "Mulder, what is it?"

He turned toward her. A smile crossed his face and then faded. He shook his head. "A dream," he said. "I was dreaming. I... Have you been awake?"

"I couldn't sleep. I've just been thinking. Thinking and watching you."

"Watching?"

"Watching you sleep." She suppressed a smile and pressed her lips together.

He ran a hand back through his hair again.

"What was it, Mulder--your dream?"

"My sister."

She sat up beside him. "What happened?"

"I was in this house... I guess it was a little like the cabin over there, at the edge of the parking lot..."

She waited.

"I was there with some other people. We were all waiting for someone. I thought it was my mother; I thought I was waiting for her. There was... it was going to be some kind of celebration. There was a table with a fancy tablecloth in the middle of the room and people were getting ready to set out food, and we were all waiting. And then a car pulled up, but it wasn't my mother after all; it was Samantha. She was grown up, not--"

She rested a hand on his shoulder.

"She wasn't like the clones we saw--not that old--and different. She almost glowed, Scully. Not physically. It was just something coming out of her. She was happy. She was glad to see me and we talked for a few minutes--not newsy talk, but the kind where--" His mouth tightened.

She let her hand slip down to his waist and held on.

"There was something about it, this sense that she was going somewhere, like I wasn't going to see her again. She'd been happy--" He sighed and looked down. "And then she laid her head down on this little table in front of where she was sitting, like she was... I don't know, like she was sacrificing herself somehow."

"For you?"

"I don't know. It was like she was bowing before her fate, but she was at peace." He bit his lip.

"And that was it?"

"Yeah. Then I woke up. Here. With you." The smile came again. It melted more slowly this time.

He leaned forward and sighed. She tipped her head slightly and rested her cheek against his back.

"Maybe it was just Tara, Mulder. Maybe that connection to a little lost girl found was just too much for your subconscious mind to leave alone."

"I don't know."

"Maybe--"

"I don't see her much anymore, Scully. I haven't dreamed about her in a long time." He looked up, toward the window. "Years, really. I mean the kind of dream where she'd come to me, not the ones where I tried to picture her."

Scully swallowed. She could see her father again, or her vision of him--sitting in the chair in her living room, slightly off-color, his mouth moving but no words coming out. Then her mother's phone call, telling her he'd died.

"I wish I knew what it meant, Scully."

"Not everything has a meaning." She kissed his shoulder and lay back down against the pillows. "Come here, Mulder."

He turned to look at her.

"Just come here."

He settled against her where he'd been before, inside the circle of her arms. She smoothed a hand over his forehead. He looked up.

"I know one thing, Mulder."

"What?"

"That look you were talking about, that glow..."

"Yeah?"

"I've seen that on you, yesterday... and today. If she had that look--" Her hand went back through his hair. He closed his eyes. "Then she must have had something to be very happy about. But if she's out there somewhere, we'll find her, Mulder. If it's possible, we'll find her."

 

 

Teena stared at the stacks of boxes and at the old recliner, covered once more with an old sheet. It was almost as if Fox and Dana had left some part of themselves here: her courageous straightforwardness, the smile he'd worn sitting in the recliner with Dana tucked under the blanket. How long had Fox carried that memory of the Chilmark kitchen? Had it been the only thing he'd had to hold onto all these years? It had been a rough time for her, the uncomfortable beginning of a pregnancy no one had anticipated, and she'd been left to deal with a leaking sink aided by only a 'figure it out' from Bill. She'd worked herself into the depths of self-pity under that sink. And when Fox had come upon her he'd hugged her as if he were the father and she the child.

She swallowed. There must be something down here among Bill's old things that might help them.

Under the stairs Fox had found something once--a box with papers in it and a picture he'd taken with him, a group shot of the Bill's colleagues. But there was another box, too. Bill had had something he'd been able to use against Leland--some strategy or knowledge or secret card he'd played to keep them from taking Fox. Whatever it was, it might still have some value if only she could discover what it was.

 

 

"Hey." Mulder's hands, warm from sleep, settled on her shoulders. "What are you doing?"

Scully looked up from the laptop. "Opening an e-mail account for myself. I'll need to be able to keep in touch with you and my mother. And the others."

"We can pick up another laptop. You don't want to risk showing up at the library all the time." He nodded at the screen. "Did you pick a name?"

"The Lark," she said. "I've been thinking, Mulder. I think we need to go. It's beautiful here, but much as I'd like to stay, I feel like--"

"...like looking for Tara last night reminded you we've got things to do besides sit around. Or lie around." One eyebrow went up and he smiled. His arms wrapped around her. "Not that I have anything against lying around with the right person."

"Last night when I was awake, Mulder," she said, resting her head against his arm, "I kept thinking."

"What?"

"Of that scene in Romeo and Juliet where they wake up in the morning, and Juliet tells him the bird he hears is the nightingale--that they still have time, and that he doesn't need to leave yet. And he says, no, it's the lark. But then he almost lets her convince him, and it could have threatened both their lives, staying there. I guess I'm always the one crying 'Lark'. But I think we should go ahead. We shouldn't just stay here because"--she pressed her lips together--"because I'm not sure if I'm ready."

She stood, turned and put one knee on the chair.

"You'll need to be ready for this, Scully." He cupped her face.

"I know. I think I am. As ready as I'll ever be."  She forced a small smile. "You'll be there."

"Close as your computer."

Her mouth tightened. He would be there; she wasn't alone in this. She loosened, then looked up at him and grinned. Setting one hand on the chair back, she climbed up and stood on the seat.

"Scully?"

"I've always wanted to do this," she said. "See what it's like to be taller than you."

Warm hands slipped up under her shirt. Strong arms went around her waist.

"Oh, so now it's my turn to play the little weak-kneed partner?" His mouth was against her shirt. He looked up with mock-innocence. "You wouldn't take advantage of a weak-kneed little partner, would you, Scully?"

"I don't know, Mulder. You never know. I might turn out to be dangerous."

"Think so?"

"Maybe." Her voice lowered. "How long do you think you could hold out?"

"I could. I could hold out."

"No, you couldn't."

"Yeah, I could, Scully."

"Couldn't."

"Could."

"Not a chance, Mulder."

"How do you know?"

"Experience."

"Oh, so now you're an expert?"

"I could be." She brought her lips closer to his. "But then you'd have to agree not to hold out."

"But then you'd win."

"So would you."

A pause. "Why was it I wanted to hold out, Scully? Remind me."

 

 

To: 03224@

From: buzz38@

The stuff's gone--what a waste. You owe me now. What's with the chick?

 

To: buzz38@

From: 03224@

Thanks. The 'chick' was just a messenger; she has nothing to do with anything. Drop it.

 

 

To: TinMan@

From: heron3@

Excuse me for letting my mind run rampant, but I get the feeling we should be doing some pre-emptive thinking here. The old guy doesn't seem the type to let this thing lie. What is his strategy likely to be? What does he want? Seems to me that sitting around just waiting for the other shoe to drop is... a good way to get hit with a falling shoe. Maybe a big boot.

 

 

Sandy opened the back door carefully and peeked inside. From the end of the hallway she could see clear through to the kitchen at the far end. The house was silent; nobody was on the couch. She let out a breath of relief and ventured inside quietly, closing the door behind her. It smelled stuffy, not at all the way this house had smelled a short week and a half ago when three of them had lived here, windows always open, Roddy talking a blue streak, playing with trucks on the floor, the bathroom scented with the smell of Cy's after shave. It was too empty--too awful--and now she'd abandoned the place, too: she'd fallen asleep at Rita's last night. When she'd woken up, she'd run all the way home, hoping against hope her mother hadn't noticed her absence.

Sandy went into her room, pulled the sheets from the bed and started them in the washer. Then she drifted back to the bedroom and paused in the doorway. Her clothes were scattered on the carpet--the ones she'd taken off and hadn't had the will, or energy, to put away. It wasn't like her to be this kind of messy housekeeper. She bent down and started to pick them up--a T-shirt, a pair of shorts, another T-shirt, underwear. Cy's shirt.

She reached toward it hesitantly and let her fingertips skim the surface of the fabric. It had been laying here since that night; she hadn't been able to bring herself to move it. It said he was still here somehow. Or that he had been. That he'd been real and not a dream

She picked up the shirt and held it to her nose. There was only the faintest trace of his scent left. It reminded her of the way his face started to dissolve now whenever she tried to picture him. She stood and carried the clothes slowly to the washer, opened the lid and hesitated. The agitator swirled the sheets around and around in the water, pulling them up from the depths and then sucking them back down again. She watched until she went unfocused. Finally she realized she was just standing in front of a running washing machine with the lid open, doing nothing. She closed it carefully and set Cy's shirt aside. There was no hurry. It could go in the next load.

A knocking came on the front door, followed by the sound of the handle turning.

"Sandra Jo!"

Sandy clutched the shirt to her and squeezed her eyes shut.

 

 

"What is it, Mulder?"

"Just a mail from my mom."

She came up behind him and rested a hand on his shoulder. There was something in his voice, a grittiness that drew her attention.

"Guess it's to both of us," he said quietly. He stood up and started toward the door.

"Mulder?"

"I'll take these bags out to the car, Scully. Is this everything?"

"Yes." She paused. "Mulder, are you okay?"

He attempted a smile. "It's good news." His voice was nearly a whisper. "I think I just need a minute." He shouldered the bags set by the door.

She watched him leave and sat down in front of the computer. She read.

To: DaddyW@

From: Cranesbill@

I went downstairs today for something and it almost seemed as if you were still here. Wherever you may be now, you're in my thoughts. Please know that wherever you go, my love goes with both of you.

Scully swallowed back sudden pressure. How long had he waited for a response like this from her? For years, undoubtedly, with only his own irrepressible faith to fuel him. She let out the breath she'd been holding and refocused on the screen.

There was another mail, from Rita. She clicked on it.

To: DaddyW@

From: meremaid@

I've found something for Annie. A friend of the family has some acreage about two miles outside town in a secluded area. He has a little trailer that's sitting empty and a need for someone to watch over his wife occasionally. She is afflicted with some kind of mental disorder and wanders from time to time. They are good people and Annie should be safe there. Dale will take you in for the time being. Let me know when you'll be arriving. My prayers for a safe journey.

Scully closed her eyes a moment. The sweet smell of living trees wafted in through the open door. She pictured the little cabin again, and its open window, and the pastel blues of the ridge lines beyond. Then she opened her eyes, clicked to switch accounts on the mail program, and prepared to write.

To: dresswhites@

From: thelark@

We're preparing to travel and I just wanted to let you know we're safe. So much has happened in such a short space of time, so many frightening, overwhelming things, but wedged between them small gems of amazing beauty and kindness. Thank you for Melissa's bookmark; the words are my constant companions. I have my own mail account now. If you just click 'reply', the addy will show up automatically. I'll be in touch again as soon.

Scully sent her mail, shut down the computer and packed it away in its case. She went into the bathroom to check for anything left behind, then to her room--used only briefly--then back to Mulder's. Under the bed, in the drawers, on the closet shelves. Nothing forgotten. She picked up the laptop, went to the door and looked back one last time. Just an ordinary bed. A motel bed like any other--white sheets, rumpled blankets--waiting to be remade. A thousand people might sleep in it and they would never know.

She went out and closed the door. Mulder was leaning against the open driver's door waiting, sunglasses on.

"Ready?" he said.

"I think so."

He nodded at her. "Then let's go."

 

 

The old man let himself in without knocking. Krycek quickly closed the laptop and eased his head back onto the pillows. It was awkward as hell using the computer now, not being able to lean toward the side that would allow him to use his hand to type. No ease for the guilty, though Tracy had done her best to build up the pillows so he could at least make an awkward attempt.

The old man's eyebrows went up. "It's quite warm in here, Alex."

"Air conditioning went out," he said, nodding toward the unit in the bottom of the window beyond the bed.

"Surely you can't be comfortable in this much heat."

He shrugged. "She came down here in the middle of the night and had the door open for a while, let things cool off. I think she figures it's too much."

"Oh, does she, now?" He pulled a Morley from the pack in his coat pocket and lit it. A moment later smoke billowed from his mouth. "I can have a new one delivered this morning. It's only going to get hotter as summer comes on."

Krycek shrugged. "Yeah. Probably a good idea."

"And the girl," the old man said, putting the cigarette back between his lips. "She's working out all right?"

"She keeps things organized. I'm not running out of anything."

"Good. How are you doing, Alex? Better?"

"A little. I can stand up for few minutes here and there. Hey, I made it all the way to the desk yesterday. Round trip." He forced a laugh. "Felt like I'd run a marathon."

"Take it easy, Alex. Just so there's progress."

The old man took another drag on the cigarette. Smoke snaked its way toward the ceiling. Krycek watched it drift upward, dispersing as it went.

"Our evidence against Skinner disappeared last night," the old man said abruptly, his voice suddenly tighter, eyes searching, watching for a reaction.

"How?" He pulled up slightly and managed to feign surprise.

"We aren't sure yet."

"Probably somebody on the inside dealing." Krycek shrugged. "That much product's pretty tempting."

The old man tapped the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. "We have our sources inside. We'll find out." He turned to look out the window.

Krycek watched the old man's profile while he worked to calm the sudden pounding of his heart. He opened his mouth, paused, then made himself ease ahead. "You know, Skinner could still be useful."

The old man turned back to him. "You can't force a man to change his allegiances, Alex. Oh, you can put pressure on him. You can force him to act in the way you want him to act. But you can't change his mind about what he believes to be right."

"Yeah, but he knows he's on a tight rein now. He's had plenty of time to think about what it'd be like to spend the next fifteen years of his life inside a cinderblock building. He's not likely to stray too far."

"It wouldn't change his true loyalties."

"Maybe we don't need to change his loyalties. Maybe just feeding him some information--or misinformation--" He raised an eyebrow and gave the old man one of his patented trickster gleams. "Like cockroach bait. He'll take it right back to the nest."

The old man nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps. He might be useful in flushing Scully out into the open. Or helping to catch Mulder." He smiled around the cigarette. "What would that do to Skinner, to know he'd been the agent of Mulder's capture?"

Luckily the old man was too caught up in his speculations to bother to look at him. Behind a convenient pillow, Krycek's hand curled into a fist.  He studied the ceiling, tight-lipped.

 

 

To: heron3@

From: TinMan@

You may be right. Meet me here. 8 p.m.

 

 

"Sandra, you just about made me roll over in my grave. It was three-thirty--three-thirty--when I woke up on that couch and you weren't here. Like to scared me and Joe half to death."

Sandy made a face. "Bet Joe didn't give a rat's ass. He just wished he were somewhere else, with you"--she gave her mother a look--" instead of wasting his time on my couch."

"Sandra Belfontaine, don't you ever talk to me like that."

"My name is Miller, Mom. It's been that way for three years now. I'm not your silly little girl no more. I got my own family, even if they're gone, and I don't need you hovering around to save me from"--she bit her lip--"from whatever it is you think I need saving from." She turned away and felt her jaw quiver, her eyes water. She wasn't going to be able to hold out for long.

"Well, you just went through all this tragedy, Sandra," came her mother's sputtery voice from behind her. "You'd think a person'd appreciate--"

The voice began to move away.

"...appreciate someone caring about what happened to them, how they were faring. You know, I would if it were me."

"Like you'd care at all if Papa died. He's just an embarrassment to you anyway."

Abrupt silence filled the room.

"We weren't talking about your daddy, Sandra. This had nothing at all to do with him. And besides, you'd think, wouldn't you, that maybe--just maybe--if someone married a man who was capable of killing his very own little boy, that maybe that someone could use a few little pointers."

Sandy spun around. "He didn't do it, Mom." The tears came--streaming tears.

"What do you--? Of course he did it. Who else would have done it? There was nobody there, Sandra. You've got to face facts." She heaved a loud sigh. "Well, fine. If that's the way you're gonna be, then I guess it's time for me to be going. I can tell when my efforts aren't appreciated."

Raylene turned and disappeared into the living room. A moment later her footsteps could be heard on the front stairs. Sandy held up the shirt she'd been clutching--Cy's shirt--and wiped her eyes with it. She carried it to the couch and slumped down. On the bookshelf, across on the far wall, was Roddy's fire truck, clean and polished like she'd left it. She closed her eyes and listened to the racing of her blood. What would Rita say? She'd have something soothing to say, something that made a lot of sense. Bethy would come up and lean against her, sharing her own pain like a gift, her daddy gone just like Roddy's.

Sandy got up, went slowly to the open door and looked out. Next door Raylene was putting clothes on hangers into the back seat of her car. She was mad, shoving things. But she'd be gone, back to her own house near the plant. Sandy shut the door and turned around. The house felt empty around her. It was almost like a living thing, as if it had eyes. She shivered.

 

 

"Alex?"

A familiar pale head stuck itself through the slightly-opened doorway.

"Come."

"Did you need something?"

"No, I--" Of course he hadn't called her. 

She'd come inside and closed the door but now she backed up the few steps she'd taken--probably at the look on his face. "I can go back upstairs," she said quietly.

He let out a sharp breath. What would be the point? She was like a human wiretap, or some kind of forced therapy session where you didn't get to choose your revelations. 

Not that she'd chosen to be that way; some things you were just stuck with. He cleared his throat and glanced toward the window. "They're bringing a new air conditioner this morning." The leaves beyond the glass were limp already. It was going to be another scorcher but this time it wouldn't matter.

Her footsteps came closer. "I didn't mean to pry. But I guess the thought of all those people... the bald man--the soldier--"

He turned. "How did you know Skinner was a--?"

Bingo. He sighed. The lying around was definitely eating away at his alertness.

"He was the one in my dream, Alex. He was a soldier in Vietnam. He was very young then."

"You mean the dream yesterday--the one that spooked you?"

She nodded. "And the one before it."

"But these dreams started after I sent you to Farragut Square, right?"

"Not the first one."

Something in his stomach dropped.  She could get downright spooky. 

If it weren't for the fact that she seemed to have no ability to hide anything, he'd be wondering if she was somebody's plant.  But nobody'd send someone who'd immediately arouse suspicion, or who'd admit to the kind of things she admitted to.

"I'd never seen Skinner before that first dream. But when he saw me at the map shop, I recognized him.  And he knew. He just didn't know how to make sense of it--how it could have happened." She looked up. "I don't know how it happened."

"This, uh, this dream stuff--it happen often?"

"No. Only once before this. Months ago."

Something inside him relaxed. He let his eyes fall shut. If only the old man had an inkling of who he'd chosen--what she was capable of. It had to be the ultimate cosmic joke. 

Though it would be anything but funny if the old man found out.  He'd reconsider his plans for her, all right, but it could be her ticket to an extended hell: after all, look at what had happened to Gibson Praise.  Or the kid sister Mulder'd been so attached to.  A restless clone girl asleep in an upper Alberta bunk wormed its way into his mind.

"Tracy--" He paused and pressed his lips together. Who was to say how much she'd already figured out?

"Just say it, Alex, whatever it is." She went and got the desk chair and sat down beside the bed.

Hiding from reality was a fool's strategy.  Still, he didn't want to say this. He cleared his throat and turned slightly toward her. She was sitting on the chair sideways, her trademark, leaning to one side against the chair back.

"He's not planning on letting you leave here." His voice was low and gravelly. "He picked you because he wanted someone disposable." After a second he breathed in, the air biting uncomfortably at his lungs. She was looking at him clear-eyed. Her lips pressed together, wavered and finally loosened.

"I had a feeling." Her voice was quiet. She looked down. "I figured it was something like that."

"Hey, he's not God. There are ways around him. But he doesn't miss much. You're going to have to be more careful than he is."

She shifted on the chair. "Thanks for coming out and saying it."

Laughter erupted in the hallway, two women chatting, obviously using the stairs, hitting the landing and then starting up to the third floor. The tension inside the room seemed to ease.

"What will you do?" Tracy said. Blonde hair spilled to one side, over the chair back. "After, when you've got your strength back?"

He shrugged. "What I always do."

"Just try to keep one step ahead of him? It's not much of a life, Alex."

He gave her a look. "Neither is drifting around D.C."

She smiled ruefully and shook her head. "Your point, I guess." Her fingers ran along the edge of the seat back. "Who are these people--Mulder and Scully?"

Krycek shifted slightly and stared up at the ceiling. "He's the guy I was looking for when I ran across you on the Mall."

"The man who lost his job. He's... your brother."

"Half-brother."

"He's all you've got."

He half-laughed and shook his head.  "The day I can count on Mulder... No, he hates me. I killed his father. Among other things."

"He's so... intense. You're alike that way."

"Nah. Mulder and me"--he shook his head--"we're nothing alike."

"No, you are. In some ways. What about Scully? Who is she and why does the old man want to catch her?"

"She's Mulder's partner at the FBI. Okay, more than partner: she's the glue that holds him together.  She keeps him from going off the deep end."

"So what did Mulder do?"

"Almost tripped the old man up--exposed who he really is. So they ran. They took off."

"And you don't want them found."

He shrugged and looked past her.

She shook her head and let it rest against her arm on the chair back. "What a hollow old man, shaking his power at people like an empty fist. Nothing he does fills him up. It's what people want, you know?--to be full, one way or another."

He raised one eyebrow and traced the shadow patterns on the wall. "You'll have to get out of here before it's too late. There'll be signs; we'll just have to watch for them."

"Thank you. But be careful--for yourself."

 

 

"Well, I guess it's one way of making you slow down and enjoy the scenery."

Scully strained slightly to see over the dashboard from her partially reclined seat. She glanced over at Mulder behind the wheel. He only shook his head.

"Two hours it's been like this, Scully. What can you say?" He pursed his lips and pressed his head back against the head rest. "Old guys cruising around in motorhomes, with no schedule to keep."

"You want me to drive, Mulder?"

"No." He shook his head and glanced over at her. His expression softened. "You've been yawning for miles now. Why don't you just stretch out in the back and get some rest? You must have been awake for a long time last night."

"A while."

"Go on," he said softly, nodding toward the back seat.

She undid her seat belt, lowered the seat back fully and crawled over it into the back.

"You need something for a pillow?" he said, glancing back at her.

"No, I'll be okay. Don't let me sleep more than an hour, Mulder."

"You got it."

The road was turning to the left, one of its innumerable turns. He could count eleven cars before they disappeared around the bend--cars and motor homes, plus the one he knew was at the head of the convoy. He tapped his thumbs against the steering wheel.

"Mulder, have you thought about Rita?"

"What about her?"

"Not about her. About the case. About what she's been trying to do."

"What about it?"

"Just that she could use help. Other workers have been exposed to beryllium besides her son and husband." She paused, then went on more slowly. "I know it would be dangerous to stir the waters there, to take a chance on exposing ourselves--" She sighed. "I'm not sure why I'm even suggesting this.  I guess I just keep having these awful visions of spending the rest of my life hiding, never stepping out of line so as not to expose myself, leading this innocuous, pointless--"

"Normal life?" He glanced back at her and smiled. "There you have it: the downside of the white picket fence."

"Empty life. And going completely crazy from it."

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation," he quoted. "Thoreau."

"Is it self-serving, Mulder--to want to do something that will make you feel accomplishment?"

"Maybe it depends on whether you're just doing it to get off on the feeling or whether you really care about who you're helping." He reached a hand back and touched the seat beside her. "From what I've seen, you came out of Door #2, Scully."

"Do you think there's anything we could do there? Without exposing ourselves? Is it completely foolhardy?"

He flashed her a grin. "Scully, you're beginning to sound like me. Except that I probably wouldn't have asked"--his tone sobered--"a while ago. I just would have dragged you off into it--"

"--kicking and screaming." There was a smile in her voice.

"Kicking and doubting, Scully. Doubting."

"You're not dragging me anywhere here, Mulder."

"I know. I know."

"Surely you've have thought about it, Mulder."

He rested one arm on the open window frame. "Yeah." He'd spent half the morning thinking about it. "The question is whether we can do anything without giving ourselves away. It'd be awfully hard--"

"When has that ever stopped you?"

"Okay, never. But I never had--" He ran his free hand through his hair. "I just don't want to put you in any danger, Scully. Or leave you alone because I ran off doing something stupid and got myself hurt or... or worse." He breathed out.

"You know, soldiers, Mulder--soldiers--agents--operatives... they care a great deal about each other's lives; they'd do anything to save them. But they don't let it stop them from doing their job. It's part of who they are--of what they are."

He nodded, bit his lip and stared into the slow traffic ahead of him.

 

 

To: thelark@

From: dresswhites@

So glad to receive your message. I understand about the kindnesses. I received a visit last night--or rather I met someone who'd left me a message--a friend of yours. He came just to see how I was doing; it was so unexpected and so heartening. What a warm and thoughtful man. He said to let you know he's still taking those notes. My prayers are with you and Ben.

 

 

Tracy sat at a small table near the front of the dimly-lit restaurant and waited. Alex had told her about this place: tiny, family-owned restaurant run by a family from Spain. He'd sent her out to get a couple of thing he'd written on a piece of paper. She'd handed Alex's note to the waiter, a small man with olive skin and the merest shadow of a beard. Cool food for a hot day, Alex had said. He'd wondered if she should be going out in the midday heat, but why should she have any problem now? She never had before. He worried, since her comment about the baby moving, about her being pregnant and fragile.

She looked up. People were beginning to come in for lunch. It was nice of him to admit what the old man had in mind. It wasn't his usual way and it had been awkward for him to say the words. At least he hadn't asked her why she bothered to stay. How could she possibly have explained it to someone who dealt in calculated strategies and payoffs the way Alex did? 

Tracy leaned back against the chair. The place smelled of olive oil and meat and something she couldn't place. Interesting smells. She'd never been anywhere but Elleryville and here, but Alex had been so many places, though this one was no more home than any of the others. She caught snippets of his childhood every once in a while when they'd pass through his mind--a cold place, hard bare floors and memories he deliberately chose not to look at.

The thought of her baby clung like a cobweb in the back of his mind, bringing questions about his own beginning that he'd never thought before, and had no use for.

"Miss."

The waiter stood in front of her, holding out a plastic bag with two styrofoam boxes inside. Good smells came from the top one--garlic and onion and potatoes. She paid with the money Alex had given her and went outside into the bright light. It was hotter than she'd remembered, a sudden wall of muggy heat. She pushed up the sleeves of her sweater. It was silly, wearing it everywhere like this. She should wean herself from it. It had been a whole year, after all.

 

 

Mulder glanced into the back seat and felt the lines on his face relax. Scully was asleep, her mouth slightly open, peaceful. Perfect. He turned back to the road. The buildup of traffic had dissolved for the most part, a number of the larger vehicles pulling off along the way for lunch. His stomach was starting to grumble, too, but he could wait. She needed that hour of sleep and she was going to get it.

The road curved to the right, passing a gray stone cottage--a historical landmark of some sort--gray stones like the ones around the window in the room he'd rented a week ago in a completely different lifetime. He'd nearly forgotten about his little place: ivy-covered window, mint green walls, a door with four small panes of glass in it and red geraniums on the stairs outside. He hadn't spent a single night there--hadn't slept in it, at any rate. She had. It had been one of those scenarios that defined the term 'exquisite torture', sitting at the computer knowing she was on the bed behind him, trying not to go crazy with wanting her. As if the day would never come: it had always seemed that way. And now... He grinned. It wasn't the way he'd imagined--nothing ever was--but it was real, and that made all the difference. It was better. Better than anything.

Mulder glanced at his watch. Nearly two. They could make it to Rita's easily by early evening, even the way traffic had been. They could be there and unpacked, settled in.

Settled into separate lives.

He bit his lip and squinted ahead into the distance.

He'd thought about it, alright--what she'd said. It had been the first thing that came to mind, drawing him like a magnet, as usual: purpose, a chance to uncover another puzzle piece, to find something he could use against Smoky. But now that desire had to be balanced against her safety, against her need to heal--she was healing--and where did you find that middle ground, that safe ground? That place between commitment and responsibility where neither was compromised.

 

 

To: buzz38@

From: 03224@

Watch your back. The hunt is on.

Krycek hit 'send', looked up from the keyboard and paused. A strange, momentary buzzing filled his head. A sound came against the door, a thump like someone throwing a newspaper against it, that sent a spike of adrenaline through him and made his blood race. But instead of reaching for the pistol under a pillow, he rolled carefully, eased his legs down over the side of the bed and reached for the cane at the corner, where she'd hooked it to the bedpost with a wire hanger so it wouldn't fall.

Standing, he steadied himself and started for the door. For whatever crazy reason he knew what he would find. He paused a second by the door to listen and then turned the lock and the handle. The door nudged itself open. A headful of pale blonde hair fell through the opening at his feet.

 

 

"It's not much," Sandy said apologetically, looking around her living room and then back at Rita.

"It's not the room," Rita said, smiling. "It's what you bring to it."

"Well, it don't have very much at the moment." She gulped away the sudden pressure in her throat. "We should be okay here. I mean, my mom just left. She took all her stuff and went back to her house in town..." She glanced out the window.

"You know we're going to have to be very, very careful here, missy. This is deadly serious, but I believe I can trust you with it. I'm trusting you with these people's safety, too. You realize that, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"They'll be coming soon--maybe today--and I understand you know one of them, which is why I wanted to ask you... The woman--Annie--has been here before. She's short, about my height. She has red hair--"

"I did." Sandy nodded. "I did see her. She came here with a black man--another FBI guy--asking me questions about Cy." Her face clouded. "Oh, God, my mom was here. She came right out on the porch, too. She saw both of 'em. She's got a mouth like--" She stopped and composed herself. "She likes to talk a lot."

"That's one of the reasons I asked David if she could stay at their place. It's secluded. She'll be out of sight. People don't just go running up there to visit. David's always been a private sort of person and now with Heather off in her own little world, well, I figured Annie could help out up there when you're not around, if something comes up. She's a doctor, too. Did I mention that?"

Sandy shook her head. "She was nice and all, I guess--about how she asked the questions, I mean. I was so tired of all that stuff I coulda screamed, but I know it was her job to ask. And I guess she did try to be nice about it."

"Ben says she's been under some stress lately. Maybe you can give her a little hand."

"Me? What could--?"

"We've all got something to share, missy. Do what you do best. Show her the creek. Take her hiking. Has David told you about the falls?"

"No, ma'am." Sandy sat forward in her chair.

"There's falls up there, on a trail behind the house. Not big, but they're mighty pretty." Rita nodded at her. "Ask him."

"Will they be able to help us? You know, to find out anything about what's going on at the plant? To catch the guy who killed Cy and Roddy?"

"Missy, I don't know. They're already on the run for their lives for looking into this dilemma of ours in the first place. That's a lot of weight to carry. I don't know what we can fairly ask of them. I surely felt like I owed them sanctuary for the efforts they've already made."

"And the guy--her partner--he wasn't here before?"

"Not officially. He came to see me, though." She paused. "He'll be staying with my brother Dale for a while. A nephew, that's what we're going to say. But since Annie's been here before we need to make sure your mother doesn't run across her. Here and the sheriff's station are the only two places anybody might have seen her as far as we can tell."

"My mom don't even know where I'm working. She wanted to, but I didn't tell her."

"Do you think she'd recognize Annie if she saw her again?"

Sandy paused. "I don't know. I mean, she was dressed up and all--fancy suit and nice done-up hair and stockings and everything. If she just looked regular... I don't know. I hope not." Her brow wrinkled.

"Well, I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Rita said. She stood. "Thank you for having me. But we'd really better be going. The longer we stay, the more chance we have of some curious one wondering what I'm doing parked in your driveway."

"My mom nurses a grudge a long time--long time. She's not likely to be back anytime soon."

"Still, we should be careful." Rita looked toward the hallway. "Sweetpea?"

Bethy's head appeared from a doorway.

"Time to go, sweetie. Maybe we can come again sometime."

Bethy came into the living room.

"I was keeping his toys company," she said, looking up at Sandy with her sad-dog eyes. "They need somebody to play with them once in a while."

Sandy pulled her close and smoothed her hair back. "Well, you're welcome to any time, punkin."

She led Rita and Bethy to the door and watched them go down the steps. Her eyes stung.  Her lips were beginning to quiver and she could feel it coming on, but she could hold out until they'd driven away so they wouldn't worry about her. Keeping his toys company. She pressed her lips together and made herself stand straighter.

And the FBI lady, Annie--what could she possibly do for a suit-dressed, professional city woman? What could they even talk about?

 

 

The washcloth wiped a cool path across her forehead for the second time. Everything seemed strange, like a movie theater with the lights dimmed, but it was her, not the room; she realized that now. She was in the recliner, hot, weak, strangely vacant-feeling. The air around her was cool.

And the man she was here to take care of was leaning over her, adding to his own discomfort.

"Alex, you don't have to--" Her voice sounded funny. 

"Shhh."

The cloth went into a plastic bowl on the desk, then was raised, folded carefully with his single hand--a technique he evidently used often because he did it easily--squeezed and brought back to her cheeks. 

"Can you see any better now?" His expression was tight, giving away nothing.

"A little, I guess. I was downstairs, I guess the building next door when everything started to go black. Guess I'm lucky I made it up here at all." She glanced past him. "It's cool. It's so nice in here." 

When she pulled upward to look toward the window, he held the chair back. "Lie down," he said. After a beat, he nodded toward the narrow window. "They brought the air conditioner while you were gone.  Good thing, too."

She watched his face as he dipped the washcloth in the bowl again: stress lines across his forehead, mouth small and tight, a day's growth of beard that made him look older than he was.

"I shouldn't have sent you out there," he said eventually. "No more running out in the middle of the day in this kind of heat. No telling how close you came to doing some real damage. If our luck holds, he won't walk in the door and find you like this."

And decide she'd outlived her usefulness. 

She looked down, at her body in front of her. "My sweater..."

He nodded toward the desk beside him, where the sweater lay in a heap, and frowned. "Didn't help any. You need something cooler to wear. This stuff you've got--"

"It's all I have."

"I know."

"Alex, how did you--?"

He looked away. 

"Never mind." It would only be poking at a raw wound to ask him how he'd managed to maneuver her inside and into the chair in his condition.  Or why he'd bothered.

The washcloth went into the bowl again, then returned to her forehead, moving around her hairline in sure, even strokes. "You should drink something," he said.

Setting the washcloth aside, he got up shakily, the way an old man might get up from a chair, testing tentatively for strength, and turned to pick the cane from the desktop. Then he started across the open space to the bathroom and disappeared into it. He came out again, glass held between finger and thumb as he grasped the cane, and went to the refrigerator. Glass on top, milk out. A new carton, one that hadn't been opened. He set it on top of the refrigerator and tried to press the flaps back with his one hand but they wouldn't cooperate. After a moment's struggle he reached for a small knife on the shelf above--a very sharp knife--and pressed it into a corner of the carton. It made a workable spout. His hand shook as he poured the milk into the glass. The pain in his side was building.

"Alex, you don't have to--"

But he was blocking her out.

There was no way, now, that he could carry both glass and cane. He turned, not looking up at her, and started carefully along the perimeter of the room--past the bed, across the empty corner, along the large desk and finally around the end of the outstretched recliner, every step a project, but he focused away from the pain, on what he was doing, where he was headed. He held the glass out to her and waited until she had it securely. Then he eased himself down onto the desk chair and closed his eyes.

"Thank you," she said. The milk was cold; it tasted wonderful. "You need to--" Take one of your pain meds. As if he wasn't aware.

He was opening one of the food boxes on the desk. Reaching inside, he broke off a piece of what was inside and held it out.

She sat up slightly. "I can--"

"Stay where you are. You're as stubborn as... as I am, you know that?" He handed her the food, something yellow and thick.

"What is it?"

"A tortilla--an omelet with potatoes and onions. They serve them cold for snacks. Any bar you go into, they have these snacks--tapas. Because they don't eat dinner until almost midnight."

"Really?"

"Yeah." He took a bite and nodded for her to do the same.

She tried it and smiled. "It's good."

"Yeah. Go on, you need to get something in your stomach."

He looked away and took some more. She went back to eating the piece he'd given her. When she glanced up from picking a bit of the tortilla from her dress, she found him watching her.

"It's getting to you, isn't it?" he said. "The pain in my side?"

A pause and she nodded.

"Next time say something."

"But you needed to eat before you take your medication."

"Still." He took a final bite of his piece of tortilla and put what was left in the styrofoam box, then eased himself to his feet.

"You should lie down, Alex. You've done too much already."

"If you promise to stay in that chair and rest. Don't be stupid and push yourself."

He gave her a stern look for good measure, but for some reason it made her smile. He glared--briefly--and then his mouth came undone. He looked at her, momentarily helpless without his gruff façade. "What?"

"Just... thank you." She let her head fall back against the chair. "Thank you for not treating me like a freak, like everybody else."

"Eat," he said, and turned away.

 

 

She was in John Byers' car again, lying in the back seat. Through the windows she could see the tips of the trees on the Arlington side of the river. The thin sadness surrounded her, the outer rim of a vortex of confusing emotion. She could see his face now, in the open doorway, Byers looking down at her, concern in his expression, and then a smile, broadening, and his face dissolving into Mulder's face.

"Hey," he said softly, coming closer, reaching across the seat, close now, and then a kiss--soft, dipping into her mouth--that made her arms reach for him and her whole body wake.

He moved back and looked at her. "It's been an hour. Traffic's thinned a little; we've made pretty good time." He looked away a moment, out the window. "There's a restaurant over there. I figure if we get something to go I can actually eat with you for a change, instead of this doing things in shifts." He nodded toward the outside. "You know, take a walk or something, someplace nobody's likely to see two on-the-lam FBI agents indulging in lunch together. You hungry?"

"Yes, actually I am." She sat up and smoothed her hands through her hair. The Bureau seemed so far away. So long ago.

"That okay, Scully?"

"What?"

"Lunch together." He pursed his lips. "Or do you need some space?"

"No, I--" She glanced up at him, focused, then looked away, out the window. "I think we'll have more than enough space in just a few hours."

He looked down and nodded slightly. "You want to order or you want me to?"

"I'll order," she said.

She scooted across the seat and got out. The air was bright, warm with the sweet smell of sunlight on leaves. She squinted and began to walk toward the restaurant. She could feel the thin veil of sadness, the residue of her dream, wanting to creep around her like a shawl.

 

 

The sensation of something light coming down over her brought Tracy to the edge of consciousness. She opened one eye, then both. The shades had been drawn and the room was cast in yellow, parchment-colored light. Alex was standing over her, his breathing quietly labored.

"I must have drifted off." She started to sit up but thought better of it.

"You were getting too cool," he said. "Go on. Rest."

She closed her eyes. He'd taken another of the pain pills and was about to lie down.

"Will you make it okay, Alex?"

"Yeah. I think so."

She watched him in her mind, moving across the open floor to the bed, sitting down, easing himself back onto the pillows, pulling his legs up and finally letting go, allowing his muscles to relax as he relinquished himself to the growing fog inside him.

She reached down and touched the blanket, pulling it closer to her chin. It was thin cotton, almost like a flannel sheet. It smelled faintly of the room, and of him. In her mind she could see her mother, in her bedroom years ago, doing the same thing--spreading a blanket, spreading warmth that surrounded her, that let her close her eyes and slip away feeling safe.

 

 

"I'm here to pick up a copy of a confession." Wilkins flashed his badge at the desk sergeant.

"Case number?"

"14663878."

The sergeant tapped the number into his terminal. "Says here they've already faxed a copy over."

"Fax has been on the fritz," Wilkins said. "We need it now. Anyway, we need a copy of the original, not the transcription. We need the handwriting."

"Real paper-in-the-hand, eh?" The sergeant raised an eyebrow and got up from his desk. "This may take a few."

"I can wait."

Will watched the sergeant disappear through a set of double doors. That much was true, anyway: they needed the confession and Manny was hot to have it first thing in the morning. He'd win back some points with his partner for having picked it up today, on his off-day. But this was also the precinct where Skinner had been processed. He'd keep his eyes and ears open while he was here.

A poor family huddled quietly on a bench to one side--mother, two pre-teen girls and a boy, maybe 14, looking nervous. They'd be waiting for somebody, most likely an older kid who'd gotten into trouble. The woman had on a faded T-shirt and a pair of worn jeans. The girls were in hand-me-downs, their clothes too big for them, but the boy's shoes were new, expensive. The woman kept moving her hand to the bench and then lifting it again, the nervous movement of a smoker deprived of her cigarettes. Her hair was pale, though bleached roots showed it wasn't her natural color. It made him think of the girl Skinner had described, the one Krycek was using for a courier.

"You're in luck," came a voice from behind him.

Wilkins turned back to the counter.

"Somebody had it ready back there. Did you call?"

"Yeah, I did." He took the envelope. "Say, how do I get to Evidence? There's something I need to check on."

"Your lucky streak just ran out," the sergeant said, shaking his head. "It's locked down until we figure out where our leak is. We had a little disappearing incident last night." He leaned closer and spoke more quietly. "One fat baggie of coke. Some bigwig's case, so the word goes."

"A break-in?"

The officer shook his head. "Not many people are stupid enough to break into a station house." He shrugged. "Unless you've got some 'Mission Impossible kind of thing going--you know, Tom Cruise and that other guy breaking into Quantico. But it don't happen that way in real life, right?"

"Not that I know of." Wilkins picked up the envelope from the counter and turned to go. "Thanks," he said.

He took three steps and nearly tripped over a small red jacks ball that had escaped one of the little blonde-haired girls. He stopped it with his shoe, stooped down, picked it up and held it out to her. She looked at him with big eyes--not-used-to-dark-skin eyes.

"Kayla--" It was her mother. "Go ahead, take it."

The little girl hesitated and then took it quickly. Half a questioning smile flitted across her face and then she turned and ran back to the safety of her sister.

 

 

We took our lunch and drove on a few miles, just far enough to find a convenient turnout where the trees opened into meadow. The seclusion was nice, but it didn't escape either of us that our secrecy held no element of choice, but was rather an essential condition of our safety. We couldn't afford to be seen together and when we arrived in Owensburg it would be even more critical. We ate quietly, Mulder focusing on his sandwich and I on my salad, neither one of us able or willing to put the truth into words: that the only way to stay together would be to stay apart. For the first time in my life, I understood why Juliet wanted so desperately to believe that the call she'd heard when she awoke that fateful morning was not the lark, but the nightingale.

 

 

To: TinMan@

From: heron3@

K's plan seems to be moving along, if what I heard at the station today is true. Evidence has turned up missing; sounds like it could be yours. One move and what are the possible countermoves? Hope you like pizza; I have to get up there somehow.

 

 

Sandy opened a can of soup and poured it into a saucepan. It was early for dinner--way early--hardly past four--but for some reason she was dead tired. All she wanted was to put something in her stomach and go to bed.

Or maybe she was just afraid of waiting for night to come now that there was no one next door to go to--or to tell herself she didn't need to go to--if she woke up in the night. She was on her own this time. Just her and the ghosts.

If only there were ghosts. Instead there was nothing, which was worse--just a vast, hollow emptiness. Ghosts wouldn't actually be so bad if they seemed real. She could take that, watching a watery, pale version of Cy with his scratchy-tickly beard. If he talked to her. If he said something--anything. Just any kind of touch between them.

She set the pan on the stove and turned on the burner. With a wooden spoon she stirred the contents round and round, counterclockwise, watching the alphabet letters spin, waiting for them to heat.

 

 

"That was quite surprising--amazing, actually--the mail from your mother this morning." Scully glanced over at him from her driving.

Mulder swallowed. "Yeah, it was."

"So far from"--she pursed her lips--"from the way she used to be."

He attempted a smile. It was true. It was overwhelming, the kind of thing that landed in your lap once in a lifetime and made you wonder if the world was ending--if something cataclysmic wouldn't happen now that something you'd wanted so badly had finally come true. It was more than he could ever have wished for, here in the middle of disaster, job lost, on the run. That and Scully. He could die happy now, except that he wasn't ready to give it up--any of it. 

But Owensburg was closer with each passing mile.

He looked over at her. She'd been quiet, too--pensive. She seemed stronger now, more stable than she'd been since they'd left D.C., and yet... Maybe it was all him. She'd said her little soldier/operative piece and she was right; they'd spent six years putting their lives on the line for each other.  But it had never seemed like this, weighted this way, the doubts and fears looming quite as large as they appeared now. Maybe he shouldn't say anything. Maybe it would only make things worse. He bit his lip and looked out the window.

"I was just thinking this morning, Mulder." She cleared her throat. She was looking ahead. "About how many small, beautiful things have happened to us in the middle of all this: your mother, Rita's invitation.. John Byers helping me before we left. The way Isaiah Wilkins went to visit my mother last night. It's almost...overwhelming, it's... like somehow you've been blessed, even in the middle of all this."

"I know." He turned to look at her now. "That's kind of the way I felt when my fever broke. When I saw you and mom sitting their together. I was awed. It was..."

He pressed his lips together and looked out the window. The mood had caught both of them. She was sitting there, staring at the road, fighting the corners of her mouth.

He reached a hand out and she took it, squeezed it.

"Scully, I--" He breathed out and let his head fall back against the head rest. "Stay with me. One more night. I'm not ready to be on my own.  Without you."

Her face struggled with a look that was half smile, half loss. "Me, either."

"We're only a couple of hours away as it is. We can do that in the morning, easy."

She nodded.

He closed his eyes and felt the grip of her fingers, strong between his own.

 

 

Tracy brought the chair back up behind her. The room was cool, silent, the only sound the rumbling of the air conditioner. Beyond the shades, the light was weakening and there was no movement on the bed. In the corner, the red numbers on Alex's clock read 7:42.

She stood carefully, took a few steps to the window and raised the shade. A weak, rosy glow stained the cityscape. She felt strange inside, as if she's passed through some indefinable crisis and come out the other side, weak but apparently in one piece. She went to use the bathroom, then came out and approached the bed. One of Alex's eyes was half-open. He wasn't quite asleep, suspended in the twilight state the medication induced.

"Alex..."

"Mmm?"

"Do you need anything? Are you okay?"

" 'M okay."

She sat down on the edge of the bed. "I'm going to go upstairs."

"Take the elevator, don't"--he pulled up slightly and struggled to focus on her--"don't... walk up."

"I'll set an alarm. I'll come back down when you need to take more." She set a hand on his shoulder.

He shook his head. "Don't."

"What?"

"Touch me."

"Why?"

"You know... why."

She swallowed and moved her hand away.

"Be careful," he said, quiet. "If anything... happens... if you're... no use to me... then you're no use to... to him, either." He breathed out and caught her with half-glazed eyes.

"I will, Alex. I'll be careful."

She got up, went to the door and paused, then let herself out. The building's heat enveloped her. She moved slowly to the elevator and pushed the button.

 

 

"Don't you get fed up with it?" Skinner said, reaching for a second slice of pizza. "The way your disguises work so"--his mouth twisted--"so well, the way people--white people--treat you?"

"Yeah, I do, sir." Wilkins paused. "Sometimes I get real fed up." He shrugged and reached for another slice. "But then you've got to live with that anger, and it's corrosive, you know? It eats away at you, so what have you gained in the end? You'll dig your own grave that way." He leaned back in the chair. "You get really pissed sometimes, so you find a way to blow off that steam, to let it go so you can go forward again. I guess the disguises are my way of striking back, you know? Kind of like writer's revenge where some author takes the guy next door who's always dumping leaves on his side of the fence and writes him in as the villain in a story--you get 'em without them knowing. You get your private chuckle and it diffuses some of what's built up inside you."

Skinner nodded.

"Besides, sir, a lot of them don't have a clue what they're doing. Don't get me wrong. Ignorance is no excuse and it can be damn frustrating, but"--he reached for his glass--"I imagine it's like having been in a war. Plenty of people don't understand 'cause they haven't been there, and sometimes it pisses you off--sometimes in a major way--the way they react, the ignorance they show. But you can't live well with that kind of frustration. There's just no point to carrying it around with you."

"I understand. I've found myself in a few of those situations." Skinner pursed his lips. "So what about this theft of evidence?"

"I was there, sir, picking up a confession on the Norton case, and I asked for Evidence, just to see if I'd get anything, and the sergeant said it was locked down, that they'd had a theft of a baggie and were trying to trace it. 'Some bigwig' were his words, sir--the case it was for."

Skinner breathed out slowly. "You never know how the Cancer Man might react. He might just decide to take me out."

"I believe Krycek's more careful than that, sir. He anticipates that man's moves like he's stalking prey. I noticed that in the hospital. The old guy's like a rain cloud following him and Krycek intends to stay as dry as he can possibly be."

"Let's hope so. Let's hope I have some time to act." He got up and walked to the window. "Why do I feel like I've gotten myself into a game of Russian roulette? If for some reason I don't--" He paused momentarily, then turned to face his guest. "If something goes wrong, you're my witness, Agent. You're the one who knows what was going on."

Wilkins nodded. "Yes, sir. But my guess is Krycek will have some backup rationale, a way to convince the old guy you've got strategic value that he knows is going to work, like a favorite fishing lure.  And he knows he's going to have to play Mr. Big Fish on his line until he settles down; that's the risk he's going to have to take. But if he sees value in you himself, then he's not going to let things get too far out of hand."

The corner of Skinner's mouth twisted. "Not that Krycek's agenda will be any better than the Smoking Man's. One time we came into possession of a DAT tape--one with Defense Department secrets on it. Krycek strong-armed it from me and ran off to Hong Kong to sell the secrets on it to the highest bidder. He didn't give it to the Cancer Man. He certainly didn't have any altruistic motives." He shook his head. "He tipped Mulder to some information once--led a militia group right into our hands and alerted Mulder to an incoming parcel from the Soviet Union, something the Smoking Man's group had a finger in. But all evidence was lost in the end. In the end it was hard to tell whether he'd given us anything at all or whether he was just using Mulder to some end we were never able to figure out."

"You know what I find interesting, sir? That Krycek set that recorder up in Mulder's apartment and is terrified of the old guy finding out. Now you'd think that would be something that would get him a gold star, you know?--surveilling Mulder? But for some reason it's not. Now why would he want to hide that, sir? I think that's one of the things we've got to figure out if we're going to get anywhere with this puzzle."

"The tape from it nearly nailed him," Skinner said, turning from the window. The last of the sunset light glowed orange on his face. "It would have proved to the Smoking Man that he's not a team player, that he's got his own agenda again."

"Could be. He might have been able to talk his way past that one, though--you know, look at this, I was just showing some initiative. Or there might be something more to it, something we haven't seen yet."

"The Smoking Man will be looking for Mulder and Scully," Skinner said, staring out at the darkening sky. "He sent Krycek after them once and they shot his man. He isn't going to just give up and let them walk away."

"Which means he's got two options: go looking--if he's got a lead--let's hope he doesn't--" He paused. "Or try to lure them out."

"He's used Scully before to try and manipulate Mulder. But she's with him now, wherever they are. Have you heard from them lately?"

"No, sir. Not for a couple of days. Maggie's seen them, though."

Skinner turned to look at him.

"Scully's mother. I went on a little goodwill visit last night. She said they met her in Baltimore Friday afternoon--she saw Scully, anyway. Mulder set them up to meet in a department store dressing room. Not bad strategy if I do say so. Anyway, she got the impression they were going to be on the move, leaving the area."

"So they could have been here in D.C. the whole time."

"Possibly, sir. And now?" He shrugged. "Who knows?"

Skinner let out a sigh. "I hope Mulder's got his head on straight."

 

 

Mulder worked the key in the lock and pushed the door open. He went inside and set his bag on the dresser. Scully came in behind him, set her bag on the bed and started back toward the door.

"I forgot something," she said to his quizzical look.

He watched her go, then stretched and drifted to the window. He'd spent too many hours in one position. Too long sitting. The room smelled of being closed up. He unlatched the window lock and pushed it up. They were old windows, wood-framed. The whole place was old--cabins, really. They called them chalets. There was barely anybody here, but it made sense; it was Sunday night after all, the weekenders all gone home to get ready for work the next day--somewhere he and Scully weren't going. He pursed his lips. Air began to come in the window, fresh and sweet smelling. He closed his eyes a moment and felt his face relax.

It was their last night--last time--and who knew how long it would be until they could get together again? He opened his eyes and watched her through the window, leaning into the back seat, looking for something. She'd found it now, whatever it was. Something small. She backed out and locked the car, turned and came inside. The door closed behind her.

"Mulder?" She stood there a moment, paused, looking at him, embarrassed suddenly--that slight look down, the suppressed smile--as if she'd never been in a motel room with him before. Not to stay, anyway.

"Hey." He smiled. It must be contagious; he could feel himself coloring.

She looked up, smiled again, resigned herself to the pull between them and came and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her head pressed against his chest. A sigh shuddered through her; it seemed magnified somehow, close between them. 

"Mulder, I--" She looked up. "This may be the most... irrational thing I've ever done."

Thanks.

"But I'm glad I did it--that we've done it. I really am."

He smiled. Sometimes he'd wondered--worried--just how she felt about it. The rational part of her, anyway. The part he worked with.

"Come on, Mulder."

She led him to the foot of the bed and made him sit.

"What?"

She shook her head. She cupped his face, then slipped her arms around his neck. His head rested in the soft hollow between her breasts. It was that same sweater, the pale green one. How long ago was that? A week? Just over.

"You wore this to the park," he said, looking up.

He put his arms around her and pulled her back with him, slow-motion, till they were lying on the bed facing each other. "You were beautiful on that swing, Scully."

"I was so... I was carrying the weight of... so many things. Andy Johnston and the little Miller boy. His mother, Cy Miller... Thank you. For taking me, for making me go."

He pulled back slightly. "I didn't make you, Scully."

She shook her head. "No. You didn't. I just wouldn't have gone by myself. I needed some prodding."

"I can do that."

She flushed. He smoothed a thumb across her cheek.

"I was going crazy, Scully. In the park that night. I... You put your arms around me. Do you remember what you said?"

She paused, thought back and shook her head.

"You said if there was anything I needed--" He raised his eyebrows. "I nearly went crazy."

"You did seem... rather preoccupied on the way back."

"Just trying to hold myself together."

"I'm sorry, Mulder, that I didn't see it. No--" She looked at him squarely. "It wasn't that I didn't, or couldn't. I didn't want to. I was afraid to see that in you. Afraid of myself, maybe." She shook her head. "When I woke up, in your room the next morning, it was... It felt so... empty, with you gone."

"I couldn't watch you, Scully, sleeping there on my bed. I couldn't even look."

She pulled him closer. "There's something about that room, Mulder, that place. It just seems to suit you. Not that it's exactly your dream home. It's not your apartment. But there's something about it, something comfortable, as if you belong there."

"I think it fits us, Scully. You were there with me."

She buried her head against his chest. "Mulder, will we ever get back there? To Washington? Do you think we'll ever stand in that room again? Or will we just keep running, moving on, leaving everything we touch behind?"

"We've got to believe we will, Scully. If you can't envision something"--he fingered a lock of her hair--"then you've got no chance of ever making it happen. Besides, you need to be back at the Bureau. That's where your talents are."

"You need to be back at the Bureau."

"I don't know, Scully. Sometimes I wonder."

"Wonder what?" Her head came up.

He shook his. "I don't know. It's just a feeling. I haven't figured it out yet."

She lay watching him. Finally the corners of her mouth wavered. She swallowed.

"Hey." He cradled her head against him and gradually felt her loosen. A car door slammed in the parking lot and then all was quiet.

"Mulder, did we do the right thing?" she said, stirring. "It's well-documented that when people are under pressure, they--”

He nudged her with his chin. "Stop second-guessing yourself, Scully. What do you think?"

"It's..." She looked up. Half a smile was on her face. "...good."

"Just good?"

"Okay, better than good."

"Much better than good." He rolled slightly and buried his face in her hair. "Admit it."

"Okay." The smile in her voice was obvious now. "I admit it. I admit it."

He rolled back and she settled against him. Quiet filled the room.

"I should have let you stay, Mulder--with Emily and me, when she was... at the end."

"Scully, if that's what you'd needed then, you would have done it."

"I know. I just... Now I feel like I left you out. At the time I was so deep in my own grief I couldn't see it, but I know you were there. You were always there."

"I still am. I will be. As long as you need me." He shifted slightly. "Scully?"

"What?"

"Need me."

 

 

Tracy dipped her T-shirt--the one she wore to sleep in--into the sink in the hot darkness. The cool water felt good on her fingers. After a moment she lifted the shirt and began to squeeze the water from it. Alex had only one hand to squeeze with and he'd made an art of doing it efficiently. So many things she'd never thought about before: the snaps on pants, shoes with laces, writing without having the paper scoot away, trying to open a carton of milk. She finished squeezing, set the shirt aside and splashed the remaining water in the sink on her face and neck. Cool trickles ran over her breasts and down her stomach. She took her brush from the shelf and began to brush her hair slowly. The room had no light--not even reflected street light--but it made no difference; only touch was needed to brush your hair. It was smooth hair, thin and straight, not like her mother's. She set the brush aside, slipped the T-shirt over her head and went out into the bedroom and to the window to tilt the fan toward the bed. She still felt funny, slow and thick and somehow fragile; the fan seemed awkward and heavy.

Finally she lay down. The wet fabric clung to her and made her shiver but it felt good and anyway, it would dry soon enough. In the dull glow of the street lights she could see the new, still-unfamiliar roundness of her body rising like a small hill in front of her.

She closed her eyes. The air in the room was hot and close, cottony in spite of the open window. Alex was lying where she'd left him, trapped in a half-dream with the little boy he'd shot. He couldn't afford to dwell on the boy. Or on her.

Tracy turned to lie on her side. She could picture her mother, in the time before everything had gone bad, bending over tomatoes in the garden. She was wearing the yellow sweater, when it had still fit--before she'd accidentally put it in the dryer and had it emerge a miniature version of its former self. She'd forgotten the sweater in Alex's room tonight, but it would be safe there.

Her mother would understand. She would know why she was doing this.

Chapter 8

Monday

 

"Be careful," his voice came from the shadows after a long silence.

Tracy nodded, went out into the hallway and closed the door behind her. His mind was full of turmoil and it made her lightheaded. Maybe the elevator would be safer. She walked up to it and pushed the button. At the far end of the hallway, a small window framed the slick black of night--as black, anyway, as a big city could get with its lights always on.

When the metal door slid open, Tracy got in, pushed at the third floor button and leaned her head against the wall. She squeezed her eyes shut against a sudden stinging and grasped the handrail harder.

It was supposed to be simple: follow her intuition's lead, offer her help, watch something positive happen as a result. Or maybe she was just wishing--wanting it to turn out that way. Her efforts hadn't saved her mother.

But Alex was different.  It was an injury, not a terminal disease. And physically he was improving. But the more time she spent with him, the more his focus and his wariness were being eroded. In the end it could mean tipping his hand to his father, or losing the edge he might need to react to an attack. He knew all this; it had been running through his head for hours. It was the reason he hadn't asked her to stay in his room just now where it was cool. After what had happened this afternoon he'd find his line of reasoning interrupted by thoughts of her, about the hot room she'd be sleeping in, about the child she was carrying. And he had to protect himself. He should: it was his edge, not her, that kept him alive.

But if that was the case, then what was the point of being here, her mission or purpose? Maybe it was a wrong decision, a choice thoughtlessly taken at some fork in the road much farther back that had led her to this dangerous detour. They were dangerous, Alex and his father.

The elevator door sucked closed abruptly, making Tracy jump. It had been standing open at her own floor and she hadn't even noticed . She quickly pushed the 'open' button and stepped out into the hallway. The stairs to the roof were right beside the elevator, closer even than the door to her own room, and she started up automatically, one hand on the railing. Be careful, he'd said. She thought of their climb of the evening before: the way his belt loop cut into her fingers, the pressure of his hip against hers as they lifted together, the slow but ultimately coordinated rhythm that had developed as they reached the higher stairs. He was learning to accept her help now, to let her do what he couldn't do himself. 

She reached the top stair, paused and opened the door to the patio. The air was close and still. Beads of sweat sat on her forehead and upper lip. The area beyond the dim half-circle of stairway light was empty--no shadow-shapes, no stray thoughts. She crossed to the edge, leaned against the still-warm wall and closed her eyes. A current of slowly moving air meandered across the patio and began to dry the dampness between her eyelashes. Behind her, the leaves on the top of the oak tree--Alex's tree--murmured gently.

Looked at from anyone else's point of view, her life made no sense, a seemingly rudderless boat adrift in the current. She did prepare in her own way; it simply wasn't one that anyone else would comprehend. Where would she go if she left now? Where would she go in four or five weeks if she didn't? Assuming, of course, that the old man didn't surprise them and catch her somehow. But Alex would be watching him carefully for signs. Snatching her from the old man's grasp was important to him now: the old man had taken too many playing pieces from his board already; he'd keep the old man from getting this one.

Four weeks, five weeks. It would be easier if she had the capacity to plan ahead like other people, to point in a direction and simply start toward it. And now there was the baby to think of, though her mind still wanted to skitter away from the subject. Alex had said it himself: it was one thing for her to navigate by her internal sonar, but it was something else to make another life depend on it.

Tracy gripped the ledge and let her head come down to rest against it. The air was nearly motionless now and her T-shirt, almost dry, was no longer a source of cool relief. Beads of sweat formed around the place where her forehead touched the brick.

What would her mother have done, or said? It was hard even to picture her anymore, as if she'd never been anything but a dream. Tracy closed her eyes. In her mind she saw herself as if from above, one thin girl on a darkened rooftop, a tiny island in a vast, black sea of emptiness.

 

 

"I wonder what we actually know about this case."

Scully rolled toward the voice. "You still awake, Mulder?"

"Yeah. I guess I just can't sleep. Looks like you caught a few minutes, though."

"Not really. I've just been lying here, too, thinking."

"About?"

"About who at Beeson-Lymon stands to benefit from exposing their employees to something life-threatening. From a business standpoint, it doesn't make any sense." She curled onto her side facing him. "I mean, it's not efficient to take the time to train an employee and then lose that experience. And there's always the risk of getting caught. Without someone at the plant cooperating, someone high up in the company infrastructure who's getting a big payoff from all of this--"

"It wouldn't be happening at all."

"Exactly."

"And the connection's definitely been established? I mean, we know for a fact that these people were overexposed?"

"Evidently there's been anecdotal evidence for years, but Rita's husband Bob certainly seemed to bear that out. The scar tissue I found on his lungs was textbook."

"But you're not sure about Andy?"

"I... No. Skinner was in a hurry. I took the tissue samples intending to examine them at Quantico, but I didn't actually study them. I thought I'd have time but--"

"They've probably disappeared by now--if they ever arrived at all."

"Which means we have no way of making a broader connection other than by locating other potential victims' bodies to exhume."

"Hey, we've done that before."

"Yes, but we have no jurisdiction now." She paused, studied his face and frowned. "Mulder."

Soft lips touched her temple. "Scully, I'm not advocating doing anything stupid. I wouldn't do anything to expose us... expose you. You know, we might not be the only ones with an interest here, though. We wouldn't have to make the first move if there were other victims' families who were wondering about the cause of their loved ones' deaths."

"Rita would have to be very careful about approaching anyone in order not to expose herself. She's the next logical target, Mulder, if the Smoking Man thought someone was looking into this again."

"I know."

"And she has her granddaughter to raise."

"I met her. Quiet little kid. Big, sad eyes."

A pause.

"You must have taken to her, Mulder."

His head came off the pillow. "That supposed to mean something?"

"Just that your radar's always tuned in to little lost girls. Lost sisters. Lost partners." She rested her head against him. "I'm certainly grateful."

"Scully, you've--" He shook his head. "You've saved me so many times. They would have thrown me in a padded cell by now if not for you."

She felt herself being enveloped, held. "Mulder, have you ever stopped to think that if you were to find her--if you found your sister--how grateful she'd be to know there was someone who never gave up on her, even after all those years?"

 

 

To: 03224@

From: buzz38@

Heat's on. Lots of questions being asked. I'm thinking of taking a few sick days.

 

 

To: buzz38@

From: 03224@

No better way to shine the light on yourself than to disappear. Better stay where you are.

Krycek switched off the laptop, lay back and stared hard at a spot where the morning sun burned a bright abstract on the wall. Buzz was losing it. If he ran, he'd be suspected for sure and if they found him, what were the odds that the old man's goons would discover the trail that led back to him? If Buzz actually did run, he was also likely to talk if he was caught and pushed, and then... 

The game could be up. He was in no shape to run from the old man now. Granted, there were layers between Buzz and himself for safety. They had only mail contact; Buzz wouldn't recognize him if he saw him. Still, there were ways to trace connections and the old man would look hard to find whoever had crossed his plans for Skinner.

Krycek glanced at the clock. Nearly seven. Tracy should show up soon. It had been six hours again, though she'd seemed distant the last time, not the little candle in the dark she usually was. Maybe she'd only been half-awake. Whatever. It was probably all for the better. Keep it professional. There was a month at best until she'd have to take off; after that, this little stint would be just a blip in both their pasts, the kind of thing you'd never think of again. What she needed was to get herself a plan together: figure out where she could go, how she could support herself. Have a safe place for herself  by the time the kid came. Self-preservation: in the end it was the one game everybody played, from kings down to the guy who slept in the gutter. She needed to know how to compete.

And who the hell had just shot him with the rosy dart of optimism? There were thirteen years and counting--hardly time to make any kind of life, especially for a kid. Thirteen years if nothing went wrong with the plan, if the colonists didn't sniff out the real results of the cloning project, if the rebels didn't come screaming back in with their big guns, if... There were a thousand ways for things to go bad.

Krycek chuffed out a jagged breath and sunk a fist into a convenient pillow. The pain was building again, regular as clockwork. Time to eat something and face that familiar fork in the road: step off on another trip to dreamland or try to hold onto your clarity while the pain bucked you like a rodeo steer. Too much time escaped in the twilight limbo the painkillers induced and that could be dangerous. What if the old man came and tried to get information out of him when he was too messed up to cover for himself? A clear head wasn't clear for long, though, when it was being worked by the steady drumbeat of pain.

Krycek eased himself off the bed, made his way slowly to the refrigerator and opened the door. There was ensaladilla in a little yogurt container Tracy had washed out and saved. Dinner II, The Sequel, but it got the vote over tuna; he had no stomach for that. He reached for the container, set it on top of the refrigerator and worked the lid off. Spoon from the box on the shelf--she always washed and reused, even though they were only plastic--nice sign--no waste--and then to the small desk, barely steady, like an old man. Don't drop anything you can't pick up, old man. He eased himself onto the chair.

He dipped in with the spoon and started to eat. It had more flavor at room temperature, the way they served it in Europe, but it was pretty good anyway, pain and sour stomach aside. It was done up the traditional way--neat little mound of mild potato salad decorated all over with hard boiled egg slices and little carrot circles, something to set in a restaurant window if this had been Madrid. Marisela, the restaurant owner's daughter, had one of those dresses--those Mexican or Guatemalan things--long and loose, cool cotton, with the embroidery at the top. It was the kind of thing Tracy needed for the hot weather. Maybe Marisela could get ahold of one. She was the one person who had both his face and his name--first name, anyway. The only one. She was the quiet type, certainly no centerfold, worked at her father's restaurant, kept her head slightly down, her eyes to herself. She knew when not to talk, when not to ask questions.

The sky was bright now; sunlight was beginning to flood the desktop, bringing heat with it. He managed to make it halfway through the container, then stood carefully. It was enough for now. He looked at the bathroom door, then at the refrigerator. The pain in his side throbbed like a second heart. He made his way toward the bathroom, yogurt container pressed against the cane handle with two fingers. Halfway there, it fell. He stared down at it a moment. Not worth the effort; she'd be here soon enough. He continued to the bathroom: pain pill from the small bottle, antibiotics from the larger one, water from the faucet. He took the pills and chased them with the glass of water, paused and looked in the mirror. Pale: he looked like someone nobody would step out of the way for. It would get better with time, though.  It was all a matter of riding it out, pacing himself. And hoping he hadn't been terminally left in the dust by the time he was back up to speed.

The pain bit into him harder now. He set the glass on the edge of the sink, arm shaking. A turn to move and the glass went down with a sharp clatter. He grabbed the edge of the sink, closed his eyes, steeled himself. She'd get it. Just leave it, get back to the bed before the painkiller started to take effect, before it was him lying on the floor.

She never slept this late. Later, when he'd gotten past the strung-out stage, he'd call Marisela. If she found something he could send Tracy back to the restaurant to pick it up. Maybe toward evening, when the heat wouldn't be as bad.

Krycek eased himself onto the mattress, pulled his feet up and inched toward what would be a comfortable position once the medication came on strong. He'd warned the other boys about the little blond Sergei--that he was too frail, that he'd never last. He hadn't, and they'd paid the consequences of getting too close. But then who was he to talk? Who'd been in the 'quiet room' while the kid was taking his last breaths?

He tilted his head back and glanced at the clock. The numbers were beginning to blur. 7:17. Or 7:11, he couldn't quite tell. Hopefully Buzz would stay put and the old man wouldn't end up hunting him down now, while he was nothing more than a sitting duck. Lying duck.

She never waited this long to come.

 

 

Maybe it was Monday morning clarity, or possibly just the side effect of having been at Skinner's the night before. Or the fact that his mind was working with pieces of the dilemma, like building blocks, already arranging and rearranging them even as he woke. But the possibility taking shape in his head wasn't pretty. Not one bit.

Will rolled onto his back--or attempted to. He stopped halfway after making contact with a warm lump behind him and reached a hand out of the covers.

"Hey, Ralph, old man. Move a little, will you?"

Ralph lifted his head, got up, turned a circle and settled down again, closer to the pillow this time.

Will sniffed. "You need a bath, RalphMan." He reached for the dog's head, stroked it, and closed his eyes again. Nine o'clock--that was when he and Manny were due to report to Palmer. Hopefully Skinner would be back now that the trumped-up case against the A.D. should have fallen apart. Palmer was more a bureaucrat than a lover of justice. Just so the reports all meshed, the boxes were all checked off. It was the only thing that really mattered to him.

It was Maggie: more and more it seemed like she might be the key. Or the fall guy--fall woman--and 'fall woman' had a particularly nasty, familiar sound to it. Been there, done that. No more mothers going down--not if there was something he could do to stop it. Skinner had said the old guy had used Scully before to manipulate Mulder, but she was with Mulder now. But even if the Cancer Man didn't know where she was, she wasn't completely untouchable, either--not if something were to happen to her mother. She could be lured out to her own detriment and once she was, she could be used against her partner as well. It seemed to fit the old guy's style to a T.

If this were the Cancer Man's line of reasoning, Maggie was in danger and if that were true, what could be done about it? Warn her, disturb her and have her living in constant fear? She was worried already. And if it turned out not to be true, or if he told her and she didn't believe him? Where was the clear-cut cost/benefit ratio here?

Doing nothing didn't seem like a safe option, though. A friendly visit paid, a little help with whatever needed doing--cleaning out gutters, changing the oil in her car. Surely there was something she needed done. It would be a way to get a feel for things, pick up on anything that didn't feel right. That much was do-able.

 

 

Mulder sat on the edge of the unmade bed and scanned the room. Scully was in the shower. Their bags were packed, everything ready to go. They'd made love only once, early in the evening, and then both of them had been tired, or maybe just distracted by the prospect that loomed over them. Later, they'd found themselves awake in the wee hours and had ended up strategizing, both of them eager to figure out some piece of the puzzle, throwing their focus and energy into it, doing what had come so naturally in the basement office. They'd slept a little afterward, her a little while, him a little while, off and on, close, quiet, each of them filled with the thing he'd seen in his mother when they'd left Greenwich: that tangible harbinger of loss, as if the separation had somehow already happened, as if each of them existed here, in the room, only in the mind of the other, shape without substance, body without soul.

The sound of shower water stopped abruptly in the bathroom. She'd be getting out now, drying off her hair, wrapping herself in a towel while she did whatever it was she was going to do--hair, makeup, brushing her teeth. He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes. Maybe he shouldn't have checked his mail a few minutes ago. No, he definitely shouldn't have checked his mail.

"Mulder?" 

When he looked up she was standing in the doorway wrapped in the towel he'd pictured in his head. Her hair was wet.

"You ready?" Of course she wasn't ready. "What? You need something?" He got up, went to the bathroom door, stood there close--too close. Not close enough.

She said nothing. She looked like she'd been about speak to but whatever was on her mind had been preempted. She shrugged and forced a smile tinged with loss.

"Hey, Scully." It was that feeling, that mood. As if someone had died but you didn't know who.

She put her arms around him and let him hold her. He stood there, chin against the top of her head, arms circling her, her hair dampening his shirt.

"It's the lark, Mulder," she sighed, one cheek against his chest.

"Off to Mantua, then, I guess."

She breathed in and then paused. "Why didn't they think of that, Mulder? He could have taken her with him. They could have found someplace for her to stay."

"Probably not the kind of place she was used to. She was a rich guy's daughter, don't forget."

She looked up. "Do you really think she would have cared, Mulder?"

"No." He shook his head. "Not as long as they were there together."

 

 

"Alex, are you okay?"

He was working--straining--to focus on her. "Yeah, I'm... I took another... more medication. A little while..." He shook his head. He had no idea how long ago; he was too immobilized by the drug. It chafed at him that each time the pain got too bad he had to trade away his alertness in order to buy his body peace.

"You dropped your food on the floor, Alex. I--"

"Slipped. Slipped... out of my hand." He held his hand out. It hovered a moment in the air and then dropped onto the bed.

"Do you need anything? I'm going out for a walk, before it gets too hot." She pressed her lips together.

"Fridge," he said. "Check it. Need... something--" He pulled up slightly toward her. "Pick out something." He lay back against the pillows.

"I will. I'll find something." She took a step away from the bed. "I'll be back in a while."

She went to the door, opened it and glanced back. If anyone were to find him--find this place, break in--one of his enemies, or his father, if he found him out--he'd be completely helpless. He'd barely know what had happened.

Pressure filled her throat, a by-product of the hollow ache that had haunted her all night.

"Goodbye, Alex," she said.

She bit her lip and went out.

 

 

To: dresswhites@

From: heron3@

Any news from Annie? Don't know if you have any projects you need help with around the house. If tall or broad-shouldered will help, give a holler. I'm willing and available and you're not that far away. Let me know.

                                                                                          -Will

 

 

"Rita?" Mulder made his voice sound pleasant, casual, like an old family friend or a relative. Just in case they weren't alone on this line. "This is Ben... Yeah."

A pause to listen.

"Hey, I was just going to be passing through the area--" He squinted toward the car. Scully was shadowed by the windshield. "Yeah, pretty soon, actually. Maybe an hour or so." He glanced at his watch. "Yeah, I'd like that. You going to be home?... Great, then I'll swing by. Yeah. See you then."

 

 

Tracy slipped in past the heavy wooden door and looked up. It was a small church, an old church with a vaulted ceiling and thick walls. Simple, quiet. No splash of expensive decoration, no mental chatter, just simple dark wood pews and off-white walls that spoke serenity. The tightness in her face dissolved a little. She went to a pew at the rear and sat down.

Thankfully, the place was empty. She closed her eyes. Behind them, images of candles she'd passed by flickered quietly in her mind. Quietness was the key. It was the reason she'd come here: the need for quiet to be able to hear the little voice that gave direction. All night it had been crowded out, overwhelmed by a riot of conflicting shoutings--her own fears and the doubts of others. Fear itself. The prospect of being alone with a baby: Alex had highlighted that one. How would she manage with another life to support? He was right to be worried. He'd lived the consequences, after all, of someone's not planning. Was she just irresponsible, afraid to look at the future and deal with it? Or was the problem a lack of faith in that inner voice, the one that always seemed to set her where she needed to be in the end if only she paid attention?

There should be a clear sign, something she could sense or see. The bald man, Skinner, had been worried for her. What was she doing running errands for someone like Alex? He was every bit as dangerous as Skinner thought. And he was becoming soft, affected by what he saw in her. She was a symbol for him, like the one at the front of the auditorium she sat in. What would he think? Would he chafe at the fact that his life was so easily reduced to the caricature of a sad man stretched against a piece of wood?

She'd left the yellow sweater hanging on the back of Alex's desk chair. It didn't really bring her mother any closer. Maybe it was time to let that symbol go. But it was the only tie she had, the thinnest thread left to tie her to where she'd come from, to remind her that someone, once, had loved her, had cared for her with all the caring they had in them.

She ran a finger along the smooth edge of the bench beside her. To go or stay?

If she left, the old man would find someone else to help Alex. Alex wouldn't like it; she made him comfortable, unselfconscious in a way he didn't always feel with other people. But adapting was a way of life for him. It would only be for a few weeks and then... 

Then he'd be back doing what he usually did. Her stomach knotted.

Tracy leaned forward and rested her head on the back of the pew in front of her. The hard, polished wood made a dent in her forehead but she didn't move away. To stay or go? The night she'd spent in the cardboard box had been a wakeup call: you couldn't just wander around with a baby and no home, no shelter. Going with the flow, floating like a balloon on the wind... Alex was right; it was no life for a child. 

And where had the being inside her come from in the first place? Everyone knew how babies were made, but she had no real friends, certainly no boyfriends. Boys either wanted to use you, like a Mt. Everest to be scaled with bragging rights for peaks scaled, or they wanted what everyone else did from her--treasure of some sort, as if she were the psychic goose laying golden eggs. There had been no boys or men... or romance or even violence. None that she could remember, anyway. Only the sickness and the little voice quietly unfolding the mystery. A baby. Why? A puzzle with movement and shape but oddly lacking in substance. For her, anyway. Maybe Alex's purpose in this was to make her see the reality of this child.

She looked up and around. No one else had entered. She pillowed her head on her arms, closed her eyes again and tried to focus on her breathing, her pulse--anything constant that didn't suggest more unanswerable questions. Confusion bred more confusion, her mother had said; don't feed it. She forced herself to picture her mother's garden, a mixture of fruit, vegetables and flowers, each row neat, a blending of color and utility. What was it Walter had said the last time--in the last dream? That everything had changed in a second with the decision made by the man who'd saved him--the man who'd lost his arm--and that he'd never realized before how that decision had affected all the people he'd helped since that time. Good he could never have foreseen had come of it.

Good had come.

It had, whether or not he'd seen it right away.

 

 

Scully got up from Rita's couch and followed Mulder to the entry. Rita had excused herself and gone into the kitchen--strategically, no doubt, to leave them alone. Her brother Dale was waiting outside to follow Mulder to Cincinnati where he'd turn in their rental car, a place close enough, yet far enough away not to give away their location to anyone who might be tracing them.

They stood the way they'd sat on the couch, near enough to feel each other's body heat, not close enough--hopefully--to give themselves away. There was no point in giving away anything they didn't have to. Not even here, to friends and allies.

Mulder paused as he reached the entry and Scully followed suit. He'd seemed distant all morning, preoccupied, but it was understandable.

"You've got the laptop," he said, turning to her. He spoke quietly, close to her ear. "Dale's got a computer. I can get ahold of you on that for now." His lips touched her temple; she wrapped her fingers around one of his. "Hang loose, Scully. I know it's not easy but we'll make it. Just write to me, okay? Don't keep everything bottled up." The tip of his upper lip came down slightly in a V of concern. "I'll be in touch."

He squeezed her hand and let go, opened the door and went out into the hazy light. It was appropriate, the overcast. She made herself take the few steps to the front door, closed it, leaned against it. Mantua. This was how Juliet felt.

"Annie?"

Rita's voice came from direction of the kitchen. Scully worked to compose herself, then went toward the voice, through the living room and out into the kitchen. Yellow flowered curtains framed white, multi-paned windows. In the corner was an upholstered breakfast nook. Beyond it, through the window, lush greenery beneath tall trees dropped away to a creek.

"It's beautiful," Scully said, walking closer. "Very beautiful." The words echoed as if she were empty inside, hollow.

"Yes, it is. I've always loved this corner of the house."

Rita looked up from her work. Finally Scully realized what Rita was doing. There was dough of some kind on the table and Rita was kneading it. The room was scented with the pungency of warm yeast.

"Sandy comes to me along that creek," Rita said, nodding toward it. "She's a real nature girl, loves the out-of-doors. I think it's been a solace to her, all the beauty out there."

"Sandy?"

"Sandy Miller. Cy Miller's widow. She's working up at the Barkers' place, did I mention that?"

"Uh, no. No, you didn't."

"She's in need of an income now, and I knew David needed a hand up there. Heather's... well, nobody's ever made an official diagnosis; David's stretched pretty tight. Therapists are a luxury on a budget like his, and anyway, a diagnosis isn't going to change the facts, is it?" She pressed the dough with the heels of her hands and then turned it, precisely, automatically, and repeated the process. "Heather wanders. Sometimes she knows who you are and other times she's just off in her own little world. It's hard on David. Even harder, I imagine, on their little boy--Adrian. That's why Sandy's there. She's keeping an eye on Adrie, and on Heather while she's at it."

Rita stopped kneading and brushed the flour from her hands. "I know it's difficult for her, having to work with another child after losing her own."

I lost a child once.

"But I think in the end it will do her good. These transitions are tough, but just like exercise they strengthen you in the end."

Scully felt Rita's eyes on her and looked up.

"Have you ever made bread, Annie?"

"No, actually... No. I never have."

"I thought we could take this with us when we go. Some for you and some for David's family."

"Thank you." She made herself smile.

"Would you like to give me a hand here?"

Scully hesitated.

Rita came close and put a hand on her shoulder. "I know it's hard right now. You're feeling a little lost, but it'll pass." She smiled. "Let me show you how to do this. It helps, you know, to focus on something."

Scully smiled and followed Rita to the flour-dusted counter.

"You need pressure," Rita said, taking the dough and looking back at Scully. "You're pressing out the air bubbles and working the gluten, which is what makes it stick together and not crumble like a cake. So you fold over a piece like this... and you press down here, with the heels of your hands. And then you give it a quarter turn and do it again. That's all there is to it--that and just keeping at it long enough to do the job. But I guess that's true of most things now, isn't it? Here, you try."

Rita stepped back and Scully moved up to the counter. Her mind was elsewhere: in a rental car headed for Cincinnati; in the thick, warm shadows of a mountain motel room; in the playroom of the county children's center in San Diego.

"Here, we'd better do this first--" She motioned for Scully to hold out her hands. Rita sprinkled them with flour. So the dough wouldn't stick, she said. "Go ahead now."

Rita was calming somehow, warm and encouraging. She almost wanted to do this. Scully reached out and took hold of the dough, warm and soft between her floured fingers. She folded one corner of the mass inward.

"Now press--"

She pressed down. Rita's hands were over hers, showing her the motion, down and forward.

"Good. That's it. Now turn."

Scully turned the dough and repeated the process. She turned it again. It was a little easier this time, more fluid. She did it again and turned the dough. Press, turn, press. She focused on the motion, soothing and regular, and let her mind drift.

 

 

"Alex?"

He looked toward the door and struggled to focus. She was there--hot again, he could see it in her face, though nothing like the day before. He blinked, trying to clear his head, and leaned back against the pillows. "Time? What time is it?"

"About 10:30. I meant to get back sooner." She set a plastic grocery bag on the desk. "I was out. I sort of"--she bit her lip--"fell asleep. I guess I didn't get much rest last night."

He scowled. "Fell asleep where?"

"Just somewhere," she said. "Not anyplace dangerous."

The corner of his mouth curled in disapproval.

"Sorry," she said, looking down and studying a patch of light on the floor. "There's just a lot of stuff swirling around in my head. Like a whirlwind. Chatter. Not worth dragging out." She looked at him and shook her head regretfully. "I can't, Alex."

She turned back to the grocery bag. "I meant to get back here sooner--you know, before it got so hot--but I did pick up a few things at the grocery store." She started to unload the bag.

His stomach ached vaguely, the effect of the medication. He was still thick, groggy, though it should start to wear off now, the worst of it. He watched her put containers in the fridge, stack a few things on the shelf above.

"I think I need a drink of water," she said when she was finished.

"Have whatever you want in there." He nodded toward the fridge.

"Water's fine." She turned and went into the bathroom.

She was hopeless. She never took anything unless it was pushed on her.

"Did you drop your glass, Alex?"

"Yeah." He eased himself carefully to the side. The sound of running water came from the sink. "This morning. Was a little too far gone for bending down and picking it up."

"It's okay, I can--"

There was a muffled cry and then nothing. He waited, listening, and finally pulled up. "Tracy?"

Still nothing, and then he could hear her sucking in air and pain.

"Hey--" He pulled himself to the edge of the bed.

"It's... it's all right. I just--"

Krycek stood, took the cane and steadied himself and waited for the sudden dizziness to pass. It wasn't all right, that was pretty obvious. He took a step, then another, willing the thickness from his head. Three more steps. Two more. At the doorway. She was standing in front of the sink, holding her hand under the flow. The water going down the drain was bright red.

He stepped inside. She seemed not to notice him.

"What happened?"

No response aside from her rapid, shallow breathing. He hooked the cane over the door handle and touched her shoulder.

"Tracy."

"The glass," she managed. "The rim must have chipped when it fell. I put my fingers in--to wash it out--" Her fingers were pressed together, shaking under the stream of water.

"Come on. Wrap it up in the wash cloth."

"It'll stain--"

He took the washcloth from the hook, turned off the faucet and pressed the washcloth into her hand. "Here, take the towel."

"But--"

"Take it."

She took the towel.

"Now go sit down. Go lie down in the chair."

She went--a good thing, because he wasn't up for arguing with her. He gathered the tape from the medicine cabinet, and the gauze, and a pair of tweezers, and stuffed them into his pocket. Then he picked the cane from the door handle. His head was beginning to clear. If this had happened an hour or two ago, he would've been completely useless.

He looked up. She was in the chair, reclined, her face a mixture of pain laced with embarrassment. He made his way across the room and pulled out the desk chair, set it next to the recliner and eased himself down. The timing was good. He had a clear couple of hours now.

"Where'd it cut you?" he said, gesturing for her to let him see.

"Between my fingers."

He reached for the towel, still clutched useless in her other hand, and spread it on the arm of the chair. "C'mon--" He reached for the hand wrapped in the washcloth; she turned toward him and surrendered it. Her fingers were cold and thin. "Relax, I'm not going to hurt you." He began to unwrap the washcloth, stopped and glanced up at her. "Relax."

"Sorry," she said ruefully. "They say I have a low pain threshold."

"Guess they know what they're talking about." He looked down at the half-wrapped hand. "Close your eyes."

She frowned.

"Look, you've got to trust me. Just close your eyes."

After a moment she nodded. Her eyes closed.

"Now look--" He took a breath and held it momentarily. This was like diving off a cliff when nobody was chasing you. "Tell me if you can see what I'm picturing in my head. You see something?"

After a pause she nodded. " It's... a forest, high up... near a mountain peak. There are trees, lots of trees. Pines. You can hear the wind blowing through them. It's so quiet."

"Yeah, that's it. Now hold that picture, keep yourself there. Let everything else go."

After a few moments he could feel her loosen. He let her hand down carefully onto the towel. "Okay, can you hold that picture?"

"I think so."

He unwrapped the washcloth. Squeezing a little moisture from the cloth onto the place where the fingers were stuck together, he separated them.  Between her third and fourth fingers, where they joined her hand, was a cut--deep but not dangerously so.  Just enough to sting a hell of a lot. And something shiny--probably a little chunk of glass. He pulled the tweezers from his pocket and readied them. "Stick with that picture. I've got to get this." He paused. "You holding out?"

"I think so."

But she flinched when he spread her fingers farther apart. He studied her a moment, her face pinched in anticipation, and shook his head. It was all wrong, throwing out a welcome mat at the door to his mind, and anyway, it was personal, one of the few memories he'd ever cared about keeping. Nobody had any right poking around in there. But she seemed to like trees and he needed something that would keep her occupied. Slowly he made himself feed her more of the scene: the broad, speckled rock near the summit; the blinding, bright blue of the sky; the air, warm and sweet, smelling of the sun's heat on pine needles.

There. "Got it."

Her eyes flew open.

"You okay?"

Slowly she nodded. "Sorry to be such a hassle."

He dug in his pocket for the gauze and shrugged. "Everybody's got something that pushes their buttons."

"I know. But it makes me feel so... stupid."

"Don't." He glanced up at her. "You're not." He worked the gauze and tape from his pocket, then leaned back and pulled a pair of scissors from the drawer. "I'm going to need some help with this." He nodded toward the gauze roll.

She picked it up and held it where he indicated.

 

 

Mulder pulled right, steering toward the center of the lane on the road to Cincinnati. It was the fifth time in as many miles he'd drifted into the lane beside him. He ran a hand back through his hair, opened his eyes wider and willed himself to focus. Lanier must be wondering what the hell was going on. 

He glanced in the rear view mirror. Dale was minding his own business, watching the road. If he was anything like his sister he'd be the discreet type, not likely to mention his less-than-perfect performance behind the wheel.

Mulder looked ahead again. Hopefully Scully hadn't picked up on his mood, though it wasn't a sure thing. Fox Mulder: not exactly a candidate for World's Most Opaque Guy and even when he telegraphed to no one else, it took very little for Scully to sense something wrong.

His mother's e-mail had been short, recalling what to her would be nothing more than a minor detail from the past: a note written on a yellowing piece of paper hidden for years inside a picture frame and finally retrieved. But the implications were staggering. 

Or maybe they were just staggering for him. Smoky's wife was none other than Cassandra Spender. Which made that weasel Jeffrey Spender his son. He'd always figured Smoky had gotten Spender assigned to the X-files for his own purposes, to interfere with legitimate investigations. Whether or not Jeffrey understood the extent of what he'd gotten himself into was another story. 

Not that it mattered. He didn't give a shit what Spender'd gotten himself into. What mattered was that Smoky'd engineered it, that he'd installed Spender as a puppet, and what did that imply about Diana? Was she actually there, as she'd promised him, to look after the integrity of the files, to keep the work alive, or was she yet another of Smoky's soldiers in disguise, fulfilling his 'greater plan'? If she was, everything that had ever passed between them had been a lie--all of it, right from the beginning. Scully never had trusted her. Not that it had been Scully's place to dissect his private life; he'd never dream of doing an analysis of her relationship with Jack Willis. But she'd told him bluntly enough that he was being suckered, and in the end what did it say about him if he had?

Mulder let the window down, rested his arm on the ledge and let the wind blast through his hair. He set his jaw. Eyes on the road, mind on what he was doing. It wouldn't do any good to fuck up now, to drive off the road and leave Scully all alone in this. He glanced at his watch. Half an hour to go. All he really wanted was to close his eyes and sleep.

 

 

"C'mon, Adrie." Sandy looked back. Adrie'd stopped by the side of the trail to watch a line of ants. She turned, retraced her steps and squatted down next to him. "Watcha lookin' at, Adrie?"

"They're carrying little white things," he said, pointing.

"It's their eggs, Adrie. Their babies. They must be moving to someplace new. They don't want to leave their babies behind." Her voice caught. She bit her lip.

"They can carry more than us," he said. "I've seen 'em carry big things." He waved his arms to the side, as if holding some huge, awkward object. Suddenly he focused on her. "Are you hurt, Sandy?"

"What?"

He pointed to the corner of her eye where moisture was pooling.

"Yeah, I guess a little bit." She stood up. "Come on, Adrie, you've got a new neighbor. We're supposed to go say hello."

"Annie," he said without looking up. "She's going to stay in the trailer."

He stood up and started down the path ahead of her. Sandy hurried to catch up. She didn't know what to say to the lady with the kind eyes but the perfect hair and perfect clothes and perfect makeup. She was like a doll on a stand, but one who could look back at you and see what you were, just a kid with a dead family and tears and a ramshackle life. Rita had asked, though, and how could she refuse? Rita treated you like a real person, an equal, even though she knew a lot more than you did. It didn't even grate when Rita called her 'missy'. If her mother'd done it, she would've gone through the roof. If her mother'd said it, it would have meant she was looking down, judging from that high-and-mighty place she thought she lived in.

The trailer came into view, peeking out from behind the edge of the barn, its roof covered with dead leaves from the trees above. Young saplings had sprouted around it, showing that it hadn't been moved in years. The coach was yellow and cream colored on the outside. Adrie went up close to the door, then ran back to her. You first, his eyes seemed to say.

Sandy took his hand, forced a smile and went up to the door. It was open; just the screen door was shut. Suddenly her stomach had butterflies. She swallowed and knocked beside the door and held her breath.

No response.

"Annie--"

After a moment a face appeared, then a smile--forced, like her own--and lips pressed together. A hand opened the screen door.

"Hi," the woman said quietly. "I didn't hear you at first. I was trying to figure out where to put a few things." She smiled again, obviously trying to mean it.

"I guess you remember me." Sandy looked down. "This is Adrie here. He's a pretty smart little kid."

Adrie's hand went out toward Scully. She shook it and nodded at him. "Hi, Adrie," she said.

This wasn't the woman who'd come to her front door. This woman was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, her hair was pulled back into a pony tail and she wore no lipstick. She had running shoes on. She looked down a lot, as if she were shy, or preoccupied, but why wouldn't she be? She was on the run from whoever'd had Cy and Roddy killed.

"I'm sorry," Sandy said. "About what's happened to you. But you'll be safe here. I'd certainly"--she glanced at Adrie--"I'd never say anything to anybody."

Annie smiled. "Thank you. I appreciate that."

Adrie wandered off toward a nearby tree and bent down to look at something on the ground.

"I'm very sorry," Annie said now. "About your loss. I--" She stopped and looked into the distance and then started again. "Questioning people--victims of crimes--is never easy. But it's part of what has to be done."

"I guess it would be hard. I wouldn't want to."

They both looked off at Adrie, who was building something with twigs.

"Have you been doing this long?" Annie said now, trying to fill in the awkward blank places.

"Actually, it's only my second day." Sandy shrugged. "Adrie's a good kid, but it's hard--you know, watching his mom. It's like she's there but she's not there. Not really there. You know. There on the outside but not on the inside. I guess I just feel bad for him. " She nodded toward Adrie.

"I think I understand," Annie said.

Annie's smile was bittersweet. She was lost somewhere, caught up in something she'd lost or left behind. Maybe she was just an ordinary person after all.

 

 

Tracy stirred and opened one eye. Her room, her bed. Bright light outside the window. She turned to glance at the clock on the night stand. Past noon--nearly one o'clock. Her hand throbbed with a dull ache. Alex had given her an ibuprofen after he bandaged her fingers. She'd come up here, taken it and fallen asleep.

She made herself sit up, willing away the veil of thickness that dogged her steps as she made her way to the mirror. She ran the fingers of her good hand back through her hair. She looked like the pen-and-ink drawing of a waif she'd seen once in a book somewhere. But it was no time to be standing, staring. She blinked several times hoping for clarity and headed for the door. He was supposed to have taken his medication an hour ago.

In the hallway she paused for a second by the stairway, then remembered his directive of the night before and opted for the elevator. Still thick-headed, she spent the brief descent working to clear her mind. Alex had done a careful job of wrapping her fingers, the gauze layers snug and even. He'd been completely focused on the task of in front of him, though she'd found herself watching at him in a way she never did when he could see her, studying his cheeks, the shape of his chin, the sharp line that divided stubble from smooth skin. He was a contradiction, not just to her but even to himself these days, searching for something he hadn't yet defined.

When she reached his room, Alex was standing at the narrow window, looking out. He hadn't taken the pills yet. He turned when he saw her.

"Sorry to be so late, Alex. I fell asleep."

He shrugged and glanced back out the window. "I guess I was busy. A lot of things running through my head, things I haven't thought about in--" He stared out the window a moment before turning to face her. "How's the hand?"

"It hurts some. I guess it just depends how much I focus on it. But I'll live." She looked down at her wrapped fingers. "Thanks for the help."

"No problem."

When she glanced up again, he was making his way to the bed.

"Ready for your medication?"

"Yeah, I--" He looked around as if he were searching for something, then eased himself onto the mattress. "Yeah."

"Maybe your doctor could prescribe something that wouldn't turn you into a zombie."

"Maybe."

Tracy turned and went into the bathroom. He was as lost on the inside as he seemed on the outside, but whatever was bothering him, it wasn't her place to probe. It was enough, as he sometimes thought to himself, that she was there, a witness to his pain, or that she talked to him as if she'd known him all her life. He didn't let anybody that close, given a choice. 

When she returned to the bed with the pills and a cup of water, he was already lying back on the pillows, his breathing pained.

"Where'd you fall asleep this morning?" he asked as she held out the pills. He looked as if he intended not to take them until she answered.

"In a church." She looked down. "I told you it wasn't any place dangerous."

Why?

"I was trying to think, Alex. Or I guess I was trying not to think, to stop all the confusion in my head."

He raised an eyebrow, as if he understood the feeling, then took the pills and the water from her but his hand was shaky, jiggling the contents of the cup. Tracy leaned closer and helped steady cup and hand until he'd finished. A hint of a thank-you lingered in his eyes.

"The pain's bad all of a sudden, isn't it?"

He nodded and closed his eyes.

She pulled the desk chair close to the bed and sat down. "I nearly left this morning," she said after a moment.

His eyes came open.

"Because I didn't want to be doing this to you--making your life so much more complicated than it is already." She twisted her hands together and sighed. "This is stupid. It should be simple."

"What?"

"It's like... like if two people were trapped in an elevator. You'd help each other and that would be it; each of you would benefit. You'd both be thankful but that fact wouldn't end up hurting either of you. Think about it: who knows how you would have managed that first night if I hadn't come down when I did? And where would I have been yesterday if not for you? But doing the job I'm supposed to do here seems to keep having nasty little side effects, like a bad medication."

"You're like Mulder," he said. "He wants everything to be perfect. Nice idea, maybe, but life's an ambush. You think you've got part of it figured out and it hits you from some other angle."

She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. For a moment she was back on the hard, polished wood of the church pew, her thoughts buffeted by a whirlwind of chaos. In the end, though, she'd come away with a thread of hope. She looked up. "Or maybe somebody steps in and keeps you from being hit so hard. Who says it has to be this way--that helping somebody out can put more burden on them? Where would I have been by now--right now--if you hadn't found me on the Mall and gotten me that room?"

He shrugged. "Maybe someplace... safer than you are now." His speech was starting to falter.

"Or maybe not." She reached out and smoothed the wrinkles from a patch of sheet in front of her. "Thank you for showing me your mountain this morning, Alex. I know it's not the kind of thing you share."

He let out a grunt. "Russia," he said after a pause. "Where I grew up. A test... endurance thing. We were kids. I was..." He looked up, at the ceiling. His words were thick, almost slurred. "...first to the top, I... got there... before the others. It was.." His pause was longer this time. "...perfect place..."

"The rock where you stood?"

After a few seconds he nodded.

"You could see everything."

"Never... been up... high up like that. I'd only seen... forest..." His eyes were glazy. "...from below." He sighed, fighting the creeping haziness. "Forest--"

"You'd only seen the forest from below," she repeated.

He nodded. "Being up there... wanted to... I knew I..." His hand came up off the bed and wavered in the air.

"What, Alex?"

He shook his head, resigned, and stared blankly. The hand continued to waver, as if it were independent of the rest of him. She took it and eased it back down beside him but he resisted.

"What?"

He could only shake his head, puzzled. His fingers curled around hers.

"It's okay, Alex. It'll be all right."

She let him hold on and looked briefly into the growing murkiness inside his mind. Gradually his fingers loosened. She guided them back down to his side.

 

 

To: Cranesbill@

From: DaddyW@

Just wanted to let you know we've arrived somewhere--temporarily, at least--and are safe as far as I can tell. Thanks for the information. Know it can't be easy for you to go back through this; I guess what I mean is that I know it costs you, so thanks for being willing to make the effort. I know Cassandra Spender--met her last year at a symposium on UFOs, though I didn't know of her connection to L. She claims to be a multiple abductee. She disappeared a few days later under mysterious circumstances, at a site where a lot of other abductees/test subjects had gathered. Most were later found burned to death. Annie was there, too, and escaped with only minor injuries but I have to say it shook me up at the time, looking for her there among all those bodies. Something very strange--even for this scenario--was happening behind the scenes at that point, though we've seen nothing like it since.

In your letter you said I may have been set up to discover the X-files. What makes you think so? Something's been running through my head today about that time that doesn't quite track. Please get back to me ASAP.

As usual, your impatient son, but this thing is doing a loop in my head. At least Annie's tucked away in a safe place now. Waiting to hear from you.

                                                                                           -The Kid

 

 

"What do you want?" The corner of Skinner's mouth twisted as he looked through the peep hole.

"Merely to congratulate you, Mr. Skinner." The omnipresent Morley went into the mouth on the other side of the door. A cloud of smoke came out. "I hear luck has dealt you a good hand."

Skinner grimaced and opened the door. He stepped outside and closed it behind him. "What are you talking about?"

"Surely you already know, Mr. Skinner. The evidence against you has disappeared from the First District station. The case against you is being dropped as we speak."

"I guess that puts me back at square one since the 'evidence' was a plant in the first place." He scowled, then glanced down the length of the hallway.

"Now, now, Mr. Skinner. You know it's all a game. You can hardly afford to become disturbed over the moves others may feel the need to make." He paused and took a drag on the cigarette. "You, for instance. You might have orchestrated this little incident yourself."

"How would I have managed that?"

"It begs the question, doesn't it, Mr. Skinner?"

"Well, I had nothing to do with it." He glanced down the hall and back again. "Look, is there a point to this?"

"I just wanted to remind you that the tables can turn at any moment, and that your... activities..." He smiled and tapped a length of glowing ash onto the floor beside him. "Well, I'm sure you understand."

The Smoking Man turned and took a few steps toward the elevator. He turned back.

"Congratulations, Mr. Skinner. I trust you'll use your newfound freedom... judiciously."

Skinner set his jaw. He watched the Smoking Man disappear into the elevator and opened his apartment door. He went inside, shut it and fought the urge to dwell on what he'd like to do to the smirking face that had just taken the down elevator. Instead he strode through the apartment to the picture window and stepped onto the treadmill. He started to walk--long, measured strides, his pace gradually increasing. It was a lot like the time he'd spent in the Delta, the way you felt there--out on patrol, feeling each footstep taking you forward, knowing your every move was being watched, monitored, hidden eyes and minds waiting for the perfect chance to take you out.

 

 

Scully set the picture of her family--the one Mulder had packed back in her apartment--on the corner of the kitchen counter and took a step back. It was a kitchen--of sorts. Tiny, but it had all the essentials: stove, sink, counter, all spread across the front of the trailer, tiny cabinets above, refrigerator off to the right, next to the door. Outside the front window the hillside dropped away through the woods, a soothing landscape in greens and blues.

She turned. Obviously someone had altered the inside of the trailer. The original built-ins had been torn out leaving the center of the coach bare, like a regular room. A double bed took up most of that area now, with just enough room to walk around the end of it to a bathroom at the rear. There was actually a small tub with a shower inside and a molded-in seat at the back. On the other side were a toilet and a sink fitted into the corner. Everything efficient and functional, if older.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked into her travel bag. The copy of Moby Dick Ahab had given her so long ago sat at the bottom. She took it out, opened the cover and reached for the picture of Emily that was tucked inside. She had no frame for it. It was only a small picture, the kind you'd get a dozen of in a portrait package. She stood and set the book on the corner of the small desk that sat between the bed and kitchen. Emily's picture went on top of it against the wall. There were things she needed--paper and pens, shampoo, insect repellent. A long phone cord to run between the barn and here; thank goodness there was a phone in the barn. Sandy had promised to come back later with a phone cord and help her bury it so no one would notice. Just in case. Rita had suggested she make a grocery list. There was nothing to do now but wait--wait for the others to come back and try to make this place into a home as best she could in the meantime. There was no telling how long she and Mulder would be here in Owensburg.

She took Melissa's bookmark from a pocket on the side of her travel bag and set it on the desktop.

"But I know for certain

Every time you fall

You will rise again

Above it all." *

were the words Missy'd written across it. They were from a song, John Byers had told her, though she hadn't recognized the name of the group. But whoever had written them understood life under stress. They were words meant for times like this.

Scully sat down on the bed. She'd turned a fan on to help clear out the stale air and the windows were open; outside, birds could be heard in the trees. Only the green sweater was left to put away. She picked it up absently and held it. She'd worn it yesterday, but without thinking, the way she hadn't been thinking when she'd said those things to Mulder in the park a week earlier. Mulder hadn't been able to forget them, though. All that time she'd kept him out--shut him out--because she'd had to, or thought she had to. And how had that made her stronger?

She smoothed a hand across the sweater's soft surface. She could feel him again, nuzzled up against her, wrapped around her, content. Pressure rose inside her, peaked, subsided. She spread the sweater on the bed, folded it carefully and carried it to the wardrobe.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: Cranesbill@

So reassuring to know you're somewhere safe. I'll write to Annie, but give her my love when you see her; I certainly hope you will be able to. My comments about your files came mainly from knowing L's penchant for long-term strategizing. If it served his purposes in some way, he would find it advantageous to have you 'discover' the files, though I have no idea how doing so might serve whatever agenda he has. Whatever is going on with the Project, however, or the remnants of the Project, you can be sure he is running it. He is too ambitious not to be directing it himself, no matter what he may lead others to believe. I did overhear him saying something to your father once, at a social gathering to which all three of us happened to have been invited, about continuing to 'protect' you. I don't know in what context he meant it, but it gave me a chill even then, for it indicated that you--and your work--might hold some strategic value for him. What, exactly, it is, I can't say. 

 I don't know if any of this will be helpful to you. It doesn't seem like much, but if you have further questions, please write to me and I'll do my best to answer. I'll check my mail more frequently, too. All my love.

 

 

To: Cranesbill@

From: DaddyW@

I think I do need more help on this one, Mom, but not in terms of the bigger picture. I had someone I was working with when I found the files; actually, it was more than professional and not too long after we'd settled in to work on this new assignment in earnest, she accepted an appointment in Europe and we lost contact... until about eight months ago. All of a sudden she was back at headquarters, working on a case a number of us had been assigned to (at the end of this assignment, as it turned out, my office was destroyed in an arson fire and Annie and I were reassigned off the files.) Annie disliked D immediately--she's never trusted her, or her motives--and I guess I took her reaction pretty personally. There's always been this territorial feel to the way she reacts to D, and I took it to mean she was passing judgment on my personal life when it wasn't any of her business. After what you've said about Cassandra, though, it looks like Annie may have been right. Cassandra's son (L's son) is a new agent with the Bureau and has been put in charge of the files since they were taken from us, I can only assume to stop our work from going forward and revealing something he wants to keep hidden. D was assigned to work with him. She told me she only accepted the assignment to protect the integrity of the work we'd begun together, but I know I've been too easy a sell in the past for people telling me what I want to hear. D came with me to your house once. It was eight years ago and I don't know if you remember much about that visit, but any lingering impressions you might have would help right now.

There's more if you're up for playing Dear Abby. I made a stupid move when D came back. I didn't tell Annie that D and I had been partners, much less anything else; I think the whole thing just caught me by surprise, D showing up again that way, and I froze. Just couldn't get the words out--at least, that's what I told myself at the time, thought now I'm beginning to wonder if maybe subconsciously I wanted to hold that over Annie--that she didn't care to be a part of my personal life and so I'd just keep her shut out of it. Well, she found out on her own, which is probably the worst way it could have happened. Didn't give it much thought at the time, but now I feel like a complete ass, not that her remarks about D helped any. I guess when I first knew D, she was the one person who took me seriously when everyone else would just point and laugh, and that validation was worth a lot to me--maybe more than I realized at the time. But the thought that she would have set me up, or that I could have been that gullible, is pretty painful to swallow.

Seas are pretty choppy here. Glad to know you're out there throwing life preservers.

 

 

"Which one you like?" Marisela spoke with her hands, half-graceful, half-clipped gestures that filled the gaps in her English.

Tracy looked at the two folk dresses, the one a wonderful, rich red, the other a subtle maize yellow. The red one was beautiful, but it would make her already-pale skin look even paler by comparison and besides, it would draw attention to her if she were out somewhere--running one of Alex's errands, for instance. That kind of attention wouldn't do either lf them any good.

"She likes both," said her friend Pilar, smiling from behind the old, oak-trimmed sales counter.

It was a tiny shop, the shelves crammed with a variety of Central American items ranging from small primitive Mayan sculptures to hard candy to post cards, books and herbs. From hangers overhead hung smocked dresses and colorful woven rugs.

"I do," she said. "I do like them both, but I think... I'll take the yellow one. I like yellow."

She took out the money Alex had given her and set it on the counter. Pilar took it, opened the cash register and counted out change. She folded the dress and slipped it into a shopping bag and handed it across to Tracy.

"See, I tell you," Marisela said, nodding, when they were outside again. "Good prices, no? For me, because I am her friend."

Tracy nodded. "Thank you."

"Now you know where to go." She nodded. "Is not far."

"No."

They stayed under the shade of the awnings and walked back toward the restaurant. It was nearly six--hot still, but there were shadows now, thrown by the buildings, that offered shelter from the direct heat of the sun.

"Have you been here long?" Tracy asked as they walked. "I mean here, in this country."

"Three years." Marisela looked up slightly.

"Do you like it?"

"Is different." She tilted her head slightly. "Every place is different. Sometimes I miss our home--the place I come from. My father"--her hands came up again--"he name the restaurant after our village--Manzanares. Manzanares el Real."

"So the pictures inside, on the walls--"

"...are from our village." Marisela nodded.

"The castle?"

"Yes."

"Wow."

"Come. I show you."

They were at the restaurant door already. Marisela pulled on the handle and they went into cool, soothing darkness. The interior was empty. Small dark tables were set on a deep red carpet.

"You're not open yet."

"Not until seven. Even so, hours--hours--too early. At home..."

"Alex told me. They eat late."

"Ten, eleven, even midnight." She pointed to the wall. "Here, look."

The wallpaper was a series of huge black-and-white pictures composed of tiny dots, like newspaper pictures. "Here is the village--our village--of Manzanares. And this is the castle." It was a small castle, but real, symmetrical, set on a small hillside surrounded by rocky peaks. "The road to Madrid, to the capital..." She moved on. "And here the mountains, to the northwest, que dan a... that lead to... Segovia. Very famous city. Beautiful castle where Columbus was received by Queen Isabel."

"Who's this?"

"Hemingway, your own American writer. One of his stories takes place not far from our town."

"Thank you for showing me."

Alex only had an hour left before he had to take the painkillers again. Tracy turned to go.

"Wait." Marisela gestured toward the kitchen. "I have something for your Alex."

She disappeared through a curtained doorway. Tracy went back to the picture of the town. It was a small place, not more than a village, really. The road leading downward, into a valley--the one that was supposed to lead to the capital--was a small road, only one lane each way. Stone markers with numbers painted on them sat by the roadside.

"Here." Marisela had reappeared with a white styrofoam food box in her hand.

Tracy panicked momentarily. She had only two dollars left from the twenty Alex had given her, but she could see now that the girl had no intention of charging her. It was a gift.

"Thank you," she said. "Alex has been... sick. I've been doing a few errands for him." It was an explanation--no, more a defense. She could see what Marisela was thinking, that Alex always seemed to be the one alone, that it was good he'd found a Maria, like the one in the story. Tracy colored in spite of herself. "Thank you," she repeated. "For everything."

She gathered her bags and went through the doorway into the brightness and heat outside.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: Cranesbill@

I've been sitting here at the library reading more of a new novel than I really wanted to, waiting to see if you had more to say, so I'm glad I stayed after all. I do somewhat remember that visit, and I think what I recall most is a certain reserve about your companion, the feeling that there might be much she was holding back in spite of the pleasantries she offered, though of course that meeting was so brief, and so long ago, that I couldn't swear to the accuracy of my impressions.

I'm so very sorry if your suspicions turn out to be correct. I know too well the humiliation of discovering that you've allowed yourself to be duped, and for someone like yourself who gives yourself so unreservedly to those you care about, the knowledge would be all the more bitter. Regarding Annie, strange--and unfortunate--how sometimes our own motivations only come clear to us with time; I have learned this all too pointedly myself. Your deep commitment to Annie, however, shines clearly through and I believe she has seen this, though I can well understand her discomfiture at discovering something on her own that she would have expected to learn from you. I believe women become accustomed to the 'place' they occupy with any man, whether it be in a personal or professional context, and to find yourself jolted out of that position--or to suppose you have been through apparent lack of trust--can be very disorienting.

In the end, neither of us has been completely self-deceived, however. Leland seems to be ever at work behind the scenes in this family. Your dedication to the people you care about may have helped lead you in the direction he desired, but know that those of us who are the recipients of your affection have received a gift we would never exchange. Certainly your sister would vouch for this and I believe Annie would agree. In spite of whatever misunderstandings this issue of D may have caused between the two of you, you and Annie must be able to depend on each other now more than ever before. Guard that strength, and let your care for her be your guide. Strict self-preservation is a very unfulfilling and empty path I wish I knew much less intimately.

I wish I were closer to be able to help you more, but know that my thoughts are with you. Thank you, too, for your vote of confidence in trusting me with this dilemma. It means more than I can express.

 

 

"How was your day with Adrie?" Scully asked, looking down to where Sandy was on her knees, stapling phone line to the lower part of a post in the barn.

Sandy glanced up. "Adrie was okay. He's a good kid. He's kind of got his own agenda. He keeps himself busy--you know, building things. He likes to make stuff." She stood up. "It's his mom that takes some getting used to. I mean, I understand she's got a problem. She's always drifting in and out, you know--here for a few minutes, then gone and she don't remember you or anything. But it makes me hurt for him--for Adrie--to watch her. It's almost like she's a ghost--here but not really here, like he can see her behind a window but he can't get in to where she is." She sighed.

Scully bit her lip. "So," she said, looking around. "I guess we should run this line over along the wall and then out between the siding."

"David's got a hoe over here. We can dig a little trench between here and there, lay the line in and then stomp it down good so it doesn't show." Sandy paused. "Will anyone really come snooping around?"

"I hope not. We've tried to be very careful, but each precaution you take adds to your chances of staying hidden successfully. Our chances."

"What happened to you?"

"Evidently the man who... is apparently responsible for what's happened here--for Andy Johnston and your husband and son--believed we were getting too close to something he didn't want exposed. He left me a warning to stay away from the case because I'd been involved, because I'd done the forensics."

"Forensics?"

"I do"--Scully pursed her lips a moment--"autopsies. I examine the evidence that... Often there's a lot of evidence left behind, on a body. It can help tell us what happened, or lead us to whoever committed the crime."

The girl's expression darkened and she moved back a step. "Did you--?" She couldn't bring herself to say the words.

"No." Scully shook her head. "I didn't do your son's autopsy, or your husband's. That's the job of the county medical examiner. I did see them. I had to, in order to see if there was anything that would pertain to our investigation."

"Was there?"

"The man who shot--who we believe shot--your husband and son is a professional assassin. He's very efficient at what he does. Your husband had been drinking... and the shot was point-blank and very accurate. I don't believe he could have felt anything."

The girl looked pale, as if she was awaiting her own execution. "And Roddy?" Her voice was dry, almost a whisper.

"The wound was such that I believe the shooter didn't see him at first--didn't know he was in the car at all. Perhaps he was hidden behind your husband from where the shooter stood. It was that fact that made my partner, Ben, suspicious in the first place, that it was murder and not... anything your husband might have done."

Sandy nodded without speaking. Her eyes were wet, her lips tight. She turned and crossed the barn to get the hoe. Scully looked up into the cavernous space above her, searching for release from the unexpected discomfort between them. It was a storage building, half-abandoned now that David Barker had been forced to take an accounting job in Lexington to make ends meet. Birds chirped from unseen perches high in the rafters. She watched Sandy take the hoe from a nail on the wall, come back and start digging. The girl focused on her work--or, at least, she was trying to look like she was. Her movements were harsh and choppy, not fluid, her struggle obviously with what lay unsaid between them as much as with the dirt and stones she attacked.

"Sandy--" Scully swallowed.

The girl looked up. Her mouth twitched.

"I know this is very difficult, a very sensitive thing for you, but if--"

"Do you? How could you when you're on the other side, just looking at... at bodies you never knew--a man and a little boy that didn't mean nothing to you." She stopped and looked away, gulping a ragged breath. "Sorry... I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I'm just shooting off my mouth because it's been a week and a half--twelve awful days--but it seems like forever, and it hurts like hell every single morning I wake up and know they're not here, knowing they never will be."

"Sandy," Scully took a step forward. "I do understand what it's like. I've been on the other side of this, too. I have. And I know."

Sandy wiped at her eyes with the back of a hand. She didn't turn around.

"Sandy, I don't want this to be awkward for either of us. You're going through a very difficult time and I... quite frankly, this has been a stressful day for me, too. If there's anything you want to know--that you need to know--you're welcome to ask me. Or if you'd rather not, then just say so and let's move past it. Neither of us needs this right now." She put a hand on the girl's shoulder.

"It's just," Sandy began, "Rita asked me to take this job. And I like Adrie--I do. But this thing between him and his mother, it really hits home and I don't know if I can keep going. Rita made me promise to try it for a week. I said I would, but--" She shook her head. "What happened to Roddy? I mean, I don't want to know, I really don't want to think about it, but... I guess I just need to know if, you know..."

"Whether he felt anything?"

"Yeah."

"No, he couldn't have. It was very quick, very... direct. He might have been scared, for a second, to realize something had happened to his father. But then it was over."

Scully looked away slightly and took a step back. Sandy resumed her digging. Drops of wetness fell into the dirt but she didn't bother to stop and wipe her eyes. Scully took the phone line and laid it in the trench little by little as Sandy worked, heading toward the corner of the barn.

 

 

If the old man found out what she could do, Tracy would end up being dissected like Gibson Praise. Only by now the old man would have smartened up and tightened his security.  He'd make sure she didn't have any chance of slipping away.

But he wouldn't be getting her. Anyway, he deserved to lose her after what he'd done to his own flesh and blood. She wasn't just a faceless guinea pig; she hadn't had any special gift like Gibson. She was just an ordinary kid.

Krycek's jaw set. He took an empty prescription container and squeezed it--hard. Tension and pain filled his fingers until finally he eased off. No point having it shatter and damage the only hand you had. He let it drop. It rolled a few inches over the white terrain of the sheets and came to rest between wrinkles. 

The old man's own little girl--his own little home-grown lab rat. Clone compound in Alberta, orphanage in Russia: anybody see a pattern here? He was one twisted old son of a bitch.

But trying to save little girls was risky: look what it had done to Mulder. Besides, girls were prone to disasters. They got murdered like Lena, or worn down, or broken like Irina Karpova, or just plain used up and thrown away like the woman his unit in Afghanistan had tied to a crate. Okay, would have thrown away when they were finished with her if he hadn't put a bullet in the back of her head from forty feet and saved her the terror of another half-dozen men stepping up to take their turn.

Then there were the others: assassins like Rina who got off on slitting men's throats in the middle of what they'd figured was going to be the lay of their lives, or the wheeler-dealers like Maria Ivanova. Or the ones with a plan who suddenly darted off in some direction that made no sense, like Marita. God knows what she'd been thinking when she took the boy. It wasn't like he could have taken off, stolen away her organization and run it without her; she'd been more careful than that. Marita'd had a plan, the best--the only--plan out there with the potential to save enough people to outlast the coming invasion. Maybe even to fight back, if the vaccine distribution went well. Running off with Dmitri had cost her everything: the years of careful planning and set-up; the vaccine, which was finally being manufactured; her freedom... her health, knowing where she was now. All of it gone to hell, and with it the chances of the race for any kind of real survival. And there it was, full-circle: help Tracy make her escape, but escape to what? Thirteen years to go and they were ticking down steady as anything. On the one hand, a lot could go on in that amount of time. In the end, though, when it happened, it was bound to feel like nothing, like only minutes had passed. At the end you'd feel your lungs begging for another chance, wanting to breathe in more of the only atmosphere they'd ever known.

A key turned in the door lock. Krycek pulled up, startled, then eased and collapsed back against the pillow.

"Sorry I took so long, Alex."

She seemed to breeze in, new dress on--yellow--big surprise--and a smile on her face. She looked cooler now, or maybe freer. She set a bag down on the small desk--food, it looked like--pulled out the chair and sat down on it sideways. Her feet settled on the rungs.

"I would've been back sooner but Marisela was showing me the pictures on the restaurant wall, the ones of where she comes from." She paused to catch her breath. "Then I went up to my room to change." She looked down and smoothed her fingers over the dress. "It's really, really nice, and so cool after that other one. I've been wearing it for so long." She looked up.

Time to watch your thoughts, Aleksei.

"You lucked out, Alex," she went on. "I think she feels sorry for you. No, not sorry. But she thinks of you as the one who's always alone. Anyway, she gave you some food. I freaked for a minute there. I thought you'd ordered something and I didn't have the money to pay for it. But she gave it to me. She didn't say what it was." She sat up straighter. "What?"

"You," he said, amused. "You seem like... like somebody threw a switch and you came alive." He'd caught that mood once, that sense of freedom and possibility, at the crest of a mountain.

"Frankenstein, huh?" She smiled.

"No. Not Frankenstein." He mock-scowled and gestured toward the desk. "Go on. See what it is."

Tracy pushed the bag down around the box inside and opened it carefully. "It's rice, Alex. Yellow rice with a lot of... things in it--shrimp and shellfish and peas and... peppers and some kind of sausage..."

"Paella," he said, and raised an eyebrow. They usually only made it on Sundays. "I must rate."

"You want some? Are you hungry?"

"Yeah. Sure." He nodded at her. "Take some for yourself."

She went to the shelf above the microwave and found bowls and spoons.

"How's the hand?" he said.

"About the same." She grimaced slightly, focusing on her fingers, then returned to the desk and leaned over the box. "You want some of everything?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm giving you all the little clam-looking things. I'm not touching anything that's in a shell."

He stifled a snicker.

She turned around. "You're laughing at me."

He shrugged.

"Guess I haven't been many places to get used to much." She came across to the bed, handed him a bowl of food and returned to the desk. He took a spoonful and lifted it carefully to his mouth.

"Why did you go there, Alex? Spain, I mean?"

"To meet some old men. I was with a group. Russians have this great awe for revolutionaries. They were men who'd fought for the republic--the Spanish Republic--in the Spanish civil war, back in the thirties. They were Communists at the time, or thought they were. Actually, they were just in it for what they could get for their country, trying to save it from Franco and his goons."

"Were they what you expected?"

"They were just men. Some of them were laying it on pretty thick in their old age--turning themselves into big heroes after the fact, you know? A couple figured if they had it to do over, they'd do it differently, that things looked different from a distance than they did in the heat of it, at the time--"

Wrong turn.

He looked down, studied the contents of his bowl and stabbed a piece of sausage.

"Maybe that's a good thing,” she said. “If you don't face what you've done, how can you do better the next time? You'd just keep tripping over the same old mistakes."

A hell of a lot easier said than done. Though it seemed to make so much sense, hearing her say it.

There was that third category of women, small though it was: Patty, making every step count to get herself farther than life would have taken her on its own, or Dr. Carrie Phillips. She hadn't picked up that perfect balance between clinical and caring in any med school classroom--that skill she had of partnering with you through a recovery. No pity, but all the support you needed. Where would he have been after the silo if the Brit had brought in someone else?

"Do you want to be the oak or the willow?"

"Huh?" He refocused on her.

"My mom used to say that. That the oak is big and strong, but when storms come willow branches bend. They adapt and it keeps them from breaking off." She stared into the distance at nothing. Gradually the lost look began to creep over her, the one she'd had this morning. She put an arm over the chair back and leaned her head against it. "Easy enough to say when you're not in the middle of one of those storms."

"You learned to adapt. You took care of your mother, didn't you?"

Not much in the way of a reaction. He cleared his throat. "Speaking of wheelchairs, when I get up tonight, after I'm past the strung-out stage--"

She nodded. "I'll take you up there. It'll be cooler then. It'll be nice." She shifted on the chair, smoothed a spot of the dress fabric against her leg and looked up. "You started to tell me about your mountain before, but the medication got to you before you finished."

For a moment he pictured her in long braids, like the clone girl.

"It was"--he cleared his throat again and stared at a spot above the window--"not far from where I lived--where all of us lived. It was an endurance thing, to make us strong. It was a test, really, but they didn't tell us that. They wanted to find out who the strongest kids were. I just kept pressing on. The higher up you went, the better it looked. I wanted to see what you could see"--he glanced over at her--"you know, from the top. I wanted that view, and I got there first. I think I was five minutes ahead of the next kid. And I saw the rock; it was a good place to stand, a good view. Standing there, I felt like..." He shook his head.

"Like you were somebody?"

"Like there were possibilities--more possibilities than I'd ever dreamed of. He'd always told me--the old man--that I was destined for big things, but all I'd ever known was the orphanage. What's around you becomes your world." He rolled toward her slightly. "Until I climbed that mountain I'd only seen the forest from down below, where it was all around me, but being up there, looking down on it..."

"You knew you were going to leave."

"Nothing was going to make me stay there--stay down, dwarfed in the forest, after that."

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: thelark@

I don't think Mantua was quite like this. I have this little place, old but very functional. There are woods all around me. From my front window I look out and down a hillside covered with trees--very beautiful and quiet. I've been brought groceries and had help with installing a phone line. I'm attempting to focus on the bigger picture and not get lost in being temporarily out-of-place, or dwell on the thought that tonight will be nothing like last night, or the night before, or the night before that. Already I miss having you in my bed. There are two pillows here, but they make poor substitutes for you.

My mind keeps going back to the many times you've held me together lately, even when you were least able to. I can still feel the heat of your fever through the quilt your mother draped over me after she'd brought me in from the alley that night. Thank you for not giving up on me.

Just wanted to touch base and to hope that your initial settling in has gone as well as mine. Let me know.

                                                                                      -Lark

 

 

To: thelark@

From: DaddyW@

Dear Lark,

I must have been mistaken. I thought that was my bed we were in, but no matter--any bed will do so long as we're in it together. Delivered the rental car and got a ride back. My new 'uncle' is a pretty interesting guy, willing to share but knows when to shut up, too, and I guess I needed some silence. Something my mother said--something she remembered and mailed me about--has got me tied up in knots but I'll figure it out eventually. She's been a big help today, though. I still have to pinch myself to realize the connection I've needed from her all these years is actually alive and working.

Thanks for the vote of confidence ('held me together lately'), but you know the reality is I can be a pain in the ass sometimes. Still, flatter me all you want; I'm gullible.

Watch out that your mother doesn't try to marry you off to some slick guy named Paris while I'm away. You know if I could, I'd be there in a minute. Maybe we can make that sooner rather than later. Hang in there.

                                                                                 -Nightingale at heart

 

 

"Three more steps. Give yourself a minute, Alex. You'll get there." She waited until she could feel him tense again in preparation. "Okay, ready?"

"Ready."

"Up." She took the step with him. "You're stronger than last time. I can feel it."

"Yeah. Let's go..."

"Up."

"Up."

"Last one. Ready?"

He nodded. He was getting winded.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Go."

They stepped up onto the landing. She stopped in the doorway.

"I'll get the chair," she said. "Can you hold here a minute?"

"Wait. I want to"--he reached for a breath--"to walk to the wall. Over there." He nodded toward the far wall.

"Are you sure you can make it?"

"With a little help." A pause. "Look, I'm not trying to push it. I'm just so damn tired of lying on my butt doing nothing." He looked toward the wall.

She started to take a step forward; he moved with her, one step and then another, gradual, careful. He usually walked with the cane but they'd left it in his room. The wall came closer and closer and then they were there. He reached out and took hold of the edge.

"Got it?"

"Yeah."

She loosened her hold on his waistband and let go. The two fingers that had been hooked through his belt loop ached from the pressure; the two beyond them ached from the accident earlier with Alex's drinking glass. In front of them, the wall radiated the day's heat.

"I was up here last night when I couldn't sleep," she said.

He frowned. "You should be careful."

"I'd hear someone thinking if they were here."

"Yeah, I didn't think about that. Still."

She looked out over the twinkling sea of lights and dark patches.

"Do you ever get tired of being alone, Alex?"

He shot her a frown and leaned forward against the wall, letting it take his weight. "It's not something I think about. No point in thinking about it. He gestured toward the city below.  "It's the price you pay for not living the life everybody else leads down there."

"I wish I wasn't so different. I'm tired of being a freak."

"You're not a freak. You've got a talent."

"Maybe. My mom used to say that, too. But if everybody else thinks I'm a freak, what difference does it make?"

"They hassle you?"

She nodded.

"Don't let them know."

"I slip. And anyway, it still makes me the only one--you know, who sees what I see, who--" The dull ache in her fingers filled her hand and wrist now. She wrapped the fingers of her other hand around the gauze. "I just get so tired of being alone."

"You're not alone."

She glanced up at him. He looked away, up into the darkness overhead.

"No. But they're so short, those times when you're not."

"Better than nothing."

"Yeah. Better than nothing."

"You'll have the kid."

Her eyes squeezed shut. A sudden, overwhelming ache filled her, making her feel as if she might burst. She waited for the pressure to go. When she opened her eyes again, he was watching her.

"Fingers bothering you? You're gripping them hard enough."

After a pause, she nodded.

"Sometimes it helps if you massage your wrist. You know, kind of transfers your focus."

She tried it.

"Not like that. Put it here." He patted the ledge in front of him. "C'mon."

She placed her hand on the warm surface. He turned it so that it was palm up. His fingers worked lightly, smoothly, almost numbing the area so that she could barely tell whether he was touching her or not. Gradually she began to relax.

"I keep thinking about that castle," she said as she looked out at the twinkling lights on the horizon. "Can you imagine living near one?"

"I've been to that one--Manzanares. It's small. Not so old, maybe five hundred years or so."

"I'd never thought of that before, going someplace like that," she said. He let go of her wrist and she pulled it in against her, resting her elbows on the ledge in front of her. "Someplace there are castles."

"That's what planning's for." He raised an eyebrow. "You need to do your share of that. So you're ready."

She nodded and looked down. "I know." She sighed. "I don't even know where to start."

"It's a skill. You can learn it."

She closed her eyes and felt the barely-moving air against her face. "Alex, can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"Marisela's castle. Would you... would you show it to me, like you did the mountain?"

She could hear him shifting his stance against the wall. He let out a sigh. "It's been a long time. But okay. I'll give it a try. Castle and then we start making you some plans. Deal?"

"Okay. Deal."             

 

 

Mulder stared at the ceiling in the dark.

This was the reason they frowned on partners in personal relationships: because when it got personal and you ended up on opposite sides of the fence, then it was 'deny my position, deny me' and wherever the hell that might lead. No place you wanted to be. And Diana as an issue was as 'opposite sides of the fence' as it got between them. But it would have to be faced--and resolved somehow. They couldn't go on this way, on the run, with Diana like a wall between them.

How strong were they when it came right down to it? They'd both been careless, said or done things that were barbed. It hadn't been critical before. It was part of the game, the give-and-take of the partnership, the dynamic they built on in the process of developing or tearing down evidence and theories. But now, would they both look at the facts and admit them? Or would they retreat and defend themselves? Let your care for her be your guide, his mother had said, but did he really trust her that far, trust her not to hurt him again, not to throw this back in his face? He could admit to screwing up in not telling her about Diana at the outset. It was a shitty thing to do, petty. But what about Scully and the things she'd said?

And how the hell had it all boiled down to this?

Mulder rolled onto his side and shoved the pillow farther under his head. It was nearly midnight, he couldn't sleep and he was staying in somebody else's house; he couldn't just get up and wander around. Make yourself at home, Dale had said. If you get up just turn on the lights and bang around a bit; he was a light sleeper and nearly thirty years on he still had occasional nightmares from the war. Just don't surprise him, he'd warned; he'd nearly killed someone who woke him up once unexpectedly. 

It wasn't a joke. Survival reaction died hard.

Mulder rolled again, to the other side, facing the window. The sky was littered with stars. Scully was out there somewhere, trying her damndest to get used to a new place, somewhere she'd be hidden away, safe but dependent on other people. How would she define herself there when what she thrived on was being useful, supporting, defending? Would she be able to hold that positive thought she'd put in her mail or would she start to get jittery, the way she had in that seedy little motel room before she'd seen her mother? What would happen if she did?

He reached for the lamp on the table beside the bed and switched it on. Pulling on his jeans, he went out into the living room and booted up the computer. The colors strobed brightly; eventually icons lined themselves up on the blue screen. He clicked on the mail program and pulled out the keyboard shelf.

To: thelark@

From: DaddyW@

Just an insomniac nightingale here, squawking away in the middle of the night. Hopefully you're asleep with those pillows of yours and not awake like me. If you're up, know you're not the only one. If not, then consider this a hi to start your morning. Have a good one.

                                                                     -nightingale for a lark

Chapter 9

Tuesday

 

Krycek switched off the laptop and pushed it across the mattress toward the wall. There'd been no further word from Buzz one way or the other. Hopefully the little fucker had stayed put, but there was no guarantee. There never was.

He lay back on the pillows and studied the small, amber circle the lamp cast on the ceiling. He felt better than he had since Scully'd shot him--not good, not strong, but definitely better. Tracy'd had him walking the chair around on the roof patio, the back slightly reclined to ease the strain. It had been strange at first--awkward. Or maybe the awkwardness had been in not being in control: he had an audience, it had been dark, and his position had made it hard to see the floor. But she'd been watching his boundaries at every step, warning him if he started to get too close to anything. Crazy as the movement had seemed, it had been a way to use his legs, to move and not be static, though a week ago... A week ago he wouldn't have dreamed of fielding suggestions from the Waif of the Year. Or trusting her with his safety. The last few years hadn't given him any reason to make trust a part of his daily routine.

He shook his head, leaned away from the light and glanced toward the deep shadow in the corner of the room where Tracy lay curled up, asleep in the recliner. She had no talent for lying, if he'd been worried about her loyalties. And she didn't judge, didn't push or press. No scorn, no fear, no 'scum of the earth' reaction--just help. It was damn nice.  Actually, it was pretty incredible.

Even though she knew who he was: that was the kicker. She knew what he was, but yet she was still here. Now he knew what Mulder had.

He glanced at the clock. Past midnight--farther past than he'd thought--nearly one. The pain was building and anyway, he was more than ready to hit the sack. Actual fatigue from doing something--it was a good feeling. He looked over once more at the recliner. A small movement came from her middle. He watched until it settled, then downed the pill and water waiting on the bedside table and reached for the lamp switch. No point in disturbing her and sending her upstairs to a room with no air conditioning. If the old man showed up he'd just say she'd fallen asleep in the chair; it was plausible enough. But after this they'd need to be more careful. No good would come from having the old man decide he cared about what happened to his little caretaker. They'd need two plans: one long-term and another for contingencies, in case something unforeseen happened and she had to be gotten away quickly. Che would be his usual self and offer to help... But Che couldn't keep her. That would risk both of them and Che was too valuable to lose. Anyway, who would be capable of keeping her out of the old man's hands if he decided to go after her?

Her question about Hemingway had come out of the blue. She'd already been in the chair, half drifted off, when her voice came asking him if he'd ever read the book. Yeah, he'd said. A long time ago.

What was it about?

An American, a military engineer who was helping the Republic in the war.

And Maria--who was she?

It had taken a few seconds for the pieces to come together--to figure out that she'd probably pulled the reference out of Marisela's head... and to realize where Marisela was going with it. 

She was just a girl, he'd ended up saying, resisting a sudden urge to clear his throat. A throwaway. The leader of the resistance cell he was working with just gave her to him. A gift, like a bottle of wine.

The pain pill was starting to do its thing. Krycek closed his eyes. The old man hadn't mentioned the recorder in days and it wasn't a good sign. Time to lean on Skinner to confess.

 

 

"You heard from Walter lately?" Dale said.

Mulder looked up from his mug of coffee. He shook his head.

"I got a note from him yesterday," Dale went on. "Said he'd been given a second chance. I don't know exactly what it meant, but I guess he's back on the job. For a while there, I though he was down for the count." He reached for another slice of the bread Rita had brought and dropped it into the toaster. "I didn't know Walter all that well; it was a passing thing, though I suppose it was different for him... I had a dozen guys save my life, too, at different times, but I never knew who they were. Reckon a number of 'em never made it back. It's the way things were."

Mulder picked up the half-full mug and took another sip. He had a sudden vision of Scully, two years earlier, wandering away from an interview he was doing with a Russian source at the Vietnam Memorial. She'd walked off toward the Wall, squinted at the sea of names inscribed on the polished granite, then stooped down by the mementos people had left at the base and picked up a brown, decaying rose petal. There had been fresh flowers, too, and keepsakes, but she hadn't touched them.

Dale's toast popped up. He stuck a wooden skewer through it, pulled it out and set it on his plate, which rested against a wooden L-shape fitted into the surface of the table. He reached for a small silver knife in a tub of margarine and began to spread it on the toast, which was conveniently held against the wooden wedge. Dale was an unblinking kind of person. He wore no prosthesis but simply had one empty shirt sleeve. 'I figure people'll get used to it eventually,' he'd said by way of explanation if you pressed him. 'I did.'

"Rita's at a loss," he said now, taking a bite of his toast. "She wanted to do this for Andy but she wanted just as much to do it for Bob--and for all those people who'll still be affected." He shook his head. "Anyone else would probably walk away, but not my sister."

"I think I understand." Mulder bit his lip, swirled the cooling coffee gently and watched it rise along the inside edge of the mug.

"You should try some of this," Dale said, pointing to the loaf of bread.

"No, I..." He shook his head. "I don't do much breakfast."

"This'll make you change your mind. She made it herself. Go ahead."

Mulder paused, then reached out, took a slice and set it in the toaster.

"You look like you're carrying the world," his host said.

He shrugged. "I just found out I was set up, years ago--walked right into an elaborate scam and bought the whole thing. Hook, line and sinker."

"We used to do that every day," Dale said. "Over there. After a while you figure out it's not whether you got suckered in--that happens to everybody. What matters is whether you get out again. Every second you spend kicking yourself is a chance for somebody to pick you off. Got to keep your eye on what's important."

Mulder nodded. He brought the mug up and put his lips against the rounded edge. It reminded him of her mouth.

Dale pushed back his chair and stood. "Make yourself at home," he said. "I've got a job to get to. If you need anything, Rita'll be glad to help you out."

Mulder looked up. They'd been at odds that time, too: Scully absorbed in some personal funk, him at a loss to understand.

"Thanks."

The toaster popped. Mulder took the bread out--it did smell good--and set it on his plate. What the hell had she been thinking when she connected with that guy, that Ed Jerze? Though it probably hadn't helped her state of mind that he'd made that crack about her having a date, as if it were an impossibility--as if she weren't capable of letting herself stray that far from her work. As if nobody'd want to ask her.

Next to the margarine tub was a little brown crock with 'apple butter' written across the front in script lettering. He lifted the lid and sniffed. It smelled good. He spread a thin layer on his toast and took a bite. Dale was right. It could make you change your mind.

Her own life was going nowhere, she'd said at the time. Where the hell was it was going now?

 

 

A knock came on the trailer door. Scully looked up from her laptop and turned around. Sandy's and Adrie's faces showed through the screen.

"You want to come to the falls with us?" Sandy said. She smiled, though the smile was a little forced. Maybe Rita had put her up to it. "I haven't been there before. Adrie's going to show me."

"I... um, I was just doing some research, trying to find out something more about the plant in town--the business itself."

"How?"

"On the Internet."

Sandy shook her head. "I don't really know nothin' about computers."

"It's all there... out there," Scully said, smiling belatedly at her choice of words. "Just about any kind of information you could want."

"Are you going to try to do something about..." Sandy made herself stop. She looked down.

Scully let out a quiet sigh. "Come in, Sandy."

Sandy glanced behind her. Adrie was already playing with a little structure beside the tree that he'd started building the day before. She pulled on the screen door's handle and stepped up inside the trailer. Scully gestured toward the bed and she sat down.

"I'm not sure exactly what I can do here--how much I can accomplish--without making myself--ourselves, Ben and me--noticed. But investigating is what I do. I guess I just naturally fall back on that. You must understand what it's like"--she paused momentarily--"to be doing something and suddenly have that ripped away from you. It's difficult to let go of what you're so used to."

Sandy looked down. "You got that right."

"I'll do what I can while I can," Scully said. She turned back to her screen.

"That your little girl?" Sandy said after a moment. She pointed to the picture of Emily.

Scully pressed her lips together and nodded.

"May I see?"

Scully hesitated, then reached for the picture and handed it to Sandy. She clicked the mouse button and scrolled farther down the page.

"She's pretty," Sandy said, handing the picture back carefully. "What're you looking at?"

"Financial reports for Beeson-Lymon. I was looking to see if there was some point when things got markedly better for them. Anything out of the ordinary. If they had a sudden unexplainable increase in income, for instance."

"Mr. Beeson's had a chauffeur for about three years now. A friend of Cy's drives for him. Has a Mercedes--black. Ryan's always bragging about how fancy it is."

Scully turned to face her. "Have you ever heard of people getting sick at the plant, Sandy?"

"What kind of sick?"

"Lung problems. Difficulty breathing."

"Alan Harder," she said.

"Do you know if he works with beryllium?"

"He does unless he's asked for a transfer. Not many people are willing to give up that kind of money."

A chime sounded on the computer.

"What was that?" Sandy said.

"I have mail."

Scully clicked on it. She smiled as she read. "My mother's invited a friend of mine to dinner," she said.

"She knows where you are?"

Scully shook her head. "E-mail is like... an electronic post office in the sky. You send your mail into it, and when the person you're writing to checks their mail, it sends your message out to them. You could be anywhere--anywhere at all. My mother goes to the library to send hers."

"So even if somebody were trying to get her to tell them where you were, she wouldn't know? But she can still keep in touch with you?"

"Yes."

"That would be great for my dad and me. He's a trucker. He's always moving around, no place I ever know to get ahold of him. He was here last week," she said, "when I..." She paused. "He helped me bury Roddy's ashes. My mom, she didn't understand why I wanted to put them out in the woods, but Papa, he's half Cree Indian. Maybe that's where I get it from." She shrugged. "It's half the reason she looks down at him. She'd think he was really nuts if she knew he was going to the reservation now sometimes. I wish I knew what it was like, his reservation. He seems real happy when he talks about the people he knows there. It's in North Dakota. It's called Stone Boy."

Scully clicked the mouse again and typed into a message box on the screen.

"I didn't realize how much I missed him until he showed up last week. Are your parents together?"

"My father was a Navy captain," Scully said, turning to glance at the girl. "He passed away about five years ago." She paused. "It seems like such a long time. We were very close when I was younger, when I was growing up." She returned to the screen, scrolled down again and clicked on an entry.

"I like my dad a lot, too. My mom--" Sandy shook her head. "We don't get along so well."

Scully searched another page, clicked on another link. She smiled. "Here," she said, turning to face Sandy, moving the laptop so the girl could see the screen.

"What is it?"

"Your father's reservation. There are pictures, too. Would you like to see?"

"Honest?" Sandy scooted closer to the screen.

 

 

Tracy woke with a start. Above her, the ceiling of Alex's room was flooded with daylight. She pulled the back of the recliner upright. Alex was lying on his bed, quiet. The whole room was quiet. Her hand ached. She rubbed it and stood up, then went to the window and pulled down the shade to keep the hot brightness out.

She crossed the room to check the clock--9:14--then turned to the bed.

"Alex..." 

His eyes were half-open, glazy.

"Sleepyhead," he managed, the word slurred.

"I must have been," she said, sitting down on the edge. "You took your pain medication?"

"Seven..." he said. "Right... right on... time... I have... doctor's appointment, he called me... later..."

"Who called you?"

"...old man... He's... sending a car... to pick me up, to take me..."

"When?"

"Later." He struggled to focus. "Eleven."

His hand came up off the bed and wavered. She took it. He was worried; it showed clearly even through his thickness. Would the doctor think he was making too much progress, or not enough? And what would his father read into either result? The old man was always there in the background, a dark, overarching shadow in the back of his mind, and Alex was always running, calculating, trying to keep that shadow from swallowing him.

"...hand?" he asked. He blinked. His fingers tightened against hers.

"It's... it still hurts, Alex, but I'll live. Just get yourself through the next few hours. Don't worry about me."

He looked as if he were about to say something. His breath hitched momentarily, then his face changed to puzzlement.

She shook her head and smiled a bittersweet smile. "Your mind's like mashed potatoes in there right now. Just rest."

But rest was the last thing he wanted. He wanted the doctor's appointment to be over with. He wanted a solid plan to keep her safe. And his defenses were all down when he was drugged like this, walls and gates wide open.

"Close your eyes, Alex."

He closed his eyes. She eased his hand onto his stomach and looked toward the green leaves in the window.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: thelark@

Hope you finally got some rest; you sounded preoccupied in your mails. I was taken to a waterfall this morning (small but very beautiful) and have done some research online. Napoleon on St. Helena never had it like this. I've had several conversations with our young widow. She knows someone who may be affected by the problem at B-L, so if we should get that far, there's the possibility of obtaining live tissue again (necessary for the required diagnostics) that I thought I'd lost with Andy J. I don't know if I'm crazy to be looking into this in first place considering the circumstances. Perhaps I'm just a creature of habit or maybe it's a convoluted way of atoning for S's discomfort. I haven't thought deeply about what I do in a very long time, but she's extremely young and impressionable and the fact that I saw her family post mortem has left me in a strange position in her eyes, the keeper of a terrible secret she does and yet doesn't want revealed. It's been rather awkward at times, to say the least.

My mother wrote to say she'd invited heron3 to dinner, which I'm sure it will be a good thing for both of them. He's another one who found it difficult to process my occupation at first, as he lost his mother when he was a child and the thought of the procedure seems to have haunted him ever since. It's so easy to rationalize and to come to regard as commonplace whatever it is you do/encounter with frequency. Perhaps this confrontation with a perspective from the other side of the scalpel will serve some useful purpose for me in the end.

I find myself turning to talk to you, accustomed now to having you here with me, but at least we're not completely out of contact. Let me know how you're faring.

 

 

Through the small window near the stairs, Tracy watched Alex being wheeled to the waiting car. She couldn't help but read his tension--his worry over being so noticeable--a man in a wheelchair in broad daylight--even if it was only briefly. The old man hadn't come himself; he'd just sent a car and driver to pick Alex up. It could be a trap--Alex had that on his mind, too--but she'd sensed nothing from the man in the gray suit who'd come to retrieve him. She'd stayed out of sight the way Alex had warned her to do, but as soon as the car was gone she'd go in, change his bedding and clean things up.

The man on the sidewalk was taking Alex by the elbow, helping him into the car. Alex was wearing the prosthesis. It seemed strange. She'd gotten used to seeing him with one arm and just a stump. The car door was being closed. A last momentary streak of panic went through him as the car pulled away. She tried to send some comfort, the kind he'd brought her when he'd shared his vision of the mountaintop. Hopefully somehow the feeling would reach him.

She ran a finger along the dusty window ledge, turned and went to the door of his room. Reaching in her pocket for the key, she worked it in the lock and turned the handle.

"Good morning," a voice behind her said too cheerily.

Tracy froze, her hand momentarily one with the metal she grasped. She made herself continue the motion, pushed the door open and turned around.

"Hi," she said, trying to sound merely surprised. Inside, her heart pounded.

The old man paused to take a pack of Morleys from his coat pocket. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. "I thought I'd stop by and see how he's been doing," he said, letting out a stream of smoke and then smiling again.

She went inside and left the door open. He followed her in.

"He's doing okay, I guess," she said. "He's learned not to strain himself. He wants to do everything himself, you know? But he's learned to take it easy, not that he likes it." It was what he wanted to hear--at least as far as she could tell with her heart still racing. Why hadn't she sensed him coming?

"That's good." He nodded approvingly. "Very good."

He sat down on the desk chair and watched as she went to the bed, folded the blankets and pulled off the sheets. They smelled of too much time spent lying around and just of Alex--the way he smelled. Everybody had a smell. Behind her, the old man was watching, learning, congratulating himself on his powers of observation. He was leaning against her yellow sweater--her mother's sweater. Tracy grimaced and stuffed the sheets and the thin cotton blanket into a pillow case.

"He walks a little," she said now, eyeing the bed pad and deciding to take it to wash, too. He was wondering about her dress, her new yellow one and whether she'd already had it or whether it was new; it looked new to him. He wondered if she'd saved some of the money he'd given her or how else she'd gotten it. "From the bed to where you are and over to the window." She pointed to the narrow one beyond the end of the bed. "Several times a day. It's slow but he seems stronger."

"And he's... taking this well? How are his spirits?"

"He wants to be well, you know? He wants to be up and doing for himself but he's doing the best he can with it. He's making himself wait it out."

"Patience is a virtue."

"It is." She gathered up the linens and went to the jar on the shelf where Alex kept the quarters. "I have to go wash these things now." She counted out the money. "You know, so they'll be ready when he gets back. Is there anything else you need?"

"No," he said. "You seem to be doing a fine job. Keep up the good work."

He made no move to get up from the chair. After a moment she picked up the bed pad, folded the sheets inside and carried them out. The hallway was hot... or maybe it was her. She pushed the elevator button but thought better of it and started toward the stairs. Inside the room, the old man was looking around. Not actively searching but looking, his eyes open for anything out of place: for clues, for signs of independence or betrayal or compromise.

 

 

To: thelark@

From: DaddyW@

Dear Lark,

Thanks for the update. I'm still bouncing off the walls. You'd think it's me, I could get used to anything, but I haven't yet. Maybe it's the thought of being cooped up. Uncle D's very much his sister's brother, welcoming, easy with the advice. I wonder what their parents were like. (I can see it now: the Dalai Lama meets Ann Landers.) After he left for work I needed to do something to wear off the energy but jogging around this town and getting myself noticed didn't seem like a good plan and he's got no basketball backboard, so I actually got out the lawnmower and mowed his quarter-acre. Always knew there was a reason I went into the Bureau; I think it was so I could avoid even the remotest possibility of becoming a gardener. Show me one more grass clipping and I think I'll scream. You'll probably hear me at your place.

Evidently TinMan sent Uncle D a note saying he'd been given a 'second chance'. Even with AK wheeling and dealing, it's better than having TinMan on his way to some federal lockup. Know what you mean about working the case in your head. I'm doing the same thing and beyond that, I think these people are really anxious for some help; they just aren't ready to come out and ask us to commit to their crusade. My only reservations are about your safety and the fact that the only way we'll ever escape from this running and living underground is to do something about Smoky and I can't see yet how this case will help us achieve that.

Hope you're keeping those pillows in line; don't let 'em try anything I'd try. Need to talk to you sometime when there's a good excuse for me to come up that way.

 

 

Skinner looked at the pile of papers in his in-box. Nothing had happened yet, but there was that element of anticipation. No, dread was more like it. It could be much worse this time than when there'd only been Cancer Man to worry about, after he'd tried to deal for Scully's life. This time there were two of them to maneuver around, spy vs. spy vs. himself. Dance for Krycek, steer clear of Cancer Man's interests, keep his connection to Krycek hidden. His mouth tightened.

He thought of the pale blonde girl, the one from his dreams--the one who was running errands for Krycek. Was she still with him and if so, why? She had no idea what a dangerous game she was playing but there was no way now--he was in no position--to help her in any way. She'd certainly helped him, however it was that she did what she did.

He let out a slow breath and took a folder from the top of the pile.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: thelark@

Actually, the pillows have proved to be completely non-responsive, though research has been limited, so no definitive conclusions have been reached as of this writing. Are you okay? You sound about as relaxed as Max Fenig.

 

 

Tracy balanced the pile of clean linens in one hand and pushed the door open. Alex was lying in the recliner. He smiled when he saw her.

"Hi," she said, setting her load down on the small desk. "How'd it go?"

"Okay." He shrugged. "Doctor says I'm coming along. Not too slow, but not fast enough to push up the timetable." He looked away and then back at her. "He was here, wasn't he?"

She nodded. Her lips pressed together. "He was right there behind me when I opened the door. I didn't even sense him, Alex; I don't know why. Maybe I was just too buried in my own thoughts." She picked up a pillow case from the top of the stack. "I think it helped in the end, though--the way he saw me. He wanted to know how you were doing, how you were getting along. I tried to be like a nursing home person, you know? Just said you were making a little progress, that you were taking it the best you could. Like I was giving a report." She looked down and pressed a crease into the pillow case with her fingers. "He was looking around--after I left. I know how you feel now, the way he watches everything. I don't think he came across anything that caught his eye."

He let his head fall against the back of the chair. A sigh escaped him.

"So what did the doctor say?"

"She said someone was taking good care of me. Which is true." He nodded toward her.

She looked away. "I should get your bedding put back," she said, and busied herself with the mattress pad and sheets.

"She changed the prescription for the painkillers..."

She turned around. "Do you need me to go pick it up?"

He shook his head. "We got it on the way back. I'm all set. It's not supposed to be as strong. She said to try it but if it's not enough I can go back to the old ones."

"How soon do you need to take one?"

"Pretty soon."

She began to put the cases back on the pillows. "Thank you for the dress, Alex. I never actually thanked you. I really like it."

"No problem. You look a lot more comfortable now."

"I am." She picked up another pillow, tucked it under her chin and worked the case up over it. "Alex, do you ever think about growing old?"

He raised an eyebrow. "What brought this up?"

"This lady. She was out working in a little garden bed in the yard behind the laundry room. She kept thinking about how hard it had gotten for her, that she couldn't do the work the way she used to, and how her husband... she's watched him get weaker and weaker, and she figures she'll just have to stop planting whatever it is she's always enjoyed so much." She paused. "Do you?"

"What?"

"Think about it?"

He shook his head "Guess I don't expect to be around that long. The future's..." He stared up at the ceiling. "You don't want to know. It's... This life we live here... like this, it's like thin paper. So fragile you can't imagine." He shook his head again. "But people don't realize. They wouldn't get it if you told them."

He stared out the window. She watched him as she put the last of the pillows on the bed. Her fingers ached. She rubbed them with her other hand.

"How is it?" he said when he'd turned to look at her again.

"It hurts but it's probably just me."

"You should check it out, make sure it's not infected."

She went into the bathroom and took the tape off her fingers. The pad was stuck to the wound. She turned the water on and let it run over her fingers until the gauze loosened. Pulling the pad away, she dried off her hand and hesitated. It was stupid to hold back. Looking wasn't going to change the reality, whatever that turned out to be.

"If you don't want to check it, I will."

Relief flooded her and she smiled. "Who says you can't read minds?" she said, pausing in the doorway. "I can take care of other people. I can put up with a lot of gross stuff as long as it's somebody else."

"Come here," he said.

She went to the recliner. He motioned her around to the right side, where his hand was. He took her fingers, separated them carefully and inspected the area in between. She turned away.

"It's okay; it's looking good. Go ahead and wrap them up again."

She went back to the bathroom. She'd always had this problem with pain and now he was sitting out there wondering how she was going to make it when the baby came. The fact was, she'd wondered the same thing. She took the gauze from the shelf and made a little pad from a piece of it, the way he'd done the day before.

"Must be a pain," his voice drifted in from the other room. "To have to listen to people thinking, to know everything going on inside their heads."

"Sometimes it helps you understand them," she said, reaching for the tape. "But a lot of times... believe me, you don't want to know it all. It's easier not to know what they think of you, or how..." She finished wrapping her fingers and left the bathroom.

"What?" he said.

"The way they worry about you sometimes. My mom..."

She stopped abruptly. The bed. She went to it and busied herself arranging the last of the pillows. "It's ready for you," she said.

When he brought the chair back up, she helped him stand and watched as he made his way across the open space to the bathroom. She'd never seen him whole, strong... and yet it seemed strange--him this way, hobbled, as if it didn't fit him.

"Can you get the top of this?" he said as he came out again. He held out the new prescription bottle.

She took the container and let him pass. While he was settling himself on the bed, she went for water. His pain wasn't as bad this time. Either it was earlier than usual or things were improving for him. And in a few weeks he wouldn't need any help at all. Her hand paused on the faucet as if fused with it. After a moment she made herself move, fill the cup and take it to him.

"Guess we'll find out what these do," he said, swallowing the oval pill and chasing it with the water.

"Want me to wait, Alex, and see how it works out?"

He glanced up at her and nodded. "Thanks." He handed her the empty cup.

She sat down on the edge of the bed. She pictured him strong again, the room empty, the bed made. It would only be a matter of weeks.

"Hey--"

She made herself smile.

"Tell me about your mom," he said.

 

 

To: thelark@

From: DaddyW@

I could say I was okay but I think I'd be lying.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: thelark@

Maybe R could think of a reason you need to come up here. There must be a reason...

 

To: thelark@

From: DaddyW@

Was that an invitation?

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: thelark@

Sounded like one to me.

 

 

"She was like me, Alex. Well, not as much. She told me to cherish the gift, that I must have it for a reason. I know she wasn't just trying to make me feel better, but... sometimes it's so hard." She rubbed the injured hand with the other and looked out the narrow window. "She knew it was hard. She was always there for me, and then..."

She stopped, bit her lip and started to stand but he caught her by the wrist. "You didn't finish."

She looked back at him, eyes suddenly shiny. "Look, I know what you're trying to do, Alex."

He let go of her. "Maybe there's something in there you need to work out. If you've got a thorn in your foot, every time you take a step..."

"...it stabs you again." She resettled and stared across at the far side of the room. After a moment she leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees.

"That was her sweater," she said, half-smiling, nodding toward the desk chair.

That explained something.

"She liked it a lot. Of course it was bigger. And then one day I was doing the laundry and I accidentally put it in the dryer with some other stuff." She turned to glance at him. "It's cashmere and she was big--she was a big person, Alex... and it came out looking like a doll sweater. I was really upset, you know?--because I knew she liked it so well."

"You get in trouble?"

She shook her head. "She knew I didn't do it on purpose. She was like that--said it didn't matter all that much, it was just a sweater. I put it away, in a cedar chest we had, but after she was gone I took it out again. It doesn't fit too badly and I like it, you know?"

"Enough to wear it in 90 degree weather and give yourself heat stroke."

The corner of her mouth twisted. "What about your mother, Alex?"

He frowned. "You're changing the subject."

"No, I..." She shook her head.

"You still haven't told me," he said after a moment. "You know, what it was you liked so much about her."

"She... Everything. I felt comfortable, I guess. I knew she loved me. I guess I knew that she was there for me, no matter what." She turned away abruptly, pale hair spinning after her. The silence between them sang. "Alex, I can't. Please don't make me."

"Sorry." He looked at the back of her. "People, they... they come and go. Maybe it's nice when they're there... But in the end you have to be able to count on yourself."

"But what if yourself's not enough?"

"You said you were strong."

"I'm not always."

"I think you are. Sometimes you just... forget." He let his head fall back onto the pillow and paused. "There was this beach I used to go to..."

"In Russia?"

"No. California. Just out into the surf there's this rock formation. Big rock. The waves wash over it all day, non-stop, just this... constant pounding. You can--" He paused and let out a short breath. "You can look if you want."

She sighed and closed her eyes.

"Do you see it?"

"Uh-huh."

"The rock never moves, no matter how many waves crash against it."

"They'll wear it down eventually."

"They'll smooth the edges a little. But it'll still be standing there, breaking every wave."

She leaned farther forward and pressed her fingers to her temples.

"But how do you hold onto that, Alex? How do you, when it gets bad?"

"I..." He shrugged. "I don't know. I just... keep going. You will, too. Your.. integrity--who you are... that's what'll see you through."

She said nothing. After a beat, her shoulders heaved.

Damn.

"Tracy."

No response, not even the subtle in-and-out murmur of the wrinkles in her dress. Dyshi, little sestrichka. Breathe.

She slipped off the edge of the bed, onto her knees on the floor, and wrapped her arms around herself.

"Tracy--"

It was like the little kid again, only without the gun--words for bullets. Bad move, stupid.

No reply came from the figure huddled on the floor, then there were sniffling noises followed by the low, steady sound of her pain. He grimaced, set his jaw and reached--stretched--until he could touch her head, and smoothed two fingers across her hair.

 

 

Mulder rubbed his hands together as he walked down the path. He rubbed them again, glanced down and winced at the beginnings of blisters. Two bales of alfalfa, that was all, and he'd needed the exertion--needed something to take his mind off all this. But it was a long way between where he'd parked and where David Barker had decided he wanted the bales. He'd never hauled alfalfa before. Even with the hooks those bales were a pretty fair load.

The edge of the trailer came into view beyond the barn now, its yellow-and-tan dulled with the weather, the roof covered in a thick layer of brown leaves. Beyond it was a view Scully had described--of the downward slope in pastel blues and greens. On his way to his lover or his execution, he wasn't sure which yet. He watched his boots, one foot in front of the other, soft decaying leaves passing by underfoot, twigs, memories, Diana, Scully, face up, wipe out, be saved, spiral downward in flames and crash--bam!

Her door stood in front of him. He grimaced. The sun was getting low on the horizon, weaker, the sky streaked with yellows and pinks. She could open the door and find him just standing here.

He pulled his hand from his pocket and made himself knock.

"Who is it?"

"This the Capulet place?"

A chair moved. The floor creaked softly.

"Depends. Who's asking?" There was spirit in her voice.

He smiled in spite of himself. "Some guy on the lam."

The door opened. Scully peered out, reading glasses on, her hair tied back, a few escaped wisps of it framing her face. She was smiling. Blushing.

"Long time, stranger," she said.

He took a step up and found himself enveloped in her embrace, her arms around his neck, his face pressed against her sweater. She smelled good--better than good. It was the green sweater. Had she worn it on purpose? Did it mean something? How far was it to the nearest bed?

But there were things to talk about.

"Scully--"

He looked up. She was too close; her mouth was too close. Too late. Wet, soft greetings enveloped him, softness and curves and spreading heat. To the top of the high dive and jump off--yeehah.

Almost.

"Scully..."

"What?" Her head went back a little. Her fingers trailed past his temples and into his hair. "What is it, Mulder?"

"I need to..." He took a breath. "Look, can I come in?"

 

 

Sandy fumbled with the button at the back of her skirt and looked at herself in the mirror. She'd lost a little weight since the last time she wore it and that was a good thing, even if it was because she'd had no appetite. She hadn't looked at herself this way--as a woman--in longer than she could remember. She hardly looked in the mirror at all anymore--hadn't for a long time. There'd been Cy here and Roddy to watch after, laundry to wash and meals to cook and cleaning and marketing to do; who had time for looks? She brushed her hair back now, long strokes--it was halfway down her back and wavy--and held up a pair of earrings. Small earrings; no point in looking like she was out advertising for company. Lipstick. Some soft shade if she had anything that would do. Nails... no. Too much. God, it was a game. It was always a game but this time it was for really and truly. Like that baseball movie. If she had it--information--Annie would come to her; she'd use it to find out something, and it was the least she could do for Cy and Roddy, to find out what'd happened, to bring the man who'd killed them to justice or to help those other people at the plant who'd been getting contaminated by whatever it was.

Sandy looked at herself in the bedroom mirror. V-neck top, skirt--a little short--she'd worn this when she wanted to be noticed, but there was nothing better in the closet. And heels--low heels and not nearly as comfortable as her bare feet; she'd really gotten out of the habit. But she'd make do. For Cy and Roddy she would.

She dug through the top drawer until she found the lipstick she was looking for, leaned forward toward the mirror and began to put it on. This was crazy. But so was the way she'd lost her family.

 

 

"Mulder, what is it?"

She stood next to the desk chair. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward and breathed into cupped hands. She pulled the chair out carefully and sat down.

"Just hear me out, Scully."

It was what had had him on edge all day, whatever it was.

"I got a mail from my mom yesterday--early, when you were in the shower. She said a long time ago when she was still... when she still had some contact with Smoky..." He took a breath. "A woman who said she was his wife--Smoky's wife--showed up one day at her front door. She wanted to warn Mom about him, about what he was capable of. Mom said the woman was nervous, that she was a nervous kind of person, distraught... Anyway, she left Mom her address on a scrap of paper and Mom was going to throw it away but she ended up keeping it. She hid it in the back of a picture frame and she just remembered it a few days ago."

"She must have had some inkling," Scully said. "Your mother. Some intuition that the woman was telling the truth."

"Yeah, well it sure looks that way now." He paused. "We know this woman, Scully."

She sat down in her chair. "How?"

He looked at the knee of his jeans, then up at her. He pursed his lips. "It's Cassandra Spender."

Her mouth opened, though it took a moment before she was able to speak. "Cassandra?"

"Yeah." He looked past her, to the kitchen window where the sun was going down.

"He could have had something to do with her disappearance. Mulder, if he knew she was working against him in some way..."

"There's that possibility."

"Mulder, that means he's installed his own son..." She pursed her lips. "...over the X-files. He's put..."

So that's where this was going. Mulder was looking down, at the carpeting. She swallowed and watched the screensaver on the laptop morph slowly, tangled wires rolling, distending, changing colors as they went, red to orange to yellow to green. The only sound was the random gurgling of the laptop's hard drive.

"So I guess you were right all along and I was just an ass for believing." He turned his head away.

She said nothing. He'd mislead her before, starting into investigations and covering his motives with reasons that masked his actual agenda, but nothing had been quite like being left to stumble over the fact that he and Diana had been partners. More than partners; Diana herself had made sure she understood that.

Her lips pressed together.

"That's why I wanted to talk first," he said, venturing a glance at her. His mouth was small, with those familiar curves his lips got when he was flustered, or stumped. "I wanted to see if you were just going to throw me out or what." He heaved a sigh. "Look, Scully, just say something."

"Was that some kind of apology?" She could feel her mouth tighten. Her voice sounded distant, as if someone else were speaking.

He shrugged. "Yeah, I guess it is in a way. I... I froze. I didn't know how to tell you because I guess..." He let his breath out slowly. "...she was personal and I wanted you to be personal. And you didn't want that."

"Mulder, I never tried to hide the fact that Jack Willis and I..."

She looked away. He also hadn't made any comments about Jack or his mental state, or the fact that the man she'd had a relationship with was one of her professors. There was a load of ammunition there and surely it hadn't escaped him. But he hadn't said anything; he'd kept himself out of the way. Out of her way.

"Mulder, I... didn't mean to make it sound like I was judging your... personal life, though I suppose I..." She looked up at him. "...wasn't very careful to make that clear. It's just that it was hard, knowing you hadn't told me yourself, and because you... Damn it, Mulder. Because you're so willing to believe that you'll swallow anything sometimes, regardless of the evidence."

The air was getting cooler. She rubbed her arms for warmth.

"Yeah, well I guess I did in Diana's case." He rested his head in his hands.

'I told you so' was not what he needed to hear.

"Mulder, if it was all a setup, if she was there--positioned there--to draw you in..."

"Then what the hell significance do I have to him, Scully? Have I just been working for him all this time in some way without knowing it? Have I been his carrier pigeon, his...? My mother said he talked about 'protecting' me. Why would he do that unless it was in his own interest?" He shook his head. "I wish I knew, Scully. I really..."

She watched him: nearly motionless, obviously churning inside. Outside the window, the sun had set. The light wouldn't last much longer. She pressed the computer's power button, watched the screen go black and stood up.

"Mulder, come walk with me. There's something I want to show you."

He looked up, his face confusion. She held out her hand.

"Come on. It'll do you good."

He took it and stood.

 

 

"Alex?"

She stood in the doorway and looked toward the bed. His computer was open beside him. She couldn't tell if he was asleep or awake.

"Umm..." He turned toward her.

"I just wondered how those pills were doing. I... When I woke up you were asleep and I went upstairs and fell asleep again myself." She came in and shut the door behind her. She looked down. "Sorry about falling apart like that."

He shook his head. "Don't worry about it." He rolled slightly toward her. "This new stuff doesn't knock me out so I just... lie here." He let out a sigh.

"It doesn't mask the pain so well." She came closer.

"Always that tradeoff." He shrugged and gave her a pained half-smile.

"Do you want to go upstairs?" It was wearing on him, the nagging discomfort.

"Maybe for a while. I... Yeah. Let's give it a shot."

She went for the wheelchair behind the door. By the time she had it open and ready he was waiting, sitting on the edge of the bed. He blinked, then blinked again.

"What is it, Alex?"

"Just a little dizzy, that's all. I'll be okay."

She waited until he was ready and helped him into the chair. They went backwards through the door and out into the hall.

"It was cooler today," she said. "Look, there's still a little light."

She pushed the elevator button; it opened almost immediately and she pulled him inside. Inside the elevator they were silent. He was thinking about a boy he'd known when he was growing up, one who'd worked in a big city with his father before he'd been orphaned. The boy had told stories of riding elevators that went down beneath the sidewalks to the private basement workrooms of shops. All the gulag boys had been impressed.

The elevator door opened and she wheeled him out into the hallway. At the bottom of the stairs she helped him stand, then took the chair up and came back to help him. On the fifth stair he sagged unexpectedly, but he recovered and they continued to the top.

"To the wall," he said, nodding ahead.

"Are you sure, Alex?"

"I'm okay now."

The sunset colors still hung in the sky, fiery orange and purples and pinks.

"I love the colors," she said. "Sunsets can be so beautiful, and even if you're homeless or penniless nobody can take them away from you."

"You know, the kid moves when you're asleep," he said, staring out over the edge of the wall. The deepening colors reflected off his face. "I saw him last night."

"Sometimes I think I've felt something," she said. "And then I wake up and nothing more happens. Like when your car has a problem and you take it to the mechanic but whatever it is that happens for you won't happen once you get it there."

"You drive?" He glanced over at her.

"I did. For a while there. I've got a license, I just don't have anything to drive. It's expensive, gas and insurance. Even gas is more than I've got."

"I learned to drive on a tractor," he said. "Out in the vegetable fields. I was ten."

He was looking out to where the last of the light was. He'd ridden a motorcycle until he lost his arm, until the balance wasn't there and the chance of dumping the bike was too great. He was feeling slightly lightheaded again. He needed the chair but if he sat, he wouldn't be able to see the sunset. He was enjoying the colors, something he hadn't paid attention to in years.

"Tracy..."

"What?"

"I've been thinking... If something happens--you know, something unexpected and you need to get out of here, get away and I can't help you." He fished in his pocket and took out a torn piece of a business card. "This is my mother's phone number. I've only seen her--talked to her--once, but I think she'd help you. I don't know anyone else I can trust to help."

She reached for the piece of card, but panic shot through her suddenly--his panic, and the overwhelming feeling of being smothered.

"Alex?" Her heart stumbled and then surged.

He was sagging against the wall, grasping the edge, straining to breathe.

"Alex--"

She pulled the chair up behind him and eased him down into it. His lack of air tingled inside her head. She forced away his panic and the wild rhythm inside her and reclined the chair back.

"Any better?"

He shook his head and struggled to turn to one side. The breaths he took were longer, deeper, but they weren't enough. She fumbled with the safety strap on the chair, secured it across his waist and put his hand over it.

"Hold it down, Alex, so it stays below the wound."

He looked up at her, wide-eyed, and nodded.

"I'm taking you back down."

Not that way. Not down the stairs.

"I have to, Alex. There's no time. You said I was strong. This time I am."

She paused at the top of the stairs, tipped the chair back toward her and eased the wheels down.

"Hold on, Alex. Just hold--"

Long gasping sounds came out of him. He was working to focus, to keep his mind elsewhere, controlled so it wouldn't affect her while he struggled for air--he knew she could feel what he felt--that they might both fall--but there wasn't enough air. His lungs felt as if heavy boots were pressing on them. The scene in front of him was going gray.

Eight more stairs, four more, three more, two, one. Landing. She slipped past the chair and pushed the elevator button. Her arms were shaking; her heart pounded. Should she call 911 or his father? He hated his father--he had reason to--but the old man would know who his doctor was. His hand came out, reaching. She took it and held it hard, as if her resolve could strengthen him. The floor tilted slightly and she blinked. The elevator door lurched open.

They were inside and going down. Hold it together Tracy, don't think, don't feel what he feels; just do, one step to the next, help him, get the key ready, go for the phone. His hand was on her wrist.

"I'm here, Alex."

Door open, out into the hallway, working his hand from her wrist--don't read him. Key in the lock, door open, rolling in, phone. Phone. Who to call? He was trying to block her out, to shield her. He was suffocating. She pressed the numbers, blurted out the information half-thinking. Medications: they might need to know. Her heart pounded. She got the bottles, put them in a bag, wedged them down beside him in the chair. Don't think of her--don't think of Then--he was reaching again; she took his hand. If only he could read her, if she could take him... somewhere, a peaceful place. She couldn't watch him; she was drowning, drowning in a too-familiar dark pool, heart racing, screaming. It was happening again, again, again...

A knock on the half-open door. She opened her eyes. Men came in--tall--she was talking, telling them something, like in a dream, and then the chair was going, Alex's face tinged in graying shadow; she could feel his hand still, though he was out the door, in the hall, going down now, his stomach sinking in the elevator car, head floating. Stay away, stay safe was all she could hear him think and then there was nothing, she was in the room--dark, silent room--and it was empty.

 

 

Scully closed the door behind them and flipped the wall switch. The light that filled the room was the color of aged parchment.

"Well, the next time I plan a little excursion like that I'll remember how many mosquitoes are out there," she said.

Mulder was behind her, his hands brushing through the hair at the base of her neck.

"What?" She turned.

"You brought one in with you," he said, pinching it between his fingers. "You have some place to get rid of this?"

"You can wash it down the sink." She gestured toward the kitchen.

He ran the water and then rubbed his hands under the flow and turned it off again.

"Towel's on the stove door," she said.

They'd walked to the falls and back, close, not speaking, just letting themselves loosen, letting the tension go. If not for the mosquitoes they might have stayed and sat, listening to the water. As it was, they'd turned around and come right back.

"Sit," she said, pulling out the desk chair.

He gave her a questioning look but sat down.

"I don't want you bringing any in, either. I've got to sleep here tonight, you know." She checked around the base of his neck and inside his shirt collar, then rested her hands on his shoulders. They were broad and warm; she could feel them go up and down slightly with his breathing.

She swallowed.

"I've been thinking, Mulder." A pause. "I haven't always respected the journey--our journey together. I was thinking about that as we were walking along--that there's always been this... adversarial thing that we do, this... bouncing things around--theories, interpretations--and we're both completely convinced we're right, and somehow, in the end, it all turns out... a lot of the time. And that's healthy for the most part--it certainly seems to work, and yet... for this--this--" She paused. "Maybe sometimes we play a little too hard, a little too..." She squeezed his shoulders gently and sighed. "I think that was an apology. I'm not very good at this."

He tilted his head back and looked at her. "At least I know you're not conspiring against me in any way, Scully. You're the one person guaranteed not to tell me what I want to hear." The back of his head brushed her arm; he smiled a tentative smile. "But that's probably a good thing, in the end."

She slipped her arms around his neck and closed her eyes. Her cheek settled against his hair. He smelled good--familiar. Maybe not familiar enough. "Mulder, how soon do you have to be back?"

"Couple of hours. Maybe three."

She pictured the cabin steps again, sitting behind him, and the all-enveloping quiet. "Stay till then."

"Okay." A pause. "Scully, I think it's too bright in here." There was the hint of a smile in his voice.

"I wouldn't know. I've got my eyes closed." She moved slightly with his breathing, like a swing shifting in the wind.

"It's too bright. Will you shut the light off?"

"If you'll stay." She felt the smile that spread across her face.

"Okay." He tilted his face up toward her. "Shut the light off," he said quietly.

"You staying?"

"You've got me. Scully..."

She reached for the wall switch and flipped it.

 

 

Tracy hugged her arms close to her body in the dark. It was cold, the air conditioner churning. Only thin, gray light was visible through the window. He was gone, his absence as stark as her mother's had been. She would have to tell his father--for Alex's sake, for her own. Would he wonder why she hadn't called him first? His number must be somewhere; surely Alex would have it no matter what his feelings for the old man. He had to pull through, he couldn't... She couldn't even make herself think it. A trembling ran through her.

There was a small movement at the side of her belly, a kick or maybe a stretch, the kind of movement that accompanies a yawn. Stay strong. Stay strong for him.

She rose reluctantly from her spot on the floor, went to the door and turned on the light. The sudden brightness made her squint. She looked at the desk, her yellow sweater--her mother's--still on the chair back. He'd been able to pry her from it, or maybe she was like a toddler just learning to walk, willing to leave one hand when another was offered. When she'd come in this afternoon, he'd actually smiled. He'd enjoyed the sunset colors for the first time in years and now he was gone, his bed with its rumpled sheets as stark and leering as her mother's afterward. Things always happened before you were ready.

She walked to the bed and picked up the phone from the end of it. She didn't know his number and Alex would never leave a list around, evidence that could be used against him in some way. She held the phone in her hand and looked at the lighted dial. They hadn't even mentioned which hospital they were taking him to. Or maybe she just hadn't heard, wrapped up in her own private horror. He needed to pull through. He had to.

Her thumb pushed the speed dial button and pressed '1'. She raised the phone to her ear and swallowed. It had to be. For as ironic as it would be, for as much as he'd chafe at the significance of it--would hate it--it had to be the one.

"Yes," a voice on the other end answered, the 's' on the end sibilant like a snake's. She grimaced.

"This is..." Her voice was wavery, watery. She bit her lip. "This is Tracy. Something's... happened to Alex. They took him to the hospital. I called 911; I didn't know what else to... He couldn't breathe. He couldn't get enough air."

He was full of questions; she had few answers. She listened to him talk. Her blood pounded. Around her the room echoed its emptiness, an all-too-familiar emptiness--no ordinary emptiness. Hadn't she'd banished it? It had been hidden, covered, tamped down, but it had risen so quickly again. What would she do now? Which hospital had they taken him to? The phone was dead in her hand, beeping; the old man had hung up. She set it back on the base.

The old man would find Alex but it didn't mean he'd tell her. Would he expect her to wait? To leave? Would he send someone to get rid of her in the middle of the night and get someone else to take care of Alex once he was out of danger? If he was out of danger. She needed to know. And he needed her help. She could feel the grip of his hand again, a plea.

She stood up and began to smooth the bed sheets with long, even strokes. She could see her mother on the bed, vacant, her eyes still open. She swallowed and turned away. Crossing to the small desk, she picked the yellow sweater from the chair back and clutched it to her. Then she was at the door, flipping the light switch, leaving the room in darkness and going out.

 

 

Sandy slammed the front door and kicked her shoes off beside the mat. She bit her lip, continued to the kitchen and turned on the stove light. The sink was full of dishes. She turned on the water and let it run hot. A squirt of dish soap and bubbles began to build and rise. She waited, impatient, trying to decide which was worse: Sara slipping away into the cereal aisle to avoid her when she'd seen her coming or Ryan Norton coming on to her at Denny's. Sara'd had Mikey with her. He was a week older than Roddy and maybe that was what had sent her running. What did you say to the mother of a dead child, anyway? I'm sorry? What could be more useless? What good did your sorrow do? It didn't bring him back. It didn't save the mother.

She turned off the water, took a sponge and began to wipe the sudsy surfaces of plates and bowls. Where would her father be tonight? If only he'd call she could tell him about the e-mail. Maybe he could find a way. Maybe Annie'd let her send mail from her computer; she seemed nice enough in her own cautious way. She could tell him she'd seen the pictures of Stone Boy.

Sandy rubbed the lip of a saucepan and started in on silverware. There should be more dishes--two more plates, two more cups. Cereal bowls from Roddy's day. Ryan Norton was a pig. It hadn't made any difference as long as Cy was with her; he'd been her buffer, her safety zone. His friends looked at her differently now, but she'd sat through a soda with Ryan anyway and she'd do it again if she had to. He drove for Harlan Beeson and if he knew anything--anything--it would repay the frustration of having to put up with swine like him.

She rinsed the dishes quickly and let the water drain. Small drifts of lingering bubbles clung to the side of the sink. She'd write it down, everything she remembered, in case any of it would make some sense to Annie. She smiled bitterly. Two weeks and the whole world had changed. Old life gone--her husband and her little boy just swept away--and here she was, recast as Little Miss Detective.

Sandy took a pad of paper from beside the phone and sat down at the kitchen table to write. She could almost feel Cy's big arms coming around her from behind, his beard against her ear, his drawn-out 'come o-o-o-n, Sandy'. She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again and picked up the pencil.

 

 

"...There's more," Mulder said, pushing the pillow farther under his head.

She turned back to look at him. She was spooned in front of him, nested in a snug cocoon of arms and legs. "Mulder?"

"There's an opening at the plant. Dale told me about it this afternoon."

She searched his expression. "You aren't kidding, are you?"

"Nope." He paused. "I didn't know what you'd think."

 

 

The old man strode down the shiny corridor toward the nurses' station. Alex was supposed to have been out of the woods. It had been unexpected--the worst of it, perhaps, the girl's reaction, her near-hysteria. But she was just a young, impressionable girl. Seeing someone in distress could be shocking for her. She wasn't likely to have witnessed anything like it before.

"Dr. Williams," he said to the nurse at the desk. "She's expecting me."

"I'll page her," the desk nurse said. The glare of a computer screen reflected off her glasses.

He turned and looked across the hallway. A patient was being wheeled out of a room on a gurney, an older woman. He'd looked down at Teena Mulder that way once, past all apparent hope, the gray and white of her hair spread against a hospital pillow. Fox had stuck to her like a barnacle to a rock, wanting to protect her in spite of everything.

The click of shoes approached. He turned around. She was tall for a woman, chocolate-skinned with close-cropped hair. She wore a suit, a brown jacket and skirt. Obviously she was on her way out.

"Dr. Williams? I'm here about Alex..." That was all they'd known, all the girl had told them. She'd never known more than his first name, which was all to the better.

"I was just leaving. You're the father?"

"Yes."

"Well, it's a good thing he was brought in as soon as he was. Apparently he had a reaction to the pain medication he was taking. We've got him in intensive care. We're going to be running more tests in the morning but he seems to have stabilized."

"May I see him?"

"It's after hours," she said. "You can look in for a minute, but you're not to disturb him."

"Very well."

She led the way down the hall and held open a door. He went in. The doctor remained behind him, protective of her patient. She wasn't about to give him the opportunity to wake her charge if that had been his intent. Alex was lying on the bed, pale, asleep or sedated, an IV in his arm, an oxygen line secured beneath his nose.

"When will you know anything for sure?" he said.

"We'll have to keep him for at least a day," she said. "Maybe two."

"Very well, I'll check back tomorrow," he said. "Thank you."

He ran a finger along the bed rail and turned to go. Dr. Williams stepped back to let him pass. At the doorway he turned and glanced back again. He looked at Alex's arm on the bed and remembered the operating room, Alex’s hand somehow come loose, dangling palm up. The hand on the bed curled suddenly, grasping something invisible. He watched until it relaxed again, then turned and left the room.

 

 

"What kind of position is it, Mulder?" She rolled toward him and watched his face in the dim light the moon cast.

"Janitorial."

"Mulder as janitor..." Her mouth wanted to smile but she held back.

"Hey, you never know who's trash I could be emptying. It could be a starting place." He let his head drop back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. "Hell, I don't know whether I'm just crazy or... I mean, we should be out there somewhere Smoky could never find us, Scully, some urban area where we could disappear into the woodwork. That's where we'd be if we had any sense, not in a little town like this where every new arrival makes headlines on the local gossip lines."

"And if we were... out there? What would we be doing?"

He let out a sigh. "I don't know. What the hell does it matter?"

"But it does matter, Mulder." She rested a hand on his bare shoulder. "You know it does. Yes, it's dangerous here, and yes, maybe we're a little crazy... if you look at it from the outside, from someone else's perspective. But there are people here who need our help. Sandy Miller, Mulder. To watch that girl--that woman... what she's carrying. And it happened because of him, because of the Smoking Man."

"Yeah, but how's this going to help us catch him, Scully, so we can stop playing this charade some day?"

"I don't know. But we'll never find out if we don't try. No one else is going to help these people."

"Then you think I should take the job?"

"It's up to you."

He bit his lip. "I just... I didn't want to commit to anything until I'd talked to you."

Silver light glittered on tree leaves outside the window. A sudden breeze rocked the trailer gently. There wasn't much time; he could see the glowing numbers on the wall clock. He gathered her in against him and rested his cheek against her head. He'd give anything to stay with her like this, the two of them skin-on-skin, wrapped around each other. "I've got to go."

"Don't leave yet." Her hand traveled along his side and slipped around his waist..

"I have to. I told Dale..."

She sighed.

"Lark, Scully. I thought you were the lark."

"Didn't I tell you?” She tried to look serious. “I switched. I'm the nightingale now."

He shook his head and smiled. "Scully, if you're a nightingale we're in big trouble."

Her lips went against his chest and then the covers were pushed back--cool air--and she was out of bed. He watched her dress in the shadows.

"Come on, Mulder. I'll walk you to your truck."

He sat up and pushed himself to the edge of the bed.

 

 

He could breathe.

Krycek opened his eyes. He was in the hospital; he remembered the faces in the emergency room crowding around him, the feeling of... He turned his head and forced himself to trace the shape of the darkened window.

Night. He was hooked to an IV; his arm ached where they'd put it in. He tried to remember: the roof, the trip down the stairs, the ambulance... He let his head fall to the side, then tensed. He wasn't alone. Someone was in the room, shadowed next to the window.

His heart stopped momentarily, then surged heavily ahead. He stared hard into the darkness. It was a tallish form, thin. Not possible. He had to be dreaming. Must be whatever they'd given him coupled with a good dose of wishful thinking.

He closed his eyes. She must have been terrified. For as strong as she was, she was only human and she had that raw spot where her mother still haunted her. He could hear her again, sobbing against the mattress, could feel the smooth thinness of her hair under his fingers.

The window curtain rustled. His eyes opened.

"Alex?"

Blood surged through him like a wave.

The form in the shadows came a step closer, then another step and another. She wore a worried smile.

"I had to come, Alex. I had to know where you were, if you were alright."

"How? How did you...?"

She came closer, slid the rolling table out of the way and leaned over the bed railing.

"It's not important. Are you... okay now?"

He nodded. "I think so. I..." He shook his head. "...relief, being able to breathe again. I'm tired."

"You should rest. I didn't mean to disturb you. Go back to sleep, Alex."

He looked at her. She reached across and took his hand. He let his eyes close.

"Tracy, do you have bus fare or... It's late."

"I didn't come that way, Alex. I'm okay. Just rest."

He let himself drift.

 

 

Scully slid the jeans down over her hips, stepped out of them and laid them carefully over the back of the desk chair. She pulled the sweater over her head and paused a moment, looking at the bed. Then she laid the sweater over the jeans and slipped in between the covers. The sheets were cold against her skin. She pulled the blanket up around her neck, reached for the pillow on the far side and pulled it in against her. Above her, through the window, silver-lighted leaves murmured on the trees outside. Her eyes closed tightly and her breath caught. After a second she forced her breathing into regularity.

 

 

The grit of brick against the side of her face brought Tracy back to consciousness. She opened her eyes. She was on the patio--Alex's roof patio. Her room had been hot and there was no way she could stay in his. She just couldn't. She'd come up here... and sat down against the wall in the corner where no one could see her if they came up the stairs.

But the old man wouldn't send anyone now, looking for her. He was all right. Alex was safe.

She rubbed her cheek and temple carefully and straightened. Her neck ached. It reminded her of the man on the stairs--Alex's brother--it seemed so long ago--and the way he'd sometimes fallen asleep against the cement pillar that held the railing. Where had he gone, he and Scully who she didn't know, Scully who didn't leave him in spite of what he was? It was a fact that impressed Alex, that puzzled and awed him at the same time.

She stood carefully, brushed at her dress and leaned forward against the wall. Hazy in the sky above her was the moon's version of a Cheshire cat smile. She watched wispy clouds drift past it and tried to picture her mother in the garden, whole and smiling.

 

 

Sandy shifted in bed. She felt warmth behind her and then his thick arm going around her middle. When she turned back, she was greeted by the familiar bristle of beard.

"Cy, where you been?"

"Out. I just got in." His breath smelled faintly of beer.

"Well, good. I've been waiting for you..."

She put her arm over his and tucked it closer against her waist.

Chapter 10

Wednesday

 

Beyond the window, the night was matte black. Teena rolled and squinted at the clock. 1:19. It was almost as if she'd heard Bill speaking, as if he were right here in the room, but at the same time it was long ago: it was something he'd said then. He'd raised his fist in to demonstrate and wrapped the other hand around his wrist. He's seemed triumphant at the time, exultant, as if he'd found the key to a puzzle. It had something to do with Leland, some minor victory over him. What was it he'd said? Whatever it was, if she could figure it out, perhaps it would help Fox.

She switched on the bedside light, let her eyes adjust to the brightness and sat up. For a split second it was as though she could see Alex standing in the doorway, looking in--not enough to make her think he was actually there, but just a vision, an image. A remembrance or a hope. But why would she think of him now? Or was he somehow thinking of her? Was he all right? He'd been shot; he must be recovering somewhere. He should be recovering.

She stood up, put on her robe and tied the belt around her waist. She'd never seen him, not even right after his birth. It was Leland's idea: that if she didn't see the baby it would hurt less when he was taken, though at the time she would have proffered the same argument herself.

Teena slipped her feet into her slippers and headed toward the basement door. Maybe something in Bill's box of papers would give her a clue.

She sighed as she started down the gray-painted stairway. If she had it to do over again, she would choose to see him no matter what pain it would bring. Some things were more important than the pain they caused.

 

 

Sandy continued to rock slightly, not because it was comforting but because she could do nothing else. Her throat was sore and swollen. She sat in the middle of the bed in the dark. Her own scream had wakened her, the shock of rolling over and finding the rest of the bed empty, her husband's fleeting warmth made up of nothing more than idle wishes.

She forced herself to sit still. Her eyes stung, her sides ached, and how stupid and ugly she must look sitting in the middle of a bed in the middle of the night in an empty trailer, her eyes and face red, her body wrapped around a pillow--a piece of cotton filled with feathers--unable to let go. Unwilling. She couldn't.

There would be no lying down again. It was too empty lying stretched out; it made the aloneness more intense, more mocking. Forever was too long to be apart, but it was final. There was no way out.

She leaned forward. A low moan came out of her, the only thing she had left. She swayed slightly in the gray shadows.

 

To: thelark@

From: DaddyW@

Dear Nightingale/Lark:

Made it back here okay though I wanted to turn around a dozen times and go right back to your balcony. We all know where that version ends, though, which is why I'm where I am instead of where I want to be. Guess those few nights in the mountains were enough to spoil me, being able to wake up and have you there beside me. Did anyone ever tell you you're amazing?

You'll probably pick this up in the morning, so have a good one. (Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to play janitor I go...)

P.S. Somebody loves you.

 

 

Krycek woke as a nurse tightened a blood pressure cuff around his arm. He looked away and let her do her work. Stuck here--again--in a hospital, but where would he be if Tracy hadn't been there when he had the reaction? Buzz could have skipped out by now. 

Set back again: the story of his life. But setbacks had to be dealt with, like everything else.

"They'll be moving you out of intensive care in an hour or so," the nurse announced, only half-addressing him.

He stared out the window at the thin gray of morning and said nothing. Her footsteps receded into the hallway. A gurney passed by outside, pushed by two men in pale green. Here it was, that unexpected scenario--something going wrong without notice--and where was she now, what was she doing? She had his mother's number but would she have panicked and called it? It was a long shot, meant for when she had to run, not for something like this. Not now, when he still didn't know for sure that his mother wouldn't turn right around and report back to the old man. 

Not likely. She didn't seem to have any love for the old bastard, but there was no way to know for sure. And there was no point in pinning your hopes on the evidence provided by a sandwich and a slice of pickle.

He closed his eyes. Tracy would have called to let the old man know what had happened--to cover his bases and her own. She'd do that, though the reason she stuck her neck out for him was a mystery.

He opened his eyes again. A yellow streak had begun to burn on the horizon. How the hell had she gotten in here so late last night? It had to have been damn late. And why had she stood for so long by the window, watching? Maybe he'd only imagined her, a figment of his sedated brain, because when was the last time anything good had come along, like she had, with no strings attached?

No, she had been here, and what was it she'd said when he'd asked how, or if she had bus fare? 'I didn't come here that way'--that's what it was. She was trying to put him at ease.

I didn't come here that way.

He swallowed suddenly.

 

 

"Well," Mulder cleared his throat, looked down at his jeans a moment and back up at the balding man behind the worn oak desk. "I was working in the entertainment industry, you know? Set construction, errand boy, whatever was around. Pay's great--it's exciting--"--he shrugged--"but Hollywood's a pretty unstable place. They're making a lot fewer movies these days and you've got to pay the rent, you know? The work's off and on. I figured it was time to find something beside the rodeo and its few seconds of fame." He raised his eyebrows. "Though it is kind of a charge to see your name up there rolling with the credits."

Bob shrugged, impassive. His sparse gray moustache twitched. "I s'pose it is."

"So I can do whatever, you know? Whatever you need. Basic stuff, construction, cleanup--I've done a little of everything."

"Sounds good. And you're stayin' with Dale Lanier?"

Mulder nodded. "He's my uncle."

"Dale works with my brother. Geologists." He shook his head. "Never understood 'em. Always playing around with rocks. You'd think they were golden eggs, the way they act."

Mulder made himself smile agreement.

"Right now what we got is maintenance. It certainly ain't the movies, but if you're willing to work hard it does pay the rent. There's always a lot needs cleaning up around here."

"I bet there is."

Bob stood. Mulder took his cue and followed.

"You'd be reporting to our maintenance supervisor, Joe Charters. Lemme see if I can dredge him up somewheres. I'll just be a minute."

Bob let himself out of the room, leaving the door ajar. Mulder wandered to the wall, looked at the posters--mostly the required OSHA safety notices--and then went to the window. He was on the second floor. Below him was a dusty courtyard. The manufacturing end of the operation, clean and modern, lay in the new building beyond. Maintenance was housed in this older building. Beyond the courtyard wall he could see a tractor, semi trailers and an assortment of forklifts.

"Wallace?"

Mulder turned around. The man he faced wore a hard hat, which he took off now. He was on the shorter side of average, with a rounded face and short dull blond hair that would have curled if it were longer. He held out his hand.

Mulder crossed the room and shook it.

"Joe Charters," the foreman said. "They say you're willing to do cleanup."

"I've got experience," Mulder said, half-shrugging. "I'm dependable."

Charters' hands went to his hips. "I'll give you a chance," he said and paused. "Just one thing. This ain't Hollywood, so don't expect any bright lights and applause."

"No problem."

Charters smiled a smile that looked a little too much like a plastic yellow happy face. "Come on," he said, nodding. "I'll show you where to fill out your paperwork and then you can get on to earning your keep."

He turned and headed out the door. Mulder bit his lip and followed.

 

 

"I mean, it was so--" Sandy gulped. "If I live to be a thousand I'd never pull something like that on anyone."

She bit her lip hard and the tears came again, more this time than before. Scully put an arm around the girl, who shook and finally dissolved against Scully's shoulder. Scully smoothed the thick, wavy hair in front of her. She was a doctor, but this case required something no medicine could touch.

"I know you... you lost your little... girl..." Sandy inhaled and shook again. "How do you... How do... Annie, do you know what it's like... to miss a man... like that?"

Scully squeezed the girl's shoulder. "I think maybe I do," she said quietly.

Her father had died and they'd been close but that wasn't what Sandy was talking about. Jack Willis had died. Mulder had nearly died--more than once. It had shaken her to the core even when she'd refused to admit what he was to her, to her life. He hadn't come close to dying at his mother's a week ago but somehow it had been more frightening than those earlier, more critical incidents. Finally she'd understood how much there was to lose.

She put her other arm around the girl and rested her cheek against Sandy's head. What would it be like--what would it have been like--to have a daughter grown and heartbroken?

"Sandy, I know it doesn't feel anything like comfort now," she said, smoothing the girl's hair again. "But when the pain--the worst of the pain--is gone, you'll see--" She bit her lip and swallowed. "You'll see what he added to your life, and you'll be glad he was there even though he couldn't stay." She swallowed against sudden pressure and glanced toward the desk and the glowing computer screen with her mother's mail on it, and beyond to the picture of Emily.

Sandy sniffed. "I brought something," she said. "I talked to Ryan Norton last night; I told you he drives for Mr. Beeson. I don't know if it'll help you"--she stopped to wipe her eyes--"but I wrote it all down."

She sat up and reached into her pants pocket, pulling out a folded piece of notebook paper.

 

 

"Well, Mr. Skinner, I see you're back in your accustomed spot."

Skinner looked up at too-cheery greeting. His mouth tightened.

The old bastard liked coming in though inner doors unannounced. He liked throwing you off, letting you know he was three steps ahead, that you'd better step carefully and show the proper respect. He wanted to make sure you knew he was the alpha.

The Smoking Man smiled and casually took a seat on the other side of the desk. He crossed one leg over the other.

"You must be busy"--he paused to casually light a Morley--"catching up."

"There's always plenty to do here." Skinner looked at the contents of the folder on his desk.

"Take catching up with missing agents, perhaps." Smoke billowed into the air. He waved the cigarette. "Agent Scully, for example."

Skinner looked up. "Scully's not missing. There was some kind of... miscommunication. She's on an extended leave of absence. I believe she was going on some kind of retreat or something."

"Retreat?" The old man took another drag on the cigarette and leaned around the side of the desk to tap the ash off into a convenient trash can. "An interesting way to characterize it. Don't you find it the least bit odd, Mr. Skinner, that Scully should choose to take a... retreat, as you call it... at the exact time that Mulder vanishes from the area?"

The corner of Skinner's mouth twitched. "Actually, I hadn't given it much thought. Neither of them was under my jurisdiction at the time. But if Scully said she was going on a retreat, then I believe her."

"Oh, do you now? And Mulder?"

"I don't know anything about Mulder. He doesn't work here anymore. Frankly, I figure at this point it's none of my concern."

The Smoking Man paused to take a drag and let out a slow cloud of filmy white. "Tell me, though, Mr. Skinner. You were always one of Mulder's staunchest defenders. Sometimes his only defender. Aren't you the least bit curious as to what's become of him?"

Skinner set his pen down on the desk. "Look, at a certain point you have to cut your losses. I thought Mulder did good work. Sometimes he did excellent work. But he was also very concerned about his own causes, and that made him operate on the edge. And sometimes, frankly, it was hard to tell whether he'd gone over that edge, whether he'd passed that point of no return." He paused a moment, felt his pulse begin to pound and made himself push ahead. "Yes, I was concerned about Agent Mulder. Enough so that I took some... measures"--his hand tightened against the chair arm--"to keep myself apprised of Mulder's mental state... as it related to his work here."

"Measures?" The cigarette paused in mid-trajectory to the now not-so-smug mouth. "Would these be... private measures?"

Skinner swallowed. "I guess you could characterize them that way, yes."

"And what did they tell you, Mr. Skinner?"

Skinner steeled himself. "Mulder was discouraged by the assignments he and Scully had been pulling."

"His own doing."

"And extremely... distraught... about the manner of his release from the Bureau. I suppose by then it was none of my concern but I was afraid he might--"

"...try to do away with himself?" There was a gleam of triumph in the Smoking Man's eye. Skinner could only press his lips together. "And then, Mr. Skinner? That was it? When Mulder disappeared you just"--his hands went up in the air--"let the matter go?"

"I had some entanglements of my own about that time." He paused. "And there's a point at which you can't very well help someone who doesn't want to be helped. Like a kid who decides to run away from home. You can be there when he come back, but if he's made up his mind to run, you're probably just wasting your time, and you've got to figure whether you even have that time to spend looking."

"Yes, well--" The Smoking Man stood. "I'm sure you have to count that cost. There's always a cost to consider." He turned to go. "For every plan of action. Well, I'll leave you to your work. Inaction has its cost, too, Mr. Skinner. Remember that."

He went to the door and let himself out.

Skinner waited for the door to close and sagged back against the chair.

 

 

"Sandy?"

The screen door jostled open and Adrie stuck his head inside.

"Shh," Scully said.

"What's the matter?"

"Sandy's sleeping."

"Why? It's morning."

"I think she... she didn't get enough sleep last night. Something was bothering her."

"She's sad a lot."

"She lost somebody, Adrie," Scully said. "Two somebodies she loved very much."

"And she can't find them?" He was looking over her shoulder at the computer screen now.

Scully pursed her lips. "No. She can't." She glanced from the figure on the bed to the boy. "Let's let her sleep for a while. Is there something you need that I can help you with?"

"I'm hungry," he said. "Can we go get a banana at the house?"

Scully paused, then nodded. "Okay."

She switched the computer to sleep mode and pushed back her chair.

"You can show me around. I haven't seen very much of this place yet. Do you have a favorite spot?"

He nodded. "It's near the falls. C'mon, I'll show you."

 

 

Tracy looked at herself in the brushed steel of the elevator panel. Braided pigtails. They were a little weird--who knew what kind of look they'd elicit from Alex--but it was cooler this way and cooler was better when you had to walk. It hadn't been that bad, though the backpack seemed twice as heavy now and her feet were hot and tired.

The elevator leveled and stopped and the door opened. She swallowed and got out. All the way here it had knocked at the door of her mind and she'd refused to answer, but she was close now--he was close--and her stomach carried that hard, achy feel, the sensation that came from having to look at things you didn't want to face. Numbers on doorways passed her. She tried to make herself ready.

506, 507, 508. She paused, took a deep breath and slipped in through the partially-open doorway. He was asleep--no, not completely asleep, or even relaxed. He only half-slept in places like this, dozed like a cat, always ready to spring into alertness. She shuffled her feet as she approached the bed. His eyes opened.

He took a moment to focus. Half a smile played on his face but his mind was mixed. He knew about last night, or at least he had questions.

"Hi," she said, coming up to the edge of the bed.

"Hi."

"How are you doing?"

"How did you get here?"

"I walked."

She swallowed at the scowl on his face. "It not so hot today, Alex. I stopped at a couple of parks. I only had enough money left for the bus one way and I figured it was better to be able to ride back."

"What, he hasn't given you any more money?"

She shook her head. He should have, he was thinking. The old man would be generous enough as long as he needed her.

"On my shelf," he said. "Above the microwave. There's a book--red cover. It's called Fire in the Lake. There's money inside it. Take whatever you need but don't do this again."

"Alex, I can't--"

He reached up and caught her wrist, his face full of awkward, conflicting emotions--gratitude, concern, frustration swirled together. 

"Okay, I will," she said. She looked down. "Thanks, Alex."

He nodded toward the chair in the corner. She pulled it closer to the bed and sat down. It felt good, better than she wanted to admit, to be off her feet. She started to open her backpack.

"I brought your computer," she said. The knot that sat in her stomach tightened. "I figured you might need to check your mail or something."

He looked at her for a second. "Thanks." He nodded toward the phone. "Can you hook it up?"

She reached for the phone on the nightstand, took out the incoming line and hooked it into the port at the back of the computer. He was watching her.

"They said it's just a reaction to that new medication," he said now. "They'll probably let me go in the morning unless--" He closed his eyes momentarily, pushing away the too-vivid memory of gasping for air. He looked up at her. "Thanks. They say I wouldn't have made it if you hadn't--"

"I couldn't not help you, Alex."

"Yeah. I know."  He turned to look out the window momentarily, then focused on his computer. One of the screen lock tabs had been deliberately broken off so he could get it open. He pushed the button and waited for it to power up.

"I called your father after you were gone, Alex. I wanted to make sure I looked responsible."

He nodded.

"Your computer was still on, on the bed."  She paused and took a breath. "That's what made me think to bring it."

Dark eyes caught and held her. "And last night?"

"I... I had to know if you were okay." Her hands came together and twisted into a knot.

"But--"

She shook her head. "No. I wasn't... here. Well, I was, only not like this, like now. It's just something that's happened to me a few times. It isn't anything I plan or try to do. Well, I never have before. But I needed to know. It was terrible watching them take you away like that, wondering--" She stopped abruptly, then went on quietly. "I was with my mother when she was dying and..." She turned away. It wouldn't take a clairvoyant to know the rest.

A low growl came from her stomach. Her feet ached. Probably she was going to have blisters.

Alex had turned back to his computer and clicked on the mail program. There was one message, and not a welcome one. Buzz was taking off. I've got to save my skin, it said; this is too much. Alex's anger spiked suddenly. Your skin won't be worth much now, he was typing back. It was an idle threat. He was in no position to chase Buzz down but if he were, Buzz would be dead in short order--Buzz who Alex had never met, some little man in a small position in the first district station who threatened Alex's security. A warm, sick feeling coated her stomach.

She watched him close out of his mail program and shut down the computer.

"Thanks for bringing it," he said after an awkward pause, and cleared his throat. He didn't quite look at her. He knew that she knew what he'd written--knew how much it would bother her. "Too bad you have to haul it back." He was suddenly angry at having to pass her test of acceptability, or maybe at having bought into the need to justify his actions, or..

"It's okay," she said, her voice small. "I'll be sitting on the bus most of the way." She took the computer and put it into her backpack. Her eyes seemed drawn to the patterns in the floor tiles.

"Nice hair," he said when she looked up again. He raised his eyebrows, nodding toward her braids. "Makes you look like that girl in the stories."

"What stories?"

"Those kids' stories. Red hair. What's her name?"

She shook her head.

The seconds slowed until they barely moved. In her mind she had already bolted and was taking the stairs in an imagined stairwell two at a time, going down and down, hair flying, ears hot, running finally through streets, then wet, open fields, then tall spring weeks that slapped at her bare legs. 

"You should go before--" The corner of his mouth pulled, just a tiny twitch, and he stared past her toward the bright glare of the window.  Before the old man came. Before this got any worse.

She got up and pushed the chair back to where she'd found it.

"How are your shoes?" his voice came as she headed for the door.

She stopped and looked down. "They're okay. I mean, I've gotten used to them, I guess."

"Get yourself some new ones," he said. "Something comfortable. There's plenty of money in the book."

She nodded and shouldered the backpack. Her feet were swollen and achy. "Thanks, Alex. I guess I'll see you when you get back."  The words felt like lies on her tongue.

She turned away and went through the door into the hallway. Her throat ached. Her eyes stung. She hurried toward the open elevator door.

 

 

Mulder dipped his mop into the rolling bucket and frowned. It was pure exercise and Joe had given it to him it deliberately. The courtyard he stood in was dusty, one that suffered a constant influx of dust and debris. Most likely it hadn't been swept in months, yet Joe'd had him sweep the entire thing and then wet-mop it. By tomorrow it would be impossible to tell he'd done anything at all. He knew where he'd like to stick the mop right now and if there were any other way, any other possible way to make this investigation work... 

But there wasn't. This was it: their one lead, their only toehold. And he needed her, and she needed some stability in her life, with purpose and a place and a chance to heal from all the things that had added up over seven years to make her break down in a car at an airport and cry as if she might crumble into a million pieces he'd never be able to gather up to put her back together again.

He dunked the mop again and put it into the wringer. Footsteps sounded at the far side of the courtyard.

"Welcome to Beeson-Lymon!" The voice carried a hint of irony.

Mulder only half turned. He pushed the mop in front of him. A Greek chorus: just he needed.

"I see Joe's introduced you to his private little purgatory." The voice was closer now, conciliatory. "Sorry to say, it's just the way he is. He's a pain in the butt to work for, especially at the beginning. I applied for maintenance when I first got here. Didn't last a day at it. He likes to break people, Joe does. I'd hate to see him as a horse trainer. If you last it out--"

Mulder turned to face the speaker.

"...you'll do okay in the end. But he wants you to know he's the boss so he gives you this chickenshit stuff to do." He shrugged. "If you want Joe's work, you've got to be Joe's whore."

Mulder half-smiled. "Maybe if I want to pay the rent I've got to be Joe's whore."

The mustached man offered his hand and smiled. "The stuff of real life, ain't it?"

Mulder shook the offered hand. "Wallace," he said. "Ben Wallace."

"Danny Contreras. I hear you come from California."

"Did I mention that?"

"Word travels. Whole town's that way, so watch what you put out there. Anyway," he smiled a genuine smile. "I got work to do. Welcome to the crew. And good luck. I hope you make it."

Mulder leaned against his mop and watched Danny stride across the courtyard to the far archway. He was a big man, probably 250 pounds but well-carried, with a ready smile and a firm handshake. Mulder watched him disappear and returned to his mopping. He glanced at his watch: 2:15. Hopefully Scully was having a better day than he was. He smiled as last night crept back, the two of them walking resolutely to the truck, then suddenly pressed up against a tree, wrapped around each other like a couple of hormonal teenagers. Don't press me, Mulder; I can be a woman of very little will-power, she'd murmured, half out of breath. Smiling--she was smiling when she said it. Who would've thought?

He made himself move again, made the mop go.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: thelark@

Hope your new assignment is playing out smoothly. An interesting morning here. S came by and completely fell apart on me. She'd been up half the night after a dream too good to be true, that she was lying in bed with her man. I think I can understand the impact of that, or maybe I have only an inkling of what she's actually going through. The things that girl has had to shoulder. I don't really understand her but she amazes me. In the middle of it all she came up with a page of jotted notes; she'd gone out looking for information last night and had talked to Mr. B's driver, an acquaintance. Typical young twentysomething: he bragged to her about how he made extra money doing on-the-side 'deliveries' for his boss. After a while S fell asleep on my bed and I ended up babysitting A... or maybe it was the other way around. The boy is very perceptive, quiet, with definite interests already developing. In a way he reminds me very much of you. He took me on a beautiful hike.

Still searching the internet for information we may be able to use. Will let you know if I find anything significant.

Keep me posted. 

P.S. So tempting to keep drifting back to that balcony.

 

 

It was bound to have happened eventually.

Krycek turned his head sharply toward the window, squinted against the brightness there and finally closed his eyes. He let his head sink into the pillow. But it was too damned soon for things to be falling apart like this. Maybe it was just too much to ask in the end--that both of them should be able to go their separate ways on good terms after a handful of weeks doing the best they could with a awkward situation. Their little partnership gave only had the illusion of working because they were playing it out in the vacuum of his room, away from the real world and the ties he had--who he was. But here it came, the inevitable wakeup call: her looking away, squirming at the thought of what he did, wishing there was a way to get away from the monster in the bed. 

Trouble was, nice would make it against Purity. Resist or serve: that was the way it was going to be. There wouldn't be any 'fair fight'. 'Fair' was dead, little puddles of black oil sliding out of your mouth and nose, or you were a cast-off husk, bloody from the gestation of something that could only have come from a nightmare. Somebody had to be able to do what it was going to take to survive. When things got down to the wire, they'd put their moral outrage on hold if you could save their skins. But only until they were safe on the other side of the chasm. Once they were on solid ground again they'd want to crucify you just like before.

Still, she deserved better than this. And then to follow with what could only have looked like a cheap attempt to buy her acquiescence. Have some money, kid. Get yourself a new pair of shoes, kid. As if it made up for the bite of reality.

Krycek's hand made a fist, but after a moment it loosened. He flexed his fingers and studied them. It had gotten too easy to reach for her.  And last night wasn't the first time. He'd been desperate then, drowning, but it had happened before, more than once, when he was drugged and past conscious control. 

He'd made her think of her mother's death. Okay, so she was the one who'd made the association, but that didn't change the effect it would have had on her. There was more to this thing with her mother than she'd let on.

He stared up at the ceiling, letting his eyes roam the pattern there. Eventually footsteps sounded in the hallway, coming closer, and entered the room. He knew without looking who they belonged to.

"Alex?"

He looked down. The old man was reaching into his coat pocket. He brought it back out empty-handed.

"Your little housekeeper called me last night--after they'd taken you away. She was quite... hysterical." He took a step forward, put his hand on the bed railing and shrugged. "At least her responses are quick. They tell me you had a reaction to the pain medication."

Krycek nodded.

"Good to see you're doing better." He cleared his throat. "I had an interesting encounter with Assistant Director Skinner this morning," he went on. "Something I wouldn't have expected, actually. Apparently it was he who placed the recorder in Mulder's apartment. Keeping track of Mulder's mental stability, he said. He was worried about his golden boy." The old man's mouth curled into half a smile. He turned, walked to the window and stared out. "Do you believe it, Alex?"

Adrenaline jolted Krycek. "Believe what?"

"That Skinner would do that? Plant a recorder in Mulder's apartment to observe him?" He turned back.

Krycek shrugged. "Why would he lie?"

"Maybe to protect someone who'd helped him get his job back."

He fought the sudden cold sweat that bloomed on him. "It's a long shot."

"Perhaps. We still haven't found our mole in the first district."

"If you've got a mole. Could be nothing. Could be somebody with a load of debt or a habit looking to sell the stuff on the street."

"That's always a possibility. The simple explanation we sometimes overlook in our... zealousness. Well..." He approached the bed. "Good to see you're alright after all. I'll let you rest now. I'll send a car by when they're ready to release you."

The old man turned and walked out. Krycek closed his eyes. He'd send a car and the car would take him back to where he'd come from: a room with a bed, two desks and a recliner, shelves on the wall and what?--an attendant closed off and fighting herself to make it through each session? Maybe she would have stopped into another church by then to think. Maybe she'd decide it was time to cut her losses and get the hell out while she still could. Maybe she should. She needed to learn that--to do what she had to for herself.

 

 

To: dresswhites@

From: heron3@

Thanks for a great meal and the entertainment, too. I don't believe I've ever taken wallpaper down before; it was a real experience, but that steamer sure helped a lot. Be sure to let me know when you've decided whether to paint or re-paper and I'll make time to help out. Keep that chin up.

                                                                                       -Will

 

 

To: dresswhites@

From: thelark@

I just wanted you to know that I continue to be safe. A number of caring people have helped us along the way. You'd laugh if you knew where I'm living at the moment; let's just say it's somewhere I never could have imagined, but the scenery is beautiful and peaceful and I have some interesting companions. I never understood, when I was little, what it must have been like for you to uproot the family and start all over again in a new location. I think I appreciate that now, so thank you for the way you made those transitions smooth for us. I am taking one day at a time, one step at a time in this new world and it helps immensely to know I'm not alone, and that you're out there, just a phone connection away.

                                                                                            -Annie

 

 

To: thelark@

From: dresswhites@

So good to hear from you and know you're alright. Heron3 came early for dinner last night, stayed late and insisted on helping me take down the old wallpaper in the spare room. I don't know how I would have done it alone and he's such a warm, engaging guest. I feel like I've gained another son. It makes me realize, too, that there are other people in the world out there helping you along your way. Sometimes as a mother you get to feeling that you're the only one who can help your child, and of course no one person alone is ever enough to protect them completely.

Please keep in touch, and know you're in my prayers. Say hello to Ben for me. How is he?

                                                                                                     -Mom

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: thelark@

Just checking in. This is a place of such beauty and such sadness. I sent S home early, though I don't know to what. She is there all alone, but that seems to be one of the defining factors of grief--that even though people may be around you to comfort and console, you must come to terms with your loss on your own. I found myself giving S some advice today that I'm not sure I've learned to heed entirely myself, though I've been trying: that eventually we learn to see what the person has brought to our lives and are glad for it even amid the pain of losing them.

DB's wife is the other sadness here, for the palpable absence those around her feel. Because I was watching A, I met my host today. He told me his firm does the accounting for B-L and offered his help. Evidently his brother-in-law was one of those possibly affected by our target illness.

I'm beginning to realize what a very tightly-woven community this is, which makes our continuing efforts to keep ourselves unnoticed all the more imperative. Obviously we're not in Mantua anymore. That said, I wish this distance were not between us. Even the simple act of being able to say your name seems like such a precious luxury now, as in those societies where a person's true name is a secret known only to a select few.

I know you must be busy, but drop a line to this nameless friend when you're able. My mother sends her best.

                                                                   - nightingale's lark

 

 

Krycek was pulled backward into the elevator and the door slid closed. The old man's driver was silent and efficient. It was the way he liked them, able to do what he asked of them and impersonal enough not to worry about if he needed to get rid of them. He set his jaw and felt his stomach sink. They'd decided to let him go tonight; he'd had no further problems and it had something to do with the billing. The car had come for him and here he was.

The elevator stopped and settled, the door slid open and he was rolled out and to his door. His room was dark inside but what had he expected? The man in the gray suit flipped the light switch. Everything was clean, tidy. The bed was made, the air conditioner running.

He turned to the driver, who was about to ask him if he needed help out of the chair.

"I'm all set."

The tall man left without a word, closing the door behind him. Krycek leaned back into the chair.

The place felt vacant, like a damn hotel room. He nudged the footrests up and walked the chair over to the shelf above the alcove, took down the red book and opened it. She'd taken a couple of twenties. He could picture her with the book open, taking one out gingerly, closing the cover, worried even then about having taken too much and then pausing to consider that he'd be upset with her for not getting what she needed. So she would have opened it again and taken a second bill, though not without another crisis of conscience. He closed the book and set it back on the shelf. Where was she?

Outside the window, clouds were gathering in the close darkness. In the street it had smelled like approaching rain. He walked the chair to the door, opened it, wheeled out into the hallway and locked the door behind him. Then he rolled himself to the elevator and pushed the button. An old woman came up the stairs and passed him, her hair gathered into a thin hairnet; she gave him only a passing glance as she turned to go up to the next floor. When the elevator came, he walked the chair inside, struggling briefly over the gap between floor and car. He pushed the button, watched the door close, closed his eyes. Up. He was used to it now, the time it took. Not long. There already.

He'd never been to her room but he knew where it was. When the door opened he rolled out, pulling himself across the gap this time with his hand on the doorframe, and turned to the right. Anyone could see him, a one-armed man in a chair made to be propelled by two arms, but the hallway was vacant; there were only lights under doorways and the smells of dinners just past lingering in the stagnant air. He rolled up to her door, which stood slightly ajar. He paused and shook his head. The last fading shades of daylight showed from below it. He pushed it open carefully. She was lying on the bed--asleep, or so it appeared. Her head was at the foot of the bed and she was curled into a crescent, the pillows scattered beyond her feet. He rolled inside, closed the door behind him and came closer.

What would she say?

What would he?

Her face was flushed; he could see it in the fading light. Probably a combination of the room's stuffy air and her own turmoil; her position spoke anguish. He reached out--stretched--and barely touched her cheek with the back of a finger. Too hot. Backing the chair up, he maneuvered it around the bed. Pain sank into his side and gnawed, spreading through him like ink in water, thin but penetrating. He went to the barely open window and pushed it as high as he could. Cool, moving air wafted in. He stared out to where the last thin streak of pale evening color was fading into darkness and closed his eyes. At first it was barely perceptible, just a sprinkling of mist against his cheeks and forehead. Tiny, silent droplets began to sound against the glass above, then larger ones pelted the window and finally big, fat drops that splatted onto the sill.

Movement came from behind him. She was standing there, one knee still on the bed, sleepy and confused. The baby was growing.

"Alex, what are you doing?"

"I came up to check on you." He shrugged. "You were hot so I opened the window."

She dragged a red-seated desk chair to the window beside him, sat down and leaned forward against the sill.

"I love rain like this," she said, still drowsy, half-flinching at the drops that landed on her.

"Figures."

She turned away and rested her head on her arms. The back of her dress went subtly up and down in the deepening shadows. She made no move to turn or to speak.

"Sorry," he said into the silence.

For shaking you up.

For being who I am.

"Don't worry about me, Alex."

"Why not? Somebody has to."

She looked up. Her lips twisted. Her mouth puckered and finally fought its way to smoothness. She shook her head and reached out her hand. He took it and squeezed it and let it go again. No better. A wall stood between them now, as solid as if it were a visible thing.

Her eyes closed. He closed his own and worked to make the city fade away. There was only misty darkness, the sounds of water, the close feel of overhanging clouds. Random drops landed on his lap, his hand, his face.

"Tell me what you like about the rain," he said.

 

 

Scully stood up from the computer and went to the kitchen window. Only a faint glow outlined the far ridge beyond the valley. She stretched and then wrapped her arms around her middle. It was the way Mulder had approached her that first night in the motel, her looking out the window, freeze-framed by the reality of what was about to happen, him coming up from behind, close and real, warm arms and momentum circling her, pulling her gently back from the harsh slash of light into warm, comforting darkness.

Her emotions were waiting: waiting for mail, waiting to see him. Depending on him. But you couldn't run your life this way, on hold waiting for love, or comfort, for pleasure or self-indulgence. It led nowhere. Scully made herself switch on the light over the sink and turn on the water. When it ran warm she filled the sink and began to wash her dishes. What would Sandy be doing, all alone in her mobile home? Scully smiled ruefully; she lived in a trailer herself now, much smaller and older even than Sandy's. Hopefully the girl could find the strength she needed, but where did it come from when you seemed to have no reservoir left, no reserves, no walls or defenses left unbroken? Did it come from outside, if it came at all, an infusion--transfusion--of strength from someone else, the way Mulder had come to hold her up? Or the way she'd been there three weeks ago on a chair beside his couch, watching over his restless sleep after he'd nearly given up himself? But it hadn't been her doing; Krycek had saved Mulder, but why? What had inspired him to go to Teena's and how could it make up for what he was, for killing Cy and Roddy Miller and tearing apart poor Sandy's life, for nearly killing her sister. It was only a freak of chance that Cardenal had fired first. Or was Krycek more careful than that, more discriminating than his nervous partner? He was an enigma.

A knock came on the door. Her face bloomed into a smile. She shut the water off and wiped her hands quickly on a towel.

Opening the door, she was met by the blondish hair and slightly receding hairline of David Barker. She swallowed her anticipation and forced herself to smile.

"Hi," he said, the inside light reflecting off his wire-rimmed glasses. "You in the middle of something?"

"Uh... no. Just doing a few dishes. Not a great comment on my list of activities today--dishes as a break from spending too much time at the computer. I should be using this amazing setting you have here to better advantage. Though your son did take me for a beautiful hike today."

"May I, uh, come in a minute? There's something I wanted to ask you about."

Scully opened the door wider. David Barker stepped up into the trailer and settled himself against the kitchen counter.

"I..." he began, looking down slightly. "I don't know whether I'm just getting my hopes up prematurely, but... I told you about Ron, Heather's brother."

"Yes..."

"Rita told me you're a pathologist. I was just wondering if..."

"If there was a way to tell if he actually died of beryllium disease?"

He pressed his lips together. "Yeah. Look, this may sound completely selfish, but Ron and Heather were fraternal twins. It was after Ron died that Heather started to drift on us. They always seemed to have this... connection, this almost psychic thing." He shook his head. "I used to laugh at her when she'd say that; I guess I'm a pretty literal guy and it just didn't seem possible, that kind of thing happening. Until he was gone and part of her seemed to go right along with him." He studied his shoes a moment. "Anyway, if it would help your work to know... I guess I'm just hoping that if there's some kind of explanation, something that makes sense, that maybe somehow a little of that might get through to her and..." He looked up, his face slightly pink. "It must sound pretty crazy."

Scully pursed her lips. "Hope isn't crazy, trying every avenue." She shook her head. "It would seem like a long shot, but if we're ever to get any kind of substantial evidence in this case, enough to enable us to stop what's going on here, then we do need more forensic evidence. Though getting it could be more than a little tricky. An exhumation order would have to be obtained, and this has to remain absolutely unknown to anyone at the plant who might..." She colored slightly. "I live in a large metropolitan area where people can very easily live these... almost completely anonymous lives, but here... I really wasn't ready for the way word spreads in a small place like this."

"Every wall and every tree has ears around here. I guess I'm used to it. I've lived here all my life."

"But I have to emphasize, David, the need for security. Three people have lost their lives already over this case, and agents have been compromised. If anyone--the wrong person--were to find out and spread the word, Rita could easily be the next target, or you could be. And both of you have children to raise. I don't have to tell you how much Adrie needs you."

His lips twisted in frustration. "Maybe I just feel like I've got to do something..."

"I understand."

"Well, you think about it. But if you need that evidence like you say..." He pursed his lips. "It might be easier than you think. Ron's buried right here on the property. It was a concession Heather's folks made to her when he died."

Scully let out a slow breath. Her eyes widened. "I'd need a place to perform an autopsy. I'd need equipment, access to a lab. Let me think about it. Let me talk to my partner." She looked past him, out into the darkness beyond the window. "I'll let you know."

 

 

"...I like it when the drops are warm, in the summer. Or the way the cold ones just seem to wake you up, like your skin was asleep before and all of a sudden there's this... awakeness, like you'd just opened your eyes. I love the way it smells..."

She was still sitting at the window, head pillowed on her arms, unable to turn or face him, though he was doing his best to fill the empty space with his questions, to displace the awkwardness that stood between them like an unwelcome stranger.

"It's... I don't know," she made herself go on. "It makes the world feel alive. But I guess that's just if you choose to see it, to pay attention. Some people--" She sighed and moved her head slightly to wipe the wet corner of one eye on her arm. She ached all over, the way she had that night on the roof. Closing her eyes didn't make it go away.

Drops splatted against glass and sill. Alex sat silent, lost inside. In the street below, a traffic light changed and the slick sound of tires rolling through water reached the window.

"I shouldn't have disturbed you."

His voice was like sand. After a moment she heard the sound of his feet and the chair, moving away, turning and going toward the door.

"Don't leave your door unlocked, Tracy," he said, turning back. Then he was through, closing it, turning his wheelchair to face the hallway.

Tracy turned her head toward where he'd been sitting. Rain splatters mixed with the wetness on her face. There was movement inside her, the baby stretching. He'd never gone out in the chair before, always afraid of being seen, or of being seen inadequate. He was looking up the stairway now, gauging the distance, pain nagging, his conscious mind pressing down against the storm of emotions inside him. She swallowed. He was reaching for the railing, pulling himself up, steadying, starting upward.

She strained to see into the wet darkness outside the window, liquid black with smeared streaks of yellow, red and white from streetlights and headlights and taillights. Alex was pausing between stairs, gripping the railing, wondering what he was doing.

It had rained the night Duke died. It had rained the morning her mother died, too, though the rain hadn't come until afterward; the clouds had gathered and waited until she couldn't hold anymore. Then she'd let down and they'd let down with her, all the colder and emptier for the vacancy of the cold body on the bed beside her chair. Her mother had been right, though. The pain was proportional to what you'd received; it made you realize, even when you'd never realized before. Alex was at the wall now, leaning against the edge, jaw tight.

Tracy sat up and wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands. She stood and carried the desk chair back to its place. Her jaw was trembling but she made it stop. Outside the door, Alex's chair sat empty at the foot of the stairs. She collapsed it quickly, ran up the stairs with it and set it around the corner under the eaves where it would stay dry.

"Tracy?"

It was hope more than a question--a trust that it would be her and not someone else, someone he didn't know, or the old man. He didn't turn to look. She swallowed and walked toward him. Big drops fell against her forehead and arms. One caught in her eyelashes and melted into her eye. She went up to his good side. His jaw was set, his eyes closed.

"The hurt's proportional to value received," she said quietly, and then looked down. "It's something my mom used to say."

His breathing was shallow, ragged. She looked up in time to see his eyes open, the corner of his mouth twitch. His hand reached for hers and gripped it hard. She squeezed back and squinted across the tops of buildings in the close gloom. The drops fell faster and larger until they began to trickle down her face. She closed her eyes and let them slowly wash the ache away.

 

 

I can feel it again, something I haven't felt since we left the Corridor--that sense of panic creeping in, an ominous pressure. David Barker is my host. Beyond that he is a man with an absent wife and a son who needs him. He has no reason to have made his offer under false pretenses and yet my investigator's experience has set off an interior alarm and I'm unsure what to make of it. Is he a loose cannon, a weak link who might break the all-important chain at a crucial moment? Or am I just hovering at the edge of a crisis I thought--hoped--I'd left behind? Have I merely been shaken by the knowledge of how rapidly word can spread in a place like this, how easily Mulder and I and our work here could be exposed?

I need a second opinion. I've checked my e-mail several times during the course of the evening but there's been no response from Mulder. I am beginning to realize just how much I've come to depend on him over the course of the past week and a half. Before we arrived here we had no work to do, only the business of escape and the precious luxury of being together, but now there's a case to be solved, people crying out for our help, and what good am I to him if I'm incapable of forming an opinion on my own or make a judgment call? It became clear to me while we were staying at Teena's that I can no longer afford the false strength of telling myself I'm invincible, holding everything inside to cover my inadequacies, and yet what is left of me now with which to make a contribution to our work, or to bring justice to these people?

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: thelark@

I'm becoming more and more concerned about the quickness with which information travels here and how it may jeopardize our work. I've been offered a possibly-infected body for examination, though I have concerns about the stability of the source.

Please respond ASAP. Hope your workday was successful. The pace and demands of investigating should feel second-nature, but I find myself drifting back to the oasis of last weekend. I feel like I've been spoiled and now you're reaping the consequences.

                                                                           -Lark

 

 

To: thelark@

From: DaddyW@

Dear Nameless Friend:

Sorry this is so late.

Couldn't get to the computer until now.

Unfortunately I got called off to go for a beer with few guys from work.

Likely source of information so I went.

Lasted way too long and there was no time.

You're where I wanted to be.

                                    -lark's nightingale

Mulder clicked the 'send' button and waited. He tipped the chair back, away from the brightness of the computer screen and into the darkened living room. He'd only wanted to get back to her, but at the moment the computer was his only way. A cheap substitute for actually being with her but there was work to do and it was no time to be wasting opportunities. If anything could be done at the plant it would have to be done quickly, judging from the speed at which word spread in this town. Danny Contreras hadn't been the only one; by the time he'd met Ross and Mike, he's already been stuck with the nickname 'Hollywood' and had to answer the same stupid set of questions a dozen times over. It would have been a lot easier to have said he'd come from Baltimore or Pittsburgh.

Mulder closed his eyes and ran his hands back through his hair. The shift he worked let out at 4:30, but Joe'd insisted on keeping him a full eight hours. It was easier than screwing up the paperwork, he said. It was like being kept after school. When he'd finally made it out, after a couple of more hours of pointless mopping, he'd run across Ross and Mike in the parking lot. Beer and shooting pool was their thing; after a day with no real information gathered, it seemed like a possibility for getting at least some basic information. Besides, it was easy enough to imagine the pool balls as... Joe deserved that kind of fate.

The hard drive gurgled. Mulder opened his eyes and eased the chair back down onto all four legs. Two messages, one from Scully--that made three tonight--and one from Wilkins. His lips twisted as he read. She might be tucked away, secluded, but he was deluding himself if he thought that fact would keep the tension of this from touching her. She'd seemed to be making some headway with the grief remark, but there was something in those last two mails, a palpable tension. And she'd noticed, too--how easy it would be to end up exposed here; one carelessly broadcast remark was all it would take. It was a lot riskier than either of them had realized. But Smoky had seemed so disturbed when he'd come to the apartment, far too rushed in sweeping opposing pieces from the board, his usual smug calmness lacking. There had to be something here, something that had hit way too close to home.

Mulder straightened and clicked on Wilkins' mail.

To: DaddyW@

From: heron3@

Just an update from HQ. TinMan is back in place and so far, so good. We spent a little time talking and it got me to thinking; apologies if the following is old territory to you. The old guy's not likely to let up on you two and if he can't find you, he'll likely try to draw you out. It occurred to me that the easiest way might be to try to lure Annie away from you with some situation she can't resist. I don't want to suggest this to her in case I'm all wet and it turns out to be nothing, but I'm concerned that he may act against her mother in some way. His MO seems to be to use people's ties against them, as he's evidently tried to use Annie to put pressure on you in the past. At any rate, I'm trying to keep a close eye on Maggie, figuring it doesn't hurt to be cautious. Hope things are going smoothly for you both. All the best.

Mulder looked up at the darkened ceiling and closed his eyes.

 

 

"Alex, you should lie down. You know it won't hurt as much if you stretch out."

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, quiet. They'd stayed on the roof in the rain until he'd begun to shake from pain and exhaustion, clasped hands their sole link, saying nothing. Then she'd brought him back downstairs.

"Sorry for..." He shrugged. "Up there." He was staring into the corner, looking at nothing.

She shook her head. "It's alright, Alex. I fell apart on you yesterday." She shrugged and smiled.

He looked up at her. The hint of a smile lit his face momentarily and he shook his head.

"Go on, Alex. Lie down."

She turned away, to the window, and waited for him to take the pain medication sitting on the bedside table and settle himself on the mattress. He wouldn't mention it but he wasn't ready to be alone. She picked up her mother's sweater from the back of the desk chair, folded it and let her hand barely graze the soft surface. When she turned around, the covers had been drawn up. He was watching her, half-amused at what she was wearing: the oversized T-shirt she slept in and a pair of thermal longjohns she'd picked up at a thrift store, the only other clothes she owned. Her yellow dress was hanging above the bathtub upstairs, wet. He'd insisted that she go change into dry clothes.

"You need another one of those dresses," he said.

"Sometimes I think you can read me, too."

"Some things are obvious."

She took the desk chair and dragged it toward the bed. He gave her a questioning look.

"I can stay until you go to sleep," she said.

He didn't protest. She went to the light switch by the door, turned it off and walked to the window at the end of the bed.

After a few moments his voice came from the shadows. "What do you see?"

"Raindrops sliding down leaves," she said. "The rain's colored silver from the streetlights. Even the streets look different, all slick and liquidy, and the light spreads across them like moonlight on ponds." She drifted back to the chair, sat down on it sideways and put her feet up.

"You had a pond?"

She nodded. "We did." She rested her head against her arm on the chair back. "You need a rocking chair, you know that, Alex?"

"What for?"

"They're nice. You can rock and rock and it's soothing."

"I'd feel like an old man."

"You don't have to."

A sudden gust of wind splattered raindrops against the glass. Silence followed, settling over the room.

"At home there were two poplar trees," she said, closing her eyes. "Big, big trees. They turned the most wonderful yellows in the fall, but in the summer when the wind would come they'd sound like water rushing, the wind in the leaves. Like a waterfall. I used to love to sit under them and just close my eyes and listen."

"You get a lot of mileage out of something so small," his voice came after a moment.

She smiled and listened to his breathing, light and even, in the darkness.

 

 

 

To: thelark@

From: DaddyW@

Dear Lark,

If I were anywhere close enough to climb that balcony, you know I'd be there in a second. The threat of being discovered--of jeopardizing you--is what pulls me back to earth every time I just want to come flying. But I will come again as soon as I know I have good cover, so hang in there.

Work was--how shall I put this?--an exercise in more self-control than you've ever seen me able to muster. My boss is a little man who thinks he's Napoleon and wants to make sure I understand I'm his lackey. There's a lot about wet-mopping you may not know; actually stuff I might not give a rat's ass about, either, but if it gets us somewhere, I'm willing to make this work. After all, I played Joe Homeless a couple of weeks ago in D.C. and made it through that.

Know what you mean about the spread of information. The Net has nothing on this town. By the end of the day I was 'Hollywood' to every guy at the plant... and that's before I met them. You're right to be concerned about leaks; it could be all too easy for something to slip out. Re your evidence--try asking Rita for a reading on your source. She seems to be pretty perceptive.

Taking a little personal time doesn't constitute irreversible dereliction of duty, Lark; go easy on yourself. If anyone's guilty of wanting to fly off into a private little paradise, it's me. Keep your chin up and your fingers crossed.

Your partner in crime and pleasure,

                                   The Nightingale

 

 

Thursday

 

To: dresswhites@

From: thelark@

Glad to hear you've found a supporter in heron3. He lost his own mother as a child, so perhaps he's gaining as much as you are from your collaboration. We continue our work on a project we hope will eventually return us to our positions and safety. Ben has been a constant source of support and strength, for which I'm immensely grateful. Thanks also for your mails, which keep me in touch when my personal world seems to have momentarily disappeared over the horizon.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: thelark@

Climbing onto the balcony this morning I found two letters left on the railing. I puzzled a moment over that first one and its short sentences until my eye fell down the letters that began each line. Thank you. Only you could have taken a name and turned it into something so very intimate. Wish I felt more capable of a reply in kind.

I've written to Rita asking her opinion. It seems that whatever we can accomplish here must be done quickly or a leak over time is inevitable. I promise not to try to picture you mopping floors--too much. It must rank right up there on your list with filing pointless paperwork, Kersh's orange jumpsuit assignments and...gardening. If we ever make it back, I promise to plant and maintain that little planter bed in front of your window. You were right; there is something about that little green room.

Anticipating that next balcony meeting... in the interest of crime and pleasure.

                                                                     - Your Lark

 

 

Teena Mulder woke with a start. She'd seen the image of Bill again, his fist tight in illustration. Like a monkey with his hand caught in a jar--those had been his words. His greed in taking everything and trying to keep it for himself would be his downfall in the end.

She sat up.

It seemed rather obvious, far from a profound observation, and yet Bill had been so exultant. He must have seen some significance in it. In the end it was true: Leland never wanted to give up anything. He wanted to have it for the sake of having it, so that someone else couldn't. It had been that way with her toward the end. He'd maintained a cooling relationship with her for the sake of holding it over Bill. And the result had been an innocent child, a child twisted and turned deadly like a gardening tool sharpened into a weapon. She pictured Alex again, asleep under the dusty blanket in the garage like a homeless man or so much litter.

She swallowed and got up. He'd kept coming to mind the last few days. If only she knew why. After her shower she would go to the library and send a mail to Fox. Perhaps his father's observation would help him in some way. If anyone could wring significance from it, Fox would be able to.

 

 

"You slept a long time, Alex."

He opened his eyes and looked across the room. She was sitting in the recliner, busy with a needle and thread and... something. Morning light poured in through the window.

"Just kinda..." He shook his head. "It took a long time before I got to sleep."

"You slept. But you seemed uncomfortable."

"Finally about five the pain went away... for a while." He turned his head toward the wall and closed his eyes. It was coming back again, the low nagging he couldn't escape. It should mean nothing. It should be easy enough to block out, to turn in some other direction, but he didn't seem to have the capacity, or the will.

"Alex, why don't you get up and walk a little? It'll take your mind off it. Even across the room and back will help."

She'd come over to the bed. He opened one eye and looked at her.

"Do you have any bad habits?" he said.

"I'm supposed to be helping you. It's what I'm here for." She paused a moment. The corner of her mouth pulled. "Anyway, I have plenty of faults. You just haven't seen them."

There is was again--that on-the-edge look he'd seen on her lately. "Then you do a good job of hiding them."

No point in probing, though. She needed her strength now, not room for doubt to seep in. He needed her strength. He reached toward her. "Give me a hand up?" he said.

She smiled quietly and nodded.

 

 

"Annie?"

Adrie's face was pressed up against the screen door, his nose flattened against it. He smiled.

Scully turned around. "Hi, Adrie."

"Hi," he said. "Annie, Sandy hasn't come."

Scully pushed her chair back. She glanced at her watch and frowned. It was nearly 9:30.

"She usually comes right after breakfast."

Scully pursed her lips. "And your dad's gone to work?"

The boy nodded.

"What's your mom doing?"

"She's rocking. She rocks for a long time when she starts." He shrugged.

She'd thought of Sandy in the night, remembering the way she'd been the day before, listless and lost, a widow and a child at the same time. She pushed the computer's sleep button and stood up.

"How about if we go look for her, Adrie? Maybe we can meet her on the trail. Do you know where it is?"

He nodded.

"We should check on your mom first," she said, sitting down on the bed to put her running shoes on. "We'll make sure she's okay. Sound good?"

He nodded again and smiled a little smile. He was only slightly younger than Emily would have been, a grown-up little boy watching after his lost mother.

Emily had lost her mother, too.

Scully made herself focus on her laces, on pulling them tight.

 

 

To: thelark@

From: dresswhites@

Dear Annie,

Glad to hear from you again. I've been working on a little more of that wallpaper in the hallway, though I seem to be coming down with something this morning. I woke up achy and without much energy for wallpaper or anything else, so I thought I'd come here quickly and let you know I may be out of touch for a few days. I didn't want you to worry. You're in my prayers as always.

                                                                                 -Mom

 

 

Mulder tipped the trash can carefully and sorted through what came out, pulling note paper from the masses of paper towels. So far there had been two grocery lists, one small piece of paper with a woman's name and phone number on it, and an ad for a sale at a local tool store. Not much to show for the bathrooms he'd had to clean.

The bathrooms in the assembly building were probably better kept, but this was maintenance and obviously sanitation hadn't been top priority with anybody for a long time. Or maybe Joe'd had everybody come in and do a number on the place just for his benefit. The graffiti carved into the tile on one wall said it all: In case of nuclear attack, duck behind this urinal. It's never been hit.

Probably none of them had.

Mulder pulled on his rubber gloves and got out the spray cleaner and a rag. He'd rather be watching one of Scully's autopsies. Or just watching Scully. He smiled briefly but the warm feeling quickly faded. She was right. Someone's slip-up over time was inevitable. There had to be some evidence here and he needed to find it sooner rather than later.

He squirted the spray cleaner and watched a blue trail drip down the wall. Then he lifted his rag and began to wipe.

 

 

"Is this where Sandy lives?" Adrie said.

"Yes."

Scully pointed to the mobile home ahead of them. Adrie had run ahead of her practically the whole way. And the farther they'd gone without coming across Sandy, the more concerned she'd become. What would she do herself if she'd lost a husband and a child? They'd checked on Heather before they started down the trail. She had been rocking as Adrie had said. She had brightened momentarily when she saw them, though she hadn't recognized Scully. At least she recognized her own son. It was something, however little.

Off to the side, a shiny black big rig sat parked in the dusty yard. Scully bit her lip and followed Adrie up the stairs to the front door. She let the boy knock. After a moment the door opened and a man's face appeared behind the dimness of the screen.

"Yes?" He had a quiet voice.

"Is Sandy home?" Scully asked. She had a sudden memory of the last time she'd been here, with Agent Wilkins, standing on this porch dressed as the investigator she was supposed to be. She wore jeans and a T-shirt now. She could have been anybody.

"She's still sleeping," the man said. His hair was silver at the temples.

"We were concerned about her," Scully offered. "She takes care of Adrie here and she's usually up at our place by eight."

"I don't know about--" The man shook his head. There was a noise and he turned to look behind him. "Otter?"

Sandy came up behind him, obviously half-asleep.

"Ohmigosh," she said. "Oh--" She hurried to the screen door and opened it. "Hi, Adrie... Annie. Come on in. I overslept. I--" She shook her head, attempting to chase the drowsiness, and then brightened. "My dad came last night. Papa, these are the people I was telling you about."

She stopped and ran her hands back through her hair and looked at Scully. "Cy's death certificate came in the mail," she said. "There's something on it maybe you can explain to me..."

 

 

Krycek stared out the narrow window past limp green leaves, seeing nothing.

At the edge of the military base where he'd lived after he left the orphanage there had been an empty field for practicing maneuvers. In the mornings there would be a fire burning in a big metal drum near the field's edge. Men would gather around it, warm their fingers, smoke and boast or talk. He remembered the feel of it, his fingers stiff and aching from the cold, then the initial burning of the heat and the gradual warming as the heat penetrated, loosening him. It was the kind of small detail she'd appreciate.

He swallowed and took a step to turn, but there was no leaving the pain behind. Low and persistent, it had dogged him from the moment he'd come awake. Now his stomach was sour, nauseous from the tension of the constant ache. After a moment he made his way to the bed and stared at the phone lying on the blankets. No point in disturbing her. He'd lived all these years and managed to get by. Anyway, she could be sleeping; there was no telling whether his pain had kept her awake half the night.

He eased himself down onto the bed, looked up at the spidery cracks in the ceiling and closed his eyes. Where would Scully be now?

It should have been obvious. He should have known, should have figured: she'd do anything to defend Mulder. Whatever it took, even if meant he might slit her throat in the process. And here he was, paying the price for a damn expensive lesson. But it was starting to make a little sense now, the mindset: defending somebody whatever the cost.

The building ache in his side flared suddenly into full-fledged pain. Krycek grabbed a handful of bed covers and squeezed. The tension made his arm shake. In his mind he was in the bathroom, standing in front of the orange containers lined up on the shelf.

"Alex--"

He looked up. Tracy stood in the half-open doorway, almost like that first night.

"I was--" He cleared his throat. "I was thinking about taking one of those other painkillers, the old ones." He let go the breath he'd been holding. Tried let it out slowly. She came closer.

"Are you sure they're okay if you've been taking the new ones?"

He nodded. "Yeah, they said... said it was okay. I'm so goddamned sick of them, but--"

By the time he'd gathered his words together again, she disappeared into the bathroom. He let his eyes fall shut and set his jaw. The sound of the bottle opening was followed by water running in the sink. He eased himself farther back onto the mattress, his arm shaking when he leaned on it. Anything to be gone, away from the pain It would only be seconds now, not that long...

"Here--"

He opened his eyes long enough to find the pill and the cup of water. Then he eased himself down onto the pillow. Blankets were pulled up around him and a warm hand smoothed past his forehead. A moment later a familiar palm pressed against his. He gripped her hand--strong, thin hand--and counted his breaths, in and out in the silence, waiting.

"I wish I could take you somewhere, Alex, the way you took me. Someplace you could get away."

"You do."

It was coming now--the welcome, hated thickness. She'd be there, sitting on the edge of the bed, until he was gone.

 

 

"Aunt... Rita?"

She was standing there, in the locker room doorway, like a vision of relief. Release. Mulder straightened, took off the rubber gloves and dropped them into the top tray of the cleaning cart.

"I came by to see if you could use some lunch," she said, a twinkle in her eye. "I've got something on the stove over at Dale's."

It was a signal. She had something to tell him, but even if she didn't, he'd take it. Anything right now that would get him away from this place.

"Yeah." He grinned. "That sounds good. Sounds great. I think I've got..." He looked at his watch. "...about four more minutes. Napoleon over there"--he nodded toward Joe's basement office--"might lock me up if I tried to leave early."

"I reckon you've got him figured." She spoke quietly and gave him a knowing look. "I'll be out in the parking lot. You just come on along when you're ready."

He nodded and watched her turn and leave. She'd always seemed like a good candidate for a fairy godmother. Or maybe he'd just wakened from a bad dream. He sucked in his lower lip and worked to smooth his smile away.

 

 

"Alex?"

The old man looked down, to where Alex lay glassy-eyed amid the pillows, and frowned.

"He took one of the stronger painkillers about an hour ago," the girl's voice came from the recliner.

He glanced briefly at her and back at Alex again.

"The new ones don't take all the pain away. He didn't get much sleep last night."

"There's no danger of a reaction?" he said, turning to look at her now.

"I asked him. The doctor told him it was okay. These take hours to wear off," she said. "But I'm keeping an eye on him, just in case." She looked back at whatever it was she was doing--something with a needle and thread and a small piece of fabric.

The old man pulled a Morley from the pack in his pocket and lit it. He took a long drag and forced the smoke upward toward the ceiling. "You've been very diligent," he said. "You saved his life the other night."

"I guess my experience was good for something," she said, laying her needle aside. Suddenly she was out of words. Her hands twisted together.

"Well, I certainly appreciate what you've done here to help us in our... time of need," he said, approaching her chair. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out an envelope and laid it on the arm of the recliner. "This is some remuneration for your work here, a token of our appreciation. I'm sure Alex appreciates what you've done for him."

The girl nodded but didn't quite make eye contact. "Thank you," she said.

She was a shy one. But that was all to the better.

"Did you want to leave him a message or anything?" she said, looking up now. "It'll be at least a couple of hours before anybody can get through to him."

"No need." He took another drag on the Morley and looked toward the bed. "I just wanted to see how he was doing. He seems to be in good hands." He turned back to her. "Tell him if there's anything he needs..."

"I will."

"Good. Then I'll see you later."

He nodded toward her and went to let himself out. At the door he turned. She was already absorbed in her needlework. Or perhaps she was intimidated by him. He had that effect on people, but in the end it was a good thing. It kept them honest.

 

 

"My apologies," Rita said. "You probably didn't need a hot lunch on a day like this."

"No. No, it's great." Mulder took another bite. "It's really good."

"I come over and do some cooking for Dale from time to time," she said. "Besides, Joe Charters has a reputation around here. Guess I appointed myself cheering squad to make sure you'd make it through."

Mulder put down his fork. "Actually, I think you saved me. If I'd had to see him one more time this morning I probably would have..." He bit his lip. "Do they still give you your paycheck if you assault the supervisor?" He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes briefly, then rested his head in his hands. "I want to make some progress on this thing and god knows I need to for Scully's sake."

"I had a mail from her this morning."

"About the body?" He looked up.

Rita nodded.

"So what do you think?"

"David is... we've known David--Dale and I--since he was a kid. His father was a good friend of my husband's. David went away to college--didn't get caught up in the fervor to just up and go to work at the plant... though he's always been a farmer at heart. He really wanted to keep that place going on its own, but small family-run operations just don't make it too often in this day and age." She sighed and continued. "But between having to go back to a city job and what's happened to Heather, he's just had a lot more on his plate lately than any one man deserves." She looked up at him. "But I think you can count on him. He won't give you away. Though I'd be careful about how you go about digging up Ron's body. Heather hovers around that spot like a guardian."

Mulder pursed his lips. "Then we'll need someplace Annie can do an autopsy.. Or at least some equipment. Moving the body out--sending her with it--could be a lot harder."

"And attract a lot more attention." Rita nodded. "Our family doctor's a very close friend. He's seen a number of these cases like Bob's and Andy's and he's had his suspicions. My guess is I can get him to find us whatever Annie's going to need. I'll work on that."

"Just be careful, Rita. I--"

"Ben, I know these people. I've known 'em all my life. And I can't just turn my head the other way at this point and say nothing's going on here."

"I know." He bit his lip. "Are you going to write back to Annie or do you want me to? I can tell her--"

"Have you been up there?"

"Two days ago Dale had me haul some hay up there, so yeah, I was up there for a little while." Not nearly long enough. He looked away, out the window. The expanse of lawn outside was bright in the midday glare. A decorative windmill turned lazily and finally stopped. He could still feel her--them--pressed up against that tree on the way to where he'd parked the truck.

"Maybe it'd be a good thing for you to go up again," Rita said. "Annie... well, she seemed a little lost when she was at my place the other day, different from the way she was when I met her that first time." She paused. "Did something happened, Ben, besides the fact that you two are on the run?"

He looked down, to the pattern of the wood grain on the table, and ran a finger along it.

"Yeah. Yeah, it did. She's really an incredible person--an amazing partner--but she tries to carry the whole world on her shoulders and you can only do that for so long." The windmill began to turn again.

"I have some baking I'm doing," Rita said. "I'll have some things I'd like taken up there. What time does your shift start in the morning?"

"8:30."

"Now, see, David gets going around six. If you were there then, you could talk to him yourself for a minute or two, and then you'd have some time with Annie." Was that a knowing look on her face? "And nobody pays as much attention to people going out early in the morning as they do to people staying out late at night."

A smile escaped him. He picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth with it, but she'd caught him--caught something, anyway. She looked away and stood up.

"It's that personal touch that keeps us going," she said, walking to the window, her back to him now. "In the end our big crusades, whatever they are..." She stopped a moment. "They don't amount to much without somebody to share them with."

She paused with a hand against the glass and looked down. A clock ticked its beat into the sudden quiet. Mulder pushed his chair back and stood.

"I think a lot of us are helping each other here. If there's some kind of evidence on Ron's body, Scully will find it. I know it's not going to bring your son back..." He came up behind her. "But it could stop this whole cycle--keep it from happening to anybody else. And if it does, that's your doing. You weren't content to just walk away."

"You just take good care of that partner of yours."

He nodded. "I will."

 

 

"Hey, Will. You okay, man?"

Manny came up behind his partner's desk. Will's head was down, pillowed on his arms.

"Yeah, I just..." He sat up. "I don't know. I was okay this morning, and then a little while ago--" He shook his head. "Feels kinda like the flu."

"It's not even flu season."

He looked up at Manny and shrugged. "Stranger things have happened. I figured I'd just take a few minutes but I'm not sure it's helped much."

"There's that dude to interview--the snitch. You want me to catch that one?"

"No, man, I'll come. Just give me a minute." Will stood and grimaced. "Give me two or three. I'll meet you at the car."

 

 

Krycek came awake gradually, the room absolutely still around him. The pain was gone. His body was weak, worn, but there wasn't a trace of the pain. He stretched, testing his muscles. Still okay. Slowly he let his body relax, let his focus switch to the long finger of sunlight that stretched across the bed and crossed his cheek, warm and penetrating. The sheets smelled good from whatever she'd washed them in.

It was nearly four o'clock and small shafts of sunlight were streaming through the leaves on the tree outside the window. He glanced across the room. Tracy had obviously fallen asleep in the recliner, her head tilted to one side. He frowned. It would be too easy for the old man to walk in on a cozy little scene like this. Maybe he'd just think she'd dozed off because she was pregnant, but you couldn't count on it. Making assumptions about how the old man would interpret anything was risky at best. Krycek glanced toward the refrigerator. Hunger had dug a little pit in his stomach. He hadn't eaten a thing all day--wouldn't have been able to keep it down before, anyway.

Easing himself to the edge of the bed, he reached for the cane in the holder and paused. No, not this time. Carefully he stood and started for the bathroom without it. A new cup sat on the sink, yellow plastic, functional. Not a bad cup. Actually, pretty decent as cups went.

When he came out again, she was still asleep. He made his way to the desk chair and stood watching her. One hand sat beside her belly. She had that glow, the one they talked about, but maybe it was just her. Maybe she always looked this way. A momentary blip of movement nudged her thumb.

He shook his head: life struggling to assert itself, the way he had himself once, not knowing what the world outside his mother's womb would hold. But for what? How much time would the kid have? How much time would Tracy have? If only Marita hadn't run off with the fucking kid. It wasn't just herself she'd sold out, it was the whole damn world--the plan she'd devoted years to, the only viable way he'd seen to fight the coming invasion. The old men hadn't grasped the fact that you were going to need numbers, that nobody was going to survive without a big pool of survivors immune to the oil. Turning yourself into a hybrid clone, hybrid slave--what kind of salvation was that?

Marita was the one who'd understood. She'd also understood about dealing with the aliens. Even the Brit hadn't bought it fully: that you couldn't throw in with either side--couldn't count on either group, colonists or rebels, to save you because in the end both were too powerful. Whichever group got the upper hand was going to end up squashing humanity like a bug on a windshield. The only thing that made sense was to play one side against the other, get their focus off you, keep their fight as balanced as you could. And hope they'd kill each other off.

Marita had known that. But then she'd gotten on that freighter, lured him away for a quick lay and taken off with the boy. What did she think she was going to gain beyond the salvation her plan would already bring? Or had he given her some sign that he couldn't be trusted?  It had been a crazy time--crazy pressure--their possibilities shooting upward like a rocket until... The Brit had tried to get to her in the labs where they were keeping her, but she'd been too sick to talk, maybe even to remember.

Whatever her reasons for doing what she did, though, they didn't change the situation in front of him now. Tracy needed a plan, security... however much of one he could come up with. Without giving it a try, she'd have no chance at all.

Her arms came up suddenly, crossed and hugged her shoulders. One eye opened.

"Hey, sleepyhead," he said.

She looked at him a moment. A smile spread across her face. "You're doing better."

"Yeah, I feel like"--he shrugged--"like somebody finally gave up and stopped torturing me. But you"--he nodded at her--"you've got to be careful, falling asleep here. He could come by again."

She pulled the chair back upright. "He did come, Alex. About an hour after you took the pill. It seemed like he just wanted to know how you were doing. He seemed satisfied with everything."

She leaned to one side, past the arm of the chair. A manila envelope lay on the floor. She reached toward it and picked it up.

"He left me some money and I forgot all about it." She slid a finger under the flap, opened it and froze. "Oh, my--" She clutched the envelope rigidly in one hand. Her fingers slipped inside the envelope and slowly walked their way through the bills.

"Looks like you hit the jackpot," he said, pulling out the desk chair and sitting down.

"There's... twelve hundred dollars here." Her mouth was open.

"Maybe you can afford something else to wear now."

She shook her head slowly, still half-dazed. "If I did that, every time I wore it I'd think about it being his money." She shook her head. "I don't think I can."

"Then take some of mine."

"Alex--"

"You do have a fault, you know. You're hard to give to." He gave her a look.

The corners of her mouth twitched. She half-smiled and nodded, then looked down at the envelope in her lap. "Sorry." She paused. "Alex, I don't even know what... I've never had money like this before."

"You're going to need it. We'll put it in a bank account. Something you can access at an ATM, so you'll be able to get to it no matter where you are."

She was working her way through the bills again. Something inside him caught, a bubble of air or pressure.

"But Alex, I can't open an account. I don't have any ID."

"No problem. I know this guy. He'll take care of it."

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: thelark@

Dear Nightingale,

Our widow received her husband's death certificate today. There was a notation on it that made us dig further. Evidently a tox screen revealed an LSD-like substance in his system at time of death. S is positive he didn't use drugs, though he sometimes drank enough to worry her. If it was slipped to him along with the proper suggestions or insinuations, it could have been the motivator for the hit-and-run incident. S is devastated by the possible manipulation, though her dad arrived unexpectedly late last night and is with her. He seems to be a very soothing presence for her, for which I am grateful.

I have yet to hear from Rita re our offer of a subject. Hope your day at work was an improvement over yesterday. Puts doing background checks in a whole new light... though I don't mean that facetiously or to downplay your efforts in any way. Actually I think I'm just leaning over the balcony and pining away, a strange feeling for me. I'll try to keep focused on what needs to be done here as both our experiences have demonstrated that time is of the essence. There must be something more I can find on the Net if I just keep looking.

A good evening (or morning) to you--whenever you get this. Nights are dark and quiet around here and I've fallen into the habit of going to bed early. I can't seem to lie down here and close my eyes without thinking of you... though I'm far from complaining. I keep repeating that we're both in the same town and will intersect again; it can't possibly take as long as it seems.

                                                                                         -Your Lark

 

 

To: thelark@

From: DaddyW@

Dear Lark,

I'm still alive, though by outward indicators just barely, after another day of territorial skirmishing with Napoleon. Had nearly given up and drowned when our friendly local Fairy Godmother appeared with an offer of homemade lunch and sanity. She said you can count on your source and that she'd see about arranging for you to get the necessary equipment; it would have to be done where you are for minimum exposure. Let me know if you think you can work under those conditions.

Your tox screen information makes sense. Guy probably didn't even know why he was doing what he did, as I unfortunately know from experience.

You continue, as you have been, to be what keeps me going. Don't let your light fade; with a little luck I'll find my way to your doorstep sometime soon. Thinking of you--always.

                                                                                             -Yours

 

 

Will rolled to the side and opened his eyes. His head throbbed. Every part of him ached. Home--he'd managed to get himself here, sat down on the couch and stretched out for a minute while his e-mail program checked for new mail. After that he remembered nothing.

He looked across the room, at the clock on the VCR. 10:18. Three hours and it hadn't made him any better. He shivered as he sat up.

Ralph stirred from his place under the coffee table and came to sniff at Will's knee.

"Hey, Ralph Man."

He held a hand out and stroked the dog's head. Ralph licked him in reply and Will shivered again. He'd barely made it through the interview with their informant, Manny taking over most of the questioning while he sat in the background wishing he were home in bed. Bed sounded like a damn good thing at the moment.

Will pulled himself to the edge of the couch and glanced at the laptop. Two new messages were listed on the screen. He leaned forward and clicked on the first one. It was from Mulder, thanking him for the alert, hoping he'd be wrong. They were working on something, he and Scully, though he wasn't at liberty to say what. They were still safe--for the time being. It was a day-to-day kind of thing.

He clicked on the second mail. Maggie. He brightened in spite of himself.

To: heron3@

From: dresswhites@

Sorry to postpone our wallpapering project for the weekend but I woke up this morning not feeling well at all. I know it's not flu season but it feels like that--hopefully nothing worse. I'll let you know when I'm ready to tackle those walls again, and thanks as always for the help you've given me. I so appreciate all of it.

Will swallowed.

It could just be the flu. But what kind of wishful thinking was that? How likely was it that, out of flu season, they'd both come down sick with it at the same time? Exactly the same time. If he'd wanted to throw himself up as a shield between Maggie and the baddies, he'd half-succeeded. He'd caught the bullet but it had passed right on through--through both of them. Which meant it wasn't likely the flu at all.

So what was it?

Three people were dead in Kentucky because they'd gotten in the Cancer Man's way, and Mulder and Scully were on the run, living underground somewhere and looking over their shoulders, and he and Maggie...

Will swallowed. He could see Rita wagging her finger, admonishing him to be careful.

His stomach tightened. So how much time did they have? A week or a month? Just days? He leaned forward, over his queasy stomach, and forced himself to type. He had no phone number, but they seemed like the types to keep on top of their e-mail. Hopefully they did. Will's fingers stumbled across the keys.

To: Redwall@

From: heron3@

You have a doctor in the house? I think the old guy is on the move against Ben and Annie and I may have gotten in the way, along with Annie's mom. E-me ASAP. We may have little time.

He hit 'send' and lay his head back against the couch cushions. Ralph crawled up and sat down beside him. Will smoothed a hand over the spaniel's coat. His hand was shaking; he had the chills and who knew what else. Somewhere deep inside it was there again--the fear that had lain dormant since he'd climbed those front steps as a child and seen the red streaks Uncle Rodney's efforts hadn't completely washed away.

Chapter 11

Friday

 

She was in her own room, in her own apartment. In her own bed. An angular stream of warm morning light filtered through the window. Scully pulled up to check the time but the clock was gone from its accustomed spot and what day was it?  It must be a weekend or she'd never be lying here this late. She lay back down again, eyes wide open, puzzling. The bed seemed oddly empty, though it had never felt that way before. 

What day was it? What had she been doing yesterday?

She'd picked up Mulder at the airport, that was it. Midnight, and... It had been strange, strange and unutterably sad, though she didn't feel the sadness now in the same way; it sat at a distance, like looming fog. He'd stayed over; he was out there on the couch. She sat up, ran her hands through her hair, went to the closet for her robe and put it on, tying the belt on the way to the living room.  But the room was empty, the couch undisturbed, every cushion in place. She looked around. There was no sign that anyone at all had been there.

"Mulder?"

Her only answer was silence.

From the window she could see her car parked across the street.  He'd come on foot; he'd been running. He'd had to move out of his apartment; she'd gone there and found it empty. It had shaken her, finding him gone that way, never having realized his circumstances were so critical.

Something tickled the side of her face next to her ear. She twitched.

There was a voice, muffled. A pause and then it came again, clearer this time.

"Scully--"

She turned around. The room was empty but she could sense him somehow. She'd seen her father, too, after he'd died, and what did it mean?

"Scully."

The warm breathing against her neck made her shiver.

Her breath caught, a soft jolt of adrenaline went through her and her eyes came open. The trailer ceiling spread above her with its brown wood grain panels and ribs of molding. Tree branches glowed quietly outside the window, lit by early morning light. Mulder's face was over her; he was lying beside her. A smile started slowly across his face.

"Hey, Scully," he said softly.

She struggled to focus on him. He was propped up on one elbow, half-tangled around her, or was it the other way around? His skin was warm.

"Mulder--"

"Welcome to the balcony, Scully."

"Mulder, how--?" She paused. "Why didn't you--?"

"Let you know I was coming? Because I figured then you'd probably be like me and not get any sleep at all." He grinned.

She pulled a hand from under the covers and traced his face: softness, strong contours, stubble, smooth skin. He was really here, no mere dream-image. The corners of her mouth pulled up into a smile. Her hand came to rest against his neck. Under her fingertips his pulse beat a quiet, steady rhythm.

"Mulder, how much time...?"

"Couple of hours," he said. Long enough. Never long enough but for now, long enough.

His smile came closer, mouth capturing hers in warm, damp greeting. Surrender, it said. She went willingly.

 

 

Will woke to the wetness of Ralph's nose. He reached out to pet the dog's head, but the cold air against his arm made him shiver.

"Hey, Ralph Man."

His voice was dry and strained. Hopefully whatever he had wasn't communicable to dogs.

Beneath his skull sat a headache the size of Detroit. So far it didn't seem any better than yesterday but it wasn't any worse, either. He sat up slowly, pulled the tartan from the end of the bed and wrapped it around himself. He needed to take his temperature and call Byers. Last night Byers had given him a number to be used in emergencies. E-mails every four hours, phone if necessary. If they didn't hear from him within a six-hour period, somebody would come around to check up. Byers had come by last night and taken a throat culture, but his symptoms had been--still were--too general to suggest anything beyond the flu. 

It could still be just the flu.

Will sighed. Byers could have acted like he was some crazy paranoid, but the Gunmen were already on the lookout for signs like this, predisposed to believe in conspiracies, and certainly they were loyal to Mulder and Scully. Byers had taken him seriously enough, though they'd agreed not to say anything to Mulder yet. Certainly not to Scully. Not until they were certain and telling her was unavoidable. Later in the morning Byers would drop by Maggie's and check on her, hopefully without arousing her suspicion.

Will crawled carefully off the bed, went into the bathroom to take his temperature and then out to the kitchen to put food in Ralph's dish. At least one of them had an appetite. He opened the refrigerator door and stared in, but it only made his stomach turn. He checked the freezer. A single can of frozen orange juice. He took it out and set it on the counter to thaw. Ralph looked up from his breakfast and gave Will a wary eye. He always knew when something was up, Ralph did.

Will made his way to the living room and his laptop on the coffee table. He sat down and pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders, moved the mouse and waited for the screen to brighten.

To: Redwall@

From: heron3@

Regular check-in. Fever's at 103, headache, chills, nausea. No other symptoms. Back at you later.

He hit 'send' and ran his hands back into his hair. As he was about to lie down on the couch a knock came on the door. It had to be Manny. Manny always knocked even when there was a doorbell.

"Will, you in there?"

"Yeah, hold on."  He grimaced and got up from the couch, the effort echoing loudly through his head. He made his way carefully to the door and worked the lock. The handle turned and Manny's face appeared.

"You don't look so good, old man."

"What, not only do I feel crappy but I've aged, too?" Will attempted a smile and rested his head against the edge of the door. "I'd let you in but I don't want to infect you and have you take it home to Cynthia and the champ-to-be."

"You call in sick?"

"Not yet. I was about to."

Manny nodded at him. "Get yourself some rest, Will. I'll keep you posted." He brightened. "Got another interview to do, that guy Tyrone that Old Squeally gave us yesterday. I think we're starting to line our ducks up. Not gonna be long now."

"Go for it, man."

"You know I will. You get yourself back in bed now and get over this thing. I need you out here in the ring."

Will watched Manny turn and hurry down the stairs.  He closed the door and leaned against it. Maybe he was crazy. When had he ever felt like this and thought it was a conspiracy before? But there was no denying what had happened in Kentucky. No denying what had happened to Mulder and Scully and he'd seen Krycek and the old guy--the Smoking Man.

It was like a dream-world, a crazy nightmare thing. Waking up would be nice. But it wasn't likely to happen. Like it or not, this was as awake as he was likely to get and he'd just have to see his way through it.

 

 

Mulder closed his eyes and felt a thin seal of wetness where his lids came together. He smoothed a hand through Scully's hair.

"You okay?"

Her cheek moved away from its place against his chest; he could feel her looking at him now. "Perfect." She sucked in a ragged breath and burrowed back against his neck. "It was..." There was moisture where the corner of her eye touched him.

He bit his lip and pulled her closer. A kind of padded quiet filled the trailer. Outside, leaves murmured slightly as they moved overhead. He focused on the pattern of her breathing against him, in-and-out, soft pressure and release.

His mouth opened but no words came.  There were no words. He let his lips rest against her forehead. She was here; her arms were hard around him. Who knew what had brought it on? There'd just been this suspension, a moment out of time and the sudden overwhelming need to be one in every sense of the word that had left them both in tears. Not just the earth that had moved but sky and stars.

Mulder smiled. The bed was warm. They were warm in it together and that was all that mattered; it was everything.  Gradually he felt himself slacken, muscles beginning to loosen, thin whiteness rising at the edges of his mind. He let it come.

"Mulder, you're starting to drift."  She was moving back now, out of his grasp, past him, higher on the pillows. Cool air flooded the space between them and then he was being drawn into the welcome of her arms.  "Get some sleep. I'll wake you."

"But--"

Soft lips went against his forehead. "Get some sleep."

He let his cheek rest against her breast, her body all curve and softness against him. It was coming, unconsciousness, and he was warm and sated and she was here. How could he have asked for more?

 

 

To: meremaid@

From: heron3@

Dear Mother J--

This is a cautionary tale, I think, though I could be wrong and I'd be delighted to admit to it if that were the case. I've kept an iron in the fire, as it were, on this matter with Ben and Annie, and it occurred to me that the mastermind behind all this tragedy will not likely leave them alone, but will try to flush them out of the woodwork.  This led me to the conclusion that some move might be made against Annie's mother in an effort to draw her out and away from Ben, thereby enabling the enemy to divide and conquer. It was speculation but I thought it worth the effort to keep an eye on Annie's mother, which I have done. However, we both fell ill yesterday. It appears to be just the flu at this point but the coincidence of the time and circumstances has given me a jolt of perspective I'm not sure I was ready for. I feel like one of those poisoned characters in a Shakespeare play, suddenly full of recognition but painfully aware that said recognition has come too late. I'm not trying to dramatize here, but please be careful how you pursue your cause, both for your sake and for the sake of your granddaughter who needs you whole and present with her.

As we know, this man does not play a small-stakes game, so I have contemplated the worst. I wish I could say I knew for sure I've done the right thing, or that the sacrifice I may be called on to make is the right one and that I'm ready to make it; the theoretical can be so indistinct in comparison to the stark clarity of now-you-have-done-it, a little like that first inch of the downhill plunge on a roller coaster. I'm not asking for sympathy here, but as you and I have traveled some distance together, any perspective you may have would be appreciated, and I offer myself as a cautionary example. Please be careful. People depend upon you.

Thanking you for your past support--

                                               -Will

 

 

"Trash cans have been pretty slim pickings," Mulder said with a frown as he zipped his jeans. He bent to reach for his T-shirt beside the bed. "But I did determine that  we've got two camps in this place: the people who see hazards and the ones who figure if you took the job, you should cowboy up and shoulder the risk." He glanced at his watch and sighed. "Well, Scully, Napoleon calls."

"Will you be okay?" She pushed back the desk chair.

"I'll think of you while I mop and scrub." He raised one eyebrow. "Hey, did I tell you I've got my own toilet brush?"

She gave him a dubious look.

"Anyway," he said more softly. "When Rita gets your equipment, you're going to need a hand digging up that grave. I'll be back."

He came around the bed and put an arm around her. She tried to smile.

"It's a start, Scully. I'm on the inside now and you've got a body for us to examine."

"David may come up with something," she said, trying to be hopeful. "He's going to check through the company financial records if he can get to them." She sighed and looked down, then let her cheek rest against his chest. "Mulder, I've been making a conscious effort to stop saying I'm okay when I'm not, but--" She looked up. "If I'm not strong, if I'm not on top of things, then what do I add to this investigation? Or to you?" Her lips pressed together. One corner of her mouth twitched.

He shook his head. "Scully, everybody's got their doubts, has times when... when they can't figure out what the truth is, or they lose their faith, their direction. But it passes. But's something you go through, it's not you." He cupped her face. "You know I wouldn't be anywhere--anywhere--right now if it weren't for you. You will add something valuable to this investigation. And if at any time you think we shouldn't be here, that we should get away, or... or go somewhere else, do something else--anything... Just say the word, Scully, and we're out of here."

He brushed a kiss against her lips and turned to go. "Write to me, Scully. I'll be there. I won't go staying out late like the other night."

"Mulder--"

"What?"

"Nothing. I love you." She slipped her arms around him again and burrowed her head against his chest.

"Then I'm the luckiest son of a bitch who was ever thrown out of the Bureau."

She hugged him hard, then stepped back and smiled. "Go, Mulder. Go do what you have to do."

She opened the door, let him out and then closed it again. Eyes closed, she leaned against the wall. It was still with her, that fragile moment of transcendence they'd shared. Beauty in the midst of all this. It had to be a sign, a promise. 

After a moment she opened her eyes and looked around. The light had grown stark, brighter; it was after eight and she hadn't showered,  the bed was unmade, her hair needed washing...

A knock sounded on the door. 

"Annie?" It was Sandy's voice.

Scully ran her hands back through her hair and reached for the pair of jeans laid over the back of the desk chair. "Just a minute." She pulled them up, zipped and snapped them, pulled up the bed covers and opened the door. Sandy and her father stood outside.

"Sorry to come by this early," Sandy said. She wore a glow Scully hadn't seen on her before. "My dad's got to leave but I wondered if you could show us about that e-mail thing? So we can keep in touch?"

Scully paused, then smiled. "Sure. Come in."

She opened the screen door and Sandy and her father stepped up into the trailer. It wasn't a class at Quantico, but it was someone who needed her help, and that was a start.

 

 

"Make sure you get what you need this time," Krycek said, adding a mild frown for emphasis.

Tracy looked back at him from the half-open door, pursed her lips and nodded solemnly. "Okay."

She went out and locked the door behind her. Footsteps echoed on the stairs and then faded away.  Krycek reached for the handle on the recliner and let the back down. The dynamics of their little dance were changing. He was getting stronger. The pain wasn't as bad and he could do more for himself.  And Tracy... Tracy'd gotten quiet.  Maybe it was just the thought of the end coming, of having to move on, her next step still a big question mark.  But better to face reality head-on. Otherwise it jumped you and you had no chance against it at all.  Still, there was something about her quietness, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

He reached for the bean bag on the desk. She'd stitched it from a square of fabric she'd gotten from the Central American store and filled it with rice she'd bought in bulk for a dime at the little foreign grocery down the block. He shook his head. The money the old man had given her would go far. 

Absently, he squeezed the bag, letting the rice grains inside slip past his fingers. A toy. She'd made him a toy. To help him get his strength back, she'd said, though she knew the kinds of things he used his strength for. So they'd played catch, her in the recliner, him on the bed, the bag rifling back and forth through the air. She wasn't bad. She didn't throw like a girl; she threw straight and put some power behind it. Said she'd played second base once. She had that look on her face when she said it, lively like the time she'd first come back with the yellow dress, as if some string that bound her had been unloosed. Then eventually the smiles and the laughter had quieted and it had come over her again, whatever it was. Something in her head had her cornered.

Maybe her mother. She'd said the other night that she'd been with her mother when she died, and it wasn't until this morning that he'd considered what that actually meant: that she'd probably gone through every thought, every feeling, every sensation. It was obviously still raw inside her, and how easily it must have been brought back to the surface when he'd had the reaction. If that's what endings meant to her...

She was just a girl after all, a kid. She hadn't been raised in a Soviet orphanage or trained to be a soldier, hardened and polished to let the world slide off. To make life slide off without having it affect you.

Maybe there was a way to help break her out of it, or break away. A change of scenery and routine that might do them both good.

 

 

To: TinMan@

From: heron3@

Just a footnote to our conversation of the other evening. I've been keeping an eye on Annie's mom; both of us came down yesterday with what appears at this point to be a flu-like illness. Could be coincidence but I suspect something more. I've called in sick as per regulations, but if this turns out badly, please look into it.

 

 

Will took the thermometer from his mouth and leaned against the bathroom wall. He closed his eyes. Tired of looking in the mirror, tired of watching the symptoms...just tired. Maybe he'd acted like a fool. Maybe he was nothing more than a coward in the end, trapped in something he'd had no real grasp of until it had overtaken him. Had to send a report to the Gunmen if he could make it to the living room but how smart was it, staying here alone? No telling how fast this thing would progress; it was like being a crash test dummy, the wall coming at you but not at any speed you could determine. The degree of courage those folks had shown, Dr. King and the others, walking out there into every protest, every march, knowing exactly what could happen, and still they hadn't flinched or faltered.

He made himself stand and go to the door, then to the living room. Carefully he eased himself down onto the couch, covered himself with the tartan and moved the mouse. The screen brightened. He typed. His fever was up another degree; that told just about the whole story. He hit send and waited, shivering. Message out, one in. He coughed. It was Byers, who'd stopped in to see Maggie. She was about the same as he was; when she'd asked about him, Byers had had his cover story ready, that Will had been called out of town on assignment and had sent Byers in his stead. Lying to her--the mere thought of lying to her...He could see his mother looking down at him, shaking a finger. But telling her the truth held even less appeal, trying to explain that she'd been drawn into this shadow-life her daughter led as a pawn, a throwaway decoy to draw her child from safety into the dangerous spotlight of the Cancer Man's plans.

Go back to bed, Will Wilkins.

No determination, muscles drained of strength and groaning at the thought. Will eased himself down onto the cushions and pulled the blanket closer around him. It'd been a good six months since he'd seen his sister Leticia. Busy--it was the usual excuse--him with work, her with a five and a six-year-old. Usual excuse but not a very good one, not any better than that he'd been out in that empty field with Kareem Patterson hunting for giant grasshoppers while his mother was back home, bleeding her life away on the front porch. Hadn't remembered to tell her where he was going; it had just skipped his mind entirely. How many times had he gone back in his head, trying to change that one little detail?

He coughed again. He could see Rita frowning at him. He could see Maggie, lying in bed at home with no awareness at all of what was happening to her.

 

 

"Well, gentlemen, what do we have?"

Byers looked from Frohike to Langley and back to Frohike again.

"Rani was here about an hour ago," Langley said. "He said there was nothing he could tell from the specimen you got, that we'll have to wait for something more telltale to develop."

"By then it may be too late." Frohike slammed a fist on the desktop. "That bastard. Scully's more than paid her dues with this son of a bitch. Somebody should put a bullet through his twisted head."

"Easier said than done," Byers said, his tone even. "If there's one thing Mulder and Scully have learned, it's that there are consequences to dealing with this man." He paused. "But where does that leave us? Is he likely to infect them with something flamboyant?"

"Like the Ebola virus?"

Byers frowned at Langley's suggestion. "Does he intend to kill her? Or, for that matter, did he intend to infect both Scully's mother and Wilkins? If we can figure out his rationale, we might give ourselves--or Wilkins and Mrs. Scully--a head start."

"Exotic draws attention," Frohike said, and shrugged. "Is he likely to want attention?"

"If it looks like something the media would grab, it'd be all over the place," Langley said. "The CDC would have to get involved. They'd have to make an appearance at least, to make it look like they're on top of things..."

"In which case he'd be better off with something more...low key," Byers said quietly. "Something that might be...misdiagnosed, perhaps."

"Something non-contagious?" Frohike said. "An epidemic would draw a lot of attention."

"Not wildly contagious, anyway, I'd imagine."

"That'll help whoever's got to take care of them," Langley said. "If Wilkins is right about this thing, it's probably going to get a lot worse..."

"Which brings us back to the question of whether he intends to kill her or just make her sick enough to draw Scully out into the open..."

Byers looked at Frohike, who was leaning against the lab table. Langley's glasses reflected blue light from the computer screen.

"Anything that progresses too quickly isn't going to be worth it to him," Frohike said finally. "I mean, if Scully doesn't bite right away and her mother dies, all this is for nothing."

"Do you think that would stop him?" It was Langley.

Frohike shook his head. "Probably not."

"He certainly doesn't seem to put much value on individual human life," Byers said. "But he will want his plan to be effective. I say we're probably looking at something that can be controlled, or that doesn't develop so rapidly that it will prove useless to him in the end."

"What about whether he intended to infect Wilkins?" Langley said.

"Wilkins is pretty sure he's not been watched. As far as he knows, he hasn't been seen in any way that would connect him to her."

"But he's gone to her house..." Langley said.

"In disguise."

"So most likely," Frohike said, "that's where they were infected."

"Apparently," Byers said, "she'd invited him for dinner and he offered to help her take down some old wallpaper. He said he was there until ten or eleven."

"Wallpaper?" Frohike made a face. "That goes way beyond the call. Miles beyond throwing your cloak across a mud puddle for a beautiful damsel in distress. Of course, if it won me gold stars with Agent Scully..."

"I'm so sure." Langley rolled his eyes. "She'd just as soon kiss a frog as you."

Frohike shrugged. "It happens in fairy tales."

"Dream on."

"Gentlemen, I think--"

A phone on the workbench rang. Byers looked at Langley, who picked it up.

"Yeah..." He listened a moment, then put his hand over the receiver and held it out to Byers.

"It's Walter Skinner," he said.

 

 

Mulder slipped the mop into the wringer and pressed the water out. Lockers today--cleaning old personnel lockers and repainting them. Everything Joe'd had him do was away from other people, away from the action. Maybe Joe knew something or had something to hide... though Joe was the type who wasn't likely to have the ability to hide much of anything. He'd either boast, holding whatever he had over you, or he'd be stupid enough to trip up. No rocket scientist here.

Mulder ran his mop along the base of the row of lockers, wicking up the drips that had puddled in front of them. It was still drifting inside his head: the morning, he and Scully, the way she'd smiled when she'd opened her eyes and seen him and the way they'd been afterward, wrapped around each other, not sad but overwhelmed by something difficult to define. There were things he'd needed to tell her, ideas to run by her, but neither of them had been able or willing to break the silence, or spell, and she'd been right: he'd been dead tired and it had been worth it just to be able to fall asleep with her. There'd be the chance to e-mail tonight. And with Rita lobbying for equipment for Scully's autopsy, it wasn't likely to be long before there'd be another opportunity to go see her.

His mother's comments were still sitting in the back of his mind. Greedy. Of course Smoky was greedy. He wanted it all, he wanted to control the board--at least, from behind the scenes, like the Wizard of Oz. But if his dad had thought he'd been onto something significant, then he probably had been.

Greedy enough to get caught with his hand in the jar. But which jar?

 

 

"What do you think?" Tracy said, turning around once. She looked back at him in the recliner.

"Nice." It was a white dress, pretty much like the yellow one with multicolored embroidery at the top.

"It's a good thing for the hot weather, you know? Light colors and all." She pursed her lips. "Also not something to draw anybody's attention. They had this really beautiful red one--deep, deep red, almost the color of velvet. But I might as well be wearing a neon sign when I go out if I had that." She sighed. "The last thing either of us needs is someone noticing me. Anyway, my skin's probably too pale for red." She paused. "It was really pretty, though. But I do like this."

She glanced out the window and then at the bag of groceries on the table. "You hungry, Alex?"

He shrugged.

He watched her take the bag to the refrigerator and pause in front of it. "You want to get out of here?"

She turned around. She looked almost startled.

"I mean go somewhere. Out of D.C. If you're up for playing a little chauffer, that is."

"What?"

He shrugged. "Just figured a change of scenery might be nice. Something with trees instead of buildings. Something quiet without an audience. A chance to walk..."

"You have a car to use?"

"Yeah. Basic, but it runs." He pressed his lips together. "If you don't mind doing a little driving, that is."

"I don't have any insurance."

"Car's insured. Anyone who drives it's covered. Besides, you're a careful driver, right?"

She nodded and looked down. She stayed that way for a while, looking at the floor or at nothing. Who knew what she was thinking.

"Will you be okay?" she said, looking up.

"Seats recline.  It should be okay. We can bring the chair." He nodded toward it. Likely it would make her feel better about going.

"Okay. You want me to bring something to eat?"

"Nah. We can pick up something on the way."

She opened the refrigerator, set the food inside, closed it and turned around again. "What will you tell your father if he comes by and you aren't here?"

His mouth tightened. "I'll make up something. It's legitimate enough--getting a change of scenery. He knows I hate lying around. It'll make him feel like I'm making progress."

Not too much progress, though. He bit his lip. Tracy knew it, too. Just enough, not too much--not enough to rush things, to make the old man think she was dispensable now. It was too early for that.

 

 

"Dale?"

Rita's head appeared in the office doorway.

"What's up, sis?"

"Brought you some lunch," she said, coming in. There was a brown bag in her hand.

He glanced over his reading glasses at her, impassive. "Feels like a setup," he said. He waved her to a seat, finished jotting down some calculations and set the glasses aside. He gave her a look. "What's up, Rita?"

She held her breath for a moment and looked down. "Dale, I need to go somewhere," she said quietly. "There's something I need to do. Can you keep Bethy in the evenings for a few days?"

He leaned forward across the desk. "What're you up to, Rita?"

"I can't say, Dale. You're just going to have to trust me."

He pursed his lips. There wasn't much stopping her once she'd made up her mind to something.

"I need you to pinch-hit for me," she said. "I asked Jim Wykoff about that equipment Annie's going to be needing. He said he'd get something together, maybe tomorrow. Can you fill in for me?"

Dale got up, went to the door and shut it quietly. "They're going to be needing someone to help dig up that grave, I suppose," he said, coming back around the desk. "Bet they've never seen a one-armed man dig." He smiled momentarily and sat down again. "I imagine Ben'll want to be going up there, too."

"You see that he does."

"Rita..." He shook a finger at her in warning. "You've got that look in your eye."

"I don't think I'm imagining things, Dale. You'll see for yourself." She paused. "Bethy'll be at Jen's after school. Will you do it for me?"

Dale shook his head. "I don't know what it is but you're up to something, Rita May. You just watch out. You're the only sister I've got."

"I will. You know I will."

"I know you intend to. But sometimes reality's a different thing altogether."

"I know that, Dale."

He looked at her a long time. "Then Godspeed. But you be careful."

She nodded and got up. He watched her go to the door, open it and let herself out. Dale eased himself back farther into the chair. Sometimes there were things she had to do. He had no idea what they were all about, what it was that drove her sometimes. But he'd done the same from time to time. Twenty-some-odd years ago--no, it was thirty now--he'd had to rush out into the middle of crossfire to retrieve a kid sprawled across a dead man.

 

 

Sandy surfaced suddenly and swam to the ledge overhanging the pool.

"I see why your father calls you Otter," Scully said, shading her eyes from the midday brightness.

"I like the water," she said simply. "Always have. I have a spot near my house where I swim, but I like this, too. Hey, Adrie!"

Scully turned. Adrie was in the shadow of the trees, building something with sticks and bark.

"Don't you want to come in the water? Come on."

Adrie shook his head. "It's too deep there."

"The pool's deep. But if we come down the other side next time there's a nice shallow place... over there." Sandy pointed. "Like a bathtub, Adrie. Will you try it then?"

He looked at the rocks on the far bank. "Okay," he said.

"What about you, Annie?"

"A swimsuit's not anything I thought to bring."

"I can find you something. I don't usually wear one myself--not when I've got a private spot to swim, anyway. Water feels too good slipping past your skin to put clothes in the way of it." She held onto the broad rock in front of her and pulled herself out of the water. "I'm going to WalMart tonight anyway," she said. "I'll see if they have something that'll fit you."

She took a towel and rubbed at her hair with it. "Was that Ben we passed this morning on the trail? I noticed the truck parked up by the road."

Scully nodded.

"He's cute."

Scully blushed and looked toward the waterfall.

"What's he doing while you're up here?"

"Looking for leads, like I am. He got a job at the plant the other day." She smiled ruefully. "Maintenance. It's not exactly his area of expertise but--"

"Maintenance? Ohmigod."

"What?"

"You mean maintenance maintenance?"

"I think so. Why?"

"I feel sorry for him, then." Sandy shook her head. "Real sorry."

"Cleaning not your thing?"

"It's not that. It's Joe Charters. Oh, this is so weird." She looked across the water and back at Scully. "He's Ben's supervisor then, ain't he?"

"Mul--" Scully cleared her throat. "Ben did mention something about Joe."

"He's such a--" She shook her head and made a face. "I'm know I'm running off at the mouth here and I probably shouldn't. But Joe's such a pig. I should know, I guess." She shrugged. "He's my mom's boyfriend."

 

 

Mulder sat on the shady end of the picnic table, feet on the seat, head in hands. Painting was for... painters. It was one of those jobs that should come with a warning label. The last couple of hours had gone by, though, and with them his 2:30 break. No real percentage in leaving brushes and rollers to dry out while you took ten minutes, though, and Joe could easily have said 'miss your time, lose your break'. But by some stroke of fortune he hadn't. Maybe he was finally starting to crack.

Greed.

There had to be something to it. It had stuck with her all these years, one of those subconscious things, only to be brought back now, summoned by... She'd been thinking about him. She wanted to help and that in itself was still amazed him. He shook his head and looked up. Smoky never rushed but he'd rushed this time: to get Skinner out of the way, to pull Scully from doing the analysis. To get everybody away from the plant. The syndicate could easily be siphoning off a quantity of the beryllium produced here for experimental craft or whatever other pies they had their fingers in--defense...

Offense, more likely. How many uses could there be for a material lighter than aluminum and six times as strong as steel? It was a number only limited by the imagination.

But Smoky would have stayed on top of that. That part would have been organized, smooth, just another part of his day-to-day operations. If it were his beryllium operation that was in danger of being exposed by the investigation, it never would have gotten to first base. The investigation would've been quashed before it ever started. The haste... it had to be something else. Something more.

Mulder straightened, looked at his watch, pulled his legs up onto the tabletop and lay back. Sun glinted through the layered green canopy of the massive oak overhead. It had to be something more private, possibly with a more personal stake in it for Smoky himself.

"Hey, Hollywood. Got a match?"

Mulder pulled up slightly and squinted. A tow-headed man stood by the next table, a pack of cigarettes in his hand.

Mulder shrugged. "Sorry."

The man set the pack on the table top and dug into each pocket in turn, taking out money, folded papers, change. The pocket of his shirt held an inhaler. "Shit." He started to put the pocket contents away. "Can't believe I lost another lighter."

"Maybe a smoke's not what you need," Mulder said, nodding toward the inhaler.

"Hey, it's my life, California. Never know it, though, for all the advice I get. Judgment-free space around here's already been taken, apparently."

Mulder sat up. "You work in the other building?"

The man nodded. "Five years."

"And they hassle you over there so you come here to smoke?"

The man's eyebrows rose and he nodded. "You can add 'em up, alright, Hollywood." He stuffed the last of the money into his back pocket. "Say, who'd you piss off to get assigned to maintenance?"

"Just needed the money," Mulder said. "It's all they've got right now." He shrugged. "Gotta pay the rent somehow. Gotta live."

"Pay's better over there. Tow-Head nodded toward the assembly building. "Though some say you take your raise, you take your chances."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"There's stories--about the clean room. I don't put any stock in 'em. People got an excuse for everything these days. Always lookin' for someone to pin their miseries on." He shrugged. "Lawyers like it. Even had the FBI in here a couple of weeks ago."

"Looking for what?"

"Violations. Safety violations. So they say."

"FBI? Really?"

A sharp whistle came from the direction of the building.  Both men turned to look.  Joe stood in an open doorway. He pointed at Mulder and  indicated a spot beside him with an exaggerated, sweeping gesture and then repeated it.

Mulder shrugged. "Guess I gotta go learn how to heel." He eased himself off the table. "See you around."

Mulder started toward the building. Two minutes over his break time. Joe'd probably see to it that they docked his pay.

 

 

"It's a lot dif--" Tracy frowned and pressed her lips together. "I guess I already said that. My mom's truck was pretty big, I guess. I'm not used to sitting down this low."

She'd been nervous inside D.C., not used to the car and the amount of traffic, to the height... or its opposite. But since they'd hit the Parkway she was still sitting forward in the driver's seat like she was trying to see down over something. He set his jaw and looked out the window, watching treetops whiz by; they were all you could see at this angle. Maybe maybe wasn't such a great idea. Maybe it was the whole dynamic, just something in the one setting, in his room, his building, that made it work while out here they were Cinderella and a pumpkin on the roadside after midnight. He closed his eyes but he could feel it, probably something like she must feel when she read him: the squirming inside her, the conflict and whatever else it was that had had her since the night before.

Maybe he didn't want to be here, either. "You should have told me if you didn't want to come." He looked over at her.

"I thought you wanted to do this."

"I figured it would be a chance to walk, yeah, without an audience. I thought you'd like the trees, the chance to get out of town."

Her lower lip was quivering now.

"Look, Tracy, if you didn't want to, you should've said something. I'm not psychic. I can't just reach in there and pull it out of you."

"I'm supposed to be helping you, Alex. I thought you wanted to." She blinked, then blinked again.

"Not if you didn't want to do it. Look, you've got to learn to speak up for yourself. You can be so damn accommodating."

"Well, it's the way I am. I can't help it. Can you help being the way you are?"

Nice move, stupid. Tears were streaming down her face now and her knuckles were white where she gripped the steering wheel. He turned toward the window and raised the seat back several notches.

"Tracy, pull over. This is crazy. Just find a spot and pull over before--"

It was all going to hell. There was that familiar feeling, the realization you got when you were out of your depth, when you'd taken a wrong turn somewhere, picked the wrong target or scaled the wrong wall. You got that warning feeling and he had it now, a loud internal beeping like the alarm on a breached security fence.

She was pulling off into a grove. The car came to a stop and the driver's door opened. Tracy got out and ran. He sank back against the seat and closed his eyes. He wasn't made for this.

 

 

Mulder rolled his cleaning cart to the final set of lockers. They were dusty. Hell, they were tucked into a corner that probably hadn't been used in years by anything but spiders. Maybe it was just another exercise; maybe they had no intention of using them. He could just be cleaning them for the punishment value. Though Joe hadn't specifically said to go ahead with them today. But there were fifteen minutes left before freedom hit. Maybe showing some initiative would get you moved up the chore list sooner. Like over into the other building where there was bound to be more information to be found than here in the catacombs of the maintenance building.

He went along the row, lifting the latches on the lockers, upper then lower, upper and lower. An old baseball glove sat in one, stiff from what had to be at least a decade of non-use. He took it out. It was a small glove, made for a kid's hand or a girl's. Samantha'd had a glove. His mother had wondered, in that way mothers do when they let their opinions be known with their eyebrows, whether it was really what she wanted--a mother way of saying you can't really want that; it's not a girl thing. But Samantha had stuck to her guns. They'd played some catch back then; it was before they'd started to find themselves on opposite sides of the fence so often, something about the passage of time or development that sent you off in opposite, conflicting directions. It had hurt him more than it hurt her; she was just stretching herself after all, trying to define herself while he remembered the things she probably never would or could: the way he'd sheltered her when she was small, little Fox Junior Parent wrapping a symbolic blanket around her to protect her when the atmosphere at home got too icy.

Mulder took off the glove, tossed it into the trash bag on his cart and opened the next door. Spider webs. One of those little cardboard trays from inside a candy wrapper. He took the tray and dabbed it into the web, twisting the reluctant strands onto it like gray cotton candy.

The door to the final lower locker was stuck. He took a firmer stance and lifted until the latch and lock holes aligned. Inside were four cardboard boxes sealed with packing tape. New boxes. Mulder put his hand in his pocket and fingered his pocket knife. There was no way to cut into them without someone noticing and the packing tape would rip the top layer of the cardboard if he tried to replace it. He took his hand from his pocket, reached inside the locker and picked up the top box. Neither very heavy or very light. Lighter than a box filled with aluminum? He shook the box carefully. There was slight movement, contents thudding softly against the sides, everything inside it moving together. Or maybe it was just one item.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Mulder set the box inside quickly and moved back to the cleaning cart. Bottle of spray cleaner out, a squirt of light blue liquid on the first locker. Joe walked up behind him.

"No real point in you starting that now," he said. "You got four minutes. You can go get the trash from my office and dump it."

Mulder nodded. "No point starting a project," he echoed, keeping his voice even. He set the spray cleaner back in the tray on top of the cart and started toward the stairs.

"Make sure you wash the can out good after you dump it," Joe's voice came after him. "I like it clean."

Mulder pressed his lips together hard and let a mental picture of Scully block out Joe's chatter.

 

 

Krycek stepped slowly along a trail paved in a cushiony layer of brown--last year's leaves compacted and decaying. Everything overhead was green, but for some reason he saw fall in his mind, the trees hung in bright colors, the forest floor beneath them carpeted with layers of yellows and reds.

The car keys were in his pocket. Two weeks ago he might have just set himself behind the wheel and driven away. No, he would have, without a second thought. But it wasn't two weeks ago and things were different. Granted, making him take off after her didn't line up very well with her job description and she should have realized that. But she was a kid, for fuck's sake; she was confused like a kid.

Krycek leaned against a tree to rest and scanned the area. Lush greens and quiet, just not the kind he'd been hoping for. They were near the crest and the trail was only a gentle rise. She'd want that view--to be able to look out over the ridgelines. Slowly, he straightened and started off again, pacing himself. There was no point in calling out; it could just make her run farther, or faster.

Only a slight incline to the place where the trail leveled out, but what energy he'd had was fading fast, the combined result of the wound and two weeks of lying around doing nothing. Probably he could have gotten Mulder to give him the tape without jumping Scully from the closet. It was just the terror value of the act; it had become so second-nature that he never questioned it, but it had turned on him this time.

He started out again. At the top of the trail he stopped to pant against another tree, its bark rough against his cheek and temple. Three ridge lines spread across the horizon in pale shades of green and blue. His legs were beginning to shake. He closed his eyes, gripped the tree harder, then opened them again and glanced around him. There, off to the left of the trail: she was sitting in a small clearing, cross-legged, her back to him. But she'd know he was here.

Letting out a sigh, he pushed himself away from the tree, took several steps, paused and went forward again. He shouldn't have had to chase her like this. His legs were going to give out soon.

He could have waited for her in the car; she'd have had to come back sometime. And everything he'd said had come out wrong.

Pausing, he took a deep breath, then moved forward and came up behind her. Her head was down; her shoulders shook.

"Tracy."

She made no move to turn or acknowledge him.

"Tracy, look--" His anger spiked for a second. Then he saw her in the halo of the hall light, coming in that first night, rescuing him where he was stranded by the window. "Look, I..."

There was nothing close, nothing to lean on, but his legs weren't going to hold out much longer. He set his jaw and eased himself down to his knees. She was close enough that he could almost feel the warmth of her body.

"I didn't mean--" He took a deep breath. "It came out all wrong, everything... back there. Didn't mean... didn't want to... do this, make you feel this way."

She sat up straighter and let out a ragged breath. "I ran, Alex." She choked on a sob. "She was dying and I couldn't take it. I ran as far and as fast"--she gulped air--"as I could, and I... left her... all alone." She curled forward and shook.

He breathed out slowly. "Your mom?"

She nodded.

"Tracy-- hey." He put his hand on her shoulder. "Tracy, she wouldn't have wanted you to know that, not the way you are. It scared the hell out of me, when I had that reaction, thinking you'd... that you'd feel that, that you might get pulled into it, have it affect you. All I could think was... besides I might die and what a stupid, pointless way to go... was to keep you away. Away from that."

"I know." She breathed out, a long, jerky breath. "I heard you, Alex."

"She wouldn't want that for you. Nobody'd want that for you. She was your mother, Tracy. That's the last thing..."

He pulled gently on her shoulder until she leaned back against him. He put his good arm around her and let her cry.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: thelark@

Chalk up another point for the inbred town. I found out today that Napoleon is S's mother's boyfriend. S is anything but close to her, however. It's possible her mother's choice of boyfriend may speak to why she and S are not on good terms, though this is speculation on my part.

I've determined the location of our potential specimen. The spot is not far from the house, so care will have to be exercised to keep mother and son from noticing lights and activity if this is undertaken at night. I've heard nothing further yet regarding necessary equipment. Let me know if anyone has mentioned anything to you.

Thank you beyond words for your gift of yourself this morning. I've carried it with me all day. Quite an amazing balcony, this.

                                                   -Your Lark

 

 

To: thelark@

From: DaddyW@

Dear Lark,

Amazing how things/people are connected in this place. Thanks for the tip. I suppose from S's reaction that she's not likely to spill the beans, which is a good thing. Ran across a guy at work who may be a live candidate--smoker with an inhaler who's determined not to quit. Made some veiled references to people who work in the clean room taking their chances for better pay, so I thought he might work over there. I'll see what I can find out.

Another puzzle, potentially something: discovered four brand new sealed cardboard boxes, unlabeled, in an old locker in the far corner of the basement--a set of lockers that seems not to have been used in years. Didn't have a chance to check out the contents before you-know-who happened along. Banish that man to St. Helena, or the Sahara, or maybe Mongolia; let him spend the rest of his life sitting in a yurt.

I'll try to break this to you as gently as I can, Lark, but a new woman's come into my life. Fairy Godmother has flown off for a few days and left B with Uncle D and me. She's so unlike anything Samantha ever was, quiet and soft-spoken and likes to curl up against you and read. I think I understand some of what she feels, but it's nothing you can put into words and she seems to derive whatever it is she needs by just sitting there tucked up against you. I let her read me a whole chapter of Little House on the Prairie tonight. Amazing what people lived through in those days, and we think we've got it tough.

Growing more jealous of those pillows of yours every day. Just realized what a really poor substitute mine is for the one I was using this morning. Maybe we should introduce our pillows to each other and they can go off and be happy together while we... Did I mention Uncle D said tomorrow's the night? Though I suppose we'll have to act like a couple of professionals. (Guess you can't have everything, but you can knock yourself out trying just on the outside chance.)

Stuck here on a Friday night singing out for you...

                                                        - The Nightingale

 

 

Skinner parked his car and turned off the ignition.

"You know, I can't advise that you do this," he said, looking sternly toward the passenger seat. "We don't know what this illness--this disease--is yet, whether it's contagious, what it may develop into." The corner of his mouth twitched.

"But your best guess--all your huddling with those other fellows--is that it most likely isn't contagious."

"It's only a guess at this point, but we've got nothing--no medical evidence--to back that up." His lips pressed together; he paused. "Yes, it's our best guess, but nothing's certain yet, except that this man--the Cancer Man--is always three steps ahead of us. We can't assume we've got him cornered this time. Rita, I'd hate to see--"

"You're not going to convince me, Walter. You know that."

Skinner let out a sigh. "Yes, I know that."

"Well, then, let me know which one is his apartment, because that boy's bound to need some help and there's no reason he should be going through this alone."

"It's my duty to--"

"Stop it, Walter. I know when I'm taking a chance." She paused. "Now you've got a kid up there--a good kid and probably a scared kid--who could use some assistance."

Skinner stared out at the darkened street and tapped his thumbs against the steering wheel. "Alright," he said. He opened the door and got out. "But I'm doing this against my better judgment."

She opened her door and followed suit. "Better judgment isn't everything."

He scowled at her over the top of the car at her. "What did you say?"

"Nothing. Just talking to myself."

Rita picked up her overnight bag and followed Skinner along the darkened sidewalk, inside and up to #202 at the top of the stairs. Skinner rang the bell.

"He could be asleep," Skinner said. "He might not even notice the bell." He took a step back, then reached forward and rang the buzzer again. He looked up, at the hall light.

"Who is it?" came a muffled voice from inside.

"Skinner."

The latch turned and Will's head appeared in the doorway. His eyes were bloodshot and he was shivering. A blanket was pulled tight around his shoulders.

"How are you doing, Agent?"

Will grimaced. His hair was messy, puffier than usual. "I think I'm holding on, sir."

"I, uh... was railroaded into this." He nodded toward Rita, who stepped up the last few stairs into the light. "She insisted that I bring her over here."

Will closed his eyes and leaned his head against the edge of the door. "Mother J..."

"Nonsense, Will. This is no laughing matter. I may be as reckless as you, but you need help right now and I'm here. I can't just sit home and be satisfied thinking warm thoughts about you." She paused. "You're probably not very comfortable standing there. Why don't you go back to bed?"

Wilkins looked at Skinner.

"She drives a tough bargain," Skinner said.

"Guess I'm not in much of a position to argue at the moment," Will said. He looked at Rita. "Okay." He opened the door wider and let her in.

Rita turned to face Skinner. "No sense both of us taking chances here. I'll let you know how he's doing."

"Send me an e-mail," he said. "And be careful. Be as careful as you possibly can."

"I have every intention of it. Will"--she turned to him--"go make yourself comfortable. I'll take care of this."

Will nodded slightly and turned to go down the hall.

"I'll keep you posted, Walter. This has got to stop somewhere. It's gone far enough." She paused. "I need to go see what I can do for him now."

Skinner nodded, turned and started down the stairs. Rita locked the door, leaned against it, paused and then went to the doorway where she'd seen Will go in. He was lying in bed, shaking slightly. He looked up when he saw her.

"I'm not sure., he said.

"About?"

"About anything, Mother J." He looked up at the ceiling.

"How bad is the fever?" she said quietly.

"104 last time I checked." He turned toward her. "Guess I'm scared."

She came closer. "I am, too, Will. But there's two of us here now and we'll fight it together."

 

 

"Alex?"

Tracy stuck her head into the darkened room.

"Yeah."

"I just noticed you were awake still."

"Can't sleep, either?" He paused. "Come on."

She went in and shut the door. Taking the desk chair, she carried it to the bed and sat down on it sideways.

"So what's keeping you awake?" he said, looking up at her through the shadows.

"I don't know. Just thinking. Lots of things, I guess. About what you said... I guess I just wanted to be there for her, to be everything she needed, and it's hard to take, knowing that you fall short." She shifted on the chair.

"Yeah, but... Tracy, you've gotta give yourself room to grow. Sometimes you only learn from your mistakes." A pause. He almost laughed. "Like me. I could've skipped this whole crazy scenario, this bullet, if I'd just understood."

"Understood what?"

"That Scully'd take a chance like that. That she'd do anything to save him. Why anybody'd do that." He let out a sigh. "I think I get it now. Still, pretty damn expensive lesson."

Tracy leaned against the chair back beside her and stared at the leaves in the narrow window.  Suddenly she snickered. Quickly she cupped a hand over her mouth.

"What?"

"Oh, god. I'm sorry, Alex--"

"What? Spit it out." His voice softened. "Come on. You've got to learn to say what you think. A lot of people out there are going to walk right over you if you don't speak out. Learn to do it for the kid. He's going to need an example."

She sighed. "You, Alex, when you..."

"When I couldn't get back on my feet out there?"

She made a half-successful attempt to stifle another laugh. "I'm sorry."

"Nah, don't be. It was kinda..." There was a momentary smile in his voice. "Did I mention these have been two of the most awkward weeks I've ever spent on this planet?"

"Alex, if you just could have seen, just been above yourself and looked down..."

"Felt like a beached ship.  And you out there playing Pippi Longstocking, trying to stand me up."

"Who?"

"Pippi Longstocking. The one in the kids' stories."

"Guess I never read them."

"You don't know them? I thought everybody did. Swedish stories. There's this girl and she... she lives in a house all by herself. Does whatever she wants--kid fantasy, huh? She's got this monkey and this horse, and these pigtails--braids--like the ones you were wearing the other day at the hospital, only they stick straight out to the sides. And she's strong; she can lift up her horse with one hand." A pause. "There was this one old woman--you know,where I grew up. She used to come and read us those books."

His voice faded into quiet.  Tracy shifted on her chair. "I didn't mean to wear you out like that," she said finally.  "Or make you overdo it. I'm really sorry about that."

"I'll live. I just... I feel like I scaled Mt. Everest instead of a little two-bit trail."

She rested her head on her arm. Quiet filled the room once more.

"Alex?"

"Yeah."

She sighed.

"What?"

She took a deep breath. The air in the room was too cold.

"Tracy?"

"I'm trying, Alex." Her fingers tightened around the chair back. "Alex, if--" She rocked slightly. "You know how... how I'm such a chicken about pain, when something hurts?"

"Nobody gets to choose their pain threshold."

"I guess. But--" She put her feet up on the chair rungs. "When it's time... When the baby comes..." She stared through the glass, at the silhouetted tree leaves outside the tall, narrow window. Her grip on the chair ached. "It scares me--really scares me--to think about it. If I come to you... you know, like... like the way I did in the hospital the other night..." She breathed out. "Alex?"

"What?"

"Will you stay with me? So I don't have to go through it alone?"

Water sounded in the pipes over the bathroom, someone running a shower upstairs, strong flow and then trickling sounds.

He hadn't expected anything like that. What woman would want him around at a time like that? Why would he want to be there? But she'd saved his life. "Yeah." He paused. "You call me, I'll be there."

She let her breath out carefully and loosened her grip on the chair. Overhead, the music of the water in the pipes went on. The knot in her stomach loosened. Eventually she yawned.

"Go on, kid, " he said quietly. "You'd better get yourself some rest. You okay now?"

"I think so." She straightened, stood up and picked up the chair to move it. "Do you need anything, Alex, before I go?"

"No. Go ahead. I'll live."

 

 

 

Saturday

To: dresswhites@

From: thelark@

Dear Mom,

I'm writing in the hopes that you're feeling better, well enough at least to pick up this note. We continue to be safe.  Funny how I'd always taken safety for granted before, looked at it as a long-term thing and now I count each day of non-discovery as a small miracle. Our project here is reflecting some progress, which is hopeful. My slower pace these days has given me a chance to appreciate the display of nature around me. Yesterday a small friend and I looked and looked until we finally found a May apple that was still in bloom. The flowers are so very perfect, as if each were hand-carved. I'm trying to maintain the outlook we were talking about before, of recognizing the small good things that have happened in each day and being thankful for them, as I am for Ben's continued support, which has proved invaluable. Looking forward to hearing from you.

                                                                          -Annie

 

 

"It's a mail from Skinner," Langley said, his eyes on the computer screen. "He's been to see Wilkins. Condition hasn't changed as far as he can tell, but Wilkins has someone staying with him now, so we're assured of regular updates."

"Who?" Frohike said. "Can they be trusted?"

"Someone Wilkins and Skinner both know. A granny."

"Granny?" Frohike looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "Was that Skinner's term or yours?"

"You know--some old lady. Apparently she knows what's going on here. She was involved in that beryllium case somehow."

"So she can be trusted."

"Guess so. Skinner was the one who took her there."

Frohike let out a sigh. "So where does that leave us? Have we heard from Mulder or Scully lately?"

"Nothing in the last couple of days."

"Well, at least we haven't had to start lying to them outright yet. Mulder'll bust our asses when he finds out." Frohike paused. "Mrs. Scully's still the big question mark. Byers can't go check on her again without telling her something, and which of us wants to be the one to let her in on the sorry truth?" His forced his voice lower. "Mrs. Scully, I'm afraid you've been infected with a deadly disease for the express purpose of luring her daughter into the hands of the world's biggest scumbag." He paused and looked at his companion. "Volunteers? Didn't think so."

"What if we could get Skinner to go visit Mrs. Scully?" Langley said. "We could get a report that way and it'd look completely legit."

"The Cancer Man's already watching him. And what's he going to say about how he knew she was sick in the first place?"

"All useless speculation, I'm afraid," a voice came from the doorway. Byers walked in. "I just talked to Rani. He pointed out, and rightly so, that if Mrs. Scully's house was the origin of the infection, then leaving her there is only going to make her case worse. And she's at greater risk, with her age, than Wilkins to begin with. We're going to have to get her out of there somehow."

"Yeah, and what are we going to tell her?" Langley said.

"More to the point, physical appearances being what they are," Frohike said, indicating himself and Langley, then focusing on Byers, "What are you going to tell her?"

 

 

It was a postage stamp of a park, but it had a drinking fountain and at the moment that was the important thing. Mulder leaned over and let cold water flood his mouth and throat. He stood up again and stretched. He'd gotten out of the habit of running. The recreational kind, anyway. He went to a nearby picnic bench, put one foot up on the seat and eased slowly forward, letting his muscles stretch. Once, twice, three times, ten times. He switched to the other leg and repeated the process, then stood and leaned back against the edge of the table. Somebody else was drinking at the fountain now. Long brown hair held back in one hand, muscled legs. Bare feet. The girl's head came up suddenly; the brown mane swung around behind her. She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of a hand and looked around.

He smiled to himself in sudden recognition. It was Scully's little widow.

She focused on him and took a step forward.

"You're Ben, aren't you?"

Mulder nodded. "You always run like that, without shoes?"

"Mostly," she said. "Until it gets too cold and my feet freeze."

"And it doesn't hurt? You don't get cut or anything?"

She shook her head. "You gotta know your route. You keep away from the main roads where drunks throw their bottles, you know? Mostly I take the trails from my house. There's one that comes out behind Rita Johnston's."

She pointed in the direction of Rita's house, then paused and looked down. "Annie said--" She looked up and squinted into the light behind him. "She said you were the one who figured out Cy didn't..." Her lips twisted. "Thanks. It's--" She shook her head. "It's all awful, but it's less... you know, knowing he didn't do it. He wouldn't do something like that." She bit her lip and looked away. "Anyway, thanks."

"No problem. Just doing my job. Or what was my job."

"I heard you got stuck working for Joe. I feel for you."

Mulder shrugged. "It's a start. Got to start somewhere. Which reminds me, there's a guy I ran across yesterday at work. About my height, pale blond hair. Late twenties. Smoker. Uses an inhaler. You know anything about him?"

"That'd be Alan Harder. Yeah, I know him. He was a hunting buddy of Cy's."

"You know which part of the plant he works in?"

"You think he might have that disease, like Andy Johnston?"

"I don't know. It's a place to start. I the connections are there."

"I don't know. I never paid much attention. Annie asked me that, too." She shook her head, focused on something in the distance and smiled suddenly. "But, you know, here comes somebody who might know. Two somebodies, in fact."

She nodded toward two figures approaching arm-in-arm. Both carried white canes. The man's body shape and facial features showed all the signs of Down's syndrome. The woman was possibly a victim of Down's, too. With complications.

"People call 'em the Velcro Twins around here. Ray and Debbie. People make fun of 'em some, but they're nice. They know a lot more than they let on to people who don't stop and get to know them." She paused and looked toward them. "Hey, Debbie. Hey, Ray."

The couple adjusted their course and headed toward Sandy's voice. Both appeared to be in their twenties.

"Hey, Sandy," Ray said thickly. A gap-toothed smile appeared momentarily, then was swallowed up in concentration.

"Maybe you guys can help me out here with something," Sandy said when the two had reached the table. "Oh, this is Ben. He's new in town."

"Ben from Hollywood?" Debbie asked, looking in Mulder's general direction.

Mulder groaned inwardly. "Yeah. Nice to meet you."

"Have you met any movie stars?"

"A few."

"Look, Debbie, do you guys know where Alan Harder works at the plant? What part of the plant?"

"Clean room," Ray said. "Big pay."

"He wheezes," Debbie added. She nodded her head as if keeping time to music.

"Two years now," Ray went on. "Him and Mo-Mo-Mo..." He paused and scowled. "Momo Durosiak." He smiled now. "They started at the same time there. Clean room."

"Angie Connors wheezes," Debbie said, still nodding.

"Does she work there?" Mulder said. "In the clean room?"

Debbie nodded. "Eight years, six months. She's tired, tired of working there but her ex don't pay," she went on rhythmically. "Kids to raise, groceries to buy."

"Rent to pay," Ray chimed in.

There was a pause. Debbie continued to nod; Ray looked as if he were sniffing at something in the air. He had his arm wrapped around Debbie's like a twist tie. They hadn't let go of each other the entire time.

"You guys headed somewhere?" Sandy said.

"Uh-huh." Ray smiled crookedly. "Birthday."

"Misty Wilson. She's three today," Debbie said. "Come on, Ray. Time to go."

She reached out with her cane and led Ray toward the path. Mulder and Sandy watched them make their way across the park.

"That help you at all?" she said, looking up at Mulder.

"Hope so. It's a place to start. Knowing who to ask is half the game." He raised his eyebrows. "Ever think of working for the FBI?"

Sandy gave him a look. "You're kidding, right?"

 

 

To: Cranesbill@

From: DaddyW@

Just realized I've left you hanging for a few days. Wanted you to know we're still alive and kicking. Well, alive anyway. I keep turning over what you said and I'm beginning to wonder if there wasn't some completely personal stake for you-know-who in that case Annie got warned away from, something he didn't want the rest of the group to find out about.

Annie and I keep coming up with little puzzle pieces that may be part of a larger whole, but who knows if they're even part of the right puzzle, the one we need to solve. There's always this sense of impending... I don't know, the need to do something--accomplish something--before everything has a chance to blow up in our faces. I guess I worry about Annie mostly. In one respect she's been getting stronger and stronger; she even smiles easily now, but how long that will last if we don't make some progress on the larger front is anyone's guess.

Be extra careful of your own security, Mom. A colleague has speculated that if he can't find us, L may try to move against Annie's mom in order to flush her out and separate us. I know he talked concern for you when you had the stroke, but I don't think it would hold for long if you looked like the only way to get to me. Sorry to drag you into this on my coattails and thanks for your continued support. It's a big help to know you're out there.

 

 

"How are you doing, Alex?"

It was the old man's deliberately pleasant voice. Krycek tightened.

"Okay. I'm doing okay." Krycek pushed a pillow out of the way of the phone.

"I thought you'd want to know we finally caught up with mole from the first district."

Like a knife in the gut.

"He hasn't said anything yet but I thought you might like to come down and add your questions to the information-gathering process."

"I--" His heart raced. Tracy was watching from the chair, eyes big. "Yeah, sure."

"Good. I'll send someone by to pick you up. Say twenty minutes?"

His arm was weak; the phone shook slightly and he could feel the sudden bloom of sweat on his forehead. "Yeah. Twenty."

There was a click on the other end of the line. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Fuck."

"Alex?"

She was beside the bed now, standing over him. The phone was beeping in his hand. He pushed the 'off' button and let it drop onto the mattress.

"Alex, does he know?" Her eyes were huge and dark.

He exhaled slowly and tried to force his heart to slow. "I don't know. But it'd be like him to know and pin me to the wall like this, have me be there and trip myself up."

"Alex, can't you go? Can't you run?"

He looked at her. She didn't get it--didn't get it at all. "Running would just tell him I'm guilty. Anyway, I couldn't get away from him in this shape."

Tracy retreated to the far side of the room and stared out the window into the street below.  Krycek pulled himself up to a sitting position and let his feet down over the side of the bed. He leaned forward, rested his head in his hand, and hoped for inspiration.

"If he finds you out, Alex, he could kill you."

If the old man found him out, he'd definitely kill him.  The only question would be how, or how long he'd draw the process out.  On the other hand, he'd be beyond the old man's grasp after that--this whole stupid rat race, the doomed planet, the Oil... Wouldn't that be the kicker?

And it wasn't like there'd been anything to stick around for--hadn't been for well over a year now, if he took off the rose-colored glasses--or that anyone would give a shit if he was gone. 

Still, the idea of just handing himself over to the old man on a platter, admitting defeat... He'd never give the old man that kind of satisfaction. If he had to go out, he'd go out standing.

Krycek swallowed against the cold knot in his stomach.  He'd been about to eat but he wasn't going to be able to keep anything down now.  His nerves were a steady thrum in the background, like a squadron of approaching fighter planes.  Food was bad before surgery; abdominal wounds resulted in a much higher death rate when the patient had a full stomach.  Not that they'd leave him with a stomach wound and not finish him off.  There'd be the old man, Buzz and what?--two of his goons?  Probably.  Not good odds, and he wouldn't be carrying any kind of weapon.

He looked up suddenly, to where Tracy stood by the small desk, her fingers stroking the yellow sweater like a cat kneading.  Her eyes were still wide.  She was really spooked by this.

"Hey."  He kept it soft.

She turned toward him.

"C'mere."

She approached the bed and sat down on the floor beside him, her back against the bed. She drew her legs up in front of her and wrapped her arms around them.

"Don't mean to leave you stranded like this... this way... if that's what happens. Don't see any alternative, that's all." He let out a sigh.

"You've got to do what your voice tells you, Alex."

"Hey, it could be okay." He let out a breath. "But if not... that's the way endings are sometimes, just... short--bam--before you know anything. Sometimes it just... comes at you that way and you've got to be ready, got to..."

She leaned her head against his knee.

"... got to be strong. It's one of those things you learn."

He rested his head in his hand again. His gut was buzzing like a hive of bees; there was a dull pain in his side.  His head was crowded--random thoughts--and she'd know every one of them, everything that passed through his mind. But somehow it was calming just to have her here, to try to allay her fears instead of thinking ahead to what the old man would be likely to do. 

Breathe, Aleksei; clear your head. Take your own advice.

Gradually quiet came. Time began to slow. He felt his blood flow, his heart pump, the way his skin felt where it touched anything, alive and breathing and yearning to stay that way. Eventually the mountaintop materialized, with its broad granite rock and blinding blue sky.

 

 

To:DaddyW@

From: thelark@

Dear Nightingale--

Saw DB a little while ago and tried to suggest that he take his family somewhere for the duration in order to make things easier and more secure here, but had no success. He seems well-meaning but nervous and I find myself concerned about his ability to keep his wife from discovering the nature of our activity. Digging in the daylight would have been so much more convenient... through perhaps the proper noir atmosphere would be missing then? Looking forward to seeing you again, even if is from across an autopsy table.

                                                                          -Waiting Lark

 

 

"Alex, they're here."

He was standing at the window, staring out, seeing nothing. She felt him close his eyes.

She came up beside him. After a moment his hand came out and she took it, fingers knitting together into a solid grip.  She could feel it pumping through him: blood, adrenaline, tension. His life, his past.

"You've got her number?" His voice was sand.

"I memorized it, Alex."

"If I don't come back in a few hours, don't stay. He'll come looking for you. Hide, just... slip away. Take the money in the book. Be careful."

She pressed against his hand. "I will."

There was more he wanted to say but he needed to focus.  The men were in the stairwell, climbing the first flight of stairs, now on the landing, now on the second flight..

"Now, Alex."

He squeezed against her hand, looked at her a moment, lost for words.  "Go," he said finally.

She slipped into the bathroom, closed the door and leaned against it in the dark.

The door was open now.  The men were inside, opening the chair, setting him in it, their minds empty; they had no agenda other than to deliver. Alex was quaking inside, stomach tight. She could feel the knot hard in his throat, the heavy pounding of his blood. He showed nothing.

 

 

Margaret Scully looked up at the visitor standing at the foot of her bed.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Scully," Byers said quietly. "I know all this must sound like some kind of fantasy to you. A fiction. But I assure you the signs are all there. You and Wilkins both fell ill at the same time, with identical symptoms."

"But it could be anything." She sighed. "It could be"--her hands went up--"coincidence."

"If one of you had infected the other, there would have been an incubation period for the second person. Besides, Mrs. Scully, we're talking about a man who does things for calculated effect, a man who came here, to your own front door, to tell you your daughter was missing precisely for the impact it would have on you, to terrorize you and to get you to act in a way that would benefit him--to start a police investigation that might uncover your daughter."

Maggie coughed and closed her eyes. "I want to talk to Dana."

"None of us knows where she and Mulder are right now. It's for their own protection. Now, I could send them an e-mail and have them call me at a pay phone, but at the moment we're trying to protect her. The man's objective is to use your illness to draw her out of hiding. He knows that her natural tendency will be to want to come to you. You're bait to him, Mrs. Scully, psychological as well as physical. If you talk to your daughter, even if she were to realize this was a trap and resist the temptation to show herself, she'd still experience terrible anxiety, not to mention a good deal of guilt. You can't want that for her."

Maggie started to shake her head and winced. "No," she said, her voice dry. "Of course not." She opened her eyes. They stung. She could feel the weight of the moisture pooling in them. "How did it come to this? How did Dana get mixed up in all of this?"

"Sometimes circumstances snare us," Byers said. "Things that have nothing to do with any conscious choice we've made." He looked down. "And the heroic among us are the ones who take up the challenge of those circumstances and make something positive of them. Your daughter's certainly done that. This man--the Cancer Man--has taken it upon himself to use other people as pawns to further his own selfish purposes. We're trying to see that he succeeds as little as possible."

"How is Will?" Maggie asked, easing her head to one side.

"About the same as you. He has someone staying with him now, to take care of him and keep us apprised of his condition. But we're concerned about you, Mrs. Scully, for the two reasons I already stated: because you're here alone and because if something in this house is indeed the source of infection as we suspect, then you're exposing yourself to further danger by remaining here."

She shook her head, bewildered. "But this is my home. Where would I go?"

"I don't like to suggest this, but we have to assume this illness you have will progress to some further stage, so it would be advisable for you to be somewhere proper care can be given. We have a friend, an extremely capable physician--Harvard graduate--who could take care of you privately. Or he's also on the staff at St. Anne's in Silver Spring. The advantages and disadvantages as we see them are that in a private setting we could be sure you aren't being watched or even manipulated by this man's associates/ However, if you were to essentially disappear, he'd surely be suspicious, which might lead him to try something even more drastic to flush Mulder and your daughter out of the woodwork. The hospital, on the other hand, is more public. But it's also where he'd expect you to go, so he's not likely to suspect anyone is on the advance, aware of your actual situation and working to help you."

Maggie sighed again and closed her eyes.

"I have to emphasize that because we already know there's something more than meets the eye here, we have a much better chance of finding out what it is that's affecting the two of you." He paused and looked down. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mrs. Scully, but your daughter's safety and your own require that some decisions be made, and made soon."

Maggie moistened her lips and looked up at the ceiling, then at Byers.

"Give me five minutes," she said. "I need to think about this. Will you wait in the other room, please?"

"Certainly."

Byers nodded at her and went quietly out.

 

 

Sandy pushed the toy car back and forth absently along the edge of the display shelf. What on earth had made her think it would be safe to come here today, a day when kids were off school and there was no way to avoid the sight of parents with little boys and girls, infants in strollers and toddlers walking along tugging on a parent's hand? All those kids with their parents going through the store, smiling or whining or whatever, but every one of them alive. She swallowed and made the car go back and forth again, her ache for Roddy swelling to unbearable proportions. She should have come here last night, not on a Saturday when she knew the store'd be full.

Her eyelids pressed tightly together. She could see Roddy again, running across the yard, taking those big, exaggerated steps to scale the front stairs, curls bouncing, face dirty and beaming. Hey, Mom, he'd say. Annie hadn't said where he'd been shot, except that it had been quick and efficient. She didn't want to know--didn't want to picture him that way--but it didn't make her stop wondering, either.

Gradually the urgency of her yearning passed. Sandy breathed out and made herself open her eyes. There was that swimsuit she'd promised to look for... if they even had anything that small. Annie was so tiny and perfectly shaped, but beyond that put together and calm and she knew so much; she didn't go flying off the handle at every little thing. Sandy swallowed and made herself turn and move off into the aisle that led toward the swimsuits.

Keeping her focus on the smiley faces hanging from overhead in order not to see the people with kids, she counted down the aisles to go to the swimsuits: four, three, two. A display of backpacks caught her eye. She stopped. It'd be a good idea, something to wear when she went up to Adrie's, to put things in that she might want to carry up there. There were always things to share, things Adrie'd like to see, pretty stones from the creek, or leaves, or other things she found along the way. It would leave her hands free.

"Hey, Sandy."

She turned around to find Ryan Norton towering over her. He just looked like a regular person today, no uniform, no snazzy suit.

"Hey, Ryan."

He gave her a funny smile. Something was coming, that was for sure.

"I got to make a trip into Lexington tomorrow, to deliver some stuff. You ever ridden in a limo, Sandy? You're welcome to come along. It's a pretty cool car."

She made herself smile. He was standing inside her space, just a little too close. Probably a calculated little too close. He could be a pig, but maybe this was one of those extra deliveries he got paid for. Maybe the information was something Ben and Annie could use. Maybe they could catch the butcher who'd shot Cy and Roddy without any thought for what it'd do to anyone else, the effect it'd have.

"Yeah, maybe. No, I've never ridden in one before. How long you gonna be gone?"

"Just there and back mostly. Maybe an hour and a half."

An hour and a half would be manageable. It could be worth the effort. "Yeah, sure, I'll come. What time?"

"I'll pick you up around eleven. Your place?"

"You know, I really like to go running in the morning. Why don't I just meet you at Daily's? Then you won't have to get your car all dusty going up my road." Home was too close.  There was no way she was inviting this guy anywhere near her front door.

Ryan raised his eyebrows and gave her a quick smile. "Daily's, then. Eleven."

He turned to go. She watched him walk away down the aisle. Something was humming inside her now, ticking in the pit of her stomach.

 

 

Buzz squinted into the bright glare in front of him. The light reflected off his receding hairline and made him sweat. He would have been sweating anyway. Krycek looked away, into the surrounding darkness. The old man's smoke was making his stomach queasy. Or maybe it had nothing at all to do with the Morleys.

"We're just trying to get the facts straight here, Mr. McCarthy," the old man said. "You say you'd been planning to take these days off?"

"Yeah." He fidgeted. "Well, I hadn't exactly posted my itinerary on the bulletin board or anything." He looked straight toward where the old man should be. "But I didn't figure I had to, you know?"

The old man paused to take a drag. He waited for the smoke to come out and drift upward into the light. "And then you simply... had a change of heart? Decided to stay home?"

"Well, I did go to my sister's in Baltimore. But she was all depressed, you know? She had this dog--they'd had it for sixteen years--and it had just died. She was all torn up and it wasn't turning out to be much of a visit, so..." He shrugged, paused and came up short. He looked at the table in front of him and ran two fingers along the edge.

"Who asked you to get rid of the evidence, Mr. McCarthy?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not 007 or nothing. I just do maintenance. You know, main-te-nance?"

"Maintenance for who?" The huskiness of his own voice surprised him. Krycek gripped the armrest on the wheelchair.

"Look, you guys are barking up the wrong tree. I don't--"

"Your fingerprints were on the evidence box above the one with the missing contents," the old man cut in.

"That don't mean anything. You go along cleaning, you bend down to pick something off the floor--something that's fallen out of a box, or a gum wrapper or something--and you touch stuff. It's just the way it happens." He shrugged, a 'come on, just let me go' gesture. He didn't know the old man.

"Mr. McCarthy, what if I were to tell you I had something more, say--" He reached down and pulled a rectangular object from a briefcase and lifted it onto the table. Krycek froze. "...say this, Mr. McCarthy."

Buzz squinted toward the spot, then looked away, to where there were no prying eyes he could see.

"It's... it's--"

"What?" Krycek said. He willed his voice into evenness. His heart was loud, thudding. "Not yours? Somebody planted it?"

Buzz opened his mouth and then shut it again. He was starting to lose it.

Krycek's pulse pounded harder.

"As a matter of fact, Mr. McCarthy"--the old man was powering up the computer now; icons began to line up on the screen--"I notice you have a habit of saving your sent mail. Not a prudent practice in the line of work you appear to want to... dabble in."

Krycek closed his eyes. Sweat bloom on his forehead and chest and under his collar, a sudden stickiness. For a moment he wanted to think of her, the way drowning men prayed to the Virgen Mary, but she wouldn't want to be thought of this way, would never sanction what he'd done to get himself into this mess. There was a tingling in his head. He reminded himself to breathe.

The old man was in the mail program now.

"Who is 03224, Mr. McCarthy?"

"I--" His face twisted, then composed itself again. "Look, I don't know. I've never met the guy."

He hadn't sent the request in a mail; he'd sent it on the napkin in the lunch bag with Tracy. The e-mails had come afterward...

Raul had seen Tracy. He had no idea how Raul made his contacts, but he obviously talked. It was in the e-mail--she was in the e-mail--that first one from Buzz. Krycek's heart stopped. For a long moment it didn't move. He stared helplessly at the scene in front of him, watching it begin to melt around the edges, then the rhythm started again and surged, thud-thud-thud. He gasped.  The old man went wide-eyed.

"Are you alright, Alex?"

He breathed out, leaned forward slightly. "Yeah, I think." He tightened himself and nodded.

The old man cleared his throat. He regarded Krycek a moment and then turned back to Buzz.

"What about this, Mr. McCarthy? And I quote: "The stuff's gone--what a waste. You owe me now. What's with the chick?"

Buzz looked constipated. More than constipated.

"There was this chick. I don't know, just some--"

"'Stuff', McCarthy? 'You owe me.'  It's not you?" Krycek buzzed inside, short of breath. "You expect us to buy that?" He was at the edge of his chair.

There was a moment of silence. Buzz wiped at his forehead. He was starting to turn red.

"What about this... chick ...Mr. McCarthy?" the old man's sing-song voice chimed in.

Buzz swallowed. The old man lit another cigarette and took a leisurely drag.

In his wheelchair, Krycek closed his eyes. He felt his skin, the places where it touched his clothes, the seat, the arms of the chair. The way it felt against the air in the room, alive and reaching for breath.

 

 

Tracy pulled her few belongings from the dresser against the wall and set them on the bed. She took the old man's money from the place where it had been stashed behind a piece of bracing on the back of the desk and put it in the bottom of her backpack. Next her old, tired shoes, then her underwear. The things she wore to bed--thermals and T-shirt. She paused and held up the yellow dress Alex had bought her, then folded it carefully and added it to the pack. The white one would stand out less; she'd wear that. The old man hadn't seen it that she knew of.

She went into the bathroom and gathered up toothpaste and soap and shampoo. Rubber bands for her hair--ones she'd taken off abandoned newspapers yellowed on the curb. A brush she'd gotten at the thrift store, its old wooden handle dark with the oils from someone's hand. The plastic bag she'd used to gather throwaway fruit behind the little grocery. It had been a week and a half now since she'd had to scrounge for food. How easily the memory became distant, as if it had happened in some other lifetime. She put the things in the plastic bag and took them to the backpack on the bed.

There was no clock in the room but it had been more than a couple of hours. It was nearly noon when the men had come for Alex and it was at least four now, maybe a little later. Her stomach was a hard thing and she couldn't go to him--go looking that way. He wouldn't want her to and besides, she wasn't supposed to; somehow she knew that. She sat down on the edge of the bed. She should go, like Alex had told her.

Her hand trailed across the spread. There was gentle nudging inside her belly; she put her hand over the place and watched it ride the movement. She remembered sitting on the stairs, waiting for she didn't know what, watching the green water lap slowly at the edge of the lake. She'd been wondering where the jobless man Mulder was and what had happened to him. And then Alex had appeared above her on the stairs, looking--searching--and his eye had fallen on her, and his mind, a mind full of turmoil. He'd looked away--had gone away--and then had come back. Hey, he'd said, wondering why she'd pay attention to anyone trying to strike up a conversation that way, knowing what their motives might be, a man talking to a girl like that.

Tracy made herself stand. The roof was safe enough; it was a place to wait, at least until it got dark. Take the bed pillows and she could spend the night under the tree there; it was sheltered. But Alex had said to go, and she should.

Just a little while. A little while up there. She put the pack on and took an apple that still sat in the window sill, and the two pillows, and went out. Slowly she climbed the stairs. She could feel him against her, leaning when he needed to, waiting for her to lift.

Sometimes you just have to be strong, he'd said. He was right.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: thelark@

DB has spent the afternoon taking H and A hiking in order to wear them out for an early bedtime. He's gotten videos--including a favorite of hers--and hopefully the combination will do the trick. Seven-thirty is supposed to be the magic hour. Awaiting your arrival.

 

 

A scattering of grit came down over her, the byproduct of a shovelful of dirt arcing onto the growing pile beside her.  Scully stood and moved to one side. From the hole in front of her came the chit-chit-chit of shovels working. She'd offered to dig with Mulder but she hadn't pushed it. Dale had his pride and, surprisingly, a good deal of skill to go along with it. He'd spade up an area to loosen the soil and then bucket it out. When he tired of that, he'd dig in with the shovel, pause, slide his hand down the neck of the tool and balance the load so he could toss it up and out of the way. David Barker himself had offered to dig but it was crucial that he stay in the house, assuring that Heather or Adrie didn't venture outside. He should have understood that.

Scullly turned around and glanced at the house. Only the blue strobe of the TV screen was visible through the windows. She stood up and cautiously walked the twenty feet to the living room window and peered inside. The three of them were sitting together, leaning against each other, Heather in the middle. She appeared to be dozing already. Scully turned and walked quietly back toward the light in the deepening hole. Mulder and Dale were talking quietly.

"How's it going?" she said, coming into the light. Her stomach growled. She hadn't eaten any dinner. She hadn't been able to, thinking about this. There were so many ways it could go wrong.

Mulder looked up and smiled at her, a dirty streak across the front of his white T-shirt. "So far, so good," he said.

She squatted down by the edge of the dig and watched--Mulder working with smooth, easy strokes, the product of a strong back and muscled arms, Dale plugging away in his own fashion, work and then pause, work and then pause, tilting slightly to one side to balance himself. Krycek had leaned to one side, holding her. He'd urged them to get out of Washington, the same way he'd stopped Mulder from taking his own life three weeks ago in his apartment. There was no telling why he'd done it. It could be strictly strategic.

Or was there something more? He'd visited Teena after all. What would it have taken, what would have had to build up in him to send him to the woman who had given him away after so many years? Perhaps even Krycek wasn't completely impervious to some attenuated kind of human emotion, though the mere thought of it seemed strange to contemplate.

Scully shook her head and looked up at the stars twinkling fiercely overhead. She stood up. Mulder looked up at her, instantly alert.

"You see something?"

"No." She shook her head. "Nothing. I'm going to go check the house again."

He nodded at her and went back to his digging. Scully walked back toward the darkened house, the shovels making their rhythmic noise behind her.

 

 

8:26, the clock said. Will swallowed and started to cough. The coughing echoed inside his ribs, shook his shivering body, did awful things to his aching head. He grimaced and rolled onto his side.

"Will?" Rita was standing in the doorway, the light silhouetting her from behind. "Anything I can do to help?" She came closer. "Would you like some of that orange juice?"

He blinked and nodded, out of breath. "Yeah, I guess. A little."

He watched her turn and leave. Four hours' sleep but that was probably a good thing. At least it had been time away from this. The coughing was concussion-strength, it seemed.  He could picture his brain inside there, rattling against his skull.

Rita came back with a glass. Thankfully she left the light off. He propped himself up and took the glass when she offered it. The juice was cold sliding down his hot throat, cold and almost unbearably sweet when it spread across his tongue. He drank only about a quarter of it in small sips and handed it back.

"Anything else I can do?"

He closed his eyes. "Tell me why I did this." He paused. "Mother J, do you ever get to a point where you find yourself looking around at strange scenery wondering how on earth you got there?"

Rita pulled up a desk chair and sat down. She nodded. "Right after I heard Andy'd died. I wondered what on earth had gotten into me to go off crusading like that when the deck is stacked." She shook her head. "Who did I think I was and that whole song-and-dance number, and yet"--she tilted her head slightly--"maybe some of us are just bigger fools than others, Will. I'm here now. Does that say I didn't learn anything from what already happened?

"This fool appreciates it."

"Thank you." A smile lit her face and then went out. "I don't mind telling you, after Andy--after what I saw him go through and then him going and all--it's more than a little scary to sit here and watch another young man sick. But I'm not letting you go through this alone."

Will looked toward the window. A lone star winked outside in the blue-black sky.

"I once heard"--he grimaced--"courage described as the intense desire to live reflected in a willingness to face death. Kind of an oxymoron type of situation, you know? But lying here now I wonder how willing I really am. You know, whether I've done the right thing here or squandered myself, my... purpose, whatever it is I'm supposed to accomplish on this planet." He looked up at her, questioning. "How's Maggie? Has anybody checked on her?"

"John Byers called about an hour ago. They've gotten her out of the house. She's at St. Anne's Hospital in Silver Spring. They'll be giving her their best care."

Will moistened his mouth and tasted the sweet residue of the orange juice.

"Do you think, Mother J, that people like Joan of Arc or Gandhi or Dr. King--that they knew what they were getting into? Did they really know, make a conscious decision to lay it all on the line, or were they just people who couldn't help themselves, kind of like..."

He sighed.

 

 

"Annie?"

Scully jumped and turned around.

"Whatcha doing?"

Adrie stood behind her, dressed in his pajamas.

"Adrie, I'm"--she swallowed the sudden spike of adrenaline--"sitting here, thinking." She got up and started to guide him toward the porch. "Aren't you supposed to be in bed? Where are your mom and dad?"

"Asleep," he said, taking her hand now. "On the couch."

Scully sighed.

"What's the light for back there?"

"We''re just working on something, Adrie. Something that should help some people around here."

They stepped up onto the porch. Adrie tugged her toward the swing.

"Come on, Annie. It's nice. I liked to look at the stars with Mom here."

Scully managed a smile and sat down. Adrie climbed up and leaned against her. She put an arm around his shoulder. "Do you know any constellations, Adrie? The groups of stars?"

"The Big Dipper," he said. "Orion's Belt. And the Seven Sisters."

Scully leaned forward to see between the tree leaves.

Adrie leaned his head back against her. "I want my old mom back," he said.

"Old mom?"

"She doesn't know any stars anymore," he said simply.

Scully swallowed and pulled him closer. "You know, Adrie, sometimes bad things happen to us, like what's happened to your mom." The leaves murmured suddenly on the trees. Scully felt the breeze against her face. "But sometimes those bad things lead us to someplace good we wouldn't have gotten to otherwise. A bad thing happened to me once; it was very scary. And yet, if that hadn't happened, I might have changed the work I did, the people I work with. And I might never have been here tonight, to sit on this swing with you. Maybe when you grow up, maybe you'll become the doctor who finds the cure for what's taken your 'old mom'. Maybe you'll help a lot of people to find the people they've lost."

Scully pushed with her foot; the swing started to arc gently.

"Annie, can we go in now?"

"Sure, sweetie." She made herself smile. "Would you like me to tuck you in?"

 

 

To: 03224@

From: TinMan@

FYI the old guy may be making moves to unearth Holmes and Watson. Could present a conflict with your agenda. Contact me for details.

 

 

To: TinMan@

From: topaz@

Do not send any further mail to 03224; account security has been breached. This is my new connection. What do you have?

 

 

Krycek twisted her door handle and knocked a second time. It was locked; no light showed from under it but she should be gone, anyway. She would have left, and she hadn't said anything about where she might go. Probably it was better that way; nobody could pull it out of him. Hopefully she had the sense to get far away, someplace outside the city. She had enough money for the bus or whatever she wanted to take. She'd take a bus; it would be cheaper that way.

He waited a moment, then breathed out and turned the wheelchair around. Even in his exhaustion, the residual tension of the hearing still filled him. It had been like getting sucked into a tornado, whirled until you'd lost your bearings and then spit out into some alternate reality. The world had nearly ended and then it hadn't. Now the need was to move: to walk, to do anything to wring out the tension. Given the strength, he'd go somewhere, get away from here--anything to move. Not in the cards, though. Not in this body.

Anywhere but inside the same four walls.

He closed his eyes briefly, listened to the ringing silence and opened them again. There was always the roof. He rolled the chair to the bottom of the stairs and looked up, considering. Carefully he stood, gripped the railing and started up.

One foot up and then the other, hand on the railing, arm pulling. A pause halfway up; he listened to his own panting in the silence. At the top he turned to look down. He could almost see her there, next to the chair--the one that impressed her so much. Probably cost more than anything she could have dreamed of getting for her mom. She'd had a stable start, someone who cared about her and a strength that came from it.  It was a good thing. It would serve her well.

He turned, walked slowly onto the patio and looked up at the blackness overhead. Same sky, same stars as last night but not the same--nothing alike. He made his way carefully to the wall and eased himself against it for support. Stored warmth from the day radiated out against his body. In the streets below, strings of diamond headlights inched their way along the grid that was the city. She'd be out there. Somewhere.

He needed to move, to go downstairs. Maybe just to wake up from this daze.

His fingers went into his pocket, finding the bean bag she'd made him. He rubbed his thumb against the top of the bag; rice grains slipped between his fingers. A square of fabric and a dime's worth of rice and a lot of time in the recliner, taking tiny, even stitches. Hopefully she'd had the sense to get a motel room and lock the door.

"Alex?"

The voice behind him was thick.

He turned quickly. She was standing there in the dimness, in front of the place where the tree overhung the roof, hair messy, dress wrinkled, looking for all the world like a confused kid wakened in the middle of the night.

She came closer and blinked. She was half asleep.

"Tracy, what--?" She'd looked for all the world like a ghost there in the shadows.

She bit her lip. "Is it"--her mouth twisted, trembled--"you, really?" She reached up and pushed the hair awkwardly out of her face. She came closer, looked up tentatively, then quickly down, trying to blink back the wetness in her eyes. "I hope this isn't one of those dreams I have."

"I don't think so."

He swallowed, reached out and brushed away the stray hairs that clung to the side of her face. She took a step forward and her head went against his shoulder. A finger hooked through his belt loop. He could feel her shudder, then dampness seeping against his shoulder, but no sound. Her breathing was warm and jerky, letting the tension bleed away. He slipped his arm around her and let it settle carefully against her back. Fatigue washed over him, weight and weakness settling him against the wall, as if he'd run for miles. "Tracy, you were supposed to--"

He could see Buzz again, getting progressively redder, fidgeting, looking desperate suddenly, as if he'd been struck by something invisible, and then tottering--hovering--to one side and finally slipping off the chair, limp and boneless. Even the old man had been taken aback. By the time they'd gotten around the table to him he was nearly gone, eyes wide, the look of panic still on his face. Probably a burst aneurysm, the old man had noted calmly, as if he'd been looking at a pile of old rags. He'd seen it before, the telltale sign in the eyes.

Just on the brink, he'd been saved. She'd been saved, from whatever Raul might have told Buzz about her. It could have been nothing of any consequence, or it could have been...

Didn't matter now. "Why didn't you go?"

"I... I fell asleep, Alex. I was just going to rest for a little while. I didn't mean to--" Her chin against his shoulder.

"It's okay."

She'd know his story. She would now, anyway; she could just wick it out of him, no need for words. He stood unmoving, Tracy against his good side, staring out into the unfocused night.

Something moved against his side where her belly rested against him.

 

 

Mulder stood just outside the circle of light the work lamp cast and watched Scully's autopsy proceed. She had a shower cap on, gloves and goggles, a borrowed lab coat. The fan was running but it wasn't enough to overpower the smell. Her lips were pressed together--concentration--but she seemed tired. It was the tension as much as the hour, though they'd managed without incident so far.

"Don't you just need lung tissue?" he said, breaking the silence.

She looked up. "If it's actually beryllium disease. But if it's something else, I need to do at least a basic examination." She glanced toward the door, where Dale stood guard. She smiled briefly and he smiled in return. Then she pulled the mask up over her mouth and nose and went back to the body.

How many times had he watched her do this? The abhorrent had become commonplace, though not the way it was second-nature to her. How had it been at the start, those first few bodies she'd had to open up? What had motivated her, drawn her to pathology? What was it she'd needed to know, to find out from cold flesh and bone?

Scully lifted a lung from the chest cavity--such as it was--and set it out on the plastic-covered workbench beside her.

"Anything you need me to do?" He grimaced involuntarily.

"You can be my lab assistant," she said, carefully slicing a tissue sample for examination. "We've got those reagents over there. If you can read labels..."

"I can read labels."

She looked up now and smiled. "Good. We can get started. The H&E will only take about 30 minutes, but I'm not sure, considering the degradation of the tissue, whether it will really tell us much. The Masson's staining is the one we really need, but it will take another two hours. And I'm going to want to send samples to Dr. Wykoff and have him do a second set of stainings just to be sure."

Voices. Mulder moved back a step, out of the light, and glanced toward the door. He could see Dale nodding; David Barker's head was in the doorway. The conversation was brief; Dale was obviously shooing him back to the house. Dale watched the path for a long moment, then turned, caught Mulder's eye and shook his head. Mulder nodded. Barker was wound tighter than a spring set to go off. Hopefully not before their work here was done.

He looked back at Scully, who was head-down at her work. She must have missed the whole thing, but that was probably for the better--one less thing to worry her. She looked up now. Her eyes squeezed closed briefly in a yawn and then opened again.

"Going to make it?" he said, resting a hand against the small of her back.

She settled back into his touch and nodded. "I'll make it. I'm okay."

 

 

Rita sat next to the living room window in the dark, looking up into the midnight sky. All the lights and commotion of the city made stars hard to find here. She might search the entire broad pane of glass and never see a single one.

Gradually the memory of the afternoon's Greyhound took her over: diesel mixed with stale, smoky air, the chatter of passengers and the lurch and vibration she could still feel as she sat here in this chair in this darkened, silent living room two states away from where her day had begun. Down the hallway a bedroom was calling out to her to surrender--to lie down, stretch out, to drift away from the fatigue and the worry and the occasional sharp bout of coughing coming from the back room. Somehow they were with her, Will and Andy, hovering presences both, needing support, needing something.  She'd stay here until she found a star.

 

 

The water in the shower went off.  Scully rolled until her cheek touched the pillow.

She opened her eyes and blinked. She'd dozed off already, but it could only have been for a few minutes. She watched the strip of light under the bathroom door and waited. Mission accomplished, as far as they could tell. Dale had taken the tissue samples for Dr. Wykoff and their own stainings, and examination seemed to confirm their suspicions of beryllium disease. The body had been returned to the casket, reburied and Mulder had taken pains to make sure the gravesite appeared as undisturbed as possible.

The door opened, projecting a brief shaft of yellow into the room, and then the light went off. The covers were pulled back beside her.

"Better tell those pillows to move over," Mulder whispered, a smile in his voice.

He settled himself, the covers came back up and warm arms slipped around her.  She rolled onto her side and settled back against him.

"Are we that obvious, Mulder? Is that why Dale 'suggested' that you stay?"

He shook his head against hers. "No, I think it's just them--Dale and Rita. He probably got it from her. Maybe it's the family radar." He moved closer and settled again. "What's your professional opinion, Scully? Did the suggestion come from the Ann Landers side or the Dalai Lama side of the gene pool?"

"It came from the Dark Side, Mulder," she said, mock-serious. "And you gave into the temptation to stay the night."

"What, you didn't want me to?"

"You'll have to walk all the way home tomorrow."

"I can take it." His breath was warm against her ear.

She closed her eyes. "Did Dale say where Rita went?"

A pause. "Uh-uh. Says she does that sometimes--goes off and won't tell him where."

"Sounds like someone I know." She waited for a comeback but there was none. His breathing was beginning to even. "I wonder where she went."

She turned carefully onto her back. Moonlight reflecting off the trim strip around the window made a streak across the ceiling.

"Mulder, I was just thinking, earlier this evening. Something Adrie made me think of."

"Umm?"

"About the... ricochet path of circumstances that... bring us together, bring us into certain situations in our lives, like... like the way Skinner's crossing paths with Dale Lanier in Vietnam resulted in my being called in on this case, and how that resulted in my being here now. Or how our being here, on the run like this has led to something we never would have done in D.C., and--"

"You never would have done."

"Okay, that I never would have done..." She breathed out. "And whether when the factors are gone, that... that mold you into a particular circumstance... in that particular way... What then? Do you stay the same or do you go back to the way you were? Are you doing what you do because of who you are, or is it the circumstances that are shaping you, shaping your actions, your reactions?"

He stirred.

"I mean, what would you do if your sister was found, Mulder? How much has that--?"

He pushed up one one elbow. "Scully, are you trying to tell me something?"

She shook her head. "No, I--" She put a hand over the arm lying across her middle. "I was just thinking out loud, that's all."

His head went back down to the bed but he was looking at her now, dark eyes fully open. She rolled toward him and slipped an arm around his waist.

"Get some sleep, Mulder."

She rested her head against his chest and listened to the steady rhythm inside it.

"I think it's just me," she said finally. "Maybe I'm afraid of this ending."

Chapter 12

Sunday

 

When I rolled over the sun was bright, the air inside the trailer was cold, the bed was warm, but it was also empty of its most important element, and for as much as my head was thick and my body wanted to sleep, I couldn't. She wasn't there. It was the thing that had kept me awake so long after I'd come to bed, what she'd said and the question it led to in my mind. Maybe I wasn't what she needed. She was what I needed; she'd been what I'd needed for longer than I could remember, since long before she ever walked into my office with her rookie brashness and her willingness to tell me my theories were full of shit.

But maybe, for as amazing as the last ten days had been, they'd been the product of circumstances, of her need for an anchor, a port in the storm that had risen around her and threatened to pull her under. Maybe when all this was resolved and we were back in D.C.--if we made it back to D.C.--she'd need her old life back more than she needed what we'd created here, and how willing was I to let go if that was what was best for her? Right back to Albert's question: was I willing to sacrifice myself to the truth? Or was I only hoping it would get me what I wanted?

 

 

"You know, Joe, I still don't even know what she's doing--where she's working."

Joe rolled to the far side of the bed, taking the sheets with him.

"Maybe she's not working. Maybe she just said that to get you off her back. She's a kid. They're ornery."

"Exactly. She's just a kid." Raylene reached behind her and tugged at the covers. "Still, you'd think I woulda heard something around this town by now. I mean, what can the big secret be?"

"Go ask her."

"Like she'd tell me any more than she did the last time. She doesn't talk to me, Joe." She rolled to look at him.

Joe just shrugged. "It's her life."

"Well, she certainly don't know how to run it."

"Ooh, ask the expert."

Raylene stared a moment, took hold of his pillow and gave it a swift yank. Joe's head landed on the mattress. He turned and gave her a look. "Now what the hell was that about?"

"You figure it out, Joe. It has something to do with being a parent. We have a responsibility to help these kids figure out their lives. She's up to something, I can feel it. I'm going to find out what it is, too." She gave another tug on the covers. "Mark my words."

 

 

Tracy leaned against the wall of the roof patio. There was blue sky--truly blue sky, a final reprieve, probably, before the haze of summer heat would set in for good. She looked out to where the tip of the Washington Monument jutted into the sky above the roof lines in the distance. The Mall was the first place she'd gone when she came here, wandering past all the new-familiar places, then breaking away from the clusters of tourists on their way to the Lincoln Memorial and settling on the stairs leading to a broad, quiet pond, seeking out the peace it offered in contrast to the constructed clutter of buildings and buses and traffic-laden streets. Maybe that's what had drawn Alex's brother, too. He'd been so completely transparent there on the stairs, his wounds undisguised, searching inside for answers in a way she found so familiar, waiting for a connection to come to him, a hint or a sign, as if life were a jigsaw puzzle with all the pieces on the table if only you knew where to look for the one you needed.

Two hours and she hadn't gone downstairs yet. She ran a finger along the dusty ledge. What did you say to a man when you knew what he'd been thinking?  In his mind he always referred to her as 'the kid'. It was safe; it reminded him to stay in line. But for as rumpled, as kid-like as she must have looked coming out from under the shadow of that tree, it hadn't been what he'd seen, Alex who was so incredibly self-controlled, every instinct, every reaction monitored. He'd seen a woman. He'd even wanted that woman, though his mind was able to muscle the desire away for the most part, keep it bound and locked up because it wasn't a complication either of them needed.

And he knew she knew. At least, he'd realized by this morning that she would have seen it all inside him, as if he were no more than a television screen, helpless to keep her from witnessing what went on in his mind.

So what did she say? Did she bring it up and embarrass the both of them?  Or did she ignore it and let it fester, the way things had festered when they'd driven out of town, both of them painfully awkward and uncomfortable?  Because left alone, it would fester, breeding distance and distrust.

He'd seen enough brutality to know the signs: the look of women with wild eyes, or dead eyes. Somebody had made her pregnant, just as the hated old man had made his mother pregnant, and it hasn't escaped him the way she'd flinched that first night, nearly shaking when he'd called her over to the bed and made her sit down on the edge, intent on searching for signs of a scar at the base of her neck. Hunger roamed free in men's minds, sometimes hidden, more often open and obvious in their thoughts and actions. Occasionally it was violent and terrifying, especially to a young girl or a child who could see what a man would never suspect. He knew she'd seen those things. It was another reason he kept his feelings so tightly bound.

Maybe it had just been the easier path to avoid those corners of his mind, to believe he hadn't been affected by her. But it didn't change the fact that she was a temptation to him, like a piece of cheese or a bit of walnut set in a mousetrap. The last thing she wanted to do to him was to be a tease or a taunt.

Tracy put her head down on her arms and closed her eyes. Her stomach growled. There was the grocery down the street; she could go there and find something to eat. But it would only put off the inevitable, and what could possibly be said to smooth this over?

She sighed into the small space between her arm and the ledge, then tensed suddenly. Familiar footfalls echoed up the stairway. She looked up, around, glanced toward the shelter of the overhanging tree in the corner but forced herself to stay where she was. Alex was ready to face it head-on; running would only snub his efforts. It would be what she always did when trouble struck--take off and leave it behind, unresolved.

He was at the top of the stairs now, catching his breath, hesitating.

"Alex, I'm sorry," she said, closing her eyes. Her fingers tightened against the gritty ledge.

"For what?" He was crossing the patio. Now he was behind her.

"For seeing inside you, for making you--" She shook her head. "For everything." Her throat ached, stretched tight and full.

"Tracy..." He moved to stand beside her. "You are"--he breathed out and paused--"an incredible person. Don't apologize for who you are, or what you can't help doing."

"But--"

"Shhh." A hand settled on her shoulder. She felt the warmth penetrate. "Hey, breathe," he said quietly.

She let the breath go.

"I wouldn't... I'd never do anything to hurt you."

She nodded. "I know."

"I just... I want you to be safe, want you to--" He shrugged. To have something he'd never had: security, someone she could count on.

She sucked in her lower lip and let out a sigh. "I always run, Alex. I run from everything."

"You didn't run."

"I wanted to."

" 'Wanted to' doesn't count." He paused. "You didn't."

She opened her eyes. "You always stay and face things. I've been thinking about that. I'm trying to learn." Two birds landed on a nearby wire. She watched them flutter until the wire settled. She forced a smile. "Sometimes it's hard, you know? Being strong."

"Understatement of the year." He smiled a bitter smile.

The pattern of traffic in the street below went out of focus and then sharpened again. She looked behind them. "You didn't bring your chair, did you?"

He shook his head. " Decided it was time to walk up. Got to start sometime."

He was getting stronger. It was a good thing.

It was a good thing coming to an end.

She turned away, suddenly aching and empty the way she'd felt a week earlier up here, peering alone at the vast darkness overhead, hard and glittering.

Alex's hand was on her upper arm, turning her around, gathering her in.

She sighed into his shoulder and leaned against him. "I'm not even gone yet and I'm falling apart. How will I ever be strong?"

"You will be when you have to. When the time comes, you'll find a way. It's something you learn: if you want to live, you find a way."

She bit her lip and started to pull back. "I'm sorry, Alex. I'm doing it again. I didn't mean to..."

"It's okay. Hold on all you need." A pause. "We don't act on everything we think about, you know. I'll live."

She closed her eyes and held on. His cheek settled against the side of her head.

 

 

To: topaz@

From: TinMan@

A move may have been made against Watson's mother. She has taken ill, though the nature of the illness has not yet been determined. An agent of mine who has spent some time with her has also been affected. I'm assuming this is a strategy meant to draw Watson out of hiding.

 

 

Byers looked through the glass at the figure on the bed and turned to the dark-skinned man beside him.

"How is she?"

"Her fever is higher than before. She's been delirious for several hours now."

"What does it mean?"

"I'm not sure yet." Rani looked through the glass. "Sometimes just bringing the patient to the hospital causes symptoms to increase. You can point to the physiological, but I believe fear is a great factor, too--the negative power of the human mind. As for the delirium, I find it puzzling. Her current symptoms all point to pneumonia, but the extent of the delirium is very non-characteristic." He turned back to Byers. "We're running tests, of course. If this is as you say, it won't be what it appears, so I'm trying to cover all my bases, in a manner of speaking."

"Is she in any imminent danger?"

"Of dying? No, not at this point, though it depends on the severity of the disease and how many body systems become compromised. There could be permanent residuals. We just don't know yet. But as I say, we're running a number of tests. We'll let you know as soon as we've determined what it is." He paused. "And your other case?"

Byers sighed. "About the same as yesterday. We have someone with him now. We'll keep you posted."

"His youth and relative strength should be a help to him."

Byers nodded. Rani glanced at his clipboard and moved to go.

"I have patients to check on. I'll be in touch."

Byers took the hand he offered and shook it. He turned back to the window and stared through the glass at the pale figure in the bed. Scully would surely want to come.

 

 

Scully rounded the corner of the trailer and stepped up to the door. Her nose and cheeks were chilled from walking and she'd tucked her hands into  the pockets of her jacket for warmth. She took one out now, reached for the door handle and opened it. Mulder was sitting on the edge of the bed, head in hands. He looked up when he saw her.

"Good morning," she said, stepping inside and closing the door. "You were sleeping so soundly I didn't want to wake you; I figured on a day when you don't have to face Joe, you deserve a little extra. I walked up to the falls and came back by the house. You did a good job of putting everything back. Dale should have those tissue samples to Dr. Wykoff this morning. We could have done the Masson's staining ourselves, but I'm not sure I could have lasted another two hours. Anyway, I'll feel better knowing it was done in the lab." She paused. "Mulder, are you okay?"

He raised his eyebrows and breathed into cupped hands. "Yeah, just--" He sucked in his lower lip and tried for a smile. "Just thinking, I guess."

"So was I," she said, taking off her jacket and hanging it over the chair back. She sat down and unlaced her shoes.

"About?"

"This. Us." She took off her shoes and socks and set them aside. "Ooh, it's cold in here..

She looked up at him. He blinked once.

"I was thinking about what I said last night, wondering how if I were back home--if my life were normal"--she smiled ruefully--"such as it gets, and this were Sunday, what I'd be doing. What would launch me out of bed, what I'd want to do, or get to: catch up on some research, go to a concert, or..." She pursed her lips.

"And?"

He was waiting, head tilted with the look birds gave you, seeing you from only one side.

"I realized that... for as much as I love the things I do--and I do...though some of them are fillers, they... pad the empty places, the busyness, the constantly filled schedule..."

She moistened her lips. He rubbed his arms for warmth.

"Anyway, I realized that, given the choice--" She stood and came up to him. His head went against her middle; her hands slipped into his hair. "I wouldn't want it as an 'instead'--instead of being with you--just...one or the other. I need those things. I need purpose and accomplishment, but--" Her arms went around his head and cradled it. She sighed. "I think I'm doing it again, Mulder."

"What?"

"Making things complicated when they should be simple. I don't... I don't seize the day, I analyze it."

He looked up at her. She smoothed a hand back through his hair.

"Sometimes you've got to stop and think," he said.

She paused mid-move and considered him. "Did we just switch roles here, Mulder? Because if we did, that leaves me in charge of being the impulsive one and I'm not sure I--" She shook her head.

He half-smiled. "Need some help?"

"Yes, I think-- She shivered. "It's awfully cold this morning."

"It's warm in there," he said quietly, nodding behind him.

"Was that an invitation?"

"It's your bed."

"Yes, it is." She cleared her throat. "Mulder, would you join me? I'd be... honored... happy--not lonely--whatever... if you'd join me." She paused and flushed. "Come to bed with me, Mulder. I need you there."

He grinned; an eyebrow rose. "You've got a way with words, Scully. Juliet had nothing on you."

She half-suppressed a smile and turned away. She took off her clothes and laid them over the chair back. When she turned around he was between the sheets, holding them open for her. She climbed in and was enveloped in the warmth of blankets. Long arms and legs went around her.

"Now I know what a fly feels like when it's caught by a spider," she said, wriggling into a more comfortable position.

"What, you don't want to be caught?"

"Yes. Yes, I do." She smiled, buried her head against his chest and felt her breath fill the small, warm space in front of her. "I've got to stop doing this, Mulder, worrying about losing this instead of enjoying it, appreciating it."

There was no reply. She looked up at him.

He shrugged. "Still, sometimes you have to stop and think."

She pushed up on one elbow. "Is it--? Do you think it's you? That you're not... enough somehow, that you don't deserve this?"

He glanced up, out the window over the bed. "It's a... a random thought that's occurred to me, yeah, over a series of less-than-picture-perfect relationships." He sighed and looked down at her. "No, it's not that, Scully. I'm not lying here basking in self-pity. It's just... Do you know what it's like to see yourself--really clearly sometimes--in the blinding light of truth, of reality, and what you see makes you want to turn away?"

"Yes, I think so.

He pulled her close and settled his chin against the top of her head. "Thanks for putting up with me, Scully."

"Thanks for putting up with me."

He half-laughed. "You know, a psychologist would have a field day with us."

"As our Sunday trickles slowly away." She slipped an arm around his middle. "You know, this isn't like you, Mulder. I'm supposed to be the solemn one. You're supposed to be, well... exuberant." She pushed back and cupped his face with both hands, mock-serious. "Mulder, you aren't actually one of those shape-shifting aliens in disguise, are you? Because I refuse to make love to anyone who's not from this planet."

"A lot of Reticulans out there are going to be really disappointed, Scully." There was the hint of a smile and life, finally, in his eyes.

"Well, they'll just have to find someone else. Unless you're sharing."

"Not me." She was enveloped, held close. "Not sharing. No way."

 

 

Sandy stood in front of the mirror. She'd told Ryan she was going running first because gave her a good excuse not to be wearing a dress, or a skirt. No point in giving him any ideas. Ryan didn't need the encouragement, though hopefully he'd have the decency to give a widow a little space. She'd been married to his friend and had a kid, for godsake.

Glancing to the left, her eye landed on Roddy's ragged teddy bear on the corner of the dresser. She swallowed and blinked back the sudden burning in her eyes. He was the reason she was doing this in the first place. It was the only reason she was doing it.

Sandy tilted her head to one side and brushed through her long hair. It was funny now, that remark Ben had made yesterday about working for the FBI. Not that she'd ever in a million years qualify for anything like that. But it's what she was doing in a way, going out looking for information. Somebody had to do it; nobody else was going to. This must be how Rita felt.

Sandy set the brush aside. She went to the phone in the living room and dialed Rita's number. It had been days and anything she found out was bound to help Rita, too. As much as anyone could help the mother of a dead son. She tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and waited. On the other end, it rang and rang.

 

 

Will coughed himself awake and opened his stinging eyes. His mouth and throat were parched and hot. He reached for the bottle of water on the night stand and took a few swallows. Thin wetness covered his tongue. Mouth tasted terrible. He lay back against the pillow and looked out. Day--morning. The sky was blue, perfect weather for being outside, for jogging or taking Ralph for a walk if only he had the energy. He shivered and hugged his arms to himself. His stomach was weak and empty, a function of the food he hadn't been able to keep down.

He glanced across the room. His mother had fallen asleep in the chair. He must have been sleeping when she came; he didn't remember talking to her...

Wait a minute, what day was it? It'd been a long time since... She must have taken the bus here, that was it. She never did like those long trips, the monotony of the ride from state to state with that back-of-the-bus stale air that made her stomach weak and jittery.

"Hey, Mama."

She slept on.

"Mom?" Nothing. "Mama."

He pushed up on one elbow, then pulled himself carefully up to a sitting position. No movement in the chair. He blinked. She'd gone now; it was just shadow in the corner. He stared hard at the spot and then rested his head in his hands. A tickle in his lungs and he was at it again, coughing and coughing, ribs aching, head echoing the pain.

"Will?"

He brought his head up carefully. It was Rita.

"Mother J--" He looked past her into the shadowed corner. The chair was empty. "Hey, where'd she go?"

"Who, Will?"

"Mama. She was just there, sleeping." He looked at the place again, chair empty in the shadows. "She was just--"

Rita was drilling him with one of those x-ray looks.

He looked back at her and swallowed suddenly.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: Redwall@

I regret having to be the bearer of bad news, but after serious consideration I don't feel I have the right to keep this from you any longer. I believe heron3 informed you of his suspicions regarding possible tactics to dislodge you from where you are. Thursday both Annie's mother and heron3 fell ill with what appeared to be flu-like symptoms. Four days later they have progressed to what appears to be pneumonia with high fever and uncharacteristic delirium. Thanks to heron3's anticipation of this, we were alerted from the beginning and have had assistance from a trusted acquaintance who is an extremely capable M.D. Heron3 remains at home with assistance while I took Annie's mother yesterday to a hospital in Silver Spring where she can be given the care she needs. She is not in mortal danger at this time, but the actual nature of the illness has yet to be determined. Investigation is ongoing.

Assuming heron3 is correct in his assumption that this was instigated as a way to draw Annie out into the open (and/or away from you), your appearance here would seem to be strongly contraindicated, though I realize you are left with the difficult choice of deciding when and how much to tell Annie about what is happening. We will continue to do whatever we can to take care of things on this end in order to make your own path smoother, but I felt you should know the status of this matter.

As always, anything we can do to help, we will gladly.

                                                                                                -JFB

 

 

Krycek opened his eyes. A shaft of sunlight lay across the corner of the bed. Midday. He glanced over at the recliner. Tracy was asleep on her side, head burrowed into the cushioned chair back. The walk up and down the stairs had been a good thing. It was a way to get some exercise, regain some strength; he'd told himself that as he confronted each stair.

Though his strength had been gone by the time they'd come down, legs getting shaky, just needing to sit, to lie down. She'd slipped into the recliner while he'd checked his mail and had fallen asleep. Maybe she'd been awake half the night, or maybe it was just the baby taking his toll, or the fact that she was emotionally wrung-out, struggling to find the strength she'd need when she left; it was coming and she knew it. Odd thought, parenthood--the work of training a child, preparing them, then worrying about whether they'd make it, make the right moves, avoid the pitfalls. She was intuitive and that would help her, but she was just a kid, pliant and unhardened, like the tender green seedlings transplanted out into the muddy vegetable fields where he'd grown up. Some made it, some didn't. It was a percentage thing.

The main thing was to be able to get her out of here in one piece. When the time came. Yesterday had been like getting pushed off a wall. What would she have done if things had gone differently, if Buzz hadn't given out? It was a stroke of luck, a reprieve just as the axe was about to come down.

And would his mother help? She was the unknown factor. Was it better to wait until the last minute, depend on the element of shock, of surprise, and hope for the best? What would she do if he tried to contact her in advance? He'd told her, leaning there against her kitchen sink, not to trust him. But then she'd left him that sandwich, and not just a sandwich. And she hadn't just left it on the plate to dry out. It was a safe move, though, not so much risk. She could stay behind her locked door and watch him from the safety of her comfortable life.

He picked up the bean bag from beside him, squeezed it and let his hand drop onto the mattress.

"Alex?"

She stood beside the bed. She ran her fingers back through her hair to smooth it and sat carefully on the edge.

"You don't really know her, do you?"

He shook his head. "I was in her house once. She wasn't there. I looked around, looked at pictures--you know, whatever was around. Get a feel for the place." His lips pressed together. "Then I went back that once, after..." She knew. "Guess I was pretty jittery."

Tracy glanced down but thankfully made no comment.

"Hadn't slept for over a day, hadn't eaten. She let me sleep in the garage." He turned and looked out the window. "I got up and she'd left me a sandwich, all wrapped up nice..."

"You left her a note."

"Mm." Large leaves swayed outside the window. He could see it again, the garage and the greenery in the yard. The smell of something sweet blooming.

"Daphne," Tracy said.

"What?"

"What you smelled. I can see it. In a pot in the shade by the garage path. It's a hard one to grow, Alex, to take care of. She must have been careful with it."

He shrugged. But what did it tell them? Did it tell them anything? And there was Skinner's mail; obviously the old man was hard at work.

"What will you do, Alex? Will you do anything?"

"About?"

"Scully's mother. He wants to find her. He knows it would make Mulder crazy."

"Yeah." Krycek closed his eyes. He wondered if Buzz had made up that story about the dog.

 

 

Mulder watched Scully stir and then wake. Rolling toward him, she settled with her head on his chest in a patch of sunlight. Her eyes closed against the stark brightness.

" 'Morning again," he said, smoothing the hair from her face, toying with a strand of it.

"Mmm."

The air was warm now. A padded quiet filled the trailer. Mulder glanced at the wall clock, a relic from another era, gold metal in a sunray design. 12:33.

"I should get moving," he said into her hair.

"I'll walk you down the trail to Sandy's," she said. "You can catch the road from there."

Silence. She didn't move. "When?"

"In a few minutes, Mulder. I just--"

Nothing more. "What?"

"It's too comfortable to get up. The warmth, finally. The quiet. You."

He smoothed a thumb across her shoulder and looked toward the front of the trailer. Desk with the laptop, the picture of her family, the one of Emily tucked  into a corner of the frame. Her copy of Moby Dick. Coffee mugs in the drainer beside the sink in the kitchen. It was her spot now, her place. Temporarily, anyway.

"What would you be doing today, Scully? If you could do anything--you know, be anywhere..

A hand traveled down his side and came to rest against his waist.

"I'm doing it, Mulder." A smile started at the corner of her mouth.

"Right now? Here?"

"Right now. Right here."

 

 

Rita clipped the leash to Ralph's collar and opened the front door. The dog went out eagerly and sat wagging his tail in the hallway. He was happy to be out, wiggly, and the day was beautiful, the sky bright blue. Rita locked the door and put the key in her pocket.

Will was asleep now after a little over an hour of being awake; it was the best possible time to get away, if there was a best time. Most likely she'd just carry him with her, though, the way she'd carried Bob those last four months, never knowing how things might change before she returned, not knowing if she'd come back to find him still alive. Just the memory of it had made watching Andy a torture, though his symptoms hadn't had a chance to progress to what his father had experienced. And then he was just gone, a phone call from the sheriff and it was all over so unexpectedly. No telling whether it was better or worse than going through all those months of stress and pain.

And now Will, and no knowing yet what he'd been afflicted with, whether he'd recover in the end--if Rani was the medical detective John Byers hoped he was and could get to the bottom of this--or whether the illness would take him slowly, or take him in a way they could never foresee.

Rita looked up. They were in the entry now; she didn't remember coming down the stairs. She opened the front door and let Ralph lead. The trees were bright in their late spring greens, everything about the plantings and about Ralph himself proclaiming vivid, breathing life, though somehow she felt sealed away from it all. Despair: it was the bane of the sick, and certainly the bane of their caretakers.

She made herself focus on the dog and his steady trot along the sidewalk toward a small park. Flowers bloomed on bushes and in garden beds and birds drifted casually from tree to tree. At the park there were children's toys but the playground was empty. Andy'd been a mother's terror when he was young, climbing onto the spring horses and standing in the saddle, rocking wildly, defying gravity. Most of the time he'd succeeded. He'd also succeeded in breaking both arms by the time he was fourteen.

She swallowed and pulled a tissue from her pocket.

At the edge of the playground an old yellow tennis ball lay half-buried in the sand. Rita made herself go closer and pick it up.

"Want to play, Ralph boy?"

She tossed it and watched the dog take off running.

Who would choose this after Bob and Andy, to go back through it all again, a glutton for punishment? Had the pain dulled so much already that she could charge in again, blissfully unaware of what awaited her? But this boy's life was at stake and how could she just leave and protect herself, knowing he'd be struggling through it alone?

 

 

To: TinMan@

From: topaz@|

I have no specifics. Whatever it is won't be obvious.

 

 

Sandy ran up the dirt road unseeing. She glanced behind her, legs pounding all the while, feet putting distance between her and the parking lot by the closed-down Saver's Mart where she'd bailed from Ryan Norton's limo. The shoes pinched her toes--her feet had spread, just like her mother had warned her, running barefoot--and there was a stinging in her calves and pressure in her throat, but she didn't stop. She wouldn't. She went on and on, one leg in front of the other, one arm and then the other, as if she could pull herself through the air, lungs aching, mind ready to burst.

There was someone up ahead, walking; she moved to the far side of the road, put her head down and kept on. Last thing she needed was gossip all over town about how she'd been running down the road crying like a baby--Sandy the young widow--too-young mother--who'd dropped out of school to have the baby she was carrying, a baby later killed by his very own father and on and on and on.

"Sandy?"

She focused far ahead, on the ditch that ran alongside the road, refusing to look toward the voice. Lungs aching, heart beating--bam, bam, bam--fists tight, as if she could run right through that pig Ryan Norton and leave a silhouetted hole through the middle of him, like in a cartoon.

The voice came again, closer; she turned her head sharply away and ran on, legs flying, heart aching, feet throbbing...

Caught. Strong arms tightened around her. Her forward motion came to an jarring halt.  Sandy started to thrash. "Just get the hell away from--"

"Sandy."

She wriggled against the arms around her. No use. She stared into the ground, breathing hard. Breathing fire.

"Hey--

One arm retreated and there was a touch against her chin, fingers lifting. She tried to turn away but she'd seen him now.

Lord, what a fool.

She went slack and let her eyes close. She sagged against him momentarily, then stood up. He let her go.

She headed for the ditch at the edge of the road. "Geez." She gulped air. "I mean--" She glanced over her shoulder. "Damn!" She sucked in her lower lip and bit it. She looked like a crazy fool for sure now. One hundred percent crazy--certified. All fool, too. She could feel herself redden beyond the coloring from her body's heat. "Oh, man." She walked a small circle and finally looked up into Ben's worried face.

"What happened to you?" he said quietly.

He had that calming look vets used with scared animals. She must look like one.

"You don't wanna know." Probably he did.

"I think I do." He nodded at her legs. "You're bleeding, you know. What happened?"

She looked down at her scratched legs. Little trails of blood came from small wounds on the sides.

"It was those damn bushes."

"What bushes?"

She breathed out heavily and swallowed. She could feel her mouth quiver. "The bushes in the parking lot. Over by the Saver's Mart."

"They just... jump out and attack you?" His voice was quiet; he wasn't making it into a joke, or a way to show her for a fool.

She shook her head and looked down.

"Was somebody chasing you? Looked like you were in a pretty big hurry."

"I don't know. I wasn't sticking around to find out."

"How about if I walk you home? You need to get cleaned up."

She nodded and didn't look at him. Her feet ached. Her legs stung now, worse than ever. She started to walk--steady, even steps, just one foot in front of the other. He kept pace, leaving her space, turning every once in a while to look behind them.

"Sorry," she said. One foot, two, tightened muscles crying out.

"For what?"

"For the way I acted. I didn't know it was you. I--" She wiped below one eye with the back of a hand and went on. He didn't press her to talk.

 

 

"Yeah, Scully." Mulder kept his voice low and glanced down the trailer hallway. "She said she ran through some bushes but whatever made her do it... She's not opening up. I get the feeling you might get a lot farther with her than I can. Anyway, you could take a look at her legs." He leaned against the dining table. "I don't know. Some kind of bushes with thorns on them. Pretty good size ones, too, from the look of it; they got her pretty good.. Can you... Can you borrow a truck from David? Yeah. Let me know right away if you can't."

Mulder hung up, paused, looked down the hallway and set the phone back on the coffee table. There was no sound at the far end of the trailer; she was holed up there, nursing her wounds, waiting. Hopefully Scully'd be on her way soon.

He turned and looked around the room. A bookshelf on the opposite wall held family pictures and a red fire truck. He went closer. Roddy as a baby, sitting in a baby seat, proud parents behind him, Sandy beaming, Cy--a big, bearded guy--with his arm around her. Cy with a deer he'd obviously shot, holding onto the rack of antlers, Roddy in diapers on the other side, mirroring his dad. Roddy in the yard, a casual shot, face smeared with dirt but beaming, pointing to his fire truck.

Mulder set the picture back and reached for the red truck on the shelf below. It had been carefully washed and polished. He ran his fingers lightly over the shiny surface and closed his eyes.

 

 

Skinner switched off the engine and leaned back against the headrest. He looked out toward the second-story window and pressed his lips hard together. Krycek's message was confirmation--as much as any they were going to get--that Scully's mother and Wilkins had been deliberately infected, and Wilkins deserved the truth, no matter how unpleasant it would be to convey it. Wilkins had stuck by Mulder and Scully--stuck by him--far beyond the call of duty, when he had no personal stake in it, nothing to gain. It was the least--and the worst, seemingly--that he could do now. Or maybe the hardest part wasn't in the telling, but rather in looking at it straight-on, facing where he'd gotten the information and how. A leash was a leash, no matter how long and slack it seemed at the moment.

Skinner got out of the car, locked it and strode toward the apartment building's entry. He hadn't even called since he'd dropped Rita here the other night. Anything could have happened in that amount of time. The corner of his mouth twisted; he took the stairs, when he came to them, two at a time. At the top he stopped in front of Wilkins' door and pushed the buzzer.

He waited, looking down the long, vacant hallway, listening for footsteps inside. Nothing. He rang again and pursed his lips, counting the seconds without thinking. He took a step back and turned to go. The door handle turned and Wilkins' weary face appeared in the crack where the door had opened.

"Chief?"

"How are you doing, Agent?"

Wilkins shook his head gingerly and winced.

"I'm still here, though sometimes I feel like it's got me down on the mat and I'm waiting for the count." He opened the door wider and gestured for Skinner to come in. "Sorry, sir. Standing around's not my forte these days."

Will turned and made his way carefully to the couch, eased himself down and lay back against the cushions. He shivered and started to cough, limbs drawing up slightly as if to shelter him from the inner battering.

"Where's Rita?" Skinner said when Wilkins had finally stopped.

"I..." His head tilted slightly toward the door. "I don't know, sir. She was here the last time I was awake." His eyes roved left and right slowly, seeking clues. "Don't know."

"I, uh..." Skinner's lips pressed into a thin line. "I sent a message to Krycek this morning, telling him about this. I figured he might know something, that he might offer us some kind of information if having the Smoking Man find Mulder and Scully doesn't mesh with his own agenda.

Wilkins said nothing. He waited, eyes asking, his breathing shallow.

"I received a reply an hour ago. It's as much verification as we're going to get. He said he had no specifics but whatever the condition was, it wouldn't be obvious."

After a moment Wilkins gave a weak smile. "So now I know for sure I've bitten the poisoned apple. Cool." He grimaced.

Skinner looked at his shoes. "Maybe it will help your doctor find out what's been done to you."

Wilkins sighed. "I hope so." He squinted toward the window and the brightness outside. "I surely do, 'cause this is getting old. You know what I'd give to be able to walk out there today, sir?" He nodded slightly toward the window. "Maybe a lot more than you realize." He paused and tried for a smile. "Hey, but thanks for the tip. I don't... I don't mean to make light of the information. After all, I did get myself into this."

"No, I think your concern for a fellow agent got you into this. The Cancer Man: he got you into this."

Wilkins shrugged.

There was the sound of a key entering the door lock. Both men sat up straighter. The door opened and Ralph came bounding in, followed by Rita.

"Walter?" She looked relieved.

"Just checking in." He stood and looked back at Wilkins. "Be sure to pass on the information. Though I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention where you got it."

"Will do, sir."

Skinner turned to Rita. "You keeping this guy out of trouble?"

"The best I can."

"Good. Any word on Maggie Scully?"

"She's in the hospital, Walter. They figured she'd be safer where they could watch her."

"How's she doing?"

Rita sighed. "She's holding on. She's doing her best."

Skinner frowned.

"Hey, Chief...

Skinner turned toward the couch.

"You know what I'm still wondering?"

"What?"

"What Kyrcek's interest is here. Why he doesn't want them found. Mulder and Scully, I mean." He moved slightly, easing his head against the cushion. "I think... if we crack that one, we could be onto something."

 

 

Sandy squeezed her eyes shut. Ben and Annie were out in the living room talking quietly. They'd be coming and here she was just sitting on the edge of the bathtub like a statue. Footsteps in the hallway now. Hold it together, girl.

"Sandy--"

It was Annie's voice, soft and soothing. She turned and looked, trying for a smile.

"Got myself in a pile of trouble, looks like," she said.

"What kind of trouble?" Annie came in and sat on the edge of the tub beside her.

"The Ryan Norton kind." She stared at the pattern on the wall. Her legs stung. Roddy's bath toys were still stacked on the little built-in shelves.

"Did he... Did he try to hurt you?"

"If you mean did he have anything in mind, the answer is sure he did. I shoulda figured. But I wanted to find out--" She looked down, at the trails of blood.

"Find out what?"

"Find out whatever it was he was doing. You know, with those deliveries he makes into Lexington. I figured it might be something that would help you and Ben, that maybe we'd--" She pressed her lips together; the corner of her mouth quivered. "You know, that it might lead to something that..." She sighed. "...about Cy and Roddy."

"So, did he... ask you to go with him?  When he went to Lexington?"

"Uh-huh. He saw me at WalMart yesterday and he asked me if I wanted to try a ride in his limo, he was going to make one of his 'deliveries' today. And I figured what the heck, it'd just be an hour and a half or so and I might find something out. I figured what could happen?"

"What did happen?"

"Well, we just drove there mostly. We went to the airport and dropped off his boxes at a little private plane hangar and turned around and come back. But he kept trying to get me to sit closer to him and there was no way, just no way in hell I was gonna--" Her hands curled against the tub edge. "I mean, you know where that's going. The script's always the same, you know? I don't know why they don't figure that out--guys. They all think they're the first ones to ever give you a line." She looked up. "You know what I mean?"

Annie nodded slowly. "Did he try to... make you sit closer?"

"Nope. He just kept talking it up, you know? And by the time we got back into town I guess he was pretty boiled at me, and--" She shrugged. She ached inside, sudden fierce pressure.

"Then what happened?"

"He said he'd take me home, and I didn't want him anywhere near here, so I said just let me off by the old Saver's Mart, and he turned into the parking lot and the second he stopped I hot-footed it out of there in a big old hurry."

"And..."

She shrugged again. "I think he just thought it was some kind of a joke, some fun he was havin' with me, like poking at a bug, but he started to come after me... with the car... chasing me..." Her jaw trembled. She made it stop.

"And that's when you ran through the bushes?"

"Uh-huh. To get away. I wasn't taking no chances, believe me; I've seen enough freaky stuff lately. And I guess I just panicked and I fell. It was stupid. I was just bein' clumsy. I got up right away and I took off, but I could hear him laughing. And I just ran, you know? I just ran and ran." She set her jaw and stared at the out-of-focus reds and blues of Roddy's little toys.

"Sandy, you should let me look at your legs now. I can help you get cleaned up. Is that okay?"

She nodded.

She could feel her eyes filling, her jaw going. She clenched her teeth together more tightly. Then careful, sure arms were around her, holding her, and her head was against Annie's shoulder. She closed her eyes and gulped in air. She wasn't going to cry. She would not. Would not.

Would not.

 

 

Mulder stared out the window into the dirt yard. What would his mother think if she could see what he could see now: the unconscionable pain of a nineteen-year-old widow caused by this secret son of hers? And Krycek--what the hell had he been thinking? Did he get some special joy out of killing the defenseless, like the homeless woman Scully'd been trying to find. How could you live with yourself?

Though it was possible, an upstart part of his mind argued, that it had been pure reaction, the same reaction they'd been taught at the Academy. Krycek could have fired instinctively. He, on the other hand, as a green member of the VCU, had once hesitated to fire and in consequence had killed a little boy's life--a boy's future--by failing to take the shot that could have saved his father.

He ran a finger along the window ledge. The scene in the yard slipped gradually out of focus.

Three times.

Three times in the last month.

Not that it was saving, exactly. Nothing Krycek did was 'saving'. How did it qualify to set a fire and then let the victim escape? Krycek hadn't cut his father any slack, right there in his own bathroom. He hadn't cut the tram operator any slack. Maybe he expected a gold star now.

Why would he?

Mulder looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes. Voices came from the hallway: Scully's, calm and soothing, and Sandy's now-easier conversation mixed with pain and the occasional tear-choked laugh.

She was strong and bull-headed the way Samantha had become bull-headed. No, not so much the same. Samantha was just a little kid, trying herself out, stretching her limits; she hadn't had this kind of tragedy to face. But what would she have become? How would her experiences, whatever they'd been, have shaped her, hardened or steeled her? Would she have fought her captors? Would he even recognize her if they were put in the same room together?

How much would be left of the little girl he'd known?

 

 

A key turned in the lock. Krycek rolled to his side and watched the door. Tracy's face appeared in the opening.

"I've got to go out somewhere," she said. She wore a partially-concealed smile. "Do you need anything, Alex?"

He looked around the room and paused. "Not that I can think of."

"I'll be back in a while."

"What's the big deal?"

"Big deal?"

"Just--" He shrugged. "Nothing. Just the way you look."

"It's a surprise, Alex. Don't make me give it away."

He turned back to his computer. The door closed and he glanced back toward it. He raised an eyebrow. A surprise.

 

 

"What do you think about it, Mother J?"

Rita watched as Will took another sip of the orange juice, a very small sip. He set the glass down on the cushion beside him. It was as far as he had the strength to reach.

"About what, Will?"

"There's something about what this Krycek is doing that's sticking in my mind. He puts a video recorder in Mulder's apartment but he's scared to death of letting his boss find out he's done it. He's not in any hurry to have the old guy find Mulder and Scully." He paused. "But Mulder's got no love for the guy; he killed Mulder's father. So what's the missing piece here? Does he need them for something? You know they aren't going to do anything for him... not of their own accord, not knowingly. There's something we're missing here, some... piece of the puzzle." He lay his head against the cushion to the side and slowly closed his eyes. "Mother J, I'm so tired."

"I know, Will. Just don't give up. You keep that mind working. You may have saved Mulder and Scully already, just by alerting them to this thing."

"If they're still safe out there somewhere."

"They're safe, Will."

A pause and he opened one eye. "You aren't the type to spill the beans, are you, Mother J? I didn't just hear you say something revealing, did I?"

She shook her head. "Not me, Will. You know I wouldn't." Her lips pressed together but the corners of her mouth squirmed.

"That's good to hear," he said. He closed his eyes and smiled. "Real good."

Rita watched his face, the dimple in his left cheek, the broad expanse of his smile. She watched it fade slowly, like sky colors at sunset. After a moment his face began to slacken; already he was beginning to drift. Rita got up quietly from her chair.

"Mother J--"

She turned back. Will's eyes remained closed. "Yes?"

"Will you send a mail to the Gunmen for me? Tell them we've got confirmation that Maggie and I were deliberately infected."

 

 

"Mission accomplished," Scully said quietly, coming up behind him. She rested a hand on his arm.

Mulder turned around.

"Mostly she had cuts and scratches, but I pulled three thorns out of her knees." She held up a baggie.

Mulder winced. "They're like darts."

"Short darts, thankfully. We should have Dr. Wykoff send them to the lab to make sure they aren't anything that could affect her. There are many poisonous plants, including some of the most common."

"They wouldn't use them in parking lots, would they? I mean, crooks climb security fences and try to sue for damages from razor wire."

"Probably not. But I'd rather be on the safe side. I'd like to keep an eye on her, too." She paused. "I think I'll stay here tonight. She's taken something for the pain and I'd like to make sure she stays quiet... and doesn't have to worry about a return visit from Mr. Wonderful."

"What happened?"

"Beeson's driver invited her for a ride in his limo--to make one of his on-the-side deliveries--and evidently he had more on his mind than she did." She looked out the window. "He didn't try anything, but when she got out in town he chased her across the parking lot with the car." She looked up intently. "Mulder, she did it because she wanted to get the information for us, because she hopes--" She sighed.

"...that something she finds will lead to justice for her family," he said quietly. He sucked in his lower lip.

"Yes." She paused. "Mulder, I understand what she feels. I know that... anger, that frustration. And I don't want to see her get hurt"--she smiled ruefully--"anymore than she is already. But she did get some information that might be useful. Just try to convince her not to--"

"...taking the kind of chances I would?" He raised an eyebrow and smiled. "No problem."

"I think she's ready to tell you. She just feels a little..."

Sandy emerged from the hallway in her bathrobe, looking down slightly. She made her way to the couch and lay down on the cushions.

"You doing okay?" Scully asked.

"Yeah, I'm okay. I'll make it." She looked up at Mulder. "I know where he goes now. If it does you any good."

Mulder sat down in an old, overstuffed chair and rested his elbows on his knees. "You know, when I made that remark yesterday about working for the FBI, I didn't mean you should go out and put your life on the line," he said quietly. A smile crossed his face. "That's my department--doing something half-assed and crazy. Then usually she's got to come pull me out of it." He nodded toward Scully, who blushed. He looked back at Sandy and paused. "So what kind of deliveries was he making?"

"Boxes. He had 'em in the trunk. Maybe five or six. Didn't seem like much to me."

"What kind of boxes?"

"Just regular old cardboard boxes." She thought. "They were new ones, though, real clean. New boxes with no writing on 'em."

"Nothing at all?"

She shook her head.

He pursed his lips. "I came across some unmarked boxes in a basement locker I was cleaning out on Friday. How big were they?"

"Like... this size." She shaped an invisible box with her hands.

Mulder glanced toward Scully. "Sounds like the same kind I found. My guess is they won't be there when I get back tomorrow."

"I wonder what's in them," Scully said.

"Ryan didn't say nothing. He was just all proud of the fact that he made extra just by delivering them to the airport--you know, just getting to drive the limo, no real work or nothing."

"Do you know exactly where you went? Could you show someone?"

"Ben..." Scully gave him a look.

"I made a map," Sandy said. "I drew it while Ryan was out unloading the boxes so I wouldn't forget."

She pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of her robe.

 

 

"Joe?"

"That you, Raylene?"

"Of course it's me. Who did you think it was gonna be?"  There was only a grunt on the other end of the line. Raylene cupped her hand around the receiver. "You're not gonna believe what I saw, Joe."

"Where are you, Raylene?"

"At the pay phone outside Daily's."

"What the hell are you doing at a pay phone?"

"Trying to tell you something if you'd just listen."

"Okay, what?"

"I was driving up toward Sandy's--"

"You mean you were spying on the girl?"

"Not spying. I'm her mother, for godsake. Anyway, I was coming up the road--you know, right around that bend before the mailbox, when I see this guy coming down her front stairs--no car--and he starts walking into town."

"Yeah?"

"So I drive on by, not to look like I'm watching him."

"Which you were."

"Well, of course I was. So like I say, I drove on by, and I go up the road a little ways and turn around and wait, and then I come back down slowly and I keep behind him--you know, far enough that he doesn't hear me in the car."

"That could be pretty far back.

"Shut up, Joe. You know what I mean."

A chuckle came from the the phone.

"Anyway, I park along the side of the street, every time until I just about lose him in the distance and then I go further.. .Joe? What are you doing? Are you even listening to me?"

"Yeah. Yeah, Raylene, I'm listening. I'm just watching this movie."

"Well, maybe this'll make you sit up and take notice. I followed this guy all the way in, no problem and he never saw me, never turned around--not so's he could see me, anyway. And you know where he went, Joe?"

"Where?"

"Dale Lanier's."

"What'd he look like?"

"About six feet, I think. Short brown hair. Maybe mid-thirties. Baseball cap, flannel shirt. Jeans. Cute."

"Cute?"

"Joe, shut up. Why you asking?"

"Because my latest broom-pusher is Lanier's nephew."

"You're kidding. Your new guy?"

"Didn't I just say that?"

"Well, what in the heavens was he doing at Sandy's house? How would he even know that girl? She's up to something, Joe, I tell you."

"Or maybe he is. Maybe he's just quick on the draw."

"Joe, you're a pig." She paused. "But I'm going to get to the bottom of this. You know I will... Joe? Joe!"

Raylene sighed and dropped the phone onto the receiver.

 

 

The old man could easily be tossing the whole thing around in his head: the way he'd choked up, the way he'd redirected just when Buzz was about to start in on 'the chick'. Krycek swallowed against a sudden sick feeling in his stomach.

The old man could still figure it out, no matter how distracted he'd seemed by the evaporation of yet another lead in his hunt to find out what had happened to Skinner's drug bust evidence. Angry even, though the old man never let his emotions get the better of him. Not completely, anyway. It was counterproductive. Still, there'd been too many little failures that all revolved around him: the disappearance of Skinner's evidence, the recorder--though that had been explained now, whether to the old man's actual satisfaction or not, he didn't know. His failure to find Mulder and Scully.

Krycek reached for the bean bag and squeezed it. He rolled carefully toward his left side--something he could do now without setting off a wave of pain--and looked at the clock. Nearly six and she hadn't come back yet. Hadn't stopped in, anyway. If he were like her he could know if she'd just walked past in the hallway, or passed his floor in the elevator. He shook his head. He didn't need her as much now--not as a nursemaid, anyway--and she knew that. She knew a lot of things.

It was like in that theater in Marseilles, he and Victor slipping into pricey private boxes disguised as ushers, picking the billfolds and purses of the unsuspecting, dreamy rich--cash and the occasional watch or ring or other valuable trinket. Enough to buy them a week's room and board in the city and another two when they'd left, when their work there was done. Not well-disguised ushers, either, but enough to fool the unwary, and there were plenty of those. It had been almost too easy, hardly any challenge at all. And then he'd started paying attention to the performance. He knew what the man was going through--Valjean. He did now, anyway. His concern for the girl, for who she'd meet when she was on her own, what would become of her. How the man's blatant territoriality toward her--or at least that's what he'd seen at the time, a time when he was young enough only to want the girl the way the character Marius did--looked like something else now. Concern. Protection.

Krycek sat up, stretched and eased himself carefully off the bed. He made his way across to the far window, leaned against the desk chair and looked out. The light was still strong and bright; summer was coming and the days were getting longer. No shadows yet, no yellowing of the light. He could see the Marseilles theater in the frosty glow of seven o'clock, across the square from where he'd sat with Victor, cafe au laits in front of them in clear glasses. It had been an excuse to watch the theater; they didn't frequent outdoor cafes. They were the small, darkened one-star restaurant types, the places with weathered wood-framed entries where construction workers stopped in dirty from their trades, ordering bowls of bean soup because it was cheap and filling, where men chewed their bread slowly and hoped for free seconds and young men waited tables to keep their mothers and sisters from being ogled by customers.

A key turned in the lock and the door opened. He glanced toward it. She seemed surprised to see him standing there, though she smiled. She carried nothing with her. Whatever she'd bought, she'd put it away upstairs.

"Where is it, Alex?" she said, joining him at the window.

"France," he said. "Marseilles, on the coast."

"The building?" She closed her eyes.

"A theater."

"It's so... beautiful, so... decorated. But you know what's best?"

"What?"

"The light. The sun's so low. It's almost like the light's made of gold. Look at the way it shines off the the cobblestones in the square. They're like fat little pillows and the shadows divide them. Do you see it, Alex?"

He hadn't ever noticed. He turned to look at her: the closed eyes, the glow in her expression. "Yeah."

 

 

Mulder set his jaw and shoved back from the computer. He forced his fingers to release their grip on the edge of the keyboard. If it were his own he probably would have thrown it. If only he'd pulled the trigger when he'd had a gun to Smoky's head. What had stopped him? Though that, too, would have had consequences. You could never see them all in the theoretical.

He went to the picture window and stared out, seeing nothing, feeling only the pounding of his blood, the need to move or do something to stop what was happening. He looked around and ran his hands back through his hair. The house was a still life. Dale had taken Bethy out for dinner, the Burger Barn or someplace. It was better that way.

It had been a good day until now, Sandy's predicament excluded. Quiet day. A perfect, quiet Sunday with a warm bed and a warmer lover, a walk through the woods and no one breathing down their necks. And now Old Smoky's reality check of the day.

He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes. Behind him, Byers' mail glowed quietly on the monitor.

 

 

"They're very good," Scully said, reaching to catch a crumb that had fallen from her mouth.

"You did it. See, I told you they're not that hard."

"Not with some expert guidance." She smiled at Sandy.

"You've just gotta get a feeling for the dough. Just the right amount of buttermilk and don't mix it to death." Sandy reached for a second biscuit and paused. "Cy'd eat 'em dunked in syrup." She looked out the window, to where the sun was sinking toward the hills, and stared. "Does that ever happen to you, Annie, where you think maybe you're doing okay and then something happens, just some little, tiny thing, and it's like you've fallen through the floor and you just keep falling and falling?"

"Sometimes," Scully said. "Eventually you... I'm not sure exactly. Maybe it's a combination of things, and you find yourself back on solid ground. Or maybe you just learn where the holes are and you avoid them. You'll get there."

Sandy bit her lip and tried to smile. "It sure don't feel like it." She glanced down at her plate and then up at Scully. "Here I am being all cheery. Doesn't exactly make for great table talk." She pushed the few remaining bites of food around her plate with a fork and looked up. "What'd Ben mean about you having to get him out of trouble?"

Scully pursed her lips and felt a smile begin in spite of her efforts. "Ben's very... spontaneous. He's a very good investigator, an excellent investigator. He's very intuitive." She paused. "But a lot of times he leads with his heart, not his head."

"And it's not what they're looking for, right? Biology class was like that for me. They wanted you to draw pictures of these things in the water, these little amoebas and all the little tiny wiggly things around the outside..."

"Cilia."

"Yeah, those." Sandy sighed. "I guess you know all that stuff. But it just wasn't me, you know? I mean, how was that gonna help me? I could tell you which animals come to the stream at what time of day, and what's going on in there, and how the turtles live. But they didn't care about that. Just draw this little thing and get a good mark." She reached for her glass and took a sip. "But then I guess if Ben gets in trouble then that puts you on the spot."

"Sometimes. Sometimes he saves me, too... from looking at things too narrowly, from... becoming sealed off in my little... We've saved each other, over the years, many different times. Different ways."

"It's so nice, you know, so... rich... knowing someone's there for you, to back you up or stand with you." Her mouth twisted. "And then before you know it--before you realize what you had--it's gone and you..." Sandy covered her face with her hands. "Sorry."

Scully rose from her chair and went to the other side of the table. The girl's head went against her middle. Scully smoothed a hand through the long, brown hair in front of her.

"Sometimes," she began, "even after the hardest things, the most... difficult, terrible things... something beautiful comes along. It comes to you and you wonder why, what you did to deserve it. But it's there, it's a gift, whether you think you deserve it, or... or whether your past has told you there's no more good, no more beautiful things left in the world. But it's there--right there in front of you. And you'll have it. And you will smile again, you will find joy."

 

 

"How's she doing, Dr... Carney," he said, glancing up from the man's name tag. He stared through the glass at the bed on the other side, at the woman in it.

"She's stable for now. Are you a relative?"

"I'm her brother. I've just arrived from Nebraska. It's given us all quite a jolt, so sudden, her condition. I scheduled a flight as soon as I heard." He paused, reached into his coat pocket, stopped, removed the hand again and settled it against the glass. "And it's pneumonia, you say?"

"As far as we can tell, though I know one of my colleagues has his doubts."

"Oh?"

"He's concerned about the extent of the delirium."

"And that would be..."

"Dr. Bandrapalli."

"May I speak with him?"

"He's not on duty now. I believe he comes in at seven tomorrow. I'd be happy to check for you."

"Yes, I'd appreciate that. I'd appreciate it very much."

He continued to look through the window at the still figure in the bed. Behind him the red-headed doctor's footsteps retreated down the hallway. Before him the slightest smile reflected palely off the glass.

 

 

Dearest Mulder,

If I had the laptop with me I would no doubt be writing this to you in a mail... or at least, I imagine that I would. Sandy has gone to sleep but I find it impossible to do the same. She gave me her son's room to sleep in and I think the tie-ins are just too great, remembering the boy's face, making the connection to who he actually was in life, and of course the parallel questions that suggest themselves about Emily: who was she really? what did she like? what made her smile? I had so few days of her and what did I really understand of who she was? I can't make myself stop asking these unanswerable questions and I refuse, finally, to be ashamed of the fact that they remain with me. A counselor would undoubtedly worry, but you, above all others, surely understand that urge, that need to know, even if it will forever be beyond fulfillment.

I'd thought until recently that her past would be enough for me, if only I knew what it was, but my interaction with Sandy has shown me otherwise. Attempting to comfort this strong woman/child I find myself asking what Emily would have become as a young woman, when she might have turned to me for advice, or comfort. Perhaps I only grieve for myself, that I will never know that opportunity, but I find consolation in the knowledge that I do have someone I can share these feelings with, a place of understanding and comfort. That in itself means more than I will ever be able to express.

                                              -Your Lark

 

 

Mulder opened his eyes, shoved back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed.

There was no way. No way to tell her this or to hold it back, either. He'd kept the information about her ova from her all that time. It was to protect her and it probably had. If Emily hadn't come along, she'd never have known she was sterile. Or not, at least, until she might have ended up with someone, contemplating marriage and a child. But even then the matter might never have passed 'unable to conceive'. She might never have had to know the extent to which they'd violated her. He'd do it again if it would keep her from being hurt.

But this was different, not the same at all; he couldn't just hide from her what was happening to her mother, no matter what her reaction. If Maggie were to die and he hadn't told her... He knew how he'd feel, if it were his own mother.

He reached down in the dark for his T-shirt, slipped it over his head and stood. Bang around a little, Dale always said. He should, too, though Bethy was sleeping here now and it made no sense to wake her. He pulled on his jeans, zipped them and went out into the living room. Moonlight, bright and strong, flooded the yard and filled the picture window. He sat down on the edge of a couch cushion and buried his head in his hands.

 

 

"Alex?"

He sighed, opened the door a little farther and peered into the darkness. What had made him think he'd be able to make it here unnoticed? Tracy was in bed, a shadowed hillscape against the flatness of the mattress.

"You left your door unlocked again," he said. He paused and looked down. "Look, I didn't come up to rag on you. Just needed a walk, I guess. Wanted to make sure I wasn't keeping you awake."

She rolled toward the door and waved him in.

"I didn't come up to disturb you..."

"Come in, Alex. Sit." There was a drowsy thickness to her voice. She waved him to the desk chair. He took it, set it in front of the window and sat down.

"I was drifting off," she said.

"Then I should go."

She shook her head. "You were down there worrying."

"Can't help it." He shrugged.

"I was picturing your French plaza again with all that yellow, misty light." She rolled onto her side. "I don't think I ever understood before--about worry. The kind people have about you. I guess maybe Uncle Nathan and Aunt Jean were concerned about me.  That it wasn't just that they found me... alarming." She stopped. Her lips pressed together.

"What?" he said.

She shook her head.

He frowned toward where she lay in the shadows.

"That first night I came to Washington, I slept in a box."

His hand curled and tightened.

"I knew it was the wrong thing to do. In the middle of the night the little voice inside me kept telling me no more, no more. And I didn't. But I thought about that later... about what my mother would think if she knew. If something had happened to me." He could see her swallow.

"I'll watch it," she said. "The door. I will, Alex."

He looked away. She had no idea of the dangers out there, what it would take to keep her safe, and if she didn't do her part, got sloppy or...

"I'll remember. When I'm gone. I won't do anything stupid."

He stared hard at a patch of moonlight near his foot, traced its ragged outline, examined the flecks of muted color in the carpet. The pressure filling him tightened, then slowly, slowly begin to ebb. He traced the moonlight patch again, straight on one side, shadow-broken on the other.

"There's another castle you'd like. If you want to see," he said finally, glancing up.

She nodded.  He could make out a smile.

"Not so far from the other one.  Famous old place. Looks like something from a fairy tale."

After a pause he closed his eyes and let the memory come. In it, he stood on a plain below a forked river and turned around. Barren, rolling plains in their late-winter tans and dormant grays spread away from it on all sides. A small village sat close by with a round, stone granary standing to one side. Its tower contained an oversized stork nest perched to one side.

Slowly he turned so she could see. He came to the first river, framed behind by crisp, snowy mountains; then to its convergence with the second river, the castle's base jutting from the confluence like the prow of a huge ship beached on the dormant plain below. He went closer, settling on the stairs, and stared up at windows and fairy-tale towers, silver slate roofs and fierce blue sky. Then he began to climb the stairs past pattern-imprinted yellow-ivory walls. Up to the entrance, into the halls and the great room where Columbus himself had come, close to the stained glass window that overlooked the sweeping plain, barren like a calm sea. Then through more hallways and up a set of narrow granite stairs: hard, cold, scooped-out stairs, the product of--

Krycek shivered and shook himself. Glanced over at the bed. She was drifting now, her breathing light and even. He watched her for a moment: the color in her cheek in a soft swathe of moonlight; her smooth, pale hair; the way her hand rode her middle. If he sat here she'd surely wake again. Much as he'd like to linger and watch, he wouldn't wake her.

He got up quietly, leaned over the bed and smoothed his hand across her forehead. Going to the door, he set the lock button on the back and let himself out into the glare of hallway lights.

 

 

Mulder opened his eyes and jumped. Bethy stood at arm's length from him, noiseless, blanket in hand in the darkened living room. He blinked, sat up straighter and ran a hand back through his hair. She was looking at him, curious or maybe knowing. Maybe she had that sense, the way her grandmother did.

He opened his mouth.

Those sad-dog eyes. It had her again, whatever took her from time to time--her father or maybe Rita's absence. Any one of a number of things. She had a lot on her plate.

He patted the cushion beside him. A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth and she crawled onto the couch. She settled herself against him and spread her blanket across them both. They sat unspeaking in the dark

Chapter 13

Monday

 

Maggie Scully felt the warmth of a hand against her wrist. She opened her eyes and squinted into the perennial brightness of the hospital room. Dr. Bandrapalli was standing over her. The conscious aches of sickness seeped in and filled her. Her mouth was thick and dry.

"Doctor, I saw him."

He was at the end of the bed now, looking at her chart.

She strained to force her voice above a whisper. "Doctor Bandrapalli?"

"Yes?" He looked up.

"The man who came to my door... to tell me about my daughter. I saw him at that window." She pointed with one shaky finger.

"Mrs. Scully, you may have seen many things. This fever has played games with your mind, with your brain's ability to function. It's inevitable that--"

"No." She struggled to pull herself up. "I saw him. I know it." She set her jaw and felt a momentary surge of strength, of normalcy.

He came around to the side of the bed. "You're convinced of this?"

"Yes."

"Do you know when this was? Long ago? Hours?"

"I--" She looked at the ceiling. It was always the same here--no night, no day, no windows. Only the interminable harshness of fluorescent light. She sighed. "I don't know. But there was another doctor--the one with the red hair? He was there, too."

The doctor poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table, put a straw in it and held it so she could drink. "I will inquire of my colleagues," he said.

"Do you think it could have been just a hallucination? It seemed... different from the things that I've been dreaming. Seeing." She sighed and let her head go back against the pillows.

"I will ask. I learned long ago not to leave any stones unturned."

She smiled a weak smile. "John Byers told me about your family, about the ones you lost in the accident."

"Bhopal" he said, "was not quite an accident." He pressed his lips together and stared at the far wall. "An accident waiting to happen in a place where the value of a poor life is considered cheap, yes. I lost 31 members of my family, including many children." He raised an eyebrow and looked past her. "And I suppose every patient I have had since then has benefited from that loss. In a way"--he glanced briefly at her--"I work to save those I could not save."

"Then you must have many grateful patients."

"I do my best." He sighed, studied the bed rail a moment and looked up. "Oh, I do have news of a sort. I have a hunch. I'm having Byers and his friends check it out this morning, but something came to me. I may have an idea what this illness is. I've put you on erythromycin."

"The antibiotic?"

"Yes. If I'm right it will give us a head start. And if this sickness is what you think, you and your friends, then this mysterious man will find himself disappointed. At least, if I have any say in the matter."

"Has anyone heard from my daughter?"

"We have reports that she is well."

"Does she know about this?"

"I don't believe so."

Maggie shook her head. Her lips pressed hard together. "Don't tell her."

He looked askance at her.

"I never understood before," she said. "My daughter, once... she had a... a health crisis--a very serious crisis--and didn't tell me. I was angry when I found out. I was angry with her right there in her hospital room. But I understand now why she didn't say anything, what she was trying to save me from." She looked up at him. "Don't tell her. Not yet, anyway."

 

 

Mulder shifted into first and pulled into Sandy's yard at a crawl. If she was still asleep he didn't want to wake her. He didn't want to wake Scully, either. In order to protect her... well, he'd go to any length. But she deserved to know this. She needed to be able to count on him to tell her. It was a matter of trust. She was a dogged investigator; maybe there was something she could do, or figure out, that would help her mother.

He circled the trailer to the left and managed to slip the truck behind it where it was out of view of the road. Turning off the motor, he let his head fall back against the steering wheel. His eyes closed. Three hours--maybe three hours sleep at the most once Bethy had gone back to bed. Neither of them had said a word the entire time; they'd just sat there close together, two people with their respective burdens looking at the pale, moon-flooded still-life outside the picture window. Two people not quite so alone. Eventually Bethy had started to drift and he'd herded her back to her room and tucked her in.

Mulder's head slipped to one side and he sat up abruptly, arms weak, head thick, eyes that didn't want to open again. Eight hours of latrine-and-locker duty to face. And this.

This.

He forced his eyes to stay open and made himself look toward the trailer. The living room window reflected first light off the hillside beside him. Dimly behind it he could see Scully's face looking down, curious at first, then concerned. He swallowed. She pointed toward the back door. Mulder got out of the truck, closed the door quietly and walked toward the wooden stairs that led to the back door, watching dirt and gravel pass his shoes. The door squeaked open. He looked up.

"What is it?" she said. She wore that look, the one that said she'd just wakened and hadn't quite gotten her bearings. He smiled momentarily. Miraculously enough, he knew that look from experience now.

"A mail from Byers. It came in last night." No other words. He only stood.

She hesitated, glanced behind her and motioned him inside.

What's wrong, Mulder? What's happened? He could read the questions in her face, in her eyes, though her finger was against her lips. She led him quietly past Sandy's room to the living room beyond.

"What?" she whispered.

He looked at the ceiling and down again. "Your mother's in the hospital, Scully."

Shock, then widening eyes, then a swallow. "What is it, Mulder? How is she? Was she in an accident?"

"That might have been preferable." He glanced down, pursed his lips and finally looked up at her. "Sit down," he said softly.

"Mulder..."

He sat on the edge of a couch cushion. Reluctant, she settled beside him.

"It's no accident, Scully. We're pretty sure it was Smoky."

Her eyes widened. Darkened, it seemed. "What does she have, Mulder? What's wrong with her?"

"They aren't sure. They said it looks like pneumonia... with non-characteristic delirium. But they're not convinced--"

"Of what?"

"That it's not something else, something that was"--his jaw set--"deliberately given to her. To her and Isaiah Wilkins." His hand curled around the edge of the cushion beside him and squeezed.  And I don't have to tell you how familiar that sounds."

She stared, wide-eyed, and swallowed. "When did this... when did it happen? And Wilkins, too?"

"Apparently"--he glanced down the hallway toward Sandy's bedroom--"we've got Wilkins to thank that things aren't worse. He'd been speculating about what Smoky might try to do to flush us out and he figured--"

"That he might do something to my mother, to draw me into the open, away from you." She stared through him, distant.

"Divide and conquer."

"Mulder, that man!" Her eyes were hard, the corner of her mouth wavered. Her near hand was curling tight. He took it and smoothed it between his own.

"Anyway, that's one of the reasons Wilkins was hanging out with your mom, because he figured something might happen, but he had no way to be certain."

"How long has this been going on, Mul...? No, wait. My mother sent me a mail on Thursday. She said she was coming down with something."

"Yeah, well, luckily Wilkins contacted the Gunmen as soon as he started to show symptoms. They've got an M.D. friend of theirs, some guy they're evidently pretty impressed with, keeping an eye on both of them. Byers took your mother to St. Anne's in Silver Spring yesterday." He paused. "They've been trying to carry the ball for us, Scully. I guess they were hoping if they could put out the fire they wouldn't have to tell us at all." He looked across to the far window, where bright, colorless light filled the glass.

"Mulder, I..." She shook her head. She sighed, leaned in against him and let herself be held.

 

 

Tracy tied her hair back with a rubber band and inspected her reflection in the mirror above the low, broad dresser: oversize T-shirt that hung to mid-thigh, the baby definitely adding his shape now, breasts unfamiliarly full. Or maybe just no longer negligible.

A woman. She'd never seemed like... well, like anything other than herself. Not child or teen, certainly not... It seemed so strange, the thought--odd to handle, like a curious, foreign object. But Alex was right. And the baby: what would it be like, two of them everywhere? Company, as Alex said. But the looks she got from other people would be even worse now, more penetrating. A child with a child and still no memory, not a single thought or fleeting image of how, or when, or why.

She looked up, to the reflection of bright light beginning to flood the window, and reached for the plastic thrift store bag in front of her. She took out the broad, dented metal bowl, and the pans, and the old wooden spoon. Late morning, Marisela had said. The timing would be just right.

She opened the left-hand drawer and took out the bag of flour she'd bought the day before, the small container of salt and the small packets. It would feel good to have her hands in the dough, working it, doing... what? There'd been something inside her, pulling. Maybe this was symbolic, an attempt by her subconscious to touch the past, the familiar and comforting. To return to a world she'd never be able to go back to.

Still, the idea had been to do this for him. It was simple enough. She made herself smile and tear open the paper flap on the flour bag. When had giving ever been hard, or sad?

 

 

To: Redwall@

From: Bhopal31@

Our patient claims to have seen the Mastermind observing her from beyond the window of her room. I am checking with my colleagues in an attempt to verify, but perhaps we should come to some agreements regarding security? Please respond.

 

 

"Don't even think of blaming yourself, Scully." Mulder's voice was quiet. "You know it was Smoky who did this."

She shook her head against him and looked up. "I'm not."

"Dale said something to me last week that made a lot of sense: that it isn't whether you get tricked that's important, but what you do to get out of it. We lose ourselves in..."  He shrugged. "Maybe that's just me. Guess I sat up for hours, thinking what I'd like to do to Old Smoky. What I could have done years ago." He shook his head.

"No, we've got to keep clear heads, Mulder." Her face was strong, resolved. "If I went... Of course I want to see her, be with her, but it would give him exactly what he wants. That wouldn't help my mother."

"The Gunmen have been monitoring everything, keeping track of your mom, Wilkins..." He sat up straighter. "I think I know where Rita might be. I think she might have gone to take care of Wilkins."

Scully smiled a fleeting smile. "They can get a message to my mother." She corners of her mouth wavered suddenly. She fought them into straightness. "I can search the Internet. There are lots of medical databases."

"I think we probably don't know the half of the support we've got back in D. C. The important thing is to stay in touch and to keep a few steps ahead of Smoky. We keep putting out the fires but we've got to get ahead of him somehow."

"We'll find a way, Mulder. We have to." She squeezed his hand and paused. "What?"

"You." He smiled. "You're amazing."

"You put too much faith in me, Mulder."

"No, I... I don't think so."

 

 

Sandy put on her robe and looked down at her legs, stretched tight from forming scabs. They looked awful but they'd heal. It was probably a good thing Annie'd come. And what would have happened if she hadn't run into Ben on the road? She hadn't even stopped to think what he'd been doing there in the first place, just walking down the road like that. She'd been on automatic.

She ran a brush through her hair, set it back down on the dresser and picked up Roddy's teddy bear. It had been getting raggedy but he hadn't wanted to give it up. There was supposed to be a new one for his next birthday; she'd put in on layaway and hadn't had whatever it took to go back to the store and cancel. Probably they wouldn't even ask why, but she just didn't want to face the possibility of having to explain herself: Sandy the poor, confused, high school dropout widow with the bad sense to marry a guy who'd kill his own little boy.

She held the bear close to her cheek. It was losing its smell--the way it smelled of dirt and Roddy and being played with, it's realness just slipping away like... She swallowed and fought the sudden, swelling ache inside her. Get going, girl. World's still turning--heaven only knows why--and you're still in it. Annie'd be awake by now. The carpet passed by her in shaggy greens as she went down the hallway.

At the end she looked up, stopped abruptly and reddened. Ben and Annie were sitting on the couch, wrapped around each other. His cheek was tucked against her head.

"Sorry, I guess I was just barreling on through." Just keep on talking, girl.

Both looked up. Both looked somber.

"Something wrong?"

"It's Annie's mother," Ben said quietly. "The man who wanted your husband dead has infected her with a disease in order to flush us out into the open. He's hoping Annie will panic and show up at the hospital."

Sandy watched the line of Ben's jaw, set, his mouth a thin line. "My god. I swear, this is all like... like something out of a movie." She pulled a chair from its place at the table and sat down. "Do you know what's the matter with her?"

"It appears to be pneumonia," Annie said, sitting forward now, clearing her throat. "But it's probably something easily misdiagnosed as pneumonia. There are Internet medical databases. I can search them from the laptop." She paused and looked down.

Ben pulled himself to the edge of the cushion. "Gotta go," he said quietly, close to Annie's hair. "Gotta paint them lockers and clean them toilets."

"I hope Joe lets up on you," Sandy said. She got up, made as graceful an exit as possible into the kitchen and opened the door to an upper cabinet. Ben stood up and Annie followed. He talked quietly, close to her, and brushed a kiss against her forehead. Annie's hand was on his arm; her eyes closed when he touched her. Sandy took out the oatmeal and clattered around looking for measuring cups.

"Sandy?"

She turned around. en came toward her. "Give her a hand today, will you?"

"You bet," she said, and nodded.

She watched him turn and go down the hallway. Annie went to the window and looked down. Eventually the sound of the car's engine passed the corner of the house and faded in the direction of the road. Annie turned and smoothed her hands back through her hair. She pressed her lips together.

"I'll have breakfast ready in five," Sandy said.

Annie forced a smile. "Thank you. There's"--she took a deep breath--"a lot of work to be done. I guess we'd better get started."

 

 

Tracy watched as Alex went slowly up the stairs, pausing slightly between steps, keeping a steady rhythm based in growing strength. There was no wheelchair now. He'd walked the flight of stairs to her room, stood there while she'd finished washing the flour from her hands and arms--luckily he hadn't seen, or asked questions--and then had begun his ascent to the roof. She stood on the landing below to give him space and to be ready in case he needed help.

He'd been volleying her departure around in his head again, debating whether to try to contact his mother beforehand in order to know for sure whether she'd help, or whether to wait for the last possible moment, depend on the element of surprise and his hope that she'd come to his aid. Her aid: she was the one he was doing this for. Or whether to strong-arm Skinner into giving him an e-mail address that would circumvent his mother entirely and give him direct access to Mulder. Though quite possibly a direct line to Mulder's direct and unqualified rejection. That was what really worried him: he expected Mulder to slam the door in his face. Mulder had reason to.

"Tracy--" He was at the top now, looking down at her, flushed with exertion, visibly pleased with his effort. Aware, too, of how she might take it. She hurried up the stairs.

"It was good, Alex," she said. "You're doing better."

He looked at her--took a moment to look into her--and shook his head. "You're a trooper," he said.

"Just keep telling me that."

He stopped short and gave her a look. "You are."

He was full of a momentary buoyancy. She smiled without thinking and they continued to the wall.

"Thanks for the castle last night," she said when they'd come to the edge and settled into their familiar places.

"No problem." He was looking out into the distance, at the haze of morning.

"It was beautiful. But I fell asleep before you were finished." She paused. "What was it, Alex, about that stairway? I remember starting up the stairs, the way they'd been worn down in the middle from so many people stepping on them for so long. I can't imagine how many people it would take to wear down stone that way. But there was something up there--"

"Dungeons," he said. He didn't look at her. "Open to the air, just"--a shrug--"iron bars, snow on the mountains."

He'd been held in a place like that--not up in a tower, but he knew the cold, the shivering cold where there was no warmth at all, only aching numbness or gnawing pain, with too much weakness to stand, the surfaces too chilled to sit on.

"Tracy, don't."

Quickly she retreated from his mind. "Sorry. I didn't mean to." It was hard not to look at what was laid out right in front of you.

He looked at the grains of grit scattered along the top of the wall, running a finger absently through them. Methodically, he pressed the the memory into some dark little compartment, sealing it away out of reach.

Tracy looked out at the hazy scene before her. She should know by now. She should be alert enough to stay out of where she hadn't been invited, especially with Alex.

But now it began to materialize again: the narrow stone staircase leading up and up.  She looked over at him.

"View's nice from the top," he said, still staring ahead.

She bit her lip and slowly closed her eyes. Up and up the granite stairs went, around and around in circles until they came out onto a stone roof patio. She hesitated a moment, then went to the edge and looked out. Before her lay miles and miles of empty, rolling plain, soft in dormant shades of blue and tan.

It was so vast and empty, though hauntingly beautiful in its own way. For a moment she felt as if she were at the prow of a huge stone ship gliding across endless plains .

"It's like on your mountain, Alex--that feeling that you could spread your arms and fly off, and soar over the land like a bird."

 

 

To: Redwall@

From: thelark@

Thank you for your ongoing efforts on my mother's behalf. I can't possibly express how much it helps to know we are not fighting this larger battle alone. Please send whatever details you have on my mother's condition. Do you have an e-mail address for her doctor? Awaiting your reply.

 

 

To: Redwall@

From: Bhopal31@

Have verification from a colleague that the man in question was indeed at the patient's window at approximately 7 p.m. last night. He claimed to be her brother and asked about her condition. He was given my name but has yet to contact me. Will keep you posted as things develop.

"Well, gentlemen." Byers sighed and looked across the darkened room.

"Rani's going to have to look like he's with the program or he's going to be in danger here, too, if the Cancer Man's watching," Frohike said, looking absently at his gloves, flexing them.

"You're going to have to stop going, Byers. You know he's going to check surveillance. Or set up his own." Langley's face seemed to float in the shadows, the bright reflection off his glasses set off by long, uncombed hair.

"The old bastard can just look at her chart and see we've found the key, if Rani's right about this water contamination thing," Frohike said, getting up from the stool he'd been sitting on. "Speaking of which, Langley, you and I have work to do. Grab yourself a set of coveralls."

"Colson's Plumbing?"

"The one and only."

"I'll see what I can do about the hospital situation," Byers said.

Frohike shook his head. "Imagine that bastard posing as her brother." He pounded a fist on the table. "It's time to bring the son of a bitch down."

 

 

"Hey!" came an approaching voice.

Mulder steeled himself and turned around.

"You're moving up in the world," Joe said, coming closer.  He wore one of his plastic smiles. "I'm sending you to the Big House today." He paused and raised his eyebrows. "Bathrooms over there get dirty, too."

Mulder shrugged. "Yeah, I guess they do everywhere."

"Come on," Joe said. He turned and headed toward his office. "I'll get you a site map."

Mulder glanced back toward the lockers. Finally, a ticket to the other building. Hopefully something would come of it since their boxed evidence had disappeared. He'd checked the end locker first thing and as he'd figured, it was empty. They still had the airport end of that trail to investigate, though. Dale knew some private pilots who flew out of Lexington. He'd promised to drive to the airport after work and see what he could find out.

Mulder made himself follow Joe. There had to be some kind of evidence in the other building--something they could use. For Scully's sake there had to be.

When he got to the office doorway, Joe was rummaging in a file drawer. He pushed through folders and pulled out a yellow sheet of paper. "Here."

Mulder reached out and took it.

"Nice catch," Joe said.

Mulder frowned, puzzled. "Excuse me?"

"The girl. Sandy. I heard you were out at her place yesterday. She's a... well, she's a little like an untamed mustang."

"She's just a kid. Anyway, I was out running yesterday. Came across her on the road. She'd fallen and scraped herself up and I walked her home, that's all. If I need a woman I'll find one who's grown up."

"Whatever."

Mulder fought to keep his expression cool. There were a few things he'd like to do with the smirk on Joe's face.

Jue sat down at his desk and reached for a handful of papers. Apparently his audience with the Great One was over. Mulder turned and left the office, frowning. Nailed again. No matter how careful you were or what precautions you took, half a dozen people in Owensburg knew every move you made. The road had been deserted. Nobody had passed him or driven by; he was sure of it. But then it could have been anything, even a neighbor with a telescope. A telescope would be a big boon to the gossip industry in a place like this.

Slowly he loaded his cleaning cart. He could feel his pulse pounding through his fingers where he gripped the handle of the cart. Hopefully Scully was still buoyed by the resolve she'd showed this morning, but hope--strength--could be a fickle thing and it would be hours before he'd be able to check on her. He pictured Joe's office again, metal filing cabinets lining the wall. Gradually they morphed into the file cabinets of his old basement office: drawers full of evidence he'd gathered so painstakingly, years of work and emotional investment gone up in smoke. Then the office and the assignment taken away until, armed only with mops and toilet brushes and bottles of glass cleaner, he was reduced to the flimsy hope of finding some piece of critical piece of evidence that might turn their fate around in the trash can of a factory in the country's heartland.

 

 

"'This is the only day I'm driving up," Sandy said as the old station wagon bounced up the road. "I love the walk. Or the running. I really do." She glanced over at Annie, who was looking out the window. "Annie, if there's anything I can do, any old thing..." She sighed. "You know, I know exactly how empty that sounds, believe me I do. But really. You've been such a help to me."

Annie turned and made herself smile.

"I'm glad you've got Ben here. I didn't realize you two were--"

"More than partners?" Annie seemed to surprise herself by speaking. She colored. "I didn't either until a couple of weeks ago." She looked away, out the window. "I always thought I was looking for something else--someone else. Someone more conventional, I guess, more... stable." She stared at passing trees. "When you know someone so well, so thoroughly, with all their little quirks and--"

"Warts and all?"

Annie smiled and nodded. "It's not what you think of as romance. Then something happens to make you see. how deeply woven into your life they are."

"I wish I'd realized that more. At the time." Sandy sighed. "It's so easy to get wrapped up in the little things where you clash, all that petty stuff. You know, where you end up counting whether you're getting enough back for what you put out, like it's some kind of scorecard." She shook her head.

"I think maybe," Annie said, "we're always out there looking for what we think life is supposed to be."

 

 

They took the stairs together, down and then pause, down and then pause, a rhythm that had become second-nature, fingers intertwined in a firm, familiar grip. Though the railings were on the wrong side for him on the descent, and Alex was tiring.

Sometimes he would smile in between stairs, small smiles he probably didn't realize he was making. They were something his face had little practice at. Sometimes he counted the stairs in his head. Down, pause. Down and pause.

Her hand squirmed suddenly. He looked at her, questioning. On the next stair she pulled away and swallowed. "He's coming, Alex."

He braced himself and looked down. Five more. "Where is he?"

"In the elevator. It's stopping. Can you make it?"

He nodded for her to stand there, slightly away, close enough to look attentive, far enough not to raise the old man's suspicions.

The sound of the elevator door sliding open, and footsteps. The old man appeared, cigarette in hand, and headed toward the door of Alex's room. When he noticed them, he stopped.

Alex shrugged. "Getting a little exercise. Made it up a flight and back. Nearly." He took another step down, paused and took another, more slowly than he had before. 'I feel like an old guy. Going to need a nap like one, too."

The old man nodded, pleased, and took a drag on his cigarette. "News, of a sort," he said casually, obviously pleased. He let the smoke out.

Alex reached the landing. The old man let them pass and watched Alex as he went to the door.

"I have things to get. At the store," she said quietly, nodding toward the street.

He knew her look. She didn't want to be here, didn't want to be anywhere near the old man.

"Do you need anything from the drugstore?" she asked.

"That one prescription's almost out. You can have it filled again." It wasn't, but he wanted her to pocket the bottle. It would look good to the old man.

"Okay," she said. She did have something to do. And she knew the old man's news as surely as she knew what Alex's reaction to it would be.

Tracy went into the bathroom and got the bottle from the shelf. In his mind he touched her as she passed, a hand on her arm: reassurance. The old man was watching, seeing nothing, his mind full of Scully's mother and where his plan would lead. She made herself look at him as she went out, a slight nod to acknowledge him. He fed on acknowledgement.

Outside the door she paused and settled herself. Alex still had her in his mind, trying to shelter her from the awful man who was his father. She looked up the flight of stairs they'd come down and started to climb. The metal bowl was sitting on the desk chair in front of the window, covered with a towel. It should be ready now, rounded like her own middle. She glanced down momentarily, then made herself step up.

 

 

To: thelark@

From: twykoff@

Did your Masson's staining myself this morning as I have an interest in this. Results on your specimens were exactly as you expected. Contact me for details.

 

 

Scully clicked on her second e-mail.

"He's awaiting specific test results," she said, reading from the monitor. "Agent Wilkins may be our saving grace here--the fact that he anticipated this, that we haven't been misdirected by the obvious." She sat back and swallowed. The air around her was quiet for a moment.

"But there's something you can do, right?" Sandy said, breaking the silence. "You said you could look things up."

Scully nodded. She stared at the screen and then pushed her chair back from the desk. "Go ahead, Sandy. You can write to your dad if you want."

"I can wait. This is more important than a little old letter."

"No, I'm... I'm thinking about something. Something that happened a long time ago that may tie in here."

Scully moved to the bed--half-made bed she hadn't been in since she and Mulder had drifted here in the warmth of midday yesterday. In her mind she pictured base housing, grid-perfect neighborhoods and stamped-out houses, each one the same pale green, palm trees dotting endless stretches of otherwise vacant lawn.

Sandy sat down carefully at the desk and placed her fingers gingerly over the keys. "I haven't done this in a long time," she was saying. "A long time."

Scully could see her mother's face, the disbelief and shock as she passed along the sad news that not one but two neighbors, elderly veterans who had been attending a convention on the East Coast, were dead in an epidemic of some sort. She'd followed the investigation, her budding interest in medicine urging her on. It had had something to do with the air conditioning in the end--commercial air conditioning. But that wasn't a factor here.

The keyboard keys sounded in intermittent clunks.

It had appeared to be pneumonia at first, though. A medical mystery, it had caught her imagination and she'd followed it...

San Diego. She remembered Missy, more interested in boys by then than in the games they'd played as younger girls, the way she'd wanted to go to the beach and Mom had refused to let her go alone, or to designate Dana as chaperone. She's even younger than you are, Mom had said, hands-up in exasperation. Beach tans were better than backyard tans, Missy had insisted, but to no avail.

Scully smoothed the patch of sheets beside her hand. San Diego. There was the Children's Center just last year--how could she ever have imagined?--the court appointment and Mulder's hand at her back in the hallway in his typical it'll-all-work-out-Scully confidence. The way he'd picked Emily up immediately in the middle of the night while the worker had gone to call 911--Mulder the immediate responder, the personal touch, the intimate connection, the fingers tracing the silhouette of a missing child in a mantel photograph or the flannel cut-out hearts of small victims long buried, as if the act of tracing would summon their essence so he could feel it, weave himself into it, understand it. Mulder, half-asleep, his fingers absently tracing her back, eyes closed, stubble framing a drowsy smile.

She could feel him: shadow-arms around her, the simple comfort of warm skin on skin, warm breath at the back of her neck.

But there was work to be done.

Air conditioning. How did it figure in?

Dispersal of bacteria in a spray of warm water.

Scully looked up. Sandy was sitting back from the computer, staring at her, puzzled.

"I think I've thought of something," she said.

 

 

"Scully's mother has been taken to a hospital in Silver Spring," the old man said, allowing the pleasure in his voice to go undisguised. "They think it's pneumonia, of course." He took a drag on the Morley, opened his mouth and let the smoke out in soft clouds.

"And you figure Scully'll be coming?" Alex said from where he lay on the bed.

The boy's coloring was better these days, not nearly so pale. He was a strong one anyway, but the girl must be responsible in part. She seemed to have taken to her work, to be keeping up with what Alex needed to strengthen himself.

"Scully arrived too late to see her sister. I think that would have an effect on her. She's seemed... attached to her family in that way, an attachment that should prove useful in the present circumstances." He looked around for the ashtray without finding it.

"Desk drawer," Alex said, nodding toward the drawer on the right.

He pulled out the ashtray--washed, not merely wiped out--set it on the desktop and tapped off a growing length of ash. Putting the Morley back between his lips briefly, he turned toward the bed.

"It may take her a few days. Longer may be better, actually. More time will mean she's done more arguing with Mulder over which course to pursue. He'll tell her not to come, of course, if he suspects anything. He'll feel guilty, as if the cause of this is my desire to get to him, the way he tormented himself over Scully's illness a year ago." He smiled briefly and looked toward the narrow window beside the bed. "But I believe she'll come around" A pause. "It's possible we may even get Mulder if he torments himself sufficiently, decides to... sacrifice himself nobly for his partner's mental well-being." He looked up. Alex was watching him, dark eyes, every move and nuance, the same way he watched Alex. It was reassuring and unnerving at the same time.

"In any event, I have a trip to make at the end of the week." He turned to tap off the ash again. "London and... Tunisia."

Alex's eyes registered quiet surprise.

"I leave Wednesday evening," he said. "May not be back until Saturday. At any rate, I may miss the excitement here. I have my people in place, of course, at the hospital. But I'll leave you to coordinate. When she shows up--"

"If she shows up."

He paused and then nodded. "Yes, of course." Devil's advocate or challenge? No matter, the question was valid. "We'll need a place to keep her until I return. I'll leave that to your discretion. You don't have to go out, of course; just monitor what's happening. These are the contacts."

It was an offer of trust.  He set the paper on the lamp table next to the bed.

"And if she doesn't show? If her mom starts to get better?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Then we may need to up the stakes a bit."

"No problem. I'll be here."

"You're doing well, Alex," he said, nodding. "Scully may be surprised to see how well you're doing."

 

 

Tracy got up from her chair and walked across the broad expanse of restaurant kitchen. The floor was made of butterscotch-colored tiles that sloped slightly to a drain in the center of the room. Above the floor spread counters and ovens of gleaming chrome. She looked up to where bright light filtered through a high window. The room was silent and orderly; it would be hours before the restaurant opened for dinner. It was almost a place of meditation. She glacned back at the chair she'd been sitting on, a simple leather-seated chair brought from Marisela's homeland: deep brown wood frame, reddish-brown seat held in place with broad, decorative brass nails. It seemed to fit the tiles it sat on and the clean vacancy of the kitchen.

Bread smells filled the room now; she went to the oven door, opened it slightly, and closed it again. It had been too long. Much too long. In her mind she could see the garden beyond home's kitchen window, her mother in between the green beans and the cucumbers, weeding. And then last spring, the poles where the sweet peas had bloomed, the bushes dried in place, crisp and tan, neglected. She turned away and pushed open the swinging doors that led into the dining room.

Dim overhead lights cast a low glow over the tables. Marisela was cleaning tabletops and chairs.

"Alex has been to your castle," Tracy said, approaching, picking up a cleaning rag and dipping it into Marisela's bucket. She pulled back a chair, got down on her knees and began to wipe the smooth ribs of the chair back. "The castle in Segovia, too. He showed me pictures."

Marisela nodded. "Very big. Very, very beautiful. It was Queen Isabel's castle--the one who sent Colón... how do you say it here?"

"Columbus."

Marisela nodded and paused, rag in hand. "Your Alex, he is doing better?"

"Better." She nodded. Marisela always said 'your Alex'.

"He's the quiet one. He looks, he watches. While he waits for the food to be ready he notices everything around him."

"You must notice," Tracy said. "If you notice what he sees."

The girl stopped and flushed. "Perhaps. I didn' think about it."

Marisela went back to cleaning her chair seat. Tracy smoothed her rag over the rungs and seat, working the rag into the small depressions where seat met ribs, where little bits of dirt or food collected, then returned to the arch of the chair back, a smooth, graceful motion. Up and curve around, up and curve, like the stairs going up to the castle tower. How many places held the dread of memory for Alex the way that stairway did? And yet he'd returned, once he'd managed to seal the memory away, to bind and gag it. He'd made another attempt in order to give her a view he knew she'd want to see. She moved to a second chair and dipped her rag into the warm bucket again.

Marisela nodded toward the kitchen. "We should keep an eye on your bread. The oven is different than a small one in a house."

Tracy squeezed out the rag, laid it on the table and stood. She passed the picture of the castle on the wall, and the rocky peaks behind the village, and the picture of Hemingway. Marisela was thinking again that she was like the girl Maria in the story, a young girl with an older man.

Tracy went through the swinging door into the kitchen. Bread smells filled the room, making her smile. There was something more, though, lurking beyond the fragrance of yeast and flour: a thin essence of memory that ached. Time to be strong, Alex would say, and he'd be right. It was one of those times.

 

 

"Knock, knock."

Scully turned around and looked toward the screen door. Sandy stood outside, one hand holding something beyond where she could see it. "Come in," she said, pushing the screen door open.

"I don't mean to disturb you if you're busy," the girl began, looking down slightly. "I guess I just hoped you'd made some progress. And I wanted to give you these. Adrie and I picked 'em."

Adrie appeared beside Sandy wearing a broad smile.

Sandy stepped up. "Want to come, Adrie?"

Adrie only smiled and shook his head.

"He seems happy today," Scully said. "He's usually absorbed in his play. Not unhappy but... serious. It's good to see him smile... Ooh, very pretty." She took the flowers Sandy held out, pale lavenders and yellows and whites interspersed with ferns and other greens, all in a peanut butter jar.

"Some of 'em won't last more than a day," Sandy said. "But they'll be nice for now. They cheer a room up, you know?"

"Yes, they do." Scully set them on the small counter beside the desk. "Thank you."

"Have you found anything?" Sandy sat down on the edge of the bed.

"I think I may have. I've spent the last two hours searching the Internet, but actually the idea just came to me, something I remembered from when I was twelve or thirteen. Sandy, have you ever taken down wallpaper?"

"Ugh." She made a face. "Yeah. More than I'd like to. Well, it was only one room in my mom's house, but it's an old place and the stuff was stuck to the walls. I mean stuck."

"How did you get it off?"

"We scraped for a while. Well, okay, I scraped while my mom spent a lot of time on the phone with Joe, whining about it." She paused and looked down. "Okay, I guess I probably wasn't too much fun to work with, either. But it was hard stuff. We tried putting wet towels over it but then you've gotta hold them there and it takes forever. And then Joe told my mom about this little machine you can rent; it kinda steams the paper off. You just hold it there and when it gets enough steam it just comes rolling off, pretty much."

"Exactly," Scully said.

"So what's that got to do with anything?"

"A lot, maybe. My mother and Agent Wilkins were taking down some wallpaper at the beginning of last week..

"This guy must be a good friend of yours."

Scully paused. "Actually, I've only known him a short time, but... yes, I guess you can say he is." She pursed her lips. "Anyway, this disease I remember hearing about when I was young--it appeared to be pneumonia. There was a big outbreak of it at a convention in Philadelphia and a number of people died. At the time they had no idea what it was, but they named it Legionnaire's disease after the convention. Eventually they determined that the outbreak had been caused by contaminated warm water in the building's air conditioning system that had come through the duct work as an aerosol--"

"Like a spray?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean, contaminated? Like some terrorist thing?"

"No. Just a bacteria that's sometimes found in water. The air conditioning system vaporized some of the water and spread it through the building, contaminating the people at the conference."

"And you think that's what happened to your mom?"

"She and Wilkins both developed symptoms after they'd worked on the wallpaper. A home air conditioning system doesn't work the same way. It wouldn't have that effect. But a steamer for taking down wallpaper would. And contaminating the water supply would be easy enough to do."

"But how would somebody know she'd be taking down wallpaper? They couldn't exactly count on something like that."

"They wouldn't have had to. Just taking a shower would have the same effect: warm water vaporized."

"I get it." Sandy sighed and shook her head. "But my god, Annie, I don't... I just don't understand. I mean, I know I've lived my whole life in this little town, and it ain't Lexington, or probably a lot of other places out there with sharp, slick people, but... What makes people like that? Like this guy who thinks he can just step on people like little plastic army men in the dirt and it don't mean anything?"

"He doesn't have any scruples, any moral--"

"He's got no heart."

Scully smiled a pained smile. "I think that says it all."

Sandy's lips pressed together. She looked down and studied the carpet, nudging at the surface with a toe. "Well, my Cy and Roddy may be gone, but your mom's still alive and we've got to do whatever it takes." She looked up. "Have you sent what you found to her doctor?"

Scully nodded. "About ten minutes ago. He could have it already."

"Thank goodness for e-mail." Sandy stood. "Well, I really gotta go. I gotta see what Roddy's--" One hand found its way to her mouth.

Scully stood. "You okay? Sandy?"

Sandy gulped but said nothing at first.  "Guess I'm getting used to this," she said finally, quiet. "Maybe more than I want to. Well, I'd better go. You be strong, Annie."

She must have looked doubtful, Scully thought, because a second later the girl's arms were around her. "I will," she said, leaning into the strength of the embrace. "I will."

 

 

Krycek made his way up the stairs for the second time. Five minutes, she'd said when she'd popped her head in on her way back from the grocery store, her face with its glow of excitement and mystery only half-hidden. She had no idea how transparent she was. Well, he'd waited the five. He paused at the landing, let his breathing even out and stepped up again. Ten to go, nine, eight. He'd never counted stairs before she came, before that first trip up to the roof, a place he'd never been until she'd taken him, even for all the time he'd lived in this building.

He reached the third-floor landing and paused again to catch his breath. Probably she was watching him in her head: he might as well be on camera. Not that she had much of a choice. He looked ahead, to her door, covered the last small distance to it and knocked.

"Come in."

He could picture her face, the way she'd look when she said it, cheeks flushed, mouth pressed tight to keep the overflow inside. He turned the knob and pushed the door open.

"Hey." It smelled incredible. But suddenly he was stranded, an unexpected hitch in the flow, an awkwardness. He felt his cheeks warming.  It was changing again; the dynamic was changing.

"Come on in, Alex."

Spell broken somehow. He went in and closed the door behind him.

"Sit," she said, smiling. "It's just going to get cold."  She pointed to a small, towel-covered mound on the bed.

"How'd you manage?" He came around the foot of the bed and eased himself onto the desk chair.

"I asked Marisela if I could use the oven at the restaurant."

"Good thinking."

"Just tear off a piece," she said, gesturing toward the loaf sitting on paper towels at the edge of the bed. "I don't have a knife."

"Hold it for me?"

"Sorry." She flushed and came closer. She held the loaf while he pulled off a warm chunk, then sat on the edge of the bed. "I should know by now."

"No problem." He took a bite and nodded. It was amazing. He took another, chewed and swallowed. "In Europe they make it mostly in little bakeries, not in homes. It always smells good when it's fresh, but... it's not quite like this. It's a little sweeter here. Different. But really good," he added.

"I've got butter if you want it. Marisela gave me some of those little wrapped-up pats."

He shook his head. "No, it's good like this, just the way it is."

She held the loaf out, waited while he pulled off another piece, then sat back and pulled one leg up under her.

"I used to make it at home," she said. "My mom taught me when I was pretty little and eventually I just took over. It was one of my... things, I guess. She was more at home in the garden and I did the household stuff." She looked up and shrugged. "What a homebody, right?"

"It's a skill." He nodded toward her. "Every skill has a place." It had been an art the way she'd come up to him that first night when he was stuck in the dark by the window, all care and confidence, easing him past the circuit-shorting pain.

She colored and looked away, out the window, then at the bedspread's patterned surface. "I haven't made it in so long but it's been working away at me lately, the desire to make it again, to get my hands back into the dough. Maybe it's the rhythm of the kneading." She looked up. "I got the bowl and pans at the thrift store. They had a two-for-one sale."

He nodded.

"But it's been a long time. since I've made any. Not since I was home, not since..." Her lips came together and she attempted a smile.

"Since..."

She took a breath. "Since she didn't have the strength to chew it." She sighed.  One hand smoothed over a wrinkle in her dress.

His jaw stopped moving. This definitely wasn't where he'd intended for things to go.

"I don't mean to..." she started, and shook her head. "I guess I've just had this... thing... in the back of my head for a while now, the bread and... I don't know what it is... you know, why--why I wanted to." She studied her hands. "Maybe I'm just trying to get back there somehow." She looked up. "But I did want to make it for you. Really."

"I can tell. Thanks."

"I've been thinking." She traced a fold in the blanket, then looked up. "Maybe I do need to go back there. Not to live; I feel like I'm never going to live there again, like somehow the place is drifting away from me. But I think I need to go there and face it first, the way you always face everything." She looked for his reaction.

"You sure you can handle it?"

"Maybe when I leave here. Maybe then." She shrugged. "Guess I'll find out."

Just leaving and having to be on her own would be rough enough. And he'd seen what the memories did to her.

She looked up suddenly at his worry.

His jaw set. Caught again. How far had she seen into him this time? 

Quickly she looked away.

But it didn't mean she couldn't see him, and that was the point: regardless of what she meant or didn't mean, it was like being strip-searched, always naked under bright lights. Maybe it hadn't been so noticeable before; he wasn't sure why it seemed so obvious today.

She was at the window now, one hand tight against the frame, staring into the street. He swallowed. Of course she would have heard this, too.  Or felt it, or whatever it was she did .And this would be how everybody treated her eventually, the way they all reacted.

Plunge the knife in and twist, stupid.

"Tracy..."

"Alex..."

"Tracy..." He stood. "Look, I just... I need space. There are some things I need to think over. By myself. I just can't... can't do it this way, with an audience."

She was looking out the window.  "I know."

She was empty, lost; it didn't take any psychic ability to see that. He approached her and held out his hand. She hesitated, took it but only half-heartedly. She stared through the glass pane in front of her.

"Give me a couple of hours." He smoothed his thumb along her wrist.

"I'll go for a walk, Alex." Her voice was small.

"Bread's going to dry out," he said quietly. He let her hand go.

She moved to the bed and covered the partial loaf with a towel. He watched the way her hair spilled over her shoulders, smooth and sleek.

"I just... need some time to think. Tracy..."

She turned to face him, more composed now.

"Help me down the stairs?"

She took the hand he offered, fingers working into their familiar places.

"Couple of hours," he said.

"I'll go for a walk," she repeated.

"Come back."

"I will."

 

 

"He hasn't contacted you yet?"

Rani shook his head. "Nothing. Do you think he will? Or was he just coming to see for himself that his plan was in place?"

Byers rubbed a thumb against the steering wheel. "Actually, I have no clear idea. But evidently he does know that you suspect something--medically, at least. Undoubtedly he's going to have his own surveillance in place, either video or personnel, and that's going to include you."

Rani shrugged. "I'll know if I see someone different. I'm quite familiar with all the staff."

"It could be easy enough to buy the temporary loyalty of someone already here... especially someone on the lower end of the pay scale."

Rani stared out across the broad expanse of parked cars. "I would protest." He let out a sigh. "We have a fine staff here. But, yes, I've seen the power of money."

"We'll have to be very careful when she begins to recover."

"Even if we have found the root of the mystery, John, and it seems we may have, the extent of the infection in her lungs... Things are not quite as easy as simply changing the medication. I believe she's been infected for longer than Wilkins. True, her symptoms didn't begin to show themselves until, coincidently, Wilkins' did, too. But I believe that was only a matter of coincidence. If the bacteria were there earlier, in the water system..."

"Just a daily shower would have done it."

"Precisely. Oh, did I mention? I heard from her daughter not an hour ago. She'd suggested the same thing I'd already thought of."

"Legionnaire's?"

Rani nodded. "Not a common diagnosis."

"She's not a common investigator."

 

 

Mulder picked up the yellow sign from the entrance to the women's bathroom and put it back on his cart. Three women were waiting to get in: two young ones chewing gum, looking bored but probably glad for the excuse to be away from their stations a few minutes longer, the third a woman of about 40 with her hair drawn up into a pony tail. She jotted something in a little notebook as she waited. Mulder pushed the cart to the side and dipped his mop in the bucket. The two gum-chewer exchanged glances and half-hidden smiles and went inside; the older woman continued to write. Mulder pressed the mop in the wringer, took it out and began to swab it across the tiles.

There was a big plastic bag of trash he could go through later, but discovering anything useful in it was an outside chance at best--a scrap of hope that was too damn close to self-delusion.

It had been different when he was the only one. Being booted out of the Bureau was bad but it had been bearable. Then it had been both of them and together that had been bearable, too... okay, sometimes a whole lot better than bearable--a little bit of heaven in the middle of purgatory. But now the clock was ticking. Stay here in Owensburg too long and somebody was going to find them out, and they were no closer now to pinning anything on Old Smoky than they'd been weeks ago, or years ago for that matter. What they had was bits--maybe five jigsaw puzzle pieces out of five hundred: a body autopsied, a little more information about the plant, a possibility of evidence at the airport if Dale was able to locate Beeson's pilot.

A lot of ifs, nothing concrete and Scully's mother hanging in the balance. And Smoky wouldn't wait forever if Scully didn't show. She was bound to realize that, too, once she'd gotten past her need to do research for her mother. She might solve the medical mystery; if anyone could, it would be Scully. But if she didn't show, Smoky would do something else, something more, and how much could they take in the end? Scully was feeling strong now--the strength that came from knowing you can't afford not to be, the kind tightrope walkers must feel halfway across, nowhere to go but to the other side or down, and down's not an option. But what about later? What would happen when Maggie didn't get worse and Scully didn't show? Smoky wouldn't just shrug and walk away. He'd tighten the screws.

Eventually she was going to realize that.

Mulder dipped his mop in the bucket again and wrung it out. He started on the floor again, long, even strokes, automatic now. He was approaching the woman's feet. She was still busy in the notebook.

"Excuse me," he said. "Bathroom's open now."

She looked up, startled, then half-smiled. "Thanks. Grocery lists should be so all-absorbing, eh?"

She tucked the pad into the pocket of her lab coat and passed him, headed into the restroom. Mulder's mop stopped. It was quiet suddenly--quieter than before. He could picture Debbie in the park, her expression intense, her arm twined around Ray's, rocking slightly as if it were the movement that kept her running.

She wheezes, she'd said matter-of-factly.

 

 

She'd almost been able to forget about her 'gift'. They said it was a gift but what good was it if it only separated you from people, made them draw away from you as if you had some awful disease, one you'd never be able to get rid of?

Almost normal for a while there, she and Alex falling into a comfortable kind of rhythm, her anticipating, him understanding. But he was right: he hadn't had any choice. The pain--his necessity--had taken away his options to be on his own or to choose his own companionship. Maybe, as he thought, he simply hadn't noticed what she could see while the pain was causing so much static inside him. He was doing better now and that was a good thing; he needed to be strong, to be able to go on with his life. But it frustrated him now, realizing how much she saw, that she knew what was in him almost before he did. Alex of all people, who sealed himself away to protect himself, to stay anonymous. To guard his vulnerabilities.

Tracy leaned back against the tree trunk and looked up at the canopy of leaves overhead. She sat with her back to the square and the people on the benches and tried to focus on the hanging greenery instead of the murmur of minds behind her. It was so natural to hear them. But for them, not knowing, not seeing into those around them... what would it be like? A kind of blindness, but one they'd accept for not knowing anything else. How blinding the light, then, when they saw it revealed. How terribly harsh. But she'd been the same in a way: unknowing, assuming for so long that people could see into her. Maybe it was why Alex found her so transparent. Maybe it was why she couldn't lie, never having suspected that people couldn't see the truth in her.

A squirrel darted along a tree branch and stopped suddenly, peering down to look at and then chide her noisily. She smiled up at the small, intense face.

Come back, he'd said. Then he'd repeated it in his mind for good measure. Who else had ever said that, once having known?

She looked at the park perimeter, at the cars passing in the street and the storefronts beyond the flow of traffic. Across the street was a hardware store with red sale signs in the window. The thrift store had had a sign in the window, too. 'All house wares 75% off--today only' it had said when she'd passed by this morning on her way to Marisela's.

She stood up and brushed off the back of her dress. There was something she wanted to get.

 

 

It was his fourth grade teacher standing at the front of the room, and Will was small again. He looked around to see his classmates all there, too.

"This citizenship award goes to Isaiah Wilkins, " the teacher said, nodding solemnly toward his seat at the back of the room.

Several white faces turned around to stare, noses wrinkling, though most deigned not to gratify him with so much as that. He didn't remember doing anything to deserve an award.

The teacher was smiling. She was shorter than he remembered. Kindly. She repeated his name and waited for him to stand up. More heads turned. Will squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, his face warming.

"Isaiah?"

He could feel his brow wrinkle. "What was it I did again?" he said quietly.

There was a low eruption of laughter.

"Yeah, what did he do?" one freckle-face kid demanded.

"Why, he pulled that dog away from where the bus was coming, Randy. He probably saved the dog's life. It was a noble thing."

"It was a stupid thing," a voice behind him rasped. Two fingers poked him in the back. "You coulda got yourself run over, stupid. Where wouldya of been then?" The fingers jabbed again.

"Will?"

She was beckoning again, waiting, one hand held out and a paper in the other, fancy scrolling around the edges. His mind puzzled. He wanted to hunker down in his seat and wait for her to go on to someone else's name except that the fingers behind him kept poking through the slats in the chair. Now there was a shoe wedged against the small of his back. He stood.

He walked slowly forward, eyes on the gray linoleum tiles and finally, when he had to, up on her. She offered her hand for him to shake--one hand open, the other with the paper in it. He reached out, feeling the eyes behind him boring into his back as if they were hot pokers.

"Will," she said again. Unlike the others, she meant the smile she was smiling.

He put his hand forward and let her take it. Her hand was cool and small.

"Will--"

He opened his eyes.

"Stay with me, Will."

He was in his bedroom. His mouth was hot and thick, his head ached. His chest ached.

"The doctor says they think they've found out what you and Maggie have got." Rita squeezed gently against his hand. "They know how to treat it now, they think."

He blinked.

"It's because of you, Will. If you hadn't stuck with this thing, nobody would have known."

His eyes closed. He could see the classroom again, the pale faces watching, some blank, some staring, a few with something unpleasant simmering behind the eyes.

"Stay with me, Will," the teacher was saying.

She came close and smoothed a cool hand across his forehead. He was tired. He let his eyes close.

 

 

She hadn't asked. And she wouldn't. It wasn't in her or like her.

But the need was there all the same; he could see it as clearly as if he could read her the way she read him. Something was drawing Tracy home, something she needed to settle, but how would she make it through the confrontation? In the woods, the memories had torn her apart. It wasn't something she should have to go through alone.

Shit. The old man would be laughing now.  Or maybe just incredulous. Out of the loop, out of shape, definitely out of perspective.  No perspective at all if all he was thinking about was what she needed. She'd be gone soon enough, nothing more than a blip in scheme of things, and how many people had passed by the window of his life, like crowds in a bus station?

Only none of them would be leaving the kind of crater in the middle of his life that was bound to be there once she left. He'd gotten used to her, no getting around it. And irritating as her ability to read him could be, at times it was almost a relief to have her know things without the need to explain, just to realize that everything was on the table, no need to lie, to keep track of lies or cover for them.

Still, it should be a warning flag that he was even considering doing this.  Okay, it was setting off bells.  Still, he wasn't inclined to jump.

The old man would be leaving town, which would give them a couple of days with no pressure, no one looking over their shoulders. True, he'd been tasked with coordinating the old man's surveillance of Scully's mother. And two weeks ago he'd never have considered taking off in the middle of an assignment. Not even in the months since he'd realized that there was nothing in any assignment the old man would ever offer him that would get him anywhere. The old man was never going to let him rise to any position of influence; he'd only use him until he was used up. It was all he'd ever intended.

Before, he'd been independent and he'd taken anything--any chance or assignment that might get him somewhere, give him a greater toe-hold, net him some information, whatever he could scrounge out of it. He'd always come away with something.  But 'something' had dried up a long time ago.  It was an endless dry spell these days, the outlook like a never-ending desert that went on and on for as far as he could see.  He was going to die here, just one more bleached skeleton along the roadside leading to colonization.  

Krycek pulled up, slid his legs over the side of the bed and leaned forward, resting his head in his hand. He was up more these days; he really should start wearing the arm again, if only for balance.  No use taking a chance on messing up the alignment of his spine.  The joys of being a fucking amputee.

Pushing out a heavy breath, he sat up and stood, then made his way to the window above the desk.

So. Scully's mother. What if she started to get better? But he was still laid up, or as good as. The old man wouldn't leave it to him to get rid of her.

Scully'd want to go to her mother; the old man was right about that. She'd have that fire in her eyes, that holy indignation she wore so well. But Mulder would find a way, if he kept his head--some way to keep her from walking into this. The question was whether he'd keep his head. And whether she'd listen. It would depend on what she had to gain by going: ease of conscience--the resolution of knowing she'd done whatever she could--versus what she had to lose by leaving Mulder, and only she knew what that was. She'd been spooked enough at the end there.  Even he had noticed that through the shock, lying there bleeding onto her carpet. He'd watched them through the bathroom door, her sitting on the counter like a shaking child, wide-eyed, immobilized, Mulder dabbing the blood off her, washing her neck and cheek, making a bandage, handling her as if she were made of porcelain. Trying to clean the blood off her shirt, then giving up finally, bringing her another and then having to put it on her. If she'd been in any kind of shape she would have decked him; it was Scully, after all. Unless they'd already crossed that line. But it hadn't seemed like it from the way he handled her, too careful and tentative. Who knew what would have happened between them after two weeks on the run, though. Pressure--extremity--did strange things to you, shot you right through into the twilight zone. He should know.

He did now, anyway.

 

 

To: meremaid@

From: ottercreek@

I'm sending this on the chance you're checking your mail. Ben thinks he may know where you've gone off to, and if he's right I want you to know I'm rooting for you and wishing you the strength you'll be needing on the front lines like that. I don't envy you being somewhere big and noisy, but I'm doing my best here to keep Annie cheered up. If you're where we think you are, you know what's going on with her, too.

I'm getting along better with Adrie and my job now and I thought you'd be pleased to know that at least. I've been swimming up by the falls. They're beautiful like you said. I've done some fool things lately but I'm hanging in there overall and, like I said, I'm trying to help keep Annie's spirits up. I guess that helps me keep my mind off my own troubles and I know that's a good thing. Thanks for reaching out to me when everyone else was just standing around with their mouths gaping. When I think about it, it's like a miracle considering what you lost in all this craziness, too.

God bless, and please write back so I know you got this. Annie let me use her computer to write this mail.

                                                                                     -S

 

 

"Knock, knock..."

Scully glanced up from the book on the bed beside her. Mulder stood outside, Bethy in hand. She smiled and got up.

"Looks like Grand Central here," she said, opening the screen door. "Hi, Bethy."

Bethy smiled and looked past her to where Sandy sat in the desk chair. Her cheeks were rosy against her pale skin.

"Go on," Scully said, nodding toward Sandy.

Bethy let go of Mulder's hand and stepped up into the trailer. Scully stepped out and down the stairs. She was aware of the color rising in her face. "Didn't expect to see you here."

He shrugged. "Yeah, well I just spent eight hours worrying about how you were doing. Figured I'd stop speculating."

"Did you walk?"

"Didn't have much choice. Didn't want to take a chance on someone spotting me driving up here." He paused and frowned. "Apparently somebody saw me coming out of Sandy's yesterday."

She gave him a quizzical look.

"Joe greeted me this morning with a little comment about my"--he lowered his voice--"'nice catch'."

Scully frowned and glanced behind her, to where Sandy and Bethy were already deep in conversation.

"Dale's supposed to be heading for Lexington to see what he can find out at the airport, so I picked Bethy up, parked at Rita's and we took the trail behind the house from there. I figure anyone watching me would assume we're inside."

"And Rita's car?"

"In the driveway so it looks like she's home." One eyebrow went up. "Any news with you?"

She let out a careful breath and nodded. "We think we may have it figured out--her doctor and I. We've been in contact several times today. Now we're just waiting for confirming lab results. We'd both come to the same conclusion. Suspicions, anyway: Legionnaire's disease."

"But... isn't that contagious? Aren't there huge outbreaks?"

"It's bacterial, not viral. And no, usually there aren't, contrary to popular impression. But we've certainly got Wilkins to thank that we knew to look deeper in the first place."

"How's he's doing?"

"He's not in the hospital. His symptoms certainly aren't anything to envy, but he's doing a little better than..." She stopped, let out the buildup of air. The sticks at her feet were arranged in a pattern--Adrie's handiwork, undoubtedly.

Mulder's hand settled against the small of her back. "Hey," he said softly. "Why don't we take a walk?"

She looked up, managed a small smile and turned around to where Sandy was half-watching, trying not to intrude.

"Sandy, we're going to--"

"Why don't you two take a walk?" she said, waving a hand at them. "I've got Sweet Pea here and we're going to go check out what Adrie's doing."

Scully nodded and smiled. "Thanks." She turned to Mulder and they started down the trail that led downhill and to the left.

"Smooth," he said, raising an eyebrow. "You two have that choreographed?"

"Practiced for hours," she said, letting herself smile.

"On a scale of one to ten, I give it a 9.5." His arm went around her waist.

"Come on, Mulder," she said. "Let's walk."

 

 

Tracy took the hot bread gingerly from the toaster and spread it with jam.

"See?" she said, turning to where he sat on the edge of the bed. "It's almost better this way."

He nodded, mouth full. Crumbs stuck to his lips.

She sat down on the desk chair, put her feet up on the rungs and took a bite of her toast. He crumpled his paper towel and sent it cleanly into the waste basket beside the microwave, then lay back against the pillows. He was watching her, thinking, half-guarding what was in his head. She was conscious of the movement of her jaws, the loudness of her own chewing in her ears. Maybe it was what he felt like--the watched feeling--whenever  she was around. She swallowed self-consciously.

"How far is it?" he asked.

She looked up at him, questioning.

"To where you lived?"

"About three hours."

"He's left me to coordinate his little plan," he said, tilting his head back farther and looking out the narrow window behind him. "He's flying to Europe for a few days at the end of the week." She watched the small peak his Adam's apple made.

"He isn't going to make you...?"

"Do anything to her? Nah." He shook his head. "I'm still sidelined as far as he's concerned." A pause. "He's been too careful, too... concerned... about how I'm doing. I don't like it." He pulled up slightly and pushed a pillow farther under his head. "He was happy enough to set me on top of a car bomb a few years back."  Then there'd been the hell of the silo. "It doesn't track--the show of concern. Keeps me awake sometimes, thinking about it, what his angle is, what..." He shrugged and stared at the ceiling.

"Do you want to know?" She pressed her lips together and looked at her hands in her lap.

"What?"

"His concern. Alex, I can't help what I see. I just... don't know any way to... to block it out, not to--"

"Hey, I"--he shook his head--"didn't mean to rag on you. You know, before. It just... sometimes it builds up. I'm not used to living like this."

She put one arm over the chair back beside her and leaned against it. "I've seen it more than once in him, Alex. And the strength of the memory always surprises him,  just like when it first happened."

"What?"

"When you were in the hospital, the first time, in surgery, they almost lost you... for a little while there. There was a point and... something went wrong, people were yelling all of a sudden--I can't tell what they're saying--and everyone's hurrying around you and... he's shocked. He knows he shouldn't be. He likes to think he's ready for anything, but he's not. And he has to leave the room. That bothers him because he never leaves; he can watch anything but he can't watch you there." She shook her head. "I don't know, Alex. He doesn't know how to... love, how to value people, but it's like some little vulnerability he isn't expecting that hits him every once in a while." She shrugged. "I don't understand it, either."

He was staring at the corner of the ceiling. He'd nearly died, he was thinking. It wasn't the first time. No big deal; he was still here. But it shook him all the same. She watched his jaw, the way it set. The old man had never mentioned it to him.

"I was thinking this morning, " she started. She ran a finger along the smooth edge of the chair back. "I have been thinking..."

"About?" He was still half-caught in her revelation.

"When the baby comes, they'll be staring at me even more. It won't just be what they think of me already but that added to it, and..." She sighed.

"Any more than they do already?" His voice was quiet. He nodded toward her middle. "You're not exactly a secret now, you know."

"It's not that." She shook her head. "It's that I was only thinking of myself. I should be thinking of the baby. What kind of mother..." The corners of her mouth wavered. "I don't think I'm ready for this; I know I'm not.. To do it right, I mean." She let her head rest against her arm and closed her eyes momentarily.

"Any kid would be lucky, Tracy. Really lucky." After a moment he shrugged. "And whatever you have to do, you find a way."

"Doesn't mean you'll do it well."

"You will." He watched her a moment, clear-eyed. "Look, I didn't mean for things to... turn the way they did this morning."

"How could you help it? Having someone watching you all the time this way. I guess... I guess I just have to figure out a way to get past it. It's never going to hit people any differently, what I do."

"Turn sideways," he said. "That's what you need to do." He rolled slightly toward her. "Close your eyes." A pause. "Go on."

She gave him a skeptical look but let her eyes close. They were near the ocean, looking down from cliffs. The sky was gunmetal blue with thin, bright slashes of yellowish light. Out in the water were lots of... something, bobbing along. Small black things.

"What are they, Alex? Seals?"

"Surfers," he said.

She could make them out now, the heads of men and boys in wetsuits.

"They're waiting for good waves. They'll stay out there for hours. They walk out..."

She could see one now, walking slowly into the water, seeing a wave coming, holding his arms up, turning sideways and letting it pass by, walking on farther and doing it again, over and over. No wave carried him away or moved him from where he was; the waves simply slipped past him on their way to the shore.

"You focus on where you're headed, not on the wave. Present a small front, know it's going to pass you by. Wait it out."

She opened her eyes. He was studying her, the picture still in his head, blue-gray sky and row after row of waves coming, passing. And something else. Woods. Trees.

He wanted to offer--wanted to say the words. The thought that he might actually do it terrified him.

 

 

"I followed him to Rita Johnston's house," Raylene said. She picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the crumbled hamburger in the pot in front of her. She shook some salt and pepper into it. "He had Rita's granddaughter with him."

"Makes sense," Joe said from the far side of the table. He was hidden behind the sports section.

"Makes sense why?"

"He's her nephew. It's not like he's a stranger or something."

"Still." She dabbed at the contents of the pot. "He's still there. I waited a good long while and he never came out." She listened to the meat sizzle, smelled the steam coming up from the pan. "Joe..."

"Huh?"

She turned around. "Did you hear to anything I was saying?"

"Huh? Yeah, I heard it. I just didn't figure it was very important."

"Joe Charters!"

The paper came down. "I just don't see what the big deal is, Raylene. You two fight like cats and dogs anyway. She's an adult. I guess I don't get what your interest is here."

"That's because you don't have kids." The corners of her mouth tightened. "Not any you ever had to raise, anyway."

The paper went back up again. "Reds beat the Cardinals in extra innings," he said after a moment.

Raylene turned back to her hamburger. She watched bubbles sizzle up between bits of meat, the red color fading gradually to gray. She opened a can of tomatoes and poured it into the pot. There was a sizzle of protest, like water on a campfire, and then near-silence.

"Anyway, if you'd quit breathing down her neck, Raylene, maybe she'd stop running. It'd make anybody crazy."

"Joe, I do not--"

She half-turned, gripped the spoon more tightly and stared back into the pot. Her eyes felt as if she'd been slicing onions. It was all she knew, all she'd ever known. It wasn't so easy: trying and trying and always getting it wrong.

 

 

Scully let the waterfall in front of her go momentarily out of focus. The quiet roar of passing water deepened. Mist drifted against her face and she closed her eyes. The rock ledge was hard and cool beneath her. Sunlight heated a patch on her leg. She leaned back against the warmth of Mulder close behind her, his arms around her waist. Together they moved slightly, the expansion and contraction of breathing. A chirp overhead, then a warble; she opened her eyes. Above them, an orange-beaked finch skipped from leaf to leaf and stopped on a young, thin branch, fluttering slightly, waiting for the seesaw movement to stop. This was the way Mulder had held her at Teena's in the middle of the night, the way he'd been holding his sister in the picture at the end of his mother's hallway: young Fox, attentive protector of the contented, vulnerable Samantha. He said nothing now, made no movement.

"Mulder?"

No reply other than the slight nudge of his cheek against her ear.

An image grew gradually in her mind: a hospital bed, monitoring equipment. White walls. A privacy curtain in institutional green. Her mother's face, pale...

No.

Scully moistened her lips, wrapped her hands around Mulder's wrists and leaned back to look at him. His jaw was set; he stared toward the water.

"He's already changed her medication," she said. "We aren't sure how long she's actually been infected, but we should start to see some improvement by the end of the week."

He nodded slightly. The waterfall reflected in his eyes.

"Hard day cleaning?" She smoothed a thumb across his wrist.

"Emptied trash. Cleaned toilets. Mopped." He sucked in his lower lip. "Came up pretty dry in the end." He blinked. "I think I found this one woman the blind girl was talking about. I was hoping I could catch her after work but she disappeared right away. She was halfway out of the parking lot by the time I made it to the front door.." His jaw tightened.

Scully turned forward again, toward the waterfall. "There has to be another way for you to approach her. This is Owensburg, Mulder. Anyone's bound to know where she lives." She smiled grimly. "And almost anything else about her, for that matter. She shouldn't be hard to find."

No reply.

When she turned to look again, his eyes were closed. She scooted forward, eased his arms from around her, stood and turned to face him. She smoothed her hands past his cheeks and into his hair; his head came forward to rest against her.

"Shit, Scully, what are we doing here? I mean, I go in every day, I go through the trash looking for evidence. It's like digging through dumpsters hoping to come up with a winning lottery ticket." A sigh. "In the meantime Smoky's doing... unspeakable things to your mother, trying to flush us out..."

She let her lips rest against the top of his head.

"I guess I ran out today," he went on, "just ran dry. For the whole eight hours I was trying to think of something to get us past this instead of always being three steps behind Smoky, trying to play catch-up, jumping though one of his damn hoops."

"Mulder, don't. Don't let him get to you. It's just another one of his tricks, his strategies, to make you blame yourself, to immobilize you."

She cupped his face, kissed the bridge of his nose. His head came forward again and rested against her shoulder. Soft hair brushed her cheek. A kiss touched her collarbone and then he was pulling back, sitting up, looking at her. He shook his head.

"I don't know how you're holding up through this, Scully."

She felt her eyebrows rise. "I don't either. I guess... I have to. I don't have a choice."

"I think I... I know what it feels like, now... when you're out of hope, when..." He sucked in his lower lip and looked past her. "When you look ahead and nothing's out there--nothing different on the horizon. All day, looking for some countermove..." He looked down at his jeans and shrugged. "I don't like being dead weight, Scully."

"Mulder, do you know...?" She tipped his chin up. His eyes closed. "Do you think I've never felt that way, that 'partner' wasn't at all an operational term, that you were carrying that load and me along with it? Mulder, I need you, not just your ideas. not just your... hope, when you have it. If you have it." She took his hands. "Do you remember what you told me once? That the truth would save me? I have to believe that it will, Mulder. And if I can't see my way ahead to where it saves us from this situation, this dilemma, to how it saves my mother... at least I know I've got you--we've got each other--and that's a start. It's a place to rise up and stand, to see out over this... storm."

She kissed the line between stubble and smooth skin, rested her cheek against his and let her eyes close. The steady sound of water poured past. His grip on her hands was firm and steady.

"Whenever I bottom out," his voice came finally, quiet up against her, "Scully, you're always here."

 

 

From the shade of the tree line, Sandy could see the grave clearly.  And this was as close as she was going to get to the Miller family plot. Gram didn't know what to say to her anymore; neither did Cy's brothers. They were lost, still in shock. They still thought Cy'd done it--shot Roddy--and what could they say to her after that? Someday, if this whole mess got resolved, they'd know the truth: that at least Cy hadn't killed his own son, that he was drugged into running down Rita Johnston's boy and then shot in cold blood, just a pawn in some heartless man's game, and what was his point, this man who called himself a human being, who sent other people to do his dirty work for him? Why hadn't he come and shot Cy and Roddy himself? Could he have pulled the trigger? What was he getting in exchange for all the lives he took?

She leaned back against the tree behind her. Cy's grave was on this end of the plot. Already, pale little grasses were starting to grow over the loose dirt. The soil had been smoothed out good, but it still showed, the fact that it had been dug up recently. Another month and nobody'd know. Not the casual passerby, anyway. For all they'd know, the grave could've been here forever. A whole life sealed into a box and faded away, nobody talking about it anymore, as if it had never happened.

Life went on, they said, only it was black-and-white now with just a few flecks of color here and there: Adrie when he was excited about something he'd built, the pain of falling in the sticker bush in the parking lot, Rita Johnston and soft little Sweet Pea, the way she'd sit up against you--she knew; she knew what a person was going through. Annie when she'd taken the thorns out of her knees, or Annie with Ben when he'd come to the trailer this afternoon. What it would be like to feel that again, what she could see happening between the two of them when they got near each other. They were so lucky.

She was lucky, too, to have them here. Maybe some day it would all be resolved, whatever could be fixed of it, and she'd be able to go into the supermarket or into Daily's or WalMart without ten people turning to each other behind her back and saying, "There goes that Sandy Miller. Her husband shot her little boy and then killed himself, can you imagine?"

Sandy reached down and drew a trail in the dirt with her finger. She wanted him back. She wanted him warts and all with his tickly beard and the big arms that came around her from behind, his baseball caps and even the dirty clothes on the floor. She'd be glad to see him go off with the guys if only she knew he'd be coming home afterward.

It was no use, though. Nothing was more impossible in this whole world.

She wanted him anyway, wanted him so bad it made her bones ache.

 

 

"Tracy?"

She shook herself and stared at him suddenly, wide-eyed. Pale. "What?"

"You were... You okay? For a second there..." He shook his head. She'd looked sick all of a sudden.

Her mouth twisted at the corners and she worked to fight it into straightness. One hand gripped the other in her lap. After a few seconds she shifted, got up from the edge of the bed and turned away. Eyes on the floor, a clear sign that she was avoiding him.

"It was nothing, Alex. It was just--"

"Didn't seem like nothing. You looked like you were about to pass out."

She shook her head. She was facing the bookshelves, not him, her voice unsteady, giving her away.

"I think I need to take a walk. I'll..." She shifted from one foot to the other.

"Hey--"

She turned away and started for the door.

"Tracy." He pushed up on one elbow.

She stood at the door, knob in hand, fighting with whether to turn it. Finally her forehead went against the door frame, her hand still gripping the knob. Her eyes squeezed shut and then opened again. Whatever it was, it hurt her like a physical pain.

"I guess"--she turned to look at him through strands of thin blonde hair--"maybe I should stop running. Again." She straightened, turned slowly and leaned back against the door.

"What?"

She shook her head slowly. "Alex, you're not going to want to know this."

He watched her face go from pain to reluctance to sadness. She shook her head again.

"Tracy..."

"I can't. How can I...?"

It had something to do with him, something he'd done or thought.

Her mouth opened and then closed again.

He nodded toward her. Come here. Sit.

She shook her head but came anyway, reluctantly, working to control a quiver at the corner of her mouth. She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and stared at her hands. Her fingers knitted themselves together.

"I saw someone," she began, rocking slightly.

"In your mind? Like Skinner? Like the way you came to me?"

"I just saw them; I wasn't... there. I was just watching."

He waited.

Her lips pressed together. "You don't want to know."

Tell me. "I want to know what's doing this to you."

"It was"--she half-looked up at him, lost--"the little boy's mother, Alex."

He let his head drop onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling. For a moment no breath came--not in nor out. He could see himself again, firing, Miller with his broad reddish beard slumping slightly toward the passenger seat in the dull light of the car interior, a long pause and then the body's gurgle, and the wail, loud and abrupt like a siren. The jolt of panic, followed by the need to stop the noise--stop it now--and the second shot, without hesitation, almost before he could think.

He swallowed, counted the thumping beat of his pulse. Glanced at her.

She was looking down, red-eyed, as if she'd been able to reach past his own recollection of the scene and right into the man and the boy. No point in trying to justify it. He could have grown up to be an inconsequential kid who'd have run his car off the road when he was seventeen, drunk, or trying to kiss some girl. But he was gone now; he'd been gone in an instant, the way so many instantaneous decisions changed the course of things--lives or the history of nations.

She was staring straight ahead, past the window and the hazy brightness of afternoon. Obviously hurting from what she'd seen. But the last reassurance she needed now was his. His hand flexed; he made it curl around the edge of a pillow.

Her mouth opened. No words came out.

Say it--whatever you're thinking. I can take it. You do something, you've got to be able to deal with the consequences.

"It was just..." She looked down and rocked slightly. "She's not much older than me, Alex. She was... hiding in some trees. It's her father-in-law's place. Her husband's grave is there and she hides in the trees and sits and watches it. She wants him back so bad; she just hurts and hurts." She leaned forward, buried her face in her hands. "I don't mean to..." Her mouth quivered; she waited until she could make it stop and let out a sigh. "I'm not trying to make it hard for you. It's not..."

You didn't do anything, Tracy.  Except be here, help me. Get a lot of stuff you never deserved.

"I think I'm..." She sat up straighter. It was sadness, not anger. Not condemnation, which might have been easier to take. "...going to go lie down for a while. My stomach hurts."

He could feel his pulse, loud and echoing. Her fingers reached out; he took them before he could stop himself, the way he'd reacted when he'd noticed the kid. She squeezed against his hand, thin fingers searching out comfort, needing something he couldn't possibly give.

She got up and went toward the door. "I'll be down later."

You don't have to.

She turned back. "Do you want me not to come?"

He tried to swallow back the confusion inside him.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: vet24@

Checked out the airport and found the flier in question: seat-of-the-pants kind of guy, somebody I may have crossed paths with without knowing it in SE Asia. About to default on his mortgage and will take on just about any job. Was originally approached by a guy in a business suit--forties--about flying small cargo to Baltimore on Sundays--two weeks on, one week off--and has been doing it for the past six months. I tried not to be too specific but this looks like our ticket; he said the guy specified 'no questions asked' and he probably wouldn't have been inclined to talk if it hadn't been for our common experience. It's a go for this Sunday and I hinted I had a friend who might like to go up in a plane. Left him my number in case he decides he's up for a ride-along. Financial constraints indicate he might be.

Expect you went to the usual place and took B with you. I'll check with DB on that. Have a few bales of alfalfa to take up there. Figuring on an early morning delivery so I'll plan on picking you up then.

"Did I get any mail?" Mulder asked, coming up behind the desk chair and slipping his arms around Scully. She was cooling now, but still sweaty; they both were. Her hair had been tied back hastily. He leaned over and kissed at a stray curl on the side of her neck.

"Look at this, Mulder. Dale did make some headway."

He read over her shoulder, still wrapped around her. "Baltimore's close without being D.C."

"He's going again this Sunday."

Close to where her mother was. Don't go there, Scully. "Wonder who he's got meeting him on the other end?"

"Probably not Smoky himself. He has lackeys; he'll insulate himself."

"Unless this is that important to him." He let his hands slide to her shoulders and rubbed them carefully with his thumbs. Hopefully she wasn't thinking about trying to go. Maybe he could make the trip himself. But who knew what or who might be waiting on the other end? He looked away from the monitor. Reality check, the momentary oasis they'd just created fading fast.

But it was good news. It was needed headway.

"You can stay," she said, looking up at him.

He returned her smile. "You sure you don't want the shower first? I can wait."

"No, go ahead. I want to see if I've got any mail from Mom's doctor. I need to write to Wilkins, too. It's... amazing, really. I only worked with him twice and yet he's helped us so much, Mulder."

His lips grazed the top of her head. Straightening, he turned to go, stopping to pick his clothes off the floor. He'd rather just leave them off and make love to her straight through until tomorrow morning. Or be made love to--it had been like that this time, different than before, as if she could make him whole again with the strength of her giving. He picked up his jeans and looked back at her, fingers resting lightly on the keyboard in anticipation, waiting for her mail to load. He pictured her the way she'd been in Oregon, on that very first case: young, full of brash eagerness, ready to dig into the challenge of the mystery. Not worn, not diminished by the constant weight of burden and loss.

"What?" She turned to look at him.

"Nothing." He shook his head and smiled. "Just you." He picked up his jeans and took them into the bathroom.

 

 

To: TinMan@

From: topaz@

Need an e-mail addy for your dismissed operative. I have urgent information for him.

Krycek hit 'send', lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes. Nothing like exposing yourself completely, but unless Skinner was a lot denser than he thought, he'd already figured out that he didn't want to see Mulder captured. Not that Skinner would trust him. But he had leverage now. He should be able to make Skinner jump.

She was probably asleep up there in her room. Better if she was... unless she had dreams. It was obvious now, something he'd missed in the chaos of the moment: that she was taking it all on herself, trying to absorb the mother's pain and at the same time shelter him from direct contact with what she'd seen in the girl. But you couldn't take on other people's burdens like that.  It was dangerous enough to hold onto your own. 

Probably she couldn't help it.  And where would he be right now if she'd walked away from what she saw in him at the outset, figuring it wasn't worth the cost?

Still, the longer she stayed, the more she got hurt. She deserved so much better.

He reached beside him, groping for the beanbag, and rubbed his thumb across is absently. After a moment he opened his eyes and focused on the screen. The message had failed to send. He hit 'retry' and waited.

He could see the old Spanish men again: sitting at an outdoor cafe table with four of them in a little village near El Escorial, he and Victor trying to see young men through the wrinkles and the gray hair, to find a connecting place. Two of them had bragged, remembering their revolutionary exploits through the tinted glasses of machismo and distance; probably they'd been nothing more than wait staff for some general or spent their time in the rear guard. The third man had been nearly silent, seeing backward with the hollow look that said he'd been there, seen too much and done too much, that in the end it was all the same, both sides an accumulation of rage: spilled guts, fear, corpses lying in piles or sprawled in the dirt, muddy and bloating.

The fourth man spoke quietly of terrorism--of the power for influence of a single man, a single act. He'd set off a bomb in a crowded intersection at rush hour, he explained. It had had incredible strategic effect. The authorities had searched desperately for some powerful mastermind group that never existed, all their efforts and attention for naught. But he wouldn't have done it again, the old guy had added at the end. Why? he'd asked at the time, uncomprehending.  He remembered how he'd leaned forward across the table.

The old man had shrugged, given him a raised eyebrow and a nod. Only time would explain that, his expression had said. Experience. When you had it, then you'd understand.

 

 

Rita looked at herself in the restroom mirror: pink uniform with small white buttons down the front and a white cardigan sweater. She looked like all the other volunteers and that was the point. Nobody would think to look twice at a gray-haired volunteer entering a hospital room, not in person or on videotape. Little old ladies were harmless, after all. She smiled a grim smile at her reflection and adjusted the curly wig she wore. If only Bob could see her now. She'd managed to elicit a broad if tired smile from Will. Any smile was a good sign.

Out in the hallway, she counted the doors to the elevator, got in and pushed the button for the third floor. Maggie might not know her--the delirium came and went, Rani had said--but it would be comfort nonetheless. A hand held and knowing someone cared about your predicament were always a help, whether they came from a stranger or from someone you'd known all your life. Besides, she wanted to do this, as one mother of a lost child to another.

The doors slid open. Two weary-looking parents and a worried teenaged girl got on. They rode in silence, huddled close together. A slowing, a dip she could feel in her stomach, and the door slid open again. Rita pictured the floor map in her head. She walked past the nurses' station and on to Room 310. He'd appeared here himself, the man who was responsible for everything: Andy, Sandy's men, Will. Ben and Annie's flight. Will had described him; she wondered if she'd recognize him if he chanced to pass the window again. What would she think or say? Would she speak or just find herself shrunken into fear like everyone else?

Beyond the glass, a woman lay small and pale in the bed. Rita slipped inside the half-open door and approached her. "Mrs. Scully?"

Maggie Scully's eyes fluttered open. She stared and then attempted to focus.

"Is it time to go?" she asked, attempting to pull herself up. She reddened at the strain and collapsed back onto the pillows in a fit of coughing. Rita winced; the sound was all too familiar. When the coughing had passed, Rita held out a glass of water with a straw in it. Maggie sipped thankfully.

"I... I don't know where I left my clothes," Maggie said finally, puzzled. She glanced to the left, past Rita. "That was silly of me."

Rita pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down. She leaned close and took the woman's dry, limp hand.

"I just wanted to see how you're doing, dear," she said. "We've all been worried about you. We wanted you to know we're all pulling for you."

Maggie nodded absently.

"Will sends his best."

Slowly, Maggie's eyes grew wider. "You know Will?"

"Yes, dear."

"And is he...? How is he?"

"He's doing okay. He's getting his rest."

"Oh, good. I thought... I heard his ship was late, that it was due into port last week and hadn't come in."

"Your daughter sends her best," Rita went on, speaking quietly, close to her ear.

"Melissa? Oh, it's been so long. Thank you." There was a squeeze against her hand. Maggie's eyes were wet. "Tell her hello for me. Is she coming?"

She started to pull up again. Rita tried to coax her back down but it was too late. She reddened and coughed again, paroxisms that wracked her whole body. Rita waited, knotted inside, and offered Maggie more water when she'd quieted. For a moment, glancing back from bedside table to bed, she thought she saw Bob's face, worn but making an effort for her sake. "Give us a smile, Rita," he'd say. Sometimes he'd fall asleep as soon as he said it. Sometimes, when he'd just taken the medication, he wouldn't make it that far.

Rita looked through the glass into the hallway beyond. Except for a man in green pushing a linen cart, it was empty. A clasp of dry fingers came against her wrist. She turned back to the bed. Maggie's eyes were clear and dark.

"Do you know how Dana is?" she asked. "Do you know Dana?"

"Yes, dear," she whispered, covering Maggie's hand with her own. "Dana's safe. She's found sanctuary."

 

 

Tracy cupped her hands against the glass and looked into the display window. Slowly her eyes traced the streets painted on the stretched-leather map of old Washington. She tried to picture it as a small town with cherry trees blossoming in the spring, with white picket fences and dogs barking and muddy streets when it rained.

She'd slept for a while when she'd gone upstairs. By the time she'd wakened the stomach ache was just a dull remnant, but the maelstrom in Alex's mind was loud inside her head. Clearly, he still needed space to think and she'd remembered her mother's words and gone out walking, aimlessly at first, then drawn toward Farragut Square as surely as if someone had spoken the words and told her to go there. She waited now, for whatever would happen.

The sun had already slipped behind the buildings, leaving a hazy, pinkish glow in its wake. She turned away from the shop window and walked toward the opposite side of the square, passing the phone booth. Alex had been more secure when he'd met her: tightly controlled; taut; sure, even if discouraged. Now his reasoning tore at him like a taunted dog. He'd stretched for her in ways that were so unfamiliar to him, so hard and unpracticed, and yet he worried that he'd hurt her. It was the pain of growth, but who knew whether that growth would serve him in the life he lived or whether it would simply drag him down, a heavy chain around his neck in a world where cruelty and deception seemed the only path to survival, or any kind of success.

She sat down on a bench.

If she were to go now, would it be better for him--easier for him--in the end?

"Tracy?"

She spun around. It was Walter, the soldier. This time the look on his face was different: relief.

"I was, uh..." He let out a slow breath and cleared his throat. "Maybe I just hoped you might be here." He came around the end of the bench and sat down carefully, glancing to the left and right.

"What is it?" she said.

"Are you...?" The corner of his mouth twitched. "Are you alright? Is there anything you need, anything I can help you with?"

"I'm okay." She nodded. "I'm... doing okay." She was. The last two weeks had nearly wiped away the emptiness of the time before.

"Are you still--?"

"Helping Alex?" She nodded. "Yes, I am."

"There's something..." He paused, gauging her. "There's something I need to know. He's asked for someone's e-mail and frankly, I don't know that I can trust him, whether it might not put this other person in danger."

"It's Mulder, isn't it?"

Skinner's eyes widened involuntarily. "I know he doesn't appear to want Mulder to be found, but I can't take a chance on appearances. Especially with someone like Krycek." He set his jaw and looked across the square.

"He won't let his..." She caught herself and swallowed. "The old man--he won't let him find out. He's not like him. If he has a way to keep the old man from finding Mulder, I know he'll use it." She paused and looked at her lap. "He deletes all his mail as soon as he reads it," she went on, starting on his unasked questions. "He cleans out the temporary files, the recycle bin--all that stuff--every time he shuts down his computer. He doesn't leave anything that could be found."

Skinner leaned back against the bench. His instincts--all his experience--told him not to trust Alex.

"He can help Mulder," she said. She paused and shrugged. "Not that Mulder will believe him any more than you do."

He pulled forward and scowled. "You know Mulder?"

"A little. He might remember me, I don't know."

Skinner sighed and glanced around the square.

The light had paled to a thin yellow. She needed to be back. Alex would worry if she were out after dark, just a pregnant girl alone and the things that could happen to her.

"You're sure?" Skinner said. "You're certain he won't compromise Mulder?" He was wondering why he should trust her at all, why he was sitting here, except that he needed assurance and there was no one else to give it to him.

"I know he won't." She shook her head. "He wouldn't." She watched him gaze at the far buildings, unseeing. His nose twitched slightly.

"What about you?" he said, turning to her. "Isn't there anything I can do to help you?" He could see that she was doing better than before. It puzzled him.

"I thought," she said, looking down at her shoes, "that I was here to help him." She looked up. "But he's gone out of his way for me. I've got everything I need."

He didn't understand. "It's getting dark," he said finally, nodding toward the setting sun.

"If you can just wait with me at the bus stop over there." She pointed.

He nodded and stood.

"Thank you."

She got up and they crossed the square together, Walter matching his longer strides to hers. For a moment his thoughts turned to Sharon, to the comfort of waking up next to her and all the things he was never able to say.

 

 

Hurriedly, Scully pulled a sweater over her head and finger-combed her wet hair, then went to answer the knocking on the door. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to pull herself back into a world that didn't take her senses on a roller coaster ride and make them melt, begging and helpless. She reached for the latch. Mulder was still in the bathroom. Hopefully he'd have the good sense to stay there.

David Barker stood outside, the glare from the porch light reflecting off his glasses. Bethy stood beside him.

"I was wondering if you'd found anything," he said. "I didn't know how long it would take for your tests. But I figured there's no harm in asking."

"I heard from Dr. Wykoff this morning," she said. "I meant to leave you a note and then something urgent came up. The results showed"--she glanced at Bethy--"exactly what we'd suspected. The evidence was all there."

He nodded, sober, and paused to let the significance sink in. "I, uh..." Finally he forced a smile. "Thanks. Thanks for your efforts." He turned to acknowledge Bethy. "She stayed for dinner with us. Haven't seen her in quite a while; she and Adrie had a great time together. She's growing up fast." He paused. "Anyway, I'm on my way to Dale's to take her home. He's been a major help to us since I took the job in Lexington. Don't know what we would've done without people pitching in."

"I know the feeling," she said quietly.

"Well, thanks for all your efforts."

"You're quite welcome. I wish the news could have been better somehow."

"A little late for that, I guess." He shrugged. "I still mean to get a look at those records when I can."

"Every little bit helps."

Bethy yawned. David turned to her. "Looks like we'd better make tracks," he said.

He nodded at Scully, turned and led Bethy up the trail. She watched them until they disappeared around the corner of the barn. A yawn overtook her. She closed the door and flipped the lock switch. The bathroom door opened.

"Coast clear?" Mulder said, sticking his head out. He grinned when he saw her.

She nodded and yawned again and shook her head.

"I hadn't realized how tired I"--another yawn--"was until Bethy yawned out there," she said, sitting down at the desk, beginning to ready the computer for shutdown. "I didn't get much sleep last night at Sandy's." She glanced over. He was already between the sheets. "Sleep, Mulder," she repeated, trying to hold back a smile.

"I'm ready."

She waited until the screen went black and reached for the bedside lamp, switching it off. She stood and took off the sweatpants and the sweater, folded them carefully and laid them over the chair back. He held the blankets back for her and she slipped in beside him.

"What kept you awake?" he asked, curling around her from behind.

"She gave me Roddy's room," she said, closing her eyes and threading her fingers between the ones that wrapped around her waist. "I think it was too much, the association. It just filled my head with questions."

His breath was warm against her neck. "About Emily?"

"Uh-huh."

"I was thinking, while you were in there cleaning Sandy up." His cheek rubbed her shoulder

"What?"

No answer. She turned back to him.

"Samantha'd gotten to be a pretty feisty kid. I wonder if... whether she resisted at all, if she gave them a hard time in any way, and whatever she's been through, what that would make her like now." His breath caught. Scully held hers, waiting. Finally it came out of him, a small rush of heat against her shoulder.

"I used to think"--she smoothed a hand over his--"that if I knew her past--Emily's past--who she was, what she liked, what made her sad or happy--then that would be enough for me, that I could... live with that... live with that much, that it would be enough. But last night..." She looked up, out the window into indigo sky. The leaves were faint black silhouettes against it.

"What?" He nudged her softly with his nose.

"Sandy was... She cried. She hurts so much, Mulder. And I stood there comforting her--holding her--and I could only think of what Emily might have become, who she might have been. When she might have come to me, needed me..."

"I need you."

"I know."

Soft lips kissed her shoulder blade.

The corner of her mouth twitched. Scully swallowed back the pressure. "And then I realized that you're probably the only other person who would understand that--that need to know. And where I'd be, how I'd cope, if I had to carry that alone." She turned and rolled to face him, let warm limbs surround her.

"Get some sleep, Scully."

She kissed his chest and closed her eyes. A warm hand drifted across her back.

"I don't even know"--his voice was quiet, faraway--"if I'd know her, Scully. Would I know her?"

 

 

Skinner read the e-mail for the third time, settled the cursor over the 'send' button, paused and got up from the couch. Approaching the picture window, he looked out into the abstract pattern of lights dotting the night. Mulder would know; he'd know where Krycek had gotten his e-mail address. Mulder might realize he'd had no choice, but still, if Krycek tried to use the addy to track them down... Could he do that? Someone in electronic surveillance would know, the Bureau's 'official' hackers, men who came to work in business suits and could walk the walk, but underneath they weren't that different than Mulder's three contacts.

Tomorrow.

But tomorrow could be too late. 'Urgent', Krycek had said, but when had Krycek ever played it straight with anybody? Still, there was the girl. She didn't seem like the type to lie, and yet... It could be something akin to Stockholm syndrome, where captives developed sympathy for their captors. Not that she was a physical captive. Still, she was young and potentially impressionable and she defended Krycek in a way that made no sense. Maybe she saw something in him, but what it might be was impossible to tell. She had a way, though--a way of seeing things, comprehending them. He could picture her again, the first time he'd seen her, broad straw hat, oak branches spreading overhead... Telling her things he could never have said to Sharon. She'd seemed to understand, though there was no way to explain how she could.

He went to the kitchen, took a glass from an upper cabinet and added ice from the dispenser on the refrigerator door. Setting it on the counter, he took a bottle from the door below and poured the glass half full. Go with your gut, Lanier would have said. Well, he'd gone with his gut when he took off after Bronco. Or had he? Had he done it from a sense of duty, or the need to prove himself, to show he wasn't as paralyzed with fear as he'd felt? Lanier had paid the price, though he didn't carry the burden. Hey, I'm still here, he'd say and shrug as if the incident hadn't changed his life.

But this was Mulder. More than that, it was both Mulder and Scully. The decision needed to be weighed, all angles considered. Two worthy lives, two valuable agents, and where had he gone for counsel? To a waif carrying a child, a vision from a dream he could neither explain nor deny.

He took a sip from the glass and set it on the counter. Had she known he was coming tonight? What had made her show up at the square? For that matter, what had made him? Skinner took the glass again, put it to his lips and nearly choked. It was the kind of irony only Mulder could fully appreciate: that he'd come to a decision based on the advice of a pregnant psychic runaway who claimed to know him.

Skinner swirled the glass gently. There was no way of knowing what Krycek would do if he refused the request, but did that mean he was giving him the number just to save his own ass, or to prove something? Was it My Tho all over again?

He set the glass on the counter and felt the corner of his mouth draw up. He pictured the girl again, at the bus stop. She had looked different from the time he'd met her by the map store. The insecurity had been replaced by a certain sureness, a strength. She was better-dressed. There was the obvious explanation: that she was Krycek's lover, that the child she was carrying was his. But who, sympathetic or not, could say they had what they needed because of Krycek? And why would Krycek saddle himself with baggage? It wasn't his style. There was more to it somehow.

Skinner sighed, reached for the glass, stopped and pushed it away. Walking back to the coffee table, he leaned over the laptop's keyboard. The cursor hovered above the 'send' button.

He pressed 'enter' and watched his mail upload.

 

 

Maybe she'd really gone this time.  Not just taken off but gone because she'd gotten whatever signal she was waiting for that it was time to leave.  Probably it was the best thing she could do: no more waiting for the old man to make his move on her, no more having to watch replays of the boy in his head. 

She could easily have gone because of the vision she'd had this afternoon. 

Well, it was over and done with; he couldn't go back to the grove and take back the bullets he'd put into Miller and the kid. Still, Tracy didn't deserve to have to deal with that kind of thing.

Krycek glanced at his watch and then out at the darkening skyline beyond the still-warm wall.  She knew better than to stay out after dark by herself. At least, he hoped she'd finally gotten that message.

He rested his head in his hand. So this was it. 

Or what it would be like. A whimper, not a bang. 

More like a void, like the kind if emptiness you expected to find After, when the hellfire had rained down and the place was burned out and beaten, a vacant skeleton of itself, missing what made it live.

He should go downstairs. There was e-mail to check. Skinner could have replied. He could pass his intel on to Mulder, maybe think up another little piece of strategy to help him keep his head above water. 

Or maybe he'd just go to bed.

He straightened and turned toward the shadow of the overhanging tree.  No Tracy stumbling out from under the curtain of leaves this time.  God, she'd been so...

No.

A footstep sounded at the bottom of the stairway, then another. Light, familiar footsteps. Krycek gripped the gritty ledge in front of him. She was hurrying now, her pace quicker.

"Alex?"

His heart pounded. He fought the sudden urge to turn around.

"Alex--"

"Yeah." His best husky, unaffected voice. He turned as casually as he could.

She emerged from the stairs, flushed, coming toward him.

"I was--" She stopped to catch her breath and continued to the wall. "I was on the bus. I didn't want you to worry. I--" She hesitated, still breathing hard. He watched her fingers curl, wanting badly to reach.

He shrugged. "Wasn't sure if--" If he were a magnet he'd feel like this. "If you--"

You.

Surrender. A washed-up double agent and a runaway girl, arms around each other, no way to tell who'd made the first move.

 

 

A single, small lamp cast a deep yellowy glow onto the living room carpet. Rita was curled up on the love seat, a book in her hand, asleep. Will halted in weary mid-step, let out a sigh and blinked against the heat behind his eyelids.

He could feel the weakness in his legs already; he started toward the couch again. A tickle in his chest and he grabbed at the wall, leaning against it. It was like getting pulled under a wave, all noise and battering. Finally the coughing was past, his chest aching, legs weak, body covered with a thin sheen of cooling sweat. Rita was watching him with that mother-look, the one that said she'd been going through it with him so he wouldn't be there alone. Will raised an eyebrow and shook a finger at her weakly.

"You shouldn't do that, Mother J. Bad enough it's happening to me." He sat down on the opposite end of the couch and let his head down onto the middle cushion. The tartan came down around him. "Thanks. I was just so damn tired of lying there in one place."

"You just got to hang in there now, Will. It's going to get better. It'll take a few days, but you'll see."

"I know." He nodded against the cushion. "I keep telling myself that. Too bad time seems to move at a snail's pace."

"It'll pass, Will. In the end, when you look back at it, it won't seem like any time at all."

"Yeah, I've been..." He stared into the blackness beyond the window. "...looking back already. It seems  bearable when you know the outcome. When you know you're going to make it through." He paused and tried to moisten his mouth. "But in the process, when you don't know how it'll play out... I'm not sure I was ready to make that sacrifice, Mother J, you know what I'm saying? I went scrambling up that ladder to the high dive and I think I just fell off up there. Or got pushed off. I'm not sure." A pause. "Sometimes I think about Mama, what she would have thought."

"If she would've been proud of you?"

"I guess. And I'm not sure, if I'd had to make the decision to jump, being up there and seeing it, looking down..."

"I imagine your mother knew, Will. She'd have known."

"Known what?" He turned his head to look at her.

"That being heroic is a lot more complicated than it looks."

 

 

"Alex..."

"Mm."

"If I..." Quiet; only her breathing against his shoulder. "If I knew something... about this--all of this... something that wouldn't make much difference if you knew it or not, but something that might hurt somebody if... if he could pull it out of you, if he--"

His eyes opened. He tipped her chin up to face him. "Don't tell me, Tracy. Promise you won't tell."

She nodded. Her hair shone in the moonlight, silver and smooth. He made himself look past it, out onto the horizon beyond the wall. In his mind he could see them coming, hundreds of alien ships hovering in the early dawn, already in place with the rising light, waiting.

"Tell me about it, Alex--the future, what you see."

"Uh-uh." He shook his head. "You don't want to see that. Won't do you any good to know it, have it hanging over you."

She shifted, her head leaving his shoulder and then resettling, warm breath against his neck this time. He caught his shiver almost before it happened, pressed it down, tried to push it away.

"You can take the car," he said. "If you need to go home. Go when he's not here, so there's no way--" He took a breath. "If you want to. If you're ready." His eyes closed. "If you need to take off from there, then go. Just leave the car anywhere. Don't come back for my sake. Don't put yourself in danger for--"

"And know that I'd left you when you still needed help? The value of a life is in what it gives, Alex, not how long it lasts."

"Tracy, don't--"

He focused on the knot inside him and forced it to loosen. Her breath was warm and steady against his shirt. Neither of them was moving, going anywhere.

What he'd give for two arms.

 

 

Mulder rolled to find the bed beside him empty. He opened one eye and squinted at the rectangle of bright light above the desk. Scully was in the chair, her face illumined by the laptop's screen.

"You okay?" He pushed up on one elbow and pulled himself to the near side of the bed.

She nodded. "I just... woke up. I thought I'd check my mail."

He watched her, index finger hovering near the touch pad, mouth and chin firmly set. She was motionless a moment. The screen color changed. Her eyes closed, lips pulled in.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing." She pressed the standby button and sat waiting for the screen to go black. A moment later the room was dark again. She remained in the chair.

"Anything I can do?" He pulled up and sat cross-legged.

The chair moved. She came and settled in front of him, took his arms, wrapped them around her and leaned back against him. He pulled her closer and felt her fingers knit their way between his. Outside the window a single upturned leaf held a pool of silver light. He watched it bob gently in the night air.

Chapter 14

Tuesday

 

Krycek hit the 'delete' button, closed his eyes and lay back against the pillows. He arched his neck and grimaced. It wasn't working. Nothing he could say was going to make Mulder believe. Maybe if he hadn't killed Mulder's dad. Or stolen the DAT tape, or destroyed his credibility with the man in a dozen other ways. He smiled bitterly. Bridge burned and awfully damned far now from one shore to the other.

There had to be some way. Lie here worrying, though, and she'd wake up from the mental static. Then she'd come down to see if there was something she could do to help. Better to stay away from that one given the way things had gone on the roof. A few hours of shut-eye, a clearer head... Mulder wouldn't be up for hours anyway. Wherever he was.

Krycek opened his eyes, hit the 'standby' button and pushed the laptop against the wall. 2:18. When his eyes closed, he saw the clock numbers stamped behind his lids. That familiar warning feeling was flowing through him like blood: the approach of a target date or deadline.  Realistically, they couldn't count on more than a few days--maybe a week at most--of relative security. It was time to move, to have a plan oiled and ready to get her out of here.

He pulled the blanket higher and stared at the ceiling cracks, spider patterns with little peeling edges revealing an old yellow-gold paint layer underneath. Gradually they morphed into the mountain, standing at the top and looking out, then reaching. As if you could fly off into the bright blue above the ridge lines. As if the possibilities were endless.

But that was her posture, her hope, still fresh and new and unbattered by life.

Whenever the day came, it was going to be too soon.

 

 

Leave by three and he could be there by four-thirty, which would put him back by in Lexington by six.  A little early for work, but he wouldn't show up early at the office or do anything stupid that would attract attention.  There was no reason it wouldn't work.

David Barker slipped his arm away from his wife's unconscious grasp and squinted at the clock. 2:37.

Breakfast out for a change and a little extra time with the morning paper: it would make sense to anyone who saw him. Heather was a late sleeper. She wouldn't wake, and if she did--if she became disturbed--who'd believe her, or understand? Sometimes she knew it was him; other times he was Ron or someone she'd known years ago. Which could be more that a little disconcerting between the sheets. Adrie was the constant, the quiet little soldier, though even he was more than aware that the woman they lived with now was only a shell of his mother. Right in front of him and yet as far away as if she'd gone to Tibet, vowing never to return.

David rolled to the edge of the bed and slipped out carefully. He took the hanger with the gray suit from the hook on the back of the closet door and went into the bathroom. Annie would be around if anything came up and Sandy would be here by eight. What would make it different from any other day?

He shook the shaving cream can, squirted a puff onto his fingertips and spread it absently. Ron's body--what was left of it--had been visible from the doorway where he stood talking with Dale. Not that he'd planned on looking; it was just there. The idea behind all this investigation was to have something concrete, some certainty: after all this time they deserved something they could hang onto. Heather deserved it if the answer was anything that would get through to her. Maybe it was too much to hope: that somehow the facts might get through to her dormant mind and wake her from the living dream she walked around in. But any hope was better than none at all. You took what you could get.

He swiped carefully across one cheek, methodically overlapping the strokes, working toward his jaw. The razor shook slightly in his hand, seeming to move on its own. There would be little to no traffic at this hour. On the return trip most of the traffic--what there'd be of it--would be headed to Cincinnati.

Bright pain bit into his jaw. The razor slipped and clattered into the sink.

David grabbed a washcloth and held it to the place. It was just a nick, nothing to worry about. He'd seen the motions, Annie slicing at what must have been a lung, her elbow moving back and forth just slightly. Just enough to tell.

Turning on the faucet, he rinsed out the washcloth and held it back against the cut. With the other he fished in the slowly filling sink. Another sudden bite: the blade end of the razor. He shook his hand, pulled the sink plug and watched the water drain. A thin line of blood materialized along his index finger. He waited for the sink to empty, swabbed at the shaving cream residue with the washcloth and held his finger under the running water. Bandages: there were some in the drawer below the sink.

He glanced at his watch.

Beeson had to be involved. How could the contamination go on and on unless he knew, unless he was protecting it? He probably hadn't ever thought about the families who were affected.  After all, his own son didn't work in the clean room. The kid, John, was a screw-up, a high-school dropout being nursed along by his rich parents. Maybe old Beeson had never stopped to think, and if nobody ever turned that around by saying something...

Someone had to.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: topaz@

You already know the illness is a lure. Beware of recovery. He won't stop working for what he wants. If he doesn't get results, he may try closer to home.

                                                                                         -K

 

 

To: gbeeson@beeson-

From: solovoice@

If you've never thought of this before, take a moment to consider the lives that have been lost and the tragedies within families that have unfolded because of what goes on inside your walls. You can deny it all you want, but denial doesn't stop the illness and the death and the survivors who are left to go on without their loved ones. Whatever you get from it--and you must get something--how can it possibly be worth the lives that have been lost and the guilt you'll someday feel? Maybe if it was your child or wife or relative, you'd understand. Too many people have been touched.

You don't do your filthy work undetected. We know.

 

 

Barely five a.m. Krycek paused on the third floor landing, his eyes going immediately to the brown door at the end of the hall. Better she should be asleep, getting some rest. He refocused, glanced up the narrow stairway, let out a slow breath. Putting his hand on the smooth, rounded railing, he began his climb to the roof.

One step at a time: it was the only way. Give Mulder a little bit he could trust, then a little more; establish a point of stability, a base for when the time came. The old man could be watching his progress the way a lion watches a gazelle, carefully waiting, calculating the moment when he was strong enough--sure enough--not to need her. Or he could suddenly decide it was enough, his 'take it slow and easy, Alex' replaced by some other expedient, the decision made that she was of no more use than one of the beer bottles he dropped his butts into. Then he'd have one of his goons cart her off.

Krycek shivered involuntarily and made himself refocus on the landing above him. Five stairs to go, now four and three and two.

He paused on the landing, leaning against the open door that led to the patio. Dull light spread above the horizon, the sky streaked with gunmetal blue and soft shades of gray. It was misting, the moisture drifting to one side on a steady flow of air. He stepped out into it and went to the wall. Moisture prickled at his cheek. He swallowed and leaned forward against the wall, letting it take his weight.

He could see the look still, Mulder's 'invertebrate scum sucker' look. He got such a self-righteous high from having somebody to look down on, somebody to kick.  What were the chances he'd even listen to Tracy's story?

But Mulder aside, there was still Scully-the-skeptic to get past. Didn't help that he'd been lurking in her closet. And she'd know he would have fired in a heartbeat if he'd been sure it was her and not her sister opening her apartment door so long ago. Hopefully she'd seen something different, though, when he'd alerted her to come take care of Mulder in his apartment that night. Didn't mean she'd believe what she'd seen, granted. It went against her grain to believe. She and Mulder were yin and yang that way.

And his mother? There was no telling what she'd do; she was a wild card. Plus it was a good five hours from here to Greenwich at the best of times and why would she chance it? She might figure it was a trap, that he was luring her in for the old man.

Worse, she might run the idea by Mulder first.

Krycek rested his head in his hand and let out a heavy breath. Just let the speculation go; stay loose. Tie yourself up in knots and you'd never see opportunity when it showed itself. Most of the time it was like a hummingbird: a momentary thing, here and then gone in the blink of an eye.

Someone was watching him.

Krycek straightened, fought down the momentary spike of adrenaline. It was bound to happen. How many times had she been wakened by the chaos in his head?  He paused mid-breath and listened, but there was no greeting,  no sound of light footsteps.  Turning, he glanced behind him.  Nobody, just mist and shadow and the gray geometrics of the building in the still-dull light.

No, there was someone. He squinted. A pale figure stood in the shadow of the overhanging tree... Or was it just his eyes after so many hours awake?

His heart pounded.  He glanced toward the door, then back to the place, and blinked. She was vague, a heavyset woman with reddish-blonde curls wearing a yellow sweater, and she was looking at him. Not staring, not judging. Just looking. When he blinked again she'd disappeared.

His hand clutched the edge of the wall.  He swallowed and tried to will himself back to rationality. It was the time and the stress; he'd been up too long. It had to be a trick of the mind.

But no mental trick made you jump like this.

Quickly he crossed the patio and started down the stairs. The steady mist had done its work, soaking his cheeks, beading in his hair. His shirt was damp. He paused outside Tracy's door and tried the handle. It moved. He sighed in resignation and eased it open.

Inside, the room was stuffy. She was lying there, quiet, just a shadow in the bed. He made his way around to the window side, where dull light fell close to her face, and leaned over her. Strands of thin hair crossed her cheek; he smoothed them away. She felt surprisingly warm. Her eyes opened and gradually went wide.

"Alex?"

He shook his head. "Just on my way downstairs. You okay?"  He sat down on the edge of the bed. She was thick with sleep.

"I think so." She blinked twice.  Gradually her eyelids closed. Her hand reached out.  "You're wet."

"It's raining up there."  He watched her expression slacken. She was gone again. She hadn't seemed to notice, to pick up on anything out of the ordinary inside him, like a vision of her mother standing under the tree up on the roof. The T-shirt she wore was old and stretched; the neckline had shifted to one side, exposing a smooth shoulder.

He stood carefully and watched her a moment.  "Sleep, nena," he whispered.  A moment later he started for the door and let himself out.

 

 

"Anything else I can get you?"

David Barker looked up at the waitress. She had that look--the one that went along with the impatient tapping of her foot.

"Uh, no. This is fine. Everything's fine."

She scrawled 'thank you' on the back of the bill and set it down on the edge of the table. David stared back at the newspaper's business section but the words held no meaning. As if he were reading them. As if.

It had been amazing.  Terrifying.  Like being in a video game or a spy movie. The cybercafé had gone in months earlier, just three doors away from Meecham's Cincinnati office, but he'd never had a reason to go inside before. Or maybe it had been a lack of courage: cruising in among all those net-savvy kids, just a guy in a business suit with a hairline announcing its firm intention to recede. The place had given him just what he needed today, though: anonymity, a way to know his message couldn't be traced. At least, not back to him. He'd even worn gloves, setting himself strategically at a computer that was more or less blocked from the view of the only other customers at such a weird hour, two guys and a girl completely involved in some online game. Anyway, they'd been too glued to their screens to have noticed him. Probably friends of the clerk's who were getting free time.

He'd left no fingerprints, no files, nothing incriminating, and who would ever know he'd been to Cincinnati before dawn, or to what purpose? It was an e-mail account he'd just opened, and would never use again. Beeson wouldn't reply anyway, but that wasn't the point. The point was direct access to the person who made the decisions, like sneaking into the Oval Office and getting a chance to let the president know what you thought.

David reached for the other half of his biscuit and took a bite. The gloves had been tossed into the trash at a gas station halfway home. He'd paid cash, so there wouldn't be any records--no tell-tale time-date stamps or credit card numbers to trace.

There was no trail at all. Nothing to worry about.

 

 

Dr. Bandrapalli?"

The voice was pleasant, engaging. The man it belonged to was tall, at least six foot four. He wore a poplin raincoat against the drizzle.

"Yes? Can I help you?" Rani took out his briefcase and closed the trunk of his car.

"I understand you're my sister's doctor. I came the other night from Nebraska to see her--Margaret Scully? I spoke to a Dr. Carney. I was called away on a family emergency yesterday, and tomorrow I'm scheduled to fly to Europe on business, but I'm concerned about how she's doing."

"Pneumonia takes time to defeat." Rani's pulse rate increased. This appeared to be the man he'd been told about, a man who would deliberately infect an innocent woman and mother. "The infection, even when it's been defeated, takes time to clear from the lungs."

"Then it is pneumonia? Dr. Carney mentioned that you thought it might be something else."

Rani shrugged and looked up at the man.  "I do several tests routinely. There were no unusual indicators. It's a matter of waiting now to see how the treatment will go. Sometimes the body responds well, but it depends entirely upon the individual. I'm sorry I can't be more definite than that." He paused. "Would you like to see your sister now?"

"I wasn't--" The man stopped to take a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. He placed one between his lips and smiled diffidently. "Wasn't sure I'd have any luck convincing the powers that be to let me in outside visiting hours. I certainly wouldn't want to disturb her."

"Family visits can be a very helpful thing. Even if the patient is in a coma it's been known to affect the outcome for the positive." He paused. "I can take you upstairs. I have that discretion."

The man shook his head. "She'll need her rest more than she needs to see me. We... haven't always been on the best of terms, quite frankly. But I was concerned."

"As you wish."

"I assume the children have been notified? Bill and Charlie and"--he flicked a lighter and held it to the tip of the cigarette--"Dana. Have they come yet?"

Rani's hand squeezed the handle of the briefcase. "I spend less time here than I'd like to; I have some research ongoing and... I really don't keep up with all the details. I can certainly check for you."

"Yes, would you? I'm afraid I may miss them because of my schedule, but if at all possible--"

"I understand."

The tall man took the cigarette from his mouth and forced out a stream of smoke. He pulled a business card from his pocket. "You can leave a message at this number," he said, indicating a penciled number on the back of the card.

"Very well." A pause. "You're sure you won't come up?"

"I'm already late for a meeting," he said, taking another drag on the cigarette. "I just wanted to check on her first. Family is so important, isn't it, doctor?"

"Certainly it is."

Rani watched as the man turned and strode away across the parking lot, the edges of his raincoat billowing behind him. He rubbed a thumb across the business card in his hand. There was a call to be made to John Byers.

 

 

"Hey, Scully--"

She stirred as Mulder eased his arm from under her head. Her eyes went from hazy to focused to a subtle jolt of recognition that she quickly suppressed. She moistened her lips and gave him a quizzical look. He pushed up on one elbow.

"Thought I'd get started a little early, see if I can find out a few things before work."

"What kind of things?"

"Something more about this woman I saw yesterday. Figured I'd stop by Sandy's and see if she knows anything, or if her friends do--the blind couple. They seem to keep their ears open."

"But isn't Dale coming to pick you up?"

Mulder shook his head. "Not for another hour. I figure I can jog down to Sandy's, ask a few questions, get myself a head start. That is, if you'll go up to the house and call Dale for me, let him know he doesn't need to come up."  He raised his eyebrows and waited for a sign.

A pause and she nodded. Her lips pressed together.  "I think I'll check my mail," she said. She rolled away from him, toward the desk, and sat up.

He lay back against the pillows and watched. It was beginning to eat at her already. It showed in her body language, select postures from the catalogue of Scully-gestures he'd compiled so carefully over the past six years. There was the way she sat very straight in the chair and stared at the computer screen, the conscious focus that said she wasn't going to let herself be shaken or allow her fears out to run unleashed. Her lips were pressed together; when she was relaxed her mouth would sit slightly open, a tantalizing non-invitation. For a long time it had been an excruciating paradox--her body saying yes while her conscious mind nixed whatever she might have naturally allowed. It wasn't going to be one of those times, like last night, when she'd let herself lean. It was morning: harsh reality under the klieg lights of day and plenty of hours of it to get through until it was past. Maybe at the end she'd let down, but never at the beginning.

He sat up and started to pull his pants on. Maybe Joe would show some mercy today and take him off employee and staff bathroom duty. Maybe even let him clean Beeson's private domain. Or he could get shipped back to the maintenance building with a bucket of gray paint, or end up on some other assignment that would come out of Joe's warped little mind. Maybe Angie Connors would turn out to be their ticket after all, though the logistics made it a long shot; anything they got from her was going to take time to prove and the clock was ticking, counting down. 

Mulder reached for his socks and pulled them on. He turned and glanced at Scully, still sitting motionless, waiting.

It was a house of cards, this whole thing between the two of them. An amazing, feel-good house of cards to be sure, but the risks were there all the same. The trailer was like the motels had been: no man's land, no previous rules, no prior claims. It made things seem easier than they really were. So they needed each other to get through this. But what if they succeeded finally, if they made it back to D.C.? Would it be too presumptuous to leave a change of clothes at her place? Would it violate her private space? Would she need that spot the way she had before, a moat around her to keep everyone else out? There was the danger: that it was all just an amazing dream and once they were back in D.C., he'd wake up to discover that it had never happened, find the fates laughing at him for being so gullible.

Scully's mail chime sounded. Mulder laced his shoes and stood up. The corners of her mouth were steady. Her throat held no suppressed swallows. Not so far, anyway.

"You get something?" he said, picking his shirt off the floor.

She seemed almost startled. She caught herself and let the corners of her mouth rise slightly.  "Langley's found a way to tap into the hospital computers. I've got readouts, just about anything I'd want to know."

He came around the end of the bed and stood behind her chair.  "How's she doing?"

She took a breath and looked up at him--faced him squarely. One corner of her mouth crinkled. "About the same. No worse. No better yet; it's too early." She glanced away.  "Mulder, I..."

He smoothed his thumbs across her shoulders. She wanted to be there.  "Scully, if I could think of a way, any way it would actually be safe for you..."

 "I know." She reached for his fingers and glanced up at him. "Thank you."

"For what? For wishing?"

"For being here."

A sigh escaped her. He slipped his arms around her neck and let his lips rest against the top of her head. In the middle of hell--in the worst of everything--they always clicked.

 

 

Still too early for a reply, and anyway it was stupid to be wasting the energy to speculate about it. Either Mulder'd respond or he'd react: two possible choices. No point in giving himself an ulcer over it.

Krycek tapped the touch pad and heard the dial tone, then the modem dialing his ISP. He closed his eyes. Maybe it had just been the chill in his own fingers, but she'd seemed too hot up there, almost feverish. If she didn't show up in another hour...

If she didn't, he should probably go back and check on her.

The hard drive gurgled, pulling in data, and the connection closed. He opened his eyes and pulled forward to look. No messages. He let his head fall back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling.

It was a word he hadn't heard in years until it had come out of him up in her room. It was what Paco had called his daughter, the little two-year-old who ran barefoot around the apartment, dark hair and even darker eyes, a little kid who'd come lean against your knee, stare into you unafraid and then run off giggling. Nena, Paco had say, coming out into the living room, arms out, waiting for her to run to him. Little girl. He'd called his wife that, too, late at night. When he'd been sacked out, eyes closed, on the couch late at night--when they thought he was asleep--he could hear them through the wall. Apartments in poor neighborhoods had thin walls.

It was a nice fantasy. Nice concept, normality: a place that was secure, somebody you'd want to hang around long enough to grow old together. Under the right circumstances, maybe a kid. Nice, but not real. About as secure, in the end, as one of those bodies the black oil was gestating in, all of a sudden bursting at the seams to have this nightmare thing scream out at you, like the one they said had gotten Maria Ivanova's parents. Reality was a bitch.

Especially these days when he had no real influence.  Maybe that was it: being a bystander sucked, being condemned to sit on the sidelines and watch as the planet slid on its downward course toward an alien hell.

Tracy was no bystander. It wasn't that she had any particular influence or power, but she lived in the details. Maybe it was that she opened them up and made them live. Raindrops, wind on her face: simple things. A small life, the old man would say. Insignificant. Only somehow it wasn't. She had the key to something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

 

 

"Thoughts, gentlemen?"  Byers stared across the darkened room. The bench and its test equipment were out of focus.

"I've got an address coming up on the phone number," Langley said, glancing away from his computer screen.

"A lot of good it'll probably do us," came a voice from the far doorway. Frohike stood silhouetted in a dull glow coming from the hallway behind him. "It's probably just a room with a phone and an answering machine. He'll be retrieving the messages remotely. He's no fool. Has all the charm of Jeffrey Dahmer, but a fool he's not."

"Which is why he's still around," Byers said. He held the card under a lamp again. It said 'Charles A. Scully' and gave a business address in Omaha. Import/export. It appeared to be the product of a commercial print shop, not something processed through the printer on a home computer.

"Still, we should check it out," Frohike said. He nodded at Byers. "Goldilocks and I already did our thing at Ma Scully's place, though. The Smoking Man's goons are going to suspect something if they notice a short guy and a Woodstock wannabe too many times."

"I'm afraid I've been making myself fairly visible lately, too. I've been to the hospital. We have to assume they may have me on tape. Maybe we can have Skinner check this out. Langley, can you send him a message?"

"Will do."

"But what about family information?" Byers went on. "The visiting information the Smoking Man was looking for? He's expecting to hear from Rani."

"Maybe Skinner can check on Scully's brothers," Langley said. The wild perimeter of his hair was silhouetted in fine blue lines. "They're both in the Navy, aren't they? If we're lucky they'll both be out at sea."

"If not we could be in deep enchilada sauce," Frohike said, walking up to the work bench. He pulled out a stool and sat on it. "All we'd need is Bill Scully charging in like Custer to save the day." He shook his head and paused. "Smoky may be only looking for Scully herself, but we should cover all our bases."

"So what should Rani tell them about Scully if they should happen to discover that Maggie's in the hospital?" Byers said. "It's an outside chance but we've got to have some kind of story ready."

"Give them the party line," Langley said. "Tell him she's supposed to be on a retreat and nobody's sure where she is."

"He might say the hospital staff is trying to contact her," Byers said. "But remember, the Smoking Man has set this whole thing up to lure her in. I think we've got to seriously consider the possible consequences of not at least appearing to give him what he wants. He has to believe Scully's going to show up.  If not, I don't see how we can protect Mrs. Scully from further harm. If Scully doesn't bite at what appears to be pneumonia, he's bound to try something more drastic. There are any number of people in and out of that room during a day's time. It would be awfully easy to, say, inject something into her IV."

"But if we give him a time, tell him she's on her way and she'll be here in three days, four days," Frohike said, "what then? What happens when the time comes... and goes again?"

Byers let out a sigh. Langley's mouth pressed into a straight line.

"Rock and a hard place, anyone?" Frohike said.

 

 

"You make any headway?" Dale asked, glancing up from his bowl of oatmeal at the kitchen table at a half-dressed Mulder.

Mulder rubbed a towel through his hair and let it slip down to hang around his neck.  "I was going to ask Sandy but there was a car in her driveway. I figured I'd better play it safe and keep out of sight." He glanced at his watch and sat down at the computer.

"What kind of car?" Dale said.

"Red something. Celica, I think. Older."

"That'd be her mother."

"The woman who picked Joe."  Mulder signed and shook his head.  He clicked on the mail program. Scully was putting on a brave front but she was distancing herself, just a subtle thing, a defensive reaction to having things go on and on when there was nothing you could do about them. Familiar territory. He'd had a mother lying helpless in a hospital bed once. But 'don't hold it all inside' wasn't what she needed to hear right now. She just needed to know she wasn't alone. Hopefully she wouldn't freeze up completely.

He clicked on the 'write' screen.

To: thelark@

From: DaddyW@

Dear Lark,

Do we know if our previous agents interviewed any other clean room employees affected by beryllium?  I'm going to drop a note to W and check it out.  No use repeating field work that's already been done.  We may have more here than we realize.  Since I missed her (someone's car was in her driveway, so I decided to pass), will you check with S this morning and see what she knows about Angie?  Send any info you get.. I'll be back to you after work.   

He reread the mail , clicked 'send' and tipped the chair back, waiting.  After a moment he stretched.

"The pilot, Fletcher," Dale said, passing the computer, "he seemed like he might be amenable to taking someone along on his next trip to Baltimore.  Don't know what you're likely to meet on the other end, but you can think about it.  Or I could go for you if you think it will do any good."  He stopped briefly but receiving no response, moved on.  "Anyway, you think about it."

Mulder nodded.  "Where's Bethy?"

"Dropped her over at Karen's early.  She and Sarah have some big to-do going on.  It's the last week of school, you know."

Mulder bit his lip and looked back at the screen.  One out, two in.  He clicked on 'read' and went to the second mail, obviously from the Gunmen.

To: DaddyW@

From: Redwall@

Our doctor has been contacted by the Mastermind, posing as our victim's brother.  He seems to be fishing for information about Annie's arrival and left a contact number which we're checking out, though I have little hope he's actually left any significant clues.  We're at an impasse over what to tell him, to get his hopes up... and then what?  Surely he'll make some other move if and when he realizes he won't get what he wants out of the present situation.  Awaiting your input.

                                                                                                      -JB

Mulder leaned back and closed his eyes.  There was the kicker: they were going to have to make some move, commit themselves in some way.  But they couldn't go to the hospital; either of them going was out of the question.  And yet what did they offer Smoky in order to keep Scully's mother alive?  Scully might be strong now, but if her mother were to die because of this...

He leaned forward and breathed into cupped hands.  She'd been wild-eyed and shaking at his mother's house, rescued from the darkened alley like a frightened homeless woman, the six-year load she'd shouldered topped with everything that had happened over the last four weeks: changing assignments, the autopsies, Quantico. 

Him. She'd sat there with him that whole night while he slept it off.  She would have been speculating while she was sitting there. What if Krycek hadn't stopped him?  What if he'd managed to pull the trigger?  Where it would have left her? Would she have been mad on top of it, knowing that he'd been enough of a thoughtless shit to leave his brains splattered on the furniture for her to find?

Mulder straightened and clicked on the other mail, from a sender he didn't recognize.  Who the hell had gotten his addy, or given it out?

He read, paused and pushed the chair back abruptly.

 

 

"Alex, what time is it?"  Tracy pushed up abruptly on one elbow and squinted at the window. The gray brightness hurt her eyes.

"Eight-thirty," he said.  "Take it easy."

She curled back down onto the mattress, her head beside his leg.  He'd taken to wearing jeans, now that he was doing better.  A hand smoothed across her forehead and brushed the hair from her face.

"You were up here earlier, Alex."

"Yeah."

"Were you awake all night?"

"A lot of it, I guess.  Thinking.  Trying to figure out what to say to Mulder."

She rolled onto her back.  "I didn't even notice.  I guess I didn't feel too well in the night."  She paused.  "But it's better now, pretty much." 

"You sure?"

"I think so."  She sat up slowly, cross-legged, and ran her hands back through her hair, conscious of the fact that he was watching her.  She tugged at the neckline of her shirt to center it.  "Pretty much," she said to his unspoken inquiry.

"Take your time.  There's nothing pressing."

Nothing pressing for her.  His head, though, was full, and not just with Mulder, or Scully's mother.  The matter of her going home--no matter how he tried to push it away, it bobbed right back to the forefront of his mind.

"I think I should, Alex," she said, slipping off the far side of the bed and crossing the short distance to the window.  She raised it and looked out.  "Go there now, I mean.  Before your father--" She turned and looked at him.  "You know."

He looked away slightly and sniffed the particular way he did--just one nostril--when he was uncomfortable.  "I'll make sure the car's ready."  He was poised on the precarious edge of decision, like a diver at the very end of a diving board.

She leaned against the sill. "I was going to make bread again," she said when he didn't speak, "but it's too late to start now.  I  have to use the oven early."

"There's tomorrow."

One short day. She nodded.  "Tomorrow."  And then?

"Thursday you should go.  He will have left the country.  It's good timing.  If you're ready, that is."

"I think so.  It feels... right.  Like the right thing."

It was misting, a steady curtain of slow, fine moisture drifting down past the buildings and into slickened streets.  The air coming through the window was cool.  It felt good but made her shiver at the same time.  The daylight was dull, making her want to close her eyes, to lean.  To feel warm and drowsy, held and comforted.

"Alex--" But it was pure self-indulgence, the kind of thing he couldn't even think about without her knowing.

He was looking at her now, asking.  Ready and willing. 

Slowly her fingers curled into her palm and tightened.  "Nothing."  She shook her head.  "I think I'll take a shower first.  Then I'll come do your laundry."

"Take your time.  Don't push yourself.  Whenever you're ready."  He stood up and started for the door.  "No hurry," he said when he got to it.

She watched him go out.  Watched the door close again behind him.  Hugging her arms against her body, she rubbed for warmth.  When she was ready.

Tomorrow she'd make the bread.   

 

 

"Yes.  Yes, I do.  Right here in front of me."  A pause.  "We'll take care of it, Mr. Beeson... Yes.  It could easily be--"  He frowned and ground a half-smoked Morley into the ashtray in front of him.  A thin stream of white smoke rose from the place.  "... just a single person feeling helpless, powerless. But I assure you we'll look into it.  The security of the operation is paramount. Yes."

Setting down the receiver, he pulled the half-empty pack of Morleys from his pocket and lit another, then sank back into the chair.  It could be the Johnston woman again, but it wasn't likely; she'd already seen what there was to be lost by making waves.  Perhaps a worker, or a disgruntled family member who'd lost a worker--the wording of the message would lead to that assumption.  It seemed like a gesture, though, the shaking of an impotent fist more than any genuine threat of action.  But complacency was a deadly bedfellow, especially in this case when the exposure of his private research was a possibility. His colleagues in the board room on East 46th Street would surely be more accurate in their efforts at retaliation than they had been the last time if they found out.

He took a second drag on the Morley, let the smoke out and watched it drift toward the ceiling.  The prudent thing would be to go to Owensburg, but there was no time now.  He could send someone.  To be absolutely sure.  To calm Beeson; he was a worrier but he served his purpose. 

He stared at the message on the computer screen again.  A second opinion would be advisable.

He picked up the phone and dialed.  One ring, two...

"Diana?  I'm forwarding you an e-mail.  Look it over, will you, and tell me what you think."  He tapped a teetering section of ash into the ashtray.  "I think a personal visit may be in order.  Can you get away this afternoon?... Yes, I'll make the arrangements."

 

 

"How can you not feel when something important like that happens?  Do you ever get premonitions, Annie--you know, feelings about something?"

"I don't think there's a way you could sense things you'd had no prior knowledge of," Scully replied. "Though of course we often worry about situations we're already aware of, even subliminally.  I suppose some people may consider premonitions."

"Like when Ryan was unloading those boxes at the airport?  I was scribbling away, sure I wouldn't get that map drawn before he got back in the car and how was I gonna explain what I was doing if he saw it?"  She nudged at the carpeting with one toe.  "I guess I mean the feeling that something's gonna happen."  She shook her head.  "I didn't know nothing when Cy and Roddy--"  Her mouth closed abruptly.  After a moment she continued.  "He just took off with Roddy, kinda bothered-like, like he realized he hadn't been paying enough attention to him lately. Or like he had something on his mind.  Roddy was so..."  Her eyes teared.  "He was excited.  He wanted to go."

Scully turned more fully toward the bed and rested an arm on the back of the chair.

"It was so fast.  Somehow I didn't... Heck, I didn't even hear about... you know, about Andy Johnston... until afterward.  Cy just took off and it must of been an hour later when they came, the sheriff.  Somebody'd heard the shots.  I don't know what made 'em go and look.  People shoot off guns all the time, kids chasing rabbits at dusk.  I wonder if he had a premonition--the old guy who found 'em.  But me, I was... floored, I was..."  She sighed.  "I know it don't make any logical sense, but sometimes you fee like you should know, like how could anything that drastic happen to someone you love without you feeling something?  Even this morning..."  She shrugged.  "You'd think if there was anyone I'd have a radar for it would be my mom.  But I was sitting there eating my bowl of oatmeal and out of the blue there's this knocking on the door.  I just jumped, I didn't... I guess I'm never really ready for her."

"How did it go?" Scully said.

"It was... I think she really wanted to talk this time.  Actually talk. I mean with me, not at me.  Something was eating at her.  Joe, maybe.  He's such a pig.  He only wants her there 'cause she's a live, available body, but she doesn't see it; she thinks he really loves her. Or cares about her, or something.  It's sad in a way."

"Maybe she's lonely."

"She had Papa.  He wasn't enough for her, though.  She thought he... she was embarrassed--you know, because he's half Cree."  She looked down.  "She asked me how it was going.  She didn't even wave it in my face about Cy, what she--what everybody--thinks he did. But I couldn't tell her about this--being up here, working.  It would be all over town in two hours, and somebody might find out about you, or Ben.  Otherwise I might of; I might of told her."  Her toe smoothed the carpet again.  "I don't know."

"Sometimes," Scully said, leaning a cheek against her arm on the chair back, "it takes time before you get to that... comfortable place with a parent.  Eventually they see that you're not the same little child they took care of, or... that you've grown up. Or maybe they finally want to know you--know who you really are.  I stopped to see my mother before we came here.  I didn't want her to worry and yet... I knew she would, that what I'd done--that my whole career--has made her worry, and by the time I got there... It was Ben's idea. He wanted me to go.  I guess I wanted to, too, but I couldn't quite bring myself... I was afraid. For myself, I guess.  Of being condemned, of being lectured, of feeling her anger or... or her disappointment."

"So what happened?"

"I got there and we had to meet in a department store dressing room."  She colored.  "We were concerned that they might be following her."

"Were they?"

"Ben was watching.  He didn't see anyone.  At any rate, she came. I was waiting in the dressing room.  And when she got there..." She closed her eyes, swallowed and opened them again.  Outside, the sun broke from between two clouds and shined sudden warmth on the trailer. "There was nothing that really needed to be said.  We sat there with our arms around each other.  It was the first time I've ever felt that she needed me, that she needed my support to get through something."  She looked away, toward the door.  "I guess that's one of the things that makes this so difficult now. I know--I feel--that she needs that support from me.  I want to believe that she knows my thoughts--my prayers--are with  her, that she can feel... the strength of my beliefs."  She paused, suddenly caught up in memory.

When she spoke again, the corners of her mouth crept upward into the barest semblance of a smile. "Maybe your mother needs you, too, Sandy.  Just not in a way she's able to tell you."   

 

   

For years my history with Alex Krycek had been a growing tally of lies and loss.  He was the leering symbol of everything that had been done to me, of the way I'd been manipulated for the glory of some 'greater purpose' I'd never been able to uncover the nature of.  Smoky may have given the orders, but Krycek carried them out.  He'd pretended to be my partner.  He'd killed my father, and not at some random moment: he'd done it just as I was finally about to connect with the man, to discover after so many years of silence a secret he seemed finally ready to reveal.  Krycek stole that from me and unlike with my sister, there was no hope for later, a time when we might finally sit down and learn something essential about each other.  He took away the evidence I had in Duane Barry, kept me sidetracked while Scully was being abducted, stolen the DAT tape containing the government's secret files on UFOs, and if it had been she instead of her sister who'd opened her apartment door on that fateful night four years ago, he would have taken Scully irretrievably from me, too.

Krycek had fed me crumbs of information from time to time but they'd turned out to be lies as well, or a way to get me to do things that would further his own purpose.  It had become clear recently that he had an agenda of his own, separate from that of the Smoking Man, but there was nothing to prove that it was any more righteous than that of his morally bankrupt superior.  Krycek was a free agent: spy vs. spy vs. spy.  He'd do anything, say anything, appear to be anything that would further his purpose and somehow he considered me useful to him.  It was the only reason I could come up with for why he'd given me the information about the alien rebel being held at Wiekamp Air Force Base.  It was why he'd stopped me from putting a gun to my head three weeks ago.  And then had come the final blow, the one that was the hardest of all to take: he'd insinuated himself into my family.  He was my mother's son.

Now he was offering me crumbs again, the way he had with the information about the alien rebel or his warning to me to get Scully out of D.C.  He'd nearly killed her first; it was typical of his 'generosity' and there was no reason to expect he was being any more magnanimous now.  Maybe it was just a threat he was passing along for Smoky, but in any event it wasn't anything that hadn't already occurred to me: that if Scully didn't take the bait and show up at her mother's bedside, Smoky would raise the stakes in order to lure one or both of us out into the open.  Krycek was implying that my mother would be the next target.  I'd thought of that, too.   

The question was why he was offering the information.  Did he think he could make me trust him?  Was he setting me up for something else farther down the road, the way he'd lured me into the militia bust and then led me off to Russia?  And what about the immediate question of our safety now that he had my e-mail address?  It wouldn't be hard for someone like Krycek to bribe or threaten someone at Zipmail into giving up the phone number I was connecting from.  Would he give it to Smoky?  Probably not; he didn't seem to have any love for the old son of a bitch.  He had to have gotten my address from Skinner, and Krycek had Skinner over a barrel, too, another part of whatever his 'plan' was. 

So did we run now or did we stay and hope, and trust this man who'd turned so much in my life to ashes?  And what about Skinner?  I couldn't see him handing over the information without a fight, without a reason, and I'd heard nothing from him.  Beyond that, what did I tell my partner now, a woman with the weight of the world already on her shoulders?

 

 

Three stairs to go, then two, then one.  Krycek paused at the bottom to let his breathing settle, then approached the basement laundry room.  The door stood half-open; one of the dryers was running.  A neat pile of folded shirts sat on the table.  Tracy stood at the open window, looking out.  She seemed not to notice him.

"Hey," he said softly.

She looked toward his voice, eyes widening in obvious surprise.

"Didn't know that thing even opened."  He nodded toward the window and came closer.

"It was stuck but I got it eventually."

 "Why?"

"The old woman.  You know, the one who was out there the other day, who thought she couldn't plant anything anymore?

"What about her?"

"I got a packet of seeds at the hardware store--poppies.  They pretty much raise themselves.  In a few months she'll have flowers."

"I guess that would explain the mud," he said, nodding toward her bare feet.

She smiled self-consciously and nodded.  "You should have seen me trying to get back in the window."

He gave her a look of mock-disapproval and paused.  "I've got another doctor's appointment this afternoon.  I almost forgot."

"He called you?"

"Yeah."

She looked away, toward the dryer.  She seemed unaware that it had stopped. 

"Head full?" he said, moving a few steps closer.  "Usually you know when I'm here."

"Seems that way." 

"Home?"

She nodded.  "Partly." 

"You feeling okay?"  She still looked a little flushed.

"Just... a little cold."  She rubbed her arms. " I don't have anything long-sleeved.  Just..."  She turned back to look at him.  "You know how sometimes you feel better when you get up and do something than when you lie around in bed?"  She turned toward the window again, stepped up to the dusty sill and ran her finger along the edge.

"Look, you can borrow one of my thermal shirts," he said, coming up behind her.  "They're pretty small--you know, they stretch.  At least you won't get lost in it."

"Thanks."  She rubbed her arms again.  "It's just chills, I think.  I'm still a little bit..."

He set his hand on her shoulder.  "Ask when you need something," he said quietly.  He stared past her out the window into the weedy little yard shadowed by walls of surrounding buildings.  A weathered picket fence leaned precariously to one side.  Clumps of weeds had been pulled from a rectangular bed beside the fence. 

Flower seeds. 

She shivered.  He smoothed his hand carefully down her arm. It was definitely too warm.  "When you need something..."

She took his hand, hesitated a moment and then slipped it around her middle.  He swallowed.  Warm fingers slipped between his and tightened.  She let herself lean back against him.  In the distance footsteps echoed on the stairs, going from the lobby to the second floor, getting fainter.  He shouldn't be standing here, doing this.

"Alex?"

"Mm?"

"Will you do something for me?"

"What?"

"Toss some water out there on them if there's a dry spell?"

The old woman meant nothing to him, but it wasn't the old woman who was asking. "Yeah."  He smoothed his thumb across her fingers and made himself focus on the patch of green outside the window.  As with the fields where he'd grown up all those years ago, weeds were the same everywhere: tenacious, always thriving.  There was something about her hair, warm and smooth against his cheek, as if it had a life of its own. 

And when she was gone?

"You'll go on," she said, unaware that he hadn't spoken the words.

After a moment he cleared his throat. "What about you?"

"I'm going to remember you, Alex.  I will."  Her fingers tightened between his.  "I always will."

 

 

Mulder set his sandwich back absently on the corner of the plate.  Finger poised above the mouse, he stared at the screen and waited for his incoming mail to process, then clicked on the 'read' screen.

To: DaddyW@

From: TinMan@

I owe you an explanation for the leak you've undoubtedly discovered by now.  K approached me for the information, and while I had reservations, I had little room to maneuver.  There was one other factor, however.  There's a girl who's been running messages for K--young, apparently pregnant.  She claims to know you; she said something about the lake in Constitution Park.  At any rate she seems to have an ability to 'see' things beyond the ordinary.  Ridiculous though it sounds, my gut instinct is to trust her.  She seems to feel very strongly that he won't give you away. Do you know her?

Mulder pushed back from the desk and stared up at the ceiling.  She'd been a plant. Krycek had put her there.  Of all the occasions when he'd gone to the lake, she'd been there nearly every time. 

Though she'd been awfully open, awfully obvious for a spy.  She'd watched without any attempt at disguising it.  And what could she have told Krycek from sitting there on the stairs, anyway?  That Diana'd come by once? 

It didn't quite track. She'd seemed naive, way out of her depth in a place like D.C.  A girl with the telltale look of a kid on the run.  Maybe Krycek had seen her there and bought her cooperation for food or shelter.  Or maybe he'd bought more than simply her cooperation. 

His jaw set.

Mulder tipped the chair back on two legs.  Why was she still there?  Maybe Krycek had her over a barrel so she couldn't leave.  Was he intending to use her as a courier for as long as he was laid up?  And what had Skinner meant by 'seeing things'?  He seemed to be implying that she had some kind of paranormal ability.

He eased the chair back down onto all four legs and pulled out the keyboard shelf.

To: TinMan@

From: DaddyW@

I remember the girl, though 'know' may be too strong a word.  She appeared to be a kid on the run and very straightforward, naive.  What exactly is it that she 'sees'?  Awaiting your reply.

To: heron3@

From: DaddyW@

Did your field work include interviews with potential beryllium victims? Please forward any names and details.  We both owe you for your efforts on Annie's behalf.  Thanks are inadequate but... thanks.  Hope to be able to pay you back some day.

Already there was a lot he was going to need to discuss with Scully, things to run by her, but it was getting to be too much of a pattern, going up to David Barker's all the time. Somebody with eager eyes was going to catch on sooner or later, though knowing Owensburg, it was likely to be sooner.  He could send her mails, though mails were easy to edit for words and emotions.  How would he know how she was doing, whether she needed support or needed to be left alone? 

Mulder glanced at his watch and bit his lip.  He'd be late back from lunch.  Joe would be after him for sure.

Grabbing a sheet of paper from the printer tray, he began to write rapidly.

 

 

 

It was going to be another death.  A slow, beautiful death but a death nonetheless. 

Tracy pulled the thermal shirt over her head and looked at herself in the bathroom mirror.  It was a soft gray, bigger than she needed, but it would do.  And the cuffs were snug and warm.  She reached for the yellow dress and slipped it back over her head.  No fashion statement but it wasn't important.  Alex was right: a little downtime would probably do her good.  She ran her hands back through her hair and opened the door.  He was standing beside the window, looking out. 

"Clouds are breaking up," he said, turning around.  A streak of blue showed from between two mounds of gray. 

"What time is your doctor's appointment?" she asked, pushing back the covers and crawling onto the bed.  She settled in the middle on her side, reached for the blankets and pulled a pillow close under her head.

"He's sending a car by at 1:30.  Hopefully it won't take forever."

Hopefully he wouldn't spend an hour in a waiting room, he was thinking. But the old man would make sure he got right in, that he didn't have to sit around and make himself visible.  Hopefully the results would play out in their favor: a verdict of more rest, more caution.  A little more time bought.

Tracy closed her eyes and slipped the shirt cuffs over her hands.  She'd seen her mother's death coming, but that hadn't made it any easier when it happened.  It was just too hard to watch.  It must have been a relief for her mother in the end, but she was the one left with the emptiness echoing around her.  The end of this, with Alex, had been a given from the very start.  Four or five weeks, the old man had said in the beginning.  She'd known.  She should have been ready. 

She'd thought she would be.  But things had changed and now it would be all too much like it had been with her mother.  Endings were endings.  It was so easy for them to steal away what had come before, not like a good meal where you got up from the table and carried that fullness with you.  It should be that way when two lives parted, a bounty or an overflow, not an emptiness.

The edge of the bed sagged slightly, Alex sitting down beside her.  The covers were drawn up close around her neck, first one side and the the other.  She smiled involuntarily.  After a pause his hand brushed lightly across her forehead, carrying stray strands of hair away from her face.   

She waited for him to get up but he made no move to go.  One corner of her mouth twitched.  "I know what it's like now, Alex."

"What?"

"To have something inside you you're not ready to share because it's still all mixed up, you haven't figured it out yet."  A pause.  "I wish I could give you that privacy."

He grunted, a kind of thank-you, and his hand settled on her shoulder.  She curled closer against him.

She could feel his smile, his hope, his worry that she might never learn to ask for what she needed, or be wary enough to defend herself.  Slowly, her body was beginning to warm.  Gradually the achy feeling gathered, drifting up and off her.  Alex's hand was warm against her shoulder: a cap, a shield.

He was thinking about the times she's stayed with him until the painkillers kicked in, falling asleep relaxed for the first time in longer than he could remember.  Then he was in his mother's garage, his back to the wall, drifting off under a dusty blanket, worn and shaking with fatigue, watched by the one-eyed boy.

 

 

Dear Mom,

I have a young friend here who has recently helped me to see some things in my life more clearly.  I know I've heard you say often enough that you don't fully appreciate childhood until you see it as a parent.  It was only today that I realized that the truth of that statement applies to the process of growing into adulthood as well.  Something I said to my friend today made me stop and think.  Adolescents are often jealously protective of their privacy; they fear being condemned or having their choices changed for them.  At a certain point, however, they assert their independence by making the choices that will shape their lives as adults.  They do not always recognize, however, when that potential point of conflict has passed, continuing, instead, to guard themselves from the people in their lives.  I realized today that in many ways I've guarded myself from you.  I'd like nothing better than to be able to be by your side right now, but since doing so would only benefit the one responsible for so much tragedy and injustice, I offer you these small pieces of myself.  For each day I am away from your bedside, I will make an entry in this diary so that when you are out of danger you can read them and know that I was with you in spirit.  I hope that through this writing you will know of my support, and come also to know me better.

                                           With much love,

                                                   Dana

 

 

"You know you're eight minutes late," Joe said as Mulder reached for his time card.  "We're going to have to dock you to the nearest quarter hour.  Beeson won't pay you for time you're not here."

"We had a power outage," Mulder said, shrugging.  "I had to go home for something.  My alarm clock's light was flashing when I got there.  Guess I must have gone by that instead of my watch."

"Whatever," Joe said.  "It all translates to the same thing.  Around here you get paid for when you work, not for when you don't."

Mulder pressed his lips together.  It was no use even starting.

"Oh, and Barney went home sick this morning," Joe went on.  "Not that you've had to sweat it."  His hands rode his hips.  "It's been one of those days when you just wish you could rerun it back to the beginning and start over."

Mulder nodded noncommittally.

"First it was a flood in the women's second floor bathroom and then the floor polisher broke down and we can't get parts till Thursday and then, like I said, Barney went home sick in the middle of the morning and he does Mr. Beeson's suite, and now Beeson's got somebody coming in from out of town, so he wants it cleaned now--like immediately.  So you're elected.  You're all I got left, so break a leg.  There's a list posted in the service closet in his bathroom.  Follow it to the letter and start with the office, then the reception area and then the bathroom last. That's the way he likes it and there's no percentage in pissing him off.  Got it?"

"Yeah, I think so.  And his office is...?"

"Second floor left."

"Second floor left."  Mulder bit his lip.  "Okay.  Cart's in second floor janitorial?" 

"You got it."

Mulder started down the hallway.

"It's marked," Joe's voice floated after him.  "He likes the lemon air freshener so make sure you get the right cart.  Everything's on it.  Don't blow this thing, Wallace, or I'll have your ass."

Mulder half-turned in acknowledgement.  "Whatever turns you on," he muttered.

 

 

Krycek stared through the window of the limo as the streets blurred past outside.  It was over now but his pulse was still thumping.  At least he'd managed to hold it down while he was there, while the doctor examined him and the old man watched from the corner of the room as if he were some kind of specimen. 

Why had he showed up?  To keep him off-balance?  Just to verify for himself the state of things before he flew off to Europe?  Maybe he'd caught something--some inconsistency, something that had made him suspicious.  In the end, the doctor had advised more rest, that he should continue to take it easy; his recovery was coming along perfectly if he'd just continued to take his recovery slowly. 

It was the best possible outcome.  It would buy them a few extra days, maybe a week if they were lucky.  No trying to stretch it, though.  Her life depended on cutting it off while they were still secure, before the old man would suspect or make a move of his own.

Krycek let his head go back against the headrest.  She was a good doctor, careful and thorough.  She didn't treat you like a piece of meat when she examined you.  So what the hell was she doing working for the old man? 

Or maybe she wasn't.  Maybe, like a lot of other minority doctors, she was just hard up for funding for the rest of her patients.  There had been enough of them waiting: people in tired clothes, people used to hearing 'no' instead of the 'yes' she gave them.  Maybe the old man had put on his altruistic front and offered her funding; he could sound righteous enough when he wanted to. 

And what kind of doctor would Tracy end up seeing when the time came, when the kid was due?  She had the old man's money in the bank and he'd nearly matched it with funds of his own, though he hadn't told her; she'd just protest that it was too much, that she hadn't done anything to deserve it.  But the reality was she'd need everything she could get.  He'd track the account, put in more when he could.  For the intangibles he'd have to count on Mulder, hope he'd take her without thinking she was a Trojan horse. 

Krycek closed his eyes.  His stomach ached.  It was just the tension.

"Make sure you continue to take it easy, Alex," the old man's voice came from the front seat.  The car pulled over to the curb.  "Remember that it's crucial--"

"Not to strain myself now, to let it finish healing.  Yeah, I heard."

"The girl's done a good job with you.  She seems to have"--the clink of a lighter lid flipping open--"kept you on track very nicely."

The driver got out, came around and opened the door for him. 

For a full ten minutes before the car had come, he'd tossed around the pros and cons of whether to be ready in the chair or to walk down.  The chair could say that he was still weaker than he was, that he needed more time.  Or it could tell the old man he was dragging his feet... if he suspected anything, and if the doctor's report turned out to be strongly positive.  Walking would show he was stronger, but it could make him look eager, too--eager to get back into things, making the old man more anxious to slow him down a little.  In the end he'd walked.  As far as he could tell, it seemed to have been the right choice.

He eased himself out of the seat, stood slowly and stepped up onto the sidewalk.  The car door slammed behind him, the thickly-padded sound of an expensive door.  How many poor people went without for every person who could afford to buy this kind of luxury without a second thought?  The old comrades' dogma about equality may have been nothing but doubletalk, but at least they hadn't tried to bury their callousness toward the poor under the banner of free enterprise.  'Free' was usually a loaded word, a cheap substitute for something else. 

The old man's car was gone now, pulled away from the curb.  Krycek watched until it turned the corner.  Then he went into his building and walked to the elevator without looking back.  He pushed the button and waited.  Maybe it had been for the best that the old man was at the doctor's office.  It meant he hadn't come around here only to find Tracy sick.  Hopefully she'd been right and it was wearing off, whatever it was.  Hopefully she was doing better.

The door in front of him slid open.  He stepped in, pushed '2' and leaned back against the wall.  So now she knew what it was like to have a head full of unsorted, unresolved stuff.  Unless he missed his mark there was more in there than she was ready to see, or deal with.  It was bad timing.

 

 

Mulder's vacuum tugged against its fully-stretched cord.  Glancing back, he shut the machine off, returned to the inner office and pulled the plug.  Beeson was staring at his computer screen.  Judging from his expression, it held bad news.  The man seemed oblivious to his surroundings.  Mulder took the cord into the reception area,  plugged it in and switched the vacuum on again.  Slowly he guided it across the carpet,  trying to keep the pattern straight, working from the entry and traffic area gradually toward the side where cushioned chairs sat in front of bookshelves.  It was easier to maneuver here; the receptionist was still out on a late lunch break.  And it sure beat doing Beeson's inner office while the old man watched.  He'd been every bit as picky as Joe had said. 

Mulder worked his way around the desk, moved the chair, cleaned the area and rolled the chair back into place.  The hem of a skirt, the lower part of a leg and a high heel passed the corner of his vision on their way into the inner office.  Reaching for the power switch, he quickly shut off the vacuum.  Beeson had some hearing loss and he'd been very specific in his request to shut off the noise if anyone came in.  Unplugging the cord, Mulder wrapped it around the hooks on the machine and rolled the unit up against the wall.  There was a back door to the bathroom.  He might as well go ahead with that part of the job; bathrooms were quiet work, all in all.  He started toward the doorway.

"We want to reassure you, Mr. Beeson," the visitor's voice--an unsettlingly familiar voice--came drifting out into the reception area.  "Your contribution is essential and we'll do whatever it takes to assure your security."

Mulder stopped in mid-stride.  A sudden pounding started inside him.  It wasn't possible.  It couldn't be.

"Yes, well, he's always come himself before."  Beeson's slightly Southern twang.  The man was fidgeting already.  Even the change of cleaning personnel had thrown him off.

But it couldn't be.

"He's preparing for an overseas business trip," the visitor said smoothly.  It was a slick delivery, given with the easy authority she'd always projected so well.  Mulder's eyes closed momentarily.  A knot tightened in his stomach.   

"I can go over the message with you, Mr. Beeson.  You'll see why we believe there's really nothing to be concerned about.  But the message will be traced.  Be assured, we'll find out where it came from."

Fighting a sudden flare of anger, Mulder slipped out into the hallway and headed for the back bathroom door.

 

 

Foundations

I remember, or perhaps more accurately I see now, looking back, all the effort you went to when we were young to make each new base a home, a secure place where the family life we brought with us could continue uninterrupted.  It helped that all the families around us were in the same situation. We were discontinuous together and it gave us common ground.

One of the things I remember most vividly, that I think shaped me in the end, was watching maneuvers requiring teamwork, the sight of men exerting themselves together to raise a temporary wall or unload a convoy.  It was the Navy way--it was our way--and I liked the idea, maybe the security, of being a contributing part of a larger whole, helping to move everyone toward a greater goal. Perhaps this is what led me to the FBI in the end. 

Try as I might, even as a child I couldn't help but notice life's insecurities: the wives who worried about their husbands out at sea, the children whose fathers were taken by a war we were too young to fully understand, even old Sargents Danners and Wilcox in San Diego who died in that infamous outbreak of Legionnaire's disease in Philadelphia.  I believe my budding interest in science and medicine was sparked by the resolution of that mystery.  I think I saw in it the possibility of creating security amid the insecure, of applying the unfailing rules of science to a specific situation to evoke a better outcome.  Waves might threaten ships and bullets take children's fathers in faraway lands, but if the mechanics of a disease could be discovered, the laws of science could provide dependable ways of fighting back. 

In a sense I've been engaged in a struggle to tame life, to make the uncontrolled controllable through science, and to contribute to a larger security through the solution of crimes at the FBI.  I have learned, however, over the past few years especially, that life is not nearly as predictable as the vision I held in my young mind: that accidents happen, that science does not give us all the answers.  Indeed, that it may provide only an explanation rather than a solution.  These are hard truths to absorb, as is the reality of the human capacity for callousness and crime.  Many times I have found myself confronted with the ghastliness of human possibility, convinced of the necessity for facing and disarming it, yet also gripped with a fear of my inability to do so.  It is natural, I suppose, to always want do to more, to be able to accomplish more.  But in the depth of my inability I've learned an invaluable lesson: that I am not alone, that sometimes we are saved when all logical hope is lost, that beauty comes to punctuate even the most dire of circumstances.  These are the realizations that keep me moving forward now.

I think back often to the minutes we shared in a department store dressing room when we last met.  They were filled with an essence I've come to understand: love pure and simple with no qualifiers, no frills.  None were needed.  In my heart I send you this same embrace and pray that it will help to keep you strong.

 

 

The speech in the adjoining room drifted into silence for the second time. 

Mulder leaned against the wall with eyes closed.  If he focused--if he was perfectly quiet--he could hear the muted voices through the transom.  It wasn't possible that Diana had recognized him.  It had been his first thought, but had she recognized him, she never would have gone ahead and spoken freely to Beeson.  If she had recognized him...

He swallowed.  It could have been the end of everything: their cover, this town.  They could have been on the run again, out into some other area, maybe a lot farther west to someplace they could blend into a large metropolis and try to piece together a fresh start.  Smoky would have wreaked his revenge on the people who'd helped them here, and probably on Scully's mother as well.  He wouldn't be above killing her if he thought it would demoralize them in a way nothing else could, like people forced to watch their relatives being gunned down by Nazis in the camps.

"Here it is again," Diana's voice began again, professional and controlled.  "'Maybe if it was your child or wife or relative.'  All the references in this message revolve around family connections, which is why we believe it was written by a single family member of someone who died under circumstances they saw as doubtful."

"Well, we've got our clearance from the EPA.  We've got the paperwork and it's all in order."

"Yes, I know you do, Mr. Beeson."

"Then what about this at the end--'You don't do your... work undetected.  We know'?  What do they know?  And who are they gonna tell?"

"Mr. Beeson, if the writer had actual information--evidence of some sort against you--they would have taken action instead of writing this message.  The FBI had investigators here for over a week and they weren't able to come up with anything conclusive.  I've gone over the reports myself."  A pause.  "In fact, those reports are being erased as we speak."

Mulder grimaced.  All those years fired up by the pursuit of evidence, of truth.  Or so she'd wanted him to believe.  Unlocking the secrets--that's the way she'd put it.  There'd seemed to be genuine fire in her eyes.  Maybe it was the fire in his own that had blinded him.

"...been in contact with .  We should have the origin of the e-mail account by tomorrow morning at the latest."

There was a grunt of acknowledgement from Beeson and a few moments later, the sound of chairs being pushed back.  The voices faded toward the reception area.  Mulder picked up a bottle of window cleaner from beside him and pulled a rag from his back pocket.  Spraying the mirror in front of him, he watched the mist turn gradually into thin blue trails and begin to run.  Sighing, he took the rag to them, working in a circular pattern, watching the smeared, abstract surface gradually clear to streaks, then to the bright, too-sharp outline of his own reflection.

 

 

To: Redwall@

From: TinMan@

The phone you inquired about was located on a desk in an otherwise empty warehouse.  Both brothers are out on sea assignments, which should be a benefit to you.  Ask if you require further information.

 

 

There was no new mail, and she'd received no word from Mulder all day.  Scully glanced at the clock: nearly five.  He should be at Dale's by now.  Speculating had been the hallmark of her day, as if her attention to her inbox could speed up time and encourage replies.  She knew it couldn't.

There must be something more productive to do.  Scully pushed back from the desk, got up and went into the kitchen.  Staring into the refrigerator, she finally reached for some celery and laid it on the counter to cut into sticks.  A knock came on the door.

"Annie?"

"Come in."

The door opened and Sandy's head appeared. 

"Do you think I could I check and see if I got any mail from my dad?"

Scully smiled.  "Go ahead."  She watched as the girl went to the computer and sat down.  She'd been so hesitant the first few times, but there was a growing confidence about her movements now.

"Celery?" Scully offered.

"In a minute."

Sandy waved a hand in her direction but didn't look; she was intent on the screen.  Scully smiled and turned back to her work.

"Ooh, I think I got something."

Scully finished slicing the celery, put it on a plate and wiped off the counter with a cloth.

"Ooh, my."

"What?"

"Ooh, Annie, look at this."

Scully came and stood behind the desk chair.  A picture of a desert scene filled the screen, full of deep blues and tans.  Dramatic rays of sunlight sliced through lowering clouds.  "Your dad sent you this?"

"He took it.  He said someone loaned him a digital camera and he just happened to catch this."  She looked up, grinning.  "And he's got himself his own computer.  He said he's been thinking about this for a while now, taking pictures of the places he goes--the land--before it all gets built up and disappears.  And now we can write anytime.  Oh, Annie, this is so cool."

"It appears your father has a talent for photography."  Scully smiled.  She looked at the plate in her hand and held it out.  "Celery?"

"Yeah, I'll take anything.  I felt kinda queasy this morning so I didn't eat hardly anything before I left.  But I'm sure ready now."

She reached for a celery stick.  A firm knock came on the trailer wall and Sandy took the plate Scully offered.

Dale Lanier stood at the bottom of the stairs. "Your partner sent me up," he said by way of greeting. "Left me a note saying to bring you down to the house if you're amenable.  He figured you could use a change of scenery by now and he says you two have got some planning to do. That is, you're welcome if you don't mind riding in the back, under the camper shell. Don't want to take a chance on anybody catching sight of you."  He paused.  "I can bring you back in the morning."

Scully suppressed a blush and looked toward Sandy. 

"Go for it, Annie," the girl urged.

Scully paused and nodded.  "What exactly did he say about planning?"

"I think 'strategizing' was the word he used.  You game?"

She nodded.  "Yes.  Just give me a minute to gather up a few things."

 

 

It had been a good time to come, nearly dark out and with enough people on the street and in the restaurant that any one person would be less than memorable.  It was only a block away, though Tracy had made a face when he's suggested going--worry.  But he could call if he was too tired to make the trip back; if they had to, they'd figure out something.  He'd have to take the step sometime.  Once she was gone...

There'd be no accepting any more of the old man's helpers.  He'd lucked out this once.  He wouldn't chance it a second time.

Krycek shifted on the restaurant's hard bench.  The lighting was dim; it was nice, relaxing.

"Just a few more minutes," Marisela said, appearing suddenly through the swinging door that led to the kitchen.  "Not long, I promise."

He nodded.  "Thanks."

"Good to see you coming here again," she said.  "It's been a long time, no?  Your Tracy, she said you were doing better."

Heat rose in his cheeks.  "I think she wants to use your oven again tomorrow."

"That's fine.  Just remind her: before noon."

He nodded.  "You get the other things?"

"Yes, I have them.  I'll put them in the bag."

"Thanks."

Marisela turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

Tracy was back in his room cleaning furniture, using wood polish on the desks and chairs, not that it would make much difference.  To him, anyway.  It seemed to be her way of preparing to leave: making a mark, trying to leave something useful behind, like the flower seeds she'd thrown into the garden bed outside the laundry room window.  She hadn't really talked about going, but it was plain to see that it was sitting in the forefront of her mind.  She'd been slower to smile today, a lot more serious. 

Or maybe he was imagining things.  Maybe it had to do with her feeling sick.  She seemed better now, though she was still wearing the thermal shirt under her dress.  It's soft, she'd said when he'd pointed it out, and he'd told her she could keep it; after all, he had more.  She hadn't protested much.  Hell, she'd hardly hesitated at all,  just smiled and said thank you.  It was no big deal, just a shirt.  Anyway, she looked good in it. 

Hell, he was a bigger fool than Mulder if he believed that.  It wasn't just about the shirt, and both of them knew it.  They were dancing around the obvious.  He'd need to be careful: without a little vigilance it would be so easy to slip, and then what would she do?  Or she might slip; it was looking that way more and more.  And then what would she do?  

He shifted on the bench, looked up and tried to clear his mind.  His eyes followed the shadows and dark wood in a counterclockwise trip around the restaurant interior, passing the pictures on the walls, all little dots like expanded pictures from a newspaper: the sharp mountain peaks behind the town of Manzanares, the castle, the picture of Hemingway with the fuzzy beard.  There'd been no reply from Mulder, but there was no reason to expect one.  Either he'd use the information or he'd hit 'delete' and tie himself in knots rehearsing the past.  Scully's apartment: that was his big vulnerability.  He could feel her again, in the closet, small and tense in front of him, easy to bring to her feet.  It had been a stupid move--too much confidence, not enough thought.  Mulder wasn't likely to forget it anytime soon and now it would be Tracy paying the price.

"Señor Alex?"

Marisela held out a white plastic bag.  He stood.

"Now your other things are here, on the top, so the food can't spill on them."

He took the bag she held out.  "Thanks.  Thanks for doing the legwork."  Casually he handed her a couple of folded bills. 

"De nada.  Come again." 

Turning, he went to the door and pushed it open.  The sky was blue-black; streetlights were on.  He glanced at the bag, full with its brown-wrapped package on top and the food in a styrofoam box underneath, and looked ahead, past the stoplights in the distance to his building.  He felt like an old man, slow and with no particular energy.  But not as unsteady as before.  It was something.  Progress. 

She'd be there waiting when he arrived, a smile on her face.

 

 

Six minutes.  Now seven.  Scully stared at the aluminum ribs of the camper shell above her.

Dale had asked her to wait, a precaution against prying eyes, but it was almost completely dark now and any neighbors who had found themselves interested in Dale pulling into his driveway would no doubt have turned their focus to other things.  Checking the rear window and then both small side windows, she climbed cautiously out of the back of the truck and slipped between the truck and the garage.  The question was what kind of news Mulder had, whether the planning he had in mind was preemptive or whether it was damage control they'd be talking out.  The Gunmen had sent more medical readouts shortly before she'd left the trailer.  Her mother was about the same, though the longer the illness continued, the more complications could present themselves.

A car passed by slowly on the street.  When it was gone she moved casually to the back gate, slipped inside and let out the breath she'd been holding.  A large yard spread in front of her, silent in the shadows, but no Mulder was there to greet her.  Somehow she'd expected him to be waiting here behind the gate, the way she'd wakened that one morning to find him already in her bed, wrapped around her.  There was a path at her feet; she followed it along the back of the house to a sliding glass door.  Mulder sat inside on the couch, head in hands.  He looked up and then stood when he saw her.

"Hey," he said, slipping outside, nodding toward the shadow of the garden and away from the inside lights.  He slipped an arm around her and led her out onto the lawn.  "How's your mom doing?"

"About the same.  Langley sent me readouts twice so I can keep up."  She looked down momentarily, then up to where the rising moon lit the side of his face.  "So what's up, Mulder?"

He shrugged.  "I figured you could use a change of scenery after all this time and there's something we've got to figure out."  He looked down and seemed to pause too long.  "Smoky paid your mom's doctor a little visit this morning and inquired about when the rest of the family would be coming.  He was posing as your 'uncle' again."

"Mulder--"  Her hands curled involuntarily.  She squeezed hard.  "Mulder, that man.  I can't begin to tell you--" 

"...anything I haven't wished I could do to him myself a dozen times."  He sighed.  "Yeah, I know."

Her throat ached.  She swallowed against the pressure.  "So that's it?  We set up a timetable for him and then what?  What happens when I don't come?  He kills my mother or poisons her or... or infects her with something else on top of what she's fighting already?"  

She turned away.  She'd spoken too loudly and they were supposed to be keeping a low profile.  A quick glance toward the house revealed Dale standing at the kitchen stove, intent on a pot he was stirring.  At least he hadn't heard her.  She looked back at Mulder.  He looked lost, almost apologetic, but said nothing.

"So that's it?  We need to figure out a cover story and then some way to keep my mother from--?"

"Unfortunately, that's not everything.  I got an e-mail I wasn't expecting this morning.  From Krycek."

"What?"

"He pressed Skinner for the addy.  Skinner said he couldn't figure out a way not to comply."

"Mulder, then he can find us.  He can get to Zipmail.  He'll find a way, Mulder; you know he will.  He could know where we are already, and what's to stop him from--"  She closed her eyes momentarily and let out a sigh.  "Why didn't you let me know earlier?"

He looked at her and maneuvered a sunflower seed between his teeth.  It was the first time in weeks she remembered seeing him with seeds.

"Skinner doesn't think he'll give us away."

She frowned.  Her lips pressed together.  "Because?"

"There was this girl, back in D.C.  When I was sitting by the lake on the mall, letting Smoky watch me, she was there--just sitting there--too."

"And?"

"Somehow she's ended up playing errand girl for Krycek.  Skinner seems to think she's got some sort of"--he hesitated--"psychic powers."

"Skinner thinks this?"

"That's what he said.  He said she can see things 'beyond the ordinary'.  I... I don't know what he meant by it, but he talked to her and he said she seemed insistent that Krycek wouldn't give us away."

"Mulder, I... And you believe this?  You believe this... this girl?"

"Scully, I don't know.  I don't know what Skinner meant.  She was just a girl.  Seventeen, maybe eighteen.  She wore old clothes--thrift store clothes.  My impression at the time was that she was probably on the run, a runaway."

"Mulder, has it occurred to you that if she was on the stairs there and she's working for Krycek that maybe he planted her there?"

"Of course think of that.  Scully, I'm not stupid.  I've been thinking about it all day but it just doesn't seem like there would have been any percentage in it.  There was nothing for her to learn there.  We traded a few words but she didn't press me to open up or anything."

"Skinner said she was psychic.  Maybe she didn't need to ask you anything.  Maybe she just needed to be there."

"That's your theory?"

"I--"  She turned away.  "I don't know what to believe.  But I certainly won't sleep any better knowing that Krycek can find us.  If he hasn't located us already."  She looked toward the black-silhouetted fence.  "What did he say?  Krycek?"

"He warned us to beware of your mother starting to get better, that Smoky's likely to try something else if he doesn't get what he wants.  He seems to think that Smoky might target my mother next."

She swallowed.  The moon was rising, covered by a thin film of gray clouds. "It isn't anything you couldn't have figured out yourself," she said quietly.

"I know.  I'd thought of that already.  And I've been trying to figure out what his game is--Krycek's game.  Why he'd bother writing at all.  I mean, if he just wanted the addy to be able to track us, why write?  It would make more sense to just trace it and show up here.  Put a bullet in my head if that's what he wants."

"But he's not in any shape to travel, Mulder.  It would take him four to six weeks at the very minimum to recover from a wound like that."

"Exactly.  So what's his motive?"  His lips pressed together into the small, defiant mouth she knew all too well.  Or perhaps not defiant--on edge.  He was near the edge of some precipice.

"I... I don't know, Mulder.  I don't trust Krycek any more than you do.  We know he's got his own agenda, that he's been doing things he doesn't want the Smoking Man to find out about.  But everything he does is calculated.  Everything has a purpose."

"Yeah.  And what's his angle with the girl?"  A pause.  "I wrote back to Skinner.  I haven't heard anything yet."

"Maybe he's concerned about"--she cleared her throat and formed the words carefully--"about your mother, Mulder.  He did go to see her, you know."

"He went to confront her, Scully."  The words were snarled.  "He went to wave a picture in her face."  After a beat his mouth shrunk to its small, defiant incarnation.

"I..."  She shook her head.  "I don't know any more than you do."

The popping sound of a latch broke the building tension and the patio door slid open.  Dale stepped out into the darkness and approached them. 

"You two need a time-out?  There's food in there.  I make a pretty mean bowl of chili and the cornbread's passable, too.  So Rita claims, anyway."  He paused.  "No use strategizing on an empty stomach."

Scully made herself speak.  "That would be nice.  Thank you, Dale."  She watched him turn and go back into the house.  She looked at Mulder.  He was still caught up in the turmoil inside him, close to the edge--to snapping, to lashing out the way he tended to do when he hurt. 

"You coming?" she said.  

He made no answer.  After a moment she turned and walked toward the house. 

 

 

Krycek stepped out of the elevator and and looked to the left.  There was a utility closet beyond the stairwell; it would do for now.  He went to it, opened the door and casually set the brown-wrapped package on an upper shelf.  His legs were beginning to feel rubbery, as if he were sinking below the surface of the floor.  He closed the closet door and headed for his room.  The smell of the tortilla was strong now, making his mouth water.

Pulling the key from his pocket, he worked it in the lock and opened the door to unexpected darkness.  A second later a small orange glow erupted in the blackness and the sharp whiff of a Morley drifted toward him.  Krycek steeled himself and flipped the light switch.

"I was in the neighborhood," the old man said, smiling, gesturing casually with the cigarette.  "I thought I'd drop by with the contacts you'll need.  I was...  surprised, Alex, not to find you here."

"Felt like having some takeout," Krycek said, shrugging.  "Figured it was a good sign.  It's only a few doors down.  Thought I should be able to make it that far."

"Still."  The old man gave him a cautionary glance and took another drag on the Morley.  "I notice your little... assistant... isn't around, either."

"She's... She was watching me, backing me up.  From a distance.  Just in case."  He nodded toward the door.  "You know, if she hears you, she's not likely to come in."

"I get the feeling I make her uncomfortable."  He smiled slightly, obviously pleased with the effect he had on her.

Krycek set the food box on the bedside table and eased himself down onto the mattress.  He slipped his shoes off and lay back against the pillows. Good thing he'd thought to stash his package in the closet.

"Tired?"

"Guess it took pretty much what I had in me, yeah."  He watched the old man take another drag and let the smoke out.  "So.  The information?"

The old man balanced the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and leaned forward slightly.  "We've tapped into the hospital's surveillance system.  It's being continuously monitored.  I spoke to her doctor this morning.  He's concluded, conveniently enough, that she has pneumonia.  She hasn't deteriorated over the last 36 hours, though she is receiving oxygen.

"And Scully?"

"Her doctor is going to check with the family and get back to me."  He picked up the Morley.

"What if her brothers show up?"

The old man shrugged.  "It would be unfortunate if she disappeared while they were visiting."  He brought the Morley to his lips.  "But I checked.  They're both out at sea.  It's just as well.  Saves any... complications."  He ground the smoking butt into the ashtray.

"You figure she'll come soon?"

"It's been three days.  It depends on how far away she is.  And how afraid for her mother's life.  She's going to have contacts somewhere.  Someone will let her know of the danger her mother is in.  It's the kind of... alarming news that people make a priority."  He took another Morley from the package in his coat pocket and lit it.  "Assistant Director Skinner may know where she is.  He's always been a supporter of hers."

"Then it would be a little obvious, him keeping in contact with Mulder and Scully."

"Who else does she have?"  Hand and cigarette made an arc in the air.  "She's always focused on her work--her...investigations with Mulder, and whatever research absorbs her free time."  He paused and put the cigarette to his lips.  "She has no personal life to speak of, no... steady circle of friends she socializes with.  She's changed a lot in that regard over the years."  A tap against the ashtray.  "She used to go out to concerts, get together with friends on occasion.  But her work seems to take up all her interest now, her focus."  He looked at Krycek.  "In spite of the fact that she finds it so difficult to believe."

A tenseness knotted Krycek's stomach.  The old man had been watching Scully awfully closely for someone who'd always dismissed her as no particular threat.  He'd always seemed to pass her over as immaterial except as a tool to work Mulder.  Still, he hadn't let that keep him from being thorough. 

He should have known.  For his own part it was Scully's she-wolf posture that told him she was a force to reckon with, the one she took on whenever she thought Mulder was in danger: fangs bared, determined.  She might think he was crazy--might not have the guts to believe what she'd seen evidence of--but she wasn't about to let Mulder be sacrificed, either.  Familiar mindset, that fight-or-die feeling.

"In any event," the old man was saying, "I'm monitoring Skinner's phone lines, both at the Bureau and at home."

Krycek nodded.  Hopefully Skinner wasn't stupid enough to e-mail from his apartment, though web mail would be hard enough to trace.  He glanced at the food box on the dresser.  The tortilla would be nearly cold but it didn't matter.  His appetite was gone.  "So you think Scully's going to try to sneak in?  She's not likely to walk right in the front door, is she?"

"I imagine she'll try to disguise herself, perhaps as a member of the staff.  In any event, the cameras will be rolling.  I have someone always on the ready to make the pickup.  There's the house in Fairfax County.  You can have her taken there.  It's close enough; you can go and... question her, wear down that initial... bite of hers."

"She won't tell you, you know--where Mulder is."

The Morley stopped halfway to the old man's mouth.  "Everyone has a price, Alex."  He paused.  "Everyone.  Besides, once we have her, whether or not she talks will be immaterial.  She'll be the bait.  Mulder will come running."

The old man stood and crossed the room to the bed.  He held out a piece of note paper. "These are the numbers: surveillance, pickup, my international number.  My men have been instructed to do as you ask.  Keep me updated when things begin to move."

Krycek took the paper and slipped it into his pocket.  And if she didn't show?  It was on the tip of his tongue.  Broach it or not?

"The girl," the old man said, looking around.  "She's worked out quite acceptably.  She's been very dedicated to this job, to you."

Adrenaline surged through him.  He made himself shrug.  "She's just a kid.  It's worth it to her to be off the streets."

"Yes, but surely I could have picked ten girls just like her off the streets and not come up with one as... conscientious as she's seemed to be."

"I guess."  His tongue was thick, awkward around the words.

 "Perhaps you underestimate her, Alex."

 The old man was watching, waiting for a reaction. 

"Maybe."

There was a pause, he didn't know for how long.  Finally the old man turned and walked toward the door.  He watched the door open, the old man leave.  The door closed again and the handle settled.  Krycek held himself taut until the count of ten, of fifteen.  The old man would be in the elevator now, going down. 

Getting out of the elevator. 

Gone.

He let his body loosen and looked toward the bedside table.  The styrofoam container sat in the yellow glow of the lamp, its contents cold. 

What if he hadn't stopped off at the closet?  What if he'd brought it in here with him and the old man had gotten nosy and looked?  A sudden coldness caught him, like the icy breath of a Russian winter

 

 

"He's been like that ever since he got home this afternoon," Dale said, nodding toward the window and the darkness outside it.  "Something's been eating at him.  But I guess both of you have your plates piled pretty high long about now."

He took another bite of his chili.  Scully watched him maneuver, the way the bowl wedged conveniently against the V-shaped holder on the table's surface.  She poked a fork into her salad.

"Funny how... No, it's not funny, actually," she began, studying the wood grain of the table.  "How tension makes you snap at each other instead of working on the problem at hand."  She speared a piece of lettuce and a tomato chunk and brought them to her mouth.

"I've seen plenty of it myself," Dale said.  "In the everyday.  But over there especially.  Half of it's bullets and mortars and booby traps--things beyond your control.  But the other half's in your head: how well you can stay loose, respond to what's going on instead of freezing up.  How well you respond rather than react."

"I hadn't realized," Scully said, coloring, "just how much this had gotten to me--my concern about my mother, and having to stay in one place.  As we were riding in it struck me how amazing it was just to be on a road, to be going somewhere, to see the sky moving above me."  She wiped her mouth with a napkin.  "I don't mean to sound ungrateful for the Barkers' hospitality."

Dale shook his head.  "I understand."

Scully dipped into the bowl in front of her.  "Thank you for the dinner, Dale.  It really is good.  I'm afraid I wouldn't have been much in the mood to fix anything tonight if it were up to me."

"You're most welcome."  He folded his napkin in half and then in half again, fingers working expertly.  "Over there... I don't know how much you know about the war; you had to have been just a kid then.

"Yes, I was."

"There was this area--Cu Chi--where the VC had a huge maze of underground tunnels.  They were keeping their campaign going from underground, and when we found these tunnels, we had to send guys in to check 'em out.  Only the smallest men would fit, and there were a lot of guys who just couldn't do it--go in there.  They'd get claustrophobic or just seize up.  You had to crawl in on your belly in the dark in a space no wider than your shoulders and you never knew if the tunnel was empty or if you'd meet Charlie around the next bend."  He shrugged.  "And of course, if you did, you were dead; there was no way out, no space to turn around.  But there were some guys who... it was just something they could do, and we'd all stand above waiting, holding our breath, or praying, or whatever we did to make it through, knowing that these guys--our buddies--were going it alone in there, that there was nobody they could count on if the tide turned.  Some of 'em were lucky--their tunnels were empty--and others... well, they just never came back out.  But I often think about that when things get rough--that most of us aren't going it alone like those tunnel rats.  That we've got support and we need to recognize it.  Value it, I guess."

Scully smiled and looked down.  "Thank you," she said.

 

 

It was the second time today the old man had mentioned Tracy.  It wasn't a good sign.  And the longer things went on, the harder it was going to be not to trip up.  Like having gone to the restaurant: his very first time out and the old man had caught him.  How long would he spend contemplating the significance of it, weighing his possible strength and his need for his 'little assistant' as he termed her?  And Tracy: weird that she hadn't been here when he arrived, but she'd probably sensed the old man a mile away and taken off back to her room.  He did that.  He spooked the hell out of her. 

Krycek pulled up and eased himself to the edge of the bed.  Carefully he stood and reached for the box on the bedside table.  His legs were still like rubber.  Hopefully the old man hadn't gone looking for her when he'd found the room empty. 

Or taken her while he had a convenient chance. 

A knot formed in Krycek's gut.  He slipped his shoes on and went to the door. 

The smell of the old man's Morleys lingered faintly in the hallway air.  Krycek pushed the elevator's 'up' button and glanced at the box in his hand.  He wasn't hungry now but maybe she would be.  It was a mystery why he felt compelled to remind her to eat for two; she'd be better off without a baby to take care of, though the kid was going to be a fact of her life regardless.  What had his mother done day after day, knowing she was carrying a child she didn't want and wouldn't raise?

The elevator door slid open and then closed again behind him.  He stared at the walls of the car as it went up, old brown wood paneling with scrapes here and there, a small set of initials carved in one corner below the brass hand rail.  Door open again.  A sniff: nothing.  Krycek looked toward her room. No light showed below the door.  The tension inside him tightened.

The door was locked.  He knocked and waited.  "Tracy--" Every day she stayed was more risk, more chances taken. "Tracy..."

He knocked a second time, knuckles against the dark-painted wood.  His pulse was pounding now.  Nothing.  Maybe the roof.  He started up, part physical effort, part well-worn memory: each step, each pause, her encouragement and the finger she'd hook into his belt loop on the far side.  The pressure of her hip against his.  He paused at the landing, stepped outside and let his eyes adjust to the darkness.  No sound, no sense of another human presence.  If she were here... she would have said something by now, would have seen him coming.  One way or the other. 

"Tracy..."  He walked to the wall.  Zip.  The far corner, the air conditioner, near corner...

The tree.

He swallowed.  His feet moved toward the place.  There was no sound, but she'd been here once before.  A hitch in his breathing and he parted the leaves.  Just the two old metal patio chairs sitting close together from the last time they were here. 

Would the old man end it this way?  Take her and then mention her the way he had, as if he were fishing for a reaction?  There had been days now--a week, really--of steady improvement.  Maybe it had just been too tempting, keeping her here, being comfortable, having somebody to wake up for, something more feel-real than the virtual impossible odds of beating Purity at its own game.  Purity was like the dream where you were mired down, fighting to move. 

Except that dreams ended.  You woke up to find the sky blue and bills in the mailbox. 

If only Purity were like that. 

She should be somewhere.  Hiding, staying out of the old man's way.

There was only one more logical place to try.  He made his way to the stairs and started down, no pauses between steps, a glance under her doorway--no light--a knock--nothing--and down again, to his room--dark--and out again, to the stairwell and down, his legs dangerously shaky now.

He paused on the landing halfway between floors.  Just about running on empty.  It was too much exertion: to the restaurant and back, upstairs and now this.  His legs would give out and he'd be stranded like a goddamned old man who'd lost his cane.  His lungs ached, dry.  He was panting now, leaning against the railing, sounding like a dog that had been out chasing rabbits. 

Footsteps sounded below--familiar--making his heart skip.  He gripped the railing against a sudden dizziness.  A moment later she came around the corner into view, the hem of her dress held up, eyes upward. 

Like being pushed off a wall. 

She was smiling, coming closer. 

Smile back.

"I was in the laundry room," she said before he could ask, or hide himself.  "I heard him coming up in the elevator.  He was going to my room so I went downstairs."  She paused.  "You're exhausted, Alex.  Let's get you back to bed." 

She urged him around so he was facing the right direction.  "Ready?"  Her arm, strong, then the finger hooking into his belt loop. 

"Yeah."  A step up and then another, the two of them in reassuring, familiar sync. "Why downstairs?"  He swallowed against the dryness in his throat.  "Why not the roof?"

She shook her head.  "I don't know.  I just--"

"Went with your gut."

She nodded.  "He's going to check her tomorrow," she said.  "He's expecting her to be worse, but if she's not..."

He stopped short, making them jostle against each other.

"He might do something to 'help her along'.  That's what he was thinking.  He doesn't want to lose this opportunity, Alex.  He might postpone his trip if--"

"Then she damn well better be worse," he said. 

His jaw set.  He gripped the rail harder and paused before stepping up.  She didn't miss his cue.  They stepped up together, then took another step and another.

 

 

"Mulder?"

He was sitting inside in the dark.  Scully pulled carefully on the small door handle.  It had been a birdhouse originally, Dale said, and quite an elaborate one at that.  Bethy had taken it over as a playhouse several years ago and a glider swing had been put inside.  It was a convenient place to sit outdoors without being attacked by mosquitoes.  She could see Mulder now by the light of the moon, head in hands on the swing.

"Mulder..."  She closed the door behind her.  He looked up.  "There's food in the house.  Dale's chili reputation is well-deserved. "

He shrugged.

She leaned against the door frame and pursed her lips.  "There's a lot of planning to do here and I can't make those decisions by myself," she said quietly.  "I know we're both personally affected by this outcome.  But I can't do it alone, Mulder, and there's no point in my being here if I'm just going to stand around and do nothing."

"Yeah."  The fingers of one hand threaded back through his hair. 

She took a step toward the glider.  "What's bothering you, Mulder?"

He looked up at her, quizzical.

"I mean"--she smiled grimly--"what specifically?  Dale said you've been like this since you got home this afternoon."

"Just... asking myself some of those unanswerable questions, I guess."  He squinted past her into the yard.  "The kind where you're never going to get an answer, and if you did it probably wouldn't make a hell of a lot of difference anyway because it's all water under the bridge; it's in the past and you can't change it."  He sighed and looked up at her. "You can't change the past."

"Are you asking questions or beating yourself up?"

He shrugged.  "What's the difference?"

She turned to go.

"Scully--"  He sat back and patted the seat beside him. 

She leaned back against the door frame and crossed her arms. "What is it, Mulder?"

"I never got to the third thing I had to tell you."

"Which is?"

"That while I was cleaning Beeson's office this afternoon, he had a little visit from one of Smoky's ambassadors."

She leaned forward.

"Diana."  Pain filled his expression.  "It was Diana, Scully."

Time stopped.

Diana.

"Did she...?"  Diana.  "Did she... see you, Mulder?"

He shook his head.  "No, Scully, I had my head down.  I was turned around, vacuuming the reception area. In my coveralls, how likely would she be to recognize me?  It's not like she'd expect to find me there."  His voice was dry.  He looked off to the side.

Scully let out a suppressed breath, went to the glider and carefully sat down. "Did you hear what she said?  What they were talking about?"

"Yeah, I went around into the bathroom and listened in.  Someone sent Beeson a threatening e-mail, or at least a frustrated e-mail, about the beryllium victims, and it's got him panicked.  I guess Smoky sent her here to put out the fire.  Evidently he's preparing to go out of the country.  Beeson was tied in knots that Smoky didn't show up himself.  Apparently he's never seen Diana before."  He leaned forward and breathed into cupped hands.

"Do you know what the message said?"

He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her.

She held it toward the moonlight and read.  Her lips pressed together.  "Mulder, this sounds like--"

"They're going to trace the message, Scully.  It came from ."

She swallowed.  "Remember last night while you were still in the bathroom?  David Barker came around and I told him--"

"About the lab results.  You think he'd...?"

"Remember how he hovered around the barn, Mulder, when I was doing the autopsy?  He's well-meaning, and he's certainly had a lot to deal with because of his wife; I won't discount that.  But he does seem to blame Heather's condition on her brother's death. And, yes"--she looked at him--"I think he very well might have done something like this.  I've had this uncomfortable feeling about him all along."

"Then you may not even be safe up there anymore.  I wonder how careful he was about sending the message."

"Maybe it's time to ask Dale to pay a little call on David Barker for us, Mulder." 

 

 

"Lie down, Alex.  You're worn out."

Her voice was careful, quiet.  He frowned, but did as she said. 

"I just... Fuck."  He stared at the ceiling and let out a long breath. "Too much to do, no energy to do it with."  He turned and stared at the back wall.  How would he manage when she left?  Granted, it would only be a little while; he was growing stronger every day.  Still, there was that interim, a potential Achilles heel.  But there was no point in working himself up over it.  It wouldn't help anything.

The far side of the bed sagged slightly, Tracy sitting down on the edge. 

"They're going to have to do it themselves," he said, turning to face her.  "I'm not going to poison her but they're going to have to do something--you know, to make it look like she's getting worse."  He half-laughed.  "Anyway, why would they believe me?  Why would they believe anything I'd tell them?"  He looked up at her and shook his head.  "If they don't, it's going to go to hell real fast."

"Maybe..."  She looked across the room at the blackness beyond the window.

"What?"

"Maybe they'd believe me, Alex."

He shook his head.  "They'd just figure you was some trick I was pulling."

"No.  I think I can... somehow... that somehow I can get through to Mulder.  I do know him a little bit."

"He'll think I set you up there.  On the stairs."

"You said he wouldn't believe you, Alex.  If he won't, then give me a chance.  Scully's mother doesn't deserve to be put through this.  Your mother wouldn't."  It was the kind of 'I know what I'm talking about' frown she'd given him in those first days when he'd overextended himself.

"We can't send anything from here.  If the old man--"

"Then I can go to the restaurant, Alex.  Marisela would let me use the phone line there if I asked her."

"Tracy, it's night out there.  It's not Elleryville.  I don't want you--"

Another of her looks. "What's the alternative, Alex?  You should know--you do know, more than most people--about the bigger plan, everything that's at stake."

He looked away.  His pulse echoed loudly, an irritating reminder of his too-worn, uncooperative body.  "Maybe I... I'm just used to being able to do it myself, whatever I need done.  This... lying here, having to depend..."  He shook his head. 

"It's called teamwork, Alex. That's not necessarily a bad thing.  If I can do this, if I can help Scully's mom and that helps everybody..."

The sound of the shower going on upstairs, flowing, then water trickling in the pipes. Teamwork.  How many times had there been anybody he could trust?

He turned to her, looked into her. "You promise to be careful?" 

"I will."

She was so solemn, so obvious and straightforward, as if sincerity were strength.

"Alex, show me.  Show me how to send mail."

He paused, nodded and reached for the laptop.  What the hell was he getting her into? 

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: TinMan@

Re the girl:  Before I ever met her, I had a dream where I was talking with her.  Two days later K called me to a meeting in Farragut Square, and she was there to meet me.  She seemed surprised to see me but she knew exactly who I was.  It was like resuming a half-finished conversation--very surreal.  I saw her in another dream several days later and then nothing until yesterday when K asked me for your addy.  I had this very strong urge to go to the square just before dusk.  When I arrived, there she was on a bench, hoping I'd show up.  She said she didn't know why she'd come, that she'd been 'drawn' there.  She seems convinced K won't give you away.  The most obvious explanation would be that she's suffering from Stockholm syndrome, but something tells me it's not the case here.  I have no logical explanation for any of this.  Apologies.

"I don't..."  Mulder shook his head.  "I don't remember anything that would have suggested she had paranormal abilities.  But then we hardly saw each other.  It was a few words here and there.  She was... outspoken in a naive sort of way, like she didn't know better than to talk to strangers.  She just seemed like a runaway, Scully, a ragged kid on the run."  He looked up to where she stood behind his chair.

"But why would Krycek not give us away?"

"I don't know.  Like you said, he's got his own agenda, whatever that is.  Maybe he's working with those alien rebels.  Maybe that's why he tipped me off to that rebel they were holding at Wiekamp.  Whatever his plan is, we must figure into it some way.   He must think we can help him."

"Well, he certainly can't count on the Smoking Man to back him up if he finds out."  Scully stared at the computer screen.  "You know, whatever his plan may be, one thing he said is true.  If Mom begins to recover, the Smoking Man isn't likely to let it pass if he believes she's his access to me.  And if she's on the right medication now, she's bound to improve.  By the end of the week the signs are going to be inescapable."

"We're going to have to get her out of there, Scully.  We're going to have to move her somehow, hide her someplace.  Either because she improves or because you don't show up, she's going to be in danger."  He sucked in his lower lip.

"Would he threaten your mother, Mulder?  Would he use her against us?"

"He may think he has some kind of sentimental attachment to my mother, but only if she doesn't cross him or have some greater strategic value to him.  If he were to find out she'd hid us..."  His brow furrowed.

"Then what do we do?  Do we hide her, too?  And how long can we--"  She bit her lip, turned abruptly and walked to the window.  She stopped in front of the glass, arms crossed, staring out into the night.  Mulder watched her, finally stood and came up behind her. 

"How long can we hide everyone, Mulder?  Who does he target next?  My brothers?  My sister-in-law?  My little nephew Matthew?

He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder, waited--no stiffening--then added the other and smoothed gently with his thumbs.  Finally she relaxed against him.

"Dale was right," she said.

"About?"

"That half of it's psychological, your ability--or inability--to stay focused on the problem at hand, and not freeze up, not get distracted or..."

"Or take it out on someone you care about?  Guilty as charged."  He kissed lightly above her ear.  "Sorry, Scully."  She was warm against him.

"Where can we hide her, Mulder?" she said finally.

"The Gunmen will help," he said.  "They'll knock themselves out.  You know they will."

 

 

"Tracy?"

She looked up. 

She was sitting on the desk chair across the room, lacing her shoes.  It was strange to see her in something besides a dress.  She'd always worn dresses--long ones that gave her an air of fragility.  She seemed anything but fragile now.  Strong somehow.  Resolved.  She wore a pair of his old jeans belted in at the waist and the gray thermal shirt.  The kid barely showed unless you knew he was there.  If any of the old man's spies were looking, they'd be less likely to notice her this way.  The old man had never seen her in pants.

"I know," she said.  "I'll be careful."  She stood and readjusted the waist of the jeans, then approached the bed and sat on the edge. "I can see what it's like now, Alex."

"What?"

"Having that sense of  mission, of having something you need to do, that kind of strong focus.  It's a powerful thing."

"It keeps you going.  But, hey"--he reached for her hand--"don't get carried away.  It's no game.  Life's not a game."

"I know, Alex.  Just try to get some rest."

He frowned.  Not with her out on the street at night, or trapped, as he was, in a body that wouldn't do what he needed it to.  For weeks he hadn't demanded anything of it except survival--rest and mending--but now... Now it was more than obvious what it wouldn't do, the stamina it didn't have.  There was no energy left to do this job himself, or to help her if things went bad. 

"Call me when you get there," he said.  "Give me a wrong number call.  Ask if it's Angelo's Pizza; then I'll know it's you."

She nodded.  "I will be careful, Alex.  It won't take me long."

He was looking straight at her but somehow she was out of focus.  Easy enough to say: be careful.  He felt a squeeze against his hand and she was up, taking the laptop, headed for the door.  He watched it open and close again, carefully at the end, the way she always shut it. 

Yeah, easy enough to say she'd be careful.  But life--the reality--was full of potholes and booby traps, enemies lying in wait, things you could never predict.  He rolled onto his side, facing the door.  She should be down in the lobby by now, going out.  In the end he'd told her to write the mail herself, just go with her gut; there was nothing he was going to be able to say that would make Mulder a believer, but maybe she could swing it.  Maybe that sincerity of hers would come through.  Maybe that was what it took.

And if the old man had one of his goons watching the front door, or the street?  He'd sent her to Raul, to the bearing factory, never dreaming Raul would run off at the mouth when he talked to Buzz.  He'd hardly known her then and it had nearly cost her her life.  Would have if Buzz hadn't suddenly given out; that had been some luck.  One dead so the two of them could go on, could live.  For however long they lasted.  Nothing was sure in this life and she'd be gone too, soon, out there someplace.  He'd never know what had become of her. 

He rolled again, attempting to shake the intruding image from his head, the scene he hadn't witnessed for himself but had only heard described: Lena lying in the weeds along the roadside, her body bruised and vacant, skirt flapping in the icy morning wind.  Two of the others boys had seen the one who found her and they'd told the tale wide-eyed.  She'd been a number of the orphanage boys' first.  She'd give it to you free the first time--it was her sales pitch--though it had been half a dozen times before she'd asked him for money.  She'd even kissed him when word was that she kissed nobody.  He'd thought he was special.  Thought he was in love.  But he'd been younger than she was and what could he possibly have known?  She'd been fourteen.  The image had never left completely, even though it was second-hand.  There was no rhyme or reason.

Tracy should be past the hardware store now, nearly to the corner.  She'd probably walk faster when she was by herself, giving up the slow, careful pace she kept with him, waiting for his healing body, careful not to strain him or push too hard.  Whatever she'd write would have to do.  And then she'd be gone; he couldn't keep her here much longer, just enjoying the company, warming himself at her innocence.  Like everything else, she'd be nothing more than a fast-fading memory, or if he was lucky, a picture his brain might summon up unexpected from time to time.    

Hopefully the old man had bought his story, his attitude.  Hopefully he was home in front of his TV with his beer and his Morleys, suspecting nothing.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: Redwall@

We'd also come to the conclusion that Annie's mother will need to be moved, probably within the next few days--in any event before she's obviously on the mend.  We're working on the arrangements; just sit tight and leave the moving to us.  The big question, of course, is how to remove her from the hospital without them finding out.  We're working on this, too, but any suggestions are more than welcome.  Ben, you'd be well advised to think about where he may strike next once he's decided it's not worth his while to look for her.

                                                                                                        -JB

"It's a start," Mulder said quietly.  He pulled a kitchen chair up beside her and sat down.

"I know.  But it's going to make him target someone else, your mother or... or Skinner for that matter; he could try to force our hand by threatening Skinner in some way, Mulder.  Or my family."  She turned to face him.  "What do I do?  Do I say nothing and let them be put in danger, or..."  She shook her head.  "I can't tell Bill.  Mulder, he'd go through the ceiling.  He'd never believe it, but he'd give me plenty of grief about Mom, about what I've done to her by my choices." 

She pressed her lips together.  One corner of her mouth wavered.  She turned and stared at the computer screen.

"Especially when he found out I was involved," he said, the hint of a smile in his voice.  "He'd probably make us walk the plank together."

"What about your mother, Mulder?  She's as logical a target as anyone here."

"I'll have to figure out something, someplace he'd never think to look for her."

"And what do you tell someone?  Go hide, maybe someday you'll get to go back home?"  She leaned back against the chair and closed her eyes.

"We'll make it home, Scully," he said softly.  "We just have to get something on Smoky.  My dad thought it was his greed that would bring Smoky down in the end.  Maybe these shipments, whatever they are, are the key to that--something he's doing on the side to pad his own position, something he's hiding from the rest of the Consortium.  Did you read Wilkins' mail?"

"You mean Rita's?"  She smiled briefly.  "Yes, I did.  He said the only two possible victims they were able to contact were the ones you've already found out about, that Alan Harder was uncooperative and Angie Connors was loathe to do anything that might jeopardize her health coverage.  Apparently Beeson-Lymon has its own in-house plan."

"I think I missed that part."

"She said something about her kids receiving regular care from the plant doctors."

"Isn't that a little out of the ordinary?"  He stood and ran a hand back through his hair.  "Wait a minute, what if... What if family health coverage is like the company cremation benefit?"

"Designed to hide evidence?  But evidence of what?  Beryllium disease isn't contagious, Mulder."

"I know, I know.  I just... I think I'll check it out anyway."  He turned, walked to the window and stared out into the moon-frosted yard.  "What time did Dale leave?"  

She looked at her watch.  "About an hour ago.  Hopefully he'll be back before too long.  Maybe I'm jumping the gun.  Maybe it was someone else who wrote that message and not David."

"I think maybe I'll take a shower while I'm waiting," he said. 

Mulder crossed the room and paused in the bedroom doorway.  She was going through the new mail again.  He went into the darkened room and switched on the lamp beside the bed.  Low light bathed the room.  He stared absently at the bedspread.  Who knew if she'd even want to sleep here now.  Maybe she needed space this time. 

Or maybe he did.  He reached for the hem of his T-shirt and peeled it off.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah."

"Mulder, come here.  You've got mail."

"From who?"  He came through the doorway and stopped behind her chair.

"Topaz?" she said.

"It's Krycek."

"I don't think so, Mulder.  Look at this."

To: DaddyW@

From: topaz@

I've decided to write this because Alex is convinced you won't believe him.  The old man is going to Europe, leaving tomorrow afternoon and coming back on Saturday.  Or at least those are his current plans.  He's going to check on your partner's mother before he leaves tomorrow and if she's not deteriorating he's thinking about doing something to help her along.  I thought you should know so you can do something about it.

 I met you on the stairs beside the lake in Constitution Park--that was me behind you with the red backpack. You told me you'd lost your job. 

 Nobody would be happier than I would to see you and your families escape from the old man's plans.  I've seen the way he watches Alex and it's terrible.  Please do what you can to  protect Mrs. S before it's too late.

                                                                                                -The Stair Sprite

"Stair Sprite?"  She looked up at him.

"I didn't know her name.  It's just"--he shrugged--"what I called her.  You know, to myself.  I never actually--"  He stopped short.  "I never called her that, Scully.  I never said it."

"Then what do you make of this?"

He stared at the screen and slowly shook his head.

 

 

"Alex..."  Tracy closed the door behind her.  Only the small bedside lamp was on, leaving most of the room in shadow.  No movement came from the bed. 

She went closer.  He was asleep.  Kneeling down, she slid the laptop under the bed and stood again.  He could sleep on his side now; he'd turned end-for-end, his head toward the narrow window, his back to the wall.  She understood now why he slept that way.

It was no wonder he was asleep already.  He'd been up half the night before, thinking.  Worrying.  Between that and all his exertion this afternoon...  She sat down carefully on the edge of the bed.  She'd called when she got to the restaurant, then sent her mail and waited long enough to make a graceful exit.  She hadn't been gone more than twenty-five minutes. 

Reaching out carefully, she smoothed a hand across his forehead and back into his hair.  He wouldn't mind this time; they were past that.  It was good to see him peaceful, unburdened, even if it was fatigue that had brought him to it.

"Alex--"

"Mm."

"Alex, I'm back.  I just wanted you to know.  It went okay.  I sent the mail."

He opened his eyes and squinted into the brightness--relief--and closed them again.  A finger reached up and curled around one of hers.  Slowly his eyelids relaxed into the thinness of sleep.  She sat unmoving, watching him.  Patches of deep yellow light and shadow fell across the blanket, his face, his arm.  Three weeks ago, she could never have imagined this. 

Light spilled in front of his ear, showing the pattern of his hairline and the clean, sharp line between stubble and smooth cheek.  It suited him, the sharp definition.  She was there again, the dead girl, hovering in the shadows where his conscious mind couldn't see to push her away.  Whatever else she'd done or intended, she'd treated him like something more than a worthless orphan boy.  It's what he'd carried away: a sense of worth, and the sharp pain of her loss.

Tracy looked up and yawned.  It was time to sleep; she should go upstairs.  City lights blinked in the far window.  Slowly she began to count them.  Her eyes wanted to close.  Tomorrow she'd make bread and the next she'd be going home, something she wanted and dreaded at the same time.  It exerted a constant tug now, home, but it was impossible to tell why, or what it meant.

"Alex..."

"Mm.

"Alex, would you mind if I slept in the recliner for a while?"

His eyes opened and he strained to focus.  "Huh?"

"I don't want to..."  She sighed.  "I was walking up the stairs this afternoon, between here and my room, and I... saw her, Alex, just for a second..."

"Saw who?"

"My mom.  A... ghost, or... I don't know."

He pushed up on one elbow and blinked.

"My mom, Alex.  I don't know what it was.  I've never seen her before like that.  I just... She was there, above me on the stairs, and then she was gone."

His mouth opened slightly.  He worked to clear the thickness from his head and lay back against the pillows.  "Then it wasn't just me.  I saw her, too.  Early in the morning, about five.  I was up on the roof; it was still dark.  She was standing under the tree, where it hangs over.  I figured it was her, anyway.  She had the yellow sweater on."

"Did she say anything?  What did she do?"

He shook his head.  "She was just... looking at me.  Then I blinked"--he shrugged--"she wasn't there.  I thought it was just, you know, something in my head.  And then I went down, to make sure you were okay.  I figured if it was real, you would have seen it in me."

"I wonder what it means."

He had no experience seeing anything like this and now he was worried for her--what it might mean to her, what she might read into it--and his head was thick with the jumbled confusion of fatigue.  He pulled up and reached for the blanket that was pushed back against the wall.   

"Here."  His voice was soft.  "Get some sleep.  You could use it." 

Something warm and soft brushed her temple and the blanket was piled against her.  A second later he was lying down again, on his side, already beginning to drift.  Maybe she'd imagined it.

"Good night, Alex," she whispered after a moment.

She stood, turned off the bedside light and went to the window next to the recliner.  Colored lights twinkled silently beyond the glass; approaching planes winked gradual dotted lines across the sky.  Turning away, she went to the corner, wrapped the blanket around herself and sat down in the chair.  She leaned back.  She could still feel it, the lightness of breath and touch against her temple, almost but not quite real. 

Open-eyed, she traced the shadow-patterns of leaves on the ceiling.

 

 

"Well," Dale said, coming through the doorway from the garage, "the bad news is that darn kid did write your e-mail."

Scully got up from where she'd been sitting on the couch.

"Oh, I gave him what for.  He won't go doing a fool thing like that again... Where's Ben, by the way?"

"He was in the shower a minute ago."

Mulder's head appeared in the doorway.

"David did do it," she said.

"But"--Dale wagged a finger--"there's a caveat to this one, luckily, which is that he didn't send it from home.  He went up to Cincinnati, sent it off from some cybercafé using an e-mail account he'd just created that of course he never intends to use again."

"So when they try to trace it--" Scully said.

"It'll just give the phone number at the cybercafé."  Mulder's eyes closed.  "At least he had that much sense."

"Well," Dale said.  "I figure he finally had more than he could take with Ron and Heather and all that, and then to find out it was something the plant had known about all along..."  He shook his head.  "I've been there.  I know the feeling.  And I think when he thought up this message thing he got a little carried away, swept into a kind of James Bond frame of mind."

"At least they won't be able to trace it to Owensburg."  Scully looked at Mulder in the doorway and then at Dale.  "Thank you for checking it out."

"My pleasure."  Dale glanced at the living room clock.  "Well, I figure I'm going to be needing some shuteye here before I go to work in the morning, so unless you two need anything else, I'm going to shuffle off to bed."

"We'll be fine," Scully said.  She watched as Dale went through the kitchen and off toward the other end of the house.

"Did you send a mail to the Gunmen yet?" Mulder asked.  A towel hung from around his neck.

"Yes.  Hopefully they'll be able to find a way to tamper with the monitors in my mother's room."

"Smoky's not likely to go in and actually check on her.  He'll just go with what the readouts tell him."

"I hope so, Mulder.  For Mom's sake, I hope you're right."  She leaned back against the corner of the couch and ran a hand along the beige fabric.  A cuckoo clock slurred a chainy rhythm in the kitchen.

"I think we could use some sleep, too, Scully."

She pressed her lips together and paused a moment before she looked up.  His eyes were on the computer screen.

"I think you're right.  I..."  She let out a slow breath.

"I can take the couch," he said.  "If you need some space."  He looked up, though not quite at her.

"I... I think I do.  There are things I need to sort out."

"Yeah, well I guess I've got a little sorting to do myself."

She nodded and paused.  "Mulder, you know you're not going to fit on the couch.  I'll take it."

He shrugged.  "Suit yourself.  Just thought I'd offer."

"I could use a blanket, though."

"Blanket and a pillow coming right up."

He disappeared into the bedroom.  She went to the couch and sat down.  A moment later he returned with bedding and a pillow.

"Is there anything we forgot to do?" she said, standing.

"We wrote to the Gunmen about messing with the monitors.  We decided on Sunday as the day you're supposed to show up at the hospital."

"Do you think it's waiting too long, Mulder?"

"I think we need that interim time to get your mother out.  Whenever we do it, it's got to happen before you're supposed to get there."

She nodded and stared at the beige fabric under her hand.

"Tomorrow I try to find out something more about Angie Connors," he said, filling in the silence.  "Did Sandy say anything about her?"

 "She didn't know much but she said she'd ask her friends, the blind couple."  She stood and picked up a sheet and began to spread it across the couch cushions.  "Mom's in the hands of the Gunmen."

"I'm still trying to figure out the girl--why she seems to be Krycek's little cheerleader."

"Hopefully she's right about the Smoking Man's schedule at least."  She tucked the sheet in and spread the blanket on top of it.

He nodded.  "I hope so, too."

She looked up.  His mouth had closed into the small, compact mouth.  His mind was somewhere else; she was pretty sure she knew exactly where it was.  She turned off the lamp and slipped off her shoes.  He stood at the window now, looking out.  She sat down on the couch.

"Goodnight, Mulder."

He nodded.  She paused, got up again and went to the window.

"Mulder, I'm sorry... for what's happened to you.  I can't imagine what it would be like, to realize that someone you trusted--who you'd been intimate with--had misled you about their intentions, their motives."

He nodded again.

She rested a hand on his arm.  "I know it can't be easy."

His jaw moved slightly, positioning a sunflower seed.  She returned to the couch, pulled back the blanket and sheet and got in.  With the pillow close around her neck, she turned toward the back of the couch and closed her eyes.  A moment later she heard him padding back to his room.

Chapter 15

Wednesday

 

"Mulder?" 

The moon had made its way to the west window, and the yard beyond the glass was flooded with mute, silvery light.  Scully was surprised to find Mulder sitting on the floor in front of her, his back up against the couch.  He turned when she spoke.

"I wake you up?"

"No, I don't think so."  She rolled toward him.  "You okay?"

"Yeah, I... I think I'm getting there.  In the theoretical, at least.  It's hard, you know.  You talk yourself into this position where everything makes sense, and then your subconscious--your gut reaction, whatever doesn't buy your logic--comes slamming into you from behind and knocks you flat again."

She reached out a hand and smoothed it across his bare shoulder.  He leaned toward her touch.

"I almost get to the point where I can see what I keep telling you about your mom: you know, that it's not you that's creating this situation, it's Smoky.  That I may have been a fool for letting myself believe... but that it was Diana's choice to do what she's done, to go that route for whatever reason she thinks she has."  His head went back against the couch cushion.  He glanced up at her.  "Dale was talking about that the other day; I think I told you.  That it's not whether you've been suckered that counts but what you do to get out of it, work around it."  He paused.  "Guess it's just hard to let yourself off the hook, stop kicking yourself in the ass for being so gullible, and yet..."

Quiet.

She propped herself up on one elbow. 

"I was thinking about this Saturday night, Scully, after you were talking about... the circumstances that bring us together and... and whether what we do is our own planning--our own motivation--or just the pull of the forces acting around us.  And whether after that dynamic is gone, we return to where we were before, proving that it was just something outside ourselves, beyond our own conscious motivations, or--" 

He sat up.  "Albert Hosteen, the first time I went to his house--when he took me to see the train car in the quarry.  As we pulled up to his house he said to me, 'You are willing to sacrifice yourself to the truth, aren't you?'  And I thought sure, hasn't that been my whole life?"  He shrugged.  "I started thinking about that not too long ago.  And I realized he hadn't asked if I was willing to have the truth justify me, that he was talking about giving yourself to the truth even if it wasn't what you wanted to hear, even if it was hard truth, that glaring spotlight you don't always want to see yourself in.  It's not always easy to take, what you see there... that everything you tell yourself you're doing for your sister, or you're doing to fight what the Project has created--you're really doing for yourself, to tell yourself you're not guilty, that you're doing everything you can to find your sister or some little murdered girls with cloth hearts cut out of their pajamas.  Or you think you're trying to help some emotionally-scarred woman from a halfway house when all the time you may just be trying to soothe yourself, to make your own pain go away."

"Mulder--"  She pulled herself closer.  "You were trying to help those people.  And you did.  You... you reached out to Lucy Householder when nobody else believed her.  Believed in her.  If it hadn't been for you drawing Lucy out, Amy Jacobs would be dead right now."

"Yeah, but don't you see, Scully?  It was for the wrong reasons.  It was me trying to stop my own pain.  And then tonight  here I was again, drowning in my own--"  He looked out into the yard.  "I guess I take it for granted: that I've got you, and I know I can trust you.  I'm not just your toy or your agent, your lab rat carrying your messages through the maze or whatever it is they've set me up to do.  And you've got a full load, too.  More than a full load."  Another pause.  His head dropped forward.  "Guess I just need to know I'm not going to blow it..."  He turned to face her.  "This.  You."

His head went back against the seat cushion again and he closed his eyes.

"Mulder, maybe--"  Her fingers reached out and trailed through his hair.  "We all have our own ways of... maybe dysfunctional ways of... dealing with stress.  You snap, or you try to compensate by working harder, and I"--she sighed--"I close ranks and tell myself it's not happening.  But in either case we've just locked ourselves up with ourselves.  We're our own worst company--worst enemy--and it doesn't actually solve the problem."  A sigh.  "Maybe that's the secret of someone like Rita, Mulder--that she's found a focus outside herself, that she reaches out to other people and it frees her from that trap--of being caught up in yourself, in your own self-interest, your own self-absorption."  She shrugged.

A hand reached up and took hers.  He turned toward her in the dim light. "How you doing, Scully?"

She half-smiled.  "I... I'm trying to keep this in perspective.  It's not easy knowing that someone is out there toying with people as if they were... as if he had complete immunity from human decency, from what's right, or just."  A crack in her voice.  "But we do have help--"  Sudden pressure.  She closed her eyes.  "Damn."

She'd been off-guard for only a second.  A swelling ache rose to fill her throat.  Her eyes stung.

His hand slipped away.  He was turning now, up on his knees.  Warm arms wrapped around her.  Her head wedged against his shoulder.  She let out the breath that had caught inside her and stared into the silent, silver-lit yard.

 

 

It was the worst thing about waking up in the morning: the silence, the fact that each new morning screamed alone, alone, alone, as if Cy and Roddy had been freshly snatched away every single day, the constant replay of a horror movie she'd been dragged to against her will.

Sandy rolled onto her back and slowly opened one eye.  Annie'd gone to Dale's.  Something was up with their work, the investigation they were doing.  Hopefully it was a break instead of more bad news; Annie had enough to deal with already, knowing her mother had been poisoned by Mr. ThinksHe'sGod who toyed with people's lives as if they were little plastic army men to be kicked around in the dirt, playing out his little plan and pulling innocent people into it.

She sat up slowly, a sick feeling that had been lying dormant in her stomach now waking and rising toward her throat.  It had been like this yesterday, too, and there was Adrie to go tend to.  And Annie needed someone to be there, to let her know she wasn't going through the strangeness of life all alone.

Better find a focus, girl, something that'll get you going. 

Maybe that picture her father had sent yesterday.  It had really been something.  What would it be like to be able to actually see the desert, to feel what it felt like at dusk in that place the picture was taken?  To know what the air was like, the way it felt and smelled?  Maybe he'd send another picture today.  Now there was something to look forward to, even if it was just one small thing.

Sandy crawled to the head of the bed and looked out the small window.  Clouds streaked the sky.  Queenie the black lab was sitting in the dirt, head down.  She'd been Cy's old hunting dog.  Now that she thought about it, Queenie had been moping for the last few weeks.  She probably missed Cy and Roddy something fierce. 

It was a new thought, and how had she missed it before?--that losing the two of them couldn't be just her own private hurt.  Maybe her mother, for all her 'advice', was aching for Roddy, too.  Maybe that was part of her problem. 

 

 

From where he lay, Krycek watched as Tracy stretched to clean the window over the small desk.  She'd been cleaning when he woke up: quietly dusting window sills, wiping away random cobwebs from the high corners of the ceiling.  An obvious continuation of the night before, showing that the topic of leaving had taken over her mind.  Without her head full, she would have realized he'd been awake and watching her for the last five minutes.

The old man had shown up three times in the last two days, too many times for comfort.  He'd be focusing on his trip preparations today but once he returned, the trip behind him...

If she took off from home, without coming back here, how would he explain the missing car to the old man?  Tracy and the car disappearing at the same time would point straight to their collaboration... unless he could start Che now looking for another one like it as a replacement.  There were dozens, probably hundreds, of the same model in the area.  It's why he'd bought it in the first place. 

Or she could come back here before she took off for good and the car wouldn't be an issue.  What could he tell the old man in the end, though?  That she'd gotten spooked, or just taken off with the money?  He'd never buy that.  He'd already seen too much of who she was.

"Alex?"  She seemed startled not to have noticed him.  She was on her hands and knees but sat down now on the floor, cross-legged.

"Keep that up, you know I'm going to have the cleanest place in five states."

She gave him a shrug and a half-smile.  "Just getting the place so it will stay clean for you."

"You sleep okay last night?  Noticed you tossing around there for a while."

She paused, seemed to color slightly and finally nodded.  "I don't remember dreaming or anything."

"Well, just don't overdo it." 

It came out a little harsher than he'd planned, his voice dropping into that gravelly range that tended to make people take a step back.  But it was too much, having to watch her wrestle with what was coming on top of what he was feeling himself.

Almost immediately Tracy set the wood polish on the desk and hung the rag over the chair.  A moment later she was gone, the door closing carefully behind her.  She hadn't said a word.  Krycek let out a sigh and stared up at the ceiling. 

He rolled toward the wall, pulled the laptop toward him and flipped up the screen.  Not likely Mulder would reply, but it wouldn't hurt to check.  Hopefully Mulder would have the sense to take Tracy's information seriously; the old man played hardball but Mulder was well aware of that.  The question was whether he'd accept what she'd said in the letter.  It could make or break the way things went later. 

Pushing the power button, he watched the screen light up and the programs load.  He should check on her afterward, try to straighten things out.  He hadn't meant to chew her out.  She was just nervous, unsure about what was coming. 

Familiar territory, he thought with a bitter smile.  He knew it blindfolded.

 

 

"Mission accomplished?"   Frohike turned from his cooking and looked toward the place Langley now occupied at the table.

"I tell you, we were cookin', me and Lonewolf."  Langley smiled his satisfaction.  "We were hot--untouchable.  You should've seen those monitors go ballistic.  Three rooms in a row, all at the same time--pow!  They just figured it was some kind of electrical fritz, and we had the new machines all lined up and ready to roll in."

"So it came off okay?" Frohike said.  He stirred the eggs in the frying pan and shook chili powder over them from a large shaker on the stove.

"Like clockwork.  Mrs. Scully's vitals are going downhill as we speak."

"Not drastically, I hope."

"Just enough to suggest a pattern.  It should be enough to make the old guy happy."

"Not that he deserves it."

"What about the big evacuation plans?" Langley said.

Frohike grunted and divided the scrambled eggs between two plates.  "Byers and Rani are working on that.  We've got to make sure Ma Scully's not jeopardized in the process.  Rani's concerned about the amount of infection in her lungs.  And you know they'll be watching Rani after she's gone.  A lot of little details and it's got to be a smooth job."

"The plot thickens."

Frohike brought the plates to the table and sat down.  "I wonder how Scully's holding up."

Langley shrugged.  "She's got Mulder.  What's to worry about?"

Frohike poked a fork into his eggs.  "Mulder may be an ace investigator but sometimes he's about as helpful as a grenade with the pin already pulled," he said.  "Tension makes people edgy, and Mulder can be less than diplomatic when he's all wound up."

He put the fork into his mouth.  Langley's face had disappeared between the pages of the morning paper.

 

 

"Hey, Scully..."

The words were quiet, spoken close to her face.  She was warm, not ready to open her eyes to the chill of consciousness.  She rolled to one side.

"Hey."  The voice--Mulder's voice--came again, closer this time, followed by lips against her cheek.  She turned toward them, two mouths meeting, followed by warmth and current that spread through her, drawing her quickly toward consciousness.  She reached for him but felt him pulling away.  She opened her eyes, puzzled. 

The living room couch.  Morning light filled the room.

"Mul--"  She squinted, shading her eyes against the brightness coming through the sliding glass door.

"Time to get up," he said quietly, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.  "Thought I'd give you a little extra time.  Figured if you'd had enough sleep, you'd have been awake already."  He nodded toward the other end of the house.  "Dale will be ready to go in about ten minutes."

She pushed up, blinked and slipped her legs out of the covers and down to the floor.  The yard beyond the window was uncomfortably bright.  She rested her head in one hand, closed her eyes and waited for  necessary moisture to gather behind them.  "You should have told me, Mulder."

"Hey, it's okay to sleep a little.  No sense both of us not getting enough."

She looked up and touched his arm.   "How are you doing, Mulder?"

"Okay.  I'm okay."  He shrugged.  "For the time being, anyway.  It comes and goes.  Besides, I've got work to do.  I need to find out something more about Angie Connors."

He offered her a hand; she took it and was pulled up.  A pause, neither one quite facing the other, then his arms slipped around her.

"Hang in there, Scully," he said close to her ear.  A warm hand smoothed the hair back from her face.  She looked up. 

"Good news to start the day," he said.  "Langley and a friend did a number on your mom's monitoring equipment.  The readouts say she's slowly deteriorating.  Should be just what we need to keep Smoky satisfied."

She paused and nodded.  "We've got to get her out of there, Mulder.  We've got to do something about protecting your mother, too."

"Byers and her doctor are working on a plan for your mom--"

Footsteps sounded in the kitchen.  "You two about ready?"

Mulder took a step back.  Scully smoothed a hand back through her hair. 

"In a minute," she said.  "I'll just be a minute."

 

 

Tracy stared out her window into the street below.  He was coming; Alex was on his way up.  She closed her eyes tightly and waited, a low tension buzzing inside her.  He hesitated outside the door, then opened it without knocking and made his way quietly around the bed.

"Sorry," he said, stopping behind her.

"It's okay.  It's just..."  She opened her eyes and looked out at the bright scene beyond the window.    "It's kind of scary, you know--leaving a place you're used to and walking out into something new.  I guess it feels like being blindfolded and stepping off a cliff this time.  Not that I haven't done it before.  I'll make it.  I mean, I got this far, didn't I?"

If only the logic she'd just voiced were the only factor at work. 

In the street below, an elderly woman tugged at the leash of a small dog who was sniffing at a passerby.  The woman was using a walker with little rolling wheels on the bottom.  A net grocery bag hung from the walker's handle.

"You plan it out, you can live a regular life," he started, his voice slightly dry.  "Normal life, a place to stay, a chance to make plans and follow through.  Some kind of stability." 

"I guess I just"--she placed one finger against the glass and let it slide slowly down--"tend to take it as it comes.  I'm not saying I won't try my best to plan.  I will.  I know I should.  But I don't seem to be set up for 'regular'--at least, not from the life I've lived so far."  She paused.  "Besides, if we both led normal lives, Alex, we probably would never have met."

He didn't reply. 

She stared hard into the street below.  The old woman with the walker was gone now, the sidewalk momentarily empty.  She could feel his hand wanting to reach out, her own wanting to take it.  But it was no time to complicate things, to fall apart or play the weak little girl. 

"Hey," he said finally, quiet.  His hand capped her shoulder.  "You've got some bread to start, don't you?  You going to have enough time?"

She turned to him and nodded.  A smile pulled at one corner of her mouth.  She slipped past him and went to the dresser.

"I get to watch?" he said, his voice stronger now.  He settled back against the window ledge.

"Watch?"  She smiled.  "You're wondering how much strength you've gained back?  You'll have to test your muscles against this dough when it gets thick and hard to stir." 

She opened the drawer and reached for the sack of flour.

 

 

To: thelark@

From: meremaid@

Dale suggested you might appreciate getting a line from me.  I see from Sandy's mail that my whereabouts are no mystery.  Things on this front continue pretty much the same.  It's very difficult to watch people in pain as I'm sure you must know well yourself.  The bright spot is, of course, that the mischief's been found out and things should be on the upswing soon.  Funny how we can go on almost indefinitely when we know help is on the way and can fade so quickly without it, even if resolution is right around the corner.

I do want you to know, though, that I was able to visit your mother the other night for a few minutes.  She seems to drift in and out of confusion with the awful delirium this affliction brings, but she perked up when she heard your name and when she realized that I was speaking of you she had a moment of real clarity.  I am convinced she knew exactly what I was saying when I told her you were safe, and I believe she will cling to that fact through everything until all this is past.

My prayers are with you and Ben and dear Sandy. 

                                                                              -R      

 

 

"I had no trouble getting   to cooperate," Diana said coolly.  "Unfortunately their information hasn't given us anything concrete.  The message was sent from a cybercafé in Cincinnati."

The Smoking Man put a cigarette to his lips.  "Did you contact them?  The cybercafé?"

"Yes.  The message was sent at 5:12 a.m."

"Odd hour, wouldn't you say?"  He took a drag.  Smoke leaked from between his lips and drifted upward.  "Except for someone who, say, had to be at work fairly early in the morning."

"I talked to the attendant on duty.  He said he might have seen a businessman.  He was very vague; apparently he was online while he was supposed to be on duty and his attention was distracted."  She paused.  "Shall I look into this further?"

He ground the Morley into an ashtray half full of butts.  "It may very well turn out to be just one disgruntled relative.  But one can never be too careful.  Whole regimes have toppled over inattention to some... apparently insignificant detail."  He picked up the Morley package from the table, found it empty and crumpled it.  He reached into his coat pocket.  "Continue while I'm gone.  Do what you have to.  We must be assured that this won't lead to exposure."  He stood to leave.  "The work is too important for that."

 

 

Tracy poured the final cup of flour into the bowl and watched the wooden spoon move carefully around the bowl, coaxing the dry flour into the mixture.  It hadn't taken him long to figure out what was needed.  It was part of what kept him alive: quick analysis and a near-immediate response.  He had the bowl braced between his knees for stability.  The dough inside was forming a lump, pulling away from the edges as he stirred.

"Don't you work this stuff with your hands?" 

"As soon as the last of the flour's mixed in."

She watched him finish the mixing, concentration written on his face, an occasional small pull at the corner of his mouth.

"Enough?"  He looked up.

She nodded.  "It looks good."  She took the bowl to the desk and coaxed the dough out onto a floured plastic mat.  "Now for the real work," she said, turning back.

"Hey, what was that I just did?"

"That was the easy part."  She only half-suppressed a smile.  She pulled one edge of the soft mass to the middle and pressed into it with the heels of her hands. 

Alex pulled his chair closer.  "How long?"

"Ten or fifteen minutes," she said.  "It gives the bread its structure.  You know, so it doesn't crumble like cake.  But it gives you time to think, too.  Or a chance not to, if that's what you need.  It's good rhythm if your head's too full; you can just get lost in the movement.  It's nice."

"Isn't it a hassle?"

"Depends whether having homemade bread is worth it to you."  She smiled momentarily.  "Anyway, you just have to set yourself up for it, know it's going to take a while and then it's fine, you just let go and do it.  Pace yourself, I guess.  The dough's warm, too.  It's got a nice feel to it.  It's tender this time.  You did a good job."

She continued to knead, her eyes on the dough.  Beside her, Alex was watching--her more than the bread--curious, wondering again what made her tick, what he'd find if he could read her the way she read him.

"I hope this is one of the things I'll remember," she said, glancing over at him.

He gave her a puzzled frown.

"You know, how your life goes along and the things you do all the time--the routine things--just sort of drop away.  But certain things stand out, and when you think back later, they're the ones you remember.  A lot of times they're just little things for me, like helping my mom put up the strings for the sweet pea vines.  I don't know why I remember that but I think about it a lot.  There was just something nice about it, something comfortable about being together.  There was this Christmas tree she made me one year.  It was just after we moved to the farm and we didn't have money for a tree so she made one out of a branch--a pine bough--and it was really nice.  Or maybe it was just the thought, the effort she made.  Maybe that's what makes things stick out to you, so when you look back those are the things you see.  Good or bad, I guess," she added, more than aware of the kinds of memories that clung to him.

He was watching her hands, the way she turned the dough, how far, and the way she pressed it.

"You can try it," she said, looking up from her work.  She stepped back.

"Nah."

"It's just a little piece of dough, Alex.  Come on."

He shrugged and looked away toward the window, rubbed a hand past his nose.  But when he realized she wasn't going to let him out of it that easily, he turned back.  Hesitated.  A small rise of one one eyebrow.  Finally, an even slighter nod of his head.  She took another step back to make sure he had enough room.

After a pause he stood up and faced the bread, careful to avoid her gaze.  Taking hold of the far side of the warm mass, he folded it gingerly in.  A press with the heel of his hand, and a pause.  He turned it the way she did, a quarter turn, and did it again.  Another pause. 

This was the way it started, he was thinking.  Just a small dose of something soft and non-threatening, pliant and tender, and then it had you--the perfect snare.  Something that took you because somewhere inside, you wanted to be taken.

 

 

To: Cranesbill@

From: thelark@

It's been too long since I last wrote to you.  Our progress here has been slow, though we continue to be safe and to enjoy the support of dedicated friends.  Ben is working on a lead he believes may prove our target's motivations to promote his own self-interest above that of his colleagues; hopefully it will provide us with evidence to use as leverage against him.  This has involved a good deal of time in a menial cover position, which I know has tested his patience.  I, too, have had some success in gathering evidence, though the necessity for secrecy has necessarily slowed our pace.

Currently we are concerned that you may soon be targeted in an effort to draw us out of hiding.  Less than a week ago my own mother was deliberately infected with a disease designed to send me running to her bedside.  Only the forethought of a dedicated colleague saved us all from the worst.  Now, as my mother is close to showing improvement, she must be moved from the hospital to a safe location, and when she is out of his range, we are concerned that he may turn to you as a way to get to us.  Please give some thought to where you might be able to stay undetected. 

I have no wish to alarm you, but your safety is of paramount importance to us both.  Ben also received an e-mail from Alex voicing the same concerns.  As you know, our history with him has been extremely unreliable, but we are unable at this point to determine any self-serving motivations he might have for suggesting this.  Ben will undoubtedly be writing to you in more detail soon, but I thought you might appreciate some advance time to consider your options. 

Thank you again for your patience and kindness at a time when my life seemed overwhelmed by instability.  Looking back at that time not so long ago, I feel that much progress has been made.  I've even found myself in a position to help a younger woman in much the way you reached out to me.  Actually we've had the chance to help strengthen each other.

Hoping this finds you well

                                                                                      -Annie  

 

 

Teena Mulder pushed the button on the garage door opener and waited for the darkness to close around her.  She continued to grip the steering wheel tightly.  How unspeakably vile that he'd pulled Dana's mother into this, his ever-continuing climb over other lives in order to come out on top.  And on top of what?  Though he was calm and collected on the surface, sometimes it was no more than a front.  He was an angry, empty man underneath the smooth exterior and he would have no qualms, show no hesitation about using Dana's mother if would get him something he wanted.  Or herself: if taking her would lead him to Fox, he would do it without hesitation.  And if he were to discover that she'd sheltered Fox and Dana?  Or that Alex had come to her?  He professed concern for her, but it could be gone in a heartbeat, replaced with something terrible. 

So Alex had contacted Fox.  She saw him again, the man at her front door: quietly urgent, and then standing in the kitchen, tight and nervous, holding out the faded photograph and demanding to know why. 

After a moment she reached for her purse and pulled on the door handle.  The stacks of boxes against the wall looked as they always did, newspapers to the right, the boxes and the foldaway bed up against the wall.  Her eye was drawn to it as it had been nearly every time she'd passed through here since that day.

Was he making an attempt to protect her, and if so, why?

She pushed the door wider, stood and turned to retrieve a small bag of groceries from behind the seat.  Closing the door, she went almost without thinking toward the stack of boxes.  He'd shot a toddler, a little boy, Fox had said.  How very like his father, whose apparent concern typically concealed cold strategy.  Leland planned ahead, noting every eventuality; it was the way his mind worked.  Surely he would have taught Alex to do the same.  Though Alex had seemed much less tightly-controlled than his father, leaning against her kitchen sink, visibly filled with emotions that threatened to drown him.  The outward control had been there: the stance, the dry voice.  It was his eyes that had given him away. 

And he would protect her now?  He'd warned her, after all, not to trust him, and he'd seemed insistent.  She could still feel her alarm at the intensity of his gaze, eyes dark and very serious.  And then he'd left a scrawled 'thanks' on the sandwich plate.

There'd been no rational reason to let him in, this stranger on her front steps, and yet it was the need in his eyes that had made her swing the door wider and let him pass.  Leland at his youngest, at his most convincing, telling her she deserved--more than that, was entitled to--something more than Bill's stony silence had never seemed so raggedly real and alive as that. 

Maybe there was something Alex needed her for.  A oddly compelling thought...  or perhaps nothing more than a dangerously romantic notion, the hope that this son who'd come to her nearly speechless, an accusation in his hand, might have somehow forgiven her.

Reluctantly, Teena took her hand from the dusty box and started toward the door to the back yard.  There was planning to be done.  Wherever she chose to go, it must be a place she'd never been before, somewhere she'd never thought or hoped to go, or mentioned to anyone, even in passing.

   

 

Tracy appeared in the doorway after a quick knock, bread bowl wedged against her side the way women carried babies on their hips.

"I'm going now, Alex."

"Good news," he said, glancing up from the laptop's screen.  "Some progress, anyway.  I just checked with the hospital contact.  Scully's mother's vitals are falling off.  Check it out."

She crossed the room and leaned past him toward the laptop screen, pale hair spilling to one side.  He made himself lean away and focus on the words on the screen.  A series of rooms had experienced an electrical overload in the early hours, the message said, but the equipment had been quickly replaced.

"That's you," he said.  "That was no accident.  Mulder got somebody to switch those monitors."  He looked up, obviously pleased.  "How did you do it?  What did you tell him?"

She turned.  "I just told him the truth, Alex." 

As if sincerity were strength.  He shook his head.  Well, somehow it worked for her.  His hand flexed; he made it curl around the bean bag beside him and cleared his throat.  "Don't you have to be there pretty soon?"

She nodded.  "I'm going to do a little shopping while it's baking.  Is there anything you need?"  She seemed to take a deep breath.  "You know, for the next day or two?"

"Whatever."  He looked toward the shelves above the microwave and shrugged.  "Whatever you think.  Not exactly in a food frame of mind right now."

"Do you know what time he's leaving?"

"He'll probably head for the airport about two."  He glanced away, then finally at the laptop screen that had just gone black.

"Do you have any way to know for sure if he's gone, Alex?"

"I've got somebody who can get me flight manifests.  Yeah, I can find out."

"Will you?"

He nodded.  The silence in the room was too loud.

She ran a finger along a fold in the blanket.  "I guess I've gotten used to this neighborhood more than I thought--the little grocery and the restaurant and Marisela's friend's store."  She stared at the bread bowl in her lap.  "Well..."

"Clock's ticking."

 "It is.  I'd better get a move on."  She stood, paused and turned back.  "That's strange."

"What?"

"What I just said: get a move on.  I think it's something my father used to say.  I haven't said it in years."  She repositioned the towel over the bowl beside her and went to the door.  "I'll be back in a while."

The door closed carefully behind her.

He stared at the narrow window beyond the foot of the bed until it went out of focus.  She wouldn't take off straight from her home, not unless something unforeseen happened to her while she was there.  She'd come back.  Which would be better.  And worse. 

Then she'd be gone for good.  But she'd have a better chance with Mulder than she would on her own.  Certainly better than her prospects here with him.  She deserved that chance.  When she got back there'd be a few more days: a couple, maybe five.  They'd have to keep their heads, and how easy was that likely to be the way things had been turning lately?  A minute ago his hand had wanted to reach for her as if it had a mind of its own.  Probably a good thing there hadn't been a hand on the side within reach of her.

Krycek pulled up, eased himself to the edge of the bed and went to stand at the narrow window.  He needed to stay focused, to keep his head on straight and not blow it... for either of them.  Be ready to do what he had to.  But if the old man wanted him to coordinate the search for Scully's mother?  What would he do if he found her?  Sacrifice her to save his own mother?  Save his own ass on the off-chance that some way would fall into his lap to influence the future?  When was the last time that had happened?

It's what the old man was convinced of: that he was working--sacrificing--to save the planet.  That alone had to make him the most deluded son of a bitch of all.

 

 

"Need a hand with that?"  Mulder sprinted ahead a few yards.        

The pony-tailed Angie Connors was coaxing a dolly between parked cars, a tall bookcase strapped to it.  She stopped behind an old station wagon, checking her pocket for keys. 

"Saw you hauling it out here," he said, coming up behind her.  He nodded toward the bookcase.  "Looks a little awkward."

She turned to face him.  Her concentration turned to a momentary smile.  "Thanks.  It's an old one.  They were finished with it and I could use a bookcase at home, so I asked Joe--"

"Joe let you have this?  Joe Charters?  You must lead a charmed life." 

"Not me.  No, Joe's... He's a lot of thunder, but not as much lightning as it looks like.  You just have to realize he's not growling at you."

"That he just treats everyone that way?"

A smile of recognition.  "That, too.  But he gets over it eventually.  You've just got to wait for the storm cloud to blow past."  She worked a key in the driver's door, opened it and reached back to pull up the lock button on the door behind.  "Actually, if you're offering, I'd appreciate the hand.  It's one of those composite things, sawdust and glue"--she disappeared inside the car and stretched across to pull the lock button on the opposite door--"and it weighs a ton.  But I figure that won't matter much once I get it settled in my living room."

She backed out, then opened the rear passenger door.  Mulder went to the door on the other side and together they folded down the rear seat.  Almost immediately she went to the back of the car and began to loosen the strap that held the bookcase.

Mulder glanced at his watch. "You trying to get this home now, on your lunch hour?"

She nodded and pulled at the release lever on the dolly strap.  "Need the seats for the kids after work."

"Then you're not likely to have any help getting this out on the other end?"

"Depends on whether my next door neighbor's home or not."

"I can give you a hand," he said.  "Besides, a few minutes away from Old Stormy and his chore list sounds like a good thing."

She paused.  "Okay.  Thanks."

She had the moves of someone who'd been doing it all herself for a long time: running a household, playing both parents.  She dug into the business at hand without waiting for anyone else to make the first move.

"Maybe if we just back it up here a bit and tilt it forward"--Mulder took the dolly and moved it back carefully--"it should go right in."  He waited for her to let down the rear door, then took one side of the bookcase and tilted it.  Angie took the other and together they eased it down onto the cargo door.

"Looks like it's just going to make it between the wheel wells," he said.

They slid the bookcase forward until it hit the front seats.  The concern on Angie's face smoothed into relief. "I must have done something right today," she said, smiling now.  "Seems like too often life complicates even the easy stuff."  She secured the rear door and motioned him toward the front.  "They say you've come from Hollywood," she said, opening the driver's door and getting in.

"Must be true," he said, getting in and giving her a grin, "because I've heard it from so many people."

"I hear you," she said.  "Around here people tend to know more about you than you do yourself.  Leastwise, they think they do."  Starting the car, slipped it into gear.

"Name's Ben Wallace," Mulder said, offering a hand.  "In case they haven't told you that, too."

"Angie Connors," she said.  "Good to meet you."

   

 

To: che774@

From: topaz@

Rush job.  Need the car ready by mid-afternoon.  Check everything for an out-of-town trip: gas, oil, belts, hoses, tires etc.   Will pay you double, just make it a priority.  Leave the bank account materials in the glove box. 

 

 

Sandy broke the water's surface and reached for the ledge above her with a wet, cold hand.  Water streamed down her face.  "Why don't you come in, Annie?" she said, looking up.  "It's nice.  Besides, they say it may rain tomorrow.  Anyway, you look like you're just stuck there.  In your head, I mean."

Annie picked up a small pebble beside her, looked at it briefly and set it aside.  Her mouth formed a thin, straight line.

"Come on, Annie," she urged.  "Haven't you ever seen those ads on TV?"

This time Annie looked up. 

"Those ones that say, 'When your mind won't move, move your body?'  They're for some cell phone company, I think.  And then they talk about how the guy who invented their phone surfs every morning.  It's a good idea.  The water takes me away from my troubles.  For a while, anyway, and sometimes that helps a lot."

"I--"  Annie started.  "I guess the need for plans--workable plans--seems overwhelming at the moment.  We have no idea where he may strike next: Ben's mother, someone else in my family.  When my mother disappears he's going to be looking for her as well as for us.  And this new source that's turned up--we don't know how reliable she is."  She pursed her lips.

"That's exactly why you need a break," Sandy said.  "Come on.  Just a few minutes."  She tried to look firm and then frowned.  "Now I sound like some little kid's mom trying to coax them into eating their vegetables."

A sudden smile broke through the worry on Annie's face.  She nodded.  "Okay, a few minutes."

She pulled off the T-shirt that covered her swimsuit.  It was the basic royal blue suit from Wal-Mart but it looked really good on Annie--lots better than it had on the hanger.  Not that it was any surprise.  Annie inched forward on the rock, letting one leg down over the edge until her foot nearly touched the water.

"It's kinda cold at first.  You a diver or a wader?"

Annie gave her a puzzled look.

"Do you jump in and let it hit you all at once or do you go in gradually?"

"Today," Annie said, readying herself, "I think I'm a diver."  She pushed herself off the ledge and dropped below the surface with a splash.  A trail of bubbles rose in her wake and then her head popped up.  Her eyes were big.  She gasped and blinked.  "Kind of cold?  Sandy, it's freezing!"

"But it woke you up, didn't it?"  Sandy grinned.

"Yes."  Annie dipped her head into the water and then tossed her hair backwards, out of her way.  "It certainly did."  She reached for the lower ledge and shook herself.

"There's the 'bathtub' over there if you like it warmer," Sandy said, gesturing to a shallow pool on the far side of the stream.  The sun warms the rock and it's pretty nice for relaxing.  Me, I like to keep moving.  There's some pretty neat rocks and things down in this pool if you want to swim down and take a look.  I think that's what I like about the water.  It's almost like being able to fly."  She paused.  "Come on, Annie, you're gonna want to see this pool from below."

 Annie shivered, took a deep breath and followed Sandy down.

 

 

"So I've always got to be on the lookout--monitoring them, you know?" Angie said.  "I mean, kids don't give a darn about this stuff.  They think they'll live forever."  She sighed and began to set an armful of books on the new bookshelf.

"Isn't that uncommon, for all three kids to be affected?"

"If there's an opposite to winning the lottery," Angie said, "I guess we did it."  She gathered another handful of books from the sofa and shelved them one at a time.

She was a plain woman.  Or rather, she kept herself plainly--a woman with more focus on her responsibilities than on fashion.  She wore no makeup other than a quiet shade of lipstick that was almost undetectable, and her deep golden-blonde hair was drawn back into a no-frills pony tail.  She always wore the same thing--colored T-shirts and jeans--and if the weather was cool, a flannel shirt in greens and whites.  Always the same one as far as he could tell.  She probably wasn't much older than he was, though she seemed it from the way life had worn her.

"This box, too?" Mulder asked, pointing to several stacked beside the sofa.

She turned back and nodded.  "Yeah, thanks."  Her smile was sincere.

He picked up the box and brought it closer.  "I guess you"--he nodded toward the box--"know where you want these..."  He held the box while she picked out the books and placed them on the various shelves.  "Do you ever think of doing something else?" he said finally.  "Something other than working the clean room?  Eleven years is a lot of time in one job like that, one position."

"Oh, I could do without the clean room alright.  You bet.  At least I can in my dreams.  Unfortunately, dreams don't pay the mortgage, or buy shoes or braces or winter coats.  You've got to survive, keep going."  She slid the books into place with few pauses, the empty spaces gradually disappearing.

"So we bear the ills we have," Mulder said absently, watching the books disappear methodically from the box.

"What?"

He shook his head.  "Just something Hamlet said.  That we keep doing the things we do, even when they're painful, because we're afraid of what the unknown might be, of what might happen if we stopped."

   

 

To: topaz@

From: che774@

Car will be ready by three, barring any unforeseens.  Docs are in the glove box as we speak.  As for the funds, thanks--the hounds were clawing at the door.  At least now I can eat while I hack.  Later--

"Who's Ché?" Tracy asked, pulling another chunk from the warm loaf of bread.

"This Czech guy I know.  Hacker.  Mechanic.  The kind of guy who can put something together with wire and paper clips and make it work.  Kind of a jack-of-all-trades, crazy guy." He shrugged.

"I got that part," she said.  A smile gradually grew on her face.  She hid it behind her hand.

"What?"

She shook her head and put the piece of bread in her mouth.  "Nothing."

He frowned. 

She turned away, the smirk still on her face.

Obviously she could feel his reaction, because a moment later she turned back to him. "He just..."  She paused, attempting to erase the smile from the corners of her mouth.  "He just seems kind of... too colorful for someone you'd know."

"What?  And I'm monotone?"

"You're just... you're all utility, Alex.  Focused and equipped to get things done.  Ché seems kind of ... interesting."

He waggled his eyebrows.  "I could fix you up with him.  Old guy.  Gray hair--wild.  Doesn't shower too often.  But real interesting."   

It took her a few seconds to catch on.  Finally she smiled and colored.

"What, no brothers to tease you when you were growing up?"

She shook her head.  "No brothers."   Suddenly she paused, apparently deep in thought.

"What?"

 "Just... something.  Something I almost remembered.  You know how you just about touch something in your mind and then it slips away?"

She stared unseeing at the shelves. 

   

 

Apologies and hopes

Hope is on my mind today when everything seems so precarious: the need to move and protect you, the probability that others will be targeted once you are out of reach, the question of how long we can go on trying--working--to solve this mystery, to amass evidence against this certain treachery when it seems the odds are very much stacked against us.  A friend remarked today in an e-mail that we can hold out indefinitely if there is hope, but where we see none we falter and weaken, though resolution may be near at hand.

I know that my decision to join the Bureau has affected all of you; in spite of the harsh consequences you have had to endure, perhaps no one understands this better than I do.  However, I have come to understand that the involvement which has led to so much tragedy, that has led to the circumstances in which we both find ourselves now, came to me rather than being something I sought out or brought upon myself.  There are men in untouchable positions of power misusing their influence behind the scenes for selfish and ultimately dangerous ends.  They will go to any length to protect themselves and their agenda.  They reached out and took me, experimented on me, left me sterile and produced a child with no hope of surviving more than a few years of their experimentation.  I can't begin to tell you what a question mark Emily has become in my mind--the possibilities of who she was and who she might have become if only she'd had a chance to grow and reach her potential.

When these men tried to kill me for the little I did know about their activities, Melissa was the one who opened the door.  I cannot bring her back or replace her, but neither can I close my eyes and try to pretend that the chain of events that led to her death never happened, or that these men's wide-reaching effect on many other innocent lives has ceased to be.  I used to want what I thought was an model life and career enough that I denied what was going on around me, as if I could wish the evil surrounding me away, but I can no longer do this.  To give up, to turn my back or throw up my hands in impotence would be to give Melissa up without a fight.  She and the many others who have been affected deserve better.  You deserve better.  I cannot bring myself to walk away without a struggle, or resign myself to living out the rest of my life in secrecy, on the run, or seeing more innocent victims die if there is something that can be done about it, and until the final determination is made that there isn't, my life must be devoted to this cause.  The sobering reality, of course, is that historically we see great evil being defeated only at great cost--the defeat of Hitler, for example, through the loss of many lives.  Still, there are examples of victory coming through the efforts of small, common people, or those few in number.  I hold on to the hope that this is the case with us.  

 

 

Tracy reached into the glove box and took out the manila envelope inside it.  There was a brochure about bank services--a tongue-in-cheek addition of Ché's, apparently, since he'd hacked into the bank's computers to establish the account in the first place--a check register for keeping track of her balance, and an ATM card.  She turned the card over and looked at both sides.  'Tracy A. Hanson' it said on the front in gold-embossed letters.  It was a last name Ché had picked out himself.  It would keep her from being traced if anyone were looking for her.  Not that Uncle Nathan was likely to have her face put on milk cartons or fliers.  She was more than he could comprehend, just as her mother had been.  She slipped the card and information back into the envelope, looked around the shabby parking area and locked the glove box and passenger door. 

She took a step away from the car and paused.  It was the perfect car for Alex: a common white coupe neither new nor old enough to draw attention, the seats and dashboard slightly worn, a sheepskin cover on the driver's seat and a little clutter behind--a jacket, some newspapers, a couple of water bottles and a roll of paper towels.  Nothing that could possibly be pegged as identifying the owner.  Tomorrow it would be her car, driving away from here back to roads she'd traveled not so long ago but that seemed somehow out-of-focus now, as if they'd only been part of a dream.  There would be traffic to negotiate, but at least Alex wouldn't be tying himself in knots in the next seat trying to hide his tension.  Her car, her trip.  By herself. 

She was strong.  

Apparently Alex thought so, anyway.

It had been a whole year now.  Nathan had come with the coroner that morning.  He'd kept her outside in the truck, and only after the coroner had taken away her mother's body had he allowed her to go inside, and then only long enough to get her clothes and a few things.  He'd even stayed in the kitchen so she couldn't try to slip into her mother's room.  It would only make things worse, he'd said with that you-know-I'm-right tone of voice.  Then he'd locked the house and they'd gone.  What's past is past, he'd say whenever she asked about going back.  You've got to look ahead now.  Eventually she stopped asking, though she had gone back once, hiked the ridge on a Saturday and gone over behind and come to the house.  The sweet pea vines had been dry like parchment paper and the windows had been nailed shut.  Nathan must have expected her. 

Tracy shivered and looked up.  Above her, hazy swathes of clouds spread across a pale blue background like thin frosting.  It had been cooler lately--strangely cool--though it hadn't been cool enough today to justify wearing Alex's thermal shirt no matter how comfortable it was.  Today she wore the white dress; the yellow one had been washed and was hanging in her closet ready for tomorrow.

Her closet: it almost seemed as if it were truly hers.  No, it did seem like that.  Her room, her closet, her neighborhood.  Her Alex. 

She tucked the envelope into the turquoise string bag she'd bought from Marisela's friend and started toward the street.  Three blocks back to the apartment and there was a bank machine on the way.  It would be smart to stop and try the card.

Nathan had left a new key in the pump house.  That fact had been lying unguarded in his thoughts before she'd left.  But if it wasn't there now, she'd break a window or do whatever else it took.  Getting in would be the easy part.  Facing what was inside could be something else entirely.

 

 

To: che774@

From: topaz@

Need confirmation of the old man's outgoing flight to Orly, Paris.  TWA 3:40 p.m.  Departure and verification on passenger manifest ASAP.   Thanks.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: thelark@

Just wanted  you to know that I wrote to your mother this morning.  I know you intend to write to her, too, but I also know you've got a lot on your mind and I thought a little forewarning would give her a chance to begin preparations.  The number of fires to put out right now seems overwhelming but S has managed to distract me from fixating on the things I can do nothing about.  Plunging into an icy pool can distract you from just about anything else, but it was a good experience in the end.  She's so at home in the water.  It's amazing to watch.

I hope you've been able to make some headway in your new line of investigation.  Let me know if you need help... or even if you just need an ear or a sounding board in general.  I know I'm probably not your first choice of confidante in this case but I'll do my very best.  I know how easy it is to retreat into yourself at a time like this, but retreat in and of itself never really leads to resolution.  Been there, etc., as you know better than anyone.

My mother's vitals continue to decline very slowly.  I can only assume that this is a matter of the programming and not the actual case.  I had a note from Byers assuring me that everything was going according to plan and I suppose I should take him at his word.  I'd say I'll feel more relaxed when she's safely away, but the question then is who will be the next to be targeted. 

Sorry not to be more upbeat.  I think I'm in need of a hope transfusion, though every once in a while I seem to rise above the gloom long enough to recognize the utter absurdity of so many people running around in terror because of a single man.  He's not a god, after all, though he seems to project this superhuman aura, as if defeating him were an impossibility.

Let me know how your day has gone.  

                                                                                                -lark

 

 

To: thelark@

From: DaddyW@

I think I've finally gotten a break here.  Met up with AC in the parking lot at lunch and helped her with a bookcase she was taking home, which gave us a few minutes to talk.  She's worked in the clean room for 11 years and hasn't considered leaving because of the health benefits.  Wilkins had it slightly skewed.  There's no general company benefit that includes an employee's family; this is something that was offered to her specifically at a time when she was considering an employment offer from another company.  Her kids are diabetic so the benefits were something she really couldn't afford to refuse.  I'll try to get more info later, but as it was I just let her talk.  Wanted to let her say as much as possible and didn't want to seem like I was prying. 

Checked those downstairs lockers for shipping boxes but nothing yet.  My guess: if there's a flight on Sunday, there'll be boxes in there Friday afternoon.

Know what you mean about getting your mind off all this.  I'm on my way out to shoot some hoops.  Probably a positive to put in some time around town and anyway, it should keep my mind from doing that little rerun thing.  At least for a while.  Wish I could be more help to you now.  Hang in there, lark.  Wish I knew why she did it--whether she was in with him from the beginning or whether she sold out at some point along the way, and why.  But then a lie is a lie.  Think I'd better go.

Thanks for never lying to me.

                                                                                     -nightingale

 

 

A whirring sound came from the interior of the bank machine.  A moment later it spat out a receipt, and a twenty-dollar bill appeared in the lower slot.  Tracy took it, folded the bill in half and slipped it inside the bank envelope in her string bag.  The machine beeped.  She looked up: her card.  Gratefully she took it, wrapped the receipt around it and paused.  Unfolding the paper, she looked at the details printed on it.  It contained part of her card number, a partial account number, the amount she'd taken out--the twenty dollars--and the time and date. 

And at the bottom, the account balance:  $2,140. 

She gasped.

It was nearly twice what the old man had given her.  There had to be some mistake. 

Though probably that wasn't likely with bank computers. 

Unless Ché had managed a little electronic robbery, the money must have come from Alex.  He'd do something like that and not say anything so she wouldn't protest.  He'd be thinking about how much money she'd need when the baby came and there were diapers and food to buy, and other things she hadn't even thought of yet.

But it wasn't just the baby.  There was the password for the ATM card, too: 'topaz'.  It was the same as the name on his new e-mail account.  It could be just a random word... though it didn't seem likely.  Alex did nothing lightly, without thought or intention.  He was so very serious. 

After a moment she folded the receipt, slipped it into the bank envelope in her string bag and started toward the apartment, more slowly this time.

 

 

Will handed the phone back to Rita, closed his eyes and grimaced.

"Telemarketer?" Rita asked.

He looked up and managed a hint of a smile. "No, somebody from the Bureau.  She wanted some background on the Kentucky case.  Evidently some of the paperwork got lost in the great bureaucratic black hole."  He looked up from where he lay on the couch and winced slightly.  "Talk to me, Mother J.  I'm going to go crazy if have to keep myself in this body much longer."

Rita sat down on the empty cushion at the far end, the one that had become her personal corner.  "Sometimes you fall asleep here, Will, and I... watch you sleep.  I think it's a built-in thing, a mother thing that's programmed into you."  She colored slightly.  "This is going to sound silly."

"Lay it on me.  Coming from you, I can take just about anything."

"Sometimes," she began, "I just look and think about how people are different--look different--like the nice coloring you've got and how we must seem strange to  you by comparison, white folks, like we missed something along the assembly line there, where they were supposed to put the color in.  Things I've never really had the occasion to think about before, but when you're just sitting the mind wanders to things you'd never considered.  Sometimes I wonder what your parents might have looked like--who you favor more, your mother or your father. 

"Or I think of Andy, all those things he did when he was a kid and whether I did the right thing--led him the right way--or whether his orneriness was just part of his makeup, the spirit that made him want to jump off of every roof and break his arm.  Or run off and fool around and end up with a daughter when he was fourteen."  She shook her head.  "It was such a fool thing to do.  Fourteen, Will.  Her name was Arlene Butterfield and she hadn't any more sense than he had.  And then I look at Bethy and think, whatever the circumstances, what would I have done without this child?  She's my constant companion and she's such a joy, though her life certainly hasn't been easy.  But then you don't get your druthers about what a life's going to be like, or how long.  You just have this picture in your head: of certainty, of someone growing up and going through all the usual stages, passing all the familiar checkpoints, I guess.  And then we get surprised."   Her voice trailed off.

Will wagged a finger at her.  "You're waxing philosophical, Mother J." 

"Guess it's just what's in me at the moment, Will."

"I know what you mean about the surprises," he said after a moment.  "I was out playing with this kid Kareem the day Mama was shot.  I always told her where I was going--always asked first--but for some reason it completely slipped my mind that day."  He sighed.  "We were hunting for grasshoppers.  Kareem, he'd seen these giant grasshoppers in an empty field and that's big game when you're a little kid.  Had nothing more on my mind that day than grasshoppers and supper.  I guess at that age you don't look any further than the next few hours.  The future is bedtime."  He let out a slow breath. 

"And then I come home and it was all over.  She was gone, no evidence left of her, just... disappeared, as if she'd been swallowed up somehow and the future was changed.  Somehow everything had changed and you didn't get a vote, or a say; you were just left with it, like half an old squashed peanut butter sandwich some kid dropped into your hand before he took off and ran.  A bad joke.  Really bad joke."

He closed his eyes.  His forehead throbbed in time to his heartbeat.  His eyes weren't getting any less dry for being closed, so after a moment he opened them again and pulled himself up to a sitting position.  When the banging in his head had settled, he stood slowly. 

"I want you to know, Mother J," he said, turning awkwardly, "that I truly appreciate you hanging out with me like this because misery loves company, and at the present time I'm about as miserable as anybody I know." 

He gave her a half-smile and started for the hallway.  He'd made it nearly to the bathroom when the coughing overtook him.  After a moment he managed to get inside the door and close it so she wouldn't have to hear it so loudly.  She was a mother after all.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: Cranesbill@

You may know that Annie has already written to me today and told me of the need to make preparations.  I know you'll want to help me find a place, but it occurred to me that perhaps it might be best if you didn't know where I'll be.  We can continue to stay in touch as we do now, but it would eliminate some knowledge one of us had of the other that L. might possibly discover and use against us.  Let me know your thoughts on this.

Annie said you've been working hard at gathering evidence.  If your father's words have been a help to you then I'm so glad I remembered them.  Looking back, it seems so characteristic that L would set himself above the rest.  He has indeed protected the project, but in the end he is far from an altruistic man.  If a single life preserver were tossed into a churning sea, I have no doubt he would fight off anyone else to save himself.

My thoughts are with you both.  I hope you are finding strength in each other, and strengthening each other in return.  All my love.

 

 

Tracy paused at the door, gathered her shopping bags into one hand and slipped the key into the lock.  "Just me, Alex."

He looked up when she came in.

"My treat tonight," she said, heading for the small desk and setting her package on it.  "I figure it's about time."  She turned to face him.  "Did you find out if you're father's gone?"

"Flight and passenger manifest checked out.  He's got a connecting flight once he hits Paris.  I'll check that out later, when he's gotten in."  A pause.  "I checked Scully's mom again.  Everything's according to schedule.  So far."  He paused and nodded toward her.  "What's in the bag?"

"You hungry?"

"Yeah." 

When she said no more he leaned forward, curious.

"I got some of that Chinese you had me get the first night you were here."  She blushed.

"You mean when I could hardly sit up long enough to eat it?  Do I want to remember?"  He shook his head.  "I could barely think, much less--"

"I know."  She came to the edge of the bed, hesitated a moment and sat down.  "You were afraid I was some trick of his, a spy."

"I didn't know you then."

"It seems like so long ago, like..."  She smoothed a hand across the section of blanket in front of her.  As if she'd been here forever, but at the same time as if it had only been a minute.  As if she blinked, the place would be gone, barely a memory.  She stared at the baseboards near the corner of the bathroom door and pressed her lips together.  In the hallway outside footsteps and voices approached--the little gray-haired woman who had the room next door to hers, and a friend--and then continued up the stairs.

"Hey."  He nudged her hand with the back of a finger.  "How about we eat before it gets cold?"

She looked up and nodded.  "I got that chicken stuff you like so well.  And some rice and vegetables.  Shrimp.  I think I went a little crazy.  You'll probably have leftovers for days."

She made herself smile and got up.  He brought bowls and spoons to the desk.  Their dishes full,  he pulled out the desk chair and sat.  She took the recliner and curled up sideways, her legs tucked under her.

"You never mentioned your father before," he said after a few bites.  "Until this morning."

"I don't think about him that much.  I don't remember him very well.  There are parts of my life, when I was little..."  She shook her head.  It had always been a blur, a fog.  "I just don't remember them.  I know we lived in California.  Pasadena, I think.  And then my father died, and after that my mom and I went to Uncle Nathan's.  He's very focused on what he's doing, Nathan is, trying to keep his little farm running without having it go under.  So he just put us out in the back valley, in this little house.  It was supposed to be a barn originally, so it's got that shape.  But it was only partly finished when we came so he just finished off the inside like a house.  I was eight, I think."  She looked into her bowl and took another bite.

"So what happened to him?  Your dad?"

"That's one of the things I don't remember.  It was sudden, I think.  He was... He worked at a university--Cal something-or-other.  An engineering school, my mom said.  But I hardly remember anything.  He was tall, and he was older than my mom, but..."  She shook her head.

"So you don't know what he did?"

 "Uh-uh.  I remember the front of a house, it was stucco and the living room window was arch-shaped.  I remember looking up at the window, lying on the lawn and looking up past the window to the sky."  She paused.  "He wore a tan sweater a lot of times.  And a bow tie."  Her fork sat poised above her bowl.

"So then you went to the farm..."

She nodded.  "Uncle Nathan doesn't know how to deal with emotional things.  He just doesn't.  And he had this barn half-built, but I think he put us out there, too, so he wouldn't have to deal with us--with my mom's loss--himself.  Things like that make him squirmy.  He just wants to get away."  She fished a shrimp from her bowl.  "But I loved it there, being able to be outside, have all that space, nature all around you.  It was so quiet."

"Not a lot of minds to listen to?"

She nodded.  "That, too."

He reached for a carton and scooped more rice into his bowl.

"Then after my mom died, Nathan just kind of... swooped me up and took me away to his place--his and Aunt Jean's.  They never had any kids and it was just too much, being away from my mom, and then all those kids at school.  They tried to put me in counseling but the counselors made me nervous.  And then people started to find out about me; I started to slip, and... Finally I couldn't stay anymore.  I just had to leave."

Krycek reached into the bag, took his hand out again and looked inside.  He tipped out soy sauce and hot mustard packets.  A single wrapped fortune cookie fell into his hand.

"Only one," he said, raising an eyebrow.  "Toss you for it."

 

 

To: Cranesbill@

From: DaddyW@

Glad you heard from Annie.  So many times she's played my ambassador to the organized world while I run around in circles watching for the sky to fall.  If you feel better doing this one solo, I trust your judgment, but get yourself a laptop so you've got that mail capability close at hand.  You're not going to want to be seen going to libraries to check your messages and I need to know you're okay.

According to our sources, L will be returning from out of the country on Saturday, so Friday's the big day for Annie's mom and you'll need to be gone then, too.  Be sure you have some cash on hand so he can't trace you through credit cards.  I'll check with some friends and see what can be done electronically about making your bank funds accessible without being able to trace them.

Had it confirmed more bluntly than I would have liked yesterday that Diana's working for L.  I don't know what the attraction can possibly be, how an intelligent person who seemed to have a commitment to investigation and truth can feel validated doing his dirty work.  I do think, though, that I may finally have stumbled onto something here.  I've got a hunch about this stronger than anything I've felt in a long time.  Trying to stick with it, to look at the evidence with an objective eye and not miss the forest for the trees.

Stay in touch and we'll do the same.  Good to know you're out there.

 

 

Krycek studied Tracy's profile in the silence, her darker outline contrasted against the day's final brightness beyond the window.  He'd had enough of sitting up and she'd pulled the desk chair up next to the bed and sat down there.  But she was miles away, and both of them seemed to have run out of things to say.

"You think we should let Mulder know the old man's away for sure?" 

She looked up, seemingly glad to have something to talk about.  "I don't know.  I'll think about it."

She moved slightly and their hands moved.  Until tonight they'd stuck religiously to the unwritten rule: only after he'd taken the painkillers.  Then there was an excuse to reach for her hand.  A reason for her to take his.  Now, though....  It had just happened, no forethought.  Habit.

Or maybe a lifeline.

"It might be too much," she said.  "Telling him.  It might make him suspicious, like why are you offering him so much?  He's wary anyway; he flares up about people manipulating him."  A pause.  "Why do they do it, Alex?  Use him like that?"

"He's a bellwether.  He's got a knack for digging things up, and when he does, they know they're too close for comfort--too close to being exposed.  Then they pull the rug out from under him and he goes right back and does the same thing all over again."  He raised his eyebrows.  "He never learns, never figures out they're using him as a pawn.  Makes him look like a fool, but..."  He paused.  "He's got guts, you know?  He doesn't care.  It never stops him, the fact that he looks like an ass to everybody else.  It takes guts to keep going like that."

"And his sister who they keep dangling in front of him?"  Her hand stopped rocking.  "She's your sister, too."

"I guess.  Yeah, she is--was--but she was nothing to me, a name.  She's his--Mulder's.  She's the light that keeps him going--the one you keep thinking you see at the end of the tunnel."  He shrugged.  "But you figure the two of them had to have had something--you know, Mulder and Samantha--for him to spend that kind of time looking for her.  Some kind of link.  Connection.  Has to be more to it than just Crazy Mulder off on his blind little crusade."

"What happened to her, Alex?"

He shrugged.  "Supposedly she's dead.  The old man has no proof, though.  He sent me out once, years ago, checking for child Jane Does in a dozen little two-bit towns near where he'd kept her.  She was a kid, thirteen or fourteen, something like that.  She ran away, so he says.  They all figured she couldn't have survived in the shape she was in.  Then there was this time later when he switched his story, said he knew where she was, that she was alive.  I don't know what he thought he was going to gain by telling me that." 

He stared at the ceiling.  "They took her, all right--they did.  But he had some kind of deal with them, got her back somehow.  Kept her on this air force base in California."  He rolled toward her.  "Told my mother he knew where she was but Samantha'd never be safe if she ever breathed a word to anyone."  He pushed out a breath.  "Then he used her as a lab rat.  Never came right out and said as much but I know the drill, the language; I've been around these people long enough.  Probably used her up, used her until..."  His voice trailed off and he shrugged.  "If she was stubborn like Mulder she would've done that: made a run for it, figured some way to get the hell out of there."

"If she was like you she would, too, Alex."

Her thumb moved against his fingers.  He looked away.  "Yeah, I guess."

It was getting dark.  Shadow filled the space around the bed, marred only by a small circle of light on the ceiling that came from the bedside lamp.  He could feel the blood pumping through his fingers between hers.  He held his hand still, unmoving.

"Thanks for everything you've done for me," she said finally into the quiet. 

He grunted in reply, sucked in a breath.  Let it out slowly.  "You should get to bed early, make sure you get enough sleep."

She nodded and started to move but he reached up, caught her shoulder and coaxed her head down against his chest.  She lay there quietly, her head below his chin.  After a moment he brushed the hair back from her face, leaving his hand behind her head. "Be careful out there." 

She nodded against him.  Her one arm was pressed too hard against the tenderness on his side but he'd live.  He watched her head rise and fall with his breathing.  "Go on," he said finally, giving her a nudge, "sleepyhead.  Get some rest.  You'll need it."

She sat up. "Good night, Alex." She caught his hand one last time, then stood and smoothed the wrinkles from her dress.

"Check in before you go," he said.

"I will."

He watched her leave, watched the door close behind her.  As if it were any other day, any other night.

The room settled into silence.  Eventually he reached for the phone.   Number 3, the speed dial for the hospital monitor.  It rang three times and a recording came on with the latest readouts.  Right on track, with a little variation here and there to make it look realistic.  He glanced at his watch.  Three hours at least--no, more like three and a half--before Ché would be able to verify the old man's connecting flight, and that was assuming no flight delays.  The old man could have faked it on the first flight--if he'd wanted to, if he had reason to throw him off.  But with the second confirmation he could relax.  A little, at least.

It was the one fundamental, the one assumption that no one ever seemed to question, like that line of crap about killing off Mulder and turning one man's religion into a crusade: that none of this would work without the old man as the lynch pin.  That without him everything would fall apart.

He looked down to where his hand rode his stomach.  Something cold passed through him, like snowy air.

 

 

To: thelark@

From: DaddyW@

Dear Lark--

Had a mail from my mother just now.  She suggested she might be better off doing her own thing without us knowing where she is so that if somehow Smoky finds one of us, he won't be able to pull out so much information about the others.  Thought I'd run it by you and get your input.

Was just realizing how many times you've run interference for me when it must seem to everyone else like I'm just off chasing my own ass.  It means a lot to me, though it's something I've probably never taken the time to mention.   As to the ear, thanks for the offer.  I don't think I'm ready  yet to talk this out with anyone, myself included.  Don't know if I ever will be.  I'm stuck at that point where my mind keeps asking why, knowing it needs to figure her out--profile her--so I can let it go.  Except that I'm not ready to open that door and face whatever's inside.  Hopefully I can put it on hold for a while without having it eat away at me, because it looks like we may be in for a rough ride here for a while.

My mother (the matchmaker, it seems) keeps adding in these little lines of advice in her mails and I guess they're things I've needed to hear.  I know I get wrapped up in my own agenda, but thanks for being there for me.  Don't know how I would have made it through the last few years if I'd been going it alone.  Every time the bottom was about to drop out--or did drop out--you were there, the one constant in my life.  Small thanks a little late, I know, but it's sincere.  If fate brought us together, then it's doing something right.

The heart's there with you even if the body isn't... though that would be nice, too.  Hopefully we can meet at some surreptitious location soon.  Ah, the charmed life of the pursued.

                                                                          -Yours through bad and worse,

                                                                                          the nightingale

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: thelark@

Dear Nightingale--

Good to hear your (virtual) voice for the second time this evening.  The balcony did seem a little empty tonight.  Okay, understatement.

Though I'd be concerned about your mom's plan, there may be some value to what she says.  If we're all too closely connected we risk falling over like dominoes.  Can she get a laptop of her own?  It would certainly help to be assured of having secure contact with her in the days ahead. 

S came up with an idea this afternoon that I've been thinking about.  She was talking about the old children's story of the three little pigs and how the smart pig, once he'd caught on to the wolf's intentions, kept going to the appointed locations (the apple tree, the turnip patch, the fair) an hour before he knew the wolf would arrive.  She asked if we couldn't somehow make it appear as if we were somewhere else.  What if our three friends could hack their way into motel and rental car records and make it appear as if we're working our way across another part of the country?  If he's watching that kind of information--and I can't believe he's not--then it could buy us some time and hopefully, with his focus on the 'real' targets, he might leave our families alone.  It might help for a while, anyway.  Let me know what you think.

I believe both of us needed space last night, and I probably still wouldn't be very pleasant company with my tendency to get up and check my mail every half-hour or so.  That said, however, I wish you were here.  I've been trying to write a diary to my mother, something to give her when we can finally get together, and when I look at the things I've said and how fantastical they must sound to someone who hasn't seen what we've seen... I know I came into the world of your ongoing investigations, but if it had been me who had experienced these strange things first, who but you would ever have believed me?

Wishing you a peaceful evening.

                                                                               -lark for a nightingale

 

 

If Samantha was like him she would have run.

There was a twist, and typically Tracy.  But she was Mulder's, not his--by common law connection if not full genetics. 

In the end the old man had used her even more than he'd used him.  She hadn't grown up in the harsh glory of the great Russian social experiment to be shaped into a tool.  Instead, he'd taken a young girl, one somebody obviously cared about, and torn her down piece by piece for cloning, for hybrid experiments... the exact end use didn't matter. 

His own flesh and blood.  He'd tried not to think of her that way.  What would be the point?  He hadn't thought about her at all until the old man had sent him out scouting for a death certificate, and even then she'd been nothing more than a name, another one of the old man's victims.  The clone girl: that had been his shadow-contact with her.  Even now, three years later, the memory of the clone would slip into his brain at the oddest times, something in her eyes begging for release from the body that was her prison.

Hopefully Tracy was asleep up there, getting some rest.  She'd need it.  As if she could actually be ready for what she'd find when she got home.  She was putting on a brave front, he had to give her credit for that: psyching herself up like a soldier before a battle, forcing away the images of what might actually happen.  But once she got there, when she was standing inside her house again...

When it got to her the way it had gotten to her in the woods, then what?

Krycek pulled the laptop toward him, pushed the power button and waited.  11:38.  She'd be asleep.  Or would she?  Things might be getting sticky for her already, but if so she wasn't likely to come down and seek him out.  She'd figure she shouldn't bother him.  She'd stay up there, in her room or maybe on the roof, and try to figure out how to deal with it.

He clicked on the mail program.  The modem dialed, warbled its greeting to the server and hooked up.  He waited, watching the lazy movement of a cobweb floating in the corner of the ceiling.  One message. 

To: topaz@

From: che774@

The buzzard has landed... and taken off again.  Congrats--you're home free for a while.  Later, dude.

Ché and his love affair with Americanisms.  He closed his eyes and lay back against the pillows.  A few days of safety.  A couple of days until all hell broke loose with Scully's mother; if they knew when the old man was coming back, they'd move her by Friday to be sure.  There'd be the search effort to coordinate but it would only be the initial stages, the throw-your-hands-up-and-check-all-the-usual-avenues shit and then the old man would be back to take over.  Hopefully Mulder's people would have thought their moves through and wouldn't leave a trail, or botch it at the hospital.  But it was up to them; it was their game.  It was up to them to make it work.

Krycek shut down the laptop and pushed it back against the wall.  If she was asleep, fine, but if not it was stupid to lie here rationalizing. 

He pulled up, slipped his feet into his shoes and stood.  The wound was just a big sore spot now, tender if he touched it, or stretched, or had to use the muscles too much.  But the worst was past.  It had been hell, though, for a while, and if he'd had to go through it alone, or with some stupid lackey of the old man's...

He checked his pocket for keys and went out into the hallway, locking the door behind him.  The stairs this time.  After burning out yesterday, most of his day had been spent in bed, but now it was time to move.  He started up, one foot and then the other coming up to meet it, smooth, not too much hesitation.  He was getting stronger after all.  At the top he paused and looked into the shadows at the end of the hall.  There was no number above her door. 

Most likely she was asleep.  Why wouldn't she be?  He went closer and knocked quietly.

"Alex?"

He sighed and shook his head.  Should've known.

 

 

To: thelark@

From: DaddyW@

Someone recruit that girl.  I really think she's got a lot of potential (as well as a lot of guts.  Or maybe it's just the kind of foolhardiness I can identify with.)  Seriously, though, she may be onto something.  I've mailed the LGM and am waiting for a reply.  If we can have an electronic trail in place by the time your mom disappears, it should buy us some valuable time.   Give the kid a gold star and remind her not to go falling into any more thorn bushes.  

 

 

"Come in..."

Krycek opened the door.  She'd forgotten to lock it again, or maybe she'd unlocked it knowing he was coming.  The room was dark.  She was sitting on the bed--far side, at the foot end--silhouetted faintly by dull street light from the window.  She faced the center of the bed, sitting cross-legged.

"Thought you might be awake."  He made his way around to the window side and sat down on the edge next to her.  "Can't sleep?"

"Just thinking, Alex.  Praying, sort of, I guess."

Footsteps in the hallway, then a door opening and closing.

"You believe in God?"

"I believe in something, Alex.  It's guided me too many times for me to think there's nothing there."  Wisps of hair hung in front of her cheek.  She was wearing his shirt, the gray thermal.  She rested her hands on her knees.  "I was just thinking about... everything that's happened here, all the good things.  I'm just trying to appreciate them, not miss them or take them for granted.  It's like not having them at all if you don't recognize them.  A kind of blindness." 

He watched her in the dull light: the set of her chin, the way the corner of her mouth would pull suddenly and then relax.  "What things?"

"This room.  It's been so nice having my own spot, my own space.  As if I were my own person and not somebody's burden."

"Nathan's?"

She nodded.

"Tracy, you're not--"  He shook his head. 

Her hand came out.  He took it.

"I like the window, and the roof patio," she said. "It's been such a good place."  Her fingers worked their way between his.  "And the restaurant, and Marisela, and her friend's store, and the little grocery where you can get everything in bulk, and all the places you've taken me in your mind, Alex--the castles and the places I'll never go."

"You could.  Tracy, you'd be surprised what you can do if you put your mind to it."

"Alex, you, most of all."  Her hand slipped away and then his face was being cupped--warm, careful hands on his cheeks, as if he were some object of great value.  "I've learned so many things from you, and you were here when I was lost..."  Her lips brushed his cheek, and then her arms were around him.  It wasn't so unlike that first night, him stranded beside the window, her appearing in the doorway like some miracle, then coming right up to him, her concern over his pain overriding the ear of him that anyone else would have felt. 

"Alex, I..."  A sigh he could feel.  "I'm sorry I can see everything inside you, that you don't have any private spaces left.  I don't know how to not see into you.  And I know what you've gone through to make me comfortable, that it hasn't been easy for you, and I wish I could..."  She shook her head.  "I'm not ready for that.  There are things inside me, things I've seen in men's minds for too long--"

"Hey."  He straightened and tipped her chin with a finger.  "Tracy, you don't owe me anything.  You can want a lot of things, but needs... needs are things you're going to die without.  I'm not dying."  He sat back.  "Anyway, you've given me something nobody does.  You gave me your trust.  And you gave me who you really are, no games, no demands.  No bullshit."

The corner of her mouth quivered.  She tried to smile it away.

"Hey." He reached out and gathered her in against him.  She curled down against his shoulder and held on hard.  For a while there was only quiet and the come-again, go-again warm spot of her breath against his shoulder.

"Alex, I'm not ready to go.  I do think I'm supposed to make this trip.  I think I'm supposed to do it now but I don't feel that feeling, like I'm ready for what may come." 

She let her breath out slowly.  He rested his cheek against her head.  She was shaking slightly.  His hand traced a circle over her shoulder.  Let it go, nena.

He took a careful breath.  Maybe he didn't feel it either, that ready feeling.  Maybe that made two of them.  The room was suddenly silent, apart from the pounding of his heart. 

"Do you want me to come?"

"But Alex--"

"Don't make excuses for me."  Lips against her hair.

The subtle sag-and-expand of breathing, quiet pressure where an arm wrapped around his side. 

"If you can."

"That a yes?"

She nodded against him.

"Then I'll come."

He let himself breathe, cheek against that smooth hair, everything about her close and warm and alive, not the way it would be in a few more days.  In the hallway a door closed.  Footsteps faded toward the stairwell and disappeared, going down.

"The old man in #32," she said.  "His son came to visit him.  Sometimes they argue but it was okay this time."

Not even possible to imagine what she had to live with.

"Come on," he said, nudging her with his nose.  "It's late.  How about we go upstairs for a couple of minutes, clear our heads and then you get back in here and get some sleep?"

"You're sure you can get away?"

He stared at a streak of light on the window sill and swallowed.  In his mind the old man watched, a frown of warning on his face.  Krycek raised a non-existent hand to the back of her head as if to shield her and looked up into the darkness beyond the window.  He let his breath out slowly. "We'll make it somehow."  

 

 

To: thelark@

From: DaddyW@

Just hanging out here in the darkened orchard in case you happen appear on the balcony.  Think Juliet checked her e-mail in the middle of the night?  Hope whatever news you get is good news.  If wishes were wings, you know I'd be there.

                                                                                  -the nightingale  

 

 

"Ready?"  He nudged her with his nose. 

No response.  He waited.

"I just... it's so comfortable."

Comfortable or something beyond comfortable? 

Her head came up.  She sat back and pushed the hair away from her face.  "Sorry, Alex.  I was being silly."  Her knees came up and she stretched her legs out in front of her.

Silly?  Wrong call.  There were words for it, though probably not any she was ready for.  Don't hide from yourself, Tracy.  

He stood up and gave her room.  She got off the bed but remained in front of him, glancing down first at the shadowed carpet and then past him at the wall, the corners of her mouth pulling and then being consciously straightened again, her fingers--those thin, confident fingers--curling and then opening, wanting something they couldn't have, or were afraid to touch.

"I'm not even dressed," she said finally.  She glanced down at her shirt--his shirt.  Down at the thermal pants below it.

He shrugged.  "Who's going to see?"

She looked away, toward the closet, then the window.  He held out his hand.  She took it, careful, as if it were a different hand suddenly, one she didn't know.

It's okay, Tracy.  It's okay to want something.  It's not selfish or bad.  Or wrong. 

Not you.

Don't hide.

She blushed and looked up at him.  He could feel the corners of his mouth pull, just a hint of a smile starting, then she was a step closer, nervous, fingers reaching, her hands on his sides, careful and tentative as if she'd never had them there before, then slipping warm around his waist, bodies meeting--sudden current--then cheeks, then lips: a touch, a pause and contact again.  Just a little kiss, Tracy.  Not so much.  The world's still turning.

A little thing. 

Or maybe not so small.

"Come on."  He nodded toward the roof.

A quiet smile spread across her face.  She took his hand and they went around the bed, to the door, out into the hallway.  She stopped and squinted against the sudden brightness and they started up, Tracy by the railing this time, a solid grip between them, neither one about to let go in order to switch positions.  It felt weird being on this side.  Same stairs as always, but they seemed different now. 

Just walk.  Don't think too far. 

The landing.  They paused a moment and then moved ahead, past the light that spread like a yellow mat across the doorway, and settled against the wall, their old familiar spot.  But it was straight shot from here to the doorway.  Anybody who came up could see. 

Come.  He tugged slightly at her hand and they drifted to the right, into the safety of deep shadow.  At the corner he turned and leaned back into the corner of the wall.  It was instinct, the safe position where you could always see what was coming at you.  But it was her this time, no enemy. 

Except that their rhythm seemed to have vanished momentarily.  He stood stranded, feeling the awkward slowness of passing seconds.  A squeeze against his hand--she was just as stuck as he was--and he gathered her in.  Hands on his sides again, as if she'd touched bare skin, bodies pulling to each other and cheeks again, and corners of mouths, her breath... Contact--careful, like everything else she did--and current.  A little reaching, a little wetness, her body drawing to him, no disguising it now.  Her head, finally, pressed against his shoulder, her arms hard around him. 

He brushed his lips against her hair, stared out at the skyline and attempted to force away the sudden heat, the sound of her quickened breathing against him.

What timing.

You okay?  Tracy?

Some timing. 

When he glanced down she was smiling.  She nodded. 

It was a blip. 

Or not a blip. 

Well, it would have to be for now.  There were a dozen things to do, a trip to make and he needed to keep his guard up because often were careless and dead the same thing?  How many times had he seen it?  He let the view beyond the wall go out of focus and closed his eyes momentarily.  They should go.  Now, before either or both of them lost the will.

Count of three: one, two... bodies resisting the separation like magnets... three.  They stepped back, just a little, as if they'd practiced the move a dozen times.  Teamwork. 

Hands together, they headed back toward the doorway.  She glanced up and paused.  "Alex, look."  She pointed to where a wisp of cloud was brush-stroked across the high blackness, flecks of cold fire behind it.  He couldn't look at the night sky without feeling his gut tighten, but the world was her art gallery.  She saw value in the craziest things.  In a weedy garden.  In him.

"Come on," he said.

They passed into the glare of the stairway bulbs and started down, one step, two steps, familiar, measured.  At the door she stopped.              

Tomorrow, he said without bothering to speak it.

She nodded and squeezed against his fingers, then opened the door and went inside.  The door closed behind her.  When he heard the lock turn, he started for the stairs. 

She'd sleep in his shirt, the fabric against her as if it were him.  Which would be like her: something careful, safe.  Him in absentia. 

He could almost taste her still.  That beautiful mouth.

Chapter 16

Thursday

 

We'll make it somehow.

He'd actually said the words, a promise uttered a million times before by other desperate men trying to reassure wives or lovers or children--men in the middle of war or poverty, refugees, the hopeful.  Or those desperately wanting to buy hope, as if hope were something you could buy with words.

It would be harder from now on to be watchful, to keep their heads on straight. And the odds of pulling off this trip?  The odds were always changing. The factors around you were constantly changing. Life was never static.

Krycek rolled and looked at the softly glowing numbers on the alarm clock. 2:39.  He should have been asleep a good hour ago.

He closed his eyes, breathed out slowly, paused... then opened them again and pulled up. The leaves in the narrow window glowed dimly, lit by the streetlight beyond.

Three hours driving, she'd said. Three hours one way, and to what? It scared her more than she could handle thinking about, the part about her mother, and that's what she was going back to face. Not the house or her uncle or even her childhood but what she'd done.  Or thought she hadn't.

She had guts; she was willing. But she'd need backup, something that would've been a lot easier to define yesterday than it was now, after last night. Her reaction could easily have meant nothing; kisses were cheap currency. But not from her. Somebody had hurt her; that much was obvious from her caution.  Maybe whoever had gotten her pregnant. But she'd wanted the kiss--had wanted him.  Wanted enough to reach past the defenses she'd built to protect herself. It would be too damn easy now to slip, to make some small, unthinking move that might send her running, scared and hurt. It would be no way to end this.

He closed his eyes but they opened again. He let his head fall back, sighed and eased himself to the edge of the bed, resigned to his insomnia.  From the small desk he could see lights dotting the darkness beyond the window. The city never slept, some lights winking off just as others went on, the way life was a series of crises, a new one hitting before the last had quite passed.

Friday would be the target day, and when Scully's mother disappeared there'd be no cutting Mulder and whoever might be helping him any slack. Hopefully Skinner would have the sense to keep his nose out of it; he should be able to put two and two together and anyway, he should know by now that if he got caught helping Mulder and Scully, the old man's patience would be gone. No getting off with just another planted baggie if it happened again. Hopefully Mulder would keep his eye on the details, things like watching his source of oxygen--the old man had mentioned that she was on oxygen--so there wouldn't be a convenient paper trail, a new account with some supplier that could be easily traced.

He turned and went to the refrigerator and opened it: three boxes of Chinese. They'd sit here, now, until the trip was over. He closed the door and returned to sit on the edge of the bed.

His mother would be leaving home. Mulder would have her tucked away someplace out of reach before they made their move at the hospital. Maybe even with him and Scully, which would be bad news. What kind of chance would he have of getting through to his mother with Mulder running interference?

Most likely she wasn't gone yet, though, which meant there was one last clear shot at contacting her. The morning would have to be it, and he'd have to have something to say, be able to do more than just stand there beside the phone tongue-tied the way he'd been in her kitchen, looking at her after thirty-odd years as if it were all a dream, slow-motion and strange, seeing her at the table, thirty years of whatever'd been inside her leaking out around the edges of her shock. She might as well have seen a ghost. He might as well have been dead all this time.

He stood again. Whatever he was going to say, he'd better have it ready. But any more of this and Tracy would be awake and listening to his static.  She needed the sleep.

He looked toward the narrow window and then approached it. Warm air filtered through the open vent above the air conditioner, not uncomfortable but not cool, either. Well, things would heat up soon enough. He looked down at the darkened unit, then ran a finger across the window sill. He'd left the snapshot on her kitchen table, lying there like an accusation. Still, she'd let him stay. No telling what she thought of him. She'd have no reason to think he'd have turned out as anything other than a carbon copy of the old man. And then there'd be whatever Mulder had told her. Couldn't count on any support there.

Krycek turned and headed for the bathroom.

 

 

The mattress sagged beside her.

"Hey, Scully..."

His words were quiet in the silence. She opened her eyes. Mulder leaned over her, smiling, a blue-and-green Beeson-Lymon baseball cap on his head.

"Muld--" She pushed up on one elbow and squinted into the morning brightness. She blinked. "Mulder, what time is it?"

"About five minutes 'til I have to leave." He glanced at his watch. "6:40. I think Dale's checking up on James Bond Jr. there." He nodded in the direction of the house. "Came up with a fifty-pound bag of alfalfa pellets. Do I smell like it?"

She leaned closer and sniffed at his shirt. "As a matter of fact, you do." She smiled at the face he made. "It's okay, Mulder. I've always liked the smell of alfalfa. It smells like... feed stores."

"And how much time have you spent hanging around feed stores, Ms. Scully?"

"We had rabbits when we were kids. Rabbit feed is mostly alfalfa."

She rested her head on his leg and closed her eyes. Morning. Readouts to check. The Gunmen would be working on a plan to move her mother. She'd e-mail her mother's doctor. Mulder's mother...

A warm hand smoothed past her forehead. "How you doing?"

She reached for the hand and tucked it beside her cheek. "I got your mail in the night."

"How many times were you up?"

"Just the once, just--" She slipped her fingers between his. "I woke up several times but I only checked my mail once."

"How's your mother?"

"About the same. From what they tell me." She rolled to the side and sat up. "Mulder, I hope they're telling me the truth."

"Scully, what--? The Gunmen wouldn't lie to you."

"Not even if they thought it would make me feel better? Not even to pad the truth if things were"--she paused and swallowed carefully--"life-threatening?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Are we doing the right thing, Mulder? Am I? Staying here?"

"Scully, you said it yourself the other day. This is Smoky's script. If you were to go, he'd be the only winner. It wouldn't help your mom."

"I know. I know that. But what if--" She looked away, toward the bathroom door.

"What if you missed her the way you missed Melissa?"

She looked at the bright gap below the door and nodded. The room was quiet.  Dust particles danced slowly in a small shaft of early morning light.

"Scully, when--" He inched closer. "When I was in the desert, in the rock quarry... When I almost...when I did. I did. I was gone and on that bridge." A finger traced the back of her hand. "You weren't there. But I still knew you cared about me. I knew it from what you'd done before, the way you put up with me, the way you never agreed with Blevins and his cronies that I was full of shit. The way you hauled me halfway across the country to see Albert Hosteen and took care of me.

"The way I shot you." She turned back to him, the hint of a smile on her face.

He smiled. "Yeah. That, too."

"What have I given her, Mulder, aside from--?"

His finger went against her lips. "Don't go there, Scully. You came out of that shopping mall a couple of weeks ago and what did you say? All she wanted was you."

"But that's just it. I'm not there for her, Mulder."

"Scully, if it were you in that hospital bed and Smoky was waiting to catch Emily the minute she showed up at your bedside, would you want her to come? Would you think she didn't love you if she didn't?"

Her lips pressed hard together. She closed her eyes. Cold air wrapped around her, then his arm was behind her, hand on her far shoulder, easing her against him. She breathed in alfalfa and after shave and slipped her arms around his waist.

"What about your mother, Mulder?"

"Yeah, I guess I'm worried about her. But she knows how Smoky thinks. I've got to trust her, got to--" A sigh escaped him. "I think she'll do okay, and we'll be able to keep in touch, and... Yeah, it's hard. I know it is. I'm not saying it isn't."

He sighed. She rode the subtle rhythm of his breathing.

"How are you doing, Mulder?"

"I'm... I'm still here. I..." Pause. Long pause. "I do think I may be onto something at the plant, with Angie."

She looked up at him.

He glanced away, out the window, and shook his head. "I still can't go there, Scully. I mean, you think you have something private, something strictly between two people, and then to find out you're just a... a report on somebody's desk..." He bit his lip.

She closed her eyes and rested her head against his shirt. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I didn't mean to pry."

"I know. I know you didn't. I just... When I get to this point I just try to think, what if I was going it alone, out there all by myself? Out there." He half-laughed. "And then I realize I'm not, and that's..." His arm tightened around her.

"Rita said something in a mail yesterday," she began, "about how we can go on and on if we think there's hope, but if we don't see it we weaken and fail even though resolution may be right around the corner." She looked up at him. "Maybe we're closer than we know, Mulder."

He nodded. He was still looking out the window.

"I have this feeling," he said quietly. "About this angle with Angie and her kids."

 

 

Tracy slipped one section of hair under the other and carefully reached for a third held by her little finger. Looking into the mirror, she frowned. It was far from perfect. There were thin strands of stray hair at the sides but it had seemed the thing to do this morning, something different in honor of the trip home. A girl at the high school in Elleryville had taught her to French braid, though what showed in the mirror was a far cry from the girl's picture-perfect creations. But it would do. It would be cool and practical.

She gathered the last ends together, wound a band around them and refocused on her packing.  From the door to the bathroom she could see a small cluster of items on the counter: shower gel--her one luxury--shampoo, toothpaste, a comb and two hair bands, the kind that didn't pull your hair out, small luxuries that had replaced the old newspaper rubber bands from the alley. Everything gathered and ready to go.  She turned and went back to the bedroom but drifted, unthinking, to the mirror over the dresser and leaned closer. She had child eyebrows, darker than her hair, a small detail that had never mattered before and shouldn't now.  They were, after all, just another part of her body and what was a body but a package, a container for the essential parts of who you were? 

Alex was right, though. It had been growing for a while now, this thing she was starting to feel. And then last night, the overwhelming need to touch and hold, to leave no distance between them.

Just a little kiss, he'd said.

It was and it wasn't. The first one had been. But the second had been overwhelming, a call her whole body had answered.

The backpack.

She turned and picked it up. It was worn now, faded to a reddish pink. Life in a bag: everything essential for someone on the move. There wasn't much to take this time, though. The white dress was hanging in the closet, clean, and they'd only be gone today; tonight they'd be back again. She shouldered the pack and went to the door, then paused and turned around. There was a strange feel to the room, a hollowness, as if her spirit had already abandoned it. It was the feeling she'd gotten in the little house in the valley when Nathan had rushed her out.  She'd intended to come back later, in a few days or a week, though Nathan had had other ideas. In the end, though, people were the constant. Once they were gone your surroundings mattered very little.

And when the constant between two people changed? Her hands came together without thinking, one pressing the other. She made herself push the little lock button on the door and pull it closed. There was a small, definitive click. She let go quickly and started down the stairs. It was late and Alex had overslept.

When she opened the door he was lying on his side, his back to the wall, still asleep. She set the pack down beside the door and watched him, his side rising slightly and then falling, his mouth slightly open. A stark line divided smooth cheek from stubble, one a finger could itch to trace. She glanced at the clock and made herself go forward.

"Alex..."  She sat carefully on the edge of the bed. He stirred, his hand coming out automatically. She took it and felt his fingers close around hers, warm and familiar, and let go the breath that had caught inside her.  "Alex, it's getting late."

His eyes opened suddenly and he pushed up on his elbow. A momentary jolt of adrenaline, a blink, and he lay back against the pillow and looked up at her. His thumb traced the side of her hand. After a moment he raised his eyebrows. "Nice hair."

She shrugged. "Not so great but it'll do."

"No, it looks good." He gave her an approving nod, then stared up at the ceiling, blinked again and sighed. "I have to call her. Got to do it this morning, before she's gone. Mulder will have her away for sure by tomorrow sometime.  This'll be my only chance."

"You were awake in the night, weren't you?"

He frowned. "I woke you up again?"

"No. But you slept so late."

His jaw set. What would he to do in another week, on his own,  if he couldn't get up to speed?

"I'm all ready," she said.  "My things are by the door. I'll go find something to do for a few minutes."

She started to stand but his fingers tightened around hers. She flushed, then looked back at him.

"Look, there's a lot to do now," he started.  "Both of us have plenty on our minds and it can be real easy to end up..." Snapping, the way he'd done in the car in the woods. "Let's not lose track of each other in all this, okay?  And"--he tugged gently and brought her down against him--"no guessing. We keep our cards on the table.  Or I guess that's you; I'm the open book," he added ruefully.  It was an uneven playing field and this game would never work with one player handicapped. There had to be teamwork, because it was them against life, against chance. Two against whatever might happen.

She looked toward the window above the small desk and nodded. "I will, Alex."

"Then"--his voice came closer, quiet, nuzzling her neck--"look at me. Don't hide."

Sudden heat flushed her face but she turned. His mouth came closer until their lips met, a brief warmth.

"See?" he said, pulling back, subtle mischief in his eye. "Even happens in the daylight and the world doesn't come crashing down."

She smiled in spite of herself. A nudge and he was lifting, easing her up.

"Give me five, okay?" he said.

"I'll be up on the roof. Let me know when you're ready."

Tracy went out and closed the door behind her. Her heart was beating fast, a strange rhythm, urgent but not unpleasant.  But there was much to do, as Alex had said, and they needed to focus on getting it done.  She made herself step up and then up again. Nathan wouldn't have gone back, not in all this time. The house would be just as it had always been, the way it had been that day. Only hours now they'd be there.

Tracy looked up. She'd stopped on the third stair, hand tight against the rail.  She willed it to relax and made herself step up.

 

 

"Obviously we'll have to make that substitution, but as far as a mode of transportation"--Byers shook his head--"we're at a complete loss. Any kind of vehicle leaving the hospital is going to be suspect: delivery trucks, paramedic vans. They'll trace every license plate they can identify from their surveillance tapes."

"You can have them change plates after a few blocks," Will said from where he lay in the shadows. Or switch vehicles if that's not too hard on her."

Byers’ face tightened. "Rani's concerned. He knows this has to be, but her age has made this a harder battle for her than it is for you. Though he is starting to see some improvement. Still."

Will studied the ceiling, deliberately avoiding the bright splashes of incoming light that made his eyes ache. "And your final destination?"

"Still under consideration. Any conventional nursing home or care facility will be checked, which leaves something private--hiring someone, and that means either someone from a hospital, who, coincidently, might prove to be someone already on the Cancer Man's payroll."

"Outside chance," Will said.

"Very outside chance." Byers nodded. "But a possibility. Surely someone whose hospital hours suddenly go down will be suspect. Or someone from an agency, but agencies will undoubtedly be checked, too." He sat back--sagged back--in his chair.

The room was quiet. A robin landed on the ledge outside the window and then abruptly flew off.

"Will--"

Wilkins turned toward the light and squinted at Rita.

"You look like you've got something running through your head," she said, smiling. "Some kind of useful mischief."

"How about a little hiding in plain sight?" he said, a hint of life in his eyes.

"What do you mean?" Byers said, pulling forward in his chair.

"I mean put her in a nursing facility where they wouldn't think to look."

"But they'll look everywhere."

"They'll look everywhere they think to look." He glanced at Rita. She had that gleam in her eye; she was catching on.

"Why not tuck her away in a minority community?" he said.

Byers appeared suddenly nonplussed. "But... wouldn't she be rather obvious, the subject of probable conversation?"

"If you pick the right place--and if they were to know it was a kind of underground railroad type of thing--my guess is you'd find some pretty tight lips. Nothing motivates people like a cause."

Byers sat back and considered.

"Would you have thought of it if you were the one searching for her, John?" Rita asked. "I'm ashamed to confess I wouldn't have."

"No, nor I." Byers seemed to color slightly. "You may have something here. Do you have any contacts?"

"Give me a little phone time," Wilkins said. "I'll see what I can dig up."

 

 

Tracy counted the buildings from the corner, glanced into the rear view mirror--clear, thankfully--and double-parked beside a faded yellow sedan, a former taxi. Alex was waiting between two cars. It was warm but he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt--pale blue--to hide the prosthesis, the arm that felt nothing. He moved quickly to the back when she approached, unlocked the trunk and put a paper shopping bag inside, then closed it and came around to the passenger door. He was on alert, watching everything, tense in a way he hadn't been for weeks.

The door swung open. He got in, closed it and leaned back against the headrest. "Go." She could feel the knot in his stomach.

She checked the rear view mirror and moved back into the lane. He reached for his seat belt and buckled it. Left at the corner--that was what he'd told her. She signaled and prepared to turn. Maybe a mile or two--a couple of miles--and they'd pull over, find a pay phone and make the call. He was staring out the window, lost in multiple versions of his mother's possible response.

"Good thing you worked that window open in the laundry room," he said now, an eyebrow raised in approval.

"I was afraid the old woman might see you crossing her yard."

"If she did, she didn't come out and chase me off."

Something loosened inside her, a release of tension. "Yeah," she said, and smiled.

 

 

Joe tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder and reached for the clipboard on the far corner of the desk.

"Where'd you take off to so early, Raylene?"

Doughnuts. She'd gotten a sudden craving for doughnuts. Go figure.

"And that explains why you never came back? Why I woke up at 7:22 alone and nearly missed my prep meeting?"

Long story, she was saying. Coming from her, it was bound to be. She'd been on her way to Daily's for the doughnuts, French if she could get there early enough--the French never lasted very long, as if he needed to know that detail--when she saw his truck--Dale Lanier's--and the other guy was in it, Ben, the one she'd seen coming down her daughter's front steps last Sunday. They were headed that direction, out to the hill road, and it got her curiosity up.

"Doesn't take much, does it?" He started to scrawl in the margin of the assignment sheet. The pencil lead snapped and he clicked the advance.

So of course she followed the truck. At a distance.

"Raylene, do you know what you're saying here? You have any idea how you're--?" Ooh, now her dander was rising now.

The pencil was empty. He tossed it toward the trash can and leaned away from the desk to pull the drawer out and search for another.

She'd followed them all the way up to Barker's place and when they'd pulled in she'd looped around on the road, gone a little farther and stopped to consider her 'plan'. Plan. Then she'd parked on the uphill side of the slope, where nobody from above would be able to see the car.

"You did what? You know anybody coming down that road from farther up the way--Williamses or Folgers. Raylene, they'd know your car the minute they saw it. They'd know it was you. And you were what--crawling up through the bushes like Rambo?"

A sudden squawking came from the receiver. It slipped as he reached into the back of the drawer. He eyed the phone's base sitting temptingly within reach, but tucked the phone back against his ear with a sigh.

"I was too listening--"

So she hadn't been crawling up through the bushes after all--she'd never do that, Joe--it was a trail she took, a deer trail or something and she'd gone up a little ways and was standing there beside a tree, wondering just what'd gotten into her to make her do this--after all, what if somebody saw her? What would she say?

"That's my question, Raylene. What would you have told Barker if he'd been there? That you were looking for French doughnuts and took a wrong turn somewhere after the maple bars?"

More squawking.

Then had come the payoff. The barn had been off to one side at a distance--he knew where that part of the road was, right?--and then all of a sudden here comes his janitor around the corner of the barn, casual as you please.  He goes down and stops at the old trailer behind it, peers in the front window and then goes back and opens the door carefully, like he was sneaking around, and slips inside.

"And?"

He wasn't in there more than five or six minutes when Dale comes down, knocks and goes back up the trail. And then lover boy comes out again.

"Lover boy?"

There was a woman inside, someone she hadn't seen before--short, red-haired--because she came to the door with him and when he started down the stairs he turned around all of a sudden and kissed her, like he meant it--that had to be a hint--like he really meant it, Joe--and then he goes off up the trail again and he and Dale drive back into town.

"So he's a little slicker than I figured at first," he said, chuckling to himself.

Joe. Joe.

"Who cares what the hell he's doing there, Raylene? He's got a woman, don't you get it? A woman; he's a guy. Big deal. Big frickin' deal."

She was rumbling now, Mt. Raylene about to blow; he knew the drill. One, two...

He smiled. The line went dead right on schedule. He took the phone, dropped it onto the base and reached into the drawer, pushing papers, fingers searching for a new pencil.

 

 

"There." Alex pointed to a spot between a used car dealer and a fast food place--not a chain store but an old hamburger stand.

Phone booth. Tracy pulled over smoothly and came to a stop. After a moment she turned the engine off. Alex's head was back against the head rest; his eyes were closed.  He was on-the-street Alex now.  It was a part of him she realized she knew little about.

"Do you want me to take a walk around the block or something, give you some breathing room?" she offered.

He opened his eyes and turned to look at her. He said nothing but shook his head and fixed her with his eyes, a connection he knew better than to make by reaching out to her. Not here. Not now.

He looked away briefly. "Maybe you can help"--he cleared his throat--"with a little objectivity." 

He'd frozen up the last time he'd dealt with his mother; he couldn't afford that now.  "Could you... could you see--tell--how she's taking it if I were talking to her? The last time... guess I wasn't thinking too clearly." His lips pressed together and he chuffed out a breath.  She watched his Adam's apple dip.

"I might be able to. I'll try. If you want me to."

He was looking beyond the windshield, staring. "Thanks."

He reached for the door handle. After a second he pulled it and got out. She watched him walk to the phone booth and hesitate, glancing back at her. Then he went in and took the phone off the hook, letting it dangle while he fished in his pocket for change. She closed her eyes and cleared her mind, preparing to listen.

 

 

Teena took the rose-framed picture from her suitcase.  It fit awkwardly at best, and she could be home again in a week. 

Or she might never return.

If only Fox and Dana could find some way to destroy Leland, some evidence that would send him running, something personal that might inflame his colleagues and turn them against him.

Bill hadn't been able to do it. For as much as he'd come to hate Leland it was an impotent hatred, nursed and cooled in drink. Fox was more determined, sometimes dangerously so, but his mind was clear and there was a tenacity about him that would serve him well now. Still, if she left the picture she might never see it again--a smiling Samantha in a yellow spring dress, a straw hat on her head. She had the tentative beginnings of growing up, an intangible touch of what she might become. Might have become. Teena set the picture on top of the suitcase again, fingers lingering on the frame.

Beside the bed, the phone rang.

Teena hurried to the bedside table. Something strange inside her--an air bubble or a skipped heartbeat. Fox wouldn't phone her here. Not now.

"Hello?"

No voice replied.

"Hello?" Her heartbeat raced. "Hel--"

"I need to talk to you." The voice was clipped, dry.

"Who is th--?"  But she could picture him already, leaning against the counter, taut, his eyes dark and piercing.

"Could you"--the voice came again--"go to a pay phone and call this number?" A pause. "You have something to write it down on?"

"Y-yes." She reached into the drawer, fingers fumbling awkwardly with the pen. Her blood pounded. "Go ahead."

"(202) 555-4386." A crackle of static. "Can you do it now? It's important and I don't have much time."

She felt herself swallow.  The room tipped slightly. Someone could be listening--Leland's men. "Yes, certainly. Thank you"--a flush of heat--"Raymond. I've been anxious to... to see that painting. It matches one I have in my living room."

"I... know what I told you before."

"I'll be... very interested in seeing it. Thank you for calling.  In about ten minutes?"

"Okay. Yeah." He seemed scared, or nervous.

She hung up the phone and sank down onto the edge of the bed. Her legs trembled slightly.

What could he possibly want? 

And if it were a trap?

 

 

Krycek opened the folding door to find Tracy right outside the booth. He nearly fell into her arms.

"Around back," he said, nodding, and led the way to the rear of the closed-down hamburger stand. Place looked like it had been vacant for quite a while. Thirty feet: he hadn't gone much farther than that but he was winded, as if he'd been chased for a mile. He peered around the corner cautiously--all clear--and slipped into the shadows behind the building. Tracy followed close behind.

He leaned back against the peeling paint of the building's rear wall and looked at her. "Did you get anything? Was that"--he made himself breathe--"what I thought it was?"

"She was covering for you, Alex." Triumph filled her eyes. "That Raymond thing. She was afraid they might be listening."

He let out another long breath, closed his eyes and slumped slightly.

"She'll call back, Alex. I think you can count on her."

He squinted up at the sky: clouds, a few gray-white drifting masses against the hazy brightness. Too familiar, places like this: alleys, around corners, behind buildings, waiting for a cue or a contact, for someone to find him, ally or foe. Life as a series of falling dominoes, run or get crushed in the fall, nothing around you stable.

Well, maybe one thing.

She squinted at him from two steps away, her face in the sunlight beyond the building's shadow, stray hairs shining gold in the bright light. She seemed older today. Not old--grown up. He held out his hand and brought her a step closer... and then closer was the two of them wrapped around each other, his breathing still hard, swaying them both. Not a dream, or a nightmare. Both of them here and so far, so good.

So far.

He closed his eyes and felt the print of her body against him. Stillness. Then the arms around his waist retreating.

"Should I move the car, Alex?"

She stepped back slightly. He made himself let go.

"Yeah." He nodded. "Take it around the block, pull it in here. We'll change the plates. I've got more in the trunk."

"Always prepared," she said, starting to turn. She smiled suddenly.

"What?"

"Be prepared, like the Boy Scouts." She grinned. "Bet you were never one of those."

Half a scowl was all he could manage before his serious expression broke.  "Once around the block."

 

 

"Ooh, it's another one, Annie--another picture."

Sandy sat watching the little bar on the bottom of the screen, waiting for the picture to load. Now it began, at the top, a horizontal line gradually spreading downward like a window shade unrolling: blue sky, then rolling hills in fading green spread with blankets of orange and yellow flowers.

"Must be California," Annie said, looking over from where she sat on the bed. "The hills are drying out."

"He said he was there. Te-ha-chapi... however you pronounce it. It's really pretty. Have you ever been there, Annie?"

"California?"

Sandy nodded.

"Yes. Parts of it. Usually the cities, though--places near the ocean."

"I wish I could go.  You know, see different places. I love it here. I've always lived here so I guess that makes sense." She paused. "Maybe I just never saw myself anywhere else. But I'd love to at least see--you know, what some of these other places are like... You there, Annie?"

Annie was staring out the window, a faraway look on her face. She turned abruptly.

"Yes, I just... Ben came up this morning, just for a few minutes--came up with Dale and a sack of feed." She smoothed a hand over the leg of her shorts. "And I just realized I never even asked how he was until right before he left. I was so wrapped up in my own worries."

"You know he loves you, Annie. He really does. It shows. He's going to understand what you're going through. That's why he came up to check on you."

Annie nodded. "I know." She looked down at the bedspread. "He even sent me an e-mail in the middle of the night." A small smile. "He knew I'd be up checking my mother's readouts." Her lips pressed together, then relaxed gradually. She looked up. "How about you, Sandy? How are you doing? Feeling any better this morning?"

"So-so. Kinda..." She turned away, to the screen first, but the picture went out of focus, and then to the kitchen window. She bit her lip. Sunlight flickered off tree leaves outside. Finally the mattress creaked softly. Annie stood and approached her chair.

"Sandy, you know what it might be, don't you?  What one of the possibilities is?"

She closed her eyes. "I know. It hit me yesterday. I just... I'm so scared, Annie. Scared to even think about it. I keep thinking, what if it's not true?"

She let out a sigh. Annie's hand smoothed over her shoulder, reassuring.

"Annie, it'd be so--" Pressure in her throat, in her chest.

"I know."

"More than I could ever ask. Something I never figured on."

A careful hand smoothed through her hair. She let her head fall against Annie's middle.

"When you're ready," Annie said, "the tests are easy enough to get. You can bring it up here to do it. If you want to. If you need the moral support."

Sandy nodded. "I just... I never in a million years thought--considered... And then when you think about it, when you realize..." A sigh shook her. "You're afraid to find out for sure, like it was something you were already holding in your hand that somebody might steal away and how can you let that happen, let somebody take it all away from you again?"

The hand against her shoulder squeezed gently. "Maybe it's not something being taken away, Sandy. Maybe it's something you're being given."

 

 

"Up a little. A little more."

Tracy moved the license plate--Delaware plate--up slightly.

"Yeah. Good."

She watched as he worked the screwdriver, pressing in with the heel of his hand--carefully, just enough--while his fingers turned the handle.

"Do you want me to do it, Alex? I can--"

A shake of his head. It was a focus he needed--the screwdriver tip in the slot, the pressure, the balance--while he waited for his mother to call back. Or not call. Up and doing, planning, waiting for something to happen: this was his normal life, full of tension and the need to find ways to defuse it.

He finished and stood, nodded toward the front of the car and picked the other plate from the open trunk. The screws on the front plate were stuck, crusted with rust. He handed her the screwdriver and watched as she undid them.

"Still don't know what I'm going to say to her," his voice came from behind her and drifted into silence. He was looking away now, over the back fence to the auto repair shop behind it.

"Just tell her the truth, Alex."

He shook his head. His life had been one calculated impression--or a series of them--designed to get him to a goal, like a heat-seeking missile. Truth, he'd found, was often non-existent, a pipe dream, and straightforwardness was dangerous, a gamble at best.

"I didn't mean to sound..." She sighed. "But she wants to know you're... part of her, Alex. Part of what was her once. That she's someone you can trust."

He nodded slightly and took the screwdriver she held out. He squatted down while she held the plate in place and lined up the holes. This was what her mother had gone through: not just suffering her own illness but watching her daughter deal with it, too, and then echoing what she felt. It was like that, watching Alex wait.

"Other screw."

She picked it off the bumper and started it in the small opening.

The phone rang. He stood instantly and ran to answer it.

Tracy took the screwdriver from the ground, picked it up and closed her eyes.

 

 

"Yeah."

"Is it... you?" A pause.

"Yeah. I didn't... didn't want the call to be traced."

"You said you needed to speak with me."

He closed his eyes, breathed out. "I need a favor. If you can. I can't make you..."

"Alex, are you in trouble?"

"No, I'm--" Breathe. "It's someone else. A friend. Someone who's been helping me. I was... You probably heard. Mul... he probably told you..."

"Are you alright now?"

"Yeah, I'm... I'm better.  Getting better. She's taken care of me but she's disposable--you know, as soon as he figures I don't need the help anymore. She needs a way to get away from here. I... She's just a kid. She needs to be with someone. We're okay for a few days, maybe a week. But I need a way to get her out of here when the time comes." He swallowed. Dry throat. "It'll put you in danger--"

"Alex, why is it me you're asking?"

A burning in his throat.

"Because I... There's nobody I can trust. I... Look, if you can just get her to Mulder, I know he can keep her safe but he'll never take her from me. He's not going to come to any place I am." A bead of sweat broke loose from his forehead and trailed down the side of his face. It was the glass in the damned booth; sun was shining right on it and it was hot. "I just need a way to get in touch with you. If you'll do it. So when the time comes--"

"I'll need some time.  To think."

"Mulder's going to tell you it's a trap." Another drop rolled down his face, then another. "I just need a way to keep her safe."

Empty air. Cars whizzed by silently in the street outside. The little colored pennants hanging around the perimeter of the auto dealer's lot waved limply in the slowly moving air.

"I'm"--her voice came again--"not going to be here--"

"Good."  He tightened inside at the slip. Another pause at the other end.

"Alex, do you have e-mail?"

"You have e-mail?"

"Yes. Yes, I... I do. Now."

"How often do you check it?"

"Several times a day."

"Mail me. You have something to write this down on?"

"Yes, just a moment."

He turned and glanced toward the back of the hamburger stand. She wasn't where he could see her.

"I'm ready."

"Topaz@. Memorize it as soon as you can and burn the paper.  Don't put it on any address list."

"I understand."

More silence. He glanced toward the rear of the building again.

"Alex... do you want mine?"

"It could be traced."

He could have it traced; she'd know what he meant. His stomach was hard and sour. Neither of them had eaten a thing; they'd just packed and taken off.

"Do you want it?"

His eyes closed. "Yeah."

"It's Cranesbill--a flower, a kind of geranium. Cranesbill@."

Mulder'd opened the account for her; he was at Zipmail. "Cranesbill," he repeated. "."

"Do you have it?"

"Yeah, I'll remember."  His legs were weak--too long standing in the heat of this little glass box.

"Is there anything else, Alex?"

"No. Just... I just need to make sure she's safe."

"I'll be in touch."

A click and the line went dead. He hung up the slick, sweaty receiver and stepped out of the booth. Back of the building: go. Tracy would have heard everything and more. He paused at the corner and peered around it cautiously. She was waiting in the driver's seat, ready. The Delaware plate was on the front. He went around to the passenger door, opened it and got in.

 

 

"So how's the paper trail coming, gentlemen?"

Langly and Frohike looked up to see Byers standing in the doorway.

"So far, so good," Langly said. "I hacked into the Holiday Inn database and planted a couple of guests back a couple of weeks."

"Under what names?"

"Mulder's mother's maiden name," Frohike said. "Something he might conceivably use. We made 'em a couple--Mr. and Mrs."

"He had a hard time with that," Langly said, smirking in Frohike's direction.

"Hey, a guy can always hope," Frohike said, glancing down momentarily. "Anyway, we figured they'd sign in as a couple."

"Right, and then Scully'd make Mulder sleep on the floor," Langly said.

Byers cleared his throat. "And you left them where?"

"Allentown, Pennsylvania. We figured they were investigating all those MUFON women in the area a couple of years ago.  It seems like someplace they might go back to."

"Did you check with Mulder to make sure they're not actually near there?" Byers said.

"Sent a mail to each of them," Langly said. "Scully got back to me. She said they're not anywhere in the area."

"So we have motel registrations." Byers said.

"With picture ID's on the driver's licenses," Frohike said. "He should pick it up through those."

"And a rental car that went from D.C. to Philly on the day they left town." Langly added.  "I outdid myself on that one.  Lariat will never be the same. And then some spotty usage of the same credit card account around the area-: as, food, the usual."

"And to top it off," Frohike went on, "a few video rentals. 'Battlefields of the Civil War', an 'Are Aliens Among Us?' number and a couple of triple-X titles."

"Even if the old guy doesn't buy it completely," Langly said, "you know he's going to spend some time checking it out to be sure. It should keep him busy for a few days. Then we'll lay more crumbs--take them to another area, fly them to Florida or something."

Frohike nodded at Byers. "What about you? How's your assignment going? Found a commando to blast Ma Scully out of the hospital yet?"

"Maybe David Copperfield would be more appropriate," Byers said. "No, nothing firm yet, but Wilkins has some ideas. And Rita's agreeable to her part. I'm waiting to hear."

"Time's getting short," Frohike said.

Byers glanced involuntarily at the clock and grimaced.

 

 

Tracy switched lanes and glanced at the passenger seat. Alex was asleep, as he had been for the past hour, his head between the seat edge and the door. In spite of his growing strength, the conversation with his mother had left him as exhausted as any trip up and down the stairs of his building. He twitched suddenly and settled again, a momentary smile on his face. He'd come back to the car still caught in a replay of his mother's words, hardly daring to believe what he'd heard. He was hot and exhausted and hungry; they were both hungry. She'd convinced him to wait until they were outside D.C., away from the worst of the traffic, but then he'd made her stop, more out of concern for her than out of thought for himself. The place where they'd stopped had served huge meals so they'd split a breakfast, but it had been more than enough for both of them, certainly for Alex, because as soon as they'd gotten back on the road, he'd fallen asleep.

It was promising, his mother's overture, almost beyond anything he could have hoped for. But there were distinct things inside her that had drawn her to her decision: a mixture of hope and regret; self-condemnation for having believed Leland's story about giving her baby a home--a story she realized now had been too good to be true; the need to make an offer to this child she'd turned her back on, though she was fully aware of the uncertainty of such a course. Alex had seemed taut and potentially dangerous to her; she remembered well his warning against trusting him. Still, he'd come to her after all this time; he must need something. And he was still her son.

Tracy reached for the water bottle beside her and took a drink. The driving had gone much more smoothly this time. Alex seemed more at ease, or maybe she was the one who was more relaxed; he was so much more familiar now than the tightly strung man who'd had her pull off the road in the woods. Or the one she'd met on the stairs by the lake, dark and ragged inside and in need of the affirmation of doing something positive. Still, it was a miracle that he'd reached out to her at all, a nobody. A random meeting that had led to intense time spent, something small and chance grown strong and essential.  Only to be gone again, all too soon. Like this trip.

She was still puzzled by her mother's appearance in the stairwell. After all this time, why would she appear now? Did it have something to do with her trip home? And what did it mean that she'd appeared to Alex? The house, when they got there, could be like walking through a still-life of that nightmare day. But there should be good things, too: memories of time they'd spent together, the familiar rooms and the familiar things in them. And Alex would be there. He was patient strength, the hand that caught her when she fell.

And she was his younger self, the mother he'd never known, the sister who'd disappeared through the old man's treachery, the friend he'd never had. The lover he needed that she could never be.

She glanced at the seat beside her. His cheeks and chin were shadowed in fine stubble; he'd gotten up too late to shave. She reached out and smoothed her hand carefully across his shoulder--left shoulder--and down the arm that wasn't really part of him but a necessary element of the persona he had to project. He was more real without it, the way he'd been at home all this time, every part of him genuine, the opposite of this constructed piece that lay across his middle. His left knee was wedged against the dashboard, the right leaned against the door, his position speaking an ease that would be only memory for him all too soon. She made herself look away from the too-smooth hand where it lay, and below that, a place she had no business looking, and refocused on the road.

There was a sign up ahead, the kind listing towns and distances. She waited anxiously for it to come into focus. No more than fifty minutes, probably, if that. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. She should prepare. Alex would.

 

 

Raylene sat on the back steps in the sun, a bottle of nail polish beside her. The yard needed mowing. She could nag Joe but probably she'd end up having to do it herself anyway. It's your yard, he'd say, as if he hadn't lived here, too, for the last couple of years. It was her name on the mortgage--hers and Harry's, though Harry wasn't the type to fight her for it. He was quiet. It was the Indian in him. He did a lot more watching than talking; maybe that was what made her so edgy about him anyway. What did you do with people who weren't loud back when you got loud? It was like sending a volleyball over the net and watching the person on the other side just stare and let it drop.

She picked up the small bottle and shook it.

Joe didn't get anything. All he could think of about her news was that Ben had himself a woman, end of story. It was so like him. Men thought alike, not a lot farther than their... Joe didn't, anyway. He'd completely missed the point: that here was a woman this Ben must have already known before he ever got to Owensburg, because where would he meet her here? She obviously wasn't from the area, and if she'd been around town half the population would've noticed within hours. After all, she wasn't exactly another nondescript 5'6" brunette who'd get lost in the Sunday crowd at Wal-Mart. She was small and pretty and red-headed. The local men's tongues would be wagging--or hanging out--after getting an eyeful.

Or maybe...

Ben was Dale's nephew after all, so the fact that they'd go up to Barkers' together was no red flag. Dale's clan had always been close to David and his wife since way before Heather'd gone crazy and started wandering. Dale was always running things up there, and Rita... well, maybe if she'd been paying more attention to that boy of hers instead of baking brownies for the Barkers...

But you could never tell about men. What had gotten into her own son-in-law Cy Miller that day to make him run the Johnson kid over and then go steal his own little boy from his mother--from her--on top of it all? How many times had she tried to tell Sandy all of this long before the marriage became a necessity: that Cy was too old for her, that he only wanted her for what he could get, that he'd never amount to anything. After all, when you'd lived through it yourself, the signs got to be familiar. It had been that way a little with Harry. She'd been star-struck, men a new thing, and Sandy wasn't any less bull-headed than she'd been herself at that age.

Raylene unscrewed the cap on the nail polish and started to dip the little brush up and down in the thick mixture.

So where could the redhead have come from, anyway--the new janitor's hidden-away woman? Was she a relative of one or the other of the Barkers? Was she there to keep an eye on Heather and the boy, or was she running from something in her own life, an ex or a relationship gone bad? She wasn't looking for a new start, that was for sure.  Anybody looking for a new start would be out mingling.

Why was she tucked away up there in that little trailer in the trees? Little and picture-perfect and red-headed--it seemed to ring a bell somehow, somewhere in a fuzzy corner in the back of her mind. If the janitor hadn't met her till he got here, he was a fast mover. Then again, he was cute, a fact that wasn't likely to pass Ms. Redhead by, especially if she was in the market.

But say, for the sake of argument, that they'd known each other beforehand. Then both of them coming here wouldn't likely have been coincidence, which meant one of them was hiding something. Okay, so Ben wasn't hiding; he was working at the plant after all. But then why would he be hiding his girlfriend? What was it they didn't want people to know? Certainly it was no big scandal to have a girlfriend. There was something there. A little red flag waving.

Raylene looked at the nail polish bottle in her hand and then out at the weedy lawn. She was going to end up mowing it herself anyway; she should know by now not to confuse wishing with probability. And if she had to do the mowing, Joe surely didn't deserve to see her with freshly painted nails. She poked the little brush back into the jar and tightened the lid.

And another thing: it wouldn't have taken Ms. Redhead long to fall for somebody who treated her like that, who turned to kiss her first as if it were an afterthought and then as if staying alive depended on it.

How long had it been since she'd been kissed that way?

 

 

To: thelark@

From: DaddyW@

Dear Lark--

Got a mail from the LGM wondering if we were in the Allentown area; evidently they're laying their electronic trail to keep Smoky busy. Hope it works.

Lunch hour. Just thought I'd come home, check my mail and drop you a line to see how you're doing. Keeping my eyes and ears open hoping to find an angle that'll get me more information on AC's situation. Hoping to hear from my mom again, too, but I guess you know the feeling.

Keep your calendar open for tonight; I may have a plan for something different. Will let you know later. Remember you're not alone in this.  When all else fails, that fact is always the one that keeps me going. Hope it helps you, too.

                                                                                               -nightingale

 

 

More trees now, higher elevation. More open land. More woods.

Krycek winced and eased his knee down from its place against the dashboard. He rubbed the ache in the side of his neck and glanced over at Tracy in the driver's seat.

"Look who's the sleepyhead now," she said with a hint of a smile when she noticed him.

"I guess." He let his head fall back against the headrest, looked up and let the head liner go slowly out of focus. After a moment he glanced to the side again. Her smile had melted.  Her grip on the wheel was firm but not too hard. Not over-tense.

"I'm okay, Alex." She gave him half a smile. "At least, I think I am."

"How much farther?"

"We're close." Her lips came together. "There's a back road. I'm sure not showing up in Elleryville itself. We'll loop around to the southeast. The road dead-ends at the back edge of the valley, in the trees. We can park the car there where it doesn't show." She looked over at him. "We'll have to walk in. It's maybe a quarter of a mile... maybe not quite. Will you be able to make it okay?"

"Should be able to make anything after all that sleep."

"You needed it."

"Yeah, but..." He shrugged and looked out the window. They were into the mountains--low mountains, but mountains nonetheless. "Yeah. If I pace myself. Maybe with a little help."

 He raised an eyebrow.

There'd be phone calls to make eventually, to check up on the hospital watch team. There shouldn't be anything happening yet but it wasn't smart to lean too heavily on the expected and get caught with your pants down. Somehow they'd have to get to a phone line.

"There's one at the pump house, " she said. "Nathan uses it when he's working the orchard, in case he has to call Aunt Jean or his tractor gets stuck or something. When we moved in we just ran a long line from the pump house into the house." She paused and bit her lip and then went on, her voice quieter than before. "Unless Nathan's changed a lot, it will be right where it's always been. The line into the house could still be live."

There was more; it was obvious enough. He waited but she only shook her head and looked away.

He frowned.

"Sorry." She made herself look back at him. "I know: cards on the table. It's just that Nathan made me leave.  That morning, after the coroner came. Then he locked the house and nailed the windows shut.  I haven't been in there since that day."

Krycek closed his eyes and squeezed the armrest. A moment later the car turned off onto a smaller, bumpier road. So the place was going to be one giant living reminder of the day she dreaded most. What the hell had the son of a bitch been thinking?

Overhead, the sky was beginning to change. What had started out as bright haze with a few gray-white clouds in D.C. had turned into larger gray masses and now wind, a steady movement of air lifting tree leaves in a single direction. The clouds passed quickly overhead, sunlight shining down in patches between them.

He glanced at Tracy again. Maybe she really was okay.

His mother has asked for time to think. Caution was smart, but who knew what would happen once she'd thought it over? Her reaction might be different than what had come out of her on the phone in the pressure of the moment. Maybe she'd tell Mulder, ask his opinion.  Why wouldn't she? If she did, his chances would be shot to hell.  He frowned. A lifetime spent playing second string to Mulder.

They had to be nearly there now; it showed in her face. Spring-green leaves spread above them.  The car's suspension squeaked as they made their way along the old, uneven road. Mailboxes stood in clusters by the roadside and then there were no more, only snaking roadway. Finally he could see it just ahead--a split-rail fence across the place where the asphalt ended. Tracy pulled off to the right.

"Over there," he said, pointing. Excess gravel had been spread behind a several trees. If it rained they wouldn't be stuck in the mud.

She nodded and pulled the car around onto the gravel and cut the motor. Quiet crept in to fill the car's interior. For a moment she didn't move. Finally she closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest.

"Tired?"

"A little."  She sighed.  "Thanks for doing this with me." The corner of her mouth wavered slightly. She opened her eyes and made herself smile. "Come on. Both of us have been sitting too long."

He eased himself out of the seat, stood and stretched carefully, then locked the door.  Tracy was around by the open trunk, taking out her backpack. She hesitated.

"I can put your laptop in my pack," she said, pulling on the cord that kept the backpack closed.

"Yeah.  Thanks."  It would mean less to carry.  And free hands.

Tracy secured the laptop inside the pack and slung it over her shoulder.  She closed the trunk, looked out at the fruit orchard where they'd be heading, took the beginning of a step and stopped. Looked down. The corner of her mouth pulled.  "I think I need a minute, Alex. Just a minute."

"By yourself?"

"I--"  She looked lost. "Maybe."  She turned away and walked toward the empty field that ran beside her uncle's property.  A dozen yards away she stopped, looking out over the field and up onto the wooded hillside to the left.  He had no point of reference for what she was facing.  Where had he left that he'd ever wanted to go back to? 

After a few moments Tracy turned back toward him.  Her face, her posture--neither gave anything away.  But she smiled when she reached him.

"Ready?"

She nodded, took his hand and led the way to the barrier and beyond it through an opening in an old wire fence. They skirted the edge of a plowed apple orchard, the soil turned up and dried into hard chunks.  It was tough going. Several rows of trees over was an unturned strip, mustard flowers still covering it like a living yellow carpet. It made a perfect path as they headed gradually downward on a gentle slope toward the middle of the small valley, silent except for their footfalls and the rhythm of their breathing. From between the trees a structure could be seen, brown and weathered, rising beyond the orchard's end, past the remains of a vegetable garden.

Suddenly Tracy's fingers tightened against his and then were gone--she was gone, running toward something, pack jostling on her back. He looked ahead and saw trees--the poplar trees she'd told him about, tall and straight in their new green leaves, rustling the way she'd described them, sounding like rushing water. He stopped to watch. When she reached them she looked up--big smile--as if she were looking into the face of an old friend, and raised her hands into the air. The breeze caught her dress, blowing it behind her, sending loose wisps of hair flying, revealing her in silhouette: nose and chin, neck, breasts, the softly swollen place where the kid was growing, long legs covered by the yellow dress.

"Do you hear it? Do you, Alex?" she called to him, pointing up into the branches.

There was real life in her eyes, as if she'd discovered something magical or arrived at some final destination, one she'd been targeting, carrying with her no matter what the odds. Maybe that's what coming home was.

 

 

Scully lifted her fingers from the keyboard and closed her eyes. Half an hour and nothing had come, not a single idea of where to begin. Thought her mother wouldn't know, in the end, whether she'd written every day or not.

But that wasn't the point. The point was that her mother might never know.

She pushed back, stood abruptly and went to the kitchen window. The hillside fell away below her and in the distance the landscape built itself up again, one pale blue ridge beyond the next. She rubbed a finger on a dull gold spot in the flecked countertop. How close was Mulder really to finding out anything on his lead, the one he thought he had with Angie Connors? He'd need to access medical records, and how would he get that? He was no computer expert--certainly no hacker--and in any event, there was no guarantee that Beeson-Lymon kept their medical records on computer in the first place. Mulder had been wrong before about leads.

And he'd been right many times when she'd been convinced his hunches were far off base. It had happened often, his seemingly incredulous theories turning them toward what was needed to solve a case. Maybe his hunch was right this time. But how did he do it, lean so easily on the incredulous, the unproved? Was it a developed sense, an intuition, or just the intensity--the desperation--that sometimes drove him? And what did it say about her own faith that she considered herself a believer but found it so hard to believe him? Neither of them could explain the reasons for the things they believed in, those things that always seemed to clash and trip each other's mental alarms. What did it take to say you believed implicitly in the power of a higher being whose work seemed so random, so often without clear, constructive direction? Was it actually faith, the kind saints had, or was it simply acceptance of what happened around you, a kind of committed resignation?

Footfalls sounded on the path outside, coming closer. Sandy running.

"Annie?"

Scully turned around. Sandy's shadowed face smiled through the screen at the bottom of the steps.

"Yes?"

"How's it going?"

Scully pressed her lips together.

"May I?" the girl said.

Scully nodded and Sandy opened the screen door and stepped up and inside.

"Adrie and I are going to make potato salad. You want to come help?"

"I... I've been sitting here trying to start a letter to my mother." She sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. "But quite frankly, I haven't been able to think of a thing to say."

"One of those down times?"

Scully nodded.

"I know what it's like," Sandy said, sitting on the desk chair and putting her feet up on the rungs.

"You know I do. It comes and goes, you know? It's better and it's worse. But sometimes it helps to just get your hands busy and leave your mind alone for a while." She paused until Scully looked up at her. "I make a mean potato salad and Adrie's pretty good in the kitchen, too, for a little kid. Come on. Give us a hand. It'll do you good."

Scully studied the slanted patterns of sunlight on the carpet, then looked up at Sandy and nodded. "I'll be up in a minute or two."

"You better," Sandy said, her attempt at sternness ending in a grin. She stood. " 'Cause if you don't I'll be coming back for you."

"Sandy?" Adrie's voice sounded from up the trail.

"Here, punkin. I'm with Annie. I'm coming."

Scully watched her hurry down the stairs and ruffle Adrie's hair. This job was good for her. It used a talent she had, one Scully herself might have underestimated before she'd spent time here. She turned back and pushed the sleep button on the computer and watched the screen go black.

Potato salad. It wouldn't help her mother but it might be a good thing for Adrie, his household alive and active again instead of somber and subtly haunted by his essentially absent mother. And others were helping them: the Gunmen; Will Wilkins, who'd gone out of his way to protect her mother; the Barkers; Dale and Rita.  It was overwhelming to realize how many, many people had come forward to mitigate the effects of the scheming of a single heartless man.

 

 

"You ready?"

Alex's hand reached down to her. Tracy took it and stood, looking up one last time at the trees' fluttering, noisy leaves.  Then they started once again along the yellow path of unturned ground, his hand sure against hers, leading slightly. Tiny lavender and coral weed blossoms disappeared under their feet and she looked up to see it immediately as if it were highlighted: the sweet pea trellis. She stopped without thinking and Alex glanced back at her, questioning.

"The garden," she said simply, and started forward again. "We spent a lot of time here. She spent a lot of time here."

His broad hand tightened over hers.

Weeds had taken over the space inside the deer fence, growing tall and exuberant. From among them rose poles for the green beans, rows of wire for the berries--now unkempt and sprawling--and the large area left open for the corn that had never been planted that last year. A small pump house sat in the corner of the plot and next to it rose the pole-and-string structure that held the sweet pea vines. She let go of Alex's hand and moved toward it as if drawn.

Pale tan vines climbed from the riot of vibrant greenery, stiff and papery as parchment. Upturned leaves were speckled with dark gray mildew. She traced a stem upward with a finger, stopping to circle a leaf formed only of outline and fragile, lacy veins. The whole width of the trellis was the same, last year's vines turned to a kind of bleached skeleton.

"She loved these," she said, her voice suddenly dry. "She loved the way they smelled in the house, a whole handful of them in a little vase. They have this sweet, sweet fragrance..."

"Like this?"

He bent down and spread the weeds along the base wire to reveal a small vine that had seeded itself from the popped pods on the structure. A single red flower rode bravely at the end of a short stem. He picked it and held it up to her. She breathed in the familiar, sweet fragrance. A moment later the flower was withdrawn and the stem was being tucked carefully between the braided sections of her hair.

"Didn't get a chance to take them down before you left?" 

She nodded. "Most of them had finished blooming. I wanted to take them down but Nathan was in a hurry. He wouldn't wait. He said it didn't make any difference and I know it shouldn't." Pressure filled her throat. She stared hard at the feathery leaves of a weed at her feet.

 A warm thumb smoothed below the corner of her eye, carrying away a drop of wetness.

'C'mon' was all he said, and they were moving again, Alex leading her toward the weathered gray-brown of the building.

 

 

The phone jingled for the second time.

"No rest for the weary," Will grunted. He reached for the cordless phone on the cushion beside him and punched the 'on' button. "Yes?"

Rita turned to look out the window. The day had grown overcast. Probably they'd see some rain before long. Ralph should be taken out for a walk before it was too late.

"No, I don't have that kind of memory for the details, exactly. I'm the kind of guy who keeps a note pad handy. Only names I remember were the woman's, and lemme see... there was a blond-haired guy. Smoker. Hanson... no that wasn't it. Harris. Harder, I think. I believe those were the only two we had."

Rita turned back; there was something about his voice.  Now he was scowling.

"Sorry, that's all I've got. What did you say happened to those files?" His brow knitted, then the corner of his mouth turned down. "And they're reopening the investigation?" A pause. "Sure."

He switched off the phone and looked up at the ceiling.  "Mother J, I do believe the ship has sprung a leak. That was one fishy phone call." He glanced at her. "I think someone's poking into your case again. Just not officially."

 

 

"So this is it," she said, hands spreading to encompass the room.

Krycek looked over her shoulder into the interior of the house. She seemed okay but it was going back and forth, the ghosts nearly taking her and then retreating.

"I guess this is the living area," she said.

A modest-sized room opened in front of them, a kitchen area to the left with a broad window above the sink that framed a view of the orchard and the wooded hillside beyond. The rest of the room was couch, TV, bookshelves. An open stairway along the wall to the right of the front door led to a second story.

"My room's up there," she replied to his unasked question. When he glanced back, she was staring toward the left where a short hallway led to a final room. That had to be it: ground zero. He took a second look around. The whole place was dusty, a still-life.  A snapshot of two lives abandoned.

He cleared his throat.  "That her room?"

She nodded but made no move to go toward it.

"You want me to go in with you?"

But it made no sense to spoon-feed her.  A few weeks from now she'd be on her own, and what would she do then? She'd have to figure out a way to keep her own head above water. 

"I should do it myself," she said, turning back to him, and paused. "You can go upstairs if you want."

"Yell if you need anything."

She nodded.

He turned and started up the stairs. When he came back down there'd be that phone line to check on. Hopefully it would still be live, like she said. Otherwise they'd have to check out the line at the pump house, or hope there was someplace else close by to hook up.

He reached the landing and turned to face the upstairs room. Shaggy carpet covered the floor in white mixed with flecked shades of pink. It was one big room with her bed under the window at the far end. At this end was an armoire with a small window beside it, then a table with some kind of craft project spread over the top, then empty space, a desk against the right-hand wall, and finally the bed set below a large window. It was exactly where she'd want to sleep: someplace she could wake up and look out at the sky. 

His side ached quietly.  The hike had tired him more than he'd realized until just now.  He glanced briefly down the stairwell, then started toward the far end of the room.

 

 

To: thelark@

From: heron3@

It's been a long while since we last connected. This is the first day in far too long that I've felt like sitting up long enough to send something, my head with something in it besides pounding. Mind you, I'm headed back to bed when this is sent, but progress is progress. Hopefully this bodes well for your mother, too.

Received a phone call a few minutes ago that sent up a red flag--second one in two days, actually, where someone from the Bureau has asked me for information about the BL case, claiming paperwork has been lost. The first time I assumed it was just a clerical thing, but now it looks like something else altogether. I spoke to an Agent Fowley; she was looking for names of potential beryllium victims. I told her about the two who were working there now since it's fairly common knowledge but I pleaded failing memory on the rest; somehow her questions hit me the wrong way and I thought you two might do well to know somebody's poking around in all of this.

Hope you're making headway and that you're surviving the suspense of your mother's condition. I of all people can certainly sympathize. The support on this end has been great, though, if it helps you any to know it.

Let Ben know about developments here and if I can help you with any more background, I'm only a mail away. The files may be out of my hands, but I've still got those little notepads here at home.

Best wishes.

   

                                                                            -Will

 

 

Bed with the covers peeled back.  Several blankets in solid colors--burgundy and dark blue and pink.  Flannel sheets with little sprigs of flowers printed on them.  A pillow. All of it under a thick layer of dust. Beyond the bed a broad window ledge lined with an assortment of objects: two handmade dolls, obviously mother and daughter, the larger one with curls in soft orange yarn and wearing a yellow dress, the other smaller and thin, with pale yellow yarn hair, both of them with hand-stitched smiles; a small vase with only a cobwebbed stem in it, dried brown petals scattered on the ledge below; a child's stuffed unicorn; a pencil and a pad of paper that had faded with a year's exposure. A picture of Itzak Perlman, violin in hand, cut from a magazine and glued onto a piece of cardboard that served as a frame. A crumpled piece of paper from a notepad.

Dust everywhere. It would drive her nuts; she'd want to grab a rag and clean it all away. More so here than in his room, but that was understandable.

Krycek skirted the foot of the bed and leaned against the window ledge. The garden and then the orchard spread out below, the trees covered in a canopy of bright new leaves. Beyond that was the wooded area where they'd left the car, spreading around to the right, bordering the now-empty field that lay beside the orchard, probably someone else's property. The clouds were thicker now, darker. Yellowish light shone through them in patches, flooding a section of the garden here, half a dozen trees there, a section of woods off in the distance. The tops of the two poplars shone green-gold, constantly moving, their leaves shimmering.

He turned and looked into the shadowed corner of the room, where a basket of stuffed animals huddled together: tigers and a dog, a pink pig, an elephant, a skunk and a tiny giraffe. Real animals, none of the cartoonish kind. The desk was old with a drop-down writing surface and slots at the back. Post cards stuck out of several openings. A diary rested on the middle of the desktop, a brown-paper-covered textbook to one side with 'math' written across it in green pen. Covering everything was a drifting of gray dust.

Krycek eyed the desk chair, considered wiping off the seat and sitting down to rest, but the silence of the house made him antsy rather than relaxed. There was no way of telling how much time she'd need.  Hell, he had no idea what seeing all this would be doing to her, or how to patch her back together if she fell apart.  What did he know about mothers and daughters, or anyone who'd stick together they way these two had? 

Then again, maybe he was underestimating her.

He looked up at the ceiling, let his eyes wander briefly through the wood pattern there, then turned and went to the landing. No sound. He took hold of the railing and started quietly down the stairs. The downstairs was hung in deeper shadow than before but light spilled from the open door at the end of the hall. The front door stood ajar; he passed it and went down the hallway, pausing at the entrance to her mother's room. Empty. The floor was bare; there was a place where she'd obviously sat down because the dust was gone, revealing shiny floor. To the right was a bed against the wall--stripped, just a bare mattress with two pillows tossed on top. She'd pushed it against the wall; there were marks on the floor where the legs of the bed had moved through the accumulation of dust. To the left was a rocking chair by the window, large and high-backed with a woven seat, the kind you could fall asleep in. Beside the bed was a small table with a lamp, magazines and several books on top.

Beyond the window, Tracy was visible at the edge of the garden, her dress blowing to one side, stray hairs snaking in the wind. The flower was still in her hair, a red smudge above her ear.

Stay here or follow?

She knew to ask if she needed help, but whether she would or not... well, it could be like hoping she'd have the sense to lock her door. No point in crowding her, though.

He glanced around the room.  A child's crayon drawing was tacked to the wall to the right of the bed, a picture of an orchard with big yellow and red apples popping out of the trees. His gaze returned to the window. She was still there, looking out toward the wooded hillside. He flexed his hand and returned to the living room. On the coffee table sat a phone. He picked it up: dial tone.  He smiled grimly.  They were in business.

Krycek eased himself down onto the couch and felt the weariness that had been building envelope him like a cloud.  But there was work to do.  He reached for the phone, turned it over, unclipped the line and reached for the backpack that held his laptop.

Check on her.

He paused, his good hand on the half-open pack.

Now.

Outside, the wind was fiercer than before.  Scattered drops of moisture landed on his face and shirt. From the corner of the porch he could see Tracy standing by the sweet pea vines.  More drops fell, larger drops.

"Tracy!"

The wind blew his voice in the opposite direction. He started for the garden, the wound thumping a dull ache, his remaining strength rapidly dwindling.  He should be on the couch, not pushing his limit out here.  Hell, he should be back in his apartment.  

Reaching the perimeter fence, he went through the gate and came up behind her. She didn't turn to look at him. Her hands were busy unwinding a dried vine from the trellis.

"Hey." 

No acknowledgment.

He let his hand settle on her shoulder.  "It's raining.  You should get inside."  He paused.  "You take this stuff down and your uncle's going to notice the next time he comes around. He hasn't moved a thing, so anything you do is going to stand right out."

She continued to unwind the fragile strands.

"Tracy..."

Her fingers worked faster.

"Tracy, stop." He reached out and took her by the wrist.

She pulled against his grip. "I have to do this, Alex."

He held her harder: small wrist, tight grasp.  "Uh-uh. You've got to face it, whatever it is that's eating at you."

She struggled against his hold.

"Tracy, don't."

Suddenly she jerked free and ran, first toward the orchard, then through an opening in the wire fence and out across the open field toward the trees like a frightened deer.

He slammed the end of the trellis with a fist. There'd be no catching up with her.  Not with this body. Go ahead, kid; don't think, just run.  What are you going to do when you're on your own, nena?

He let out a sigh and rubbed his knuckles against his stomach. Fat drops of water landed on his face and shirt. She'd end up soaked out there, but there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.  Let her work it out for herself.

He kicked a weed and turned back toward the house. At the corner of the porch he turned and looked behind him. Not a sign of her.

Going inside, he shoved the door shut behind him and sank down onto the couch. Leaned forward and rested his head in his hand. He'd only grabbed her to get her attention, but she'd been oblivious, caught up in the mess inside her. He looked up, out through the kitchen window where random drops splatted loudly against the glass. She'd bolted before and she'd always come back. He shook his head and stared at the laptop on the table.

After a moment he flipped up the screen, hooked in the phone line and hit the power button. The hard drive rumbled and the screen flashed blue and came on. Maybe his mother had written. Or maybe not; it was probably too soon.

Maybe he should be the one to write.

But he'd said everything already, on the phone.  What else was there to say? Beyond a few minutes spent in her kitchen and a couple of hours asleep in her garage she was a complete unknown, an icon in his life like the ones painted on the walls of Russian village churches, a symbol without real essence.  Then again, maybe he was the same for her.

Mail program. He clicked, then waited for the computer to dial and connect. Just one message, the usual shit--the readouts, which meant nothing. Mulder and Scully wouldn't be stupid enough to wing it, or to wait until it was too late; they'd have a plan. But if they were ahead of him? If they sprung Scully's mother today and the old man's crew ended up looking for him, wondering where the hell he was when he was supposed to be coordinating the search? While he was off in the middle of nowhere, out of the loop while Tracy ran her emotions out across a field and he sat in this dusty tomb of a house with his hands tied.

A sudden gust of air came from behind him. He turned around to see her standing in the half-open doorway, dress damp, hair dripping.

"Sorry, Alex," she said quietly. "You were right." She looked at the floor in front of her. "It's the same thing I did before." 

His fist opened, clenched and opened again.  He pushed the laptop to one side.  "Yeah, but you came back this time."  He cleared his throat, made his voice softer.  "Come here."  He motioned her toward the couch with a nod of his head.

She came and stood before him, more tired than emotional as far as he could tell.  "Phone line's live," he said.  "I just connected.  Everything's running according to plan from what I can tell." 

Silence. He watched her fingers stretch and then curl into her palms. A drop of water slid down a clump of damp hair and fell onto her dress.  What the hell did you say to a messed-up kid? 

"You bring anything else to wear?  Anything dry?"

Nice move, Aleksei; you're on-track now. 

He watched her eyes glaze over, full and wet, and her hands clench.  But she was standing her ground, determined not to turn away or run this time even if it killed her.

He leaned forward, grimaced against the pain in his side and stood.  "There must be a towel around here.  You could use one.  Where would a towel be?"

"Closet," she whispered.  "In the hallway, second shelf." 

He followed her directions, pulled a towel from the bottom of the stack--relatively dust-free--and returned to the living room.

"Sit."

She hesitated a moment, then sat down on the coffee table.  He draped the towel around her from behind, rubbing it over her head and along her shoulders.  God, he was no counselor.  Mulder was the one with the talent for soothing, and she was wet--not soaked but in need of fresh clothes and there was no reason for her to have brought anything extra.

The shoulders beneath the towel shook; the head went down.

He'd been right.  Coming here was more than she could handle.  But she'd probably known that better than he had, and still she'd made the trip.  Had been willing to make it alone.  And coming along was his own choice, but what was it he'd expected to do?  Why had he even offered, except for the obvious reason: that his place was going to be empty as hell without her?

A gust of rain peppered the kitchen window. Wind howled at the corners of the house.

"Maybe you're"--he cleared his throat--"still trying to fix it.  You know? Replay everything, do better and hope you'll get a different outcome this time." 

She looked up at him, questioning.

He sat down beside her.  Shook his head.  "You can't do that.  It's past.  Over. You did the best you could at the time and now you've got to let it go."

After a moment she nodded.  Gulped.  He reached out and wrapped his good arm around her, pulling her close against him.  Her body tensed, held and then the tears came, warm and silent, slipping down her cheeks and onto the side of his nose.  He held her in the gray silence of the little house until finally she relaxed against him, spent and still.  Fine, stray hairs brushed against his nose and cheek.

 

 

Mulder glanced at his watch--1:24--and into Joe's office. Empty. He slipped inside and studied the assignment list on the chalkboard.  Luckily, everybody else was working the big house this afternoon. In the doorway he paused to listen once more: nothing but the sounds of the building itself, the groaning of pipes and the flow of water. He slipped out into the hallway and started down the ramp that led to the basement. If someone were to come by--if Joe came back early from lunch--he'd say... what? That he'd forgotten a paint brush, or seen something--maybe a rat--and had gone to check it out? Something.

Quickening his pace, he made his way as quietly as possible to the bottom of the ramp and paused while the echoes of his footfalls faded into silence. He flipped the wall switch. Rows of tall, old lockers stood bathed in dull light, remnants of a time when Beeson-Lymon had consisted of only one building and the processing and assembly had been done upstairs instead of in the new building across the parking lot. Three banks of lockers were painted gray--the ones he'd done. The rest were still a peeling institutional green.

He started forward but quickly stopped. Footfalls, and not his own. A spike in his breathing and a short man in a blue Beeson-Lymon shirt and dark pants appeared around the end of a bank of lockers. He glanced indifferently at Mulder.

"Lights went off a minute ago," the man said, shrugging. "Damn dark down here without 'em. Must've been another one of those power glitches. Owensburg Power is always stewing over those damn generators they claim they need. Maybe they're doing it on purpose to prove their case."

"Could be," Mulder said. "Whole world's out for its cut of your money."

"Ain't it the truth."

The man moved forward into full view pushing a hand truck. Power glitch. Right. The wall switch had been in the 'off' position

"You see a work cart down here?" Mulder said.

The man seemed anxious to leave. He shook his head.

"Left some paint brushes down here the other day. If I don't find them Joe's going to have my ass."

The man gave him a sympathetic nod and went around the corner. His footsteps echoed up the ramp.

Power glitch. The guy wasn't expecting anybody down here; it was the only thing he could come up with on the spur of the moment. And the hand truck--what would it have been carrying?  Hopefully the guy'd bought his story about the brushes.  If the guy was indeed delivering unmarked boxes, he'd  be likely to remember anyone who crossed his path.

Mulder waited for the footfalls to die away and moved quickly to the last bank of lockers. He reached for the handle, stopped to pull a cleaning cloth from his back pocket and covered the latch with it. Carefully he eased the locker's handle upward and opened the door.

Jackpot.

 

 

"I thought you said a rocking chair would make you feel like an old man, Alex."

He shrugged.  "I am an old man."  He smiled, half-amused. "At least, I've felt like one for weeks. So maybe the chair fits."

Tracy turned to look up from where she was seated on the floor in front of the rocking chair, gave him a smile in return and settled back against his legs.  In the end it seemed to have been the right gamble--bringing her in here, having her face the room, the bed, the memories. Bit by bit he'd drawn the whole story out of her, hoping she'd be able to finally see it for what it was--the past--and be able to set it aside.  She'd have enough to face going forward without hauling along the baggage of her past.  Eventually they'd drifted into silence, but it was a good silence, the two of them close and comfortable.  The chair had been just what he needed. It leaned back far enough to be relaxing and had given him a chance to regain a little of his strength.

"Sometimes when I was little," Tracy started, "I'd come down here early in the morning and sneak into bed with her so she'd find me here when she woke up. It was nice, waking up all warm with the sun streaming in the window and... not all by myself, I guess. That was the main thing. That we were there together, that I knew I'd wake up and--"

Not be alone. He glanced out the window, to where masses of gray clouds flowed steadily past the glass.

"What about you, Alex? Were you always part of a group? Was there ever anybody looking out for you?  I mean, you specifically?"

His intended laugh came out an unconvincing smirk.  There was no possible reference point she or anyone else could have for where he'd grown up.  Except for the little bastards unlucky enough to have fallen into the state system along with him. 

"It's all I ever knew, the orphanage.  The old man used to tell me he had somebody 'watch over' me for a while--until I was two or three. Really young kids--they don't always survive in places like that.  Aren't expected to.  But the old man wanted to be sure I made it, that I had my 'chance'."  A bitter smile played across his lips.  He shrugged. "Don't remember anybody, though. We were just a big bunch of kids: eat together, sleep side by side on rows of cots, work together, play together. Fight together, get sick together."

She shifted against him, rested a cheek against his knee.  A warm hand found its way around his ankle.

"You had it good, Tracy, you know that?  Not what you had to go through at the end, but..." He nudged a toe against the floor, urging the chair into motion, and glanced toward the window and the spray of rain against it.

"Toward the end I'd come down here in the middle of the night, and early in the morning." Her voice echoed slightly in the near-empty room. "Just to see if she was still here. I was afraid she'd be gone, but at the same time--" She closed her eyes and rode the subtle movement of the chair against her back.

"Some things take care of themselves," he said, "without you doing anything to make it happen." His hand smoothed across her shoulder and settled there. "Maybe that's what was happening to your mom, Tracy. You can't breathe for someone else, bleed for someone else. Maybe she was letting go and you let her. Maybe that's the best thing you could have done."

"Maybe she was just hanging on for me that last month; I hadn't thought of that. Alex, I wouldn't have wanted--"

"Shh." He eased himself forward and spoke quietly.  "Come here."

She turned and looked at him, puzzled, but followed his urging, got up and settled herself across his legs in the chair.  After a moment she curled down against his shoulder. 

"Get some rest," he said. He pushed slightly against the floor, setting the chair gently rocking, and closed his eyes. 

 

 

I wanted to believe Alex. Perhaps that was what I was most afraid of: that in my desperate hope that Alex was not a rubber stamp of his father, I would miss some critical sign or indicator, that I would believe for the wrong reasons, as I had so long ago when Leland had offered to 'take care of' this unwanted child.

Alex's unexpected phone call had struck me in very much the same way as his appearance on my doorstep a month earlier. I couldn't have been more shocked if I'd opened the door to Samantha that morning. When he left I'd believed I'd never see him again, that he'd satisfied his curiosity about who I was. But now he'd called. Against his own warning to me not to trust him, he was asking for my help. Or was it the perfect trap, designed to play on a mother's guilt or vanity?

I knew nothing about this son, this stranger who had leaned against my kitchen counter and stumbled over his words, who had accused me with a yellowed photograph and slept like a hunted animal in the dust of my garage. I had one son I knew I could count on, who I owed repayment for years of neglect, and I couldn't betray his trust. Alex was asking me to give this girl, whoever she was, over to Fox and in the process to expose Fox's location. It would be a simple way to determine Fox's whereabouts and Alex had shown no sensitivity toward Fox in the past. He'd shot Bill and left Fox to watch his father die.  He'd set fire to the Quonochotaug house with all of Samantha's things stored in it, things that must surely have had meaning for Fox. Though he had let Fox go. Undoubtedly he could have made it otherwise.

I can't make you, Alex had said to me on the phone. Those words had remained in my head because they were so unlike his father's. Leland wanted you to know that you had no choice but to do what he commanded. And Alex had dangled no carrot in front of me. He had offered me nothing more than a chance to expose Fox and my own loyalties. If he were sincere, why not ask me to simply help the girl get away, to put her on a plane or give her traveling money?

A girl, he'd said. Not a woman or a nurse. Why would a child have been mixed up in Leland's doings? I had no idea what he meant. A girl. Fifteen? Eighteen? Younger? Three times he'd repeated that he just wanted to know she'd be safe. The fact was that his nervousness and the unattractiveness of his request gave me hope.  They had nothing of Leland's seamless calculation about them.

If Alex's situation was as he described it, he was putting his life on the line for this girl, whoever she was; surely he would understand the danger in crossing his father. A friend--he'd used that word. How easily would someone like Alex find anyone he'd truly trust? Though if he had, how valuable she must be.

There seemed no way of knowing the truth of who Alex actually was, or the girl he appeared ready to risk his life for. If indeed she were real and not created for effect.

 

 

I returned from the Barkers' house grateful that Sandy's potato salad project had enabled me to distance myself for a while from my worry over my mother. But when I checked my mail, it was to discover Will's note telling me that Diana Fowley had pressed him twice for information regarding the Beeson-Lymon case. I don't remember ever having been so furious with someone as I was at that moment with Diana. My initial impression of her had been that there was something she was hiding behind that calm, plastic exterior.  Certainly it hadn't helped that Mulder had conveniently neglected to tell me they'd known each other previously.  He could have mentioned that they'd been partners. A little volunteered information would have gone a long way at that point and its absence had made me question myself, and Mulder, as well as my usefulness as Mulder's partner, in ways I never had before.

But beyond the repugnance of her loyalty to the Smoking Man, Diana had hurt Mulder deeply with her deception, a penetrating injury he was only now beginning to feel in its full extent. Damage done casually and without regret--that was the feeling I got from her. How like Smoky himself. No wonder they'd found allies in each other.

Now her assignment to find the mysterious e-mailer could easily mean her return to Owensburg, and while I was hidden and therefore safe, Mulder was not. We could find ourselves on the run again, all our time here gone for nothing--or worse--unless Diana was presented, and quickly, with a suitable author for the mysterious e-mail.

 

 

"The wind will wake me up," Tracy said, her hand clutching the front door.  "Sometimes a little sleep makes you groggier than you were to begin with."

"Just don't get carried away out there."

Krycek turned back to the laptop on the coffee table. It was a bad sign, checking this soon. She'd said she needed time to make a decision. And if she offered to help, she'd still have to figure out how to make an end run around Mulder.

He tapped unthinking against the tabletop with a pen. The uplink was still whining, taking too damn long to connect. Across the room, water sprayed against the glass above the sink. The sky was darker than before, mounds of clouds in gray and darker gray. The path between here and the car would be soaked by now, soft, and it had taken enough out of him making his way down-slope to get here.  With the ground turned to mud, and having to walk uphill... Well, the house was going to be it. For a while anyway.

The connection went through.  He sat forward momentarily but soon sagged back against the couch cushions. No messages.

It was okay.  Maybe even a good thing. His mother's experience with the old man had given her no reason to trust. Her caution was a good sign. Showed she'd think a thing through and not just go off half-cocked.

He pushed the laptop away, stood and went to the kitchen window. Another gust of wind splattered raindrops against the glass. It was a strong storm, bigger than anything the weather service had anticipated, and... What the hell was she doing, still out there after this long?

He turned and crossed the room to the front door.

 

 

To: Redwall@

From: DaddyW@

Need you guys to do a little bait and switch for me in Baltimore on Sunday.  Repackaging, anyway. Meeting details to follow. Bring standard kraft cardboard boxes, 16"x16"x16", no printed markings, and 2" wide kraft packing tape. No substitutions. Need contents determined and boxes repacked exactly as unopened. Get back to me.

 

 

The

scene before her swam. Tracy clutched the wet knob to the front door and blinked.  Her legs were jelly and the side of her head hurt.

Suddenly Alex's face floated in front of her, the door to the living room standing open behind him. "What happened?"  He seemed alarmed. 

Quickly she was pulled against him and whisked inside.  The door closed behind her, the storm noise replaced by the dry quiet of the house.

"Nothing.  I just felt dizzy.  I--"  She'd gone out to clear her head after dozing off in the rocking chair.

"Hell of a lot more than just dizzy," he said, standing back. 

The front of his shirt was wet where they'd pressed together.  A muddy streak ran diagonally from near his shoulder to the middle of his shirt.  She looked down to see her dress soaked and dirty.  A shiver ran through her.

"Sit," he said, leading her several steps to the foot of the stairs.  She sat, reached for the sensitive spot on the side of her head and winced.  His fingers followed, moving her hand from the place, probing the area carefully.  She looked across the room, then up into worried eyes.

"Looks like you passed out and fell," he said.  "What happened?"

"The wind was starting to clear my head and then... I don't know." She paused. "I started to see something."

"See something?"

"Someone somewhere else.  In my mind."  She swallowed.

"And then?"

"Then I was at the door, coming back in, and I felt dizzy."  She paused.  "But I feel better now."

He frowned, went to the couch and returned with the towel she'd used earlier.  She took it and began to wipe the water from her face and hair.  Carefully she dabbed around the bruise on the side of her head.

"You didn't happen to bring any extra clothes, did you?  You need to get out of that stuff."

She shook her head and got slowly to her feet.

"Careful." His hand came out to steady her.

"I think I'm alright now.  I feel okay."  She shivered.  "Sorry about your shirt, Alex.  I--"

He shook his head.  "Don’t worry."  A pause. "There any clothes around here?" 

She shrugged.  "Things I grew out of years ago. Maybe--" One hand curled tight.  "There could be something in my mom's room." 

His expression showed that he hadn't missed her reticence.  "I'll check," he said, and turned and disappeared down the murky hallway.

 

 

To: the lark@

From: DaddyW@

Hang in there, Lark. Plans are in the offing. Not exactly an evening on the balcony but... you'll see. Hope you're game.

                                                                              Your in the shadows,

                                                                                       The Nightingale

 

 

It was too damn much like the time she'd been sitting on the bed and had suddenly gone pale, Krycek thought as he opened the closet in Tracy's mother's room.  She'd been trying to remember something at the time.  Strange reaction.  The space in front of him stood empty, stripped of whatever it had held when her mother was alive. He frowned and shoved the door shut. 

Too damn much of her life was a mystery, tucked away in places she seemed unable to access.  The question was whether the blockage was coming from her subconscious or from some outside source.  But he'd checked her neck--had done it the first night--and there had been no implant.  He glanced out the window at the rain, shook his head and left the room.  Tracy was standing at the kitchen sink, washing the mud from her arms.

"Nothing there.  I’ll check upstairs."  He paused.  "You okay?"

She nodded yes and he started up the stairs, restless.  She could do that in front of the old man sometime--collapse like that. There'd be precious little time to get her away then, and no plausible excuse to use as a cover.  There'd be no question as to who'd helped her escape and what kind of story would the old man be likely to buy? He couldn't claim she'd just bolted. Wasn't like her and the old man would know that, especially after the way she'd stuck with him when he'd had that reaction  to the painkillers.

On the landing he paused to gather his strength. He glanced across the dim room.  There was no electricity and it would be dark soon.  The cold wouldn't be a problem, assuming there was something for her to wear.  But they'd brought no food at all, and the fact was that they were stuck here now until the storm blew over, possibly until morning. 

Worse, if Mulder were actually to move tonight to take Scully's mom from the hospital, he'd be up Shit Creek with the old man, unable to coordinate the hunt to retrieve her, everyone wondering where the hell he'd disappeared to.  The old man had been pleased enough with his seeming compliance lately, but that would change in a heartbeat if...

And he wasn’t Jeffrey, who seemed to be permanently positioned in the old man's blind spot.  Good old Jeff.  He could drool on his desk and the old man would just pull out a rag and wipe his chin.  No car bombs or missile silos for Jeffrey.

But the clothes. 

He tried the armoire first, making his way through the hanging clothes, but they all seemed small, things she must have saved from when she was a kid.  One of the drawers at the bottom held some kind of crocheted thing, but again, not big enough to cover her.  He made his way slowly down the length of the room, checking for closet openings along the dusky walls, but found none.  Which left the bed, and the bedding.  Well, it would keep her warm if nothing else.  

The blanket on top was gray with dust; he folded it back carefully and pulled out the one below. Hopefully Nathan hadn't crawled up here and nailed the upper windows shut, too. The guy'd been on a mission, that was for sure, but why? What would it have hurt to let her come back and face the place? She'd have been better off if she'd been able to let the reality settle in.

He leaned across the broad windowsill and pulled the latch. The window slid open and cool, damp air poured in. Taking firm hold of the blanket, he hung it out the window and shook.  Pulled it back in carefully a moment later and laid it over the back of the desk chair, then took the remaining blanket and shook it, too. At the opposite end of the valley, above the trees where they'd parked, clouds gusted across a boiling sky while the branches of the poplars closer in dipped and swayed in the gusts.

Krycek pulled in the second blanket inside and pushed the window halfway shut.  It was too soon for Mulder to make his move at the hospital; it was just his own nerves getting to him.  It was Scully's mom, for fuck's sake, and Mulder would wait to have all his ducks in a row.  He wouldn't take chances where Scully was concerned.

He glanced around the room once again, looking for... what?  He wasn't sure.  There were just too many loose ends here, too many variables he had no control over.  Too much that hadn't yet happened, but would soon enough. 

He picked up the two blankets and started for the stairs.  What if Tracy hadn't come to out on the porch and he hadn't thought to check her?  After all she'd done for him it was hard to writer her off as a liability, but the facts staring him in the face were pretty clear: he'd run off to the farm trailing this girl the way a pup follows a bicycle, leaving behind the one assignment that made him even marginally valuable to the old man.  There'd be no placating the old son of a bitch if he discovered the truth. 

She'd be waiting down there, wondering what was taking him.

Krycek pulled up the trailing edge of the one blanket and started down the stairs.  The old man would stand there in his cloud of smug self-righteousness and give him the lecture about the danger of letting emotion cloud your judgment.  And what would he be able to say in his own defense?  It was a textbook case.

The floor of her room rose in front of him and disappeared overhead. The couch lay deep in shadow, only the laptop's screen glowing softly. From her place in front of the sink, Tracy looked up at him, obvious confusion and hurt in her expression. 

Shit. 

"Sorry, I--" 

She turned away.

Fuck.  After all this time, how could he forget that his thoughts were never just his own when she was around?  But it was the ugly reality of his life, like it or not, convenient or not: stay focused on your work or die. 

A sudden flash lit the house, flooding the window with purple light. Thunder cracked close overhead. Tracy was bent over the sink, her head under the faucet. She jumped backward.

"You okay?"

"I--" She nodded and gathered her hair together with her hands. Water streamed off it. "I think so." She moved cautiously back to the sink.

He set the blankets on the corner of the couch, sat down and let his head drop into his hand. Time to keep his cool, not let this escalate into something ugly.  He breathed out slowly, paused, breathed in again.  When he heard the water turn off at the sink, he looked up.  Her hand was out, groping for the towel, which proceeded to fall onto the floor. He stood and started toward it.

"I can do it myself, Alex." A tone she'd never used with him before.

Well, fine.

She twisted the water from her hair, reached down quickly to retrieve the towel and shook it. Carefully she wiped the water from her face and neck and wrapped her hair in the towel, never turning to look at him.

"There's a little propane heater in the closet under the stairs," her voice came now, her tone measured, unreadable. "If we're lucky there might be a little fuel left in it. You have to be careful about fumes, but if we put it in my mom's room and open the window it should be okay--enough to dry our things." Her head came up. "If you give me your shirt I'll clean it."  She turned the faucet on again and started to run water in the sink. She still hadn't bothered to look at him.

Here it was: the place where things always went bad, a clash of wills or styles or agendas.  Usually he was more than happy to take his cue, crawl through the jagged hole and get out.  But fuck it, this was stupid, a passing thought that shouldn't have blown up into anything.  He breathed in slowly, tried to settle himself.  After a moment he pulled up the shirt hem, worked the sleeve off the bad arm, then pulled the shirt over his head and off the good side. He came up behind her and set the shirt on the counter beside the sink.  In the silence, raindrops pinged loudly against the window.  

"Closet under the stairs?" he said after a moment.

"On the left. Just inside the door."

He busied himself with the heater while she washed the shirt, managing to light it one-handed after several tries.  By the time she came in with the cleaned shirt the window was open and the room was beginning to warm.  Tracy took a hanger from the closet and hung his shirt from the curtain rod above the window, then drifted to the heater's warmth beside him, stared down at the flame and stretched her fingers toward it.

"Feels good, eh?" he managed when the silence grew too loud.

She nodded.  "Alex, I know what you've given up to come he--"

"Shh." 

He took her hand.  Almost immediately her fingers slipped between his and squeezed back.  He focused on her closeness, on the heat beginning to burn his calves through his jeans, on the cold air against his bare back.

 

 

To: thelark@

From: heron3@

Rita's out getting herself prepped for tomorrow's festivities but I'll relay your questions to her as soon as she returns. I knew that agent who called sounded fishy. Plans are firmed up; your mom should be in good hands.

 

 

Mulder bounced the ball as he walked, casual bounces and then hard, controlled ones. Bam-bam. Three boxes in the end locker, three days until Sunday and no possible way to open them without it being completely obvious. Friday--bam. Saturday--bam. Sunday--bam, bam. He bounced harder, the ball shooting back to his waiting fingers each time as if it were magnetically attracted.

Three days and the Gunmen would have to do the deed, unpack and repack, examine and send word. The ball made sharp, smacking sounds on the pavement. At least it was the sidewalk, not his apartment floor where he'd be sure to get a phone call from downstairs if he bounced for long. A blast from the past, the thought of the apartment; it seemed like months, or years. And the little green room, the one he'd never actually spent a whole night in. Scully had.

Mulder glanced at his watch. An hour until Dale would be home with the truck, time enough to shoot a few hoops, shake off some of the tension. Spend a little time settling in as a member of the community; it was good cover. Dale would be home tonight anyway, something about Bethy having a friend over for the night; it shouldn't be a problem to borrow the truck. In the meantime sink a few, do something that was still a sure thing. Jump shot from mid-court and the crowd goes wild.

He looked ahead. The curb was lined with minivans and station wagons, kids in uniform getting out of them and racing across the sidewalk to the diamonds on the lawn. Baseball practice: this was Anytown alright, something you could pull right out of a Norman Rockwell print and watch it come to life.  Mulder stopped short in front of a straggling toddler dragging a bat across the sidewalk and looked ahead to see an older station wagon--worn, familiar station wagon. Two girls and a boy got out and started across the grass. At the back Angie Connors was gathering equipment, balancing a cooler in one hand and a grocery bag in the other, trying to pull the keys from the lock in the cargo door. Mulder jogged ahead.

"Need a third hand? Got one I can loan you cheap."

She looked up and then smiled at his grin. "Thanks. We meet again."

"We do. How's your bookcase?"

"Doing fine," she said. "Getting full." She handed him the cooler, pulled the keys from the lock and slipped them into her pocket. She nodded toward his basketball. "Going for a little R&R?"

Mulder shrugged and raised his eyebrows. He bounced the ball once. "You know what they say.  The worst day on the court is better than the best day scrubbing lockers."

"I believe it." She took a box from the top of the car. "You mind carrying that? I'm scorekeeper today but I can't forget the supplies. Like I said, these kids would forget to snack if I didn't keep up with them and a little hassling now is a lot better than dealing with the consequences."

"Diabetic shock?"

She nodded. "Just got to keep them going all the time." She shook her head. "Sometimes I feel like I'm responsible for making sure their hearts beat."

"Had much trouble with that?  Them going into shock?"

"Never have. Not once. I've just tried to be really diligent." She glanced ahead, at the gathering crowd around the diamond, then back at him. "I make it my priority, you know?"

"I can appreciate that."

They walked in silence to a table at one side of the backstop. Angie set her things on it and took the cooler Mulder held out.

"Well, thanks again," she said, holding out her hand.

He shook it. "No problem. See you around."

He turned and headed for the basketball court, dribbled a few times in the dirt and then stopped and carried the ball as he started across the grassy area. At the far edge of the diamond he broke into a jog. Three diabetic kids and not one instance of any of them going into shock. This was good. No, it was better than good. At least, it seemed that way. Scully would know for sure, though.

He hit the edge of the pavement running and dribbled to the far end of the empty court. Five seconds to the final buzzer, home team down by one. Mulder intercepts and jumps high: clean lay-up. Two points just in the nick of time.

 

 

"What will I do?"  Krycek shrugged against the pillow and fell into silence.  That was the $64,000 question.  "I've been at this for... It's been behind everything I've ever done," he said, glancing up at Tracy, who sat cross-legged beside him on the mattress.  She was watching passing clouds, a blanket around her over a pair of long johns.  "Fight the future. Sounds great, but hell, it's been so long since I've been in a position to do anything that would have a snowball's chance in hell of affecting the outcome."  He sniffed and stared into the gloom at the far end of the room.  "I had a plan... once.  Might actually have given a chunk of the population a chance at survival.  We had a vaccine the old men knew nothing about, a secret distribution network.  We'd made a start."  He swallowed and looked up at her.  "Thirty thousand people out there have immunity to a virus they know nothing about."

"What happened?"

"The usual.  Chance.  Ambition.  The woman with the password to have the vaccine released from the lab ended up infected and in a coma, and I was captured by the group I was trying to fight."  He paused.  "One guy there understood the danger.  The two of us tried like hell for six months to find a way to access the vaccine, get the production running again."  He huffed out a breath.  "Then our lab contact was taken out by some drug lord's hit squad.  Completely coincidental, but bye-bye vaccine."

"And afterward?"

"The guy I was working with offered Mulder something he needed, and they killed him."  The corners of his mouth tightened.  The old men and their car bombs.  "Since then I've been on the old man's choke chain, playing gofer, getting rid of"--he shot her an ironic smile--"obstacles in the great path of progress.  The few contacts I've been able to make on my own"--he shook his head--"they're small fish.  They don't know anything that's going to make a damn bit of difference.  Like I've been standing waiting at a bus stop but they're not running that line anymore."

"You saved me, Alex." 

He frowned.

"I don't mean that I'm important or anything.  But I'm grateful.  I want you to know that."  She squeezed against his fingers. 

He tightened his grip on her hand and looked away.  It was the kind of thing Mulder would count, a single life among the millions.  Billions.  Come to think of it, she was a lot like Mulder.  The two of them would hit it off.  If he'd only agree to take her. 

A flash lit the room momentarily. He glanced up at the window and counted. A moment later there was a rumbling crash. He watched her in the gray light, the shape of her nose and chin and the smoothness of her fine, thin hair.

"How often has it happened?" he said. "You passing out that way, when you had some kind of vision, or whatever it was?"

"Just a few times. Why--?"  She stopped, her mouth half-open. She hadn't seen the connection before.

"Did something like that happen around the time you got pregnant? Could that have something to do with what happened to you?"

She shook her head. "I don't... Alex, there are so many things I don't remember. I remember... being sick once, at Nathan's. I don't remember getting sick; I only remember waking up in my room--the room I had there--and Aunt Jean was sitting next to the bed. It was a Monday and she said they'd brought me home from school the Friday before, but I never had any memory of that. Nathan and Jean are the type that if anything strange happens--anything they can't explain--they won't talk about it. They just act like it never happened."

"Was it about that time?"

She thought. "I guess.  Maybe. Sometimes I've tried to remember things from before, but--"

"Like your father?"

She nodded.

"Come here," he said.

She leaned down closer.

"No, turn around."  He pulled up and sat behind her.  "Lean your head forward."

Her head went down. He smoothed his hand along her neck and up into her hair, fingers searching for anything out of place--a scar, a small lump of some kind, the kind of thing that would hardly be noticed. But there was nothing, just smooth, soft skin, half-wet hair and body heat coming from where the blanket covered her. He traced the path again--behind her ears, below, where the skin was tender and anything foreign planted near the surface would be obvious. She shivered under his touch.

"Nothing," he said, his fingers still on her neck. 

She turned, and he took his hand away.  "Nothing."  He shrugged.

But it wasn't concern he saw on her face, a warning that he'd overstepped.  It was more like last night, an unspoken asking.  Reaching out, he put his arm around her, eased her back against him and swallowed.  Slender fingers worked themselves between his. 

"Alex, what have they done to those people? Why do they do it?"

"They're marking them, testing them. Preparing for invasion."

A fork of lightning bloomed suddenly over the far woods, clear and branching. A sharp crack of thunder followed.

"Pretty close," he said, looking up. Maybe a little too close. He lay back down on the mattress on his side, pulling her with him so that she came to rest spooned in front of him. "You're shivering, you know." His smoothed his hand over her back, then slipped his arm around her, pulled her close and tried not to think. 

"I won't be for long. You're warm, Alex."

"Your hair's starting to dry." He brushed it out of the way with his nose. "Finally."

She nodded. Gradually her shivering eased. An image of his lips against her neck drifted into his mind; he shifted and made himself focus on the section of wall in front of them. Sudden light blanched the room again and thunder shook the window.  Beside him, Tracy tensed. Fresh waves of rain pelted the side of the building.

"Alex?"

"Mm?"

"Thank you. For coming here. I know what it could cost you."  One shoulder was out of the blanket, pale and smooth.

"Maybe it's not just risk," he said. "Maybe it's"--he shrugged--"a way of staying alive."

Her bare shoulder again, all curve and smoothness. He reached for the mattress pad, pulled it across her and tucked it carefully around her neck. His hand slipped back inside the warmth and found hers.

"Better?"

She nodded against him.

The room fell quiet, a break in the wind, then sprinkles began to ping against the glass again.  They were miles from anything or anyone--safe, at least for now, hidden under cover of the storm. An unexpected little oasis of peace and no danger.  Not from the world outside, at any rate.

Her hand tightened against his and he felt her sigh.

"Hey." He nudged her with his nose.

"Somehow I feel like... like it's already gone," she said, half-turning toward him.  "The house, this time.  As if it's a week from now and we're just ghosts looking back."

He let his cheek come to rest against her hair. "I'm here," he said, tightening his grip on her. "You're here. Don't let your mind cheat you, nena."  A kiss behind her ear.  "Don't let it."

 

 

Rita worked the key in the lock, took a deep breath and turned the door handle. Will was lying on the couch. He opened one eye.

"You're my first test," she said, coloring slightly and running a hand through hair--shorter hair--that hung around her now instead of being tied back. "I don't mind telling you I'm not at all comfortable with looking in the mirror. What do you think?"

"Well..." He paused, gave her a pseudo-critical eye and then allowed a smile to come. "I think it's pretty convincing. After all, she's been lying in bed for nearly a week now."

"I told 'em not to wash it. I think it went against their grain. I could see their fingers just squirming to douse me with shampoo but I held firm. We're going to need all the authenticity we can get." She set her purse down inside the door and came to settle on the far couch cushion. "Will, tell me again why I'm doing this. I mean, I've done any number of fool things in my life but this feels like something I've inherited straight from Andy." She looked at him despairingly.

"You're doing it for the same reason I got myself messed up in this," he said. "Because you can't help yourself." He raised his eyebrows and offered a self-deprecating smile. "But seriously, we've got to get Maggie out of there in one piece. We've got to keep the way clear for Scully and Mulder to do their thing and find something that'll nail the old guy to the wall. Permanently."

Rita bowed her head and sighed. "Thank you for that, Will Wilkins. I needed to hear it again. Maybe it'll help me because I've got the butterflies in my stomach already, swarming and fluttering around. I can tell you I'm not likely to get much sleep tonight." She paused and looked up at him. "You don't think they'll come after me, do you? Not that I'll change my mind and chicken out if I thought they would. Though I probably should for Bethy's sake."

"I don't think so, Mother J. When they discover the real Maggie's gone they're going to take off after her like bats out of hell. Remember, they've got the old guy to answer to. They're going to be scrambling." He paused and smiled. "Anyway, John Byers will be there waiting in the wings to whisk you away once they catch on."

"I hope you're right." She paused. "How about your friends, Will? Are we set up?"

"Eleven a.m. So the action goes down at 11:30, just when the lunches go out and there's plenty of activity."

"And you know these people. You trust 'em." She sighed. "I'm not meaning to be doubtful, Will; I'm just trying to check my harnesses, so to speak."

"The driver's an old college buddy of mine. It's a part-time thing--his uncle's business and he helps out."

"And the home where they're taking Maggie?"

"A friend of his."

"And you trust him?  Your buddy?"

He nodded at her. "Yes, ma'am, I do."

Rita squeezed her hands together. "Then I'll have to trust them, too. And so will poor Maggie, bless her. John Byers said they won't be able to tell her anything until the last minute. They're afraid she might say something when she's not herself." She looked up to the window where the sky was beginning to lose its color. "I'm still frightened, Will. I guess I know exactly what you've been feeling."

"Better two frightened fools on a sofa together than each sitting somewhere alone," he said, offering a hand that she shook firmly. He smiled sadly. "You know, I really wish my mother could have met you, Mother J. You two would've gotten on well; I really do believe that. Oh--"

"What?"

He pulled up slightly. "You've got mail. Seems Scully needs your assistance ASAP."

 

 

To: topaz@

From: Cranesbill@

I've been pondering your request and realized I need more information in order to make a decision. I think you'll understand my dilemma as well as my reasons for needing to ask. Why have you selected this particular recipient and why do you believe he might accept the responsibility you're requesting of him? As you may understand, it's not simply a matter of doing my part but of knowing that the person on the receiving end will be willing to participate. Awaiting your prompt reply.

 

 

Tracy made her way through the kitchen cabinets a second time, looking for any possibility of food, but it seemed Nathan had managed to take everything.  Sometimes he mystified her.  He'd left the living room and her room untouched, but had taken away every last item that belonged to her mother.  The kitchen was just as had been, right down to a cereal bowl she remembered leaving in the sink the night before that terrible morning.  But all the dry and canned goods were gone, which was probably his practical streak; he must have figured there was no sense leaving it sit unused.  Which made sense, unless you happened to be an unexpected visitor stranded without supplies.

She glanced toward the living room where Alex sat in front of the computer, blanket around his shoulders, head in hand, pondering his reply to Teena's e-mail.  Ten minutes and he hadn't written a single word. Outside, the rain continued, a steady pouring through the gray of late afternoon. It was hard to tell that it wasn't evening yet.

Tracy took a damp towel from beside the sink, got down on her knees and brushed into the area under the sink with the towel, dabbing at old spider webs.  It wasn't a place they'd ever stored food, but still.

Gingerly she reached farther back into the darkness, past the steel wool pads and plastic bottles of cleaning solutions until she felt the unexpected rub of glass on glass.  Full glass jars, which could mean only one thing. 

Carefully she swept the towel around the area again and reached in to retrieve the mystery jars.  Closing the cabinet door, she stood and held them up to the pale light in the window.  One held a stewed cabbage and tomato mixture, the other applesauce.  The handwriting on the labels was her own, indicating that they were from the last batches she'd canned, the ones she'd had to do alone after her mother was no longer able to help.  With any luck they'd still be good.

In the living room, Alex had closed the laptop and was lying eyes-closed on the couch, frustrated at his inability to turn the jumble of emotions inside him into a few clean, strategic sentences that would shore up his case with his mother.  Quietly Tracy rinsed the jars in the sink and pried off the lids.  Hunger stabbed at her, her stomach suddenly restless at the prospect of something to fill it.  She held the jars up to the pale light of the window, looking for evidence of spoilage, but found none.  A quick taste... they seemed fine.  Relief swept through her.

"Alex?"

"Yeah?"

"I found something.  You hungry?"

He pulled up to a sitting position.  "No kidding?"  The blanket fell behind him onto the couch and he stood.

"One jar of stewed cabbage, one of applesauce.  I canned them myself.  We had a bigger crop than usual the last year and not all the jars would fit in the pantry.  I must have put the last of them under the sink."

"And your uncle missed them when he cleared the place out."

She nodded as she got bowls and spoons and washed the dust from them.

"We used to work vegetable fields when I was a kid," he said, coming up behind her, watching her prepare.  "Cabbage--lots of cabbage.  Carrots.  Beets. I remember freezing my fingers, freezing my knees and butt off working out there--rain and the cold.  Kids would get sick that way, working out there too long when it was cold and wet." He paused and glanced at the shadows in the sink. "We were pretty expendable."

Masses of gray moved steadily across the sky beyond the window. Raindrops came in waves against the wall. He looked up and stared out into the semi-darkness. Tracy watched his chest move in and out and the way his jaw was set, firm, holding against something invisible. His pants rode low on his hips, the effect of the last few weeks.

"Come on," she said quietly. "Have something to eat."

He turned and caught her shoulder and she was gathered in against him, tucked between arm and warm chest. He said nothing more. 

 

 

To: thelark@

From: meremaid@

Received your message re the victims. There was one older gentleman about two years ago who passed away and then his wife died a few months later. They had no children but I think between the two of us Will and I can concoct a close, grieving relative who might have gone off the deep end over it. Shame on that boy D, though I understand the stress he's been under.

I imagine any 'apology' will have to be sent from somewhere in the vicinity of Cincinnati to have the proper effect. Will says he might know someone who can help us. At any rate, we'll work on it and let you know as soon as we have something figured out.

 

 

"Let's eat," Krycek said finally, speaking the words quietly against her hair.

His grip on her loosened and he let her go. Tracy turned to the sink and poured the contents of the jar into two bowls and offered him one. They stood eating at the counter, looking out toward the orchard and the woods.

"It's good," he said after a few bites.

"A recipe my mom got from her mom: cabbage, tomatoes, seasoned breadcrumbs, mushrooms.  A lot of people aren't big cabbage fans, but--"

"Hey, I'm Russian," he said in a momentary imitation of slick-and-charming, then cleared his throat and returned to his normal self.  "Anyway, food's got it over no food any day."

She smiled.  "I didn't mean to interrupt you."

"Nah, it's okay. I wasn't getting anywhere anyway, just using up the batteries in the laptop. Gotta watch that.  Last thing we need is to cut off our communications." He set his bowl down and looked out the window.

"Eat," she said. "It'll come to you. You know, what you should say to her."

He shrugged.  He was always tongue-tied where his mother was concerned, a far cry from from the scenarios he'd pictured before they met.  He'd always had plenty to say to her then.

"I think what impressed her the most, Alex, was the fact that you weren't calculating. You were--"

"Scared shitless?"

"Maybe a little." She smiled. "But you didn't do what he does. You didn't offer her anything. You weren't trying to... buy her cooperation or loyalty. That made a difference to her."

He pushed out a breath, took another bite of food, and then another, and set the spoon aside.  Pinpoints of water landed on the glass above the sink. He looked into the dimness beyond the window.

"Mulder'll help you out, whatever you need. He's got a radar for strays--" He stopped short. "Hey, I didn't mean--"

"It's alright. I know what you mean."

"Good thing, since I've gotten pretty good at putting my foot in my mouth. No, he's... Maybe he's just trying to save his sister all over again.  You know, whenever he sees somebody who needs help. Or maybe..." A pause. "There's this picture in her house of Mulder and Samantha. He's... I don't know, five or six, and she's little, just a baby.  He's holding her and she's tilted way over to one side, practically falling out of his arms. But she looks like she thinks she's in the snuggest spot in the world, happy..." Gradually the smile at the corners of his mouth faded. "Anyway, he'll be happy to help you; he thrives on that kind of thing.  So if you need anything, don't forget--"

"...to ask."

"Yeah."

When she was with Mulder.  Away from here.  Away from everything that had quickly become so familiar. She swallowed and made herself speak. 

"When we get back I want to pull more weeds out of that garden bed behind the laundry room. To give the poppies a better chance.  They're really pretty, hardy but fragile like crepe paper, and they just bloom and bloom in pinks and reds and white. They're called Shirley poppies." Her lips pressed together. "It was my mom's name--Shirley."

He eyed her a moment, serious.  "How you doing?" He tipped her chin up with a finger.

"I'm okay. I feel... better than before. I do."   She forced a smile.  "But Alex--"  She slipped her arms farther back into the folds of the blanket, then reached out and brought it around him, locking her arms around his waist. His skin was cold now; he shivered as she brought the blanket around him.  "Thank you again.  For coming.  For everything."

"You're"--the words against her hair--"very"--lips against her cheek, barely touching--"welcome."

Her mouth this time. Gentle contact, hesitation, smiles, then both of them reaching, his mouth on hers, soft, wet, warm. She reached for breath--reached for him--the contact slow, slick, necessary, like sunshine on cold ground, loosening her body, making it ache with a beautiful ache.

Cheek against cheek. She counted her heartbeats, light and rapid as they echoed against his chest.  Her body seemed fragile, as if touch might make it shatter.  As if it begged to be shattered.

"You okay?" 

She nodded, but her grip on him tightened.

"Take your time." 

His lips were soft against her neck. She could still feel it: the echo of the kiss and the ache that went with it. Between them the blanket had parted slightly and skin lay quietly against skin.  Their bodies swayed faintly in the silence.

"I've got to write to her," he said after a long moment, brushing his lips against her forehead. "She's waiting."

"I know."

Tracy...

She looked up.

"Don't hide." He kissed the bridge of her nose.

She smiled and made herself pull away. "Go ahead. I'll clean this up."

Alex turned, heading for the couch. Tracy looked around, as if she'd suddenly wakened to find herself in an unfamiliar room. "Then I'll be upstairs. There's something I need to do."

 

 

"Sorry I'm late."

Mulder's voice came from beyond the open screen door. He'd obviously jogged down the hill from the house. He paused to take a breath. "I was waiting for Dale to get back so I could use the truck."

He stepped up inside the trailer and shut the door behind him. Scully turned from the laptop.

"I've been trying to write that journal to my mother again," she said. "I just--" She shook her head. "Nothing comes."

"You need a change of scenery."

"Maybe we need a change of circumstance, Mulder." She sighed. "Not that wishful thinking does any good." She ran a finger along the edge of the desk, then smiled slightly. "Sandy's been my recreation director. She keeps me going when I start to get mired down." A pause. "I think we take turns, actually--getting mired down and then holding each other up."

"Then it's a good thing you're both here." He took her hand and pulled her up from the chair and into his arms. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his chest. "I'm here, Scully."

She smiled into his shirt. They were the words he'd said in the hospital, when she was still trapped in the coma after her abduction--not 'come back' or 'go on, it's okay to let go' but simply 'I'm here'. It was what she'd clung to then--the need to be there, too.

"I think I'm getting somewhere," he said after a moment, hope entering in his voice. "I ran into Angie Connors taking her kids to baseball practice. Dr. Scully, what are the chances of having three diabetic kids who've never gone into shock?"

She pulled back and looked up at him. "Never?"

"That's what she told me. She said she'd been really conscientious and I believe her. This is one no-nonsense mom; she's devoted to those kids. But still, it struck me as more than just a little odd. What do you think?"

"How old did you say they were?"

"Thirteen, eleven and... seven, I think. She looks about seven, the youngest one."

"And she said they'd never gone into shock?"

"That's what she told me."

"I don't know, Mulder. It seems unlikely. I mean, you've got to figure that there are times when they're going to be away playing, away on a field trip or at somebody's house where they're beyond her supervision."

"Exactly."

"So your theory is..."

"That something else is going on here, Scully. That she was lured into staying at Beeson-Lymon, maybe because they suspected she might have beryllium disease and they were afraid if she changed jobs, another doctor might discover it. And that they used health coverage as a lure and once they had the kids--"

"Once they had the kids, what, Mulder? Diabetes isn't something that can be... faked, or... or induced at will, if that's what you're saying. Besides, I don't see a motive here."

"I'm saying it might not be diabetes."

"But what then? And what would be the purpose of misleading her?"

"I haven't figured it out yet, Scully, but I feel like there's something there. Something..."  He stared out the kitchen window at the weakening light of late afternoon. The color of it played off the green in his eyes. He was determined to make this lead play out.

"You said you had something planned." she said quietly.

He looked back at her and raised an eyebrow. "No romantic vacation. I just figured both of us could use a change of scenery and since I can't take you out to a movie, or onto the local court to shoot a few hoops... It's just a working thing. Dale's got this 'retreat', an old hunting cabin about twenty minutes from here in the hills, a little place he likes to get away to. He's been talking about not having had time to clean it up this spring since all this has happened and now he's got Bethy to look after. I figured maybe you'd be willing to join me for a little scrubbing and sweeping"--his voice dropped to a confidential tone--"in exchange for a little fresh air out of the range of prying eyes.  It would get you out of here for a while.  You could use the change of scenery."  He gave her a sheepish look.  "And maybe we can make up for last time."

She looked down at the carpet.  "Mulder--"

"What?"

She looked up, hesitated and took his hand.

"Mulder, I got an e-mail early this afternoon from Agent Wilkins. He said somebody's called him twice from the Bureau about the Kentucky case--yesterday and again today--looking for the names of beryllium victims, or potential victims. They told him some of the paperwork on the case had been lost."  She sighed. "I don't need to tell you who it was."

The characteristic small, tight mouth. He said nothing, but sat heavily on the corner of the bed and rested his head in his hands. She watched the expansion and contraction of his T-shirt. No time would have been good, but this, now...

"Scully, I--"

Nothing more. He shook his head. His shoulders heaved once--a sudden intake of air--and then he was quiet again. From behind her the wall clock ticked a steady rhythm. Finally Mulder looked up at her and sucked in his lower lip.

"She's looking for the origin of the e-mail. They could find you, Scully. If she can trace it back to David Barker--"

"It's an outside chance, Mulder. She'd think first of Ron's family--his parents. The fact that he was buried here, to please Heather, and that subsequently David just happened to offer us the body to autopsy--no one but a few of us even knows those details. It's a big chain of coincidence. A possibility, yes, but--"

His eyes closed. His head tilted up, toward the ceiling, and then came back down to rest in his hands. She reached out tentatively and smoothed a hand through his hair. A pause and his arms went around her waist, pulling her close against him. His head rested against her middle.

"Scully, tell me I'm not the world's biggest fool."

"Mulder, you're not."

"Lie."

"No, it's... It was something beyond you, Mulder. Part of a bigger plan."

The Smoking Man again.

 

 

To: Cranesbill@

From: topaz@

Why did I pick him? Because trust isn't something I deal in and he's the only one I know I can trust to pull this off and not take advantage of her. Why would he do it? He'd never take her straight from me, but he does know her; he should remember her. He's a natural born defender. Maybe he'll look at this as 'saving' her from me.  That might motivate him. I realize this will put you in the middle (not my intention) but I have to get her to somewhere she'll be safe. The old man hired her to take care of me when I was laid up but she's a throwaway to him, only safe until I don't need the help and I'm getting to where I'm doing okay now. She's gone out of her way for me.  She deserves a lot better than a bullet in the back of the head.

P.S. She's pregnant, kind of like you were once with a kid you hadn't planned on (no, not mine) so I figured maybe you'd understand that she could use the help. You're our only ticket here, so let me know.

Appreciate your returning the phone call and not just writing this off.

                                                                                                             -A

 

 

Krycek clicked the 'send' button and stood, letting the blanket fall away behind him.  He stepped around the coffee table and approached the window beyond.  It was gone now, his reply, nothing more he could do about it.  He leaned his head to one side and then the other, stretching in an attempt to ease the buildup of tension, and let out a heavy breath.  Wearing your heart on your sleeve was dangerous as well as just plain stupid, but he'd had to do something to convince his mother he was worthy of the favor he was asking. 

Or maybe he was worrying for nothing.  Tracy seemed confident that his chances were good, and she had a better bead on the woman than he did.  But there were never any guarantees. It could be hard to predict what a woman would do, what little thing might set her off or send her in a direction you'd never anticipate.  Look at Marita.

Krycek leaned his forehead against the edge of the bookcase beside the window and set his jaw.  What he'd admitted to upstairs was pathetic but all too true.  He'd been shackled since the minute the Brit had set foot on the freighter, impotent.  He'd told himself at first--those months while they worked frantically to access the secret vaccine--that things were okay, that he'd gradually work his way into the confidence of the inner circle, find his level again and move ahead.  But their efforts to get to the vaccine had been blown to bits with the death of Arrizábal. Eventually the old men discovered he'd been in league with the Brit. No telling why they hadn't waited until he was in the Brit's car, too, to blow it up. Since the Brit's death he'd been on a short leash, a choke chain that had quickly been handed over to the man who'd given him life and then made such a point of trying to take it away. 

Before the freighter he'd always managed to find a few bits of straw he could spin into gold, but he'd lost his touch now, his luck, whatever spark it was that made things catch and take hold. 

Krycek straightened and brought himself back to the room.  On the window ledge sat a small picture of a young, maybe ten-year-old Tracy.  He picked it up.  Out on the porch, shorts and a sleeveless shirt, a fragile expression on her face, half-smile and half-squint.  What had she been thinking?  Was she just shy in front of the camera? Or had she caught a glimpse of her future? 

He smoothed his thumb softly across the dusty glass and looked up, through the streaming, distorted windowpanes to the muted, colorless landscape beyond.  Crazy when the best thing you could do for somebody was to get them far away from you.  

 

 

"Maybe what we should be doing is spending our time getting you resettled somewhere safer, Scully."

"Mulder, I don't know if it will help, but I wrote to Rita. She must know who the beryllium victims were as well as anyone. What Diana needs is an answer, something that will make her stop looking."

"And?"

"I thought if there were someone no longer living here, someone who'd been affected, that we could create a fake relative, one who could have been anguished enough to write that mail... and that either they had second thoughts later, or someone else might discover what they'd done and write to Beeson to apologize."

"Someone Diana can't actually trace, so nobody gets hurt."

"Exactly. But hopefully convincing enough to put Beeson at ease so that it's no longer an issue with him: end of investigation. I got a response from Rita about half an hour ago. She said she thought she and Will could come up with something." She paused. "Mulder, I think... I think we should do exactly what you had planned. We both need a change of scenery and... We do. We need to get away from all this.  Just for a little while."

"What about you staying here after tonight?"

"It sounds like Rita and Will may have something ready tonight."

"And if they don't buy it?"

"Then we'll deal with it in the morning." She stood and offered him her hand. "Come on, Mulder."

"You're going to have to ride in the back, under the camper shell, you know."

"I know. It's okay. Come on, let's go before it starts to get dark."

"I picked up a few things at the grocery store."

"Well, I've got something to add, too. Sandy came down from the house this afternoon and insisted that I go up and make potato salad with her and Adrie. She's a hard taskmistress." She smiled. "A pretty good cook, too."

"Homemade potato salad, huh?" He wagged a finger at her. "Staying here is starting to affect you, Scully."

"Maybe that's not such a bad thing." She turned to glance at the desk. "Dale have a phone line at this cabin of his?"

"Don't think so, Scully. You'll just have to trust for a night.  Trust your mom's doctor, trust the Gunmen."

Her lips pressed together. She looked at the carpet and then up at him. "Maybe I need to do that anyway."

 

 

The bluntness of Alex's reply was more than I had expected, though it fit the man who had confronted me in my kitchen. There was a raw sincerity to his response but also an admiration for Fox in spite of the tension there must be between them. Most of all, his mail told the story of a wary, solitary man affected by someone who had taken care of him, and I had to wonder again who she was and how she had gotten mixed up with Leland. A girl young enough to need 'someone to be with.' And who was pregnant, like I once was. The words had stung, though he could have said much worse. He was careful to point out that her child wasn't his, but even his denial increased my curiosity as to what had grown between them.

It was obvious that he very much appreciated what she'd done.  But such being the case, I had to wonder if she might be a trap Leland had set for Alex, if not for Fox or me. Alex had seemed wary, but the end of everything was that he was likely risking his life to protect this girl.

And if I helped, and it proved to be his downfall?

But if I didn't?

The one certainty was that by stepping in, I'd be placing myself between my two sons. Fox would automatically see my part in this as betrayal and I would feel his anger as I had in the past, an anger that had so often seemed Bill's, directed at me as if by proxy.

 

 

"Alex?" 

Tracy appeared in front of him, close, peering at him through the gloom of the upstairs room.

"C-cold," he managed.  He shrugged in an attempt to allay her obvious concern.  

He'd drifted upstairs when he heard her voice--clear, smooth notes that reminded him of voices he'd heard floating through old world cathedrals, coming from mysterious places you could never quite pinpoint.  He didn't want to disturb her; he'd only wanted to listen.  But he seemed stuck here now, in his position leaning against the wall, cold and... It wasn't just from standing by the downstairs window without the blanket, or the effect of the meds he'd taken after they ate, though he could feel those, too, working.

Warmth and softness pressed against him, Tracy pulling her blanket around him, arms around him, taking him in.  "Come on, Alex.  Come lie down and get warm."

"Didn't know you sang," he heard himself saying as she took his hand and led him to the bed.  He stood watching while she pushed back the covers, made a spot for him, stripped the dusty case from a pillow, plumped it and set it near the end of the bed.  He'd been on his feet too long--different routine today, the traveling, worrying about how Mulder's plan would come off.  What his mother would answer and whether the old man would somehow find out he'd been away from his assigned post.    

Steady arms interrupted the stream of passing thoughts and guided him onto the bed.  Settled him, spread blankets over him, brought them up around his neck.  Then a slip of cool air as the covers were lifted and she joined him, the warmth of her body coming to rest against his side, a hand finding his, her head settling against his cheek.

His nose was cold, but the rest of him... warming, nested in a space he didn't want to move from.  He closed his eyes, turned his face toward the warm smoothness of her hair.

"Sing?" he asked.

 

 

To: thelark@

From: meremaid@

Below is a copy of the mail Will and I worked up. It's being sent from a Cincinnati public library so everything will seem to fit together. My prayers for your continued safety. I will be seeing your mother tomorrow.

                                                                                                -R

Dear Mr. Beeson,

On behalf of my brother Arnold, I would like to apologize for the message sent to you yesterday. I don't believe he really understood what he was doing. He has been going through a period of depression lately and the cause of everything seems to find its way back to the demise of our cousin Harlan Oates, who for thirty-three years was one of your employees. Arnold told me this morning what he'd done and I tried to make him see the light, but he has been so low of late that I'm not sure he hasn't found a kind of comfort and security in grounding himself in this new 'truth' of his. Arnold has been prone to wander of late; I've spoken to his doctor and we've come to the conclusion that he needs to be watched more closely, which I am dedicated to doing. Again, I hope my brother's mail did not cause you any real concern. It was just the rambling of a lonely and confused man who misses the cousin to whom he was so close.

                                                                                                 Sincerely,

                                                                                                    Mary Crawford

 

 

Krycek drifted slowly toward consciousness.  He was... in Brussels, at the orthopedic hospital; he'd come for an adjustment of the prosthesis.  The old Frenchman he remembered from his first visit had given him a knowing nod over dinner, made an off-hand remark about how Krycek would benefit from having a woman... and now there was a woman in his bed.  Or was it a dream? 

A hand passed over his forehead, fingers smoothing into his hair.  He blinked, opened his eyes to faint, colorless light and the sound of gentle rain.  Something soft pillowed his cheek; below his ear, Tracy's heart beat a quiet, steady rhythm.  The room beyond them had faded into deep shadow, but when he looked up, he could make out her smile.

"Did I... I fell asleep.  How long was I out?"

"About an hour.  It's okay, Alex.  You've done a lot more than you should have today.  I wasn't thinking, when you offered to come along, that the trip would be hard on you."

" 'S not a problem," he said.  "I'm okay."  It had felt a lot like this, the dream he'd had in Brussels two years earlier.  He'd gone to bed alone, but once he was nearly past the point of no return, the sensation had come over him of someone in the bed with him, a disembodied lover who'd held him in a web of deep peace as he'd drifted off.

He cleared his throat.  "So you've been stuck with me all this time." 

She shook her head.  "Not stuck.  It's been nice.  Peaceful.  In a way it's made up for some of the sadness that's happened here.  It gives the place a kind of balance again."   

"Where'd you learn to sing like that? 

"My mom."  She smiled briefly.  "She sang madrigals.  She loved early music and she'd sing it around the house. But it was just too beautiful to leave alone--to just listen to without being a part of it.  So I started to sing along with her."

He looked up and stared at the darkened abstract of the ceiling.  "In Europe, cathedrals are pretty good places to meet people--contacts.  You wander around, lost among the tourists, waiting.  There are these... voices that drift out of nowhere, singing, and you look up at forests of stone pillars, think about how they've been standing maybe eight hundred, maybe a thousand years or more... how many people they've seen come and go..."  His voice faded into dryness.  He exhaled against a sudden pressure in his chest and listened to the subtle, pulsing beat of the silence.  "Thanks for singing."

"I put you to sleep, Alex."

"Uh-uh."  He scooted up farther on the pillow, invading what personal space she had left, and brushed her cheek with his lips.  "You sell yourself short.  Don't do that."  A pause.  "Thanks for... for walking through that door. For not just seeing the old man and taking off while you had the chance.  For putting up with me." He brought his arm around her shoulders, rolling her toward him, and tucked his chin beside the top of her head. "Or maybe not. You wouldn't be running now, wouldn't be in this mess--" He ruffled her hair absently with his hand and stared into the darkness overhead.

Her arm tightened against him.  "I could be in some other mess," she said after a moment.  "You know I could. And neither of us would be here now."  She looked up. "Is there someplace you'd rather be?"

"Than in a mess with you?"  He smiled, suddenly amused, and leaned in closer, catching her lower lip softly between his own.  "No."

He paused, waiting for a sign.  She pressed forward, mouth slightly open, her breathing quick, and his mouth was on hers, taking her: quiet, patient, deliberate siege.  A hand cupped the side of his face, slipped around his neck. Her body pulled closer, flooding him with a hard, hungry ache.

He kissed her chin, her jaw, breathed against her bare shoulder and listened to her ragged breathing settle.  Her blanket had slipped and they were tangled around each other.  So much for weeks of resolve to keep his dick out of this, to make it about helping her.  For once, to simply do something that would leave no blood on his hands.

"Alex..."

His eyes closed.

"Alex, I'm fine.  I know I've seen so much... in guys' heads.  It makes me realize how careful you've been.  You can't know how much that means--to know there's someone I can trust." 

He opened his eyes and glanced down at her.  Brushed his thumb lightly across her cheek, giving her a wistful smile.  He couldn't even trust himself.

He shifted slightly, a good-faith effort to straighten out her blanket.

"It's okay, Alex."

"You're not cold?"

"Wrapped up with you?"

"You sure?"   He smoothed his hand over her shoulder, hesitated, let it come to rest against her back.  A sigh slipped out of her. 

Tracy...

She looked up.  Blushed.  She wasn't likely to come out and say it--that she liked the touch, that she wanted more.  And who knew how much she'd want, and where the trip-wire would be.  Or what would happen once he stumbled over it. 

Carefully he let his hand travel again, up to her shoulder, down toward her waist and back again, his touch light and careful against the smooth curve of her body.  Soft lips sought him out; time slowed and thickened. He rolled slightly, easing her on top of him.  The world was bounded by bodies and mouths, hands and tangled legs, a haze of slow kisses and the familiar, welcome ache of need.  Raindrops, fingertips, noses, quiet.

"Alex..."  She rode his breathing, head against his chest.

"Mm?"

"I think you have mail.  I think it's your mother."

He pulled up slightly.  "You sure?"

"I think so."

Something in his gut tightened, the angles of the scene around him coming into sharper focus.  She slipped off to one side and he sat up, shivered at the cold air, put his feet on the floor.  A little piece of paradise and now it was gone. 

He reached for her hand.  "Come down with me?"

"In a minute, Alex.  You go ahead.  I'll be down in a minute."

 

 

Tracy watched as Alex disappeared into the shadows. Footfalls sounded on the stairs and then were gone. She sat up and found the edges of her blanket, began to pull it higher and stopped, her skin sensitive where the fabric touched it. She was cold suddenly, chilled and missing the imprint of his body against her. She pulled the blanket high around her neck and shivered.

Outside the window, moonlight glowed dully from behind a cloud. She lifted the blanket around her and crawled across the bed to the wide ledge in front of the window. Silver-gray masses drifted slowly across the sky like moss on ponds. She leaned forward until her forehead touched the ledge and listened to the sound of her pulse, quick and steady. Strange body--new body--as if it had come alive from some dormancy: curves and smoothness and places where the charge of touch seemed to gather, humming a low, steady need to return to him. It was different from the residue she'd seen in people's heads: risk and dare, calculation or compromise wrapped in a shock of fleeting sweetness. But she wasn't any of those people. And Alex was who he was: a flame in the darkness who sputtered and flared but refused to go out.

She turned her head and brushed against something soft--her old stuffed unicorn. Taking him from the shelf, she smoothed a thumb across his worn coat, this companion in childhood fantasies, a stalwart sentinel who'd spent a year beside this window guarding a house filled only with memory and dust. She touched her lips to his head and set him back on the ledge.

Behind her a pool of light stained the carpet beside the desk. She backed off the bed and went toward it. Picture postcards crowded the slots at the back of the desk. How often she'd yearned to see other places before other places had become not a choice but her only reality. She pulled on a tiny drawer knob and reached inside--her diary, its padded cover still soft, the ribbon marker smooth as it slipped between her fingers. She set it down and ran her fingers carefully back through her hair, over her ear and down to her neck, the way Alex had done looking for the implants he dreaded. Fingers through her hair again, slowly, barely touching...

The blanket slipped. She grabbed it quickly, pulled it low around her shoulders and turned toward the landing. He'd said to come down.

The card table was still spread with the quilt pieces she'd hoped to put together in time for her mother to use, a final protest of her love. She'd lost momentum at the end. Maybe it was the realization that she wouldn't finish in time. Perhaps it had been nothing more than an attempt to stave off the inevitable. She turned away and continued to the end of the room. The small window was dark, showing only the outline of the ridge leading to Nathan and Jean's. Beside it the armoire beckoned. She opened the door and reached into the darkness.  The softness of a hand-knit sweater greeted her, its arms strangely short now, much smaller, in fact, than the yellow sweater tucked away in the backpack downstairs. Next to it was the comfortable, puckered fabric of a shirt she'd worn until it faded, and a fringed shawl that had been her grandmother's.

Alex was waiting.

She closed the door carefully, followed the wall to the top of the landing and paused. A flicker of light came from the room below. She felt the coolness of the air around her, the length of her legs, the loose softness of the long johns where they touched her and the prickle of her skin, as if it were alive and reaching out. A shiver passed through her. He'd sensed her now, standing here. She pulled the blanket close and descended quietly to the living room where dull, yellow light threw soft, abstract shapes against the walls. Alex was on the couch, head back against the cushions, a figure set off by the light of a single candle on the coffee table: this contradiction, this dangerous man with his fears and his tenderness.

 

 

To: topaz@

From: Cranesbill@

Let me know what you need me to do to help you, and when. I've not spoken with the person at the destination end of this arrangement. You are, as you note, aware of what his reaction is likely to be. This is an offer I am making solely on my own. If your situation is as you describe, I will do my utmost to deliver your cargo to the recipient, but I need to be sure, as I am confident you will understand given the specific danger involved.

Please keep in touch.

                                                                                                            -M

 

 

"Mulder, if I'd realized scrubbing walls was so therapeutic I might have taken that job at the plant myself." She gave him a small smile and dipped her sponge into the bucket again. "I don't mean that as facetiously as it sounds. I've actually spent five minutes without thinking about tomorrow."

"They'll do okay, Scully. Whatever they have in mind."  He paused and watched as she wiped down the knotty pine panel. She squatted and continued to the baseboards. When she stood up again he was still standing there. He shrugged, embarrassed.  "Sorry. Just tired, I guess. Didn't mean to plan this and then leave it on your shoulders."

"Why don't we take a break? Even if we only get half of this done, Dale will be grateful for the help. There's that glider out there on the screen porch."

He nodded, set his sponge on the table and let her lead the way. She flipped off the light switch as she went through the doorway and went to stand beside the screen.

"Lots of stars," she said. "There are so many trees around the trailer I rarely see this many. It's like"--she reached for his hand and pulled it around her waist--"this whole situation, Mulder, where you get so focused on your own circumstances that you forget the small experience you're having isn't the whole world, that... that there are other things beyond what's happening to you. That the stars are still there, in the sky." She leaned back against him. "Have you ever stopped to think how utterly absurd this is, that everything that's going on here--your dismissal, our being on the run, my mother--that all of this is happening because of a single man, a man who in the end is as mortal as the rest of us?"

"There's the consortium."

"Yes. But this isn't their agenda, Mulder. This obsession with your family, his toying with you and your mother--that's the Smoking Man. Even Krycek, Mulder. Do you suppose he ever feels... used?"

"I don't waste my time thinking about what Krycek feels."

"Your mother must surely feel terrible, realizing she gave up a child to this man believing that child would have a real life somewhere, a family.  A future." She shook her head. "I wonder if he did it deliberately--what he's done with Krycek--as a way of... of getting back at your father for his disenchantment over the Project. Or getting back at your mother for some perceived... I don't know." She ran a finger down the screen in front of her. "It's strange to think about Krycek that way--that under other circumstances he could have been someone else, someone entirely different."

 

 

Krycek leaned forward and dropped his forehead into his hand.  It was the beginning of the end, yet another rerun of what had become the too-familiar pattern of his existence: something hopeful coming into his life, sparking for a brief second and then dying like a bad fuse on a bundle of explosives.  After a year that had been one one jolt down the ladder after another, Scully'd put a bullet in his gut and fate had sent him this girl, a pool of sunlight flooding the cement floor of his cell. 

Heaven knew he'd spent his life working in the dark, in the cold.  He was used to it, understood the need for it.  But that didn't make it any easier to see the sunlight go.

Footsteps sounded on the floor above.  Krycek sat up, leaned back against the cushions and let his head fall against the back of the couch.  Footfalls on the landing.  He took a breath and let it out slowly.  Closed his eyes. 

The footsteps came down the stairs.  He could picture her, all pale hair and softness, wrapped in a blanket like a flower bud on the verge of opening.  She approached the couch and paused behind it. He glanced up, reached for her fingers.

"Good news," he said, his voice too dry. "Great news. Best we could've asked for."

She sat carefully on the back edge of the couch.

"She's not telling Mulder yet. Not until she's got you."  He cleared his throat.  "It's smart. Good strategy." 

He breathed heavily into the silence, then leaned forward and clicked the laptop closed, suddenly lost.   Reached for the edge of the blanket and pulled it more snugly around his middle.  It was too damn cold down here.

"Which side, Alex?" 

He looked up to see her standing in front of him.  He shrugged. Didn't matter. Either one.

Anything.

A swirl of blankets and she was against his bad side, warm, careful not to lean against the wound, arm across his chest.  He smoothed stray hairs back from her face and let his hand settle against her neck.

"She said... to stay in touch."  He leaned back against the cushions, pulling her with him, and stared up at the faint circle of candlelight on the ceiling.  His thumb traced her cheekbone.

"It's a good sign, Alex."

He nodded.  "Yeah, you're right.  It's..." 

If the world would just stop turning, at least for a few revolutions; what the hell could it hurt?  He wanted to be upstairs, tangled with her in that dusty bed, skin-on-skin, wrapped up, melted together.  If only...

"I want to, too, Alex."

Her words were quiet, almost whispered, but they fell like glass into the room's silence.  His thumb stopped moving.  Something inside him--a hybrid of sudden hope and ingrained caution--held mind and body momentarily suspended.  She'd do anything--offer him whatever she thought he needed, wouldn't hesitate before stepping outside the place where she felt strong, or capable, if she thought it would help him, or heal him.

He let his lips graze her hair, linger against her temple.  Inside, his pulse pounded an echoing drumbeat.  This was it: cliff's edge.  Finally he tipped her chin with a finger. 

Clear eyes met him, strong and full of something he couldn't have described, something she wasn't offering to just anyone.  Probably something she'd never offered to anyone but him.

He kissed her jaw lightly, her cheek, lingered at the corner of her mouth.  "Are you sure?"

A fractional turn of her head, her lips barely grazing his, the warm dampness of breath filling the close space between them.  "Yes."  

A smile in the dark and she turned toward him. He shifted, sinking lower against the cushions, and pulled her against him, all warm, soft curves, hands cupping his face, welcome pressure against his groin. Her blanket had slipped, fallen a little off her shoulder.  He pressed his lips against the bare skin and looked up at her.  Foreheads met, serious expressions melting into broad smiles.  It was crazy, but god, it was good crazy and when had he been given anything like this?

 

 

"What's this about, Raylene?"

She looked up from her magazine. Joe indicated the blankets at the other end of the couch.

"What, guilty conscience?" She bit her lip and sighed. "No, that wasn't fair." She looked up at him, farther into him than she had in a long time. "It's notice, Joe. I want you out. I'm not asking you to go tonight but tomorrow's Friday and then you've got the whole weekend." She tried to hide her swallow.

Joe opened his mouth. For a while nothing came out. "Is this some kind of a...joke? 'Cause it's not funny, Raylene. Not one little bit."

"Uh-uh, guy. This is it, the real thing."

"Now, Raylene..." His hands needed something to fiddle with; they always needed something to fiddle with. He hooked one finger through a belt loop. "Just what the hell brought you to this point?"

"I think I need to do something different, Joe."

"You mean, somebody different?"

"No, that's not what I mean at all. Why do you always--?" She slammed her hand against the magazine. "That's part of the problem, Joe. It's not about 'doing it'. It's about getting a life. I feel like I've been sitting on the sidelines for too long, waiting for a bus that's never going to show up."

He gave her a look. Obviously, he didn't get it. It figured. Raylene looked back at her magazine page and flipped it. A lipstick ad, just a big old pair of lips covering the page. Red, of course. Nice timing.

"There are boxes in the garage," she said, staring at the page in front of her. "I picked them up this afternoon."

"How you gonna pay the mortgage, Raylene? It's gonna cost you twice as much if I'm not here."

"Less than twice. I'm paying two-thirds of it already."

"So what are you gonna do?"

She laid the magazine down in her lap and ran a hand back through her hair. "I can get a roommate. I can get--"

Another man: that was just what she didn't need. That was the whole problem in a nutshell: all this time wasted hoping she'd wake up one morning to find Joe had turned into Prince Charming. The real world was full of toads; it wasn't like the movies and all this time she'd been sitting here on her duff watching life pass her by like a swollen spring stream, waiting for someone to pick her up and carry her off instead of getting into that stream herself and swimming.

"Life don't last forever, Joe. I figure it's about time I stuck my toe in the water."

He looked at her without saying anything else. She picked up the magazine again, stared at the big, red lips and let the pages fall shut. They were part of the problem, the magazines--what you came to expect of life by looking at them. She got up and started across the room without purpose. She wandered through the kitchen to the garage door, went through, closed it behind her and flipped on the light. The dryer sat open. Pulling out a handful of clothes, she began to fold them. The kitchen door squeaked and came open.

"Where am I going to go, Raylene, on the spur of the moment like this?"

"You could stay with your daughter."

"Yeah, right. Her and that trucker of hers. That'd work out real well."

"Well, figure it out, Joe. It's your life. I'm not living it for you."

His head disappeared and the door slammed shut. Raylene picked up another shirt, shook it, paused and squeezed it into a little ball between her hands. Come to a decision, step out onto that scary high dive... and find yourself at the dryer like a fish returned to its birthplace to spawn. Natural as breathing.

 

 

"What is it, Mulder? What's been on your mind?"

Scully pushed against the floor to make the glider move and ran her fingers slowly through his hair. He lay beside her, taking up all but the very end of the glider, his head propped against her leg.

He grunted. "Samantha, I guess. I was just thinking this afternoon--" He looked up at her. "Actually I've been thinking for a while now.  Weeks."

"What?"

"About the chances that she actually survived. I mean, there would have been so many factors, Scully, so many dangers for a kid like her, the age she was." His shirt stretched against an intake of air that lingered. She smoothed a hand over his back and he let the breath go. "If they took her and she grew up with them, what would she have become? Nothing more than a lab rat? She wouldn't have taken it lying down, Scully. She wasn't one to take anything lying down. She'd never meekly accept if she thought she was getting the downside of anything--a game, a chance to go somewhere... even a piece of cake. She'd go to my mother and insist that she make it fair, make it even." He sighed, a long breath gradually deflating his shirt. "And I used to laugh at her, tease her."

"Mulder, we all teased our siblings."

"Yeah, but yours didn't disappear." He rolled onto his back and looked up at her. "Hey, I didn't mean anything about your sister."

She pressed her lips together. "I think we teased Melissa most of all," she said after a moment, looking past him. "Her crazy ways, the things she believed in. She was the free spirit, the one of us who didn't fit the family mold. Or who was brave enough to admit she didn't fit it."

"I guess it's the not knowing--the speculation. If that's what she went through--I mean, we know for a fact she was cloned--what would it have done to her? Made her bitter? Made her mad enough that they would have done something to counter her 'attitude'? She definitely had an attitude. And then would she have fought back? Would they have sedated her, or worse? If she survived all that, what kind of person would that make her today? Would I even know her? Would she know me? Hell, she could be like Heather Barker and have no memory of anything."

He rolled onto his side again. His cheek pressed hard against her leg.

"Maybe"--she smoothed her fingers through his hair again--"maybe they returned her, Mulder--decided she wasn't worth the trouble. She could be a normal person somewhere, with a family."

He turned to look up at her and smiled. "That's your theory?"

She smiled weakly.  "Just trying to be hopeful."

"How much could her body take--whatever they did to her--before she was used up? What are the odds she survived a year? Five years? Even a few months?"

Scully sighed and looked up to where stars twinkled in the matte darkness beyond the screen. "Mulder, there's a picture in your mother's hallway, of you holding Samantha when she was just a baby--"

"The one where she's trying to tip herself out of my arms?"

"Yes." She smiled. "It says a lot about how you felt about her, about the special closeness you two shared. Don't you think that in a time of danger, a time when she was frightened, that you're the one she'd think of, that you're where her comfort would come from, no matter what happened to her?"

"Yeah, but I didn't save her, Scully."

"Not everybody is saved, Mulder. But the point is that you were there with her in spirit. She would have taken you with her, and she would have held onto those memories, the way you've held onto yours. And how rare that is, that kind of bond between two people that can transcend time and circumstance."

His back heaved and then settled.  She watched his lower lip push forward.

"Mulder, you were a boy. A twelve-year-old boy."

 

 

Krycek let his head fall onto the cushions behind him.  Sweat clung to his neck, cold where she wasn't. She was still wrapped around him, arms and legs, warm body pressed against his. Their own little private universe. If only there were a way to hold onto it for a while: peace, this place, the two of them together. If there were just a way to wrap her in safety, some kind of security.

"You do, Alex." Her head came up. Her cheeks still carried a flush of color. "I can feel it around me."

"What?"

"You. What you are." Her head settled against his shoulder, warm cheek, that smooth, smooth hair and beads of cooling moisture along her hairline.

"How you doing?" He pulled up slightly and nudged her with his nose.

"I'm fine."

"You're smiling, you know."

"That alright?"

"Uh-uh." He gave her a look, mock-solemn. "Against the rules. This is serious stuff." He brushed a kiss against her hair and pulled her closer.

The rain had stopped. There was only the occasional drip, water hanging from the eaves and finally letting go. He closed his eyes. Stop the clock, live in the pause, away from the crazy dangers posed by the conflict between men and alien races... or even the everyday risks of life on the planet. It was a dream scenario, impossible. But she wasn't; she was real. So incredibly real. Though the real stuff--the good stuff--never seemed to last.  Just a blink and it was gone again.

Krycek's Adam's apple dipped.  He made himself breathe out.

"Alex, are you alright?"

He kissed her temple and rested his cheek against her head. "Yeah. You're here; I'm here. I'm okay."

 

 

"Dad?"

David Barker opened his eyes and looked up. His son stood in the darkened doorway. "Adrie, what are you doing?"

The boy shrugged. "I woke up."

David sighed and waved him forward to the rocking chair. Adrie climbed up into his lap. He was wearing his zebra pajamas.

"Whatcha doing, Dad?"

"Just sitting here, thinking."

"Did you wake up, too?"

"No, I just... haven't gone to bed yet."

"How come?"

"Just thinking, I guess. About how things surprise us sometimes.  Or we think we see our way clear to something and then we find out we didn't really have it figured out at all, and how many times do they come back at us, the mistakes we make?"

Adrie curled down against him and closed his eyes. David gave the chair a push and let it start to rock. He pulled the soft little body up closer against him. "I love you, son," he said into the mussed blond hair. "I do."

Chapter 17

Friday

To: Cranesbill@

From: topaz@

I know this is sudden but I haven't been able to sleep for thinking.  Theoretically we've got time, maybe another week or so, but if there's a sure way to get her out of here, I can't afford to tell myself she'll be safe with me a little while longer if we just play our cards right. Could you meet me today or tomorrow? It would have to be somewhere within an hour or so of D.C., someplace I know I can make the drive back from on my own.

Name a location and I'll be in touch.

                                                                                                 -A

 

 

"You have any idea what time it is, Mother J?"

Rita was sitting next to the living room window in the dark, hands folded in her lap as if she were in church. Will came up behind her and set a hand on her shoulder.

"Couldn't sleep, Will," she said quietly. "When I can't sleep I sometimes get up and look at the stars. It helps to put things in perspective, to know there's a whole big universe out there and your situation's only one little part of it. And sometimes things comes to me, maybe a thought I need to know, or think about."

"Any inspiration this time?"

She shook her head. "I'm flying blind now, Will. Wondering if I'm doing the right thing. Nervous, too." She looked up at him. "Maggie's the one who should be nervous... though it's probably a blessing she doesn't know anything yet. Sometimes things are easier on you if they just happen--no forethought, no time for you to worry about the possibilities, I guess, or see them looming on the horizon."

"Sink or swim."

She nodded, sighed and looked out to the darkness beyond the glass. "Let's hope there are some life preservers floating out there in that sea of tomorrow. We all need to be able to swim through this, Will."

 

 

"Mulder, what are you doing?"

Mulder glanced toward the bed in the shadowed corner of the room. Scully was up on one elbow, squinting toward where he sat at the table, illumined by the light of an emergency candle.

"Woke up hungry," he said, shrugging. "Decided to have a little more of that potato salad you made." He paused and finished chewing. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"No, you... you didn't. I mean I just... woke up. I rolled over and you weren't here."

He smiled. "I can fix that."  He stood and took his bowl to the sink and returned to the bed. She held the covers back. "We sacked out so early," he said, getting in and pulling up the sheet.

"You mean you sacked out so early."

"What, you didn't?"

"You fell asleep after a few minutes on the glider, Mulder."

"And you?"

"I just sat there for a while, thinking."

"Worrying?" He rolled toward her and smoothed a hand through her hair.

"It seems to be my default mental process these days, doesn't it? No, actually I..."

"What?"

"I was thinking about three weeks ago, about that night I..." She swallowed. "When I fell apart in the car, at the airport."

He smoothed a thumb along her shoulder.

"And how... lost I felt, how utterly... cut loose from everything around me I was, as if I were tumbling, freefalling. That night at your mother's I went out into the alley--Mulder, I don't even know now what drove me to do it." She scooted up higher on the pillow and eased him into her arms. Her chin settled against the top of his head. "But I was also thinking about how much my life has changed since that night, how much stronger I feel now--grounded--in spite of everything that's going on--the tension, my mother's safety..."

Her fingers trailed through his hair. Mulder closed his eyes.

"Guess one of us has to feel grounded." He rolled free of her, onto his back. "Scully, I--" He let out a heavy breath and stared up at the shadows on the ceiling. "I keep trying to figure out why, or how far she'd go, or what her motivation is, working with Smoky. She's incredibly determined in a... non-passionate sort of way. She just keeps on going until she finds what she's looking for. She--" He stopped abruptly and frowned. Like she wanted to hear this.  It was the same territory that had set them at odds a dozen times before. Not to mention the reason she'd ended up on the couch the other night when Dale had brought her over.

"Go on, Mulder."

He sighed. "Didn't bring you out here to get into this again. Remind me never to apply for a job as a recreation director, Scully."

Silence, then the quiet hum of the refrigerator and a lone frog outside, calling into the dark.

"Mulder, I've made decisions, too.  In the past.  Decisions about trusting people, about taking them into my life that... It's so easy to get carried away with the...needs of the moment or... or your own hopes for what a relationship will be, a fulfillment of something, or a sanctuary, or... And maybe the facts are right there in front of you--I don't think they were for you, Mulder. But you go ahead anyway, trying to fulfill that... that need or attraction you're feeling, even though..."

"Though what?"

"Though you sometimes know you shouldn't. When the reasons weighing against what you're doing should be more compelling than the ones leading you into it." Her voice was distant. It wasn't any theoretical she was speaking in.  "I guess I've always... craved security, and there was a time in my life when I was attracted to people--figures--I thought could give me that."

"Men."

"Men. Father-figures. Men who I thought had the answers.  Or the answer sheets, who could tell me if I was on the right track."

"Sorry. No security here, Scully." He gave her a sheepish smile. "But I guess you've noticed after all this time, eh?"

"No, I don't think there is any real security, not in the kind of life we lead. But that's just it, Mulder. You don't look at me like a... a pupil. You expect me to make my own contribution, to have thought about it, analyzed it.  And then you look back at those decisions you made in the past, and you think, you should have seen it--the logic of it, and the factors, the way you do now. But at the time the things you saw were different things."

"Hope that letter of Rita's does the trick, Scully. Because otherwise Diana's going to keep digging. She may not have any personal investment in this assignment, but if she needs the information she'll stick with it." If he needs the information: Smoky.  Scully could be pointing that out but thankfully she wasn't. "I keep thinking about it, that if we were to end up face to face over this, on opposite ends of things, guns drawn... What would I do, you know? Would I shoot her? Could I shoot her? Hell, I couldn't even shoot Smoky when I had the chance. Or would I do it out of spite, or... Or would she shoot me? I just... I don't know."

He rolled onto his side, wrapped an arm around her and buried his head against her shoulder. "This theoretical guy you were talking about, Scully." He looked up at her. "He doesn't work for Smoky, does he?"

She paused a moment, smiled suddenly and shook her head. "No, Mulder, I guess that's one thing we don't have to worry about. She sighed and slipped an arm around him.

"It's good, you know," he said, not wanting to drop the ball. "To know there's at least one thing we don't have to worry about."

"Yes. Yes it is."

Her fingers played in his hair. A smile lit her voice.

 

 

A fast food bag sat tantalizingly close inside the dumpster, though try as she might Tracy couldn't quite reach it. But she was hungry, so very hungry. And cold. Strange day, that it should be warm and bright, and yet she was shivering. She reached down over the edge of the dumpster and tried again, fingers straining. Suddenly her legs were out from under her and she was tumbling, falling. A jolt of adrenaline and her eyes opened abruptly to darkness.

Home.

Night.

She was in her own bed. She hugged herself against the cold.

Alex. She was here with Alex. She was...

She and Alex.

The imprint of her body began to fill her consciousness, not just its coldness but the length and shape of it: the smoothness of her skin, the length of her legs, the curves and hollows and places where their bodies had met.  She swallowed against the sudden heat of the memory.  But he wasn't here, he was... not downstairs; he was up here, sitting... against the empty left wall. She rolled and sat up, pulling the blankets up around her shoulders. A wash of low moonlight revealed him sitting on the floor halfway down the length of the room, his back against the wall.

"Alex?"

As if he were carved from stone. She got up and went closer. He acknowledged her in his head--a nod, a touch and then nothing.

She knelt beside him. His head rested against the wall. Pale silver trails stained his cheeks.

"Alex?"  She swallowed. Suddenly her lungs were tight, as if all the air in the room had evaporated.  "Alex, no."

 

 

"I meant to say," Scully said, struggling with the words as the thickness of sleep took her, "that I'm grateful, Mulder. That you stood by me all that time when I was so... so swept away."

"Scully, it was--"

On the far side of the room the refrigerator stopped its low humming. A lock of hair was lifted carefully from her face.

"What else could I do?"

 

 

"You're shivering," he whispered against her hair, but he was shaking, too.

"I know. I'm so cold." She pulled back and sat up straighter. "I know it's not that cold, but--"

He rubbed her arm to warm her.

"You're cold, too, Alex. What are you doing here?"

He shrugged. "Figured I'd probably wake you up.  Didn't want to."  A pause.  "Tracy--"  It was the raw, inescapable truth of his life: he was a rogue player--former player--in a high-stakes game, and a danger to anyone he might actually end up caring about. "If there were"--he looked up at the darkened ceiling and sniffed--"some other way, any other way--"

"I know. I'm not complaining."

"I wrote to her. About half an hour ago."

She nodded. One side of him was in shadow, almost invisible; the other was lit by the moon's pale glow. His fingers lingered near her elbow.

"Alex, don't worry about your thoughts keeping me awake. It can't be helping you to sit here like this. Come back to bed. Let's just be together--"  

While we can.

She pressed her lips tight and refused to say the words. After a moment she stood and offered him a hand. He let her pull him up and lead him back to the bed in the darkened corner.

"Do you mind if I move it back under the window?" she said, turning to him. "So I can watch the clouds?"

Silently, he helped her move the bed to where it had been before. The window with its dreamy scene beckoned her, drawing her to the ledge. White-edged clouds drifted slowly in the darkness outside the glass. Below, the orchard lay frozen in mute silver light, a waking dream in black and white. How often she'd wakened in the middle of the night to look out over it like this, tracing the shapes of the shadows the trees made. Sometimes she'd gone outside and run between them in the slow, cool light.

So little time--a day at most, or maybe just hours--and she'd leave here for the last time. Strangely, it was no surprise. The thought had been there for a while now, maybe a week, the way she'd sensed yesterday that she wouldn't return to her little room on the floor above Alex's.

Leaving.  In only a few weeks his room and the man who inhabited it had come to be the universe she lived in, breathed in. Found purpose and shelter in. Her fingers pressed hard against the window ledge.

"Nena--"

She swallowed and turned to find him already under the blankets, wedged into the corner where he could see out over the room. He was waiting. She glanced out again: the overgrown vegetable garden, the orchard with its frozen shadows like dancers out of time, the broad expanse of empty field to the right and the swathe of silver-tipped trees that circled the edge of the silent valley.  Finally she turned to the bed, slipping her blanket off, spreading it quickly on top of the others and climbing in. Alex's arm came out and gathered her against him. Her throat ached with a hard, hollow ache. She wrapped an arm around him, shivering, and let him warm one of her legs between his.

"Better?" His hand smoothed across her back, cool at first and then warming, comforting.

"Mm." She held him harder.  Her spirit ached, as if some essential part of herself was being torn away.

A stubbled cheek pressed against hers. "Could you--?"

Sing. Just something. A little.

Anything would do.

She started to hum but the lump in her throat squeezed the sound dry. Her eyes stung and she squeezed them shut. 

Dyshi, krasavitsa.  Breathe.

Careful lips settled against her cheekbone and a hand smoothed down her back. Gradually she felt herself relax into the comfort of his body, and the concern that circled her like a wrapping.  Breath and quiet: a tiny world within a world, steady and soothing.  Eventually she smiled. What better than to do something positive now, to offer him something rather than dwelling on the pain to come?

"Thank you, Alex."

"For?" he said, puzzled.

She shook her head, settled closer against him and sought out his fingers. "What does it mean, Alex?  Nena?"

"It means 'little girl'." A kiss against her forehead. "It means lover. It means... whatever you want it to mean. Somebody you care about." His lips against her temple, and then his nose, nudging her softly. Sing.

She smiled and let a clear note slip into the quiet.

 

 

Teena rested her fingers on the edge of the keyboard and reread her response to Alex's last mail.

Whatever would make it easier for him. Though apparently whatever accommodation she was able to offer would not be enough to make this process completely painless for her newfound son. It was almost too much to ask, or perhaps a matter of reading her own hope into his message--that this still vaguely-known child would turn out to have at least a measure of heart and conscience his father would never know, that somehow Leland had been unable to completely inject his venom. Unless this entire scenario was a cleverly constructed trap, Alex was giving up something he very much valued for the sake of this girl's safety. What kind of person would find herself inside this dangerous man's defenses and circle of protection?

In only hours the answer would be apparent.

Teena clicked 'send', waited to see her message gone and drifted to the window, her pulse ticking away the tightening seconds. First light tinted the sky. Everything was packed and ready. The motion that was about to begin--that would surely begin and take them all on some unanticipated journey--sat poised and waiting. The three of them against Leland... or so it appeared.

If she'd seen the situation clearly. If Alex was who and what he seemed.

If Fox would cooperate and put aside the hurt Alex had so obviously done him.

So many ifs.

 

 

The bed sagged slightly. The covers were pulled back and then quickly brought up again. A cold hand settled against Scully's hip.

She rolled instinctively.

"Mulder, what--?" She opened her eyes and blinked at the early morning light. "What time is it?"

"Six-forty," he said quietly.

"You've been up again. You're cold."

"I know."

"Doing?"

"Thinking. Maybe thinking too much."

"About?"

"This. Smoky. My sister."

"Mulder, it sounds like we've switched places here.  But it does seem all too easy to forget that the world turns, that life goes on without our consciously willing it to happen."

"While we sink ourselves in the quicksand of the theoretical?"

"Mmm. I plead guilty."

"Yeah, well I guess I've had it with playing that game. For now, anyway. You never win, you're always down by"--the pillow beside her was lifted and then set down--"at least two-to-one"--the blankets were moved--"and that's at the outset. The more you play"--he rolled away slightly and looked behind him--"the farther and farther behind you get."

Scully pushed up on one elbow, puzzled. "Mulder, are you looking for something?"

"Yeah, I"--he turned back to her--"I think I left a lover in here somewhere." He raised an eyebrow. There was a familiar gleam in his eye, and then a smile. His hand slipped up her side. He leaned in closer, mouth capturing hers. "Hey, I think"--a kiss, lingering, against her neck, then another, lower, making her shiver--"I've found her. Is that her, Scully?"

She smiled, lay back against the pillow and gave him a mock-critical look. "I don't know, Mulder. Maybe you'll have to--" A knee insinuated itself between hers. "...investigate that possibility a little further."

"You mean"--his body came closer, sending current through her--"a thorough investigation?"

"Thorough is"--she slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him down against her--"the only acceptable way."

"By the book."

"Yes. By the book."

"By my book."

"How is that different?"

"Let me offer you a little... demonstration, Dr. Scully."

"As a professional courtesy?"

"As a very private... professional... courtesy."

 

 

"Four hours and counting, gentlemen." Byers paused in the doorway, waiting for a response.

Frohike was busy at the stove. The top of Langly's yellow mane showed from behind the morning paper on the far side of the table.

"I assume you two have done your part," Byers went on.

"Rani's gotten me into security as a replacement," Langly's voice came from behind the newspaper. "If the Smoking Man's cronies are in there, they're bound to say something that will give them away. If not, if they've got some kind of remote access--"

He let the newspaper fall and stopped abruptly, his mouth half open. Frohike turned around at the sudden lull in the conversation.

"Don't say anything," Byers said, waving a finger slightly in warning. He colored in spite of himself.

"Well," Frohike shrugged. "The beard'll grow back. And it's for a good cause."

"Nice touch with the hair." Langly nodded. "Anybody trying to remember you is going to think redhead. Kristen loan you that?"

Byers nodded.

"Crazy Kristen." Frohike said, smiling. "Gotta love that chick."

"You're ready for parking lot duty?" Byers asked.

"Binocs and video camera ready," Frohike said, his focus returning to the eggs he was pushing around inside a frying pan. "If they catch on early and try to follow, they're gonna be on candid camera."

"And you'll tail our target all the way?"

"Until Maggie's signed, sealed and delivered."

"Good." Byers reached to rub the beard that was no longer there. His hand hesitated and dropped to his side.

"What about you?" Langly said, nodding toward Byers.

Byers frowned and cleared his throat. "Ready as I'll ever be," he said. "Hopefully I won't have to use too much of that instruction Rani's wife was giving me. Besides, she'll be there, too. She's around the hospital enough that she won't seem suspicious to anyone." His brow wrinkled. "I do hope this plays out well for Mulder's and Scully's sakes. They certainly deserve not to have to worry about this on top of everything else." He stared at the far wall.

"With any luck," Frohike said, "we'll catch 'em on video and be able to track 'em down. Let's see how the sons of bitches like it when somebody starts trailing them."

"Remember, it will be to our advantage, gentlemen, not to become overconfident about this. This man's ploys are the reason Mulder was dismissed in the first place. He and Scully could easily be dead by now if not for some extraordinary effort and a good dose of luck. Maggie almost was." He paused and looked at nothing in particular. "Certainly enough other people have died because of him."

Byers turned and left the room. Langly and Frohike exchanged glances.

Frohike shrugged. "Eggs?" he said.

"Sure. Eat, drink and be merry."

"Shut up, Goldilocks."

 

 

Tracy pulled the plug and watched the shadowed water drain from the bathroom sink. Alex was upstairs, still asleep; he hadn't noticed when she'd slipped away and out of bed. She'd wrapped herself in a blanket, gone downstairs and checked their clothes in her mother's room--dry finally--and then ventured outside barefoot in the mud, circling the vegetable garden, the orchard, the pond--places that had once formed the boundaries of her life.

The sweet pea vines again.  The desperate urge to take them down was gone. There was a second flower on the other side of the trellis from where Alex had discovered one yesterday; now it sat tucked above her ear. It wasn't until she'd reached the poplars that she'd realized what she would look like, wandering the orchard wrapped in a blanket, if anyone were to see.

If Nathan were to come across from the other side of the ridge...

Tracy stiffened.  She didn't want to begin to think about what Nathan might say, or do. Especially if he found her here with someone else.  With a man.

She'd turned then and headed quickly back toward the house, emotions swelling and sagging like a balloon being slowly filled with water. Her feet were filthy and her stomach was a small, hard thing that clutched greedily at the thought of the jar of applesauce waiting on the kitchen counter. There was a dull soreness from last night, an ache mixed with a touch of the distilled sweetness of their union--need and joy and giving made flesh. So many things had come, in the last few weeks, to load her life with meaning and now they were poised, all of them, to be whisked away as if they'd never happened. She could feel them waiting, tensed and ready. Now was the time to call on her inner strength. It was there, somewhere under the layers of mixed-up circumstance and emotion. He'd made her see that.

In the bathroom she'd run water in the sink and washed all her essential parts and then her muddy feet, slowly, as if time were a movie passing a single frame at a time.

A low gurgle sounded in the pipes, shaking her from her thoughts, the last of the water escaping down the drain. She was cold, shivering.  Quickly she reached for the towel and rubbed her skin dry. The yellow dress was ready in the other room. She picked the blanket off the edge of the tub, adjusted it around her and looked at her reflection in the mirror by the dull glow of the candle. Refugees looked like this.

To the left of her reflection, deeper within the mirror's view, the bathtub sat in deep shadow. In her mind she could see herself splashing there as a child.  She'd been a daughter in this house, a companion and confidante. A provider and a strong arm. A lover, now. You're a woman, Alex would think to her in a back corner of his head where it lay only half-disguised; it's okay to feel like one. And what would she be tomorrow? An orphan? A widow? An unsupported support?

But he was still here; they were both still here. Her memory of her mother was much more at peace than it had been before she came. It was Alex who had helped her through it. Led her. Stayed with her.

Stomach knotted and achy, Tracy blew out the candle on the sink's edge and went out into the kitchen. Alex would tell her to eat rather than wait for him, to get something inside her because her body needed nourishment considering the state it was in. He'd been feeling especially ambivalent about the baby since the focus had shifted to getting her away safely. How could the child she carried prove anything but a hindrance, making her own survival more difficult? A handicap not unlike the arm he was missing.  Or the unexpected complication he'd presented to his mother's life, a minefield he'd just begun to recognize.

Her stomach growled.  Tracy reached for the jar of applesauce at the back of the counter and took last night's clean dishes from the drainer. The sound of muffled footsteps passed by overhead. She turned to see Alex standing at the top of the stairs. He started down toward her. Quickly she opened a drawer and began to search through the utensils for the jar opener while something hummed, tightening inside her.

"Hey," he said, coming up behind her, his hand settling against her waist, tentative.

How was she doing?

She shut the drawer and looked up. "I went outside and got all muddy like a little kid running around--" She tried for a smile but it caught, unexpectedly sharp and painful, in her throat. The seconds seemed to stretch and finally to pause completely. She looked down until a finger lifted her chin.

Tracy.

"Alex, I--"

A sudden wash of something she couldn't hold back. She closed her eyes and leaned against him, crying now--a child's crying, undisguised and painful in the room's quiet. A hand smoothed back through her hair and then his arm went around her and pulled her close against him.

"Nena." The word quiet against her temple. He rocked her slightly and she let herself be held, soothed by the movement. He was still here. But he was worried now.  Maybe they'd taken things too far, nice though it had been--no, amazing in some quiet, understated way he couldn't quite pinpoint.  Still, it had been all too easy.  Maybe he should have kept his head, reined them both in for her sake.

"Alex, it's not that; it's... everything, I guess. Leaving. Being here. So many things at once." She looked up.  "Not last night."  Especially not that.

He studied her a moment, solemn. Finally his expression softened and he wiped a lingering tear from the corner of her eye with his thumb. 

Another day's growth of stubble; she liked the way it looked on him.  She smiled and reached to kiss his chin. Her lips brushed prickly skin and drifted until his mouth came close and paused. He was waiting for her not to be able to resist. He knew a little was all it took; a little taste and she'd reach. She leaned closer, lips barely touching his. Then the closeness and current and the slippery, beckoning wetness were working their magic, neither one able to resist, neither wanting to.

"Get something to eat," he said finally, breaking the kiss, shaking his head with a grin. 

He made himself step back beyond arms' reach. He had to check his mail. Had to stay alert. Alertness was what kept you alive.

 

 

To: topaz@

From: Cranesbill@

Quite unexpected to receive your request so soon. Apparently you weren't the only one kept up late--or waking early--over speculation about this matter. Yes, I can accommodate today. Would Baltimore work? Or is another area better? Does that suit your travel requirements for afterward? There is a place available to me in Baltimore that will not require leaving identification that could be traced.

Let me know of anything that will make this easier for you. Awaiting your prompt reply as travel time is involved.

                                                                                        -M

 

 

Tracy scooped the last spoonful of the applesauce from her dish, savoring the rich sweetness it spread inside her mouth.  In her mind she could see her mother, her face unlined and smiling, coming through the doorway with a box of apples and setting it on the table. The ghost-woman ran a hand back through her hair, leaving it behind her ear. There was something about her, as if she were a different person, a much younger person than the mother she'd known. Not so different from herself: a wife once, a lover, carrier of a child. How hard it would have been, coming from Pasadena, from her father, to this.

But then how had she hid the regret, the empty ache and longing she must have felt? It had never lain there in her mind the way it did in other people's, exposed and obvious.

Warmth close behind her--Alex--and a hand against her waist.

"We've got about three hours 'til we need to go," he said quietly when she turned. "She's going to meet us in Baltimore."

 

 

To: Cranesbill@

From: topaz@

Location sounds good. Send specifics. Will 1:30 work?

This is going to be tricky, so I appreciate the help.

                                              -A

Most likely he was referring to the logistics and the fact that he'd have to pass the test of Leland's skepticism with whatever story he chose to give out about the girl's disappearance.

Or perhaps he was becoming more transparent.

Teena sighed and placed her fingers on the keyboard. Fox had said he'd have some friends find a way for her to access her funds without their being traceable, but in the meantime Trudy's Baltimore condo would provide a safe meeting place. Trudy must have known something even then, years ago, when she'd offered her the key and said to use the place if there was ever a need.

Next week Trudy would be in Baltimore but the condo was vacant for the time being. It was the perfect place to leave a note letting Trudy know... 

What exactly could she say that wouldn't cause alarm? But she had to leave some type of message before she disappeared. She'd told the neighbor boy, Paul, the one who'd helped her navigate the new laptop, that she'd be gone to Maine for the next three weeks. He was to bring in the mail and water the houseplants and do the mowing. But if she was still gone then?

What if she never returned? She'd taken nothing she believed Leland would note as a significant absence: no pictures of the children, no keepsakes, none of Bill's old papers. Only enough clothing to be appropriate for a three-week vacation. How else could she prepare? Surely Fox would give her further advice when she talked to him. If he'd talk to her. What would he say, and how could she work around the reaction he'd surely display at her having agreed to receive the girl from his old enemy?

Teena shivered. There was a tightness in her chest, a tremble that ran through her arms and down to the tips of her fingers. This had the feeling of a dangerous liaison, the way slipping away with Leland had been dangerous. And the risk of alienating someone with her actions loomed just as large, except that this time it would be Fox she risked offending.

 

 

The red car came to a dusty stop in the front yard. Sandy glanced from the bathroom window back to the mirror and quickly flushed her mouth with more of the water pouring from the sink, letting it carry away the awful, bitter taste. She grabbed for a washcloth, held it under the water, squeezed it out and wiped the sweat from her forehead. Hopefully she wouldn't look as pale--or as bad--as she felt. She glanced out the window again.  Her mother was already out of view.

Almost immediately the doorbell rang. Sandy closed her eyes momentarily, then turned and went down the hall to answer it. Her heart pounded.

"Hi." Raylene looked down slightly and hesitated, then held out a white bag. "I brought you a couple of doughnuts. Guess I got up kinda early."

It was a peace offering of some kind. Sandy's stomach turned at the thought of the sweet doughnuts but she swallowed the feeling and opened the door wider.  "Thanks."

She took the bag from her mother's outstretched hand and went to the kitchen counter, her mother trailing behind her. Raylene pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. She looked at her fingernails.

"Something happen, Mom?"

Raylene sighed. "Yeah, I guess it did." A twitch at the corner of her mouth. "I had this little revelation yesterday."

Sandy gave her a quizzical look.

"Long story short," Raylene said after a long pause, "I told Joe to have himself and his stuff out of the house by Sunday."

Sandy came around to the table, pulled out a chair across from her mother and sat down. "You two have a fight?"

"No, I... This didn't have anything to do with Joe." She sighed. "Maybe it never has had anything to do with Joe. I think it's all been in my head.  The whole time.  Everything."

Sandy traced the grain lines on the tabletop and finally looked up. "He don't love you, Mom. I don't think he's ever loved anybody but his own self in his life."

The corners of Raylene's mouth wavered. She pasted a smile on. "Yeah, I think I finally figured that out."

The kitchen clock ticked loudly. Sandy glanced up at it. 8:40. She needed to start for Adrie's. Her toes poked against the chair leg, tapping a silent beat against it.  Raylene continued to stare at the tabletop.

"I'm going to have to be going," Sandy said quietly. She let her teeth press into her lower lip. "I've got a job to get to."  Brace yourself for the big flood of questions, girl.

Raylene got up from the table quietly and pushed the chair in. Her fingers smoothed over the curved chair back.

"I thought of something else," she said. "I didn't mean to be an 'I told you so'. I guess it sounds pretty bad when you're on the receiving end. I just--" She looked up, out the window, and swallowed. "I guess I just was so scared that it could've been you and not just Roddy in that car that night." Raylene's lips pressed into a flat line.

Sandy stood motionless, as if someone had called 'freeze' in a game of statue.

 

 

Krycek frowned. "I blow it?"

Tracy shook her head against his chest--no. He took his hand from her back and lifted a few stray hairs from her forehead, out of beads of sweat, and smoothed them back past her ear. He searched her face for clues but there was no reading it.

"What then?" he whispered against her temple.

"I just--"

Her arms were still hard around him. She'd seemed obvious enough a minute ago. It had seemed good for her--way past good. And he'd done his best to be careful. Obviously he'd overstepped somewhere along the line. Tricky, trying to figure her out.

Her eyes opened and she looked at him. She was amazing, all flushed like this. "It was--" Overwhelming, she whispered close to his ear.  "In a good way," she added, keying off his lingering puzzlement. "Though it's almost scary, Alex--to feel yourself want something so much that everything else falls away, everything else you should be thinking about."

"Some things aren't meant to be analyzed."  He kissed the bridge of her nose and rested his cheek against her head. 

Like the last twenty-four hours.  Strategically, coming here seemed like the last thing in the world he should have been doing.  But there were times when some wild chance you took ended up keeping you alive on the inside.  This was going to carry him a long time.

"Would you take it back?" he said, staring toward the far end of the room.  "Just now?  Hell, any of this?"

She shook her head against him.  "Not for anything."

He smiled and let his fingers wander through her hair, sensing like blind men's fingers. "Me, either."

"What will you do now, Alex?"

He shook his head and looked up into the swirls of wood grain on the ceiling. The room seemed to chill around him. There'd never been any question.  A clean break had been the only thing that made sense, the only way to guarantee safety for either of them. And that's what this had always been about.

He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath.  There was a dull ache in his side under the mask of the pain medication, and he was shrinking, about to slip out of her.  He started to ease himself away but her hand against his hip stopped him. 

"Not yet, Alex."

They never lasted, those windows of opportunity. Blink and they were gone.

A couple of hours left.  He stretched carefully and brushed a kiss against her shoulder. Her leg was heavy over his.  He memorized the shape and weight of it, a hedge against the bleakness that lay ahead.

 

 

To: thelark@

From: Redwall@

Thought you should be apprised of the current plans. The operation is scheduled for 11:30 this morning, to coincide with the activity of the lunch hour. Her doctor has talked at length with the caregiver at the new facility, the location of which was heron3's brainchild and should afford more security than the usual options. Every precaution we can think of has been taken. More details to follow as the plan unfolds. I understand that it will not be easy to sit on the other end just waiting to hear, but be assured we will make every necessary effort on her behalf and yours.

                                                                                       -JB

Scully sighed and closed her eyes. Two and a half hours and then however long it would take them to pull off their plan and carry her mother to safety. If only there were something she could do to help. But what had she told Mulder not three hours ago about the world turning--life unfolding--without having to make it happen? She ran a finger along the edge of the desk in front of her.

Light footfalls sounded outside and a knock came on the metal paneling beside the door.

"Sandy?" Scully pushed the chair back and turned. Sandy stood outside, a plastic grocery bag in her hand. She seemed edgy. Scully got up from her chair and held the screen door open.

Sandy came up the stairs and inside. She gave a small, ambiguous smile that promptly faded.

"Feeling nauseated again?" Scully said, motioning her to the bed.

Sandy sat down on the edge and set her bag on the floor. She nodded. Scully sat down beside her and leaned forward, elbows on her knees.

"It could be a good sign," she said.

Sandy let out a sigh. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. "My mom came by," she said finally, her voice dry.

Scully waited, but nothing more seemed forthcoming. "How did it go?"

"It was... It wasn't bad. She's lost, I think. She's throwing Joe out." She held a breath, paused and finally let it out. "She gave me these doughnuts." She pointed to a white paper bag inside the shopping sack and smiled briefly. "I don't think I could keep one down but maybe later. You're welcome to one if you like."

Obviously there was more.

"She said"--Sandy shook her head at the memory--"that she'd been so afraid that... you know--what if it'd been me in the car that night, with Cy and Roddy--" Her mouth curled at the corners. Her shoulders heaved and she leaned into Scully's embrace. "Annie, I've been so busy hurting that"--she gulped--"I'd never even thought, never even stopped to consider..."

Scully smoothed a hand across her shoulder. "That you could have been there, too?"

Sandy nodded against her. "I guess it's pretty creepy, but when something like that misses you--you know, even just by a fraction of a hair--you just pass it off and don't think about it no more. You look at it in your mind like that: that nothing happened, nothing woulda." She sniffed.

"You know what else it means," Scully said after a moment. "It means your mother loves you.  She's concerned about what happens to you. I'm sure she misses Roddy, too. Sometimes when we hurt, we only see our own pain. Other people around us may be hurting, too, but we don't realize it; we don't see that far."

Scully looked down, at the shopping bag on the floor.

The girl straightened and wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. "I picked up one of those tests," she said, the corners of her mouth quivering. "I couldn't bring myself to do it at home all alone."

"You know you're supposed to do them first thing in the morning."

"I know. I waited. I'm about to burst."

Scully smiled. "Then go," she said quietly. She reached down for the small brown paper bag and handed it to Sandy. "Go on."

Sandy took it and stood. She went around the bed and into the bathroom. The door clicked closed.

Scully closed her eyes. Whatever would happen would happen. As in her mother's case, there was nothing she could do to affect the outcome. Sandy deserved this second chance, but what was deserved seemed to happen so infrequently. Mulder deserved to find his sister alive and well, with a faithful brother clear in her memory. Melissa deserved to be alive. They deserved to have their careers back. Even Alex Krycek deserved to have had a better start than the one he'd had, a child shaped and trained to the deliberate, devious purposes of the Smoking Man.

The muffled sound of the toilet flushing came from beyond the wall. Scully opened her eyes. The door opened slowly and Sandy's face appeared. It showed nothing.

"Well?"

The girl shook her head. "I couldn't look. Sometimes I'm the biggest chicken."

"And sometimes you're very, very brave." Scully paused. "Do you want me to check it?"

Sandy nodded and sat down on the edge of the bed. Scully went into the bathroom, her breath faint, as if she weren't pulling in enough air. She made herself look at the little plastic test kit on the counter. The corners of her mouth pulled up.

"It's good news," she said, returning to the bedroom. "Very good."

"Oh, my." Sandy's shoulders heaved again. She looked up and smiled through red eyes. "Ohmigod. Oh--" She looked away. "I wish Cy were here. I wish--" The girl's eyes closed.

Scully went closer and smoothed a hand through her hair. "He is, in a way. A little bit of him, anyway."

Sandy nodded against her.

"Why don't you lie down, Sandy? For a little while, until your stomach settles. I'll watch Adrie until you're ready."

"Thank you, Annie. Oh--"

"Rest."

"Adrie's building a little building on the barn floor."

Sandy lay back and curled onto her side. She closed her eyes. Scully watched her a moment--long, wavy brown hair, tan muscular legs, the scabs from her run-in with the bushes in the Savers Mart parking lot gradually healing--and slipped quietly out of the trailer to look for Adrie.

 

 

Grimacing in anticipation, Mulder dropped the pieces of shattered bottle carefully down the side of the plastic trash bag. It was crazy. Scully would go ballistic if she knew, but what other way was there? Something was going on with the Connors kids; the feeling was too strong to ignore. Even Scully'd admitted that not a single instance of shock among three diabetic kids was a red flag. And nobody was going to be leaving patient records lying around in lockers or bathrooms where you could just pick them up like fallen paper towels.

He looked at the jagged points of tightly-stretched plastic on the side of the bag, set his jaw, closed his hand over the place and squeezed.

 

 

After a cursory glance around the room, Langly set his binder down on the desktop and made himself comfortable in the chair. It swiveled, a definite plus. The bank of monitors in front of him showed hallways, rooms with sleeping patients, a recreation room. Not much of anything that could be called action. He glanced over at the man in front of the intensive care monitors, then behind him at the third worker, a curly-haired twenty-something who was slipping a deck of cards from a shirt pocket. Curly gave him a nod.

"Bradley got bronchitis again?"

Langly shrugged. "They don't tell us anything. They just yell for help when they're short."

Curly grunted, laid four cards out in front of him and looked up at his monitors. Langly glanced to the right. The corner guy had a headset on. It could go to a Walkman or it could be something else. He turned back to his monitors, eased his chair back and looked up at the clock.

One hour and counting.

 

 

Mulder bit his lip against the pain. His eyes had teared but as far as he could tell he'd done it right--nothing too deep or dangerous, it just hurt like hell. He'd washed the bottle before he'd broken it and the rag he'd grabbed when the blood started to come was clean as far as he could tell. Hopefully there were no cleaning solvents on it, though any added stinging would have been hard to notice. As it was, the arm throbbed all the way past his elbow.

"Hold still, Mr. Wallace."

He made his arm stop moving and focused on the two computer monitors on the far side of a low bank of cabinets. It was better than looking at his palm, and closing his eyes only made the pain focus like a laser. His hand throbbed a steady beat, as if it had a heart of its own.

The tweezers closed in on his palm. He set his jaw.

"And how did this happen again, Mr. Wallace? A trash can? Emptying a trash can?"

Mulder nodded stiffly. "Yeah," he added as an afterthought. He spit the word out.

"From a bathroom?"

"No... basement. The basement."

"Good. That eliminates some potentially nasty bacteria."

The doctor talked with a smooth delivery, calming like Karen Kosseff though not at as saccharine. What would the Bureau shrink think of Scully now? Would she wonder what had become of her or would she be too busy with her own caseload to give his partner a second thought?

Tweezers bit into his ragged palm. Mulder swore.

A firm hand held his wrist. "Sorry. You'll have to keep it still. Better to get it all now than have to go back in again later."

Mulder bit his lip and nodded. He focused on the doctor--her hair, cut nearly like Scully's but light brown, thin and slightly longer--and the way her glasses slipped slightly down her nose. She was probably in her mid-forties, smooth-skinned, pleasant if somewhat detached. Vanek, her name tag said.

"I believe that's everything," she said, looking up. "You're fortunate the glass didn't penetrate anything vital. You just barely avoided stitches, too. This area here is messy"--she pointed--"but there's nothing stitches are going to do for it." She gave him a look. "I'll bandage it up. You'll need antibiotics and something for the pain. You should stay here for a while--lie down and just ease up a little."

"Joe's going to be docking my pay."

"We have priority here. We'll interface with Joe."

"Kind of like a note from the school nurse?" He managed a pained grin.

She nodded as she worked. "Essentially."

She wrapped gauze around the pad on his palm. "I'd say to come back tomorrow but it will be Saturday. If you have trouble over the weekend, check in with Casson Urgent Care; we contract to them. And drop by Monday morning. I want to make sure this is progressing properly."

Mulder nodded and tried to focus on the room, the two computer terminals and the general layout. There seemed to be just Dr. Vanek and one other doctor or technician, a balding man in his fifties who'd been leaving with a freshly filled coffee mug just as he'd come in, hand clutched in the maintenance rag, escorted by Danny Contreras who he'd happened to pass in the courtyard. Tough break, Danny had said, wincing in sympathy. The hand had hurt too damn much to do anything but let Danny lead him over here.

"There," Dr. Vanek said, reaching for the pen hooked to her clipboard, jotting down something he didn't try to follow. She had a habit of focusing on the wound and not you. "Beds are over there, behind the curtain." She pointed. "Luckily you've got the place to yourself right now so take your pick. Just lie down and I'll bring your medication."

Mulder headed slowly for the green-curtained area. No other patients; it was a good thing. He reached for the top of a curtain and slid it back. Vanek was at a glass-front cabinet on the far side of the room, working a key in the lock. He sat on the bed--cot--and eased himself down onto his side. He tucked a small pillow under his head. Hopefully whatever she was going to give him would work quickly.

He closed his eyes. His palm burned, the pain echoing through his wrist and arm.

"Mr. Wallace--" She stood above him, tablets in a little plastic cup in one hand and a paper cup with water in the other. He pushed up on one elbow, gulped down the contents of the cup, then the water and lay back down. The curtain was closed around him. He looked up and started to count the curtain hooks around the top of the track, listening to the doctor's retreating footsteps.

Quiet. She must be sitting down. She'd been reading something when he'd come in. Mulder eased himself onto his back and studied the ceiling. Scully would be in her little trailer, sitting at the laptop wanting to check her mail, rationalizing why there wouldn't be any yet, going through possible steps the Gunmen might take in rescuing her mother. If her mind wandered, she might consider Diana's possible strategies for locating the author of the e-mail to Beeson--if Rita's fake mail didn't satisfy Beeson and take the heat off. Or she might think about this morning. He smiled in spite of the pain. At least they'd been back on the same page in the end.

He closed his eyes, paused... and opened them again. He flexed his bandaged hand. The pain had faded; he must have dozed off for a few minutes. Made sense: the sleep he'd gotten last night had been off-and-on at best.

A door closed beyond the curtain, then nothing--no sound. Maybe she'd stepped out. Perfect opportunity.

Mulder paused a moment, then sat up and slipped his feet to the floor.

 

 

Tracy watched the pulse in Alex's neck, the steady rhythm it kept, the curves of his ear and the growing stubble that covered his cheek and upper lip. Things she hadn't allowed herself to focus on before, though she hadn't realized at the time.

Before: when he'd been nothing more than a post-surgical acquaintance of the awful old man, a wary schemer who slept with his back to the wall and endured pain soundlessly, and she'd been a runaway teetering on the knife-edge of simple survival.  She felt rich now.

Dust specks drifted, slowly settling through the light above them. She lay back and let her hand slip up his side to where a scar ran diagonally across his ribs. Sunlight burned lazily through the window. He had that smell--of sunlight on skin, the kind you got from working outdoors. She buried her face against the side of his neck, breathed in, closed her eyes and tried to imprint the scene in her mind. 

But it was time.

"Alex."

He reached instinctively for her hand and opened his eyes. A drowsy smile and then clearing, cold consciousness.

"We've got about an hour, Alex. We should probably straighten things up, get ready."

A pause and he nodded. His eyes closed momentarily. "I fell asleep."

"I know. You needed it."

"You sleep?"

She shook her head. "I was just lying here. Watching you."

He leaned back against her. His fingers tightened between hers. "Felt you back there." He turned to look at her.  His eyes were dark now, wide open. "It's going to be obvious that somebody's been here. But it'll be easy enough to make it look like it was just an intruder, some vagrant--"

"We're vagrants," she offered in spite of his gravity.  Despite her own.

He rolled onto his back, shook his head and pulled her against him. A few seconds later he nudged her with his nose. Up. Work to do.

"You don't want it to look like it was you who was here. If anybody should try to trace you"--he shook his head--"don't give yourself away. Don't give them anything they can work with."

She sat up. He pulled himself up beside her.

"You okay?" Her body, he meant.

"A little sore. I'll be okay. Come on, there's a lot to do."

A hand smoothed through her hair and settled against the back of her neck. Their foreheads came together and they paused, a moment of silence, almost a prayer.

"Go," he said quietly.

She crawled toward the end of the bed.

"Toss me my pants?"

She went to the chair. He didn't watch; watching would only make him want to pull her back under the covers and forget the reality that hung over them, and it was critical now to stay on course.

"I remembered something--while you were sleeping," she said, tossing his pants onto the corner of the bed.

"Yeah?"

"I was thinking about Pasadena, Alex. Maybe I did have a brother."

 

 

Byers pulled into the staff section of the hospital parking lot and slipped into a space between two minivans. Turning off the motor, he found himself motionless, staring straight ahead.

"John, you look as dubious as I feel," Rita said into the quiet.

"I guess raw courage has never been my forte," he admitted, half-glancing at her.

"I don't think there are many of us ready for what we have to go through at times." She sighed. "I suspect it's more often a case of being pushed off the side of the pool than diving in."

"You're probably right."

"We match," she said after a pause, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "The hair, I mean."

"It does seem odd, doesn't it? But it will get us out as different people than we'll appear to be going in."

Rita pulled down the visor and looked at her curly wig, gray tinged with that slightly blue highlight older women sometimes favored. She shook her head.

"I imagine we'd better go on in," she said.

Byers nodded and opened his door. "You know Langly will be watching the monitors. All you have to do is lie there. If he notices that someone's caught on to the ruse, or if he sees anyone coming to your room, you'll be alerted and I'll be on my way. After Maggie's gone you'll be my one and only concern. We need to hold to this presentation as long as we can, but once it's discovered I'll retrieve you and we'll be out of here. I know it won't be easy, but longer is better. If they don't realize what's happened until Maggie's safely delivered, then"--he paused and let out his breath slowly--"we should have a pretty good chance. And so should Mulder and Scully."

"I imagine I should go first so we aren't seen together," Rita said. She forced a smile. "I'll see you in there, John Byers. I'll be counting on you just as Maggie will be counting on me."

Rita pulled on her door handle and got out. An adjustment of her skirt, a push to close the door, a deep breath and she was on her way, eyes straight ahead, footfalls automatic, slightly distant, as if she were walking above the ground. In her mind she pictured the sleeping man she'd found slumped against the column of her porch several Sundays earlier, his earnest eyes and his tale of conspiracy that had sounded so impossible at the time.

 

 

Mulder clicked on the sidebar and scrolled awkwardly down the list of names. In his focus on creating the accident, he'd reached for the bag automatically, grabbing it with his right hand. Now, working the mouse with his left, the cursor insisted on skittering away from the scroll bar on the right side of the page. His swore quietly, clicked on the screen and hit 'page down'. The display in front of him went momentarily out of focus. Mulder blinked hard. Whatever it was she'd given him...

His pulse thumped a frenetic backbeat as he hit 'page down' yet again.

Approaching footfalls in the hallway stopped abruptly at the door. The handle turned. Adrenaline surged; Mulder clicked desperately to close the screen. Stubbornly, the mouse insisted on veering away from the little X in the corner of the page. Another jerky push of the unaccustomed hand and the screen closed to reveal the blue logo of Beeson-Lymon. Dr. Vanek was standing in the doorway, watching him. His heart pounded.

He swallowed and gripped the edge of the table. She didn't look happy.

"Mr. Wallace, you're supposed to be lying down." Her arms were crossed in front of her like a displeased kindergarten teacher.

"I know. I--" He stopped and blinked again. "I was feeling kind of... I don't know... fuzzy, dizzy... lying down so I decided to get up and try to walk it off. These colors on the monitor--the green and blue. They're not supposed to be strobing, are they?"

She came closer and frowned. "They appear to be strobing? That's what you're seeing?"

He nodded--slightly. It made him lightheaded.

"What was that you gave me?"

"It was just acetaminophen, Mr. Wallace. And the antibiotics, of course. You've never had any sort of reaction like this before?"

"No." The monitor began to float in front of him. Mulder gripped the table edge harder.

"Look, you'd better lie down again. We can elevate your head; it should help. But you shouldn't be running around the office when you're feeling like this."

"Yeah."

There was a hand on his upper arm, guiding him to an adjustable bed behind another curtain. He eased himself onto it and lay back. Dr. Vanek reached for the controls and brought the head of the bed up. "Better?"

"Yeah, I think... I think so." He closed his eyes. It was like floating in a swimming pool.

"Open your eyes a moment."

He did as he was told. The doctor's face came closer. She looked into his eyes, then shined a penlight into them.

"What is it?"

Her mouth pressed into an irregular, unreadable shape. "I'm not certain. It's not at all typical. It could be anything, even a quirk in the manufacturer's batch of the drug. It's been known to happen, though it's rare. Usually the mischief's found out and taken care of long before the product reaches the market." Her lips relaxed momentarily; one hand went into the pocket of her lab coat. "Or it could be something completely unrelated. Rest a while, Mr. Wallace; I'll be right here. If you notice any change at all in your symptoms, let me know right away."

"Yeah, okay."

She pulled up the bed's railing until it clicked into place. "You might find yourself more comfortable on your side," she said, turning to go. "Oh, and in the future I'd recommend leather work gloves. I'll see that Joe gives you a pair."

Mulder watched as she walked away. He curled onto his side and reached for the bed rail with his left hand. His fingers slipped around the bar and held on. There was only a dull ache in the bandaged hand. A hard knot formed in his stomach. Not since the treatment room in the Tunguska gulag had he felt this kind of... something. Foreboding. Not the expectant terror that had permeated that room, that had been palpable even before the screaming started. Uncertainty:the shadow of an ominous unknown, not knowing where it would lead, this strange reaction to the drug.

Second opinion. He wanted a second opinion from someone he could trust--his own doctor. She was sitting in a trailer now, probably trying her damndest to be rational, to wait out the time until notice came that her mother was safely hidden away.

Had Vanek had seen her files open or not? He'd been trying too desperately to get the damned screen to close to know for sure. The look she'd given him--it was a definite look. She could have seen. Or it could just be a doctor's frustration at seeing a patient up and wandering. Scully might have had the same reaction. The medication had made it hard to tell. The door had been... open; it was open before he managed to click out. But she'd said nothing about it, hadn't questioned him or seemed curious.

Mulder closed his eyes. The floating feeling came and then settled slightly. His fingers gripped the cold, smooth bar that bordered the bed. In his mind she was standing in the doorway, frowning as he shoved the mouse, slow-motion and jerky, toward the little X in the corner of the page.

 

 

From the landing Krycek scanned the upstairs room one last time.  He'd wiped off the front of the armoire, the desk chair, the window ledge, the window latch--anything they'd touched.  His DNA was on the sheets, but nobody was likely to check them.  Well, Mulder might.  He had no reason to come here, but if he did, he'd do that kind of thing. 

And if he were to test them?

And if he were to test them, what?  He'd find what he'd find.  It didn't matter what Mulder thought.

Krycek placed his rag over the end of the landing's banister and rubbed, then started down the stairs.  The humming in his gut--the old familiar tension of alertness--was reassuring on the one hand, but with it came a certain distance, a closing off--closing in--that was liable to shut her out, too.  It wasn't what he wanted, but he had no idea how to temper it.  Until now, he'd never had any need to, and anyway, it was too tightly woven into his survival instinct.

He paused three stairs from the bottom and watched.  Tracy was wiping around the sink and cabinet area, apparently unaware of his presence, which meant that her head was full of her own worries.  When he cleared his throat, she turned.

"You about ready?"

She nodded. "I wiped all the doorknobs like you said. I hope the blankets upstairs look right--you know, the way you want them. I hid one bowl and spoon so there's only one set in the sink."

"Good thinking. Arms of the rocker?"

"I got those, too. And the edges of my mom's bed where I pushed it."

Earlier, he'd gotten the doorways, the front of the linen closet, the bathroom.

"Guess that's it." He nodded toward her backpack and she picked it up. She was fighting to keep it inside but something was eating at her, some loose end; it was obvious in the set of her mouth.  "What? What is it, Tracy?"

She looked toward the window. "Leaving, I guess. I'm not sure, really." She turned to face him. "Maybe knowing I'll never be coming back here."

He shrugged.  "You never know for sure. Maybe a few years down the--"

But that wasn't what she was talking about. There was something, maybe one of those things she was sensing somehow; she had senses he couldn't even comprehend. Whatever it was, it made him want to move past the subject quickly, like crossing an unlighted alley.  He rested his hand on her shoulder. "C'mon," he said quietly, urging her toward the door.

They went out, secured the front door and started across the wet ground, Tracy slightly ahead, their path taking them toward the garden again. Reluctantly, he let her lead. Through the gate, up to the sweet pea vines. No big surprise.

She stopped in front of the trellis and reached out tentatively to touch the dried leaves, circling the edges lightly with her fingertips.

"Look, I--" He let out a slow breath and reminded himself to be patient. "If they weren't such a red flag, I'd help you take them down myself." A pause. "You know I would."

She nodded and continued to stare at the vines.

"Anybody who knows this place and sees them down--they're going to know right away. When you're on the run you can't afford to leave your mark, you can't... commemorate, you can't... You've got to slip in and slip out like you were never there. Whatever you want to take, you've got to find a way to carry it inside you."

Slowly she nodded and looked up at him.

"C'mon," he said gently.  He held out his hand and she took it, her fingers working their way between his and gripping tightly. They left the garden and started up through the orchard toward the car, feet skimming wet green weeds, grasses and yellow mustard flowers, one foot and then the other, settling into an easy pace, their strides even and measured.

"I've been thinking, Alex," she said after they'd passed a dozen trees, "what it would've been like for my mother to come here after after my dad died. How much that must have hurt. How could it not have, being separated from someone you love? But I never saw anything in her--nothing like that. She never talked about it. I went looking in the cabinets and closets this morning, Alex, and there aren't any pictures--not a single one from the time before we came here. And the more I think about it, the more I can almost picture that little boy. I can see myself holding the back of his bicycle. He's trying to learn to balance and I'm holding the back of his seat. We're running along the sidewalk and we pass that window, the arched living room window."

"And you're wondering why she didn't tell you the whole story?"

"We were like... like two people who were one, Alex. We shared everything.  At least, I thought we did." She glanced up at him, eyes shiny.

He looked away, up to the horizon and cleared his throat. "Don't doubt her, Tracy. You knew who she was. If she was a fake, you wouldn't be the person you are. If she couldn't tell you, she must have had a reason, or--"  Something tightened inside him. She hardly needed to be told about women who'd been taken and experimented on. 

"I thought maybe I'd see her again. You know--her ghost, or whatever it was."  She paused. "She saw you, too, Alex. What do you think it means?"

He shrugged and opened his mouth but no words came. What did he know about ghosts?

They were in among the apple trees now. A few late, pink-tinged blossoms showed between shiny green leaves.  He'd check out her story, though, about her dad and the place he'd worked.  That combined with her mother's lack of memory seemed to fit an all-too-familiar pattern.  To say nothing of the gaps in her own memory.  Implant or no implant, the implications made something in his gut go cold.

He made himself look up.  Green poplar leaves shimmered in the breeze just ahead of them. He paused. "You need a minute here?"

"How are you doing, Alex?"

"So far, so good." This was the prime part of his cycle with the pain pills.  He'd taken one after he'd eaten, then had spent an hour lying upstairs with her until the groggy period had passed.  Then they'd made love and eventually he'd fallen asleep, a good rest to set him up for the journey ahead. He was going to need the strength.

"Then let's go," she said. "We should go."

They started in again along the path they'd taken the day before, rising slightly toward the woods. He looked ahead, searching the shadowed trees for signs of the car.

Maggie's bed rail was lowered with a clank. She opened her eyes to see a smiling face leaning toward her.

"It's your bath day, Mrs. Scully. We'll be able to wash your hair this time, too."

Maggie pulled up slightly, squinting. The fluorescent lights: they were always the same, never any indication of day or night, of how long it had been since she'd last been awake or how many days she'd been here. She had been here for days. Maybe even weeks, she had no way of telling. Life was a repeating sequence of bright lights, drifting off, coughing herself awake. Hell must be like this. Hopefully that wasn't what this was.

"Now you can just relax, Mrs. Scully. Rob and I are going to lift you onto the gurney here and we'll take a little trip down to the shower room."

Maggie lay back against the pillows. A tickle in her lungs and the coughing came, hard and racking. She curled onto her side and closed her eyes. Streaks of red and yellow flashed behind her eyelids. Her ribs ached.

"Mrs. Scully?" A pleasant voice. Different voice.

The nurse held out a glass of water and tipped the straw toward her. She drank. Beads of sweat covered her forehead.

"A bath's going to feel very nice," the pleasant voice said.

The sheet was pulled back and her gown was smoothed out. Strong hands went under her shoulders and lifted; another pair of hands lifted her legs. Then she was on the cold gurney and being covered again. A second face looked down on her now, a man with auburn hair tied back in a ponytail. He smiled briefly at her.

"It won't take long," he said. "You'll feel much better."

She nodded weakly. She supposed she would. How long had it been? The man's voice was soothing, oddly familiar.

"On our way," the voice said, and the gurney began to move.

Maggie gripped the edges and blinked. The top of a doorframe passed by overhead, then the air was cooler, with a different scent breezing past her as doors and windows and hallways slipped by. Ceiling tiles and then a doorframe, a turn--she gripped the edge harder--and different tiles, the bright white of recessed light fixtures, a nurses' station on the left and then a set of doors that pushed open on either side of her head. Tile walls. The gurney came to a stop.

"Maggie?"

She looked up to see the familiar-sounding man's face.

"Maggie, do you know where you are?"

"The hospital. St... St. Anne's."

"Do you remember how you got sick?"

"It was..." She puzzled. Her mind was thick, out of practice. "It was... I felt like I had the flu. Will Wilkins was--"

The face above her smiled relief. "You remember Will?"

"Yes." It was beginning to make sense now. "Where is Will? How is he?"

"He's improving. You'll be able to see him soon. Maggie, do you remember what Will told you about how you got sick?"

She tried to think. There was the wallpaper, and... And John Byers had come to the house. It was about Dana--Fox and Dana. The man in the overcoat, the one who'd come to the door to tell her Dana was missing.

"John?"

Relief washed Byers' face. He took her hand and his expression became serious.

"Maggie, this is very important. We have to move you from the hospital for your own safety and for your daughter's. We're going to do that right now. It's important that no one see you leave, so a sheet will be put over you and you must lie very still. Your gurney will be set in a hallway for just a few minutes. I'll be watching you while you're there. Two men will come to pick you up. When they do, the sheet will still be over you. You'll be put into the back of a car and when they're away from the hospital, you'll be able to see where you're going. We're taking you to facility where you'll be more secure."

"Is Dana--?"

"She's safe. She and Mulder are both safe. But their continued security may depend upon moving you now. The important thing is to lie very quietly without moving. We'll do the rest." The hand squeezed against hers. "Do you have any questions?"

She paused and shook her head. It was confusing--too much too fast. But Dana's safety depended on it.

"Are you ready?"

She nodded. She was lifted again--strong hands under shoulders and legs--onto another gurney. She shook, cold or nervous, she couldn't tell which. A warm blanket was brought down over her and tucked close around her. Gradually her body eased.

"Maggie?" John Byers held a sheet above her and nodded at her, questioning.

She paused. Her fingers curled into her palms and tightened. She returned his nod and the sheet came down over her head.

 

 

Langly tucked a piece of gum between his teeth and cheek, then pulled it back out and began to chew again. He rocked the chair slightly, back and forth and back again. The man in the corner with the headset--the one who had Maggie's room on his screens, had seemed unmoved by her exit from the room. So far, so good, except that he'd strained something in the back of his neck turning around so often to watch. He pressed his fingers against the place and rubbed.

He glanced across his row of monitors again. Just his luck that they hadn't given him either floor Maggie would be on. His fingers left his neck to trace the wire inside his shirt.

"Nada so far on this end," came a slightly muffled voice in his left ear. "But they should be in view any minute. Let's hope there were no traffic jams or flat tires." Frohike cleared his throat. "Any action on your end? One tap for yes, two for no."

Langly tapped the mike twice.

"Good. I'll..." A pause. He could hear the static of Frohike shifting position. "Damn, I thought it was them, but no. Well, I'll yell when I see 'em. 'Til then, keep your eyes peeled."

Langly pushed his chair back casually. Curly had the ground floor monitors where Maggie would be stored and shipped. He stood up and approached the card player. Curly glanced up at him and then quickly at the row of monitors, then back at his cards.

"The food here any good?" Langly said. "Or do I need to plan on going out somewhere for lunch?" His eyes went methodically from one monitor to the next. No sheet-covered gurneys.

"Strange to say, the cafeteria's pretty good here," Curly said, making another visual round of Langly, the monitors, his cards. "I've got a friend who comes here like it was a restaurant. Cheap , too, if you stick to the employees' cafeteria." A card was turned over. "Oh, and if you happen to like tapioca pudding, their stuff's killer. Don't miss it."

Another round: Langly, the monitors, the cards.

"Yeah, tapioca's cool," Langly said.

He turned to go. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement, a gurney being wheeled past a monitor pushed by a man with a ponytail. He waited until it passed the camera, turned away and tapped once against the mike.

 

 

"I feel like a kid being sent home sick from school," Mulder said, giving Angie a sheepish look. He lifted his head slightly from the headrest to look at the passing streets. "I really appreciate you taking the time."

"No problem." Angie glanced at her passenger. "I'm just sorry the seats don't recline for you."

"No, it's... it's okay. I just... Weird reaction. Never had that happen before. Not like this, anyway."

"On top of grabbing a handful of glass."

"Yeah, on top of that." He managed a brief smile and glanced out the side window. "Your kids have Dr. Vanek?"

She nodded. "She's very good. Certainly liberal with the appointments."

"She seems to be a good... technician."

Angie gave him a questioning look.

"You know, really focused on her work."

"A little dry, you mean? Not the first one to volunteer for the potato sack races at the company picnic?" Angie grinned. "Medicine's her life. She's been good for the kids."

"How long has she been here?"

She shrugged. "Five, maybe six years. Came from somewhere else. I mean, when she came she had just a tiny bit of an accent. It's just something I notice, but it's gone now. Some people live in this country fifty years and never get rid of their accents. My father-in-law was like that. Greek."

Angie slowed and pulled into Dale's driveway. Mulder reached across with his left hand to work the door handle. "Kind of inconvenient..."

"The kind of thing you don't usually think about," Angie said. She watched him exit the car. "Well, enjoy your few hours off. Hope this doesn't bite into your weekend."

"No, I'm feeling better... pretty much. I'm just not a lot of use with a mop at the moment." He shut the door. "Thanks again."

Mulder watched the station wagon pull out onto the street and drive away. He turned and went inside. It was still there--the floating feeling. But nothing more serious had happened and Vanek had checked him several times without seeming alarmed in any way. Still, he wasn't in any shape to be pushing a broom or cleaning toilets and she knew that, so home he'd gone. Evidently not even Joe dared to argue with her.

Mulder sat down at the desk and turned on the computer. He reached for the keyboard and paused abruptly. Now there was an idea straight from the edge: test Krycek's sincerity by asking him if he knew anything about Vanek. But it was crazy. After all, if she was on Smoky's payroll, just asking the question would pinpoint their location and there was no percentage in trusting Krycek with that no matter how helpful he'd wanted to make himself appear lately. And what about the girl--the Stair Sprite? What kind of snow job had Krycek done on her to have her running his errands the way Skinner said she was, or writing to them on his behalf? It seemed all wrong, the girl mixed up with Krycek. What was wrong with this picture?

He pulled out the keyboard shelf and logged onto the Net. Maybe there was some information to be found about Dr. Maria Vanek. But first a little note. He turned to look behind him and immediately clutched at the edge of the shelf. It was still happening, the dizziness. He turned back to the keyboard and wrote, tapping awkwardly with the stiffened index finger of his right hand.

To: thelark@

From: DaddyW@

Need to see you ASAP. I'm at home and carless. (11:41 a.m.)

 

 

Krycek glanced over at Tracy in the driver's seat. She was sitting fairly comfortably, without the stiff posture that would indicate tension. Still, there was something in her face, the kind of determination that said she was going to make it through this nightmare no matter what and that's what it was--a nightmare.

He could hardly blame her.  Poor kid, she'd been blindsided at the end there by the doubts about her mother surfacing, and on top of that the memory of the boy who might be her brother. Then there'd been his own speculation about her father and what might have happened to her mom, if she'd picked up on it. It was only one short step from there to including herself in the nightmare equation. No easy thing, realizing you'd been manipulated that way. As if she didn't have enough to deal with already.

It was the only thing that had ever made sense: survival of the fittest, sink or swim. The people who couldn't cut it washed out and it was all for the better in the end. Still, if there were some way to save her, to reach in and pluck her out of the rising waters...

The old man would stand there with that smug little smile of his and warn him that his time with her had blinded him, that he wasn't seeing things clearly.  Trouble was, he could be right.  But that didn't solve her problem, didn't make her safe or catch her when she stumbled.

Krycek eased his left leg up against the dashboard, slouched farther down into the seat and stared at the pattern in the headliner until it went out of focus.

 

 

Byers glanced across the hallway at two covered gurneys and then out through the glass door at the hallway's end. Nothing yet. Maggie was doing a good job so far, keeping her breathing shallow, staying still. But Frank Lazare should have been here by now and he'd heard nothing from...

"We're in business," Frohike's welcome voice came into his ear. "Just coming into the parking lot." A pause. "Now circling toward your entrance."

The sudden, ragged sound of coughing erupted from beneath the covering of the parked gurney.

Byers froze, his blood pumping madly.

 

 

"Say, you got change for a dollar?"

Curly looked up.

Langly shrugged. "Soda machine won't take my dollar bill. Those things never work."

Curly dug around in his pocket.

On one monitor, two gurneys showed clearly along with a pony-tailed orderly leaning against the far wall. No movement, then a sudden spasming on one of the gurneys. Langly gulped. He glanced at the figure against the wall, its body language speaking panic. Curly was caught momentarily in his card strategy. The monitors had no sound, but it was obvious what was going on. Byers was a wizard behind the scenes, but he was anything but quick on the draw in situations like this. Rambo he definitely wasn't.

"Your change..."

Langly forced his eyes from the monitor. Curly was holding out a handful of quarters, waiting. Langly reached out and took them absently.

"What? Something happening?" Curly spun to look at the bank of monitors. None showed activity but one, where an orderly was apparently caught in a seizure of some kind, half bent over. Curly reached for his phone.

"Thanks," Langly said, and hurried from the room.

 

 

Maggie felt the quick motion, wheels being collapsed under her and the gurney being slid into a dark, enclosed area. She tried not to move, or shake, though her arms were far from cooperative. In her mind she pictured the man who had shown up on her doorstep, the same one who had peered into her hospital room window, his face calm as he spoke the alarming news that didn't seem to move him. Was this where she was supposed to be?  The right place, right people?  But John Byers had described this very scenario. Still, it felt ominous, everything distorted and dreamlike.

Beyond her feet, the vehicle's rear door closed with a deep latching sound. Then nothing: no movement, no sound, no one evident in the front seat. The closeness of the sheet made her breath sweaty against her face. She'd been unable to hold back the coughing in spite of her efforts. If someone were watching... Had someone been in the hallway besides John Byers? Was it really John's people who had her now?

Maggie's hands curled tight, her pulse throbbing through her fingers. A click. A door swung open, the car dipped slightly to one side--driver's side--and then closed again.

"Hey," a voice said softly.

It seemed as if whoever it was--a man--had turned around to face the space where she lay. Her body stiffened and refused to move or allow her to speak. Survival must feel like this: foxholes or hiding on a darkened field of battle. Had her husband known this kind of fear?

The engine was started, revved slightly and they were moving, slowly at first, making a turn, stopping and then going again almost immediately. The car's suspension was soft and she rolled slightly from side to side in the turns. The sound of jazz came from a radio speaker beyond her head, the driver humming along. It was hard to tell if his voice seemed edgy or relaxed. Inside, her heart beat a syncopated rhythm against the music.

"Got our first green light."

The voice came from close beside her. Maggie jumped, adrenaline washing her. Her heart pumped harder. Gripping a wad of blanket beside her, she squeezed hard.

"Cool." It was the driver's voice.

Sudden fresh air and light confronted her as the sheet was pulled back. Maggie looked up at the somber, quilted ceiling above her and then at a brown hand offering a bottle of water. She stared hard at the face that went with it and let out a little gasp.

The face broke into a smile.

It was Will.

 

 

Tracy lay in the back seat of the car and tried to focus on nothing, to slow down the too-rapid passing of minutes.  To clear her head and rest.  An hour of driving time left.  A single, fleeting hour until she'd be on her own, not left watching as Alex faded into the distance but headed for a new chapter herself, a chapter of hiding and caution, of being a small morsel of prey who dared not expose herself to the view of a lanky, stalking cat.  She pictured herself alone in a strange, empty world.

A slow movement slid across her middle and then faded.  Instinctively she started to reach for the place but stopped, her hand returning to her side. She'd been able to ignore the larger reality of the baby until she'd met Alex.  The morning nausea had been like a vague, undetermined illness, but now the tiny life had begun to assert itself, stretching and turning. More than that, it was the concern in Alex's mind that fed her with a constant uneasiness now.  How likely was she to be able to provide what a baby would need?

A tap against the car door and she looked up to see unkempt graying hair and a mustache under a rumpled hat.  But there was a familiar sharpness in the man's eyes.  She reached up and pulled up the lock button and Alex got into the seat in front of her. 

"How you doing?" he said, settling himself and then turning.  "I got a couple of apples, some sandwiches and a carton of milk.  You want anything?"

"In a minute," she said, and closed her eyes.  Already he seemed almost a memory, half-transparent.

She'd wanted to walk, to get out and wander through the green, fragrant trees at the side of the road, but the sight of their car stopped along the roadside could bring unwanted attention.  Neither of them could afford that kind of exposure.  In the end they'd pulled over behind a gas station at the edge of Chambersburg and Alex had retrieved the hair and hat disguise he kept in the trunk.  It aged him a good dozen years and made him look disheveled enough that if anyone noticed the prosthesis, it would seem a natural enough part of the man that he wouldn't likely stand out in someone's memory.  She'd lain down in the back seat to relax while he went looking for food.

Now warm fingers came awkwardly searching along the seat beside her shoulder.  She opened her eyes to see his arm reaching between the seat back and the door, and took his hand.  He was facing forward, in case anyone was looking, thinking about the gnawing in his gut and the sandwich in the paper bag on his lap.

"How you doing?" he repeated, his thumb smoothing along the side of her hand.

She tried for a smile--one he couldn't see, or feel the way she could--and squeezed back against his fingers.

"What would your mom tell you?" his voice came after a moment's silence.

She knew what he was doing, trying to guide her back to the trust that had always fit her like a second skin. "She'd say to look up at the sky and see what's really there. To let yourself rise until you can look down on your problems and see how small they really are."

"Then she knew what she was talking about." He paused and breathed out. "She gave it to you straight, Tracy. Nothing's worth more than that."

He was watching two men beside a truck who had turned and seen their car.  He was thinking about having his stomach full instead of empty, so it would quit taking his focus.  He was trying, for the sake of alertness and both their safety, to disentangle himself from what they'd become. 

His thumb continued its path, slow and soothing.

 

 

Knocking came at the back door. Mulder eased himself carefully from the couch and padded across the floor to answer it. His eyes followed the pattern in the carpet runner, hand throbbing a quiet backbeat. When he looked up, he blinked. Reaching for the handle, he stopped himself and grabbed it with the other hand, waiting for the swirl of dizziness to settle. Sandy stood outside.

"That was fast," he said,  swinging the door wide. "I didn't expect--"

"What happened?" she said, nodding toward his bandaged hand.

"This?" He shook his head--not a smart move--and quickly grabbed to steady himself against the door frame. Sandy gave him a concerned look. "Just another one of those half-assed, impulsive things Annie's going to have to save me from, I think." He glanced carefully over his shoulder into the living room and then back at Sandy. "Look, can you take me up there? You didn't sprint all the way down here just now like the bionic woman, did you? You've got a car?"

Sandy half-smiled. "Heather's. David lets me use it if I need to."

"Good."

He stepped outside, locked the door and they got into the car. Sandy started the engine and backed out into the street.

"Think I'll recline this," he said, working to grasp the lever with uncooperative fingers. His hand banged against the door, making him wince. "No point in offering ourselves to the local gossip network." The seat back went down abruptly.

Sandy glanced over at him. "What happened?"

"Grabbed a trash bag with a broken bottle in it," he said.

A pause. "That ain't the whole story, is it?"

He paused a moment and grimaced. "Not much slips by you. You really ought to consider the Bureau someday, you know?"

"Yeah, right." She gave him a look. A pause, a blush and she recovered. Her brow furrowed. "This has something to do with your investigating, don't it?"

"I hope so," he said. "I hope I didn't do this for nothing."

 

 

Langly paused for breath at the bottom of the stairs and opened the door cautiously. The hallway was empty. If Curly had called in, Byers could have been hauled off already--at least by someone thinking he'd had a medical emergency. What would the poor guy do, confronted by people wondering what had come over him? Maybe the sheer volume of sweat would help him pass himself off as sick.

Stay down here long enough, somebody's going to miss you.  You'll send up a red flag of your own.

The click of a door handle sounded close by. Byers' head appeared from an entry marked 'Electrical'.

"Psst."  Langly opened the stairwell door just a little.

Byers glanced toward him.  Relief spread across his face. He glanced up, checking for camera positioning, then slipped into the hallway and approached. Langly eased himself back into the stairwell and let his friend pass.

"Whew." Langly sagged against the wall. "Thought you were history there for a minute."

Byers looked up at him, red-faced. "You weren't the only one under that impression."

"But you pulled it out. Hey, it looked great on the monitor. I don't think Curly even noticed the gurney."

"I have no idea what came over me. I froze when she started coughing; I couldn't think of anything and then there I was, just doing it, pretending it was me. I didn't even think until afterward that you wouldn't have audio, that only the motion would show." He shrugged. "Survival instinct, I guess."

"I guess. Anybody come down here looking for you?"

"Not that I can tell. I eased off after a minute and took a drink at the water fountain"--he pointed toward it--"so I guess they figured I'd come out of it."

Langly glanced up the stairwell. "I should fly. They're gonna miss me upstairs."

"And I've got to position myself for Rita."

"Let's hope we get some lead time here to work with."

Byers only nodded. He leaned forehead first against the wall.

"Hey, you okay?" Langly stopped five stairs up.

"Yeah, I... Yeah."

Langly continued up to the landing and glanced down. Byers was still in the same position.

"Good work," he called down.

Byers looked up and nodded.

 

 

The Baltimore skyline stream past the car's back window at a crazy tilt.  Krycek watched it from where he lay on the seat below.  Given the fact that the old man was hunting for Mulder and Scully, there could be someone tailing his mother, so caution was imperative. And however this went down, there'd be at least an hour's drive home afterward.  His strength should hold--hopefully the pain meds along with it--but there was the stress factor, and however Mulder's plan might intersect his drive.  And you could never discount the possibility of heavy traffic.  He'd never driven in this kind of shape before to have any solid idea of how it might go.

Welcome back to the real world, Alexei.  There's always at least one more ball to juggle than you can handle, but hey, isn't that the way it's always been?  Still not up to speed?  Only half-recovered?  Ah, can't be helped, you poor bastard. 

Tracy must be absorbed in her own worries.  If she weren't, she'd have been listening in on the mess inside his head, but she seemed not to have noticed.  It made sense, though.  This little hand-off was going to take all the readiness they could muster, every bit of their focus.  Later--an hour afterward, a day or a week, or in those half-coherent moments just before sleep took you--who knew how it would hit?  He'd gotten so used to falling asleep with her sitting on the edge of the bed.

"How much farther?" he said, rising up slightly to catch her eye from between the seats.

"It should be just a few blocks."

Nearly show time.  Something inside him tightened.

 

 

Two sets of hand lifted Rita from the gurney onto the bed.  A moment later warm blankets came down around here and were tucked in.

"See," the face above her was saying--Rani's wife's face. "I told you you'd feel much better, dear."

There was a squeeze against her hand. She nodded, but not too energetically. All she had to do was look sick and she'd spent enough time watching Will go through this disease. Maybe all her observation would turn out to have been good for something.

Rita glanced toward the door. The orderly was pushing the gurney outside into the hall. Rani's wife came back to the bed.

"Your hair's still a little damp but it will dry soon, Mrs. Scully," she said.

The blankets were pulled back. The IV was hooked up, the sensors for the monitoring equipment, the oxygen tube fitted in place. A knowing look--supportive look--came from the face above her and the blankets were brought up again, light and comfortable.

"Warm enough?"

Rita nodded, though she was shaking slightly. A firm hand smoothed down her arm, comforting, and then was gone. Rita turned to watch the uniformed figure leave, pulling the door halfway shut behind her.

She wanted to close her eyes but she couldn't. Somewhere, someone was watching.

 

 

"See you inside," he said, touching her fingers briefly.

"There doesn't seem to be anyone with her, Alex.  She's wondering if we're some kind of trap."

He nodded.  Half-swallowed.  "You okay?"

Yes.  Just go.

Then he was gone, threading his way between parked cars and along the sidewalk.  Tracy took her foot off the brake and pulled ahead, passing him and finally turning into the parking lot that faced a row of modern brownstones.  If anyone were watching his mother, she should be able to hear them when Alex went up to the door.  She'd listened carefully as they'd sat in this parking lot earlier and had noticed nothing, but they had to be sure. 

Now she watched him come into view walking toward the group of brownstones, his pace casual but his body slightly taut.  Until just a few minutes ago it hadn't actually hit home: he could be in his own bed right now, nominally safe within the confined world of the old man's group. Instead he was risking his own recovery, out on the street willingly exchanging his own security to purchase her escape.

He'd told her to stay with him, inside his head, so he could let her know when it was safe to come in.  It would allow them to draw less notice by each of them approaching the home separately, though she knew it meant he would be aware of her constant presence in his mind, a witness to his every fear and uncertainty. 

He hadn’t said goodbye, or even thought anything personal, but it wasn't the time or place.  Hopefully when they were inside, there would be a moment or two.  The last eighteen hours had been a swollen stream, life and sensations and feelings carrying her far from where she'd stepped in.  And now, it seemed, she'd washed up on a barren, unfamiliar shore.

It was time.  He was standing in front of the stairs to the house, looking up. This was the way he'd felt going into Buzz's interrogation. Or standing on his mother's porch in Greenwich.

He made himself go up. Knuckles against the door, he counted the seconds. At three, he heard footsteps inside.  Then a curtain in a window was pulled slightly aside.

His legs were like water.

 

 

Teena took a deep breath and opened the door.

The air outside was bright and she squinted into it. The man on the doorstep had neatly combed salt-and-pepper hair, but his face was that of her enigmatic son.  He wore jeans and a long-sleeved blue T-shirt and at least a day's growth of beard. He seemed as nervous as she was, waiting, each of them, for the other to make the first move.

She opened the door farther and stood back.

He nodded slightly.

"Come in. Your friend?"

"She'll be along," he said as he passed her and went inside.

She hesitated, then closed the door behind him.

He looked quickly around the room: at the entrances to various rooms, the sliding glass door leading to the back patio, up the stairs to the second floor landing. "I've got to check this."

She stood uncomprehending a moment, then stepped aside. Of course.  He'd expect someone hiding, spying or worse.

"Certainly. Go... go ahead."

He turned immediately and looked into the dining room, the guest closet, the kitchen. She took a few steps into the living room and sat down on the edge of a love seat. He worked methodically, opened every door, explored every opening. What else would his life have taught him?

After a few moments he appeared through the kitchen door, passed her and started up the stairs, quickly at first, then slowing noticeably. He'd been injured, after all. That was what the girl had been there for--to aid him while he was recovering. She pictured him going through the upstairs bedrooms, the study, the bathrooms. Then the sound of his footfalls on the uncarpeted stairs that led to Trudy's roof patio.

Teena got up from her seat and went into the kitchen. It had suddenly occurred to her when she was nearly here that they might not have eaten, that certainly she and the girl would need food for the evening. She'd stopped at Trudy's favorite market and then picked up a bouquet of purple and white stock as an afterthought. Their spicy fragrance had seemed a welcome wake-up from the tension inside her. When he'd knocked, she'd left them lying on the counter.

She picked up the kitchen shears and snipped off the ends of the stems, then slit them lengthwise at the base. On the window sill over the sink was a cobalt blue vase. She filled it with water and arranged the stock in it. When the trimmings were cleared away, she took the vase into the living room. He was just coming down the stairs, tired from the effort, or the strain of tension, his mouth straight, giving nothing away.

"Is there anything else you need to check?"

He shook his head, came closer, stopped and sniffed. "What are they?"

"Stock. I thought the fragrance would be nice since the house is closed up so much."

He nodded toward the vase. "She likes stuff like that.  Flowers."

He paused and the moment turned awkward. Obviously the thread of this conversation had unexpectedly reached its end. Finally he glanced away, through the sliding glass door that overlooked the small enclosed garden. Teena made herself continue to the coffee table, set the vase on it and turned around to find him facing her. She nearly jumped.

Carefully she straightened up and smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from the front of her blouse. "Come sit down," she said. "Tell me whatever it is I'll need to know."

He nodded and waited for her to move first. Teena retreated to the sofa and sat carefully. After a moment he came around the coffee table and sat down on the love seat opposite. His eyes were sharp, his expression wary.

"She was a runaway," he began. "He picked her because he figured she'd be an easy throwaway when the job was finished, when I didn't need the help anymore." He cleared his throat. "Chances are he'll look for her, but I can't say how long or how hard.  She needs to be somewhere he can't find her, and you probably have a pretty good idea of how far his arm reaches."

Teena stiffened and nodded.

"I'm not trying to dump her on Mulder; I know he's got more than enough to deal with already. But he's the only one I know who can keep her safe, keep her where the old man won't be able to find her."

"May I ask how old she is?" Her voice sounded strange, distant. "You said--"

"Eighteen. Almost.  She's"--he shrugged--"kind of an old soul. Kind of hard to explain. And the baby... the more she says, the more it sounds like she was... like somebody got to her--maybe not the Project but somebody else out there. Tell Mulder that. There are too many parts of her life she's got no memory of at all. Sounds classic. Textbook."

"I can't guarantee," she started, "that Fox will agree to take her. I can't--"

"If he doesn't, let me know. I'll figure out something. The point wasn't to put you on the spot, I just--" A pause, almost a swallow. "Appreciate you giving it a try."

"Alex, how are you?"

"Okay." He shrugged and seemed to loosen a little. "Doctor says I'm doing real well, considering."

"Are you going to be alright without her help?"

"Guess I'll have to be.  He'll try to find me somebody else if it looks like--" Abruptly, he stopped.  The corner of his mouth twitched.

"I didn't mean to pry.  Alex, I'm sorry this is so awkward, for both of us. I know that"--she took in a quick breath--"if I'd made a different decision years ago, it wouldn't be this way." Exhaled. "But let me help you now. What do I need to know to help your friend?"

"When she came to D.C. she ran into Mulder on the Mall; that's where he knows her from. Then, I don't know how, he found her--saw her somewhere, a park or something, and he hired her to take care of me, mostly because he figured it would be easy enough later to get rid of a girl nobody was going to be looking for."  His jaw set, a sign that the offered explanation was at an end.

Silence enveloped them.  Teena looked down at her fingers, then up at the painting on the opposite wall. There was too much air in the room with its high, high ceiling.

"Alex, surely she must be wondering what's taking you."

The expression he gave her was curious: half smile, half smirk. Finally he shook his head. "Guess that's something else you should probably know.  She can read people; she's kind of... psychic. It throws you at first, but try not to let it get to you. It's not anything she can control."

Teena opened her mouth, puzzled.

"If he found out what she can do, he'd squeeze her dry.  That's another reason she's got to get out of here."

Teena managed to close her mouth.  "You should... you should tell her to come in, Alex. If you're ready."

He cocked his head slightly, as if hearing a distant conversation, then nodded. "She's on her way."

It was only when he stood up and started moving toward the front window that she began to realize what had happened.  A shiver passed through her.  "Do you mean--?" she said, getting up and following him.

He turned back. "Like I said, it takes some getting used to. Just... give her a chance. She deserves it."

"I'll do my very best..."

The doorbell rang.  On Alex's cue, she stepped past him and pulled on the handle. In the brightness beyond the door stood a tall, thin blonde girl in a long yellow dress.

 

 

"Aunt Jane?"

Rita swallowed and moved her head slightly to the right, toward the wall. Was she supposed to be able to speak, and if so, how well? Someone listening might notice the difference in her voice and was the room bugged, or were they only watching from a silent monitor?

The voice--a woman's voice--hovered above her now. She looked up. A short red-headed woman in a green blouse and khakis stood near the bed.

"Aunt Jane--" The visitor stopped abruptly and reddened. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I can see I have the wrong room. This is"--she glanced back at the half-open door--"412. I was looking for 421." She set her hand on the bed railing. "Oh, I hope I didn't wake you."

Rita shook her head carefully.

"Well, I hope you'll be feeling better soon. So sorry for the interruption."

The woman smiled an apologetic smile and turned to leave. Rita stared at the ceiling, flushed with a fine coating of sudden perspiration. The woman hadn't seemed alarmed, though, or reacted as if something--the patient, especially--was out of place. Though she herself had received quite a jolt at the beginning because at first glance, her mistaken visitor had looked quite like Agent Scully.

 

 

Dr. Vanek set aside her coffee mug, reached for the ruler lying on the desk and set it against the line on the page where she'd stopped reading. Staring out the window onto the parking lot below, the cars blurred and became an image of Wallace and his exaggerated reaction to the medication. The sodium oxybate was something she gave out as a matter of course. In most case it was more effective than acetaminophen and satisfied patients generally weren't ones to ask questions. And the drug was easy enough to obtain with the older man's help. The FDA's reservations were of a political nature for the most part. That was usually the case and what was the point in pandering to yet another bureaucracy while patients were in discomfort?

But the janitor's reaction had been eerily familiar. She'd had to stop using the drug herself once she'd been given the Tunguska vaccine, and for precisely the same reasons: the fuzzy feeling Wallace had described, the floating and the persistent, aggressive dizziness. What had he been doing at the monitor in the first place? Was he searching her records or had he merely grabbed at a convenient surface to steady himself? At home... At home there would have been immediate cause for suspicion--spies of one sort or another, one group always playing off the other's advantage. But in this country things were much less sophisticated, less dangerous. Quieter. It was the whole point of being installed in this facility. It was unobtrusive, just a factory in the country's heartland, nothing associated with high-technology research, with genetics. Or topics beyond genetics.

Assumptions of innocence could be dangerous, however. If only her parents had been a little more wary, a little less drawn in by the uncharted possibilities of their work, she might still have parents. She would not be here, in this terribly provincial little town.

It was time to look more closely into Mr. Wallace and his background. Every step documented. Every possibility eliminated.

 

 

"Mulder, can you walk?"

Scully leaned in toward him through the open car window, concern etching her expression. Apparently he'd scared her on top of the tension she was already feeling from worrying about her mother.

"Yeah, Scully, I'm not dying. It's been wearing off, but--" He lifted his head from the head rest and opened the door. After a pause he stood up carefully. "See?"

"Let me see what she's done with your hand."

He offered his palm for her inspection. She peeled away the tape and carefully lifted the pad covering the wound. Her mouth shrank to a small, tight sign of displeasure. She looked up at him and swallowed.

"Mulder, do you know how close you came to--?" She looked away. He thought he saw her blink.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare ya." A finger, careful, under her chin. She frowned at him. "I just... I needed an excuse to get in there. Something's happening with those Connors kids, Scully, and it's not just diabetes. What?"

Scully gestured toward Sandy, who was standing beside the driver's door.

The girl cleared her throat. "Maybe I just oughta leave you two alone for a while."

Memory jolted him. It wasn't just him, though; both of them had said each other's names. He gave Sandy a self-conscious smile.  "It's okay. Hey, you had to figure, right?"

"Yeah, makes sense, I guess. I mean, nothin' that's happened around here in the last month has made much sense, but yeah, under the circumstances--assassins and spies and bad guys... I don't mean to say you two are spies."

Mulder grinned and shrugged. "Yeah, but we are."

Sandy glanced at the door frame in front of her.

Scully cleared her throat; she'd put back her most professional, collected face. "We need to find out what you've been given. It could be just a fluke, but considering the circumstances I'd rather be safe than sorry." She turned to the girl. "Sandy, could you take him over to Dr. Wykoff's? I can call ahead and let him know you're coming."

"Sure."

"Go, Mulder."

She urged him back into the car and attempted a smile. It seemed to be hiding mixed emotions--joy and sadness, worry and contentment.

"What?"

She shook her head. "I'll talk to you later. Just tell Dr. Wykoff exactly what you remember and let's see what he can find out."

Mulder fastened his seat belt and leaned back against the head rest. "You going to be okay?"

She nodded and didn't quite bite her lip. "I just want you back in one piece."

He reached his hand--injured hand--up through the open window. She caught his fingers carefully and then let go. Sandy started the car and backed up to turn around.

"You know what's going on with her?" he said as they started down the driveway.

"I think I might have an idea." She paused and glanced over at him. "I think you'd better ask her, though."

He shrugged. Obviously some kind of girl thing. "Okay."

"It's nothing you did. I think it's got something to do with me."

He looked forward again and reached carefully for the lever that reclined the seat.

 

 

Both of them watched as Teena disappear into the kitchen.

"You tired, Tracy?"

A finger traced the inside of her wrist. He was eased back against the white sofa cushions.  She sat close, leaning forward, staring out the window that led to the back garden. Watching the patterns in the sky: surely they must have a message for her if only she could manage to pay attention.

"A little." She worked her fingers between his and let the contact strengthen her. "You should stretch out for a few minutes like she said, Alex. Before you've got to do all that driving."

"You know I'm not going to be able to relax here."

"I know. But sometimes just spending a few minutes stretched out helps your body even if it doesn't rest your mind. Try to eat something. Just a little. It will make her feel better, Alex. She's trying really hard."

He nodded. He'd defer to her not because she was a woman, or because she was his lover, but because he was out of his depth in this kind of diplomacy. She knew better than he what he should do to to get past the awkwardness that held him and this woman who was his mother.

"Maybe there's a razor here somewhere so you can shave," she said. "So you won't go back looking like you've been away somewhere, out in the woods."

"Good idea."

"I'll go ask if you want."

He offered a silent thank-you and let go of her hand. Tracy stood and went into the kitchen where Alex's mother was busy setting out food she'd picked up at the deli, hoping her son would find something he'd like, wondering whether sitting across a table from her might make him uncomfortable. In her less conscious mind she'd drifted back to her own kitchen, setting a sandwich on a glass plate, cutting through it diagonally, giving the plate a critical eye and adding a piece of pickle. A small offering to a son so thoughtlessly given away.

Everything he'd need was in an upstairs bathroom, she said, relieved to be of some use. Second door on the left. Tracy thanked her and returned to the living room.

As he started up the stairs, Alex turned back. "You coming?"

"I thought you might need some space."

"I'll have plenty of that soon enough." He held out his hand.  She went to take it and followed him up.

"What?" he said, looking into the mirror at her as she sat balanced on the edge of the tub a few minutes later. His face was soaped with shaving cream.

"Just watching. I liked it, the way it was this morning." She pictured him momentarily grinning, hair rumpled, lying in a stripe of sunlight on her bed. "Don't mind me.  You need to look the way you always do at home."

Home, he was thinking: what a concept.  It had always been his place, his apartment.  But home?  Home was...

Better not to even think about it.

"I know about the money, Alex. Thanks. A lot. I--"

He frowned into the mirror at her reflection. He'd wanted it to be something she'd find out later.

"Sorry. The other day I figured maybe I should try the ATM card, to make sure it worked. The balance was on the receipt."

Good move, he was thinking. Planning ahead--it was a good sign. 'You'll need it' was all he said.

She studied him from where she sat: the shape of his shoulders, the way his shirt hung. The contour of the hem caught against the back of his pants, the length of his legs. The way he tilted his chin as he shaved it.

"Alex, I know--"

He turned to look at her. She looked down. After a moment he turned back, wet a washcloth under the running water and used it to wipe away the last of the shaving cream. He looked at himself in the mirror, stretching his neck to one side and then the other. This was stupid, he was thinking. It felt wrong, out of sync for the two of them. Finally he sat down beside her on the edge of the tub.

"We can't afford to leave any kind of trail--anything that connects us. One wrong move... you know that's all he's waiting for." He leaned forward, ran his hand back through his hair, then let his forehead rest against it.

He sat up again and stared at the ceiling. They should just make the break, not hang around killing themselves over the possibilities, speculating. Losing their edge by being bleeding hearts and making themselves vulnerable in the process.

"I understand, Alex. Just--" She stood up. "Hold me. Please. Just for a minute."

He stood and gathered her in against him. She closed her eyes. They swayed slightly, the reassuring movement of two bodies breathing against each other. Slowly she slipped her hand up under his shirt, to where he was warm and smooth and uncovered.

"When the kid comes," he said finally, "when it's time--"

"I think I can reach you, Alex. I don't think it matters where I am."

A sharp breath beside her ear. A pause, then a shake of his head and his voice, almost whispered. "Can't wait that long."

"I know. Me, either."

Her arms tightened around him.  She closed her eyes and focused on the imprint of his body against hers, the feel and smell of him, the memory of the night before, crawling across the bed, his blanket closing around her and the sensation of being pulled in against the smooth, welcome heat of his skin.

"Alex?"

"Mm?"

"If you could just keep one moment, one memory... what would it be?"

His breath came in soft bursts against her temple. "You first."

"It's hard to pick. But... this morning, I guess. Lying behind you, watching you sleep. It was so warm and quiet and peaceful, for just a little while there." She looked up. "What about you?"

"All of them." He looked past her.

"Alex, that's not...You're not playing fair."

"That's who I am, Tracy. I don't play fair. I don't"--his mouth finding hers, warm and desperate--"play." He paused, his lips settling beside her ear. His arm was hard around her. 

 

 

Rita raced barefoot the last few yards to the stairwell, heart pounding, one wrist caught in John Byers' now-iron grip, the other arm dangling behind, grasping for what must be the too-open back of a patterned hospital gown, wrist aching from where the IV had been hastily pulled out. She felt the flatness of her feet hitting the hard, smooth floor, the chill of the air passing her, the sheer terror of hasty flight. John's wide-eyed expression had been sufficient to instill the fear she felt now. The short, Scully-like visitor would be enough to send the Smoking Man's henchmen in to investigate and unless she wanted to end up a hostage facing the questioning of the horrible man himself, it was time to flee in the most ungraceful but effective way possible. Though even Andy would shake his head in wonder at this.

She was yanked into a stairwell and hurried, feet flying, to a landing halfway between floors. She and Byers collapsed panting against the wall, neither venturing to look at the other, her heart pounding like a jackhammer.

"I apologize," Byers panted, red-faced, "for the suddenness..." More panting. "Couldn't take the chance on them... coming in... If they'd seen you, they... would have taken you for... for sure... for whatever information they could get..." He looked up, toward the ceiling several floors above them.

"Well"--a gulp for air--"I do appreciate your not leaving me there... to be the sacrificial lamb... though truth be told... I don't plan on getting myself into another predicament like this... anytime soon." She leaned forward slightly and attempted in vain to swallow away the dryness in her throat.

"At least your clothes...are there..." Byers pointed toward a brown paper grocery bag that she hadn't yet noticed, set into the shadow of the corner.

"Thank you, John."

His eyes were closed; they opened now, wide, as if the wideness might help him take in more of his surroundings. "I'll..." he started, "go down... to the landing and wait. When you're changed, signal me. I'll go down another floor and out; you... take your bag upstairs, put it in a trash container in the lounge, and go out through the main entrance. I'll be in the car waiting."

She nodded. "Yes," she added, since he was affording her the blessing of privacy.

Byers started down the stairs. She watched until he reached the landing and stood peering through the little window in the door there. All clear, his waving hand signaled behind him. She took the two steps to the bag and opened it, fumbling quickly for her volunteer's outfit with shaking arms. There'd be an end to this undercover crusading nonsense as soon as she got home. Will would grow strong again and she'd return to Owensburg and Bethy and play out the role she was meant to have.

She snagged a stocking with a fingernail and paused a moment to consider the result. Skirt and blouse... and hair--it certainly was a sight but it would tuck under the wig, and the wig could be adjusted in the reflection of the little window on the landing above. She straightened up and pulled at her waistband--some underlayer was twisted--and slipped her feet into her shoes.

When she was finished, she peered over the railing to where John Byers stood watch by the downstairs door.

"Psst," she called down.

Byers hesitated a second, looked up at her, nodded and started down the stairs to the floor below.

 

 

"You look about as patient as I feel," Mulder said, nodding toward the magazine Sandy had flipped quickly through and tossed onto the cardboard box beside her.

"Yeah, well I guess I just like being able to do something, you know, rather than sitting around waiting and waiting."

"Yeah, I do know." He pushed up on one elbow and waited for the slight dizziness to dissipate. One eyebrow went up. "Thanks for coming along to play babysitter, by the way."

"No problem." Sandy pulled one leg up under her. "How are you doing? You had any more of that dizziness or anything? I'm supposed to be monitoring you, you know."

"No, just... just that little bit when we got here and then if I move suddenly." He lay back down on the cot and stared at the bank of filing cabinets that lined one wall of Dr. Wykoff's back room. "You ever find out anything about our good plant doctor from your blind friends?"

"Not really. But maybe that says something right there," she said.

"How so?"

"When people hang around Owensburg, Ray and Debbie know about 'em. Usually quite a bit. You know, people think that just because blind people don't see that they don't have things figured out and it just ain't so. Those two--" She sighed. "Anyway, nobody seems to know much about her.  Dr. Vanek, I mean. She's got a house over on Spring Street--she owns it, doesn't rent--but she seems to spend most of her time at the plant. And I guess she goes into Lexington or somewhere on the weekends sometimes. Doesn't seem to have anybody she hangs out with here in town."

"Single?"

"Yeah, as far as anyone can tell."

"Angie said she had an accent when she came here."

"I don't know. I've never met her that I know of." Sandy paused. "What?"

Mulder sucked in his lower lip and shook his head carefully. "Nothing."

"Didn't look like nothin' to me. You got an idea?"

"I shouldn't. Annie'd kill me." He paused. "I'd probably kill me."

"What?"

"Just... thinking of sending someone around--maybe someone she doesn't know--to... I don't know, just an excuse to take a look around. They could say they were"--a shrug--"selling magazine subscriptions or something." He gave her a look. "But not you. You've got your battle scars. Anyway, this doesn't have anything to do with your interest in this case."

"You don't know that for a fact."

A momentary smile crossed his lips. He wagged a finger at her. "I started out like you--hotheaded, impatient..."

"I just want some kind of justice for Cy and Roddy. If I can. I want to find out--"

"I know." Mulder eased himself onto his back, then glanced at her. "Believe me, I do."

A pause.

"Annie told me. You know, that you've been looking for your sister."

"What did she say?"

"Just that she'd disappeared and nobody'd ever been able to find her, that there was no ransom note or evidence or nothin'. I know it's gotta be hard." She looked down at her hands, fingers laced together, then back up at him. A tentative look, careful. "Rita said... you know, when she first got ahold of me after all this... after Andy and Cy and Roddy... that someone at the FBI had a theory about who'd done it--you know, who'd killed them. That they knew. Or thought they knew. That was you, wasn't it?"

Mulder's eyes closed. A breath came out slowly and his eyes opened again. "Yeah. I guess you could say I've got a... history with this guy." He half-laughed and stared at the ceiling. "We've butted heads for a long time. Years."

"And they can't catch him?"

"He's slippery, a rat who just disappears back into the woodpile. Anyway, he works for the guy who's behind this whole thing." He shifted slightly. "When it gets him somewhere, anyway. People like that have ways. They have their ways of staying out of jail."

"But how can anybody be like that, go around killing people--innocent people? Don't it get to them after a while?"

Mulder shrugged. "There are any number of abnormal psychologies. Maybe as many as there are criminal minds." He glanced over at her. "You know, reasons why people do what they do: serial killers, rapists, people who become terrorists. Mostly they learn to block it out after a while, rationalize it. Desensitize themselves."

"And this guy? You got him figured out?"

Mulder shook his head, stopped and winced. His fingers went to his temples and pressed against them.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just... Yeah. Guess I should know by now not to do that."

"So this guy...?"

Mulder shrugged. "I used to think I had him pegged. He's always dealing--whatever will get him somewhere, buy him something, buy him time, whatever." His mouth tightened.

"But..."

He focused on her.

"You said you used to think you had him figured out."

He shrugged again. "Lately he's done some things that don't fit the profile."

"Like?"

Mulder's lips twisted. "Like he warned us about something his boss had planned." His eyes roamed the fronts of the file cabinets. "Information that probably helped save Annie's mother."

"Why would he do that?"

"Beats me." He glanced over at her. "He never gives you anything unless he wants something in return. There's always something he's negotiating for. Guess I haven't figured out what it is he's trying to buy from me this time. And if you don't, he'll take you for a ride, guaranteed." He pushed an imaginary sunflower seed against his jaw. "Big ride."

"He needs to know what he's doing to people's lives," she said, her eyes suddenly hard. "He needs to know that for himself. What it feels like, what he's doing to people."

 

 

"About your mom," he said, clearing his throat and pulling back enough to see her face.  "Stick to what you know, Tracy. Nobody could be a fake and raise a kid like you. It's not possible." He came closer again, his cheek brushing hers. "You get out there, things change.  It throws you.  Wants to, anyway.  But you can't let it.  So stick to what you know. No matter what comes at you."

She nodded against him.

A kiss against her temple and he moved back. His hand trailed down the side of her cheek, ending in two fingers at the tip of her chin.  Dark eyes studied her, memorizing her face, gauging her strength. "C'mon. She's going to be wondering."

She let go of him, followed him into the hallway and they started down the stairs. Half a dozen steps down, his cell phone rang in his back pocket.  Tracy flinched. Quickly he pulled the phone from his pocket and flipped it open.

"Yeah."

She stood back and let him go first.

"You got tapes? What do you have?"

His mother appeared in the kitchen doorway, curious.

"Check your video. Back to when she left the room. You got cameras on the exits?  Shit." He glanced up at her, then at his mother who turned to go back into the kitchen so she wouldn't seem intrusive. "Check agencies for nurses. Check oxygen suppliers. Get back to me. Yeah.  Question the doctor.  We'll find her... Yeah, we'd better."

He took the phone from his ear, let out a sharp breath and pressed 'off'. "Sure hope Mulder's thought this through."

He glanced toward the kitchen and went toward it. His mother turned around as he approached.

"They're moving. They've taken Scully's mother. Can I use your laptop to send a mail?"

Teena hesitated, caught by the possibility of his using it against Fox and his partner.

"Look, I just want to let him know they're onto him."

Relief washed her face, followed by self-consciousness. She flushed. "Certainly. It's here, in the dining room."

She led him to where it sat on the table. Quickly he turned toward the living room and caught Tracy's eye. She slipped in, squeezed the latches and flipped up the screen. His mother stood back, a puzzled expression on her face. Alex sat down in front of the computer, pressed the power button and waited for the desktop to load. Inside, he was wound tight, buzzing.

"Look, I'm going to have to get out of here. Don't want anybody tracing a call, finding out I'm out of town."

His mother nodded. "Alex..."

He glanced up.

"Would you like me to pack some of this for you to take along?"

He frowned and started to shake his head but caught himself, remembering Tracy's words. "Yeah, sure. Thanks."

"Tracy, perhaps you can help me?" To pick out something he'd like. She knew, his mother did. She suspected, at least.

She followed Alex's mother into the kitchen. Her hands moved quickly, packing food into small containers, setting them in a cardboard box, adding napkins and a plastic fork. He'd have to set the box beside him on the seat and work from it at stoplights; he couldn't eat and drive.  The prosthetic hand could hold the steering wheel steady for short periods but he made it a practice not to depend on it. Though his mother had no way of knowing. Alex had been deliberately careful not to draw attention to the arm.  The last thing he'd wanted was for her to notice it and pity him.

Tracy smiled when she needed to, answered what was asked of her. It was dream-world, thick and strange, the way it had seemed last night when she'd woken to find him sitting against the wall. Only this was worse: it was really happening, only minutes until he'd be gone. In the dining room, Alex was waiting for the Internet connection to go through, wondering what Mulder's reaction would be to his warning, whether his usual cynicism would reign or whether he'd stop and think more deeply this time. But why would he believe?

Tracy reached for the bottle of lemonade in the corner of the box, twisted off the cap and replaced it barely tightened. His mother was watching, her curiosity growing.

"I think if we put it in a plastic grocery bag," she was saying. Teena opened a lower cabinet and produced a bag. Tracy slipped it under the box and pulled the handles up. Her arms felt weak, distant. Her head was filled with a low fizz of static and the chatter of too many minds.

The dining room.

Alex was finishing his message, his hand moving smoothly back and forth across the keyboard. He never thought about it anymore, the way he typed; he wouldn't notice his mother's growing curiosity. Now he looked up and turned around, searching for her. What did she think? She came up behind him and read over his shoulder.

To: DaddyW@

From: topaz@

2:03 p.m. Hunt's on. Make sure your people know.

She nodded. He hit 'send'.

In his mind he was on the road already, halfway back to Washington.

"Oh. The food, Alex." She turned and swirled into the kitchen. The air seemed thick, as if she were swimming through it. She took the bag from the kitchen counter and brought it back to where he stood talking to his mother, quiet.

"Yeah, thanks. I owe you."

His mother only nodded in return, unsure of what to say. Her spirit was full, overflowing, but there was no way to fit words to what she felt and there was no time. Not now. He needed to go.

"Let me know how it goes," he said. "You know how to erase the mail off your hard drive?"

"I--" She shook her head.

"Tracy will show you. Don't leave anything on there."

His mother nodded again, solemn. She wanted to touch him, to reassure him or herself, to make him real, but she was afraid of how he might react.

Alex turned and looked at her now, wordless, beyond thought. The moment seemed frozen and then his mother retreated a step. He came toward her, led her to the front door and then turned around, his back to it. His arm wrapped around her shoulders--comfort--his cheek smooth and warm beside hers, the soft pressure of his body a living pattern against her. She slipped a hand around his waist; the other held the dangling plastic bag. She seemed to have no breath. 'Be strong' was all he said. His lips grazed her forehead and he was moving back, taking the bag, working the door handle, stopping to nod once more at his mother. Then he was gone, the door standing ajar.

The air in the room sang a loud silence. Breathe, nena, she could hear him in her head. Be strong.

She took a step forward, closed the door and let her forehead rest against it. He was crossing the parking lot, stopping and setting the bag of food on the roof of the car while he dug in his pocket for the key. He needed to focus. She needed to let him go.

Tracy turned and looked at the room spread in front of her--white carpet, white sofa and loveseat, perfect flowers in a blue vase on the polished glass coffee table. Nothing was quite real, the essence of the scene in front of her squeezed away.

"Tracy?"

She looked up.

"Could you show me...?" How to erase the e-mail.

She started toward the dining room, walking slowly through vacant air.

 

 

Scully let the cursor hover above 'get mail' and finally clicked. It was only natural that there would be a delay. The Gunmen would not only have to move her mother but watch afterward for signs that they'd been discovered, or if they were posing in some undercover position, stay long enough not to arouse suspicion. She glanced behind her at the old starburst clock beside the door. 2:12. Sandy and Mulder had left for Dr. Wykoff's over an hour ago.

There were no messages.

Her lips pressed together. She got up, went to the kitchen window and looked out. Her fingers smoothed along the counter's edge. He'd given her that little boy look out by the car. He hadn't deliberately set out to scare her; it was just the accumulation of everything, this morning especially. His injury was one thing, but the reaction he'd displayed to the medication... It seemed unlikely there could be anything deliberate about it. Any physician confronted with a job-consistent injury would naturally focus on treating the wound and on pain control. Mulder had his suspicions, of course--one of his hunches, that something was going on involving the Connors children--but nothing had been proven yet and in any case his suspicions would hardly affect the way a physician would approach an injured worker, especially one she had no way of knowing. Maybe, as Mulder said, there was something to be found on the Internet about Dr. Maria Vanek.

Scully poured herself a glass of water and drank half of it. Her fondest hopes used to be for achievement, for mysteries solved, for solid medical detective work that made a difference; her worries, that Mulder would overstep, that their work might be curtailed, either by bureaucrats or darker forces working within the Bureau. Now her hopes were much more basic: a chance to live without being pursued, to be able to go out in a car without lying in the back, hidden. And her fears: that something might happen to the only companion she had in this surreal-seeming world.

She swallowed and felt her face tense, the skin taut. Scully closed her eyes and forced her muscles to relax. After a moment she returned to the computer and sat down, hand taking the mouse, finger lingering over it. It wouldn't hurt to check Mulder's mail in case the Gunmen wrote to him first. She clicked to switch accounts, entered his password and waited. Mulder's reaction could have been an anomaly, or perhaps...

Whatever the cause, they needed to understand what had happened to him. Dr. Wykoff would be their best avenue of information.

One new message. She clicked quickly, the realization of the sender's identity hitting her just as the message was displayed. Short and terse, the way Krycek's delivery had always been. She forced herself to let go the breath she was holding. Her mother was gone and the Smoking Man's forces had been alerted. She glanced at the clock again. Krycek's message had been written only minutes earlier. She clicked on the 'write' screen and quickly typed a message to the Gunmen, then waited for it to send.

Krycek had done it again, but why? What was it he stood to gain from helping them?

 

 

Teena climbed the last few steps to the roof patio and paused at the top. Above the clear glass enclosure the branches of four young willows dipped and swayed with the breeze. To the east the harbor was visible; the sky was palest blue. She ventured forward a few steps. Her guest was asleep in the rope hammock under the potted willows, a tall, thin slip of a girl in a yellow dress, pale hair fallen across her face. Undoubtedly if Alex were here he would come close and carefully lift the hair away.

The tone of their relationship had been obvious from the beginning, Alex pulling her quickly inside the door and then struggling to let go of her hand. They'd stayed close to each other the entire time. Certainly, their feelings for each other were clear in their parting, Alex gathering her against him in a way she was obviously used to, the two of them close, tender, saying nothing, as if everything between them was already understood. And here she was, the girl, asleep with a throw pillow in front of her, arms tightly around it as if she could keep Alex with her even as he sped toward Washington.

It was almost impossible not to make assumptions.  By Alex's own admission they had known each other only a few weeks and the girl was, quite obviously, little more than half his age.  But he seemed anything but manipulative around her.  And the girl, while she would certainly be impressionable, didn't seem the type to be swept away by the mere presence or availability of a man.  Unless something substantial had bound them, Alex would surely not have put himself in jeopardy to buy her safety.  Crises, Bill used to say, forge strange bonds.  Perhaps that dynamic had been at work here. In any event it had surely taken a leap of faith for Alex to bring this intimate secret of his to her of all people.

Teena looked toward the harbor, at the small, thin clouds, then at the cheerful pots of bright geraniums that dotted the patio, and finally at the girl. Alex would want the transfer made as soon as possible, to make sure the girl's safety was assured.  But what could she say, how could she even introduce the subject to Fox without appearing to have sold out to a bitter enemy? She had, after all, already accepted the girl. She'd trusted Alex that far and there was no way to make it appear otherwise.

 

 

"Will--" Maggie stretched a pale hand toward the figure in the recliner next to her bed. "If I hadn't seen you there, in the car beside me, I don't know what I would have done." She smiled at him, then looked up at the pale yellow ceiling. It had been a hearse, not a car. The whole trip was still impossible to believe, like something from a jumbled dream.

"That's why I decided to go along." He smiled. "I figured it would be strange enough, you being moved like that. Confusing to say the least."

"And we weren't followed?"

"Not as far as they've figured out." He wagged a finger at her. "But you know they're going to be looking. The old guy, he's not one to give up, but I think we've got you as safe as anything we can find, right here."

"Does Dana know? "

"The Gunmen will be telling her the whole story."

"I coughed. I couldn't make myself stop."

Will turned his head to see Keneesha Taylor enter the room, a tall, dark woman with close-cropped hair and a face that bespoke patience. A four-year-old trailed close behind her. Keneesha approached Maggie's bed.

"How are we doing here?" She had a slight drawl, a soothing voice.

Maggie looked up at her. "I..."

"Don't strain yourself." A careful hand passed her forehead, followed by a smile. "According to these readouts you're doing pretty well, considering." She turned to Will. "Good thing your buddies had access to this equipment."

A tickle inside. Maggie flinched against the sudden coughing that tore at her lungs. Torment was followed by lingering pain and sweat, then a hand, soothing against her shoulder.

"You hang in there, Mrs. S. You're going to do alright. We'll get you through this. A little time and you'll be just fine, ready to see that daughter of yours." She poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the bedside table and held it while Maggie drank, then turned to Will. "She really needs to rest now. You're welcome to wait on the sun porch. Great grandma's out there."

"Old Rose," a small voice interjected. "I'm Rose, too."

Her mother gave her a look. "Anyway, Old Rose will be happy to talk your ear off if you let her." She smiled and gave him a knowing nod.

Will raised his chair back and stood slowly.

"Take care of yourself, Will," Maggie said.

"Rita's taken good care of me. You'll have to meet her."

"I'll have to thank her. For all she's done."

"I promise you'll get the chance."

Will turned and walked toward the door. Maggie shifted slightly in the bed. Keneesha was pulling down shades in the tall windows, leaving the room bathed in hazy parchment light.

"Now you get some rest. And anything you need, you just let me know," she said, turning. She gestured to the little girl playing hide-and-seek at the foot of the bed. "Come on, New."

The little girl ran to follow her mother out of the room. The door closed behind them.

It had been like a movie, tension and rushing, fear and the overwhelming relief of escape. There must be a way to get a message to Dana. How would she be, Dana, worrying about her all this time, hidden, pursued? But Fox was there. At least she had him to depend on. She closed her eyes and ran a hand across the softness of a blanket. An old clock ticked away the seconds high up on the wall.

Maggie drifted toward sleep.

 

 

Krycek maneuvered the car into an on-street parking space and cut the engine. He let his head fall back against the headrest and glanced at the clock. 3:17. Not bad. The old man's lookouts had called once, not with any actual progress but so he'd know they were on it; they knew well enough how the old man dealt with slackers. He glanced around the car: front seat, back, floors. There was nothing to show she'd been here. It was the way it always was, the way it had to be--a clean slate, no signs, no traces, nothing left behind.

He leaned forward, pulled the door handle and got out. His legs needed stretching but more than that he needed to lie down. The wound ached, a growing murmur in his side. Probably hadn't helped that they'd done it twice, engaging muscles he was supposed to be resting. As if he'd have chosen to pass it up, even knowing the consequences. The memory brought a smile to his lips that lingered, then gradually faded to grimness. Hopefully she was hanging in there. She would be. When the chips were down, she'd rise to the need and be strong.

He locked the car, checked the trunk a final time and started down the street to his building, the laptop heavy under his arm. Times like this would be a bitch without Che's help. Colorful, Tracy had called him. He'd ribbed her about it and she'd come up with that thing about a brother--no brother but then later she wasn't so sure. There could be another group, somebody operating out of Southern California.  A group that had somehow slipped under the consortium's radar. It bore looking into. Players were like weeds and weeds were always springing up, a natural thing. Maybe Mulder'd heard of something. If he could get through to Mulder. If he'd listen. Maybe when he had Tracy he would. Maybe she'd move him out of Mulder's doghouse, be an indicator of whose side he was actually on here.

Krycek shouldered open the entry door to his building and stopped in front of the elevator. One floor down to the laundry. Only yesterday he'd gone out the window there, across the old lady's yard to the back street where Tracy had picked him up, but it seemed like years. Two or three months from now the old woman would have flowers blooming in her yard and she'd never have a clue where they came from.

But he'd know.  How would it hit him when he saw them?

A ding and the elevator door opened. He got in, hit '2' and leaned against the wall. The old man would have to be told about Scully's mother but it would wait. Give it a little time; the delay could be chalked up to the search. Hey, I was hoping to have this thing cleaned up, no need to bother you. If he played his cards just right the old man would buy it. If he seemed eager but not over-the-top. Committed to the old man's projects and their rightness.

Krycek's stomach sank slightly and the elevator door slid open. He put his key in the lock and let himself in. Empty. Nothing different but it felt that way, like something was missing. But he couldn't afford to think of her. It was crucial to stay focused.

His mind wasn't helping, though. She seemed to be everywhere: sitting in the recliner stitching, on the floor polishing the legs of the desk, perched on the edge of the bed, their hands locked together while he was sucked slowly but steadily away into the chemical limbo of the first, heavy duty painkillers. He set the laptop on the bed, clipped the phone cord into the back and pushed the power button. Then he eased himself onto the mattress and lay back against the pillows to watch the computer power up. Diagnostics, wallpaper, program icons. His eyes closed. The trip from Baltimore ran through his head again: changes of lanes, off-ramps, intersections. The low clicking of the hard drive stopped.  He eased himself onto his side and tapped on his Internet connection.

To: che774@

From: topaz@

Left the car half a block west. Need it re-parked ASAP and cleaned of any signs of recent use. Also verify return flight information. Prompt payment and some prime data in return.

He hit 'send' and fought the urge to lie back down. His body was starting to shake--nothing bad, just a little trembling in the arm and legs. He ought to take the meds and sack out for a while. Ought to check her room, too--make sure there was nothing lying around, nothing telltale.  But it could wait. Unless the old man had moved things up, he had a day's cushion; old man wouldn't be back until tomorrow. Che would verify the scheduling, whatever it was.

Krycek eased himself up and stood, slightly stiff now, and made his way into the bathroom. Yellow plastic cup, toothbrush, orange container with the new pain meds. He took out two, gulped them down, chased them with a cup of water and returned to the bed.

Maxed out again, legs weak, a bass thrum where the wound was. He slipped his shoes off, pushed the laptop to the side and eased himself in between the sheets. The familiar pattern of cracks spread above him on the ceiling. He pulled the covers up higher. It was cold in here--maybe just cold alone--but sleep would come soon enough and take away the pain of consciousness.

 

 

To: thelark@

From: Redwall@

Target has been delivered, apparently none the worse for wear (I hear she asked about you--a good sign.) No overt hitches, though no doubt the evidence will be sifted carefully so we're continuing to watch our backs and analyze our moves. Evidently JB put on a great performance in a corridor, but I'll leave the telling to him. Got your mail.  I've been watching since the beginning for signs of any activity against us, but so far nada. More as it happens. Peace.

 

 

The thin, waving willow branches overhead gradually replaced the poplars from her dream--home's poplars. They were gone. Alex was gone. Around her the air was cool, the shade too deep. Tracy sat up, set aside the throw pillow and felt her wrists and stomach cold against the moving air. Her head was thick, as if she'd only begun to fill the need for sleep. She could bury herself in sleep, burrow into it and hide. But that would be no help to Alex. If nothing else, she could help set his plan in motion and at least ease his mind about her safety.

The feeling wasn't the same as when her mother died, the wrenching ache that came from the certainty that she was gone beyond all recall. Alex's absence echoed, hollow inside. They'd been a strength only beginning to be exercised and he was out there, somewhere, though in the end he might prove just as inaccessible as her mother. But lingering in the mesmerizing pain of her loss would do nothing for him. If they meant anything to each other, now, more even than when they'd been together, was the time to do something to help him.

Tracy stood and walked to the edge of the glass enclosure. In the distance to the east she could see water and the masts of boats. Rooftops, some with patios, dotted the landscape. Alex's mother would have some delicate negotiating to do trying to convince her other son to take this girl she'd just received, an unknown quantity to her. She was afraid, his mother--afraid of losing both her sons because of this.

One hand on the polished, honey-colored railing, Tracy started down the stairs. She could see down into the living room but it was empty. Teena was--she let her mind reach out--in the enclosed garden behind the house. She continued down the stairs to the landing and paused. Something about her backpack, which Teena had suggested she put in the guest bedroom, first door on the right. She went to the room. The backpack lay on the bed, tilted slightly, its former red color worn to a reddish pink. Carefully she sat down beside it. It seemed fuller than she'd remembered. She took hold of it and pulled the drawstrings.

Inside at the top was a brown paper grocery bag, something inside it packed neatly into a thick rectangle. She took out the bag and unfolded it. Red showed from inside. She reached in and pulled it out. The dress--the red one she'd told him she liked so much. She swallowed and ran her fingers lightly over its surface. Slowly she stood and held the dress in front of her, letting it unfold. Something dropped out of it onto the floor: a book.  She picked it up.

On the front was a drawing of a red-headed girl with pigtails sticking straight out to both sides. The girl stood on a beach with palm trees around her. Inside, on the first blank page, was Alex's handwriting in black. Like you, she can do anything, it said.

She held the dress and book against her and drifted to the window, filled suddenly with a fierce ache. She closed her eyes and leaned against the window frame. Breathe, he'd remind her; there'd be a hand on her shoulder and the warmth of his body close against her left side. Sun spilled across her face. She breathed in and out, in and out, seeking comfort in the rhythm, waiting for the ache to subside. Finally she opened her eyes and returned to the bed, spreading the dress out on it, smoothing the ridges from where it had been folded. Opening the book, she read his inscription again. In her mind she could picture him writing the note she'd taken to Raul, working carefully, the paper wanting to skitter away.

But there was something more.

Her hand dug into the pack again, taking out the long johns, taking out her mother's sweater, reaching. Toothpaste, brush, paper... a piece of paper. She took it out. Plain peach-colored stationary, heavyweight, a single sheet folded once: it was her mother's paper. Inside was Alex's handwriting. She sat down on the edge of the bed and read, then closed her eyes and leaned forward, tangled in fine, thin pain.

 

 

To: thelark@

From: heron3@

Glad to report that I've seen her and that the operation seems successful on this end, though we know vigilance is necessary. Transportation was generously provided by a friend with a hearse.  I thought she might find her surroundings a little disconcerting so I arranged to ride along. You would have appreciated the look on her face when she realized she was indeed in the right place and among friends.

She is settled now, appears to have weathered the trip reasonably well and asked about you. I believe the three musketeers may be able to provide her with a laptop in the near future. Meremaid played decoy to help fill out the ruse and while all went well, suffice it to say we've both filled our adrenaline quotas for one day. Hoping you and Ben are seeing progress in your work.

                                                                                          -Will

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: Cranesbill@

I don't really know how to start this; there seems to be no way to do it without someone getting hurt. As you can tell from this mail, I am with your mother. Alex has put himself at risk to help me get away before the old man decides I'm no longer useful to him, since the plan was to dispose of me once Alex was strong enough not to need my help. Alex was hoping I could stay with you. I know you are in hiding and I don't want to put you in further danger, but the old man is very determined in his pursuit and you are the only one Alex trusts to be able to keep me hidden from him.

I know the things you have gone through in the past with Alex and that you will likely suspect this is some kind of trap or trick. You might think that I'll let Alex know where you are, but he doesn't want the old man to find you anyway. Besides, I already know where you are. I had a vision yesterday of the girl, the mother of the little dead boy who is pregnant again, and you were in her thoughts. I didn't tell Alex; actually, he asked me not to tell him anything the old man might be able to draw out of him.

Please don't fault your mother for agreeing to take me. She only wants to help and Alex thought it would be easier for you this way than meeting with him face to face. I don't want to put your mother in danger, either, so please let me know as soon as possible if you are willing to have me. If not, I understand your need to protect yourselves and I'll leave so your mother is free to go on her way safely.

I might be of some help to you, but of course the decision is yours. Please let us know as soon as you can.

                                                                                 -The Stair Sprite

 

 

"I'm afraid Fox will think I'm hiding behind you, not writing to him myself," Teena said ruefully as Tracy closed the lid on the laptop.

"He has reason to be suspicious.  Alex has caused him a lot of pain. It's been the old man behind it, but still."  She paused. "He thinks your husband betrayed him--betrayed their work--with his views, with his refusal to go along.  In return he tries to break your sons.  Both of them, just in different ways."

"If only there were a way for them to learn to work together."

"There has to be some way to make them understand each other. They both have hearts. They both have strength.  They're different kinds of strengths, but--"

In the kitchen, a phone rang. Alex's mother hurried to listen for a message, hoping it wouldn't be the old man having somehow found her. She feared him as much as Alex did.

Tracy looked around the spacious, quiet living room and pulled the peach-colored piece of stationery from her pocket. The edges were slightly curled now, as if the paper had spent hours or days or even weeks in her pocket, though it had only been minutes. He must have written the note last night. She hesitated, her fingers tentative on the edge of the paper, and finally opened it.

Nena--

I know I'm not much with words and I don't usually need them with you; you can just pull them out of my head and save me the trouble. But by the time you get this that's probably not one of the possibilities.  Wish it were.

Can't even start to tell you what you've done for me and I just wanted to make sure you know that you've kept me going in more ways than one. For the last year my life's been on the skids, and then this gunshot happened and who would have figured something incredible would come out of it.  But it's the way you've always got to face life--take what it throws at you, pull whatever you can from it and let it make you stronger. Take good care of the kid. I hope some day he realizes how lucky he is to have you. Keep following that little voice but look ahead, too; sometimes it's the only way. Most of all, always be what you are inside. There's nothing better.

Burn this as soon as you've read it, no excuses. If you want to keep it, keep it where I know you keep me, inside, and know I hold you there, too. You can lean on that if you feel yourself starting to slip. 'I love you' doesn't begin to say it.

                                                     -Alex

The paper trembled slightly in her hand. She folded it in half, then in half again and curled it into her palm. It felt warm, as if it had a heart and life of its own. On the coffee table was a clean marble ashtray with a box of matches in it.  Hesitantly Tracy reached for the little box.

Outside in the garden patio she unfolded the paper carefully and knelt down close to the bricks. She held the letter a moment, feeling the warmth of the paper, picturing Alex the way she'd found him in the middle of the night, sitting against her bedroom wall, stiff in his grief, then reaching out to pull her close. She ran the match across a brick. A small sizzle and a flame ignited, large and pale yellow. Touching it to the edge of the paper, she watched as it caught and flared, beginning to spread and eat its way across the sheet of stationery. The edges darkened and curled, forcing the burning paper into a ball. Moments later there was only fragile ash.

Tracy stood and watched the air current begin to pull at the thin, black fragments.

 

 

"Well, at least we know they got your mom away and that she's safe," Mulder said, rereading Krycek's mail.

"I was hoping to find something from the Gunmen when I checked your mail and this came in. What do you think it means, Mulder--all this information Krycek's been feeding us?"

"I don't--" He turned carefully and glanced at her. "I don't know. Sandy and I were talking about that. About Krycek, I mean."

"Sandy? Mulder, what did you tell her?"

"She asked, Scully. Rita told her someone from the Bureau knew who killed her husband. She figured out it was me." He turned to glance out the window above the bed. "Wonder how long she's been carrying that question around."

"And what did you tell her?"

"About Krycek? I told her... I said I had a history with the guy. How's that for understatement? I told her that he's always after something, always dealing." He caught his lip between his teeth momentarily. "I just can't figure out what the hell he wants this time. What about you, Scully? Got any theories?"

"No, I..." She shook her head. "No. I have no idea. But I did spend some time searching the Internet for information on your Dr. Vanek."

"And?"

"All I found was that she's listed as having received a degree from American University--1988--though there's no specific information about her in their medical school database--no residency, no specialization."

"1988--that's awfully late. She must be 45, Scully."

"Well, I'd say maybe she was just a late bloomer, but that explanation seems a little less likely after this other information I found." She reached past him, took the mouse and clicked on a minimized file at the bottom of the screen. Mulder leaned forward.

"These must be her parents, Scully--Jan and Ludmila Vanek."

"Czech nationals."

"The ages seem right."

Scully moistened her lips. "Both of them geneticists. Both killed in what is described only as a 'laboratory accident' in a little town outside"--she paused briefly--"Krasnoyarsk, Russia. June 23, 1983."

"Krasnoyarsk?"

"Deja vu, Mulder? It looks like you were right. For whatever reason, if this is what we suspect it is, Dr. Vanek is here in sleepy little heart-of-the-country Owensburg at the behest of the Smoking Man."

"Yeah, but not at the behest of his group, I'll bet."

She frowned. "What do you mean?  If she's a defector, someone with valuable knowledge of the Russian program--"

"...the Consortium would have jumped at the chance to have her," he said.  "Exactly.  And she'd be working at some sizeable facility somewhere, not hiding out at a beryllium plant. Which is why I'm guessing Smoky's doing something a little more private here."

"Like?"

"A while back my mother mailed me with something she remembered my dad saying--that Smoky's downfall would be his greed, his inability to let go of anything he'd gained, or achieved. My dad described Smoky as a monkey with his fist caught in a jar." He turned to face her. "I think he's got his own little program going, something personal. My mother said that if he were drowning in a shipwreck, he wouldn't hesitate to fight everyone else for the only available life preserver. Scully, he was too jumpy back in D.C. when Wilkins and his partner were here investigating. The Consortium may be pulling beryllium out of here but there's more going on than that. Smoky's action against Skinner, his threat to you... all that was overcompensation if beryllium was the only thing at stake." He smiled. "I think he's got a little secret here he doesn't want anyone else to know about."

A chime sounded on the laptop.

"I didn't know you were still online, Scully."

"I... I signed on to your account to check your mail and then I went looking for the information on Dr. Vanek. Then you and Sandy came. It's your mail, Mulder. Look."

Mulder clicked on the mail flag at the bottom of the screen and waited.

"Probably the Gunmen." Scully pursed her lips. "I hope they haven't been followed."

She turned away and went to the kitchen window. Hazy sunlight filtered through the trees. When she turned around again she could see Mulder's lower lip sucked in.

"What?" She came up behind him. "What is it?"

He pointed at the screen. "When it rains, it pours, Scully. What do you make of this?"

She leaned over his shoulder and read.

The strange girl again.

 

 

To: Cranesbill@

From: topaz@

Just thought I'd let you know I'm back here and still in one piece. Thanks again for being part of this. Contact me as soon as you hear anything about the arrangements. Hope she's doing okay.  Appreciate it if you'd let me know.

 

 

To: topaz@

From: Cranesbill@

She took it upon herself to send the request, believing she'd have a better chance of being convincing if you and I were left out of the equation. She seems to be a brave, unblinking young woman; I know you must certainly admire that in her. She found the things you left for her and is bearing up, but I understand now why you said this would be difficult. We are awaiting a response and will let you know as soon as one is received.

                                                                                   -M

 

 

"This could be the connection, Mulder." She glanced from the laptop to the bed where he was propped against the pillows. "She says Cancer Man hired her to take care of Krycek. That would explain why she was running messages for him, like Skinner said."

"Yeah, but why would he put himself at risk to help her escape? What's in it for him? I mean--" He sat up and paused abruptly, frowning.

"Dizzy again?"

"Just... a little, yeah." He blinked.

Scully frowned. "I understand this isn't the kind of town where you can get a tox screen analyzed in a hurry, but Dr. Wykoff did promise me he'd go to the lab in Lexington himself. I'm hoping he'll be able to get back to us this evening. Whatever she gave you isn't wearing off in any normal way."

"Just my luck. Frying pan to the fire." He eased himself to the edge of the bed and stood, then came up behind her and looked at the screen again. "What's in it for him, Scully, doing this? There's got to be some kind of payoff. And my mother. Unless Krycek dropped her off on Mom's doorstep--"

"But then he'd have to get back to Washington, Mulder, and he's not recovered yet. I don't think he could make it that far on his own."

"Which means Mom had to have agreed to meet him and take the girl." His mouth tightened.

"What do you know about her, Mulder--this girl?"

He shrugged. "Like I said, she seemed like a nice kid.  Friendly.  Maybe a little too open for a place like D.C. But we only spoke a couple of times."

Scully sighed and shook her head. "She seems very... straightforward in this mail. Either that or this is a story designed to reel us in, the perfect bait, the perfect--" She paused. "But it doesn't track. There's no pressure, no threat. No consequence if we decide against it."

"Other than that she's with my mother, making Mom a target for Smoky." He pointed at the screen. "What's this, Scully--the 'vision of the girl'?"

Scully leaned in and read. "I didn't... My god, Mulder. She's talking about Sandy."

"Yeah, but it says 'pregnant'."

She looked up. "Sandy is pregnant. She's suspected it for a few days, but she didn't find out for sure until this morning. Mulder, I... I don't see how... Who else would have known that? Skinner did seem to be under the impression that she has some psychic ability, but--"

"Then she could function like a wire for Krycek--let him know everything that goes on here, whatever we do, everything we're thinking."

"Do you think she'd be likely to do that--from what you knew of her?"

"I don't... Scully, I don't... No." His mouth was small.

"Mulder, I hesitate to even suggest this. I don't trust Krycek any more than you do. But that night in your apartment, when he called me and told me to come, to... take care of you..." She paused and looked up. "There was... there seemed to be... something there, in him. Something... I don't know. Not the way he'd been before."

"Yeah, then a week later he held a knife to your throat, Scully."

"I know." She looked down. "I know. I can't explain it, either." She paused. "Why don't you ask, Mulder? Why don't you ask your mother, or the girl. Or Krycek? Would you like me to write to your mother?"

Mulder bit his lip. "You ran interference for me last time, Scully. I think I'm going to have to do this myself."

 

 

To: Cranesbill@

From: DaddyW@

Important that I know what you know about this deal and what made you decide to agree to a meeting. Awaiting your reply.

 

 

To: topaz@

From: DaddyW@

Looking for some straight talk about this deal of yours. What are you looking for here? I'm sure I'm not seeing all the pieces.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: topaz@

What you see is what you get. There's only one piece here and she's it. She's gone through a lot to take care of me while I've been laid up and she doesn't deserve to end up as seagull food in some landfill.

 

 

To: topaz@

From: DaddyW@

Why the sudden change of heart? Bet some of your hits had value, too. Make me see why this isn't a trap.

 

 

"Maria?" The man in the lab coat looked up from his notes and smiled. "Didn't expect to see you until tomorrow."

"It's Friday. Maybe I've finally been infected with the 'weekend' phenomenon."

"I don't see why. You've probably never spent a non-working weekend in your life." He offered a small grin that she partially acknowledged.

"When research is your life..." She came closer. He put an arm around her and kissed her cheek lightly. "...then it's not work. Anyway, I have a favor to ask."

"Shoot."

She reached into the bag she was carrying and produced a sealed plastic bag, a blood-stained piece of gauze visible inside it.

"Could you run me a simple DNA fingerprinting on this?"

"New project?"

"A little investigation."

"Ooh, the researcher turns detective."

"Medical detective, yes." She paused. "How long will it take you, Brian?"

"In a hurry?"

"Yes, actually. You know I'm an impatient person."

"Impatient but always fascinating."

She blushed.

"Maybe tomorrow," he said. "If I sit up late and don't get a bunch of rush work in here in the next two hours. If I'm not... distracted. You staying?"

She shook her head. "Not tonight. Somebody in Owensburg might notice and start rumors. No, it's more definite than that: they would. They feed on speculation. It's like a sport to them." She smiled briefly. "I prefer to keep my life private." She turned to go.

"Can't understand why." He gave her a wink. "Until tomorrow, then."

"Until tomorrow."

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: Cranesbill@

I was contacted yesterday regarding this matter with the understanding that help would be needed within a week or so, then again, unexpectedly, very early this morning. I have nothing that you might call 'hard evidence' on which to base my judgment of his sincerity, only his words and tone over the phone. I realize that with the experience you've had with him, these things must seem laughable to you as indicators, but having the girl here, both beginning to become acquainted with her and seeing the effect she appears to have had on him, I can only say that she seems well-deserving of our efforts to keep her hidden from L. I realize, however, that she could prove a distinct burden to you logistically. If you feel it's not wise to accept her in your situation, I would be willing to keep her with me.

I know this situation will seem like a point of division between us. I heartily wish it were otherwise. You must do what you think is best. Let me know of your decision. Should you have further questions, I'll do my best to answer them.

                                                                                   -M

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: topaz@

No argument I come up with is going to convince you; you need to admit that to yourself. But think: if it weren't some abstract, if it were your sister or your partner, wouldn't you put yourself on the line to keep them out of his reach? Even if it meant going to someone who'd laugh you into the next state? If I had any other way, I wouldn't be bothering you but I don't and she's worth the price of your disbelief. I don't think I need to spell it out any further than that.

 

 

"What do you think, Scully?"

Her hands went up in the air. "I'm stumped, Mulder. I don't know what to say."

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "There's got to be something we aren't seeing here."

"Well..." She cleared her throat. "We seem to have three possible courses of action. Take the girl, which presents logistical problems... and of course we're not sure what Krycek's stake--or agenda--is in this. Or leave the girl with your mother--"

"We can't do that, Scully. It's going to put her in danger. If Smoky's searching for the girl, if she knows something--she probably does--knows something incriminating--what would he do if he found Mom hiding her?"

Silence. He looked up at her.

"The third course is to do nothing. She's offered to leave your mother."

He shook his head. "She's not going to have the street smarts for that. She was like... like a bird that would fly right into your hand."

"If in fact it's all some elaborate plan of the Smoking Man's, she wouldn't be in any real danger, though." She pursed her lips.

"What?"

"I can't see Krycek setting up your mother in this. He's obviously had some... interest in her, some... But there'd be no need, Mulder. If it were the Smoking Man's setup, the girl could have written directly to us and"--she shrugged--"and said she was running away from Krycek. That would be a story we'd be more inclined to believe than this, what Krycek and your mother are telling us."

Mulder shifted on the edge of the bed. She watched his lower lip push forward.

"I don't..." He looked up, at the panels in the ceiling. "So if we assume that she's actually on the run, in danger... then I can't see sending her off to fend for herself, or leaving her with my mother--for both their sakes. Krycek's got no love for Smoky. I mean, he stole the DAT tape; he set that recorder in my apartment--the tape that caught Smoky. So she's on the run, she needs shelter. But it still begs the question. Why is Krycek sticking his neck out to help her get away? Because if Smoky finds out--"

"Krycek's a dead man."

"So why's he doing it?"

Scully sighed. "Why don't you ask the girl? If she's as open as she seems, maybe she'll tell us something that will make more sense of this."

 

 

Krycek pushed the fourth floor button and watched the elevator doors close. He sagged against the wall. Too little rest, but he was awake again, the pain gone for a few hours but his head thick, stomach edgy. The old man's team was poring over the surveillance tapes, though he'd nixed the idea of having them file a police report. Better to force the doctor's hand by making him do it. He was likely to be in league with Mulder's people but he'd have to file--for appearances, anyway. Hopefully he'd have his act together and be able to come up with a plausible story that wouldn't reflect back on him or give anything away.

The elevator settled and the door slid open. His mother said Tracy was 'bearing up'. So she knew. She was smart enough to put the pieces together, but beyond that she was a mother; they looked for that kind of thing. 'Brave young woman' she'd said. She hadn't called her a girl. She wasn't saying what the hell are you doing messing around with a girl? She'd said I understand what you see in her.

He stopped in front of Tracy's door and pulled the key from his pocket, his pulse a distinct beat in the background. Turning the key in the lock, he opened the door to sunlight and shadow. The T-shirt she wore to sleep in lay folded on the unmade bed. The dresser held her big metal bread bowl, a comb and a hair tie beside it. In the bathroom there was toothpaste, no toothbrush--have to pick one up--soap beside the sink, clear yellow, and on the edge of the tub a bottle of something. He picked it up. Shower gel. He flipped up the cap and sniffed. Something honeyish--honey and something. It smelled like her, the way she'd smelled under the blankets, just a hint, something to draw you in, make you want more. His eyes closed involuntarily but he forced them open again and set the bottle back where she'd left it.

Returning to the bedroom, he went through the closet--white dress hanging, wire hangers, plastic bags stuffed in a larger one, her old worn shoes on the floor--and the dresser. Bag of flour, measuring cups, yeast, salt. A pair of underwear with blue butterflies on them. His gray thermal shirt, folded carefully. He picked it up, held it to his nose. It would be a dead giveaway. She probably wished now that she'd taken it with her, but that was the way things happened: before you knew it, circumstance exploding in front of you and all you could do was duck and cover, or run, or whatever you could manage that would keep you going forward.

He looked up. It reminded him of Afghani villages he'd been through: abandoned houses, abandoned lives. People on the run to stay alive, the props of their existence left behind in silence to tell the story of a moment. That was what he could say: that she'd just disappeared. He'd sent her out for... something--takeout or pills or groceries--and she'd never come back. Foul play.  It wasn't the greatest neighborhood. It was plausible. A lot more so than that she'd simply taken off. The old man wouldn't buy that in a million years.

Krycek went to the window and looked out. He'd sat here--she'd sat here--the night they'd let him back out of the hospital, a painfully awkward, invisible wall between them. This was where she'd stood, days later, when she'd said that there were things you remembered, things that would stay with you over the long haul. Like Victor lying in a Marseilles alley, his life trickling away red between the cobblestones, or the sight of the old man's pants and shoes in front of him unexpectedly in the foggy cabbage field. Or the mountaintop.  Or her, the way her breath caught when he touched her, as if no two people had ever touched, or kissed, or made love before.

He turned and leaned against the wall.

Most likely she'd come sometime, the way she had when he was in the hospital. She hadn't suggested it and neither had he, but if she'd done it once, she could probably do it again. But not yet. For now they needed to focus--to take stock, test the wind, stay alert. Right about now Mulder would be sitting somewhere with Scully, tied in knots trying to figure out what the hell he was up to, whether to take Tracy and then, when he'd decided, how to justify it to himself. If Scully balked he wouldn't cross her but in the end she'd acquiesce; she was a defender, too. The two of them had that in common.

Krycek crossed the room, set the thermal shirt on his shoulder to free his hand, pushed the lock button and drew the door nearly closed behind him. There should be some remnant of her here, some image, but there was nothing. He pulled the door closed and started down the stairs, step and pause, step and pause. His hand pulled up involuntarily, as if there were something to grasp.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: Cranesbill@

I can't really explain the way my life goes, but I think from your own experience you may be able to understand a little. Maybe it's like a series of hunches--when you know something the evidence doesn't back you up with... yet. I felt like I was drawn to Washington. I didn't know why at the time but I think now that it was to be there when the old man went out looking for someone to take care of Alex. I found Alex frightening at first. He's led such a dark, dark life. But when I got there he was in a situation that was a nightmare for him, too. He was forced to trust my help, to depend on me, to let me watch him eat or stumble or go crazy from the pain. If you think about it, that's a lot for a very private man to face. I didn't betray that trust, in the same way you didn't betray the possibilities of the weary blonde woman Lucy when no one else was willing to look beyond the mistakes in her past.

I believe what he's gone through in the process of this recovery has made Alex look at some things in his life in ways he hasn't before. I know he values the fact that I didn't betray the trust he had no choice but to put in me. In the end it's worked both ways; there were things in my life I'd been too afraid to look at, much less deal with, and Alex stepped up to support me so I could begin to sort them out. Do you remember how you felt when you discovered in your partner someone you could confide in without fear of being betrayed as a person? It's a very powerful feeling. Though it's a concept your mind may want to fight, the situation is pretty simple: Alex is grateful. He just wants to know I'm safe and going on with my life. The problem is that I'm a liability to the old man. At least, he believes I am.

I realize you have your partner's safety to worry about, so all I'm asking is that you consider the request. If it doesn't work out for you, I've been on my own before and I'll understand. But for Alex's peace of mind, I'm asking. He trusts your knowledge of the old man, and your dedication.

                                                                                     -Tracy

 

 

"What are you doing, Mulder?"

"Trying something."

"What?"

"Seeing if Krycek's willing to give me a little information. Everything lately has been his offering, but I wonder what'll happen if I ask for something."

"Such as?"

"Information on Maria Vanek."

"But Mulder, if he's in with the Smoking Man that's going to give him our location."

"It could." He bit his lip. "But my guess is Smoky doesn't trust Krycek enough to tell him any more than he absolutely needs to. And besides, if my guess is right, Smoky hasn't let anyone in on this little secret. If Krycek doesn't know Vanek is here, it doesn't tell him anything. Besides"--he shrugged--"we've got Diana snooping around and maybe Vanek herself suspicious of me. We may have to move out of here pretty quickly anyway."

Scully frowned.  She rubbed absently at a spot on her shorts. Eventually she sighed and nodded. "Being somewhere I could actually walk out in the sun without fear of being seen doesn't sound like such a bad thing, as far as that goes."

"Besides, Krycek seemed to be pretty chummy with the people running the vaccine program in Tunguska. I think it's more than just a stab in the dark that he knows something about her."

Mulder pulled the laptop toward him and typed.

To: topaz@

From: DaddyW@

Looking for some information. Came across a name I'd like to know more about--Dr. Maria Vanek. What can you tell me about her?

He hit 'send' and looked over his shoulder. "Let's see what kind of response we get. What?"

"I just--" She got up off the edge of the bed. "It just struck me today that everything I have here--my life, such as it is--will fit into that one green bag. Though I'd be leaving so much behind: Sandy, the people we've met here who have helped us." She came up behind his chair. "Have you ever stopped to think how over the years we've devolved into this... insular existence, both of us: investigations, research, more investigations. What kind of true community have we been attached to? But here we've had Sandy, Rita, Dale... Adrie and Bethy. Even David for all his nervous desperation, and Heather."

Mulder reached for her hand. "It's been a good thing, Scully--a good thing for you. It's been good for both of us."

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: topaz@

Haven't heard that name in quite a while. Actually she used to go by her husband's name--Ivanov (that would be Ivanova for her.) The name you have is her parents' name. I heard that her split with her husband was the reason she left the research over there, though that could just be a cover-up they floated. Her parents got too close to a gestating specimen; that was what pushed her from genetics to vaccine research. Single-minded but I guess I can understand her stake in it. Word was she turned tail and disappeared into the woodwork of conventional science, but if you've heard the name I'm guessing she's still out there pushing her cause. Makes more sense than having her suddenly give it up over her ex. She always seemed pretty committed to me.

Question for a question: Do you know of any hybrid/vaccine interest group operating out of the Pasadena area? T exhibits some big gaps in her memory--whole portions of her life as if they'd been completely erased. She hardly remembers a move she made when she was eight, or anything before it (ditto for how she ended up pregnant.) Said her dad died just before that move, that he'd worked as a researcher at Cal Tech. No telltale implant, but some of the things she says track way too close to things both of us have seen before. A lot for a kid to have to carry with her. Let me know.

 

To: topaz@

From: che774@

The deed is done, car's reparked. A little dusting of particulates for good measure--the professional icing on the cake. The vulture lands at 2:47 p.m. tomorrow--brace yourself--but will reconfirm after the flight has left Paris-Orly. You're getting generous in your old age, my friend--what's up? But scratch that if it will make you reconsider.

 

 

"What do you think, Scully?"

"I--" She shook her head. "I don't see that she's lying. I think... She seems genuine, Mulder. At least from her own perception of her situation." She cleared her throat and paused. "Do you think something was actually implanted in her?" She moistened her lips. "Or that she might somehow be... like Emily?"

"I don't know. I... We've only seen them using older women as surrogates. But it could be like Krycek said, some group none of us has heard of. Like he said, it would be a heavy burden for a kid to carry."

"I think it's safe to say she's more than just 'a kid' to him, Mulder."

He frowned at her, quizzical.

"His heart's on his sleeve in those mails, Mulder.  In his own way. Look at what she says. I admit it's hard to imagine Krycek having compassion for anyone, but--"

"Strange alliances are made under the stress of circumstances, eh? He breathed into cupped hands, then sat up slowly. "What about you, Scully? How are you doing?"

She gave him a questioning look.

He patted the space on the bed beside him. "I mean"--he put an arm around her as she sat down--"all this talk about babies. Tracy--funny to finally have a name for her--and Sandy."

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I'm very, very happy for Sandy, Mulder. It's such a reprieve from having lost her whole family. An unimaginable gift. She was afraid to find out for sure--afraid it might not be true."

"Pregnant twice by nineteen."

"I know. I think about that sometimes--how many teenage girls end up pregnant when they don't want to, how easy it seems for them when--" She looked away.

"Hey." A thumb smoothed a drop of moisture from below her eye. Mulder moved farther back on the bed and settled against the pillows. "Come here, Scully."

She curled down beside him. A warm hand smoothed past the side of her face. "There's got to be a way for you, Scully. Somehow."

"Mulder, we live lives that no one should bring a child into."

"I mean someday. When the timing, the circumstances are right."

Soft lips touched her hair and his arms tightened around her. She closed her eyes and abandoned herself to the gentle in-and-out of his chest against her. In her mind she could see the scene outside the kitchen window--the descending hillside and the far ridgeline in the hazy pastels of late afternoon.

"Do we take her, Mulder? We need to write back to your mother."

"I don't know how safe we are here. If Vanek suspects me, if she's going to start asking around about her new patient. But I've got to get to the bottom of this, Scully.  I'm sure whatever she's doing is our ticket, the key to finally tripping Smoky up." He shifted slightly. "Diana--we have no idea whether Beeson's still on her to find the source of the e-mail or whether he bought Rita's letter."

"I talked to David this afternoon; he called while I was up at the house with Adrie. It's made him very nervous, this whole thing. He checked again with his parents. So far no one's contacted them. Unless Diana makes that connection, she has no way to know to look further, to look here."

A pause.

"I guess"--his chin rested against her shoulder--"I want to make sure Krycek's not pulling the wool over our eyes again. Or maybe I just don't want to believe he's capable of what it looks like he's doing here--just helping someone who helped him."

"No, caution makes sense, Mulder. We can meet them somewhere, just one of us make the contact, and evaluate what we find."

"Where? We don't even know where they are."

"If you figure Krycek had to make it home from the meeting point on his own, they couldn't be very far from Washington."

"They could fly. We could meet them in Cincinnati. It's not that far and we wouldn't be giving away our location if it becomes an issue."

"You should let her know, Mulder. She'll need to make arrangements."

"Mmm. In a minute." He pulled her closer. "I'm just taking a minute. We don't take enough of them, Scully."

 

 

"Yeah." Krycek tucked the phone against his shoulder.

"We've gone through the surveillance tapes. She was taken out of the room at 11:30 for a bath. Or so they said."

"Who took her?"

"Woman and a man."

"And then she disappeared?"

"No. Well, not that we realized at the time. By 11:54 she's back in, nothing remarkable until just before we called you--two o'clock. A woman walks in--short, redhead. We thought it was our target at first but it turned out to be somebody else--had the wrong room. Then about two minutes later the same guy who took her out before comes in fast, undoes everything--IV, the whole business--and the two of them high-tail it out of there. We lost 'em between a couple of monitors."

"Fuck. So it was someone else. A plant."

"Either that or the broad's just been lying there all week on an extended vacation. No, she took off fast. Too fast for a sick woman."

"And then?"

"We caught him again--the guy--on a downstairs monitor. Looks like they took her out as dead. But there are no cameras on the entrance the mortuaries use."

"So find out which funeral homes pick up there. Check them all." The phone started to slip. Krycek grabbed it and shifted slightly. "What about this guy. What did he look like?"

"Medium build--small side of medium. Auburn hair tied back in a pony tail. Nothing standout."

"Get a still. Have it enlarged." He looked out the narrow window. "You check oxygen suppliers yet?"

"We're doing that now."

"What about the doctor? Did you talk to him?"

"Yeah. Well, I didn't. Bishop did. Seemed really upset. He'd already contacted the police and reported her missing."

"Good. Maybe they'll do some of our work for us."

"That's it, I guess. When's he coming back?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. We've still got time to pull this thing out if we hustle. Oh, get a still of the woman, too, and enlarge it." He paused. "You couldn't tell it was somebody else?"

"Hey, it was a sick old lady. You know--messy hair, a few wrinkles. Sick faces lying in a bunch of bedcovers look pretty much the same."

"Yeah, I hear you... But you know he won't buy it so easily. Especially not with his prize gone. Keep working on it.  And stay in touch."

"Will do."

The phone clicked and went off. Krycek pulled up and put it back on the charger. Walking the line again--how familiar was this? Push hard enough to make it look good to the organization, hopefully not hard enough to expose the pieces to Mulder's plan. And the stakes were higher now than they'd ever been. From here on in, Mulder and Scully's safety would be Tracy's safety, too.

He turned and glanced at the clock. 5:48. No word yet from his mother. Hopefully Tracy was doing okay. Four hours but it felt more like four days. He eased himself back down against the pillows. Sunlight came through the narrow window, splashes of brightness penetrating the spaces between the leaves on the tree outside. One patch settled near his shoulder, another on his hip. He'd been drifting this morning, on his way out but still conscious enough to notice her hand carefully peeling the blanket back until he lay naked in the still warmth of the sun coming through her window. How many nights as a kid had he fallen asleep curled tight, aching with cold? Here he'd been stretched out, safe, loose with the lazy warmth of fatigue, touched only by the light and the reassurance of her body against him. Peace, leisure--something rare. A rich guy's scenario.  She'd made him feel that way.

 

 

To: Cranesbill@

From: DaddyW@

How soon could you meet me in Cincinnati? Check your options and let me know. We talked before about ID that will allow you to move more securely. If you're in the area I think you are, I may be able to arrange for what you need to be delivered to you now. Let me know ASAP.

 

 

To: topaz@

From: DaddyW@

No knowledge of any group in the area you mention. Is she missing current blocks of time or just a space in childhood.  Anything easily attributed to repressed memories, etc.?

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: topaz@

Stranger than that--she barely remembers her father or how he died, thought at first she had no siblings but said this morning she might have had a brother. Has occasional 'visions' --taps into people at long distance. The first time it happened she was sitting near me and looked pale, like she was going to be sick. Yesterday it happened again and I found her collapsed outside in the rain. Seemed to come right out of it, acted like it was no big deal, but still. Keep an eye on her.

Have some personal information for you when this current thing has blown over. They're watching hospital security tapes now, talking to people but so far haven't hit on anything vital. Make sure your bases are covered.

 

Sandy pushed in the drawer of baby clothes, stood and ran to answer the ringing doorbell.

"Figured you might like some pizza," Raylene said, a familiar flat box in her hand. "Anyway, Joe's banging around, packing. I'd just as soon not be there while he does it." She smiled--an offering. An opening.

Sandy opened the door wider and let her mother in. She went to the kitchen and found napkins and cups and got soda from the fridge.

"I guess I haven't been thinking about food much," she said, sitting down across from her mother. "But yeah, it sounds kinda good. It's been a long time."

"How you doing, Sandy?" Raylene opened the box and held it out.

"I'm..." She shrugged. "I'm not used to this. I don't want to be used to it, don't want to have to be, but..."

She turned away and swallowed a jerky breath that was halfway out. When she looked back her mother was staring out the window onto the hillside, absently picking at a green pepper strip on her pizza slice.

"I don't think he ever really loved me, you know? I think I was just... in love with the idea--of having a man, of being part of a couple, I guess. Not me all by my lonesome." She took a bite from the narrow tip of the slice. "What about you? Do you think Cy...?"

Sandy looked down, at the table grain, and nodded. "Yeah, I know he did. In his own way. Sometimes when they do, even then they don't really know how to show it. But yeah, he did."

Raylene shook her head and traced the ridged interior of the pizza box with a finger. She smiled slightly.

"What?"

"I saw something the other day.  Somebody who knows how to show it."

 

 

"I like the pink best," the little girl said with conviction.

Maggie looked out at the sunset colors beyond the window. "I like them all, pink and yellow. The peach is very nice. In the hospital there were no windows, only electric lights. It makes all the colors seem more beautiful when you haven't been able to see them."

"The slaves came in ships," the girl said, big-eyed. "They had to lay down. There was no light, either. Old Rose said."

"Is that why your mother calls you New? For New Rose?"

The small head nodded, serious. "The stars will come out when the sky's dark. Do you know the drinking gourd story?"

Maggie shook her head. "I don't think so. Will you tell it to me?"

Another serious nod. Small pigtails bobbed with colorful barrettes. New set a small, dark hand on the sheets. "You have to close your eyes," she said. "So you can see the sky. It's very, very dark. Are you peeking?"

"No. My eyes are closed."

"It's nighttime and the drinking gourd is in the sky. It's stars. It looks like a cup with a long, long, long handle." A pause. "You see it up there?"

"I think so."

 

 

"There's a second set here," Frohike said, pulling a small envelope from his pocket and taking the cards out. "Different. If you think they've caught on to you, you can switch." He spread the cards out before her like a salesman. "Right down to the library card. They should do what you need. Just keep 'em in separate places."

Teena picked up the cards and looked at the driver's license. Tracy moved a step closer and peered over her shoulder. It was important to let Frohike see her, not to hang back. Mulder had sent the small man to deliver the fake IDs to his mother, but he was a scout, too, meant to take a good look around, to let Mulder know if the situation was what they'd claimed it was. It wasn't, after all, just his own safety, but Scully's at stake.

"If you need to switch," Frohike said, "send us an SOS so we can coordinate. Otherwise you should be okay."

Teena rose and offered her hand across the table. "I very much appreciate this."

"Lucky you were in the neighborhood. No sense letting the bad guys get a jump on you." He shook the hand she offered. "Give 'em both our best when you see 'em."

"I'm sure they're very grateful for your help."

Teena led the short man to the door. Tracy hung back a few steps. Frohike was trying to figure her out. He knew Alex had put himself on the line for her.  He'd guessed at his motives, but it was an ordinary guess, the default guess any man might make. He was dedicated to Mulder and Scully, though. Even though his visions of Scully were ones he'd rather have on posters he wouldn't want Mulder to find him with.

Tracy went to the dining room window and watched Frohike go down the stairs and cross the street to an old VW bus. Teena turned the door lock and glanced at her.

"I think we passed the test," Tracy said. "Mulder asked him to bring the ID but he wanted to know, too. He wants to make sure that this is safe."

"It must be difficult for you--easy and difficult at the same time--to see what's inside people and then accept them on the basis of what they really are instead of what they present themselves to be."

"People's minds are full of contradictory things, the best and the worst you can imagine," Tracy said, running a finger down the window glass. "But it's the heart that counts. When you can see their heart, then you know who they really are. I think it was that way with Alex when I first met him. His mind was so dark, so"--she shook her head--"full of calculation, of the things he'd done and the things that have been done to him.

"You can fool your own mind," she went on.  "Convince it your motives are other than what they really are, that things mean something else besides what they really mean. But your heart--it stays separate from that somehow.  It is what it is. There was something there, inside him--a spark, a little flame." She turned to look at her hostess. "I went in wanting to feed it, but I found out all it needed was a little air, a chance to grow on its own. I don't know how to explain it, even to myself sometimes--the things Alex has done and then the way he's treated me. He's given me so much."

A hand settled on her shoulder. "You've done quite a lot for him. He's told me that."

"If you have the opportunity, Mrs. Mulder, don't miss the chance to get to know him."

 

 

Scully pulled into the parking space and switched off the lights and motor. Beyond the windshield a 747 sank slowly behind a terminal building, landing. Lights of distant planes winked red and green in the darkened sky. Scully leaned back against the headrest and stretched.

"What time is it, Mulder?"

He glanced at the truck's clock. "9:22. We've got at least half an hour.  If they're on time. If they're not, we've got more." He pulled his seat back up straighter and looked out across the parking lot. "Are we doing the right thing, Scully?"

"I think we've analyzed ever angle." She sighed. "In the end all we're left with is instinct. All the indicators we've seen are positive: the mails, Krycek's apparent--though admittedly puzzling--lack of self-serving strategy. Frohike's impression. We aren't committed, though. We can walk away if it doesn't look right."

"And leave my mother hanging."

"She wouldn't willingly play the Smoking Man's pawn, Mulder. She's probably got a bit of strategy of her own up her sleeve. Still, we'll be careful. You should stay out of sight--a restaurant or some place out of the main traffic area--until I've checked it out." She leaned toward him. "How are you feeling?"

He sat up. "About the same. A little better." He turned his head quickly and winced. "Not as bad but it's still there."

Her lips pressed together. "Dr. Wykoff said he'd pressed a colleague at the lab for a favor." She smoothed one hand along the edge of the steering wheel. "At least your symptoms haven't gotten any worse. He'll leave the message with Sandy when he finds anything out. If they're able to get results tonight."

"Coffee?" he asked, offering her a styrofoam cup.

"No." Her head went back against the headrest. "I'm okay for now."

They settled into silence, the only sounds the occasional click of the engine cooling and the periodic roar of aircraft landing or taking off.

Everything was coming together too fast: a solid lead after weeks of nothing but mopping and toilet cleaning, and then on the heels of it having to maneuver around Diana's search. Then the Maria Vanek mystery. Maybe she hadn't seen him at the computer. But then again, maybe she had. And if she was the gulag scientist Krycek was describing, more likely than not she'd have her radar up for suspicious intrusions into her work. He let the scene replay again: the sound of the door opening, his clumsy efforts to close the data window, the look on her face when she approached him. If only he hadn't been so messed up by the medication.

Then, like the final domino falling, the girl trying to get away from D.C. And still, amid all the fireworks, the pressing need to get to the bottom of Smoky's little project, whatever it was.

"I've got to make this connection, Scully--whatever it is Smoky's up to with Dr. Vanek. It's got to be what we've been looking for. He's got something to hide here, something he doesn't want even his syndicate cronies to know about. He obviously hasn't told Krycek."

"Would you tell Krycek if you were Smoky?"

"No. Though you've gotta figure: if Krycek's playing this straight, he's got a lot to lose by putting himself on the line for the girl. He'll even have a vested interest in keeping Smoky from finding us if she's with us. Unless he's just throwing her at us to slow us down, to hamper us."

"Why would he do that?"

"Who knows? Who knows why he does anything he does?" He stared out into the black of night. His hand ached, a dull ache unless he was careless and hit it against something. A plane rose suddenly from behind the terminal. He watched it lumber slowly into the sky. When it was gone he turned to glance at Scully. Her head was against the driver's side window.

"Tired?"

"Thinking," she said.

"About?"

"Airports. How far I've... both--we've both--come. How much things have changed since the last one we sat in."

"You scared the hell out of me that night, Scully.  In one sense. But it showed me you were alive, too, not Ms. Bionic Investigator who never breaks down." His lips came together, pressed forward and relaxed. "Maybe you needed that as much as I did."

She nodded at him in the dark, smiled and held out a hand. He took it and pressed it briefly against his cheek.

"And then it gets personal," he went on. "You start to wonder how far you'd go--how much you'd cut back your investigating--just to keep what you've got, not to endanger that. Would you put yourself out on a limb to save some poor guy or help bring about justice or further some cause, maybe even some favorite personal cause"--he glanced at her--"if it might meaning leaving that person you're attached to--that person you need--to go on alone? How much do you compromise your goals or cut back your reach in order to preserve the personal? Or how do you tell the difference between altruism and self-interest? Is it more altruistic to put yourself on the line for that bigger goal, that larger vision? Or were you only looking for the personal payoff, maybe looking to feel righteous? Is it selfish to put family, friends, partners above that bigger goal so they'll be there for you? Or are you doing it so you'll be there for them?" He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a sunflower seed and slipped it into his mouth.

"I think"--she cleared her throat--"that people have been grappling with that question since the beginning of time. Soldiers, certainly."

"Navy captains?"

She nodded. "Any kind of law enforcement. Revolutionaries. Look at the founding fathers."

He slipped a second seed into his mouth and bit down.

"Even terrorists, Mulder. Even... Krycek had to be doing some of that, deciding that this girl who's taken care of him, that her life's worth more than the assurance of his security."

"Mmm." He opened his door and spit a seed onto the pavement. He paused. "What time is it, Scully?"

"9:34. We should go in and take our places. I'll wait by the gate. When I'm sure it's okay, I'll bring them to you. It's probably better if we're not seen together anyway, but I don't want you pushing yourself, Mulder--not when you've been feeling like this."

He nodded and swung the door open.

"Mulder--"

He looked back.

"You going to be okay?"

After a pause he nodded. He reached into his pocket for another seed and stepped out into a bright pool of overhead light and the pervasive scent of jet fuel.

 

 

Teena stood and waited for the other passengers to clear the aisle. After a moment Tracy stood up beside her. The girl had never been on a plane before. She'd found it fascinating in the way a third-world inhabitant might, everything about the flight and the plane itself completely novel. She seemed more than ready to be on the ground now, though. A strained expression crossed her face.

"What is it, Tracy?"

"Too many voices--thoughts--like so much static." She wore a tired look.

Teena gripped the seat back in front of her. In her mind she could hear the harsh raspiness of Fox's voice, the bitterness. Who is my father? he'd demanded. It was an accusation, not a question. His face had matched his voice.  He could have pinned her to the wall with those eyes--Bill's eyes, with all Bill's anger filling them. But then she'd lied to him, the way she'd lied so many times. What sort of reaction could she expect? How could she expect anything different now, knowing how harsh his experience with Alex had been? He could only see her as a traitor once again.

A careful hand settled on her arm. "You're doing the right thing, Mrs. Mulder."

If only Fox would see it that way.

 

 

Mulder looked up from his menu and cup of coffee to see the girl coming through the restaurant door, not pausing to search the customers but knowing immediately where he was. She wore a yellow dress--not the one she'd worn on the stairs, though that, too, had had yellow in it, and as he recalled there'd been a yellow sweater as well. She carried the same faded backpack, though. She smiled when she saw him. He made himself smile back.

"It's been a while," he said as she approached the table.

He started to stand--a slight wash of dizziness--and offered his hand, which she shook. It was apparent now how little they'd actually talked before, how little they knew each other. He motioned for her to sit down. The backpack came off and was set on the chair between them. Mulder glanced toward the door.

"Your mom and Scully are talking," Tracy said. "I thought I'd give them some space, and a chance to catch up. I--" She looked down and traced the fork handle in front of her with a finger, then glanced up. "I wanted to apologize--for putting you all through this. I just... I don't think I had much time left back in Washington."

There was obviously a lot more, but she didn't seem ready to open up. "No, it's... You're right to worry. Respect for human life isn't one of Smoky's strong suits."

He could see it again, the impression of a thousand things passing through her mind that she couldn't or wouldn't bring herself to say.

"It's not a trap," she said finally, "though I know you'll need to see that for yourself. Alex has no stake in having the old man find you."

Her hands curled together, a gesture he'd seen her make once before on the stairs when he'd turned around, surprised to see her watching, after Diana had left. She gripped the table suddenly and went wide-eyed.

"You okay?" He reached toward her.

She closed her eyes a moment and nodded. "I think it's just--"

"Krycek said you'd been having problems."

"It's not that. I think it's just... I'm really tired. It's been a very long, really trying day and I think I take other people's emotional burdens on myself--Alex's concern, your mother's worry about alienating or hurting you, or--" She looked down at her hands. "I talk too much. I always have. I should learn."

A waitress passed by, two oval dinner plates on one arm.

"Guess it must be hard.  You know, knowing what other people are thinking." He remembered watching Gibson Praise. They'd never had a chance to look into the possible cause of his abilities.

"You tend to take the responsibility on yourself, for saving them or making things turn out alright. Do you--?" She glanced up at--into--him. "You do understand, don't you?"

He bit his lip and nodded.

"I don't want to be a burden," she said. "Maybe there's some way I can help you."

 

 

"You going to be okay, Mom?"

Mulder set his mother's bag on a chair in the row beside them and rested a hand on her shoulder.

"I believe so. I've got the identification your friend delivered. I have the laptop." She sighed. "You can't be around Leland without learning something about hiding. What about you, Fox? It seems every time I see you lately you're injured in some way." She glanced again at his bandaged hand.

"I--" He shrugged and looked toward the ticket counter. Five minutes until boarding.

"Sit," his mother said. "We have a few minutes."

She took the chair beside her bag. He sat in the one next to her.

"I think I'm onto something, finally." He leaned forward and spoke quietly. "After weeks and weeks of nothing. Garbage--literally garbage--and then something clicked that you said in a mail, about what Dad said about his greed." He bit his lip. "And I think I'm onto something, just on the verge. The pieces are almost..." He breathed into cupped hands. "If our luck holds, if I get just a little more time before everything... implodes around us. It's a small place." He turned to her. "You know the way small towns are. Nothing stays secret for very long. We're working against the clock and Scully... She's been my lifeline. I don't know how I would have made it this far on my own."

"She seems much stronger now, Fox. More grounded. I'm sure you're part of that foundation."

He nodded absently. "We've had help, too. We've had a lot of help along the way."

"I think you'll find Tracy will help you, too. She's certainly willing. And it must have taken a great deal of courage, knowing what she knows, to take on the assignment of caring for--"

Mulder's mouth tightened.  He looked away.

"I don't want to compromise your safety, Fox--yours and Dana's. But there was something in the way he asked." She sighed. "I realize I've only got a mother's intuition to guide me and mine is admittedly very, very rusty--"

"I can't figure why he'd put himself on the line like this."

"You know what your father used to say about trying situations leading to surprising alliances. I think he's been touched deeply enough by her help that he's willing to put himself on the line for her, to answer to Leland for her absence." She paused. "Perhaps he's discovered something in himself he didn't know was there before."

Mulder's left hand--good hand--curled into a fist. He studied it. "Great.  Rogue gets religion.  It doesn't cancel out the things he's done. His slate doesn't wipe clean."

"Nor does mine, Fox. I don't expect you to forgive me the things I've done. They are what they are and they can't be changed. But sometimes people change. They wake up to something they haven't seen or known before. I feel that's what's happened to me lately." Her hand settled on his arm. "You shouldn't forgive his actions that are wrong. But perhaps you can give him the opportunity to show what else is in him."

Mulder stared ahead.  After a moment he nodded.

"You must follow your heart, Fox. You've given me a chance, and I know that's been difficult for you."

The PA system came on, announcing boarding for Teena's flight. She stood.

"I've felt like a child, taking baby steps. But it's meant more than I can say to have that opportunity."

Mulder stood and nodded. His mother's arms went around him. He put an arm around her and kissed her forehead. "Be careful, Mom. Stay in touch."

"I will." She paused. "Be safe, Fox--the three of you. If there's anything at all I can do, I will. Don't hesitate to ask."

She squeezed his hand and turned to go. He watched her disappear through the boarding doors, went to the window and stared out. The scene outside was out of focus, an impressionist canvas of red and green and white lights on black. When the plane taxied away from the terminal he turned to go. Glancing carefully around him, he strode toward the exit to short term parking. His stomach growled and the injured hand throbbed quietly. After the reaction he'd had, he hadn't wanted to take anything else for the pain--not until they knew what he'd been given. He'd survive until then.

His feet moved automatically, left and right and then left again, through the cool terminal air, then through the warm, damp, fuel-scented darkness outside. He counted the rows to where the truck was. Scully was already in the driver's seat, her head against the side window. She sat up and smiled softly when she saw him approach. He'd rarely been so glad to see her.

"How did it go?" she whispered when he'd opened the door and climbed in. She put a finger to her lips and pointed through the back window to the camper shell beyond.

Mulder turned and looked. Tracy was asleep in the back, wrapped in Dale's utility blanket.

"It was okay," he said, nodding. "Pretty good." He paused.

"Still not convinced?"

"I don't know. What do you do, Scully, when your head and your gut tell you different stories?"

 

 

To: topaz@

From: Cranesbill@

Your parcel has been safely delivered. Hopefully this knowledge will be of some comfort to you. I am on my way, but please keep in touch. If you need help again I will do whatever I can. You remain in my thoughts.

                                                                                                        -M

Krycek read the mail a second time and hit 'delete'. Finger on the power button, he pushed and waited for the laptop to go to standby. Seconds later the room went dark. Easing himself back against the pillows, he looked out the narrow window. In the Madrid apartment, lying on the couch in the dark at two in the morning, he'd been able to hear Paco and his wife whispering quietly to each other on the other side of the thin apartment wall, off in their own little universe, one that didn't include the rest of the world or anything beyond the two of them lying in that narrow bed together. It had been a mystery then--how you found someone like that, someone you'd want to open up to, somebody you'd be that comfortable with. Mi costilla, he'd called her: my rib, a reference to the Adam and Eve story. Finally it was starting to make sense.

Krycek closed his eyes and pulled the pillow closer under his head.  When the old man arrived--another 16 hours--that would be the time to tell him. He'd buy the fact that they'd been hustling, working hard to find Scully's mother and get her back, all in service of his 'greater plan'. The old man seemed to buy his own importance far too easily. Sure, he had the connections. But what was he, after all, arrayed against Purity?

He hadn't even been able to make himself go up to the roof in spite of the fact that it would be good exercise, or how much it would be worth it to get away from the close-in walls of this damn room. She'd probably be outside somewhere herself, looking up into the sky if she was awake. It was like her. Stars, or the wind, or rain on her face: somehow she squeezed life from so many little things.

He pulled up, slipped his feet into his shoes and stood. Fishing the key from his pocket, he locked the door behind him and started up the stairs.

 

 

"Dale's ready, Mulder."

"Mmm. I know." He refused to open his eyes. Even dizziness wasn't so bad this way, his arms wrapped around her, hers tight around him, every curve of her body imprinted against his.  All they needed now was to be lying down instead of standing here, but it was Dale's house and some propriety was required.

"Mulder, you're not making this easy."

"Uh-uh."  He grinned.

"Mulder, I have to go. If I could stay, if it were safe--" She stretched up; warm lips touched his chin. "You know I would. But Dale's right. There are too many eyes in this town, and now of all times we need to be careful."

He opened his eyes and looked at her.

"Besides," she went on,"Sandy may have some information for us. We need to find out what you were given."

"You're right." Reluctantly, he took his arms from around her and stepped back slightly, cupping her face with both hands, mouth finding her mouth, then her cheek, then the side of her neck. "Guess I'll have to subsist on this morning." A smile crossed his face, one she returned.

"There will be another night, Mulder."

"I know." His lips brushed her forehead. He turned her around, hand on the small of her back, and led her out into the living room and through to the back door. Dale came up quietly behind them.

Ready? his expression said. He gestured toward the car.

Scully nodded assent. She pressed Mulder's good hand with her own and followed Dale out to the truck.

Mulder closed the door carefully behind them and watched through the small window in the door as Dale pulled out into the silent street, Scully lying on the seat so she'd be hidden from the eyes of Owensburg's potentially curious. It was the immediate, vital goal of his work now, the carrot dangling in front of him: to expose Smoky and bring him down so she could walk in the sun again, drive a car or go into a restaurant or a grocery store without fear for her life.

A moment later, the street was empty. Mulder turned from the darkened door and went toward his room. He glanced at the couch. The girl wasn't there.  She'd been here a minute ago when they'd come through; he'd thought she was asleep. He went to the sliding glass door and looked out into the yard. Tracy was sitting on the low wall at the edge of the patio overhang, looking up at the darkness overhead. Slowly he opened the door and stepped outside.

"Couldn't sleep?" he said, coming up beside her.

She shook her head. "You can see so many more stars here," she said. "In Washington, even up on the roof at night, you can hardly--"  She turned away and hugged herself though the air was warm.

Mulder sat down beside her. He moistened his lips and leaned forward, elbows on knees.

"I was thinking about the stairs by the lake," she said. "The woman who came, Diana. When she left and you looked at me, I turned away. I know you wondered why.  She was so full of mixed emotions, but it would have hurt you if I'd told you the truth about her then. The time wasn't right."

He cocked his head, curious.

"She's always known about this future Alex sees. She grew up with it. He told her when she was just a girl."

"Who told her?"

"The old man. He's her father, too."

Mulder's eyes closed. His head dropped into his hands.

"She grew up that way, preparing. You were supposed to be part of that preparation. But when she met you--actually knew you--you gave her something she'd never known before: hope. You made her... grateful and confused. It's not that she wanted to betray you. But the shadow of the future hangs so heavily over her." She shook her head. "She doesn't know any other way to fight it."

Mulder pursed his lips.

"I wonder now," she said after a moment, "if I've done the same to Alex, given him false hope, something that will only confuse him."

"My mom doesn't seem to think so." He cleared his throat. "In the end you've got to stay with what you know--with what your gut knows to be true. Sometimes all the reasoning can just spin you around until you don't know which way you're headed. Then you've got to go back to what your gut knows and stay with that."

Her eyes were suddenly full, brimming.

"What?"

She shook her head and smiled through the tears. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Just... thank you."

She leaned forward and rocked slightly. He could see her shaking in the pale light of the moon.

 

 

"Sandy's light's on," Dale said, nodding toward the darkness beyond the truck's window.

Scully sat up from her position on the seat and looked out through the windshield. Sandy's living room light was on.

"Want to just stop now and see if she's got your information since we're already here?" Dale said. "By the time you get up there and to the phone she could be in bed."

"Very possible. Okay. It should only take a minute."

Scully ran her fingers through her hair and straightened the shoulders of her blouse. Dale slowed and pulled off into the driveway. He eased the truck up close to the house and waited for Scully to get out. After a moment the old black lab came drowsily up to greet her. Scully offered her hand, then patted the dog's head and continued to the darkened stairs and up. She pushed the doorbell and waited. Seconds later muffled footsteps approached and the porch light came on.

The door opened to reveal Sandy's mother. Slowly a look of recognition spread across her face.

Chapter 18

Saturday

 

Mulder glanced at the clock--12:47--and back at the murky darkness of the ceiling.

Alex.  She'd called him Alex, as if Krycek were some ordinary guy with an average life.  It was still strange to realize that this girl who'd been a brush stroke on the canvas of his life a month earlier was no longer his in that proprietary sense where whatever makes up the scene around you seems yours--part of your backdrop. She was Krycek's now.

It would have been easy enough to invoke Stockholm syndrome, assume she'd been brainwashed by her time with him, except that she hadn't been a prisoner and anyway, would Krycek have bothered to pile on the charm while he was in that kind of pain?  Even if all he'd been looking for was a quick lay, it wouldn't explain why he'd put himself on the line to help her escape.  And arguing that she didn't understand who and what he was would have worked fine for just about any girl but this one.

It was a mystery, but not worth one staying awake for in the middle of the night. Alex Krycek wasn't worth that kind of effort.

Mulder rolled onto his side and slipped one leg out of the covers. The room was too warm.

And Diana: why was it not a surprise, looking back, that Smoky'd created yet another child with yet another woman? He seemed to spread his poison around that way, like a mosquito carrying malaria. But what woman would choose to take him in? How would he have appeared that would have made so many women drop their defenses, to say nothing of their clothes? And at that propriety-conscious period in society.

So Diana had grown up with the knowledge of the planned invasion. More likely he'd weaned her on it, molding her into a convenient soldier the way he'd apparently tried to mold Krycek. Three hidden children: Samantha to hand over to the aliens--his due, like a bridge token; Krycek, his instrument of destruction, and Diana to do his personal bidding. To say nothing of the public son he'd installed in the X-files office. Mulder smiled bitterly.  Who was as temperamentally suited as Jeffrey for a career as a wooden decoy?  Sometimes he almost felt sorry for the kid. 

Almost.

Voices came from the living room, low and muffled. Curious, Mulder went to the door and opened it slightly. Tracy and Bethy sat side by side on the couch, heads close, talking quietly. Undoubtedly Tracy would see what was inside the girl--the trauma she'd been through, the things that filled her that she never put to words. They looked like sisters sitting there, an older and a younger, a blonde and a redhead, Tracy with a thin arm around the broad younger girl, allowing her to lean. Samantha had leaned, a forgotten fact that was suddenly clear and palpable again, the weight and feel of her, the warmth of the little squirming body. It was the right side: Sam had always pulled to the right when he'd held her.

Mulder closed the door quietly and returned to the bed. Pushing the blanket away, he lay down on top of the sheets and closed his eyes to find Scully behind them. She'd been just Dana back there in the cabin this morning.  For a little while, anyway. No FBI, no chases, nobody tracking them, her fears about her mother temporarily hidden from view beyond the pull of their play.

She deserved more chances to be that woman.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: thelark@

Our information has come in. The substance you were given is sodium oxybate, available experimentally in Europe but not sanctioned here by the FDA, though applications for trials have been made. Also known as GBH and popular in the current rave scene. The dose you were given was extremely small.  At low dosage the substance has been shown in European studies to be quite effective as a painkiller, though for some reason your chemistry is not allowing the drug to exit the body. No trace was found in the urine sample though it showed up clearly in your blood.

There is an aside to all this that gave me quite a jolt. Wouldn't want to keep you awake pondering it unless you're already as inclined to wakefulness as I am. You can mail me when you receive this.

Do you suppose they take long-term reservations for that balcony we were on this morning?

                                                                                             -lark for a nightingale

 

 

Raylene opened her eyes and stared at the softly shadowed ceiling. Her grandson's toys sat on a shelf beside the darkened window, tall shadows between them, illuminated by a small night-light. His teddy bear leaned against the shelf's end, tilted slightly.

FBI.

Ever since she'd witnessed the scene outside Barkers' trailer the day before, the nagging thought that the redheaded woman seemed somehow familiar had sat restless in her mind, scratching at her memory like a hen determined to find more corn once the feed had been pecked from the ground. But it had taken opening that front door, seeing the woman exactly where she'd been the first time, to make the connection. Sandy had been terrified, that hand-over-her-mouth, dear-god-my-mother's-going-to-blow-it look she did so well. The woman's eyes had nearly popped out of her head. She'd tried to be very cool at first, distant and professional, but how could she deny anything? It was obvious that she and Sandra knew each other. More than that, that they were friends and confidantes.

It was almost too much to believe, like something straight out of a movie: Cy drugged and somehow talked into running down the Johnston boy. Then killed, crumpled and thrown away like a paper plate after a picnic. Shot and killed in cold blood with his little boy at his side--her own grandson--while the whole town talked it up about Cy and what could have come over him to lead him to such an unspeakable act.

As if she hadn't joined right in with the rest of them. Poor Sandy must have been dying all this time.

So now there was more going on: hiding and investigations and a search for evidence. Hopefully they'd find out what that first investigation inside the plant was supposed to uncover, too.  It didn't sound so frivolous now.

After all, everybody knew the rumors about the risks of working in the clean room. Everybody knew what had become of people like Bob Johnston and Walter Jenkins and Ron Connolly, Heather Barker's brother, though there were two camps: the mothers and grieving relatives, and then the ones who figured you should take your lumps, that if you work in the clean room, you don't whine. Joe was a no-whiner. You take the job, you do the work, you accept whatever risks go with it. You gonna sue the city because you tripped over a chink in the sidewalk where the cement got raised up, Raylene, when you shoulda been looking where you were walking? Sissies do that. That was Joe all over. He had a point about the sidewalk, but this other seemed different, something about intent, and wouldn't Joe fall right off his chair if he knew that his new mop-pusher was really an FBI agent on assignment, snooping around for evidence?

Not a word would pass her lips, though. It was no game. Lives were at stake: Annie, who seemed to know her daughter so well, and that partner of hers, the one who kissed her as if he not only wanted but needed her, as if she were that valuable. As if he knew value when he saw it.

Raylene got up and went to the window. Down low one of Roddy's handprints showed softly on the glass. She stooped down and put her hand close, careful not to touch the surface.

 

 

"Brian?" She tucked the phone against her shoulder.

"You're up early, Maria."

"Just curious. You know me, always a sucker for a good mystery. Were you able to start that fingerprinting?"

"I managed to squeeze it in. You should have your results by mid-afternoon."

"I'll be there. Around three?"

"Three'll be fine." A pause. "You know, it's a good thing I'm doing this, Maria, because otherwise you'd be off somewhere else at three and I wouldn't see you at all." His voice was pleasant. Brian was always pleasant.

"You're making me feel guilty. No, I really do appreciate it, Brian. I know I get absorbed in my work. I'm very grateful that you put up with me. Very few people would; I know that."

"You interested in dinner out tonight? Or would you rather I fire up the barbecue?"

She smiled. "Barbecue sounds fine. Maybe I'll do a little trimming on those roses of yours. Shorts and no shoes on your lawn. Sounds wonderful."

"I'll be waiting."

"See you."

She took the phone from her shoulder, pushed the 'off' button and held the unit absently in her hand. He was more than she deserved. He knew she was married to her work and still he made time for her. Nobody was perfect; he had his own problems--an ex-wife he'd never seemed to get along with and two little girls he didn't know nearly as well as he should. And she hardly led him in the right direction. If a call came on the weekend asking Brian to take them to the zoo or someone's birthday celebration in the park, he'd look to her and she wouldn't tell him to go ahead and take advantage of the time with them. She'd say nothing and he'd make excuses--allergies acting up, a car torn down in the driveway that he was helping a neighbor with or an appointment that couldn't be rescheduled. And who should know better than she the value of time spent with a parent? But it seemed her due, too: quiet time for rejuvenation after the labor and frustration of research, important research that would be of untold benefit if it succeeded. And progress was definitely being made.

A pause and she frowned. She nearly sounded like Spender himself, smug and self-important.

Sobered, she climbed off the bed, set the phone on its base and went to the window. A nice morning, not too hot. An opportunity for a little work in the yard. The clematis were blooming and the small, new tendrils needed to be trained onto the wire framework that circled the oak tree's trunk. Two years of patient work had resulted in a spectacular cascade of blossoms, due reward for a job well done. Diligence, as usual, had paid off.

The doorbell rang.

Maria glanced at the clock beside the bed. 7:40. It was odd for anyone to ring the bell. The townspeople had become accustomed to her desire for privacy except for little Mrs. Peltier who was always bringing something--small sweets or hand-quilted potholders or the occasional welcome cutting from some interesting plant in exchange for the opportunity to pry into her life. But no one rang this early, certainly not on a Saturday. She opened the closet door, took a thin robe hastily from the hook on the inside and slipped it on. Smoothing both hands through her hair, she went to the front door. A tall, dark-haired woman stood outside.

Maria turned the knob and opened the door slightly. "Yes?"

"Dr. Vanek?"

"Yes."

The woman extended a hand formally, holding up a badge with the other. "I'm with the FBI. I have a few follow-up questions for you regarding the investigation we were doing a few weeks ago at the plant where you work."

 

 

Krycek came awake to sunlight flooding the room and the rapidly-dissolving sensation of lying in a bed set in the open air in the middle of a small valley. Not the valley he'd left the day before, though it had had its similarities.  She...

No. 

He pulled up and eased his legs over the side of the bed.  Nice as it would be to slip into his pool of memories of the last 36 hours, it could too easily prove to be a drowning pool.  A lot would happening today and nothing less than sharp focus would help to keep her safe.  Or save him from some critical misstep of his own.

He leaned forward, letting his head come to rest in his hand. 

Breathe.  Focus.  Don't lose your edge.

A matter of hours until the old man returned. There was bound to be further development of the Maggie Scully investigation to coordinate, and he needed to pick up a toothbrush to leave in Tracy's room. Then he should question himself the way the old man eventually would, refining his story about her disappearance, making sure it would fly. Probably he should go ask around the neighborhood for her, too. The old man would check out his story.  He'd know whether or not anyone had actually been out looking for her.

So.  Mulder wanted to know about Maria Ivanova. Was she just a name he'd come across in his hunt for information or had he actually run into her? Either way, what was she up to? Researchers needed funding, labs and time, and Ivanova was... well, Ché hadn't dubbed her Madame Piranha for nothing. She could put on that casual front, the nine-to-five lab scientist thing, when it suited her, but inside she was like a nuclear reactor, a mission burning at her core. She'd do anything, go to any length, to keep that fire stoked.

If Ivanova were doing Project research, her name would have come up by now among the old men in the board room. On the other hand, if Mulder had actually seen her... Mulder was bound to be looking for something that would take the old man out of his life for good. Would Ivanova be working for the old man, say on whatever little side-project he was bound to be keeping to himself? When he'd known her she hadn't had any love at all for the old man.  It was the one thing they'd had in common--that and the sense to keep their agendas to themselves.  They'd been two people passing secrets on a street corner at midnight--what he needed for what she needed. 

But anybody could get backed into a corner. If she was desperate for lab access, she might eat out of the old man's hand to keep herself and her work going. Van Braun and the other Axis scientists had done the same during World War II: worked on Hitler's rocket program because it was the only lab gig in town and then pulled up stakes and done the same in the U.S. once the war was over.  If it was all there was, she'd do it.  And if Mulder had actually found her, well, then the map to the old man's golden little secret might just have been marked with a big, fat 'X'.

 

 

To: Redwall@

From: thelark@

Forgive me for seeming rather jumpy, but can you give me an update on yesterday's activities and my mother's condition? While all of you have been on the spot for me, for which I am very grateful, I sit here, by default, full of empty speculation. Thank you again for all your efforts on our behalf. Ben appears to be making some progress in his investigations.

Scully sighed, pushed back from the desk and went into the kitchen. What it would be worth to have the ability again to go out, to flash a badge, ask questions or push where pushing was needed instead of being reduced to surreptitious e-mails, hiding in the backs of trucks or looking out a trailer window in the woods, waiting and hoping that someone else's efforts would accomplish what she should be able to do herself.

 

 

Mulder stabbed carefully at the stray bits of scrambled egg on his near-empty plate and managed to coax two of them onto his fork. The fork was in the wrong hand, and it was working about as well as his attempt to maneuver Vanek's mouse the day before when she'd suddenly appeared in the doorway. Dale was probably laughing inside, remembering when this experience had been new to him, too, though if he was amused, he wasn't letting on. Tracy had glanced at him a few times while he was working on his mail to Scully earlier, obliquely, so as not to make him self-conscious. She'd finished her eggs quickly and then had retreated to the backyard.

"What do you think?" Dale said, waving his fork in the general direction of the patio.

"My guess? She's feeling a little uprooted."

"Understandable." A pause and Dale cleared his throat. "You know the neighbors are going to see her one way or the other. Probably better not to try and hide her. One stowaway is enough. Too many and somebody's going to start trying to put the pieces together. You know how it is: idle minds want to know."

Mulder nodded.

"Unless you've got a better idea"--Dale reached for the crock of apple butter--"we could pass her off as your daughter. If you don't mind. It would make sense then, her coming here. Especially in the condition she's in."

Mulder nodded again, swallowed the food in his mouth and chased it with a swig of coffee. "I was thinking of taking her up to see Annie. Everybody knows we're close with the Barkers. Should look like a simple family visit, nothing suspicious." A pause. He pushed back from the table slightly and sighed. "Or am I losing perspective here? I'm not sure I can even tell anymore."

"Sounds good to me.  People are going to notice she's pregnant. But then they're going to notice her anyway. The family connection should make sense to 'em."

Mulder stared at his near-empty plate. "Wish I knew whether Vanek made me yesterday, whether she's suspicious. So I'd know if she's"--he nodded toward the backyard--"going to be safe here or whether we're all just jumping from the frying pan into the fire. I feel like I'm juggling too many balls at once and one of them's going to drop any minute now and blow up in our faces."

"Can't always be helped," Dale said. "Just the time to hang in there, though. You give up, you end up getting sloppy.  Nice way to assure failure. Anyway, don't forget that you've got help here. Be sure to use it."

Mulder nodded and got up from the table. After setting his plate in the sink, he drifted to the patio door. "Think I'll see what she's up to."

He opened the sliding glass and went outside. Nobody. He looked left and right.

"In here," her voice came from the birdhouse.

Mulder strode across the lawn, squinting into the morning brightness. Tracy was inside, shadowed by the screen, curled up on the end of the glider.

"Looking for a little space, or is company okay?"

She shook her head. "I wasn't trying to run away. I think I've"--a smile crossed her face briefly--"finally been learning not to do that these last few weeks." She motioned to him. "Come in."

"Running from what?" he said, opening the door.

She waited for him to sit. "From myself mostly. I've watched Alex stand there and not swerve from... from some things that have really shaken him.  That would shake anybody." She smoothed out a wrinkled streak on her dress. "Everybody has something to teach you, even the people you'd least expect." She looked up. "Maybe especially them. Including the small ones. Like Bethy. She could be bitter, or she could be damaged, or numb. But inside she's so full of compassion. It just flows out of her. Like they say about lavender: crush it and it smells that much sweeter. It's the oil that carries the scent, you know?  Instead of bleeding she wipes you with her oil and you carry that around with you."

Mulder nodded and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked at his bandaged hand.

"I was just thinking," she began. "Watching you type, watching the two of you--you and Dale--that I've gone from a household with a one-armed man to a household with two one-armed men." She smiled, then paused. "I don't mean to make fun of you."  After a moment she leaned forward. A mockingbird started to chirp from a sheltered branch in the oak tree. Tracy looked toward the sound and swallowed. "Can I ask you something?"

"Ask away."

"How did you hold yourself together when your sister was taken--all of a sudden that person you were so used to, who was such a part of your life, gone, just... snatched away?"

Mulder watched her jaw waver and then set.  How could anyone possibly feel that way about Alex Krycek?

"I don't know. I guess I was--" He shrugged. "I woke up one morning and she wasn't there." He looked out at the flowers on the other side of the screen. "My mom said... When I asked her, she told me Samantha'd gone to school early that day. Something--some field trip. But I didn't see her all day and then after school she wasn't at home, either. At dinner she still wasn't there and it was dark; there was no place set for her and that's when I started to realize that something unspeakable had happened.

"My mother had pulled into herself, the way she'd get when she and my father weren't on speaking terms. She said there was nothing to do, that the police had already been contacted, that they'd let us know when they knew anything. And Dad was distant, in his study. I wanted to do something so badly.  I needed to get out my flashlight and go looking for her---parks, friends' houses, anywhere--but they wouldn't let me."  He shook his head. "Most of all, I wanted to wake up. It was like a bad dream. They were both sitting there, numb, and I"--he shook his head and stared out toward the far edges of the yard--"I couldn't figure out how you could just sit there and do nothing when your child was missing."

"I feel like that," she said. "Like I have to do something. There's a part of me that feels like it wants to drown right now. But then I have to ask myself, "What can I do to help Alex?" She turned to him. "And what can I do to help you? I don't want to be a burden. If there's something I can do--"

"I think he wanted you to get some help. He's--"

"Worried about me. I know."

"So maybe it would give him a little more peace of mind if he knew you were getting some help. Annie's a doctor. I was thinking I could take you up there, you could talk to her. Maybe with the right questions, a little checking, she could give us some direction.  Figure out why you don't remember things, pinpoint any other symptoms you're having..."  He shrugged.

She hesitated. "Okay."

"This town, Owensburg," Mulder went on quietly, "it's a pretty small place. Everybody sees you, knows what you're up to. They talk.  Maybe they just don't have enough news of their own to keep them busy." He offered a smile. "But there's the outside chance, since Smoky's got something going on here, that someone might see you who could recognize you. For your own safety we're going to have to disguise you a little--maybe cut your hair so you won't be so easy to recognize. Dale figured we could pass you off as my daughter."

"Your errant daughter."

He shrugged but she smiled.

He pursed his lips and held them a moment. "I've got to know," he said finally, his foot nudging a blade of grass growing from a crack in the cement floor. "What did you see in him?  What did you see to make you--?

"Courage at facing things that terrified him--not just the pain, but things inside him."  She shrugged.  "And he was hurt; he needed my help.  But in spite of what he was going through, he reached past own discomfort to help me when I needed it.  He didn't have to do that."  Her thumb stroked the metal armrest. "There's a little flame burning in the middle of all that darkness he's lived, a light his logic tells him to snuff out, but his spirit needs that light, that nourishment."

After a moment Mulder shook his head. He stared ahead unseeing. "That's not the man I know."

"People grow. They go through circumstances that make them see and learn things. He admires you, you know--your commitment, the strength of your compassion. It's why he wanted me to be here."

Mulder sat back. He looked up at the green-painted ceiling and closed his eyes. "He killed my father. He almost killed Scully. He's sold us down the river more times..." Mulder's hands went up.  What more was there to say? 

 

 

To: cgbs@

From: mv623@

Received an unexpected visit this morning from one of yours, or at least I assume she was since no official investigation would go forward without your approval. No doubt she was only trying to do her job, unaware of my place in the scheme of things, but I really didn't appreciate the intrusion. It's difficult enough to safeguard the work without petty interruptions and bureaucratic crusades. Any attention to topics medical at this facility carries with it the possibility of exposure. No doubt you were unaware of this latest incident, but it should be taken into account in the future if you desire to maintain the security of the work here. 'Nearly' and 'success', I may remind you, fall into two completely divergent categories.

                                                                                                      -M Vanek

 

 

"You caught me in kind of a rusty state here," Sandy said, pulling up another thin, pale lock of hair between two fingers and snipping it several inches above the girl's head. "I mean, you can see from my hair; I haven't cut it in forever. It used to be a thing with me, though, doing other people's. Hope I haven't lost my touch." She paused and put the scissors down. "Bet that makes you feel confident, don't it? Sorry, I didn't mean to make you worry." She lifted the girl's chin slightly and stopped to consider. "No, I think... it looks okay. It looks good this way--you know, with the shape of your face. I think we're okay."

"However it is, it will be better than what I could do myself," the girl said. "I don't have much talent with hair.  I guess I just haven't paid that much attention to it."

"Just the back to finish and a few little adjustments." Sandy paused. "I know how you must be feeling. Cutting your hair when it's not your choice.  It's hard. That's another good thing about waiting until afterward to color it. You can save your hair, or save a piece--you know, for the memories. My mom used to save little bits of my baby hair. They're kinda cool to go back and look at now."

The girl nodded and smiled, trying to put on a pleasant front, but underneath it was obvious she was lost and aching.  Like the old saying went: it took one to know one.

"It's nice here," Sandy went on. "I mean, the town's nothin' to write home about, but the woods are nice. If you go up to Barkers' there's a really pretty creek and falls and places to swim. If you like that sort of thing."

"Really?" She seemed to brighten at that, though she was careful not to turn her head and ruin the haircut. "We had a pond at home.  It wasn't much but water is water."

She paused until Sandy thought the conversational thread had run its course.

"Sometimes I'd go out swimming after dark," the girl started again.  "On hot nights when there was moonlight."

"It's dark along the trail at night because of the trees. But it hasn't stopped me from going to my swimming hole and skinny-dipping sometimes. Things like that just call you, don't they?"

"It is nice that way, the water against your bare skin."  She shivered for a second but quickly stilled herself.

Sandy smiled. She lifted another section of hair, snipped, and selected another. Soft, light loops of pale blonde hair covered the floor at her feet. The girl was looking at them, her head tilted down slightly.

"You're gonna have to keep your chin up just a little bit... There." Sandy ran a comb lightly through the section of hair in front of her. "But it could be good for you here, too. Seems like we've got a lot in common. I'll be glad to help out however I can."

She set the scissors down, brushed the clipped hair from the girl's shoulders and handed her a mirror. "Go ahead. You ready for a look?"

The girl took the mirror and turned it toward her face. Her lips pressed together and she nodded slowly. "It will take a little while to get used to seeing myself this way, but you did a good job."

Sandy went for a broom to sweep up the cuttings. When she returned the girl's eyes were closed tight, the mirror gripped hard in one hand in her lap. Wetness glistened along the line where her lids pressed together.

"Tracy?"

Ben came from where he'd been standing by the sliding door. His voice was quiet, soothing, Sandy thought, the way it had been the time he'd stopped her in the middle of the road, blindly running home from the Saver's Mart. The girl looked up at him. He took the mirror carefully from her hand and nodded toward the back yard. She got up and followed him out.

Sandy moved the chair, swept underneath it and stooped down to pick out a lock to save--four inches of fine, smooth hair. Ben and the girl were in the yard now; she watched them through the glass. Ben had stopped midway across the lawn. The girl was looking up into his face, saying something, a look of anguish on her face. He shook his head; his hands came up slightly. He seemed to be apologizing. The girl nodded but turned away, shaking. Ben looked at her a moment, helpless, then set a tentative hand on her shoulder, but the girl crouched down, escaping his touch, wrapped her thin arms around her knees and tucked her head down against them.

Ben bit his lip and squinted up into the bright morning sky.

 

 

"It's not just your hair, is it?"

Tracy shook her head and sucked in a ragged breath. "I feel so bad for her. She has this little boy she carries around in her heart--her son, the boy who lives in Alex's head. If she knew who I was, who I've come from... But all I can do is sit there and smile. And I'm no good at being deceptive. Not even for a good cause."

"I didn't even realize, when I asked her to come--" Mulder squatted down next to her.  Suddenly he looked at her sharply. "You knew this would happen, didn't you? Why didn't you say something?"

"I know there are only a few people you can confide in here, and that she's the one who could do this. I figured I could get through it if I had to." She turned her head away from him.

Mulder bit his lip. It was Krycek's fault that she was having to go through this.

On the other hand, Krycek could have ignored her when he first saw her, left her by the lake on the mall rather than getting her a room. She could have been beaten or raped or fallen prey to any one of a half-dozen kinds of sickos he'd profiled over the years.  His own head had been so full he hadn't thought to inquire about her circumstances himself.

Mulder sighed and squinted against the bright haze overhead. She could be anyone: his mother emerging from under the sink so many years ago, his sister lost and found, Lucy Householder or Marty Glenn or the young Darlene Morris, full of a kind of experience everyone around her would deny. In a crazy twist of fate she was a present from one of the men he hated most in the world, a man who laughed his idealism but who nonetheless wanted the expression of that idealism to protect this girl.

 

 

"Hard to believe," Frohike said, and grunted.

Langley stared at the screen in front of him. "According to this database, nobody's even inquired about that license plate we hung on Byers' car. Not a single hit. Or the hearse's. Nada."

"Yeah, but this is Darth Vader we're talking about. He must still have something up his sleeve. It was too easy."  Frohike scratched behind his ear.

"Maybe it was overconfidence on his part," Byers said, coming up behind them. "He was counting on Scully walking into that hospital. At the very most he would have worried about Mulder talking her out of coming. She wasn't supposed to know it was a trap, and if not for Wilkins, she never would have. Still, gentlemen, the coast seems clear for now. I suppose we can give Wilkins and Rita the green light they’re looking for."

Langley and Frohike glanced at each other and nodded agreement.

 

 

To: cgbs@

From: respond1@

Mulder pulled a fast one on us. Your patient disappeared from the hospital midday yesterday--bait and switch. Over two hours before our security realized what had happened. We're going over the tapes from the hospital's security cams. Her doctor's already filed a police report. Checking out all the peripherals--private-duty nurses hired, oxygen rentals, transportation, etc. We'll find her.

There it was, everything laid out with the best possible spin under the circumstances: upbeat without being blindly optimistic, emphasis on the effort that was being made rather than the fact that Scully's mother had been lifted from right under their noses. Sending the message now,  with maybe fifteen minutes of the old man's flight left, when his mind would be full of half a dozen other things, would make this just one more added to the mix. No point in exposing yourself to more scrutiny than absolutely necessary.

Krycek hit 'send' and let his head drop onto the pillow. One more new, fresh lie added to a string of how many lately? He'd nearly lost count and that could be more than just a little dangerous. And how far would this one fly?  He and Tracy had been the ones--maybe the only ones--to hear the old man's plans for Scully's mother. They'd known when he'd be gone and now Scully's mom had conveniently disappeared from the hospital during that window of opportunity. Tracy was gone, too, which could cast the light on her except for the fact that she had no connection to Mulder and Scully that the old man knew of.

How long would it take before the old man realized that he was the one who connected to all the dots?  When the focus had been on getting Tracy away, it hadn't looked this bad.  Maybe he'd still been too out of it, sealed away inside the weird little alternate universe of his recovery: eat, sleep, swallow your pills, deal with the pain and side effects, congratulate yourself because you managed to make it up a single flight of stairs. 

Yeah, well, welcome back to the world, Aleksei.  Nobody's going to be cutting you any slack now.  Eventually the old man was going to catch up; it was matter of time and percentages.

Krycek pulled up, restless. There was a toothbrush to put in her room... for whatever good it would do. He got it from the bathroom, rubbed the bristles with his thumb to soften them, and headed for the door. If the old man caught up with him... it could be a couple of minutes of sweat and sheer terror and then nothing--the old man's hired guns knew how to place a bullet. Rat race over.

Elevator or stairs? He shut the door behind him. A ding sounded; the elevator door opened and he went toward it, stepped inside, pressed the button for her floor. Leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, waiting for the dropping sensation to hit his already-knotted stomach.  Six months ago--hell, six weeks ago--the prospect of bowing out like that, having it all over and past, the alien invasion unable to touch him... it hadn't seemed all that bad.  Almost a triumphant 'fuck you' to a planet that had never offered him anything but trouble.

But the fact was, there was something on the horizon now, if he could manage to stay away from the old man's trip wires.  Somebody was running a pre-invasion prep program in southern California.  The Syndicate had no facilities out there; he was sure of it.  For the last six months his efforts to find new connections had been like reaching out blindfolded, hoping to connect with something without actually knowing where anything was.  Now he had a location pinpointed, and a school where this group was operating.  It was something real, something he could start Ché looking into.  Tolya in Moscow might know something, too; he always had a pretty good bead on intel regarding the paranormal or extraterrestrial.

But if the information actually panned out and it came to a point of having to make a move?  It would mean slipping out of D.C., away from the group, and resigning himself to being tailed for life by the old man's attack dogs.  Assuming he made it past this current crisis.  Anyway, his body was in no shape to cut and run.  Not yet.

The elevator settled. He went out and to Tracy's door, worked the lock, stepped inside and closed it behind him. The window sat half-open, the shade halfway down. The place felt vacant, no hint of the life she'd brought to it.  She'd be trying to reach him when the kid came, but who knew where he'd be, or what would be happening by then.

Whether, when it happened, it wouldn't just be a painful jolt after having finally gotten over her.

Krycek made himself move, took the toothbrush from his pocket and went toward the bathroom. In the doorway he paused, eyes on the bottle of shower gel. He closed his eyes a moment and breathed in, calling up the memory of how she'd smelled under the blankets. Stepping in and setting the toothbrush on the counter, he turned quickly and left.

 

 

"Yes. Mr. Dunphee?" Maria traced the square of the ad with the pad of her index finger, black ink on yellow paper. "I saw your ad in the phone book--private investigation..."

She leaned back and waited while he described what he did: missing persons, errant spouses, background checks on potential business partners or potentially significant others. It paid to be careful.

There were six thin drawers below the kitchen counter, four wide which meant twenty-four except for the two large on the bottom of the right-hand rows--eighteen--and two additional to the left of the sink--sixteen. Two blue knobs on each--thirty-two--and six doors above, with--

"Yes, I agree completely with the need for security. That's why I've called you. I myself am very particular. Do you have access to DNA databases?"

The houseplants needed to be fed; it was the last weekend of the month. "Criminal, civilian, government if possible. Do they give access to those?"

He had ways, connections. A dealer--he wanted her business.

"No, I don't need the test done. It's been done already. I just need a match.  Some people are intriguing, do you know what I'm saying? But they don't necessarily give you their real names. I just want to check the obvious, find out what I can in advance. Then I'll know I have nothing to worry about, won't I?... Yes, it's very prudent."

She closed the phone book and smoothed the cover flat. "Are you open this afternoon? I live out of town. I won't be able to get in until, say, 3:30--possibly a little later. I know you must have plans, but I'll pay extra if it will make any difference... Yes, how fortunate."

She reached for the pen and clicked the end. "And your address? Suite 138. Yes. I'll be there. Thank you."

 

 

"I'm going to leave this to you, Scully." His voice was low. "I've put her through enough already this morning."

"You aren't going back right away, are you?" Apparently he was leaving her to deal with their curious guest alone.

Mulder shook his head. "Figured I'd talk to David a little. Maybe find out something more about the beryllium victims, what exactly happened to his brother-in-law."

"Good." She nodded, then blushed. "Maybe I'm feeling a little selfish, but I don't get to see you enough."

"I know." His arms slipped around her and she was drawn against the warmth of his body. She put her arms around him and let herself be held. "I'm not going anywhere, Scully."

She reached up. Lips met, lingered. Retreated finally.

"She's going to be waiting, Mulder."

He nodded and let her go. "I know. I think Adrie's got her now. I'll go let her know you're ready." He turned, reached for the door handle and turned back. "Any word about your mom?"

"Byers sent me a note a little while ago. So far Cancer Man's people haven't found anything. As far as the Gunmen have been able to determine, there's been no trace on the hearse's license plate or Byers' car. He said Will and Rita are supposed to be going to visit Mom this morning unless they discover there's someone on their trail."

He raised an eyebrow and nodded toward her. "Hang in there, FBI woman."

She made herself smile back and watched him go down the stairs and start up the trail toward the barn. When he was out of sight she turned and drifted to the kitchen counter. The far ridgeline was a hazy gray-green. A yawn overtook her. Too little sleep, and yesterday had involved entirely too much adrenaline. She could still feel the road to Cincinnati, having driven both ways. And then on the way home to a night alone, a stop at Sandy's only to be greeted by Sandy's mother, who immediately recognized her as the FBI agent who had questioned her daughter after the murders. Raylene seemed safe now; Sandy apparently was satisfied that her mother wouldn't give them away, but it hadn't made sleep come any more easily. In the uproar, the danger to her mother had nearly been swept away: the illness she was still extremely vulnerable to, the riskiness of her escape. Time here passed the way they said battles did, in languid lulls followed by headlong rushes, throwing more at you than you could manage to meet.

A knock came beside the door. Scully turned to see Tracy standing outside. Her hair was short, layered and fell softly around her face.

"Hi," Scully said, swinging the screen door open and inviting her guest inside. "Nice color choice."

Tracy smiled briefly. "Sandy tried to match it to Bethy's strawberry blonde. It came out a little darker but we thought it would make me seem like... you know, like I fit into the family."

"Good point," Scully said. She gestured toward the bed. "Have a seat, Tracy."

Tracy looked at the bed a moment. A smile came and went and she sat down. Her hands came together, fingers knitting into a firm grip. "Mulder said that you wanted to see me."

"We wanted to see if there's some way we can help you. Kry... Alex..." She moistened her lips. "He mentioned in his mails that you'd passed out yesterday, that you'd had a... a vision of some sort, and that you'd lost consciousness. He said you'd nearly done it once before. He also said"--she cleared her throat and paused--"that you'd experienced significant periods of time that you have no memory of." Scully pressed her lips together. "We just want to help you if we can."

"I'd start from the beginning," the girl said, "but that's gone. I mean, everything before we moved when I was eight--my mother and me."

"What do you mean?"

"We lived in California--in Pasadena--until I was eight. My father worked there"--she shook her head--"but I barely remember him, just that he wore a tan sweater and a bow tie. And he had grayish hair, so I guess he was older than my mother. And then he died and we moved."

"What did he die of?"

She shook her head again.

"Did your mother not tell you?"

"We never... We didn't talk about it. I didn't really remember and she never brought it up. We went to the farm--my uncle's farm on the Pennsylvania-West Virginia border--and we"--she shrugged--"we were busy. We grew a big garden and things were nice, they were pleasant and quiet there. I guess I didn't think about it. But now..."

"What?"

"I'm beginning to think that my mother didn't even have those memories anymore." She looked up at Scully's unspoken question. "I can read people--it's just something I do--but I could never read my mother very well. I always thought... that she was blocking me some way. But now I'm starting to think the memories just weren't there, that they'd escaped her somehow. Something Alex said yesterday got me to thinking." She glanced away, at the wood grain on the wall.

"And when you came to Washington recently," Scully said, coaxing her back to the present. "You'd come because..."

"I couldn't stay there--where I was--any longer. I'm a freak... at least to the people back there. My mom died a year ago and--"

"Where were you living?"

"With my uncle and his wife. Maybe I just wasn't used to anybody else; my mom and I had spent so much time together. Especially that last year when she was in bed most of the time."

"You took care of her?"

A nod.

"What did she have, Tracy?"

"They said afterward it was cancer. But we didn't know it at the time. She didn't want any doctors."

"Why?" Scully leaned closer.

"She said she'd had too many of them already. She just wanted them to leave her alone."

A momentary burst of memory went off like a flashbulb: glaring lights, being strapped down to a table beneath the brightness, the murmur of voices from beyond the area she could see.  Scully swallowed and willed herself back into the scene in front of her. "And you have other segments of time that you don't remember--besides the time when you and your mother moved?"

The girl looked down. "I don't remember about the baby. I'd never been with a guy. I'm sure of it. I can't see myself... you know, having done that." She hesitated and looked up suddenly. "And no, it wasn't drugs or... I don't do that--drugs. I don't drink. It's not just that my memories got lost behind something else."

Scully let out her breath slowly. "Tracy, may I check something?" She stood. "Can you turn? Here, this way."

The girl put her head down without being asked. Scully smoothed the now-softly-copper-colored hair off the back of her neck. Nothing--no scar. She ran her fingers carefully over the girl's neck, behind her ears, up into her hair. Nothing in the places she and Mulder had seen implants before. She let out the breath she was holding.

"Alex did that--when the old man first brought me to him. He didn't say so but he was afraid that someone had done something to me." She looked up. "The way they have to you."

Scully felt her eyes go wide.

"Alex thinks... He's worried about the baby now, that it may not be... a normal baby."

 

 

Krycek's fingers traveled the surface of the beanbag absently.  There it was, the question he'd never stopped to ask himself: how did Skinner get wind of the old man's impending move against Scully's mother in the first place?  And why hadn't it raised any kind of red flag when Skinner had e-mailed him that first time? 

Probably he'd still been too scrambled by the pain and the drugs. But it was definitely a question that begged an answer. 

Tracy had been antsy about being there with the old man around. She'd come out of the bathroom--probably hadn't been able to think of anything else to organize in there after she'd put away the stuff she'd bought--and the old man had looked up. He'd given her that pseudo-beneficent smile that says you're doomed and you don't even know it; your life is in my hands now and I can crush you whenever I want. Then he'd made his move, offered her the chair he was sitting on, sealing her fate. She hadn't really wanted to be there but she wasn't about to let him know, so she'd sat.

Krycek squeezed the beanbag. Obviously she hadn't liked the talk. Afterward, she wanted to know what was going on--the thing about Mulder and Scully and Scully's mother. Would have hit her pretty hard, especially after losing her own mother, to know the old man was going to tamper with someone else's.

She knew Skinner, too. She'd been inside his dreams. Twice. If she'd wanted to, if she'd felt the urgency or that little voice she listened to had urged her, she could have gotten through to him again, probably, knowing lives depended on it.

Something in Krycek's gut went cold. 

Who else could have known what the old man had in store for Scully's mother?

 

 

"I don't have any memories like the ones you do," the girl said softly.  "No men, or lights, or the place you were in." She looked away. "I'm so sorry about your daughter. I can't imagine..." A pause. "I'm so sorry."

Scully shifted uncomfortably on the bed.  Her pulse echoed inside her, loud and hollow. "They were..." How had she pulled Emily out of just a few seconds of silence?  "They were using... older women, women in nursing homes, to gestate the babies. They were sedated; they had no idea what was happening to them. It was in..." She moistened her lips. The words hesitated, not wanting to leave her tongue. "San Diego. That's where we found Emily. I was... at my brother's for Christmas and..."  She closed her eyes, fervently wishing she were somewhere--anywhere--else.

"You're wondering," Tracy said, "how the phone call could have come. If it was really her."

Scully bit her lip.

"Some things," the girl said, "happen without any physical explanation. I feel the urge to go somewhere, to go to Washington.  And I don't know why; I don't know anyone there. But I go and I end up on the stairs by the lake just when Mulder's there. And a few days later I'm there again, and he comes again, and after he's gone Alex comes; the old man's sent him to watch Mulder. He's just come from his mother's; he's shaky, the boy is in his mind--Sandy's boy... And he sees me, and leaves. But then he comes back again. He sees... his mother in me, sees himself in the baby. Maybe he sees a chance to protect a life after ending one. He does something he would never do: he offers to get me a room for a few days because he knows too well what could happen to me on the street. He doesn't know why he does it. There's nothing in it for him, no... payoff. But he knows he has to.

"He bought me a room for a week, Agent Scully. He took me there, paid the man and left.  I figured I'd never see him again." She paused, pushing at the carpeting with her toe. "There's no... logical way to explain why I came, or why Alex did what he did, just like there's no way to explain how your sister could be calling you, telling you about your daughter. Sometimes I think we get"--she sighed--"tangled up trying to figure out the how, or why, instead of just working with what we've been given."  She paused. "It's a blessing that you found her. Whether it was your sister somehow, or whether the voice just came to you that way so you'd pay attention, the important thing is that you listened, that you found your daughter. Even if it was just for a little while. You were able to be there for her when nobody else was. That had to mean so much to her."

Scully clutched at a handful of bedding with one hand and wiped a line of moisture from below one eye with the other. "I guess... I hadn't thought of it that way, that I was able to be there for her."  She swallowed, and after a moment stood and cleared her throat. "Tracy, we'll do what we can... to find out about your baby. Dr. Wykoff can do a test, we can take a little of the fluid and do a DNA analysis of it. If something's been done to you--implanted in you"--something like Emily, a voice inside her added--"the baby's DNA should reflect that genetic difference."

"Thank you," the girl said.  Her expression was unreadable.

 

 

To: topaz@

From: che74@

Bird's in flight. Due to land on schedule. 2:40--Dulles. Good luck in the snake pit.

 

 

To: thelark@

From: dresswhites@

Dearest Annie,

I'm still not ready to be sitting up writing but I just had the most wonderful visit from Will and your friend who's been helping him--and who helped me so much yesterday by standing in for me. They spoke so glowingly of you and the way in which you've helped others through your work. It made me feel that I've been selfish in wishing you in a safer profession for my own peace of mind. I know your father was never comfortable with your decision to join the Bureau, but I think he would be proud to know what a fine job you've done.

Although I'm showing no real physical strength yet, I feel a firming of resolve to see this through and I am buoyed by the personal care I'm receiving here and by the companionship of a quite unexpected new little friend. You will have to meet her sometime. My constant prayer is that your dilemma will be resolved quickly and that we will be able to see each other again soon. You continue in my heart, as you have been all along. Give my very best to Ben.

                                                                                 With much love,

                                                                                            Mom

 

 

Maria looked around the small dining room and out through cafe curtains to the yard beyond. Ten years here: two becoming established, the research necessarily--agonizingly--lying dormant, waiting; another two with the work beginning slowly, and the last six with steady subjects. An old cottage with redone kitchen, new bath, carpeting and the yard transformed into a small, lush oasis. Three years of weekends with Brian, a kind man whose devotion she would never be able to fully return in kind. And if it became necessary to leave it all now? What would be lost? What part of it would she miss the most? Or would there be no deep regret beyond the inconvenience of reestablishment, of the research time lost?

Spender appeared less than committed to safeguarding the work regardless of the fact that it might eventually guarantee his safety in the coming time. The e-mail 'threat', so called, that his agent had showed her seemed nothing more than the impotent cry of a survivor who was beyond recourse, a emotion she knew as well as anyone. Mr. Beeson was being 'watched'. Watching was not harmful. Announcing that you were watching was tantamount to a confession of non-action. Those who acted did so without announcements that would hinder the actions they planned to take. And yet the stirring up that could be caused by rooting around after the authors of e-mail... To bring the subject to mind again so yet another person would eventually call for a crusade of investigation could not be a good thing.

Spender should know better. If he cared so little for the security of the work, he would care even less for her personal security. If Wallace were actually on her trail, if his reaction to the drug weren't mere coincidence...

The options were a) to do something about Wallace, b) to wait for Spender to do something about him, or 3) to be ready to go--to find another town, another lab, another group. There were other groups. They weren't any more altruistic than the one her parents had put in years for; perhaps they were even more dangerous. But they provided a way, a possibility. Without a lab, without facilities, there was nothing. People would do better to line themselves up before firing squads than wait for Purity to tear them apart. But moving on would mean yet another crucial interruption in the work, an interruption the research could ill afford to suffer.

Maria took the two steps to the back door, opened it and stepped down into the yard. The first six feet of the oak tree's trunk were hung with huge, fragile blossoms of purple and cream-colored clematis, the end product of two years of careful training. The impatiens, sheltered by the walls and carefully covered during the winter, had grown into thick, continuous mounds. All of it would be left behind, and what would the nosy little Mrs. Peltier next door think to find the house abandoned, the good doctor vanished without a trace?

If there were a threat. If janitor Wallace were not who he represented himself to be. Had he been looking at her data files or no? It could have been merely her own jitteriness of late, the lingering remnant of suspicion--uneasiness--from the FBI's investigation.

The talkative Mr. Dunphee should be able to help clear things up.

 

 

Krycek paced the distance from the narrow window to the broad window over the desk and stared out across the city unseeing.  Would she have done that?  Told Skinner what the old man had in mind for Scully's mother and then hidden the fact from him?  They'd hardly known each other at the time.  It could have started out as an innocent attempt to save the woman and then, as they got to know each other better, turned into something she was afraid to reveal for fear of looking like she'd betrayed him.   

But it made no sense.  His feelings about her aside, the hard truth was that Tracy wasn't capable of hiding anything.  She was as transparent as a pane of glass. 

Krycek squeezed the beanbag hard, fired it into the recliner and went to the refrigerator.  Milk, soda, applesauce, the Chinese she'd bought three days ago.  He pushed the door closed again, went and sat heavily on the edge of the bed and leaned forward.  After a moment his head came to rest in his hand.  He'd slipped; he hadn't even questioned Skinner's news when it came in.

Which led to the inevitable question: what else had he missed?  The last three weeks had been fucking surreal, as if he'd been plucked out of the world and dropped into a strange, parallel universe where none of his background was of any use.  Had he missed something about her, too?  Had he lost his perspective about the potential danger that confiding in anyone could pose?

He sat up, looked up at the cracked paint overhead.  Sniffed against a sudden wetness in his nose.  God, the last thing he wanted to do was blame this on her.  She deserved better. 

What she deserved was someone she could count on.  He wasn't ever going to be that man.     

 

 

Mulder looked through the screen door at Tracy on the trail outside. Adrie was tugging slightly at her hand.

She smiled up at them. "He wants to show me the creek." She seemed alive now, not somber the way she and Scully had been when he'd come in, as if he'd missed someone announcing a death. He watched the two disappear from view beyond the door frame and squeezed carefully on the small shoulder in front of him, letting his thumb graze the smooth flesh at the neck of his partner's shirt.

"What is it, Scully?"

She shook her head and leaned back against him. "Mulder, she's well-meaning, but I have to say it's more than a little disconcerting to have someone just... reach into your head and pull out your private thoughts as if you were an open file drawer."

He slipped his arms around her from behind. "I think she did that on purpose."

"What?" She turned to look at him.

"Leaving with Adrie. I think she meant to leave us alone." He nodded toward the bed. "Take a load off, Scully."

She slipped out of his grasp, crawled onto the bed and lay down, facing away. He got on and curled around her, pushed a pillow under his head and reached to brush a kiss against her temple.

"Tell me about it, Scully."

"She came in here, Mulder, and she looked at the bed--this bed--and smiled, just for a... a second, as if she could see everything we've done here."

"Maybe she can. I was thinking about that, how crazy it must have made Krycek to know she was inside his head, seeing what was there and knowing there was nothing he could do to keep her out." His arm tightened around her. "Like Gibson.  She probably does know. Imagine what it would be like, Scully, seeing into people all the time, knowing all their secrets, everything they never show or tell you."

"Could be pretty depressing." She smiled momentarily, then moistened her lips. "I don't think she needs to watch other people's private lives, Mulder."

"Hmm?"

"I'm pretty sure they've got their own, she and Krycek. She said she had no memory of how she got pregnant but when she was talking about that time she said 'I'd never been with a guy.' Not 'I never have' but 'I never had'."

"I didn't want to know that, Scully.  Tell me you didn't just say that."

"Okay," she cleared her throat and worked to suppress a smile. "My last statement has hereby been struck from the record.  You're instructed to disregard my previous testimony."

"You know, that never actually works--when they tell you to disregard.  You can't just wash it out of your head."  A sudden breath of air brushed a low tree branch against the window. "How about you, Scully?"

"What?" She turned back to him.

"You holding up?"

"Mulder, she's... Maybe I'm just overreacting.  Maybe the parallel is just too close, but from what she said..." Her lips pressed together.

"What?"

"It's possible she could be carrying a child like Emily."

Mulder tightened his hold on her and wedged his chin between her neck and shoulder. A hardness settled in his stomach. There it was: the mood he'd walked in on.

"Am I just overreacting, Mulder? We don't even have any kind of medical evidence yet."

"I don't know. I hope you are. I mean, I hope it's not true." He paused. "You going to have Wykoff run some tests on her?"

She nodded.

"Monday?"

"Yes."

Two more days. He sighed and closed his eyes. What would Krycek think, knowing his girl--lover, apparently--had been violated that way?

"Mulder..."  Scully shifted, turning back toward him. He opened his eyes.  "Mulder, I have to do something."

"What?"

"Something. I mean, I need to make a contribution to this investigation. I feel like my hands are tied, like it's all... lopsided. That plane flies your boxes to Baltimore tomorrow. You're one-handed for all practical purposes if it came to defending yourself. I don't want to rush into this"--she paused--"but I'd like to be the one to go."

He looked up at the ceiling. She was lying against him, her head not quite resting on his shoulder, waiting for a response.  Or a reaction.

"Maybe I'm getting selfish myself in my old age. How about we both think this through?"

"Fair enough."  She settled her head against his shoulder. He closed his eyes. His hand ached quietly.

"Do you need me to move, Mulder? Are you comfortable enough?"

He smiled. "I need you to stay right where you are. Don't change anything."

 

 

Turning the handle, Krycek opened the door slowly. This was hardly the place to get his head on straight.

Or maybe getting his head on straight wasn't what he'd come here for.  Maybe he was looking for a reassurance that the last three weeks hadn't been a dream.  That she'd been more than an illusion, a fantasy fallen like a leaf into the swollen river of his life, whisked away with the current, never to pass him by again. He wasn't made for that kind of thing: comfort, someone waiting on the other side of the door who wanted to pull you into their warmth rather than put a bullet in your head. That wasn't life. Not his life, anyway.

The half-pulled shade had left most of the room in deep, honey-colored shadow. Krycek glanced out into the hallway, listened, then closed the door behind him. Nothing but warm, thick silence. The closet door stood ajar, as if she were coming back, as if she'd only stepped out to make a run to the grocery store or bake up a batch of bread at Manzanares.  If only it were true.

He let out a heavy breath and leaned back against the wall. A moment later he let himself slide down to the floor.

It had played out like this once before, years ago, in a whole different lifetime: him finding himself outside a girl's door after he'd broken it off, knowing his business would have made it impossible to continue, and yet still wanting to reach out, press that buzzer.  Watch the door open and be taken in. 

He pictured Tracy in the hospital room, shaken by the way he was having to handle Buzz, and then sitting here in this very damn room three nights ago, cross-legged on the bed, knowing full well who he was and still cupping his face and thanking him for... what had he actually given her?

She was too transparent to hold anything back even if she wanted to. Still, would her devotion to doing what was right override anything else? But why shouldn't it? He had no claim on her; she'd made no promise of loyalty to him. 

Well, not in words.

The heads-up had come from Skinner. Skinner would know for sure if she'd been the one.

But what did it say about him that he had to ask?

What would it say about him if he didn't?

He pushed out a breath, looked up at the ceiling, closed his eyes briefly against a sudden burning dryness. Slowly he stood and approached the bed.  Reaching out, he picked up the shirt she'd slept in, smoothed his thumb over the soft fabric and let it fall softly back onto the bedspread.

 

 

A crackle came from the plane's overhead speaker. The old man glanced up briefly.

"We hope you've enjoyed traveling with us today. Our flight is scheduled to land at Dulles International Airport in approximately twenty minutes. Please make sure you've collected all your personal belongings before we begin our descent."

"Not long now," the tired face next to him said, smiling. The man had a receding hairline. A few longer strands had been combed insipidly across the vacant area, as if they could conceal it. He only nodded, forced a brief, sharp smile in return and took another breath of stale, recirculated air.

His hand reached for his inner coat pocket and then retreated. Twenty minutes. If he were a lesser man he'd wish he could go back and begin the day over again. Things were settled in Tunisia--for the moment. But take your finger from one hole in the dike to plug another and water flowed. He stared back at his laptop screen. Undoubtedly Alex had timed the sending of his message strategically so there would be little time to ponder it.

Scully's mother was gone, snatched like a baby from the cradle. Someone had told Mulder, but who? Would Skinner have dared, had he the information? Alex and his little nursemaid had known, but Alex held no love for Mulder and the girl was... loyal, like a found, starving puppy. She kept her eyes down and her hands busy. Once Scully's mother was in the hospital, Mulder could possibly have assumed it to be a trap; he had a suspicious nature, was stubborn once an idea had taken him.

So she was gone.

She could still die, but she was of no use now as a lever, or a lure. An orchestrated substitution, undoubtedly well carried off because Alex and his men had apparently found nothing yet; he'd said 'checking' and listed a number of variables, but that was what it meant--the empty glass was being described as 'soon to be filled'.

And on top of everything his dour private researcher had written to berate him about a visit from Diana, as if he were nothing more than someone's novice subordinate. Apparently Diana, too, was in Alex's position, with nothing in hand.

Toying with Mulder, a la cat-with-mouse, was a luxury that was no longer justified.

 

 

Maria opened the front door and stepped inside. "Brian?"

"Out here."

He was on the patio. She went to the bedroom, set her bag inside the door, stopped by the hallway mirror to smooth over her hair and went out into the bright afternoon light. Brian was standing in front of the barbecue, coaxing the coals to glowing life with long, patient breaths.

"Hi," she said, smiling, slipping an arm around his waist.

He straightened, turned from the barbecue and greeted her with a lingering kiss that warmed her mouth and body in a way she didn't allow it to be warmed the rest of the week. It was the perfect arrangement, weekends. Not often enough for things to become dull and routine, each brief encounter enough to send you home with a tantalizing taste for the next, and in the interim the work could be carried on uninterrupted, no resentful partner if you stayed in the lab until midnight, no half-disguised looks of disappointment at breakfast.

"Did you get it done?"

"As per your request," he said, a slight sparkle in one eye. "Now let's see, where would I have put it?"

She slipped her hand into his back left pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. "You're dedicated and thorough, Brian, but you're very predictable." She smiled and opened the paper, which carried the familiar pattern of a DNA fingerprint.

"Is that a complaint?"

A hand settled on her hip and slid behind her, pulling her closer.

"No. Dedicated and thorough can be... very gratifying." She offered her mouth; he kissed her again, then she paused and moved back a step. "I have an appointment downtown in a few minutes, did I tell you? It will only take half an hour or so. Is that okay? Will it ruin your cooking schedule?"

He shrugged and tried to look undeterred. "I'll string it out a few minutes on this end and if you're not back by the time the steaks are off the grill, there's always the oven. I know how to keep things warm."

"Thank you. Do you want me to stop and pick up a movie?"

He shook his head. "Just bring yourself, Maria. As soon as you're done."

"Fine. I'll hurry."

"Original's on the counter," he said.

She smiled at him, turned and went into the house. She took her purse from the breakfast bar and tucked the piece of paper into it. On the end of the counter was a manila envelope with the original clear sheet; he knew she'd want it and he'd prepared it without her having to ask. He was the perfect companion.

She picked up the envelope and hurried out to the car. Mr. Dunphee would be waiting.

 

 

"Mulder, am I jumping at this rashly? Am I not considering all the factors?"

They sat side by side on the edge of the bed, jeans touching.

He shrugged. "I'm probably the last person you should ask. If it were my mom, I'd--"

"It hadn't even entered my mind until just now. Maybe it would help her, Mulder--to see me. Things like that can have positive physiological as well as psychological effects. But I don't know if I'm just doing it for me. I don't want to fool myself, or do anything that would end up endangering my ability to get back here."

He felt himself swallow and sucked in his lower lip. "Maybe we should run it by the Gunmen. Depends on the pilot's schedule, too."

"Unless I flew one way with him and caught some other flight back. Then if anyone were to question him, he'd think I'd only gone one way, that I was still in the area. It would make more sense."

He nodded, quiet, then looked up and closed his eyes briefly.

"If it doesn't seem safe, Mulder, I won't go."

He nodded again. A warm hand capped his knee. He let out a breath he'd held unconsciously.

"You know, Mulder, sitting here reminds me..."

"Of?"

"That night in your mother's basement.  It was so dark, but I couldn't sleep."

"You said you were falling asleep but I kept hearing those chaise springs squeaking every time you rolled over."

A pause.

"Mulder, had you... did you intend to take me back to your recliner the way you did?"

"You mean was it a plan, a calculated siege?"

She nodded.

"No. I mean... It just happened. I was winging it. Why, you complaining?"

She smiled and turned away. "No."

"Actually, I was surprised you went for it."

"It seemed safe enough at the time."

"Dangerous in the long run." One eyebrow went up.  A corner of his mouth smiled.

"It was the best thing I could have done."

He dipped his face into the warm hair beside her neck and pulled her close. "Can I quote you on that, Agent Scully?"

"Yes, you can. You can quote me, Mulder."

 

 

A key went into the lock and turned. Krycek's breath caught.  He hit 'delete', closed the laptop quickly and shoved it under the pillow just as the old man appeared in the doorway.

"Alex." He nodded and stopped by the small desk to pull a Morley from his coat pocket and light it. "Well, things seem to have"--a drag on the cigarette--"taken a downturn while I was away." He looked around for the ashtray.

"Drawer," Krycek said, nodding toward the one on the right.

He watched the old man pull it out and examine the clean amber dish. She'd always washed it after he left, as if she could wash the old man out of his life.

"Came out of the blue," he said, suppressing a swallow, his eye on the old man. "They were watching... and then she was just gone."

"Undoubtedly it didn't come 'out of the blue' on Mulder's part. There had to have been some rather delicate planning involved." A pause. Cigarette in, stream of smoke out. "Any indication that Mulder or Scully took part in this personally?"

Krycek shook his head. "All we've got on the tapes is a man--auburn hair, long, tied back, maybe 5'10--who takes her out of the room and a woman, pretty much like Scully's mother, about the same size and hair color." He shrugged and forced a laugh. "Anyway, you know the quality of those tapes. They're a joke. You can't tell much of anything from them."

"I can have the pictures refined."

"Yeah, I figured."

"The hair could be a disguise--changed color or... long hair to cover short."

Krycek nodded. The old man looked at the floor suddenly, to where his jeans lay in a heap with yesterday's T-shirt. The old man's eyebrows went up.  "Your little housekeeper have the day off?"

"No, she--" Heat flooded his face. "She's gone. Disappeared. Night before last, I sent her to the pharmacy, maybe eight o'clock..." He shook his head. "Never came back. I... I figured maybe she had something to do--you know, while she was out there, but I checked her room, then I went down... after a while, when it'd been too long... Couldn't make it all that far. Pharmacy hadn't seen her. Asked at a couple of stores between here and there, places she might've stopped..." He shook his head.

"Do you think she... ran?"

"I... Nah. I just... it was spur of the moment. And she said she'd go. Didn't even go upstairs first, to her room, just took the money and went."

"How much did you give her?"

"Ten bucks."

The old man looked thoughtful. "Certainly not enough to travel on." He took another drag on the Morley and tapped a growing length of ash into the ashtray on the desk.

"I went upstairs--you know, checked out her room. I figured she just... Hell, I don't know. But she hasn't been there. I mean, her stuff's still there the way it was before."

"Her backpack? The one she carried?"

"It's... She had it down here." He nodded. "Over there, behind the door. So she had that with her. If it turns up..." He looked away. A drop of sweat rolled past his temple.  He dipped his head close to the pillow and let the cotton cover wick away the liquid. "I went out again this morning--the grocery store she goes to, places I've sent her..." He shook his head. "Nothing. I figure..."

A pause.

"You figure?"

"I don't know. Somebody looking for a good time... some sick bastard. I mean, she's not worth... It's not like somebody'd pay a ransom for her. Who's she got?"

"I'll have some fliers put out. If somebody has her, as you say, and she's"--he nodded--"still in one piece..." Cigarette to mouth. "You'll be needing someone, I imagine, in the interim."

"Uh-uh. I've had enough breathing down my neck. You want to send someone to bring my groceries, that's okay."

"You still need to exercise caution, Alex. Just because you're up and about--"

"I know. Take it easy, let it heal."

"And you're doing better?" The old man's voice went up a notch, hopeful.

"Yeah, I just...I guess I spent... half the night thinking about it. She's just a kid; she's got no defenses."

"Hindsight?"

"Huh?"

"It's much clearer in hindsight, Alex. I think you may have underestimated her while she was here. She gave you excellent care."

He swallowed. His hand was shaking. "Yeah, I guess."

 

 

"Someone interesting, huh?"

Mr. Dunphee had a thin face and slicked-back hair. He reminded her of a lab assistant she'd known in Kraznoyarsk. Thin nose, tanned receding hairline.

"Yes, very intriguing. But you might say I'm a skeptical person."

"Cautious. Cautious is smart."

"Yes, well..."

"So where would you like to start? It's kind of like a card game, you know? Or something from Las Vegas."

"I can see that." She paused and pursed her lips. "Let's start with criminal. If he's not there, that's a good thing. It can only be more hopeful afterward, isn't that right?"

He nodded. "Criminal it is."

 

 

He took the Morley from his lips and relinquished the phone to a spot between his chin and shoulder. The ringing continued. She could be gone. If Mulder was perceptive enough to realize that Scully's mother was mere bait, he'd know Teena was susceptible, too. He'd have her tucked away somewhere--if they were lucky, wherever he was himself. Find a mother, catch her son. Which was the object in the first place.

The ringing went on. He set the cigarette on the edge of a half-full ashtray, switched the phone off and then turned it on again.

"Yes, I want a home checked out. Right away... You'll need to send someone out of town... Greenwich. Yes. And I need records--phone records, utility bills--current. Let them know it needs to be thorough. Check for a car, or absence of one. I'll send you  the details."

He hung up, pulled another Morley from the package on the table and lit it. She could have gone to the library; Teena was a reader of novels, escapes from the tedium--or hauntings--of her everyday existence. Or Mulder could have hidden her away, believing she wouldn't be traceable.

He smiled.

It was difficult--much more difficult than it seemed--to make someone disappear without a trace.

 

 

"So far you're batting a thousand." Dunphee nodded at her and smiled. "Not a criminal; that's a good sign. A definite good sign, I'd say."

"Yes, it is. Well, he's probably just who he says he is, but... It gives you a lot more confidence of mind to be absolutely sure."

"Ready to go on?"

She nodded. Dunphee turned back to the computer. He keyed in an address.

"I don't have any actual official access here," he said, his voice confidential. "But I have a friend; he helped me..."

"How very fortunate."

"Yes, it has been."

Maria smiled. She waited until Dunphee turned back to the computer before she swallowed. Her pulse was racing now.

 

 

Krycek pressed 'send' and closed his eyes.

What did it say that he had to ask? Skinner might be anywhere--out playing tennis, or getting laid, or doing whatever assistant directors did to get away from the bureaucratic treadmill. He kept to himself, Skinner did, didn't flash his private life around where everyone could see it. Which was a good thing, smart thing.

Skinner might not know, or might not want to say. He'd press. He'd press whether he wanted to hear the answer or not. It wasn't so much the question of Tracy's involvement; he needed to know whether he'd fucked up, gotten lax, whether his judgment was off in some way he hadn't even begun to comprehend.

Pulling up, he got off the bed, went to the refrigerator and looked inside. Took out one of the boxes of leftover Chinese.  He shook some of the contents into a paper bowl and set it in the microwave, then punched the button and wandered from window to window and back again while it heated. He could see himself on the bed, half-gone with the pain, half-gone with the drug, her sitting beside him, their hands knit together like puzzle pieces. She always stayed until he was completely gone. Not once had he worked his way out of the haze to find himself alone.

 

 

"Aah, it's slowin' down. We may have a... We've got a match."

Maria's fingers tightened around the cuffed hem of her shorts.

"See." He pointed. "Now, you ready for this? The big mystery revealed." A pause. "You want to be the one to push the button?"

He moved the cursor over the 'details' button and hesitated. She bit her lip, heart echoing, then shook her head.

"No, you go ahead." He thought it was a game, Dunphee did, as if he were working an amusement booth at a county fair.

Dunphee clicked and an image came up on the screen--a strikingly familiar image. "There. That him?"

She could only nod.

"Whoa--FBI. You didn't know that, right? But it makes sense, you know. Those people can't just go around telling everybody what they do. Anonymity's part of their job."

"Yes, it... it certainly is."

"You don't seem so pleased."

"Well, it's such a... surprise. When you're expecting a more... ordinary occupation, to end up with an FBI agent."

"Not bad, missy. You know, those guys gotta be pretty smart. Nerves of steel. Could work out to be a good thing."

"Yes." She shifted in the chair. "I don't mean I'm disappointed with the results. I simply didn't imagine... Well, you can probably understand. It's like finding out someone in your family's actually royalty or something."

"Yes, I guess it could be." He paused and nodded toward the screen. "You want the printout? No extra charge, but I'm going to have to trim off the little edges there with the site address. Don't want those floating around."

"Yes, definitely. Fine, that will be fine." It was a forced smile.

Dunphee stood and busied himself with the printer, putting in paper and then hovering over the place where the paper came out, waiting to catch it as soon as it was ejected. Her pulse echoed inside her as if she were an empty container. FBI. Either he was one of Spender's, or... No, it made no sense. He was somebody else, one of the kind who didn't give up, the ones motivated by causes outside themselves--thematic causes like truth or justice. Like the black agent Wilkins who'd sat on her lab stool, notebook in hand, jotting down item after item as she spoke.

"Ms. Vanek?"

He was holding out the printout; obviously he had been for some seconds. She reached and took it, folded it in four and put it in her purse.

Dunphee busied himself with an invoice. When she signed it, her handwriting looked strangely cramped.

 

 

"What is it?"

Tracy looked up, finally realizing her fingers were pressed to her temples. Heather Barker sat down on the porch swing beside her, a look of concern on her face.

"It's just..." She shook her head. "...a buzzing up here. Like static. I don't know what it is."

"Tracy?" Scully approached from where she'd been standing with Mulder and David Barker. Clouds of smoke were coming from the barbecue. "Are you okay?" She came close.

Tracy nodded. "It's just some kind of static. But I think it's mental, not a headache or anything physical."

"You're sure?"

"I think so."

"You let me know if it's not."

A hand came out and passed gently across her forehead and into her hair. Scully was concerned the way a mother would be--especially if that mother were a doctor.

Tracy nodded. "Adrie's having fun, isn't he?"

They turned to watch Adrie, who was turning happy, lopsided cartwheels on the small patch of lawn that extended from the porch.

"I think he enjoys having people around," Scully said, and started back toward the barbecue.

Tracy turned to Heather, who was looking off into the groundcover to the right. It was her brother's grave she'd turned toward, as if it were north on a compass and she were a magnet.  Tracy echoed her companion's empty ache.  Even if she hadn't been able to feel Heather's longing, she would understand.  Alex was slipping away from her reality all too quickly already, but beyond that, no one here seemed to have any interest in understanding the man she'd come to know.

"Heather?" Tracy put her hand on the woman's shoulder. The tanned face returned to her as if she were a distantly remembered friend. "Would you like to show me, Heather?"

A pause, then actual recognition. A smile lit the woman's face and she stood, leading the way past the lawn and along a curving path to her brother's grave, circled by mounds of blue-blooming vinca. Heather said nothing, but simply stood and looked at the place, caught up in memories. 

Tracy swallowed against a burning hardness in her throat.  It was her own future she was looking at: Alex gone irretrievably, to become nothing more than a thin memorial flame in her head, one without a warm hand, an unexpected grin, a concern that wrapped around her like a blanket.

 

 

"And you checked with the neighbors?" Spender reached for the ashtray with the hand that didn't hold the phone, hesitated, and pulled it closer.

"Yeah. Kid next door said she'd gone to Maine for three weeks. Left an address--a hotel in Deer Isle."

"And? She's there?"

"Nope. Reservation but no deposit and she never showed."

"And when did she leave Greenwich?"

"Early yesterday, according to the kid."

He took a sharp drag on the Morley, held the phone away slightly and forced the smoke out in a thick stream. Mulder must have known he was gone but how many people had been apprised beyond Alex and Diana? Diana had developed a weak spot for Mulder early on; it was the reason he'd sent her to Europe after Mulder's 'discovery' of the X-files. She'd been growing too attached, the perspective and professional detachment she needed becoming dangerously dulled. But her European assignment had tempered that; she'd returned on firmer footing.

And Alex? Alex was a schemer, barely holding in his bitterness and his resentment, waiting for the right moment, looking for an advantage or a loophole. But what would he have to gain from alerting Mulder? Did he expect to find in Mulder a partner in overthrowing him? Alex hadn't the contacts to maintain the delicate balance that held the world together, and Mulder would never agree to any sort of partnership with Alex. He'd seen to that when he'd had Alex dispatch Bill Mulder.

"And her car?"

"Gone."

A pause.

"I have several other places for you to check. One's in Rochester, the other's in... Baltimore, I believe. You may as well get on the road. Call me from Rochester and I'll have the particulars ready for you."

He paused, then hung up the phone. Teena had one sister and parents--her father long dead, her mother frail and in an exclusive nursing home--who'd essentially disowned her when she'd become engaged to Bill. Her mother would be no place to turn for shelter now, but her sister might prove a source of some information--at least, if she was unaware that she might be compromising her sibling's safety.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: Cranesbill@

I wanted you to know that I've safely reached a temporary destination, though I may be moving around from time to time. The three of you have been on my mind since we parted last night. I was so glad to be able to see you and Annie if only for a few minutes, and I hope all of you have progressed past the initial awkwardness and have been able to help each other. Though she was sent to me for shelter, I believe Tracy helped me more than I could possibly have helped her. I was so glad to have a few minutes with Annie, too, last night and to witness her growing strength. I know it must be a reflection of the support you've found in each other.

I hope your hunch regarding your research plays out. If my hopes count for anything, they are that you succeed in your search and pave the way for the peace you both deserve. I'll be in touch. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help.

                                                                                          -M

P.S. Please have Tracy open an account and contact me. I have something to tell her.

 

 

Krycek stopped momentarily under the shade of a striped awning. He'd have to make it both ways--there and back--and it was hot out, but it wouldn't wait. A stray thought of tortilla had led to the restaurant and then to Marisela. 'Your Tracy' was the way she'd referred to her the last time he'd gone in, and if the old man sent his snoops door to door in the neighborhood, the word would get passed. Tracy had come home with 'your Alex', too. Maybe they'd just pass it off as the fantasy of a lovesick waitress, but 'maybe' was about as safe as leaving your car door wide open and hoping nobody would take what was inside. The hint of a liaison... the old man would love that. First he'd be incredulous. Then he'd get down to business and figure out how he could use it against them.

Krycek stared at a newspaper through the grates that held it in the metal box. There and back and how would he say what he needed to without creating suspicion? Marisela was quiet but she obviously wasn't unobservant. Maybe the goons' tactics would make her pull in, not want to talk. Or maybe they'd come posing as cops and she'd feel obligated.

Pushing out a breath, he stepped out into the light and continued on his way up the block. Frying pan into the fire. No, more like somebody'd turned off the heat for a few weeks and now, back on again, it seemed twice as hot as before.

He looked at the storefronts as he passed them: pharmacy, hardware, thrift store, laundromat. Health foods, insurance agency, used books. Manzanares. A cutout castle hung from chains on a standard jutting out from above the door. He paused in front of it, waiting for his breathing to settle, and grabbed the wrought iron handle.

Inside, the restaurant was cool and dark. He let the door close behind him, a streak of brightness against the far wall vanishing with the sound of door fitting into frame. No waiters, no customers; it was too early yet, barely 5:30. Muffled sounds came from the kitchen--a pot set on a surface and then a dish clattering to the floor. The sound of laughter, footsteps approaching--running--and Marisela burst through the kitchen door, trying to catch her breath from whatever had been going on. Something that had to do with the cook, one of her brothers, who came chasing her and quickly retreated when he saw a patron in the lobby. Marisela froze when she saw him. Her hand went over her mouth, her smile melted and she turned red.

"Seňor Alex--" She reached for breath and composure. "I didn' know..."

"No problem. I just got here. It's cool--nice."

"Can I get you something?"

He hesitated. "Maybe a tortilla. Can you do a small one? Just a"--he shrugged--"little one."

She seemed uncomfortable and looked down at the countertop between them. The seconds swelled, long and empty.

"Look, has somebody come around here?" he said. "Somebody--"

The girl's head came up. "They ask about Tracy."

"Were you here? What did you tell them?"

"That..." He could see her searching for words that had escaped her. She shook her head. "I didn' like them. They have a... nice manner, but not nice, you know? I tell them only that she come here sometimes for food, that the last time she come is three nights ago--Wednesday. I didn' say she had the computer." Her eyes met his. "She's really gone? De veras?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Just... disappeared. You didn't... Did you...?"

"All they ask is about her, have I seen her? I didn' say about you. Nothing. If they come back, I don't say anything." Her eyes were down again, not on anything specific, just not focusing on his. Her finger traced the edge of a dollar bill sealed below the glass countertop. "I hope nothing happens to her, but..." She looked up. "Two days. Is a bad sign, no?"

His jaw tightened. "Yeah."

"I hope that you find her. She's a good person."

He nodded stiffly. Breathe, stupid. Loosen up.

She turned toward the kitchen door. "I make your tortilla now. It won't take long."

He nodded. Marisela disappeared through the swinging doors and Krycek retreated to the bench across from the cash register, sat down and leaned back. His legs were shaky, his stomach knotted and a little queasy. He could have walked away from the stairs that first time, gone on with his life and never have thought about what rain smelled like, the sounds leaves made, or the jolt of having her laugh at you, then smile and wipe away all the frustration you thought you had a right to feel.

What was she doing right now? Mulder would make sure she was okay, not alone someplace dwelling on the distance between them.

 

 

Maria lay with her cheek against Brian's chest and stared into the dark. He was asleep now, beginning to snore lightly. They'd made love like two automatons. Correction: Brian had been his usual attentive self while she lay there sensationless, the way she'd been when he discovered her sitting in her car in the driveway, staring at the paper Dunphee had given her. They hadn't even eaten the steaks. She'd slipped off to bed while Brian wrapped them and put them in the refrigerator.

There was the small revolver in her underwear drawer. There were drugs, and plausible excuses for why one of them might be given. But it was ridiculous even to be speculating about those things. Murders--or even 'accidents'--weren't dismissed so easily.  Certainly one in a town the size of Owensburg would draw the locals' interest like flies to spilled honey. There was the danger of getting caught. He could be left for Spender to deal with, though Spender had been less than reliable of late. Surely he must be an annoyance to Spender as well, this Fox Mulder. There was the matter of the flow of beryllium to his project if nothing else.

The other option was to leave, to find another group and forge another uneasy alliance, possibly a more dangerous one than this. The last time it had taken two years' time from the work. It wasn't nearly acceptable.

Maria eased herself away from her sleeping companion, slipped off the edge of the bed and went to the window. The sky was a deep, clear blue with a handful of stars set into it. She turned and looked back at the shadowed bed. Three years and if she were gone? What would he be left with? A silk nightgown hanging on a hook next to his in the closet? Questions about why she'd run after all his diligence? Two little girls whose place had been stolen by an intriguing woman who had come and ultimately gone?

Other people held onto things that seemed so easily disposable. It would be nice--perhaps it would be comforting as well--to feel the pull of those things: sentiment, attachment, a yearning for the soul of another. They were silent for her; sometimes it took the mirror of a like-minded one to make it clear. There had been that awful night in Kraznoyarsk, the one she'd rather forget except that the memory had never quite chosen to leave. It was supposed to have been just an exchange of information but it had led to a mattress, more a confrontation than a joining. He'd called her 'athletic' and she'd termed him cold and hungry. Together they'd made a sorry pair, so similar in the end. What would he be doing now, the little bastard son of Spender's, if he were still alive?

Brian rolled in his sleep and grunted, searching for her, finally locating her pillow and pulling it up against him. She was supposed to feel something. She was supposed to want to go there, move the pillow, crawl into his arms and feel filled. She looked up at the darkened ceiling and felt cool air seep through her nightgown.

 

 

To: Cranesbill@

From: rainonleaves@

Thank you for taking me yesterday. Everyone here has done their best to help me settle in, though that included a few adjustments to make me less identifiable. It's strange to look in the mirror now, as if I'm seeing someone else. I understand that it's necessary, though, and will get used to it.  Still, there's something sad in the idea that part of the person Alex knows has been taken away. It makes me think of people who leave home and then return to find their families gone.

Ben and Annie are doing their best here and are surrounded by a small but loyal group of people they can count on. Life is always full of ups and downs, but friends are the raft that keeps you from drowning; in that sense, they're very lucky even though they're in hiding.

I hope you are doing well. Now you have my address (above.) Thank you for your willingness to help me. I know Alex thanks you, too.

 

 

"And her reaction?"

"I told her I accidentally hit her sister's car last week and I had some insurance information for her. But she said she didn't know anything--you know, where she'd gone. She seemed concerned enough. She did say her sister might have used a condo she's got in Baltimore. She called; nobody was there. But I got her to give me the address."

"Good. What is it?"

"Waterston Street. Lemme see here... 307 Waterston."

"307.  Did she say anything specific about the place? Whether she used it often?  Anything?"

"Nope. Sounded like just a place they kept in case they were in the area."

"Very well. Good work. I'll have someone check it out."

He pressed the phone's power button, paused and pressed it again. His hand crept toward the pack of Morleys on the table, found it empty, and pulled open a drawer to get another.

"Yes.  I need a job done this evening. Baltimore. Check a condo for an occupant and/or fingerprints. A car, Connecticut license #443 DHK. And phone records for the last two days. Yes, right away. It's a priority."

 

 

To: rainonleaves@

From: Cranesbill@

I wanted to thank you for the chance you've given Alex to be something more than what the rest of his life has led him to. Fox has provided me this same opportunity recently, so I fully understand how much it means. Perhaps because I've been remiss myself for so long, I understand a little the effort Alex is making, how difficult it is to go against the grain of what he's known before, and how very much he must cherish your trust in him. I know you must be careful now that L has returned, but if you should chance to have any contact with Alex, please give him my best. My thoughts are with both of you.

 

 

"According to this, Mulder, as of tonight they still haven't noticed any attempt to trace the license plates used in my mom's escape." She glanced over at the bed.

Mulder pursed his lips. "So they think it's okay for you to go?"

"They're saying Langley and Frohike can assess the contents of your boxes and repackage them while Byers drives me to where Mom is staying."

"At least it's Byers driving." He raised an eyebrow. "If it were Frohike I'd worry. He'd tell you to come, danger or not, just so he could spend a few minutes in the same car with you."

He waggled his eyebrows at her, then looked up at the ceiling. She watched his lower lip pull in, then relax, his jaw set, hold and finally go slack.

"What are we doing here, Scully?" he said softly. "Sometimes you just run and run and run until you don't know what the hell you're doing it for."

"The usual reasons," she said. "Truth, justice and the American way." She sighed. "And the fact that we're caught up in it now, no going to sleep and waking up to find that Cancer Man's melted into a little puddle, like the Wicked Witch of the West. Your sister. You've--"

"I wonder..." He bit the inside of his lip.

"Wonder what?"

He nodded for her to join him on the bed. She got up from her chair and lay down beside him. She plumped the pillow under her head and waited for him to roll into her arms.

"What, Mulder?"

"I guess I'm starting to wonder if I haven't just been searching for her because I had nothing else." He looked up. "Nothing else in my life. I want to find her. I want to find her more than anything. I guess for a long time I had nothing to lose, no reason"--he shrugged--"not to make a swan dive off some cliff if it would get me some information, buy me a lead." He rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling. "But it hasn't. Not a single time, and what does that say, Scully? Am I crazy to be looking when not a single lead has ever panned out? Not one. What does that say about the odds that she's still alive after all this time?"

"Maybe it only says that the people who have been dangling her in front of you don't know where she is, either."

He shook his head. A smile crossed his face, then faded. He pulled her into his arms. "You're just trying to make me feel good, Scully."

"I don't mean to give you false hope, Mulder." She looked up at him and smiled. "But make you feel good? Yes, I try."

A warm hand smoothed back through her hair. His cheek came to rest against the top of her head. She was carried up and down gently with the movement of his chest.

"You think she's okay up there, Scully? Tracy, I mean? In the house?"

"She seems to have made an inroad with Heather. Maybe nobody shows any genuine interest in Heather, Mulder. Maybe that's part of her distance. I mean, between the fact that you're never sure if she's quite with you, and her focus on her brother..."

"She was up with Bethy in the night--last night--the two of them sitting on the couch there whispering like long-lost sisters. Maybe that--"  A pause. His Adam's apple rose slightly and then slid back into place.

"What, Mulder?"

"I was just thinking.  If there'd been somebody, when I was a kid--you know, someone who asked me about Samantha, wondered what I was going through--even one person acting like they really wanted to know... Could've been a powerful thing. Powerful thing."

"Maybe that's what she did for Krycek."

His lips twisted. "More like a spotlight shining on him and he had no way to escape it." He let out a slow breath. "Wonder why he didn't just smash the bulb, though, you know? How they got from Point A to Point B."

"Maybe he never had a choice."

"Mmm..."

From the wall above the door the starburst clock sent out a subtle tick-tick-ticking. Leaves murmured on silhouetted trees beyond the half-open window, their shadows shifting against the darkening sky.

"I can hardly believe it, Mulder."

"What?"

"That I'll actually see my mother tomorrow. It's like... like I've been underwater for longer than I can remember and I'm finally going to break the surface."

He pulled her closer. Warm lips brushed her temple. "You deserve it, Scully. Just--" Breath against her hair.

"What?"

"Be careful. Come back in one piece. Don't do"--he sighed--"anything I would have done for way too many years."

 

 

To: topaz@

From: TinMan@

Someone you don't know who happens to have a penchant for analysis had been speculating about what lengths the old guy might go to. He alerted Holmes days before anything happened. Just a lucky coincidence.

 

 

A key was set into the lock and turned. Krycek rolled and reached under his pillow, fingers curling around the steel of his weapon.

Cigarette smoke; he forced his pulse to slow.  The door swung open briefly, letting in a shaft of bright, yellow-white light that pierced the room and then disappeared as the door was closed again. The end of the old man's Morley glowed orange in the dark.

"I presume you're here, Alex?"

"Yeah." He glanced toward the clock and blinked twice. 10:38.

"I brought some photographs--enhancements of the hospital videos. I'd like you to take a look at them, see if you recognize either of these two."

Krycek shoved the gun farther under the pillow, sat up and reached for the bedside lamp. The brightness of the light made him squint. He looked up at the old man.

"The photos?"

A set of 8x10s was held out to him. Krycek flipped through them slowly, paused and shrugged. The old man went to the desk for the ashtray, still on the desktop from the afternoon, and then returned.

"Woman's never got more than half her face in the picture." He shrugged. "Even mirroring it, you're not going to..." He breathed out and stared at the pictures of the man again.

"I've had some renderings done..."

A sheaf of sketches was held out, variations of the pony-tailed man with light hair or dark, short, long, curly, straight. Some with beards or mustaches or both. Obviously, the old man was intent on nailing this guy. He looked through them twice and handed them back.

"Nobody I've ever seen."

"There's also the matter of a nurse, an Indian woman. The one who comes in with the man to take our patient out for her 'bath'. It's possible she could have been strong-armed by the man and his companions. Or she could be an accomplice herself. She was interviewed by the police, though frankly I'm not sure I believe the story she gave. If you were in better shape, Alex"--he stopped to tap more ash off into the amber dish, then took another drag on what was left of the cigarette--"I'd have you interview her yourself. You can be very... persuasive." Raised eyebrows.

Threatening was what he meant. Mulder's people weren't going to strong-arm anybody. The woman would be someone they knew, somebody they had a connection to. Threaten a hospital nurse. Tell her her kids might disappear or her husband could come to an unexpected end. Push until you saw raw fear in her eyes.

"Sorry."  Maybe another couple of weeks..." He added a slightly hopeful look for good measure. What a crock of shit. "Nothing on how they transported her yet?"

The old man looked thoughtful. "No. We've got no video. Police haven't come up with anything." He brought the stub of the Morley to his lips. "But we're following through on that list of mortuaries you came up with. Good work, by the way."

"Something you can do over the phone. I checked every oxygen supplier between here and Philly. Came up empty on every damn one--you know, new accounts. Took me a whole afternoon."

The old man seemed pleased. He ground out the butt of the Morley he was holding, set the ashtray on the bedside table and reached into his pocket for another. Cancer stick between the lips, lighter out. Krycek turned away and focused on the narrow window at the foot of the bed. If the old man had been able to see her here that first night, what she did and how she did it...

He'd picked too well.

But he hadn't picked at all: it was her. She'd been there before she was even needed, just waiting for the call, knowing who and what he was, having seen the kid with the hole in his face--maybe a dozen other jobs he'd done--and she hadn't turned away or run.

"...didn't mean to disturb you," the old man was saying. He paused to put the cigarette to his lips. "No sign of your little housekeeper?"

Krycek shook his head and looked away. His pulse ran a steady thud-thud-thud.

"Well..." The old man reached for the folder of pictures on the end of the bed, tapped it on one side to even out the papers inside it and tucked it under his arm. "I should be going. I'll be in touch."

Krycek nodded, leaned toward the bedside lamp and waited for the old man to go out, for the lock to turn.  Soon he heard the metal thunk of the bolt going into the door frame. Easing himself up off the bed, he picked the ashtray from the bedside table and took it into the bathroom where he dumped the contents into the toilet. He set the ashtray on the corner of the sink and turned on the water.  His hand lingered on the faucet and he watched the water spiral down the drain until it went out of focus.  Skinner's e-mail sat like an accusation in his head. The last thing he'd wanted was to end up deconstructing her in his mind, to tear down the mystery of what had passed between them.

She'd trusted him too easily. It was in her to trust, to give her mind and spirit to someone, anyone who needed it: look at the flower seeds she'd sown in the old woman's garden behind the laundry room. She worried about Scully's mom and about the guy two doors down from her, whether he was getting along with his son--people she only knew from reading them through an apartment wall. She gave that spirit to anyone who needed it.

But she didn't give her body. That had been the hardest thing for her, the one that had made her quake inside. In the end she'd trusted him with that, too.  And what had he given her in return, aside from the suspicion his life had ingrained in him?

 

 

"Scully?"

He squinted toward the small desk lamp. She was sitting there, cloth in hand, little tube of oil on the desk, little barrel brush. He swallowed and lay back against the pillows. He hadn't seen a weapon in weeks. Hadn't seen hers since she'd shot Krycek.

She looked up.

"I couldn't sleep," she said, mouth small, lips together and perfect, concentrating on her work. "Is the light bothering you? I could try setting something between you and the lamp."

He shook his head. "No. Don't worry about it."

He rolled onto his side and watched her, movements sure, professional, practiced. That mouth, the set of her jaw--that air of confident expertise, of calm under pressure that'd gotten them through so many tough spots. Three weeks where she'd been just Scully--woman, partner, lover--and here it came, a reality check with a bite. This was who they were. It was what they did.

It was a hell of a way to live.

 

 

Gradually the realization dawned on Krycek that his eyes were open.  A slight breeze cooled his cheeks and arm.  The air smelled fresh, sweet--not like city air.  Overhead... overhead there were stars, thousands of them, pinpoints of light thrown against the blackness.  He blinked twice, trying to clear his head.  Below the stars, the silhouettes of trees ringed what appeared to be a small valley.  It was the place he'd seen in his dream the night before, an image that had melted away as soon as he came to consciousness.  Stretching, he looked around. He was in a bed--soft, comfortable bed--out in the open.  Rolling to the other side, his breath caught abruptly.  Tracy knelt beside the mattress, her chin resting on her crossed arms on the quilt.  She seemed like nothing more than a vision. 

Krycek swallowed.  The image in front of him wavered, then seemed to fill in. 

"Nena?"

"Alex--"

"That really you?"

She nodded and reached out.  He took her hand and gripped it hard.  Inside, his pulse pounded.

"Alex, I didn't mean to disturb you, or take away your focus--"

For a few seconds he could only look at her and hope she wouldn't vanish.  But her hand under his seemed solid enough. Finally he let out the breath that had caught inside him and let his head drop back onto the pillow.

"Come here."  He nodded toward the space next to him and gave her hand a tug.  A moment later she was under the covers, wrapped around him, all warmth and softness, reassuringly substantial.  His throat burned, a hard ache that refused to melt with the passing seconds.

"I just wanted to make sure you were alright," her voice came from beside his neck. "There was this static in my head all day--"

"Shhh."  He smoothed a hand through her hair and let it come to rest against her shoulder.  Looking out toward the darkened trees, he focused on her lips against his collar bone, their tangled legs, the way her belly brushed against his when they breathed.

"This one of those dreams?" he asked finally.

She nodded against him. 

He swallowed. "Tracy, I--"  Better just to get it over with.

"It's okay, Alex.  You had no way of knowing for sure."

His eyes closed.  Pushing out a breath, he tried to force the tension away.  She was here--wherever here was--and that was enough.  It was more than he could have hoped for. Leaning down, he brushed a kiss against her temple, then another in front of her ear.  His arm tightened around her.

After a moment he cleared his throat. "You know how this works? If I fall asleep will I..." He rolled slightly, taking her with him. Would he wake up in his own bed, without her?

"I think if one of us stays awake--if I stay awake, since it's my dream--then we'll be alright."

He looked up into the darkness overhead. The silence surrounding them was complete--no birds, no night noises.  After a moment he smiled.  "Nice bed. Great setting."  He grinned momentarily. "Gives new meaning to the phrase 'dream something up'."

Her head came up, her face close, echoing his sudden smile.  Lips touched, melted together.  Lingered.  Her arm went around his waist, fingers seeking out the warmth under his T-shirt.  Sighing, buried his nose in the hair above her ear.

"Mulder treating you okay?"

"Uh-huh."

He waited but she added nothing more.  He let his fingers wander through soft hair.  "Long day," he said finally.

"I know.  It was."

They couldn't afford to stay here for long.  He closed his eyes.  "Missed you," he whispered against the hair in front of him.  His hand drifted over her shoulder and came to rest behind her head, as if he had the power to protect her.

Chapter 19

Sunday

 

"Damn." Krycek closed his eyes and felt hot liquid seal his lashes. So little time and they were caught up in some kind of sad craziness...

"It's not a liability," she said quietly. "It shouldn't be--shouldn't have to be."

"What?"

"Caring about somebody. I was thinking about that today. You've taught me things, Alex, and I carry them with me. That should be a strength, not a liability--like a skill you've learned. Why should two people have to feel like bees with their stingers torn out just because they've shared something, given each other something valuable?"

He sniffed back the moisture in his nose, paused a moment. Made his eyes open. He shook his head. "What have I given you?" He'd endangered her life, made her do some heavy lifting. Given her the chance to witness a guy have a near-fatal reaction to a medication after she'd already witnessed her own mother's dying.

Taking care of him had exposed her to second-hand smoke of the most toxic kind.

She glanced up, at the stars overhead. "You've been a port in my storm, Alex. But not just that. Shelter. A fire to dry off by. A blanket to wrap around me." She turned to focus on him. "It's an amazing thing."

His Adam's apple dipped. Promises were for people who knew what their lives would bring, or for dreamers. He'd never been either of those. Never would be.

He coaxed her head into the hollow between his neck and shoulder.

A momentary smile creased his lips. His little sailboat.

"You need a port, there'll be one here for you."

 

 

Mulder's hand wandered over the mattress beside him. The sheets were cold; the pillow was... pushed all the way up to the wall. He opened one eye. No Scully. Morning. It was--he blinked--barely light, just a thin grayness rising, taking over the darker sky.

There: she was sitting on the edge of the bed, covers pulled around her waist, facing the kitchen. The contours of her back were barely visible in the dimness. Only the curves stood out--the curves of violins or guitars, a perfect work of craftsmanship narrowing in the middle and then spreading again, a smooth, gentle arc.

He reached out and settled a hand against the side of her waist. She turned around, startled.

"Mulder, did I wake you?"

"No. I mean... I reached over and your place was empty. So I guess, yeah, it woke me up." He paused. "Just up early?"

"Up early. Couldn't sleep any longer." She shrugged. "One and the same, I think."

"Nervous?"

A pause and she nodded.

"Want company?"

A smile crossed her face. He pulled up and scooted himself to the edge of the bed to join her.

"Thinking?" He drew the blanket up closer around them.

She nodded. She was cool up against his side.

"Mulder, Tracy said something to me yesterday... about your whole life changing in just a moment. I got up yesterday worrying about my mother, about how she was doing and how long it's been since I've seen her, how impossibly long it could still be, and now..." She smiled slightly. "Here it is, my opportunity, completely unanticipated. But...."

"What?"

She raised her eyebrows. "I don't think I ever felt this kind of trepidation before. In a way, you never... you go into an operation, an assignment, not really knowing what it will bring in terms of risk, or danger. This could be nothing, it could be just"--her hands went up--"a parcel delivery, if it's what it appears to be. Land, unload, make a side trip."

Nothing more. She looked down at the carpet. The light outside was gradually becoming brighter, more colored.

"I think," she said finally, "that I never really saw what there was to lose until now.  Maybe there wasn't this much to lose before.  And how do you decide what's an acceptable risk? What move do I not make, what lead do I not follow, what... fork in the road do I forego to assure that I'll be able to sit here like this another morning--here with you?"

"Scully, you don't need to let it all hinge on me."

"But that's just the thing, Mulder. I do want to be here. I need that--for myself. And when does that change your motive to self-interest? When does your desired level of protection overtake your ability to go out there and make a difference?"

"The hypothetical greater good versus the concrete personal good?"

She nodded. "Or is it just a sign of getting older--pulling in, protecting yourself?"

"I think, Scully"--he rested his injured hand carefully on her shoulder--"that if you were truly just pulling in, just trying to protect yourself... then you wouldn't be sitting here now trying to deal with it. It wouldn't be an issue for you." He brushed her temple with his lips. "You up for a walk? Might be a good thing, you know--get beyond these four walls." 

She looked up at him and smiled. He stood and stretched.

"Mulder, thank you."

"For what?"

"For taking me seriously. For not giving me a predigested answer or trying to... to lay the truth on me."

He smiled slightly and offered her a hand up.

 

 

Maria dropped the rose clippings into the basket beside her and turned back to the thorny bush. It had become overgrown and now the price would have to be paid in severe pruning to keep it from becoming leggy and unattractive. The long-term was usually that way--a sacrifice now, a bit of pain accepted in the interest of a better end result. She took hold of an errant branch with a gloved hand and cut into it low, only inches from the ground.

"Maria?"

She jumped and gasped.

"Brian, I didn't hear--"

"You okay?"

There was a sharp stinging on her forearm. She looked down to see a growing bead of bright red that swelled over the spot and began to run.

"I'm... I think so. I just wasn't ready for anyone, I guess. I didn't hear you coming." She set down the shears she'd been using and pulled the glove from her hand.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to--"

"It's not your fault, Brian. I jumped."

He was turning her around by the shoulder, leading her toward the house. "What are you doing out here so early? It's not even seven o'clock."

"Well, I went to bed so early last night, I couldn't sleep any longer." She paused. He opened the door for her and they went into the kitchen. "No, that's not entirely it, either. I've been promising you I'd get your roses trimmed and I meant to do it. In the night I woke up and remembered I'd left an experiment going in my office. I was supposed to check it after 36 hours and it completely slipped my mind. I'm going to have to go back early."

He turned on the faucet and she held her arm under the running water. Streaks of red spilled off and ran down the drain, lessening as the cold water worked its effect on the wound.

"How is it?" his said. He came up behind her and set a bandage on the counter.

"It's fine.  It's alright." She patted her arm dry and applied the bandage, pressing the flaps carefully to make them stick. He was close, watching. Concerned.

"What's been bothering you, Maria? You've seemed so preoccupied."

She turned to him, slipped a finger through the space between two buttons on his shirt and rested her head against his chest. After a moment his arms went around her waist.

"Okay, I don't have to know. It's okay. But you're a very, very mysterious woman, you know that?"

"I know, Brian. I'm very aware. I'm not sure it's entirely a good thing, either."

 

 

Spender punched in the phone number, eased himself back in his chair and brought the Morley to his lips. Inhaling, he paused and let out a stream of hazy white.

"Briggs here."

"Yes." He sat forward. "What progress do we have?"

"Phone records for the Greenwich house were all local--no calls to the sister."

"Any to 800 numbers?"

"Negative. There was one number that's an ISP dial-up, though. She called it twice yesterday."

He raised his eyebrows. Teena had gone high tech. It seemed unlike her. "And the Baltimore location?"

"Nothing for the past eight weeks and then two days ago, half a dozen calls and after that, zip."

"Calls to..."

"Another ISP number--four of 'em. One to Eastern airlines' reservations and one to Baltimore airport information."

He frowned and jabbed the half-spent Morley into the ashtray. "Did you check for reservations?"

"None by her name."

"Undoubtedly she fancies she's playing some sort of game. Check the airline's records against the time she called in."

"Will do."

"And prints?"

"Four sets, sir. Hers and then three others that didn't pull up any matches."

Undoubtedly one of the other sets belonged to her sister. And there could very easily be guests.

"And at the Greenwich house..." Briggs went on.

"I don't recall requesting prints from the Greenwich house."

"Well, you got 'em, sir. Mulder and Scully--they've both been there."

The cigarette package in his hand was drawn in tightly and crushed. The far wall throbbed, out of focus. He cleared his throat and forced his voice into calmness. "Any other identifiable prints?"

"Negative, sir."

"Well, I believe you have your work cut out for you. Find her reservations. I need to know where she is. Undoubtedly there will be a fake ID involved. And the car? You found the car?"

"No, sir. But I believe we may locate it at the airport."

"Yes. Quite possibly." A pause. He patted his breast pocket and looked down at the crumpled package on the table. "While we're on the subject of fingerprints, I have two more locations for you. No hurry. When the Baltimore work has been done."

"Hold just a moment, sir. My pen seems to have run out of ink."

The old man stood, walked to the window, lifted a blind and stared out unseeing. She'd been hiding them. He'd spoken to her on the phone and she'd been hiding them all along. On the grass below, two crows fought over a scrap of something. He let the blind go abruptly and turned back toward the desk.

After all he'd done for her.

 

 

Krycek rubbed his wet hair with a towel, then laid it aside. Taking a comb from the shelf, he ran it through his hair and looked into the mirror. Different. Big difference from a week or two ago.  He was beginning to look human again.

Stretching his neck to one side, he ran the pad of a finger over a small red mark near his collar bone.  It was a sign--proof--that he hadn't just imagined her last night.  They couldn't make a practice of meeting that way, but the dream had come like a glass of cool water on a scorching day, an assurance that if the need arose, they could make contact.

He refocused on the room and let out a heavy breath.  It promised to be a long day, and whether he stayed focused on the task at hand could make the difference between keeping her hidden and giving the old man a bead on her... along with Mulder and Scully.  Or handing himself to the old man on a silver platter.

The old man really really seemed to be stuck on picking up that pony tailed guy from the hospital. He'd never brought around sketches in the middle of the night before. There had been no word from him this morning, but the old man would be back to him sometime soon--probably within a few hours--with information, or to lay out a theory and see what kind of response he'd get. If only he could read the son of a bitch the way she did.

Krycek looked down at the comb still in his hand. Setting it on the edge of the sink, he went out to the shelf above the microwave where the coin jar sat. He dropped a handful of quarters into his pocket and slipped on his shoes. Just a walk, a little exercise, slow and easy.  There would be nobody to catch him now if he overdid it and relapsed, but it had been nearly a week since the last time she'd brought in a newspaper. There could be a message sitting in the personals waiting for a reply, some unexpected information or... You never knew.

His mother would be gone now, in hiding somewhere.  She didn't even know him.  She'd only seen him twice, and yet she'd compromised herself to get Tracy to safety, knowing well enough what the old man was like, what kind of danger she'd be in if he found her out. No, it wasn't just Tracy she'd done it for.

He took a deep breath, went to the door and let himself out.

 

 

Maria wiped the wetness from the corner of her eye with the tip of a finger and refocused on the road. It was a ridiculous thought. Yes, there was the revolver, but she was no assassin; she couldn't even make it five minutes from Brian's without her eyes tearing up and threatening to endanger her view of the road. She could ask Spender to do something about this Fox Mulder, but there was no assurance that he would actually solve the problem, and frankly, there was no time to allow for Spender's way. Tomorrow was Monday: the plant, and the prospect, if she returned with things the way they were, of jeopardizing the results of six years of painstaking work.

But taking no action would mean committing to flight, whisking away the materials, the notes, but most of all the necessity of finding another base of operations and having to establish the work all over again, as if she were no more than an itinerant gypsy. Years more in some town or compound, having to trade pleasantries, put on a persona, build trust. It was unlikely there'd be another Brian, either. It had been comfortable to accept his affection in much the way she'd accepted her parents', the spotlight on precocious little Maria, everyone charmed. He'd been her rock more than he knew, her stability, the background against which her life was played out.

But then that was exactly the situation: he didn't know. Not from her, anyway. He thought he did, but it was his own conception of her he was in love with. He poured his all into the relationship while she merely added her overflow after the pitcher of her work had been filled. It was the same thing that had led to the disastrous evening in Kraznoyarsk, two parties intent only on how they could profit.

A momentary jag tripped the rhythm inside her.  Suddenly, she smiled.

Now here was an entirely new possibility, one that would never have come to mind if she hadn't been luxuriating in her own misery. He had no more trust in Spender than she did, and he was certainly capable. This annoyance, Mulder, could be out of her way and the work could continue, Brian on the weekends, no need to move, to delay, to re-establish. If only he were still alive and she could locate him quickly enough.

Maria pressed harder on the accelerator and looked ahead, toward Owensburg.

 

 

Tracy stretched, opened her eyes to take in filtered morning light and quickly closed them again. For a final moment she reran part of the dream: lying in the soft bed, Alex asleep against her, mouth half-open, smooth and loose in the knowledge that he was safe with her. She'd studied the arch of his eyebrows, let her fingers follow the path of his hair as it grew forward and then rose up, curving like a breaking wave where the cowlick pushed it to one side above his forehead. Even the rough prickle of his cheek against her breast had only made her smile. 

But it was morning now.  Surely there would be things to do.

She opened her eyes and quickly sat up, looking around at Heather's barely familiar spare room. Beyond the large window tall trees spread a kind of leafy green tranquility.  It was the perfect setting. She slipped her legs over the side of the bed... There was a feeling, strange, something being put in motion that couldn't quite be touched, or defined. She waited a moment but nothing more came.

In any event, there was work to be done. There must be something, somehow, that she could do for Mulder. Scully was flying to Baltimore, accompanying the mysterious boxes, and he'd be worried at the very least. And Sandy, ready giver of herself: there had to be a way to offer some comfort or compensation for her pain. At the moment what it might be was a mystery, but with thought, with a little focus... If only she got herself out of the way, the answer would come.

She closed her eyes and looked up. Alex. For a moment it was as if his hand were extended. She took it in her mind, felt the grip firm against hers and let go. Opening her eyes, Tracy climbed off the side of the bed and turned back to smooth the sheets into place. Reaching for the comforter, she spread it over the bed and put the pillow in place.

A light sound--maybe knocking, maybe Adrie--came from the direction of the door. She turned to see her mother in the shadows, transparent, watching.

Be strong, she mouthed. A blink and she was gone.

 

 

The old man set his Morley on the edge of the ashtray and reached for the ringing phone.

"Yes?"

"Briggs here. We found the white Toyota in long term parking. I've got somebody dusting it as we speak." Noise came from the background, the roar of jet engines.

"And reservations? Have you found anything?"

"A dozen reservations were made within a window of her dialing time and five minutes after."

"Yes?"

"Eight were men. One of the women was in a party of four, one was in a wheelchair."

"A wheelchair would be too noticeable, too easy to remember."

"That leaves a single flight to Boston at 4:50.  And the other one was..." He spoke louder, fighting background noise. "Two women on a flight to Cincinnati in the early evening--relatives probably, same last name.

"And the name on the Boston flight?"

"Nancy Valens."

"Check it out." A pause. He reached for the Morley. "And look into the one in the wheelchair, too. Where was that one going?"

"Florida. Miami. Name was... lemme see... Templeton. Ruth."

He grunted and forced the smoke out into the space in front of him. "Check into it. And contact me as soon as you have anything on those prints."

"Will do."

Spender hung up, set the phone on the table and glanced at his watch. 8:11. It was early yet. It was a start, what they had, and she couldn't hide forever.

 

 

Krycek dug two quarters from his pocket and dropped them into the slot. A clunk and the door to the newspaper machine was released. He pulled it open, steadied the door with the prosthesis, reached quickly inside and removed a paper.  Sunday papers were a pain with all their inserts, heavy enough to slip out of your hand and land everywhere. 

Carefully he laid the paper on top of the vending machine and worked out the classifieds. Tucking the section of newspaper between his stump and body, he turned to go but halted mid-stride, his eye caught by a poster stapled to a power pole near the alley. Tracy's picture was on it. He went closer. Reward for information... disappeared... beloved daughter... in need of regular medication for a chronic condition. His fist curled tight; he fought the urge to punch the pole.

In the picture, Tracy was sitting on a park bench. It must have been when he was watching her, before he'd recruited her to help out; she was wearing the old dress, the one she'd collapsed in. His jaw set. How many pictures did the old man have of her? Did he have someone watching whenever she went out to go to the pharmacy or the grocery store? She'd walked down to pick up the car twice. Would he know that, too?

Maybe the old man knew the truth. Maybe he was just stringing himself up with his story about her disappearance. He swallowed.

Well, the old man would be dropping by soon enough, looking for observations or someone to bounce theories off. If he wasn't buying, there would be signs, indicators.

"You know her?" The voice was foreign, a woman's voice.

He turned in the direction of the voice, which came from an alley.

"The girl on the sign--you know her?" The woman's mouth stretched carefully around the words; she pronounced 'her' like 'here'. A broom was in her hand. She had black hair and Mayan features. She'd come out of a shop's back door.

He shrugged.

"She shop here. Twice she buy dresses from me. Very nice. Nice girl." She paused. "You know her?"

"Seen her around a couple of times."

"Since this?"

She came up to the poster and pointed a brown finger at the date--Thursday, the day they'd been at her place. The one--only--day they'd had to themselves. He tightened and shook his head no.

"If you see her..." She'd moved to the shop's front door now and was headed inside. "Come, I show you what she wears. If you see her, you will know."

He followed the woman through the doorway. She went to a rack in a corner and pushed back several long dresses.

"Like this. She have one like this--white, and another"--she moved several more--"this yellow." She reached back into the rack again, her hand headed toward a red dress, but she stopped herself. "I hope"--she looked down slightly--"that she returns. Ojalá."

She pushed the dresses back together and went toward the counter. Krycek turned and followed her.

"I'll let you know--you know, if I see her around."

The woman had slid open the back of a display case and was reaching toward a card that held a pair of earrings. No, a single earring. She brought it out and looked up.

"She like this. She is a very careful shopper, but twice she looks at this a long time." Her hands went up. "I don' know what happens to the other but there is only one." It was silver, a tiny silver stud with a little piece of turquoise set into it. "I should have just give it to her. The things you don' think of at the time."

He set down the classifieds and picked the card off the counter. It was something she'd like, small and unobtrusive but nice.

"How much you want for it?"

The woman hesitated a moment, surprised. "But there is no mate."

"Doesn't matter."

She looked down at the earring and back up at him. "Five dollars?"

He reached into his pocket and fished around inside. "Hadn't planned on buying anything..." Back pocket--there were a couple of bills in there. Reaching in, he came up with a five. He pushed it across the counter, put the small card with the earring into his pocket and picked up his paper.

"Hope she shows up," he said, turning and starting toward the door.

"Yes. I will be praying for her."

Stepping out into the bright haze of morning, Krycek started toward home, glancing at the poster beside the alley as he passed. There was another one across the street; he could see it now--red--in the front window of the insurance agency. A third was posted on a glass door leading to an upstairs apartment. He swallowed. The old man was seriously on the prowl this time. Like the nurse, the one he'd mentioned last night. They could be tailing her already, one of his goons lying in wait for the woman. Or the brake lines on her car could be clipped, or... Nah. He needed the information. He'd want to grill her first, wring her dry before he threw her away.

Another poster, this time on a lamp post. Tracy looked out from it unsuspecting. He'd expected the old man to try and track her, but he hadn't figured he'd bear down this hard. He still had Mulder's crew to pin down, and he wouldn't be letting up on Mulder himself; he had to be doing something to try to find him. But still he'd plastered the neighborhood with posters and sent goons out asking questions about a poor girl who'd only done what she could to help a guy who scared her, and now there were posters everywhere, like signs for a lost show dog.

Krycek spit on the sidewalk and moved on. If he tipped Mulder about the danger to the nurse it would be one more thing pointing at him. The old man might have gotten to her already, anyway. And on the other hand, if he didn't and she talked, the old man might find himself one step closer to Mulder and...

He stopped short. A poster at his feet, ripped halfway through the picture.

His jaw set. If only he had two good two hands to wring the old fucker's neck. He paused, willing his anger away. A low-grade tension seeped in to take its place.  Krycek refocused on his building. Only three doors down. Go.

 

 

"What do you think, Mulder?"

Scully studied herself in the mirror: soft, short-sleeved blouse in oversize pale blue and white checks belted at the waist and a pair of brand new dark jeans, boots below them. She glanced behind her. Mulder was sitting on the edge of the bed, distracted. Tracy and Bethy occupied the steps just outside the screen door, talking quietly while Adrie scoured the path beyond them for sticks and other building materials.

"Mulder?"

"Huh?" He turned now.

"Sandy's wardrobe choice?"

"Yeah, I think... it's just what you need. Makes you look like a local girl going on her first flight to the big city." His eyebrows waggled momentarily but he quickly sobered.

"I asked her to find something that would fit in.  And above all something that wouldn't look 'me'."

She paused. His gaze had drifted toward the door again. He turned back now that her voice had stopped.

"Sorry, I--" He bit his lip. "Sorry. Good thing we weren't like this when we first started working together." He stood up and came toward her. "I would have been worrying about you on every assignment."

"Sandy," she said, keying off his unspoken question about where the conversation had been dropped.

"Yeah, she... She always thinks I'm just joking when I say anything about working for the Bureau but she's good. She's got good sense and she's got drive. A lot of potential there." He nodded at her. "You look good, FBI woman. A pair of shades--"

"I've got those. And the wig." She pointed to a bag on the desk. And a weapon, something that didn't need mentioning, judging from the mood he seemed to be in.

"I'll get on the Net after I get the girls back into town," he said. "See if I can dig up anything more on our friendly local plant physician." He looked down at his bandaged hand.

"I know you'd prefer to have been part of this assignment, Mulder." She pursed her lips. "But if not for this incident with your hand--with the sodium oxybate--you might never have felt the urgency to question Krycek about her. We might have known a lot less about her than we do."

He paused a moment, mouth half open, poised to speak. "I guess.--I know--that you're beyond capable, Scully. I just... It's like you said this morning. It's harder now, watching you go out there."

"And"--she smiled and put a hand on his arm--"though a moment to ourselves might be nice, we"--she nodded toward the door--"seem to have inherited children. Not that that's entirely a bad thing."

"It isn't, is it? It's easy to get to where you forget that whole part of the world exists." He brushed a kiss against her forehead. "Anyway, have a good visit with you mom." A pause. "Sure hope those boxes give us something to work with. And thank the Gunmen for watching our backs."

"I will."

"Come back in one piece."

"I will, Mulder. I'll e-mail you from my mother's."

"Good." He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes. "Scully, have our lives always been this crazy?"

"Six years now."

He bit his lip and nodded. "That's what I thought."

 

 

It was a farfetched idea to begin with, perhaps only the product of desperation combined with wishful thinking. He could be anywhere. He could be halfway around the world, or somehow beyond reach. Or he could be dead; he seemed to live that kind of life. He'd always seemed coiled, ready to spring, as if the world were about to collapse in pieces around him.

Perhaps it was. Or Spender could have found him out in one of his double-dealings and done away with him. His own father. The mere thought, though, of a parent so unsupportive, so blatantly manipulative... It was the thing that had kept her from turning away from him in amused scorn at the outset.

Maria turned from her place at the computer to consider the still-life of her office.

Best to be prepared. There were notes--files--all at home; they could be easily readied and put in the trunk of the car. But if she could find him, could locate him in time, and he were amenable...

She could call in sick for a day or two if it allowed a plan to be put into effect. As long as there was nothing here, in the computer files, that the intrepid Mr. Mulder could stumble across. He'd need evidence before he could make any move against her.

And what could she offer the son of Spender that would buy his cooperation and ensure his silence?

 

 

"The fingerprints, sir, in the vehicle..."

"Yes." He pressed the receiver to his ear.

"Four sets, sir. Hers, Mulder's, Scully's and one of the other sets that was found in the condo."

He frowned. "Yes?"

Had they been traveling together? Had they been together all along? It seemed unlike Mulder to have stayed someplace as obvious as his mother's house. And on the other hand, they hadn't discovered him until just now, either. Perhaps it was his own mistake; perhaps he'd neglected to take his own advice and had fallen victim to the blinders of personal attachment. He'd always protected Teena, long, in fact, after there had ceased to be any strategic reason for doing so. He'd been at her bedside when she'd had the stroke in spite of the territoriality of her hopelessly idealistic son, who continued to defend her, to attempt to protect her even though she gave no sign of returning his affection. Indeed, the bounty hunter had had to be convinced, at no small personal expense, to pull Teena back from the brink. She would have been gone without his help, her frantic son alone in the world.

And this was her idea of repayment.

"...do you want us to do, sir?"

He refocused on the phone and jabbed the end of a cold, half-smoked Morley into the pile of ash in the ashtray. "Have you finished tracing those reservations? The passengers?"

"No, sir, we just..."

He placed a fresh cigarette between his lips. Would she have been traveling with her sister? It seemed unlikely, but avenues unexplored were possibilities thrown away, like currency tossed into a bonfire.

"Do it. Check the list of male passengers, too." He paused. "And I believe it's time to add that other flight--the one with the two women--to the list, as well."

 

 

10:08.

Krycek forced himself to look away from the numbers on the clock. It was too early to be worried about why the old man hadn't shown. There'd be plenty of time. He'd come around soon enough.

It was too early to feel this jittery, his stomach hard and knotted. He could give himself an ulcer this way.

Krycek pulled up, went to the refrigerator and opened the door. Same stuff as before--no surprise. He let the door close again and reached into his pocket, feeling for the little card. The earring was warm from being next to his body; he rubbed it lightly with his thumb. They'd given each other resources, strength: it's what she'd said in the dream, staring into the abyss of their separation. It was what she'd be sticking with, that and the hope that they could somehow manage to find each other again.

His eyes closed. Two days ago, at about this same hour, they'd been lying warm and drowsy in the thick, silence of her room, hidden away, not a soul aware of where they were. The good things sparked like match flame and disappeared just as quickly.

His hand tightened and squeezed hard. He forced his breathing to slow. Eyes open, head on straight. If you floundered, you lost; it was inevitable. You went down and the people you were protecting went down with you.

The old man focus on catching the guy from the hospital was a toe-hold, at least. A card to play: encourage his focus there, move it away from Tracy's disappearance, or his own possible involvement. And in the meantime, scan those personals. Get Ché to put feelers out, see if he could dig up anything about the Pasadena lab. He should write to Tolya, too.  It was time to move. The planet was always spinning; loosen your grip and you got thrown off, spun away into the blackness.

Krycek's stomach growled. He opened the refrigerator door again and reached in for the leftover Chinese. The hospital nurse: likely somebody with a family and a whole string of extended relatives depending on her. How far would the old man press her?

 

 

Tracy stepped up into the trailer and closed the screen door behind her. Mulder turned from the computer to look at her.

"You two ready to go?" he said.

She shook her head. "Adrie just took Bethy to see his bridge by the creek. But I can go get her if you want."

"No, I..." He looked out the window above the bed, lifted his bandaged hand as if to run it back through his hair, and stopped. He shook his head. "Just trying to switch gears, I guess. This"--he looked at the hand--"doesn't help at all."

"It was strange for me at first, watching Alex do things. It takes so much patience to snap a snap, or open a milk carton, or write a note one-handed. The paper keeps wanting to scoot away from you."

"So I'm finding."

Pausing, he pursed his lips. The room fell into silence. In a tree outside the window, a jay squawked repeatedly, stopped and then could be heard again, farther away.  Mulder glanced back at the computer screen.

"It's a strength, not a weakness," she said finally.

He looked up at her.

"What you have--you and Scully. When it's personal you worry about someone in a way you never have before. The old man's spent a lifetime drilling into Alex that caring for anyone is a liability, just a handle for other people to use to manipulate you."

"Does a damn good job of it, too. Smoky," he added. "Manipulating people."

She sat down on the corner of the bed. "I know. But I was thinking about that yesterday. Who's to say that caring about someone who's taught you a lot, who's stood up for you, who you've shared something special with... that it has to turn into a weakness when you're apart? You still have what they've given you. It doesn't just disappear when they're out of your sight."

He turned toward her and leaned forward, elbows on knees. Finally he smiled slightly. "Scully's taught me... to test my hypotheses, and not to run off after every possibility that's waved at me without thinking it through first."

"I tend to go with what comes to me," Tracy said. "Maybe a little bit like what you do. Intuition. Alex has taught me to plan ahead." She smiled briefly. "At least, he's tried. I can see the importance of it now, though it's still not easy to do."

He was watching her hands, the way they squeezed together. "You okay?" he said. "You've seemed a little... edgy this morning."

She looked down at her lap and swallowed. "I guess it's one of those things that comes to me, only I don't always know what to trust of what I see. And--" She looked away. One hand pressed against the other.

"And you saw something?" He waited. "Another vision?"

"I'd think it was just wishful thinking. But it happened few days ago, too."

"What happened?"

"I saw my mother--a vision of my mother. Have you ever seen visions of your sister?"

"Once, but I think someone was manipulating my desire to see her. To find her." His lower lip edged forward; his jaw set and he went on. "What do you mean, that you saw her?"

"She was standing on the stairs--in the building where Alex lives. She was... kind of transparent, and she was just watching me, just for a moment. And then she was gone. It was five days ago or so. And then this morning, just after I woke up, I was making the bed and I heard a noise near the door. And I turned around and she was there again."

"And she just vanished again?"

She nodded. "I'd think that it was... you know, me, just something going on inside me, except that..."

He waited for her to go on.

"Alex saw her, too, that first time. Not when I did. But the same day. He was up on the roof; there's this patio on the roof. It was early morning, and he saw her just for a moment, like I did. Before I did, in fact."

Mulder scowled and finally shrugged. It was natural for her to see things, possibly things that other people would never see, but Krycek?  He was a less than likely candidate for visions. "I don't know. You have no idea what it means?"

"No. I feel like... like something's about to happen, but I don't know if it's something to do with you and Scully, or Alex, or..." Her hands tightened. She looked up suddenly. "I just remembered something. The man who's going to drive Scully to her mother?"

"Yeah?"

"The old man's looking for him. He brought Alex sketches last night, different ways he might look--you know, long hair, short hair, different colors."

"Wait, how do you know this?"

"Sometimes I can... travel into people's heads. Or I find myself there. That's what happened with Skinner the first time. I didn't know who he was; the old man hadn't even taken me to Alex yet, but I fell asleep one afternoon and I was there with him, in a dream. He was trying to figure out what he could have done in the war--the time when Dale saved him and lost his arm. Then a couple of days later I went to take a message to him for Alex and he knew me right away; we both recognized each other." She paused. "I've gone to Alex that way. I did last night." Warmth flooded her at the memory. "I just needed to know that he was okay." She looked away a moment. "Anyway, I can see it inside him--you know, what he's seen or heard. It's like... kind of like a video, I guess. The old man came over and woke him up wanting to know if he'd ever seen the man who helped Scully's mother escape."

"Byers. John Byers," Mulder said quietly. He paused. "What did he say?"

"Alex didn't know him. But he was thinking how determined the old man seemed to find him. To catch you, I guess. To pay you back for winning that move--the one with Scully's mother. It's like a chess game to the old man. I think maybe Scully--"

"...would be safer traveling with someone else." He sat up straighter suddenly and turned toward the computer.

"Yes. In case the old man's been able to trace him."

"Well, keep your fingers crossed, because if he finds Byers, he's found three people, not just one."

Mulder reached for the mouse to click on the mail program at the bottom of the screen. A pause, a grimace, a redirect. Mouse in the left hand, finger awkward over the button. A click and the mail screen came up. Tracy watched him slowly peck out the message with a single finger, hesitating between one side of the keyboard and the other.

Given a little time, Mulder would heal. He'd type, and open milk cartons without ever thinking twice, and never have to drop the receiver at a pay phone to put his money in the slot.

Footsteps sounded on the path. Soon Bethy's round face appeared against the screen, her cheeks rosy from exertion against the paleness of her skin. Tracy smiled in spite of herself.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: topaz@

He's on the lookout for a nurse who helped you out. Make sure she's out of reach.

 

 

"First flight, eh?"

Scully smiled and yelled a 'yes' over the roar of the small plane. "I never had reason to fly before, but some cousins are meeting me. We're going to go see the sights in Washington. Lucky Dale found you. I appreciate the discount."

The pilot shrugged and looked ahead. "No biggie. It can be addictive, you know? First time I went up I was hooked. Been bumming around airports ever since, anything I can do to buy fuel and stay up in the air."

Scully nodded. There was hardly a point in continuing the conversation above the drone of the engines and Keith was busy watching his gauges. She turned to look out the window. It had been years since she'd been on a plane this small. Five years, actually, since that bumpy flight to Puerto Rico to chase Mulder down at the Arecibo observatory. The memory came back now: the turbulence, the rough landing, the ascent to the top of the mountain in the heat and the way he'd spoken, wild-eyed, about what he'd discovered. The way he'd looked when she found him, sweaty and unconscious, on the floor. For a second she'd feared the worst.

And if she hadn't gone? Would he have found a way to escape the death squad they'd sent after him? She could have spent the intervening years doing autopsies and teaching. Or conducting by-the-book investigations, producing perfect, commendable reports. There could have been a condo and a relatively conventional life and a relatively conventional relationship with a man who crunched numbers or shaped corporate strategy or who played a violin. The boyish man who sat on the floor of an Oregon motel room in the dark, pouring out the self he withheld from the rest of the scoffing world, might have been forgotten--the partner who stepped eagerly forward to engage her in intellectual sparring, yet wore his heart unprotected on his sleeve.

Not likely that she would have forgotten him. He'd been a jarring, vital, brightly-colored intrusion into her otherwise ordered, solemn universe, the hand always at her back to support. And now... surely she'd slip and say something to her mother. It was almost inevitable.

But it could wait. It would have to. It was imperative now to stay on task. The Gunmen would be in place when their plane arrived, observing from an adjoining hangar. She would gather what information she could about the hangar where the boxes were deposited, cross three hangars over to a spot where Byers would pick her up, and they'd transmit the information to Langley and Frohike by cell phone. Then she and Byers would be gone, on their way to her mother. Undoubtedly he'd bring a laptop so they could send word to Mulder when the other two determined what the boxes held. Hopefully the information, whatever it turned out to be, would prove useful. In a way it seemed ridiculous to go after the Smoking Man, like the young shepherd David volunteering to face Goliath, something even regular troops had refused to do. And yet David had won. In spite of the aura he projected, in the end Smoky had to be as mortal as anyone else.

Scully looked out the window and down onto the increasingly rolling blues and greens far below. Her weapon was in her purse, the compartment that held it halfway unzipped, the clip inserted. She could feel the weight and hardness of it, the tension of holding it out, braced, pointed at any one of a dozen suspects--no, at Luis Cardenal fallen near the curb, begging her not to shoot him the way he'd shot her sister, without feeling or hesitation. The overwhelming desire to pull the trigger and the knowledge that it was wrong, and then turning, a knife blade against her throat, shoving the barrel of her weapon against Krycek's gut and firing, followed by seconds that were only a blur, time passing without focus, and finally the realization that she was on top of him, the warm wetness of his blood seeping into the back of her blouse, her one overwhelming desire to be up and away from him.

"Over the border," Keith said with obvious satisfaction. "West Virginia." He gestured toward his gauges. "All indicators are go."

She nodded, made herself smile and leaned forward to look. She was a tourist, a Kentucky girl on her first flight to the nation's capitol for a holiday with family.

 

 

Krycek stopped in front of the small desk and stared out the window unseeing. Third time he'd ended up here in the last ten minutes.

Run and it would be a new game, new rules. No safety: there would be no place to hide, only the assurance that the old man, and possibly the group itself, would have their packs of dogs out sniffing the ground for him, determined to make him pay for slipping away.

It was possible, of course, that the old man actually was the lynchpin of this whole thing, that leaving him would mean leaving some kind of safety net he hadn't yet identified. But old man or no old man, the fact was that he was stretched thin now with lies that could all too easily unravel, and if he stuck around long enough for it to happen, his chance to look into this new possibility would be gone. Pasadena could turn out to be nothing, or it could be critical, something that would actually make a difference in the end, and how long had it been since he'd been in a position to do that?

Returning to the bed, he opened the laptop and tapped on the mail program.

To: che74@

From: topaz@

May need to take another trip--soon. Need more plates--California, Colorado--and check everything out, make sure it's ready to go if and when. Get back to me with your timetable.

How far would this still-recovering body take him?  And his chances, all things considered?  Better, probably, than sitting here waiting to be picked off.

 

 

Scully swallowed against the tension inside her and focused on passing fuel trucks and utility vehicles as the small plane taxied toward the hanger area. Her weapon was ready if necessary, though unless someone had tapped into their e-mail, the likelihood of anyone knowing she'd be coming was almost nil. There was the outside chance that the pilot had notified Smoky, but undoubtedly adding passengers to the route would be frowned upon and Keith seemed to need every penny he could get to keep his beloved plane going. He'd done everything imaginable--including joining the Air Force in the late sixties, a strategy that hadn't worked out the way he'd intended--to satisfy his penchant for flying. He wasn't likely to risk it now.

Krycek had their e-mail addresses. He could easily have found a way to have them traced... but it wasn't at all likely he'd give them to the Smoking Man if he had. He'd endanger Tracy by doing that, and the more she talked with Tracy, the more evident it became that Krycek must value her in a way she couldn't imagine Krycek valuing anyone. She should be okay; it was nothing more than a routine package drop and the Gunmen would be waiting. Friends and allies. She swallowed against the nagging tension in her stomach.

"They know where to pick you up?" Keith asked now. "You didn't send them off to Baltimore International, did you?"

"No. No, they... I believe they made a dry run yesterday, just to be sure." She squinted into the hazy brightness as if searching for her relatives' vehicle. Byers would meet her three buildings north of the place where they'd park. They were beginning to pass little prefab structures already, larger versions of aluminum backyard sheds. The plane slowed. A turn to the right, two buildings down and Keith brought the plane to a halt and shut down the engines.

"This is it."

Scully glanced at her watch. "I'd assumed it would take us a little longer. My cousins won't be here for another fifteen minutes at least."

"Well, you can sit here a few minutes if you're not tired of sitting already."

"Actually, I think I'd enjoy the chance to stand up. Do you need help with anything? I'm quite capable--"

"It's okay, I've got everything under control."

Keith opened his door and let himself out. Scully opened hers, considered the distance to the ground and jumped lightly.

"Hey, I could've given you a hand there if you'd just hollered," Keith said, coming around the back of the plane.

"No, it's okay. I'm used to this." She looked up and smiled. "Though my father's always maintained that my mother and I should have come with stepladders as standard equipment."

Keith smiled and walked to the hangar door, where he worked a key in a padlock. Seconds later the door slid open. He went inside and emerged almost immediately with a hand truck. Loading three of the boxes onto it, he rolled them toward the small building.

"What do they actually keep in these places?" Scully asked, following.

"Tools, spare parts. Oil. Just like your car mechanic's garage." He went through the doorway and off-loaded the boxes beside an old wooden desk.

"Looks like the shed in my backyard, only bigger," Scully said. Nobody appeared to be inside. Indeed, the interior appeared dusty, as if it were used only as a pickup and distribution point. Cobwebs covered a small window to the side of the desk. There was no apparent security system, no alarm or motion sensors.

"Well, basically it is," Keith said, setting the hand truck upright for a moment. "Except that your garden shed's a little more sheltered in your backyard. In a gale wind I've seen these babies fly. They have to be secured, or you may come to regret it later."

"I can imagine." Her voice echoed slightly.

Scully leaned against the doorway and watched Keith return to the plane for the final box. He didn't waste time but moved economically, the cargo door closed and secured before he returned to the hangar. He set the box beside the others, took an envelope from his pocket, opened a desk drawer and placed the envelope inside.

"Some people got a love of paperwork," he said as he came around the desk and started toward the door. "Not me. Guess that's why I'm working for cash."

Scully stepped outside. Keith took the key from his pocket.

"Well, thank you again very much," Scully said. "It was exciting, seeing what everything looks like from the air."

"My pleasure." He offered his hand and she shook it. "You know where you're headed now? Right straight over there"--he gestured--"toward the parking lots."

Scully thanked him and started in the direction he'd pointed out. One building, two buildings, the heels of her boots tapped on the cement. A glance behind to check for anyone watching, sideways glances toward the spaces between hangars. No one. She took a deep breath, hoping it would flush the tension from her stomach. At the third building she turned and glanced back again. Keith was absorbed in his engine compartment. Quickly she slipped across the roadway and between two hangars. The Gunmen must be watching... from wherever they were. She passed an open door. Two men looked up from their work.

At the edge of the building she paused--all clear--and crossed to the shadow of the one beyond. A glance back toward the open door she'd passed and she saw that one man was standing in the doorway. The glare made it difficult to tell if he was looking in her direction or not. Scully slid the zipper on her purse open a little farther.

Another building. She walked quickly along the shadowed side and paused at the far end to survey the surrounding area. Clear. Now to double back two. She started again, keeping to the shaded side. No cars. She glanced behind her. No sign of the Gunmen's old Volkswagen bus. The rhythm of her blood was quicker now, her body taut. One more building.

"Psst. Missy--"

Scully stopped short and looked across the roadway. At the edge of the building opposite stood a short woman, a scarf over her graying hair. Adrenaline surged; Scully fought the urge to run toward her. Forcing herself to cross deliberately, she took measured steps, watching the hard pavement and the approaching corner of the building. Looking up, she nodded briefly to the woman in the shadows, who pointed behind her to a white sedan. Scully went around to the passenger door, opened it and got inside. The driver's door opened and the woman entered. Both women closed their doors.

"How--?"

"It's a bit of a story," Rita said, smiling and reaching across to give her a brief hug, as much relief as greeting. "But we'd best be on our way. You have the number for John's partners in crime?"

Scully sighed her relief, nodded and took the cell phone Rita offered.

"Smooth sailing so far?" Rita said, cranking the engine and putting the car in gear.

"Yes."

"Good. I think this surreptitious stuff is aging me entirely too fast. I'll have to regale you with my tale of running down the hospital corridor with only one of those silly gowns on. I must admit at the time I had to wonder just what on God's earth had gotten into me."

There was a chuckle from the back seat.

"Now you pipe down, Will Wilkins. You just had to lie at home and worry."

Scully turned to see Will lying on the rear seat, half-hidden beneath a blanket.

"Will--" She reached to shake the hand he offered. "We're indebted to you, Mulder and myself. I can't begin to tell you..." Something swelled to fill her throat.

"Nothing you wouldn't have done for someone else, given the circumstances. You just hang in there," Will grinned.  "You've got a mother waiting."

"Does she know I'm coming?"

Will shook his head. "Nobody's said a word. I do believe this will be better than Christmas for her, though."

 

 

To: topaz@

From: che74@

In medias res. Doing, shall we say, an investigation of the corporate nature, but can be on assignment in a couple of hours if that fits the bill. Oh, BTW, someone out there is searching for you, someone of the female persuasion. Or perhaps you yourself might think, of the piranha persuasion. Do you want me to raise a flag or not? Respond, respond...

 

 

"I've researched those reservations, sir."

"Good." Spender pushed the button on the armrest beside him. The window to the driver's compartment went up. "Very good. And what did you find?"

"Nobody matching Mulder's description among the men, sir. Also, none of the men were going to the same destinations as the women, except one accompanying the wheelchair flight to Miami, but we checked that out. It's not them. Woman's eighty-five and the airline had a go-round with her about flying in the first place."

"Which leaves"--he took a Morley from the package and held it between thumb and index finger--"the flight to Boston."

"We traced the credit card; it's her home address. We sent someone out to verify. She's about forty-five, sir."

He frowned, slipped the cigarette between his lips and reached into his pocket for a lighter. "Perhaps there was some delay in making the reservation. She could have been waiting on hold. Add another five minute window to your search, Mr. Briggs." He held the flame to the tip of the cigarette, watched it catch and took a drag. "And the other flight? The two women?"

"That was a strange one, sir. One got off in Cincinnati but the other went on to Salt Lake."

He took the cigarette from his mouth and leaned forward. "Odd, wouldn't you say?"

"Could be Grandma dropping off a kid, or... I dunno."

"Yes, I suppose." Cigarette came to lips. "What other information do you have?"

"Woman's name is Sarah Barnhart. Kid was... lemme see..." The crackle of papers being shuffled. "Michele Barnhart. Sounds like they're related."

"Yes, it does indeed." One older, one younger from the sound of the names. Michele indeed; certainly not common for a contemporary of Teena's. "Track the women, Briggs. Check for credit card trails--where they've gone, what they've done. Let me know as soon as you have anything."

He switched off the phone and leaned back into his seat. Undoubtedly Fox would have had something to do with his mother's circuitous plans. But no matter. He'd have Teena soon enough and once he did, Fox would come running.

 

  

Mulder padded quietly into the kitchen and filled his glass from the tap on the refrigerator door. Second time in fifteen minutes; he had nothing to do but wait for word from Scully. The Net wasn't giving up any secrets about Dr. Jeckyll, the house was quiet, Tracy had fallen asleep on the couch. Maybe she hadn't slept that well last night but then it wasn't easy, moving around from place to place, camping out in someone else's living room, no spot or space to claim as your own. She seemed to be doing pretty well, considering. He glanced at his watch. Scully should be there by now--at the airport, anyway. Hopefully she'd be able to send a message soon. The computer was online; the little chime would go off when anything came in.

He took a sip of the cold water and started back toward his room. On the couch, Tracy stirred and resettled with her head buried against the cushions. Rita should be back within a week. She'd written to Dale. Evidently Wilkins was coming along and should be okay soon. Bethy would go home and Tracy could have her room, though most likely little Miss Bookworm would be offering to share it in the interim. They'd dropped her off at the library on the way home from Barkers'. She'd probably come back with a whole stack of books, and some evening he was here and not with Scully, Bethy would curl up next to him and read aloud. Samantha'd read, but not this way. She'd had other things to occupy her, friends and climbing trees and... She'd fit in. Bethy's life had set her apart. She had friends, but there was that part of her that nobody was going to understand. Maybe that was the part she took into the world of books.

Mulder turned to glance at the computer. No mail. Soon, though. There should be something soon, just a note to let him know she'd made it okay, that the Gunmen were going through those boxes, that all his worry was needless. He made himself move again and returned to the bedroom. Taking another drink, he set the glass down on the bedside table. What would Sandy have thought about Tracy's reaction to the haircut? She hadn't said anything but she'd be wondering. She had a hefty dose of curiosity, but thankfully enough discipline to hold it in check. He tipped the blinds closed and lay down on the bed.

Soon.

Tracy'd had to do his seatbelt for him. On the way up, Dale had driven and the passenger seat had been no problem; his good hand had been on the right side...or left, as the case happened to be. But coming back he'd gotten in, pulled the belt across and fumbled with the floppy latches on Dale's old seatbelts, reaching to the opposite side. He'd been getting nowhere and all of a sudden she'd reached out, just a 'here', and taken and fastened it, no real focus put on him or the fact that he couldn't do it himself. A nice little talent.

Must have driven Krycek crazy at first, having her around, having to let her do for him: Krycek allowing--having no choice, granted, but allowing--another person to see him unable, forced to accept the help. She made it easy, though, unobtrusive. Mulder's lips curled. Krycek, one-armed and always looking over his shoulder, playing the shifting odds like a nervous stock trader watching every up and down of the ticker, buying and selling from moment to moment, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. Doing it just to be able to wake up the next morning. Some pathetic existence.

And yet Tracy... Something had made her stick with him. Somehow he had to have offered her something, unlikely as it seemed. What could Krycek possibly have to give her, of all people? And if they were lovers... Tracy didn't seem like the type to just let him have it because he pushed. Didn't seem like the kind who'd be out looking for a man. She didn't talk about him that way, either. Still...

One-armed. Could be some trick. Could be damn humiliating, being with someone you'd never been with before, and...

No.  No desire to trade places here.

"Mulder?"

Soft footfalls approached. A hand appeared on the door frame and Tracy's face came into view, half-asleep but with a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth now. "I think you have mail coming."

He pulled up and went out to the computer. The screen was as it had been.

"There's nothing--"

The ding of the mail chime. He looked at her, balancing on the arm of the couch, one hand going back through her hair in an attempt to reintegrate herself into the world of the wakeful. She shrugged. "Just something I can feel."

He sat down and clicked on the message. It was Frohike. Scully was safely off to her mother's with Rita and Wilkins, and he was waiting for Langley to match the lock they were about to cut off the hangar door. No use drawing Smoky's fire by letting him know somebody'd been in to check out his little operation. So far, so good, and he'd mail again as soon as they'd checked out the boxes.

"Good news," he said, turning around.

She was standing in front of the sliding glass door. She turned and smiled, an attempt at looking innocent. She knew. She already knew what was in the mail. There was no apology, but neither was their any superiority in the look she gave him. She'd turned away to give him what privacy she could.

He shook his head. "I knew a kid once who could do what you do, but I'm still not used to this."

"Nobody ever is. But I really do appreciate the fact that you keep the feeling tamped down. Makes me not feel like such a freak. You're alike that way, you and Alex. He tried so hard for so long to--" She stopped, went to the couch, sat down. Ran her hands back through her hair and paused. "I feel like I've lived a lifetime in the last few weeks," she said finally, looking up at him. "And here I am sleeping through the middle of the day when I could be doing something useful."

"I think we've"--he pushed the chair back from the computer and turned toward her--"we've both lived a lifetime in the last few weeks. Except I'd already spent a week in the twilight zone before I ended up by the lake where you found me." He shrugged. "But I guess you've got your own story there, too."

She nodded. "It seems like so long ago. So many things have changed." She rubbed her arms absently, as if she were cold. "And here we are, different people than we were. No, not different but... polished. For as hard as this is right now, I know--know--that I'm stronger than I was before. I've learned so much."

And Krycek?  Had he learned something from his decision to hide in Scully's closet, underestimating her ability to fight back?

"It's scary sometimes, isn't it?--to shine the light on yourself, to really look at who you are, and then do something about what you see. I know it is for me. Alex has stretched a lot recently."

"Maybe it was you who stretched to meet him."

She looked up at him, clear-eyed, serious. "You can't be something you're not. You can't... bring out something that was never there to start with. It's like your mother. She buried her heart for years. And then she realized she needed to uncover it again, to let it breathe, let it reach out. But it was always there. You saw it when you were little, before she hid it away."

He looked down at the carpet. Inside, his pulse beat a tight rhythm. He bit his lip and nodded. "He, uh... he wrote to me this morning," he said finally, looking up. "Just a note. A heads-up that Smoky's searching for the nurse who helped us get Scully's mother out of the hospital."

When he focused on her, he saw that she was rocking slightly, back and forth on the edge of the sofa cushion, arms wrapped around herself, staring out into the brightness of the yard.

 

 

Of the piranha persuasion.

There could only be one.

He'd last seen her on the night he met Ché, at a big party in the Czech capital eleven years earlier where the guests were high rollers and politicians, the behind-the-scenes influential and the hangers-on who'd been swept in on their coattails. Ché had been barely more than a kid, serious and looking for a quiet way out of the eastern bloc. Maria Ivanova had been there trying to act like she had it all together, as if she hadn't been unnerved by the stupid couple of hours they'd spent straying from business in Krasnoyarsk six months earlier. She had fangs but she tended to keep them in unless she was backed against the wall, and she'd kept herself pretty well together until he'd come up to the circle where she was talking--research, naturally--and made a couple of snide comments that had backed her into a corner. He'd been young and stupid then, maybe with a few more drinks in him than he realized. And the fangs had come out: subtle fangs, nearly invisible, but fangs all the same. She'd shredded him very casually, a fact apparently noticed by no one but Ché, who'd been standing around holding a drink that was one past his self-imposed limit. It'd been a fool thing to do, baiting her that way. Showed him up for having been as rattled as she'd been.

So why was she looking for him now? Wasn't going to be for sentimental reasons. Business of some sort. Either she had something she thought he'd want--for a price--or... Not likely. What would she know about what he wanted now?  It had been years. More likely she wanted something herself, and whatever she had to offer in return would be an indicator of how badly she wanted it. The fact that she was looking for him at all might be a fair indicator in itself.

Could be worthwhile, just to know what she was up to. Mulder had come up with her name the other day; she must be up to something. The information could be valuable at some point.

Reaching for the computer, Krycek flipped up the screen. He worked a pillow under the stump and pulled the keyboard closer.

To: che74@

From: topaz@

I'll bite, but not directly. Have her send to you and then forward it. Thanks.

 

 

At the end of the aisle of books; Teena turned to look at the section behind her. 'Literature' as opposed to 'fiction'--a curious delineation, if one took the time to think about it. She sighed. This wasn't the time for a frivolous bestseller, glitz and romance and murder just to pass the time. Real murder, or real chases spearheaded by frighteningly real minds, didn't classify as entertainment of any kind. Even at the beginning, when she'd first been with Leland, the dark shadow had been there. She'd rationalized it away as just her fear of Bill catching them, but it had been more than that, the subconscious realization that crossing Leland could have very unwelcome consequences.

And it had. Over a period of years he'd managed to take all of them: first her daughter, then Bill... though Bill had essentially taken himself. Then Fox, through hunting him, and Alex, who'd been whisked away only seconds after his birth, the one he'd taken most definitively, or at least had tried his best to. Had, obviously, for many years. And then the miracle: something to drive him to her, even if he'd come full of turmoil and latent anger, followed by the ricochet result, a reassessment and the end of her self-imposed estrangement from Fox.

In the end not even Leland had been able to keep Alex from having his own awakening, but how would he be managing now, with the person who'd meant so much to him out of reach? Mind and body would manage to make their way somehow, but the heart... If only she could write to him, find something comforting to say, something to reward the effort he'd made in reaching out to the girl. Undoubtedly communication could be dangerous--or worse--for the both of them, though. And Fox: she should write to him again, if only to reassure him that she was safe, thought there wasn't much to tell. Salt Lake City was a spur-of-the-moment choice, one she'd realized immediately was exactly what she needed, a place she'd never been or expressed any interest in visiting. It was a clean and orderly, and the mountains were spectacular, but it didn't echo the strange reality of her life and circumstances.

And spending time sightseeing where you could be seen, spotted... Realization of the risks had brought her to this bookstore. A few days could be spent in reading, for the most part, keeping her away from potentially prying eyes. After that, a new plan would have to be formed. One could only read for so long, and how long would this hunt go on? Weeks? Months? Fox was determined. He was quick and perceptive and passionate. But Leland was every bit as determined and completely dispassionate, and in the end which of those qualities would win out? The answer that suggested itself was unsettling, to say the least.

Teena looked down at the three volumes in her arms. They would do for now; her interest had languished from looking at so many titles, scanning so many opening pages. She moved to the checkout line and waited while the woman in front of her paid for a children's book, a girl of five or six at her side, wispy brown hair falling into big hazel eyes.

"I can help you..."

Teena looked up, set her books on the counter and reached into her purse in search of her wallet. Opening it, she found only dollar bills and remembered that she'd placed the larger bills in an envelope in the back of a drawer the night before when she was organizing things. Quickly she reached for her new credit card and handed it to the cashier.

 

 

Two-fifteen and still no old man. Something was wrong. Either that or he'd found a lead and was chasing it.

Krycek crossed the room to the recliner and sat down. Letting the back down, he stared at the ceiling but pulled up again almost immediately. It was no damn good just sitting here waiting for something to happen, for the sky to fall. He stood again and glanced at the clock by the bed. An hour until Ché would be working on the car. He pushed out a breath and went to the window.

Maria Ivanova. What the hell could she want?

 

 

Scully peered through the sheers on the French doors leading to her mother's room. Rita and Will had gone into the sun porch to talk with Old Rose; they meant to stay out of her way but she could feel their eyes on her.  Or maybe it was their good wishes.

It was a good time to do this. A good idea. She was ready.

Scully moistened her lips and gripped the clear glass knob a little too tightly. Ready. The pulse throbbing through her tightened fingers echoed her heartbeat. If she turned the knob she'd surely falter and then...

Just go to her, Mulder would tell her if he were here. It's not hard, Scully; it's easy.

Turning the knob, she pushed the door open slightly. No movement came from the bed. She opened the door wider and stepped inside. The room had high ceilings and white carved moldings high and low. At the rear of the room was another set of French doors that led to a back yard. To the left, beyond the foot of the bed, was a tall window with an old fashioned, pull-down shade. The walls were a soft yellow. Beside the bed, a child's drawings were tacked to the wall, undoubtedly the work of New Rose, who'd shaken her hand solemnly and refused to take her deep brown eyes from this stranger who supposedly had a prior claim on 'Mama S'.

The figure in the bed seemed so small, nearly swallowed up in the covers. Scully made herself go closer. Her mother's hair was straighter, lacking its usual wave. More salt-and-pepper than she'd realized. There was the danger of shocking her from the surprise, the possibility of...

Go on, Scully.

She moved forward and leaned down over the edge of the bed. "Mom?"

Her mother stirred and resettled.

"Mom..."

Maggie's eyes fluttered open.

 

 

"We're in the process of checking out the reservations from that second five-minute window, sir. Nothing yet that raises a flag."

Spender waited, watching a thin stream of smoke rise off the end of the Morley and drift with the room's air currents.

"We looked a little farther into that Salt Lake flight. Trail nearly ended there, sir, no further activity on the credit card, no hotel, no restaurants or rental cars. Then about half an hour ago we checked again. Card was used at a bookstore just minutes before. Woman bought three books."

His eyebrows went up. A smile played at one corner of his mouth. "Follow up, Mr. Briggs. Search for hotel reservations; she has to be staying somewhere. Undoubtedly she'll be using the same name she used for the flight." Unless she knew someone there she could stay with. But Salt Lake didn't seem to be Teena's kind of town.

"Will do, sir."

"Keep checking into those other records. But let me know as soon as you have anything on this one."

He hung up and raised the Morley toward his lips. A length of ash fell onto the table in front of him. He frowned at it and looked up. It could be someone else, of course. But Teena was a reader of books, a buyer of hardcover novels. What better way to pass the time, hiding out? At least, until you were caught.

 

 

It really was her, not a night dream or the addled fantasy of her overheated brain. Maggie closed her eyes and felt the soft copper-colored hair against her cheek, her daughter's breath and the way emotion shook her body. She'd opened her eyes to see Dana leaning over her, a grown woman, a smile that started of its own accord, then had to be consciously held in place as the face came closer and the confident woman turned into the vulnerable little girl she'd known from long ago.

Maggie opened her eyes and stroked the hair beside her cheek. "Dana--"

A breath caught, a shudder. Her daughter's head came up slightly and then returned to where it had been.

"Dana..."

"Mom, I'm so sorry." Her voice wavered. "I tried to tell myself it wasn't me, that it was... the risks of the job, the price of being in law enforcement, but if not for--"

"No. Dana, it was that man in the trench coat, not you. I've talked to people, your friends. They've all told me what a wonderful job you've done, what a... a contribution you've made through your work. You didn't bring this on." She kissed the forehead in front of her and lifted her daughter's face carefully with both hands. Scully made herself smile and wiped at the wet trails on her cheek with the side of a finger. "Tell me how you came. Is it safe for you to be here?"

Scully eased herself up from her kneeling position and sat carefully on the edge of the bed. She sniffed and made herself smile. "As safe as any trip." She smiled again, more easily this time. "We had some evidence to track... and it took me to the Baltimore airport." A pause. "Rita and Will brought me."

"They're here?"

She nodded. "In the sun room."

"Getting a history lesson, no doubt." Maggie smiled. "Have you met New?"

Scully nodded. "She was very polite. But she seemed very skeptical. Evidently she's claimed you for herself." She gestured toward the drawings on the wall.

"She's been my constant companion." She paused and looked toward the wall. "Sometimes you forget how much you can learn from a child."

Scully ran a finger through a valley in the blanket. "I know. There's a little boy where I've been staying. And I have a nineteen-year-old friend who seems like a daughter sometimes. Other times I think she's the older of us."

Maggie took her hand. "How is Fox? How are you doing?"

Scully pursed her lips. "It's been"--a pause--"difficult. But we're making some progress. Mulder feels he's got a lead now, a trail to follow. Part of it was what brought me here."

Maggie waited.

"You know how I"--Scully's lips pressed together--"how I've always tried so hard to be my own person?" She swallowed. "I got to a place where I was out of my depth, and... he showed me--Mulder showed me--how to accept help without being... taken over." She paused and looked up. "Such a simple lesson; you wonder how it can be so difficult to learn. He's been a great support, more than I can say."

She looked away, toward the porch doors. Her hand tightened briefly against Maggie's and there seemed to be a glow to her face, just the hint of a smile.

"I'm so glad, Dana, that you've had each other to depend on."

 

 

That boy Ché had known where he was. Well, he was no longer a boy; it had been years since that meeting in Prague. Eleven years to be exact.

Interesting that he had apparently kept some contact with Spender's son.  They hadn't seemed at all temperamentally matched, though there was the matter of Krycek helping the boy to escape from his problems with the local authorities.  Who knew?  Perhaps he felt a sort of continuing obligation to the man who had made it possible for him to reach America.

So. He knew where comrade Krycek was, though Krycek had chosen not to step out of the shadows and directly into her path. He could hardly be blamed. If it had been he who had come looking for her, she might have done the same. Suspicion--no, just skepticism--would have been her first reaction. But apparently he was willing to listen. Now there was the problem of what to say and how to put it.

Maria walked to the kitchen sink and looked at a piece of chicken defrosting on a small plate. It wasn't entirely certain she'd even be here to eat it by the time it was thawed. But if there was to be any chance of staying in this little outpost town, he seemed to be her only key. She gripped the sink edge briefly, went to the table and sat down at the computer.

Coherency, Maria; you're good at this. Surely you can say something coherent.

To: che74@

From: mv623@

Please forward this as per our previous discussion:

As you are well aware, my research is my first concern. For a time I was unable to proceed with my study, and then a way was presented to me, not the one I would have chosen but a way nevertheless, and since the work demanded to be carried forward, I took it. I have come across a security leak just now that threatens my progress. Recent experience has shown me that my sponsor may not take the situation, or its resolution, nearly as seriously as I feel is demanded. I am unaware if you have any current ties to this sponsor; let's just say he is someone neither of us has ever showed a great deal of innate confidence in. I am in need of immediate resolution of my problem, a federal agent seemingly intent on discovering exactly what it is I am up to. If you were so positioned, and were able to eliminate this annoyance for me, I would be willing to share with you (personally) the results of my currently-very-promising vaccine research; traveling expenses are also something I can provide. I don't need to explain to you the prudence of having a hedge against the future.

Please respond as quickly as possible, as time is very much of the essence.

 

 

A knock came on Sandy's door.

"Come on..."

The door opened and a bright shaft of sunlight flooded the floor with a glare that made her squint. Then the door was closed again. When her eyes readjusted, Raylene was looking down at where she sat on the floor, little cardboard dresser drawers around her, little clothes in and out of them.

"I, uh, didn't mean to interrupt or nothin'. Joe's getting his stuff together. I think if I stayed there any longer his eyes would of popped out and steam would be coming out his ears. Figured it was better to get myself out of the launch path." She paused, knelt down and ran a finger along the length of a blue terry sleeper. "I remember when he wore this. Cute as a button. The blue set off his eyes."

Raylene paused and looked as if she'd get up again. "Look, punkin, I don't mean to make it hard for you, if that's what it is. I miss him, too, you know."  She sucked in a sudden, ragged breath. "God, I miss him something fierce."

Sandy bit her lip and looked down. "I don't know what I feel right now. It's all confused inside of me. It's like... I want him back so bad, and I know I'm not gonna get him. This stuff of his is... it's all I got left, so it means more than... you know, it's kinda like some famous singer's guitar. Makes me want to hoard it away. But--"

Raylene lowered herself to the carpet and sat cross-legged. She waited, and she was never one to wait.

"It's scary as hell and I want it all the same." Sandy took a deep breath and looked at the little green loops in the carpet. "I'm gonna have somebody to use these things again. I'm pregnant." She looked up. "I guess it musta happened just before... you know."

Raylene's mouth opened. Nothing came out at first, though her eyes got bigger. "Lord, sugar. This is--" She turned serious. Quietly serious. "Is it what you want?"

"I don't want this baby to not have a daddy, but yeah, I want it real bad. It's almost like Cy left me a present wrapped up and put away on a shelf when he went. Like old Mrs. Fredricks. Old Mr. Fredricks--remember how he died in March? And later when she was cleaning out his drawers she found an anniversary card he'd got her early and signed it and everything. All ready and waiting for her." Sandy picked up a pair of booties from the pile in front of her. "I just found out two days ago. I've been feeling sick in the mornings, but I never figured... And then Annie noticed--she's a doctor--and we did one of those tests, and--" She smiled, though she knew it was a crooked smile.

"I'll back you up," Raylene said, quiet. "Not that I'm any great expert at anything, you know--look at my life. But whatever you need, you just ask, sugar."

"Thanks."

Nothing more came; the words had all run out. Sandy let out a breath that had built up. Raylene picked up Roddy's baby cap and toyed with the bill.

"I've been thinking about"--Sandy paused and looked up carefully--"going out on the road for a while. With Papa. There's places I've heard about--you know, places I'd like to see what they look like for myself.  And I know once this little one comes I'm going to be too busy for that, or for traipsing around hauling a diaper bag along with me. So I figured, you know, sometime before I get as big as a house..."

"Or before you've got to be making pit stops every half hour."

"Yeah, that too. I guess Annie and I have been talking about places and it just sort of put the traveling bug in me."

"Guess they must be on the go a lot. I mean, when their job's normal. When they're not running and hiding out for their lives."

"I guess."

"Speaking of which, there's somebody new over there, you know--at Dale's." Raylene's eyebrows went up.

"I know. She's somebody else who's hiding out from"--she shrugged--"the same guy, the one everybody's running from, Mr. Thinks-He's-God. She's nice. A little bit of a strange bird. I guess I just haven't got her figured out yet. But then if I were running for my life, I might feel pretty scrambled up, too. I sure enough know what it's like to feel that way--scrambled." She stared at the piles of baby clothes in front of her and started to put them back into the drawers.

"Whatcha gonna do, punkin?"

"Think I'll go over there, to Dale's. See if I can help her get settled in a little."

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: Redwall@

Near as we can tell, you've got bars of beryllium in the boxes--all four the same. We took a shaving off one for analysis and they're being repacked as we speak. No visitors to interrupt us... so far. Scully said something about an envelope the pilot put in a desk drawer. We'll check that out next.

Mulder closed his eyes momentarily, then pushed back abruptly from the desk and went to the window. He stood there, jaw set, fingers stretching and then curling tightly into fists.

 

 

Tracy glanced up at the tickle of Mulder's mental static. It was the kind of frustration Alex had gone through when he'd realized that sending her to the bearing factory could have cost her her life--would have, if a blood vessel in Buzz's brain hadn't turned things in a different direction. In exchange for Scully's exposure, Mulder had hoped they would at least come up with some new bit of information to help them, but apparently there was nothing new, and had it been the right thing to do to expose her to danger and possible capture?

Turning, she started to get up off the couch but stopped.  Much as she wanted to help, this was something he needed to sort through on his own.  Besides, there was something... strange, a feeling of being separate from what was laid out around her.  It was tied to the feeling that had been slowly building inside her since she woke up, that something was about to happen, something she couldn't imagine until it would begin to unfold.

Slowly the image filtered into her head again, the one she'd seen while Alex had slept in the dream the night before: a flat plain that spread for miles, and on one side, mountains rising abruptly out of nowhere, barren and with a reddish cast. The fields were vegetable fields and she was there with field workers and other people. It was a camp where all of them were living. She had her own tent in the shadow of a mountain, with four huge palm trees spread in front of it in a line.

The scene came closer.  Now she was inside the tent, smoothing the wrinkles from a set of crisp cotton sheets decorated with sprigs of pale blue flowers. Someone had found them in an abandoned house and brought them to her when word had arrived that Alex was coming.  She'd washed the sheets and stretched them carefully over a rope line to dry. In the wind, they'd made snapping sounds like little flags.

Looking down, she saw her belly grown large with the mass of the baby, her feet and legs hidden below it.  But there was something about the image--something wrong, or out of balance.  Was it real--the future, as Alex had suggested? Or was it simply a random scene, like a picture from a magazine or the idle scenarios your head made up when nothing else was there to occupy it? Maybe it was just her yearning for Alex that had brought it on. The pull had grown stronger, as if he'd been gone forever. As if her bones were made of iron and he were a magnet. He'd be coming in only hours, and yet...

Something strange.

Shaking her head, Tracy brought herself back to the room.  Mulder was still standing at the window, his back to her.  A slight sickness edged her stomach, residue of the dream-scene's oddness.  She should do something--soon--make some sort of contribution before the opportunity was gone.

A knock came on the back door.  Tracy looked up to see Sandy's face showing through the little panes of glass.  Before Mulder could turn, she was up and on her way to the door.

 

 

Krycek laughed out loud.

There was nothing funny about it; it was the absurdity of it, the irony. Ivanova was working for the old man, prostituting herself for the sake of her research.

As if he hadn't been doing exactly the same thing, playing the old man's tool, his weapon.  It was what made the two of them clash so badly: they were a lot alike. Too much alike.

He shook his head and smiled grimly.

So Mulder was the fly in her ointment. That put him... where the old man had been in such a hurry to cover everything up: Owensburg, Kentucky.

Something in his gut went cold and he let out a deep grunt of anger. Feeling for the bean bag beside him, he threw it hard against the opposite wall, barely missing the window. It hit with a hard thunk and dropped beside the recliner. He pulled up, slipped on his shoes and went quickly to the door and out, locking it, starting up the stairs, climbing steadily this time, no pauses to bring one foot up to meet the other. By the time he reached the third floor landing he was panting.

He'd killed a good ol' boy and a curly-headed little kid to save the pathetic old fucker's ass. Not to protect the Project or help secure the future, but to save what the old man figured would be his private little salvation. How typical. How completely fucking in-character. Shrug it off as nothing more than strategy, collateral damage; let somebody else deal with nightmare images of the boy. What the hell; let Alex do it. He's just a peasant, an ox in your stable.

Fuck.

A door creaked.  Krycek looked up and found himself paused beside the stairs.

Move.

Turning with the curve of the railing, he started up the stairway leading to the roof, more slowly now, one foot coming up to meet the other, hand on the railing, a ghost of an absence where a familiar arm wasn't around him, a finger should be hooked through his belt loop on the far side. Frying pan into the fire and why hadn't she said something? She was in the same town as the kid's mother now, within radar range of the woman for sure, probably soaking up all her grief. He'd never meant for her to go through anything like that.

He paused at the top of the stairs to catch his breath, then strode out into the afternoon light. At the wall, he looked down over the edge to the street below, then slammed the side of his fist against the ledge. As if it would change anything now, take back what had been done.

He flexed his hand against the pain and looked up; he was a sitting duck out here. Turning, he went toward the overhanging tree, dipped his head below the branches and eased himself into one of the old metal chairs. Just for a minute, a chance to settle and gather his strength. He leaned back and stared into the canopy of leaves overhead.  In his mind he approached the car again in the dusky grove, heard the twang of the country station on the radio, saw the sweat on Cyrus Miller's reddened face.

He chuffed out a breath and squeezed his good hand tight.  Two fucking nobodies taken out for nothing.

Krycek let his head drop against the rusty back of the chair. Sparkles of sunlight filtered down between the leaves that spread above him. He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily, worked to even his breathing, looked up and made himself focus on the specks of light, the movement of the leaves. Couldn't move backward; there was nothing to be done about it now. No good intentions would bring the kid back or patch up his face. 

Or save Tracy the pain of dealing with the aftermath.

Damn the pathetic old fucker.

The sound of footsteps drifted up the stairway, coming closer.  Several seconds later two men in suits emerging from the doorway, glanced around and, seeing nothing, turned and headed back down. Krycek sat motionless, riding a momentary surge of adrenaline. Nobody came up here.

Five minutes. Five minutes and he'd head down, careful, eyes open, senses tuned.

Five.

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: Redwall@

Boxes have been repacked as new. Your trip may have been worth it after all. The papers in the envelope Scully pointed us to are medical readouts. I could use a brush-up, but it appears we've got a chart of proteins listed as 'purity 1', 'purity 2', etc... which rings a bell, no? Too bad JB's not here to interpret. We're going to have to check with either him or Scully before we can tell exactly what we've got. Back to you as soon as we know more.

P.S. Looked like we were about to have company, so we took the envelope and hauled ass.

 

 

Mulder pushed back from the computer, stood and turned. Suddenly he had more energy than he knew what to do with and there was no one to tell. He glanced at his watch. 3:58. Dale and Scully wouldn't be back from Lexington for another four hours and Sandy and Tracy had gone off on foot, intending to meet Bethy on her way home from the library. He drifted to the sliding glass door, set his hand on the handle--good hand--and finally pushed it open, letting himself into the yard.

Medical readouts. Boxes in the hangar and an envelope of medical readouts in a desk drawer. The boxes a given, shipments for the consortium, and an envelope of private research results for Smoky tucked away in a drawer, the results of Vanek's ongoing work with...

It would have to be proven. Scully would have to look over Vanek's reports, then primary evidence would have to be gathered, permissions obtained, Vanek detained, an airtight case built. A delivery path designed for the eventual presentation: that was where they'd failed before. Even with Blevins gone, there were still Consortium men hidden in the Bureau's woodwork.

They could attempt to offer what they'd found to Smoky's buddies in the consortium--hope they'd do away with him for his little detour from the party line--but they weren't any more trustworthy than Smoky himself. They'd want Vanek, and her work would go on somewhere else, with other unsuspecting subjects, himself and Scully expendable the minute they'd delivered the information and were no longer of any value. Besides, their only trustworthy contact with the group had been incinerated in a car bombing eight months earlier.

Skinner wasn't a sure path, either. He'd made a deal with Krycek, and no matter how much Krycek hated Smoky, their was no counting on his help.  Krycek would do whatever was best for him at the time.

At least the data Langly and Frohike had found was a good start.  They were on the right path now.

Mulder glanced up to find himself in the far corner of the yard. He turned back toward the house. Four hours. Scully would be relieved, having seen her mom, and there would be good news for her on the investigation front. She'd have it before she ever stepped on the plane.

After all this time, finally something substantial and an end in sight.

 

 

Krycek pressed himself into the shadows beside the patio door and held his breath. No sound of the elevator running, no more footsteps. More than one set had echoed below not a minute before but there was nothing now. He eased himself out of the small space and peered cautiously down the stairwell. Empty. He started down. No railing on this side; he reminded himself to be careful. Who were the suits and what had they wanted?

Four steps to go, three, two, one. He glanced toward Tracy's door and hesitated. Something--something in there. He glanced toward the opposite end of the hallway, then went to her door, pulled the key from his pocket and worked it in the lock. Slipping inside, he closed the door behind him. The room was warm and stuffy. Everything was apparently where it had been before: closet door open, bread bowl on the dresser, dust beginning to... He went closer and swallowed. Fingerprint powder. On the edges of the mirror, the bowl, the dresser top. The bathroom doorway, the brush lying on the counter next to the sink. Back into the bedroom: bed posts, window frame. He swallowed.

He had to have figured the old man would be thorough. If he thought he'd find her in an alley in pieces, better to be able to know for sure. Or if he was thinking someone had gotten to her here...

His own prints were here, too--on the window ledge, probably on the bedpost. He'd held the bread bowl, though she'd washed it since then. Wouldn't seem that far off base, him being here in her room. She could have overslept, or there could have been things to tell her. Maybe this was a sign, the old man letting him know he wouldn't let anything slip by. Or maybe he'd found something. Maybe it was his way of saying I've got your number, don't fuck with me.

Krycek swallowed again.  His pulse was racing, sweat beading on his forehead.

Damn good thing she wasn't here.  She was away, two states west.

With Mulder.

And Mulder'd been made.  If Ivanova had gone to Smoky with her problem instead coming to him, the trail would have led him right to Tracy.

Krycek crossed the room, opened the door and let himself out. He took the stairs quickly, heading for the laptop waiting on his bed.

 

 

"We've located the Salt Lake City woman, sir."

Spender stood up abruptly and smiled broadly. "Have you now?"

"We located the name on the credit card used at a downtown hotel. She checked in just after midnight last night. She's paid for the next three days."

"I see. Any further use of the card?"

"No, sir. She must be spending cash."

It made sense. "Do we have any picture ID on file?"

"Nothing."

He let out a slow breath and set the cigarette briefly between his lips. "Well, then I believe we'd better look more deeply into this. I'll have a picture sent to you. Leave at once." Another drag on the Morley. "And if this is indeed our target, I'd like you to accompany her back to Washington immediately. It's imperative that I have a little talk with her."

 

 

To: che74@

From: topaz@

Toss this to the piranha for me:

Send assignment details. I need to know I won't be crossing paths with your employer in the process. Prefer to keep my business to myself.

 

 

"I guess that's what it's like with a little sister," Sandy said as they passed the hardware store. "You go to walk 'em home and..." She moved farther under the awnings lining the sidewalk to leave Tracy room in the shade.

"Her friend Rachel's been out of town for three or four days," Tracy said. "She told me this morning. It makes sense that she'd want to go with her."

"Yeah. Say, you want to stop and get some ice cream? Duncan's makes great stuff and besides, it'd be nice to just sit around in that air conditioning a few minutes. We're almost there. I'll buy."

Tracy nodded. "Sounds nice--air conditioning and ice cream both. But I have some traveling money. Let me pay."

"If you want."

They passed the last two stores. Sandy opened the door and they went inside. Duncan's was small, with little forest-green wrought iron tables, and chairs with green-and white-striped seats. They sat down at a window table and waited.

"It's been warm around here lately," Sandy started, "but not too bad. How's it been where--?" She hesitated. "Forget I asked." She glanced toward the counter, where the only other customer was talking to the cashier, and then leaned in toward Tracy. "I'm starting to get the hang of this secret stuff."

Tracy pulled her lingering attention from the glass beside her and made herself focus on the girl across the table. "I'm still trying to get used to looking at myself this way. But you did a good job. I meant to thank you this morning."

"It's okay." She shifted on her chair. "I know how hard it is when your whole world kinda takes a crazy hairpin turn on you all of a sudden."

Tracy swallowed. Luckily, a waitress approached the table and she was soon involved in deciding between a dozen flavors of ice cream. Their selections made, the two girls watched the waitress return to the counter, the tempo of their conversation disrupted.

"Do you mind my asking," Sandy said finally, "how you ended up running from Mr. High-And-Mighty? I mean, if it's not prying too much." A pause. "You're welcome to say no. It won't bother me."

Tracy stared at the little quilted squares in her napkin. This could go terribly wrong. Or it might somehow turn out to be a blessing.

"You don't have to," Sandy repeated.

"It's just... it's hard to understand. Hard for me to explain to myself, I guess, and I don't think it would make much sense to someone else. But," she took a deep breath. "I was in Washington, and I had no money for a place to stay. A month ago. And a man came along and offered to get me a room."

"My god. You didn't go with him, did you? That's got to be one of the oldest lines."

"He was... There was something about him. I could tell he meant what he said; it was just a feeling I got. And I was grateful. He paid for the room and went away. I had a week--he'd bought me a whole week of being able to sleep at night and not lay there shaking, afraid of who might find me. And water: a shower and a bathroom. When you don't have them they can be the most amazing luxuries. I could get up for the bathroom safe in the middle of the night, or I could take three showers a day if I wanted. And then just as the week was ending, another man came up to me in a park one day and asked if I was interested in some work for a few weeks, taking care of somebody who'd just gotten out of the hospital. And I had no place to go, so I said yes. He gave me some money in advance, and a room for the exact night when I had to be out of the other place, and he said his friend would come home from the hospital the next day."

A dish of ice cream with strawberries cascading down the sides was set in front of her. One of chocolate ice cream with fudge sauce was set before Sandy. A little fan-shaped cookie was set into the top of Sandy's creation. Tracy took her spoon and dipped carefully into the whipped cream that topped her sundae.

"I figured I had it hard sometimes," Sandy said, scooping into her ice cream, "trying to raise Roddy and keep a household together. And having to listen to my mom's report card on all of it. But I never had to go without a place to stay. What were you eating?"

"What I could find." Tracy shrugged. "I found things."

"So what happened?"

"It turned out to be Mr. High-And-Mighty--the one who asked me to do the work." She looked up at Sandy, the spoon paused in her mouth. "And my patient was... the man who'd bought me the room. He'd been shot in the side." Tracy set her spoon down carefully on the little glass plate.

"You mean, somebody who worked for him?"

No. This was beginning to feel wrong.

Tracy studied the ice cubes in her water and the beads that sweated themselves onto the outside of the glass. The pieces were beginning to come together in Sandy's mind. She suspected now that it could be him, the man who'd murdered her family. Tracy's hands slipped under the table and twisted tightly together.

A strand of fudge loosened from the mass of topping on Sandy's ice cream. Sandy sat unmoving, watching it slip into a milk chocolate pool and disappear.

"I'm sorry," Tracy said. "I didn't mean to make you... I shouldn't have started." Sweat beaded on her forehead in spite of the steady blast from the air conditioner. "I just--"

"Just what?" Sandy said. She poked a little hole into the side of her mound of ice cream. "What's he got to do with this, anyway?"

"He's the reason I got away. The old man was going to kill me when Alex didn't need me anymore. After I'd been helping him a few days I started to find out what Alex was involved in,  when the old man started coming around. It scared me. But I think it was already starting to bother Alex--doing the old man's work. And when there was something I was struggling with, he went out of his way to help me, even though he was in a lot of pain... for a long time. I guess what I wanted to say is that I think there are things about him that have changed." She smoothed a finger over the little pillowed bumps in her napkin. "I know it won't bring your husband or your little boy back, but I just thought it might be some comfort to know that."

Sandy set her spoon down. Her mouth wavered. "Maybe it's just you. Maybe he was only that way for you." She pushed back her chair. "Cy and Roddy were my whole life. I gotta go. I just can't... This is too much." Quickly she stood up.  Seconds later she was out the door, running, taking long, sure strides on muscled legs.

Tracy watched her reach the end of the block and disappear around the corner. All around her Sandy's pain pulsed, strong and sharp, the question inside her head echoing like a scream: what did Tracy have that Cy and Roddy hadn't, that Alex the Killer should take pity on her and spare her while he blasted her husband and little boy right out of this life?

 

 

Spender's son had responded.

Maria looked out into the backyard. Relief flooded her and she leaned against window frame, letting her body relax. If this went smoothly, the clematis would reach the second large branch by next spring. The impatiens would fill in the last empty spaces and, with careful covering, would fill the shaded southwest corner with mounds of brilliant, warm colors. The garage would need work, a new layer of boards and paint, but those were petty concerns now. What would she tell him? How much for his services? Would he turn on her in the end, if it were convenient or Spender were to find him out? The option was still open, to avoid all this and leave. Possibly years of research time lost.

She returned to the table and typed.

To: che74@

From: mv623@

Forward, please:

Your target is located in a small town, Owensburg, Kentucky, east of Lexington. He's living with a supposed relative at 412 Maple Street and has been working undercover as a janitor at the Beeson-Lymon plant in the same town for the past several weeks, from what I've been able to ascertain. There is a certain level of security at the plant's main building, though not anything to speak of in the older building where he generally works, though I'd suggest something away from the plant, and away from Owensburg for that matter. Our schedules would normally have us crossing paths tomorrow. How soon would you be able to undertake this project? Please respond ASAP.

P.S. An identifying photo is attached.

 

 

Scully knocked on the door's peeling paint below the number 17. Footsteps approached from the inside and the door handle turned. She pushed it open slightly and was met by Langley's yellow mane.

"Sorry about the digs," he said, opening the door wider and letting her pass. "We just needed a place to hook up and this was the closest thing."

The door was closed behind her. Frohike looked up from a laptop on the motel room's desk.

"We're submitting an expense report," he said, frowning. "We expect Mulder to reimburse us." A moment later he broke into a grin and offered a gloved hand, which Scully shook.

She looked behind her at the smudged curtains. "Well, I'm sure it's not one of the pricier rooms in town."

"Here's a copy of the papers we lifted from the desk in the hangar," Langley said, handing her five stapled-together sheets.

She flipped through them. The first three sheets were labeled A,B and C--obviously records for different patients... or subjects, in this case. Victims, if Mulder's hunch was correct.

"If we had a scanner with us we probably could have gotten some feedback on these charts from Byers," Frohike said, looking up from his screen. "What do you make of them?"

Scully looked behind her and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. She flipped to the next page.

"See," Langley said, pointing. "Purity-1, purity-2. Is that what we think it is?"

Scully frowned and scanned the chart. Her mouth became small. "Yes, it..." She cleared her throat. "This chart shows antibody titers of the three subjects. This, right here"--she pointed--"shows that the antibody against this specific protein, purity-2, is neutralizing, which indicates--"

"...that the proteins are part of a pathogen, right?"

She glanced up at Langley and nodded. "It also shows cytotoxic cell activity gradually increasing." She leaned forward. "Which indicates that the virus is being killed." A pause. "Rather quickly, too." She looked up. "At least, from the story this particular chart tells. The question is what side-effects might be produced in the subject." She flipped back to the first three pages. "These charts are anything but complete. They're very short-term... but there's very little indication of significant negative effects."

Frohike leaned back in his chair and peered at the papers. "Crazy."

 

 

Mulder turned from the computer at the sound of the door opening. Tracy came through it and shut it quietly behind her. Her cheeks were pink.

"I was hoping you'd come along," he said, standing and then nearly colliding with her on her way to the couch. He turned to watch her, curious. "Hot out there, huh?" A pause. "Something wrong?"

She continued to the couch, curled into the far end and lay her head against a cushion, facing away.

"Hey..."

She made no move to acknowledge him.

"I know it's rough, not having space of your own. Look, Bethy would probably be happy to have you bunk in there with her until--"

Her back heaved once, a gulp of air sucked in. He paused, watching her, then let his breath out slowly and took a few steps toward the couch. "You need a hand or you want me to give you some space?"

Her head came up slightly. "Have you ever done something because you were hoping it would be a help to somebody, but then it backfired and made things a whole lot worse?"

He shrugged. "I looked for my sister Samantha. I pushed so hard Scully almost died because of it." His jaw set. His voice was quieter now. "So yeah, I guess I know the territory." He sat down on the far end of the couch. "Why? What happened?"

"I..." She paused and shook her head and finally let it down against the cushion again. "Sandy asked me how I came to be running from the old man. And I... I told her a little bit. Just a little. Not everything. Not about you and Alex. But it was enough for her to figure out that the man I was taking care of was the one who shot her boy and husband." She sucked in a jerky breath.

Mulder leaned forward and breathed into cupped hands.

"I don't think--now I don't---that there was a way to say anything without making her hurt more. I didn't want to do that; she aches so much already. I thought I could say something that might help a little, but now she's--"

Silence, and the chainy slur of the cuckoo clock in the kitchen.

"Like what? Say what?"

"We were downtown... having ice cream... and she just got up... all she could think about was why Alex spared me but killed her family.  And she ran." She closed her eyes. "Now I'm just this... this awful person who found a killer's blind spot when somebody else deserved it more."

Mulder's lower lip pushed forward. Why had Krycek treated her differently?

"Alex's life has been eating away at him for a long time now--well over a year--everything going downhill, just getting worse and worse.  It's made him think, question. And then there was Sandy's boy.  That shook him really badly." She sighed.  "Not that it would help Sandy any to know it.  She wouldn't understand."  A pause.  "But how could she?"

Mulder glanced up at the ceiling, studied the little bumps in the texture and finally looked down. "There's not always something you can say, or do, to make things better.  Sometimes you just have to leave it alone."  He glanced over at her. "I know it's not what you wanted to hear, but it's the way things are." A  pause.  "When you hurt, sometimes you strike out at whoever's closest. I don't think she meant to lash out at you. Anyway, Sandy's got a good head on her shoulders. Give her some time to settle down."

Two hummingbirds lighted on the rim of the feeder outside the window and dipped their slender beaks into the sweet liquid inside. Slowly Tracy sat up and focused on them, arms between her knees like a child. She sighed.

"I've got news," he said. "Good and bad. Scully's coming back with proof in hand of what Dr. Vanek's doing at the plant. I was all ready to map out my strategy when I got a mail from... from him, Krycek. Somehow she's identified me; evidently she and Krycek knew each other somewhere along the line and she contacted him today, asked him if he'd get rid of me for her." He shrugged. "Shows she doesn't have much confidence in Smoky, I guess. He said he was going to hold her off for a few days, give us time to get out of here." He bit his lip. "But I've got to tie this up; I can't leave here without proof or we go somewhere else and start over again, nothing but goose eggs, everything we've done here for nothing."

"She doesn't know me. Maybe you could go somewhere not far away and I could stay here and do whatever it is you need."

"If anything happened to you, Krycek would hunt me down and--" He paused. "I don't know. We'll see what Scully says. She's the rational one. I'm just the hot-headed--"

"...renegade agent." She smiled a weary smile. A moment later she stood and stretched. "I really, really need a change of focus," she said. "My mom used to say you have to climb higher than the clouds. When you get there you find out the sun's been shining all along."  She sighed. "Sometimes I wonder now." A glance at the clock and back at Mulder. "Are you hungry? I could fix something."

He raised an eyebrow. "If you're offering. Cans are my specialty. That and year-old orange juice. You can ask Scully."

"I'll see what Dale's got. There must be something we can make."

She went into the kitchen. Mulder drifted back to the computer and found himself rereading the message on the screen.

To: DaddyW@

From: topaz@

You've been made. She got your number somehow and wants me to off you so her work can go on. I can hold her off for a couple of days but you'd better be ready to fly. More when I have it.

 

 

To: topaz@

From: che74@

A word of caution, comrade. I'd just finished with your tinkering and had gone back across the street when I chanced to turn around and noticed two men approach your car. Handy to have binoculars (I never leave home without 'em.) They searched the inside and left fingerprint powder everywhere. I fear the old ghost is on the warpath and suddenly I recollected that we never turned the odometer back after your last excursion. So do you want me to do it now or not? Please advise.

P.S. I left a nice hole in one of their tires to slow them down. Made it look like a good job of local vandalism. Ah, craftsmanship!

No word yet from the piranha.

Krycek's breath came in short puffs, the way it had when the pain had overwhelmed him. His hand squeezed hard against the bean bag. Finally he pulled up to a sitting position.

Like a German shepherd in a junkyard, the old man was all teeth and business this time. All he'd have to do was check Tracy's prints from the room against the ones in the car. They could have gone somewhere; it could be legit, a chance to give him a change of scenery, or exercise. But not for that many miles. That would tip him off for sure if they bothered to notice. If the old man kept track of his mileage, and what was the likelihood he didn't? He had pictures of Tracy from before he'd even recruited her, like a damn pedophile, so why wouldn't he check the mileage?

It was time to get out.

And back to the critical question, then: how far would this still-healing body take him?  It would be stupid to think he could run the way he had before, after the car bomb.  It would be weeks until he was back in the game to any viable extent, and if he pushed it too much and relapsed, that time could string out for months.

He could go farther with her.  She was in danger anyway; it would be easy enough to drop by Owensburg, pick her up and take off.  She knew how to take care of him; she was good, solid help he could count on... and then there was the value of what she could pull out of thin air--warnings or useful information.  In the dream she'd said she'd rather be with him than without him no matter the danger.

But the threat could go on for years.  It would wear her down, the tension and the running and the close calls, to say nothing of what would happen if the old man's goons caught up with them, if they decided to tear one of them slowly apart in front of the other.

Krycek stood, crossed the room to the small desk, paused a minute, hand on the chair back, then turned and went to the narrow window. Arm up on the sill, head against his arm, eyes closed. The late afternoon heat seared his calf where light came through the leaves.

Logically he shouldn't be doing this.  But staying was hardly an option. If there was anything to this Pasadena operation, failing to investigate it would be like noticing a burning fuse and hoping it would die before it reached the charge.

Maybe later--weeks or months, depending--they could find a meeting place, cross paths and have a few minutes, or a few hours. But how would it go when she wanted to stay with him? And what would he do when he wanted her to?

 

 

Sandy lay on her back in the water watching the canopy of leaves pass by overhead, her body bobbing gently as it slipped slowly, slowly toward the rock dam. All around her was a sealed silence, just the muffled sloshing of water close against her cheeks and temples. Her face felt hot in spite of the water. She'd run all the way here and jumped in, clothes and all.

The man who'd killed Cy and Roddy.

Maybe not, but she hadn't denied it; she'd apologized and that pretty much showed it to be fact. A cold-blooded killer who'd shoot someone and make it look like the poor guy had done it himself. Gram and Gramps Miller had been so thrown off they didn't even call her anymore, as if somehow they'd raised Cy to kill his own little boy. Not to mention that the whole town thought so, people turning aside in WalMart or Daily's or the post office saying ooh, there's Sandy; didn't she know about Cy? Couldn't she tell? Bet Mr. Alex the Killer never thought about things like that. Like it would make any difference to him if he did.

He'd cared about helping her, though. But then she was a girl. Maybe he'd thought he could get somewhere. Maybe he had.

No, that was hardly fair. Tracy seemed... shy, certainly not flashy. Not the type to come on to a guy. Probably not the kind to put up with him coming on to her, either.

But she'd had to be close to him, help him get out of bed or clean his dirty clothes or feed him or whatever it took. She'd of had to touch him, get close enough to feel his breath or smell him, some late-forties guy with dark curly hair graying at the temples and a pouchy gut. Not like Cy's, but there all the same, something that hung over the waistband of his pants--a sleazy slacks waistband with the tab that went way over to one side.

How could she stand to do that? How could anyone?

Okay, she'd been on the street, scrounging for food; she hadn't said it in so many words but the meaning was there. It wasn't like she'd known who he was; it was just a job and a place to stay and she did say Mr. Thinks-He's-God had planned to kill her when he didn't need her help anymore. Maybe he had somebody watching her and she couldn't really get away once she'd found out what was going on; it was that way in the movies. And he'd helped her once before and left her alone, Alex who didn't make any sense. A whole week's room. Why had he done it?

She thought he'd changed, but how much could a killer change, somebody who made a living taking other people's lives away from them?

Sandy pulled up abruptly and touched bottom, water streaming down her forehead and face. She wiped it away and looked around her.

Now he had a name: Alex. A man who ate and slept and got shot and felt pain--a lot of pain, but he deserved it. Who deserved it more than him? He ought to know what it felt like, what he did to people.

God, it was like she'd defended him. Though it was hardly Tracy's fault that the guy had been decent to her.  At Duncan's she'd almost made it sound like the girl had chosen him, or like she'd gone up and begged to buy her life at Cy and Roddy's expense, like somebody pushing their way to the head of the line and bribing their way onto the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

Not that she was eager to see the girl at this point, but maybe in a few days, when she'd had a chance to process all this, a trip to Dale's might be a good idea. Her mouth had overshot the mark again, and that, at least, deserved to be straightened out.

 

 

Tracy carried the lettuce and mayonnaise to the refrigerator and put them away. On the bottom shelf there was half a small watermelon; it would be a good thing for later. She reached for the jar of pickles beside it, took it to the counter and laid a pickle on the cutting board. Dale must eat them whole because slicing them would be too tricky, even with his little built-in wedges to press things against. Opening a drawer, then a second, she took out a knife and cut the pickle lengthwise into thin slices. Two on her plate, two on Mulder's.

A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. It was the kind of slice Alex had found on the plate his mother had left him outside the garage door. She paused, picturing him sitting at the desk chair after she'd cut her fingers on his drinking glass, mouth small in concentration, cleaning the wound of a skittish girl he barely even knew, getting the tape and making a bandage, forcing her to focus away, on his mountain and the trees and the blue sky. Forcing her to make it through, to see that she could.

Taking a breath, she started to hum. Twice at her mother's he'd asked her to sing, but the last couple of days had whisked her through a solemn, gray landscape hung with painful silence.  It was time to break that silence now.

Tracy took the plates to the table, got glasses and napkins from the cabinet and glanced back at the table. Scully and Dale would be coming later and why shouldn't it look welcoming?

Flowers: the yard was full of them and they'd easily add a cheery note to the table. She glanced at Mulder, busy at his computer calculating other locations, distances, plans for following up the work here if they had to leave, and went into the yard, circling the lawn, picking coreopsis here, a stem of cosmos there, bachelor buttons in ruffled pink and blue and deep burgundy from the corner. Back inside again, she found a jelly glass to put them in and set them in the middle of the table.

"Ready," she said when she'd washed her hands.

Mulder glanced up from the computer and set his glasses aside.

"Well, as ready as it's going to get," she added as he came in. "It's just sandwiches. I used what came to hand and anyway, it seemed silly to make hot food on a day like this."

"No complaints here. Sandwiches are fine."

He came into the kitchen and they sat down. She looked at her plate and hesitated.

"I was starting to let it get to me again," she said. "Everything. And then just I remembered something Alex did for me, what it taught me, and it made me realize how much I've--" She paused. "I don't mean to make this a kind of testimonial; I know it makes you uncomfortable. But he's helped me uncover strength I didn't know I had." She looked up. "It's not just Alex. I think we've all been a help to each other--you and Scully and Sandy and Bethy and Dale..." She picked up half of her sandwich. "I'm not in the habit of saying grace, but I guess I've just been thinking about that, and being thankful for it."

For a while they only ate, both of them hungry. Lunch had been early and though it hadn't been that long since Duncan's, she hadn't stayed to finish her ice cream. Once Sandy had left, she'd had no appetite.

"It's good," Mulder grunted, halfway through a mouthful.

"We can thank Dale," she said. "He's the one who remembered to stock the refrigerator."

Mulder swallowed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Nice to hear somebody singing. I asked Scully to sing once, but I think I just embarrassed her. Anyway, it's nice, especially when it's something you have a talent for."

"Your voice is something you can carry with you wherever you go: no hands, nothing to haul, nothing to plug in or buy. There's something about the power of the human voice...you know, all by itself. I heard a concert once, by a group of a capella singers in this church. Their voices were so incredibly clear and powerful, it felt like the walls would crack with the power of the music. It gave me shivers--the good kind. It was overwhelming; the music just surrounded you and carried you away." She took another bite of her sandwich.

"Sounds like you've had lessons."

She shook her head. "My mom sang a lot. Really a lot. And I just... sang along; it just seemed natural."

"Before the two of you moved?"

"I don't know. I... No, she did sing before. She was in a madrigal group in Pasadena; I do remember that. That's where the concert was; I hadn't thought about it. It was Christmas--almost Christmas." She set her sandwich down on the plate. "We were..." She reached for the tenuous images. "We were all dressed up to go, and... my father was supposed to go with us. I can see him standing there in the doorway; he'd come home a little early... But he seemed worried. He--" She shifted on her chair.

"What?"

"I'm just... I haven't remembered any of this in so long." Her voice drifted off. The scene was becoming clearer in her mind. "Mom had been waiting to go to the concert, and we'd been singing the songs they were going to perform--old, old Christmas carols--all around the house for weeks. And he came home and he said..." She paused. "He took her into the dining room and closed the sliding doors, but there were little louvers in them and I could hear what they were saying. He told her she needed to leave, and that she should take me. Go to Nathan's, he said. Go anywhere, just get away from here before..." She closed her eyes.

"Before what?"

Her fingers pressed against her temples. "There was something. They were going to do something to us, to my mom and me."

"Who was?"

"The... the people he worked with. They'd done things before; my mother had been in the hospital, but... He was scared; he was so scared. I can see his moustache twitching the way it did when he was nervous."

She opened her eyes and looked up. The room swam slightly and she gripped the edge of the table.

Mulder's hand reached toward her. "You okay?"

"I--" The scene around her steadied. "I think so."

Her blood was rushing now. It felt strange and hollow in her veins. Mulder's face was a mixture of curiosity and concern. She reached for her water glass and drank slowly. A sheen of fine moisture covered her forehead.

"I just... I'd remembered the concert; I've always remembered that. But I hadn't realized it was there--Pasadena, before we moved. And I hadn't connected my father to it. It's so strange." She wiped her forehead with her napkin and sat back. It seemed to have passed, whatever the physical effect was.

"He--my father... He said we'd been--" It was coming again. "He was afraid for our safety but my mother insisted that he go with us. She didn't want to go without him, and he told her we had to. 'Your lives depend on it,' he said, and... she was crying, just for a little while. She said... how could she go on without him? and he..." She blinked. "He was so afraid. He knew things he couldn't tell her, things she'd never understand." She could hear herself panting.

"Tracy?"

"I can see it. We went to the concert, my mother and I, and when we got home he wasn't there. There was..." She reached for breath. "There's a man running by the window on the side of the house, and--"

Pressure in her head, as if a great weight were pressing down on it. She grabbed for the table edge, missed and felt Mulder's arm grab her. Somewhere behind her a chair clattered to the floor. Dark momentum moved her, sliding, carrying her as if she were captive on a fast, invisible train. It was happening now, whatever it was she'd sensed this morning and couldn't face.

"Tracy--"

Mulder was steadying her, easing her down onto the cool floor. She could hear her breath louder and louder around her as the pressure increased. His voice was sharp and distant, spiked with alarm.

No body, only thin consciousness and the sounds of her body's struggle: her breathing loud and labored, blood throbbing and the pressure bearing down on the top of her head.

She clutched harder at the arm that held her. "Alex--"

Blackness rose quickly on all sides, engulfing her.

 

 

Krycek sat bolt upright on the bed, eyes wide, and choked out a breath.

It was just a dream.

No.

But what was it? He glanced at the clock. A minute, maybe two. He'd been propped up here, pecking out a message to Ivanova, and... The screen saver hadn't even had time to come on. She'd asked if he'd come when the baby was ready, said she'd come like this, the way she'd come last night, in his head, but...

He swallowed and wiped sudden sweat from his forehead.

A nightmare.

It had to be just the jitters from the way everything was going: the old man, the uncertainty, Ivanova's mails and then the fingerprint powder on top of everything else. He closed his eyes momentarily and opened them again, studying his surroundings, hoping to eke reality from the room's details: the hum of the refrigerator, the half-open bathroom door, the recliner in its shadowed corner, the light beginning to weaken and tint itself yellow where the city spread itself beyond the window. Everything quiet, as if the room were a painting hung on the wall. A bead of sweat slid past his temple. His arm was shaking.

It was no dream.

He stood, no direction in mind. She was... She'd been in some kind of pain; she kept reaching out, scared, pleading with him to hold her and he'd done the best he could, held her in his mind but she'd only slipped away and dissolved.

His legs felt weak.

Move. Clear your head.

Making his way across the room, he slipped out into the hallway. It smelled of people's dinners, the scents leaking out from under doors. It had been like this in Mulder's apartment that night, sitting on the floor in the shadows, watching the up-and-down of Mulder's chest while he slept it off, staring at the weapon dropped on the carpet just out reach. A minute, half a minute, ten seconds more and Mulder would have sent himself to kingdom come, leaving only a vacant body with the side of its head blown off to tell the story. The remnants always told a tale.

But it hadn't played out that way. He'd walked in, they'd thrown a few words at each other, he'd decked Mulder, end of story. Then he'd sat there watching, maybe an hour, maybe two, thinking and not thinking, suspended in a strange abstract while the neighbors, like ants, went about their evening: meals, TV, arguments. The smells had drifted in the window, nothing recognizable, just strong, like the cooking from a culture in another world.

Move.

He started down the stairs, pace measured, hand on the railing. He felt half asleep still--groggy--but he hadn't been dozing, he'd been writing back to... She just been there, nowhere in particular: her in a vacuum.

First floor. He turned, hesitated in front of the stairs going down to the basement, then started down again.

It wasn't the baby ,but it was something. Lying there spooned behind her in the morning light, hand under her belly, he'd felt the kid move and tried not to wonder what kind of kid it was--not so she could pick up on it, anyway.  The future was no place to raise any kid, human or otherwise. Then again, the present hadn't proved so great, either.

Laundry.

He stuck his head in cautiously. Nobody inside, just a dryer running and a yellow laundry basket with kid's shirts and a couple of pairs of jeans in it. He went to the window with its opaque glass. Nothing to see out there anyway, but it hadn't stopped her from looking into the mind of some depressed old lady on the other side and then climbing barefoot out the window to sprinkle flower seeds in her overgrown garden. Hope, that's what she'd been sowing.

It wasn't a dream and what did he do, write to Mulder and say I saw it all; what the hell's going on? Wasn't a dream; his gut knew that. Something had happened to her. Pain in her head, she'd said.

And he'd walked out the door and left a half-started message to Ivanova sitting on the open screen like a billboard.  What the hell was he doing?

Quickly he went to the elevator, pushed the button and got in. It made no sense, your head denying while your gut believed. It could be nothing--nerves--or could be just what it seemed:something he didn't want to start to think about.

The car settled under him; his stomach dropped and settled. A pause, the doors opened and he took the half a dozen steps to his door. Key in the lock, the door open and then closed again behind him. Oh his bed, the laptop screen glowed blue. He sat down, hit 'clear' and started over.

 

 

"Sandy? This is Ben." The instructions on the pay phone went out of focus. "Look, something's happened to Tracy. I'm at... at the hospital.... No, I just got her here a few minutes ago. They don't know what it is yet. We were eating dinner and she... she got a little wobbly on the chair and then she fell off it and collapsed, lost consciousness. Yeah..." He leaned against the wall and rubbed a thumb down the side of the phone box. "Yeah, they called Dr. Wykoff; he's on his way."

He looked up, closed his eyes and waited a moment for the dry heat behind them to melt into moisture.

"Look, Dale and Scully--Annie--" Shit. "They should be back from the airport in about an hour. Could you go over and leave a message at the house so they'll know what's going on? I left in kind of a hurry. And look, I don't want this to be a hassle, but could you get me the laptop from Scully's trailer?" He bit his lip. That was twice he'd blurted out her real name. "Great. I owe you."

A side door opened and Dr. Wykoff appeared in a button-down shirt and jeans, shook his hand in passing and gestured toward the ER. Mulder watched him disappear through a set of swinging doors while the air fluttered in his lungs as if something else--something foreign--were in there with it.

"What?" Five minutes and she'd be on her way. "Okay, thanks."

He hung up and started down the corridor. He'd brought her in, didn't know her blood type, nothing about her medical history, nothing of prior conditions. He'd be able to explain it to Wykoff but what about Krycek? If it was serious he'd end up having to say something. Krycek had sent her here for safety and now...

He stopped at the doors to the ER and stared through the glass. One of Tracy's feet showed on the end of a gurney half-obscured behind a green curtain.

She'd just fallen off the chair and collapsed.

 

 

At the sound of the mail chime, Maria hurried to the computer. It was Aleksei Krycek, though he was still filtering his messages through the enigmatic Ché. She raised her eyebrows and clicked on the message.

To: mv623@

From: che74@

Tied up at the moment. Can arrive by Tuesday afternoon. May need a little planning time once I'm there. Fit your needs?

Maria frowned and sat back. Not optimal, but if necessary she could make two days' worth of excuses: a sick day, an unexpected trip to... that industrial medical conference in Dayton; there'd been a flier on her desk for weeks. Gathering dust, staring back at her and trying to haunt her into a feeling of obligation. It would be perfect now.

A couple of days and she'd be free of Janitor FBI Fox Mulder. He'd seemed an intelligent one... though he certainly wasn't immune to pain; she'd had to keep reminding him to hold still. And that daughter of his: at least, Mrs. Peltier had heard from Addis Baker next door that it was his daughter. Pleasant young girl, though obviously not cautious enough if her body spoke to the subject. She'd come down the street distracted and stopped in front of the blue hydrangea, delicate fingers framing the petals of the flower heads. The side gate had been open while she watered, which was how she'd noticed her there. When she did, the girl turned and saw her and they'd spoken a few minutes about how one produces blue hydrangeas instead of pink, and the joys of working with flowers. By the time she was three houses away again Mrs. Peltier had arrived with her information. Daughter to Dale's nephew, she'd said, shaking her head confidentially about the girl's obvious pregnancy, to which she didn't actually refer in words. She herself had nodded back in reply--so much could be spoken with just a gesture--and had returned to her watering.

The girl would have to do without him now, whoever she was. Not likely his actual daughter, for why would an agent on an undercover assignment come with his daughter tagging along behind? Unless... No, she was too young, and certainly not well-disposed at the moment, to be an agent herself. Whatever her connection to Mulder, she would have to learn to forge new alliances. It was what happened in life, the world sweeping your feet out from under you when you least expected it, sending all your best-laid plans crashing into ruin. It might teach her to rely on herself and not those around her: it was the safest policy in the end. People came and went and in the end you had only yourself to count on.

 

 

Sandy tucked the laptop close to her like a school binder and made her way down the hall. She found Mulder sitting in the waiting room next to a stack of Sports Illustrated, elbows on knees, staring into the carpeting. He looked up when he saw her and then stood.

"Hey, thanks, I really appreciate it." He took the laptop and set it on the magazine table.

"How is she?"

"She's..." He bit his lip. "They don't know anything yet. They've taken blood, started some tests, but Dr. Wykoff says he isn't seeing any obvious cause. They've got her on oxygen; she's having trouble breathing... What?"

"I was with her this afternoon," Sandy said, looking down. "I think we could've parted on better terms and now I feel..."

"Yeah, well if it's any help she was wishing she could have done something to make you feel better."

Sandy sighed. Mulder walked to the window and set his fingertips against the glass.

"I just hope"--he paused and shrugged--"what we always hope, I guess. That it's just some fluke, that it turns out to have an easy answer." His jaw locked into sharp contour as he looked out into the purple-tinged sky.

"You, uh... you left your computer on at Dale's. I saw your little mail flag waving when I went in there, so I wrote down the message. I didn't figure you'd want to miss anything." She held out the paper.

He took it and sat down in a chair. It said:

|Has something happened to her? If so, give me a number I can call and give me a time window; it takes me a |

|while to get myself to a safe line. Don't worry about a trace. The doctor's already given away your location.|

Mulder let out a long breath and smoothed his thumb over the folds in the note paper.

"Did that make sense to you?"

His head nodded. He looked up. A pause. "Yeah." He shrugged. "It's him. Krycek. He's worried about her... What?"

Sandy swallowed and turned away. So now Alex the Killer had a last name. Tracy had come from him, and Ben and Annie had taken her in, knowing. "You coulda told me," she said, turning back to him. Which meant they'd planned with this guy, even done him a favor. "Why, Ben?"

"I didn't think you needed to be slapped in the face with it. Anyway, we knew nothing about her until my--" He looked away abruptly, then up at the ceiling and grimaced. "This wasn't planned--taking her in.  She more or less"--his hands went up--"appeared on our doorstep. He sent her to me so she'd be safe from the Smoking Man."

There he was, taking care of her again. "I've gotta go, Ben." She started for the door.

"As far as that goes," he went on, "she is in danger. What's happened to her isn't her fault... probably not any more than it was your husband's fault that he got pulled into the Smoking Man's plot to kill Andy Johnston." He paused. "They were both used."

Sandy stopped. Her throat burned and an ache that she couldn't pinpoint echoed inside her.

"Look," Mulder said, coming up behind her. A hand settled carefully on her shoulder. "I know that this--actually, everything that's happened in the last six weeks--seems crazy. It's not what any of us would have planned. If someone had showed us this scenario, which of all of us--Rita or you or Scully or me or... who would have believed all this could happen?"

Sighing, Sandy nodded.  After a moment she looked toward the door to the ER and back. Mulder shrugged.  It wasn't his fault. Or Tracy's, for that matter. Point taken. She paused. "But--"

"What?"

"What's with the message? How could he know something happened to her?"

"Tracy's got this... ability. She can see into people, read their thoughts."

"That really happens?"

"Sometimes. I've seen a number of levels of psychic ability, yeah."

"But how does that--?"

"From what I understand, sometimes she's been able to... to go into someone's mind long distance, kind of... meet them on a psychic level. She must have gotten through to him somehow." He stopped, mouth half open; finally his lips came together.

There was more he wasn't saying, but it wasn't the time to press him.

"Annie should be here soon," she said, glancing at the clock. "What time was her flight supposed to get in?"

"Seven fifteen."

"It's not that long. Maybe she'll know something that'll help. Is she that kind of doctor?"

"She's had all the training." A pause. "She's pretty damn good."

"Well, I'll have my fingers crossed."

She watched Mulder return to the window. He stared out into the darkening sky.

 

 

Scully was on her way. It wasn't likely to make much difference if she showed herself now; Sandy's mother already knew about her and unless the sheriff happened to wander down the hallway, nobody else in town would recognize her. She could be passed off as a relative of Tracy's, or her doctor from somewhere else, or...

Sandy appeared in the doorway. Mulder stood.

"She's here," she said, low, glancing at an older couple seated on the other side of the room. "She's gonna talk to Dr. Wykoff and come back."

He nodded. A moment later Scully passed by in the hallway outside, hesitated by the waiting room window, glanced in his direction and went on. Hopefully she'd had a good visit with her mother. Would have been nice if she'd been able to hold onto that for a while instead of having to refocus on a medical emergency.

Would have been nice if Tracy'd been at home now, floating around the yard picking flowers and humming melodies that had made him want to go closer and hear more.

Mulder let out a slow breath and ventured into the hallway and down to the soda machine. Two quarters down the slot; he pushed a button. Nothing came out. After a pause he turned and walked back the way he'd come. Krycek had wanted a number to call. It wasn't the issue of a number but what to say. So far they didn't know anything, but he'd given Krycek a window--between 8:45 and 9:00. Half an hour to have something to tell him.

And he'd sent her here so she'd be safe.

Heels tapped the floor, approaching. He looked up to see Scully, a white lab coat over her jeans and boots. She turned and went in through the waiting room door. He quickened his pace.

"Sandy, Mr. Wallace..." She offered her hand to them both. He shook it and let it linger only a second. "I'm Dr. Barrett. I've been Tracy's doctor in Lexington. Dr. Wykoff has begun some tests, but so far we've been unable to determine what the problem is. You say she just... collapsed at dinner?"

"Yeah, we just... we were just eating and talking, and she was... all of a sudden she started to remember something from when she was small, when she'd lived in California..."

Scully's eyebrows rose slightly.

"...and she...she wobbled just a little, grabbed the edge of the table and steadied herself... And then it seemed to have passed; she seemed okay. But then a few seconds later she tipped off the chair."

"Did she hit her head?"

"No, I caught her, but..." He bit his lip.

"If you think of anything else, any unusual symptoms she might have displayed earlier in the day..."

He nodded. "I'll let you know."

"You can't tell, " Sandy asked, "anything at all yet?"

Scully pursed her lips. "Frankly we're at a loss right now. But her condition seems to be degrading. Unless we can determine something soon--what's causing this--there's the strong possibility that we'll have to take the baby. Right now it's compromising her chances."

Chances of... He saw Sandy's spike of recognition.

"I want to assure you," Scully went on. That they'd do everything they could, exhaust every avenue but so far they had nothing to go on and in spite of Scully's act they had no medical history for Tracy at all, no clue to anything in her background. She would do everything she could; Wykoff was good and Scully would knock herself out. But how did this translate into anything he could tell Krycek?

Scully was shaking Sandy's hand now, taking his, shaking it, giving it a surreptitious little squeeze, careful touch, the kind she'd used when she'd pushed back a motel room shower curtain to find him sitting naked and dazed, shaking in the steamy tub, no idea of what he'd done for the previous two days or where he was.

If anyone could help her, Scully could.

Now she was out the door, walking past the window, hair pulled back into a clip, professional and determined.

Sandy was watching him. The couple on the other side of the room directed their eyes back to their magazines.

 

 

It had been out the laundry room window in the fading light, leaving it ajar for later, making his way across the old lady's yard, then over two blocks and to the nearest pay phone. If the old man had him under surveillance, he'd have somebody monitoring the front door. No sense giving it all away by letting them see you heading out to find a line they hadn't tapped.

Mulder had gotten right back to him with a number. Wasn't like he had much of a choice now, or any cards to play since Ivanova had given away his location. Still, it would be nice if he'd done it because he wanted to. But it didn't matter what Mulder thought. What mattered was Tracy; that's where the focus needed to be.

The air was still hot and thick. He wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve and went up to the phone in front of a little grocery. Dropping a quarter in the slot, he dialed the number he'd memorized and waited to hear the price. Not cheap. Wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder and dug out a handful of quarters. Most of them made it in; two rolled away. The phone slipped off his shoulder and dropped with a clang. He reached in for more coins; another one rolled down the sidewalk and into the gutter but the rest went in. He grabbed the receiver and listened to it ring. Once, twice...

The knot in his stomach tightened.

Pickup. It was Mulder.

They knew nothing but it was bad, worse than Mulder wanted to let on. They hadn't found anything obvious, and if it continued that way they were going to take the kid; it was compromising her chances. Chances of staying alive, though Mulder was careful not to say the words. Instead he said that Scully was there, that she'd do her best. And she would; she was feisty and determined like a bulldog with its teeth sunk into your leg. She wasn't going to let you kick her away if there was any way she could fight back. As he knew all too well.

It was her head, he said, trying to sound like he wasn't crazy, like he had it all together and it was just the connection making him sound this way. Just get the info across, stupid; spit it out. Her head. She'd come to him  the way she did--no, he didn't know how the hell she did it, but she'd come... Tell them she said pressure in her head, pressing down... Tell them she told you herself then, whatever will make them listen.

Beyond the perimeter of the phone booth, people passed by behind him, or went in and out of the market, picking up milk or bread or beer or something to munch over a late-night movie, as if any of that had any meaning. They were stick figures passing, props, everything around him too brightly colored. His life seemed only half real, transparent like a shadow in shades of gray. Compromise her chances.

Mulder would mail him when anything happened, when they'd figured something out. He'd give him another time window in a few hours. He should call the same phone; he had the number already. Whenever there was news. There was a bad taste in his mouth, flat and bitter; he hadn't eaten anything in... who knew how long, it wasn't important; he'd lost track. Appetite and no appetite, the need to do something that would make a difference for her: that's what he had a hunger for. But not for food.

She'd collapsed in the middle of eating dinner.

It was bad for surgery--a full stomach. They'd almost lost him because of it. Scully'd shot him on more or less a full stomach, and the old man had actually panicked when they almost lost him. It had actually shaken him. It was fucking crazy.

Hey, this stuff you said she was remembering--about leaving, moving? She didn't have any of that before; Pasadena was pretty much a blank. She'd been on the verge of remembering again, that was the key, so much flooding back in on her when... Buzz had given out just when he was about to... It couldn't be one of those. Aneurysms were fast. She would have been dead in a couple of minutes.

Don't even think it.

"Hey, you done with that?"

Krycek turned. A young punk in leather and a few rings hanging from his eyebrow. Don’t you know how easy those things are to pull? Kid was looking for a fight. Sorry, not tonight.

He hung the phone on the silver hook.  "Yeah, sure."

Have your damned phone.

His feet went one in front of the other, automatic, sidewalk and shops a blur. Mulder would mail when they knew anything. One way or the other. She'd collapsed Thursday, too, out in the rain; she'd scared the hell out of him then, but it was nothing like this. Hundreds of miles between them, no way to catch her, hold her, help her. Mulder'd caught her; it was a good choice. He'd call if and when.

She'd been out for who knows how long when she got pregnant; at least it might have been then. Woke up two days later. Couple of days out, but she didn't remember feeling sick like they'd said. Two faces peering down at you, telling you a story you can hardly believe. We brought you home from school on Friday. Maybe like Mulder as a kid: your sister's gone--just gone--and we don't know a damn thing. Too scared to look, scared of the old man and what he'll do. Want to lose your son, too? Just go looking for Samantha and see what happens.

Son of a bitch.

A bar loomed ahead, pink and green flashing neon, shadows, a chance to lose himself in the dark. Or he could go home and crawl the walls, spend another couple of pointless hours lying flat on his back waiting to call again, all the time wondering, not able to do a damn thing. Here he could take the edge off. Just one. Just a little something.

Inside, music pounded, the beat throbbing like a heart doing hard labor. One drink. He sat on a stool, waited for the bartender. She had brown hair, thank goodness, not blonde. Just a single shot.

An elbow in his side, followed quickly by a sorry from a painted chick with lips that went for miles, and legs to match. It was too hot, the air conditioning down, TV on the wall muted--Orioles on the road somewhere; it was still afternoon on the screen. The glass arrived, set down in front of him, golden liquid, ice cubes melting rapidly in the heat, sending crazy trails through the alcohol. She'd like that--not the drink but the way it melted and swirled. Her eyes would go wide and she'd say something to make it seem like a new discovery. Old soul, new eyes.

His hand grasped the glass, lifting it. Just slip into the pool and let everything go. The smooth rim of the glass settled against his bottom lip; he started to tip it.

But what if she tried to come again, tried to get through, and he was sloshed, useless to her?  Scared or needing to be held--she needed that touch--and him the useless son of a bitch?

He set the glass down hard, shoved his good hand into his pocket, pushed money across the counter. Sweat broke and ran down the sides of his face. Out into the close, humid air, down the street, one block and another and another and a fourth. Time to go back while he still had the strength, before he ended up like a fucking old man stranded in an intersection without his cane.

He turned a corner, went down the side of another block, back three houses and across the street to the old lady's place. Only one light in the window, bluish, coming from the TV. In through the gate, a cat's meow that made him jump, a sidestep to the garden, around the side, not enough light to tell if her seeds were coming up, just shadows, gray on darker gray. The window sat open, nobody inside. Up and in, across the tiles; he hit the button and waited for the elevator, blood buzzing, body ragged, sweaty, taut as if something were coming, like a punch in the gut. Up two floors, out of the elevator, key in the lock. Inside, he hit the lock button, sagged against the wall. No cigarette glowing orange in the shadows. He couldn't take the old man now anyway.

He flipped the light switch in the bathroom, reached into the shower and turned the water on. Quickly he peeled off his clothes: shirt over the prosthesis, over his head and off his good arm; straps and prosthesis off; pants down, everything left in a heap. He stepped into the tepid spray. Shivers and water streamed down, dripping off, carrying away sweat and salt but Mulder's words clung stubbornly: compromise her chances. Probably it was better to be rid of the kid; there was no telling what it was, what kind of perversion had been implanted in her. She'd feel the loss either way--because it was partly hers, or knowing for certain she'd been violated that way. She'd need someone to hold her but five hundred miles stood between them.

I'll be there for you no matter what it looks like, she'd said in the dream last night. Then she'd pulled up, shaken and puzzled at her own words. Couldn't have meant...

No.

He couldn't feel her, couldn't touch her. It was like the silo, all cold cement and echoes. Nothing but walls a dozen feet thick and Tracy somewhere on the other side, beyond possibility. Or was it her in the silo, sealed away?

He set his good arm against the wall and watched the water stream down: off his nose, his hair, below his arm pits. His throat felt like it clamped in a vise and his eyes burned. In the small, enclosed space the water was loud--dripping, spraying, trickling in the drain. It made enough noise to cover.

Nobody would hear him now.

 

 

The elevator door slid open and Teena and her companion stepped out.

"I want to thank you again for taking me along, Carol. I wanted to go the minute I saw it in the brochure, but it's not nearly as pleasant going alone."

"Maybe we can plan something again tomorrow if you have time to spare." The woman gave Teena a knowing nod. "Thomas has business at the resorts again tomorrow and I'll just end up sitting here beside the pool, working on my tan." She was quite brown already, her skin tone set off by short silver hair.

"Perhaps. When I get myself organized I'll give you a call."

Carol stopped in front of her door and took the room key from her purse. "Good night."

"Good night. Sleep well."

Teena continued down the hall. If not for having met Carol and her husband downstairs in the restaurant, she might have missed Red Butte Park entirely. But the picture in the visitor's brochure had, as it turned out, caught Carol's eye as well, and the three had made a very worthwhile trip together.

258, 259, 260. Teena stopped and slipped the room key from the pocket of her sweater. Tracy would have appreciated the park's trees and flowers and the serenity of the pond. Undoubtedly she'd busy herself doing something to help Fox and Dana, but once it was quiet, or if she woke in the middle of the night... It had been hard enough being a witness to their parting.

She put the key in the lock and turned the handle. A short note to Fox would be a good idea, if only to reassure him that she was safe.

Going inside, she flippedthe light switch and locked the door behind her. Turning, her heart leaped and adrenaline flooded her.  A tall man sat at the desk chair beyond the dresser and TV. She tensed inside and forced a smile.

"I'm so sorry. This is my room. I've been here since early this morning. If they've given you this room, too, I'm afraid it's in error. I know it happens from time to--"

"No mistake." The man shifted, his long legs stretched out in front of him. She stared at him, transfixed as a small animal caught in a spotlight. Grim realization spread through her. Coughing against a breath that had caught inside her, she reached for the door handle.

"Move away from it. Now."

His voice was sharp. Her heart pounded suddenly, a trip-hammer beating out a rhythm of fear.

"Go sit on the bed."

She did. She looked at her hands and finally at her captor.

"We're going on a little trip. Pack your things. He wants to talk to you."

"Who?" Her best rendition of scorn. "Who wants to talk to me?"

"I think you know. Just get ready."

He slouched slightly in the chair, a blend of looseness and bravado, his legs reaching out a little farther in front of him.

Teena got up slowly from the bed, her legs suddenly shaky. She went to the dresser, took her clothes out mechanically and placed them on the dresser top, hands numb and awkward as she worked. He'd make her tell everything; she'd end up giving them both away. And Tracy on top of it. She pictured Fox suddenly, the expression on his face when he walked into his father's living room four years earlier to find his sister sitting there; and Alex, his back to her sink, trying to spit out his reason for coming, the anguish clear on his face, and then seeing him again in the garage, no more than a shadow beneath the dusty blanket.

"Hurry up."

She closed the drawer, hesitated and opened the one below it. They came out automatically: sweater, pants, slippers. He'd find a way to make her tear her own sons apart; he wouldn't need to do it himself. She put her things in the suitcase he shoved in front of her and zipped the zipper. It made a terrible ripping noise in the silence.

"I"--she cleared her throat--"need a minute in the bathroom." Surely he wouldn't deny her that. She looked at him: thin face, tan tweed suit, dark tie with an olive branch printed across the middle where the tie tack held it.

"Make it quick."

She went into the bathroom, shut the door behind her and hesitated, her thumb hovering over the lock button. If he heard it lock he might push it open, or shoot. But would it be worse than handing your sons over to the consummate work of inhumanity that was Leland? She looked into her cosmetic bag, her eyes lighting on the razor. If she cut her wrists would she have time to bleed to death before he could get help? Would it scar her sons more to think of what she'd done than to live with the consequences of whatever Leland would force out of her? She picked the razor from the bag, held it up: plastic, the blades securely imbedded in it, and thin, not at all suited to the job she'd require. She clutched it tightly a moment and then let it drop back into the bag.

 

 

Scully looked down at the pale figure in the bed and sighed. Six hours. Six hours ago had been another world--the warmth of friends gathered, a welcome smile on her mother's tired face at something New had said or done, Rita's lively recounting of her escape from the hospital room, Will's quiet enjoyment and lively eyes.

And now this. She moved to the bed and smoothed a careful hand across the girl's forehead. Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. She squeezed the bed rail momentarily and turned to see Mulder and Sandy, the one quietly cautious, the other expectant.

"How's she doing?" Sandy said. "Is it okay to come in?"

Scully paused and nodded. Sandy came close to the bed and leaned down over the railing.

"She was sad about losing her hair," she said. She looked thoughtful. "Have you figured out what's wrong with her?"

"We're still waiting for test results, but... not yet. I wish I could say we have."

Sandy sighed. "Is it okay if I sit here with her for a little while?"

"No. That's fine."

She watched as Sandy pulled a chair close to the bed. After a moment she turned to Mulder, who was standing back a few feet, waiting, his mouth small with concentration. She crossed the room to a supply closet, turned on the light switch and gestured to him. He came closer, to where they were sheltered from the view of passersby in the hallway.

"How is she?"

Pressure stretched her throat. "Unfortunately, her condition seems to be degrading. Dr. Wykoff's preparing for surgery now. We're hopeful that eliminating the burden the baby poses may give her system the ability to fight back more effectively." She looked beyond him, into the shadowy recesses of a shelf. "I can't tell you how mixed my feeling are about this, taking this child and what it may potentially be. I indicated to Dr. Wykoff that there was a question of abnormalities. He's agreed to let me examine the fetus."

He nodded.

"Mulder, I'm afraid I may be way too close to this. I can't help thinking..." She pursed her lips.

"What?"

"You know how Cassandra and I and the others were called to the bridge? Mulder, what if... You said she was in the process of remembering information about her childhood that she hadn't been able to access. What if--?"

"If she were being controlled somehow, that whatever she wasn't suppose to remember--"

"Krycek said she was complaining about pain in her head."

"Yeah, pressing down on her, he said." He paused. "That's what you think? That somehow her memory's being suppressed, or that some... some switch has been thrown to keep her from remembering?"

"I know it doesn't make much scientific sense, as we understand science. But I know that I was drawn to that dam against my will, without my conscious knowledge. And if someone can produce that kind of response, then it's possible they could design--"

"...the electronic dog fence. Go too far and get zapped."

She sighed. "There could be a perfectly scientific, physiological explanation for this. It has been only a few hours. But the onset has been so sudden, so... rapid, Mulder, for any of the things you might normally begin to suspect, some kind of... encephalitis or perhaps multiple sclerosis. Frankly, she was barely responsive when you brought her in. We've put her on anti-virals as a precaution, in case it is encephalitis, until we can determine an actual cause, but--" She rested a hand on his arm. "What is it, Mulder?"

"Too many things. Vanek's made me."

Her eyes went wide. "Mulder, how?"

"I don't know. But she contacted Krycek, wanted him to get rid of me in order to keep her research secure. He said he can stall her for a couple of days, but we're going to have to move out of here unless enough credible evidence against her just drops into our laps pretty quickly." He bit his lip. "At first Tracy said..." He shook his head and looked up briefly. "She volunteered to stay here in town to do whatever it was we needed, so we could get away."

She paused, lips pressed tight together. "Do you trust him, Mulder? Krycek?"

"I don't... Scully, I don't know how far I can trust him. When he sent Tracy here he forced himself into a position where he had to protect us in order to protect her. But if something were to happen to her..." A slow breath in, let slowly out. "He was scared on the phone; he was trying to cover it but..."

"Worried about his safety?"

"About her."

She raised an eyebrow. "Certainly he's put himself out on a limb for her."

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

"What, Mulder?"

"I don't think that he's... he's ever had anything to lose before."

She stared hard at a stack of disposable bed pads on a lower shelf. Pressure built in her throat, tightening. The papers. She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled them out.

"These are the papers from the envelope the pilot left in the hangar desk. I think he believed the envelope contained shipping manifests but it seems to me the deliveries are a discreet way for Vanek to get her progress reports to the Smoking Man. The significance of some of the data would be open to interpretation until we're able to provide supporting evidence... but there are clear indications here of experimentation on three non-adults."

"Angie's kids."

"Probably so. When we've got the chance, she'll need to be questioned in detail about the children's medical care. I'm willing to bet the injections they've been receiving are a far cry from insulin."

"Probably out of this world." A pause, his focus returning from the speculative to her. "So how are you doing, Scully? How was your visit before you got sucked into all this?"

She smiled briefly. "It went... very well. My mother was overwhelmed to see me. Actually, I was overwhelmed to see her, too. She has a yellow room with ruffled curtains and a four-year-old to tell her stories. Rita and Will were there. For a few hours it was as if..."

"As if the world were normal?"

She closed her eyes briefly and nodded. Soft lips brushed her forehead; his hand was careful against her arm.

"Hang in there, Dr. Barrett."

She took his hand and squeezed back. "You should go home and get some sleep."

He shook his head. "Going to stay here for a while and see how it goes. Besides, Krycek's going to call again. I gave him another window at 11:30."

She nodded.

"I'm going to have to tell him something, Scully. He sent her here to protect her and now she's just... slipping away."

"We'll do our very best, Mulder."

"Yeah, I know. I know you will."

"Annie?"

They looked toward the bed.

"She just moved a little. She squeezed my hand or a second. It's a good sign, isn't it?"

"We'll have to see if she does it again, Sandy." She went to the bed and set a hand on Sandy's shoulder. Tracy's face twitched slightly in discomfort and settled gradually back into smoothness. "But yes, it's a good sign."

 

 

Krycek eased himself over the window frame and into the laundry room. One last trip and everything--well, everything critical--would be gone from his place. The old woman would go outside in the morning and wonder who'd been tromping through her garden, but it wouldn't matter. He'd be out of D.C. by then.

Leaning against the framework beside the elevator, he pushed the button and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. Only the laptop left to carry to Che's. What would the old man think when he came by and found him gone? Would he have all his resources committed, stretched too thin to start looking right away, or would he come up with yet another pack of growling dogs to sniff him out? There'd been fingerprint powder all over her room, all over the car, and the old man hadn't showed all day. Sweat broke from his hairline and trailed past his temples. An hour later, a lot of good showering had done. His stomach was knotted, his body ragged from overexertion. The stump burned where it connected to the prosthesis. Heat like this was a bitch.

A drop of sweat slid into one eyebrow and spread.

The elevator doors opened and he got in. Half an hour and he'd call Mulder again. She could be better; who was to say it couldn't turn around? Scully was there. She'd give it her all.

Tracy hadn't come again: no cry, no touch, nothing.

He stared hard at the number buttons on the panel in front of him: black circles lined up in a row, the numbers in white worn away where thumbs or fingers had jabbed at them. He'd have to change the damn shirt and put on another. He shivered suddenly and leaned back against the wall, then pulled forward again, the car settling already.

Che would make sure there was no car bomb. The old man had tried that once before.

Slowly the door slid open. Krycek paused, sniffing at the air. Apartment air but no cigarette smoke. Nobody in the hall or on the stairs. He slipped the key from his pocket, crossed the hall and worked the lock. Opened the door and locked it again behind him. So far so good, and it was mercifully cool in here. He started toward the bed, reaching for the hem of his shirt.

"Alex?

He froze mid-stride.

"I see you were out."

His jaw set. A flush of cold sweat covered him. "Yeah, I--" He tried to think against the pounding inside him. Keep going. "You get to where you’re ready to crawl the walls after a while. A little strength and you want to do it all, only you can't. Like a dog on a short leash. I go up to the roof and back; it's not too far, no prying eyes to watch you." He turned. The old man was a shadow in the recliner.

"It's been a full day. Productive day," the old man started, reaching forward for the ashtray already on the desk. "I believe I may have solved a rather persistent problem."

He sounded pleased with himself, not pissed or coiled tight, ready to spring. Keep yourself moving.

Krycek made his way to the corner between the shelves and the bed and started to work off the shirt: a stretch over the prosthesis, over his head, finally off the good arm. He let it drop onto the floor.

The sound of crumpling cellophane cut the silence, and a lighter cap being flipped. "But I believe your... special touch... is what's called for now."

Ten minutes; he'd told Ché he'd be back in ten. The guy'd been cooking like a crazy man when he left--a little celebration, he'd said, knowing this was his final escape from the old man.

Carefully he took off the prosthesis and laid it on the bed, then worked his way out of the harness, glad for the darkness that kept the old man from seeing too much. But what about the prints? How could he have rationalized away the fingerprints? And what the hell did he want with him at an hour like this? Couldn't be a good sign. He turned to look at the old man. "Right now?"

"We have a certain luxury of time. An hour or so."

Everything had been set, ready to go.

Retreating to the bathroom, he turned on the water and tossed a washcloth into the sink. Like being called to Buzz's interrogation all over again, that surreal feeling of your last minutes ticking away. Or maybe he'd caught up with the woman--the nurse. He squeezed the washcloth and ran it across his face, cool water coating his skin, his hair, dripping down onto his neck and chest.  His stomach was a steel knot. Holding the cloth under the running water again, he squeezed out the excess water and dabbed carefully at the bottom of the stump. Stung like hell; it was the weather, having it stuck too long in the damn socket. He shut the water off and hung the cloth on the hook. Turned around. No gun pointed at him.

"I've put up fliers around the neighborhood," the old man's voice came from his corner. He'd never sat in the recliner before. "About your little... housekeeper." The Morley went to his lips; he let out a nearly-invisible cloud of smoke. "Perhaps someone will know something about her."

"Saw 'em."

"Rewards tend to bring people forward."

"They bring cons, too."

"Possibly." Another drag. "But all we need is one tip from some... honest citizen."

"No guarantee you'll find her in one piece."

"No. But at least we'll know."

He looked down and paused. "She was good at what she did." He turned and went to the shelf. One last shirt left, the only one he hadn't packed. Last one she'd folded. He picked it up, shook it until he could catch the hem, slipped it over his head, over the stump...

"You're going without...?"

Second sleeve. "Heat's messed up my arm. Don't want it to end up infected again."

"Very well." As in, this is strange; never seen you go out without it.

He hadn't ever gone out without it, either, but the stump was a mess, and he wasn't exactly in the mood to wear it. Not in the mood to interrogate some poor woman, either, if that's what this was about. Maybe it would be his own interrogation and then the big lights-out.

His stomach growled, raw but hungry in spite of everything.

Finally he went to the refrigerator, opened it. Light spilled out at his feet. A little milk, a beer and a soda. A box of Chinese still in the back, one of the ones she'd bought. A few slices of bread and half a cucumber. He stared and finally closed the door, turned and went to the narrow window. Threaten the woman, bear down on her until she finally... He'd have checked the odometer; there was no way to get out of that one. But it didn’t track, the...

He clutched at the window frame.

"Alex..." The old man was rising from his chair.

"Nothing, just..." His heart raced. "Think I overdid it tonight."

Making his way to the bed, he sat and attempted to blink away the momentary dizziness. The old man was standing close now, looking down at him.

"Give me a few minutes. I'll be okay."

It was her.

Carefully he eased himself down against the pillows, the old man still watching. Her pressure was against his hand, her mind... not all there, just half-conscious emotion: fear and the need for reassurance. In the shadows beside his hip, where the old man couldn't see it, he let his hand curl.

"Are you sure you're quite alright, Alex?"

Hopefully it would get through--what she needed, what he wanted to send. "I'll live."

Great choice of words.

Chapter 20

Monday

 

"There's nothing more you can do for her now, Mr. Wallace, by staying."

Mulder nodded absently. Sandy had returned to Tracy's beside and reached out to touch her limp hand.

"The surgery went as well as could be expected, considering the circumstances. When we know anything"--Scully set her hand on his arm--"I'll let you know right away. You should get some rest."

"Sandy, too."

"Yes. Go, take her home. Hopefully by morning"--her lips pressed together; she suppressed a swallow--"we'll see some improvement."

He looked into her. "It's not looking good, is it?"

Scully paused and shook her head. "But it could just be the temporary effect of the surgery. It's really too early to know for sure."

"Long night," he said finally. "You going to be okay here?"

"I feel like.. .I have to stay. I have the fetus to examine, and if there's anything I can do to help... I can't just walk away."

"I know. Know what you mean." He turned to look at Tracy. "I don't know what's up with Krycek. He never called back. Doesn't make much sense from the way he sounded the first time." He shook his head. "I mean, it's hard to picture him dumping out on her now. Not after that last call. I mean, I would have expected that before any of this started, but..."

"Maybe the explanation's more simple than that. Maybe he just fell asleep. He's still in a state of recovery, you know."

He sucked in his lower lip. "I hope that's all it is, for her sake. Have someone keep an ear on that pay phone in case he calls, okay?"

She nodded. He lowered his voice, paused and offered his hand. "If I've never told you how much I appreciate your... extensive medical expertise, Dr. Barrett. And your dedication. I do. I really do."

Scully blushed slightly but took the hand he offered and squeezed it gently. Turning, Mulder made his way to the bed. Chrome rails, thin cotton hospital blankets, IV, oxygen tube, ID band. She had thin arms and long, delicate fingers. She'd come in singing from the backyard, carrying a handful of flowers just before they sat down to eat. It seemed wrong--worse than wrong--to see her this way.

What had Krycek experienced when she called out for him? Whatever it was, it must have scared the hell out of him, and not just because of the psychic aspect of it. Hundreds of miles away and nothing he could do but know her anguish. If it had been Scully...

He made himself look away and set a hand on Sandy's shoulder. "Come on, kid. Time to head for home."

Quietly, Sandy turned away from the bed.

"I know what you're thinking," Mulder said as they started down the hall. "Last thing I remember doing with my sister before she disappeared was arguing over a TV show. Stuck in my head for the longest time. Years. But you know something?"

Her eyebrows went up but she said nothing.

"If we found each other today, I don't think either of us would remember, or even care. The fact that you stayed here with her tonight, that would stick with her. If there's any way for her to know anything right now, she'll feel that support."

Pushing open the door to the parking lot, he let Sandy go out first. Random stars twinkled in the darkness overhead. Three spaces from the exit he spotted a red Celica. Raylene opened the door when she saw them.

"Anyone you know need a ride home?"

Sandy hesitated and finally nodded. The corners of her mouth quivered.

"I was kinda hanging out, waiting for Joe to clear out, I guess," Raylene said, quiet. "I called Darcy at the nurse's station and she said you were still here." A pause. "I'm not trying to crowd you, punkin."

Sandy nodded and turned to Mulder. "See ya."

He said goodnight to the two of them and started across the parking lot to the truck. When he glanced back, Raylene was leaning against the driver's door, her arms around her daughter. Mulder unlocked the truck and climbed in.

If it were Scully...

Krycek had put his ass on the line for this girl. He wouldn't just fall asleep and miss his calling window no matter how worn out he was.

 

 

Beyond the window, the passing scenery went by in a blur of bright on black: strings of headlights on the left, red tail lights straight ahead.  Baltimore: they were headed toward Baltimore and the old man had said nothing more, aside from 'recline your seat, Alex, you should rest while you can'... whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. Before I kill you. Before I make you kill somebody else. Or something else that wouldn't dawn on him until the moment it happened.

Rest. Yeah, right. He'd dropped the seat back just enough to let his head fall against the headrest, but not far enough that he couldn't see where they were going.

 

An hour and a half since he was supposed to call Mulder. Mulder'd think... what? That he'd flaked out, written her off? 

She was still there, barely a whisper in his head, needing a kind of presence and reassurance he wasn't sure he could deliver. Or maybe it wasn't her after all, just a spark of his imagination--the desire to see her made palpable. Better safe than sorry, though. He'd hold her in his mind if there was even the smallest chance of her feeling it. No walking away as if nothing had happened. Not this time.

Leaning suddenly, the limo took an off-ramp, turning from I 95 onto 40 East. The airport, that had to be it: private planes. Krycek reached for the window ledge with a sweaty palm. 'Solved a persistent problem' were the old man's words, and he'd smiled that little self-satisfied smirk he did. But no way could he have Mulder; they'd talked on the phone. Or maybe he was bringing in a replacement, some guy who'd shoot him as a show of loyalty. He should have eaten something; she would have reminded him to eat. A little shake in the arm, fatigue and something more; he set it in his lap hoping the position would help. He shouldn't have walked those extra blocks on the way home from the phone.

Finally Krycek closed his eyes. Crazy colored patterns appeared behind them. He should have called Mulder back. He should have gotten his stuff to Che's earlier. He should be there now, or on the road.

He was on the road.

Shit.

"We'll soon be there," the old man's voice broke the silence. Everything's going just the way I planned it, his voice said.

Better get yourself together.

Pulling forward, Krycek let the seat back come up behind him. Martin State Airport: the sign loomed suddenly on the roadside and then they were past it. His pulse was doing its own thing now, banging like a drum in an empty warehouse. Another turn-off and they were cruising into the little facility, stopping to pick up a parking ticket from the ticket machine and then moving on again, threading their way through the mostly-deserted parking lot.  They passed a gate and started past a row of hangars.

"We have someone to pick up," the old man said, "as you've no doubt guessed."

Two people were caught in the headlights now, one of the old man's goons and...

"We'll be going to the house in Fairfax County," he added, pulling a Morley from the pack in his coat pocket and lighting it.

She was shadowed behind the goon, but it was a woman, skirt and...

"I imagine you'll have some questions for our guest, Alex."

The car pulled to a stop. Quickly the suit and the woman crossed in front of the headlights and came around to his side. The door was opened and a firm grip on the woman's arm forced her inside.

A glance and he saw his own panic mirrored back at him. The seconds passed frame by frame, the air too thin to breathe.

"Alex, I'd like you to meet your mother."

 

 

At first she was just a shadow behind the image of Scully in her hospital coat and jeans, as if they were transparencies superimposed one on the other. Gradually the room darkened and cleared. Bethy stood beside his bed, looking down.

Mulder blinked. "Wha--?"

"You were talking in your sleep, Ben."

Taking a deep breath, he blinked against the dryness in his eyes. "What was I saying?"

"Not real words." She settled herself carefully on the edge of the bed. "Did you have a nightmare?"

He sighed. "I think the nightmare's when I wake up." He rolled toward her and propped himself up on one elbow. "What about you? What were you doing awake? Or did my not-real-talking wake you up?"

"I was already awake." She set a plump hand down beside her. "Is Tracy going to die like my dad?"

"Dr. Wykoff and Annie are working as hard as they can to find a way to help her."

"I know." Her hands came together in her lap. "But she was scared this morning... about seeing her mom. You know how sometimes you look away, because you know if you don't, you'll see something you don't want to see?"

He sucked in his lower lip and nodded.

"Do you think she knew, Ben? That something would happen?"

"I don't know. Tracy knows a lot of things." He reached up and lifted her chin with a finger. "But I also know how much Dr. Wykoff and Annie want to help her. And they'll do everything they can. They won't give up."

She nodded and paused. Her lips came together tightly. "Ben, I miss Grammy. I love Uncle Dale, but I miss Grammy so much."

"Your grammy's a pretty amazing woman. She'll be coming back soon--just a few more days. She's been helping a man who's been sick, but he's doing better now. I bet he really, really appreciates you loaning her to him."

She nodded. A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth.

Mulder sat up. "You ready to sleep now? You want me to tuck you in?"

"Okay" After a pause she stood. "Ben, I'm glad you came here."

He moved to the edge of the bed. "You know something? I'm glad I came here, too."

 

 

Krycek waited until the swinging door had closed behind him. "What the hell is this?"

The old man turned from the darkened window over the sink. He shrugged noncommittally and took another drag on his Morley. "Just what it appears to be. If we have her, we'll finally have Mulder."

"And what? She'll give him up to save herself?" He leaned back against the kitchen counter.

"She's never defended him before. Though apparently she fancies herself his defender now. She was hiding them, Alex--Mulder and Scully. Since right after they left Washington. Perhaps until only days ago."

"But you don't know where they are?"

"No, but she'll give them up. She just needs a little...softening." He waved his cigarette in the air. "Or if she chooses not to, we'll find another way."

"Like?"

"An e-mail address can be traced. She has a laptop. Perhaps you should check it out, Alex." A length of ash was tapped off into the sink. "You might find something interesting there. Though I'd prefer it if she gave up the information voluntarily."

He swallowed when the old man turned to look out the window. "So I'm here to force her to play the guilt card, is that it? I don't have anything to say to her."

"Oh?" The old man's eyebrows went up. "I thought you would. I thought that"--cigarette in, smoke out--"over the years you would have thought of any number of questions you might want to ask her."

"I don't care what the hell she's done with her life. She's nothing to me."

"She may not be, but she could have a significant impact on the larger picture. Fox has become more than just an inconvenience. To have him truly out of the way could be of incalculable benefit at this point. And I believe you may be uniquely positioned, Alex, to"--his eyebrows rose subtly--"encourage a suitable frame of mind in her." He took a final drag and stabbed the cigarette out in the sink. "You don't have to like her. But she did give birth to you. Without that..." He shrugged. Smoke poured out his nostrils.

"So what do you expect me to do? Go out there and have a heart-to-heart with her?"

"I believe subtlety will be quite effective enough. Your presence may be all that's required... initially. Just take her laptop." He waved toward the unit on the table. "Check it out. Let her see you."

Krycek picked up the laptop from the table and went toward the door.

"Oh, Alex--"

Krycek turned back.

"Nothing." The old man paused a moment. "Go ahead. Each step in time."

 

 

Raylene smoothed the sweaty hair from the face resting against her leg and reached behind the sofa to turn the lamp down a notch. She hadn't been any older when she met Harry than Sandy was when she'd gotten pregnant with Roddy.

"Punkin, you still awake?"

Sandy stirred momentarily and settled again. Raylene shook her head and smoothed a hand over her daughter's shoulder. Never would she have made it through the things this child had had to face. And now there was this new girl in the hospital to add to the burden she was already carrying. She had her daddy's stick-to-it-iveness. It was a good thing, that Indian calmness Harry had.

Raylene rocked the girl's shoulder carefully. "Come on, sugar. You'll be more comfy in your own bed."

Sandy stretched and opened her eyes, bewildered. Slowly she sat up, ran her hands back through her hair and blinked toward the clock. Raylene stood and offered a hand. Sandy took it without hesitation. She stood up and paused, disoriented.

"Mom?"

"You're asleep, punkin. Come on."

Carefully Raylene guided her daughter down the hallway and helped her settle into bed. Sandy lay still a moment, then rolled instinctively, reaching for Cy's pillow. After a moment Raylene went to the door. She paused to look back at the shadow under the covers. If she could turn back the clock and start over...

If it were a choice and not the foregone fact it had been...

She smiled suddenly. She would definitely choose to have this child.

 

 

Teena shifted on the cushion. There was no relaxing, though the couch itself was comfortable and the light low. Alex sat beyond the coffee table in an overstuffed chair, going over the contents of her laptop. His face and mouth were a study in hardness, the accumulation, probably, of every thought he'd had about her over the past three decades. He hadn't deigned to speak a single word to her, as he hadn't in the car, the two of them sitting facing each other, Alex avoiding her gaze completely except to shoot her the occasional glare when he caught her staring at the stump of his left arm, which showed below the sleeve of his T-shirt. It was difficult to avoid, the eyes used to seeing symmetry in the human form, what was on the right side repeated on the left.

How much of what he displayed now was show and how much was real? Cornered--and he did appear to be cornered, one way or the other--would he turn again and drop his new-found alliance with her to save himself from his father? There would be little blaming him if he did.

Alex jabbed hard at a key and closed his eyes, the fingers of his single hand pinching his temples momentarily. There was nothing to be found on the computer, of course, as he knew there wouldn't be.

"What's Mulder's e-mail?" he said, looking up suddenly.

She made no reply.

"So you don't have anything on here. Just makes it more obvious that you know." A pause, a heavy breath let out. "Look, you can give it up or he can pull it out of you." He glanced up to where a tall man in a suit--her 'escort' from Salt Lake City--passed by outside the door and hesitated a moment to look in.

"I have nothing to gain by giving Fox away."

"You can save yourself."

"What, to have this hanging over me until the next time Leland decides he 'needs' me for something?"

He sat back farther into the chair. "Don't underestimate him. He'll get what he wants."

"Such as a child he could mold to his own wishes? I believe he actually wanted to create--"

"And you didn't." A dangerous gleam lit his eye. "But I happened anyway. So which of the two of you does that make the better?"

She gripped the cushion beside her, shaken. Undoubtedly the room was bugged; Leland would be sitting in some other room hearing or watching everything that was said here. It was what Leland would want: conflict between them. Alex looked physically pained.

"Look." Alex leaned forward in his chair. "His patience is pretty close to the edge. I wouldn't test it if I were you. You can give us a way to contact Mulder, or he'll do it himself and I'll guarantee you he'll find more than just Mulder, so if you--"

More than...

"Dana," she stammered. And Fox. And Tracy. Her heart was pounding now. Alex gave her a fleeting look that pinned her for a brief second.

"There's no guarantee he'd find them." Her voice wavered.

Alex stood and approached the couch. He seemed to tower over her. "He found you. Once he decided he wanted to, it was only a matter of hours."

Abruptly he turned, went to a window and looked out into the darkness.

 

 

"Dr. Barrett?"

Scully looked up from her work to see Dr. Wykoff standing in the doorway.

"I've got something I'd like to show you. I don't know if I've found something or if I'm just seeing possibilities because I'm desperate for leads." He paused. "How are you coming? Finding anything?"

Scully pursed her lips. "I've taken some samples to send to the lab." A pause. "There was an absence of something I was afraid I might find."

"Oh?" His eyes revealed his curiosity.

"Actually, I'm not really at liberty to say."

"Something official?"

"Something that ties into a longstanding investigation, yes."

Wykoff smiled briefly. "No pressure here. You know your limits better than I do." He paused. "Can you spare a minute?"

"Yes, of course."

She took a towel, covered the small mass on the table in front of her and hesitated. In her mind she saw Emily looking down from the top of a stairway, then a coffin filled with sand, and finally a teenager with earnest eyes telling her that life could change in just a moment. Letting out a slow breath, she turned and walked toward the door and the bright lights of the hallway.

"It may just be me," Dr. Wykoff said as they made their way down the passage, "grasping at straws to help this girl, or it could be the hour; I can tell you I've been up for the past twenty-eight. But there appears to be a kind of thickening in part of the brain. Not anything you could look at and call a tumor." He glanced at her and shook his head. "Could just be these old eyeballs. Figured a second opinion would be a good thing."

"Definitely." Scully glanced at her watch. 2:12 a.m. Except for a gray-haired man sitting on a chair beside the vending machine, the hallway was deserted.

"Have you checked Tracy's--?" She stopped mid-step and turned around.

"What?"

Scully frowned and hesitated. "Nothing. For a moment--" She ran a hand back through her hair and resumed her forward movement. "I believe I've been up too long myself."

 

 

"Mom?"

There was only silence. It was hard to speak, or think.

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"I knew it was you. I could feel you there." A pause. "I can't see anything."

"I'm here, Tracy."

"Where are we?"

"You're...in between."

She reached out. She couldn't feel her arms or hands, but somehow she was reaching. "Mom, I finally remembered. I remembered about--"

"The place where I went wrong. I wanted to stay with your father so badly. I let my weakness get in the way."

For a moment, nothing. There was no way to move, no light.

"Tracy, he asked me to go, and to take you. And because I didn't, they found him. They were outside the window, listening to everything."

"Did you love him?"

"Yes, I... Very much. He was a good man at heart. He did his best."

"He was afraid for us."

"Yes, he was. And I should have listened. But all I could think was that I couldn't go on by myself. Sometimes you must do that, take that first step on faith, even though it seems to be a step into empty air."

If not for her choice, they might have met again: that was what she was saying. Though her mother couldn't have known that at the time. The future held no guarantees.

A first step on faith, but surely not here. In between. A step forward into the unknowable and Alex would never be able to reach her, or she him. What good could possibly come of it? And what, then, was the purpose of their having met in the first place, or of Alex having opened himself only to be left vulnerable and alone?

"Mom..."

There was no answer.

"Mom?"

Silence filled the space around her.

 

 

Krycek stared hard out the window. Only the low lights along the edges of the driveway illumined the blackness.

However it had happened--miscommunication or delays or some other freak of circumstance--the old man hadn't found him out yet. If he had, there would be a hardness in his manner he'd never be able to disguise, not even as part of a plan for revenge. If the old man thought he'd been betrayed--he'd think of it as betrayal, as if the whole world centered its actions on him...

But he didn't know yet. He'd find out soon enough, though, and what were the chances of making it out of here before that happened? What would they do to his mother if he took off?

Contact Mulder and...

And what? He was never going to make it out of here in the first place. He'd been up too long, his legs had been tired and shaky even when the old man had first come for him. Then all these extra hours. His stomach felt like shit and beyond that, something was going on with Tracy. It was as if she were curled up against him, almost a physical sensation.

If she could, she'd be asking him to hold her, but he had no experience with this psychic stuff, this distance touching.  If it was real at all and not just a trick of his imagination.  Or his fatigue.  But on the off-chance it was true--real--he had to do something, respond somehow.  Couldn't leave her to tough it out alone.

He set his hand against the window frame and felt it tremble. Closed his eyes and opened them again. It wasn't the first time he'd been trapped. Against all odds, he'd made it out of the silo. He'd noticed the flashing numbers before the car blew. Had made it to Tunguska and back. Not whole, but he was still here. He'd bled all over Scully's floor and survived. 

All for what?

Hell if he knew. That had been the $64,000 question of the last eighteen months. But he'd made it out, met her, made it this far. If it were her, she wouldn't give up, and who'd be there to support her if he threw in the towel?

Suddenly his hand slipped, skittering down the glass. He jumped and fought the sudden surge of adrenaline, willing his heart to slow. The house and grounds were wired, sensors everywhere. There was no chance of getting out undetected unless you cut the... No. Not even then. The old man had had a backup installed. Cutting the wires set off an alarm; it was maybe a month ago, just before Mulder had come up with the videotape.

Krycek shoved his trembling arm into his pocket and hit on something warm: the little card with the silver earring. Closing his eyes, he let his thumb graze the warm metal. He was going to have to tough it out here, do whatever damage control he could. Figure out a way for the two of them to be in the same room without tearing into each other. It wasn't easy playing both sides, and she had to be questioning where his alliances lay now.

There had to be something he could do.  It was no time to just give it all up, to hand himself to the old man on a silver platter. He didn't deserve that.

Stroking the earring carefully one last time, Krycek swallowed and turned. He picked up the laptop from the coffee table, took the few steps toward the couch and held it out. Damn thing was heavy, wobbling, and she wasn't making any effort to reach out.

"Take it."

"Why should--?"

"Take the godddamn thing before I drop it. You waiting to see it fall?"

Her eyes widened at his delivery. Just as his arm gave out, she reached, catching the unit, but the mouse on the side slipped off and clattered to the floor beside her.

"Stupid b-" He came around the coffee table, got down on one knee and reached, grasping at the carpet. A split-second delay and her hand went down, too, searching for the mouse.

The cameras were running.

It was now or never.

 

 

They nearly bumped heads and then he grabbed her hand--low, against the carpet--and pressed something into it. She switched it to the other hand, shaking. Picking up the mouse, she hooked it jerkily back onto the side of the computer.

He'd said 'hide it'. At least, that was what she thought she'd heard him say, his voice something between a whisper and the snarl it had been a moment earlier. This was who he was, or had been: tight, hard-edged, unnerving. And now? Suddenly she was aware of the sound of his breathing. Looking up at the figure looming above her, she saw his mouth tight, giving nothing away.

"I'll do it. Just give me the address." He moved back a few steps and pulled an ottoman close to the far edge of the coffee table. Obviously he was leaving no room for objection. "Open it."

The top had fallen closed. She tucked the small object between the couch cushions and reached across to work the latches and pull up the screen. How different from three days ago in Trudy's condo, standing in the dining room watching Tracy open the computer for him. At least the girl was far away from all this.

Alex sat on the ottoman, the blue of the scandisk screen reflecting off his face in the dim light. He seemed worried, as well he might be, for no matter how he might choose to get himself out of this dilemma, exposure of Fox would almost inevitably lead to exposure of Tracy. He looked down momentarily, fingers pinching his temples as they had before. He seemed to be rocking slightly, forward and then back again, almost imperceptibly.

Easing her fingers between the cushions, Teena groped until she found the object he'd passed to her. Carefully she slipped it into her hand and rested the hand in her lap. Undoubtedly there would be surveillance of some sort. She glanced at Alex, eyes closed now, and then down at her cupped hand. Opening it slightly, she peered at the object: a single tiny earring on a little card. Possibly something Tracy had the mate to; had they each kept one out of a pair? Undoubtedly it was meant to be a sign, though, a signal that they were still on the same side, that they needed to cooperate. A welcome offering of trust.

"The address?"

Also a sign that there seemed to be no way to avoid pulling Fox into this. If there were a way around, Alex wouldn't be taking the initiative in writing the mail. Perhaps there was something he could say to warn Fox.

"DaddyW," she said. "Capital D and Capital W. All one word." She spoke quietly, remembering the eyes and ears that must be on them.

He sighed and shook his head as if she were a hopeless novice. He typed in the word, his fingers returning to his temples when he was finished.

"Alex?" Leland's head appeared in the doorway. Alex looked up, suddenly wide-eyed. Leland took a drag on his cigarette. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah, just... tired. Still don't have any stamina."

He turned his attention to Teena. "I see"--the cigarette back between his lips--"that we've decided to cooperate."

She let her eyes speak for her, an impenetrably hard expression that came naturally after so many years of using it. Leland glanced back at her son. Their son.

"There are bedrooms, Alex. You can rest while we wait for Mulder." A pause. "You're giving him the details?"

He stepped into the room and started to approach the coffee table but Alex got up and went to him. They turned toward the door and spoke too quietly to be heard. Finally Leland nodded and turned away, disappearing into the hallway. Alex avoided her gaze when he turned back; perhaps he didn't dare face her. He returned to the ottoman and went back to his message, his hand tracing a smooth course back and forth across the keyboard from one letter to the next. As he wrote, his jaw tightened. Twice he looked up toward the doorway.

"Rest of the address?" He looked at her. Into her.

She cleared her throat. "Zipmail. ."

She swallowed and made herself appear to be reluctant. Several times she found herself looking toward the doorway as Alex had, but she made herself stop. It would only draw the suspicion of whoever was monitoring the room.

Alex reached for the phone on the table and took the cord from the back. A moment later she could hear the modem dialing to connect. Fox would feel compelled to come. Dana would be worried, and rightly so. Would this be part of Leland's delight, too, to drive a fatal wedge between the two of them?

 

 

Krycek pushed against the swinging door that led into the kitchen.

"Did you send the message, Alex?"

"Yeah. Short and sweet. I told him to make sure he's here on time."

"And the e-mail address?"

Hopefully Mulder was checking his mail regularly enough to flag the message and give himself some lead time. "DaddyW. ."

"Very well. I'll have someone look into it." A pause. "You should take advantage of the time, Alex. As I said, the bedrooms are available. You've given her enough to... ruminate over for a while."

"Yeah." He started to go, paused and turned back. "Maybe I'll sit in there a little longer. Don't want her to get too relaxed."

The old man raised an eyebrow and lifted a half-smoked Morley to his lips.

 

 

In the dream she was running in the woods among yellow leaves, playing hide-and-seek with Missy and Bill and Charlie. Missy was it; she had her head against a tree, counting three, four, five, six. From her hiding place behind a pile of leaves, Scullly could see to where Charlie, far beyond Missy, kept peeking out from behind a tree trunk and then retreating. When Missy turned she'd surely see Charlie first and then she could dart from her pile of leaves to...

A hand on her arm, gently rocking her. "Dr. Barrett?"

Missy turned and looked around.

"Dr. Barrett..."

A warm hand smoothed past her forehead and into her hair. She opened one eye and squinted into the brightness of the hospital's staff lounge.

"Mulder--" She blinked and pushed up. "Has something--? What time is it?"

"About 5:30."  There was a quiet urgency about him.

"Mulder, what is it?  Did you check with Dr. Wykoff? Has something happened to Tracy? I've been here since--" She glanced at the clock--"for about an hour and a half, I guess." She ran a hand back through her hair and then rested it on his arm. "What?"

"I just got an e-mail. Two, actually."

His jaw set and he stared past her into the corner of the room. In his left hand was a piece of paper; she took it and opened it.

To: DaddyW@

From: Cranesbill@

He's got your mother here with us but it's you he's looking for. Meet him at the American Airlines ticket counter at National at 11 a.m. He'll bring you the rest of the way. Don't be late.

                                                                                            -K

To: DaddyW@

From: Cranesbill@

38 Breton Ct., Reston, VA. Lay your plans carefully and make sure your valuables are out of reach; he's got your addy. House and grounds are wired. I'm about to be made.

Scully's mouth opened but her lips refused to move. Mulder sat down beside her, leaned forward and breathed into cupped hands. "We've got five and a half hours to do something before he expects to pick me up," he said finally.

"Do you really think the Smoking Man expects you to come, Mulder? Is it possible that Krycek's setting you up with his second mail?"

"What would be the point of doing that and endangering Tracy?" He shook his head. "I don't think so. But Smoky's got my addy now. Krycek wrote this three hours ago. I woke up fifteen minutes ago, got this and then woke Dale and Bethy and sent them packing. No telling how soon somebody might come around."

"Then Tracy... But they don't know about Tracy. They don't know she's here with us."

"From the look of it, they may pretty soon, though--know where she is if not how she is." He pointed to the final line of Krycek's second message.

"Then we've got to do something to assure--"

"Sandy may be willing to come keep an eye on her," he said.

"But, Mulder, we don't want Sandy exposed to--"

"I know. It's a long shot, anyway, them finding her here. Maybe Dr. Wykoff knows of somebody he can get to sit out in the hall and watch the door."

Scully raised her eyebrows. "Maybe several somebodies."

Footsteps sounded in the hall, coming closer, and Dr. Wykoff's head appeared in the doorway.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to put her on a ventilator," he said after a nodded greeting and a pause to take them both in. "She's not breathing well enough on her own at this point. You up for giving me a hand?"

Scully stood immediately. "Yes, of course." She pursed her lips and followed Dr. Wykoff from the room.

 

 

To: Redwall@

From: spooky@

We've got five hours (until 11 a.m. EDT) to rescue my mother from Smoky. He's holding her in a house in Reston--38 Breton Court--and expects me to show up and exchange myself at National at 11. Need you to scout the location, but I need your brains, too--any strategy you can come up with. Let me know ASAP. My old e-mail's been compromised; use this new account.

 

 

Teena blinked. She must have dozed off.

Her eyes scanned the wall and ceiling beside her, then she eased her head up from where it had rested against the back of the couch. Her fingers went immediately to her now-painful neck. Morning was approaching. Faint light showed through the trees outside the window. She blinked and tried to chase the thickness from her head but her efforts were rewarded only by the sharpened consciousness of the tension inside her.

On the far side of the coffee table, Alex slept curled again the back of the leather chair. She rose carefully, listened for activity outside the room and, hearing none, went quietly to the window. The house sat in a wooded area, with homes spaced far apart on secluded lots. Even if one were to manage to get outside...

But Leland would have some kind of alarm system on the property. When he was determined... As Alex himself had pointed out, once Leland had decided to find her, it had taken him only hours.

Reaching a hand toward the glass, she noticed the alarm wire tracing the edge of the pane and thought better of it. Dana could hide, and Tracy could be hidden, but Fox would feel compelled to do something to save her, and Alex... Had he dared to say anything that would help Fox, or would Fox be left as the sacrificial lamb in these proceedings? Not that she was guaranteed to emerge alive from them herself. Carefully she swallowed and turned away from the window to glance at her sleeping son.

After Alex sent the message, he appeared to be going through the procedure of deleting it from the computer, though it was impossible from where she'd sat to tell for sure. Then he'd left the room and come back a few minutes later without so much as a glance in her direction. He'd turned off the lamp behind his chair, announced 'now we wait' in a tone she hadn't been able to decipher for meaning, and had promptly fallen asleep, though most assuredly that hadn't been his intention. His arm had trembled visibly in his lap and then, as he began to drift, it had come up against his waist as if he were holding something invisible. Several times his face had twisted in a kind of pain. Once he'd smiled briefly. Perhaps he'd thought of Tracy. Fox would make sure the girl was well-hidden. Undoubtedly Alex would subjugate the personal at a time like this but somewhere, in a corner of his subconscious, he must be holding onto the thought of her.

"Well, I see you're awake."

Teena turned, startled, to see Leland standing in the darkened doorway. He held a lighter to the tip of the cigarette that sat between his lips, watched it catch and took a drag. He raised an eyebrow at her but she said nothing.

"Only a matter of hours now," he said, letting the smoke out in a soft cloud. He paused. "I was quite disappointed, Teena, that you'd hide Fox and his partner that way and then lie to me. I thought we had--"

Her hands curled. "I had a good teacher. Lying is an ingrained habit, a way of life."

Another raised eyebrow accompanied by a condescending frown. Alex stirred in his chair.

"It begs the question, doesn't it?" he said. "Of just how far you've gone. Of exactly what you know."

"I won't hand you my son."

"Oh, you don't have to. He'll sacrifice himself"--the Morley was lifted to his lips--"for his... nebulous ideals as much as any concrete evidence of your affection."

Teena felt her color rising. Her fingers curled tight into her palms. In the chair, Alex grunted. She opened her mouth to speak.

"I believe," he said, glancing toward the chair, "that we might best continue this conversation elsewhere."

He waited for her to go into the hallway, then led the way toward another room. She shook, whether more from fatigue or rage or fear she couldn't tell. His timing had been fortuitous, though, keeping her from blurting out a thoughtless remark about leaving Alex to sleep in peace. At least Leland didn't know what there was between them.

 

 

From the doorway Mulder could see Scully bent over the bed, paused at first, then reaching to smooth a hand over the girl's forehead. Her fingers lingered a moment. If Samantha hadn't actually survived, if she'd died somewhere along the line from infection or experimentation or... how many dangers were there for a human girl among an alien race?

But if she'd died, would she have been alone, woman or girl, just a Jane Doe among foreigners, or would someone have stayed with her, held her hand or sat beside her bed?

"You never know," he said, approaching the bed. "She may know you're here. They said you were just about ready to go once, but..."

She turned to face him. "I had the strength of your beliefs." She smiled briefly. "You're right. My condition turned around when there was no hope, no indication." Her lips pressed together. She glanced at the bed and then back at him, shiny-eyed. "The question is whether we can save her from what someone may have put inside her, from the minds that... if such a thing can be done, Mulder. I remembered the train car, and the faces of some of the doctors--as did many of the women at Betsy Hagopian's. Some of them remembered more, the way Penny remembered me. But what if the ones who remembered the most were the first to die? What if--?  It's frightening enough to have to face the fact that you were called to... to go to a place you had no prior knowledge of, and that you actually went through with it. But to think that there might be a way--"

That you were being monitored--watched--and then controlled as if you were nothing more than a puppet. That it could happen not just to Tracy but to Scully as well. He swallowed.

One corner of Scully's mouth struggled hard to smooth itself into composure. She started deliberately toward the door and motioned for him to follow. Stopping in the doorway, she gave a little shrug. "You can see why I'm reluctant to leave her. Maybe it's just the possibility of my own tie-in to this."

"Not you, Dr. Barrett."

She paused momentarily and went on. "But that's completely beside the point now. We need to focus on your mother. Dr. Wykoff said he shouldn't have any trouble finding people to watch the room. Apparently the smallness of this town is going to work in our favor this time. Anyone who's unfamiliar to these people is going to be immediately noticeable. He's making some calls now."

Mulder followed her down the hall to a small lab and closed the door after they were both inside.

"Scully, are you going to be okay? I don't doubt you, but... all of this is crazy. Beyond crazy."

She turned, came closer and looked up at him. "I'll be okay. It's easier, actually, when you've got something to do, someone else you need to fight for." Her eyes were shiny but she didn't avert her gaze.

He hesitated and then nodded. She turned toward a table containing something small covered with a towel. His mouth went small and tight.

"I haven't discovered anything definitive," she said, nodding toward the towel. "Not that I could with a cursory examination anyway. I have samples ready to go to the lab; they should tell us something. However, there was no"--she lowered her voice--"green fluid, or any of the associated post-mortem decomposition I've witnessed before." She let out a slow breath. "However, Dr. Wykoff noticed irregularities in Tracy's hypothalamus, something nearly unnoticeable at first when we saw the slides. Not as if there were a tumor there but a kind of... distension. An irregularity, and I don't have to tell you--"

"More fuel for your theory," he said quietly.

She nodded, pressed her lips together and turned away from the table. "What can we do for your mother, Mulder?"

"I've mailed the Gunmen. They're going to scout the location for us. I've booked us a flight into Dulles; we'll only be minutes from where they're holding her. We need to be in Lexington in an hour." He paused. "We have no way of knowing whether Smoky might have somebody here looking for us already so I figured Dale had better stay out of this; I don't want Rita losing somebody else to this crusade. Anyway, I ran into an EMT near the emergency entrance who's getting off duty. If you can show him your badge so he knows I'm not conning him, he'll take us to Lexington. It'll be a way to get out of here without being seen."

She opened her mouth and paused. "Is this really happening, Mulder? Or is it all a dream?"

"If it is, then we're in it together."

 

 

She was in the waves not more than ten feet from where he stood on the sand. The hem of the red dress--the one he'd given her--was gathered up in her left hand. The water came to just below her knees.

"It's cold," she said, turning back to him. "I like the way the foam swirls after the waves have broken. It drifts and spirals. The waves and the water are always changing, like a living thing breathing." She smiled briefly. "I guess it is a living thing in a way, the sea."

"Watch it, Tracy."

Too late. A wave caught her from behind and the red dress was wet up to her hips. She gasped momentarily from the chill and then turned to face the water, watching as it rose gradually to form another low, curling wall headed for the sand. The water had drained back to her knees. The dress stuck to her but hung loose above the wet part, draping around her middle where the baby was. As the wave approached she lifted her arms and turned to the side the way he'd told her to do.

She glanced back at him, eyes wide. "It works, Alex. The wave goes right past you. It hardly moves you at all."

"Just be careful out there."

"I want to go past the first one, like surfers do."

"Watch your footing." He stood and went closer.

He watched her wade out a few more feet. She paused and turned around.

"I'm getting this... weird feeling. I don't know whether it's fear or caution. I don't know if I should I be going ahead." She turned back to face the ocean but stayed where she was and let the water stream around her. Spreading her hands, she let them ride the surface of the passing swells.

A feeling--a warning. Quickly he stepped into the cold liquid and held out his hand. "Tracy, come on."

Something was jostling him.

"Tracy--"

A push against his shoulder. His eyes came open and closed again. He glanced back to where she'd been standing but there was only blue-green water: no voice, no sign of her, as if she'd never been there. Foam swirled around him.

"He wants you."

His eyes opened again.

"He's looking for you. Out in the kitchen."

Krycek's eyes were wide and dry; his heart churned suddenly. The Reston house. He glanced toward the window--daylight--and then the clock. 6:12. He blinked. Nearly four hours since he'd written Mulder. The tall guy was leaning over him, stubble visible on his chin now.

"The kitchen," the man repeated.

Krycek stood carefully. His stomach was sour and achy.

His mother wasn't here. The couch was empty--room was empty--and what had the dream meant? Was it a dream or was it actually Tracy trying to get through?

He blinked against the thickness in his head. Slim was staring. Stuffing his hand into his pocket, Krycek started toward the door. His fingers searched the small space. Empty. His mother had the earring.

"Tracy," Slim's voice came from behind him in a quiet falsetto.

 

 

Frohike grunted and continued to scan the scene around him with a small pair of binoculars. "Good thing you were able to pull this trade. VW bus wouldn't exactly have blended us into this neighborhood."

"Can you say 'obvious'? A little shabby, not to mention they would have thought we were having a serious attack of deja vu." Langly glanced up from his infrared equipment. "This is Suburban territory."

"With the odd Porsche and Lexus thrown in." Frohike grunted. "But a panel van:now this is luck."

"And ready to snoop. Bernie's going through this amateur PI stage. Personally I think he's been watching too many Magnum reruns."

"All to our advantage, though. What've you got?"

"Be nice if we didn't have walls to contend with; then we'd have 'em nailed for sure. But I've caught two people at windows. I think it's two."

Frohike glanced in the rear view mirror as a black SUV approached and passed by.

"One guy glances out every few minutes near the entrance. That must be his post," Langly said. "What do you make of the audio?"

"Voices have been pretty quiet. Nothing by the door, so that guy must be by himself. Three different people in one area; two in another; one of 'em could be an overlap."

"You got to figure that they probably all came together in the limo. Five or six people tops."

"Darth Vader himself, Darth Junior, Ma Mulder..."

"And a couple of sets of muscles is my guess. You know, that guy by the front door could be watching us. You'd better get out there and do your thing with the tire."

Frohike grunted. "Why am I always the one to do this stuff? I can run that equipment as well as you."

Langly glanced up and grinned. "Because you're closer to the ground."

"Shut up, Goldilocks."

 

 

Spender glanced away from Teena to the door as his son entered. "She won't talk to me, Alex," he said. He shrugged and paused. "I thought you might induce her to answer some questions."

The boy shot him a look. Undoubtedly he wasn't happy about being roused now, nor about facing his mother.  Beyond that, he looked drained.  He'd have to be careful not to push him far enough to affect his recovery.

Alex pulled a chair out from the table as if to sit, then paused and retreated to lean against the counter. "Like what?"

He shrugged. "What she knows about Mulder and Scully."

The boy fixed his mother with one of those piercing looks that were so effective when combined with his dry, urgent delivery. "He ask you to hide them?"

Her lips moved slightly, then paused. "He was sick. They came to my house... There was something he wanted to ask me." A shrug. "Fox has always plied me with questions.  And the next morning he woke with a fever. He was too sick to travel."

"And when he was better?"

"They left."

"To where?"

"Do you think Fox would be foolish enough to tell me? He knew there was a chance something like this might happen."

"How long were they with you?"

"T... Three days."

"No idea where they went?"

Her expression hardened. "If I knew I wouldn't tell you."

"Doesn't much matter now. We've got the e-mail address. It's being traced to the phone number he connects from."

Teena's eyes revealed the alarm her hard-set mouth held back. Alex turned slightly, leaning more heavily against the counter.

Spender took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. "You took them to Baltimore?"

"No, I did not!" Her lips pressed together.

They made a good pair, he and Alex, one eliciting what the other couldn't.

"They were in your car." He shrugged and leaned forward. "You took someone to Baltimore... in your car, to your sister's condo. On a flight with you." He took a drag on the cigarette and reached for the ashtray in the middle of the table.

Teena's eyes bulged. She looked down, took a deep breath and said nothing.

"A woman. A young woman, apparently."  He smiled. Now they were beginning to get somewhere. Teena face betrayed surprise, then worry, while Alex... Alex's eyes were wide, his coloring suddenly poor, as if he were about to be sick on the spot.

"Alex, do you need to leave?"

"I--" Perspiration beaded on his forehead.

"There's a recliner in the living room. Perhaps we should continue our conversation there."

He rose from his chair. Alex moved toward the door. Teena remained where she was.

"You can come on your own or I can have someone assist you," he said calmly, turning to her. He returned to take the ashtray from the table. "Don't you feel you're being a bit childish about this? Come."

He led the way to the door and paused. Slowly Teena rose from the chair and followed him.

 

 

It was like one of those chase-dreams where you could only run in slow motion. Just before they caught you, you woke up, but there wouldn't be that kind of convenient safety here.

Mulder pulled forward slightly and turned to look through the ambulance's front windshield. Rolling grasslands and neat, white-fenced horse pastures sped past them. He closed his eyes briefly and opened them again. Scully lay curled up on the gurney beside him, her head on his left leg; she'd fallen asleep before they'd even pulled out onto I-64. She didn't deserve this kind of life. How could you even call it a life? But neither did Rita or Sandy or Angie Connors and her three kids who were serving as lab rats for Dr. Jeckyll's vaccine project. As soon as his mother was safe...

And Krycek was there. What would he do, cornered?

The Gunmen should be able to find some chink in Smoky's defenses. They had the equipment and the connections and database access. So why did the odds look so bad, four people coming out of this alive? If he'd let it all go right from the start, found a way to deal with Samantha's absence, put more focus into academics and sports or... Other kids lost siblings; what did they do? What different path could he have traveled?

And what about Scully?

He reached down and traced her slightly-parted lips and then smoothed the hair back from her face. She stirred slightly and burrowed closer against him. He looked at his bandaged hand, still tender and in no shape to manage a weapon. They needed a plan but with only four hours of sleep his eyelids kept closing, and when they did, Tracy lay behind them, pale and motionless, a stand-in for his sister. What if she'd only lasted until she was eighteen? Twenty-three?

Or eight. What if she'd only survived for weeks, or days?

He swallowed and bit his lip.

"Mulder?"

Scully blinked and looked up at him, disoriented.

"Sleep, Scully." He smoothed his hand along her shoulder and let it come to rest against the side of her neck. "Get some rest while you can."

 

 

The prints. He'd had everything printed: house, condo, car. Tracy's were there; once the old man had made the connection there'd be no hiding what had gone on: there would be no way to talk his way around it. He'd know then who Tracy had been traveling with, and he already knew where Mulder was. But Mulder would anticipate this; he wouldn't just leave her defenseless. He'd have somebody on the lookout to keep her safe--how could you know her and not protect her? And Mulder would have gotten to know her. He had that inborn response, that empathy.

Krycek set his hand on the knob and leaned forward momentarily, resting his forehead against the bathroom door, and stared down at the tile below. He had no weapon. There'd been no way to hide one with the old man watching him change shirts, his eye on his every move. And he had no brute strength at this point, not that it would do a lot of good anyway against two of the old man's goons. Everything was a matter of timing, she'd said. For better or worse. And how was she doing now?

But there was no time to think about her; she'd understand that. Get distracted and fuck up here... he wouldn't be any use to her dead. Or to his mother, out there floundering on her own, trying to do what stalling she could. Better not leave her alone with the old man too long.

Pull yourself together and get out there.

Straightening, he sniffed in a breath, opened the door and made his way to the living room. On the couch, his mother sat with arms crossed, her posture announcing that she wasn't going to give the old man anything he wanted if she could help it. The old man frowned from a leather chair; probably she'd given him that evil eye of hers. The happy family portrait: two bitter old people throwing mental daggers at each other, and their one-armed bastard son. Maybe Mulder hadn't had it so easy growing up after all.

He crossed the space between them and eased himself into the recliner. His stomach was knotted on top of the sourness; he hadn't put anything in it since sometime yesterday afternoon. It had to be part of the sick feeling--that and watching his life go to hell while Tracy slipped farther and farther away.

The old man cleared his throat. "We were discussing your... female passenger."

His mother said nothing.

"Alex?"

His mind was muck. "Why'd you take someone to Baltimore?"

"She's a..." A pause. She moistened her lips.

Make it good.

"...a neighbor of mine. She hadn't flown before and her mother wanted to make sure she got to her destination safely. I thought since I was going... in that direction anyway..."

The old man sat back in his chair and took a leisurely drag on his Morley. "Curiously impulsive planning of you, I'd say, Teena. Not at all typical--to plan this little excursion, and take a neighbor along"--he paused--"and fail to make reservations until four in the afternoon, when you're already hours away from home."

Krycek's hand tightened on the arm of the recliner. His mother reddened.

"We had reservations on another carrier, but the flight was cancelled due to... mechanical problems. We had to reschedule; it was why we stopped at Trudy's--because of the delay." She gave the old man one of her indignant looks for good measure.

"It might have been more convenient, would it not, to have flown out of Kennedy or La Guardia? Or Newark, or Philadelphia." He paused to grind his cigarette into the ashtray. "There are any number of airports closer than Baltimore."

"I was trying to avoid... this."

The old man shrugged. No way to tell whether he was buying any of it, though she was doing a pretty damn good job since he'd suggested that she'd brought the mystery passenger with her, not picked her up in Baltimore.

A phone rang. The old man reached into his pocket and stood. He looked up at Slim, who appeared in the doorway. The old man nodded to him as he answered the phone--he'd take the call in the kitchen--and disappeared down the hallway.

Slim entered the room and made himself comfortable in the old man's chair, a leering smile crossing his face. He leaned back like he was trying on the old man's power.

The goon could afford to relax. He wasn't about to get stepped on.

 

 

"Punkin..."

The bed dipped and a hand smoothed back through her hair. Sandy opened her eyes and squinted.

"I didn't mean to wake you, Punkin, but Dr. Wykoff just called." She pursed her lips.

"What is it? Did--?" She sat up and rubbed her eyes.

"He said something about keeping an eye on your friend. He wondered if you were going to be coming down today."

"He wants me to?"

"He seemed to."

"Maybe she's doing better."

"I don't know. He didn't exactly say." Raylene paused. "Look, I didn't mean to hang over you, staying here last night. You just--"

"It's okay. I'd probably still be on the couch or something. Or asleep on the floor." She sighed and ran her hands back through tangled hair.

"Sandy, about this friend of yours..."

"I  don't know if she's my friend.  I don't know what she is, Mom.  I guess I'm trying to figure that out."

"Then why did you spend all that time with her last night? You've got enough on your plate already, sugar, and you're known her for how long? A couple of days? It just hurts to see you carrying that kind of burden."

"Mom, I... She was nice to me and I wasn't necessarily so nice in return."  She shrugged.  "But she said something--something she didn't mean to--that hurt me, too.  And then Ben called and said she'd collapsed."

A pause.

"So now you're doing penance?"

"Mom, it's not like that."

"Sorry. I didn't mean..." Raylene moved back a step.

Sandy squirmed. "I'm not even sure I want to like her. But she's got nobody but us--me and Ben and Annie. She's running from the guy who had Cy and Roddy killed. It's all mixed up--complicated. I don't think you're ready for all of it"--she glanced up--"no offense meant. If you can't understand why I'd be hanging out with Rita Johnston after Cy and Andy, then you sure won't be ready for this. Don't know if I am, either."

Raylene's mouth opened and then closed again. After a moment she nodded assent.

"I just keep thinking about Cy and Roddy out there all alone in that car, and I ask myself what kind of person I'd be if I let someone else go though that all by themself with nobody. That's gotta be the worst thing."

Raylene nodded, solemn, and stepped close to the bed. "There's other people in the hospital. You shouldn't feel like it's all on your shoulders.  But I can see what you're wrestling with." She paused. "You're some piece of work, Sandra. You're way stronger than I am."

Sandy shrugged and let herself be held. After a moment she slipped an arm around her mother's waist and closed her eyes, letting herself go slack.

Abruptly, she sat up. "Oh, damn--"

"What?"

"Adrie." She glanced at the clock. "Oh, god, I'm supposed to be up there in ten minutes. How'm I going to--?" She bit her lip.

"You think David would mind if I watched him? I could take him to the park, or to my place. You could go sit with the girl--what's her name?"

"Tracy." She paused. "Yeah, I don't think David would mind. We could give him a call."

She climbed off the bed, went to the dresser and opened a drawer. "Geez, it never stops, the craziness around here."  She paused and turned back. "Thanks, mom. Thanks for the hand."

 

 

Alex had done quite a respectable job of easing the information out of his mother. Teena seemed far less reticent to answer Alex's questions than his own, though she hadn't really given away anything of value. Alex hadn't pressured her particularly; he was astute enough to realize that pressure would only make her dig in her heels, like a mule. In spite of his rough-edged persona, he was a fairly discerning judge of character and style.

The static on the phone was followed by a voice.

"Sorry about the wait, sir. I was on another line." A pause. "It's the fingerprints, sir--the ones you had us take from the missing girl's room and the D.C. car."

"Yes?" He tapped a length of ash into the sink.

"There's a match, sir. We just noticed it now. We hadn't cross-referenced them before."

"Match with...?"

"The Baltimore prints. The girl's prints are the fourth set in the Baltimore vehicle and they're also one of the sets in the condo. She must have been the second party on that flight."

He opened his mouth. The little housekeeper. So she'd suspected something, run to Teena, Teena had taken pity on her and...

No. Nothing of the sort.

It was Alex.

 

 

"Snipers?" Scully offered. "Tear gas?"

"We're going to have to get in there somehow, Scully, and you know Smoky's not going to make it easy." Mulder sucked in his lower lip. His head went back against the head rest. "Diversion," he said, glancing at her. "We need one hell of a diversion." He looked up at the luggage compartment overhead; she watched his jaw set. "Son of a bitch."

"And my mother's rescue seemed risky at the time."

"We'll have to see what the Gunmen come up with. They'll have some ideas."

"Langley's will be flamboyant." She almost smiled. "Frohike's will be... passionate; I can see him pounding his fist on the counter for emphasis."

"We will bury you." Mulder's eyebrows went up; a smile pulled briefly at the corner of his mouth.

"And Byers' will come up with something very cool and logical."

Mulder said nothing. She let her breath out slowly.

"We should get what rest we can, Scully. Anything will help. We need an edge."

 A moment later his eyes closed. She pursed her lips and looked out the window at passing wisps of gray and white. Your life could turn around in a moment--in a variety of unanticipated ways. She reached beside her and felt for his hand, careful not to put pressure on the wound in his palm. His fingers curled around hers.

"Mulder?" She continued looking out the window.

"Hmm?"

"Promise me something."

A grunt.

"I know this is may sound... selfish; I don't mean it that way, but..."

"What?"

"Don't do anything foolish."

His thumb smoothed along the tops of her fingers. "I won't. I wouldn't do that to you."

A sudden brightness beyond the window made her squint. "You've changed."

"I think we've both changed, Scully."

She let her eyes close. Gradually his breathing lightened into sleep and she felt his head dip close, coming to rest against her shoulder.

 

 

The kitchen door opened and the guard entered.  He opened the refrigerator and stared at the bottles on the shelf. Seconds passed but he made no move to select anything.

"I don't pay you to contemplate the interior of the refrigerator, Riggs. Get back to your post."

"Yes, sir." Riggs reached in, took a can of soda and quickly retreated through the swinging door.

The old man looked down at his hands, knuckles white from their grip on the sink's edge. Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, he took out a Morley, quickly lit it and took a long drag with shaking fingers. The smoke came out in a hard stream.

There was, in the end, a certain pathetic quality of logic to it. Alex had been vulnerable, full of pain and weakness, and the girl, for her part, had been very diligent in spite of her shyness. Certainly, in retrospect, she'd had a talent for handling Alex because not once had he complained about her intrusion into his life. Considering the way he valued his privacy, that fact in itself was remarkable. And in the end, weakened, he must have come to pity her, deciding that she deserved a chance to have her little life continue.

But the fact that he'd risk himself and his possibilities for an inconsequential child

And he'd involved his mother somehow--when would that have happened? And why would she have helped him, other than out of feelings of maternal guilt and the desperate hope that this shocking son who'd reappeared so suddenly in her life might be something other than a monster at heart. It would have proved a ready avenue for placating her troubled conscience.

So he'd left it to his mother to tuck the girl away somewhere.

The risk--the gamble--of Alex had always seemed to be in the places they overlapped: two ambitious, strong-minded men, each determined to stand on the mountain peak of control in a space that would hold only one. The threat of betrayal had been present ever since Alex had reached adulthood, but as a means of Alex gaining position for himself. But this--serious errors in judgment, the willingness to sacrifice himself for no gain and to further display that weakness in front of his mother; his focus on an inconsequential life and the attendant danger of absorption in the petty, leaving the larger picture to play out at random...

It was more than just an aberrance, a blip in an otherwise predictable readout. It would have to be handled as the very grave matter it was.

 

 

The water was cold around her feet and legs. Tracy forced herself to watch the waves, but sometimes they overtook her before she saw them approaching.

In between.

In between something and nothing, or...

No, it would just be an end that way. 'At the end' wasn't what her mother had said. She was in between something and something else, a something she couldn't know until after she'd passed the portal and the gate had locked behind her. She shivered in the blackness. Another wave washed against her, strong, the sand streaming out dangerously from around her footing. She felt herself stumble.

A hand touched her elbow from behind, steadying her.

She turned to look but there was no one. She swallowed and looked forward again, eyes on the rising water.

Carefully she took a slight step back, testing. A warmth, almost indiscernible, settled near her shoulder. She closed her eyes and focused on the fleeting sensation.

 

 

A rustle of activity in the hallway and Slim got up quickly from the leather chair, quickly vanishing into the next room.  Krycek smiled grimly.  It was the old man coming.  Slim knew his place, alright.

He watched as the old man approached. Pseudo-casually he walked to the window, looked out into the trees and took a drag on his cigarette. He was trying to look like he had it all together but he didn't; there was a stiffness around his mouth, a calm that was a little too plastic.

And the hand that held the Morley was shaking.  The shit had hit the fan for sure.

After a moment he came around to his chair. Crossing one leg over the other, he reached for the ashtray on the table beside him.  Krycek tensed inside.

"Alex, if you... had some interest in seeing your mother, in knowing her..." His voice was calm but the hand continued to shake. "...you could have said something. Something could have been arranged, to avoid"--he waved the Morley in an arc--"this--this kind of dilemma." He cleared his throat. "I'm supposing, of course, that she didn't come to you."

The old man glanced at each of them in turn. Neither spoke.

"He must have told you beautiful lies, Teena, to draw you into this plan--a poor little servant girl you could help save from her fate. A fallen son showing some promise of rectitude. He's quite good at deception."

Stony silence.

"And you, Alex," the old man turned to him. "Going to this length to safeguard your... personal pleasures. The child didn't strike me as the type to yield to your necessities. Unless, of course, her willingness wasn't a consideration." The Morley waved in a small arc. "And see what it's gotten you? See what it's gotten your mother? But of course she was always expendable. Perhaps it was your way of getting back at her for--"

Anger boiled inside him but turned unexpectedly to laughter in his throat.. "That the best you can do, old man?"

More laughter followed--dangerous, satisfying laughter--until the old man, eyes bulging, gritted his teeth and the half-spent Morley dropped into his lap. He jumped up. The Morley hit the floor and he stomped at it, shaken. Half a second later an iron grip caught his neck from behind and white-hot pain shot through him, Slim forcing a pressure point until he screamed.

The old man shot him a look and nodded at Slim, whose hand retreated slightly. Krycek gasped and refocused from the shock of the short-circuiting pain. Fingers twisted themselves into the neckband of his shirt and tightened, yanking him hard against the chair back.

 

 

A hand on her shoulder pushed Teena into the room and the door was shut behind her. A second later a lock turned on the outside. A moment to compose herself and she turned to look toward her son, who was slumped in the leather chair. His eyes were closed. Just as well that he didn't see her this way, her fright and anger probably more than evident. It would serve no purpose to berate him, to lecture him on the danger he'd put himself in out in the living room in such a foolish clashing of male antlers. Possibly a danger not just to himself but to Fox as well; it would take the three of them working together to extricate themselves from Leland's clutches.

Alex grimaced and moved slightly in the chair, settling himself. What did she actually know of him beyond what he'd chosen to show her?

Teena went to the window and looked out to where blue-gray sky shone between the trees. What she knew of him for certain was... the fact that he'd brought Tracy to her to keep her safe, and the way he'd been with her, tender, obviously touched by what had grown between them. They were ridiculous, Leland's accusations. If Alex were as cold as that, he would have found Tracy quite as disposable as Leland had. But the girl...

She turned from the window. "Alex?"

He opened one eye.

"Are you alright?"

He raised an eyebrow and nodded toward a spot on the ceiling. "They're listening, you know."

She took the ottoman and dragged it to a spot beside the chair and sat down, her back to the place he'd pointed out. She leaned closer.

"I was afraid that man..."

"Hurts like hell but only for a few seconds." He turned slightly, using her face to block his own from the view of the camera. "It was worth it. He deserved that."

"Yes, but at what cost?"

She worked to swallow her frustration. Strangely, a smile crossed her face. "Yes, he did deserve it. When he dropped that cigarette--" She covered her mouth with her hand. "I've never seen him turn such an awful shade." She felt the smile gradually fade, replaced by the awareness of the chill of the room. The air conditioning had been running the entire time. "Alex, Fox will do his best for Tracy. He'll know to hide her. No matter what happens to the rest of us, at lest she'll be safe."

Something sharp shone momentarily in his eyes. He averted his gaze and the muscles in his throat seemed to tighten. His voice, when it came, was very dry.

"Something happened to her yesterday. She's in the hospital. I talked to Mulder last night. Wasn't looking good then and--" He paused, mouth open, then closed his eyes and turned abruptly away.

 

 

Scully listened to the echo of her boot heels on the floor and focused past the curious--or amused--stares of passersby in the hall. At least it was a tailored sweater she was wearing with her new jeans and not the blue top she'd worn on the plane, but it certainly wasn't the suit that announced 'professional' within the environs of the Bureau. Three weeks in Kentucky and it felt as if she'd been on a years-long absence from this familiar world.

"Agent Scully..."

"Agent Scully?"

"Agent Scully!"

The voices all expressed surprise. She'd been transferred to Quantico the last they'd heard and Mulder had been dismissed. The scene had an air of unreality to it, but she looked ahead, toward Skinner's office, and walked resolutely through the door.

"Agent Scully?" Skinner's secretary looked more surprised than the others. "We thought you were on a retreat. For a while there were rumors about your safety."

"Yes, I'm sure there have been any number of rumors circulating. But I'm back--temporarily. Frankly, my situation is urgent. I need to talk to him." She nodded toward the inner office. "Is he in?"

"Yes, but--"

"It's extremely urgent that I see him now."

The secretary started to stand but Scully was already at the inner door, knocking. At the sound of Skinner's voice in response, she opened the door and slipped inside.

"Scully?"

Skinner stood immediately. She crossed the room to greet him.

"I thought you were in hiding." He lowered his voice and looked around as if there might be someone else in the room, but it was empty except for the two of them. "I'd heard... What about your mother?"

"My mother's safe, sir. She's finally seeing progress, but when the Cancer Man couldn't get to her, he tracked down Mulder's mother. He's holding her in a house in Reston as we speak. He's expecting Mulder to show up at National in two hours to exchange himself for her."

Skinner scowled.

"Sir, I know the reality is... that you're under pressure here from the Cancer Man and his allies tucked away within the Bureau, but do you have anyone you know you can trust, even one or two people? We need help and it's imperative that we get it now. Mulder agrees that there'd be nothing to be gained by sacrificing himself, but we can't very well leave his mother a hostage, either. When Mulder doesn't show up in two hours, we believe his mother's life will be in serious danger. And I needn't tell you that Mulder's life and mine are at risk."

"I sympathize with your circumstances." He sighed. "I can probably come up with someone...But do you realize what you're saying here, Scully? Taking down the Smoking Man is like"--he shrugged helplessly--"attempting to vote God out of office."

"Or the devil, sir. I realize the odds appear to be against us... but sometimes things do turn around in the oddest twists of circumstances. We need to rescue Mulder's mother."

The corner of Skinner's mouth creased. "I barely got out of the Smoking Man's drug charge and he knows it. I've been skating a fine line between him and"--he grimaced--"Alex Krycek."

"We know, sir. Krycek is there, too." She paused. "But we believe he may be more hostage than captor at this point."

"What?"

"It's a long story, sir. But as far as that goes, you may score some points with him by aiding us."

Skinner sighed, walked to the window and looked out toward the Mall. "What is it you need, Agent? What's your exact situation?"

"The house is in a residential area surrounded by woods. The lots all appear to be several acres in size. The house is apparently one he keeps; we have the interior layout. It's a large, ranch-style house. We believe there are five people inside: the Smoking Man, Krycek, Mrs. Mulder and two guards. We've been warned that both the house and the surrounding property are wired."

 

 

Sandy studied the unmoving form in the bed beside her.  She was just a girl. She hadn't chosen the work she'd ended up with, taking care of the man who'd stolen her family away. It must have been scary, discovering what he and Mr. Thinks-He's-God were up to... and having nowhere else to go, no way to get away from it.  Until...

Sighing, she withdrew the hand that had been reaching toward the girl's pale arm.  Footsteps sounded in the hallway and Dr. Wykoff entered the room.

"I don't suppose she could know I'm here," Sandy said, coloring. It was shameful to blame the girl this way, for what had essentially been happenstance: her luck at coming out on Alex-the-Killer's good side.

"Hard to tell. But there's always that possibility. People have come out of comas knowing what conversations went on around them. And maybe that made a difference--knowing somebody was staying there, not giving up on them. There's only so much you can do for a failing body, but consciousness... sometimes it's a funny thing. The desire to live or not to, what might be going on inside there undetected when we get no significant readouts on the monitors..." He shrugged. "I guess the answer to your question is that there isn't really an answer, only possibilities." He have her an apologetic smile. "Wasn't much help, was I?"

"Yeah, you were." Slowly she reached out and touched Tracy's limp hand.

"I appreciate you coming, Sandra."

"I was gonna come anyway. In a way we've got a lot in common and..." She shrugged. "I guess I keep thinking, what if it was me? Or maybe I'm just thinking about the way Cy and Roddy went, out there all alone in that car. Nobody should be alone like that." She looked up. "Have you heard anything from Ben and Annie? Guess it's too early yet."

"Not yet. When I do, I'll let you know."

"I was so intimidated when Annie first came, you know? And then I got to know her and she's a regular person. A good person."

"Most folks are." Dr. Wykoff turned to go. "Now I've got some patients to go take care of but I've got old Mr. Jennings stationed out there by the soda machine. He's got a pretty sharp eye, but if you see anyone come in here, anyone at all unfamiliar, you holler if you have to, but you get help."

"Yes, sir."

Dr. Wykoff disappeared into the hallway. Sandy stood and leaned over the bed. She could see into people--into their minds, Ben said. Then she would have known, after Duncan's, everything that lay smoldering inside her, everything she hadn't put to words. As if the girl didn't have enough burdening her already.

Sandy took the brush from the bedside table and began to carefully brush Tracy's hair. It was a good cut, for whatever good it was going to do now.

"You hang in there, Tracy" she said softly. "Don't you give up."

 

 

"Now, Will..."

Rita was giving him the evil eye. The mother-authority eye.

"Your tactics aren't going to work, Mother J. I can do this."

"But Will..." Her hands went to her hips. She turned away and a moment later turned back. "I'm sorry. I'm just worried for you. I can't help it; it's built into me, I guess. I feel like I'm filling in for your mother." A sigh. "Now I know that's not what you wanted to hear." Her arms crossed in front of her. Her mouth pulled to one side.

"I know what you're doing--just looking out for me. But I also know you'd do the very same thing in my place. Look at that story you've got to tell about running through the hospital half-naked. Mrs. Rita Johnston, secret agent and grandmother-of-disguise extraordinaire." He grinned.

Rita frowned and then blushed. "I know I do these things. I think we're cut from the same cloth as far as that goes."

"It's no big strenuous thing. I didn't volunteer to go five rounds with Manny in the ring."

"Yes, but you've spent the last week barely able to make it from the bedroom to the couch. I know what it's supposed to be, Will--easy. It's the unforeseens that have me worried."

"Like having to sprint down that hospital hallway?" He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Who could have expected a short redhead who looked a little like Agent Scully to accidentally come into the room? If not for that, I might have just laid there very peaceful-like and made a more dignified exit in good time."

"Wouldn't have made nearly the tale later on."

She wagged a finger at him. "Did you smart off to your mother?"

He stifled a smile and sobered. "You know I just want to help out, Mother J. And I've got this disguise thing down cold. I know how to play it. Anyway, I'm the one with the trained prop, right?"

"Promise me you'll come out of this in one piece. You know I've lost enough men already, Will. I couldn't take another."

"I promise." He gave her a solemn look. "You know I wouldn't lie to you."

 

 

The word arrogant came to mind. As well as foolhardy and half a dozen much harsher adjectives. But no matter. Stewing over his shameless show would be just what Alex would enjoy the most.

Spender glanced down at his pants and the small, black-rimmed hole to the right of the fly. The jacket, buttoned, would cover it until they were finished here. Very much finished, the Mulder family chapter permanently closed.

Alex had laughed. Raucous, scornful, disrespectful laughter. Like a child with his tongue sticking out.

"Sir?"

A moment for composure and he turned around. The infuriating laughter remained, an echo in his head. "Yes?"

"The trace on Mulder's e-mail, sir. His connection was made from a phone in a place called... Owensburg, Kentucky. We've got the street address and resident's name, sir. It's here."

A piece of paper was held out to him. He took it, fingers still trembling slightly. "Thank you." A pause. "You may return to your duties."

He waited until the door closed to look up, then focused on the paper. Owensburg. So Mulder had returned to try to mine the secret of what was happening there, carrying on his little crusade for justice for the pitiful victims of overexposure, neglecting--as usual--the forest for the trees. And the...

Owensburg. And the girl had deplaned where? In Cincinnati, the same place where Alex had connected after his Owensburg assignment. Teena had...

He pulled a chair from the table and sat absently. Had Teena handed the girl off to Mulder and Scully? But why would she, already knowing the danger of their situation? Unless...

Why would Mulder even accept the girl from Alex, assuming Teena had been used as a go-between? It made no sense, and yet the girl had indeed gone from Alex to Teena to...

She could just as easily have remained in Cincinnati. There was no reason for her to have been sent to Mulder; the idea was ridiculous. Alex had always expressed scorn for Mulder's naiveté, his schoolboy idealism. And Mulder, for his part, was unlikely to cooperate--even in this apparent 'mission of mercy'--with the man who had killed his father.

Spender got up from the chair, went to the wall beside the swinging door and pushed back a folding curtain to reveal a bank of video monitors. On the upper left monitor Teena sat on the coffee table in the study, looking at the couch where Alex lay eyes-closed, covered with a blanket. He was still weak from his wound and he'd had no more than a couple of hours of sleep, if that. He should present very little physical threat. His mother, for her part, seemed to be drawn toward him as a Virgin Mary in an Italian pieta. Undoubtedly he'd made an overture to her at some time, wanting... wanting what? Her approval, her...?

It was incomprehensible. What had Alex found lacking that he'd gone searching for in the woman who'd given him up at birth? What would bring forth in him more need than anger? On the screen, Alex shifted abruptly.  Teena rose, leaned over him and smoothed a hand over his shoulder. Her lips moved; Alex settled again and Teena returned to her seat on the coffee table.

Turning from the monitors, Spender made his way to the sink, pulling the cell phone from his pocket. His thumb traced a pattern of numbers and he lifted the phone to his ear.

"Yes. I'd like you to add another element to your search. A teenaged girl--a priority, actually. There's a possibility she may be there, in Owensburg somewhere, tucked away." He paused, listening to the party on the other end. "It's a small town. Undoubtedly a new face would be noticed. Check on it. If she's there I want you to bring her here at once... Yes. Alert me as soon as you know anything."

He pressed the 'off' button and slipped the phone back inside his coat pocket. A beeping sounded from the alarm above the door, followed by hurried footsteps in the hallway. The door was pushed open.

"I'm on it, sir. It appears to be just a dog out in the woods behind. It's happened before."

The door closed again and the footsteps faded, followed by the sound of a deadbolt turning and a door being opened and then closed.

 

 

There was no moon. Only the pinprick light of a few stars shone on the black, fluid surface. He reached into the swell around him, groping. She'd grazed his shin before. Or something had. The swell rose suddenly, sending a cold splash of salty water into his mouth. He spit, then spit again and reached out. There: an arm. He pulled, dipped down, lifted; she was light, as if she hadn't been below the surface. Her dress was dry but she was limp. They were in the rocking chair now, in the dark, the little heater going in front of them. She was warmer but her eyes were the eyes she'd had in the hospital when he'd chewed her out for walking all the way to get to him, when she'd read him writing the e-mail to squeeze Buzz. No matter what he thought to her there was no reply, as if she were a rag doll with stitched-open eyes. Then she was curling toward him--response finally--and...

A buzzer sounded, cutting through the dream.

"Alex?"

He blinked. His mother shook his shoulder.

"Alarm," he managed. "Probably the yard." He pointed toward the window.

He blinked again and pulled up. His head was thick and dazed. His stomach...

He put his feet on the floor and stood, leaning at first, taking a step to one side to avoid tripping. His mother was at the window, looking out. He dodged the corner of the table, went around the ottoman and came up behind her. Set his hand firmly on her shoulder. "Go. Get on the couch," he said quietly.

She turned and did as he said without a word.

"Dog," he said, watching the scene beyond the window. "Out there between the trees. Stray or something." Or maybe not a stray. He glanced at his watch. 10:15. The timing was right. A slow, thick wave of adrenaline rolled through him. He opened himself to it and turned. The look was in her eye. She knew.

"Alex--"

Her voice was dry; her hand stretched toward him. He went to the couch, reached; she pressed something into his palm and squeezed slightly. He nodded acknowledgement and tucked the earring deep into his pocket.

 

 

Slim secured the back door behind him and strode out among the trees. A cocker spaniel moved through the layers of fallen leaves that covered the ground, stopping at one, and then another, to lift his leg.

"Hello there," a voice sang out. An animal control officer--black man--approached from the property behind. Slim glanced back quickly to where the dog was making his way around the side of the house. The uniformed man came closer, apparently in little hurry.

"Sorry about the intrusion," the man said. "This guy's had us running before. Has a rich, doting owner who's worried sick. Little guy's getting older, though. He won't get far, though he's still got a serious case of wanderlust." A pause and he pointed. "Went around to the right, didn't he?"

"Yeah. Toward the street." Slim fell in stride with the uniformed man and they rounded the corner of the house.

"Looks like rain. Hope it holds off 'til I get this guy around to my truck. I'm parked on the back street. You mind if I walk back the way I came? It'll save me a quarter mile."

Slim grunted in reply and looked ahead. The dog had skirted the ivy and the junipers and was heading toward a panel van he'd noticed earlier parked across the street, one that bore checking out, now that he thought about it.

He strode slightly ahead. The dog's paws showed beneath the far side of the van. The animal seemed to have stopped for something. A glance to the left and right--no cars--and across. Dog was still there; maybe there was a hydrant... if he had anything left to spray on it. White Ford Econoline 250 with Delaware plates, NTW 586. And there was the little mutt, by the driver's side tire, sniffing at...

Strong hands grabbed him and yanked him backward toward the van's open sliding door. His hand went for his holster but was immediately pushed away and twisted behind him. A man appeared in front of him, a slight grin cutting through what had been grimness a fraction of a second before.

"Thanks for the loan," he said, pulling the weapon from its holster and holding it up for inspection. "They took mine a month ago and never gave it back. Can't understand it."

Slim was turned and pushed into the van. A small, red-haired woman with lips pressed firmly together tore a length of duct tape from a roll and secured it across his mouth. Handcuffs bit into his wrists from behind.

 

 

His blood felt like jello pumping through his veins, thick and quavering. A diversion: Slim was being lured off... and secured, if they were smart. A mode of entry, a start.  But they'd need to disable--

Krycek turned from the abstract of greens and grays outside the window. "You cold?"

His mother looked at him curiously and then caught the tip-off in his expression. "Y...Yes, actually. The room's been quite chilly."

"Thought it was just me. Let's close those registers." He gestured to one low on the wall beside the lamp table; his mother went toward it. "Make sure it's tight or it's not going to do much good."

He went to the couch, stood on the end cushion, wobbled, caught himself and reached up to close the overhead vent. The damn thing was stuck. A sharp stinging bit him, the adjustment lever cutting into his fingertip as he jabbed at it again. The louvers folded and went tight--as tight as they were going to get, anyway. He stepped down, sucked the beading blood from the end of his finger and went to his mother, still bent over the lower register.

"Mulder's going to try something to disable the defenses here." He spoke quietly, close. "They could shoot, they could use some kind of gas. You hear any kind of shot, you hit the floor." She nodded. "Keep low to the ground; stay on the couch. If it's something that knocks you out, you won't fall. If your eyes start to sting, don't rub them. Go for the window and open it; breath slowly and don't panic."

There was muted terror in her eyes. He squeezed her shoulder and straightened.

The lock on the far side of the door clicked, the deadbolt sliding back. A moment later the door swung open and the old man came through, followed by his driver. The old man was trying to look casual but he'd sniffed something in the wind. Daryl Silver must have been sacked out in a bedroom somewhere; he looked half asleep, shirt wrinkled, fingers testing his grip on his weapon as if he wasn't quite feeling it yet.

"I believe I'll join your little... family circle... for a few moments." The old man nodded toward him--smugness mixed with a dose of uneasiness--and sat down in the leather chair. "Oh, Mr. Silver."

Daryl went to the old man's chair and leaned close. They exchanged a few muted words and Daryl left, closing the door behind him.

"I see you two have found the temperature a little less than inviting." He nodded toward Teena. "Would you mind getting a towel from the bathroom and wedging it in below the door. Drafts can prove very unhealthy."

Teena hesitated, then pushed forward.

"I'll do it."

"No, Alex. I'd like your mother to. After all, you've overextended yourself already. We wouldn't want to"--he smiled--"compromise your health." He pulled a fresh Morley from his pocket and waved it toward the couch. "Sit."

Krycek bit the inside of his lip, moved to the couch and sat down on the edge of the end cushion. He eased himself back, stomach knotted, and watched his mother emerge from the bathroom and stoop down near the door to wedge the towel underneath. She worked quickly, her fingers fumbling slightly, and returned to the couch where she seated herself at the opposite end.

"I've located your little housekeeper, Alex. Someone should be bringing her back shortly. You've been so helpful to her, I'm sure she'll be overjoyed to see you again."

It was a lie, the old man just looking to shake him up.

The old man cupped one hand slightly around the end of the cigarette, lit it and took a drag. He was watching, the old man was, watching the both of them, waiting, his free hand poised carefully around the arm of the chair. Where the hell had Daryl gone? If the old man suspected something, if he made any countermoves, Mulder would think he'd been set up. Anyway, Mulder would be coming for his mother. There was no guarantee he'd be any consideration himself. The militia raid revisited: a smack in the face and thanks for the tip, SOB.

Two drops short of bone dry.

Anticipation seemed to give the silence a kind of movement, like a wall full of bugs in a horror movie, the kind of thing to drive you up the wall. His mother sat staring at her hands in her lap, the old man took another drag on his Morley, but it was a short drag and he held the cigarette tautly. He glanced out the window once and returned his focus to the door, as if he expected someone to come bursting through. Every few seconds his mother would shift and open her mouth as if she were trying to think of something to say to make conversation, anything to get past the throbbing silence.

An abrupt shattering of glass in the front of the house was followed by the crashing of a second pane. Krycek leaned to the stump side, reached and pulled his mother down in front of him. Whatever it was, it had to be canisters of something; there was too much glass breaking for bullets. A shout came from the direction of the living room, then silence. The old man gritted his teeth, leaned forward stiffly and pointed the barrel of his weapon at the two of them.

"I believe it's time we lined ourselves up," he said, gesturing with the gun barrel, "though your positions seem quite apparent already. Teena, I'd like you to come sit here, on the ottoman in front of me." A pause. "Come. It's no more difficult than sitting for a family portrait."

Reluctantly, his mother straightened, trembling, got slowly up and went around the coffee table. She pulled the ottoman to where he indicated and sat, one hand gripping the edge of the cushion.

"Alex, I'd like you over here." He gestured to his right. "Oh, and think very carefully about any further action. I might get jumpy and we wouldn't want any... accidents." The gun was pointed at his mother.

Krycek got up and stood to the old man's right--the side where he had no arm, where he would be useless against him. His right hand man: it's the message he'd be sending as Mulder entered the room.

And if Mulder bought it?

 

 

The gravity of confronting the Smoking Man had concerned me since the moment Mulder woke me with the news of his mother's capture. It was almost like choosing to invade the stronghold of Satan himself. Even if he were captured in the process of the rescue, experience had taught us that the Cancer Man would inevitably evade justice and quickly return to his position of influence, striking down, in the process, anyone who had been known to help us. I was concerned about the logistics of our plan, the necessity of keeping it small and not drawing in others unnecessarily, about the effect our lack of sleep could have on our ability to react quickly. Above all, I was worried for Mulder, both for how he might react and for the effect this would have on him if we were unsuccessful. But despite the risks, not making the attempt to rescue Mulder's mother was out of the question.

I'd considered our logistical options during our flight to Washington. Since we couldn't approach the house without being detected, the personnel inside would have to be immobilized in some way from a distance, either by tear gas or some agent that would render them unconscious. Then our entry could be made with relatively little risk. Skinner had loaned us a sharpshooter and a communications expert, men he knew would have no possible ties to the Smoking Man. The Gunmen's period of observation had revealed that, in addition to the Smoking Man, Teena Mulder and Krycek, the house held two bodyguards. Will Wilkins had offered himself and his dog Ralph to stage a distraction that should arouse little suspicion.

Now we had the one guard, the gas canisters had been fired, our two loaned agents had approached and verified the body of the remaining guard lying unconscious in the living room. I had promised Skinner that Mulder and I would make the entry ourselves in order to protect the identity of the agents he'd loaned us. Finally, our preparations made, Mulder and I, flak jackets and gas masks in place, approached the entry. An 'all clear' was radioed to us by our two agents who were watching the perimeter of the property.

As I reached the door, a question that had been sitting in the shadows of my mind suddenly came to the forefront. If I were to come across the Smoking Man immobilized, would I leave him there to be taken away, or would I--could I--shoot him and end the threat he posed to so many innocent lives? Was I capable of pulling the trigger and dispatching an unconscious man? Or would I leave the man ultimately responsible for my sister's murder and my own abduction to be dealt with by what common consensus had determined to be justice, a justice that had been the cornerstone of my own career and beliefs, but which held little practical hope of confining him?

Was I capable of stepping outside the law? Did I want that capability? In the end, could it be justified?

And what would Mulder do?

 

 

"Hey, Scully..." Mulder gestured and watched as she approached through the haze of the hallway. "This looks like it. There's a lock on the outside of the door." His voice sounded odd to him, contained within the mask.

"Apparently he's in the habit of holding people here." A pause. The intensity in her eyes questioned him. "Are you ready?"

He paused, nodded and reached for the deadbolt with his bandaged hand. There was a noise--a door behind them opening--a sudden gasp from Scully, a jostling where his hand was smacked against the wall and something was shoved hard against his ribs from behind.

"Don't even breathe."  The words were spoken--snarled--close to his ear.

The hand throbbed but he didn't dare move to rub it. He turned around far enough around to see a tall figure behind them, gas mask in place. A second gun was pointed at the back of Scully's head. Hard eyes gestured toward the door.

They knew. Scully'd mentioned the possibility of Krycek setting them up, but... Maybe it was just stars in Tracy's eyes that had made her see the kind of loyalty in Krycek that she thought he had.

"Weapons on the floor."

The gun was moved from his ribs. Mulder stepped back from the wall, bent down slowly, set his weapon on the floor and pushed it carefully out of range with his foot. He watched Scully do the same, her mouth a thin, tight line. She'd be scared shitless but her mind would be working overtime, looking for an opportunity; she was nothing if not determined. Just don't do anything heroic, Scully, the way you did in your apartment, shooting Krycek while he held a knife to your throat.

"Open it. Open it and move in quickly, both of you. I'd just as soon pull off your masks right here, but he wants you coherent. Go."

Mulder reached for the door handle, paused to glance at Scully, opened the door quickly and stepped inside. Scully was rushed in next to him. They were pushed forward and the gunman closed the door behind him. Smoky sat waiting in a chair facing them, a pistol aimed at his mother, who was seated wide-eyed on a leather ottoman in front of the old son of a bitch. Krycek stood to Smoky's right, looking like he was ready to bolt if only he knew which way to go.

"Thank you, Mr. Silver." Smoky turned. "Alex, would you open the windows?"

Krycek moved to one window and then a second, working latches and sliding panes of glass to the side. He wasn't wearing the prosthesis; the rounded end of his stump showed just below the sleeve of his T-shirt.

"Check these two, Alex, for any extra weapons."

Krycek stepped up to Scully, paused, patted her down; she had nothing, anyway. He turned to Mulder and repeated the process. There was something, just faintly, in his expression, but Smoky's goon was watching him.

"They're going to miss us out there in a minute," Mulder started, looking at Smoky. His mother's eyes were full of pain and emotion. "They'll call for backup."

"Not if you assure them you're alright. Alex, does he have a radio?"

"Yeah."

"Tell them you're alright, Fox. That you'll be out presently." A pause and the gun was moved closer to his mother's head.

Mulder glared and set his jaw. Krycek held out the radio he'd taken from his belt. One eyebrow rose slightly. Mulder switched the unit on and hesitated. "Yeah, we're... we're okay in here. We found 'em. We're just checking a few things... Yeah, let him know we're fine." His mouth remained open. The radio was taken from him and switched off.

"Cozy little gathering we have here," Smoky started, pulling a cigarette carefully from his pocket and gesturing for Alex to light it. He took a drag. "Though I must say I'm... appalled"--his eyes grew hard--"by the ingratitude of the lot of you. I've looked out for your safety..." He nodded toward Mulder. "I kept you from being harmed by... certain elements who saw no profit in your remaining alive." He turned to Scully. "I had you returned to your partner after your mysterious disappearance four years ago. I held your life in my hands three years later... think of it--life or death, an incalculable responsibility... And I chose to save you with a miraculous gift of alien technology when you were at death's door."

"I was at death's door because of you in the first place."

"And this is the thanks I get." A gesture of incomprehension with his free hand, followed by a short puff on the Morley. "And Teena, after safeguarding your daughter, bargaining at great personal cost with the aliens to have her returned--"

Mulder's heart pounded.

"You don't even know what happened to her, old man. You said so yourself." It was Krycek.

"You, Alex." Smoky turned sharply, though his gun remained trained on his mother's back. "You most of all. I raised you, trained you, groomed you, and after all is said and done--"

"Whatever you did, you did for yourself."

"Like Dr. Vanek's private little research program at Beeson-Lymon, huh?" Mulder took a step forward. "Three little kids used as guinea pigs for a private vaccine program to save your sorry ass when they come." He stumbled suddenly, yanked back by the collar. "Maybe if you didn't use children like... things... or appoint yourself god to end the lives of innocent, pregnant girls--"

Smoky leaned forward. His eyes went wide, giving away what his mouth stubbornly refused to acknowledge. He hadn't known. He hadn't realized Krycek had handed Tracy off to them.

The hand on the back of his neck tightened. "You want me to take care of 'em, sir?"

Smoky worked to control himself. He looked like he'd eaten hot chili peppers on a dare and had no glass of water to quench the fire. "No, Mr. Silver. These people have found such... fulfillment... in helping each other, I believe they might prefer it if we let them continue to do so. Alex, you seem to have become very fond of your mother, trying to... shelter her from danger, and pain. I don't believe we'll find Fox Mulder schooled enough in this line of practicality to be of the proper assistance." He nodded to the guard. "Mr. Silver, hand Alex one of your weapons."

Mulder swallowed. Beside him, Scully stood with fingers curled tightly into her palms. Without Billy-the-Kid-in-a-suit she'd be all over the old son of a bitch like a Doberman.

Silver went closer to Krycek and held out a pistol. Krycek made no move to take it.

"Take it, Alex."

"Uh-uh."

Smoky frowned, his patience wearing thin. "Alex, either you do your mother this favor, use your... carefully honed talents and make it easy for her... or I can find someone else to do the job more slowly. Mr. Silver here, for example, hasn't nearly the accuracy you have."

The gun was offered again. Krycek remained motionless; only his lips twitched slightly.

Smoky leaned forward.

"I'll do it myself." His mother's voice was dry, trembling but indignant. "I won't have my blood on someone else's hands, certainly not one of my children's."

Smoky stopped short. His eyes widened and after a moment he gave a shrug. "Mr. Silver..."

The gun was held out to her. Teena reached toward it and hesitated, looking at Mulder, and at Scully beside him.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to come around, Fox."

Mulder opened his mouth but nothing came out.

"Alex." She turned to him. "I'm so glad you found me. And that you had this time with Tracy." She swallowed, set her jaw and reached for the weapon Silver held out. It was starting to hit Smoky, what she'd said about Krycek--what it meant.

"I'll do it." Krycek stepped forward and put out his hand. Silver glanced at Smoky, who hesitated and finally nodded.

"Stick to your task, Alex. Mr. Silver has you in his sights. Mulder, Scully, I believe you'll want to move to the side." He waved them to the left.

It was what they'd done in the camps, Mulder thought: made you watch while they shot your friends and family. Eyes open or you joined them. But what was there to be done, either then or now, here, Silver and Smoky both with weapons ready? And Krycek, always playing the most practical option, switching with every turn of the winds of circumstance...

Mulder was pushed to the left, mouth open, heartbeat maddeningly slowed. Scully bumped up against him, her fingers finding his and squeezing briefly. Samantha--what was all that about Samantha?--and the air was thin, hard to breath, and the corners of Krycek's mouth were twitching, barely perceptible, as he raised the weapon, hand shaking slightly, his finger beginning to stretch the trigger taut.

 

 

If this plays out badly, nena, know I didn't mean to mess up and leave you alone.

 

 

The rock was slick with wet sea moss. Alex had inched his way up more than once, but every time he thought he had a toehold and tugged on her hand to bring her up, the weight of her body pulled him down again into the rising waves.

Unless he climbed higher, he'd never survive. But she could swim. She could float right in to him when he was at the top, safe, and the tide had risen. Not so long; it would just be a little while waiting in the swirling water, buoyed, floating. But he had to be free to climb. Holding on too tightly: wasn't it the warning of her mother's story?

He needed to climb.

She took a deep breath, paused and let go of his hand.

 

 

The report from the gun filled her. Teena felt her face against the floor, a ringing in her ears and noise, confusion--the sounds of scuffling. Blinking hard, she forced her eyes open and found herself confronting the beige landscape of the carpet.

A shout and a groan. The banging of something against the wall. She looked up to see Fox and Dana wrestling on the floor with the man Silver, Fox struggling one-handed with one of the man's arms, Dana scrambling to put a choke hold on him from behind. Silver swore and twisted; Dana's fist connected with the man's ear. He curled in pain and Fox forced him onto his side.

"Cuffs," he gasped, leaning hard against his opponent.

Dana gulped a breath of air and scrambled to her knees, pulling a pair of handcuffs from a pocket. Together they rolled the man onto his stomach and applied the restraints.

Teena's arm ached. She was lying on her side. The sound of breathing--panting--surrounded her, but it wasn't her own breathing. Carefully she eased herself onto her stomach and pulled up to her knees. Alex lay on his back beside her, wide-eyed, his hand pressed against his side, red leaking out from between his fingers. He tilted his head back to look behind him, questioning. Leland lay face down on the floor, a pool of blood haloing his head. She watched his back a long moment. There was no movement of any kind.

"He's gone, Alex."

"Mom?"

Fox stood above her, offering his hand, a dazed expression on his face. She took the hand stretched toward her and let him pull her up.

"Fox, are you both--?"

She looked down at Leland, motionless finally. After a  moment her vision slipped out of focus, the picture in front of her transforming itself into a dark abstract shape on beige with a red circular accent. Her arm throbbed; the scene around her was oddly unreal and distant and she found herself breathing in time with Alex's pained rhythm. Dana was kneeling over him now, asking for towels; Fox disappeared and reappeared with several from the bathroom. Flesh wound, Dana was saying a moment later. The bullet had only grazed him.  Mr. Silver had indeed been the poor shot Leland claimed him to be.

Teena glanced up and out the window. It was the middle of the day, a time when friends might meet for lunch, but a moment somehow torn from time, unrelated to the lives any of them lived. Raindrops pattered lightly against the glass.

Alex had turned away to face the window but his hand came up, bloody, and reached toward her. She took it and found her eyes drawn once again to Leland's motionless form.

 

 

In the formless darkness she felt herself distended, transparent, weightless. Solitary but not alone, neither warm nor cool. The sound of her breathing filled her, as if she were submerged in the all-absorbing quiet of tepid water. It would come, the current that would take her and draw her along its path as it always had. There was only the waiting.

Just the waiting.

Twice he'd asked her to sing. Her muscles contracted, straining to find her voice, and she began to hum.

 

 

My first thought as I watched Smoky's plan unfold was that we were all going to die here, Scully and I and my mother and maybe even Krycek; he wasn't pretending to buy Smoky's ego-stroking logic about how he'd been the salvation of our collective lives. I didn't see any way out--not any more than the people in the camps had had any real alternative to watching their friends and families being mowed down.

And yet I wondered now whether it was the situation itself or my hatred of Smoky that had paralyzed me. If the gun had been in my hand, would I have shot my mother? Would I have seen no other way out than to try to make it easy on her, or on Scully? One thing I knew as I looked at Smoky making his final display on the floor, and my mother and Scully bent over an injured Krycek: I wouldn't have been able to pull off what Krycek had just done, whether from lack of the skill he'd honed on too many victims, or from scruples or whatever reason--or justification--I could come up with.

Rage: that was what filled me even more than fear just before the gun went off, rage at Smoky's smugness and his perennial manipulation. I probably would have included Krycek in that, too--told myself he'd taken the gun in a last-ditch, kiss-ass attempt to save himself.

But it hadn't played out that way, and trying to twist the logic now would only shine the light back on me. Who knew why he'd done it, knowing he had one chance in a hundred of coming out of it alive. Maybe he didn't know himself. Maybe one in a hundred looked a lot better than dead for sure. Maybe it was the need to connect with Tracy again, though he'd know there were no guarantees there; he'd been given the facts, and whatever else he was, Krycek wasn't the type to delude himself. The fact remained, though, after the shot and the shock and the scuffle with Smoky's driver, that though Krycek had killed my father and nearly killed Scully, he'd now saved what remained of both families. Even Maggie's rescue had depended on the tips he'd given.

Smug old Smoky. He didn't seem so smug anymore, lying there in a spreading pool of his own blood. He'd always carried an air of immortality, of somehow being immune to the risks everyone else faced--the devil incarnate looking down and smirking at your vulnerability. Now he reminded me of the Wizard of Oz, the curtain unexpectedly pulled back, his god-image stripped away beyond recall. Or Hitler. He must have seemed this way dead, the observer open-mouthed that he had proved, in the end, to be no more than a work of flesh and bone.

 

 

I'd been attempting, however inadequately, to prepare myself for what seemed to be the inevitable, the outrage of an abysmally deficient man savoring the prospect of eliminating an entire family. Though I was terrified, more than concern for my own end, I felt for Mulder and what he would have to face here, however briefly, and the gross injustice of a single life, the chance marriage of genetic material and human circumstance, that could hold other lives in the way the Smoking Man did, as if he were a giant's child grasping at insects, inspecting them with curiosity and then calmly pulling off the legs.

The action, when it came, was so completely unexpected that for a moment I stood there dazed, not comprehending what had happened, though I'd seen the gun barrel turn and fire at Smoky. As if in complete silence the scenario replayed in my head: Krycek firing, then buckling as Silver's bullet hit him, and the Smoking Man dropping almost simultaneously, probably dead already, not even struggling, eyes wide. By then Mulder was moving and I was aware that Silver needed to be immobilized and that Mulder couldn't do it alone with an injured hand. By the time Silver had been handcuffed, the reality still hadn't sunk in: that the man who had probably ordered my abduction, who had brought trauma and tragedy to the families of countless innocent women who had been taken for experimentation, was dead, never to take another victim.

I stared at the figure on the floor. There was the gurgle of air escaping the body, the final note of a life process having ceased, and the room seemed to come into focus again, motion and sound to resume. In front of me Teena Mulder knelt over Alex Krycek, not as one victim over another but as mother over son. I glanced at Mulder, who stood watching beside me; I had no idea what was running through his mind. Then I was being called. There was first aid to be administered to the man who was the sole reason any of us were still alive, and I made my way to where Krycek lay on the carpet and bent down to determine the extent of his injuries.

If I were asked to perform Smoky's autopsy, I would plead a lack of professional distance from the case. There were others qualified to perform the necessary physical examination. Under no circumstances would I touch the body of that despicable man.

 

 

His side hurt like hell--the other side this time--but at least it wouldn't be a rerun of the last three weeks. Or would that be so bad?

"How is she, Scully?"

Scully's eyes were on her work, cleaning the wound. She was careful but thorough, her lips pressed tight as if she could hold whatever she was feeling in behind them and keep it from spilling out into the open. Strange to see her this close: the eyes, the details of her face. The old man was dead and as a reward for ridding the world of him, they'd be carting him off now, pressing charges for his past crimes. How would they live with themselves if they didn't?

"You were very lucky, Krycek." Scully wiped a few scattered beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of a bloody hand. "An inch or so to the right and there could have been serious internal damage, like--" She stopped abruptly. Like the other side, the hole she'd made herself.

Mulder'd call in the cavalry. They'd want to haul him in, but--

"Scully, how is she?"

She'd need the support, to be held or rocked or... anything just to know she wasn't alone. She'd said that up on the roof once--that she was so tired of being alone.

Scully refocused on him. She looked as dazed as Mulder or his mother, as dazed as he felt himself, as if the world had suddenly stopped spinning and everything had gone silent.

Krycek tipped his head back and nodded toward Mulder. "He said you were there with her last night."

She paused and nodded. "Yes. Actually, I was there until we left this morning to come here."

"How's she doing?"

Her lips went together again. She looked past him and the corner of her mouth wavered before she had a chance to pull it tight. Not a good sign.

"Dr. Wykoff took the baby last night. We were hoping it would take the strain off her, so she could fight this more effectively, whatever it is. We haven't been able to determine, actually, what's attacking her. Her body just seems to be shutting down. None of our tests has shown anything recognizable that we can fight, though we do have her on anti-virals." A swallow. "She was put on a ventilator about five-thirty this morning. I wish there were something more positive to say."

His eyes closed. After a moment Scully went back to her work, bandaging the wound. His damn arm was shaking again; he wasn't even using it and the shimmy was there. Stomach was raw and aching. Eyes were burning. The stump was...

A hand smoothed across his forehead and rested there a moment. He opened his eyes.

"You're running a fever, Krycek. When was the last time you ate anything, or slept?"

"Yesterday." He shrugged. "Afternoon. I ate... something, I don't know--don't remember. Was about to call it a night when he came along." He nodded toward the old man's body. "That's why I didn't call back. Slept an hour maybe, a while ago--"

"Forty-five minutes," Teena said. She was sitting on the couch with Mulder. Mulder was probing her arm carefully with his fingertips.

"You hurt it?" Krycek asked, pulling up slightly.

Scully's hand coaxed him back down again. "Lie still." Her voice was quiet, not the pissed-and-in-a-hurry tone she'd always had before.

"It hurts. Dana can check it when she's finished with you. I don't believe it's broken, though."

They were going to haul him off.

"Scully, will you find out how she's doing?"

She was tearing off lengths of tape now, securing the bandage in place. "Yes. As soon as I'm through here."

He closed his eyes. Careful fingers smoothed the tape against his skin. A moment later his head was lifted and a cushion was placed under it.

Ventilator. It was a bad sign.

Scully's footsteps moved away. He could hear her at the bathroom door and then she was closing it. Mulder was talking quietly to his mother. Their mother. Must be a real shaker for him, walking in on this: Mulder the ever-faithful son and mom hanging onto Alex-come-lately.

Beyond the door he could hear Scully pushing phone buttons, dialing. He swallowed and felt a thin seal of water spread across his closed lids.

 

 

Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside and stopped in the doorway. Sandy turned to look.

"They made me talk to Dr. Tim," Bethy said, one hand against the door frame. "He said I could come in if it was okay with you."

Sandy stood and went toward her. "I forgot they don't usually let kids in. Guess it's been longer than I realized since I was little." She gave the girl a hug and felt herself embraced in return, a hug full of strength, as if the gesture had come from a parent and not a child.

"I told him she's been staying with Uncle Dale and me," Bethy said. "I said she's kind of like my big sister, even though she hasn't been here very long." She glanced past Sandy to the bed and then back again, her eyes serious. "I wasn't lying."

"I know you weren't, punkin."

The girl's face lit up suddenly. "Grammy's coming home tomorrow. I talked to her on the phone. I was at Karen's house," she added after a pause. "Ben said we're not supposed to be at home now."

"I heard."

"Can I see her now, Sandy?"

"She won't be able to see or talk to you, you know."

Bethy nodded solemnly. "Dr. Tim told me."

"But Ben said sometimes they can tell you're there, anyway. He said it happened to Annie once."

Bethy nodded and started toward the bed. She paused by the railing, considering the pale figure laid out there. Tentatively she reached out to smooth a soft hand along Tracy's arm.

"I meant that about sisters," she said. "Did you ever wish you had one, Sandy?"

"A sister?"

Bethy nodded.

"Kinda. Sometimes they don't get along so well, though. Look at Myra and Mandy Werner. They're always at each other like cats fighting."

"Uh-huh. But when Tracy came... That night I woke up, and she was there on the couch, and she peeked over the edge and saw me and told me to come, and I did and we sat there and talked and talked. It was like... getting a present. Like she wasn't a stranger but somebody I already knew--you know, like somebody who's come back from a long trip and you're glad to see them again."

Sandy smoothed a hand over the girl's shoulder. "There's one more thing you can help do for her, punkin, besides just being here close. Did you see where Mr. Cunningham is sitting out there next to the soda machine?"

Bethy nodded.

"Well, he's watching, because the somebody who started all this mess, he might want to hurt Tracy, too, and we're not gonna let him. If Mr. Cunningham sees anyone who's not from around here poking around, or asking about her--"

"Or Mrs. Peltier? She's out in the lobby pretending to read old magazines she's already read."

"Dr. Wykoff put her there?"

Bethy nodded.

"Lordy." A pause. "Okay, but if somebody should get past them, and you see somebody looking in, or asking about Tracy, somebody you've never seen before..."

 

 

Scully slipped the bathroom door open several inches. Krycek was lying eyes-closed on the floor where she'd left him; he showed no sign of having heard the door open. Mulder looked up. She gestured to him, slipped back inside and turned to stare at the opaque glass in the small window. Her lips pressed together. She swallowed as he came through the door and closed it behind him. His voice was quiet.

"What?"

Her mouth opened and then her lips came together again and wavered slightly. She fought them into straightness.

"Skinner's on his way," she began, turning to him. "I just talked to him."

He nodded, waiting. "But that's not what you called me in here for."

"No." She looked at the floor tiles and then at the pile of bloody towels tossed beside the sink. Up at him finally. "How are you doing, Mulder?"

He shrugged. "The world just turned inside out, we all nearly got killed and then didn't. Got saved by the world's least likely guy. And my mother's trying to split herself between two kids who've"--he looked toward the bright glass in the window and sucked in his lower lip--"who've never had any use for each other."

She nodded and set a hand on his arm. "It seems they know something about your sister."

"Yeah, I noticed. She hasn't offered and it doesn't seem like the time to push. We just keep dancing around it." He paused. "How about you, Scully? How are you doing?"

"I--" Her hands went up. "We're alive, and I'm grateful, and the Smoking Man is never going to terrorize anyone again. And Alex Krycek seems to have demonstrated something of"--a sigh--"what Tracy..." Her mouth wavered.

"It's Tracy."

"Yes."

"What'd he say, Scully?"

"That"--she made herself breath out--"she's been virtually non-responsive since we left this morning. And that she's showed no brain activity of any kind for the past half-hour." She swallowed against the pressure in her throat. "It's possible for the situation to reverse--"

"But it's not common."

"No."

She let out a ragged breath. A pause and warm arms reached out to envelope her. Gradually she let herself loosen and lean into him. "Mulder, I... I'm as shocked--as overwhelmed--as you are about what happened out there. But I have to say that kneeling over Krycek with a wound in his side and blood on the carpet... it was just too close to--"

"...your apartment three weeks ago?"

"Yes." She looked up and took a step back. "And yet he's shown something... Mulder, his first words were--"

"To ask about her. I know."

"Mulder, how am I going to tell him this? That he took this incredible risk, and after all that, she's..." She took a step toward the window and ran a finger along the ledge. "Technically she's a Jane Doe. We really know nothing about any family she may have, or her exact age for that matter. And the state of Kentucky isn't going to pay for heroic measures to keep her body going."

"I don't think she'd want to live like that, Scully."

"No, I don't, either." She moistened her lips. "There's one other thing, Mulder. Tell me if I'm crazy."

"What?"

"He's going to want to go there, to see her, and frankly... I think he should. Even if this only ends up being about unhooking her from life support. Perhaps then most of all. I think she'd want him to be there." She swallowed. "I guess I keep thinking about my sister, too, about missing her by those few hours, and wishing I'd been there for her. I think for Tracy's sake... I know they're going to want to hold him, and I'd be perfectly willing to be responsible, to have him released into my custody--"

The phone in her pocket rang. She reached for it and switched it on.

"Yes. Yes, thank you very much." She pressed the power button and looked up. "Skinner's here. They've cleared the rest of the rooms as safe now. I think we should put Krycek in another room before we get a team in here. He's exhausted and running a fever, and--"

"And this isn't going to help any."

"No. No, it isn't."

 

 

"What happened here, Mulder?"

Skinner paused in the doorway and stared, unbelieving, at the body on the floor.

"The unexpected, sir." Mulder paused. "I think it was pretty unexpected for Smoky, too."

Skinner's mouth opened again but he said nothing. After a moment he shook his head and moved into the room to make way for the coroner's team. "Good to see you again, agent. Good to see you're in one piece."

He offered his hand and Mulder shook it.

"Good to be in one piece, sir."

"Seriously, Mulder, what happened here?"

"Smoky wanted me. We managed to pull Scully's mother out of reach and he went after mine. He brought her here last night, sometime in the wee hours, and then told me to show up at National about"--he glanced at his watch--"about now, actually, to trade myself for her."

"But...?"

"We were alerted to this location."

"By who? Scully never said."

"By... As it turned out, sir, by someone intent on saving his mother from his father."

Skinner scowled, puzzled.

"It seems..." Mulder looked up at the ceiling briefly, then back at Skinner. "Ever made a bad choice in relationships, sir? I know I have." A pause. "Evidently my mother did, too, once, a long time ago."

Skinner's mouth opened slightly. After a moment an incredulous look crossed his face. "The Smoking Man?"

Mulder nodded.

"But who...?"

Mulder looked at the body on the floor, being turned now and laid on a gurney. "Alex Krycek."

The clicking of boot heels on hardwood sounded in the hallway and Scully appeared. She smoothed a stray lock of hair back from her face and attempted a smile.

"I can't believe--" Skinner started.

"That he's finally gone?" Scully came closer. "I know, sir. It's difficult to comprehend." She paused. "But this time we have a body."

 

 

In the bedroom with the shades drawn it was difficult to see him, as when he'd seemed no more than a shadow beneath a dusty packing blanket in her garage.

"Alex?"

No answer.

"Alex, if you'd rather be alone, I understand. I just wanted to make sure you're--" She sighed. "I know it's not alright. I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry."

A heavy breath came out suddenly. Alex's hand came up from the bed and waved her in. She came closer. He lay curled on his side on the broad mattress facing the window, his back to her. The bedspread had been pulled from the far side of the bed to cover him.

"Did they bring you something to eat?"

A nod.

"Dana says... that she'll take you to Kentucky, that someone might be looking for you--Project people--that they might trace you through airline reservations so she's going to drive you. They've arranged for a minivan. They're going to put a mattress in the back. You'll be able to rest." She sighed and looked up and around the room, a collection of muted shapes in browns and grays. "May I sit? You can say no."

After a moment his hand went behind him and patted a spot on the mattress.

She sat carefully on the edge of the bed. His hand lingered where it was. Tentatively she reached toward it, but hesitated.  He'd reached out in the other room, almost instinctively it had seemed.  But now the hand was motionless.  The last thing she wanted to do was overstep.

"I've heard"--she started, and cleared her throat--"heard it said that some people who live very short lives nevertheless live more fully that others who live to quite an old age, that they compress a... a fullness of living into a few short years. I know it's small comfort--extremely cheap comfort--when you're the one losing someone, Alex. But I do believe Tracy is that kind of person; I believe you've found her to be. I know it doesn't ease the pain..." She glanced up, toward the window, and back to the figure beside her. "I was trying to think, out there in the other room after Fox told me... how Tracy would look at this. She'd undoubtedly find beauty in the time you've spent, however brief it's been. I know she has; it seemed to...  radiate from her." In front of her, his body seemed to tighten. "I think she'd be... very grateful that, in the end, her being here has helped bring us together this way. Without the need to provide for her, who knows if we would have had the courage to meet again.  And Fox and Dana--all of us. I think... she'd be very happy to realize that her time with you has had that result."

His back heaved; he took a shuddered breath. She waited until his breathing had eased.

"I'm glad you're going to her, Alex. It will mean the world to her to have you there. I imagine she'd want to spare you the hurt if she could, but--"

"Gotta do it."

"I know." She closed her eyes a moment. "Can I... Do you mind if I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"What did you mean out there, about Samantha? Leland told me..."

"He bought your silence." He rolled toward her. "I heard a few things here and there. Supposedly he got her back after... I don't know, a few months or so. About a year after I came from Russia he had me out in California looking up death records for young Jane Does.  All the places I was supposed to check were within 30 miles of a military base, so my guess--"

"Where?  Where in California?"

"Sacramento area. Anyway, if it was her he was looking for, that's probably where he had her. Sounded like they were using her in the hybrid program. Evidently she got away--escaped--and he figured she'd died--didn't seem to know for sure what happened to her. Said she was stubborn." He half-laughed and raised an eyebrow. "You know, she wasn't grateful enough for everything he'd done for her."

"How... Do you know how old she was?"

"Teens. Maybe mid-teens it sounded like." A pause. "You should tell him--Mulder. I'll tell him. He deserves to know; he's carried her around all these years."

"Yes, he has. I told myself... that I was protecting her by not saying anything. But I think I just didn't have the courage."

"I figure...  you do the best you can with what you've got to work with at the time, you know? Might look back later and decide you screwed up royally, but--"

"I know the feeling very well."

"...at the time you worked with what you had." He paused and swallowed. "He needs you, you know. Out there. Probably feeling like... black sheep comes in, makes a big splash, runs off with mom. He's always been there, you know?"

"Yes, he has. And I haven't always had the backbone to come out and acknowledge it." She shifted slightly, preparing to stand, and set a hand briefly on his shoulder. "Are you going to be...?" A sigh. "I don't mean to hover. I just want you to know my thoughts are with you--you and Tracy. I'm so glad I got the chance to meet her, to see the two of you together."

His lips came together. She watched his jaw set and gradually loosen.

"The first week I had to take these painkillers... first week or two. Strong enough to knock out an elephant. Hated 'em. She used to... sit there with me, on the edge of the bed, just sit there 'til I was gone. If I broke through for a second, she was there; she was always..." He sniffed. His voice was dry.  "Nobody'd ever done that for me."

His eyes closed. Teena watched the muscles in his throat constrict.

 

 

"Vanek never showed up for work this morning." Mulder switched off the phone and turned to where Scully stood looking out the study window. Streaks of pale blue showed through the gray between the trees. "Said she was going to some medical conference in Dayton. Evidently the conference is legit; there was a flier for it on her desk."

"Or she's using it as an excuse."

He nodded. "Yeah." A pause. "I've got to get back there, Scully, find out whether she's gone or whether we can still catch her, what data she may have left behind that we can access to help the Connors kids." He shook his head. "Going to take one hell of an explanation, Angie trying to be so diligent all this time only to find out her kids were being injected with... Who knows what it was, or is, until somebody gets there to look into it." His jaw set. He paused. "Scully, you going to be okay with this, driving Krycek all that way? You haven't had any more sleep than I have. Probably less."

"I'll stop when I get tired. I don't think Krycek's going to try anything; I'm his ticket to getting in to see Tracy. Besides, I think I need to... to come to terms with him."

"Just don't bite off more than you can chew. You don't have to play the hero here."

"No, it's..." She ventured a tentative smile but it was real, not a show of forced bravery. "I think I can do it now. It does help, actually"--she blushed slightly--"knowing you've got backup. Emotional backup. Imagine me discovering that."

"Imagine that." He gave her a hint of a smile and a raised eyebrow. The old signals would have to work. There was still a team in the room.

"Call me," he said.

"I will, Mulder."

"Fox?"

Mulder turned to see his mother in the doorway.

She looked at the forensic team and back at him, obviously uncomfortable with the number of people in the room. Going to the door, he ushered her out into the hallway and then through the swinging door into the kitchen. It smelled of Smoky's cigarettes, his trademark advance impression. No more. Not ever again.

"There's so much going on here, Fox," she began when the door had stopped swinging. "And so much to think about, everything so... sudden. Eighteen hours ago I was in a park in Salt Lake City, enjoying trees and flowers and the Rockies, never suspecting...

"The people I went with must be wondering where I disappeared to." She paused. "I wanted to thank you... for always being so faithful, whether I deserved it or not, and for coming here, knowing what could happen to you. And for being faithful to your sister all these years, never giving up trying to find her when the rest of us...

Teena walked to the sink and stared past it into the trees beyond the house. "He told me... many years ago, when you'd just gone off to college--I think he had an inkling that you'd try to find out something about her disappearance, having access to resources... He said he'd been able to negotiate her return... and that she was safe, but only so long as nothing was known about her whereabouts. I believe I used that as an excuse. It was the reason I never answered your questions. But Alex thinks--" She turned to him. "He's heard some things--things Leland mentioned over time, bits and pieces. He's willing to tell you, Fox."

Mulder opened his mouth.

"Fox, I--" She glanced down at her hands. "I know it must feel... wrong to you, my helping Alex when he's caused you so much pain, and yet"--she sighed--"someone gave him a second chance, the way you gave me a second chance not so long ago." She looked up. "And I know how that feels. I understand some of what he must be going through."

He bit his lip and nodded. She reached toward him; he gathered her in against him and closed his eyes briefly.

"I'm just glad you're okay, Mom. I'm glad we're all okay. It's... almost unbelievable, when you think of how it looked going in." Voices sounded suddenly in the hallway and faded gradually in the direction of the front entrance. "I... I couldn't have done what he did. Not with Smoky's gun pointed at you. Without that, maybe, but..." He shook his head.

"Fox, you've done your part. You always have. Maybe it was his turn, now, to figure in. Maybe this was his task." She looked up at him and they stepped apart.

"What are you going to do now, Mom?"

Her mouth opened but she paused a moment before answering. "Go home, I suppose." A sigh. "Though I'm not sure I know what I'll do once I get there. You're going back to Kentucky?"

"Yeah, I've got to. There are some loose ends to tie up--important loose ends." He smiled. "They'll be able to start the beryllium investigation again. I know a certain grandmother who's going to be really pleased about that."

"Keep in touch, Fox."

"I will." He took the hand she offered and squeezed it lightly.

"I think Alex is waiting for you."

Mulder took a slow breath--deep breath--nodded and turned toward the door. A man and a woman in FBI jackets came out of the study. He could feel it again: Silver's gun in his back, the shock of realizing there'd been a third guard and the scene that had met them inside the study, Smoky smug, his mother's distress coloring her face, Krycek tight as if he'd been cornered by wild dogs. Maybe he'd been thinking through his moves even then.

Mulder turned to the left, leaving the bustle behind, and headed toward the darkened door at the end of the hallway.

 

 

"Excuse me."

Bethy turned. It wasn't Sandy coming back from the cafeteria but someone else, tall and with dark hair. The woman came closer.

Sandy'd said...

"It's my sister," Bethy whispered. "She's very sick." She got up and smoothed a hand protectively over Tracy's arm.

"I can see. You're both redheads. Well, I hope she feels better soon."

The woman made herself smile the way grownups sometimes did when they were trying to seem nicer than they actually were. "Maybe you can help me. I'm looking for my niece. I was told she might be here. She's"--she looked at Tracy in the bed--"probably about your sister's age, with very light blonde hair, about shoulder-length. She ran away from home and her parents are very, very worried. Her name is Tracy. Do you know of anyone like that here?"

Bethy wrinkled her nose and rubbed one shoe against the other. "I've been here with Sarah the whole time, but you can--"

Mrs. Peltier was at the door, her eyes eager. Sandy would say she must've smelled something, the way bird dogs do. Mrs. Peltier had a nose for news, Grammy said; it was her polite way of explaining that Mrs. Peltier was interested in a lot of things that weren't actually any of her business.

"Mrs. Peltier, do you know of a girl named Tracy who's not from around here?"

The wrinkled woman seemed to shiver slightly. This was like the movies, only real. "I believe they might have brought somebody in yesterday. If you come with me, ma'am, we'll find right out."

"Thank you." The dark-haired woman went to the door and started down the hall with Mrs. Peltier.

Bethy lingered in the doorway, eager.

"Punkin?" Sandy appeared suddenly from around the corner. "What's up?"

Bethy pointed excitedly to the two figures going toward the office. Sandy's eyes went wide. Her hand went over her mouth.

"That's her? A woman?"

Bethy nodded. "Stay with Tracy. I've got to go see..."

She started quickly down the hall, taking giant steps, trying to make them light. Where the hallways crossed she went to the left, tiptoeing toward the office door. Mrs. Peltier and the woman were standing in front of Mrs. Carter's desk; she could see them through the half-open blinds. The voices suddenly became louder, the dark-haired woman's face breaking out of its pasted-on smile. There was something she didn't like, and then Deputy Frank's mustached face appeared just on the other side of the shades. His sudden frown made Bethy jump. The shades closed abruptly and the office door was firmly shut.

 

 

Mulder closed the door quietly behind him.

"That you, Mulder?"

"Yeah."

The figure on the bed didn't move. Mulder hesitated a moment, then went around to a chair by the window and sat down. Krycek lay in the shadows staring at nothing in particular.

Mulder leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Mom"--he paused and moistened his lips--"she, uh, said you... knew something, about Samantha."

Krycek swallowed. "Yeah, not a lot, just... He'd say things every once in a while. Drop things." A pause. "Couple of years before they sent me to the Bureau, he sent me out to California, had me searching a 60-mile radius for records of young Jane Does."

Mulder swallowed. "Where"

"Near Sacramento.  There's an air force base right smack in the middle of the search area, so I guess that's where he had her. Anyway, it sounded like she was probably there for a few years; I think he was living out there part of the time. Then I guess she got fed up. Tried to run away, it sounded like."

Mulder leaned forward, his pulse increasing. He opened his mouth but for a moment the words refused to come out. "How old was she? When was this?"

"Not sure. She was maybe... thirteen, fourteen, fifteen--something like that. He never really said." A pause. "He went after her but he must not have found her. In the end he assumed she was dead, so maybe she was in bad shape when she took off, I don't know."

Mulder's jaw set. His hands came up; warm breath filled his cupped palms in short bursts, there and then gone. Twilight Zone the Sequel, like an hour ago, watching Smoky go down, his mother fall, Krycek spin and then drop, wide-eyed.

Krycek cleared his throat. "Damn hard luck for a kid, you know?--whatever they did to her. Guess I never thought that much about her; she was never more than a name, a word, even though we came from the same gene pool." He pulled up slightly. "I'm not claiming her or anything. She's yours, Mulder. Always was." He lay back down again. "Must've had spirit, trying to get herself out of there. It's a good thing. Good thing."

"Yeah. She was stubborn and..." Mulder's good hand curled gradually into a fist. "I hope she gave 'em hell. I really hope she did." He turned and looked toward the window, jaw tight. A shadow passed by outside, probably someone on the investigating team.

"There's got to be," Krycek started, "some other group--you know, doing hybrid research. Whoever did this to Tracy. On Thursday we were... we'd gone back to her house, the place she used to live... And she'd gone outside for a minute; it was raining. And then I went out to check on her and she'd passed out, fallen. Scared the hell out of me. By the time I got her up she was saying she was okay, acted like it was no big deal.. Said she'd had a vision. By the time we left she was finding a lot of holes in her life--things she remembered that didn't make sense. She talked about her father working at... CalTech, it sounded like, Pasadena."

"Scully examined the fetus. She said there were none of the usual signs: green blood, or rapid decomposition or the kind of thing we've seen in shape shifters or clones. She's taken samples to send to the lab. All we can do is wait to find out." Mulder stood and stared at the drawn curtains. "Bad day. Good day, that we're all still here, alive and not dead. That's your doing.. But--" He made himself breathe out slowly. "I had no idea what was happening to her, there at dinner. She just... wobbled, and gripped the table... And I tried to get her attention, but she'd grabbed hold of that memory, of her father and how they'd had to leave... I think she just didn't want to let it get away from her again. If there were something, anything I could've known or done--"

"Mulder..."

He turned around.

"You did your best. Why do you think I sent her to you?"

Krycek's eyes closed. Mulder turned back to the window. He studied the coarse weave of the drapes: under and over, random nubs swelling to interrupt the grid-like straightness.

"I nearly lost Scully twice," he said. "But in the end I didn't, so I guess it's not the same." He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes. "You need anything?"

"Nothing anybody can get me."

Mulder hung his head and nodded. "You're lucky she found you." A pause, his heart keeping the rhythm of passing seconds. "Guess she was lucky you found her, too."

 

 

"I know you say you're FBI. I can read your ID as well as the next fellow. But my orders are to hold anyone who comes around asking for the girl."

"Whose orders?"

"Special Agent Dana Scully."

"Scully isn't even officially on duty. She's taken a leave of absence."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Fowley. I know her. You, I don't know. Now I really don't care if you're Mother Teresa; my orders are to hold you for questioning. Unless, of course, you can provide me with the name of your superior and I talk to him and he tells me otherwise."

"His name is Spender. Would you like me to call him for you? I can assure you he won't be amused." She paused. "You could be facing charges of obstructing a federal investigation."

"Over a lost child? Fine. Give him a ring."

Fowley dialed and handed him the phone. It rang repeatedly without response.

 

 

 

It was overload and it went by in a haze: people running in and out, the wound in my side that hurt like hell even though I knew it wasn't anything like the other one. The fact that Tracy was as good as gone, but Scully was going to take me to her anyway so she wouldn't be alone at the end. Not least of all, that I wasn't dead myself: that the whole lot of us weren't, but that I'd dispatched the old man, not in any of the ways I'd played out hundreds of times in my head, but instinctively, because I had someone to protect. If you'd asked me who that someone was--Tracy or my mother or Mulder and Scully, I couldn't have told you; maybe I'll never know. I knew the old man had his gun on me and he was pissed enough to shoot. I knew Daryl had a bead on me, too. Something came over me. I can only say that I did what I had to do.

It was all too much to believe. I'd always figured, given the life I live, that I'd go before she would. But I thought there'd be more time, weeks or months--years, if I was lucky--before one of us was gone. It had only been three days since I'd left her with my mom, only four since we'd had the day together at her place--hardly longer than a heartbeat it seemed now, looking back at it.

One day. It'd had everything, but a single day was all we were going to get. She'd be happy that we had it at all. She'd be the one to look up at this gray sky overhead, pick out that one patch of blue and be in awe at the intensity of it.

Maybe in the end that was what she'd done for me: showed me patches of blue in the steel-gray world I'd spent my life in. Even if they were disappearing now, closing up like security doors being sealed, I owed her--owed her in a way I'd never owed anyone. Which is why I had to do this--go with Scully and make sure she wasn't alone when the end came.

Sure, they were planning to haul me in and if I had any strength to fight it, I'd figure out how to break free; for the first time in way too long I actually had a lead worth following. But realistically, I was in no shape for being on the run. And I wouldn't let her die alone. They said the monitors showed nothing, but if anyone could reach across an impassible barrier, it was Tracy. If she had any consciousness at all, she'd know she wasn't going through this without backup.

I knew the situation was no picnic for Mulder, either. I could see the difference after I told him what I knew about Samantha. He was more drawn in, his voice was quieter. I offered to go out to California, help him find out whatever there was to find. If I was in any position to go anywhere; we didn't get into that.

Finally they'd packed it all in, the Bureau people were leaving, Skinner was arranging a ride to the airport for Mulder and my mom, and Mulder and Scully were saying their goodbyes... well, as much as they could given that they had an audience. Tracy'd told me about them and I wasn't surprised. They deserved to have that.

I was sitting on the tail end of the minivan, waiting for Scully, when I saw my mom come out, obviously looking to say goodbye. I could read the emotion in her eyes, and hell, I had enough of my own to deal with; I didn't need anything to send me over the edge.  But I couldn't exactly turn her away. She'd done a good job in there; we'd worked together and made it out alive. And I told her so. That is, I tried, and then it ended up kind of muddled, a handshake that turned into her holding my hand in both of hers, both of us with too much to say, neither of us with any idea of how to say it.

 

 

Opening the glass door Krycek had indicated--the one between the two storefronts--Scully was assaulted by the smells of stale cooking. She looked up, paused a moment and then climbed the creaky stairs to the top. On the landing she paused and faced the door on the right. A small typewritten sign taped above the buzzer said 'Take your chances!" She frowned slightly and touched the button but heard nothing on the other side. As she was about to push it a second time, the door opened slightly and she was met by a face haloed in loose, light brown curls. A man's face but a young face, set off by silver wire-rimmed glasses.

"A damsel in distress?" he ventured, adding a smile at the end of his words.

"No." Scully raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Are you Ché?"

He frowned. "Who told you?"

"Alex Kyrcek. He's downstairs in my car. He's had a little... accident. He sent me up to get his things."

He gave her an interrogatory look, though hardly a cynical or suspicious one. "I'm afraid I'll have to play the doubting Thomas and see for myself. Comrade Krycek would have my throat if I accepted someone's story so easily. He is where?"

"The green minivan right outside the door. He's lying in the back."

"Feel free to wait here. I'll be right back."

He opened the door wide enough to slip outside, a thin figure perhaps 5'9" with pale skin and carefully carved features. He wore a tan cardigan sweater with sleeves pushed up to the elbows, faded jeans and loafers. The curls bounced as he jogged down the stairs; it wasn't quite an Einstein hairdo, but without much stretch of the imagination he could be considered to be in training. Scully watched him take the last three stairs in a leap, hands outstretched. She smiled in spite of herself; he certainly didn't seem to be Krycek's type. She turned to peer into the tiny, cluttered apartment. A few moments later the downstairs door opened and Ché reappeared, scaling the stairs two at a time.

"Exercise," he explained at the top. "I sit at the computer most of the day. Come."

He ushered her inside and closed the door behind them. The couch was stacked with books and papers; an old cane rocking chair had suffered the same fate. In a corner, atop a cinderblock shelf, sat an old TV with rabbit ears. The computer, however, was quite new, with a large monitor.

"My body lives here," he said, gesturing around the room. "But my mind"--he indicated the computer--"lives in there." He went to the corner and picked up a sports bag and a cardboard box. "These things belong to Krycek. He was supposed to be here last night, you know? I even cooked--noodles from scratch and sauce." He smiled, remembering. "My best culinary effort. And then he doesn't show. I worried that the old vulture had finally got him."

"He nearly did."

"Yes, I suppose he will tell me... if it suits him." He shrugged. "Comrade Krycek lives a life veiled in secrecy.  But it is part and parcel of the role he plays. You are in a hurry, I think?"

"Yes, we have a good deal of driving to do."

"Very well." He picked up the box, paused and pointed to a leafy green plant in a shallow dish on the window sill below old lace curtains. "Did you know you can run a clock on the electricity from a potato?"

Scully took a few steps toward the window. There were indeed wires coming from half a potato in the dish, which in turn were hooked to a small clock. "Yes, as a matter of fact I did know that, though I'm not sure I've actually seen it done before."

"Many things are possible: that is my motto." He nodded toward the bag on the floor. "I can take this also, or would you prefer to carry it?"

"No, I can do it. Thank you."

Scully shouldered the bag and followed Ché to the door, then led the way down the stairs. At the van she unlocked the rear door, then went to the sliding door to put in the bag and give Krycek and his friend some semblance of privacy. Krycek had managed to sit up. He even managed a partial smile as the two men embraced in the European fashion.

"I hear you are injured, comrade."

Krycek nodded, paused and slowly shook his head. "I took out the old man."

Ché looked incredulous.

"Long story," Krycek went on. "No time to tell it now. May be good--it is good--but it could start the dominoes falling, too. If it does, we're all up Shit Creek." He shook his head.

"And now?"

"Got something I gotta do."

"Not something you're looking forward to."

Krycek shook his head. "Don't ask me now. Maybe sometime."

A pause. "Very well... You need anything?"

"Nah. Got my stuff here."

"What about your arm? Your computer?--that's what you went back for when you disappeared from my dinner  last night."

"May not be safe over there. Got a laptop; my mom gave me hers."

"Your mother? Your mother?"

"Yeah. Long story."

"It must be. And the arm?"

"They could be watching my place.  I can't afford to chance it.  I'll have to figure something out."

"So there's nothing I can do for you?"

He paused. "Give my best to the piranha. Tell her the waters are getting... dangerous."

"How dangerous?"

"Bad. Pretty bad."

"So. I should tell her to get out of Dodge?"

"Yeah. Just make sure she knows what the hell you're talking about."

"It's my talent to get the message across. 'Some are born great, some achieve greatness'... Shakespeare, Twelfth Night." He gave a self-deprecating smile. "In my case, by a lot of hard work and reading a mountain of English books until my eyesight is threatened." A nod. "Your wish is my command."

"Thanks. I owe you. Again."

"No problem. You look uncomfortable, my friend. I'll leave you before you're forced to lose your dignity in front of me. Write."

"Yeah."

Ché embraced Krycek once more and looked up to where Scully was going through the contents of Krycek's box. "Adieu to you, fair damsel. Nice meeting you." He turned away and shook his head. "Imagine, the wicked witch is dead."

Scully watched until he disappeared through the glass door and became a wavering shadow climbing the stairs. She picked up a prescription bottle from the box and took it around to the rear door.

"I see you still have some of these. You'll rest a lot easier if you take one. Your body could use a chance to recuperate."

He shook his head. "I take one of those, I'll be a total zombie for the next four hours."

"It will take away the pain."

"It'll take me away from the pain, leave me..." He chuffed out a breath. "Look, I don't expect you to understand, Scully. There's another bottle in there--newer prescription, not as strong. I'll take one of those. If that's not enough..."

"We'll reevaluate in an hour?"

"Sure, okay."

She watched him ease himself carefully down, then went for the other prescription bottle. She held it out to him but he made no move to take it.

Realization dawned; she felt herself redden. "Sorry." Working off the cap, she offered him the bottle. He took it, shook out a capsule onto the mattress and handed it back. He swallowed the capsule and chased it with a swig of water from the bottle beside the mattress.

Scully cleared her throat. "Do you need anything else? Another pillow?"

He shook his head and looked away. His throat tightened. "Look, I appreciate what you're doing, Scully. We should get going. If I need anything, I'll yell."

She pursed her lips and nodded. After a moment she secured the rear doors, walked to the front of the vehicle and got in. She sat a moment, hands hard on the steering wheel. How had Tracy dealt with this initially? Had it made all the difference to be able to see into him, to know what he was thinking? Perhaps it was merely her apparent innocence that had worked for her, a force that seemed to melt through obstacles as if they weren't there.

Scully turned the key and listened to the engine start. Eight hours of driving ahead... on a scant three hours of sleep. Perhaps it was only extreme fatigue that had led her to this plan--to drive to Kentucky with this ambiguous man who'd nearly killed her. Mulder had offered no objections, though. He'd been thoughtful, quiet, his mind probably overloaded with what had happened, with the need to return to Owensburg and help Angie Connors three children, and probably with questions about his sister. When they stopped--surely they'd have to stop--she'd call him.

Krycek had spoken of dominoes falling. How long would it take before one of Smoky's contacts in the Bureau found out what had happened, or someone within the Consortium? Would they try to pursue? Or was the Smoking Man the mortar holding everything together? Would their plan simply collapse without him?

Scully checked her rear view mirror, then the side mirror, and pulled into traffic.

 

 

Fifteen. Maybe only thirteen.

I couldn't get past it. Twenty minutes out of Lexington and what I needed was an explanation that Angie Connors could grasp. Somehow 'alien virus' wasn't likely to do the trick; it wasn't going to explain anything believable about why another human being, a professional she'd trusted, had used her three children as guinea pigs in private medical experiments. But try as I might, I couldn't get Samantha out of my head. Or the possibilities. What had she looked like at thirteen? Who was she at fourteen? What would she have become after six or seven years of experimentation?  A girl, a teenaged version of the sister I'd known, the soft, leaning, smiling baby I'd held on my lap as a kid, or just a shell, a weary animal snarling at a brutal captor? What would they have done to her? Was there any way to know? Did they wipe her memory the way the MUFON women's had been wiped, partially, so that she'd remember only snatches of her past, or had they stolen her history the way Tracy's mind had been tampered with, her early years dissolved until the thought of singing had finally jarred that part of her memory loose, only to have her body--or something that had been put inside it--turn on her and start to shut her down? Had Samantha remembered any of us and had she lain awake at night hoping we'd be searching for her, that one morning she might wake up to find herself freed?

Had she remembered me, and if she had, were the memories of more than fighting over Stratego or the way I'd come to tease her? Did she expect me to be the one to find her, the way it was me she'd run to that awful night when Smoky showed up and everyone was yelling?

I'd been just a kid. I had no power against aliens or government projects of the kind I'd uncovered in my work on the X-files; for the first time that fact was actually becoming clear. A kid, with no more chance than those people in the camps, forced to watch while their relatives were lined up in front of ditches. Scully'd told me it wasn't my fault and I'd let it roll off; I knew she'd want to make me feel better. But I realized now I couldn't have done it--saved Samantha. The thought that I could was one of those kid fantasies, the hero kind you make up in your head and then play out with little plastic army men, or in vacant lots, or on chess boards or basketball courts. Impossible save: Mulder pulls it out for the home team as the final buzzer sounds. Maybe not.

And what had I been doing then all these years since? Using her memory as a torch, a reason to keep going instead of lighting one of my own?

If it were true that Sam was dead. It could be that Smoky'd got it wrong, that she was still out there somewhere... though probably it was about as likely as Tracy's monitors starting to show signs of consciousness again. Another victim to add to the list.

Now my flight was only ten minutes out of Lexington. Angie was going to come down hard on herself for having trusted Dr. Vanek. Vanek needed to be stopped and Angie's children needed to be checked out, but first there was a girl lying in a hospital bed who I needed to check on. Whether or not she'd know I was there, I had to go. And maybe in the end I had Samantha to thank for that. Maybe I'd made her into the banner that headed my life. I might have been a fool to hold out hope all these years, but without that influence--if I'd never lost her--how many other people would I not have noticed? Would I have listened so carefully to Lucy Householder? Would I have kept trying to revive Amy Jacobs? And what about John Lee Roche? If he hadn't had me and my memories to manipulate, we might never have put those two final victims to rest for their families.

I might not have found my sister but in a way I hadn't lost her, either. Part of her was always there, shaping me, and in the end I'd been able to help any number of people because of it. Tracy had done something similar; certainly it seemed she had where Krycek was concerned. I'd go there now for her sake, but also as a temporary place holder for the one she'd affected the most, a one-armed man who was on his way here to do something that was guaranteed to hurt a lot more than any bullet shot from Daryl Silver's gun.

 

 

There was the soft, rumpled texture of Duke's honey-colored coat, and poplars at the end of summer, yellow before the cold would turn them brilliant gold, clapping languidly in the breeze and then stirring, shimmering against the intense blue of the sky. There was her mother's face in the light of a candle. We can go without electricity this time, she'd say as fall evenings came on, and she'd go light the candle on the mantel, and the one on the coffee table, and set one on the kitchen counter. Then she'd start to hum, her voice warming, and soon it would become clear, like the candle's flame against deep shadow, and Tracy would find herself joining in. There was a rocking chair; she was being rocked, eyes closed--held, the warmth of his cheek against her forehead. The air was cold, but it didn't matter.

There was the rich light of morning pouring through the window upstairs--warm, penetrating, golden light. She lay behind him, an arm around his middle, smooth skin on skin, the silence padded, private.

Don't stir and wake him.

 

 

Through the glare on the rear window Krycek appeared to be asleep. Scully paused a moment and opened the door carefully. Krycek jerked suddenly and stared at her, eyes wide.

"Sorry." She ran a finger along the edge of the door.

He closed his eyes momentarily and opened them again, looking toward the window.

"We're an hour out of D.C.," she said. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I just wanted to check the wound."

He only stared at her. Finally he nodded.

She lifted his shirt, carefully peeled the tape from the bandaging and considered what was underneath. "So far, so good." She busied herself making a new bandage. "How are you feeling?"

After a moment she looked up at him. It had been the wrong thing to say. She colored and felt her lips press together and went back to her work, but her attention was drawn to the scars on his left side, the work of the bullet she'd put into him herself.

"We're in the mountains?"

She nodded.

"Give me a couple of minutes to walk... you know, when you're done."

She opened her mouth to protest but closed it again. Her finger pressed the tape at the edges of the bandage to his skin but her eyes had returned to the three-week-old scars.

"Scully..."

She looked up, startled.

"Don't worry about it."

"I--"

"It's the way things play out.  You did what you had to do."

She swallowed.

"Anyway, everything would have been different if you hadn't." He looked away. "Different world, different outcome. Never would've met--" He sniffed in a breath. "None of this would've happened," he said, quiet.

Scully finished and pulled the hem of his shirt down. It was a clean shirt, one from his bag, long-sleeved. The left sleeve lay flat against the mattress from above the elbow.

"Have you called again?"

She looked up at him and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. "No. But I will."

He nodded and pulled up, grimacing. "I'll just be a couple of minutes."

"Be careful. Don't overdo it."

"Yeah."

He slipped past her and stood carefully, testing himself, then started toward the rest stop's bathroom. They were the only car in the parking lot, which was just as well. When he'd disappeared inside the bathroom she pulled the cell phone from her pocket and dialed the hospital. Dr. Wykoff had gone to his office but the information was available. The unfortunate pattern had continued: complete non-responsiveness, no brain activity. She sighed, switched off the phone and slipped it back into her pocket.

Several minutes later Krycek emerged from the bathroom, paused to lean against a post and then straightened and started slowly toward a trail that led behind into the depression between two close hills. Scully turned and reached for the bag. Pants, socks, underwear, shirts. A lightweight jacket. And the box with medications, toothbrush, razor, a second pair of shoes. A beanbag made out of nubby, plaid fabric. She reached for it and examined it. Hand-stitched, apparently. She set it back in the box. Another anomaly, as Ché had been. Where had such a whimsical character come from to enter Krycek's life? Apparently Krycek had been set to flee the night before and this was the material content of his life: a few clothes and a few odds and ends. Minus weapon and prosthetic arm, and his laptop, which Teena had replaced.

She closed the rear door, locked it and walked to the left, to where she could see Krycek on the trail between the trees, moving slowly, pausing now to look up, going forward again and then stopping to lean against a tree trunk, letting his forehead come to rest against it. Had she looked that way to Mulder all these years, tightly contained, sealed carefully against the entry of outside help or curiosity, 'I'm fine' not actually disguising what filled her? Krycek straightened; she looked away and began to walk toward the end of the parking lot, letting her steps set a rhythm. When she looked up next he was headed back toward the van.

When she opened the door, he sat a moment at the end of the mattress and took a drink from the water bottle.

"Is that prescription working for you?"

"It'll do for now." His breathing indicated otherwise.

"You're sure?"

After a pause, he nodded. "Did you call?"

Her lips pressed together. "Yes... There's been no change." She looked away.

"Yeah, it kind of felt that way."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't"--he shook his head--"can't explain it."

A pause.

"And your fever?"

"Feels a little better. We ought to get going."

She nodded. He pulled his legs up onto the mattress and she closed the first door.

"Scully..."

She looked up.

"You going to make it? You look like you're running on empty."

"I was at the hospital all night. I only got a couple of hours of sleep."

"Don't push yourself."

"No, we'll... we'll stop in a few hours. I didn't think we'd make it through tonight."

He was looking past her toward the trail.

"What?"

"Nothing, just... thinking about something that happened in a place like this." He shook his head and lay down on the mattress.

She secured the second door and went to climb into the driver's seat. She fastened her seatbelt and reached for the ignition.

"Scully..."

She glanced into the rear view mirror.

"Thanks."

 

 

Mulder reached out a hand, smoothed it past Tracy's forehead and into her hair, and let it linger a moment. Had Samantha looked like this at the end, peacefully absent? Hopefully she'd been cared for. She'd go to someone, seek help. It had to be her desire to live that had made her run in the first place.

"She's not going to make it, is she?"

He shook his head and turned to Sandy. "Don't think so."

"I know what they said. I guess you just keep hoping."

"Yeah. You do. You just keep holding on, hoping."

"Still," Sandy said, "if it were me, I'd want somebody to keep on holding out."

He managed a brief smile.

"They've got that... that person, Ben, like I said. God, I can't even believe that, you know? That a woman would do that, come looking to steal a girl away like that. I guess that's how she slipped past Mrs. Peltier and old Mr. Cunningham in the first place. Bethy was the one who caught on."

"I'll have to remember to thank her."

"Deputy Frank took the woman down to the station, Mrs. Peltier said. You going to go check it out?"

Mulder nodded absently, then straightened. Sandy was watching him.

"Guess I should." He bit his lip and started for the door.

 

 

The house was gray wood with white trim, a wide covered porch in front and big blue-flowered hydrangea bushes on either side. Plants. Lots of color; obviously Dr. Vanek's taste ran to cultivating more than just the contents of petri dishes. Mulder knocked for the second time, listened and hearing nothing, went to peer in a window into what was obviously a living room. No movement that he could see.

"Sir?"

He turned. A short, gray-haired woman had emerged from the house next door and was approaching.

"Yeah."

"If you're looking for Dr. Maria, she's gone. Took off near an hour ago." She stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

"She say where she was going?"

"Oh, she never says where she's going. Well, sometimes she tells you something, but more to put you off." She took a step forward. "You're the man from the FBI, aren't you?"

He sighed. "Yeah."

"Well..." She looked down and smoothed a hand over her apron. "I did ask, and she said she was going to a conference in Dayton, a medical conference, but I don't think so."

"Because..."

"She put too many things in the car. She has a station wagon--Volvo wagon--and the back was full nearly. I'd just come home from the excitement at the hospital with that dark-haired woman come to spirit away that new girl." She paused a moment and colored slightly. "Your daughter, is she not?"

Mulder's lips twisted. "Something like that."

"Well, Deputy Frank sent me on my way from the hospital after I'd led her to the office. I suppose you could say I captured her."

"And?" He squinted into the bright light.

"And I came here, right along the street, and she was putting a last suitcase or two into the back. She said a few days at a conference, but it didn't look like it to me." A pause. "Dr. Maria likes to keep to herself. Never tells you anything unless it's necessary. Like most weekends, she leaves Friday at five and comes back like clockwork at seven Sunday nights. We think she's got a man somewhere, maybe in Lexington, but she won't say. Like Fort Knox, she is."

"Yeah, well... And this was an hour ago, you say?"

"Near to it."

Mulder glanced at his watch and grimaced. "Thank you." He started down the steps.

"They've got that woman at the sheriff's station. I imagine you'll want to go ask her a question or two."

He took in a deep breath slowly. One hand curled and flexed. "Yeah, I guess I'll have to."

 

 

She wasn't coming back. Just before Scully'd wakened him the sensation had been there--Tracy's cheek against his. Maybe it was her, or maybe it was just his wishing. Clinging by a fine thread, waiting, but not coming back. The new wound ached, a steady throbbing, and the curves in the road weren't helping his stomach. She wouldn't want to leave--wouldn't choose to leave--but if she had no choice...

He opened his eyes, squinted into the brightness and stared at the stream of shadows passing along the outside of the cardboard box beside him. Finally he pulled it closer, tipped it, reached inside and found the bottle of strong painkillers. Pausing, he stared, letting the writing go out of focus, and finally brought the bottle to his mouth. He worked the cap with his teeth, shook out a pill and set the bottle aside.

Maybe it won't be any worse, nena--you out, me out. Don't mean to leave you stranded.

Putting the pill in his mouth, he reached for the water bottle.

Closed his eyes, took a drink and swallowed.

 

 

Mulder's hands clenched and unclenched. Finally he stuffed them into the pockets of his jeans. He stared at the sign on the door that said 'detention'. The deputy had gone in. He could hear voices, Diana and the woman. He glanced up at the ceiling tiles and closed his eyes briefly. Jitters. Or something like them.

Footsteps, the woman returning.

"She'll see you now." Delivered like 'glad I'm out of there'.

The deputy turned and took him through the doorway to where there were three cells, all empty except for the one Diana was in.

"Who is it?" Diana's voice came again. She'd been saying it since the woman left her. "I demand to speak to my superior."

When she saw Mulder she stopped abruptly. The deputy looked up at him.

"You want to go inside?"

"No, I... I don't think that will be necessary." He watched her turn and leave. Fnally he looked back at Diana.

"Fox, there's been a big misunderstanding here. I came here as part of the Beeson-Lymon investigation, to get answers to some further questions about--"

"Misunderstanding, yeah. Just not the kind you're talking about."

"Fox?"

"I came to bring you some news, Diana." He let his breath out slowly. He looked down and then up. "Your father's dead."

"My--" Her face went through incredulity, concern, alarm. "Fox, what are you--?"

"I know, Diana. All of it. Nobody's going to save you this time. Smoky's gone."

Her mouth worked momentarily before the words came out. Her eyes were big. "You?"

He shook his head.

"Who then? How?"

"Just... circumstance. It was almost me and Scully and my mother... And then it wasn't, one of those... thousand random outcomes that can slip into the winning slot at any given moment. This time we got lucky."

She turned away. He sucked in his lower lip.

"There are reasons, Fox. You've seen yourself, from what you've learned on the X-files, the importance of--"

"Of sacrificing innocent young girls?" He felt his voice grow louder. "Do you know the 'crime' of the girl you were sent here to get? Or did that even factor in?"

"I was merely asked--"

"To bring her in. Would you have unhooked her from the equipment that was keeping her alive? What about whatever treatment she was on? You know what her crime was, Diana? She reached out to somebody who needed help, took care of them. That was it. No conspiracy, no vital information. Nothing that would pose a threat to Smoky's precious plans."

"Fox, there's the bigger picture. Sacrifices are inevitable in any plan. They have to be made to enable us to survive. Like it or not, history has always--"

"Are we talking D-Day"--he came closer--"or Gallipoli? She isn't a faceless 'sacrifice'. She was a young girl with no place to stay who reached beyond herself because she saw someone in need." He paused. "Was he going to share his private vaccine with you when the time came?"

She turned back to him. "What are you talking about?"

"The one he was having developed right here, at the plant. Or didn't you know that Dr. Vanek was working on a vaccine just for Smoky, perfecting it on three innocent children?"

Her mouth went straight and hard but her eyes gave her away. "There's a lot I haven't known, about the details--"

"Yeah, well there was a lot I didn't know, either. Guess it goes to show that some things are worth looking into more carefully." He turned to go.

"Fox..."

He glanced back.

"I can help you. There's so much I can tell you if--"

"You already have, Diana." He started toward the door. "You've told me more than enough."

 

 

Krycek was right: she was pushing it. The curves in the road were becoming monotonous and three times within the last minute she'd found herself in the middle of a yawn. Scully glanced into the rear view mirror, signaled and pulled off onto the shoulder. She stretched and reached for her water bottle, took a drink and turned to glance into the van's quiet interior. Apparently he was asleep. She opened the door, eased herself down and closed it quietly behind her. Even a couple of minutes of walking, the way Krycek had done an hour before, would help. She glanced in through the rear window in passing, paused and then put her hand on the latch and opened it carefully.

Krycek lay on his back, his eyes half-open, glassy and wet. He barely responded when she moved a hand in front of him.

"Damn you!" 

Immediately she reached  for the cardboard box. The vial of painkillers was open, its contents gone...

No.

No, they were scattered through the box. Quickly she gathered them up and started to count. A sigh of relief: he couldn't have taken more than one or two. She swallowed and looked up at him. Krycek stared at her through his haze. Recognition was in there; he knew exactly what she'd been thinking. She looked down again, red-faced, slipped the pills into the container and secured the lid. She moistened her lips. His eyes were still tracking her.

"Sorry. I'm... going to walk for a few minutes. Then we'll be going again."

There was no response aside from his dull, steady gaze. Slowly his lips came together and he shook his head. The movement made a drop of water break from the corner of one eye and trail toward his temple.

Scully swallowed and closed the door carefully. An approaching motor home passed, blowing hair into her face. She pushed it away and started briskly toward the trees.

 

 

Angie swallowed and leaned forward, hands together. She wasn't a crier; it wasn't her style. She shook her head.

"I know you're going to want to go back and analyze it all," Mulder said quietly. "Look for clues and wonder how you missed it, or what you could have done differently, but you've got to remember that this woman is very, very smart and very deliberate. Everything she did was designed to keep her activity hidden."

Angie's mouth opened. She dipped forward as if she were rocking and straightened again. She stared at the coffee table in front of her. "Their father--my ex... He's never done anything for those kids, doesn't call, doesn't remember their birthdays. I guess you get so caught up in trying to be both mother and father at the same time that you just shoulder that weight without thinking. You figure you've got to do it all--who else is going to help you?" Her lips pressed together. After a moment she attempted a weak smile. "You know, I was going to get out of here once. It was the free medical for the kids that kept me from leaving. I was all set to go, going to go back to Missouri where my parents were. There would have been help there, my sister and my cousins..."

"Had Dr. Vanek been here long then?"

"No, maybe... a year at most. And how could I say no?"

"You know, she... she's got a vested interest in having her work succeed, and she had a vested interest in not having attention drawn to her, which means she had to be pretty careful about what she gave them, about the results."

"The kids had... they had what she said were some allergic reactions at first, and there were periodic things where one of them would be down for a week or so... But they never came all at once."

"Nothing to make you suspicious. She probably wasn't giving them all the same dosage at the same time."

"I guess."  She looked up, out the window to where patchy sunlight brightened the yard. "And you say this was what?"

"A rare lethal virus that's struck several times in Russia. Her parents both died of it. I guess that's what got her started."

"Good reason." She shook her head. "But it's no excuse."

"No. It's not."

"And she's gone?"

"I went by her place. The lady next door said it looked like she'd packed up and taken off."

"Mrs. Peltier?"

"I don't know."

"Short, about five feet? Asks as many questions as she answers?"

"Yeah, that sounds like the one."

Angie smiled briefly and then sobered.

"They've put a state-wide trace on her car," Mulder went on. "Hopefully they'll catch up with her soon. She couldn't have gotten that far."

"I appreciate it." She turned to look at him. "I appreciate everything you've done for me and the kids. Can't say that I've ever met an actual FBI agent before." A pause. "I hear you've got someone of your own over in the hospital. Or maybe that was part of the cover. She's probably not your daughter, is she?"

"No, she's... no blood relation." His hands came together. "But she feels a lot like family."

She stood. "Well, my prayers are with you. You know they are. I've been there." She offered her hand and Mulder shook it. "I guess I'd better be getting over to Dr. Wykoff's and pick up the kids. I don't know how I'm going to explain all this to them."

"Maybe something simple will be enough. Sometimes we complicate things with our need to be thorough."

She paused and nodded acknowledgment. "You have to qualify as a philosopher for that job of yours?"

"No, just... something I learned the hard way."

 

 

Up.

Her face appears out of nowhere--Scully. She's saying get up, going to stop for the night. Her hand's out.

Reach out.

How long since you took the pill? Not long enough to be able to pull yourself together.

You're standing now, up but shaky; her arm's behind you, steadying you. Forward, one exaggerated step at a time. It feels like walking on the moon. Daylight still, your mouth's dry, you're going... across a parking lot if you make it that far, one step and another, the ground in front of you floating and...

She's pulling on your shirt: step up, step... Up. Yeah.

Door. She's got a key; she's working it in the lock. 8. Room 8, the number fat in wood on a turquoise door. Your legs are like rubber; no sudden moves. You just want to lie d--

The wall slams into the side of your face, flat and sudden, the sandpaper grit of bricks and mortar scraping your cheek. You haven't shaved, haven't...

The old man's gone, lying on the floor messing up the carpet. Carpet in his own place. Let him pay the bill.

"Come on..."

A hand on your arm leads you into the dark; the air conditioner's blowing the edges of the drapes up. The bed--ahh. Down on--

Flat on your back. Scully's lifting your legs, pushing your shirt up... She's got that look: touching something you don't want to touch, like poison ivy or fish guts or... Or maybe the guy who almost slit your throat. Cold suddenly, a washcloth, she's cleaning... The tearing of tape rips the silence; she holds the roll between her teeth: bulldog, going to bite you on the leg. Good thing she's on your side this time.

Lips are moving: she's saying something, wiping a lock of hair away from her face, repeating it. Later.

Later. She'll be back to check you later.

Warmth. Covers are pulled over you. You close your eyes and hope for Tracy but there's nothing, just blackness and fuzz and then the distant sound of the door clicking shut. Your mouth's hanging open but closing it's too much work. Pillow's hard. You stare at a blade of light riding the ceiling from between the curtains. Like the hand of a clock.

Something pokes your thigh. A little fumbling and your hand slips down. You find the pocket. Inside... your fingers are thick, searching; they close around it now, tiny and rounded: the earring from the little shop, warm like...

Warm like she won't be once you get there.

You sat on the bed and she sat in the recliner and you ate Chinese and talked like you'd go your separate ways.  She said she couldn't be your lover... Then she got up off the bed and kissed you.

And the old man, he got his twist of fate.

Can't see anything but the curtain. You're out in the middle of nowhere--who knows where?--half a million miles from anything. Does she feel like this, floating in the middle of nothing?

 

 

Brian--

Please excuse the hasty departure, and I apologize for any inconvenience caused by borrowing your car. It would take too much explanation even to begin, so as usual you, the ever-faithful, are left with nothing beyond speculation. I assure you it is not my intent. My work is more important than I can describe. If we ever meet again, under the right circumstances, I hope you will allow me to explain. I regret the pain I will have caused you. You were always more faithful than I. May life bring you the happiness you deserve.

-Maria

 

 

Scully slipped the oversized T-shirt over her head and looked at her wet hair in the mirror. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. Reaching for the comb on the counter, she worked it through her hair, went to the bed for her cell phone and dialed Mulder's number. Then she drifted back to the bathroom, hanging the damp towel while the phone rang.

"Yeah."

She smiled wearily. "It's me, Mulder. How are things going there?"

"Tracy's the same."

"I know. I called a couple of hours ago."

"Vanek's split. Neighbor saw her pack up a bunch of suitcases and leave." A pause. "She did know who I was, but Krycek gave me the impression he was going to string her along, let her think he was going to come take me out. Maybe she got too spooked to wait."

"Maybe. If she thought you might move before Krycek had a chance to... Wait. Mulder, when was this?"

"When was what?"

"When did Vanek leave?"

"Probably a couple of hours ago. Maybe two-thirty from what her neighbor said, and the neighbor seemed to be one of those people with a head for details. They've put out an APB out on Vanek's car."

"Mulder..." She put one knee on the edge of the bed and sat. "I think Krycek may have alerted her. We stopped at his friend's to get his things and Krycek said something to Ché about letting the piranha know the waters were getting dangerous. He did say 'her'." She frowned, grabbed a pillow hard and pulled it up against her. "Mulder, I don't--"

"What?"

"I..." She sighed heavily. "I just don't know what to think. He saved us all, and I'm trying to give him the benefit of the doubt because of it. For Tracy's sake, too, because I know he couldn't have deceived her the way--" Her lips pressed together. "And then he goes right back and does something like this. Damn him."

"Wheeler-dealer. Comes naturally."

"Doesn't he understand that Vanek's 'experiments' could just have easily been conducted on someone like Tracy? We need to stop that woman, Mulder."

"Yeah, I know. I know." A pause. "He said 'piranha'?"

"Yes."

"Maybe..."

"Maybe what?"

"Just... sounds like he doesn't trust her, either. Maybe there's... I don't know--more to it."

"Like?"

"I don't know. Some piece to a larger puzzle. I'm not defending him, Scully. Vanek's a dangerous woman and what she did to those kids is despicable. But 'piranha'. Maybe we should ask him."

"You mean instead of jumping the gun? I've done that already. I stopped for a break and found him lying there only marginally responsive beside an open prescription bottle. My first thought was that he'd taken the whole vial of painkillers, which he hadn't. But he knew, Mulder. I could see it in his eyes; I think it really offended him that I'd suggest he'd cop out at this point, take the easy way out and leave Tracy alone after everything he's gone through for her."

"Maybe we'll never figure him out, Scully. Maybe he can't change, maybe he just... added a mental place for her. You know, kind of like a room addition."

She glanced up at the ceiling. "No, it... I think there's more to it than that. There is. Shooting Smoky had nothing to do with self-preservation. It would have been safer to try to talk his way out of... He just... he doesn't make sense to me. I guess if I could predict what he'd do or how he'd act... Or react. But I'm definitely going to confront him about Vanek. He doesn't deserve to have anyone cut him any slack there."

"Yeah. And it's not like you haven't gone way out of your way for him."

"Yes. He has thanked me, actually."

A pause. "You still on the road?"

"No, that's why I called. We're in Grafton, West Virginia. Small town with a large train yard. We've got a motel at the edge of town; I thought I'd better get some sleep." She stood, pulled back the covers and slipped between the sheets. "I didn't want to chance dozing off at the wheel. I just thought I'd call you while I still had a coherent thought or two left in me."

A pause on the other end of the line. Scully turned to stuff an extra pillow behind her and pulled the blankets up.

"You know, torture's prohibited under the Geneva Convention, Scully. Telling me you're going to bed when I can't be there..."

She smiled. "Tomorrow night we'll both be in the same place. I promise you won't have to sleep alone."

"At least we don't have to worry about hiding ourselves from the good citizens of Owensburg."

"No, but if they restart the investigation, Mulder, and it certainly seems like a possibility now, there's still the Bureau. We hardly need the locals recalling us to a new investigating team as 'that cute couple'." She pursed her lips and looked toward the window. "We're going to have to come up with some plausible excuse..."

An audible sigh on the other end. "I know. I've been thinking about that, too." He paused. "Maybe David Barker will be ready for another bale or two of alfalfa tomorrow."

"My trailer is your trailer." She managed a smile, then stifled a yawn and pulled up briefly to look at the clock. "What else have you found, Mulder? Did you talk to Angie Connors?"

"Yeah. She... you know she wasn't pleased, but she's strong. She's pretty remarkable, actually. We herded the kids off to Dr. Wykoff's so he could check them out, and it gave Angie and I a chance to talk. It's something that's going to take a while to come to terms with, but I think she'll make it. Maybe I'll ask Rita to look in on her once in a while. She may have a little free time on her hands now that she doesn't have Wilkins to tend to. Anyway, I checked back with Wykoff afterward. Apparently the kids seem okay for now--no major alarm bells going off."

"She could have been giving them very small dosages. It could have been a very gradual thing."

"He said he wants to send them to a specialist in Lexington tomorrow, though."

"Good idea." She yawned and curled down against the pillow. "So our bases are covered?"

"Nearly."

He said nothing more.

"Mulder?"

"Bethy helped catch Smoky's agent right at Tracy's door, evidently."

"Bethy?" Her eyes opened again.

"Evidently she slipped past the people Wykoff had posted." A long pause. "They were expecting a man."

Dead air. Scully winced. "Diana?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, Mulder."

"I... I went down and saw her. They had her at the sheriff's station and I figured I'd have to face her sometime."

She swallowed and waited.

"She was... still trying to string it out--you know, before she realized we were on to her. I don't know what she would have done if nobody'd caught her. Would she have taken Tracy off the ventilator, tried to--? I don't know. Maybe I don't want to know."

"Well, they did catch her, Mulder, so it's immaterial. You should get some sleep, too, you know."

"Yeah, I dozed off in the plane but I think it just made me more tired."

"Where are you now?"

"At home--at Dale's. On the couch."

She smiled. "Should have guessed."

"Okay, yeah, I guess I gravitate to couches after all this time. But home, Scully... Closest thing to home I know of right now is a bed and a woman in a trailer behind David Barker's barn. Or a little green room in D.C. Remember that one?"

"Seems like months. Or years. Yes, I do. I like that room. I wouldn't mind spending the night there again sometime."

"Maybe sometime soon."

She smiled.

"Scully, you should get some rest. You've got a lot ahead of you."

"Yes, and I'll need to check on Krycek again after a while. Oh..."

"What?"

"Have you seen Sandy?"

"Yeah, she's still playing sentinel at the hospital."

"Does she know I'm bringing Krycek?"

"Uh-uh."

She let out her breath slowly and let her eyes trace the swirled pattern in the ceiling. "I could call her, I suppose. I think she'd be better off staying away. How do you explain--?"

"I'll do it, Scully. I'll figure something out."

"You've had enough to deal with already today."

"And you haven't? You just concentrate on getting some rest and getting yourself here."

She paused. "Okay."

"Now close your eyes."

She hesitated a moment and then did as he said.

"You tucked in? I'm tucking you in here..."

"Being tucked in."

"You here in front of me?"

"In front. Yes." She smiled, amused. "Do I get an arm to hold on to?"

"Right here. I got you."

"Good. Much better." She paused. "Maybe a little closer..."

"I'm there. You warm?"

"Mmm."

" 'Night, Scully."

"Goodnight, Mulder."

 

 

"License?"

Brian reached into his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out the small plastic card. "May I ask what this is all about?"

"It's the car, sir," said the uniformed officer outside the car window. "There's an all points bulletin out for the car. Registration?"

"It belongs to a lady friend. I'm sure she's got it in here."

He reached for the glove box. In a way the note had been typically mysterious, almost like a game she might be playing, that teasing sparkle in her eye in anticipation of some kind of surprise. But to come out into the parking lot and find his car gone and her red Volvo wagon in its place... and then the note saying she was leaving, just gone... It was as if he'd exited the building into some kind of strange dream.

He reached through a few neatly folded papers, extracted the car's registration and handed it to the officer.

"This is the one. I'm going to have to ask you to exit the vehicle and come with me. They're going to want you to answer some questions."

Brian opened his mouth but words hesitated to form themselves. "Can you tell me what this is about? Has something happened to Maria? Has--?"

The door was opened from the outside. The officer stood waiting. Brian turned off the ignition and stepped out into the bright haze of late afternoon.

 

 

Streak of light on the ceiling. Or smudge of light; it was softer now, pointing toward the corner instead of straight in, the way it had been before. Krycek blinked, eyes dry. She was lying in a hospital bed somewhere, unable to move, soft skin, that smooth hair, just waiting. Waiting for him to come, for them to take away the tubes and the wires and send her off, permanently out of reach. Come together to let go, hold on to watch her slip away. Love her and watch her die.

She'd feel it--experience it--the way everything seemed heightened for her: rain, the taste of applesauce, leaves clapping in the wind or being touched, making--

His eyes closed. He pulled up, leaned forward carefully and rested his head in his hands.

 

 

"Sandy?"

Somebody was shaking her shoulder. She opened her eyes. It was Ben, his voice quiet. She straightened in the chair and squinted into the brightness of the hospital interior.

"Looks like you've been here long enough. You should go home, get yourself some sleep where you can stretch out."

Her neck hurt. She rubbed it and grimaced.

"Somebody drop you here or did you drive?"

"My mom. She dropped me this morning. What time is it?"

"Five fifty."

"Geez."

"Come on. I'll drive you home. Or would you rather walk?"

Sandy stood and stretched. "Man, I feel like Rip Van Winkle right now."

Mulder nodded toward the door.

"Wait a minute. What about Tracy? Who's gonna... Hey, what about you and Annie? Where'd you two take off to this morning?"

Ben paused by the bed a moment and ran the back of a finger lightly over Tracy's cheek. "They're going to unhook her tomorrow morning sometime. We're just waiting for..." He paused. "Look, how about we walk? Maybe we could both use that. I'll fill you in."

 

 

He wasn't going to do her any good this way.

Krycek sat up and looked toward the night stand, searching for clock numerals. 6:10. He took a breath, eased his legs over the side of the bed, made himself stand and go to the window. He pushed the curtain aside with one finger.

Little town. Old town, up in the mountains somewhere, the kind of place where things go on the way they always have and kids grow up and move away as soon as they get the chance. There were brick and wood houses on the hillside, old, two stories most of them, surrounded by wooded rolling peaks and a gorge between. Maybe a river.

Moving to the door, he opened it and looked out. Scully's van was the only car in the parking lot. It was, what, Monday? Not that it mattered. Sky was beginning to clear a little, the gray morphing gradually toward pale blue, the light softening. She'd like--

He shook himself and stepped outside. The drapes were closed in the window next door; the rest of them down the row were open. Sounded like Scully'd barely slept. Evidently she'd been at the hospital until she'd left to fly to D.C. She would have been wondering whether one or the other or both of them would come out of their rescue attempt in one piece.

At least she'd had the sense to stop when she was bushed, not like Mulder who'd fallen asleep at the wheel on the way to Skyland Mountain and had nearly driven them into a semi. She got that look in her eye every time she had to deal with the wound, the I'd-rather-be-anywhere-else look. But why wouldn't she? She was pushing herself, doing this.

She had guts, though. You had to give her that.

Krycek closed his eyes and opened them again. Limbo time, like being strung out on the drug. Damned if you do and damned if you don't: the faster he got there, the sooner she'd be gone. He needed to be there, hold her, smell her. But his wants wouldn't get him anywhere but tied up in knots.

He started toward the left, to where the building ended three doors away. Everyday life was going on all around him and what did any of it matter? Every truck that drove by, every kid on a bicycle, every woman with a grocery bag headed for home: not one of them knew, and it wouldn't change their world one damn bit if they did. She'd be gone and the crater she'd leave behind would be invisible to anybody but him.

Beyond the corner of the building was a patio table with two wrought iron chairs and an umbrella, and a little farther beyond, under a cluster of trees, a glider. Krycek sat and pushed it absently and stood again and looked up at the sky, where blue jostled with clouds for dominance.

 

 

"But why?"

"Because... because she'd want him to be there, and Scully thought... that it would be a good thing, to do that for her. That's why she had him released into her custody."

Sandy kicked at a pebble in the road. "And afterwards they're gonna take him in?"

"That's the plan."

"But how could she want somebody like that around, somebody who--?" Her hands made fists. She pictured Alex-the-killer in her head, a mutated version of Joe with a beer gut and his feet up on the table. Now, there was a picture: Joe laid up, wrapped and bandaged, whining and ordering you around. He would, too; he'd enjoy it in spite of whatever pain he suffered. He'd eat up the attention. "You said she could see into people, Ben. If she could do that--if she knew what he's done--then how could she possibly want him around when--?" She shook her head. "I don't get it."

"I imagine it's a mixed bag," he said. "I'm sure she's seen inside me--seen what I think of Krycek. That's got to be uncomfortable for her. You know, to realize someone doesn't believe the things you're saying about someone, the experience you've had." He nodded toward her. "It wasn't easy for her sitting through that haircut you gave her. She said she kept feeling the pain you carry with you, and when you figure she's probably seen what Krycek saw when... That would be a lot to carry around. I'm not sure any of us who haven't been in her shoes really know what she's dealing with."

For a while they walked on in silence.

"I'm not saying I understand it, either," Mulder said as the road curved just beyond the Savers Mart parking lot. "The other day Tracy was saying that a person can't be something he's not, that he can only act on something that's already there inside him. And for all the rotten things that Krycek has done, in the last couple of months he's done several things that"--he bit his lip--"that have helped me, or helped Scully and me. At the time I figured he just had ulterior motives--that I was just a stepping stone to something else he wanted or needed. Now I'm starting to wonder what it is he really wants; I mean, why he's done some of the things he's done. Why he put his own ass on the line to get Tracy away from Smoky." He shrugged and caught Sandy's eye. "Anyway, it's not your problem. You've done more than your part, spending so many hours in the hospital with her. Tomorrow you should make sure you're anywhere but there."

Sandy shrugged and kicked at a pebble in her path. Wild sunflowers lined the roadside in random clumps.

"I still don't know what I think about her, Ben. I mean, I know she's not part of what he's done. She's nice in her own right, but... I guess it just seems wrong that... I don't know, maybe I'm just jealous, or bitter or something--you know, that she got better from him than Cy and Roddy did."

"I understand. I do." He paused. "But I guess Scully and I are guilty of that, too, now--being on Krycek's good side. At least, after this morning."

"What happened this morning?" Sandy scowled. "Say, where did you two disappear to, anyway?"

"We found out Smoky was holding my mother hostage. He was trying to get to me. Anyway, in the process of trying to rescue her we walked into a trap. Scully and I, and my mother, came this close"--he gestured--"to ending up dead. And Krycek took this impossible shot; he took a bullet in the side, and he--" He sucked in his lower lip. "He saved us all. He killed Smoky." He paused a moment as if he were going to say something more. Finally his lips came together.

"You mean the guy who was behind all this? The one you were hiding out from? He's dead?"

Mulder nodded.

 

 

"You seem... stronger."

Scully was leaning over him again, dabbing carefully at the wound, lips pressed together.

"I've got a good three hours now before the pain comes back." If it turned out to be bad enough. If he needed the stronger pills again. "Spent over a week on those things. I know the schedule." He turned to look toward the window. "Hated 'em."

"I can imagine."

Scully made a new bandage, set it over the wound and picked up the roll of tape. There was something about the set of her mouth: she looked like part of her wanted to leave and part of her wanted to ask questions. Krycek stared at the ceiling. The farm kitchen materialized in front of him, dull in the light of the candle, rain pelting the glass. His hand curled and he made himself refocus.

"I know you'd rather have gone back with Mulder," he said.

"I don't think she should die alone." There was an edge to her voice now. She tore off a second piece of tape, held the end between her teeth while she set the roll aside and then took it and pressed it against the edge of the bandage. "I'm sure she'd ask for you if she could." One corner of her mouth squirmed and was deliberately straightened. "And I know what it is to... to want to be there for someone, at the end of their life, and not--"

First pissed and now stranded. He looked away while she secured the final two pieces of tape and stepped back.

"Just spit it out, Scully, whatever's on your mind."

"Did you tell Maria Vanek to leave? Is that what you and Ché were talking about?"

"Yeah."

"Why? Do you know she's been experimenting on three innocent children for the past five years while their single, working mother wears herself ragged trying to take care of kids she's been led to believe are diabetic? What if it were Tracy? Would you let Vanek go if you found out she was behind the symptoms Tracy's been exhibiting?"

He pulled up. "There's more to it than that, Scully. You think I didn't grow up watching kids get used and then tossed like garbage when they weren't strong enough to make it? You think I don't feel anything?"

"Prove it."

He opened his mouth, paused and shook his head. Okay, so here it was--everything out in the open.

"Okay. Maybe it's better this way." He got up off the bed and went to the window. "Vanek followed in her parents' footsteps. They were both geneticists who got pulled into the vaccine project when the black oil started showing up in Tunguska. Somebody from the project found the body of a quarry worker the oil had infected."

"It was gestating?"

"Yeah. They had the body in a lab and her parents went in to observe." He paused. "It hatched before they could get out. End of story."

"They were both killed?"

"Ripped to pieces. Maria was... little Miss Wonder Student at the university, used to having people make a fuss over her, used to getting what she wanted. Anyway, she decided she was going to tackle this thing, got her degree, married this guy Yuri Ivanov, another scientist working on the project, kind of a deputy director. Eventually things got bogged down. She'd push and Ivanov, well, he was part of the bureaucracy. So they split in the end and he was in, so she was out. Word is she tried her hand at just being a doctor for a little while but she couldn't keep herself away from the work."

"And so?"

"She goes wherever she can set up and keep working. She's a loner. Has her agenda and she's going to come up with that vaccine if it kills her. She'd sell her grandmother if it got her the right information."

"Then why did you help her get away?"

"Because she's good. She was... she was carrying the program there--the real work, the real progress. If anybody's going to be able to come up with a vaccine in time, she'll be the one. But she's not going to deal with bureaucracy. And she'll share, if she figures it out. It'll be her payback to Purity."

Scully's mouth worked, little tweaks at the corners. "And in the meantime? In the meantime how many children or... or unsuspecting adults, patients in need of serious care, will she use or sacrifice in the name of progress?"

"We may not have a lot of time. That's why I cut her free."

"Time for what?"

"Purity's been waiting, just sitting on our doorstep waiting for that final signal to drop down out of the sky. The Syndicate--they think they're negotiating, that they hold the cards, but the old man... I think he had his own plan going, that he was three steps ahead, and now that he's gone..." He shook his head. "I don't know where it leaves us. Don't have any idea how much time we have left. Originally we were supposed to have another fifteen years."

Scully swallowed.

"I could be all wrong. Or the old man could have been the finger in the dyke."

"That's what you were talking about with Ché--invasion."

He nodded.

She looked down at her hands. "And you're going to... to let her run free, or do you have a way of tracking her?"

"I've got her e-mail. I helped her escape. She'll talk to me." A pause. "It'll take her a while to set herself up again."

"And find more victims?"

He shrugged. "Those are the chances you take. Like weeds in a vegetable field. Pull them all out and the soil washes away. Leave in the wrong one, it seeds itself and takes over. Hopefully we've got time. But if we don't, if things go bad too soon"--he pinned her with his gaze--"those three kids of yours may be the safest people on the planet."

She stared at him a moment, eyes wide, and sat down absently on the desk chair.

"I know." He leaned back against the window ledge. "Not what you wanted to hear right now."

"No, it wasn't."

"Me, either."

Her hands lifted slightly from her lap, hovered a moment without apparent destination and settled back down. For a long time she didn't move. Finally she cleared her throat and spoke quietly.

"For as much as neither of us may have much appetite at the moment, we should both eat something. If you don't want to go out somewhere, I can--"

"No, I... I've got to get out of here. The stuff in my head... it's not very good company right now."

She nodded, solemn, stood carefully and led the way to the door.

 

 

"Well, it's certainly not a fast food kind of town." Scully took a sip of her water and watched the waitress slip the menus back into the holder beside the cash register.

"Doesn't matter." He shrugged. "There wasn't any junk food where I grew up."

She took the napkin from under her silverware and spread it in her lap. He was looking out the window. It was a relief to return to the immediate after their conversation in the motel but he'd seemed to remain caught somewhere else in spite of his spoken desire for a new focus.

"Why did he do it?" she asked, taking a sip of her water.

After a moment he glanced back at her. "Do what?"

"Send you there? Russia?"

"It was kind of like a political marriage--you know, take my child, stop warring with my country. He wanted an in to the Russian program, a foothold. And I guess he figured if I actually survived growing up, then I'd be something he could use." Something akin to a smile played at one corner of his mouth. "They had someone who spoke English to me every day--this old guy. Bad accent, so I had this godawful accent for the longest time." He nudged the salt shaker with the tip of a finger. "I was always 'the American', even though I grew up as Russian as the rest of them."

"Must have been hard."

"Hard is... We had it easy compared to the kids in the regular orphanages.  We were just social embarrassments.  Still, it wasn't easy, and the kids... except for a few standouts, they weren't worth anything to anybody, and they were treated like it. You would've wanted to take them all in, take 'em away, Scully, if you'd seen."

The waitress approached, setting a salad in front of Scully and a bowl of stew in front of Krycek. Scully busied herself among leaves of lettuce and tomato wedges. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the waitress refilling sugar containers and glancing periodically at Krycek's shortened sleeve, the one they'd knotted from the inside and cut the lower part from so that the sleeve hung to just below the end of his stump. Mulder had come home from Tunguska with both arms, but just barely; he'd mentioned it even when they'd met at the Senate hearing, though she'd never really focused until now on the possibility of him actually losing it.

Krycek ate his stew mechanically, strictly a matter of refueling his body. Occasionally he let out a slow breath or paused to push a bit of cabbage around the bowl but then, realizing what he was doing, would take it on the spoon, eat it and go on again. The cafe was far from full even for its small size, with just a handful of men at the counter and a couple, obviously a waitress just off her shift and a male companion, in the next booth. A kitchen worker joined the waitress at the cash register. Whispers were exchanged and glances cast in their direction. At least Krycek wasn't seated where he could see them watching.

"You never"--he looked up now--"made any headway at all on what's caused this, what's happened to her?"

"No." She wiped her mouth with the napkin and cleared her throat. "Nothing we tried made any difference, and it's all progressed so rapidly..."

"It's affected her physically before--remembering things, just... nothing like this." His jaw tightened. "You checked for implants?"

She paused and nodded. "Nothing. Though there was an odd thickening in the hypothalamus. But that's something we won't be able to investigate until--" She stopped herself and focused on the water beads on the outside of her glass.

Krycek set down his spoon, traced the pattern in the tabletop with a finger and finally looked up. "The baby?"

"I... examined the remains. There was no... rapid decomposition, or green blood, like--"

"...clones or shape shifters."

Or Emily. She nodded. "I've sent samples to the lab for DNA analysis."

"It's not hers. Not the normal way, anyway."

"How--?"

She stopped abruptly and colored. Both of them did. He'd let out more than he'd intended to and there was certainly no point in pressing the subject. Besides, back in the trailer Tracy had as much as admitted that she hadn't been with a man until she met Krycek.

He was staring out the window now, his face gradually changing, being taken over by the distance that had had him in its grasp earlier.

"I need to find these people," he said finally. "Whoever did this to her, this group her father was a part of." He looked down at his empty bowl and at her nearly empty plate. "It could be important--an angle to the invasion plan that we know nothing about."

"You about ready?" she said, and slid to the end of the seat.

 

 

No matter how I tried to fight it, my mind kept going back to the farm's kitchen: the deep shadow, the little bit of light the candle threw, the rain flying against the glass and Tracy, warm and free and alive. I told myself it was just my mind wanting what it couldn't have and latching by default onto what it had already stored up. But then I figured, maybe somehow she was trying to get through. Maybe she needed something and what could I show her, what would she want to see before she went?

 

 

I could see Krycek's discomfort even before we'd left the cafe--the need to be somewhere he couldn't be, to touch what couldn’t be touched. We walked toward the river in silence and watched as a freight train slowly crossed the bridge to the other side. A couple of twenty-somethings in an old convertible pulled up near where I was standing and tried to engage me in conversation in an obvious attempt to pick me up. A moment later there was a hand against my waist, Krycek pulling me close beside him. There were no words exchanged but the two men quickly turned and left.

It was a legitimate, non-intrusive opening; I asked him what he needed. He asked me to take him to a wooded spot so he could walk. He explained how Tracy had been able to come to him mentally and that he felt the need to take the walk for her, to be her eyes for one final glimpse of the trees she'd loved so much.

We drove to a spot not far from the town. I pulled off to the side of the road and watched Krycek walk slowly into the woods in the deepening light of early evening. He stopped, looked up for a very long time at the wisps of peach-tinted clouds overhead and then went on until he was lost from view. About ten minutes later he returned, quiet. He got into the car, leaned back against the seat and looked up. 'Sorry,' he said. For what? I asked. ''Whatever I've put you through' was his reply. He looked me in the eye and didn't waver. Did you see the forest for her? I asked. A bittersweet smile came over him. He nodded and closed his eyes.

Chapter 21

Tuesday

 

She had become the waves: rising, curling, rolling toward the shore and dissolving into soft, ephemeral foam. Rhythmic, continuous, the swells now closer together, now farther apart, a pause of calm and then the pulse of the water beginning again, repeating its cycle. Rocking. Waiting.

Waiting.

 

 

Krycek and I had returned to the motel the evening before in silence. I knew how close to the edge he was, but I also knew, from so many years of my own self-containment, that he couldn't afford to cross that line, or to allow himself to be drawn across it. I left him at his door with the assurance that if he needed anything in the night, he was welcome to knock and wake me. I was hoping his fatigue would take him, mind and body, leaving both to recuperate as best they could, and except for one brief period right after I'd locked my door, I heard nothing from the room beside me.

For my part, I was caught up in the vision Krycek had described, trembling at the thought of a nightmare scenario he'd obviously lived with for quite some time. What was the truth and how would we know it? Would the things he had seen hinted at come to pass, or would something happen, the way it had with the Smoking Man, to turn the course of events in a completely unimagined direction?

I thought of calling Mulder again, but he'd had no more sleep than I, and I had no desire to wake him. I lay down and the events of the day crowded in to fill my mind--hours in the hospital monitoring Tracy, hoping for a turnaround that hadn't come; the flight to Washington, both of us exhausted, unsure whether we would find a way to rescue Mulder's mother; the unbelievable choreography of events in the study, the Smoking Man as assured and sardonic as ever, and then, seconds later, dead, never to scheme or harm again. But more than anything else, my mind kept returning to the image of a man emerging from the woods, a man who had schemed and harmed as the Smoking Man had, but who now willingly carried the burden of a young girl's life.

 

 

"Hey--" Mulder pulled up on one elbow, squinting. "What are you doing?"

Bethy reddened and dropped the faded backpack. The corner of her mouth quivered. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I couldn't sleep anymore." She approached the bed, eyes down.

"Hey, it's--" He pulled up. "It's okay. I just wondered what you were up to."

Her eyes were still focused on the carpet. He glanced at the clock. 6:12.

"I scare you?"

Her mouth squirmed again. "Yesterday I followed Mrs. Peltier to the office with the lady who wanted to hurt Tracy, and Deputy Frank looked through the window at me and...he was mad. Last night in my dream he took me to the police station."

Mulder suppressed a smile and nodded toward the backpack. "What were you doing?"

"I just wanted to... check Tracy's things. They're... letting her go today. That's what Sandy said."

"Yeah, they are."

"I know what it means, Ben. They don't want to say it in front of me but I know what they mean."

He nodded, solemn, and paused. "What about the pack?"

"Can I look?"

"Yeah, sure. Why don't you bring it over here?"

Bethy retrieved the red pack from the corner and climbed onto the bed. Inside were a pair of longjohns, a soft yellow sweater, a children's book and a small plastic sandwich bag with something in the corner. He picked it off the bed. Ashes--a little cluster of ash fallen into the corner of the bag and a mostly-burned scrap of peach-colored paper. He raised his eyebrows.

"You know what this is?"

The girl looked at it and shrugged. She held the book carefully between soft hands.

I like this book," she said. "I've read some of it. It's funny."

"Pippi Longstocking?"

She nodded.

"You know, I think Tracy'd be happy if you kept it."

She shook her head. "I can't."

"Why?"

"Because it's special to her. Her friend gave it to her. He even wrote inside it."

"Her friend?"

"Her friend Alex."

She opened the cover and showed him the writing inside. Mulder's lips came together and he looked up at her.

"I don't think he'd mind if you kept it. He's coming this morning. That's what they're waiting for. So he can be there with her, so she won't be afraid."

"He really is?"

He nodded.

"She'll be really happy." She held the book against her chest and stared a moment at the bedspread. "If it were me dying, I'd want Grammy to be there." She looked up. "I wouldn't want her to be sad because of me. But I'm never as scared when Grammy's there. Would you want Annie?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I would."

"I'm glad he's coming. They don't want me there, Ben, but can I just go and say goodbye? Can I just see when he comes and then leave?"

"I'll ask Dr. Wykoff.  Maybe we can work something out."

After a pause she smiled. "You really think I can keep the book? I'd take good care of it."

"I think she'd like that."

Bethy slipped off the edge of the bed and stood. "I'm going to go read it for a little while and think about Tracy."

He nodded and watched her go. At the door, she turned back.

"You won't forget to tell me when it's time to go, will you, Ben?"

"No. I won't forget."

 

 

Krycek paused in front of Scully's door. Tension had replace the sick feeling that had filled his stomach the day before. The morning seemed to sit poised like a trap, waiting only for him to make the first move and set it in motion. Raising his hand, he paused and then knocked carefully. After a moment the inside chain was pulled and the door opened a few inches. Obviously, he's woken her up.

"Look, I know it's early, but... whenever you're ready, I'm ready to go. Just wanted you to know."

She nodded and smoothed the hair back from her face. "I should change your bandage. I'll be over in a minute."

He nodded and returned to his room, leaving the door ajar, and lay down on the bed. There was a swirled pattern in the ceiling; he made his eyes follow it. A moment later she was there, closing the door behind her, lifting his shirt and peeling away the old bandaging.

"Pain?" she asked as she cleaned the wound carefully.

"Not too bad."

Obviously, something was running through her head. There was no get-me-outta-here expression this time, though.

"How do you do it?" she said, looking up finally. Her voice was quiet.

"Do what?"

"Live with... with the scenario you described last night. Invasion. Not knowing? How do you make yourself get up in the morning?"

"You do what you have to. Keep a focus, keep going. Nothing's going to change if you bury your head in the sand. Learn from your mistakes but never second-guess yourself; it'll paralyze you." He shook his head slightly. "Not that it's always easy. I keep thinking, you know, what if I'd kept her a few more days, or--"  He shrugged.

"It would have happened eventually. She would have remembered something and--" She paused. "If that's the trigger. If there is one."

"Could be some kind of... organic switch--that thickening you were talking about. Something organic they implanted in her."

"Yes, but who would have the technology, or... or the capability--" A pause and a moment later her eyes went wide as the answer to her question hit her. She swallowed.

"I don't know who they are--this Pasadena group. Never heard of 'em before, but they could have a key to all this. Might be crucial." He rolled slightly to make her work easier. "Gotta find out. I've gotta figure out for sure what they did to her, what they're up to."

She smoothed a piece of tape over one edge of the clean gauze and tore a second piece from the roll. He waited for her to look up from her work.

"Scully, I'm not going to sit around rotting in some prison while Purity gets ready to make its move; just know that." He watched her eyes widen. "I've got to go, got to find out what I can while there's still time. You can shoot me and it won't much matter. Not now. But if I'm alive... well, then I've got to do what I can." He locked eyes with her. "You do whatever you have to. I'm not trying to mess this up for you."

The corners of her mouth twitched and she cleared her throat. "Does this mean you're going to take the car while I'm in the bathroom, or disappear at some rest stop?"

He scowled. "You think I'm going to take off and leave her in the lurch?"

Her mouth opened. Finally she shook her head. "No."

"Gotta go there, do what I can to help her through this. I owe her that much." He glanced toward the window and swallowed. "Owe her a lot more than that." He paused. "And then"--he shrugged--"either you've got me or you don't."

She let out a slow breath, nodded and reached to gather tape and gauze and scissors. "You should know," she began, clearing her throat, "that it might not be a quick, or an easy process. Sometimes people hang on for weeks, or years. It's happened, though it's not common. Sometimes they go very quietly, and other times... it can be very painful to watch."

And she thought he didn't know this?

Krycek eased himself up carefully. "About a week and a half ago they changed my pain medication. Had a reaction to the new stuff. Couldn't breathe. Thought I was going to die. Probably would have. But she called 911, stayed with me even though it scared the hell out of her." He focused on her. "She can feel everything you're going through. But she was there; she wasn't going to let me go through that alone." He stood. "I'll be there. No matter how it goes, I won't be leaving until it's over." His jaw set. He cleared his throat. "How long you figure we've got to drive?"

"Probably four hours."

He nodded, solemn. "Will you call them, make sure they're not feeding her anything?"

She looked askance at him.

"In... Where I grew up, when people were dying, they'd let them shut down naturally. Not feeding them made it easier in the end. But here..." He shook his head.

Scully picked up the box of bandaging supplies. "I'll call now. I'll be ready to leave in ten minutes."

He nodded, watched her leave and sat again on the bed. His pulse beat out a steady rhythm. Four hours. He looked up and closed his eyes.

 

 

"Harry, what are you doing here?" Raylene sighed and opened the door wider. "I mean, she didn't say anything. Did she know you were coming?"

"She here?"

"She's still asleep," she said, stepping aside and letting him pass.

"Hadn't heard from her in a couple of days, that's all. Then I picked up a shipment in Philly yesterday afternoon that has to go to Lexington. Thought I'd stop and see how she's doing."

"Yeah, well she's in it up to her ears at the moment. Has a friend who's on life support over at the hospital. They're taking her off the machines this morning."

He nodded.

"Heaven knows it's not what she needs right now, but she's spent the last day and a half solid at the girl's bedside and I figure she'll be going back this morning 'til it's all over. Poor kid."

"She's strong, though, Raylene. If she wasn't, she wouldn't have gone there. Besides, it's a skill you need in life, being able to let people go. They use those machines, revive people over and over, but who lives forever?"

"But this is just a girl, Harry, hardly younger than she is."

"Life don't come with any guarantees."

"No." She sighed. "You can sure say that again." After a pause her face brightened. "She's got a surprise for you, Harry, but I'll let her tell you herself. Oh, and one other thing. It turns out Cy didn't... you know. He didn't do it--shoot himself and Roddy. They were murdered. It's all some kind of FBI secret right now, but I met the woman, the agent. Sometime when they get their investigation squared away it'll all come out. It's bad, you know--thinking about people doing that kind of thing. But at least she's got the peace of mind of knowing it wasn't him that did it."

She looked at her hands and sat down on the couch. Harry settled in the overstuffed chair. He leaned forward, elbows on knees.

"How you doing, Raylene?"

"Me? I... I'm okay. Sometimes life gives you a real shaking, you know? But sometimes that turns out to be a good thing."

 

 

To: DaddyW@

From: TinMan@

Didn't have much opportunity to speak with you yesterday. Word has started to leak that the Smoking Man is dead. So far, there's been no overt reaction and no one has presented themselves to claim the body. They may intend to stay in the shadows and see what happens, but my guess is that his support here will quietly melt away, or at least subside temporarily until it appears in some reorganized form. In the meantime I've initiated the process to have you reinstated; if there's resistance, the shadow group's influence will be apparent. Heron3 informs me that you have further information on the Beeson-Lymon investigation, a case it may be possible to reinitiate at this point. Please send details when you can. If your reinstatement sees no resistance, we should be able to get the two of you reassigned to the X-files as well. Jeff Spender has accomplished nothing there and evidently Agent Fowley has been charged with attempted kidnapping of a teenaged girl. Since you are in the area, I assume you may know something about this. Any explanations you could give me would be appreciated.

You never explained what exactly happened to the girl who was running errands for Krycek or how she ended up with you. Hope her condition has improved.

 

 

Krycek made himself open his eyes and pulled the seat up a couple of notches. Trees, winding roads and ten different shades of green, of light and shadow greeted him, along with the gently bouncing back end of the motor home in front of them. For better or worse it obscured his view of the road ahead.

He turned slightly and glanced at Scully in the driver's seat. Her expression seemed to be neutral enough.  She was focusing on getting them to where they needed to go, though somewhere in a back corner of her mind she was probably mulling over the apocalyptic possibilities he'd spelled out the day before.  One thing she hadn't done was to let him know he deserved what he was going to get once they hit Owensburg.  She had to be thinking it, though: cold-blooded assassin finally gets his due, ends up on the business end of death by losing someone of his own for a change.

Granted, if such a thing existed, his cosmic karma account was seriously out of balance. It was a seriously fucked up line of work to be in... not that he'd chosen it. Given the opportunity, what kind of career would he have picked, what alternate life?  But it was a stupid question.  He hadn't had the choice. Purity's threat was all too real to ignore. 

Though the particulars were messy.  Like the homeless woman.  Who knew whether she'd actually caught sight of Cassandra?  But the mere fact that she said she had could jeopardize the hybrid program if the colonists got a whiff of what was really going on.  He'd waited patiently in the shadows between two train cars, watching the slippered feet of the old woman approach the point where he'd have his clear shot, where she'd fall neatly, unobtrusively, without ever having seen him, or panicked.  She had, too.  It was a good hit, as hits went. 

Tracy would have seen it.  She had to have seen a lot of what he'd done, but she'd taken him in anyway, had tended to his torn-up body, put up with the stink, changed his sheets, hauled him up the stairs to the roof and generally put up with him. As if he were some normal person. As if he deserved the way she treated him.

He didn't deserve to have anyone treat him the way she had.

But it wasn't time to go all soft about his lot in life.  The focus needed to stay on her.  What he needed now was to keep his mind out of deep water, save what strength he had for when he'd need it.  When she'd need it.

Deliberately he studied the headliner, the gray, fuzzy surface apparently without pattern. Scully glanced over; he could see her curiosity but she was smart enough not to pry. She'd know the score without having to ask.

Headliner, visor, windshield. Back of the RV again: the rear window with its wide-angle mirror, spare tire with the dealer's name and city on the cover. Cargo ladder to the top. Ladders. How far would one take him and what were the downsides? And if he fell and broke the only arm he had?

He slouched in the seat, put a knee up against the dashboard and let his head fall against the side of the seat back. She'd say she'd picked him knowing; she had to have known. She'd say it with that clear, straightforward look, that sincerity-is-strength thing.  She'd make him believe in what she saw in him--fragile lover and clear-eyed strength.

 

 

"Mr. Sanford, Mr. Mulder here's going to ask you a few questions since he's more familiar with the investigation into Ms. Vanek than I am."

Brian shifted on his chair. A second man, in gray T-shirt and jeans, took the chair next to the detective.

"Mr. Sanford, how long have you known Maria Vanek?"

"About...just around three years."

"And the nature of your relationship?"

"It was just professional... at first. I work at Finlay Labs; I told that to the deputy already. Maria's a doctor, a researcher, and she comes in with samples for analysis, sometimes because she's in a hurry for the results, sometimes because she has something else in addition to what they've already sent over." He paused, picked up a pencil from the table and looked up. "Look, will somebody tell me what's going on here?"

"Do you know where she worked? The nature of her research?"

"She's been at Beeson-Lymon for years."

"What kind of research do you think they'd have a need for in a defense plant?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Effects of industrial chemicals on workers, something like that."

"Were the analyses she requested consistent with that kind of research?"

"I... don't always pay much attention to what tests she requests. It was my understanding that she had"--he shrugged--"some kind of independent research she was doing on the side. She's a very private person; I've never felt it was my place to pry or second-guess her. I just do what she asks and give her the results. I run tests all day, Mr..."

"Mulder."

"...Mr. Mulder. I don't stop to think about why people request them, or which ones are for which clients."

"Do you recall what the last couple of test were that she requested?"

"Well, last Friday she did come in and ask me to do a DNA fingerprinting."

"Is that usual?"

"Well, no. I think sometimes she fancies herself a kind of medical detective. I think she's got an academic interest."

"What kind of sample did she bring you?"

"It was a piece of gauze with blood on it."

"Something that could have been used to clean a wound?"

"Yes, I sup--"

"Like this?" The man held out a bandaged hand.

Brian frowned.

"Do you know anything about the drug sodium oxybate, sir?"

"Well, I believe it's... isn't it a party drug?" He shifted on the chair.

"Did this come from your medicine cabinet, Mr. Sanford?" An unlabeled white vial was pushed across the table to him.

"It looks like one I have."

"What is it?"

"Some kind of pain pills Maria brought me. They work pretty well. It never occurred to me to ask--"

"Did she ever use them herself?"

"No. She said she'd get quite a bad reaction from them, but that they worked for most people. They work for me."

"Do you have children, Mr. Sanford?"

"Yes, two daughters, three and five. They, uh, live with my ex-wife."

"What would you think if you found out their primary care physician was using them without your knowledge to test a vaccine against a rare virus?"

He wiped dampness from his forehead. "What?"

"Dr. Vanek's been testing an experimental vaccine on the three children of a Beeson-Lymon employee. She told the woman her children were diabetic."

"But Maria--" His face was suddenly hot.

"Would you like a glass of water, Mr. Sanford?"

Brian let out a slow breath. His pulse was racing; his hands shook faintly. He took the offered water and drank it slowly. The door opened. A deputy stepped inside, spoke in a low voice to the officer at the table and then went out again.

"Mr. Sanford?" the deputy said.

"Yes?"

"Is your vehicle a Toyota pickup, '97, white, extended cab, plate #DCJ664?"

"Yes."

"Your license plates were found in the trash about an hour ago at a roadside stop west of Frankfort. Looks like the good doctor's headed out of state."

 

 

A car passed in the lane closest to the edge of the roadway. The legs of Scully's jeans fluttered in the wind that followed. She switched off the phone and set it back on the driver's seat.

"He not there?" Krycek asked, glancing over from the passenger seat.

"No. But I suppose any number of things could be taking his time. The plant owner, for one thing. He could be questioned about his connection to the Smoking Man."

"Syndicate will back off, make themselves scarce if they know anyone's snooping around."

"You mean about their beryllium connection?"

He nodded.

"What are they using it for? The beryllium?"

He half-laughed. "Research financing, plain and simple. They sell it to the highest bidder--little countries looking to make fighter jets. Or nuclear weapons; they use it in the casings."

"And the money is used for...?"

"To fund their hybrid program. Or vaccine research."

She made herself breathe out slowly. "Hybrids?"

"It's part of the deal. With the aliens. Develop a hybrid--a slave race--for when they come. The researchers just make sure they keep dragging their feet."

"To buy time."

"Yeah."

She looked away abruptly and tried to focus on passing traffic. The white line in the middle of the road went slowly out of focus. Two more cars passed and then a third.

"Spit it out, Scully."

She turned back to him, startled.

"Whatever's on your mind," he added.

Her hand curled around the door handle and tightened. "Creating children, experimenting with innocent lives--"

"They're not children." He wore a puzzled look. "What?"

She looked away abruptly.

"Hey."

Blood pounded in her ears.

"Scully..." His voice was quieter this time.

She took a deep breath and made herself turn back. "Someone's creating hybrid children. How could it not be the Project? They took"--she swallowed--"my ova, and created a child, a little girl, a... defective model... who only lived three years."

He leaned toward her. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about a little girl whose DNA matched mine. She couldn't have been their only experiment."

"How did you find out about this?"

She opened her mouth and paused. "I don't think I could logically explain how I discovered her. The important thing is that I did."

"Where?"

"In San Diego. A year and a half ago."

"And you didn't find out who was behind it? Because the Project's not making kids."

"Mulder was out investigating, but his leads dead-ended after a while. I was... actually I was quite busy at the time, trying to comfort a dying girl I'd barely had a chance to know." Her lips pressed together and she looked at him squarely. "Maybe you can understand my preoccupation."

He looked away, toward the window. After a moment he nodded.

She cleared her throat and opened the car door wider. "I should check your bandage."

He reached for the lever and let the seat back down. Scully retrieved her supplies from the rear door and went around to the passenger side. Krycek lay staring at the ceiling. She lifted the hem of his shirt, examined the bandage and peeled it carefully away.

"We should be there in about an hour and a half," she said, folding a clean piece of gauze.

He continued to stare at the ceiling. The muscles in his neck tightened and he sniffed in a breath. "San Diego's not that far from Pasadena," he said finally.

 

 

"Thought I'd find you here, Otter."

Sandy tossed a pebble into the water and turned to see her father behind her. "Just thinking. I guess."

"About your friend in the hospital? Your mother told me." He sat down beside her on the broad rock.

"Kinda. Mostly about something else."

Harry reached down, picked up a fallen leaf and traced the veins in it carefully with a finger. Sandy leaned forward and sighed.

"What do you do, Papa, when... I guess when you feel drawn to be a looky-loo at a train wreck?"

"What kind of train wreck?"

"I guess one where you know someone who's hurt, but then you find out that someone who's done something awful--unspeakable--has shown up."

"And caused the mayhem?"

"No, actually.  Just kind of a coincidence."

Harry frowned.  He smoothed a thumb carefully over the leaf. "And you're afraid of... the evil, or witnessing it, or...?

"I don't want to see it, but I do. I feel like I can't help myself, like I have to look."

"You need to comprehend it, or you want to take action?"

"Just get my mind around it, I guess. I think. There's nothin' I can do now about"--she pressed her lips together--"the bad things that happened."  Her fingers pulled in, clenched and unclenched.

"And if you see this evil--this person who's done this thing, whatever it is--will it fuel the fire already inside you, or will it allow you to let go of this need to look?"

Sandy shrugged.  "I don't know.  Probably some of both."  She looked up at the leaves overhead and sighed. "I just don't know."

Harry looked out across the water's glassy surface. "Sometimes your heart knows an answer before your mind does. I try to... quiet my mind, so I can hear it." He paused. "I don't know if this speaks to your situation or not, but when I was getting ready to leave this town... I was very angry with your mother. I felt like she'd rejected me and the people I come from because of who we are more than for anything I'd done to her. And I didn't want to be a quitter, to let her do that to me, push me away like that. But finally I realized her attitude really didn't have a lot to do with me personally. It had to do with her own questioning, with growing she had to do for herself. So when I left, I didn't leave because I was angry with her, but because I knew she needed the room to grow."

"Musta hurt, though."

"It did. It hurt a lot." A gentle smile crossed his face. "But not as much as hating her would have."

After a moment she nodded. "Papa?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you just... hold me a minute. I really need that now."

His arms went around her. She closed her eyes and let herself lean into his embrace.

 

 

"Scully?"

Briefly, she glanced toward him.

"Your daughter--did she have green blood?"

Krycek watched her mouth go small and tight.

"Yes." she said, and refocused on the road in front of them. She cleared her throat. "At first there was no sign--nothing to alert the hospital staff. They said she'd been on some kind of treatment. But when it stopped... yes, some of the fluid was expelled. A nurse was left in serious condition.

Tracy bled as red as anybody. Still, who knew what they could have done to her, what they were capable of.

Krycek shifted in his seat. A kid she'd barely met, a three-year-old. Explained a lot. And Mulder... Mulder would have been outraged, scrambling to protect and comfort her, searching for whatever evidence there was to find. So what did it mean that he hadn't come up with anything in the end?

"There's"--she was speaking again--"something else you probably should know before we get there."

He raised his eyebrows in question.

"There's a possibility that someone will be at the hospital when we arrive, someone who's spent a lot of time at Tracy's bedside since this happened.  Mulder's suggested that she stay away today, but there's always the possibility."

He frowned, impatient. Her mouth moved, then her lips pressed together. Finally she glanced over at him.

"It's the girl who's husband and boy you shot."

He turned away, tightening. From somewhere inside his head, the curly-headed kid stared him down through one eye.

Fuck.

"She know about me?"

"You mean, that you're coming? Mulder was going to explain the situation to her."

Double fuck.

Krycek let his head drop against the seat back and made himself breathe out slowly.

 

 

"Brian?"

Brian shifted the phone to the other ear, pulled off his gloves and set them on the counter. "Yes?"

"Just me. What's this I hear about somebody stealing your car?"

He frowned and squinted toward the window.

"Randy just called me from the station, Bry. He said somebody'd taken your car and headed out of state. Said they were questioning you."

"It's... I'd like to say it's just a big misunderstanding, Nicole, but... I think the misunderstanding was probably on my part."

"Chrissy said she left her ballet shoes in there."

He walked to the window and looked down to where Maria's red station wagon was parked in his space. "I can buy her another pair."

"Well, she's got class tomorrow."

"I can... I'll drop by after work. Right after work. Will she be there?"

"Yeah, I'll have her ready to go." A pause. "She's got a recital Wednesday night, you know."

"I didn't... guess I didn't remember that."

"Can you come?"

He turned toward the calendar, glanced at it and looked back toward the parking lot. "Yeah, I think I can make it."

"Don't say you will if you won't. You haven't been at the last three and it'll break her heart if you say you'll be there and then you don't show up. I'm not nagging, Brian; I just don't want her to get hurt."

"No, I'll... I'll come. I'll make sure I'm there. What time?"

"Seven-thirty."

"Okay. You have her ready this afternoon."

"I will." A pause. "Hope you get your car back."

"Thanks, Nicole."

He switched off the phone and stared out the window at the red Volvo wagon. Finally he turned away, nearly colliding with a woman in a lab coat. She stopped.

"Brian, are you all right?"

He nodded but no words came.

 

 

Wanted to spend this time focused on you, nena, but now there's this girl. Could try and blame it on her but it's my own damn fault. I meant to kill her husband; he was an easy, drunken mark and the kid... believe me, the kid was pure reaction; he just popped up.

Not trying to justify myself and I figure you've seen it all anyway. I know what I've done to this woman's life but there's no way to change that now. Don't know why she's stayed with you the way she has except that you're who you are and you deserve it. She must want to tear me apart and she's got every right, but even if she did, it wouldn't do a damn thing to patch her family back together.

So here it is, come back to stare me down. I know I must deserve it; just wish it weren't taking away from what I should be giving you right now.

If you could, you'd probably tell me to stick with what I know. Not sure I know anything at the moment, but I figure you probably do. Guess I'll try to stick with that.

You deserve so much better than this.

 

 

Scully cleared her throat. Krycek opened one eye. She glanced at him and then back at the road. The corner of her mouth twitched.

"Those people you were talking about earlier," she said quietly. "Dying people. Were they children?"

He had no strength, no voice. Nodding, he stared ahead.

 

 

"Is my father here?"  The voice echoed loudly down the hospital corridor. "Look, will somebody tell me what the hell is going on?"

Mulder went to the door and glanced out. The speaker was a rumpled kid of maybe nineteen with unkempt curly hair. He wore a faded brown T-shirt and dirty jeans.

"Geez, is everybody brain-dead around here?"

"Calm down, John." Mrs. Carter appeared from the direction of the office. Obviously, she knew him. She seemed bored by his ranting.

Mulder turned to Bethy. "Who is he?"

"John Beeson." Her eyebrows went up. "You know, Mr. Beeson from the plant."

"His son?"

She nodded. Mrs. Carter had Beeson by the elbow now, leading him around a corner.

"Say, Bethy, you think you can hold down the fort here for a just a few seconds. I need to check something out."

The girl nodded and drifted back in the direction of Tracy's bed. Mulder slipped into the hallway and walked quietly toward Mrs. Carter's office. Luckily the blinds were drawn. Maybe they'd been that way since yesterday, when Deputy Frank had scared the living daylights out of poor, quiet Bethy, who'd probably never thought to do anything she shouldn't in her entire life.

"...an overdose of a prescription medication he was on as far as we can tell. Feet off my desk, John." A pause. "He's in a coma. You know of anything that would've been upsetting him lately, or do you not go home these days?"

"I check in. I..."

"You know where your mother is? Didn't she go off on some trip to Europe?"

"Italy, yeah. She'll be gone another three weeks."

"Think you could come up with a phone number or some kind of contact number for her? Even a hotel?"

No audible response. The grating of metal chair legs on linoleum indicated that Beeson Jr. had stood up.

Mulder turned and started back down the hallway. At least Tracy had support, but he hadn't been able to stop speculating about Samantha. Who would she have had if she'd escaped from wherever they were holding her? Would she have gone alone, just gotten fed up, angry or beyond her limit and taken off? Or would she have escaped with someone else, part of a pact among prisoners? If she'd had help, maybe there was a chance she'd made it after all. Or it could be like Krycek had said; she could have been in bad shape, and where would she have ended up then? In a hospital? At someone's house? Cowering in a barn or outbuilding or away from people, in a cave or woods? And him, all those years wishing he could go out looking for her but never having a starting point.

Sandy and Bethy turned from the bed as he reached Tracy's doorway.

Mulder paused, mouth half-open. "I thought you were going to stay away from here," he said quietly when he'd reached her.

"I'm just glad her friend's coming," Bethy said, looking up at Sandy. She smoothed a hand lightly along Tracy's arm. "Aren't you glad?"

Mulder winced.

Sandy suppressed a swallow. One of her hands curled tight. "If it'll make her more comfortable, then yes.  Whatever's gonna make this easier for her."

"Don't push yourself," Mulder said quietly. He set a hand carefully on her shoulder.

"I had to come, Ben. I just had to."

"Just so you know when to take that step back," he whispered, and pursed his lips. "This is Tracy's show, you know."

"I know that. I won't get in the way. But I just have to see for myself. I need to know who this guy is."

"Promise me you'll back off if I ask you to."

She nodded solemnly. 

Mulder swallowed.

 

 

It was probably the light coming through the upstairs window that was making him feel this warm and loose. Now Tracy's hand covered his, fingers working between his the way they'd always been when they were climbing the stairs to the roof patio, strong and steady, support he knew he could count on.

Krycek opened one eye. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed beside him, watching him, a kind of Mona Lisa look on her face that said half a dozen things at once: strength and love and regret and who knew what else. He squeezed against her fingers and pulled up.

A hand went against his shoulder, pushing back. His eyes came open. He gasped.

"You okay, Krycek?"

He shook himself and fought a sudden wave of adrenaline. Gradually a penetrating emptiness seeped in to take its place. They were still traveling, the sky above the road a pale bluish color brushed with strokes of white. Ahead of them lay a town. He let his head fall against the seat back. Scully's hand returned to the steering wheel.

"Do you need anything before we get there?" She indicated the town in front of them. "To eat, or walk... before you become center-stage to a local populace eager for the sight of any new face?"

He stared toward the rapidly approaching town. After a moment he shook his head. "Uh-uh. Let's just go in, do what we have to."

 

 

Everything's a blur: little wood-framed houses, old people walking, a wandering cat, the hospital growing larger, closer, a white shoebox of a building and behind everything a beat--heartbeat, tension, something sick settling in your stomach with every breath you pull in. Scully pulls into the parking lot, quiet. She looks away to leave you space and stops the car.

Get with it. Focus. She needs you now; just do the best you can.

Before you realize, Scully's at the door, opening it, but you're stuck in the seat like a statue. You manage to get yourself out, a little bit of a breeze kicking up around you.  Scully's hand is on your arm; her eyes wish you good luck in a way that tells you she's been there. Three-year-old hybrid. Then she turns; Mulder's coming out of the building and it's show time. You mumble something; you're not sure what it is. You feel like an old-time pioneer come to bury his wife.

She's waiting.

Four doors, Mulder says as you pass; he's waiting for Scully to catch up, eager to have her back. Fourth door on the left. You push at the bar on the door, go inside and the haze is gone. Suddenly everything's crystal clear, like you just walked out of a fog. It smells like a hospital.

Your feet move, your heart bangs, your clothes slip against your skin, the door comes closer; the hallway's vacant except for a little girl--heavyset little kid--who appears from another corridor and then retreats. Windows: there are windows all along the side of the room. Not that it'll matter in the end. As if you'll be paying attention.

Door's open, a girl by the bed and you know without anyone telling you that this is the one you hoped never to see. Long dark wavy hair, strong legs. Looks like she runs. She's holding Tracy's hand, doesn't see you at first.  You consider backing up but she turns and catches sight of you. Her eyes go big.

She swallows. You swallow. Then you take a few steps forward. They've cut her hair.

Girl's got this look in her eye, ten thousand things, none of which you want to be able to define. She looks like a deer paralyzed by headlights, unable to move herself out of the way. She looks like the boy. She's come to see the son of a bitch who ruined her life. Your mouth's dry, or somewhere beyond.

She sets Tracy's hand back on the bed and starts to leave.

"Thanks," you mumble as you maneuver past each other. The floor tiles are shades of gray with little speckles in them. "For staying with her."

She bites her lip and and gets herself out of there. You stand there, pathetic scum of the earth, and finally shake yourself out of it. Tracy needs you. It's why you're here.

You make yourself look at the bed and go close. Hair's short, reddish, but it's her underneath--soft, smooth, amazing her under all the hardware. You reach out, touch her cheek, her forehead, that hair. Wish you were here, nena. I'd give anything.

You've got to be closer but the damn rails are up on both sides; takes two hands to work them and guess who's only got one? You straighten and turn around, Mr. Sorry-Ass Son-of-a-Bitch. The girl appears in the doorway again, bracing herself against who you are. She comes in, lets the rails down, all the time looking anywhere but at you.

"Sandy--"

Mulder's in the doorway. She looks up and beats a quick retreat to him while the little bellows in the clear cylinder next to the bed goes up and down, up and down, never missing a beat.

 

 

Mulder frowned and watched as Sandy walked farther down the hallway.

"I thought you were going to tell her to stay away, Mulder."

"I did, but she'd got a mind of her own.  She throws herself out there in front of things, you know?"

"Though I can understand her need to know, to see him," Scully said. She paused in front of the window to Tracy's room.  "She's brave."

Mulder's lips twisted.  When he did something like that, the term was 'foolhardy'.  He glanced down the hallway once more and then back to the scene on the other side of the glass. Krycek was sitting on the edge of the bed now, leaning over Tracy, hand smoothing down the length of her arm.

"How'd it go, Scully?" He smoothed a thumb across her shoulder.

"Difficult at times. But well. It went well, actually." She glanced up at him and then to the right. Sandy had reached the end of the hall and stood looking out a window. "Do you think she's okay?"

"I'll keep an eye on her."

"Mulder, he's going to try to get away." She looked up at him. "He told me. I think it was kind of a... a gentlemen's agreement. Notice." She sighed. "I can't see letting him go, certainly not for Sandy's sake, but..."

"What?"

"He's told me things, Mulder."

"What kind of things?"

She opened her mouth, paused, and after a moment shook her head. "Quite a few things, actually. Ask me later."

"Beeson's here," he said. "Evidently overdosed on some pills. And I talked to Vanek's boyfriend this morning. Guy didn't have a clue, not an inkling about who she really is. Felt sorry for him."

Moments later, Sandy came up beside him and stared through the window. He put a hand on her shoulder. "How you holding up? How about if we take a walk?"

She shook her head and leaned in against the window ledge. Her eyes were on Krycek.

"What's he doing?"

Krycek was touching Tracy's ear, thumb and index finger holding something, another finger behind. A moment later he picked something small off the blanket and pressed it against the back of her ear.

"An... an earring, it looks like," Scully said.

They watched as Krycek sat back, took Tracy's hand and curled his own around it. He sat eyes-closed. His shoulders shook once; eventually he opened his eyes and turned, looking toward the window. He nodded to them, finally ready.

 

 

Maria glanced in the rear view mirror--clear, thankfully--and then forward again. It was enough to put the eyes to sleep, the monotony of Oklahoma, the way it went on and on, the road too flat and straight.

Rest stop. Maria smiled. The sign stood out like a welcome mat, and it was high time, too--a needed opportunity to walk, eat, lie down for a few minutes on the grass. She pulled off at the exit and parked between two minivans. Brian would be... confused. Likely he'd give her the benefit of the doubt; he did that all too easily. She could call, try to soften the blow, tell him... something. Make excuses, more likely, and he hardly needed more of those. He'd be hurt, of course; unlike her, he depended on other people. But it hardly made sense to sacrifice the work for a single person's feelings. He'd get over it eventually. And Mr. Undercover Mulder... He'd be pleased with himself for whatever he could find, though there was hardly any of that. He would content himself with having 'saved' her research subjects, though if Purity arrived it would be a doubtful salvation at best and they were better off as it was, the Connors children, than nearly anyone else on the planet.

Krycek would understand, if he knew. He, more than others, would grasp the value of mission, of subordinating individuals for the greater long-term gain. He'd demonstrated that in alerting her to the danger she faced in Owensburg. Assuredly he held no affection for her as a person, but he understood the value of the work.

Maria stretched and opened the truck door. Just a few minutes on the lawn in the shade, if it hadn't been watered recently. She locked the door, went around to the back of the truck and leaned down. There had been only thin wire where she stopped to take the license plates from an old farm vehicle on a side road beyond Frankfort, but the plate seemed to be holding securely. For the time being, anyway. Later there would be another vehicle somewhere. It would be prudent to change the plates frequently.

 

 

They were behind him taking away the tubes and wires. Hopefully she'd go easily, though he knew better than most people that there were no guarantees. Hardware clattered against the bed rail and machines were moved to the far corner of the room. Anyplace would be better, a little privacy and quiet: the little barn-house in the valley with trees all around and rain pelting the glass in the middle of the night. They'd had their moment of privacy there and no one could take it away from them.

A hand touched his arm. "She's ready for you now," Scully said.

He took a deep breath and turned. Just the basics: the bed, her in one of those crazy hospital gowns, a couple of blankets. Already she was taking big breaths, pulling for air.

He cleared his throat. "Mulder--"

Mulder turned in passing.

"Could you... Look, I want to hold her. I just need a hand."

A pause while Mulder ran it through his mind, then a nod. "Yeah, okay."

"If it won't hurt her, make it any worse..."

Mulder turned. "Scully?"

Mulder went to her. The two of them conferred quietly and came back.

"Just on the bed here," he said, gesturing. They were all looking at him.

Mulder moved the blankets and Tracy's legs. Krycek got himself onto the bed, scooted back, pulled his right leg up, something to rest her against. Now they had to turn her, Scully under the shoulders, Mulder taking her legs. She was like a rag doll but they got her around finally, settled her in his lap, leaned her toward him carefully so she wouldn't fall back, tucking her legs around his side, her head coming to rest against his arm. Scully had this skeptical look, as if he might drop her.

"It's okay, I'll manage."

She studied them a moment, gauging whether Tracy wouldn't just get loose and go tumbling. Finally she seemed satisfied and turned away. Mulder tucked a blanket around Tracy and hesitated.

"If you need anything--"

"Yeah, thanks."

A hand on his shoulder momentarily and Mulder was headed toward the door and out.

Krycek looked down. The familiar weight and feel of her, the way she'd been in the rocking chair, only not the same at all. He pulled her closer, leaned down to brush his lips against her temple, and closed his eyes. Doesn't matter where we are: he'd said that to her in the dream and it was true. Just you and me now, nena. Both in the same place at the same time and we'll make it through this.

He breathed in close to her hair and began to rock gently.

Footsteps sounded in the doorway and stopped. After a moment he opened his eyes to see the little girl he'd noticed earlier. She took two steps toward the bed.

"May I...?"

"Bethy--" Scully appeared in the doorway and spoke quietly, trying to coax her out.

"No, it's... she's okay." He nodded to the girl. "Come on."

She came close, a marshmallowy kind of girl, thick and soft, with delicate features and pale skin like Tracy's.

"I just wanted to give her a kiss... if it's okay." A pause to gauge his reaction, then a shy smile. "She stayed with me. She was so nice." She leaned over and touched her lips carefully to Tracy's cheek and then straightened. "You're Alex, aren't you? She told me you were her friend."

"Bethy--" Scully again, in the doorway.

Another quick smile. "Thank you for coming to be with her."

He swallowed and watched her hurry to the door, where Scully ushered her out and around the corner. Tracy's chest went still, paused, and then she took a deep breath, reaching for the air she'd missed. He pulled her close and started to rock again.

 

 

I had this idea in my head of who this Alex would be, something I'd probably pulled out of The Godfather or some other crazy gangster movie Cy'd rented one time or another, but he wasn't that person at all. Lord knows I wanted him to be like those movie gangsters, slick and disgusting, maybe even with an accent, a hard kind of person it would be easy to hate. But he wasn't anything like the picture I'd built up in my head. He wasn't going on fifty and he wasn't loud and he didn't wear sleazy dress slacks. He was just a guy he was tall and quiet and when we saw each other, it seemed to shake him up every bit as much as it did me. And he only had one arm. The other was just kind of a stump that ended above the elbow, with his shirtsleeve cut off somehow to cover it.

In the end I didn't know what to think. He handled Tracy like a man would handle his own sick daughter, like she was heirloom china. The idea of someone compartmentalizing their life like that, cold-blooded on the one hand and tender on the other, sent a shiver through me, but there was no denying that he was affected by what was happening.  He deserved to know and feel that kind of pain, but I knew it too well myself to be able to watch someone else's for long.  When Tracy started really struggling to breathe, I had to leave, but I did it knowing she was in good hands--probably the best hands she could be in. However odd that may sound.

 

 

The sky was gray and close with fog; it muted the sound of the waves rolling and the running up the sand. The beach felt like a small room, closed and quiet, though the sea itself must go on for miles and miles. They stood near rocks--sharp, whimsical volcanic boulders scattered at random where the water rolled into the edge of the cove. The tide was low; when the waves ran out, sand showed at the base of the two closest rocks, which looked somehow as if they contained a passageway leading to another place. It was nearly time to step out but he was here now, behind her finally; she wasn't alone. His arms wrapped around her waist like... like... The memory was gone, and she couldn't turn, couldn't see him, but he was the one: the one she knew, the one she trusted.

The waves came in with a hushed roar, sending foamy water around their feet, one after the other, rhythmic, and then a lull would come, the sea smooth and quiet, as if waiting for something, and the feeling would come over her, an edginess, the swirling unknown drawing her toward the water. Then a wave would curl, and another would follow, the rhythm begun again.

His cheek was warm against her ear and when the retreating water drew the sand away from around her feet, his firm stance kept her upright.

 

 

Scully turned away from the window to see Mulder coming toward her. "How's Sandy?" she asked quietly when he'd joined her. 

"I walked her to the parking lot," he said, solemn.  "I think she's just going to need some time to herself."

"What about you?" It couldn't be easy for him, watching what was unfolding on the other side of the glass.

"I think it's more a question of how she's doing," he said, nodding  toward the bed beyond the window. He paused.  His lower lip edged forward. "And how he's doing. He going to be able to keep that up, holding her like that?"

"I think he'll do it for as long as he possibly can."  He'd been compromised by his injuries, though, and she'd watch carefully for any signs that he might be weakening.

Scully reached out, found the reassuring warmth of Mulder's hand and let her cheek rest against the sleeve of his shirt.

 

 

"I don't know what kind of shape she's going to be in when she gets back from this, Harry."

"It's one of those things, Raylene. Nobody can deal with it for you. Just give her time."

"Yeah, I guess." She sighed. "Still, you wish you could help."

After a moment he looked up at her. "She's been asking about coming out with me... on the road for a while. Says she wants to see what other places look like."

"So she said. Did she... did she tell you her news?"

He smiled. "Yeah."

"Maybe this'd be a good time. Kind of a fresh slate right now, before she gets too far along to be uncomfortable."

His mouth opened and one eyebrow went up. "That you saying that, Raylene?" He smiled gently.

"Yeah, it is." She blushed and looked down. "I just want what's best for her, Harry."

 

 

Another lull in the waves. She gripped his hands and felt him grip back. The strange feeling came over her again.

"You take that step when you have to." His words were close to her temple. "But I'm not letting go 'til you do."

She watched the water rush in between the rocks, leaping over the smaller stones. Wetness wrapped her feet and legs; it didn't seem so cold anymore. Foam bubbled and disappeared into the sand at her feet.

"But I said I'd be here for you." She pressed harder against his hand.

"It's okay."

A swell rose and moved forward, curling, breaking. Water rushed in, leaping, splashing rocks and streaming off them in little waterfalls. Last came the foam.

"I will." She tried to turn; her cheek met his. " I'll be here. I don't know how, but--"

The water was draining. She could see sand around the base of the two rocks that held the passageway.

She stepped forward.

 

 

He was on a beach, the one that held the rock he'd told her about weeks ago, when she'd started to open up about her mother, but this was the far end, away from the cove. It was early morning. Rays of light forced themselves from between thin clouds.

Blue-gray waves curled and rolled, the tide rising, water licking gradually farther up the sand. He sat down and watched a line of pelicans skim the surface of the waves, wings outstretched and motionless, heading west. The sand was soft. He picked up a handful and let it run slowly through his fingers. The sound of small swells came from beyond him, curling and rolling into muffled quiet, a predictable rhythm, slow and steady, and then a lull. He looked up. The sea was calm.

His breath caught, waiting, but no waves came.

 

 

At some level I knew when it happened, but I just sat there, rocking her, and finally I realized Scully'd come in, and she checked and said Tracy was gone. I didn't want to see her this way; I wanted to picture her the way she'd been in the dream the night before all this had started, loosening after the tension of the initial few minutes had started to melt away, warm and free and alive. Mulder was standing in the doorway but he waited a few seconds and I did look down, that smooth face against my arm, her mouth open, hands curled up in front of her against my stomach. She hadn't been sick long enough for it to wear much on the way she looked.

They came then, the two of them, and lifted her off me, leaving my leg cold and stiff and my arm aching. They set her on the bed and straightened her out and I turned away; I couldn't look anymore and she probably wouldn't have wanted me to. It was like no time, night or day, in no particular place, everything numb and unreal. I worked my leg down to the floor, stood and tried to get my bearings, and headed for the door. I had nothing in mind--don't think my mind was even working then--but when that alarm bell went off I guess my survival instinct kicked in and I knew it was my cue: I had to get out while I had the chance.

 

 

"Mulder, what is that?"

"Fire alarm, sounds like. You want me to check it out?"

"Please."

Scully turned back to Tracy. Mulder went out into the hall. At the junction of the two hallways, Mrs. Carter appeared, frowning.

"Appears we've got a fire in maintenance. Gus's gone down there with an extinguisher but I don't know--"

"You call the fire department?"

She nodded. "But maybe we ought to get some of these people out. You think you could help with the man in #10? Luckily we don't have many patients right now."

"Yeah, sure."

Mulder turned and went back into the room. "A fire in maintenance. They're trying to get people out. I'm supposed to help with the guy next door."

"I'll help you." She glanced back at the sheet-covered figure on the bed and sighed. "I suppose we'd better get the living out first."

She followed him to the next room where an elderly man in a bathrobe was sitting up in bed, reading a newspaper.

"Sir?"

No response. Mulder went closer. "Sir--"

Still nothing.

"Maybe he's hard of hearing, Mulder."

Scully went up to the man and tapped him lightly on the arm. He looked up, startled.

"There's a fire in the building, sir. We need to get you out."

"What?"

"A fire, sir."

"Meyer? Is he here?"

"Fire." She said it distinctly but she was getting nowhere.

"Come on, grandpa," Mulder said, taking the man carefully by the arm. "We're going for a little walk, going to get a little fresh air."

"Did Meyer come all the way from Columbus?" he asked as he settled himself between Mulder and Scully. "Well, I'll be."

They walked the frail man to the door and started toward the exit to the parking lot. A balding man in a gray tweed jacket was sitting on the chair beside the soda machine.

"Sir?"

The man looked up. His features seemed vaguely familiar.

"There's a fire in the building. You should go outside. Or maybe there's someone who needs help getting out."

The man rose from his chair. "Thank you. Yes, I'll see if anyone needs help."

Mulder shook his head and they went slowly on. As they passed Tracy's room he glanced in at the sheet-covered body and bit his lip. Amazing the difference in how it grabbed you when it was someone you knew and not just another corpse in the morgue. Hard to grasp, too--that she was gone, that he shouldn't rush in, grab her and get her out of there. He made himself face forward. Two very pregnant women in hospital gowns, thin blankets wrapped around them, passed by in slippers and swollen feet, making their way toward the door. They had the motivation--two lives to save. What had she been spared, Tracy, by not having that baby?

"Mulder--"

He set his jaw, pushed on the door handle and held it open. A small cluster of people had gathered in the parking lot and a fire truck was pulling in. Mulder glanced back toward where people were pointing. Smoke billowed from a window at the far end of the building.

"Fire!" the old man said, taking his hand from Mulder's arm and pointing.

"Yeah, grandpa." He stopped short and turned to Scully. "Where'd Krycek go?"

Scully's eyes widened. "I... I don't know. Do you think he did this"--she gestured toward the building--"as a diversion?"

"He was in the doorway, Scully, when that alarm went off. I don't see how--" He squinted into the brightness. "Think you can manage grandpa here?"

She nodded. Mulder turned and ran toward the building.

 

 

Krycek eased himself onto his side and looked out between leaves and branches toward the hospital parking lot across the street. He'd slipped into a maintenance closet at first, then in the confusion of the evacuation had managed to get across the street to this park, which was where he'd be staying until the dinner hour approached and the locals started to clear the streets. A stranger walking around a little town like this in broad daylight might just as well be wearing a neon sign. It was all a matter of waiting.

And being careful not to think, or feel, or let himself break through the quicksand surface of the day. Any one of the things in his mind would suck him under, not that his mind was clear enough for much thought.

He tilted his head back and squinted. Overhead, the sky was streaked with streaked clouds, the patterns slowly breaking and reforming themselves. His arm shook slightly, aching from the strain of having held her for so long.  Something that wasn't quite hunger gnawed dully at his gut. He'd brought the pain pills along; at least he'd thought to pocket them before he and Scully left the motel.

He was worn, exhausted, but he couldn't afford to fall asleep here.  Couldn't afford to think about her. She'd understand that; she'd want him to go on, to make it out of here, to find out what the hell had been done to her and who was behind it. Still, she deserved better, deserved to be remembered, the essence of who she was kept warm and alive, the way she'd never given up on him. It was bad enough that she was lying there across the street cooling off.  Strange, in spite all the death he'd seen, to think that she was gone.

Voices and footsteps approached and passed by, a woman with two kids pushing a stroller. Krycek tensed. A mild jolt of adrenaline spread through him and he held his breath, waiting. A toddler glanced his way but didn't recognize the human figure lying in the bushes. When they were gone he closed his eyes but quickly opened them against the images beginning to form behind his lids. He had to spread himself like a water skeeter on a pond, its wide-legged stance keeping it suspended on the surface. No rerunning the last hour, or the other time he'd come to this godforsaken little place, or the day they'd spent at her house, or the one stop he'd be making when he finally got moving, when he was on the way out of this town for good.

He couldn't say why he was going there, whether it was for Tracy or for himself. Maybe he didn't need to know. It was just something that had to be done.

The wounds ached. There was no telling how he'd take care of them now, how--

No thinking.

He looked up. The blue patches were bigger now. Suddenly he felt the warm press of her body against him, pictured the orchard path and Tracy running toward the two poplars as if they were family. He set his jaw, closed his eyes against the burning in them and braced himself against the fierceness of the ache.

 

 

"Mulder?"

He opened one eye to see Scully standing in the doorway. She came in and sat on the edge of his bed.

"I'm going to have to take the van into Lexington to turn it in."

He reached up and set a hand on her shoulder. "You look tired, Scully. You sure you're up for that?"

"I don't see that it's a question of whether or not I'm up for it." She leaned forward, elbows against knees, and closed her eyes.

"I'll go with you."

She turned to look at him and smiled a brief, tired smile.

He smoothed a spot at the side of her waist with a thumb. "Dale still here?"

"No. He's gone over to Rita's with Bethy's things."

"There anything you need to do here right now?"

"Right now?"

"You know, in the next day or so."

"Well, I... I thought I'd try to do Tracy's autopsy, since there are so many possible factors that..." She shook her head. "I don't think I can, Mulder. Not now, anyway."

"You shouldn't have to." A pause. "I've been thinking, Scully."

"That?"

"I think I need a little change of scenery, and Skinner wrote me this morning saying he was going to try to start my reinstatement. I need to talk to him."

After a moment she turned to look at him again.

"We're going to have to make some decisions, Scully, about how we play it from here. The Bureau frowns on partners being personally involved and I don't think it's worth it to either of us to have to sneak around. Anyway, I was thinking of flying back to D.C. tonight. Might be a good thing for you, too--check up on your apartment, see how things look to you now." He raised an eyebrow.

"I do have things to take care of here. You'll need to find out more about Angie's children and their medical history, too. But we can come back in a day or two and frankly, right now I'm exhausted." She took the hand he offered. "It would be a hard night to stay here, Mulder. I think you're right. We should go."

 

 

"It's okay, Mom. Anyway, I think I need some space...Yeah, I'll call if I need anything."

Sandy placed the phone back on the receiver. Her mother was making dinner for Harry. It didn't look anything like she was going after him--not in a catch-you kind of way. But they were talking like two normal people and that was a good thing. The day needed something to drop into the good side of the scale.

Rita had come back; that was one for the good side.

But it was still overshadowed by the bad, Tracy dying and then Alex Two-Faced Krycek disappearing; Annie'd called after the fire scare at the hospital was over. Somehow the alarm had gone off just as he walked out the door and he'd seen his chance and taken off. Ben had looked for him, but the guy was slick and probably halfway into the next county by the time they’d noticed. They'd offered to call the sheriff in, but what good would it do to let the whole town know Cy's killer had come back to Owensburg and then escaped again? Besides, it would put Ben and Annie on the spot since they were the ones who'd brought him here.

He'd gotten a dose of punishment at the hospital, though, that was for sure. It didn't pay for what he'd done to Cy and Roddy, but then nothing could. Not even the longest prison term was going to bring them back.

Sandy sighed. The man made no sense.  Even Ben said that. He'd done terrible things and then good. He'd been so careful with Tracy, but he didn't have the guts to stay put and take his punishment.

He'd saved Ben and Annie from Mr. Thinks-He's-God.  There, at least, he deserved some credit.  Still, it made her brain twist trying to puzzle him out.

Letting her head fall back onto the couch cushion, Sandy stared at the ceiling and rested a hand against her stomach. Nothing yet; it was way too early for that. But soon there'd be movement and growing, and then soft skin and baby smiles and a little somebody who needed to be loved. Just a little present Cy'd tucked away for her at the last minute.

She sighed and made herself get up from the couch. Nearly nightfall and she still hadn't made it to the mailbox. She went out onto the porch and down the stairs. Queenie lay in the dirt; she opened one eye as Sandy passed but didn't bother to raise an ear or try to get up. At the mailbox, Sandy took the papers out and returned to sit on the stairs.  The usual ads: pizza parlor, discount furniture, auto parts. Electric bill.

Something else. Not even mailed, because there was no stamp and just her name was written on the front. The envelope was motel stationery from someplace in West Virginia. She tore it open and held it toward the fading light. Something hard fell out of the folded sheet of stationery onto the top stair. She picked it up. An ATM card. Puzzled, she looked back at the sheet of paper and read.

Just want you to know that I appreciate the time you put in with Tracy. For a kid on her own with nothing, she had amazing resources and she did what she could to share them around. She just gave and gave whether you deserved it or not.

Tracy had some money in a bank account she was saving for when the baby came; I think she'd want you to have it. Anyway, you'll be needing it with one of your own on the way, so here's the card. The PIN number is 'topaz'; you can access it at the ATM. There's a couple thousand in there.

I know there's no way to change what I did to mess up your life.  If it makes any difference, not a day goes by that I don't wish things could have played out differently.

I know Tracy would appreciate the fact that you stood by her. Just wish she were here to tell you herself.

 

 

Scully shifted in her seat. A finger trailed lightly from her knuckles to her wrist.

"What's the matter, Scully?"

She turned away from the window and its cloud formations and attempted a smile. "I'm so exhausted I can't sleep. I keep thinking about Tracy... and Krycek, some of what he told me." She sighed.

Mulder pushed up the arm rest between them. "Come on." He put an arm around her and pulled her close. "You can figure it out later."

She let her head rest against his chest and closed her eyes. He was warm and smelled comfortingly like himself. A thumb brushed along her upper arm. The note Krycek had left in the van said he was going in search of the group Tracy's father had been a part of. Maybe, he'd said, if he found them he might discover something about whoever had created Emily. It's not likely she was the only one they made--those had been his words. Not the only child hybrid, or not the only child created from her ova? It wasn't the first time the sobering thought had come: that she might have more children she didn't know about.

She swallowed.

Mulder's head dipped low. His cheek brushed against her temple. "Relax, Scully."

"I'm trying."

Soft lips pressed against her forehead. His fingers found the muscles between her neck and shoulders and began to knead carefully. It was his style of comfort, his equivalent of... of Alex Krycek sitting on a hospital bed gently rocking a dying girl.

"I've been thinking," he said, close. "About Vanek's boyfriend. He was... completely in the dark, had no idea what she was up to. I think part of him didn't want to know too much--you know, anything that would upset his little fantasy-world. But you've got to figure she'd do a real careful job of hiding herself, her real agenda. You know, all this time I've been wondering, going back through everything, racking my brains"--he paused--"trying to figure out why I didn't catch on to Diana, how I could be that self-absorbed, that blind. Scares you to think your judgment could be that bad."

"Mulder..."

His fingers moved again, kneading carefully. "But then I thought, maybe it's not much different than with Vanek. She had a plan and she was meticulous about keeping it hidden." A pause. "I didn't tell you..."

"What?"

"Every time I thought of it you were somewhere else, different place or a different state." His stomach went in as he let out a long breath.

"What?"

"Diana's big motivator."

"She told you?"

"Uh-uh. Tracy did."

"And it's... what?"

He shook his head against her. "She's Smoky's daughter."

Scully opened her eyes and looked up at him.

"Yeah, pretty amazing, huh? I guess he figured he could just... grow his own army of operatives."

"Well, he certainly tried it with Krycek."

She closed her eyes and lay back against him. His hand settled on her shoulder.

"Never thought I'd see Krycek like that," he said after a moment. "This morning. Never figured."

 

 

I waited in a stand of trees on the hillside long enough to see the girl come out and read the note I'd left. Don't know if I scored any points with her; she sat there and cried onto the paper but it could have just been frustration. Anyway, I wasn't out looking for points.

I'd noticed the big rig in the yard and figured it might not be there long.  It would have been a clean, easy way out of town, nobody able to spot me, my trail suddenly gone cold.  But if the guy were to notice me... No, thanks. I wasn't ready to deal with that.

By the time the moon came up I'd found an abandoned shack with half a roof, and I rested there a while, trying to gather what strength I could before I had to leave.  This was the second day I'd barely eaten, and I knew the kind of look my doctor would have given me if she'd known what I'd been up to.  Both wounds ached, and one-handed I was going to be pretty well handicapped when it came to taking care of the new wound on my right side. 

I kept telling myself this was what I'd been waiting for: the lead I'd been hoping to stumble across, maybe something critical to discover, a chance to get back in the game and make a difference.  The old man was out of my way for good, and Mulder... well, he'd seemed a little different since the shootout in the Reston house. Definitely less hostile. If he went out looking for me after I left the hospital, he didn't make much of an effort to find me. 

She'd tell me to keep pressing ahead, to find something that would help save people.

None of it seemed to matter. My chest felt like lead and I couldn't muster any drive. In a way, I didn't want to. It was shock; I knew that, but it didn't change anything.  One thing I did know was what Mulder'd been feeling that night when I caught him in his apartment with his gun to his head, how welcome it would be to call a halt, take the initiative and just check off this crazy planet, leave the constant struggle behind.  I'd never believed in any kind of afterlife; maybe death--nothing--seemed like a good enough reward after the shit this life puts you through.  But I didn't have a weapon.  Whether that was for better or worse, I don't know.

Stars twinkled through the opening in the broken roof but it hurt to look at them.  All I wanted was to close my eyes, to sink into the ghost of a sensation that I could still feel Tracy against me, not struggling to breathe but just lying there, quiet. I knew now that she'd sensed something three nights ago, when we'd been together in the dream. She'd had a vision then, of another place with mountains and vegetable fields; she said she saw us there. At the time I figured it might be the future, but whatever it meant, I wasn't likely to find out now.

For a long time I just lay there, staring up at the sky.

 

 

The streets were familiar now: it was her neighborhood. Their neighborhood. Scully was sitting forward slightly, watching the buildings pass. This would be the test--of whether the last three weeks had been just a blip of circumstance or something more, of whether the old surroundings would pull her back to who she'd been before, the old agenda and defenses kicking in.

Finally her building came into view. The taxi pulled over and stopped.

"Want me to come check it out?" Mulder said. "You know, in case they're still watching or something? Or do you need the space?"

"No, come." She pressed his hand briefly and opened the door.

A bag for each of them, and Krycek's bag, which he shouldered, and they were up the stairs and into the lobby, familiar sights, familiar smells. Outside, the sky was a deepening blue. Scully set her bag down and fumbled in her pockets.

"My keys," she said, looking up. "I must have left them in my bag. It's been so long."

She knelt down and retrieved them from a side compartment, worked the lock and opened the door cautiously. The room was warm and smelled of being closed up. A flip of the light switch and the room appeared in front of them: couch, coffee table, her familiar decor. Three weeks worth of mail on the dusty phone table, retrieval courtesy of the Gunmen. Scully approached it, picked up the top few envelopes, glanced absently at them and set them back on the stack. Mulder watched her drift to the kitchen, the window, the sofa and finally to the bedroom. The light went on but she remained in the doorway. Finally she stepped inside.

"Looks like Smoky's men did a reasonable job with the carpet, considering," she said, glancing back at him.

Only a faint pink area remained where Krycek had bled onto the floor. She looked around aimlessly and finally sat on the bed.

"You look like you need some time to soak it in," he said.

"I--" Her hands went up. "It's the traveling, and the lack of sleep. And Tracy. I'm"--she shook her head and ran her fingers back through her hair, coaxing it back from her face--"dazed."

He nodded toward her. "Take your time. I think I'll go over to my place--you know, make sure my landlady hasn't rented it out to someone more deserving in the meantime." He gave her a smile. "Give me a call later."

"Yes, I will." She paused. "I will."

Mulder turned and went out, scanning the outer rooms on his way, locking the door, and turned to the right, the way they'd gone the night he'd moved into the little green room, when he'd taken her to the park. Down the back steps, across the paving--

He paused and stared up at the chain link and then down at the two bags he carried. He had no energy for this. Not now. Turning, he took the driveway to the sidewalk. Everything was comfortingly familiar: buildings, the little ground floor shops across the street, even a few of the parked cars. At the corner he turned.

The houses were older here and the streetlights cast dark patterns of leafy branches across pavement and lawns. The weight of the two bags seemed to grow but there were only three houses, then two, then one to go and around the back. Driveway; dumpsters, one with the lid open; the big tree with the faded Adirondack chair in the shadows below and the little stone-edged stairway that went down to the green door with its four diamond-shaped panes of glass. He smiled, fished the key from his pocket and opened the door.

Smaller, almost, than he'd remembered, just enough room for the desk, the wing chair, the bed and space to go around it to the bathroom. Even the ceiling was low. He closed the door behind him, set the bags on the end of the bed and turned on the lamp beside the chair. Dust covered the chair arms, the desk, the computer. He sat down and switched it on. It didn't appear that anyone had found the place in the interim. He pulled the drawers open one at a time. Files, papers, bills, miscellaneous--everything in its place. The envelope Frohike had delivered the fake IDs in. His mother's letter, the one he'd read on the way out of D.C. He shook his head. He had no recollection of having left it here... or anywhere else, for that matter. He took it out and leafed through the thin sheets of stationery, skimming the words. The hardest part to accept had been the connection to Krycek, as if the two of them had been suddenly handcuffed together.

Looking up at the ceiling, Mulder closed his eyes. He'd waited until Scully had signaled him before going back into Tracy's room. Krycek was still sitting there, eyes closed, and for some reason Scully'd taken the legs, so it had fallen to him to try to manage her head and shoulders. Her head had slipped and fallen back before he got his arm securely under it. Krycek had been holding up fairly well but he came close to losing it then. A little maneuvering and he had her again but there was no way, now, to erase the picture from his mind... or Krycek's, either, probably. It wasn't the kind of thing a guy needed to remember.

Then Krycek had gotten up and as soon as he hit the doorway, the alarm went off. It was perfectly coordinated, but there was no way Krycek could have set it up, coming straight in with Scully from the van, going immediately in to Tracy's room. And then there was the old deaf man who thought his friend had come from Columbus, turning after they'd reached the parking lot as if he'd discovered the fire himself. Yeah, grandpa. And that guy in the hallway: what had been up with him, just sitting there listening to the alarm ring, watching people go by?

Mulder opened his eyes and made himself refocus. Pulling out the keyboard and mouse, he opened his mail program. Maybe there would be something from his mother... No, nothing, and just as well. Scully was right: dazed pretty much summed it up. He leaned forward, head in hands, then pushed back the chair and stood. She was probably busy. She'd have things to catch up on.

He took his bag from the bed, set it behind the wing chair and returned, pausing to look at Krycek's bag. The guy had taken off with nothing: no computer, no arm, no clothes. Only a bottle of painkillers was missing from his things. What was left in the cardboard box they'd put in this bag, along with what little was Tracy's. Someday when they connected again, Krycek could go through it and keep what he wanted. Among Krycek's things was a bean bag--maybe something she'd made him--and a baggie with the ashes of a piece of paper in hers. Neither of them seemed to have much of anything. For a little while they'd had each other, though. In the end, maybe that was all that mattered.

Setting Krycek's bag behind the chair next to his own, Mulder glanced at the clock. She'd call if she needed anything. He went to the door, flipped the light switch and stared through the panes of glass into the darkness of the yard beyond.

If she needed.

Turning back to the bed, he pushed the covers aside, took off his shoes and lay down. Tracy again, coming in from the backyard with a handful of flowers. He closed his eyes and felt hot, stinging water seal his lids. How many other girls were out there, memories gone or their bodies appropriated? And Samantha: how many other kids had been with her, all of them disposable, like a box of exam gloves? She'd been terrified that awful night when Smoky'd come, all the grownups close to hysteria in their own way, and she'd run to him in a way she hadn't in years, burrowed against him the way she had when she was little and something had frightened her. Who had she gone to afterward? Had she found someone to turn to, or had she been forced to hold it all inside and go numb?

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Mulder pulled up and went to the door. The light outside shone down on copper-colored hair.

"Hey," he said, opening the door. "Finished going through everything already?"

She looked up. One corner of her mouth wavered. "It'll wait. I'm tired and..."

He opened the door wider, let her pass and closed it behind her. When he turned around she was in his arms, pressed against him. Or maybe he was the one who was holding on so hard.

"Thought you might not come," he said into her hair.

She looked up at him, shiny-eyed. A smile wavered at one corner of her mouth. "You thought wrong."

 

 Eventually I got myself out of the abandoned shack and to the I-64 just outside town. For as little strength and will as I had at that point, I guess some part of me just doesn't know how to quit. One thing my mind kept going back to was the little girl who'd come in to give Tracy a kiss. She'd need to be protected from what was coming. It was enough to make me put one foot in front of the other.

Near midnight the traffic was sparse, mostly big rigs doing night runs, and I sat in the grass shaking from having been up too long and probably from the fact that I hadn't eaten since Scully'd stopped and picked up yogurt and muffins halfway to Owensburg about ten in the morning. I'd been on the run before, but this was bad: unhealed wounds, no weapon, no laptop, no food. And no arm: I'd be blending into the background about as well as the flashing neon on a topless bar. Who was going to stop for a guy with only one arm?  I knew how the sight of me hit a lot of people.

But then a car pulled over--old white station wagon, probably early seventies--and the window went down. Need a ride? a voice said. It was an old woman, long white hair and wrinkles. The back of the wagon was packed with stuff and a boy of maybe six or seven was sprawled asleep in the back seat. Yeah, I said, reaching for the handle. Her hand came over the window ledge. 'You aren't one of those serial killers, are you?'--I swear that's what she said--'because I've got enough trouble to deal with already.'

I stopped and shook my head; killing was the last thing I wanted to think about. She asked where I was headed. I said California and she said she was only going as far as Nebraska--family crisis, something about a daughter. I said I was sorry and got in. Anyway, I only needed her to take me a few miles down the road, to where the rail lines going south crossed the interstate.

Didn't take long for her to notice I was shaking. I tried to shrug it off but she figured I was hungry and offered me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich--had a whole bag of them, probably the only thing they'd brought along--and I was glad to take one. I probably looked like I hadn't eaten in a week. Then I slouched down in the seat, looked up at the passing darkness and closed my eyes.

No matter how many miles I traveled, they wouldn't be able to take me away from this feeling.  For a minute I wondered what Marita would have thought--that I'd gone soft, lost my edge.  Most likely she'd never had anyone treat her like that.  I know I didn't.

When sleep took me, I dreamed I was back in the vegetable fields I'd worked in as a kid.  It was early summer and the soil was beginning to warm. Young cabbages--little green slips of things with their leaves reaching up--filled the place for as far as you could see. I was working a row on my hands and knees when a pair of shoes came up beside me, but when I looked up it wasn't the old man, it was Tracy. She smiled, bent down next to me and started to weed. I didn't say a thing, afraid that any move I made would only make her disappear.  Carefully I eased myself back into my work. 

Which was what I was going to have to do anyway: follow this lead, track down this Pasadena group, do what I could--if there was anything that could be done--to throw a monkey wrench into the Oil's plans for occupation.  In the meantime, she was here, if only an image in my mind. As best she could, she'd kept her promise.

Postscripts

 It wasn't a night to sleep alone. Scully and I lay there wrapped around each other, our unspoken hope not to dream about the events of that morning, our only reassurance the simple comfort of touch and the rhythm of each other's breathing. Scully fell asleep after just a few minutes and eventually I drifted off, too, but it was a broken sleep, my mind full of a thousand drifting things: Tracy and what had been done to her, and what implications it might hold for Scully; Krycek and my sister and that guy out in the hospital hallway. And my work... or what could soon be my work again. It would be my choice now, not Smoky's.

Eight years working the X-files, six with Scully: years of mutants, of mysterious organisms and people whose lives had been taken over by any number of unexplainable things. UFOs sighted and the evidence gone; bits and pieces of conspiracy pieced together, the blueprint of a nightmare future; clones and hybrids and chimeras, liars and truth tellers, obfuscators and informants whose true loyalties were often impossible to determine. All this in the process of the search for my sister Samantha who probably hadn't survived until I made it into college.

And now?

That was the question: where to go from here.

 

 

Oddly enough, it wasn't the years of Mulder's belief in extraterrestrial life, or the things I'd seen with my own eyes and tried to rationalize away that finally pulled me over the line into accepting the probable reality and gravity of the alien threat, but rather what had happened to Tracy and what I'd seen in the urgency and determination of Alex Krycek. For all his sincerity, Mulder had been prone to flights of whim and wild hoping when chasing leads that related to his sister, but I knew Krycek would never spend time pursuing a fantasy.

I woke at four a.m. from a dream in which my implant had taken control of me and left me in a barren landscape with no memory of how I'd gotten there. Mulder and I talked for a long time, too shaken to hide behind pretenses or to hesitate, as we often had in the past, waiting for the other one to finally verbalize something we both felt. We'd each reached the conclusion that many of the cases that would be offered to us for investigation--fringe groups, the supernatural, people exhibiting odd physical phenomena--would only be of academic interest to us now, and that where we needed to be was together and working to find out what we could about what had happened to Tracy and the group that had manipulated her, and then to do what we could to counteract the threat and to help those we could along the way. I knew, too, that Mulder would need to investigate whatever leads Krycek might be able to give him about Samantha. After all his years of faithful searching, Mulder deserved closure and perhaps, in the process, we might come across another piece to the larger puzzle.

Mulder's mind had continued to return to the man in the hospital hallway. We agreed that whoever had tampered with Tracy would be anxious to keep their work from being discovered or analyzed. Mulder's guess was that the gray-haired man had been sent to retrieve Tracy's body, and in the morning when I called Dr. Wykoff, he confirmed that her body was in fact missing, replaced by that of a girl of similar age and build whose identity has yet to be determined.

For quite some time there had been, in the back of my mind, a longing for a normal life, by which I suppose I meant the things we are brought up to expect: a home with a yard, a mate, a child, a secure circle of family and friends. I realized now that it was unlikely I would ever live a normal life in the traditional definition of that term. But it also struck me that the essence of that fulfillment was a sense of belonging and safety, a mental and emotional sanctuary, if you will, that Mulder and I had, in actuality, established for each other long ago, and which would continue to sustain us as we went forward into the uncertainty that lay ahead.

 

 

My first reaction was to drop that bank card. I mean, I never in a million years could have imagined...

And then I started to wonder what was he thinking? Did he figure he could pay me back with money for what he'd taken away? Cy and Roddy's lives couldn't be repaid, not with anything, not ever--certainly not with dollar bills. Then again, nobody was making this guy offer me anything. On the run the way he was going to be, he could easily have used that money himself.

In the morning I read over his note again. I didn't understand this man--this guy who killed but who sat and held a poor girl while she was dying, who said 'sorry' but took off to avoid the consequences of what he'd done. It would have been so much easier if he'd been all bad, if he were just completely despicable.

On the other hand, did I want that to be the truth? Did I really want to put my hand on the Bible and swear that I believed a person could never be capable of changing? What would it say about me if I did? That little piece of plastic on my kitchen table just kept staring me down.

And then there was Tracy. At first all I could figure was that somehow she'd landed in his blind spot to rate the kind of treatment she'd gotten from Alex. But then I thought, what if she was just a girl with the courage to offer a cold, hard man the gift of her faith that he could be the person she saw, when everybody else was only willing to give him what he deserved?

 

 

I remember Tracy once, after I'd taken one of those pain pills, starting to tell me about her dog that had died, how losing him had hurt so bad at first that she wished she'd never had him.  And then her mom had asked her if she'd be willing to trade away all the good times she’d had with the dog just so she could feel better at that moment.  And she'd realized that the time with him had been worth a lot more than the pain she was feeling. 

At the time I figured it was too much of a load to shoulder, carrying all that pain just to be able to hold onto some memories, but it looks different now.  It’s a will and a strength that comes on its own when somebody's worth the trouble. 

Must have been one pretty amazing dog. 

 

 

The End

|The writing of the Sanctuary trilogy took two years and involved discovery, adventure, lots of work, and the |

|ready collaboration of friends who made themselves available to discuss and critique the story, plot and |

|characters as the tale took shape.  It was a memorable time and, for me at least, an incredible experience. |

|Thanks for joining me on the journey through this universe; I hope you've found it worthwhile.  If you have |

|any feedback, comments or questions, I'd love to hear from you.  Just e-me at bardsmaid@.|

 

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