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Title: Trust VI: Body Summary: Samantha's catatonic, Mulder's up to his old tricks, Scully is losing her patience and witnesses' lives aren't worth a dime. When the partners finally get a lead on the project, they're more determined than ever to discover the truth if they don't tear each other apart first. Cliffhanger. Series summary: The closer Mulder and Scully get to the truth, the higher the price and the greater the risk. Along the way, they learn some elemental things about trust (as a lifestyle, 'Trust no one' is pretty lonely), fear (makes it difficult to enjoy the scenery), self-denial (when it's years in the making, it's not seconds in the undoing) and love (a guy finally gets some after a lifetime of loneliness and guilt, and bam: his long-lost sister turns up with the personality of a leek). Series note: This series was begun two years ago, and its story line diverges from the TV series at that point. I'm afraid I have to claim poetic license on one key point. I had originally intended to give Scully cancer, thinking Chris Carter never would. I was wrong. So instead of writing an alternative cancer story, which would rub readers the wrong way given the wonderful job CC and company did with their version, I merely accept their version in my little universe. However, I'd have to go back and do some serious rewriting to make it fit my time line. I'm not going to do that. Sorry. The story before you stands alone in the same way any mytharc episode of the TV series does. If you don't know what's come before, you'll be confused about a lot of things, but there should be enough information for you to pick up the basics and move on. October 13, 1997 From the front window of a century-old farmhouse standing lonely on a barren hill, a pair of suspicious eyes followed the progress of an unremarkable car as it wound its way through fallow fields, past clumps of bent, antique, trees, trailing a plume of dust. The filthy cloud announced the vehicle's approach to anyone watching for miles around. But no one else watched. Only the gray-suited man in the front parlor. He stood for a minute more before turning his back on the lace-curtained window and snuffing out his cigarette in a cutglass ash tray on a Victorian end-table. "We've got company," he called out, shattering the silence of the house. A second man appeared in the wide parlor doorway. He wore neat, navy blue slacks and a short-sleeved Oxford shirt that hung limply from narrow shoulders. Peering past the suited man through bespectacled eyes, he spotted the approaching car through the window. "Your relief's not due for another four hours." "That's right." "So who's that?" His voice broke nervously on the last word so that he sounded like a teen-ager asking a girl on a date. "Some people who wanna ask you some questions." "But I've told them everything I know," he said it too sharply, causing the suited man to frown at him. "So tell 'em again." "Why didn't you tell me they were coming?" "It's not my job to tell you things." The smaller man cocked his head in what might have been intended as a gesture of defiance, but actually conveyed the comical impression of a confused pigeon. When that failed to elicit any response, he crossed to an overstuffed, brocade covered wing chair and collapsed into it. "I haven't done anything," he whined petulantly. "They can't treat me like this." "Wrong," the other man said. "They can and they do." They heard the car pull up to the house and its doors slam. The man in gray went to let the visitors in. A tall man entered the parlor first. He was tastefully dressed in an expensive, dark suit and long wool overcoat. "Howard Stepnyczki?" he asked. "Yes." The smaller man stood at the sound of his name. Only then did he notice the man wasn't alone. A short, auburn-haired woman in a black, tailored pants suit stood behind him. Stepnyczki froze, staring. The tall man saw the reaction, and his eyes narrowed. No one spoke for several moments until Stepnyczki's eyes fell to the floor, breaking the spell. "I've told you what I know," he mumbled. Ignoring his statement, the tall man reached inside his coat. Stepnyczki flinched, another reaction that was not lost on either visitor. When the hand reappeared, it held a folded map. The tall man crossed to a heavy oak desk that stood against one wall and spread the map open, beckoning Stepnyczki closer. "There," he said, his finger stabbing at an area outlined in red. "Tell me about anything or anyone you ever heard mentioned relating to that area during your time at Frog Island." Stepnyczki shrugged. "Nothing. Don't know anything about it." The tall man didn't raise his eyes from the map, but his voice was steel-edged and dangerous. "I'm only asking once more. Did you hear of anything or anyone related to that region?" "No." In one rapid motion that seemed too graceful for his lanky body, the tall man whirled and grabbed two fists full of the smaller man's shirt, shoving him back against the edge of the desk. "Tell me!" he snarled. "Hey! You can't do this! I haven't done anything!" A hand slid up and clenched hard around his throat. "Bullshit!" the tall man spat. "You recognize her from Frog Island. You were there. We may not be able to prosecute you for your part in it, but as far as I'm concerned, you're guilty as hell. Give me the least excuse, and I'll mete you out some justice that'll leave your balls in your throat!" The woman took one step forward as Stepnyczki released a frightened, gurgling sound through what little of his airway remained open. But she said nothing. The tall man eased his grip. "What?" "Hans Fleischman," Stepnyczki rasped. The tall man lowered his hand and stepped back, leaving Stepnyczki to sag limply into the desk chair. "Who is Hans Fleischman?" "A scientist. He visited once. I overheard him say that he'd just flown in from a facility in Northern California. That's all I know." "Tell me the rest!" The tall man loomed menacingly over the cringing figure before him. "I don't know any more! Why wouldn't I tell you what I know?" To his utter surprise, a hand clamped onto his throat again. His eyes bulged in terror. "You were asked before to list every name you ever heard there," the tall man hissed. "Funny. I don't recall a Hans Fleischman being mentioned. And I have an excellent memory. So you tell me: why wouldn't you tell us what you know?" "I...I...I forgot," Stepnyczki croaked. The look in the tall man's eye told him to regret the words the instant he'd spoken them. As the unremarkable sedan wound its way back down the hill, the gray-suited man headed for the kitchen to fetch a bag of ice. Stupid son of a bitch, he thought, not sure if he meant the weasel he was protecting or the out-of-control special agent who'd hit him. Fox Mulder leaned back against the apartment door and closed his eyes. "That's the name, Scully. Hans Fleischman. He's our man." "How can you possibly be sure?" He opened his eyes and looked at her exasperatedly. "Oh, come on. You're not?" Dana Scully stiffened, her chin rising an inch in defiance. "No, Mulder. I'm not." "Jesus, Scully." He shoved his long body off the door and fell forward into the room, peeling off his coat and dropping it on a chair as he went. "Everything about it was right. It was a name Stepnyczki had intentionally hidden. He obviously perceives this Fleischman to be someone very important to the project. It's the first solid lead we've gotten. Why can't you just accept it?" "Because it was obtained through physical coercion, Mulder. That automatically makes it suspect. What the hell were you thinking?" Mulder collapsed onto the sofa and jammed the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. "Don't you dare start quoting regs at me, Scully. Don't even think about it. We needed to know the name, and now we know it. That's all there is to it." "Is it? One vague piece of information about a man who came from Northern California, obtained from a witness whose airway was squeezed nearly shut, and you're convinced?" "Yes." He dropped his arms to his sides tiredly and slouched into the leather cushions. Without another word, the small woman spun on her heel and marched out of the apartment. "Shit!" Mulder cursed into the silence left by the door's slamming. He sat motionless for several minutes, arms hanging limply between his knees, staring at a piece of lint on the rug. "Shit!" he muttered again, and, as though the word had launched his body off the couch, he was up and moving, grabbing keys from the coffee table and heading for the door. He was out on the highway in stop-and-go traffic before even becoming aware that he'd started the car and put it in gear. The cacophony of engines and horns, the riot of motion, blinking lights and great hunks of metal darting this way and that seemed like physical manifestations of his thoughts, which refused to organize themselves into an orderly procession in his mind. Hans Fleischman. It had to be something, that name. It felt like something. Sounded like something when he rolled it around in his head. Stepnyczki's soft, skinny neck underneath his fingers. Why couldn't she see? He'd been there, the worm. On Frog Island. Watched her with his ugly bug eyes as she lay naked and wired in sickly blue light. Watched her while her partner had searched. Grieved. Despaired, sick at heart and in mind. But she didn't understand that, refused to. Her cold eyes, her skeptical tone burned his memory with caustic accusations. Damn her. Damn her to hell. She's probably home by now, regretting the day five years earlier when she'd rapped efficiently on his office door and entered his life. Regretting the night she'd stood barefoot outside his hotel room and knocked on the door with such steady purpose, determined to take from him whatever meager comfort his body could give her. Regretting the tumor that had invaded a cavity in her skull, a part of her anatomy that should have remained sealed for a lifetime but was instead violated by hands human or otherwise. Regretting the day she was born. No. Never that. She was much, much better than that. Selfloathing was his particular weakness. Never hers. Still, it was only recently that her greatest fear had come to pass: cancer. It had been so difficult for her to acknowledge why it had happened: even though she'd been terrified of the possibility since meeting the other abductees in Allentown. And it had been only by some lucky miracle that he had found the one thing that would save her. Another damn chip. Another violation. Was it any wonder the woman might regret ever crossing paths with Spooky Mulder? The dense urban highway had by now given way to broad, freeflowing interstate, and he piloted himself forward into the bowels of Maryland, driving only fifteen miles an hour over the limit by force of habit without ever once glancing at the dashboard. He'd been on the road an hour, and his exit took him by surprise, forcing him to swerve across two lanes at the last moment. From interstate to country highway to side road to rural deadend to a stop in front of a house. A quiet, sweet-faced woman: more a girl, really: opened the door. "She's just finished dinner," she said. He nodded and went through to the kitchen. Straight and silent, arms on the table, eyes on the air between her and the wall, a young woman sat motionless. Her long, chestnut hair was braided, just as it had been on that night so long ago. *Fox!* A child's voice calling for help, all those years ago. *Fox?* A woman's voice, not so very long ago, made creaky by long disuse. "Hey, Sam. It's Fox." Nothing. He looked around the kitchen, taking in the flower-papered walls, tidy counters, dinner dishes waiting in the sink. It was a nice place, with none of the sterile blankness that the words "safe house" implied. He had been surprised that he hadn't had to battle Skinner for this. His boss had offered it, despite the assistant director's obvious displeasure at having been kept in the dark for so long about so much. Mulder sat beside his catatonic sister and took her hand. He considered telling her he had a lead, was making progress, but the words withered on his tongue. They just sat. Blank facade, darkly soulless, flatly lit by the unblinking full moon. Old house, weighty with impressions of faded memories, tragic scenes, dead inhabitants. Stage for countless dramas, endless comedies. Change the set, adjust the lighting, it's a whole new world. But the house never changes. It never cares. Knob turns. Unlocked. Hallway dark. Reach blindly with the left, the right clutching hard, steely confidence, power tool, authority totem that opens doors, violates warm bodies. Light snaps onto an empty hallway. Stairs straight ahead. Kitchen straight back. Living room right. Dining room beyond. There are no more than half a dozen layouts in America. Dead silence. Why? There should be others. Backup. Where's Mulder? One thing at a time. Living room. Elegant rattan furniture with floral cushions. Floor lamp reaching for the ceiling in surrender. Bent-wood rocker crosses its arms, creaks back and forth in stern disapproval. Dining room. Vine-grown walls dripping with rank moss and ripe red berries. Smell of mildew, table laid with fine china and heaps of bleached white bones, each plate bearing a skull blinking sleepily at the intruder. Kitchen. Knives sail through the air, heedless of vulnerable, hot, quick-to-bleed flesh. Beat a hasty retreat. Clutch the palm warmed grip harder, seeking pointless reassurance from a tool of deadly force. Where's Mulder? And the others? Upstairs? So quiet. Silent feet fall on the thick, wool runner. Step. Step. Step. Long, dim hall, gentle hiss of gas flames in garish brass wall sconces casting shadows of grasping hands on bare walls. Four doors, two left, two right. All closed. All the same. Try them all? No. Not all the same. Second on the left. Dark shadow leaking beneath the crack, pooling across the polished floorboards, thick and blackish-red. Heart hammering, palms sliding sweat-slicked across roughened metal grip, advancing. Flung wide open, the door ricochets back and bounces off an outstretched foot. Pistol leveled in two-fisted grip, eyes scanning for signs of movement. No movement. Only bodies. How many? Who? Where's the backup? All face down in broad pools of blood, pools that join and flow into streams like shallow creeks fed by underground springs, babbling senselessly like water over rock. Kneel, one hand on shoulder, one hand on hip, and tug. Rolls like a sack of wheat, like what's inside is not attached to the outer casing, but lies loose in blobs of stupid stuffing. The gash across the throat is clean and deep, ear-to-ear, so that the wound gapes open and the head falls back, unsupported. His head. His face? No face. A flesh-toned blank. Above the exposed meat in the neck, no other wounds, no scars, not even Mr. Potatohead holes where eyes and nose should be. So many. How many? Men. Women. A child. That one. Stomach clenched in a knot of fear. That one. Long, black coat lying spread like the wings of a dying crow, long legs protruding below, arms overhead like a swimmer slicing through calm, yielding water. Shoulder. Hip. Tug. White shirt-front soaked in blood that had gushed from the obscene grin across his neck. The coat and jacket flop back, revealing a weapon still sheathed in its tanned-skin holster. But how? Why? Terrified eyes travel over, up, past the glaring warning of the raw, red line. Identify. Empty, glassy, hazel eyes? Nothing. Featureless. Blank. Breath held, throat tight, lungs laboring to expel air, to scream, scream, scream: but -- Eyes snap open. Scully clenched and unclenched her fists around wads of hundred-count, all-cotton sheeting, swallowing to ease the raw feeling in her throat. Taut muscles relaxed, and she reached over to find hot skin clammy with night sweat, chest rising, falling, rising. Quietly, careful not to disturb him, she slid out from under the covers, stood and walked around to the other side of the bed. Kneeling on the floor, she forced her eyes to slide across his bare chest in the dimness and along his smooth throat, coming to rest on his sleep-slackened face. She reached out and laid the palm of her hand on his arched cheek. His eyes fluttered open. "You okay, Scully?" She nodded in the gloom. "I'm fine, Mulder. Go back to sleep." October 14, 1997 A shrill telephone bell split the air in the cramped, dim office. Scully reached for it, wishing for the hundredth time they could have one of those new phones, the kind that trilled mildly in a bland, digitally synthesized imitation of the harsher real thing. The conversation was brief, involving no more than five words before she hung up. She didn't speak right away, instead closing her eyes and pressing thumb and forefinger into the bridge of her nose. She knew what was about to happen as surely as she knew what had happened ten minutes ago. And it was not going to be good. "Who was it?" Mulder asked. "Skinner. He wants to see us." She lowered her head and sneaked a glance in his direction, trying to gauge his reaction. There was none. Bad sign. "Let's go," she said. The trip upstairs into the sun-brightened regions of the Hoover building passed in silence, but not the comfortable silence they enjoyed at the best of times. This was more an avoidance emphasis on the "void." It was the absence of sound rather than the presence of silence. It had been weeks since the name Hans Fleischman had come to light, and they'd found nothing to link it to an actual person who might have been involved in Scully's abductions or Samantha's implants. Oh, there were lots of Hans Fleischmans in various governmental databases, ranging from a State Department officer to petty criminals. But not one of them could have been the scientist who'd visited Frog Island, Maine. Weeks of tedious, desk-bound investigation had produced nothing. And she knew exactly what Skinner wanted to talk to them about. He knew they knew, too, so he cut right to the chase once they were seated. "Agent Mulder, according to this," he began, waving a piece of paper angrily, "you refused assignment to the DelMonico case. Why?" "They don't need us, sir. It's a straightforward kidnapping investigation. It would be a waste of our time." "I see." Skinner was glaring at Mulder with his own brand of murderous intensity, like a wolf eyeing a particularly plump, juicy lamb. "And did you refuse the previous two assignments that crossed your desk because they would also have wasted your time?" "They didn't need us, either." "Agent Mulder, you have not only overstepped the bounds of your authority, but your actions border on dereliction of duty." Spoken with Skinner's precise, clenched-jaw diction, the words carried additional meaning. Something like, "Prepare to have my fist rammed up that tender, pink ass of yours, and sorry, I'm fresh out of lube." Scully braced herself. In his best mood, Mulder might merely have bristled. But Mulder had not been in his best mood for quite some time. Not since Cancerman had staged that cruel little demonstration of his skill as a puppeteer, with Samantha Mulder co-starring as the puppet. The cityscape of Samantha's mind had gone from vacant lot to teeming metropolis at the push of a button. And back again with another push. Sure enough, Mulder flared like a struck match head. He was up and out of his chair in two seconds flat, knuckles pressed to the polished wood surface of the assistant director's desk, leaning into his superior's face in a posture of utter defiance. "Don't tell me about my duty," he hissed menacingly. "Sit down, Agent Mulder." "Don't you dare presume to lecture me!" "I said, sit down!" "Why? So you can yank my strings on behalf of your cigarettesmoking master?" "Mulder!" Scully barked. He'd gone too far. But now that she had his attention, she had no idea what to say. It was too late. The damage had been done. "Shut up," she finished lamely. He turned to glare at her, then took his seat. "Let me make myself perfectly clear," Skinner continued in his crispest Semper Fi diction. "The DelMonico case has already been re-assigned. However, you will not refuse your next assignment. And if I hear anything less of your performance than consummately professional behavior, you will be suspended. Your access to all FBI resources will be completely cut off." The message was plain. Skinner had his agent by the short and curlies, and he was pulling. Mulder said nothing. "You're dismissed." Out in the corridor, Mulder leaned against the wall and let his head drop back until it made a resounding clunk against the plaster. "Can you believe..." The thought was left hanging as Scully strode briskly away. October 14, 1997 As a teen-ager, playing hooky had brought an expansive sense of freedom spiced with the heady essence of adolescent rebellion. Young Fox Mulder would pedal away from the oppressive Chilmark house in the direction of the Vineyard's only high school. Just around the first bend, he'd turn off onto a narrow dirt footpath, maneuvering the ten-speed's smooth tires over the rough ground with practiced ease. Half a mile more, and he was on the shore road heading out of town. Free. He'd ride to some secluded stretch of beach and spend the day alone with a book, his journal or just the sea. He rarely met anyone on those jaunts, never shared them with a friend. Never wanted to, he'd always told himself. Just wanted to be alone and think. Christ, so much had changed. Driving north through Maryland, Delaware, New Jersey, there was no sense of freedom, no joyful escape from failure and loss. Somewhere behind him, Scully was beginning to fume, realizing that he wasn't showing up at the Hoover building. Wasn't answering his cell phone, either. He couldn't run from the knowledge that she hated this, hated him for doing it, especially now, after all that had been said and done between them. But what else could he do? It was a hunch, nothing more. He probably didn't even have to go in person. No doubt a few phone calls could have gotten the information, though it would have taken longer. And besides, he didn't trust anyone else to look. Scully wouldn't understand that: not after Skinner's little tantrum yesterday. "We can't go on like this, Mulder," she'd say, sounding so serious and reasonable. Maybe we can't, he thought. But I can. He shook his head to clear the fear that threatened to invade his thoughts. He didn't really want to be alone in this. Not any more. A vivid memory washed over him of another drive on this very road, when he was half crazed with grief and terror, when Scully had been taken for a second time and he was alone, determined to wring information out of Marita even if it meant wringing her skinny little neck. He shook his head again, this time more violently. Maybe by now Scully had phoned Rachel to ask if she'd heard from him. If so, Rachel was probably trying to calm her down, tell her he was a big boy and could take care of himself. He smiled despite his foul mood. Gotta love that woman, he thought. She'd be dead wrong, of course. He'd proven time and time again how poorly he took care of himself. But you gotta love her for trying. And the amazing thing was, she might even succeed: convince Scully that, for whatever reason, he'd had no choice but to run off to wherever. Calm her down.. Get her to focus on something constructive. Rachel Sachs had that way with people. Still, he knew what he'd find when he got back. Scully would be furious. And to tell the truth, that scared the crap out of him. Don't think about that, he told himself. Keep driving. Ten o'clock at night, and Fox Mulder stood in the hallway outside his own apartment, key poised, stock-still, listening. Movement. Voices. They were here, and he would have no grace period, no time to prepare. Not that it would have made a difference. He'd already had the four-hour drive home, and he hadn't come up with a thing. No excuses. Just the lead. That was its own excuse, he reasoned. The thought somehow only intensified the queasiness in his gut. With sudden resolve, he inserted the key, unlocked the door and went in. Two faces turned to him, both conveying the same mute questions, though one wore only curiosity while the other radiated anger. *Where have you been? Why didn't you call? What happened? How could you?* "I got a lead on Fleischman," he said. It was the sole clear idea in his muddled brain. The expressions that confronted him didn't change, so he plowed ahead on the only track he could find. "These mysterious scientists...we've encountered the type before...and the German name." He trailed off, took a deep breath and started again. "I went to New York. To the Yivo Institute. They have extensive Holocaust archives. The information isn't very organized, but I knew I was looking for someone medical, with access to concentration camp populations for experimental purposes. I found his name listed as a staff physician at Sobibor." Scully's face revealed no reaction to this information, expressing about as much emotion as an Easter Island head. But Rachel's features had softened. He could see some excitement in her eyes. A lead. A new development. She had no experience with this type of thing, he realized. She had the naive enthusiasm of the absolute novice. She probably didn't even know how slim a lead it was. Half a century out of date. Still, her interest drew him in, and he found himself addressing her. "There's some evidence that he escaped prosecution at Nuremberg and fled to Argentina after the war." Rachel nodded. After that: silence. The three figures seemed locked in a tableau of conflict, the very air crackling with the strain of unspoken discord. Rachel was the first to move, her eyes straying from his face to Scully's. "I'm going home," she said. "Call me if you need me." Was that to him or to Scully, Mulder wondered? But his eyes had locked on Scully's, and he made no acknowledgment. The door closed behind Rachel, breaking the spell. He turned away and shrugged out of his coat, tossing it on a chair. "I told Skinner you were at the Baltimore DA's office, preparing for the Braverman trial." "Is that coming up soon?" He was determined to ignore the unspoken accusation even though he heard it loud and clear. She'd lied for him. Again. Another long pause. He collapsed onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. "I know it's not much to go on," he said at last. "But it's a start." "Hans Fleischman must be a common German name. What makes you think it's him?" "Oh, come on, Scully," he snapped angrily. "The man was involved in experimentation on human beings. 'Mental defectives,' according to the records. That can't be a coincidence." She made no reply. He'd intended to slap her down, but instead found himself carried away by the train of thought. "It's possible that he's part of a network of scientists who took advantage of the availability of experimental subjects and the lack of social and ethical obstacles during the war to begin testing human brain function. Who knows? Maybe they even had access to some technology of extraterrestrial origin that contributed to, or perhaps was the..." "That's enough." Christ, he'd almost forgotten she was there. She stood stock still, hands at her sides, glaring so coldly that it made him shiver. He wanted suddenly to melt that icy exterior, to soften her, make her forgive him and want him and love him. He wanted to take her to bed and bury his restless flesh in her welcoming body, to find one hour's peace there. But he knew there was no peace there. Not for him. Not right now. "Good night, Mulder." She was gone. October 21, 1997 Icy conditions had prevailed for a week while they tramped through North Dakota fields and woods in search of whatever was leaving large animals and small children half-eaten in the snow. At long last, a lone wolf had been shot, but Scully had had to admit the dental patterns on the corpses didn't match the animal's. Still, with the authorities reporting the case closed and no new victims in days, they'd had no choice but to leave with the hope that no more kids would wind up as ghoulish snack food. Mulder had started the week in a foul temper, irritated at the delay in following up the Fleischman lead. But a couple of interviews with bereaved parents and a hard look at the bizarre forensic evidence had settled him down. It hadn't exactly been one of his better weeks, but the work had gone smoothly. She couldn't expect more than that. "Do you mind if I drop you at your car?" Mulder's question interrupted Scully's reverie. She looked up and realized they'd broken free of the late-morning airport traffic. "I'd like to drive out to see Samantha." Scully considered reminding him of the report Skinner was expecting that afternoon and the size of the sling their asses would be in when it failed to appear on his desk, but then thought better of it. "No, I'll go with you," she said. He nodded and glanced over at her with what she thought might be gratitude. Such a sweet guy, she thought. Too bad he could be such a prick sometimes. She smiled. "What?" "Nothing." They drove on in silence. Rachel's car was parked in front of the safe house when they arrived. She's probably been there every day we were away, Scully realized. They went in without knocking, a privilege granted to Mulder only after pleas to respect standard security procedures had repeatedly failed. "It's my sister," had been his response, as though fraternal entitlement were recognized in the rule book. They walked back to the kitchen, where Sam spent much of her time. It was easier than moving her elsewhere between meals. It didn't matter to her where she sat, anyway. For a while, her caretakers had tried reading to her or turning on the television, but she never gave the slightest indication that she noticed. She wore the same vacant expression, whether surrounded by dead silence or the Led Zep for which one of her nurses had a penchant Still, Mulder always talked to her, rambling on about sports, politics, his fish, the travesty of ruining perfectly good pizza with pineapple topping: whatever. Never about work or her case, though. As if he were trying not to upset her. As if he could. On this particular day, Samantha sat with her back to the kitchen door. Rachel stood behind her, arm sweeping rhythmically up and down. Brushing Sam's hair, Scully realized. Gently. Carefully. Mulder stepped forward and placed his hands on Rachel's shoulders. She turned her head to look at him. "I didn't hear you come in." "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." "You didn't. We were just thinking." Mulder smiled. It was the first time Scully had seen him smile all week. Silently, she turned and left the kitchen to wait elsewhere. October 21, 1997 ENTER SEARCH TERM(S)... "hans fleischman" and date=after 1945 432 MATCHES FOUND display 1. Carteret man rescues drowning boy (Bergen County Record, July 27, 1948 p.6 col.3) 2. Summer playhouse season opens tonight (Bender Bugle, Sept. 7, 1948 p.21 col.1) 3. For Sale: Sixteen prime acres (Corpus Christi Gazette, Sept. 29, 1948 p.44 col.4) 4. Why wait? Own your home now! Farmingdale Features, Nov. 1, 1948 p.7) 5. Physician claims miracle cure (San Francisco Chronicle, Dec. 23, 1948 p.2 col.1) 6. War memorial unveiled downtown (Jacksonville Journal, Jan. 19, 1949 p.1 col.4) 7. Wiley man charged with robbery (Schenkville Sentinel, Feb. 2, 1949 p.1 col.1) MORE... Mulder took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and sighed into the basement silence. This would take forever. He had no idea what he was looking for. But he had to start somewhere. "Physician claims miracle cure." As good a place as any. 12:03 AM ENTER SEARCH TERM(S)... hans and "medical research" and neurology not alzheimers 1,042 MATCHES FOUND Mulder smacked the monitor in frustration. 2:25 AM ENTER SEARCH TERM(S) hans and (body or flesh) and research and date=after 1944 and date=before 1960 355 MATCHES FOUND Goddammit. I want one match, Mulder thought. The right one. He gritted his teeth and typed, "display." 3:17 AM 210. Senior MIT professor receives international recognition (Boston Herald, July 7, 1955 p.17) 211. Swedish runner sets quarter-mile record (Seattle Times, August 17, 1955 p.C21 col.3) 212. Seeking man's body to do humanity's work (Gardner Gazette, Oct. 12, 1955 p.21 col.5) 213. Workers struggle for fair pay at GM (Union Times, Feb. 9, 1956 p.1) 214. Do you see the future? (Time, Oct. 27, 1956 p.56) 215. Earn money in medical research (Fayeteville Sentinel, Jan. 22, 1957 p.41 col.1) 216. CBS News documents medical miracles tonight (Philadelphia Inquirer, May 8, 1957 p.B27 col.4) MORE... display 212 Gardner Gazette, Oct. 12, 1955 p.21 col.5 Daily broadsheet, Gardner, Fla. Headline: Seeking man's body to do humanity's work Text: Hans: Don't give up. Your research is important. We want to help. Box 411 Mulder stared at the screen, trying to force his blurry vision and fuzzy brain to focus on the cryptic message. Hans. Research. Man's body. Fleischman. Flesh of man. It could be... The slimmest of leads. She won't be happy. He decided not to tell her until he was sure. October 22, 1997 Gardner, Florida It never fails, Mulder told himself as he walked up the brick path to the quaint old building with "Gardner Town Library" carved above the door. She'll be here. She always is. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, he passed through into the dour, threatening silence that fills libraries everywhere, the kind that makes visitors catch the door behind them to prevent it from making a noise as it swings shut. The desk was directly in front of him at the far end of the high entrance hall. The ringing echo of his English leather shoes as he crossed the stone floor violated the propriety of the place. She wasn't there. When he'd gone to the town hall and been told the Gardner Gazette had folded thirty years earlier, he'd headed straight to the library to find her. She was ubiquitous: the elderly, small-town librarian who knew something about everything that had ever happened there and everyone who'd been involved, one way or another. So he found himself staring dumbfounded at the bearded young man in tiny, stylish, wire-framed glasses and flannel shirt, as though the guy were: well, a little green man. Gray, he reminded himself. "Can I help you?" "Uhh...yeah. Well, maybe." He strode forward and flashed the badge. "I'm Special Agent Mulder of the FBI. I'm looking for some information about a classified ad that was placed in the Gardner Gazette in 1955." "Well, you're in luck. We have every edition of the Gazette on microfiche. Let me show you..." "No. I mean, I have the ad. I was hoping someone around here might remember who placed it, or whether anyone ever answered it." "A classified ad? That's pretty obscure. There must've been thousands of classified ads placed every year in the old Gazette." No shit, Mulder thought. But when you've been grasping at straws for a while, a twig looks like a sequoia. "Still, I'd like to try," he said. "Suit yourself. You want my grandmother, Mabel Parker. She's usually here, but her arthritis was acting up today, so I'm filling in." He scrawled something on the back of an old catalogue card and handed it to Mulder. "That's the address. She may be old, but she's sharp." Never fails, Mulder thought, smiling to himself as he walked out. The house was just a couple of blocks down Main Street, a nondescript affair involving vinyl siding and fake shutters. The kind that could be found in any neighborhood in any part of the country where "respectable folks" lived, no matter how out of place the faux colonial clapboard might look. A small, rail-thin old woman answered the doorbell, looking surprisingly unsurprised at the intrusion. Unlike her grandson, she had no reaction to Mulder's inquiry about a four-decade-old classified ad. She just led him into the kitchen and put up the kettle. Mulder sat at the yellowed formica table, removed a photocopy from his inner coat pocket and spread it smooth before the old woman. She glanced at it and nodded. "I was wonderin' how long it'd be afore someone came back to that," she said in a slow drawl cracked with age. "What do you mean?" "Well, they never found out what happened to the poor man. And I always wondered what became of the other one." "Maybe you'd better start at the beginning." "After I pour the tea." Mulder waited impatiently for the teabags to make their way into the cups, the water to be poured and the sugar laid out. "Well, then," she began, taking a seat across the table. "Let's see. It was in the fall: a 'specially warm 'un, as I recall: when it happened. A feller came into the newspaper office sayin' he'd come about that advertisement. Jed Sumper: he's the one told me all about it later: took a letter from the feller and promised to give it to the man who'd placed the ad. Told him he could've sent the letter by mail, but the feller said somethin' 'bout bein' in the neighborhood anyway." "Do you know what this man looked like?" "Nope. Never laid eyes on him." "Do you know his name?" "Sure. That's part of the story. Said his name was Hans Fleischman." Mulder's heart pounded loudly in his ears. "Do you know what date that was?" "Not exactly. Must've been a couple o' weeks after the ad showed up in the paper." "How is it you remember all this?" The woman smiled a grim, yellowed grin. "On account o' what happened after. Y'see, next mornin' they found the poor feller murdered in his motel room." Mulder's heart fell like a failed souffle. "There was no question it was him?" "Nope. Jed even saw the body." "Was anyone ever charged with the crime?" "Nope. But that ain't the end of it, either." "It's not?" "Nope. Must've been 'bout a week or two later when Jed sat at this very table and told me the rest." "The rest?" The despair that had set in when the old lady said his prime suspect had been dead for four decades began to give way to renewed curiosity. "Yessir. Seems that another man came into the Gazette askin' 'bout that very same advertisement. Well, naturally Jed told him 'bout what happened to the first gentleman. Accordin' to Jed, the poor feller turned whiter 'n a weddin' dress and got outta there so fast he practically tore the door off the hinges. But here's the strangest thing." "Yes?" "This feller'd told Jed his name was Hans Fleischman, too!" The old woman lifted her teacup smugly to her lips, pleased with what she obviously considered to be a story with an excellent punchline. Mulder sucked the insides of his cheeks in thought as a hazy notion began to form. " Mrs. Parker, where was the first Hans Fleischman from? The one who was murdered?" "Well, now, as I recall, the paper said he was from Iowa. Yep, that was it. Iowa. I remember, because the town took up a collection to bring his mother and father down here to claim the body. They were farmers up there, near as I can recall. Never did meet 'em. Course, they didn't stay in town long, what with this bein' such a sad business 'n all." "Iowa. I see. Well, thank you, Mrs. Parker." His host was obviously disappointed when, instead of telling her why he'd come all the way to Florida to ask about a 40-odd year-old crime, Mulder took a hasty departure and bounded down her front walk. It was a starting point, he thought. Not much of one, but more than he'd had before. A lot more. Scully knew it was useless even as she rifled through his desk drawers and played the tape on his answering machine. If he'd wanted her to know where he was going, he would simply have told her. Since he hadn't told her... He'd gone off to follow up a lead. Of that she was sure. And the same thing that made her sure also told her why. When it comes to his obsession, the obsessed man waits for nothing. There is no later, only now. Resolution cannot be postponed. Other things can wait: happiness, sleep, paperwork. But not resolution. Never that. She knew him so well. She understood what he was thinking. Read the signs. So how could something that came as no surprise still be such a disappointment, she wondered? Because she'd been ditched. Yet again. "Do you think he'll be back tonight?" Rachel's question interrupted her train of thought. "I don't know. Maybe." "He does this a lot, doesn't he?" There was pity in Rachel's voice, and it made Scully angry. "It's not the first time," was all she volunteered, then added as an afterthought, "Skinner was furious." "Now that's something to put the fear of god into the most dedicated atheist." A key scraped the lock, and the two women turned as the apartment door opened. Neither spoke until Mulder had locked the door behind him, dropped his bag and shed his leather jacket, the one that made Scully think of Europe after the war and Jean Luc Goddard films. "Where were you?" Rachel asked, knowing Scully wouldn't. "Deja vu," Mulder said. "Haven't I played this scene before?" No one replied, so he shrugged. "Florida." "Florida? Why?" "I had a craving for fresh-squeezed orange juice." Silence again. "I got something on Hans Fleischman." "Really? Do you know where he is?" Again with the damn enthusiasm, Scully thought. She only encourages him, like laughing at a little boy who says a dirty word. Scully knew her friend had no reason to share her own wariness about Mulder's investigative techniques, which frequently involved conclusions reached by way of wild leaps. But that didn't help. Rachel's eagerness with Mulder was like fingernails on a blackboard. "No. But I know where he was in 1955. Gardner, Florida. He answered a classified ad. Or at least, he tried to." Mulder pulled a copy of the ad from his pocket and handed it to Rachel. "Seeking man's body to do humanity's work. Hans: don't give up. Your research is important. We want to help," she read, then looked up. "However did you find this?" Mulder just shrugged. "And he answered this?" "Not quite. Another man named Hans Fleischman answered it first and wound up dead for his trouble. I have no idea whether he had anything to do with this whole affair, but I suspect not. He was probably an unfortunate victim of circumstance who was involved in some innocuous research and happened to recognize the words 'man's body' as a reference to his surname. He was killed within 24 hours of answering the ad. When our man showed up and found out about the murder, he realized it was a set-up and bolted." "So what next?" Scully spoke up at last. "Next, I go home. Good night." Rachel glanced nervously from one to the other. "I guess I should be going, too," she said, moving to follow her friend. To her surprise, Scully held up a hand and shook her head. "No. Stay. There's no reason for you to leave." "It's late. I really should be getting home." Scully took a few steps toward her and met her eyes with unexpected intensity. "No. I mean it. Stay and do exactly what you want to do. What you both want to do." "I don't know what you're talking about," Rachel said nervously. "Scully, this is crazy. I know you're angry, but..." "No, Mulder!" Scully whirled to face him. "I mean, yes, I'm angry. But that's not exactly what this is about. Yes, I'm angry. I'm frustrated, I'm hurt, and I'm angry. I'm tired of being left behind, forced to play the responsible sidekick to your impulsive genius. It's complicated. But what isn't complicated about our lives?" He opened his mouth to speak, but she continued before he could get a word out. "This wouldn't make it any more complicated. In fact, in some ways, it would make it less so. I love you, Mulder, but at the moment, I don't need you. And you don't need me." "Scully...." "Be honest, Mulder. You don't. Not like this." He said nothing. "Dana," Rachel interrupted. "I don't know what you think is going on here, but we never..." "I know," Scully said gently, turning back to her friend. "But you should. Maybe you even should have then. When I was gone." "Why the hell would you say that?" Rachel shot back, her tone now decidedly defensive. "Because it's true," Scully said calmly. "Look, Rachel. I'll tell you what I told Mulder a while back. I returned from my second abduction having learned one thing: time is limited. That's as true for you as it is for me." "I would never do that to you, Dana." The woman who had been so angry and frustrated just minutes earlier reached for her friend with an unexpectedly gentle hand, cupping her cheek. "I know. And I'm grateful. But now I'm telling you: you'd be doing nothing to me. It's all right. If anything, it'll just clear the air." "Why are you doing this, Scully?" She turned to face Mulder. "Because, as I said, nothing is simple. Trying to pretend it is doesn't make it so. Maybe it makes things worse. Life is not a fairy tale, and you are not my Prince Charming. There's no 'happily ever after.'" As she spoke, she saw her words translated into fear in his eyes. She felt sorry for him. For a guy with the tenacity of a bulldog and the courage of a lion, some things turned him into a deer in headlights. "It'll be all right," she told him. He stared at her a long while, then nodded slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow," she said softly. The silence that filled the apartment after Scully left threatened to smother Rachel. She didn't move, just stood staring at the closed door as though she expected it to ... what? She didn't know. What did doors do in the Twilight Zone? Open of their own accord to reveal the future? When at last she could stand it no longer, she took a step forward, then another, seeking to get out of the weird reality Mulder's apartment had become. "This is absurd," she said. "I'm leaving." "Wait." A hand on her shoulder stopped her. "I won't do this." "Why not?" "Because..." He turned her to face him. "Because what? Because it's wrong? Because you don't want to?" Involuntarily, Rachel shook her head. "Because you love each other." "Yes. That's true." Under other circumstances: in the normal world outside: what she'd just said and what he'd admitted would have been the end of it. But somehow, here, in these circumstances, everything still seemed open, incomplete. It left her not knowing what to do or say. "What do you want?" she asked, for lack of anything better. He sighed. "I want a lot of things." He could see from the look on her face that his answer didn't help her. "Look, Rachel, will you please just sit down and listen to me? There are things I'd like to say to you. I've been wanting to say them anyway. This is as good a time as any. Just listen. That's all." Wordlessly, she crossed to the armchair and sat. He perched on the end of the couch farthest from her, knowing that she wanted some distance between them. A kind of safety margin. "When Scully first told me about you," he began, "I hated you. Or at least, I hated the idea of you." "The idea of me? That's ridiculous." "If you think so, then you really don't understand." He paused, staring gloomily at the wall. "You were able to do something for her that I couldn't. I still can't, and I'm pretty sure I never will." "What? Lend her a tampon?" "Other than that," he said without smiling. "You could just be together. Enjoy each other. Make each other laugh." "You make her laugh." "It's not the same thing." He paused, and she watched as his eyes darted around the room as though seeking the words he needed. "It's what she meant when she said things were complicated, I think. Nothing between Scully and me is untainted. Nothing is pure. We bring each other great pleasure, but it's always wrapped in pain. It's partly a matter of shared history, but it's more than that. It's..." His voice trailed off. Frustrated, he shook his head and started again. "What you gave Scully was straightforward and honest. You could laugh, dance, talk, listen. It's never been that way between us. And at first, I was jealous." "I know," Rachel said quietly. He went on. "Maybe it was the jealousy that first drew me to you, made me want to figure you out. I didn't trust you. I thought I'd get something on you, or at least show her your weaknesses. But she wanted you in her life. You filled some need that I couldn't. And I couldn't deny her that." "So what are you saying? Turnabout is fair play? She's had hers, now you get yours?" He shook his head. "It's not about taking turns. Look, Rachel, after you retrieved the disk for us... and then with Samantha..." He stopped. "It's all right, Mulder. You don't have to say it." "Yes, I do." He took a deep breath. "I'm not very good at this. But... thank you. You've given me something I haven't had in a long time. Maybe I never had it. It doesn't matter what happens tonight, or ever. I just... thank you." She rose and crossed to the window to stand staring out at the dark, empty street below. "You're welcome," she said, then lapsed into a long silence. Minutes passed, minutes during which he couldn't see her face or the emotions that crossed it. At last, she spoke again. "What happens tomorrow?" He realized that she'd said it as though tonight were a foregone conclusion. "I don't know. I never know." "No. I suppose not." At last, she turned to face him. "I'm not a symbol of your lost innocence, you know. Saints have an annoying habit of turning into martyrs. I'm no saint." He grinned suggestively. "I hope not." She smiled back, bold now with the certainty of decision, and crossed the room slowly until she stood just inches from him. "You know, you have the most infuriating way of...." He lunged forward, lowering his lips to hers suddenly, like a striking snake, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her tightly to him, swallowing whatever she was about to say. Her shock slowly disappeared as she found herself responding to his onslaught, leaning into his embrace, rising onto her toes to reach for him with her lips, lapping at his tongue with hers in mouthto-mouth combat. Her small, lithe body was hard against his, barely bigger than Scully's, but very different in shape and texture. Rachel had no soft, gentle curves. There was no exhilarating flare at the hip or delicious heaviness of breast. Instead, his roaming hands found ridges of muscle and bone, taut planes of stomach and back. They reached the smooth, peaked firmness of her small breasts, well remembered from the one other time his hands had cupped them. Sliding up, his hands found the heavy fall of straight, dark hair that framed her face, his fingers winding deep into the silky mass and pulling gently until her face drew away from his. "Promise me something," he whispered. "What?" "Promise this won't make you sad tomorrow." "Only if you promise the same," she answered seriously. He smiled slightly. "You know me surprisingly well. Why is that?" "Frankly, I have no idea. But it's a scary thought." She pulled away from him and looked him in the eye. "And what about Dana...tomorrow?" "You heard her. Do you have any reason to doubt her?" "No. I never have." "Neither have I." He leaned forward and brought his lips to her ear. "I promise," he whispered. "Me too," she replied. Rachel stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her torso. Her body buzzed with the heat of the water, but that was a faint reflection of the heated flesh that had warmed her and thrilled her through the night. Very little was said after the previous evening's promises had been spoken, but much had been done. In fact, she had the oddest feeling that a significant part of her life had been lived through the course of one night, as though some kind of landmark, some substantial edifice had been built that would forever change the landscape of her life. It was large and solid and strong, though she could think of no name by which to call it. "Mulder? Do you have any..." She stopped short on entering the living room, seeing someone on the couch whom she hadn't expected. "Good morning. I brought coffee and doughnuts." A hard knot appeared suddenly in the pit of Rachel's stomach. For a moment, she contemplated bolting for the door... or the bedroom ... or the window. Anywhere to get off the spot on which she seemed to be rooted. The spot on which ice-blue eyes were keenly trained, pinning her, allowing no escape. "I got you two jelly ones. Go get dressed before the coffee's cold." Two jelly doughnuts and coffee. The image of those three items swam crazily before her eyes: two doughnuts and a cup of coffee, all line dancing through Mulder's living room. She laughed aloud, and the knot dissolved. "You're insane," she managed when she could catch her breath. Mulder emerged from the kitchen in suit pants and t-shirt. "No, I'm not," Scully replied, a slight smile turning up the corners of her Cupid's-bow mouth. It was with a sense of relief that Rachel returned to Mulder's bedroom to dress quickly in the same jeans and henley she'd worn on the previous day. She gave her thick, chin-length hair a few hard strokes with a brush and then made her reappearance, taking a seat at what passed for Mulder's kitchen table. Scully handed her a steaming paper cup that smelled wonderfully of dark roast and shoved the Krispy Kreme box across to her. "I've got a list," Scully said cryptically between sips. Rachel had no idea what she meant, but saw that Mulder seemed to understand perfectly. He'd drawn himself up into a tense but attentive pose. They both waited for Scully to continue. "I spent the night going through INS records. Forty-seven men of approximately the correct age entered the United States from Argentina on long-term visas between the time the ad ran and the time the second man answered it. None of them went by the name Hans Fleischman, but it's not unreasonable to conjecture that he entered the country under an assumed name." "You spent the night looking at INS records?" Rachel asked incredulously, memories of her own night with Mulder rushing back with a vengeance. "I want to find this guy," Scully replied grimly. Rachel lapsed into silence, feeling chastised. "I was able to determine that 26 of those men are either dead or otherwise in circumstances that make them unlikely to be our guy." "That leaves 21," Mulder said. Scully nodded at him. It became apparent to Rachel what her two friends: was that the right word any more?: would be doing for the next couple of weeks. "If he entered the country under an assumed name, how can you track him down?" she asked. "He may have entered the country using an alias and later reassumed the name Hans Fleischman," Mulder said. "But a man with so much to hide would likely have returned to the alias at some point. Especially one for which he has identification papers. At least, we'll have to hope he did." "Sounds like looking for a needle in a haystack." "We've done worse," he answered. Rachel nodded, sensing something these two shared with each other and no one else. What had Mulder called it? History. More than history, she knew. Fate. Goddamn you, Burt Sykes. I hope your filthy dick shrivels up and drops off right into the fucking chili pot, you selfish bastard. Is it my fault you drank half a bottle of bourbon and passed out cold on the sidewalk last night? Is it my fault the cops peeled you off the pavement and threw you in the drunk tank? Is it my fucking fault there's a road crew jackhammering at the inside of your thick goddamn skull? No, it ain't. But I still gotta pay the price for your stupidity. You just keep right on fucking up every order I put in, Burt Sykes, and I'll fix you. Your screw-ups come straight outta my tip. Asshole. I haven't had a worse lunch shift since Joey Frankel puked all over the countertop at the height of the rush. Wait a minute. Is that him? Shit, it is him. Jesus, Burt, you fuck this up and I'll kill you. The guy don't come in here regular, but enough to know he always leaves me more than his share. He's class. Comes in here most of the time in that government suit not always, but mostly. Looks hot, but acts like he don't know it. Always makes me wonder what he's doing way out here at lunchtime, when all the other government suits are keeping each other company in dark, fancy downtown places, where burgers cost the price of a steak. Check it out. First time he ever come in here with someone. Pretty little thing. Baldy must be his old man. Or hers. Hey, I bet he's making an honest woman of her and asking Pop for his baby girl's hand. Only judging from the look on Pop's face, he ain't too pleased about the whole thing. Wonder what Pretty Boy did to piss him off? Maybe knocked up his cute little redhead. Yeah, I bet that's it. Baby makes three. Funny how people are the same all over. Workin' this job, you get to know 'em pretty good. Read 'em like a book. Better get over there and take their order. Before Pop has my poor Pretty Boy for lunch. October 24, 1997 Darvy, South Carolina Scully emerged from the hotel bathroom cleaner than she felt. Wearily, she flopped into the stained, mustard-colored armchair and began to towel her hair vigorously. She was twisting the damp towel into a turban when she heard a knock. "Come in." Mulder entered, carrying a brown paper bag that bore unappetizing grease stains, portents of heartburn to come. Pilled upholstery scratched her bare thighs, as if the gastrointestinal problem were starting in her legs. She tugged at the hem of her robe to draw it farther beneath her. Mulder sat in a rickety desk chair and began pulling flimsy cardboard cartons from the bags, arranging them in a neat row on the worn desktop. "I got Chinese," he explained unnecessarily. "So I see." They said nothing more until the meal had been eaten, fortune cookies read and trash tossed. At which point Scully giggled. "What?" It took her a moment to compose herself enough to respond. "It's a great country," she managed, choking back her laughter. He shook his head slightly, not getting it. "Where else would you find a black man named Hans Fleischman?" she explained. He smiled and shrugged. "Slave name. Hasn't gotten around to changing it to Raheem Mohammed or something equally incongruous. That's what we get for deviating from the game plan. We should've stuck to your INS list of Argentine immigrants." "It couldn't be helped," she replied, still smiling. "A man named Hans Fleischman living three doors down from someone on the list: we had to check it out. But I think it's a safe bet that a former Nazi doctor was not the son of South Carolina sharecroppers. Well, at least we still have two more weeks before Skinner stops covering for us." "Yeah. He didn't look like he was kidding when he told us, 'Three weeks, not a day more.'" Mulder turned suddenly serious, as though someone had hit the channel button on his remote. "Why do you suppose he's doing it?" "Covering for us? I don't know. I never know with him. He never looks very happy about helping us: but he does it anyway. I wonder what he knows that we don't?" Mulder lapsed into a moody silence: the kind Scully hated because it meant he was thinking something he wasn't willing to say out loud. "How's Samantha?" she asked, more to distract him than because she needed to know. "Well, the assertiveness training isn't going too well," Mulder quipped. "The same," he added contritely when she shot him a look that said she was in no mood for tastelessness. In reality, though, she was glad he could still joke about Samantha's condition. Mulder's mental health could be easily gauged by the state of his sense of humor. The blacker the joke, the better he felt. Or so it seemed at times. "Rachel was there when I called," he said after a while. She waited for him to say what he really meant, but her patience was no match for his. "I meant what I said the other night," she offered, hoping it would suffice. She really didn't have the energy for more. He nodded. "I'm..." For a moment, she thought he was going to say, "sorry," indicating he hadn't understood at all. Not now, and not the other night when she'd told Rachel to stay with him. "...glad." I shouldn't underestimate him, she thought, relieved. "I love you," he added simply. She smiled and crossed to kneel before him. "I know," she said, kissing him gently, easily, like clean oil on a hot engine. He reached forward to undo the buttons of her blouse one by one. "Why aren't things ever easy for us?" he asked, pushing the green watered silk aside to trace the outline of her breast through her bra. "This isn't so hard," she said, eyebrow quirked in amusement. "Speak for yourself." He pulled her up and into his lap, burying his face between her breasts. The smell of her made him lightheaded with desire. "Come to bed, Mulder," she whispered into his hair. "Yes, ma'am." "Ooo, I like that," she said, rising and pulling him up by the hand. "Does that mean you'll do as I say tonight?" "Always," he replied, smiling. For a moment, the word stopped her cold. But only for a moment. November 1, 1997 Tucson, Arizona As Mulder pulled up to the curb and shut off the engine, Scully ran a critical eye across the low, stucco structure, double checking the house number to make sure they had the right one. They did. Fairly typical house for this part of the world, she noted. Single story. Set back from the street. No doubt a second door in back, should they find themselves needing alternate points of access or egress. As they headed up the front walk, she wondered which it would be. Another blind alley, just regular people who'd never done anything really bad, or even noteworthy, in their lives? Or, finally, paydirt, a monster who'd performed deadly experiments on captive human subjects for some nefariously mysterious purpose? God, what a warped world view, she thought. Just right for a warped world. She was getting to be more like Mulder every day. Her partner rang the bell, and before long the door was opened by a gray-haired woman of aristocratic bearing, tall and straight, with an eagle's penetrating eye. "Can I help you?" "Does Dr. Hans Fleischman live here?" "Just a moment." She turned away from the door. "Hans! You have guests!" She didn't invite them in, but neither did she shut the door. The man who appeared behind her was obviously older but showed no signs of infirmity. "Yes?" "I'm Special Agent Mulder and this is Special Agent Scully from the FBI. We'd like to ask you some questions about Frog Island, Maine." Fleischman's face grew dark before Mulder even finished his sentence. When the name "Frog Island" was spoken, his gaze veered sharply away from Mulder to the small woman beside him. "You were there," he said with a slight trace of a European accent. Then, as if remembering where he was, he turned to his wife. "I'll speak with these people outside." The woman simply nodded and closed the door behind him. "You ruined my work. Half a century in the making," he said, his voice a low rumble of bitterness. "I'm sure you'll understand if we don't apologize," Mulder replied. This is it, Scully thought. He's the one. He knows. But will he tell? "What did you do to me?" Mulder shot her a veiled look of surprise. This wasn't typical of her, she knew. She was usually more circumspect. She wasn't the one to leap directly from the professional realm into the personal. To speak to a stranger in a voice so threatening it made his balls head north. But then again, these weren't typical circumstances. It wasn't every day she came face to face with someone who had used her as a disposable lab rat. The older man eyed her keenly before responding. "We monitored you. Nothing more." "You call that monitoring?" Mulder asked, his usual laconic demeanor barely shielding the heat of his rising temper. "Yes, I do. Agent Scully here was merely a control." "And my sister was the experimental subject?" "Your sister? Your sister is much more than that." "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Mulder was shouting now, getting angry and riled, wearing all his frustration on the outside for anyone to see. That was a bad sign. It made Scully force her mind to slow down, to think. She used his anger to dampen her own, feeling the situation shifting, becoming less stable as it played itself out. "I'm not in a position to tell you what your sister is." "Like hell you're not." Mulder took two steps toward the man, fists clenched at his sides. "Mulder..." A word of warning, nothing more. But it was enough. He stopped, his face inches from the other man's. "Dr. Fleischman, we're placing you under arrest," Scully said, snapping into her most officious mode. "You have the right to remain..." "You don't want to do that," the white-haired man interrupted. "You have the right to remain silent..." "You have no evidence. No case. Nothing." "We have a witness who can place you at Frog Island," Mulder hissed furiously. "Do you now? That's news to me. Perhaps you'd better make a phone call and double-check that." Scully felt her stomach lurch. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed. "This is Agent Scully. Have there been any..." She didn't finish the sentence, listening grimly. Making no reply, she hit the "End" button and tucked the phone away. Mulder looked at her expectantly. "The safe house was breached. Stepnyczki is dead, along with two agents." "Shocking news. Simply shocking." Scully glared angrily at the German doctor. "Now, now, my dear. Don't look at me that way. Actually, I intend to make your visit here worthwhile. You see, my own situation is rather precarious at the moment. Now that you have found me, my colleagues will consider me more of a liability than an asset. Suffice it to say that you will not find me so easily again. Nor will they. But this change in fortune leaves me rather ill-disposed toward my associates: or I suppose I should say, my former associates." "The internal politics of hell don't concern us," Mulder replied. "We want to know what happened to Scully and my sister." "You know, Mr. Mulder, for such an intelligent young man, you can be quite a fool. Not unlike your father, really." "You knew my father?" "Of course. But I digress. Right now, I'd like to bring up another subject with which I believe you are familiar. Tunguska." The agents couldn't hide their surprise at the mention of Mulder's strange Siberian experience with Krycek and the living, black oil. "What about Tunguska?" "If I'm not mistaken, Mr. Mulder, you were held at a labor camp there for a short time, during which you became the subject of an experiment involving a rather strange organism. Those ignorant muzhiks called it the black cancer." Scully was no longer watching Fleischman as he spoke. Her eyes were riveted on Mulder. She observed him closely, looking for... she wasn't sure what. Some clue as to why she was hearing all this for the first time now, here, from this man. Mulder said nothing. "You were vaccinated against the effects of the black cancer. Fortunately for you, you came into that project a few months after the dosage was perfected. The Russians are quite far behind in that respect. We've had an effective treatment for years." "What's your point, Fleischman?" Mulder interrupted. "Why all the interest in the black cancer?" "Patience, Mr. Mulder," the old man said, his eyes wandering over toward the spectacular sunset that had begun to spread a subtle wash of reds and golds across the desert. "I'm coming to that." A long silence followed as the speaker seemed to collect his thoughts. "Miss Scully, I believe you once had a strange object removed from the back of your neck?" She gritted her teeth. The way the man jumped from subject to subject was infuriating. "Yes," she said tightly. "Some kind of microchip." "Precisely. And it has been removed from your body?" "Yes. But another was inserted in its place" "Most fortunate." "And why is that?" "That is not important to the matter at hand. Mr. Mulder, I believe you've discovered something similar in your sister." "Yes. Many chips." "And are they still present within her body?" "You know they are. They're embedded so deeply in her brain, they couldn't possibly be removed. Scully's is merely subcutaneous." "Aha. Now we come to the crux of the matter. I would imagine you would like to know how those items came to be located deep within the body's most sensitive organ without damaging any of the surrounding tissue." "We've had enough of this game," Scully spat angrily, aware of the tortured look growing in Mulder's eyes as the twisted Socratic dialogue dragged on. "Just tell us." "But my dear lady, I already have!" Fleischman replied smugly. "The black cancer." "How is that possible?" "To be perfectly honest, we're not sure ourselves, and we've been working with it for decades. Suffice it to say that the little devils seem to have the extraordinary ability to penetrate living tissue and assemble the chips at the molecular level. Quite a feat of biotechnology, wouldn't you say?" He shrugged when his last question drew nothing but two furious glares. "Of course, this talent isn't of much use when the little devils also have the effect of killing their host 98 percent of the time. That's why our Russian friends were quite eager to perfect their vaccine. Still, the decades it took them to do so put them so far behind that they are no threat." "Tell us how to remove the chips," Scully said, her tone measured as she mustered her last reserves of patience. "Good heavens, you can't remove them. But you can deactivate them. I believe you've had a little demonstration of that." "Tell us how." "To learn that answer, you'll have to take a little trip. Ever been to Denville, California? Lovely part of the country." "What's there?" "Find out for yourselves. That's all you'll learn from me. You won't be seeing me again." With that, Hans Fleischman walked back into the house and slammed the door. November 3, 1997 Take your average secret installation in your average small, American town. You'd think you'd have a hard time locating it. Wrong. It's actually remarkably easy. You just ask. "Anything especially hush-hush in these parts?" When the answer is "Yes," everyone's dying to tell you so, from the kid working the register at the 7-11 to the cop on the corner to the town drunk. This fact rarely proved useful to Mulder and Scully, however. There were hundreds: no, thousands of "secret" facilities around the country. The vast majority of them housed ordinary, run-of-the-mill secrets. Nuclear missile silos. Biological warfare R&D facilities. Jimmy Hoffa's embalmed corpse. Nothing the two agents would find especially interesting. The very existence of all those secret facilities was the best possible cover for the very few that harbored real secrets. Things that nobody knew about: not even those in government whose job it was to know secrets. Unless you knew where to look. Denville, California. The two agents had heard half a dozen stories so far. They're building neutron bombs. Space-based missile defense systems. Anthrax weapons. One guy with long, greasy hair and a tattoo that said "Suck Me" had even confided that the place was where wealthy, powerful people came to have themselves cloned. But they all agreed on one thing. The secret facility, whatever it was, was in a prefab, aluminum structure the length of two football fields out on Aviso Road. Which is how the partners came to be standing in the woods near the building at 2 AM, checking to make sure their clips were full and locked into their weapons. Scully hadn't even bothered suggesting they call for back-up, despite the fact that waltzing into the belly of the whale was not only illegal but also quite clearly a form of madness. She knew they had no evidence, no witness that would come forward, no probable cause, nothing that would get them a warrant or a court order. And, like Mulder, she'd be damned if she was going to let that stop her. She turned to start through the clump of trees that stood between them and the razor wire-topped fence. A hand on her shoulder stopped her. "Scully?" She turned at the sound of her name and waited for him to continue. "I..." The words that had made up a coherent thought in his mind moments earlier were failing him now, she saw. He looked at her helplessly with an expression of some unnamed longing, some vague fear, some painful doubt. "We can do this," was all he managed. The four words suspended the danger before them, burning themselves into her mind. We can do this. "Mulder," she whispered, reaching out to stroke his cheek with one hand. "We always do." He smiled slightly. His face nearing hers in the dim moonlight was like a ghostly apparition, and the soft touch of his lips like a slightly faded memory. And then they were off again, guns drawn, senses alert for any sign of danger. The plan was not complicated: cut through the perimeter fence, cross the parking lot to the building and try all the doors. Not much of a plan, really. If anyone was going to try to stop them, it would be a simple matter of superior firepower. Only they didn't really think anyone would try to stop them. And that wasn't necessarily a good thing. In the four hours they'd spent casing the place, they had seen no sign of movement, no one enter or leave. Not a living soul. Which meant they were probably already too late. That likelihood increased when the first snip of the wire fence failed to trip any audible alarms. It rose again when their approach to the building encountered no resistance of any kind. At least the first door they tried in the ugly metal monstrosity was locked. That exclusive gesture, even if it proved to be nothing more than a token, served at least to preserve the pretense of secrecy, as if to say, "Thanks for taking the trouble to break into our little facility. We appreciate the effort." In fact, the next three doors were all locked, and Scully felt ridiculously heartened. It was absurd, this relief at being unwelcome. But at least it indicated that someone might be trying to hide something in there. At the sixth locked door, Mulder used his gun before Scully had time to protest. Firing a weapon would give any guards in the area, if there were any, an excuse to use deadly force against them. Still, she couldn't muster much righteous indignation in light of the total non-reception they'd gotten so far. The door swung open and they entered cautiously, guns and flashlights at the ready. They found themselves in a cavernous space so great that the beams from their powerful lights illuminated no wall but the one behind them. A cavernous space: and, apparently, empty. Mulder headed off to the right, beginning a sweep of the periphery, and Scully followed. They paced the wall clear around the building until they returned to the open door where they'd started. They saw nothing: not an empty crate or a scrap of paper. Not even a cigarette butt to indicate anyone had ever been there. The place had been swept totally clean. It was Scully who led the next stage: a back-and-forth S-pattern across the vast, dark, empty space that seemed to have swallowed whatever secrets it might once have held, if it had ever held any. The effort felt futile, but she forced herself to remain alert, her senses attuned to any vibration that might disturb the musty, motionless air. She needn't have bothered. When they came upon the only thing there was to find, she literally stumbled across it. An uneven spot on the cement floor. Something square and metal. A trap door. She knelt down and drew her hair back with one hand to press her ear against the cold metal. Neither of them drew a breath as she listened. A full minute had passed when she rose to her feet, shaking her head. Nothing. Wordlessly, Mulder reached down to grasp the metal ring as Scully drew her gun. He threw his weight backward to tug the heavy plate up as she dropped to one knee, training her weapon and peering through the darkness into the even blacker square hole at her feet. Again, nothing. No, that wasn't true. It just took a moment to hit them. When it did, they both gagged as the stench, a foul odor that, in the natural course of things, should have had them both retching violently in response. The fact that they didn't testified to the extreme unnaturalness of their reflexes, warped and changed by years of overexposure to death. Because that's exactly what this stench was. They both knew it instantly. "Jesus!" Mulder muttered through clenched teeth. Scully dared say nothing for fear of losing her lunch after all. The two of them took several steps backward to get away from the direct current of foul air emanating from the hole. "We have to go down there," Mulder said at last. Scully didn't bother answering. She knew he was right, but she dreaded what they might find. Taking a deep breath, futile as it was, she strode determinedly forward. In the narrow beam of her flashlight, she could see only the top of a spiral, metal stairway descending into blackness. She headed down, light and gun sweeping the darkness in unison. Mulder was right behind her. They heard nothing. No stirrings that would indicate they were anything but alone. At the bottom, Scully was forced to breathe again. She nearly gagged. A moment later, Mulder did, audibly, the tight sound of the involuntary reflex resonating shockingly loudly in the subterranean silence. Scully turned to find her partner doubled over and spewing chili dog remnants. That'll teach you to eat that crap, she thought, but didn't have the heart to say it out loud. He was miserable, and she couldn't blame him. The stench was unbelievably offensive, and she was pretty hard to offend after performing hundreds of autopsies on corpses in every stage of decay. She did a slow 360 as he finished emptying his stomach and collected himself. The flashlight beam revealed a chaos of destruction. Broken glass, overturned tables, piles of randomly strewn papers and miscellaneous rubbish lay everywhere. Either the upstairs maids around here were far more efficient than the downstairs maids, or there had never been anything upstairs to begin with. Either way, the state of the lower level indicated a hurried and destructive retreat. It wasn't until Mulder recovered and they began to walk that they saw just how destructive it had been. Ahead of them, as far as their lights reached, were row upon row of gigantic cages, like something out of "Land of the Giants." Each one was a metal-barred, floor-to-ceiling affair, maybe ten feet on a side. And each one contained what looked like a pile of corpses. "Oh, my god," Scully breathed. "What is this place?" The source of the horrendous stench was now apparent as she took in the magnitude of the slaughter, the endless heaps of bodies stretching off in the dimness. A vague notion formed in the back of her mind that something wasn't quite right something other than the obvious carnage. The smell was...off. Different, somehow, than anything she'd ever experienced, even allowing for the incredible intensity of it. She walked up to one of the cages and shone her light inside. "Aliens." Mulder's voice startled her. She shook her head slowly, not knowing what to make of it. The bodies were small: about the size of a normal 12- or 13-yearold boy. They were naked, their skin a ghastly shade of ashen gray. She saw no signs of external genitalia or breasts, no obvious indications of sexual differentiation. Their heads were hairless, large for their bodies and oddly misshapen, with bulging crania and huge, round, black eyes that were open and stared accusingly at whatever happened to be in front of them. Stared at her. A sudden shot made her jump and whirl, only to find her weapon leveled at Mulder, whose own gun was smoking and still aimed at the lock on the cage. "Jesus, Mulder! Stop doing that!" He ignored her, swinging the barred door open and stepping inside while donning latex gloves. Kneeling beside the gruesome heap of bodies, he gingerly touched one, turning its head to face him. Scully watched as he ran his fingers along the creature's face, neck and torso. She could see wonder and excitement blended with his horror, creating what was no doubt a heady emotional brew. For Mulder, this moment was, in a sense, the culmination of a lifetime of work. "You can't possibly doubt what you're seeing," he said. Scully wondered if he actually needed her confirmation to somehow validate his own belief, or if he was merely challenging her out of habit. Not that it mattered. She could be no less than honest. "I won't even venture a guess until I've done some autopsies." "They didn't have time to move the test subjects," Mulder said. "But they'll be back." Scully sensed where he was going with this train of thought, and she had a feeling she wouldn't like it. "We should call Skinner," she said warily. "Get a team out here to have them bagged and tagged." "No." Here it comes. "No?" He rose to his feet and stepped out of the cage. "Do you honestly think They would allow that?" She didn't have to ask which "They" he meant. "But we could get a team out here within the hour. How could They stop it?" "Oh, come on," he laughed bitterly. "They don't have to stop it. You know damn well how it would work. All these bodies would be neatly wrapped, tagged and removed, only to disappear. This place would disappear. The agents on the team would suddenly know nothing about any alien massacre. No autopsy results, no physical evidence. Nothing left." "Well, what do you propose we do?" "We call in a force that's much more difficult to control than the FBI." "What force?" "The press." "The press? Mulder, are you insane? Skinner would murder us!" She glanced around nervously at the corpses all around her. Whoever: or whatever: they were, they were victims of the very crime she'd just named. "We came here for answers, Scully. It doesn't look like we're going to get the ones we came for. I don't know if this will help Samantha or you. But we can't risk letting it all slip through our fingers." "If we call the press, we completely lose control of the situation." She sounded less combative now, more thoughtful. Like she was working through the possibilities, weighing the pros and cons. It was what Mulder admired so much in her: her willingness to put her own ego aside in order to do the right thing. To find the truth. "We never were in control of the situation," he said. "We probably never will be. But at least there will be dozens of witnesses, independent sources of photographs, a story told to the public." "The men behind this will counter with disinformation. Spin control." A statement of fact, not an objection. "Spin control in the public arena is far more difficult to implement and the results are less reliable than a coverup operation cloaked in absolute secrecy." She nodded at last. "Let's go outside to make the calls. I can't stand it down here much longer." Hello, city desk? I have a tip for you. I think you'll want to send somebody out here right away. You see, there's a secret facility underneath an empty warehouse, and it's filled with dead aliens. No, not foreigners. Aliens from outer space... No, not green. Gray.... Sure, no problem... You're welcome. Bye. Scully stared uselessly at her cell phone, suddenly aware of the problem. "Here. Allow me." Mulder took the phone from her and dialed information, asking for the number of the city desk at the San Francisco Chronicle. Scully's mind wandered as he got the number and dialed, then waited on hold for someone on the other end to pick up. Tunguska. The black cancer. He'd never told her. Damn him. Not a word. "...mass suicide. Yeah. Looks like a cult of some kind. Everyone's wearing Cleveland Indians baseball caps and Pizza Hut t-shirts. Yeah, the bodies are still here, but they won't be for long. You wanna get a photographer out here pronto... Right... Sure... My name's Fleischman. Hans Fleischman... Right...You're welcome. Bye." Scully raised an eyebrow in amusement. "What did the Cleveland Indians ever do to you?" Mulder grinned. "Call it payback on behalf of Native Americans everywhere." The banter ended there. Neither was in the mood, and there were more phone calls to be made. Eventually, there was nothing left to do but wait for the three-ring media circus to pull into town. They sat together on a grassy strip in the parking lot as the sun came up watery and dull, like a light bulb through cataracts. It felt like the eye of a hurricane. Faced with what could well be one of the most disturbing, mind blowing discoveries of her generation: hell, her millennium all Scully found herself thinking about was a personal betrayal. *Tunguska. I went to jail for him, and he was holding out on me. What was it he'd said not an hour ago? "We can do this." Was that a real "we" or a royal "we?" "We," as in, "I?"* "There was no point telling you about the black cancer in Tunguska," Mulder said. "It was too late. You couldn't have done anything about it." She didn't waste any energy wondering how he knew what she was thinking. "I would have wanted to know," she replied. "You didn't need to know." "Oh, so I'm on a 'need-to-know' basis? What else have you decided I don't need to know?" "That's not what I meant." "So what did you mean?" "I didn't want to worry you." "Jesus, Mulder." She supposed his protectiveness of her should have invoked some reciprocal feeling for him, but at the moment all she could manage was frustration. "The day you disappear mysteriously because you didn't have anyone watching your back, because you didn't tell me where you were going, do you think I'll be saying, 'Thank goodness he didn't worry me?" Mulder offered no answer. They spent the next fifteen minutes listening to the heavy silence that surrounded them. The wait ended when they spotted headlights approaching. They got to their feet. "Let me handle this," Mulder said as they walked toward the padlocked gate of the parking lot. Before she could answer, he'd shot off the lock and swung the gate wide to admit the vehicle. Scully decided that this thing with guns and locks must've had something to do with some childhood trauma. Then again, what about Mulder didn't have to do with some childhood trauma? The car came to a stop and two men got out. To Scully's surprise, Mulder took out his badge and identified himself as an FBI agent. "We need to wait for some others before we go inside," he told the reporter and photographer. Scully realized he'd flashed the badge not to make everything legit and aboveboard, but in order to gain the authority required to give orders and control the situation. She wondered if these two members of the fourth estate had enough brains to realize that something was very wrong. At a conventional crime scene, there would have been patrol cars, unmarked cars, law enforcement officers in and out of uniform, yellow tape. Not just two FBI agents offering a guided tour. She kept quiet, willing for the time being to follow Mulder's lead. She didn't have any better ideas. Half an hour later, some half-dozen media outlets were represented at the site, including two TV crews. "Okay," Mulder announced. "Let's go." Scully started toward the building behind the group when Mulder stopped and turned to her. "Agent Scully, would you mind staying here in case any latecomers arrive?" He looked her straight in the eye as he said it, but she couldn't read his real meaning. What was he planning? She had no idea. Damn him again. All right. She'd play along for now. She nodded and turned back toward the gate. Mulder paused, his hand on the metal ring in the trap door. "Prepare yourselves," he said to the small knot of people standing around him. "The stench is unbelievable." Not surprisingly, every last man and woman stumbled backward when the first blast of fetid air hit them. Some things you just have to experience for yourself, Mulder mused. He waited several minutes for the others to collect themselves, including three who were already retching. He didn't think those three were going to last long down there, where the experience was like having roadkill shoved up your nostrils. A few minutes later, the group was making its way down the spiral stairway, the clanging of fifteen pairs of shoes on metal echoing eerily in the darkness below. That sound was soon replaced by more gagging. Mulder wandered away from the others, leaving them to enjoy breakfast in instant replay. Nothing he could say to them would make any difference at this point, anyway. They'd just have to see for themselves, then draw their own conclusions. But at least they'd see. The thought prompted butterflies to flutter in his stomach. In just a few short hours: maybe less, with the wonders of modern technology: images of this place would be flashed to the world. Millions would see what he had seen and be forced to confront the horrible possibilities it presented. He came to a sudden halt in his stroll through the aisles of cages, their gruesome occupants watching him with what looked like morbid curiosity. He had reached the far wall. On his first foray, Scully and he hadn't come this far. He was surprised to find a large door in the wall. An elevator door. Of course, he thought. They couldn't possibly have gotten all this equipment, all these beings: for lack of a better word: down through that one trap door. There was a freight elevator to the surface. Grasping the lever on the door, he tugged and found it slid open easily. He stepped inside. The door clanged shut behind him. I can't believe I'm doing this, Scully thought as she began pacing back and forth across the driveway. It went entirely against her grain, calling in the press without so much as a token effort to go through channels. But Mulder was right. She couldn't deny it. This was by far the clearest evidence of... of something horrible - she wasn't prepared at this point to say what: she and Mulder had ever found. Whoever left it here screwed up big time. They must not have been expecting Fleischman to spill the beans. And there's no way They'd let this come to light. She knew from experience that notifying the Bureau would be like sending a singing telegram to Cancerman himself. And she had no doubt that Cancerman would do anything to cover this up. She stopped pacing as her last thought replayed itself in her mind. Cancerman would do anything to cover this up. She looked over toward the warehouse entrance where Mulder and the others had just disappeared. There were no signs of life near the open door. She scanned the fence surrounding the facility. Nothing. No one. Everyone was inside. Cancerman would do anything to cover this up. Later, she would wonder whether she'd actually managed to take any steps toward the building before she was knocked off her feet by the shock wave. She lay on the ground for second after precious second, her ears ringing from the blast, trying to gather her wits enough to get back up. It seemed to be taking forever for her body to respond to the desperate commands her mind was giving it. After what seemed like hours, but was in fact probably minutes, she figured out why. She was bleeding, thick, hot blood blinding her as surely as the darkest night. A head wound. Flying metal will do that to you, she thought absently. A piece of the metal building must have flown 50 yards and cut her open. She looked up and saw a miniature Armageddon. Her cell phone was out and connected to 911 before she realized she'd dialed. There was no question about whether to call in the authorities. It was too late for doubt. The warehouse lay before her in a twisted pile of rubble, its demolition complete: with Mulder and fifteen others inside. Barking orders at the 911 operator did wonders to clear her head. Barking orders in general had that effect on her, a fortunate thing, given her career choice. When she was done, she got to her feet and ran toward the wreckage. She had no plan, no idea how to proceed. It would take a back hoe and a crane even to make a start. She headed off along the perimeter of the rubble, hoping that maybe the building was intact on the other side. But when she turned the corner, she saw it was hopeless. The destruction was complete. No piece of the building was left standing, except... ...except that little structure over there, several yards away from the main building. A little shed, she thought as she got closer. No, not a shed. A tower. The kind that sits on top of an elevator shaft. Being inside the elevator during the explosion was like being inside the barrel of a gun being fired. A really big gun. A bazooka. Something out of a Van Damme movie. Not a sound but a sensation. Mulder thought his entire body must be vibrating crazily, like a cartoon character with his head stuck inside a bell that's just been rung. He didn't know it at the time, but he was destined for the rest of his life to spend many sleepless, guilt-ridden nights over that moment. His first thought should have been about fifteen innocent souls lost. Instead, it was about mountains of lost evidence. It wasn't the first time he'd been forced to confront the fact that it was easier to mourn lost truths than lost human beings. Lost truths could be memorialized with passionate quests and righteous indignation. Lost people were simply lost. Mulder struggled to his feet and yanked frantically at the lever that opened the door. It wouldn't budge. Scully ran flat out for the small structure that was still standing just a dozen yards away from the vast heap of rubble where the large building had been. She was only vaguely aware of the cars and trucks that were starting to pull up all around her and of the people who were pouring out of them. She had no plan, only an irresistible urge to get down there, to find out what happened. To find Mulder. Her first thought should have been about fifteen innocent, lost souls, she knew. Instead, it was about one soul, which she placed above all others. It wasn't the first time she'd been forced to confront the fact that it was easier to mourn the deaths of many strangers than it was to mourn the death of a single loved one. Strangers could be memorialized with passionate quests and righteous indignation. A dead loved one was a jagged, bleeding hole in your gut. She reached the small building and kicked the door open without so much as slowing down. It gave easily, and she fell through into a dim, musty machine room. In the center was a large cage. Not the kind she'd seen down below, but a cage made of plain wire mesh, with a door on one side. The kind that one often saw on rooftops of tall buildings. The top of an elevator shaft. With smoke pouring out of it. Mulder took a deep breath in an effort to squelch his rising panic. He didn't tend to be claustrophobic as a rule, but neither was he usually trapped underground inside a steel box. In fact, he decided then and there to make it a rule never to do it again. If he ever got the chance. Which was looking more and more doubtful. "Hello! Can anybody hear me?" Shouting didn't seem very promising as a strategy, but he figured he'd better try it first. How stupid would he feel later if he spent hours in that damn elevator, only to discover that someone would've hauled his ass out of there if he'd only spoken up? Not surprisingly, no one did. *Okay, boy, don't panic. Someone will come looking for you.* Someone? Scully. Only Scully. Anyone else would probably assume that he didn't stand a beer keg's chance at a frat party. The explosion sounded like it had brought the whole place down. But Scully wouldn't give up so easily. Of that he was positive. The thought of her out there somewhere made him raise his flashlight and look up, as if he expected to see her peering down at him with one eyebrow arched way up to her hairline, as if to say, "Mulder, come on out of there before Skinner catches you and whups you upside your head." No Scully. But the action wasn't a total waste, either. There was a removable panel in the ceiling. He stretched way up on tiptoe but could barely touch it with his fingertips. He looked around, irrationally hoping he'd notice a handy stepladder in the corner of the elevator. He didn't. But there was a handrail. If he could just get a foot up there and wedge himself in the corner so he wouldn't fall... It took a few tries before he finally managed the feat. When he did, he was relieved to discover that the panel was unfastened. It gave easily with a light push, creating an opening into the elevator shaft he could easily fit through. In another moment, he realized that opening the ceiling may not have been the brightest move of his career. Smoke was pouring in through the hole and quickly filling the elevator car. Scully threw open the door of the cage atop the elevator shaft, her eyes already watering from the acrid smoke that billowed around her. She had some notion of going down there to see if she could find Mulder and the others. The idea quickly went up in smoke. Bad mental pun, she noted. A sure sign of panic. Stay here and try to figure something out, or move on in hopes of finding another way down? She tried to concentrate, but it was so difficult. The head wound made it hard to concentrate, she realized, swiping angrily at the blood in her eyes. She'd just decided to move on when she heard something. "Hello! Help!" Gotta be wishful thinking. Auditory hallucination. Right? "Hello! Is somebody down there?" she hollered. "Scully!" Then, just coughing. He was alive. She'd found him. A miracle. "Mulder! Mulder, are you all right?" Her shout disintegrated into a coughing fit as the smoke began to burn her throat, its bitter taste threatening to gag her for the second time that day. "Scully! I'm in an elevator!" "Can you get out?" "Yeah, but there's no way up!" Scully looked around desperately for anything that might solve Mulder's problem, but nothing presented itself. "Hang on! I'm going to get help!" She was off like a shot. When he heard her voice, it was like music from a Mr. Softee truck on a blistering hot day, the anticipation of the cold, sweet ice cream almost as great a relief as the ice cream itself. And then she was gone. He felt the panic begin to rise in his throat again. Or was that smoke clogging his airway, making it impossible to breathe? A little of both, probably. She'll be back. She'll be back. She always comes back. He repeated the mantra as he lay down on the floor, where the air was a little better than up higher. She'll be back. She'll be back. But what if she's not? What if something holds her up and she's too late? What if she's perfectly content to let his sorry ass fry in this impromptu incinerator? Not that he'd blame her, really. Get rid of him and maybe she'd get her life back. Go out dancing with Rachel. Have one too many peach daiquiris together. Every so often, the two of them could reminisce about him and cry into their drinks just a little. Yeah, right. They'd be more likely to compare notes on his technique. Hell, the two of them were the perfect couple. He knew that, and he suspected they did as well. And what a beautiful couple.... Don't go there, boy. Must be getting lightheaded from smoke inhalation. He was coughing non-stop now. It distracted him mercifully from his self-absorbed introspection, prevented him from realizing what a shmuck he could be. There'd be plenty of time for that later. She'll be back. She'll be back. C'mon, Scully. Get back. Scully bolted out of the small structure and frantically scanned the area for rescue personnel. Her eye fell on a small group of men standing near a van. She ran toward them. "Hey! I need some help here! There's a survivor trapped in an elevator!" The men's conversation stopped, and they all turned to stare at her. No one said a word as Scully reached the group, panting from the sprint. "I said, someone needs help!" This time, the men looked at each other uneasily. "Look, who's in charge here?" One of the men shrugged. The rest did nothing. Exasperated, Scully turned away and headed across the parking lot, where most of the vehicles were parked and more people were moving around. "Hey! Somebody! I need help!" No one responded. No one even looked at her. She stopped, absolute confusion and frustration leaving her rudderless. She did a full 360, desperately looking for someone who might listen to her. And for the first time, she noticed something really odd. There were lots of vehicles of various kinds around, from cars to bulldozers to huge semis. There were lots of people. There was lots of activity. But there were no ambulances. No police cars. Not a uniform in sight. And there was something else. It didn't seem like anyone was removing debris from the collapsed building. Instead, they seemed to be bringing things into it, or at least what was left of it. She wasn't quite sure what the materials were, but she spotted a large number of unmarked barrels and some dump trucks filled with dirt and rubble. She was growing more and more frantic by the minute, knowing that Mulder was down there, trapped in a smoke-filled box that could easily become his tomb. There wasn't time to tackle this new mystery. Instead, she looked around for something, anything that might help. It was another several minutes: she wasn't sure how many before she spotted a pickup truck full of miscellaneous junk, including a large coil of heavy rope. She grabbed it and ran. In just five minutes, Mulder learned something about himself he'd never known before: that he was fully capable of hysteria. He'd never been a big fan of fire. The term "phobic" was not an exaggeration. Smoke was a teensy bit better. But not this much of it, and not for this long, and certainly not while locked underground in a metal box. Which was why he'd found himself once or twice clawing at the walls as though he might rip through them with his bare hands. Each time, he'd managed to get himself back under control. Barely. He was running through the mantra for the hundredth time she'll be back she'll be back she'll be back: when he heard a solid "whump" somewhere over his head. He tried to shout, but all that came out was a painful, hacking cough that brought no relief to his smoke-filled lungs. "Mulder! Can you hear me?" He tried again to respond, with as little success. "Mulder! Mulder! Answer me!" He didn't think the racking sound he was making would serve as a reply. Come to think of it, Scully didn't sound so great either. She must be getting a snoot full of the thick, black stuff herself, he thought.. "Mulder! If you can hear me, I just dropped a rope down to you! It's secured at the top! You can climb out! Mulder! Mulder?" Her words brought him a palpable sense of relief. Also a short-lived one In order to get out using the rope, he'd have to hoist himself through the hole in the elevator's ceiling and shimmy up at least thirty feet. But first, he'd have to stand up without keeling over. There was nothing. Scully did her best to peer down into the shaft, but her eyes burned horribly and she was coughing so hard she could barely stand. Not that it made much difference, she realized. There was nothing to see but heavy, billowing smoke. Smoke so dense that no one could survive it. *Stop that.* "Mulder! Mulder!" She barely managed to force his name out of a throat that was trying to shut itself down to protect her lungs against stuff that was more like tar than air. Still, he should have heard her. There wasn't much background noise. The raging fire that must have been causing all the smoke was somewhere below her feet and sounded like a deep rumble within the earth. If he was shouting back, she would have heard him. There was nothing. She backed up to get away from the worst of the choking smoke and tried to think. Should she try going for help again? No one around seemed very helpful, but what choice did she have? Yes, she thought, she'd better go. At that moment, she noticed the rope move. It became taut. Someone was pulling on it from below. She forced her reluctant legs to move forward, back to the top of the shaft. "Mulder? Mulder!" Still no answer. She was just starting to wonder if it was her imagination when the rope moved again. A small vibration this time. He was climbing. She shouted encouragement as best she could between the coughing fits. If he could climb, he could hear her. It seemed like hours had passed when a hazy shape took form in the darkness. He was slowly shimmying up the rope, so slowly that she knew he must be hurting badly. "Come on, Mulder. Just a little more. You're almost there. That's it..." He was just two or three feet from the top when there was a deafening crash from below. She couldn't see, but she was sure the shaft wall must have collapsed. A moment later, a tongue of fire leaped upward as though someone had flicked the world's biggest Bic. Mulder hung there helplessly like the main course at a pig roast. "Hold on, Mulder! Don't let go! " She put every ounce of will she had into the command, knowing that watching him fall into the fiery pit was not something she was willing to spend the rest of her life dreaming about. At the same time, she worked frantically at her belt buckle, fumbling with it for anxious seconds before working it loose and whipping the belt from the loops at her waist. She dropped to her stomach, arms hanging down into the blazing shaft. She could feel the skin of her hands start to stretch and dry, then singe. Wriggling forward as far as she could, she could just reach Mulder's chest as he clung helplessly to the rope. His legs, she could see, were well within reach of the leaping flames. As quickly as she could, she slipped the belt beneath his arms and buckled it closed, providing her with a kind of handle. Without letting go, she edged back a bit so that she could pull without falling in herself. It was like tugging on a skyscraper for all he budged. "Mulder," she grunted. "You have to help." She thought the belt would slice right through her hands, leaving ten bloody finger stumps still curled around the leather like a gag from "The Itchy and Scratchy Show." Every muscle in her shoulders and back burned with the strain of the effort. She hoped the belt wouldn't break. She hoped Mulder wouldn't let go of the rope. She hoped the Oakland Raiders would show up to give her a hand. Just when she thought her grip would give out, she felt the weight on the belt lessen. Miraculously, the belt shifted back a couple of inches. Mulder was climbing. She scrambled backward to take up the slack and pulled with all her might. Slow, painful inch by slow, painful inch, the top of his head came into view. His soot-blackened face soon followed. By the time Mulder was able to hoist a leg up onto the floor and pull the rest of his body after it, Scully felt sure she'd be left with empty, bleeding sockets where her arms used to be. It was a price she might actually have been willing to pay. November 4, 1997 Fuck. It must be bad. Mulder arrived at that brilliant conclusion by solving a very simple equation. Hospital bed plus concerned Scully plus legs that felt like they'd danced the Macarena in a meat grinder equals bad. Very bad. The thing about hospitals was that they only actually sucked if you didn't really need to be there. Because if you did really need to be there, most likely something hurt like nuts in a vice. And the best place to get some good drugs in the event of ballshriveling pain was a hospital. As Mulder knew from vast personal experience, any hospital in America can numb up a Gman in no time. Which is why waking up in a hospital with fiery pain in his legs really alarmed Mulder. Things didn't usually hurt much once you got past the ER. Must be bad. And then there was the way Scully was looking at him. Like... like... like she'd seen him buried alive. Like he might be a ghost. Like she'd been through hell. The elevator shaft. It all came back to him, along with a sickening realization. Burns. Oh, God, no, not that. Anything but burns. "It's okay, Mulder. It's not as bad as it feels." His mind was still racing with horrible images of raw, runny lesions and skin expanders and grafts and pink, puckered skin that would never look right. He'd seen it way too many times before. But something in her tone reached past his fear, and he felt the panic ebb. "The worst burns are around your shins. Your work books protected your feet pretty well, and you were lucky enough to get out of there before the flames reached any higher." Only after her words had sunk in did he notice the bandages on her head and at the ends of her arms. You prick, he thought, realizing he'd once again allowed his own pain to obscure hers. "They destroyed the evidence yet again," she said, misreading the emotion in his face. He nodded. "Your hands," he rasped. "They're not too bad. I was lucky, too. Just a minor head wound and some third-degree burns." They were both startled when the door swung open suddenly and forcefully. A very unhappy-looking Skinner strode through. It was hard to tell when Skinner was unhappy because his face always wore the same grim, humorless, do-you-rememberVietnam-well-I-do-you-draft-dodging-chicken-shit-pacifist-pansy expression. But the two agents had had lots of Skinner-watching practice. The sheen of sweat on his bald head was a dead giveaway. "Mulder, what the hell have you done?" "What the hell do you mean, what have I done?" Mulder's smoke-scarred throat could barely get the words out, but he managed to sound combative and pissed off all the same. "The FBI got a call from the Denville Sheriff's Department saying that fifteen journalists died in an explosion in a warehouse: and that a man named Hans Fleischman had placed phony calls to the media about a mass suicide to lure reporters there. There's a terrorism investigation under way now. Did you place those calls, Agent Mulder?" "Yes." Mulder met his boss' eyes unflinchingly, his manner inviting Skinner to think whatever the fuck he wanted to. I don't give a shit, Mulder's body language fairly screamed. Skin me alive and tan my hide. What fucking difference would it make. Scully could have killed the AD herself, but she had her temper more tightly reined, as usual. "Sir, I can explain..." "Shut up, Scully!" Mulder barked. She was shocked into silence. Skinner turned back to Mulder. "What the hell is this all about?" "There were dozens of bodies in a massive facility underneath that warehouse. I needed to get those reporters there to see for themselves." "Reporters? Why didn't you call the Bureau?" "Because, sir," he spat in his scratchy rasp, "the bodies were not human. The evidence would have been covered up. We have to get back there and dig..." "You're not going to dig anywhere, Agent Mulder. For your information, tests show the explosion released a massive amount of radiation in the area. The boys in the explosives lab suspect the device was packed with nuclear waste. Everything's contaminated. No one is going near the place, except to figure out how to seal it off permanently." "But that's exactly what they want. It's the perfect cover story..." "You listen to me, Mulder. I don't know what the hell you were doing at that warehouse, but whatever it was, you and Agent Scully got fifteen innocent people killed." Scully spotted a flicker in Mulder's eye that made her tense. It was something so subtle she never would have noticed it without years of practice. It was Mulder putting together two puzzle pieces that he hadn't been able to fit together before. She wondered what pieces he was working with. "You said 15 people died. How do you know that if they haven't done any digging?" Mulder asked warily. "They didn't need to. The bodies weren't very deep under the rubble just inside the entrance. The first rescuers to arrive found them before the radioactive contamination was discovered. And by the way, give them a couple of years and you may have the lives of the rescue squad on your conscience as well. Their exposure in some cases was greater than that of the men who fought the fire at Chernobyl." "Agent Scully had nothing to do with it," Mulder said, switching gears so rapidly that it took Skinner a second to catch up. "She had no knowledge of the phone calls. She wasn't even in the building." Scully was about to protest when Mulder's eyes caught hers. Don't let him do this, her inner voice screamed. For some unfathomable reason, her mouth stayed shut. Skinner just glared at him for a long moment, apparently weighing what to say to the madman in the bed. In the end, he decided he wouldn't even try. "I suggest you hire a lawyer," he growled and left. Mulder slammed a hand into the bed rail, oblivious of the IV taped to it. "A radioactive site. The perfect fucking cover." "Mulder, when I first went to get help for you... there were men and equipment all over the place. They didn't seem very interested in rescuing anybody. They seemed to be bringing things in rather than taking them out. It was only later: maybe an hour after the explosion: that the real rescue squad showed up." Mulder nodded wearily. "Why am I not surprised?" He turned his head to stare out the window, his eyes unreadable. "Why did you tell Skinner I wasn't involved?" Scully had to wait a long moment before Mulder focused on her question, and then an even longer one before he answered it. "There's no point in both of us going through the legal hassle," he said at last. "One of us needs to stay inside, retain access. If there was an entire crew of people and equipment doctoring that site so that no one would ever look at it too closely, then there's a chance someone who was there might be willing to talk. Or maybe there's physical evidence of the cover up. Skinner will suspend me for sure, and there'll probably be criminal proceedings after that. We don't stand a chance if one of us isn't free to pursue the investigation." Scully hated the lie Mulder had told on her behalf even as she reluctantly acknowledged the necessity of it. Without her on the outside to find the truth, Mulder was cooked. In more ways than one. November 25, 1997 Motherfucking rat bastard. As soon as she'd thought it, Scully wondered exactly whom she meant. Mulder? Definite possibility. If only he wasn't always running off half-cocked, chasing down some paper-thin lead without giving her the shadow of a whiff of the second cousin to a clue. If only he wasn't usually right in the end. Face it, she told herself. You hate it that he's always fucking right. It's just not fair. He doesn't work hard at being right. He just is. No, it was worse than that. Nearly every time he's right, it means you're wrong. And Dana, old girl, you really, really hate being wrong. If only he wouldn't try so damn hard to protect her. Not that she minded inspiring that level of devotion. Only a misanthropic nut job would mind that. It was just that he protected her so fucking often that it served to remind her that from time to time she needed protecting, a fact she detested even more than she hated monthly water retention. And if only he weren't so damn sincere underneath it all. So vulnerable. So goddamn noble. If he weren't, Scully knew, then she wouldn't love him. And if she didn't love him, he couldn't hurt her by running off and protecting her and being right all the fucking time. The whole thing made her kinda dizzy. Yup. He was one motherfucking rat bastard, her Mulder. Her Mulder. Hers. She said it out loud: just a whisper to try it out. "Mine." Yup. No getting around it. That had the ring of truth. In fact, she thought, it's about the only thing in this whole mess that does. Or maybe the motherfucking rat bastard to whom she was referring was the ever-so-genteel mass murderer, Hans Fleischman. Did he set Mulder and her up? Did he know the facility would be abandoned, booby-trapped and planted with false evidence, all for the sake of discrediting Mulder? Or was Fleischman being used as a pawn in someone else's bloody game? Much as she would have liked to know, it didn't really matter as far as the immediate point was concerned. He was a motherfucking rat bastard. But today, on this special occasion, perhaps she'd reserve the Title for one Abner H. Walpole. Walpole-up-the-ass, she thought, snickering. He was the dickless wonder who had just finished conducting Mulder's preliminary conduct hearing. He'd been downright gleeful while dressing Mulder down before suspending him. Probably pulled wings off flies as a child, she thought. Probably still does. Yup, Abner H. Walpole, M.R.B. Motherfucking Rat Bastard. "Whatsamatter, honey? Reading your fortune? I thought that was with tea." Scully's head snapped up from her close study of the untouched coffee in her cup. She'd forgotten where she was. That diner, the one Mulder liked. She didn't know how she ended up there, really, but she supposed it was just because she hadn't eaten any real food in days. She'd been hunting so desperately for something, anything to cast doubt on the widely accepted interpretation of events in Denville, California. Some shred of evidence that it wasn't an act of terrorism. At least, not in the conventional sense. She hadn't turned up a thing. And she hadn't eaten a thing along the way, either. So when Mulder limped from the conference room in the Hoover Building, informed her brusquely that he did not want her to see him home, and hobbled off, she'd wandered here. To Mulder's diner. And this, Scully recalled, was Mulder's peroxide-drenched, big bottomed, torpedo-titted waitress. She'd just said something. What was it? Oh, yes. "Just thinking," Scully said. "You look kinda down. Sorry, I just couldn't help noticing. I watch a lotta people in this place, and I just notice things." "Yeah, well, it's been a shitty day." The waitress made a clicking sound with her tongue that Scully interpreted as sympathy. "I hope your daddy isn't giving you a hard time." "My daddy?" "Yeah. I saw you in here with him. That strapping bald fella. Looked like you and your beau were asking him for something important. I hope he didn't change his mind about giving it to you." Scully gave a small grunt that she meant to be a laugh. "No, my 'daddy' isn't the problem," she said. "Well, that's good. I wouldn't want anything to stand in the way of true love. And one thing's for sure, honey. That's what you 'n your beau have got. I saw it written all over you. Don't let nothing get in the way." Scully looked out the diner window at the traffic going by. She was suddenly unable to meet the waitress' eyes. "Give me the check, please," she said, knowing it was rude and not caring. The waitress ripped a page off her pad and slapped it down on the table. "Just trying to be friendly, sweetie," she snapped and then walked away. Save it for someone who trusts people, Scully thought. Blank facade, darkly soulless, flatly lit by the unblinking full moon. Familiarity lends no warmth, no comfort. Only dread. The death of hope. Knob turns. Unlocked. Dark hallway. Hand gropes blindly along smooth, dank wall, finding nothing but the feel of moist decay, rendering soft and fragile what should have been hard and strong. A tiny light appears ahead, far ahead, more distant than should have been possible within the confines of this dark, unholy place. It leads the reluctant follower forward, then right, then forward, right again. Downstairs, and down again, a winding, creaking stairway where the foul odor of death has taken up permanent residence. At the bottom, forward again. The follower quickens her pace, eager to overtake the tiny flame with her questions. But she cannot close the distance. The light remains at a fixed distance, leading, and the follower follows. Sound of footsteps echoing in the vastness of a great chamber. Her own footsteps. Stench stings her eyes, violates her orifices like some ethereal rapist, forcing itself on her senses, overwhelming, irresistible. It is not to be borne, nor is it to be denied. Her mind begs for mercy, for pity, for flight. She does not want to find the source of all that is so very wrong in this place. But her legs carry on. The follower follows through the depths of the deathly labyrinth. The way is long and the turns are many. The follower is lost. Has been lost since the very first steps. Sound and smell tell of mortal rot, but it is a tale without meaning or order. No more. No more. Dear god, heavenly father, anyone at all. Please, no more. The light winks out. She is left alone. November 30, 1997 The first thing Scully noticed was the stabbing pain in the middle of her forehead. She couldn't tell whether that was what woke her or whether it was the dream, or perhaps something else, some quick, loud noise that ended before awareness returned. She pushed the covers back sleepily and swung her legs over the side, forcing her body to right itself when her feet touched the floor. Her own bedroom. Morning, judging by the light that forced entry around the window shade. She dug her fists into her eyes as if to excise an after-image lodged there. Coffee. Later, she would wonder whether, on a normal day, when she was feeling her usual self, she would have spotted the envelope as soon as she entered her living room. She liked to think she would have. She prided herself on being remarkably observant. Today, she was halfway through a large mug of Kona blend before her eye fell on the long, white rectangle on the rug. She approached it slowly, as one might approach an ugly spider in the bathtub. She recognized the handwriting immediately. *Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Not this.* Half an hour later, she was banging frantically on Rachel's door, the envelope clutched in her other hand, imagining she could feel with her fingertips the micro-thin layer of ink that formed a single word on the front. Scully. There were more words inside, she knew. She didn't need them. The whole message seemed to be contained in the one word on the outside of the envelope. The flap remained sealed. The door opened slowly. Scully needed only a glance at Rachel's face to see that her friend had gotten a special delivery from Mulder that morning as well. She suddenly felt the urge to turn around and leave. She didn't want to know more. Instead, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. "Have you read yours yet?" Rachel asked without preamble. Scully shook her head. "You?" "No." Rachel paused and cleared her throat nervously. "What do you think is in them?" Scully laughed, a cracked, jagged sound. "Fifty ways to leave your lover," she said bitterly. "In this case, I suppose you can double that. A hundred way to leave two lovers." If she had been less furious, less intent on smothering the fear in her heart with a show of anger, she might have noticed that Rachel's usually dark complexion had gone the color of tapioca, her mouth set in a hard line like the cash dispenser slot of an ATM. Wordlessly, Rachel turned away, crossed to the coffee table and picked up an envelope almost exactly like the one Scully was holding. The sound of ripping paper tore a hole in Scully's resolute anger. Dear Rachel, I'm not going to beat around the bush. You deserve better. I'm leaving. And I'm sorry. Christ, that sounds cruelly blunt. I don't mean it that way. I just don't want you to have to skim a lot of bullshit to get to the point. So now that you've got the highlights, you don't have to finish reading if you don't want to. The rest, as the great rabbi once said, is commentary. But, selfish bastard that I am, I hope you'll read it anyway and somehow manage not to hate me. There really isn't any point to my staying around to find out what happens in the inevitable criminal prosecution that's bound to follow my dismissal from the FBI. Even if, by some miracle, I were to get off, there would no doubt be fifteen wrongful death civil suits after that. I'm sure the moral of the OJ story wasn't lost on you: If it fits, you must acquit, but that doesn't rule out a subsequent, multi million-dollar civil judgment for pain and suffering. In the end, though, it's not the trial or the money or the consequences. It's the fact that I'd be so tied up in red tape and legal maneuvering and courtroom drama that I could never be effective in finding out what really happened in Denville. What really happened to Samantha and to Scully. And to you. Which brings me to the main point. I'm sorry. Sorry that I ever dragged you into this filthy mess. Sorry that you got hurt. Sorry that, instead of leaving you alone to live a good life filled with the love and fulfillment you deserve, you got sucked into this bizarre triangle, playing Curly to my Larry and Scully's Moe. I hope that my departure can in some measure leave you free to get back to the life you should have been leading all along. Go make some exciting discovery about flounder or sea bass or whatever. Find a man who's willing to spend all night licking that really tasty spot, the location of which I dare not commit to writing for fear it might fall into the hands of the enemy. Drink peach daiquiris on the fire escape on hot Summer nights. Go to the movies. Eat fatty foods. Watch Must-See TV. Whatever. In short, do your best to forget about the mess I made of your life. You were smarter than I, that night that Scully left us alone in my apartment. Some very healthy alarm bells went off in your head. Of course, selfish bastard that I am, I heard nothing. But then again, I wanted to spend the night with a sexy, intelligent, warm, courageous, good woman. You, on the other hand, were about to spend the night with Chicken Little, the ugly li'l critter that runs around warning normal, happy folk that the sky is falling. Just know this: You've given me a precious gift that I'll carry with me wherever I go. You've shown me who I would have liked to be if the choice had been left up to me. You are no coward. It is that knowledge that makes it possible for me to write this letter. A weaker person might read it and look within to find a reason, a flaw that caused this cruel abandonment. You, I know, will look at me and recognize me for what I am: one sorry son of a bitch. One sorry son of a bitch who loves you. I don't know if I'll ever come back. I have no idea what will become of me. You have been incredibly generous to my sister with your time and affection. I thank you for that. If you can find it in your heart to reach out to Samantha every once in a while, it would be far more than I deserve, but I would be eternally grateful. Love, Mulder As Scully watched Rachel read, her finger, seemingly of its own volition, worked its way under the flap of her own envelope and pulled. Dear Scully, I would stay if I could, I swear I would. It's not as though They'd leave us alone if I promised to be good, to stop poking my nose into other people's conspiracies, cross my heart and hope to die, stick a microchip in my eye. It's too late for that. Still, I know you. I don't think you will forgive me, so I won't bother asking. It would be presumptuously selfish of me to apologize. I think you've had quite enough of that aspect of my personality: the selfishness, I mean. Not the apologizing. I'm sure I've done far too little of that. The best I will hope for is that you can manage to be furious with me but somehow stop short of hating me. Oh, hell, who am I kidding. That's just as selfish. Let me start over. I love you, Scully. It's a useless gift to offer, I know, but it does come from the heart. You consume me, and you always will. No matter where I am, or what I'm doing, I will always judge everything by its relationship to you: taller, shorter, smarter, stupider, nicer, meaner, harder, softer. Relative terms. There are no absolutes in my life other than you. Fat lot of good that does you, right? But you've got to believe me when I tell you that I never meant for this to happen. My plan was to stay by your side, to be whatever you need me to be, to share the trust that we both worked so hard to build. I seem to have screwed up the plan. But I don't see any other choice. I have to go, Scully. If I stayed, we'd both be left with nothing, I regret that we've never really sat down to discuss what happened in California. I have no idea what it is you think you saw in that horrible place. I do know what I think I saw. And, though we may have come away empty-handed once again, I am more certain than ever that, at the heart of the mystery we've been working to unravel for five years, lies a secret that is not of this world. But that isn't really what's important to me right now. What I care much more about is what you think of my actions that day. I have no doubt that you've asked yourself whether I knew, or at least suspected, that the warehouse was about to do an Oklahoma City. I didn't. Please believe me. Now, with the benefit of 20-20 hindsight, I realize I should have seen it coming. But I did not willingly lead those fifteen people to their deaths. The only reason I left you outside was because I didn't want the nice young men in the clean white coats to come after you once the whole insane thing hit the press. I didn't want you to be the source of the story. The boys in the bullpen already expect that kind of thing from me. They would just have assumed ol' Spooky had stopped taking his meds again. As it turned out, I had nothing to worry about on that count. The whole insane thing was neatly and effectively covered up, and it looks like no one will ever know that this was not the act of terrorists. At least, no one but us. I don't know what good I can do undercover and on the run, Scully, but I will do my best. I will not rest until I know what happened to you and to Samantha, until I've done everything in my power to set things right. I don't know if I'll accomplish much, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to come back to you. If I can, I will. You can be sure of that. Perhaps you think I'm a coward for running. I'm sure you're right. But I'd rather be cowardly than selfish. If that weren't true, I would come to you tonight and bury my misery in your warm depth, and damn the consequences. And you would let me be selfish. You would wrap me in your soothing embrace by night and let me drag you down by day into the ugly bureaucratic and legalistic cesspool of the kind we saw at my preliminary hearing. You would behave as though it were only natural for me to tie a rock around your neck so you'll sink just as fast as I do. I won't do it. Do whatever it is you need to do, Scully, whether or not that includes the X files. I hope that, whatever it is, you find some peace. Whenever you think of me, rest assured that I'll be thinking of you, too. Yours, The sound of violent retching jolted Scully back to reality. It took her a moment to remember where she was: Rachel's place. But Rachel was no longer in the room. A sheet of paper with Mulder's sloppy scrawl lay on the rug where she'd been standing. Scully followed the ugly sound into the bathroom, where she found her friend on her knees in front of the open toilet. Judging from its contents, she'd cleared the food from her guts in the first couple of heaves and was left trying to bring up the lining. When the vomiting finally stopped, Scully was ready with a cool washcloth. "Thank you," Rachel managed to whisper. She'd collapsed onto the floor, leaning against the tub for support. Scully said nothing. "You're not surprised," Rachel said. About what, Scully wondered? She decided to play it safe. "No, I'm not surprised he left. But I'd hoped...." She let the thought die rather than waste her breath on it. "Are you feeling better?" "Not really. But you get used to it." Scully had only been paying half a mind to the conversation. Her thoughts were racing. Where had Mulder gone? What was he planning? Was he really intending not to return, or was that just a convenient lie to cover his next move? Did he really have no idea the building would blow when he led fifteen innocent people inside but left her out? Rachel's words came crashing through like an icebreaker in Arctic waters. You get used to it. Used to what? Abandonment? Or... "Used to it? You puke your guts out very often?" Rachel's watery, bloodshot eyes met her friend's. "Not on dry land. Until recently." Oh, Jesus. Holy shit. Scully had thought her mind was reeling before, but that was a tightrope walk compared to this. "Why didn't you say anything?" "Oh, come on, Dana. Let's just say the right moment never seemed to come along." "Is it his?" Rachel nodded wordlessly. Scully allowed herself to slide down the cold bathroom wall, feeling her shirt ride up in back, feeling the friction of chalky plaster burning the exposed skin as she sank. "What are you going to do?" she asked at last. "Go out and buy size twelve stretch pants. Maternity clothes make you look like a polyester hippo." When that got no response, Rachel tried again. "At least I don't have to figure out how to tell Mulder." Scully didn't look amused. "I'll be all right," Rachel tried again. "You don't have to worry about me." Scully sighed, and something in her face seemed to soften. "It's not you I'm worried about. It's the baby." "We'll both be fine." "Yeah, and the Pope digs Madonna." "Thanks so much for that vote of confidence." There was a long silence. Scully scrutinized her friend, sizing her up, trying to figure out whether she had the right stuff. In this case, the right stuff would make test pilots look like hairdressers. The Mulder gene pool was more dangerous than any test flight at supersonic speeds. Rachel would have to wake up each day and face the knowledge that someone: or something: could show up out of the blue and try to snatch her baby away. Could this woman be mother to a child who would be a pawn in a deadly game played by a handful of powerful men? Could she face a life in which trust could kill? "You'll be all right," Scully finally pronounced. "We can do this." End
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