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Title: Trust VII: Heart Summary: Mulder's gone underground, Scully is working to clear his name, and the birth of Rachel's child changes all their lives. Her tiny face wore a mournful expression as thick, lush forest foliage swallowed her world whole. Her world at that moment was a bright green plastic ball received as a gift just a few short hours earlier. The sight of it had made her three-year-old heart flutter with excitement. It was big, this new ball. Bigger than her head. Bigger even than her mother's head. And such a pretty color, the likes of which she'd never seen before. Dada, who'd given it to her, said it glowed in the dark. She wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but it sounded wonderful. And it bounced high. She'd never had a ball that bounced high. Only soft ones she could smush with her fingers, and a very hard one made of clear plastic with little marbles inside that wriggled around when she rolled it along the floor. But never one like this. One that bounced. And now it was gone. The grown-ups had told her to go outside and play. She'd expected them to follow her out, but they hadn't. They stayed back, standing just inside the sliding glass door, Mommy and Dada talking to each other. They were there now. She could tell by the look on Mommy's face that they'd sent her outside by herself on purpose, because they didn't want her to hear. She hated when they did that. They probably meant to watch her through the door, she knew, but they hadn't looked at her once since she'd come out. And now her ball had bounced away into the green curtain at the edge of the yard, and they didn't care anyway. They weren't even looking. And it was such a beautiful ball. Without especially trying, she worked her way right over to the place she'd last seen the ball before it disappeared. She stood for a moment, unsure. She knew she wasn't allowed out of the yard. Mommy always told her to stay close to the house. Bad things could happen, Mommy said. But Mommy wasn't even looking. It was dark in there, in the forest, she saw. The day was kind of dark to begin with: cloudy and gray, and after all, it was getting late. But in there: it was dark. So dark she couldn't make out the details of rocks and leaves and roots. Dark. The ball glows in the dark, Dada had said. She wanted to see that. Without another look back, she plunged ahead, right where she knew her ball had gone. Is that it? No. A rock. There? No. There? She'd been walking for a little while. Could a ball bounce so far? She didn't know. Mommy told her she was getting strong. Maybe she'd thrown it very, very hard. Harder than ever before. Better walk a little farther. Where is it? It must be here. But she couldn't see it. She stopped and turned around in a circle. No ball. She turned again, just to be sure. No, it's not here. Better go back home. She turned again. Home. Through the trees. The way she came. Which trees? Which way? Don't go in the woods alone. Bad things can happen. Her plump lower lip began to tremble, jutting forward, heralding the arrival of tears in her deep brown eyes. "Mommy!" Her plaintive call sounded tiny and weak in the vast wilderness around her. The only response was the rushing sound of wind forcing a galaxy of leaves to brush against each other, a sound that seemed to come from everywhere and stifle every other sound like a pillow in the face. Frightened, she began to run, not thinking about a direction, only afraid to stay still where the rushing wind could bring the bad things. Twigs and tall weeds reached for her as she ran, clutching at the mane of dark curls that flew behind her, catching and pulling at her clothes, trying to make her hold still for the bad things. She ran faster, weeping at the knowledge that it was her fault, that she had invited trouble the minute she'd left the yard. She ran so fast that she never saw the road or the pair of long legs standing on it, blocking her path. Not until she'd run right into them. Not until she was sure a bad thing had found her. She collapsed to the ground, sobbing. Standing in the bow of a fishing boat, my eyes fixed on a tiny speck on the horizon, I prayed silently that we were doing the right thing. "She should be in a hospital." I didn't look at the kindly, craggy face of the elderly gentleman behind me. I knew he meant well, but he simply didn't have all the facts. "Lots of women give birth at home these days, Dr. Crosby." "Of course. I know that. Don't patronize me, Dr. Scully. I'm not a doddering old fool. Responsible women who choose home births live within a short ambulance ride of a hospital, not on some God-forsaken rock in the Pacific Ocean. There's a good reason for that. I should know. I began delivering babies in the days before there were any hospitals around here. I'm sorry to say I lost quite a few newborns in those days. Mothers, too." I didn't answer him. What could I say? "Thanks for your concern, but we'd rather have no record of this child's birth. Wouldn't want any members of an evil global conspiracy to get their hands on her, y'know." No, there were some things sweet old Dr. Crosby didn't need to know. I turned to him. The old guy looked quite grand, framed by the peaks of the Cascades behind him. He looked like he might have been one of those mountains in a previous life, or he might become one in the next. "She doesn't like hospitals," was all I said. Crosby didn't say another word for the rest of the trip. He probably wanted me to attribute his silence to righteous indignation, but I noticed he was rather green around the gills. I didn't mention it. I was just grateful he'd shut up about hospitals and the dangers of childbirth. The poor man's color didn't improve much on the drive out to the house. Not surprising, given that I must have hit sixty on a dirt road. But it had already been three hours since Rachel had called. She was a month early, and I'd planned to spend the time with her, waiting. It turned out she wasn't going to make me wait. I'd gotten the call ten minutes after I landed, so I picked up Dr. Crosby on my way to the boat. We walked right in without bothering to knock. I figured Rachel had more important things on her mind than answering the door, which was always open, anyway. Crime didn't exist on this sparsely inhabited island, and the people of whom we were most afraid wouldn't let something as trivial as a locked door stop them. The big, old house was eerily silent. I'm not sure what I expected: Rachel lying in a pool of amniotic fluid on the living room floor, shrieking like a woman possessed? The silence seemed somehow even more alarming. "Rachel?" I called. "Up here!" The response came quickly, and my heart slowed to only twice its normal rate. She was in bed, her T-shirt so soaked with sweat that she looked like she'd just finished a marathon. But from the expression on her face, I could see she would have been glad for something as easy as a 26-mile run. In a chair beside the bed, keeping her useless company, was the empty husk of what had once been Samantha Mulder. Her blank stare was focused somewhere out of the window at the lush, deep forest that began only a few dozen feet from the house. Poor Rachel. If I were in her place, I'd rather be alone than have those vacant eyes, that slack face hanging over me as I groaned and cursed and bled. Not that the question of my personal birthing preferences was ever going to come up, now that eggs had been crossed off my biological menu. I bit down on my cheeks to drive that thought away. This wasn't the time. It was ancient history, anyway. "How far apart are the contractions?" Dr. Crosby asked, getting right down to business. Rachel shook her head. "Not long," she hissed between gritted teeth. "Okay. Let's have a look." I moved Samantha back and pulled up a chair up alongside the bed while the doctor opened his bag and donned latex gloves. When I offered Rachel a hand, she grabbed it with the force of a lobster fighting for its life. Judging from the way she was blowing air (a technique all women nowadays seemed to use, whether or not they'd taken LaMaze classes), she was in the midst of a strong contraction. I watched Crosby as his hand disappeared between Rachel's legs, his head turned studiously sideways in that way doctors have, as if by not looking directly at your privates they can make you forget that they've reached third base without so much as dinner and a kiss. "Won't be long now," he said, smiling. "You're just about fully dilated." Two hours later, I was up on the bed, my back to the headboard, Rachel leaning hard against me as if she could use me as leverage to push the baby out. She had been pushing mightily for an hour and a half. I would have thought she'd have birthed twin elephants by that point, but still the head hadn't emerged. Samantha sat watching it all like the Sphinx watching the pyramids. I couldn't stand looking at Dr. Crosby's worried face any longer. It spoke more plainly than words: She should be in a hospital. The worst part was that, at this point, I knew he was right. And Rachel ... dear God. Her face was covered in the blotches of burst blood vessels, and her eyes were red with them. Her hair clung to her forehead with sweat as though it were painted on. She had stopped screaming half an hour earlier. I think it took too much effort, and her throat was worn raw. She whispered something, and I bent my head to hear. "Something's wrong," she hissed. "Too long..." "Nothing's wrong. You can do it." I continued plying her with platitudes, hating myself for the obvious lies but knowing they were necessary. The next contraction gripped her like a trash compactor, and Crosby started up the litany of "Push! Push!" yet again. Only this time, finally, a new piece of dialogue was added: "We've got some movement." "Did you hear that, Rachel?" I asked, elated. "You're almost there." My optimism was short-lived. The next contraction came and went... and the next, and the next. Another half-hour went by. "No more. Please. No more..." Rachel was begging me, as though I could do something to stop this. I felt like this was somehow my fault. Well, I suppose in a way it was, but that was a bad place to go at that moment. She'd slept with Mulder. I'd told her to do it. She was having his baby. End of story. Mulder. Where the hell was Mulder? I batted that thought away, too, and resumed murmuring meaningless encouragement to poor Rachel. Another contraction. Rachel began pushing as before, but this time, Dr. Crosby commanded her to stop. For the next two or three contractions, he told her not to push, and I grew increasingly terrified. Then, another contraction, accompanied by agonizing, pelvis-splitting pushing. I nearly fainted with surprise at the doctor's triumphant, "The head is out!" I don't think Rachel even heard it, but it gave me the energy to be the best cheerleader I knew how to be. "Come on, Rachel. You can do it. Just one more. Your baby is coming. One more..." And then the contraction came, and Rachel pushed, and the doctor said, "Here it comes!" It would be over, this terrible ordeal, and poor Rachel would be able to rest. And then it hit me. Silence. The doctor had said nothing. There was no cry. Just a suffocating silence that hung in the air like smoke. I looked up to see the doctor working feverishly over a small, still form at the foot of the blood-drenched bed. CPR, I noted with preternatural calm. No heartbeat. "Dana?" Rachel's voice was so soft with exhaustion that I barely heard it. "It's okay, Rachel. Shhh. Rest now." "I want to see the baby." "It's okay. Go to sleep." "No. The baby..." A weak little cry erupted at that moment, and it was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard. I cried then, tears tracking through the sweat and grease that coated my face. It was partly joy at the sound of new life, and partly relief that I wouldn't have to tell Rachel her child was dead. I seem to be the one who always bears bad news - but not this time. Dr. Crosby and I worked quickly to strip the plastic sheeting with all its bloody mess off the bed, and it wasn't long before Rachel and her living daughter were tucked up together, both asleep after the ordeal they'd barely survived. I kept a watchful eye on them through the open doorway as Dr. Crosby gave me the details. "It was a prolapsed umbilical cord," he explained. "As the baby pressed against the cervix, the pressure on the cord may have diminished or even entirely blocked the blood supply to the baby." I found myself examining the doctor's shoes, unable to meet his eyes and the unspoken accusations there. "Will there be any long-term effect?" I asked quietly. "Hard to say. It depends how oxygen-starved the baby became. But I'm willing to be cautiously optimistic. The child's heart was beating at birth and only stopped afterwards, probably as a result of the overwhelming stress. She revived quickly. With a great deal of luck, there may be no long-term effects at all. At the opposite extreme, there could be severe brain damage. It will be months or even years before we know for sure." I nodded. "I'll tell her when she's feeling stronger," I said, unable to raise my eyes above his collar. "If this had happened in a hospital, that baby would be under observation in the neonatal ICU," he said. I nodded again, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth with gluey guilt. "You'll have to watch her 24 hours a day for at least a week. You know infant CPR?" Nod. "Good. Let's hope you don't have to use it." Amen, brother. Dr. Crosby sighed. "All right, then. If the child appears to have difficulty breathing or eating, or if there's anything else that causes you concern, don't hesitate to call, and I'll be out here as quickly as possible. Now, just give me the application for the birth certificate so I can sign it and go." I waited until the doctor's car was out of view before striking a match and watching the application flare, then shrivel to ash. The pulpy, red mass beneath my hands had once pumped life through a young girl's body. It had been stilled by an unknown hand for some unfathomably ghoulish purpose. Such a fragile, inadequate thing to hold the line between life and death, a child's heart. Just a fistful of muscle. Four chambers, a couple of valves. Just a simple piece of plumbing, really. Ariel Sachs' heart was still holding the line five months after it had nearly given up the ghost. She was a beautiful, healthy child who so far seemed to be developing normally. She was Rachel's joy and triumph. This little girl lying on a cold, metal table before me had been someone's joy, too. I continued the autopsy, going through the motions mechanically. I was happy for Rachel, and I tried not to let envy creep into my heart and color my eyes green. For the most part, I'd succeeded. In the weeks I'd managed to steal from the never-ending grind of X files and autopsies to spend on the island with them, I had discovered a true satisfaction in caring for that tiny, dependent creature. Not that Rachel's life was so wonderful. It had actually been less difficult than I'd expected to convince her to go into hiding before Ariel's birth. I suppose I shouldn't really have been surprised. After all, Rachel knew all about what had happened to Samantha. The experiments conducted on her, the microchips implanted throughout her brain, the mysterious malady that now left her mental house silent and dark. Rachel had taken Samantha to the island with her, leaving behind a promising career in marine biology to play nursemaid to a catatonic woman and a newborn infant in the middle of nowhere. All because of one night with Mulder. A night I'd been too aggravated to bear his lone-martyr routine. A night I'd grown fed up with the sexual tension between the two of them that always made my hair stand on end. A night when I knew I didn't want Mulder in my bed and figured he may as well be in hers. At least I'd know where he was. Unlike now. Mulder had been gone just over a year. Bolted with a murder-conspiracy indictment hanging over his head. Presumably left the country. I'd stopped being furious with him about it months ago, even though he had left me a fucking letter instead of mustering the courage to tell me to my face. But that was Mulder to the bone. Perhaps his greatest secret, which I'd held close, knowing he'd trusted me with it, was this: He was an emotional coward. And so I forgave him for it. Again and again. Can you say, "codependent?" "Agent Scully? Are you all right?" Autopsy. Right. Someone had spoken to me... I looked up to find my partner du jour had entered the autopsy bay. Perky kid with more enthusiasm than brains. Just the kind likely to get himself killed. What the heck was his name again? Spanky? Spunky? Sparky? "I'm fine, Agent... Spitzer." I hoped he hadn't noticed me checking the ID card hanging from his lapel. Oh, hell. What difference did it make? I'd scare him off in a week or two, anyway. Just like the others. Just like Mulder used to do. It was one of those X files that would never be explained, like where all the single socks disappear to in the wash. My suitcase felt at least ten pounds heavier than it had when I'd left, despite the fact that I'd added nothing to it during my trip to... Where the hell had I just been? Either Alzheimer's was setting in, or I was becoming incapable of caring about anything that didn't have to do with aliens, abductions, and the search for evidence to clear Mulder's name. And the trip to Butthole, North Dakota didn't have to do with any of them. I dropped the bag just inside my door, kicked off my shoes and headed for the kitchen, praying that something edible might have miraculously survived my week-long absence. The phone rang after three Tupperwares yielded only mysterious, smelly, greenish contents. "Agent Scully," said the voice on the line. "I have something to show you." I smiled. "Frohike, I'm sure I've seen better on a cadaver." "You wound me, Dana. This is serious business. Otherwise, I'd have at least sprung for a movie and popcorn first." I groaned, more at the thought of going out again that night than at the thought of dating the Mayor of Munchkinland. "What is it, Frohike? Just tell me." "You know I can't do that on an unsecured line." "Look, Frohike, I'm tired and hungry, and..." I heard a rustling on the other side, and then a different voice. "Agent Scully, this is Byers. You really should see this." Byers seemed to think that a couple of inches in height, a little personal grooming and a suit gave him more credibility than the troll. Trouble was, he was right. "Okay. I'll be there in an hour." It was more like an hour and a half by the time I'd grabbed a bite and a shower. "You should have called. We thought you might have been run off the road by pseudogovernmental hit men," said Langly when he opened the office door of "The Lone Gunman," the magazine for conspiracy theorists, certifiable paranoiacs, militant anti-government whackos and gullible FBI special agents. "Sorry, Mom. So what's so important?" "This came today." Frohike stepped forward and handed me a letter. I glanced over it quickly. "You called me out here at 10:30 at night to read a letter from some guy claiming to have a videotape of aliens?" "Look at the return address," Frohike said. "San Alejandro, California." Byers pushed an atlas across the table. "Right near Denville." "That doesn't mean..." "Read the letter again." I did, this time more slowly. "Dead aliens in cages," I whispered. "It couldn't be." It's a damn sad statement about my emotional health that the only thought I had standing over the poor guy's corpse was, "That figures." I stopped only long enough to identify the likely cause of death - gunshot to the neck - before searching the place. The papers on his desk quickly identified him as Frank Zizmore, which meant he'd signed his real name to the letter he'd sent the Gunmen. He worked as a video technician at a local television station. There was no evidence that he belonged to MUFON or any other whacko group a good sign. And there were the videotapes. Lots and lots of them. I sighed, knowing what I was going to be doing all night. Then I found a couple of empty shopping bags in the kitchen, loaded them up with every tape I could find, and stashed them in the trunk of my rental car. And then I called the cops. Another testament to my state of mind: I didn't twitch a muscle fifteen minutes later when I told the detective that I hadn't touched anything at the scene. The sun rose the next morning over that nondescript Northern California town and found me with a wet washcloth over eyes that were bleary from watching hour after hour of house fires, news conferences, man-in-the-street interviews, traffic jams, family barbecues and porn flicks featuring triple-D boobs. All in jerky, fast-forward motion. No aliens - though I did wonder what planet those tits were from. I cursed myself for a fool for letting the Gunmen convince me to take that damn letter seriously. But, having come all this way, I figured a couple of phone calls wouldn't be out of order. I started with the police. One Detective Jovanovic informed me that they hadn't lifted any suspicious prints at the scene. Ballistics tests hadn't matched the bullet to a known weapon, either. What a shocker. I tried the victim's employer next. The station manager gave me the usual heartfelt lines: what a tragedy, everyone liked him, no one would have wanted him dead, so sad coming after his best friend's death... I stopped him there. "Who was his best friend?" "Tom Spivak. Also worked here." "What did Mr. Spivak do?" "He was a video tech, just like Frank. Used to work with the mobile unit." A sickening thought started to take shape in the back of my mind. "Mobile unit? You mean, like one of those news vans that goes out in the field?" "Yeah. Exactly." "How did he die?" "Traffic accident, last year. Hit and run. They never caught the creep." "Sir, would you happen to know if..." I hesitated as I checked the notes I'd been jotting down. "...if Mr. Spivak had been with the crew that covered the alleged terrorist attack in Denville?" "Why? Do you think those terrorists might have something to do with this?" "I don't know. Was he there?" "Hang on a minute. I'll have to check." He put me on hold for an eternity that felt even longer accompanied by the Muzak version of "Midnight at the Oasis." The line clicked open. "Yeah, Tom was at Denville." I swallowed hard before speaking. "Why wasn't he killed in the explosion?" "He wouldn't have been in the building. He'd have stayed in the van, relaying the feed." I hung up the phone without waiting to hear anything else the guy said. There was a videotape out there somewhere that I had to find. Rowbottom Island was a glorious corner of creation, covered in the rich growth of primeval forest that flourished in a wet, temperate climate. But standing in the clearing behind Rachel's house, the trees felt too close, the sky hung heavy over my head, and the damp earth seemed to reach up and grab at my feet. I heard the sodden squelch of Rachel's shoes on the muddy ground behind me. "It's really a very peaceful place," she said. "Peaceful like the grave." She laughed. "I just love it when you come around to cheer me up." I shook my head as if to shed the mood. "I'm sorry," I said, turning to her. "Where's Ariel?" "Sleeping." "Gabba goo," came from the nursery monitor Rachel wore on her belt. "I think the correct translation would be, 'No, I'm not,'" I said. "I think you're right. Let's go get her." The tadpole was standing in her crib, watching the door expectantly. Our appearance elicited a stream of sounds that the two-year-old no doubt intended to mean, "Took you long enough." Rachel picked her up and headed for the changing table, but the tadpole had other ideas. "Dada! Wan' Dada!" "Dada" was the closest Ariel could come to "Dana," an irony that had initially embarrassed Rachel, but later came to amuse us both. We joked that we were just a normal, run-of-the-mill, nuclear family. It was only fair that I should be cast as the father. I was never home. When I'd gotten done providing the tadpole with a fresh Huggies for her soiling pleasure, the three of us repaired to the kitchen for a repast of fish sticks and string cheese. "I got a lead," I said as I waited for the toaster oven to ding. I'd been putting off talking about it since I'd arrived the previous day. Ever since Mulder had left, I'd grown accustomed to keeping all information of any importance to myself. Besides, I didn't like bothering Rachel with it. She had enough on her hands in this wilderness exile with a small child and a human vegetable. But she had a right to know. "What kind of lead?" Her tone was casual, but it didn't fool me. "A letter from someone who worked at a TV station near Denville. Claimed to have a videotape of caged aliens." "Like the ones you and Mulder found before the warehouse blew?" "Could be." "So? Have you seen the tape?" "No. The guy who sent the letter turned up dead, and the tape wasn't found." "You think it was on the level? He could have been scamming you." "Then why was he murdered? Besides, turns out he was friends with a video tech who was in the mobile news van at Denville - and who also turned up dead under suspicious circumstances." Rachel whistled in amazement, reminding me that this was a pretty outrageous story after all. "So you think this guy got some video from inside the warehouse before the place blew up, and somehow his friend got a hold of it after he was murdered?" "Or before. Yeah. That's what I think." Rachel finished washing her little girl's face before speaking again. "So what, Dana? What difference would it make?" The question shocked me. "It could be the proof I need," I snapped angrily. "It would blow away their cover story, explode this ridiculous lie about Mulder plotting with terrorists to kill those reporters." "Can I ask you something, Dana?" I raised an eyebrow in cautious assent. She hesitated before continuing. "Why bother?" That took me off guard. "What do you mean?" "Why jump through hoops to clear his name? He didn't stick around long enough to do it himself." I thought about it a moment. "Mulder doesn't care about his name," I said slowly. "Besides, it's not like he just fled the country to live it up in some banana republic that has no extradition agreement with the U.S. I have no doubt he's doing everything he can to help Samantha." I took Ariel from her high chair, and she wandered off to play in the next room. "To find out what they did to me," I added quietly. Rachel just nodded and started picking up toys. "That's not what you really want to ask me, is it?" I said. She shrugged. "What else?" "You want to know why I said what I said that night." "No," she replied, much too quickly. "That has nothing to do with anything." "Yes, it does. You want to know if I regret what I said. You're wondering what would have happened if Mulder hadn't left." I'd spent a lot of time with Rachel, and the woman was terrible at hiding her thoughts. I was good at reading her because I used to be that way myself. "That has nothing to do with what we're discussing," Rachel said sharply. "Yes, it does. It has everything to do with it. Because we wouldn't even be here discussing anything at all if it hadn't been for that night." Rachel held out a few more minutes, busying herself with feeding Samantha before going through the door I'd just opened. "Okay. Why'd you do it?" she finally said. Confronted with the naked question, I realized I didn't know how to answer. There was another long silence. "I did it because it didn't matter to me," I said at last. "And it did matter to you. And to him." "It didn't matter to you?" she asked incredulously. "It mattered in some small, unimportant ways," I conceded. "There were some emotional issues at the time." "Small, unimportant emotional issues." "Don't give me that look, Rachel. When you've been abducted, tested, given a fatal disease and discover a global conspiracy that may or may not be covering up the existence of extraterrestrial life, you don't get crazy because your boyfriend has the hots for your best friend. It's trivial." "Trivial. Oh." She didn't sound convinced. After all, none of it had happened to her. After another long silence, she changed the subject. "Ariel is so happy when you're here, Dana." I didn't let myself say anything right away. The bitterness I felt was not Rachel's fault, and certainly not Ariel's. It was my own secret sorrow, and I was determined to keep it that way. "I love spending time here, with her," I said at last. And that was true. However it had come to pass, this was the only place on earth where I felt truly welcome. Ariel chose that moment to toddle back into the room, throw her arms around my knees and yell, "Dada! Dada!" on the top of her lungs. Maybe this isn't so strange, after all. I'm not the first person to become a father after a one night stand. I reached down, scooped the tadpole up and tossed her in the air, eliciting wild giggles. Fatherhood wasn't so bad. Facing down flukemen and global conspiracies was easy compared to this. If one more person told me I had a strong aura or gave me a pamphlet about the pyramids on Mars, I was afraid I'd do something rash. Maybe I should have left my weapon at home. Wilmington was my fourth New Age fair this month. I knew it was extremely unlikely that any of these peddlers of healing crystals, herbal spells and doctored UFO photos would happen to have the particular video Title I was looking for. I was clutching at straws. For a change. The afternoon wasn't going very well, either. The very first vendor I'd approached told me he didn't carry any of that "sicko" stuff when I asked if he had a video of aliens in cages. Another one tried to sell me a fetal chimp in a jar of formaldehyde, telling me it was an alien that had been recovered in Roswell in 1947. And one guy... God help me, one guy recognized me as the "sidekick of the legendary Fox Mulder." These people had no idea how lucky they were that I have impressive self control and a very long fuse. As I worked my way through the crowded hotel ballroom, I spotted a table that looked promising. It seemed to have everything, from plaster castings of Bigfoot's prints to Mulder's "I Want to Believe" poster. The proprietor was typical of the breed: skinny kid with John Lennon glasses and a long, oily pony tail. "Do you know of any videos or photographs of aliens in cages?" I asked him. To my ears, the question sounded insane, but around there it was the equivalent of asking a supermarket stock boy where to find the tuna fish. I expected this kid to respond with about the same degree of interest. To my surprise, his eyes lit up. "What, are you psychic?" "I'm probably the only person here who doesn't claim to be," I answered. "No, I mean, it's just freaky, that's all." "What is?" "Well, some guy was just telling me that some woman in California offered to sell him a tape like that. But when he called her to follow up, she said she didn't know what he was talking about." I had to resist grabbing the poor kid by the collar in my excitement. "Where's the guy who told you this?" I asked. He craned his pencil neck and took a long look around the room. "Right over there. The guy with the ZZ Top beard." I couldn't believe my luck. I worked my way through the crowd until I reached the man who looked like the star of a cheesy biker flick. "Excuse me?" From my height, I could barely see his forehead over the beer gut and the facial hair. "Yeah?" "A guy over there told me someone offered to sell you a video of aliens in cages. Would you happen to still have her number?" "Yeah, but it won't do you any good. She ain't selling." "I'd like the number anyway." "What's it worth to you?" "What was she asking for the tape?" I bit my cheek, realizing too late that I might have backed myself into an expensive corner. "Hundred bucks," he said. I breathed a sigh of relief, took out my wallet and counted out five twenties. It took all my remaining self-control not to laugh when the Hell's Angel wannabe took a Palm Pilot from the pocket of his leather jacket and retrieved the number for me. I looked at the area code, and I was certain. Denville. I knew Skinner would have a bird. I'd been pushing my luck with him for a while, fabricating cases in places where I thought I might pick up a lead on the Denville incident, making side trips out to see Rachel. None of which he knew about in any detail, of course. But he's a very smart man. His guesses may not have been comprehensive, but they probably weren't too far off the money, either. But this time, I was right back at Ground Zero. When he found out I'd been in Denville, he'd pop an artery. It didn't matter. At least, not if this time I wasn't coming away empty-handed. I pulled up in front of Carol Kutzer's house, hoping like hell I wouldn't find a corpse waiting for me. For once, luck was with me. A young, attractive blonde woman answered the door. "Ms. Kutzer?" "Yes." "My name is Dana Scully. I'm with the FBI." I flashed the badge and noticed she took a long, hard look at it. This was usually the sign of someone with something to fear. "What do you want?" "May I come in?" She hesitated, then stepped aside to admit me. I walked into a surprisingly tastefully furnished home. There was a bit too much Pier One in evidence, but there are worse things in the world. She didn't invite me to sit down, so I did, just to throw her off. "I understand you have a videotape in your possession containing scenes of what some might interpret to be alien life forms." "I don't watch that Fox trash," she replied. "That tape could be vital evidence in an important Federal investigation. If you have it and fail to turn it over, you could end up in prison." "Look, I don't know what you're talking about, and I have things to do. Goodbye." She opened the door and glared at me fiercely. I stood up and crossed to the door. But instead of walking through it, I yanked it from her hand and slammed it shut. "Don't be a fool," I told her, my voice deadly calm. "You're afraid of that tape. And you're absolutely right to be afraid. That tape is getting people killed. If you think you can handle it on your own, you're dead wrong." I think the word "dead" penetrated her defenses. Her angry expression cracked, leaving fear apparent underneath. "I don't want any trouble," she said, still cautious. "Too late. You've got trouble. What you need is help, and that's what I'm offering." Her shoulders slumped, and she walked back into the living room. She sat on a paisley sofa that reminded me of one of Mulder's ties. Damn, I wished Mulder were there. I missed him so much of the time. Late at night in my bed. Early mornings at the office. But especially now, when his remarkable intuition would come in really handy. "I would have destroyed that tape by now if I could have. I was just too afraid of the damn thing." I sat across from her in the hunter green wing chair. It was my color and made me feel authoritative. "How did you come by the tape?" I asked. "Tommy gave it to me. He told me to keep it safe, that it might be worth a lot of money. When Tommy died in the accident, I assumed that's what it was - an accident. But then Frank was murdered, and I knew Frank had the other copy of the tape. That's why I'm too damn scared to go get the thing, even just to destroy it." "Where is it?" She eyed me warily and said nothing. "Look, I'll go get the tape and take it off your hands. If you haven't got it and you don't know where it is, you'll be a lot safer." "Yeah, but I've seen it. Maybe that's enough." "A lot of people claim to have seen a lot of things. That doesn't amount to much without hard evidence to back up their claims. Take my word for it. I ought to know." She said nothing, just sat there chewing on her lip and nervously trying to pick the paisley off the upholstery. "Maybe it's not the tape I'm looking for, anyway," I said, trying a different tack. "What's on it?" "No, it's the tape you described," she said resignedly. "Bodies inside these huge cages. Piles and piles of them. Clearly dead. And..." "And?" "And clearly not human." I felt my greasy airport breakfast rise into my throat at the memory of that carnage, the putrid smell of death that corrupted the air. "How long is this tape?" I asked, hoping to make it out of there without puking on the carpet at the mere memory. "Just a few minutes. Less than five, I'd say." "Can you see any people in it? I mean, regular people. Alive." "Yeah. At one point, you can see a group of people, some of them with video cameras. And then there's this guy who just stands for a minute, staring into one of the cages." "Can you describe him?" She shrugged. "Big nose. Dressed in black. I don't know." My God. Mulder was actually on the tape. Proof positive that he had led those reporters to the biggest story of the century and stood there with them, not knowing the place was about to explode. Proof that he wasn't some terrorist leading innocent men and women into an empty warehouse to die. I had to have that tape. I wasn't sure the woman would have the guts to go through with it. As I sat picking pulpy tomatoes off an otherwise perfectly good hamburger, I hoped she'd show up as promised. I'd only convinced her by painting a portrait of the alternative with photographic realism. If she tried to handle the tape on her own, they'd find her floating face-down in a swimming pool, a suicide note nearby, in handwriting that matched her own remarkably well. Or perhaps she'd turn up behind some bushes in the park, her panties stained with the semen of a known rapist who can't prove he was nowhere near the place at the time of the crime. It hadn't taken too many of those scenarios before she'd agreed. I only hoped the horror hadn't worn off too quickly. When I saw her enter the diner, I knew it hadn't. She sat down across from me. "You followed my instructions?" I asked. "Yes. Of course." "Okay. And you understand the plan?" "Yes." "Good. Then we won't see each other again after this. I'd like to thank you for your help." "Not that I had much choice in the matter." "No. But still." "Sure. Whatever." "Right. Well, let's get to it." She nodded and stood, heading for the bathroom. I waited a minute or two, glanced around to make sure no one was watching me, and disappeared. Amazing how diners never really clean up in the dark corners under the tables. There were bits of Salisbury steak down there from the Eisenhower years. It was damn disgusting, not to mention awkward, stripping off my clothes underneath the table of the corner booth, but I managed not to rip anything. When I slid up onto the bench Kutzer had vacated minutes earlier, I wore the clothes I'd put on underneath my own that morning. They matched Kutzer's exactly. The blonde wig was as close as I could manage on short notice. I flagged the waitress, paid the check and left without waiting for the other woman to emerge from the bathroom dressed as me. I made it back to Kutzer's house without incident. Luckily, the key she'd given me slid into the lock and turned smoothly. It wouldn't have done to be fiddling with the door. That's the kind of thing that might have aroused the suspicions of whoever was watching, and I knew someone was. A quick tour of the kitchen turned up some passable beer. I brought it out to the living room, where the couch made out of Mulder's ties waited. I settled into it, brushed the uncomfortably artificial blonde locks from my forehead and allowed myself the luxury of thinking about him. My first thought, not surprisingly, was of his safety. Wherever he was, I knew he was taking more risks than he should, more than were entirely necessary in his search for answers. I knew he would be driven to it. He would do what he had to, wherever he was. But I was selfish. I just wanted him safe. I wanted him to come back. I missed the son of a bitch. I wondered if he knew that. And then there was Ariel. Mulder had a two-yearold daughter of whose existence he was completely unaware. There was no way he could have learned of her, even if he were in contact with someone Stateside. Rachel and I had kept the whole thing extremely quiet for the safety of the child. We didn't want to tempt whatever force, human or otherwise, that seemed to have a penchant for tormenting the females in Mulder's life. Still, I knew in my heart what a daughter, a beautiful, untainted piece of the future would mean to him. I wished he could have had that. Mulder had rarely spoken of the possibility that he might someday have children. When he did, it was always in jest. But I felt sure a child might be one of the only things that could ever bring him any real joy. That joy was currently living with her mother on an isolated island off the coast of Oregon. And he didn't know it. I fell asleep on that paisley couch and dreamed of Mulder sitting on his old leather one, watching a video of himself sitting on his old leather couch, watching a video of himself sitting on his old leather couch, watching the same scene in infinite articulations. When I woke up, I found myself sincerely hoping poor Carol Kutzer had passed a more peaceful night in my motel room than I'd passed in her living room. After a quick shower and coffee, I changed into jeans and a button-down I'd left there earlier. The wig itched, but there wasn't much I could do about that. At 8:45, I used Carol's keys to lock up the house and get into her car. I had to adjust the seat and mirrors - she was taller than I - and I worried that whoever was watching wouldn't miss that detail. But I wasn't going anywhere if my feet didn't reach the pedals. It was a short drive to the bank, during which I couldn't spot a tail. At that very moment, Carol Kutzer was meant to be out and about in a Dona Karan suit and auburn wig, expecting the tail to be on her. Expecting whoever wanted the tape to assume that it was Scully, not Kutzer, who would retrieve it. And they'd be right. I got to the bank just as it opened, and I was in and out in less than ten minutes. It took another twenty minutes to drive to a mall Kutzer told me she frequented. A creature of habit, she even had a parking area she preferred. Orange level, B3. That's where I went. I got out of the car, locked it and headed for the elevator. Halfway there, I heard footsteps behind me, to the left. A quick scan of the area revealed a stairwell door on my right. When I broke and ran for it, I moved with impressive speed, considering the stairwell was really the last place on Earth I wanted to be. My pursuer predictably broke into a run behind me. Another guy was waiting for me on the landing. He stopped my flight with the palm of his hand applied brutally to the bridge of my nose. The light show this produced behind my eyelids would have been very groovy under other circumstances. When the son of a bitch grabbed me by the hair and slammed my head into the metal banister, I gave up on my greatest hope: that they only wanted the tape and didn't want to hurt me. I fell back on my secondary hope: that they only wanted the tape and to hurt me, but they didn't want to kill me. The third option wasn't something to hope for at all. I tried not to think about the fact that two men had already died for that tape. My ears were ringing from the concussion, but I was still able to hear the other man coming up the stairs behind me. Any doubt about whose side he was on was dispelled when he kicked me hard in the side. Despite the loss of all the air from my lungs, I managed to grab his foot and heave him over when he tried to kick me again. That really pissed them both off. Another kick to the head sent me sliding down the stairs. I took advantage of the momentary distance between myself and my assailants by going for my gun. But there was too much blood in my eyes to aim well, and my shot went wide. I didn't get a chance to fire again. My head was too busy being stepped on. At that point, my first assailant had little trouble holding me down while the other one retrieved my purse and grabbed the tape. Another kick to my ribs for good measure, and they were gone. From my painful, bloody, dazed vantage point, it was a little hard to see a victory here. But that's what it was. God knew why I was still alive, but I was. The men who wanted this tape so badly no doubt had had ample opportunity to kill me in the past. They didn't do it then, and they weren't going to do it now. No time to wonder why. The point was, they'd fallen for it. Hook, line, and sinker. It took every scrap of energy I had to drag myself to my feet. I didn't have much time. A quick inventory of my injuries led me to believe I wasn't going to die without immediate medical attention. A cracked rib or two. Concussion. Lacerations and contusions. Possible broken finger. Not good, but not as bad as it might have been. Getting back to Kutzer's car was agonizing. When I arrived, a quick glance in the mirror made me realize I'd have to waste a few precious minutes cleaning myself up. The bathroom in the gas station where I stopped was one of the few things on Earth more disgusting than my swollen, bloody face. But there were running water and paper towels, so I held my breath and made the best of it. The end result was none too pretty, but at least there was no blood in sight. I'd had the forethought to bring gauze pads and tape, so I was able to cover the worst of the marks on my face. I gave myself extra marks for packing a bandage big enough to wrap around my poor ribs, along with some Tylenol with codeine. When all that was done and the blonde wig was stashed beneath the vile bathroom trash, I leaned down, groaning in pain, and took off my right sneaker. The safe deposit box key was right where I'd left it. Ten minutes later I was back at the bank. The young man who led me into the vault couldn't hide his dismay at my appearance, but there's nothing illegal about looking like you stuck your face in a cherry-picker, so he simply led me to the safe deposit boxes and withdrew discretely. I was on a flight to Oregon with the real tape an hour later. I felt as though my feet were hovering somewhere just above the ground, like the feeling you get at the end of a long hike, when at last you've reached camp and you swing your heavy pack to the ground. Your body feels lighter than air, like it's going to float away on the breeze. I'd been hiking for three years with the weight of the truth on my back. Now I had hard evidence that meant I would no longer be forced to bear the burden alone. A thick, gun-metal sky hung heavily outside. It was eerily quiet, as though every living thing were waiting for a violent storm to blow in. I should have been paying more attention to the signs. I should have known by then that no burden is lifted unless another, heavier one is ready to take its place. "Dana? You okay?" "Hmmm? Sure. I'm fine." "You look like hell." I suppose I did, what with the fat lip and the bruising. My mental relief was not matched by my physical state. I felt like a side of beef hanging on a meat hook, fresh from the slaughter. I turned away from the sliding glass door through which I'd been watching Ariel at play. "Now that I have it, I'm not quite sure what to do with it." She nodded, but I knew she didn't fully understand. "If I go through regular channels, it'll only disappear," I explained. "I need to be sure the right people get to see it." "But you can always duplicate it." "Of course. But that doesn't solve the problem of getting it officially introduced as evidence in Mulder's case." "Can't you go directly to the D.A.?" "I could. I just don't know who the D.A. is really working for." "I see your problem." "I thought about trying..." I stopped mid-sentence when I saw Rachel's eyes go wide. "What? What is it?" "Where's Ariel?" she asked with a note of panic. "She went outside to play with her ball." "Outside where?" I turned toward the door. "She's right... oh my God." The little girl was nowhere to be seen. "You check the house," I said. "Maybe she came in when we weren't looking. I'll check outside." I ran out into the yard and called her name. There was no answer. I looked toward the woods. Could she have wandered away? She knew she wasn't supposed to go into the woods by herself. But what a three-year-old knows and what she does frequently have little in common. I started off through the trees. Which direction? I tried not to think about my worst fear - the one that was always with us, so terrible that we never spoke of it. That They would find her and take her. I was just about to turn back to see if Rachel had found her when I heard something off to the right, toward the road. The sound of a child crying. I ran, heedless of the brambles that clutched at my jeans and the branches that slapped my bruised face, urged on by the sound of choked little gasps. I broke through the trees and onto the open road - and stopped dead in my tracks. Ariel lay sobbing in her father's arms. I stared at him as though he were a ghost. He stared at me much the same way. I suppose, in some ways, that's what we were. Ariel broke the trance that had settled over us when she noticed me, stretched out her creamyplump arms and whined, "Dada! I want Dada!" The irony of it was so extreme as to be downright funny. But I held it together, knowing that Mulder was at a disadvantage and wouldn't get the joke. I just took the crying girl from his arms and held her close, whispering, "Shhh, you're okay. I'm here." "She appeared out of nowhere," Mulder explained in that mink voice I'd been hearing in my head every day for three years. "She seems to know you," he added. "Yes. She does." When Ariel had quieted and lay against my shoulder, placidly sucking her thumb, I said, "We'd better go inside. Mommy's worried." The house came into view when we turned the bend in the road. "Who lives here?" Mulder asked. "You don't know? This is Rachel's house," I said. "Samantha's here." He nodded, then stopped walking as realization dawned. "Is she Rachel's?" he asked, nodding toward the now-sleeping child. "Yes." Further explanations would have to wait. When we opened the front door, I heard Rachel's rapid footsteps upstairs. She started talking before she was down. "Dana? Did you find..." and stopped mid-sentence. "Oh my God." There was an awkward silence. "Your daughter is beautiful," Mulder said. Rachel glanced at me, and I shook my head. "I'll take her upstairs," Rachel said, lifting the sleeping child from my arms. "Why don't you come in?" I said uncomfortably. He walked into the living room and took off his leather jacket. "You look like hell," he said. "That seems to be the general consensus." He waited for me to continue. "I'll tell you later." "Nice place," he offered, accepting my deferral. "Glad you like it. You own it." He nodded, at least partly understanding. He'd left a letter granting me power of attorney over his affairs, which I'd found in his apartment while looking for clues to his whereabouts. I watched his expression change to puzzlement when he started putting the pieces together. "Did Rachel come here to take care of Samantha? Jesus, I didn't want that. Her work..." At that moment, Rachel returned. "Mulder, you'd better sit down," she said. An interminable pause followed. "There's no easy way to say this," she began at last. "Ariel is yours." His pupils dilated so wide I thought they'd swallow his head, but he didn't say anything. "Points deducted for not realizing it as soon as you saw her," she said. "Bonus points for not saying, 'I'm sorry.' You break even." "So you moved here with her?" he asked. I gave him credit for having the class not to blurt, "Mine?" forcing her to repeat herself. "Dana thought it was the only way to keep her safe." "Why? Has she been threatened?" "No," I replied, gesturing for him to keep his voice down. "But it seemed only logical that someone eventually would." Another long silence. I tried to read Mulder's thoughts in his eyes, but either I was out of practice, or his thoughts were too confused to sort out so easily. Probably a little of both. "Rachel," he finally began. "If I'd known..." "I know," she interrupted gently. "But you didn't." The next silence was even longer. After all the days, weeks, months and years I'd spent missing Mulder, I couldn't think of anything to say. "The Gunmen told me you'd be here," he said, answering the question I should have thought to ask. I nodded. "I told them where to reach me in an emergency. I never told them who else was here." The awkward conversation was interrupted by a plaintive, "Mommy!" from upstairs. "I'll go get Ariel and Sam," Rachel said, leaving the room. "I missed you," I said when she'd gone. It had the desired effect. His eyes snapped to mine, and they conveyed honest surprise. "I was afraid you wouldn't, after the way I left." "I knew you'd go. Probably before you did. I forgave you a long time ago for going. I'm still working on forgiving you for not telling me first." "You were going through so much. I didn't want to add to that." "And you think you accomplished that by disappearing and leaving me a note with no way to contact you?" He was spared the indignity of parrying that thrust by Rachel's return with Ariel in one arm, leading Samantha by the hand. Mulder went to his sister. He touched her hair, brushed a hand across her cheek and turned away. Rachel led Sam to a chair and seated her, then put Ariel on the floor. The little girl ran up to the tall man and craned her neck to stare at him. "She usually hides from people she doesn't know," Rachel told him. "I know him," the little girl announced. "You do?" Rachel asked, amused. Ariel nodded vigorously. "He's the man in the picture. Daddy." Mulder sank slowly to his knees and opened his arms wide. His little girl stepped into his embrace. Mulder was up before the rest of us, if in fact he'd ever gone to sleep at all. He'd volunteered to spend the night on the couch, postponing for all of us the question of who was sleeping with whom, if anyone. Rachel and I found him at the kitchen table when we came down with Ariel and Samantha. He began his tale over Eggo waffles. He'd gone to Argentina, where Hans Fleischman, the man who had directed us to the experimental facility in Denville, had worked for a number of years. I didn't bother asking how he got there or how he'd even gotten out of the U.S., considering his status as prime suspect in a mass murder. The hows didn't really matter three years later. The ease with which he'd made discoveries there was of much greater interest. It had surprised him at first, how readily bits of information came his way. But soon he came to understand that the closed nature of Argentine society, combined with rampant government corruption, meant the consortium generally had less trouble maintaining secrecy there than in the States. It simply used bribery and brute force, with no need for elaborate cover-ups to hide events from such bothersome elements as a free press. Anyone who got too nosy was simply imprisoned or killed. Consequently, very few people did in fact get nosy, and security was therefore remarkably lax. Still, it had been three years of cat-and-mouse, of making risky contacts and conducting dangerous espionage, with no help, no one to trust, no one to watch his back. Without me. In the end, he'd learned what he needed to know about the mind control project in which both Samantha and I had been subjects, a project of which important parts were actually carried out in Argentina. In a nutshell: the nanotechnology was to be used to control the population at some future date, when presumably an invading alien force would colonize the planet. "Invading aliens?" I interrupted. "You were there in Denville. You saw them." "I saw creatures I couldn't explain. They didn't look like they were about to invade anything." He closed his eyes wearily, as though we'd had this same argument only yesterday. "I honestly don't care whether you believe me about the invasion," he said resignedly. When he opened his eyes and looked into mine, three years melted away. "They can manipulate people's minds. They used you and hundreds of others like you as controls, to establish 'normal' parameters of human mental functions. They used Samantha as a prototype, a working model. The implants can be used to monitor thoughts and dictate actions. To destroy free will. To make resistance impossible." It fit with what I knew, with what I'd seen. I couldn't deny it. He went on, his eyes closed again, remembering. "We've hurt them badly, Scully. Early on, when we saw only bits and pieces, we were serving their purposes. But eventually we got out of hand. Frog Island was a major blow to them. They returned Samantha hoping they could use their control over her to rein me in. But it didn't work. And then Denville... That was devastating to them. We nearly finished it there, Scully. They lost a lot of important work when they were forced to destroy the facility." "What did you mean when you said that, early on, we were serving their purposes?" He smiled and opened his eyes. "Oh, come on," he said, a hint of the old, warped sense of humor in his voice. "You never noticed the choke collar around my neck?" "Yes, but I didn't like to interfere in your personal life." "They used us, Scully. All those informants that used to come to me... they were just using me to do their job." "What job?" "Call it independent auditing. The X-Files were being manipulated to serve as a system of checks and balances, ensuring that no one person or faction betrayed the group. At first, everything we discovered was something someone wanted discovered. But at some point, we moved beyond that. And that's when we became a threat." "I never felt like much of a threat." "I know what you mean. But apparently we got the Syndicate into some very hot water with their masters." "The aliens." Mulder just shrugged. Rachel had been sitting and listening quietly. Now she piped up with the one question I'd neglected to ask. "What about Samantha?" Mulder looked at his sister, sitting quietly and still as ever. "I have it," he said. "I have the controller." He pulled a small black box from his pocket, like the one we'd seen all those years ago in an RV in the woods. "I'd like to use it, to talk to her before I have to leave again." Only then did I realize that I'd become so engrossed in Mulder's tale that I hadn't told him mine. He thought he was just passing through to give Samantha back her life, and then he'd have to disappear again, go back underground and perhaps spend the rest of his life in hiding. I wondered what he thought I'd been doing for three-plus years. Did he think I'd accomplished nothing? Just thrown up my hands and moved on? I stood and crossed to him, standing over him so he had to look up into my face. The sorrow in his eyes eased my petty resentment, a warning not to slip back into old ways. "It's time to come in from the cold, Mulder." I watched Mulder wash his sister's hair, towel it gently dry, and brush it over and over until it glistened in chestnut waves. There was a sense of devotional reverence in the act that seemed inappropriate between a brother and a sister. I suppose it was inevitable. She was, after all, more of a holy grail to him than a sister. When he'd finished the ritual, he kicked us all out. I think Rachel actually resented that. She'd been Samantha's constant companion for years and had sacrificed much to the care of someone who was no relation to her. I'd asked her once why she did it. She said she didn't mind, and anyway, someone had to. She was either a saint or a fool, depending on your point of view. Then again, maybe the former presupposes the latter. Rachel and I played "Candyland" with Ariel up in her room while Mulder re-activated the higher functions of his sister's brain. While we sang "It's Not Easy Being Green," Mulder was explaining to his sister that he'd dedicated his life to finding her and then to restoring her mind. As we put Ariel's dolly to bed, Samantha told her brother she'd lived in a beautiful place with kind people, except when everything just stopped and she'd wake up on the cold, metal table where the bright lights hurt her eyes and the tests began. When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will come baby, cradle and all. Mulder and I departed Rowbottom Island just hours later, leaving Samantha and Rachel to get acquainted. On the flight to D.C., we decided the best course of action would be to confide in Skinner. Mulder was a wanted man, and I had acquired a reputation for obsession. We needed Skinner's credibility - and reliability - to get the tape admitted as evidence. I made the call from the airphone. Our confidence did not improve when we were met at the gate by the bald one himself wearing a grim look and accompanied by half a dozen equally grim but less shiny agents. The cuffs that were snapped onto Mulder's wrists didn't help. The rest of the day was an excruciatingly slow exercise in bureaucracy and politics - one that ultimately convinced me that we'd made the right decision. As I watched Skinner work the phones - making sure that Mulder had arrived where he was supposed to be, that the D.A. saw the tape that very day, that several dozen others saw it who could and would testify as to its content should all copies mysteriously disappear, that reliable experts were retained to validate its authenticity - I was sure Mulder and I couldn't have done it. Not without killing each other, ourselves or someone else in the process. Never once did Skinner comment on the bizarre, horrific and fantastic revelations the tape seemed to make. In fact, no one seemed willing to acknowledge the reality of it. The farthest the D.A. went was to acknowledge that, should the tape prove to be authentic, he had to admit it seemed to support our "cockamamie story." "Cockamamie." And the Chernobyl meltdown was "unfortunate," Monica Lewinsky was "na=EFve," and Jeffrey Dahmer was "misguided." Whatever. The main point was that, by midnight, Mulder was released and the charges were dropped. We went back to my place, his apartment having long ago been rented by a young gay couple with three Siamese cats and Mission furniture. Talk about a transformation. Mulder looked around my apartment just long enough to determine that nothing much had changed, then lost interest and collapsed onto the couch to stare at the ceiling. I was curious as to which of the many things we needed to talk about he'd bring up first. "Tell me about Ariel," he said after a full five minutes of staring. It was the question I expected, and I took some small satisfaction in that. "Bright. Independent. Curious to a fault. Afraid of bugs." "Is she happy?" "Yes. I think she is." He nodded. "That's good." I wasn't sure what he needed to hear next. "I don't think Rachel expects anything from you," I said. His face darkened and he closed his eyes. "I'm not surprised." I hit the mental rewind button and realized how disastrously wrong my last comment was. "I just meant that she knows you weren't expecting this. She'd probably understand if you're not prepared for sudden fatherhood." I expected a self-deprecating wisecrack or no response at all. "Would she understand if I wanted a chance for a normal relationship with my daughter?" he asked instead. "Is that what you want?" He raised his head to look at me for the first time since we'd gotten home. "I've been alone a long time. I missed you." "I would have sent you a Christmas card if you'd left me a forwarding address." His eyes narrowed in response, and I regretted the harshness that was still in my tone. "I missed you, too," I tried again. "Did you really?" He was staring at me hard, trying to read my mind, afraid he'd find something different there than what I'd said. I was tempted to take the easy way out, tell him I was tired and cut short the conversation. But it had been three years - already far too long. I slid over beside him and wrapped him in my arms for the first time since he'd left. "A lot's happened, Mulder," I whispered into the bristled sweat of his neck. "But maybe now we'll finally get some peace." I spent the drive from the airport down the coast telling Mulder everything I could remember that Ariel had ever done. He sat watching the overbearing majesty of the Cascade Mountains roll by, listening intently, throwing out a question or a comment from time to time. The glimpses I caught of his face revealed a Quixotic mood that I took to be part apprehension, part - what? Happiness? I reviewed for him her heart-stopping birth, the colic, the time she hiccuped for six hours straight, her first word (Dada, meaning me), the time she tried to flush my cell phone down the toilet, the way she used to take Rachel's hats, purses and sweaters and play dress-up with the passively willing Samantha (which, to my relief, made Mulder laugh), her remarkably quick toilet training - everything a proud parent would find interesting. When I'd finally run out of anecdotes, we drove on in silence for ten minutes before Mulder asked the question that must have bothered him most. "What did Rachel tell her about her father?" "She told her the truth. Or some of it, anyway. That he'd gone away to look for something that would help her Aunt Samantha. That he would come back when he found it." He nodded. "Lucky thing that I..." His voice trailed off as we turned onto Westville's Main Street to find half a dozen Sheriff's cars lining the road, red lights flashing. "Oh my God," I muttered as I pulled over and threw the car into park. "What is it?" Mulder asked, confused. Ignoring him, I jumped out and headed for the nearest uniform. Flashing my badge, I barked, "What's going on here?" in my best answer-now-or-prepare-to-swallow-your-balls voice. "Murder. We figure a robbery gone bad." "Murder? Who?" "The guy was after some drugs or somethin'. No other explanation." "Who's dead?" My impatience with this backwater parody of a law-enforcement officer made it hard not to spit in frustration. "Old Doc Crosby. Nurse found him when she opened up. Shot once in the forehead." "Oh my God." I turned on my heel and raced for the car. Mulder had barely gotten back in before I gunned the engine and took off. "What is it, Scully? What's wrong? Who's old Doc Crosby?" I could barely force the answer through teeth clenched tight with fear and fury. "He's the only person off the island who knows that Ariel exists." There was a boat waiting for us at the dock because I'd called ahead from the airport, so we were able to depart without delay, saving me from having to pull my gun on some poor fishing boat skipper. That would have attracted attention, and I was trying to keep a low profile in case Crosby's murder was a coincidence. As if. The boat was fast, by the standards one might reasonably apply to a vessel designed to take vacationing fishermen out for a day of sport. For our purposes, the crossing was agonizing, like watching seaweed grow. It gave me time to think about things I didn't want to think about: the violent end of a white-haired old man who I'd seen breathe life into a tiny newborn girl; long, long nights spent alone in my bedroom, listening to imagined whispers in the shadows that sounded like Mulder pleading for help; a size 10 man's shoe slamming into my head in the grimy stairwell of a suburban mall; a dark-haired child sleeping quietly in my arms, exhaling against my neck in tiny, warm puffs; the way Mulder groaned my name in bed last night. Meanwhile, a tiny speck of an island slowly grew larger, as if it were sprouting from seed. Rachel usually arranged for a neighbor to leave a car at the dock whenever I was expected, but I hadn't told her exactly when that would be this time. That meant ten wasted minutes of pounding on the doors of the handful of houses near the dock until we found someone who gave us the keys to his truck. We flew down the dirt road toward Rachel's place. When we rounded the bend where Mulder had first encountered Ariel, fear stung me like hot wax on naked skin. An unfamiliar car stood in Rachel's gravel drive. I killed the engine and coasted silently to a stop at the side of the road. I had my weapon out before my feet hit the ground. "You take the back," I said quietly. I was ready to take off when Mulder's hand on my shoulder stopped me. "I'm not armed," he hissed. "Shit!" I'd forgotten. Not only wasn't he my partner any more, he wasn't even in the FBI. We lost a huge advantage. "You'd better come in behind me, then." The question was, if we could only take one way in, which way should it be? The occupants of the house would most likely be in back, in the kitchen or the living room. We'd get there faster by entering through the rear, but we'd be seen even before we could make it through the sliding glass door. I opted for the front. It was unlocked, as usual. We entered silently and stopped to listen. The fear that had flared in the car threatened to swallow me whole now. A man's voice. The smell of burning tobacco. Resisting the impulse to run headlong into the situation, I forced myself to creep down the hallway, gun at the ready, Mulder sliding along the wall behind me. With no backup, surprise was our only ally. With each step, I forced myself to breathe, to focus. In. Out. In. Out. Red panic washed across my eyes, forcing me to blink and blink again. Sour dread crept up my throat, choking me. Breathe. In. Out. Almost there. In. Out. Then, all at once, anticipation shattered like glass and the scene played itself out to a fatal end. It happened despite me, like the action of some mechanical toy which, once wound, must go through a predetermined set of motions before grinding to a halt. I heard a shot, small-caliber rifle by the sound, then two more, semi-automatic. I was running before the echoes had died, sliding around the corner to glimpse forms strewn on the ground, a man with a gun whirling toward me. I fired in the time it took my brain to tell my finger to move. For a moment, everything froze in a terrible, still, silent tableau. Three people down. Two women and a man. Two women. A wail of pure terror arose from somewhere above, a soundtrack that made the scene more horrifying than the blood and corpses themselves. I turned and bolted from the room, blindly following the sound upstairs, down the hall, second bedroom on the left. Panic tried to stay my hand from the doorknob, to avoid whatever might be on the other side. I entered. It was just Rachel's room, tidy as usual, but drowning in the shrieks of a frightened child. The closet. I opened the door, and Ariel tumbled into my arms, weeping. "Shhh. Shhh. It's okay. Everything's okay." Liar. I carried her down. Mulder met me in the hallway, his face a frighteningly impassive mask. He shook his head once, twice. No words before the terrified child. He told me later that I'd hit Cancerman clean in the chest. The rifle must have been in the house - I didn't know about it, but I suppose Rachel had gotten it for protection. It lay beside Samantha where she'd fallen with a bullet in her head. Rachel must have somehow seen the danger coming and hidden her baby girl before confronting the enemy, whose bullet had bored a hole through her courageous, loving heart. Both women had died instantly. We would never know why Cancerman had come. To take Ariel? To reverse Samantha's condition? In the end, it didn't matter. I held Ariel close all that day, through the useless, ignorant fumbling of the local police, the mind-numbing questions, the officious comings and goings. She asked for her mother every ten minutes. "Mommy can't come now," I said each time. Now? Ever. She fell asleep in my arms as we sped across the cold, night-dark waters to the mainland. I would have to tell her something. But not until morning. Once upon a time, some brave knights pursued a holy quest with na=EFve confidence in the justice of their cause. The villains whom the knights opposed were evil beyond human capacity to comprehend; the knights were righteous and believed they could not fail. Each pledged his soul to the just cause, vowed to conduct himself in accordance with a code of chivalry that only increased the difficulty of the quest, and suffered great personal losses for the sake of a greater good. As time went on, however, a very odd thing happened. The knights began to achieve the things they'd set out to do, even attaining the Holy Grail itself that they had sought far and wide. But with each objective achieved, the end of their quest seemed only to grow farther away. And so the quest itself took on importance and became an end rather than a means to one. This tarnished the knights' sense of moral virtue. Without a clear and just cause, the journey lost all meaning other than simple survival. Treachery and deceit were everywhere, making it impossible to trust anyone but each other. That trust became their touchstone, the only source of meaning in their ever more absurd quest. The knights were not perfect. Each was flawed in his own unique way. But their trust centered them and served time and again to save them from themselves. One day, an evil magician came upon the knights unaware. The fiend was destroyed, but not before he had snatched away the Holy Grail and killed the knight who was its brave defender. The surviving knights were devastated. For two days and two nights they sat, numb with the horror that had befallen them, eyes blind to the rising of the sun and the twinkling of the stars. But on the third day, they looked around them and saw something strange and wonderful. A treasure had been left to them by the knight who had been sacrificed - a treasure of greater worth and beauty than any they had ever sought before. And now their quest shifted yet again, imbued with new meaning and renewed hope. The treasure had to be protected at all costs. I sat with Mulder on an airport bench, forged passports and tickets to Jakarta in my bag, artificial color in my hair, and a small treasure playing with her Teletubbies at my feet. Maybe that story would be a little much for a three-year-old, I mused. Maybe it would have to wait. End
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