Part two ******* MEDICAL COLLEGE OF VIRGINIA HOSPITAL OUTPATIENT CLINIC 10:23 a.m. Mulder sat on the edge of the examining table, one foot tapping the metal side of it impatiently. He still wore the coat and jeans and boots, even though the nurse that had shown him in had curtly instructed him to change into the blue and white gown that sat haphazardly folded beside him. He would only take this "patient" cover so far, he decided, scowling at the windowless room. He checked his watch. His appointment had been for 10:00. Scully was late. Pushing himself off the table, he paced the small room, reading the posters on the walls to distract himself. A multicolored child's drawing for public awareness about childhood immunizations. A graph on the prevalence of sexually transmitted diseases, complete with close-up pictures. He grimaced at that and continued his circuit of the room. Looking up, he saw a Garfield poster taped to the ceiling, right above the head of the table, announcing how the cartoon cat hated Mondays. His eyes dropped to the table, saw the stirrups retracted into the side of it. He took a step back. Sighing, he finally relented enough to remove his coat and toss it in the chair against one of the walls, folded his arms across his chest. He was nervous about seeing her, he realized suddenly. It had only been four days since they'd last spoken, but it seemed much longer to him. He remembered how frustrated he'd felt on the bus yesterday by his inability to talk to her, to touch her, *really* touch her. How he'd simply held her in his eyes, trying to convey all that he felt for her with his gaze. She'd looked a little bit haggard, he recalled, and the memory concerned him. He knew from experience how being undercover could be a draining experience, always having to pretend to want or be something else. He tried to chalk her tired appearance up to that, and hoped he was right. He heard a rustling outside the door, his chart being removed from its tray. Two knocks at the door. "Come in," he called. She appeared in the doorway, dressed in black pants and boots, and one of her white work shirts. Over those, she wore a doctor's lab coat, a stethoscope draped around her neck. "Sorry to keep you waiting," she said for the benefit of the nurse who was passing by the doorway before she could get it closed. "Not a problem," he replied, his lips curling up a bit as he looked at her. She made a very believable doctor. It was like looking at Scully as she would have been had she not joined the F.B.I., like looking at some secret side of her. "What are you staring at?" she asked, laying the chart on the countertop near the small sink. She was smiling as well. "You," he said, leaning against the table, his hands planted behind him. "You look so much the part it almost fools me." She pushed her hair behind her ear self-consciously. "I'm glad I look the part, because I sure am having to act it. You're the fifth patient I've seen this morning already. Thank God medical school is coming back to me so quickly." The smile melted off his face. "How are you holding up?" He said it softly, tenderly. She looked even more tired than she had yesterday. She took a step towards him, drawn by his tone. "I'm okay. It's been a busy few days, though." "Tell me what's been going on." She leaned against the countertop now, crossing her own arms at her chest and began to tell him what she had experienced so far - - about the meeting with Curran, the names she could remember of the people she'd been introduced to. Mulder studiously wrote down the names in a small notebook he'd retrieved from his coat. She then told him about the drugs she'd been asked to get, pulling out a copy of the list from the chart she'd brought in with her and giving it to him. He glanced at it, then folded it up and put it in his pocket. "I'm surprised you've met Curran already," he said. "I'd assumed from my initial profile that he would be more cautious about strangers than that." She nodded. "I am, too. But apparently he was willing to risk meeting me so soon because he needed me to write those prescriptions for him." "They're the same drugs that were found in Mary Rutherford's body?" She nodded. "And those are massive amounts of them -- see how many people they're prescribed for?" He nodded. "What do you think?" "I don't know what to think at this point," she replied. "I do know that two of those men I met at the pub, Conner and Creeley, appeared to be ill, though Curran and those closest to him seem to be fine. Mae, his son Sean, his bodyguard...." "Wait a minute," Mulder interrupted. "Curran has a SON?" Scully nodded. "Yes. He's about six or seven I would guess. I asked Mae about his mother last night just in passing and she wouldn't answer me. She changed the subject right away." He nodded, chewed his lip, putting this new piece of information into the puzzle that was Curran. This changed several things in his mind. A man with a child was a man with something precious to lose, something important to protect. And if he had a wife, as well.... He concluded that Curran would plan things with more care than he first realized. That he would be extremely unlikely to make any careless mistakes. "You might want to check out the owner of the Grey Mouse," Scully was saying, breaking him from his thoughts. "The licensing of the place, that sort of thing. See if you can find anything there." Mulder smirked. "I'm sure Padden will know the guy's favorite food within five minutes of getting his name. You should see the operation now. There must be 40 new agents from three different divisions working in there now, including three doctors from Bethesda. You can barely move around in there when the whole task force is meeting." He paused, putting the notebook back in his coat pocket. "I've got some information for you, as well," he said. "What?" He told her about the body that had washed up from the James that morning. "He wasn't wearing any identification, but we're assuming at this point that he was Path or I.R.A., because the cause of death was identical to the others. The Richmond Medical Examiner is going to do the autopsy, following the steps you took with Rutherford. I'll show you the report the next time we meet up." "Good, " she replied, sighing, and ran her hands through her hair tiredly. "I haven't heard anything about it. Nothing from Mae, at least. She seemed fine when I was having tea with her this morning." "Well, that certainly sounds like it's working out all right. You staying with her." His hackles had risen up immediately at the mental image of Scully sitting around a table drinking a cup of tea with this woman. His mood shift showed clearly in his tone. "What?" Scully said, her gaze sharpening on him. "I'm living with this woman. I have to make an effort to do ‘normal' things with her from time to time, for the sake of the cover and for the sake of my own sanity." She paused. "Plus that, she's kind of....nice. I like her." "You like her," Mulder parroted back quietly. "Let me tell you a little story about Mae Curran. In 1977 there was a British mounted patrol stationed in Belfast, a contingent of about 30 horses. One day, a homemade bomb filled with nails and broken glass exploded in the stable where the horses were kept. Twenty- two of the horses had to be put down because of their injuries. And you know who the British questioned about that? A twelve- year-old little girl named Mae Curran who had begged her way in past the guards because she wanted to pet the horses." "Did they ever prove that she did it?" Scully asked, horrified. "They never found out," he replied. "She slipped out of custody before anyone could prove anything. Just disappeared back into the woodwork." He paused for effect, watching her look down. "Think about that while you're having tea with her, Scully." She looked up, met his eyes. "Don't forget who these people are," he said gravely. "No matter what they may seem like on the outside." She nodded now, blew out a breath. "I understand," she said softly. "It's just so hard to imagine. If you could see her with Sean...see how she is..." She trailed off. He could tell by the expression on her face that she felt chastised for a moment. It flashed across her face in a flush of color. "I'm sorry," he said immediately, tenderly, and moved close enough to take her hand. "I don't mean to talk you down. It just scares me, you being around these people, knowing what I know about them. I just don't want your guard coming down." "No, you're right, of course," she replied quickly. "I know you're just looking out for me." He felt her fingers tighten on his hand, a small squeeze. She forced a smile up at him. He smiled back. He wanted to let the moment linger, knew that she wanted to, as well. But she broke his gaze. "Listen, " he said, "One more thing. I'm not going to be seeing you on the bus again. It's too risky if we make a habit of it. It's hard to know if you're being watched." "How will I contact you then?" "Put an ad in the personals in the Times-Dispatch. Make it to George from Gracie. We'll be watching the paper every day. You do the same -- we may need to contact you, too, to get some information to you. And you should know that it may not always be me coming to you here -- it might be Granger, or even one of the other agents. I'll do everything I can for it to be me, though." "Okay," she said, smiled. There was something bittersweet in the smile. "I think that will work." She caught sight of her watch as she looked down, then started to say something. "I know," he interrupted. "You have to go. Come here for a second, though." With that, he gathered her into his arms. He felt her surprise at his spontaneity melt immediately, felt her bury her face in his shoulder, her arms tight around his back. He nuzzled her hair. "I love you," he whispered close to her ear. He felt her shiver, her grip tightening. "Please be careful." "I will," she whispered back. "I love you, too." Then she pulled away from him enough to find his mouth with her own. The kiss didn't last long, but it spoke volumes between them. They stepped apart and she looked up at him for a beat, then gathered up the chart she'd come in with and went out the door. He saw her have to make a concerted effort not to look back. ********** MAE CURRAN'S APARTMENT 2233 GRACE STREET 7:23 p.m. Scully dropped her keys on the still-empty dresser in her room, peeled out of her coat and tossed it on the edge of the bed. She then put her hands on the small of her back and stretched the kinks out slowly as she yawned. She needed a good night's sleep, she thought, not the restless turnings she'd had the previous night in her room, the lamplight bleeding across her face for hours as she stared up at the ceiling. She was on edge, unable to quite adjust to her new surroundings. She hadn't told Mulder that when she saw him today. Though she knew the fatigue showed on her face. She decided that perhaps finally unpacking her suitcase would be a good start to trying to mentally place herself where she was. She would be looking for an apartment of her own this weekend when she was finally off from work, but until she found one, she figured she should go ahead and settle in where she was. Sighing, she pulled the suitcase off the floor. It was open, clothes nearly spilling out of it from her early-morning rootings for socks and underwear. She started taking things out a piece at a time, going to the dresser and opening the drawers, placing the clothes into their respective drawers. Out in the hallway, she heard the front door open, keys jangling as they dropped on the countertop in the kitchen as Mae entered the apartment. "Katherine?" Mae called down the long shotgun hallway. Scully heard footsteps coming towards her. "You home?" Scully picked up a few more clothes, folded them carefully. "Yes, I'm in here, Mae." The footsteps drew nearer, and then Mae was in the doorway to her room, wearing a black sweater with a thick turtleneck gathered around her neck and a pair of worn jeans. There was still snow on her boots. "You're finally settling in, are you?" Mae said, smiling kindly. Scully glanced up at her and tried to force out the image of Mae as a child, carrying a bomb while she stroked the velvet nose of a horse. She managed to stifle it down quickly in the face of Mae's smile. It was too hard to make the two images mesh. "Yes, I thought I would. It will probably be a week before I can find a place of my own, someplace furnished that will let me rent month to month. So I might as well get comfortable." She strained a smile in return. "That's good," Mae replied, coming into the room. She sat down on the edge of the bed. "You need some help?" Scully saw her eyeing the open garment suitcase in the corner of the room. "Um, sure," Scully replied, still pulling clothes out of the suitcase. "If you want to you can hang those up in the closet." "All right then," Mae said, and stood. Just as she did so, Scully pulled out a shirt and it fell open. The snowglobe spilled out, rolling a couple of times and then coming to a stop on its side on the bed, the water inside forming little agitation bubbles on its surface as the plastic flakes swirled. Scully went for it instantly, an irrational feeling of panic coming over her, as though the presence of the snowglobe, a remnant from her real life, would give everything away. Mae beat her to it, picking it up and giving it a little shake. "Isn't that cute?" Mae said, smiling at it. "It looks like an old Dublin Christmas scene!" Scully quelled her panic, regaining her wits about her. It was, she told herself, just a snowglobe, after all. "Where'd you get it then?" Mae asked. "A Christmas present?" "Yes, it was," Scully said, and she smiled a bit at that, remembering opening the package in Mulder's arms. The warmth must have eased onto her face, because Mae saw it immediately. "From a...friend?" She was teasing her now, Scully realized. Mae's eyes were clearly mischievous at this newfound piece of information. "Yes, it was from a friend," Scully replied, snatching the snowglobe from Mae's hands. She was hiding a smile though, a blush coming to her cheeks. "And you're not getting any more out of me than that." Mae laughed at that as Scully put the snowglobe on her nightstand, returned to her suitcase. "All right," Mae said indulgently, feigning a put-upon tone. She stood and went to the garment bag. "I won't press you for anything then. But why would you leave him to come down here, I wonder?" Scully was struck by the irony of being asked that, when she'd spent the better part of the day at the clinic after Mulder left thinking the same thing. "He....understands my convictions," was what she said aloud. It was the truth, after all. "I see," Mae said, nodding as she began removing clothes from the suitcase, hanging them in the small closet. Scully was relieved that Mae seemed to be giving up on that particular line of questioning. "What are you doing for the New Year?" Mae asked. Scully heaved out a sigh. "Going to bed early, I'm thinking," she said tiredly. "Oh, you can't do that!" Mae said, her face lighting up. "There's a huge gathering at the Grey Mouse tonight -- there'll be music again and we'll be celebrating the New Year twice, once when it's midnight here and once when it's midnight in Ireland. You can't miss it." "I don't know, Mae, I'm really ti-" "No, no, I insist!" Mae interrupted, smiling. "I'll even agree to take you home early if you'll come out for just a little while, how's that? There's got to be more to your time here than work. We owe you that." Once again, Scully was torn between what she needed and what her job required of her. It would, after all, be a good opportunity for her to be exposed to the Path members again, maybe even get some new names. And she might see Curran again, as well.... "All right," she said finally. "I'll go for a little while, how's that?" "Excellent!" Mae replied, and returned to hurriedly hanging up Scully's clothes. Scully was struck by how excited she was -- there was something so child-like about her. It appeared that Mae had not had a friend for long time and was badly in need of one. Pulling the last of her clothes out of the suitcase, she turned to the dresser again, realizing that she could easily exploit this weakness in Mae to get information out of her. A heavy feeling settled in her belly. She felt strangely guilty for having that thought. ********** THE GREY MOUSE PUB 11:33 p.m. If it was possible, the atmosphere at the Grey Mouse was even more festive than the night before last, Scully thought. The same band was playing an Irish instrumental, a folksy sounding song with long solos for the fiddles and guitars. The place was packed with people, though Scully and Mae had managed to secure themselves a small table near the back of the pub where people had been dropping by all evening to speak to Mae. Scully had been introduced to many more people, though she couldn't, of course, tell from Mae's introductions if the people were in the Path or not. Many of the people she met were Americans whom Mae introduced simply as "friends of Owen's." Scully had no idea what that meant, but kept a running list of names in her head just the same. Mae was up for another dance with another man who'd come by the table. Scully was sipping a pint of Guiness, trying once again to get used to the heavy dark taste of the stuff when Owen Curran appeared at her table. For once, Fagan was not with him, which Scully was relieved about. Fagan made her more nervous than Curran did. He sat down without being asked, straddling the low chair back as he sat. "Mind if I join you?" "You seem to have already," Scully replied, keeping her tone carefully neutral. He picked up Mae's beer and swirled the liquid until tan bubbles came to the surface. "I just wanted to thank you for getting those things I needed to me so quickly." Scully had put the prescriptions in first thing that morning to be ready that afternoon. She assumed from what he said that Creeley and Conner had picked them up already. Whatever the drugs were for, she thought, he needed them in a hurry. "You're welcome. That's why I'm here, isn't it?" He was looking at her in a vaguely sad way, his eyes taking in her features. She could almost feel his eyes moving over her face. His gaze dropped when he realized she was watching him, suddenly intent on his beer. "Aye, it is," he replied, taking a sip. She studied Curran's face for a beat, taking in his blue eyes, their sharpness gone to sleepy, the scar on the side of his mouth crinkling as he strained a somewhat friendly smile at her. The width and raised quality of the scar showed it had been a sloppy stitch job. She wondered if a doctor had even done it. "You noticed this then, did you?" he said, running a finger over the scar. Now it was her turn to look into her beer, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean to stare. It's just as a doctor --" "You're curious," he finished for her. "I got in a fight when I was a kid. I took a knife down my face." He made a quick slashing motion down with his finger, punctuating it with a hissing sound for effect. He smiled at her again, making her feel slightly uncomfortable. Like a shadow, John Fagan appeared from the crowd, leaned over Curran's shoulder to say something into his ear. Curran listened for a minute, then nodded. "I'll see to it, then." With that, he rose. "I hope you enjoy your evening, Dr. Black," he said, taking one last swig of Mae's beer. He all but emptied the glass. "I will," she replied, looking up at him. She decided to take a risk. "And my name is Katherine," she added. "Katherine," he repeated. "All right, Katherine it is. Goodnight." With that, he rose, melting into the crowd. Fagan stood there, looking down at her, his lips forming a rough approximation of a friendly smile. "So, Katherine...." he began, stepping a bit closer. "Can I interest you in a dance?" He put a hand out to her, apparently doing his best to play the gentleman. Scully looked at his outstretched hand, then up into his sharp- featured, handsome face. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, shining in the lights. They reminded her of a shark's eyes. "No, thank you, John," she said, leaning back a bit unconsciously. "I don't dance." He smiled a bit more, revealing his teeth. "You do now. Come on. Just one dance." Her eyes gleamed as she met his. "I said no, thank you." Their eyes met, held. Like two immovable forces pushing each other across the table. He withdrew his hand, but started to say something else. "John, what are you doing?" Mae had come up behind him, causing him to break his gaze away from hers reluctantly. "Just trying to get Katie to have a dance," he said cheerfully. He shrugged for innocent effect. "Well, I guess she doesn't want to," Mae said lowly. "There's a lot of women here to dance with, John. Best you be on your way to find them." Fagan held his hands up in a "hands off" gesture. "Sorry to disturb," he said, and it was clear he didn't mean it. "Goodnight, ladies." With that, he wandered off, towards the back of the pub. Scully watched him go. "Don't mind him," Mae said with a forced casual tone. "He's just a bully, that's all. He can actually be quite nice when he wants to be." "It's not a big deal," Scully replied, sluffing off her nervous reaction to him. She reached for her beer, took a sip. Mae picked up her own nearly empty glass. "That sneak!" she cried. "Owen's been here, hasn't he?" "Yes, he just stopped by to thank me for getting him some things from the pharmacy for him. And yes, he drank all your beer, too." Scully smiled at Mae's exasperation, leaned over and poured half her beer into Mae's glass. "Here," she said. "I can't drink it all anyway." "An Irish girl who doesn't like Guiness," Mae teased. "Unheard of." "Sorry to disappoint," she replied, smiling, just as the band stopped playing and the room erupted with applause. There was huge television just above the bar that everyone began to gather around. It was showing Times Square, the throng of people mirroring the crowd clustering around the set. Scully could just make out the ball, the clock counting down five minutes until New Year's. "There's something I've been wanting to ask you, Katherine," Mae said cautiously, running her finger over the rim of her glass. "What's that?" "I don't mean to pry," Mae said hesitantly. "But I was wondering..." She paused for a beat. "What is it?" Scully urged. She was simultaneously curious as to what she would want to know and afraid that it might have something to do with her cover, something she wasn't playing right. "It's just....well, what did you do to lose your license anyway? Since I've known you, and I know that hasn't been for long...it's just that you don't seem the type to make that grave a mistake. I was just wondering, is all." Scully was inwardly relieved. She had her answer all prepared for this one. It was just a matter of pulling the telling of it off convincingly. She paused for a moment, feigning reluctance to talk about this blot on her past. "Well, strangely enough, it was prescription fraud," she said, looking down with mock regret. "Really? Is that all?" Mae replied, and barked out a laugh. "God, I was worried you'd killed someone or something like that." Scully laughed bitterly. "No, no, nothing so dramatic. But I did violate the rules of conduct for my profession." She paused for effect. "It's not something I'm particularly proud of. That's one of the reasons I came down here. I love to practice medicine. I've worked my whole life to be able to do it. It was only my debts that got me started down that path in the first place." "I see," Mae said, and she looked down at the table again. "Well, don't feel too bad about that." Her face grew deathly serious, sad. "We've all done things that we're not particularly proud of." The statement was a loaded one, Scully knew, as she watched Mae purse her lips and take a long drink of beer. She wanted to press her, but the room had started a countdown, ticking down the thirty seconds before the New Year. Mae turned her attention to the television, as did Scully. The seconds went by. The room grew louder in its litany of numbers. Finally the ball touched down, and the room exploded with a cheer of "Happy New Year!" It was loud enough to shake the glasses on the table. Mae turned to Scully, raised her glass. "Happy New Year, Katherine," she called over the tremendous noise. Then she leaned forward closer and spoke more softly. "To a fresh start." "To a fresh start," Scully replied, and they clinked their heavy glasses together, drank, two quiet figures in the middle of the boisterous crowd. ****** THE RICHMOND MARRIOTT JANUARY 1 12:00 a.m. Mulder pulled his beer off the night table in the dark of his hotel room, took a swig out of the long-necked bottle, adjusting his head on the two wadded up pillows behind him. The tickertape was flying in Times Square on the television in front of him, people were kissing, waving signs, their breath coming in excited puffs as the camera panned the crowd. The ageless Dick Clark was raving about the people, the cold, anything the camera fell on. Mulder watched it all, expressionless. Granger had asked him if he wanted to go down to the hotel bar for a beer to watch the ball drop, but Mulder had declined, preferring to spend the evening with his background checks, his computer, his beer, and his loneliness. He took another drink from the beer, holding it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing it down in a huge gulp. His thoughts were on Scully, as they always were when he was alone now. He wondered for the hundredth time that evening where she was, what she was doing. They had planned on spending this New Year's together. It would have been their first as a couple. Just as they had planned on spending Christmas together. It was strange, the feeling that came over him at the thought. The holidays had never mattered very much to him in the past; they were just days for him to endure alone. But now, the emptiness of the holidays, her absence from them, was needling him terribly. Pricking his mind with disappointment and the first hints of something akin to anger. Who was she with? Unbidden, Curran's face flashed in his mind. The strong set of his features, the dark hair, the piercing eyes. He recalled the things that Curran was suspected of doing. Smoke, a spray of blood, screams, running footsteps. The distant sound of siren wails. Without his will, he suddenly pictured Curran looking at Scully, maybe even this night. The feelings in him intensified, burning into his gut like acid. Then he saw her as Curran would see her. Strong. Capable. Beautiful. The spark of rage hit him in a flash, hurling him from the bed and onto his feet. Without even thinking, the beer bottle was out of his hand, smashing against the corner of the room, sending a hail of broken brown glass and a stream of bubbled liquid down the bland wallpaper. He watched it, his chest heaving. The act both satisfied and disappointed him. He couldn't afford to lose control, he reminded himself. He couldn't afford to let these feelings welling in him get the better of him, or he would be useless to her. With a tired and frustrated exhale, he snatched the remote off the night table and muted the sound on the television. He went to the window, watched the city blinking slowly below him. He was shirtless, wearing his worn jeans and bare feet, and a chill came through the thick closed window, sending him into a shiver as the heat of his rage dissipated. Standing there above the city, he looked up into the night sky, clear and cold and black, seeking solace. The moon hung suspended on its invisible cord, alone among the crowd of starlight surrounding it. It looked to him like the last light on earth. ********** BROAD STREET OUTSIDE MEDICAL COLLEGE OF VIRGINIA HOSPITAL JANUARY 7 3:50 p.m. Danny Conner shielded himself and his cigarette from a cold wind and the view of the street by leaning against the wall near the ambulance entrance. He put the cigarette to his mouth, holding it between his index finger and thumb to stabilize it against the shaking of his hand. When even that didn't work, he reached up with his other hand and grasped his wrist, pulling in a deep breath of smoke. The tremors would pass. It was simply a matter of waiting. For perhaps the tenth time in five minutes, he glanced around nervously at the people moving in and out of the building, afraid of seeing a familiar face. He wasn't supposed to be here. He knew this all too well. But ever since he'd seen the American doctor that night in the Grey Mouse just before the new year, he couldn't get the thought out of his mind that maybe this would be the person who could help him. Now it was just a question as to whether she could be trusted, whether she would keep his secret. Remembering that night, recalling his stunned reaction to the tone she'd taken with Owen Curran, he reassured himself once again that anyone who would dare talk to Curran like that was someone with her own mind. Plus that, she wasn't Path. Or even IRA. She was just a well-intentioned American doctor sent to be a prescription pad. One who had no idea what she'd really gotten herself into. He glanced around again, steeling his nerves. He would risk it. He didn't really have a choice. Not after what had happened to Mary and Hugh. As he looked around, his eyes caught his vague reflection in the glass entranceway behind him. He was only 22 years old. He had to remind himself of this fact because the man in the reflection looked much older than that. Worn out. Used up. His dark hair was a mass of unruly spikes on top of his head, his face shadowed with the beginnings of an accidental beard. Stricken by this funhouse-like reflection, he smoothed his hair down desperately, adjusted his coat around him, trying to make himself recognizable, even to himself. He took another drag off the cigarette, his hand already recovering from its fit of shaking, then stumped it out in the sand-filled ashtray beside the doorway. Checking his watch, he stepped through the automatic doors of the hospital, seeking sanctuary from the cold. *********** POWHATAN ROAD ACROSS FROM THE GREY MOUSE PUB 4:07 p.m. Mulder was gnawing on a sunflower seed and tossing the shell out the window of the car, his eyes intent on the newspaper in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Granger beginning to squirm, both from the cold and impatience. Granger's eyes, however, remained on the doorway to the pub, a camera with a telephoto lens on it in his hand poised and ready. Mulder heard him sigh heavily. "You gotta love a stakeout," Mulder said through his teeth. He'd placed another seed in his mouth and was delicately working the shells apart. "You should have a little more patience, Granger. This is important stuff we're doing here." The sarcasm was evident in his voice. He fluffed the paper again, folding it in half, keeping his eyes down. "All right," Granger said, releasing another long breath. "I'm sorry. I just wish we could do something besides sit here." Mulder smiled at the other man's apology. Granger could never tell when Mulder was pulling his leg. They were outside the Grey Mouse with three other cars of agents, all placed at various angles to the front and back doors, all trying to get pictures of the people coming in and out of the place for Happy Hour. Of the names that Scully had given him when he'd seen her in the clinic over a week before, Padden and his team had only been able to get information on a few of them. Most, it seemed, were using aliases. Padden hoped that by getting some pictures they could match the faces up with some of the Irish immigration files the NSA and the people from Scotland Yard had on hand. Mulder guessed he understood the necessity of the operation they were performing, but it still made him feel like a cog in a machine. Apparently, Granger, though new at all this, was feeling the same thing. They were both, after a week of meetings and endless background checks, beginning to feel ground down by the whole thing. Granger reached into a bag next to him, pulling out his dinner that they'd picked up on the way over. He began unwrapping it, handed Mulder the camera. "Here, I'm going to eat," Granger said. "Could you watch the door for a minute for me?" Mulder took the camera, laid it on his lap without another thought. He was still staring at the paper, reading, once again, the personal ad in the "Between Friends" section that Scully had left in the paper that morning: "To George. I sure hope you don't mind that I plan on staying where I am, keeping up a good old-fashioned household. Stability is the key for me. Write me back when you get a chance. Gracie." He'd already told Padden and the rest of them what he thought Scully was getting at. She was going to stay with Mae Curran, not find a place of her own after all. He could only hope, from what she said about stability, that she thought that by staying put she could get the information she needed. That had been Padden's take on the whole thing, and he and the task force were glad that she wasn't moving, losing the inside access she had gained through Curran's original agreement with Flaherty in Boston. But Mulder wasn't concerned about access at this point, or the free flow of information. It was what could be behind Scully's actions that bothered him. Maybe she couldn't leave? Maybe they weren't letting her? Maybe something had slipped in her cover and she was afraid to make a move, afraid of exposing herself? His mind ran rampant with the possibilities. A lot of questions and no answers in sight, he thought drearily, looking up at a car arriving in the parking lot of the pub as he spit the sunflower shells into his hand, then flicking them out the window. Scully hadn't asked for a meeting in the ad -- apparently she had nothing to report that warranted it. Regardless of the reason for it, Mulder didn't like the idea of Scully staying with that woman any longer than she had to. He was convinced that Mae Curran would have no qualms about killing her if her cover was found out. Everything that he knew about Curran's background pointed to this fact. Sighing, frustrated by the tedium of his assignment and his inability to do something proactive to help Scully directly, he put the paper down and picked up the camera, absently snapping a shot of the incoming car's license plate. A smell wafted into his side of the car, strong and full of spice. Mulder sniffed at it. It made his nose itch with its strength. "What the hell are you eating, Granger?" He turned to the other man in irritation. Granger had a foil-wrapped, vertical sandwich in front of his mouth, chewing a huge mouthful of whatever it was. The sandwich steamed in the cool air of the car. "What?" Granger replied, his mouth full. He chewed and swallowed hastily. "It's a couscous and tofu wrap. I picked it up at that middle-eastern place next to the McDonald's you were in." Mulder barked out a laugh. "What?" Granger repeated, smiling as though he were hoping to be in on the joke and not the butt of it. "What's so funny?" Mulder shook his head, peering through the camera at the incoming car's passenger, who had just climbed out of the car. "Nothing," he said. "It's just that I get saddled with a new partner and it figures that it would have to be another freaking tofu-eater." "It's good," Granger insisted, offering the sandwich across the space between them. "You should try it." Mulder waved him off. "Get that thing away from me," he grumbled in mock anger, still smiling. "It stinks." His eyes didn't leave the figure beside the car, huge and close-up in the camera's lens. He studied the man carefully, the smile fading from his face as he did so. "Hey, you didn't hear me complaining to you about that huge burger you ate," Granger was saying, but Mulder ignored him. "And speaking of something that stinks...." "That's John Fagan," Mulder interrupted softly, as though he were only speaking to himself. He could see Granger lean over towards him, squinting, trying to make out the figure in the distance. "You think so?" Mulder continued to stare at the man. He snapped a picture, then another. "I'd bet my life on it. From the way Scully described him to me at the clinic." The man was big, bulky with muscle beneath his long coat, almost oafish looking. But his face was keen with a suspicious look and a sharp intelligence. He looked like a bookish wrestler. Mulder watched him go into the pub, oblivious to being watched. Curran's bodyguard, Scully had called him. Mulder found himself wondering about what Fagan was like up close, wondering what kind of person he really was. Scully had been somewhat circumspect, hadn't said much about him. His mind began to play over the fact that this was one of the people Scully was spending her time with, and he knew so little about him. He wanted to know more. And he wanted to find it out for himself. "Um....hey, I've got to take a piss," Mulder said suddenly, putting the camera down on the seat beside him. He reached for the door handle. "What?" Granger asked, putting a hand on his arm. "Where?" Mulder gestured to the pub. "Well, that's the closest place to do it, isn't it?" "Hey," Granger said, his surprise showing on his face. "We're not supposed to go in there. We're just supposed to take pictures, remember?" "Relax, Granger," Mulder soothed, removing his arm from Granger's grip. "I'll be back in a minute." He opened the door, climbing from the car. "Mulder, this is damned irregular!" Granger hissed, clearly stricken. "You're not following proper surveillance procedure. You're going to get us both in trouble!" Mulder ignored him again, slammed the door shut, jamming his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, pressing himself against the door to let a car pass. He heard Granger swear through the cracked window just as he left the side of the car to trot across the street. ******** "What the hell is he doing?" Agent Coulson asked, watching Mulder through his car window. He was in another dark sedan, his vantage point the opposite side of the parking lot from Granger's car. Beside him in the passenger seat, Agent Hirsch's lips curled up in a smirk as he put the camera up to his face. He zeroed in on Mulder in the lens as Mulder stopped before the pub door, looking from side to side as though making sure he wasn't being watched. Hirsch waited until Mulder's face was straight on in the camera, the sign for the pub over his head, before pressing down the camera's shutter button. "Hanging his ass out to dry," Hirsch replied, and snapped the picture again. ******** The interior of the pub was dark and smelled faintly of pipe smoke. Mulder stood in the doorway for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the lighting, and then surveyed the room. The place was fairly empty, lazy fans spinning on the ceiling, keeping the stale air moving. The place was quiet, only a murmuring of conversation here and there. A bartender was watching a television beside the bar, polishing a beer glass as he did so. Billiards was on. Snooker, Mulder corrected himself, remembering the game from his Oxford days. It would be snooker. The man he was convinced was John Fagan was sitting at the corner of the bar, nearest the television, drinking a glass of what appeared to be milk and eating from a bowl of pretzels. His long coat was draped on the stool next to him. He was watching the match on the television. The place was definitely cautious, he thought. Almost every head had turned towards him, the obvious newcomer. Even the man he thought was Fagan was watching him out of the corner of his eye, though he didn't turn his head away from the match. Mulder averted his eyes from the man quickly, trying to be as casual as possible. He didn't like the attention he was getting. He suddenly regretted that he'd come in at all, wondered if he might be possibly doing more harm than any good that could come out of it. But he was in the bar now. He couldn't very well just turn around and walk out. That would arouse even more suspicion. He decided he had to play it out now. Seeing the sign for the bathrooms, he picked his way through the tables towards them, pretending to be watching the match as he did so. One of players made a tricky shot across the length of the table, the dark ball disappearing into its pocket. "Ah, John, will you look at that?" the bartender laughed. "Your bloke is losing this one for sure now, isn't he?" So it was Fagan, Mulder thought, turning a bit now to get a better look at him, memorizing the man's profile. He kept moving, though. Mulder entered the bathroom, relieved to be out of view of the bar. Standing before one of the urinals, he unzipped his fly, did what he'd come in to do for a long moment. He really *had* had to go pretty badly. The door creaked open. John Fagan came in. <> Mulder closed his eyes, inwardly wincing. Then he reopened his them, keeping his gaze down, willing his very full bladder to empty. Fast. Fagan took the urinal two down from him, rocking back on his heels as he took care of business. Mulder could see Fagan looking at him in his peripheral vision. He didn't look back. "Never seen you in here before," Fagan said, his voice low, vaguely threatening, like thunder. Mulder sensed immediately some sort of challenge in Fagan's tone, but he didn't take the bait. "Just came in to take a piss," he replied, his tone friendly as he continued to look down. He didn't want Fagan getting a good look at his face. "Ah," Fagan said, and zipped himself back up. He hit the flusher with his fist, straightened his jacket. He walked towards the door, and Mulder thought he was going to get off the hook clean. Then Fagan stopped behind him, leaned close to his ear. "Well, pick another place next time, Yank. Sod off." Mulder kept his face down. "I'll be sure and do that," he replied, his tone careful, still friendly. "There's a good man," Fagan replied, smiling, and slapped Mulder on the back. With that he walked out the door. "Son of a bitch..." Mulder swore under his breath. He'd had no intention of coming face to face with Fagan at all. It was a horrible miscalculation on his part and he knew it. Finishing quickly, Mulder zipped his fly and headed out the door. Fagan was just taking his seat back at the bar, the bartender bringing him up to date on what he'd missed. Mulder made it to the door, then stopped. Turning, he surveyed the bar again, imagining Scully in this cave-like place, with Fagan hovering around her. He didn't like the image at all. Noting eyes still on him around the room, he moved quickly out the heavy wooden doors, back out into the light. ************ MEDICAL COLLEGE OF VIRGINIA OUTPATIENT CLINIC 4:32 p.m. Scully entered the small examining room, the chart in hand, and looked with surprise at the man standing beside the table against the wall. The name on the chart had read "Bob Smith," the reason for the visit listed simply as "headache." "Hello," she said, striking herself out of her surprise. "Mr. Conner, isn't it?" "Aye, Danny Conner," the man replied softly, nervously. His eyes darted into the hallway. "Close the door, if you would, please." Scully did as she was told, her eyes not leaving Conner's face. She was struck once again by how ill the man looked, the deep circles beneath his eyes, his pale complexion. He still wore his navy peacoat, which hung on his shoulders as though it was on a hanger. His jeans bagged around his hips. Looking at him closely, she realized he was much younger than she had thought when she'd first seen him at the pub. His age was hidden well by whatever was ailing him. "What can I help you with, Mr. Conner?" she asked, laying the chart down on the counter. Her tone was gentle but professional. "Is there something else that Mr. Curran needs from me, or are you here for yourself?" She sincerely hoped it was the latter, for his sake. Conner looked down, his mouth opening and closing, trying to form words, and didn't answer her. Scully noticed he was shaking slightly, as though he were overcome with a fit of nerves. She waited, unwilling to press him, afraid she might spook him even more than he already was. Finally, he looked up at her. "If I come here as a patient, you're not allowed to tell anyone that I've been here, right?" Scully nodded. "Yes," she replied. "You're protected under doctor-patient confidentiality." "Does that include Owen Curran and Mae and the others?" he added quickly. "I know you're here to do work for him, so--" "That includes everyone," Scully interrupted. "My work with Mr. Curran is separate from the work I do here as a doctor at this clinic." She said it reassuringly, but something in her was cautious, wondering if Curran had sent Conner here to test her, to see if she would keep a secret from him. But looking at the man's trembling, his sickly pallor, she decided to go ahead and play it out. This could be an invaluable opportunity for her, for the operation, she thought. She wanted desperately for him to let her examine him. Though she wasn't sure what it was that he was ill with, part of her thought it had something to do with the drugs she'd gotten for Curran the week before. Conner could, she thought, hold the key to the entire mystery of this. And he'd walked right into her hands. Conner was looking around the room uncertainly, something desperate in his eyes. She decided that she'd better put him at ease or he was bound to walk right out on her. She took a step closer. He looked at her wide-eyed but didn't move away. "I can tell there's something wrong. Why don't you tell me what it is." Conner was searching her face, as though considering carefully if she could be believed. Inside his pockets, she could see his hands shaking even harder. Again she waited. It was like having a frightened animal in front of her. She held his gaze, nodded to him, reassuring him. His eyes darted to her, then around the room, then back to her. Finally he spoke, his voice just above a whisper, as though he was afraid someone else would hear. "I have a drug problem." He looked down as he said it. "What sort of drug problem?" Scully asked quietly. She had to play dumb about this, suppressing everything she suspected. She had to come at him as though she knew nothing or she might arouse his suspicion. "Well," he began. The words came from him haltingly. "You know those prescriptions you wrote out for Owen? Those pills I picked up for him?" "Yes." "I've been taking those drugs for awhile now. And now that I'm on them, I can't stop taking them." She nodded. So it *was* the drugs that were causing the symptoms she saw in him. "All right," she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "Have you tried to stop taking them?" He nodded. His eyes were very afraid. "Yes," he replied. "Several times." "What happens when you try to stop taking them?" It was like talking to a child, the way he wouldn't supply any information save what she asked for specifically. She kept at it, gently persistent. He looked at her gravely, his breath heaving in suddenly. She saw tears fill his eyes and grew more concerned now. She took another step closer to him, putting a hand on his arm. Her brow creased down sympathetically. This man wasn't spying, she thought. This man was terrified. "It's okay," she said softly. "I'm here to help you. It's all right." "I can't stop taking them," he choked out, his lower lip trembling. He swiped at his eyes roughly with the sleeve of his coat. "I can't stop...or I'll die." "How do you know you'll die?" She wondered if the drug acted like cocaine or speed, sending Conner into a fit of withdrawal so severe that it *felt* like he was going to die. Conner looked at her, the tears spilling down his cheeks. "Because people have been dying already," he whispered. She looked at him, alarmed, comprehension dawning on her. Rutherford's death, hers and the others, had something to do specifically with the drug itself. Not with some external device as she'd first suspected. How, she couldn't fathom. But she knew that the answer was inside Conner. "You're not the only one addicted to these drugs then," she stated, reaching up and holding Conner's face between her hands, her thumbs pulling down on the skin below his eyes, exposing his lower lids. His eyes were bloodshot, the lids pasty white. "No," Conner replied, doing his best to be still while she examined him. "There are a lot of us on them. Most of us, in fact." "Most of the people who work for Mr. Curran?" Scully clarified. She was checking the pulse in his neck now, her fingers cupped around his stubbly throat. His heart was racing. She couldn't tell if it was from fear or from the drug itself. He nodded beneath her hand. "Owen brought the drugs to us about six months ago, told us they would help us stay alert, that we wouldn't need to sleep as much. We travel a lot in the work we do, so that was good. A hit of the stuff gives a good high, too, that lasts for a couple of hours. I started taking them a lot just for that. Then before I knew it I HAD to take them." "Sit down on the table and take off your coat," Scully instructed quietly, steadying him as he pulled himself up on the table. He was shaking so hard now she was afraid his arms would give out under him. He shouldered out of his coat, revealing a baggy long-sleeved white T-shirt. He was thin. Too thin. "Take off your shirt, too," she murmured, going for the blood pressure cuff on the wall. She nearly had to double it around his upper arm. His bones were stark against the white, hairless skin of his chest. He looked to her like an overgrown, haggard little boy. She put the stethoscope's earpieces in her ears, pressed the flat circle of it against obvious needle marks on the inside of his arm, pumping up the cuff. She released the air with a hiss, watching the display. "Your blood pressure is extremely high," she said, shaking her head. "And when's the last time you ate?" He looked down, unable to meet her gaze. "I had something to eat a couple of days ago. You don't want to eat much when you're taking them." She nodded, filing all this information away. "How often do you sleep?" Considering the drugs inhibited, almost completely, serotonin production, she assumed that it wasn't very often. "I haven't slept in over two weeks," Conner replied, and his eyes shone again with frustrated tears. His tone was desperate. "Two WEEKS?" Scully replied, horrified, halting her exam to look into his eyes. He jerked a nod. "I try every night. We all do. But all we get are these strange dreams. Real dreams. Happening right in front of our eyes." That was the mescaline, she concluded to herself. The hallucinogen. She imagined that Conner and the others hallucinated quite a bit, especially if they were having to take the drugs regularly. That would be where the "high" Conner spoke of came from, too. "Danny," she began, looking him in the face. "May I call you Danny?" When he shrugged and nodded, she continued. "What happens when you try to stop taking the drugs?" "Bad headaches," he replied, shaking his head as if against a terrible memory. "Nosebleeds. I've never made it past that. The headache was too bad to bear for long." She recalled the police report on Mary Rutherford. She had had a nosebleed right before she died in that market. "And you've tried tapering them off? Not just stopping them cold?" He nodded. "I've tried everything I know to do," he replied. "It's always the same." "All right," she said, gathering her thoughts. "The first thing I'm going to need from you is a sample of everything you're taking. I see that you're taking something else intraveneously?" She gestured with a glance at the track marks on his arms. He shook his head. "No, it's the same drugs you wrote the scripts for. We all end up taking them like this most of the time, though some people still take the pills or drink it mixed in something from time to time. I've found, though, that sometimes if it's been awhile between fixes, it takes too long for the pills to work." "But how do you get the drugs in an intraveneous form?" she asked, confused. "I only write scripts for the pill forms." Conner rooted around his pocket, pulled out three vials of a dark liquid, each capped with a rubber stopper. He hesitated for an instant, but then offered Scully one of the vials. "That's what Owen gives us, that and single capsules. There's a lab here in town that makes them up for him. Some of our people have jobs there." Scully took the vial, swiveled it around against the light, looking at it carefully. It was pure liquid, nothing suspended. Someone was processing the pills that she got from the hospital into some sort of drug cocktail, she realized. She would have to get into the lab as soon as possible and do a breakdown of it. She popped the top off the vial carefully, sniffed at the contents. It smelled vaguely of hazelnuts. She replaced the cap, slipped it into her pocket. "Do you think you can help me, Dr. Black?" He was looking at her with his wide, dark eyes. She sighed, tried to smile reassuringly. "I'll do everything I can to help you, Danny," she replied. "I'm going to start by having some blood work done on you. See what we can see in that. And I'm going to run some tests on what you're taking to see exactly what we're dealing with. We'll start there." She handed him his shirt and he pulled it on. Turning to the counter, she pulled out a lab sheet, began checking off boxes for things she wanted done with a blood sample. In the patient name block she wrote "Bob Smith," just as he'd done. Then she turned and handed him the sheet. "Take that to the lab down the hallway and they'll draw some blood, all right? And I want to see you back here in two or three days. I should have the results by then and we can talk about them then." He was already back in his coat, standing beside the table as he'd been when she came in the room. He nodded. "All right," he said. "I'll do my best to get away by then." "And in the meantime," she said firmly. "Don't alter how you're taking the drugs at all. I don't want to play around with them until I know what we're dealing with." "Aye, I'll agree with you on that," Conner replied. He hesitated, then reached a hand out towards her. She looked down at it, shook it gently. "Thank you," he said softly. "I didn't know where to turn. I hope I can trust you with this." She smiled gently at him, meeting his eyes. "You can trust me, Danny. Don't worry about that. We'll get to the bottom of this." She just hoped she could deliver on what she said... He smiled back, then stepped around her and went to the door, closing it behind him. Once she heard his footsteps receding down the hallway, Scully picked up the phone, dialing Information. "City and listing, please?" the operator responded after a couple of rings. "Richmond. The Richmond Times-Dispatch." "Which department?" "Personals section, please," she replied. She turned away from the door, lowering her voice in case anyone might be walking by. She fingered the vial in her pocket. It was the first big break in the case, and so soon. She couldn't believe her luck. She had to get to Mulder. Right away. *********** YOUNG'S TEXACO & U-HAUL ASHLAND, VIRGINIA JANUARY 9 8:43 a.m. John Fagan and Danny Conner pulled up outside the dilapidated gas station, parked the late-model sedan in front of one of the vacant pumps. Fagan glanced around the side of the small building, saw the rows of battered U-Haul trucks gathered at its side. The trucks were still covered with a dirty layer of snow. Conner sat almost completely still, as though any movement would deplete his dangerously low supply of energy. He blew a stream of smoke out the crack of the car's window, tilted his head absently and took in the sight of the trucks himself. He shivered despite the heat blasting from the car's dash. No emotion crossed his face as he looked at them. Apparently satisfied with the selection of trucks he saw, Fagan reached down and turned the car off, his eyes following a man in a baseball cap that was leaving the gas station. He watched him as he got into his car and drove away. "Stay here until I come out with the keys," he said. "Then take the car back to the Grey Mouse. I'll meet you there in the truck." Conner simply nodded in response, blowing out another puff of smoke, the cigarette trembling in his hand. He saw Fagan frown at his silence, knew it was a risk to show any disrespect to this man in particular, but for the moment couldn't care less. He knew that he wouldn't even be here unless Curran thought he was one of the Path members that could be trusted most, so a reprisal from Fagan seemed unlikely. If you were on Curran's "A" list, nothing could touch you. Not even Fagan. Fagan climbed out of the car, straightening his coat around him. He reached behind him into the pocket of his black pants, groping for his wallet, and for an instant Conner saw the gun that Fagan kept hidden at the small of his back, a not-so-subtle reminder of what Fagan could be capable of, and how quickly. He watched it disappear as the coat fell back into place and Fagan made his way to the door of the station. The bell on the door jingled as he entered and disappeared from sight. Now Conner did lean back, crossing one leg over the other as he reached for the radio, flicking it on. He surfed the stations, rolling over news and the country/western stations until he heard Dave Matthews asking his lover to lay down, the haunting voice echoing in the car around him. He took comfort in the sound, remembering, not so many years ago, how he and his friend Kyle would sit out on the fields around Ballycastle, a tape player beside them. They would lie on the greenest grass in the world, listening to this band and others. They would talk about America, the word passed between them like a secret. Both wanted to leave Northern Ireland and go there, start lives away from the poverty, the small town meddling, the fits of violence that had surrounded them their entire lives. His lip curled up at the memory. <> he taunted himself as he looked back at that boy in the grass. The draw of a trip to America was what had brought him into The Path in the first place. That and his father's urging to do something for the Cause. He still remembered watching the green rim of land disappear from the airplane's window, stretching out to a seemingly endless expanse of sea below him, leaving everything he knew and was behind him. Now he looked at the U-Haul trucks before him, realizing once again the irony of his choice. He'd left neither the meddling nor the violence behind him. Only Kyle. Those days of American music out on the grass overlooking the sea. The smell of the house when his mother baked bread in the mornings. And something else, something essential about the man he should have become, who was not the trembling figure who stared back at him from the side-view mirror. The man who had spent so much time doing things he'd never imagined himself capable of doing. He closed his eyes, opened them again, like a blink in slow motion, willing the view before him to change, for the past five years to become nothing more than one of the waking dreams that haunted him night after night. My God, he thought. What have I done? He looked at the trucks again, stubbing out the cigarette in the car's small ashtray, lifting the armrest between him and the driver's seat. He slid across the seat until he sat tiredly beneath the steering wheel. He closed his eyes, covering them with a shaking hand. ********* MONUMENT AVENUE RICHMOND, VIRGINIA 8:16 a.m. Scully crossed the wide circle around Meadow Avenue, looking up at the statue of Robert E. Lee on horseback, shining bronze in the winter sunlight. Her hands were deep in her pockets against the chill, her mind deep in thought. She stepped carefully through the patches of snow that clung to the sidewalk here and there, making her way slowly up Monument Avenue toward Mae's apartment building on Grace. She was returning from Mass at the Cathedral, some nine or ten blocks back. Though it was cold, she'd elected to walk, figuring the crisp air would help her clear her mind. She'd been unusually distracted when she'd gotten up early that morning, and had thought that the Mass would help center her, give her time away from Mae and the details of the case. She desperately needed time to herself, especially since she'd elected -- at Mae's insistence -- to stay in Mae's apartment for a while longer. She found she craved the solitude now like air. So she'd risen early and dressed in the quiet, made her way to Mass while Mae was still sleeping. She'd slid down to the very end of the dark wood pew in one of the back rows of the huge cathedral, the early light vaguely illuminating the stained glass window next to her. It had been a portrait of a shepherd carrying a lamb across his shoulders, who was being followed by a golden angel. Beside her, in stone relief, the Station of the Cross titled "Jesus Falls the First Time" hung on the wall, and she'd found herself staring at it as people trickled down the main aisle, the usual light attendance for the seven o'clock Mass. She'd knelt down to pray on the narrow kneeler at her feet, folded her hands in front of her, gripping them into a fist. The serenity she sought wouldn't come. Her mind was too filled with the details of the case now, with Danny Conner and Mae and Curran. She carried the weight of her cover, her life with these people, like a burden. And, as always, she was preoccupied with thoughts of Mulder. She felt his absence sometimes as though it were a physical presence. It was that real to her. Her thoughts of him followed her around throughout her days as tenaciously as her own shadow. She would see him soon, though. She'd placed an ad for today's paper, asking for a meeting. He would make an appointment at the clinic and she would see him again. She could almost picture him standing before her in one of the small clinic rooms, the feel of his body as she held him, the warm smell of him as she buried her face once again into his shoulder. Finding solace in the thoughts of him, she'd felt herself beginning to relax a bit. Not for long, though. She had gone to the Mass to get away from her casework, and she'd walked right into the middle of it instead. She could still recall her surprise at seeing Owen Curran and his son Sean come down the aisle. Though she knew that Curran would be Catholic, it still surprised her to see him at Mass. He hadn't exactly struck her as the pious type. She was even more surprised when he turned, ushering Sean into the row where she was sitting, and came down to join her. The priest was already making his way down the aisle with the altar boy and girl as he and Sean sat, precluding any conversation between them other than a softly mumbled "good morning" they exchanged. Sean's greeting was a small but open smile. By the start of the first reading, Curran was restless, looking around at the people peppered throughout the cathedral. Scully watched him out of the corner of her eye. Gradually, his eyes fell on a man sitting on the other side of the church, who likewise seemed to be looking for him. They nodded to each other, then Curran patted Sean's leg and rose, slipping out of the pew. The other man did the same thing and they both disappeared out the back doors of the church. Scully pretended to show no interest, simply sat with Sean and listened to the reading. Sean did not seem surprised at his father's departure one bit. By the second reading, an epistle of Paul, Sean had taken a deck of cards out of his coat pocket, sitting cross-legged on the pew. He fanned them out in his small hands, offered them to Scully. She recognized the "pick a card" game and drew one, looked at it, then reinserted it into the deck. Sean obediently began to awkwardly shuffle the cards, cutting the deck several times. Scully had watched him, amused. Then he looked through the deck and stopped on a card, showing it to Scully. She shook her head, smiling kindly at him. He flipped through several cards, showed her another. She shook her head again. It took him seventeen guesses, but he finally chose the right one. All this time, Scully half-listened to the Mass, half-thought about where Curran had gone, and what he and that man could be talking about. One thing she'd noticed about Curran was that he always seemed to have some important business to conduct when she saw him. She wondered what exactly that "business" could be. He'd returned, alone, at the beginning of the Eucharistic prayers. He'd reached down and tapped the cards in Sean's hands, looking down at his son disapprovingly. Sean immediately slipped the deck back into its box, replaced it in his coat pocket. Then he stood up straight between his father and Scully, suddenly intent on the priest's words. He'd remained at attention through the rest of the service, walking soberly up the aisle in front of Scully to receive the Host, kneeling dutifully beside her when they returned to their seats. For his part, Curran went through the motions by rote, his hands limply clasped in front of him as he knelt, his eyes darting around the church impatiently. The only thing he looked at with any attention was Sean as the young boy said his prayers. Curran was clearly, Scully thought, more interested in Sean than he was in God. At the end of the Mass, Scully had bundled back up in her coat, helped Sean back into his. Curran took his son's hand, turned to Scully. "Thank you for watching him," he murmured, looking slightly embarrassed. "I hope he wasn't too much trouble for you then." "No, not at all," Scully replied softly. She forced a smile at Curran; she found speaking to him made her decidedly nervous. He looked down almost shyly as she did so. "Are we going to light a candle for my mother this time?" Sean asked, looking up at Curran, who flushed immediately and looked at Scully as though she'd just heard something she shouldn't have. "Aye, Sean," he said quickly. "We have time this week. Come along." Again, he had a hard time meeting her eyes. "Bye then, Katherine." "Goodbye, Mr. Curran," she replied formally, then reached down and put a hand on Sean's hair, smoothing it down. "See you later, Sean," she said, smiling. "Owen," Curran replied, and this time he looked her in the face. She nodded. "All right, Owen." Curran tugged on Sean's hand, who waved goodbye to Scully as they withdrew, walking down the aisle against the flow of people, heading toward the statue of the Virgin Mary at the front of the church. She'd joined the people going out the heavy wood doors of the cathedral, bundling her scarf up around her chin as the wind whipped around her. Now she crossed over Allen Street, past the statue of Jefferson Davis, the hand he held outstretched to the city filled with a small dome of snow. So Curran's wife was dead, she thought. She wondered about the circumstances behind her death, how long ago it had been. She noted that Sean had called her "my mother," as though he didn't know her at all. For some reason, she sensed it was important to find out what had happened to Sean's mother, sensed that there was some clue there that would help her unravel the mystery of these people, what motivated them. As she walked slowly beneath the stark branches of the huge trees lining the street, she realized she had nothing to base the feeling on. It was only her instincts that told her so. *********** CHURCH HILL 4:36 p.m. Mulder leaned further against the back of the rickety bench, blowing out a breath of condensation into the evening air. He was high above the city, sitting on the rise of Church Hill that overlooked the cityscape. From here, he could see the rapids of the James River off in the distance, winding through the city like a dark ribbon. A coal train chuffed and clacked its way through the city on its raised track, heading off toward the hill on the other side of Richmond. Mulder could barely make out the mausoleum of Hollywood Cemetery, sitting like a snow white church, a silent sentinel on the city's western edge. The sun was setting over the James, the water glinting a pale pink in the gloaming light. Mulder shivered in his leather jacket, pushing the garment closer around him from within the deep pockets. He burrowed his chin into the black of his turtleneck, like a bird huddling into its feathers against the wind. He watched the cars angling through the streets below him, his eyes drawn to the movement as he tried to ignore the cold creeping into his body and the thoughts that kept popping into his mind, pricking him. He had fucked up. Pure and simple. He closed his eyes against the memory of the meeting with Padden and Jessup and the others, the picture someone had taken of him entering the Grey Mouse shoved in front of him from across the table. He assumed from the glib look on that son-of- a bitch Hirsch's face that it had been he who'd taken it. Mulder tried to not meet his eyes, though it was hard considering Hirsch had seated himself at a desk near the table, close enough so he could hear the fireworks. And fireworks there were. Though Padden wasn't the yelling type, it was clear he was angry. The words "foolish" and "unprofessional" had been peppered throughout the conversation. "Violation of proper procedure," the phrase that had followed Mulder throughout his career at the Bureau, found its way in several times, as well. "I had to take a piss," he'd answered when asked why he'd gone into the pub. But Padden wasn't biting. He kept talking as though Mulder hadn't spoken at all. So Mulder sat there and took it. Until they lit into Granger, who sat loyally beside him through the whole thing, silent. "Hey," he'd interrupted. "Granger didn't do anything. He even tried to stop me from going in." Mulder had stepped in it so surely it wouldn't hurt him to incriminate himself more, especially since he could tell Granger was taking it hard. It was probably the first time Granger had ever done anything wrong in his job. He wasn't as used to the joys of being bitched out. "Well, he should have tried harder," Padden had responded, then continued in on Granger, talking about how partners were responsible for each other's behavior, etcetera, etcetera. Mulder eventually tuned him out, though part of him wondered how many times Scully had gotten the same treatment over one of his little stunts. Thinking of that and watching Granger seem to shrink in his chair, he felt suddenly very guilty. The punishment had been swift and sure and was designed to hit Mulder where he hurt. He had been pulled off of surveillance duty indefinitely, doomed to the background checks that were taking place in the hotel's opulent suite. That meant, he was told specifically, that he wouldn't be able to see Scully. They were afraid that now that he'd been seen in the bar, anyone who might be watching Scully at the clinic might recognize him as he went in to meet with her. "You can't do that." Mulder still remembered the flush of anger -- and panic -- that had washed over him with those words. "Scully and I are partners. You can't --" "I can and I will," Padden had responded evenly. "We'll wait a while and give the people who saw you in that bar time to forget your face." He'd turned to Granger. "Since you were clever enough not to enter the bar, Agent Granger, you will be the liaison for Agent Scully." "But Agent Mulder is much better suited to--" "That will be all then, gentlemen." And Padden and the others had risen from their seats, leaving the two of them sitting awkwardly at the table. "What do we do now?" Granger had asked him. But Mulder didn't have the energy to try and figure that out now. The fact that he wouldn't be seeing Scully for awhile had knocked the wind and the fight right out of him. "I don't know about you, but I'm getting out of here." Mulder had stood, grabbing for his coat. "I'll come with you," Granger responded, reaching for his own jacket. "I think I want to be by myself right now," Mulder had responded, something flat, gruff in his voice that he couldn't quite help. He'd tried to be kind, though. He appreciated Granger's attempt at persuading Padden to let him see Scully more than Granger would ever know. Then he'd stood, pulling on his jacket. Hirsch was staring at him, a satisfied look on his face. Mulder stared back at him for a beat, then left the room, escaping into his car and out into the city. Mulder sighed, the memory making him feel worn out. He stretched his long legs in front of him, crossing his ankles. The coal train was just now disappearing from view on the other side of the skyline. From inside his pocket, his cell phone rang. Tiredly, dug it out, tapped the talk button. "Mulder." "Where the hell are you?" <> Mulder thought, wincing. Now he had Skinner to contend with, too. "I'm just doing a little site-seeing to finish off my wonderful day," Mulder replied dryly, cradling the phone against his shoulder while he pulled out his gloves and started to put them on. "Don't jerk me around, Mulder," Skinner snapped back. "I've been on the road for three hours to get down here. Now where are you?" He sighed, switched the phone to the other ear while he craned his neck to look at the street sign behind him. He told Skinner that he was on Grace Street, told him roughly how he'd found his way up here from the hotel. "All right," Skinner replied. "Stay there. I'm on my way." There was a click as Skinner severed the connection. Mulder sighed, replaced the phone in his pocket. Behind him, the streetlight crackled to life, sending a sodium, pale yellow light across the bench. He looked glumly at his faint shadow on the sidewalk in front of him, an unmoving, solitary shape on the cracked concrete. When he closed his eyes, he could see her so clearly. Could see them both, sitting on a bench beside the Potomac, right near the Jefferson Memorial. They'd go there sometimes for lunch from a tourist snack stand, just to get away from the sometimes stifling distance they had to keep at the office. It was such a relief to him to be able to touch her in the relative privacy of the crowds milling to and from the memorial, to reach up and smooth a strand of hair gently behind her ear. Another memory came to him -- him nuzzling an errant piece of hair from the corner of her mouth, the feel of her lips on his cheek, her breathing labored. The feel of her firm body beneath him, her hands as they smoothed over the curves of his buttocks, pressing him down, urging him to push deeper inside her. Her throaty cry. The shudder that went through him, his forehead against hers. Then the quiet that followed as he drew the blanket over them both. She was already dozing as he did so, her head pillowed in the crook of his arm, her hand dreamily stroking the thin trail of hair that bisected his abdomen.... Headlights streaked the ground in front of him, interrupting his thoughts. The car parked on the street behind him. He didn't turn as he heard the door open and slam shut. Big shoes ground on the street, coming closer. Then Skinner stepped in front of him, obscuring his view. He looked up into the stern face wearily, unmoving. Skinner looked over his shoulder for a beat, his jaw muscles flexing. "I understand you've been busy, Agent Mulder," he said by way of greeting, returning a hard stare now to Mulder's face. It was all Mulder could do to keep from rolling his eyes. "Yeah, I have been," he replied. "And there's no need to chew me out about it. I already feel like my belly button is about to cave in." "Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to be called down here to sit on you?" Skinner continued as though he hadn't heard Mulder at all. His teeth were grit, his face taut. The streetlamp glinted off the metallic rims of his glasses. Mulder imagined the blinks of light as sparks of anger. "I know, and I'm sorry you had to come down here at all. There was no need for them to call you." "Of course there was a need," Skinner responded quickly. "Like it or not, I'm responsible for your actions, Agent Mulder. What you do is a reflection on me. And violating operational procedures like that is something I can't even begin to defend." When Mulder didn't respond, simply sat there glumly, Skinner blew a frustrated breath through his nose like a bull, looked away for a beat as though gathering his calm. "I hope you at least learned something going into that bar, something useful. I hope it was worth it." "Nothing is worth the punishment I got," Mulder replied, then bit his lip when he realized how much he could be giving away with that statement about his feelings for Scully. He added quickly: "I'm on background checks, desk duty, until further notice, in case you haven't heard." "Yes, I've heard," Skinner said, jamming his hands in the pockets of his trench. "Which throws a wrench into the operation. Agent Scully will have to get used to relaying her information to Agent Granger now. The rapport you and Scully have as partners made the task force more comfortable with the information they were getting. They knew there was little chance of misunderstanding between you. They're not so sure about Granger and Scully." "Hey, Agent Scully will give Granger the information a dozen times if that's what it takes for him to get it down right. Don't worry about that." He couldn't bear the thought of Padden and the others having any doubts about Scully, period. "And besides," he added, "Granger's not bad. Green, but not stupid. He'll do fine with it." "I'm surprised to hear that you have so much confidence in both of their abilities on this, Agent Mulder," Skinner grumbled. "Considering you wouldn't listen to Granger when he told you to stay in the car and you don't trust Scully's retelling of things enough to keep your ass out of that place. You just had to see for yourself, didn't you?" Now Mulder leaned forward, a finger coming up to point at Skinner. "That has NOTHING to do with Agent Scully and my confidence in her abilities," he snapped. "Then what does it have to do with, Mulder?" the older man responded angrily. "What exactly were you trying to prove?" Mulder put his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face with his hands slowly. "I don't know," he said. "I just....I saw John Fagan going into that bar and I wanted to know what he was like. I thought it would help me with my profile of him if I could see how he acted for myself." "Well, what did you come up with?" Mulder thought about it, thought about telling him the truth. He hadn't even told Granger the truth about the meeting with Fagan in the men's room. He decided not to. "I didn't find anything out. Except that he likes to watch snooker on television. And he drinks milk." "Well, wonderful," Skinner said, nodding. "That was worth risking blowing your cover over." "Look," Mulder said sharply, looking up at him. "I'm sorry about what I did, all right? It won't happen again." "Yeah, Padden's going to see to that, at least for awhile. And I came down here to tell you that if something like that happens again, I'm pulling you off the case and returning you to Washington." "All right." Mulder looked down at the sidewalk. Night had fallen now, the sky turned to blue and black. "I'm sorry you had to come all the way down here to tell me that." Skinner seemed to relent now, satisfied with Mulder's show of contrition. "I had to come down anyway," he revealed, relaxing his stance finally. "I'm going to spend the week down here with the task force. I've gotten things caught up in D.C. for awhile." Though Mulder was still feeling browbeaten by Skinner a bit, he had to admit that it would be a relief to have him around for a few days, to have someone around him that was familiar, someone whose workings he knew. The others he wasn't so sure about. He didn't know how many of them were like Hirsch, gunning for him, out to be there the next time he fucked up. "I'll be staying in the Marriott if you need to reach me for anything," Skinner continued, jingling his car keys in his pocket. "In the meantime, keep it clean. And don't stay out here all night. You'll freeze your ass off." "Yes, sir," Mulder replied dutifully. Skinner started back toward the car, but Mulder saw him stop just behind the bench. He looked back him questioningly. "What is it?" Skinner's jaw muscles worked for a few seconds, his eyes on the car. "I'm sorry about you not getting to see Scully for awhile. I know that's got to be hard on you." Mulder was surprised, but kept it off his face. "Yeah, it will be," he replied. "I'll be all right, though." He forced a small smile. "And so will she." "Yeah," Skinner replied, then turned and looked at Mulder. He cleared his throat, clearing the gentle moment away with it. "Well, goodnight, Agent Mulder." His voice had returned to its gruff tone. "Goodnight, sir." Mulder returned to the view, listened to Skinner get into the car. Watching the cold night pull its blanket of dark over the city, he listened to it drive away. ************** THE GREY MOUSE PUB 7:39 p.m. Owen Curran sat at the end of the bar closest to the television, though he wasn't watching the football highlights that were streaming across the screen. His glassy eyes were boring into the dark wood of the bar, his hands cupping his empty third mug of ale, his fingers rubbing into the condensation still left on the side. He was on his way to drunk, and he liked it that way. The bartender came up from the other end of the bar, his expression concerned. "You all right, Owen?" he asked, reached for the glass. Curran let him have it, picked up the cigarette from the heavy ashtray on the bar and took a long drag. He looked at the other man through the cloud of smoke he exhaled. "Aye, Billy, I'm fine. Right as rain." He smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. John stood there before him, looking doubtful. "You sure there's nothing you want to talk about, perhaps something on your mind?" Curran shook his head. "No, nothing. Just another beer if you would." Again, Billy hesitated. "All right," he said finally. "But I'm switching you over to shitty American beer this time. More water that way." "Whatever you say," Curran replied, dragging on his smoke again. "Just keep it coming." As soon as Billy moved away from him, the good natured smile melted off Curran's face. His gaze returned to the surface of the bar, his shoulders slumping. He closed his eyes, blowing out a long sigh. The image formed again in his mind. She stood on the emerald grass on the small rise near the farmhouse, the wind blowing her red hair across her face and billowing the skirt of her dress out behind her small frame like a flowered sail. She reached up and pushed the hair delicately from her face, revealing the deep blue of her eyes in the morning light. And she was smiling at him. In the vision she was always smiling, that same knowing, tender smile he'd first fallen in love with all those years ago. Seeing it, he quickened his pace up the hillside toward her, feeling that this time he would reach her... But he couldn't. Just as always, before he made it to the top to be with her, the vision ended, flaring out like a candle flame caught in a sudden gust of wind. His eyes snapped open as she disappeared, filling him with a heavy ache. Billy was coming towards him, his expression worried again. "You're SURE you're all right, Owen?" he asked, and put a hand on Owen's arm. "I'm fine," Owen replied, pulling his arm free and snatching up the glass. He took a long drink of it, then smirked at the other man with mock bravado. "Now bugger off and go see to someone else." Billy smiled. "That's more like it," he said, patted Owen's shoulder. His eyes were drawn to the door. "Ah, there's Mae and her friend. I'll let your sister see to you then." And with that he drifted away. Owen turned towards the doorway as Billy moved away, saw Mae and Katherine Black coming into the bar. Mae saw him looking at her and waved, her expression warm. Then he looked at Katherine, who smiled shyly to him and nodded. He returned the smile and the nod, then looked hurriedly away. Inwardly, he cursed himself for his reaction. He couldn't believe the effect the woman had on him. She made him feel like a boy was just learning his letters, and the feeling both irritated him and sent a warm flush through him that he almost welcomed. It had been a long time since anyone had made him feel that way. Since he'd allowed anyone to let him feel that way. He took another drink from his beer, smiling to himself. He still remembered her from Mass that morning, how she'd looked as he'd approached after his meeting, how she sat so close to Sean, playing that silly game with him. She'd looked like she was enjoying herself, too.... John Fagan's appearance beside him struck him out of the recollection. "Owen," Fagan said, sitting on the stool beside him. He immediately signaled Billy with a single finger, who nodded and began filling a glass at one of the taps. "John," he replied, gulping down another mouthful of the weak, golden beer. Fagan sat facing the room, his elbows on the bar behind him. He was surveying the room with a careful look, as though looking for something amiss. Instead of finding something wrong, Curran saw him smile. It was not a completely pleasant expression. "Well, well, look who's come in with Mae again tonight," he said, accepting the Guiness from Billy without a word. "Did you notice?" Curran felt another flush coming over him. This one he didn't welcome. "Aye, I did. What of it, then?" His voice was just above a whisper, feigning disinterest. John reached for his beer, took a sip. "Oh nothing," he said, keeping his eyes glued to one corner of the room. "Just enjoying the view, is all." Curran turned to see what he was looking at. Katherine was taking off her coat across the room. Even he couldn't deny that the view of her breasts pushing against her sweater as she peeled the coat off was a hard thing not to admire. John Fagan was giving her a wolfish look, his eyes moving up and down her body. Curran saw her look over, her face turning quickly away when she saw Fagan looking at her that way. "Quit staring at her, John," Curran said. "You're making her uncomfortable." "Since when do you care if someone's uncomfortable?" Fagan asked incredulously, and he elbowed Curran in the upper arm. He was still smiling, still looking in Katherine's direction. Curran turned to him, gave him a dangerous look. "I care right now," he said angrily. "I said to quit staring at her." Fagan turned to him now, clearly surprised. "What the hell is wrong with you then?" he asked. "I like the way she looks. I'm thinking of doing something about it. Is that *all right* with you, Owen? Do I have to ask permission of you for that now?" Curran slid off the stool, picking up his beer as he did so. He took a step to the side, stood right in Fagan's face. Their noses were inches apart. "You fucking stay away from her, you hear me?" Curran said softly, cocking his head to the side. "You and I have been friends for a long time, but I'm warning you now. She's not for you, you get me?" Fagan opened his mouth as though he was going to say something else, but instead, he closed it. Curran could see his teeth grind together, his cheeks flush. "Yeah, I get you, Owen. Sure. Not a hair." He forced a smile, took another sip from his beer, acting nonchalant. But Owen had known him long enough to tell he was fuming. He could tell by the way Fagan wouldn't break his gaze, how stiff and still he held his body. For the moment, however, Curran didn't give a shit. A few people, including Billy, were watching them from close by. Seeing this, he finally took a step backwards, putting some space between the two of them. "All right then," he said, and kept his eyes on Fagan as he moved away, down the bar with his beer. People watched him go silently. Fagan continued to stare. He headed for his office in the back, suddenly desperate for some privacy. As he went toward the back, he chanced a look in Katherine and Mae's direction. Mae seemed to have missed the whole thing, chatting happily with one of the men from the bar. But Katherine's eyes were on him. He met her eyes, taking in the confused, concerned expression on her face. He looked away quickly. He didn't know what had gotten into him, he thought, pressing through a knot of people on his way to the back. He'd given too much away. To Fagan and to Katherine. As he reached the back double doors and pushed through them into the empty corridor beyond, he vowed not to let it happen again. ************** MEDICAL COLLEGE OF VIRGINIA OUTPATIENT CLINIC JANUARY 10 9:37 a.m. Paul Granger sat in the waiting room of the outpatient clinic, trying not to meet the gaze of the elderly man across from him who was staring at him pointedly. The man must have been in his 80s, sitting up straight, his legs slightly splayed, a cane between his knees that his large hands rested on. He had a blank expression on his face, which was as wide and as bland as a pumpkin. Though the scrutiny seemed undirected and innocuous, it still made Granger uptight. He was trying to just blend in with the ragged, poor clientele of the teaching hospital's clinic -- he'd even dressed the part. Battered jeans and tennis shoes, an army surplus jacket he'd picked up at the thrift store last evening after the dressing down Padden had given he and Mulder. He'd wanted to make sure that he at least did THIS right. Only his bright silver Armani glasses didn't mesh with his outfit, but it wasn't as if he could go without them. Their presence made him feel conspicuous, however, and the old man's gauzy gaze wasn't helping. Granger crossed his legs so that his lap could cradle a copy of Parents magazine. He flipped through it idly, feigning interest, looking around every minute or so to see if anyone might be watching him. Just beneath his nervousness was a buzz of anticipation and excitement, his heart racing in his chest. Forcing himself to relax a bit, he returned his eyes to his lap. There before him was a picture of a young black boy riding a red bicycle across the page of the magazine. Smiling faintly, he remembered how when he was a young boy, he would spend hours lying on the bed in the tiny rowhouse he shared with his mother and think about his father, Thomas, a man he knew only by name. At that point he knew little about his father, but he would imagine so much. Lying there, he would look at the photograph of his father on the wall in his Baltimore City Police uniform, a stiff smile on his father's face and an American flag behind him. Granger would stare at that picture and wonder about what his father's life must have been like. In his child's mind, he saw bank robberies, chases. And in his most detailed imaginings he saw his father working undercover, living incognito in some dark underworld. Of course this was before he found out the truth -- that Thomas Granger had been nothing more than a beat cop, one of hundreds of men who walked the city's streets. His death had come from a startled thief at a 7-11, while his father was off-duty buying diapers and a six pack of beer. The truth hadn't stopped him from wanting to follow in his father's footsteps, however, to drive him to make those fantasies about his father's life a reality for his own. He had his mother, though, to thank for actually making him into what he had become. From the beginning, he had had to learn her moods, and he'd developed a natural ability for reading people. "Charles Fuller," the nurse called from where she'd appeared in the corridor to the examining rooms. Granger was relieved when a young woman stood from the seat next to the old man, giving the man's arm a gentle tug. "Come on, Daddy," she said, and the man stood, his eyes never wavering as he did so, now looking over Granger's head, his hand fumbling on the cane. Alzheimer's, Granger realized, and watched the man shuffle slowly away, his daughter guiding him by the arm. <> he thought, rolling his eyes at himself. He hated how his nerves jangled him. Here he was, the top of his class at the Agency's Behavioral Science Unit, and he was letting himself get rattled by an old man who probably didn't know he was there at all. His mother had always chided him for his nervousness. "You forget who you are," she'd say kindly, her belief in who he was and what he could accomplish so sure in her tone, her eyes. He would hear that and remember who he was, just by seeing how he looked in her eyes. She'd done this for him all his life. When he thought back on it, he realized that his mother had, in fact, been his first profile. An operator at the local phone company, she had been a profile in hard work, strict discipline, and lingering grief. He still remembered the way she looked sometimes, staring out the window of the kitchen as she washed their pair of dishes by hand, Granger himself behind her, dutifully doing his homework at the table in the waning light. Sometimes he would catch the expression that crossed her face, the faraway look of a loneliness that even he could not penetrate, her eyes dark and sad as a swan's. "James Griffin," another nurse called, and Granger stood instantly, dropping the magazine onto the chair. He made his way to the nurse, who spared him a look of complete disinterest as she mumbled "follow me" and turned down the long, sparse hallway. He did as he was told. His anxiousness was thick enough to cut. For starters, he was undercover, finally making real one of those boyhood imaginings, doing what his father could not. And on his first major assignment with the Agency, as well. For another, he was meeting with Agent Scully, a person he found more intimidating in some ways than he found Mulder. And that was saying a lot. He followed the nurse, thinking about his "partner." He'd left Mulder behind a desk in the suite at the Jefferson, stiff in his suit once again and buried under a pile of files. Granger had given him an apologetic smile as he'd left after his morning briefing with Padden. Mulder both intimidated and intrigued him. He'd studied some of Mulder's profiles during his first year in the CIA's Behavioral Science Division and had grown to admire the man behind the brilliant work immediately. Mulder was a bit of wunderkind, as Granger was considered to be, and in Mulder he'd found his first model of how a profiler should work. Before the age of 30, Mulder's work had contributed to the capture of two serial killers, and Granger studied these cases, looking to see what made the profiles and the profiler tick. That was one of the reasons he'd been so excited about working on this case. He'd been told immediately upon his assignment that he would be working with Mulder, even before Mulder knew that he himself was going to be on the case. Granger had spent the time before their meeting boning up on everything Mulder had done in his profiling career. He'd even looked at some of the X-Files, though he found the work strange and an unfortunate departure from the work Mulder had done earlier in his life. Despite these feelings about the X-Files work, it still pained him to see the derision that was heaped on Mulder every time his name was mentioned. Granger himself was chided at times by his coworkers for checking into the work of "Spooky" Mulder and his chilly, composed partner. The nurse led him into an examining room, pulled open a drawer and tossed two blue checked gowns onto the table against the wall. "Down to your underwear and put these on. One open in the back and one on you like a robe." The nurse spoke as though she said the words a hundred times a day. She probably did, he realized. "But I'm only here for headaches," he protested mildly. "Dr. Black will want to do a complete exam," the nurse responded. "She always does." With that, she left him alone in the room, closing the door behind her. Granger looked at the gowns, then at the door, uncertain of what to do. Finally, making a decision to preserve the integrity of his cover, he peeled out of his jacket and began to strip down. As he pulled the sweatshirt he was wearing over his head, his thoughts returned to Mulder, to the memory of Mulder nodding to him as he'd left the hotel room, a stern, worried expression on his face. The nod's meaning was as clear as it would have been had Mulder spoken it aloud. <> Mulder was having to trust him, and the profiler in Granger knew what that meant. In just the short time he'd known Mulder, one of the things he'd realized was that it was nearly impossible to earn the man's trust. That Agent Scully had managed to do this, and for so many years, made her a force to be reckoned with as far as Granger was concerned. And the way she'd held her own against the entire task force, smoothly accepting this dangerous assignment.... He had to admit that he'd grown to respect her almost as much as he did Mulder. And he'd grown even more appreciative of their work together as partners. Which is one of the reasons he found his position at the moment a bit nervewracking. He was going to try and take Mulder's place as Scully's liaison with the task force. And he felt ill-equipped to fill that space, and uncomfortable with being thrust in between the two of them. He finished undressing, standing in the cold room in his white cotton boxers and bare feet. He pulled on the gowns quickly, relieved to have been given two so that he could cover himself completely. He hopped up on the table. Goosebumps raised up on the skin of his legs. He didn't have to wait but a few moments before there was a knock on the door. He started a bit at the sudden noise, but composed himself quickly as the door opened, pressed his legs together, pulling the gowns tightly around him for the sake of warmth and modesty. Agent Scully entered the room, wearing a black turtleneck and black pants beneath her white jacket. She was looking down at the chart as she closed the door behind her. "Hello, Mr. Griffin," she said absently, then looked up at Granger. Her eyes immediately widened with surprise. "Agent Granger," she said now by way of greeting, suddenly smooth, calm. Granger still felt badly for initially rattling her. The first thing he noticed was that she looked much more tired than the last time he had seen her. "I'm sorry, Agent Scully," he said, reaching a hand out to her. "I know you weren't expecting to be contacted like this. The task force thought it would be prudent to choose another cover name for me." He could see the fake name typed neatly on a label on the chart she held in her hand. She took his outstretched hand, shook it once stiffly. "That's quite all right," she replied, and attempted a smile, not quite succeeding. "I had wondered why I hadn't seen a George Hale on my schedule. I was worried that I wasn't going to be contacted today after all." "Agent Mulder couldn't be here, so they sent me in his place," Granger said, almost apologetically. He suddenly felt very much *out* of place. "Is there something wrong?" Her brow had knitted at his tone. He hesitated for a beat, saw her tense up as she noticed the awkward silence. "He's not hurt, is he?" "No, no," he said quickly. "He's fine." Now Scully leaned against the counter, tossing the chart onto it as she crossed her arms over her chest. "What's he done?" It was meant as a question, but came out as a resigned statement. "Well," Granger began. "I'm afraid he's been pulled off surveillance." "Why?" she asked instantly. He could hear an angry note entering the even pitch of her voice. Briefly, he retold the events that had transpired at the Grey Mouse. Color rose in her cheeks as he spoke. "Are you sure it was John Fagan that he followed inside?" she asked when he'd finished. She seemed genuinely distressed at the thought. "Mulder thinks so," he replied. "Though he says that he just went to the bathroom and saw him sitting at the bar." "Damn it," Scully said under her breath, looking at the floor and shaking her head. "Of all the people to follow! Fagan's the most suspicious of them all." She blew out a breath, ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face in frustration. "I'm sorry I didn't stop him. I tried to, believe me." He'd been kicking himself since the task force meeting with Mulder for not stopping him from going into the pub. He felt somehow that he should have found a way. "It's not your fault," Scully replied, meeting his eyes. Her tone was frustrated, but also a bit sympathetic. She paused. "He hasn't been pulled off the case completely, has he?" "There was apparently some talk about it, but no, he hasn't," Granger said. "They've got him doing work on the photographs that we've been taking of people going into the Grey Mouse. He's looking for matches with immigration and criminal files." "I see," Scully replied, looking down at the floor. Her voice was quiet, hard to read. But he was watching her reaction closely, reading her body language. She looked as though she had suddenly grown smaller, as though she were carrying a new, very heavy burden. He wondered about the sadness. She and Mulder were even closer, he realized, than he'd originally thought. As if she could see him puzzling her out, she stood, stuffed her hands in the pockets of her coat, suddenly all business. The view of her that she'd given away so briefly slammed shut on him like an iron door. "Well," she said, as if to clear away the previous discussion. "I did need to meet with someone. I've had a major break in the case." "Really?" he replied, his excitement slipping into his voice. He leaned over, looting in his coat for his pocket notebook and pen. He nearly flashed her in the process, and felt his face heat up as he sat back up quickly. He appreciated that she had noticed but had dutifully averted her eyes. ************** ROUTE 3 SPOTSYLVANIA COUNTY, VIRGINIA 10:30 a.m. The battered 26 foot U-Haul rattled its way down the winding country road, stitched like a dark grey scar through the frozen Virginia countryside. John Fagan cracked the driver's side window as he tapped out a cigarette on the steering wheel, pulled it from the pack with his thin, pale lips. "You want a cigarette, Mae?" he asked, offering the pack of Marlboros across the bench seat of the truck's cabin. "You know I've been trying to quit," Mae replied, ignoring the laugh that Fagan barked out at her response. "What’s so funny, then?" "You," he replied, lit the cigarette with the lighter he kept in his inside coat pocket. "You've been smoking as long as I've known. What are you, on some sort of health spree all of a sudden?" "It's a nasty habit, John," she replied peevishly, reaching in her pockets and drawing out her gloves, pulling them on. "And besides, it's too cold out to have the windows open. You're freezing me to death." She watched him ignore her, as usual. He pulled on the cigarette and blew out a grey cloud of smoke. It immediately fled the cabin in a stream out the window. They'd been on the road for about an hour and half, heading deep into the rural areas off Interstate 95, almost halfway to Fredericksburg. She kept seeing historical markers along the roadside, marking just about the entire area as a former Civil War battlefield. She could see them as small gold triangles on the map she had folded neatly on her lap, as well, and used them to mark their progress. "You're going to take left up here at Route 31," she said, her eyes on the map. "Are we getting close at least?" Fagan grumbled. She wasn't surprised at his tone. She'd never known him to be particularly patient. With anyone or anything. "Aye, it's only about 15 more miles once we turn off." She could see the turnoff looming in the distance, marked by flashing yellow lights at the intersection of the two country roads. As they slowed, she gazed out the window. A pair of black and white cows stared back from over a barbed wire fence on the side of the road, their ears pricked forward at the sound of the coughing, loud engine. She looked out over the wide expanse of pastures, the soft hills in the distance, the clusters of trees off in the distance. The view made her somehow sad. "If it was greener here, this would look like home," she murmured wistfully, pushing her long hair behind her ear as Fagan made the turn onto Route 31. He gunned the engine and the truck lurched forward once again. He said nothing, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, trickling smoke into the space between them. "Do you ever miss it?" She didn't know why she was asking John, of all people, such a sentimental question, but she couldn't help herself. "Ireland, I mean." "Nope," he replied simply. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, rolled the window down a bit more and spit out it. "Not at all?" Now he did look at her, a quick hard look out of the corner of his eye before he returned his gaze to road ahead of them. "What would be the point of that?" he replied, his voice gruff. "I just think it's important to remember what it is we're doing this for. To keep in mind where home is." Her voice was quiet, earnest. His indifference bothered her, though she couldn't quite name why. "No point getting your knickers in a wad over missing it," he said, pricking the sincerity of what she'd said with his words. "It's a bigger mess now than it was when we left it to do the work. They can't even remember what they're fighting for over there anymore. Bunch of wankers at the peace table is what I say." "If you have such a low opinion of the place," she asked, surprised and hurt by his words. "Why is it you keep doing the work?" "I believe in your brother's work, that's why. When I look at what Ireland could be I see it as he sees it. No compromises. No fucking apologies or puppet Parliaments or any of the shit that they're talking about over there now. Owen knows how things should be. I keep doing the work for him." He looked at her again, slowing to move around a tractor crawling near the shoulder, its hazards flashing. He swerved around it, kept going. "I'm surprised you have to ask me that, Mae. How is it YOU keep doing the work then?" She avoided his look, returned her eyes out the window, to the morning sunlight streaming over the stubble of the fields. "The same reason as you, I guess," she replied softly. "You ‘guess’?" he parroted, and gave a short, brittle laugh. "That's quite a testimonial, Mae Curran." He was mocking her now, and she knew it was a mistake to say what she had said. Especially to him. Her face reddened. "You know what I think," Fagan continued, his voice feigning a conversational tone as he flicked the cigarette out the window. "I think you've been around Americans too long now." She saw him glance over again, as though appraising her. "You're getting soft, like them." "I've done more for the Cause than you have, John," she snapped. "I've given my whole life to it. You know that." "Yes, you and that American doctor, " he continued, as though she hadn't spoken at all. "I see you two at the pub, tucked back in a corner like a couple of school girls." He tsk tsked her softly. "That's not the Mae I knew of a few years ago. THAT Mae would be in the back room with Owen, doing what needed to be done, not chumming around with her girlfriend, gossiping, dancing with any American bloke who came up to ask her to the floor." "I AM doing what needs to be done," she shot back, angry and more than a little bit ashamed. "Never question that. What do you think I'm doing in this bloody truck with you then?" He laughed at her now, right out loud. "Touchy touchy, Mae," he said, and tsked her again. "Go to hell, John," she said under her breath, which only made him laugh harder, showing his teeth. She flushed even redder. Part of her knew he was right. In the short time that she'd known Katherine, she had gotten very much attached to her, to what she represented more than anything else. She hadn't had a woman friend in years. She couldn't even remember when the last time was that she'd had someone to talk to the way she felt she could talk to Katherine. Though quiet and a bit cagey about her past, Katherine had proven herself to be a good friend. Staying up late with her at the pub, listening to her endless stories with interest and patience. It was more than anyone else had done for her in years. Even Owen. Fagan was still smirking, enjoying having gotten her goat. She narrowed her eyes, shot him a look now. She wanted to knock that look right off his face. "And as for Katherine," she said quietly, dangerously. "You're just pissed off because she won't give you the time of day and you moon over her like bloody dog." That did it. The smile melted off his face instantly. His jaw muscles squeezed his teeth together immediately. She broke into a scornful peal of laughter. "Fuck you, Mae," he replied, and snapped on the truck's blinker hard. Mae laughed at him again. Up ahead on the right was what they had come all this way for -- Taylor's Feed and Seed, a huge sprawling nursery and agricultural supply store. Fagan downshifted, slowed as he maneuvered the truck onto the shoulder, then into the wide driveway. A sign pointed them towards "Bulk Pick-Up." Fagan followed the sign, nosing the truck through the peppering of cars and other trucks in the parking lot. "You know what to say," Fagan said, stopping the truck and opening the door, and it was clear from his voice that he was hanging on to his anger. "Aye, that I do." Mae smiled at his tone as she climbed down from the passenger side. They met in the front of the truck, walked together towards the warehouse-like building. There were two doors -- one on the left marked "Farming Seed" and one on the right marked "Farming Fertilizers." They disappeared into the one on the right, blending in with a group of farmers moving inside, out of the cold. **************** MEDICAL COLLEGE OF VIRGINIA OUTPATIENT CLINIC 12:18 p.m. Scully popped open the microwave, pulled out the steaming cup of soup, then got a spoon out of the dish rack beside the sink in the small Doctor's Lounge. She began to eat hurriedly, not even sitting down as she did so. Only halfway through the day and she was already exhausted. She hoped the soup would help her some. She hadn't worked this hard since her residency, the clinic bringing her and the other three doctors a non-stop stream of patients throughout the day. She was barely keeping up with it, barely able to find time to eat before the next patient was there, waiting for her in one of the examining rooms. She wasn't used to the schedule, and found it exhausting. Not only because of the time it involved -- the consults with other doctors, the scrambling for information on new drug therapies on the Internet, all to catch her up from her years away from medical school -- but because the patients were real people, with real illnesses, and they looked to her with an urgency that she found tiring and unsettling. The quiet geometry of her morgue, the solitude of it, was appealing to her immensely. It was pressure, certainly, but of a different kind. One she was much more comfortable with. She sighed. If she cleared her mind of the clinic's pressures for a moment, she knew the real reason behind the depth of her fatigue -- it was the blow she'd gotten that morning. When she thought about the prospect of not seeing Mulder, possibly for the duration of the assignment, it made her almost physically ache. And coupled with that feeling was a low-grade anger that was gnawing at her, as though she'd swallowed a fist. Anger at him for following Fagan inside the pub, for wanting to take a direct part in the case badly enough to risk blowing the lid off the whole thing. For risking their meetings like that, for making it impossible for him to see her now. She felt her eyes beginning to burn and took another sip of her soup, swallowing the emotions with the salty broth. She knew that wherever he was he now knew what a mistake he'd made. She was just glad he was still on the case at all. The thought of him sitting alone in the basement office in the Hoover Building while she did her work here... But he was still close by. She found at least that thought comforting. One of the nurses appeared in the doorway, catching her attention. "Dr. Black? Your 12:30 is here already. He's in six." "Thank you, Shirley," Scully replied and put down the spoon, sipping the soup straight out of the cup now to save time. She sighed again. Had it been any other patient she was expecting, she most likely would have let him or her wait for a few moments so she could catch her breath. But this wasn't just any patient. And the more time she got to spend with him the better it would be. She had plans that would take some time. Drinking back the rest of the soup quickly, she placed the cup and spoon in the sink, pulling down a paper towel and dabbing at her mouth, then tossed it haphazardly in the trash. She picked up the chart that she'd been reviewing, the folder stuffed full of lab reports. Pushing her hair back behind her ear, she strode from the small room, following the corridor down to Examination Room #6. She knocked twice, heard a small voice from inside the room and opened the door. Danny Conner stood leaning against the table, still in his coat as before. Her physician's eye appraised him quickly, finding the hollows beneath his eyes more pronounced than they had been before, his skin more pale. He was trembling still, perhaps a bit more than he had been when she'd seen him just a few days before. In short, he looked worse. She grew immediately concerned, closing the door behind her. She lay the chart she was carrying down on the countertop, going toward him. "Danny, have you slept yet?" she asked without preamble. Her expression must have given her feelings away more than her words. He looked down as though ashamed. "No, not yet," he replied. His eyes darted along the floor, unable to meet hers. "How about food? Anything?" He simply shook his head to that. She could see tears welling in his eyes again. His emotions were so on edge, so close to the surface. She knew it was the physical strain on his body that must be making him that way. The lack of food and sleep. "Go ahead and take off your coat and sweater," she said gently, putting a hand on his arm and urging him up onto the table. He did as he was told, pushing the peacoat off his thin shoulders, peeling the ragged sweater he wore up and over his head, exposing his bony chest. He smelled as though he hadn’t bathed for a few days, either. She reached for the blood pressure cuff, folded it over his upper arm, then put her stethoscope in her ears. She inflated the cuff in puffs, watching the readout. She released the air with a hiss. "Your pressure is still dangerously high, Danny," she said gravely as she tore the cuff off and returned it to the wall, tugging the stethoscope down to her neck, as well. "Can you do something about it?" he asked, and his voice trembled a bit. She pursed her lips, considering. "I don't want to start you on any medications to lower it until I have a better handle on what this is that you're taking." She returned to the countertop, picked up the folder. "I took that vial you gave me to the lab and I've got a breakdown of what's in your bloodstream." "What did you find?" he asked, and his eyes were very afraid. She scanned the printout, trying to think of the best way to explain it to him. "Basically it's like this: someone is using those drugs I'm getting for Owen Curran and compounding them so that they're changing the chemical components of the drugs themselves." "What does that mean?" he asked, clearly confused. "Well," she said carefully. "In essence, they're making a new drug out of them, one I've never seen before. It still has some of the effects of the original drugs -- like the appetite suppressant, the serotonin-inhibiting factors that will keep you from sleeping -- but it could also be interacting with your body in ways I can't predict." His eyes shot around the room again, a trembling hand coming up to push the mussed hair out of his face. "So you can’t help me," he said softly, and now the tears did come. "No, no," she said, putting a hand on his arm again. "I didn’t say that. I just think we’re going to have to run a lot of tests to make sure we do the right things to help you with this." He looked at her now, seeking the reassurance she tried to convey with her eyes. She smiled gently. "Now you’ve talked about these headaches you’ve had when you tried to stop taking this drug," she said softly. "So the first thing I want to do is take you downstairs and have an MRI done on your brain." She’d already made the appointment for him to go down as soon as she saw his name on her list of patients for the day. She’d told Granger about the MRI, as well. The drug was interacting some way -- physically, chemically, she didn’t know which -- with these people’s brains. The MRI was a way to find out exactly how. "How am I going to pay for something like that?" he asked, stricken. "I don't have any money--" "Don't worry about that," she interrupted. "You're a clinic patient. It's taken care of." She handed him his sweater, gave him another reassuring smile. "I've already made the appointment. They're waiting for us. Go ahead and get dressed." ************* Scully stood in the control room of the MRI suite, just over the technician's shoulder, her arms folded in front of her, her expression grave. Outside the window separating the room from the machine itself, she could see Conner being settled onto the narrow bed of the machine by one of the technicians. She was just finishing helping him put soft plugs in his ears and had settled his head in a small cage-like apparatus designed to hold him still during the procedure. On its front was a microphone, and the room was filled with the sound of Conner's harsh breathing. Scully leaned over, tapped the "talk" button on the two-way system. "Try to relax, Danny," she said gently, but loud enough so that he could hear her with his ears plugged. "It's all right. We're just going to slide you into the machine and run the scan. You'll hear some loud knocking sounds, like a jackhammer. Try to hold very still." "Okay," he called back, his voice trembling. She could see from where she was standing that his legs, bare below the hospital gown he wore, were trembling. "Should we give him a sedative?" the technician asked once she'd released the button. "He's shaking like a leaf." Scully shook her head regretfully. "No, I'm afraid it will affect the scan," she replied. "We'll just have to hope his shaking doesn't." Beside the machine, the technician finished securing his head, handed him a small call button on a cord. "If you start having any problems, just hit that call button," the woman said to him softly. They could hear her in the control room. "The microphone will be turned off during the scan, but if you need us, just hit that and we'll take you right out, okay?" He jerked an awkward nod from inside the cage. "Now try not to move your head at all," she said, and patted his arm, then leaned to the side of the machine and pressed a button. The narrow bed began to move, sliding into the tubular machine slowly. Scully watched him carefully for any signs of panic -- people sometimes became terribly claustrophobic in the machines -- but found none. Once the bed had slid all the way in, when just his feet were showing out the end of the tube, the female technician returned to the control room, and the man behind the controls nodded to her. "I'm going to start the scan," he said, and when she nodded her assent, he tapped the controls. The machine whirred to life, thumping loudly from the other room. She saw Conner's feet twitch with the onset of the noise. After a few moments, the technician nodded. "All right," he said. "We're going to go for the first pass." "Go ahead," Scully said, and focused her gaze on the readout screen. The ratcheting sound began in earnest now. In a few moments, the screen began to glow, the shape of Conner's head and brain lighting up the screen in colors. Scully watched the form take shape. And leaned forward, her breath catching. The technician leaned forward as well, checking the resolution on the machine, refining the image. "What the hell?" he said softly. The readout resolved with even more detail as the scan continued its pass. Scully's mouth dropped open as she moved her face closer to the screen, her eyes widening. Her voice, when she spoke, was a hoarse whisper. "Oh my God...." **************** MEDICAL COLLEGE OF VIRGINIA HOSPITAL 2:28 p.m. The world above him was like a film, a strobe of light and dark. Around him, the echo of wheels, the sharp tapping of heeled shoes, the occasional blurt of conversation of people that blurred out the corner of his eye in streams of colors. And the sound of his breathing, hoarse and loud and fast. He could feel his chest heaving with it. The brightness began to hurt his eyes, sharp white light stabbing at him from the lamps suspended from the ceiling. The lights scrolled overhead. From the rate at which he passed under them and into the relative dimness that followed, he could tell he was moving quickly. Craning his neck up, he saw the expressionless face of an orderly whose arms bracketed his head and view. "Hey," he called, and the man did not look down, or acknowledge him in any other way. He repeated the call. Nothing. He looked down toward his feet, saw another man off to his right. The man's arm was on the railings of the gurney he was lying on, guiding it down what looked to be a hallway with no end. A black line bisected the floor into the distance. The man had likewise ignored his call. Maybe he was dreaming again. Maybe it was all a dream. "What is it, Danny?" He turned his head slowly in the direction of the sound, saw a hand wrapped around the railing right near his shoulder. Prim, well- manicured nails. A woman's hand. He followed the hand up, the white sleeve of a lab coat, red hair, blue eyes looking down at him. Worry there. She looked familiar but he couldn't quite place her. "What's happening to me?" His mouth was dry. The light hurt his eyes so much. He put a hand up, shielding them. "You're okay," the woman said. "You blacked out inside the MRI machine. We're taking you up to a room. We talked about this a few minutes ago, Danny. Do you remember?" He shook his head dumbly, thinking. Wait, yes. He remembered being inside the machine. A curve of white marred by the bars of something in front of his face. It was like being inside a coffin. And that noise, deafening pounding, like a hundred fists all around him. He looked up into the face of the woman again. Dr. Black. Her name was Dr. Black. "I have to go," he said suddenly. "I have to get out of here...." He reached out, grasped the bars on either side of him, pulling his head off the pillow. She reached down and put a hand on his forehead, gently but firmly pushing him back down onto the pillow. "Just relax, Danny. Try to relax." She kept her hand there for a moment. Her hand was cool to the touch. "No, you don't understand...." He could feel the familiar sting of tears in his eyes, the emotion crawling up his throat, making his voice sound shrill, even to his own ears. "I have to go home..." The view spiraled and he choked down a throat full of bile, his head swimming. They'd turned a corner. There were more people around now, on all sides of him. The stretcher pulled up short. He gripped the railings even tighter to halt the sudden sensation of falling. "Just relax, Danny," Dr. Black was saying. He could feel his breath coming in and out of his throat like fire. People around him now. An elevator at his feet. He swung his head from side to side, looking at the faces. A woman stared down from beside Dr. Black, an old woman holding onto the pole of an IV stand. He met her eyes. They were shocked eyes, looking down at him. On the other side, a doctor in surgical scrubs, his face craggy. Wax-like. He turned back to the woman. Her face began to dissolve in front of his eyes, melting. Her eyes grew in their sockets. Her mouth disappeared. "Wha--" He looked up at Dr. Black. She looked normal, worried lines forming on her forehead. The world was a haze behind her. His breath rasped, faster, hyperventilating... "Danny, what is it?" He turned to the doctor on the other side. His face was the same as the woman's. All eyes. No mouth. The same with the orderly above him, huge black orbs staring down.... "Danny!" He clenched his eyes closed and began to scream. *********** In her mind, Scully could still hear the screaming. She reached up, put a hand over her mouth as she stood outside the Critical Care Unit room, watching her patient through the glass wall that separated them. A nurse was trying to insert an IV into the back of Danny's hand. One of the orderlies was having to hold his trembling arm steady, despite the heavy restraints she'd ordered him to be placed in. It took the nurse several tries to get the needle set. She hung the saline drip on a hook beside the bed as she finished, adjusting the flow. Danny was still trembling, even with the massive dose of thorazine Scully had given him as soon as she could get her hands on it after they'd arrived on the floor. He was conscious, as well, his face turned towards the heart monitor, apparently mesmerized by the jump of the red line across the screen. He seemed to be trying to ignore the nurse, the orderly. He avoided looking at their faces. She could only imagine what it was that he saw when he looked at them. Whatever it was, it had terrified him enough to send him scrambling from the gurney, fists swinging, screaming shrilly for everyone to get away from him. She'd caught the blow on the cheek and at the corner of her eye. It was already beginning to swell, a slight pulse of pain when she blinked. She touched it with her fingers self-consciously. As the orderly and the nurse exited the room, Scully took a deep breath, blew it out, steeling herself as the orderly stopped in front of her. "You want me to stick around, Doc?" he asked. "Just in case?" "No, no, it will be fine," she said with conviction she didn't feel. "Thank you for all your help." It was this man who had wrestled Danny back onto the stretcher, pinning him there with his superior strength and weight until they could make it up to the unit. He had a cut on his swollen bottom lip. "All right, then," he said kindly. "Take care of that eye." And with that, he was gone. Taking in another breath, she entered the glass-enclosed small room, wishing there was a door to close behind her for the sake of Danny's privacy. He was not taking all of the exposure, all of the attention of the medical staff well at all. "How are you feeling?" she asked softly as she stood at the foot of the bed. He turned his face towards her, away from the machines that sent his heartbeat ticking off in the room in eerie beeps. He seemed relieved as he looked at her face, his lower lip trembling. "I have to get out of here," he said quietly, his voice cracking. "I can't stay here. You don't understand..." She put a hand out, silencing him. "Danny, you blacked out in the MRI machine and you've just had a major psychotic episode. You're going to have to stay here for a little while." She hesitated. "Plus that, I would want you to stay anyway after what we found on the scan." Something in her tone made him pause, though he still had the "fight or flight" instinct in his eyes. "What did you find then?" He seemed afraid but somehow resigned as well. She took a step closer, now next to the bed. "Let me begin by saying I'm not entirely certain of everything I have to say to you. I've never seen anything like this before, so I'm making the best conclusions I can based on the findings at hand." "I understand," he said softly. She looked down, then up into his frightened eyes again. When she spoke, she did so slowly. "It appears that something in the drug you're taking is collecting in the fatty tissues of your brain and being stored there. It shows up on the scan as a plaque-like, chemically active residue on about 85% of the surfaces in your brain." "A residue?" "Yes," she replied quietly, her tone deathly serious. "It's occluding the blood flow in your brain and causing swelling in an area of your brain called the hypothalamus, where a substance called serotonin is produced. This isn't surprising since the drugs that I wrote out for Mr. Curran all affect serotonin production in the brain. The drug seems to be going right to the source, affecting the brain structurally in that area in addition to collecting in the tissues surrounding it." "‘Occluding the blood flow?'" he asked, his brow creased in confusion. "I don't understand what you're saying to me." She took a breath, tried again. "The drug's residue is partially cutting off the blood flow to some parts of your brain. I'm assuming this is why you're exhibiting so many neurological symptoms, like your shaking." "But you can cure all this, right?" His eyes were hopeful, though they were again awash in tears. For the first time in her life, Scully was completely sure she had made the right choice in being a pathologist rather than a doctor. Danny was her first real patient. Knowing how much in the dark she was about what to do about his condition, and seeing the trust that he had in her to repair the damage caused by it....the juxtaposition of the two was too difficult to tolerate. "I have a theory," she said, keeping her voice level, promising nothing. "But first I need to ask you. You said that people had died." "Yes," he replied softly. "Two people from the group here in Richmond already." "How did they die? Do you know?" She knew the answer already, of course, but wanted to know what Danny knew of it. "I don't know exactly," he replied. "They just disappeared, both of them." So he didn't know the method, she thought, pursing her lips. That was probably a very good thing, for his sake. "What did Mr. Curran say about it?" She had earned his trust at this point -- she felt it was worth risking more by asking more. "He said that they had decided not to be in the group anymore, and that he didn't know what happened to them after they left his ‘protection.' We all knew what he meant by that, though -- we all knew he had them killed." He looked at her sadly. "Nobody just leaves the Path." She nodded. Given what she'd seen, what she knew of these deaths, she knew this was true. She looked at Danny solemnly. "The drug must be what killed those people, Danny," she said. "Mr. Curran is using it somehow to do this. I don't know if he's forcing an overdose or if being on it for too long a period of time causes it. But I'm not willing to risk that second option with you." She paused. "You're going to try and get me off the drug right away, aren't you?" He was, once again, very afraid. "Yes. I want to begin this afternoon. I want to monitor your blood work and send you downstairs for MRIs every hour or so to see how your body responds to the withdrawal. I want to try to contain the withdrawal symptoms as you go through them. The key right now is to get you off of this completely so that no more damage can be done to your brain." He shook his head, the words coming out of him in a rush. "I can't stay here. I can't go missing for that long a period of time. I'm not even supposed to be seeing you about this at all. You don't understand how Owen and the others are." "Danny," she said firmly, "You don't have a choice. Unless something is done about the presence of this drug in your brain you are going to die. The blood flow in your brain will become so blocked you'll have a massive stroke and die." He fell silent immediately. She blew out a frustrated breath, hating to have to put it to him so bluntly. But she had to reach him somehow with how serious all this was. "All right," he murmured softly, the tears streaming down his temples. "I'll stay for tonight. But I have to be out of here one way or another by noon tomorrow. If I go missing any longer than that, if I miss a meeting I'm supposed to be at tomorrow afternoon..." He looked at her sadly. "It won't matter what the drug does to me." She nodded, looked down again, accepting what he said grimly. "All right." There was a beat of silence between them. "Hey," he said gently into the quiet, and raised his hand as far as he could inside the restraint, pointing to her face. "I'm sorry I hit you. I didn't mean to hit you. Sometimes I get these dreams, you know? I can't help myself." She touched the swollen spot again, forced a smile. "It's okay. Just a bump. Nothing to worry about." A labtech entered the room, carrying a box of tubes and needles. Scully nodded to her and the woman placed the box on the table beside Danny's bed, began pulling out the equipment she needed to draw his blood. "We're going to start off with a baseline, Danny. How long has it been since your last dosage?" He considered for a moment. "About two hours before I came in to see you," he replied. "So about 10 a.m." He nodded. "I suppose so." "And I assume you have more with you? In your clothes downstairs? Just in case?" He nodded again. "Four doses." "All right, then," Scully replied. "I'm going to start a flow sheet. We'll monitor what happens in your bloodstream as the day progresses. I want you to let me know of any changes in how you feel, all right? Anything at all. No matter how small." The labtech was tying a rubber tourniquet to his arm, swiping the well tracked inside of his arm with alcohol. "I'm going to start with a drug to bring your blood pressure down," Scully continued, going back to the foot of the bed. "I'm going to go write the order and then I'll be back with you, all right?" Danny didn't even seem to notice as the woman slid the needle into his vein, the glass tube gurgling full with blood. "I won't go anywhere," he said, and a small smile came to his lips. She smiled back, left the room, and the smile faded away, a heavy feeling settling over her. They had a long, very uncertain day and night ahead of them. ********** THE FAN DISTRICT 3:59 p.m. Mulder snapped on his turn signal, nosed the government-issue dark sedan into the flow of traffic down Hanover Street, heading deeper into the close, historic area on the outskirts of the high rises of the city. Beside him, Granger sat silent, glancing over from time to time, his expression clearly concerned and more than a little perplexed. Mulder only paid him the slightest bit of mind, his emotions simmering. He had really wanted to go out alone, nursing his loneliness and his disappointment and the worry he carried around like an iron chain, a chain that had had about a hundred links added to it with the report Granger had given Padden and the rest of the suits. But there was another part of him that wanted Granger with him. He was his closest link to Scully, and there were gaps in the information Granger had given the task force that Mulder wanted filled in, answers that only Granger could give him. Plus that, he had something he needed Granger's help with, something he didn't feel comfortable talking about at the hotel with everyone else around him. This was the best way to handle it. "So where are we going to eat?" Granger asked, his tone forced casual. "I can't remember what it's called," Mulder replied, monotone, his eyes on the road ahead of him. He wasn't even looking at the houses, the small restaurants they passed; he was simply driving for the sake of driving for the moment. "I'll find it eventually." Granger looked away, out the car window. Mulder watched him out of the corner of his eye. It took about five more minutes for Granger to begin to squirm visibly. Finally, he blew out a breath, put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Look, I can tell you're pissed off," Granger said finally, shifting in his seat again. "If you're going to tear into me, go ahead and do it." "I'm not pissed off at you, Granger," Mulder replied quietly. "Then what is it? You've been like a statue since we left the meeting with Padden. I mean, come on, it's a major break in the case, the potential for Scully to blow the lid off this whole thing. Everyone was pleased with the report. More than pleased. Everyone but you." Mulder saw a turn coming up, edged over and took a right down the small side street. He was looking for a place he'd passed the other night on a run through this part of town, a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant and tavern that had looked inviting. "Granger, let me ask you something," Mulder began. "Don't you see it as a little convenient that this guy just appears suddenly at the clinic for Scully to examine?" Mulder maneuvered the car slowly down the narrow street. Most of the streets in this part of town had been build for carriages, and the sedan was pressing close to the parked cars on both sides. He continued, his eyes glued on the car's clearance. "I mean, potentially. Don't you think there's an outside possibility this could be something Curran's doing to set Scully up?" "She thought you'd be worried about that," Granger replied gently. "She said she thought he was legitimate. She said he seemed too scared not to be." Mulder nodded. Padden hadn't even seemed to care about this possibility. He was just happy that the lead had come up, so there had been little other discussion about what this Danny Conner could represent. It had stuck in Mulder's craw, Padden's lack of concern about Scully's welfare. "Yeah, come to think of it, I noticed that Padden didn't seem too worried that the guy could be a plant." Mulder looked over at Granger now, surprised. Granger looked back, a serious expression on his face. "That's what you're thinking, isn't it?" Granger asked. "That's what's got you upset. That Padden didn't seem to care." Mulder looked out the window, away from Granger, concerned about being so transparent. He locked his facial expression into an unreadable mask. "That's something that concerned me, yes," he replied flatly. "I think the possibilities of what she could learn from him outweigh the risk. I think Scully would agree with that, too. That seemed to be her attitude when I spoke with her." Granger kept his eyes on him, and Mulder could tell he was trying to be reassuring. Mulder nodded again. "Yeah, she would think that," he said, and perked up as he saw the restaurant coming up on the left, tucked between a series of old Victorian houses. A neon sign announced "Joe's Inn" into the gathering gloom. He saw a space up on the right and pulled up to it, backing up and sloppily parallel parking, ending up with one wheel up on the curb. "This place looked good the other night," he said, turning the car off. Granger looked at it suspiciously, hesitating. "Don't worry, Granger," Mulder grumbled. "I'm sure they have something without meat in it." They exited the car, Mulder pulling his coat tightly around him. The night would be a very cold one. They entered the small restaurant, which was just barely brighter than it had been outside. There were wooden booths set into the wall down one side, a long bar on the other side. The ceiling was pressed tin, the wood dark and oiled throughout the place. Mulder pointed to an empty booth and the bartender, a young woman in a sweatshirt, nodded. "Go ahead and seat yourself," she called. "Someone will be right with you." They slid into one of the booths, the menus already at the table, tucked up against the wall. Mulder noted that the place's specialty seemed to be spaghetti, which suited him just fine. Granger was perusing the menu, and Mulder found himself looking at him over his own menu, picturing him with Scully that morning. He found himself thinking small, random thoughts. LIke he wondered what she'd been wearing. "So," he said into the quiet between them. "How did she seem? All right?" Granger looked up as the waitress appeared. "She seemed okay." "What can I get you gents to drink?" she asked. She didn't have anything to write on. "A Rolling Rock," Mulder replied, and got a look from Granger. They were technically still on duty, Mulder knew, but he didn't really care at the moment. "And you?" The waitress looked at Granger expectantly. "Um...." Mulder watched him warring with himself, his eyes on the menu. "I'll have...the same thing." "Coming right up." She went to the bar, ordered the beers. Granger was watching her go. "Just okay?" Mulder asked, returning his eyes to the menu. "What?" Granger asked. "Scully," Mulder replied. "She just seemed okay?" Granger looked a little confused for a moment, as though he were groping for the right words. "Um...yeah. She looked pretty tired. But she seemed all right." Mulder nodded, his worry prickling him a little bit with the words. She'd seemed so tired when he last saw her. He wondered if she was getting any rest at all, and it concerned him. "I guess...." Mulder hesitated, closed the menu, forcing a little smile. "I guess she was pretty pissed at me." Granger gave him a lopsided smile back. "You could say that, yes." he replied. "But she seemed relieved that you at least weren't off the case." Mulder nodded, as though they were discussing the weather, not the most important person in his life. He felt that he'd given too much away to Granger already today, and wanted to keep his feelings as under wraps as he could. He decided not to push it any further. The waitress brought the beers, setting them down on bar napkins without glasses. Both he and Granger ordered a spaghetti, one dish called "Spaghetti a la Joe" and one called "Spaghetti Albert." Then the waitress left them alone again. Mulder shifted in his seat, shifting the conversation, as well. "Tell me something, Granger," he began. Granger took a pull from his beer and looked at Mulder questioningly. "Did you get to look at any of the information on Curran before I came on the case?" Granger seemed puzzled. "No. They gave me the information at about the same time they gave it to you," he replied. "Why?" "Have you noticed," Mulder said, sipping from his own beer. "That there's nothing in there at all about Sean's mother? Curran's wife or lover?" "Yeah, I did notice that," Granger said, leaning on the table on his elbows. "I've wondered about that. I mean, we don't exactly have what I'd call complete information on him, but it seems like there would be some mention of her in the records somewhere. Or some photos of him with her, or something." Mulder smiled a little. Sometimes he found he actually almost liked Granger. Despite himself, he mused. "My thinking exactly," was what he said aloud. "I think someone must know something about her. Someone at Scotland Yard or M16 or at Immigration either here or in Britain." Granger nodded. "It would seem if she was around him long enough to have a child with him that there would be some record of her, yes. Sean's birth certificate, perhaps. But why are you interested in her? What's so important about her?" "That's what I'm wondering," Mulder said. "I'm not sure, but one of two things is true here. She's either so incidental in Curran's life that she's beneath mention to the task force, or there's something about her important enough for the task force to suppress." He took another swig of his beer. "I'm not sure which it is." Granger seemed to consider for a moment. "I guess you're right about it being one of those two possibilities," he said. Mulder sat back, rubbing absently at the condensation on his beer bottle with his finger. He looked at Granger with a glint in his eye. "It might be nothing, but how would you like to help me find out which one of those possibilities it is?" Across the table, Granger looked concerned. "But if it's something they're suppressing about her, then it's something we're not supposed to know." "Right. And how the hell are we supposed to do a complete profile without personal information like that?" Granger shifted a little uncomfortably. "Well, I guess that's true," he said. "But won't we get in trouble if we go digging somewhere we're not supposed to be like that?" Mulder smiled. "Probably." Granger hesitated a beat, then shook his head, a small laugh coming. "You're committed to getting my ass in a sling on this assignment, aren't you?" "I just want to find out the truth, Granger," Mulder replied, still smiling. "If I get your ass in a sling along the way, that's just gravy." And Granger laughed again. ********* 2601 PARK AVENUE 6:39 p.m. John Fagan pulled up outside the huge brownstone building, stepping out onto the frigid street. A light wind was coming down from the cobalt sky, caressing the trees and sending the bare branches rubbing against each other with a comforting sound. He ignored it, pulling his coat up around his chin with his gloved hands. There was a short stairwell leading down to a small door on the side of the building, an apartment door lit by a bare bulb in an ancient fixture. Taking the steps down, he rapped smartly on the door, his breath billowing out in front of his face. He heard commotion inside, someone coughing. Then the door opened. "Ian," John grunted by way of greeting, looking into the dim apartment beyond. From the door he could see the mattresses and blankets spread out on the floor, the dim light of a television playing against the wall. "John," the young man replied. "Do you want to come in then? It's cold as a well digger's tail out there." "No, I can't stay," John replied, as if he'd want to enter the squalor of the apartment. "I've just come to fetch Danny for Owen. He needs him tonight for an errand." "He's not here," Ian replied, his voice lilting a bit with concern. "He's not been home all day." "You haven't seen him at all?" "Aye, I saw him this morning, but not since. He went out about eleven and hasn't been back." The young man shivered in the door. "Where did he go this morning?" Fagan asked sharply, anger and impatience creeping into his voice. "He just said he was going out. He didn't say where." Ian squinted against the bright light of the bulb. It was clear Fagan's tone made him nervous. "You sure you won't come in, John? Have a smoke?" Fagan shook his head. "No. I'm off to find Jimmy then. But you tell Danny when he gets in I want a phone call. The instant he arrives." "Aye, I'll do just that," Ian replied, nodding vigorously. Fagan turned and left without another word, Ian closing the door behind him. He stalked off into the street, back to the car. Climbing into the driver's seat, he started the car, moved slowly off into the deserted street. He was, by nature, a suspicious man. It was what he got paid for. And he was earning his money as he drove away into the night. ********** HOLLYWOOD CEMETERY JANUARY 11 3:32 p.m. She was a lone figure in black, sheltered beneath a black umbrella, walking slowly up the steep rise of the narrow road towards the overlook of the James River. The nearly frozen rain fell over the Civil War-era cemetery, putting a light glaze onto the faces of the majestic angels that capped several of the graves in this, the oldest part of the cemetery. Scully watched the face of one of them as she passed, its face turned up, its smooth eyes staring away from her to something beyond the cloudy sky. Its wings curved around its shoulders as if for warmth, frozen in stained white stone that was pitted with age. The cab had dropped her off at the iron-gated entrance, as though the driver was himself superstitious about entering. From the cab window, Scully looked down the hill that marked the entrance to the vast grounds, saw her first glimpse of the blankets of shade cast by the huge holly trees that were the cemetery's namesake. Scully hadn't protested that the man hadn't driven her in; she knew she could find a map at the office just inside the gate and that the mausoleum would be clearly marked on it. Besides, she was there well before the appointed time to meet. Plus, the nearly sleepless night at the hospital had left her feeling cramped and buzzing with exhausted, nervous energy. The walk through the beautiful, quiet grounds would do her good, even with the rain. The woman at the desk had even gone so far as to draw her a route through the maze of roads that wound through the cemetery's various sections, the red marker line stopping at the highest point of the grounds. Scully had blushed as the woman stared at her face. She couldn't blame her -- she knew how bad she looked, her right eye nearly swollen shut at the corner from the blow Danny had dealt her the previous afternoon, the plum-sized bruise an angry blue rimmed with red. She found herself reaching up and touching it as she walked, covering it with her black-gloved hand as though she meant to wipe it away. As she would wipe away the past day if she could. Gripping the umbrella tighter, she breathed a billow of warm vapor that lingered for an instant in front of her face. She shivered inside her long coat, pulled it closer around her with the hand inside her pocket. The map crinkled there softly, memorized and now unheeded. She passed another series of headstones, one of them a child angel asleep on top of a white marble slab. It struck her in a strange-off centered way, the face reminding her suddenly of Danny's as he'd lain, drowsing, last night in the hospital, almost as white as the sheets beneath him. She'd watched him from the window outside his room, his eyelids fluttering like wings as his body fought off the exhaustion that crashed into him as the drug receded from his bloodstream. He mumbled softly to himself as his head turned slowly on the pillow in the closest thing to sleep he'd had in weeks. She'd taken his sleepiness as a good sign, as she'd taken the drug's concentration dropping off on the hourly lab reports. Her relief had been short lived, however. By eight that evening, around the time she was hurriedly eating a sandwich brought by one of the nurses from the hospital's closing cafeteria, things with Danny began to take a strange turn. First he reported the beginnings of a headache, and color began to rise in his cheeks. Over the course of the next hour, his trembling increased, until it appeared the he was shivering from intense cold. Even his breath shook as he drew in sharp, short pants of air. At a little after 9:30, she'd taken him down early for his MRI as the headache grew gradually worse. She noted as they removed his restraints to take him down to the machine that he had grown weaker, his movements sluggish. He'd brought his arms up to cover his face as they loaded him onto the stretcher, as though he were fending off a rain of blows, quiet sobs wracking him. He had not acknowledged her in any way as she'd accompanied him down to the MRI suite, though she'd spoken softly to him the whole way, murmuring hopeful assurances. Grimly, Scully had watched the scan appear on the screen before her. The chemical residue in his brain had grown more active, glowing in vibrant gold and orange on the readout. It now covered more than 90% of his brain and appeared to be continuing to spread. When she'd returned him to his room after the scan, there had been no need to put him back in restraints. He was too weak now to be any sort of threat to anyone. She'd had to hold the cup of water for him when he'd begged for something to drink. His body, which had been warring against the Edecrin she'd been giving him to lower his blood pressure, began to win the battle after eleven. His blood pressure soared, his face flushing a deep red. She switched him to another drug, a stronger one, but it had no effect at all. At around 11:45, his nose began to bleed, first from one nostril, then, a few minutes later, from the other, as well. Scully and Ann, one of the night nurses, put on gloves and cleaned it away, plugging his nose with gauze, pinching the bridge to try and staunch the bleeding. Despite their efforts, the blood soaked through the gauze quickly, ended up in a narrow, thickening stream down the side of his face and onto the white pillowcase. Every fifteen minutes or so Scully came in with a small basin of water and a stack of gauze pads and mopped at it, feeling helpless to do much else. As she wiped at his face, his eyes stared at a spot just over her shoulder, his mouth moving as though he were speaking silently to someone she couldn't see. The gauze rasped on his week's worth of beard. She'd watched his face, frowning, wondering who it was he was talking to, what was going on in his mind. She'd reached the center of the cemetery now, the rain still falling steadily. Following the curve of the road around, she passed by the grave of Jefferson Davis, the president of the Confederacy, and his family. Tiny tombstones fanned out around a central statue of Davis facing the city, all clearly the graves of infants. She paused for a moment next to one that was simply marked "Daughter." She remembered another time when she'd kept a vigil at a hospital, helpless. And at this time of year, as well. Emily in the hospital in San Diego, the way her small body had felt, hot as fire, as Scully lay next to her deep into the night. Until her daughter had finally, silently, slipped away. Scully blinked back the frustrated tears and pushed the thought down. She kept walking. He would be here by now and she didn't want to keep him waiting. Ann had come in just after midnight to hang another bag of saline to keep Danny hydrated. Scully stood in the doorway, her eyes shifting between Danny and the bag that held his clothes beside the bed. The vials of drugs were there somewhere. She hung onto that knowledge desperately. On her way out, Ann paused beside Scully. "If you won't mind me saying so..." Ann had begun hesitantly. "I know," Scully replied quietly, halting what she knew Ann was going to say. Ann was in her mid-fifties, a seasoned Critical Care nurse and just old enough to act slightly maternal towards her. Scully found her behavior simultaneously endearing and annoying. It was Ann who had fetched her the sandwich for dinner. And Scully did know. Danny was suffering terribly. She was close to giving up. Ann nodded and left the room without another word. The image of Mary Rutherford's body had begun to occupy Scully's thoughts, the reports from the scene of her death -- the terrible pain she'd been in, the bleeding. She looked at Danny now, saw the flush on his cheeks, his chest rising and falling unevenly, his breath dry in his throat, stentorious. She'd decided to wait until the next MRI, only fifteen minutes away. Then she would make her decision about what to do. As she stood there, Danny had roused from the distant place where he'd been, his head turning slowly on the pillow until he faced her. His hand rose up weakly, urging her forward. "Come here," he said softly. "Come here. I want to tell you something." It was the first lucid reaction she'd had from him in at least an hour, and she was relieved. She came forward, stood next to the bed and leaned over him. "What is it, Danny?" she asked, the heartbeat monitor skipping quickly behind her, the only sound in the room besides his breathing. His eyes lolled, then looked behind her once again, suddenly intent, staring at a spot just over her shoulder. She found herself looking over her shoulder, as well, just to make sure something wasn't there. She swallowed nervously as she returned her gaze to him. "What is it?" she repeated softly. "What do you see?" His eyes focused on her again, his hand coming up. His fingers held the sleeve of her coat lightly, his eyes very serious and intense on hers. "There are two worlds," he whispered. Her brows squinted down in confusion. "‘Two worlds?'" she asked, her puzzlement evident in her voice. He swallowed with effort, his eyes closing for a beat. Then he opened them and stared into her eyes again. "There are two worlds," he repeated quietly, regaining his voice. "This world...the one that you and I live in here... and another world. A...secret world." "I'm sorry, Danny, I don't understand what you're saying to me." She remembered shaking her head, trying to make sense of it. To Danny, it seemed very important, so she'd wanted to understand him. "It exists..." he began, the words coming haltingly as he groped for them. "...in the same place and time as the world we live in...but it's different. Anything can happen there." He swallowed, his throat clearly dry, then continued. "I see things from it. Glimpses of it. People and things and sounds... Everyone lives in it, too. They just don't know it. It's all around us..." He'd stopped then, nodding as he gazed at her seriously. "You...you have a secret. A secret world." She'd frozen then. Was there some way he knew about her cover? Had she given something away? She held her breath for a few seconds, her eyes widening. "What do you mean?" she asked finally, forcing her voice to be calm and level. "Everyone has one..." he continued, his eyes rolling back and then focussing again. "A part of their life they keep hidden from everyone...a place where memories are real. For me, they come alive..." She'd let out a breath, relief breaking over her. He was hallucinating, that was all. "I need some water..." Danny breathed, tears coming to his eyes. A fresh line of blood had found its way down the side of his face from his nose. "Please..." She poured him a cup from the bedside table, placed the straw back in it and leaned over to hold it close to his mouth. He drank slowly, taking breaths between each swallow. Though she knew she should dismiss what he'd said as being irrational, she stood there and considered it as he drank. Some part of what he'd said struck something in her. She'd found herself thinking suddenly of Emily, of the apparition of her that had appeared on Afton Mountain the year before. She had been as clear to her senses as Danny was now. It was as though something -- the pain she'd been in, her closeness to death -- had allowed her to punch a hole right into the world he spoke of. A world just out of view of this one. She then thought about her life with Mulder, how they had to keep their relationship a secret from almost everyone in their lives. When she was with him, in that space they'd created just for them, it did feel sometimes like a separate world. Danny had shaken his head, breaking her from her thoughts. His eyes clenched closed. "No..." he'd said, his head turning away from her on the pillow. "My head hurts so bad...it's bursting my ears..." "I'm taking you down for another MRI in just a minute, Danny," she'd replied, fresh worry washing over her. "Then we'll decide what to do." He looked at her earnestly, the tears flowing freely down his flushed face. "I need....I need you to help me..." Again she caught her breath, the vision of Mary Rutherford's body coming into her mind again, the image of the still form on the table, the sheet draped over her almost blue in the morgue's otherworldly light. She remembered the words she'd said aloud, in answer to Rutherford's own plea from the police reports. She looked down at Danny, stricken. She put a hand on his forehead, and she said the words again. "I'll help you." The bag of his clothes was right next to the bed. One way or the other, she would fulfill that promise. The rain was falling more heavily as she made her way along the road that overlooked the rapids of the James, the water turned white as it rushed over the rocky bottom, around the lip of Belle Isle visible on the other side. A coal train came into view, pulling over a hundred coal cars. She watched them go, black on gold on black. The sound of the wheels on the tracks was soothing in the damp air. The roof of the mausoleum was in view now, just over the rise. To her right, a field of headstones spread across the ground as far as she could see, a garden of white stone across the barren ground. Every once in a while the bleak view was broken by a spray of flowers, the deep green of boxwoods. Angels jutted from the ground here and there, as though seeking escape from the earth, into the grey sky above her. The next MRI, at around 12:30, showed the drug had completely taken over his brain and become more chemically active, the readout glowing an angry red. She knew what would happen next, though she did not know precisely how. It didn't matter that she know at that point. When she took him back to the room, the latest lab reports were waiting for her. The levels of the drug had begun to rise as the collected residue came out of the tissues and recirculated through his body. This explained his continued hallucinations. He'd lain quietly as she explained it all to him, both of them exhausted and resigned. "I'm going to give you a dose of the drug, Danny," she said at a little after one. "No...." he breathed, his hand going to his head instantly, as though speaking had shot something through his head. He whimpered, his breath choking on a sob. She reached out and gripped his arm. "Danny, you're dying. We're going to have to go back to square one and find another way to do this." She let him cry for a moment, his hand going now to her forearm, gripping as hard he could, his arm shaking with the effort. "There's so many of us..." he whispered finally. "So many of my friends like me....almost all of us..." She grimaced at the thought of a whole group of people suffering like this. And perhaps more to come. Sensing the opening, she swallowed and looked at Danny grimly. "Danny," she began carefully. "Is Curran manufacturing this drug as a weapon? Using you all as guinea pigs for something he intends to use in some other way? On more people?" Danny had shaken his head, his eyes lolling again. He was having trouble focussing on her again. "No..." he whispered finally. "It's just us...just the people in The Path..." "But WHY?" Scully asked, her horror over the thought of intentionally exposing people to this making her voice angry, urgent. "Why would he do this to you?" "People..." He held his head again, releasing her arm. "People have been leaving...going back to the IRA, to Ireland..." He closed his eyes, his brow creasing in pain. "I think it's because....because he needs us. Needs us to be...loyal...to stay. Because of the bomb." She could still feel the chill that had run through her at those words. "What bomb?" she whispered. His eyes shot open at her words, as though he hadn't realized what he said and she was the one bringing the subject up. He shook his head desperately, clearly realizing his misstep. "No, no, I shouldn't have said that...not to you..." At that point he had begun to cry again. "I didn't want you...to be involved..." He turned his face towards the wall. His face flushed crimson, alarming her. She couldn't wait any longer. At 1:16, she injected one of the doses from his jacket into the port of his IV, praying that she hadn't waited too long. She would never know how close they had come. But somehow, he had survived the night. After two more MRIs, both showing the residue losing its strength in his brain, becoming less active, she'd felt safe enough to go to the Doctor's Lounge at the end of the hallway and steal an hour of sleep just before dawn. She reached the mausoleum, an elegant building in white marble with open, iron gates at the arched entrance. A car was parked in front of it, a black, empty sedan beaded with rain. Puffing out a tired breath, she turned and entered the building, closing her dripping umbrella as she did so. There was another entrance at the other end of the small structure, stained glass windows on either side. She could tell the view of the river was lovely, even from where she stood. Dim light came in through the doorways, shining on the black stone floor. Closer to the other entrance, two marble benches were set into the floor. On one, Walter Skinner sat, though he rose as she entered. She was very relieved to see him, to see a familiar face. On the other was Bob Padden, huddled into a black trench, a dark hat on his head. He did not stand as she came forward. "Agent Scully," he greeted somewhat flatly, nodding, but not looking at her. "I must say when the phone rang in the hotel this morning, you were the last person I expected it to be." She sighed, suitably chastised. She'd expected this reaction from him. "I'm sorry, sir," she replied, her tone tired but formal. "I know it's very irregular for me to contact you directly, but I felt the situation warranted it." Skinner had reached her where she stood now, his face concerned as he took in her appearance. She reached up and touched the bruise, shaking her head. "It's nothing," she murmured, so only he could hear her. He was unconvinced, his jaw muscles working. He stepped aside, though, and gestured her forward, toward Padden. She walked to the empty bench across from Padden, sat, drawing her coat around her legs for warmth. She shivered a bit. The mausoleum, being open, was very cold. Skinner took up a place to Padden's right, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his expression still creased and worried. Now Padden did look at her, his head cocking a bit as he did, though he said nothing about her eye. "I'm sorry for the morbid nature of the meeting place," he said, nodding to the room around him. "But I thought this would be one of the places where it would be most unlikely that we'd be seen." Scully nodded in acknowledgement, and he continued. "Now what have you got that was so important that it couldn't wait for you to go through proper channels?" She looked down, wishing he'd drop it. She was here now and there was nothing to be done about it. When she looked back up him, her eyes met the challenge in his tone. "For starters, I've discovered the use and method of the compound involved in the deaths of the Path members, as you assigned me to do when I took this case." He looked at her, clearly surprised. "Your contact in the Path? This...Conner?" Briefly, she recounted the events of the night before, how Danny had reacted to the withdrawal, the actions of the drug that she observed, what Danny had told her about its uses. Padden listened impassively. Skinner stood stone still, though his eyes shifted between Scully and Padden. He seemed to be gauging Padden's reaction to what she said. "So it's the actual withdrawal from the drug that is causing these deaths?" Padden said when she finished her synopsis. Scully nodded. "Yes. My theory is that when someone does something to displease Owen Curran in some way, he kills them by withholding the drug from them, putting them in a circumstance where it is impossible for them to obtain it. After several hours -- around 15 hours from the last dose, according to my calculations with Danny Conner -- the drug, combined I believe with the incredibly high blood pressure that the withdrawal causes, reacts chemically and structurally with the brain tissue of the victims and results in the effects that we've seen." "With that kind of force?" Padden said, squinting at her incredulously. "There have been reports of victims of heart attacks being knocked back by the force of the attacks hard enough to have broken the chairs they were sitting in," Scully replied evenly. "I'm not certain how this catastrophic event takes place in these victims, frankly. I didn't wait around with Mr. Conner to find out. But I do know that it is the withdrawal from this drug that is responsible for these deaths. I'm certain of that." Padden seemed to consider for a moment, then nodded. "I see," he said. "And this information about the drug not being used as any sort of weapon? Do you think this Conner is a reliable source for that information?" Scully nodded again. "I do, sir," she replied. "He has not lied to me in my entire interaction with him, and he has no reason to lie to me now. I believe I've gained his trust, and that what he tells me is true." It bothered her for Padden to distrust what Danny had to say for some reason, and she felt the need to defend him. Probably, she thought, because she'd spent so much time with him, knew what kind of a man he was. And had witnessed so much of what he'd been through, watched him suffer. And she had another reason to believe him, as well. She looked from Padden to Skinner and back again. "There's something else," she began. Padden looked at her questioningly. "Danny told me last night that Owen Curran is planning some sort of bombing." "A bombing? Of what?" It was Skinner who spoke up immediately, his voice on edge. "I was unable to obtain that information," Scully replied. "He simply mentioned something about Curran needing the drug to ensure the loyalty of The Path members because he needed them for some sort of bombing." "He just TOLD you this?" Padden was clearly alarmed, but still doubtful. "He was fairly delirious at that point and not quite in control of what he was saying. When he realized he had told me this information, he was immediately remorseful and didn't speak of it anymore." She looked at Padden, her expression grim. "But again, I believe he was telling the truth." Padden seemed to consider for a moment, then rose, walked a short circle around the bench to the wall slowly. He stood in front of the blocks, cut into the marble, that delineated the individual graves. He seemed to be studying the engraving on one of the markers, deep in thought. "What's the status of your cover?" Skinner asked into the quiet. "You've been spending a lot of time with Conner. Is Curran aware of this?" Scully shook her head. "No," she said softly. "I think that Danny believes that his life would be in danger if Curran knew he was contacting me about this. He seemed very afraid last night that someone was going to wonder about his whereabouts. And he insisted on leaving the hospital this morning, against my advice, because of a meeting he had to make this afternoon." "So your cover -- and possibly your life -- could be jeopardized if Curran found out about this." Skinner was terse as he spoke, though she knew it was concern that was making him sound angry. "I believe that could very well be the case, yes," she said to them both, then looked down. She felt for a moment that she might have done something wrong, but shook the feeling off. "I believe that the information that I was able to gain through my contact with him warranted the risk." "We need to get you out of there," Skinner replied, shaking his head. He turned to Padden. "She's found out what you needed her to find out. There must be another way to find out this information about the bombing that doesn't involve Agent Scully remaining in such a precarious position." Padden turned, still looking down, considering. "Yes," he said, as though to himself. "Your position has potentially been compromised, that much is certain. But the information did warrant the risk. I wonder how *much* it's been compromised, however." Skinner shook his head again, looking at Padden. "Whatever the risk, it's reached unacceptable levels, in my opinion," he said firmly. "I didn't say I wanted out," Scully interjected, not liking the turn of the conversation. "I still haven't found a way to get these people off of this drug. I'd like to continue my work on that. And there's this bombing to investigate now, as well." Skinner shook his head. "Scully, that's outside the parameters of what you were needed for operationally. Look, I know as a physician you're concerned about these people, about Conner in particular, but it's too dangerous. And the ATF is much better suited to following up on this bombing lead. Finding that information out will simply put you in more danger." Scully started to respond, frustrated at being whipped around, being talked about as though she had no control of what she did and how she did it. But Padden interrupted her. "I'm afraid AD Skinner is right," he said, and he seemed disappointed to say it. "With you removed from the picture, and with the information you've already provided to the task force about Curran's activities, we could begin a full scale surveillance of Curran and find the information we need out that way. With you in place, we can't do that because it might arouse suspicion of your cover. But with you gone, we could move forward on that definitively." "I'm not ready to come out," Scully protested. "There's still so much to learn." "It's not your choice to make, Agent," Padden replied gruffly. "We have to think of the larger operation, and with this bombing plot in the picture, time is of the essence. I want you to begin to withdraw." "I've only been here for two weeks. Don't you think that will look a little suspicious?" "We've had this planned all along," Padden replied. "You have a family situation that requires you to return to Boston as soon as possible, as soon as you can be replaced. Mr. Flaherty has had some possibilities for your replacement in mind since the inception of the operation, so he should be able to call in someone fairly quickly. Your escape route is set. You just need to play it out, and wait it out." Skinner nodded. "It's for the best, Scully," he said quietly, sensing her displeasure. Scully's gaze dropped to the cold stone floor, her eyes closing for a moment as she exhaled a tired breath. She didn't have the energy to fight them. And plus, a part of her knew both of them were right. She was in dangerous territory because of the work with Danny. Now if she could just find a way to tell Danny she would be leaving. A frigid, dull ache settled over her as she considered it. ******** 2601 PARK AVENUE 5:34 p.m. Danny lay on his back staring up at the exposed beams of the ceiling, shivering beneath his thin blanket. The space heater sighed beside him, the only heat in the tiny apartment. At his feet, the television was on, playing some show about American doctors in Korea. The room glowed, the relative quiet broken occasionally by canned laughter leaking from the ancient set. Leave it to the Americans to be able to laugh about a war, he thought, turning onto his side to look at the clock. It was almost time for him to go back to the clinic to be checked by Dr. Black. Upset with him for leaving the hospital early that morning, she'd insisted on seeing him again this evening before the clinic closed at 6:30. He had to admit he didn't mind going in. He still felt terrible, sluggish and weakened. The ordeal of the night before had taken a powerful toll on him. It had been all he could do to hide how he felt from Curran when he'd met with him that afternoon. Curran had been unusually gruff with him, Fagan standing over his shoulder silently, glaring a bit more pointedly than usual. He'd retreated as quickly as he could, trying not to be paranoid about the two men's reactions to him, and then come home and collapsed onto this thin mattress on the floor, resting as best he could. Sighing, he pulled himself shakily into a sitting position, reached for the same dingy sweater he'd been wearing for days now. It was the only garment he had that was warm enough to fight off the persistent chill. He rose slowly, reached for his jacket, jingling his pocket to check for bus fare. He would have enough to get there and back. Flicking off the television and the space heater, he shouldered into his jacket and went out the door, locking the deadbolt behind him. The rain was still falling, as it had been all day, though it seemed to be turning to sleet now. He raised his face to it, letting the icy drops hit his face. It felt good. He hoped it would snow. He went to the corner, stood at the bus stop, waiting for the number 11 that would take him downtown. It chugged to a stop at the curb after only a few minutes, for which he was grateful. Climbing on, he paid his fare, then moved slowly to one of the back seats for the short ride to the hospital. The bus engine coughed as it pulled away. ** Right behind the bus, unseen, a dark car pulled out, tailing it. John Fagan tapped out a cigarette as he and the bus pushed out into the traffic on Broad Street, his eyes on Danny in the back seat just as a light snow began to fall. His face lit up in a seemingly angry flare as the lighter flamed the cigarette to life. Then it blinked out, hiding him once again in the shadows and the faint dashboard lights. ********* MEDICAL COLLEGE OF VIRGINIA HOSPITAL OUTPATIENT CLINIC 6:20 p.m. "Dr. Black?" Scully turned as the only clinic nurse still on duty came around the doorway to the small doctor's lounge. Scully held a cup of coffee, which was very old and strong and black by necessity. She was swallowing a long drink of it as she met the woman's gentle, almost apologetic smile. "What is it, Loretta?" she asked, and her voice was low and hoarse with fatigue, as though she'd been talking nonstop for days. She cleared her throat self-consciously as Loretta's smile crimped a bit and her eyes grew vaguely concerned. "That young English man, Bob Smith, just came in," Loretta replied. "He doesn't have an appointment but he says that you were expecting him today? I know it's late, so I didn't know if you'd want to see him or not." Scully dumped the rest of the bitter cup of coffee in the sink. Thank God he's here, she thought. She had thought that he wasn't going to come after all. And she'd been worrying about him all day, wondering how he was. "Yes, I'll see him," Scully replied, doing her level best to sound nonchalant. "Go ahead and put him in a room." She flipped on the water and started filling the cup to wash it. "I'll put him in Two," Loretta replied, and hesitated, looking down shyly, indecisively. Noticing this, Scully asked: "Is there something else?" She turned off the water now and faced Loretta once again. "Well," Loretta shifted a little. "It's started to snow, and I was wondering if it might be possible for me to go on and head home." "Ah," Scully said. It was still strange to her to be in charge of all these people, to have people asking *her* for permission to do things. She stifled a smile at Loretta's discomfort with her. "If you need me to stay, I'll be happy to, of course," Loretta rushed on. "But I've cleaned up the waiting room and gotten all the files put up and --" "It's fine, Loretta," Scully interrupted. "Go ahead and go home. I can handle Mr. Smith." "You're sure?" the other woman asked hopefully. Scully did smile now. "Of course. It's all right." "Okay then," Loretta replied, returning the smile. "When you get done with the file just go ahead and leave it on the nurses' station. I'll update it and put it away for you in the morning." "Okay. Go ahead and close the place down then, except for the examination hallway." "I will. I'll even put the lights out for you." Loretta started to head down the hallway, but stopped, met Scully's eyes. "You seem so tired, Dr. Black. I hope you get some rest tonight." Scully looked down, the smile on her face growing a bit tepid. She knew her exhaustion was showing, but it dismayed her a little to know how much. "I will," she replied quietly. "Thank you for your concern. I'll see you in the morning." Loretta nodded, smiled again. "Goodnight then, doctor." "Goodnight." And Loretta was gone, disappearing down the hallway towards the waiting room. Scully finished washing the mug she'd been drinking from, heard Loretta come down the hallway with Danny, opening the door to the examination room and urging Danny to put on a hospital gown, which she knew he wouldn't do. When she heard the door close again and footfalls fading down the hallway, she squared her shoulders, tucked the mug into the drying rack, and headed towards the room herself. She knew the minute she saw him that he must not be feeling much better than he had early that morning. For one, he was out of his coat and sweater, as though he was anxious to be examined. For another, he was lying on the examination table, his hands rubbing his temples, not standing nervously as he had been before. He turned to look at her as she entered the room, closing the door behind her. "Headache still?" she asked by way of greeting. "Aye," he murmured, and returned his gaze to the ceiling. "I'm having a bugger of a time shaking it off." Scully nodded. "Go ahead and sit up for me," she said gently, putting a hand on his shoulder and helping him up. His ribs jutted out like long fingers beneath his skin, his thin arms bracing him on the table. His arms shook hard as he pulled himself up, then settled into their usual faint trembling. She reached for the blood pressure cuff. "The residue is probably still somewhat active in your brain, Danny," she said softly as she wrapped the cuff around his arm. "You might have that headache for awhile." They sat in silence for a moment as she pumped up the cuff, released it, her stethoscope in her ears. She shook her head as she pulled out the earpieces, ripping open the cuff. "Your pressure is still elevated. More than usual, that is. I think your body is still readjusting to the drug being back into your system." "Any idea of how long it will take for me to start feeling some better then?" He looked at her with that same hopeful expression that tugged at her when she saw it. He had so much faith in her. She regretted the shake of her head. "We're in unknown territory here, Danny," she replied. "I think you'll probably feel some effects until the drug reaches an adequate saturation level in your blood stream that the concentration of the residue in your brain restabilizes. That could take several more doses -- a few days even." "Should I take more of the drug? Would that speed this up a little bit?" "No, no." She shook her head again, reached up and cradled his head between her hands, pulling his lower lids down with her thumbs. "I don't want you to play around too much with that. I don't know if it's possible to overdose on it, and I don't want to risk your body any more than we have already." She studied him, noted how pale the insides of his lids were, how bloodshot his eyes. "All right," he replied softly. He was clearly disappointed that there seemed to be nothing he could do to help this process along. Scully sympathized with him on that front. She was feeling pretty helpless and frustrated herself. She replaced the stethoscope in her ears and listened to his heart and breathing. Both were still fast. Too fast. "The clinic lab has already closed down for the night," she said, hanging the stethoscope around her neck once again. "I'd like you to come in tomorrow to have some more blood drawn, to check the levels of the drug in your system." He hesitated, looked down, seemed to consider for a few beats. "I can come tomorrow afternoon, after my roommate goes off on an errand. That way I won't arouse any more suspicion than I might have already." Scully nodded. "Okay then. Come back tomorrow afternoon. I'll be here and I'll check you out again here before you get your blood drawn." She looked at him, worry creasing her face. "For now, I want you to stay in bed, all right? I know you can't sleep, but I want you to just rest as much as you can." When he nodded, she picked up his sweater, proffered it to him. "Go ahead and get dressed." Then she reached for his chart, began recording his vital signs. Her voice was more tired, more resigned, than she intended it to be. He heard it, as well. She could tell by the silence that stretched between them as he shrugged into the sweater, pulled on his dark jacket. He sat still then, looked at her. "Dr. Black?" he began, and she looked up at him. "What is it, Danny?" she replied softly. "You won't...well..." He looked down, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "You're not going to give up on this are you? Because it didn't work out last night?" A heavy spot took up a place in her chest as she pictured telling him that she was going to have to leave for Boston. The guilt she felt was strong enough that she could taste it, a bitter stinging in her throat. She considered telling him right there that she would be going, but thought better of it. They still would have a few weeks together, most likely. She might still have time to help him before she was forced to leave. There was no need to make him so upset now. "No, I'm not giving up," she said quietly, and though she did mean the words, she still felt bad for saying them. We have to think of the larger operation... Padden had said. And Danny's needs weren't part of that. Neither were hers. Relief broke over his face, and he looked down again, nodded. She went back to jotting down her notes, let the moment drift away. "What's the next step then?" he asked after a beat of silence. "The next step doesn't involve you right away," she said, still scribbling. "I'm going to go into the lab and break down this drug myself. See if there's some way to modify it and remove the components individually so that I can make a different form of the drug you're taking. My hope is that if I can make new forms by removing components one at a time, forms that you can still tolerate, we might be able to wean you off the drug that way." He considered that for a moment. "That sounds complicated," he said, and his voice was worried. She looked at him now, nodded seriously. "Yes, it will be," she said earnestly. "I want you to try not to worry about it, all right? Just concentrate on taking care of yourself right now. I want you to make sure you eat every day, too, even if you don't feel like it. Even a little something." "It's been a long time since I ate," he said doubtfully. "Then start off slowly. Just some crackers or something. Some soup if you can possibly do it." He nodded. "All right. I'll try." He slid off the table now, his legs shaking slightly as he put his weight on them. The past 24 hours were showing on him badly. As they were showing on her, as well. At least she would be able to go home and fall asleep. She finished her notes, closed the chart and studied him for a beat. She was struck suddenly as she looked at him with how young he really was. Were it not for his beard, he could have been a teenager, the look accentuated by how thin and gangly he was. She wanted to help him so much it hurt her. She *would* help him. With this in mind, she reached into the chart, tore off a corner of paper from one of the flow sheets. She began to write on it. "This is the phone number of the clinic's emergency answering service. I'm going to be on call for the next couple of nights, so I'll have the beeper with me. I want you to call if you start feeling any worse, all right?" He took the number from her, looked at for a few seconds, then folded it up and put it in his pocket. "All right," he replied, his voice soft, tired. Reaching out, she put a hand on his upper arm, gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Go on home and go to bed," she said, and dropped her hand. He had blushed when she touched him. "Aye, I'll do that," he replied. Then he looked into her eyes, gave her a shy, sad smile. "Thank you, Doctor. For everything." She nodded, returned the small smile. "You're welcome, Danny. I'll see you tomorrow." "Goodnight then." With that he turned, went slowly out the door, leaving her standing there. A wave of emotion passed over her, a strange feeling of sadness. She felt her eyes stinging with it, and she had no idea why. Maybe it was the pressure of working with Danny that was finally getting to her, the urgency that her leaving placed on her work with him. That was probably it. Or I'm just too damn tired, she thought, standing up straighter, tucking the chart beneath her arm. She needed to go home, shower, change her clothes from the day before. That was all she needed, she thought. And with that, she chased the odd feeling away. *** The only light in the large room came from long desk lamp on the nurses' station at the other end of the room. The waiting room itself was bathed in darkness, every corner filled with it. John Fagan sat in one of those corners, quiet as a tomb, his legs crossed casually in front of him. He was a patient man. Not jittery. If he moved, he did so with purpose, like a spider does when something was caught in the gossamer strands of its web. He was rarely driven to any sort of sudden action. That is, unless he was driven the short distance to anger. He wasn't angry now, though. Not yet. He watched dispassionately as Danny Conner appeared from the hallway, buttoning up his coat as he paused in front of the huge desk on the other side of the room. Once he'd closed the coat all the way, turned the broad collar up to protect his neck, he started forward again, not even looking around the darkened room as he went out the double doors to the clinic and out into the night beyond. Again Fagan waited. A minute passed. Then two. Katherine Black came out, already in her long black coat. She had a chart in her hand, which she set on the counter of the desk neatly. Like Conner, she busied herself for a moment with buttoning herself up. Fagan's gaze went slowly over her, watching how she moved. The way her hair came forward slightly as she looked down at the front of the coat. The nimble efficiency of her fingers as she buttoned, hiding her small body from his sight. He studied the fine line of her profile, her full lips. She reminded him so much of Elisa. When he looked at Katherine, he could almost see Elisa, sitting across from him at Halloran's, back in Belfast. She had loved to laugh so much, her bright eyes shining as she ribbed him again for being so grim, so serious. She had always said if he didn't lighten up, the work would carry off the best in him. The memory surprised him by making him suddenly sad, even here where he had his work to do. He made a small, unintentional noise in his throat as, for an instant, what he was thinking got the better of him. Katherine's head shot up at the sound, scanning the black expanse of the waiting room quickly. Her eyes were wide, her body poised. "Is someone there?" she called, her voice strong. He admired that she didn't let fear overwhelm her composure. That's my Katie, he thought, pleased. She looked around for a long moment more, then he saw her relax a bit, shaking her head, clearly convincing herself that she was merely hearing things. Then she reached down, picked up her briefcase, pulled the strap over her shoulder. Moving to the door, she brought out her keys from her pocket. She fingered for the right one. Then, with one final look behind her, she went out the door. He heard the lock click closed behind her, then her footsteps receding down the hallway. He waited another few moments to make sure she didn't return. Then he drew himself up, walked slowly to the nurses' station. The chart was there, bathed in the small circle of light that the desk lamp cast. He reached out slowly, picked it up, opened it. He read, turning pages. His jaw tightened as he did so. Finally he closed the file. He'd seen enough. He stood there for moment, his thoughts returning to Elisa in the pub. The contagious sound of her laughter... Katherine Black might resemble Elisa, but she was *not* Elisa. Could not replace her. He knew that for certain now. He wondered if Owen knew that, as well, if Owen would have shamed him in front of half the pub if he knew what Fagan knew now of Katherine's deception. He was glad to be the one to tell Owen about it. He and Owen's friendship -- ten years of it -- had been strained since the arrival of this woman. He hoped this would be the start of Owen not being so preoccupied with her. So that things could be as they were once again. Tucking the chart under his arm, he went to the door to the clinic himself, turned the butterfly handle to the lock on the door and stepped out into the deserted hallway. The snow was falling heavily as he went outside, dotting him with quickly melting, heavy spots of white. He climbed into his car, parked just off Broad, and started the engine up. He pulled off into the shower of blue-white flakes. Out in the night, Owen Curran sat in the Grey Mouse's back room. Fagan drove intently, his expression grim, serious. He would not keep Owen waiting for long. ************ THE JEFFERSON HOTEL JANUARY 12 9:36 a.m. Mulder sat behind his makeshift desk in the task force headquarters, files strewn haphazardly in front him, a cup of coffee in his left hand. In his right, the file he'd been compiling on Danny Conner, the young man's immigration photo paperclipped neatly to the corner of the computer printouts and other materials. He'd been staring at the photo for 15 minutes, since the task force meeting had let out, the meeting in which the group had been told that the "first phase" of the operation was coming to end, that Scully was being withdrawn as soon as possible. The news wasn't a surprise to him -- Skinner had come to his hotel room last night to tell him. He'd known, he said, that Mulder would want to know immediately. Skinner had also told him about the night Scully had spent in the hospital with Conner, what the man had been through. And he'd told him about the bombing. Mulder had taken all of this news with great distraction -- he found it difficult to get beyond the fact that Scully would be coming home. After Skinner had left, he had gotten himself back together a bit, however, pulled out his material on Curran and begun to read over it again. A little after 11, he called Granger in his room two floors down and asked him to come up and join him in looking over the materials. Granger had been awake, and had come right away. "It wouldn't be a personal target," Mulder said later as the two of them sat in the uncomfortable chairs from the room's table, both of them drinking a beer they'd ordered from room service. "Them" was on the television, one of Mulder's favorites, and the sound of women screaming fell in as background noise as the two of them sat in the dimness of the room, the snow falling steadily outside the window. "Huh?" Granger said, looking up at him from the television, his eyes wide. "The bombing," Mulder had replied. "Curran wouldn't pick a personal target, not based on what we know about him at this point. It would have to be something with political significance." Granger considered for a moment. "Do you think it's going to be here in the U.S. or that he's planning something back in Ireland?" "I'm not sure, but I would suspect it's going to be here somewhere," Mulder had replied. "He's got too much of a concentration of manpower on the Eastern Seaboard, and remember what Padden said about there being a lot of money being funnelled into the areas where Curran was? I think he's planning something really close by." Granger kept glancing at the television as the army of giant ants stampeded across the screen, decimating everything in its path. "I can't believe you haven't seen this movie," Mulder said, shaking his head. "You need to get out more, Granger." Granger looked down, smiled. "Now you sound like my mother," he said, and Mulder laughed. Granger took a pull from his beer, looked out the window for a moment. "It would be a British target, I suspect," Granger said quietly. "I don't think he's got enough of an ax to grind with anything American at this point for it to be otherwise." "Yes, I agree," Mulder had replied. "Bombing something on U.S. soil would be enough of a statement, punishment for us being so involved in the peace process. That would be a big enough of a ‘fuck you' to the Americans." "Well, that narrows it down a lot," Granger replied, watching as an ant gored a soldier, his rifle tap tap tapping, to no avail. "An embassy or Consulates' office," Mulder said immediately. "Either in New York or D.C. would be my guess." "I'd guess D.C.," Granger replied. "Considering he's set up shop here in Richmond, only a couple of hours away. That would give him adequate access to be able to check the place out as often as he needed to." "And close enough so that if he was going to do something like a truck bomb or something, he'd be able to transport it easily." Mulder took another pull of his beer, stared at the television. "If I had to make a guess," he said, his eyes far away now as he sifted through options. "I would say the British Embassy in D.C. That's what I think." Granger considered for a moment. "Yeah, I think you're right," he said, a smile coming onto his face. Mulder had quirked a smile back at him. Granger was so easily pleased. He envied him that. That's what he had told the task force this morning at the meeting, when he and Granger had given their report about the possible targets for the bombing. Padden and the others had seemed surprised that the two of them had been able to come up with something so quickly. "We'll put the embassy in D.C. on full alert," Padden had said. "And the one in New York, just as a precaution. Both Consulates' offices, as well." He looked around the table. "Does anyone have any idea about what method he might use?" "Our guess," Mulder piped up immediately, "Is that it would be truck bomb, a fertilizer bomb like the one we saw in the Oklahoma City bombing." "What makes you so sure?" Padden had replied, looking at Mulder over his glasses. His tone was clearly dubious. It was Granger who answered him. "We believe," he said, gesturing to Mulder and himself, "That C4 would be too difficult to obtain in the U.S., and too expensive. Plus, we believe that one of the reasons Curran chose Virginia to settle in and not a larger metropolitan area up north is so that he could be close to the tobacco farming country around Richmond. Buying bulk amounts of fertilizer here would be difficult to trace, considering the frequency of bulk purchases in this area." Padden looked from Granger to Mulder and back, considering. Finally he nodded. "We'll go with that theory for now then. As a precaution, we'll make sure that road blocks are set up around the entrances of both embassies and Consulates' offices to keep deliveries away until they can be thoroughly checked out." Then he nodded, and added, somewhat begrudgingly, it seemed: "Good work, Agent Mulder, Agent Granger." Mulder smiled at the memory of that. Padden was still pissed off at him for going into the pub, and it looked like it had hurt him to say it. He returned his attention to the picture of Conner in his hand, studying the face for a long moment. God, the guy was young, he thought. He was also struck by how little information there was on him. He'd clearly just become involved with the Path recently. Only six years ago, Conner had been an electrician, working for his father's business outside Ballycastle in Northern Ireland. Then one run-in with the British for purchasing detonating wire, which he had said was needed for a mining company he was rigging up explosives for. They'd let him go when the story checked out. Then, like everyone else in the Path it seemed, he'd disappeared from sight, reappearing only as he crossed in through U.S. Customs in New York two years ago on a work visa for an electrical business in Boston -- one of the Campaign for Northern Ireland's front businesses, no doubt. Then nothing again. He pictured Scully with Danny in the hospital. Skinner said it had sounded like the guy had suffered a lot while trying to go through the withdrawal from the drug. Mulder felt badly for him, but worse for Scully. He knew how helpless she would feel in the face of something like that. He knew she was deeply invested in helping Conner out. Skinner had told him she'd been reluctant to come out because of her dedication to helping him and the other people in the Path exposed to this horrible drug. He put the file down, took a sip of his coffee, leaned back and looked at Granger across the room. Granger was intent on a computer screen, the image of the screen reflected in his glasses. He glanced up, nodded, put up a finger. Mulder nodded back. Then he smiled again. Though it had taken some doing to get Granger interested in the project, he was warming to it now. Mulder's little side project to find out about Sean Curran's mother. Granger was trying to scare up some information on her using the CIA database computer station. Finally Granger stood, going to the printer, standing there nervously as whatever he'd sent came out of the machine. He pulled it out, walked across the room towards Mulder, through the groups of people clustered here and there at various work stations across the room. Mulder put the coffee cup down as Granger got to the desk, looking up at him expectantly. "I've got a name," Granger said softly, pulling up a chair from a nearby desk and laying the piece of paper in front of Mulder. It was a copy of a birth certificate. Sean Owen Curran's birth certificate, showing his birthdate as August 29th, seven years ago. "Her name was Elisa O'Shea Curran," Granger said, his voice still pitched so only Mulder could hear him. He pointed to the line where it said ‘mother's name." Mulder nodded. "Did you run her name through the database?" Granger nodded. "Yeah, I did, and the weirdest thing happened. When I enter her name, it tells me that I don't have ‘adequate security clearance' to be able to access the information. All the stuff on Curran comes up, but not his wife? It doesn't make any sense." Mulder's brow furrowed. Granger was right. It didn't make any sense. His feeling that something fishy was going on grew more acute. He glanced across the room to where another computer sat, unoccupied. "Let's check the FBI database," Mulder said, and stood, smoothing down his tie as he did so. He and Granger made their way slowly across the room to the machine. Mulder sat, Granger taking up a place behind him, and logged into the system. The FBI shield lit up the screen, a search prompt at the bottom of it. He put in Elisa Curran's name, waited as the computer cycled, searching. "Access Denied," it said. "Level Seven security clearance or higher required." "Shit," Mulder said under his breath. That would require someone as high up as Skinner to get the information. And he'd hoped to not involve Skinner in this. He didn't have a choice now. There was something important here, and he needed to know what it was. He had a very bad feeling about the whole thing. "What do we do now?" Granger asked quietly behind him. Mulder considered for a moment, coming to a decision. "AD Skinner's been called away to D.C. for a couple of days," he said, looking up at Granger. "We'll have to wait until he gets back." "You think he'll do it for us?" Granger asked doubtfully. "He might be involved in covering up the information himself." Mulder considered that, shook his head. "No, not Skinner," he said. "If there's some sort of cover-up going on, he's not a part of it. He would never do anything to put Scully in harm's way. I really believe that." Granger looked around the room to see if anyone was looking at them. No one seemed to be. He blew out a breath. "It's hard to know who to trust," he said, clearly frustrated. Mulder leaned back, nodded. "Welcome to my world, Granger." He logged off hastily. The screen went dark, the FBI's shield blinking out of sight. ********** J&J WAREHOUSE THE BANKS OF THE JAMES 3:34 p.m. It had taken a little while, but Danny had gotten used to the strong smell of the fertilizer heaped to the ceiling of the truck, the thick odor of the diesel fuel. He was standing in the back of the truck, surrounded by the drums of the thick smelling fuel. And he was willing his hands to stop shaking enough for him to be able to twist the wiring that connected the drums to the small detonator and timer attached to the side of the truck. Beside the truck, Owen Curran and John Fagan stood, joking about something. Danny had been nervous when they'd called him that morning, not wanting to have much contact with them until he was feeling better. He still felt like what had been through at the hospital two nights ago showed on him terribly, and he didn't want to arouse any suspicion. He reached for his wire cutters out his tool box, tried to get them in his grip. He fumbled, his hand shaking, and the cutters clambered to the floor, then down into the snow behind the truck. Curran came forward, lifted them up and wiped them on his pants leg, handed them up to Danny. "You're getting clumsy in your old age, Danny," Curran said good- naturedly. Danny could see Owen watching his hand shake as he took the cutters. He laughed nervously. "Aye, that I am," he agreed immediately, and laughed again, turning to the detonator box once again. "You all right to be doing what you're doing then?" Owen pressed. John Fagan had come up to stand behind him, both of them looking up at Danny intently. "I'm fine to be doing it," Danny replied hastily, cutting and then twisting the final bit of wiring to the battery that would run the detonator. The display lit up with red numbers, all zeros. "All right, I'll trust you on that," Owen said, and he saw Fagan smile out of the corner of his eye. Fagan was such a strange one, Danny thought, shaking it off. He'd always found amusement in the oddest things. He wound the wire with some black electrical tape for good measure. He wanted it to be neat, despite the fact that it really didn't matter. He did things the way his father had taught him. Meticulously. Even this. Especially this. It was hard considering how bad he felt. "All right, it's ready to be set," he said finally, replacing the cutters and tape in the box. "Just say the word when you want it done." "I want you to go ahead and set it," Owen replied, and Danny looked at him, surprised. "This early?" he asked. "Aye, you can do that, can't you? It doesn't matter how many hours it's set for, right?" Danny looked at the detonator, then back at Curran and Fagan. "Well, no, it doesn't matter, but I would think you wouldn't want it armed until Friday morning." "No, I want you to go ahead and do it and be done with it," Curran replied evenly. Danny hesitated a beat more. Something was off about the request, to be sure. Then, as Curran and Fagan continued to stare up at him expectantly, he nodded. "All right then...I'll go ahead and set it." He began to turn the small knob on the side of the detonator, counting out hours. "Let's see, that's...." He counted in his head. Friday, four days from now. 3:00 p.m. Curran had wanted plenty of time to make the drive that morning. He continued to roll the dial. It was right on 4:00 p.m. now, the sun waning. That would make it 95 hours. He went ahead and set the display to that number. It glowed red in the dimness of the inside of the truck. Hours, minutes and seconds. His hand shaking, Danny reached down, touched a button. The detonator beeped softly, and the seconds began to count down. "It's done then," Danny said, looked at Curran, who nodded, gave him a wide smile. "Good work, Danny," he said amiably. "Now let's get the hell out of here. It smells like shit." Danny smiled, some of his nervousness ebbing with Curran's laugh that followed his words. Fagan laughed, too, a soft chuckle. Danny sat on the edge of the truck, slid down, his feet crunching in the snow and he landed. He and Curran pulled the back door of the truck down and Curran put the padlock on it, gave the lock a satisfied tug. "Let's go get a beer," Curran said as they shuffled back to Fagan's car. "What do you say, Danny? A beer to celebrate your job being done?" "Yeah, sure," Danny replied, smiling a little at the thought. He liked this particular job being done. "I'll have a pint with you." "There's a good man," Fagan said, and gave Danny a slap on the back. It was just a touch too hard and Danny had to struggle to hold his balance on the slick ground. Curran and Fagan laughed as he stumbled. Danny laughed, too. He really was getting clumsy. They climbed into the car, Danny taking his place in the back seat as Fagan drove and Curran took the passenger's seat. Fagan started up the engine, turned the car around and headed up the snow-covered access road carefully, then onto River Road that would take them back towards the city. Curran turned on the radio, music lilting into the car's cabin. In the back seat, Danny felt himself beginning to relax, his fatigue settling over him, let himself drift with the music, closing his eyes for a few long moments. The meeting had made him miss seeing Dr. Black today, but he could always do that tomorrow. He should have a lot of free time now, time to himself. He could concentrate on spending time with Black now, working on getting himself off the drug. Speaking of which, it was time for another dose. He'd used up everything he'd had on him yesterday. But he could get more at the pub when they got there. There was always plenty there. He opened his eyes, looking out the window at the city in front of him, at Curran and Fagan's silent forms in the front seat. They were on Broad Street now, on the other side of the city from the apartment. Fagan put on his blinker and headed onto the highway entrance ramp, heading east. East? "Um, John, you're going the wrong way, aren't you?" he asked nervously from the back seat. Fagan said nothing. Curran turned slightly in his seat, looked at Danny. His smile was gone now, his pale eyes looking dark in the gathering shadows. "We're going to go for a drive, Danny. Have a little chat." Danny's heart skipped a beat, adrenaline coursing through him in a rush. The door locks clicked down around him. "Owen, I --" "Shut the fuck up, Danny," Fagan growled. Danny bit back what he was going to say as he looked at Owen in terror. Curran was still staring at him with that same hard look in his eyes. Danny was forced to look away, tears beginning. Oh God...God, please... he thought. They pulled onto Interstate 64. The highway would take them away from the city, through the rural areas between Richmond and Newport News, to the Chesapeake Bay, the Atlantic beyond that. It didn't take but a few more minutes before huge groves of trees -- mostly pines -- began lining the road. Danny could just make out their shapes as the sky faded into near darkness. Finally Owen moved, reaching beneath the seat. He pulled out a black cloth bag, tossed it over the seat. "How about you put that on, Danny?" he said conversationally, returning his gaze to Danny's face. Danny was crying in earnest now, his breath squeezing his throat as he fought down the panic. "Owen, I'm sorry...please..." "Put it on, Danny. Don't fuck around with me. You've done enough already." Danny reached for the bag, gave Owen one last imploring look and hesitated. He heard Owen pull the hammer back on the gun before he saw the dark barrel glint in the highway lights, pointed towards him in the space between the seats. He put the bag on. ******** 2233 GRACE STREET 6:35 p.m. Scully dragged herself up the small staircase to the upstairs apartment she shared with Mae, her briefcase feeling for all the world like it was filled with sand or bricks. Despite the full night of sleep she'd gotten the night before, she was still exhausted, filled with restless energy. Danny hadn't shown up at the clinic as she'd asked him to, and worry was gnawing at her, making her feel more tired. She fumbled with her keys, but before she could find the right one, the door opened for her. Sean stood there, a broad smile on his face. "Hello, Dr. Black!" he said jovially, and Scully smiled back at him. "Hello, Sean, " she said, putting a hand on the back of his head as she went past him through the door. "What are you up to?" "Aunt Mae and I were watching a video, but it's over now," he replied, following close behind her as she went into the living room. Mae sat on the couch, smiling warmly as Scully entered. "She's made it home from work two nights in a row!" she teased, standing. She wore her big turtleneck black sweater, faded jeans. Scully couldn't blame her. It was always very cold in the old apartment. "Amazing, isn't it?" Scully replied, putting her briefcase down by the doorway to the kitchen. "I've got soup on -- we've already eaten, but there's enough for you to have for dinner. I bought some bread. Oh, and I picked up a couple of things for you, as well. Some of that bagged salad you seem to like so much. And your disgusting orange juice." She made a face. "I can't believe you don't like orange juice," Scully said, playing along. "That's un American." "Ha!" Mae replied, coming forward and pulling Sean against her, patting his chest. "My point exactly. You Americans and your sweets..." Scully smiled, found herself relaxing into the easy rapport with Mae. She pulled her coat off, gave Sean another brush on the head as she started for the back bedroom. "Get changed into something good for dancing!" Mae called down the hallway after her. "Oh, Mae, I can't go out tonight. I'm too tired," she called back. "And besides, the day I dance is the day I die." She heard laughter, then footsteps in the hallway as she flicked on the lamp at her bedside, tossed her coat onto the neatly made bed. Mae appeared in the doorway. "I'm afraid you have to come out," she said, and there was a little regret in her voice. "Owen called a while ago and said he needed to see you tonight." "Ah," Scully replied, blowing out a tired breath. "But Ian's band is playing again so it's bound to be a good time anyway!" Mae added hurriedly, excitement coming back into her voice. "I'll meet with Owen," Scully replied, "But I'm not going to be up for much more. I'm on call tonight and need to be able to get to the hospital if I need to. It can't be a late night." "That's no problem," Mae said. "I'm going to have to leave at around ten to take Sean back to Owen's place and stay with him until Owen finishes what he's doing at the pub. I'll drop you off on the way. How's that?" "That sounds good," Scully replied, going to the dresser and pulling out her jeans, a black cardigan. "Thank you." "I'll leave you to get dressed then," Mae said, reached in and pulled the door closed. Scully sat on the side of the bed near the night table, sighed, rubbing her forehead. She wasn't up for going out at all, but she needed to act as normal as possible right now. And she needed to start spreading the word that she would be leaving. The sooner she told Owen, the sooner Flaherty could begin finding a replacement for her. Though she didn't want to leave the operation at all at this point, she had her orders. She would tell Owen tonight while the opportunity to tell him in private presented itself. She would tell Mae tonight, too. And Danny....well. She would tell him soon. The thoughts filled her with more nervous energy. She hoped getting out of all this went as smoothly as getting into it had. Glancing around restlessly, her eyes fell on the snowglobe, shining in the lamplight. She picked it, shook it. She watched the flakes spin for a moment, her breathing leveling out. Soon, Mulder, she thought, a warm smile coming through her exhaustion. It would all be over soon. She took comfort in that thought as she replaced the snowglobe on the table and began to slowly undress. ********* RURAL ROUTE 19 LIGHTFOOT, VIRGINIA (56 MILES FROM RICHMOND) 7:03 p.m. They'd been off a paved road for some time now. Danny could tell from the rocking of the car, the crunching sound of snow beneath the tires. The rocking of the car made him feel vaguely nauseated, though that could be from the suffocating feeling of the bag over his head, as well. He hoped that was where the headache, which had returned as they'd driven, was coming from, as well. He'd stopped crying some 30 minutes before, though his breathing was still shallow and panicky, his shaking fingers stretched white around his thin knees. Fagan and Curran hadn't said a word since Curran had told him to put the bag on. They'd been driving for a long time since then. Once he had stopped crying, he'd tried to concentrate on the movement, the direction the car took as it left the interstate. He was trying to get his bearings, should he need to know the direction to the highway. Plus, it gave him something else to concentrate on. Besides how dire his circumstances were becoming. The car began to slow, turning. It came to a halt, the engine remaining on. He heard the doors unlock, then both car doors open, Curran and Fagan both climbing out of the car. Then the door to his left opened and a hand clamped down on his upper arm roughly. "Get out of the car, Danny." It was Fagan. The grip told him that before the voice did. He stumbled awkwardly out and to his feet, nearly falling as he was pushed up against the trunk, his arms going out in front of him to break his fall, his hands ending up flat on the cool metal. Fagan grabbed one of his arms, twisted it up behind him. He felt the cold bite of handcuffs on his wrist. He struggled a bit uselessly as Fagan grabbed his other arm efficiently, locking his hands together behind his back and then pulling him up away from the car. He heard Curran come up in front of him as Fagan held him in place. The bag was jerked roughly off his head. The cold night air hit his sweaty face, chilling him instantly. It only made his trembling worse. They stood in the twin triangles of the headlights, the only light for miles as far as Danny could tell. They were off a narrow road, in a small clearing of a grove of trees. He met Curran's probing gaze, his lip trembling. "You know why you're here, Danny," Curran began flatly. "Aye," Danny whispered, willing the tears to stop but failing. "Why are you here?" Curran cocked his head, as though intent on Danny's answer. Danny swallowed. "Because....because I went and saw Dr. Black...to try and get off the drug you've been giving us." "No." Curran shook his head slowly, as though he were talking to a child. "That's not why you're here, Danny." He took a step closer. "You're here..." He poked his finger into Danny's chest, his teeth gritting down. "...because you betrayed me, you son of a bitch." "Owen, I'm sorry," Danny rushed to respond, tears flowing down his face. His breath puffed out in huge clouds in front of his face as his breathing picked up, panic overtaking him. "I haven't told her anything else," he lied. "I just feel so bad...this drug --" "If I'd wanted you off the fucking drug I wouldn't have put you on it in the first place!" Curran roared, and his hand came up lightning fast. Danny reeled to one side from the slap, Fagan steadying him before he fell. When he looked at Owen again, Curran had regained his composure again. Danny drew himself up a little, squelching the panic down, nearly choking on it, but getting it down. He would not go out on his knees. He closed his eyes for a second, promised himself that like a prayer. "Check his pockets," Curran said, his eyes not leaving Danny's as Danny met his gaze now. The tears were still coming of their own volition, but there was strength in his eyes now. He saw Curran smirk a bit at what he saw in his face. Fagan rifled through his pockets quickly -- his jacket, his pants, the frayed ankles of his socks. "He's empty," Fagan said as he stood again. Curran nodded. "You know what's going to happen to you, don't you?" he said softly. "If we leave you out here, this far away from the highway, from access to the drug. You've been through a good bit of it, I understand." "I know, yes," Danny said, and his voice shook at the prospect. "I'm glad." Owen smiled. "Because that's what we're going to do." He nodded to Fagan behind him. The next thing he felt was the blow on the back of his head from the butt of the gun. He reeled, his head swimming with the sudden pain. Fagan let him go and he dropped to the ground heavily. He could feel blood seeping from the back of his head and his eyes rolled in his head, fighting off unconsciousness. "Tie his legs, just in case," Curran was saying. His voice sounded very far away, as though he were calling through a metal tunnel. Danny tried to look up at him, but couldn't focus his eyes. He saw a dark stain of blood seeping onto the blanket of snow beneath his head. A moment later, rough hands on him, his legs tightly bound. The cold settling into him, his whole body shaking. He saw feet in front of him now. Curran's boots. One of them kicked out, catching him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He coughed, hunching forward to protect his vulnerable belly from another blow. "Goodbye, Danny," Curran said, and Danny watched the boots withdraw, heard the car doors close. As the car backed up, turning around, Danny tried to call out, but there wasn't enough air in him to do it. The slow seep of blood continued to dampen the side of his face, mixing with the snow. His head swam, his eyes lolling. He felt a light wind on his face, freezing cold. Finally, he stopped fighting it, let the world fade to black. ********* THE GREY MOUSE PUB RICHMOND, VIRGINIA 8:45 p.m. Scully sat in she and Mae's usual table in the back, watching the festivities around the pub blithely, willing the fatigue that clung to her away. Her eyes were once again drawn to the door as it opened, admitting a new group of people into the throng of the pub. There were so many people in there now that she was having a hard time even *seeing* the door at times. But she kept her eye on it when she could. Curran wasn't there yet. She checked her watch again, let out a frustrated breath. She was anxious to get this meeting with him over with. Her nerves were jangling her badly as she wondered how Curran was going to take the news of her leaving. She felt very vulnerable at the prospect of having to tell him, unsure of how he would react, unsure of how it would affect her cover. She's always heard that withdrawing from an undercover operation could be harder than getting into it in some cases. Especially when there was an informant to protect, like Flaherty. It had to come out smooth, seamless. She's been rehearsing what she would say for an hour now, just to make sure it sounded right when it all came out. Finally, about 10 minutes later, the door opened and Curran and John Fagan entered, both of them boisterously greeted by those closest to the door. She sat up straighter, pushing her empty glass of what was cheap red wine to the side. Curran was looking around the pub, in her direction. He saw her, started towards her through the crowd. "Katherine," he said gruffly as he sat in Mae's chair. "Owen," she replied. "I'd started to wonder if you were going to make it at all." "Aye," he said apologetically. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. I had some business to attend to that couldn't wait." She nodded. "I understand," she said, and she truly did. She wondered at the status of the bomb, what he might be up to. He cleared his throat awkwardly, reached into his pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper. She recognized immediately that it was another list of drugs and their amounts, plus the fake names. "Time for a refill?" she asked tiredly as he handed it to her. "You could say that, yes," he replied, and a strange smile came over his face, as though he were enjoying a private joke at her words. She imagined, considering what she now knew the drugs were used for, that he did indeed find what she said amusing. His smile unnerved her, however. As did the fact that she would be obtaining more of this drug to continue these people's addiction. She didn't like being a part of this, endangering these people. She knew, though, that without them they would all surely die. She comforted herself with that knowledge. "I'll take care of it tomorrow," she said, folding up the piece of paper and tucking it into her pocket. "Very good," he said, placing his hands flat on the table as though he meant to push himself up and away from the table. She reached out, put a hand on his to halt his upward movement. "There's something I need to discuss with you, Owen, something important," she said softly, and he relaxed back into the chair. He studied her intently. "What is it?" he asked. "Is there something wrong?" She looked down, as though gathering herself to speak. Here it goes, she thought nervously. "Owen, I'm going to have to leave," she said softly, still looking down. "I have to go back to Boston." His jaw gaped for an instant. "May I ask why?" he asked finally, his voice low, but concerned. "My mother is very ill," she replied, going with the story she'd decided to fill in Padden's vague "family situation." She shook her head, feigning sadness and disappointment. "She needs me to come as soon as I can." He looked at her, his face unreadable. She could tell he was disappointed, but there was something else there, something she couldn't name. "I'm sorry," she said, trying to quell whatever the emotion was that he was having. It made her uptight, that look he was giving her. Finally, he shook his head, shrugged, looked down at the table. "Nothing you can do, I suppose," he said. "You've got to be there for your family. I understand that completely." He picked up Mae's nearly empty glass of Guiness, took the long last swallow, returned his gaze to her face. "When would you be leaving then?" He sounded nonchalant now, but she knew he was anything but. Her leaving presented him with a complicated problem. "As soon as you can replace me," she said just loudly enough to be heard over the din of the crowd around them. The band was warming up for another set, as well, drums pounding haphazardly like an irregular heartbeat. He nodded, but again she saw that same look on his face, the one that unnerved her. There was something...angry?... about it. More than disappointed. Something else. "That's fine," he said flatly. "I'll get in touch with Mr. Flaherty in Boston tomorrow morning and have him begin looking for a replacement for you. It shouldn't take too long. Can you wait that long?" She nodded. "I think so. I'll wait as long as I can. If it takes too long, I'll write you several scripts for the things you need to hold you over until a replacement can be found. Would that be all right?" He nodded. "Sure. No worries. We'll manage." He forced a smile. An awkward silence hung for a few seconds, both of them looking down. She saw him glance at her glass, at Mae's beer. "Well," he said, his voice light and friendly now. "Let me buy you another drink. We'll drink for your mother's health and for a speedy replacement for you." She was relieved that the story had seemed to convince him, that it was holding. She didn't really want another glass of wine -- her head was a little heavy from the first one -- but thought that accepting his gesture would probably be a good thing. "Sure," she said, and smiled at him. "I'm just having the house red." He stood, took her glass and Mae's both. "All right, the house red it is. I'll be right back." And he disappeared into the crowd around the table. Every once in awhile she could get a glimpse of him working his way to the bar. He reached it and the bartender came over instantly. Curran leaned forward, said something to the man, something that took a moment. Finally, the bartender nodded, wandered off behind the bar into the back. Curran looked back, saw her watching him. He smiled again, nodded to her, held up a finger. She nodded back. Finally the bartender returned, handed Owen the glass of wine, the tall glass of dark beer. Holding them both over his head as he picked his way through the crowd, Curran made his way back to the table, placed her glass in front of her as he sat. "There we go," he said cheerfully, and raised the glass in the space between them. "To your mum then. And to your hard work for us." She smiled, blushing. She picked up the glass, clinked it softly against his. "Thank you, Owen," she said softly, and they drank. The wine had a bitter taste to it, a strange undertone to its flavor. Strong and woodsy and almost nutty. "This isn't the same wine I was having before," she said, looking at it. "Oh, no, it's probably not," Owen replied. "He had to go for another bottle in the back. They were most likely out of what you were drinking before. Is it all right?" She nodded, took another taste. She liked it. It had body to it. She held it in her mouth for a moment, enjoying the dark flavor. "It's fine. Good. I just wondered." Owen watched her, smiling, his eyes running over her face in that way that made her uncomfortable. It was a wistful, almost sad look, though he tried to hide it with the smile. She found herself blushing again, which he also noticed. He looked hurriedly away. ******** LIGHTFOOT, VIRGINIA 10:39 p.m. The first thing Danny Conner became aware of was that he was freezing. The second sensation, crashing into him as he came fully into consciousness, was that he had a splitting headache. A very familiar headache. "Oh God...." he moaned, turned his head, his eyes coming open. There was a big moon out, reflecting off the snow faintly, making the world an odd shade of blue. He pulled on his arms, his hands numb in the snow behind his back. He kicked with his feet, but found himself restrained there, as well. "Shit," he swore loudly. He began to cry again. He tried calling out a couple of times, but the snowy world was so silent it was as if he were the only person left on the earth. His head pounded and he knew he didn't have much time. The thought sent a fresh rush of adrenaline through him. Dr. Black. She would help him. He had to get to a phone. Something. His breath heaved as he fought down the panic once again. Plus that, getting moving would at least keep him from lying there freezing to death. He drew his knees up to his chest, his ribs still aching from the kick Owen had given him. Straining, he pushed his arms down as far as he could, pushing his buttocks back until they rested on the cuffed palms of his hands. His shoulders screamed from the strain. "Just a bit more..." he said, his teeth gritting against the pain. Finally, his arms slipped over his buttocks to his thighs. He rolled, snow creaking beneath him, until he'd gotten his hands over his feet and his hands were now in front of him. Sitting up quickly, he began to tear at the ropes binding his calves together. "Come on, come on..." he chanted to himself, his head aching with every fast beat of his heart. He pulled at the knot, unravelled the rope. Then he pushed himself up to a shaky standing position, his feet unsure beneath him. In the moonlight he could see the dark lines of the tire tracks, leading off into the night. Slipping now and then, his hands bound in front of him and useless for balance, he started off at a slow jog down the road. His breathing, his heavy steps, were the only sounds in the frozen night. ********** 2233 GRACE STREET JANUARY 13 1:34 a.m. Scully sat in front of the television, absently flicking through the channels, the light strobing in the room around her. She sighed heavily, unable to settle on anything that interested her. She'd given up trying to sleep an hour ago, had risen in her pajamas and robe and gone in to make herself something eat. Maybe she was hungry, she thought, and that was why she couldn't sleep. She'd heated up and ladelled herself out another bowl of soup, but found that once she started eating it she didn't want it at all. So that wasn't it. She imagined she was having one of those nights like she had in medical school, after pulling a couple of all-nighters in a row. When she would get so tired she couldn't sleep. She was certainly wired in that way, her head buzzing. Mae was still out, probably spending the night at Owen's place with Sean at this point. She'd dropped Scully off at around 10:15 and headed out with the sleeping Sean in the passenger seat of the pickup, saying she didn't know what time she would be home. Scully wished Mae was home, though. She would have welcomed the company. She was on her way back to the sink with her still-full bowl of soup when the phone rang. She nearly dropped the bowl in her surprise at the sound. Putting her hand over her chest to calm her pounding heart, she went to the phone, which hung on the wall in the kitchen. She was, after all, on call. Maybe it was a patient needing her. One good side effect of the restlessness she felt was that she felt up to going to the hospital if she needed to. "Hello, this is Dr. Black," she said into the receiver, standing next to the stove's small light. The room was otherwise dark. "Dr. Black? This is Angie with the MCV Emergency Answering Service. You have a clinic patient with an emergency. May I patch the call through?" "Yes, of course, go ahead," she replied, reaching up and pushing her hair out of her face, shaking herself even more alert. She heard the line click over, heard the sound of labored breathing instantly. "This is Dr. Black," she said, immediately concerned. "What seems to be the problem?" There were a couple more seconds of silence, then: "Dr. Black..." She straightened immediately, alarmed. "Danny? What is it?" "Dr. Black, they know....Owen knows...they...he knows what I've..what I've done..." She felt her heart drop about six inches into her stomach, her breath all but stopping. "What have they done, Danny? Where are you?" Again, just the sound of his heavy breathing. She heard him sniffle, a rough sound against the receiver as though he'd brushed against it with his hand. "I don't know...I don't know..." "Where did they take you, Danny? Talk to me! Concentrate!" Another beat. "Somewhere off...Interstate 64. I've been running...for hours. I finally found...a gas station...a phone booth...your number was still in...in my pocket. No one's here...no one's out here..." Her breathing picked up as well as her adrenaline surged. "What exit, Danny? Do you know? I can get to the airport, rent a car, be there in --" "It's too late," came the whispered reply. He began to sob. She felt like she had snow in her blood at his words. "Oh God, they left you without the drug, didn't they? You don't have any with you." Her hand went to her forehead again. She looked around helplessly. "Damn it, my sample is at the hospital..." Her body was taut, poised to move, but she had nowhere to go. "When was your last dose of the drug, Danny? How long do we have?" There was only the sound of his crying now, the sniffling, the rough sound as he wiped at his face. She could picture him so clearly in her mind. Alone in the night...a phone booth. His nose pouring blood as he trembled, the headache searing him. "Danny, stay with me," she implored. "We'll figure this out. We'll figure something out. Tell me the name of the gas station where you are." She grabbed for the white pages on a shelf next to the phone, knocking down several bottles on the counter as she did so. He continued to cry and she waited, her own breath coming fast as she stood there, the phone book in her hands. She felt more useless than she'd ever felt in her life. Her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back, pinching the bridge of her nose as her lip trembled. "Dr. Black..." came his whispered voice. "What is it, Danny?" Her voice shook, though she tried to sound strong, strong for him It was all she could do. "I just want...I want to go...home..." The sound was louder than she expected, a sudden very wet noise. Then the receiver dropped, hitting against the phone booth walls. A crashing as his body hit the glass side of the booth and slid to the ground. The knock of the phone as it swung, the sound growing less frequent almost immediately. Otherwise, silence. "No..." she cried into the phone, dropping the phone book onto the counter. She covered her eyes with her hand, the tears overwhelming her now as she slid down against the counter, settling on the floor, curled around herself, her legs drawn up to her chest. She wept openly. She felt guilty leaving him alone out there in the darkness, wherever he was. It took her a long time to hang up the phone. ********** BROAD STREET EXXON 2:25 a.m. Scully heard music. It was faint and rhythmic, bleeding through the noise of the occasional car passing by where she sat, huddled on a bus stop bench in the darkness. She looked for the source of it for a long time, her eyes wide as she scanned the station, the slick streets. Finally, she decided it must be coming from a club well across the wide street, just in sight from where she sat. A blue neon triangle and the words "The Pyramid" marked the black-doored entrance. The occasional person milled in and out -- a swaying drunk, a group of twenty-somethings coming out in a knot and a cloud of cigarette smoke, a garish prostitute who looked both ways before heading down the street into the darkness. She watched all this, but did her best to concentrate on the music, the pulsing of it, tried to slow her breathing down. Wiping the last of the tears away with a gloved hand, she swallowed the rest of the emotion causing them as best she could. She couldn't cry. Not in front of him. Not now. And he would be there soon. The phone booth where she'd called from was ten feet or so to her right, bathed in the pale light of a street lamp. She'd stood with her back to her street as she'd dialed the operator, her hand shaking from cold and distress, and placed the collect call to his cell phone. When he'd picked up, the operator clicking her over through a haze of static, Mulder's voice was clear, alert. She could make out the sounds of a television in the background. She hadn't woken him. "Scully, what's wrong?" There was the sound of shifting as she heard him sit up. "Mulder," she began, willing her voice to stop shaking. At that point the tears were still coming, but she kept them out of her voice as best she could. "I'm on the corner of Boulevard and Broad, at a phone booth outside an Exxon station. I need you to come get me." "Has something happened with your cover?" He was clearly alarmed at her words. "Are you okay?" "I'm fine, Mulder," she'd replied evenly. Her voice sounded so normal to her own ears that it was maddening, considering the turmoil her emotions were in. "I just need you to come get me for a little while. I need to see you." A beat of surprised silence. She could hear his breathing. She had scared him, and she was sorry for that. "What about Mae Curran?" His voice was terse, urgent. She could hear him fumbling, moving around the room, the sounds of him getting dressed. "She's not home," Scully replied patiently, but her voice trembled a touch again. "I was on call for the hospital tonight -- she knows that. I've gotten someone else to cover for me, but left a note for Mae saying I was called in for an emergency, that I'd be back after work today at 6:30 this afternoon." "God, Scully, what's happened?" The question sent new tears welling in her eyes, a new lump in her throat. "I don't want to talk about it on the phone," she said softly. "Mulder, we have a whole day. Please...just come get me. I'll tell you everything once we're away from here." She knew what she was doing, what she was asking him to do. But for now it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but getting away from all of this for a little while and seeing him, being with him. "I'm on my way," he'd replied after another beat. "Stay out of sight as best you can. I'll find you." "All right," she'd replied, and hung up the phone because she knew he wouldn't say goodbye. A bus lumbered to a halt in front of the bench she sat on, the door swinging open, the bus driver looking at her expectantly. She met his eyes and shook her head once, then returned her gaze to the street. The bus grumbled away. After a few more moments, a dark car arrived in the turn lane on Broad, coming fast. She could see his profile in the dim light of the street. He U-turned, bumped into the driveway to the gas station, seeing her in the dark beside the phone booth immediately. Pulling up to just behind the bench, he stopped the car abruptly, the vehicle jerking to a halt, and leaned over to throw the passenger door open. She took in a deep breath, stood, glancing around nervously to see if anyone might be watching her, then slipped into the car, closing the door behind her. She turned and met his gaze, relief coming over her as she drank in the sight of him. His hair was slightly mussed from lying in bed, the dark shadow of a day's growth of beard on his face. She saw the worry immediately appear on his face as he looked at her. She hated that it was always so obvious when she'd been crying. She found herself looking down at the seat, trying to keep her eyes from him, her hand going up to hide the swelling around her right eye before he saw it in the darkness. Too late. His hand came out, pushing hers down. He cupped the side of her face, his thumb running over the knot softly. She found herself unconsciously leaning into his touch, into the warmth of his hand. "It's all right," she said, catching herself almost immediately. She shook her head, reaching for his hand and pulling it down, holding it between both of hers. She wasn't ready for tenderness from him. The tears were too close. She met his eyes again, which were wide and worried but still gentle as he looked at her. "Please take me away from here," she whispered, and was proud of herself that she didn't cry as she said it. He nodded mutely, turned to face forward again, removing his hand from her grasp for the moment. He threw the car into drive, pulled out onto the Boulevard, heading north away from the city. The ribbon of Interstate 95, trucks roaring by in flashes of light and color, appeared in the distance. "Where are we going?" he asked finally into the quiet between them, breaking his silence. "It doesn't matter," she murmured tiredly, leaning her face against the cool of the car window, closing her eyes for a beat. When she reopened them, he was on the entrance ramp to the highway. They merged, a huge sign immediately looming over their lane. "We'll go towards Charlottesville," he said, taking the ramp the sign marked. "It's about an hour away. That'll give us plenty of space away from everything here." She nodded. "All right," she replied. She had yet to remove her gloves, to look at him again. She was leaned against the door, as far away from him as she could get for the moment as she struggled to maintain her tenuous control. She could see him glancing over at her, his face glowing slightly gold in the dashboard lights. "You okay?" he asked softly. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" "No, nowhere else. I'm all right." Now she did turn to look at him, though she had to face forward again almost immediately as her eyes burned. She stared out the windshield as the car moved from the outskirts of the city into the rural area beyond, the no-man's land of farm country between Richmond and the mountains. "Are you going to tell me what's happened?" He was gently persistent, trying not to push her too hard. But she could feel the concern coming off him in an almost tangible wave. She drew in a deep breath, steeling herself, glad for the dense darkness that now pressed in around the car. "Danny Conner is dead," she said quietly. His face shot towards her. "What? When?" "Just a little while ago," she replied. Her voice was soft, but tight as a fist. "I was on the phone with him when it happened." "Jesus, Scully..." "Owen killed him," she continued, cutting him off. "He's found out that he was seeing me for the drug addiction. He killed him for it." She could hear a slight squeak as his fingers tightened on the steering wheel. There was a knot in his jaw as she looked over at him again. "When's the last time you saw Curran?" he asked, his eyes locked forward. "Earlier tonight, at the Grey Mouse." She leaned her face against the window again, relishing the cool against her cheek. "How did he act towards you?" "About the same as usual," she replied. "The problem is...I didn't know about Danny at that point, and went ahead and told him I needed to leave, to go back to Boston." Mulder shook his head. "Shit..." he swore under his breath. "I know," she said softly. "If he chooses to look at it the wrong way, it could look bad." She sighed. "Let's just hope he doesn't look at it that way. My cover isn't in jeopardy, but he does know that I know one of his secrets." "What did he say when you told him you were going to be leaving?" Mulder pressed. "He was disappointed, but he was all right with it. He said they'd try to find a replacement for me as soon as possible." Mulder shook his head again. "He's going to try to keep you from leaving," he said tersely. She accepted what he said, knowing he'd been profiling him for all this time, studying him. She sighed again, ran her hand through her hair tiredly, closed her eyes. "I'm going to be careful, Mulder. Don't worry. I'm going to be wary of him, more than I have been. Just play it out. He hasn't shown any indication that he was going to hurt me. I understand why he killed Danny -- what Danny did was disloyal. What I did could be construed as just part of me being a doctor." "I'm not as sure as you are," he replied, passing a truck on the right, hurling them faster through the darkness, as though the city itself were chasing them now. She looked down, hesitated, then said it anyway. "I think...I think he has...feelings for me." Mulder's eyes were on her again. "How do you know? Has he tried anything?" She wanted to smile at how protective he sounded. What he said sounded like the question of a jealous boyfriend, not an FBI profiler. She shook her head. "No, nothing," she soothed. "But I did see him get in a confrontation with John Fagan at the pub one night. Fagan has been a little...interested, as well." His jaw muscles were flexing again. He shook his head, swinging back into the left hand lane. "We need to get you out of there right away," he said. "You know we can't do that," she replied. "I can't just disappear. Flaherty's life would be in danger." "Fuck Flaherty," Mulder spit, anger and frustration overwhelming him for an instant. "Mulder..." She reached over now, put a hand on his leg to calm him. He blew out a frustrated breath. She could feel from his thigh how tense he was. "It's going to be okay," she said softly. "We just have to be patient, and careful." He turned to her again. "And what is this?" he asked, his voice rising. "You and me out here like this? Is this ‘careful'?" She looked down at her lap, silent for a moment. "Are you saying you wouldn't have come if you'd known all that you know now?" she asked finally, her voice just above a whisper. "Maybe," he said instantly, haughty. Though a part of her knew he didn't mean it, that he was just speaking out of his fear, another part of her was sorely stung. She turned and looked out the window, removed her hand from his leg, her eyes shining with tears. "I'm sorry I called you then," she said flatly, struggling to hold the emotion that welled up in check. "Take me back." Despite her best efforts, a single tear escaped down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly. She kept her face turned away from him to hide it. An exit was looming up ahead. He changed into the right lane. Her heart sank as she resigned herself to going back, alone again. They passed it without him even slowing. She felt his hand curl around the back of her neck, his long fingers caressing her beneath her hair. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I didn't mean that. Of course I would have still come." She still couldn't look at him, her lip trembling. It was too much. First Danny. Now this between her and Mulder. When she needed him so badly. She struggled against the sadness in her, the nearly overwhelming sense of frustration, of grief. Cupping her forehead in her hand, she moved closer against the door, her body stiff, meeting his attempt at connection, at apology, with silence. Eventually, he removed his hand, trailing it across her leg on its way back to the steering wheel. "Scully, I'm sorry," he repeated softly. "I didn't mean it." There was something almost desperate in it this time. She shook her head, kept her face turned away. The tears raced down her cheeks. She brushed them away, concentrated on the faint outlines of trees in the moonlight. She stared at them until the tears stopped, feeling as though some part of her were freezing over, burying itself in an almost welcome, numbing cold. "Why don't you try and get some rest," he said into the stony silence, his voice showing his regret, his hurt. "I'll wake you up when we get to Charlottesville, when I find a motel. Then we'll both get some rest, figure this out in the morning." She bit her lip. She could not bring herself to answer him once again. She heard him sigh, saw him shake his head in frustration from the corner of her eye. Finally, she leaned the side of her face against the window, despair settling over her. She pretended to fall asleep. *********** THE OVERLOOK MOTEL AFTON MOUNTAIN AFTON, VIRGINIA 4:39 a.m. The motel had been visible from some distance, a small island of light on a high rise just off the highway. Mulder had watched it approach for several miles, saw the signs on the highway promising "The Best View on Afton Mountain." Though it was dark and the view wouldn't matter now, he wondered if some scenery would do Scully good when they woke up in the morning. He had found himself smiling as they neared Charlottesville and he'd seen the signs for Afton, only a few miles beyond the college town. The distance between them now, the quiet that had stretched for so many miles, had made him immediately nostalgic when he'd seen the signs for the Afton, for the mountain of the same name. He'd spent the time to himself thinking about their time on the mountain a year ago. Though the experience had been terrifying in so many ways, he found he could think only of the fact that they'd shared their first kiss somewhere on the side of that mountain. It seemed fitting that he drive the extra 20 miles to find their way back to that place. Or so he hoped as he looked at Scully pretending to sleep beside him. She'd kept her eyes closed, her face angled away from him, for the rest of their drive, avoiding any further conversation with him. It had made him profoundly sad. The snow was deeper here, as he'd expected, but the parking lot was neatly plowed. He pulled into a parking space in front of the two story building, all the rooms with sliding glass doors and balconies facing the valley behind him. The red "vacancy" sign glowed in the dark beside the office doorway. Putting the car in park, he unhooked his seat belt, turned to Scully. He put a hand out gingerly and touched her shoulder. "Hey," he called gently. As he expected, she opened her eyes immediately, looked at him almost warily. The sadness of the events of her night and the hurt he'd caused was still in her eyes. He found her gaze hard to meet, but managed it. "I'm going to go in and get us a room," he continued. "I'll be right back." "All right," she said softly, looking away. He was relieved that she had at least spoken to him. He climbed out of the car, keeping it running so the interior would stay warm. Pulling his leather jacket closer around him as a wind blew over the parking lot, he made his way to the office, the door jingling softly as he entered. Within minutes, he was back outside, a key to one of the second story rooms dangling from his hand. The sleepy manager had promised the room would have the best view of the sun coming up, and that it would have everything they would need. "Even one of them little coffee makers," the man had said proudly. Mulder had thanked him with a tired smile and headed out the door. He came back to the car, opened the door. Reaching in, he turned the car off. Scully seemed frozen in place, her eyes staring out the window, as though she were mesmerized by the full, golden moon. "You with me?" he asked gently. She turned, shook her head slightly as though trying to clear it. "Yeah," she murmured, opened her door, climbed out. He met her in front of the car, walked beside her up the staircase, up to the room. She kept her hands in her pockets and her body just out of his reach. He did manage to touch her back with his palm as he opened the door and ushered her in. He flicked on the light, surveyed the room. It was fairly large but simply furnished -- a queen-size bed and a night table on one side, two chairs in one corner around a simple round table, on which sat the promised four-cup Mr. Coffee. A bureau with a mirror beside the doorway to the bathroom, then two cheaply upholstered wing chairs gathered in front of the sliding glass doors that, for now, looked out onto only the dimly lit parking lot and a sea of night beyond. He closed the door as Scully went to the bureau, pulling off her gloves finally and laying them down on the surface in front of her. He could see in her reflection that her head was bowed, her eyes down as though taking off her gloves required all of her attention. Slowly she began to unbutton her long dark coat, revealing a white work shirt, black pants. She'd dressed for work the next day, he realized. He peeled his jacket off, went to the table and chairs, draping it over the back of one of the chairs. The room was cold to him, even though he wore jeans, a thick turtleneck, heavy socks and boots. He went back to the door, turned the heater, which was already running on low, up a few notches. He held his hand over the vent, satisfied. Then he turned back towards her, his hands on his hips. She stood still, her hands on the top of the bureau as though she were bracing herself. Her back was still to him, though he could still see her face in the mirror. It was blank, her gaze remaining down, as though she didn't want to even look at her own reflection. He blew out a tired breath. "Scully, please talk to me," he murmured into the space between them. Now she did look up slowly, at his reflection in the mirror, their eyes meeting on the smooth cold surface. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm so sorry for what I said." She nodded, bit her lip. "I know," she said quietly. "I know you didn't mean it." She averted her eyes again, and he saw a suspicious shine begin in them. She shook her head, stood up straight, tugging her shirt down as though trying to put herself back together in some way. "Look," she said, trying to sound casual, but her voice was trembling. "I'm just going to take a quick shower...get cleaned up." She reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. He noticed that her hand was shaking slightly. "Scully," he implored. "Please don't walk away from me." "I'll be right out, okay?" she said, sniffed. "I'll just be a minute." And she fled, closing the bathroom door behind her. He heard the water start up almost immediately, a soft hiss filling the room. Looking down, he shook his head. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, rubbed at his eyes, stood there for a long moment, at a loss. He could feel the space between them stretching further and further, wide and silent. He had to do something to reach her. He would do something, even if it meant risking doing more harm. The distance was that intolerable to him. Knowing he was taking a chance, he crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed, removing his shoes one at a time, then his socks. He pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it carelessly to the floor, ignoring the cold in the room that struck his bare skin. He stood, unbuttoned his pants, pushed them down over his hips, stepping out of them, leaving them in a hunkered mass at the foot of the bed. Clad only in grey boxer briefs, he went to the door to the bathroom. He hesitated, his palm on the smooth surface, then his forehead, as he listened for any sound besides the running water. He heard nothing. Pulling in a deep breath, steeling his nerves, he reached for the knob, turning it quietly, and stepped into the billow of steam on the other side. *** She stood beneath the stream, the water almost too hot to stand. The cheap, sharp smelling motel shampoo ran down her body in rivulets of bubbles as she smoothed her hands over her hair again and again, trying to smooth the turmoil of feeling out, as well. It reminded her of the way her mother had stroked her hair to soothe her when she was a little girl, and she took great comfort in the motion. Bending her neck, she angled her head so that the water ran down her forehead, the top of her head, sending it over it her eyes, down the back of her neck. She let herself drift in the rising steam, in the gentle sound of water running as it echoed on the tiles around her. For a moment, she lost it all. Danny on the phone. Mulder outside the door. For a moment she lost even herself, her mind as clear as the water, as blank as the walls. Then, a hand on her shoulder, fingers closing down gently on her skin. She jumped, gasping. She hadn't even heard him come in through the flimsy curtain. "Shhh..." he whispered, his lips on her ear, his other hand coming down on her other shoulder. "It's okay..." He pulled her gently against him, his body pressing against hers from the back. She knew that she should resent the intrusion. She even stiffened beneath his hands for a few seconds as a hint of the feeling washed over her. But just after that feeling came the realization that she hadn't really wanted to leave him in the room at all. That she just didn't know what to say to him, and she didn't want him to see her should she begin to cry again, to lose control. Now his lips were beneath her ear. He nuzzled at her gently, his hands slipping down her arms, then beneath them, until they rested on her waist and in the stream of water. It was too much, this closeness to him. His touch. The feelings rose up in her like a breaking wave. She tilted her head back against him, tears coming. Her breath caught in them. She bit her lip, her brow creasing down as she shook her head in frustration. "I don't want you to see me like this," she whispered, and his grip on her waist tightened. "It's okay..." he repeated, his lips on her throat, sending a shiver down her body. She leaned back into him, turned her face into his, her lip still between her teeth as she shook her head again. "Yes, Scully," he murmured. "I'm here..." Her body shook, the tears mingling with the water still on her face. His arms went around her waist now, his palms flat on her belly. He pressed his face against hers as she cried openly now, her hands gripping his forearms. "I can't do this anymore...I can't..." "Yes, you can," he replied, his lips against her cheek, then gently brushing the bruise beneath her eye. "You're doing so well. You're doing great work on this." "But Danny--" He pulled her tighter. "That's not your fault. You did everything you could to help him. You know you did." She wanted to believe him so much, but she couldn't. Not completely. Her head dropped forward to her chest, the tears still coming, and she said the words she had needed to say for weeks now, but could not. "Mulder, I'm so scared..." He nodded. "I know you are," he whispered, leaning over her shoulder to press his lips to her cheek again. "I know. It's going to work out, though. You're going to make it through this. You are..." She turned in his arms now, the water coursing down her back as she buried her face beneath his chin, her arms locking around his shoulder blades. She brushed her lips against his throat, pulling in a shaky breath. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her cheek against him now. She held onto him tightly. He pulled back a bit, reached up and cradled her head between his hands, his thumbs brushing her temples gently. He met her eyes, his expression serious. "Don't ever apologize for showing me how you feel," he whispered. "I don't want anything to be between us like that. Anything left unsaid." She closed her eyes slowly, nodded. He smoothed her hair with his fingers, and she turned her head a bit, leaning into one of his hands dreamily. When she opened her eyes, she couldn't tell if he was crying or not. His eyes shone. He leaned down, pressed his lips to her forehead, lingering there. She closed her eyes, unable to speak. When he pulled away, she turned her face up to him as his mouth came down again. Her lips parted beneath his, the kiss like a secret passed silent between them. ************* 6:39 a.m. There was a beacon, the light on a high radio tower on the other side of the mountain, and Scully watched it, hypnotized by the sight of the lazy red light blinking on and off in the waning darkness. The stars were still out faintly on one side of the sky, the other side glowing, filled with snow clouds. The storm was moving in from the west, backlit by the dawn, the clouds like a heavy lid over the sky's grey-blue eye. She was curled in one of the maroon wing chairs in front of the sliding glass door, her knees drawn up against her chest, her small nude body wrapped in Mulder's leather jacket. She hadn't moved a muscle in over a half an hour. Her eyes never left the view outside, the light on the radio tower, the storm moving in over the Blue Ridge Mountains, edging its way towards the bluff the motel was perched on. Moving eastward towards the city an hour and a half away that she was desperately trying to forget. Behind her, Mulder slept. She craned her neck to look at him. The covers were folded across his waist, his bare chest exposed to the chill in the room. It didn't matter though -- he slept heavy, his breathing audible even over the faint rattle of the motel's ancient heater. One arm was draped across his belly. The other lay out beside him, palm up, his fingers curled slightly inward. Light from the dim lamp on the night table was cupped there in his palm, pooled in the shadows of his fingers like water. She'd lain beside him for over an hour after he'd fallen asleep, waiting for sleep to come to her, as well. But she was jittery -- her body tired, but her mind busy, filled with random, anxious thoughts. Even his warm presence beside her had done nothing to calm her mind, even when she molded herself into his side, one of his legs trapped between both of hers, her arm tight around his chest, her cheek resting on his shoulder. He'd turned his lips to her forehead, caressing her hairline, murmuring softly to her that he loved her as his eyes finally drifted closed. She'd stayed pressed close to him, waiting as she listened to his breathing slow and grow deeper, the arm he had draped over her shoulder growing heavy. Sensing that she would not wake him, she'd risen up on an elbow, her fingers smoothing down the sparse hair on his chest, taking comfort in the full, even rise and fall of his breathing beneath her hand. She watched his face for awhile. It was turned toward her and away from the lamplight, sending his features into velvet shadow. Thoughts went relentlessly through her head like cars on an endless train. Curran's face when she'd told him she would be leaving. Sean going through the deck of cards at the Cathedral. Danny's last words on the phone, just before he slipped away from her. "I want to go home...." She'd closed her eyes against the thoughts, wincing at that final memory. The peace she sought with Mulder fled her. She worried, too, that she was bringing something dark and unwelcome into their space, the space they'd worked for a year to hold only for them. Wracked with a tumult of feelings, one of which was guilt at not finding some peace with him here when their time was so short, she'd risen and padded softly away. Which brought her to where she was sitting, shivering despite the thick jacket, her gaze moving over his still form on the bed. The tears came suddenly again and she squeezed her eyes closed against them, which only sent them down her cheeks more quickly. A hand, slightly trembling, went to her mouth, covering it as though she meant to silence herself. She could not understand why the emotions were so close to the surface, how she had so little control of them. She must just be so tired, she thought, the strain of the past few days making her raw, edgy. That must be it. For the first time in her life, she could not seem to fathom her own heart. It would be over soon, she reminded herself, pulling in a shaky breath that caught in her throat. All of this. She looked around the motel room, the sight of the strange room and the familiarity of Mulder painfully juxtaposed, making her feel unreal, lost and out of place. Her eyes settled on him again, and her mind grasped onto the sight of him as though she were holding onto a rope. She remembered how she'd felt when he'd come into the shower, following her, refusing to let her push him away. The way he'd held onto her waist so tightly, as though afraid she would slip away from him. Away from him completely, into that other, secret world. She wiped her eyes roughly, as though shaking herself awake from the threat of a deep sleep. There had been another time when she knew they'd both felt her drifting away. It felt like a lifetime ago -- her sitting at the stern of a wooden boat, attached to him by a thin line as he stood on that seemingly impossible shore. She had not let herself go then. And she would not do it now. With that thought she rose, shedding the jacket on the chair. She walked towards the bed. Lifting the covers, she slipped beneath them, moved towards him until she was flush against his side once again. Then she reached down and lifted the blankets off his waist, pulling them down, past his hips, then his thighs, then his knees. He did not stir. The tears came again as she pressed her lips to the column of his throat, his breastbone. The scar on his shoulder. The other over his ribcage, in the thin space between his ribs. The bump of his hipbone. The soft hair beneath his navel. The inside of his thigh. He began to move in his sleep, drawing in a deep breath as his legs shifted slowly. Outside a gust of wind creaked against the flimsy door frame. She pushed the sound away, curled an arm around his calf, grasping him behind the knee gently to halt his leg's movement, her other hand smoothing over his hip. She lowered her head, her hair falling across his abdomen... A sudden intake of breath. She could sense by the tenseness of his body that he had awakened. She did not have to look up to know his eyes were on her, his gaze like a sudden heat. Her cheeks flushed with it. After a moment, he whispered her name into the quiet, his hand coming up and stroking her hair, brushing it back behind her ear, giving him, she knew, a view of her face as she moved. It only took a few more moments for his breath to hitch again, now with desire, his legs shifting despite her grasp. He moaned softly, his right hand coming up to join the left, alternately smoothing down her hair and caressing the side of her face. As much as she loved giving him this kind of pleasure, a pleasure he couldn't contain or hide, it wasn't enough for her. Not now. Pulling back, she trailed soft, open-mouthed kisses up his body now, over his side, across one dark nipple. His arms went around her as she rolled slowly on top of him, her thighs coming down on either side of his hips. She kissed his chest, then lifted her face so she could look into his eyes. As in the sky outside, a storm was moving into his eyes as well, one filled with rich desire. But she saw concern there, too, felt him stroking her back as if in comfort. It wasn't until she saw this in his expression that she realized she was still crying, her lower lip trembling. He started to speak, but she reached up and covered his lips with a finger, shaking her head. He swallowed back his words, and after a few seconds nodded. She then replaced the finger with her lips, his mouth opening beneath hers, the kiss immediately deep, searching. Her fingers tangled in his hair, still mussed from the shower, drawing him up from the pillow. His hands cradled her head between them, his fingers caressing her brow. They stayed that way for a long time. Finally, she leaned back on her knees, watched his face as she guided him inside her. He bit his lip, his eyes squeezing closed as he held back a moan, honoring her desire for silence. As she leaned back a bit, her hands on his belly, his own hands found her breasts, and she arched her back, pushed herself against them, her head tilting back. Tears raced from the corners of her eyes, down her temples. She was helpless against them as the world narrowed to sensation, to image. His knees drawing up behind her, deepening their contact so much that she gasped with the suddenness of it, shuddering... His dark eyes watching her so intently, so much so that she felt as if she encompassed, for him, the entire world... Sweat dewing them both despite the chill in the room, single drops running slowly down the length of her spine, the center of her chest, down his forehead, his temples... Then Mulder's eyes clenching closed as she leaned down, her lips trailing down his face, his hands on her hips, pushing into her with such intensity. Her head fell back as she thrust against him, waiting for the tightening of her muscles, waiting for the readying of her body for release. After several long moments, she realized that it would not come. She could see the look of questioning, concern in his eyes as he looked up at her, wordlessly urging her to let the pleasure take her. But she knew that her body was not responding as it usually did to him. Something -- fatigue, anxiety -- was getting in the way. Though a part of her was a bit disappointed, she refused to let it take away from the experience of being with him. She could sense his concern, as well, especially when his hands left her hips, his thumbs moving down to the place where their bodies were joined. She reached down, shaking her head, and took his hands in both of hers, bringing them up to her lips. He looked at her, puzzled, again, but accepted what she wanted. She released his hands and they returned to stroking her waist, her breasts, her hips. Leaning forward onto her hands on either side of his head, she increased the rate, the depth of her movements, her face over his now. She had not had the experience of watching him like this, of concentrating completely on his pleasure and being able to see it play over his face. There was something about being able to do this that made their lovemaking that much more intimate to her. His eyes were wide, his breathing laboring. He was trying to hold back, struggling for control, waiting for her. She smiled to him, shook her head, then kissed him. She kept her face close as she continued to move, her own breath fanning his hair. She could feel his entire body tightening, shaking with his need for release. "Mulder, let go," she whispered breathlessly, breaking the silence. He shook his head, his fingers digging into her hips. "No..." "Yes....please. For me." Tears began again in her eyes as she said it. She meant what she said so much it tore at her. She could see his brow crease down as he saw the tears, but he had heard what she said. He pushed up hard against her, his hands cupping her breasts now. She moaned, leaned down further to allow him access to them with his mouth, and he nuzzled against her chest, his teeth nipping, his tongue smoothing over the silken skin of her nipples. Then he leaned his head back against the pillow, his eyes squeezing shut once again as he gasped. A few more thrusts and then he was shaking, his hips moving in slow, instinctual thrusts. He moaned deeply, said her name in a trembling, deep voice. She held his face between her hands as he shook beneath her, his eyes coming open and meeting her tender smile and gaze. Color flushed his face suddenly as his hips slowed their movements beneath her. Finally she felt him beginning to relax, his eyes closing, his breathing still hard but evening out. She leaned down and kissed his mouth, lingering there. She moved her lips to his forehead, his cheek, his temple. His hands stroked her back. "I'm sorry..." he whispered, pushing her hair behind her ears and meeting her eyes. She shook her head. "Don't be," she murmured, and smiled to him again through her tears. With that, she draped her body down on top of his, shifting her legs so that they lay between his, her head under his chin. They lay still for a long moment, their breathing settling, relaxing against each other. He kissed the top her head, rubbing his cheek against her still-damp hair. Suddenly, her pulse pounded in her ears. The fatigue that had clung to her before settled in hard and she thought for an instant that she might fall asleep right there on top of him. A vague sensation of vertigo gripped her. "Mulder..." she whispered into his throat, a touch of fear in her voice as she held onto his shoulders. "It's all right..." He nuzzled at her, kissed her forehead. "No..." she breathed. "I'm dizzy..." He held onto her and gently rolled her to the side, then on to her back, taking a place beside her, his upper body over hers so that he could look into her eyes. His eyes were serious, concerned, taking in her face. He stroked her hair softly as she closed her eyes against the wash of fatigue and dizziness. "Are you all right?" he whispered. He put an arm around her, gripping her ribcage just below her breast as though trying to balance her. Almost immediately, the feeling began to ebb and she opened her eyes, looked up at him. His expression was so tender and worried that she gave him a small smile. "I'm okay," she murmured. She stroked his cheek. "Just tired, I think." It was the only explanation she could come up with for the strange feelings, and though he looked dubious, he accepted what she said, reaching down to bring the blankets up over them. He lay down next to her, pulling her into the crook of his arm so that her head rested beneath his chin. Craning his neck, he kissed her forehead. She relaxed, her body curved around him. She smiled to herself as she felt the peace settle over them. The distance that had been between them before was finally gone, exorcised. Now it was just the two of them, their private space returned to them. "I love you," she whispered against his skin, and she felt rather than saw him smile, his lips on her hair. "I love you, too," he replied gently. "Now I want you to sleep, okay? You need to get some sleep." He was already halfway there himself. She could feel his body growing warm and heavy. "I'll try," she whispered, curling her arm around his chest and settling down completely against him. As she felt him drift on into sleep, she looked out the glass door she'd been sitting in front of before. It had begun to snow, huge flakes that glowed almost blue in the dawning light. Like the snowglobe Mulder had given her for Christmas. She had a sudden, very real vision of herself, sitting on the bed in Mae's apartment, shaking the globe, the flakes swirling, identical to the ones before her in the window. She shook off the strange vision, blinked it away and pulled Mulder closer. An inch of snow had collected on the balcony railing before she finally fell into a light, dream-filled sleep. ********* Concluded in part three.