Part three

*********


2233 GRACE STREET 
10:37 a.m.


Owen Curran had arrived early at the apartment Mae shared with
Katherine Black, and had decided without a moment's thought to go
ahead and let he and Sean in with his key. 

Sean made straight for the television, flicking through the cable
television channels with an ease that Owen found decidedly American
and thus a tad unnerving. He eventually settled on some channel that
advertised itself as the Cartoon Network, proceeded to sit a foot and
a half away from the screen, kneeling, his hands still jammed in his
coat pockets. Then he sat in rapt silence, mesmerized by the
multicolored creatures playing across the small screen. 

Curran watched all this from the counter in the kitchen where he was
sipping a glass of orange juice from the fresh carton he'd found in
Mae's refrigerator. 

"So this is what Mae lets you do when I bring you over here?" Owen
grumbled, and Sean turned, looked down like a puppy who'd been caught
with a shoe. 

"Sometimes, Daddy," he replied. "Only sometimes." 

Owen grunted at Sean's attempt to cover his sister's ass. He'd have
a talk with her about this when she got in. With Sean not being in
school, and having not been for some time, Owen didn't want his son's
mind being rotted out. He wanted his son outside, out in the world.
At least as much as their lives could allow. He sighed at the thought.

For now, he reminded himself. Just for now. 

Taking the glass of juice with him, he wandered down the shotgun
hallway of the ancient apartment, passing Mae's room, the door opened
and revealing a riotous mess of clothes strewn across the floor, an
unmade bed. Dull white light was coming in the two windows, the snow
still falling outside from the storm that had begun earlier that
morning. 

The sight made him smile a bit. One thing about Mae, he thought. She
was predictable. Even in her tendency to scatter a mess everywhere
she went. 

Going down the hallway a bit more, he passed the small bathroom,
then came upon what could only have been Katherine Black's room. The
closed door alone told him that. 

He reached for the door knob, pushed the door opened with a creak,
peered inside. 

The first thing he noticed was the light aroma in the room, a
slightly stronger version of the faint fragrance he picked up from
Katherine when he sat across from her, a clean, bright scent that
managed to permeate even the dense fog of cigarettes at the Mouse. He
found himself inhaling deeply, savoring the unique, utterly feminine
smell. 

The second thing he noticed was that the room was impeccably neat,
the bed made smooth, the two cheap pillows placed just so at the base
of the metal-slatted headboard. There was nothing on the floor
anywhere, save the cheap, mismatched rug. A small cosmetic bag
centered on the dresser, a gathering of bottles of creams and things.
On the night table, a small travel alarm and something else,
something he couldn't identify from the doorway. He stepped inside
the room further to investigate. 

Picking up the snowglobe, he peered at the scene inside, wondered at
why someone as no-nonsense as Katherine would have something so
trivial and frivolous. It wasn't even a nice one, he thought, giving
it a rough shake, listening to the sound of the water sloshing. 

It must have sentimental value, he decided, placing it carefully
back down on the night table. The thought bothered him for some
reason he couldn't name. 

Emboldened now that he was inside the room, he went to the closet,
looked at the neat rows of shirts, pants, jackets, shoes. The two
dark suitcases stacked on the shelf at the top. 

Everything had a place, and was in it, he thought wryly, closing the
door. 

Just then, he heard a noise below him, the front door to this side
of the duplex opening. It would have to be Mae -- there was no one in
the other apartment on this side, and only one occupant on the other
side, a young man who was gone sometimes for weeks at a time
travelling for work. Mae pretty much had the place to herself, which
was why she'd chosen it in the first place. 

They'd both learned the value of privacy, the necessity of it for
the work. 

He retreated from the bedroom quickly, pulling the door closed and
making his way back up to the kitchen and living room area just as
Mae came in the door, covered with a fine dusting of snowflakes. 

"You're early," Mae said softly, and he could tell immediately there
was something in her expression, something clouding her over. 

"Aye," he replied, doing his best to ignore it. He didn't really
have the time or the inclination to get into anything with her. 

Mae pulled off her coat and scarf, hung them on the rack by the
door, came into the kitchen, picking up the kettle and going to the
sink with it immediately for tea. 

He heard it fill for a moment before she spoke.

"I've just come back from breakfast with Ian," Mae said, their backs
turned towards each other. He took another swig of the orange juice,
made a face at the incredibly strong taste of it, swallowing it
quickly to get it over with, his eyes on Sean and the television. 

"Oh?" he replied, feigning interest. He knew what was wrong with her
now. 

"Yes," she replied. "He said...he said that Danny Conner didn't come
home yesterday after a meeting with you. Not all night or this
morning either." 

"That's a shame," Owen said flatly, facing her now as she finished
filling the kettle and set it gently on the stove. Her eyes were
down, remaining down even after she'd turned on the burner. She
hesitated for a moment.

"What happened to him, Owen?" she said quietly, so that only he
could hear. She turned to him now, meeting his eyes. There was
something dark in her gaze, and he sensed the challenge immediately. 

"Don't you go asking questions you really don't want to hear the
answer to, Mae." He put the glass down, his eyes not leaving hers. 

She closed her eyes, shook her head, blew out a pained breath. "For
the love of Christ, Owen, why?" Again, she pitched her voice low,
mindful of Sean in the next room, just over the counter and the dingy
couch. 

"I don't think you want to know," he said, trying to warn her off
again. 

"I do," she replied instantly, her voice hardening with her resolve. 

He crossed his arms across his chest. "All right," he began,
glancing at Sean to make sure he was still engrossed in the
television. He was. "The little bastard has been seeing Katherine to
try and to get off the drug." 

He saw her tense up immediately at the mention of Katherine's name.
And at the mention of the drug. It was an old argument between them,
and this wasn't going to help bury it, for certain. 

"That fucking drug?" she hissed. "He wanted to get off that drug and
you killed him for *that*? Jesus Christ, it's bad enough you put all
these people on that stuff and turn them into fucking zombies, but
now this?" 

"Aye," he said, his voice just above a whisper, and angry. "And it's
not about the fucking drug, Mae, and you know that. I don't need to
explain myself to you." Something dangerous crept into his voice and
he stared her down. 

"Don't you take that tone with me," she warned, her face hardening.
"Not with me." She didn't flinch as she looked at him. "Danny was
sick on that drug. They all are. I don't blame him for trying to get
off it." 

"They're on that drug for a reason, Mae," he replied, his voice
still angry. He caught himself though, decided to choose his next
words carefully. There was only so much Mae actually knew about the
drug, only so much he wanted her to know. He drew in a deep breath
and spoke more calmly. 

"They're on it so that I know they can be trusted to do the work.
Danny decided he didn't want to be a part of that. Then so be it. But
if he's not with us, he's against us, as far as I'm concerned, and
anyone against us, well...you know what happens to them. What's
always happened to them." He looked at her, probing her with his gaze
as though trying to strip her anger away with his eyes. Then he said
the words he knew would silence her. 

"And incidentally, since when are you so squeamish about that? After
all these years, eh?" 

She shook her head, looked away. He had her there and he knew it.
Reminding Mae of the things she had done usually shamed her out of
whatever high-horse she'd climbed on. She had no defense against her
past. 

He could tell from the heavy, resigned sigh she let out that she was
giving in to him, leaving him be about Danny. 

The television continued to chirp and bang in the living room. Sean
laughed delightedly at something he saw, the sound jarringly out of
place with the conversation they were having. Owen looked over at
Sean, taking comfort in the sound of his son's laughter. 

"I want you to promise me something," Mae said after a moment, and
he looked back at her. 

"If I can," he said evenly. 

She looked up at him sharply at his response. "No, I really want a
promise from you. For me." 

He thought about it a moment, his haughtiness coming out of him a
bit at the earnestness of her gaze. He really didn't want to fight
with her. Besides Sean, and he supposed John Fagan, she was all he
had left in the world. 

"What is it?" he asked softly. 

"I don't want you to hurt Katherine," she said softly, seriously.
"She's not a part of any of this, no matter what she knows about the
drug. Just find a replacement for her and let her go home. Please." 

He was quiet for a moment. She'd never made such a request of him
before. Never singled someone out like that. He'd never seen her be
so loyal to someone who was not him or Sean. 

A feeling crept into his gut as he let that fact sink in. Simmering
anger. Resentment, running deeply through him. Warring with the other
emotions that he had surrounding Katherine -- the respect he had for
her, the nearly uncontrollable desire. All coming together in a
confused mass of conflicting feelings.

Outwardly, he gave Mae a small smile, forcing himself into
composure. "I won't hurt Katherine," he said softly, wanting to
believe what he said was true when he saw the look of relief that
came over Mae's face.

"You promise me that?" she pressed.

He nodded simply. "Aye," he murmured. There was something almost sad
now in his voice, but she didn't pick up on it. She smiled, nodded. 

"Thank you, Owen," she said softly. The kettle began to whistle
lowly behind her and she turned away from him to retrieve it. She put
it down on one of the cool burners. "I'll be right back -- go ahead
and make you and Sean a cup." 

"All right," he replied, matching her tone. "Take your time." And
she departed down the hallway to the bathroom, closing the door
behind her. 

He waited a few seconds as a moment of hesitation came over him. 

Then he moved as he had always moved. With purpose. 

He went to the refrigerator, pulled out the carton of orange juice
he'd just opened, the one he'd suffered through a glass of just for
the sake of opening it because he knew that Mae never would have. Not
for her, and not for Sean, either. They both hated the stuff with a
passion. He wasn't particularly fond of it himself. It was like
drinking thin, strongly flavored syrup.

Which made it perfect for his needs. 

Reaching into his pockets, he pulled out four smokey glass vials.

He'd emptied them all into the carton, shaken it and replaced it in
the refrigerator well before the door to the bathroom opened and Mae
came back out to join him. 


************

THE OVERLOOK MOTEL 
AFTON MOUNTAIN 
AFTON, VIRGINIA 
11:17 a.m.


Her fingers were twined tightly in his hair, holding his face
alongside hers as she threw her head back and gasped with him. Their
breathing was the only sound in the room, the only sound in the
falling snow that had draped the world outside in stillness, silence. 

She pushed back against him dreamily, into his abdomen against her
lower back, pressed her legs down against his, the fronts of his
thighs tight to the back of hers. His arms squeezed around her as she
did so, his right across her side, his left beneath her in the curve
of her waist. His hands trailed up now from between her legs to her
waist, holding her there as his chest heaved against her back. 

Gradually her grip on his hair loosened and she simply ran her
fingers through the damp strands. She turned her upper body slightly
so that she could kiss his mouth and the rough contours of his face
for a long moment, closing her eyes as he returned the kisses
tenderly, first her lips, then her cheeks, her brow. Finally, he
buried his face against her throat, nuzzling her dewed skin slowly. 

Eventually she pulled her arm back down, gripping his forearms as
they both settled their heads back on the pillow, still breathing
hard. She hummed softly, smiling, her eyes still closed, as he pinned
her in a firm embrace, his lips brushing against the crown of her
head. 

"Hmm...thank you," she whispered, shifting her legs so that she
could rub her foot against his calf. She felt him smile at her words. 

"You're welcome," he murmured, nudging his nose into her hair and
kissing the back of her neck now, lingering there. "Though I feel
like I should be thanking you..." She smiled, as well, as his warm
breath sent a shiver down her body. 

They were quiet for a long time, drifting, almost dozing again. 

Then someone started up a car, the high cough of the engine coming
through the thin glass of the door to the balcony. Scully opened her
eyes, shifting slightly with the sound. It was a sudden reminder that
there was a world outside the room, a fact that she'd been doing her
level best not to think about. It was so easy to just lie here with
Mulder, in the warmth of the bed, his arms tight around her, his body
so close to hers. 

But there was much to be concerned about, and it slowly began to
seep back into her awareness. 

He must have felt the change, as well. A subtle tenseness in her
body, a tell-tale stillness. He lifted his head off the pillow,
pressed his lips to her temple for a few seconds, then whispered into
her ear. 

"Not yet?" 

She shook her head, her grip tightening on his arms. "I'm sorry,"
she replied. "I can't help it. It's getting late and I'm a little
worried about the snow...about a lot of things..." 

"I know," he said softly, leaning back down on the pillow again,
sighing. "I know you are. I am, too." 

The time glared back at her as she looked at the clock. Almost noon
now. She moved again slightly, anxiety beginning in her. 

"Are you hungry?" he asked, sensing her need to act now, which she
appreciated. "There's a little restaurant just down the road. We
passed it on the way in. We could get showered, go get something to
eat. Talk this out." 

She considered this for a beat. "I'm not hungry, but I'll sit with
you while you eat, have some juice or something." She yawned
heartily, stretched back against him, his hands coming up to her ribs
as he pressed another kiss just below her ear. 

"You need to eat something," he said as she pushed herself into a
sitting position, her legs dangling over the side of the bed. She
stretched again. She'd slept fitfully, and for only a few hours, and
she felt like it. Maybe forcing herself to eat *would* help her feel
a little better, give her more energy to face going back. 

With this in mind, she nodded, turned back to him. 

"I'll try, okay?" She reached a hand down and cradled the side of
his face, her thumb running over his lip lightly. He returned her
nod, ran a hand down her back as she rose. The room was cold and the
sweat on her body chilled her instantly. 

She looked down at him, lying there still on his side. He'd risen up
on one elbow, the blanket covering half his hip. He met her gaze, and
she could see the worry he'd had the night before on his features,
etched into his dark eyes. 

"It'll be all right, Mulder," she murmured, and he hesitated, as
though he were going to say something. He bit it back, though, and
finally nodded. She could tell from the resigned look on his face
that he wasn't at all sure of what she said. 

That was only fair, she thought as she withdrew to the bathroom.
Because neither was she. 


*********** 

CASEY'S DINER 
AFTON, VIRGINIA 
1:18 p.m.


Scully had ordered eggs, scrambled hard, two pieces of wheat toast,
orange juice and coffee, the eggs requested at Mulder's insistence.
Over the sounds of the grill sizzling in the short-order kitchen, of
Hank Williams on the radio behind the counter, she listened to
Mulder, who spoke at irregular intervals as he dug into his western
omelet and the greasy mountain of cubed brown potatoes arching around
it.

She had to smile as she watched him eat so voraciously. Lovemaking
had always given him a healthy appetite. 

She picked at her own food, hoping he wouldn't notice that she'd
only eaten a few bites as she pushed it around the plate. 

"If he's interested in you at all romantically, I don't think he's
going to be quite as willing to let you leave as he's acting." Mulder
was saying. 

"Well, he can't make me stay," she replied, taking a sip of her
coffee. "I even told him if he couldn't find a replacement soon I'd
write him scripts for the medications he needs to tide him over until
he could. He knows I'm going to leave whether he finds someone right
away or not." 

Mulder stabbed at the omelet, thinking. "How have you been with
him?" he asked.

She looked at him, perplexed by his question. "What do you mean?" 

"I mean, have you been passive with him? Or forward? Like, what do
you think he thinks of you at this point?" He ate, waiting for her to
respond. 

"I'm not sure what he thinks," she said softly after a moment. "To
be honest, he's always made me a little nervous. He looks at me very
intensely, and he's very nervous around me, too."

The waitress came by and refilled their coffee with the
disinterested expression Scully expected, halting the conversation
for a beat.

"I suppose you could say our interactions have been fairly
balanced," she continued after the woman had wandered away. "We've
spoken almost exclusively about business; he's asked me to do things
for him, and I've agreed to do them." She took a delicate bite her
eggs, nearly gagging as she chewed and forced herself to swallow. She
decided she must have been more anxious than she was aware of, and
put her fork down.

"Has there been any occasion when you disagreed with him?" Mulder
asked, leaning forward. "When you've reacted against him? Even in a
small way?" 

She considered this. "Yes, the first night I met him, when he
annoyed me with how he talked to me. Like I was property, something
he could just order around. I chafed at that, and he knew it." 

"He's probably admired you since that night for reacting to him that
way," Mulder replied. "Probably no one else in his life does that." 

"No, I don't think so either," she said softly. "The closest to
doing that would be Mae, but she seems to let him be for the most
part. She's aware of how dangerous he is, I think. She warned me that
night to be careful to give him the ‘proper respect.'" 

"That's probably part of the reason he finds you attractive," he
said, and she could see something dark cross his face. The thought
clearly disturbed him. 

"I think you're right," she said softly, took a sip of her juice.
She didn't have the same problem with drinking as she did with
eating, and she was glad for that. 

"That's what you have to keep doing." He put his fork down, worrying
a spot on the table with his finger. 

"What? Standing up to him?" 

"Yes," he replied, nodding. "You have to do that if he oversteps in
any way. It's your greatest protection at this point. I'm not
advocating that you take him on completely, by any means. But he'll
continue to respect you if you show strength, and I think he'll be
more willing to let you go, and less likely to hurt you, if he
respects you." 

He met her eyes, concern there. "That is," he added quietly, "If
you're certain he isn't showing any signs of hurting you already."

She shook her head. "No, he's given me no sign that he plans on
doing that. I think if he was going to hurt me, he would have made
some sort of threatening comment or gesture to me last night, after
he killed Danny." 

She hesitated, then forced herself to continue. "I think you're
right. That the little bit I've stood up to him...and him being
attracted to me anyway, are working in my favor to protect me." 

She didn't like the turn she'd made in the conversation. She knew it
frightened him. It frightened them both. 

He nodded, continued staring down at the spot on the table, his
finger still working on it. She looked down at the table as well,
into her plate of uneaten food, let out a tired breath. 

"If he makes a move, I want you to get out of there." He looked up
now, as did she at the seriousness of his tone. Their eyes locked. "I
don't care about Padden or Flaherty or any of this. I want you to
come out right away." 

She looked away from his probing gaze, nodded slightly. 

"I mean it, Scully," he pressed. "I know how much you want to do
this right, but I don't want you risking your life. Not any more than
you have already." 

"I know," she replied softly, and reached across the table to take
his hand. "I'll be careful, Mulder. I am being careful." 

He looked at her seriously, as though he had to make himself believe
her. Finally, he nodded, looked out into the light snow still
falling, his fingers twining with hers. She followed his gaze out the
window. The windshield of their car, parked right in front of the
diner, was already covered with a light dusting. 

She looked at him across the table, at his face still dark with
stubble, his eyes haunted as they took in the scene outside the
window. She wanted nothing more than to go back to the motel, check
back in, stay another night with him, to feel that sense of safety
once again. 

Shaking herself free of the thoughts, she sighed, gave his hand a
squeeze. "We have to get going," she said into the silence between
them. 

It took him a moment to pull his attention away from the view
outside as he resisted what she said, to nod and release her hand and
pick up his keys and the check. 


**********

BROAD STREET 
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA 
7:03 p.m.


Scully leaned her head against the side window of the #13 bus as it
rumbled down Broad, following the partially occluded moon back into
the city's historic Fan District. The snow plows were still out,
grinding the streets with sand and salt and giving the streets a
bright patina in the headlights and street lights. 

She let out a breath. So far, it appeared as though she had eased
back into her life in Richmond without a hitch. 

She and Mulder had returned around four that afternoon. He had taken
her back to the hospital, headed into the huge parking deck that sat
on the edge of Interstate 95 and next to the hospital. He'd found a
spot in the dim, cavernous place, back in a far corner where there
was no one around. 

He turned towards her, his expression profoundly worried and sad. 

She'd immediately crossed the space between them, her arms going
around him, her head beneath his chin. Immediately, his arms circled
her, one hand resting on the side of her head, pressing her against
him. 

They'd held on tightly for a long moment, both of them saying
nothing. 

Then, knowing she had to go, she turned her face up towards his,
kissed him, lingering. 

"I'll see you again soon," she said, hoping that what she said was
true. Considering the alternative wasn't something she could do just
then. 

"Yeah," he'd agreed, pushing her hair behind her ear. "Take care of
yourself, all right?"

"I will," she'd replied. "You, too." She kissed him once more. 

They exchanged "I love yous" in whispers, as though afraid someone
would hear. 

Then she'd forced her eyes away from him as she opened the car door,
got out and headed for the hospital, leaving him behind.

She'd spent a couple of hours in the clinic seeing walk-ins. She'd
told them she wouldn't be in that day, but they welcomed her help
just the same. Then she'd made a visit to the pharmacy, dropping off
the prescriptions that Curran had given her the night before. 

It felt like a lifetime since he'd given them to her. It amazed her
how much could happen in one day. 

She opened her eyes as the bus swung onto Allen Street and she
stood, pressed the call bar. The bus slowed as it reached the corner
at Grace, stopped, and she stepped off it onto the snowy sidewalk,
made the short walk up the street to Mae's apartment. 

The lights were all on, glowing in the darkness. 

"Hello, Dr. Black!" came the now traditional welcome from Sean as
she entered the apartment. 

"Hello, Sean," she replied, smiling tiredly. "Mae." 

He and Mae were sprawled on the floor in the living room, a card
game spread before them. Mae smiled to her warmly as she dropped her
keys on the counter.

"You look knackered," Mae said fretfully. "Hard day at the hospital
then?" 

"Yes, a long one," Scully said, going for the cabinet and drawing
out a glass. She went to the sink, filled it up with water, took a
long swallow. 

Mae stood, went to the counter separating the two rooms as Sean
began to clean up the cards. Mae looked at her, her smile now
decidedly apologetic. 

"We have to go out for a bit, but then I'll bring you home and you
can get some rest." She said it regretfully. 

Scully had to keep her face from showing her dismay at the prospect
of going to the pub for another evening. She wondered what Owen could
want from her now, since the medications had all been ordered. 

It made her instantly nervous. What if he wanted to confront her
about Danny? 

"All right," was what she said aloud, trying to sound casual. 

"I'll even buy you a drink after you meet with Owen," Mae offered.
"It'll help you unwind, help you sleep once you get home." 

Scully nodded, found herself smiling. Mae made things sound so
simple sometimes, as if she perpetually thought that everything would
work out fine in the end. Scully was glad that some part of her had
escaped the years with Owen and the IRA unscathed, intact. She liked
this aspect of Mae, and wished she could muster some of that optimism
herself.

Sean chattered all the way to the pub, asking Scully about her day
at the hospital, who she'd seen, what was wrong with them, a
relentless barrage of innocent questions. Mae told him several times
to "let Dr. Black be." 

The pub was, for once, fairly calm. Most of the tables were full,
but there wasn't the usual throng gathered around the bar, and the
Irish music was coming only through the speakers. 

Scully looked around, saw Curran sitting at the bar, a beer in his
hand. John Fagan sat beside him, talking to him with what appeared to
Scully to be a sense of urgency. Curran was alternately responding
and then waving him off, and Scully wondered what they could be
talking about. 

Curran then caught sight of them and raised a hand, smiling to her.
Though she thought it might just be her nerves that made her think
so, there seemed to be something a little...forced?...about the
smile. Something almost sad. 

They made their way to a table, coming out of their coats. By the
time they were situated, Curran had come over. He looked slightly
rumpled, worn jeans and a green cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled
up. His cheeks were flushed, which only made the scar alongside his
mouth stand out more starkly. 

Sean immediately went to him, wrapping his arms around his father's
waist in a tight hug. Curran staggered a little bit with the force of
it, put a hand roughly on Sean's head. Scully realized from this and
the heaviness of his lids that he was more than a little drunk. 

"There they all are," Curran said, attempting a lightness in his
voice that he didn't quite reach. He looked to Mae, then focused his
attention on Scully again, that same strange smile on his face. "What
are we drinking then?" 

"Whatever it is, I hope not as much as you've had," Mae chided him,
though she was smiling. Curran grinned back, flushed even brighter. 

"Aye, I've had a bit," he said to her. "Come on, what will you two
have? I'm buying and I'll even go get it for you." 

"You're waiting on us now, too?" Mae laughed. "If that's the case,
I'll have a Guiness." She looked at Scully. "Katherine? What should
Owen fetch for you?"

Scully smiled, trying to share the joke. It was hard for her because
for some reason she couldn't quite name, she didn't like the idea of
Curran not being in complete control of himself. "I guess I'll have
the same," she replied. 

"All right, I'll be right back," Curran replied, and, disentangling
himself from Sean, he made his way back to the bar. 

"Lord only knows what he's celebrating tonight," Mae said, watching
him go. Then she turned back to Scully. "When he gets back, I'll
leave you two to attend to whatever business he's got for you. When
you're finished with that and your beer I'll take you straight home
and come back." 

"Thank you, Mae," Scully replied, and meant it. "That's very kind of
you." 

"Well, it's the least I can do for you. You work your bum off at
that hospital. I don't know how you keep it up, looking as tired as
you do all the time." 

Curran returned now on his slightly unsteady feet, placed the tall
glasses of dark beer in front of them with care. 

Mae picked hers up and rose, gestured to Sean. "Come on, Sean, let's
go say hello to Michael and Annie for a minute while your dad and Dr.
Black have a chat." 

"All right," Sean agreed, and he and Mae withdrew. 

Curran sat down heavily in the chair Mae had just vacated, his half
empty beer sloshing in the glass. Nervous, Scully took a swallow from
her own glass, trying to appear nonchalant, casual. It was hard to do
considering Curran was staring at her so pointedly, a lopsided smile
on his face.

"Mae said you wanted to see me," she said finally, wanting to break
the odd moment. 

Curran leaned forward, halving the space between them. "Aye, that I
did, Katherine," he said softly. "That I did." 

There was something almost intimate in his voice, something
strangely, overtly familiar. As was the look he was giving her.
Dreamy and wistful and tinged with longing.

Scully didn't like either the tone or the look one bit. 

"Well," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "What is it that you
would like me to do for you?" 

He shook his head, glanced down at her hand around the glass.
"Nothing," he said softly. 

"Nothing?" she repeated, incredulous. "You called me out here for
nothing?"

"Aye," he replied, smiling as though sharing some private joke. Then
he looked into her face again and his brow squinted down. 

His hand came up and cupped the side of her face, his thumb brushing
over the still obvious bruise around her eye. 

She stiffened, surprised, unsure of how to react. Her eyes grew very
wide.

"I'd like to get my hands on the person who did this to you," he
murmured. "I don't care how sick they were. I don't want anyone
touching your face." 

Alarm bells shrieked in her head, but she stayed calm, decided his
actions were nothing more that drunkenness badly mixed with concern.
That was all it was, she thought, so she held still. 

Until his hand moved down to her jaw and his thumb traced gently
over her bottom lip. 

Now she turned her face away, leaned back slightly and put a hand up
on his forearm, pulling his hand down gently. 

"Please don't, Owen," she said softly, afraid to reject him too
forcefully, afraid of angering him. But she remembered what Mulder
had said about standing up to him if he overstepped. 

And he had definitely just overstepped. 

"And why not?" he asked, his voice still toned for the bedroom, not
the bar. "You're beautiful." 

She felt herself blush and looked away. "We have a business
relationship, Owen," she replied, keeping her voice neutral but firm.
"Nothing more." She thought that might sound too harsh, and hurried
to add: "I just don't need any attachments right now. Especially not
with me leaving so soon." 

Then she let go of his hand, picked up her beer and drank, trying to
dismiss the conversation, return the mood to the cordial distance
they'd had before. 

He leaned back, his elbows on the table, his eyes down. "I see," he
said flatly. She could tell the rejection had stung him, no matter
how gently she'd tried to deal it. He picked up his beer, took a
swallow, as well. 

They sat in an awkward silence. Owen pushed his beer around the
table. Scully sipped from hers, desperate for something to do with
her hands.

"There was something I did want to tell you," he said finally,
monotone, though he slurred slightly. 

"What's that?" Here it comes, she thought.

He looked at her, and his eyes were dark, intent on her now. Vaguely
threatening. It surprised her how quickly he could change. 

"I've sent Danny Conner away. You won't be seeing him down at your
clinic anymore." 

She looked down, then back up at him again, meeting his eyes evenly.
"Danny is very sick," she said, forcing the present tense. "He's
simply my patient."

"He *was* your patient," Owen replied tersely. "You won't be seeing
him anymore. And as far as what you know about what's ailing him...I
trust that you'll keep that to yourself, as part of your work you do
for me."

There was so much she wanted to say to him about that particular
subject, but she figured she'd probably said enough to stand up to
him tonight. She didn't want it to appear as though she were taking
him on about everything. 

"All right," she replied. He nodded, seemed satisfied with her
response. He got to his feet a bit unsteadily, straightened his
shirt, picked up his beer and started to turn away. 

There was one thing she felt compelled to say, however. 

"Owen?"

He stopped, turned back to her, his brow raised in question. 

She met his gaze. "Don't call me if you don't have anything for me
to do for you, please," she said firmly, and watched his face flush
further. He looked away, shifted slightly on his feet, as though he
wanted to say or do something but couldn't. 

"I'm sorry," she added quietly. "I don't mean to seem ungrateful.
I'm just very tired."

She could see his jaw work for another second. Then he nodded. 

"All right, Katherine. No problem." He gestured to her beer, gave
her a tense smile. "Enjoy the rest of your pint then," he said,
trying to sound kind. "And the rest of your night." 

"I will, Owen," she replied, forcing a smile of her own. She was
glad things could end between them in some sort of truce, uneasy as
it might be. "And thank you for the beer." 

**

Back at the bar, John Fagan had watched the entire exchange, his
mouth set in a grim, angry line. When Owen came back toward him, he
faced forward again, pretended to be intent on the television behind
the bar. 

Owen sat down beside him, drank down the rest of his beer. The
bartender, Billy, came forward, pointed to the glass. 

"You want another, Owen?" he asked, and Owen nodded, pushing the
glass towards him. Billy wandered off towards the tap.

Fagan let the silence stretch for a moment, then turned to Owen,
staring at his profile. 

"That didn't seem to go very well, if you don't mind me saying," he
said quietly. 

Curran shrugged, trying to appear indifferent. "She'll come around,
John," he said quietly. "It's just going to take a little more time." 

"You mark my word, Owen. She's trouble," Fagan said, shaking his
head. "I can feel it. Her wanting to leave just as she finds out
about the drug? It looks damned peculiar to me." 

"She's just spooked, is all," Owen replied, staring at the
television. "She'll come around." 

Fagan joined him in watching the show for a moment as his temper,
his frustration rose in the silence between them. Then he glared into
his beer, steeling himself. 

"I want to do a check on her," he said finally. 

Owen didn't turn as he spoke. "She's already been checked by the
people in Boston. There's no need to look at her again." His voice
had gone lower, edging toward anger. "You're just being paranoid." 

Fagan took another drink from his beer. He leveled his gaze at Owen
again. 

"And maybe you're not being paranoid enough," he countered. "And I
don't understand why. With so much at stake right now." 

He paused, considering, then leaned closer to Owen, lowered his
voice. "No, I do understand why," he said. "I do." 

Owen turned to look at him now, his brows raised. "And what is it
you *think* you understand?" he asked bitterly.

Fagan met his gaze, regret coming into his eyes as he spoke. "She's
not Elisa, Owen," he said firmly. Color rose in Owen's pale face once
again, but Fagan pressed on. "She never will be."

Curran looked away as Billy returned with the beer, placing it in
front of him. 

"Here are these, as well," Billy said, his voice quiet, and he
slipped two empty vials on the counter. "I made it a double for her,
just like you asked." 

"Thank you, Billy," Curran said, and he fingered the vials on the
counter, then slipped them into the pocket of his jeans. Fagan
watched him, then shook his head again.

"All the drug in the world isn't going to turn her into what you
want her to be," he said softly. 

With that, Curran turned on the stool, picked up his beer, his eyes
fixing on something across the room. Fagan turned and followed his
gaze to where Katherine and Mae were putting on their coats. He could
see that Katherine's beer glass was empty. 

Curran stood close, looked at him now. He swayed slightly, his eyes
bleary but still angry. His mouth moved as though he was going to say
something, explain himself in some way. Then he simply shook his
head. 

"Fuck you, John," he said quietly, and turned away, heading for the
back of the bar. From the corner, Sean broke away from the couple he
was sitting with, trailing close behind his father as he went through
the double doors and was gone.

Fagan sat there for a moment in surprised silence. Rage boiled in
him as he watched Mae and Katherine move toward the bar's front door. 

You fucking bitch, he seethed as Katherine disappeared from sight.
I'm on to you. He just doesn't see it yet, but I do...

He had to get her away from Owen right away. He had to find a way. 

Looking around the bar, wracking his brain for something he could
do, his eyes fell on the glass still on the table. 

Putting his beer down, coming to a decision, he gestured to Billy,
who came right over. Fagan reached for his long coat, put it on. 

"Billy, you got one of those plastic baggies back there? A fairly
big one?" 

Billy shrugged. "Aye, I've got a few for keeping the nuts and such
in overnight. Why?"

"Just get me one, will you? And put my drinks on my tab. I'm going
home." 

"All right, John, all right," Billy replied, and reached into a
cabinet behind the bar, drew out the zip-loc bag, handed it across.

Fagan thanked him and rose. He snatched up a bar napkin, as well. 

Moving slowly through the bar, he went to the table where Katherine
had been sitting with Owen. Opening the baggy, he cupped the napkin
in his hand, reached for her glass. Carefully, he placed it in the
baggy, zipped it closed. 

He tucked it inside his coat, glancing around to see if anyone had
seen him do it. As far as he could tell, no one had. Satisfied, he
turned and headed for the door.


**********


2233 GRACE STREET 
9:46 p.m.


Scully turned over in bed, pulled the covers more tightly against
her shoulder, willing the chill that had enveloped her body to pass.
Her gaze fell on the floor beside the bed, on the two triangles of
dim white light that the street lamp poured out through the windows.
It made the room feel more barren, more lonely, and she closed her
eyes against the feelings the sight brought over her. 

She missed Mulder already, the side of the bed behind her feeling
especially empty this night. The feeling was accentuated by the fact
that she was yet again having a difficult time falling asleep. If
this kept up, she thought dejectedly, she was going to be visiting
the hospital pharmacy again, this time to get a sedative for herself.

She sighed, rolled over again, facing the night table, the blue
numbers of the clock glowing at her. Beside it, the snowglobe sat,
its flakes settled on the bottom of the scene, the figures in it
frozen in their places and knee deep in the plastic snow. Reaching
out, she lifted it, rolled it slightly with her wrist, pushing the
snow up against the inside of the domed plastic top, then down again,
sending the scene into motion. 

She set it down, watching as the flakes swirled around and finally
began to settle once again. She rolled onto her back and closed her
eyes, blew out a slow breath.

She did not remember falling asleep.

Cold dots of wetness on her face, the soft sound of something
tapping on the sheets beside her. 

She opened her eyes on the dream. 

Snow, huge flakes falling through the room, glowing almost blue in
the street light coming through the window, settling over her, the
bedspread, the night table. She sat up and watched it, amazed by the
dream, by how real it seemed. She smiled, holding her hands out to
catch the cold soft flakes. 

The triangles of light began to move across the floor, like a stream
of sunlight moving in accelerated motion as the day went by. She
wondered at it, and in the dream she rose from the bed, drawn to the
window to investigate.

Looking out, she saw a scene bathed in white, the same heavy flakes
that were falling in the room blanketing the world outside as well.
She was compelled to be out in it. The scene was so quiet and
peaceful and filled with magic.

Unable to resist, she peeled out of her pajamas, reached into the
closet for a sweater, going to the dresser for her jeans. She pulled
on a pair of boots and went out into the hallway, bathed in darkness. 

The door seemed impossibly far away, but she made it to it, put on
her coat and left the apartment.

As she went down the stairs, she revelled in the dream, knowing she
must be sleeping soundly for it to seem so real, so detailed. Her
mind had been so restless that she wasn't surprised that it could
conjure something so strange and compelling. She smiled as she made
her way on to the street, the strange blue snow still falling.

On the corner, four figures stood stone still next to the bus stop
sign. As she approached, she laughed. They were the carolers from
inside the snowglobe, big as life but still flat and plastic. They
were standing there silent, their faces painted on sloppily, just as
they were inside the globe. She reached out and touched one of them.
It swayed slightly as though it wobbled on a base.

She heard a sound and looked down the street, which was otherwise
deserted. A bus was coming, its flat wide face nosing through the
shower of snow, its headlights glaring. She stood on the corner and
decided to take a ride. 

The bus pulled up the curb, the door opening with a hiss. She
stepped up, dug in her coat pocket for a handful of change and
dropped it into the fare collector. 

Then she froze as she looked at the bus driver.

There, dressed in his crisp white Navy uniform, his medals shining,
sat her father. His hand was on the handle to the door, his other on
the huge wheel of the bus. 

"Dad?" she whispered, cocking her head at the strange vision. 

"Hello, Dana," he said, though he did not smile. "Go ahead and take
a seat. I want to take you for a ride." 

She did not like the fear that leapt into her at seeing him, the
sadness. Silently, she edged towards a seat near the front of the
bus, her eyes not leaving Bill Scully in the driver's seat until
she'd sat down. Then he pulled the door closed, sat back, and the bus
pulled away. She watched the carolers stream by and then they were
gone. 

Turning, she looked towards the back of the bus. Three black men
looked back at her impassively, curious, but said nothing. 

And in the back of the bus sat Danny Conner, staring out the window.
He turned for a moment and looked at her, but said nothing, as well.
Then he returned his gaze to the world outside. 

She felt tears stinging her eyes and turned back towards the front.
It did not surprise her that the dream would have him in it,
considering how recently he'd died, and how guilty she felt about
him. She expected he would haunt her dreams for a long time. 

The view streamed by as she settled down in the seat, watching the
Victorian houses out the window, their lights blinking on and off as
they passed. She stared at the back of her father's head, his strong
hands on the steering wheel as they headed down Grace. Outside the
snow continued to fall. 

She felt restless, unsettled, as though she were turning in her
sleep somewhere very far away. She tried to steer the dream, thinking
of something positive, conjuring feelings of comfort to ground
herself. 

It was then that Mulder appeared beside her, his hand reaching out
and gripping hers. He looked like he'd looked that day when he'd
dropped her off, still wearing the turtleneck and jacket, the dark
jeans. Only now he had shaved, his dark hair neat, his eyes no longer
tired, but bright, shining.

"Hey Scully?" he asked, and she looked up at him. 

"What is it, Mulder?" 

He looked out the window as though trying to gauge where they were,
then turned back to her. "When the bus stops at the Cathedral, I want
you to get off." 

"Okay," she replied, puzzled. "But aren't you coming with me?" 

He shook his head. "No, I have to stay here. Where you're going I
can't go. What you're seeing I can't see." 

"What are you talking about, Mulder?" It was like he was speaking a
fear she'd always had. That they would someday be separated, like on
this case, but for good this time. Like her abduction. 

Where she'd gone, he could not go. What she'd seen, he could not see.

"Don't worry," he whispered, leaned down and kissed her gently. His
lips were warm, inviting, and she realized she was shivering. "I'll
be right here on the bus. When you get done, you come back here and
I'll be waiting for you." He flashed her a wide smile. "I promise." 

She smiled now. He would always be there, waiting for her. She knew
that. Comforted by the thought, she reached up and cupped his face.
Kissed him again.

She could see the circle of Monroe Park ahead, the huge hulk of the
Cathedral off to the right. The bus slowed as it neared it, pulling
off to the side. The stained glass windows glowed almost too brightly
in the darkness and she looked at Mulder uncertainly. 

"It'll be okay," he said softly, gave her hand a squeeze. "You
should be all right in there." 

"All right," she replied, and edged her way to the front of the bus.
When she reached the front, just as the bus stopped, she looked over
at her father. He kept his face forward, his eyes wide and
unblinking. 

"Go on in," he said softly, his voice monotone. 

She didn't like this dream version of her father, she thought. He
was too much like her real father had been -- distant, vaguely
mysterious. But she did as he told her. She'd almost always done as
he told her. 

She stepped out onto the curb, the wide bricked circle that led up
to the steps of the Cathedral. The bus door hissed closed behind her.
She took a few steps towards the church, a sudden feeling of fear
coming over her.

Behind her, the bus pulled away. 

She spun, her eyes wide, and ran toward it. She could see Mulder --
he was standing now, his palms banging on the window. He was silently
screaming her name. 

"Mulder!" she called, taking a few more running steps toward the
bus. It was no use. It was going too fast. She stopped, stricken. 

That same restless feeling came over her, as though she were trying
to shake herself awake from the dream, tossing in her sleep. It
didn't surprise her. The dream was not taking a good turn, as far as
she could tell. 

She turned and faced the Cathedral. The door was open, an orange
glow oozing out onto the stone steps. 

It was church, she reminded herself, shaking off the feeling of
dread. She had always been able to go there when she was upset or
frightened. It had always brought her comfort. 

With this in mind, she ascended the stairs, went in through the door. 

There must have been ten thousand candles lit all around the place,
lining the walls, the main aisle, the altar. It was almost too bright
to look at, and she brought a hand up to shield her face. 

"Hello?" she called. 

She expected someone to answer her. She had a feeling that she was
being watched. 

Her voice echoed in the huge empty space. Nothing. No one there. 

No, wait. Someone was there, she realized, looking at the
confessionals that lined one wall. All of the lights were out on them
but one. A green light was lit up over it, signalling that a priest
was present, ready to hear her confession. She went towards it.

Pushing the dark curtain aside, she stepped into the booth, sat on
the hard wooden seat. The screen that separated her from the priest
was closed, but she could hear him, hear his breathing. It was almost
too loud given the space between them. Like he couldn't catch his
breath. 

She composed herself, folded her hands in front of her. 

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been over six months
since mç^ê

The ܢ0thing grew louder, the sound filling the small booth. It was
a hollow sound, almost inhuman. Fear pricked up the hairs on the back
of her neck. 

"Father, are you all right?" she asked, and the fear was in her
voice now. 

No response. Just the breathing getting louder. And that unsettled
feeling, getting stronger. 

Wake up, it seemed to say. Time to wake up, before it's too late.

She stepped out of the booth, trembling, stood before the black
curtain that hid the priest from view. 

"Hello?" she called again, and her fear slipped slowly into terror. 

Her hand shaking, she reached out and pulled back the curtain
slowly, the orange light falling in the darkened booth. 

Her hand shot to her mouth and she choked on a scream, throwing
herself backward. 

The statue of the Virgin Mary rose from the booth. 

It came slowly towards Scully, its head turned to one side as it
studied her, its round marble eyes unblinking as its stone feet
echoed on the floor with each heavy step. 

Scully turned and ran, a scream tearing from her, out the wide
double doors and out into the night. 

Her feet pounding on the pavement, her arms pumping, her coat
billowing out behind her. The world around her seemed to shift, going
slightly out of focus. The snow stopped falling as she tore across
the street, straight in front of an oncoming car.

The blare of the horn broke the remnants of the hallucination, the
car squealing to a stop as she flattened her hands on the hood,
snapping back into awareness.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" the driver barked indignantly.
"Are you crazy or something?" 

She jumped the side and he peeled away, his horn blasting her again
for good measure. 

She stood on the sidewalk, her head spinning with waves of
dizziness, her mind swimming. She looked around desperately.

A street just like any other, a convenience store across the street,
a handful of people standing outside staring at her in shock, having
seen her near-miss with the car.

She had no idea where she was, or when it was, or how she'd gotten
there. There was only one thing of which she was certain.

Owen had drugged her. The beer at the pub... 

Oh God, she thought...

She put her hands to her head, breathing heavily, and began to
tremble with cold and fear. 

She closed her eyes, willing her mind to be calm, to be clear.

When she opened them again, she turned away from the wide-eyed gawks
of the people around her. Not knowing where she was going, she pulled
her coat tightly around her and made her way slowly down the street.


***********


HOLLY STREET 
OREGON HILL 
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA 
JANUARY 13 
7:31 a.m.


The unmarked police car turned off Pine Street, made its way down
the steep incline of Holly, edging carefully on the icy street to the
small, neglected playground at the street's dead end. Detective Jim
Shanahan, Richmond P.D., blew smoke out his car window tiredly as he
saw the dark car parked in the uneven circle, the driver watching his
approach intently. 

Pulling up behind it, Shanahan stopped the car but kept it running.
He wanted to keep the interior of the car warm, and besides, he
wasn't planning on sticking around for too long. This was just a
quick errand on his way to the precinct. 

Shanahan recognized John Fagan immediately when he climbed out the
car, though he'd only met him one time. Fagan had been at a pub with
Owen Curran in Baltimore where Shanahan had gone for a Campaign for a
Free Ireland event some time ago. 

He remembered Fagan well -- a dark hulk of a man who sat by rather
quietly as he and Curran talked at length about The Troubles, about
the problems with the peace process and the concessions the Sinn Fein
and the IRA were making. 

Shanahan hadn't known much about Curran, only that he was one of the
Cause's respected leaders. He figured, however, that Curran was
somehow tied to the violence, considering how cagey the young man had
been about some aspects of his work. 

Shanahan's grandfather had been an Irish Volunteer, killed in the
1916 Easter Rebellion, so the thought of Curran's violence didn't
really phase him a bit. 

Curran had mentioned something about possibly coming to Richmond at
some point in the future. Hearing this, Shanahan had smiled amiably,
told both men to look him up if they came to town, told them to call
"if they needed anything." 

Apparently that time had come. 

He opened the car door, stepping down on the butt of his cigarette,
crushing it into the snow. Fagan stopped at the juncture of the two
cars as Shanahan approached, his hand extended.

"John, it's good to see you again," Shanahan said, smiling. Fagan
forced a smile in return, shaking his hand. 

"Jim," Fagan replied, nodding. "Thank you for coming right out." 

Shanahan noted that the other man looked uncomfortable, shifting on
his feet, as though he were trying to come up with some sort of small
talk yet wasn't quite capable of it. Shanahan figured he'd spare him
the trouble.

"Oh, it's no problem, none at all," he hurried to reply. "You said
there was something I could do for you?"

"Aye," Fagan replied, and reached into his inside coat pocket, drew
out a plastic bag with a glass inside it. "I was wondering if you
might find a way to fingerprint this for me." 

Shanahan took it from him, studied it for a beat. "Well, sure, I can
do that. I'll just send it down to the lab and tell them it's for
some other case. But what do you need fingerprinting done for?"

Fagan averted his eyes, then looked back at Shanahan again, his eyes
narrow. 

"Nothing really," he evaded. "Just being on the safe side." He
gestured to the glass. "You're going to get a lot of prints on that.
At least three sets. One of them will be Owen Curran's, just so you
know." 

Shanahan nodded. Seemed easy enough. 

"All right, John," he replied, tucking the glass into his coat
pocket. "I should probably have it back to you sometime late
tomorrow." 

"That's soon," Fagan said, obviously pleased. "I expected it to be
longer." 

Shanahan smiled. "What can I say? It's a light week around here. So
much less going on with people when it's this cold outside." 

Fagan gave him that same weak smile in return. "That's good for you
then," he said, then moved from one foot to the other again, clearly
wanting to get away. "I should call you tomorrow to find out what
you've got on it then?" 

"Sure," he said. "We can meet back here and I'll pass along any
information I can find out for you." 

Fagan extended his hand, and Shanahan shook it once again. "All
right, Jim. Thanks. I'll talk to you tomorrow." 

And with that, he turned and went back to his car. Shanahan did the
same. 

Once back inside the car, the heat blasting amid the occasional
burst of conversation from the police radio set into the dash,
Shanahan reached into his pocket and set the glass on the seat beside
him, stared at it. 

He'd always wondered what he could possibly do, besides give the
money he did, to help these people out. 

Driving off, he smiled to himself. He felt satisfied and glad to be
of use. 


********** 

RICHMOND MARRIOTT 
7:48 a.m.


Mulder awoke to the persistent sound of someone knocking on a door. 

He rolled over in the bed, still half-asleep, threw his feet over
the side and rose, clad only in his boxers. Groping around the floor,
he found his jeans, which lay in a heap at the foot of the bed. 

The knock was repeated, more urgently this time. 

"Mulder?" a voice called. Granger. And he sounded a little frantic,
as well. 

Mulder went to the door, holding his pants in one hand as he opened
the door with the other. Granger stood there, already dressed smartly
in a dark suit and red tie, a file under his arm. 

Mulder winced, imagining how he must look. He was sporting two days
worth of beard and nearly vertical bed head from going to bed
straight from a shower the night before. 

"Mulder, pardon me for asking, but where the hell have you been?"
Granger asked, and he came into the room as Mulder stepped aside to
allow it. He closed the door, turned to Granger, and leaned down to
step into his pants. 

"I needed a day off," Mulder said, finally waking up. "I went up to
the mountains for the day." 

"It would have been nice if you'd told me, for God's sake," Granger
replied, his voice rising in frustration. "I spent the whole day
yesterday covering for you. Padden was asking where you were. He was
pissed off when he couldn't reach you on your cell phone. You could
have at least left it on." 

"Well, it's good to know I'm missed if I don't come in," Mulder
replied as he zipped and buttoned his jeans. "And I didn't turn the
phone off. It just doesn't work in the mountains around here." 

He ran a hand through his hair, forcing the strands into some
semblance of order as he went for the phone. "I'm going to get
something from room service. Have you eaten?" 

Granger sighed. "I've eaten already, thank you," he said curtly.

Not wanting to be ungrateful, Mulder turned to Granger as the phone
rang in his ear. "Thanks for covering for me, by the way. What did
you tell them, anyway?" 

"I said you'd gone up to D.C. for something personal. I didn't know
what to say." 

Mulder believed that. If there was one thing he knew about Granger
it was that the man would make a lousy liar. 

Room service picked up and he ordered eggs, toast, a large pitcher
of coffee. When he hung up, Granger began to speak again. 

"A lot happened yesterday," he said, opening the file. Mulder could
see a crime scene photo clipped to one side of it. "There's been
another death." 

Granger handed the file over to Mulder, who took it.. He grimaced
immediately at the color photo. Danny Conner in a telephone booth,
leaning on his right side against the wall, his head missing, blood
and matter spattered everywhere. 

His eyes were drawn to the phone receiver, still hanging down beside
the body. He imagined Scully on the other end of that line, what she
must have heard. He shook his head. 

Glancing at the report, he saw that the body had already been
identified through fingerprints. 

"I'm worried about Agent Scully," Granger said quietly. "What if
they found out she was seeing him?" 

Mulder handed the file back to him. "Yeah," he replied. "I'm
worried, too. But she'll know if things get bad. She'll know if she
needs to come out." 

"I hope you're right," Granger replied. "Oh, and Assistant Director
Skinner came back late yesterday. He's staying a couple of floors
down. If you really think that he's going to help us get past that
security block..."

Mulder perked up immediately. "He'll do it. Skinner doesn't like
secrets much more than I do." 

He glanced to the desk where his laptop sat, a borrowed printer
beside it. The computer's top was open, the room's modem line plugged
into the back of it. 

"We can get the information from here on my computer," he said, and
went for the phone again. He dialed the desk, got Skinner's room
number. Then he punched in the extension. 

Skinner picked up on the first ring, clearly already up and alert. 

"Skinner," he said crisply.

"Sir, it's Agent Mulder."

"Mulder, where the hell have you been?" Skinner snapped. "I come
back down here and you've gone AWOL for the day. Congratulations --
you've managed to piss off Padden *again.*" 

"I took a personal day," Mulder replied, satisfied with the half-lie. 

"Nice of you to ask permission. You--"

"Yeah, I know, I screwed up again," Mulder hurried to admit, just to
get it over with. "Look, sir, could you join me up here in my room? I
need your help on something, something important." 

There was a beat of silence. "You need *my* help?" Skinner replied,
clearly suspicious.

"Yes, I do," Mulder said, urgency creeping into his voice. "There's
some information on a woman named Elisa Curran, Owen Curran's wife,
that is caught behind a security clearance wall and I can't get to
it."

Skinner was silent again.

"Sir," Mulder pressed into the quiet. "I'm concerned that there
might be information in that file that could affect Agent Scully's
handling of this case."

"And what makes you think that?" came the reply. Mulder glanced at
Granger, who was standing tensely in front of the bathroom door, his
arms crossed over his chest as he listened to Mulder's side of the
conversation. 

"It's just a hunch Agent Granger and I have," he replied. "We're
trying to do a complete profile of Curran, trying to guess what he
might be up to, and we need that information in order to do that.
Plus that, it doesn't make any sense that all the information is
available on Curran himself, but the information on his wife is not.
Something seems wrong with that to me." 

Skinner sighed, clearly irritated. "I think you're being paranoid
about that, Mulder, as hard as that is for me to believe about you." 

It was all Mulder could do to keep from rolling his eyes. 

Skinner continued. "I'm sure it's just an oversight by the task
force, not opening that file up for you to get to." He paused, as
though considering. "All right, give me about 30 minutes and I'll be
up there." 

"Thank you, sir." Mulder replied, relieved, and the line cut off. He
hung up the phone, looked at Granger. 

"Well?" Granger asked. 

"He's going to do it," Mulder replied. "He doesn't want to, but he's
going to." 

"That's good news," Granger replied, relaxing a little. He stepped
out of the way as Mulder headed for the bathroom. He paused in the
doorway. 

"Hey, let room service in, will you? I'm going to shave, get cleaned
up before he comes up."

"Good idea," Granger said, quirked a smile at him. "You look like a
bum." 

Mulder just smiled back and closed the door. 


************

2233 GRACE STREET 
8:20 a.m.


Scully started at the sound of a knock on the door, though the knock
was gentle, almost hesitant. She had not been asleep. She had been
focussing her eyes on the door, the only thing in the room that
didn't seem to be fuzzing in and out in her vision, that wasn't
rolling like it was washed with waves. 

She'd been staring at the door for hours, since she'd found her way
back to the apartment at two that morning and hidden in her room,
willing the strange visions to go away.

Her breathing was shallow and fast as the door opened a crack and
Mae stuck her head in, meeting Scully's wide-eyed gaze. 

"Katherine?" Mae asked, clearly worried. "Are you all right?" 

Scully nodded, pulled the covers more tightly over her shoulder to
hide her clothes. She was still wearing her coat.

"I'm all right," she replied softly, evasively. "I'm just not
feeling very well today. I think I'm going to take the day and stay
in bed."

Mae stepped into the room now, dressed to go out. Scully had vaguely
heard her get up and shower. "I heard you come in late last night.
Another night at the hospital?" 

Scully nodded. "Yes, an...emergency I had to attend to. Everything's
fine now, though. I'm just too tired to go in this morning." 

"Yeah, you look exhausted," Mae replied. "I hope you get some rest,
start feeling better." 

"Thanks." Scully strained a smile.

Mae drew her keys out of her coat pocket. "Well, I'm taking Sean up
to Washington for the day. I've promised him a trip to the Air and
Space Museum for a long while now and today's the day." 

Her voice had an almost forced lightness that Scully found puzzling,
something in her too-casual tone...

She's lying, some dim, unaffected part of her mind concluded. She
blinked slowly. 

Mae continued. "I should be back by this evening, after I drop Sean
off at the pub with Owen." She frowned again as she studied Scully's
still form. She shook her head regretfully. "I'm so sorry you're ill.
I'll check in on you when I get back in, okay?" 

"Thank you, Mae," Scully replied softly. "I just need to rest.
That's all. I'll be fine." 

"All right then," Mae replied, clearly unconvinced. "Sleep well." 

She disappeared out the door, down the hallway, and out the front
door to the apartment. Scully heard her turn the deadbolt as she
left. 

She turned her head slowly, looked out the window, the light so
bright it hurt her eyes. Again she blinked in slow motion, struggled
to focus her thoughts. 

The interaction with Mae had taught her two things, she thought as
she stood, made her way slowly down the hallway toward the kitchen. 

The first was that Mae may have been going to D.C., but not for the
reason she said. 

The second was that Mae clearly knew nothing about Owen slipping her
the drug last night. She was too genuinely puzzled and concerned
about her ailment to have known, she could tell. The thought relieved
her somehow. She felt a little safer in the apartment now. 

For the hundredth time that night, she thought of leaving the
apartment, getting to a phone, calling Mulder. In the fear that had
gripped her throughout the night -- on the bus as she found her way
back home, on the walk up the stairs to the apartment, during the
hours she'd lain on the bed, watching the room distort around her --
she had considered getting out. 

But Mulder had been right. She did want to do this thing right, back
out as cleanly as she could. And she knew about the drug now, knew
how she was being given it. There would be no more doses. Her guard
was up now, and she would not let Curran fool her again.

Her thoughts came like bullets as she walked slightly unsteadily
down the hall, her vision unreliable, verging on vertigo. 

She would confront him about what he'd done, she thought, anger
simmering in her. She would put a stop to it by telling him she knew
what he was up to. And she would tell him she was leaving right away
now -- Friday, the day after tomorrow -- whether he was willing to
let her go or not. She would use his attack on her with the drug as
the reason for her hasty departure, buy a plane ticket to Boston
today on one of her falsified credit cards. She would have the time
of the flight ready to tell Curran when he began to protest. 

She had it all figured out now. 

She could take care of this herself. 

She held tight to that belief, sure of it.

Once in the living room, she took off her coat, hung it on the rack.
The room around her looked fairly normal, and she relaxed some. It
was just a little too bright. That was all.

Though she wasn't hungry in the least -- and wouldn't be any time
soon, she knew -- she went to the refrigerator, pulled out the carton
of eggs, a loaf of bread she kept there to keep it from the
apartment's occasional mouse, the cartons of milk and orange juice. 

She had to eat. Rest. Ignore some of the drug's symptoms and keep
her strength up in preparation for whatever withdrawal symptoms might
be in front of her. She knew the drug had to build up a concentration
in the brain tissues in order to be lethal. She just didn't know how
many doses it would take for that to happen.

Surely just one wouldn't do it, she thought, forcing herself to
remain calm. Surely not. Danny had been on the drug for months, and
the concentration of it had been so high in Rutherford's body when
she examined her...

Pulling a skillet out from the cabinet, she set in on the stove,
reached for a bowl to mix the eggs. 

There was a persistent whispering in the air around her, like a
dozen voices speaking softly all at once.

Gathering herself, closing her eyes and drawing in a calming breath,
she picked up an egg, cracked it on the side of the bowl, doing her
best to shut the sounds out.


***********

RICHMOND MARRIOTT 
9:49 a.m.


Mulder was combing his hair, his suit and tie smartly in place, when
Skinner knocked on the door. 

Granger let him in, only a few minutes after he'd let room service
enter with the food that they'd placed on the desk beside the
computer. The plates were still covered with their silver covers on
the platter, untouched. 

Mulder could hear the two men greeting each other as Skinner entered
the room, heard the door slam shut again. Then Skinner was in the
doorway behind him, his hands on his hips in the reflection in the
mirror. 

"Thank you for coming so soon," Mulder said, finishing cleaning
himself up. He glanced at himself in the mirror, saw that he looked
presentable for the first time in days. Then he turned to Skinner.

"Let's just get this over with, " Skinner said curtly. "The three of
us are supposed to be at a meeting with Padden at 10:30 to go over
Scully's extraction plans." 

"All right," Mulder said, left the bathroom, leading Skinner to the
computer. Skinner sat in the uncomfortable chair, scooted forward on
it slightly. Mulder and Granger stood behind him, one over each
shoulder. 

Skinner tapped on the keyboard, waited as the computer dialed up.
Then, once he'd gotten to the FBI's main screen, he entered the
database, logging in with his password. The screen lit up with a
graphic of the FBI shield, a search prompt glowing at the bottom in a
small rectangular box. 

"What am I looking for?" Skinner said tersely, his hands poised over
the keyboard. 

"Her name is Elisa Curran," Mulder volunteered, and then spelled her
name for Skinner. He tapped it in, hit enter. 

"Searching..." the computer flashed for a few seconds. 

Then the screen filled up with text. The three of them began reading
immediately, leaning close. A graphic was trying to load in the upper
right hand corner, the bar at the bottom of the screen stuck a
quarter of the way over as the computer requested the graphic file.
Ignoring it, they read. 

"She was IRA," Granger said, his eyes scanning the readout. 

"Or Path," Mulder added. "It's hard to tell which." He kept his eyes
on the screen, going over the material. 

"She was tied to several bombings...1984, 1986, 1992..." Skinner
read aloud. "Apparently pretty active in the organization. They could
never find her, though, to make anything stick." 

"What's it say about her death?" Mulder pressed, and Skinner
scrolled down the screen, skimming for the information. Mulder
stopped him about halfway down the page. 

"There it is," he said, pointing to the readout on the screen. He
read the information aloud. "She was killed in 1993 in Belfast. A
bombing in a marketplace filled with British soldiers. Twenty-seven
casualties, including her. She was blamed for it. A suicide bombing,
it was called." 

He shook his head, looked at Granger. 

"That doesn't make any sense," Granger said, reading Mulder's
thoughts. "Sean would have been a year old then. She wouldn't have
killed herself like that, I don't think." 

Mulder nodded, gnawed on his lip, deep in thought. 

Granger returned his gaze forward as Skinner continued scrolling
down the screen, hunting for information. "Maybe it was accidental,"
Granger said, shrugging. "She was supposed to leave the bomb
somewhere and it went off before she could get away from it." 

"That's unlikely," Mulder replied. "She'd been doing this for years.
She was Curran's wife. She would be much more careful than that." He
stared at the readout, noted absently that the graphic was still
loading. 

"Then why were they so willing to pin it on her?" Granger asked. 

Mulder shrugged. "She was there, she had a known background. She
seemed an easy place to pin it. That's my guess." He looked out the
window, standing, his arms crossing in front of his chest, deep in
thought. He shook his head again. 

"The only thing that makes sense is the thing that wouldn't make
sense, " he said cryptically. 

"What do you mean?" Skinner asked, looking up at him. 

Mulder was silent for a beat, thinking. It all suddenly made perfect
sense to him.

"She wasn't supposed to be there," he said with conviction, looking
at Skinner and Granger. "She was just in the wrong place at the wrong
time. I bet she didn't even know there was going to be a bombing at
all. I bet Curran didn't either." 

"So you think that Curran's own people killed her?" Skinner asked
doubtfully, shaking his head as he tried to make sense of it. 

Mulder looked out the window again. "Yeah, that's what I think," he
murmured, nodding to himself. "Not Curran's people specifically --
but IRA, yeah."

He nodded to himself. It was the only reason the mother of a baby
would find herself dead in an incident like that. 

"No one claimed responsibility for the bombing," Granger read aloud
from the ending of the file. "So it still could have been her." He
glanced up at Mulder.

Mulder shook his head. "I don't think so. I wonder when this was in
relation to when Curran began his split with the IRA..." His mind
turned the possibilities over as Skinner scrolled up to the beginning
of the file. 

The load bar at the bottom of the screen had disappeared. 

"Let's print all this out," Skinner said. He hit the command to do
just that, and the printer sprang to life, pulling in a piece of
paper and running across it noisily. 

They hit the top of the document. 

All three men froze, confronted with the graphic in the upper right
hand corner of the screen. 

Mulder stood up straighter, taking in the photo. Curran and a woman.
Her face was turned towards the camera, as though she were aware she
was being photographed.

She was small, a few inches shorter than Curran. Big luminous eyes,
sky blue. Red hair pulled back, strands curved around her cheek. Full
lips, thin, Roman nose. 

She could have been Scully's sister. Or Scully herself, as she'd
look if she'd lived a different life. 

"Oh shit." It was Granger who spoke first. 

Mulder was struck dumb, still, for a few seconds. He could feel his
blood pressure rising. His heart beginning to race, anger roiling in
him. Fury. 

"Mulder--" Skinner began, turning to him. 

But it was too late. Mulder had grabbed the first page of the
printout and was halfway to the door before either of the other two
men had a chance to react. 

"Mulder, wait!" Skinner called to his back. But he ignored them,
grabbing his coat from the chair beside the door, heading out of the
room. He could vaguely hear the commotion behind him as Granger and
Skinner sprang into action, struggling to catch up.

He hit the stairs, spiraling down nine flights so fast he wasn't
even aware of how long it took, how many turns. He burst onto the
lobby in a dead run, headed out to the street in front of the huge
hotel. 

There were several cabs there, waiting. Mulder caught the eye of the
driver of one of them, sitting there listening to music and smoking a
cigarette. 

"Take me to the Jefferson," Mulder called, climbing into the back
seat, the photo still clasped in his fist, crinkled. "And step on
it." 

"You said it, not me," the driver replied, and pulled away from the
curb, leaving the motel behind in a blur. Mulder could hear Skinner
and Granger behind him, calling to him. 

"Don't do anything stupid!" was the last thing he heard from
Skinner's mouth, and then he was too far away, his voice lost in the
traffic. 

Mulder stared straight ahead as the cab turned onto 24th, pushing up
the steep hill from Shockoe Bottom into the heart of the city. He
stared as though the force of his gaze alone were propelling the car
forward, his will the only cause for the vehicle's speed. 

As they bumped over the cobblestones that marked the historic
district, he looked down at the printout in his hand again, staring
at Elisa Curran's face. Fury boiled over in him again. And just
beneath that, panic as a realization struck him. 

What he had told Scully about standing up to Curran... 

Oh fuck, he thought, his hand going to cover his mouth as he looked
out the window.

He'd known Curran would try to control Scully, the way he controlled
everyone and everything in his world. But this was different. The
resemblance was so close that Curran couldn't help but project some
of his feelings about Elisa onto Scully. Those projections would
become more real to Curran than Scully was herself. 

If Curran's grief was as great as Mulder imagined it would be --
given the way she'd died, the age of Sean at her death, his and
Elisa' shared history and purpose -- then Curran's need to see Scully
as Elisa would be very important to him. 

His need to control her would be that much more acute because of
this. And Scully standing up to Curran would force him out of seeing
her as Elisa. Curran would resist this. 

As the cab swung into the circular drive of the Jefferson Hotel,
Mulder shook his head, the rage piqued again at him having not had
this information before. Before he'd told Scully what he did. 

Because Curran would do anything to keep Scully from destroying
those projections, those images, of her as Elisa in his mind. 

Even if it meant destroying Scully herself. 

The cab stopped and Mulder dug in his pocket, tossed a handful of
bills at the cabby and told him to keep the change. Then he was out
of the cab, in the foyer and up the stairs, taking them two at a
time, his anger building with each step.

Mulder reached the Presidential Suite, banged on the door with the
side of his fist. 

"Slow down, Mulder, where's the fire?" Hirsch patronized as he
opened the door to the suite. Mulder glared at him, brimming, as he
looked at Hirsch's smirking expression. Then he caught sight of
Padden just in view in one of the seats in the dining room area. 

"Get the hell out of my way," he rumbled, pushing past Hirsch
roughly on his way through the room. 

"What did you say to me?" Hirsch was saying behind him. Mulder
ignored him, stampeding into the dining room. Hall, Anderson, Jessup.
They were all there, unaware of his entrance, talking to each other. 

Mulder went to the edge of the table across from Padden and slammed
the printout down in front of him and on top of a neatly stacked pile
of printouts, sending half of them into Padden's lap. Padden looked
up at him, shocked and already angry.

"Agent Mulder, what--"

"You want to tell me who this is?" Mulder asked, his voice pitched
loud enough to get the attention of everyone in the room, and the
next. 

"You can't come charging into here like this--" Padden began, but
Mulder slammed his fist down on the table, right on top of the
picture, stunning Padden into silence.

"Tell me who this is!" he repeated, shouting, and now Padden looked
down at the printout. Jessup and Anderson were looking at it, as
well. Only Duncan Hall was not. He was looking at Mulder. 

"I don't have the slightest idea who this is, Agent Mulder," Padden
said, levelling his gaze at Mulder. 

"You fucking LIAR!" Mulder spat. Padden opened his mouth to speak,
but Mulder continued. Jessup and Anderson had risen from their seats. 

"It's Elisa Curran," Mulder continued. "Owen Curran's *wife*. Notice
any resemblance to someone we know, Padden?" He held the photo up,
pushing it into Padden's face so that Padden was forced to lean back
or be struck. 

"Some resemblance, yes," Padden said quietly. His eyes bore into
Mulder's now as he ignored the photo. 

Mulder put the piece of paper back down on the table, leaned back,
his hands on his hips. Behind him, he was vaguely aware of Skinner
and Granger coming into the room, coming up behind him. Granger
reached out and got a hand on his arm. 

"Mulder, calm down..." Granger was saying. 

Mulder pulled it away sharply, his eyes not leaving Padden's. They
were staring each other down as though trying to see which one of
them would blink first. 

"Why was this information about Elisa Curran sealed?" Skinner said
through clenched teeth from just behind Mulder. "You knew this all
along, Bob, didn't you?"

Padden spared Skinner a look, but said nothing as Mulder rushed to
continue. 

"That's what you were betting on, weren't you?" Mulder rumbled,
breathing hard with fury. "That Curran would take one look at her and
she'd have an in with him. He'd be more willing to trust her because
she seemed familiar. Am I right, you bastard?" 

"You had better get hold of yourself, Agent Mulder," Padden said,
the warning clear in his voice. 

"And then you suppressed the information so that she wouldn't know.
So that I wouldn't know." His hand came up, his finger pointing
accusingly, his face flushing scarlet. 

"You used her body for BAIT, you son-of-a-bitch!" His voice was a
roar, and everyone seemed to freeze at his words. 

"That's it!" Padden said, slapping his hands on the table and
standing. "I"m sick of your theatrics and your insults, Mulder!
You're off the case! I want you out of here *today*." 

"Bob, you can't do that--" Skinner began angrily, and Padden glared
him down.

"I just did it," he interrupted. "Mulder clearly can't keep his
personal feelings in check enough to be of any use for this. He's
endangering Agent Scully further with his lack of perspective."

"*I'm* endangering her?" Mulder repeated incredulously. "Padden, do
you realize how hard it's going to be to get her out of there? He's
not going to let her go. He might even kill her rather than let her
get away from him." 

"That's no longer your concern, Agent Mulder," Padden replied, his
voice rising. "We'll take care of getting Agent Scully out just fine
without your help." 

His voice lowered. "Now I want you out. I don't want to see you here
again. If I do, I'll bring you up on charges at the FBI for
violations of procedure and insubordination so fast your head will
spin. I'll have your shield before this is done." 

"And I'll fight you on that," Skinner replied instantly, stepping up
beside Mulder now. "And if something happens to Agent Scully at this
point I'm going to hold you personally responsible for it. You can
bet your life on that." 

Padden said nothing to Skinner. He was still staring at Mulder. 

"Out." Padden pointed at the door.

Mulder stood there a few seconds longer, his face flushing even more. 

"Come on, Mulder," Granger said calmly from behind him, putting a
hand on Mulder's arm again. "We'll figure this out." 

Padden looked at Granger now. "And I suggest you be careful about
your allegiances, Agent Granger, or you'll find yourself in the same
boat as Agent Mulder." 

Granger looked away, said nothing. He simply tugged on Mulder's arm
again and managed to turn him around. 

Skinner and Padden faced off now, and Mulder really wanted to stay
to hear it. But he withdrew, Granger beside him. 

Halfway to the door, Hirsch stood in front of Mulder, his arms
crossed at his chest. 

"Back off," Granger warned. 

Mulder and Hirsch stared at each other. Hirsch was smiling. 

"Way to go, Spooky," he said. "Off the case and everything. Nice
piece of work." 

"Fuck you, Hirsch," Mulder said, and tried to push him aside. 

Hirsch stopped him with his hand on his arm. Mulder looked down at
his hand, then up into his face again.

"Oh, and about Agent Scully," Hirsch continued, pretending to brush
at Mulder's sleeve. "I don't know why you get so upset about Padden
using her body for bait. I'm sure she doesn't mind, the little
cherry. I mean, hell, look how well it's worked on you --" 

In retrospect, Mulder didn't remember his fist coming up. 

Only the sickening sound of bone breaking, the small bones at the
bridge of the nose. A sudden spray of blood, and Hirsch going down in
a heap on the floor. Then Skinner's voice telling him to get the hell
out of there, and Granger hussling him to the door before he got a
chance to lean down and hit him again.


************** 



THE GREY MOUSE 
8:36 p.m.


Owen Curran sat in his usual chair in the nearly empty storeroom
that he used as his office, where he'd come to get away from the
music and the crowd outside in the bar. He'd even managed to lose
John, who was arguing politics with some American. It all made him
tired and he wanted none of it tonight.

Finally, in the relative quiet, he closed his eyes, indulging the
vision once again...

The hillside wasn't as steep, it seemed, as he walked toward the
farmhouse, the breeze somehow warmer, more inviting as it came in off
the water. She was standing right where she always was, there at the
top of the rise, beside the stone wall where he used to play with
James and Mae when he was just a boy. 

The world around was a blown-back blanket of green and smelled of
the sea. 

She was turned away from him, looking out over the field beside the
house that was dotted with his father's sheep. He felt lighter as he
made his way up to the path that led to the house, smiling, his eyes
taking her in. Her flowered skirt had blown against the front of her
thighs, revealing the curved outline of her body to him. 

As he stood before her at last, his hand came out to nestle in the
warm red strands of her hair. His fingers curved around the back of
her neck, turning her face toward him. 

Blue eyes looking back at him, the corners touched with the smile
she gave him. He stepped closer to her, closing the distance between
them, put an arm around her middle and pressed her against him. He
looked with longing into her face. 

Katherine's face. 

Her lips were new to him, but felt as familiar as Elisa's, her mouth
opening beneath his...

A knock at the door. 

He pulled himself up straighter in his seat, confronted once again
with the reality of his office.

"Come," he called wearily, regretting the loss of the daydream, and
looked up at the door as it opened. 

Mae entered, her cheeks flushed from the cold night air, her scarf
still wrapped tightly at her neck. Her hair was pulled back into a
loose ponytail, her eyes bright but somehow worried. He smiled as he
looked at her, though the sight of her also made him sad.

Things were going to change so much, so soon. There would be a lot
for her to deal with, to adjust to. He hated that part of all this.

"How goes it then?" he asked, hiding what he was feeling behind the
easy greeting. He gestured to a chair across from him. 

"I'm fine," she replied. "But I think we've got a problem." She
pulled at her scarf and coat as she settled into the chair. 

"What's that?" he asked. "Where have you been all day, anyway?"

"I went up to Washington," she replied, leaning forward. "To check
out the embassy one last time. Did you know they've been put on some
sort of alert? That it's crawling with security, and that there are
roadblocks up at the entrances, front and back now?" 

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Mae, you didn't need to go up
there to do that," he said, shaking his head. 

"I thought it wouldn't hurt to have one more look," she replied.
"And plus, I needed to drive, to get out of town for a day to clear
my head." She looked down at the admission, then up at him again, her
expression grave. 

"What are we going to do about this? We won't be able to get the
truck up anywhere close to the building with all the roadblocks." 

Owen shook his head, pushing at a piece of paper on the table in
front of him absently. "It's nothing to worry about, Mae" he said
firmly, and with a finality that seemed to close the subject. 

He was looking away from her, down at the table, but he could feel
her surprised gaze on him. "What do you mean it's ‘nothing to worry
about'?" she replied. "Don't you realize what this could mean?
Besides the fact that it interferes with the execution of the
operation itself, it could mean we've got a leak somewhere. Doesn't
that concern you a bit?"

The latter of those two facts did concern him mildly. It seemed a
little odd that there would be heightened security at the British
Embassy right when he was planning this thing, but he dismissed it as
simply being an unfortunate coincidence. 

"Everything's going to be fine, Mae," he said, and leaned back in
his chair. "Don't fret so much. It's all under control." He glanced
to the side, unable to meet her eyes. 

"What are you up to, Owen?" she asked quietly, cocking her head at
him as she did so. 

He looked at her, kept his face blank. "I don't know what you mean,"
he replied flatly. 

"Don't give me that," she replied, shaking her head. "You've been so
cagey about this whole thing, since the start. Doing the surveillance
yourself, hand-picking the people to actually carry it out. And then
this business with the drug. I've never seen you act like this
before." 

He looked away. A part of him wanted to tell her everything so
badly. But he couldn't risk her not understanding this thing he knew
he *had* to do, couldn't risk her interfering with his intricate
plans.

Once it was all done, she would understand why he had kept so much
from her. And she would agree with him, stick by him. As she'd always
done. 

"I just want this done right, that's all," was what he said aloud,
sounding earnest. "It's our first major operation here in the States.
It's a different situation, a new one. I'm just trying to be
careful." 

She continued looking at him. He could see that she still doubted
him. It worried him, in that way he'd always been worried when she
didn't approve of something he did. He was annoyed at the feeling,
since it made him feel like a child again. 

There was another knock at the door. He was relieved at the
interruption.

**

Scully heard Curran call for her to come in and gathered herself up,
moving her hand away from the doorframe, which she'd been using for
support. She noted with some dismay that her hand was trembling. She
stood up straight, her chin out defiantly. 

Taking in a deep breath, she opened the door. 

Mae and Curran looked at her, Curran coming to his feet slowly. He
glanced at Mae.

Yes, Scully thought with some satisfaction. I'm going to do this in
front of her. See what she thinks about *this,* you son-of-a-bitch.

It was Mae who spoke first. "Katherine?" she asked, concern in her
voice and expression. "You look like you're still ill. What are you
doing out of bed?" 

"I am still ill," Scully replied quietly, stepping into the room.
Her eyes didn't leave Owen's. "Why don't you ask your brother what's
wrong with me?" 

Her hands clenched into fists, both in anger and as she willed her
body into control as best she could. She was only marginally
successful. The room was swimming in and out of focus around her.

"Ask Owen?" Mae asked, looking from one to the other in confusion.
"I don't understand..." 

Then Mae looked at her hands, took a long look at her face. 

Her mouth dropped open and she stood, spun to face Owen. 

"Owen, you didn't," she whispered. "God, tell me you didn't." 

"He did," Scully said calmly. "But he won't anymore." 

"Jesus Christ, Owen, you *promised* me," Mae continued, her eyes
boring into him. Scully watched the exchange, satisfied with being
the wedge that was quickly sinking between them. 

"You can't stop taking the drug now," Owen said, ignoring Mae for
the moment, facing off with Scully. "You know what will happen if you
do." 

"I don't know what will happen," Scully replied, keeping her
emotions and her voice under fierce control. "I just know that I
won't take any more of the drug. And I know that I'm leaving. I have
a flight out on Friday at eleven in the morning. I'm going back to
Boston. I've already written the scripts for you and put them in at
the hospital pharmacy." 

"You can't leave," Curran said, and anger had begun to creep into
his voice. She could sense his frustration rising as she wriggled out
of from under his grasp with her words. 

"I'm leaving," she repeated simply, staring hard into his eyes,
meeting the challenge there. She knew she was in perilous territory,
but was mindful of Mulder's advice, of the precariousness of her
situation and the urgent need to get out as quickly as possible. 

"You'll be dead before you can get on the plane," he said softly,
dangerously, raising the bet. He came around the table as he said it. 

Scully swallowed, hiding the wave of fear that pushed through her.
She didn't know if he meant that the drug would kill her or if he had
something else in mind. 

"Owen, don't you dare," Mae said, and her tone was eerily similar to
her brother's. They looked at each other. Curran's face flushed. 

"Stay out of this," he snapped. "This isn't your affair."

Mae closed the distance between she and Owen in a few steps, her
hand shooting up, her palm catching him across the mouth soundly.
Owen's head was turned aside by the force of the blow, then he
snapped his face back towards her, fury and shame in his eyes. He was
stunned into silence, his hand going to his mouth. 

"Like hell it's not," Mae said softly. "Since when isn't any part of
the work ‘not my affair'? Don't you forget what we've been through
together, Owen. Don't ever forget that." 

Scully watched all this, amazed. She was simultaneously pleased by
it, and, despite herself, embarrassed for Owen. She stood by
silently, averting her eyes.

Owen continued to stare at Mae, dropped his hand, stood up
straighter, regained his composure. Then he looked toward Scully,
ignored Mae again. 

"You understand what I'm saying about you not being able to go,
don't you, Katherine? You better than anyone." His voice was forced
casual as he attempted to pull his control back over him. 

"I don't believe you," Scully replied softly, doing her best to
appear unruffled. "I don't believe that the drug will be lethal with
this little exposure." 

She watched for Mae's reaction. She got it.

"Wait a minute..." Mae said, looking from one to the other. "That
drug is lethal?" She turned to Owen. "You've got them on something
that could kill them?"

"It *will* kill them," Scully said. "I'm sure that's what happened
to Danny Conner. That's where he's disappeared to." 

"Goddamnit, Katherine, shut up!" Owen took a few steps toward her,
his hand raised. She stood her ground, pleased to see Owen losing his
control over the situation again, and over his temper. 

Mae stepped between them quickly, her hand up towards Owen, pointing
in warning. Her movement halted his advance towards Scully. 

"Stop right there," she said angrily. "Enough of this. I don't know
what the fuck has come over you, Owen, but I'm saying *enough*." 

She kept her eyes on Owen, but spoke to Scully. "How did the drug
kill Danny?" she asked.

"He died because the drug was kept from him," Scully replied. "If
the drug is withheld from the people who are taking it, every one of
them will die." 

Mae stared at Owen now, her hand dropping. "It's almost all of them,
isn't it? You've done this to almost all of them." 

Owen looked between Mae and Scully, his cheeks scarlet with rage,
his fists balled at his side. "They're fine, Mae," he said tersely.
"They stick by me and they're fine."

"Fucking hell, Owen, most of them would have stuck by you anyway,"
Mae said, and her voice rose in anger. 

"Enough!" Owen shouted into her face. "I don't owe you shit, Mae! I
don't owe anyone SHIT!" He looked at Scully again. "And as for you,
Katherine -- the drug works fast. If you want to live, you'll have to
stay."

"I don't believe you," she repeated, her chin coming up again
defiantly. 

Before he could reply, Sean appeared in the doorway, pressing in
behind Scully and standing beside her. He looked up at all three of
them, and Scully could see by his expression that he had heard at
least some of what had transpired. 

"Daddy?" he asked softly, nervously. "Why are you shouting at Aunt
Mae and Dr. Black?" 

Owen looked down at him, his eyes still flashing with anger, his
chest rising and falling heavily as he tried to contain his emotions. 

"It's okay, Sean," Mae said as gently as she could muster. "We're
just having a little discussion, that's all." 

She reached a hand towards him and he went to her immediately. She
pulled him against her, her hand resting on his chest protectively.
She looked at Owen, accusation in her eyes, daring him to say another
word in front of his son.

Scully felt herself relax some, knowing their discussion was over
now -- Mae would make sure of that. 

"Why don't you come home with Dr. Black and me, Sean?" Mae said,
forcing a cheerful tone. "We'll make some popcorn and watch a film
and leave your dad to his *business.*" She nearly spat the last word
out. 

Sean looked to Owen, his expression a little afraid. Scully ached
for him, caught in the middle of all this. It was no way for a child
to live.

"Is it all right, Daddy?" he asked uncertainly. 

Owen took another deep breath, then withdrew behind the table again,
sat, pretending to shift through some papers in front of him. 

"Aye, go with your aunt, Sean," he said gruffly, staring down. "I'll
see you tomorrow."

Mae turned and started to lead Sean out. Owen's eyes came up again
as they went towards the door and glared at Scully, his expression
dark, dangerous. 

"Goodbye, Owen," she said quietly, and with conviction. 

"Oh, you'll see me again, Katherine," he replied softly. Then, as
Mae went out the door with Sean, he lowered his voice and added.
"You'll be *begging* to." 

Scully looked at him a beat longer, refusing to appear to back down.
Then she followed Mae and Sean out the door.


************

MEDICAL COLLEGE OF VIRGINIA OUTPATIENT CLINIC 
JANUARY 14 
(THURSDAY)
9:43 a.m.

Paul Granger pushed back the hood of his sweatshirt as he entered
the double doors to the clinic, pausing amid the small clusters of
patients seated in the waiting room area. Unzipping his jacket, he
scanned the patient's faces, trying his best to appear casual and not
draw attention to himself. None of the faces from the files back at
the hotel were in attendance, he decided. Satisfied, he made his way
to the large nurse's station at the back of the room. 

He was a little early. His appointment wasn't until ten. With that
in mind, he signed in on the clipboard, wrote "Dr. Black" in the
"Physician" column, and took a seat in a chair close to the station. 

He hunkered down in his seat, avoiding the faces of the few patients
around him, and picked up a magazine, a copy of Sports Illustrated
with the playoffs preview on the cover. He was glad to actually be
interested in the article the magazine promised. Though he was less
nervous than the last time he'd met Agent Scully here, he still had
the jitters and needed some sort of distraction. 

He couldn't shake the feeling that something would go wrong or that
someone would recognize him for the imposter he was, as unlikely as
that might be. 

Flipping open the magazine, he tried to settle down. He knew where
part of his anxiety was coming from. It was the fact that he'd just
finished going with Mulder to a cheap motel outside the city, moving
him in for the duration of Agent Scully's assignment. 

This done, of course, without Padden's knowledge. 

Padden was expecting Mulder to return to D.C., to quit his work with
the task force as ordered, and Mulder had tried to make it appear
that he was doing just that. He'd checked out of the Marriott to get
out of Padden's sight, and then requested a week off from an
apparently large pool of vacation time in a phone conversation with
Skinner that morning. He'd heard only one side of the conversation --
a very no-nonsense, official request for the time off. He'd even told
Skinner where he'd be spending the time, here in scenic, balmy
Richmond, completing the formality of the request. 

Granger smiled to himself and the unspoken agreement between A.D.
Skinner and Mulder -- Skinner wouldn't order Mulder away, no matter
what Padden had to say on the matter. 

Which all now made a Granger a spy on two fronts -- the task force
itself, and for Mulder. He would be feeding information to both
sources now, the information filtering to Mulder without the task
force's knowledge, he hoped. It was this added bit of subterfuge that
was rattling Granger's nerves at the moment. 

Because he would catch it in the ass but good if Padden found out
what he was doing. And though he was loyal to Mulder, a part of him
still cared if he got pitched off the case. 

"Mr. Griffin?" a nurse behind the desk called, and Granger stood,
went to the nurses' station still carrying the magazine. He wasn't
being called back to the examining rooms and the breakup in the
routine he expected sent his nerves up another notch. 

"Yes?" he said as he reached the counter. "Is there something wrong?"

"Well, yes and no," the nurse replied, holding the clipboard. She
was a short, heavy set woman with salt and pepper hair and her voice
was kinder than her expression. "It says here you have an appointment
with Dr. Black?" 

"Yes," Granger replied. "She's who's seen me when I've been here
before." 

The nurse looked at him apologetically. "Dr. Black is no longer with
the clinic," she said, shaking her head. "I thought you should know
that Dr. Sanderson, one of the other attending doctors, will be
taking her place for your appointment." 

"I don't understand," Granger said, struggling to contain the alarm
he felt from his voice. "Since when? Is something wrong?" 

The woman shrugged. "She apparently called in yesterday and said she
was no longer available. I don't know why, I'm sorry. It was all
rather sudden." 

She looked at him, and he knew he wasn't being entirely successful
at hiding his emotions by the concerned look she gave him. 

"Will it be all right for you to see Dr. Sanderson?" she asked. 

Granger's mind was still racing with the possibilities of what could
have happened, his eyes now on the counter as he considered them all. 

Realizing she expected an answer, he was struck out of the thinking
long enough to say, distractedly: "No, no. I'll...just find another
doctor somewhere else, thank you." 

"I'm sorry," she offered again. 

"It's all right," he said, smiling tensely, and went to the chair
he'd been sitting in, replacing the magazine on the table beside it. 

With that, he headed quickly to the door. 


*********

CROSSROADS MOTEL 
10:12 a.m.


Mulder was just closing the door to his tiny motel room with his
foot, a bag from Burger King containing a bacon, egg and cheese
Croissandwich in one hand and a piping hot cup of coffee in the
other, when his cell phone began to chirp from his coat pocket. 

Hurrying to the small pressed-wood table beneath the garish wicker
light, he set both the bag and the cup down and dug in his pocket for
his phone. He glanced at his watch as he did so, confused at the
time. He was expecting Granger, but certainly not this soon. His
appointment had started only a few minutes ago. He stabbed the talk
button.

"Mulder," he said, his voice already tense.

"Hey, it's Granger," came the reply. He could tell from the slight
hiss in the background that Granger was in his car. 

"What the hell's going on, Granger? Why aren't you with Scully?" 

"Mulder, something's happened," Granger replied. Mulder froze, his
back straightening. 

"What? What's happened?" he demanded quickly, his voice rising with
his alarm.

"Scully's apparently trying to get out," Granger replied, a bit
breathless. "She's quit the job at the clinic. She wasn't there when
I got there to see her. I called in and Padden ran a check on her
credit cards while I was on the phone. Apparently, she's bought a
plane ticket. Jessup ran a check through the USAir and found out
she's booked herself on a flight out to Boston at eleven tomorrow
morning." 

Mulder spun towards the window, his jaw clamping down, his fist
balling as he felt the sudden urge to DO, to go somewhere. 

Something had gone wrong. Something with Curran. He'd told her to
get out if he made a move and now she was suddenly going. 

Shit....

"They're contacting Flaherty now in Boston, to see if he's found a
replacement for her and didn't bother to tell anyone," Granger
continued.

"I don't think that's likely," Mulder said tersely. "He's got too
much at stake in this to make an oversight like that." He paced a
couple of steps towards the window, back again. "She's in trouble." 

"I was on the phone with Skinner. He said that we shouldn't jump to
any conclusions at this point. That she might have everything under
control." 

Granger was clearly trying to soothe him -- as Skinner had been when
he relayed that message through Granger for his benefit -- but Mulder
would have none of it. 

"She might be making a clean exit somehow but I don't think she's
got everything under control. Curran's done something, I'm sure of
it. Scared her somehow. Forced her to go so quickly." 

Granger blew out a breath into the phone. "Yeah, I'm afraid I agree
with you. It's not like her to do something this fast, is it?" 

"No," Mulder snapped. "She's much more cautious than this." He
shouldered out of his coat, threw it viciously across the chair back.
"Where are you anyway?" 

"I'm just leaving the city center now. Padden sent me out to the
Grey Mouse to see if anything unusual was going on there." 

"Well, when you get done there, come back here, will you? I want to
go over these files again with you, everything we've got on Curran,
Fagan, Mae Curran, Elisa, Danny Conner. See if there's any clue about
what might be going on that we're overlooking somehow." 

"But what do we do about Agent Scully?" Granger asked. 

"There's nothing we can do," he said angrily. "We're just going to
have to wait and see if she gets on the fucking plane tomorrow.
There's no way to contact her, and trying to do surveillance on her
at her apartment would be too risky. With any luck you'll see her at
the pub and be able to tell if she's all right at least." 

"I hope so," Granger replied somewhat doubtfully. 

Mulder shared his feeling that a sighting at the pub was a long shot. 

"Just get here as soon as you can, all right?" he said quickly. 

"I will," Granger replied as Mulder hung up. 


**********

2233 GRACE STREET 
12:35 p.m.


Scully sat in the living room, curled on the battered, thrift store
couch, her hands over her ears, her eyes alternately opening and
closing as the vision washed over her. 

Outside the windows on either side of the television, the glass was
being battered by the muffled thumping of a hundred white wings, a
storm of barn owls bashing themselves against the windows, trying to
gain entrance into the room. 

Scully watched them, the black curves of their talons, the snow
white of their wings, the heart-shaped moons of their faces shot with
the shock of dark beaks, the sound of their screaming....

She tried going into another room, but the birds just followed her
to whatever room she went into, clamboring at the windows, including
the cramped bathroom where she'd hidden just after the hallucination
started. Finally, she'd given up on hiding from it, found her way
back to the couch, the television on for distraction, but the sound
overpowered by the hammering of the soft, white bodies. 

She kept her ears covered as she stared at the television, the local
noon news flashing across the small screen, which fuzzed in and out
of focus as she looked at it. She cringed at the intensity of the
hallucination, wondering about it. 

She'd been fine through most of the night, though she had not slept
at all once again. Only a few times did she find herself inside some
vivid imagining, the room blurring out around her to be replaced by
some other time, some other place, for a few seconds. She'd closed
her eyes and rode them out as best she could. 

Mae had risen twice in the night to check on Sean on the couch and
had cracked the door to check on her. Both times Scully had pretended
to be asleep to avoid any conversation, though she had to admit to
taking great comfort in Mae's vigilance and protectiveness towards
her. It made her feel like it was unlikely she would end up out in
the night once again, lost on some strange street in the darkness,
haunted or pursued by God only knew what from the depths of her mind. 

Mae had come in again in the morning around ten. She and Sean had
been up for some time, Scully knew, Sean watching television, the
bright sounds of it reaching Scully all the way in the back bedroom
as she lay staring at the dull white light out the windows for hours. 

When Mae came in, Scully was sitting up in bed, already dressed, her
legs thrown over the side, her head bowed from exhaustion.

"I've made you some breakfast," Mae had said, looking at her in
concern as Scully's chin rose from her chest slowly so that she could
meet Mae's gaze. "I know you probably don't feel like eating, but you
should try to have something. Just some toast and some juice, maybe
some coffee if you can do it. It might help you ride this out a bit
easier." 

Scully had thanked her, risen, and gone into the living room,
situated herself on the couch beside Sean, trying to draw comfort and
a sense of normalcy from his small presence as he caught her up on
what was happening on the cartoon he was watching. Mae brought the
toast and the tall glass of juice, and Scully had consumed both
silently, fighting off the nausea that the toast produced. 

At around 11:30, Mae had departed with Sean with a promise to return
as soon as possible to spend the day with her. 

"Thank you, Mae," Scully had responded, smiling faintly. "I'd...I'd
like that." 

"All right then," Mae replied, returning the smile. "I'll be back
straight away." 

And she and Sean had departed. 

It only took about 20 minutes for the hallucination to begin. Scully
wondered in some dim part of her mind if Mae's absence contributed to
its onset, as though being left alone gave her mind too much ability
to concentrate, to become suceptible to the drug as it worked its way
out of her tissues, flooding her body once again as it had done to
Danny when he'd been going through the withdrawal from it in the
hospital. She remembered how the drug had spiked as the residue
became more active in his brain, and assumed that was what was
happening to her, as well. 

It will pass, she told herself as one particularly large owl flapped
against the windows, its talons scratching loudly on the glass. All
of it would pass and she would be all right. There was no sign of
headache. No pressure in her head, no nosebleed. 

She watched the owl, shook her head as if to clear it, fighting down
the fear at what her mind could produce. 

She just hoped the hallucinations didn't get any worse. This odd
vision had rattled her taut nerves badly enough. Another sighting of
her father, or anything like the vision of the night before last, and
she felt she might not be able to handle it without breaking down,
which she was trying hard not to do as it was. 

She just kept telling herself that it wasn't real, that it would
pass soon enough as the time since her exposure lengthened. She
recited it to herself over and over as she closed her eyes. Her hands
trembled slightly against her ears. 

This is not real...she thought. It's not real...

She opened her eyes again at the faint sound of keys in the lock, as
the deadbolt clicked over. Scully watched the door come open, terror
gripping her at what she might see if this, too, wasn't real. But
then Mae came in, pulling off her scarf and coat, meeting Scully's
wide-eyed look with deep concern. 

Scully could only imagine how she looked, clenched into a ball on
the corner of the couch, her hands covering her ears. 

Mae hung her coat and scarf up, came forward until she was kneeling
in front of Scully. She reached up and took hold of Scully's wrists
gently, drawing her hands down, holding both of Scully's between both
of hers. 

"It's all right, Katherine," she said softly. "It's all right.
Nothing's going to hurt you. What you're seeing...it can't hurt you."

Scully closed her eyes, her brows squinting down. "That's hard to
believe," she replied. "It all seems so real..."

"Aye, but it's not," Mae responded instantly, giving Scully's hands
a tight squeeze, as though trying to force her into the present
moment, into the real, with her touch. Scully found herself
disentangling her hands from Mae's so that she could grip the other
woman by the wrists. Mae did the same. As though Mae was holding her
over a cliff's edge, Scully thought. Barely keeping her from falling.

Scully opened her eyes again, looked at Mae. It was like looking at
a photograph, Mae in focus in the forefront, and the entire
background lost in a blur, like Mae was the only real thing in the
room. The sounds of the owls grew fainter as Scully held her
attention on Mae, drawing in a deep breath. 

"All right," Scully said, nodding. She released Mae's wrists, though
Mae held on for a beat longer. 

"I'm going to make you a cup of tea then," Mae said firmly. "Then
we'll sit together for awhile." 

"Okay," Scully replied. Mae could have told her they were going to
fly to the moon and she would have agreed to it. Mae was grounding
her so well. She would do anything she said. 

With that, Mae released her hands and stood, going into the kitchen.
Scully could hear the kettle filling, the heavy metal on metal sound
as Mae placed it on the burner, the clicking of the gas stove as the
burner lit. She concentrated on all the small noises. 

The sounds of the birds got fainter, then finally disappeared
completely. 

She chanced a look at the windows. Nothing there. Only the oblique
light of the winter day coming in through the old, distorted glass.
Relief drifted over her. 

Thank God, she thought, and felt herself beginning to relax. 

The sounds of the television filtered back into her awareness, a
commercial for Rob Roberts, the traffic helicopter pilot, an overhead
view of the city swooping across the screen. The view made her
vaguely nauseated again, like vertigo. She reached for the remote and
switched the television off. 

Leaning her head against the couch, she watched Mae at work in the
kitchen across the counter that separated the two rooms. 

"How was it, seeing Owen?" she asked quietly. 

"We're not what you would call ‘getting along' at this point, let's
put it that way," Mae replied, setting two saucers and two teacups on
the counter, Twinings tea bags trailing out of the cups' sides. 

"I'm sorry," Scully replied. Part of her felt for Mae, at war with
her brother, her only family left besides Sean. But another part of
her was, of course, glad for the schism. Mae wasn't like Owen. She
had too much humanity left in her to be like her bastard of her
brother, no matter what she might have done in the past. Scully was
sure of that.

"Don't be sorry," Mae said, her voice hard, her eyes down on the
cups. "You of all people shouldn't be sorry. Look what he's done to
you." 

"Yes," Scully replied softly. She thought about it for a moment.
"You're so angry with him...like he hasn't done something like this
before. Is he acting differently than he usually does?" 

Mae seemed to consider for a moment whether to respond or not, then
put her hands on the counter, blew out a breath, shaking her head. 

"He's never been like this before, no." Her tone was quiet, as
though she were confiding in Scully. Which, Scully realized, she was.
"I mean, he's always had plans for things, always had something in
the works, but he's never been as guarded, as paranoid, as he is
right now. And he's never done things to his own people that were so
purposefully cruel and distrustful. I don't know what's come over
him." 

She paused, shook her head again. "And he won't discuss his reasons
with me, which is strange in and of itself." 

She paused for a moment, and Scully watched her, blinking slowly.
The sound of her own slow breathing was very loud to her ears. 

Then Mae looked at Scully, something imploring in her expression.
"You have to understand something about Owen," she said, and Scully
was uncertain whether Mae was about to try to convince Scully or
herself to understand and accept what she going to say. 

Both, she decided. 

Mae continued. "After our parents died...and then when our brother,
James, was killed...Owen made the Cause his entire life. It's
consumed him, and in a very personal way. I'd like to say that he
does everything he does for Ireland, but I think it's more than that.
Or maybe less." She hesitated. The words were already coming from her
haltingly, and she seemed to be forcing herself to continue. Scully
waited patiently. 

"Though it pains me to say it, I think there's a fair bit of pure
revenge in Owen," she said finally. "I think he's spent his whole
life making people pay for what he's lost. It's what drives him deep
down." She looked sad as she spoke. "It's not something I'm proud of
for him. It makes me sad for him, in fact, because I think he's spent
his entire life in a rage. The only time he was happy...well...was
when he was married to Sean's mother. Elisa. And then she was killed,
too. He's never been the same since then. Not even Sean has made that
up for him."

She met Scully's eyes. "You favor her a great deal, you know," she
said softly. "A bit too much, in fact." 

Scully blinked again, pieces of the puzzle of Owen falling into
their places slowly in her addled mind. That certainly explained his
attraction to her, she thought. 

"That's why he felt the need to try and control me with the drug,"
Scully said, lifting her head off the couch. "He doesn't want to lose
me, too." 

Mae considered. "I think you're right about that. I think that's a
big part of it. The other part is that he just doesn't like people
leaving him at all. Once he becomes attached to them. I think that's
why he started using the drug when he first found out about it. About
a year ago." 

"Where did he find out about it?" Scully asked. This was a question
that she'd been wanting to ask for quite some time.

Again, Mae seemed to hesitate, but continued just the same. Scully
realized how much Mae truly trusted her. It pleased her in an off-
center way. That Scully could find out information, but it also made
her glad that Mae trusted her on a personal level. Because some part
of her trusted her, as well.

"We have...some affiliations with some other groups...some in the
Middle East. We exchange supplies with each other, information when
we can. One of those groups had developed the drug, but never used it
for what they intended it for. The production of it takes a good bit
of energy and resources. Which this group didn't have. Owen traded
the information about it for some...supplies." 

The kettle began to whistle behind her. She seemed glad for the
distraction, turned to get it. Scully sat still, taking in what she'd
said. After a moment, she spoke.

"What happened to Elisa?" she asked softly. "Did the British kill
her?" 

Mae turned back towards the cups, pouring the steaming water slowly.
She shook her head. 

"No. It would have made thing more simple if they had, though." She
finished pouring the water, turned to replace the kettle. Then she
went to the refrigerator for the milk, poured it into the small,
chipped creamer on the counter, replaced the milk. 

"Elisa went to a market to do some shopping one day. Owen had been
having some...problems...with other members of the group, enough that
he was being left out of meetings about some things." She sighed, as
though the memory pained her. "Well, there was a bombing planned for
the market that day, and Owen didn't know. So Elisa didn't know."

Scully gaped. "The IRA killed her?" 

Mae nodded. "It was an accident. People were very sorry about it.
But I don't think Owen's really ever let it go. Or ever will." 

Mae gathered up the creamer and the sugar bowl, came around the
counter and set them both on the coffee table. Then she returned to
the counter, picked up both steaming cups of tea by the saucers. 

While she did this, Scully considered what she'd said.

The Path's split with the IRA suddenly made a lot more sense to her.
A lot of things did. Curran's need to control her. Even the tension
between Mae and Owen. Mae's past showed someone loyal to the Cause,
to her brother's part in that. Owen's was starting to point toward a
loyalty only to himself.

"Now I've got the whole day cleared out to help you through this,"
Mae said quietly, setting the saucer in front of Scully and going to
a chair caddy-corner to the couch. She sat, her cup and saucer held
delicately in front of her. "What should we do?"

Scully leaned forward, took the cup, bobbed the tea bag up and down
slowly. She shook her head. 

"I don't know what to do," she said honestly. "I don't know what to
expect." 

"Well then," Mae replied, crossing her legs. "We'll just play it by
ear, as they say. Just relax." She smiled reassuringly. 

Scully smiled back, pulled the teabag out of the cup and set it on
the saucer. She leaned back, blew across the steaming surface of the
tea and took a sip, trying her best to do as Mae said. 


********* 

THE GREY MOUSE 
6:34 p.m.


Owen Curran sat in his office in the back room of the pub, his arms
crossed over his chest, his eyes on the table. He was a dark, lone
figure in the room, his black sweater and deep blue jeans matching
his mood to a tee. Outside in the pub, another band was playing, the
pub already crowded, even though it was early in the night. 

But no sign of Mae, he thought broodily. The bartender had strict
instructions to come get him the minute Mae showed up, even if she
didn't come back to see him in the office. He would find her out in
the pub, try to make things better between them. Tomorrow was going
to strain things between them enough. He wanted them to be on firm
ground when the events of the day unfolded. 

He shook his head as another thought entered his mind. 

There was no word from Katherine, either. 

He wondered how she was faring. Truthfully, he didn't know what
effect her withdrawal from the drug would have. He didn't know much
about how long it took to addict someone to the point that going off
it would kill them. No one had tried to stop taking it this soon
after being exposed. 

She was so fucking stubborn, he thought bitterly. Just like Elisa
that way. Part of him wouldn't be surprised if she let herself die
rather than come back to him to get more. 

But then there was the drug he'd planted in the juice. He was
satisfied to think that she might not be going through withdrawal yet
at all. 

She would come to him, he decided, and picked up his beer, taking a
swallow. He reached for his cigarette, smouldering in the ashtray,
and took a long draw off it, forcing himself to relax. 

He just needed to be a little more patient. Keep his wits about him.
And concentrate on tomorrow. Try to stay focussed on that. 

There was a knock on the door, and though he'd just pledged to think
only of the bombing, he found himself sitting up straighter,
wondering if it was Mae or Katherine after all. He called for
whomever it was to come in, forcing the anticipation out of his
voice, set the cigarette back in the ashtray quickly. 

John Fagan entered, holding a file folder, still bundled up in his
long dark coat and gloves, clearly having not stopped at all on his
way through the pub. He looked at Owen seriously as he closed the
door behind him. 

Owen's shoulders fell a bit as he saw Fagan, and he leaned back in
the chair again. 

"Owen," Fagan said softly, and came forward into the circle of light
thrown by the single bulb over the table. 

"What is it, John?" Curran replied tiredly. "I'm not in the mood for
much company tonight, to be honest with you." 

Fagan held the folder in front of him, not quite offering it to
Curran. "I think you'll want my company right now," he said quietly,
his voice grim. "I think you'll want to hear me out, though you're
not going to like what I've got to say one bit."

Owen glared up at him, took another sip from his beer. "What are you
crapping on about, John?" he grumbled. "I'm not in the mood for any
gaming. Out with whatever you've got." 

Fagan nodded, though Curran could see he had flushed a little over
his tone with him. "All right, Owen. Out with it then." 

He opened the folder, looked at the contents for a few seconds, then
turned it and slid it across the table towards Curran, into the
bright light of the lamp.

Curran looked down at it. A computer printout of some sort, with a
picture of Katherine in the corner. He glanced at it, then away.

"What's this then?" he asked, looking up at John accusingly. 

Fagan shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. "I did a check on
her, like I told you I wanted to do. I ran her fingerprints through a
cop here in Richmond, that Detective Shanahan we met in Baltimore,
remember?" 

Owen pursed his lips, anger boiling in him as his voice rose. "I
told you she'd already been checked, John. Goddamnit, you never
fucking listen anymore, do you--"

"Will you read the bloody file, Owen?" Fagan shouted, interrupting
him. "She's a fucking FBI agent!" He pointed down at the file,
jabbing a finger at the printout. "Read the fucking thing!" 

Owen was stunned into silence, his eyes remaining on Fagan for a few
seconds, as though waiting to be told that he was kidding. Then his
eyes fell on the folder. He noted the FBI logo on the corner of the
page, beneath her picture. Her vital information scrolled beside the
clearly dated picture. 

Special Agent Dana Scully, he read silently. University of Maryland
Medical School...FBI Academy...current assignment: "classified." 

His hand came up to rub his temple and his forehead as he continued
reading. Fagan stood before him, waiting. 

"My God..." Curran said softly, fingering the pages. He didn't turn
to the next page. He'd seen enough. 

"She could know about the bombing, Owen," Fagan said into the quiet.
"We might need to call this thing off tomorrow." 

Curran was silent for a long moment. He could feel color rising in
his cheeks, rage beginning to come up in him. Indignation. Shame at
being told this by Fagan, at being so easily duped. 

And something else. A very deep sense of personal betrayal that he
was finding difficult to even tolerate. 

He struggled to hold it all down, forced his voice to a calm, flat
monotone, forced himself to concentrate. "No, I don't think she would
know about that. Nobody knows but you and me and a couple of
others...I think that's all right." He swallowed, looked to the side,
away from the file and from Fagan.

"What do you want me to do, Owen?" Fagan urged softly. He was
standing there, poised to do something, whatever Owen told him to do.
As he'd always been, Owen realized. 

God, what a fool I've been...he thought, closing his eyes. 

The image came to his mind again, completely unbidden. Elisa -- or
was it Katherine? -- on the hillside again, him walking towards her.
He reached her, her face swimming in and out of focus, turning first
from one woman to the other. 

Then the memory came crashing in. He winced against it. 

At the wake. Alone in the drawing room of his parents' house...going
to the coffin, the tears streaming from him as he pushed open the
lid, the choked cry that came from him as he looked her, half her
face blown away, her body torn so badly she was wrapped entirely with
a tight, uneven sheet...

He covered his eyes for a long moment, then his mouth, hoping Fagan
wouldn't notice the suspicious shine in his eyes. He clenched his jaw
down, cleared his throat, dropped his hand to the file, fingered the
pages again. 

The rage warred against the anguish, turning him cold. Ice cold. 

"Owen?" Fagan looked at him uncertainly. "Are you all right?" 

"Aye, I'm fine," Owen said softly, his voice still monotone, all
business. He cleared his throat. 

"Here's what I want you to do for me, John," he began. "Mae is
coming to get Sean in the morning, early, around eight or nine. She's
keeping him for the day while we drive up to D.C." 

"All right," Fagan replied, waiting. 

"Once Mae is out of the house..." He reached into his pocket,
drawing out his keys. He slowly pulled one off the ring as he spoke.
"I want you to go in there with this... " 

He pushed the key across the table, looked up at Fagan, his eyes
deathly still and serious as he spoke again.

"...And I want you to kill her. I don't care how. Just get rid of
the body before Mae comes home with Sean, then meet me back at the
warehouse. We'll go from there." 

Fagan reached down and picked up the key, looking at Owen almost
warily. 

"You sure about this, Owen?" he asked softly. 

Owen nodded. "Aye," he said quietly, returning John's gaze. 

Fagan nodded. "All right then," he replied, and, fingering the key
in his black gloved hand, he tucked it into his coat pocket. 

Owen dismissed him with his eyes, and Fagan withdrew, closing the
door silently behind him. 

He sat for a long time, unmoving. 

He looked down at the file folder, trying to gauge the way he felt
at that moment. Nothing. It was as though something in him that he'd
kept barely kindled had died out, gone to dust. As though it had
never really been there at all. 

Reaching out once again, he fingered the corner of the folder,
slowly turned it over, hiding the picture as he pushed the file, and
his emotions about it, shut. 


************


MALCOLM FLAHERTY'S HOUSE 
OUTSIDE BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS 
JANUARY 15
(FRIDAY) 
3:47 a.m.


The spotlights threw the shadows of the falling snow against the
stone of the Celtic cross in the center of the low maze of bushes,
the amber light throwing the ancient carvings of saints into stark
relief and dotting them with falling shadows. Around the cross, night
hung heavily, the stars obscured by the thick clouds, the moon
straining a faint light in one corner of the sky. 

For a long time all was still, quiet. The snow fell silently, only
the faintest wind disturbing its slow spiral. 

Then, from behind one of the cross' shoulders, a gloved hand
appeared, gripping the edge of the sculpture as a dark shadow of a
head appeared in the sharp bend. A warm fog of air puffed out in
front of the man's face, slipping out from the small hole in the
black ski mask. The man's keen eyes used the higher vantage point to
scan the grounds, to take in the stone path lined with dark skeletons
of trees that led to the back of the house. 

Seeing no one around, his other hand came up. He gestured forward
once, twice. 

Three other dark shapes moved quickly through the maze, around the
sides of it, moving as silent as the snow. The man leapt down from
the cross and followed the other three down the path, hugging the
edges where the dim gas light was faintest. 

They gathered, a huddle of shadows, at the house's rear entrance, a
set of wide French doors that opened onto the stone patio. The man
gestured to one of his companions, pointing to the security system
keypad set into the brick beside the door. His companion nodded,
reached into his black jacket, pulled out a set of tools in a small
zippered case, tiny tools designed for intricate work. 

In a few seconds, he had the keypad off its base, the pad trailing
multicolored wires that still connected it to the wall. 

The alarm began to beep in warning, ticking off what the man knew to
be a thirty second countdown before it activated the house-wide alarm
and alerted the police to the presence of an intruder.

The man was not fazed by this. His companions weren't either. They
simply stood close to the house, glancing around through the eye
slits of their identical masks. 

The one with the tools worked carefully, snipping a blue wire, a
red. He loosened two screws that held the two remaining wires to the
base with a small screwdriver. Then, pulling out two small pieces of
tin foil from his kit, he folded them carefully into paper thin
squares, slid them gently between the heads of the wires and their
contact points. 

The beeping of the alarm ceased immediately, the light on the panel
going from red to green. 

Reaching into his pocket again, the one with the tools produced a
small gun-like device, placed the business end of it into the lock
beneath the scrolled bars of the doorknobs. There was an audible
*click*. He withdrew the instrument and pulled open the door. 

The man entered first, the other three following behind, their feet
barely making a sound on the floor. The house was dark except for a
light on the foyer, throwing a dim glow onto the large staircase that
led up to the house's second and third levels. 

He stopped in the mouth of the foyer, in the darkened hallway that
they'd followed from the back of the house. He put a hand up to halt
the movement of the others, which they did in unison. 

He held up a finger, pointed down one corridor that radiated off the
round foyer. One servant, he conveyed silently. At the end of the
corridor. Probably the butler, asleep in his quarters. 

He pointed down the opposite corridor, the one that led to the study
and another hallway toward the front of the house. He held up another
finger, pointed down that way. Another servant. He put a finger over
his lips. The other men nodded, understanding their leader's
instructions.

Now he pointed up the steps, his hand flat, then tilting as it
indicated the incline of the stairs. His hand veered sharply off to
the right, stopping suddenly against the palm of his other hand,
indicating a door. He pointed to his palm, nodded. The others nodded
as well. Their target was behind that door. 

They were all on the same page, and the man was pleased. 

Drawing his gun, which was fitted with the smooth cylinder of a
silencer, he came out of the shadows quickly and began his ascent up
the carpeted stairs, the others close behind, their weapons also
drawn as they made their way up onto the landing. Their bodies were
mere outlines against the hallway windows, gauzy shapes in the lights
at the back of the house. 

They moved slowly, the target nearly in sight now, as they inched
toward the closed bedroom door at the end of the long hallway. 

**

Malcolm Flaherty came awake suddenly, his head turning towards the
door to his room instinctively. His breathing was a bit fast as he
looked around the room, looking for anything amiss. Nothing seemed to
be. The fire crackled in the fireplace on the far wall, sending a
play of yellow light around the room. His grandfather's clock ticked
on the mantel, and as he sat up in bed, it struck “four” in a light
series of bells. 

He could swear he heard something out in the hallway. He had always
been a light sleeper. 

He swiveled, slipped his feet out from beneath the covers, then his
legs, stepping into the bedroom shoes he kept there, side by side. He
reached for his robe at the end of the bed, blue pin-striped silk,
like his pajamas, slipped it over his shoulders, and rose. 

For a long moment he stood beside the bed, tying closed his robe
fastidiously, just listening to the familiar sounds of the house at
night. All the usual sounds were there, even the breeze against the
windows, the slight creak of wood and glass as the wind caressed
them. 

But there was something else there, as well. He felt sure of it. He
had not become the man he had without being innately cautious.

He watched the door to his bedroom, watched the crack beneath it.
Nothing. No movement, no shadow, no sound. 

The door was locked, he knew. It always was at night. And only
Maureen and Michael, the maid and butler, had additional keys to the
room. 

He waited a moment longer and still heard nothing. He was beginning
to feel he might have imagined the whole thing, or if the soft noises
had been some holdover of a dream. He felt himself relax a little
with that thought. After all, the house was a fortress, alarmed at
every entrance, every window. 

It was probably Michael moving around downstairs to the kitchen. He
decided on that as the answer. He would go downstairs to make sure,
however. He might even have a word with Michael to urge the man to be
more quiet in his late night (or early morning) roamings. 

Reaching for the key on the nightstand, he went to the door, pushed
the long skeleton key into the lock, gave it a turn. He pulled the
door open and stepped out into the chilly hallway beyond. 

He stood there for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the play of
shadow and light on the long corridor.

Suddenly the shadows against the walls came to life.

They moved in on him so quickly he didn't even have time to cry out
before there was a large, gloved hand over his mouth, an arm across
his chest, pinning him against a large body behind him. Then a masked
man standing before him with a pistol pointed at the center of his
forehead. 

His eyes were wide in their sockets, the sound of alarm he'd
intended to make at the first sight of motion lost in a moan in his
throat as the man behind him hustled him backwards, nearly dragging
him, the man with the gun taking measured steps forward to keep the
pistol's barrel almost flush with his skin. 

They reentered the bedroom, two other figures coming in behind the
man with the pistol, closing the door silently behind them. 

The entire proceedings -- from the moment he'd stepped out of the
bedroom to his return to it under restraint -- had taken less than 10
seconds. 

The house returned to quiet as the men waited, listening for any
sign of life from downstairs. Flaherty started to make another sound,
but his head was jerked back hard by the hand over his mouth,
silencing him. 

They were military, he knew this. There was too much control and
precision in their actions, too much of an ability to act as a unit,
for them to be petty thieves after his television, his wallet. 

No, these men wanted something far more valuable that any of that,
he thought calmly. They had come for him. 

British spies. M16, no doubt. 

He smirked beneath the hand over his mouth, meeting the man before
him's eyes challenge for challenge. The man cocked his head, noting
this, nearly smiled. He jerked his head to the side, signalling for
the man holding him to remove his hand. He cocked the pistol,
however, to ensure that there would be no outburst.

"I wondered when you might get here," Flaherty said quietly,
attempting to pull his regal composure over himself, despite how
precarious his position might appear.

The man cocked his head to the other side, clearly puzzled by
Flaherty's words. 

"Oh yes, I've known you were coming for quite some time," Flaherty
continued, gaining confidence with each word. He even managed to draw
himself up a bit against the man holding him. The other two men had
flanked the one with the gun (clearly the leader), standing still as
stone. 

"Go ahead and name your threat, the price you demand for me to stop
the work I've been doing. Not that it will do you any good, mind you.
My loyalty is and always shall be to Ireland and her freedom from
your tyrannical control. Your threats mean nothing to me. But go
ahead. Out with them." 

He felt strength in saying the words, reassurance that he was taking
some bit of control over his situation. They were just here to
frighten him, he said to himself. To *try* to frighten him. The
British had no stomach for assassination, and certainly not the
assassination of American citizens, no matter what they were involved
in. 

The man seemed surprised for a moment, then he smiled widely beneath
his mask, glanced back at the two men behind him. They smiled in
return, as if on cue. The man behind him chuckled once quietly. 

The gun did not move from just in front of his forehead as the man
continued the same wide smile. He gestured with the gun, jerking it
down. The man behind him crushed Flaherty to his knees on the thick
rug, just in front of the fireplace, then tussled him around until he
was facing the fire, his arms pinned at his side. 

One of the other men came forward with something. Electrical tape.
He wound it around and around Flaherty's wrists behind his back. He
did the same to his ankles. 

Flaherty endured it all silently, still trying to maintain his
certainty that they were simply attempting to frighten him. That he
was just getting the full show, the full effect. 

But if he let himself feel it, somewhere in the back of his mind,
fear was beginning to gnaw at him. The men's silence engendered it.
He expected intimidation, even perhaps torture as they threatened
him. 

But not this silence. 

The clock continued to tick on the mantle. The sound seemed to be
getting louder to Flaherty's ears. The fire popped, hissing into the
room with its heat and amber light. 

"Why don't you tell me what it is you want?" Flaherty tried again,
and some of the haughtiness had come out of his voice. There was a
slight tremor there, just beneath the surface. 

The man with the pistol had come up close behind him again. 

"We don't want a thing from you, Mr. Flaherty," the man said softly. 

Flaherty's face fell, his heart leaping into his throat. 

Irish. They're Irish. Oh my God....

"I just came up to deliver a message is all," the man continued.
Flaherty felt the round muzzle of the silencer against the back of
his head. 

"Why?" Flaherty found himself saying. The word was so alien to him,
the pleading tone of it, that he didn't recognize it as coming from
his own mouth at first. 

"I think you'll understand the ‘whys' of this when you hear the
message, Mr. Flaherty, sir," the man said lightly, conversationally.
"Are you ready for the message?" 

The gun pressed into his skull harder. He clenched his eyes closed,
his tongue growing thick in his mouth. 

"Well, are you?" The light conversational tone was gone now,
replaced by something lower, darker. "Say yes or no, Mr. Flaherty." 

Flaherty pulled in a shaky breath, his eyes still closed, attempting
to compose himself as best he could. He decided that if he was going
to go out on his knees, he could keep a shred of dignity. Meet the
man word for word. 

"Yes," he said softly. He opened his eyes, looked into the fire. A
log fell slightly, sending off a small cloud of sparks that blinked
in the air in front of the fire and then vanished. 

The man leaned close to his ear, as though he meant to whisper a
secret. "Here it is, then..." he said softly, then his voice did drop
to a whisper. 

"Owen Curran sends his best." 

The man leaned forward a bit more to he could look into his face.
Flaherty met his eyes. "You got the answer to your ‘why' now, then,
Mr. Flaherty?" 

Flaherty pulled himself up more. The Ireland he'd fought for his
entire life was now in his bedroom, about to end his life. "Yes," he
murmured. "I understand."

The man stood again, the muzzle of the gun returning to the back of
his head. "That's good," he said. "He wanted you to understand." 

He pulled the hammer back on the gun, the sound cold, efficient. 

Flaherty closed his eyes against the shot. 


*************

Continued in part four.