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


CROSSROADS MOTEL 
8:32 a.m.


On the night table, beneath the cheap lamp that Mulder had left on
the night before while he'd been reading and watching television, the
cell phone began to ring. 

Mulder's eyes came open slowly as he drew in a deep breath, turned
his head toward the sound. The file that was open and lying flat on
his chest shifted slightly, paper slipping from it to rest on the
mattress and floor. He put his hand on it as he sat up a little more
against the headboard and reached for the phone, pressing the talk
button on its way to his ear.

"Mulder," he called, sleep still in his voice. The television was
playing softly on the bureau against the far wall, Katie Couric and
Matt Lauer yukking it up over something. He grimaced at them,
reaching for the remote to mute the sound. He felt like he had a
hangover from having so little sleep. 

"Mulder, it's Granger," came the somewhat breathless reply. "We've
got a problem." 

Mulder sat straight up now, instantly awake. Files rained down on
the floor. "Is it Scully? What's happened?"

"Malcolm Flaherty was killed in his house last night. A professional
hit. He was found in the middle of his bedroom, his wrists and ankles
bound with electrical tape. A single shot to the back of the head." 

Mulder swung his legs over the side of the bed quickly. "Flaherty's
dead?" he repeated, his voice rising. 

"Yes," Granger replied. "They're not sure when. The medical examiner
is still working on him. The butler found him this morning. Nobody
heard anything. The house alarm was shorted out. The people knew what
they were doing, that's for sure." 

"They know about Scully," Mulder said with conviction, and swore
under his breath. 

"Padden's not so sure about that," Granger replied, trying to sound
hopeful. "It could just be another splinter group. There are so many,
after all. It could have been someone pissed off with Flaherty for
something else. He had dealings with a lot of questionable people,
Padden said. It could have nothing to do with Scully or Curran at
all." 

"That's damned unlikely," Mulder spat back, standing now, looking
around for his pants. The room with its cinderblock walls was chilly,
and as Mulder stood there in his grey boxer briefs the hairs on his
legs rose up in goosebumps. "We've got to get her out of there," he
said tersely. "We've got to get her out right now." 

"There's no way for us to do that, Mulder, without risking blowing
her cover," Granger replied reasonably. "We're not sure it's been
blown, and storming into that apartment with a bunch of agents might
just endanger her more. She's got a ticket out at 11:00 a.m. Padden
thinks the best thing to do it to simply see if she gets on that
plane. He says if she doesn't, then we'll know if we need to put an
extraction plan into effect. She's going to be fine. Just be
patient." 

"Patient my ass," he said angrily. "Padden's got a little too much
patience about this whole thing. He's willing to risk her too much. I
bought a ticket to be on that plane with her. If she doesn't get on I
AM going to that apartment to find her. I don't care about any
‘extraction plans.'" 

Granger was silent for a moment as Mulder pulled on his jeans,
balancing the phone on his shoulder. Mulder could almost feel the
man's tension at being privy to his unauthorized plans, but he gave
the man credit for not arguing with him about it.

"It just wouldn't make any sense, Mulder," Granger continued
finally, sounding genuinely puzzled. "Curran killing Flaherty, I
mean. Flaherty's the one who supplies him with everything he needs,
isn't he?" 

"Curran's been doing nothing *but* kill his own people for months
now," Mulder replied, buttoning and zipping his jeans. 

"But why risk killing Flaherty now?" Granger replied. "I mean, even
if he did find out about Scully, wouldn't it be detrimental to him to
just kill him that suddenly? Like shooting himself in the foot?" 

"Not unless..." Mulder stood up straight, still, his mind sifting
through the massive amount of information he'd read the night before,
and in the days previous. Things were beginning to fall into their
place in his mind. 

"Not unless he was sure he wouldn't need him anymore," he said
softly. 

"‘Wouldn't need him anymore?'" Granger repeated. "How could that be?" 

Mulder nodded to himself, paced a couple of steps. "I think the
bombing's going to be today," he said, a little breathless himself
now as he raced through the possibilities, the facts. 

"What?" Granger said, alarmed. "How do you know that?" 

Mulder turned toward the window that looked over the balcony, the
cheap curtains slightly cracked to let the grey morning light in. He
nodded again, feeling certain of himself. "That's the only way he
would be able to kill Flaherty. Because he didn't need him anymore.
To get ready for it. Because it's today." 

"Mulder, begging your pardon, but you're making a big leap here,"
Granger said dubiously. 

"I'm not, I'm not. Hold on...hold on just a second..." Mulder went
back to the side of the bed, pulling files off the floor, flipping
through them, looking for the right one. He'd been looking at them
for so long he felt like he had them memorized. He rifled through the
stack until he found the file on Elisa Curran. "There's something in
here...I remember reading it but I didn't make the connection until
you told me about Flaherty..." 

Granger was silent as Mulder skimmed the file, his finger running
down across the text, the phone on his shoulder again.

"Dammit, what's today's date, anyway?" Mulder asked quickly. "The
fourteenth?" 

"No, it's the fifteenth," Granger replied impatiently. 

Mulder's finger continued down the paragraphs, suddenly stopped.
"Here it is," he said. "Elisa Curran was killed on January fifteenth
in Belfast...the bomb went off right at 3 p.m." 

Granger was silent for a beat. "But why would he want to bomb the
British Embassy to mark the anniversary of Elisa's death? And why
kill Flaherty now? He didn't have anything to do with that."

Mulder's mind raced, his eyes focussed on the picture of Curran and
Elisa on the corner of the file. He thought of the bombing in the
market, Elisa Curran in the wrong place at the wrong time, a fact of
which he was certain. Curran cut out of the loop. He thought of
Danny. Of Mary Rutherford. Hugh Cromes, the body that had washed up
on the beach at the river. All the others. 

The last puzzle piece -- Flaherty's death -- clicked into place in
his mind. He smiled through his tension. 

It all made perfect sense now.

"Because he's not going to bomb the British Embassy," Mulder said at
last.

"What?" Granger asked incredulously. 


**********

2233 GRACE STREET 
8:53 a.m.


Scully's hand shook as she poured her second glass of juice of the
morning, emptying the carton. Mae was at the stove behind her,
fetching the kettle for tea, the television chatting in the other
room, laughter from a studio audience leaking into the room and
seeming strangely at odds with the silence of the apartment's two
occupants. 

Scully looked at her hand with concern as she set the empty carton
down, making a fist in front of her face as she studied her hand's
tremble. The shaking was getting worse, not better, as time wore on.
She was at a loss to explain the drug's symptoms in her, and it was
beginning to worry her. They were lingering on too long. 

And she had spent another entire night awake, for awhile staring out
the windows, lying still in her bed. Finally, she'd risen and gone to
her closet, bringing her suitcases out and laying them on the bed,
carefully packing her things in preparation for leaving. It had taken
her a long time, but she had been glad for the distraction. 

That was three nights now without sleep. And it was beginning to
take its toll on her. Concentration was difficult. Her emotions were
close to the surface, threatening to overwhelm her. 

She remembered that Danny had told her he'd gone over two weeks
without sleeping. 

No wonder the man had cried all the time, she thought, taking a sip
of the juice. 

And she stopped.

Held it in her mouth. 

There was something strange about it, something in the texture, the
taste. As though something had been collecting at the bottom of the
carton and had just been poured out with the last of the juice. 

Mindful of Mae, whose back was still turned, she spit the mouthful
of juice back into the glass, set it back on the counter. She reached
for the empty carton, reopened it, gave the interior a sniff. 

Orange juice and something else. Something faintly chemical. 

Oh God...

"Mae?" she called, keeping her voice soft, steady. 

"Uh huh?" Mae replied, pouring the tea and pulling out two pieces of
toast from the toaster. 

"Has...has Owen been here in the past few days?" She tried to sound
as casual as she could, but panic was starting in her, her heart
pounding.

"Um...yeah," Mae said distractedly, buttering the toast. "He was
here a couple of days ago, I guess, dropping Sean off." Then Mae put
the knife down, turned to her, her eyes widening. "Why?"

Scully turned slowly, held the carton out toward Mae's face. Mae
locked eyes with her, took the carton, smelled the contents deeply. 

"That son-of-a-bitch," Mae whispered angrily, reaching out and
gripping Scully's upper arm, as though she meant to keep her from
falling. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think of it at all." 

Scully nodded, her hand going to her mouth. "It's okay," she said
softly, putting a hand on Mae's arm. "Just...just excuse me for a
minute."

She brushed past Mae, heading down the long hallway to the bathroom,
entering the room quickly. As she passed the sink, she grabbed her
toothbrush, knelt in front of the toilet. 

Within a few moments her stomach was empty. It wasn't even difficult
because the thought of what she'd consumed made her feel so sick. 

At least one dose of the drug would not be completely absorbed into
her system, she thought with some relief. She stood in front of the
sink, brushed her teeth, then wet a wash cloth and pressed it to her
face, the cool water feeling good against her flushed skin. 

"Are you all right?" Mae asked from the doorway, where she'd poked
her head in shyly. 

"Yes," Scully replied immediately, her voice stronger than she felt.
She put the wash cloth down and pushed her hair behind her ears,
trying to put her reflection back together. 

"Katherine, I'm so sorry." 

Scully looked at Mae in the doorway, nodded simply. "It's not your
fault, Mae," she said quietly. 

"You're still going to leave today? Even knowing you've been exposed
to more of the drug than you thought?" 

Scully nodded. "Yes," she replied. "I'm going to go before any of
this gets any worse. I still don't think I've had enough for it to be
lethal, but if I stay Owen will keep trying to get more of it in me.
I have to get away." 

Mae nodded, looked down. "I understand," she murmured. 

When she looked back up, there was determination in her eyes. "I'm
going to talk to Owen this morning about whether there's a cure for
all this. I've never heard him speak of one before, but he may know
something that he hasn't talked to me about. He's kept so much about
the drug from me, that could be the case."

Scully nodded, feeling a little hopeful at that. "Thank you, Mae...I
hope that's true. I don't know if he'll give the information to you
even if he does have it, but I appreciate you trying." 

Mae nodded. "You're welcome," she said softly. "It's the least I can
do for you."

She hesitated, as though she needed to work up her nerve to say
something. Then she looked up, met Scully's eyes. 

"I'll miss you, Katherine." She smiled sadly. "You're the first real
friend I've made in I don't know how long." 

Scully returned the sad smile. "I'll miss you, too, Mae," she
replied, and meant it. Despite her cover, despite Owen, all of it --
she did consider Mae a friend. No matter how strange the
circumstances of that friendship. 

She did, however, feel a little guilty about Mae calling her a "real
friend." Mae didn't even know her real name. 

Mae looked away, then back at her earnestly. "I'm glad you're
getting away from all this, though," she said with conviction. Then
she looked away again, her eyes shining. 

"This bloody mess..." she added under her breath angrily.

Scully was surprised by her words, but only nodded. She'd known Mae
had her regrets about some of the things she'd done, but she didn't
realize she felt this strongly against the work she was doing. She
supposed the falling out with Owen had a lot to do with that, his
treatment of her, his deception. 

It must be hard, Scully thought, to believe in something that seemed
to be based on so many lies.

Mae shook her head, drew herself up a little straighter, looked at
her watch, brushing the conversation away. 

"I've got to go get Sean," she said. "I'm late doing it already.
I'll be staying there for a bit, but I'll be back in time for us to
take you to the airport." She forced a smile. "We were the first ones
to see you when you got here; it seems only fitting we'll be the ones
to see you off." 

Scully smiled back. "Okay," she said, nodding. "I'm just going to
take a shower, get cleaned up. I'm already packed for the most part.
I just have to put a few things in the suitcases. But I'll be waiting
for you when you get here." 

"All right," Mae said. "Have a good rest of your morning. I'll see
you in a bit." And she withdrew down the hall. Scully heard her put
on her coat and go out the door, bolting it shut behind her. 

Scully looked at herself in the mirror, her shoulders falling now
that she was by herself. The exhaustion she felt was intense, bone-
deep. She noted the dark circles beneath her eyes, the paleness of
her skin. She was leaning on her hands on either side of the sink,
but she could still feel the slight tremor in them. 

She was going to be sick. She knew that. She might even need to go
into a hospital when she got back to Washington to monitor her as she
went through the withdrawal.

Closing her eyes, she prayed that was all she'd be in for. 

Scully sighed, pushing the thought away as she stood and headed into
the hallway, going down towards her room. She looked with relief at
her suitcases laying open at the foot of the bed. 

Going to the bedside, she began to slowly undress, pulling the loose
shirt she wore over her head, stepping out of her sweatpants and
underwear, which she tossed on the bed. Her white robe was on a hook
behind the door, and she reached for it, slipped it on quickly to
avoid the chill in the room. She returned to the bathroom.

Pushing back the cheap shower curtain, she turned the old handles on
the claw footed tub until she got the water good and hot, popped on
the shower. She took off her robe, lay it across the sink and stepped
into the tub, let the steaming water beat over her, clearing her
anxious thinking temporarily away.

**

In his black car on the corner, John Fagan watched Mae come out the
door to the building, fumbling with her keys as she headed toward her
dilapidated pickup parked just out front. He noted with satisfaction
that she seemed too distracted to look around as she unlocked the
door, climbed in and edged out onto the street. 

He waited for several minutes after she'd disappeared around the
corner to make sure she wouldn't return for something, finishing his
cigarette calmly, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the door to the
building, studied the upstairs windows for any sign of activity. He
saw none. 

Finally he opened the door, snuffed out the cigarette with his boot,
then made his way across the street, going in the building quietly,
walking carefully up the steps of the landing. 

He unzipped his jacket, reached for the key in his pocket with one
hand while the other glanced over the pair of handcuffs in their
holder at his belt, then finally went to the holster at the small of
his back, unclipping the strap that was holding the gun securely in
place. A roll of electrical tape bulged out of the other pocket.

He wouldn't need any of them, he thought, smiling to himself with
anticipation. Not right away, at least.

He stood outside the door for a long moment, listening. He heard the
television through the thin door, and something else. A hissing.
Water running. 

Pleased with this, he slipped the key in the lock, turned it slowly,
almost silently. Then he pushed the door open a crack, stuck his head
in to look into the living room. Seeing no one there, he entered the
apartment, closed the door gently behind him. 

Steam was drifting out the bathroom door in the middle of the
hallway that led to the back of the apartment. He could hear
Katherine in there, bumping and squeaking in the midst of her shower.
Edging down the corridor, stepping carefully, quietly, he went to the
doorway. 

He peeked around the corner slowly, the sink coming into view, a
white robe draped over it. Then the toilet, the battered radiator
beneath the curtained window. Finally, he'd craned his neck enough to
see the side of the tub, the shower curtain gaped open a bit at the
foot of it. 

Katherine stood with her back to him, close to the showerhead,
rinsing shampoo from her hair, smoothing her hands over the top of
her head. 

He watched raptly as the bubbles from the shampoo made their way
down her body, over her creamy back, the soft curves of her buttocks.
He followed them all the way down her body for a long moment,
mesmerized. 

She began to turn and he ducked back behind the doorway quickly,
taking a step back for good measure. He held still. 

He was a patient man, particularly when it came to tasks like this
one. Knowing he had the element of surprise in his favor, he relaxed,
pressed against the wall. 

He waited. 

** 

Scully finished rinsing, reached down and flipped the shower off,
turned the handles of the tub, both squeaking loudly, until the flow
of water had stopped. The sound of the television talking to no one,
the drip of water, filled the air around her as she stepped out,
reached for a towel and began to dry herself. 

She stood before the mirror and shouldered into her robe, tying the
belt tightly as she rubbed the towel through her hair. Once she'd
gotten it down to damp and smooth against her head, she draped the
towel around her neck and stepped out into the hallway.

From the back, a sudden sound of movement, then something crashing
into her with all the force of a train, an arm going around her waist
tightly, pinning her arms and lifting her slightly off her feet. The
cry of surprise she'd been about to let out got caught in her mouth
behind the gloved hand that clamped down over it with enough pressure
to bruise. Her eyes widened in terror. 

Though she couldn't turn her head to look, she knew from the size
and the strength that it was Fagan. Two words came up through the
fear that welled in her:

They know.

She was sure of it. 

He began to hustle her forward, towards the bedroom. Gaining her
wits about her, she kicked back with her legs. Her feet caught him in
the knees hard and he stumbled. She took advantage of the break in
his concentration and balance to free her hand. She clawed his face,
skin coming up beneath her nails. 

"Fuck!" he swore, and dropped her. She hit the floor on her feet,
fell forward onto her hands and scrambled up, running for the
bedroom. 

She could hear his heavy footfalls coming after her as, panting with
exertion and fear, she slammed the door closed behind her and turned
the lock. Immediately she heard his body hit the door, him cursing,
the wood rattling on its hinges.

Frantically, she looked around the bedroom for something to use as a
weapon, wishing for all her life that she'd violated Padden's order
and hidden her gun in her suitcase. 

Fagan's body hit the door again, and she could hear wood beginning
to give. 

She knew she had to take him out first. There was no other choice.

She moved quickly, stepping up beside the door, every muscle in her
poised to attack. As he hit the door again, she swallowed down the
fear and steeled herself, the wood finally splintering. 

Fagan burst into the room, and Scully sprang, screaming to shock him
for an instant. She got both arms around his neck and squeezed. 

His hands grabbed at her wrists as his breath wheezed in his throat.
She held on, though, her arms shaking with the effort. 

He staggered, choking. Then he backed up suddenly, driving Scully
into the wall beside the door with a grunt. She gasped but managed to
hang on. He took another step forward and drove her into the wall
again, and this time the pain was bad enough that she let go,
tumbling to the floor. 

"Come here," he snarled, and reached down, grabbing her by the hair
and hauling her up. Wincing, she drove her knee up into his groin and
when he let go again, she took off. 

She had to get out of the apartment, she chanted to herself as she
tore down the hallway. Or at least to the phone, barring that. She
had to get out, or get somewhere here, now...

She raced for the door, got a hand on the doorknob, but Fagan
grabbed her, pulling her back, crushing her against him. She kicked
back again, struggling, and got away, flinging herself toward the
kitchen with Fagan only a few steps behind. She grabbed for the
phone, began to dial. He slammed into her, knocking her against the
counter hard, the receiver flying. His hands closed down around her
throat. 

She couldn't breathe at all, his grip was so tight. Desperately, she
groped in the sink behind her, felt the smooth handle of a knife.
Grasping it, she swung wildly. 

The point made contact with his cheek, sunk in. She could hear it
hit his teeth as he screamed, the knife sticking in his face and
slipping from her grasp as he turned away from her. He let go of her
again, his hand going for the knife and drawing it out as she
staggered toward the living room once again. 

She made it three or four steps before she felt him knock into her
legs. She hit the floor, he first thing striking the hard wood was
her face. Her vision fuzzed, blood immediately coming from her nose.
She tasted blood in her mouth, as well. 

He flattened himself on top of her, pinning her to the floor, his
ankles over hers, immobilizing her legs. Clearly in a rage now, he
lifted her head up, turned it to the side and slammed it down on the
floor viciously once, twice.

The world shrank to a tunnel as her eyes lolled, her body going
limp. She turned her face against the floor, fighting off
unconsciousness. She felt the cold bite of a handcuff on one wrist,
then the other as he pulled her arms back hard. 

"No..." she cried, the side of her face and temple throbbing, her
vision blurring. She could barely breathe with his weight on top of
her. He leaned up for a moment, his knee digging into the small of
her back, and she could hear something ripping. She gasped for
breath, drawing in a lungful of air and shouting the word again. 

The cry was cut off as a thick piece of electrical tape was drawn
across her mouth, a hand pinning her head down onto the floor. His
other hand pulled at her robe, pushing it roughly up her back. 

God, no...she thought as more and more of her skin was exposed to
the air, his hands moving over her body freely now.

Not this... 

She closed her eyes, swam in a muddy pool of pain and near-
consciousness. 

She prayed for the darkness to come. 


***********


2233 GRACE STREET 
10:03 a.m.


In the background, the sound of someone slamming around in the
kitchen, drawers opening and closing. The television just behind her.
Heavy footsteps going down the hallway and coming back again, the
occasional sound of cursing. 

But the sounds were distant, as though she were underwater and was
hearing things happening on a surface she could not reach. 

She blinked slowly, watched the light shine in dusty beams against
the countertop, the light bending, shifting as her eyes opened and
closed. 

The loudest sound, loud as a slow, low drumbeat, was the tap of
drops of blood coming from her nose. They ran down the slick surface
of the tape over her mouth in a thin stream to the floor, gathering a
tap at a time in a small, thickening pool against her jaw and the
side of her face. 

Then her breathing, wet and slow. The faint sound of her heartbeat
as it pulsed in her ears, throbbed across the side of her head. It
felt like something was being shattered across her temple, her cheek,
with each beat, the pain coursing, tunnelling her vision now and
then. 

It was all she could feel. The rest of her body was a mystery to her. 

She closed her eyes, her brow squinting down as she shifted her head
against the hard floor. A small noise came from her throat at the
slight movement. For an instant it felt like she had fallen lightly
asleep. The pain vanished into the ether.

Then she was hovering over herself, seeing her body at the center of
a hazy tunnel of light, weightless, as though she hung from the
ceiling on a thin white string. 

She was on her side, her legs curled up against her chest, her arms
locked behind her back, her upper body turned toward the floor. Her
robe was high up on her thigh and had slid off one shoulder slightly,
exposing the pale of her arm and back. The white of the robe was
spotted with blood across the back. There was a huge red smear across
her bare shoulder. 

The side of her face that she could see, her temple, the curve
around her eye, was red. Already swollen. 

She looked down at herself in the vision for a long moment, watched
the slow, shallow rise and fall of her chest. It was the only thing
that assured her she was actually still alive somewhere below her. 

Then a figure entered, standing before her. She looked down at the
top of his head, his hand up beside his face, holding something
against his cheek. 

"You *bitch*," he said to her body, his voice low, as though it had
gravel in it. His words were slightly stilted, as though he couldn't
move part of his mouth. "Look what you did to my face." 

He reached out with a foot and put his boot on her upper arm, gave
her a hard shove, nearly pushing her over onto her back... 

And with the touch, the string snapped and she crashed back into her
body, the pain rushing in. Not just from her head now. From her
entire body. Memory, awareness came with it. She wanted to scream
with all of it. 

Instead, she pulled in a huge breath, opened her eyes and looked up
at Fagan. 

Blood had run down the side of his face, his throat, into his
collar. The towel he held to his face was matted with it, his hand
and wrist covered. 

For a long moment they simply stared at each other. She met his gaze
steadily, defiantly. 

"No fucking tears, FBI?" he asked, shaking his head slightly.
"You're just going to try to tough it out then, aren't you?" 

She blinked slowly. 

In her mind, she suddenly saw Mulder, sitting beside her on a bench.
He was looking at her with a smile that touched his eyes, making them
warm, inviting. He reached out and put a hand on the side of her
face, cupped her cheek, his thumb running lightly over her temple...

She returned her attention to Fagan, her eyes hardening. 

Yes, she said with her eyes. Yes, I am. 

He must have heard her, because his rage flared, his mouth going to
a thin angry line. He dropped the towel, exposing the wide gash in
the side of his face. Reaching behind him, he took out his 9mm
pistol, pulled back the hammer. Then he bent quickly, grabbed Scully
by the ankle with his free hand. 

She pulled against him, kicking with her legs uselessly. Her head
was spinning with the movement. She was too weak to fight much
against him anymore. 

He dragged her across the floor, through the living room and then
down the hallway towards her bedroom in the back.


*********

OWEN CURRAN'S APARTMENT 
1903 KENSINGTON AVENUE 
9:21 a.m. 
(40 MINUTES EARLIER)


Mae Curran pulled up outside her brother's apartment building,
parallel parking carefully into a space just outside the old
Victorian building. Breathing out slowly, she leaned her head against
the steering wheel, closed her eyes, steeling herself. 

She had felt uncomfortable with her brother in the past, small
disagreements over small things. But she had never felt this way
about him. 

This was as if she were going to visit a stranger. The distance
between them had grown that wide. Katherine stood between them,
certainly, but there was something else, as well. Something she
couldn't quite name. 

Leaning back, she pulled the keys from the ignition, climbed from
the truck, the suspension creaking tiredly. She checked her
reflection in the salt-covered side window of the truck's battered
cap, pushed her hair behind her ear self-consciously. 

She wanted to look strong, stronger than she felt, and she wasn't
sure she was going to pull it off. It was all the stressors of the
day piling on her that gave her the tired, troubled air she saw
there. Katherine and her illness, and the thought of her leaving that
morning. The conflict with Owen she felt so deeply, certainly.
Knowing all of them would be going into hiding for awhile after the
bomb went off today, that they might even be forced to move again if
the authorities became suspicious. 

She didn't want to do that. She was contented where she was, as
contented as she could be this far away from her real home, a place
she wondered now if she would ever be able to return to. The thought,
which she'd had often in the past few months, filled her with sadness.

Then, gnawing at the back of her mind, was the potential loss of
life caused by the bombing itself. There was a time when she had a
stomach for casualties, believed in the inevitability of deaths in
the name of the work they were doing.

That time had, at some point, passed. 

She sighed, wondered when it was exactly she'd lost her tolerance
for the life she had chosen. When she'd lost her belief that the
sacrifices had been worth it. 

She pushed the thoughts away as she went towards the house, climbed
the wooden landing to the door. Once inside, she walked slowly to the
first floor door that marked the entrance to Owen's apartment. 

She knocked, though she had a key. The door did not seem to be open
to her enough to use it. 

Sean opened the door in his jeans and a flannel shirt, his shoes on
but untied. He was holding an action figure in one hand and looked up
at her silently. 

There was something in his eyes, in his silence, that concerned Mae
immediately. She went into the apartment and knelt down in front of
him to embrace him. 

"You look like you've lost your best friend, little man," she said
softly, rubbing his back, forcing her voice to be light, teasing.
"What's the matter then, eh?" She could hear Owen in the back
bedroom, moving around. 

"Daddy's packed up all my things," Sean replied quietly as Mae
pulled away to look into his face again. 

"He's done what now?" she asked, and then she looked around her. 

Sure enough, there were suitcases by the door. Five of them, enough
for all of Sean and Owen's things. 

"He says we're going to go far away," Sean said, and his lip
trembled slightly. "That we're leaving today." He put the action
figure's arm in his mouth, something she hadn't seen him do since he
was a little child. 

Something sunk in her as she listened to him, her fears about what
Owen wasn't telling her boiling up and threatening to show on her
face. Instead she forced a thin smile, stroked Sean's hair. 

"I'm sure he means that we're all just going away for a few days,"
she soothed. "Try not to worry, all right?" 

She stood, not wanting to leave him, but wanting to talk to Owen.
She walked a few steps to the small television, turned it on, then
returned to Sean, led him by the hand and settled him down on the
couch. 

"You just watch a little television while me and your dad have a
talk, all right? I'll be right back." 

He said nothing, his eyes on her, wide and wet. She turned away from
him reluctantly and went down the hallway to the large bedroom in the
back. 

Owen was standing in front of his chest of drawers, dressed in black
pants and a turtleneck and his black leather jacket and boots. In his
hand, a pistol, another one lying on its side on top of the dresser,
bullets sprinkled about. He was loading the gun in his hand, paused
as he looked up at her, his expression unreadable. 

She stood in the doorway, her arms crossed in front of her. She
wanted to appear angry, but she knew that she probably looked afraid. 

"I want you to tell me what's going on," she said quietly. "And I
don't want any bullshit this time. What have you been keeping from
me, and why?" 

He looked away from her now, down at the gun as he pushed another
bullet into it. He sighed, hesitated for a moment, shaking his head. 

"I've wanted to tell you for a long time," he replied finally,
matching her volume. "But I was afraid you would interfere, try to
stop me from what I know has to be done." 

"What are you talking about?" she pressed, impatient with his
quietness, with his unearthly calm. Usually on days before an
operation he was keyed up, nervous, careful. This was different 

"And where are we going?" she continued, unable to stop the
questions now that they had started spilling from her. "Why haven't
Ian or any of the others told me that we're going? As far as I know
everyone's still at their work, still--"

"They're not coming with us," he said flatly, interrupting her. He
still would not look at her. "It's just you and me and Sean and John.
The others are staying here." 

She was stunned into silence for a beat. 

"What?" she asked softly. Her eyes had widened. 

"We're leaving them," Owen replied, cocking a bullet into the
chamber as he finished loading the gun. There was a strange tone in
his voice. Something almost dreamy to it, content. "All of them." 

She simply stared at him, her mouth opening and closing for a second
as she struggled to find words, for her mind to catch up with what
she was hearing. "But Owen...none of them know, do they?" 

He shook his head immediately. "No, they don't," he replied calmly.
"There's a lot they don't know. But it will all become clear to them
today. Everyone will know today." 

She replayed his words in her mind, wondering at the strangeness of
them. What was there for them to know about the operation that they
didn't already? Unless...

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

"We're not...we're not bombing the British Embassy today, are we?"
she asked softly, and hated the tremor in her voice. "That's why you
were so unconcerned about the security there. Because that's not
where you're going today at all." 

He shook his head. "No," he replied, meeting her eyes. She looked
into their darkness. They seemed bottomless. 

My God, she thought, terror gripping her. Somewhere along the way,
quietly, without her noticing it, he had gone insane. 

"Where are we bombing, Owen?" she pressed carefully. 

He looked out the window. She watched the strange smile in his
profile, stood still, waited for him to answer her. 

"Do you know what today is, Mae?" he asked softly instead of
answering her. "Do you remember?" 

She thought about it, rolling the date through her head. The answer
came immediately to mind. "It's the day Elisa was killed," she
replied, and now a tear did escape down her cheek. She brushed it
quickly away. 

He nodded, looked down. "Yes," he said, and his voice was suddenly
tinged with anger. "And it's time for them to pay for that. And not
just that. It's time for them to pay for their betrayal of me, of the
work. All of them. The Americans, too, for the part they've played in
this, brokering this peace that will destroy everything we've fought
for." 

Time for them to pay... 

The words seemed to echo in her mind, and she closed her eyes as
what he was saying sunk into her, burning in her like acid. 

It wasn't the British he was after. Not anymore. The Cause had
become tangled in his mind somehow with the death of Elisa, she
realized. His loyalties were now confused, the things that motivated
him corrupted with rage, with grief. 

He was going after the ones responsible for Elisa's death, for the
compromises for peace. It was the Irish themselves who were the
targets now, she realized. The Irish and the Americans. 

And there was only one place close by where the two intersected.

"The Irish Embassy then?" she choked out. The tears were flowing
freely now. She wiped at her face quickly, fighting for control.

He looked at her, nodded once, seemed pleased she'd come to the
answer herself, as though her being able to do that made it make more
sense. 

She cleared her throat, looked down. She had begun to shake as the
madness of what he was doing washed over her. It went against
everything she believed in and had spent her life fighting for. 

And she'd been a party to it all this time and not even known it.
As, she suspected, most of them had been.

She struggled for calm as she looked at him warily. She was
uncertain now of what he might do should she make any move against
him, say anything that might displease him. It was as though she were
an owner of a dog that had suddenly, silently, gone rabid. 

"Who...who knows about this?" she asked. 

He shook his head. "Hardly any of them know. Danny knew. Hugh
Cromes. John knows. A few of the others. The ones driving the truck
today, of course. But the rest of them don't know a thing about it."
He drew in a breath, looked at her. "It's better that they never
knew." 

She covered her eyes as she listened to him. He talked about these
people, her friends, people she'd known for years, as though they
were dead. 

Which perhaps they were. 

"They're all going to die, aren't they?" she whispered, lowering her
hand, her eyes freshly washed with frustrated tears. "When we leave
them...there's no cure for the drug, is there?" 

His eyes were lifeless as he looked at her. Like a doll's eyes. Or a
shark's.

"I suppose they will," he said gruffly, indifferent. "I needed them
on the drug to make sure they would stay to do the work, to not turn
their back on me like so many were doing before I put them on it.
They're all IRA anyway, or used to be. I'm finished with them now.
With all of this." 

Mae felt something in her give with that, something tearing away.

"But Owen," she said shrilly, stricken, her emotions taking over.
"They were loyal to you! To the work! Jesus, they're our *friends*!
How can you do this to them?" 

He turned to her quickly, took a fast step toward her. He got an arm
across her chest and pushed her up against the doorframe roughly. She
cried out as her back hit the wood, Owen's face pressed into hers.
His eyes were wild, and whether he intended it or not, the gun was
beside her face. 

"You and John are the only ones I trust to stay loyal to me, the
only friends I've got!" he roared. "And the work is OVER! The Yanks
and the Sinn Fein are seeing to that! So they'd all leave! They'd all
leave me soon enough anyway!" 

His forearm was across her throat now. She looked into his eyes
desperately, terrified. 

"Owen...you're hurting me..." she said softly, trying to keep her
voice level. "...and don't yell with Sean in the next
room...please..." 

He held her for a second longer, then withdrew, releasing her. He
was looking at her, anger still in his eyes, as though daring her to
raise her voice to him again. She saw it and looked away, deferring
immediately. He'd grown too unpredictable, too dangerous. 

She was actually afraid for her life. 

She closed her eyes, feeling her world breaking apart around her.
When she reopened them, her face was a blank mask, her emotions
buried. 

"I'm going to take Sean back to my apartment and wait for you
there," she said softly. 

"You can't do that," Owen said instantly. "At least not right away." 

Her heart skipped another beat. "Why?" she asked, her voice still
calm, level. 

He tucked the gun in the holster at the small of his back, opened
the drawer and set the other gun inside it, pushing all the bullets
in with the side of his hand. 

"I've sent John over to kill Katherine," he said. There was no
regret in his voice when he said it. There was no inflection at all. 

Mae went cold all over. 

"Why did you do that?" she murmured. She felt suddenly sick. 

He finished gathering things off the dresser, putting things in his
pockets. "Because your *good friend* Katherine is an FBI agent." 

She gaped for a few seconds.

"That can't be," she said incredulously. 

"It's true," he said flatly. "John fingerprinted her. We got the
information last night. So don't you be going over there for an hour
or so. Give John time to clean up his mess before you take Sean over.
Then go and pack your things and get ready to go."

Mae swallowed down the knot in the her throat, looking down at the
floor, as though the answer to all she was feeling was there around
her, somewhere just out of sight and reach.

"Where are we going?" she asked faintly, unable to meet his eyes.
Her voice sounded strange to her. Like a little girl's. 

"I don't know yet," he replied. "I've been taking money out of the
Free Ireland account a bit at a time over the past few weeks -- I've
got about $20,000 now, lining those suitcases. After today we won't
have the CFI to rely on anymore, that's for certain. But this should
be enough to get us all settled in someplace."

She was silent, forcing her face into some semblance of a normal
expression as her emotions reeled. 

"Anyway, " Owen continued, oblivious to her plight. "I've got to get
down to the truck. John's meeting me there when he's done."

When he's done...

She nodded, numbing inside. "Okay, Owen. Sure." She forced a smile. 

He came up to her by the door, standing close, put a hand on her
shoulder. "It's really going to be all right, Mae," he said. "You've
wanted to leave the work for a long time. I've known that. Well, now
we'll be done with it. Get a fresh start. Just the four of us. I'll
be better this way. Better for Sean." 

He leaned over and kissed her cheek softly. She recoiled a bit from
his touch and prayed he wouldn't notice. He didn't seem to. Then he
was out the door, going down the hallway. She heard him say goodbye
to Sean for a long moment, telling him he'd be back that afternoon.
Then he was gone. 

She stood for a long time in the doorway, staring down at the floor,
listening to the sound of the television, to Sean's silence. Her mind
kept going to the Path members -- Ian and the others -- who would be
dead soon. She thought of the people at the embassy in Washington, so
vulnerable and so unaware. 

She nearly drowned in her own helplessness. 

Then she thought of Katherine, their friendship, which she believed
was more than a convenience. She didn't know how she knew that for
certain, but she did. 

Then she thought of Katherine with Fagan. 

Her hand shook as she checked her watch -- she'd been gone from
Katherine about 25 minutes. She didn't know if it was too late. 

Inside her, something released, like a fist slowly opening. She
heaved in a deep breath, let it out. 

She knew now what had to be done, and quickly. 

"Jesus Christ..." she breathed, and wiped roughly at her face. 

Going forward, her feet moving as if of their own will, she went to
the dresser, threw open the drawer and pulled out the other gun, a
Sig Sauer. She dropped the clip out of it expertly, fumbled for
bullets one at a time, clicking them into the clip efficiently. Then,
using the palm of one hand, she slapped the clip home, put the safety
on. 

Beside the bullets in the drawer, the blunt cylinder of a silencer.
She screwed it carefully onto the end of the pistol and stuffed the
gun in the deep pocket of her coat. 

Moving swiftly into the living room, she saw Sean still sitting on
the couch. He was looking up at her expectantly, that same wide-eyed
look on his face. She went to the sofa, knelt down, tied his shoes
quickly one at a time. 

"I'm going to put you and your dad's suitcases in the truck, Sean,"
she said, urgency in her voice as she did so. "I want you to get a
few of your toys and games and such and put them in your little
knapsack, all right?" 

She finished tying his shoe, the bow a little too tight. She left it
though. "Now hurry. We're going to go back to my apartment for a
little while and then we're going to go for a little drive." 

"All right," Sean replied, wiggling off the couch. There were
several action figures, cards, strewn on the floor in front of the
television. He knelt and began gathering them. 

Mae eyed the suitcases, steeling herself. Then she took hold of the
biggest one by the handle, opened the door. 


*********

2233 GRACE STREET 
10:15 a.m.


Mae parked at the corner, though there were spaces in front of her
building. On the opposite corner, she could see John Fagan's car. 

So he was still here. Maybe it wasn't too late...

She put the car into park, adjusted the heat up a touch and looked
over at Sean, who was fumbling with his seatbelt. 

She took his hand, stopping him from releasing it. 

"I'll tell you what?" she said to him. "Why don't you just wait in
the truck for me? I've just got to get a few things together, and you
can stay here and play with your cards and listen to the radio until
I get back. Will you do that for me, Sean? Stay right here?" 

He was still, looking up at her. She cursed, for the first time, his
sensitivity. It was so difficult to lie to him and him not know it. 

"I don't want to stay in the car," he said, shaking his head. 

She blew out a frustrated breath. "Sean, I really need you to mind
me right now, okay? I need you to stay in the car." 

"I want Daddy to come home," Sean said softy, his lip trembling. 

Dear God, she thought, her hand pushing back her hair. 

"Your dad's busy, Sean, you know that. He'll be back later. We'll
see him later. Now can I trust you to sit right here? Not get out?
Just sit here and play with your things?" 

Sean seemed to consider, the tears coming still. Finally he nodded. 

She reached out and brushed at his tears, cupped the side of his
head. "I'm sorry to be so short with you, Sean. Things will be better
when I get back, I promise." 

"Okay," he said quietly, folded his mittened hands in his lap. 

Mae smiled at him, a strained, nervous smile. "That's a good boy,"
she said softly, and reached for the radio knob, turned it on, music
wafting through the cab. She turned it up just a bit, to make sure
any sounds from the outside didn't come in.

She opened the door, stepped out, and looked at her building from
her vantage point on the sidewalk. She took in a calming breath, let
it out, her hand going to the gun inside her pocket and fingered it,
rubbing gently over the barrel, gathering herself. Then she made her
way down the street. 


**********

In her mind, Scully was with her mother. The family together at
Christmas, the crystal out, light shining off the faceted glasses as
though they were made of diamonds. Her mother sat beside her -- black
sweater, pearls. Across the table, Charlie continued his story, his
hands in the air as he punctuated a point with a sharp jab of his
fist. Scully's mother laughed, and Scully along with her. 

It felt so good to laugh. 

She picked up her wine glass -- it seemed to glow, filled with
something as golden as light. She put it to her lips... 

Her face hit the nub of a nail top on the floor and she moaned,
lifted her head as best she could. Her hair dragged out behind her.
The pressure around her ankle tightened, the pace of her movement
quickened. She looked up, reorienting herself. The ceiling spun
around her and then she stopped suddenly, her leg dropping.

Above her, Fagan was panting with the effort of dragging her, fresh
blood coming from the wound in his face. His face was still filled
with rage, the corners of his mouth turned down in a scowl as he
looked at her, hatred flaring in his eyes. 

Scully lay very still. He swam in and out of focus, and for a
moment, she was not certain if he was really there, or if he was part
of some terrible vision. 

If it all had been.

Vision or not, she met his stare, her breath heaving in and out hard
with pain and fear. She was silent, however, which only seemed to
enrage him more. 

"Fucking get up!" he shouted, and reached down, grabbing her by the
arms and twisting her around. 

She remained limp, her head lolling painfully on the floor. He
continued to pull her up until she was crouched on her knees, the
undamaged side of her face against the floor. Then he reached out and
took hold of her hair, hauled her backwards until she was kneeling.
He kept his hand clenched in her hair as she swayed unsteadily. 

The pace of her breathing picked up as she felt the muzzle of the
pistol press into the back on her head, just above where his hand
held a fist of her wet hair. She held still, her mind racing despite
the cloud of pain that had settled over her. 

Around her the room seemed to shift suddenly...

Then she was with Mulder in their basement office. The first day
they'd met, his glasses glinting in the fluorescent light as he
swivelled in his chair and looked at her. He said something, but only
his mouth moved. No sound came out. 

The only sound she could hear was her own breathing. Fagan speaking
faintly, as thouigh from a great distance, in the background. Angry.
Taunting. 

Donnie Phaster being hustled away as Mulder's finger tilted her chin
up and she lost herself in his embrace. As she pressed her ear
against his chest, she could hear his heartbeat...

Or perhaps it was simply her own, here, now...

The feel of Mulder's body inside hers, his chest pressed against
hers, his eyes closing...

Fagan jerked her head back again, but the pull of vision, the
memory, was too strong...

Then they were on the bench again, his hand coming out to caress
her, his rough thumb moving across her temple. She wondered vaguely
why that moment kept returning to her. She couldn't even remember the
day, what they were talking about...nothing. 

It was his eyes. She could see in them at that moment how much he
loved her. It was as real as he was.

Her vision flashed bright and she closed her eyes against it, as
though she were looking at a city made of entirely of light...

She could feel tears welling again, but she would not let them come.
She heaved in a huge breath, swallowed them down with the blood that
had gathered in her mouth from the tear on the inside of her cheek.
Both nearly gagged her. 

Fagan jerked at her head back again, leaned down to her ear, the gun
beside her face now. He was screaming at her, asking her if she was
ready for something. She could not quite place what it was... 

Something hard -- his loose belt buckle -- clapped against the back
of her head. 

She kept her eyes closed, did not make a sound. 

Her mother laughing. 

Mulder's smile, the light playing on his face, sending half of it
into shadow...

A shot rang out, the ping of a silencer. 

She felt oddly light for a moment, felt Fagan's hand release her
hair. It had been all that had held her up and she slumped to the
side, the injured side of her head making contact with the floor
again. She sucked in a breath in pain. 

Then something falling behind her. The clatter of a gun bouncing on
the wooden floor. A cry of pain and surprise, a long stream of
curses. Then footsteps -- slow, even footsteps -- coming towards her. 

She opened her eyes, turned her head, disorientation and confusion
overwhelming her as she was suddenly *there,* forced back into the
present. It was like a door had been open and had just now slammed
shut. 

Mae walked behind her, towards the sound of the cursing. Scully
rolled slowly to her other side as Mae stepped past her, saw Fagan on
the floor, a widening circle of blood on his chest. He was on his
back, pushing backwards with his feet toward the wall, looking up at
Mae as she neared him. 

"What the *fuck* are you doing?!" Fagan nearly shrieked. 

Scully watched Mae's face. It was as though Mae were wearing a wax
mask. No color. No expression. 

"I'm sorry, John," Mae said softly and raised the gun again. She
fired. 

Scully flinched at the muffled sound, looked down at Fagan and his
head fell back, a hole in the center of his forehead, a blossom of
blood and brain on the wall and floor behind him. 

Scully heaved in breaths, hyperventilating. The strain was too much
for her already taxed reserves and her head slumped back to the
floor. She kept her eyes on Mae, though, who was still standing over
Fagan, the gun still raised, as though she were frozen in the moment,
unable to move outside of it. 

Scully made a small sound in her throat, the beginnings of a sob.
The tears did come now, welling quickly and racing down her face. 

The sound seemed to snap Mae out of wherever she was. She turned her
head slowly towards Scully, looked down at her. Their eyes locked.
Mae was crying, as well now. She put up a hand to cover her face for
a few seconds, then covered her mouth. Then she finally moved,
pocketing the pistol and kneeling down beside Scully. 

"Katherine?" Mae said softly, her hand touching the rapidly swelling
side of her face. "Dear God..." 

Scully closed her eyes, a sob lurching her. Mae got her fingers
underneath the corner of the tape across her mouth, worked it up
gently, slowly, so as not tear at her skin. When she had it off,
Scully gasped for breath.

"Oh God..." Scully said, her voice weak, raspy, as though she had
been screaming for hours. 

"Shh...it's all right," Mae said quickly. "Let me find the keys to
the cuffs. Hold on...just hold on..."

**********

RICHMOND INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT 
10:47 a.m.


Mulder stood with his back against the column outside Gate 22,
watching the last of the passengers trickle onto the 11:00 a.m flight
bound for Boston. He checked his watch for the third time in as many
minutes, jammed his hand deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. 

In his other hand, his own ticket for the flight, the boarding pass
flapped out, ready to be taken and torn by the attendants guarding
the gate, all of whom had been watching him from time to time as he
stood there, waiting. 

Finally one of them, a young African-American woman in a crisp
uniform, came forward. 

"Sir, is your ticket for this flight?" she asked gently, standing a
few feet away from him. 

"Yeah," he replied, his anxiety making his reply terse. "Yeah, it
is." 

"Well, we're getting ready to close the doors. If you're going to
board, you need to do it now. We can't reopen the doors once we close
them." She looked down at the suitcases at his feet. "And those are
too large to bring on board as carry-ons. We'll have to check them
for you." 

He looked down at both his bags. He'd kept them with him in case
Scully didn't show for the flight. 

He closed his eyes, cursing to himself. He'd looked at every person
who had boarded that plane. Scully was not among them. 

He reached down to stuff the ticket in the side pocket of the
smallest bag, grabbed both suitcases by the handles, lifted them,
faced her. "No, thank you," he said flatly. "I won't be getting on
after all." 

She nodded. "All right, sir," she said, slightly puzzled, and
withdrew. He watched her speak into what looked like a CB mouthpiece,
heard her tell another attendant on the plane to close the doors. 

He looked down, shaking his head, hoisting the bags up as he turned
and started the long walk back to the front of the airport. If she
was going to try to get on the plane, he would see her come through
this way. 

But he knew she wasn't coming. Something had happened. He was sure
of it now. And he was going to Mae Curran's apartment whether Padden
liked it or not. 

Surely there would be some clue as to what had happened to her there.

With that thought in mind, he stepped onto the escalator, pushed
past several people as he kept walking down the moving stairs to
quicken his pace. 


***********

2233 GRACE STREET 
10:54 a.m.


"Okay, hang on, just hang on..."

Scully leaned heavily on Mae as they made their way slowly down the
steps to the apartment. Scully's head rested against Mae's shoulder,
her eyes down on her feet as though she could will them to stay under
her with her gaze. 

"Just a few more," Mae was saying. "Stay with me now." 

Scully took the last few steps too quickly, Mae holding her up as
she nearly fell. 

The concussion was bad, she thought, though her thinking was
strangely detached, her mind seemingly far away from her body. She
held still while Mae opened the door, urged Scully through it. 

"Four more," Mae said, and Scully negotiated them a bit better than
the more narrow ones going up to the apartment. 

Then she found herself standing on the sidewalk, Mae's arm still
tight around her waist. The collar of her black coat was turned up,
but the chill of the January wind made her shiver instantly. She was
too close to shock for it to be otherwise. She looked at Mae's truck
on the corner, small puffs of vapor coming from it as it idylled in
the cold.

"Don't let..." she began softly, swallowing hard against the bruises
coming up on her throat. "Don't let Sean see me like this." 

"He won't, Dana," Mae said patiently. "We've talked about
this...he's not going to see you." 

Scully had told Mae, haltingly, who she was while Mae had steadied
her in the shower, a shower that Scully had insisted on taking
despite Mae's vehement assertions that they had to go right away. 

"So what do I call you then?" Mae had asked tersely, her bare arms
wet as helped Scully wash the huge smear of Fagan's blood off her
shoulder. 

Scully could hear the hurt in Mae's voice and was sorry for it. She
turned her face away from the spray of water, looked back at her. 

"My name is Dana Scully," she said softly. "And I'm sorry to have
lied to you all this time about who I am."

"You were just doing your job," Mae had said quickly, helping her
turn around so she could rinse. "I know all about doing your job." 

Scully met her eyes, though the vertigo was threatening to overwhelm
her again. 

"My friendship with you...wasn't part of my job," she said quietly. 

Mae held her gaze for a few seconds. Finally, she had nodded. 

"We've got to hurry," she'd said then, brushing the subject away. 

Now they made their way slowly down the street. The glass window of
the back of the truck's cap was open, the tailgate down. When they
reached the back of the truck, Mae helped Scully sit down on the
tailgate. She glanced inside the dim enclosure.

Sean was standing up on the front seat, peering through the back
window into the truck bed. 

"Sean, sit down!" Mae called. "Dr. Black's just not feeling well and
is going to have a little rest in the back. Now sit down." 

He hesitated, but did as he was told.

Inside the truck bed, Mae had made a makeshift pallett of blankets
off both their beds, their suitcases all pushed up against the back
of the truck's cab. 

Scully began to shift slowly backward, her head throbbing with the
exertion. 

"Let me help you," Mae said, and climbed in, took Scully under the
arms and hauled her back. Scully imagined she was trying to be as
gentle as possible, but in the interest of speed she was a bit rough.
Scully's head rolled against her shoulder as Mae pulled her, settled
her down on the blankets and pillows. 

"It's cold back here, but at least you can lie down," Mae said. "I
just wish we'd had time to dry your hair so you wouldn't be so cold." 

Scully nodded. "I'll be fine," she said softly. "Don't worry about
me. Just get us out of here." 

"All right," Mae said softly. "You knock on the window if you need
anything." 

With that, she scrambled out of the back of the truck, slammed the
tailgate up and the cap flap down and disappeared from sight. 

Scully lay in the near-dark, pulled the blankets up closer against
her chin, her teeth chattering. She felt the truck begin to move as
Mae pulled out, driving fast.


*********

11:24 a.m.


Mulder looked up the steep stairs to the second story landing at the
door to Mae Curran's apartment, reached beneath his jacket and pulled
out his gun. Then he quietly went up the stairs, stood before the
door. 

He put his hand on it, leaned in, listening. There wasn't a sound
from the apartment. No television, nothing. 

He reached down, tried the knob. It turned and the door opened a
crack. 

Pushing his face in first to glance around, the gun following right
behind, he looked around the living room of the apartment. Nothing
seemed out of place. 

Until he saw the spot of blood on the floor, the faint streak of it
leading toward the hallway. 

He stepped in quickly now. "Hello?" he called, every muscle in his
body tense. He could feel sweat beading his brow, though it was very
chilly in the apartment. 

He stared down at the blood spot again, edged his way around it as
he walked slowly, soundlessly, through the living room to the
corridor beyond. 

He checked the first bedroom. Nothing in there, just some clothes
and things thrown around, the bed stripped, the dresser drawers open
and empty. 

It looked like somebody had left in a big hurry, he thought. 

He returned to the corridor.

It was like following a trail of breadcrumbs, though it was smears
and droplets of blood. He stopped at the bathroom, his gun still
drawn and out before him. He looked around it, as well. The shower
curtain was wet. There was water on the floor. Someone had just taken
a shower, he realized. Then his eyes caught sight of something on the
floor. 

Scully's white robe. He'd know it anywhere. 

He knelt, picked it up, studied the folds of it. The back of it was
stained with blood, the shoulder, the arm. 

"Shit," he whispered. He stood again and went back into the hallway. 

The trail of blood led to the back bedroom. He swallowed hard, his
mouth suddenly dry as he contemplated what he might find. He closed
his eyes against the images coming into his mind. 

This could be it, he realized. He could walk into that room and find
her body just like that. His breathing picked up a couple more
notches as the thought went through his mind. His heart was racing. 

Stepping carefully around the blood, he went to the bedroom, peaked
around the door. 

His gaze fell on John Fagan's body between the two windows. He was
lying in a huge pool of blood that had run in small streams across
the floor. 

Swallowing again, licking his dry lips, Mulder entered the room,
went to Fagan's body. He holstered his gun as he saw the hole in the
man's head. It was the size of a grape. 

A wound on his face, too, he noted. And in the chest. Then the shot
through the head, execution style. 

He tried to piece together what happened, his mind turning over the
evidence of the crime scene he'd gathered so far. He struggled to
remain calm while he did it. 

There'd been some sort of struggle, he realized. Most likely between
Fagan and Scully. It was Scully who had wounded Fagan's face, he
decided, and it was that wound that had spread the drops of blood all
over the floor. 

But someone else had done the shooting. He knew this for several
reasons. First, he knew that Scully didn't have her gun with her.
Second, the 9mm handgun that was laying against the wall was the
wrong size bullet to have made a hole that size in Fagan's forehead.
And third, Scully would never simply execute someone. The shot in the
chest, maybe, but not the one in the head. 

Mae had been here, he decided. It was the only thing that made any
sense.

He went to the closet quickly, threw the door open. It was empty. He
looked around the room, still breathing hard. Nothing to show that
Scully had even been here at all. 

Except....

His gaze fell on the night table, the silly snowglobe he'd given her
still resting there beside her alarm clock. 

He went to it, picked it up, gave it a shake absently. As he watched
the snow fall inside the plastic globe, he tried to quell his
anxiety, his thoughts racing along with his heart. 

Mae had Scully, he decided. She'd killed Fagan.

But why? 

Perhaps they argued over her and the shots ensued? 

Or had Mae done it to save her?

Either way, he knew they were together -- it was just a question of
whether Scully was a passenger or a hostage. 

He would go to the Grey Mouse, see if anyone had seen Mae there.
That was as good a place as any to start. 

Pocketing the snowglobe, he stepped carefully out of the bedroom,
headed out the hallway and back out into the street. 


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


J&J WAREHOUSE 
THE BANKS OF THE JAMES RIVER 
11:33 a.m.

Owen Curran sat perfectly still on a crate outside the warehouse.
Even the ash of his cigarette had grown long with his stillness, a
thin trail of smoke coming up and drifting in front of his face. His
eyes were on the road along the river. 

Every now and again he blinked. Otherwise, he was stone. 

His emotions had shifted in the past half hour from mild anger and
annoyance to anxiety and something with the metal taste of rage. John
should have been here an hour ago. Forty-five minutes at the outside.
He knew they were on a tight time schedule, and knew better than to
keep Owen waiting this long. 

Something had happened to him, Owen decided, the ash of his
cigarette finally falling as he glanced down at his watch without
moving anything but his eyes. Katherine -- the FBI agent, whoever she
was -- must have found a way to get away from him, disable him,
something. Perhaps she'd known they were on to her and she'd had
backup, agents with her in the apartment and John had been arrested. 

He doubted that. The death of Flaherty would clue the Feds into the
fact that he knew something, but he didn't think they could get to
Katherine before Fagan had. 

There were footsteps behind him on the rocky ground, coming closer.
He leaned up on the crate, took a drag on the waning cigarette, did
not turn. 

"Owen?" the man -- Peter -- said softly. "Begging your pardon, but I
don't think we can wait any longer for John. We're cutting it with
only an hour to spare as it is now, and if there's any traffic..." 

Owen flicked the cigarette down on the ground, rubbed his hands on
his thighs to warm them up, then stood, facing Peter and the other
three men who were milling around the truck restlessly. 

"Aye," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. He held it in like a
kettle. He nodded toward the truck. "You and Conail go on and get in
the truck, check that you've got everything you need and that it's
ready. Send Timmy to the car. I'm going to make a quick call and then
we'll be on our way." 

"All right, Owen," Peter said, and walked away. Owen dug in his coat
pocket, pulled out the cell phone he rarely used but that John had
insisted he have so the two of them could be in contact. He punched
the talk button awkwardly, held it up to his ear to hear the tone for
a second. Then he began to slowly dial John's cell phone number. He'd
been reluctant to call him before now, afraid of interrupting what he
was he doing. But that time had passed.

After 10 rings a voicemail picked up: "The customer you are trying
to reach is unavailable..." 

He hung up quickly, his anxiety rising another notch. He dialed
again. His own number at the apartment.

He'd get to Mae, put her on the trail of what had happened to John.

It rang. He waited. Nobody there. 

His face reddened slightly as he hung up the phone again. He dialed
a little more quickly this time, his hand shaking slightly as emotion
welled in him. Mae's number this time. 

Behind him, the truck rumbled to life. Just behind that, his own car
started up. 

Ignoring them for the moment, the sense of urgency that the sounds
fostered in him, he let the phone ring again. 

Five, then ten times. Fifteen. 

His jaw was a block of iron, his teeth clenched as he hung up the
phone and stuffed it into his pocket roughly. 

His breath blew a quick warm cloud into the frigid air as he
exhaled, frustrated and -- almost -- afraid. He looked out over the
river, seeking solace, the rapids blown back over the rocks like soft
white hair. 

He didn't know what it all meant. But he knew something was terribly
wrong. 

Turning back toward the truck and car, he looked at the men there,
waiting for him, watching him. They were good men, he decided. They
were up to the job, and they were all that he needed. He would have
to believe that. 

He looked up at the sky, tension overtaking him. They were out of
time. 

He turned and walked quickly towards the car, got in and they pulled
away, the car leading the truck up the narrow road, through the city,
and onto the interstate, blending in seamlessly with the traffic
heading north. 


**********

THE EMBASSY OF IRELAND 
2234 MASSACHUSETTS AVENUE, 
NW WASHINGTON D.C.
2:20 p.m.


Walter Skinner leaned forward anxiously in the front seat of his car
as he heard the rhythmic coughing of a helicopter going overhead. He
searched for the source of the sound, saw the bright white and orange
of a private helicopter streak by, and scowled. It wasn't the chopper
he was expecting -- a FBI chopper he'd ordered out of Quantico to
survey the area around Embassy Row. 

He checked his watch, cursed under his breath in frustration. 

He needed that helicopter here *now*. 

This thing was so thrown together, he thought bitterly, shaking his
head. It was a miracle he'd even managed to get the resources he had
on such short notice. 

And he wouldn't have had to even do that if Padden wasn't such an
intractable bastard. 

Granger had called him that morning after a conversation with Mulder
in his motel. Briefly, and breathlessly, Granger had told Skinner
about Mulder's theory. Skinner had agreed to tell Padden, despite the
fact that he himself had doubts about the leap that Mulder was making
with all this. 

He still found it hard to believe that Curran, a man who'd spent his
entire life fighting for the Irish Cause, would turn on his own
people. He hadn't spoken of those doubts to Padden, however. Still,
Padden had immediately dismissed the theory, calling it "unfounded." 

That had pissed Skinner off. 

Over the years, despite their differences, Skinner had grown to
trust most of Mulder's instincts (at least when the case didn't
involve a ghost crawling up someone's ass, or aliens landing in Times
Square, crap like that). Mulder had been right too many times for
Skinner not to trust them. So to see those instincts dismissed so out
of hand made Skinner strangely protective of his agent. 

And he knew 90% of the reason Padden was sloughing it all off so
easily was *because* it had come from Mulder. 

"What is he still doing working on this case?" Padden had demanded.
"I wanted him out of here." 

"He's taking some personal time," Skinner had replied softly. "He's
not acting in any official capacity on this case anymore." 

"‘Official capacity' is a loose term when applied to Agent Mulder,
Mr. Skinner," Padden had replied gruffly, staring at him over the
rims of his reading glasses. 

You've got me there, Skinner had thought wryly, but didn't say it
aloud. He'd merely reiterated Mulder's reasons for this theory about
the bombing, calmly, seriously.

After some more argument, which Padden had only half-heartedly
participated in, he had agreed to send part of the task force of
agents, including a CIA Bomb Squad, to the *British* Embassy, in case
the bombing was indeed today. But he refused to believe the Irish
Embassy would be the target, calling the theory that Curran would
attack the Irish "rubbish." 

Not even Flaherty's death would convince him that it might be true,
though Skinner had tried that angle as well. Padden brushed that off
with a few words about Flaherty's dealing with other splinter groups,
and left it at that. 

Skinner had walked out of the hotel suite with three feelings. The
first was the beginnings of a killer headache, which wasn't uncommon
when he dealt with Mulder. The second was irritation and anger at
Padden for being so clearly biased against anything Mulder would say.
And the third was an itch to get on the horn with Quantico and *act.* 

Just in case Mulder was right. 

Mulder had still seemed sure of himself when Skinner had talked to
him earlier in the day, while Skinner and Granger were driving to
D.C. Mulder had called, told him about Scully not showing for the
plane, about what he'd found at the apartment. 

"Goddamnit, Mulder, you went to the apartment?" Skinner spat, and
Granger had tried to look innocent beside him. Skinner glared at him. 

"Mae's got her, I'm sure of it," Mulder had replied, ignoring the
question. "And since she hasn't called me yet, I'm going to assume
that Mae's *keeping* her from calling." 

"Yeah, that would follow," Skinner said after a beat, regret in his
voice. "What are you doing now?" 

"Looking around the city for her. Driving around. I've gone to the
Grey Mouse, asked about Mae. Not surprisingly, nobody answered me." 

Skinner considered for a few seconds. But only a few. He knew what
he had to do. He took in a deep breath, resigning himself to it. 

"I'm going to pull all the FBI I can off the task force, have them
start looking for Mae and Scully. I agree with you that Fagan's body
and the blood on the robe is enough to indicate she's in trouble.
I'll have them put the known Path members under active surveillance,
see if Mae turns up at any of their apartments." 

Beside him, Granger looked over, surprised, then out the window. He
was shaking his head slightly. Skinner sympathized. He was seeing his
*own* career heading for the drain, too. 

"So you're not going to tell Padden at all," Mulder said. 

"No," Skinner replied. "I'm going to act on my own on this. I don't
think Padden will risk blowing the entire operation for her safety."
He hated the words, but they were the truth and he knew it. 

Mulder had grown angry with that, but Skinner had then told him to
try and stay calm, to continue looking as best he could. He knew
Mulder had to feel like he was doing *something* toward finding her. 

As soon as they hung up, Skinner had immediately called down to
Richmond and put the search for his missing agent on. 

Now, here in the car outside the embassy, he sighed, frustrated and
worried about Scully, about the risk he was taking with his career
with all this. And he was tense about the stakeout. 

For now, he had to forget about Scully and concentrate on what he
was doing in the here and now. If anyone could find her it was
Mulder, and Skinner knew he had to leave him to that task. 

Another rumbling in the sky, this one deeper, more resonant, and
Skinner leaned forward again, saw the familiar shape of a white FBI
surveillance helicopter chug by overhead. His walkie-talkie burst
into static for an instant, then:

"This is Chopper zero-one-niner calling AD Skinner," a voice called
from the small speaker. Skinner picked up the radio and depressed the
"talk" bar. 

"This is Skinner, go ahead." 

"Sorry we're late, sir," came the reply. "The President's helicopter
was up and about and the air had to be cleared. We're starting our
surveillance of the area now. What are we looking for?" 

Just then, Granger jogged up to the car, climbed into the passenger
seat, closed the door behind him. He nodded to Skinner. 

"The building's cleared," he said, out of breath. "We did it as
quietly as possible." 

Skinner nodded his approval, depressed the "talk" bar again. "The
suspected target is the Embassy of Ireland, the brown and white
building just beneath you," he called into the speaker, eyeing the
copter, which was hovering just overhead. Skinner's car was across
the wide street, parked on the corner. "The building's been
evacuated, so we're looking for any sign of activity, front or back.
Also, be on the lookout for any sort of truck coming towards the
building."

"Affirmative. We'll circle and try not to look conspicuous. We'll
report back if we see anything."

"Skinner out," he replied, and dropped the radio on the seat between
them. The chopper overhead veered to the left and disappeared from
Skinner's sight beyond the tops of the buildings. Now he turned his
attention to Granger. 

"All locked up?" he asked, and Granger nodded, looking across the
street at the entrance to the embassy. The large iron gates were
closed, barring access to the circular drive in front of the
structure. The guards who were usually there at the front of the
building were gone. 

"Everyone's at a safe distance," Granger replied. "We evacuated the
buildings on either side, as well, just in case." 

Skinner studied the tactical layout in a few glances. He could see
the bomb squad truck -- camouflaged as a plain white delivery truck --
waiting on the far corner. A unmarked dark van filled with FBI
Counterterrorism was also parked beside the embassy, just beside one
of the high gates. Peppered around the street in front (and all
around the back, too, he knew) were dark sedans filled with agents,
all FBI. Granger was the only non-FBI personnel on the stakeout. The
rest of Padden's interagency task force, or at least a part of it,
was 10 blocks up Massachusetts Avenue, covering the British's ass. 

He checked the street for anything unusual. Just a few pedestrians,
mostly men and woman in suits, the occasional touristy looking
family. On the next block was a park that took up the entire block --
large trees, people on benches, others milling about. 

Everything looked fine. Normal. 

He checked his watch again. 2:35. If Curran was going to show at
three as Mulder had predicted, he would be doing it soon. 

Christ, you'd better be right about this, Mulder, Skinner thought,
grimacing a bit. The embarrassment he would feel at having scrambled
so much manpower for this, should nothing happen, was already
beginning to rise in him. Not to mention his anticipation of the
chewing out he would get from his superiors...

He sighed, pushed the thought away. He'd committed himself now and
there was nothing to be done about it. 

With that thought in mind, he reached into the backseat of the car,
pulled out two kevlar vests, an FBI jacket. He handed the jacket and
one of the vests to Granger, began unzipping his own jacket so that
he could put the bulky vest on himself. 

"Here," he grunted as Granger took the vest. "Put those on." 

Skinner watched the young man fumble with the vest awkwardly. The
gravity of the situation was just seeming to dawn on him. Skinner
understood why -- for Granger, this had been just one big puzzle to
solve, something to be done behind a desk, a computer screen. Now it
was something different. It was real. 

He hoped Granger could take the pressure, should things really get
out of hand. He didn't need to be worrying about Granger and dealing
with Curran and his cohorts at the same time. 

Granger seemed to get ahold of himself suddenly, began undressing
quickly, pulling the vest on over his workshirt. Then he slipped into
the blue jacket, "FBI" emblazoned in yellow letters across the back. 

"Looks like I joined the wrong agency," Granger said, laughing
nervously. 

"I could have told you that already," Skinner quipped back, trying
to lighten the mood. 

A burst of static and a voice filled the car's cabin again: "Chopper
zero-one-niner to AD Skinner." 

Skinner snatched up the radio. "Skinner here," he said tightly. 

"We've got a rental truck with a dark sedan leading it that we've
been watching coming your way for a few blocks. The sedan just pulled
off and is circling the block, going around your back. The truck is
heading right for you, four blocks north, driving pretty fast. It's a
U-Haul." 

Skinner saw Granger tense up beside him. 

"Agents Nelson, Maloy, do you see it?" Skinner called. All of the
agents had radios like this one, all on the same frequency. 

"Not yet," came the reply after a puff of static. "We don't
see...wait, here it comes. Yes, big U-Haul. I'd say a 26 footer. Two
passengers, both male. The truck's got Virginia plates, though that
could mean nothing, of course. It is in a bit of a hurry." 

"Fall in behind it as inconspicuously as you can," Skinner said
tersely. "Agents Parkins, Fawkes, let me know when it passes you.
Markum and Dooley, see if you can find that sedan. Chopper, what
street is it on? Can you still see it?" 

"Still parallelling on Connecticut...slowing now...it's turning on
the cross street on the other side of the embassy, slowing
again...it's parked now, the right side of the street, within view of
the building." 

"Parkins here...the truck just passed us."

Skinner felt his heart rate beginning to pick up. Beside him,
Granger looked down the street, his hands in fists on his legs. His
foot was tapping absently.

"Fall in behind it, as well, Parkins," Skinner said.
"Counterterrorism Unit One, get ready. We'll let the truck get to the
gate, if that's even where it's going, then I want you all out of the
van." 

"We're ready, Mr. Skinner," came the reply of another, deeper voice. 

They waited now, both he and Granger staring down the street.
Skinner turned and looked ahead of them, aware of the car on the next
cross street up. He wondered if Curran was in the car, just in sight
of the building so that his men could make it to him and they could
all get away before the bomb went off. 

"There it is," Granger said, sitting up straighter. 

Skinner turned, saw the nose of the U-Haul appear at the very
visible edge of the street, coming closer. Behind it by several dozen
feet each, he saw the two cars following. In a few seconds he could
hear the huge diesel engine groaning its way toward him. He held his
breath as it drew closer, waiting to see if it would begin to slow. 

It did. Moved over to the right hand lane, approaching the gate and
the van of agents just beside it. The two FBI cars passed it as it
stopped in front of the gate so as not to arouse the driver's
suspicions. 

The van stopped at the gate. 

"They're home," Skinner said softly into the radio. "Everyone out on
three. One..."

Granger reached beneath his jacket to his shoulder holster, pulled
out his gun, holding it below the window. Skinner did the same as he
spoke.

"Two..." 

He reached for the door handle. Granger did as well. 

"Three." 

The back of the van opened, agents in black riot gear spilling from
the back, assault rifles drawn. Granger and Skinner hit the ground
running, racing from the car, dodging a car whose horn screamed as he
and Granger tore across the street. 

"FBI! OUT OF THE TRUCK!" the lead CT man was screaming, his weapon
raised towards the driver's window of the truck. The driver and
passenger dropped in their seats, disappearing from view. 

"Get your asses back up here!" the same man shouted. "OUT! OUT!" The
ten men behind him froze, their weapons all trained on the cab as
Granger and Skinner approached, their guns also drawn. 

What happened next happened so quickly no one had time to move.

The driver's door swung open and the air was filled with the sounds
of incredibly rapid gun fire, blasting from the barrel of an assault
rifle in a star-shaped strobe of fire. The passenger had also stood
and began spraying the assembled men with gunfire, as well,
shattering the windshield in the interest of getting a clear shot. 

Everyone who didn't fall right away from being hit dropped and
rolled, or retreated back to the van, firing back. Bullets ricocheted
off the door and hood. The two gunmen ducked down again, avoiding the
shots, then rose to fire again, sending the agents scrambling away. 

Granger and Skinner had hit the ground at the first sound of
gunfire. Raising his head to look at the four or five men dropped in
front of the truck, Skinner looked for Granger, who was lying on his
stomach, his gun in his hand beside his face, his other arm over his
head. Skinner couldn't tell if he was hit or not. 

Steeling himself, he scrambled to his feet, went to Granger, hauled
him up by the back of the vest and pulled him back toward the car.
The gunmen must have caught sight of their movement because the
ground around Skinner was suddenly popping with bullets. He ran
serpentine, pushing Granger in front of him, reached the car.
Throwing Granger over the hood unceremoniously, he leapt after him,
bullets tearing into the side of the car as both men landed in a heap
on the other side of the hood. 

"What kind of fucking gun is that?!" Granger shrieked above the
noise, leaning against the tire. The agents at the van and the men in
the truck were still exchanging gunfire. There was the sound of
screaming, cars squealing to a halt. Someone bolted past both of them
on the sidewalk, covering his head. 

"H & Ks!" Skinner shouted back. "G36 assault rifles!" He chanced a
look over the hood, looking at the exchange. "And just what we need
is a firefight when there's probably enough explosives in that truck
to blow a hole to fucking China!"

The bomb squad was coming out of the back of their truck now as
reinforcement -- they weren't supposed to come out until they were
needed to diffuse the bomb, but someone had clearly decided they were
needed now. They began winding a path across the street at a fast
run, getting in behind the truck. 

Skinner got off a few of shots towards the cab in a vain attempt to
cover them, and had to duck down as the car was once again riddled
with bullets in answer. The car's windows shattered, raining bits of
glass down on him like sequins. 

"Shit!" he swore, coming back up. Granger came up with him this
time, his gun out in front of him.

The CT team members were firing again, the bullets hitting the
inside of the cab now as the two gunmen ducked down, protected by the
front of the truck and its huge engine. 

Then, from the left, he heard the sound of tires squealing and
jerked his head in that direction. A black car was coming fast down
the street. Seeing it, the men in the truck leapt from the cab, one
firing one way, one firing the other to keep the teams pinned down. 

Skinner and Granger ducked down to stay out of sight for a moment,
expecting the car to stop to pick the men up. They glanced at each
other, nodded, understanding the plan of action. They would fire when
the car stopped. 

But Skinner didn't hear the sounds of tires squealing, braking,
nothing. Only one of the men screaming at the passing car as it
whizzed by. Skinner stood quickly, saw one man in the car, got a good
look at him. 

It was Curran, his eyes forward. He didn't even glance at the men
who'd left their cover for rescue. 

Then, someone got a clear shot -- a burst of gunfire from behind the
truck and one of the gunmen fell, his rifle clattering on the
pavement. The other man was desperately running after the car, looked
back at his companion, who lay unmoving on the street, his eyes wide
and afraid. 

Skinner stood, taking advantage of this distraction, and dropped him
with a shot to the chest. The man tumbled in a heap on his back in
the middle of the street.

"GO! GO!" someone was yelling, and Skinner recognized it immediately
as the Bomb Squad leader, his team flying towards the back of the
truck, a huge pipe cutter in the first man's hands. He immediately
began working on the lock. 

"Come on," Skinner said to Granger, and they ran around the car,
across the street to the two gunmen, kicking the weapons away from
them. Skinner knelt next to one of them, Granger the other. Skinner
put a hand on the man's throat, checking for a pulse. Nothing. He
turned to Granger, who looked up at him and shook his head, as well. 

They both holstered their weapons and ran for the truck just as the
lock gave beneath the cutters. Skinner didn't need the door to come
up to know what was inside the truck -- he could smell the fertilizer
and fuel from where he was standing. 

As the door rolled halfway up, two of the squad members, both
encased in kevlar and padding, their faces covered with thick plastic
shields, leapt up onto the back of the truck, seeing the detonator
set into the side of the truck immediately. 

Skinner could see the display from where he was standing. 

00:04:29...

00:04:28...

Shit....

"It's no good!" One of the two men in the truck shouted. "Clear the
area! On the double!" 

There wasn't enough time to attempt to diffuse it. The best they
could do was get out of the blast radius. 

He looked at Granger. The man was standing there, breathing hard,
looking around the street, at the buildings, the street, the people
huddled on the sidewalk nearby. 

"Come on!" Skinner called to him as the squad and the CT team
scattered back toward their vehicles. He started running back towards
his own car, praying that the vehicle would still be in running
order. 

He expected Granger to be following him.

He was wrong. 

Reaching the car, he turned and caught sight of Granger climbing
into the cab of the truck. He gaped for a second in disbelief.

"GRANGER!" he shouted finally. "What the HELL are you doing?" 

The other man didn't answer. He got behind the steering wheel and
Skinner heard the engine trying to start. It coughed, cut out.
Coughed again. Then it rumbled to life. 

"Get out of there, Granger!" Skinner screamed. Granger had turned
the heavy steering wheel, gunned the engine a bit, the nose pointing
now away from the gate now. Slowly the truck began to move, heading
down the street. The engine groaned in protest from the damage done
to it by the gunfire. 

"Goddammit!" Skinner hissed, ran for the car. The bomb squad and the
CT team were in their trucks now, pulling away. He climbed in, tried
to start the engine. Like the truck, it wouldn't turn over right
away. 

"Come on! Come ON!" Skinner shouted. He watched the truck lumbering
down the street. 

Where the hell was he going? Skinner thought, panting. Then it came
to him. 

The park. He's headed for the park, he realized. A huge clearing.
Deserted now since the gunfire had started. Away from any buildings. 

Granger reached the open area, aimed the truck at the sidewalk and
bumped up onto it. Then he was plowing through the hedges, around a
low, heavy looking stone wall that marked the perimeter of the park.
Then he was heading off into the clearing. 

Skinner turned the key one more time, and this time the car
reluctantly started. He threw it into gear, did a fast u-turn,
heading after the truck. 

Granger had gotten about 50 feet into the park when the truck
suddenly stopped. The driver's door flew open and Granger scrambled
down, running for the street. Skinner could see him from where he
was, a half a block away. His arms pumping wildly, his legs a blur. 

He wasn't going to make it to him in time, Skinner thought bitterly. 

"Get down! Get down!" he wished, his teeth clenched. He kept driving
towards the park, though he knew he was endangering himself, as well. 

He stared at the truck, the driver's door swinging. 

Time seemed to float for a moment.

Then a flash so bright Skinner felt as if he'd been thrown into a
fire. His eyes seared with it. An amazing sound, so loud it made his
ears scream with pain. It felt for an instant like the air was being
pulled out of the car, out of his lungs. 

His windshield dissolved into bright shards in front of him. He
covered his face with his arms, glass ripping through his jacket as
his feet crushed the brake pedal down, the car skidding to a halt. 

Around him, the sound of glass shattering from hundreds of windows
around the street from buildings, cars. Fire rained down on him, the
axle of the truck slamming down in front of the car, bouncing once
with the sound of twisting metal. He had just enough sense to throw
himself onto the front seat as it careened over the top of the car,
smashing down on the trunk with a crash. 

Then, just as suddenly as the blast had come, suddenly, things were
still around him. Just the sounds of things burning now, sirens. He
lifted his head and peered through the gap that had been the front
window, trying to shake himself back into full awareness. He felt
dazed. 

Granger...

The thought was enough to pull him back to the present. He climbed
out of the car, stiff, pained from being jolted around so badly.
There were pieces of burning debris all over the street, several cars
on fire and jostled around by the curb closest to the park. He looked
into the park itself, saw a crater where the truck had been, trees
down. The side of the building closest to the park was black, but was
still standing. 

Lumbering painfully towards the sidewalk, he scanned the ground
around him. 

"Granger!" he called. Only the sounds of flames and sirens replied. 

Someone was running up behind him. Agent Mosely, who'd been watching
the back of the building. 

"AD Skinner!" he called, putting a hand on Skinner's arm. "Are you
okay?" 

Skinner looked down at his arms, saw blood dripping from slashes in
the arms of his jacket. He had a gash in his head, too, which he was
just now noticing. He pressed his hand against it and looked at the
blood uselessly.

"Yeah, I'm all right," he said breathlessly. "Help me...help me look
for Granger. He was in the park when the truck went up." 

"All right," Mosely said, and ran ahead, swerving around mounds of
debris. Skinner trotted up the sidewalk toward the park. He looked
around, heaving in deep breaths. He felt sick. 

"Sir!" Mosely called from just off to his left. "He's over here!" 

Skinner turned and went towards Mosely, who was kneeling on the
ground behind the dividing wall. About ten feet in front of it was
what was left of a small tree. The trunk was snapped off about 10
feet up as though a giant hand had reached down and plucked the top
of the tree right off.

As he neared, he saw the unmoving form behind the wall. He quickened
his pace. 

Kneeling down across from Mosely, he looked down at Granger. 

He lay on his side, his arms and legs askew. His face was bloodied
and cut, and there was blood dripping from one of his ears. His
jacket was torn up, charred. His glasses lay in a twisted, cracked
pile in front of his face. 

"He's alive," Mosely said quickly. "Barely." 

Skinner breathed out, his hand on the side of Granger's head in
relief. His own head was reeling. 

"He must have gotten behind this wall just in time," Mosely
continued, looking up at it. A few stones were missing from the top
of it, but it was otherwise intact. Skinner looked up at it, nodded.

About 30 police cars were careening down the street, ambulances
following them, no doubt alerted by the firefight before the
explosion. 

"Get a paramedic over here right away," Skinner said softly, and sat
heavily against the wall. He was suddenly very cold. 

"I will, sir," Mosely said, steadying Skinner with a hand on his arm
again. "Just relax. I'll be right back with someone." 

Skinner nodded, moving his hand from Granger's head to his shoulder
protectively. 

The man had just done one of the stupidest and bravest things he'd
ever seen. 

"Too much time with Mulder," Skinner said to Granger's still form.
Then, despite Granger's dire condition and his own, he began to
chuckle softly, punchy and overstressed and going into shock. 

He covered his mouth to stifle the sound, sitting there amidst the
chaos of people running, blackened buildings, and piles of flame. 

**********

PETRO TRAVEL PLAZA 
LEBANON, TENNESSEE 
10:34 p.m.


Mae Curran held Sean's hand as they made their way across the
parking lot, which was well-lit and drenched with rain. They stopped
for a huge tractor trailer to rumble by, on its way to the crowded
diesel pumps on the other side of the huge truck stop. 

In her other hand, a small cup filled with thin cream of chicken
soup, the lid keeping it from spilling as she walked along in the
cold rain, leading the sleepy boy beside her. She had taken him in to
eat something, had her fifth cup of coffee for the day. 

They'd been on the road for over eleven hours and it was showing on
both of them. 

"When are we going to stop?" Sean asked from beside her for the
umpteenth time. His voice was low and tired. 

"In a few more hours we'll stop, Sean. Just a few more." 

She didn't mind answering that question. It was the one about when
they were going to see Owen that she found too difficult to answer. 

They reached the truck, parked beneath a light in the parking lot so
that the interior of the truckbed would be slightly lit for her.
She'd looked in on Scully through the side window of the cap when
they stopped, saw her curled on her side, lying still, her eyes
closed. She hoped she'd been asleep, though she hadn't been all day
as Mae had stopped periodically for gas and bathroom breaks for them
all. 

She hadn't wanted to disturb her if she was sleeping at last. 

She placed the soup on the roof of the truck, fumbled with her keys,
unlocked the passenger door and helped Sean crawl into the seat. On
one of their earlier stops, she'd pulled out a blanket from the back
that Scully wasn't using and put it in the front seat for Sean. She
pulled it over him as he slumped over onto his side, already half
asleep. 

"I'm going to check on Dr. Black again, Sean," she said softly,
rubbing his leg gently. "I'll be right back and we'll get on our
way." 

He didn't respond, and she quietly shut the door. 

Going around to the back of the truck with the soup, she unlocked
the cap's window, pulled it up, then pushed the tailgate down. Moving
carefully, she climbed up into the truck, edging closer to where
Scully lay beneath the covers. Scully hadn't moved since Mae had gone
into the restaurant with Sean. 

"Dana?" she said softly, reaching out to touch her shoulder. As she
did so, she realized that Scully was breathing heavily, her chest
rising and falling visibly, quickly, beneath the covers. 

Scully's eyes opened immediately, though they rolled back a bit as
she looked up at Mae. She hadn't been asleep after all, Mae realized
with a grimace. The drug must have been keeping her from sleeping
still, despite her injuries, her fatigue. 

She was lying on the side of her face that wasn't hurt, and the side
facing Mae was darkly bruised and extremely swollen. Her left eye
barely opened at all. Both of her eyes were going black, the left
slightly darker than the right. 

"Mae?" she breathed. 

"Yes, it's Mae. I've got soup here for you. I want you to try to eat
some of it." 

She pushed Scully's mussed hair behind her ear gently. She noted
that though her friend's face was deathly pale, her cheeks were
flushed bright red and her brow was shining with sweat, despite the
cold in the truckbed. 

Scully shook her head slightly. "Sick...head hurts."

"You haven't eaten all day. You need to eat something." Mae's voice
was firm, but tender. "Come on...help me now." 

She took the lid off the soup, then leaned down, pushed Scully onto
her back slowly. Scully moaned softly in pain at the movement. Mae
got an arm under her, tilted her head up slightly, carefully put the
cup to her lips. 

Scully swallowed a little bit of the lukewarm, pale liquid. A bit
more. Then she turned her face away.

"No," she whispered, her hand coming up from beneath the covers to
push the cup away. Her movements were weak. Sluggish. Mae pursed her
lips in frustration, let her head back down on the pillow and set the
cup down, replacing the lid. 

Beside her, Scully said something under her breath, her brows
furrowed in pain, her hand on the side of her head. 

"What's that now?" Mae asked, leaning over her again. It had sounded
like "mulder," though she couldn't make sense of the word. She fussed
with the covers, noticing that Scully was trembling all over, as
though she were freezing. 

Scully didn't answer her, closed her eyes, turned her face away,
mumbling something that again Mae couldn't make out. It was as though
she were speaking to someone just beside her. 

"What did you say to me just then?" Mae asked again softly. She put
a hand on Scully's hot cheek, turned her face toward her. Scully's
eyes opened, lolled a bit. Once she'd focussed on Mae's face, she
seemed more lucid, though her breathing was still fast, shallow. 

"I want you to call Mulder," she said weakly, but at least she had
regained her voice for the moment. 

"Who's Mulder?" Mae shook her head in confusion.

"He's my...partner," Scully replied, and her brows squinted down
harder. Speaking seemed to make the pain she was feeling worse, but
she pressed on, her voice quiet but urgent. 

"He'll be looking for me. And I need...I need him here..." 

Her voice trailed off to a whisper with the last of it, and Mae saw
the tears she'd been expecting for some time, since she'd found
Scully on the floor in her apartment, shine in her friend's eyes.
They did not fall, however. 

Though Scully's words tugged at her, Mae shook her head reluctantly.

"Dana, I can't have anyone knowing where we are. Owen--"

"Mulder won't...he won't tell anyone," Scully interrupted, her hand
going from her head to rest heavily on Mae's forearm. "He'll come by
himself. I promise. Tell him where I am. Please."

Mae considered for a moment as Scully closed her eyes again, her
head turning slowly on the pillow again, as though she could shake
the pain away. Rain tapped lightly on the roof of the cap. 

Mae's first instinct was to ignore Scully's request, keep driving,
keep putting distance between them and Owen. But then she thought of
her friend, how alone she must feel. How much she was suffering, how
much she had suffered already. 

It seemed like getting her someone she knew to tend to her was the
least she could do for her. Seeing as how she couldn't take her to a
hospital, have her properly cared for.

Plus, they were going to have to separate at some point -- both of
them together made for too conspicuous a target. And Scully was in no
condition to take care of herself, nor was she likely to be for some
time. 

Calling someone made the most sense, she decided. As long as that
someone could be trusted not to bring the Feds or Owen down on them. 

The fact that it was Scully's FBI partner she was asking for didn't
exactly fill her with confidence that that wouldn't happen... 

"Wouldn't you rather have someone else?" Mae tried. "Someone who's
family?" 

Scully didn't open her eyes as she spoke, though a small smile
touched her through the pain she was in. 

"He is..." she whispered, trailing off as she grew still except for
her breathing, exhausted but, Mae knew, not asleep. 

She sighed, grasped Scully's hand and tucked her limp arm back under
the covers. She could see her breath in the small space they occupied
and shivered. 

They were going to have to stop soon anyway, she realized. Scully
was getting worse, not better, as time wore on. She didn't know if it
was her injuries or the drug, or both. 

For starters, the least she do was get Scully out of this cold. 

"All right then," she said at last. 


*********

POE'S TAVERN 
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA 
11:02 p.m.


Mulder stood at the corner of the bar among a knot of other patrons,
all of them staring up at the television behind the bar. They were
all silent, listening to the news report. 

"...for more on this, we go to James Castle, who is in Washington at
the site of today's terrorist bombing." 

The picture shifted to another reporter, this one standing outside a
line of police tape, firetrucks' red sirens strobing through the
darkness around him. 

"Thank you, Gene," the reporter said, pressing the pickup into his
ear a bit more against the noise at the site. "The FBI is not
releasing much information about this attack at this point, but we
have managed to find out a few details for you." 

Mulder listened to the report about the intended target of the
bombing, the Irish Embassy, which he could see just behind the man on
the screen. The reporter recapped the events as he knew them at this
point -- a truck bomb that was parked in front of the closed gate,
the FBI agents who were waiting there already, tipped to the attack.
The massive shootout that ensued between the passengers of the truck
and the agents. 

Mulder took no pleasure in being right about what Curran had been up
to. He could see the battered forms of cars in the background,
charred black. The curtains in the windows of all the buildings in
sight were flapping out the windows in the night breeze, the panes
shattered from the force of the explosion. 

"Jesus Christ," someone said from the group Mulder stood within.
"Can you believe this?"

"No shit," someone agreed. 

Someone shushed them and Mulder returned his attention to the
television. 

The reporter looked down at his pad again. "The other news I can
report to you at this hour is the number of casualties. There are 12
confirmed dead: three civilians, six federal agents and three others,
two of whom are the gunmen who drove the truck carrying the bomb. A
third body was found shot on a cross street, an apparent execution.
There are no details on the two assailants, and no arrests have been
made. The names of the dead have yet to be released, pending
notification of the victims' families." 

He got away, Mulder thought bitterly, his jaw tightening. Curran got
away. There was no way he would have carried out the bombing himself,
so he wouldn't be one of the gunmen. And that third body...probably
one of Curran's companions, as well. Someone else who got in Curran's
way.

Dammit....

"There are also 27 injured, 9 of them critically. Several people
from nearby buildings were caught by breaking glass when the bomb
went off. Also among the injured is the as-yet-unidentified federal
agent who drove the truck into a nearby park, moving it away from any
buildings before it exploded and thus averting further destruction
and loss of life. As it stands, only three buildings sustained major
damage, but none were destroyed by the blast, a fact that law
enforcement officials here at the scene find miraculous, given the
size of the bomb." 

Mulder had already tried both Granger and Skinner's cell phones
after he heard about the attack on the radio while he was driving
around the city. There was no answer on either one of them. And now
to find out there were six agents down...

He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, an all-consuming
feeling of worry biting at him as he looked down at the floor, his
eyes clenching closed with it.

It was official. Everyone he knew that had to do with this case was
missing now. 

Part of him wanted to go to D.C., see what happened to Granger and
Skinner himself. But this is where Scully had last been. This was the
place to begin looking for her. 

And as concerned as he was for Granger and Skinner, Scully had to
come first. 

"Hey buddy?" the bartender called to him. "Order's up." 

Mulder pulled himself out of his frustration and came forward,
taking the bag of food he had ordered. That was why he was in the
tavern in the first place. He'd yet to eat all day. 

"$6.75," the bartender said, and Mulder dug for his wallet, paid the
man quickly. With one final look toward television screen, he turned
and headed for the door. 

He'd try the Grey Mouse again. Maybe Mae would be there. 

Yeah, right...

Just as he was pushing that cynical thought aside, his cell phone
chirped in his pocket. His heart skipped a beat and he bolted for the
door and the quiet of the night outside. 

Once he was standing a few feet from the door, he jammed the talk
button. 

"Mulder," he bit out, holding still. 

There were a few seconds of silence, as though the person on the
other end were not certain what to say.

"Mr. Mulder?" came a female voice. Heavily accented. 

His hands went to fists, squeezing the bag he held tightly. 

"Where is she?" he asked quickly, angrily. 

"I guess you know who this is then," Mae replied. She sounded a
little put out, probably by his curtness, his tone. He turned toward
the parking lot, calming himself. He had to treat this like a hostage
negotiation. He had to keep his cool. 

"I know you have her, Mae," he said more evenly now. 

"Aye, that I do," she replied. Her tone was unreadable. She didn't
sound like she was going to make any threats, he thought, but he
couldn't be sure. 

"Let me talk to her," he said quietly. 

There was another beat of silence. "You can't talk to her," she
said, and now she did sound apologetic. He couldn't tell if it was
sincere or not. "She can't come to the phone. She's hurt." 

Mulder's stomach filled with bricks and plummeted. "How bad?" 

"I don't have time to go into all this with you now. I want to tell
you where we'll be, so you can come. And I need you to come alone. I
need your word on that. She said you'd do that." 

Mulder pulled in a calming breath, though his eyes closed. "All
right," he said. "You have my word. Tell me." 

He could hear a rustling of paper -- a map, no doubt. "I'm heading
for Memphis, to a place outside the city called Millington. There's a
state park there -- Shelby Forest. When we get there and I find a
place for us to stay, I'll call you again to let you know where we
are." 

Tennessee? he thought, stricken. That was hours away. He started for
the car.

"All right. I'm on my way. When do you think you'll be calling me?"
He climbed in, slammed the door, tossing the bag of food on the
passenger seat. 

"We should be there in four or five hours, I think. Give me another
hour to find a place to settle." 

"All right," Mulder replied quietly, starting the engine. 

He hesitated, forced himself to continue. 

"Mae, can you give me your word that you won't hurt her?" He had to
ask. 

There was another pause. "I'm not going to hurt her, Mr. Mulder,"
she said almost sadly. "I've paid a lot for her life as it is. Now
come and get her." 

The line clicked, went dead. 

Mulder hung up, set the phone carefully beside him on the seat. 

He'd begun to sweat, fighting down his emotions -- anger at his
current state of helplessness, and how far away he was from her, how
much of a head start Mae had on him.

He would have to trust her, though it went against everything in him
to do so.

Throwing the car into reverse, he backed out of the parking space,
jammed the car into drive and headed out of the parking lot down Main
towards the interstate. The radio was playing softly in the
background, and he found the input to be too much. 

He reached over, flicked it off, made his way into the long and
starless night. 


***********


GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER 
WASHINGTON D.C. 
JANUARY 16
10:03 a.m.


Paul Granger awoke to the sound of the telephone ringing by his
bedside, opened his eyes onto the sparse furnishings of his hospital
room, the outlines of everything washed in his myopia.  

He licked his dry lips, turned his eyes slowly toward the phone as
it continued its shrill ringing.  He couldn't turn his head in that
direction -- the heavy plastic neckbrace precluded any movement of
his head.  His arm, casted from the shoulder down and held curved out
like a white wing, pointed uselessly toward it, his fingers poking
from the end of the cast.  He flexed his fingers as he looked at
them, groaned as he came fully conscious and his body began to throb
like one huge connected bruise.  

The phone, persistent, continued to ring.  

Reaching out with his uncasted arm, he fumbled for the call button. 
When the nurse answered, he asked her to come in and get him the
phone. She said she'd be right there.  

He waited, wiggled his toes slightly outside the cast on his lower
right leg, held up above the mattress in a traction sling.  

It was like taking inventory, making sure everything was still
connected and still moved.  When he'd thrown himself over the wall
the afternoon before, the sound of the explosion roaring behind him,
he'd wondered if he would fly apart before he landed.

He moved his toes and fingers again slowly, revelling in the simple
pleasure of it.  

Now if he could just get someone to bring his spare glasses, he'd be
as content as he could be given his circumstances.  

The nurse entered, reached for the ringing phone and brought it over
to the rolling table perched over his chest.  On it sat a cup of room
temperature water capped with a bent straw.  She set the phone down,
looked at him sympathetically. 

"People should know to let you rest," she said fussily.  "You should
tell whoever that is that you need to be left alone for a little
while."  

He looked up at her, swallowed painfully.  "I will," he croaked,
cleared his throat.  She checked the drip on his IV and wandered back
out of the room as he reached for the receiver.  

He wondered who it could be.  His mother was already in D.C.,
staying at a nearby hotel to avoid the long commute from Baltimore to
see him.  

Lifting the receiver, he put the phone to his undamaged ear slowly.  

"Granger."  He cleared his throat again.

"Good morning," came the reply.  "It's about time you got the
phone."  

Granger found himself smiling through the dull pain he was in.  "I
should have guessed..." he said, his voice hoarse.  

"Who else would be a big enough asshole to let the phone ring 40
times in a hospital room?"  Mulder replied.  He was chewing on
something.  Probably those damn seeds he ate all the time in the car.
Mulder's voice was low, soft.  Very tired.  "How you feeling?"  

"I'm all right," Granger lied, though it was sound hard to sound
casual around a neckbrace.  

"Bullshit," Mulder replied.  "Skinner already told me you look like
plaster convention.  I hear you did a pretty crazy thing."  

Granger closed his eyes, swallowed.  "Yeah, I don't know what I was
thinking," he whispered.  

"You weren't thinking," Mulder retorted.  "But that's not
necessarily a bad thing.  What you did saved a lot of people's lives.
It was the right thing to do.  I'm just sorry you're paying for it
now."

"Skinner was pissed," Granger said hoarsely.  "Came in last night in
a hospital gown and a pair of slippers and bitched me out.  Gave me a
lecture about acting on my own, taking unnecessary risks..."

"Yeah, I know that one really well.  I could dance to it."  There
was a pause.  "Don't worry.  You'll get used to it."  

Granger could hear a smile in Mulder's voice.  He realized that in a
strange way, he'd just been paid a compliment.  It pleased him in a
way he couldn't name.  

"Where are you?"  he whispered, letting the moment pass.  "Where's
Scully?"

"I'm in Southwest Succotash, Tennessee," came the reply.  "On 40,
somewhere west of Nashville.  On my way to a little town called
Millington.  Mae Curran has Scully and that's where she's stopped
with her."  A pause.  "But you aren't supposed to know any of that. 
Neither you or Skinner."  

Granger groaned, feigning dismay.  "You just *had* to tell me then,
didn't you?"  he asked, regaining his voice for a moment.    

"Rule number two, Granger," Mulder replied after a beat.  "Never lie
to your partner, if you can at all help it."  

Granger felt that same pleased feeling come over him.  He smiled.  

"All right, fair enough," he said.  "I don't know a thing.  Is
Scully all right?"  

There was a pause, only the cell phone hiss answering for a moment.  

"I don't know."  Mulder‘s voice was softer now.  Granger could hear
the worry.  "I don't think Mae is going to hurt her, though she's
hurt already, apparently."  

Granger reached for the cup of water, aimed the straw roughly at his
mouth, took a swallow to ease his throat.  

"I'm sorry to hear that about Scully," he said softly.  "How has Mae
seemed?"   He had to admit that the profiler in him was curious about
Curran's sister.  They knew so little about her, and what they did
know wasn't particularly good.   

"She's hard to get a read on," Mulder said.  "I've talked to her
twice now -- once last night, and once about 5:30 this morning when
she called to tell me where they are.  She's been very matter-of-fact
with me, not giving anything away.  She won't discuss Scully's
condition with me over the phone at all.  She's cut me off when I've
tried to ask."  

Granger winced.  "I'm sorry.  I know that's got to be driving you
nuts."  

"Well, I'll know soon enough, I guess," Mulder replied, brushing
Granger's concern off.  Granger knew it was something Mulder had a
hard time accepting from anyone. 

"She'll be all right," he said, though he had no facts to found the
statement on. "She's one of the toughest people I've ever met. 
She'll be okay."  

Again, the static answered.  "Yeah," Mulder said finally.  He didn't
sound convinced.  Granger knew he wouldn't be until he saw Scully for
himself.    

They sat in a companionable silence for a moment.  Granger coughed,
his throat irritated from the talking.  

"You're going to be all right though?"  Mulder asked finally.  

"Yeah.  A couple of months out probably.  But I'll be okay."  His
lips curled with a small smile again.  "Come visit me in rehab when
you two get back to D.C. or something, all right?"

"We will," Mulder replied.  "I want to hear this whole story--"

There was a commotion in the hallway and AD Skinner came quickly
into the room and stood beside the bed.  He was dressed now, a suit,
trench, looking very official except for the huge bandage on his
forehead.  

His arm came up as he saw what Granger was doing.  He pointed to the
phone with a bandaged hand.  "Hang up," he said tensely but quietly. 
"Hang up right now."  

Granger looked at him, the command not registering for a second.  

"Hang up, Granger, " Mulder said immediately, forcefully.  "I'll
find you.  Or you find me.  Take care."   The line went dead.

Granger replaced the receiver, looked at Skinner questioningly. 
Skinner was a bit out of breath, glancing around as though he were
looking for anything out of place. 

"What--?"  Granger began, but Skinner shook his head sharply,
cutting him off.  

Padden and Duncan Hall came into the room, Padden looking at Skinner
as he did so.  His eyes were flinty as he turned them on Granger.  

"Where is Agent Mulder?"  he asked without prelude.  

Granger looked up at him, blinked, surprised at the anger in the
question.  

Then his gaze hardened.  His face grew expressionless.  There was no
hesitation when he spoke.  

"I have no idea."  

Padden's lips thinned in anger as he looked back and forth from
Granger to Skinner.

"I'm warning both of you.  You're standing in the way of this
investigation by keeping your knowledge of Agent Mulder's whereabouts
from me.  And I'll have your hide for it."  

Granger ignored the threat as his brows squinted down at the rest of
what Padden had said.  "You make it sound like Mulder is the one
you're investigating," he said softly.  

"He is," Padden spat back.  "John Fagan's body was found in Mae
Curran's apartment yesterday afternoon.  Shot through the head with a
caliber matching Mulder's service weapon.  And his fingerprints were
found on both the front door and in the room with the body."  

"What?"  Granger asked, aghast, wishing like hell he could sit up. 
"You're accusing Mulder of murdering Fagan?  He couldn't have."

He saw Skinner giving him a look.  Keep quiet, the look said. 
Granger heeded it.  There was so much that Padden didn't know about
Mulder's activities.  They were all unauthorized and would only serve
to dig the hole that Mulder was in deeper.  He'd let Skinner do the
talking, let him reveal what he thought was right to reveal.

Padden nearly smirked.  "AD Skinner has told me about him waiting
for Agent Scully at the airport yesterday, which he also wasn't
supposed to do, might I add.  But that doesn't put it out of the
realm of the possibility that he could have killed Fagan.  The ME
puts the time of death at somewhere between 11 a.m. and noon
yesterday.  Mulder had plenty of time to get to the apartment to kill
him."  

"That's crazy.  Why would Mulder do that?"  Granger's voice was
cracking again as he spoke.

Padden glared at him again.  "We know about Mulder looking for Agent
Scully yesterday, about AD Skinner's unauthorized use of task force
manpower to search for her.  My theory is that Mulder went to the
apartment looking for Agent Scully when she didn't appear for her
flight and confronted Fagan there."   

"And what if he did?"  Skinner replied angrily.  "Like I told you
earlier this morning -- Mulder had a right to defend himself if that
was the case.  Which it is NOT."

"Then how do you explain those fingerprints?  The bullet match?  And
the fact that Mulder didn't report having found a body to the
police?"  It was Duncan Hall who spoke, his accent thicker with his
anger.  

Skinner looked at him, sighed.  Granger saw the position he was in. 
He was going to have to give something away here.  

"Mulder went to Mae Curran's apartment looking for Scully.  I know
he did that, yes.  But Fagan was already dead when he got there.  I
can promise you that."  

"Killed by who?"  Padden asked.  "Agent Scully?  She didn't have her
weapon with her, or at least she wasn't SUPPOSED to have it with her.
Knowing that she works with Mulder, there's no telling what kind of
orders she might have broken in this mess..."  

"No, Mae Curran killed him," Skinner replied, his ire rising at the
insinuations about Scully now.  Granger could see it on his face. 

"You keep saying that, Mr. Skinner," Hall replied quickly.  "And I'm
bloody well telling you that is not possible.  I *know* these people
a hell of a lot better than you do and Mae Curran would not take an
action like that."

"You're wrong," Skinner said softly, angrily.  "You didn't believe
that Curran would bomb the Irish Embassy either and look what
happened yesterday afternoon."  

Padden stared a hole into Skinner and Granger's lip curled up with
satisfaction.  Padden looked like an ass for not listening to Mulder,
and Padden knew it.  

"Let me tell you what I see," Padden said quietly, not responding to
Skinner's comment.  There was something dangerous in his voice.  "I
see two agents.  One of them having abandoned an undercover operation
without proper clearance and disappeared into thin air, despite her
continued tactical importance for the case..."  

"‘Tactical importance'?"  Skinner asked.  "You mean like chum has
‘tactical importance' when you're shark fishing?"  

Padden stopped him with a raised hand, continued softly.

"And I have another agent who has made questionable and meddling
decisions throughout the course of his work with this investigative
team to the point that he was thrown OFF the case.  Who then
continued to make questionable decisions, participating in the case
with both of your assistance and on his own.  Who then offers
information, *unlikely* information, about a bombing, which, it could
be argued, shows evidence of some knowledge of the operation.   And
who is now placed, through fingerprints and ballistic evidence, at
the scene of the murder of one of the major conspirators of the
case."  

He looked at Skinner and Granger.  "Now don't you find any of that a
bit strange, gentlemen?"  

Granger and Skinner looked at him.  Granger closed his eyes, anger
overwhelming him.

"You're trying to frame him for YOUR fuck-up," Skinner said sharply.
"You're trying to frame Mulder and get Scully back to use her to try
and catch Curran--"

"That's enough, Skinner!"  Padden shouted. 

"--who probably *wouldn't* have gotten away had we had the proper
resources available to us, instead of you having them sitting 10
blocks up the street with their thumbs up their asses."  

"Enough!"  Padden said again.  He pointed in both of their general
direction.  "Where are Agents Mulder and Scully?  And I'm warning you
this time:  I want an answer."  

Granger looked at him evenly, his face expressionless again. 
Skinner did the same thing.  

"I have no knowledge of either agents' whereabouts."  Skinner said
softly.  

Granger looked at him.  "Nor do I," he whispered, his voice gone.

Padden's jaw tightened.  He looked from one to the other for a tense
few seconds.  

Focussing on Skinner he said:  "You, I don't believe for a second,
and the minute I can prove it I'm going to have your job."  

Skinner looked unimpressed, his chin coming up.

Then Padden turned to Granger on the bed.  "*You* on the other hand
might just be naive enough that Mulder wouldn't tell you where he was
going.  You might be telling the truth.  And since you have inside
information about Agent Mulder, having spent so much time with him in
the past few weeks, as soon as you're able, you will begin profiling
him in order to give us insight into his behavior surrounding this
incident."  

Granger swallowed, sinking.  

Shit...

"I know he and Scully are together," Padden continued.  "They always
are.  And you, Agent Granger, are going to be in charge of finding
them."    

With that, Padden turned and left the room.  Hall looked at both of
them for a few seconds, then followed Padden down the hall.  

Skinner exhaled a breath, his hand going to the bandage on his
forehead.  Granger sympathized.  His own head was pounding, too.  If
not from the injuries, then from what had just transpired.  

Skinner turned to him.  "Don't get your phone," he said.  "I'll make
sure it doesn't ring as soon as I can." 

Granger tried to nod, failed.  "Thank you, sir," he whispered.  

"And try to get some rest," Skinner said, carefully slipping his
injured hands into his pockets.  "You're apparently going to need
it."  

Granger looked at him sadly.  "Goodbye, sir."  

"Take care of yourself, Granger," Skinner replied, matching his
tone.  And then Skinner was gone.

Granger lay there staring at the ceiling for a long time, thinking
of Mulder, somewhere on the road on his way to Scully.  

Find her quick, Mulder, he thought, his eyes closing.  

Find her and then run.  


***********

SHELBY FOREST STATE PARK 
MILLINGTON, TENNESSEE 
2:18 p.m.


Mulder followed the narrow service road that ran along the bank of
Poplar Tree Lake, winding his way through the hilly area stitched
with the trees that gave the lake its name.  The rain was falling
heavily, a cold rain that sent the flat expanse of the water into a
million tiny ripples.  He scanned the road ahead, his eyes dry and
tired from 15 straight hours of driving, trying to see the cabins up
on the hillsides that the rangers had promised would be there if he
pressed further into the park.  

Cabins 6 and 7, to be exact.  The only two occupied in this bleak
time of year.  

Finally, through the streams of water running down the passenger
window, he saw the first of the row of cabins come into view on the
slight rise, a small, rustic structure with a stone chimney, natural
wood siding and dark green trim around the curtained windows.  There
was nobody home at this one, the small gravel drive in front of it
empty.  

He moved on, rubbing his eyes and the stubble on his cheeks to push
himself more alert.  He couldn't shake the feelings of anticipation
and dread that had overcome him since he'd pulled into the park.  It
pushed him to gun the engine a bit more as he passed the cabin, then
another.  His heart was thumping against his chest, his fingers tight
on the steering wheel as he maneuvered along the roughly paved road.  

His mind was filled with images of Scully, hurt, frightened at how
bad it could be.  He pictured Mae, wondered what he would find there,
as well.  

Both were like cards, face down, about to be turned over.  

He passed through another arch of bare branches, moved off into a
clearing.  Two more of the small structures, then one more.  Then he
could see it off in the distance  - a pickup parked in the driveway
of one of two cabins, which were set only a few dozen feet apart. 
Lights burned dimly in both cabins' windows, though the curtains were
all pulled closed.  Smoke rose from one of the chimneys in a lazy,
scattered trail, mingling with the rain and the dark branches curved
over the house like arms.  

His expression grim, he aimed the car up the driveway, flicking off
the lights as he edged in next to the pickup.  He could see a figure
peer from behind the curtains of the front window, a woman's face --
Mae's face -- visible in the space between the curtains.  He met her
gaze for a few seconds until she disappeared, and he climbed from the
car, his body weary and stiff but his mind racing.  

Rain pattered on his leather jacket softly as he made his way up the
three steps to the door.  There was no need to knock.  The door
opened as he reached it, but only enough to make room for Mae's body
in the gap.  Not enough so that he could enter.  

"Mr. Mulder?"  she asked softly, and Mulder nodded.  She was
standing there, huddled in a thick green sweater, jeans, her arms
across her chest.

"Yes."  

His voice did not give away the tumult of feelings rising in him,
his hands balled to fists.  He wanted to push the door open, push his
way into the cabin, but he held back.  Things had the air of too much
unpredictability.  He remained cautious as they stared at each
other.  

Mae seemed uncertain as she looked at him, glancing at him and then
down the road.  

"I came alone," he reassured.  "Now please.  Let me see her."  

Mae looked at him for a few more seconds, then seemed to relax a
little, her shoulders slumping.  She nodded and turned away from the
door, leaving it open for him.  

He entered the cabin, into a large dim room, rustically, simply
furnished.  A fire was burning in the fireplace on his left, the
flames low and untended.  The room was cold, the cabin clearly not
insulated properly for occupancy this time of year.  There was a
television on in the far corner, though the sound was down low, just
a faint mumbling, the reception fuzzy.   

Mulder looked from there to the right, to the corner of the room
where a bed jutted out from the far wall.  There was a lamp on the
night stand.  It threw a pale light on the still form on the bed.  

He crossed the room quickly to the bedside.  

Scully lay on her back, her face turned away from him.  She was
covered up to her shoulders and looked very small beneath the
blankets.  Her chest rose and fell unevenly, the sound of her shallow
breathing filling the space between them.  Her eyes were closed, but
her brows were squinted down in obvious pain.  

He reached out to her as he sat on the edge of the bed, curving a
hand around the side of her neck gently, his own brows knitting.  
Her skin was warm -- too warm -- to the touch, the hair that outlined
her face wet, her forehead shining with sweat.  

"Scully?"  he murmured into the quiet, rubbing his thumb softly
across her cheek.  He encountered wetness there, slowly turned her
toward him and the light to get a better look at her face.  

He bit his lip as he looked at her, a small sound coming
unintentionally from his throat.  He took in the dark smudges beneath
both her eyes, the left eye nothing more than a slit, the swelling
and bruising on her cheek and temple.  The wetness he'd encountered
was blood, a thin line of it going down the side of her face from her
nose.    

"My God," he breathed, alarmed, tears stinging his eyes.   

He was vaguely aware of Mae coming up behind him.  

Reaching up, he touched the knot on Scully's temple gently, his
fingers shaking as he smoothed them over her hair.  

"Fagan," he said flatly, not taking his eyes off her.  

"Yes," Mae replied, her voice showing a little surprise that he knew
the name.  

He nodded, rage swelling in him with the grief.  He'd never been so
glad someone was dead in his life.  

He ran a hand over her forehead now, cupping it in his large palm,
smoothing back her damp hair.  His other hand came out to her throat,
pressing softly into the bruised skin there.  He winced as he did so.

"Her pulse is racing,"  he said after a few seconds.  "And she's
burning up."  

He scooted closer to her, pulling the covers down a little to try
and get some air on her.  The cross she wore there was tangled in its
chain against her flushed skin, the light catching it.  He began
undoing the top button of her sweat-dampened top, exposing a bit more
of her chest.    

"Don't," Mae said from behind him, taking a step toward him.  "She's
been shivering, and besides -- that fever needs to break."  

"I don't need you telling me how to take care of her," he spat,
instantly angry, and continued to push the vee of Scully's top open.

Mae made an indignant sound behind him.  "What the hell do you think
I've been doing for the past day but take care of her?"  she said
sharply.  "I think I know a bit more about how she is than you do,
Mr. Mulder."  

"Why didn't you take her to a hospital?"  he demanded.  When he'd
gotten enough air on Scully to satisfy himself, he returned his hand
to her forehead.

"She wouldn't let me," Mae replied, her voice edgy at his tone. 

"Her nose is bleeding," Mulder shot back.  Now he did turn to look
at her, his eyes dark and hard.  "She could have brain damage.  You
should have taken her to a doctor, for Christ's sake."   

Mae looked at him, the fight coming out of her expression.  Then her
eyes turned downward, as though she were ashamed of something. 
"That's not why her nose is bleeding," she said softly.  

"What are you talking about?"  Mulder said, and turned to look at
Scully again.  

"She's been exposed to Owen's drug," Mae said quickly, as though
saying it fast would spare him.  

His world slid to a halt.  He stopped breathing for a second, leaned
back, held still.  Then he looked at Mae in disbelief.  She nodded
simply, her eyes filling with tears.  

His teeth grit down.  "That can't be."  

"It's true.  I'm sorry."  

He rose from the bed quickly, cursing under his breath.  He brushed
by Mae, going to the fireplace, his hands jammed in the pockets of
his jeans as he stared at the orange embers for a few seconds,
reeling.  

"Fuck," he said again, his eyes closing.  His entire body was tensed
and he drew in a deep shaky breath, fighting for the panic down, for
control.  

He wanted to get her to a hospital right away.  But he knew that
would be pointless, since there was no treatment for the drug anyway.
And he knew that taking her out would be risking exposing her to
Curran, who would no doubt be looking for her and Mae.  

His drifted, too, back to the strange phone call with Granger,
Skinner's urgent voice on the other end of the line.  Something was
gnawing at him about that, too, bringing up his guard...  

He turned now and faced Mae, his face carved with worry.  Mae looked
away, wiping her face.  

Scully shifted slowly on the bed, moaned.  Mulder returned to the
bed quickly, sitting on the edge of the bed again.  He leaned in
close as her right eye opened.  

"Scully?"  he murmured, moving his face into her line of vision. 
His palm moved over her forehead again, stroking her hair back. 

He could see her struggling to focus as she blinked, her breath
puffing out.  Then she looked away from him, toward the ceiling.

"Hey," he said, trying to get her attention.  He desperately wanted
her to look at him.   He leaned down, put his face against hers
gently, whispered into her ear.  

"Scully, I'm here."  

He pressed a kiss to her damp forehead.  

When he pulled his face back, she was looking at him, and he could
see a flash of recognition.    

"Mulder..." she breathed, barely audible.  

"Yes," he whispered back, a bittersweet smile curving his mouth,
though his eyes shone.

She swallowed, tried to speak.  It was no more than a whisper of air. 

His tears fell now.  He was helpless against them.  

"You're going to be all right, Scully," he said, though his voice
broke.  "We're going to get through this." 

She blinked, said nothing.

He leaned down again, brushed her lips with his, not caring if Mae
was there or not.  He moved to Scully's brow, her forehead, tracing
them with his lips.

Mae withdrew, went out the front door, closing it quietly behind
her.  

Mulder pulled back to meet her gaze again.  Her breathing had
slowed, but was still shallow.  

"Scully," he said firmly as her eye turned toward the ceiling again.
He wiped at the blood on her cheek with his thumb.  

Her eye lolled.  He could see her struggling against it.  Then her
eyelid flickered for a few seconds, finally closed...


**

...The wind was a long low note, like the sound coming from a wide
wooden flute somewhere in the distance.  It blew across the short
expanse of the islands, across the white sand of its narrow beach,
scattering downed leaves into small spirals as it went.  

Scully stood in the center of the small body of land, a few feet
from where the clear water of the lake that surrounded it lapped the
sand into ripples.  Her bare feet made indentations in the ground,
the hem of her dress -- a forest green -- drawing a small design
across the grains as the wind moved it gently against her legs.  

Her eyes rose from her feet to take in the rest of the dress -- long-
sleeved, tight at her wrists, the front curved down at the neck, the
front stitched with intricate embroidery.  She had never seen it
before, and puzzled over it for a moment, her hands running over the
stitchery like braille.  

Then she lifted her head to take in her surroundings.  The sky was
gun-metal grey, the color of smoke.  Hills rose off in the distance
all around the lake, guarded by thick woods that gave way to reeds at
the banks. 

The wind continued its mournful note as she stared around, confused
but somehow comforted by what she saw.  She was safe here on this
pale island, guarded by the deep, clear lake.    

She breathed deeply, calmly.  She felt strong, whole.  There was
only a distant feeling of discomfort now.  Like she was somehow
connected to someone who was in pain, a gossamer, invisible thread
pulling them together.  The phantom pains shared by twins.  

She had the sudden feeling of being watched and turned.  Behind her,
a bare tree, bleached white with exposure and age, wearing a necklace
of crows.  The black birds stared at her with their oily, bead-like
eyes.  A few stretched their wide wings, took nervous steps across
the pale branches before settling down again to watch her again.  

Their looks, their silence, unnerved her.  It gave her a feeling of
something impending, something unwelcome.   As though the birds were
biding their time.  Waiting for her.

The wind shifted, a sudden gust.  And there was a smell now.  The
acrid smell of things burning.  She turned again, her nerves stoked,
looking for the source of the odor.  

She pulled in a breath in surprise.  Along the hillsides surrounding
the lake, a fire burning down toward the banks, the hiss and crackle
of wood, the tops of the bare trees blossoming with fire like
torches.  The air filled with hazy smoke, the color of the sky.  It
was as though the sky itself had drifted down around her.  She
squinted against it, her hand going to cover her mouth, nose.  She
coughed as the smoke stung her throat and lungs, searing heat riding
the wind around her.

A burst of pain, her head pounding.  Then an image pushed into her
mind -- herself on a bed, her face badly beaten, her head moving from
side to side, her hands weakly pushing down at the blankets across
her waist.  Someone -- a man in a black shirt, jeans -- was moving at
the side of the bed hurriedly, spreading a damp towel across her
chest, up to her bruised throat.  She could not see his face, only
the top of his dark head, his back as he leaned over her.  

A woman appeared, as well, from the other side of the bed.  She
pulled the blankets off her waist, folding them down, exposing her
legs, clad in grey sweatpants, to the air.  

She was relieved as she watched herself.  Around her, the heat was
unbearable. 

The man disappeared from the view for a moment, returned, placing a
wet cloth across her forehead.  He had a cup of water, as well, and
he lifted her head, tilting it, trying to get her to drink.  She
turned her face away.  

He spoke, and she could hear the sound, but could not make out the
words.  

Mulder?  

Had he been there before?  She had a vague recollection of him
sitting beside her, his face etched with worry.  

The skirt of her dress whipped out behind her, flowing in the hot
wind.  The fire roared down toward the lake.  

Then, a commotion at the bank.  She followed the sound to its
source, a rustling in the high grasses, coming towards a small
clearing at the edge of the water.  Then she saw it appear from the
wall of wheat and green.

A doe.  Huge dark eyes, black velvet nose, creamy tan sides.  Her
tail flicked in alarm.  

Scully ached for her, watching the fire coming closer.  She took a
step closer toward the edge of the water, stopped as she realized her
own helplessness.  

The doe would have to fend for herself.     

The grass began to catch, hissing.  The doe darted back and forth
along the bank as Scully watched, taking another step forward. 
Finally, as the flame trapped her, the doe leapt into the water,
instantly up to her neck so that only the top of her head, her nose,
a strip of her back, was visible.  She swam in an uncertain circle as
the flame reached the bank.  

Scully blew out a breath, relieved, her hand on her stomach to quell
the lurch of fear that had lodged there as she'd watched the animal's
desperate attempt at escape.  

Then she held the breath again, straightening, her eyes opening wide
in horror.  

The water had begun to burn, catching as though it were covered with
a thin sheen of gas or oil.  She spun, looked around the lake.  The
fire was approaching from all sides now, a tall wall of flame
advancing on the island.  

Behind her, the murder of crows was suddenly calling wildly, the air
around her filled with the uneasy fluttering of their blue-black
wings.  She looked back at them, at their open mouths, the shrill
alarm calls sounding to her like mad laughter.

She was breathing hard now, the heat making it hard to draw air into
her lungs.  She looked around frantically for the doe in the water,
saw her nose in the air, pointed toward the island now, swimming
desperately, the flame just behind...  

Then the wall of flame overtook her, the huge frightened eyes
disappearing in the fire.  

"No..."  Scully whispered.  She covered her mouth again against a
sudden gust of smoke, her eyes burning. 

Around her, the flames continued their advance, moving in on her. 
She backed up against the tree...

**

4:54 p.m.

Mulder finished unbuttoning Scully's top, slid it gently down her
shoulders, her forehead leaning against his shoulder.  She seemed to
turn her face instinctively towards his throat, her lips and fast
warm breath a comfort against his skin.  He could feel the blood from
her nose warm on his neck, but ignored it.  

He scanned the flushed skin of her back, saw the welling of bruises
there low near her hip, higher around the curve of her ribcage. He
took in her arms, saw the bruised rings around her wrists where she's
struggled against a pair of handcuffs.

Reluctantly, he stood back, put his arms around the back of her neck
and around her shoulders and gently lowered her onto the bed, began
working on sliding her sweatpants and underwear down her legs.  

More bruising greeted him.  The bumps of a couple of falls, her
kneecaps empurpled, no doubt from hitting the floor on her knees.  He
was relieved to see nothing more serious than that.  

Behind him, he could hear the sound of water running in the bathroom
cease suddenly, and tossed the clothes haphazardly on the floor
beside the soaked shirt he'd just dropped there.  Then he reached
down and got his arms underneath her, lifted her up, one arm around
her shoulders and back and one beneath her knees.  She was limp as a
ragdoll,  her head falling back over his arm, her damp hair trailing
down.  She trembled, but he couldn't tell if that was from the sudden
chill of the cabin air on her damp skin or the drug or both.  

She was like holding a furnace, the heat coming off her.  The fever
was well out of control now, and getting higher.  

Mae stood in the doorway to the bathroom, looking at him
expectantly, her face creased with worry, her eyes ushering him
forward.  He complied silently, carrying Scully across the room to
the bathroom as Mae backed up to allow him entrance.  

Bending low at the waist, he slid Scully into the cold water that
filled the tub, soaking his shirt nearly to the shoulders in an
attempt to jostle her as little as possible. Mae knelt at the head of
the tub and settled Scully's head onto a folded towel there, Scully's
chin falling against her shoulder, a fresh trickle of blood coming
from her nose with the movement.  

Mae reached for a wash cloth on the pile on top of the toilet,
dipped the cloth in the water and began to dab at her face.  For his
part, Mulder unbent her knees, slid her down further into the water
in an attempt to get as much of her beneath the cool surface as he
could.  

"I wish we had some ice," he fretted softly.  "Her fever's got to be
over 104."  

"This will work just fine," Mae reassured.  "I've done it for Sean
before and it should get it back under control."  

Mulder nodded, unconvinced.  He watched Scully's face for any sign
of reaction.  She gave none.  Only a small sound in her throat, her
brow furrowed, giving her that same  pained look he'd grown so
accustomed to since his arrival at the cabin.  

He reached in, trickled water down the front of her chest that was
not beneath the water.  Once.  Twice.  

He had to fight the urge to smooth his hand over the flushed skin. 
He wanted so much to touch her, as though he meant to take away her
pain, her fever, with his hands.  

"How long can we expect this fever to continue?" he asked.  It was
one of the first questions he'd asked since Mae returned to the
cabin.  The two of them had kept their speaking to a minimum, an
uneasy truce between them as they concentrated on managing Scully's
symptoms as best they could.  

"I don't know," Mae replied quietly, rinsing the rag in the water
and then returning it to Scully's nose.  "When she told me what
symptoms to expect last night, this wasn't one of the ones she
mentioned."  

"Well, she probably didn't know," Mulder replied, continuing to
trickle water down her body where it was not submerged in the water,
smoothing his wet hand across her forehead.  "Danny Conner only made
it about 15 hours before Scully had to give him another dose to keep
him from dying.  It's been more than 24 hours since her last dose. 
We're in unmapped territory here."  

"That could be a good sign, though," Mae offered hopefully.  "That
she hasn't died and it's been that long."  

Mulder shook his head.  "I don't know," he murmured.  "This could
just be the stage that she never reached with Conner.  There's no way
to tell."  

Mae blew out a tired breath, nodded.  Mulder looked at her, realized
how much they were both running on fumes at this point.   

Though he didn't trust her, he did appreciate, for the moment, the
care she took over Scully, and that someone else was here.  

He let his eyes slip closed for a few seconds, letting the fatigue
take him for a moment. 

Then there was a rustling sound behind him, the sound of footsteps.  

He didn't think.  His hand flew from the water to the holster at his
hip, his gun immediately in his wet hand.  He spun in one smooth
movement on one knee, his gun aimed at the doorway.

And found himself confronted by a small boy, his small eyes wide
with terror, the gun pointed at the center of his forehead.  

"Mr. Mulder!"  Mae called, stricken, her hand clamping down on
Mulder's shoulder like a vice.  "Don't!"  

Sean and Mulder looked at each other for a few tense seconds, both
of them panting softly.  Then Mulder lowered the gun, the tip of it
shaking as he laid it on the tiled floor of the bathroom, his fingers
still white around the grip.  His other hand went to his mouth,
covering it.  

In his current strung-out shape, he'd been awfully close to pulling
the trigger first and asking questions later.  

Mae stood and went to Sean, standing behind him and putting her arms
around his chest.  She leaned down so she could speak softly into his
ear.  

"I told you not to come in here, Sean," she said firmly, but kissed
his temple, as well, to offset her tone.  Mulder could see the boy
was trembling.  His eyes were on Mulder, then they went to Scully in
the bathtub.  

"What's happened to Dr. Black?" he asked, and tears were starting in
his eyes.  

"Shh, shhh," Mae said, turning him away from the bathroom.  Mulder
could hear her talking as she led him away, back into the room and
toward the door.  "She's been in an accident and is very sick right
now.  Mr. Mulder and I are trying to take care of her. You just
startled him, that's all.  Now let's go back to our cabin so you can
watch some television, all right?"  

The door to the cabin opened and closed and then they were gone.

Scully's head rolled slowly to the side.  She moaned something
softly.  It sounded like she said "fire," but he couldn't be certain.
He leaned over her, reholstered his gun, his mind racing.  

Mae had taken Sean away from his father.  

He closed his eyes.

"God*dammit*...." he whispered.  

He shook his head, watching Scully now as she shifted her body, her
legs making the water lap softly against the sides of the tub, her
head tossing fitfully, weakly, on the towel behind it.

He steadied her with a hand, thinking.  Curran would be coming after
them with everything he could muster to get Sean back.  He was all
that Curran had left of Elisa.  And though taking the boy was the
right thing to do, Mae had sealed her fate with her brother by doing
so.  

He heard the door open and close again, and Mae returned to the
bathroom, knelt down next to the head of the tub again.  She picked
up her wash cloth, folding it primly as though trying to compose
herself.  Then she dipped it in the water, lay it on Scully's
forehead gently, held it there, stilling Scully's movements.  

Mulder was looking at Mae now, who was having a hard time returning
his gaze.  

"I know what you're thinking," Mae said finally, and now she did
look at Mulder.  "I know he's going to try and kill me for the things
that I've done."

"Yes, he is," Mulder replied simply.  "And I'm sorry for that. 
Because what you've done -- in this instance at least -- has been the
right thing to do." 

"‘In this instance'?" she repeated sharply.  "I've always done what
I believed in, Mr. Mulder.  If you're going to judge this situation
with an understanding of that fact, you should think about doing the
same for the rest of what you know about me."   

Mulder said nothing to that, returned his attention to Scully.  

They sat silent in their vigil as darkness began to fall.  

**

The flames had reached the edge of the island, a perfect circular
wall of fire that clawed its way up the slight rise of the beach. 
Scully watched it from the base of the tree, her hands pressed
against the trunk, her nails scraping the white surface of the wood
as fear gripped her.  The heat was nearly unbearable, the flicker of
the flame playing across her face.  She lifted a hand up to block the
searing light.  

Above her, the crows began to take off, flapping down around her in
their panic to escape.  She covered her head with her arms, fending
off the blows of the stiff wings, the brushes of the sharp beaks
against her face.  She could still hear them calling to one another
far above her as she focused again on the flames, closer now, her
hand still up to shield most of her face.

The crows circled, alighted on the moving edges of the tops of the
flames, perched there, riding the wall forward towards her, their
eyes still on her.    

She looked from them into the fire.  There were things moving within
the flames.  Figures moving in out, all on fire.  Faces pushing out
of the wall, bright oranges and yellow, mouths open, speaking to her.
The air was filled with the sound of things burning, the voices of
people familiar to her.  Her mother.  Curran.  Mae.  Sean's greeting
every night when she'd come in the door from the clinic, his voice
light as a bell chiming over the roar of the flame.  

Then, as the fire neared, she could see Fagan standing there, made
of flame.  His eyes glowed as he stared at  her.  She froze under the
weight of his gaze.  Then he appeared to swirl for an instant,
rejoining the wall as the fire came closer, only a few feet from her
legs, the hem of her dress.  

She turned, breathing hard, and reached up to the lowest branches of
the tree, clawing with her hands at the slick bark, trying to get a
foothold with her bare feet.  She scrambled a foot or two up, but
there was no place to go -- the branches were too high for her to
pull herself up and away.  As she slid down to the ground again, the
fire touched the silken hem of her dress, caught instantly, the flame
pulling itself up her skirt until it was on fire to her knees.  

"No!" she screamed, slapping at the fabric with her hands, which
only served to scorch her palms.  The flames were too fast.  She
could feel the skin on her legs beginning to blister, then burn.  

She threw back her head and began to scream.

**

5:46 p.m.

Mulder was standing by the fireplace, putting another thin log on
the dying fire when  he heard Scully begin to moan on the bed, the
sound louder than she'd made since he'd arrived at the cabin.  

Tossing the log in haphazardly, he closed the screen and went to
her, sitting on the edge of the bed carefully.  She was on her side
facing him, clean and dressed in rumpled white pajamas he'd fished
out of her suitcase from the back of the truck.

He put a hand on her forehead, found the fever higher than when
she'd first gotten out of the tub, but not as high as it had been
earlier in the evening.  With the touch, she moaned again, turned her
head towards the ceiling.  She was panting, her face red.  He could
see the veins in her neck, along her temple, were distended, and he
realized with dismay that her blood pressure must be soaring. 

"Scully," he said softly, stroking back her hair.  She seemed to
grow more agitated.  "Scully, it's all right."   

Instead of being soothed by his words, she jerked sharply, her hands
squeezing to fists, trembling as they went to her face, her forehead,
tightly.  He winced, fear gripping him.

The pain in her skull must have grown, suddenly, unbearable.  He lay
his shaking hand flat on the side of her head and held it there.  

"Fire..." she said quite clearly this time, and he was surprised to
hear she'd regained her voice.  "The fire..."  

Behind him, the door to the cabin opened and Mae entered, carrying
bags of food from the diner just outside the park's entrance.  She
kicked the door closed, her hands full, went to the small coffee
table in the corner of the room near the television where she set the
bags down.  

"Mulder..."  Scully called, her voice terrified, growing louder.  

"I'm right here, Scully.  What is it?  What do you see?"

"I'm...I'm on fire!"  It came out shrill, suddenly very loud,
causing both he and Mae to jump.  The room had been quiet for so many
hours.  

Mae came forward, went to the other side of the bed as Mulder leaned
over Scully, stricken, put an arm behind her knees, the other around
her shoulders, pulling her against him firmly until her face rested
against his shoulder and throat.  

"All right," he soothed.  "Scully, it's all right."   

Mae sat down on the other side, her hand on Scully's back.  "It's
the drug working its way out of her system.  She told me she would
hallucinate as that happened.  It's good because it means it's
leaving her."

"It could still kill her," Mulder bit out and Scully cried out
against his throat.  He put his hand on the back of her head, holding
her against him, steadying her.  

Mae looked down.  "I know....she told me what could happen."

Mulder ignored her as he pulled Scully closer.  

"Hang on," he said into her ear, his voice breaking. "Try to hang
on...it'll pass, I promise."   He hoped like hell he was telling the
truth.

Then she turned her face into his shoulder and began to scream.


***********

The flame was sliding across her belly now, up her chest.  She
leaned against the tree, fumbling at the back of her dress, hoping to
find a zipper there so she could peel out of it, hopefully leave the
flame on the ground with it.  But the dress had no opening in the
back, no opening anywhere.  It was as though it were part of her
skin, permanently affixed to her.  There would be no escaping it that
way.  

Desperate, she pushed at the fire with her arms.  Immediately, her
hands caught, blistering then growing black as the flames climbed
further up -- her breasts now, her shoulders.  Finally, she felt it
on her face, the advancing wall all around her now.  She could smell
her hair burning.  

She screamed, thrashing as the wall overtook her, began licking up
the tree behind her.  

Die...why don't I die...I want to die...

The faces in the flame continued to taunt her as the fire consumed
her dress, sealing the fabric to her skin first, then burning both,
blackening her.  Fagan hovered over her as she fell in a heap on her
side, her flesh boiling away.  Her legs pulled up against her chest,
her arms going in as the tendons crackled, her body taking on that
perfect fetal position that all burned bodies assume.  She could feel
her face stretching into a howl, her hair gone, her body beyond the
pain now as she somehow remained alive.  

Her eyes were open, unblinking, the fire bright as the sun as it
pulsed around her.  The air was filled with the sounds of roaring,
howling, screaming.  

Then, a shadow in the distance, somewhere within the fire.  A
figure, but not made of flame as the others around her were.  She
watched it approach, her body burned beyond even her own recognition.
She looked down and saw the blackness of the long bone of her femur,
all the flesh gone now.  

The figure drew nearer in the fire, walking steadily up the bank
from the lake.  She could hear the crows taking off, calling out in
alarm, circling the tree above her in wide dark circles.  

Then she could see him:  it was Mulder -- grey t-shirt, jeans, his
feet bare.  He walked through the fire as though it weren't even
there, the flames not touching his tanned skin.  It burned around him
like a corona.  Around him the ghost-like figures in the fire
retreated, clearing the path between them.  

She could not move.  She was beyond that now.  

He knelt in front of her, his face tender as he looked at her.  He
reached for her and she closed her eyes, made a noise.  She felt his
hands close around the charred bones of her upper arms, pull her into
a sitting position, leaning her against the tree.  Then he pulled the
burnt shell of her body up, holding her before him.  

His hands were cool to the touch.  She felt herself relaxing as he
held her, staring into her eyes.  

"It's leaving you," he murmured over the sound of the fire.  "Let it
leave you."  

As he spoke, her legs began to unbend, growing softer, straightening
slowly to the ground until her feet rested just in front of his.  Her
arms uncurled, as well.  She felt suddenly cold, looked down at
herself.  Her bones whitened, flesh appearing around them, growing,
stretching.  Her belly rounded from the burnt-out hollow it had
become, her breasts reappearing, the nipples formed and pink.  

He released her arms and she found she could stand on her own,
though she swayed slightly.  He reached out and touched the side of
her head, and his hand was suddenly smoothing through a lock of her
hair, her head now covered with it again, the red locks regrown.  He
cupped her face in his hands and the flesh appeared around her eyes,
her lips parting to allow an even breath to escape her.  

The flames were gathered around her feet, lower, receding.  The wall
was behind him now, pulling back, the figures darting in and out of
the flame.  She watched it recede towards the water as she felt the
last of the burning leave her.

She stood before him, naked and whole and very much alive.  He
rested his hands on her shoulders, his eyes warm, but his expression
growing concerned.  

Then she could feel it.  Swelling around her temple, her head
throbbing on that side from the blow.  Her left eye began to puff up,
closing.  She hunched over slightly as a dull throbbing began in her
hip and back.  Red circles appeared around each of her wrists,
bruises rising.  

Behind him the fire reached the lake.  There was a loud hissing and
the fire fell, steaming, slowly went out.  

She breathed in and out evenly, calmly, taking in her surroundings. 

All around her the forest was green, the trees gathered on the
hillsides in majestic stands.  A faint mist hung like wool in the
tops of the pines, birds calling back in forth in rhyme.  

On the bank across from her, the doe stood carefully at the water's
edge, her nose against the glassy surface, taking in long draughts of
water.  She looked up at Scully, her large soft ears pricked forward,
her eyes wide.  With a leap she was back up the bank and in the
grasses and was gone.

Scully swallowed painfully -- her throat had been squeezed hard and
was swollen. Exhaustion was overcoming her.  

She looked into Mulder's eyes as he stood silently before her, his
hand on the side of her face.  

"Mulder?" she said softly.  "I think it's gone..."

**

6:35 p.m.

She opened her eyes as best she could, her face pressed into
Mulder's shoulder.  She could feel him shaking, crying softly, his
hand tightly cupped around the back of her head.  

"Mu..." she managed to breathe, and he loosened his grip, leaning
her face away from his shoulder so he could look into her one open
eye.  

"Scully?" he whispered, brushing at her face with his fingertips. 
"How do you feel?"  

She turned her head slightly, saw Mae sitting on the other side of
the bed, her hand on her back.  Like Mulder, she looked very afraid.  

She turned back to him.  "I'm..."  she swallowed, tried again.  "I'm
tired, Mulder."  

"I know you are, Scully," he replied softly, stroking back her hair.
Her forehead was damp, her clothes sticking to her.  She realized
she'd had a high fever and it had finally broken.  Her head throbbed
softly, but it was no more than a bad headache. 

She licked her dry lips, met his gaze wearily.  "I think...I think
I'll sleep now...for a little while..."  

"Thank God," she heard Mae whisper from behind her. 

"Okay, Scully," Mulder replied, and lay her head back down on the
pillow.  She felt as if she'd never lift her head again -- the
exhaustion was that complete.  

"You sleep," he said gently, though his voice shook.  "I'll be here
when you wake up, all right?"

She nodded slightly, burrowing her cheek into the pillow.  

And, for the first time in days, she felt herself relax, her limbs
heavy, her mind quiet.  Her eye closed and she fell in.  


**********

7:06 p.m.


Mulder lay spooned up against Scully's body, his left arm curled
over her so that he could lightly grasp her upturned hand.  His face
was buried in her hair, and he took in deep breaths of her, moving
his face back and forth across the damp strands, letting them caress
his lips and the rough stubble on his face.  

Scully's breathing was so slow that he found himself listening in
between the breaths anxiously, waiting for the next deep intake of
air.  She was perfectly still.  Even his slight movements as he ran
his hand over hers, across her arm, as he shifted against her, did
nothing to disturb her.  

He knew she would be like this for a long time, the drug finally
having loosened its grip on her, releasing her into sleep like a
small paper boat onto the mirror surface of a lake.  

The television murmured softly from the corner on one side of the
fireplace.  A paper container of soup that Mae had brought for Scully
was still sitting on the coffee table, filling the room with a heavy
salty smell.  Beside it, the remnants of the hurried, awkward meal he
and Mae had shared after Scully had fallen asleep.  The foil wrapper
of a hamburger that he'd consumed almost without chewing,  the small
basket of fries Mae had picked at, sitting across from him in a
wooden rocker, her eyes on her food.

"So how long have the two of you been together?"  Mae had asked,
trying to sound casual, though her voice was taut from the strain of
the past hour.  

Mulder took another bite of his hamburger, spoke around it.  "As
partners, you mean?"  he replied cautiously.  Mae wasn't one he
wanted to make casual conversation with, and plus, he was not
accustomed to talking about he and Scully's relationship with anyone,
really.  The question caught him slightly off guard.   

"No," she said softly.  "I mean *together*."  

He swallowed, considered how to answer.  Finally he said:  "I don't
know."  

He wasn't being evasive on purpose exactly -- he really didn't know
when they'd crossed the emotional line between being partners and
being lovers.  The start of their lovemaking seemed a crude marker
when reduced to that.  

Not privy to his thoughts, Mae had simply nodded, and he could tell
she felt rebuffed.  Her jaw set a little harder as she chewed.  "I
see," she said, reaching for another fry.  

Mulder looked at her, at a loss.  He really didn't know what to make
of Mae -- part of him kept replaying her file, dwelling on the things
she'd been involved in throughout her life.  He was frightened by
what she seemed capable of.    

But another part him wanted to trust her.  Everything she'd done for
Scully, the fact that she'd taken Sean from his father, risking what
she had...it all seemed to point toward her being trustworthy. 

But something was getting in the way of those feelings.  As he
looked at her, he realized that he was intensely angry at her,
associating her with her brother and the terrible things that Scully
had been through.  

And he was angry that she had been the one to save Scully from Fagan
while he himself had been standing at the airport like an idiot.  His
anger at himself had sloshed over onto her, and he was having a hard
time letting it go. 

"Where will you go to get away from Owen?"  he asked, his voice
tired, strained.  It was the closest he could come to finding a topic
for conversation.  

She shook her head.  "I don't know," she replied.  "Owen's got very
long arms.  He's extremely well connected, and not just to groups
back in Ireland.  Some here, as well.  The best thing for me to do is
to get out of the States."  

Mulder nodded absently.  It made sense.   

Then he realized Mae was looking at him with a grim expression on
her face.  He met her gaze questioningly.  

"You best do the same thing," she said quietly.  "He'll be coming
after Dana, as well.  He won't let her get away."  

Mulder nodded, his expression matching hers.  This wasn't a surprise
to him.  "Yes," he said.  "His bombing of the embassy in retaliation
for Elisa's death shows that he'll do anything to satisify his need
for revenge.  And he's going to blame Scully for everything he's
planned failing.  And for your betrayal of him."  

Mae nodded, clearly surprised.  "How is it you know all that?  You
sound as if you know him."   

"I'm a profiler," Mulder said softly.  "That's one of the things I
do.  And I've been profiling your brother for almost a month now."  
He did not say it proudly.  His tone was more weary than anything
else. 

"So you stopped the bombing?"  Mae asked, relief in her voice.  

"Yes," Mulder replied, polishing off the last of his burger.  "Some
people I know got hurt pretty bad in the process, but the embassy is
safe."  

She looked down again, that same shy demeanor coming over her. 
"Thank you," she murmured, almost too softly for him to hear.  

He looked at her downturned face for a beat.  He appreciated her
thanks on some level, but on another it piqued his anger.  He didn't
want thanks for what he had done.  He wanted for none of it to have
had to happen in the first place.    

He'd stood then, the suddenness of his movement surprising her.  

"Yeah, well, I think I"m going to get some sleep, or try to."  He
dug around for his wallet.  "What do I owe you for dinner?"  

"Nothing," Mae said, standing as well.  "You don't owe me a thing,
Mr. Mulder."  

He nodded, awkwardness falling between them.  Mae reached for her
coat on the arm of the chair and slipped into it.  "I'll leave you to
her then.  If you need anything, I'll be next door, getting some rest
myself.  Don't be afraid to wake me."  

He nodded, but somehow could still not bring himself to thank her. 
She didn't seem to notice. 

Instead she shook her head, pulling her ponytail out of the back of
her coat.  "Sean's been asleep for awhile now.  You've got to love
children.  They can sleep through the Armageddon."  

Mulder gave her a strained smile at her attempt at levity, which she
returned.  

"Sleep well," she said softly.  

"You too, Mae."

Then she was gone.  

Thinking back on the conversation, Mulder's arm tightened a little
around Scully, pressing her more closely against him.  He leaned up
and rubbed his lips lightly over the whorl of her ear, kissing the
lobe gently as he considered what Mae had said.  

He would get to Skinner, he thought.  Get Scully into some kind of
protection program where she could be cared for medically while the
FBI concentrated on tracking Curran. With that thought in mind, he
rose reluctantly, went to his jacket that was slumped over the back
of the couch.  He dug around in his pocket for his cell phone, tapped
the talk button.  

Hang up...Skinner had said.  Hang up right now...  

The words echoed in his mind and his finger did just that.  

Something was wrong there, he thought again, his attention coming
back to that phone call with Granger for the first time in hours.  

He still needed to talk to Skinner, find out what had happened.  

The ranger's station.  There were payphones at the ranger's station.
He would go there and call Skinner's cell phone.  Not his house or
the office, both of which might not be secure.

That decided, he shouldered into his jacket, checked the screen on
the fireplace, and gave Scully a worried, aching look as he stood by
the door.  

Steeling himself, he went for the doorknob.  He would not be gone
long.


********


He stood in the relative shelter of the small half-booth, a handful
of quarters he'd gotten at the diner in a pile beside the phone.  The
cold rain fell steadily in the dark around him, catching in the light
beside the small ranger's station so that it looked like snow.  He
pulled up his collar against it, shivering, looking at the lone light
on in the station.  He could see the ranger moving inside the room
now and again.

He dialed the number, deposited the necessary coinage for the first
five minutes of the call, then waited as the phone rang, looking
absently at the battered phone.  Skinner picked it up on the third
ring.  

"Skinner."

"Sir, it's Agent Mulder," he replied.  

"Whatever you do," Skinner said instantly, "Don't tell me where
you're calling from.  This line may not be secure."  

Mulder shifted his weight quickly, leaning into the phone.  "Why?" 
Mulder replied, tensing instantly.  "What the hell is going on?"    

Briefly, Skinner recounted what had happened that morning in
Granger's hospital room.

"Basically, Padden's trying to frame you for the bombing, for
killing Fagan, for all of it," Skinner replied.  "If he could find a
way to pin global warming on you, he'd do that, too."

"Oh, for Christ's sake,"  Mulder said angrily.   

"Yeah, it's bad," Skinner continued.  "He's considering you and
Scully both fugitives at this point, and has set up a new task force
to find you, with Granger in charge of profiling you when he's able,
the poor son-of-a-bitch.  In the meantime, Padden's locking up a
conspiracy case against you and hoping to use Scully to lure Curran
in, hoping at least his arrest will cover his own pink ass for
fucking up the bombing."  

Mulder's hand went to his forehead.  The automated voice told him to
deposit more money, and he fumbled with the pile, knocking several
coins onto the ground at his feet.  They shone silver and bright as
eyes.  

"Dammit,"  he said, pushing another three dollar's worth into the
slot.  

"Things are a real mess," Skinner said.  "The Path members have
started turning themselves in and are dropping like flies.  There
have been nine deaths so far, with 13 others in custody at area
hospitals.  The doctors from Bethesda on the task force are trying
their best to do something for them, but there's just not enough
time.  I think we're going to lose all of them."  

"Yeah," Mulder said softly.  "I've just seen a little taste of what
they go through, and it's horrible."  

"What do you mean?"  

Mulder heaved out a breath, told Skinner about what he'd been
through with Scully for the past few hours.  He spared him the more
personal details in the interest of Scully's privacy, but he got the
point across about how bad it had been.  

"We got damn lucky, basically," he finished.   

"Is she all right now?"  Skinner's voice had risen in speed and
volume with his concern.

"She's alive," Mulder said flatly, pushing down his emotions as he
bit out the two words.  

"That bad."  Skinner said it as a statement, not a question.

"Yes," Mulder replied.  "And on top of that, Mae's confirmed what I
already assumed -- that Curran will be coming after her." 

"I figured that."  He heard Skinner exhale, and watched the ranger
drift into another room, the light going on.  

"I'm sorry she's hurt," Skinner continued.  "Please give her my
best, will you?"  

"I will."  Mulder shifted a bit more beneath the glass canopy of the
payphone, hiding from the rain, which had shifted direction with the
wind.  He glanced around nervously, expecting a car to appear at any
moment, filled with someone Curran sent or agents or God only knew
what.  He glanced at his car tensely.

There was a beat of silence.

"What the hell am I going to do about all this..."  Mulder murmured,
mostly to himself.  

"I'll tell you what you're going to do," Skinner said immediately. 
"You're going to disappear until I can get this sorted out somehow."  

"I'm not afraid of Padden's charges," Mulder said firmly.  "And if
it means keeping Scully from getting the medical attention she needs--
" 

"I'M afraid of Padden's charges then," Skinner replied.  "And as far
as Scully goes, she's safer with you on the run than she would be
here under Padden's supposed protection.  He doesn't care about her
life.  She's just a pawn to him.  That's all she's been all along."  

Mulder leaned against the phone, needing to move.  "But--"

"I'll make it an order if I have to, Mulder.  I want you out of
sight.  Out of touch.  I don't want you to contact me for a few weeks
at least.  Give me time to figure out how to get around Padden on all
this.  Granger will stall him as much as he can, I know that, but we
need to buy some time here.  And then this stuff with Curran,
too...you need to get lost real quickly."  

Mulder made a fist, tapped against the glass canopy in frustration. 
He didn't like the idea of running from anything.  But Skinner knew
better than he did how bad this was, and he would have to take his
word for it. 

"All right,"  Mulder said finally.  "You have to contact Scully's
mother.  Tell her she's all right.  Tell her what's happened as much
as you can.  And my mother, too, though that's not as pressing."  

"I will.  Both of their lines are being tapped, I'm sure, so I'll go
see them in person as soon as I can manage it.  Speaking of which, I
don't want you using your cell phone anymore.  Or Scully's.  They've
probably got a GPS tracker on your phone.  For all we know, they know
where you are -- generally -- from your conversation with Granger
this morning.  You'll need to get moving as fast as you can just in
case."  

Mulder grit his teeth, closed his eyes, cursing softly to himself. 
"All right," he said again.  "I'll move Scully as soon as I think she
can handle it."  

The phone beeped again for more change, saying the call would end in
15 seconds. 

"Take care of yourself, Mulder,"  Skinner said, and there was
something kind in his voice. "And take good care of Scully, if she'll
let you."  

Mulder smiled mildy at that, despite the turmoil his emotions were
in.  "I will, sir.  You too."  

Skinner hung up before the line went dead.  


***********

JANUARY 17 
7:32 a.m.


Mulder awoke, lifting his head off the pillow, at the sound of a car
starting up.  He listened closely to it, recognized the hum and cough
of Mae's beatup pickup, and felt himself relax some.  

He checked his watch -- she was probably going for food again, he
thought.   

He leaned up a little to look at Scully, lying beside him, still on
her side, her arms and legs curled in tight against her chest and
belly.  He could see her eyes darting beneath her closed lids as she
lay there, drifting in the midst of a dream.  Her face was calm, her
breathing even.  It made him relax even more to watch her.  The worst
of things seemed to be over.  

He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against her forehead, near
her hairline, rubbed his cheek softly against her hair.  Unlike the
previous night, she stirred slightly with the touch, made a small
sound in her throat.  

He was so tired, the past few days still clinging to him.  He lay
his head back down on the pillow, deciding to try and doze a bit
until Mae returned.  Seeking warmth and comfort, he pushed his arm
beneath Scully's gently, curled it around her middle between her
knees and her chest, pulling her against him. She stirred again, this
time sharply, as though she were being jerked toward consciousness. 
The suddenness of it suprised him.  

"No..." she said softly, and he could see her face twisting to
tears.  Her arms began pushing at his, her hands gripping his wrist
and pulling it away from her body.  

"Scully, it's all right," he murmured into her ear.  Her reaction
bothered him on some visceral level he couldn't quite name.  

"No, don't..."  she whispered, something desperate in her voice as
she pushed at his arm again.  "Don't..."  

The words sent a chill through him, and he sat up on one elbow,
removed his arm from her immediately, dread overcoming him.  

He waited, barely breathing,  while she calmed again, her face
relaxing, her breath catching, then releasing as she drifted back
into her deep sleep. 

She's just been through the ringer, he thought, though he did not
touch her again.  She was bound to be a little off kilter, her
emotions not what they usually were.  And she was trying to get some
sleep for the first time in several days.  Her reaction was perfectly
natural, he decided, nodding to himself and pushing the feeling of
dread away.     

With those thoughts, he chastised himself for being selfish and
disturbing her, and rolled away, slipping from beneath the covers and
standing on the cold floor.  

A televangelist was on the screen, a phone number at the bottom,
asking for donations.  "Your prayers answered," it said beneath it. 
Mulder made a face and went to the old set, flicked it off.  The
silence that was sent through the room with the action was heavy, not
a sound outside or in, save Scully's deep breathing from the bed.  

He went to the fireplace, saw that the fire had died down to faint,
glowing embers, the wood holder next to the hearth empty.  He vaguely
remembered a woodpile next to the cabin from when he'd come in the
afternoon before, and went to the couch, pulling on his boots and
jacket.  He headed out the door quietly.  

He stood on the small landing outside the door for a moment, his
breath puffing out in front of him.  The morning sky was white-grey,
a few clouds high up, stretched out in a blanket of nimbus.  He could
see the clouds reflected on the surface of the lake, the water still.
Down at the end of the driveway, across the narrow road, there was a
small pier pointing out into the lake, T-shaped, studded with a round
supports, like truncated telephone poles.   

On the edge of the pier, a small figure sat, tiny from this
distance.  Sean.  

Mulder didn't know much about children, that much was certain.  But
he did know that Mae was gone, and that kids shouldn't play around
the edge of water.  

With that thought in mind, he blew out a breath and went down the
steps, making his way down the gravel drive, across the road, and
onto the pier.  

Sean didn't turn as Mulder came toward him, though Mulder knew the
boy could hear his hollow footsteps on the worn wood.  Standing just
behind Sean, Mulder looked at him.  The boy's eyes were down on the
lake, a long stick in his hand.  He was patting at his reflection
with the end of it, sending the dark outline of his body into
distorted ripples.  His other hand was in the pocket of his small
coat, his legs dangling over the edge.  

Besides the tapping of the stick, Sean was still.  

"Sean?"  Mulder called softly.  "What are you doing down here all by
yourself?"  He said it gently, no tone of reprimand.  He didn't feel
like he had much of right to discipline the boy, for one.  For
another, he was truly curious.  

"Just sitting,"  Sean replied.  Mulder was struck by the boy's
thoughtful, heavily accented voice.  "Thinking a bit."   

He continued tapping at his reflection, making a soft splash sound. 
A hawk called somewhere in the distance, the sound getting caught in
the hilly terrain and echoing for a few seconds.  

Mulder took the few more steps beside him, sat down a few feet from
him and dangled his legs over the edge of the pier as well.  He had
to sit back some to keep his feet from getting wet.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry for aiming my gun at you last night,"
Mulder said softly, looking at him.  "You scared me.  I thought you
might be someone else."  

Sean looked up, met Mulder's eyes for a few seconds, then looked
back down.  

"You thought I was my daddy," he said softly, and Mulder didn't know
what to say to that.  His mouth opened and closed like a fish as he
struggled to come up with the right thing.  

Fortunately, Sean spared him.  "Aunt Mae says you're some kind of
policeman," he said.  

Mulder nodded.  "Yes, a kind of policeman, that's right."

Sean looked at him.  "She says that Dr. Black is some kind of
policeman, too, and that her name isn't really Dr. Black."  

"Yes, that's right, too," Mulder agreed, still feeling a bit at sea.
His exposure to children was limited, but he didn't think any amount
of time spent with them would prepare him for THIS conversation.  

Behind him, he heard a car approaching, turned sharply to look down
the road.  Mae's pickup appeared from the top of the rise, coming
slowly toward the cabins.  He could see her looking at them both as
she made the turn into the driveway, going up the hill.  

Sean had likewise turned to watch Mae's approach, but now he
returned his eyes to the water.  His stick was still as he appeared
to be considering something, his small brow furrowed.  Mulder let the
silence stretch between them, looking out over the water.  The hawk
was circling now over the water, riding updrafts in graceful circles.
He watched it for a long moment.

"I'm not going to see my daddy for a long time, she says," Sean said
finally.  The boy's voice was flat, his emotions tight as a drum.   

Mulder swallowed, aching.   "Yes, that's probably so," he said
quietly, looking at Sean's profile again.  

Sean gave his reflection another tap, sending out a widening circle
of ripples.

Mulder heard footsteps coming down the gravel drive toward them now,
and welcomed them.  

Sean was nodding now.  Mulder kept waiting for tears from him, but
Sean remained quiet, his eyes boring into the water.  

Mae came down the pier, stood behind them.  Mulder glanced back at
her, and she crooked an eyebrow at him, questioning.  Mulder looked
back at Sean, his expression sad, then back at Mae.  Mae nodded, bit
her bottom lip.  

"I think..."  Sean began, hesitated.  

"You think what, Sean?"  Mae asked him gently after a moment.  

Sean looked up over the lake again, and Mulder saw a grim set in his
face that didn't fit on the face of a seven year old boy at all.  

"I think my daddy must not be a very good man."   It came out just
above a whisper.  

Mulder looked down, again at a loss as to what to say.  

Mae squatted down behind Sean, put her arms around his chest and
pulled him back against her.  She kissed his temple, pressed her face
against the side of his face.  

"Your father loves you very much, Sean," she said.  "That's all you
need to know when you think about him, all right?"  

Sean nodded, and now Mulder did see the tears start in the boy's
eyes, though his face was still set, his eyes still on the lake.  

"It's all right," Mae said, kissed him again.  "Everything's going
to be all right."  

She turned after a beat and looked at Mulder.  "I checked on Dana
when I came in," she said quietly.  "She's awake.  You might want to
go to her."  

Mulder pulled himself up to this feet immediately, stood before Mae
and Sean for a few seconds, wishing there was something he could do.  

"It's all right," Mae said again, this time to Mulder.  "Just go to
her."  

He nodded, turned, and hurried up the pier.  

**

He entered the cabin to find Scully sitting up on the edge of the
bed, the blankets pulled across her middle, one hand fisted on her
lap and one on her forehead.  She looked up as he entered, and he
could see red rims around her eye above the smears of black.   She
wiped at her eyes gently but quickly as he came forward.  

"I'm sorry I wasn't here when you woke up," he said softly, pointing
with a thumb toward the lake.  "Sean--"

"Yes," she said, and her voice was hoarse, weak.  "Mae told me. 
It's okay."    

He stopped a few feet from her, studied her carefully, his nerves
kicking up.  Her left hand was shaking uncontrollably.  She saw him
looking at it.  

"There's been some...damage," she whispered.  She pulled herself up
straighter on the bed, cleared her throat, fisted both hands in her
lap now.  Her knuckles were white. 

"Is it permanent?"  he asked, stricken.  

"There's no way to know," she whispered, and he could hear her
frustration in her voice.  "Not at this point."    

He looked at her and nodded.  She looked away, clearly trying to
avoid his gaze, holding something back, her eye shining.      

That same feeling of dread that he'd had earlier came over him.  

Her pushing at his arm, the fear in her voice...

No...she had said.  Don't....

Something was terribly wrong.  More than her hand, more than what
she'd been through the night before.  Something else, something
shadowy he didn't yet know.  He swallowed down a lump in his throat
that had lodged there suddenly, going cold inside as the realization
began to creep in on him.  

"Tell me," he murmured.  He took a step towards her, but stopped as
she looked up at him, her gaze very afraid.  

"Tell you what."  It came out soft, flat.  She looked down at her
hands.  

He squatted in front of her to look into her face.  Her eye darted
away again.  She took in a shaky breath.  

"Scully," he said softly.  She looked back at him, something
desperate on her face for an instant.  She shook her head, closed her
eye.  

He reached out tentatively and touched her knee, just barely grazing
the fabric of her pajamas with his fingers.  

"Hey," he said softly, his voice unearthly calm even to his own
ears.  She looked at him again.  "You remember a long time ago...when
we first got started on this case.  It was Christmas.  We were eating
in the hotel, remember?"  

She nodded, her lip trembling.  "Yes," she whispered.  

"You said that night," he continued carefully.  "You said that we
shouldn't keep things from each other.  That we should always tell
each other the truth."   

She bit her lip, twin tears going down her cheeks.  She wiped them
away with the heel of her hand.  "Yes, I remember," she said, and her
voice shook.  

He bent to meet her gaze again.  "Then I want you to tell me. 
Please."  

She sat silent for a long moment, and he let it stretch.  She looked
to the side, her lip still caught between her teeth, though it was
still trembling.  

"I couldn't remember..." she said finally, her voice still shaking,
the words coming out haltingly.  "I couldn't remember what
happened...the concussion kept me from remembering for a little
while...the drug..."  She trailed off.

"But you remember now."  He said it gently.  His own hands went to
fists.  

She looked at him, swallowed.  

"Yes," she whispered, studying her hands.  She hestitated for
another long moment, shaking her head.    

His eyes burned.  He braced his hands on his knees, a pain spreading
in his belly, his chest.

"He raped you."  

She looked away quickly as he said the word, as though hearing it
aloud physically hurt her.  Her hands clenched down, her left shaking
harder.  

She jerked a nod.  

No...

He stood quickly as he looked at her.  

It hadn't been real until she'd nodded.  

Now it crashed into him.  It hurt to breathe.

He ran his hand through his hair angrily.  He kept thinking of
standing at the airport, useless, while it had been happening to
her...

"Don't," she said hoarsely, looking up at him imploringly.  She
choked on a breath, struggling to hold it all in.  She trembled
slightly, as though she were shivering from sudden, intense cold.

He watched her, knew that right now she needed him to hang on, to
not give in to what he was feeling.          

He forced his face into composure, wiping away the anger, the
anguish.  He breathed out a slow breath, though it shook as he
released it.      

Then he took a step towards her.  

She looked up at him, frightened again, as he reached a hand out and
cupped the side of her face.  

She clenched her eye closed, shook her head once.    

Now he knelt down in front of her, his hands going to cover hers. 
He found her fingertips, pulled slightly, trying to loosen her fists.
 

After a moment, her hands opened slowly, and he saw indentations in
her palms from her nails.  He leaned forward to her lap, pressed a
kiss into one palm, then the other.  

Her forehead fell to the crown of his head and her sobs, finally,
broke.    


***********

UNKNOWN LOCATION 
TYNER, KENTUCKY 
10:14 a.m.


Larry Kingston, Grand Marshall of the Sons of Liberty, sat at his
wide, cluttered desk, looking over the information in the file
carefully, studying the three pictures he had in front of him.  He
chewed on the end of his pipe, the smoke curling up around the brim
of his baseball cap.   Occasionally he would look up over the top of
the file at the man sitting across the table from him, eyeing him
suspiciously.  

He didn't like these foreign types one bit.  Even if the work he was
doing made him have to do business with them from time to time.    

The man sat with his legs crossed, stared back at Kingston levelly. 
He reached up at one point and ran his finger over the scar along the
side of his mouth like he was rubbing a good luck charm.  

"So what you need here, Mr. Curran, is just help in locating these
people?" he asked finally. 

"Yes, that's all,"  Curran replied.  "And bringing them to me."  

Kingston leaned back.  "These ones here, the woman and the boy," he
said, tossing down the photograph with his free hand.  "I ain't
worried about them.  Your sister and your boy, you say they are?"

"Aye."

"Well, I ain't worried about bringing them in.  But this other one,
this FBI agent.  That could mean trouble for me."  

Curran leaned forward.  "Mr. Kingston, I've done some work for you
in the past that wouldn't look good for me if it came out, as well. 
All I need is for you to find her and bring her to me.  That's all. 
No one even has to know you're involved if it's done the proper way. 
And I trust you can manage that."  

Kingston scowled.  He really didn't like this one, but the son-of-a-
bitch did have a point.  He did owe him one.  A pretty big one at
that.  

"All right," Kingston said, closed the file, setting his pipe down
in the ashtray on the side of the desk.  "I'll start working my
connections, get their faces out.  Shouldn't take that long.  We're
right good at finding people when we need to.  Pays the bills, as
they say."  

Curran smiled, stood.  "That was my understanding when we first
spoke a long time ago, Mr. Kingston," he said softly.  "I appreciate
your help."  

Kingston stood as well, took Curran's outstretched hand reluctantly.
He shook the man's hand once stiffly.  

"I've got your number," Kingston said.  "I'll call you when we find
something out."  

"Thank you then," Curran said, and walked out Kingston's door.  


*********

SHELBY FOREST STATE PARK 
MILLINGTON, TENNESSEE 
3:30 p.m.


Scully's eyes were glassy as she watched the cartoons that Sean had
found on the television.  Though it was a good cartoon, a Warner
Brothers she even remembered from her own childhood, Sean had yet to
make a sound in reaction to it.  He merely knelt in front of the set,
his back to her, as though he didn't want to look her.  

Which, she supposed, he probably didn't.  She sensed that he had
figured out that his father had something to do with her injuries. 
She winced just thinking about what must be going through his mind. 

She had thought it a bad idea to leave him with her, but Mae had
said that it would be better if she and Mulder went alone into town,
less obvious if Owen had people looking for them already.  A woman
with a boy, they were looking for.  A man and woman, they were not.  

Plus, Mulder had known that Sean would keep Scully awake, alert,
while he and Mae were gone into town to conduct their business.  And
she needed to be alert, on the outside chance someone might come to
the cabin after her.  

Her gun, which Mulder had brought with him along with her cell
phone, was tucked beneath the pillow, her hand resting near it, just
in case.  

She may not have been strong enough to stand, but she was strong
enough to shoot. The nerve damage was only in one hand, thankfully.

She watched the set, Daffy Duck being erased by a giant pencil, all
the way down to his eyes and beak, which then fell to the ground. 
Finally a sound from Sean, a short laugh that sounded like it hurt.  

She heard car engines coming closer, her hand slipping beneath the
pillow.   

"Sean?"  she called softly.  "Can you go to the window and see who
that is that's coming?"  

He turned and nodded, rising slowly and going to the window.  He
pulled back the curtains, peered outside.  She heard the tires on the
gravel now, her breath quickening.  

"It's Aunt Mae and Mr. Mulder," Sean said:  "Mr. Mulder's in a blue
big truck and Aunt Mae is in a brown van."     

She could see one of the cars pull up outside the cabin now, a blue
full-size Bronco.  Older.  Faded blue paint and a white top.  She saw
it shift slightly and heard the door creak shut as Mulder got out.  

That was what they'd gone into town for -- to trade in Mae's truck
and to buy Mulder something for them, something inexpensive.  They
couldn't very well go driving around in a Bureau car.  Mae had been
kind enough to volunteer to pay for it with a bit of Owen's money
from his suitcases, since Mulder couldn't use his own cards or checks
to pay for anything.  It could be so easily traced.   

He'd told her all about his conversation with Skinner.  She closed
her eyes, her mind swimming with it all.  

Such a mess.  

The door opened and Mulder entered, Mae close behind.  They carried
food with them again, bags of fast food from McDonald's this time. 
The smell of what must have been a filet of fish in one of the bags
made Scully nearly gag.  She had yet to regain her appetite from the
effects of the drug.  

"Did you get me a toy?"  Sean said, coming forward and grabbing at
the box Mae carried with her. 

"Yes, there's a toy, Sean," Mae said tiredly, let him have it.  He
went back to the television with it.  

Mulder came toward her, sat on the edge of the bed gently.  He
offered her the bag and she took it, though she didn't open it.  She
merely set it on the mattress in front of her. 

"Thank you," she murmured, looking up at him.  She strained a smile
that she didn't feel.  He smiled back for an instant, then it was
gone.  

"I'm going to go take care of things while you eat.  Then you need
to get dressed.  I'll help you when I get back if you need it."

"Or I can help you," Mae offered from the couch.  Scully nodded.  

"All right," she said, and felt a wave of weakness pass over her. 
She closed her eyes against it, and Mulder put a hand on the side of
her head gently.  

"You okay?"  he asked softly.  When she opened her eyes, she could
see that same worried expression he'd been wearing all day.  She
didn't like the look in his eyes.  He looked at her as though she
were fragile, and she wasn't.  

Nothing had changed about her.  

She needed him to believe that about her, so she could believe it
about herself.  

"I'm fine, Mulder," she said softly, reached up and took his hand,
gave it a reassuring squeeze.  He nodded, looked hurriedly away.

**

4:12 p.m.

Mulder drove down the old service road along the lake about a mile
from the cabin, following the bank, nosing the dark government sedan
down the narrow road beneath the overhang of trees.  

Finally, he saw what he'd been looking for from the map the ranger
had given him when he came in with the Bronco.  The service road dead-
ended into the lake here, a sign on the edge of the road warning of
deep water.  No swimming.  

He bumped off the circular ending to the road, stopped the car on
the bank.  He climbed out, left the door open, left the car running.  

Going around to the back of the car, he pulled out a small pen knife
from his pocket, used the blade to carefully unscrew the government
plates from the car.  The car chuffed out a stream of white into the
cold air as he did so.  

He went around to the front, did the same thing.  

Standing on the edge of the bank, he took first one plate, then the
other, throwing them out onto the lake as far as he could.  

Next, looting around in the deep pocket of his jacket, he pulled out
his cell phone, Scully's.  He looked down at them almost sadly for a
long moment, as though they were the last tangible connections to the
lives they'd had. 

Then he hurled them both after the plates into the lake, watching
them spin through the air before they slapped the surface of the
water and then were gone.

Lastly, he went to the car, leaned in and put the car into drive,
stepping back quickly as the car began to move.  

The car rolled to the edge of the bank, nosed down, and slid into
the lake.  He watched it as it quickly filled with water through the
open door, tilted, and sunk, leaving a trail of bubbles as it
descended into the dark water.  

He pulled his coat around him against the chill, as satisfied as he
could be under the circumstances.  Turning, he began to jog back to
the cabin.  He hoped to make it back before it got dark.

**

4:55 p.m.


Mulder came up the drive, fighting off a bone-tired that threatened
to overwhelm him.  He saw Mae hauling one of the heavy suitcases out
to the brown, very used minivan she'd bought at the car dealership
near the naval station in Millington.  

"Here, let me help you," he said as he reached the van.  He reached
down and took the bag from her.

"Thank you," she said, and seemed fairly surprised by his kindness. 
He thought back on how cold he'd been to her since their meeting last
night, and began to regret it.

He stepped into the van, going to the back where he hustled the bag
onto the back seat.  The middle seat had been made into a bed for
Sean, complete with a pillow that was clearly lifted from the cabin. 
He stepped back out into the gloaming light next to her.

"I've helped Dana get dressed," Mae said.  "She's fallen asleep
again.  She did manage to eat a bit of her dinner, though not much."  

He nodded.  "Thank you for looking after her so well,"  he said, and
it came out easily now.  He really meant it.  

"You're welcome," she said, angling her head slightly at him.  

They both looked down at their shoes for a minute.

"Any more suitcases?"  he asked finally, nodding toward her cabin. 

"No," Mae replied.  "I put yours in the back of your truck, as well.
We should be set to go."  

They'd decided to leave as it got dark, slipping by the ranger's
station and out onto the highways as the sun went down, getting a
head start away from where they were while it was night.   It really
didn't matter when they travelled, they'd decided, for Scully and
Sean's sake.  Both would sleep their way through the night regardless
of where they were.  

Mulder gestured toward he and Scully's cabin, and Mae led the way
back inside.  

True to Mae's work, Scully lay on her back on top of the covers,
already in her dark coat, fast asleep.  Sean was still in front of
the television, a plastic car clutched in his hands.  

"Come on, Sean," Mae called.  "It's time for us to say goodbye and
get on the road."  

Mulder went to Scully on the bed, leaned over her and pressed a kiss
to her forehead.  She stirred and awoke immediately.  

"Mulder?  What is it?"

He put an arm beneath her shoulders and neck, urged her up.  She
helped him weakly.   "Everything's done," he said.  "We're ready to
go."  

He got her into a sitting position, helped her swing her legs over
the side of the bed.  He kept a hand on her as Mae and Sean
approached the bed.  

Mae's eyes were shining, a bittersweet smile on her face.  Mulder
watched Scully look at her, tears beginning in her eyes, as well.  

He stepped back as Mae came forward, into Scully's open arms.  The
two women embraced for a long moment.   Then Mae pulled back and they
kissed each other's cheeks, Mae rubbing at the tears on Scully's
face. 

"I'm so sorry,"  Mae said, her voice breaking.  "I'm so sorry for
everything that's happened to you."  

Scully shook her head.  "Don't be," she said softly.  "It's not your
fault, any of it."  She swallowed, met Mae's steady gaze.  "I can't
thank you enough for what you've done for me.  I owe you my life."    

Mae smiled again, smoothed her hand over Scully's cheek again.  "And
I owe you mine," she whispered.  

They embraced again, then Mae pulled back and ushered Sean forward. 
He stood before Scully and she leaned down to put her arms around
him.  

"Goodbye, Dr. Black," he murmured softly, and turned his face
obediantly to kiss her cheek.  

"Goodbye, Sean," she said softly, and put her hand on his head,
smoothing down his hair gently.  "You're going to be all right.  It's
all going to work out just fine."  

He gazed at her for a few seconds, nodded.  Then he turned to
Mulder.  "Goodbye, Mr. Mulder."  

Mulder put a hand on his shoulder.  "Goodbye, Sean."  And Sean
withdrew toward the door.  

Mae turned to Mulder now, dug around in her pocket.  She pulled out
an envelope.  "Here," she said softly.  "It's $1500.  I'm sorry it
couldn't be more, but I don't know what I'll be needing."  

Mulder looked at her, surprised.  "You don't have to do that. 
You've already given us $3000 for the car."  

Mae put her hand up.  "It's nothing.  Really."  

He took it, stuffed it into his jacket pocket.  

"Thank you," Scully said softly.  

Mae nodded, put her hand out to Mulder. "It's been a pleasure to
meet you, Mr. Mulder," she said softly.  

He took her hand, held it for a beat.  "You, too, Mae.  Thank you. 
For everything."  He released her hand, and she turned to go.  

"Oh, and another thing..." he said softly.  She faced them again.  

"It's just Mulder."  He crooked a wry smile at her, which she
returned.  Then she looked at Scully again.

"We'll see each other again, Dana," she said with conviction.  "You
wait and see.  We'll find each other again."  

Scully nodded.  "Bye, Mae."  

"Goodbye."  

And she took Sean's hand and went out the door, closing it softly
behind her.  Mulder stood motionless as he waited for the sound of
the car to start up.  When it did, and he heard the grinding of the
tires on the gravel, he went to the television, flicked off the
cartoons, leaving the room in silence.  

He felt suddenly awkward standing there with her, without Mae or
Sean to distract them from each other.  She must have felt it, too,
because she had a hard time meeting his eyes.  

It was just the two of them now, with all that they had been through
between them.  

"You ready to go?"  he murmured into the quiet, coming forward to
stand in front of her. 

She nodded, still looking down. 

Then she reached out, took his hand.  She brought it to her lips,
ran her lips across his knuckles. 

"Yes," she said softly.  "Let's go."  

He picked up a pillow, handed it to her, then a folded, small
blanket from the foot of the bed.  She took them without a word.  

He leaned down and lifted her into his arms easily, carried her to
the door, shutting off the light behind him.  

Out in the porchlight, he walked carefully down the stairs to the
car.  He set her down and opened the door for her, helped her climb
into the high vehicle.  He put the pillow behind her head, spread the
blanket over her on the wide bench seat, shut the door.  

Going around to the other side, he climbed into the driver's seat,
started the engine, snapped the pale headlights on.  The interior of
the car lit up with a blue-white glow, sending Scully's face into
shadow.  

He backed down the driveway, going down the road toward the entrance
to the park.  Once at the ranger station, he turned out onto the
road, heading toward the highway.  

"Where are we going?"  Scully asked from beside him.  He could tell
from her voice that she was half asleep already.  

"West," he said simply, looked over at her struggling to remain
upright in the seat.  "Hey, why don't you lie down?  Stretch out."  

He helped her settle down on the pillow next to his thigh, helped
her cover up.  She was asleep before they made it out of town.  

They hit a light right before the entrance to the highway, the car
idling roughly.  

He waited at the red light, thinking.  

About Skinner and Granger, the trap Padden had set for him should he
return.  The trap for both of them.

About Mae and Sean, wondering what would become of the two of them,
if they would make it.

About Owen Curran, waiting somewhere out in the night.  

The light turned green.  He gunned the engine, turned onto the
entrance ramp to the Interstate.  

As night pressed in around the car, he sighed, shut his mind down,
fighting off the fatigue, the worry.  

He couldn't think about it anymore.  

His hand on Scully's arm as he switched lanes, he stopped thinking.  

He drove.


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


Epilogue


***********

ASPENWOOD LODGE 
STRAWBERRY, ARIZONA 
FEBRUARY 20 
(FOUR WEEKS LATER)
4:36 p.m.


Scully awoke to snow.  

She lay on her side, covered up to her shoulder by the thin, worn
blankets, watched the huge flakes fall outside the front window, past
the tiny kitchen, past the battered couch and television that she had
left on to have some company in the room.  

She had never been a person who cared for background noise.  That
had always been Mulder's domain.  But now she found being alone
unnerved her, and the voices on the small set gave her some comfort,
reminded her of a world outside the walls of the efficiency she
hadn't left in days.      

She needed to remedy that and she knew it.  It wasn't good for her
to isolate herself as much as she had been.  Even going for a walk in
the lovely white of the aspen forest behind the motel would do her
good.   

But something held her back.  Something always held her back now,
kept her emotions just out of her reach, out of Mulder's.  Only when
the dreams awoke her in the middle of the night -- the flashbacks to
the visions brought on by the drug, to Fagan -- did she show any sign
of emotion, a kind of breathless panic overwhelming her as Mulder sat
up beside her, his hand on her back as he refrained from taking her
in his arms.  

He would not embrace her until she embraced him -- it had become an
unspoken rule, put into play since the early days of their reunion
when his tender offers only served to make the panic worse.   

She hated the distance it had put between them, how it forced away
the ease of their contact with each other.  But she could do little
about it.  The memories were in her body.  It reacted even when she
did not.  

She sat up in the bed now, not wanting to think about it anymore. 
Things would get better with time.  Gradually she would forget about
what had happened, the dreams drifting away like smoke.   

She had to believe that.  

Gathering the blankets around her, she reached for the glass of
water she'd placed on the night stand before lying down for her nap. 
The lamp was on, casting a small light across the pressed wood
surface as she lifted the glass to her lips.  

In her lap, her left hand shook, the fingers curled in against her
palm.  The tremors were always worse when she was tired, and the nap
had done little to alleviate the fatigue.  She clenched her fist,
willing it to stop.

As she set the glass down, her eyes fell on the only other item on
the small table.  She reached for it, held it in her hand.  

Mulder's snowglobe.  

She gave it a shake, holding it up at face level.  The plastic
flakes whirled, and just beyond them, the snow fell outside the
window.  She smiled at the twin images, though something about it
brought her close to tears.  

It was the memory of Mulder giving it to her -- her grabbing the
package from him as they finished eating.  Him lying behind her as
she shook it for the first time.  

"I wanted you to have a white Christmas,"  he had said.

She covered her eyes with her shaking hand, put the snowglobe back
down on the table, the flakes falling back into their place.  

It was hard to think of the other life.  The other world where her
family, the comfort of she and Mulder's work, the ease of their
relationship, seemed to be waiting for her, just out of reach. 

She heard a car pull up outside, recognized the low thrumming of the
Bronco's aging engine.  Wiping her eyes quickly, she composed her
face.  

She would not let him see her crying about what they had left
behind.  Not when he had sacrificed so much to protect her.  

Steeling herself, she sat up a little straighter as the door opened
and Mulder entered, carrying two bags of groceries, his hair and
jacket dusted with snow.  

"Hey," he murmured to her, smiling warmly.  "You're up.  How you
feeling?"  

She returned the smile, though it did not touch her eyes.  "I'm all
right," she replied.  

He went to the kitchen, lay the groceries down on the small
countertop.  He'd been bringing in fast food since they arrived here
four days ago and had decided this afternoon that enough was enough.  

He'd called Skinner the week before, as he'd done every week since
they left Millington.  Skinner had told him that there was no change
in the situation in Washington, and that until there was he wanted
them to stay out.  

The Gunmen had wired them all the money they could scrounge --
another thousand dollars, with the promise of more.  Not much money,
but enough if they spent it wisely, which they did.

So they'd kept going, working their way across the country, staying
where they could for a couple of days at a time and then moving on. 
It had begun to take its toll on both of them, her especially.  She
was still weak from the exposure to the drug, from the holdover
effects of the concussion.  She was losing weight, growing drawn and
thinner.  

So Mulder had decided to stop in this sleepy vacation town nestled
in the Arizona mountains near Flagstaff, settle for a little while. 

She watched him unpack the groceries.  The efficiency was small, but
clean.  The refrigerator was half size, and Mulder had to bend to put
the milk, eggs, into it.    

He went back to the bags, pulled out a box of Mueller's pasta, a jar
of Prego, a shaker of spice.  

"Spaghetti a la Mulder," he said, and she smiled, then looked down,
as though the smile had given something away she didn't want him to
see. 

She heard him set the food down on the counter, come across the
linoleum in his snow-wet boots.   Then he was standing in front of
her, a couple of feet away, his hands in his pockets.  

"You okay?" he asked quietly, and she nodded hurriedly.  

"Yeah...I'm just...just tired."  Her voice shook as she spoke,
betraying her.  She closed her eyes, bit her lip.

Then she reached for him.  It was like instinct.  She opened her
eyes as he grasped her hand and she pulled him forward toward her,
her arms going around his waist, her cheek against his belly.  

"I'm sorry," she whispered as his arms went around her shoulders, a
hand going to the side of her head.  

"Don't be sorry," he said, running his fingers through the strands. 
"We're in a tough place here.  You're bound to be upset.  And I know
the moving around has been hard on you."

"No," she said, turning her head so she could look up into his face.
His gaze was tender, his brow creased.  "I'm sorry I've been so...far
away from you.  I don't mean to push you away..."

His hands came up to cup her head between them, his thumbs trailing
on the hair at her temples.

"It's okay," he murmured.  "I know you need time."  

She looked into his eyes, his words striking her off-center.  

She didn't want to need time anymore.  She wanted herself back now. 
She wanted him back now.  

She embraced him, her cheek against his belly again.  Then she
turned her head, rubbed her nose and lips against the soft material
of his shirt slowly.  She felt him go very still, his hands on the
back of her head, just resting there lightly as she moved. 

Then she reached her hands around, pulled his shirt from the waist
of his pants and pushed it up, her lips against the soft line of hair
that bisected his stomach.  

"Scully..." 

She opened her mouth, breathed a warm breath against his skin.  She
felt him shiver, her hands on his waist.  Then she kissed him again,
nuzzled him gently.  

His hands went to the sides of her head again, angling her face up
towards him.  Their eyes met, his look questioning.  She reached for
the collar of his shirt and drew him down until their faces were
inches apart., their breath mingling.  

She leaned forward, touched his lips with hers, a faint brush.  He
angled his head, coming forward to return the gentle contact.   She
closed her eyes as he pressed a chaste kiss on her lips, rubbed his
cheek against hers.  Her hands went to his face and drew him down in
earnest now, their mouths opening as they met again, something
desperate in it.  

The fear began to crawl up her body.  

She began to tense but tried to ignore it, concentrating instead on
his mouth, her fingers tunneling in his hair.  

Then his tongue entered her mouth.  

She stiffened, drew back suddenly with a gasp, turned her face away.  

"I'm sorry," he said instantly, leaning back.  "I didn't mean--"

"No, it's okay," she hurried to reply.  "I...I just wasn't ready, I--"

"I'm sorry--"

"Mulder, it's fine--"

"No, I shouldn't have--"

"It's all right!" she said sharply, her face twisting to tears as
she clenched her eyes closed, her hands going to cover her face. 
"It's all right..." she said again, and her breath caught, shivered
out.  

She got a handful of his shirt, pulled him to her again, burying her
face in the fabric, her whole body shaking.  

"Okay..." Mulder whispered, holding her against him.  "It's
okay...just relax..."  

She clenched the shirt in her shaking fists, struggling for control.
After a moment, with a deep breath, she regained it. 

She would not let this consume her.  She owed herself that, for
everything she was.  She owed it to him.

She leaned back and looked at him, into his face, so etched with
concern.  

"I want to try again," she said softly, her voice quiet but steady
now.  

He swallowed.  For a moment she thought he might say no.   

Then he nodded.  

"Okay," he whispered, smiled at her, something sweet and sad in it.  

He leaned down again, their eyes never wavering.  

She nearly lost herself in his eyes as she saw herself through them.
Saw herself strong and whole. 

His look spoke to her as his face inched closer.

Let's begin, it said.  

Let's begin again.


**********

END 






AUTHOR'S NOTES

When I first started out to write a sequel to "Goshen," what I
wanted to take on was a Mulder and Scully relationship in its
maturity.  I'd written them at the beginning of their relationship as
lovers -- now I wanted to see how they would be a year later, how
being lovers would have affected their work, their interaction with
each other.  I chose to do this by putting the relationship in a sort
of trial by fire, in a circumstance where they were forced to be
separated, to see how the relationship would fit itself around a
series of distances placed within it.  That is what the undercover
operation is all about, obviously, but it's what other things are
about, as well.  Mulder being saddled with a new partner in Granger. 
Scully and her friendship with Mae when Mulder has been, for so long,
her entire world.  

The biggest distance placed between them was, however, the rape.  It
was written into the story to be the thing that would strike the
closest at what IS their bond with each other and would be the
ultimate invasion of their private world -- the thing they would have
to work the hardest to overcome.  Ninety-nine percent of you were
patient and trusted me enough to tell the story, and thus dealt with
this aspect of the plot.  I really appreciate that.  But in case its
presence still niggles at you, if it hasn't felt resolved in your
mind why the rape was in the story, I wanted to tell you outright why
it was there.  

The story was always intended to be a two-part venture.  It will
continue in "City of Light," which I will most likely begin writing
this summer.  I hope you'll join me again for that one to see how all
this plays out!  ;o) 


THANKS:

I want to begin by thanking you, the readers, for your enormous
support throughout the long nine-plus months I've spent writing this
story.  The emails I've received, the encouragement, the ideas that
people have put forth that have sometimes ended up changing little
things about the chapters as I went along...  It's been great getting
to know so many people through the writing of this.  Special thanks
to Linda, Kerri, Missy J, Jen, Stephanie, Nancy and Jean for the
stalking, the occasional deconstruction, and the cheerleading.  I
feel very lucky to have gotten to know you all.

I also want to thank people who have pitched in to beta parts of
this story.  To Heather for her early work on the story.  To Sue for
her later work.  To Beth for her hard work on various chapters and
for listening to me talk about this incessantly for all this time. 
To the people at XScenes for their early betaing and their support
through the writing of this.  

For research help:  Peggy, for all of her information about medical
issues, from what time the cafeteria closes in a hospital to how to
deal with a concussion.  To the wonderful people at Scullyfic, the
smartest crowd on the web -- where else can you post a question like:
"What's the dome of a cathedral called?"  and have someone actually
answer you within 10 minutes?  There was lovely person who helped me
with the locations in Boston, as well, whose name has escaped me. 
Thanks to her.  To Pam and Shari for their talk about Shelby Forest
and Millington, and to Gwoman for helping me with Richmond when my
poor addled brain forgot a place where I lived for so long it felt
like a lifetime.  To Dani, for sneaking around with me on sites you
do NOT want to visit to find out about how to make a truck bomb and
what kind of assault rifles are all the rage these days.  To Allyson
at UVa for talk about the Troubles.  The discussions about splits
solidified some elements of the story for me.   And to Dr. Pete
Mikulka for his discussions on serotonin and circadian rhythms.  The
drug and their side-effects, though completely fictional, were
loosely based on those discussions.

And finally -- to my three betas:

To Sheri for her help with storytelling and craft -- for her
enthusiasm and support and for being hard as hell on me and not
letting me get away with something easy and thus usually wrong.  For
the best editing one could hope to have.  I owe the cogency of this
book to her.  

To Shari.  If you liked the characterizations in this story, you
have her at least partly to thank for that -- she kept me honest with
them.  Also thanks to her for listening to my neurotic ramblings and
helping me find my way through this, for careful editing and
proofing, and for posting the story on the website for me every week -
- and then posting it "out there" when I could not manage to do it
myself!

And then to Dani -- the best friend I've ever made whom I've never
met -- for helping me with the plot of this story, for sharing in the
joy and frustration of writing it on a day to day basis, for being my
companion through it.  This story is dedicated to her.  

Thanks for reading.  It's been a really good time.


Bone

Bonetree@aol.com