Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 1.  

********

CITY OF LIGHT


"....My only advice is not to go away.
Or, go away.  Most

Of my decisions have been wrong.

When I wake, I lift cold water 
To my face.  I close my eyes.

A body wishes to be held, & held, & what
Can you do about that?

Because there are faces I will never see again,
There are two things I want to remember
About light, & what it does to us.

Her bright, blue eyes at an airport -- how they widened
As if in disbelief;
And her opening the gate to a lit & silent

City."  

        -- a variation on Larry Levis' "In the City of Light"



***********

NEAR JOSHUA TREE, CALIFORNIA
MOJAVE DESERT
MARCH 18
5:47 p.m.


The headlights of the ancient Bronco raked the cracked pavement in
front of it, piercing through the deep glow of the sunset over the
desert, the sky fading as if a shroud were being pulled down across
the wide white sun that hung cloudless on the horizon.  The truck was
moving fast, the engine thundering against the craggy tan of rocky
outcroppings that crouched around the road, the sound seeming to echo
through the open window on the driver's side.  

Whizzing past the window, the odd shapes of Joshua trees, gnarled
and spiked and bent at strange angles against the darkening sky. 
They stood on the barren landscape like wizened figures frozen in
place, the branches twisted and covered with their strange layers of
harsh green.  

Mulder watched them pass out of the corner of his eye, though his
gaze was shifting back and forth between the road ahead and the rear
view mirror.  He reached up and scrubbed at his beard nervously,
smoothing it down, a habit he'd picked up since it had grown out. 
Then his hand returned its iron grip on the steering wheel, guiding
the truck around a wide curve in the road that angled around another
small hill of rock and sand.  

He glanced to the side, at the woman on the wide bench seat beside
him.  Scully was sitting with her back against the door, her arm
thrown over the back of the seat, her gaze out the back window.  Her
face was grim, creased, as she stared behind them, her body tensed. 
He could see the muscles of her left arm shaking slightly as her hand
gripped the seat back.   

From the trembling, he knew how tired she was.  The shaking always
gave it away.  

"Anything?"  he asked finally into the silence between them.  

Scully kept her eyes on the road, said nothing for a long moment. 
He let the silence linger, trusting her to speak when she was
certain.  Trusting her.

They hadn't spoken since they'd left the highway 20 minutes ago,
heading down the shabby road that wound its way through Joshua Tree
National Park, one of the most desolate places Mulder had ever seen. 
Even with the weeks they'd spent in the desert, this place seemed the
most remote to him.  He felt as though they were the last two people
on earth.  

Right now, he hoped they were.

Finally, Scully turned in her seat, her arm coming down as she faced
forward again.  

"They didn't follow us," she said.  

The "they" she referred to was two policemen in a state police car
who had picked up their tail as they'd left Yucca Valley.  Scully had
seen them from the window of their tiny motel room there as two
policemen drove up and entered the office, asking the manager
questions as she watched them through the office's window.  

Mulder had been sleeping behind her when she suddenly sat down on
the side of the bed, pulling on her shoes as she spoke to him with
urgency.

"Mulder, we have to go.  We have to get out of here," she'd said,
and he'd bolted upright immediately in the bed at the sound of her
voice, its tone.  

"What is it?"  He wasn't even bleary as he asked it.   His nerves,
like hers, were constantly on edge.  

"Police.  Asking questions."  

He'd glanced at the window.  "Scully, it could be nothing," he tried
to soothe, putting a hand on her back.  She'd tensed at the touch and
risen, tossing a couple of things into her open suitcase on its
holder.  

"We can't take the chance," she said hurriedly, and her voice shook,
but not with tears.  Knowing there was no way to talk her out of her
panic once it gripped her, he rose and began to dress quickly.  

They were in the car and out of the motel, the key left on the
bureau, before the police could leave the office.  Everything had
seemed fine for the long moments as they wove toward the highway.  

Then the car had appeared, seeming to follow them.  It tailed them
onto the interstate, through the desert on the outskirts of a little
outpost town called Joshua Tree. 

It didn't follow them closely, but it did stay behind them, a
persistent presence in the rear view mirror.   

Mulder had watched it the entire way, his eyes hidden behind
sunglasses while the sun still shone brightly against the pale sand. 
For her part, Scully sat still in the seat beside him, her hair
tucked back into a small knot, the white dress shirt of his that she
wore accentuating the paleness of her skin.  Her white-knuckled hand
on the door handle was the only thing that belied her emotions.  

"I'm getting off this road," he announced as they left Joshua Tree
and entered the national park.  She nodded, reaching for the worn map
between them.  He'd pulled off onto a side road and sped out of sight
around a sharp curve before the police car could catch up with them
enough to notice the turn.  

Now he pulled off his sunglasses, tossed them on the dash
haphazardly, blowing out a breath at her announcement that they
hadn't been followed.  He didn't mean for it to sound as frustrated
as it did.  Scully's reaction, he could see as he glanced at her, was
immediate.  She stared down, suddenly intent on the map, her hands. 
 

"I'm sorry," she said softly, barely audible over the truck's huge
engine.  

He looked at her for a moment, then back at the road.  The desert
stretched out around them, the headlights seeming to brighten as the
sky continued to darken, the sun dipping below the horizon now, a
semicircle of white light.  

"It's okay," he replied gently, reached over to grip her trembling
forearm.  

"No," she said, shaking her head.  "I shouldn't have overreacted
like that."   She looked out the window, away from him as she spoke. 
"They were probably just following us because we left in such a
hurry."  

"You don't know that," he said, wishing she would look at him. 
"They could have been acting on a description of us.  You could have
been right."  

She shook her head again, looking down at where his hand touched her
arm.  Slowly she reached down and put her hand on top of his.  

"I know how tired you were," she murmured, her voice showing her own
exhaustion now as the tension receded.  "How much you needed to
sleep." 

He didn't disagree with that.  They'd been driving for hours, up
from El Centro near the Mexican border.  They'd avoided crossing the
border to stay away from Customs, who might have their descriptions. 
They had false identification thanks to the Gunmen, but there was no
way to hide their faces.  Though Mulder was trying with the beard. 

"How far until the next town going this way?"  he asked, moving his
arm back to the steering wheel to let her adjust the map.  She
reached up and flicked on the interior light, studied the map for a
long moment.  

"There's a place called Twentynine Palms coming up in about 50
miles," she said. 

"That's too close," he replied, shaking his head.  "In case you were
right about those cops, I'd like to put some distance from where we
were."  

She nodded.  "All right."  She returned her gaze to the map.  "Well,
if we're really going to head back into Arizona, the next closest
place is Parker.  It's on an Indian reservation -- we'd be safer
there.  It's about 180 miles, though.  Can you make it that far?" 
Her eyes filled with concern as she looked at him. 

He rubbed at his beard again, trying not to grimace.  "Yeah, I can
make it,"  he said with an assurance he didn't quite feel.   He
returned her gaze, forced a wane smile.  "You should lie down and get
some sleep, though.  I know you're running on fumes."  

Without meaning to, he glanced down at her hand, which was sending
the map into shivers.  She saw him looking at it and dropped her hand
into the shadows in her lap, hiding it from his view.  

He regretted his action immediately; she was very self-conscious
about the nerve damage to her hand caused by her exposure to Owen
Curran's drug.  The injury could end her career as a pathologist,
perhaps as an FBI agent.  It was something they tried not to discuss,
one of the many unspoken subjects that travelled with them, between
them.  

He cleared his throat, hoping to clear the moment with it.  

"I'll stay up with you," she said finally into the awkward silence,
flicked off the overhead light and settled into her seat a bit more. 
The interior of the car was washed in darkness now, the blue-white
lights of the dash giving their faces a ghostly glow.  

He turned to glance at her.  Her expression was a mask, unreadable.  

"All right," he replied softly, then returned his eyes to the road,
the headlights the only lights for as far as he could see.


**********

MESQUITE MOTEL 
PARKER, ARIZONA 
COLORADO RIVER INDIAN RESERVATION
9:45 p.m.


Mulder made his way slowly across the parking lot of the dingy
motel, the key to room 14 dangling from his limp fist.  He ached all
over, his back sore, his legs stiff in his worn jeans.  The edge of
his white t-shirt hung out one side of the waist band, dipping just
below the bottom of the denim jacket he'd picked up a few weeks ago
at a thrift shop in a town whose name he couldn't remember anymore.  

There were so many towns.   He'd lost count of them, as well.   

Almost two months on the road and his life had become a blur of sand
and highway, diners, midnight stops at gas stations, worn mattresses
and too-thin sheets.  His skin was deeply tanned now, and he'd begun
to notice the beginnings of creases around his eyes, the squinting
against the persistent sun and the strain of the life they were
living aging him, making him look care-worn.  

Between that and the beard he now wore, he sometimes barely
recognized himself in the gas station bathroom mirrors he passed. 
The face that stared back at him as he combed his lengthening hair in
mirrors of a dozen motels seemed strange to him.  Like he was turning
into someone else.  

He sighed with the thoughts, approaching the Bronco now.  He pulled
the creaking door open, startling Scully awake on the passenger side,
her head bolting up from where it had slumped against the back of the
seat.  

"Mulder?"  she asked quickly, breathless as her eyes scanned the
car, wide and bright in the dim parking lot lights.  

"Yeah, it's all right," he said softly, and climbed into the
driver's seat.  It was a big vehicle, and he did literally have to
climb into it, despite his height.  He reached over and handed her
the key and she took it.  

"The Presidential Suite, I assume?" she quipped.  

"Of course," he replied, playing along, glad for her attempt at
levity.  "Jacuzzi.  Waterbed.  Full dining room and sitting area. 
Room service all night."  

He watched her small smile and it warmed something cool in him. 

He put the car into reverse and backed it out slowly, struggling
with the lack of power steering once again.  He wound the wheel back
around and pulled down to the end of the parking lot, stopping in
front of the door marked 14 with crooked numbers, the paint chipped
on its front as the headlights glared at it.  

He turned the key and the engine grumbled into silence, hissing
softly beneath the hood.  

"I'll get the bags," he said.  "You go on in."   

She hesitated, but then nodded, sliding out of the truck to her
feet.  He watched her go to the door, open it and go into the room. 
After a few seconds a light switched on and he could see her
stretching at the foot of a bed, holding her lower back.  

It only took him a few moments to hustle their bags into the room,
close the door behind him and throw the lock and chain.  Scully came
forward, reaching for one of her bags.  She'd already gotten out of
her boots, a brown pair of what he referred to as "shitkickers" that
they'd picked up along the way.  They were so unlike her, like men's
construction boots, but they were practical for the kind of terrain
they were in.  Her usual array of pumps just wouldn't do in the
desert. 

Her other bag, the one full of her more formal clothes from the
undercover work, he set down by the door.  He only brought it in to
keep it from getting swiped from the car.  He had a suitbag that he
draped over a chair, also left forgotten, as he went to the bed with
his other suitcase.  He threw it down on the foot of it as he sat
heavily on the edge, peeling out of his jacket.  The t-shirt soon
followed, tossed with the jacket toward the other chair around the
chintzy table by the door.  

He put his arms up and closed his eyes, stretched like a cat,
yawning, listening to various things pop as he did so.  

When he opened his eyes, he saw Scully at the suitcase stand by the
dresser, holding a bottle of shampoo and conditioner, her toothbrush
and toothpaste in her hands.  But she was looking at him, a sad
expression on her face.  

"What is it?" he asked gently, rubbed at his bare chest with one
hand as he braced the other on the mattress beside him.  

She glanced away quickly, as though ashamed to have been caught
looking at him.  "Nothing," she said softly.  He saw color rise in
her cheeks.  "You just...you look..." She trailed off.

He looked at her, understanding.  Seeing his body had triggered
something in her.  Some feeling.  Something kin to desire.  

And desire was like a phantom pain to her.  

He smiled tenderly, taking her into his eyes.  "You do, too," he
murmured, and meant it.  He loved the way she looked wearing his
shirt, tied just at the waist of her jeans, loved the creamy triangle
of her chest it revealed, the cross shining against her skin.       
 

Loved her.  

His body ached for hers.  Sometimes it was like a physical pain, the
wanting.  Feeling her body so close to his as they slept at night,
but knowing he could do nothing but hold her, that he had to be
content with that.  

John Fagan had taken the rest of her -- of them -- away from him.  

At least for just the time being.  

Or so he hoped.  

He rose slowly and closed the distance between them, stopping a
small distance from her.  She was staring at the surface of the
dresser, avoiding his eyes as he approached.  

"Hey," he said softly, and reached up to brush an errant strand of
her hair behind her ear.  She didn't flinch at the touch, which he
took as a good sign.  She looked into his eyes, and he didn't see the
overwhelming fear there he sometimes did. 

"Can I kiss you?"  he murmured, keeping his fingers against her hair
at her temple.    

She smiled, but it was a sad smile, then closed her eyes as she
rubbed her cheek against his palm.  After a beat, she nodded, once.  

He took another step toward her and she turned to face him, setting
the bottles and things down on the dresser.  Reaching up with his
other hand, he cradled her face between them, rubbing at her temples
as he leaned in, brushed his lips against hers.  As their lips
touched, her eyes opened and he watched her face as he withdrew, his
eyes questioning.  

She met his gaze, nodded again.  Her hand came up to brush across
his cheek, stroking his short-cropped beard.  With that, he leaned in
again and kissed her in earnest, moving his lips against hers,
feeling her mouth open beneath his.  He waited for her tongue to
enter his mouth first, met it with his own as their faces angled,
first one way, then the other.

Her hand trailed from his cheek down to his shoulder, across his
chest, her palm settling against his breastbone, in the soft hair
there.  Her fingers curled in it.  

When they came up for air, he moved to her cheek, her ear.  "I love
you," he whispered to her like a secret.  He felt her small smile
against his cheek.   He kissed her below her ear and she shied away
slightly, shivering.  

"You okay?" he asked, freezing. 

"Yes," she replied, her voice low, the smile still on her face.
"That beard just tickles."   

"I thought you liked it," he said, his hands going down to her
waist.  They closed slowly on the curve of her hips.

"I do," she murmured.  "It's just...different.  It feels different
to me sometimes."  Her expression darkened suddenly, like storm
clouds coming in.  "A lot of things feel different.  Still..."  

He leaned his forehead against hers as she averted her eyes again. 
"I know," he said.  "I know they do."  He squeezed her hips slightly.
"It's just going to take some more time.  That's all."  

She nodded, withdrew from him, her hand falling away from his chest
as she shifted her body out of his grasp.  She picked up the items
from the dresser again and he stepped back reluctantly.  

The times when he actually got to touch her like that were so
seldom.  

He hid the disappointment from his face, the feeling just below it. 
The now-familiar anger that bordered on rage.  Not at her, of course,
but at everything that happened.  At Fagan.  Curran.  Padden.  At
this whole damn mess they were in.  

If they could settle in somewhere for long enough she might have
time to let it move through her, come to some sort of place in her
where she could move forward with it.  

But they had to keep moving.  For both their sakes.  

"I'm going to take a shower," she said, and he nodded, swallowing it
all down once again.  It was beginning to have a sore place in his
belly, his heart.  

"Okay," he said.  "I'll take one after you.  Watch the news."  

She nodded, brushed past him and headed to the small bathroom at the
back of the tiny room.  She closed the door behind her, something
sinking further in him with the sound of it closing.  

Shutting him out once again.  

He reached over and flicked the television on, scrolled through the
channels until he got to MSNBC.  Returning to the bed, he fished out
his pajama bottoms, clean boxers, just washed in a laundromat in
Tucson a few days before.  With that, he tossed the suitcase, open,
on the floor beside the bed and sat on the bed again, pulling off his
boots.  He fumbled with the straps on the ankle holster he wore and
set the gun and holster on the night table, the straps hanging down. 
Then he lay down, propping the pillow up behind him.  

They'd actually stayed in Tucson a couple of days, feeling anonymous
in the larger city.  It had been that feeling that had urged them
into California, thinking that perhaps being less of a couple of
"strangers in a strange land" would ease their minds.  

They knew immediately, however, that it was a mistake once they'd
crossed the border.  Much more law enforcement -- border patrol and
highway patrol -- motel and gas prices higher than their meager
budget could afford, few Indian reservations where the Federal
presence was all but nonexistent, places which they'd found had given
them some small measure of comfort, though they stood out and could
find few places to stay.  

In California, the towns were getting more populated, which made
them less conspicuous, but also exposed them to more people who might
recognize them from the photos Mulder had seen at a post office in a
town in Arizona called Red Rock.  He'd been there to rent a post
office box so the Gunmen could send them money without having to wire
it, which seemed more risky.  He and Scully were thinking they might
actually stay for a couple of weeks in that place to rest up and slow
down.  

Seeing the photos, he'd torn the sheet off the binder hanging on the
wall while the lone clerk was in the back, stuffed it in his pocket
and left in a hurry.  

They'd left the town that night, as well.  Moving on.  

He shifted on the pillow, throwing his arm behind his head to
cushion it when the flat, bumpy pillow would not, chewing his lip as
he thought about all this.  He stared at the television screen, his
eyes dry and tired.  He scrubbed at them with his other hand.  

The news was on, a prime-time news show.  So far nothing about
Curran, though they'd seen other reports about the manhunt for him on
other nights.  They'd yet to see something about themselves, for
which Mulder was relieved.

"They're keeping it quiet with the press, treating it as an internal
matter," Skinner had said the last time Mulder had spoken to him,
from a payphone at a gas station on the road a few days before.  "The
task force that's looking for you is pretty big, but they're not
making a lot of noise about it.  Granger's well again, working on it
with them now.  

"I don't think there's any press about you two because Padden's
trying to fly in under everyone's radar about this, hoping to get to
you before anything gets clear about his screw up with the embassy
bombing.  He's trying to get to Curran, too.  There *is* a lot of
pressure in the press about him, as you've probably seen."

"Yeah, we've been watching the news when we can," Mulder had
replied, standing beneath the lone light at the corner of the lot
while Scully bought coffee at the convenience store.   He remembered
his frustration peaking.  

"I can't believe there's nothing that can be done about these
charges."  He had been holding the flyer with their photos on it at
the time, read off it.  "‘Wanted for conspiracy to commit terrorism,
murder, attempted murder'?  What the fuck is this?  I can't believe
this would even stick."  

He stared at the pictures of he and Scully, Scully placed on the
sheet as an identifier for him -- "most likely travelling with..." --
in his description.  They'd used their official FBI photos, the
photos they'd worn for years on their badges now looking like
mugshots.

"I've gone to the Attorney General about it," Skinner'd replied
tensely.  "He trusts Padden more than he trusts me, more than he
trusts anyone.  He wants you caught.  Both of you.  He doesn't know
what Padden's up to with using Scully to get to Owen Curran.  I tried
to explain that to him and was told I was being ‘paranoid and
irrational'."

"Feels good, doesn't it?"  Mulder had replied darkly.  Skinner did
not reply.  

Mulder relented, watching Scully walk slowly through the parking
lot, two cups of coffee in her hands, glancing around nervously.  

"So I take it you're saying stay out again," he said dejectedly.

"I think if you come in, especially before Curran's caught, they're
going to string you up by your nuts, Mulder, and there's nothing
anyone will be able to do about it.  Padden can make anything stick
right now.  He's got his head so far up Ashcroft's ass, for one
thing, and for another, Ashcroft is new and will listen to just about
anything at this point.  

"And I don't have any proof you weren't involved.  Your trip into
the Grey Mouse that day is being used against you, incriminating you.
The fingerprints in Mae Curran's apartment.  Fagan.  All of it.  I
can't protect you, so I want you to stay out of sight."  

A pause.  "How's Scully holding up?"

"She's been better," Mulder said evasively.  Skinner didn't know
much of what had happened to her -- only that she'd been exposed to
the drug.  Nothing about the attack by Fagan. 

"Is she still having after-effects of the drug?"  

"Yes," Mulder replied softly.  "I think some of that might be
permanent.  But she won't talk about it."  

"I'm sorry to hear that," Skinner had replied, matching Mulder's
tone.  

They'd ended the call with a promise from Mulder to check back in a
week or so, getting off the line right as his coins ran out to pay
for the call.  

On the bed, he sighed, rubbed at his eyes again.  The news ended and
he turned off the television, letting silence come over the room. The
water went off in the shower, and a few moments later Scully emerged,
wrapped in a towel, her hair dried to damp.  

She crossed the room silently, went to her suitcase.  Her back
turned toward him, she rooted around in her suitcase for underwear, a
t-shirt.  Then she dropped the towel as she put them on.  

He watched her from the bed.  Her skin was pale where the sun had
not touched it.  Too pale.  He could see the outline of her spine
stark beneath the skin.  

"You've got to eat more, Scully," he said quietly, trying not to
sound reproachful.  He'd been watching her pick at her food for weeks
now.  "You can't afford to lose any more weight."  

"I know," she said, slipping the t-shirt over her head and then
turning to face him.  She could not meet his gaze, though.  "I'm
sorry.  I just don't feel like eating...I think it's still a holdover
from the drug...something..."  

He nodded, but knew she was avoiding the real reason.  Her sadness
and grief.  Over what had happened to her.  Over what it appeared
they were losing or had already lost.  

He understood the feelings.  Despite the kiss they'd shared before
she went into the shower, sometimes he felt like she were simply
drifting away from him along with the rest of his life.  

"I'll try to eat more," she said, coming toward the bed now, going
to the other side and pulling back the pilled, faded coverlet and
sheets and slipped beneath them.  She turned on her side, facing him.
He was relieved when she touched his forearm, which was draped across
his belly.  

He reached for her hand, pulling his arm down from behind his head,
lifted her hand  to his mouth, kissed her knuckles gently, rubbed
them against lips.  She made a soft sound in response, though he
could not tell if she intended it or not.  

"I'm going to go shower real fast," he said, curved his arm over her
head, fingering the damp red strands of her hair.  "You go ahead and
go to sleep.  Don't wait for me."  

She nodded, her eyelids drooping already.  "Mm...okay," she mumbled
softly.  He leaned over and kissed her forehead, then rose, pulling
his toiletries bag out of his suitcase and throwing his pajama pants
and boxers over his shoulder.  He padded in his socks toward the
bathroom. 

"Mulder?" she called from the bed, her voice edged with sleep.

He turned back to look at her.  "Yeah?"

She didn't move as she spoke.  "I love you, too."  

He stood there for a few seconds, a faint smile coming to his face. 
Then he headed for the bathroom, left the door open.


***********

END OF CHAPTER 1.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2.  


Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 2. 


*********

FBI HEADQUARTERS 
WASHINGTON, D.C. 
MARCH 19 
9:16 a.m.


The tour group wound its way through the corridors of the massive
building, stopping here and there in front of glass display cases
with various exhibits on the history of the agency.  The tour guide
was a woman in her mid-thirties dressed in a formal suit, which
matched her tone and the general mood of the tour.  

Among the smattering of young boys and their fathers, the tourist
couples -- some American, some not -- a young African-American man
stood hanging near the back, paying only passing attention to the
exhibit presently being shown to the group, one of J. Edgar Hoover
himself.  

Sans tutu, the man thought wryly, enjoying his private joke, despite
the tension coursing through him.  

They were on the right floor now.  It was just a matter of slipping
away.

The group began to move on down the hallway, the woman referring to
some of the more innocuous offices housed on the floor, promising
they'd pass the fingerprinting labs on the floor above.  

Drifting back even farther, Paul Granger took a step into an open
doorway, an office presently unoccupied.  He stood at the door as he
heard the woman's voice receding down the hallway, the softening
footfalls of the group as they headed toward the elevator.  He heard
it ding as it arrived, then the woman's voice disappeared completely
behind the soft thud of the closing doors.  

Relieved, he stepped out of the office, his hand going to pluck the
"Tour" badge off the collar of his coat.  He stuffed it in his pocket
as he looked at where he was on the floor, orienting himself.  

The office he wanted was down that way, he decided, looking to the
right.  He turned and walked in that direction, his eyes darting at
the faces around him from behind his small silver spectacles.  

He limped slightly as he went down the corridor, his newly healed
leg still hampering him.  It had come along more slowly than his arm
had, the shoulder responding to the physical therapy much better
since the injury he'd sustained there had been at a joint.  The break
in the leg was at the shin, held together with a plate, and the
healing was slower, the pain still nipping at him as his weight rose
and fell off it.

He got a few strange, vaguely suspicious looks as he went down the
corridor, though he did his best to appear as though he belonged
there.  The casual clothes he'd worn to the building to blend in with
the tour group were making him stick out now that he was among
nothing but FBI agents.  

He fingered the CIA badge in his coat pocket, secure that it was
there should he need it.  He just hoped he didn't.  No one was
supposed to know he was there, and he didn't feel like advertising
it. 

He reached the office he was looking for, went in, saw the secretary
look up with surprise as he entered.  She scanned him for a Visitor's
badge of some kind, and he spoke as her mouth opened to do the same.  

"I'm here to see Assistant Director Skinner," he said.  

"Do you have an appointment, Mister...?"  the woman, a redhead who
reminded him vaguely of Scully, asked. 

"Granger,"  he replied.  "Paul Granger.  No, but he'll know who I
am."  

The woman looked at him doubtfully for a few more seconds, taking in
his attire, his face, then she reached for the phone, pressed a
button.  He just hoped it wasn't the hot button for Security.  

"Sir, there's a Mr. Granger to see you," she said, her eyes not
leaving Granger's face.  He could hear a voice in the receiver after
a beat of silence. 

"Yes, sir, I'll send him in."  She hung up, looked toward the door.  

"You can go on in, Mr. Granger," she said. 

Granger thanked her, went to the door and opened it.  Skinner was
behind his desk, a pen in his hand, his jacket off.  He put the pen
down and stood as Granger closed the door, came forward.  

Skinner did not reach out his hand.  

"What are you doing here, Agent Granger?"  he asked by way of
greeting, his jaw tight.  He looked around as though there were
someone in the office who might see them, then leveled his gaze on
the younger man again.  

Granger looked down, nodded. This was exactly the reaction he'd
expected.  

"No one knows I'm here," he said, met Skinner's eyes.  "And no one
ever will."  

"You signed in when you came in, didn't you?"  Skinner snapped.  

"A Mr. Andreas signed in, with a tour group," Granger replied, and
Skinner looked at him a few seconds longer.  Finally, he seemed to
relax a little, though not much.  He gestured to a chair in front of
his desk.  

"Have a seat," he said, though there was nothing warm in the
invitation. Skinner was on edge.  Very on edge.   

"I'm not going to ask you where they are," Granger offered as he
sat.  

Skinner hesitated, then returned behind his desk and sat down
himself, leaning on his elbows on the desk, as though he were poised
to leap up at any second.  

"That's good, because I don't know where they are," Skinner bit out.
 "And frankly, if I did, I sure as hell wouldn't be telling you."   

Granger nodded.  "I understand that.  I wouldn't want you to.  I
don't want them found either.  Not yet."

Skinner grunted. "How are you going to manage not to look for them
when you're the Chief Profiler on the case?  You can't play dumb and
fuck around forever." 

"I don't plan to play dumb or fuck around," Granger replied evenly. 
He leaned back in his chair.  "I'm going to be looking for them, but
not for Padden.  I want to find them myself.  When a few things are
in place.  And the resources of the task force are the best way to do
that." 

Skinner's eyes narrowed behind his glasses.  "I'd like to believe
that, Agent Granger," he said, folding his hands in front of him. 
"But frankly I'm having a hard time trusting you in all this."  

"I'm sure you're having a hard time knowing who to trust at all at
this point, yes," Granger replied.  "I am, as well.  And I know I'm
not exactly at the top of your list because I've accepted this
assignment in the first place."   

He met Skinner's eyes seriously.  "But you are at the top of mine."  

Skinner looked to the side and shook his head.  "How do I know you
weren't sent here by Padden to scope me out, see how I'd react, to
see if I know anything? How can I trust that?"

"I can't make you believe me, except to give you my word,"  Granger
said, looking at him hard, trying to meet Skinner glare for glare,
something he couldn't have done a few months ago.  

These days, he felt much older than his 33 years, like he'd aged ten
years in the past three months, in his body and his mind. The green
agent who had scuttled after Mulder across Richmond, nearly
scattering papers from folders in his wake, was all but gone now.  He
was much wiser, and not all the wisdom he'd gained was for the
better.   

Skinner was looking at him, as though trying to decide whether to
believe him.  He didn't seem to come to any decision as he mirrored
Granger's action by leaning back in his chair.    

"Then what is that you want from me?"  He asked it quietly, his eyes
still narrowed.  

Granger drew in a deep breath, taking the plunge.  This was, after
all, what he'd risked coming here for in the first place.

"I wanted to tell you a theory about how it is they're going to get
caught." Granger leveled his eyes again.  "To reassure you as
Assistant Director that your fugitive agents will be found if they
keep doing what they're doing."  

Skinner stared.  

"All right," he said carefully.  "Tell me your theory."

"If they *didn't* want to get caught, they'd have to stop moving
around at some point," Granger said. "They think they're doing the
right thing, but they're not.  Not anymore. There have been a few
reports from places out west of couples vaguely meeting their
descriptions possibly passing through here and there.  Their moving
around constantly may keep them from Curran, but it's going to make
it easier for the task force to find them."  

Skinner picked up his pen, suddenly fascinated by it.  His jaw
muscles were pulsing. Granger pressed on.  

"Agencies in those areas have been fully briefed and are looking for
them, including the local police.  They're looking *hard,*
circulating pictures to motels, restaurants, gas stations. 
Blanketing the area.  The more mobile Mulder and Scully seem, the
less settled they are, the more they're going to arouse suspicion. 
And the greater the chance of them stopping at a motel where the
manager has a flyer with their faces on it taped to the desk.  Moving
is exposing them to more people.  Staying put somewhere will expose
them to less."  

He lowered his voice to just above a whisper.  "You might want to
pass that along if you get the opportunity."

Skinner looked away again, dropped the pen.  "That's an interesting
theory you have about their activities, Agent Granger," he said
nonchalantly before glancing back.  "But seeing as how I have no
contact with them -- that having contact with them and not revealing
that information would cost me my career and probably my freedom for
aiding and abetting a Federal fugitive -- I don't know how I would
relay that information even if I were so inclined to do so."  

Granger nodded.  "Of course, sir," he replied.   

He rose, reached his hand across the desk now.  

"You know I didn't say any of this," he said softly.  

Skinner reached out and shook his hand now.  "I understand."  

Granger nodded again and headed slowly for the door.   

"Agent Granger," Skinner said to the younger man's back.  Granger
turned to face Skinner again, his eyes questioning.

"Be careful."  Skinner's tone was firm, his voice low.  "You're
standing with one foot on the dock and the other on the boat.  And
you know how that always ends up."

Granger quirked a smile.  "Not always, sir.  But thank you for the
warning."

**

9:50 a.m.

In the car now, fighting the late flex-time shift on the Teddy
Roosevelt Bridge, Granger drummed his fingers on the steering wheel,
not even reacting as a car swerved around him in the fast lane,
nearly cutting him off in its attempt to punish him for driving too
slowly.  

His mind just wasn't on the road. 

His heart was still thumping a little hard, the fear he'd had over
the risks he was taking still working in him.  He'd managed to hold
the feeling down until he'd returned to his car and taken off through
the city.  

But then it had hit him, the reaction delayed by his need to seem
completely in control of the situation in front of Skinner.  

What the hell am I doing? he thought, shaking his head.  

His hand went to his forehead, wiping at the sheen of sweat that had
appeared there, despite the chill still in the air in the Washington
early spring.   He moved over into the right-hand lane as the sign
for the George Washington Parkway appeared, took the exit.  

He would be at CIA Headquarters by 10:15 at the latest.  Late, but
then he'd only been back at work for a few days since coming off
medical leave.  They were going easy on him so far, giving him light
duty, not pressuring him too much, letting him leave early when he
got too tired.  

But then he'd yet to see Padden.  And that was going to change this
morning.   That was why he'd chosen this particular morning to risk
going to see Skinner -- it was the last chance he'd have before he
had the NSA Director breathing down his neck, no doubt watching his
every move.

If he wasn't already.

They'd spoken on the phone several times over the course of
Granger's recuperation from his injuries sustained in the bombing,
mostly for Padden to ask him questions about his involvement with
Mulder while they were working together in Richmond.  

Padden was slowly, methodically, building his case against Mulder,
doing everything he could to make every move Mulder had made in
Richmond seem suspect.  

"So what you're saying, Agent Granger," Padden said during one such
phone call, "is that you actually have no idea where Mulder was
during that period of time on January twelfth to the thirteenth." 

The day Mulder had gone to the mountains, needing "a day off," he'd
said.  

Granger remembered sitting up quickly from where he was reclined on
his bed, the Flyers playing on the television, as he realized what
Padden was implying.  

"I've told you where he was.  He was in D.C. on a personal matter. 
Begging your pardon, sir, but how many times do you want me to tell
you the same thing?"   

That had been the cover story he'd used that day when he did not, in
fact, know where Mulder had been.  

"‘A personal matter' could mean a lot of things, Agent Granger,"
Padden replied.  He'd sounded almost smug.  

Granger sighed now, remembering the conversation, the car speeding
along the parkway, a view of the Potomac off to his right, the river
dark, surrounded by bare trees on the banks.  

There had been nothing he could do for Mulder except, it seemed, dig
him in deeper.  When he held anything back, he could tell Padden knew
it; when he told the truth, Padden skewed it, finding the holes in
what Granger knew and filling them with his own agenda.  

The truth of the matter was that Granger could prove nothing, had
nothing beyond his own unwavering trust in Mulder and his word.  So
many things he actually didn't know for certain.  Whether Mulder had
actually been at the airport that morning when John Fagan was killed.
Whether he'd really been in the mountains those two days in January
as he'd said.  What he'd done the day he'd gone into the Grey Mouse
after Fagan.   

And though Granger had explained Mulder's reasoning about the
bombing, mapped out for Padden how Mulder had figured out that it
would be the Irish Embassy that was going to attacked and not the
British as Padden had insisted, Padden saw Mulder's tip-off as a last-
minute change of conscience of a man who had been in on the planning
of it all along. 

And the fact that Mulder was running didn't help his case very much,
though Granger knew he was running for Scully's sake and not his own.
 He knew that Mulder would do anything to guarantee his partner's
safety.  

His lover's safety, he thought sadly.  

Though Mulder had never spoken of it, or even hinted at it, Granger
had spent enough time with him, and was interested enough in how he
ticked, to know this fact to be true.  

He had, of course, told no one.

He took the Chain Bridge exit, and the sign for the George Bush
Center for Intelligence, the fairly new CIA headquarters where
Padden's multi-agency task force was based, came into view.  His hand
tightening on the steering wheel, he blew out another frustrated
breath.  

What he needed was evidence of where Mulder had been.  Beyond what
had been said.  It was the only way to combat Padden and the frame he
was putting Mulder in.

That's what he'd meant when he'd told Skinner that he didn't want
Mulder and Scully found until "some things were in place."  

A lot of things.  

He didn't know what they were yet, these things he would need to
find.  

But find them he would.  


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

OATMAN, ARIZONA 
ROUTE 66 
11:38 a.m.


When Scully was a child and on the road in the back seat of her
parents' station wagon, she didn't watch the landscape, the trees
that crowded the highways, but rather she watched the road itself.   

She watched the intermittent white lines that bisected the road they
drove on, speeding past, going in the opposite direction than the one
she was travelling.  In her child's mind, she imagined them as cars
on a train filled with passengers, all fleeing from where she was
headed, as though fleeing her unforeseeable future.  

Here, the pavement was cracked and the lines faded somewhat from
sunlight and neglect.   She continued to watch them, the lines
fleeing beside her as Mulder aimed the truck down the highway from
the fast lane.  Her eyes hidden behind sunglasses, a black baseball
cap that Mulder had bought her in a truck stop weeks ago hiding her
still-red hair and blocking her face from the constant sun, she
leaned against the door.  Her gaze was fixed on the road, and she
felt the same feeling of dread she'd felt as a child wash over her at
what lay up ahead.  

She'd had the same feeling for weeks, her life feeling like an
endless highway now, the moments of it like the hundreds of towns
they'd driven through in the past two months, each separate but
beginning to run together in a colored blur of light, neon lights
that beckoned to them from the road as they drove past late into the
many nights.

Mulder was humming tunelessly to a song she didn't know on the
radio.  One he clearly didn't know either.   His mind was obviously
elsewhere, put there by the quiet that had stretched between them for
50 miles or so now.  

She wasn't much on talking these days, and the silence between them,
which he seemed to have reluctantly grown to accept, pained her.  

Many times she would have a thought -- a memory of something they'd
done together, a story from childhood, a case they'd worked on -- and
she would open her mouth to speak, and the sound would simply fade
from her throat, her lips closing to the grim line they'd assumed
since they'd left Tennessee.  

There was so much she both did and did not want to tell him.  The
unspoken things, all of them, building a wall between them, brick by
brick.  She knew he felt it, too.  She would feel him looking at her
as they lay spooned in the bed together, or see him watching her
sometimes from behind his sunglasses as they drove.  

As he was doing now.  

The familiar blue square of a roadsign signalling food and gas up
ahead came into view, riddled with shotgun pellet holes.  She
couldn't see over the next rise, but knew what she would find there. 
A lonely restaurant and a three-pump gas station that made you pay
before you pumped. 

"You hungry?"  Mulder asked from beside her, his voice sounding out
of place after so many miles of faint music and loud engine. 

She glanced back at him, trying to ignore the concern that
constantly tugged at his gaze.  "Sure," she replied, forced a smile.

"Okay, we'll stop then," he said, clearly pleased, and shifted in
the seat as though his body were already anticipating leaving the
truck.    

She returned her eyes to the road, nodding.    

She really wasn't hungry.  She rarely was anymore, as though that
part of her connection to her body had gotten somehow crossed, the
signals that her body needed something rarely making it to her.   

Only the ghost of longing reached her sometimes, Mulder's hand on
her leg, his legs twining with hers as he slept, their bodies pressed
together.  

Sometimes even that was too much for her, and she would rise, sit on
the side of the bed, or retreat to a table in the motel room, wait
for him to roll over in his sleep, lose his contact with her
completely, before she slipped back into the bed, curled on the edge
like a comma as far away from him as she could get, hiding the tears
behind her hands.      

She felt her eyes burning with the thought, and she pushed it away
hard, back down with the rest of the things she could not think
about.  Turning her head farther away from where Mulder might see the
suspicious shine of her eyes, she looked out over the desert,
squinting against the light reflecting off the sand.  

Along the sides of the highway and stretching off into the distance,
yellow and orange poppies at the feet of the cacti and sagebrush,
purple stalks of lubine.  It had rained a lot in the past month -- a
lot for the desert -- and the hard husks of the seeds had been forced
open by the moisture, the flowers' tough heads coming up through the
sand to wash the tan earth with their colors.  

At least that's what one of the motel managers had told her when
she'd asked about the flowers.   She had never thought of them being
in the desert before, and had said so.  The manager had beamed as he
spoke of them, clearly pleased with the development himself.  

She smiled now as she remembered that, smiled at the colors that
stretched up onto the hillsides in patches.  After so many weeks of
the desolation, the tiny change thawed her a bit. 

They reached the top of the rise and the restaurant and gas station
appeared off to the right.  The ubiquitous "Get Your Kicks On Route
66" sign was proudly displayed out front, the restaurant called the
Circle J.  

Mulder slowed and pulled off into the dirt lot, parked the truck in
a space at the front of the ramshackle structure.  There were only a
few cars in the lot, a couple of hulks of RVs sitting parallel to the
road, encrusted with dust.  

No one looked up as they entered, the place filled mostly with
tourists, it appeared, so they didn't stand out very much.  Scully
took her sunglasses off as a woman behind the counter, hippy with a
kind smile, gestured toward the wooden booths.  

"Sit anywhere you like," she said, her smile touching her voice. 
Scully smiled back, followed Mulder to a booth near the back, one
he'd clearly chosen because it was secluded from the rest of the
restaurant.  

They slid in and Mulder removed his sunglasses, tossed them on the
table near the salt and pepper shakers in their cage and the half-
empty bottle of Heinz.  

The same woman, "Sue," her nametag read, came up and laid two huge
menus in front of them both, still smiling kindly.  She took their
drink orders -- coffee for both of them.  

"Where you all headed?  You look like you've been on the road for
days."  

"Grand Canyon," Mulder replied immediately.  

Scully stifled a smirk at that.  They'd been on their way to Grand
Canyon for two months now.  It was, to her, the most elusive place on
earth.

"Oh, you'll love it," Sue said expansively, putting the order pad to
her chest as she said it for effect.  "Take the mules down, though. 
Don't try to walk it."  

Scully smiled to her again, picturing she and Mulder on mules with
cameras dangling from their wrists.  

"We'll remember that," she said.  

Sue drifted off, and Scully watched her go until Mulder opened up
the menu in front of her.   She did the same out of sheer habit.  

"No salads, okay?" Mulder said gently, looking at her earnestly over
the top of the menu.  

She nodded, letting his nagging slide over her, if only because she
knew he was right that that was what she'd order.  It was what she
usually ordered.  They were easier to pick at for some reason, didn't
turn her stomach like most road fare did.  

She would try.  She needed to try.  

Her own body felt strange to her, her clothes beginning to hang from
the juts of her shoulders, her too-thin waist.  She was in another
one of Mulder's shirts today, this one blue, a white tank top beneath
it.  Wearing his clothes, which would seem too big to her anyway,
made her body feel not quite so changed. 

It was also, she thought, like being close to him without actually
having to touch him.  

The thought made her flustered, her eyes darting from the window
where'd she'd been staring back to the menu, as though she were
afraid he might read the her mind.  He was still watching her,
something pained in his eyes, and for an instant she thought he
really had.

Sue returned with two glasses of water filled with ice, two steaming
cups of coffee.  Dropping a handful of creamers in a little pile at
the edge of the table, she reached for her pad.

"What can I get you?"  

Mulder ordered a pizza burger, a side of fries.  Scully looked down
at the menu as he did so until Sue turned to her.   The chicken
burrito seemed appealing in a vague sort of way.  She decided on
that.  

Sue took the menus away, leaving them with nothing but the coffee
and creamers to tinker with.  Scully fingered a creamer, rolling the
cool plastic of it between her fingers.  She looked down at it, the
movement obscuring most of her face beneath the rim of the cap she
still wore.   

As always, her hand shook slightly, sending the pale liquid inside
the container into ripples as she tore at the paper top with her good
hand.

"You okay?"  Mulder murmured.  

She nodded, dumping the cream into the thin coffee.   "I'm all
right, Mulder," she replied.  "Really."  The last she said as she met
his gaze tiredly.

He shook his head, pursing his lips.  "I think we need to stop
somewhere for a few days again," he said.  "I think we could both use
a couple of days or so of not moving around."

"I'm really okay," she insisted quietly, picked up a spoon and
stirred, staring into her coffee as the light swirled into the dark. 
"If you need to stop, it's fine, but--"

"I think we *both* need to stop," he replied, his voice just
slightly firmer now.  She looked back up at him as his tone shifted.  

She set the spoon down.  

"Look," he said, leaning closer.  "I know you're trying to tough
this out and pretend like what we're doing isn't affecting you, but I
can tell it is.  It has been for weeks now.  You're so pale and you
seem so exhausted--"

Instinctively, she pushed her damaged hand beneath the table, anger
coming over her at his insinuation, looked out the window, her jaw
set hard. 

"And this isn't about your hand, either," Mulder said instantly,
clearly frustrated. "I'm talking about *you,* Scully."   His hand
reached across the table, gripped her right arm at the wrist.  "It's
like you're getting further and further away from me every day that
goes by."  

"I'm just tired," she bit out, hating the defensiveness of her tone
as she looked at him sharply.  "You are, too.  What else do you
expect me to say?"  

He didn't take the bait of her tone, but shook his head instead.

"Scully, you have to talk to me."  His voice was a little desperate
now, softer.

His hand went from her wrist to her hand, his fingers weaving into
hers.  She watched his fingers moving over hers, her hand looking and
feeling like that of a figure made of wax.  

"You have to talk to someone about what happened in Richmond," he
pressed into the quiet.   "All of it.  If we were home, there would
be people you could talk to besides me, but I'm all you've got and I
want to be here for you."    

She hesitated for a moment, her mouth opening and closing as it did
in the truck.  They were in dangerous territory now.  An unexplored
country.   

She took in a breath, let it out slowly.  

"There are some things I can't talk about with you, Mulder," she
said, her voice flat, monotone.  

"I can take hearing them," he said, gave her hand a squeeze.

"But I can't take telling them," she replied immediately, implored
him with her eyes.  "And I'm not as sure as you are that you could
take hearing them, either.  Try to understand, please...."

"I'm trying to understand," he replied, that same tone of quiet
desperation in his voice.  "I *want* to understand.  But you won't
let me in, Scully.  I can feel you shutting me out."  

He took a breath, seemed to hesitate for a beat, then spoke anyway.  

"And it scares me."  

"I'm sorry."  It was all she could think of to say after a moment.  

"You don't have to be sorry," he replied.  "I just don't want you
any further away than you are already.  I feel like I can still get
to you sometimes...like last night.  But..."

The memory of the night before entered her mind, his mouth moving
over hers, her hands skimming across the flat, hard plane of his
chest.  For a moment she had felt like herself again.   Remembering
it cracked a door in her, something warm coming in. 

"I'm not going anywhere, Mulder," she said, and now she did squeeze
his hand, met his gaze.   "Okay?"  

He looked at her doubtfully for a few seconds, then nodded.  "Okay."  

She pulled her hand away to pick up her coffee, and he did the same.
Despite what he'd said, she would not put her left hand back on the
table.  

"And we can stop, if you want to," she added.  "We both could use
the rest.  And besides, we're getting low on money again.  It's time
for another phone call."  

Sue returned, a plate in each hand, which she set down before them. 
Her arrival halted his reply.  

"There you go," Sue said, her cheerfulness now plucking Scully's
already taxed nerves as it contrasted too starkly against the
conversation they'd been having.  "Let me know if you need anything
else."  

"We will, thank you," Mulder replied, forced a wan smile at her.  He
was feeling the same way, she could tell. 

When she was gone, Scully stared down at her plate, the smell of the
burrito drifting up at her, thick and heavy.  Her mouth went dry as
she set down the mug, fingered her fork as if she wasn't sure how to
use it.  The rest of her was still. 

"Scully," he said softly after a minute had passed.  "Please."  

She looked up at him, at the worry in his face.  She wanted to make
that expression, the one that made him look so tired, so sad, go away
any way she could.  

She did her best to eat.  


***********


END OF CHAPTER 2.   CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 3.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 3. 

********

UNKNOWN LOCATION 
NEAR ALDER CREEK, COLORADO 
MARCH 20 
6:13 a.m.


The sheet of blowing flakes outside the window and the quiet that
accompanied it were nothing new to the man as he rose in the rickety
bunk.  The wood stove crackled and hissed in the center of the tiny
cabin as a nearly spent log fell within it, sending out an answer of
red flakes that the man saw through the cracks of its ancient door.  

He stretched, the sleeves of his thermal top sliding up his arms as
he reveled in the simple pleasure of the wave of heat coming from the
stove.  He could feel the cold wind pushing itself through the flimsy
windowpane, the flakes gathering on the sill, the heavy snow and its
wind pressing in around him.  

It was something he'd grown used to, this endless view of white. 
There was something lonely in it that appealed to him, the blankness
of it reminding him of nothing, the landscape like cold amnesia.  

He was reminded of nothing by his surroundings, but this did not
mean he was in the practice of forgetting.  In fact, he forgot
nothing.  He never had.  

Pushing his legs from beneath the blanket, he reached for his jeans,
which were thrown across the foot of the bed.  He pulled them on over
the long-john bottoms he wore, thick white cotton covering his legs,
the denim lined with flannel.   Standing, he pulled the pants up to
his trim waist, fumbled with the belt until it was fastened tight
around him.  

He noticed that he had grown leaner as he tugged on his two shirts,
the clothes hanging on him despite the layers.  It was the travelling
he'd done, the time spent helping keep this place running, this small
outpost tucked in the remote crags of the Rockies.  

He'd worked hard while he'd been here, proving himself, becoming one
of these people as best he could while he bided his time.   

Waiting.   Waiting for word.  

He went to the window, looked out over the main area of the compound
through the snow, the lazy smoke coming from the chimney of the mess
hall, the largest building on the compound.  Breakfast was already
on, the cooks usually up by five to start the meal for the 46
inhabitants of this place.

He went to the military locker in the corner of the small room,
fumbled through the few provisions he kept there for himself, his
small collection of personal effects.  On the top shelf, a tin of
Twinings Breakfast Tea, which he pried open, stuffing two of the soft
bags into his jeans pockets.  

As he replaced the tin, his eyes fell on his wallet, which sat
against the far edge of the shelf.  There was no need for money where
he was, so he rarely carried the wallet, rarely looked at it. 
Something made him want to this morning, some pang of feeling which
he usually kept buried, deep as the ground around him was buried in
snow.  

The snap and crackle of the fire in the stove the only sound around
him, he drew the wallet out, flipped it open.  

The picture was right there.  Tucked in its leather slot.  The boy
in the picture was laughing, his aunt, on whose lap he sat, having
tickled him to prompt the wide-open laugh captured there.  

The man smiled despite himself as he looked at the boy's face, at
the conspiratorial look the woman gave the camera.  

Then, beneath the heat of a dull rage, the smile melted away.  

He replaced the photo in its slot, fingered the one behind it by the
corner, pulled it out halfway.  

A woman.  The most beautiful smile he'd ever seen in his life.  Red
hair ruffled by the wind, her blue eyes looking at something just to
the side of the camera.  Her small body was leaning against the
doorway of a stone house, her dress a deep green, accentuating the
pale of her arms.  

Unlike the boy's grin, this smile was prompted by nothing but him.  

He was the person she'd been looking at when the picture was snapped
the morning of their wedding all those years ago, the layer of green
ivy curling up the side of the house and arching up around her over
the doorway to his parents' house.  

He felt his eyes burning, which surprised him.  He thought he'd gone
beyond feeling anymore.  The picture grew distorted before he
blinked, distorted just enough to alter the face slightly in his
vision and in his mind's eye.  

Another woman.  Beautiful.  Red hair and blue eyes.  Her small body
leaned across a table at a pub in Richmond, looking shyly into her
glass of beer as he studied her from across the crowded bar.  She had
always been aware when he was looking at her, it seemed, her guard
always up against him.  

Now he knew why.

The rage in him swelled again.  He rubbed hard at his eyes just in
case any trace of sentiment still remained.  

Tucking the picture back down and away, he put the wallet in the
locker, closed the metal door with a hollow sound.  

The woman in the bar's was the face he carried with him now.  Not
his wife's, though Elisa's face had driven him for many years in the
things he had done.  

Now he had a new one to take her place.  An FBI agent named Dana
Scully.  The woman his sister, Mae, had betrayed him for, helping
Scully escape and stealing his son away.  

And leaving his best friend, John Fagan, missing in the process. 
He'd waited for Fagan at the rendezvous point for over a day, a motel
on the outskirts of a town in western Virginia where they'd decided
to meet if they got separated.  Fagan had never shown.  And Fagan had
*always* shown.  

Curran could only assume he was dead.  

He hoped to God it was Dana Scully who was responsible for that and
not Mae.  But knowing how careful John had been, how much he would
have planned his approach on Scully, a part of him wondered if it was
Mae who had caught him by surprise, the attack he wouldn't have been
expecting.  

Just thinking about it made him tremble with rage.  

Revenge had always driven him, but it had never been as urgent as it
was now.  Elisa had died, after all.  Murdered by people he'd spent
the last five years planning on punishing.  

His boy, Sean, was still alive out there somewhere, just beyond his
sight, his reach.  

And without Sean, he felt completely lost.  

Without Fagan, the feeling was made even worse.  

And without punishing the people responsible for Sean and Fagan's
loss, he felt even more incomplete, like half the person he'd been
before.  

Half a man.  

And he wanted to be whole again.   

Turning, Owen Curran went to the stove, tossing in a few more small
logs so that the cabin would still be warm when he reentered after
his meal.  Then, shouldering into his heavy army parka, he unlatched
the door and entered the world of blinding white.  


**********

WHISTLE STOP INN 
WILLIAMS, ARIZONA 
8:34 a.m.


The bell on the door to the manager's office jangled loudly as
Mulder pushed his way through it with his shoulders, his arms full
with groceries he'd just purchased from the small market across the
main road.  He had a smaller bag filled with danishes in his teeth, a
cup of coffee in each hand, which he set down on the counter to free
them.  He put the bag of danishes in between them carefully, so as
not to topple the bags in his arms. 

As he placed the groceries on the floor in front of the desk, the
manager -- an older man with a wisp of hair combed over his bald
spot, thick glasses, and a toothy, amiable smile -- came out from the
back office where'd he'd been stretched out in a green recliner,
watching a small black and white television.  

"Help you with something, Mr. Garrett?”  he asked Mulder, putting
his hands on the counter, framing the cups of coffee in his arms.  

Mulder was fingering a rack of pamphlets on the counter, all
advertising attractions in the Williams/Flagstaff area.  He smiled
faintly to the manager -- Barry, John Barry, Mulder remembered now --
as he did so.  

"I'm just looking for some things to do around here," Mulder
replied.  "Some things to see."  

"Oh, there's plenty to see around here,"   Barry said
enthusiastically.  "The biggest thing we've got here in Williams is
the train that goes all the way up to The Canyon.  Right to the South
Rim.  But if you want to go out a little further around Flagstaff,
there's some other things to see."  

That sounded a little too touristy for Mulder's liking, a little too
public, though he would have loved to have finally seen Grand Canyon
after driving around it for so many weeks.  He thought they needed a
diversion, something to give he and Scully a sense of normalcy for
even a few hours, but the thought of piling into the old-fashioned
steam engine he saw on the front of the pamphlet with a dozen
families from Kansas to go see one of the most heavily visited
national parks in the country wasn't his idea of a diversion. 

Being around so many people would probably cause them both more
stress -- and expose them to more risk of being recognized -- than it
could ever do them any good.  

"Are there any Indian ruins around here?"  Mulder asked, his eyes
still on the pamphlets.  He remembered Scully always seemed to notice
when there were ruins nearby as they'd driven around, though they'd
had yet to stop at any.  He thought she might like that.  

"Lemme see..."  Barry said, thinking for a beat.  "Well, there's
Wupatki outside Flagstaff, on the way to the Navajo Reservation,
going up Marble Canyon way.  It's not much to see, though I might be
a little prejudiced about that myself.  I don't get into them ruins
too much.  Just a pile of rocks in the middle of nowhere is what I
say."

Despite what Barry has said, Mulder was intrigued.  "Is it on the
map?"    

"Yeah, it's on there all right.  Hardly nobody goes there, though. 
It's 20 or so miles off the main road, and besides, there's snow
called for up there today.  Just saw it on the news a bit ago."  
Barry glanced out into the parking lot.  "Though I reckon in that
truck of yours that wouldn't be a problem."  

Mulder glanced up him, unnerved by the amount of interest Barry had
shown in him on some level -- remembering his name from the night
before, noticing what they were driving.  He forced the paranoia
down, knowing that Barry was probably just bored enough here in the
off-season to notice a lot about the people who did stop by.  

He gave Barry a polite smile.  "No, it won't be a problem," he
replied, and began gathering up his things again, fitting the
danishes under his arm this time.  Barry hurried around the desk and
opened the door for Mulder, the bell clapping against the glass-paned
door again.  

"Thank you, Mr. Barry," Mulder said as he went out the door with his
load.  

"Not a problem, Mr. Garrett," Barry replied.  "Give my best to your
missus."  

That got a wry smile out of Mulder as he turned and made his way
down the front of the motel, a rambling one-story affair with blue
shutters on the mostly blinded windows.  He could smell bacon cooking
as he passed by one door, a heavy smell that he had grown to
associate with their time on the road.  He could hear a television on
in another as he continued toward the end, to the small efficiency
where he and Scully had decided to spend the next few days to rest
and recuperate as much as they could.  

Reaching the last door, he listened for any sound inside, heard
nothing but silence. He set the bags down on the sill, balancing them
with his hip as he dug in his pocket for the key.  He pushed the door
open quietly, gathered the bags up and slipped into the room, his
eyes immediately going to the bed.

Scully lay facing away from him, looking small beneath the covers,
her lengthening, more curly hair sprayed out behind her on the
pillow, her arms out in front of her across the other side of the
bed.  She gripped his pillow in one fist, the cotton case wrinkled
around her fingers.  

Moving carefully, he went to the kitchenette at the back of the
room, set the coffee cups down, the bag of danishes.  Then he slid
the grocery bags onto the counter and began unpacking the contents,
his eyes darting to the bed every now and again, watching her face
for any sign that he was disturbing her.  He wanted her to sleep for
as long as she could. 

He turned away and put the perishables in the tiny refrigerator,
having to get creative with the space.  When he stood again, he
glanced back at Scully and saw that her eyes were open now, watching
him.

"Good morning," he murmured, smiling gently.  

Much to his relief, she returned the smile -- an easy smile -- and
rolled onto her back, the covers slipping to her hips, her t-shirt
bunched around her ribs.  She stretched languidly, her arms going
over her head as she yawned. 

"I've got some coffee," he continued, trying not to stare as her t-
shirt slid up, exposing all the way up to the bottom curve of one
breast, the nipple peaking out for a second until she put her arms
down again.  

"Coffee sounds good," she said, her eyes still closed, and her voice
was as easy as her smile had been.  

He found his pervasive tension releasing some.  It was going to be
one of her good days, he realized, when she was able to relax, her
mind not as preoccupied as it often was.  He was glad, because his
was the same way.  

There was something to be said for knowing you could stay in bed all
day if you wanted to, he thought, his lips curling into a smile as
she looked at him again, her eyes bright in the shuttered light
coming through the half-opened blinds.  

Then she did something she rarely did anymore, and certainly not
when she wasn't in tears, awake from the grip of nightmare that had
shaken her in the dark.  

She reached for him, then smoothed her hand across the mattress
beside her, a clear invitation.  

He didn't have to be asked twice.

Pushing off his leather jacket, he came around the counter that
divided the two rooms, laying the jacket across the chair at the
table in the eat-in area of the kitchen.  He sat on the edge of the
bed, his back to her as he pulled his boots off.  He felt her hand on
his back already, her nails grazing him through his long-sleeved t-
shirt.  

He slid beneath the covers in his jeans, easing an arm beneath her
neck as she rose and pillowed her head on his shoulder, her arm going
around his chest, her bare leg bending over his thigh.  He craned his
neck and kissed her forehead, curled his arm up so that he could
tunnel his fingers through her hair.  

"You feel good today, don't you?"  he asked, pleased, rubbing his
lips against her hairline slowly.  

He felt her smile against his shoulder, a small one, but a smile
nonetheless.  

"Yeah, I do," she replied.  "I think I had a good dream."  

"Oh yeah?  What about?"  

She shook her head slightly.  "I don't remember," she said, leaning
in a bit so that her lips were against his throat.  "I just have this
feeling.  A good feeling."

He smiled at the ease in her voice, at the feeling of her warm
breath against his skin.  "I'm glad," he murmured.   

They lay in a companionable silence for a long moment, Scully
tracing little patterns with her fingers on his chest.   He closed
his eyes, feeling contented, everything pushing away from him except
her.  

"You want me to cook something?"  she said into the quiet.  

He shook his head.  "No, I don't want you to move," he said softly,
and he meant it so much that he felt his eyes sting for a second. 

She nuzzled into him, unaware of the emotions his confession had
stirred in him.   

"Okay," she replied.  

Another quiet few moments.  The television in the room next door
came on, a muffled voice reaching him.  The heavy sounds of someone
settling against the headboard just on the other side of the flimsy
wall.  

He pulled Scully closer to him, willing the sounds away.  It was so
hard to feel like he was ever truly alone with her, people always
around them.  He longed for the privacy of his apartment, or hers --
any place where it could just be the two of them, no strangers just
outside the door, no sounds of cars, of televisions, of voices
carrying over from another room or table.  

It was something he'd taken so much for granted before.  

If they ever made it out of this  -- *when* they did, he corrected
himself sternly -- he would never take that for granted again.  He
would never take any part of her for granted, now that so much of her
had been taken away from him.  

Reluctantly, feeling a funk coming over him and not wanting it to
continue, he broke the tenuous spell around them.  "I had an idea."

"What's that?"  

"There are some Indian ruins not too far from here, apparently.  The
other side of Flagstaff.  I thought we could go see them today."  

She leaned up, looking at him now, her brow creased.  "Mulder, don't
you think that would be a little risky?"    

He shook his head.  "I think we're okay on this one.  They're pretty
remote, from what the manager said.  I don't think they'll be a big
tourist spot."  

She chewed her lip, her expression clearly worried.  

"Plus," he added quickly, not liking the change in her quicksilver
mood.  "It's supposed to snow today, so nobody will be out there.  I
thought we could just get out, pretend to be seeing something.  It'll
be better than being cooped up here all day watching television."

She looked at him, unconvinced still, he could tell.   

"I know you've wanted to see a few of them," he said gently,
stroking her hair back from her face.  "We've passed a hundred or
more.  Stopping at one won't do any harm.  It's not like we're going
to the Canyon or something.  We could use a day of doing something
normal."  

He could see her expression softening as he brushed at her hair, his
fingers tracing the curve of her ear as he did so.  He leaned his
head up and touched her lips with his for good measure, lingering
there, reassuring her.  

When he pulled his face away, her eyes were closed.  When she opened
them, she gave him a tiny smile, nodded.   "Okay.  I'll get ready
then."

"Good," he said softly, and leaned in to kiss her once more as she
moved to slip out of the bed and away from him once again.  


**********

UNKNOWN LOCATION 
NEAR ALDER CREEK, COLORADO 
12:38 p.m.


It was intricate work.  

A bundle of multicolored wires, their connectors all having to find
their correct places before anything would work.  Curran took the
wire cutters in his hand, chose a wire out of the mass and separated
it, carefully stripping away the vinyl covering, exposing the copper
wire underneath.  Then, twisting its end to a connector, he screwed
the wire down onto the small panel, gently tightening the screw with
a tiny screwdriver made just for this kind of close-quartered work.  

The midday light shone through the window, brighter with the snow,
which was still falling, though not as hard as before.  The kerosene
heater in his small workroom gave the place a thick, oily smell, but
he'd grown used to it after so many weeks bent over the workbench,
day in and day out.  He wore a pair of glasses on the end of his nose
which magnified the board he was working by several powers, making
finding the correct placement easier.  

Pushing the glasses up, he sniffed, rubbed his nose, checked the
work.   Beside him, cigarette smoke rose lazily into the cold air, a
stream of grey gathering in the cup of the bright overhead desk lamp.
He took a drag, blew out a stream of smoke easily, replaced the
cigarette in the ashtray with care.  

Four more wires to go and then he would be finished.  The bomb was
thin enough to be slipped into a padded mailer, the final wire taped
on the flap and designed to break away when the article was opened.  

It was crude work for him, actually -- a thing he'd done since he
was a boy -- but it proved useful to the people around him, most of
whom didn't seem to have the technical skill necessary for such a
task.  Most of the people on the small compound busied themselves
with the running of the ranch itself, tending to the cattle and sheep
that roamed in the paddocks fenced in around the barns to the north
side of the encampment.  Others worked in the lumber mills in the
town below, only to return in the evenings to be with their families,
or to bunk up in the common bunkhouse like a bunch of ragged soldiers
just in from a war.  

None of them wanted to be here.  

But this was the place where Larry Kingston, the head of the Sons of
Liberty Militia, sent the people the law was most interested in, a
sort of gulag high up in the mountains where people who had a need to
be hidden stayed for their own protection.  

Curran was himself such a person, secreted away by Kingston in this
place while the militia's various contacts searched out Mae and Sean
and Dana Scully for him, the repayment of a favor that Curran had
done Kingston years ago.  Kingston had needed explosives, plastics,
and Curran just happened to have a contact who could get him those. 
They'd struck an uneasy truce over that, Curran knowing that if he
were going to survive in this country in the line of work he was in,
he'd better do his best to ingratiate himself to the like-minded
locals.

And American militias were the closest thing to the IRA and his
group The Path that he was going to find in this Godforsaken country.
  

That instinct to ingratiate was paying off now, he thought, trimming
the blue coating off another wire, his teeth catching his lip between
them in concentration as he tried not to fray the wire itself.  He'd
been hidden for over six weeks now, since his face had really hit the
news over the failed Embassy bombing in Washington, the manhunt for
him intensifying as pressure to solve the act of terrorism pressed
down on the U.S. government agencies like a giant hand.   

But no one would find him here.  At least no one he didn't want to.  

Once he'd stripped the tube off the wire, he reached up, rubbed the
scar along the side of his mouth absently, picking up another
connector with a pair of fine, long tweezers, settling it on the cork
of the work area in front of him.  He began twisting the wire
carefully once again.   

Behind him, a knock at the door, the door coming open immediately,
an elderly woman peeking her head in.  It was Sarah James, the
defacto "mother" of the worn bunch of refugees of the camp.  She made
it her business to be into everyone else's.

"Mr. Curran?" she said, her hands on her hips.  

"Aye, Sarah," he said, not looking up.  "What is it?"  

"There are two men here to see you in the mess hall, just up the
side of the mountain.  Must be important.  They've got chains on
their tires as thick as my arms to get up here in weather like
this."  

He laid the tools down, stubbed out the cigarette calmly.  Sarah
stayed at the door, watching him, as he pulled the glasses off his
face and set them down beside the tools.  

"You shouldn't be smokin' in here with all these explosives and such
laying around, and certainly not with that kerosene heater so close
to you.  You're going to go up like a roman candle if you keep that
up."  Her voice was mild, but the rebuke was not lost on him.  

He stood and turned, showed her his teeth in a stiff grin.  "I'm
very careful, Sarah," he said.  "Always have been."

She chuffed at that.  "Bullshit," she said.  To Curran's Irish ears
it sounded like "Bowl sheet."  

"Begging your pardon?" he asked, not taking the bait but curious as
to what had prompted her laughter.

She appraised him with her big wet eyes.  They reminded him of those
of the cows that wandered around the snowy troughs, looking for bits
of grain.   "If you're so goddamn careful," she said, looking him up
and down.  "what the hell are you doing up here?"  

He smiled mildly.  "Everyone has a run of bad luck, Sarah.  You of
all people should know that.  Yours must be stretching into the
decades at this point, eh?" 

She harrumphed at that, turned and went out of the room, leaving the
door open as she disappeared down the hallway and out the front door
to the building.  

He laughed quietly, satisfied, as he pulled on his parka.  The
people here barely tolerated his presence, him being one of the nasty
foreigners the militia spent so much of its propaganda railing
against.  But he still could hold his own against them.  He'd managed
to hammer out a little bit of begrudging respect from most of them.  

Even Sarah, though she'd rather die than admit it.  

And at least their contained animosity -- and Kingston's good favor -
- had bought him a private cabin.  

He hit the ground outside at a trot, his hands jammed in his
pockets, the snow up over the ankles of his boots now.  People were
milling out of the mess hall across the compound, lunch still being
served.  If he was lucky, he'd still get a tray of something hot.  

He recognized the newcomers immediately, two men seated near the end
of one of the long tables, heavy white cups of coffee in their hands.
There was rarely such a thing as a stranger here, all the faces
familiar.   They were looking around expectantly, clearly waiting for
him.  

Going to the line, he picked up a tray, pure World War II surplus
with grooved areas dividing the battered surface, and had it loaded
down with what the cooks were offering today.  Pressed turkey on
bread with a floury gravy.  Green beans.  He stopped at the end of
the line and drew a cup of coffee from the large container, gathered
the dull silverware, then headed toward the two men.  

They eyed him as he approached, both of them peering at him with
narrow, dark eyes.  One was taller than other, more strongly built,
bulky in his blue parka, which he'd yet to remove, as though he
didn't intend on staying long.  

The other man, smaller than Curran with jet black hair he'd combed
straight back, had a vaguely blank and stupid look on his face, as
though nature hadn't quite finished with him before it had sent him
into the world.  He was sliding his coffee cup back and forth between
his hands on the table, running it along the slick surface as though
enjoying a private game.  

"Mr. Curran?"  the larger man asked as Curran sat at the head of the
table between them, setting his tray down with care.  

"Aye, I'm Curran," he said, taking a sip from his coffee
nonchalantly. 

"My name is Tom Lantham.  This is Rudy Gray.  Larry Kingston sent us
up here to speak with you."

Curran nodded, digging into his meal.  "You've got word of some sort
then?"  he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral, as though they
were discussing the weather.  

Lantham nodded, eyeing Curran as he ate.  "We have a couple of
possible sightings of the people you're looking for, yes.  We've been
sent out here to investigate the leads."  

"You bounty hunters then?"  Curran asked, glancing at the two of
them.  Gray continued pushing the cup of coffee back and forth.  It
was starting to grate on Curran's nerves.

"In a manner of speaking," Lantham replied stiffly.  "We both worked
as bail bondsmen.  Developed a certain talent for finding people. 
For a price, of course."

"More money to be had this way, I would imagine," Curran said,
chewing another mouthful of the mediocre meal.  

"You could say that."  Lantham's voice was guarded.  He seemed eager
to get off the topic.  "Anyway, we'll be going down to Nogales in
Southern Arizona right away, see what we can find out.  It's not too
far from Tucson, right on the Mexican border."  

Curran nodded.  "I'll tell you what it is I want you to do," he
said, put his fork down.  "You find any of them that I'm looking for,
and you give Kingston a call.  He'll get in touch with me and I'll
come down and meet you before you move in."  

Lantham glared.  "I'd been told we'd be able to handle this our own
way," he said, his voice clipped.  "Mr. Gray and I have a method for
taking care of situations like this; we're perfectly capable of
bringing the people to you up here.  From what I  understand, it
would be better if you stayed up here, anyway."  

Curran was shaking his head.  "We do this my way," he said simply. 
"I have my reasons for making the request." 

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Curran," Lantham said softly, leaning in. 
"But you're not the one paying for this.  Kingston is.  I don't take
orders from anyone but him."  

Curran looked up, met the challenge in Lantham's eyes.  The tension
between them had at least gotten Gray to stop with the coffee cup. 
Curran could see Gray watching them from the corner of his eye, 
still now, his beady, oily looking eyes first on one man, then the
other.   Gray'd had yet to say a word.  

"This is my show," Curran said, his voice flattening as anger piqued
in him.  "Kingston's paying you as part of a favor he owes ME.  You
don't do as I ask and you don't get paid a cent.  I'll see to that."  

He and Lantham stared at each other, neither willing to budge.  Gray
continued to watch them.  

Finally, Lantham leaned back on the bench seat a little, put his
hands up in a gesture of acquiescence. 

"All right, Mr. Curran," he said.  "We find any of them and we'll
get word to you.  Follow them until you get there before we move in."
  

Curran picked up his coffee cup, took a sip.  "Thank you, Mr.
Lantham," he said, his voice still a touch angry at being so openly
challenged.  It was not something he was accustomed to.  "I knew
you'd understand once it was made clear to you."  

Lantham made a small sound in his throat at that, a grunt of
displeasure.  "Well," he said, standing.  Gray stood with him, like a
dog getting ready to follow its master.  "We'll be in touch."  

Curran gestured with his coffee cup, dismissing them both
effectively.  "Safe travels to you," he said, then returned to his
meal as though they were already gone.  

He could have sworn he heard Lantham mumble something under his
breath as he departed with Gray in tow.  Curran thought he heard the
word "fuck" in it and that made him smile with satisfaction.  

Sighing, contented now that there was progress of some sort, he took
a sip of the coffee -- a thick, bitter liquid -- and wished for his
tea.    


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


END OF CHAPTER 3.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 4.  

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 4.


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

JOHN F. KENNEDY AIRPORT 
NEW YORK, NEW YORK 
1:30 p.m.


The old man blended in with the gathered crowd, funneled from the
baggage claim belts to the long lines of the U.S. Customs area,
pushing a cart in front of him easily.  On it sat three articles --
two ancient suitcases, carefully packed so as not to be the slightest
bit overburdened, and a long slender case made of hard plastic,
latched tightly closed and clamped with a small lock.  

The old man walked slowly, but not because of his age.  He was
simply not in the habit of hurrying.  

All of the lines leading to the Customs stations were the same
length, two or three large flights just in from Europe all descending
on the area at once.  Around him, people from every ethnicity, every
age group, every walk of life.  Families that were clearly refugees,
carrying everything they owned in crates crudely tied with rope.  The
businessmen already on their cell phones as they waited, smart-
looking matching luggage sets rolling behind them on silent plastic
wheels.  The American families in their separate line looking put-
upon at this, their last stop before they re-entered their home,
vacations finally coming to an end.  

The old man was none of these.  He was simply a traveler, dressed in
comfortable clothes that hugged the contours of his still-vibrant
body.  He wore a touring cap on his head to hide his balding pate,
his wide white moustache neatly trimmed over his full lips.  His eyes
were bright and held a certain keen intelligence to them, the irises
the color of turquoise flecked with amber.  He did not wear glasses,
his eyesight still the same as it was when he was a boy.  

A child in front of him, a young Indian boy wearing a long white
cotton shirt, held on to his father's leg and looked back at the old
man, who appraised the boy for a few seconds before offering a
kindly, closed mouth smile.  The boy smiled back shyly, then turned
and looked away.  

As the line moved slowly forward, he pushed the cart in front of
him, finally reaching the blue line on the floor that signaled him as
the next person to enter the countered area.  His passport stuck out
of the pocket of his shirt, its crisp green cover having already been
scanned at Immigration.   

He found himself whistling a soft tune as he waited.  

Finally, the woman behind the counter, an African-American woman in
an ill-fitted uniform and short-cropped hair, dismissed the person in
front of him, signalled for the old man to come forward with his
things.  As he approached the counter, he removed his hat, smiled to
the woman.  

He was in the "Nothing to Declare" line, but he did not expect to be
waved through.  He was right. 

"Sir, could I see your passport, please?"  the woman asked, halting
him.  He continued to smile, tucked his touring cap under his arm as
he withdrew the passport, handed it to her. 

"Mister...Shea,"  the woman said, reading his name off the inside
flap. 

"Aye," he replied.  "That's me.  Jimmy Shea."

"You say you have nothing to declare?"  She said it incredulously.

"I've got a bottle of whiskey in that bag right there, but just the
one, just like I put on the little card they gave me on the plane." 
He gestured to his top suitcase.  

The woman glanced down at his things now, taking in the three bags. 
As he expected, her eyes stopped on the long case, her eyes flicking
back to his.  He smiled again.  

"Could you open that one for me, Mr. Shea?"  she asked, and her
voice had hardened.  She looked over at a security guard standing
nearby, gestured him forward.   The guard put his hand on his service
weapon and came over, standing beside her and eyeing Shea warily.   

Shea reached down, picked up the case and set it on the counter in
front of them.  Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out the tiny key to
the lock on its side, unlatched it.  Then, undoing the catches on the
case's side, he flipped it open so that the two Customs officials
could see the contents.  

The woman looked at it, then back up into Shea's face, her lip
curling with a put-upon expression.  Beside her, the guard removed
his hand from his gun, relaxing.  

Inside the case, a well kept fishing rod and reel, an assortment of
flies and tackle.  The reel gleamed silver in the fluorescent light.  

"Are you always in the habit of carrying your fishing equipment in a
rifle case, Mr. Shea?" the woman asked, perturbed.   

"Aye, that I am," he replied, the same amiable smile on his face. 
"It's the only thing that it'll all fit in, and it's got the right
amount of padding.  I wouldn't want anything  happening to my rod on
the way over, you know."  

The woman made a sound in her throat, a low "humph."  The guard
drifted away.  

"I assume this is a pleasure trip for you then, Mr. Shea?"  she
asked flatly. 

"Oh yes," he replied immediately, with enthusiasm.  "I plan on doing
a good bit of fishing.  But there's some business I'm here to attend
to, as well."  

This last bit he added quietly, almost as an afterthought.  

"Well, enjoy your visit, sir," she said, her voice bored and rote
now as she waved him through.  "I hope it's a productive one."  

He reached down, closed up the case and replaced it on the cart. 
"Oh, I'm sure it will be," he said, then drifted off through the rest
of the Customs station and out into the airport beyond.  


*********


WUPATKI NATIONAL MONUMENT 
OUTSIDE FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA 
3:34 p.m.



The heavy snow clouds hung over Doney Mountain, a grey-white blanket
moving across the peak led by small wisps and a cold wind that blew
down across Deadman Wash and over the flat top of Woodhouse Mesa to
the southeast.  Between the mesa and the mountain, Scully picked her
way along the pueblo ruin of Wupatki, bleak light bleeding through
the crumbled remains of windows and doorways.  

Her dark coat, trailing down around her ankles, whipped around her
in the frozen wind, her black-gloved hands buried in her pockets for
extra warmth.  She walked the perimeter of the largest ruin in the
area, which stood on a high rise like a sentinal above the smaller
mounds of carefully carved bricks, the remnants of a hundred or more
rooms that had once housed a town of simple Sinaguan farmers almost
900 years ago.  

Going through a low doorway, she stood in the middle of one of the
rooms, stared at the packed earth floor, the clouds moving high in
the ceilingless expanse above her, wind sighing through the windows
and the breaks in the walls.  The sight of all this, the loneliness
of it, made her slightly sad, more introspective than she had been
that morning, and she longed for the easy feelings she'd had when she
had first awoken.  

After all, this had been Mulder's idea of a way to distract them
both from the troubles that followed them constantly along the
endless ribbon of highway they traveled on.   

And she didn't want to become melancholy and disappoint him.  

Disappoint him again.  

The thought pained her, and she fled the room, returning to the
straight force of the wind as she left the interior of the ruin for
the wide lip of rock that jutted from one side.  From here, she could
look out over the smaller ruins stair-stepping down toward the desert
plain, a desolate landscape shrouded in fog as the storm approached.  

Below her, a handful of tourists milled about, bundled up in their
coats, children darting in and out of the rooms and down the long
trail that led to the remnants of what the pamphlets called a "ball
court," a round structure with high walls and a single entrance
facing off to the south.  

Mulder, ever the sports fan, had immediately gone down toward it to
have a look.  She'd chosen to remain on the upper levels, glad to
have some time to herself, if even for a few moments.  

It wasn't that she didn't want to be with him.  She loved Mulder
more than anything.  There was no question about that.  But they had
been together 24 hours a day for over two months, and she found she
was craving the solitude she'd often relished in her apartment back
in Washington.  More than anything, she needed to be alone.  With
Mulder around all the time, she found herself expending more energy
hiding her feelings than actually feeling them.  

And she couldn't afford to become to any more numb than she'd become
already.   

The first flakes of snow began to fall as she sat carefully on the
rocky outcropping, the intricate brickwork of the pueblo behind her
and off to one side.  The wind ruffled her hair, sending streams of
red gently across her face and causing her eyes to tear from the
cold.  The flakes were large, heavy.  Her legs dangled over the side
of the ledge, and she hunkered into her coat, her eyes down in her
lap.  

She drew in a deep breath, and let herself think of him.  Of Fagan
and what had happened in Mae's apartment in Richmond all those weeks
ago.  

Though the images came easily to her, she couldn't access the
feelings that went along with them.  It was as though what she saw in
her mind were happening to someone else.  

She closed her eyes, waiting to feel...something.  Anything.

Nothing would come.

As an investigator, she had seen this kind of reaction a dozen times
before from victims of violent crime.  It was all very studied to
her.  

She knew that until she could feel what she needed to feel, until
she allowed herself to do that, she could not begin to come back from
the bleak land where she now dwelled, a self-imposed, if not
intentional, state of exile.  

An image suddenly entered her mind, replacing those of Fagan in an
instant.  She and Mulder in her apartment, his hands bracketing her
head beneath the pillow as he moved, his lips moving over hers,
across her jaw, beneath her ear--

She choked on the sob, her gloved hand going to her mouth as the
strangled sound was trapped in her throat.  Her eyes welled.  

The snow began to fall more heavily.

She closed her eyes, willing the sudden anguish away. 

After a long moment, her eyes opened.  

The mask was back in place. 

She turned and looked down over the expanse of the ruins, saw Mulder
coming up the path below her, returning from the court at the base of
the hill.   He was looking up at her, his hands in the pockets of his
jeans, his strides long but unhurried.  She could see his gentle
smile even from this distance.

She tried to smile back, then looked away, across the plain toward
the wide shape of the mesa.  Snowflakes dotted her dark coat, light
on black.  She found herself mesmorized by them, staring at them as
they gathered there.  

She almost did not hear the footsteps as he came up behind her.  

"Mind if I join you?"  Mulder asked softly, his voice nearly lost in
a gust of wind.  

She looked up him, gave him a small smile.  "Of course not," she
replied, and returned her gaze to her lap.  She shivered, her
shoulders trembling for an instant. Her teeth had begun to chatter.

He sat down behind her, scooted forward until his thighs framed
hers, his legs dangling over the edge with hers.   Sliding his arms
under hers, he tugged her gently until her back was against his ches,
and she closed her hands around his wrists. 

He put his chin on her shoulder, turned to kiss her just in front of
her ear, lingering there.  She pressed her cheek into his lips,
closed her eyes at the feeling of safety she had, embraced by his
warm body, the snow falling on around them, steady, swirling now and
again in the hollow-sounding wind.     

He returned his chin to her shoulder, breathed out a puff of white
into the air.  He sounded content.  Tired and content.  She squeezed
his hands tighter, running her thumb across the exposed skin on his
wrist.  

For a long moment they both looked out over the wide expanse in
front of them, a desolate place they faced, the ruins behind them. 

The tourists were beginning to withdraw to their cars, frightened
off by the weather as the storm moved in.   There were footsteps
around the pueblo behind them as people picked their way through the
bricks toward the parking lot.  

Scully shut them out.  Neither she nor Mulder moved.

Then, close by, the sound of a camera shutter firing off, several
quick turns of a motor drive.

Now they both did turn quickly, saw a man standing there, camera
equipment slung over his shoulders and around his neck.  He was tall,
weathered looking, wearing a heavy parka, jeans, hiking boots.  He
held a 35 millimeter camera in his hand and was smiling kindly at
them.  

"Sorry to intrude on you both like that," the man said.  "You're a
lovely couple, and you two just made such a nice shot with the
mountain behind you, in this light, with the snow and all."  

Scully could feel Mulder tense up behind her.  She had, as well.  

"You shouldn't take someone's picture without asking," Mulder said
to him angrily.  He let go of her, scrambled up so that he was
standing behind her, facing the man now.  

Mulder reached out his hand.  "I'd like the roll of film, please."  

The man's kind smile turned regretful.  "I'm sorry, but I can't do
that," he said, shaking his head.   "I'm a professional photographer
and I've got 20 shots of this place in various lightings I've been
here all day trying to catch.  I can't give you the film without
losing a whole day's work.  I'm very sorry if I've offended you,
though." 

The man did look stricken, clearly realizing his misstep now. 
Scully could see Mulder getting ready to argue, shifting his weight
to his other foot.  

A dog trotted up the rise after the man, a black Lab with eyes like
a doe.  It stopped beside him, sat, its face turned up toward Mulder,
its tail moving uncertainly on the rocky ground.

Looking at the photographer, at the dog, Scully cringed inwardly.  

She realized how strung out she and Mulder were, how suspicious
they'd become. Sometimes it was hard to remember the world was filled
with ordinary people, doing ordinary things, living ordinary lives.  

She also realized that forcing the man to turn over the film might
draw more attention to them than the pictures he'd taken ever could.  

Thinking this, she reached out, touched Mulder's calf lightly,
getting his attention.  He looked down at her, and she could see his
anger, borne of fear.  

"It's okay," she murmured so that only he could hear.  "I think it's
okay."  

Mulder looked from her to the man and back again.  She nodded, and
saw his shoulders fall slightly.  He nodded, and she could tell it
was reluctantly that he agreed with her.  

"Look, if you give me your name and address, I'd love to send you a
copy of the shots," the man offered earnestly.  "I think you'll find
they're really nice.  I do good work."  

Mulder shook his head, waving the man off, reached down as Scully
began to rise and helped her into a standing position.  She dusted
off her coat, tried to smile at the stranger, who still looked
stricken at Mulder's reaction.  

"That's all right," Scully said to him.  "You just might consider
asking next time."  

The man nodded.  "I will.  And I won't use the shots for anything. 
Again, I'm sorry."  

And with one final look at Mulder, as though afraid Mulder might
make some move toward him, he wandered away toward the lot down the
hill from the rise, his dog following a few steps behind.  

Mulder watched them go, his hands still balled to fists at his side,
his jaw muscles still bunched with tension.  Scully reached out and
put her hand on his, worked his fingers apart until her gloved
fingers were pressed against his palm.  

"Come on," she said softly, reaching up to brush at a large flake
that had caught in his hair.  "Let's go back to the motel.  I'll make
some dinner."  

He looked down at her, something in his gaze softening.  Finally he
nodded, gripped her hand.  

Walking slowly, they made their way around the pueblo, walked back
toward the battered truck as the light was muted by the clouds now
over the mountain, the snow continuing to fall.  


***********


ST. MATTHEW'S CATHEDRAL 
HIGHBRIDGE, THE BRONX 
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
5:35 p.m.


Jimmy Shea dipped his right middle finger in the small bowl of holy
water, touched the cool water to his forehead as he took off his cap
and stuffed it in his coat pocket.  Then he made the sign of the
cross quickly and went forward into the cavernous building, his
footsteps echoing on the marble floor as he made his way slowly
toward the altar.  

This time of night, there was no light coming through the elaborate
stained glass windows on either side of him, only faint dark outlines
of surrounding saints.  The light of a dozen random candles shone
before statues of Christ and the Virgin in alcoves to his left and
right, the candles sending up their bitter smoke prayers.  Shea
crossed himself again as he passed the statue of Mary, a habit since
childhood.  

The cathedral was nearly empty and completely silent except for his
footsteps.  The only other people, a knot of dark-clad figures in the
front of the church, taking up the ends of two or three pews.  They
were leaned into each other, whispering, but Shea could not hear
their voices.  

Coming to the rows they were in, he genuflected, his eyes on the
crucifix above the altar, then began walking sideways down the pew
toward the group.  They all turned as he did so, nodding.  A man,
tall and in his early forties, stood in the pew ahead.   The man
reached out his hand.  

"Mr. Shea?"  he asked as Shea took his hand, gave it a single shake.  

"You must be Conail Rutherford," the older man replied, smiling
kindly.  Around him, the others watched him intently, as though it
were important for them to get a good look.  

"Aye," Rutherford said, smiled.  "How was the trip over?"  He
gestured for Shea to sit.  

Shea waved his hand, remained standing.  "Ah, it was fine, fine. 
Got to see that film about the little bloke who does ballet."  

Rutherford's smile widened.  "That's good then," he said, then
cleared his throat.  He turned to the men around him.  "This is Joey
Sullivan..." he began, and introduced the entire group.  Shea nodded
to each of them, noting that he was the oldest of the group by at
least 20 years.  

"An honor to meet you, Mr. Shea," Sullivan said when Rutherford was
finished.  "My father's told stories of you as long as I can
remember...what you did on Bloody Sunday, and up in Ballycastle--"    

"No honor in doing what you can," Shea said quickly, his hand
raising again to stop the listing.  He offset his words with a small
smile.  Sullivan nodded, the words seeming to please him more.  

"Fair enough," he said. 

Shea turned to Rutherford.  "I take it my packages were delivered
without incident," he said, eager to get to business.  

"Aye, we've got them in a suitcase here," Rutherford gestured to one
of the other men, who pulled a black soft bag from beneath the pew he
sat in and offered the heavy bundle to Shea.  

"Fine, fine," Shea said, hefting the weight.  "Any idea of where I'm
headed first off?"

Rutherford nodded, reached into the seat and brought up a Rand
McNally atlas of the States.  He flipped through the pages until he
found the right one -- a map of Kentucky.  

"This was the last place he was seen," he said, pointing to a small
town near the center of the state.  Shea leaned forward in the dim
light to look at it.  Tyner.  Just a speck on the map, he thought. 
And a long way off.  

"I see," he said, setting the bag down on the pew.  It made a
thumping sound, things bumping against each other inside it.  "I
suppose that's where I'll head off to in the morning then.  You've
got a mobile telephone for me?"  

"Aye, just as you requested," Rutherford said, and handed Shea a
small cell phone.  "We'll be calling you with any information we're
able to find out.  Hopefully we won't send you criss-crossing too
much."  

"You'll do what you can, I'm sure," Shea said, tucking the phone in
his coat pocket.  He then took the map from the younger man.  "It's a
big country, after all.  Not like back home, that's for sure."  

Rutherford shifted uncomfortably for a moment as Shea closed up the
book, unzipped the suitcase and stuffed it inside.  The silence that
fell over the group was an awkward one.  One of the men cleared his
throat nervously.  

"Are you sure we can't persuade you to take someone with you?" 
Rutherford asked carefully.  "Any of these men would be happy to go,
even if it was just to share the driving.  A bit of company on the
road."  

The men around him nodded, clearly eager to do as Rutherford
suggested.  Shea was flattered by their enthusiasm, warmed by it. 
But he shook his head, smiling again. 

"No, that won't be necessary," he said kindly.  "I like to go about
these things my own way.  And I always work alone, as I'm sure you
were told."  

"I was, aye."  Rutherford said.  "It just might take some time. 
It's a lot of time to be on your own in a strange place." 

"Oh, I'll manage," Shea replied quickly.  "I've got plenty to keep
me busy.  I hear the fishing is good here.  I bought one of those
guidebooks to America so I could find some places to set a hook along
the way.  I'll be right as rain.  Not to worry."

"All right," Rutherford said, and reached into his pocket, brought
out a key on a ring.  "Here's your ride then.  It's out front.  The
black pickup with the camper top."

"That'll do me just fine," Shea said, and took the key.  He was
eager to go, to get back to his room and get some sleep.  He reached
his hand out to Rutherford again, who shook it.  

"It really is an honor for us all to meet you, Mr. Shea," Rutherford
said softly.  "We appreciate your help with this...situation...a
great deal.  It's good to know it'll be done right."  

Shea gave him a smaller smile.  "It'll get done right, aye," he
said, and there was something sad in his voice.  He lifted the bag
and slung the strap over his shoulder.  

"I'll be in touch with any news," the younger man said, and Shea
nodded and, with a raised hand, withdrew, going back up to the main
aisle and out into the cold night.  

He drove surely back to the house where he was being put up for the
night, having watched the street names in the cab ride on the way
over.  Driving on the right side of the road came more easily than he
imagined.  

Once outside the small row house, he parked the truck carefully on
the street, climbed wearily from the cab and walked up to the front
door with his bundle.  He rang the bell.  

The person who owned the house, a woman about his age named Mary,
answered immediately, wiping her hands on her apron. 

"Oh, Mr. Shea, you didn't need to knock," she fussed, embarrassed. 
"I left the door unlocked for you, of course!"

He took off his cap as she made room for him to enter.  "It's quite
all right," he soothed, putting a hand on her arm.   "I don't walk
into anyone's home without knocking but my own.  My Ruby would have
my head if I showed she hadn't trained me any better."  

Mary laughed at that, a high-pitched trill.  "Well, I've got dinner
for you when you're ready for it."  

He nodded.  "That's good.  I'm going to attend to a few things and
then I'll be right down."  

"All right," Mary replied, and returned to the kitchen in the back
of the house.  The entire place smelled of bread and Shea inhaled the
scent deeply, reminded of home.  

He climbed the stairs and made his way to his room in the back,
closing the door behind him.  He went to the window and pulled the
blinds slowly, closing out the New York City night.  

Removing his coat, he laid it across the back of a chair in the
corner, went to the full sized bed against the far wall, set the
suitcase down on the quilt.  Then he pulled the rifle case from
beneath the bed, laid it out and opened it, exposing the pristine rod
and reel.  

He gently took it and the tackle out of the case, set it aside. 
Then he unzipped the suitcase, removed the map book, and then started
pulling out the other contents.  

A rifle butt, dark wood, shining with years of care.  

The muzzle, long and straight. 

He pulled out the pieces, five of them in all, including the high-
powered scope that would fit on top once the rifle was assembled.  

Opening his other suitcase on the bed, he drew out his tool kit  and
began to do just that, sliding the parts of the sniper's rifle into
place, oiling the moving parts as he did so, making sure everything
was lined up just so.  He worked carefully, slowly, but with an
assuredness that came with having done this task hundreds of times
before.  

Finally, he screwed the scope on the top, set the bolt and raised
the gun toward the window, peering down the sights through the
crosshairs.  

Everything seemed to be in order.  He gave the gun one more wipe
down with the cleaning cloth he kept in the tool kit, then carefully
laid the rifle in the case, which he'd had custom-made to fit it
decades ago.  

Latching the case closed, he locked it with the tiny lock, then
placed it beneath the bed once again.  He replaced his tools, taking
the same care with them he'd taken with the rifle itself.  

Then, taking the rod and tackle and placing them carefully in the
suitcase the rifle had been in, he zipped it closed and set it and
his other suitcase back on the floor.  

He stood back, surveying the room for a sign of anything looking
amiss.  Nothing seemed out of the ordinary or out of place.  

He let himself relax for the first time in hours.  

That's when the image of the small boy came into his mind.  The boy
was hanging around his father's legs at the stone wall near a pasture
of pure green.  He was laughing as Shea -- a young man then --
squatted down, smiling back, urging him to come forward.  

He pushed the thought away with a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping
with it. 

That kind of thinking wasn't going to get him anywhere.  

With that, he turned, went out the door, down the hallway to the
small bath to wash up for his meal.  


*********


END OF CHAPTER 4.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5.  

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 5.


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

PUERTO PENASCO, MEXICO 
BAHIA DE ADAIR GULF OF CALIFORNIA 
MARCH 21
11:38 a.m.


The sea stretched out a cobalt blue, small breakers on the
shoreline, the waves' hair blown back white.  The sea itself was
beautiful, but the woman could not fool herself into thinking the
beach was.  The blowing trash along the high dunes ruined any such
illusions, the sound of paper rustling lodged in the wind coming off
the ocean.  

Around her, tourists lay out like beached fish on their towels,
their winter-white bodies soaking up the mid-day sun.  American music
competed with the sound of the waves, the tunes coming from a group
of what she assumed were college students down from the States.  

She'd been seeing a lot of them the past few weeks as they came down
for Spring Break, venturing into Mexico for a cheap holiday on the
coast.  They were vibrant and carefree and laughed constantly on the
beach and in the ramshackle town behind her, and the influx of them
had made the woman more depressed than she was already.  

It had been a long time since she had laughed -- or felt -- like
that.  

If she'd ever felt like that.  

She watched the young women's faces as they sat up in their bright
bikinis, looking at the young men playing volleyball and frisbee on
the sand.  They whispered to each other, giggling, planning...  

It was all one huge game to them, she thought, then looked the other
way, squinting against the glaring sun.  She sighed. 

Though she, too, didn't belong here, it was clear she was not on
holiday.  She was a solitary figure on the beach, a loose white
cotton shirt hiding her sensitive skin from the sun, jeans covering
her legs.  Her sandals sat beside her.  Her thick dark hair was
pulled into a loose ponytail that trailed down to the center of her
back, stray strands  ruffled by the wind around her face.  She wore
dark sunglasses to hide her pale blue eyes. 

Besides her attire, there was a set to her that showed she was not
at ease.  A certain tension.  A wariness.  And a tired, careworn
expression on her face.  

She sat silent, still, her knees drawn up, her arms crossed around
them, her shirt cuffed to the elbows.  

Her eyes followed a figure moving along the shoreline down by the
rocky tidal pools at the edge of the water.  She watched the small
boy squat now and again, picking up things he found in the crevices
of the dark mazed stone.  The waves washed gently up in this area,
carrying small crabs, fish, into the shallow pools.  

Playing in them was one of the boy's favorite pastimes here, and she
tried to indulge him by coming to the beach every day to let him
play.  The rest of their lives were so quiet, sheltered even from
most of the other people in the town.  She had to allow him this one
pleasure he'd found here.

After he'd lost so much.  

After they both had lost so much. 

Or was it that she had taken it all away?

That thought and a peal of laughter from the young women beside her
sent her to her feet.  She brushed at the sand on her clothes,
reached down for her sandals, began walking toward the boy at the
edge of the sea.    

He was standing up now, facing the ocean, looking at something.  She
put her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes to try and see what
he saw.  He turned, caught sight of her approaching.  

"Look!"  the boy shouted.  "Look!  A seal!"  

Then she saw the dark shape curving through the water.  It stopped
to look at them curiously.  

"Do you see it?"  the boy asked as she bent and put her sandals on
so that she could traverse the rocky terrain.  

"Aye, Sean, I see him," she said, and walked until she stood beside
him.  He was clad in multicolored Guatemalan shorts she'd bought in
town, a white undershirt, his feet also in thick sandals.  

The seal stayed where it was, bobbing slightly in the waves.  

"He's looking at you, I think," she said, smoothed down the boy's
unruly hair.  He was badly in need of a cut.  

"You think?"  he asked, seeming to consider the idea seriously.

"I do," she said, nodded as he turned his tanned face up toward
hers, then back to the seal.  

The three of them regarded each other silently for a long moment.  

Then the seal turned once, dipped below the surface and was gone.  

Mae Curran looked down at her nephew now, his small hands fisted in
front of him.  

"Let me see what you've found then," she said, and squatted down so
that her face was almost even with his.  He opened his hands and
showed her what he had.

Small round rocks, a tiny purple crab claw, small halves of white
and black shells.  

"That's a good haul for one morning."  She smiled up at him.  "Go
ahead and put those in your pockets and we'll set them on the sill
with your other things."  

"Okay," he said, and stuffed his hands in his pockets.  She could
hear the shells clinking softly against the stones.  

"Let's go get something to eat," she said, and, taking his hand, she
led him up the beach.  


**********

GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE 
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA 
12:32 p.m.


"Here's another stack for you, Agent Granger."

The voice and the body attached to it appeared so suddenly in front
of Granger's desk that he nearly jumped, his head jerking up in
surprise.  Instinctively, he pressed the file he was reading -- one
on Mae Curran -- up against his chest, though he immediately reminded
himself that the file was actually *all right* for him to be looking
at.  

He really didn't have the nerve for this kind of subterfuge.  He
hoped to get used to it soon.  

"Well, do you want them or not?"  

Agent Stiles, also assigned to the task force to find both Curran
and Mulder, gave Granger a put-out look as he shifted from one foot
to the other and hefted the stack of reports.  Though Stiles was
technically Granger's subordinate on the case, he was much older and
seemed to be having a difficult time mustering the respect his
superior deserved.  

Granger, unaccustomed to the role himself, let it slide.  

"Uh...sure.  Go ahead and set them down there."  He gestured to the
corner of the desk, the one spot not already covered with files and
yellow legal pads scribbled with notes in Granger's precise
handwriting. 

Stiles set them down unceremoniously, smirked.   "Looks like a bunch
of red herrings to me, though these were the most promising of the
ones we've been through.  I think people are seeing Curran and Mulder
more than they're seeing Elvis this year."     

Granger forced a smile.  "Thank you.  I'll have a look through
them."  

Stiles turned and moved toward the door.  "Have fun looking for your
needles," he called over his shoulder, and disappeared into the busy
hallway outside Granger's quiet office.  

Granger set the file he'd been looking at down, eyed the stack of
police reports wearily.  This would be the fifth stack he'd been
through in two days, the reports filtered to him if they seemed to
hold any hint of veracity.  He'd gotten good at flipping through
them, discarding the obvious still shots of johns and prostitutes
from motel security cameras, an endless collection of dark haired men
in sunglasses and garish, auburn haired women.  

And Curran would be nearly impossible to pick out from the scratchy
photos.  It seemed any man who entered a motel with a facial scar was
flagged for the police.  It was his one identifying feature. 
Otherwise, Curran could be any man in his late thirties.  He blended
in that well.  

He'd made a lifetime out of blending in.

Sighing, Granger pulled the reports toward him, flipped through the
files.  Tuba City, Arizona.  Tombstone, Arizona.  Topeka, Kansas. 
Oakland, California.  Durango, Colorado.  He looked at the photos
attached to each file, staring at the faces in front of the counters
of the motels and gas stations.  

A dark haired man who looked like Mulder but who was not Mulder.  

A nondescript man, too young to be Curran, probably paying for gas.  

A woman, long red hair pulled back in a ponytail, buying a pack of
cigarettes.

In other words, a whole bunch of nothing.   He kept moving through
the stack.  

Then, on the folder marked "El Centro, California," Granger froze,
pulled the black and white picture from the folder and held it up to
get it in better light.  He squinted at it through his glasses, his
head cocking to one side.  

A youngish, very thin woman in a black baseball cap, sunglasses,
passing cash across the counter of a convenience store.  Behind her,
a man in profile, looking out the doorway they'd come.  Sunglasses. 
Dark hair and beard.  Lean.  Strong nose.  His hand was on the
woman's shoulder as if to hasten her along in paying for the cups of
coffee that sat on the counter.  

It was them.  It had to be, he thought.  

He studied the picture for another long moment, frowning.  Scully
was so gaunt, her clothes swallowing her.  And Mulder, even in the
still photo, looked so on edge, looking behind him, his hand on her
shoulder protective, but like a warning.  

The time on the road was taking its toll.   And he knew Scully had
been hurt the last time he'd talked to Mulder all those weeks ago
from his hospital bed.  He wondered how badly she'd been hurt now,
seeing her changed so much in the photo.  

Granger shook his head sadly.  He could only imagine what they were
going through.  He would have to work more quickly to do what he
could to bring them home again.

Someone passed his office door and Granger's eyes darted up
instantly.  Though the person didn't even glance in, Granger stuffed
the photo back into the folder, closed it, reaching down to jerk open
a drawer in his desk, one with a lock.  He pushed the folder into it,
closed it quickly and reached into his pocket for his keys.  Choosing
the proper one, he locked the drawer with an audible "click."  

When his phone beeped a second or two later, before he'd even
righted himself in his chair again, he nearly jumped out of his skin,
feeling caught.  Blowing out a breath, he pressed the button on the
phone.  

"Granger."

"Agent Granger."  

Shit.  Padden.

"Yes, Dr. Padden?"  He tried to sound formal and at ease at the same
time, only marginally succeeding.  

"Would you mind joining me in my office for a few moments?" Padden
replied, his voice strangely friendly.  Light.    

Granger frowned again.  He had a sudden vision of he and Padden
sitting across the desk from each other yukking it up over the
Letterman show or something.   His superior's tone was that casual.

His eyes narrowed as he looked at the phone, his guard coming up. 

"Of course, sir," was what he said aloud.  "I'll be there
momentarily."  

"Very good."  The light went off on the intercom button.    

Five minutes later he was stiff in his dark suit jacket once again,
his tie straightened and knotted down tightly, walking into the
receiving area of Padden's temporary office, the one assigned to him
while the task force was based at the CIA.  

The secretary smiled kindly to him.  He smiled back, though it was
hard.  

"Go on in, Agent Granger," the woman said.  

Granger pushed the door open and entered the office.  It was a huge
space, the vertical blinds all but drawn on the windows, obscuring
the view of the grounds.  What little light filtered into the
cavernous room was absorbed by the darkness of the office, all the
furniture black.  The bookshelves lining one whole wall.  The low
table beside the window covered with plants that Granger could tell
were fake even from where he stood.  Black leather chairs gathered at
the far end of the room, just in front of the wide, neat desk.  

Robert Padden, Director of the NSA, sat behind that desk, just
beneath an oil portrait of someone Granger didn't recognize but whose
eyes seemed to follow him as he made his way across the forest green
oriental rug toward the desk.  The rug was expensive and so heavily
padded that Granger's footfalls didn't make a sound as he came
forward.  It was as if the office consumed even that.  

"Agent Granger," Padden said as he stood, came around the desk, a
smile on his face, creasing his cheeks against the bottoms of his
reading glasses.  "It's a relief to see you up and around and back at
work again after the seriousness of your injuries."  

Much to Granger's surprise, the other man reached out his hand,
which Granger shook uncertainly as he stood in front of one of the
chairs.  Gone was the man who had screamed at he and Skinner in his
hospital room.  Gone was the man who had firmly interrogated him on
the phone at home.  He didn't know what to make of this person in
front of him.  

"Thank you, sir," he replied cautiously.  "I'm feeling fine now."   

"Just that limp to deal with?"  Padden asked, and withdrew behind
the desk again, taking a seat in the high back chair.  "That's not
permanent, I hope."  

"No," Granger said, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the limp. 
"It shouldn't be permanent.  It just needs a little more time."  He
sat as Padden did, sitting in the stiff chair, which creaked beneath
him, being made out of something's hide.  

"Good, good."  Padden leaned forward, folding his hands in front of
him on the desk, his expression still easy, friendly.  "I'm sorry I
didn't get to see you yesterday when I was in.  Trying to run this
level of a manhunt and keep the NSA running on its rails...you can
imagine it requires a great deal of my attention."  

"Yes," Granger replied, smiling faintly.  "I imagine so."   He
watched the other man carefully, sizing him up.  If this was all an
act, Granger thought -- and he was almost certain it was -- Padden
was doing a hell of a job at it.   His guard came up a notch more.

"So."  Padden took off the reading glasses, setting them carefully
on the desk.  

Here is comes, Granger thought.  

"What are your initial thoughts on Owen Curran and Agent Mulder?" 
he asked.  "I know you've only been back for a few days, but I wanted
to know your impressions."  

"My impressions on what aspects of them, sir?"  Granger wanted to
know more about what specifically Padden was fishing for, lest he say
something that he shouldn't, something that could be slanted and
later used in a way he didn't intend. 

Padden shrugged, leaned back in the chair.  "What you think is
motivating both of them at this juncture, what they might be up to. 
If they're together, that sort of thing."  

Granger felt a flare of anger, like a match being struck in his
head.  He snuffed it out instantly.  

"No, sir, they're not together," he replied slowly.  "Agent Mulder
has had no dealings with Owen Curran.  He was not involved with any
conspiracy to bomb the embassy, as I believe I've mentioned before." 

"Yes, so you've asserted," Padden replied.  "And though I do hope,
of course, that you are right about this, I don't share your
certainty about that fact.  Hence my question."  

Granger's tie felt too tight.  "The only connection between Agent
Mulder and Owen Curran," he said quietly, "would be Agent Scully.  
She is what is motivating both of them right now.  But for different
reasons, of course."  

"How do you mean?"  Padden asked, his brows squinting down.  

"Based on what I know of Owen Curran, I would say that Curran is
concentrating his energy on finding Agent Scully."   He neglected to
mention that everything he knew about Curran had come from Mulder's
profile in Richmond.  He didn't think Padden would appreciate that
knowledge very much, and kept it to himself.

"For what purpose?"  Padden asked incredulously.  "Surely he knows
that she would have relayed all of her information to us before her
cover was exposed.  It seems to me that killing her at this point
would be a futile use of his energy."  

Again Padden smiled, this time almost apologetically. 

"Because revenge is what motivates Owen Curran, sir," Granger
replied carefully.  "He feels, at the least, that Agent Scully was
responsible for his bombing being unsuccessful."  

Padden said nothing, so Granger pressed on.

"I also believe that Agent Scully resembling Curran's wife so
closely allowed him to develop a level of attachment to her that
would make her betrayal of him even more of an insult.  He would have
trusted her, probably more than he does most people outside his
family, and he will not take kindly to that trust being abused."  

"I see," Padden said after a beat.  "You sound quite certain of your
theories, Agent Granger.  That's good to hear."  

Granger kept his face neutral, not rising to the compliment, knowing
there was something behind it.   Padden was doing everything he could
to put him at ease, to seem reasonable.  

And Granger didn't like it one bit.  

Padden leaned back a bit more in the posh leather chair, pushed at a
pen on the desk top absently.  "You said Agent Scully was motivating
Agent Mulder at this point, as well.  What do you mean by that?"

Granger shifted a bit in his seat, knowing he had to tread
particularly carefully in this terrain.  "Agent Mulder is protecting
Agent Scully from Curran," he said, his voice devoid or emotion or
inflection.  

"But why is that necessary?"  Padden replied, and his voice now did
betray some frustration.  "Surely they both know that we could
protect Agent Scully much better in a safe house than they could
possibly be doing on their own."  

Granger looked at Padden now, and felt anger flare in him again. 
This time, he knew it made it to his face.  "Because I believe that
Agent Mulder doesn't trust you, sir," he said, his voice the same
monotone.  "I think he believes that you will do anything you can to
capture Owen Curran, even if it means sacrificing Agent Scully's life
to do it."  

Padden chuckled bitterly.  "The famous Fox Mulder paranoia," he said
dismissively.  "Which he seems to have given to Agent Scully, as
well."  

"Sir," Granger said as Padden's chuckle subsided.  "You must admit
that you *did,* in fact, suppress the information about Agent
Scully's resemblance to Elisa Curran, even though you must have
realized that likeness would place her at more risk, given Curran's
attachment to his wife and the circumstances of her death."  

"That's nonsense," Padden replied, his voice peeved.  "Yes, we'd
noticed a slight resemblance but we didn't ‘suppress' that
information.  We just didn't feel that it had any tactical
importance.  We still don't.  Agent Mulder overreacted to that
information.  Overreacted badly."  

Granger watched his face, the profiler in him watching the
expressions that crossed it.  They were subtle -- Padden was clearly
used to hiding his feelings well -- but Granger saw them nonetheless.

Padden was, as Granger's mother used to say, "lying like a rug."  

It was not, however, the time to call him on that.  Granger had too
much work to do and did not need to be in an openly antagonistic
relationship with his superior at this juncture.  There was too much
at stake.

"This...protectiveness...Agent Mulder has of Agent Scully," Padden
began, his eyes on the desk, on the shining gold pen he'd been toying
with before.  "What do you make of that?"  

Granger became very still.  "I'm not sure what you mean, sir," he
said, and meant it.  He didn't like the turn of the conversation, the
probing tone in Padden's voice, the quietness of it.

"What do you make of their relationship?"  Padden pressed. 
"Generally speaking."  

Choosing his words with care, Granger shifted in his seat and
responded.  "Agents Mulder and Scully are two of the best matched
partners I've ever encountered.  Consummate professionals in their
work.  Loyal to each other.  Vigilant.  Balanced in their seemingly
contradictory views and methods.  I think the fact that the work
they've done on the X-Files for the past eight years has been under
so much ridicule and suspicion both inside and outside the Bureau has
given their partnership more importance to them both, since they seem
to have no one to rely on for affirmation of their work but each
other."  

"An "Us Against Them" mentality, in other words?"  Padden asked.  

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Granger replied, though he didn't
like the implied negative connotation of Padden's words.  

Padden nodded, leaned forward, folding his hands in front of them. 
"What about their personal relationship?" he asked, looking at
Granger over the flat-topped rims of his glasses.      

Granger looked back, forcing his face to remain neutral.  "I have
very little information on that, sir.  I did not get the opportunity
to see them outside of their working relationship."  

"Surely you must have gotten a sense of Mulder's feelings from
spending so much time with him in Richmond," Padden persisted.  He'd
had yet to move.  

Now Granger did squirm a bit under the other man's intense scrutiny.
"He's very loyal to Agent Scully," he said noncommitedly, using the
most innocuous yet accurate word he could come up with.  

Padden nodded thoughtfully, his lips pursing as he looked down. 
Then he pinned Granger with his gaze once again.  "Could there be
more to it than that?"  

Granger froze again, swallowed.  "How do you mean, sir?"  

Padden leaned back again now.  "Frankly, I'm wondering if there's
something going on between them personally -- and by that I mean
sexually -- that is causing this behavior.  A level of attachment
that would cause Agent Mulder to ruin his career by avoiding coming
in and facing these charges against him, that would cause Agent
Scully to sully her reputation by running, as well."  He shook his
head.  "This behavior is very irregular.  You'd have to agree with me
on that point, Agent Granger."  

"How would a romantic relationship of some kind contribute to that?"
Granger replied cautiously.   "I think their partnership -- their
level of commitment to that -- is enough to cause what we're
seeing."  

"I don't think so, Paul."  

Paul?  Granger chafed. 

Padden sighed.  "I think, frankly, that they've compromised
themselves, gotten too involved with one another so that they've lost
their perspective.  Many of us noted it while Agent Scully was
undercover, Mulder's overly emotional reactions to things, his
protectiveness, his anger at being separated from her.  I think it's
this overreaction based on their attachment that is causing all this.
It's not anything I've done, or that the task force has done.  I
think that Mulder has used his personal relationship with Agent
Scully to fool her into sacrificing herself and her position to
protect him, to run with him.  I think she's being brainwashed by
him, to be honest.  I think she's believing his paranoia about me and
the task force to avoid facing the truth of his involvement with
Curran."  

Granger's hands clenched down on the arms of the chair, the leather
squeaking in protest.  

"You're wrong about all that, sir," he said, tight lipped.  "You're
wrong on so many levels.  Agent Scully could not be ‘brainwashed' by
anyone, for starters.  She's the most professional, level-headed
agent I've ever met.  She sets a standard with her approach and
conduct."  

"Not anymore."  Padden's face had hardened now to the craggy mask
that Granger had known in Richmond.  He was almost glad to see its
return, because it was, at least, familiar.  

"Mulder would never do anything to compromise Agent Scully," Granger
continued, stoked now at the insinuations about Scully and Mulder's
manipulation of her.  "Quite the opposite, in fact.  He would do
anything he could to protect her.  And not because of any sort of
romantic involvement.  Because of their partnership."  

Padden picked up the pen, pushed at a file on the desktop with the
blunt end of it, his eyes averted.   "I wonder if your feelings on
this matter are quite clear," he said softly.

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean," Granger replied stiffly.  

"It was no secret here at the CIA, I'm told, that you are a great
admirer of Mulder's profiling work," Padden said, glancing up and
Granger and frowning.  "There are some on the task force who are
wondering how impartial you're able to be in your work on this case. 
That concerns a great many people, to be quite honest."  

Granger recognized the ploy -- the insinuation coming in punishment
for Granger's assertion that Padden was wrong.  

"Who exactly is being profiled here, Dr. Padden?"  Granger replied
quietly.  "Me or Agent Mulder and Owen Curran?"  

"All three of you, to some extent, Paul,"  Padden replied.  "Your
work is being closely watched on this.  Some of your past actions
have been somewhat... questionable... shall we say?  At least as far
as Agent Mulder is concerned.  There are those who don't think you're
up for the task of bring him in, that your heart isn't in it."   

Granger stood then slowly, took the two steps toward the desk.  He
was fuming, but kept it simmering deep.   

"I can promise you, Dr. Padden, that I will do everything in my
power to locate Agents Mulder and Scully and Owen Curran," he said
formally.   

Again, Padden's face crimped with that strange, patronizing smile. 
"I'm sure you will," he said.  

There was a strange moment as the two of them regarded each other
silently.  Granger pulled himself up straighter.  

"If there's nothing else, sir, I have some files to attend to."  

"Of course," Padden replied, standing.  "I'll expect a full progress
report by the end of the week, and sooner if there are any major
developments."  

Granger nodded, turned on his heel and left the room, closing the
door quietly behind him, the sunlight of the outer office assaulting
him.

Out in the bustle of the hallway, Granger made his way toward his
office, his teeth clenched in rage.  When he reached it, he closed
the door perhaps a little too hard, went behind the desk and stood
for a moment, facing the window.  He reached up, took off his
glasses, rubbed his eyes, exhaling slowly to calm his nerves.  

After a moment, he replaced his glasses and glanced behind him, at
the locked drawer of his desk, the memory of the photo coming back to
him.  

Mulder's hand on Scully's shoulder.  The thinness of her face and
arms.  

He had to DO something.  Find something that could help clear
Mulder's -- and now Scully's, it would seem -- name.  

He needed proof.  Of something.  Anything. 

A picture of Mulder standing in the airport waiting for Scully to
show for her plane entered his mind, an imagining of Mulder tensely
watching the passengers board the plane bound for Boston.  

Padden had stated on the phone weeks ago that he didn't really
believe that Mulder had ever been at the airport at all.

Surely someone would have seen Mulder there.  Surely there was
someone who could vouch for that.  

It was a place to start, at least. 

Turning, he picked up the phone, dialed the number for toll-free
directory assistance.  

"What listing?"  the computerized voice prompted.  

"Richmond International Airport," Granger said, watching the shadows
of people passing by beneath his office door.  


**********


PUERTO PENASCO, MEXICO 
12:35 p.m. 


Mae and Sean drifted through the open-air market, past the stands
selling fireworks and firewood for the tourists on the beach, past
the stalls steaming with the heavy smell of heavy food, the garish
storefronts peddling Mexican blankets and sombreros so huge and
useless that only an American would buy them.  

"It's the Movie Star," one of the storefront vendors called from his
stool.  "Señorita West, buenos días.  You are looking beautiful
today, as always."  

"Thank you, Enrico," Mae replied, gave him a small smile.  It was a
near-daily ritual for her, the attention of the men in the center of
town.  It was impossible to be a woman -- and a foreign one,
particularly -- and really blend in, so she did her best to accept
the attention in stride, casually, so as not to draw suspicion.  

Sean walked slowly just behind Mae, and she turned to make sure he
was still there.  He was looking down as he walked, appearing deep in
thought.  

"Sean?"  she asked, and stopped to let him catch up, knelt down in
front of him and took his hand.  "Qué pasa, Señor West?"  

She hoped to get a rise out of him, both with her Irish-accented
Spanish -- she was dreadful at the language -- and with the use of
their fake name, and did.  He looked up at her and a smile tugged at
the corners of his mouth.  She was glad to see it.  He'd become so
serious over the weeks.  Broody.  Quiet.  Much like his father that
way, and for many of the same reasons.  

Loss seemed to cling to her family like a cobweb.  It always had. 
And all of them had worn it on their faces, in the way they carried
themselves and moved through the world.   Her mother.  Her father
before he disappeared into prison and never returned.  Her brother
James.  Owen.  And now Sean, as well.  

He said nothing in response to her question about what was the
matter, however.  Just looked at her as though he had something to
say and couldn't say it.  Mae felt sadness wash over her as she
looked at him.  

"What do you want to eat?  Anything you want."  She stroked down his
hair again.  

"I want one of Señora Martínez's burritos," Sean replied softly.  

Her smile widened.  "And I bet you want to ride Señor Martínez's
burro while she makes it, as well, don't you?"  

Now Sean broke into a wider, shy smile as he looked down, clearly
caught.  Mae reached out and tickled his middle and he squirmed and a
laugh chirped out of him.  

"I know your game, little man," she said, and tickled him again. 
"We'll see if Señor Martínez will let you today then."  

She stood, still holding his hand, started toward the far end of
town where the Martínez family lived, selling food straight from
their own ramshackle kitchen.  

The catcalls and greetings continued as she walked along, and she
ignored those from people she didn't know, said hello to the ones she
did.  

Then she passed a stall and saw a familiar face.  The man -- an
American with sun bleached brown hair and brown eyes, lean with a
surfer's body and clad in jeans and a t-shirt that hugged his chest
just a touch -- turned as she approached, smiling kindly.  

"Hello, Mr. Porter," Sean said, and the man came forward, put a hand
on Sean's head.

"Hello, Sean.  Katherine."   

Mae smiled back at him shyly.  "How are you, Joe?  A good day on the
boat?"  

Porter smiled back at her warmly, taking her in.  "Yes, we got a
good catch this morning."  

"That's good then," she replied.  She hated that she had a hard time
meeting his eyes.  She wasn't accustomed to being so shy.  But
meeting up with him always made her feel awkward.  

"Señor West!" a voice boomed from across the street.   "I have
something for you!"  It was Paco, the bone salesman, his storefront
stacked with cow skulls and stinking of bleach, even from where Mae
stood.

"Can I go?"  Sean asked, looking up at Mae, his expression excited
for once, and she nodded reluctantly.  She hated the thought of the
place.

"Go on, but hurry now."  She ushered him forward and he darted
across the dirt road.  Cars weren't allowed in the tourist market
area, so she let him go without a thought.  

"You look tired," Porter said quietly.    

"I'm all right," she said, brushing him off and looking down at his
sandalled feet.  Then she felt his finger on her chin, tilting her
face up.  His eyes probed hers for a long moment, though neither of
them said anything while he did so.  

Finally, Mae broke the silence. "Tonight," she nearly whispered. 
"Ten."  

He dropped his hand, nodded, taking a step back as Sean returned,
carrying a stuffed armadillo under his arm like a football.  

"Ach, Sean!"  Mae protested, her face screwing into a look of disgust.

"He said I could have it," Sean insisted, holding it up so Mae could
see.  Its stunned glass eyes stared up at her, its obscenely long
toes curled.  

Joe laughed.  "Those go for $60," he said.  "Paco must be feeling
generous today."  

"Can I keep it?"  Sean asked, and Mae could tell it meant something
to him, so she relented immediately.  

"All right," she said, "But you're washing your hands at the
Martínez's.  And don't get it near me."  

Sean smiled and replaced the animal beneath his arm, pleased to have
grossed her out.

Joe laughed again as he watched them, put his hand back on Sean's
head, tussling his hair.  

"See you, Sean," he said, and nodded to Mae.  "Katherine."  And he
moved on through the crowd.  Mae watched his back through the thin
fabric of his shirt.

**

11:30 p.m.

Mae's nails dug into his back, her legs clenching his waist as his
movements shortened, quickened.  She gasped, turning  her head into
his throat, her mouth open against him, her breath fanning the hair
over his shoulder.  

"Oh God, Joe..."  she whispered.  "God yes..."

Her words seemed to urge him on, his thrusting into her deepening,
and she pulled him to her tightly as she shuddered finally, stifling
a cry by biting down on his shoulder.  He was already trembling, as
well, his face in her hair, a quiet groan escaping him as his hips
slowed their movements and finally stopped. 

They were both panting, drenched with sweat, as they rolled onto
their sides, Joe's lips finding hers as her legs relaxed and she
straightened them, their knees touching.  She let their lips touch
for a brief moment, then withdrew her face, pulling his down beneath
her chin.  His lips roamed her chest as his breathing began to even
out.   

If he noticed the brush-off she'd just given him, he gave no
indication of it.

Stretching her arms over her head, Mae rolled over, so that her back
was to his front,  pillowing her head on her forearm.  He moved over
until he was pressed against her, his arm draped across her waist and
resting on her belly.  He leaned up and kissed her temple.  

"You always turn away from me after we make love," he whispered. 
"Why is that?"  

The question took her by surprise.  It wasn't that what he said
wasn't true -- it was that after all these weeks she thought if it
bothered him he would have mentioned it sooner.  

"Don't know," she murmured, keeping her voice low.  She didn't want
to wake Sean, asleep in the room across the hall on the other side of
her bedroom's locked door.  She started to roll back over, but he
stopped her.  

"No, don't.  If it's what you want, it's all right."  He settled his
head on the pillow behind hers, his hand coming up and smoothing down
the curls in her long hair.  They were silent for a long moment.  Mae
closed her eyes, breathing out a long sigh.  

"It's so strange to me," he said softly into the quiet.  

She opened her eyes.  "What's strange?" 

His hand continued to stroke her hair gently.  "That you'll sleep
with me, but you won't tell me anything about yourself.  Why you're
here."  

"I've told you why I'm here," she replied softly.  "We're on
holiday."  

He chuffed softly.  "Katherine, people don't come to this
Godforsaken place for more than a day or two.  If they're going on
vacation in Mexico, they go to Cancun or Acapulco.  Not this place. 
Anybody who stays here for more than a few days has to be hiding from
something."  

She looked down at the bend of his arm, the scars of needlemarks
still pink-going-to white against his tan skin.  

"Just because you came here to run from something doesn't mean
everyone does," she said, her voice still pitched low.  

He was quiet for a moment.  "I know you're not telling me the
truth," he said softly, but there was no anger, no accusation in his
voice.  Just a tired sadness.  "I hope someday that you'll trust me
enough that you will."  

She said nothing to that.  His arm reached around her protectively,
pulling her against him more tightly as he settled down, going still
behind her.  

Mae lay there, thinking about what he'd said.  It took her a long
time to fall asleep.  


***********

END OF CHAPTER 5.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 6.

Disclaimers in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 6.

*********

JEFFERSON MEMORIAL 
THE BANKS OF THE POTOMAC 
WASHINGTON, D.C. 
MARCH 22 
12:13 p.m.


Margaret Scully pushed her hands deeper into her pockets, uncrossed
her legs to press her knees tightly together for warmth as the snow,
blown in a stiff breeze, dotted the air around her, mixing with the
soft pinks of cherry blossom petals caught unaware by the
springtime's winter squall. 

The snow wasn't sticking to the sidewalk in front of the bench she
sat on -- it had been too warm for that -- but it was leaving a thin
layer of white on the new grass that surrounded the domed monument in
front of her. She knew the storm would blow over quickly and the snow
would be gone in the sunlight, but for now she watched it gather on
the slender blades, watched it bend their thin green backs. 

She checked her watch as a group of tourists passed by in front of
her. She was early, but she didn't mind the wait. It helped her
gather herself, allowed her to swallow down the emotions churning
inside her. The worry. The sadness. 

The rage. 

None of them would serve her now. She would not allow herself to
appear anything other than formal and collected on this day for a
number of reasons. For one, she knew being overly emotional would get
her nowhere, and might even hinder the task she had a hand. 

And for another, Dana would want her to be this way. 

So she blew out a calm, slow breath into the air, her large eyes
scanning the scattering of tourists moving in and out of the monument
and along the bank of the river behind her. 

She tried to force herself to relax, to not appear to be shrouded in
the tension and grief she wore around her body. She could feel the
corners of her mouth, however, turn down. It was the expression her
face had found in the past three months whenever she wasn't forcing
it into some other shape, which she was usually doing for someone
else's benefit. Bill's. Charlie's. Her friends'. 

A snowflake caught on her long lashes and hung there until she
blinked it away, like a light, cold tear.

She was still scanning the faces around the monument when she saw
him, his coat pulled tightly around him, his mouth a tight line. He
caught sight of her almost immediately and walked with purpose now
toward her, cutting across a square of lawn in the interest of
efficiency, leaving a faint dark line of prints behind him in the
newborn snow. His eyes darted from side to side behind his glasses as
he approached.

Stopping a foot or so in front of her, purposefully standing a
little too close, Skinner looked down at her. She gazed up at him,
saw somewhere in his expression a mirror of what she was feeling. And
something else. 

Tension verging on fear. 

He blew out a warm breath into the cold air, looked away from her. 

She swallowed down on a lump in her throat, but otherwise did not
move. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Skinner," she said softly, trying to
pull his gaze to hers with the intensity of her eyes. 

"Mrs. Scully, I'm sorry to be meeting you once again under such
circumstances." He managed to avoid her gaze, looking over her at the
water. His mouth barely moved as he spoke, just enough to form the
words and nothing more. "But as I told you over the telephone,
there's nothing I can tell you about the whereabouts of your daughter
or the circumstances of her absence." 

"So you've said," she replied, her voice dead flat calm. "I've asked
you here to try to convince you to reconsider that." 

His voice dropped to just above a whisper as he stood still, his
eyes still straight ahead. "I can't do that," he said. "We're being
watched. I'm certain of it." 

"Mr. Skinner," she began, and now the bitterness did seep into her
voice. "I've had NSA and CIA agents interviewing me for the past two
months, at least once a week, checking to see if I've heard anything
from my daughter, asking personal questions about everything from her
eating habits to where we spent our family vacations. I am under the
impression that my phone and perhaps my house are being wire-tapped,
and that I am most likely being followed most places I go. Now you'll
have to pardon me if I don't react strongly to the thought of being
watched standing here with you." 

"Lower your voice, please," he hissed, though he did not say it
unkindly. 

"What's happened to my daughter, Mr. Skinner?" she asked, seeming to
ignore him except for the fact that she did indeed speak softly as
she said it. 

Skinner pulled up a little straighter, and she could see his hands
clench in his pockets. He seemed to consider for a moment, selecting
and discarding words as he spoke slowly, carefully. 

"She is under investigation by a joint task force for her
involvement in a classified operation." 

It was the most she'd gotten out of any of them, and she nodded. The
vagueness of it still irritated her. It reminded her of some of the
nonsense she'd gotten during Vietnam when her husband was at sea. She
supposed she should be used to it on some level, but she wasn't.
She'd never gotten used to not knowing.

Now he did look down at her. "That's all I can tell you. To reveal
any other information would be violating my security clearance and
could cost me my job and possibly my freedom, Mrs. Scully. I ask for
your understanding of my rather precarious position in all this." 

"It's that Irish man, isn't it?" she insisted. "The one that's been
all over the news since the embassy bombing. She has something to do
with that, doesn't she? And Fox. I know that he's gone, too. I've
tried to call him for weeks now and gotten nothing." 

Skinner gaped, looking at her still, then the expression was gone in
a flash. "I can't confirm or deny her involvement with the embassy
bombing or anything else," he bit out. "I'm sorry." 

She continued as though he hadn't responded at all. "That's when the
first agents showed up at my door. Right after that happened." 

She watched him go quiet, still, in front of her. He was looking off
to the side, at a small knot of what looked like businessmen coming
toward them on the path beside the river. He watched them until they
passed.

She softened some in his silence, the grief taking hold for a
moment. She felt it breaking over her face, though the tears did not
come. 

"I don't understand why she can't get word to me that she's all
right," she said, and there was something imploring in her voice, a
crack in the shell she'd placed around herself. "I don't understand
why she would be hiding from the FBI, from the government. It makes
no sense to me, any of it. This isn't like her. This isn't what she's
about." 

"I'm sure she has her reasons." He said it with a gentle conviction
that she found somehow comforting. He was trying to reassure her as
best he could. She could tell that. But she found herself shaking her
head, trying to make it all make sense. She could not. 

The snow gathered on Skinner's shoulders in tiny dots of white. 

"I'm sure..." He hesitated for a beat, drew in a breath, let it out.
"I'm sure she's doing everything she can to come home." 

A memory came to her with the words, and a smile tugged at her lips,
a small sound coming from her. He glanced down, clearly confused at
the shift in her mood. But as the smile dawned, her eyes glistened.
She squinted against the steady breeze, looked off toward the grey
sky over the grey stone of the building before her. She began to
speak. 

"I was just remembering something," she said quietly. "Something
Dana did when she was a child." 

Skinner waited, saying nothing. 

She pulled her hands from her pockets, folded them on her lap,
studying them. "Dana was about five years old and my oldest son Bill
was picking on her once again. I was in the kitchen, and I could hear
them arguing over....something. I can't recall what it was. He was
forever teasing her about one thing or another. 

"Anyway, I went to the doorway to Dana's bedroom to watch them. They
couldn't see me standing there. Dana was packing one of her doll's
suitcases, saying that she was going to run away to get away from
him. She put two pairs of her little pants in the suitcase and a
crayon. Bill asked her what the crayon was for, and she said: 'In
case I want to color.'" 

Skinner smiled at that, and Maggie returned it, though a tear made
its way from the corner of her eye down her cheek. 

"So she closed up the suitcase and picked it up and went out the
front door to the house. I told Bill to keep an eye on Melissa and
Charlie in the living room and I went outside. She had made it a
couple of houses away, so I got in the car and backed down the
driveway, then followed alongside her as she walked down the street.
I didn't do anything...I just drove alongside her very slowly.

"She was so determined. She kept her eyes forward. I knew she knew I
was there, but she didn't look at me. She just kept looking ahead of
her, swinging the suitcase as she walked. I waited. I knew I couldn't
make her come to me. I knew she had to decide for herself. 

"Finally she started to slow, and I could tell she was getting
upset. It made me ache, watching her like that, knowing how
conflicted she must have felt, even being as young as she was. Then
she stopped walking and turned to me. She was crying as she looked at
me, and I was, too, and I reached over and pushed the door open and
she came over and got in the car. She crawled up on my lap and I
drove around the block and we went back home. We never spoke about it
again." 

Skinner looked down at her, swallowed, the stern mask gone. 

The tears were flowing freely down her face now, and she reached up
and brushed at them slowly, carefully. 

"I'm ready for my daughter to get in the car, Mr. Skinner," she said
softly, and her voice broke. She looked down, struggling for control. 

"I'm so sorry," he said, and his voice was tender, low. "I wish
there was something I could tell you, but there's not. I promise you
I'll let you know as soon as I know something I can share." 

She met his gaze again, nodded quickly. "I understand," she replied,
and she'd regained some measure of composure now, though the sadness
still gripped her like a fist. She wiped at her face again. 

He reached his hand out, and she did as well, clasping his tightly. 

A folded scrap of paper in his palm passed to hers, surprising her. 

She did not let the feeling reach her face as she drew her hand back
and put her hands back in her pockets. 

"Thank you, Mr. Skinner, for seeing me." She forced a smile.

"You're welcome, Mrs. Scully," he replied formally. He turned and
walked away. 

After a long moment, she rose from the bench, the snow continuing to
fall, and blended in with the crowd as she made her way back to the
parking area. Her heart was racing by the time she reached it, and
she climbed in, fumbled for her keys in her pocket, started the car. 

Only then did she reach for the tiny corner of paper. She unfolded
it in her lap, out of sight of the windows, squinted down at the tiny
writing. 

"Somewhere in the southwest," it said. "Hurt, but is doing better.
With Mulder. Will have more as I know more." 

She studied it for a long moment, the tears starting once again. She
reached up and covered her mouth with her hand until she'd brought
them back under control. 

Carefully she ripped up the piece of paper, put the remnants back in
her pocket. 

Then she put the car into gear and pulled out into the lunchtime
traffic, turned the block and headed slowly for home. 


***********

NOGALES, ARIZONA 
ON THE U.S./MEXICAN BORDER 
1:35 p.m.


The falcon was blind. 

Tom Lantham could tell that from the moment he looked at it, the
places where its keen eyes should have been covered over with a thick
patina of scar, the cups of lids blinking uselessly, instinctively,
over the ragged holes. It made him ill as he looked at it, both at
the sight of the eyes and at the thought of such a beautiful animal
being crippled so badly and then put on display. 

A sign, written in English and Spanish, beside it said: "Photo taken
with bird on your arm, $5," and sure enough Rudy Gray was getting out
his wallet to pay the kid beside the falcon to have his picture taken
with the thing. 

Lantham cringed, shook his head -- Gray could be such a kid
sometimes -- and turned his attention to the man who had exited the
storefront behind the poor creature on its stand. He was wiping his
hands on an apron, drying them as he looked at Lantham and Gray
suspiciously. The store was a small cafe that served food to go. 

It was hard for Lantham to draw his full attention to the man. The
drive from Colorado, from Curran, had been a long one, and he was
already tired. Still, he pulled himself up and focussed on the task
at hand. 

"Mr. Ruiz?" he said as the man approached him. Lantham squinted down
at the much shorter man as he stopped before him.

"Yes, I'm Pablo Ruiz," the man replied cautiously, his voice heavily
accented. "You police or something? Cuz I got nothing going on here
except selling food. You can search the place yourself and see." 

Lantham held up a hand. "No, no, Mr. Ruiz, we're not police," he
said. "We got a tip that you reported having some information about a
woman who passed through here. You called a number to report it? That
you found on a flyer?" 

Ruiz seemed to think for a moment, then nodded vigorously. "Oh, the
flyer up at the pawn shop. I almost forgot. Sí, I saw one of those
women. Y el niño, too. They came into my shop, oh, I guess six weeks
ago. Five. Something like that." 

"You sure it was them?" Lantham asked. He had to step back as,
beside him, the bird's wings opened instinctively to balance itself
as it was placed onto Gray's heavily gloved forearm. The bird make a
high cry as it settled back down. 

"Sí, pretty sure," Ruiz answered, his hands going to his hips now.
"She had the same long dark hair as the photo. Hermosa, she was.
Lovely to look at. Spoke inglés with a strange accent, her and the
boy." 

Lantham nodded. The Polaroid camera clicked and whined as the kid
snapped the picture. "Yeah, that sounds like them," he said as Gray
fumbled the bird back onto the stand. It nearly fell as it stumbled
onto the perch, which Lantham found quite sad. 

"Any idea where they were headed?" he asked, forcing his attention
back on Ruiz. "Did she give anything away about that?" 

Ruiz seemed to consider again. "She said something about them having
a long drive ahead of them. She said it to el muchacho. That he'd
better eat two of my chalupas because it might be awhile before they
ate again. I asked where she was heading, you know, just to be
friendly, and she said they were going down into Mexico to...how do
you say?...see los lugares interesantes..." He snapped his fingers as
the word came to him. "To sight-see." 

So Mae Curran had crossed the border, Lantham thought, pursed his
lips. That complicated matters for him, for sure. For one, he didn't
speak Spanish beyond the very basics (and Gray barely spoke English,
he mused bitterly), and it would be more difficult to get information
when they crossed into Mexico. For another, it was a big country. Mae
and Curran's son could be anywhere at this point, with a five to six
week head start. 

"Where's my hundred bucks?" Ruiz asked expectantly. "The flyer said
a hundred bucks for información." 

Gray was waving his Polaroid in the air in front of him, as though
the action would bring the picture up faster. 

Lantham sighed and reached into his wallet, fat with bills. He
plucked out a crisp $100 bill and handed it to Ruiz, who folded it
over immediately and stuffed it into his apron pocket, as though he
didn't want anyone to see him getting it. 

"Gracias, Mr. Ruiz," Lantham said, smiled stiffly. "You've been a
lot of help. If you happen to see her and the boy, or the other woman
on the flyer, make sure you give another call to that number." 

"I will," Ruiz promised. "Pleasure to do business with you," and he
went back into the store. 

Lantham turned to Gray, who was staring proudly at his photo. The
bird moved uneasily on its perch, its blind eyes blinking. 

"You ready?" he asked, and Gray looked up at him. 

"Yeah, we going to Mexico?" 

Lantham nodded. "Yeah, we are. Make sure your gun's out of sight
when we go through the border crossing, just in case they stop us. I
don't think they will, though." 

Gray nodded, still mesmerized by his picture. He turned it around to
show it to Lantham, who put a hand out, pushing the other man's arm
down. 

"Come on, Rudy," he said, put out. "We don't have any time to waste."

Gray followed him obediently through the crowded street, back toward
the parking lot on the outskirts of town, only a few hundred feet
from the Mexican border.


********

BUCKHORN LAKE 
DANIEL BOONE FOREST 
OUTSIDE BUCKHORN, KENTUCKY 
3:35 p.m.


The fish were biting, and for this, at least, Jimmy Shea was pleased. 

Just off the side of the boat, a long yellow stringer trailed beside
the idle, aging motor, swaying back and forth slightly with the small
ripples of the lake and movement of the fish pinned to it through the
gills. 

He'd caught seven fish so far and had only been out for a few hours,
just back from Tyner, a town north of Egypt, Kentucky. He'd found one
person in town who seemed to recognize the photo he'd shown around, a
manager at a motel on the main street of the town. But the man said
that he'd seen someone looking like that -- who also had an accent
like Shea's -- weeks and weeks ago, but not any time recently. 

Shea had shown the picture around the whole place after that, which
didn't take long. It was a small town. He'd come up with nothing
else. 

Curran may have been there, but he'd moved on. Of that Shea was
certain. He'd called Rutherford and told him just that.

He got a tug on his line and jerked the rod back, felt the fish pull
hard to the left beneath the water. As he began to reel in, there was
another sharp jab on the line and then it went slack again. 

Shea sighed, reeled the line in, not surprised to find his bait gone. 

He reached for the styrofoam cup of night crawlers, bought at the
shop where he'd rented the shabby boat and motor, and let the hook
swing into the boat. He dug through the damp dirt, finally pulling
out a frantic, fat black worm. He impaled it on the hook, twisting it
around to catch it in several loops on the sharp end. 

He did it all by rote, dispassionately, almost with a sigh. As he'd
done most things in his life. Particularly in the last years. 

He remembered a time when he had passion, ire for everything. 

James Curran, Owen Curran's father, had been a part of that time. 

And for an instant, in the battered boat on the dark lake, he went
back to it, the memories burned into him like a brand. 

He was riding a motorcycle toward the outskirts of Ballycastle, up
into the sheep pastures and the brilliant green of the hills around
the sea. 

Nineteen-seventy and the IRA was just beginning to organize, each
town given its own command, its own store of weapons. Discipline of a
sort. Training. And, since the polarizing events of 1969, purpose. 

He was 31, still a young man, part of the Newry unit, in the time
before its reputation was ruined with its members cracking under
interrogation, before their damaging signed confessions. 

He'd was riding to the home of one of the battalion leaders to see
about killing a man. There was a UDR officer named Norton who had
made the very human mistake of developing a routine, and the IRA was
going to do something about that while they had the chance. 

Shea had developed a reputation as being the best shot in the
northern units. That's why he'd been called for the task. 

He remembered the house on the hillside, a lovely place, and showing
a man who had some means. The owner was standing beside a low wall
made of stone, shuffling bags of feed from the back of a small truck.
A young boy stood beside him wearing high boots, a white fisherman's
sweater with simple pants. The man himself was dressed similarly, a
cap on his head. They both turned as the motorcycle came up the long
road to the house, even the boy seeming to watch his approach with
care.

He pulled up beside them, removed his helmet as the man came
forward. "Jimmy Shea?" the other man asked, brushing off his hands. 

"Aye, I'm Shea. James Curran?" 

The man nodded. The boy, who couldn't be more than five, had taken
up a place behind his father's leg, looking at Shea with his wide
blue eyes. His dark hair was cut close to his head, and spiked a bit
on top. 

"And who do we have here?" Shea said, putting his helmet on the seat
of the cycle and turning again, crouching down with his hands on his
knees. The child smiled shyly, looked away toward the bike. 

"Ah, this is my youngest, Owen," Curran said proudly, putting a hand
on Owen's head, palming his small skull. Shea smiled to him, but Owen
kept looking at the bike, a finger in his mouth. 

"You like the motorcycle, do you then?" Shea asked, still smiling
widely. "You come over here to me I'll put you up on the seat. How's
that?" 

Owen curled around his father's leg a bit more, smiling wider now. 

"Come on," Shea prodded, holding his arms out in a welcoming
gesture. Curran watched Shea, amused.

"Go on, Owen. He won't bite." 

Finally, the boy came forward, and Shea reached out to take him in
his arms, lifting up and bracing him with one arm while he moved the
helmet with the other. Then he sat Owen down on the seat, who leaned
forward, reaching for the handlebars, clearly pleased. 

"What do you think of that, eh?" Shea said. "She's a nice one, isn't
she?" 

The boy nodded. "But where do you keep your gun?" he asked, his
voice high and light. 

Shea was taken back a bit by the question. "My gun? What do you know
about that?" He laughed a touch nervously. 

James Curran crossed his arms over his chest, smiled even more
proudly. 

"Don't you use your gun when you ride your motorcycle?" Owen asked,
looking back at Shea. Shea looked back, silent for a beat.

"Aye, sometimes I do," he said finally, his voice betraying his
surprise. 

He wondered about the boy then, about his father. It was common
knowledge in the North that motorcycles and assassins went together,
but he didn't expect a boy of Owen's age to know that. 

Now Curran laughed heartily, came forward and plucked his son off
the motorcycle, setting him on his feet. "Go on, Owen. Go find your
mother. Mr. Shea and I have some business to discuss." 

"All right, Daddy," the boy said softly, and looked up at Shea,
smiling again. Then he scuttled off toward the house. 

"Let's take a walk, Jimmy," Curran said, putting his arm around
Shea's shoulder and steering him toward the pasture. 

Shea turned and went along with him, into the fields of green.

Now he looked out over the lake, at the trees lining the banks in
the distance. He shook his head, his gaze frozen on that distance for
a moment. Then, sighing, he swung the line out, cast it into the
water, and waited for the fish to come.


********

WHISTLE STOP INN 
WILLIAMS, ARIZONA 
11:17 p.m.


The creature lumbered through the clearing, its arms swinging in
long arcs beside its body, its strides long, unhurried. It was tall,
covered with dark hair. From the distance, its features were
difficult to make out, though as it turned slightly and looked back
over its shoulder, as though aware it were being watched, a pair of
dark eyes peered out from beneath heavy brows, its gait quickening as
it headed for the safety of the treeline. 

"Mulder." 

A man's voice floated into the room. "Recently, a group of
scientists led by Dr. Gene Robinson at the University of Oregon were
involved in an experiment to confirm the existence of the creature. A
mesh bag filled with fruit was placed in the low branches of a tree
around the area where it had been sighted. 

"As morning came the following day, Dr. Robinson was able to make
plaster casts of both a set of footprints made as the creature
approached the tree, and also a right buttock print in the ground at
the base of the trunk where the creature had apparently sat down to
consume the bait." 

"Mulder, don't start." 

"Come on, Scully, listen to this." 

Gene Robinson, as the caption on the screen identified him, held up
a plaster casting the size of a dinner plate, pointing to a series of
marks on it. "This print can be authenticated on the basis of its
hair patterns," the man said. "As you can see, the hair follows an
anatomically correct pattern of growth..."

Scully tuned it out now, though she could tell from how still Mulder
was against her in the bed, how his hand was poised in midair with
the remote, that he was enthralled. As usual. 

"It really does follow the correct pattern," Mulder said, and she
knew that convicted tone all too well. "See how you can see the hair
moving away from the center area --" 

"Mulder, I'm not going to do this tonight," she said, though she
rubbed her cheek against the soft material of his shirt at the crook
of his arm as she said it, nuzzling into him like a cat, her eyes
closing. 

"Do what?" he asked, seemingly genuinely perplexed. 

She smiled, her eyes staying closed, her arm gripping around his
chest a little tighter, her leg sliding a little higher on his thigh.
When she spoke, her voice was soft, drawled with impending sleep.

"Oh, argue with you about the veracity of hair patterns on a
buttprint of a man in a rented gorilla suit who has a taste for
mangos so that you can then launch into a treatise about the number
of Bigfoot sightings--" 

He laughed, his chest vibrating beneath her arm. 

"A 'buttprint?'" he asked. "Is that the scientific term, Dr. Scully?
Because if we're going to be scientifically correct about this, I
believe it's called an 'assprint.'" 

A laugh bubbled up from her and she opened her eyes, leaned up a
little to look in his eyes. They were soft, looking velvet in the
shadows. The only light was from the lamp on the night table on his
side of the bed, and it threw his face into chiaroscuro relief. Two
pints of ice cream -- Phish Food and Peanut Butter Cup -- sat melting
beneath the lamp, plastic spoons protruding from their edges. 

He was smiling at her as he reached over and curved her hair around
her ear. 

Something seemed to hang in the air for a moment over them,
something warm and tender and ultimately welcome. Scully breathed it
in as she looked at him, feeling his fingers caress her lobe softly,
the sensitive skin beneath it. 

Yesterday at Wupatki, she had felt as desolate as the stones
surrounding her. Trying to think of Fagan, trying to feel him, had
tired her, made her weary and lost. Sitting with Mulder on the ledge
overlooking the mesa and the grey sky, she'd found her way back
again, let the desolation move through her, as the heavy clouds had
moved over the dark ruins behind them.

She'd stroked his wrist and settled back into herself as best she
could, something growing quiet in her, quiet as the snow.

They'd gone back to the motel and eaten a simple dinner. Baked
chicken. Some apples. Some cheese. As she stood before the small
stove, Mulder quartering the green apples behind her, she'd felt
something in her unknot, the memory of them in her kitchen cooking
together, the sound of heavy plates on the wooden table, coming back
to her. The sound of empty wine glasses clinking in Mulder's hand as
they went to the couch afterward. 

She'd slept soundly last night, the soundest sleep in weeks, spared
from the dreaming.

The morning brought sleeping in, a late breakfast at a local diner.
She'd spent the afternoon dozing, sometimes curled against him. Other
times, he'd risen, reading the newspaper he'd bought from a machine
at the diner or flipping channels from the foot of the bed as she
slept. 

They'd spoken little, but the silence was not unwelcome. There was
an ease to it, something companionable in it. As though, for a little
while, words had become unnecessary.

At one point, lying against him, his breathing deep and steady, his
eyes fluttering beneath his lids as he dreamed, she remembered lazy
days in his bed, or hers, rousing to find his mouth, his hands,
moving over her body. The warm weight of the afternoons of lovemaking
had settled over her as she watched him, held him, while he slept.

"You're only saying you don't want to argue about this Bigfoot thing
because you know I'll end up being right," he said finally, breaking
her thoughts. 

She rolled her eyes, slapped him lightly on the stomach, causing him
to suck in, a startled "oh!" coming from him as his hand left her ear
and went to his stomach as though she'd mortally wounded him. 

He laughed, and so did she, the sound coming from her fast and
light, like sparrows. 

She looked deeply at him. There was something so familiar to all
this. The banter over unlikely things. The closeness to him. The
teasing, tender light in his eyes as he looked at her.

It was as though they had finally managed to leave it all behind. 

She smiled at the thought, a low heat rushing through her. 

Maybe things could be the same after all.

Thinking this, she rolled over on top of him, her hands on either
side of his head as his hands went instinctively around her, resting
on the small of her back. 

He adjusted his head on the pillow so that their faces were almost
touching. She could feel his slow, warm breath on her face as his
fingers traced small shapes in the material of her white pajama top. 

"I mean, come on. When have I not been right?" His voice was just
above a whisper, and he smiled softly. 

His words were meant to continue his tease, but the sentiment did
not reach his tone. The mischief had gone from his eyes. She rubbed
her thumbs over his bearded cheeks as she watched his mood shift. He
was very still beneath her. 

The playful feeling had gone from her, as well, the smile leaving
her face. Keeping her eyes open, she closed the few inches between
them and touched her lips to his, pulling away almost immediately,
though she did not withdraw any further than she had been before. 

His hands moved from her back to cradle her waist, his grip gentle
and sure. 

"What was that for?" he whispered.

She could do nothing but shake her head, her lips curling as she
leaned in and kissed him again, longer this time. She opened her
mouth and pulled his bottom lip in, tugging gently. His hands slid up
her back and a small sound came from his throat.

Their lips moved over each other's for a long moment. Then she broke
the contact and pressed her lips to his throat, her hand pushing at
his shirt. 

"Take this off." She breathed it against his skin, felt him shiver. 

Then she placed her knees on either side of his hips and leaned up,
resting on his thighs as he pulled the shirt up over his head,
tossing it on the floor beside the bed, looking up at her with his
smokey eyes. His hands came to rest on her thighs, holding still
there. 

She could sense his caution. Perhaps that was the beginning of it,
the feeling that sprouted in her. Just the hint of it sent her into a
fine tremor, her breath quivering as she let out a long exhale,
trying to calm herself, soothe. 

She pushed it all down, willing it away. 

As if to prove she had vanquished it, she reached for the buttons of
her top, pushing the top white button through its white hole. She saw
him swallow, and then found herself looking down shyly, unable to
meet his intense gaze. She watched her fingers work the buttons as
though she'd never touched them before. She did not push the sides of
the shirt apart. 

As she undid the last button, her hands went to his belly, her
thumbs moving over the faint line of hair at his navel. She still
could not meet his eyes, and her faint trembling increased. 

His hands went to her top, fingering the sides. With a slow motion,
he pushed them apart, revealing her body. She arched her back as he
smoothed the top off her shoulders, down to the center of her back.
Her nipples hardened in the chill of the room and under the burn of
his gaze. She slid her arms out of the sleeves, laying the shirt down
beside them on the rumpled bed. 

Now she draped herself down over him, her arms going around his neck
as her breasts pressed against his body. She buried her face against
his throat, beneath the coarse hair of his beard. 

He was still, except for his hands, which were reading the bumps of
her ribs on her back as though memorizing her. She felt his breath
deepen, quicken. She felt him hard against her belly. 

The fear came up her like a current at the feel of him. 

She shook against him, her eyes stinging. 

No... 

Her mind whispered the word to her, but she did not listen. 

His hands curved around her sides to her breasts, and she arched her
back to allow him to cup them, his palms hot against her skin. His
lips were on her hair, his cheek rubbing against her, urging her face
up to his. His hands kneaded softly as she looked up, her eyes
clenched closed against the sight of him. 

His mouth closed over hers and she struggled to meet him, her hands
gripping his hair in her fists. 

No. 

Her mind said it again, louder this time, with more finality. 

(Hands on her back, rough. Pain. Pain piercing her with the shame of
it.) 

She felt herself flush all over, turned her face away from him,
breaking her contact with his mouth.

"No..." She said it out loud this time, to herself, to the terror
gripping her. To him. She felt him freeze beneath her, his hands
stilling instantly. 

"It's all right," he whispered. "We don't have to do this." 

The first sob hitched her breath, nearly choking her. She pulled her
arms from around his neck as his hands went around her back, her
hands going to cover her mouth, her elbows jutting into his belly.
Her shaking was uncontrollable now, a cry crawling up her throat. It
sounded like an animal, or a terrified child. 

She hated it. 

Hated herself. 

Fury ignited in her. 

Fury and shame. 

"Scully..."

She shook her head, pulled away from him quickly, gracelessly. Some
dim part of her wondered if she might have hurt him as she pushed
herself off of his body, ending up on her side beside him. Her hands
scrambled to her top, clutching it to her, hiding her breasts, as she
rolled again to the edge of the bed, facing away from him now, her
legs curling up until her thighs touched her belly. 

Another sob wracked her. She jerked as though struck. 

She could feel him moving up behind her, shifting toward her. His
hand brushed her shoulder.

"Scully, it's all right," he soothed, but there was something very
afraid in his voice, almost desperate, as though he didn't even
believe himself. 

She didn't believe him, either. 

As his fingers curled over the bone of her shoulder, she jerked away
from him.

"Don't," she bit out between the wracking. She couldn't breathe.
"Don't. Please." 

"Scully, don't push me away. I want to help. Let me help you--" His
hand brushed her bare back again.

"DON'T!" Her voice rose to near shouting. "Don't touch me!" 

His hand left her instantly, but she could feel it hovering over
her. She could tell from his breathing, from the trembling of his
voice as he'd spoken to her, that he was crying, as well. 

Guilt ran through her now, as well. It was too much. The loathing.
It was all too much. 

"Scully," he tried again. A plea.

Something in her hardened, froze over. She heaved in a deep breath,
her eyes closing tight, all of her closing tight. 

"Leave me alone," she whispered, heard his breath catch at the venom
-- borne of shame -- in her voice, felt the weight of his stunned
silence. 

He was still for a long moment. 

"Please," she said again, but there was nothing kind or imploring in
the word this time. 

Slowly he shifted, withdrawing across the bed. She heard him reach
down and gather up his shirt, felt him shift as he sat on the edge of
the bed, the sound of cloth over skin as he pulled the shirt over his
head. 

He sat there for a long while. She could hear his breath shaking in
and out of him, muffled by his hands. She covered her face, tears
streaming, though her face was stone. 

Then, finally, the light flicked off. She heard him slipping beneath
the covers, settling down far away from her. 

They lay there in the dark, the television flickering, talking to no
one, the night closing in, filling the space in the bed that
stretched out between them. 


*********

END OF CHAPTER 6. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 7. 

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 7.

*******

FBI HEADQUARTERS 
WASHINGTON D.C. 
MARCH 23 
9:14 a.m.


Two chairs sat in front of Skinner's desk. They had been there for
years, he knew, but for some reason, today he couldn't take his eyes
off of them. 

As he moved around the room, drifted in and out to various offices
and then returned to his desk, he found his eyes drawn to the chairs,
struck by their emptiness and the quiet of the room. 

Finally, finding himself looking at them again when he was supposed
to be reviewing the expense report in front of him, he leaned back in
the chair and dropped the pen. His glasses soon followed. He rubbed
his eyes roughly, heaved out a frustrated sigh. 

His meeting with Margaret Scully the day before had left him feeling
hollow, his guilt about the woman's worry and grief over her
daughter's absence filling him instead. Passing her the note had done
little to alleviate that guilt, though he did at least feel better
knowing that Mrs. Scully now knew something about her daughter's
whereabouts and condition. 

He'd told her the truth. Somebody needed to do that. 

He'd returned to the office yesterday morning deflated, lost in the
immensity of the task at hand. 

The weekly phone calls to Mulder made him feel worse. His gut ached
every time he had to tell Mulder that he and Scully needed to stay
out, keep running. He felt like the constant bringer of bad news and
felt completely useless. Especially in the face of Mulder's
disappointed, weary tone when he told them to stay away, when he
heard the cagey responses Mulder gave to his inquiries about Scully's
well-being. 

He stewed in those feelings the entire afternoon, reviewing what
he'd done so far. 

He'd been trying to look at the big picture for weeks now, taking
his case to whoever would listen to him, doing everything he could as
the Assistant Director of the FBI. 

Then, standing in front of the windows in his office, looking down
on the maddeningly normal world bustling below him, he'd started to
wonder if he was doing this all wrong. He stopped thinking like an
Assistant Director. It was getting him nowhere, and was actually
bringing more attention to *him*, attention he didn't need if he was
going to continue his covert contact with his agents. 

Instead, standing there yesterday in the sunlight struggling to come
through the clouds that had brought the unseasonable snow, he started
thinking like an agent again, about what he'd been taught in the
Academy all those years ago. The rules of investigating. 

It was in the simple details, taken one at a time and examined
carefully, patiently, that one solved a case. Not what he'd been
doing -- standing back with this huge scenario in front of him, a
picture made up of puzzle pieces that seemed to go together but which
revealed a picture that he knew to be wrong. 

The picture Padden had made. 

And everyone else was seeing that same picture as well. Ashcroft.
The head of the FBI and CIA. Padden had made sure that every avenue
was essentially cut off with the damaging case against Mulder, a case
made of bits of evidence turned the way Padden liked them to be
turned. 

There was nowhere left to go. 

So he returned to an agent's thinking before he'd left that
afternoon. He would start again on all this. He would take the pieces
that Padden had used so deftly to frame Mulder and look at them for
himself. 

He started at the beginning, with the police report from the crime
scene at Mae Curran's apartment in Richmond. He'd had a police
contact at the D.C. Metro Police order it for him from Richmond so
that his name would not be attached to it, just in case Padden was
monitoring his activities or the report itself. 

He'd seen most of it already, of course. The initial reports right
after the body had been discovered in the apartment, the forensic
evidence on the bullet that had killed Fagan. The fingerprinting. The
blood match on Scully and Fagan throughout the apartment, which still
made him wince when he thought about it. 

There had been so much blood. From both of them. 

He knew that more evidence would have come through, things that
would have taken more time but which would do nothing but add to the
picture he knew had happened in that apartment.

He replaced his glasses, stood and went to the window again,
watching the traffic, the cityscape, once again. Today he found it
soothing, and breathed it all in, calming himself. He didn't resent
the normal course of other people's lives. Instead, he found hope in
it. 

When the knock came at the door, he was prepared. 

"Come," he called, and Kimberly opened the door, a fat envelope from
FedEx in her hand. 

"There's a package for you, sir," she said as she approached. He
reached out and took it from her. He thanked her and she withdrew,
closing the door behind her. 

He went to the desk, placed the package in front of him. Clearing
his mind so that he could look at the contents with fresh eyes, he
tore into the envelope, pulled out the stack of folders, removed
their rubber bands. 

There were pictures of blood smears going down the corridor of an
apartment, a knife stained with it, a small pool near the edge of a
worn rug. A man's body, shot through the head, a wound to the face. 

It had been a hell of a fight, he thought. He was simultaneously
proud of Scully for surviving and pained for what she had endured. 

He picked up the first folder, opened it, scanning the report. It
was the most recent information on the case, the forensic evidence
that had come in later, some of it only within the last month. He
hadn't seen a lot of this, and began reading intently. 

Time crawled by as he lost himself in numbers, notes.

About halfway down the fifth page, tapping his pen absently as he
took in the figures of hair samples, fiber samples, additional
fingerprints, a word leapt out at him. 

"Semen." 

Every muscle in his body went taut. His hand unconsciously went to
his forehead, cupping it in his large palm. 

"Location: Living room, 7 feet 3 inches from front door. Four-point-
five inches from rug edge. Non-secretor. DNA matches victim, John
Brian Fagan. Sample mixed with blood, type A+. Blood sample DNA
match: Dana Katherine Scully. Probable location of sexual
assault/rape." 

Skinner clenched his eyes closed. The hand on his forehead curled
into a fist and dropped down onto the pile of reports. Hard. 

"Oh Jesus." 

He shook his head as he said it. He leaned down and cradled his head
in his hands, his eyes remaining closed. Pulling in a deep breath, he
forced the anger and anguish down as best he could. 

It sickened him to think what she'd gone through, what she was
continuing to go through. 

He took some comfort in the fact that Mulder was a psychologist, but
he also knew that there was little chance of her discussing the
situation in any depth, even with Mulder. He'd watched her hide any
sign of emotional vulnerability for as long as he'd known her. He
didn't think this would be any different. In fact, she might guard
her feelings surrounding any such attack even more closely because of
the personal nature of it. 

But Mulder *did* know about it. He was certain of that. It explained
Mulder's reticence about discussing Scully's condition, answered
Skinner's nagging questions about what the other man was withholding
about her. What he was protecting. 

God, and Padden probably knew about this, too. For all he knew, the
entire task force knew. He hated the thought of Scully's private
anguish, the horrible violation of her, possibly being so public.

Fuck....

Skinner sat rooted in place for a minute, looking down at the
report, his mind running through his options. He had to get her in,
and as fast as he could. 

He would suggest to Mulder that they split up, that Scully come in.
That was it. He'd do everything he could to protect her with his own
resources at the FBI. He knew it was risky, but he had to get her in
where she could get help. He needed to get her to counselors.
Doctors. Her mother. Someone.

Even as he thought these things, he knew how doomed the idea was. It
would be impossible to separate them. Neither of them would agree to
that. Neither of them would leave the other without protection, no
matter what personal circumstances were going on. He'd watched them
work this way for years. 

They had -- and would always have -- the other's back. 

The only way to get her in would be to clear Mulder's name and catch
Curran so she wouldn't need to protect Mulder and she herself would
no longer be in danger. He needed to accomplish those two tasks as
quickly as possible. 

Sighing, he came to the realization that there was no way to do that
on his own. He didn't have the resources, the contacts, the access. 

He needed someone who did. 

He needed Granger. 

Though Skinner didn't feel he could completely trust the young agent
because of the position Granger was in with Padden, he had enough
evidence of Granger being on Mulder's side to think that he might be
able to get his help in clearing Mulder's name. Granger had alluded
to that himself in his office just a few days before. 

Plus, he'd lied to Padden in the hospital room all those months ago
about not knowing where Mulder was when he'd just been talking to him
on the phone. He'd helped Mulder with the case in Richmond, despite
Padden's warnings for him not to. 

It was going to take a leap of faith, Skinner thought, his hands
digging deep in his pockets. Time was ticking away. There was no more
of it to waste. 

He reached for his cell phone in the inside pocket of his jacket,
which was draped across the back of his chair. He'd long since
decided the office phone couldn't be trusted. Holding it, he pressed
the intercom button for Kimberly. 

"Yes, sir?" she responded immediately. 

"Kimberly, I need you to find a number for me. The cell phone number
for Agent Paul Granger at the CIA." 

"I'll get right on that, sir." 

He thanked her and the light went off. 

The reports stared up at him from the desk, and he couldn't face
anymore of it. Not yet. 

So he went to the window once again, watched a plane make its way
across the sky, a trail of white motion stretching out behind it. 

His body was poised to *do* something. He was taut with the need to
move. Instead he stood rooted in place, perfectly still. He pulled in
a deep breath, let it out, and did something he was not good at
doing. 

He waited. 


********


LIBERTY PAWN SHOP 
FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA 
2:33 p.m.

Beneath the classic three-balls-suspended-on-an-arch that symbolized
a pawn shop was a neon outline of the Liberty Bell, complete with a
neon crack that flickered slightly in the afternoon light. Beneath
that, and what Mulder was really interested in, was the familiar
yellow of a Western Union sign, along with a sign advertising that
checks were cashed on the premises, "no ID required." 

Just the kind of place he needed, he mused bitterly. The underbelly
of society that he and Scully had begun to inhabit was starting to
rub off on him. He was actually happy when he found a place that
advertised things like this. It meant that anonymity was the order of
the day, their faces all but ignored as they went about their
business. 

Scully was looking in the window at a row of musical instruments,
the remnants of what looked like a salsa band. A golden trumpet
hanging from its curve. A wide Mexican guitar. Prices hung like toe
tags from both of them. 

She was staring intently. Quiet. Still. He would have given anything
to have known what she was thinking, what she'd been thinking all
day. Except for responding to basically "yes" and "no" questions, she
hadn't spoken to him at all, the time on the road oppressive and
filling him with a tension that he'd yet to experience, even with all
these weeks of running. He hadn't thought a new level of it possible. 

But something had changed between them since last night. A shift
into a darker, more distant place. It was as if she had grown smaller
and smaller within her body overnight and somehow disappeared
completely, leaving behind this silent shell, a husk of the woman he
knew. 

It filled him with a nameless dread.

The sidewalk was fairly crowded with people, tourists on their
stopovers either to or from the Canyon. He and Scully blended in well
- Scully in her jeans and white t-shirt, the black baseball cap
firmly in place to hide her hair, a ponytail protruding from the
back, him in his battered jeans and black t-shirt and denim jacket.
They looked like a couple of ecotourists camping their way across the
state, like a dozen other people who passed them on the sidewalk. The
anonymity of the street calmed him some, made him feel strangely
normal for a moment. 

He went to her at the window and stood behind her. He was careful
not to touch her or stand too close. She'd kept her distance from him
all day, dressing in the bathroom after her shower. When he'd touched
her shoulder as they walked out the door of the motel, he'd felt her
tense, and would not make the same mistake again. 

"You wanna pick up a guitar for the road?" he asked lightly, teasing
as best he could. 

No reaction. She turned to him and her eyes were far away and dull.
Tired beyond anything he'd seen from her. She shook her head, nodded
toward the door. 

"All right," he replied to her unspoken request that they hurry this
along, though how she could be looking forward to the silence of the
truck again was beyond him. 

The bell jingled on the door as they entered, Scully following a few
feet behind Mulder. They walked past the glass counters filled with
wedding bands, gold chains, past the lines of guitars dangling by
their necks from the walls. At the back there was a counter with the
Western Union sign on its front. They headed for it. 

A tall, muscular man was standing there, his gut balanced on the low
counter. His arms were splayed out to the sides and he leaned forward
leisurely, eyeing the two of them as they approached. Mulder smiled
amiably. 

"Can I help you?" the man asked, in the exact bored tone that Mulder
had expected from him. 

"Yes," he replied, stepping up the counter. Scully had stopped just
behind him, eyeing the watches in one of the displays. "We've had
some money wired to us, under the name Tim Garrett." 

The man went to the computer on the counter's edge, tapped on a few
keys and studied the display. 

"Two thousand dollars?" he asked, still bored. 

"Yes," Mulder replied, hiding his surprise. The Gunmen must be
hacking into someone's account to get that kind of money this time.
He was pleased, though. They were running dangerously short on funds. 

Without being asked, Mulder pulled out his wallet and pushed his
fake Tennessee driver's license across the counter. The man took it,
glanced at the picture, at Mulder's face, then wrote a few things
down on a form he pulled from a stack beside the computer. Then he
pushed it back across. 

"I've got to get the money out of the safe," he said, and Mulder
watched his eyes move over Scully. And he wasn't looking at her face.
She didn't seem to be aware of it, but it pissed Mulder off. He
cleared his throat to get the man's attention, and when he had it, he
bared his teeth in an overly friendly - and warning -- smile, nodded
toward the back. 

"Be right back," the man said flatly, looking Mulder up and down
now, as though sizing him up for a fight. Then he withdrew. 

Mulder turned to Scully then, at what had drawn her attention. There
were a several dozen very nice watches beneath the glass, and Scully
was looking alternately at them and at the Omega she wore on her
wrist. Then, seeming to come decision, she reached down and took the
watch off, laid it flat on the counter. 

"Your mother gave you that," he said softly. "You don't need to-"

"It doesn't matter," she said, monotone, still staring down at the
watches. "We need the money." 

"But the guys have sent us more this time, enough to last until-"

Now she did turn to him with those same dull, tired eyes. "Until
when? We're out of this? I don't think so." 

He swallowed at her tone, taken aback. There was something angry and
hopeless in it. As though she'd resigned herself to a life on the run
with him for the rest of her life. He didn't like her feeling that
way. 

Carefully, he lay his hand next to hers on the counter, still not
touching her. 

"We're going to get out of this," he said firmly. "Soon. This isn't
going to go on forever." 

He had to believe that. To think otherwise - as he sometimes did in
his most pessimistic moments - would mean taking on his guilt at his
part in putting her in this position in the first place. And that was
more than he could handle along with everything else. 

As if in answer to those thoughts, she returned her left hand to the
counter as though bracing herself, the arm trembling slightly, her
thumb shaking against the glass. He wondered for a moment if she'd
raised the hand on purpose, to remind him that some of this very well
might go on forever. That some of it couldn't be run from at all. 

"Don't sell your watch, Scully," he murmured, his voice pitched low
enough that no one could hear him speak her real name. "I think
you'll regret it later." 

"I'll get another one," she responded, her voice miles away. She
wasn't looking at him again, which frustrated him.

"But why now?" he persisted. 

She turned her face a fraction away, as if she were putting him out
of her sight and out of her mind. For a few seconds, he thought she
might ignore the question entirely. 

"Why not." 

It was said with finality, bitterly. The tone surprised him again.

The man returned from the back and Mulder reluctantly turned his
attention to the Western Union countertop, stepping away from Scully. 

"There you go, Mr. Garrett," he said, and laid a stack of bills on
the counter. "Now if you'll just fill out this information here on
this form for me and sign it, we'll have you all fixed up." 

Mulder did as he was told, filling in a dummy address, telephone
number. He wrote down the name that Frohike was using to send the
money this time: Kurt Affair. He almost cracked a smile at that. Then
he signed his false name to the receipt and pocketed the money. 

Meanwhile, the man was looking at Scully, at the watch on the
counter. 

"You selling something, miss?" he asked, and Scully looked up at
him, nodded. He came around the counter to where she was standing,
picked up the watch and studied it, fingering the fine, smooth links
in the band. 

"Omega," he said approvingly. "Nice." 

She nodded, all but ignoring him. "How much?" 

He seemed to consider for a moment, checking the crystal for
scratches, turning the beautiful watch over in his hands. "I'll give
you $150 for it." 

Mulder balked. "What?" he began, standing next to Scully now. "That
watch is worth-"

"That will be fine," she replied firmly, cutting him off. Mulder
pulled in a breath, shook his head, but remained silent. The man
looked from one of them to the other, his eyes studying them both, as
though curious as to whether he was going to get a bit of fun and get
to watch a spat. 

His eyes remained on Scully's face for a few seconds too long, his
face turning to the side as he looked at her. 

Mulder leaned in again, close to her but not touching her. He didn't
like anyone looking at her like that, like she was this thing to be
admired. The rape had made him more aware of men's reactions to her,
and he had to say that for the most part, he didn't like those
reactions one bit.

The man took the hint and broke his gaze, then went to the register
and pulled out the money. He returned and laid the hundred- and fifty-
dollar bills in front of her. She took them without a word and
stuffed them in her pocket. 

"Pleasure doing business with you," the man said, putting the watch
in the counter display. 

Mulder met his eyes as he finished lining it up with the rest of
them. The man smiled back, then, as though deciding Mulder wasn't
worth it, he returned to the rear of the shop, disappearing into the
back room. 

Scully had already headed for the door and Mulder had to hurry to
catch up with her as she returned to the sidewalk, walking briskly
toward where the truck was parked. He caught up with her quickly, his
long strides matching her short ones as she stared ahead of her. 

"Scully." 

"I don't want to talk about it, Mulder," she said softly. "Let's
just go." 

He bit back his reply, frustrated. He'd never seen her like this
before, so remote. She'd never pulled away like this. Not to this
extent. It was like being with a stranger. 

They reached the truck, parked just up from the shop on the side of
the street, and she stopped at the driver's door, reached her hand
out for the keys. "I'd like to drive for a while," she said. 

He nodded, dug in his pockets for them and handed them to her. "All
right. Whatever you want." 

She didn't look at him as she took them, unlocked the door and
climbed into the truck, leaving him standing there on the sidewalk.
She adjusted the seat to as far forward as it would go, then swung
the heavy door closed, started up the huge engine with a cough and a
rumble. 

With the sound, he was struck out of his frozen place. He hurried
around the car, some part of him actually afraid that she might just
leave without him. 


**

Back in the Liberty Pawn, the man stood before the bulletin board
above the fax machine. Over it, an eagle on a poster, its wings
spread wide over a set of crossed rifles, an American flag behind it. 

The secret seal for the Sons of Liberty, from which the man had
coined the shop's name. 

On the bulletin board, a grainy fax printout. Two pictures. A dark-
haired woman and a boy, and a single shot of another woman. 

The woman who'd just been in the shop, selling her expensive watch
for a price that showed a level of desperation he'd grown accustomed
to from people on the run. 

He went back into the shop, out onto the street. He stood there for
a moment, looking up and down the sidewalk. 

Then he saw her in a truck going slowly by, her head and shoulder
peeking above the battered door, the man with her -- Tim Garrett,
he'd said his name was -- in the passenger seat, his face turned
away. 

The man watched the old Ford Bronco nudge forward as the light at
the end of the street turned green, stepped out between two parked
cars to get a look at the license plate as the blue truck crept away. 

Tennessee. RKL-319.

He went back into the shop quickly, went back into the back room to
the phone beside the fax machine. He picked up the receiver and
dialed.


**********

THE TRADING POST 
TUBA CITY, ARIZONA 
NAVAJO INDIAN RESERVATION 
4:35 p.m.


Scully sat in the driver's seat, her hands on the steering wheel,
precisely where they'd been when she'd stopped the truck beside the
gas pumps 10 minutes ago. 

She stared forward, her eyes following an elderly Navajo man being
helped into the store by two younger women. He walked slowly, placing
his feet with care, and the women were speaking softly to him as they
walked. 

The man had to be in his 90s, Scully thought. The women were most
likely his granddaughters, taking the man out to do his shopping at
the only store she'd seen in a hundred miles. 

She glanced in the side view mirror, saw Mulder leaned against the
truck, one hand on the pump, the other his pocket. Though she could
not see his eyes behind his sunglasses, she could tell he was looking
down at the ground, his expression troubled. 

She looked away, returning her gaze to the people milling in and out
of the store, a mixture of tourists and Navajos, the parking lot
crowded with cars and RVs. She couldn't look at him for too long. She
couldn't take watching the distance she'd placed between them take
its toll. 

Lying in bed just before dawn, she'd made her decision that the
distance was the lesser of the ways that she could hurt him. Trying
to be close to him seemed to force her own troubles on him, and she
no longer wanted to do that. It was better that they have the space,
she'd decided. That way he wouldn't feel what she was feeling. If she
spared him that, she wouldn't have to watch his pain at what had
happened to her, what she'd become, any more than she had already. 

Glancing back at him once again, at the grim set of his face, she
wondered about her decision. But even as she doubted herself for an
instant, the memory of last night stabbed at her, her face flushing
with shame. 

God, how she'd wanted to just be able to just be herself with him
again. To meld into him, to become part of him. 

But that wasn't going to happen. Her face hardened a bit more as she
resigned herself to that conclusion. 

She would not make that mistake again. 

And as far as being herself with him? she thought bitterly. The
person she was before was gone. She didn't know who she was any more. 

And a part of her was ceasing to care if she ever found out again. 

She took her sunglasses off, resolved to her silence, and placed
them on the seat beside her, then opened the door to the truck and
climbed down. Mulder forced a smile at her, but it was small and
nervous. 

"I'll be right back," she said, averting her eyes. "I'll get us
something to drink." It was the longest sentence she'd spoken to him
since they'd left Flagstaff.

"All right," he replied quietly, still pumping the gas.

She went up the stairs to the store, her gait stiff. She entered,
pausing at the door to take in the place. Groceries. Garish souvenirs
and postcards. A post office window in the corner. A short-order
restaurant fronted by a long counter with wooden stools. People sat
talking over their greasy meals. A knot of tourists sat at one end, a
child playing with a rubber tomahawk that dangled red and blue
feathers. 

The store was clearly the hub of the tiny town, intended to offer
everything for both those who lived there and those passing through.
People were everywhere. It made Scully nervous, and she hurried to
the cashier, leaning in so that the woman could hear her over the din.

"Where are your restrooms?" she asked. 

The woman looked at her, then reached down and pulled up a large key
that was connected by a chain to a large brick. The thing must have
weighed five pounds. 

"People keep running off with it," the woman said, seeing Scully
eyeing the thing. "We figure they'll notice if they walk off with
that in their pocket." She smiled and her own joke. "They're around
the side. Outside." 

Scully thanked her and hefted the brick, going back out the front,
making her way to the detached smaller building with its signs for
women and men. She noticed Mulder paying the attendant, talking to
him, no doubt asking if there were any places to stay nearby. They
hadn't seen a motel since they'd entered the reservation. 

Reaching the door, she held the brick in her shaking hand as the
other slid the key in and opened the door. She closed the door behind
her. 

After, she splashed water onto her face, rubbing at her eyes. She
pulled out a paper towel and began drying herself off, her gaze drawn
to her reflection in the dim florescent light. 

A woman's gaunt face stared back her. Tired eyes, dark circles
beneath them. 

She held still as she looked at herself. She felt tears burn her
eyes, and blinked them fiercely away.

Finally, she picked up the brick, clamping down her iron control
once again, and opened the door, squinting her eyes against the
light. 

A hand clamped down on her upper arm, yanked her hard to the right. 

She was just about to scream when the man caught her around the
throat with his forearm and covered her mouth with his other hand,
jerking her head back hard. She moaned in pain instead. 

"Keep quiet now," the man said, his voice low and threatening.
"Don't make me hurt you any more than I have to."

There was a car parked nearby, a driver in it, another man coming
forward fast and grabbing her legs, lifting her off the ground as
they hustled her toward the car's open door. She reached up with one
hand and grabbed at the arm around her neck. He was crushing her
throat with his grip and with her own weight as he carried her. She
couldn't breathe. 

She felt the weight of the brick in her other hand, which she'd
somehow managed to hold on to. Frantically, she swung up, dangerously
close to her own face, and caught the man square in the temple just
over her shoulder. His grip disappeared and he dropped like a sack of
grain, dropping her at the same time. 

She hit the ground hard, gasped in a breath, the brick flying to the
side. 

"Goddamnit!" the other man swore, keeping a strong hold on her legs
as she kicked hard to get away. The driver had seen what had
transpired and was coming now at a run. 

Scully's vision swam, blood rushing back into her head, her hand on
her sore throat. She just barely saw the blur of motion that came in
from the side. 

The man who had her legs was struck from the side, crashing to the
ground as he released her in his surprise. 

Mulder was on top of the man now, pinning him to the ground on his
back. His arm swung back and he punched the man in the face viciously
several times in quick succession, knocking him out cold. 

Then Mulder spun, his hand going to the ankle holster he wore at the
same time. In one fluid motion he was up on one knee, his gun pointed
at the driver, halting him. 

"Back the fuck off," Mulder snarled. The man put his hands up and
did as he was told, walking backward toward the car again a slow step
at a time. 

"You okay?" Mulder called, though he kept his eyes on the man in
front of him. 

Scully sat up quickly, shaking her head clear. "Yeah..." she said,
but her voice was hoarse. 

"Oh my God! That man has a gun!" 

The shout came from a woman who had rounded the corner to come to
the restroom. Her companions screamed in terror. 

"Come on!" Mulder said, grabbing Scully by the upper arm as she
scrambled to her feet. They took off at a dead run for the truck, the
women at the corner pressing themselves up against the building and
screaming louder as they streaked past. 

People were coming out of the store now to see what the commotion
was about. Scully ran to the passenger door of the Bronco as Mulder
went to the driver's, both of them flying up into their seats. Within
a second, the engine roared, overrevved, to life, Mulder throwing the
truck into gear and blasting out of the parking lot, a cloud of dust
kicking up behind them as he bumped back onto the road and sped away. 

Scully turned in the seat, looking out the back window as they
headed up the highway, the truck continuing to accelerate. She
coughed, her hand on her throat again. 

"You sure you're okay?" he asked, panting. 

She was heaving in breaths herself, her eyes still trained behind
them. 

"Yeah...yeah..." she said between breaths. Her voice sounded like it
had sand in it. "Bruised..." She forced herself to swallow painfully.
"But I'm okay." 

The truck roared as Mulder continued to accelerate, pushing the old
engine up past 80 now, the desert streaming by. 

A tense few minutes passed, the only sounds their labored breathing
and the V8. 

Finally Scully turned around in her seat, pulled her cap off with
one hand, pushed back her hair from her face. 

"They didn't...they didn't follow us," she said, forcing herself to
calm down. "Mulder, slow down...they're not coming." 

Mulder seemed unconvinced as he pressed down on the accelerator
harder, rocketing them out of the town and into the high desert,
heading blindly for the red mountains and desolation in the distance. 


********* 

END OF CHAPTER 7. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 8. 


Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 8.


***********

13 DUNKIRK AVENUE 
VIENNA, VIRGINIA 
9:38 p.m.


Skinner made his way up the walkway that led to the apartment
building, the lit stone path shining with the evening's rain. It was
a brownstone building, not too large, not too nice, and it fit the
image that Skinner had of Granger, seemed the kind of place the young
agent would live. Granger wouldn't splurge, Skinner thought, but he
wouldn't skimp, either. The building reminded him of Scully's that
way. 

Even at this late hour, people were coming and going through the
front doors, a Friday night party pulsing with music going on
somewhere on the first floor. He could see the moving shadows of the
party goers behind the curtains on one of the ground floor windows.
He was glad for the party - it made him less conspicuous should
anyone be watching the place. 

He brushed past a couple coming out of the building, cigarettes
already being lit up as they stepped into the misty rain. He went
into the foyer beyond and more signs of taste greeted him. Hardwood
floors, a large tasteful rug in the foyer just beneath the brass
mailboxes. 

He was looking for apartment 3E, and went to the elevator at the end
of the foyer. The doors opened immediately and he stepped in, took
his glasses off and cleaned them on the bottom of his black
turtleneck as he rode up, replacing them once he'd cleared away the
dots of rain. 

The apartment was at the end of the hallway, an oriental runner
leading the way toward the window and the door just beside it. He
knocked. Waited. He looked up and down the deserted corridor as he
did so.

Granger unlocked and opened the door after a brief moment, though to
Skinner it felt like a long time. Granger wore jeans, a black sweater
with the sleeves pushed up, no shoes. He wasn't as nervous as Skinner
expected he would be, or as formal.

"Sir," the younger man said by way of greeting, and stood back
immediately to allow Skinner to enter. Skinner did, and Granger
closed the door behind him, turned the lock. 

Skinner moved from the small entrance hallway into the apartment
beyond, his eyes adjusting to the dimness of the room he entered. It
was small living room, simply furnished but with pieces that looked
carefully chosen and nicely made. An overstuffed dark green couch. A
squat black leather chair and ottoman. Dark wood for the tables and
the cabinet that held the television, which was on, the sound turned
down low. Metal lamps with off-white shades, the one by the couch the
only one on in the room. An oriental rug on the floor -- real,
looking worn and antique. Black and white photographs on the walls. A
painting of bare trees on the far wall, a lone figure walking a path
between them. 

The kitchen was beside it, separated from the larger room by a long
half-wall topped with a wooden counter. Pots hung from a rack
suspended from the ceiling. A hallway led toward two darkened
doorways in the back of the apartment, and the shades and curtains
were drawn on the windows. 

The place was warm and cave-like and smelled like tea. 

"Please," Granger said, coming up behind Skinner, who had stopped
and was shouldering out of his jacket. "Have a seat."

Skinner lay the coat across the back of the leather chair and sat.
He glanced at the television -- hockey was playing. Skinner looked
from the television back to Granger, who was taking his place on the
couch and reaching for the remote. 

"I didn't know the Flyers were playing tonight," Skinner said. 

Granger gave a small embarrassed smile as he flicked off the
television. "Last year's playoffs on tape," he said. "I keep hoping
if I watch them enough times they'll end differently." 

Skinner grunted. "Good team," he said, doing his best to be casual,
though he was so keyed up it was difficult to pull off. 

"Yeah," Granger replied, replaced the remote on the coffee table. 

There was an awkward moment of quiet. 

"Did you call those people I asked you to?" Skinner said vaguely. 

"Yes," Granger replied. "The place is clean, from what they said." 

"Good," Skinner replied quietly. "Thank you for doing that." 

Granger shook his head as if in disbelief. "I could make career out
of two of those guys if I'd gone into private practice," he replied.
"They could only be friends of Mulder's." 


Skinner nodded. "Yeah, they are. They're good help." 

Granger put his elbows on his knees and regarded Skinner seriously. 

"I must admit," he began, seeming to choose his words with care,
"that I was surprised when you called me. You made it seem like you
didn't want me near you at the FBI the other day. That I couldn't be
trusted." 

Skinner looked toward the windows, clenched his teeth, nodded. "Yes,
I did make it seem that way," he said, then turned his attention back
to the other man. "But I've come to the conclusion that I don't
really have anywhere else to turn *except* you."

"Thanks. I think." Granger said it dryly. 

"Agent Granger, you have to understand that I would have some
misgivings." 

"I understand that you would," Granger replied. "But you also know
that I believe Mulder is innocent of these charges. That given that
belief I would be doing everything in my power to clear him. And I've
given you information already to help he and Scully avoid capture by
the task force that *I'm* supposed to be working on. I don't know
what else I can do to convince you of my intentions." 

Skinner nodded. "That's why I'm here," he said bluntly, but he
looked away as he spoke, avoiding the other man's intense gaze.
"You've convinced me." 

Granger leaned back slightly, studied Skinner for a few seconds. 

"I don't think so," Granger said, shaking his head. "You have
changed your mind, but not because of me. Something's happened to
*make* you change your mind, to make you risk talking to me." 

Skinner felt color rise in his cheeks. 

"I can tell something's different," Granger persisted.

Just my luck, Skinner thought wryly. I have to try and be evasive
with the best profiler at the CI-fucking-A....

"Yes," he said finally through gritted teeth. "Something's happened." 

"Are they all right?" Granger asked instantly, leaning forward, his
voice lowered but weighted with concern. 

Skinner hesitated, still unable to look at Granger. He warred with
his instincts, one that told him it was imperative to tell what he
knew and one that warned him against it, the latter a knee-jerk, like
an old habit he was having a hard time breaking. 

Christ, he thought. Somewhere along the way he'd gotten as paranoid
as he'd always accused Mulder of being. The thought amused him in a
gallows-humor sort of way. 

"If we're going to get anything done on this, sir, we're going to
have to tell each other what we know." Granger's voice was still low,
but frustrated now. Urgent. 

Skinner heaved out a frustrated breath, nodded and finally spoke.
"As far as I know, they're all right," he said. "As much as the
circumstances allow, that is." 

"So you *have* been in contact with them."

"Yes. Since Tennessee." The words still came from him haltingly,
quietly. "Though I never know their exact location. Mulder won't risk
revealing that." 

"Well, four days ago they were in El Centro, California," Granger
said, and leaned down, drawing up a briefcase from beside the coffee
table. 

Skinner froze. "The task force knows this?" 

Granger shook his head, rummaging through the briefcase and pulling
out a folder. He handed it to Skinner. 

"No, they don't," Granger said. "Only I do." 

Skinner looked at him in confusion, still alarmed, and Granger
nodded toward the folder. Skinner opened it, looked at the picture
clipped to the inside. 

His hand came up, a finger covering his mouth. Otherwise he was
still. 

The tension between Mulder and Scully radiated from the scratchy
surveillance photo. And Scully... 

God...

"What's wrong with Scully?" Granger asked, concern in his voice.
Skinner knew the younger man must have read the anguish in his
reaction, despite his attempt at hiding it. 

Skinner didn't take his eyes from the photo as he spoke. "She was
exposed to Owen Curran's drug," he said, his voice flat. 

"Jesus..." 

He hurried to continue. "She made it through the withdrawal and
she's okay, but there have been some residual effects." 

He nodded toward the photo. 

"As you can see." He shook his head, let out a deep, tired breath.
"Mulder won't go into any specifics about what they are, but seeing
this..." 

He could sense Granger studying him again in the beat of silence
that followed. 

"There's something else then," Granger urged. "Something you didn't
know before that's made bringing them in more urgent." 

Again Skinner hesitated. "Yes," he said at last, and now he did look
at Granger. "Have you looked at the police report from Mae Curran's
apartment recently?" 

Granger seemed confused by the turn in the conversation, but nodded.
"Yes, I just looked at the task force's copy yesterday in fact. To
see if anything else had come in." 

Skinner locked eyes with the other man. "And? Had anything new come
in?" 

Granger seemed more confused, and shook his head. "No," he said.
"Not that I saw. Why?" 

"Nothing in there..." He had to force himself to say it. "...about
evidence of a rape."

Granger's mouth came open in shock, his eyes widening. Then his
mouth closed, his expression sad. "God no," he said quietly. "Nothing
like that." 

"Well, there's one good thing I can say about that son-of-a-bitch
Padden," Skinner said, bitter. "He's keeping that quiet from the
whole goddamn world." 

"Apparently so," Granger said, his tone matching Skinner's, though
his expression remained stricken. "He seems to be pretty selective
about information, so I'm not surprised. For once that instinct was
right."

Then Granger seemed to breathe the ire about Padden out, relenting,
and his voice softened again. "God, I'm so sorry for her," he said,
shaking his head. "I won't mention this to anyone. She'll never know
that I know." 

"I appreciate that, Agent Granger," Skinner replied formally. "I had
to tell you to find out what the task force knows or I wouldn't be
talking about it myself." 

"I understand," Granger said. "I see now why you came to me. Her
situation is more dire than you thought." 

"Yes." 

They sat in a heavy silence for another moment. Skinner noticed a
clock ticking somewhere in the room. 

"What do you want me to do?" Granger asked finally. 

Skinner had never been so glad to hear that phrase in his life. 

"I'll be talking to them again in a couple of days," he said, and
the words came quickly now. This part he knew. "I'm going to tell
them what you told me -- that they need to find a place to hole up
for a while. In fact, I'm in the process of making arrangements for
that place right now. What I need from you is help diverting
attention from where I'm going to send them." 

"I take it," Granger gestured toward the folder still in Skinner's
hands. "that you're not going to be sending them to the area around
El Centro, California." 

Skinner smirked a bit at that. "No," he replied. "Far from it." 

Granger nodded, leaned back against the back of the couch. "So you
want me to wait until you speak to them, give them a day or so, and
then suddenly come up with that picture for the task force to throw
them on the wrong trail." 

Skinner looked at the man for a reaction, but Granger gave none. He
knew he was asking Granger to do something that would ruin any chance
the young agent could have at a career in law enforcement for the
rest of his life. 

"Can you do that without putting yourself at too much risk?" Skinner
asked. 

He was relieved when Granger considered for a few seconds and then
nodded. 

"Yes. I get stacks of possible sightings of them and Curran every
day. I'll just pretend it came in a current stack. No one will be
able to tell when it got to me. We get so many." 

"All right," Skinner said, pleased. That part was taken care of.
Between the two of them, they could keep Padden away from Mulder and
Scully until he could tuck them away. 

He just hoped the place he planned on putting them would come
through. 

"I've been working on a couple of things," Granger said,
interrupting his thoughts. "Things about verifying where Mulder was
during some of the times that Padden is trying to say he could have
been meeting with the Path."

"Yes, that's what this is going to take," Skinner said. "We're not
going to be able to take this out with one blow. We're going to have
to chip away at it, a little piece of information at a time." 

Granger nodded. "Yes, and I might have a small piece. I'm trying to
find a woman named Nancy Rand who was working at the gate where
Scully was supposed to board the plane to Boston, to see if she can
ID Mulder from the gate area. She's left the airline and I'm having a
hard time tracking her down, but I'll find her." 

"Good," Skinner replied. "That's good. Another big piece of this is
those two days Mulder was gone in January. January 12-13. That was
right before the bombing and is one of the more damaging pieces of
Padden's case against Mulder -- that he would leave the task force in
Richmond without telling anyone like that, and be so cagey about
where he'd been, even to you. We need to find out where he was during
that time, as well."

"Yeah, Padden's been all over that with me," Granger said, his
frustration clear in his tone. "I could never give him a good enough
answer because I didn't know anything myself." 

"I'll see what I can do about that," Skinner continued. "I'll ask
Mulder about it and see if there's some way to support what he tells
me. I haven't been talking about any of this with him yet. I've been
too worried about our contact being monitored to get into anything
like that with him. But we'll have to risk it." 

He looked down at the photograph again, at Scully's thin face. He
shook his head.

"We've got to do something. And soon." 

He handed the folder back to Granger. The younger man stared a hole
in the photograph for a moment. Skinner watched and concern pricked
him.

"You sure you're up for this?" he asked. 

Granger didn't look up. "We could go to jail for this," he said, his
voice softer and touched with disbelief. "Everything both of us have
worked for...just gone."

Skinner's jaw pulsed. "Yes." He said it without apology. 

After a few more seconds, he asked Granger the same question again. 

"Yeah," Granger replied, and closed the folder. "Yeah, I'm in." 


**********

OFF RESERVATION ROUTE 58 
HOPI INDIAN RESERVATION 
11:35 p.m.


One thing that Scully could never quite get used to was that the
desert, so warm during the day, could be so cold at night, the ground
so barren and the blank slate of black above it so unforgiving that
the earth itself seemed unable to hold even the smallest bit of
warmth. 

She curled closer around herself in the back of the Bronco, tucking
herself deeper into the sleeping bag, pressing her face closer into
the small camp pillow they'd bought at an outdoor store weeks ago.
Her hand rested near the butt of her Sig beside her. 

She was on her side on the pushed down back of the rear seat, which
they'd dropped down to allow them both to stretch out, Mulder lying
beside her. There was a small space between them. 

It wasn't often they were forced to sleep in the truck, but they'd
bought the supplies just in case the need arose. The few times they
had done it, they had zipped the bags together, making one large sack
that they both slept in, pressed against each other for warmth. But
this night when she'd settled in after doing her ablutions as best
she could and changing her clothes outside the truck, she'd simply
unstuffed her bag from its sack and slipped inside, turning toward
the marred side window without a word. 

Mulder had said nothing and had done the same, but she knew the
slight was not lost on him. She could feel it in his silence. 

They were far out on a dirt road off the rural route they'd been
driving on, a remote area on this, one of the poorest reservations.
Mulder had driven for a good ten minutes off the paved road,
following the twisting near-trail over a small rise and parking
beside a small thatch of scraggly trees. It was too dark to see much
outside, though the full moon had cast a pale golden glow through the
trees as she'd stood beneath them, layered in bunting and sweats.
She'd brushed her teeth with the help of an old Army surplus canteen
full of metal-tasting water. Nearby, Mulder had done the same,
finishing up and then pulling layers of clothes out of his suitcase
for warmth. 

They had said little for hours, but not because of what was between
them, really. It was more that they were both completely exhausted,
the adrenaline rush of the afternoon giving way sometime around dark
to a fatigue so complete that she'd been forced to keep an eye on
Mulder to make sure he didn't fall asleep at the wheel. 

They'd crisscrossed side roads off the main highway, trying to stay
away from the few towns on the map. That was one of the problems with
the area they were in. There were only so many places a person could
actually stop to get what they needed, and putting people at all of
them wouldn't be that much of an expenditure of manpower. Though
they'd stopped once without incident for gas at one small town, they
hadn't stopped again until now. 

Behind her, Mulder shifted, his breathing slow, signalling his
impending sleep. Usually she took great comfort in that sound. But
not tonight. 

She put a hand to her bruised throat, worrying it with her fingers.
Her lids were heavy, her eyes slowly losing their focus on the view
outside the window, the curve of stars across the dome above her. 

Who were those men? 

Certainly hired by Curran -- she had to trust that even Padden
wouldn't attempt to bring her home with that kind of force. Plus, it
seemed more likely that Padden's men would take Mulder before they'd
take her. 

But who? 

Were there only three of them -- bounty hunters out for quick money -
- or were there more? The men were American, or at least the two
who'd spoken were, so it probably wasn't Path. Some other group,
someone Curran had had dealings with, perhaps...

Mae had told Mulder that Owen had "long arms," even in the U.S. That
she was fleeing the country to escape this fact, and had urged Mulder
and her to do the same... 

Too tired...

Her lids slipped shut, her fingers still moving absently across her
throat for a moment. Then they grew still. 

**

And then she was swimming, deep, light filtering through the surface
in streaming beams, reaching for the bottom, which she could not see
in the blue beneath her. The surface was dozens of meters away, and
she glided smooth through the water.

Her lungs drew in huge breaths of water, breathed them out, her arms
pulled her along. On one pull through the water, her legs fluttering
effortless behind her, she caught sight of a scrap of gold on her
left ring finger, a band shot with what appeared to be tiny diamonds.
They caught the light and held it as she swam, the world heavy and
liquid and filled with faint echoes rippling through water.

A huge school of silver fish appeared below her, their tails
twitching in near unison as they moved along. She watched them for a
moment, then turned and swam deeper, joining them. They parted just
enough to let her in amongst them, turning, angling away from her
body. She could see strands of her hair float within her vision as
she kept pace with them, their tin wide eyes following her, their
mouths opening and closing as though they were all speaking at once
in a silent language she couldn't understand. 

Slowly they turned and formed a circle, moving around her in a
spiral stretching toward the bottom, like a slow tornado of silver
bodies swirling around her. She stopped in the center, felt their
small bodies, hundreds, brush against her fingertips as she reached
out toward the wall of them surrounding her. 

She drew in another deep breath, the sound in her ears, echoing,
hollow sounds, as though she were breathing low rumbles of thunder
underwater.

She hung, suspended, nothing but blue above her and below, the
spiral of silver around her, all of it weightless, sunlight dancing
on her skin from the surface far above her...

The harsh sun as she exited the bathroom. An arm across her throat,
jerking her back against the hard shape of a body, warm harsh breath
on her ear... 

Fagan's hands on her throat, squeezing, lifting her slightly against
the sink, her hand groping for the cold handle of the knife as the
other clawed at his wrist...

Breathe she couldn't breathe she couldn't breathe

Her head smashing against the hardwood floor, hands pushing at her
robe. His body flat against her back, the long bone of his arm
pinning her neck back...

The man lifting her, carrying her, a hand across her mouth and nose.
She sucked in for air and got nothing but skin, the taste of salt...

Salt in her lungs. Sea water burning down her throat as she inhaled,
choking now, bubbles of air appearing before her face and racing
upward. She screamed, the sound muffled, otherworldly...

She shot for the surface, the fish scattering in alarm. She could
see it above her. A bluish light she struggled toward, her arms
clawing out in front of her, leaving trails of tiny bubbles like
motion.

Her vision hazed from lack of oxygen. The brick in her hand,
swinging back, blindly.

The knife swinging forward, the sound of metal on teeth. A scream of
outrage. Pain. 

The surface was just a few feet away. Her hand reached up to break
the surface, her lungs burning...

Her hand hit hard on something cold. Bluish white. Flat and smooth
against her palm. 

Ice. The surface was ice. 

Her head knocked up against it as she fought the instinct to pull in
a breath. She skittered along the underside, arms flailing, searching
for a break, a crack, a weak spot, anything. 

Her face pressed against the thick surface, she opened her mouth and
screamed.

**

Mulder's sleep was dead, his mind completely empty, his body
perfectly still. 

That didn't stop him from shooting into a sit the instant the sound
began, the hoarse scream tearing around the interior of the truck's
cabin. 

His eyes were wide, his hand going for the gun beside him without
him even thinking of it. He pulled in a panicked breath and his eyes
shot toward Scully beside him. 

She thrashed as though the sleeping bag were squeezing down on her,
her left hand up on the window, her nails scratching across the glass
as her arm shook violently, its tremble only slightly greater than
that of the rest of her body. The hand turned into a fist and slammed
against the glass.

"Scully!" He put the gun down, scooted over to her, put a hand out
and grasped her wrist. His own arm shook with the force of her
tremor. 

"Calm down...calm down..."

She pulled in a harsh breath, gasping, hyperventilating from the
sounds of it, screamed again, this time the word "no," high and
shrill and terrified. She jerked her arm away from his grasp, her
hand fumbling out in front of her blindly, her eyes still clenched
closed. 

Her fingers grazed the butt of her Sig. She grasped it quickly, the
other hand joining it as she hefted the thing, her finger on the
trigger instantly, lifting--

"NO!" Mulder said, loud, and threw himself out of his sleeping bag,
flattened his body on top of hers, his hand going for the gun. Her
grip was iron, her strength adrenaline- and terror-fueled, and Mulder
had to slam her hands down on the floor of the truck to keep her from
raising the weapon. 

"Scully, no!" He tried to keep his voice calm, but it was hard to
muster under the circumstances. "Let go...just let it go..." 

She didn't listen, her breath wheezing, too fast. He did manage to
get her shaking left hand off the gun, the finger off the trigger.
Then he pulled that arm in against her body and held it there with
one of his own. He grasped the Sig with the other, grappling with
her. Finally he got it away from her, clicked over the safety with a
finger and tossed it haphazardly toward the tailgate. 

"Get off! Get them off me!" she shrieked, and he knew he must be
crushing her, his chest flat against her upper arm and back, pinning
her to the floor and holding her arms in against her body. She
screamed it again, desperate, jerking violently in his hold. 

Keeping her arms against her with one forearm as she struggled, he
rolled until he was behind her now, pushed an arm beneath her body
and pulled her back to his chest, his arms pressing her elbows to her
sides. Her breathing was still shallow, stentorious. He put his cheek
against her head, his lips close to her ear, stilling her thrashing
head as best he could. 

Her nails sunk into his forearms where his sleeves had pushed up,
her fingers curled like claws, raking up skin, drawing blood. He
winced, but held on. 

"Okay..." He was panting now himself. He pressed a kiss to her ear,
shushing her. 

She kicked back at him with her legs and he got one knee over them
to protect his shins and groin. 

"I can't breathe..." Her voice was high, reedy, filled with air as
she gasped. 

"You know what to do, Scully...we can do this together...listen to
my voice now." He tightened his hold as she thrashed again.
"Twenty...nineteen..."

She was crying now. "God, I can't...can't breathe..."

"Eighteen...seventeen...sixteen..."

"He's...he's crushing my throat..." A sob. Her arm shook harder
against his, her nails still digging in. She pulled in a desperate
breath.

He kissed her lobe again, holding her tighter.
"Fifteen...fourteen...come on, Scully...come with me..."

He kept counting, felt her back heave against his chest. Slowly her
breathing grew deeper as her tears came freely.

"Eleven.."

Then finally, she answered: "Ten," pulled in a deeper ragged breath. 

"Nine...eight...come on..." He whispered it into her ear, felt her
begin to relax, her body softening as she breathed more easily now,
her hands relaxing some.

"Seven," she choked out. "Six..."

"Five," they said in unison, and their voices melded together
through the last of it, Scully still breathing hard but calmer now.
As they reached "one," he loosened his grip on her until she simply
lay in his arms, pulled his leg back until it rested behind hers.

"You're okay," he said softly. "Everything's all right." 

They lay still for several minutes. 

Then he could feel her coming back to herself. He could tell by the
way her hands pulled away from his arms, how her legs came up and
away from his. She pushed her head from beneath his, bending her head
down and away, and he lay his own behind hers, feeling the distance
set back in. 

It was as if she'd placed him in a skiff and gave him a slow push
off her shore. 

She scrubbed at her eyes, her hand shaking as she pushed her hair
off her face. 

He sighed in the quiet that followed. She allowed him to hold her
still, but he knew it was only to spare his feelings. Not because she
wanted him to. The thought made him ache inside. 

"Everything's all right," he said again, and this time he was trying
to convince himself as much as her. 

Then, as if in answer, footsteps outside the truck. A horse coming
nearer. 

He pulled away from her, rolled toward his gun, heard her sharp
intake of breath at the sound. He picked up the pistol, turned
carefully around so that he was facing the back of the truck now, the
gun in front of him. 

The horse stopped. Then the heavy sound of someone leaping down and
landing on both feet. The sound of walking, then a dim shape outside
the back window, a beam of a flashlight dancing through the foggy
glass. 

Neither he or Scully seemed to be breathing. They were frozen still. 

A knock on the window. 

"You in there," a man's voice said sharply. "Open up." 

Mulder kept still. A drop of sweat raced down his temple despite the
chill. 

"I heard you in there all the way from half a mile away. I know
you're in there. Now open up." 

Mulder lay the hand that held the gun down on the floor, edged
closer to the door and turned the handle to the back window slowly,
the gun aimed at the tailgate. He pushed the window open, the man
standing back as it swung out and up. 

Mulder looked out, squinting in the beam of the flashlight the man
shone right in his face. Mulder put a hand up to shield his eyes. He
could make out the man's face dimly -- Native American. Late fifties.
Jacket. Plaid shirt. A shotgun in the hand that didn't hold the
flashlight. 

"What the hell you doing out here?" the man asked. 

"We...we were just stopping to sleep for the night," Mulder replied.
"There was no place to stay, so we--"

"You're 100 feet from where my sheep are penned," the man
interrupted. "You're not welcome to stop here."

"We won't be any trouble," Mulder said, and there was a hint of
pleading in his voice. He couldn't face the road again so soon. "Just
for tonight--"

"You've already been trouble," the man grumbled in reply. "I had to
come out here to see who the hell you are. This is my land. You're
not welcome here. Get back on the road and get on out of here." He
hefted the shotgun for effect.

"All right," Mulder said. His hand held tight to the gun in case the
man followed up his words. "We'll be on our way." 

The man made a small affirmative sound in his throat, a grunt. "You
want some place to stay get off the Hopi reservation. We don't like
people *staying* here." 

"All right," Mulder said again, and the man turned, going toward the
horse that stood a few feet from the truck, its grey back bathed in
moonlight. The man swung himself up into the saddle, gave the horse a
nudge with his heels, and turned and walked slowly away. 

Mulder wiped his forehead with his hand, releasing a breath. He sat
up straighter, pulled the window back down and closed it. Behind him,
he could hear Scully starting to breathe again herself. 

"I'll drive," she said, began to sit up. He put a hand out to stop
her. 

"No, I'll do it," he said softly, resigned. "You stay back here and
try to get some sleep. I'll find us somewhere to go." 

"But you're exhausted, Mulder," she said, looking at him with
concern and a touch of exasperation. "You were falling asleep at the
wheel before." 

"I'm all right," he said, and shifted toward the front of the truck.
He climbed over the seat, took his place behind the wheel. 

"Mulder--"

"You can relieve me in a couple of hours if I can't find a place by
then, okay?" he offered peevishly, cutting her off. They were both in
strung out shape. There was nothing to be gained by having a contest
about who was worse off at this point, and he was too tired to argue. 

"All right," she said, and her voice sounded very far away. He
hadn't meant to silence her quite so harshly. 

He shook his head, regretting it.

He placed the gun beside him on the seat. His bare feet reached for
the cold pedals and he turned the ignition, the truck coming to life.
He shook himself awake harder, squeezing the steering wheel tightly.
Then he flicked on the headlights, threw the truck into gear, turned
and crept down the dirt road, the headlights doing little to cut
through the darkness around them.


**********

END OF CHAPTER 8. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 9. 

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 9.  


*********


THE ISABELLA 
BAHIA SAN JORGE 
MARCH 24 
6:12 a.m.


The nets dragged deep.  They strained against their braces as the
ship rose and fell on the sea, a spray of foamy water coming up as
the bow slapped down against the waves heading into the Point.  The
air was filled with the sounds of water and creaking wood, the
ubiquitous sound of the seagulls that followed the boat, hoping for
the leavings once the nets were pulled in.  

Joe Porter stood at the bow, a plastic mug filled with chicory
coffee in his hands.  He turned his face away as the spray washed
over him, over the yellow slicker he wore, the top gaping open to
reveal the high loose matching pants that hung from their red
suspenders, his battered white t-shirt.  Pushing his wet hair out of
his face, he returned his gaze to the shore, his eyes squinting
against the sharp beams of light coming up from the sun as it dawned.
The sky burned orange as though it were on fire. 

Behind him, the Mexican fishermen were laughing over a game of
cards.  Even when they laughed, he mused, they laughed in Spanish. 
They were all waiting for the boat to finish this circuit, waiting
for the nets to be pulled in.  This was his favorite time.  The
waiting.  The heavy smell of the sea and the shrimp already hauled
in, the bitter coffee in his hands.  His head was clearer out here. 
It gave him time to think, though sometimes the thoughts pained him.  

This morning that was the case.  He was thinking about California,
the last terrible weeks he'd spent there.  He thought about the
sleepless nights he'd given over to the partying and the drug, the
heroin sending a warm rush into his arm as he pushed the needle down
in the bathroom stalls of a dozen clubs.  The music pounding through
the walls.  The money exchanged, both into and out of his hands, with
a dozen strangers every night.  And then leaving alone to walk the
warm streets, lost, feeling both the best and worst he ever had in
his life.  The drug made sure of that.  

The morning he'd come home to find the police moving in and out of
his apartment just before dawn, he'd known that life was finally at
an end.  Though he'd been terrified at the sight, a part of him was
relieved, welcomed the end to the space his life had placed between
him and the rest of the world, the way it had turned everyone around
him into convenient acquaintances, the drug the only thing that
passed for connection with anyone in his life.  

Without stopping, he'd driven his Jeep right by his apartment and
headed south, his wallet and pockets stuffed full with cash from the
night's dealings, his head still humming, the world gauzed from his
lingering high.  He had enough product to keep him going for awhile. 
Enough to wean himself off if he was careful.  And lucky.  

Then the long drive through the desert, down past San Diego and
across the border by midday, through Tijuana and Mexicali, skirting
the Arizona border to Sonoita and then west to the Point, perched
right on the Gulf.    

Then the nights of shivering in the dingy motel room as the drug ran
out.  The pain, the screaming need of his body, lying all night
drenched with sweat, shaking, caught in fitful, fevered dreaming.  He
hadn't gone out, even to eat, for days as the drug worked its way out
of his system like a slow and painful burning.  

When it was over he vowed to never go back.  He'd gone out, still
weak, into the town and gotten a job, a place to live on his
dwindling money, and begun this new life.  Quiet.  Simple.  Solitary.

Until now.  He gave a small smile to the thought.

The sun coming in warm now, he pulled off the slicker and tossed it
near the wheel house, took a sip of his coffee.  On his tanned arms,
the needle scars stood out like pink and white tattoos, like points
on a map following the battered veins down toward his wrists.  He
would carry the scars of that life forever.  

The physical, at least.  Some other part of him was coming back to
life.  Healing over.  All he had to do was think about her and he
could feel that part of him, a tough bud, opening.  

"¡Oye!"  the captain called, coming out from the wheelhouse.  The
engine rumbled into idle and the boat slowed, buffeted harder by the
waves as its forward motion waned.  "Están subiendo las redes!" 

Time for the nets to come in.

Joe didn't move right away, though the captain was already throwing
the wench into motion, the rope that held the nets off the side of
the boat like great wings grinding over the pulleys, wood and metal
whining.  Everyone on the deck sprang into motion, grabbing small
wooden rakes, pulling on thick gloves that covered all the way to
their forearms.  Rubber boots squeaked on the deck.  

"You, too, El Callado."   The captain, Esteban, slapped Joe on the
shoulder as he passed him on the way to the bow, a good-natured smile
on his face.  Joe smiled back at the name he'd been given by the
captain and crew -- "Quiet One."  He really did do much to keep to
himself.  

He put his coffee down against the side, went for his gloves and
rake, as well, joined the men on either side of the boat.  

The sea foamed as the nets were brought up.  They rose heavy and
dark from the water, men with grappling hooks snagging them and
pulling them over the wide stern. Then, with the pull of a handle,
the ropes released, the catch slapping to the deck in a huge heap of
shine and motion.  

Joe moved in with the rest, first using his rake to push away the
frantic crabs, reaching down and tossing them over the side back into
the sea.  The shrimp they sought lay in huge clumps, barely moving
amongst the blankets of shocked silver fish.  The men worked quickly,
pulling the fish out and sending them over the side, as well,
seagulls drawing neat parabolas in the air to catch them before they
hit the safety of the surface.  

A small shark lay in the middle of it all, thrashing, its mouth
desperately drawing in useless air.  Joe went to it immediately,
grasped the thick tail with both hands and threw it over the side.  

It was a good catch.  Several hundred pounds of shrimp.  The boat
would earn out its trip between this load and the three previous. 
The men would get paid.  Everyone was in good spirits as they worked
because of this.   

Someone started a song and the men picked it up.  Joe smiled but did
not join in, though he knew the song well.  It was about a sailor
coming in from the sea.  The men's voices rose and fell over the
clatter of claws, rakes; the wet slap of fish hitting the water; the
engine rumbling.  

The sun continued to rise, a golden eye.

The catch secured, they headed back to port, the men smoking,
singing, clustered at the stern, their legs dangling over the sides.  

Joe stood apart from them as he always did, up near the bow again so
he could watch the port edge closer.   He thought of her again.  Her
beautiful face.  The blue of her eyes.  The tiny smile she gave him
as she looked away when she caught him watching her.  

It seemed to him she'd been wanting to be closer to him lately. 
They'd spent the night together again last night.  He'd slipped from
the bed hours before dawn, leaving her there, her soft, nude body
bathed in moonlight.  It had been all he could do to leave.  

He was still troubled by her secrets.  But there was a warmth to her
now, a slow opening to him that hadn't been there before.  

He knew he was in love with her.  And he thought she might be
falling in love with him, as well.  Thinking this, he, too, warmed
inside.  He felt less empty somehow.  As though he were somehow
emerging from the brittle shell of his past.  

He watched the land approach, looming nearer now.  Other boats were
already back with their catches, men swarming the pier, trucks
honking, a bustle of movement everywhere he looked.  

Two men came forward and grabbed the ropes that would secure the
Isabella to the dock once again.  Joe stepped out of the way,
scanning the dock

No, he corrected himself.  There wasn't movement everywhere.  

Mae stood perfectly still in the center of a swirl of activity, a
maelstrom of men carrying crates of shrimp, holding huge gutted fish
by the tails.  Her hair was pulled back, and her pale skin was
luminous in the morning light.  Sean was with her, standing against
her leg, watching the activity around him with a child's interest.  

Joe looked at her and their eyes locked, their gazes hanging.  She
gave him that same shy smile, looked away, then back up at him again,
something pleased and tentative in her eyes.  

He gave her a tender smile in return, raised a hand to her as the
boat touched gently in to shore.


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


FRY CANYON, UTAH 
HIGHWAY 95 
8:36 a.m.


Scully pulled herself back toward consciousness and the effort was
like dragging her body out of sand, her sleep had been so complete. 
Her face was cold, the rest of her warm within the sleeping bag, and
she pulled the flap of it up and over the side of her head, willing
the chill away.  

She opened her eyes then.  Something was different.  The lull of the
tires rolling on pavement was gone now, the truck still.  Sunlight
was coming in through the dirty side windows of the Bronco, and she
could make out the shape of a gas station canopy out the window, a
loud sign advertising a two-liter bottle of Coke for 99 cents.  Then
the sound of liquid rushing into the truck somewhere at her feet, the
hiss of gas entering the huge tank.  

She sat upright quickly, orienting herself, and saw Mulder leaning
with his back against the tailgate, his head bowed forward.  He
wasn't moving,  his shoulders sagging within his denim jacket, the
hood of the sweatshirt he wore beneath it pressed against the dingy
glass.  

She wondered what time it was.  Early, she gathered, from the way
the sunlight glowed on the horizon in the distance out the front
windshield.  

The memory of the night before came back to her now, seeming a
lifetime ago.  She ran it over in her mind, the images suffocating
her until she pushed them away.  She remembered Mulder's conversation
with the man out the back of the truck, then him crawling over the
seat, promising to wake her in two hours if he didn't find a place to
stay by then. 

Thinking all this, she returned her gaze to Mulder, and ire started
to rise in her.  He hadn't woken her up as they'd agreed.  She'd bet
anything he'd driven all night while she slept, not stopping or even
looking for a place to stop.      

She disentangled herself from the sleeping bag, the morning chill of
the truck's cabin hitting her full on.  It was too early for the sun
to have warmed anything yet, the desert still cold and still from the
night.  She edged closer to the tailgate and knocked on the window at
Mulder's back.  

He jumped at the sound as though she'd startled him awake, then
turned around and stepped back as she opened the back window.  

"Good morning," he said softly.  He did not smile.  His face didn't
seem up for it.  His eyes were deeply rimmed in red, smudges beneath
his eyes.  He looked like he hadn't slept in a week.  

"Why didn't you wake me up?"  she asked by way of greeting, her
voice still sleepy but with a sharp edge to it.  

He shrugged.  "I thought it would be good for you to sleep," he said
gently.  "I could handle it.  I was pretty awake."  

She shook her head, and now the exasperation did touch her voice. 
"You could have fallen asleep at the wheel, Mulder, especially
without me there to keep you up.  It was dangerous and it was
stupid."  

He seemed taken back by her tone and her words.  "I didn't think it
was a big deal," he offered, shifting his weight from one foot to the
other uncertainly.  "I'm sorry, Scully."  

She reached over for her suitcase, unzipped it hard and pulled out
her small toiletries bag.  "You're not sorry," she grumbled.  "I'm
sick of you trying to shelter me, Mulder.  We're partners, before
we're anything else.  I'm still an FBI agent, for God's sake, and I
expect to be treated like one.  Not like a child who needs
coddling."  

"Scully, I know you're my partner.  But you've been hurt badly and
have been very sick," Frustration leaked into his voice, as well.  "I
mean, Jesus, look at what you've been through --"

She glared at him, pinning him.  There was a warning in her eyes and
she could tell from the way he swallowed down the rest of what he was
going to say that he saw it.  

"What I've been through has nothing to do with this," she said
dismissively.

"It has everything to do with it," he said instantly, and he was
angry now.  "You may be trying to pretend like it doesn't, but I've
been with you for weeks now and I've seen the toll this has taken on
you.  Hell, the toll it's taken on both of us.  If there's anything I
can do to try and alleviate that, I'm going to damn well do it. 
Especially if it's something as simple as driving for a few extra
hours so you can rest."

His words stung her.  She felt herself flush at what he'd said about
the effect this was having on him.  It was the first time he'd said
anything like that aloud.

After a few seconds, she pulled herself together, anger simmering in
her along with the blossoming guilt and shame.  

"Then do these things to protect yourself and not to protect me if
it's taking such a toll on you," she said, the feelings warring in
her, and she pushed the tailgate down, scrambling down and grabbing
her shoes.  She pulled them on, then stood and faced him, looking up
into his weary face.  

She let the anger rise again.

"But part of protecting yourself is not playing the macho hero in
all this and running yourself into the ground.  You're no use to
either of us that way.  Any more than I would be if I were doing the
same thing."  

She saw him chafe at the "macho hero" comment as he jammed his hands
deep in his pockets and looked down, his jaw pulsing with an unspoken
response.  He relented, blowing out a breath as the gas nozzle
snapped, signaling that the tank was full.  

"Yeah, well, I'm going to call Skinner," he said, brushing the
previous conversation away.  "Tell him what happened yesterday.  See
if there's any change."

"I'll call him this time."  

He looked at her in surprise.  "What?"  

She glared at him again.  "I can give and receive information as
well as you can, Mulder," she said.

"Yes, but he's used to dealing with me on this –"

"Well, I think it's time for that to change, too," she replied
firmly.  "It's not like I don't know the man.  Give me his cell
number."

Mulder looked at her, his expression uncertain and worried. 

She looked at him and her heart jumped.  "What have you told him?" 
she asked.  "Is there something you've said to him that you don't
want me to know about?"

His mouth gaped, then shut to a thin line for a few seconds.  

"God, no, Scully, I would never tell him anything without asking you
first.  He knows about the drug, and that's it.  How can you even ask
me such a thing?"  

She sighed.  "You just seemed to not want me to talk to him, that's
all.  And I wondered why."

He said nothing to that.  He reached into his back pocket and drew
out his wallet, pulling out the slip of paper with the phone number
on it.  Then he dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of
change, all quarters.  He'd obviously already gotten the money for
the call when he paid for the gas.  

"There," he said quietly, offering both to her. 

She tossed her toiletries bag back into the truck – she would get
cleaned up afterward – and took the number and the handful of change
from him.  Then she stalked off toward the phone booth at the far end
of the lot.  She could feel his eyes following her.  

It had been a long time since she'd had this much feeling about
anything, certainly any feeling other than the panic that so often
gripped her in the wake of the dreams, the anguish she'd felt in the
bed with him that night in the hotel, her shirt pressed to her
chest.  

This anger was something new.  She didn't know where it came from. 
But a part of her welcomed it, welcomed the power that surged through
her with it.  

She would not be a victim of any of this.  And she would certainly
not let Mulder – or anyone else – treat her as one.  

She reached the phone, spread the coins out on the small ledge
beneath it.  She picked up the receiver, dialed the number, putting
in the right amount of coinage for the first five minutes with her
good hand.  The phone began to ring.  

"Hello?"  Skinner called, picking up on the second ring.  His voice
was tight and alert, as though he'd been expecting the call. 

"Assistant Director Skinner," she replied.  "It's Agent Scully."  

There was a beat of silence, then:   "Scully, has something happened
to Mulder?"  

"No, sir, he's right here with me," she said evenly.  "I just
thought it would be good for you and I to make contact this time."  

Another beat.  "Okay…um, sure, Scully.  That's fine."  

There was something in his tone that she didn't like.  A hesitancy. 
An awkwardness that hadn't been there in their interactions before. 
She pushed it aside.  She was probably just being paranoid, she
thought.  

"What's the status of things?"  he asked.  

She told him about what had happened at the gas station the day
before, about their night of running.  She said it all
dispassionately, as though she were talking about someone else, or a
case they were working on.  

"But…you're all right?" Skinner asked with care.  

"Yes, sir, I'm fine," she said formally. 

"Have you shaken them?"  

She glanced around the lot, down the deserted stretch of highway
beyond them.  It occurred to her that she had no idea where they
were.  

"It would appear so, yes," she replied finally. 

"They'd have to be working for Curran," Skinner thought aloud.  "The
question is who.  I'll get on my end and see if I can come up with
any leads about people he might have had dealings with.  Any
intelligence on groups with ties to the area you're in.  I'll see
what I can find."  

"There's no way to know, I suppose, if these might just be people
he's hired, or if they're part of a larger group," she rejoined. 
"It's hard to tell how widespread they could be, hard to know where
to run to get away from them."  

The phone beeped and she put more coins in the slot.  Skinner waited
until she was done before he began speaking again. 

"Well, that's not going to be an issue anymore," Skinner said.  "I'm
working with Agent Granger now and he said that you're going to get
caught if you keep running.  There have been sightings of you all
over the place.  I saw a picture of the two of you myself last night."

"Where?" she asked, and was suddenly afraid. 

"Southern California.  I hope you're away from there now?"

"Yes," she said, relieved instantly.  She knew not to tell him where
they were, even if she did know.  

"That's good," Skinner said.  "Look, Granger says you've got to stop
running or the task force is going to find you eventually."  

"But what about these men that were after us yesterday?"  Scully
asked.  "Won't staying put make it easier for them to find us?"

"Not where I'm going to send you," Skinner replied.  "I've made
arrangements for a place for you to stay.  Someplace safe.  Out of
the way."

"I can't imagine where that would be," Scully replied, dubious.  

"You remember a few years ago you two met up with a Code Talker out
that way, a Navajo man named Albert Hosteen?"  

"Of course," she said.  "He saved Mulder's life.  He protected us
both."

"Well, I've spoken to him and he's prepared to protect the two of
you again.  I've explained the situation to him as best I can, told
him Mulder was being wrongly accused by elements of the government
and that you're with him for your own protection.  He remembered you
both well.  He didn't even hesitate to say he would hide you on the
reservation, even when I told him what the penalties could be for
him."   

Scully leaned against the phone, feeling something in her unhitch. 
It would mean an end to the running, at least temporarily.  And they
would most likely be safe there, as Skinner had said.  Out of sight.  

"He's a very good man to do that for us," she said finally.  She
felt choked up at thought of someone risking this much for them,
someone they barely knew.  She pushed the emotion down as she cleared
her throat.  "Thank you for arranging that for us."

"I'm glad to do it," Skinner replied gently.  "I know you two need
to stop.  You've been running for a long time.  And I know it's got
to be hard on you both.  Especially on you."  

Scully looked down, feeling exposed.  It was hard for her to hear
that tone from Skinner.  It seemed familiar in a way that made her
feel vulnerable and she wasn't comfortable with it.  

"Thank you, sir," she replied, her voice formal and even again. 
"How do we find him?" 

"He's in Two Grey Hills, New Mexico," Skinner said, all business
again himself.  "He told me to tell you to head for Farmington, then
go to the reservation from there.  There's a gas station over the
reservation line just as you cross in, an Exxon station with a
market.  His son owns it.  He said for you to go there and his son
would give you directions on how to find him.  He's expecting you any
time.  He said everything would be arranged by the time you got
there."  

"All right," Scully said.  "I'm not sure where we are right now, but
we'll head that way immediately.  Get there as fast as we can."  

"Good."  

Another beep, saying time was running out.  Scully pushed more coins
into the machine.

Then there was a strange, long pause from Skinner.  Her brow creased
as it stretched.  She could almost see him starting to say something
and yet remained silent.  

"Is there something else, sir?"  she asked finally.  She looked
across the parking lot, saw Mulder standing by the truck, watching
her, his hands still in his pockets.  

"Yes, there is, Scully," Skinner said quietly.  Another pause.  She
grew more nervous in the midst of this one.  

"I'm actually glad you were the one who called this time, because
there's something I thought you might want to know," he said at last.
His voice was so quiet and hesitant it was almost difficult to hear
him.  

"What is it?"  A feeling of unnamable dread came over her.

"I've gone over the reports from the crime scene at Mae Curran's
apartment.  The autopsy report on John Fagan," He stopped again,
trailing off.  

Her heart clenched like a fist at the mention of the name.  "Yes?" 
she replied, forcing her voice into a normal pitch.  

"I thought you might like to know…well, that he was clean," Skinner
said, something sad in his voice.  "No sign of diseases at all.  No
HIV.  Nothing."  

She sucked in a breath.  Blood rushed to her neck and her face,
making her feel suddenly boiling hot.  Her stomach plummeted as her
trembling hand went up to brace her against the booth's glass.  

He knows…

God, they probably all know…

She clenched her eyes closed as they stung.  She felt stripped.  Raw.

"Scully?"  he called.  "Are you there?"  

She pulled in the breath, willing the shake in it away.  She swiped
her eyes.  Her hand shook harder as she pinched the bridge of her
nose.  

"Yes, I'm here," she said, and her tone did not quite reach its
normal tenor.  She had to get off the phone…  "Thank you, sir.  Thank
you for the information."  

He was silent for another beat, as though he were sizing her up. 
"Are you all right?"  

"Yes, I'm fine, sir.  Just fine.  Is there anything else?"   

He cleared his throat, and his awkwardness was tangible in the air
around her.  As were her own emotions as they crashed into her.  The
anger she'd felt so recently, the power it had given her, was gone. 
The other feelings – the guilt and the shame – settled over her like
a heavy black cloak.  

"I need to talk to Mulder for a moment, if he's available," Skinner
said finally, and she stood up a bit straighter, turned her attention
to Mulder, who was still leaning against the truck, still watching
her.  She waved for him to come over and he started across the lot.  

"He's coming," Scully said, and she still couldn't force her voice
down.  She coughed to hide it.  

"I'm glad to hear from you, Scully," Skinner said quietly, warmly. 
"I'm glad you're doing better."  

She nodded absently as Mulder made it to the side of the booth.  It
was showing on her.  His face looked worried as he gazed at her.  

"Thank you, sir, for all your help.  Here's he is."  And she handed
the phone off as she brushed by Mulder and headed back to the truck.  

**

Mulder took the phone, turned and watched her retreating toward the
truck, her gait hurried, her strides purposeful and long.  Finally,
he put the phone to his ear, still watching her. 

"Yes, sir," he mumbled into the phone.  

"Mulder, I need some information from you," Skinner said, and Mulder
was relieved that he sounded all business.  His normal tone made
whatever had set Scully off seem less acute for some reason.  

"Granger and I are working together now, working on a few things,
trying to poke some holes in Padden's story about your whereabouts
right before the bombing."  

That sounded hopeful.  "Okay," he said, pleased.  

Skinner heaved in a deep breath.  "There were two days you were gone
from Richmond in January.  January 12-13.  A night you didn't come
back to the hotel and a day you didn't show up for work.  You
wouldn't tell anyone where you were, not even Granger, and Padden's
been all over that, thinking that's when you were meeting with Curran
or making an explosives run or some such shit."

Mulder froze.  The day Danny Conner had died.  When Scully had
called him, demanding to see him and he'd gone to get her at the bus
stop in the darkness, driven her all the way to Afton Mountain to
hide with her there for the night.  

They'd made love that night, and again that morning.  It was the
last time they'd been that close, that free.  He closed his eyes
against the pleasure and pain of the memory.  

"Well?"  Skinner asked, breaking him from his thoughts.  

"Well what?"  Mulder asked, his voice far away.  He watched Scully
get her toiletries bag and a pair of pants out of the back and head
for the store.  Her face was down, and she was still moving at that
strange, hurried pace.  It was as if she were afraid someone were
watching her and she needed to get inside as fast as possible.  

"What the hell do you mean, ‘well what'?"  Skinner snapped.  "I need
to know where you were, Mulder, so we can get some confirmation on it
and hopefully get rid of that piece of Padden's theory."  

Mulder hesitated again.  To tell where they'd been would risk Scully
being reprimanded for leaving her undercover position to see him
without authorization.  

It meant possibly exposing their relationship.  To Skinner.  Padden.
All of them.  And after so long of managing to keep that a secret, he
was resistant to giving that away.  Especially now.

"Goddamnit, Mulder, answer me!  The time for screwing around is long
since over.  Things couldn't get a whole hell of a lot more serious,
for Christ's sake."

Mulder ignored him, thinking.  The phone chirped at him and he
pushed the last of the coins into the battered machine.  

Maybe they wouldn't have to know she was there at all.  Maybe the
manager never saw her.  He'd signed in alone, used his cover name,
and paid for the room in cash.  Maybe Skinner could get confirmation
on his being there and clear those days up that way and they'd never
have to know Scully's part in it at all.  

He would have to risk it.  

"I was on Afton Mountain in Western Virginia," he said finally.  "A
motel at the top of the mountain.  I can't remember the name of it. 
But you can see it from the highway as you go over the crest.  It's
one of the few up there.  I signed in as George Hale."  

"You picked a hell of a time to go on a little vacation, Mulder,"
Skinner grumbled.  

"I had my reasons," he replied vaguely.

"Yeah, well let's just hope Padden doesn't think you were meeting
Curran up there, that someone can vouch for the fact that you were
alone that night.  Or it could  just compound your problems."  

Mulder winced.  The only way to confirm that was for Scully to vouch
for him, to expose herself that way.  And she'd been exposed enough.  

So he said nothing in response. 

"Granger's trying to find someone from the airline that can say you
were at the airport gate while Fagan was being killed.  We're working
on it." 

"I appreciate what you're doing for me, sir," Mulder said quietly. 
"I really do."  

Skinner grunted.  "Well, anyway, Scully knows where you're going. 
Call me from there in a week and I'll give you any new information
I've got."  

Mulder thanked him and said goodbye, hanging up the phone as he
watched Scully coming back toward the car, her bunting top off now,
just a long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans and boots on now.  Her hair was
pulled back beneath her baseball cap again, her sunglasses in place. 
She went to the driver's side of the truck and climbed in, slamming
the door behind her.  

He peeled out of his jacket as he made his way back across the sandy
lot.  The sweatshirt followed, leaving him in a white t-shirt and his
jeans.  He scrubbed at his hair and beard as he went to the passenger
side and climbed into the truck, tossing the extra clothes in the
back on top of their makeshift pallets.  

He looked over at her.  Her fingers were white on the steering
wheel, her eyes hidden behind her sunglasses.  They were still for a
moment, her gaze down in her lap as he watched her, his face creasing
with concern.  

Something was wrong.  And he meant more than usual. 

"What is it?"  he asked gently.  

"It's nothing," she said, and he'd never heard a voice so monotone
and distant and cold.  She didn't move.  "I'm fine."  

Though the anger she'd aimed at him earlier had not exactly been to
his liking, he preferred it to this.   She was a shell.  He could
tell by her voice, the way her shoulders drooped, her body slumped
forward as though something had finally beaten the rest of her down. 
As though she'd somehow given up.  

"What's happened?"  He whispered it. "Talk to me, Scully."   

She cleared her throat, and her face rose to look out the
windshield.  "We're going to New Mexico," she said quietly.  "Help me
find Farmington on the map and how to get there from where we are."  

He shook his head.  "That's not what I mean."

"Help me find it on the map," she continued in the same tone, as
though he hadn't spoken.  "And then you'll probably want to go ahead
and get some sleep."  She reached down and started the engine, the
truck shaking to life.  

Her voice was so strange.  As though she were talking, but not to
anyone else.  

He pursed his lips, shook his head again as he looked away.  

This was going to stop, he decided.  He'd had enough of all of it. 
It was starting to hurt too much to continue like this.

He reached for the map, unfolded it roughly, slapping it down on his
lap.  

All right, he thought.  I'll find Farmington.  

And when we get there, some things are going to change.  

He would make sure of that.  


*********

END OF CHAPTER 9.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 10.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 10.  


* * * * * * * * *

OUTSIDE MEXICAN WATER, ARIZONA 
HIGHWAY 191/160 
2:37 p.m.


The silence had grown oppressive.  It hung in the air of the truck's
cabin like a spring snow cloud, cold and dark and ultimately
unwelcome.  

Mulder had tried to doze through the quiet after it became apparent
that she wasn't going to speak to him.  He'd leaned against the
rickety door, his arms crossed over his chest, closed his eyes
against the sight of the desert going by the window.  

But his mind was busy – wondering what had crushed her so
completely, hollowed her out.  He thought about this, his mind
turning it over.    

Stewing.  That's what he was mostly doing now.  And it was
impossible to sleep when he was doing that.  

He'd glanced over at her every once in awhile, hoping to see
something cross her face.  Anything.  He would even have welcomed
tears at this point.  Just anything to show that the person he knew
was still there beside him.  But her face remained blank, her mouth
tight, her eyes focused on the road ahead of them.  He did not have
to see behind the sunglasses to know that her eyes were dull. 
Empty.  

It was as though she were sinking below the surface of a lake,
disappearing into black water right in front of him.  And it had to
stop before he lost her completely to the darkness.   

He didn't care what he had to do, and he was prepared to do it.  He
didn't feel that there was a choice anymore.

So when he saw the signs for Mexican Water, the familiar blue signs
of forks and spoons, the outlines of beds, he sat up straighter in
his seat and turned to her.  

"I need to stop," he said, his own voice sounding alien to him after
so many hours of quiet.  

She remained still for a few seconds, her eyes not moving from the
road.  

"I'll find a gas station," she replied, monotone.  

He shook his head.  "No, I mean for the night.  I can't sleep in
here today.  I need a motel."  

Now she did turn to glance at him, her expression perplexed.  "But
we could make it to Farmington by tonight.  We could be there."

"I know," he replied.  "But the night is catching up with me.  We
can get there tomorrow and it won't make that much of a difference. 
I think we've doubled back and gotten lost enough that those people
are long since gone.  I think it's okay to ease off a little bit." 

She turned her face to the road, clearly against the idea.  Then she
exhaled and nodded, put on the turn signal to take the next exit,
which had the sign for a motel beneath its number.  

"Thanks," he said quietly, and now his nerves kicked up, a twinge of
anxiety about their stopping.  He shoved it down, hardening himself,
getting prepared.  

It's just Scully, he said to himself.  No matter what state she's
in, it's still her.  And he knew her better than he knew anyone,
didn't he?  Even now?  

He comforted himself with that thought, and it calmed him.

* *

The motel, called the Desert Rose, was a dingy-looking one-story
sprawler, the kind of place that Mulder could tell by looking at it
that it charged somewhere between $24-$30 per room and wouldn't have
been renovated since the gas crisis.  

He went into the office, got a key to a room near the end of the
building and returned to the truck.  Scully had already parked it
near the end of the lot. 

As he walked toward the truck, he saw she hadn't moved.  She seemed
to be staring at some point far away out the windshield, something
hard and sad in her expression.  

He moved into her line of sight and she looked at him.  He could see
her eyes dart to his face and then away behind the thick dark plastic
of her glasses.  

"You coming?"  he asked.  

She nodded.  "Yes," she replied, and pulled the keys out of the
ignition, pushing the door open and dropping to the ground on both
feet.  

They hustled their suitcases into the room, the ritual dully
familiar to him now.  There were two double beds in this room, a room
he'd chosen because of its location away from the rest of the few
guests.  The place looked like it had thin walls.

She tossed her suitcases onto the far bed, pulled her hat and
glasses off, ran a hand through her hair.  He knew what she would do
now.  He knew it all by rote after so many weeks.  She would reach
for her shampoo, head to the shower and stay in there for as long as
she could.  

But not this time.  

He put his own suitcases down on the other bed as he watched her
rummage through one of the bags.  He watched her face in the large
mirror over the bureau against the far wall, the blank set of it.  No
one was home.

She pulled out the shampoo, her bag of toiletries.  Then he saw her
pause, reach through the folds of things and draw something up.  She
stood with it in her hand, and he moved to the side to see what it
was in the reflection.  

The snowglobe he'd given her for Christmas.  Somehow it had made it
all this way with them.  He swallowed.  The sight of it saddened him
for some reason.

She looked at it, deep in thought for a few seconds.  He thought he
saw her eyes shining, then it was gone.  Then she dropped the toy
back into the suitcase as though it burned her to touch it.  

She turned for the doorway to the bathroom, toward the large vanity.
The shower and toilet were a separate room off to the side.  He
walked around the bed as though he were going for the sink, got in
between her and the bathroom just as she was heading there herself.  

She tried to go around him, not looking at him.  He took a step to
the side and blocked her way again.  

Now she did look up at him, clearly confused and a touch irritated.

"What are you doing?"  she asked.  

"We're going to have a talk before you shower," he replied, looking
down at her, forcing her to meet his eyes.  

Her eyes were imploring for a fleeting second, then hardened again.  

"No, we're not," she said flatly, and tried to push by him again. 
He took another step, his hands coming up and lightly gripping her
upper arms.  He felt her tense up in his grasp, though he was holding
her as gently as he could.  

She dropped the shampoo and the bag of toiletries, looking up at him
in surprise.  They thumped at his feet.

"Let me go."  She said it so softly that he barely heard her, but
the tone was filled with warning.  She was looking at the center of
his chest, avoiding his eyes.  

"Will you agree to talk to me?" he asked, leaning down to try to
look into her eyes again.  She averted them, looking to the side. 
Color had risen in her cheeks.

"Will you?"

She swallowed, nodded once.  "Yes," she said.  

She stepped back and he let her go.  She went to the small aisle
between the beds and sat down on the corner of the one her suitcases
were on, her arms across her chest, looking down.  

"What is it."  It came out as a statement, the same dead tenor to
her voice.  

He went to her, stood a few feet away, his hands in his pockets,
looking down at her.  She looked like she were being punished by
having to face him.  

"How can you even ask me that?"  he said, but there was no reprimand
in his voice.  

"I don't know what you mean."

"Scully.  This has to stop."  He fought to keep the emotion welling
in him out of his voice.  This was no time for it, he reminded
himself fiercely.  "We can't go on like this."  

She was still for a moment, her hands folding in her lap.  The left
trembled and she covered it with the other.  

"Yes, you're right," she murmured.  "We can't."  

All right, he thought, pleased.  They agreed on that.  There was
room for progress, for forward motion, if they could agree at least
that there was a problem.  

"Okay then," he said, nodding.  "We've got to figure out a way to
get through this then.  You've got to start telling me what you're
feeling—"

"No."  

The word stopped him cold, confusing him and throwing the relief
he'd felt for a moment off kilter.  

"'No' what?"  he asked. 

She drew in a breath, let it out shakily, her hands gripping each
other as if for reassurance.  "That's not what I meant when I said we
can't go on like this."  

He grew very still.  

"What did you mean then?"  he asked.  

She looked to the side, pulled in another breath.  "I've been
thinking about it…for a long time.  A lot today while I was driving…"

A wave of cold came over him and his teeth grit down.  

"Don't say it, Scully."  His eyes burned.

She looked up, the blank expression firmly in place.  "I want us to
separate."  

He was struck dumb for a few seconds.  His mouth opened and closed
as he struggled for words.  

"I hope you mean that you just want us to travel separately for
awhile, though I think that would be a foolish—"

"You know what I mean," she interrupted softly.  She might as well
have shouted it, the effect it had on him.  

He shifted on his feet, as though he wanted to move toward her.  He
held his ground though.  

"I won't accept that."  

"I'm not giving you a choice, Mulder," she said, returned her gaze
to her hands.  

He couldn't believe how calm she sounded.  It angered him.  He felt
the feeling rising in his throat like acid.  

"May I ask why at least?"  The emotion leaked into his voice, and he
could tell by the way her head came up that she heard it.  

"I've been thinking a lot about this…" she said haltingly.  "I've
been thinking…that it's been over between us since…since this all
happened.  We just haven't faced the truth.  We've run from it, just
like we've been running from everything else."  She pinned him with
her gaze.  "And I think it's time we both stopped running from this,
at least."  

He shook his head, looked toward the window.  The tears were coming,
anguish and anger and his own helplessness crushing into each other
within him.  "You're wrong," was all he could think to say.  

"I'm not, Mulder."  Her voice was steady and sad. 

"I love you."  The anger was rising now.  He'd never said those
words with as much of it behind them.  He'd hoped he'd never have
to.  

She nodded.  "And that's part of the problem," she said.  "You love
me too much.  It's blinded you to the truth of what we've become. 
You can't see that there's nothing left.  And you're so loyal that
you would never leave me.  So I'm going to do what's right for both
of us and leave you."

"How can you say that?"  he snapped, suddenly furious and loud. 
"How can you tell me that I love you too much?  That I'm too loyal? 
How can you say those things like they're faults instead of what they
really are?  And you love me, too.  Or have you buried that along
with every other goddamned feeling you have these days?"  

Her head jerked up and her eyes glinted with resin light.  "I love
what we USED to be, Mulder.  Not what we are now.  And what we used
to be is NEVER going to be again.  Can't you see that?"  Her volume
and tone were matching his now. 

"That's only because you've made the CHOICE for that to be true,
Scully," he replied hotly.  

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"  she said, her hands going
out to the sides as though she meant to rise.  

"You won't talk to me!  You've shut me out of your life!  You've
shut US out of your life!" 

"You act like I've done all this on purpose," she replied.  

"Part of you has," he snapped back, and she turned her face away. 
He could see her hands clench on the coverlet.  

Good.  She was getting angry, he thought.  It was about fucking time.

He paced a couple of steps toward the window, ran a hand through his
hair in frustration, spun on her.  

There had to be a way to put this to right, he thought desperately. 
There had to be a way.  Her emotions were close to the surface. 
Maybe he could drive them out of her, bring them up and out into the
open…

Now if he could just get his own rage and hurt under control… 

"What did Skinner say to you today?"  he bit out. 

She said nothing, and he could see her struggling with her control. 
She was breathing hard now, her cheeks blood red.

"What did he say?"  He enunciated each word, loudly.  When she
hesitated again, he roared at her.  "With what I'm about to lose here
you owe me an explanation of what set this off at least!  You OWE
me!"  

She didn't look up.  "He knows about the rape," she said, her teeth
clenched.  

He stopped, his hands on his hips as he turned this new fact over
quickly in his mind.  

"It makes sense that he would find out," he replied.  "There had to
be forensic evidence in the apartment—"

"Don't you get it?"  she shouted, bolting up from the bed and taking
a step toward him.  Her chest was heaving and there were tears in her
eyes now.  "Mulder, they ALL know.  Padden.  The task force.  ALL of
them."  

"Nobody will think any less of you, Scully," he replied, matching
her tone.  "For God's sake, the man was huge—"

"That doesn't matter, does it?"  she interrupted.  "It doesn't
matter how big he was, or if he was armed, or if he fucking beat me
half to death, Mulder.  It still HAPPENED."  

"And what?  You think you let it happen?  You think it's your
fault?"  

"YES!" she screamed.  

He took a step toward her, frustration rearing in him.  "Scully, for
Christ's sake—" 

"That's what they'll all think, Mulder," she said, panting.  "That's
what every one of them will think.  It's over!  My credibility is
over!  That whole life is over!" 

"How can you fucking say that?"  he said, anguished she would even
think such a thing.

"Have you LOOKED at me lately, Mulder?"  she said.  She held her
hand up, the tremor worse with her emotions.  "Look at this!  You
think they're going to let me near an autopsy bay with this?  Or back
out in the field?"  

"You don't know that the damage is permanent, Scully," he began. 
Something in the back of his mind was growing concerned as her rage
escalated.  She looked wild now, her eyes wide. 

"It's been months," she replied.  "MONTHS.  It's not getting any
better and neither is anything else, as you well know..."  

He winced, but didn't take the bait of that.  His anger crested
again, his frustration so long held in check.  

"That's because you keep everything so bottled up, Scully," he
shouted.  "You don't talk about any of this until you're ready to
give up on everything!  Even on us!"  

The look that came over her face now did frighten him.  She didn't
even look like herself anymore, something primal coming down over the
features like a mask.  

"What do you want me to say, Mulder?" She waved her hand wildly at
him.  "WHAT?"  

"I want to hear what you need to say," he replied.  "You've got to
SAY it, Scully."  

"All right!  Is this what you want to hear?"  

And then it came, streaming from her in one long raging burst.  He
was stunned as the shouted words blasted images into his mind,
searing him.  

Her head slammed down on the floor, her vision swimming.

Hands on her, tearing at her robe, pushing it up her bare back,
exposing her body to him as Fagan knelt behind her, hauling her to
her knees.  

A hand on the back of her neck, pinning her to the floor.  The sound
of a buckle.  A zipper.

Knees holding her knees apart, his body crushing down onto hers,
pushing into hers.  

Her battered face pressed down, her shoulders straining as her hands
were caught behind her back beneath him, blood from the wound in his
cheek warm and wet on her shoulder where he rubbed his face, panting
against her, rasping into her again and again.  

Then dropping her in a heap, pushing her onto her side.  Her body
slamming hard into the floor.

Mulder cupped his forehead, cringing.  Tears ran from his clenched
eyes and her screaming continued.  He took it all in, forcing himself
into control.  It was agony to him, the words.  The knowledge.

Then, suddenly, something crashed against the wall. 

His eyes snapped open and he saw the remnants of the cheap lamp that
had sat on the bureau raining down on the pressed wood, the shade
tumbling.  

She was sobbing, covering her face with her hands, staggering
towards the middle of the beds.  

"Oh God…" she cried.  "My God…why did you make me tell you that, you
son of a BITCH…"     

"Scully…" His voice broke and he went toward her.  "Scully, I'm
sorry.  My God…"

What had he done?

"You son of a bitch…"  

She reached down and swept the closed suitcase hard, sending it
flying toward the bathroom.  She reached down into her open bag,
clothes flying.  

Then her hand closed on the snowglobe.  In an instant it was out of
her hand, smashing into the mirror against the far wall, shattering
the small globe and her image, and his as he made it next to her,
into a hundred wet pieces.  The sound was amazing.

He got hold of her then as she was going for the lamp on the night
stand, grabbed her by the upper arms again, pulling her against his
body.  

"Okay, Scully, it's okay…shhhh…"

"NO!" she screamed.  "Let me go!"

He struggled with her as she reached for the lamp again, pulling him
along with her as she lurched forward.  He moved his hand to get an
arm around her waist, and it gave her enough room to spin around in
his grasp, her hand coming up.  

The blow caught him on the cheekbone, turning his face sharply to
the side as the pain shot through his face, his eye.  His arms
dropped from her in surprise, his expression shocked.

She looked at him in horror, covered her mouth.  Then she was crying
again, her body going limp as she covered her face with her hands. 

"It's over, Mulder," she keened.  "It's over…just get out…get away
from me…"

He took a step back instinctively, his face still hurting from where
she'd struck him, the rest of him aching from her words.  Tears ran
freely down his face into his beard.  His chest heaved as he swiped
at them. 

"Scully, don't do this.  Please." 

She shook her head.  

"Go," she said, and it was little more than whisper of air.  

He didn't know what else to do, what else to say.  He backed away
from her, going around the bed to where his suitcases lay still
unopened.  He lifted them both by the handles, turned to look at her.
She did not look back.  

"I'll be here in the morning," he said softly, and his voice shook. 
"We can separate on the reservation.  You won't have to see me once
we get there." 

She jerked a nod, her breath hitching.  She turned her back toward
the door.  

He turned and went out it.  


* * 

A few minutes later, inside his own room down a few from hers,
Mulder dropped his suitcases on the double bed, staring around the
empty room.  The tears, which he'd managed to stop long enough to get
the room, started again, and he crossed his arms over his chest as
though he were holding himself.  

He couldn't believe how his intentions could go so horribly wrong. 
He couldn't believe what he'd seen, a side of her he didn't even know
was there, a side so filled with fury and pain.  

He backed up against the closed door, a sob catching in his throat.  

He let it come, his back sliding down the door until he was seated
against it, his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide and frightened and
filled with disbelief.


* * * * * * * 

END OF CHAPTER 10 AND OF PART 1.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 11 AND PART
2.