Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 18.

********

2819 GRAYSIDE TERRACE 
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA 
7:46 a.m.


The man sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his hand over his short-
cropped hair as he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. The
covers were rumpled behind him, evidence of yet another sleepless
night spent tossing while his mind ground like the gears on a clock. 

He'd had many such nights in the past two months. And he was growing
tired of it, in more ways than the obvious. 

Reaching over to the night table in his sparsely furnished bedroom,
he picked up his wallet, opened it and thumbed through the large
flap. He looted through receipts, dollar bills, until he found what
he was looking for: a small slip of paper with a phone number written
on it.

The numbers stared up at him. He stared back, thinking. 

He could remember her so clearly if he let himself. 

The weight of her hand on the center of his back. He was leaning
over the empty autopsy table beside the one where she had been
working as she took his class from the CIA through a forensic
pathology lecture. 

His stomach had been heaving, his face bright red both from the wave
of nausea that had come over him and from his shame for swooning in
the first place.

"Agent, are you all right?" she'd said gently, her other hand
holding the glove she'd stripped off in haste to be able to touch
him. 

"I'm fine..." he'd said, forcing himself to stand, then he turned to
look at the ruined corpse as if to prove to her and everyone else in
the room that he could handle it after all. 

Bile rolled up into his throat again at the sight of the entrails,
all the blood...

"Maybe you should step out for a few minutes," she said gently, and
he turned instead to her. So small beside him. Blue eyes looking at
him with concern. "You can come back in a few minutes. This happens
to a lot of people. Don't worry about it." 

She'd said all that loud enough for the other ten agents to hear,
putting his dignity back over him like a blanket laid over his
shoulders. 

He'd admired her by reputation for a long time. Now he admired her
for her kindness to him, the respect with which she treated him.

It was a small thing she'd done for him, true. 

But he never forgot a kindness like that. And he never forgot how
much he respected her for her keen intelligence, her quiet strength,
and for the difficult work that she did, and did so well. 

He sighed, fingering the slip of paper. He'd been so idealistic
then. He thought he'd join the CIA to do some good, to do something
important that he could be proud of.

He was not proud now. And he was not doing good. Those were about
the only two things of which he was certain. 

The man stood now in his pajama bottoms, set down his wallet and
picked up his keys from the night table. Then he went through the
bedroom to his office across the hall, the phone number still in his
hand. 

Swiveling his leather chair so he could sit, he sifted through the
keys on the ring, choosing a small silver one and separating it from
the others in between his fingers. Then he leaned over to the file
cabinet beside the desk, unlocked the top drawer, leaving the keys
dangling, clattering metal on metal. 

He shifted files, going to the bottom of the drawer to the accordion
folder, easing it out from beneath his tax returns and appliance
manuals, then set it in front of him, opening its flap and lifting
the contents out. 

Color copies of photographs. Copies he was not supposed to have, but
had been secretly making over the past few weeks as his doubts about
what he was doing had begun to fester, making him more and more ill
with guilt. 

Her at a gas station, so frail now, so thin, her clothes hanging on
her. 

She and Mulder coming out of a motel room. 

And then the picture that he now regretted having shown Padden at
all. The one of the two of them on the cliff, seated in what was
clearly a lover's embrace. Mulder's arms around her as though he were
sheltering her from the forces that were closing in on them. 

Little did either of them know who some of those forces were, or how
close. Standing right beside them at that moment, in fact. Watching. 

And waiting.

Post-traumatic stress seems to be setting in nicely...

The words had made him wince when Padden had said them then, and
they did the same to him now as he looked at the photographs. 

She didn't deserve this. To suffer like this. Neither of them
deserved this. To be sacrificed like lambs at Padden's personal
slaughter. 

He had to do something. He couldn't live with himself if he didn't.
It might cost him everything, but he knew what the right thing to do
was. He'd known for a long time. He'd just been too worried about his
own hide to do it. 

He laid the pictures down, set down the piece of paper with the
phone number on it and reached for his phone there beside him on the
desk. 


*********


GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE 
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA 
8:03 a.m.


Paul Granger sat with a new stack of photographs in front of him,
flipping through them, studying the faces of a dozen strangers caught
on videotape in a dozen different gas stations and convenience stores
across Southern California. 

He had his office door open, hoping he looked suitably busy to the
rest of the task force milling in the hallway, though he was, of
course, just killing time with this stack. Mulder and Scully were
about as likely to be seen in Southern California as he was at this
point. 

What he was really waiting for was the stack of possible Curran
sightings that was supposed to come through around noon. That was his
only interest at this point. The stacks he'd been looking at for
weeks now had yielded nothing. 

Wherever Curran was hiding, he was hiding but good. 

Granger considered this. He'd decided that Curran couldn't have
stayed this out of reach for this long unless he was staying
somewhere, most likely being hidden by someone. 

He wondered, for the hundredth time, by whom. 

Word from MI6 was that the IRA wanted nothing to do with Curran
anymore. That they might, in fact, have gone so far as to put a hit
out on him. There'd been a lot of suspected IRA members moving in and
out of U.S. Customs for the past couple of months. More than usual
since the embassy bombing. It concerned the CIA and the other
intelligence communities greatly, to have their presence becoming
more entrenched on U.S. soil, so many of them fleeing Northern
Ireland now that the uneasy peace had finally come. 

Granger leaned back in his chair, took off his small silver glasses
and cleaned them absently on his maroon tie, thinking. 

Between the drug that Curran had used to kill the group in Richmond,
all of them dying horrible deaths over the course of week, and then
some clear hits on members in the Northeast corridor, the Path was
all but decimated. So they couldn't be the ones hiding Curran...

And who were those men who had tried to grab Scully in Arizona?
Scully had said they were American, or at least a couple of them
were. 

Someone in the U.S. then, he decided. Perhaps some extreme group
that would condone Curran's obsessiveness and his methods. One of the
militias, perhaps? 

But hired by someone who was not American? The militias hated
outsiders as a general rule, distrusting even the UN, thinking that
the U.S.'s contact with other countries was tantamount to giving the
country away to "the New World Order." 

Granger shook his head just thinking about that level of paranoia. 

How would Curran get a militia to go to work for him? 

Granger thought about this, replacing his glasses. Then he swiveled
around to his computer, already logged in to the CIA's databank. He
tapped in "Militias -- Southwestern United States," and waited while
the computer cycled through the database. 

From inside his black suit jacket, his cell phone rang, and he
reached to where the jacket was draped over his chair, pulled it out,
answering it almost absently as his eyes stayed glued on the screen,
a row of names coming up, a description beneath each of them. 

"Granger," he said, distracted. 

"Agent Granger?" a man's voice asked. 

"Yes, this is he," Granger replied, reading and listening at the
same time. 

A long pause. 

"Hello?" Granger said finally, his attention pulling away from the
screen now as his brow furrowed at the silence. 

"Agent Granger, I have...some information for you about your current
investigation. Into the case against Agents Mulder and Scully." The
voice was steady and hesitant at the same time. 

Granger sat up straighter now, going still. 

This person knew about him heading the task force, which was not
exactly common knowledge outside the agencies involved. 

He knew about the task force's investigation being not just into
Curran and the bombing. 

And he knew Granger's cell phone number, to boot. 

In other words, he knew too much to be one of the dozens of cranks
who called every day, claiming information on some aspect of the
case, phone calls usually filtered to him through the main
switchboard. 

An agent. Someone from the FBI, National Security...

Or the CIA itself? 

He pulled the phone from his ear and checked the number of his
caller ID. 

Blocked. No surprise there. He replaced the phone at his ear.

"What sort of information?" Granger said, not giving away any of
these thoughts in the evenness of his voice. 

Another beat of silence. "I'd rather not discuss this over the
phone," the man said. "I'd like to meet with you. I have something to
give you that will clear a few things up for you, I think." 

Granger was completely perplexed at this point, red flags having
begun to wave in his mind's breeze. But he was intrigued as well. He
glanced nervously at the door to his office, gaping open like an eye.
He rose and went to it, closing it quickly, turned his back to it and
stood in the center of the office, his free hand on his hip. 

"All right," he said. "Where would you like to meet?"

"There's a parking deck on the Metro station in Silver Spring," the
man said. "Meet me on the lower level. I'll be there at noon. In the
furthest corner from the elevators." 

Granger felt a smile tugging at his lips. "I think you've seen 'All
the President's Men' too many times," he quipped, "but all right."

"I don't want you to see my face," the man replied. "It's not safe
for you to see my face, to know who I am. Not safe for me. I'm being
watched off and on. You are. We all are. I think you know that." 

Definitely an agent, Granger decided, the words stilling him even
more. 

But why would an agent want to have a clandestine meeting like this?
Why not just come into the office and talk to him? 

Unless this was about something internal...

A chill settled over him. Something was wrong here, he thought. Very
wrong indeed. 

"I'll be there at noon," Granger said solemnly. "I'm about 5'10,
black--"

"I know what you look like, Agent Granger," the man interrupted
calmly. "Thank you for doing this. And please..." A beat. "Come
alone." 

"I will," Granger replied, the hair on his arms standing on end. And
then the line went dead. 


*********** 


UNKNOWN LOCATION 
ALDER CREEK, COLORADO 
8:08 a.m.


Jimmy Shea sat in the barren tree stand, his touring cap on, blowing
on a cup of strong coffee he'd been given by one of the other two men
who sat around him, their rifles across their laps and pipe and
cigarette smoke curling around them. There was a young boy there, as
well -- Thomas, Shea recalled now -- who was sitting very still,
watching the clearing through the trees, glancing at Shea
uncertainly. 

Something about Shea himself made the boy nervous, almost afraid. He
wondered what it was as he sipped the coffee, its rich-smelling steam
rising to his nose and eyes. 

Shea's own rifle leaned against the tree, a lovely Browning loaned
to him by the men who had invited him to go hunting with him that
morning. He'd driven all night from South Dakota and arrived at the
compound some time after midnight, barely finding the place. Only
Rutherford's careful directions, given to him by this man Kingston
who he'd met at breakfast, had gotten him there in the darkness. 

The people had treated him well since his arrival, even extending
the generous invitation to come out on the morning's hunt. 

Shea wondered how much they knew of his errand. If they did know
what it was, they seemed to welcome it. From a few comments made over
the morning meal when the subject of "the last Irish feller" came up,
he'd gotten the impression that Owen Curran had not been well-liked. 

There was a slight chilly wind, and he pulled his camouflaged jacket
closer around himself, happy for the fingerless gloves. Springtime
seemed to be coming slowly this high in the mountains. 

Shea yawned despite himself, and one of the men chuckled softly next
to him. "Should have let you go back to bed, Mr. Shea," the man,
Freddy, said amiably. 

"Nah, I'm fine," Shea said, smiling back. "I'll perk up any time
now. Just a long drive last night is all. And I'm afraid I'm not as
young as I used to be." 

"Ain't none of us that are," the other man said, spitting tobacco
over the side of the deer stand. This man, Boyce, had an accent that
was thicker than that of the others, Shea noted. He was from the
mountains of West Virginia, he'd told Shea earlier, and had added he
couldn't wait to get back home again. 

Shea knew the feeling well. 

He'd called Ruby that morning before breakfast, spoken to her
briefly. Her voice had been sad, though she'd been trying to hide the
feeling from him, trying to sound strong and easy, telling stories
about the neighbors. A good one about Glen O'Reilly's boat that he'd
built and put in the sea. It had taken on enough water within the
hour that by the time he came home, just the top sides were showing
above the water. 

Shea had laughed, though he knew the story for the cover that it
was. He knew her far too well after so many years. 

"There's one," Freddy hissed, and Shea looked up, saw the bobbing of
a set of antlers over the brush at the far edge of the clearing. He
set his coffee cup down without a sound, picked up his rifle just as
silently. The other men did the same. Thomas took the thermos of
coffee from Boyce, the pipe from Freddy, his eyes wide as he watched
the deer. 

Slowly it emerged, tentative, its head stretched up, turned from
side to side as it left the cover of the trees. It was huge, Shea
noted, admiring it. Strong mature antlers with many points. He knew
the more it had, the more desirable it was. A massive, muscled body
and wide chest. 

He sighted it through the rifle. A tree blocked his way. He lowered
the rifle. 

"No shot," he whispered. 

"Me neither," Freddy said at the same volume. "Boyce?" 

"Yeah," Boyce said, his eye squinched closed as the other looked
through the scope. "I got him..." His finger went to the trigger, the
gun already bolted...

A clatter of noise as Thomas dropped the thermos, the plastic cup on
top falling from the stand to the ground below. 

Shea looked at him, then at the deer. It had taken off with the
sound, running parallel to the treeline, streaking across the
clearing at top speed. 

"Aw, Thomas, for God's sake..." Boyce said, lowering his rifle.
Freddy did the same. 

"I'm sorry!" Thomas said quickly. "I didn't mean it, I swear!"

Shea ignored him, watching the deer as it continued to fly across
the field. It wasn't going back into the trees...

He raised the rifle, following the animal through the scope. 

"Mr. Shea, it's too late," Freddy said. "He's gone now." 

He tracked the deer, his body swiveling quickly, locking the animal
in the cross-hairs. It was 200 feet or more away now and still moving
fast.

It was all dully familiar to Shea. He didn't even have to close his
other eye to sight as he followed it.

He took in a breath, held it, and pulled the trigger. 

The shot tore through the trees, the sound echoing around them like
thunder. Freddy and Boyce were standing now, their guns loose in
their hands and their mouths agape. 

The deer stopped almost instantly, a ragged hole in its chest, shot
straight through the heart. It fell, digging up dead grass with its
antlers as it skid to a halt.

It didn't move again. 

Shea lowered the weapon, bolted out the cartridge. It pinged on the
wooden deck of the stand and down onto the ground below, glinting
gold. 

"Jesus H. Christ," Freddy breathed. 

"I ain't never seen a shot like that," Boyce rejoined, shaking his
head. "Not never in my whole life."

Shea turned and looked at the three of them. They all looked back, a
mixture of awe and fear on their faces. 

Especially on Thomas', Shea noted. The boy swallowed as he looked at
him, his face blanched. 

Shea smiled to them, not proud of their reaction. He shouldn't have
done what he just did, he told himself. He should have let the deer
go. He didn't even know why he'd done it at all.

"Got lucky, is all," he tried, waving a hand. "Just blind luck." 

The men said nothing to that. They weren't going for it. 

Shea smiled again, cringing a bit with it, and took off his hat. He
wiped his forehead, replaced the cap snugly. 

There was a long beat of silence where none of them moved.

"Now how do we get it back then?" Shea asked finally, his voice a
little firmer now. 

With that the men were struck out of their staring and began to
hurriedly gather their things. 


**********


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO 
NAVAJO RESERVATION 
8:16 a.m. 


The pleasure washed through her, throbbing him. 

Her heavy breath was caught in the cup of his ear and he shivered
with the moan that came from her, felt it vibrating up from somewhere
deep in her chest. He could feel it rising through her, his hands on
her shoulder blades, stroking her soft, slick skin with his rough
palms. 

She shuddered in his lap, his name coming from her in a shaking
whisper. 

He smiled with it, pressed a long kiss on her jaw. 

She loosened her grip around his neck, reached for his wrists behind
her and moved his hands, slow, down to her hips. She was still
pulsing against him, pushing, urging him on as she offered her body
to him. 

He knew the tears would come. 

The night had taught him that.

Her breath drew in sharply, trembled out, and he felt the first
tears on his temple. She gasped. 

"Oh God..." she said, and her voice broke. Her hands gripped his
wrists hard. "I'm sorry..."

"No, you don't have to be sorry..." he murmured against her,
soothing her as she buried her face against the side of his throat.
"It's okay. Don't hold it back..." 

She shook her head. "No," she whispered. Her hips surged against his
again. 

His breath caught and his fingers tightened their hold around her
thin hips. 

"Scully, we can stop..." he whispered as he released the breath. "We
can stop right now..." 

"No," she said again, more firmly this time. 

And then she moved, kissed his mouth, staying there, their breathing
growing harsh and mingling, his open lips lightly touching hers. 

He closed his eyes... 

When he came, her lips were still against his, his whole body
shaking as he moaned into her mouth. 

He struggled for breath against her for a long moment, holding her
in a firm embrace. 

He breathed her name.

Then he kissed her lips gently, the taste of their lovemaking water
and salt. 


**

11:33 a.m.


Scully stood at the sink washing the skillet, warm water and soap
running over her hands. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, her
forearms drenched. She was enjoying the simple pleasure of the task,
lingering over it, filling the skillet with water and emptying it,
filling it again. 

Mulder was taking a shower down the hallway, the water pressure in
the sink struggling against the pull. She'd just taken one herself,
her wet hair pushed behind her ears. Her hair was long enough now
that it touched her shoulders, making her shirt slightly damp where
it touched. 

She hummed softly to herself, off-key as usual, but she smiled
nonetheless. 

She felt better than she had in months, a tenuous sense of peace
settling over her. 

The problems were all still there, of course. It was her attitude
about it all that had changed. She saw ways out now, not the
unscalable walls she'd been confronted with everywhere she turned
before. 

She and Mulder were together again. The pain between them would no
doubt linger for some time, she knew, the ghosts of what had happened
still lurking in the shadows. She didn't fool herself into thinking
otherwise. 

The tears from a few hours ago and last night told her that.

But they had still come a long way in just the past night. Mulder
had ridden through the storm with her, staying with her, patient and
tender. 

They would get through the rest of the journey together.

And it seemed there was something new between them now, something
warm and honest and strong. She could feel it stretching between them
like a golden thread, even at times like this, when he wasn't really
with her. 

It made her smile as she emptied the skillet again.

A soft whine from beside her, and she looked down to see Bo sitting
there, hunkered in on himself, his head down, but his eyes glancing
up at her. 

"What is it, Bo?" she asked softly. "You hungry?" 

He stood and shifted from foot to foot, his ears coming up a little.
She smiled. The dog knew that word well. 

She put the pan in the drainer, reached for the plates then, the
remnants of their eggs, Mulder's bacon, crusts of bread. She scraped
it all onto one plate and set it down on the floor. Bo looked at her
doubtfully, then put his head down and began to eat. 

She looked fondly at the dog as she rinsed the other plate. Another
thing she learned in the past night and this morning: Mulder loved
this dog. It was a strange thing to see from him, a man who had
killed enough tropical fish to fill the National Aquarium in just the
time she'd known him. 

And a man who had treated her own dog getting eaten by an alligator
with something akin to relief. 

She shook her head, her lips curling up. That was a long time ago.
He was so different now. 

And she found the whole thing with Bo endearing. Like a new facet of
him she hadn't know was there. 

The dog seemed to tolerate her fairly well, too, which she was happy
about. Mulder had said he usually ran when others came around. 

She heard the water cut off, the bathroom door open, flooding the
hallway with steam and the smell of crisp deodorant soap. She
continued with the dishes, washing her mug from the night before, the
bent forks and battered knives, listening to him bumping around in
what had been his bedroom. 

A flash of the dream from the night before. The little girl looking
up at her with such trust, smiling. And Mulder walking away, getting
lost in the darkness...

Arms curled around her waist, startling her enough that she dropped
the handful of silverware she was holding into the sink with a
clatter. She didn't realize she'd been staring out the window over
the sink until then, until she felt him nuzzling the hair from her
neck, felt his warm breath and lips against her there. 

"I'm sorry," he murmured against her skin. "I didn't mean to scare
you." 

"It's okay," she replied, her voice the same tone. She leaned back
into him. "I was just thinking about something and forgot where I was
for a second." 

"You're right here," he said against her ear, and she shivered. Then
he added in a whisper. "With me..." 

She made a soft sound of assent in her throat, reached for his
forearms, gave them a squeeze. Then she turned her head so their lips
could meet. It was a chaste, soft kiss, devoid of the urgency of
before, the desperate need to touch and be touched. It was familiar.
Somehow contented. 

Their lips parted, and she released his arms and picked up the
silverware again, rinsing them. He kept a loose hold on her waist as
he stood up straighter, his chin almost on top of her head. 

"What's on tap for today?" he asked. "Anything you need to do?" 

She nodded, putting the flatware in the dish drainer's basket. "Yes,
I need to take Ghost back up to Albert Hosteen's place. And I was
thinking I might go to my trailer and maybe move a few things down
here, if that's all right with you..." 

She could feel his smile. "Hmm...I don't know..." he said, nuzzling
her hair. "How long do I get to think about it?" 

She smiled, as well, jabbed him lightly. He sucked in a breath. 

"Oh Mulder, I'm sorry," she said, reached back and put her hand on
his belly beneath his ribs. She's forgotten the giant bruise for a
moment, big as a dinner plate, that stretched from his side to just
below his sternum. 

"It's okay," he said, put his hand over hers. "It looks a lot worse
than it feels at this point." 

"I certainly hope so," she replied, looked down. "Could you hand me
Bo's plate?" 

The dog was still standing there, looking up at them plaintively. He
was the most worried looking thing she'd ever seen. 

Mulder released her, bent down to retrieve the plate, giving the dog
a stroke as he did so. He stayed bent as he handed the plate up to
her, rubbing the dog's back and sides gently. Bo leaned against
Mulder's knees, panting. 

"Good boy," Mulder said softly. "That's a good boy." 

Scully smiled and washed the plate. 



A few minutes later, they were out the door, walking the few hundred
yards to Victor's house and the corral beyond, Bo trotting along
beside them. The sun was high overhead, hot today. Scully squinted
against it, wishing for her sunglasses or her hat. 

They passed Victor's double-wide, the sprawling concrete front porch
littered with coffee mugs from the men's morning meal, which Victor
made almost every day for his workers, most of them family. 

In front of the corral, a large pickup truck with a camper top on
it. Across the side, a huge American flag, and the words "American
Blacksmithing." Scully looked near the stable and saw the blacksmith
at work. 

On Ghost, in fact. Victor was holding the horse's head as the
blacksmith stood, Ghost's front leg caught between his knees as he
pounded a shoe onto the horse's pale hoof. 

"Hey! Come on over!" Victor called, waving them forward from where
they'd both stopped at the sight of a stranger. They looked at each
other, wary. 

But Scully felt safe here, felt the Hosteen's would protect them as
best they could. So Victor's trust meant a lot to her. 

With that thought in mind, she started forward, Mulder following. Bo
hung behind, sitting beside the truck.

They approached and Victor smiled at both of them. 

"Tim. Lisa," he said, tipping the brim of his hat to Scully. 

"Hello, Victor," Scully said, gave him a small smile in return.
Mulder said the same. 

"What are you two up to this afternoon? Besides shaving Tim's rough-
looking beard off?" Victor grinned. "Did you both come to work for me
today?" He winked at Scully. 

Scully smiled a bit wider. "Not exactly," she said. "I was going to
take Ghost back up to your grandfather's, but I see--" 

"I'm almost done with him," the blacksmith panted without looking
up. His voice was muffled a bit by the fat nails he had hanging out
of the corner of his mouth, but he was clearly used to talking around
them. 

"It was good he was down here," Victor said. "We usually have to go
get him anyway when Jim comes." 

Now the blacksmith -- Jim -- did look up, waved a greeting to both
of them with his hammer. He was a heavy-set man, blonde crewcut and
stubble on his cheeks. He wore thick glasses to protect his eyes, and
a black t-shirt underneath his leather apron, the words "Born to..."
peeking up from above the bib. Scully wondered, bemused, what the man
was, in fact, born to do. 

"Hello," she said, her voice a bit hedged but friendly. 

Jim looked at Mulder, then at her. He froze as he looked at her,
looking her up and down, then settling on her face for a long few
seconds. A nail dropped out of his mouth. 

She squirmed a little under his strange gaze. It was leering, but
also not. She didn't quite know what to make of it, but she didn't
like it. She knew that much. 

Mulder didn't, either. She felt rather than saw him chafe beside
her. He took a step closer to her. 

"Hi there, Jim," Mulder said, drippingly friendly. "Tim Garrett.
This is my wife, Lisa." Scully could swear she heard a little extra
emphasis drop on the word "wife." It made her want to roll her eyes
and laugh at the same time. 

They'd settled on the cover as a married couple many many weeks ago
to avoid flustering the dozens of motel managers they'd had contact
with while on the road. But Mulder seemed to be taking the cover a
bit more seriously all of a sudden. 

He could be so protective sometimes, she thought, but loved him too
much for the intention of it to be truly irritated.

It had the desired effect, however. Jim looked up at Mulder, his
face flushing an even deeper red than it already was from the sun and
the exertion of bending over his own sizable gut. 

"Good to meet you," he said hurriedly, then with one final glance at
Scully -- this time at her chest in the white shirt, as though he
couldn't quite help himself -- he went back to work on Ghost's hoof. 

"You taking the Bronco up to Grandfather's, or you want a horse?"
Victor asked Mulder, breaking the moment with one of his wide, amused
smiles. 

"We're...ah...going to be picking up a few things," Mulder said. "So
I think it would be easier if we took the Bronco. Let Lisa ride him
up there and me drive beside." 

"That's good," Victor said. "Just go slow. He's an old man." He
rubbed the horse's nose affectionately. 

"All done," Jim said, and dropped the horse's leg, tossed his hammer
toward his tool chest as he stood. He reached behind him and pulled a
dirty-looking bandanna out of his back pocket, mopped at his face. 

"Come on," Victor said to both her and Mulder. "Let's go get him
saddled." He looked at Jim. "Go ahead and start on you-know-who." He
pointed. 

Scully watched Mulder turn and look off to his right, where a black
and white horse stood tied to a post. Scully could swear the horse
scowled at him. 

"That's the one, isn't it?" she said, and he turned back to her,
rubbing his belly. 

"You guessed it," he replied, a chagrined smile on his face.

"Let me get my goddamn football helmet," Jim grunted, and went
toward the horse. 


**********


METRO PARKING GARAGE 
LOWER LEVEL SILVER 
SPRING, MARYLAND 
11:55 a.m.


The place was thick with shadows and the smell of oil, the musty
smell of the dark. It met Granger's expectations of a meeting place
for this type of thing so well that he felt strangely comfortable
with it, his nerves under some semblance of control as he walked to
the farthest corner of the lot. His footsteps echoed in the cavern-
like space. 

The lot was full, not a space left from the crush of morning
commuters, which he expected. There would be little traffic down here
to spook whomever this person was who had called him. As it was, he
didn't see another soul moving around this far away from the
elevators, hundreds of feet and cars away. 

Granger began to weave in between the cars, going around vehicles
and cement supports, headed toward the corner, which was bathed in
near-darkness. 

"Stop." 

The voice came out of nowhere, the echo of it bounding off the
walls, a hollow sound. Granger froze instantly, trying to orient the
direction the voice had come from. 

Somewhere in front of him. Three supports that he couldn't see
behind, and which were already poorly lit. 

The man must be behind one of them, he thought, though he couldn't
tell, with the acoustics, which one it was. 

He shifted his weight, then held his ground, his hands going to the
pockets of his black trench coat. He wanted to appear unruffled, and
hoped that was what he was doing. 

Silence stretched for a moment. 

The man was having doubts. Second thoughts. Granger could sense it
from here. 

"You're doing the right thing by talking to me," he said quietly.
"If you have any information that could help me, you're doing the
right thing." 

Again a beat of silence. 

"You said you had something to show me. Please show it to me."
Granger held his breath, hoping him taking the lead on this, prodding
the man like this, wouldn't scare him away. 

From the shadows in front of him, something slid along the floor
with a hiss, stopped at his feet. It was a brown accordion folder, an
elastic band holding down the flap. Granger looked into the darkness
in front of him, then down at the folder. 

"Open it," the voice said. 

Middle support, Granger decided. That's where he was. Though he
could see nothing.

Granger bent slowly, picked up the folder and unwrapped the band
from it, reached in. He pulled out a thin stack of paper, tucked the
folder under his arm. He turned slightly to get a look at the sheets
in the dim electric light. 

His eyes widened as he looked carefully at each picture, his heart
picking up speed.

"Where did you get these?" he asked. "And how recent are they?"

"The last one is from about three weeks ago, I think. The one of
them on the cliff. The others have been taken over the past months." 

"Where did you get them?" Granger repeated, urgent. 

"I'm on a task force run by Padden, too, Agent Granger," the voice
said. There was no inflection in it at all. "We've been tailing
Mulder and Scully for months now, since they disappeared. We caught
up with them about two weeks after Mulder left Richmond." 

Granger's head was spinning as it tried to catch up with what he was
hearing. He looked down at the pictures, then toward the support. 

"So Padden's known where they are all along," he said. 

"Except for where they are now, yes," the voice replied. "We've lost
them in the past couple of weeks. Padden's about to have heads
rolling over it." 

Granger nodded, understanding -- as bitter as it was -- coming over
him. "He's watching them to wait until Curran gets to them. Gets to
Agent Scully." 

Another beat. "Yes. And, he hopes, kills Agent Mulder while taking
her." 

Granger felt heat rise on his face. "You can't be serious," he said
incredulously. "Not even Padden would--"

"You don't know Padden the way I do, Agent Granger," the voice
interrupted. "He'll do anything to catch Curran at this point, to
save face over what happened at the bombing. And he'll do anything to
get Mulder, because it's Mulder who has tainted his reputation in the
first place by figuring out where the bombing would take place. He
wants Mulder out of the way. First disgraced so that Padden being at
the British Embassy will seem the more correct course of action --
the only one to take without supposed 'inside knowledge.' That's
where these charges are coming from." 

Granger shook his head in disgust. "So he also knows the charges are
false." 

"Yes. And he has no real intention of letting Mulder live long
enough to risk prosecuting him on them. He knows they won't stick
with what you know. What Walter Skinner knows. What Agent Scully
knows. He knows Mulder didn't shoot John Fagan. The ballistics don't
even match Mulder's service weapon, though that's being suppressed,
as well. Along with everything else." 

The man paused. "He's waiting for Curran to clean up the mess for
him. And Curran's gotten close already. It's only a matter of time
before Padden gets what he wants. Mulder *will* die to protect her.
Everyone is sure of that. And whoever Curran's got working for him
won't be as careless -- or as shorthanded -- the next time they
come." 

Granger nodded again. His breathing had picked up as his mind raced
with what to do with all this. "We can bring them in, given what you
just told me. We could--"

"Mulder and Scully are expendable," the voice snapped, sounding
irritated. "As long as Padden is still operating in the dark, their
lives are in danger. As soon as they're no longer of use to catch
Curran, Padden will find a way to get rid of them both. Here *or* out
there. He'll blame Curran for whatever happens to Scully. Mulder
would just meet up with an unfortunate accident, after Padden
finished ruining his reputation to save himself."

Granger swallowed hard. "What do we do then?"

"The only hope you have to save them is for you to take those
pictures and what I've told you and go to Ashcroft as quickly as you
can. Get Skinner to do it. He's got more connections, and still has
come clout. And then hope Ashcroft will listen to him this time."

"Okay," Granger said. He felt sick in his stomach with all he was
hearing, at the blackness of what was going on. It pained him to look
at it, to even tangentially be a party to it. 

"It's going to be hard to convince Ashcroft," the voice continued.
"He trusts Padden implicitly. But the pictures will lend credibility
to what Skinner says. He might listen with those in front of him,
knowing that Padden's been using your task force as a cover for what
he's really doing. Ashcroft doesn't know about that and it will cast
considerable doubt on Padden." 

"All right," Granger said. "I'll go to Skinner right away and tell
him everything you've told me."

"I'm assuming Skinner knows where Mulder and Scully are. Padden
assumes he knows. That's how they've stayed hidden for this long.
Wherever they are, get to them. Warn them. And once Padden is
exposed, get them some backup from the FBI. The FBI isn't involved.
It's the only agency that's got clean hands in this thing, that isn't
under Padden's control in some way. Skinner's presence has made sure
of that." 

Granger nodded. "I'll get to them as fast as I can." 

They fell into silence. Finally Granger broke it. 

"Why are you doing this?" he asked. "Why would you tell me all this,
knowing what it could mean for you?"

"I..." The first sign of hesitation, regret, in the voice now. "I
didn't join up to do this kind of work. I have no stomach for it. And
I've been swallowing it for a long time now. I'm full. Plus..." 

"Plus what?" Granger asked as the man hesitated.

The voice responded quietly, almost shyly. "Agent Scully treated me
like a friend once. I'm just returning the favor." 

Granger nodded. "Thank you. What you've given me, what you've
said...it will save her life. And Mulder's." 

"If you get to them in time," the voice said, hard and business-like
again. "You've got to hurry. Curran's close. We're sure of that. No
matter how well Skinner's hidden them."

Granger replaced the photos in the folder, closed it. "If you need
protection...if you get in any danger...go to Skinner."

"They'll be no protecting me if I'm found out," the voice said
grimly. "But thank you anyway. Now go. Please." 

Granger nodded, turned, and did as he'd been told. 

He did his best not to look back. 


********


KOKOPELI PAWN AND THRIFT 
FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO 
4:38 p.m.


The man watched Jim Rupert, owner of American Blacksmithing and a
proud member of the New Mexico Militia, hold the flyer closer to the
light overhead, looking carefully at the face beside the picture of
the other woman and a young boy. Rupert switched his toothpick from
one corner of his mouth to the other, nodding. 

"Uh-yeah. That's her all right," Rupert said to him there behind at
the desk, handed the picture back. "Same one on the flyer we got at
the Militia meeting. She don't quite look that good anymore, but she
looks good enough." 

"You're sure?" the man said, holding up the flyer in front of him
again. Rupert nodded. 

"Sure as shit," he said. "Now what about that reward for
information?" 

The man sighed, reached over and began turning the combination lock
on the safe, the sound of metal rolling in metal filling the small
office. 

"Victor Hosteen's place, you say?" he asked as he turned the wheel,
tumblers falling. 

"Yeah," Rupert said. "There's a trailer out behind Victor's place.
Used to belong to old Albert's brother Larry. They're staying there." 

"Who's 'they'?" He pulled the safe open with a heavy creak.

Rupert shrugged. "She's got her husband with her. That's who he said
he was. Some man named Tim Garrett. She's going by Lisa Garrett, but
that could all be a bunch of horseshit for all I know." 

The man reached into the safe and pulled out a stack of hundred
dollar bills, pulled five crisp ones of the top and handed them over.
"I know where to find you through Kevin at the Militia if you're
lying to me or you're wrong, right? And you'll be good enough to give
that back if that's the case." 

"I know you can find me," Rupert said peevishly. "I wouldn't be here
if I didn't know I was right." 

The man nodded. "It's good of you to come and tell me, Jim. The boss
will be mighty happy to hear the news. And I'm glad we can all work
together, despite our little differences here and there." 

Rupert nodded. "No problem," he said, and waved the cash. "Much
obliged. Good luck bringing her in for whatever is she done. And
don't go mentioning my name when you go to get her, all right? I been
working at the Hosteen's for years now. Don't want to lose no
business over this, you know." 

The man nodded. "Not a word," he said, and turned back to his desk.
Rupert took the hint and left. 

He reached over to his Rolodex, flipped through it slowly until he
got to the number he wanted. 

L. Kingston. Kentucky. 

He reached over and picked up the phone.


**********


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO 
NAVAJO RESERVATION 
6:39 p.m


Honey. Oil. Salt. Yeast. Flour. 

Albert Hosteen watched Scully mix the ingredients together from
beside the counter, smiling a bit despite himself. She kneaded the
dough until it was firm and came clean off her hands. 

He sat on a stool next to her, his pipe held in the corner of his
mouth, the room smelling like the fat seeping bubbles in the deep
skillet and the sweet smell of tobacco. Mulder was in the other room,
watching "Animal Planet." 

"Okay, now what?" Scully asked, wiping her hands on a tattered
kitchen towel on the counter. 

Albert pushed a greased bowl toward her. "Put it in there and turn
it over so the top gets some grease on it, as well. Then cover it
until it doubles in size." 

Scully did as she was told, taking great care with the dough. Albert
watched her hands as she worked, the left trembling as it held the
heavy mound and turned it over. 

She pulled the hand back, squeezed it into a fist for a second and
the trembling subsided slightly. Then she reached back into the bowl
and finished, covering it. 

He was glad she wasn't as self-conscious about the injury now. She
seemed to have come to some kind of acceptance of it, some peace. 

As she had about many things, he thought, and he smiled wider around
the pipe as she wiped her hands again. She looked at him and returned
it, looking down almost shyly. 

"A natural," he said. "You sure you are not part Navajo somewhere in
all that Irish?" He winked at her, and it teased a chuckle from her. 

"Pretty sure," she said. 

Mulder came in now, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He
looked better than Hosteen had seen him look yet, though there was
something bothering the younger man. He could see that. 

"Something is on your mind, Agent Mulder," he said, took a puff of
smoke into his mouth and let it out. He watched Scully look into
Mulder's face, then down again.

Mulder stood beside her now, looking down at what she was doing.
"Yes," he said softly, and he and Scully exchanged glances again.
"There's is something on my mind." 

Hosteen nodded, gnawing on the pipe end. "You are wondering if you
should go home or not," he said matter-of-factly, and both agents
looked up at him in surprise. 

"Yes," Mulder replied, snapping out of it. 

"Hm," Albert said. "Agent Scully wishes to go back, but you are not
so certain." 

Scully shook her head, stifling a small smile as Mulder continued to
look surprised. The poor man was not used to this kind of talk,
Albert recalled. Scully had had so many nights of him, when he
guessed things right it no longer phased her or made her feel
exposed. 

Mulder was blushing on his newly shaven face. "Yes," he said again. 

Albert took his pipe out of his mouth, studied it. "Would you like
to hear my thoughts?" he said. 

"I would," Mulder said after a beat. He looked grimly serious.
Scully glanced at him again. 

"You were right to run all the time you did before you came here,"
Hosteen said, choosing his words with care. "So much was unknown,
both outside of you...and between you, if you do not mind me saying
so."

Mulder nodded, accepting what he said and urging him to continue. 

"Many things, I think, are known now," Hosteen continued, looking at
Scully and then back into Mulder's face. "What they could do to you
with these charges against you cannot touch what is most important
now. You have strength now that you did not have before. Anyone who
looks at you will see that. That is how I see things." 

Mulder looked at him. "I don't think that will be enough to stop
these charges against me, Mr. Hosteen," he said. "Or enough to
protect Scully from this man who wants to kill her." 

"You can face these charges, Agent Mulder. They are lies. They will
show themselves as lies in the face of who you are. Especially who
you are now." He looked at Scully. "And Agent Scully...she can
protect herself. And with your help, she is doubly safe." 

Mulder shook his head, leaned against the countertop. 

"Listen to him, Mulder," Scully said softly, looking into his face. 

"If you stay out here, they will find you eventually. Even here." He
gestured around him. "And this man Skinner at the FBI...he will do
what he can. And you are safer with his people around you than you
are with me or Victor or, if you leave here, no one at all." 

Mulder looked down at his feet, and Hosteen could feel him relenting. 

"Check your dough," he said to Scully, striking her from where she
was watching Mulder's face. She lifted the cover off the bowl, and
Hosteen nodded. 

"It is ready," he said. "Now take it out and pull it half, then pull
it into eight parts and make them into balls." 

Scully busied herself doing what he said, Mulder still quiet beside
her, deep in thought. 

"Now take one and flatten it out with your hands," Albert instructed
softly when she was done. "Then poke a hole in the middle of it or
the center will not cook." 

Scully did as she was told, pulling the ball flat, poking a large
hole in it. She turned to the pan of fat on the stove, and Hosteen
nodded. 

"About a minute on each side," he said, and Scully carefully placed
the dough down into the pan. It began to sizzle instantly. Scully
stood over it as though she were standing guard. 

Finally, Mulder looked at Hosteen, and Hosteen nodded to him. Mulder
nodded back after a beat. 

"All right," he said, and Scully looked back over her shoulder at
him. Hosteen watched the look they exchanged, the warmth and the
worry in it. "We'll both go home." 

"You have to be sure, Mulder," Scully said softly. 

He nodded. "I am sure."

Scully smiled at him faintly. Hosteen noted the look in her eyes, at
what passed between them. 

"Turn it over," he said softly, and Scully returned her attention to
the pan, turned the dough over with a spatula. Fat crackled. 

Mulder came forward and stood beside her at the stove but did not
touch her. 

They were in a place where they could touch without touching, he
noted with something like pride. They'd come so far from the two
people he'd seen get out of the truck that day. Very far indeed. 

"Is it done?" Scully asked, looking at him. Hosteen stood and went
to the pan now on her other side. 

He noted the gold of the bread, the rich smell, the center a creamy
white but cooked through. 

"Perfect," he said, smiled broadly, and Scully pulled the fry bread
out and laid it on the paper towel on the plate he'd placed there on
the stove, the paper darkening beneath it. 

With that, Scully turned back to the counter, began pulling the next
ball of dough flat with her palms. 

Hosteen watched her, then Mulder as the younger man reached down to
the disc of bread, carefully pulled off a hot edge and brought it to
his mouth to taste.


**********


UNKNOWN LOCATION 
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA 
NEAR THE SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION 
8:47 p.m. 


The sound of dripping water seemed to echo around her, a drop at a
time from the sink above her head. She lay on her stomach, her cheek
against the cold tile floor, cooling the sweat on her pale face. Her
arms were tied behind her back and her shoulders ached from the
strain of it. 

She tried to ignore the drops of water tapping at the sink,
listening instead to the silence in between them, the house outside
the closed door quiet. 

Too quiet. 

Her breath came fast as she thought about it, her eyes closing tight. 

"No..." she whispered, her face clenching to tears again. 

Someone was walking around outside the door, down the long wooden
hallway that led to bedrooms and the large living room on the other
side of them. The person stopped at the door, stood still to listen. 

She didn't make a sound, not even daring to breathe while whomever
it was stood there. 

Then the footsteps moved on. 

Mae took a deep breath as they receded. She didn't know if it had
been Owen or not, but she doubted it was him. He'd thrown her into
the bathroom, crushing her to her knees as a round of vomiting had
struck her, pushing her head toward the toilet in disgust and then
slamming the door behind him. 

Now she lay still, the nausea passing from her, though her stomach
was still clenched, but this time from her helplessness and fear. 

Owen had sent Sean out with the taller of the two men, out into the
forests around the lodge-like house they'd come to. The house was
dark cedar, hidden in the dense woods up on the hillside, far off the
main road. 

She was glad he'd sent Sean out, but feared what it meant. What Owen
was trying to shelter his son from hearing or seeing. 

Mae had tried to reassure Sean as he'd stood in the doorway, the
tall man's hand on his small shoulder. The other man -- the one who
didn't look quite human to her -- was sitting in the corner of the
room like a guard dog waiting to be called. 

"It's all right, Sean," she'd said, trying to keep the shake out of
her voice. "We'll be right here when you get back." 

She'd looked at Owen then, who stared back at her with his pale
face, still as wax. 

She'd looked at Joe, seated on the bed in the large room. Neither of
them were bound at that point, Owen's gun tucked away for the moment. 

The blood had long-since dried on Joe's face. 

"We'll be right here," Joe had said to Sean, as well, and Owen
glared at him, took a step closer to him but did nothing in Sean's
presence. 

His restraint didn't make much difference. The boy had the back of
his hand in his mouth and was sucking on it hard as the man led him
away. 

That's when the other man had moved and the ropes had come out. The
silver tape. 

The order for silence, the gun removed from the back of Owen's pants
once again. 

Neither of them had resisted, complying for the safety of the other. 

Just as Owen had wanted. 

That's when the nausea hit her, sweat beading her forehead. She'd
swooned with it, making a sound in her throat unintentionally. 

"I told you to shut the fuck up!" Owen had roared, and his hand was
across her face again. She barely felt the sting of it, her head
jerking to the side.

"She's going to throw up," Joe had exclaimed. "For Christ's sake,
she can't help it!"

"Not in here you're not," Owen had snapped, and hauled her to her
feet, hustling her out. 

Now she lay there, listening. Waiting. 

Water dripped into the silence, a drop at a time. 

Then the screaming began. 


***********


END OF CHAPTER 18. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 19. 


Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 19.

***********

APRIL 9 
5:47 a.m.


Mae was dreaming troubling dreams -- Sean running out in front of
her, laughing, across a field of flowers. 

"Sean!" she called. There was fear in her voice, and she was gasping
for air, as though she'd been running for miles. She stopped and
leaned over, her hands on her knees as she struggled to breathe.
Something in her belly ached, sweat beading her forehead. 

Sean didn't listen, but she could hear the sounds of his laughter
echoing towards her, too loud for how far away he was. She looked up
and saw him going up a steep rise, the flowers up to his waist, his
hands out to his sides as he brushed the flowers' red and yellow
heads. 

She stood and took off at a run after him again, staggering now and
again on the uneven ground. She kept her eye on him, almost a dot in
the distance, seemingly growing further away instead of closer as she
ran. 

She called to him again, but her voice came out a whisper. She tried
to scream his name next, but her voice was gone. Panic overcame her
as she felt her body finally give in to the exhaustion and the
stabbing pain in her belly. 

Labor. I'm in labor, she thought, and as she fell onto her side, her
hands reached down and gripped the swollen mound of her abdomen, felt
it tighten beneath her fingers. 

The flowers closed in around her, leaning over, their single black-
eyed centers staring down at her, obscuring all of the sky except for
one small circle. Pain lurched through her again and she cried out
with it, again no sound coming from her throat. 

The flowers leaned in closer, nearly touching her body now. She
pushed at them with her hands, willing them away. 

Someone was stroking her hair, pushing it back behind her ear. A
voice spoke her name. 

Owen's voice. Something sing-songy in it as he said her name again.
Mocking her.

Sean's laughter. Echoing. 

Then turning to shrill screaming, the unmistakable terror of a child--


Her eyes snapped open, her breath heaving in. She was on her side,
facing the toilet, almost pressed up against the foot of it and the
front of the vanity. Her hands were no longer bound behind her. 

And someone was behind her, stroking her hair.

"Maaaaaaae," Owen sang again.

Her hand went to her belly, felt the flatness of it. No pain. Her
baby was all right. All right...

Owen's hand pulled on her shoulder, urging her onto her back. She
went slowly, looked into his face. He was squatted down behind her,
wearing a long-sleeved grey t-shirt and faded jeans, heavy boots next
to her face. There were spatters of what looked like dried blood on
his shirt. 

He smiled at her, too wide, his teeth showing. He smoothed her hair
down from her forehead. 

"Joe?" she whispered, tears starting. "Please tell me you didn't
kill him, Owen..."

Owen shook his head. "No, no...Joe and I just had a little...talk.
We had to clear a few things up. About him talking to Sean. I think I
got my point across good enough that it won't be a problem again. He
was stubborn at first, but he saw it my way in the end." 

Mae swallowed, looking at him as his hand kept petting her hair. The
pressure of his hand increased. 

"You feeling sick again?" he said, and had she not known him better,
she would have thought he was genuinely concerned. 

She shook her head. "No," she said, her voice shaking. "I'm...I'm
all right now, I think..."

"Good. Good." His hand stopped. "Time for us to have a little talk
now." 

Mae looked at him, at the spatters of blood, the memory of the
screaming from the night before still fresh. 

"Here," Owen said, and his eyes glinted, his smile vanishing as his
jaw clenched. "Let me help you up then." 

And he gripped a fistful of her hair and started dragging her up by
it. 

She cried out, scrambling with her hands and knees to get herself up
and avoid the pull. He kept his fist tight in it and he pushed her
through the open door and into the dim hallway. She whimpered as he
guided her down the hallway by her head, but dared not reach up to
touch his hand. 

They entered the bedroom, and Mae pulled up short as she saw Joe,
tied to a chair, his chin on his chest, unconscious. She couldn't see
his face, but there was blood on his shirt. The shirt was wet, as was
his hair, and the floor beneath him. 

On the floor beside him, a car battery, two metal paddles on cords
attached to it. A bucket of water with a sponge in it. 

"Joe?" she called, and got no response. 

Owen jerked her to the side, toward the bed, and forced her down
onto it. She sat still, her hands out to her sides. She looked up at
Owen, who was blocking her view of Joe now. 

She stared up at him. He stared back, his arms crossed at his chest.
No one else was in the room, the odd-looking man now gone. 

"Why don't you tell me what happened in your flat that morning,
Mae?" Owen asked softly. "I've been curious about it for some time
now, you know."

She swallowed, said nothing. 

"Oh come on now, Mae," Owen chided softly, began to pace in front of
the bed slowly. She saw the gun jammed into the back of his pants. 

"I know you waited until I was gone to meet up with the boys at the
truck, and then you packed up Sean's things, took the gun..." He
turned to look at her, his eyebrow raised, questioning. 

"Yes," she said, looking down. 

Owen turned and paced back toward her a few steps. "I'd sent John
there on an errand. And you met him there, right?" 

She hesitated, but nodded. There was no hiding from this now. And
lying would get her nowhere, she knew. She could tell by the way he
was talking that he'd already guessed what had happened and was
merely doing this to intimidate her.

It was working.

He stopped in front of her, took a step closer so that he towered
over her. He took her chin in his hand and turned her face up toward
him. 

"When exactly did you decide to kill John?" 

She swallowed again. "I..." She trailed off.

His grip on her chin turned bruising now, and he jerked her hard,
his face twisting in rage at her hesitancy. 

She hurried to speak now. "I shot him because...because he was
hurting Katherine."

Owen leaned forward, his face inches from hers. "Let's get it right
now...her name's Dana. Dana Scully."

She nodded in his crushing grip. Tears started in her eyes, ran down
her temples. 

"He was...he was hurting Dana," she said obediently. 

Owen jerked her again. "Of course he was hurting her, Mae. I sent
him there to kill the bitch because she was a fucking FBI agent
*spying* on us. Like I told you at my flat right before this bloody
mess at your place happened." 

She looked into his eyes. "I...couldn't let him rape her again."

Owen's eyebrows squinted down. "'Again'?" he asked.

"Yes," she said faintly. 

She watched emotions cross his face. He seemed genuinely puzzled for
a second, at a loss for words, then deeply angry. His face flushed
red. 

"It doesn't matter," he snapped, and released her chin, turning his
back on her, his hands on his hips. 

She could tell it mattered, though. It mattered quite a bit to him. 

She'd always suspected that John had done what he had to Dana to get
back at Owen in some way. That John had intended his violation of her
to not only satisfy his own frustrated attraction and his desire to
control her, but also to punish Owen for allowing his feelings for
her to put a rift between he and Owen. It was the first time the two
had fought over anything with one another in their lives. 

And he did it to punish Dana for causing that. Though she'd had
nothing to do with it at all. 

Owen's reaction to this knowledge proved that John's treatment of
Dana had indeed punished him, hurt him. Killing her was one thing.
This was something else. 

Finally, Owen turned around again, stared her down. "So you shot
him," he said flatly, brushing the previous subject away. 

"Yes," Mae said softly, staring at her feet again. 

"Then you took her and Sean and ran." 

She nodded. 

A pause.

"Where is she, Mae?" he asked, his voice dangerous and low. 

She glanced up at him. "I don't know," she said. "We split up in
Tennessee and I have had no contact with her since." 

Owen seemed to consider. "She had to be ill from the drug," he said
finally.

Mae said nothing, kept her face down. 

"Who was she with, Mae?" he asked. "I know it's a man she's with.
Who is he?" 

She hesitated, not wanting to give anything away about Dana or her
partner. They were safer if she kept quiet-- 

Then something cold against her forehead, the sound of a gun being
cocked. She raised her head slowly, hardly daring to breathe. 

"Who *is* he?" he hissed. "And don't make me fucking ask you again."

She looked into Owen's eyes, pleading with them again. "He's...he's
her partner. In the FBI." 

"What's his name?" He pressed the muzzle of the pistol harder
against her head. 

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry as a desert. "Mulder," she
whispered. "His name is Mulder. I don't know his first name." 

Owen seemed to consider for a beat. "Running with her like
that...he's just her partner, you say? Nothing more?"

Mae said nothing, clenched her eyes closed as though preparing for
the shot. Tears came down her face from beneath her lids. 

A phone rang from another room. 

Owen looked toward the door for a second, then back at her. On the
third ring, the phone was picked up. 

She opened her eyes and looked at him, her lip trembling. 

"Never mind," he said, removing the gun from her forehead. She still
felt the coldness of it against her there. "You just answered my
question."

**

Owen went to the door, the gun still in his hand, waiting for word
about who was on the phone this early in the morning. It had to be
Kingston. 

He glanced over his shoulder at Mae, who was looking at Joe, every
muscle in her body poised to move toward the poor bastard. It made
him sick, the way she mooned over the man, and he turned his back on
her, waiting by the doorway and staring down the hallway instead. 

He pictured Mae running with Sean, running with Dana Scully. Running
away from him. He closed his eyes as the rage seared into him, and he
clenched his jaw hard enough to grind his teeth to powder. 

Mae was a child. She always had been a child. It was this Scully who
was at fault for this. She'd turned Mae against him, ingratiated
herself with his sister to gain protection for herself should
anything go wrong with her cover. That was it. She'd brainwashed Mae
into thinking they were friends, into thinking that Dana cared about
her in some way. And she'd talked Mae into taking Sean away from him
because of the things he was doing that Scully knew about. The drug.
The bombing. 

Yes, that had to be it. Mae would never do this on her own. But it
was too late to forgive her for it. He couldn't trust her any longer.
Her loyalties were no longer a sure thing, and when that
happened...with anyone...there was only one way to deal with it. 

He would have to kill her. Pregnant or not.

He rubbed at the scar on his face, thinking. 

What if this Scully *did* care for Mae? What if they *had* developed
some sort of friendship? 

He thought about this, waiting.

Scully might have taken Mae away from him. She might have won that
round. But now, Owen had Mae...

He'd known for some time that killing Scully wouldn't be enough. He
wanted to control her. He wanted to break her before he killed her. 

His mind turned over the possibilities. 

Finally, footsteps from the living room, and Lantham appeared,
carrying a cordless phone. 

"It's Kingston," he said, and handed the phone to Owen. Owen took it
with a nod. Rudy Grey wandered in from the living room now, stood at
the far end of the hallway. 

"I hope you've got good news for me, Mr. Kingston," Curran said by
way of greeting. 

"I do," came Kingston's rough voice from the other end. "We've found
this woman, Scully. She's staying on the Navajo Reservation outside
Farmington, New Mexico. Not running, so she should be easy for you to
pick up. She's with some man claiming to be her husband, but it
should be easy to get her alone or to get him out of the way long
enough to get her." 

Curran smiled faintly, pleased. 

Then a thought hatched in his mind. 

"You there, Mr. Curran?" Kingston said into the silence. 

"Aye, I'm here," he replied. "But there's been a change of plans.
I'm not going to go pick her up. I'm going to stay here with Mr.
Lantham and my family here. I'm sending your man Grey down there
instead. I guess you'll have a few of your locals there, as well?" 

"Yes," Kingston replied, and Curran could hear from his voice that
he was wary. "I've got six or seven men standing by. We won't lose
her this time." 

"All right then," Curran said, signalling Grey forward. He came
obediently, Lantham staring at Curran suspiciously. "Mr. Kingston,
here's what I want you to do..."


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


GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE 
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA 
11:02 a.m.


Paul Granger walked down the center of the hallway of the CIA
Headquarters, heading straight from the elevator down the long
corridor. His heels tapped on the marble floor, slightly out of
rhythm as his still-ailing leg faltered him slightly. But his head
was held up, his shoulders, in their black suit jacket, squared, a
grim expression on his face. 

People stared at him as he went by them. He didn't spare them a
glance. 

There was a door at the end of the corridor he was heading for. 

The secretary looked up at him in surprise as he made it clear that
he wasn't stopping at her desk. 

"Agent Granger, you can't go in there right now--" 

He held a hand up to silence her, the hand not holding the folder.
The woman looked at his hand, flustered as a guinea hen as she
scrambled to rise and block his way. 

Too late. He was at the door and had it opened, the woman clucking
after him into the dim office. 

Padden sat at the end of the immense space, a man standing next to
him behind the desk, going over something in front of them both. Both
men looked up in surprise as Granger came in, calmly ignoring the
woman behind him who had gotten a hand on his sleeve. He pulled his
arm away and kept going until he stood before the desk.

He turned to the young agent leaned over the desk, Padden trying to
wither Granger from behind his reading glasses all the while. 

"I'd like you to leave, please," Granger said politely but firmly. 

The agent looked from Granger to Padden and then back again. 

Padden put up a hand, clearly urging the agent to stay. 

"You're interrupting, Agent Granger," Padden said quietly. "I
suggest *you're* the one who should be leaving this office." 

Granger held the folder up in front of him. Padden looked at it.

"Sir," Granger said, dripping faux politeness onto the word. "I have
something to discuss with you. Now it's your choice. We can either
discuss it in front of these two people here," He glanced back at the
secretary. "Or we can do it alone. It's your choice." 

Padden looked at Granger's face and Granger stared back hard, not
even blinking, the folder still held up in front of him. 

Finally Padden took his glasses off and closed the file on his desk. 

"Leave us," Padden said softly, and the agent came around the desk,
and he and the secretary made their way to the door, closing it
behind them. 

Granger slowly lowered the folder, stood still in front of Padden,
who was likewise still. 

"Well?" Padden asked, finally sitting back in the chair and tossing
his glasses onto the desk. "What is it that you find so important
that you had to come huffing in here, Agent Granger?" 

Granger looked at him, spoke quietly. "I think you know, Dr.
Padden," he said. 

"No, I don't know," Padden asserted, sounding put out now. "Why
don't you enlighten me?" 

Granger's lip curled up and he took a step toward the desk, opening
the folder. He started to lay the color copies of the photographs of
Mulder and Scully out in front of Padden like tarot cards. 

Padden looked at the first one, then up into Granger's face. Their
gazes hung again as Granger continued to lay them out. 

"You've found them then," Padden tried, and Granger shook his head. 

"No, sir, YOU found them. Quite some time ago, I hear." 

Padden's face was like concrete, the wrinkles like cracks. "I don't
know what you're talking about, Agent Granger," he said softly. 

"Oh, but you do, sir," Granger said, emboldened. "You found them two
weeks after Agent Mulder left Richmond, from what I understand, and
have been following them ever since. Using a covert task force, I'm
told, to monitor them until Owen Curran makes his move on Agent
Scully so you could catch him then."

Now Padden laughed. "I don't know what you've been listening to,
Agent Granger, but I assure you--"

"Don't," Granger interrupted, his face grim. He put a hand up. 

Padden stilled, the smiling melting off his face. 

"Where did you get these photos?" Padden said into the quiet that
followed. 

"You're not the only one who has secret task forces, Dr. Padden," he
said. "And fortunately, not all of us can turn our consciences off
while you try to kill both Mulder and Scully to cover yourself for
your mishandling of the bombing." 

"A secret task force?" Padden scoffed. "That's ridiculous." But his
face had begun to redden. 

"Is it?" Granger said calmly. "It's the only thing that makes sense,
really. With the combined forces you've got at your disposal, it
doesn't make sense Mulder and Scully could have stayed hidden this
long, unless you wanted them to stay hidden. Unless you were feeding
my task force bones every now and again to keep us going, make us
feel like we were getting somewhere, when in fact we were chasing our
tails the entire time. Looking for Curran, certainly, but...not
Mulder and Scully." 

Padden leaned further back in his chair. "All right, Agent Granger,
I will admit..." He spoke slowly, carefully. "...that there are some
aspects of this operation that you have not been privy to. This is a
matter of national security, and some aspects have been 'eyes only.'
And not your eyes." 

Granger stood there, waiting. 

Padden's face was red as a tomato now, despite his exterior calm.
"What I'm doing isn't illegal or unethical. And if you would like to
be part of these operations, I'm sure there's a way that can be
arranged." 

Granger just looked at him. "You want me to join your task force?
The real one?" 

Padden nodded. "You'd be an asset. I didn't think of it before, but
I see now you're a man with a knack for finding things out. You could
be of use to me that way. It would be wonderful for your career, I
assure you. Quite an opportunity for advancement for a junior agent
like yourself." 

Padden smiled, and the expression looked strange on him. Like it
didn't belong there and never had. Granger felt a chill as he looked
at it. 

"No, thank you, sir." Granger smiled as he said it. 

Padden leaned forward. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear, Agent
Granger," he said quietly. "Maybe I made that sound too much like an
request. It's more like...an order." 

"An order?" Granger repeated, his expression dead flat. 

Padden picked up a pencil and started to push at a paper clip with
it. "Yes. You know too much to be on the outside of this still." 

"I *am* on the outside of this," Granger said softly. "Still." 

Padden shook his head. "Let me spell it out for you," he said. "You
have two choices. Either you join my task force, or I use what you've
just given me to ruin your career. I can make this look any way I
want." 

Now Granger smiled. 

"No, sir, you can't," he said. "For two reasons." 

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and drew out his
badge in its leather holder. He tossed it across the desk, nearly
hitting Padden in the chest. 

"One? I quit. So you going after my career is a moot point." 

Padden looked from the badge to him. 

Granger shook his head. "I don't want any part of this agency
anymore, where things like this can go on. It makes me sick." 

Padden continued to stare. 

"And two..." Granger gestured to the photos on the desk. "When I
showed these to Ashcroft with Assistant Director Skinner this
morning, he didn't seem to think what you were doing was 'legal' or
'ethical.'" 

Padden locked eyes with him. "You're bluffing," he said softly. 

Granger just shook his head. 

Behind him, the door opened, and Walter Skinner walked in, dressed
in his best suit, the secretary following him, as well, to no avail. 

He came forward until he stood beside Granger, glaring at Padden.
Padden shooed the secretary off with his eyes and she went. 

"Walter," Padden tried as the door closed again. "You and I have
known of each other's work for a long time. You know the kind of man
I am." 

Granger looked at Skinner, who was still boring a hole into Padden
with his eyes. 

"Yes, Bob, I do know what kind of man you are," Skinner growled.
"Now I do, at least." "How fucking dare you play with my agents'
lives like this. And just to cover your own sorry ass." 

His voice rose as he spoke, and he ground the words out between
clenched teeth. Granger could see the veins standing up on Skinner's
neck. 

"Now wait just a minute," Padden said, and bolted to his feet. "You
can't talk to me like that. Not to *me*! And you can't prove any of
this, either! I'll make sure you can't prove it!" 

Granger looked at him solemnly. "I'm wired," he said simply. 

Padden looked wild-eyed now, his breath huffing slightly as he was
stunned to silence. Granger looked back at him impassively. 

"It's over, Bob," Skinner said. "All of it. Ashcroft has dropped the
charges against Mulder and Scully. He's got someone new to look into
now." 

It was then that the phone began to ring. 

Padden looked down at it as though it would bite him. 

Ashcroft. 

Padden knew it, too. He looked back and forth from the two men in
front of him to the phone. 

All three of them held still. 

Finally, on the sixth ring, Skinner spoke, his voice low, bitter. 

"Get your phone, you son-of-a-bitch." 

*

They made short work of the hallway, both of them walking as fast as
Granger's slight limp would allow, so fast that everyone stopped and
stared at them as they passed. 

"Did you really quit?" Skinner asked, glancing at him. 

"Yes, sir, I did," he replied. 

"You didn't have to do that, Granger," Skinner said. "This would
have all blown over and it probably would have made your career." 

They entered the elevator, Skinner waving two men off who tried to
enter with them. The doors tapped closed and they started down. 

"Like I told Padden just now," Granger said. "I don't want any part
of this agency anymore. There are other ways to do the work that I've
been trained to do. If this can happen once, it can happen again." 

"Yes, Granger, but it can happen *anywhere,*" the other man
responded firmly. "It's happened at the FBI. Ask Mulder and Scully."

"I'll find a place for myself, sir," Granger replied. "Don't worry
about me. I'm doing what I feel is right. It's all I've ever wanted
to do." 

Skinner pursed his lips, blew out a breath. "Well, your place for
right now, at least, is as a civilian consultant with the FBI. You
packed your personal weapon?" 

The elevator doors whooshed open, depositing them on the ground
floor. They shot out into the hallway. 

Granger watched the floor as he crossed over the CIA seal. He
remembered how proud he'd been the first day he'd come into this
building as an agent. He never thought he would leave like this, and
so soon. 

"Granger?" 

He snapped out of the thoughts. "Yes," he replied. "I've packed the
ammunition in one suitcase, the unloaded 9mm in the other, just like
the airline specified. I've got my permit to carry it in my wallet." 

"Good," Skinner said as they breezed out the glass doors. "Your
temporary status with the FBI should keep you out of any trouble with
that. If they give you any shit at the airport, have them call me."

"Have you figured out your plan yet?" Granger asked. 

Skinner nodded. "Yes, I'll be at Justice until this thing gets
rolling, then I'm coming your way to head up the agents in
Albuquerque as soon as things start being dismantled here. I need to
stay for now to make sure this doesn't get buried. Ashcroft is
looking for a head on a platter, but this isn't going to be popular
once it gets going. I don't want him chickenshitting or Padden
finding a way to slither out of this."

"What about my backup?" 

"I've just gotten authorization to begin mobilizing agents from
Albuquerque and Phoenix. You should have them by morning at the
latest. I tried calling Albert Hosteen, but there's no answer and he
doesn't have a machine. I'll keep trying." 

Granger nodded. "Since Padden doesn't know where they are, we should
be all right until the agents get there." 

Skinner checked his watch as they hit the parking lot. 

"Come on," he said, quickening the pace even more. "We've got to get
that wire off you and hurry if you're going to make these flights." 


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


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO 
NAVAJO RESERVATION 
5:45 p.m.


Mulder stood stirring the spaghetti sauce, the sun starting to go
down out the window beside him. Scully was busy in the trailer's
small laundry room, folding a load of wash as he cooked.

They were really going to do this, he thought, and something seized
in his chest. They were going to go home and face this thing down. 

He knew it was the right thing to do, that running was becoming too
dangerous. But the thought of trying to defend himself against the
charges from Padden...frankly, it scared him. He knew what could
happen. 

He looked out the window, deep in thought about it.

The truth will save you...I think it will save both of us...

He thought of his own words that Scully had given back to him,
turning them over. He wanted to believe them. 

He would believe them. 

Scully entered from the hallway, dressed in a green t-shirt and
faded jeans. Her hair was soft and lovely, pushed behind her ears.
She looked at ease, and he was grateful for that. 

They exchanged smiles as she came to stand beside him, on the side
that Bo was not on. Scully touched the dog's head as she passed him. 

"Spaghetti a la Mulder again?" she asked, and he nudged her with an
elbow. 

"You know it's really the only thing I can make that comes out
halfway decent," he replied, and she leaned into him, stood on her
toes to give him a kiss on the cheek. 

"It's very good," she said. "You know I'm just teasing you."

"You'd better be or you're cooking from now on," he said, and turned
to kiss her on the lips. 

There was a knock at the door, and Bo sat up from where he was lying
next to Mulder, his ears up and alert. Scully broke the kiss and they
both looked toward the door. 

"Mulder?" It was Victor. 

Scully went to the door and opened it, let Victor in. He said hello
to Scully, forcing a little smile. The young man looked harried or
pissed off, Mulder noted.

"Victor, what's wrong?" Mulder asked, setting the wooden spoon down
and wiping his hands on a towel. 

Victor heaved out a breath. "Somebody left the goddamn gate open and
all the sheep are out," he said, angry. "I know it's late, but I
can't get hold of Keel or Henry to come help me round them up. I left
messages, but those sheep could be on Hopi land by the time they get
here."

"I'll help you get them in," Mulder said, looked at Scully, who
nodded. 

"I'll keep dinner warm while you do that," she said. 

Mulder nodded, came forward and grabbed up his denim jacket, pulled
it on over his white t-shirt. Then he sat, pulling on his boots. 

"Thanks, man," Victor said. "I've got two horses saddled already. We
can get them in before it gets dark with both of us doing it." 

"No problem," Mulder replied, and Victor went out the front door,
tipping his hat to Scully and smiling again as he left. 

Mulder finished tying his boots, stood. Scully had withdrawn to the
kitchen, taken up the spoon and started stirring the sauce again. Bo
had come forward to Mulder, ready to follow him out the door. 

Mulder stood and went to the door, his hand on it. Then he looked
back at Scully for a few seconds, the way her skin looked so soft in
the light from the window, her profile as she looked down into the
simmering pot. 

"Scully, I love you," he said, surprised by the words. He didn't
know he was going to say them until he did.

"I love you, too," she said, still looking down as she licked her
finger where sauce had clung.

Something tugged at him and he took a step toward her, his hand
still on the door. 

"No, I mean...I really love you." He said it solemnly, and she
looked up at the seriousness of his tenor. Her eyes shone in the
waning light. 

"I love you, too," she said again, this time matching his tone, and
she smiled. 

He smiled back and went out the door, Bo following behind. 


****

6:55 p.m.


On Chaco's back, way up on the dirt road that led out behind
Victor's house, Mulder walked a group of straggling sheep back toward
the house, their heavy white bodies bumping along as they mewed
softly, the sun going down and leaving the world in a hazy bluish
light. 

Victor was behind him somewhere far off over a small hill. Mulder
couldn't even hear him calling to his dogs anymore, or their yapping. 

He yawned, angled the horse over to the side of the small herd to
tap a lamb back into the group. 

Bo panted beside him, trotting along. Mulder smiled down at him
faintly. 

He looked ahead and saw a vehicle turn up the dirt road, its
headlights on. It looked like a large truck or a van from this
distance, but he couldn't be sure. 

Keel and Henry must have gotten the messages after all, he thought,
tapping another animal into the fold. 

The van came closer, coming neither fast or slow. Mulder paid it
little attention as it approached. 

Finally it pulled up alongside him. Two men, both smiling amiably.
Mulder tensed up as he realized he'd never seen either of them before.

"Hey there," the driver said easily. "Where's Victor? We heard his
sheep were out and came to help him out." 

Mulder nodded back, relaxing some with that. "Yeah, he's up over the
rise there chasing after a bunch of them. I think we've about got
them in, though. Thanks for coming out anyway." 

The man nodded. "All right then," he said, then he pointed to
Mulder, snapped his fingers. "You're...Tim? Tim Garrett? I met you
once before here. Staying in Larry's old trailer, right?" 

Mulder nodded. "Yeah, that's right." He was perplexed a little by
the man's statement that he'd met him before, however. Mulder never
forgot a face. "Though I don't think we've met before, Mister...?"

"Aw, my name's not important," the man said, and his friend in the
passenger seat laughed. 

Alarm bells blared in Mulder's head. 

His heels jerked into Chaco's side and he took off, going back up
the road toward where he'd last heard Victor and leading the men away
from the house, away from Scully. 

If they didn't have her already in the back of that van, he thought
grimly, staving off panic. 

Chaco was running at full speed, but he urged her on with his heels
and his voice. 

He could hear the van coming after him, the roar of a V8. Coming
fast, gaining. 

Jerking her head to the side, Mulder pulled Chaco off the road and
onto the open desert, hoping to slow the van down with the scrubby
trees and brush and stones. He heard the axle protest as the vehicle
left the road, bouncing after him, skidding around obstacles, still
closing. 

Mulder hunched down in the saddle a bit more as the horse, spooked
now, darted around bushes, the sounds of her hooves going fast rising
around him. He glanced back over his shoulder. 

The van was there, the passenger hanging out the side window, a
strange looking gun pointed at him. 

He fired. 

Mulder jerked Chaco to the side again, but too late. He saw the dart
lodge in the horse's rump like a blue and white flag. 

Fuck...

He leaned back as far as he could without falling and grasped at it,
pulling it out and letting it drop. The van got closer.

"Come on! Come on!" Mulder chanted to the horse, digging his heels
in again. The engine sound roared around him. 

Then a stumble, the horse's head going down. Mulder was nearly
thrown off as she staggered again, slowing, her gait unsteady. 

"No!" he shouted, and the horse ground to a halt, falling forward
onto her front knees and then tumbling onto her side, sending Mulder
flying from the saddle. 

He ducked and rolled, hitting the ground hard, scrambling. 

The van was circling now as he shook his head clear, got to his feet
and started running. 

He'd never run like he ran then. His chest was thrown out in front
of him, his legs and arms pumping fast enough to blur. Air burned in
and out of his lungs. His feet seemed to barely touch the ground as
he streaked along, leaping over and around things, running serpentine.

His eyes scanned the dim landscape ahead of him, desperately
searching for somewhere to hide. Anywhere. 

Goddamn the desert, he thought, the van coming closer now. He looked
over his shoulder and saw the man out the window again, aiming... 

He heard the shot, a hollow popping sound. Then the sharp pain of
the dart striking him the back, in the soft place between his hip and
his shoulder blade. 

Reaching back, he pulled it out, yanking hard to get the long needle
out. He dropped it and kept going. 

There was a sharp rise up ahead, one that the van couldn't get up.
He could make it...

His mouth went dry, his tongue feeling swollen in his mouth
suddenly. A wave of nausea and dizziness struck him and he tripped,
fell hard. 

No...Can't...

He pushed hard with his hands, struggling to stand, and got to his
feet. The world swam in colors and blurs around him, but he staggered
forward, kept going, though he couldn't feel his feet hitting the
ground anymore. His lids felt impossibly heavy....

The van had stopped and he heard footsteps behind him now. A lot of
them. 

Two more steps and he fell again on his chest, his hands not even
coming up to break his fall. He couldn't control his limbs, couldn't
control...

He saw boots around him, a circle of them. 

He lurched forward, crawling now. 

"No!" he shouted, but the word sounded strange to his ears, more
like a groan than a word. His tongue wouldn't work right either. 

Laughter around him as he crawled a few more feet, the men following
him patiently. Then he collapsed, scratching up sand in his hands,
clenching it. 

A boot reached out and turned him onto his back roughly. He looked
up into the circle of strange faces. Their mouths, their teeth
showing as they laughed...all of it too big, swimming out of shape
like the men were in funhouse mirrors. 

He tried to reach up, his head turned at an uncomfortable angle, his
ear almost on his shoulder. His eyes lolled and a stream of something
warm came out of his mouth as he tried to speak again, ran down the
side of his face. 

"Christ, Sam, how much did you give him?" one of the voice said.
"The poor bastard's drooling!" The man's voice seemed to echo,
sounding hollow and far away. 

"Shit, I don't know, Tom -- the same as I gave the goddamn horse! He
didn't get much of it pulling it out so quick, but goddamned! Look at
him!" There was a roar of laughter that sounded like a tape of
laughter playing way too loud...

"Come on now, Mr. Garrett," another voice said, and then there were
rough hands on him, pulling him up. His head swiveled on his neck as
he struggled to look up, a man under each of his arms. 

The front of his feet on the ground as they dragged him, his chin
against his chest. He couldn't hear anything now but the faraway
sounds of rough voices and laughter, snippets of it.

"...sonofabitch...."

"...too easy..."

"....kidding?...ran like a fucking rabbit..."

He got his head up as they reached the back of the van, the back
doors open. Two men climbed up in front of him, swimming in his
vision, grabbed him from the others and hauled him up. He was vaguely
aware of his knees knocking hard against the bumper as they lifted
him into the dark interior of the van. 

"Scu..." he tried, his heartbeat fast and roaring in his ears. 

Then the world went to black. 


*********


END OF CHAPTER 19. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 20. 

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 20.

**********

7:56 p.m.


There was a small wind coming in off the desert as night fell heavy
and silent. Scully stood on the porch, her hands on her hips, her
brow knitted as she looked toward Victor Hosteen's place, watching
for any sign of activity. She saw none, and wondered for the dozenth
time how Mulder and Victor could still be looking for sheep with it
being as dark as it was. 

Something was prickling at the back of her mind, a nagging sense of
concern that she tried to push down, chalking it up to paranoia. 

They were safe here. They had been for weeks now. There was no
reason to think that anything would have changed about their
situation here. 

She sighed, calming herself as she thought of this, rationalizing
the fear away. 

He'd be back any minute now, ready for the dinner she'd already made
and left warming on the stove. He'd been hungry before he left, he'd
said. He would be starving now. 

Finally, from behind the trailer, in the dark of the desert behind
her, she heard the bleating of sheep, the sounds of bells as the
animals drew closer. 

There he is, she thought, and went to the side of the trailer, where
a light on a post lit up the backyard. She saw the sheep coming into
the circle of light, waited for the sound of horse's hooves amongst
them. 

She heard none. 

She stood, looking down in confusion as the sheep brushed past her
on their way back toward Victor's place and the food there. She stood
in a mass of them as they milled about, bumping against her as she
held still.

"Mulder?" she called into the darkness beyond the light. No answer.

"Victor?" she tried again, and got no answer once again. 

The sheep were on their own, she realized as the last of them made
their way past the front of the trailer, nosing into everything they
passed. They left her standing there, quiet in the buzz of the gold
electric light. 

Then another padding of footsteps and she returned her attention to
the edge of the light. 

Her heart dropped into her belly at what she saw, her eyes widening. 

Bo, coming fast toward the trailer, panting as though he'd been
running a long way. He caught sight of her and stopped, shifting from
one foot to the other, rocking from side to side. He let out a long
high whine as he looked at her. 

"Bo?" she said faintly. It was hard to breathe suddenly. 

The dog whined again, still moving from foot to foot uncertainly. 

Oh God.

She went into the house quickly, found the keys to the Bronco on the
night table in Mulder's bedroom. Then she was back outside and
heading toward the vehicle parked on the far side of the trailer. She
moved first at a fast walk, then broke into a run as the panic began
to overtake her. 

Her breath heaved in and out, too fast and shallow as she opened the
door and threw herself up into the driver's seat, the engine roaring
to life with the turning key. She slapped on the headlights and took
off down the dirt road toward Victor's, made a right, and headed out
into the desert on the narrow access road, bumping along, the
headlights sending bobbing cones of light out in front of her. 

She looked from side to side, searching for anything. 

"Come on, come on..." she breathed. "Be here. Be out here..."

Off in the distance, off the road a good ways, she saw a pinpoint of
light bobbing around near the ground. 

A flashlight. 

Without even thinking, she swerved off the road and took off across
the desert toward it. 

After a few moments, the headlights were bathing Victor and his
horse in their white light. Victor was kneeling next to a dark shape
on the ground and stood quickly as Scully bolted out of the truck,
leaving it running. 

"What is it?" she said in between her too-quick breaths. "Where is
he?" 

"I don't know," Victor said, his tone heavy with concern. "But I
found Chaco, the horse he was on. She can't get up." 

Scully went toward the horse now, Victor following behind her with
the dancing beam of light. 

"Here, give me your flashlight," she said quickly, and he handed it
off. She knelt down next to the animal's head, noted the horse's slow
breathing, the half-closed lids, the line of saliva coming from her
mouth. She shone the flashlight in the black mare's eye, saw the
pupil dilated impossibly large. 

"She's been drugged," Scully said, again pushing down the panic.
"Did you see anyone out here?" 

Victor shook his head beside her, removed his cowboy hat. "No, no
one. I thought I might have heard a car at some point, but I figured
it was Keel coming to help out. I didn't pay it any mind." 

"Oh God," Scully breathed, pushing her hair back from her forehead.
"Someone's got him. Someone's taken him." 

Victor put a hand on her shoulder, gave it a squeeze. "You don't
know that for sure now," he said calmly. "Let's go back to the house
and make sure he's not there, all right?" 

"He's not there, Victor -- Bo came back to the trailer without him.
Bo would never leave him if he was still here." 

Victor was silent to that, and she could see his expression grow
grim in the headlights. 

"Let's just make sure," he tried again, and this time Scully nodded.

The realization of what had happened sunk into her heavy as stone.
She blinked back tears, then rose and went back to the truck, climbed
in and turned the car around, heading back across the desert to the
road. 

Who had him? She thought. Padden and his agents? Curran's men? 

Surely not the latter, she thought, dismissing it. Why would Curran
want to take Mulder and leave her behind, when she could have been
taken so easily, alone in the trailer while the two men were out
looking for the sheep? 

Her mind spun with the possibilities as she bumped back onto the
road, took off toward the house. Victor was behind her, galloping on
his horse, keeping fairly good pace with the truck, his sheep and the
downed mare left behind in the desert. 

She rounded the corner at the house, slowed as she saw a dark car
parked in front of Victor's house. She was about to come to a full
stop, fear at another intruder coming over her, when Albert Hosteen
came out the front door, one hand in his pocket. He was gesturing for
her to come forward with the other, and she edged the Bronco in
behind the car -- a rental, she noted -- and cut the engine. 

"Is Mulder in the house?" she asked hurriedly as she hopped down
from the truck. Hosteen looked confused. 

"No, I have not seen him," he replied, his brow knitting. "Is he
missing?" 

Scully nodded. "We found his horse, drugged, in the desert." 

Hosteen looked stricken. "I heard a vehicle on the road between my
house and here, a truck by the sound of it. Something big. But I
assumed it was Keel or Eric."

"When was this?" Scully asked.

Hosteen considered. "About thirty minutes ago, give or take." 

Scully cursed under her breath, pushing at her hair again. "Who's in
the house?" she snapped. 

"A friend of yours, he says. I had him call your man Skinner before
I would tell him where you were, let me talk to him to make sure. He
is waiting inside." 

Victor pulled his horse up, dismounted quickly. "Is he here?" he
asked quickly. 

Scully shook her head and led the two men into the house. 

And was immediately confronted by Paul Granger, who stood from the
couch as she entered. He was dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt and
a light leather jacket, his silver glasses gleaming in the overhead
light in the living room. 

"Agent Granger?" she asked, pulled up short. "What are you doing
here? Do you know where Mulder is?" 

He was taking in her appearance, forcing his face to remain neutral.
She knew, though, that he was surprised by her thinness. She knew she
looked very different than the last time she'd seen him. 

"No, I don't know where Mulder is," he said, shaking his head. "He's
not with you?" 

"Padden must have taken him," she said, her breathing picking up
again. Victor and Albert looked at her, then at Granger. Granger
looked stricken. 

"No, no," he said. "Padden doesn't know where you are, and plus,
Ashcroft is on his ass now -- we've got him on the run. I don't think
he'd risk taking Mulder now, not with everyone knowing what he's been
doing." 

"What he's been doing?" Scully repeated. "What the hell are you
talking about?" 

"He's been framing you and Mulder both, following you. He's been
following you since you left Tennessee, basically. But that's all
over now. The charges against you both have been dropped and an
inquiry is underway." 

"You mean we could have gone *home* already?" Scully asked, her
voice rising. She watched Granger cringe a bit at it. 

"This all only happened this morning," he said, his voice showing
his regret. "I got here as fast as I could. I've been travelling all
day to come help protect you until the agents from Albuquerque and
Phoenix could get here." Granger looked down. "I'm sorry, Agent
Scully. I really am." 

Scully looked at Victor and Albert, Albert holding up a hand, urging
her to calm. Her chest was rising and falling as though she'd been
running, fear and rage and worry colliding in her. 

"How would Curran even know about Mulder to take him?" she implored.
"And why would he take him?"

"Perhaps he heard about Mulder from the time those men tried to take
you before," Albert offered. "Perhaps they wanted to make it easier
to get to you by taking him first?" 

"No, they could have *had* me," she replied, coming to some
semblance of control as she listened to Albert. "I was alone in the
trailer when they came. They had to have known that. They wanted
Mulder, not me." 

"That doesn't make any sense," Granger said. "Unless--"

He was interrupted by the phone ringing. Victor hurried to the
kitchen to answer it, said hello into the receiver of the cordless
phone. 

"Unless what?" Scully asked, urging Granger to continue. 

"Agent Scully," Victor said grimly from the kitchen. All eyes turned
to him. He held the phone toward her. "It's for you." 

Scully's blood turned to ice, and she could feel it leaving her face. 

She got it now. It all made sense. 

In the silence that followed Victor's statement, she made her way
slowly to the kitchen, took the phone from Victor and placed it
against her ear. 

"Owen," she said by way of greeting. 

"Dana," Curran replied, his voice smug. "I'm glad I caught you
there. How are you then? Having a rough night now I imagine." 

"Where is my partner, Owen?" she asked, forcing calm into her voice. 

"On his way to me, as you've clearly guessed," Owen said. "He's
alive." There was a pause. "For now." 

Scully closed her eyes, pulled in a calming breath. "It's me you
want, Owen. Not him." 

"That's right, Dana," Owen replied, anger creeping in now. "It is
you that I want. And I want you to come to me now. To give yourself
up to me. I'm tired of chasing you halfway around this bloody
country." 

"I come to you and you'll let him go." She opened her eyes and put
her hand up, halting the forward progress of Albert and Granger.
Granger had his mouth open to protest and she shook her head, put a
finger over her mouth. 

"Yes, and not just him," Owen replied, clearly pleased. "I'll tell
you what I'm going to do. I'll trade you four lives for your one.
How's that for a deal for you, eh?" 

"Four lives?" Scully replied. "What do you mean?" 

"I've got Mae, too," Curran said softly. "And her boyfriend, some
pathetic fuck she picked up in Mexico where I found her. I know you
don't care much about him personally, but Mae does. And I know how
much you and Mae care for one another." 

His voice dropped to a growl. "I know you wouldn't want her to
grieve something like that. And I know you don't want me killing her
either, given all she's done for you, after all." 

Scully breathed out, trying not to let the shaking of it be heard
over the phone. "No," she said softly. "I wouldn't want that. Any of
that." She paused. "But you said four lives for my one. Who's the
fourth?" She knew it wasn't Sean. 

A heavy beat of silence. "Mae's pregnant," Owen said finally. 

Scully clenched her eyes closed again, frustrated tears coming now. 

Mulder and Mae...and a baby now, as well. And probably the baby's
father... 

She was vaguely aware of Granger coming forward until he stood
beside her. She opened her eyes, met his charcoal gaze. There was
sympathy and strength in the look he gave her, and she drank it in,
nodded to him, thanking him with her eyes in return. 

"Tell me what you want me to do, Owen," she said, her voice calm,
sure now. "I'll do whatever you ask. Just don't hurt them."

"That's what I wanted to hear, Dana," Owen replied, pleased. "That
you'd do whatever I ask. It's about fucking time I heard that from
you." 

"Tell me," she said again, not wanting to hear him gloat. 

"All right. This is what I want. There's a little town in Arizona
called Show Low. You'll find it on the map. It's not too far from
where you are now. Six hours. There's a motel in town called the
Deuce of Clubs near the hospital, right on the edge of town. I want
you to check in there tomorrow afternoon. Check in under Katherine
Black. I'll call you there at four o'clock and tell you where I want
you to meet me to make the exchange."

"All right," Scully replied. "I'll do that. I'll leave first thing
in the morning." 

"And Dana..." Owen's voice was soft and dangerous now. "If I see one
fucking agent, one ANYTHING, check into that motel with you, I start
killing, starting with your man Mulder. I've got people watching the
motel. They'll be waiting for you to get there. If you're not alone,
it's over. You understand?" 

She swallowed. "I understand," she said quietly. 

"Good. Have a safe journey tomorrow. Goodnight, Dana." 

Then a click as Owen hung up.


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


UNKNOWN LOCATION 
ALDER CREEK, COLORADO 
10:30 p.m.


Larry Kingston made his way across the compound, the first hardy
crickets of the spring singing in the woods around him. There was a
thin blanket of clouds obscuring the moon and the stars, though their
light made the sheet of vapor glow blue in the night. 

The light was still on in the cabin he was approaching, and he was
glad for that. He didn't want to wake this man Shea up if he didn't
have to, but he didn't want to sit on what he had to say, either. 

He climbed the two stairs to the door, reached out and knocked on
the door lightly. He heard a shifting from inside, and then the door
opened, Shea's face lit by the bluish glow in the sky and the small
bulb on the outside of the one-room cabin. 

"Mr. Kingston," Shea said, nodding amiably, a small smile on his
face. 

"Good evening, Mr. Shea," Kingston said, and reached in his pocket
for his pipe and pouch of tobacco. "I've got some news for you, if
you're interested in hearing it. I'm sorry for the late hour and
all." 

"No, that's fine," Shea replied, and opened the door a bit wider,
letting Kingston in. Once inside, Kingston stood in the center of the
small room, stuffed his pipe full and, looking to Shea for approval,
he lit the pipe up, blowing out a cloud of sweet smelling smoke. 

"What have you got for me then, Mr. Kingston?" Shea asked, his hands
in the pockets of his corduroys. The man still had his shoes on, as
well, Kingston noted, and his light jacket over his sweatshirt. He
always looked like he was on his way out no matter when you saw him.
Always ready. 

"I've got your Mr. Curran settled down in a cabin that belongs to
one of my people. Down in Arizona. A little town called Show Low.
He'll be staying put there for some time, it's looking like." 

"Ah, I see," Shea said, nodding. "That's good then." 

"And I'm done with my business with him, my debt to him paid as of
tonight. So I thought I'd let you know all that." 

Shea nodded again. "Business with finding these people, like you
were saying earlier?" 

Kingston nodded, gnawed on his pipe. "Yep. I got him the last one he
wanted just a few hours ago. He's got his sister and his boy back.
Now he's got this man he was after. God only knows what he's doing
with them, but that was the deal I had with him. To find these folks,
and I'm done it now. I reckon it's time to let you all handle him
from here on out." 

Shea nodded. "I appreciate what you've done, Mr. Kingston. Letting
us know all this." 

Kingston blew out a puff of smoke. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long
to come clean with it all, but I wouldn't have felt right if I hadn't
done what I promised the sorry sonofabitch. I know that probably
don't make no sense to you people, but..."

"No, it makes perfect sense," Shea said quietly. "We're in the habit
of keeping our word with the people we work with, as well. Most of
us, that is." 

Kingston nodded. "I see that now," he said. He reached into his
pocket, drew out a sheet with writing on it. "Anyhow, here's the
directions to where you can find him. I guess you'll be leaving in
the morning?" 

"Aye," Shea said, taking the sheet. He folded it carefully and put
it in his pocket. "Most likely before breakfast. So I won't see you
again, I suppose." 

Kingston reached his hand out then, and Shea took it, shook it once. 

"Good luck to you then, Mr. Shea. I hope you find your way back home
soon enough." 

Shea smiled. "I will do," he said. "Soon enough." 

Kingston gave him a small smile in return. "Goodnight." 

"Goodbye, Mr. Kingston. Many thanks again." 

And Shea opened the door for him and Larry Kingston went back out
into the night, trailing a light stream of smoke behind him in the
dark. 


***********


UNKNOWN LOCATION 
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA 
APRIL 10 
4:34 a.m.


Mulder...

The word seemed to echo around him, sounding like the half-whispered
voice that persisted after dreaming, though he had not been dreaming.
His mind was too confused for even that, lost in a darkness so
complete he wasn't aware of his mind or his body. 

Something tugged at his chest. A breath going in, burning. He let it
out, the sound too loud, a rasp. Another tug and release. 

"Mulder, wake up." 

His mind latched onto the voice, somehow familiar, and he hauled
himself up from the darkness, anchoring himself to it, forcing his
eyes to open. 

A dimly lit room, him on his back on a cold hard floor. He tried to
reach up to touch his forehead where a pain stabbed at him, but he
couldn't. His hands were bound in front of him with electrical tape,
secured with rope to his legs, which were similarly restrained. He
tugged on the rope. A good knot. 

His vision blurred in and out, and he had to force his eyes to stay
open. There was a face above him, a hand on his shoulder. 

Long hair pulled back, face lost in shadows. 

"Mulder? How do you feel? Can you speak to me?"

He opened his mouth to do just that, his tongue stuck to the roof of
his mouth. 

"Water..." he breathed, looking up into the face. 

"I'll try," the woman said. "I'll be right back." 

He closed his eyes as she rose, heard her go away, heard her speak
softly to someone. 

He drifted. Something in his back hurt like hell. 

Then she was back, a hand going beneath his head and tilting it up.
He opened his eyes as a glass was placed against his lips and he
drank, draining the glass. He was breathing harder as she lowered his
head back down with the utmost care. 

Awareness dawned on him as he caught the woman's face in profile
when she turned to put the glass behind her. 

"Mae?" he croaked, his voice back but in disrepair.

She nodded, looking down at him. "Yes," she said softly. 

"Where's Scully?" he said, looking around frantically. 

"She's not here," Mae soothed. "Just stay calm. You've been through
a lot already." She paused. "How do you feel?" 

He took a quick inventory as the relief flooded him that Scully
wasn't there. 

"Druggy," he pronounced finally. He turned his head, saw a chair
there, a heavy looking recliner. "Can you help me...help me sit up?"

Mae nodded and put her arms around his shoulders and together they
lifted him until his back was against the front of the chair. He took
in the room now. A large bedroom, fireplace in one wall. A large bed
against another. There was a man tied to a chair just off to his
right who was looking at him, his face battered, lip swollen and one
eye swelled closed. 

"Joe," the man said. "Joe Porter." He puffed out the "P" around his
lip. 

Mulder nodded to him, confused by everything he was seeing. His
thinking was like walking on sand, each thought slipping some beneath
him. 

"Somebody...somebody chased me...I was running." The memory swam
into focus. Running. Yes, he'd been running...the shot in his back.
Crawling. The halo of boots on the sand. 

"Aye," Mae said with sympathy. "Owen got some men to fetch you.
You're in Arizona now. I'm not sure where. You've been here for about
three hours." 

Mulder nodded to Joe. "Who's he?" His eyes lolled and he clenched
them, then opened them wider. 

"He's..." Mae hesitated. "He's with me." 

Mulder chuffed. "You sure know how to pick 'em, Joe." 

"You do, too, apparently," Joe replied blithely, and Mulder chuckled
at that. 

"Touché." 

He struggled to make sense of it. Owen had taken him, but not
Scully? He could have had her so easily, her there by herself...

Then it dawned on him. He looked at Mae again now. 

"Owen's luring Scully," he said, his mind catching up now and
becoming more lucid. "He wants her to come to him. To give herself up
to him." 

"Yes," Mae replied. "He's trading our lives for hers." 

Fury bloomed in him. Scully would come, he knew. She would come
without thinking about it. Owen knew that, too. He must have surmised
he and Scully's relationship somehow. Maybe Mae told him. Maybe she'd
had to. 

He looked at her with regret. He didn't exactly like being in his
position right now, but he would hate like hell to be in hers. 

Mae looked down as she sensed his feelings, her voice dropping to
just above a whisper. "He might let you go, Joe go. But he's not
going to let me go."

Mulder nodded, spoke quietly. "You're right. He's not. He wants you
and he wants Scully. But he might use Joe and me to punish you both.
To hurt what you care about. None of us are guaranteed a way out of
here, no matter what Scully does." 

"So he's awake," a stern voice came from the doorway, and Mulder and
Mae both turned to see Owen standing there, leaning against the
frame. 

Mae scrambled up to her feet and withdrew to the bed, where she sat
quickly, still now, not meeting Owen's gaze as he followed her with
his eyes. 

Mulder could feel the terror coming off her and wondered what she'd
been through already with her brother. 

Owen approached him, stood in front of him with his arms crossed
over his chest. He smirked as Mulder looked up at him with a gaze
cold and unafraid. 

"Mr. Mulder," Owen said. "Good to see they didn't kill you with that
tranquilizer they gave you. You weren't breathing too well when they
brought you in, so I'm relieved you're all right." 

"I'm sure," Mulder replied, his voice cracking. "I bet you were
beside yourself." 

"No, no," Owen said, his smile widening at Mulder's tone. "I'm being
sincere, Mr. Mulder. I've got no quarrel with you. You're just a
means to an end. I don't want to hurt anyone unnecessarily, you
know." 

Mulder glanced over at Joe. "I can see that," he said. 

"Ah, that's a bit different. Joe got me pissed." He cocked his head
as he looked at Mulder. "I'm sure you won't be doing that, will you?" 

Mulder said nothing, simply stared up at Curran, who paced a few
steps, then came back. 

"Your girlfriend is coming for you," he said, clearly pleased.
"She'll be in town tomorrow afternoon. So not to worry. You'll be
free soon enough. You just need to hold tight until she gets here." 

Mulder seethed, hated Curran for talking about Scully, hated knowing
that Curran's using him as a lure had worked so easily. 

What Scully must be going through, knowing Owen had him. And Mae. He
knew Scully would be concerned for her, as well. 

It all burned in him, and, despite his better judgement, his temper
flared. 

"You won't be rid of me that easily," he rumbled, his gaze turning
to ice. 

"What do you mean then?" Curran asked lightly. He seemed amused. 

"I mean that you even touch her and I'll kill you." Mulder's eyes
didn't waver.

Now Curran's smile melted away, his expression flattening. 

"Threats from someone in your position don't hold much weight, Mr.
Mulder," Curran said quietly. He leaned closer to Mulder's face. "And
if I were you, I'd shut the fuck up with them, as well, before you
end up like Joe here." He jerked his head toward Porter. 

"Fuck you." It was out of his mouth before he could stop it. 

The boot that caught him across the mouth was no surprise. 

"You don't know me very well, you stupid fuck!" Curran shouted. "You
wouldn't talk to me like that if you knew me." 

"I know all about you," Mulder said, and spit blood toward Curran's
feet. "I know about your father, how he starved himself to death and
left you with nothing but your Cause. I know about your wife, about
the IRA killing her. I know everything about you." 

Curran's eyes turned wild and dangerous. "Where do you get off
talking about my family like that, eh?" He reached down and grabbed
Mulder's t-shirt collar, bunched it up, shoving his face into
Mulder's. "Eh? Where the fuck do you get off? You don't know shit
about me." 

"Mulder, stop," Mae called from the bed. "Please stop! Don't--"

"You're so fucking predictable it's sad," Mulder said into Curran's
face, the words tumbling from him as his voice rose. "Revenge is all
you know. It's the only thing that makes you feel anything anymore,
isn't it? The British took your father and the IRA took Elisa and now
you're after Scully because she turned out to NOT be Elisa. And
you're after Mae for feeling anything at all, aren't you? For not
being as dead inside as you are." 

Curran's hand shot up and clenched around Mulder's face, squeezing
hard. "What are you, Sigmund Fucking Freud?" he spit, enraged now as
he pushed Mulder's face to the side hard. "Don't you say my wife's
name again, you hear me? I don't want to hear it come out of your
mouth again. And what's between my sister and me is none of your
fucking business!" 

He bolted up and his foot was out again, this time catching Mulder
in the belly before Mulder could react at all. He hunched, coughing,
unable to breath for a few seconds. 

Next his face, the side of his head, across his mouth again. A
flurry of strikes as Curran's rage boiled out of control.

Finally Curran stepped back, his breath heaving. 

Mulder shook his head clear, his face throbbing. When he got his
voice back, he rasped at Curran, looking hard at him. 

"You leave Scully alone, or I swear to God--" 

"That's it!" Curran said, and went to the night table where a roll
of electrical tape sat. He ripped out a length, tore it off with his
teeth and was squatted in front of Mulder again. His hands shot out
and pressed the tape across Mulder's bloodied mouth hard, pushing his
head back in the process. 

Mulder snapped his head back up, glared at Curran, made a loud sound
and kicked out with his legs. Curran stood and stepped easily out of
the way.

"I think..." Curran said, still breathing hard. He took a few more
breaths and struggled for calm, pushing his hair off his forehead. "I
think we've all heard enough from you, Mr. Mulder." His voice was
even now, strangely quiet. 

He turned, going toward the door, where an odd-looking man had been
standing all this time, watching the proceedings without interest. 

"You keep watching them," Curran said to the man. "I'm going to lie
down for a little while." 

"All right, Mr. Curran," the man said dumbly. 

Curran turned to Mae. "You take that tape off and I'll put it on
you," he said, pointing at her. Mae nodded mutely, looked away. 

Curran turned back toward Mulder, hatred clearly burning in his eyes. 

Mulder gave him the look right back until Curran turned and left the
room. 


**********


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO 
NAVAJO RESERVATION 
5:20 a.m.



Scully pulled the last load of laundry from the dryer, bunching the
jumble of she and Mulder's clothes into a basket, then hefted it and
quietly took it into the bedroom. Their suitcases were open on the
bed, which was still made. She hadn't been in it all night. 

She dumped the clothes and started folding them, putting them in
their respective suitcases with care. 

She didn't know why she was doing this. She shook her head at the
sight she must present, but couldn't keep her hands from moving. 

Perhaps it was simply the need to do something productive to make up
for the sleepless night. Perhaps it was to prepare to leave this
place, in preparation for the actual leaving she would be doing soon. 

And there was something else, as well, some small way it made her
feel like she was doing something for Mulder, gathering his things so
they would be ready for him when he was with her again. 

His t-shirts, jeans, boxers. All folded neatly and placed just so.
She did it as though her care would somehow make a difference. In
something. 

She finished with his suitcase, went into the other room to the
closet, pulled out shoes, then his thick garment bag and carried both
into the other room, tossing them on the bed. The shoes she placed in
a zippered side of the suitcase, then closed the bag, his toiletries
bag tucked in beside the clothes. 

Then her eyes went to the garment bag, which clearly hadn't been
opened since their arrival here. In fact, it had only been opened a
few times since they'd left Tennessee, and then only for Scully to
draw out his dress shirts to wear over her tank tops as the desert
got warmer and she got thinner, needing something to hide within. 

She reached down and unzipped the bag's long front, found his white
shirt there on top. She pulled it off its hanger and put it on over
her white t-shirt without another thought, rolling the sleeves and
tying the tails in a knot at her waist. Then she reached in further,
pushing the shirts to the side until she revealed one his dark suits,
the jacket cradling a collection of multicolored ties. 

She fingered a black silk one that was covered with tiny olives. She
remembered a day in the basement office, on their way to a chewing
out by Skinner, when she'd reached up and tightened the knot where
he'd loosened it, smoothed it down. She'd given him a tiny smile as
she tucked the report under her arm and squeezed his hand just before
they'd opened the door and set out the face the music together. 

The memory made her smile, but it also brought the threat of tears. 

Her eyes went back to the dark suit, the dream coming back to her.
Him at the airport, the suit hanging on him perfectly...

She pushed the dread away, rearranged the shirts and zipped the bag
closed once again. 

Around her, the house was silent, though it was full. Albert Hosteen
and Granger had sacked out in the living room in on the couch and
chair, just in case the men returned for her. Victor, she knew, had
stayed up most of the night, coming in every now and again for
coffee, carrying his shotgun. He'd prowled the property like a guard
dog. 

Albert had gone to bed around one, falling asleep in the recliner.
He'd been mostly silent, watching her move around the house and argue
with Granger. Granger had wanted her to stay and wait for the agents,
tangled in red tape, who would be arriving in the morning as Skinner
had assured him before he left D.C. 

"Granger, I told you what Curran said," she'd insisted, losing her
patience. "I have to go alone. Any sign of something suspicious and
I'm endangering Mulder's lives and the lives of the others. Don't you
understand that?" 

"Does that mean you're not even going to let *me* go with you?"
Granger had persisted, following her into the kitchen where she'd
rinsed the plates from their late dinner -- she and Mulder's dinner --
that she'd fed to the men. 

She'd turned on the water hard, plates clattering. "Yes." 

"Agent Scully, for God's sake, you can't--" 

"I'm not risking their lives. Bring the agents to Snowflake or
Shumway and wait for word from Mulder or me there."

"That's insane!" Granger had blustered, gesturing toward her in
frustration. "You can't risk your life like this. I won't let--"

"I don't want to talk about it any more," she'd snapped then, and
Granger had bitten off what he was going to say, turned and huffed
into the living room, sitting down on the couch and pretending to
watch the fuzzy rerun of M*A*S*H on the television.

Scully had turned to gather more dishes from the counter behind her
and saw Albert Hosteen watching her, his pipe in the corner of his
mouth, his expression serious. When he saw her looking at him, he
waited a beat, his eyes meeting hers, then returned his attention to
the television. He hadn't said another word for the rest of the
night. 

Scully reached down onto the bed now, lifted her Sig. She checked
the clip, slapped it home, then put it beneath her shirt in the
holster there. Next she picked up Mulder's gun, identical to her own,
and slipped into the front waistband of her jeans, the dress shirt
obscuring both weapons. 

Then she turned to Mulder's ankle holster, the pistol snug in it.
She put a foot up on the bed, pulled up her jeans and tried to put
the holster on. Even in its last holes, it hung on her, and she
cursed beneath her breath. 

There had been some electrical tape on the shelf in the laundry
room. She went to fetch it. 

And met Granger in the hallway, still in his black t-shirt and jeans
from the night before, his eyes red. 

"Agent Scully," he began. 

"I'm not going to argue with you anymore, Granger," she said
tiredly, brushed past him to the laundry room. He held his ground as
she got the tape and went back into the bedroom. Then she heard him
in the doorway behind her. 

"Can I just ask one question?" His voice was quiet. Even. No longer
exasperated as it had been the night before. 

"Sure," she said, resigned, as she put her foot up on the bed again,
tore off a length of the silver tape, biting it to tear it. Then she
started winding the length of it around the hard form of the holster,
securing it to her calf, the gun on the inside of her left leg where
her right hand could reach it easily. 

"Why are you going to do this?" Granger asked softly. 

She turned and looked at him like he'd grown another head. 

"Why the hell do you think I'm going, Granger? I'm going to get
Mulder. And the other people involved in this thing."

"I know that," he said, not taking the bait of her tone. "I
mean...are you going to try and fight Curran or are you going to give
yourself up to him?" 

She turned back to her leg, pressing down the tape. She tore off
another piece and repeated the action. "I'm going to do whatever it
takes to free him. To free all of them."

"So you *are* going to turn yourself over," Granger said. "Well,
that clears a lot up right there." 

"I don't know what you mean," Scully replied, not looking back at
him. 

"I was just trying to figure out why you don't want me to come with
you," he said, his tone as though he were thinking aloud. "Why you
won't even allow that. It's because you're going to sacrifice
yourself. You don't want to fight him." 

"Thank you for the profile, Granger," Scully said under her breath,
getting ticked now. "But I do want to fight him. I don't usually go
around putting industrial tape on my legs if I'm planning on walking
into the slaughter." 

"You can't beat him on your own," he replied, and she pushed her
jeans leg down and turned to him now. He didn't flinch from the look
she gave him. "You know you can't. You can't negotiate with him --
he's too crazy and filled with hatred for that -- and you can't take
him out while he's got three hostages and God only knows how many
people helping him with this." 

"I'll cross that one when I come to it," she said, dismissing him.
She started toward the door and he wouldn't budge. She looked up at
him, angry now. 

"You can't cross it," he said quickly. "He'll kill you. He'll
probably kill all of you. I doubt he intends to let Mae go, for
starters. He's bluffing you, using these people to draw you in, to
make you helpless. And if you go alone you're letting him win
already." 

She looked down, said nothing for a long moment. Then she met his
gaze again, her frustration and sadness rimming her eyes with tears.
She held them back. "I won't risk his life unnecessarily," she said,
almost keeping the tremor out of her voice. 

"Curran doesn't have to know I'm there," Granger said firmly. "We
can take two cars. I'll come later in the day, after I scramble the
agents to one of those towns you mentioned last night. I'll check
into the motel and no one will know we're together. You can call me
and I'll follow you to the exchange place. He won't know about me,
and that will give us an edge."

She shook her head, looked to the side, thinking. 

Some part of her knew he was right. She *was* willing to sacrifice
herself, to walk into Curran's grasp, in necessary, to free Mulder
and the others. She owed Mae her life, after all. And with the baby,
the stakes were doubly high. 

She knew she couldn't really fight him. At the bottom of all her
bravado, she knew that was true. 

Now she returned her gaze to Granger's earnest face. 

"You *need* me on this," he said quietly. "I understand you not
wanting the agents swarming all over a town that size, but you need
someone. And I'm all you've got."

That teased a smile from her, which faded the instant it curled her
lips. "You're a lot," she said softly. 

She paused for a long moment, warring with herself. Then she nodded. 

"All right," she said. "But you can't tell Skinner where we're
going. He would insist on a full-scale extraction on this, and we
can't have that. It's better that he not know where we are or he
might try it anyway." 

Granger cringed. "He'll have both our asses for that," he said, and
Scully nodded. 

"I know," she said. "I'll find a way to make him understand. When
this is over and Mulder's back safe." 

Granger nodded, though she could tell he had some doubts. About all
of this. She did, as well. So much was unknown, like a game they were
playing where they didn't know all the rules. But the rules they did
know they would have to follow. 

She went back to the bed, hefted two of the suitcases and came
forward again. This time, Granger stepped back to allow her to enter
the hallway, and they both turned to see Albert Hosteen standing
there, Bo sitting beside him as though they'd been there for some
time. 

"You are going together then," Hosteen said, and Scully nodded. It
didn't surprise her he'd heard everything they'd said. 

"Yes," she said quietly. Beside her, Granger nodded, reached down to
take one of the suitcases out of her hand. She allowed it. 

"That's good," Albert said. "I was afraid you would be so stubborn
you would go alone. You are as stubborn as Agent Mulder that way. As
stubborn as me." He winked, lightening the mood. Scully smiled,
looked down. 

"Yes, I am, I suppose." She gestured to Bo. "I see you've got a new
friend."

Albert shook his head, made no move to touch the dog. "No," he said.
"He has been outside since I woke up, looking for Agent Mulder. He is
Agent Mulder's dog now." 

The thought made the tears come again, and she blinked them back,
finally reached up and rubbed at her eyes. 

"When you find Agent Mulder," Hosteen said gently. "When he is free
again, you call me and I will bring Bo and give him back to him."

Scully nodded, and a tear did fall now. She wiped it away, and felt
the warm weight of Granger's hand on her shoulder.

"All right," she said, nodded, moved away from the two men and
headed toward the front door. 

She stood for a long moment on the front porch, gathering herself,
looking out over the horizon. 

The tears receded and something harder settled over her, something
cold and determined and welcome. 

Then she went to the Bronco, waiting by the side of the house, as
the sun began to rise.


**********


END OF CHAPTER 20. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 21. 

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 21

**********

HIGHWAY 77 
NORTH OF SNOWFLAKE, ARIZONA 
11:35 a.m.


There wasn't a break in her expression until she saw the signs for
Snowflake, five hours into her drive from Two Grey Hills. She'd held
the emotions at bay for all that time as she'd angled the Bronco down
the narrow two-lanes in New Mexico, through western Arizona, then
south, weaving her way through the rising mountain roads, the tan
desert giving way to Ponderosa pines and green. 

But when Scully saw the signs for Snowflake, her eyes filled with
tears. 

This was where they had stopped after the first month of running,
Mulder insisting on the break because of her lingering illness from
the drug and the holdover of her headaches and weakness from the
concussion she'd suffered at Fagan's hands. 

She's been so weak that month, at first unable to even walk without
his help. 

She could still remember rubbing her cheek against his belly in the
lodge where they'd stayed in Snowflake. His torso was bare from where
she'd pushed his shirt up, his hands on the sides of her head,
gentle, his eyes on her face. If she thought about it hard enough,
she could remember the feel of the sparse line of hair on his abdomen
against her mouth, the smell of his warm skin.

She remembered how helpless she'd felt then, how dependent. 

It was in stark contrast to how she felt now. Three guns hidden in
her clothes, her mouth a thin line, her eyes guarded by sunglasses as
they met the road in front her. 

She pushed her fingers beneath her glasses, wiped the tears roughly
away. 

She was a little more than an hour from her destination, the little
town of Show Low on the edge of the Salt River Apache Reservation.
She could feel herself growing more still inside as she approached
it, seeing the first signs for the town beginning to appear on the
road sides. 

She would be there so soon. And she was ready to be there. 

But ready for what?

One of two things was going to happen this day, she knew. 

The first was that she would somehow find a way to free Mulder and
the others and get away herself, as well, hopefully taking Owen out --
killing him, if necessary -- in the process. 

The other was that she would sacrifice herself for the lives of the
others. For Mulder's life, which she would do without even thinking
twice about it. 

But also for Mae's life. The life of her lover and her unborn child. 

Vague recollections gathered in her mind. Mae in the back of the
pickup, some truckstop somewhere on the road, them running from Owen
after Mae had killed Fagan. A cup of soup in Mae's hand, which she
tilted to Scully's lips, making her eat something, despite the drug,
despite her injuries. 

Come on, help me now, Mae had said gently. 

Then another memory. Mae dressing her in pajamas in the cabin in
Tennessee, the drug-fever raging as Mae tucked her beneath the
covers, Mae's hand lingering, protective, on her forehead. 

A cloth on her forehead in a bathtub of frigid water, Mae's voice as
she spoke softly to Mulder....

Her eyes hardened at the memories. 

She owed Mae her life. Despite how strangely and under what false
circumstances the friendship with Mae had begun, it was a strong
friendship nonetheless. Scully felt connected to her in some way she
couldn't quite name. 

She heaved out a breath as she thought all this, as she entered
Snowflake. She remembered the sleepy looking lodges well, the small
stores in the tiny town. 

Her thoughts returned to Mulder. Worry filled her, concern at how
Owen would treat him. She just hoped Mulder would keep quiet. Owen
had no tolerance for disrespect, and Mulder could be most
disrespectful. She didn't like the thought of the two of them
together, especially with Owen knowing something of she and Mulder's
affiliation, and being as vengeful as he was right now. 

She pushed the worry down as best she could, considering her options
carefully. 

Owen had weaknesses, some of which centered around her, his
attraction to her and his association of her with his wife, Elisa.
There had to be ways to exploit those feelings, to undo him in some
way, throw him off and give her the chance to take him out or at
least get away once the others were freed. 

Either that or the association of her with Elisa would make him
somehow worse -- less rational, more manipulative and with more of a
desire to control her. It was going to be one or the other.

She sighed, shaking her head at the thought. 

She would do anything that could be done. Especially to protect the
lives of the hostages. And she was ready to pay the consequences for
what she might have to do.

Even if it meant her death. 

A feeling of calm came over her with that thought. A determination
that fought the aloneness she felt as she drove the truck filled with
suitcases. 

Nothing but the sound of the tired engine as she drove out of
Snowflake on toward Show Low, the sound of worn tires pounding the
road. 


**********

INTERSTATE 40 
WEST OF HOLBROOK, ARIZONA 
11:35 a.m.


Paul Granger looked at the map, fumbling the unfolded thing in front
of him as he followed the line of Interstate 40 to Holbrook. He was
steering with his knees, looking for the number of the highway he was
supposed to take to get to Show Low. The rental car purred along on
the highway, the brand-new engine barely making a sound as the exits
for Holbrook began to appear. 

Finally he found it -- Highway 77, south toward Snowflake and
Taylor. He watched for the exit and saw it coming in the distance. He
switched lanes to take it, stuffing the map in the passenger seat. 

He'd driven in silence since he'd left Albert Hosteen's house, an
hour behind Scully on the road. He was tense, his tension beginning
as he'd watched Scully say goodbye to Hosteen and his grandson
Victor, Scully and the elder Hosteen's hands hanging in a long grip
as they'd looked at each other, saying nothing but "goodbye" and the
other's name before she'd climbed in the truck and gotten on her way. 

The scene had made him uptight because there seemed to be such
finality to it, Hosteen and Scully looking at each other as though
they might not ever see one another again. 

And that was exactly what he was afraid of. 

He took the exit, going down the more narrow highway, circling the
outskirts of the town of Holbrook and then heading out into the
nothing beyond, the road rising onto hills in front of him. 

His hand gripped the steering wheel harder as he thought of the
conversation he'd had with Albert Hosteen before he had left himself.
The one about what to do with the agents Skinner had sent to Two Grey
Hills who Granger was supposed to be coordinating so that Mulder and
Scully could be protected from any unlikely last minute strike by
Padden and the more likely appearance of Curran and his men. 

The agents would arrive in the tiny reservation town to find no one
but an old man to greet them who would *not* be telling them where
Granger and Mulder and Scully actually were. Instead, Hosteen would
be sending them to Shumway, a town close to Show Low Granger had
found the map. There, Hosteen would tell them, the agents would meet
at the sheriff's headquarters to wait for further instructions from
him or from Scully. 

Whichever of them was alive to give the order for the agents to
scramble to contain Curran, on the off-chance that Granger or Scully
let him get away.

Granger shook his head, looked out the side window at the trees,
which had recently appeared as he went up in elevation, streamed by. 

Skinner was going to kill him. After all these weeks of the two of
them working together, planning, sneaking around behind Padden's back
to clear Mulder and Scully's names, to allow them to come in safe,
here he was, breaking off on his own and leaving Skinner completely
in the dark.

And just when things were looking up, too. Or had seemed to be at
the time...

"Dammit," he said under his breath. 

It was a good thing he didn't have a career to ruin anymore, he
thought, shaking his head again. Because this wouldn't help matters
much at all. 

The picture of his father, Thomas, stiff in his Baltimore City
Police uniform, came into his head, and he felt the nagging sense of
shame he'd been struggling to keep at bay over his leaving the CIA.
He wondered what his father would think of his decision to turn his
back on a career he'd spent his life preparing for.

He knew, on the one hand, that he'd done the right thing by leaving. 

But why?

Skinner was right. What had happened at the CIA could have happened -
- *did* happen -- anywhere. If he was going to stay in law
enforcement at all, he ran the risk of corruption everywhere he went
because of how easily the power that came along with it could be
misused. 

But on another, he felt he'd given up in a way, chosen NOT to fight
that abuse of power, that he should have stayed to fight the fight. 

So why had he done it? 

He went around a wide bend, a sign for Snowflake, 78 miles, coming
into view, as he pondered this. 

He'd done it for Mulder and Scully, he realized. To stand with them
against what was being done to them. 

He wondered at this realization now, wondered at his sense of
loyalty to two people he actually barely knew. Especially Scully,
whom he'd only met a few times, and whom he'd just spent more than an
hour with for the first time the night before. 

Another memory came to him as he thought of this. His mother this
time, chiding him for his nervousness, his shyness he'd struggled
with throughout his life, even at the CIA before this case, even
though he'd graduated at the top of his class in Behavioral Sciences,
even though he was considered the best new profiler the CIA had ever
produced. 

You forget who you are, his mother had told him every time she saw
him hiding from something, refusing to stand up for himself or
others. She'd shake her head, cradle the back of his neck, and say it
again. 

But he knew who he was now. In fact, he'd never been more certain of
who he was, what he believed in. And Mulder and Scully had taught him
this, taught him his own beliefs by their treatment of him and this
case and, most importantly, each other. 

There was an honesty to them, an integrity, that went beyond what
he'd been taught and took him to what he knew to be right. 

*That* was why he'd stood with them. That was why he'd quit, in a
kind of thanks for the knowledge he had now, the understanding of
what was worth standing up for and what was not. 

And the CIA, with all its machinations, was something that was not. 

That was why he was out here, driving through the Arizona high
country, about to risk his life to protect two people he barely knew,
but whom he considered to be, in a strange way, friends. 

He remembered who he was now. He was sure of that person, this
person he had become. 

That was what he would say to his mother when he told her about his
leaving the Agency. 

If he got the chance.

Surely that, he decided, she would understand. 


**********

INTERSTATE 40 
PINTA, ARIZONA 
30 MILES WEST OF HOLBROOK 
11:35 a.m.


Jimmy Shea changed lanes around a tractor trailer, carefully
returning to the right hand lane as he continued on his way to
Holbrook, doing the speed limit to the number.

Almost to the turnoff, he thought, rubbing at his moustache
absently. And the closer he came to the road that would take him to
Show Low, this Highway 77 that would take him south through the
mountains, the more he was certain he couldn't do what it was he was
being asked to do. 

He should just turn the truck around now, he thought. Head back to
New York. To Ruby back home minding the house, to the shell of his
boat there by the sea. 

There was a picture of a boy in his head -- the boy on the
motorcycle, the boy in the pub. 

There was a picture of a man he'd respected more than anyone at that
time in his life, lying in a coffin at the wake, every bone showing
through the dead white skin, the suit looking five sizes too large
for the corpse it encased. 

And again the boy was there in his mind. Owen had stood with the men
in the corner, ignoring his mother's grief, his sister's silence, his
brother's prayers beside the body of his father. 

Shea remembered standing there by the coffin, his hand on the
younger James' shoulder as the young man prayed. He remembered
brushing down Mae's unruly dark hair as he passed her, her shy smile
through her tears, his own in return. 

No, he couldn't do it. 

But he had always done what they'd asked of him. It felt strange to
even consider doing otherwise. 

Perhaps if he went to Show Low and got a look at Owen, saw that he
wasn't this mad dog the others seemed to believe he was, he could
report back what he'd seen, that his task wasn't necessary after all.
Maybe he'd even talk to Owen, to Mae. Find there was a perfectly
reasonable explanation to all that had transpired. A simple
misguidance on Owen's part, perhaps. Something that Shea could put to
right.

Shea knew he himself had a reputation for keeping his head about
him, coming to the right ideas about situations. Surely they would
listen to him and this whole thing and it could be avoided. 

This tragic ending that didn't have to close the story of James
Curran and his family. 

Shea sighed, sorrow settling over him like fallen leaves as the
signs for Holbrook came into view now, as he started looking for the
turnoff to 77 headed south. 

The turn toward the one place on the earth he did not want to go. 


*********


UNKNOWN LOCATION 
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA 
NEAR THE SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION 
2:35 p.m.


Mulder was finally asleep.

His legs had been unbound to allow him a trip to the bathroom an
hour or so before, and now he lay in a heap on the floor, curled on
his side, his breathing slow and a little too loud through his
swollen nose above the length of tape across his mouth and cheeks.

Owen had stayed out of the room since his run-in with Mulder early
that morning. Mae hated that Mulder had had to take the beating he
had. But she was grateful to him as well -- for keeping Owen away
from the three of them for the rest of the day. His words had more
power than he knew. 

She lay on the bed facing both Mulder and Joe, who was also
sleeping, his chin on his chest where he sat, still bound and damp,
in the chair. She had dozed off and on herself as best she could,
woken by bouts of vomiting earlier in the morning that had passed,
leaving her weak and shaky. The strange looking man whom Owen
referred to as "Rudy" had brought her some water with ice from the
kitchen, and she was doing her best to fight off exhaustion and
dehydration. 

Were she out of this place, she would probably check herself back
into a hospital. She felt that badly. The duress wasn't helping her
physical state, either. 

She looked at the car battery and paddles next to Joe, shuddered. 

Then she was on her feet, eyeing Rudy sitting just outside the door,
his arms crossed over his chest. He appeared to be asleep, as well. 

Satisfied with that, she made her way to Joe slowly, her knees
trembling as she walked the few steps to him. 

When she reached him, she put a hand gently on his battered cheek,
and he jerked awake immediately, his eyes wide. She covered his mouth
to keep him from crying out. 

"It's okay," she murmured, looking at Rudy to see if he'd reacted to
the sound. He hadn't. "It's just me. I want to check you over, all
right? That thing is designed to hurt a lot more than it's designed
to do damage, but I want to see just the same." 

"I'm all right," he replied, keeping his voice low as she knelt in
front of him. "A few burns. I'm okay." 

She pushed his shirt up, looked at his chest, the dark mottling of
burns in the shape of the paddles there. Her hands shook as she
traced them. 

"Joe, I'm so sorry..." Tears raced down her cheeks suddenly as she
looked at his body, then she looked down, unable to meet his eyes. 

"Hey," he whispered, and she looked back up at him, into his eyes,
trying to ignore the bruising around them. "It's okay. I'm okay." 

He turned his head, studied her, a concerned look on his face. She
knew she must look terrible given his expression. 

"I'm more worried about you," he said softly. 

She shook her head. "God, how can you say that?" she asked. "We're
in this because of me and--"

"No, we're in this because of your brother," he asserted. "You were
right to take Sean and run with him. Just from the little bit I've
seen." He paused. "He's that terrorist everyone's been looking for,
right?" 

Mae nodded. "Yes," she whispered. 

"The one who bombed the embassy in Washington." 

"Yes," she said again, and she met his eyes steadily again. "But
Joe...I helped plan that bombing, too." 

Joe said nothing and she pressed on quickly. "I helped buy the
explosives. I helped with surveillance of the embassy. I'm as guilty
for that as he is." 

Still Joe said nothing. He merely looked at her, his eyes gentle and
inquisitive. Finally he spoke. 

"Why did you do it?" he asked softly. 

"Because..." she began, and trailed off, her gaze going down. 

"Because why?" he persisted. 

She thought about that hard. Why had she done it? Did she even have
an answer for that? 

"Because Owen wanted to do it," she said finally, faintly. 

"Have you always done what Owen wanted you to do?" Joe asked. He
shifted in the chair as much as his binds would allow, leaning closer
to her. 

She nodded now without hesitation. "Yes. My whole life." 

Joe nodded in return. "But something changed." 

She looked down, then toward Rudy again, watching the doorway as she
spoke. "Yes," she said softly. "I'd had enough of the killing. He
killed my friends. He was going to kill this Agent Scully who he's
after now. She's my friend, as well." 

Joe looked at her, cocked his head. "Now you sound like the person I
met in Mexico," he said finally. "The woman I fell in love with." 

"I still have done horrible things, Joe," she said, shaking her
head. "You can't dismiss that." 

"No, I don't dismiss them," Joe replied, keeping his voice low. "I
think they were horrible things, too, and that's something that we're
going to have work through between us. The same way you're going to
have to deal with some of the things *I've* done."

He looked at her until she met his eyes. 

"But I'm not that person anymore, no matter what I did," he
continued in a whisper. "And you're not that person anymore, either,
Mae. *You* have changed. That's why your brother wants to kill us.
You've turned your back on him and started a life without him. " 

Mae nodded. "I'm the only family he has left. We've been all the
other has had for most of our lives." 

"And you don't think that could protect you?" he replied. 

She shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "I've betrayed him. And
there's only one way he deals with betrayal." 

Joe swallowed. "You don't think the baby..." He trailed off as she
shook her head. Then he grew silent. 

"He may let you go," Mae said into the quiet that followed. "He may
let Mulder go, though with what Mulder said to him last night I'm
wondering about that. But he will not let me go. Or Dana go. He won't
stop until we're both dead."

"I won't let him kill you." Joe looked at her fiercely.

"I want you to get away if you can, Joe," she whispered, brushing at
his cheek. "Promise me you'll go if he lets you. For me." 

He shook his head. "I won't let him kill you, Mae. I'll die first." 

She covered her face miserably, her face flushing and twisting to
tears. She sobbed quietly, fear and frustration overcoming her. 

Joe leaned closer until his forehead rested against hers. He kissed
her, lingering there. He told her it would be all right.

"Hey." 

Both Mae and Joe's faces shot toward the door, where Rudy was
standing, his gun in his hand. 

"Mr. Curran said no talking," he said, waving the gun at Mae. "Get
back on the bed." 

Mae stood, her hand lingering on Joe's leg as she composed herself
as best she could. Then she withdrew to the bed once again. 

"I won't tell him this time," Rudy said, "but next time, I will. So
make sure there isn't a next time, all right?" 

Mae nodded. "Thank you," she said, sitting on the edge of the
mattress. She looked at Joe across the vast space between them. 

Then Rudy withdrew, tucking his gun back into its holster as he
returned to the hall. 


***********


DEUCE OF CLUBS MOTEL 
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA 
3:25 p.m.



The stationery was torn-out pieces from a spiral steno notebook, the
top edge still ragged from being ripped from the pad. Beside the
loose pages on the desk, the cheap black ballpoint she'd borrowed
from the front desk, a small box of envelopes, the cheapest she could
buy at the drug store she'd passed on the way into town. 

She'd been writing for hours now, her neat cursive filling page
after yellow page. She had the television on for background noise,
and it calmed her nerves and forced her to concentrate on the tasks
she had at hand. 

First, the letter to Skinner. Explaining what she'd done and why
she'd done it. It was short, to the point, and, except for the last
paragraph, all business. Only at the end did she break the formal
tone she'd used in the explanation of Curran's demands in how she
should go to get Mulder. Only there did she tell him how much she
respected him and the difficult work that he did. She thanked him for
what he had done for her and Mulder over the years, the support of
their work on the X-Files, even when that support took the form of
dressing downs designed to make them look more presentable to the
higher-ups at the FBI. He'd done a lot to preserve their reputations,
to give their work some small measure of credibility, and for that,
she told him, she was grateful. 

Next, a letter to her mother, one she hoped she would never have to
write. She found the letter beginning by talking of memories she had
of her childhood, fond memories, difficult ones. Things her mother
had taught her over the years, things she had tried to emulate. She
told her mother she hoped that she had made her proud in some small
way with the life she had chosen to lead, with her dedication to what
she believed.

And then, after much searching within herself, she had told her
mother about this case, the one that very well might be her last. She
told her everything about what happened in Richmond. Everything. Even
the rape. She told her so that she could understand the person she
had become now in the face of it, so her mother could know what she'd
overcome to come to the place of strength she now stood within. It
was the place that allowed her to take this risk for Mulder's sake
and for the sake of the woman who had once risked everything for her. 

She asked her mother not to blame Mulder for anything that might
happen to her, for any action she might take for his sake. 

Then Scully told her she loved her, and she said goodbye. 

And lastly, in the final few minutes before she would take the call
from Curran, she wrote a letter to Mulder. She guessed it could be
considered a love letter, though there was so much sadness in it, so
much imploring for him to understand her decision to trade her life
for his, that most of it was hardly romantic. 

She did tell him a few things, however -- how he had completed her
life, filled a space she hadn't even known was there before she met
him. She told him how making love with him made her feel more alive
than she thought possible. She told him how loving him had saved her
from the solitary, desolate parts of herself. 

She apologized for the time she had not spent with him in the past
months, the time with him and yet apart from him, for the time she
had needed to heal but that she now wanted back. She had not known
that time could be so short. 

She stopped not when she was finished saying what she meant to say,
but when she couldn't write any more, when the tears, which she could
not afford to entertain at this moment, threatened to overwhelm her. 

She folded the letters carefully, placed them in the small envelopes
and addressed them each carefully, placing stamps, also purchased at
the drugstore, in the corners after she'd closed them. 

She left the return address blank.

Then she picked up her key and the envelopes and went out the door,
walked to the office, down the long walkway in front of the other
doors to other rooms. She chanced a look at the closed door of room
14, the room Granger was hiding within. He'd called her room when
he'd arrived and said nothing but that number before he hung up. 

The bell on the door to the office jingled as she entered, the clerk
on duty kicking his legs down from where they were up on the desk, a
newspaper in his hand. He smiled to her as he stood behind the
counter. 

"Miss Black, what can I do for you?" he asked. She had never found
out his name.

"I was wondering," she began, fingering the envelopes. "Could you
put these in the mail for me? I'm going to be leaving early in the
morning and won't have time to find a mailbox myself." 

"Sure thing," the clerk said, smiling that same smile, wide as a
jack-o-lantern. "I actually get off here in a few minutes, at four,
and I go by the post office on my way home. I'll put them in then and
they'll make the five o'clock pickup. How's that?" 

She smiled in return. "That would be great, thank you. Have a good
evening." She turned to go. 

"You, too, ma'am," the man replied, and Scully went out the door,
the bell jangling behind her. 

It was warm for the time of day, and she found herself pushing up
the sleeves to Mulder's shirt a bit higher, getting more of the thick
air on her. 

Back inside her room, she turned on the air conditioning unit, the
ancient thing rattling to life and sending out a stream of cool stale-
smelling air. Then she sat on the bed, the phone beside her, and
waited. 

Five minutes went by as she sat in the near-silence, the television
burbling faintly behind the sound of the air conditioning unit. 

Eight minutes. 

At 4:04 the phone rang. 

"Yes," she said without inflection. 

"You're doing well so far, Dana," Curran replied. "Word has it you
checked in about one and came alone. That's good. You ready to come
get your friends then?" 

"Yes," she said again, equally as flat. "Just tell me where you want
me to go." 

She could almost hear Curran smiling. "Get back on Highway 60 and
follow it onto the reservation. About ten miles in you'll find a
turnoff marked with a cone, a dirt road. That'll take you into one of
the access points to a canyon. Park your car at the trailhead and
come in on foot. There's a clearing in the middle of the canyon, and
a wash there, I'm told it's called, a little river of a sort. Come
from the trail to the edge of the wash and I'll be on the other side
with your people. We'll make the exchange from there." 

"Let me talk to Mulder first," she tried, and Curran chuckled. 

"I put a big piece of tape over his mouth. He was giving me a good
bit of lip earlier, the bastard. I'm not taking that tape off for
anything. But rest assured he's alive. They all are. Whether they
stay that way is up to you, isn't it?" 

"Yes, I suppose it is," Scully replied evenly. "What time?" 

"Be there in an hour," Curran said. "I should be all situated by
then." 

"I'm on my way," she said, and she waited for him to hang up before
she replaced the receiver herself. 

She stared at the phone for a long moment, feeling her heartbeat
pick up. She drew in a calming breath, let it out, closing her eyes. 

She would only have one chance to do this right, she thought to
herself, her teeth gritting down. 

She forced herself to even out, to take it in. 

Then she picked up the phone, pulled in another long breath, and
dialed room 14. Granger picked up on the first ring. 

"He called," he said by way of greeting. 

"Yes," she replied. 

"Okay," Granger said, and he was breathing a little hard himself,
she noted. "Give me the layout, and tell me what you want me to do." 


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

UNKNOWN LOCATION 
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA 
NEAR THE SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION 
4:18 p.m.


Tom Lantham stood in the doorway to the bedroom with Rudy Grey, his
gun still in its holster, his expression grim. Curran brushed past
him and went into the room, his gun in his hand, and Lantham watched
the woman, Mae, tense up and begin to tremble slightly at the sight
of her brother. 

He hated to see that. A pregnant lady frightened like that. He
didn't care what she'd done. 

And he had to admit that Curran made him nervous, too. The man's
cheese had slipped off his cracker for sure, he thought, rubbing at
his mouth absently. 

He watched Curran go toward the man, Mulder, who was still sleeping
on the floor beside the recliner, his face pale beneath the bruising
and slack.

"Wake the fuck up," Curran spit, kicking Mulder hard in the side,
and Mulder jerked awake instantly, though his eyes were still
lolling. The drug that Curran had had Rudy give the poor man was
still in him. Lantham could see it in his face. 

Curran had moved past him to the other man, this man Porter, and
began untying his hands from the back of the chair. 

"Get Mulder up," Curran called over his shoulder to him and Grey,
and Grey went forward obediently, helping Mulder into a sitting
position and then hauling him to his feet. Mulder stood a bit
unsteadily, his eyes, over the wide length of tape, on Curran, his
wrists secured in front of him. 

Curran was taping Porter's hands in front of him, like Mulder's, and
he glanced at Lantham, still standing in the doorway. 

"Well, don't just stand there. Go take her to the car." Curran
nodded to Mae, who looked at Lantham, her eyes wide and pleading. 

Lantham shook his head. "No," he said, and shifted against the
doorway. 

Now Curran stopped, looked back at him steadily. "What are you
saying to me?" His voice was soft, that dangerous tone Lantham had
grown accustomed to from him. He refused to be cowed by it, though.
He knew Curran wouldn't risk going after him. Not with Kingston and
the entire Sons of Liberty behind him. 

"I'm saying no," Lantham repeated. "I don't know what you're
planning to do with these people, but I don't want any part of it. I
didn't sign on for murder on this trip. You can have all that." 

Curran stood straight, facing him now. Grey was looking from Lantham
to Curran and back again. 

"You're supposed to be at my disposal, Mr. Lantham," Curran said. "I
need help moving these people. But you help me move them into the car
and Mr Grey and I will do the rest, if you're too squeamish. Mr. Grey
isn't, I'm sure." 

Lantham looked at Rudy, who was smiling slightly at the perceived
compliment. The poor son-of-a-bitch was too stupid to know what
Curran was up to, really. Rudy would simply do what he was told,
though Lantham doubted he would actually shoot anyone. 

The people in the room didn't know that, though. 

And with Rudy, you never really knew.

"All right," Lantham said, returning his attention to Curran. "You
take Mr. Grey here and I'll help you put these people in the car and
you do what you've got to do. I'll stay here with your son. Make sure
he stays safe while you go about your business." 

"All right then," Curran replied, though Lantham could tell he
wasn't happy with the turn of events. "Get my sister in the car." 

With that, Curran hauled Porter to his feet, and Lantham went to
Mae, took her by the arm gently. She allowed it and stood. 

"Come on," he said quietly, and led her out the door, Grey hustling
the staggering Mulder behind him, Curran behind Porter, bringing up
the rear.

**

Outside, lying on his stomach by a tree on a small rise beside the
house, Jimmy Shea looked down at the house through binoculars,
looking for any sign of activity, peering in the windows with the
curtains opened. 

He saw nothing for a long moment, waited, his hand on his rifle
there beside him on the ground.

Then, the front door opened, and he recognized Mae Curran
immediately, though he hadn't seen her in years. She was walking
slowly out the front door toward a large American sedan parked beside
the house. There was a man behind her, his hand on her arm. Shea
couldn't tell if he was armed or not, but decided he probably was. 

He refocussed the binoculars on the door as another figure appeared,
a dark-haired man, beaten about the face from the looks of him, with
tape over his mouth and his hands taped together in front of him. He
was being pushed along at gunpoint by a shorter, stocky man. The dark-
haired man was unsteady on his feet, and the one with the gun kept
having to reach out and take hold of him to keep him going in the
right direction. 

Then a fifth figure, another man Shea didn't recognize, bound the
same way as the staggering man, but no tape over his mouth. 

Then Shea saw him. Owen. A gun in his hand as he gave the man in
front of him a shove toward the car. 

They were all going somewhere, that was for certain. 

Shea put the binoculars down silently, began slowly crawling
backward away from the edge of the rise, barely rustling the ground
as he crept back. 

His truck was parked on the road, hidden off the side in view of the
driveway. Once he knew he was concealed by the trees, he stood, slung
the binoculars around his neck and picked up the sniper's rifle,
heading quickly and quietly back to the truck.


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


NEAR HAWK'S EYE CANYON 
SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION 
4:40 p.m.


Paul Granger drove his dark sedan down the dirt road, the road a
good half a mile from the turnoff Scully was going to be taking once
she arrived from the motel. They'd decided that he would leave 20
minutes ahead of her, just in case she was still being watched, so
that it would look like he was just another guest at the motel
leaving for an early dinner or an errand. 

He'd driven onto the reservation, the town of Show Low giving way to
desolation, the long winding highway that cut through forest -- no
houses that he could see, no stores or gas stations. Just woods. 

He'd driven by the turnoff, marked by a faded orange cone, then done
a U-turn and headed back, to another dirt road that led off in the
same direction as the one Scully would be taking. He was glad for the
privacy the weaving dirt road and the woods afforded. 

He'd checked the map -- the canyon, Hawk's Eye, was a long one,
stretching some five miles, gradually widening until it became Salt
River Canyon, the wash in Hawk's Eye a small tributary to a larger
river. 

On the other side of the canyon, there was another road, with other
entrance points. Curran would be coming from that side.

The road he was on led to a trailhead almost identical to the one
Scully would be taking into the canyon, only this one was a bit
further north. He would be able to pick his way through the forest to
the place where she was meeting Curran, getting as close as he could
without leaving the safety of the rise or the trees. 

He'd still be close enough to get down to the wash if necessary. 

Finally he reached the dead-end, where a small trail led into the
woods. He stopped the car, cut the engine, then climbed out. He could
hear water flowing somewhere in the distance. 

A woodpecker tapped suddenly a tree beside him, and he jumped at the
sudden ratchet of hollow sound, pulling his gun and pointing it
toward the tree.

The bird was startled by the movement and stopped instantly, staring
down at him with its bead eyes.

Granger put his hand on his forehead, pushing out a breath as he
shook his head at himself. He felt the urge to burst into laughter,
and barely kept it at bay. 

"Shit," he said under his breath, blew out another breath. 

Composing himself again, he checked his 9mm, tapped the safety off.
Then he tucked the gun back beneath his black leather jacket in his
shoulder holster, closed the car door quietly and headed up the road
to the trailhead and the woods beyond. 


*******


HAWK'S EYE CANYON 
SALT RIVER WASH 
SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION 
4:57 p.m.


They were a grim procession, the two men with their hands bound
stumbling on the uneven ground, Mae leading the way with Owen behind
her, his gun drawn and tapping at the center of her back every now
and then. Rudy Grey brought up the rear. 

The trail began to descend a little, and Mae could hear water
rushing ahead of them, saw a brightening in the trail, a clearing
coming into view. 

"Keep moving," Owen grunted as Mae slowed a bit, a feeling of
intense weakness coming over her. 

"Owen, I'm sick," she said under her breath, and she halted, pulling
the line up short. She turned to her brother then, meaning to plead
with him one last time, to try to make him stop this. 

And was greeted by the pistol on the center of her forehead, his
face clenched into a snarl. 

"I. Said. Keep. Moving." His voice was monotone, devoid of anything
even close to emotion. He pulled back the hammer on the gun, replaced
it on her forehead. Mae froze, closing her eyes. 

"Owen, please," she whispered. "Please." 

She opened her eyes then and looked at Joe, who was struggling to
keep his mouth closed, but his eyes were saucers, huge and panicked.
Mulder's weren't much better, though his lids drooped every now and
again as he worked at staying upright. 

Owen's hand shot out and pushed her shoulder roughly, spinning her
around. He shoved her forward, toward the sound of the water and the
light. 

Then they were in the clearing, a huge sandy expanse between the two
sloping canyon walls. There were small groves of trees here and
there, giving way to a wide creek, the water running white in some
places. In others, it was deeper and glassy and black, but still
moving swiftly. 

Across the clearing, on the other side, she saw another wide opening
in the canyon, another place where a trail came in. Owen angled her
toward it, toward the bank, then stopped her abruptly. Her stomach
churned, sweat beading her forehead, but she knew it was mostly her
fear now. 

Fear mixing with a sort of resignation about what was about to
happen. To all of them.

"Put them on their knees here and here," Owen said to Rudy, pointing
with his gun. Rudy did as he was told, pushing Joe down onto his
knees on one side of Curran, and then placing Mulder on his on the
other side. 

Owen put a hand on Mae's shoulder and pulled her back against him,
his chin over her shoulder, his gun pressed to the side of her head
and an arm across her chest. 

A human shield. In case Dana came armed. Which Mae knew she would.
Mulder was too tall and too unsteady on his feet to serve the
purpose. But Mae would be an adequate deterrent. 

Mae hated knowing that. Hated being used this way. Especially since
she knew that Owen had no intention of letting her go. 

She looked down at Mulder and Joe, kneeling, their hands out in
front of them. Mulder turned and looked back at her as though he
wanted to say something, but the tape prevented it. Instead he
nodded, opened his palms and lowered them to the ground. 

Stay calm, he was saying. She drew in a deep breath and answered him
with her eyes, afraid to even nod. 

"Stay to the side," Curran said to Grey. "But keep your gun on these
two. And shoot if either of them tries anything. I want them still as
stone. Everyone understand that? No sudden movements." 

Rudy withdrew, and Mae saw Joe and Mulder both nod. She bobbed her
head once, as well, and Owen tightened his hold on her, pressing
himself closer against her. Mae's breathing picked up as the fear
began to overtake her. 

Then they waited, watching the other side of the creek, the running
water and Mae's breathing the only sound around them. 


**

High on the cliffside, Jimmy Shea reached the edge, crawling on his
belly, his rifle out before him. He had a clear view from here.
Curran in the center, the two men on either side of him. His sister
in front him. 

And a gun to her head. 

Holy Mother, Shea thought, closing his eyes and shaking his head.
His own sister? He was using his own sister to shield him? From what? 

He was bluffing. He had to be. Surely Owen wouldn't hurt Mae, he
decided. Owen had loved his sister his whole life. They'd been nearly
inseparable since James' death, and since the death of their older
brother, the priest shot in the square in Belfast. 

He must be using her against someone coming to meet him. A pawn in a
game he was playing, a bit of strategy and nothing more. 

But something else was in the back of his mind. A worry. Everything
he'd been told about Owen, how he'd lost his mind, lost control. 

Thinking this, Shea quietly pulled the rifle up, bracing it in his
hands, the butt's familiar end at his shoulder. He put his eye to the
scope, not even closing the other as he sighted through it, trying to
get Owen's head in the crosshairs. 

Mae was right there, her head right next to her brother's. Through
the scope, he could see the terror in her eyes. 

This wasn't a bluff or a game, he realized. Mae was afraid for her
life, her skin pale as a spirit's. She was trembling faintly. 

And the look on Owen's face. Hatred. Determination. Something else,
too. Something wild and dangerous. 

Not quite sane. 

Shea sighed, deeply saddened. 

There was movement from the other side of the canyon, which Shea
noted from his peripheral vision. He kept his eyes on Owen though,
who was jerking his sister closer to him, their heads pressing even
closer together. 

"No shot," Shea whispered, pursing his lips. 

He kept still, the scope on both their heads now, his only movement
his finger, edging, as if on its own accord, onto the trigger. 


**

On the other side of the canyon, tucked in a fold of trees right at
the edge of a slope that led to the sand of the clearing, Granger lay
on his belly, peering from behind a tree, watching Owen with Mae and
Mulder and a man he didn't know who he assumed to be Mae's lover.
They were all arranged around Owen like chess pieces, the two men
looking battered and worn. 

Mulder especially. He looked like he was having a hard time even
remaining upright. It worried Granger, first for his well-being in
general, and second, because it appeared Mulder wouldn't be able to
do much to help himself escape if the opportunity arose. 

But there were only two of them, Granger thought, taking it all in,
his pistol in front of him. Owen and the man off to the side, who had
his gun pointed at Mulder, with a clear shot at the other man, as
well. 

And Owen had Mae up against him, keeping him from having any sort of
shot without endangering her. 

Then, movement off to his left. 

Scully.


**

Scully walked slowly into the clearing, onto the sand from the dirt
trail and saw the scene before her as soon as she entered it. Owen
watching her from over Mae's shoulder, Mulder and another man -- the
father of Mae's child -- kneeling in front of him, on either side.
The man was looking at Scully, wary and curious.

She met Mulder's gaze as she kept her slow pace toward the creek
that separated them. He was shaking his head almost unperceptively,
his eyes darting to the side toward Owen. 

Don't trust him, he was saying. Don't believe him. 

"Stop," Owen said, his voice echoing in the canyon. 

Scully halted instantly, about ten feet from the edge of the creek.
She kept her hands to the sides, stood still. Owen looked at her for
a long moment in the silence that followed. 

"Dana, the months have been hard, I see," he called across the
creek. "You don't quite look like yourself anymore." 

Scully said nothing, only looked at him, looked at Mae, whose eyes
were more afraid than anything she'd ever seen. She tried to reassure
Mae with her eyes, but Mae did not break her gaze, not even to blink. 

The warning in them was as clear as it had been in Mulder's. 

Owen seemed displeased by her silence, his expression hardening even
more. 

"How about you take that shirt off you're wearing?" Owen said. "The
top one." 

Scully stood and stared at him for a few seconds. Then Owen jerked
Mae backward hard, pressed the gun against her head harder. Tears
started down Mae's cheeks, her lip trembling. 

"Don't make me fucking tell you anything twice," Owen warned,
looking at the men, then back up into Scully's face. "For any of
their sakes." 

Scully swallowed, looked at Mulder again, his face battered, blood
staining the tape over his mouth. His eyes did not move from her
face. 

She remained silent, reached up and began to undo the knot at her
waist. 

"Slow, Dana," Owen said. "Do it slow. I don't want any sudden
movements of you going for the gun I know you've got hidden
underneath there." 

Scully slowed her movements down, opening up the shirt's tails. Then
she reached up and began undoing the buttons one at a time until the
front was open, exposing the thin white t-shirt underneath. She
peeled out of the shirt and let it drop to the ground beside her. 

Her gun was clearly visible in its holster now. 

"Take that thing out and throw it in the creek," Owen called. "I
want to be able to count the hairs on your hand while you do it." 

Scully reached for it and lifted the Sig out, holding it for a
second. Then she tossed it the few feet to the creek. It landed in
the black water and disappeared. 

"Now put your hands up and turn around," Owen said, and Scully
swallowed again, raised her arms and did as she was told. 

She knew what Owen would see. Mulder's gun in the back of her pants,
the butt of it protruding from above her belt. 

"Take that one out, too," he called. "And do the same thing with it." 

Scully reached behind her, drew it out, and turned back around,
tossing it into the water, as well. 

"Any other surprises in those clothes of yours?" Owen asked. 

She shook her head. 

"That's good," Owen said. 

They stood in silence for a few seconds, Owen's eyes on Scully's.
Scully didn't flinch from his intense gaze, from the hatred burning
in it. 

"Aren't you going to say anything to me?" Owen asked, tightening his
hold on Mae even further. 

Scully shifted her weight, lowered her hands. "You have me now," she
said, just loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the rushing
water. "It's time to let them go." 

"All of them?" Owen said, and he smiled, showing his teeth. 

"That was the deal," Scully said, keeping her voice composed, though
she didn't like the turn in the conversation. "Me for all of them.
Send them over and I'll come when they're all on this side." 

Owen levelled his gaze even more at her. "Think hard about that,
Dana," he said. "Think hard. Because what John Fagan did to you is
nothing compared to what you're going to go through with me before
I'm finished with you." 

Scully felt a flush come up on her cheeks at the mention of the
rape, but her chin lifted up defiantly, as well, her eyes not leaving
Owen's. 

She heard Mulder make a sound from behind his tape, turn to Owen,
who spared him a glance and a smirk before returning his eyes to
Scully's.

"How was that, anyway?" Owen continued conversationally. "Was it
*good* for you, Dana? Because I'll be better, I promise." 

Mulder made another sound, clearly a curse, digging up sand with his
hands. Owen looked at him again, then back up at Scully. He laughed,
and it echoed off the canyon walls.

"Send them over," she said, refusing to take the bait. Mulder's eyes
were on her again, his head shaking. She nodded to him once.

Yes, I will do this, she said across the space between them. I will.

Owen seemed to consider that for a moment, the smile vanishing from
his face. Scully realized she was disappointing him by not playing
his game. 

A dangerous strategy, she knew. 

"I tell you what," Owen countered. "I'll give you a free one. I'll
send this pathetic fuck Joe Porter over there to you. I don't have
any real interest in him anyway, even though he did knock up my
sister and I should kill him for that."

Porter looked at Scully, then at Owen, then back at Scully. 

"All right," Scully said evenly. "Send him over." 

Owen looked down at Porter. "Get up and walk over there." 

The man was looking at Mae, Scully noted, and Mae at him. 

"Go, Joe," Mae implored. "I'll be all right. Just go." 

Again the man hesitated. 

"Get up and fucking go or I'll kill her right here!" Owen roared,
and Joe scrambled to his feet then as Mae cried out from another hard
jerk. 

"NOW!" The word tore off the canyon around them.

"Okay..." Porter said. "Just don't hurt her..." 

And with that, he turned and went to the bank, then into the water,
sloshing up to his knees as he stumbled, off balance with his hands
bound, along the bottom toward where Scully stood. 

Once on the other side of the bank, Scully looked at him. 

"Get behind me," she murmured, and Porter nodded and did as he was
told. 

Scully returned her attention to Owen. "Mulder and Mae," she said,
her voice flat and calm. 

Now Owen smiled, and Scully grew cold with it. 

Here it comes, she thought. 

"Choose," he said, the smile on his face growing wider. 

**

"Oh fuck," Granger whispered from behind the tree. He peered around,
praying for some movement, for a shot. Anything. 

He was going to have to do something. He knew that now. No matter
what it took. Scully still had the gun at her leg. He needed to give
her a chance to get to it. 

But with Mae in front of Curran like that...

"Fuck," he hissed again beneath his breath.

**

"What?" Scully's heart filled with iron and plummeted to her
stomach, and for the first time panic began to crawl up her.

"I said 'choose,'" Owen said, nodding first to Mulder, then pushing
at Mae's head with the muzzle of the gun. "My sister and her baby, or
your boyfriend there. You only get one of them. The other one dies
right here as soon as the other one goes to your side of the water." 

"That wasn't our agreement," Scully said, forcing her voice to
steady. 

"I changed my mind," Owen said, the smile, like quicksilver, gone
and replaced with grit teeth. "Now hurry it up and pick. My sister
who saved your life by killing *my* friend and the little bastard
she's carrying or your mouthy fucking boyfriend. PICK!" 

Scully looked from one to the other. Mulder was shaking his head
again vigorously, making sounds from beneath the tape. 

"Dana, pick Mulder," Mae said calmly. 

"Shut the fuck up!" Owen screamed, and got his hand around her
throat. 

"He's going to kill me no matter--" Her voice strained from his hand
around her throat. 

Scully looked from one to the other, and frustrated tears rimmed her
eyes. 

She couldn't choose that easily. Mulder wouldn't want anyone dying
for his sake, and it wasn't just Mae -- it was her baby, as well. 

There had to be a way to save them, she thought, desperate. 

Mae and her baby and Mulder. 

There had to be a way...


**

Jimmy Shea shook his head, hearing all this. His sister *pregnant*
and him going to kill her like this. 

The boy on the motorcycle. 

The boy in the pub.

James Curran laughing.

Mae's shy smile at the wake.

Shea closed his eyes, sent up a prayer. 

God help me, he implored. 

James, he thought. Forgive me. 

He looked through the scope, and this time he did close the other eye.


**

"Do...it..." Mae rasped, and Owen squeezed down on her throat
harder. She tried to cough, clearly unable to breathe. 

"ALL RIGHT!" Scully screamed. "All right, Owen! Just stop it!"

She knew Mae was right. Owen would never let Mae go. And he *would*
kill her. 

The two women locked eyes. Mae jerked a nod.

"Just..." Scully began, swallowed, breathing hard. "Send Mulder.
Send him over now." 

She still had her gun. Maybe there would be a
distraction...anything...a chance...

Owen's hand relaxed a bit and Mae gasped for breath, coughing. 

"That's more like it," he said. "How's that for your friend now,
Mae, eh? The person you turned your back on me for, and she's willing
to let you and your baby die." 

"You're not giving her a choice," Mae said. 

"I did give her a choice," Owen insisted, pushing her head to the
side roughly. "She chose Mulder." 

Owen watched Scully, who was looking at Mulder and Mae, stricken.
Then he turned and looked down at Mulder. 

"Get up, Mulder," he said, his voice menacing once again. "Get up
and go." 

Mulder was panting, breathing hard through his nose as he stared at
Curran. Scully could see the hatred that passed between them,
Mulder's hesitation. Owen pushed the pistol harder against Mae's
temple. 

"Go now," Owen said. "Last chance." 

And with that, Mulder struggled to his feet, his knees trembling. He
staggered to the side, shook his head clear, and turned, walked
unsteadily toward the bank. 

Scully locked eyes with him as he reached the edge of the water,
began to wade in, the water to his ankles, his calves, his knees. He
stumbled even more than Porter had. 

It happened so fast. 

The gun from Mae's temple, pointed forward, pointed at Mulder's back.

A shot rang out. A scream, the word "no," tearing from Mae's throat
as the gun went to her temple again.

The sound still continuing, Scully looked at Mulder, who had stopped
in the middle of the stream. He was crumbling in on himself. 

That's when she saw it. A red blossom at his stomach, the shirt torn
around it like the petals of a crimson flower. He looked at her, his
eyes lolling, then he tumbled forward into the water. 

"MULDER!" Scully screamed, the sound joining Mae's shrill cry. Then
she dropped to a crouch, going for the gun... 

**

"SHIT! SHIT!" 

Granger jumped to his feet and tore from the treeline, sliding down
the slope into the clearing, kicking up a cloud of dust around him.
He hit the ground at a dead run, the gun still in his hand but
forgotten. 

He saw Owen turn toward him, his gun coming up. Owen fired...


**

Mae felt the gun leave her temple, saw the man breaking from the
slope, charging them. She felt Owen's grasp on her loosen with his
distraction, saw Dana rising with a gun in her hand, and she knew
what she needed to do. 

She swung her elbow back, catching Owen in the ribs just as Owen's
gun went off, knocking his arm off target. 

He let her go and she dropped to the ground as though thrown there...

**

Scully shot to her feet, her stance sure, her left hand coming up to
cup the butt of the pistol in her hand, bracing it, despite the fine
tremor coursing through it. She fired...

**

Granger threw himself to the side, even though he knew Owen's aim
had been knocked off when Mae had struck him. The bullet whizzed by
overhead, too high. Then he saw the ragged hole appear in Curran's
shoulder from the bullet Scully had just fired. It staggered Curran
backward a few steps, but he held onto the gun, raised it toward
Scully. 

"NO!" he screamed, his arms and legs pumping as he tore for the
creek. 


**

Jimmy Shea adjusted his aim as his target staggered. It took only a
second to do so, to line up the crosshairs on their target. 

Anguish flared in him. 

He fired. 


**

Scully saw Owen's gun coming up, knew there was no time to get out
of the way of this one. She raised the gun to fire again, but knew it
was too late.

A strange feeling of calm came over her. Her eyes went to Mulder,
who was bobbing slightly, floating with his face in the water down
the creek. 

She waited for the bullet to come.

The shot rang out, sounding strange and too loud and too-faraway. 

Then, as she watched in fascinated horror, the top of Owen's head
came right off, a spatter in a cloud of red beside him. 

Owen dropped to the side, the gun tumbling from his hand as Mae
screamed, scrambling away toward the creek. 

Another shot, the same faraway sound. 

The man Curran had hired, standing there dumbfounded, was suddenly
struck backward, a huge hole in the center of his forehead. He fell
back into the sand and didn't move again.

"Get down!" Porter yelled from behind her, and shoved her hard with
both his hands, pushing her to the ground. 

Scully fell forward on her belly in the sand, her eyes going to
Mulder just as Granger hit the water, throwing himself at Mulder and
hauling him to the bank closest Scully. He shielded Mulder with his
body as his eyes darted around for the source of the shots. 

Ten seconds, she realized. 

The whole thing had taken less than ten seconds. 

"Mulder!" she called, struck out of her state, and, despite the
danger, she began to crawl forward, leaving the gun behind,
scrambling crab-like in the sand toward Mulder, who was sprawled
across Granger's lap, his torso covering him. 

Mae was coming from the other side. She entered the creek, splashing
across. Porter was behind Scully, coming forward on his belly, as
well. 

Scully reached Mulder now, cradled his head in her hands as she
looked into his face. 

He wasn't breathing. 

"Oh God..." she said. "Help me get this tape off his mouth." Her
shaking fingers were working the corner up, and Granger worked the
other corner. Finally they tore it off, exposing his swollen lip. 

"He's aspirated water," Scully said, her voice quaking. Mae had made
it beside her now, Porter behind her. Scully glanced down at Mulder's
belly, where blood was seeping from the exit wound. 

"Mae, put your hand over that bullet wound and press down as hard as
you can. Granger, get him on the flat ground. And get the tape off
Joe's hands. We need them." 

"But those shots--" Granger began.

"Don't worry about them," Mae said, breathless, but her face was
grimly set. She was still crying. "I think...whoever it is...he got
what he came for."

Granger looked at her, as did Scully and Joe. Scully glanced up at
where Owen's body lay, nodded.

Then Granger hauled Mulder up from the bank, lay his soaked body on
the ground as Scully and Mae swarmed over him. Granger reached over
and started unwrapping the tape from Joe's hands. 

Scully scrambled up until she straddled Mulder's hips, leaned his
face to the side. Then she performed a modified Heimlich, thrusting
up on his abdomen beneath his ribs, trying to ignore the jagged hole
in his belly. They would deal with that after he was breathing again. 

On each thrust, some water came out of his mouth. 

Mae clamped both hands on the exit wound, pressing hard around
Scully's hand. 

On the fourth thrust, Mulder jerked, sputtered, a huge cough coming
from him as a spray of water came out of his mouth. 

"That's it," Scully said, climbing off him and stroking back his wet
hair from his pale face. "That's it, Mulder."

Mulder coughed again, water dribbling from the corner of his mouth,
his eyes wild, looking at the faces around him. He looked dazed, and
he hunched in pain from Mae's hands on the wound in his belly,
moaning. He wheezed in a breath. 

Granger had Joe's hands free, and Joe came forward on his knees.

"Tell me what to do," he said quickly, and Scully nodded toward
Mulder's legs. 

"We've got to get him out of here. Get his legs. Granger, get him
underneath the shoulders. Let's get back to the truck." 

With that, the two men lifted him, and Mae kept her hands on the
exit wound as Scully reached to Mulder's back, her hand over the
small entrance wound. The four of them walked quickly, as much in
unison as they could manage, rushing back up the trail toward the
Bronco.

Mulder was looking up into Scully's face, struggling to focus.

"It's okay, Mulder," she soothed as they tussled him along. "You're
going to be okay." She looked down at the bleeding coming from
beneath Mae's hands. It was bad. 

Mulder gagged slightly, his eyes rolling back in his head. Then
there was blood in his mouth, red around his teeth.

Scully felt panic overtake her now as she realized the extent of his
internal injuries. His stomach had been perforated. He was bleeding
into his belly. 

They reached the Bronco, Scully throwing open the doors as Granger
and Joe loaded Mulder into the backseat, Scully climbing up after
them with Mae. She got Mulder situated on her lap, his head against
her breast, then she tossed Granger the keys. Granger caught them,
climbed into the driver's seat, Porter taking the passenger seat,
though he was facing behind, his face stricken. 

Scully and Mae leaned back down on the bullet wounds, pressing hard,
despite Mulder's groans. 

"Granger, drive fast," Scully said, breathless, as she looked into
Granger's grim face. "We don't have much time."


**********


END OF CHAPTER 21 and PART 3. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 22 and PART 4.