Disclaimers in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 6a.

*********

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

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

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

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

The rage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tension verging on fear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skinner waited, saying nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He reached his hand out, and she did as well, clasping his tightly.

A folded scrap of paper in his palm passed to hers, surprising her.

She did not let the feeling reach her face as she drew her hand back
and put her hands back in her pockets.

"Thank you, Mr. Skinner, for seeing me." She forced a smile.

"You're welcome, Mrs. Scully," he replied formally. He turned and
walked away.

After a long moment, she rose from the bench, the snow continuing to
fall, and blended in with the crowd as she made her way back to the
parking area. Her heart was racing by the time she reached it, and
she climbed in, fumbled for her keys in her pocket, started the car.

Only then did she reach for the tiny corner of paper. She unfolded
it in her lap, out of sight of the windows, squinted down at the tiny
writing.

"Somewhere in the southwest," it said. "Hurt, but is doing better.
With Mulder. Will have more as I know more."

She studied it for a long moment, the tears starting once again. She
reached up and covered her mouth with her hand until she'd brought
them back under control.

Carefully she ripped up the piece of paper, put the remnants back in
her pocket.

Then she put the car into gear and pulled out into the lunchtime
traffic, turned the block and headed slowly for home.
 

***********

NOGALES, ARIZONA
ON THE U.S./MEXICAN BORDER
1:35 p.m.
 

The falcon was blind.

Tom Lantham could tell that from the moment he looked at it, the
places where its keen eyes should have been covered over with a thick
patina of scar, the cups of lids blinking uselessly, instinctively,
over the ragged holes. It made him ill as he looked at it, both at
the sight of the eyes and at the thought of such a beautiful animal
being crippled so badly and then put on display.

A sign, written in English and Spanish, beside it said: "Photo taken
with bird on your arm, $5," and sure enough Rudy Gray was getting out
his wallet to pay the kid beside the falcon to have his picture taken
with the thing.

Lantham cringed, shook his head -- Gray could be such a kid
sometimes -- and turned his attention to the man who had exited the
storefront behind the poor creature on its stand. He was wiping his
hands on an apron, drying them as he looked at Lantham and Gray
suspiciously. The store was a small cafe that served food to go.

It was hard for Lantham to draw his full attention to the man. The
drive from Colorado, from Curran, had been a long one, and he was
already tired. Still, he pulled himself up and focussed on the task
at hand.

"Mr. Ruiz?" he said as the man approached him. Lantham squinted down
at the much shorter man as he stopped before him.

"Yes, I'm Pablo Ruiz," the man replied cautiously, his voice heavily
accented. "You police or something? Cuz I got nothing going on here
except selling food. You can search the place yourself and see."

Lantham held up a hand. "No, no, Mr. Ruiz, we're not police," he
said. "We got a tip that you reported having some information about a
woman who passed through here. You called a number to report it? That
you found on a flyer?"

Ruiz seemed to think for a moment, then nodded vigorously. "Oh, the
flyer up at the pawn shop. I almost forgot. S', I saw one of those
women. Y el nio, too. They came into my shop, oh, I guess six weeks
ago. Five. Something like that."

"You sure it was them?" Lantham asked. He had to step back as,
beside him, the bird's wings opened instinctively to balance itself
as it was placed onto Gray's heavily gloved forearm. The bird make a
high cry as it settled back down.

"S', pretty sure," Ruiz answered, his hands going to his hips now.
"She had the same long dark hair as the photo. Hermosa, she was.
Lovely to look at. Spoke ingls with a strange accent, her and the
boy."

Lantham nodded. The Polaroid camera clicked and whined as the kid
snapped the picture. "Yeah, that sounds like them," he said as Gray
fumbled the bird back onto the stand. It nearly fell as it stumbled
onto the perch, which Lantham found quite sad.

"Any idea where they were headed?" he asked, forcing his attention
back on Ruiz. "Did she give anything away about that?"

Ruiz seemed to consider again. "She said something about them having
a long drive ahead of them. She said it to el muchacho. That he'd
better eat two of my chalupas because it might be awhile before they
ate again. I asked where she was heading, you know, just to be
friendly, and she said they were going down into Mexico to...how do
you say?...see los lugares interesantes..." He snapped his fingers as
the word came to him. "To sight-see."

So Mae Curran had crossed the border, Lantham thought, pursed his
lips. That complicated matters for him, for sure. For one, he didn't
speak Spanish beyond the very basics (and Gray barely spoke English,
he mused bitterly), and it would be more difficult to get information
when they crossed into Mexico. For another, it was a big country. Mae
and Curran's son could be anywhere at this point, with a five to six
week head start.

"Where's my hundred bucks?" Ruiz asked expectantly. "The flyer said
a hundred bucks for informacin."

Gray was waving his Polaroid in the air in front of him, as though
the action would bring the picture up faster.

Lantham sighed and reached into his wallet, fat with bills. He
plucked out a crisp $100 bill and handed it to Ruiz, who folded it
over immediately and stuffed it into his apron pocket, as though he
didn't want anyone to see him getting it.

"Gracias, Mr. Ruiz," Lantham said, smiled stiffly. "You've been a
lot of help. If you happen to see her and the boy, or the other woman
on the flyer, make sure you give another call to that number."

"I will," Ruiz promised. "Pleasure to do business with you," and he
went back into the store.

Lantham turned to Gray, who was staring proudly at his photo. The
bird moved uneasily on its perch, its blind eyes blinking.

"You ready?" he asked, and Gray looked up at him.

"Yeah, we going to Mexico?"

Lantham nodded. "Yeah, we are. Make sure your gun's out of sight
when we go through the border crossing, just in case they stop us. I
don't think they will, though."

Gray nodded, still mesmerized by his picture. He turned it around to
show it to Lantham, who put a hand out, pushing the other man's arm
down.

"Come on, Rudy," he said, put out. "We don't have any time to waste."

Gray followed him obediently through the crowded street, back toward
the parking lot on the outskirts of town, only a few hundred feet
from the Mexican border.
 

********

BUCKHORN LAKE
DANIEL BOONE FOREST
OUTSIDE BUCKHORN, KENTUCKY
3:35 p.m.
 

The fish were biting, and for this, at least, Jimmy Shea was pleased.

Just off the side of the boat, a long yellow stringer trailed beside
the idle, aging motor, swaying back and forth slightly with the small
ripples of the lake and movement of the fish pinned to it through the
gills.

He'd caught seven fish so far and had only been out for a few hours,
just back from Tyner, a town north of Egypt, Kentucky. He'd found one
person in town who seemed to recognize the photo he'd shown around, a
manager at a motel on the main street of the town. But the man said
that he'd seen someone looking like that -- who also had an accent
like Shea's -- weeks and weeks ago, but not any time recently.

Shea had shown the picture around the whole place after that, which
didn't take long. It was a small town. He'd come up with nothing
else.

Curran may have been there, but he'd moved on. Of that Shea was
certain. He'd called Rutherford and told him just that.

He got a tug on his line and jerked the rod back, felt the fish pull
hard to the left beneath the water. As he began to reel in, there was
another sharp jab on the line and then it went slack again.

Shea sighed, reeled the line in, not surprised to find his bait gone.

He reached for the styrofoam cup of night crawlers, bought at the
shop where he'd rented the shabby boat and motor, and let the hook
swing into the boat. He dug through the damp dirt, finally pulling
out a frantic, fat black worm. He impaled it on the hook, twisting it
around to catch it in several loops on the sharp end.

He did it all by rote, dispassionately, almost with a sigh. As he'd
done most things in his life. Particularly in the last years.

He remembered a time when he had passion, ire for everything.

James Curran, Owen Curran's father, had been a part of that time.

And for an instant, in the battered boat on the dark lake, he went
back to it, the memories burned into him like a brand.

He was riding a motorcycle toward the outskirts of Ballycastle, up
into the sheep pastures and the brilliant green of the hills around
the sea.

Nineteen-seventy and the IRA was just beginning to organize, each
town given its own command, its own store of weapons. Discipline of a
sort. Training. And, since the polarizing events of 1969, purpose.

He was 31, still a young man, part of the Newry unit, in the time
before its reputation was ruined with its members cracking under
interrogation, before their damaging signed confessions.

He'd was riding to the home of one of the battalion leaders to see
about killing a man. There was a UDR officer named Norton who had
made the very human mistake of developing a routine, and the IRA was
going to do something about that while they had the chance.

Shea had developed a reputation as being the best shot in the
northern units. That's why he'd been called for the task.

He remembered the house on the hillside, a lovely place, and showing
a man who had some means. The owner was standing beside a low wall
made of stone, shuffling bags of feed from the back of a small truck.
A young boy stood beside him wearing high boots, a white fisherman's
sweater with simple pants. The man himself was dressed similarly, a
cap on his head. They both turned as the motorcycle came up the long
road to the house, even the boy seeming to watch his approach with
care.

He pulled up beside them, removed his helmet as the man came
forward. "Jimmy Shea?" the other man asked, brushing off his hands.

"Aye, I'm Shea. James Curran?"

The man nodded. The boy, who couldn't be more than five, had taken
up a place behind his father's leg, looking at Shea with his wide
blue eyes. His dark hair was cut close to his head, and spiked a bit
on top.

"And who do we have here?" Shea said, putting his helmet on the seat
of the cycle and turning again, crouching down with his hands on his
knees. The child smiled shyly, looked away toward the bike.

"Ah, this is my youngest, Owen," Curran said proudly, putting a hand
on Owen's head, palming his small skull. Shea smiled to him, but Owen
kept looking at the bike, a finger in his mouth.

"You like the motorcycle, do you then?" Shea asked, still smiling
widely. "You come over here to me I'll put you up on the seat. How's
that?"

Owen curled around his father's leg a bit more, smiling wider now.

"Come on," Shea prodded, holding his arms out in a welcoming
gesture. Curran watched Shea, amused.

"Go on, Owen. He won't bite."

Finally, the boy came forward, and Shea reached out to take him in
his arms, lifting up and bracing him with one arm while he moved the
helmet with the other. Then he sat Owen down on the seat, who leaned
forward, reaching for the handlebars, clearly pleased.

"What do you think of that, eh?" Shea said. "She's a nice one, isn't
she?"

The boy nodded. "But where do you keep your gun?" he asked, his
voice high and light.

Shea was taken back a bit by the question. "My gun? What do you know
about that?" He laughed a touch nervously.

James Curran crossed his arms over his chest, smiled even more
proudly.

"Don't you use your gun when you ride your motorcycle?" Owen asked,
looking back at Shea. Shea looked back, silent for a beat.

"Aye, sometimes I do," he said finally, his voice betraying his
surprise.

He wondered about the boy then, about his father. It was common
knowledge in the North that motorcycles and assassins went together,
but he didn't expect a boy of Owen's age to know that.

Now Curran laughed heartily, came forward and plucked his son off
the motorcycle, setting him on his feet. "Go on, Owen. Go find your
mother. Mr. Shea and I have some business to discuss."

"All right, Daddy," the boy said softly, and looked up at Shea,
smiling again. Then he scuttled off toward the house.

"Let's take a walk, Jimmy," Curran said, putting his arm around
Shea's shoulder and steering him toward the pasture.

Shea turned and went along with him, into the fields of green.

Now he looked out over the lake, at the trees lining the banks in
the distance. He shook his head, his gaze frozen on that distance for
a moment. Then, sighing, he swung the line out, cast it into the
water, and waited for the fish to come.
 

*********

END OF CHAPTER 6a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 6b.

Disclaimers in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 6b.

********

WHISTLE STOP INN
WILLIAMS, ARIZONA
11:17 p.m.
 

The creature lumbered through the clearing, its arms swinging in
long arcs beside its body, its strides long, unhurried. It was tall,
covered with dark hair. From the distance, its features were
difficult to make out, though as it turned slightly and looked back
over its shoulder, as though aware it were being watched, a pair of
dark eyes peered out from beneath heavy brows, its gait quickening as
it headed for the safety of the treeline.

"Mulder."

A man's voice floated into the room. "Recently, a group of
scientists led by Dr. Gene Robinson at the University of Oregon were
involved in an experiment to confirm the existence of the creature. A
mesh bag filled with fruit was placed in the low branches of a tree
around the area where it had been sighted.

"As morning came the following day, Dr. Robinson was able to make
plaster casts of both a set of footprints made as the creature
approached the tree, and also a right buttock print in the ground at
the base of the trunk where the creature had apparently sat down to
consume the bait."

"Mulder, don't start."

"Come on, Scully, listen to this."

Gene Robinson, as the caption on the screen identified him, held up
a plaster casting the size of a dinner plate, pointing to a series of
marks on it. "This print can be authenticated on the basis of its
hair patterns," the man said. "As you can see, the hair follows an
anatomically correct pattern of growth..."

Scully tuned it out now, though she could tell from how still Mulder
was against her in the bed, how his hand was poised in midair with
the remote, that he was enthralled. As usual.

"It really does follow the correct pattern," Mulder said, and she
knew that convicted tone all too well. "See how you can see the hair
moving away from the center area --"

"Mulder, I'm not going to do this tonight," she said, though she
rubbed her cheek against the soft material of his shirt at the crook
of his arm as she said it, nuzzling into him like a cat, her eyes
closing.

"Do what?" he asked, seemingly genuinely perplexed.

She smiled, her eyes staying closed, her arm gripping around his
chest a little tighter, her leg sliding a little higher on his thigh.
When she spoke, her voice was soft, drawled with impending sleep.

"Oh, argue with you about the veracity of hair patterns on a
buttprint of a man in a rented gorilla suit who has a taste for
mangos so that you can then launch into a treatise about the number
of Bigfoot sightings--"

He laughed, his chest vibrating beneath her arm.

"A 'buttprint?'" he asked. "Is that the scientific term, Dr. Scully?
Because if we're going to be scientifically correct about this, I
believe it's called an 'assprint.'"

A laugh bubbled up from her and she opened her eyes, leaned up a
little to look in his eyes. They were soft, looking velvet in the
shadows. The only light was from the lamp on the night table on his
side of the bed, and it threw his face into chiaroscuro relief. Two
pints of ice cream -- Phish Food and Peanut Butter Cup -- sat melting
beneath the lamp, plastic spoons protruding from their edges.

He was smiling at her as he reached over and curved her hair around
her ear.

Something seemed to hang in the air for a moment over them,
something warm and tender and ultimately welcome. Scully breathed it
in as she looked at him, feeling his fingers caress her lobe softly,
the sensitive skin beneath it.

Yesterday at Wupatki, she had felt as desolate as the stones
surrounding her. Trying to think of Fagan, trying to feel him, had
tired her, made her weary and lost. Sitting with Mulder on the ledge
overlooking the mesa and the grey sky, she'd found her way back
again, let the desolation move through her, as the heavy clouds had
moved over the dark ruins behind them.

She'd stroked his wrist and settled back into herself as best she
could, something growing quiet in her, quiet as the snow.

They'd gone back to the motel and eaten a simple dinner. Baked
chicken. Some apples. Some cheese. As she stood before the small
stove, Mulder quartering the green apples behind her, she'd felt
something in her unknot, the memory of them in her kitchen cooking
together, the sound of heavy plates on the wooden table, coming back
to her. The sound of empty wine glasses clinking in Mulder's hand as
they went to the couch afterward.

She'd slept soundly last night, the soundest sleep in weeks, spared
from the dreaming.

The morning brought sleeping in, a late breakfast at a local diner.
She'd spent the afternoon dozing, sometimes curled against him. Other
times, he'd risen, reading the newspaper he'd bought from a machine
at the diner or flipping channels from the foot of the bed as she
slept.

They'd spoken little, but the silence was not unwelcome. There was
an ease to it, something companionable in it. As though, for a little
while, words had become unnecessary.

At one point, lying against him, his breathing deep and steady, his
eyes fluttering beneath his lids as he dreamed, she remembered lazy
days in his bed, or hers, rousing to find his mouth, his hands,
moving over her body. The warm weight of the afternoons of lovemaking
had settled over her as she watched him, held him, while he slept.

"You're only saying you don't want to argue about this Bigfoot thing
because you know I'll end up being right," he said finally, breaking
her thoughts.

She rolled her eyes, slapped him lightly on the stomach, causing him
to suck in, a startled "oh!" coming from him as his hand left her ear
and went to his stomach as though she'd mortally wounded him.

He laughed, and so did she, the sound coming from her fast and
light, like sparrows.

She looked deeply at him. There was something so familiar to all
this. The banter over unlikely things. The closeness to him. The
teasing, tender light in his eyes as he looked at her.

It was as though they had finally managed to leave it all behind.

She smiled at the thought, a low heat rushing through her.

Maybe things could be the same after all.

Thinking this, she rolled over on top of him, her hands on either
side of his head as his hands went instinctively around her, resting
on the small of her back.

He adjusted his head on the pillow so that their faces were almost
touching. She could feel his slow, warm breath on her face as his
fingers traced small shapes in the material of her white pajama top.

"I mean, come on. When have I not been right?" His voice was just
above a whisper, and he smiled softly.

His words were meant to continue his tease, but the sentiment did
not reach his tone. The mischief had gone from his eyes. She rubbed
her thumbs over his bearded cheeks as she watched his mood shift. He
was very still beneath her.

The playful feeling had gone from her, as well, the smile leaving
her face. Keeping her eyes open, she closed the few inches between
them and touched her lips to his, pulling away almost immediately,
though she did not withdraw any further than she had been before.

His hands moved from her back to cradle her waist, his grip gentle
and sure.

"What was that for?" he whispered.

She could do nothing but shake her head, her lips curling as she
leaned in and kissed him again, longer this time. She opened her
mouth and pulled his bottom lip in, tugging gently. His hands slid up
her back and a small sound came from his throat.

Their lips moved over each other's for a long moment. Then she broke
the contact and pressed her lips to his throat, her hand pushing at
his shirt.

"Take this off." She breathed it against his skin, felt him shiver.

Then she placed her knees on either side of his hips and leaned up,
resting on his thighs as he pulled the shirt up over his head,
tossing it on the floor beside the bed, looking up at her with his
smokey eyes. His hands came to rest on her thighs, holding still
there.

She could sense his caution. Perhaps that was the beginning of it,
the feeling that sprouted in her. Just the hint of it sent her into a
fine tremor, her breath quivering as she let out a long exhale,
trying to calm herself, soothe.

She pushed it all down, willing it away.

As if to prove she had vanquished it, she reached for the buttons of
her top, pushing the top white button through its white hole. She saw
him swallow, and then found herself looking down shyly, unable to
meet his intense gaze. She watched her fingers work the buttons as
though she'd never touched them before. She did not push the sides of
the shirt apart.

As she undid the last button, her hands went to his belly, her
thumbs moving over the faint line of hair at his navel. She still
could not meet his eyes, and her faint trembling increased.

His hands went to her top, fingering the sides. With a slow motion,
he pushed them apart, revealing her body. She arched her back as he
smoothed the top off her shoulders, down to the center of her back.
Her nipples hardened in the chill of the room and under the burn of
his gaze. She slid her arms out of the sleeves, laying the shirt down
beside them on the rumpled bed.

Now she draped herself down over him, her arms going around his neck
as her breasts pressed against his body. She buried her face against
his throat, beneath the coarse hair of his beard.

He was still, except for his hands, which were reading the bumps of
her ribs on her back as though memorizing her. She felt his breath
deepen, quicken. She felt him hard against her belly.

The fear came up her like a current at the feel of him.

She shook against him, her eyes stinging.

No...

Her mind whispered the word to her, but she did not listen.

His hands curved around her sides to her breasts, and she arched her
back to allow him to cup them, his palms hot against her skin. His
lips were on her hair, his cheek rubbing against her, urging her face
up to his. His hands kneaded softly as she looked up, her eyes
clenched closed against the sight of him.

His mouth closed over hers and she struggled to meet him, her hands
gripping his hair in her fists.

No.

Her mind said it again, louder this time, with more finality.

(Hands on her back, rough. Pain. Pain piercing her with the shame of
it.)

She felt herself flush all over, turned her face away from him,
breaking her contact with his mouth.

"No..." She said it out loud this time, to herself, to the terror
gripping her. To him. She felt him freeze beneath her, his hands
stilling instantly.

"It's all right," he whispered. "We don't have to do this."

The first sob hitched her breath, nearly choking her. She pulled her
arms from around his neck as his hands went around her back, her
hands going to cover her mouth, her elbows jutting into his belly.
Her shaking was uncontrollable now, a cry crawling up her throat. It
sounded like an animal, or a terrified child.

She hated it.

Hated herself.

Fury ignited in her.

Fury and shame.

"Scully..."

She shook her head, pulled away from him quickly, gracelessly. Some
dim part of her wondered if she might have hurt him as she pushed
herself off of his body, ending up on her side beside him. Her hands
scrambled to her top, clutching it to her, hiding her breasts, as she
rolled again to the edge of the bed, facing away from him now, her
legs curling up until her thighs touched her belly.

Another sob wracked her. She jerked as though struck.

She could feel him moving up behind her, shifting toward her. His
hand brushed her shoulder.

"Scully, it's all right," he soothed, but there was something very
afraid in his voice, almost desperate, as though he didn't even
believe himself.

She didn't believe him, either.

As his fingers curled over the bone of her shoulder, she jerked away
from him.

"Don't," she bit out between the wracking. She couldn't breathe.
"Don't. Please."

"Scully, don't push me away. I want to help. Let me help you--" His
hand brushed her bare back again.

"DON'T!" Her voice rose to near shouting. "Don't touch me!"

His hand left her instantly, but she could feel it hovering over
her. She could tell from his breathing, from the trembling of his
voice as he'd spoken to her, that he was crying, as well.

Guilt ran through her now, as well. It was too much. The loathing.
It was all too much.

"Scully," he tried again. A plea.

Something in her hardened, froze over. She heaved in a deep breath,
her eyes closing tight, all of her closing tight.

"Leave me alone," she whispered, heard his breath catch at the venom
-- borne of shame -- in her voice, felt the weight of his stunned
silence.

He was still for a long moment.

"Please," she said again, but there was nothing kind or imploring in
the word this time.

Slowly he shifted, withdrawing across the bed. She heard him reach
down and gather up his shirt, felt him shift as he sat on the edge of
the bed, the sound of cloth over skin as he pulled the shirt over his
head.

He sat there for a long while. She could hear his breath shaking in
and out of him, muffled by his hands. She covered her face, tears
streaming, though her face was stone.

Then, finally, the light flicked off. She heard him slipping beneath
the covers, settling down far away from her.

They lay there in the dark, the television flickering, talking to no
one, the night closing in, filling the space in the bed that
stretched out between them.
 

*********

END OF CHAPTER 6b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 7.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 7a.

*******

FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON D.C.
MARCH 23
9:14 a.m.
 

Two chairs sat in front of Skinner's desk. They had been there for
years, he knew, but for some reason, today he couldn't take his eyes
off of them.

As he moved around the room, drifted in and out to various offices
and then returned to his desk, he found his eyes drawn to the chairs,
struck by their emptiness and the quiet of the room.

Finally, finding himself looking at them again when he was supposed
to be reviewing the expense report in front of him, he leaned back in
the chair and dropped the pen. His glasses soon followed. He rubbed
his eyes roughly, heaved out a frustrated sigh.

His meeting with Margaret Scully the day before had left him feeling
hollow, his guilt about the woman's worry and grief over her
daughter's absence filling him instead. Passing her the note had done
little to alleviate that guilt, though he did at least feel better
knowing that Mrs. Scully now knew something about her daughter's
whereabouts and condition.

He'd told her the truth. Somebody needed to do that.

He'd returned to the office yesterday morning deflated, lost in the
immensity of the task at hand.

The weekly phone calls to Mulder made him feel worse. His gut ached
every time he had to tell Mulder that he and Scully needed to stay
out, keep running. He felt like the constant bringer of bad news and
felt completely useless. Especially in the face of Mulder's
disappointed, weary tone when he told them to stay away, when he
heard the cagey responses Mulder gave to his inquiries about Scully's
well-being.

He stewed in those feelings the entire afternoon, reviewing what
he'd done so far.

He'd been trying to look at the big picture for weeks now, taking
his case to whoever would listen to him, doing everything he could as
the Assistant Director of the FBI.

Then, standing in front of the windows in his office, looking down
on the maddeningly normal world bustling below him, he'd started to
wonder if he was doing this all wrong. He stopped thinking like an
Assistant Director. It was getting him nowhere, and was actually
bringing more attention to *him*, attention he didn't need if he was
going to continue his covert contact with his agents.

Instead, standing there yesterday in the sunlight struggling to come
through the clouds that had brought the unseasonable snow, he started
thinking like an agent again, about what he'd been taught in the
Academy all those years ago. The rules of investigating.

It was in the simple details, taken one at a time and examined
carefully, patiently, that one solved a case. Not what he'd been
doing -- standing back with this huge scenario in front of him, a
picture made up of puzzle pieces that seemed to go together but which
revealed a picture that he knew to be wrong.

The picture Padden had made.

And everyone else was seeing that same picture as well. Ashcroft.
The head of the FBI and CIA. Padden had made sure that every avenue
was essentially cut off with the damaging case against Mulder, a case
made of bits of evidence turned the way Padden liked them to be
turned.

There was nowhere left to go.

So he returned to an agent's thinking before he'd left that
afternoon. He would start again on all this. He would take the pieces
that Padden had used so deftly to frame Mulder and look at them for
himself.

He started at the beginning, with the police report from the crime
scene at Mae Curran's apartment in Richmond. He'd had a police
contact at the D.C. Metro Police order it for him from Richmond so
that his name would not be attached to it, just in case Padden was
monitoring his activities or the report itself.

He'd seen most of it already, of course. The initial reports right
after the body had been discovered in the apartment, the forensic
evidence on the bullet that had killed Fagan. The fingerprinting. The
blood match on Scully and Fagan throughout the apartment, which still
made him wince when he thought about it.

There had been so much blood. From both of them.

He knew that more evidence would have come through, things that
would have taken more time but which would do nothing but add to the
picture he knew had happened in that apartment.

He replaced his glasses, stood and went to the window again,
watching the traffic, the cityscape, once again. Today he found it
soothing, and breathed it all in, calming himself. He didn't resent
the normal course of other people's lives. Instead, he found hope in
it.

When the knock came at the door, he was prepared.

"Come," he called, and Kimberly opened the door, a fat envelope from
FedEx in her hand.

"There's a package for you, sir," she said as she approached. He
reached out and took it from her. He thanked her and she withdrew,
closing the door behind her.

He went to the desk, placed the package in front of him. Clearing
his mind so that he could look at the contents with fresh eyes, he
tore into the envelope, pulled out the stack of folders, removed
their rubber bands.

There were pictures of blood smears going down the corridor of an
apartment, a knife stained with it, a small pool near the edge of a
worn rug. A man's body, shot through the head, a wound to the face.

It had been a hell of a fight, he thought. He was simultaneously
proud of Scully for surviving and pained for what she had endured.

He picked up the first folder, opened it, scanning the report. It
was the most recent information on the case, the forensic evidence
that had come in later, some of it only within the last month. He
hadn't seen a lot of this, and began reading intently.

Time crawled by as he lost himself in numbers, notes.

About halfway down the fifth page, tapping his pen absently as he
took in the figures of hair samples, fiber samples, additional
fingerprints, a word leapt out at him.

"Semen."

Every muscle in his body went taut. His hand unconsciously went to
his forehead, cupping it in his large palm.

"Location: Living room, 7 feet 3 inches from front door. Four-point-
five inches from rug edge. Non-secretor. DNA matches victim, John
Brian Fagan. Sample mixed with blood, type A+. Blood sample DNA
match: Dana Katherine Scully. Probable location of sexual
assault/rape."

Skinner clenched his eyes closed. The hand on his forehead curled
into a fist and dropped down onto the pile of reports. Hard.

"Oh Jesus."

He shook his head as he said it. He leaned down and cradled his head
in his hands, his eyes remaining closed. Pulling in a deep breath, he
forced the anger and anguish down as best he could.

It sickened him to think what she'd gone through, what she was
continuing to go through.

He took some comfort in the fact that Mulder was a psychologist, but
he also knew that there was little chance of her discussing the
situation in any depth, even with Mulder. He'd watched her hide any
sign of emotional vulnerability for as long as he'd known her. He
didn't think this would be any different. In fact, she might guard
her feelings surrounding any such attack even more closely because of
the personal nature of it.

But Mulder *did* know about it. He was certain of that. It explained
Mulder's reticence about discussing Scully's condition, answered
Skinner's nagging questions about what the other man was withholding
about her. What he was protecting.

God, and Padden probably knew about this, too. For all he knew, the
entire task force knew. He hated the thought of Scully's private
anguish, the horrible violation of her, possibly being so public.

Fuck....

Skinner sat rooted in place for a minute, looking down at the
report, his mind running through his options. He had to get her in,
and as fast as he could.

He would suggest to Mulder that they split up, that Scully come in.
That was it. He'd do everything he could to protect her with his own
resources at the FBI. He knew it was risky, but he had to get her in
where she could get help. He needed to get her to counselors.
Doctors. Her mother. Someone.

Even as he thought these things, he knew how doomed the idea was. It
would be impossible to separate them. Neither of them would agree to
that. Neither of them would leave the other without protection, no
matter what personal circumstances were going on. He'd watched them
work this way for years.

They had -- and would always have -- the other's back.

The only way to get her in would be to clear Mulder's name and catch
Curran so she wouldn't need to protect Mulder and she herself would
no longer be in danger. He needed to accomplish those two tasks as
quickly as possible.

Sighing, he came to the realization that there was no way to do that
on his own. He didn't have the resources, the contacts, the access.

He needed someone who did.

He needed Granger.

Though Skinner didn't feel he could completely trust the young agent
because of the position Granger was in with Padden, he had enough
evidence of Granger being on Mulder's side to think that he might be
able to get his help in clearing Mulder's name. Granger had alluded
to that himself in his office just a few days before.

Plus, he'd lied to Padden in the hospital room all those months ago
about not knowing where Mulder was when he'd just been talking to him
on the phone. He'd helped Mulder with the case in Richmond, despite
Padden's warnings for him not to.

It was going to take a leap of faith, Skinner thought, his hands
digging deep in his pockets. Time was ticking away. There was no more
of it to waste.

He reached for his cell phone in the inside pocket of his jacket,
which was draped across the back of his chair. He'd long since
decided the office phone couldn't be trusted. Holding it, he pressed
the intercom button for Kimberly.

"Yes, sir?" she responded immediately.

"Kimberly, I need you to find a number for me. The cell phone number
for Agent Paul Granger at the CIA."

"I'll get right on that, sir."

He thanked her and the light went off.

The reports stared up at him from the desk, and he couldn't face
anymore of it. Not yet.

So he went to the window once again, watched a plane make its way
across the sky, a trail of white motion stretching out behind it.

His body was poised to *do* something. He was taut with the need to
move. Instead he stood rooted in place, perfectly still. He pulled in
a deep breath, let it out, and did something he was not good at
doing.

He waited.
 

********
 

LIBERTY PAWN SHOP
FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA
2:33 p.m.

Beneath the classic three-balls-suspended-on-an-arch that symbolized
a pawn shop was a neon outline of the Liberty Bell, complete with a
neon crack that flickered slightly in the afternoon light. Beneath
that, and what Mulder was really interested in, was the familiar
yellow of a Western Union sign, along with a sign advertising that
checks were cashed on the premises, "no ID required."

Just the kind of place he needed, he mused bitterly. The underbelly
of society that he and Scully had begun to inhabit was starting to
rub off on him. He was actually happy when he found a place that
advertised things like this. It meant that anonymity was the order of
the day, their faces all but ignored as they went about their
business.

Scully was looking in the window at a row of musical instruments,
the remnants of what looked like a salsa band. A golden trumpet
hanging from its curve. A wide Mexican guitar. Prices hung like toe
tags from both of them.

She was staring intently. Quiet. Still. He would have given anything
to have known what she was thinking, what she'd been thinking all
day. Except for responding to basically "yes" and "no" questions, she
hadn't spoken to him at all, the time on the road oppressive and
filling him with a tension that he'd yet to experience, even with all
these weeks of running. He hadn't thought a new level of it possible.

But something had changed between them since last night. A shift
into a darker, more distant place. It was as if she had grown smaller
and smaller within her body overnight and somehow disappeared
completely, leaving behind this silent shell, a husk of the woman he
knew.

It filled him with a nameless dread.

The sidewalk was fairly crowded with people, tourists on their
stopovers either to or from the Canyon. He and Scully blended in well
- Scully in her jeans and white t-shirt, the black baseball cap
firmly in place to hide her hair, a ponytail protruding from the
back, him in his battered jeans and black t-shirt and denim jacket.
They looked like a couple of ecotourists camping their way across the
state, like a dozen other people who passed them on the sidewalk. The
anonymity of the street calmed him some, made him feel strangely
normal for a moment.

He went to her at the window and stood behind her. He was careful
not to touch her or stand too close. She'd kept her distance from him
all day, dressing in the bathroom after her shower. When he'd touched
her shoulder as they walked out the door of the motel, he'd felt her
tense, and would not make the same mistake again.

"You wanna pick up a guitar for the road?" he asked lightly, teasing
as best he could.

No reaction. She turned to him and her eyes were far away and dull.
Tired beyond anything he'd seen from her. She shook her head, nodded
toward the door.

"All right," he replied to her unspoken request that they hurry this
along, though how she could be looking forward to the silence of the
truck again was beyond him.

The bell jingled on the door as they entered, Scully following a few
feet behind Mulder. They walked past the glass counters filled with
wedding bands, gold chains, past the lines of guitars dangling by
their necks from the walls. At the back there was a counter with the
Western Union sign on its front. They headed for it.

A tall, muscular man was standing there, his gut balanced on the low
counter. His arms were splayed out to the sides and he leaned forward
leisurely, eyeing the two of them as they approached. Mulder smiled
amiably.

"Can I help you?" the man asked, in the exact bored tone that Mulder
had expected from him.

"Yes," he replied, stepping up the counter. Scully had stopped just
behind him, eyeing the watches in one of the displays. "We've had
some money wired to us, under the name Tim Garrett."

The man went to the computer on the counter's edge, tapped on a few
keys and studied the display.

"Two thousand dollars?" he asked, still bored.

"Yes," Mulder replied, hiding his surprise. The Gunmen must be
hacking into someone's account to get that kind of money this time.
He was pleased, though. They were running dangerously short on funds.

Without being asked, Mulder pulled out his wallet and pushed his
fake Tennessee driver's license across the counter. The man took it,
glanced at the picture, at Mulder's face, then wrote a few things
down on a form he pulled from a stack beside the computer. Then he
pushed it back across.

"I've got to get the money out of the safe," he said, and Mulder
watched his eyes move over Scully. And he wasn't looking at her face.
She didn't seem to be aware of it, but it pissed Mulder off. He
cleared his throat to get the man's attention, and when he had it, he
bared his teeth in an overly friendly - and warning -- smile, nodded
toward the back.

"Be right back," the man said flatly, looking Mulder up and down
now, as though sizing him up for a fight. Then he withdrew.

Mulder turned to Scully then, at what had drawn her attention. There
were a several dozen very nice watches beneath the glass, and Scully
was looking alternately at them and at the Omega she wore on her
wrist. Then, seeming to come decision, she reached down and took the
watch off, laid it flat on the counter.

"Your mother gave you that," he said softly. "You don't need to-"

"It doesn't matter," she said, monotone, still staring down at the
watches. "We need the money."

"But the guys have sent us more this time, enough to last until-"

Now she did turn to him with those same dull, tired eyes. "Until
when? We're out of this? I don't think so."

He swallowed at her tone, taken aback. There was something angry and
hopeless in it. As though she'd resigned herself to a life on the run
with him for the rest of her life. He didn't like her feeling that
way.

Carefully, he lay his hand next to hers on the counter, still not
touching her.

"We're going to get out of this," he said firmly. "Soon. This isn't
going to go on forever."

He had to believe that. To think otherwise - as he sometimes did in
his most pessimistic moments - would mean taking on his guilt at his
part in putting her in this position in the first place. And that was
more than he could handle along with everything else.

As if in answer to those thoughts, she returned her left hand to the
counter as though bracing herself, the arm trembling slightly, her
thumb shaking against the glass. He wondered for a moment if she'd
raised the hand on purpose, to remind him that some of this very well
might go on forever. That some of it couldn't be run from at all.

"Don't sell your watch, Scully," he murmured, his voice pitched low
enough that no one could hear him speak her real name. "I think
you'll regret it later."

"I'll get another one," she responded, her voice miles away. She
wasn't looking at him again, which frustrated him.

"But why now?" he persisted.

She turned her face a fraction away, as if she were putting him out
of her sight and out of her mind. For a few seconds, he thought she
might ignore the question entirely.

"Why not."

It was said with finality, bitterly. The tone surprised him again.

The man returned from the back and Mulder reluctantly turned his
attention to the Western Union countertop, stepping away from Scully.

"There you go, Mr. Garrett," he said, and laid a stack of bills on
the counter. "Now if you'll just fill out this information here on
this form for me and sign it, we'll have you all fixed up."

Mulder did as he was told, filling in a dummy address, telephone
number. He wrote down the name that Frohike was using to send the
money this time: Kurt Affair. He almost cracked a smile at that. Then
he signed his false name to the receipt and pocketed the money.

Meanwhile, the man was looking at Scully, at the watch on the
counter.

"You selling something, miss?" he asked, and Scully looked up at
him, nodded. He came around the counter to where she was standing,
picked up the watch and studied it, fingering the fine, smooth links
in the band.

"Omega," he said approvingly. "Nice."

She nodded, all but ignoring him. "How much?"

He seemed to consider for a moment, checking the crystal for
scratches, turning the beautiful watch over in his hands. "I'll give
you $150 for it."

Mulder balked. "What?" he began, standing next to Scully now. "That
watch is worth-"

"That will be fine," she replied firmly, cutting him off. Mulder
pulled in a breath, shook his head, but remained silent. The man
looked from one of them to the other, his eyes studying them both, as
though curious as to whether he was going to get a bit of fun and get
to watch a spat.

His eyes remained on Scully's face for a few seconds too long, his
face turning to the side as he looked at her.

Mulder leaned in again, close to her but not touching her. He didn't
like anyone looking at her like that, like she was this thing to be
admired. The rape had made him more aware of men's reactions to her,
and he had to say that for the most part, he didn't like those
reactions one bit.

The man took the hint and broke his gaze, then went to the register
and pulled out the money. He returned and laid the hundred- and fifty-
dollar bills in front of her. She took them without a word and
stuffed them in her pocket.

"Pleasure doing business with you," the man said, putting the watch
in the counter display.

Mulder met his eyes as he finished lining it up with the rest of
them. The man smiled back, then, as though deciding Mulder wasn't
worth it, he returned to the rear of the shop, disappearing into the
back room.

Scully had already headed for the door and Mulder had to hurry to
catch up with her as she returned to the sidewalk, walking briskly
toward where the truck was parked. He caught up with her quickly, his
long strides matching her short ones as she stared ahead of her.

"Scully."

"I don't want to talk about it, Mulder," she said softly. "Let's
just go."

He bit back his reply, frustrated. He'd never seen her like this
before, so remote. She'd never pulled away like this. Not to this
extent. It was like being with a stranger.

They reached the truck, parked just up from the shop on the side of
the street, and she stopped at the driver's door, reached her hand
out for the keys. "I'd like to drive for a while," she said.

He nodded, dug in his pockets for them and handed them to her. "All
right. Whatever you want."

She didn't look at him as she took them, unlocked the door and
climbed into the truck, leaving him standing there on the sidewalk.
She adjusted the seat to as far forward as it would go, then swung
the heavy door closed, started up the huge engine with a cough and a
rumble.

With the sound, he was struck out of his frozen place. He hurried
around the car, some part of him actually afraid that she might just
leave without him.
 

**

Back in the Liberty Pawn, the man stood before the bulletin board
above the fax machine. Over it, an eagle on a poster, its wings
spread wide over a set of crossed rifles, an American flag behind it.

The secret seal for the Sons of Liberty, from which the man had
coined the shop's name.

On the bulletin board, a grainy fax printout. Two pictures. A dark-
haired woman and a boy, and a single shot of another woman.

The woman who'd just been in the shop, selling her expensive watch
for a price that showed a level of desperation he'd grown accustomed
to from people on the run.

He went back into the shop, out onto the street. He stood there for
a moment, looking up and down the sidewalk.

Then he saw her in a truck going slowly by, her head and shoulder
peeking above the battered door, the man with her -- Tim Garrett,
he'd said his name was -- in the passenger seat, his face turned
away.

The man watched the old Ford Bronco nudge forward as the light at
the end of the street turned green, stepped out between two parked
cars to get a look at the license plate as the blue truck crept away.

Tennessee. RKL-319.

He went back into the shop quickly, went back into the back room to
the phone beside the fax machine. He picked up the receiver and
dialed.
 
 

*********

END OF CHAPTER 7a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 7b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 7b.

**********

THE TRADING POST
TUBA CITY, ARIZONA
NAVAJO INDIAN RESERVATION
4:35 p.m.
 

Scully sat in the driver's seat, her hands on the steering wheel,
precisely where they'd been when she'd stopped the truck beside the
gas pumps 10 minutes ago.

She stared forward, her eyes following an elderly Navajo man being
helped into the store by two younger women. He walked slowly, placing
his feet with care, and the women were speaking softly to him as they
walked.

The man had to be in his 90s, Scully thought. The women were most
likely his granddaughters, taking the man out to do his shopping at
the only store she'd seen in a hundred miles.

She glanced in the side view mirror, saw Mulder leaned against the
truck, one hand on the pump, the other his pocket. Though she could
not see his eyes behind his sunglasses, she could tell he was looking
down at the ground, his expression troubled.

She looked away, returning her gaze to the people milling in and out
of the store, a mixture of tourists and Navajos, the parking lot
crowded with cars and RVs. She couldn't look at him for too long. She
couldn't take watching the distance she'd placed between them take
its toll.

Lying in bed just before dawn, she'd made her decision that the
distance was the lesser of the ways that she could hurt him. Trying
to be close to him seemed to force her own troubles on him, and she
no longer wanted to do that. It was better that they have the space,
she'd decided. That way he wouldn't feel what she was feeling. If she
spared him that, she wouldn't have to watch his pain at what had
happened to her, what she'd become, any more than she had already.

Glancing back at him once again, at the grim set of his face, she
wondered about her decision. But even as she doubted herself for an
instant, the memory of last night stabbed at her, her face flushing
with shame.

God, how she'd wanted to just be able to just be herself with him
again. To meld into him, to become part of him.

But that wasn't going to happen. Her face hardened a bit more as she
resigned herself to that conclusion.

She would not make that mistake again.

And as far as being herself with him? she thought bitterly. The
person she was before was gone. She didn't know who she was any more.

And a part of her was ceasing to care if she ever found out again.

She took her sunglasses off, resolved to her silence, and placed
them on the seat beside her, then opened the door to the truck and
climbed down. Mulder forced a smile at her, but it was small and
nervous.

"I'll be right back," she said, averting her eyes. "I'll get us
something to drink." It was the longest sentence she'd spoken to him
since they'd left Flagstaff.

"All right," he replied quietly, still pumping the gas.

She went up the stairs to the store, her gait stiff. She entered,
pausing at the door to take in the place. Groceries. Garish souvenirs
and postcards. A post office window in the corner. A short-order
restaurant fronted by a long counter with wooden stools. People sat
talking over their greasy meals. A knot of tourists sat at one end, a
child playing with a rubber tomahawk that dangled red and blue
feathers.

The store was clearly the hub of the tiny town, intended to offer
everything for both those who lived there and those passing through.
People were everywhere. It made Scully nervous, and she hurried to
the cashier, leaning in so that the woman could hear her over the din.

"Where are your restrooms?" she asked.

The woman looked at her, then reached down and pulled up a large key
that was connected by a chain to a large brick. The thing must have
weighed five pounds.

"People keep running off with it," the woman said, seeing Scully
eyeing the thing. "We figure they'll notice if they walk off with
that in their pocket." She smiled and her own joke. "They're around
the side. Outside."

Scully thanked her and hefted the brick, going back out the front,
making her way to the detached smaller building with its signs for
women and men. She noticed Mulder paying the attendant, talking to
him, no doubt asking if there were any places to stay nearby. They
hadn't seen a motel since they'd entered the reservation.

Reaching the door, she held the brick in her shaking hand as the
other slid the key in and opened the door. She closed the door behind
her.

After, she splashed water onto her face, rubbing at her eyes. She
pulled out a paper towel and began drying herself off, her gaze drawn
to her reflection in the dim florescent light.

A woman's gaunt face stared back her. Tired eyes, dark circles
beneath them.

She held still as she looked at herself. She felt tears burn her
eyes, and blinked them fiercely away.

Finally, she picked up the brick, clamping down her iron control
once again, and opened the door, squinting her eyes against the
light.

A hand clamped down on her upper arm, yanked her hard to the right.

She was just about to scream when the man caught her around the
throat with his forearm and covered her mouth with his other hand,
jerking her head back hard. She moaned in pain instead.

"Keep quiet now," the man said, his voice low and threatening.
"Don't make me hurt you any more than I have to."

There was a car parked nearby, a driver in it, another man coming
forward fast and grabbing her legs, lifting her off the ground as
they hustled her toward the car's open door. She reached up with one
hand and grabbed at the arm around her neck. He was crushing her
throat with his grip and with her own weight as he carried her. She
couldn't breathe.

She felt the weight of the brick in her other hand, which she'd
somehow managed to hold on to. Frantically, she swung up, dangerously
close to her own face, and caught the man square in the temple just
over her shoulder. His grip disappeared and he dropped like a sack of
grain, dropping her at the same time.

She hit the ground hard, gasped in a breath, the brick flying to the
side.

"Goddamnit!" the other man swore, keeping a strong hold on her legs
as she kicked hard to get away. The driver had seen what had
transpired and was coming now at a run.

Scully's vision swam, blood rushing back into her head, her hand on
her sore throat. She just barely saw the blur of motion that came in
from the side.

The man who had her legs was struck from the side, crashing to the
ground as he released her in his surprise.

Mulder was on top of the man now, pinning him to the ground on his
back. His arm swung back and he punched the man in the face viciously
several times in quick succession, knocking him out cold.

Then Mulder spun, his hand going to the ankle holster he wore at the
same time. In one fluid motion he was up on one knee, his gun pointed
at the driver, halting him.

"Back the fuck off," Mulder snarled. The man put his hands up and
did as he was told, walking backward toward the car again a slow step
at a time.

"You okay?" Mulder called, though he kept his eyes on the man in
front of him.

Scully sat up quickly, shaking her head clear. "Yeah..." she said,
but her voice was hoarse.

"Oh my God! That man has a gun!"

The shout came from a woman who had rounded the corner to come to
the restroom. Her companions screamed in terror.

"Come on!" Mulder said, grabbing Scully by the upper arm as she
scrambled to her feet. They took off at a dead run for the truck, the
women at the corner pressing themselves up against the building and
screaming louder as they streaked past.

People were coming out of the store now to see what the commotion
was about. Scully ran to the passenger door of the Bronco as Mulder
went to the driver's, both of them flying up into their seats. Within
a second, the engine roared, overrevved, to life, Mulder throwing the
truck into gear and blasting out of the parking lot, a cloud of dust
kicking up behind them as he bumped back onto the road and sped away.

Scully turned in the seat, looking out the back window as they
headed up the highway, the truck continuing to accelerate. She
coughed, her hand on her throat again.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked, panting.

She was heaving in breaths herself, her eyes still trained behind
them.

"Yeah...yeah..." she said between breaths. Her voice sounded like it
had sand in it. "Bruised..." She forced herself to swallow painfully.
"But I'm okay."

The truck roared as Mulder continued to accelerate, pushing the old
engine up past 80 now, the desert streaming by.

A tense few minutes passed, the only sounds their labored breathing
and the V8.

Finally Scully turned around in her seat, pulled her cap off with
one hand, pushed back her hair from her face.

"They didn't...they didn't follow us," she said, forcing herself to
calm down. "Mulder, slow down...they're not coming."

Mulder seemed unconvinced as he pressed down on the accelerator
harder, rocketing them out of the town and into the high desert,
heading blindly for the red mountains and desolation in the distance.
 

*********

END OF CHAPTER 7b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 8.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 8.
 

***********

13 DUNKIRK AVENUE
VIENNA, VIRGINIA
9:38 p.m.
 

Skinner made his way up the walkway that led to the apartment
building, the lit stone path shining with the evening's rain. It was
a brownstone building, not too large, not too nice, and it fit the
image that Skinner had of Granger, seemed the kind of place the young
agent would live. Granger wouldn't splurge, Skinner thought, but he
wouldn't skimp, either. The building reminded him of Scully's that
way.

Even at this late hour, people were coming and going through the
front doors, a Friday night party pulsing with music going on
somewhere on the first floor. He could see the moving shadows of the
party goers behind the curtains on one of the ground floor windows.
He was glad for the party - it made him less conspicuous should
anyone be watching the place.

He brushed past a couple coming out of the building, cigarettes
already being lit up as they stepped into the misty rain. He went
into the foyer beyond and more signs of taste greeted him. Hardwood
floors, a large tasteful rug in the foyer just beneath the brass
mailboxes.

He was looking for apartment 3E, and went to the elevator at the end
of the foyer. The doors opened immediately and he stepped in, took
his glasses off and cleaned them on the bottom of his black
turtleneck as he rode up, replacing them once he'd cleared away the
dots of rain.

The apartment was at the end of the hallway, an oriental runner
leading the way toward the window and the door just beside it. He
knocked. Waited. He looked up and down the deserted corridor as he
did so.

Granger unlocked and opened the door after a brief moment, though to
Skinner it felt like a long time. Granger wore jeans, a black sweater
with the sleeves pushed up, no shoes. He wasn't as nervous as Skinner
expected he would be, or as formal.

"Sir," the younger man said by way of greeting, and stood back
immediately to allow Skinner to enter. Skinner did, and Granger
closed the door behind him, turned the lock.

Skinner moved from the small entrance hallway into the apartment
beyond, his eyes adjusting to the dimness of the room he entered. It
was small living room, simply furnished but with pieces that looked
carefully chosen and nicely made. An overstuffed dark green couch. A
squat black leather chair and ottoman. Dark wood for the tables and
the cabinet that held the television, which was on, the sound turned
down low. Metal lamps with off-white shades, the one by the couch the
only one on in the room. An oriental rug on the floor -- real,
looking worn and antique. Black and white photographs on the walls. A
painting of bare trees on the far wall, a lone figure walking a path
between them.

The kitchen was beside it, separated from the larger room by a long
half-wall topped with a wooden counter. Pots hung from a rack
suspended from the ceiling. A hallway led toward two darkened
doorways in the back of the apartment, and the shades and curtains
were drawn on the windows.

The place was warm and cave-like and smelled like tea.

"Please," Granger said, coming up behind Skinner, who had stopped
and was shouldering out of his jacket. "Have a seat."

Skinner lay the coat across the back of the leather chair and sat.
He glanced at the television -- hockey was playing. Skinner looked
from the television back to Granger, who was taking his place on the
couch and reaching for the remote.

"I didn't know the Flyers were playing tonight," Skinner said.

Granger gave a small embarrassed smile as he flicked off the
television. "Last year's playoffs on tape," he said. "I keep hoping
if I watch them enough times they'll end differently."

Skinner grunted. "Good team," he said, doing his best to be casual,
though he was so keyed up it was difficult to pull off.

"Yeah," Granger replied, replaced the remote on the coffee table.

There was an awkward moment of quiet.

"Did you call those people I asked you to?" Skinner said vaguely.

"Yes," Granger replied. "The place is clean, from what they said."

"Good," Skinner replied quietly. "Thank you for doing that."

Granger shook his head as if in disbelief. "I could make career out
of two of those guys if I'd gone into private practice," he replied.
"They could only be friends of Mulder's."
 

Skinner nodded. "Yeah, they are. They're good help."

Granger put his elbows on his knees and regarded Skinner seriously.

"I must admit," he began, seeming to choose his words with care,
"that I was surprised when you called me. You made it seem like you
didn't want me near you at the FBI the other day. That I couldn't be
trusted."

Skinner looked toward the windows, clenched his teeth, nodded. "Yes,
I did make it seem that way," he said, then turned his attention back
to the other man. "But I've come to the conclusion that I don't
really have anywhere else to turn *except* you."

"Thanks. I think." Granger said it dryly.

"Agent Granger, you have to understand that I would have some
misgivings."

"I understand that you would," Granger replied. "But you also know
that I believe Mulder is innocent of these charges. That given that
belief I would be doing everything in my power to clear him. And I've
given you information already to help he and Scully avoid capture by
the task force that *I'm* supposed to be working on. I don't know
what else I can do to convince you of my intentions."

Skinner nodded. "That's why I'm here," he said bluntly, but he
looked away as he spoke, avoiding the other man's intense gaze.
"You've convinced me."

Granger leaned back slightly, studied Skinner for a few seconds.

"I don't think so," Granger said, shaking his head. "You have
changed your mind, but not because of me. Something's happened to
*make* you change your mind, to make you risk talking to me."

Skinner felt color rise in his cheeks.

"I can tell something's different," Granger persisted.

Just my luck, Skinner thought wryly. I have to try and be evasive
with the best profiler at the CI-fucking-A....

"Yes," he said finally through gritted teeth. "Something's happened."

"Are they all right?" Granger asked instantly, leaning forward, his
voice lowered but weighted with concern.

Skinner hesitated, still unable to look at Granger. He warred with
his instincts, one that told him it was imperative to tell what he
knew and one that warned him against it, the latter a knee-jerk, like
an old habit he was having a hard time breaking.

Christ, he thought. Somewhere along the way he'd gotten as paranoid
as he'd always accused Mulder of being. The thought amused him in a
gallows-humor sort of way.

"If we're going to get anything done on this, sir, we're going to
have to tell each other what we know." Granger's voice was still low,
but frustrated now. Urgent.

Skinner heaved out a frustrated breath, nodded and finally spoke.
"As far as I know, they're all right," he said. "As much as the
circumstances allow, that is."

"So you *have* been in contact with them."

"Yes. Since Tennessee." The words still came from him haltingly,
quietly. "Though I never know their exact location. Mulder won't risk
revealing that."

"Well, four days ago they were in El Centro, California," Granger
said, and leaned down, drawing up a briefcase from beside the coffee
table.

Skinner froze. "The task force knows this?"

Granger shook his head, rummaging through the briefcase and pulling
out a folder. He handed it to Skinner.

"No, they don't," Granger said. "Only I do."

Skinner looked at him in confusion, still alarmed, and Granger
nodded toward the folder. Skinner opened it, looked at the picture
clipped to the inside.

His hand came up, a finger covering his mouth. Otherwise he was
still.

The tension between Mulder and Scully radiated from the scratchy
surveillance photo. And Scully...

God...

"What's wrong with Scully?" Granger asked, concern in his voice.
Skinner knew the younger man must have read the anguish in his
reaction, despite his attempt at hiding it.

Skinner didn't take his eyes from the photo as he spoke. "She was
exposed to Owen Curran's drug," he said, his voice flat.

"Jesus..."

He hurried to continue. "She made it through the withdrawal and
she's okay, but there have been some residual effects."

He nodded toward the photo.

"As you can see." He shook his head, let out a deep, tired breath.
"Mulder won't go into any specifics about what they are, but seeing
this..."

He could sense Granger studying him again in the beat of silence
that followed.

"There's something else then," Granger urged. "Something you didn't
know before that's made bringing them in more urgent."

Again Skinner hesitated. "Yes," he said at last, and now he did look
at Granger. "Have you looked at the police report from Mae Curran's
apartment recently?"

Granger seemed confused by the turn in the conversation, but nodded.
"Yes, I just looked at the task force's copy yesterday in fact. To
see if anything else had come in."

Skinner locked eyes with the other man. "And? Had anything new come
in?"

Granger seemed more confused, and shook his head. "No," he said.
"Not that I saw. Why?"

"Nothing in there..." He had to force himself to say it. "...about
evidence of a rape."

Granger's mouth came open in shock, his eyes widening. Then his
mouth closed, his expression sad. "God no," he said quietly. "Nothing
like that."

"Well, there's one good thing I can say about that son-of-a-bitch
Padden," Skinner said, bitter. "He's keeping that quiet from the
whole goddamn world."

"Apparently so," Granger said, his tone matching Skinner's, though
his expression remained stricken. "He seems to be pretty selective
about information, so I'm not surprised. For once that instinct was
right."

Then Granger seemed to breathe the ire about Padden out, relenting,
and his voice softened again. "God, I'm so sorry for her," he said,
shaking his head. "I won't mention this to anyone. She'll never know
that I know."

"I appreciate that, Agent Granger," Skinner replied formally. "I had
to tell you to find out what the task force knows or I wouldn't be
talking about it myself."

"I understand," Granger said. "I see now why you came to me. Her
situation is more dire than you thought."

"Yes."

They sat in a heavy silence for another moment. Skinner noticed a
clock ticking somewhere in the room.

"What do you want me to do?" Granger asked finally.

Skinner had never been so glad to hear that phrase in his life.

"I'll be talking to them again in a couple of days," he said, and
the words came quickly now. This part he knew. "I'm going to tell
them what you told me -- that they need to find a place to hole up
for a while. In fact, I'm in the process of making arrangements for
that place right now. What I need from you is help diverting
attention from where I'm going to send them."

"I take it," Granger gestured toward the folder still in Skinner's
hands. "that you're not going to be sending them to the area around
El Centro, California."

Skinner smirked a bit at that. "No," he replied. "Far from it."

Granger nodded, leaned back against the back of the couch. "So you
want me to wait until you speak to them, give them a day or so, and
then suddenly come up with that picture for the task force to throw
them on the wrong trail."

Skinner looked at the man for a reaction, but Granger gave none. He
knew he was asking Granger to do something that would ruin any chance
the young agent could have at a career in law enforcement for the
rest of his life.

"Can you do that without putting yourself at too much risk?" Skinner
asked.

He was relieved when Granger considered for a few seconds and then
nodded.

"Yes. I get stacks of possible sightings of them and Curran every
day. I'll just pretend it came in a current stack. No one will be
able to tell when it got to me. We get so many."

"All right," Skinner said, pleased. That part was taken care of.
Between the two of them, they could keep Padden away from Mulder and
Scully until he could tuck them away.

He just hoped the place he planned on putting them would come
through.

"I've been working on a couple of things," Granger said,
interrupting his thoughts. "Things about verifying where Mulder was
during some of the times that Padden is trying to say he could have
been meeting with the Path."

"Yes, that's what this is going to take," Skinner said. "We're not
going to be able to take this out with one blow. We're going to have
to chip away at it, a little piece of information at a time."

Granger nodded. "Yes, and I might have a small piece. I'm trying to
find a woman named Nancy Rand who was working at the gate where
Scully was supposed to board the plane to Boston, to see if she can
ID Mulder from the gate area. She's left the airline and I'm having a
hard time tracking her down, but I'll find her."

"Good," Skinner replied. "That's good. Another big piece of this is
those two days Mulder was gone in January. January 12-13. That was
right before the bombing and is one of the more damaging pieces of
Padden's case against Mulder -- that he would leave the task force in
Richmond without telling anyone like that, and be so cagey about
where he'd been, even to you. We need to find out where he was during
that time, as well."

"Yeah, Padden's been all over that with me," Granger said, his
frustration clear in his tone. "I could never give him a good enough
answer because I didn't know anything myself."

"I'll see what I can do about that," Skinner continued. "I'll ask
Mulder about it and see if there's some way to support what he tells
me. I haven't been talking about any of this with him yet. I've been
too worried about our contact being monitored to get into anything
like that with him. But we'll have to risk it."

He looked down at the photograph again, at Scully's thin face. He
shook his head.

"We've got to do something. And soon."

He handed the folder back to Granger. The younger man stared a hole
in the photograph for a moment. Skinner watched and concern pricked
him.

"You sure you're up for this?" he asked.

Granger didn't look up. "We could go to jail for this," he said, his
voice softer and touched with disbelief. "Everything both of us have
worked for...just gone."

Skinner's jaw pulsed. "Yes." He said it without apology.

After a few more seconds, he asked Granger the same question again.

"Yeah," Granger replied, and closed the folder. "Yeah, I'm in."
 

**********

OFF RESERVATION ROUTE 58
HOPI INDIAN RESERVATION
11:35 p.m.
 

One thing that Scully could never quite get used to was that the
desert, so warm during the day, could be so cold at night, the ground
so barren and the blank slate of black above it so unforgiving that
the earth itself seemed unable to hold even the smallest bit of
warmth.

She curled closer around herself in the back of the Bronco, tucking
herself deeper into the sleeping bag, pressing her face closer into
the small camp pillow they'd bought at an outdoor store weeks ago.
Her hand rested near the butt of her Sig beside her.

She was on her side on the pushed down back of the rear seat, which
they'd dropped down to allow them both to stretch out, Mulder lying
beside her. There was a small space between them.

It wasn't often they were forced to sleep in the truck, but they'd
bought the supplies just in case the need arose. The few times they
had done it, they had zipped the bags together, making one large sack
that they both slept in, pressed against each other for warmth. But
this night when she'd settled in after doing her ablutions as best
she could and changing her clothes outside the truck, she'd simply
unstuffed her bag from its sack and slipped inside, turning toward
the marred side window without a word.

Mulder had said nothing and had done the same, but she knew the
slight was not lost on him. She could feel it in his silence.

They were far out on a dirt road off the rural route they'd been
driving on, a remote area on this, one of the poorest reservations.
Mulder had driven for a good ten minutes off the paved road,
following the twisting near-trail over a small rise and parking
beside a small thatch of scraggly trees. It was too dark to see much
outside, though the full moon had cast a pale golden glow through the
trees as she'd stood beneath them, layered in bunting and sweats.
She'd brushed her teeth with the help of an old Army surplus canteen
full of metal-tasting water. Nearby, Mulder had done the same,
finishing up and then pulling layers of clothes out of his suitcase
for warmth.

They had said little for hours, but not because of what was between
them, really. It was more that they were both completely exhausted,
the adrenaline rush of the afternoon giving way sometime around dark
to a fatigue so complete that she'd been forced to keep an eye on
Mulder to make sure he didn't fall asleep at the wheel.

They'd crisscrossed side roads off the main highway, trying to stay
away from the few towns on the map. That was one of the problems with
the area they were in. There were only so many places a person could
actually stop to get what they needed, and putting people at all of
them wouldn't be that much of an expenditure of manpower. Though
they'd stopped once without incident for gas at one small town, they
hadn't stopped again until now.

Behind her, Mulder shifted, his breathing slow, signalling his
impending sleep. Usually she took great comfort in that sound. But
not tonight.

She put a hand to her bruised throat, worrying it with her fingers.
Her lids were heavy, her eyes slowly losing their focus on the view
outside the window, the curve of stars across the dome above her.

Who were those men?

Certainly hired by Curran -- she had to trust that even Padden
wouldn't attempt to bring her home with that kind of force. Plus, it
seemed more likely that Padden's men would take Mulder before they'd
take her.

But who?

Were there only three of them -- bounty hunters out for quick money -
- or were there more? The men were American, or at least the two
who'd spoken were, so it probably wasn't Path. Some other group,
someone Curran had had dealings with, perhaps...

Mae had told Mulder that Owen had "long arms," even in the U.S. That
she was fleeing the country to escape this fact, and had urged Mulder
and her to do the same...

Too tired...

Her lids slipped shut, her fingers still moving absently across her
throat for a moment. Then they grew still.

**

And then she was swimming, deep, light filtering through the surface
in streaming beams, reaching for the bottom, which she could not see
in the blue beneath her. The surface was dozens of meters away, and
she glided smooth through the water.

Her lungs drew in huge breaths of water, breathed them out, her arms
pulled her along. On one pull through the water, her legs fluttering
effortless behind her, she caught sight of a scrap of gold on her
left ring finger, a band shot with what appeared to be tiny diamonds.
They caught the light and held it as she swam, the world heavy and
liquid and filled with faint echoes rippling through water.

A huge school of silver fish appeared below her, their tails
twitching in near unison as they moved along. She watched them for a
moment, then turned and swam deeper, joining them. They parted just
enough to let her in amongst them, turning, angling away from her
body. She could see strands of her hair float within her vision as
she kept pace with them, their tin wide eyes following her, their
mouths opening and closing as though they were all speaking at once
in a silent language she couldn't understand.

Slowly they turned and formed a circle, moving around her in a
spiral stretching toward the bottom, like a slow tornado of silver
bodies swirling around her. She stopped in the center, felt their
small bodies, hundreds, brush against her fingertips as she reached
out toward the wall of them surrounding her.

She drew in another deep breath, the sound in her ears, echoing,
hollow sounds, as though she were breathing low rumbles of thunder
underwater.

She hung, suspended, nothing but blue above her and below, the
spiral of silver around her, all of it weightless, sunlight dancing
on her skin from the surface far above her...

The harsh sun as she exited the bathroom. An arm across her throat,
jerking her back against the hard shape of a body, warm harsh breath
on her ear...

Fagan's hands on her throat, squeezing, lifting her slightly against
the sink, her hand groping for the cold handle of the knife as the
other clawed at his wrist...

Breathe she couldn't breathe she couldn't breathe

Her head smashing against the hardwood floor, hands pushing at her
robe. His body flat against her back, the long bone of his arm
pinning her neck back...

The man lifting her, carrying her, a hand across her mouth and nose.
She sucked in for air and got nothing but skin, the taste of salt...

Salt in her lungs. Sea water burning down her throat as she inhaled,
choking now, bubbles of air appearing before her face and racing
upward. She screamed, the sound muffled, otherworldly...

She shot for the surface, the fish scattering in alarm. She could
see it above her. A bluish light she struggled toward, her arms
clawing out in front of her, leaving trails of tiny bubbles like
motion.

Her vision hazed from lack of oxygen. The brick in her hand,
swinging back, blindly.

The knife swinging forward, the sound of metal on teeth. A scream of
outrage. Pain.

The surface was just a few feet away. Her hand reached up to break
the surface, her lungs burning...

Her hand hit hard on something cold. Bluish white. Flat and smooth
against her palm.

Ice. The surface was ice.

Her head knocked up against it as she fought the instinct to pull in
a breath. She skittered along the underside, arms flailing, searching
for a break, a crack, a weak spot, anything.

Her face pressed against the thick surface, she opened her mouth and
screamed.

**

Mulder's sleep was dead, his mind completely empty, his body
perfectly still.

That didn't stop him from shooting into a sit the instant the sound
began, the hoarse scream tearing around the interior of the truck's
cabin.

His eyes were wide, his hand going for the gun beside him without
him even thinking of it. He pulled in a panicked breath and his eyes
shot toward Scully beside him.

She thrashed as though the sleeping bag were squeezing down on her,
her left hand up on the window, her nails scratching across the glass
as her arm shook violently, its tremble only slightly greater than
that of the rest of her body. The hand turned into a fist and slammed
against the glass.

"Scully!" He put the gun down, scooted over to her, put a hand out
and grasped her wrist. His own arm shook with the force of her
tremor.

"Calm down...calm down..."

She pulled in a harsh breath, gasping, hyperventilating from the
sounds of it, screamed again, this time the word "no," high and
shrill and terrified. She jerked her arm away from his grasp, her
hand fumbling out in front of her blindly, her eyes still clenched
closed.

Her fingers grazed the butt of her Sig. She grasped it quickly, the
other hand joining it as she hefted the thing, her finger on the
trigger instantly, lifting--

"NO!" Mulder said, loud, and threw himself out of his sleeping bag,
flattened his body on top of hers, his hand going for the gun. Her
grip was iron, her strength adrenaline- and terror-fueled, and Mulder
had to slam her hands down on the floor of the truck to keep her from
raising the weapon.

"Scully, no!" He tried to keep his voice calm, but it was hard to
muster under the circumstances. "Let go...just let it go..."

She didn't listen, her breath wheezing, too fast. He did manage to
get her shaking left hand off the gun, the finger off the trigger.
Then he pulled that arm in against her body and held it there with
one of his own. He grasped the Sig with the other, grappling with
her. Finally he got it away from her, clicked over the safety with a
finger and tossed it haphazardly toward the tailgate.

"Get off! Get them off me!" she shrieked, and he knew he must be
crushing her, his chest flat against her upper arm and back, pinning
her to the floor and holding her arms in against her body. She
screamed it again, desperate, jerking violently in his hold.

Keeping her arms against her with one forearm as she struggled, he
rolled until he was behind her now, pushed an arm beneath her body
and pulled her back to his chest, his arms pressing her elbows to her
sides. Her breathing was still shallow, stentorious. He put his cheek
against her head, his lips close to her ear, stilling her thrashing
head as best he could.

Her nails sunk into his forearms where his sleeves had pushed up,
her fingers curled like claws, raking up skin, drawing blood. He
winced, but held on.

"Okay..." He was panting now himself. He pressed a kiss to her ear,
shushing her.

She kicked back at him with her legs and he got one knee over them
to protect his shins and groin.

"I can't breathe..." Her voice was high, reedy, filled with air as
she gasped.

"You know what to do, Scully...we can do this together...listen to
my voice now." He tightened his hold as she thrashed again.
"Twenty...nineteen..."

She was crying now. "God, I can't...can't breathe..."

"Eighteen...seventeen...sixteen..."

"He's...he's crushing my throat..." A sob. Her arm shook harder
against his, her nails still digging in. She pulled in a desperate
breath.

He kissed her lobe again, holding her tighter.
"Fifteen...fourteen...come on, Scully...come with me..."

He kept counting, felt her back heave against his chest. Slowly her
breathing grew deeper as her tears came freely.

"Eleven.."

Then finally, she answered: "Ten," pulled in a deeper ragged breath.

"Nine...eight...come on..." He whispered it into her ear, felt her
begin to relax, her body softening as she breathed more easily now,
her hands relaxing some.

"Seven," she choked out. "Six..."

"Five," they said in unison, and their voices melded together
through the last of it, Scully still breathing hard but calmer now.
As they reached "one," he loosened his grip on her until she simply
lay in his arms, pulled his leg back until it rested behind hers.

"You're okay," he said softly. "Everything's all right."

They lay still for several minutes.

Then he could feel her coming back to herself. He could tell by the
way her hands pulled away from his arms, how her legs came up and
away from his. She pushed her head from beneath his, bending her head
down and away, and he lay his own behind hers, feeling the distance
set back in.

It was as if she'd placed him in a skiff and gave him a slow push
off her shore.

She scrubbed at her eyes, her hand shaking as she pushed her hair
off her face.

He sighed in the quiet that followed. She allowed him to hold her
still, but he knew it was only to spare his feelings. Not because she
wanted him to. The thought made him ache inside.

"Everything's all right," he said again, and this time he was trying
to convince himself as much as her.

Then, as if in answer, footsteps outside the truck. A horse coming
nearer.

He pulled away from her, rolled toward his gun, heard her sharp
intake of breath at the sound. He picked up the pistol, turned
carefully around so that he was facing the back of the truck now, the
gun in front of him.

The horse stopped. Then the heavy sound of someone leaping down and
landing on both feet. The sound of walking, then a dim shape outside
the back window, a beam of a flashlight dancing through the foggy
glass.

Neither he or Scully seemed to be breathing. They were frozen still.

A knock on the window.

"You in there," a man's voice said sharply. "Open up."

Mulder kept still. A drop of sweat raced down his temple despite the
chill.

"I heard you in there all the way from half a mile away. I know
you're in there. Now open up."

Mulder lay the hand that held the gun down on the floor, edged
closer to the door and turned the handle to the back window slowly,
the gun aimed at the tailgate. He pushed the window open, the man
standing back as it swung out and up.

Mulder looked out, squinting in the beam of the flashlight the man
shone right in his face. Mulder put a hand up to shield his eyes. He
could make out the man's face dimly -- Native American. Late fifties.
Jacket. Plaid shirt. A shotgun in the hand that didn't hold the
flashlight.

"What the hell you doing out here?" the man asked.

"We...we were just stopping to sleep for the night," Mulder replied.
"There was no place to stay, so we--"

"You're 100 feet from where my sheep are penned," the man
interrupted. "You're not welcome to stop here."

"We won't be any trouble," Mulder said, and there was a hint of
pleading in his voice. He couldn't face the road again so soon. "Just
for tonight--"

"You've already been trouble," the man grumbled in reply. "I had to
come out here to see who the hell you are. This is my land. You're
not welcome here. Get back on the road and get on out of here." He
hefted the shotgun for effect.

"All right," Mulder said. His hand held tight to the gun in case the
man followed up his words. "We'll be on our way."

The man made a small affirmative sound in his throat, a grunt. "You
want some place to stay get off the Hopi reservation. We don't like
people *staying* here."

"All right," Mulder said again, and the man turned, going toward the
horse that stood a few feet from the truck, its grey back bathed in
moonlight. The man swung himself up into the saddle, gave the horse a
nudge with his heels, and turned and walked slowly away.

Mulder wiped his forehead with his hand, releasing a breath. He sat
up straighter, pulled the window back down and closed it. Behind him,
he could hear Scully starting to breathe again herself.

"I'll drive," she said, began to sit up. He put a hand out to stop
her.

"No, I'll do it," he said softly, resigned. "You stay back here and
try to get some sleep. I'll find us somewhere to go."

"But you're exhausted, Mulder," she said, looking at him with
concern and a touch of exasperation. "You were falling asleep at the
wheel before."

"I'm all right," he said, and shifted toward the front of the truck.
He climbed over the seat, took his place behind the wheel.

"Mulder--"

"You can relieve me in a couple of hours if I can't find a place by
then, okay?" he offered peevishly, cutting her off. They were both in
strung out shape. There was nothing to be gained by having a contest
about who was worse off at this point, and he was too tired to argue.

"All right," she said, and her voice sounded very far away. He
hadn't meant to silence her quite so harshly.

He shook his head, regretting it.

He placed the gun beside him on the seat. His bare feet reached for
the cold pedals and he turned the ignition, the truck coming to life.
He shook himself awake harder, squeezing the steering wheel tightly.
Then he flicked on the headlights, threw the truck into gear, turned
and crept down the dirt road, the headlights doing little to cut
through the darkness around them.
 

**********

END OF CHAPTER 8. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 9.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 9.
 

*********
 

THE ISABELLA
BAHIA SAN JORGE
MARCH 24
6:12 a.m.
 

The nets dragged deep.  They strained against their braces as the
ship rose and fell on the sea, a spray of foamy water coming up as
the bow slapped down against the waves heading into the Point.  The
air was filled with the sounds of water and creaking wood, the
ubiquitous sound of the seagulls that followed the boat, hoping for
the leavings once the nets were pulled in.

Joe Porter stood at the bow, a plastic mug filled with chicory
coffee in his hands.  He turned his face away as the spray washed
over him, over the yellow slicker he wore, the top gaping open to
reveal the high loose matching pants that hung from their red
suspenders, his battered white t-shirt.  Pushing his wet hair out of
his face, he returned his gaze to the shore, his eyes squinting
against the sharp beams of light coming up from the sun as it dawned.
The sky burned orange as though it were on fire.

Behind him, the Mexican fishermen were laughing over a game of
cards.  Even when they laughed, he mused, they laughed in Spanish.
They were all waiting for the boat to finish this circuit, waiting
for the nets to be pulled in.  This was his favorite time.  The
waiting.  The heavy smell of the sea and the shrimp already hauled
in, the bitter coffee in his hands.  His head was clearer out here.
It gave him time to think, though sometimes the thoughts pained him.

This morning that was the case.  He was thinking about California,
the last terrible weeks he'd spent there.  He thought about the
sleepless nights he'd given over to the partying and the drug, the
heroin sending a warm rush into his arm as he pushed the needle down
in the bathroom stalls of a dozen clubs.  The music pounding through
the walls.  The money exchanged, both into and out of his hands, with
a dozen strangers every night.  And then leaving alone to walk the
warm streets, lost, feeling both the best and worst he ever had in
his life.  The drug made sure of that.

The morning he'd come home to find the police moving in and out of
his apartment just before dawn, he'd known that life was finally at
an end.  Though he'd been terrified at the sight, a part of him was
relieved, welcomed the end to the space his life had placed between
him and the rest of the world, the way it had turned everyone around
him into convenient acquaintances, the drug the only thing that
passed for connection with anyone in his life.

Without stopping, he'd driven his Jeep right by his apartment and
headed south, his wallet and pockets stuffed full with cash from the
night's dealings, his head still humming, the world gauzed from his
lingering high.  He had enough product to keep him going for awhile.
Enough to wean himself off if he was careful.  And lucky.

Then the long drive through the desert, down past San Diego and
across the border by midday, through Tijuana and Mexicali, skirting
the Arizona border to Sonoita and then west to the Point, perched
right on the Gulf.

Then the nights of shivering in the dingy motel room as the drug ran
out.  The pain, the screaming need of his body, lying all night
drenched with sweat, shaking, caught in fitful, fevered dreaming.  He
hadn't gone out, even to eat, for days as the drug worked its way out
of his system like a slow and painful burning.

When it was over he vowed to never go back.  He'd gone out, still
weak, into the town and gotten a job, a place to live on his
dwindling money, and begun this new life.  Quiet.  Simple.  Solitary.

Until now.  He gave a small smile to the thought.

The sun coming in warm now, he pulled off the slicker and tossed it
near the wheel house, took a sip of his coffee.  On his tanned arms,
the needle scars stood out like pink and white tattoos, like points
on a map following the battered veins down toward his wrists.  He
would carry the scars of that life forever.

The physical, at least.  Some other part of him was coming back to
life.  Healing over.  All he had to do was think about her and he
could feel that part of him, a tough bud, opening.

"Oye!"  the captain called, coming out from the wheelhouse.  The
engine rumbled into idle and the boat slowed, buffeted harder by the
waves as its forward motion waned.  "Estn subiendo las redes!"

Time for the nets to come in.

Joe didn't move right away, though the captain was already throwing
the wench into motion, the rope that held the nets off the side of
the boat like great wings grinding over the pulleys, wood and metal
whining.  Everyone on the deck sprang into motion, grabbing small
wooden rakes, pulling on thick gloves that covered all the way to
their forearms.  Rubber boots squeaked on the deck.

"You, too, El Callado."   The captain, Esteban, slapped Joe on the
shoulder as he passed him on the way to the bow, a good-natured smile
on his face.  Joe smiled back at the name he'd been given by the
captain and crew -- "Quiet One."  He really did do much to keep to
himself.

He put his coffee down against the side, went for his gloves and
rake, as well, joined the men on either side of the boat.

The sea foamed as the nets were brought up.  They rose heavy and
dark from the water, men with grappling hooks snagging them and
pulling them over the wide stern. Then, with the pull of a handle,
the ropes released, the catch slapping to the deck in a huge heap of
shine and motion.

Joe moved in with the rest, first using his rake to push away the
frantic crabs, reaching down and tossing them over the side back into
the sea.  The shrimp they sought lay in huge clumps, barely moving
amongst the blankets of shocked silver fish.  The men worked quickly,
pulling the fish out and sending them over the side, as well,
seagulls drawing neat parabolas in the air to catch them before they
hit the safety of the surface.

A small shark lay in the middle of it all, thrashing, its mouth
desperately drawing in useless air.  Joe went to it immediately,
grasped the thick tail with both hands and threw it over the side.

It was a good catch.  Several hundred pounds of shrimp.  The boat
would earn out its trip between this load and the three previous.
The men would get paid.  Everyone was in good spirits as they worked
because of this.

Someone started a song and the men picked it up.  Joe smiled but did
not join in, though he knew the song well.  It was about a sailor
coming in from the sea.  The men's voices rose and fell over the
clatter of claws, rakes; the wet slap of fish hitting the water; the
engine rumbling.

The sun continued to rise, a golden eye.

The catch secured, they headed back to port, the men smoking,
singing, clustered at the stern, their legs dangling over the sides.

Joe stood apart from them as he always did, up near the bow again so
he could watch the port edge closer.   He thought of her again.  Her
beautiful face.  The blue of her eyes.  The tiny smile she gave him
as she looked away when she caught him watching her.

It seemed to him she'd been wanting to be closer to him lately.
They'd spent the night together again last night.  He'd slipped from
the bed hours before dawn, leaving her there, her soft, nude body
bathed in moonlight.  It had been all he could do to leave.

He was still troubled by her secrets.  But there was a warmth to her
now, a slow opening to him that hadn't been there before.

He knew he was in love with her.  And he thought she might be
falling in love with him, as well.  Thinking this, he, too, warmed
inside.  He felt less empty somehow.  As though he were somehow
emerging from the brittle shell of his past.

He watched the land approach, looming nearer now.  Other boats were
already back with their catches, men swarming the pier, trucks
honking, a bustle of movement everywhere he looked.

Two men came forward and grabbed the ropes that would secure the
Isabella to the dock once again.  Joe stepped out of the way,
scanning the dock

No, he corrected himself.  There wasn't movement everywhere.

Mae stood perfectly still in the center of a swirl of activity, a
maelstrom of men carrying crates of shrimp, holding huge gutted fish
by the tails.  Her hair was pulled back, and her pale skin was
luminous in the morning light.  Sean was with her, standing against
her leg, watching the activity around him with a child's interest.

Joe looked at her and their eyes locked, their gazes hanging.  She
gave him that same shy smile, looked away, then back up at him again,
something pleased and tentative in her eyes.

He gave her a tender smile in return, raised a hand to her as the
boat touched gently in to shore.
 

*************
 

FRY CANYON, UTAH
HIGHWAY 95
8:36 a.m.
 

Scully pulled herself back toward consciousness and the effort was
like dragging her body out of sand, her sleep had been so complete.
Her face was cold, the rest of her warm within the sleeping bag, and
she pulled the flap of it up and over the side of her head, willing
the chill away.

She opened her eyes then.  Something was different.  The lull of the
tires rolling on pavement was gone now, the truck still.  Sunlight
was coming in through the dirty side windows of the Bronco, and she
could make out the shape of a gas station canopy out the window, a
loud sign advertising a two-liter bottle of Coke for 99 cents.  Then
the sound of liquid rushing into the truck somewhere at her feet, the
hiss of gas entering the huge tank.

She sat upright quickly, orienting herself, and saw Mulder leaning
with his back against the tailgate, his head bowed forward.  He
wasn't moving,  his shoulders sagging within his denim jacket, the
hood of the sweatshirt he wore beneath it pressed against the dingy
glass.

She wondered what time it was.  Early, she gathered, from the way
the sunlight glowed on the horizon in the distance out the front
windshield.

The memory of the night before came back to her now, seeming a
lifetime ago.  She ran it over in her mind, the images suffocating
her until she pushed them away.  She remembered Mulder's conversation
with the man out the back of the truck, then him crawling over the
seat, promising to wake her in two hours if he didn't find a place to
stay by then.

Thinking all this, she returned her gaze to Mulder, and ire started
to rise in her.  He hadn't woken her up as they'd agreed.  She'd bet
anything he'd driven all night while she slept, not stopping or even
looking for a place to stop.

She disentangled herself from the sleeping bag, the morning chill of
the truck's cabin hitting her full on.  It was too early for the sun
to have warmed anything yet, the desert still cold and still from the
night.  She edged closer to the tailgate and knocked on the window at
Mulder's back.

He jumped at the sound as though she'd startled him awake, then
turned around and stepped back as she opened the back window.

"Good morning," he said softly.  He did not smile.  His face didn't
seem up for it.  His eyes were deeply rimmed in red, smudges beneath
his eyes.  He looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

"Why didn't you wake me up?"  she asked by way of greeting, her
voice still sleepy but with a sharp edge to it.

He shrugged.  "I thought it would be good for you to sleep," he said
gently.  "I could handle it.  I was pretty awake."

She shook her head, and now the exasperation did touch her voice.
"You could have fallen asleep at the wheel, Mulder, especially
without me there to keep you up.  It was dangerous and it was
stupid."

He seemed taken back by her tone and her words.  "I didn't think it
was a big deal," he offered, shifting his weight from one foot to the
other uncertainly.  "I'm sorry, Scully."

She reached over for her suitcase, unzipped it hard and pulled out
her small toiletries bag.  "You're not sorry," she grumbled.  "I'm
sick of you trying to shelter me, Mulder.  We're partners, before
we're anything else.  I'm still an FBI agent, for God's sake, and I
expect to be treated like one.  Not like a child who needs
coddling."

"Scully, I know you're my partner.  But you've been hurt badly and
have been very sick," Frustration leaked into his voice, as well.  "I
mean, Jesus, look at what you've been through --"

She glared at him, pinning him.  There was a warning in her eyes and
she could tell from the way he swallowed down the rest of what he was
going to say that he saw it.

"What I've been through has nothing to do with this," she said
dismissively.

"It has everything to do with it," he said instantly, and he was
angry now.  "You may be trying to pretend like it doesn't, but I've
been with you for weeks now and I've seen the toll this has taken on
you.  Hell, the toll it's taken on both of us.  If there's anything I
can do to try and alleviate that, I'm going to damn well do it.
Especially if it's something as simple as driving for a few extra
hours so you can rest."

His words stung her.  She felt herself flush at what he'd said about
the effect this was having on him.  It was the first time he'd said
anything like that aloud.

After a few seconds, she pulled herself together, anger simmering in
her along with the blossoming guilt and shame.

"Then do these things to protect yourself and not to protect me if
it's taking such a toll on you," she said, the feelings warring in
her, and she pushed the tailgate down, scrambling down and grabbing
her shoes.  She pulled them on, then stood and faced him, looking up
into his weary face.

She let the anger rise again.

"But part of protecting yourself is not playing the macho hero in
all this and running yourself into the ground.  You're no use to
either of us that way.  Any more than I would be if I were doing the
same thing."

She saw him chafe at the "macho hero" comment as he jammed his hands
deep in his pockets and looked down, his jaw pulsing with an unspoken
response.  He relented, blowing out a breath as the gas nozzle
snapped, signaling that the tank was full.

"Yeah, well, I'm going to call Skinner," he said, brushing the
previous conversation away.  "Tell him what happened yesterday.  See
if there's any change."

"I'll call him this time."

He looked at her in surprise.  "What?"

She glared at him again.  "I can give and receive information as
well as you can, Mulder," she said.

"Yes, but he's used to dealing with me on this -"

"Well, I think it's time for that to change, too," she replied
firmly.  "It's not like I don't know the man.  Give me his cell
number."

Mulder looked at her, his expression uncertain and worried.

She looked at him and her heart jumped.  "What have you told him?"
she asked.  "Is there something you've said to him that you don't
want me to know about?"

His mouth gaped, then shut to a thin line for a few seconds.

"God, no, Scully, I would never tell him anything without asking you
first.  He knows about the drug, and that's it.  How can you even ask
me such a thing?"

She sighed.  "You just seemed to not want me to talk to him, that's
all.  And I wondered why."

He said nothing to that.  He reached into his back pocket and drew
out his wallet, pulling out the slip of paper with the phone number
on it.  Then he dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of
change, all quarters.  He'd obviously already gotten the money for
the call when he paid for the gas.

"There," he said quietly, offering both to her.

She tossed her toiletries bag back into the truck - she would get
cleaned up afterward - and took the number and the handful of change
from him.  Then she stalked off toward the phone booth at the far end
of the lot.  She could feel his eyes following her.

It had been a long time since she'd had this much feeling about
anything, certainly any feeling other than the panic that so often
gripped her in the wake of the dreams, the anguish she'd felt in the
bed with him that night in the hotel, her shirt pressed to her
chest.

This anger was something new.  She didn't know where it came from.
But a part of her welcomed it, welcomed the power that surged through
her with it.

She would not be a victim of any of this.  And she would certainly
not let Mulder - or anyone else - treat her as one.

She reached the phone, spread the coins out on the small ledge
beneath it.  She picked up the receiver, dialed the number, putting
in the right amount of coinage for the first five minutes with her
good hand.  The phone began to ring.

"Hello?"  Skinner called, picking up on the second ring.  His voice
was tight and alert, as though he'd been expecting the call.

"Assistant Director Skinner," she replied.  "It's Agent Scully."

There was a beat of silence, then:   "Scully, has something happened
to Mulder?"

"No, sir, he's right here with me," she said evenly.  "I just
thought it would be good for you and I to make contact this time."

Another beat.  "Okay.um, sure, Scully.  That's fine."

There was something in his tone that she didn't like.  A hesitancy.
An awkwardness that hadn't been there in their interactions before.
She pushed it aside.  She was probably just being paranoid, she
thought.

"What's the status of things?"  he asked.

She told him about what had happened at the gas station the day
before, about their night of running.  She said it all
dispassionately, as though she were talking about someone else, or a
case they were working on.

"But.you're all right?" Skinner asked with care.

"Yes, sir, I'm fine," she said formally.

"Have you shaken them?"

She glanced around the lot, down the deserted stretch of highway
beyond them.  It occurred to her that she had no idea where they
were.

"It would appear so, yes," she replied finally.

"They'd have to be working for Curran," Skinner thought aloud.  "The
question is who.  I'll get on my end and see if I can come up with
any leads about people he might have had dealings with.  Any
intelligence on groups with ties to the area you're in.  I'll see
what I can find."

"There's no way to know, I suppose, if these might just be people
he's hired, or if they're part of a larger group," she rejoined.
"It's hard to tell how widespread they could be, hard to know where
to run to get away from them."

The phone beeped and she put more coins in the slot.  Skinner waited
until she was done before he began speaking again.

"Well, that's not going to be an issue anymore," Skinner said.  "I'm
working with Agent Granger now and he said that you're going to get
caught if you keep running.  There have been sightings of you all
over the place.  I saw a picture of the two of you myself last night."

"Where?" she asked, and was suddenly afraid.

"Southern California.  I hope you're away from there now?"

"Yes," she said, relieved instantly.  She knew not to tell him where
they were, even if she did know.

"That's good," Skinner said.  "Look, Granger says you've got to stop
running or the task force is going to find you eventually."

"But what about these men that were after us yesterday?"  Scully
asked.  "Won't staying put make it easier for them to find us?"

"Not where I'm going to send you," Skinner replied.  "I've made
arrangements for a place for you to stay.  Someplace safe.  Out of
the way."

"I can't imagine where that would be," Scully replied, dubious.

"You remember a few years ago you two met up with a Code Talker out
that way, a Navajo man named Albert Hosteen?"

"Of course," she said.  "He saved Mulder's life.  He protected us
both."

"Well, I've spoken to him and he's prepared to protect the two of
you again.  I've explained the situation to him as best I can, told
him Mulder was being wrongly accused by elements of the government
and that you're with him for your own protection.  He remembered you
both well.  He didn't even hesitate to say he would hide you on the
reservation, even when I told him what the penalties could be for
him."

Scully leaned against the phone, feeling something in her unhitch.
It would mean an end to the running, at least temporarily.  And they
would most likely be safe there, as Skinner had said.  Out of sight.

"He's a very good man to do that for us," she said finally.  She
felt choked up at thought of someone risking this much for them,
someone they barely knew.  She pushed the emotion down as she cleared
her throat.  "Thank you for arranging that for us."

"I'm glad to do it," Skinner replied gently.  "I know you two need
to stop.  You've been running for a long time.  And I know it's got
to be hard on you both.  Especially on you."

Scully looked down, feeling exposed.  It was hard for her to hear
that tone from Skinner.  It seemed familiar in a way that made her
feel vulnerable and she wasn't comfortable with it.

"Thank you, sir," she replied, her voice formal and even again.
"How do we find him?"

"He's in Two Grey Hills, New Mexico," Skinner said, all business
again himself.  "He told me to tell you to head for Farmington, then
go to the reservation from there.  There's a gas station over the
reservation line just as you cross in, an Exxon station with a
market.  His son owns it.  He said for you to go there and his son
would give you directions on how to find him.  He's expecting you any
time.  He said everything would be arranged by the time you got
there."

"All right," Scully said.  "I'm not sure where we are right now, but
we'll head that way immediately.  Get there as fast as we can."

"Good."

Another beep, saying time was running out.  Scully pushed more coins
into the machine.

Then there was a strange, long pause from Skinner.  Her brow creased
as it stretched.  She could almost see him starting to say something
and yet remained silent.

"Is there something else, sir?"  she asked finally.  She looked
across the parking lot, saw Mulder standing by the truck, watching
her, his hands still in his pockets.

"Yes, there is, Scully," Skinner said quietly.  Another pause.  She
grew more nervous in the midst of this one.

"I'm actually glad you were the one who called this time, because
there's something I thought you might want to know," he said at last.
His voice was so quiet and hesitant it was almost difficult to hear
him.

"What is it?"  A feeling of unnamable dread came over her.

"I've gone over the reports from the crime scene at Mae Curran's
apartment.  The autopsy report on John Fagan," He stopped again,
trailing off.

Her heart clenched like a fist at the mention of the name.  "Yes?"
she replied, forcing her voice into a normal pitch.

"I thought you might like to know.well, that he was clean," Skinner
said, something sad in his voice.  "No sign of diseases at all.  No
HIV.  Nothing."

She sucked in a breath.  Blood rushed to her neck and her face,
making her feel suddenly boiling hot.  Her stomach plummeted as her
trembling hand went up to brace her against the booth's glass.

He kn