Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 18a.

********

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

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

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

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

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

He could remember her so clearly if he let himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She and Mulder coming out of a motel room.

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

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

And waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

*********
 

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

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

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

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

Wherever Curran was hiding, he was hiding but good.

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

He wondered, for the hundredth time, by whom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Granger," he said, distracted.

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

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

A long pause.

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

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

Granger sat up straighter now, going still.

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

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

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

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

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

Or the CIA itself?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unless this was about something internal...

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

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

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

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

***********
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shea knew the feeling well.

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

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

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

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

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

"No shot," he whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It didn't move again.

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

"Jesus H. Christ," Freddy breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**********
 

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

The pleasure washed through her, throbbing him.

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

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

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

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

He knew the tears would come.

The night had taught him that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He closed his eyes...

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

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

He breathed her name.

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

**

11:33 a.m.
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They would get through the rest of the journey together.

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

It made her smile as she emptied the skillet again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scully smiled and washed the plate.
 
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They approached and Victor smiled at both of them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***********
 

END OF CHAPTER 18a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 18b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 18b.
 

**********
 

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

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

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

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

"Stop."

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

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

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

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

Silence stretched for a moment.

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

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

Again a beat of silence.

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

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

"Open it," the voice said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They fell into silence. Finally Granger broke it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did his best not to look back.
 

********
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

L. Kingston. Kentucky.

He reached over and picked up the phone.
 

**********
 

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

Honey. Oil. Salt. Yeast. Flour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pretty sure," she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mulder shook his head, leaned against the countertop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded. "I am sure."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**********
 

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

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

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

Too quiet.

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

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

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

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

Then the footsteps moved on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just as Owen had wanted.

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

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

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

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

Now she lay there, listening. Waiting.

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

Then the screaming began.
 

***********
 

END OF CHAPTER 18b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 19.
 

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 19a.

***********

APRIL 9
5:47 a.m.
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sean's laughter. Echoing.

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

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

And someone was behind her, stroking her hair.

"Maaaaaaae," Owen sang again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She swallowed, said nothing.

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

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

"Yes," she said, looking down.

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

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

It was working.

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

"When exactly did you decide to kill John?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," she said faintly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then you took her and Sean and ran."

She nodded.

A pause.

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

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

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

Mae said nothing, kept her face down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A phone rang from another room.

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

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

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

**

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

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

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

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

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

He would have to kill her. Pregnant or not.

He rubbed at the scar on his face, thinking.

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

He thought about this, waiting.

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

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

His mind turned over the possibilities.

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

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

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

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

Curran smiled faintly, pleased.

Then a thought hatched in his mind.

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

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

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

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

*********
 

END OF CHAPTER 19a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 19b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 19b.
 

************
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Padden stilled, the smiling melting off his face.

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

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

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

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

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

Granger stood there, waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now Granger smiled.

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

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

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

Padden looked from the badge to him.

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

Padden continued to stare.

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

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

Granger just shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was then that the phone began to ring.

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

Ashcroft.

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

All three of them held still.

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Granger?"

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

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

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

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

"What about my backup?"

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

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

Skinner checked his watch as they hit the parking lot.

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

*************
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He would believe them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mulder?" It was Victor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

6:55 p.m.
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alarm bells blared in Mulder's head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He fired.

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

Fuck...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No...Can't...

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

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

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

He saw boots around him, a circle of them.

He lurched forward, crawling now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"...sonofabitch...."

"...too easy..."

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

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

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

Then the world went to black.
 

*********
 

END OF CHAPTER 19b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 20.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 20a.

**********

7:56 p.m.
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She heard none.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh God.

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

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

She looked from side to side, searching for anything.

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

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

A flashlight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When was this?" Scully asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She got it now. It all made sense.

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

"Owen," she said by way of greeting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then a click as Owen hung up.
 

************
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**********
 

END OF CHAPTER 20a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 20b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 20b.
 

***********
 

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

Mulder...

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

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

"Mulder, wake up."

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

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

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

Long hair pulled back, face lost in shadows.

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

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

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

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

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

He drifted. Something in his back hurt like hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Touch."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally Curran stepped back, his breath heaving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**********
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Agent Scully," he began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know that," he said, not taking the bait of her tone. "I
mean...are you going to try and fight Curran or are you going to give
yourself up to him?"

She turned back to her leg, pressing down the tape. She tore off
another piece and repeated the action. "I'm going to do whatever it
takes to free him. To free all of them."

"So you *are* going to turn yourself over," Granger said. "Well,
that clears a lot up right there."

"I don't know what you mean," Scully replied, not looking back at
him.

"I was just trying to figure out why you don't want me to come with
you," he said, his tone as though he were thin