Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 21a

**********

HIGHWAY 77
NORTH OF SNOWFLAKE, ARIZONA
11:35 a.m.
 

There wasn't a break in her expression until she saw the signs for
Snowflake, five hours into her drive from Two Grey Hills. She'd held
the emotions at bay for all that time as she'd angled the Bronco down
the narrow two-lanes in New Mexico, through western Arizona, then
south, weaving her way through the rising mountain roads, the tan
desert giving way to Ponderosa pines and green.

But when Scully saw the signs for Snowflake, her eyes filled with
tears.

This was where they had stopped after the first month of running,
Mulder insisting on the break because of her lingering illness from
the drug and the holdover of her headaches and weakness from the
concussion she'd suffered at Fagan's hands.

She's been so weak that month, at first unable to even walk without
his help.

She could still remember rubbing her cheek against his belly in the
lodge where they'd stayed in Snowflake. His torso was bare from where
she'd pushed his shirt up, his hands on the sides of her head,
gentle, his eyes on her face. If she thought about it hard enough,
she could remember the feel of the sparse line of hair on his abdomen
against her mouth, the smell of his warm skin.

She remembered how helpless she'd felt then, how dependent.

It was in stark contrast to how she felt now. Three guns hidden in
her clothes, her mouth a thin line, her eyes guarded by sunglasses as
they met the road in front her.

She pushed her fingers beneath her glasses, wiped the tears roughly
away.

She was a little more than an hour from her destination, the little
town of Show Low on the edge of the Salt River Apache Reservation.
She could feel herself growing more still inside as she approached
it, seeing the first signs for the town beginning to appear on the
road sides.

She would be there so soon. And she was ready to be there.

But ready for what?

One of two things was going to happen this day, she knew.

The first was that she would somehow find a way to free Mulder and
the others and get away herself, as well, hopefully taking Owen out --
killing him, if necessary -- in the process.

The other was that she would sacrifice herself for the lives of the
others. For Mulder's life, which she would do without even thinking
twice about it.

But also for Mae's life. The life of her lover and her unborn child.

Vague recollections gathered in her mind. Mae in the back of the
pickup, some truckstop somewhere on the road, them running from Owen
after Mae had killed Fagan. A cup of soup in Mae's hand, which she
tilted to Scully's lips, making her eat something, despite the drug,
despite her injuries.

Come on, help me now, Mae had said gently.

Then another memory. Mae dressing her in pajamas in the cabin in
Tennessee, the drug-fever raging as Mae tucked her beneath the
covers, Mae's hand lingering, protective, on her forehead.

A cloth on her forehead in a bathtub of frigid water, Mae's voice as
she spoke softly to Mulder....

Her eyes hardened at the memories.

She owed Mae her life. Despite how strangely and under what false
circumstances the friendship with Mae had begun, it was a strong
friendship nonetheless. Scully felt connected to her in some way she
couldn't quite name.

She heaved out a breath as she thought all this, as she entered
Snowflake. She remembered the sleepy looking lodges well, the small
stores in the tiny town.

Her thoughts returned to Mulder. Worry filled her, concern at how
Owen would treat him. She just hoped Mulder would keep quiet. Owen
had no tolerance for disrespect, and Mulder could be most
disrespectful. She didn't like the thought of the two of them
together, especially with Owen knowing something of she and Mulder's
affiliation, and being as vengeful as he was right now.

She pushed the worry down as best she could, considering her options
carefully.

Owen had weaknesses, some of which centered around her, his
attraction to her and his association of her with his wife, Elisa.
There had to be ways to exploit those feelings, to undo him in some
way, throw him off and give her the chance to take him out or at
least get away once the others were freed.

Either that or the association of her with Elisa would make him
somehow worse -- less rational, more manipulative and with more of a
desire to control her. It was going to be one or the other.

She sighed, shaking her head at the thought.

She would do anything that could be done. Especially to protect the
lives of the hostages. And she was ready to pay the consequences for
what she might have to do.

Even if it meant her death.

A feeling of calm came over her with that thought. A determination
that fought the aloneness she felt as she drove the truck filled with
suitcases.

Nothing but the sound of the tired engine as she drove out of
Snowflake on toward Show Low, the sound of worn tires pounding the
road.
 

**********

INTERSTATE 40
WEST OF HOLBROOK, ARIZONA
11:35 a.m.
 

Paul Granger looked at the map, fumbling the unfolded thing in front
of him as he followed the line of Interstate 40 to Holbrook. He was
steering with his knees, looking for the number of the highway he was
supposed to take to get to Show Low. The rental car purred along on
the highway, the brand-new engine barely making a sound as the exits
for Holbrook began to appear.

Finally he found it -- Highway 77, south toward Snowflake and
Taylor. He watched for the exit and saw it coming in the distance. He
switched lanes to take it, stuffing the map in the passenger seat.

He'd driven in silence since he'd left Albert Hosteen's house, an
hour behind Scully on the road. He was tense, his tension beginning
as he'd watched Scully say goodbye to Hosteen and his grandson
Victor, Scully and the elder Hosteen's hands hanging in a long grip
as they'd looked at each other, saying nothing but "goodbye" and the
other's name before she'd climbed in the truck and gotten on her way.

The scene had made him uptight because there seemed to be such
finality to it, Hosteen and Scully looking at each other as though
they might not ever see one another again.

And that was exactly what he was afraid of.

He took the exit, going down the more narrow highway, circling the
outskirts of the town of Holbrook and then heading out into the
nothing beyond, the road rising onto hills in front of him.

His hand gripped the steering wheel harder as he thought of the
conversation he'd had with Albert Hosteen before he had left himself.
The one about what to do with the agents Skinner had sent to Two Grey
Hills who Granger was supposed to be coordinating so that Mulder and
Scully could be protected from any unlikely last minute strike by
Padden and the more likely appearance of Curran and his men.

The agents would arrive in the tiny reservation town to find no one
but an old man to greet them who would *not* be telling them where
Granger and Mulder and Scully actually were. Instead, Hosteen would
be sending them to Shumway, a town close to Show Low Granger had
found the map. There, Hosteen would tell them, the agents would meet
at the sheriff's headquarters to wait for further instructions from
him or from Scully.

Whichever of them was alive to give the order for the agents to
scramble to contain Curran, on the off-chance that Granger or Scully
let him get away.

Granger shook his head, looked out the side window at the trees,
which had recently appeared as he went up in elevation, streamed by.

Skinner was going to kill him. After all these weeks of the two of
them working together, planning, sneaking around behind Padden's back
to clear Mulder and Scully's names, to allow them to come in safe,
here he was, breaking off on his own and leaving Skinner completely
in the dark.

And just when things were looking up, too. Or had seemed to be at
the time...

"Dammit," he said under his breath.

It was a good thing he didn't have a career to ruin anymore, he
thought, shaking his head again. Because this wouldn't help matters
much at all.

The picture of his father, Thomas, stiff in his Baltimore City
Police uniform, came into his head, and he felt the nagging sense of
shame he'd been struggling to keep at bay over his leaving the CIA.
He wondered what his father would think of his decision to turn his
back on a career he'd spent his life preparing for.

He knew, on the one hand, that he'd done the right thing by leaving.

But why?

Skinner was right. What had happened at the CIA could have happened -
- *did* happen -- anywhere. If he was going to stay in law
enforcement at all, he ran the risk of corruption everywhere he went
because of how easily the power that came along with it could be
misused.

But on another, he felt he'd given up in a way, chosen NOT to fight
that abuse of power, that he should have stayed to fight the fight.

So why had he done it?

He went around a wide bend, a sign for Snowflake, 78 miles, coming
into view, as he pondered this.

He'd done it for Mulder and Scully, he realized. To stand with them
against what was being done to them.

He wondered at this realization now, wondered at his sense of
loyalty to two people he actually barely knew. Especially Scully,
whom he'd only met a few times, and whom he'd just spent more than an
hour with for the first time the night before.

Another memory came to him as he thought of this. His mother this
time, chiding him for his nervousness, his shyness he'd struggled
with throughout his life, even at the CIA before this case, even
though he'd graduated at the top of his class in Behavioral Sciences,
even though he was considered the best new profiler the CIA had ever
produced.

You forget who you are, his mother had told him every time she saw
him hiding from something, refusing to stand up for himself or
others. She'd shake her head, cradle the back of his neck, and say it
again.

But he knew who he was now. In fact, he'd never been more certain of
who he was, what he believed in. And Mulder and Scully had taught him
this, taught him his own beliefs by their treatment of him and this
case and, most importantly, each other.

There was an honesty to them, an integrity, that went beyond what
he'd been taught and took him to what he knew to be right.

*That* was why he'd stood with them. That was why he'd quit, in a
kind of thanks for the knowledge he had now, the understanding of
what was worth standing up for and what was not.

And the CIA, with all its machinations, was something that was not.

That was why he was out here, driving through the Arizona high
country, about to risk his life to protect two people he barely knew,
but whom he considered to be, in a strange way, friends.

He remembered who he was now. He was sure of that person, this
person he had become.

That was what he would say to his mother when he told her about his
leaving the Agency.

If he got the chance.

Surely that, he decided, she would understand.
 

**********

INTERSTATE 40
PINTA, ARIZONA
30 MILES WEST OF HOLBROOK
11:35 a.m.
 

Jimmy Shea changed lanes around a tractor trailer, carefully
returning to the right hand lane as he continued on his way to
Holbrook, doing the speed limit to the number.

Almost to the turnoff, he thought, rubbing at his moustache
absently. And the closer he came to the road that would take him to
Show Low, this Highway 77 that would take him south through the
mountains, the more he was certain he couldn't do what it was he was
being asked to do.

He should just turn the truck around now, he thought. Head back to
New York. To Ruby back home minding the house, to the shell of his
boat there by the sea.

There was a picture of a boy in his head -- the boy on the
motorcycle, the boy in the pub.

There was a picture of a man he'd respected more than anyone at that
time in his life, lying in a coffin at the wake, every bone showing
through the dead white skin, the suit looking five sizes too large
for the corpse it encased.

And again the boy was there in his mind. Owen had stood with the men
in the corner, ignoring his mother's grief, his sister's silence, his
brother's prayers beside the body of his father.

Shea remembered standing there by the coffin, his hand on the
younger James' shoulder as the young man prayed. He remembered
brushing down Mae's unruly dark hair as he passed her, her shy smile
through her tears, his own in return.

No, he couldn't do it.

But he had always done what they'd asked of him. It felt strange to
even consider doing otherwise.

Perhaps if he went to Show Low and got a look at Owen, saw that he
wasn't this mad dog the others seemed to believe he was, he could
report back what he'd seen, that his task wasn't necessary after all.
Maybe he'd even talk to Owen, to Mae. Find there was a perfectly
reasonable explanation to all that had transpired. A simple
misguidance on Owen's part, perhaps. Something that Shea could put to
right.

Shea knew he himself had a reputation for keeping his head about
him, coming to the right ideas about situations. Surely they would
listen to him and this whole thing and it could be avoided.

This tragic ending that didn't have to close the story of James
Curran and his family.

Shea sighed, sorrow settling over him like fallen leaves as the
signs for Holbrook came into view now, as he started looking for the
turnoff to 77 headed south.

The turn toward the one place on the earth he did not want to go.
 

*********
 

UNKNOWN LOCATION
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA
NEAR THE SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION
2:35 p.m.
 

Mulder was finally asleep.

His legs had been unbound to allow him a trip to the bathroom an
hour or so before, and now he lay in a heap on the floor, curled on
his side, his breathing slow and a little too loud through his
swollen nose above the length of tape across his mouth and cheeks.

Owen had stayed out of the room since his run-in with Mulder early
that morning. Mae hated that Mulder had had to take the beating he
had. But she was grateful to him as well -- for keeping Owen away
from the three of them for the rest of the day. His words had more
power than he knew.

She lay on the bed facing both Mulder and Joe, who was also
sleeping, his chin on his chest where he sat, still bound and damp,
in the chair. She had dozed off and on herself as best she could,
woken by bouts of vomiting earlier in the morning that had passed,
leaving her weak and shaky. The strange looking man whom Owen
referred to as "Rudy" had brought her some water with ice from the
kitchen, and she was doing her best to fight off exhaustion and
dehydration.

Were she out of this place, she would probably check herself back
into a hospital. She felt that badly. The duress wasn't helping her
physical state, either.

She looked at the car battery and paddles next to Joe, shuddered.

Then she was on her feet, eyeing Rudy sitting just outside the door,
his arms crossed over his chest. He appeared to be asleep, as well.

Satisfied with that, she made her way to Joe slowly, her knees
trembling as she walked the few steps to him.

When she reached him, she put a hand gently on his battered cheek,
and he jerked awake immediately, his eyes wide. She covered his mouth
to keep him from crying out.

"It's okay," she murmured, looking at Rudy to see if he'd reacted to
the sound. He hadn't. "It's just me. I want to check you over, all
right? That thing is designed to hurt a lot more than it's designed
to do damage, but I want to see just the same."

"I'm all right," he replied, keeping his voice low as she knelt in
front of him. "A few burns. I'm okay."

She pushed his shirt up, looked at his chest, the dark mottling of
burns in the shape of the paddles there. Her hands shook as she
traced them.

"Joe, I'm so sorry..." Tears raced down her cheeks suddenly as she
looked at his body, then she looked down, unable to meet his eyes.

"Hey," he whispered, and she looked back up at him, into his eyes,
trying to ignore the bruising around them. "It's okay. I'm okay."

He turned his head, studied her, a concerned look on his face. She
knew she must look terrible given his expression.

"I'm more worried about you," he said softly.

She shook her head. "God, how can you say that?" she asked. "We're
in this because of me and--"

"No, we're in this because of your brother," he asserted. "You were
right to take Sean and run with him. Just from the little bit I've
seen." He paused. "He's that terrorist everyone's been looking for,
right?"

Mae nodded. "Yes," she whispered.

"The one who bombed the embassy in Washington."

"Yes," she said again, and she met his eyes steadily again. "But
Joe...I helped plan that bombing, too."

Joe said nothing and she pressed on quickly. "I helped buy the
explosives. I helped with surveillance of the embassy. I'm as guilty
for that as he is."

Still Joe said nothing. He merely looked at her, his eyes gentle and
inquisitive. Finally he spoke.

"Why did you do it?" he asked softly.

"Because..." she began, and trailed off, her gaze going down.

"Because why?" he persisted.

She thought about that hard. Why had she done it? Did she even have
an answer for that?

"Because Owen wanted to do it," she said finally, faintly.

"Have you always done what Owen wanted you to do?" Joe asked. He
shifted in the chair as much as his binds would allow, leaning closer
to her.

She nodded now without hesitation. "Yes. My whole life."

Joe nodded in return. "But something changed."

She looked down, then toward Rudy again, watching the doorway as she
spoke. "Yes," she said softly. "I'd had enough of the killing. He
killed my friends. He was going to kill this Agent Scully who he's
after now. She's my friend, as well."

Joe looked at her, cocked his head. "Now you sound like the person I
met in Mexico," he said finally. "The woman I fell in love with."

"I still have done horrible things, Joe," she said, shaking her
head. "You can't dismiss that."

"No, I don't dismiss them," Joe replied, keeping his voice low. "I
think they were horrible things, too, and that's something that we're
going to have work through between us. The same way you're going to
have to deal with some of the things *I've* done."

He looked at her until she met his eyes.

"But I'm not that person anymore, no matter what I did," he
continued in a whisper. "And you're not that person anymore, either,
Mae. *You* have changed. That's why your brother wants to kill us.
You've turned your back on him and started a life without him. "

Mae nodded. "I'm the only family he has left. We've been all the
other has had for most of our lives."

"And you don't think that could protect you?" he replied.

She shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "I've betrayed him. And
there's only one way he deals with betrayal."

Joe swallowed. "You don't think the baby..." He trailed off as she
shook her head. Then he grew silent.

"He may let you go," Mae said into the quiet that followed. "He may
let Mulder go, though with what Mulder said to him last night I'm
wondering about that. But he will not let me go. Or Dana go. He won't
stop until we're both dead."

"I won't let him kill you." Joe looked at her fiercely.

"I want you to get away if you can, Joe," she whispered, brushing at
his cheek. "Promise me you'll go if he lets you. For me."

He shook his head. "I won't let him kill you, Mae. I'll die first."

She covered her face miserably, her face flushing and twisting to
tears. She sobbed quietly, fear and frustration overcoming her.

Joe leaned closer until his forehead rested against hers. He kissed
her, lingering there. He told her it would be all right.

"Hey."

Both Mae and Joe's faces shot toward the door, where Rudy was
standing, his gun in his hand.

"Mr. Curran said no talking," he said, waving the gun at Mae. "Get
back on the bed."

Mae stood, her hand lingering on Joe's leg as she composed herself
as best she could. Then she withdrew to the bed once again.

"I won't tell him this time," Rudy said, "but next time, I will. So
make sure there isn't a next time, all right?"

Mae nodded. "Thank you," she said, sitting on the edge of the
mattress. She looked at Joe across the vast space between them.

Then Rudy withdrew, tucking his gun back into its holster as he
returned to the hall.
 
 

**********
 

END OF CHAPTER 21a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 21b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 21b.

***********
 

DEUCE OF CLUBS MOTEL
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA
3:25 p.m.
 
 

The stationery was torn-out pieces from a spiral steno notebook, the
top edge still ragged from being ripped from the pad. Beside the
loose pages on the desk, the cheap black ballpoint she'd borrowed
from the front desk, a small box of envelopes, the cheapest she could
buy at the drug store she'd passed on the way into town.

She'd been writing for hours now, her neat cursive filling page
after yellow page. She had the television on for background noise,
and it calmed her nerves and forced her to concentrate on the tasks
she had at hand.

First, the letter to Skinner. Explaining what she'd done and why
she'd done it. It was short, to the point, and, except for the last
paragraph, all business. Only at the end did she break the formal
tone she'd used in the explanation of Curran's demands in how she
should go to get Mulder. Only there did she tell him how much she
respected him and the difficult work that he did. She thanked him for
what he had done for her and Mulder over the years, the support of
their work on the X-Files, even when that support took the form of
dressing downs designed to make them look more presentable to the
higher-ups at the FBI. He'd done a lot to preserve their reputations,
to give their work some small measure of credibility, and for that,
she told him, she was grateful.

Next, a letter to her mother, one she hoped she would never have to
write. She found the letter beginning by talking of memories she had
of her childhood, fond memories, difficult ones. Things her mother
had taught her over the years, things she had tried to emulate. She
told her mother she hoped that she had made her proud in some small
way with the life she had chosen to lead, with her dedication to what
she believed.

And then, after much searching within herself, she had told her
mother about this case, the one that very well might be her last. She
told her everything about what happened in Richmond. Everything. Even
the rape. She told her so that she could understand the person she
had become now in the face of it, so her mother could know what she'd
overcome to come to the place of strength she now stood within. It
was the place that allowed her to take this risk for Mulder's sake
and for the sake of the woman who had once risked everything for her.

She asked her mother not to blame Mulder for anything that might
happen to her, for any action she might take for his sake.

Then Scully told her she loved her, and she said goodbye.

And lastly, in the final few minutes before she would take the call
from Curran, she wrote a letter to Mulder. She guessed it could be
considered a love letter, though there was so much sadness in it, so
much imploring for him to understand her decision to trade her life
for his, that most of it was hardly romantic.

She did tell him a few things, however -- how he had completed her
life, filled a space she hadn't even known was there before she met
him. She told him how making love with him made her feel more alive
than she thought possible. She told him how loving him had saved her
from the solitary, desolate parts of herself.

She apologized for the time she had not spent with him in the past
months, the time with him and yet apart from him, for the time she
had needed to heal but that she now wanted back. She had not known
that time could be so short.

She stopped not when she was finished saying what she meant to say,
but when she couldn't write any more, when the tears, which she could
not afford to entertain at this moment, threatened to overwhelm her.

She folded the letters carefully, placed them in the small envelopes
and addressed them each carefully, placing stamps, also purchased at
the drugstore, in the corners after she'd closed them.

She left the return address blank.

Then she picked up her key and the envelopes and went out the door,
walked to the office, down the long walkway in front of the other
doors to other rooms. She chanced a look at the closed door of room
14, the room Granger was hiding within. He'd called her room when
he'd arrived and said nothing but that number before he hung up.

The bell on the door to the office jingled as she entered, the clerk
on duty kicking his legs down from where they were up on the desk, a
newspaper in his hand. He smiled to her as he stood behind the
counter.

"Miss Black, what can I do for you?" he asked. She had never found
out his name.

"I was wondering," she began, fingering the envelopes. "Could you
put these in the mail for me? I'm going to be leaving early in the
morning and won't have time to find a mailbox myself."

"Sure thing," the clerk said, smiling that same smile, wide as a
jack-o-lantern. "I actually get off here in a few minutes, at four,
and I go by the post office on my way home. I'll put them in then and
they'll make the five o'clock pickup. How's that?"

She smiled in return. "That would be great, thank you. Have a good
evening." She turned to go.

"You, too, ma'am," the man replied, and Scully went out the door,
the bell jangling behind her.

It was warm for the time of day, and she found herself pushing up
the sleeves to Mulder's shirt a bit higher, getting more of the thick
air on her.

Back inside her room, she turned on the air conditioning unit, the
ancient thing rattling to life and sending out a stream of cool stale-
smelling air. Then she sat on the bed, the phone beside her, and
waited.

Five minutes went by as she sat in the near-silence, the television
burbling faintly behind the sound of the air conditioning unit.

Eight minutes.

At 4:04 the phone rang.

"Yes," she said without inflection.

"You're doing well so far, Dana," Curran replied. "Word has it you
checked in about one and came alone. That's good. You ready to come
get your friends then?"

"Yes," she said again, equally as flat. "Just tell me where you want
me to go."

She could almost hear Curran smiling. "Get back on Highway 60 and
follow it onto the reservation. About ten miles in you'll find a
turnoff marked with a cone, a dirt road. That'll take you into one of
the access points to a canyon. Park your car at the trailhead and
come in on foot. There's a clearing in the middle of the canyon, and
a wash there, I'm told it's called, a little river of a sort. Come
from the trail to the edge of the wash and I'll be on the other side
with your people. We'll make the exchange from there."

"Let me talk to Mulder first," she tried, and Curran chuckled.

"I put a big piece of tape over his mouth. He was giving me a good
bit of lip earlier, the bastard. I'm not taking that tape off for
anything. But rest assured he's alive. They all are. Whether they
stay that way is up to you, isn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose it is," Scully replied evenly. "What time?"

"Be there in an hour," Curran said. "I should be all situated by
then."

"I'm on my way," she said, and she waited for him to hang up before
she replaced the receiver herself.

She stared at the phone for a long moment, feeling her heartbeat
pick up. She drew in a calming breath, let it out, closing her eyes.

She would only have one chance to do this right, she thought to
herself, her teeth gritting down.

She forced herself to even out, to take it in.

Then she picked up the phone, pulled in another long breath, and
dialed room 14. Granger picked up on the first ring.

"He called," he said by way of greeting.

"Yes," she replied.

"Okay," Granger said, and he was breathing a little hard himself,
she noted. "Give me the layout, and tell me what you want me to do."
 

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

UNKNOWN LOCATION
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA
NEAR THE SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION
4:18 p.m.
 

Tom Lantham stood in the doorway to the bedroom with Rudy Grey, his
gun still in its holster, his expression grim. Curran brushed past
him and went into the room, his gun in his hand, and Lantham watched
the woman, Mae, tense up and begin to tremble slightly at the sight
of her brother.

He hated to see that. A pregnant lady frightened like that. He
didn't care what she'd done.

And he had to admit that Curran made him nervous, too. The man's
cheese had slipped off his cracker for sure, he thought, rubbing at
his mouth absently.

He watched Curran go toward the man, Mulder, who was still sleeping
on the floor beside the recliner, his face pale beneath the bruising
and slack.

"Wake the fuck up," Curran spit, kicking Mulder hard in the side,
and Mulder jerked awake instantly, though his eyes were still
lolling. The drug that Curran had had Rudy give the poor man was
still in him. Lantham could see it in his face.

Curran had moved past him to the other man, this man Porter, and
began untying his hands from the back of the chair.

"Get Mulder up," Curran called over his shoulder to him and Grey,
and Grey went forward obediently, helping Mulder into a sitting
position and then hauling him to his feet. Mulder stood a bit
unsteadily, his eyes, over the wide length of tape, on Curran, his
wrists secured in front of him.

Curran was taping Porter's hands in front of him, like Mulder's, and
he glanced at Lantham, still standing in the doorway.

"Well, don't just stand there. Go take her to the car." Curran
nodded to Mae, who looked at Lantham, her eyes wide and pleading.

Lantham shook his head. "No," he said, and shifted against the
doorway.

Now Curran stopped, looked back at him steadily. "What are you
saying to me?" His voice was soft, that dangerous tone Lantham had
grown accustomed to from him. He refused to be cowed by it, though.
He knew Curran wouldn't risk going after him. Not with Kingston and
the entire Sons of Liberty behind him.

"I'm saying no," Lantham repeated. "I don't know what you're
planning to do with these people, but I don't want any part of it. I
didn't sign on for murder on this trip. You can have all that."

Curran stood straight, facing him now. Grey was looking from Lantham
to Curran and back again.

"You're supposed to be at my disposal, Mr. Lantham," Curran said. "I
need help moving these people. But you help me move them into the car
and Mr Grey and I will do the rest, if you're too squeamish. Mr. Grey
isn't, I'm sure."

Lantham looked at Rudy, who was smiling slightly at the perceived
compliment. The poor son-of-a-bitch was too stupid to know what
Curran was up to, really. Rudy would simply do what he was told,
though Lantham doubted he would actually shoot anyone.

The people in the room didn't know that, though.

And with Rudy, you never really knew.

"All right," Lantham said, returning his attention to Curran. "You
take Mr. Grey here and I'll help you put these people in the car and
you do what you've got to do. I'll stay here with your son. Make sure
he stays safe while you go about your business."

"All right then," Curran replied, though Lantham could tell he
wasn't happy with the turn of events. "Get my sister in the car."

With that, Curran hauled Porter to his feet, and Lantham went to
Mae, took her by the arm gently. She allowed it and stood.

"Come on," he said quietly, and led her out the door, Grey hustling
the staggering Mulder behind him, Curran behind Porter, bringing up
the rear.

**

Outside, lying on his stomach by a tree on a small rise beside the
house, Jimmy Shea looked down at the house through binoculars,
looking for any sign of activity, peering in the windows with the
curtains opened.

He saw nothing for a long moment, waited, his hand on his rifle
there beside him on the ground.

Then, the front door opened, and he recognized Mae Curran
immediately, though he hadn't seen her in years. She was walking
slowly out the front door toward a large American sedan parked beside
the house. There was a man behind her, his hand on her arm. Shea
couldn't tell if he was armed or not, but decided he probably was.

He refocussed the binoculars on the door as another figure appeared,
a dark-haired man, beaten about the face from the looks of him, with
tape over his mouth and his hands taped together in front of him. He
was being pushed along at gunpoint by a shorter, stocky man. The dark-
haired man was unsteady on his feet, and the one with the gun kept
having to reach out and take hold of him to keep him going in the
right direction.

Then a fifth figure, another man Shea didn't recognize, bound the
same way as the staggering man, but no tape over his mouth.

Then Shea saw him. Owen. A gun in his hand as he gave the man in
front of him a shove toward the car.

They were all going somewhere, that was for certain.

Shea put the binoculars down silently, began slowly crawling
backward away from the edge of the rise, barely rustling the ground
as he crept back.

His truck was parked on the road, hidden off the side in view of the
driveway. Once he knew he was concealed by the trees, he stood, slung
the binoculars around his neck and picked up the sniper's rifle,
heading quickly and quietly back to the truck.
 

************
 

NEAR HAWK'S EYE CANYON
SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION
4:40 p.m.
 

Paul Granger drove his dark sedan down the dirt road, the road a
good half a mile from the turnoff Scully was going to be taking once
she arrived from the motel. They'd decided that he would leave 20
minutes ahead of her, just in case she was still being watched, so
that it would look like he was just another guest at the motel
leaving for an early dinner or an errand.

He'd driven onto the reservation, the town of Show Low giving way to
desolation, the long winding highway that cut through forest -- no
houses that he could see, no stores or gas stations. Just woods.

He'd driven by the turnoff, marked by a faded orange cone, then done
a U-turn and headed back, to another dirt road that led off in the
same direction as the one Scully would be taking. He was glad for the
privacy the weaving dirt road and the woods afforded.

He'd checked the map -- the canyon, Hawk's Eye, was a long one,
stretching some five miles, gradually widening until it became Salt
River Canyon, the wash in Hawk's Eye a small tributary to a larger
river.

On the other side of the canyon, there was another road, with other
entrance points. Curran would be coming from that side.

The road he was on led to a trailhead almost identical to the one
Scully would be taking into the canyon, only this one was a bit
further north. He would be able to pick his way through the forest to
the place where she was meeting Curran, getting as close as he could
without leaving the safety of the rise or the trees.

He'd still be close enough to get down to the wash if necessary.

Finally he reached the dead-end, where a small trail led into the
woods. He stopped the car, cut the engine, then climbed out. He could
hear water flowing somewhere in the distance.

A woodpecker tapped suddenly a tree beside him, and he jumped at the
sudden ratchet of hollow sound, pulling his gun and pointing it
toward the tree.

The bird was startled by the movement and stopped instantly, staring
down at him with its bead eyes.

Granger put his hand on his forehead, pushing out a breath as he
shook his head at himself. He felt the urge to burst into laughter,
and barely kept it at bay.

"Shit," he said under his breath, blew out another breath.

Composing himself again, he checked his 9mm, tapped the safety off.
Then he tucked the gun back beneath his black leather jacket in his
shoulder holster, closed the car door quietly and headed up the road
to the trailhead and the woods beyond.
 

*******
 

HAWK'S EYE CANYON
SALT RIVER WASH
SALT RIVER APACHE RESERVATION
4:57 p.m.
 

They were a grim procession, the two men with their hands bound
stumbling on the uneven ground, Mae leading the way with Owen behind
her, his gun drawn and tapping at the center of her back every now
and then. Rudy Grey brought up the rear.

The trail began to descend a little, and Mae could hear water
rushing ahead of them, saw a brightening in the trail, a clearing
coming into view.

"Keep moving," Owen grunted as Mae slowed a bit, a feeling of
intense weakness coming over her.

"Owen, I'm sick," she said under her breath, and she halted, pulling
the line up short. She turned to her brother then, meaning to plead
with him one last time, to try to make him stop this.

And was greeted by the pistol on the center of her forehead, his
face clenched into a snarl.

"I. Said. Keep. Moving." His voice was monotone, devoid of anything
even close to emotion. He pulled back the hammer on the gun, replaced
it on her forehead. Mae froze, closing her eyes.

"Owen, please," she whispered. "Please."

She opened her eyes then and looked at Joe, who was struggling to
keep his mouth closed, but his eyes were saucers, huge and panicked.
Mulder's weren't much better, though his lids drooped every now and
again as he worked at staying upright.

Owen's hand shot out and pushed her shoulder roughly, spinning her
around. He shoved her forward, toward the sound of the water and the
light.

Then they were in the clearing, a huge sandy expanse between the two
sloping canyon walls. There were small groves of trees here and
there, giving way to a wide creek, the water running white in some
places. In others, it was deeper and glassy and black, but still
moving swiftly.

Across the clearing, on the other side, she saw another wide opening
in the canyon, another place where a trail came in. Owen angled her
toward it, toward the bank, then stopped her abruptly. Her stomach
churned, sweat beading her forehead, but she knew it was mostly her
fear now.

Fear mixing with a sort of resignation about what was about to
happen. To all of them.

"Put them on their knees here and here," Owen said to Rudy, pointing
with his gun. Rudy did as he was told, pushing Joe down onto his
knees on one side of Curran, and then placing Mulder on his on the
other side.

Owen put a hand on Mae's shoulder and pulled her back against him,
his chin over her shoulder, his gun pressed to the side of her head
and an arm across her chest.

A human shield. In case Dana came armed. Which Mae knew she would.
Mulder was too tall and too unsteady on his feet to serve the
purpose. But Mae would be an adequate deterrent.

Mae hated knowing that. Hated being used this way. Especially since
she knew that Owen had no intention of letting her go.

She looked down at Mulder and Joe, kneeling, their hands out in
front of them. Mulder turned and looked back at her as though he
wanted to say something, but the tape prevented it. Instead he
nodded, opened his palms and lowered them to the ground.

Stay calm, he was saying. She drew in a deep breath and answered him
with her eyes, afraid to even nod.

"Stay to the side," Curran said to Grey. "But keep your gun on these
two. And shoot if either of them tries anything. I want them still as
stone. Everyone understand that? No sudden movements."

Rudy withdrew, and Mae saw Joe and Mulder both nod. She bobbed her
head once, as well, and Owen tightened his hold on her, pressing
himself closer against her. Mae's breathing picked up as the fear
began to overtake her.

Then they waited, watching the other side of the creek, the running
water and Mae's breathing the only sound around them.
 

**

High on the cliffside, Jimmy Shea reached the edge, crawling on his
belly, his rifle out before him. He had a clear view from here.
Curran in the center, the two men on either side of him. His sister
in front him.

And a gun to her head.

Holy Mother, Shea thought, closing his eyes and shaking his head.
His own sister? He was using his own sister to shield him? From what?

He was bluffing. He had to be. Surely Owen wouldn't hurt Mae, he
decided. Owen had loved his sister his whole life. They'd been nearly
inseparable since James' death, and since the death of their older
brother, the priest shot in the square in Belfast.

He must be using her against someone coming to meet him. A pawn in a
game he was playing, a bit of strategy and nothing more.

But something else was in the back of his mind. A worry. Everything
he'd been told about Owen, how he'd lost his mind, lost control.

Thinking this, Shea quietly pulled the rifle up, bracing it in his
hands, the butt's familiar end at his shoulder. He put his eye to the
scope, not even closing the other as he sighted through it, trying to
get Owen's head in the crosshairs.

Mae was right there, her head right next to her brother's. Through
the scope, he could see the terror in her eyes.

This wasn't a bluff or a game, he realized. Mae was afraid for her
life, her skin pale as a spirit's. She was trembling faintly.

And the look on Owen's face. Hatred. Determination. Something else,
too. Something wild and dangerous.

Not quite sane.

Shea sighed, deeply saddened.

There was movement from the other side of the canyon, which Shea
noted from his peripheral vision. He kept his eyes on Owen though,
who was jerking his sister closer to him, their heads pressing even
closer together.

"No shot," Shea whispered, pursing his lips.

He kept still, the scope on both their heads now, his only movement
his finger, edging, as if on its own accord, onto the trigger.
 

**

On the other side of the canyon, tucked in a fold of trees right at
the edge of a slope that led to the sand of the clearing, Granger lay
on his belly, peering from behind a tree, watching Owen with Mae and
Mulder and a man he didn't know who he assumed to be Mae's lover.
They were all arranged around Owen like chess pieces, the two men
looking battered and worn.

Mulder especially. He looked like he was having a hard time even
remaining upright. It worried Granger, first for his well-being in
general, and second, because it appeared Mulder wouldn't be able to
do much to help himself escape if the opportunity arose.

But there were only two of them, Granger thought, taking it all in,
his pistol in front of him. Owen and the man off to the side, who had
his gun pointed at Mulder, with a clear shot at the other man, as
well.

And Owen had Mae up against him, keeping him from having any sort of
shot without endangering her.

Then, movement off to his left.

Scully.
 

**

Scully walked slowly into the clearing, onto the sand from the dirt
trail and saw the scene before her as soon as she entered it. Owen
watching her from over Mae's shoulder, Mulder and another man -- the
father of Mae's child -- kneeling in front of him, on either side.
The man was looking at Scully, wary and curious.

She met Mulder's gaze as she kept her slow pace toward the creek
that separated them. He was shaking his head almost unperceptively,
his eyes darting to the side toward Owen.

Don't trust him, he was saying. Don't believe him.

"Stop," Owen said, his voice echoing in the canyon.

Scully halted instantly, about ten feet from the edge of the creek.
She kept her hands to the sides, stood still. Owen looked at her for
a long moment in the silence that followed.

"Dana, the months have been hard, I see," he called across the
creek. "You don't quite look like yourself anymore."

Scully said nothing, only looked at him, looked at Mae, whose eyes
were more afraid than anything she'd ever seen. She tried to reassure
Mae with her eyes, but Mae did not break her gaze, not even to blink.

The warning in them was as clear as it had been in Mulder's.

Owen seemed displeased by her silence, his expression hardening even
more.

"How about you take that shirt off you're wearing?" Owen said. "The
top one."

Scully stood and stared at him for a few seconds. Then Owen jerked
Mae backward hard, pressed the gun against her head harder. Tears
started down Mae's cheeks, her lip trembling.

"Don't make me fucking tell you anything twice," Owen warned,
looking at the men, then back up into Scully's face. "For any of
their sakes."

Scully swallowed, looked at Mulder again, his face battered, blood
staining the tape over his mouth. His eyes did not move from her
face.

She remained silent, reached up and began to undo the knot at her
waist.

"Slow, Dana," Owen said. "Do it slow. I don't want any sudden
movements of you going for the gun I know you've got hidden
underneath there."

Scully slowed her movements down, opening up the shirt's tails. Then
she reached up and began undoing the buttons one at a time until the
front was open, exposing the thin white t-shirt underneath. She
peeled out of the shirt and let it drop to the ground beside her.

Her gun was clearly visible in its holster now.

"Take that thing out and throw it in the creek," Owen called. "I
want to be able to count the hairs on your hand while you do it."

Scully reached for it and lifted the Sig out, holding it for a
second. Then she tossed it the few feet to the creek. It landed in
the black water and disappeared.

"Now put your hands up and turn around," Owen said, and Scully
swallowed again, raised her arms and did as she was told.

She knew what Owen would see. Mulder's gun in the back of her pants,
the butt of it protruding from above her belt.

"Take that one out, too," he called. "And do the same thing with it."

Scully reached behind her, drew it out, and turned back around,
tossing it into the water, as well.

"Any other surprises in those clothes of yours?" Owen asked.

She shook her head.

"That's good," Owen said.

They stood in silence for a few seconds, Owen's eyes on Scully's.
Scully didn't flinch from his intense gaze, from the hatred burning
in it.

"Aren't you going to say anything to me?" Owen asked, tightening his
hold on Mae even further.

Scully shifted her weight, lowered her hands. "You have me now," she
said, just loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the rushing
water. "It's time to let them go."

"All of them?" Owen said, and he smiled, showing his teeth.

"That was the deal," Scully said, keeping her voice composed, though
she didn't like the turn in the conversation. "Me for all of them.
Send them over and I'll come when they're all on this side."

Owen levelled his gaze even more at her. "Think hard about that,
Dana," he said. "Think hard. Because what John Fagan did to you is
nothing compared to what you're going to go through with me before
I'm finished with you."

Scully felt a flush come up on her cheeks at the mention of the
rape, but her chin lifted up defiantly, as well, her eyes not leaving
Owen's.

She heard Mulder make a sound from behind his tape, turn to Owen,
who spared him a glance and a smirk before returning his eyes to
Scully's.

"How was that, anyway?" Owen continued conversationally. "Was it
*good* for you, Dana? Because I'll be better, I promise."

Mulder made another sound, clearly a curse, digging up sand with his
hands. Owen looked at him again, then back up at Scully. He laughed,
and it echoed off the canyon walls.

"Send them over," she said, refusing to take the bait. Mulder's eyes
were on her again, his head shaking. She nodded to him once.

Yes, I will do this, she said across the space between them. I will.

Owen seemed to consider that for a moment, the smile vanishing from
his face. Scully realized she was disappointing him by not playing
his game.

A dangerous strategy, she knew.

"I tell you what," Owen countered. "I'll give you a free one. I'll
send this pathetic fuck Joe Porter over there to you. I don't have
any real interest in him anyway, even though he did knock up my
sister and I should kill him for that."

Porter looked at Scully, then at Owen, then back at Scully.

"All right," Scully said evenly. "Send him over."

Owen looked down at Porter. "Get up and walk over there."

The man was looking at Mae, Scully noted, and Mae at him.

"Go, Joe," Mae implored. "I'll be all right. Just go."

Again the man hesitated.

"Get up and fucking go or I'll kill her right here!" Owen roared,
and Joe scrambled to his feet then as Mae cried out from another hard
jerk.

"NOW!" The word tore off the canyon around them.

"Okay..." Porter said. "Just don't hurt her..."

And with that, he turned and went to the bank, then into the water,
sloshing up to his knees as he stumbled, off balance with his hands
bound, along the bottom toward where Scully stood.

Once on the other side of the bank, Scully looked at him.

"Get behind me," she murmured, and Porter nodded and did as he was
told.

Scully returned her attention to Owen. "Mulder and Mae," she said,
her voice flat and calm.

Now Owen smiled, and Scully grew cold with it.

Here it comes, she thought.

"Choose," he said, the smile on his face growing wider.
 

**********
 

END OF CHAPTER 21b. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 21c.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 21c.
 

**

"Oh fuck," Granger whispered from behind the tree. He peered around,
praying for some movement, for a shot. Anything.

He was going to have to do something. He knew that now. No matter
what it took. Scully still had the gun at her leg. He needed to give
her a chance to get to it.

But with Mae in front of Curran like that...

"Fuck," he hissed again beneath his breath.

**

"What?" Scully's heart filled with iron and plummeted to her
stomach, and for the first time panic began to crawl up her.

"I said 'choose,'" Owen said, nodding first to Mulder, then pushing
at Mae's head with the muzzle of the gun. "My sister and her baby, or
your boyfriend there. You only get one of them. The other one dies
right here as soon as the other one goes to your side of the water."

"That wasn't our agreement," Scully said, forcing her voice to
steady.

"I changed my mind," Owen said, the smile, like quicksilver, gone
and replaced with grit teeth. "Now hurry it up and pick. My sister
who saved your life by killing *my* friend and the little bastard
she's carrying or your mouthy fucking boyfriend. PICK!"

Scully looked from one to the other. Mulder was shaking his head
again vigorously, making sounds from beneath the tape.

"Dana, pick Mulder," Mae said calmly.

"Shut the fuck up!" Owen screamed, and got his hand around her
throat.

"He's going to kill me no matter--" Her voice strained from his hand
around her throat.

Scully looked from one to the other, and frustrated tears rimmed her
eyes.

She couldn't choose that easily. Mulder wouldn't want anyone dying
for his sake, and it wasn't just Mae -- it was her baby, as well.

There had to be a way to save them, she thought, desperate.

Mae and her baby and Mulder.

There had to be a way...
 

**

Jimmy Shea shook his head, hearing all this. His sister *pregnant*
and him going to kill her like this.

The boy on the motorcycle.

The boy in the pub.

James Curran laughing.

Mae's shy smile at the wake.

Shea closed his eyes, sent up a prayer.

God help me, he implored.

James, he thought. Forgive me.

He looked through the scope, and this time he did close the other eye.
 

**

"Do...it..." Mae rasped, and Owen squeezed down on her throat
harder. She tried to cough, clearly unable to breathe.

"ALL RIGHT!" Scully screamed. "All right, Owen! Just stop it!"

She knew Mae was right. Owen would never let Mae go. And he *would*
kill her.

The two women locked eyes. Mae jerked a nod.

"Just..." Scully began, swallowed, breathing hard. "Send Mulder.
Send him over now."

She still had her gun. Maybe there would be a
distraction...anything...a chance...

Owen's hand relaxed a bit and Mae gasped for breath, coughing.

"That's more like it," he said. "How's that for your friend now,
Mae, eh? The person you turned your back on me for, and she's willing
to let you and your baby die."

"You're not giving her a choice," Mae said.

"I did give her a choice," Owen insisted, pushing her head to the
side roughly. "She chose Mulder."

Owen watched Scully, who was looking at Mulder and Mae, stricken.
Then he turned and looked down at Mulder.

"Get up, Mulder," he said, his voice menacing once again. "Get up
and go."

Mulder was panting, breathing hard through his nose as he stared at
Curran. Scully could see the hatred that passed between them,
Mulder's hesitation. Owen pushed the pistol harder against Mae's
temple.

"Go now," Owen said. "Last chance."

And with that, Mulder struggled to his feet, his knees trembling. He
staggered to the side, shook his head clear, and turned, walked
unsteadily toward the bank.

Scully locked eyes with him as he reached the edge of the water,
began to wade in, the water to his ankles, his calves, his knees. He
stumbled even more than Porter had.

It happened so fast.

The gun from Mae's temple, pointed forward, pointed at Mulder's back.

A shot rang out. A scream, the word "no," tearing from Mae's throat
as the gun went to her temple again.

The sound still continuing, Scully looked at Mulder, who had stopped
in the middle of the stream. He was crumbling in on himself.

That's when she saw it. A red blossom at his stomach, the shirt torn
around it like the petals of a crimson flower. He looked at her, his
eyes lolling, then he tumbled forward into the water.

"MULDER!" Scully screamed, the sound joining Mae's shrill cry. Then
she dropped to a crouch, going for the gun...

**

"SHIT! SHIT!"

Granger jumped to his feet and tore from the treeline, sliding down
the slope into the clearing, kicking up a cloud of dust around him.
He hit the ground at a dead run, the gun still in his hand but
forgotten.

He saw Owen turn toward him, his gun coming up. Owen fired...
 

**

Mae felt the gun leave her temple, saw the man breaking from the
slope, charging them. She felt Owen's grasp on her loosen with his
distraction, saw Dana rising with a gun in her hand, and she knew
what she needed to do.

She swung her elbow back, catching Owen in the ribs just as Owen's
gun went off, knocking his arm off target.

He let her go and she dropped to the ground as though thrown there...

**

Scully shot to her feet, her stance sure, her left hand coming up to
cup the butt of the pistol in her hand, bracing it, despite the fine
tremor coursing through it. She fired...

**

Granger threw himself to the side, even though he knew Owen's aim
had been knocked off when Mae had struck him. The bullet whizzed by
overhead, too high. Then he saw the ragged hole appear in Curran's
shoulder from the bullet Scully had just fired. It staggered Curran
backward a few steps, but he held onto the gun, raised it toward
Scully.

"NO!" he screamed, his arms and legs pumping as he tore for the
creek.
 

**

Jimmy Shea adjusted his aim as his target staggered. It took only a
second to do so, to line up the crosshairs on their target.

Anguish flared in him.

He fired.
 

**

Scully saw Owen's gun coming up, knew there was no time to get out
of the way of this one. She raised the gun to fire again, but knew it
was too late.

A strange feeling of calm came over her. Her eyes went to Mulder,
who was bobbing slightly, floating with his face in the water down
the creek.

She waited for the bullet to come.

The shot rang out, sounding strange and too loud and too-faraway.

Then, as she watched in fascinated horror, the top of Owen's head
came right off, a spatter in a cloud of red beside him.

Owen dropped to the side, the gun tumbling from his hand as Mae
screamed, scrambling away toward the creek.

Another shot, the same faraway sound.

The man Curran had hired, standing there dumbfounded, was suddenly
struck backward, a huge hole in the center of his forehead. He fell
back into the sand and didn't move again.

"Get down!" Porter yelled from behind her, and shoved her hard with
both his hands, pushing her to the ground.

Scully fell forward on her belly in the sand, her eyes going to
Mulder just as Granger hit the water, throwing himself at Mulder and
hauling him to the bank closest Scully. He shielded Mulder with his
body as his eyes darted around for the source of the shots.

Ten seconds, she realized.

The whole thing had taken less than ten seconds.

"Mulder!" she called, struck out of her state, and, despite the
danger, she began to crawl forward, leaving the gun behind,
scrambling crab-like in the sand toward Mulder, who was sprawled
across Granger's lap, his torso covering him.

Mae was coming from the other side. She entered the creek, splashing
across. Porter was behind Scully, coming forward on his belly, as
well.

Scully reached Mulder now, cradled his head in her hands as she
looked into his face.

He wasn't breathing.

"Oh God..." she said. "Help me get this tape off his mouth." Her
shaking fingers were working the corner up, and Granger worked the
other corner. Finally they tore it off, exposing his swollen lip.

"He's aspirated water," Scully said, her voice quaking. Mae had made
it beside her now, Porter behind her. Scully glanced down at Mulder's
belly, where blood was seeping from the exit wound.

"Mae, put your hand over that bullet wound and press down as hard as
you can. Granger, get him on the flat ground. And get the tape off
Joe's hands. We need them."

"But those shots--" Granger began.

"Don't worry about them," Mae said, breathless, but her face was
grimly set. She was still crying. "I think...whoever it is...he got
what he came for."

Granger looked at her, as did Scully and Joe. Scully glanced up at
where Owen's body lay, nodded.

Then Granger hauled Mulder up from the bank, lay his soaked body on
the ground as Scully and Mae swarmed over him. Granger reached over
and started unwrapping the tape from Joe's hands.

Scully scrambled up until she straddled Mulder's hips, leaned his
face to the side. Then she performed a modified Heimlich, thrusting
up on his abdomen beneath his ribs, trying to ignore the jagged hole
in his belly. They would deal with that after he was breathing again.

On each thrust, some water came out of his mouth.

Mae clamped both hands on the exit wound, pressing hard around
Scully's hand.

On the fourth thrust, Mulder jerked, sputtered, a huge cough coming
from him as a spray of water came out of his mouth.

"That's it," Scully said, climbing off him and stroking back his wet
hair from his pale face. "That's it, Mulder."

Mulder coughed again, water dribbling from the corner of his mouth,
his eyes wild, looking at the faces around him. He looked dazed, and
he hunched in pain from Mae's hands on the wound in his belly,
moaning. He wheezed in a breath.

Granger had Joe's hands free, and Joe came forward on his knees.

"Tell me what to do," he said quickly, and Scully nodded toward
Mulder's legs.

"We've got to get him out of here. Get his legs. Granger, get him
underneath the shoulders. Let's get back to the truck."

With that, the two men lifted him, and Mae kept her hands on the
exit wound as Scully reached to Mulder's back, her hand over the
small entrance wound. The four of them walked quickly, as much in
unison as they could manage, rushing back up the trail toward the
Bronco.

Mulder was looking up into Scully's face, struggling to focus.

"It's okay, Mulder," she soothed as they tussled him along. "You're
going to be okay." She looked down at the bleeding coming from
beneath Mae's hands. It was bad.

Mulder gagged slightly, his eyes rolling back in his head. Then
there was blood in his mouth, red around his teeth.

Scully felt panic overtake her now as she realized the extent of his
internal injuries. His stomach had been perforated. He was bleeding
into his belly.

They reached the Bronco, Scully throwing open the doors as Granger
and Joe loaded Mulder into the backseat, Scully climbing up after
them with Mae. She got Mulder situated on her lap, his head against
her breast, then she tossed Granger the keys. Granger caught them,
climbed into the driver's seat, Porter taking the passenger seat,
though he was facing behind, his face stricken.

Scully and Mae leaned back down on the bullet wounds, pressing hard,
despite Mulder's groans.

"Granger, drive fast," Scully said, breathless, as she looked into
Granger's grim face. "We don't have much time."
 

**********
 

END OF CHAPTER 21c and PART 3. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 22 and PART 4.
 

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 22.

*********

ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA
11:34 p.m.
 

The statue of Mary was fronted by a stand of candles, all in
multicolored holders so that the iron stand looked like it was
covered with stained glass made of light.

Scully knelt before the figure. The statue's hands were pressed
together in prayer beneath her alabaster chin, her eyes looking down
at Scully with the patience of stone. There was a rosary in between
Scully's hands in front of her, given to her by a priest who'd been
doing rounds in the surgical waiting room, and the black plastic
beads on their kite string slipped between her fingers almost
absently, trembling from her left hand, her mouth moving over the
prayers in silence.

Now and at the hour of our death...

Deliver us from evil...

Now and at the hour of our death...

No tears. She was too tired for them. Her body, running on over 36
hours without sleep, couldn't muster them if she tried.

Granger had gone back to the motel earlier, let himself into both
their rooms and gotten a change of clothes for each of them. She was
out of the bloody t-shirt and jeans, dressed in a clean pair of Levis
and a light, loose black turtleneck. It guarded against the air
conditioning of the hospital, always set, she thought, a few degrees
too cold for the living.

Around her, complete silence. The smell of candles, sending up their
smoke prayers. The lights were out in the chapel, all except for
single spots on the statues of Mary and St. Jude at their kneelers,
and another on Christ hanging on the cross, the latter suspended on
the back wall. The fifteen rows of pews were empty, the door to the
chapel closed. She'd shut it behind her when she'd come in.

She reached the long single strand of the rosary, almost finished,
one hand coming up to cover her forehead. She leaned forward,
slumping on the kneeler slightly as the exhaustion settled over her,
a crushing weight.

Heavy like Mulder had been in her arms, the Bronco racing along the
deserted reservation highway, his eyes on her face, then closing
against the pain, his breath hissing in an out between clenched
teeth, blood on his lips. A noise had started in his throat, like a
whine.

"Okay...okay..." she'd said into his face, though her adrenaline was
pulsing as she staved off panic. "We're almost there. Just hang
on..."

Mae straddled his thighs on the seat to hold her hands over the hole
in his belly. She and Scully's eyes had met, Mae's expression grim.

Scully had had to look away from Mae then. Instead, she'd returned
her gaze to Mulder's face, his eyes coming open lazily. She'd stroked
his forehead with one hand, the other beneath him on the entrance
wound. Blood was warm on her thigh beneath her hand.

He was dying. She could tell from the way he looked at her that he
knew it, too.

She could almost see him slipping out of his body as his eyes rolled
and closed and he lost consciousness, his face turned to her breast.

She stared into the candles, mumbling the prayers a bit now,
concentrating on the words to block the images from her mind.

He'd been in surgery for five hours. There was no word on when he
would be out.

Finally, after sitting there with Granger, who was either silent and
looking at her helplessly every few moments or doting and trying to
get her to sleep or eat, she'd needed time to herself.

The chapel had seemed the place to go.

She was vaguely aware of the door opening behind her, creaking
closed quietly. Then footsteps, heavy and measured, coming toward
her. She clenched her eyes closed, dared not turn around. She didn't
know what would be waiting for her there.

The footsteps halted just behind her as the person stopped.

A hand came out and settled on her shoulder. She recognized the feel
of it, though she couldn't really remember feeling it before.

Her fingers moved over the beads, finishing the prayer seeming,
suddenly, very important. Three Hail Marys, then the Apostle's Creed
and she was done.

She opened her eyes, held the plastic cross in her fingers, the rest
of the dime rosary hanging down. She did not turn around.

"Hello, sir," she said softly, but her voice sounded terribly loud
in the heavy quiet of the chapel.

"How are you, Scully?" Skinner replied, his voice tired.

"I'm all right," she said, her voice even more quiet. She still did
not turn, or acknowledge his hand on her.

"Granger told me where to find you, about Mulder..." he said. "I
hope...I'm not disturbing you. I just wanted to see you, see if you
were okay."

Now she did rise, stepped back as he removed his hand. She faced
him, and saw him take in her appearance, his face going more
concerned, though he tried to hide it.

He was still dressed in his suit from work, his dark trench over it.
There was something so familiar about seeing him like this, something
that was a poignant reminder of the life she'd been worried she'd
left behind for good. It choked her emotions to look at him.

"When did you get here?" she asked, and her voice tremored.

"About an hour ago," he said. "I was on my way out here today
anyway, after I got a few things taken care of DC this afternoon. I
wanted to be here to head up the agents. I just got a report from
them, incidently. They've already been out to the canyon and gotten
everything they can in the dark. Owen Curran and the other man --
Rudy Grey, according to his driver's license -- they're both in the
morgue here now."

She nodded, trembling slightly as she struggled to contain what she
was feeling, to concentrate on what he was saying. He noticed, she
could tell.

"I've spoken to your mother," he said, jumping to what he considered
to be a safe topic, she knew. "I told her the charges had all been
dropped, that agents were on the way to you. This was yesterday,
before I knew about Mulder and Curran. She doesn't know about any of
that. I told her yesterday that it might be a good idea for her to
stay away until we got you into protective custody. Of course, all
that's moot now..."

She nodded. "Thank you, sir," she said, looked down. "I'll speak to
her myself when things with Mulder are a little more settled." She
couldn't think about her mother at this point. She couldn't think
about anything clearly. She put a hand on her forehead, rubbed at her
eyes.

"You sure you're all right?" Skinner asked, bending slightly to try
to look into her eyes. She dropped her hand, met his gaze, nodded.

"Yes," she said. "I'm just tired. I should get back to the waiting
room, though, in case there's any word."

She looked at him and could tell he felt dismissed, but was being
understanding with her. She shook her head.

"I'm sorry," she added quickly. "I'm very grateful for everything
you've done for us over the past months. I don't mean to seem--"

"It's okay," he said, and reached out to grip her upper arm as
though he meant to hold her up. "I know you've got a lot on your mind
right now. You don't have to apologize. I was glad to do everything I
did. I just wish I'd been faster with it all. Maybe none of this -- "
He gestured around them. "-- would have happened."

She shook her head. "We could all drive ourselves crazy thinking
that way," she said. "Don't blame yourself for any of it." She
paused. "Though I understand. I'm trying not to blame myself, too."

Now her eyes did rim with tears, and she put a hand to her forehead
again, pushing her hair back roughly.

"He's going to be all right," Skinner said firmly, tightening his
hold on her arm. "You have to believe that."

She pulled herself together, nodded quickly, wiped at her eyes.
"Yes," she said, though she didn't even convince herself. "I need to
get back now."

"Okay," he said, and let her go. Then he walked beside her down the
long aisle and out into the cold corridor beyond.
 

**

APRIL 11
12:04 a.m.
 

Upstairs on the fifth floor, Joe Porter, still dressed in the blood-
spattered jeans and t-shirt he'd had on since leaving Mexico, sat
next to Mae's bedside in a recliner, watching her sleep.

She was turned on her side, her legs drawn up, an IV coming from the
back of her hand. She'd been shivering in her hospital gown earlier,
and he'd layered blankets on top of her, gotten one for himself,
which he now huddled beneath.

Mae's face was still pale in the room's florescent light, a light
sheen of sweat on her face. She was still shocky -- dehydrated and
exhausted from their ordeal.

When they'd gotten Mulder into the ER, Mae had collapsed in the
waiting room, Joe barely managing to catch her as she'd slumped to
the floor. She'd been rushed back to the ER herself then, and the
doctors had examined her and decided she needed at least 24 hours of
observation and a steady regimen of fluids and bland food.

Joe stood and went to the bedside, leaving the blanket on the
recliner, leaned over Mae and kissed her temple, barely touching her.

The baby was all right, the doctors had said. Mae was going to be
all right.

He couldn't believe how lucky they'd gotten.

Then he thought of Mulder and reconsidered that sentiment.

Joe wondered how he was doing. He'd told Dana which room Mae was in
so that she could call and let them know any news, but there'd been
no word yet. Though he didn't know Mulder well, he had grown to
respect the man for how he'd talked to Owen and for his unwillingness
to leave Mae when Dana had been forced to choose between them. He
wanted to go down while Mae slept and check on how he was doing, how
Dana was doing.

But then he remembered the hard truth of things -- Joe was, himself,
wanted for drug dealing in California, the ghost of his past that
still haunted him. And Mae...the fact that Dana hadn't had her taken
into custody already spoke volumes of their friendship. He wondered
if, as more and more agents poured into Show Low, Scully would be
able to continue hiding Mae.

And now this man Granger was involved, as well. Joe wasn't sure what
he would do with all this...

He sighed, shaking his head as he smoothed Mae's long hair back on
the pillow behind her.

His thoughts turned, as they'd been doing over the hours, to Sean.
Joe couldn't think of how to find his way back to the house where
they'd been held. What would that man -- Lantham -- do with Sean when
Owen didn't come back?

Surely Lantham wouldn't keep him. He would want to give him to
someone, to Mae if he could find out she was alive. Lantham had
struck Joe as a man of some compassion, some conscience. The fact
that he hadn't participated in Owen's torture of him the way Grey had
-- and that he'd wanted to avoid the showdown in the canyon - showed
that he was probably wanting to extricate himself from all this as
quickly as he could.

A nurse drifted in almost soundlessly and checked the drip on the
IV, then came around the bed toward Joe. He moved out of the way as
she touched the inside of Mae's wrist gently, her eyes on her watch
for several long seconds.

"Is she okay?" he whispered, and the nurse looked at him kindly.

"Yes, she seems to be doing all right," she replied, her voice
quiet. "Just let her keep sleeping. She'll be much better by
morning." The nurse looked at his shirt, the blood staining it. "Do
you want me to get you some scrubs to wear until you get a change of
clothes?"

He considered, nodded. "Just a top would be good," he replied.
"Thank you."

"I'll bring one back when I come back in to change her IV in an hour
or so," she said, and then she withdrew.

Joe took his place beside Mae again, his thoughts returning to Sean.

There was only one way Lantham knew to contact any of them -- the
motel where Scully had been staying. He would know her name, that she
was checked in there. That would be where he would call if something
went wrong.

He would have to risk going down to find Dana after all. He needed
to get her to check and see if there were any messages for her at the
motel, any word at all yet. And he knew the motel clerk wouldn't give
that information to him if he called himself.

Emboldened now with his plan to get Sean back, he leaned down and
kissed Mae's temple once again, whispered into her ear.

"I'll be back," he said. Mae made a soft sound in response, but did
not awaken.

Then Joe went to the door, flicking the light off as he left the
room.
 

*****

DEUCE OF CLUBS MOTEL
12:45 a.m.
 

Tom Lantham sat at the foot of one of the two beds in the dingy
motel room, eating a bag of Soy Nuts and trying to do it as quietly
as he could so as not to wake the boy on the bed beside him. Sean had
finally cried himself out and dropped into an exhausted sleep about
an hour before, just as Lantham was watching the top news story on
the television, something about a double-murder in Hawk's Eye Canyon
on the outskirts of town.

"The bodies have yet to be identified," the reporter had said, then
talked about the strong FBI presence at the scene, the strangeness of
the secrecy surrounding the two victims.

No mention of anyone else there, he'd noted.

The bodies had to be Curran and Rudy. Why else wouldn't either one
of them return to the house? Curran wouldn't leave without his son,
that much was certain. And Rudy wouldn't take off without Lantham.
Both of them being dead seemed the only answer to that riddle.

But what had actually happened in the canyon, he couldn't begin to
fathom.

All he'd known was that when no one had come back to the house after
about 9 p.m., he'd gotten the hell out of there, expecting the cops
or the FBI or someone to come raining down on him any second. So he'd
packed up his and Sean's things and left, going the only place he
knew he might have a chance of meeting up with someone who could take
this kid off his hands. Then he could get back to Colorado as fast as
he possibly could.

After he'd checked in, he'd left a message at the desk for
"Katherine Black," the name he'd overheard Owen tell Scully to use.
Sure enough, she was still listed as a guest, though she was not in
her room. He'd told the clerk to have her call room 18 when she got
in, and he'd heard nothing since.

Nothing to do now but sit and wait, he thought, gnawing on the Soy
Nuts, the package crinkling loudly in the room. He glanced back at
Sean to find him still asleep, the boy's hand clenched around a
chipped metal car like his life depended on the thing.

Poor little sonofabitch, Lantham thought, shaking his head. He hoped
someone would come and fetch him soon. Lantham was out of his league
with this one.

The sound of the phone ringing nearly sent him out of his skin, Soy
Nuts flying as he dropped the bag, cursing.

Beside him, Sean was sitting bolt upright in the bed, as well, his
small chest heaving.

"It's all right," Lantham said, waving Sean off as he rose and went
toward the ringing phone. He picked it up.

"Yeah," he said into it.

"Mr. Lantham?" came a vaguely familiar voice. The man sounded
nervous. "This is Joe Porter. I got the message you left for
Katherine Black. Do you have Sean there with you?"

"Yes, he's here. You coming to get him?"

"Yes," Porter replied, relief evident in his voice, though he still
sounded guarded. "I'm in her room now. I'm coming right down."

Lantham looked at the door. "You coming by yourself, Mr. Porter?
Because I don't want no cops or anything here."

"I don't want any cops or anything, either," Porter replied. "I just
want Sean."

"All right," Lantham replied. "Come get him," and he hung up, then
turned to Sean, who was still breathing hard, his eyes wide.

"That was Joe then?" Sean said, his voice pitched higher than usual.

"Yeah, that was Joe," Lantham said, and stood, weary. "Get your
things gathered up. He's going to take you from here on out."

Sean climbed from the bed, began putting his things in the small
suitcases he had open at the foot of the bed. There wasn't much to
pack up. Sean had put everything away before the knock came at the
door.

Lantham drew his gun just in case, looked through the peephole. Just
Porter standing there, his black-and-blue face looking wide in the
front from the fish-eye view. Lantham opened the door for him.

"Mr. Lantham," Porter said, nodding to him. Lantham gave him credit
for looking fairly sure of himself. Somewhere along the way, the man
had managed to find a clean white t-shirt, which made his face look
not quite so bad.

Lantham looked around Joe to see if anyone had come with him, and
when he saw no one had, he reholstered the gun. Sean hustled from the
foot of the bed and around Lantham to Joe, who squatted down to hug
the boy. Sean had begun to cry again.

"It's okay, Sean," Porter said softly against the boy's ear. "You're
okay now."

Lantham watched the reunion, the sight making him disgusted and
somehow sad. This whole damn mess had disgusted him. He was glad to
be getting out of it now. No amount of money made what he'd seen
worth seeing.

"Does he have his things?" the younger man said to Lantham, and
Lantham nodded, went and gathered the suitcases and tried to hand
them to Porter. Sean didn't seem willing to let Porter go, his small
arms tight around his neck. Joe rose and got his arms around Sean,
who gripped him with his small body. The boy keened quietly. Lantham
saw that Porter had his hands full.

"Aw, for Christ's sake..." he said, shaking his head. "You got a
room here?" he asked, and Joe nodded.

"Yes, just now," Joe said, cautious.

"Then I'll take these down. You take the boy."

Joe looked at him, still wary, and nodded, then turned and carried
Sean out to the walkway, down a few doors to number 22, Lantham
following with the small suitcases. He watched Porter fumble the door
open, push it and carry Sean inside. Lantham followed, tossed the
suitcases down on the nearest bed.

"I'll be taking my leave of you now," Lantham said as Joe turned to
him, looking over Sean's trembling shoulder. "You don't know me and I
don't know you, okay? I did what I was paid to do but I didn't
believe in hurting anyone the way people got hurt. And I've lost a
friend in the process, I assume?"

Porter nodded. "Yes, you have."

"Well, then my debt's paid, with me bringing the boy back to you. I
hope you'll just let me go on."

Joe nodded. "I will. Thank you for bringing Sean. You did right by
us to do that."

"I did what I had to under the circumstances," Lantham grunted.

Porter nodded again, his arms tight around Sean's back. Lantham
could tell the other man didn't believe him, and he really didn't
give a good goddamn.

And then Lantham went out, closing the door behind him.

He walked down to his room, his suitcase not even unpacked. He
hoisted the dark bag, flicked off the television, and headed to his
car, leaving the key on the dresser.

He'd paid for the room in cash, to make the leaving easier and less
conspicuous. That was how he always did it. Starting up his car, he
threw on the headlights, backed out, and headed down the main strip
of Show Low, past the hospital and the town all gone to sleep,
disappearing into the night.
 

**********
 

ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL
1:02 a.m.
 

Scully was sitting, tense, on the edge of one of the vinyl couches
in the surgical waiting room, Granger trying to stay awake on the
other side, a copy of Good Housekeeping on his lap. Skinner was
pretending to be engrossed in a Sports Illustrated, but he was
turning the pages too quickly to be reading anything. Scully looked
down at her hands, then watched the door to the OR as if her will
alone could bring the doctor out.

After about ten more minutes, it worked.

The doctor appeared, his mask still around his neck, pulling off the
surgical cap he wore. His outer surgical robe had been removed so
that he was just in clean scrubs now. He was peering around the
waiting room, and Scully stood to make it easier for him to see her.

He came forward, and the smile he gave her as he made his way across
the room was wan at best. She swallowed as he looked at her, pushing
her hands into her pockets. Granger stood behind her, and Skinner
from the other side, both men's tension like a tangible thing in the
room around her. She did her best to push it away.

"Dr. Scully, isn't it?" the doctor asked as he put his hand out.

"Yes," she said, and her voice sounded strange to her, too breathy.
"Dr. Kellerman, right?"

The doctor nodded. "Yes, John Kellerman," he said as they shook
hands. "Agent Mulder's still quite critical, but he's out of surgery
and in the ICU. We just moved him down there."

"What...how much damage was there?" Scully said, relieved and
concerned all once. It wasn't the best news they could have gotten,
but he was alive. Something in her unhitched with that knowledge.

"It was quite extensive, I'm afraid," Kellerman said, shaking his
head. "The bullet hit his kidney going in and clipped his stomach
going out. There was a lot of hemorrhaging from the kidney, rapid
blood loss. And of course, the contents of the stomach drained into
the abdominal cavity, and you know what that can mean."

"What?'" Granger asked. "What can it mean?"

Scully kept her eyes on the doctor's face as she answered him.
"There's a great risk of peritonitis, an infection of the lining of
the abdomen," she said softly. "I assume you've got him on high doses
of antibiotics."

Kellerman nodded. "Yes, of course," he said, though he clearly
didn't take offense at the comment. "We're on top of that. The bigger
problem right now is the bleeding from that kidney. We managed to
save the organ itself, but with the blood loss being so fast and so
severe, I'm afraid he's slipped into a coma for now."

"A coma?" Skinner asked, clearly alarmed.

Scully nodded. "Yes, that can be a complication from rapid blood
loss," she said faintly.

"We've got him on life support at the moment," the doctor continued
quietly. "I understand he was in a creek for a short period of time
and aspirated some water. So we're going to give his lungs a rest in
case there are any respiratory problems from that. Shouldn't be for
more than a day or so. Just until we get him a little more stabilized
and see what his body's going to do. It's still touch and go right
now. The next 24 hours are going to be critical."

She nodded. "Of course," she said, looked down. She heard Granger
move up closer behind her, but appreciated that he didn't touch her.
Not in front of the doctor.

"When can I see him?" she asked, returning her gaze to Kellerman's
craggy face.

"Give them an hour down there to get him settled in a little bit
better," Kellerman said. "Then you'll have to go on the ICU visiting
schedule. I know you're an MD and his medical power of attorney, and
I will keep his chart open for you to look at. But those are hospital
guidelines, and without you having privileges here, well... I can't
bend them too much."

She nodded. "I appreciate you letting me see his chart," she said,
swallowed again. "I'll try not to backseat-drive."

Kellerman chuckled once, a strange sound in the room. "You can say
anything you need to. I don't promise to take your advice, but I am
willing to listen. Why don't you all move on down there? They'll let
you back in about an hour."

"Thank you," she said, nodding again and forcing a small smile she
didn't quite mean.
 

******

THE PENTAGON
WASHINGTON D.C.
2:14 a.m.
 

Dr. Robert Padden walked the seemingly endless corridor, the floor
shining in the building's dim, night lighting. He crossed into a
large open area, an homage to men who'd won the Congressional Medal
of Honor, then through, passing into another maze of corridors that
led to the heart of the building.

He remembered taking his son down this same corridor once, years
ago, when Ben was just a boy. He remember how proud he'd been, both
of showing the boy the building and of showing his son to the people
in the building.

Those days were not going to be over, he vowed to himself. He would
walk these halls again, and with the same regard he was held in then.

He was going to see to that.

The walls went from plaster to dark wood paneling, the pictures on
the wall from prints to oil portraits. Across one circular open area,
carpeting picked up, rich and green.

He was getting close now. He could see the door at the end of the
hallway, partially ajar and bleeding brighter light into the
receiving area.

When he reached the door, he stopped, straightening the tie and suit
he still wore from the day's proceedings.

"Come in, Dr. Padden," a voice from within said. A pleasant voice.
He entered and the room smelled of books and leather and the
unmistakable scent of power.

A figure sat behind a desk at the far end, and Padden went toward
the man, stopping before the desk.

"Please," the man said. "Sit down."

Padden turned to the leather wing chairs in front of the desk,
settled himself into one, his arms on the chairs delicately curved
arms. He regarded the man behind the desk coolly.

"What is it I can do for you, Dr. Padden?" the man asked. Padden
tried very hard to read his tone, but it was impenetrable.

"I think you know why I'm here," Padden said, looking down at a
nail, then up again.

"Yes," the man replied. "There have been some...issues...as of late,
I understand. This business with the two agents in the FBI. With Owen
Curran."

"Yes," Padden said, and met the man's gaze, though it was difficult.
"Perhaps if I can still bring Curran in--"

"Curran's dead," the man replied. "I don't know if Agent Scully or
Agent Mulder killed him, but he's dead. One of my operatives sent
from Phoenix just reported that to me a few hours ago. So capturing
Curran won't help you, I'm afraid. You are, as they say, 'on your
own' with this situation now that Ashcroft is involved. We can't risk
involving the President in our affairs." The man levelled his gaze.
"I'm sorry. It will be a shame to lose you."

Padden felt his face reddening and struggled to keep the emotions
down. He leaned forward slightly, pinning the other man with his eyes
in a manner that he'd never done before. He'd never had the nerve.

"I know things," he said softly. "You know what I know. Now I need
your help with this, a way to get out of this. I don't expect to
remain head of the NSA. But I expect to be moved within the
organization."

The man paused, leaned back in the chair. "You say you know things,"
he said quietly. "Is that a threat, Dr. Padden?"

"No, it's a fact," Padden replied. "There are a lot of people who
would profit from the things I know, both personally and financially.
I think I'm too valuable an asset to be lost at this point. You all
have made me that way. So I'm asking for your help now. A favor,
perhaps. For years of service."

The man seemed to consider. "And if I say no? What then?"

Padden met the man's gaze again, a faint smile growing on his face.

The man smiled back, nodded. "Yes, I think you're right, Dr.
Padden," he said. "I think there are some things that can be done.
And you're right -- you're too important at this point to be lost
from the organization. Give me 24 hours. I'll set things to right as
much as I can."

Padden nodded, relief washing through him, though he didn't show it.
"Even with Ashcroft?" he asked.

"Yes," the man replied. "Even with him."

Padden stood now, reached across the desk. The man shook it, his
heavily lined face twisted into a wider smile.

"We'll be in touch," the man said. "Try not to worry any more."

"Thank you," Padden said. "I appreciate your loyalty in this. I've
been concerned."

"Don't be," the man replied. "Goodbye, Dr. Padden. I'll be in touch."
 

********
 

ST. JUDE'S HOSPITAL
SHOW LOW, ARIZONA
2:22 a.m.
 

The ICU waiting room was designed to look more like a living room,
which made sense to Scully, since most of the people there were,
literally, living there while their family members or friends were in
the Unit. It had cloth couches, coffee tables, recliners, lamps
instead of overhead lighting. Two televisions cornered the room, one
with a VCR so people could bring in movies to watch.

The waiting was hard. The hospital was doing everything it could to
make it easier.

There was a priest and a nun there, as well, seemingly stationed in
the room. The priest was a different one than the one who'd given
Scully the flimsy rosary, but he was kind and didn't impose himself
too much. Father Hammond. That was his name.

Scully felt pleased to have remembered that given everything else on
her mind.

Granger was asleep in one of recliners, finally giving in to the
fatigue, his glasses askew on his face as he slept. Skinner had gone
off a little while ago, saying he'd be right back. He'd been trying
to catch her up on the news from the FBI, other news from Washington,
but she'd only been half-listening to him, and she knew he could
tell. He'd drifted into silence eventually and taken his leave.

After a few moments Skinner returned, looking awkward as he came up
and stood in front of her. He looted around in his pockets, pulled
out two triangular-shaped plastic containers, each holding pathetic-
looking sandwiches from a vending machine.

"Turkey or tuna?" he said, proffering them both.

She smiled faintly. "Sir, I appreciate the gesture, but I really
can't eat right now."

"Scully, you've got to have something. Granger told me you haven't
eaten yet since you got here." He pushed the sandwiches closer to
her, looking at her sternly.

She was too tired to argue. She reached up and took the turkey
sandwich, peeled back the plastic covering and took a bite. It tasted
exactly like it looked.

Skinner reached into his pocket again, brought out another sandwich,
set it on the coffee table in front of Granger. Then he sat beside
her, pulled the cover off the other sandwich and started to eat.

She ate half the sandwich, set the rest down on the table in front
of her. She could see Skinner looking at her from the corner of her
eye, though she kept her eyes on the television, the canned laughter
of a sitcom mumbling in the room.

"I can't imagine how you must be feeling right now," Skinner
ventured, and she saw him look down. "Your life has changed so much
in just the past day, to say nothing of the past few months."

She chuffed softly. "Yes," she said. "Just not having to be hiding
or running is something to get used to. And now with Mulder being
hurt so badly... I can't even begin to think about being able to go
home and pick up my life again." She looked down. "I just hope I
won't be going back alone."

She appreciated that he didn't dismiss her feelings by saying
something easy about Mulder. It was a real concern and he treated it
like one.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but...your hand," Skinner said
quietly. "Has it gotten any better?"

She hadn't really thought about it being better or worse, with
everything else that had been going on. But now that she considered
it, it probably was some better than it had been. The loss of
strength she'd had in it at first was definitely better.

"It shakes more when I'm overtired or stressed, but the rest of the
time it hasn't been that much of a problem. I haven't seen anyone
about it, of course. I'm hoping that once I do something more can be
done."

Skinner nodded. "I hope so, too." He looked toward the door, where
two nurses had just come in. "I hope--"

"The family of Fox Mulder?" one of the nurses called, though she did
not do it loudly. Scully stood and the nurse came forward. The
woman's faint smile eased Scully's nerves.

"I'm Sarah Gabriel," the nurse said, reaching a hand toward Scully.
"I'm Mr. Mulder's care plan nurse while he's in the ICU. You must be
Dr. Scully?"

"Yes," Scully replied as she shook Gabriel's hand once. She
introduced Skinner, who had stood and was there beside her, by his
FBI title.

Gabriel smiled that same stiff smile at him, shook his hand, then
returned her attention to Scully.

"Since you're a doctor, I don't have to prepare you too much for
seeing him, I'm assuming."

"No," Scully replied. "I know what to expect. Can I see him?"

The nurse nodded. "Both of you can go back, but only for fifteen
minutes. That's the hospital policy for ICU. Fifteen minutes out of
every hour. You've been told he's in a coma?"

Scully nodded, swallowed. "Yes."

"There's no hard evidence that he'll know you're there, but you
might consider talking to him, letting him know you're with him." The
nurse looked at Scully, smiled gently.

Scully considered Gabriel's words. She thought back to her time in a
coma after her abduction, the strange world she'd inhabited while in
it. The one thing she could remember for certain were the voices
around her. Mulder's voice.

She knew he would be able to hear her, as well.

"I will," she said to Gabriel, and the tears -- both from the
present situation and from that memory -- started to ache behind her
eyes.

"I'll take you back," the nurse said, and turned toward the door.

Scully looked up at Skinner, and she knew the sadness she was
feeling was on her face now. She didn't want him to see anymore of
that than she had to show him.

"Sir, if it's all right with you, I'd like to see him alone this
first time." She looked down, knowing the words were a concession.

"Of course," Skinner said, and she met his gaze. "I'll be right here."

"Thank you," she replied, and turned and followed Gabriel into the
corridor, leaving Skinner behind.

The double doors whooshed open, admitting them both. The large room
she entered had a nurse's station in the center, monitors glowing
from it. Then, in a circle around the station, tiny rooms with glass
windows, all the patients visible from the central area of the
station.

It looked too familiar to her. She heaved in a breath, let it out,
as Gabriel took her to the right.

She could see Mulder there behind the glass, tubes all over him, a
bank of lit screens behind.

It was like she was moving in slow motion. Like everything was.

Starting with Mulder's breathing -- slow and too-regular from the
respirator.

"I'll leave you with him," Gabriel said softly. "Let me know if you
need anything." Scully didn't acknowledge her as she left.

She took him in as she moved around to the side of the bed, her hand
gripping the guardrail next to his arm. His face was turned away from
her slightly. There were small pads taped to his forehead and temples
to record his brain activity, the respirator at the corner of his
mouth. His arms trailed IVs, an oxygen monitor biting lightly on his
finger. She could see the bulge of the surgical dressing beneath his
gown just below his ribs. He was covered to the waist with a white
blanket that smelled too much of bleach.

A breath was pushed into him, let out slowly. Then again. It joined
the sounds of beeping around her.

How many times have I been here, she thought bitterly. Right here?

She reached down and took his hand. It was cold, and she bent his
arm up, holding his hand against the soft material of her shirt,
trying to warm it against her.

"Mulder?" she called softly, her hand coming out to smooth down his
hair as she leaned over him, the tears coming now. She didn't even
try to stop them.

What could she say to him?

Finally she pulled in a breath, her hand lingering on his hair, and
said the only thing she had needed to hear from him when she'd been
lying as he was now. The only thing that mattered in the end.

"Mulder, I love you," she whispered. "And I'm right here."
 

**********
 

END OF CHAPTER 22. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 23.