Abductee.3.html

THE ABDUCTEE (14/21)
by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)
7/4//95

This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten
Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission
and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this
marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery.

Chapter 14
Tuesday 1am
Near Mount Vernon, Virginia

Dana Scully heard the bolt slide back and a middle aged woman
entered whom Dana instantly recognized from the courtroom. She was
an West Indian woman with smooth coffee skin and dark on dark
freckles across her cheek bones and nose. Her long dinner gown and
string of natural pearls were elegant and expensive. Dana was
relieved that at least her own suit was not too badly wrinkled.

"I'm Pearl Graham, a friend of Mr. Prince's," the woman said
in her lilting island accent, studying the younger woman as if she
were some rare specimen. "I remember you. The prosecuting attorney
spoke to you, as did Reti's parole officer, so you must be
somebody."

Dana made a gesture indicating that she wished to reach into
the pocket of her suit for her ID. "I'm with the FBI," Dana said,
noting that Pearl did not even flinch at the 'FBI' part. "Special
Agent Dana Scully. My visit here tonight, however, is unofficial."

The woman's eyes widened. "And you came unarmed. You are
either brave or foolish, Ms. FBI. Why did you come?"

"There is new information," Dana told her. "The FBI knows, as
does the D.A.'s office by now, that Reti Frantilli did not murder
his employer."

"Reti has known that for a long time," the woman said,
unimpressed.

"Yes, I suppose he has," Dana agreed slowly. She had not
expected gratitude, but she needed something with which to barter.
"The new evidence came to light only this afternoon. I came to tell
Mr. Prince that within the last two hours I made arrangements for
the charges to be dropped and Reti to be released."

The woman's chin came up. It was a firm chin, Dana thought, a
formidable woman very much at home in the kingdom Hector Prince had
created. "Hector, I think should hear this." She went to an
intercom box on the wall, but paused and turned back to Dana before
speaking. "Your statements can be easily verified. If what you say
is true, and you would be a fool to say so if it were not, why is
the FBI acting as a messenger boy, or girl in your case, for the
D.A.'s office?"

Dana looked unflinchingly into the woman's eyes and took a
firmer grip around her impatience. As much as she wanted to hurry
this, these people had every reason to be cautious. She must be
logical, calm, and firm. At least for now, she would not beg,
though she was prepared should that become necessary. "I think Mr.
Prince may have information pertaining to the whereabouts of the
real murderer. I *need* that information." Her emphasis on the word
'need' was not lost on the older woman. There were coals banked
here, a fire barely controlled.

Pearl turned to the intercom, putting her back to Dana to
speak privately. After a few words, Pearl turned again to Dana.
"Come with me," she said.

The sections of the house Dana now passed were as beautifully
decorated as she had expected from the foyer and the music room.
The formal living room was decorated in blacks, whites and shades
of grey with splashes of accent. A huge white marble mantle shot
through with black veins gleamed as did the floors and all the
wood. The woman's long dress swished in the stately silence.

At the end of a long hall lined with excellent Afro-American
art, Pearl opened two double doors to reveal an impressive dining
room. The lights from two crystal chandeliers and many candles
shone off the dining table's long expanse of dark mahogany. Sitting
at the far end was a black man in tux and white tie, whom Dana
recognized as Hector Prince. Although it was long past midnight,
the table was set for two and dinner had been served. Now a maid
was setting a third place. Pearl introduced Dana to the watchful
man.

"I hope you haven't eaten, Ms. FBI," Pearl Graham said,
indicating the chair across from hers.

Dana moved on startled feet and sat down gingerly like a child
invited to sit at the head table at a wedding reception. "I'm
really not hungry, Ms. Graham," she murmured.

Pearl sat in her own chair and reached for her discarded
napkin. "Call me Pearl, and eat or not as you wish, but talk is
needed and we wish to go on with our dinner." The woman almost
smiled then under her dark freckles. "You are lucky we keep a late
house here."

Unobtrusively, the maid set a bowl of soup in front of Dana
and poured a sparkling red liquid into her wine glass.

Hector leaned back in his chair and observed her eying her
glass. "Cranberry juice and tonic, girl," he said in a deep, even
voice. "I know the FBI does not like their agents to drink on duty,
even if they are acting - in an unofficial capacity."

Under his eyes, Dana lifted the expensive crystal goblet and
tasted, finding it was as he said. His face took on an expression
of coy satisfaction.

"Now," the older man began, his grey eyebrows moving on his
dark skin in the light of the candles and crystal, "Pearl says the
charges on Reti have been dropped. You did this?"

Dana set down her silver soup spoon. The soup she had tasted
to be polite was delicious, but her stomach was not interested.
"Evidence has come to light which shows that the murder was most
likely committed by another. Releasing Reti under those
circumstances is only appropriate."

"And what about the eye witness?" the syndicate leader asked
slyly. He never moved his unwavering predator eyes from her face.

Dana's hesitation brought a thin smile to the man's face." Ah,
that one," he commented. "Considering her past history, she would
have been less than persuasive on the stand in any case." Dana was
not surprised that Hector or his lawyer had probed into Angela's
medical records. "I don't know why the D.A.'s office put such store
by her." He cut his fish, put it in his mouth and chewed slowly,
savoring, but the tension in his body had not relaxed. "And what
was this evidence, if I may ask?"

Dana straightened her posture imperceivably. "The evidence
strongly suggests that Angela Larson either murdered Mitch Legget
herself or arranged for it."

The man stopped chewing, genuinely surprised. Dana's heart
sped on a little faster. Maybe she had something to bargain with
after all. "Amazing," he replied.

"And," Dana continued, looking at him fearlessly, "I think you
may have information which will help us find her."

His surprise was even more pronounced this time. Recovering
quickly, Prince smiled and made a soundless chuckle before going
back to his dinner. "The woman is in the Witness Protection Program
and you ask *me* where she is? Ask the D.A."

Dana took a deep breath. "Her contact with the WPP has been
murdered. We believe she arranged this also. By the time we were
able to get the court order to release the location of the safe
house, she had disappeared."

"Together with her young, male body guard," Pearl added
knowingly from across the table. Her eyes searched for Dana's
reaction. Dana felt a warmth rising to her face and looked down at
her plate. "I think," the older woman announced, "that we have just
gotten to the 'unofficial' part of this very 'official'
conversation. Ms. FBI, I saw you in the courtroom, as well as you
saw us. I said to myself, that young woman is hurting, but I didn't
know more. I saw your face when the judge announced that Angela
Larson had phoned in ill. Your expression was not one concerned
about some woman's welfare. There's a man involved for sure, I
thought, and this one is worried."

Dana moved uneasily in her chair. She had hoped to go through
this without mentioning Mulder at all, but to concentrate on the
need to find Angela. He was her weakness and she had not wanted to
reveal any weakness to these people. "I've told you, we think she
orchestrated two murders -"

"- and you don't want to find out too late that she's added a
third," continued the woman in her soft accent, her face beautiful
and solemn in the light. A face, Dana noted, not altogether
unsympathetic.

During this exchange, Prince had finished his wine and
signaled the maid to refill it. "Pearl, has always been
perceptive," he said with, Dana thought, a gruff fondness and an
appreciative glance in the elegent woman's direction. He turned
back to Scully. "And what makes you think I know where she is?
Keeping her location secret from us was rather the point, or so I
thought."

Dana took a deep breathe as imperceptibly as possible. This
was the hard part. "Mr. Prince, you have a reputation as a man who
does not let circumstances control him or his. Instead, you take
the initiative to *control* circumstances. You also have infinite
resources. I believe you made yourself ready to protect that boy
from Angela's testimony. I also believe you are smart enough to
know it is better not to act unless absolutely necessary. You would
keep an eye on her. That is why I think you know where she went
after she left the safe house."

The man looked at Dana with respect. It took courage to say
such things to his face and in his own house. "And if, as you say,
I would 'control circumstances' what is to prevent me from exacting
my own vengence on this woman?"

"Because I would know and I have been a guest in your house."

He let a ghost of a smile cross his lips. "So this is the
information you want?" He was quiet and put down his napkin. "This
is a capitalist country, girl. What do you have to trade?"

Dana focused on him with cold eyes. "I have already
delivered."

"So you say, though I must have corroboration. Is Reti free in
name only or in the flesh?"

Dana's facade began to crumble just a little. Her heart was
pounding. They *did* know. <Mulder... I'm coming.>

"The actual release may take time. Bureaucracies move slowly,"
she protested.

The man raised his hand. "I have accepted the amount of
payment, but I do not act until payment is delivered. No I.O.U.s."

He stood and looked at Pearl. "Take this very tenacious person
to a safe place of *our* own. I have calls to make." He turned to
Dana.

"When I hear from my lawyer that Reti is indeed free, we will
talk again."

***

Wednesday 4am
Somewhere in Rappahannock County, Virginia

Fox Mulder thought he was no longer capable of feeling, no
longer capable even of consciousness. He had floated for hours on
half formed dreams, half remembered images, sinking slowly, softly
toward death. During the last hours, during his few moments of
consciousness, he was always aware of the persistant fluttering of
his heart. There had been little sensation other than that.

But then feeling returned, not with a jolt, but insidiously,
working in among his dreams, making them unpleasant. The forest,
the God-awful forest... <Scully, I'm sorry. Just a walk in the
woods...> feeling the mites swarming all over his arms, his face,
getting into his nose, down into his clothes. He had fought them,
beat them back with his hands, fought to keep them out of his eyes
- and hers. Now he felt them begin to crawl all over his body
again, but he could not lift a hand this time to fight them.
Someone, he forgot who, had loosened his bonds so he was free to
move, but it did not matter for he no longer had the strength to
try.

He shivered. He had not shivered for a long time. The dream
moved on, becoming consciousness. Sound returned, a low, low
background hum that he felt more than heard. The subsonic
vibrations were crawling over his skin, moving swiftly from
irritation to pain. If he had been capable of caring he would have
cried out for it to stop, but he no longer cared. What was a little
more pain? At least he knew he was alive.

Besides, there was screaming enough. Screaming over and over.
Screaming his name. A bright light sprang up all around him, as
bright with his eyes shut as open, as the dread subsonic hum etched
itself into his bones. <God, no, not again... Samantha!>

But the voice was not Samantha's voice this time, not like the
voice in his nightmares. It was a woman's voice, not a child's, and
she did not cry for 'Fox'. And this time there was wind, such a
wind, which had begun small some time before, but had built
steadily until now it seemed almost of hurricane strength. It
pulled at him, sucked at him. If he had been standing, he would
have been drawn to it, drawn into the maul of the maelstrom, but,
as he lay on his back, its grasping tendrils could not get a hold.
And there was a smell, a smell like hell. Sulfur so thick he could
taste the foulness. It sickened him.

His senses were overwhelmed by the light, the roar of the wind
and the shrieks of the screaming, the taste and smell of death, the
feel of the ants and the wind on his bare skin... he faded back
into sweet blackness...

...till a woman's scream, inches from his ear, jolted him into
painful consciousness. Angela had leaped onto the bed and began
pulling cruelly at his nerveless body. "..der! Save me! Don't let
them take me! I won't go back there!" She screamed, she cried, she
clawed at him, completely hysterical. She hugged him to her,
screaming for him to help her, to rescue her. Couldn't she
understand, he could not help? He could barely breathe, could not
move. Wearily, he opened two pale eyes and looked into her insane,
horrified, terrified ones. Even though she was inches from his
face, he could barely make her out in the blinding light. She was
naked but not white. No, her skin was covered with dark splotches
like his own. Protection...

"From whom? From what?" he had asked.

Now he knew. From whatever *this* was. This stinking storm.

So she had told lies - about seeing a man killed, about being
with Samantha. She had committed murder. She had deceived him in
the most cruel and intimate way that one person can deceive
another... and it was all to bring him to this place. She had told
lies, because she felt he would not believe her, if she told the
truth.

<But it didn't work did it, Angela? You should have let me
have my gun...> But then, feeling the awesome strength of the
storm, Mulder reconsidered. No, against this his gun would not have
been any use at all.

Then, if it were possible, the wind increased. Objects in the
room, in the house, began to move, to fly, to be flung against wall
and ceiling or dashed to the floor. The sound of the breaking and
the crashing was deafening.

Just as suddenly, he gasped, but there was no air. He felt as
if a huge weight had settled on his chest. At the same moment,
Angela also gagged, clutched at her chest, crumpled onto the bed
beside him, borne down by a crushing weight. Their eyes were on
fire. Blood poured from her nose; he had too little blood left to
bleed. And at the point where they felt they could take no more,
when the tension had become unbearable, the house exploded. Every
window shattered. Deadly shards were flung outward in every
direction into the night.

With the explosion, the weight lifted. They both gulped for
air, she with a mighty gasp like a swimmer who has stayed down too
long and who has just broken free of the watery death, he with a
whimper, feeling the blackness so very close again, sitting on his
shoulder. Still the horrible vibration filled their bodies, the
house, the very air.

Able to move again she crept to him, whimpering, and lay on
his chest, clinging and sobbing... terrified. Fox knew he should be
frightened, too, but fear took too much energy and he had none to
spare. It was as if he viewed all this from somewhere outside of
himself, for all he could feel was a numbing paralysis.

That was when the front door of the house burst open, slamming
itself against the opposite wall. The woman started and then
cowered as still as death, as if they would not be able to find her
if she did not move. Over the sound of the wind beat the throb of
a new vibration. They both heard... the sounds of movement. Heavy
and light, fast and slow. The irregular, unmechanical sounds of
many beings moving. Angela leaped from the bed like a great
startled bird and slammed the door to the bedroom. Mulder could
hear her screaming at the closed door from where she stood in the
middle of the room, "GO AWAY! I WON'T GO! I'LL DIE FIRST!"

The roaring of the wind and the crashing was muffled only a
little by the closed door. She clawed her way back to the bed and
grasped his limp hand. "I've failed," she moaned. "Didn't work...
none of this worked... they've come for me, but ... I won't go...
I'll never go with them." She looked at that moment upon his pale,
bloody body, felt the coldness of his hand and realized, perhaps
for the first time, even through her terror, the horrible act she
had committed. She grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around him, and
bent down and kissed him for the briefest moment on his cold lips.
"I'm sorry," she whimpered.

For a second time a door burst open, but this time it was the
door to the bedroom she had just closed... and the storm descended
directly upon them... and *they* were there around them, moving
shadows against the brilliant light. Mulder tried to focus, but he
was barely conscious. He saw only her, with her arms raised, and
then with her hand against her throat. He reached out a hand stop
her, or he meant to try, but he was too late. A warm spray fell
against his cold skin, and the light, birdlike weight of her body
dropped down upon him.

Mulder sank into a great void where there was no more light or
wind or thin, grey bodies moving around him like ghosts.

***

Wednesday 4 am
Near Mount Vernon, Virginia

Dana heard a soft island accent waking her. She instantly
remembered that she was curled up on the couch in the music room in
Hector Prince's house, with a pillow and two blankets which a maid
had delivered. Pearl had urged her to try to get some rest, reading
in Dana's face how much stress the young woman had been under over
the last week. Dana was surprised that she could sleep, but then
she had done everything she could do. The rest was up to others.
She only prayed that the D.A.'s office did their part and did not
hold up Reti's release on some technicality.

***

"Does this man you care about have a name?" Pearl had asked as
she sat on the edge of the couch hours earlier, soothing Dana
mother-fashion into sleep.

Dana felt amazingly relaxed, still gripped in a wash of relief
that Angela would be found and soon, while the uncertainty of what
they would find had not yet asserted itself. "Mulder,"she replied.
"Special Agent Fox Mulder."

The woman nodded. "Lover?"

Dana felt a pain in the pit of her stomach. How do you say not
lover but more than lover, more than friend. "He's my partner, my
best friend." She held a lip between her teeth. "We have been
through 'hell' together."

Pearl raised an eyebrow thoughtfully. "You know, Ms. FBI,
Hector and I have known each other for years and years. We are
closer than siblings, closer than most lovers we know, but we have
separate bedrooms. Always have. He has his women and I have -
visitors. Most people think that odd. "

"I understand," Dana told her.

The woman patted her shoulder and rose to leave. "I think you
do." She smiled. "Now get some rest. It is going to be a long
night."

Dana looked up at her, feeling somehow that, at least in this,
she could trust this woman. "How long will it take until we can
go?"

"As long as it takes," the woman winked, "but I'll do what I
can to move events along. Rest while you can."

Now Pearl was stirring Dana to wakefulness, some urgency in
her voice. She had changed from her evening gown to a tunic and
leggings in the colors of the African savannah. "Ms. FBI, the car
is out front. Now is the time."

Dana was instantly on her feet, searching for her shoes, but
Pearl already held them. "How long will it take to get there?" Dana
asked, her heart in her stomach, the adrenalin rush beginning to
make her tremble.

The woman cocked her head, thinking. "Dicken can drive like
the wind when he needs to. Two hours under most circumstances, but
we'll make it in an hour and a half."

"We'll?" Dana asked, startled, slipping into her coat.

"I'm coming, my dear, and so is Hector. You may need some,
what you call 'back up', and Hector doesn't want any more people
knowing that he's dealing with the FBI than necessary." Pearl held
the door open. "Just one more thing; Hector makes the rules here.
The FBI means nothing. You're just a woman looking for her man. You
understand? You're just along for the ride."

Numbly, Dana nodded.

===========================================================================

Wednesday 6am
Rappahannock County, Virginia

The car was a limo. A long, white stretch limo that gleamed
like a ghost in the night and flew like a ghost, too, across a
landscape rising gradually from gentle dips towards the ancient
mountains. In the pre-dawn blackness, they flew on deserted roads,
past harvested, autumn fields and small towns.

Dana sat on the pull down seat by one of the long back doors
and stared out the window. She was trying not to think about what
they would find. She had questioned Pearl and Hector for
information about what they knew, but the woman would not speak.
"Later," Pearl had said softly, and then she and Hector had curled
up on the two long leather bench seats and fallen asleep.

After they had been on the road about an hour, the grey of
dawn began to make itself known in the sky. Dana marveled, as
always, at the return of light. This morning, especially, she
accepted that she would need the peace she always derived from
watching nature unfold this way. First, you could see only a hint
that the objects before the sky sat in silhouette just a bit more
clearly then before. Then they became more and more defined, but,
so gradually that, if you blinked, the landscape seemed to jump
into relief unnoticed. Only, when the grey of the sky changed to
palest blue, could she begin to distinguish color. This was also
when she could see that her hands were clutched bone white in her
lap.

Now in true dawn, with all objects clearly visible, the
November-barren trees bent and swayed in a stiff wind. It would be
one of those days when the sky is brilliant blue, but the wind
blows steadily in advance of an approaching front. Even now Dana
could see a bank of clouds, far to the west, where the mountains
rose.

Pearl and Hector stirred. Pearl pulled out a thermos of coffee
and handed a cup to Hector, then one to the driver, Dicken, and
finally one to Dana. Dana wrapped her hands around it, intent on
steadying her hands, and her eyes must have been asking questions
again, for Hector finally began to speak.

"I don't have a lot to tell, girl." The white in his grizzled,
grey beard seemed to glow like silver in the shadowed car. "Yes, we
knew where the safe house was, but you will understand if I don't
explain our methods. All was quiet until Monday afternoon, then the
woman moved the car onto the lawn by the front door and began
packing. It was obvious she did not plan to return."

Pearl put her hand over Dana's. "Our *observer* reported that
the officer assigned to her left with her but, the man was not
well." Pearl looked down into Dana's eyes. "She had to help him to
the car, laid him down in the back. Had to help him out again when
they got to their destination."

Dana felt her chest tightening. She remembered the
discoloration on the fingers during the autopsy, the beginnings of
similar color on Mulder's. She had proposed the theory, and they
had found the poison at the house, but a theory was one thing, to
have it substantiated was quite another.

"That's all we knew until a few hours ago," Pearl reported.
"Hector tried to call our observer, to double check that they
hadn't moved again, but the man admitted he had left his post.
Weird things were happening around the house, he said. Too much for
him.... lights, sounds, wind." Pearl shrugged. "Good help is hard
to find."

Just then, as the first red-orange edge of sun peaked over the
horizon, the car slowed and turned onto a gravel road.

Speaking for the very first time from the front seat, the
driver, Dicken, announced, "Mr. Prince, we're here, and you have to
see this."

Stomach churning, Dana peered out of the heavily tinted
window. At the end of the long driveway sat a small isolated house,
painted an undistinguished, faded green. Something odd about the
look of the house though, even from this distance; the porch seemed
to be tilted at an odd angle. As they negotiated a curve in the
drive, Dana caught a glimpse of a single dark car parked in the
rear that did look like Mulder's. She saw no other. Dana's fingers
twitched. Her hands felt empty. She wanted her gun or her medical
bag, but Hector had not allowed either. <Beggars can't be
choosers,> but she longed for the protective feel of the cool iron
in her hand anyway. Then she heard the familiar sound of ammunition
clips being inserted and turned to see Hector and Pearl checking
out large and effective weapons.

Dana swallowed and turned back towards the window. Maybe she
did not need her gun after all. Probably, under the circumstances,
she would be safer without it. She was suddenly acutely aware that
she had deviated so far from standard FBI operational procedures
that it was not funny. Skinner would certainly find nothing
humorous about her going to Mulder's rescue with a crime syndicate
boss, his body guard and his 'significant other'.

She swallowed, steadying her breathing. No, the situation was
not funny at all and her emotions were fluctuating faster than she
feared she could deal with them.

As they neared the house, Dicken slowed the limo cautiously
and what Dana saw made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.
She was out the door before the car had even stopped moving. Having
traveled west, the wind was stronger here and pulled at her
clothes, whipped her hair into her eyes. Angrily, she pushed back
the irritating strands. She did not need or want this distraction.

She found herself standing and staring at the scene. And
listening...

Now was the time for caution, for the wariness that Mulder had
taught her, for what she saw made no sense. The house *was* wrong,
even more so close up than from the car. Not only was the porch
askew, but the structure had the appearance of having been dropped
from a height of about ten feet. Not a wall was at right angles to
any other or to the ground or horizon or sky. And every window was
broken. Not just broken, but shattered, and the shards had been
flung out with a great force into the yard. Some lay glittering at
her feet.

Dana crept closer, squinting, as the wind tried to blow dust
into her eyes and she listened, but the only sounds she heard were
the ones the wind played. Leaves rustled in fits and starts like
frightened animals. The shutters, hanging loosely, banged and
creaked. The front door, perilously hanging on its hinges, creaked.
There were no human sounds.

Hector, Pearl and Dicken, were silent as they waited near the
car for her to make the first move. Dana appreciated their
restraint and respect for her training. Even while her heart urged
her to rush in, to see, to know - the wrongness here held her
back. Observe, Mulder always said.

Observe what? That the house did not look habitable, but not
at all old. Paint had peeled, but the wood underneath seemed fresh
stripped. The splintered boards revealed exposed depths which were
perfectly clean, without a trace of dirt or weathering. The shafts
of nails that had worked themselves out of the wood were bright as
new. Dana jerked her head around when the wind suddenly began
singing, like some dying thing, as it sailed through the twisted
gutters and down spouts. In the bends and creases, she saw only
bare metal, no rust.

For people who had seen their own share of riot and
destruction, even the three standing by the car were subdued,
almost shaken. Stepping softly, Pearl came up to her followed by
the others. "This place looks as if it's been through a war." she
whispered harshly.

"Our 'source' would have reported this," Hector commented,
frowning, his gun hand resting against his shoulder. "I've seen
destruction like this after a 'demonstration' between, maybe, two
dozen assault rifles, but nothing like that has happened here."

At that moment, a gust of wind, stronger than the others,
roared up. It pulled at Dana, even forcing her back a step. A
cyclone of leaves lifted up higher than Dicken's head and the house
groaned ominously, louder than before. They all saw the porch roof
sway.

"It's going to go," Pearl said warningly.

"No!" Dana surged forward, all caution gone. Dicken and
Hector, though, reached the steps before her, the older, bearded
man catching her at the foot of the porch and throwing her into
Pearl's arms.

Dana struggled wildly as she watched the two men mount the
steps. "Let them go!" Pearl commanded sharply, holding her with
surprising ease. "That's men's work! Certainly that's what we pay
Dicken for."

"Mulder!" Dana cried, the cry ending with almost a snarl of
frustration as the wind blew another blast against them and played
more of its dangerous music on the house. Only the fear that there
may still be someone there, someone with a gun, someone who could
be frightened to panic, forced her to keep the sound of her call
from reaching the house.

With the wariness of a trained professional, his gun at the
ready point, Dicken cautiously pushed the remnants of the front
door open with his foot while Hector pressed against the porch wall
beside him. After a moment, the body guard peered inside, then
turned and motioned quickly for his employer. Dana tried again to
break free, but Pearl's ring-studded fingers were like a vice on
her arm.

"Calm yourself. Won't do no good, Ms. FBI."

They were gone too long in Dana's estimation. The house was so
small. Were Mulder and Angela there or not? Would she have to
begin the search all over again? Worse, was he...?

She heard the wind coming this time, a gust driving down from
a depression between the hills behind the house. When it finally
drove against the walls, the screech of metal and moaning of the
wood was terrible.

As if propelled, Hector suddenly appeared at the front door,
moving quickly. Placing his gun back into its holster, he called to
her. "Come now!" he commanded.

Dana tore from Pearl's grasp, forced herself to tred softly on
the rickety steps. The house seemed so unstable she was a afraid
any unnecessary movement would bring it down. Hector waited for
her, touching her arm before she could pass over the sagging
threshold. "I know you have courage," he told her in a tight voice.
"Remember that."

Shrugging off his hand, Dana moved into the front room. As she
did, the new rising sun, still low on the horizon, sent slants of
gold through the open door, illuminating large, dark splotches that
covered the walls, ceiling and floor until they glowed like glowing
red jewels. Amidst the surreal splendor, the contents of the room
lay battered and broken. Every stick of furniture was so much
trash, splintered and twisted almost beyond recognition. That was
once a table, that a chair. On the floor by a ruined couch, the
remains of an old rotary dial phone lay on its side, the cord
pulled from the wall. Dana let it lay. She did not need to pick it
up to see that on its edge was a spot of dried blood and a few
short, dark hairs. On the floor by the wall nearby there were more
spots of the same dark fluid, also dry now.

From a doorway at the far end of the room, Hector held out his
hand. Dana went to him, moving softly as if afraid to wake...
whatever unnatural thing was there.

She stood paralyzed. The bed was all she saw and that was
enough... a double bed with a woman's bloody, naked body sprawled
on it... and blood. Blood everywhere. Dark stains radiated from
this central horror, far beyond the confines of the bed. Rivulets,
dried now, had once dripped down every wall, around every door and
window. The ceiling was splattered with it and the floor showed the
bloody tracks of seemingly countless feet.

And Angela, or what remained of Angela, lay in a pool of
crimson in the center of the sagging mattress. Her dead eyes were
open and staring; there was blood on her face and her thin ragged
hair fanned about her head. Her naked body was covered with the
smeared remnants of bloody tracks and whirls. Deep cuts were on her
wrists and across her throat was a ragged gash.

Hector and Dicken were preparing to lift the body. Hector had
the thin shoulders, Dicken the small, slender feet. They began to
move it to a fairly clean sheet one of them had laid out on the
floor.

<No, you mustn't move her...>

Dana started to raise her hand, to protest, but, as they took
the small woman's body away, Dana could finally see what lay
beneath, what lay tangled among the sheets and blood and a single
thin blanket.

A man lay in the same pool of blood from which Angela's body
had been removed. The deadly, grey pallor of his skin was almost
indistinguishable from the deep shadows under the sheets. His face
was turned away from her, but Dana recognized the long leanness of
him. Some pale skin lay exposed to the house's chill air. Fine
muscles defined one bare shoulder and the length of one long leg.
And there was the too familiar way his hair stood up when he slept.

Once the paralysis broke, Dana moved, but she never remembered
afterward how she made it to the side of the bed towards which his
face was turned. Heedless of the blood that covered the floor, she
knelt down.

Mulder's skin was chalky grey and too ghastly to be peaceful,
as he usually appeared to her as he slept. His lips had a
frightening bluish tint. She laid a hand gently on his chest. He
breathed... very shallow and quick, unnatural, but he breathed. The
left side of his face, the side turned up towards her, was bruised
a dark and sinister color and swollen. His eyes were sunk deep and
shadowed in his face. Dana reached for his wrist to take a pulse
but found herself shocked into stillness, fighting down panic. His
poor wrists were cruelly cut, and so extensively that she could
find no place to hold him. Refusing to think about what had
happened, much less why, she flipped back the sheet and blanket.

She was prepared to see him naked as Angela had been, but not
to see the numberous unbound cuts on his legs that oozed a pale,
yellowish-pink fluid. Pulling down professional calm to block her
despair, she groped for the femoral artery on his good leg, the one
that had not been shot that horrible day on the docks. She felt a
faint pulse, too faint. Hastily, she sought the carotid under his
jaw, touching gently the swollen flesh. The pulse should be
strongest here, but it was too fast and very weak.

"H-Hector?" She knew she must sound like a person asleep; it
was so hard to get any words out. "Please, call an ambulance."

"Already done, Agent Scully," replied the deep voice. So, he
remembered her name after all.

Dana needed no time at all to deduce that he was not only in
shock but also seriously dehydrated. His skin was dry and slack on
his muscles. From the evidence of the house, he had also lost a lot
of blood. His body was covered with smeared designs in, what she
could only guess, was his own dried blood. She refused to think
about how much of what covered the walls, ceiling and floor was
also his. She put two pillows under his knees and found a slightly
cleaner blanket to cover him. She touched the hair on his head,
moving the lock that always hung down across his forehead. When he
did not respond to her touch, her eyes began to burn with tears she
had no time to shed.

While her hand lay on his cheek, a new blast of wind struck
the house, and it was as if every board screamed to break free of
every other. Dana sprang to cover the injured man with her own body
as plaster dust rained down from the ceiling. The house sang in a
mad chorus of noises, none of them comforting. At that moment, Dana
woke from one terrible dream and entered another.

She had found him, now she realized it would be no simple
matter to keep him.

Hector was suddenly at her elbow. He took her wrists in his
strong hands and lifted her to her feet. "No!" Uncomprehending, she
fought him as he forced her the few steps towards the bathroom and
thrust her hands and arms under the running water in the sink. "No!
Hector... damn you, let me go!"

Pearl was there, too, and roughly lathering Dana's arms with
the soap. Dana twisted, tried to get away from them and back to
Mulder. She could hear Dicken tearing a sheet into strips for
bandages. She prayed it was a clean one. Odd, she had never asked
anyone to do that. Even so, she fought because she should be there.

"Do you want to get it, too?" Pearl asked her, tensely. "It's
not pretty... do you want to get it?"

That was when Dana noticed her own arms were covered in blood
and realized they had been talking about AIDS. "Mulder doesn't have
it - " she tried to explain.

"You would know, I imagine," Pearl told her curtly, scrubbing
quickly while Hector continued to hold her, "but *she* has been in
an institution. A young woman like that? *She* probably did!"

At that Dana's eyes went wide, dismayed. Angela had bled to
death on that bed; her blood was everywhere mixed with his. And
Mulder had so many open wounds... She flung herself back against
Hector, raising her dripping fists in the air. <God, no, not him!>

Pearl held her with strong arms. "You hold on... We'll do for
him..." Dana's eyes leaped towards the bedroom. Dicken had removed
the blanket and loosened Mulder's long limbs from the last of the
winding sheets. Now he and Hector were wrapping the torn strips of
sheeting around the cuts on the injured man's arms and legs.

"What do I care...." Dana shrank away, trying to slip from the
woman's arms. "He needs me."

Pearl held her tighter, with fury and determination. "You
*care*," she ordered. "There is glass everywhere here. Dangerous
for you and he'll need you healthy, do you hear?"

Dana beckoned to the men. "But they..."

Pearl shook her head. "Won't harm us, Ms. FBI."

Only then did Dana understand. She looked from Pearl to Dicken
to Hector and back and she knew. "All three of you?"

Pearl nodded briskly. "Can't be helped now. We do well enough
for the moment and we can't be more of a threat to him than he's
been exposed to already." She thrust some car keys into Dana's
hand. "You... you go out to the car. In the trunk you'll find some
blankets, they'll be clean and warm. Get them and lay them on the
porch. We'll bring him out to you."

Dana looked back as Pearl shoved her towards the entrance.
"He's in shock... he shouldn't be moved..."

Hector glared at her. "Do you want him to stay here? This
place could come down at any time! It will when the storm comes."

Over the whistling of the wind, Dana heard, far off, a distant
rumble of thunder. "Support his head and keep it low," she ordered
and with one final backwards glance dashed outside to the car.

The wind caught her as she crossed the yard. Dana raised her
eyes and the black ridge of the approaching storm front reared
above not so distant hills now. She fumbled with the large ring of
keys Pearl had given her, finally finding the ones for the limo.
She averted her eyes from seeing anything in the trunk but the
blankets, and, if the truth be known, she never did remember what
else was there. What Hector and his people transported as part of
their normal 'business' dealings was no concern of hers, not today.

She found three blankets and laid two on a spot on the porch
which Dicken had swept free from the glass and where they had not
tracked the blood. Then she ran inside with the third to find Pearl
with a cloth and a basin of water. Hector and Dicken had moved
Mulder to the edge of the mattress where it was cleaner and Pearl
was just finishing washing the worst of the blood from Mulder's
pale skin.

"What are you doing?" Dana cried, grabbing a towel and trying
to dry the thin arms and legs. He was already so cold, too cold.
"That won't help."

"With our people it does," Pearl answered, her hands moving
quickly in a kind of desperation. "He'll get better care if he's
clean."

"No medical professional would deny treatment -" Dana began to
protest, but then she saw Pearl's closed, hard face.

<Maybe not true for us,> Dana thought, <but maybe true for
them.> And from the sorrow Dana saw on that face she knew Pearl had
had someone close go into some inner city hospital... someone who
did not come out. Maybe more than one... maybe many.

Hector came and put his hand firmly on the older woman's arm.
"That's enough, Pearl. There's no more time." He alone was able to
capture his companion's attention. They gazed into each other's
eyes with unfathomable understanding.

Dana took the cloth and basin from her. "Thank you," she said
and she meant that. "But it will be all right... "

Dicken took the blanket Dana had brought in and, carefully, he
and Hector made something of a litter. Dana supported Mulder's head
as they lifted. For a few seconds she felt the strong muscles in
his neck, the once soft hair, now dry and mattered with what she
did not want to think about.

At that moment, without warning this time, another wave of
wind crashed like breakers on a beach against the house.
Involuntarily, all huddled. The house stood, but when the worst had
passed, they moved quickly. They carried the limp form out onto the
porch and on the cleared area cocooned him in the thick grey
blankets. Hector and Dicken bore him then into the lee of a potting
shed, on the opposite side of the yard from where Angela's body lay
on the dry grass shrouded in its stained, white sheet.

Dana sat on the ground by the shed and found its walls blocked
most of the wind. She could even feel a little warmth as the early
morning sun reflected off the shed's peeling, white paint. It would
be as warm here as anywhere. The house had been as cold as hell,
anyway. It was ironic that the sun still shone at all with the
black, piling clouds so near. Dicken ran once more into the house
and brought out pillows to raise Mulder's legs. His head they laid
in her lap.

A further blast of wind suddenly made the house tremble. One
of the porch supports began to fall. The porch roof twisted and
crashed, sending up a cloud of rising dust.

Hector and Dicken looked at the house for a moment. Hector
shook his head, then he stood back and gave her a somber nod. That
was when Dana knew they were leaving. Pearl crouched down beside
her and put something into her hand. "I found these in the
bedroom," she said, handing Dana two soiled envelopes. Dana paid
little attention, noting merely that the top envelope was addressed
in Mulder's scrawled script, before she slipped them into her
pocket. Instead, she was looked up into Pearl's incredibly dark
eyes.

"Thank you," she said, sincerely. "Without you and Hector...."

Pearl raised her hands. "I've had a man like him... and a son.
I've felt like you do... and like you will. It's life." And waving
slowly, she heading towards the car.

Dana heard the sound of car doors opening and closing and the
engine of the limo start up. She was not surprised that Hector and
Pearl would want to be gone before the ambulance and, probably, the
police came. She did not feel abandoned, however. She had what she
wanted. Besides, she knew that they would wait somewhere, quietly,
out of sight, and not leave the area until they knew she was being
taken care of. They were good at watching.

Finally, alone with him and having nothing further she could
really do, Dana smoothed his brow and talked to him... about what,
she did not remember. Just talked and held her grief as she held
him close.

She had been gazing up at the storm, a little apprehensive and
wondering why the ambulance was taking so long, when she heard a
sigh, a hoarse whisper, that might have been "Hey" spoken no louder
than a breath. At first she thought that the barely audible sound
was only an eddy in the wind.

Dana looked down... and caught a glimmer under the eyelids,
just a little, but enough to make her own words catch in her
throat. "I'm here, Mulder."

A dry voice spoke, a voice more like leaves rustling, than his
own. "Scully..." He tried to smile then, but failed. "Sorry...
picking up... pieces again." He struggled, took an exhausted,
rattling breath. "You deserve ...better."

"I don't want better," she told him, "just you." But she was
afraid he had not heard. He seemed to have lost consciousness
again.

A moment later, she caught the flutter again. He was fighting
to keep his eyes open, but even open they would not stay focused on
her. "Save your strength," she soothed. "I won't leave you."

His head moved imperceptibly. "Dana... kiss me ... good
night." His soft words took her so by surprise that for a moment
she thought she had not heard correctly. She did not understand. In
some delirium, did he mistake her for his mother? Was that why he
had asked her to kiss him good night? No, he had called her -
'Dana'. A wave of warmth ran through her and she bent down to do as
he had bade her, but as her lips touched his, she found them cold
and they did not respond to hers.

Suddenly anxious, she swiftly sought for the pulse again. When
she found it, throbbing like the heart of a bird, under her
fingers, her relief was so great that the tears she had struggled
so long to repress would no longer be held. She bowed her head and
kissed him again on his cool lips, though she knew he was no longer
conscious and, when she straightened again, two of her tears
glistened on his cheek like pale stars.

Five minutes after the last dust from the limo had settled,
Dana saw the approach of lights, the red and white of the rescue
squad and blue and red of the county police.

End of Chapter 15: So ends Book I of The Abductee. The plot
weaving, puzzle-solving, rescue part is done. From the post on
EMXC, it's been suggested that I warn the action adventure crowd
that Book II of the Abductee (Hope and Healing, chapters 16-21) is
very different. It's partly a medical drama for you ER fans and
there are many loose ends to tie up and emotional issues to deal with.
Mostly it's about relationship destruction and rebuilding.

===========================================================================

ATTENTION: So begins Book II: Hell and Healing, chapters 16-21.

"She had found him, now she realized it would be no simple
matter to keep him." - Dana Scully, chapter 15.

"Not all the effects of trauma are physical, as I'm sure you
know." - Dr. Barbara Adams, chapter 17.

Chapter 16

==========================

Wednesday, 6:30am
Rappahannock County, Virginia

Weeks and Months later when Dana Scully remembered this time,
she thought, ironically, about how completely life, as protrayed in
novels and the movies, failed to mimic real life. Mulder did not
get a transfusion and wake up an hour later and smile at her. They
did not go back to work three days later as if nothing had
happened...

Dana was furious and frightened. The ambulance arrived with
only a single, relatively inexperienced paramedic and a fireman
with first aid training who functioned as driver and attendant. Why
would anyone send so little help for a case which was so critical?
Hector or Dicken surely reported the seriousness of the situation,
but then Dana remembered that this was the rural South. Unkindly,
she wondered if the 911 operator had placed the caller's speech
pattern and sent just these two, who were so clearly out of their
depth. Pearl's frantic need to clean away the blood began to make
more sense. Dana swore. If only she had placed the call. If the
dispatcher had been told that the victim was an FBI agent, the
entire fire department probably would be here now, plus the
emergency care supervisor and the county police would have sent
more than a single patrolman.

The young paramedic had been momentarily stunned. The
patient's degree of blood loss and shock was clearly outside his
experience, but he took hold of himself and tried to look
optimistic. Obviously, the rescue squad did not carry blood, which
in addition to colloids was what the patient needed, but they did
carry a good substitute, a fluorocarbon-hemoglobin solution
developed for emergency use by the military. Dana was acquainted
with it and felt a modicum of reassurance. The young man informed
her with crisp efficiency that they would start the IV first and
then transport.

There was nothing Dana wanted more than to stay with Mulder as
the paramedic and his assistant completed their evaluation, but she
knew she had another obligation, in its way as pressing as the
first. Angela was dead and she did not want Mulder to be implicated
in any way in her death. Though the very thought of leaving Mulder
in the hands of these two was torture, she needed a witness to what
Angela had done and how she had died.

Flashing her ID, she demanded that the young patrolman
accompany her to gather evidence. Looking at the obviously
disintegrating house, the strapping, six foot four trooper thought
her insane, but, as Fox Mulder had learned, it would take a better
man than he to refuse Special Agent Scully. After insisting on a
guarantee from the rescue squad crew that they would not budge an
inch without her, Dana led the officer around the fallen porch roof
and into the house.

She was all too aware of the danger to which she and the
officer were exposing themselves. There were long cracks in the
ceiling and on the walls which had not been there even a few
minutes before and multiple places where plaster had fallen. The
house would not stand much longer. All the more reason this had to
be done now. Once inside, the wide-eyed officer collected the razor
and bowl which Dana had made certain that no one had touched. These
would have Angela's fingerprints. As the officer rapidly
photographed the scene, she searched the rooms. Behind the bed Dana
found Mulder's blood-stained gun which she let the trooper take as
evidence and under some broken furniture, Mulder's clothes. They
smelled depressingly of sweat and vomit as she slowly folded them.
Reluctantly, she handed them to the officer to bag and mark. Dana
carefully pocketed Mulder's ID and wallet and his court-day tie.

There was no time to look for more. The officer was nervously
shifting from one foot to the other, eager to leave. Dana herself
was torn between the desire to find Angela's purse or suitcase,
either of which might supply valuable evidence, and anxiety over
why the rescue squad staff had not announced that they were ready
to leave. Concern for Mulder, her own safety and that of the
patrolman won out. They fled the house as it groaned in protest
under the assault from a fresh blast of wind. The accompanying clap
of thunder indicated the storm had come much closer.

The first huge drops of rain were falling as Dana raced across
the open space to the waiting ambulance. As she wrenched open the
door, the paramedic and attendant were shaking their heads, grave
expressions on their faces.

"What's the problem?" she asked, glaring from one to the
other.

The paramedic's brow glistened with the sweat of effort. "We
haven't been successful getting a line in," he told her, with
evident frustration. "Can't find a decent vein."

"Oh course, you can't," she snapped. "He's badly dehydrated,
hypovolemic and in shock. You'll probably have to do a cut down."

The young man looked at his companion. "That's what we
figured. 'Fraid, though, that's not something we have much call
for. We've got the kit and I've got this," he said hefting an
official-looking procedure binder. "I'm just waiting for someone to
come on the horn to talk me through it. It'll be all right." But
Dana did not like the look in the young man's eyes at all. He was
scared.

The attendant was estimating femoral pulse and blood pressure.
Even with a blood pressure cuff he had not had any better luck than
Dana in finding a pulse the traditional route. There was sweat on
his brow as well. "I estimate 65 over 40," he reported gloomily.

Seriously alarmed, but more furious still with their lack of
experience, Dana pulled out the copy of her medical license which
she kept behind her ID and thrust it into the paramedic's face. As
he was warily examining the document, she pushed her way in beside
the gurney and snatched the pair of clean latex gloves from his
hands. Pulling back the blankets, she exposed the bone white thigh.
"Get me the kit," she ordered. "I'll do it myself."

"Lady, our liability doesn't allow - " the paramedic began.

"I'll tell you what you can go with your liability. I have not
gone through hell these last three days to let this man die either
for your incompetence or for your liability. Now get me the damn
kit!"

Quailing before her credentials and the stormy fire in her
eyes, and realistically recognizing his own limitations, the
paramedic surrendered and handed her the items from the kit as she
requested them. Mind and body anchored firmly in the professional
detachment she had had to master over the years just to do her job,
Dana made a firm deep cut with the scalpel above the femoral
artery, fighting back tears only when she saw how little blood
welled up. Grasping more tightly to a calm she barely felt, she
smoothly inserted the large bore catheter and the blood substitute
and volume expanders finally began flowing.

She let out the breath which she had, unknowingly, been
holding. "Let's get the hell out of here."

As the ambulance flew threw what was now a full thunderstorm,
Dana sat at Mulder's side and would not budge. Unfortunately, there
was not much she could do; maintain the airway, keep an eye on the
IV line to make sure it was running freely, track the vitals the
paramedic collected. Within a few minutes, Mulder's blood pressure
came up a little, but his heart rate continued to be too fast and
too weak. His breath sounds were weak but clear which was the best
anyone could expect. His color had improved a little because the
paramedic had inserted an airway while Dana was in the house and
put him on full oxygen.

Dana sat as still as a stone, her hand on his, afraid that
even her breathing would disrupt the delicate balance he was
walking. She had no doubt it was that serious. At every pitch and
roll of the cab over the ill-kept country roads, her heart caught
in her throat as a flicker of discomfort passed like a shadow over
Mulder's face.

When they were still ten minutes from the local hospital, or
so they told her when she inquired for the twentieth time, Mulder's
breathing became more irregular and the paramedic reported that his
blood pressure had dropped a little. Dana tore the stethoscope from
the neck of the attendant and listened to Mulder's chest, swore
that there must be a trick to learning to use these things in a
moving vehicle. His breath sounds were no longer clear. They had
gambled and lost, he had fluid in his lungs. Dan knew from the
beginning that was a possible complication of low blood pressure
and the suddenly increased intravascular volume, but they had had
no choice but to treat the shock. He coughed weakly and Dana found
a fine red spray dribbling from the corner of his mouth. She fought
back her tears, as she cleaned the spot with a scrap of gauze.

Her mind began spinning. If there was one complication, there
could be others. Frantically, she pulled back the blankets he was
wrapped in and found that the inner lining of sheets the ambulance
crew had added was now stained in places with a mixture of tissue
fluid and blood from his leaking wounds.

Stomach constricting, Dana reported to the paramedic, "He's
bleeding."

There was no need to say more. The young man crawled over and
spoke hastily through the cab window to the driver. A moment later
Scully felt the ambulance leap forward, to tear over the pock-
marked, narrow roads even more recklessly than before, the wailing
of the siren harmonizing eerily with the constant rumbling thunder
and the white-noise hiss of the tires on the wet road. With an
efficiency of motion, the young paramedic rummaged in his drug box
and pulled out a vial of epinephrine which he began drawing up into
a syringe.

Dana frantically shook her head. The vasodilator was
contraindicated in problems such as Mulder's. Except to increase
the percentage of oxygen he was receiving, there was really not
much they could do or should do until they got to a better
facility. And what they had done may not enough, Dana feared, not
nearly enough. For they had started the IV and poured in fluid and
dextran and electrolytes and the oxygen-carrying fluorocarbon
molecules to correct the shock and hypotension and to deliver
oxygen, but in the process they had diluted out his platelets and
coagulation factors. So he bled and, with a pain deep and tearing,
Dana knew that he was bleeding internally, just as surely as the
soaked-through, jury-rigged bandages Hector and Dicken had put on
over the cuts, showed that he was bleeding externally.

Scully reached into her pocket and, pulling out Mulder's
wallet, she flipped it open in front of the young paramedic's eyes.
"Agent Mulder's blood type is AB," she shouted to him, raising her
voice over the sound of the siren and the thunder and the pouring
rain. "You have to inform the hospital. He's going to need
platelets and fresh frozen plasma as soon as we get there." For
these she knew they would need his type. For red cells he could use
anything, but for plasma factors only his own type would do or risk
a delayed transfusion reaction later with all of its liver
complications. This added stress Mulder did not need in his current
condition.

The paramedic's expression was glum as he passed the word on
to his companion who took the message. Distantly, she heard the
driver speaking to someone over the radio as she looked down at the
ID, at the picture of the serious young man on the official
portrait, and then back at Mulder's face. She touched his hair,
stiffened with sweat and blood. "Live, Mulder" she whispered.
"Don't leave me."

Dana calculated later that half of the staff of the small
county hospital must have been waiting when the ambulance arrived.
They were quick and efficient as they pulled the gurney into the
single bay emergency room and began taking blood gases and setting
up an additional IV, but Dana was appalled by the size of the
place. She had been in clinics that were larger and better
equipped.

She positioned herself at his left side, held his hand, and
obstinately refused to leave when they insisted. "I'm a doctor.
I'll gown if you want, but I'm not leaving." They did not make her
leave.

A trim, grey-haired woman dressed in green scrubs appeared and
hovered at her elbow. Both kept as still as possible in order to
stay out of the way of the frantically working doctors and nurses.
"I'm Anna Hastings, charge nurse here," the woman said, close to
Dana's ear, though she still had to raise her voice to carry over
the rapid issue of orders flying around them. "I need information.
Are you family?"

Dana shook her head. No matter how ill he was, *they* would
never come. He might as well not have a family, the little they
cared. She showed his ID and hers, wearily expecting this universal
procedure. "We're FBI. I'm his partner. I can tell you everything
you need to know."

Wide-eyed, Nurse Hastings nodded. The patient's impossible
injuries and the condition in which he had arrived beginning to
make at least some sense. What could one expect from Feds and
Washington-based ones at that? With practiced calm, she inquired
about the patient's name and address, his insurance, existing
medical conditions and drug allergies. Dana answered in a
distracted monotone having answered the same questions too many
times before. As the woman was writing an orderly came and said
something to her which was too soft for Dana to hear. The older
woman lightly touched Dana's arm to get her attention. "I've just
been told they're requested a medivac. We'll stabilize him the best
we can, but you can see the size of this place. We're not prepared
to deal with conditions like his."

Dana had known this, had wondered with a fear in the pit of
her belly how this place would ever get him through. Best of
intentions would not be enough. Give the staff credit, from the
start they must have suspected this would be necessary, which was
why they had never taken him off the gurney. Watching the dozens of
packages being torn open, the bags and bottles, vials and ampules
being opened and injected in muscle and heart, vein and IV line,
she had no doubt Mulder was using up a six month supply of the
clinic's hemostatic factors just on these initial stop-gap
measures. About the transport, part of Dana was relieved that he
would be going to a facility far better equipped to deal with his
needs, part was terrified that his condition might become worse on
route when he was far from help. "Where are you sending him?"

"Washington Hospital Center. As you probably know, they have
the best trauma center in the area." The woman shook her head. "We
just don't have enough of the products he needs or may need. We
could send for some, but in the same time frame he could be taken
to a facility where they have more experience."

At that moment someone activated the automatic doors and Dana
could hear floating in the sound of approaching 'chopper' blades.
A moment later a voice over an intercom announced the impending
arrival. At least the storm front had passed so the medivac team
had been able to come quickly. Dana looked into Mulder's face and
held tightly to his limp hand. Skin was cold and clammy in shock,
that was how the books described it. Cold and clammy was how his
hand felt. She did not want to see him go, but knew he must. He had
not regained consciousness, but at least he now had two IV's going
and a drug store of chemicals in his system. She reached out and
placed her other hand on his cool cheek. Even while she stood
there, she felt a decided drop in the tempo of activity in the
room.

"That's all we can do now," the young doctor told his team.
"Let's ship him."

At that most of the doctors, nurses, and technicians stepped
away, stripping off gowns and gloves, pulling monitors and other
equipment away from the bed. Housekeeping staff moved around them,
collecting discarded packaging which impeded traffic. Two nurses
stayed, hurriedly completing preparations for his journey. They
unplugged cardiac leads and temperature and respiration sensors.
Those would be attached to identical equipment once he was situated
in the medical helicopter. They began to wrap him again in
blankets.

"Wait." Dana's hand was in his. "He's so cold." Having handed
his care over to others, she now felt numb, and damned her
exhausted voice for its pleading tone. She saw the expression on
the young doctor's face change from the dissociated professional he
had to be, to the caring person he was. He smiled understandingly.

"Doris," he called clearly to someone in the room, "get some
of those heat packs we save for hypothermia cases." A woman in a
blue smock hurried away. "I overheard you say he's FBI and you're
his partner. I've informed the WHC staff about what we found here
and what we've done. They'll be as ready as they can be, but I hope
you know this is going to be tricky. Are you all right?"

<No,> Dana realized, wearily, <I just have to be.>

At that moment the orderly returned with the box of heat packs
and Dana helped six other pairs of willing hands to break the
seals. Massaging the packs mixed the chemicals which combined to
release the welcome warmth. As they frantically worked, the
attendants from the medivac entered the treatment area and talked
in low tones to the doctor. Dana shut her eyes and willed her hands
to work faster, refusing to hear the doctor inform these attendants
about the possibility of their patient 'going sour' along the way.
In the scant minutes they had before the medivac staff took the
gurney in their hands and began pushing it towards the waiting
copter, as many of the heat packs as could be prepared had been
packed around his body between the sheets and the blankets.

Less than two minutes later, when they had taken him from her
so quickly that she had not even had a moment to say good bye, Dana
found herself on the ground, feeling the wind furiously whipping
her clothes and her hair. Powerlessly, she watched as the copter
lifted into the sky without her. There was no room for passengers.
They would not let her go.

***

The ambulance driver dropped Dana off in front of, what he
told her was, the only rental car agency in Spencerville. Dana ran
up the steps to the door and when it would not open, helplessly
pounded on the glass. As she leaned exasperated against the door,
panting, she stared at her watch and was astounded that it was
still so early.

Tears of frustration threatened to overwhelm her enforced
calm. She needed a car, needed one now. In her purse she had keys
to Mulder's which was still parked behind the house where she had
found him, but that was evidence and she had no way to get there
anyway. The steering wheel would be covered with Angela's
fingerprints and Dana needed those to help trace Angela's actions
in this case. If she had been in D.C., Dana would have used her
position and commandeered an official car. She could care less that
this was not strictly a business emergency, but she knew this
jurisdiction did not have any vehicles to spare.

Despair made her begin to wonder if she remembered the
procedure required to hot-wire a car. Mulder was not mechanically
inclined, but he was still better at that sort of thing then she.
The sound of screeching tires a block away caught her attention. A
small, blue American-made car careened around a corner and flew up
to an empty parking space in front of the rental office. A young
woman jumped out, dressed in sweat pants and a huge tee shirt, her
hair still wet from the shower. She fumbled with keys and opened
the door of the building while Dana stood by open-mouthed.

"I'm Nina Henderson. Anna, the charge nurse from the hospital,
called and said you needed a car real fast. Hope I didn't keep you
waiting."

Dana felt the first tear of the morning trickle down her
cheek. "No, not at all," she said, smiling at the woman, and
thanked the God above for small towns.

***

Wednesday 8am
Route 66, Virginia

<Rush hour. Damn it!> How could she have forgotten about
Washington rush hour traffic. Dana grumbled and fumed and swore
with every word she had ever learned from her career-Naval father,
but it did no good. The traffic crawled. At least she had her
cellular phone though it took ages for the information desk at
Washington Hospital Center to acknowledge that FBI Agent Fox Mulder
had arrived and had been taken to the trauma center. No, they had
no word on his condition.

It was only then, when she was desperate to find some release
for her blind frustration, that Dana remembered that she had not
called Skinner. There would be a lot of people still looking for
Mulder. Once she got him on the line, however, it was clear that
Assistant Director Skinner was not very surprised to hear that his
wayward agent had been found.

"The D.A.'s office called me. Early this morning - *very*
early this morning - Reti Frantilli's lawyer was at the jail
demanding the boy's release. The officers had the verbal go ahead,
but they didn't understand why everyone had to be pulled out of bed
in the middle of the night to process the paperwork. The man seemed
to think it was pretty important, though."

Dana felt the familiar burning in her eyes. <Regardless of
whatever else you may be, thank you, Hector and Pearl. Thank you
for last night.>

"Agent Scully, I gather you had something to do with this?"

"It's a long story, sir."

"I hope you'll tell it to me sometime."

"Someday, sir, I promise," she said carefully. Then she added
with some hesitation, "Sir, I'm sorry to inform you, but Angela
Larson is dead. The Virginia State Police will be contacting you
and the D.A.'s office." What a vastly inadequate message after what
Dana had seen. "She committed suicide."

She heard a sharp intake of breath from Skinner and then a
pause. "Agent Mulder?"

Dana steadied her breathing and her one-handed grip on the
steering wheel, relieved for the moment that the traffic was still
moving at only three miles an hour. She fought to keep her voice
level. "Not good, sir. He's been airlifted to Washington Hospital
Center. I estimate he's lost at least 30% of his blood volume. He's
dehydrated and in severe shock. And following initial treatment,
there were bleeding complications."

Skinner's voice which came to her was more breath than words,
rough and alarmed. "Dear God..." Was he remembering his part in the
decisions which were made which led up to this tragedy? "Please
keep me informed, Agent Scully."

"You know I will, sir," she said, hoping her gratitude for his
concern echoed in her voice. "I don't have a recent update, but I'm
on my way there now." <But, oh, so slowly. So damnedly slowly.>

"Is there anything I can do?"

What Dana needed even Skinner could not provide. She saw no
pause in the solid line of cars in the lane ahead of her and on
both sides. "Please, extend my thanks to everyone on the team for
their hard work."

"I'll do that."

Then she remembered another obligation. Evan.

"Sir... did Evan Byers call you this morning?"

"No, Agent Scully," Skinner responded, surprised at the
question. "Should he have?"

So Evan had kept his promise, and waited till morning and, in
fact, had given her more time then they had agreed on. "No, sir.
No, I'll take care of it."

***

Wednesday 8:45am
Washington Hospital Center, Washington, D.C.

Even Byers ran into the emergency room of the Hospital Center.
The trip from his apartment in Bethesda had taken longer than
expected. There was rush hour inside the city, too, but he
estimated that he was still arriving at least forty-five minutes
ahead of Dana.

There were staff everywhere, but they all seemed to be in a
hurry to be somewhere else. Evan was anxious, not for his own sake,
but because of the mission Dana had sent him on and she was waiting
for him to call her back.

He was momentarily distracted by a body, abandoned and
ignored, covered completely by a white sheet and lying on a gurney
which was parked against the wall. These people and their crazy
job. If he found out Mulder was dead, how could he possibly tell
her.

Out of frustration, he finally touched the sleeve of a young
woman in green scrubs who was passing close by him with her head
buried in a chart.

"Excuse me..." His voice sounded as lost and uncertain as he
felt.

"Yes?" the young woman asked, abstractly. But then she really
saw him and he, her. Evan looked down onto olive skin and the
darkest brown eyes he had ever seen.

<Damn,> Evan thought reading her ID, <she's a resident.> He
certainly knew that a resident's life was hectic enough without
having to help out frustrated wished-they-were-boyfriends of
obsessed, female FBI agents who just happened to think they made
fantastic big brothers. By the dark, limp curls that had escaped
from her French braid and fallen across her forehead and the
moisture on her brow and upper lip, this woman was not only busy,
but exhausted.

Her neutral stare shifted to one of interest as she took in
the well-formed male body, blond hair and blue eyes of the man
standing before her in the lab coat.

Evan pressed on, having gotten her attention. He was used to
exactly how well he had gotten her attention. "I'm Dr. Byers -"

Her posture changed subtly. She was thinking, trying to place
him. She reached out her hand. "Barbara Adams. I'm sorry, but I
don't remember your name. Are you new on staff?"

"Ah, no, I'm with the FDA - " Evan started to explain but took
the proffered hand anyway.

"Oh..." Her expression turned anxious, her handshake cool.
"Not another inspection."

"No, no, not at all. I'm actually here because a - friend - of
mine was brought in here." Evan guessed he could consider Mulder a
friend. At least a friend of a friend, which was close enough.

She fixed her gaze disapprovingly on his lab coat.

"Camouflage," he confessed.

"Uh, huh." Her stare was withering.

"Look, I'm in a hurry. Cut me some slack?" he begged. "I'm
looking for Agent Fox Mulder, FBI. He was airlifted here less than
an hour ago. It's important."

Her eyes lit. Patients were something she could understand.
"Mulder? I'm sorry I don't always get their names if they come in
unconscious and it's been a busy morning; there was a bad accident
west of the city. By medivac, you say? The bleeding disorder?"

Evan shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't the faintest idea what
he came in with." And he didn't, for he had rushed off too quickly
after Dana's call to ask. "Agent Scully didn't tell me. I came on
her behalf. I told you... he's FBI. She's his partner and she's
going crazy with worry."

"If he's law enforcement then he got the red carpet
treatment." The woman started moving, sliding through the throngs
of people with ease while Evan followed as best he could, barely
able to keep her in sight even with his height. By the time they
reached the end of the corridor, he had caught up. "If it's who I
think it is," Adams was saying, "then we've done all we can here."
Evan did not like the sound of that. " They are getting a bed ready
for him in ICU."

As Dr. Adams swung open the door to the ER bay, Evan Byers had
an acute reminder of why he had gone into research.

============================================================

Wednesday 9am
Washington Hospital Center, Washington, D.C.

"Is this your friend?" Dr. Adams asked.

Evan stared at the patient on the table in the ER bay and did
not have the slightest idea. After all, he had only seen Fox Mulder
once and briefly at that and this long, pale body hooked up to
every piece of equipment Evan could imagine, did not resemble
anyone Evan had ever seen, with the exception of badly injured
patients he had attended during his medical school hospital
rotations.

There were tubes everywhere. As they entered, a nurse had just
finished hanging a fresh bag of blood and it dripped huge scarlet
globules into one IV line. Two other IVs delivered fluids of
various sorts. A tube drained fluid from his abdomen. A nasogastric
tube was protruding from one nostril and an endotracheal tube
leaned from the corner of his mouth. In the background Evan could
hear the gentle hiss of a ventilator and the too-quick beep of
monitor registering tachycardia. As the figure was largely
unclothed, Evan could clearly see the catheter they had snaked down
into his bladder. Evan cringed.

Why had he gone into research? Because he never wanted to do
things to a human body like this.

The room looked like a disaster had come and stayed. There was
blood everywhere... Blood on the patient, especially his arms and
legs, at least the areas not covered by bandages, and blood on his
face. The sheets he lay on were badly stained and the floor was
criss-crossed with bloody foot prints. Empty blood and plasma bags
were piled haphazardly on a stainless steel tray by the bedside,
where they had obviously been flung as soon as they were drained.
There were two huge yellow trash cans over-flowing with boxes of
many shapes and sizes, disposable gowns and towels, rubber gloves,
blood stained gauze squares - many of those - and empty IV fluid
bags. The single nurse moved quietly in the room, trying to
document, after the fact, what had been done in haste.

Barbara Adams checked the name on the wrist band. "Mulder,
Fox," she read. "This must be the one. I was coming to see him
anyway. Dr. Seagram, the trauma specialist, just assigned me to
coordinate his treatment."

Evan felt uncomfortable looking at Fox Mulder like this. All
the time that he was trying to make it with Dana Scully, even
hinting to her that her partner was not worth her concern, Fox
Mulder had been going through whatever hell had led to this.

<Shit and damnation.> Dana must think he was the worst slime
in the universe. This man was Dana Scully's life. Evan recognized
that well enough now. At least there was something he could do. The
poor guy was draped so he was only minimally decent and lying under
heat lamps in the middle of a busy ER where anyone could see him.
Though maintenance of body temperature was probably not an issue,
it just did not seem humane to treat a person this way, even if
they were unconscious.

"Can't you cover him?" he asked. "She would want someone to."

The resident looked hard at Evan, as if surprised by her own
insensitivity. "You know, why we do this, don't you?" she asked
him. "So we can tell immediately if they start bleeding somewhere.
We don't intend to be disrespectful. The heat lamps will keep him
warm."

"Yeah," Evan muttered, "but I don't know if they are doing
such a good job." Then more loudly, "He looks so cold...." And he
did. Evan could see the gooseflesh on Mulder's arms and chest.

Dr. Adams nodded as she continued to consult her chart. "He's
fine. What would help us is if you could provide some additional
information on how he got this way. We received only a basic
medical history, and a description of the treatment he received
before and during transport."

Evan shook his head. "I'm sorry I can't help you. I wasn't
there." There was one thing he did know, though. One point he took
very personally.

"Have you ordered a toxicological screen?" he asked. At the
woman's questioning glance, he continued, "Because we're almost
certain he was being poisoned... Arsenic, probably, and related
substances found in the old arsenic-warfarin blends. The FBI has
the suspected material." And then he remembered another point which
he knew was close to Dana's heart. "Also check for street drugs. I
think he may have been slipped something." At least for Dana's
peace of mind, Evan hoped so.

As she wrote, Barbara Adams shook her head sadly, as if to
say, <What a mess!> "We hadn't ordered one yet. We were a little
busy, but I will now. I think they sent a blood sample from before
he got most of this stuff dumped into his system." She smiled up at
him briefly. "Thanks for telling me."

Evan looked down at Mulder again and, as he watched, the pale
body began to shiver. "Dr. Adams..." Evan's voice rose sharply with
concern, "this can't be right..."

The tone of his voice caught the woman's full attention. By
the time she reached the patient's side the shivering was so bad he
seemed almost to be convulsing and four separate monitor alarms
were screaming. The doctor's eyes and hands traveled rapidly over
the monitors, absorbing their findings and silencing them. She
touched Mulder's bare, quivering shoulder and then felt the IV
lines. "Shit!" she swore violently as she rapidly turned down the
flow on the IVs. "Alice, bring the warm blanket that we keep
plugged in behind the charge desk and bring it now! And have
someone get a new blood warmer in here STAT! The coil on this one
has gone bad. Damn, this unit was going in just as it came out of
refrigerator."

The nurse returned almost immediately with a folded blue
blanket. Adams took it from her. "And get a new bag of whatever IV
solution he's getting, but pop it in the microwave first." As the
nurse hurried off Adams shook her head. "I've told them..." She
looked up at Evan. "My apologies. They store the IV solutions on a
cart by the back door where the smokers go to take their breaks and
they leave the door wide open. I told them not to do that in the
winter. Here, help me with this." She handed Evan one end of the
blanket. "We'll have you feeling better in a minute, Agent Mulder.
There's nothing better short of your favorite squeeze."

Evan looked down again at that pale face and was startled to
see a gleam, a flicker from under nearly closed eyes. "Could he be
conscious?" Evan asked.

Barbara Adams looked up sharply from where she had been trying
to untangle tubing and lines and went to the head of the bed. She
lifted up first one eyelid, then the other. "Amazing... looks like
it... semi-conscious, anyway, though I don't see how and in his
condition he shouldn't be. He must have a very high pain tolerance.
I have to check with Dr. Seagram. I'll send a nurse in to be with
you. For the moment," she ordered, "stay with him," and pushed the
blanket into Evan's arms before rushing out of the room.

***

Fox Mulder floated upon an ocean of fire. He felt nothing of
his body but pain... pain and cold... sharp, aching pain in his
arms and legs, numbing pain in his feet and hands, and a cold that
invaded deep into every bone, muscle and joint. His heart did not
ache so badly as... When? No use trying to remember. He could not
concentrate. The pain kept muddying his thoughts and the cold was
distracting. His chest hurt. Why was breathing so difficult? So
tired... When he breathed his lungs labored, faltered, felt as if
he were under water. Something odd about each breath, too,
something unnatural, a sensation which frightened him. His gut felt
ready to explode from a source of pressure he did not understand.
And where his kidneys should be were two burning suns. Kidney pain
he knew - he had been kicked there often enough - but this was
worse, far worse. If the suns were going to hurt so, threatening to
burn through the skin of his back, why couldn't they at least kept
him warm.

To leave this all behind, he thought wearily, to sink into
black, sweet, painless oblivion... But a desperate desire to *know*
took priority over every other longing. Had he really seen Scully
or had that been a dream? If he could just reach the top of the
cold ocean of pain and open his eyes, would she be waiting for him?
Or only Angela with her sad smile and the sharp blade.

***

After Adams' hurried exit, Evan stood for a startled moment
all alone with Mulder and clutching the blanket. What an incredibly
warm and comforting sensation; like holding a load of clothes fresh
from a hot dryer. But he wasn't the one who needed comforting.
Hastily, Evan spread the blanket over Mulder, who was not only
trembling but beginning to move in little jerks and starts, though
his efforts were weak and uncoordinated. His pale lips opened and
closed around the ET tube as if he would talk if he could. Mostly,
it was his eyes which moved. They repeatedly closed, only to
flicker open. Frightened, pain-filled hazel eyes darted around the
room, searching. Looking for her, Evan realized.

"I'm Evan Byers," he told the man on the table, in a clear,
louder than normal voice, as he tucked the warm blanket as closely
as he could around the agent's body, "Dana's friend. You're in the
hospital. You're badly injured and you must be quiet." He
remembered then what Mulder called her. "Scully's on her way. Don't
worry." Only the last seemed to have any effect. The roving eyes
focused, warmed for the briefest moment on Evan's face, reflecting
a weary gratitude, then slowly lowered. As the blessed heat began
to settle in, the shivering and aimless movements ceased, the limbs
relaxed and a long shuddering sigh flowed out of the pale body.

***

Time to sleep and leave the world behind. *She* would be with
him soon enough.

***

Wednesday 10:30am
Washington Hospital Center, Washington, D.C.

When Dana finally arrived at the medical center, she found
that Agent Fox Mulder was no longer in the ER but had been taken to
the ICU, as Evan had told her by phone. She was furious, however,
to find out that, not being family, they would not let her up to
see him. At the charge desk Dana showed her ID. It had its uses.

"I want to see the doctor who is attending Agent Mulder, -"
What was the name Evan had mentioned? "- a Dr. Adams, and I want to
see him now!"

Within five minutes, which were a long five minutes for Dana,
who fumed and stalked about the waiting room, a young woman of
about Dana's age approached, dressed in stained scrubs. "I'm Dr.
Adams," she said, shaking the hand of the startled agent. Then,
without an audible sigh, but clearly with a physical one, Adams sat
down as if her body had forgotten how to bend that way. "I take it
you're Dr. Scully, Agent Mulder's partner? Dr. Byers told me you'd
be coming."

Somewhat abashed, Dana sat down. "Evan filled me in on his
current status. Thank you for all you did." She had not expected a
woman. Stereotypes die hard and they certainly were making doctors
younger and younger these days. "I hope you didn't mind my sending
Evan... I needed to know." The hour between her initial call to
Evan and his update from the hospital had been one of the longest
of her entire life. She looked around. "I really put him in a spot.
I need to thank him. Do you know where he went?"

"Taking care of the paperwork," the young woman told her. "We
finally located Agent Mulder's ID which you sent along and found
that he keeps his medical card in there, too. Handy," the woman
said with a knowing expression.

"Yes," Dana admitted. "Well, he goes into the hospital a lot."
She looked at the resident and felt a great sympathy suddenly for
this woman. She looked so tired. Dana wondered how long the young
woman had been on call and how much of the energy she had obviously
expended had gone into helping Mulder.

"Evan says Agent Mulder is stable for the moment." Dana
inquired, guardedly, "What's his prognosis?"

The woman looked at Dana with sympathy. "As you might expect
with hypovolemia to this extent. There's the hemostatic balance we
need to reestablish. We'll be replacing his blood volume more
gradually now, so we won't put a strain on his heart. His system's
had a terrible shock. A disadvantage of the blood substitute they
used - which saved his life, by the way - is that the fluorocarbon
molecules are toxic. Normally they are passed by the kidneys within
twenty-four hours. Unfortunately, in Agent Mulder's case, his
kidneys have virtually shut down due to the shock and dehydration."

"So you're going to put him on dialysis?"

"Yes, to take the stress off his kidneys and give them time to
recover. Dr. Seagram has ordered sessions twice a day for the next
three days... longer if needed. The dialysis will also extract the
fluorocarbons and the normal metabolic waste products that built up
during - what looks from his blood work like - several days of
dehydration. But dialysis really can screw up the clotting
mechanism and his is already pretty compromised. We'll have to be
careful, but it's necessary. In fact, in the emergency room they
began peritoneal lavage. It's an older dialysis method, but we felt
we needed to get a jump on this, and we did not feel his hemostatis
was stable enough at the time for the conventional treatment.
Prognosis? If he were older, or in poor health, he would never have
made it here. Let's be thankful for small favors for awhile."

The resident looked down at her chart, perhaps to hide from
the misery in Dana's eyes. "Dr. Byers suggested that we order a
toxicological screen. We've put a STAT on that. If it is arsenic
poisoning or something similar, simple dialysis won't take care of
the whole problem. We'll have to use dimercaprol, which acts like
a chelating agent to remove the heavy metals from his tissues. That
will complicate his recovery. His bleeding complications were not
due entirely to the hemodilution of his initial treatment, by the
way. His clotting time, his PT/PTT, is longer than I would have
expected. We're testing for coumadin which would have been in the
rat poison. He must not have gotten too much, or he'd be dead by
now, but the bruising is pretty severe and the internal bleeding
scared us quite a bit. To be on the safe side he's already begun
receiving vitamin K injections as a counter measure and, of course,
there's the component therapy until his body can begin generating
the missing coagulation factors on its own."

Dr. Adams had stopped reading, took a deep breath, and looked
up at Dana. "We're having his records sent over from GW. I hear
they are... extensive. From the number of old scars I saw, I won't
be surprised." She sounded curious. "I assume this all has
something to do with the line of work you are in?"

"Partly," Scully sighed. "Partly, because Trouble just seems
to have decided to take up residence on Mulder's doorstep."

Considering this, Adams asked, "What kind of a patient can we
expect him to be?"

Dana knew what she meant. Would he do as he was told? "He's
terrible."

"That's too bad. He's going to need rest and lots of it. Also,
right now he's in a lot of pain, I mean a lot, and he's not going
to like the ET tube, but I think we're going to need it for a
while." The young doctor shook her head, making dark ringlets
dance. "What I'm saying is, I would recommend that he stay sedated
for a few days, especially if he is, as you say, a difficult
patient. But we can't do that unless he agrees, or, if he isn't
competent, unless his family agrees. What do you think he'd want?"

Dana shivered. "Mulder hates drugs, just hates them, but I
know the alternative is pain killers and restraints. That's not
much of a choice." Dana stared glumly at the floor.

Adams let the silence grow, then said gently, "I know you'd
like to talk to him - "

<How could you tell?> Dana wondered. <Because I look like
someone has cut a slice out of my soul?>

" - but the level of pain killers we're talking about would
probably make him pretty incoherent in any case. Plus, he's totally
exhausted. Having to deal with any significant pain will just make
it harder for him to get his strength back. Dr. Scully, we're
talking one sick puppy here."

"What kind of time are we talking about?"

"I think he'll feel much better once the dialysis has a chance
to clean out his system. About three days."

Dana briefly closed her eyes. Thinking of Mulder in that level
of pain made her own insides shudder. "About that level of
medication... you'll need to ask him about that. I can't take that
kind of decision away from him."

The young doctor nodded slowly. "All right that's what we'll
do. I'll write orders that say he can have some, if and when he
agrees." Just looking at the woman's haunted and swollen eyes,
Adams could tell that Agents Scully and Mulder were *very* close.
She could also see that the woman did not want her friend to be in
pain. Maybe she could convince him.

Adams watched the trim, but currently bedraggled woman from
over the top of her clip board as she made notes. Dana Scully did
not look the image of an FBI agent at the moment. Evan Byers had
asked that she not be told about the incident in the ER because she
would be upset to find out that she had not been there for her
friend when he woke looking for her. Yes, this poor woman seemed
to be under enough stress already.

"Look, Agent Scully, Agent Mulder is young and strong." Adams
held the clip board to her chest and tried to look encouraging. In
fact, she was encouraged, just by the strength she had seen. If he
had this woman to live for as well, it would significantly improve
his chances. "Personally, if he's made it this far, I think his
chances are good. So let's talk about the post critical period.
He's going to continue to need a lot of rest. Does Agent Mulder
sleep well?"

<Mulder sleep? That's a laugh.> Dana thought drearily, though
it was a relief to think about the future. "No," she admitted. "He
has a sleep disorder. It's all documented in his records."

Adams pursed her lips, thoughtfully. She had guessed
correctly. She had a restless patient and this was Washington. She
had had patients with stressful occupations before which would not
let them relax. "Is it bad?"

<Bad?> A month didn't pass that he did not call her at night
in an attempt to chase away a particularly bad nightmare. More
often, he just called to talk, but how many of those times started
out with nightmares he never told her about? When they traveled she
heard him nightly in the next room, moving around at all hours.
"Pretty bad."

"Then I'd also recommend he stay on medication for several
weeks, not just to help him sleep at night, but to make him sleep.
You can come back too soon after these things. I can't emphasize
how critical this is. A broken bone will keep you down. With this?
If he's not careful, he'll overdo when he starts to feel better.
Sleep has amazing healing properties and he's going to need a lot
of healing. Again, that will have to be voluntary, but if you have
any pull..."

Dana nodded. "I agree with you, but I don't know what he'll
say. We'll just have to see."

"That's all I can ask." The young resident looked at Dana
carefully. "You know, no one's told me what happened to this poor
man."

"We don't know ourselves," Dana admitted. "The only other
witness is dead."

"Well, he didn't do this to himself. He may be male, but he's
still a victim of violence. Not all the effects of trauma are
physical, as I'm sure you know. I'm certain the FBI is accustomed
to this sort of thing, but I'm suggesting he get some psychological
counseling."

Barbara Adams stood. Dana's expression answered her unasked
question loud enough. "Just think about what I said. Now, let me
order the sedative so he can have it when he needs it. I'll be
right back."

Dana wrapped her arms across her stomach. Getting Mulder to
behave - *that* was going to be tough. She felt tired already, but
at least there were long term plans being made and that was good to
hear. In the frantic rush just to save his life, however, she had
not considered the long term psychological effects. He had been
manipulated, sexually assaulted, tortured, and nearly killed. Given
Mulder's propensity for laying guilt on his own head for
everything, Dana's head began aching alarmingly. She anticipated a
long recovery from this, in more ways than one.

Suddenly, she spied Evan Byer's tall, blond form striding
towards her from the bank of elevators. She found herself running
the few steps to him and burying her head in his wide, firm chest.
He seemed surprised to find her there. "Evan, thank you again. When
I didn't know what was going on... Anyway, thanks for coming and
being with him."

"No problem," he said, gently unfolding her, with a certain
reluctance, and leading her to a chair. He fumbled in his lab coat
pocket, pulled out Mulder's ID, and handed it to her. "He's all
checked in."

She opened it, looked at his picture and closed her eyes.
"They won't let me up to see him." She sounded so lost, so tired,
like she was going to cry.

"These things can be worked around," he told her, placing a
hand on her shoulder, then thought for a moment before he began to
speak. "Dana? Maybe this isn't the time, but there's something I
really want to say."

She placed Mulder's ID carefully in the inner pocket of her
suit, next to her own, before turning to him. "What is it, Evan?"

"I feel - I don't know - responsible."

"For what?"

"That Saturday night. I should have known something was
wrong."

"So should I," she said sadly.

"But I was the expert on poisons. I should have seen the
signs." He looked towards the ER bay where he had seen the results
of those last few days. "All of this could have been avoided, if I
had only noticed."

Dana gazed at him wide-eyed. "If anyone's to blame, it's me.
I saw and didn't make the connection. You had never met him."

"But I was too busy looking -" he gazed shyly into her face,
"-I was too busy looking at you and wishing he wasn't there."

Dana bit her lip and patted him on the hand. "I know." And she
did, too, he could see that, but she had been brave and hadn't run
away. Most of the women he had known ran when they realized they
could not return his affection. Dana, however, had been strong and
offered her friendship and left it up to him whether he could
accept it.

"You're a good person, Dana Scully," he told her sincerely.

The sound of Dr. Adams' voice, sounding more lively than she
looked, caused them both to look up. "There, that's taken care of.
I called upstairs and they've got him about settled in. They've
just finished cleaning him up and plan to start dialysis within the
hour." She smiled at Dana. "So, if you want to go up, you'd best go
now."

Dana started in her chair, both anxious and hopeful.

Barbara Adams put her hand on Dana's arm. "I noticed the FBI
has you listed as the person to contact in case of emergency. No
family?"

Dana looked up, surprised. She did not know he had done that.
He never told her. Her heart warmed at the thought, but it made her
sad, too. No family? "None to speak of."

Barbara Adams had seem many such cases. The Washington area
drew the landless, those without emotional ties, those who had
burned their bridges or had them burned for them. "Thought so. I've
put you down as family on the chart," she told Dana with
understanding. "That way you can get in to see him anytime during
visiting hours. If you're quiet and he stays quiet, more often. If
at all possible, I'd also like you to talk to him about allowing
the sedatives we discussed. I still think total sedation for a
while would be best under the circumstances, but you're a doctor.
Advise him as you think best."

Dana took a card from her wallet which contained her office,
home and cellular phone numbers. As she pressed it into Dr. Adams'
palm she hoped the woman could see the gratitude in her eyes. As
the dark-haired woman turned to leave, Dana remembered something
else which she had been meaning to ask about. "Please, one more
thing. I sent a sample of blood along with Agent Mulder for an HIV
screen. Have the results come back, yet?"

Arching an eyebrow, the resident checked the chart she held.
This case was getting curiouser and curiouser. "We do those first
thing. We screened both a sample from Agent Mulder and the sample
which was sent with him, from an - Angela Larson." She smiled at
Dana reassuringly. "Both negative."

=====================================================================
======

From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: New: The Abductee 17b/21
Date: 30 Jul 1995 12:50:51 -0400

The Abductee (17b/21), Chap 17 continued

***

Evan walked her up to the Intensive Care Unit. He offered to
come in with her, but Dana could see his reluctance. "I'll be fine.
They won't let me stay long."

The long room was very quiet except for the many-layered beeps
from the monitors and the mechanically regular, bellows-like gasps
of the ventilators. The light was dim, with a greenish cast from
the instrument readouts. What always struck Dana as odd was the
lack of any normal sound, no radio, no television, no voices.

She was led about half way down the aisle of twenty or more
beds. It was a large trauma center and what struck her at first was
how much he looked at first like all the others moored in this
unnatural harbor.

But then she looked deeper and felt her legs begin to fail
her. Accustomed to this, one of the staff slid a chair under her,
but she barely noticed the gesture.

<Oh, Mulder.>

As Evan had described, there were tubes. Dana was used to
hospitals, but not like this, even with him. The fluid in the
abdominal drainage tube was red. She knew most of the fluid was
from the peritoneal lavage, but the color was due to the hemoglobin
solution and the results of the internal bleeding, which, she was
told, had been stopped. Knowing, however, did not calm the panicky
fluttering of her heart. The tiny trickle of urine draining from
his catheter was red as well.

But, for all that, Mulder did look a little better. He had
been washed, in fact his hair was still damp. Someone had shaved
him so the endotracheal tube could be taped down securely. As for
the ventilator, Dana hated those but knew that for Mulder, as
exhausted as he was, they had no choice. At least he was not on
total support. She could see from the setting that he was on eighty
per cent oxygen and the ventilator was set to give each natural
breath he took only a little extra push if it was too shallow.

But he looked so vulnerable. The sight of him, lying
unnaturally silent, with so many bandages on his arms, depressed
her. Gently, she took one of his long hands in hers, being careful
of the IV, and began to smooth the loose skin. She closed her eyes
at the sight of the deep grey at the tips of his fingers.

Dana had sat for only a few moments when she was surprised to
feel a tiny movement in the hand she held. Then he began moving
more generally, though the sunken, shadowed eyes stayed closed. In
fact, they closed tighter, for he began to fight the ET tube in his
throat. Even in his sleep, his face twisted in pain.

"Mulder?" Dana asked anxiously. "Can you hear me, Mulder? It's
Scully."

A nurse heard her speaking and came quickly. Even though he
was obviously very weak, she began tying the restraints they had
already placed on his wrists to the bed rails to prevent him from
pulling out the tubes and IVs. At the thought of Mulder being tied
down, helpless, Dana's chest grew so tight she felt as if she could
not draw a breath. She placed her hand on his brow, pleased to feel
how soft his hair was again. "Mulder, if you can hear me, open your
eyes? But don't try to talk, you won't be able to. They've got you
on a ventilator."

She felt the hand in hers tighten a little, and, gradually, he
opened his eyes. At first just a crack and not for long. He
blinked. His unfocused, glazed eyes traveled past her, searching
quickly back and forth. His hand trembled in hers. "Shhh," she said
soothingly. "Don't worry... try not to fight it. I'm here." The
sound of her voice seemed to steady him. He focused on her for a
moment, but his gaze slid away. He was beginning to shake. The
nurse was obviously becoming concerned. So was Dana. She could see
the panic in his eyes and the suffering. "Mulder, I know you're in
a lot of pain. They can give you something. They can put you to
sleep for a few days. You can get some rest, and then when you wake
up the tubes will be gone and you'll feel much better. If that's
what you want them to do, blink twice for me."

His eyes focused, narrowed. He blinked once, only once. Dana
sighed and closed her eyes. If that was what he wanted, so be it,
but it would be hard on him and hard seeing him like this. Pain
killers would help some, but he could spend a lot of time in pain
and not be coherent enough to be able to tell anyone.

He tried moving his head towards her, tried raising his hand,
which she no longer held, to reach for hers. Suddenly, he grimaced,
tensed as a spasm rippled through his body. His eyes clamped down
tightly. Dana swiftly moved to put an arm around his shoulders, to
stroke his hair. A tear was forced out from under his tightly
closed lids. "It's okay, it's okay...." She held him in her arms,
as best as she could with all the tubes and wires until the
shudders passed. She could feel him quivering. With his face close
to hers, he raised his eyes. Agony and apology were mirrored in
their depths as their eyes met. Slowly, he blinked. Twice.

At a slow, sad nod from Dana, the yellow-gowned nurse
disappeared, then reappeared in a few moments and injected
something into his IV line. In a matter of seconds, the lines of
pain in his body and on his face smoothed. He stopped struggling.
His eyes, which had never left her face, slowly closed. He relaxed
into her arms and faded away into a deep and dreamless sleep.

=====================================================================

Sunday 9am
Washington Hospital Center

Dana set her laptop up on the table beside Mulder's bed and
tried to work on an update to Angela's case file. She had thought
that with his condition upgraded from critical to guarded, she
would be able to concentrate, but after an hour she had typed only
two pages. Knowing what happened in that house with Angela would
have helped, but Mulder had still not been able to tell her.

Dana absently pushed back the wave of auburn hair that fell
across her eyes and looked over at the bed, content just to look at
him. She had been doing that regularly since they had moved him
into his semi-private room. From the time of Dana's first visit to
the ICU, he had been sedated regularly every eight hours. But the
night before the doctors had decided to drop the medication regime
down to nights only and let him wake up now that his blood work
looked good and all other indicators were improving. The ventilator
had been removed after two days, and at least for the morning, Dana
had persuaded them to take out the nasogastric tube. The nursing
staff always told family members that patients were not bothered by
it, but having had one once, Data knew that was a lie. Besides, she
had promised him he would wake up without the tubes.

When writer's block had taken over for the sixth time, Dana
pulled off her glasses to rub her eyes. Too little sleep for too
long. When she glanced over at the bed she was greeted by two
sleepy, hazel eyes which were calmly watching her. The sight of
those eyes, so dark in the pale face lying against the white
pillow, squeezed at her heart, reminding her of how close she had
come to never seeing them again.

"Nice to see you." She moved her chair closer to the bed. "How
long have you been awake?" she asked, softly.

He licked dry lips and made a noise in his throat, a look of
discomfort passing over his face. She brought a cup of water and a
straw down close. Awkwardly, he dropped his head to get his cracked
lips around the straw, but paused without drinking any. Instead, he
hesitated and lifted his eyes to her face.

Dana did not understand. He must be thirsty. "What's wrong,
Mulder? It's only water."

That seemed to settle some question in his mind.

After a few moments, she pulled the cup away, "Hey, that's
enough."

Mulder dropped his head back against the pillow and rolled his
eyes. "Heard ... *that* before," he whispered in a raspy voice.

"Excuse me?" Dana asked, baffled. She wondered if he was
delirious or still too groggy to make sense.

"Not...important," he dismissed lightly. Somehow, he managed
a weak smile. "Watched... the sun on your hair." She looked over
her shoulder and saw that, from where he lay, she would have been
silhouetted against the bright morning light as she worked.

Mulder did not say that he had awakened to the sight of her
hair glowing about her head like a cloud, reminding him of the hair
of the enticing mermaid he had shyly watched swimming above the
coral reef. In the moment before he had become fully conscious, a
thought had passed through him, body and soul both, that he had
died and received his fondest wish.

Dana was smiling. His words had warmed her. "How are you
feeling?"

He tried to raise his arms. Even the one not connected to the
IV did not rise very far off the bed. He let them fall back
wearily. "Won't be chasing... little grey men today," he breathed.
His voice was clearer now but still very weak. He looked up over
his right shoulder and focused on the blood slowly dripping into
his IV line from yet another transfusion. "How low?" he asked
glumly. Mulder hated needles.

Dana was surprised that he remembered that much of what had
happened to him and was sorry that he did. "Almost two quarts and
your radiator was bone dry," she told him. "Mulder, you were
running on fumes." She tucked the thin hospital blanket closer
around his shoulders, if for no other reason than it gave her an
excuse to touch him. As his circulation had improved, he had
finally begun to feel warm again. "I've asked them to top you off.
You take such rotten care of yourself, I suspect you're probably
anemic most of the time. Having the proper number of red cells in
your veins for once should be a unique experience."

"And ruin my... graveyard complexion?" he asked in that weak
and raspy voice.

"True. I've had corpses that looked better than you." As pale
and thin and bruised as his face had been when she found him, Dana
had to admit, she had. "By the way, when did you eat last? Your
blood sugar was non-existent."

He focused inward and, though foggy on details, the memories
of those last meals and their aftermath were all too painful. "What
day?" he asked, slowly.

"Today? Hm, Sunday, I think." In this place Dana had lost
track of time, too.

He frowned. That long? "Last Sunday... but didn't... stick
around..." He pushed away the unpleasant memories, closed his eyes
and looked as if he was going to fade out again.

"Scully...?" he asked without opening his eyes.

"Yeah, Mulder?" she answered, leaning close.

"Thanks."

"No problem, Mulder," she whispered, but he was already
asleep.

***

Monday 5pm
Washington Hospital Center

The next afternoon, Agent Scully had to make a court
appearance that had been scheduled months before. When she returned
she found him lying back against the raised head of his bed, eyes
closed. Someone had brought in a supper tray and left it on his bed
side table where he could reach it, but it had not been touched.

"Hey, you awake?" she whispered in greeting.

He opened his eyes to show that, at most, he had just been
dozing.

"I missed you," he told her, without raising his head. What he
wanted to say was that something had tightened in the pit of his
stomach when he woke after lunch and found that she was not there
as she had always been before. But then he had found her note. It
was under his pillow still. The moment of panic he experienced
brought home how very much he did not want to be alone. Even now,
he followed her with his eyes as she came to the side of his bed.

"One of the members of this partnership has got to work." She
lifted the lid on his supper plate. "Hmmm, yummm! The traditional
liquid diet: tea, gelatin, apple juice, broth, and, yes, the ever
popular, Cream of Wheat."

"I don't think I can stomach Cream of Wheat today," he
groaned. "Maybe not for the rest of my life."

She looked over at him and was glad to see that he was
definitely more awake and his movements did not seem so weak, but
he still had a long way to go.

"You should eat. Let me rephrase that. It is imperative that
you eat. And drink. They won't let you out of here until everything
works."

Automatically, he looked down towards his groin. Dana expected
him to say "Everything?" and slyly ask for her help checking out
that certain bodily functions did, indeed, work. Instead a shadow
flickered across his face and he let the opportunity pass, which
raised a red flag in Dana's mind. He turned his attention back to
the tray, stating simply, "I don't think my stomach's up t