By Bonetree
bonetree@aol.com
 

Disclaimer in Chapter 0. This is Chapter 6 and Part 2.

************
 

ST. MATTHEW'S CATHEDRAL
HIGHBRIDGE, THE BRONX
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
MARCH 8 (FOUR DAYS LATER)
10:04 a.m.
 
 

The cathedral smelled faintly of incense and dust and oiled wood,
the ceiling drifting with wisps of smoke from the offering candles at
the front of the massive building, glowing with pinpricks of light
that bathed the alabaster statues above them in flickering light.

Skinner took all this in as he came down the wide main aisle, moving
against the thin crowd coming away from the 9:00 a.m. Mass, mostly
old women leaning on canes and wearing various shades of grey and
black. Still others were emerging from the squat bodies of
confessionals at the sides of the church, their eyes down. They
looked to Skinner like frail old birds moving in their dark plumage,
their hands trailing the shiny bodies of rosaries.

Granger walked beside him, one hand in the pocket of his leather
jacket, his eyes darting around the expanse. It was Granger who held
the photograph, the picture of the man Mae had sent them to, taken
from the man's house which they'd just visited, frightening the man's
aged mother in the process. She'd handed over the picture, taking it
from a frame on the mantle, her eyes still as wide as they'd been
when Skinner had introduced himself and flashed his badge.

"My son's done nothing wrong," she'd said, her voice heavy Irish and
quiet as the grave. She wore a heavy black dress, her hair in a grey
bun. The house smelled like bread.

"I'm sure you're right," Skinner had said, smiling stiffly, and
taken the picture just the same, heading to the church where his
mother said her son would be.

Now Skinner stopped in the middle of the cathedral, glanced at the
photo in Granger's hand once again, and looked around. Granger did
the same.

Only a few figures remained in the pews, and only one of them a man
who looked, from the back, that he might be the right age they were
searching for. He was in the second row, in conversation with an
elderly priest, their heads bent close together as though they didn't
want anyone else to hear what they were saying.

"That's got to be him," Granger said softly, noting the curly black
hair above the neck of the navy jacket, hair that matched the
picture, that of the smiling man in the center of a group of smiling
men.

Skinner nodded, said nothing, and began walking again, Granger
falling in behind him.

The priest looked up as they approached and some look Skinner
couldn't quite place passed over the aged man's face. Whatever it
was, it passed quickly, and the man took his leave, the younger man
in the pew turning to face them as they approached, coming around the
front of the pew, the man following them with his eyes.

He regarded them with a studied, careful expression, his blue eyes
bright even in the dim light.

"Conail Rutherford?" Skinner said. He did not remove his hands from
his trench coat as he spoke.

"Aye, I'm Rutherford," the man replied. He eyed Granger. "Can I help
you with something?"

Skinner introduced himself, and Granger, noted that Rutherford
didn't flinch at their titles. Then he gave a look around, listening
to the hollow sounds of footsteps in the wide open space.

"We'd like to speak to you, if we may. Would you prefer to go
somewhere else to do it?"

Rutherford's gaze didn't waver. "I've got nothing to say I can't say
here," he said, but he kept his voice pitched soft. His accent was as
thick as his mother's. "In fact, no offense, but I've got nothing to
say at all."

"No offense taken," Skinner said, shaking his head. "But I do think
you've got something to say."

"How d'you figure that, Mr. Skinner?" Rutherford said, leaning back
and putting his arms across the back of the pew.

Skinner glanced at Granger, who began to speak.

"Mr. Rutherford, are you aware of two recent bombings in the D.C.
area?" Granger said, his voice even, non-confrontational.

The other man's eyes darted from Granger to Skinner and back again.

"Aye," he said. "Those agents who got killed? That woman?"

"Yes," Skinner said. "Agent Dana Scully. Does that name mean
anything to you, sir?"

Rutherford gnawed on his bottom lip. "No, it doesn't," he said.

Skinner was about to say something, but Granger, whom Skinner could
see was watching Rutherford as though he were studying a particularly
intricate painting in a museum, beat him to it.

"You're lying, sir," Granger said, his voice that same even timbre.

Rutherford's face grew red, as though someone had just smeared him
with blush on his pale cheeks. "I like your approach, Mr. Granger,"
he said, and there was something low in his voice, angry. "You'll
call me a liar but still call me 'sir.' I like that."

"No offense, of course," Granger replied, tossing Rutherford's
earlier words back at him. He gave a small smile.

"Right," Rutherford said, glanced around. "Now if you two will
excuse me, my father just passed away a few days ago. I'm here for
some solace, not--"

"Mae Curran sent us to you, Mr. Rutherford," Skinner said, opening
the bomb-bay doors and letting it fly.

The bomb hit its target. Rutherford gaped, and his face grew redder.

"I don't know who you mean," Rutherford tried, but even he couldn't
seem to muster an ounce of earnestness in the words.

"Let's cut the bull--" Skinner glanced at the disapproving eyes of a
saint in the stained glass on his right, and bit back the word he
intended to use. "We know who you are, Mr. Rutherford. And what you
do. And who your friends are. There's no use hiding any of that from
us. Or trying to."

Rutherford looked down at Skinner's feet, his jaw working.

"And frankly," Skinner continued. "We don't give a good god--" He
bit off the word again. "We don't care about any of that. From what
we understand, you have never been involved with the operations of
the terrorist arm of the IRA, at least not in any direct way that we
can implicate you."

"So what is it you want from me then?" Rutherford said sharply.

"Those bombs, the ones that killed those people in D.C., were from
someone connected to the IRA," Granger said softly.

"Not a chance," Rutherford said, scoffing. "Not a bloody chance."

"What makes you say that?" Skinner asked. "How can you be so sure?"

"The IRA doesn't operate outside of Ireland like that, not that it
operates at all anymore. And they've got no reason to go after that
woman or any of those other people. They don't do a thing without a
reason and a damned good one at that."

"If you say so," Skinner said, feeling the hair on the back of his
neck stand on end. The words stuck in his craw. He couldn't help the
sardonic tone that came with his reply.

"Don't be so quick to judge what you don't know a thing about,"
Rutherford said, his voice getting quieter, his teeth clenched.

"I know enough," Skinner said, unable to help himself.

"How can you be so sure this is IRA?" Rutherford shot back. "It
could be anyone--"

"Because whoever it is is trying to kill Mae Curran, too," Granger
interjected calmly, his voice almost like a presence interposing
itself between the two men.

Rutherford paused, regarding him. "Then it's not IRA," he said. "For
certain."

"What makes you so sure?" Skinner repeated, calmer now.

Rutherford seemed to struggle with himself, then he said,
hesitantly: "Because there's a 'hands-off' on her. No one would dare
touch her, even if they wanted to, which they *don't*. And besides.
No one even knows she's alive. We assumed Owen Curran killed her."

"No," Skinner said. Time to roll the dice. "We have her. In
protective custody. Her and her baby and Owen Curran's son. Her
husband was killed in Australia. By a bomb that Australian
authorities say matches the device used in both the bombs used in
D.C. to kill Agent Scully."

Rutherford met his eyes seriously. "Australia?" he said
incredulously. "That's no IRA I know of. Nobody's got arms that long.
And they wouldn't kill Mae. No one blames her for what she did to
Owen. Not a person in Ireland blames her after what he did to the
embassy here." He looked at both of them. "And no one blames that
agent who died, either."

"Someone blames both of them," Granger said. "Very much."

Rutherford seemed to consider for a moment, looking down. "I can't
help you find who is doing it," he said at last. "I don't know where
to start looking for someone who would have that kind of capability.
To even find Mae would be close to impossible. She knows how to
hide."

He seemed far away for a moment, in the land of memory. "She always
did," he added, and he sounded somehow sad.

Skinner regarded the man, let out a breath. "Who then?" he asked.
"Who can we go to?"

Rutherford balked again, shaking his head.

"Twenty people have died, Mr. Rutherford," he pressed, speaking
softly through his teeth. "Twenty-one counting Mae's husband. There's
got to be someone we can talk to."

Granger's quiet voice filled the space again. "We're talking about
protecting Mae's life now. Mae and her baby and Sean Curran. That
matters to you. I can tell that matters to you."

Rutherford regarded Granger silently. "Aye," he said after a beat.
"That matters to me."

Skinner looked at Granger, at the look the two men were giving each
other. He was once again reminded of how good Granger was at his job.
It was who he was.

"Then give us someone to talk to," Granger said. "A direction.
Anything."

Skinner watched Rutherford war with himself again. Then finally he
spoke.

"John Fagan is the one thing those two had in common besides Owen.
And the only thing Owen had in common with them was the IRA, and the
IRA wouldn't do this. So it's got to be someone connected to John."

He paused, looked at Skinner. "Word is one of them killed John
Fagan," he ventured. "Is that so?"

"Yes," Skinner said. "One of them did."

Rutherford nodded. "The agent? The woman who died?"

Skinner rolled the dice again.

"Yes, Agent Scully killed him."

It was a lie. The only one he would tell outright.

Rutherford nodded again. "All right," he said. "I'll...find a way to
let that bit get out. If this person is doing this for John, maybe
he'll stop now, knowing that. Knowing he's done his job."

Skinner nodded. It was what he hoped Rutherford would say.

"Where do we go to find this person?" he pressed, trying to be
gentle with his probing, following Granger's lead.

Rutherford looked at the floor. "I don't know anything about John.
He was more slick than Owen, kept everything a secret. Kept even his
family a secret. He seemed to just appear in Belfast one day all
those years ago. Nobody knew where he came from."

"Surely there must be *someone* who knows where he came from, who
his friends were," Granger said.

"Have you talked to Ed Renahan?" Rutherford offered.

"Who is that?" Skinner asked, feeling a pulse of adrenaline with
getting a name.

"He's Scotland Yard," Rutherford said. "Knows everything there is to
know about the IRA that the British know. He might know something.
Something that even I don't know. And he's got...contacts in the IRA.
Ones I definitely don't know. Or want to know. He might be a good
place for you start."

Skinner nodded, looked at Granger, who nodded back, agreeing with
him silently. They'd gotten all they were going to get.

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Rutherford," Skinner said, jamming his
hands in his pockets, as though he could already feel the cold
outside.

"And we're sorry for your loss," Granger said, nodding to the black
armband pinned to Rutherford's jacket. He handed the man the picture
from his mother's house, which Rutherford took.

"Thank you," Rutherford said. "Give Mae...my best. And do what you
can to care for her. I'll see what I can get around."

"We will," Skinner said. "Thank you."

He wished Rutherford a good day and turned, heading back around to
the front of the altar, the priest still there like a sentinel,
watching he and Granger go back up the main aisle and back out into
the sunlight.
 

*************
 

HIGHWAY 371
OUTSIDE FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO
12:33 p.m.
 
 

It all felt so familiar -- the sand of the desert and the dark
shapes of the mountains in the distance, the scrubby trees and brush
streaming by the window, the dull winter sky the color of slate. A
storm was coming in from the north, the sun coming through in
brilliant rays and piercing down onto the landscape below in wide
white bars of light.

Mulder had found a station that played something besides country
music, oldies from the fifties coming through, "The Great Pretender."
Scully shifted in the passenger seat of the minivan, being mindful of
her battered side, and glanced over at Mulder in the driver's seat,
both his hands on the steering wheel as if he needed his grip to keep
the car's wheels on the road.

In a gauzy haze of memory, she saw him there beside her, a beard on
his face, her own gaunt reflection in the distorted curve of his
sunglasses.

Another time, she reminded herself, sitting up a little straighter
still and forcing herself into the present.

Her hand went to her belly, the soft roundness of it beneath her
navel, as the baby fluttered with the movement. She rubbed softly
against the cotton of her top, the first piece of maternity clothes
she'd purchased, a deep green pullover that bagged a bit around her
middle, making room.

She craned her neck to look into the back seats. Katherine was
chattering in the far back seat from the carseat they'd secured from
the rental agency, oblivious to the tension of the other members of
the car. Sean sat beside her, Katherine patting his upper arm with
her hand and Sean ignoring her, his eyes out the window and his face
a slate. He held an action figure in his hand, but only because Mae
had handed it to him. He would do anything he was told.

Mae met Scully's eyes for a beat as she looked in her direction, and
Mae forced a tense smile, just a curl of her lips, as though she
meant to reassure Scully of something. Scully returned the gesture,
but she knew the smiles did nothing to comfort either of them.

In the middle seat, Tunes Music sat, Bo curled up beside him, the
agent's eyes guarded by sunglasses despite the gloom outside. He was
chewing a piece of gum, and blew a small bubble quickly, a nervous
habit. He nodded to Scully, and she did feel somewhat reassured by
his presence, as though he were the close of the parentheses that
started with she and Mulder. He'd volunteered for the duty to be in
charge of Mae's custody and a contact person for the Counterterrorism
Unit. A man with no family of his own, he'd jumped at the chance to
be so close to the action on the case.

She faced forward again, Mulder glancing at her and asking the
ubiquitous question with his hazel eyes. She answered it with her
own, and then turned her attention to the road, the straight line of
it, the pavement a battered white and grey split by a broken line.

She'd slept some on the plane, the government jet that Rosen had
secured for their transport, and she felt reasonably rested, though
her mind was heavy with a worry so extreme is was almost like a kind
of grief.

Mulder turned onto a smaller highway, this one a two-lane, and a
sign indicated that they were entering the Navajo reservation, a gas
station right on the non-reservation side of the line and advertising
with huge signs that it sold beer. They kept driving, nothing around
them, hardly even other cars, and those that they did see pickup
trucks with people riding, bundled, in the back, many of them
children with hair the color of coal.

It wasn't long before they turned down an even smaller rural route
and then Mulder was slowing at a long dirt driveway, turning, and the
trailer was off in the distance, smoke coming idly from the steel
pipe chimney and drifting in the cool air.

Two figures were on the porch, and they both stood as the minivan
came up in front of the house and came to a stop. One, the younger of
the two, was smiling amiably, his hands jammed in his jeans jacket
pocket. Victor Hosteen, his hair shorter than she remembered it and
his eyes just as bright.

And beside him, looking thinner in a heavy plaid flannel jacket and
worn jeans, his silver hair draped around his shoulders, was Albert
Hosteen. He was looking directly at her and standing very still,
though Victor came forward as the passengers in the car all made
moves to get out, Music pulling the heavy sliding side door open and
stepping out with Bo.

Victor had gone to Mulder's window, his smile even wider now as
Mulder opened the door, the younger man standing in the gap of the
door.

"Hey, Mulder," he said, reaching in and slapping Mulder on the
shoulder. "You look like hell, man! Your face!"

Scully had been looking at the deep scratches and bruises on
Mulder's face for so long now that she hadn't even noticed them
anymore. It made her painfully aware of how her own face would look
to Hosteen, bruised as it was, the cut on her forehead uncovered now
but still angry and red.

"Thanks, Victor," Mulder grumbled. "It's good to see you, too."

Victor laughed, and Mulder got out.

Scully was still looking at Albert Hosteen, and he at her, through
the window. She tried to smile, but couldn't. Hosteen seemed to see
it, his lip curling slightly, and he nodded to her. She opened the
door and got out, easing herself down from the van slowly, holding
her side. She moved like an old woman, but she couldn't help the
lingering pain, the stiffness of the travelling.

Now Albert did come forward, stopped a few feet from her, and she
looked up at him.

"Hello, Mr. Hosteen," she said softly, her voice barely there.
Something about seeing him choked her, emotion rising. She glanced
away from his intense gaze as she saw him taking her in, his head
cocking to the side.

"Agent Scully," he said just as quietly.

There was a beat of silence between them, Mae coming out of the van
holding Katherine, Sean close behind her. Mulder and Victor were
talking on the other side of the car, and Victor was laughing.
Something about Bo, who had joined them with Music, and something
about horses.

Scully looked back at Hosteen, and her hand came up to touch her
forehead. "I look bad, I know," she said.

He huffed a small laugh. "For someone dead, you look very good," he
replied, amusement in his voice. She saw his eyes dart to her middle,
to the obvious protrusion there. "And I told you that I saw you with
a child."

Her hand went to cover her belly as though she meant to hide it.
"Yes," she said, and a tiny smile spread on her lips. "You did,
didn't you?"

Mae came and stood beside her, Katherine reaching toward Hosteen
with one hand, and Sean beside her. Sean was gaping up at Albert as
though the elderly man had just stepped off a spacecraft. Which,
Scully supposed, to Sean, he might as well have.

"Mr. Hosteen, this is Mae Porter, her daughter Katherine, and her
nephew Sean."

Hosteen reached a hand out and took Katherine's, rubbing his thumb
along the back of her hand.

"Mr. Hosteen," Mae said. "A pleasure to meet you. I don't know how
to thank you for your help by giving us a place to stay."

Hosteen took her in, studying her. "Plenty of room," he said simply
with a kind smile, repeating the words Scully knew he'd said to
Mulder. "A friend of friends is always welcome."

Now Albert turned to Sean, and Scully saw his brow crease down as he
looked at him, at the hollow look in Sean's eyes. Sean looked a
little afraid as Albert reached out and put a hand on his head.

"Hello," Hosteen said, and Sean did not reply, but his eyes grew a
bit more wide. Albert only smiled.

The front door to the trailer opened with a creak and a woman came
out, a young Navajo woman dressed similarly to Albert, swallowed up
in flannel and sweatpants. She had long black hair, her face dark and
full. Her eyes were set deep in her face, and as black as her hair.
Scully guessed she was about 20, if that.

Albert turned to face her as she came forward, an enigmatic smile on
her face.

"This is Sara," he said as she stopped beside him. "Sara Whistler."

Scully's eyes darted to Hosteen uncertainly at this stranger's
presence among them, but Albert nodded toward Victor. "She is with
Victor. She will be here from time to time."

Scully relaxed some at that, nodded, and Mae reached out and shook
her hand, Sara saying nothing, that same strange smile on her face.

Then Sara looked at Scully, taking in her face, the bruising, the
cuts, her brow coming down for an instant. Then she saw Scully's hand
on her belly.

She reached out, and much to Scully surprise, she placed her warm
hand on top of Scully's over the baby, stroking Scully's shirt with
her fingers.

"A girl," Sara said, and her smile grew wider. "A healthy girl."

Scully's eyes widened, and she drew her hand away without meaning to.

Albert laughed, chuffing softly.

"Come," he said, nodding toward the ramshackle trailer. "We have
been cooking. You all should eat."

And he turned and went toward the house, Sara following with Mae and
Katherine and Sean, though Mae exchanged a nervous look with Scully
as she went.

Scully stood there for a few seconds, Mulder coming around the front
of the van with Victor and Music, Mulder holding Bo's leash. Mulder
looked at her, the smile he'd shared with Victor melting off his face
as he saw her hesitate.

"You okay?" he asked, and Music and Victor looked at her, as well,
stopping on their way to the house.

Scully pulled herself up, shaking her surprise and the strange
feeling of vulnerability and exposure off as best she could.

"I'm fine," she said softly, and she reached for his outstretched
hand as he urged her forward and into the house.
 

**

2:32 p.m.
 

The meal was excellent, if not the healthiest in the world -- fry
bread, chicken, cole slaw bathed in mayonnaise. Everyone ate, even
Scully, who did not feel up to eating much, her stomach unsettled
from hormones and travel. She'd managed a wing, a dab of the cole
slaw, and Albert's wonderful bread had helped to settle everything
down.

Victor had done most of the talking, engaging Mulder with stories
about the horses, talking about basketball, which he'd apparently
started watching. Music joined in with vigor, his elbows on the table
as he ate a leg.

There weren't enough seats at the table, all the chairs full,
Katherine toddling on the floor around everyone's legs. Hosteen stood
at the counter, eating quietly, watching everyone with a small smile
on his face, as though the sight of all of them in his kitchen
pleased him somehow. Every once in a while Scully would see him look
her way, as though checking the progress of her meal. He spent a good
bit of time watching Sean, as well, who was staring down at his
plate, eating only when Mae asked him to in a quiet voice.

"... And UNC--" Victor began.

"Oh, don't talk to me about the Tarheels," Music interrupted, waving
his hand, making Victor laugh.

"Come on, man!" he said jovially, and Music continued his protest.

Scully appreciated the two men's ease -- it all felt normal in a way
things had not for some time. No talk of bombs or death. Nothing more
important to them at that moment than March Madness and the Final
Four.

She could tell from Hosteen's face as she caught him looking at her
again that the rest was on his mind, though. Mulder had told him a
lot on the phone from the hospital, and it was showing on his face.

Not yet, she said to him with her eyes. She needed time. They all
did.

Hosteen nodded, drew in a breath and let it out, reaching for his
coffee.

She looked down at her plate, the remnants of her food, then up at
Katherine, who was moving away from the table, stumbling across the
floor.

Scully froze.

(A tiny hand on the silver handle, reaching up...)

"Mulder," she said, urgent.

Mulder looked over at her, Tunes and Victor arguing about Duke now,
Tunes' favorite topic. Mulder's brow furrowed.

"What is it?" he asked. Mae was getting another piece of chicken for
Sean, talking to him, Sara at the refrigerator getting more tea.

Scully looked at him. "Get Katherine."

Mulder looked over at the baby, who'd stopped to pick up a napkin on
the floor. "She's fine, Scully," he said, confused.

(The skillet tipping, grease the color of amber...)

"GET HER NOW!" she snapped, starting to rise, but her ribs slowed
her. The room was stunned into silence, Mae coming up, as well.

Katherine had reached the stove, her hand reaching for the shine of
the handle, metal on metal as the skillet slid--

Mulder was up in an instant, stepping over Bo quickly. Two long
strides and he'd grabbed the baby, pulling her out of the way as the
skillet flipped and grease rained down on the floor with a clatter
and a hiss. Katherine began to cry in surprise at being jerked so
hard into Mulder's arms.

"Jesus!" Mae cried, coming around to get the baby from Mulder, who
was checking her to make sure no grease had gotten on her exposed
skin. He handed the screaming baby over to her mother, looking at
Scully.

"She's okay," he offered, nodding. "She's all right."

The room had gone still and quiet except for the baby's cries.
Everyone was looking at Scully, all of them looking surprised.

Even Albert looked surprised, looking from the baby and the skillet
to Scully and back again.

"How did you...?" Mae began, rubbing the baby's back to calm her.

Scully pushed off from the table, rubbing at the cut on her
forehead, her hand shaking slightly, her breathing a bit uneven with
the waning of her terror at what she'd seen.

She didn't answer Mae. She felt ashamed. All the eyes on her,
everyone still, looking at her in confusion and something like fear.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, her hand still on her forehead.
"I'm..." She glanced at Mulder. "I'm going to get some air."

He nodded, looked at the others in the room.

Scully chanced a look at Hosteen, who leaned back on the counter,
crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded to her, making a small
affirmative sound in his throat as his eyes bore into hers. Something
knowing in his gaze.

The feeling of exposure returning, Scully turned and hurried from
the room.
 
 

***********
Chapter 7a.

***********
 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
MARCH 15 (ONE WEEK LATER)
5:34 a.m.
 
 

The sky on the horizon was the color of fire, the contrast of the
darkness fighting with the light so distinct that Mulder could not
help but focus on the place where the two seemed to meet, blended a
milky blue, a few stars still peering out from behind the night's
thick lid. The sun was a semi-circle of brightness bleeding across
the desert, turning the mountains around them into dark shapes
throwing darker shadows, everything around him washed in silence.

His feet were on the cold floor, his elbows on his knees and his
hands folded in front of him. He was perched on the edge of the bed
as if to rise, but he hadn't moved for what felt like hours now, his
bare chest and legs feeling so cold he was almost numb with it. His
flannel boxers did little to chase away the chill of morning in the
desert, the ground so bare it held nothing like warmth, the walls of
the trailer they slept in thin and seeming to make the room even
colder, the air still.

But there was warmth behind him, Scully on her side facing him, her
hair spread out on the pillow behind her, her hands half-hidden in
the sleeves of a faded Maryland sweatshirt, so old the red was almost
pink. One socked foot protruded from beneath the many covers, quilts
on top of quilts on top of worn sheets.

She had rolled towards him when he'd awoken well before dawn and sat
up, but had not moved since, only the soft rising and falling of her
chest, one of her hands on his pillow, clutching softly at the
mismatched pillowcase.

The room was simple -- a large window with the drapes half opened,
the bed made for two. A dresser that looked like it was meant for a
child's clothes, a drawer-pull missing from the middle. A small table
with a lamp beside the bed. A braided rug that used to be green, on
which Bo lay on his side, still as a stone.

As the sun turned now to a wide bar of light coming in through the
window, Mulder looked out over the expanse of ground behind the
house, into the sky, watched a hawk circle lazily on the updrafts,
looking like it was riding the streams of light.

He watched the wings, wide and dark. He watched the ribbons of cloud
above them, moving slowly across the openess of the sky, and he swore
he could feel the room growing smaller around him, trapping him there
in the quiet.

Nowhere.

That was the word Skinner had used to describe where they were
going. Nowhere.

"This guy Renahan is some kind of nutjob," Skinner had said on the
phone two nights before, his words low as a growl with his
frustration. "I called Scotland Yard and he's on some kind of
extended leave -- medical reasons. They wouldn't tell me more. Said
they weren't giving out his number or putting me in contact with
him."

"They can't do that," Mulder had protested over the sounds of the
television, Hosteen watching some show about whales, everything on
the screen a bright blue. Scully was watching Mulder from her seat in
the corner, her brows furrowing at his tone and his words.

"I'm getting Rosen involved. I'm going to leave footprints on
somebody's scalp on the way to doing it, too. It's the only lead
we've got at this point. Granger's beat every bush with Kucinski and
Anderson from Counterterrorism, and there is exactly *shit* about
John Fagan in those files. The sonofabitch could have hatched for all
we know. Nothing. About the only thing we can figure is that Fagan's
not his real name, and we can't trace an alias from before he got
together with Curran in the early nineties. No history. No criminal
records. No nothing. He was just suddenly THERE."

"I've asked Mae everything she knows about him," Mulder replied,
stepping into the quieter hallway that led to the bedroom he and
Scully shared in the house, on the opposite end of the house from
Hosteen's. "He never talked about his past. She can't remember him
ever talking about any sort of family or even any friends. She just
keeps saying: 'Owen would have known.'"

"Well, a fat lot of good that does us," Skinner gruffed. "Has she
said anything that might be of any help?"

Mulder sighed in frustration. "It's hard to get her to talk," he
said. "She's not exactly keeping things from us, but she's not
exactly singing either."

"Keep working on her," Skinner replied. "We'll see what Rosen can do
with this guy Renahan. Whatever the hell his deal his. He might be in
a rubber room for all we know, but we don't have any choice right now
but to keep after him. I'll be in touch."

We don't have any choice...

Mulder watched the hawk do a few more circles in the sky, still as a
kite.

He thought of wings.

Then he felt a warm hand on his back, right over the long raised
scar near his side, the remnants of the surgery to save his life the
last time he'd come to the desert, running and hiding. The skin still
felt overly sensitive where Scully's fingers were tracing, stroking
the scar, the puckered skin.

His eyes dropped to the ragged circle of the exit wound on his
belly, the scar around it. His body was like a relief map of rough
terrain.

"Talk to me," came her whisper, and he turned his head to look at
her. She hadn't moved, her hair still a lovely blanket of red on the
pillow, but her blue eyes were open. Her cross was tangled in its
chain at her throat.

He said nothing, but he did move.

Leaning over her, his arms going on either side of her body, he
touched his mouth to hers, her face turning up to meet him. Her lips
were as soft as they'd looked as she'd spoken, as soft as her voice
had been, and he pressed himself closer down toward her, seeking out
that feeling, the warmth. Her hands slid up beneath his arms, her
fingers on the juts of his shoulder blades.

Their tongues met and she turned on her back slowly, her nails
grazing him with the contact. A breath escaped her as they parted,
and she drew another in, her hand going to his face, tracing his
lips.

He asked the question with his eyes, and in answer she reached
beneath the covers and began to pull at her sweatshirt, drawing it
up, rising slightly as she did so.

Bare belly, bare breasts, nipples tight with arousal and chill and
the color of plums. A storm of bruises on her side.

He peeled the covers back and reached for the rest of her clothes,
standing to slide them from her body.

In a moment, she lay open as a land surrendering, the small mound of
her belly like a world, round beneath his kisses.

He held his daughter between his hands as he slid his tongue beneath
Scully's navel, moving down between her legs.

He spoke to her then without words, rough skin of his cheek against
her thighs. He knew she heard everything, her hand stroking his hair,
then clenching, his whispered name and the softest moans from her
lips like the songs of doves.

He answered with his tongue and fingers and breath, hard. Achingly
alive.

In a while, she seemed to rise on a great breath, a soft cry caught
in her palm, and then she was fluttering inside. As though she were
filled with wings.

His cheek against her belly, he breathed, breathed her in. She
smelled rich. Of earth and desire.

Then, moving carefully, he slipped out of his boxers, and, balancing
on his hands on either side of her head, poised on his knees, he was
inside her, and he wasn't cold anymore.

He watched her face as he moved, her eyes wide and on his, her lip
caught between her teeth, her hands on his chest, smoothing down his
sides, his hips, clenching as his muscles clenched, pushing into her,
pushing him out of himself.

The room flooded with amber light, warm across the bed, pooling in
her hair. It was so bright he closed his eyes, against it and against
a pleasure so complete it was almost like pain.

His face twisted with it, his mouth coming open, and her hand
covered his lips.

"Shhhh...." she whispered.

He swallowed the sound rising in him, his body pulsing, then growing
still, except for his chest, rising and falling hard beneath her
other hand.

Moving beside her, he lay facing her, her hands cradling his face.
Her eyes were sleepy and sated, and there was a small smile on her
face.

Their lips moved over the other's and she drowsed in his arms, her
eyes half-hidden after awhile, her body growing more limp beneath his
hands. He rubbed his cheek against hers, kissed the soft skin beneath
her eyes.

The baby was pressed between them, and his hand moved to cup the
curve, his thumb stroking the bump of Scully's navel.

He remembered the things she'd told him. The things he'd seen.

The head of dark hair, tiny body in Scully's arms...

A little girl's head on his chest, his fingers playing in a long
braid...

Then his face darkened, the smile melting from his face.

Glass shattering, siren wails...

A face hidden in shadows, except for the eyes.

Watching. Waiting.

Bodies on fire.

He watched Scully's face, watched her beginning to drift, her
breathing deep.

"Sleep," he whispered.

She made a small sound of assent, and he pulled the covers back over
her, over the white of her shoulder to the creamy skin of her throat.
She didn't move as he slipped from the bed.

He stood and stretched, letting the light play over his body for a
long moment as he stared out onto the desert, back up into the sky.

The hawk was gone, nothing above him but a blue so faint it was
almost white.

He grabbed his robe and headed for the shower. He did not stay in
long, his head bowed beneath the spray, the water only lukewarm.

After, Bo stirred, looked up at him with his obsidian eyes as he
entered the room. His tail thumped the floor once, twice.

Mulder reached in the top drawer for boxers, for his jeans on the
dresser, a plain white T-shirt. A pair of socks and his brown boots.
Beside the door, a jeans jacket lined with white fleece that he
slipped into, moving in silence.

He tapped his thigh and Bo rose, going to him, looking up
expectantly.

Then he and the dog were out the door, moving down the hallway,
through the empty kitchen, the living room, and through the front
door, the screen door creaking closed behind him.

He stopped just off the porch, his hands in his pockets.

Move. He needed to move. It didn't matter where.

Nowhere. Nowhere to go.

Turning, he followed the worn path around the side of the house, out
into the barren backyard. There was a small wind, and it followed him
and Bo out into the desert beyond the quiet house.
 

**
 

Pushing back the curtains on his window, Albert Hosteen watched
Mulder and the dog disappearing down the path, both their heads down.
At the edge of the boundary of the yard, Mulder stopped, did a full
circle, his eyes on the house.

Hosteen watched the look that crossed over the other man's face, the
way his face dropped, the shake of his head, saying "no."

To everything.

Then Mulder turned and seemed the survey the mountains in the
distance for a long moment, Bo sitting beside him, waiting.

Hosteen watched him, standing still.

Finally Mulder started walking again, heading down the trail until
he and the dog disappeared from sight.

Hosteen let the drapes fall closed again, drew in a breath and let
it out, thinking.

After a moment, he nodded to himself, coming to some decision. Then
he turned and began to dress.
 

*****

CHAPTER 7b.

**********
 

8:07 a.m.
 
 

Scully awoke to sunlight flooding the room, naked beneath the
covers, a warm cocoon she lay within made warmer by the morning sun.
She reached across the bed, felt the empty space beside her, and
opened her eyes onto the room around her.

Mulder gone, and Bo gone, and she could tell from the light that it
was still early.

She remembered waking and seeing him sitting on the bed beside her,
recognized from the curve of his back, his head bowed, that he had
been deep in thought, and awake for awhile. He hadn't been sleeping
well since the second or third day they'd arrived, and she had not
been surprised to find him poised on the bed like that.

Something was troubling him. More than just the situation they were
in. Something he wouldn't speak about or name.

She turned on her back, stared up at the ceiling, and pushed the
thoughts, the suspicions she had, away. She couldn't think about that
now. She wouldn't.

So she rose, fumbled on her robe that hung on a hook on the back of
the door beside his, and went out the door into the hallway, the
heavy smell of things cooking washing over her, the sound of bumping
in the kitchen, the elegant, soft sounds of Navajo coming down the
hallway. Albert Hosteen laughed quietly over something another voice-
- a woman's voice she recognized as Sara Whistler's -- had said. The
sound of the different language informed her the two were alone in
the room.

A shower of tepid water, her hands smoothing over her belly in a
lather of soap. The baby shifted inside her and she kept her hand
there as she rinsed her hair.

She took a long time drying her hair, putting herself together. She
had tried to keep her morning routine as close to what she did at
home as possible, struggling for a sense of normalcy, hoping it would
rub onto everything else if she did so. She could pretend she was
simply visiting a friend, instead of what she was actually doing, if
she kept to her routine.

Or so she hoped. It wasn't actually working.

By the time she emerged from her room, dressed in a brown shirt that
buttoned up the front, its tails large enough to go over her belly --
which seemed to be growing inches by the day now -- a pair of
maternity jeans that actually didn't look so bad, her brown boots,
she heard a baby's laugh from the kitchen, and she knew that Mae had
joined them for breakfast.

"Good morning," she said to them all as she came into the room, her
eyes taking in the space, looking for Mulder, who was not there. Bo
was still gone, as well. Mae smiled up at her, though there were dark
circles beneath her eyes and she looked care-worn, Katherine standing
on her lap and bouncing on her legs. Sean sat beside her, dutifully
eating the food that had been put in front of him, his eyes down.

Whistler stood at the stove, making pancakes, swallowed in an
overgrown sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that were too large for her,
her long black hair tied back in a pony tail. The young woman always
looked like she were wearing someone else's clothing, someone much
larger than her tiny form. She was humming something softly to
herself in a very pleasant voice, though the song was filled with
minor notes. She smiled to Scully as Scully went to the counter and
picked up a plate off the mismatched stack, and helped herself to a
couple of the large, golden cakes, thanking Whistler as she did so.

Hosteen himself stood beside the open window on the other side of
the small room, his pipe in the corner of his mouth, a thin stream of
bluish smoke leaking out into the open window. His eyes were on
Scully, his lip curling around the pipe. She forced a wan smile back.

"I bought fruit for you," Hosteen said. "Oranges." He nodded toward
the refrigerator.

"Thank you," Scully said again, and she went to the refrigerator and
drew out a fat navel orange, placing it on her plate beside the two
pancakes. "You shouldn't have gone to all that trouble. They can't be
easy to get here."

"No trouble," Hosteen said, taking another pull on his pipe. "Mr.
Skinner sent a check. I went to the store this morning. I keep seeing
these commercials on television about pregnant women and oranges,
orange juice. Not sure what it means, but television cannot lie, you
know." He winked.

Scully chuffed. "No, never," she said, and she sat beside Mae and
Katherine, reached for the syrup on the table, for a plastic tumbler.
She filled the cup with milk. "But in this case, television is
right." She began to eat, looking at Mae.

Mae's curly black hair looked frazzled, strands of it refusing its
ponytail. Katherine reached out a hand toward Scully and said, quite
clearly, the word "red."

"Are you sleeping at all?" Scully asked Mae, touching Katherine's
hand.

Mae shrugged. "Not much," she said quietly, as though she didn't
want Hosteen to hear her.

"The baby?" Scully pressed, taking another bite of pancake.

Mae shook her head. "No...she sleeps through the night," she said
softly. "I.." She looked down. "I just have a lot on my mind right
now."

Scully nodded. She knew how conflicted Mae was, knew that the other
woman was aware of the precariousness of her situation, the things
she needed to say but was keeping hidden. Scully had had to keep
Mulder from pushing her too hard, knowing that Mae would have to come
to things she needed to say in her own time.

The time was coming, though. Scully could see the fissures starting
in Mae's hard exterior.

The same way she could see them cracking her own. Hiding would do
that to a person, being in danger and knowing there was little you
could do to help the situation would do it.

Only Mae *could* help it. And Scully knew that Mae was aware of that.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" Scully asked quietly,
trying not to sound as urgent as she felt at the notion of new
information. She reached for the orange, sunk her thumbnail into the
skin and the air in front of her filled with its sweet smell.

Mae hesitated, put Katherine down the floor, where the baby, holding
a tiny wedge of pancake, began to toddle over toward Hosteen, who was
watching the two women at the table. Whistler continued her humming,
placed another pancake on the plate and poured another, seemingly
oblivious to the rest of the room.

Mae looked at Scully now. She spoke in halting, short sentences.

"There's a man. Eamon. I don't know his last name. I was never told
it. He had a lot of dealings with Owen. And with John. John didn't
trust him, but Owen did. He was a custom's officer and he used his
position to scout out targets for us. He went to jail, though. I
don't know if he's out or not. They didn't get him for killing
anyone. Just for conspiring. He was careful not to have anything too
close to him. Kept clear of most of the trouble. When Owen split the
Path off, Eamon stayed with the IRA. Owen was very disappointed he
didn't come with us. He was quite useful. Smart. Very dedicated."

"How do you think he can help us?" Scully asked, though she was
thrilled to get a name.

Mae shrugged. "He knew everyone in that area. He knew John. He
coordinated a lot of things. I just wondered if he might be a good
place to start. I'm willing to bet this man, Renahan, knows of him
since he was arrested. He might have a way in to talk to him."

Scully nodded. "Did you tell any of this to Agent Music yet?" she
asked.

She wasn't surprised when Mae shook her head. Mae seemed more
comfortable talking to her than anyone else, even Mulder. There was
still tension between the two of them, still that sense of blame from
Mulder when the two of them were together. She wished Mulder could
help it, but she knew that right now he couldn't.

"I'll tell Mulder," Scully said. "And he can talk to Agent Music and
A.D. Skinner about it."

Sean had finished his meal, and sat there, looking down at his
plate. Scully looked at him, then up at Hosteen, who was watching the
boy.

"Where is Mulder?" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant about it,
tearing off a wedge of orange, and putting it into her mouth.

"He went out early," Hosteen said, smoke coming with the words.
Hosteen looked at the end of his pipe, then back up at Scully.
"Seemed to have something on his mind when he left."

Scully looked down. "He's just worried," she said. "He's adjusting."

Whistler turned to Hosteen, said something in Navajo, and Hosteen
nodded, and said something back, which clearly cut Whistler's line of
thinking off. He put up a hand to silence her.

"He needed to leave," Hosteen said. "That feeling will stay. He will
not adjust to it."

Scully looked up at him, feeling color rise in her face. What she
had been thinking that morning as she'd stared up at the ceiling,
Hosteen now voiced.

"He's fine," she said, like a knee-jerk. "Mulder's fine."

But Hosteen shook his head, his eyes boring into hers. Then he
returned his attention to Sean, brushing Scully's concerns away.

"Sean and I are going to go down and visit the horses," he said,
leaning up, and Sean's head shot around to Hosteen, his eyes wide. He
still didn't speak, but Scully could tell he wanted to.

"Come with me," Hosteen said softly, reaching his hand out.

Sean looked to Mae, as if hoping for rescue, but Mae was looking at
Hosteen.

"Go with him, Sean," she said softly. "Go see the horses."

Sean hesitated again, but Hosteen stood still, his hand out.

"A surprise," he said, and winked at Sean. "Come with me."

Mae put a hand on the boy's shoulder, urging him up, and Sean got up
and slowly followed Hosteen out of the kitchen. He did not take the
older man's hand, and Hosteen did not seem to mind.

Once they were gone, Scully kept turning over Hosteen's words about
Mulder in her mind as they gnawed at her. She kept returning to her
own words to comfort herself.

Mulder's fine...

The kettle whistled and Sara got it off the burner, poured it into a
mug sitting by the sink. A strong smell of mint and herbs filled the
room. It was not an entirely pleasant smell.

Then she was bringing the mug to Scully, setting it in front of her
as she sat across from her, that same knowing smile on her face.

"Drink," she said simply, nodding toward the mug.

"What is it?" Scully asked, eyeing the other woman and the mug.

"All the pregnant women here drink this. At least twice a week. Good
for the baby."

Scully looked down at the dark liquid. Bits of leaves floated in it
like ash.

"No, thank you," Scully said as politely as she could.

"Smells like a boot," Mae said from beside her, and Whistler laughed.

"Bad smell, yes," Sara said. "Bad taste, too. But good for the baby."

Scully wasn't up for a fight, not with Hosteen's strange words
swirling in her mind, swirling with her own niggling worries, the
strangeness of the place.

"What's in it?" she tried, and Whistler only smiled at her.

"Trust," she said, and pushed the mug a little closer to Scully. "No
one will hurt you or your baby here."

Scully looked at Whistler, at that enigmatic smile.

Trust....

She did trust these people. Hosteen would not let anyone harm her
here. Not even the odd woman in front of her.

With one final look at Mae, who was looking bemused, Scully reached
for the mug and began to drink.
 
 

************
 

29 COOKE STREET ISLINGTON LONDON, ENGLAND 1:33 p.m.
 
 

Beneath the window, people from all walks of life milled along the
streets, cars clogging the roadway, cabs and minis and buses, a buzz
of activity everywhere, the sounds of laughter filtering through the
thin glass. Light shone in, illuminating the dust in the heavy air,
swirling in the sunlight.

Beneath the window, a desk. A trail of cigarette smoke that curled
up into the brightness. The room was thick with it, and it hung in
the air like ghosts.

Over the noise of the street, two women laughing two stories down,
the sound of scissors, and the rustling of newspaper. Methodical,
slow sounds of cutting. The hand that held the scissors trembled
slightly, trying to make a straight line along the edges of the
article, around the picture, already going yellow from sitting on the
desk in the sunlight.

Beside the newspapers, a highball glass filled with scotch, the ice
melting. The room smelled like the strong liquid, like the smoke, the
stale smells of a pub.

The man holding the scissors finished cutting around the picture
that accompanied the article, the picture of another man, heavily
bandaged, holding a handful of tiny roses against his face. The man
in the picture's visible eye was clenched closed, a blanket of
flowers obscuring most the rest of the his body. A blanket on the
dark shape of a coffin.

The man put the scissors down, held the article up, read the
headline for the hundredth time.

"No Leads in the Death of FBI Agent in Washington D.C. Car Bombing."

The man did not read the article itself again. At this point, he had
it memorized. Instead, he lay the article down and picked up his
glass, taking a long swallow of the amber whiskey, enjoying the burn
down his throat. The feeling reminded him he was alive at all.

He pushed his long hair from his face, ran a hand over his dark, too-
long beard. He took a drag off the cigarette, and breathed out into
the cool, stale air.

The phone sat beside him on the desk. He took one long look at the
picture of the man again, at the tiny lines of text beneath it. Then,
seeming to come to some decision, he picked up the phone and dialed a
number from memory.

"Scotland Yard," a woman's voice said. "Your extension?"

"Simon Davis," the man said, his voice sounding hoarse and overused.
Though he had not, in fact, spoken for what felt like days.

"Connecting you now," the prim voice replied, and there was a click.

The man waited, nursing his scotch and his cigarette in equal turns.
Then the line was picked up, and Simon Davis said his name.

"Simon," the man said. "Been a long time."

A beat of silence, then: "A surprise hearing from you, Ed. How are
you? What have you been up to?"

"Well enough," the man said, responding to the first question. To
the second he said: "Going to the country house, foxhunting. The
usual fare."

Davis barely managed a laugh, but it sounded forced. "Yeah, that
would be you," he said. A pause. "You're calling for a reason. This
can't be just to chat, after all this time."

The man pushed his hair back again, leaned forward, his eyes on the
wall in front of him. "It's beginning again."

Another pause from Davis. "I don't know what you mean," he evaded,
and it was so clearly a dodge that the man smiled.

"Been reading the paper," he said. "I'm sure you have been, too. And
I'd wager a guess that there's been a call for me. Am I right?"

"You're drunk," Davis said by way of answer. "You're even slurring.
I see some things haven't changed."

"Am I *right*?" the man enunciated carefully, keeping his voice
level.

"You're right," Davis said after a beat. "The FBI."

"And you didn't give my number," the man stated. "You shouldn't have
done that."

"Ed, we all decided a long time ago it was time for this to stop for
you. You decided yourself it was time to stop. That's why you let
things go the way you did. That's why you went. And all that's over
now anyway. They've got the wrong idea. Wrong people."

"No, they don't," He heard the slur himself this time, though he
didn't put the glass down. "The Americans have got the right idea."
He paused, looking at the wall. "It's starting all over again."

A shifting, as though Davis had switched ears. "Ed, no one's going
to believe you. Not with how you left. You shouldn't be involved
anymore. You have to know that."

"NO one knows these people the way I do. NO one." His voice rose.
"Don't bloody well tell me you don't believe that."

"No, you're right," Davis said. "No one does. But you've had enough.
You had enough 10 years ago, and you kept on. Time to lay it down.
Quit reading the paper. It doesn't concern you anymore."

The man considered this for a long moment, his eyes still on the
wall.

"Call him back and give him my number," he said.

"Ed--"

"Call him, Simon." He had grown very still, and the silence that
followed stilled him even more.

"You want your crusade?" Davis said, his voice a cross between
exasperation and sadness. "All right then. I'll call them. I just
hope you know what you're doing, getting back into this. I hope
you're up for it."

And Davis hung up.

Ed Renahan sat back in the chair, its springs squeaking in protest
at the movement, and lay the phone down on its cradle, his eyes
scanning the wall.

It was layered with photographs, with newspaper clippings. Dozens of
them neatly pinned and yellowing in the light. Pictures of bodies,
pictures of men.

At the center, he looked into the face of one man in particular,
staring at the camera with his blue eyes, a scar down his face. Owen
Curran, aware even at the moment the clandestine photo was taken he
was being watched.

Renahan stared into the face for a long moment, sipped from his
glass. His cigarette had long since burned to ash.

Finally he stood, picked up two gold pins from the pile on the
corner of the desk. He reached the clipping of the man and the
flowers, lifting it carefully, though he staggered a bit as he leaned
forward.

He pinned the clipping carefully on the wall beside Owen Curran's
picture, said the name from the caption in his mind, trying it on for
size as he drained his glass, the ice cubes tinkling.

Fox Mulder...

So strange.

Renahan surveyed the clippings, staring into this man Mulder's face,
settling on it.

He poured himself another drink.
 

**********
 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO 9:16 a.m.
 
 

The two had walked in silence the entire mile to Victor Hosteen's
ranch, Sean trailing slightly behind Albert Hosteen, though the old
man had slowed several times to allow the boy to catch up so that
they ended up, at times, walking side by side.

Hosteen noted that Sean kept his eyes on the ground, his hands
jammed in the pockets of the jacket that Mulder had just bought him
at the Target in Farmington a few days before, the boy and his aunt
and the baby seeming to have few belongings of their own, and nothing
for the cold mornings in the desert here in early spring. Mulder had
bought Sean an Arizona Cardinal's jacket, a gaudy shock of red on
white, but it looked warm enough, and Hosteen was pleased by this.

Hosteen kept his face forward, but he caught Sean looking up at him
from time to time out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't look
directly back. He didn't want to frighten him any more than he had
to, and Sean was clearly already afraid of him. This troubled
Hosteen, but did not surprise him.

He'd spent several afternoons on the porch this week in his chair
with his pipe, thinking about the boy, about Sean's life.

Now it was time to act.

They reached the edge of the property, and Hosteen could see the men
all gathered in the corral, Victor riding the high fence of it,
shouting orders down at the others.

He noticed immediately, too, that Mulder was not there, and again,
he was not surprised.

"Grandfather!" Victor called, catching sight of the two of them. He
hopped down from the fence in a cloud of dust, brushing the sand from
his jeans. He smiled down at Sean.

"Hello, Sean," he said gently, his smile wide. He touched the boy's
head when Sean said nothing in return.

"You have what you said you would get for me?" Hosteen asked his
grandson, and Victor nodded.

"Yes," he said. "The barn." He jerked his jaw in that direction, and
Hosteen quirked a small smile in appreciation, put his hand on Sean's
shoulder.

"Come," he said, and led Sean away toward the barn.

It was an old barn, the wood so faded it was almost gray. The wide
doors were open, and the air smelled of oat and hay. Several birds
startled up as Hosteen led Sean into the building, going toward a pen
in the back.

Sean seemed to hang back again, and Hosteen stopped, turned to him.

"Come and see," he said in his gentlest voice. "You will like it. I
promise."

Sean eyed him, cocked his head, his hands still in his pockets.

"Trust," Hosteen said. "Just a little trust." And he held out his
hand.

Sean hesitated, but then slowly started forward toward the pen.

Hosteen leaned on the low railing, looked in, and Sean came up
beside him, looked into the enclosure, as well.

An appaloosa pony stood there, chewing lazily on a bit of straw, its
eyes half closed. Its mane reached well below its neck, its black and
white tail swishing softly.

It opened its eyes and looked at the two of them with its brown eyes.

Sean's hands came out of his pockets and went around the boards of
the pen, his face pressing over the top.

Hosteen smiled to himself. It was the most reaction he'd seen from
Sean in a week, since he'd reacted so strongly to seeing Hosteen
himself.

But this was very different. This wasn't fear. This was something
else entirely.

"This," he said softly, "is to be yours while you are here."

Sean turned and looked up at him, his eyes wide. He blinked, and
Hosteen had to keep the smile from blooming on his face at the
reaction. He remained stoic, serious. "A lot to take care of," he
said, shaking his head.

Sean blinked again, looking from the pony back to Hosteen. He licked
his lips in what Hosteen recognized as a nervous gesture, and also
one of something else.

Sean wanted the pony. Very badly. It was emanating from him so
clearly that to Hosteen it was like the boy, so dark, was giving off
a low light.

"Do you think you can take care of the pony while you are here?" he
said, his voice quiet. "Come down here every day. Feed him. Care for
his pen. Care for tack if I give it to you to use. Do you think you
can do that?"

Sean looked at the pony for another long few seconds, then back up
at Hosteen.

He nodded.

And Hosteen smiled, though he hid it quickly.

"All right," he said, crossing his arms. "The first thing you must
do it come up with a name. He does not have a name. That will be your
first job. The naming."

Sean looked at him, licked his lips again. He shook his head "no."

"You can do it," Hosteen said, put a hand on Sean's unruly reddish
hair, smoothing it down. "And then we will go from there."

For once, Sean did not tense when Hosteen touched him. He held
still, his eyes wide and frightened, but bright.
 
 

**********
CHAPTER 8
*********

11:10 a.m.
 
 

She set off into the desert.

The sun was climbing, a great white light, as Scully left Hosteen in
the house, watching a History Channel program on the destruction of
Pompeii, the plaster casts of figures too much for her, too much like
burned bodies in their glass cases, the feeling augmented by
Hosteen's curl of pipe smoke from the other side of the room.

When she'd risen to leave, only his eyes had flicked toward her, his
hand on his pipe in the corner of his mouth, and she'd looked back,
saying nothing, and left the house.

Now on the trail that led off the property in the back, she walked
slowly, a hand resting on her belly. It was warming up, the desert
going a touch green in the dawning springtime, tiny purple flowers
among the brush. Mostly, though, the land was the color of buckskin,
and reflected the harsh light, making her squint against it as she
stared down at the ground.

She stepped on hoofprints leading to and from the house, deep Us in
the ground, Ghost's footprints. Or so she imagined. She remembered so
vividly sitting on the gray horse, the sun going down, all that time
ago, almost drowsing on his back as she'd come in from the desert,
her demons burned down with the fire she'd left so far in the
distance the night before she'd ridden back to Hosteen's home.

She was chasing demons again this time. But they were not her own.

Instinct. That's what she was following. It was like following a
thread, the one that connected her to him.

She walked for what felt like a long time, the structure behind her
disappearing in the distance, the only sounds her footsteps, her
breath. She tired easily, and the walk seemed very long.

Then she saw it in the distance. A white shape, the trailer she'd
stayed in so long ago. She could see from where she was that the door
was open.

The firepit was filled with charred logs, burned to white. The same
chairs sat outside it, and it looked just as old and tired as it had
then. Just as private. It was this latter sense of the place that
made her stop at the open door and tap lightly on the metal side.

"Mulder?" she called softly, her voice sounding loud in all the
quiet. Only wind answered her for a few seconds, sand billowing in
the breeze. Then, over it, she heard her name, then his soft voice
telling her to come in.

She climbed the steps carefully, the trailer creaking with even her
slight weight. The room she entered smelled of bacon grease and dust.

Mulder sat on the edge of the bed, the same as he had when she'd
awoken that morning, before they'd made love, his back that same
curve, his elbows on his knees. He drew himself up as he turned his
face from where it faced forward, staring at the window, and looked
at her with his dark eyes.

He looked older to her somehow. The set of his face.

She said nothing, simply closed the space between them, moving to
stand in front of him. He parted his knees a bit wider and reached
out, his hands on the small of her back, and drew her forward a step
to stand between them. Her hands went to the back of his neck and he
leaned forward, his forehead on her collarbone. She heard him breathe
out a sigh, but it did not sound like relief.

She stroked his hair in the silence that followed. Bo, on the floor
in the corner, watched them with his wet eyes, looking as worried as
she felt.

Mulder's grip on her tightened, his hands going to her shoulder
blades. His legs closed around her thighs with a gentle pressure, and
his head began to move side to side, his mouth brushing her breasts
through the material of her shirt.

She felt the urgency growing in him, urgent like the morning when
he'd kissed her, his hands pulling her tight against his face. His
mouth opened and she felt his teeth graze her nipple.

That was when she put her hands on either side of his face, stilling
him, gently urging his face up so she could look into his eyes again.

She shook her head. No.

He met her eyes, as if looking for rebuke, and she knew he found
none. Finally he nodded, and returned his forehead to her sternum,
still now, her hands bracketing his head.

"Mulder," she said into the silence. "I know."

He breathed out another sigh. "No," he said softly. "You don't."

"Yes," she replied, nodding, though he couldn't see it. She stared
out the window into the desert beyond, steeling herself for the words
she didn't want to speak, but had to speak. And then she said them.

"You have to leave."

He looked up at her again, and now when she nodded to him, he did
see. He seemed surprised.

"I can't leave you," he said. "Not like this." His eyes took in her
belly, and he shook his head.

"I'm safe here," she said quietly. " And the baby and I are both
fine."

"But--"

She shook her head. "I can feel it. You can feel it. You can't stay
here. Not this time. This time is different."

"Scully--"

She held his gaze. "Mulder, you can't change who you are," she said
firmly, though her voice was heavy. "I don't *want* you to change.
Not even for me. It's eating away at you. I can feel how conflicted
you are. You want to stay to protect me, and you want to leave to
protect me, and you don't know which is the right thing to do."

He nodded. "Yes."

She stroked the hair at his temples. "You know which is the thing
you need to do for *you.* And this is a time when I want that to be
what you listen to."

He swallowed. "You sound like you want me to go," he said, his voice
sad.

She shook her head. "No," she said. "No." And now her eyes burned,
welling. "I don't ever want to be away from you. You have to know
that by now."

She took in the room, the desolate space, remembered herself, alone,
on the same mattress, how empty she'd felt as she'd watched the sun
through the windows for those weeks, learning to listen for the sound
of hooves, learning to come back to herself and, eventually, to him.

He was watching her as she looked around, and seemed to know what
she was feeling, because he nodded. Here he was coming back to
himself, as well.

"Scully, I..." His hands came down and around now, stroking her
waist, his thumbs on the sides of her abdomen. "I keep
thinking...about Rose."

"Tell me," she murmured.

She looked at him, waiting, knowing he would speak when he found the
words, and she wanted to hear them.

He looked down. "I don't know if I can tell you what the idea of
being a father has done to me. I think about...the life I want her to
have, that I want us to have with her."

He met her gaze again, and she saw the beginning of tears.

"I feel...like the rest of my life was to get me ready for what I've
built with you. The life we'll have with her. And someone's taking
that away from me, from us. I want that life back. More than
anything, I want it back. I'll do anything to protect it."

She stroked at his temples, feeling something both harden and soften
within her. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and firm.

"Then take that life back."

He shook his head, resisting. "I don't want you to be alone," he
replied. "I can't stand to think of leaving you."

She nodded. "I know. But Mulder, sometimes...to protect the things
we love, we have do things that we don't want to do. Sometimes to
protect we have to hide, and sometimes we have to fight."

She watched his face, the resolve dawning in it as she continued.
"For the life we have, for Rose, I'm willing to hide, even though
it's not what I want."

She leaned forward, kissed his forehead, watched his eyes flutter
closed, his lashes wet.

"And you..." she said. "You know what you have to do. For her. For
me. And for yourself."

She leaned down, his eyes opening. She kissed him, pulled back
enough to meet his intense gaze.

"Fight," she whispered fiercely. "Fight."
 
 

***********

FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON, D.C.
12:16 p.m.
 

The phone was ringing now, the strange double rings of a European
phone line. Skinner listened to the static playing on the line and
hoped the connection would be all right as he looked at Granger
sitting in the chair across from him. Granger had a phone up to his
ear, as well, another phone on the same extension, his ankle on his
knee, but his clenched hands in his lap belying the younger man's
tension. That and the set of his eyes, his brows squinted down.

They were gambling here on the only lead they had. The man from
Scotland Yard who'd called, Davis, had made it seem uncertain,
evading questions about this Renahan, his status. His state. Davis
had simply given out the phone number and hurried off the line as
though he were late for a date.

The phone continued to ring. Five times. Six.

Then it was picked up, the sound of fumbling, then a very British
accent. A tired voice full of breath.

"Yeah...Renahan..."

Skinner's eye met Granger's as he spoke, as Granger listened.

"Mr. Renahan, this is Assistant Director Walter Skinner from the FBI
in Washington. I got your number from--"

"From Davis, yes," Renahan said, more clearly now. He sounded
groggy, but was coming around.

"I'm sorry if I've disturbed you, sir," Skinner said. "If you were
asleep. I know it's later there and--"

"No, no," the other voice hurried in. "Just...resting." He cleared
his throat. "FBI, you say?"

"Yes," Skinner said, leaning on his desk. "I'm calling--"

"You're calling about the bombs. The ones there in Washington."

Skinner grew still, as did Granger.

"Yes," Skinner said softly. "I assume Mr. Davis spoke to you about
my inquiry and--"

"No, Davis didn't tell me. I knew already. Reading the papers and
such." The man cleared his throat again. His accent was as thick as
his deep voice, and just as rich.

"Ah, I see," Skinner said. "Mr. Renahan, I'm calling because--"

"Because you've got an Irish problem on your hands," Renahan
interrupted. Skinner thought he heard a slight slur now, more than
fatigue. "A Path problem, I think. Going after that agent of yours,
the woman who was killed. The woman who got Owen Curran killed. Or so
some may think."

"You sound sure of all that," Skinner said, and saw Granger lean
forward slightly in his chair, his eyebrows climbing, the phone
pressed to his ear.

"Oh, I'm sure all right," Renahan replied. His voice was far away,
almost monotone. "I know these people. Better than they know
themselves. I know the things they would do, and revenge is the one
thing that's been driving them these past years since the peace. It
holds them together, those that are still holding together. Revenge
against each other, against people doing too much talking, for
starters. And then revenge against anyone who cost them. Your agent
cost some of them a lot."

Skinner listened to the strange tenor in the man's voice, the
certainty in it. The weariness.

"We agree with your assessment, of course," Skinner said.

"And what is it that makes *you* so sure of it, Mr. Skinner?"
Renahan asked, sounding genuinely curious. "Why not the usual
suspects?"

"Anyone else would want to simply terrorize," Skinner replied. "This
was very calculated. Two bombs where Agent Scully was in close
proximity, one in her car. It's too much of a coincidence."

"You're right," the other man said. "It is. But there's something
else, some other reason you're not saying."

Definitely a slur there. Skinner pursed his lips, looked at Granger.
Granger heard it, too. Skinner could see it on his face. He nodded to
Skinner, his assessment of the other man telling him to tell Skinner
to talk. Skinner nodded back.

"We have Mae Curran," he said.

A pause. "Mae Curran is alive?"

"Yes, and in our custody. There was another bombing, this one in
Australia where she was hiding with her husband and daughter and Owen
Curran's son. Her husband was killed."

"Another car bomb."

"Yes."

A longer beat of silence. Skinner and Granger waited, exchanging a
look.

"It's not mainstream IRA," Renahan said at last. An edge had entered
his voice, some energy. "None of them would go after Mae. Must be
some Path left somewhere, though I'd thought they were all dead. That
drug business and a few hits. There weren't many to begin with."

Granger nodded to Skinner, urging him to continue, which he did.

"She gave us a name of a contact here in the States. He's the one
who gave us your name. This man seemed to think that it has some
connection to John Fagan, since both Mae and Agent Scully were
implicated in his death."

"'The Bogey Man' himself," Renahan said, dark amusement in his
voice. "He was on the Nutting Squad before he turned up with the
Currans. Used to police the IRA. I'm not sure of that, but that's
what I suspect...one of the worst, that one. The worst sort..." He
trailed off, as though thinking.

Skinner leaned back in his chair. "Mr. Renahan, we're prepared to
fly you to the States and compensate you for consulting with us on
the case."

A silence. Then Renahan did something that neither Skinner nor
Granger expected.

He laughed.

"You think the people doing this are still in the States?" he said.
"No, Mr. Skinner. Whoever did this will run home as fast as he can,
his job done there. If he's looking for Mae, he'll do it from home,
not look for her there. They never stay away from even their
hometowns for long over there. It's not their way. That's why this
couldn't be IRA in the first place. They'd never strike that far from
home. Path, yes. IRA, no."

"So what would you suggest would be the best course of action at
this juncture?" Skinner said, treading carefully. "You say you know
these people, and I believe you do. What should we do?"

Renahan drew in a breath. "You want to find the Irish, Mr. Skinner?
You come to Ireland."

Skinner looked at Granger, who looked surprised.

"Surely we could have local authorities look into the matter--"

But Renahan laughed again.

"This is your fight, Mr. Skinner. No Irish police are going to help
you protect Mae Curran, and they could give bloody hell about your
agent, as well. You'll have to come yourself. As for me, I'll meet
you there. I've got a lot of contacts. Even now. People who might do
some talking. We'll crawl through it together."

Skinner considered this, thinking over his options. Granger seemed
to be doing the same thing, and he was nodding.

"I'll go," Granger mouthed.

Skinner thought about it. About Mulder and Scully at the Hosteen's.
About the silent boy and the blonde baby he'd seen playing on the
floor.

He thought about the other agents who had died. Glickman. The
others. All those people at the hotel. The restaurant.

Finally, Skinner nodded. "All right," he said. "I'll come see what
you have to show me. Me and another member of the FBI."

"Who's that then?" Renahan asked immediately.

"A civilian working with the Bureau. A profiler named Paul Granger."

"The black bloke?" Renahan replied after a beat.

Skinner and Granger exchanged surprised looks.

"Yes, he's black," Skinner said, puzzled and a bit peeved. "How did
you know--?"

"Because I'm looking at his picture right now. Standing next to you.
I'm looking at your picture."

Skinner's eyes widened, and he leaned forward. "I see," he said
noncommitedly.

He reached for a pen, scribbled something on a pad on his desk, held
it up for Granger to see.

It said: "Medical Leave, my ass."

Granger smirked, nodding.

"Granger can't come," Renahan said firmly. "Nothing personal against
him, mind you, but he'd draw too much attention to us. Stand out too
much. Bring someone else if you have to."

"There's no one else to bring," Skinner said, putting the pad down.
"I'll come alone then."

"What about this agent's husband, this...Agent Mulder. How bad is he
hurt? Can he travel?"

"No, he can't," Skinner said immediately.

"A shame, that," Renahan said softly. "He would be good to have
along. Makes it personal for the people we'll meet. The grieving
husband and all that. Personal in a way they can understand."

"He can't come," Skinner replied firmly. "It'll just be me. We'll
coordinate the local authorities as we need them, whether they want
to do it or not."

Renahan sighed. "All right," he said. "I'll go to Belfast. I'll be
there tomorrow, and I'll start some looking around. When can you meet
me?"

Skinner considered. "Give me a couple of days to put things on hold
here so I can get away. I'll come on Friday."

"Go to The Hanged Man, a pub. I'll be staying in one of the rooms
over it. You can find me there."

"Mr. Renahan," Skinner jumped in, hearing the dismissal in Renahan's
tone. "I have to ask...your status with Scotland Yard..."

"That's got nothing to do with this, Mr. Skinner," the other man
replied, a touch of anger in his voice. "You'll have to take me as I
come. Those are my terms for helping you. Agreed?"

Granger looked at Skinner again. After a beat, he angled his head.

Take the terms, he said with his eyes, and Skinner gnawed his lip,
but nodded.

"Agreed," he said.

And Renahan hung up.

Granger leaned forward, replaced the phone on the cradle on the edge
of the desk. Skinner did the same with his own, then took his glasses
off, rubbing at his eyes.

"Jesus Christ," he said, still rubbing. "What the hell have I
stepped in this time?"

"Whatever it is," Granger replied, "it certainly has a stink."

Skinner replaced his glasses, pinned the other man with his eyes.
"I'm so sorry you can't go with me," he said sardonically. "I mean
after all, who would want to pass this up? A trip to Ireland to go
pub crawling with some crazy sonofabitch wash-up cop." He shook his
head.

"You said you'd do what you had to do to get to the bottom of this,"
Granger said quietly. "That's what you told Rosen this morning. This
is the only lead we've got. And crazy or not, everything he said made
sense. He knows this case. He knows these people."

"He was drunk!" Skinner exclaimed, waving at the phone as if to shoo
it away.

"Yes, but he was RIGHT," Granger replied firmly.

Skinner looked down. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, he was. God help me."

Granger rose from his seat. "I'm going to do some more looking, see
what I can scare up about this guy with the boys from
Counterterrorism. And I'll call Mulder. Tell him what we've got."

Skinner stood, as well. "I'm heading up to Rosen to get cleared for
this. It's going to take some string-pulling to make all this look
neat. It's damned irregular. All of it."

Granger smiled. "He'll make it look all right. Even he knows this is
all we've got."

Skinner watched him go, listened to the soft close of the door
behind him.

He stood for a long time, looked around his office, thinking,
letting it all sink in.

The picture of Ashcroft...

The shelves of books...

The silver pen on the blotter...

The two empty chairs in front of the desk.

He wiped his hand over his bald pate, a bitter laugh coming.

"Ireland..." he said ruefully. "Shit..." And he shook his head again.
 
 

**********

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
2:21 p.m.
 

Mulder sat before the flickering television, news streaming by on
MSNBC, a can of Coke in his hand. It was warming up in the house, and
he was glad for this, considering how cold the room had been in the
morning. It would be warmer in the bedroom now, warmer for Scully,
who'd lain down with Bo for a nap.

They'd spent awhile after their talk walking the desert behind the
trailer, walking holding hands. They rarely did this, and it reminded
him of something they would do on a date, had they ever really dated.
The thought made him smile a bittersweet smile, the memory of her
small hand in his, then his arm over her shoulder, her body pressed
against his as they'd walked.

He'd felt himself beginning to both knot and unknot as he'd walked
with her, feeling simultaneously better and somehow worse as they'd
gone further away from the house. They'd spoken little, words seeming
unnecessary.

They'd stopped and kissed for a long time at the foot of a steep
rise, then turned and went back the way they'd come, Scully looking
tired. He was relieved he hadn't had to urge her toward a nap once
they'd returned to the empty house.

Now the screen door creaked open and the wooden door swung in,
admitting Albert Hosteen, looking a bit windblown, his long hair over
his shoulders and a knowing look on his face.

"Mr. Hosteen," he said, taking a swig of his soda, trying to appear
nonchalant.

Hosteen regarded him for a long moment, glancing down the hallway
toward where Scully lay asleep.

"Hm," Hosteen said, nodding.

"What?" Mulder asked.

"You are leaving," Hosteen said.

Mulder didn't know why he was surprised, but he was.

"Yes," he said after a beat. "I'm going back to Washington. I made
the reservations a little while ago."

Hosteen smiled gently. "A hard decision for you, I know. For both of
you. But the right thing for you to do."

Mulder nodded, looked down, feeling exposed. "Yes," he said. "It
was. It is."

Hosteen entered the room now, took his seat in the corner, where he
always sat, his pipe and tobacco on a small TV table by the chair's
worn upholstered arm.

"I do not need to tell you that everything will be done to keep her
safe here," he said, picking up the pipe.

Mulder shook his head, smiled faintly. "No, you don't need to tell
me that. I know you'll do everything you can. I know she's safe here.
That's one of the reasons I know it's all right for me to go."

Hosteen stuffed the pipe, tapping the tobacco down with his
calloused thumb. "The time alone will be good for her, as well. She
has some things to think on, I should think." He lit the pipe.

Mulder remembered Katherine in the kitchen, the splatter of grease,
the child's surprised cry. Scully's voice as she'd withdrawn from
them all. He'd seen Hosteen's face when she left, seen the look on
the old man's face.

He knew. About the visions and the dreams.

Mulder swallowed. "Yes," he said again. "Yes, she does."

Sweet-smelling smoke drifted toward him, riding the light coming in
the window. The room now seemed very warm.

The phone rang, and Hosteen pushed himself up, going for the phone
in the kitchen. Mulder watched him go, still thinking about Scully,
Hosteen knowing. What it all meant, or could mean...

"Agent Mulder," Hosteen said from the kitchen. He held the receiver
out toward Mulder. "It is Paul Granger. For you."

Mulder rose, feeling a rush of nerves. He hadn't called to tell them
he was returning. He didn't know what they would say.

He met Hosteen in the kitchen, the two men passing as Hosteen handed
off the phone.

"Granger," Mulder said softly.

"Mulder, how's Scully?" Granger replied.

"She's okay," Mulder said. "She's asleep. I think it's going to take
a little more time."

"I hope so. Are you ready for this?"

Mulder felt his nerves go up another notch. "What? What have you
got?"

He listened intently as Granger relayed the conversation with
Renahan, the things the man had said, the way he'd seemed. Mulder
found himself tensing the more he heard, the more pieces began to
fall into place in the puzzle they'd been trying to put together,
pieces Renahan and -- just today -- Mae were providing.

A lot of pieces still missing.

"....so Skinner got cleared this afternoon to go to Belfast, to work
with this guy with his contacts there. He's leaving on Friday morning
first thing. Rosen told him to go this afternoon."

"You're going with him, I assume?"

"No," Granger said softly. "Apparently I can't pass for anyone's
'cousin Seamus,' so Renahan wants me to stay away. I'm disappointed,
but I understand."

Mulder stood still, thinking.

He knew what he had to do.

"Tell Skinner..." he said, his voice quiet. "Tell him I'm coming
with him."

The silence he expected.

"What?" Granger said at last. "You're not serious."

"I am," Mulder replied. "Scully and I spent the morning talking
about it. I was coming back to D.C. anyway, to help out any way I
could. Now I know how I'm going to do that."

Another silence, this one not expected. He wondered for a moment if
Granger was going to try to talk him out of it.

What he *did* say took Mulder completely off guard.

"Then I'm going to come out there," Granger said softly. "Help watch
over things."

Mulder stood still, watching Hosteen watching him. A puff of smoke
came out of the corner of the elder man's lips, obscuring his face
except for his eyes.

"I can't ask you to do that," Mulder said after a beat.

"You didn't ask me," Granger replied. "I'm offering. There needs to
be at least two people there, another gun."

"But to leave Robin like that..." Mulder tried.

"She can come out and stay for a little while. She'll understand.
Dana is her friend, too. She'll want her as protected as I do."

"Granger, I..." Mulder trailed off. He didn't know what to say.
Granger was his friend. Scully's friend. Mulder couldn't have asked
for the help, but he appreciated it more than he could say.

"I know," Granger replied. "You don't have to say anything. I just
want to do what little I can."

"I..." Mulder tried again. Then he let out a breath, and said the
only words he could think of. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Granger replied. "I'll come as fast as I can. And
I'll tell Skinner you're on your way."

Mulder looked at Hosteen as he hung up the phone. He started to
speak but couldn't.

And Hosteen, puffing on his pipe, smiled.
 
 

**********
Chapter 9

***********

SOUTHWEST AIRLINES
FLIGHT 1359
SOMEWHERE OVER THE MIDWEST
MARCH 17
11:31 a.m.
 

He was seated over the silver wing, enough a view over its rounded
edge to see the landscape below the plane, thousands of feet down,
the burnt tan ground of the desert finally giving way to some green
now, the circular farms of Kansas or Nebraska, boxes of roads around
the farmland, too high to make out anything but the green, and the
clear blue of the sky around the plane, dotted with high thin clouds
that streamed by the wing.

The plane was fairly silent, everyone reading or watching the film
on the small screens that had swung down from the ceilings, things
blowing up on the tiny monitors. He had no headset, so he couldn't
hear the sounds, and for that he was thankful. Instead, he'd aimed
his face out the window, watching, ignoring even the flight
attendants with their drink and food carts, his tray table down on
his lap but empty.

He looked like any other traveler, he supposed. Worn jeans, a long-
sleeved white T shirt to chase away the plane's persistent chill. His
jeans jacket was balled beneath the seat in front of him. He had a
suitcase in the overhead, a duffle of T-shirts and more jeans, his
boots. The rest of his clothes were in the cargo hold beneath.

He would not unpack the bags when he arrived in Washington. They
would go straight onto another plane that night, bound for Ireland.

Only one article of his clothing had remained behind at the
Hosteen's -- his Yankee's sweatshirt, faded blue and the team's
insignia worn off the front. He'd left it because Scully had put it
on when he'd left the shower that morning, laying claim to it, her
hands vanishing in the sleeves, the rest of it pulled over her bare
body to her hips. The blankets covered the rest of her, making her
look small beneath the covers, lonely on the full-sized bed.

She'd watched him dress, put the last of his things into his
suitcase -- his shaving kit, a bottle of shampoo. Her eyes followed
him as he moved around the room, but she said nothing, her hands,
within the sweatshirt, curled in front of her face, hiding everything
but the bridge of her nose and her wide blue eyes.

Her eyes...

There on the plane, he closed his own eyes, remembering how they
looked as the sun had begun to come up, him on his back, Scully
astride him, her knees bracketing his hips, her hands on his waist as
she moved, her hips pushing, his own rising and falling beneath her
in a careful rhythm. He'd watched a bead of sweat travel down between
her full breasts, watched it as it moved down her chest and over the
rise of her belly. He'd reached out then, smoothing it over the mound
with his thumb, his hand stroking over the baby, then down between
her legs, teasing through the curls there, feeling where their bodies
were joined, the heat.

So much he wanted to say to her. So much. Words seemed meaningless
in the face of what he wanted to convey. The goodbye he needed to
say, a word he had never been good at saying, and had never said to
her this way.

So, he met her eyes, listened to her breath, his own labored,
answering hers. He clenched a hand around her hip, guiding her, and
said goodbye with his body instead.

No sound but their breath in the quiet of the house.

He bit down on his lip as the pleasure began to build in him, her
own body stiffening, her head back, her hair against her shoulders,
damp strands of red.

When he came, he pulled her forward, draping her small frame over
his, her hands on his shoulders as their lips met and held. He tasted
her, the sweetness of her mouth, the warmth of her like bread. He
swore he could feel her everywhere -- in the battering of his heart
against his chest, the tingle in his belly, the lingering of all
they'd made.

It was over too quickly for him, but it was enough. He'd said what
he needed to say. Once he'd situated her on the bed beside him, he
kissed her once more and sat up, on the edge of the bed, gathered his
sweatpants, and headed from the room to rest of the house, which
smelled of dust.

His eyes burned as he looked into the sunlight out the airplane's
thick window, the sun streaming in onto his body, warm.

Warm as her hand on his thigh as he'd finished dressing, the
suitcases by the door. Her eyes were still on his, though she said
nothing. The mattress dipped, creaking, as he sat on the edge of it,
in the curve of her where she lay on her side facing him, and her
hand slid up onto his back.

"I'll see you," he'd said, forcing the weakest of smiles, which she
did not return. Instead, she sat up to meet his lips again, and he
expected, when he pulled away, to see tears. There were none, her
head bowed against his chest.

"Try to go back to sleep," he whispered, and angled her back down on
the bed. "I don't want you to get up and watch me go. I want to
remember you here. Like this."

She nodded, settling back down on the pillow, the sweatshirt
swallowing her. Dutifully, she closed her eyes, let out a shaking
breath.

He'd leaned down then, lifting the sweatshirt slightly to get to her
skin, cupped the baby between his hands. He pressed a long kiss to
the center of her belly, rubbed it with his cheek, her hand on the
back of his head, moving through his hair.

Then a kiss on her forehead.

No goodbyes.

He went for the door, Bo rising from his place on the rug to follow
him as he went for the suitcases. He reached down and touched the
dog's soft head, stroked back a long ear.

"Stay," he said softly. "Stay."

The dog whined softly in return, looking uncertain, but he obeyed.

Then he was out the door with his bags to where Victor Hosteen
waited in his pickup to take him to Farmington, the truck rumbling
faintly, puffing out steam into the morning air.

There on the plane, he closed his eyes again, let out a breath. The
picture of her on the bed was burned into his memory, the way she'd
turned her head into the pillow as he'd gone out the door, her hair
curtaining her face.

That was what he'd take with him, to what already felt like light-
years away.

He looked out at the wing, the silver of it slicing through the high
thin air. He pictured the jet-trail, white cloud of motion,
stretching, pulling thin, leaving everything he had and loved on the
burnt ground behind him.
 

****

WASHINGTON DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
OUTSIDE WASHINGTON, D.C.
3:32 p.m.
 
 

"Hey there, Papa."

Mulder turned from where he'd been hefting his suitcase off the
baggage carousel to find Frohike standing behind him, his black
leather jacket and rumpled black jeans and shirt making him look like
an aged Black Sabbath fan just in from a concert. The two-days growth
of beard didn't help the look much. Nor did the fingerless gloves.

Mulder felt his lip curl at the greeting, which Frohike returned, a
wan smile that did not touch his eyes.

"Frohike," Mulder replied, lifting the bag. Frohike reached down and
took the smaller one, threw it over his slight shoulder.

"Come on," the short man said, gesturing toward the door. "The van's
out front. Langley's been circling. Too cheap to park."

"Thanks," Mulder said, and followed him out through the throng of
people from the afternoon flights.

"I hope you don't need to go to your house," Frohike said as they
hit the sliding double doors. "Byers went and checked it out this
morning. There's still a reporter snooping around there. Sonofabitch
can't even make a good attempt at hiding himself, either. Sitting
around in a Channel 8 van right outside the door."

"No," Mulder said as they came out into the bright sunlight. There
was a slight nip in the air still. Still early spring. "I've got
everything I need from the house." He didn't want to say what he
knew, though -- he didn't want to have to go back there, to his and
Scully's house and find it so empty, the box with the white-wood crib
in it leaned up against the wall in the corner of the spare bedroom,
everything still and quiet.

"We're keeping an eye on it for you," Frohike said, as if reading
his thoughts, and then he stepped on the curb, waving his gloved hand
out as a beat-up Volkswagen van came sputtering up along the front of
the airport, weaving in and out of parked cars.

Finally it pulled up beside them, the side door sliding open with a
creak of thin metal on metal. Byers stood there, in his usual suit
and tie, his neatly trimmed beard, his eyes darting to the sides then
settling on Mulder, taking in his face.

"You're looking better," he said, reached out and took the
suitcases, moving them into the back as Mulder and Frohike climbed
into the van and slid the door shut.

"Thanks," Mulder said, settling onto a bench seat that had been
pushed up against the side of the van. He'd forgotten about his face
completely, the cuts on it, the bruising. He rubbed his hand over it
as if to wipe them away. "I'm healing up."

Langley gave him a crooked, friendly smile, then returned his gaze
to the side-view mirror, revving the van up.

"How's Scully?" Byers asked, his soft voice hedged with concern.
Frohike was moving around to take the passenger seat, Langley gunning
the tired engine to merge into the traffic.

"She's okay," Mulder said, just as quietly. "She's getting around
now. The ribs aren't bothering her as much, though she's still
bruised pretty badly."

"And the sprout?" Frohike asked.

Mulder smiled despite himself. "Seems to be doing all right. Scully
says she moves a lot, though I can't feel it yet myself."

The thought blind-sided him, made him ache.

Would he ever be able to feel it? He didn't know how long this would
take, how long he would be gone from her, how much he would miss. The
thought of not being able to feel his daughter's movements beneath
his hand as she grew pained him.

He pushed it away, staring out the window.

"Granger and Skinner are meeting us back at our place in a couple of
hours," Frohike said. "Going over what we've found so far. It's taken
some looking but we've got a few things for you. And we've cooked up
a little something special."

"What is it?"

The three men exchanged looks, and Frohike turned and winked at
Mulder.

"It's a surprise," he said, and he reached over and flicked on the
van's tape player, The Ramones blaring out of the chintzy speaker,
drowning out Mulder's reply.
 

*****
 

UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
TAKOMA PARK, MARYLAND
5:46 p.m.
 

Mulder was on the beat-up, over-stuffed couch, straight from a
thrift store and a recent acquisition, as near as he could figure, a
piece of pizza in his hand, when the knock came at the door to the
Gunmen's lair. Frohike, who'd been fiddling with something on the
nearest computer screen, rose and went to the door, having to stand
on his tip toes to look through the fish-eye peephole.

The other two men, more paranoid than Mulder would ever be (for
which he was thankful), tensed where they were sitting, the soft
sounds of CCR the only sound in the room for a few seconds as Frohike
began undoing the many locks on the door. When he swung the thick
door open onto the alley beyond, Skinner and Granger were standing
there, both in casual clothes, their jackets open.

"Hail, hail, the gang's all here," Mulder said, putting the slice
down and rising, wiping his hands on the legs of his jeans as he
reached a hand toward Skinner and Granger, which they both shook.
Frohike was busying himself with relocking the door after having
scanned the alley, as though the two men might have been followed.

"Mulder," Skinner grunted. "You're looking better. I hope Scully's
made some progress, too."

"She has," Mulder replied, and noted Granger's wan smile. He was
holding his arm at the same guarded angle against his side, looking
stiff.

"Physical therapy today?" he said, and Granger nodded.

"Yeah," the other man replied. "Didn't go so well, but it's the last
for awhile, and I'm glad."

"We haven't got much time," Skinner said, this time to the room.
"We've got to be cleared to have our guns on the plane, so we've got
to get there early. Flight leaves at nine."

Mulder was wearing his Sig again, feeling, for the first time in
awhile, very FBI. He noted Granger was wearing his, as well, as the
younger man carefully took off his jacket and laid it on the couch,
his Ruger shining silver in the light.

"When's your flight?" he asked.

"Same time as yours," Granger replied. "I'm staying the night in
Albuquerque, then catching the puddle-jumper to Farmington in the
morning. I'm going straight there from here. I've already said my
goodbyes."

Mulder nodded, noted the lilt in Granger's voice at the mention of
the parting with Robin. He was sorry for it, and said so.

"It's okay," Granger said, waving him off. "She's coming in a little
while. As soon as she finishes a big case she's working on, a bunch
of tests to get them caught up. I'll see her soon." He turned to
Byers and Langley. "You all said you've got something for me?"

"Yes," Byers said. "But let's go over what we have on Renahan before
we do that." He took a seat at a computer screen, tapped a few keys,
Langley standing beside him. Frohike stood by the door, his arms
crossed over his black shirt, his face serious now, almost grave.
Skinner and Granger sat, Granger on the couch beside Mulder, still
moving slowly. Skinner took the chair Frohike had vacated when he
opened the door.

"We've done some digging through the files at Scotland Yard," Byers
began. "Some on Owen Curran, trying to find some records of John
Fagan's activities, and as you probably have guessed, we didn't find
much."

"He was a slick bastard," Frohike said. "Greased. Nothing stuck to
him at all. There are a lot of pictures of him with Curran, and a few
from before that with some known IRA folks in Belfast, but we
couldn't find a damn thing on him. He was arrested one time for
questioning about the death of a suspected IRA member in Newry, but
the cops didn't seem to care too much about the death of a Provo like
that, so they let him go. Nothing on his background at all. A street
address that he gave them, but it's a fake. We checked it out.
There's no such place."

"Renahan seems to know a little about him," Skinner said. "Said he
was a member of something called 'The Nutting Squad'?"

"Yeah," Langley said, looking up from the screen, the eerie blue of
the screen reflecting in his horn-rims. "Sort of terrorists within
the terrorists. They kept the IRA in line with themselves, knocking
off people who snitched or didn't follow through with what they said
they were going to do. Kept everything nice and tight. Even the IRA
was afraid of them."

"The IRA was afraid of The Path, too," Byers joined in. "I'm not
surprised Fagan went with them when Curran broke off. Anybody in the
Nutting Squad would be perfect for something a little more radical,
and I'm not surprised Fagan didn't want any part of the peace."

"We'll keep digging, see what we can find out," Frohike said. "Our
guess is that he's using some kind of alias, as I think you're aware.
Not that surprising. We'll do what we can to find out what his real
name is, and that will help us possibly figure out who might still be
out there who might have a grudge."

Mulder nodded. "What about this guy Renahan?" he asked. "What did
you find out about him?"

"An absolute genius of an investigator," Byers said, admiration in
his voice. "He got people to talk to him who nobody else could,
apparently, though I shudder to think how he did it. He knew nearly
everything about the IRA. Its members, most of their inner structure.
By the time the peace came he had it all basically mapped out, who
was who and what was what. But, like so much surrounding terrorism,
he couldn't pin many specific terrorist activities on individuals, so
there weren't a lot of arrests when all was said and done. He knows a
lot, though. He should be a big help to you."

"If..." Frohike ventured, and Mulder, Granger and Skinner turned to
look at him.

"'If' what?" Skinner said, shaking his head in confusion.

"If he's not out of his freaking mind at this point," Langley said,
and tapped on the screen. A face appeared on it, a hard looking man
with a beard and eyes like flint. It looked like a mug shot, which,
Mulder realized, it was.

"He was the best Scotland Yard had until about five years ago,"
Byers said. "Then...well, the wheels seemed to come off the wagon.
Right after the peace accord was signed. Started getting picked up
for being drunk in public. Several assaults. One domestic dispute
that turned ugly. He was formally reprimanded several times by
Scotland Yard, put on light duty. Finally they had to get rid of him,
though I think his exemplary record kept him from being ousted
completely. So it's listed as 'medical leave' on the official
records."

"He sounded drunk when I talked to him on the phone," Skinner said,
shaking his head.

"Yeah, that's our guess," Frohike said. "That he's a complete lush
at this point. An embarrassment to the force, but still knows enough
that they want to keep him around. We checked his tax returns -- he's
still drawing pay from Scotland Yard. No family. No nothing. He lives
in a tiny apartment in London. Not much else to him, besides an
occasional arrest for being drunk and disorderly."

"Not much to him except the IRA," Langley said. "He spent his whole
life investigating them, moving back and forth between London and
Belfast and Dublin."

Mulder chewed his lip, considering this. For a man like Renahan,
peace would be difficult to take.

"When war's your whole life," Granger said, breaking his thoughts,
"and the war's over, there's not much left for a soldier to do, is
there?"

They all seemed to consider this for a beat, Mulder still gnawing
his lip, thinking. He knew about causes. He knew about crusades.

He wondered, if he didn't have Scully to ground him, if something
similar might become of him, as well.

"That's what we've got so far," Frohike said, moving around to get
another piece of pizza from the grease-stained box on the edge of a
desk. "We'll have more as you give us more names. We've been checking
Immigration Records, too -- Irish citizens coming in and out of the
U.S. around the times of the first bombing and the second at the
hotel, but nobody's pinged up anything yet. Nobody with IRA ties at
all in the databases."

"Very good," Skinner said, looking grim. "Though it's not a lot to
go on at this point. We've got a lot of work ahead of us, and we
can't be sure this guy Renahan is going to be any fucking help at
all, the state he's in."

"He's the best you're going to get over there," Frohike said,
talking around a mouthful of pizza. "He'll turn up something. I bet
you anything."

"So," Mulder said. "What's this surprise you've got in store for me?"

The Gunmen looked at each other, looking pleased with themselves.

"Surprise?" Skinner said, his brow squinting down.

"Yeah, we've been cooking something up for you." Frohike finished
stuffing the slice in his mouth and went to the corner of the desk
where two laptops sat, two brand-new looking iBooks, their silver-
grey cases shining.

"We did some thinking on how this person knew Scully was leaving the
hotel when she was," Byers said, swiveling toward Mulder. "The only
thing we can figure is that the phone calls you said you and Scully
made the night before, when you decided on the time to pick her up,
were being monitored."

"My cell phone?" Mulder asked. "How the hell would someone know to
do that?"

"Near as we can figure," Langley piped up, "someone must have hacked
into the FBI and gotten a finger on your signal. Found the right
frequency and started listening in."

Mulder turned to Skinner. "You have a record of our cell phone
frequencies?" he asked, and Skinner looked a little uncomfortable.

"Yes," he said. "All the FBI-issued phones' frequencies are
recorded. In case they ever need to be traced. It's a standard
security protocol." He glared at the Gunmen. "Though not one we
publicize."

"Well, someone knew about it," Frohike said. "That's probably how he
figured out where you all would be eating that night, too. I bet you
made the reservations at the Thai place over the phone, too?"

Mulder nodded. "Yes," he said. "From the car. On the way home that
night."

"You're going to have to leave your phone here with us," Byers said.

"We'll get him another one," Skinner said firmly. "And won't record
the frequency."

"We can't risk it," Mulder said, peeved. "Who's to say I wouldn't be
watched somewhere using it and someone could trace the signal right
where I was standing? Who knows who could be watching?"

"My guess," Frohike said gravely, "is that you take a cell phone and
turn it on in Ireland, someone's eventually going to figure out
you're there, that you're snooping around. And if you try to contact
Scully in New Mexico with it, they'll know where she is, and that
she's alive. And she can't use one there, either."

"They don't work on the reservation anyway," Mulder said. "It's a
'no signal' zone. Only the land lines work in the houses."

"Good," Byers said. "They don't know where she is, so they won't
know to go looking there, not that they'll be looking for her at all.
And Mae Curran will be safe, as well."

Mulder nodded to the laptops. "So what are those?" he asked.

Frohike smiled. "Your lifeline, compadre," he said, and laid the
laptop in Mulder's hands.

Mulder looked at it, shook his head, not understanding.

"Satellite modems in both of them," Langley said. "Untraceable. We
thought you might like a way to communicate with Scully without there
being any way for you to be traced. We'll give one to Granger to take
to Scully, and you can take one with you."

Mulder was touched, and it showed on his face. "How do you know it
can't be traced, though?" he asked, feeling some of the Gunmen's
paranoia leaking into him with the news about his phone.

Langley gave a broad, proud smile. "Because they're going to hack
straight into a DoD satellite using a scrambled coder we picked up
off the Chinese," he said, his chest puffed out. "We've already
tested it and the Feds have no clue we're using their signal and--"

"Wait a minute," Skinner said, cutting him off. "Do I want to know
about this?"

"No," Frohike, Byers and Langley said together, looking at him.

Skinner nodded. "That's what I thought," he said under his breath.

Granger laughed from the couch, a pained sound.

Mulder held the laptop in his hands, looked up into Frohike's
smiling face.

"Thank you," he said, feeling warm. He had a way to talk to her. A
safe way. He was overwhelmed with the thought.

"You're welcome," Frohike said, and slapped his arm. He picked up
the other computer and handed it to Granger on the couch as though it
might break. Granger took it and nodded.

"We've got to go, Mulder," Skinner said, his voice quiet, as though
he didn't want to break the moment. "We've got paperwork to do at the
airport."

Mulder looked at the Gunmen, feeling color rise in his face. "I
don't know how to repay you guys for what you're doing for us," he
said.

Frohike waved him off. "Don't worry. It's a slow month anyway. New
JFK theory -- aliens and the Chinese -- but that's about it." He
winked, and Mulder laughed.

Skinner reached a hand toward Granger on the couch. Granger was
rising slowly, and Skinner helped him the rest of the way up.

"Let's go," Skinner said, and he looked at the Gunmen. "Keep in
touch with anything you've got. I'll call from a land line when we
get to Belfast, tell you where we are."

"We'll wait for your call," Frohike said, undoing the locks.

Mulder turned to look at them, the computer under his arm.

"Good luck," Byers said, nodding grimly.

"Thanks," Mulder replied, and Frohike let him and Skinner and
Granger out into the alley, into the falling night.
 

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

OUTSIDE CUSHENDUN, ANTRIM COAST
NORTHERN IRELAND, U.K.
8:04 p.m.
 
 

Following the Antrim Coast Road, the smell of sea salt in the chilly
night air from the North Channel coming in through the car window,
the young man drove slowly along the familiar road, moving away from
the lights of quiet village of Cushendun, the wide bay, the deserted
beach, toward the hilly country on the outskirts. It was dark as
pitch, hardly any lights on. Even when he did pass a house set far
off the road, or a farm, there were no lights, and he felt for a
moment as if he'd dropped off the edge of the world, into the cold
sea beyond.

Across the Channel, only fourteen miles away, a lighthouse on the
coast of Scotland glinted at him, a beacon of light in the darkness.
He found his eye drawn to it and he wove onto a small side road, this
one more narrow, but wide enough for his tiny car, its engine small
and whining, a loner from a friend in Belfast. He hadn't gotten
around to getting his own car, though the money was there. He didn't
feel much need to leave the city, preferring the quiet of his rented
flat, the sound of music in the pubs, the company of his few friends.

But tonight he'd left the city, travelling north and east, toward
the coast, up through Carrickfergus, through Larne, past the
lighthouse at Black Head, past Glenarm Castle and up further as the
night had fallen.

It was not an errand he wanted to make, but make it he did. He
always came when called, and he was surprised the call had not come
sooner than this.

Up into the nothingness of the night, the smell of the sea
retreating to the smell of green, down to a smaller road, which he
followed for some time. Finally the high stone archway came into view
and he passed beneath it, going up the long road that led to the
estate.

The lights were on out front, though they did little to illuminate
the immensity of the mansion, the stone of its walls seeming to
absorb the light.

A servant came down from the heavy, huge door, hurrying to the
driver's side and opening the door with a practiced, smooth hand.

"How was your drive, Mr. Collin?" the man asked politely, with a
smile that reminded the young Mr. Collin of wax.

"Good enough," he replied, stepping out.

"Very good, sir," the man said, closing the door behind him. "She's
waiting in the study for you. A late supper is waiting, as well."

The young man said nothing, only entered the cavernous house,
leaving the man and the night chill behind.

Through the huge foyer, the walls lined with paintings and hung with
tapestries of rich red and gold. There was a huge stone staircase
that wound its way up to the second floor, and then the third beyond
it, and he followed it up, into a corridor lined with a thick,
ancient rug. Lights that looked like lamps were set into the wall,
and they had once been lamps, hundreds of years ago.

There was a closed door to his left, another to his right. He walked
past them toward an open door at the end of the corridor where he
could see a fire burning in a fireplace. A large fire at the end of
the large room.

He stopped by the doorway, gave the massive wooden door a light
knock, steeling himself.

"Come in, Christie," came a faint voice. "Come in."

He entered the dimly lit room, his eyes scanning the antique
furniture, the chairs by the fire. There was a large armchair there,
surrounded by couches and few small tables. He could smell food
coming from one of the tables, his eyes falling on the silver tray.

And in front of it, a wheelchair. Facing the fire, though as he
entered the room, there was a whining of a motor and the chair turned
slowly around to face him.

"Sit," the figure in the chair said, the face hidden by shadows.
"Eat. You must be hungry after such a long drive."

The wheelchair's motor whined again, and the chair moved into the
dim circle of light thrown by a lamp, revealing the face.

She was an ancient woman, her face as frail as her voice. Her hair
was white as snow and perfectly set around her lined face. To
Christie, she looked like a candle, thin and white and her skin lined
and dripping off of her like melted wax. She wore a prim black dress
made of velvet, and a great jeweled broach at her thin throat. Her
black shoes shone in the lamp light, never having touched the floor.

Her eyes shone in her alabaster face, bright and blue and more alive
than the rest of her combined. A small smile played on her nearly
lipless mouth, her false, too straight teeth showing and making her
head look like a skull capped with neat, neat white.

Christie moved toward the chair next to the table with the food,
pushing up the sleeves of his black sweater, as the room was far too
hot, the walls bathed with the dance of shadows from the flames.

"Don't you have a kiss for your grandmother first, Christie?" came
the slightly wheezing voice. "A little kiss?"

He stopped, turned and went toward the woman in the chair slowly.
His feet felt like lead as he did it, but he reached the chair,
leaned down and moved to touch his mouth to her dry cheek.

She turned her face as he did so, more quickly than she should have
been able to, and her mouth touched his for the briefest instant.

He pulled back as if her mouth had given him an electric shock, but
her claw-like hand, usually on the armrest by the controls for the
chair and a small boxed remote, reached up and touched the back of
his close-cropped hair, stroking softly.

"Such a good boy," she whispered. "A good, good boy."

Christie smiled wanly and moved backwards toward the chair, sitting
down heavily. He lifted the silver lid from the silver tray, a half a
chicken greeting him, some potatoes. He dug into the meal as though
he'd never eaten before, his eyes down.

"I'm surprised you haven't come back to see me since you returned
from the States," her breathy voice said, and the wheelchair whined a
bit closer. "I'm surprised I had to call for you like I did."

"Just been busy," he said, tearing into the chicken with the sharp
knife. "I was going to come soon enough."

He glanced up into her face, and she was smiling that same toothy
smile.

"You did wonderful work there in Washington, Christie," she said.
"Wonderful work."

He looked back down at the food, took a bite. "Thank you," he said
softly.

"And do you know what has come to me?" she said, her voice rising
slightly. "Wonderful news. I've been told that it was this Scully who
was the one who killed my John."

Christie stopped with the fork moving to his mouth, meeting his
grandmother's gaze. "Is that so?" he said.

"Yes," she said, nodding, her head seeming too large for her thin,
bird-like neck. "And a news report in the States reported she was
pregnant, as well." She smiled again.

He swallowed, the news hitting him in the gut. "That's good news,
too, is it?" he said, chewing slowly.

"Yes, it is," the old woman said. "More of a blow to her husband.
More for her to lose. Wonderful news."

Christie reached for the goblet of water on the tray, took a drink.
"Well," he began carefully. "If that Scully was the one who killed
John, there's no need to go after the other, is there then?"

But the old woman shook her head.

"I want Curran dead, as well," she wisped. "Still. She betrayed her
brother. She betrayed John. She betrayed the Cause."

He swallowed again, unable to meet his grandmother's gaze.

"Don't you agree, Christie?" she asked faintly.

"Aye, I suppose," he said quietly, putting down his knife and fork.

"You 'suppose'?" she asked, and she tutted softly. "Christie, don't
tell me your father was right about you and that your heart wouldn't
be in this all the way."

He felt heat rising up in his cheeks at the mention of his father. A
picture of a stern face entered his mind, the memory of shouting. A
hand across his face.

"No," he said, his chin rising. "My heart is in it."

The old woman smiled. "Good," she said, the word coming out slow and
soft.

The fire crackled in the fireplace, a log falling. The fireplace
bled even more heat into the room, a flash of light.

"Mae Curran entered the U.S. on February 22nd," the old woman
continued. "She brought a baby with her and Owen Curran's son through
U.S. Customs in Los Angeles. She's travelling under the name 'Porter'
now. Her husband was killed by the bomb in Australia. We've checked
the wire reports from there. She apparently fled to the States."

Christie nodded. "I see," he said noncommitedly, but his heart sank.
He didn't relish returning to the States. Not ever again.

And all the children involved now. The dead baby already...

"We're looking for her there. We think she might have tried to find
this Scully again, so we're trying to find this man Mulder, Scully's
partner, and see if he can lead us to her. Perhaps the FBI has gotten
involved. If so, it shouldn't be too hard to find her. Given
the...resources...we're using."

Christie sniffed, rubbed his mouth with a napkin. "No," he said
softly. "I suppose not."

The wheelchair whined as the chair slid closer across the thick
carpet, and Christie sat up a little straighter as she moved beside
him, reaching her hand out to touch his arm.

"I know what you're thinking, Christie," she said softly, stroking
his arm. "All the time in the Army and now this. But it will be over
soon enough. We're moving quickly. We'll find her soon. So soon..."

Her hand was cold where it touched the skin of his arm. The chicken
suddenly smelled too heavy, too much like cooked meat. He swallowed
down a wave of nausea as she lifted his hand, rubbed it against her
cheek.

Heat washed over him, the fire seeming to flare. He couldn't help
it. He closed his eyes as she brought his fingers to her cold, pale
lips for another arid kiss.
 
 

*************
 

END OF CHAPTER 9 AND PART 2. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 10 AND PART 3.