From: Brandon Ray <publius@avalon.net>
Date: Fri, 14 Sep 2001 08:50:17 -0500
Subject: REV:  Mortal Stakes
Source: revision

===========
Chapter Nine
===========

Police Headquarters
Alexandria, Virginia
Wednesday, August 9, 2000
9:54 p.m.

Mulder was alone in the interrogation room now.  He'd been
alone for a good twenty minutes.

It hadn't started as an interrogation.  At least, not
officially.  Mulder had known better, of course.  He knew
from the instant he first saw the body lying on his bed that
afternoon that he would be the primary suspect.  But the
locals had to play it out, even knowing that he was an FBI
agent, and thereby well aware of all the tricks of the
trade.

So it had started slow and easy -- almost collegial.  The
detective sitting in the chair backwards, forearms resting
on the back of the chair.  Tell us what happened, Agent
Mulder.  Just us guys here.  Just us cops.  Tell us how a
man you claim you don't know came to be lying in your bed
with an ice pick jammed into his throat.  Your ice pick.
From your kitchen.  Just a simple statement's all we need to
wrap this up, and we can all go home.

Yeah, right.

They'd separated him from Scully early in the questioning,
taking her off to who knows where, and that made him
jittery.  He knew why they'd done it, of course.  They
wanted to take his story and Scully's separately, see where
they matched, and where they didn't.  They wanted to see if
they could break one or the other of them down.  So far,
Mulder had told them the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but the truth -- and since they hadn't come for him with a
pair of handcuffs, he presumed Scully hadn't told them
anything that they considered incriminating, either.

Well, maybe not the *whole* truth.  He hadn't mentioned the
CD he'd found.  Frohike had it now, so even if they decided
to search him, they wouldn't find it.  And something told
him it might be important.  Too important to turn over to a
bunch of local cops.

Skinner had been there, too, early in the process.  Mulder
didn't know if he was still in the building, but he hadn't
seen him in a couple of hours.  The A.D.'s parting words
before leaving the room had been to advise Mulder to think
about calling a lawyer.  How encouraging.

Mulder knew he could bring the game to an end at any time,
simply by insisting that they either release him or charge
him.  He wasn't quite ready to force the issue, though; he
was pretty sure where that demand would lead.

So for the past twenty minutes he'd been left alone -- and
that, too, was part of the routine.  They'd left him alone
in this bare, cold interrogation room, giving him some time
to think things over.  Giving him some time to consider his
position.  Giving him some time to sweat.  He glanced once
again at the large mirror on the far side of the room, and
wondered how many people were watching him from the other
side of the glass.

That was one good thing about being in police custody, he
thought.  You didn't have to worry about whether you were
paranoid.  Everyone really *was* out to get you.

The door abruptly opened, and Detective Rogers came back
into the room.  He was at least a head shorter than Mulder,
and overweight.  He was in his mid-40s, with long, curly
brown hair that looked like it belonged in the 1970s,
fringed with gray.  His shirt was a little too small, and
his tie was too wide and a little too long.  Mulder watched
him in silence as he shut the door, then came to the
conference table and took his seat across from him.  No more
casual, good ol' boy body language, Mulder noted.  Arms
crossed and resting on the table, grim expression on the
face.

"So," Rogers said.  "You got anything you want to add?"

Mulder shook his head.  "I've already told you everything,"
he said.  "I hadn't been in my apartment since early
Saturday morning.  I walked in this afternoon, and there he
was.  And he was already dead when I found him.  Looked like
he'd been dead for a while."

"How long is a while?"  Not the first time he'd asked that
question.  Not even the second.  It was all part of the
game.  Ask the same questions, over and over, and see if the
answers change.

"A couple of hours."  Mulder shrugged.  "Maybe three."

"Uh huh."  The man picked up a pencil off the table and
tapped the point against his teeth.  "Here's the problem,
*Agent* Mulder.  I've been out there racking my brain,
talking it over with the other detectives, and none of us
can come up with a reason why a total stranger would pick
your bed to be murdered in.  Or why his assailant -- if the
assailant wasn't you -- would choose to use one of your
household implements to do it."

"I don't understand it either," Mulder admitted.  "But I'm
in law enforcement.  As I'm sure you know --"

"Yeah, yeah," Rogers interrupted with a wave of the hand.
"We all make enemies along the way, don't we?"  He nodded
wisely.  "So I suppose your theory is that someone who
doesn't like you -- which I understand is quite a list --
was laying in wait.  Then this other guy comes along, for
whatever reason -- maybe a burglary, although we didn't find
any burglar's tools in the apartment, and your front door
showed no sign of having been jimmied.  This unnamed enemy
of yours jumps him, there's a struggle, and that was all she
wrote.  That about it?"

"I suppose," Mulder said.  The story sound weak.  It sounded
very, very weak.  Of course, the detective wasn't trying to
make it sound plausible.  He was *looking* for weakness.
Mulder had to keep that in mind.

"Well, I don't suppose," Rogers said.  He set the pencil
down and leaned forward, hands pressed down on the table.
Yep.  The gloves were coming off.  "Here's what I suppose,
*Agent* Mulder.  I suppose that you really did stay at the
Regis for a few days with your partner, like you told us.
We already checked that out, and we know when you arrived
and when you left.  Then I suppose that this morning your
partner went off to work, and you went out for the day.
Where you went, we don't know yet, but then you came back to
your place earlier than expected, to find your girlfriend,
Agent *Dana*, fucking another man, in your very own bed no
less."  

Mulder shut his eyes for a moment, and his hands gripped the
table as he savagely suppressed memories of Phoebe's
betrayal, so many years ago.  He had to control himself; he
had to stay calm.  This was Scully, he reminded himself, not
Phoebe.  The man was just trying to get his goat.  He was
trying to diminish Scully in Mulder's eyes, discounting her
professional status by using her first name, making
insinuations about her fidelity and invading their private
space.  He wanted to make Mulder lose his temper and say
something stupid --

"I think there was a fight," the detective went on, hurling
the words across the table.  "I think there was a fight, and
you wound up with the ice pick in your hand.  I think you
stuck it in this guy's throat.  I think Agent Dana had a
shit fit afterwards, brought on by having had a man yanked
off of her and murdered in front of her eyes, and you took
her all the way to the Georgetown E.R., to try to throw us
off the scent -- and by the time she was done there, you'd
persuaded her to help you cover this up."  

He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his
chest.  "I also think that when we get the report back from
NCIC, the fingerprints on that ice pick are going to be
yours.  I think that when we finally track down the victim's
identity, it'll turn out to be somebody your partner knows
-- maybe someone *you* know, as well.  I even think that
when we analyze the vaginal secretions on the outside of
that rubber, they're going to match up with the specimens
that we're going to take from Agent Dana.  And then *her*
tit is going to be in a wringer, too, for hindering a murder
investigation.  How does that grab you, *Agent* Mulder?"

"None of it is true," Mulder said, his voice very low.  He
wanted to punch the man for talking about Scully that way.
But it wouldn't help, and he knew it.  He could almost hear
Scully's voice in his ear, holding him back, telling him to
stay calm.

"Well, we'll just have to see about that," Rogers said.
"Right now, I think you've fucked up just about as bad as
it's possible for a guy to fuck up, and I think it's time
you were a little more forthcoming.  If you tell us what we
want to know, right now, maybe the D.A. will be a little
understanding -- and maybe Agent Dana will get let off the
hook.  If you wait until those lab tests are done, it'll be
too late."

There was a knock on the door, and Rogers looked up,
surprised.  The door swung open, and a man Mulder hadn't
seen before stuck his head in.  

"Rogers," the man said.  "Out here a minute."

Rogers nodded, and gave Mulder a look that said, //This
isn't over.//  Then he rose to his feet and left the room.
This time the door was left open a crack, and Mulder could
hear voices out in the squad room -- but not clearly enough
to make out what was being said.  

Hell with it.  They were going to charge him; there was no
way out of it.  The case against him was too compelling.  At
least those lab results would eventually exonerate Scully --
but not before she went through the humiliation of having
the specimen collected.  She was also going to be forced to
admit -- maybe in open court, under hostile questioning from
a prosecutor -- that for the second time in her career she'd
become romantically involved with a fellow agent.  That
she'd been fucking her partner.  Shit.  

And on top of all that, like the cherry on an ice cream
sundae, he was probably going to have to get the Gunmen
involved to get *himself* cleared.  They were going to just
love that, especially Langly --

The door opened again, and once more Rogers entered the
room.  But this time, his expression was livid.  The man
who'd summoned him was partly visible over his shoulder, and
he didn't look very happy either.

"You," Rogers said.  He shook his head, the anger manifest
on his face and in his body language.  He jerked his thumb
over his shoulder.  "You," he repeated.  "Outta here."

"What?"  Mulder shook his head.  Were they setting him free?

"Outta here!" Rogers all but shouted.  "Now!"  He turned and
stalked out of the room, leaving Mulder alone again.

Mulder stared at the open door for a moment, his mouth
hanging open.  What the hell?  At last he shook himself, and
struggled to his feet.  His crutches were leaning in the
corner behind the interrogator's chair.  After some careful
maneuvering he was able to reach them without falling down.
A moment later, he was in the corridor.

Scully was waiting for him there.  She looked tired and
confused, but she managed a smile when she saw him, and she
walked over and gave him a quick hug.

"Let's get out of here," she said.

"We're leaving?"  He blinked down at her stupidly.  "What
happened?"

"I don't know," she said.  "Detective Halloway was pulled
out of the room I was in about ten minutes ago, and they
gave me my gun back and told me to wait here.  Then you came
out."  The two of them started making their way down the
hall.

"I don't get it," Mulder said.  "Not that I'm objecting, but
--"

They rounded a corner, and there was Rogers again, leaning
against the wall, his arms folded across his chest and an
expression of sheer rage on his face.  Mulder and Scully
paused in mid step, and for a moment or two, Rogers simply
stared at them.  At last, he spoke.

"You better watch your ass, Mulder.  You may have some
powerful friends, but they won't always be there to pull
your nuts out of the fire.  And there's no statute of
limitations on murder."  He pushed himself off the wall,
brushed by the two agents, and was gone.

"'Powerful friends'?" Mulder said.  "What the hell is he
talking about?"

"I don't know," Scully replied.  "It almost sounded like he
thinks someone fixed this for us."

"No," Mulder said, shaking his head.  "This isn't a parking
ticket.  You don't just pick up the phone and cancel a
murder invest ...."  His voice trailed off; suddenly there
was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"There are *some* people we know who have the power to do
that," Scully said, very softly.  "But then the question
becomes *why* they would help us that way."

Mulder shook his head again.  Glancing around, he realized
that they were still standing in the hallway of the
Alexandria police station.  "Let's get out the hell out of
here," he said.  "Before they change their minds.  We can
talk about it later."  

Scully nodded, and a couple of minutes later they were
outside in the sweltering heat.  Mulder's apartment wasn't
very far from the police station, but there was no way he
was walking.  Not tonight.  Not in this weather, with his
broken ankle.  He was just fumbling for his cell phone,
intending to call a cab, when a black sedan pulled up to the
curb in front of them.  Mulder shuffled a step back, pulling
Scully with him --but then the front passenger side window
slid down, and they heard a familiar voice coming from
inside.

"Get in, agents.  I'll run you home."

A.D. Skinner.

Mulder blinked, but his capacity to be surprised had already
been pretty much depleted, and so he allowed Scully to open
the back door, help him into the car and slide in next to
him.  They waited in silence as Skinner threw the car into
gear and pulled away from the curb.

"Sir?" Mulder said at last.  "You haven't been sitting out
here all evening, have you?"  It seemed immensely unlikely
... but how else could Skinner have been there waiting for
them?

"No, Agent Mulder."  The A.D. was quiet for a moment, long
enough that Mulder was beginning to wonder if he was going
to go on.  Then:  "I went home after I spoke with you and
Agent Scully.  About forty minutes ago, I received a call
advising me that you'd be needing a lift home from the
police station."  Once more he fell silent.  This time, he
did not continue.

"A call from who?" Scully asked at last.  Skinner did not
reply.  She persisted, "Sir?  Who called you?  How did they
know?  *We* didn't know until a few minutes ago."  Still
their boss remained silent, as he steered the car through
the darkened streets of Alexandria.  "Sir?"

"Agent Scully, I don't think this is the time or the place
to discuss this."  

In the dim illumination of the dashboard, Mulder could see
the A.D.'s jaw clenching and unclenching.  Scully stirred
next to him, apparently intending to continue the
discussion, but he took her hand and gave it a quick
squeeze.  //Not now.//  She let out a soft huff of
exasperation, then nodded and settled back into her seat.

It took less than ten minutes to arrive at Mulder's
apartment building.  Scully was out of the car almost before
it had stopped moving, then turned to help Mulder extricate
himself.  At last they were standing on the curb next to the
car.  Once again, the front passenger side window slid down.

"Agent Scully," the A.D. said, "I assume you'll want to help
Agent Mulder get upstairs.  Do you need any assistance?  Or
shall I wait down here for you?"

"N - no," she replied, after the barest hesitation.  "I can
manage."  More firmly:  "And you don't need to wait.  I'll
be staying here tonight."

Skinner just looked at her for a minute, his features
impossible to read in the low lighting.  He didn't seem
surprised by her statement, Mulder thought.  But then, the
A.D. never seemed surprised by anything.  He wondered how
long their boss had known about their relationship.

"Very well, Agent Scully," the other man said.  "I expect to
see you both in my office at ten o'clock tomorrow morning."
The window slid back up, then the car pulled away from the
curb and was gone.

#          #          #

Time and location unknown

It has been a good day.  A really, really good day.

Viola and Cesario are together on the bed, with the TV
muttering in the background.  Cesario has the laptop perched
on her knees, putting the finishing touches on the email
they're going to send.

Viola admits, at least in her own mind, to a tinge of
jealousy at the excitement Cesario had today.  The encounter
with the stranger, the thrill of realizing that he was an
enemy rather than just a bystander, then maneuvering him,
manipulating him, //pushing// him ... the sex ... the blood
... the death ....  God, it's what they both live for.  So
yes, she's jealous, just a bit.

But mostly she's just excited.  She wishes she could have
been there, but hearing Cesario tell her about it was almost
as good.  And of course, there will be other opportunities
in the future.

In the *near* future.

She and Cesario discussed the possibility that the incident
in Alexandria might upset their plans, but neither of them
are really worried.  Mulder is so resilient.  They know
he'll slip out of the problem they've left for him
*somehow*.  And right now, it just adds to the deliciousness
of the tease.

Of greater concern is Viola's encounter with the hostile
presence in Scully's apartment.  That was truly troubling.
They know how to deal with a corporeal threat -- the man in
Mulder's apartment is a prime example.  They've done this
before, many times.  But this other ....

She squirms a little, pushing the disturbing thought away
and rubbing her body against her partner's, silently urging
her to finish the email.  Cesario giggles and squirms back,
her fingers continuing to fly across the keyboard.  A few
more keystrokes and she's done.  She clicks on SAVE -- this
message is not ready to send; not yet -- closes the laptop,
sets it carefully aside on the bedside table, and takes
Viola in her arms.  For a long minute, they share a deep,
erotic kiss -- a kiss that leaves both of them breathless.

And Viola cannot resist.  She has to ask the question again,
just so she can hear the answer.  It's one of their oldest
games -- a game they've played as long as either of them can
recall.  It's almost like a catechism by now.  She trails
her lips along Cesario's jaw, all the way back to her ear,
brushing aside her shoulder length, brown hair, and
whispers, "So tell me again.  Tell me why you were so sure
that guy was an enemy.  Tell me why you were so sure that he
had to die."

Cesario breaks into giggles again, and tightens her embrace
of Viola.  They roll back and forth together for a moment, a
good natured tussle, full of giggles and outright laughter,
that ends with Cesario stretched out on top, her mouth only
centimeters from Viola's lips.  Her breath is hot and moist,
and she reaches out and runs her tongue along Viola's upper
lip.  And then they both speak in unison, delivering the
punch line they've used so many times in the past.

"We just knew."

==========END CHAPTER NINE==========

===========
Chapter Ten
===========

Office of Assistant Director Skinner
FBI Headquarters
Thursday, August 10, 2000
10:05 a.m.

Scully sat in her usual chair in Skinner's office, with
Mulder sitting next to her.  The A.D. wasn't present,
though; Kimberly had told them that he was running late, but
that they should go on in and sit down.

Scully suppressed a yawn as she thought about what had
happened the day before.  She and Mulder hadn't got to bed
for more than two hours after returning to his apartment.
The Alexandria police had done a thorough job of ransacking
the place, looking for evidence, and it had taken that long
for enough order to be restored for Scully to feel
comfortable.

In her anxiety to get Mulder someplace private, so that they
could both relax a bit, she'd also forgotten that he didn't
have an air conditioner, and that his apartment would
therefore be hot as hell.  Fortunately, they'd both been so
tired that it made little difference.  Once Scully got the
bed made, they'd tumbled into it and fallen fast asleep
within minutes.

Nevertheless, she was tired.  She suspected that Mulder was,
too, although he was trying not to show it.  The events of
the previous day had come fast and furious, and they'd left
Scully emotionally drained.  And she had an uneasy feeling
that today wasn't going to be much better.

The side door opened, and Skinner stepped into the room.
Through the door she had a glimpse of A.D. Kersh, who was
rumored to be in line for the Deputy Director vacancy
expected to open up in the next few months.  Scully
shuddered at the memory of their tenure under Kersh.  Thank
God that was over.  For all his faults, Skinner stood head
and shoulders above the other man.  In truth, Scully didn't
really want a supervisor; she just wanted to work with
Mulder, and have as little interference from others as was
humanly possible.  But if she had to have a boss, Skinner
would be her choice.  At least he was a known quantity.

Her mind drifted back to the car ride to Mulder's, the night
before.  She hadn't expected the A.D. to show up and offer
them a ride, but when he did, she had to admit that she
wasn't surprised to find him less than forthcoming as to how
he happened to be there.  

Skinner had always been an enigma to her, almost from their
first meeting.  Sometimes he was forceful and took no
nonsense in helping his employees, as he had been in dealing
with Agent Griggs, for example.  Scully appreciated that;
she'd always felt that loyalty was a two way street, and in
her experience very few managers really shared that opinion,
and of those who did, most paid it only lip service.  But
she was fairly confident that Skinner was on their side --
at least, most of the time.

But he did have a secretive part to his nature, and that
made her uneasy.  It had been clear from the very beginning
of her work on the X-Files that he sometimes knew more about
what was going on than he let on.  Mulder had also told her
of Skinner's frank admission, during the time when she lay
comatose after her first abduction, that he was afraid to
delve too deeply into the paranormal.  She'd wondered at the
time whether Mulder was hinting that he believed that she
was afraid, too, and she had to admit there was at least
some truth in the thought, whether that was Mulder's
intention or not.

And she vividly remembered the A.D.'s deathbed confession,
when he'd been infected by the nanites -- and her own bitter
disappointment and anger when he seemed to back off from
those sentiments a few weeks later, after he was cured.

"Agents, I'm sorry to be late."  Skinner's words drew her
out of her introspection.  He nodded briefly at her partner.
 "Agent Mulder, I appreciate your willingness to come in
today, given your recent injury."

"I was about ready to return to duty, sir," Mulder replied.
His eyes flickered, and Scully knew he was resisting the
urge to glance at her.  "Desk duty, that is."

Skinner nodded, then made eye contact with Scully.  "The
main reason I asked to see you today was to find out if
there was anything about the dead man in Agent Mulder's
apartment that you hadn't seen fit to share with the
Alexandria police."

Scully remained silent, while keeping her gaze steadily on
Skinner.  Most particularly, she didn't want to look at
Mulder.  She knew he'd withheld information from the police
about the CD he'd found, and although they'd talked at
breakfast over whether to tell their boss about it, she
didn't know what decision he'd reached.  They also hadn't
told anyone that one of the victims of the Watergate fire
was a Consortium scientist -- and that had been *her*
decision.  She couldn't keep herself from shuddering as she
remembered.  That face, and the bright, white light --

"Agents, I'm trying to be helpful to you, but you're making
it very difficult."  The A.D.'s tone now was one of
annoyance.  "I feel that I'm entitled to some sort of
explanation when I'm called away from my evening plans
because two of my employees are the subjects of a murder
investigation."

"We're always grateful for your assistance, sir," Mulder
replied, his own voice bland.  "The ride home last night was
much appreciated."  He paused, then added, "Was there
something you did for us last night beyond that?  Something
we should be aware of?"

"I'll ask the questions here, Agent Mulder," the older man
snapped.  "I've seen the interrogation reports the locals
filed.  Now I want to know if there's anything either of you
knows that isn't in those reports."

"Did you see the morning paper, sir?" Mulder asked.  "The
Washington Times had a story on page A-12 about a man's body
being found in an alley in Alexandria.  Pretty short, but a
good read."  He smirked, and added, "An interesting work of
fiction, wouldn't you say, Agent Scully?"

"I saw the story, Agent Mulder."  Skinner took off his
glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, and Scully took
the opportunity to shoot Mulder a look of warning.  Then the
A.D. sighed, and returned his glasses to their proper
position, and steepled his fingers in front of him.
"Agents, I don't think there's any great mystery as to how
the charges that were most certainly about to be filed
against you were dropped.  Do we really need to go into
this?"

Scully could almost feel Skinner's frustration -- but she
also knew how stubborn Mulder could be.  She judged it was
time to cut this meeting short, before the two men started
yelling at each other.  The A.D. was going to insist, and
her partner was going to dig in his heels --

"The point, sir," Mulder said, "is that we still don't know
the identity of the dead man, and we don't know who killed
him, or why they did it.  The person who called you last
night wouldn't have happened to mention that, would they?"

"Agent Mulder --"

"You did say you *received* a call, didn't you?" Mulder went
on.  "You didn't *place* that call, did you, sir?"

"Sir," Scully said, jumping in before the A.D. had a chance
to respond, "Agent Mulder and I do have a few things we want
to look into, but we think it would be better for the moment
to keep them to ourselves."  She glanced at the 'No Smoking'
sign on his desk.  It had been the better part of a year
since she'd had any reason to suspect that the Smoker, or
any of his people, had been in this office, but she knew
Skinner would get the point.  

But dammit, Mulder was right.  They really couldn't be sure
who Skinner was talking to, or what he was telling them.
Last night in the car she'd been suspicious, but she'd also
been extremely tired, and was coming down off an entire
series of emotionally charged experiences.  This morning,
things looked better -- but they still couldn't be sure.
They couldn't afford to trust anyone but each other.  And so
she nodded to herself, and concluded, "As you said last
night, this isn't really the time or place to be discussing
such things."

There was a long silence, as Skinner stared first at Scully,
then at Mulder, and finally back at Scully again.  At last
he shook his head, and dismissed them without further
discussion.

#          #          #

Residence of Dana Scully
11:22 a.m.

Scully's cell phone rang just as she pulled into her parking
place.  She swore under her breath, dug it from her pocket,
and punched CONNECT.

"Scully."

"Agent Scully, this is Assistant Director Skinner."  There
was a brief silence, and Scully heard another voice in the
background.  She thought it was Kimberly's, but she couldn't
be sure.  Then:  "I've just received a call from the ATF.
They believe they've identified those responsible for the
Watergate bombing, and they've obtained a warrant.  They
intend to serve this warrant later this afternoon, and the
Bureau has been requested to provide medical and logistical
support."

"Medical support?"

"I can't discuss the matter in any detail over an unsecured
line," the A.D. replied.  "All I can tell you is that ATF
has reason to believe they may face armed resistance, and
they have chosen to go with dynamic entry as the means of
executing this warrant.  I've decided to assign you as part
of the Bureau's contribution to the task force."

"Me?"  Scully gripped her phone a little tighter.  "Sir,
Agent Griggs has made it quite clear --"

"I'm aware of Agent Griggs' attitude, Agent Scully."
Skinner's voice was flat and matter-of-fact.  "However, he
does not dictate the disposition of the Bureau's resources.
You're one of the best I've got, and I will not send the
second best when you are available."  Brief pause.  Then, in
a more human tone of voice:  "Besides, you know as well as I
do that the only cure for a situation like this is to push
back.  Hard.  Your presence on the task force will
demonstrate that you have the Bureau's continued confidence
-- and that you're not running away from the problem."

"Yes, sir."  She knew that Skinner was right.  She'd learned
that lesson all the way back in medical school, and it had
been reinforced repeatedly down through the years.  Law
enforcement was a tough field, and officers -- especially
female officers -- were expected to be assertive and
uncompromising.  "Where do I report, and when?"

"The briefing is scheduled for 1:30."  Now the man was
professional and businesslike once again.  It was as if the
brief moment of personal contact had never happened.  "At
the Treasury Department.  FYI, there will be five others
from the Bureau in the medical unit.  I'm designating you
ASAC for the duration of the operation.  Do you have any
questions?"

"No, sir."  She glanced at her watch.  Nearly two hours.
Plenty of time.  "I'll be there."  The connection was
broken, as Skinner hung up without further comment.

Scully sat in her car for a moment, trying to get her
thoughts in order.  She'd been aware from television and
newspaper reports that the investigation was ongoing, but
she hadn't known that they were this close to a solution.
Of course, she hadn't had any direct contact with the
investigation since Saturday morning, having spent most of
the intervening time either entertaining Mulder, or down in
Quantico doing autopsies.

As had so often happened in the past, she found herself
confused by Skinner's behavior.  Only an hour ago he'd been
growling at her and Mulder in his office -- and Scully had
to admit that if she'd been in his place, she would have
been just as upset as the A.D. had been.  Of course, *he'd*
also withheld information from *them* that he rightly should
have shared ....

And now here he was, once again backing her up without
question or hesitation.  The newspaper story that had been
attributed to her was pretty damning, but it didn't seem to
have occurred to Skinner to doubt her assurance that she'd
had nothing to do with it.  She wondered if he'd even
bothered to inform Agent Griggs that she was going to be
part of the Bureau's team?  Or that she would actually be in
*charge* of the medical unit?  She felt an unworthy tingle
run down her spine, as she allowed herself to imagine the
look on the ATF man's face when he found out --

But there was no time for that now.  She'd come here to
collect her autopsy materials, so she could spend the
afternoon finishing her reports.  There wasn't going to be
time for that now, but as long as she was here, she might as
well pick them up.  She also needed to call Mulder, who was
waiting for her back at the Hoover, and let him know that
she wouldn't be free for lunch after all.  She climbed from
her car, hitting speed dial number one on her cell phone as
she did so.  It was answered on the second ring.

"Mulder, it's me," she said.  She smiled a little, knowing
that no one else in the world could begin a phone
conversation that way, and be sure that Mulder would know
who was calling.

"Yeah, Scully," he said.  "What's taking you so long?"

"Skinner called," she replied.  "I'm afraid I'm going to
have miss our lunch date.  There's been a break in the
Watergate case, and I've been assigned to work on it."  She
gave a synopsis of the A.D.'s phone call.

"Really?"  She could hear the amusement in her partner's
voice.  He was no more fond of the ATF man than she was, and
she knew that Mulder would quickly work out why Skinner had
done this.  "Well, you watch your back, Scully.  Some of
those ATF guys are kinda trigger happy.  You got any idea
when you'll be free?"

"No," she said, trotting up the steps to her building.  She
paused, her hand on the front door.  "I'm at my apartment
now.  I'm just going to grab those files and then head over
to Treasury.  I'll be in touch when I can."

"Okay."  She heard papers rustling.  "By the way, I talked
to the guys.  So far they haven't found anything useful."
She realized that he'd switched topics, and was talking
about the CD.  "They did provide me with a play list,
though.  A bunch of rock tunes from the 70s and 80s.  I
can't see a connection so far, but most of them are about
girls, one way or another.  Except for Iron Butterfly's 'In
the Garden of Eden'.  And Frohike said they pulled some
prints, but there's no match in the NCIC."  He chuckled.  "I
didn't ask him how he knew that."

"Wise move, Agent Mulder," she said with a smile.  "I'll
talk to you later."  

"Come back with your shield or on it."  And the connection
was broken.

Scully opened the door, stepped into the first floor hallway
of her building -- and froze.  The door to her apartment, a
few feet down the hall, was standing partway open.  And from
the random, quiet rustling noises, someone was inside.  She
drew her weapon, and edged towards the doorway.  She thought
about calling for backup, but there wasn't time.  She was
about to call out a challenge, when the door suddenly swung
the rest of the way open.

It was Mr. Coeben, the building super.

Scully breathed a sigh of relief, and put her weapon away.
She closed her eyes, then opened them again, to see that the
man was standing stock still, a screwdriver in one hand and
a can of 3-in-1 oil in the other.  His eyes were wider than
she'd ever seen them.  The poor man was obviously scared to
death.

"I'm sorry, Mr. C," she said.  "You just startled me."

He nodded, and his body started to relax.  "I ... I was just
working on that window you told me about.  It's fine now."

"Thank you."  She struggled to find something else to say.
How do you apologize to your building manager for pulling a
gun on him?  She was tense, that was all.  Too damned tense.
 "I'm sorry," she repeated.

"That's okay."  He fidgeted under her gaze, as if he had
something on his mind.  Finally, he said, "Look, I'm sorry,
too.  About yesterday.  I don't know what came over me.  I
hope ... I hope everything's okay."

"Okay?"  For a moment Scully was confused, but then she
figured it out.  Mr. Coeben was the one who'd found her last
night, according to the paramedics.  He'd probably come to
work on the window that time, too.  "Yes," she said.
"Everything's fine.  They checked me out and let me go.
Thank you for your concern."

"That's perfectly okay, Ms. Scully.  I ... I try to watch
out for my tenants."  He still seemed nervous; something
*was* upsetting him, but she had no idea what it was.  He
appeared to be about to say something else ... but then he
shuddered, pushed past her and almost fled down the hall.
Scully watched as he fumbled with his key and let himself
into his apartment.  Then she shook her head, turned and
entered her own.

Well, the paramedics certainly had left the place a mess.
Cellophane wrappers littered the floor, along with odd bits
of paper and other detritus.  Her laptop still lay where it
had fallen, and the carpet was bunched up, apparently
because they'd had to move the sofa to get at her.  Worst of
all, the coffee table had tipped over, scattering her files
hither and yon.  Her glass of Coke was lying on its side,
fortunately unbroken -- but there was a dark stain on the
carpet where its contents had spilled.

Shit.

It took a few minutes to get things into a reasonable
semblance of order.  The stain on the carpet was going to
take some work, and moving the sofa back into its spot was
more than she wanted to attempt on her own right now.
Later, later.  When she wasn't so tired, and wasn't in such
a damned hurry.  

She gave a sigh of exasperation, knelt down, and started to
gather up her files, automatically separating them into
'complete' and 'incomplete' as she did so.  The task took
only another minute or so ... and then she sat back in the
sofa, her brow furrowed in confusion.

There was one file missing, and she didn't have to do an
inventory to know which one it was.

==========END CHAPTER TEN==========

===========
Chapter Eleven
===========

Department of the Treasury
Washington, D.C.
Thursday, August 10, 2000
1:28 p.m.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Scully turned away from the small knot of FBI agents she'd
been conversing with, to see Agent Griggs standing a few
feet away, an expression of mingled anger and disgust on his
face.  Agent Bothwell stood behind him.  In all, there were
about 30 people in the room awaiting the briefing.  Most of
them were ATF.

"Agent Griggs," she replied, carefully maintaining her
professional mask.  "A.D. Skinner has assigned me as ASAC
for the Bureau's medical team."

"You're kidding."

For a second or two, Scully couldn't believe she'd actually
heard the man correctly.  But before she had a chance to
reply, he shook his head sharply.  "Fuck it," he muttered.
"I don't have time for this shit."  And he stalked off
towards the front of the room.  Bothwell threw her an
apologetic glance before hurrying after Griggs.

Scully looked back at the other five members of the Bureau
group.  They were all acquaintances, but none of them were
really friends, and at the moment, none of them were willing
to look her in the eye.  Scully guessed that most of them --
perhaps all of them -- had seen the newspaper article, but
she didn't know if the Hoover's rumor mill had picked up on
Griggs' complaint as yet.  She was sure that it would.  It
was only a matter of time.

"People, if I can have your attention, please?"

Scully looked to the front of the room, and saw that Griggs
was now standing behind a lectern, with a pointer in his
hand.  An easel stood to one side, with a map of what
appeared to be a rural area on it, and a television with a
VCR attached was on the other.  People had been generally
milling about and talking; now, with Griggs' announcement
and a pointed throat clearing to follow it up, they were
hurriedly taking their seats.  Scully followed suit.

"Thank you," the ATF man said.  His gaze flicked briefly
around the room, before he continued, "I want to thank you
all for being here on such short notice.  I know what a pain
in the ass that can be.  But look at it this way:  your
agencies will save enough money from not having to replenish
their water coolers that they'll easily recoup what they're
spending on this operation."

There was a short titter of laughter, and Griggs nodded
sharply.  "Okay, let's get too it.  For those of you who
don't know me, I'm Bob Griggs, supervisory SAC with the ATF.
 I'm the lead agent for the Watergate investigation.  The
big galoot in the front row with the dumb look on his face
is my sidekick, Steve Bothwell.  You hear it from him, it
came from me.  Capiche?"  Bothwell half rose from his seat,
gave a little wave, and sat back down again.

"Right."  Griggs leaned forward on the lectern, and began
speaking in earnest.  "You all know why we're here.  Five
days ago, somebody bombed the Watergate, killed a lot of
people.  A lot of you were part of the rescue operation, and
that's why you're here.  I figure you've got a vested
interest.

"Today we're going to be serving arrest warrants on the
people responsible for this atrocity.  We're talking about a
small group called the Monkeywrenchers.  They're a bunch of
environmental whackos, who take their name from a book by a
radical environmentalist from the 70s named Edward Abbey.
Some of you may have heard of him."  There was a brief
murmur of agreement.

"Let's make no mistake," Griggs continued.  "These are not
good people.  Monkeywrenching, in case you're not aware of
it, is environmental sabotage.  Tree spiking is the classic
example -- you pound railroad spikes into randomly selected
trees in a forest marked for logging, so the guys with the
chain saws don't dare cut 'em down.  This bunch has been
advocating things like for years, and ATF has been keeping
an eye on them for the past six months, collecting evidence
about possible weapon violations.  And now it seems they've
moved from advocacy to action.  Agent Bothwell filed the
affidavit, so I'll let him explain the basis for the
warrant.  Agent Bothwell?"

Once again, the tall black man clambered to his feet, and
moved to the front of the room to stand next to Griggs.

"The warrant is solid," Bothwell began.  "You've all got
copies in your briefing books, along with copies of the
affidavit, so I'll just summarize what it says."  

He proceeded to do just that, ticking off points on his
fingers as he went:  

Several phone calls had been made from one of the rooms at
the Watergate to the Monkeywrenchers' compound in rural
Maryland, in the hours before the bombing.  

There were numerous hits on the Watergate's web site, as
well as on the web site of the architectural firm that
designed the building, coming from an IP address identified
as belonging to Paul Zargarian, one of the founders of the
group.  

In the past six months, while investigating the group, the
ATF had made copious downloads of documents from the
Monkeywrenchers' web site that described how to manufacture
explosives and weapons of various sorts -- including bombs
that appeared to be identical to bomb experts' best guess as
to the type of device used at the Watergate.

"Most importantly," Bothwell finished, "we have two very
hard pieces of evidence.  May I have the lights down,
please?"  He waited while the lights were dimmed, then
switched on the television and started the VCR.

"These are a series of stills from the Watergate security
cameras.  The recording equipment was located in a fireproof
room in the subbasement, and therefore survived the fire,"
Bothwell explained.  There was a black and white image on
the screen that appeared to be the building's main lobby,
with a bank of elevators clearly visible in the background.
Every second or so the picture would jump as the frame
advanced.

"This film starts thirty minutes before the blast," the ATF
man said.  "A frame is taken every ten seconds.  As you can
see, things were pretty quiet."  Scully nodded, staring at
the screen.  Nothing moved.  The only way she could tell
that the film was being advanced was the flickering of the
time stamp in the lower left hand corner.  For perhaps
thirty seconds, there was no sound in the room.

"It is now 11:18 p.m.," Bothwell said suddenly, breaking the
silence.  "Twenty-four minutes before the explosion.
Watch!"  He pressed a button on the VCR, slowing the speed
on the tape.

One of the sets of elevator doors was suddenly open, and
Scully could see two people inside.  On the next frame they
had moved to the front of the car.  Another frame advance,
and they had stepped out into the lobby -- and Bothwell
pushed the pause button.

Two women were visible on the screen.  Both short, both with
shoulder-length brown hair.  Each carried a Nike gym bag,
and each wore a wide-brimmed hat, leaving their faces hidden
in shadow.

"We tried enhancing their features digitally," the ATF man
said after a moment.  "The results are included in your
briefing books."

Scully dutifully opened her briefing book, aware of the
others in the room doing likewise.  She flipped past the
facsimiles of the affidavit and the warrant, squinting a
little in the low light, finally coming to a stop on a page
of computer enhancements of the two women on the TV screen
-- and she felt a tingle at the base of her spine.  They
were amazingly alike, almost like twins, and they looked
familiar.  *Very* familiar, but she couldn't quite place
them --

"Now turn to the next page," Bothwell instructed.  Scully
shook herself, and did so, to find herself looking at what
appeared to be a printout of the Monkeywrenchers' home page.
 It included a 'family portrait' of eight men and two women,
along with radical political slogans, and links to other
parts of the site.  Her eyes were drawn immediately to the
women, and she heard a soft murmur from the assembled
agents.

"That's right," Agent Bothwell said.  "As you can see, we
have a perfect match.  Two perfect matches, to be more
accurate.  You're looking at Melissa and Marissa Herman.  As
you've no doubt guessed, they're twins, and they are both
members of the Monkeywrenchers."  He turned off the
television, and the lights came back up.  

"The man on the far left is the leader, by the way, and he's
very bad news," he continued.  "His name is Gavin Etheridge,
and he's been in and out of psych hospitals all up and down
the east coast, with a diagnosis of anti-social personality
disorder.  The cops in Jersey City think he killed a man,
back in '93, but they were never able to prove it.
Apparently there was a power struggle in the group, and the
other guy just kind of disappeared.  You'll find bios of all
ten members of the group -- including rap sheets, in three
cases -- in your briefing books."

Scully studied the man's picture for a moment.  He looked
pretty normal to her eyes.  He was about forty, with short
brown hair and a friendly smile.  He was wearing neatly
pressed jeans and a light blue polo shirt.  He didn't look
like the sort of person who would plan mass murder.  He
looked like the guy down the street who helps you start your
car on a cold winter morning, or like someone you might meet
at a church picnic.

"Finally," Bothwell said, drawing her attention back to the
briefing, "we have a phone call, received on the Watergate
hotline we set up.  It was made yesterday afternoon from a
pay phone in Martinsburg, West Virginia.  That's just across
the river from the Monkeywrenchers' place in Maryland.  The
caller was female, and claimed to be Marissa Herman.  She
said she'd been watching the coverage on CNN, and it was
killing her, but that the rest of them are bunkered up and
loaded for bear.  From what we know about this bunch, that's
very credible -- and very dangerous.  We tried to keep her
on the line until the locals could send a prowl car, but she
got suspicious, and hung up.  Voice stress analysis says
she's on the up-and-up.  Hence, dynamic entry."  He glanced
at Agent Griggs.  "Now for details on the operation itself,
I'll turn you back over to Bob."

#          #          #

Office of the Lone Gunmen
College Park, Maryland
6:48 p.m.

Mulder was bored, and he was lonely.  And he was worried
about Scully.

There was no reason to be concerned, and he knew it.  She'd
told him that she was assigned to the medical unit, and that
meant she'd be a nice, safe distance away from the action --
and if trouble did happen to come her way, he knew from long
experience that she was more than able to deal with it.

"Hey, I think I'm getting something!" Langly said.  

Mulder looked over at his friend, who was sitting hunched
over an unlikely-looking clutter of electronic equipment and
wearing headphones.  The other two Gunmen were out, doing
whatever it was Gunmen did when they weren't in their
office.  As Mulder watched, Langly's lips curled into a
smile.  "Yep.  It's them.  Stupid feds always think their
kung fu is the best."  He glanced at Mulder, his eyes
glittering with amusement.  "No offense."

"None taken.  You sure it's the ATF guys?"

"Oh, hell yes."  Langly snorted.  "They're calling it
'Operation Bigfoot', and the dumbfucks are transmitting
everything back to their HQ in realtime.  Probably showing
off for the brass.  Take a listen."  He pulled off the
headphones and flipped a switch on one of the gadgets in
front of him.  Instantly, the room was flooded with sound.

//-quatch One, this is Sasquatch Three.  We're in position.
No signs of movement.//

//Copy that, Three.  We're about ready here.//  Mulder
recognized Agent Griggs' voice, sounding crisp and in
charge.  If you didn't know the man, he thought, you might
almost believe he knew what he was doing.  The ATF man
continued, //All Sasquatches, stand by.  Clara Barton, you
and your people ready?//

//Affirmative.//  Scully's voice, cool and professional, as
always.  //We've got a car with the engine running, just in
case.//

//Right, Clara.  I doubt we'll be needing you.//  A moment
of silence, then the sound of a car engine starting.
//Okay, people, we're in motion.  Stay sharp.  One hundred
yards to the gate.  Anybody see anything moving, report it
immediately .... Fifty yards.  Quiet as a church .... And
we're at the gate.  Whoever's got the bolt cutters, now's
the time.//

There was another pause, and Mulder tried to picture the
scene in his head.  He'd spoken to Scully again, just before
the task force left D.C.  She'd been vague on the details,
for security reasons, but he gathered they were assaulting
an isolated house in a rural part of Maryland.  She'd also
admitted that Griggs was doing better than she'd
anticipated, and that he really did appear to have the
matter in hand.

"Yeah, well I still don't like the guy," Mulder had
commented.  "And I don't trust him.  You watch your ass,
Scully."

"I'd rather be watching yours," she'd replied.  Mulder's jaw
had dropped, there'd been a soft snicker at the other end of
the line, and then she'd broken the connection, leaving him
staring in amazement at his cell phone.  She did keep him
guessing --

//We're inside.//  Griggs' voice, coming from the speaker.
//Moving towards the main building.  Hey, Stevie, know what
this reminds me of?  That last day in Kuwait City, just
before the cease fire.  Dumb ragheads knew they were beat,
and --//

He was cut off by a loud boom, followed by several sharp
cracks that could only be gunfire.  The sound of harsh
breathing could be heard, and suddenly men were swearing in
the background.

//C'mon, Bobby, let's move this thing!//  Mulder realized
that he could no longer hear the car engine.  There was a
short, rasping, mechanical noise, then Griggs was on the air
again.  //Okay, out!  Everybody out.  Move! .... Shit ...
shit ... Okay, okay, I hear ya.//  Another pause, while
static crackled from the speaker, and Mulder found himself
gripping the arms of his chair.  A few more shots.  Then:
//All Sasquatches, this is Sasquatch One.  We're outta the
vehicles, down in the ditches on both sides of the road.
We're ... we're all okay, I think.  About thirty, forty
yards from the house.  Anybody see --//

There was another explosion, louder than the first, and more
gunfire, this time from automatic weapons.  A third blast
followed close on the heels of the second, and then a man
was screaming in the background.

//Shit!//  Griggs again, now with a tinge of panic in his
voice.  //Shit, those fuckers got a mortar!  I got an agent
down.  Repeat, agent down.  Clara Barton, you copy that?//

//Copy, Sasquatch One.  We're moving.  Can you get him back
to the gate?//  Mulder winced, and his grip on the arms of
the chair tightened.  Scully ... Jesus, Scully, be careful
--

//That's negative, Clara.  Do your fucking job; we're trying
to do ours.  Any Sasquatch:  You guys see the mortar?  We're
pretty well pinned down in a ditch.  Air Sasquatch?  You got
anything?  Anything at all?//

The sound of helicopter blades.  //Sasquatch One, Air
Sasquatch.  We've got small arms firing from two windows on
the third floor.  I think --//  Another explosion was heard,
muted and in the distance.  //Yes!  The mortar's in that
little stand of trees, about forty yards southwest of the
house.  Repeat, we've got the mortar.//

//Take the fucker out,// Griggs replied.  A moment of
comparative silence, punctuated by gunfire.  //Did you copy,
Air?  Take the mortar.  Now.//

//One, this is Air.  The ROEs do not allow --//

//I don't give a shit about the Rules of fucking
Engagement,// the ATF man interrupted.  Still another mortar
blast.  //That bastard's eating us alive.  Take him out.
Now!//

Another silence, this time very brief.  //Roger that.  Be
about thirty seconds.//

//Sasquatch One, this is Clara Barton.//  Mulder's heart
clenched at the sound of Scully's voice, now with gunfire
clearly audible in the background.  //We're at the gate, and
we're still moving.  We're taking some fire, but they don't
have the range yet.  Are you still close to your vehicles?//

//That's affirmative, Clara.  Where the fuck else would we
be?//

//We're coming, One.  Just a few more seconds --//

And then there was a terrible ripping sound, followed by
another explosion, far louder than anything they'd heard so
far.  After that, nothing but static.

==========END CHAPTER ELEVEN==========

===========
Chapter Twelve
===========

Monkeywrenchers' Compound
Near Sharpsburg, Maryland
Thursday, August 10, 2000
7:12 p.m.

The force of the explosion lifted Scully's car off the road,
and she barely had time to brace herself before it slammed
back down to earth with bone-rattling force.  Stars danced
before her eyes, and there was a roaring in her ears, almost
drowning out the babble of confused, panicky voices on her
headset.  Her head hurt; turning to the right, she saw a
starred fracture pattern in the window next to her, and she
realized that she must have hit her head.  Only her kevlar
helmet had saved her --

//-- say again, say again.  This is Air Sasquatch calling
Sasquatch One.  Air Sasquatch calling Sasquatch One.  Do you
copy?//

Scully shook herself, and found her vision finally clearing.
 She glanced at the driver, Agent Alix Ashare.  Ashare had
been in the Navy medical corps, and had been with the Bureau
now for almost ten years.  They didn't come any tougher, and
that was why Scully had chosen her as her driver.  She was
slumped over the steering wheel, blood trickling out of her
right nostril.  Scully reached over, touched Ashare's
shoulder, then pressed her fingertips into the other woman's
throat, trying to find her pulse.

"Agent Ashare?  Agent Ashare, are you all right?"

Ashare jerked upright, and her eyes popped open.  For a few
seconds she stared straight ahead, unblinking, as if
mesmerized by some unspeakable horror.  Then she shook her
head and looked at Scully.

"Y-yeah," she said.  "Yeah, I'm fine."  A quick swipe at her
nose.  "Let's not do that again, though, okay?"

"Fine by me."  The car was listing badly to the right,
indicating that at least one tire on that side had blown out
-- and that meant that it was time to get the hell out,
before the mortar started up again.  Scully tried the handle
on her door, but it didn't move.  Must be jammed.  Shit.
"Will your door open?"

"Lemme see."  The driver's side door popped open, and Ashare
slid out onto the pavement.  Scully twisted around to grab
the medical kit from the back seat, then followed her.
Seconds later, they were both crouched down in the ditch
that ran along next to the road, gasping for breath and
coughing, due to the smoke that blanketed the immediate
area.  The small arms and mortar fire had stopped with that
last explosion, but that didn't mean the threat was
necessarily over.  Time to find out what was going on with
the rest of the operation.

Air Sasquatch had given up calling for Griggs, and now was
talking to agents in the outlying positions, trying to
gather enough information to develop a meaningful picture.
Scully listened.

//-- house is gone,// the man in the helicopter was saying.
Agent Ngabaye, that was his name.  //Just ... gone.  Nothin'
left but a crater.  The bastards must've had the whole
building wired, and something set it off.//  Brief pause.
//Can anybody see Sasquatch One?  Is anybody in contact?
Anybody at all?  Clara Barton, are you still with us?//

That was her cue.  Scully switched on her transmitter, and
started crawling up towards the top of the ditch.  Ashare
followed.

"This is Clara Barton," Scully said.  "Gimme a minute.
We're in a ditch right inside the gate.  Sasquatch One
should be just ahead of us."  She carefully raised her head,
blinking against the billowing smoke.  And swore.

Agent Griggs' cars were about twenty yards away, and both of
them were on fire.  She could see one body lying on the
pavement next to the ruined vehicles, wearing ATF protective
gear, but it was impossible to discern his identity.
Whoever it was, he wasn't moving.  Past the cars, where the
house had been, there was nothing.  Nothing at all.  Just
more smoke and flame, dancing up towards the sky.

//Clara Barton, Air Sasquatch.  What do you see?  There's so
much damned smoke I can't make out much.  Can you see
Sasquatch One?//

"Negative," Scully replied.  She gave a hurried description
of the scene, and added, "We're going forward.  See if we
can find any survivors."

//I copy that, Clara Barton.//  Brief silence.  //Uh, FYI,
we've been counting noses.  We can't raise Sasquatch One or
Junior Sasquatch, and that blast took out the relay truck,
so we're out of touch with Headquarters.  We're trying to
reestablish contact, but it looks like it's going to take a
while.  You're the Bureau's ASAC, and that makes you the
senior agent on the scene, until or unless.  Copy?//

"Yeah, I hear you," Scully said.  She was already crawling
along the ditch towards Griggs' position, with Ashare right
behind her.  "Anybody hurt at the truck?"

//Negative, Clara.  Nothing worth reporting.  Freak hit by
some shrapnel, but no, repeat, no casualties.//

"Good."  She hesitated, then added, "You got any suggestions
for me?"  She knew that the man in the helicopter had a
better overall grasp of the situation than she did, and
probably had more experience with this sort of thing, as
well.  This was no time to stand on ceremony.

//No good ones, Clara.  Fire department's on its way, ETA
ten or twelve minutes.  Not that there's much left to save.
Clara Barton Base says they're in good shape, and want to
know if they should come after you.//

"Negative," Scully said.  "Not until we're sure it's safe.
There could be --"

She was interrupted by the crack of rifle fire, and threw
herself face down into the dirt.  An instant later Ashare
landed next to her, cussing a blue streak, as the gunfire
continued.

"Ashare?"

"I'm okay.  I swear I saw the fucking bullet, though.
That's as close as I *ever* want it to get."

Scully nodded, and clicked her transmitter again.  "Air
Sasquatch, Clara Barton.  Somebody's shooting at us.  Can
you tell where it's coming from?"

//Yeah, Clara, I'm on it.  Just a sec.//  For a few seconds
there was nothing but the sound of rotors, as shots
continued to ring out.  Then:  //Okay, he's in the tool
shed.  Sasquatch Two, suppress the shit out of that son of a
bitch.  Now, now, now!//

//Roger that.//

The high-pitched chatter of assault weapons joined the
cacophony, melding with the rifle fire in an eerie symphony
of death.  Scully held her position, face down in the dirt,
waiting for the gunfire to cease.  After an eternity of
perhaps 20 seconds, the rifle stopped shooting.  A few
seconds after that, the assault weapons trailed off, as
well.

//Okay, Clara,// Ngabaye said.  His tone was matter-of-fact,
as if he were doing play-by-play at a ball game.  //You
should be clear to proceed.//

"Roger."

Scully and Ashare rose to their hands and knees, and resumed
crawling.  It had rained earlier in the day, and the ground
was damp and sticky.  Scully winced as her knee struck
something hard and sharp -- a small, jagged rock -- but she
didn't let that tempt her into standing up.  She wasn't
about to take a chance that there was another sniper out
there.

At last they reached their objective, Griggs and his agents,
lying huddled together in the ditch next to their
automobiles.  It took Scully and Ashare only a minute or so
to determine that of the four, only Griggs was still alive,
and he was unconscious, with metal fragments embedded in his
arms and face, as well as his flak vest.

"There should be three more on the other side of the road,"
Ashare said.  "Plus the one lying next to the cars.  I'll go
check."

"No, wait," Scully said, grabbing her arm.  "I'll go.  You
take care of Agent Griggs."  The other woman hesitated, then
nodded, and Scully began crawling up to the edge of the
ditch.  She slowly raised her head, and hit the transmit
switch again.  "Clara Barton, calling Air Sasquatch."

//Go ahead, Clara.//

"We've reached the cars," she said.  "It's not good news.
Sasquatch One is hurt pretty bad.  There are three others on
this side of the road, and they're all dead."  She blinked
against the smoke and heat from the burning cars, trying to
get a look at whoever was lying there.  Shit.  He still
hadn't moved, and there was a hell of a lot of blood on the
pavement.  "There's one agent lying next to the cars, but I
don't think there's much hope for him, either.  I'm going to
cross the road and check the other side."

//Roger, Clara Barton.  Be careful.//  The man's voice
sounded subdued.  //Shall I send some people up from Clara
Barton Base?//

Scully hesitated, then shook her head, oblivious to the fact
that Ngabaye couldn't see her.  "Not yet," she said.  "There
could be another sniper, and right now we're doing
everything that can be done."

//Roger.//

Scully waited for a few seconds, staring at the gap she had
to cross.  It was an ordinary asphalt country road, not more
than fifteen feet wide, but right at that moment it looked
more like the length of a football field.  She told herself
she was being ridiculous.  Even if there *was* someone still
out there with a rifle, the odds of him seeing her, taking
aim and firing, all in the few seconds it would take her to
cross the road, weren't worth worrying about.  Plus, the
smoke would actually work in her favor ....

She took it in a rush, levering herself to her feet and
bending as low as she could as she ran.  The road hadn't
been properly maintained, it was cracked in several places,
but she stutter-stepped past the bad spots.  A few seconds
later she was across, sliding and tumbling down into the
ditch on the far side.

And it was all for naught, because the situation there was
identical to the one across the road.  Three more agents,
including Steve Bothwell.  All of them dead.

Scully almost lost it, then.  She had her hands on her
helmet, ready to pull it off her head and hurl it away, and
she could feel her muscles tense, preparing themselves to
pound on the ground in anger and frustration.  There was a
horrible, black rage and hatred hovering in the back of her
mind.  To think they'd done all this for *nothing* --

//Air Sasquatch, calling Clara Barton.  What've you got?//

Scully sighed, taking a few seconds to clench her fists and
get herself back under control.  Then she hit the transmit
button.

"Clara Barton," she said, amazed at how calm her voice
sounded.  "They're all dead on this side, too."

//Copy that, Clara.  All dead.//  The man in the helicopter
fell silent.  After a moment, Scully realized he was waiting
for instructions.

"Air Sasquatch, have their been any more shots fired?"  She
hadn't heard any, but the compound was pretty big.  She had
to check.

//Negative, Clara.  It looks like --//  He cut off in mid
sentence.  //Whups!  I spoke too soon.  Looks like we got us
a runner.//

"A runner?"  Scully found herself crawling up to the edge of
the ditch and looking around, but she didn't see anything.

//He came out of those woods where the mortar was,// Ngabaye
said.  //Heading southwest .... Correction, make that *she*
came out of the woods.  It's definitely one of the women.
We're on it.//  Scully listened as he gave an account of the
pursuit.  //Angling more to the south, now ... Aw, shit,
she's heading for that stream!  And now she's slid down the
embankment and into the culvert.//  He stopped talking, and
it occurred to Scully to wonder why he wasn't calling for
backup.

"Air Sasquatch?" she said.  "What are you doing?"

//Trying to get a good angle,// was the brief response.  He
sounded preoccupied, as if he were busy with some complex
task.

"A good angle for what?" she asked.  But she already knew.
She just wanted Ngabaye to confirm it.

//She's down in that culvert,// he explained.  //But the
trees are thinned out enough I think I can get an angle on
her ....//  His voice trailed off, as he apparently resumed
maneuvering his craft.

"Air Sasquatch, are you planning to shoot the suspect?"

//She and her pals killed seven agents, Clara.  They were
all good men, and she could still be armed.  That makes her
a threat in my book.  You got a problem with that?//

"That's not the way we do things, Air.  She gets a chance to
surrender."

//Fuck that, Clara.  I got the bitch cornered, and she's
going down.//

Scully licked her lips.  It would be so easy just to let it
happen.  But she couldn't.  Not and stay true to herself.
She took a deep breath.  "Air Sasquatch, this is Clara
Barton.  As senior agent on the scene, I am ordering you not
to fire on the suspect unless she fires first.  Acknowledge
now, or I'll bring you up on charges."

For perhaps twenty or thirty seconds it hung in the balance,
while Scully held her breath.  And when Ngabaye finally
spoke again, his voice was low and tight was anger.  //Order
acknowledged, Clara Barton.  Shall we maintain surveillance?
 Or do you want to give her a complete pass?//

"Affirmative," she said.  "Keep an eye on her, I mean.  I
need to work something out.  Just a sec."

//We've got all the time in the world, Clara.//  The man's
voice dripped with sarcasm.

Scully ignored him, closed her eyes, and tried to remember
the map of the area that they'd studied.  The woods with the
mortar were southwest of the house, and the woman had run
southwest from that, and then turned due south until she got
to the culvert.  And that meant ....

Perfect.  She opened her eyes and thumbed the transmit
button.

"Clara Barton to Clara Barton Base."

//We copy, Clara Barton.  You ready for us?//

"Yes," she said.  "Have you been copying the transmissions
about the runner?  And have you got that culvert located on
your map?"

//Affirmative on both.//

"All right.  Two of you ... uh, Johnson and Krieger, come
ahead and give a hand to me and Ashare.  Thorisson and
Duquesne, I want you to see if you can take down the
suspect.  *Without* killing her, if possible.  But if she
opens fire, or looks like a *legitimate* threat, to you or
anyone else, you'll defend yourselves.  Copy?"

//Copy.  We're all over it.//

Thirty minutes later, the suspect was in custody.  And Agent
Griggs was on his way to the hospital.

==========END CHAPTER TWELVE==========

===========
Chapter Thirteen
===========

Washington County Hospital
Hagerstown, Maryland
Thursday, August 10, 2000
9:39 p.m.

Mulder's ankle ached as he approached the nurse's station,
but he didn't care.  Scully was standing there, her back to
him, only a few feet away.  And she was fine.

"Hey, Mulder."

His partner's greeting startled him, bringing him to a stop
a step or two away.  She still had her back to him, and to
all appearances was engrossed in someone's medical record.
How did she do that?

"It's a secret doctor thing," she said, answering his
unspoken question.  She put down the chart and turned to
face him, a look of serene contentment on her face, and it
was all Mulder could do not to take her into a rib-cracking
embrace.  There was a cut on her chin, a bruise on her right
cheek, and her clothes were filthy, but other than that, she
appeared to be unhurt.  She gestured at the chart she'd just
been holding.  "Griggs," she said.  "He's going to be okay."
 She cocked her head and added, "And you didn't have to
drive all the way up here, you know."

"I didn't drive," he answered, moving towards her as
gracefully as he could on the crutches, until finally he
loomed over her.  "Langly did.  He's in the cafeteria,
trying to score some caffeine."

"I'll have to remember to thank him," she said, deadpan.
"Personally."

"Yeah, you do that," he replied.  "You'll break poor
Frohike's heart."

He could tell that she was struggling not to smile, and that
just made him want to touch her all the more.  Of all the
revelations he'd received about Dana Scully in the months
since becoming her lover, the fact that she was a terrible
tease and a flirt was in some ways the most amazing -- and
the most endearing.

And by God, he was going to kiss her, and to hell with
whoever happened to witness it.  He'd never coped well when
Scully was in danger, and now that their feelings were out
in the open --

"Agent Mulder, I suppose I should have expected to find you
here."

Mulder turned away from Scully, his professional mask
dropping automatically into place, to see Skinner
approaching from the direction of the elevators, the usual
impassive look on his face.

"Agent Scully," the A.D. continued, coming to a stop a
couple of feet in front of them.  He paused, and seemed to
study the partners for a moment.  Then:  "I'm glad to see
that you're well.  The initial report I received was less
than clear on that point."

"I'm fine, sir," she replied.  She took a step forward, so
that she was standing next to Mulder, and he felt her elbow
brushing against his forearm.  "Unfortunately, I can't say
the same for some of the other members of the task force."

"I've been apprised of the situation," Skinner said.  "I
also am told that you were forced to assume more
responsibility than had been planned.  And that you
encountered some difficulties in dealing with the
situation."

Mulder felt his partner quiver slightly at the A.D.'s
comment, and he knew that there was something there.  He
couldn't help but wonder what it was, but he knew Scully
well enough to realize that he wasn't going to find out.
Not now, anyway.  Not with Skinner standing there in front
of them.

"Nothing worth reporting, sir," Scully said, with a shake of
her head.  "I had a difference of opinion with the
helicopter pilot concerning the appropriate course of
action.  But we resolved it."

"I'm gratified to hear that, Agent Scully."  The man's tone
was terse but calm.  "When I appointed you ASAC, it never
entered my mind that you might be required to assume
responsibility for the entire operation.  But from
everything I've heard, and especially considering the
urgency of the situation, you seem to have acquitted
yourself very well."

"Thank you, sir."

"I am particularly pleased," Skinner continued, as if she
hadn't spoken, "that you were able to take Marissa Herman
into custody.  Directing the capture of the sole surviving
Watergate bomber is quite a feather in the cap, both for you
and for the Bureau.  You can be certain it won't be
forgotten."  His gaze grew pointed.  "I'm sure there was
great temptation to authorize the use of deadly force to
settle the matter, but that would not have reflected well on
the Bureau."

"No, sir."  There was that quiver again.  *Something* had
happened.  Something she wasn't telling Skinner.  Mulder
hoped she'd eventually share it with him, at least, even if
she didn't want to tell their boss.  "That would not have
been appropriate, given the tactical situation."

"Very well."  The A.D. nodded sharply.  "I drove up here
this evening to check on your condition, and see if there
was anything you needed, but that appears to be
unnecessary."  His gaze flicked to Mulder, and then back to
Scully.  "You've built up some comp time.  Take it.  Email
me your preliminary comments on the operation. You can put
off your formal report until Monday."  He looked again at
Mulder.  

"Agent Mulder, you don't look fully recovered to me.  Take
another sick day.  I won't have agents abusing the system by
reporting for work when they aren't yet back to one hundred
percent.  The Bureau is entitled to better than that."  Back
to Scully.  "I'll expect to see you both at work again on
Monday morning."

Mulder felt his eyebrows raising, but before he could come
up with a suitable response, Skinner had spun on his heel
and was walking away.  Mulder watched him go, remaining
silent until the elevator doors had slid shut.

"Scully," he said at last, "am I imagining things, or did
the Skinman just order us to take a three day weekend?"

"I didn't think I'd ever get to say this, Mulder," his
partner replied.  "About anything.  But no.  That was *not*
just your imagination."

He turned to face her once again, and dared to reach out and
run his fingers through her hair.  "I think we owe it to him
to make every one of those 72 hours count.  Don't you?"

Scully smiled, then had to stifle a yawn.  "Speaking for
myself, Mulder, I think we owe it to ourselves to start off
with a good night's sleep.  It's been a helluva day."  She
grimaced.  "Besides, there's something else I didn't mention
to Skinner."  She glanced over her shoulder, then led Mulder
a few steps away from the nurse's station.

"Scully?  What is it?"  He cocked his head.  "Does this have
to do with what you and Skinner were talking about?  The
trouble with the chopper pilot?"

"No," she said, waving her hand in dismissal.  "That was
nothing.  Well, not nothing, but I dealt with it."  She
shook her head.  "No, the problem is with the woman we
arrested.  She is *not* Marissa Herman."

"What do you mean?"

Scully shook her head again, this time in obvious
frustration.  "I'm sorry.  I'm tired, and it *has* been a
long day.  The suspect in custody *is* Marissa Herman.
There's no doubt about that.  But she doesn't match the
pictures we were shown at the briefing."

"What pictures?" Mulder asked.  "Where did they get them?"

"From the group's web page," Scully explained.  "The
Monkeywrenchers.  And from digitally enhanced images from
the Watergate's security cameras.  They were a perfect
match, Mulder.  Clearly the same woman as the one on the web
page."

Mulder frowned.  "Well, people often look a little different
in person than they do in photographs.  Maybe the picture on
the website was an old one?"

"No, Mulder.  I know what I saw."  Mulder raised his
eyebrows, and Scully responded with a tired smile.  "Okay,
okay.  That's your line.  But it's still true.  When we get
back to D.C. I'll show you the briefing book.  You'll see
what I mean."

"Does it matter?"

"If the image on the web page doesn't match reality?  Yes."

"Are you suggesting that someone manipulated that image so
that it would match what the security cameras saw, and
thereby justify the warrant?"  He couldn't keep himself from
smirking, despite the seriousness of the situation.
"Scully, you're making my little heart go pit-a-pat with
this conspiracy theory.  Please say you're not just toying
with me."

"I know it sounds crazy," she admitted.  "But *something*
funny is going on."  She sighed, and added, "And yes, I know
that whatever else is true, Marissa Herman is almost
certainly responsible for the murders of seven Federal
agents, plus assorted weapons charges.  And of course, they
must have known we were coming somehow, or they wouldn't
have been so well prepared.  But ...."  Her voice trailed
off.

"Okay," Mulder said, nodding.  "So we'll check it out --
when we get back to D.C."  He smiled, and moved a little
closer.  "Speaking of ... how would you like to stay here
tonight?"

"In Hagerstown?" she answered, wrinkling her nose.  "Why?"

"It doesn't have to be Hagerstown," he persisted.  "There's
some beautiful country up here, and it's twenty degrees
cooler in the mountains than it is in the city.  We could
find some rustic lodge somewhere and shack up for the
weekend.  Get a head start on that 72 hours."

She snorted.  "If you can find a rustic lodge that isn't
booked solid for the season," she said.  "Besides, we have
plans for the weekend.  Remember?  Ocean City?  My mother?"
An evil glint appeared in her eyes.  "And Mom called the
other day.  It turns out my brother's going to be in town,
so he'll be there, too."

"Bill?"  Mulder made a face and shook his head.  "You make
it sound so tempting."

"No, not Bill.  Charlie.  You haven't even met him; maybe
he'll like you."  She snickered.  "Stranger things have
happened.  And a lot of them are filed away in our file
cabinets."

Mulder blinked, and looked down at her, as a sudden feeling
of deja vu swept over him.  "Charlie's going to be there?
At the beach?  With us?"

"Yeah," she said.  "I thought I mentioned that to you?"

"You probably did."  There was something there, though.
Something ... something ....

It was gone.

"Mulder?  Are you okay?  We don't have to go, if you really
don't want to.  Although you're going to have to meet the
rest of my family sometime."

"No, it's okay.  It's fine.  I'll be there with bells on."
He shook his head -- and caught a glint of something in his
peripheral vision.  Realizing what it was, he smirked, and
added, "It was the mirror, wasn't it?"

"Hmm?"

He nodded in the direction of the fish-eye mirror he'd just
spotted, suspended from the ceiling so as to allow the
nurses to see around the corner without leaving their duty
station.  "Your secret doctor thing," he murmured, bending
in close to brush his lips against her hair.  She smelled of
smoke and gunpowder.

"Mmm," she replied with her best enigmatic smile.  "You've
found us out.  I may have to kill you."  A prodigious yawn.
"But not until we've had at least twelve hours of sleep, and
maybe some dynamite sex, as well.  C'mon Mulder.  Let's find
Langly and head for home."

#          #          #

Residence of Dana Scully
Washington, D.C.
11:47 p.m.

"-- but what I *really* can't believe about the whole
operation," Mulder was saying, as Scully unlocked the door
to her apartment, "is that he had the nerve to give you
'Clara Barton' as a radio call sign.  Much less that you
were willing to put up with it."

"That's probably because you don't know much about Clara
Barton," Scully replied, stepping aside to let him enter
first.  She followed, shutting and locking the door behind
them.  "And Griggs knows even less.  She was one tough
woman, both physically and intellectually.  If he'd known
that, I'm sure he'd have chosen someone else."

Mulder had been talking almost non-stop ever since they left
Hagerstown, nearly two hours before.  That was fine with
Scully.  Not only did it relieve her of carrying her half of
the conversation, when she was already very tired, but she'd
also, over the years, come to enjoy listening to him
chatter.  It reassured her, on a very basic level, that
everything was okay.

"Hey Scully, you got anything to drink?"  The question was
rhetorical; Mulder was already in the kitchen, and she heard
the slight squeak as he opened the refrigerator door.  "Hey,
diet Coke!  Par-tay!"

Scully shook her head, smiling, and dropped down on the
sofa, reaching for her laptop as she did so.  She plugged it
into the phone line, then powered up, aware of Mulder moving
back into the living room.  Looking up, she saw him somehow
juggling two glasses, a two liter bottle of Coke, and his
two crutches, as he came slowly towards the sofa.  She
watched, mesmerized, until he finally plopped down next to
her, cradling the glasses and the Coke, as his crutches hit
the floor with an unruly clatter.  She couldn't resist
clapping.

"You could have helped, you know," he complained.  But a
smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.  "And what's with
the computer?  We have the weekend off, remember?"

"I just want to check a couple of things," Scully said.
"That web page, for one.  I'll sleep better, knowing I'm not
imagining things."  She clicked on Netscape, then typed in
the url from memory, and waited while the page began to
load.  It was so slow.  She really needed to invest in DSL.
One of these days ....

"Who said anything about sleeping?" Mulder asked, waggling
his eyebrows.  He leaned over and planted a kiss in *that
spot*, just below her ear.  Scully squirmed away.

"Mulder!"  She gave him an eyebrow, but she couldn't keep
herself from smiling.  "Just a minute.  I just want to do
one thing, and then we'll see to your needs."

"*My* needs, huh?"  He paused in his assault long enough to
pour himself a glass of Coke.  He held up the second glass,
but she shook her head, attention once again on the computer
screen.  "I thought women had needs, too.  This *is* the
twenty-first century, isn't it?  Even if you math geeks
don't want to admit it."

"Yes, Mulder, women have needs.  And if you'll just wait two
minutes, I'll be more than happy to let you attend to mine."

"Okay, okay."  Mulder took a sip from his drink, then made a
face.  "Yech.  I thought this was diet!"  He looked at her
accusingly.  "Have you been secretly adding sugar, just so
I'll think you're being responsible?"

"Huh?"  Scully wasn't really listening.  She was staring at
the screen, but the only thing displayed was a 404 error.
File not found.  She hit reload.

"What's that?" Mulder asked, scooting a little closer on the
sofa, his arm snaking around her waist.

"It *should* be the Monkeywrenchers' page," Scully said.  It
finished reloading, but displayed the same error message.
She  checked the url for typos, but it was correct.  "It was
there this afternoon."

"Well, it's not there now," Mulder said.  He nuzzled her
hair.  "Maybe the ATF guys took it down already."

"Maybe."

"And in any case, it can wait until morning, right?"

"Right."  

Scully smiled, and allowed herself to relax against her
partner for a minute.  Yes, Mulder, she thought, women do
have needs.  You've got that right, at least.  She sighed as
he delicately pulled the hem of her blouse loose from her
slacks, and stroked the bare skin of her belly.  It had been
a long day, but this was worth staying up for, just a little
while longer.  She was about to shut down Netscape when she
noticed that the program had downloaded a couple of new
emails.  And one of them was from David Wilcox, the Quantico
lab supervisor.

"Hold that thought, Mulder," she said, sitting up straight
again.  "I'll be right with you."  She clicked on the
message.

"You said *one thing*," he whined good-naturedly.

As she'd hoped, it was the report on the PCR she'd ordered
on the condoms she'd retrieved from the esophagus of the
handcuffed man.  What was his name?  Something Japanese --
but she'd only seen the name once, very briefly, and now the
damned file was missing, stolen right out of her apartment
....

The lab report basically said what she'd expected:  that the
semen in the condoms matched tissue samples taken from the
corpse, proving that the dead man was the source of the
ejaculation.  But Wilcox had also appended another note:

//Agent Scully.  Just FYI, we were able to salvage enough
vaginal secretions from the outside of those condoms to run
a PCR on that, as well.  If you can come up with a suspect,
we should be able to prove whether or not she had sex with
this man.//

"We should have him check it against that woman you
arrested," Mulder suggested, reading over her shoulder.
"Marsha whats-her-name."

"Marissa Herman," Scully corrected.  "You really think so?
There's no connection, so far as we know."

"Yeah, but I got a hunch."  Scully rolled her eyes, and
Mulder smirked, then sobered.  "Besides, the guy with the
handcuffs was Consortium, right?  When one of them dies a
violent death, we can't just assume it was a coincidence,
and move on."

"True."  She shivered at the memory of her flashback.  Not
going to go there.  Not tonight.  Let's see what the other
message says.

She almost deleted it.  It was from 'hotlesbianteens @
hotmail.com'.  But then she saw the subject line:  'Who
really set off the bombs at the Watergate?'

It was the word 'bombs' that caught her attention.  The fact
that there'd been more than one explosive device was
something that was being withheld from the public, as far as
she knew.  It certainly wasn't impossible for the
information to have leaked out, and this could be just a
come on, to get her to open the email, but it would only
take a second to find out.  She clicked on the message.

"Scully ...."

"Just one more second, Mulder.  I promise."

The message consisted of a list of names and dates, eight of
them in all.  The dates were all within the last year.  None
of the names meant anything to her, except for the last one.
 Shinichi Nomura, 8/4/00.  It was the name of the dead man
in handcuffs.  She was sure of it.  And the date was the
date of the Watergate bombing.

What the hell?

"Scully?"  The tone in Mulder's voice had changed to one of
concern, and she was aware of him leaning forward to see
what was on the screen.  "What is it?"

"I'm not sure," she said, chewing on her lower lip.

"It looks like a hit list," he commented.

"It does," she agreed.  

She thought about it for a minute, trying to decide what to
do.  There really wasn't much she *could* do ... not
tonight, anyway.  Then she had a sudden thought.  She
clicked on 'Forward', typed in the email address for Danny
in Research, added a brief explanatory note, and clicked
'Send'.  Danny could figure it out.  Or if not, maybe they'd
give the Gunmen a shot at it.  For tonight, though, she'd
had enough.  She powered down the laptop, closed it, and set
it down on the coffee table.

"Does this mean what I hope it means?" Mulder asked,
amusement and desire again plain in his voice.

"Mmmhmm," she said, closing her eyes and leaning back
against him once more.  She turned her head and nibbled at
the base of his neck.  "And you know what, Mulder?  If you
do a really good job of seeing to my needs, I might not even
kill you in the morning after all."

"Just call me Sheherazade," he said.  

He leaned over and grabbed his crutches, then Scully helped
him to his feet, and together they made their way to the
bedroom.

#          #          #

Time and location unknown

Viola powers down the laptop and puts it on the bedside
table, then reaches for the TV remote control.  It has been
another good, productive day.

The electronic spoof drawing attention to that
environmentalist group worked out better than they had any
right to expect.  News of the government's raid, and the
resulting deaths, has been blanketing the cable news
channels all evening long.  It was only with the greatest
reluctance that she muted the television while she worked at
erasing the evidence of their tinkering with the
Monkeywrenchers' web page, and sent that email.

She smiles as she turns up the volume -- and once again,
there's Scully on the screen, brushing off reporters in the
aftermath of the assault.  Viola has become quite taken with
the older woman; quite taken indeed.  She hopes things work
out so that she and Scully have some private time together,
before this is all over.  It would be such a pity for such a
beautiful woman to die without first having a chance to
sample her.

It would be such a waste.

Cesario stirs a little in the bed, and mumbles something in
her sleep, and for a moment Viola's attention is drawn away
from the TV.  She's a beautiful woman, too, of course, and
she's right here, in bed next to her.  It would be easy to
reach over and touch her shoulder.  That would wake her up,
and one thing would undoubtedly lead to another.

Viola shakes her head.  Not now, not now.  She can always
have Cesario, anytime she wants.  For the moment, she wants
to think about Scully.  She slides down in bed a little, and
slips her fingers between her legs.

==========END CHAPTER THIRTEEN==========

===========
Chapter Fourteen
===========

Residence of Dana Scully
Washington, D.C.
Friday, August 11, 2000
12:15 a.m.

Scully slipped off her panties and tossed them to one side,
then lay back among the pillows, watching through slitted
eyes as Mulder disrobed.

It was magical for her, watching him undress.  His clothes
always seemed to contain him, and although she now, finally,
had delicious familiarity with what lay underneath them, she
never ceased in her delight at having his body released once
again, like some wild animal being set free.  For Scully,
having Mulder naked, standing before her and ready to take
her in his arms, was the most extreme possibility
imaginable.

But tonight he was having some problems, due to the cast on
his ankle.  After watching him struggle for a minute or two,
trying to get his pant leg off over his cast, Scully's
compassion -- and impatience -- got the better of her.  She
slid out of bed and knelt down in front of him, acutely
aware of the warmth of his gaze on her own body as she
moved.

"Let me help," she said.  "I do have a vested interest in
this."

"So you do," he agreed with a chuckle.

But before she could move he reached down and stroked her
hair, and she couldn't keep herself from leaning into his
touch with a sigh.  Mulder's touch had always held great
power over her, almost from the very beginning, and later in
their partnership, as seemingly-innocent contact came to
stand for so much more, it was sometimes nearly
overpowering.  Some days, it seemed that it was all she
could do to keep herself from melting when he laid his hand
on her lower back, or rested it on her shoulder while they
talked.

But now she didn't have to hold back anymore.  Now she could
allow herself to feel and to respond, as Mulder sifted his
fingers through her hair, ran his nails along her scalp, and
tickled the hollow of her ear.  Her own fingers, meanwhile,
were caressing his thigh, up from his knee, where his pants
bunched and balanced precariously, to the hem of his boxers,
and then down again, over and over and over.

At length she stopped, and moved her hands to the waistband
of his slacks, tugging on them until they pooled around his
ankles.  The left foot came free easily.  She then carefully
worked at the right, inching the material down over his
cast, and ignoring one sharp gasp of pain.  She knew that
he'd tell her if he really needed her to stop.

Finally, she had his pants all the way off him.  His boxers
went next, quickly and easily; looking up, she saw that
while she'd been busy, he'd disposed of his shirt, and now
was as naked as she was.  Excellent.  Smiling happily, she
climbed back up on the bed and snuggled into his arms.

This was nice.  She could definitely deal with this.  She
was cocooned by Mulder, his strong arms wrapped securely
around her, the heat of his body radiating against her and
seeping into her flesh.  She felt warm.  She felt protected.
 She felt safe.  Then Mulder's hands began to move, touching
and caressing her in all the delicious, familiar ways,
stoking the fire that was never truly out -- not when he was
there.

#          #          #

Viola can feel the arousal building inside of her, growing
stronger by the second, as she teases herself into an
ever-widening spiral.  One hand is between her legs,
stroking relentlessly, while the other works at her breasts,
pinching her nipples, squeezing and tickling first on one
side, and then on the other.

Her eyes are closed, and she tries to imagine that someone
else is doing these things.  She tries to imagine that it's
Dana, touching her and inflaming her.  Yes ... yes, she can
feel them now.  Dana's fingers, small and strong and
curious, are exploring and exposing her body's every secret,
laying her bare for all the world to see.  The very thought
is so heady, so exciting, so intoxicating.  She can't even
begin to imagine what it will be like when it really
happens.  When desire gives way, leading to the seduction
that will lead to pleasure, to fulfillment, and finally to
death.

At the same time she imagines Dana's skin under her own
hands, under her own fingers.  It's warm and soft and very,
very smooth.  Dana is pale, as befits a redhead, her flesh
seldom exposed to the rays of the sun, or to the prying eyes
of others.  Dana's nakedness belongs only to herself -- to
herself, and to the one with whom she shares it.

Unless, of course, someone else chooses to take it.

The thought of taking, of violating, of claiming Dana for
her own -- that thought is exciting, and Viola increases her
pace.  There will be resistance, of course; there always is.
 But that just makes it better, and makes the ultimate
triumph all the sweeter.  Her breathing changes, deepening
and quickening as she brings herself closer to release.  Her
fingers are flying now, sliding through her wetness, in one
instant plunging deep inside, in the next touching and
caressing the outside in all the right places.  

Yes, yes, yes ... yes, it's so wonderful ... so beautiful
... so perfect.  Just the two of them, just Viola and Dana,
Dana and Viola.  Just the two of them, and no one else,
their hands gliding across each other's heated flesh,
approaching that bright, golden moment, together.  She
doesn't want to share that moment, not with anyone.  It's
so, so, perfect.

Immediately she pushes that thought away.  She can keep
nothing from Cesario.  It would be impossible, even if she
wanted to, which she does not.  The two of them are bound
together, and they long ago pledged to share everything, and
everyone.  It is not a union that can be undone, and there
can be no secrets between them.  Her fingers falter, and her
arousal dips, as she remembers what she and Cesario mean
each other.  What they have promised.

She finds herself staring up at the ceiling, watching the
flickery shadows cast by the light from the TV screen.  Her
hands are still, now, her fingers unmoving.  She glances
over at Cesario, deciding that if her partner is awake, she
will now allow herself to be diverted.  

She isn't sure whether she should be pleased or disappointed
to see that the other is still sound asleep.

She shakes her head, closes her eyes and returns her
thoughts to Dana.  To the smooth, perfect skin, to the
questing, knowledgeable fingers.  Dana.  Dana.  Dana.  So
beautiful, so perfect, so vulnerable.  Ready to be taken,
ready to die.  So near, and yet so far.  

Dana.

#          #          #

His hands were moving across her skin, so slowly, so gently,
so softly that she was barely able to feel them.  Mulder's
touch was tender and gentle, it made Scully ache with need
-- need for him, need for his touch.  Need for more.

She was cuddled against him, her back pressed against his
chest, his arms wrapped securely around her from behind.
One hand stroked her belly, moving in slow, gradually
widening circles, while the other cupped one of her breasts,
his fingers caressing and tickling the the sensitive
underside.  And oh yes -- something long and hard and
promising was nudging her from behind.

She snuggled back a little closer, rotating her hips and
pushing them backwards into Mulder's groin.  She was
rewarded by a return thrust, and a soft chuckle in her ear.

"A little eager, are we, Agent Scully?"

"Eager?" she replied.  "What's that?  I was just ... mmm --"
another push "checking out the lay of the land.  So to
speak."

"Uh huh."

They continued to lie together, hips moving languidly,
Mulder's erection sliding against her, prodding her, and
occasionally slipping in between her thighs.  Each time that
happened, she was tempted to reach down and grab him, and
guide his cock to the place where she most wanted it.  But
each time she resisted the urge.  Tired as she was, she
wasn't ready for this part to be over.  Not yet.

Mulder's fingers found her nipple, and Scully gasped.  Yes
... yes ... yes, just like that.  She moaned, and rubbed
herself back against him, needing more contact.  His other
hand had moved south, and now was tracing the crease between
her thigh and groin, his fingers brushing her dampened
curls.  

She spread her thighs in invitation, hooking her foot back
behind his calf, hesitating only long enough to make sure
she wasn't assaulting his injured leg.  She whimpered as he
pinched a nipple, and then again as she felt his hot, wet
tongue painting the tendon in her neck.  The other hand ...
dear God, the other hand was still moving, and she shuddered
as his fingers touched her outer lips.

"You like that, G-woman?"  His voice was low and throaty,
and very, very sensual.  His breath was warm and moist
against her neck.

"Yeah.  Yeah, I do.  Did you really have to ask?"

She reached back and around, until her hand found his thigh,
the only part of him she could reach from this position.  It
was warm and downy; it almost seemed to her that his skin
must be glowing, it was so hot under her fingertips.  

He was nibbling at the base of her neck, as his fingers
continued to explore.  Both hands were now down below, one
pair of fingers holding her lips apart, while another pair
danced around her small, needy center, just the way she
liked.  She moaned, her eyes tightly shut, as he rolled her
onto her back, and then his mouth found her breast and he
suckled on her, drawing it in between his lips, and she
wrapped one arm around his head and moaned again.

She couldn't stay completely passive; not anymore.  Not when
he was doing these things to her.  Her hand snaked down
between their bodies, groping, searching ... and then she
found him.  Long and hard and impossibly soft and silky all
at the same time.  He trembled as she touched him, grasped
him, began stroking him, her fingers loosely curled around
his shaft.  It never ceased to amaze her how much he liked
this, how easy it was to arouse him and please him.  Her
heart swelled with the knowledge, and she continued her
gentle pumping, as his hips began to move.

His mouth continued to work on her breast, and his fingers
trailed through her slick, delicate folds.  She heard
herself murmuring his name, and she tightened her grip on
him -- and he moaned against her, the sound muffled by her
flesh and vibrating into her chest.  He finally released her
breast, looked up at her and smiled, then switched to the
other side.  Scully closed her eyes, and tried just to
experience the sensations.  His lips, his tongue, his
fingers ....

In the back of her mind she was surprised, as always, at
Mulder's capacity for taking his time with this.
Thoughtful, considerate, patient ... those words didn't
begin to describe his approach to lovemaking.  He'd once
confided, late at night, during the afterglow, that he
regarded sex as the only true performance art.  And I'm his
canvas, she thought.  I'm where he paints his feelings, his
emotions.  Mulder, the ultimate impressionist.  She couldn't
help but giggle at the thought.

He looked up in surprise at her quiet laughter, and she
swooped down, planting a kiss full on his mouth.  It lasted
a long, long time, a tangle of tongues that left them both
breathless, but Scully was still able to whisper, in answer
to his unspoken question, "Monet."

#          #          #

One kiss is not enough, and Viola presses her mouth savagely
against Dana's, again and again, seeking, questing, wanting
to know everything there was to know.  Dana's lips are soft
and pliable, warm and alive, and Viola tightens her grip on
the other woman's head, holding her still so she can drink
from her.

At last they break apart, gasping for air, and for a moment
they hold each other, their lips grazing each other, their
bodies pressed together.  It is time, and they both know it.
 Viola's pulse surges in anticipation, and she can't keep
from laughing as she guides Dana's head down, down, down ...
down past her shoulders and breasts, down to her hips and
the very center of her arousal.  She spreads her thighs,
eager for contact --

Electric!

That's the only word, and Viola cries out, thrusting upwards
with her pelvis, while pressing down on Dana's head with her
hands.  Dear God, this is good ... sweet Christ, let it
never stop.  Let it go on, and on, and on ....

That soon, she feels herself approaching the brink, but she
isn't ready, she isn't nearly ready.  She always comes hard
and fast, but this time she wants it to last.  She needs to
find a way to slow things down.

She yanks on Dana's hair, pulling her back, signaling to her
to go slow, as she might signal a horse in a show.  Yes, she
thinks.  Yes, that's it.  I'm the rider, and I have the
reins.  I'm in control.  The knowledge is dizzying, even
mind blowing, and despite her best intentions and desires,
she finds herself spiraling farther and farther up towards
climax.

But still she needs more control.  Still she needs the
knowledge, the certainty that she's in command.  Before Dana
dies, she must realize her place, and she must acknowledge
it as she begs for release.

Viola must be in control.

And as quickly as that, she is.  She's stretched out on top
of Dana, her face buried between the other's warm, silky
thighs.  Dana continues her own assault, of course, with
lips and tongue and fingers, but by focusing most of her
attention on her own task, Viola is able to keep herself
from toppling over the edge.

#          #          #

And the flavor ... God, the flavor was wonderful, as it
always was.  Thick and dark and bitter, like nothing else
she'd ever tasted.  It was Mulder, pure and essential, and
nothing else in the world could ever be quite like this.

Scully moved her lips steadily, up and down over his shaft,
taking as much as she could into her mouth before drawing
back for another stroke.  One of her hands cupped his balls,
a finger extended to stimulate the soft, fleshy spot behind
them, while the other hand gripped one of his buttocks,
kneading and massaging the muscles as they flexed and
quivered.  Every so often she pulled back, slipping him out
of her mouth so that she could kiss and lick and nibble,
before sliding him back inside once again.

Nor was Mulder idle.  His lips and tongue were assaulting
her, touching and caressing and moving possessively through
her folds.  He had three fingers inside her, but rather than
pumping, as he sometimes did, tonight he simply held them
there, exerting slow, rhythmic pressure in just the right
spot, and then backing off just in time.  

Scully had already lost track of the number of times he'd
brought her to the brink of orgasm tonight.  Two?  Three?
Four?  She didn't know, and she didn't care.  All she cared
about was *right now*, and the feelings they were giving
each other.  Nothing else could possibly matter.  She felt
as if a circuit had been completed between their bodies,
with electricity flowing from him to her and back to him
again, around and around in a never ending circle, each pass
more powerful than the one before.

Abruptly, Mulder pulled away, withdrawing from her and
slipping his cock from between her lips.  She mewled her
dissatisfaction, and tried to go after him.  But then his
firm hands were on her shoulders, and he was turning her
onto her back and pressing her head and shoulders down onto
the bed.  She looked up through a dizzying haze of sensation
and emotion, to see his face hovering over her -- and
suddenly all she could think about was his ankle.

"You're hurt," she whispered.  It seemed right to whisper,
here together in the middle of the night.  "Shouldn't I --"

He chuckled and shook his head.  Then, with a swift economy
of motion he grabbed two pillows, slipping the first beneath
her hips, and twisting around to place the other under his
broken ankle.  Then he turned back to her, and settled
himself into the welcoming cradle of her thighs.  She
grasped his head between her hands, guiding his mouth down
for a deep, passionate kiss, as he sank into her.  And, as
always, the rest of the universe ceased to exist.

Yes ....

#          #          #

"NO!!!"

The bellow of rage and pain escapes Viola's throat without
her conscious volition.  The word seems to hang in the air,
trapped just beneath the ceiling, seeking escape and finding
none.  She stares upward, her mouth hanging open, trying to
understand what just happened.  Her body writhes with
unfulfilled arousal and need, her hands clutch futilely at
the air --

But there's no one there.

She is alone.

Dana is gone.

Gone.

She hears a rustling, and the bed creaks.  Turning her head,
she sees Cesario blinking at her sleepily in the darkness,
question marks in her eyes.  For a moment or two there is
silence, as the other woman slowly comes to full
wakefulness.  Comprehension seeps in behind her eyes, as she
realizes what's been going on.  

At last she reaches out, pulling Viola into a fierce
embrace.  There's no pity here, no regret or compassion, or
anything else warm or human.  Viola gasps in relief and
delight as their mouths meet, and they begin to share once
again the only emotion either of them can ever truly feel.

Rage.

==========END CHAPTER FOURTEEN==========

===========
Chapter Fifteen
===========

Eastbound on U.S. Highway 50
Passing Salisbury, Maryland
Saturday, August 12, 2000
11:01 a.m.

Mulder shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat of
Scully's Camry, trying to find a position that would be easy
on his ankle, while still keeping the morning sun out of his
eyes.  So far, he wasn't having much luck.

He wished Scully still had her old Explorer.  Now *that* had
been a car with some leg room.  Unfortunately, she'd had an
environmental epiphany after her cancer went into remission,
and when her old car finally had to be replaced, she'd gone
shopping for something a little smaller and more fuel
efficient.

It was still hot as hell in Washington, and for that Mulder
was perversely grateful, because it meant that Special Agent
Global Warming had switched on the car's air conditioning
without any prompting at all.  And once they'd reached the
Eastern Shore, of course, the temperature had dropped ...
and it would drop still further by the time they arrived at
the beach.

If, that is, they ever got that far.  The traffic on U.S. 50
was terrible, and had been ever since they hit Annapolis.
The drive from D.C. to Ocean City was nominally about two
and a half hours, but they'd already been on the road for
more than three, as it seemed that half the population of
the eastern seaboard had had the same idea that Scully's
mother had had.

And her brother was going to be there.  Couldn't forget
that.  Granted, it was Charlie rather than Bill, but Mulder
was prepared for the worst, nonetheless.  But he was
resolved to behave himself, for Scully's sake.  The mistakes
of the past were *not* going to be repeated.  Not if *he*
had anything to say about it.

The previous day had been a complete bust.  Although Skinner
had given them the day off, Scully had insisted on trying to
track down Johnny, the ambulance crew member, whom she
believed to be the source for that tabloid newspaper story
about her and Griggs.  Unfortunately, Johnny had had the day
off, as well, and they'd wound up playing tag in the
blistering heat all over greater Washington as they tried
without success to catch up with him.  They'd finally had to
content themselves with leaving messages with his supervisor
and with his live-in girlfriend.

They hadn't had any more luck finding pictures of Marissa or
Melissa Herman.  The briefing books and other paperwork
associated with the raid on the Monkeywrenchers' compound
had been left in the Treasury Department briefing room when
the task force left Washington on Thursday afternoon.  By
the time Scully got there, late on Friday morning, some
helpful person had already cleaned everything up, and no one
seemed to know where any of the materials had been put.

"You want to get that for me?"

Startled, Mulder looked over at his partner.  She was
hunched over the wheel, gripping it tightly and peering
ahead at the slow-moving traffic.  For a second he didn't
understand what she meant.  Then her cell phone chirped,
presumably for the second time, and it all became clear.
Moving with some difficulty in the cramped compartment, he
managed to reach her purse on the floor of the back seat,
fumbled around in it until he located her phone, flipped it
open and hit CONNECT just as it rang for the third time.

"Uh ... Fox Mulder, answering for Dana Scully."

"Hello, Fox."  It was Mrs. Scully.  "I just wanted to check
and make sure everything was okay."

"Everything's fine, Mrs. Scully," he replied.  He offered
the phone to his partner, lifting his eyebrows in question,
but she shook her head, her gaze still focused on the road
ahead of them.  "We're just caught in traffic.  We passed
Salisbury a few minutes ago, so it shouldn't be too much
longer, if the traffic doesn't get any worse."

It was weird talking on the phone to Scully's mother this
way.  He almost felt like a teenager again, explaining to
his girlfriend's parents why he was late bringing her home.
He fidgeted, and added, "Dana's driving, and she doesn't
want to come to the phone."  Really, ma'am, I'm not doing
anything to your daughter that I shouldn't be.  Honest, I've
got both feet on the floor.  No touching below the
shoulders, no ma'am.  Last night, on the other hand --

"That's fine, Fox," Mrs. Scully said.  "We'll see you in a
little while."

Somewhat to Mulder's surprise, the rest of the drive went
fairly quickly, and Scully was even able to find a parking
place not far from where they'd all agreed to meet.  Before
long, Mulder and his partner were making their way along the
crowded boardwalk, waving to Mrs. Scully, and to the tall,
thin, red-haired man who could only be Charlie.

"Fox, I was so sorry to hear about your ankle," his
partner's mother said, once the introductions were complete.
 

As always, there was an undercurrent to her words, something
that Mulder couldn't quite make out.  Not really annoyance,
not quite anger ... resentment, maybe.  Of his place in her
daughter's life, of the risks Scully was subjected to, and
of the distance that had opened up between her and her
family.  Not all these things were Mulder's fault; Scully
had finally persuaded him to accept that fact, at least
tentatively.  //I'm fairly happy.//  Those had been his
partner's own words, only a few weeks before, and he
treasured them, and was struggling to accept them in his
heart.

"Fox?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Scully."  He shook off his introspection,
and the two of them began strolling down the boardwalk.
Scully and her brother were a short distance ahead, arm in
arm, both talking a mile a minute.  "I was woolgathering.
And the ankle's not too bad, really."  He managed to shrug
around his crutches.  "Just one of those things that happens
in our line of work."

"Yes, I suppose it is," she said, her voice slightly cool.

Mulder silently berated himself.  Idiot.  First words out of
your mouth, you remind the woman of the danger, and the
price her family has already paid.  Fortunately, Mrs. Scully
didn't seem inclined to pursue the matter, as her only
further comment was a soft sigh.  Then Scully laughed --
actually laughed, a clear, bell-like sound that Mulder
hadn't heard coming from his partner in ages.

That seemed to break the ice.  Scully's mother relaxed, and
actually smiled, and the tension seemed to flow out of the
encounter.

#          #          #

3:15 p.m.

Mulder was surprised to realize that he was actually having
a good time.  

This knowledge had not come to him all at once, but crept up
gradually over the course of the afternoon.  After the
initial awkwardness on the boardwalk, Mrs. Scully had seemed
to take a genuine interest in talking to him, and Charlie
had been amiable, if a little distant.  And Scully ... well,
Scully had simply amazed him, displaying a teasing, playful
side of herself that he hadn't seen since their first year
as partners.  

He recognized the pattern, of course.  Being out for a
holiday with her mother and the man who clearly was her
favorite brother was causing his staid, sober, serious
partner to revert to a younger and more carefree version of
herself.  And hell, maybe his own presence had something to
do with it, as well.  He suspected that she would be
mortified if she were to see herself acting this way, but
Mulder was greatly enjoying it, and he intended to make the
most of this rare opportunity.

His one regret was that he couldn't go in the water, because
of his cast.  He'd watched Scully and Charlie playing in the
surf, chasing each other and wrestling, as if they were kids
again.  He was amused, but not too surprised, when Scully
won their mock battle -- and then he'd laughed out loud when
Scully held out a hand to pull her brother back to his feet,
only to have Charlie yank her headfirst into an oncoming
wave.

This was what it was like to have a family that you actually
enjoyed spending time with, he thought.  His own family had
been like that once, decades ago, before Samantha was taken.
 The others had died, and now he was the only one left, but
the family itself had been lost in the winter of 1973.
Nothing would ever be able to give it back to him.

But maybe that was okay.  He'd found it surprisingly easy to
live with the knowledge, once he'd learned Samantha's fate,
and the grief over his mother's suicide had been sharp and
intense, but very brief.  Scully had helped him through both
cr