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

===========
Chapter Seventeen
===========

Eastbound on U.S. Highway 50
Approaching Parsonsburg, Maryland
Saturday, August 12, 2000
10:40 p.m.

"So what do you think?" Scully said at last.

Neither of them had spoken since leaving Covarrubias' motel
room, some twenty minutes earlier.  Now they were back on
U.S. 50, homeward bound.  The traffic at this hour was
almost non-existent, and the night was still and quiet.  It
was as if they were the last two people on Earth.

"Mulder?"

"Sorry, Scully."  He hesitated, not so much because he was
unsure what to say, but because he didn't know how to say
it.  "I guess ... I guess I'm inclined to believe her.  I
know we've been burned by these people in the past, but
...."  He shrugged.  "Her story hung together pretty well,
and it accounted for all the known facts."

Scully nodded, as if she'd been expecting that response.
"It does hang together well.  It's coherent and internally
consistent."  Pause.  "But it does *not* explain why one of
their own people wound up being killed in the fire.  That's
the one point that *doesn't* make sense."

"Maybe he just happened to get caught in the crossfire, so
to speak," Mulder offered.  "Maybe he just didn't get the
word in time.  Or maybe they had some reason for wanting to
get rid of him, and this operation simply presented them
with the opportunity."

"All of those are possibilities," she admitted.  "But
Mulder, we've heard so many glib stories over the years,
things that seemed to make sense at the time, but later
turned out to be false.  I can't help but feel that this is
probably one of them."

"So you think she's lying?"  He stirred in his seat.  He
didn't like that idea, much as he knew there were ample
grounds for skepticism.  He was so damned tired of all the
lies.  He wanted *something* to be true.

"Not about everything," Scully said.  Her eyelids flickered.
 "I think ... I think maybe what she said about her own
abduction might be true.  Her body language seemed to
indicate that.  But the rest ... yes, I think she was lying.
 I don't think there's a 'super soldier' out there that's
responsible for all this.  I think there's something else
going on."

"Why?"

"I don't know."  She shrugged, took a glance at Mulder, then
looked back to the highway.  "When have we ever really
understood these people's motives?  Lies are like ...
they're like currency to them.  They spend them as
necessary, to get the things they want."

"So you're saying ... what?  That they do want something
from us?  Just not what they say they want?"

"That's what I'm saying."  Another glance.  "Is that so hard
to believe, after all we've been through?"

They both were silent again for several minutes, as more
miles fled by beneath the car.  Scully had a point.  Mulder
had to admit that, even if only to himself.  The problem
with accepting her statement, though, was that it left him
not knowing what to do next, how to proceed.  It left things
completely up in the air.

Well, there was one way to address *that* problem.

"So if you're right," he said, as if there'd been no break
in the conversation.  "If you're right, and this is all just
some elaborate hoax ... what are we supposed to do about
it?"

"What we're supposed to do," Scully replied, a small smile
on her face, "is go home and get some sleep.  Then,
tomorrow, we make another stab at finding that paramedic, so
we can get *that* settled.  *Then* I still have autopsy
reports to finish, and I have a report due on Monday on the
Monkeywrenchers raid ...."  Her voice trailed off on a note
of exasperated amusement, and Mulder couldn't help but
laugh.

"Okay, okay," he said, smiling.  "I get the point.  We've
already got a lot on our plate.  Mostly on *your* plate.
But what about Marita?  We can't just ignore her."

"No, we can't, but she is going to have to wait," his
partner answered.  "Obviously, there's something going on,
but we don't know what it is."  She shrugged again.  "Even
if she were on the up and up, she said she was going to have
to get back with us, after letting her friends know that
we've agreed to help.  Until she contacts us again, I don't
see that there's very much we *can* do."  Another quick
look.  "Besides, we still have some other leads to pursue
with regard to the Watergate.  Maybe one of them will give
us a better idea of what we're up against."

"True."

Mulder stretched as best he could in the tight confines of
the passenger seat, then turned so he could watch his
partner as she drove.  They rode in silence like that for
several miles, with Scully obviously aware of Mulder's gaze.
 At last she looked at him again, a quizzical, embarrassed
half-smile on her face.

"What is it?"

In fact, he'd just been reflecting on how beautiful she was,
but he couldn't resist the urge to tease her a little.
"Scully, I don't know how to tell you this."  He paused for
dramatic effect and dropped his eyes, as if he deeply
regretted what he was about to say.  "You've got a piece of
spinach caught between your teeth."

"I do not!"  Laughing, Scully ran one forefinger along her
gums.  "Jesus, Mulder, I haven't even had any spinach
today."

"You mean that's still there from the spinach salad you had
on Wednesday?  Eww, that's disgusting!"  He shook his head,
a fond smile on his face, while Scully continued laughing.
"There," he said.  "That's what I was trying for."

"What?"  Her puzzled embarrassment had segued over into
amused wariness.

"I wanted to hear you laugh.  You don't do it very often."

"Mulder, I laugh."

"No you don't," he insisted.  "Not very much, anyway."  He
reached out and trailed a finger down her forearm.  "But
you've been doing it a lot more these last few months."

If Dana Scully had been capable of being a coquette, that's
how Mulder would have characterized the look she gave him.
As it was, he had to leave her expression unlabeled.  And
she said, "Maybe I've had more reason lately."

"Maybe you have," he agreed.  A few more miles of silence.
Then:  "Scully, I just want to say that I had a really good
time today."  A rueful smile.  "At least, until Marita
showed up and crashed the party."

"So did I."  She let go of the wheel with one hand, grabbed
his hand and gave it a quick squeeze, then returned her grip
to the wheel.  "Thank you."

For a moment Mulder was at a loss, as he tried to imagine
what Scully could possibly be thanking him for.  Finally, he
shook his head.  "For what?"

"For coming with me today.  For letting yourself have fun."
Pause.  "For telling me about Covarrubias, and not running
off on your own."

"Hey, Scully ... we have a deal, remember?  No more
ditches."

"Yes, I do remember.  But this is the first time it's come
up, and I wanted to say thank you.  That's something else I
don't do often enough."

"Aw shucks, ma'am.  Twarn't nuthin'."

"Don't try to make a joke out of it," she said quietly.  She
reached over and touched his hand again.  "Please.  Not this
time.  I meant every word."

"I know."  Suddenly feeling awkward, he added, "I'm sorry.
It's okay, and ... and ... you're welcome."  That won him
another smile, but still he found himself fidgeting in his
seat.  Accepting gratitude from anyone was hard for him.  In
Scully's case, it was damned near impossible for him to
believe he'd actually done anything worthy of her thanks.
He decided to change the subject.

"So, Scully, you know what I liked best about today?"  She
shook her head.  "It was when you and your brother were
playing in the water.  I felt as if I was seeing you the way
you were when you were younger.  Before the X-Files, I
mean."  He hesitated, then added, "Maybe even before medical
school.  It made me wish I could have known you back then."
That was actually a frequent, wistful fantasy of his, but he
wasn't quite ready to admit that.  He was already going out
on enough of a limb; the two of them seldom opened
themselves up about things like this.

That was something else that had been slowly changing.

Scully didn't say anything in response, but that was okay.
Her face bore a smile of satisfaction, and that was more
than enough of an answer for Mulder.  After it became clear
that she wasn't going to speak, he nodded, and settled back
into his seat to watch her drive.  The gentle rocking of the
car and the soft drone of the engine were soothing, and soon
his eyelids began to droop.  A few minutes later, he'd dozed
off to sleep.

He awoke suddenly, and for a few seconds he was disoriented,
and couldn't remember where he was.  Then it came back to
him.  Scully's car.  The ride had roughened, and that must
be what had wakened him.  Looking out the window, he
realized that they were no longer on the highway, but were
instead maneuvering down a narrow country road.

"Welcome back, sleepyhead."

Scully's voice was warm and mellow, almost lyrical.  Still
blinking sleep from his eyes, he looked across at her, to
see that she now wore an expression of serene contentment,
as she guided the car down the road.  

"Have I been asleep long?" he asked.  "And where are we?"

"Less than an hour," she said.  "We're still on the Eastern
Shore, a few miles from Easton."

He waited for a moment to see if she was going to elaborate.
 When she did not, he asked, "Where are we going?  I thought
you wanted to get home."

"I do.  But I want to show you something first.  It won't
take long."

"Show me something?  What sort of a something?"

"Something about me."

Scully fell silent again, and somehow Mulder knew that she
didn't want to say anymore.  Not yet, anyway.  He decided
not to press her.  He would wait until she was ready to
unveil her surprise.

In the event, it was only about fifteen minutes before she
turned off the narrow blacktop, onto an even narrower,
rutted gravel road.  A few minutes more and the road ended,
and she stopped the car and switched off the engine.

"Here we are," she said, her voice very soft.

They were parked in front of a small stand of trees.  Mulder
couldn't see any lights anywhere, although the glow on the
horizon told him in what direction Washington lay.  The only
other sign of civilization, other than the road itself, was
the decrepit wooden barrier that prevented them from driving
any further.

"Okay," Mulder said.  "What happens now?"

"Now we get out and walk for a bit," his partner replied.
She paused, and bit her lip.  "Actually, the footing's not
very good.  I'm not sure if you can make it with your ankle.
 I, uh, sort of wasn't thinking about that."

"Hell, Scully, I'm part mountain goat," he said, opening his
door and twisting around to retrieve his crutches from the
back.  "I'll manage."  If she had something about herself
that she wanted to show him, he was determined to see it.  A
little rough ground wasn't going to stand in the way.

A few moments later they were both out of the car, picking
their way through the woods.  The footing was indeed uneven,
but Mulder found that there was a narrow path, and that made
it easier than it might have been.  The crutches slipped a
couple of times, and once he stumbled, but on the whole, it
wasn't too bad.

They hadn't gone very far before they came to a small rise,
and that proved a little more daunting.  But with Scully
holding his arm, and taking plenty of time to choose where
to put his crutches and where to step, he was able to make
steady progress.  And after a minute or so, they reached the
top.

"Aha," he said.  "I should have realized it would have
something to do with water."

The Chesapeake Bay was about twenty yards in front of them,
at the end of a gentle downward slope.  A narrow strip of
sand ran along next to the water, forming a small, private
beach.  The trees continued down the slope, and stretched
out to both sides as far as he could see.  A large,
irregular boulder, easily eight feet across in its smallest
dimension, stood off to one side, a few yards back from the
water.

"I used to come here when I was in high school," Scully
said, taking his arm again and guiding him down the slope
towards the water.  "This is a very special place for me."

"You came here with your family?" Mulder asked.  He
suspected he already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear
what she would say.

"No."  She shook her head, an odd little smile on her face.
"No, I don't think my parents ever knew this place existed.
I hope."  They reached the edge of the sand and stopped, and
together they stood there, looking at the water a few feet
away.  "I used to come here with some kids I knew.  Mostly
my boyfriend and I used to come here, along with another
couple.  My best friend, Cindy, and her boyfriend."  She
cocked her head and turned to look at him, her expression
suddenly sad.  "But you don't know about Marcus."

Mulder shook his head, puzzled by the sudden downturn in her
emotions.  "Should I?"

"Yes.  And no.  I told you about him once, but it wasn't
really you."

For a moment Mulder didn't get it -- but then the light
dawned, and he nodded.  "Van Blundht."

"Yeah."  She looked down at her feet, then back up at his
face.  "Mulder, I'm so sorry about that night.  And I'm even
more sorry that I never explained --"

"Scully, you don't have to explain anything," he
interrupted.  "It's in the past, and, well ... it was a
rough year for both of us, in a lot of different ways."

"Yes, it was," she agreed.  "But I do want to say something
about it."  She suddenly lifted up on her toes and kissed
him on the cheek, then touched his elbow and urging him
forward onto the beach.  The sand shifted a little under his
crutches, but he didn't slip, having gotten plenty of
practice on the beach at Ocean City, earlier in the day.

"As you said," Scully went on, "it was a bad year.  The
cancer, and ... well, and everything.  I was desperate for
someone to hold onto, but I wouldn't let myself do anything
about it.  Most of the time, I didn't even allow myself to
acknowledge that I needed someone.  And then ... well, Van
Blundht showed up at my door with a bottle of wine, and
...."  Her voice trailed off, and she stopped walking and
turned to face him again.  Mulder stopped, too.  They now
stood at the very edge of the water.

"Mulder," she said, "it had been such a long time since ...
since that one time.  In my head I knew by then that, for
whatever reason, it wasn't going to happen again.  But a
small part of me never gave up hoping.  And then there you
were, and I needed somebody, and I wanted it to be true, so
I didn't let myself question it."  A melancholy smile.
"After all, it was perfectly in character for both of us to
just pick it up again like that, with no explanation or
discussion of what had happened before."

Mulder nodded, and in the space of a few seconds a jumbled
collection of images and memories raced through his mind.
There'd been that harrowing escape from the radio telescope
in Puerto Rico.  The long, weary journey home.  The burning
anger and disappointment when the tapes turned out to have
nothing on them.  The fierce determination that he would at
least hold on to Scully.  

Then one day, soon after they got back, she came to him
while he was on surveillance duty, offering comfort and
reassurance.  Later that night he arrived home, to find her
in his apartment, waiting on his sofa.  Neither of them had
spoken; he knew why she was there.  For a few hours he was
able to lose himself in her and forget ... but then events
conspired to keep them apart, and they had no opportunity to
build on what they'd started, or even to discuss whether
they *wanted* to build on it.  And not long after that, they
met Duane Barry.

"Scully," he whispered, "I'm so sorry.  Do you want me to
try to explain?"

"Yes," she said, her voice equally quiet.  "Sometime."  Her
smile reemerged, and Mulder's heart resumed beating.  "I
think I have some idea what happened, but I'd like to hear
what you have to say.  But not tonight.  I didn't bring you
here for that."

"Okay."

She took his hand and squeezed it, then let go so he could
handle the crutches as they began to walk along the water
line, in the direction of the large boulder that Mulder had
noticed earlier.

"Anyway," she said, "we used to come here when we were
seniors in high school.  Just the four of us.  We'd go
swimming, drink some beer and do a little necking."  She
looked up at him and smirked.  "I learned a lot about male
anatomy on this beach."

"I'll just bet," he said, making no effort to keep the note
of amusement from his voice.

"The last time we were here," she continued, "was the week
after graduation.  You have to understand that not too long
before that, the night of our senior prom, Marcus and I had,
uh ... come really close to, uh ...."

"Going all the way?" Mulder suggested.  "Making the beast
with two backs?  Doing the funky monkey?  Playing hide the
salami?"

They'd reached the boulder, and now Scully turned once again
to face him.  "Yes," she said, rolling her eyes and smiling.
 "Hide the salami.  That was just the phrase I was looking
for.  Unfortunately, we were interrupted.  So there was a
certain amount of tension between us, but we hadn't actually
talked about it --"

"Hard to imagine," he interrupted again, now with a smirk of
his own.  "I mean, that two people would come that close to
*consummating* something, and then not talk about it for an
entire week.  That's such a long time.  We don't know anyone
like that, do we, Scully?"

"Asshole."  She gave him an affectionate swat on the
shoulder.  "So the four of us came out here, and after we'd
had a little beer and it had gotten dark, the guys announced
that they wanted to go skinny dipping."

"Oooh," Mulder said, his smile broadening.  "This story
keeps getting better and better.  A skinny dipping Scully!
Who'd have thought?"

"Yes, except that it was a skinny dipping *Dana*," she said,
with amused dignity.  "I didn't turn into Scully until after
I'd met you.  But as you've already surmised, Cindy and I
let ourselves be talked into it, but we decided to get
undressed behind this rock."  She nodded over her shoulder.
"And we told the guys they couldn't look until we were in
the water."

"I bet they peeked," Mulder said.  He could see where this
story was heading, and it was really starting to turn him
on.  "I would have."

"I'm sure they did," Scully agreed.  "And of course, we were
secretly hoping that they would.  So we were all in the
water together, splashing around, getting used to it, and
then suddenly Marcus swooped down on me and wrapped his arms
around me.  What could I do?  I was trapped."

"I'll bet you put up a hell of a fight."

"Yes, certainly," she agreed, with a little snort of
amusement.  "It was the first time I'd been kissed when I
wasn't wearing any clothes, and I was standing in three feet
of water.  i was lucky my knees didn't give out.  I could
have drowned."

"And the rest, I take it, is history," Mulder said.  He
moved a little closer, until their bodies were almost
touching.

"That's right.  In fact ...."  

She turned away and strolled on around the rock, glancing
over her shoulder just before she passed out of sight.
Mulder followed, to find her standing in a small grassy area
that was sheltered by the trees.  The boulder shielded the
spot from the beach and the bay, giving them complete
privacy, unless someone actually bothered to walk around the
huge rock.  

"Right here," Scully declared, prodding the turf with her
shoe, "is where I lost my virginity.  Eighteen years ago
this past June."

She stopped talking, and simply stood there, watching him.
In his mind's eye he could see the scene she'd just
described:  an impossibly young Scully, naked in the
moonlight, her hair wet from swimming, lying back on the
grass and holding out her arms to him.  Ready and willing,
eager to make love for the very first time.  His cock was so
hard it almost hurt, and he shifted on his crutches, trying
to ease his discomfort.

"So ... what happens now?" he asked.

Scully raised an eyebrow.  "That depends, Mulder.  What do
you want to happen now?"  She paused, but he couldn't manage
to get any words out.  She went on, in a teasing tone of
voice, "I suppose we could just go on home.  But you did say
you wanted to see what I was like when I was younger."

"Scully ...."  His voice was barely above a whisper.  He
couldn't believe his partner, normally so serious and
conservative, was actually suggesting what she seemed to be
suggesting.

"Come on, Mulder," she prompted, her voice low and
seductive.  She was fingering the hem of her t-shirt, still
looking him directly in the eye.  "I feel very strange
tonight.  Very ... very young.  That doesn't happen very
often; you may not get another chance like this.  You
wouldn't want to waste it."

"No, I guess I wouldn't."

"I didn't think so."

Mulder stood there, mesmerized, as Scully began to undress,
first pulling her t-shirt off over her head and tossing it
aside, then reaching behind her back and unhooking her bra.
Shoes and socks followed, then her jeans.  She hooked her
thumbs into the waistband of her panties and raised her
eyebrow at him again, then slowly slid them down off her
hips and let them fall to the ground.  She kicked them to
one side, and then she was naked, standing before him in the
darkness.

"Scully," he whispered again.  

He moved forward until he was standing directly in front of
her, and she stepped into his arms and kissed him.  Her lips
were warm and soft, and her breath was sweet and moist as it
mingled with his.  The tip of her tongue probed at his
mouth, and he opened it, allowing her free entry.  They
tasted each other, trading oral caresses.  One of Scully's
hands gripped his neck, while the fingers of the other
sifted through his hair.  He dropped his crutches, and his
own hands came to rest on her bare hips, holding her close
against him, while his thumbs massaged her pelvic bone.

At last she ended the kiss, pulling back a little so that
she could look up at him.  "Well?" she said, smiling.

"You do realize that we're going to get chigger bites," he
said, smiling back down at her.

Scully laughed and shook her head.  "I don't care," she
said.  "I got chigger bites that other time, too, with
Marcus.  Just for tonight, I want us to be young together.
I want us to be eighteen."  

Her hands went to his belt buckle, even as she stretched up
to kiss him again, and Mulder had to murmur his response
against her lips.  "Okay, Scully.  Okay.  Just for tonight,
we'll be eighteen."

After that, there was no more talking.  Scully eased him
down to the ground, ever mindful of his broken ankle.  She
helped him out of his clothes, then moved once more into his
embrace.  The night was warm and silent, and the two
partners lay together in the grass, kissing and touching,
making love beneath the stars.  Being young together in the
dark.

==========END CHAPTER SEVENTEEN==========

===========
Chapter Eighteen
===========

FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
Monday, August 14, 2000
8:02 a.m.

"Sorry I'm late," Scully said, as she stepped through the
doorway of the basement office.  She tossed a small paper
bag onto Mulder's desk.  "I had to stop at Wal-Mart on my
way in.  *Somebody* used up all my calamine lotion
yesterday."

"Sorry, Scully," he said, a lazy smile on his face.  "But my
need was greater than thine.  If I may remind you, *I'm* the
one who wound up lying on his back."

"You said you wanted to be able to see me.  And you knew
there were going to be chiggers -- you were the one who
brought it up."  She set her briefcase down and opened it,
bending her head in hopes that her hair would conceal the
fact that she was struggling to keep a straight face.  "But
I got my reports done anyway, despite the fact that my knees
and shins and elbows *and* forearms were itching horribly."
She pulled out the stack of folders and set them firmly on
the desk.

"I'll put you in for a performance award," he said, his
voice tinged with amusement.  He leaned back in his chair,
his hands locked behind his head.  "But while *you* were
making Sam Walton's heirs just a little bit richer, *I* was
working.  Specifically, I finally got hold of your EMT
buddy, Johnny Dietrich."

"Thank God."  Scully sat down in her own seat and powered up
her computer.  "What did he have to say?"

"Well, at first he thought I was Griggs, and I really got an
earful.  But after he settled down, and realized I was just
your main squeeze ...."  His voice trailed off, and he
raised his eyebrows.

"You didn't."  She fixed her gaze on him.  "Mulder, tell me
you didn't."  

His goofy personal attentions amused her when they were
directed at her, in private, but when he turned that side of
himself loose on the outside world she became embarrassed.
He knew that.  It was one of the first things they'd had to
work out, all those months ago.  So surely he hadn't --

"No," he said, shaking his head and smiling again.  "I
didn't.  I told him I was your partner, and that we'd been
trying to reach him about that newspaper article."

"And?"

"He actually fessed up right away.  The poor kid worships
you, Scully.  He was just trying to make a little extra
money -- and, I suspect, get your attention, in a clumsy,
post-adolescent, John Hinkley/Jodie Foster sort of way.  He
was mortified when I told him you were having professional
problems because of it.  He said he'd email me a statement
to show to Skinner.  Hopefully, that will be the end of it."

"Thank God."  

She turned her attention back to her computer, which now was
fully online.  She clicked on the mail icon and skimmed
rapidly through the messages.  Another one from the lab
supervisor ... one from human resources, about her 401K
election ... a couple spams ... one or two others, none of
them important.  She sat back in her chair and swore.

"Scully?  What's the matter?"

"Still nothing from Danny," she said, waving at the screen.
"Remember that message I got last week?  That list of names?
 I expected to hear from him on Friday, and when I didn't, I
was sure there'd be something this morning.  I better call
him."  She picked up the phone and hit the appropriate speed
dial.  It was answered on the second ring.

"Danny, this is Scully," she said.  "I just wanted to follow
up on that file I sent you ... uh, Thursday night.  You
probably got it Friday morning.  Have you found anything
yet?"

"Yeah," he said, sounding surprised.  "I emailed the
response to A.D. Skinner late Friday morning.  Hasn't he
passed it on to you?"

"No," she replied, furrowing her brow in confusion.  "Why
did you send it to Skinner?"

"Your inquiry impinged on a classified operation," Danny
explained.  "Skinner has to clear you to see it.  I'm sorry;
I should have sent you a note about it.  But I assumed he'd
forward it on to you pretty much right away.  It's pretty
routine stuff.  Sorry, Agent Scully."

"No, that's okay," Scully said, more confused than ever.
"I'm sure he's just been busy.  I'll call Kim and ask her
about it."

"Sorry I can't be more help," he replied.  "Anything I can
do from this end, just give me a jingle."  

"Thanks.  If I have any problems, I'll let you know."  She
hung up.

"What was that all about?" Mulder asked.

"He says he sent it to Skinner," Scully replied.  "Friday
morning.  It's classified, and I have to be cleared before I
can see it."

"So what's taking Skinner so long?"

"I don't know," she said.  "But I'm going to find out."  She
picked up the phone again, and punched the button for
Skinner's office.

"Kimberly," she said, "this is Agent Scully.  I had a
question concerning a report I've been expecting from Danny
Grimes.  Do you know the one I'm talking about?"

"I think so, Agent Scully.  You mean the report on Operation
Parasite?"

"Yes, that's the one," she said, hoping she was right.
"I've been waiting for the A.D. to clear it for me, but
...."  She let her voice trail off suggestively.

"I'm sorry, Agent Scully," Kimberly replied.  "He's horribly
busy this morning.  I'm a little surprised he didn't take
care of it over the weekend -- I know he was in for a while
on Saturday.  But now he's in meetings over at the DOJ, and
I don't expect him back until after lunch.  I'll leave a
note on his desk about it, though."

"Thanks, Kim."  Once again, she hung up.

"No dice, huh?" Mulder said.

"No."  She gave him a summary of the conversation.  "At
least I got the name.  She called it 'Operation Parasite'."

Mulder frowned, and turned to his own computer, activating
the Bureau's internal search engine.  He tapped the keys,
hit return, and waited.  After a few seconds, he shook his
head.

"Nothing," she guessed.

"Right."  He pushed himself away from the computer.  "Which
does tell us one thing.  It's classified at a high enough
level that even the file name won't turn up on a routine
inquiry.  The directory itself must be classified.  And that
means it's pretty hot shit."  He drummed his fingers on the
desktop.  "'Operation Parasite'," he repeated.  "You don't
suppose it could have something to do with the nanites, do
you?"

"No idea."  She felt a prickle run down her spine at the
thought.  What a horrible way to have to live your life.
She didn't now how Skinner could stand it -- except, of
course, that she had a very similar problem of her own:
That chip buried in the back of her neck.

"You know, I think I'm even more interested in seeing it
than I was before," Mulder said.  He chewed his lip for a
moment, then reached for his telephone.

"Mulder, wait."

"What?"  He paused, finger poised over one of the speed
dials.  "I was just gonna call the guys and --"

"No."  She shook her head.  "We're not going that route,
Mulder.  As far as we know this file is legitimately
classified, and Skinner just hasn't had time to review it
yet.  And if it *is* related to the nanites, the last thing
he needs is us messing around in it without knowing what
we're doing.  Kim said he'd be back after lunch.  I think we
should wait, and see if he just forwards it to me in the
course of routine business."

"Well ... okay.  For now."  He returned the phone to its
cradle.  "We'll wait," he continued.  "But not for very
long.  If it *does* have to do with the nanites ... well,
Skinner blew us off once on this, and I'm not going to let
it happen again."  Scully nodded.  She couldn't help but
agree.  The nanites might be the A.D.'s personal dilemma,
but they also fed back into the larger problems she and
Mulder faced, and they couldn't be ignored.

The day passed slowly.  Johnny's email came in, and while he
was still embarrassingly effusive, it did seem likely that
his message would defuse the issue with Griggs and the
newspaper article, so they forwarded it on to Skinner.  They
fielded a few phone calls, received one long, improbable fax
from somebody in Maine -- something about a banshee, and
Stephen King.  And they got caught up on their paperwork.  

In the early afternoon Scully made the trek to the
cafeteria, in deference to Mulder's ankle, and took the
opportunity to drop off her reports to Skinner while she was
upstairs.  Kimberly was at her desk, being professionally
unhelpful, and the inner door was closed.  Yes, the A.D. was
back.  No, he was not available.  No, he hasn't acted on
that report, but I did remind him.  Sorry, Agent Scully.
I'll call you the minute he decides.  Will there be anything
else?

By mid-afternoon she was pretty sure Skinner was avoiding
her.  Granted that he had apparently had a long string of
meetings today, but she never had this much trouble getting
in to see him.  At the very least, she would normally have
expected him to return her original phone call by now.
Kimberly's body language reinforced this opinion, as the
A.D.'s assistant had seemed reluctant to look her in the
eye.

Once again, Skinner was confusing her.  She could think of
no reason for him to be acting this way.  The request would
either be approved or not.  If it were approved, she should
have it by now.  If not, it was uncharacteristic of Skinner
not to simply pick up the phone and tell her.  

Mulder suggested the obvious -- that their boss was trying
to keep something from her.  But that didn't make sense to
her, either, because by holding on to the report and
refusing to meet with her, he was actually drawing more
attention to whatever was *in* the report.  As Mulder had
commented that morning, it just made her want the
information more than ever.  And, although she knew it was
an irrational response on her part, it also added to her
growing conviction that whatever was in the document was
going to turn out to be important.

She didn't want to be suspicious of her boss' motives, but
it was hard not to be.  He'd been secretive last week over
the issue of who had arranged Mulder's release by the
Alexandria police.  But then he'd turned around the very
next day, and pushed her forward into a position of prestige
and importance in the Watergate investigation, and backed up
her actions during the raid on the Monkeywrenchers'
compound.  And now this.

By 3:30 Scully's patience had run out, and she finally
acquiesced and allowed Mulder to set into motion what he
called 'Plan B'.  To her relief, Plan B did *not* involve
getting the Lone Gunmen to hack into the Bureau's computer
system.  It consisted mostly of misdirection -- although the
consequences if they were caught were still potentially
pretty dire.  But after seven years of tearing one page
after another out of the rule book, usually at Mulder's
suggestion, there was very little left that Scully
considered to be off limits.

She stepped off the elevator onto the fourth floor.  The
Research Division had originally been a large, open area,
similar to the agents' bullpen on the floor below, but a
couple of years ago it had been broken up into cubicles, and
now it was a maze of temporary partitions.  A few heads
prairie dogged up over the dividers at the sound of her
footsteps, then disappeared just as quickly.  She was no
stranger here.  She made her way directly to Danny's
cubicle, and stuck her head in through the opening.

"Knock knock," she said, doing her best to sound casual.

"Agent Scully!  To what do I owe the honor?"  

Danny was dressed as always, in a plain white shirt with the
sleeves rolled up, a dark, narrow tie, and dark slacks.
Three or four pens stuck out of a plastic pocket protector
in his breast pocket, and a pencil was parked behind his
right ear.  Everything about him screamed 'geek', but that
was nothing against him in Scully's book -- and besides,
he'd been extraordinarily helpful to her over the years.  Of
course, remembering that made her feel guilty for what she
was about to do, but there seemed to be no alternative.  She
smiled, and stepped into the cubicle.

"I was wondering if I could ask a favor," she said.  "I've
spoken to Kimberly about that report, and she doesn't know
if Skinner's going to get to it today.  You said it was
pretty routine, and I was just wondering ...."  She let her
voice trail off; Danny was already shaking his head.

"I'm sorry, Agent Scully, but you know the regs.  You've got
the requisite clearance, but you don't have need-to-know.
Not until your boss says you do.  I'm sorry," he repeated.

"I know," she said with a sigh.  "And it's okay."  She
chewed her lip, pretending to think about it for a minute.
"Look, I know you've already gone over this, but would you
mind pulling it up on your screen and checking the
classification level again?  Just on the off chance there
was a mistake?"

"Sure.  But there's no mistake."

He turned to his computer, and his fingers flew across the
keyboard.  While he was doing that, Scully pulled out her
cell phone and punched one of the speed dials.

//Lone Gunmen.//  Frohike, just as planned.

"Mulder, it's me," she said.  "I'm with Danny, but he said
no."

//Does he have it up on the screen yet?// Frohike asked.

"Yes," she replied.  "I'm having him check the
classification, just in case, but --"  Danny was looking
back at her already, shaking his head.  She sighed again.
"Mulder, he says no.  So I guess we wait until tomorrow."

//We're on it,// the little man said.  //Keep talking.//

"Okay," she replied.  She paused, as if she were listening
to her partner.  Then:  "I don't think that's fair .... No,
Mulder, it's not his fault."  

She rolled her eyes at Danny and gave him a rueful smile,
suppressing another stab of guilt as she did so.  Just then,
the researcher's desk phone rang.  He reached for it, and
Scully held her breath.  Everything depended on the Gunmen's
voice synthesizer.  It had fooled her the year before.
Would it fool Danny now?

"Grimes, Research," he said.  He listened for a few seconds.
 "Hi, Kim, what's up?"

"Mulder, just calm down," Scully said, picking another
phrase at random.  Frohike had wanted to script her side of
the conversation, but she'd been afraid it would sound
rehearsed.  Now she was wondering if maybe he'd been right
after all; she was having trouble thinking of things to say.
 "We'll just have to take the evening off, and work on it in
the morning.  Is that so terrible?  I wanted to see my
mother tonight anyway."

"I already turned that in," Danny was saying into his own
phone.  "Last Thursday."  Another pause, followed by a sigh
of exasperation.  "Oh, fer Chrissake.  Fine.  Whatever.
I'll be right there."  He hung up the phone, shook his head,
and muttered, "Management."

"Well Jesus, Mulder," Scully said, with another roll of the
eyes.  "Surely you don't hold *me* responsible for your lack
of a social life."  She added, "Maybe you can hang out with
those geeky friends of yours."  

//Hey!//  Frohike objected, and she smirked.  She could
easily picture the expression of wounded dignity on his
face.  //We've got you on the speaker phone, and that was a
low blow, Agent Scully.  You just made Langly cry.//

"Well that's just too bad," she replied.  "You'll live.
I'll see you in the morning, Mulder."  

She switched off the phone and put it away.  Danny was
pulling some files from a desk drawer.  Now if he'd just
leave his computer on she'd be home free.  It was a clear
violation of security protocol, but most people were lazy,
and left their PC's on if they knew they were only going to
be away for a few minutes.  And sure enough, he was surging
up out of his chair and charging around his desk, an annoyed
look on his face, apparently without giving a second thought
to his computer.  Scully stepped out into the hall to make
way.

"Sorry, Agent Scully," he said.  "Gotta go.  Catch ya
later."  He swept by her and on down the hall.  A few
seconds later, she heard the ding of an elevator.

Scully glanced at her watch as she stepped back into Danny's
cubicle.  4:19.  Kim always left on the dot of four, to pick
up her kids from their after school program.  Danny would
probably wait around for a few minutes, then use Kimberly's
photocopier to run off duplicates of the monthly workload
reports he'd been asked to bring, so he could leave them on
her desk and get out of there.  Kim would be puzzled to find
the copies tomorrow morning, but probably *not* puzzled
enough to call Danny about it.  Now as long as Skinner
wasn't in his office with the door open ....

As she'd hoped, the Operation Parasite files were still on
the screen.  Scully sat down in Danny's chair, pulling on a
pair of latex gloves as she did so.  She wasn't planning on
leaving her fingerprints on the keyboard of a restricted PC,
just in case Danny got suspicious and the information
security people were able to trace what she was about to do.
 

She heard footsteps in the hall, and glanced at the open
entryway of the cubicle, her heart beating fast.  If someone
walked in now, or if Danny had forgotten something and had
to come back for it, this was going to be impossible to
explain.  Why did she let herself get talked into things
like this?  Well, nothing to do now but see it through.

Turning her attention back to the computer, she took a
floppy disk from her pocket, slid it into the drive and
started copying files.  There were eight of them, just as
she'd guessed, and they were apparently small, because it
didn't take very long.  Two minutes later she was out of the
cubicle, heading for the elevators.

#          #          #

Residence of Fox Mulder
Alexandria, Virginia
4:34 p.m.

Today, Viola is in Alexandria.  It seemed like a good idea
to put a little distance between herself and Dana,
considering what happened the other night.  At least,
Cesario seemed to think so.

This time she let herself in, without recourse to the
building manager.  When Cesario was here last week she found
the spare key, "hidden" in an ice cube tray in the freezer.
People are so stupid, especially when they think they're
being clever.  Dana's extra key wasn't hard to find, either.

This afternoon she's just exploring, trying to get the lay
of the land.  She and Cesario aren't quite ready to seal the
deal yet.  They're having too much fun to let it end
prematurely.  Part of the fun is becoming intimately
familiar with the subject before closing in for the grand
finish.  It gives her such a wonderful feeling of power.  Of
control.

Viola has to be in control.

So does Cesario.

She went to the bedroom first, because she couldn't resist,
and as she expected, she found it to be steaming with
sexuality and desire.  Mulder's aura is here, of course, and
so is Dana's.  The sense of her presence is so strong, so
powerful, it's almost as if she's physically in the room.
There's another woman here, too -- someone with dark hair
and large breasts and a weak, credulous nature.  But it was
a long time ago, and Viola dismisses her.  She wants to
concentrate on Dana.

For a moment she stands still, eyes closed, and allows a
vision of Dana to wash over her.  Lying on her back,
half-buried among the pillows and blankets, her skin flushed
and slick with sweat.  It's dark, the wind is blowing, and
Dana is opening herself, really letting herself go, for the
first time in years.  She's wearing a baseball cap of all
things, one that says 'Stonehenge Rocks' on it, and she's
*giggling*.  Viola hears the scrap of a song ....

//Speak to me, baby, in the middle of the night.//

And suddenly there's someone else in the room.  Some other
presence.  Not Dana, and not the one from the distant past,
either.  This is someone different, someone she feels she
should know.  Dana is gone, but this other is here in her
stead.  Someone powerful and hostile and most of all
*familiar* --

//Why is it so dark in here?//

The voice is powerful, demanding, and Viola frowns as she
tries to place it.  She's felt this presence before, very
recently.  She just can't remember.  She wracks her brain,
trying to dredge up the memory.  When?  Where?  And most
importantly, *who*?

//Why is it so dark in here?//

Again those damnable words, and again she can't quite place
the source.  For all their strength, there's something
gentle about them, too.  Something kind and loving and ...
and *compassionate*.  There's no weakness, though, nothing
she can exploit.  Nothing she can grab onto.  She feels
herself slipping away, she feels the hot, bright core of her
fury being subdued by the warmth and concern of the other.
She can't let that happen, she can't, she can't, she can't.
If she loses her anger she'll die, she'll have nothing left
at all --

//I don't have to be psychic to see that you're in a very
dark place.//

Suddenly, Viola remembers.  The entryway to Dana's
apartment.  That's where she felt this presence before.  The
darkness, the two men, the gunshot, and she was falling,
falling, falling ....

With the memory comes knowledge, and from the knowledge
comes strength.  Now Viola knows what she's facing, and
she's able to rally her will to fight against it.  The anger
boils up inside her, the rage that comes so easily, both for
her and Cesario.  It's white hot, it burns, and it feels so,
so *good*.  She lashes out, struggling against the cloying
feminine presence, struggling to regain control.  She
gathers all her will, and gives one hard //push// --

And it's gone.  She's sitting on the floor in Mulder's
bedroom, her back leaning against the wall, breathing
heavily.  It took all her strength to do it, but it's gone.

She allows herself to sit for a few minutes, regaining her
strength and catching her breath.  That was worse than the
first time.  Far, far worse.  Worse than anything she's ever
encountered before.  She told Cesario about the other time,
and the two of them just laughed, secure in the knowledge
that nothing could stand against them.  But this ... this
*presence* is far more powerful than she thought.  This
time, she barely fought it off.  

Finally, she bestirs herself, and struggles awkwardly to her
feet.  Her legs are still rubbery and uncertain, but she
can't afford to wait any longer.  She has to find Cesario as
soon as possible, and tell her about the magnitude of the
threat.  She moves out into the hall and towards the living
room --

Only to find that the day is not quite over.  She has
another uninvited guest.

There's a woman standing in the living room, next to the
couch.  Not the woman whose presence she just fought off --
this one is strictly corporeal.  She's standing with her
back to the bedroom door, and long blonde hair cascades down
across her shoulders.  Viola reaches out to sample the
intruder's mind, and finds weakness and malleability, all
wrapped up around the barest flash of an image -- an image
of a man, with dark hair and green eyes and, improbably
enough, only one arm.  She will have no trouble with this
one.  None at all.

The other woman must have heard something, because suddenly
she spins about.  "Agent Mulder?  Is that --"  

The visitor's voice dies, and her eyes widen in surprise,
then shock, and finally fear.  There's recognition there,
too, and that just makes it better, because it means she
knows what's about to happen.  Her emotions surge under
Viola's savage caress, and Viola realizes that there's a gun
in the other's purse.  But it doesn't matter.  Not with this
one.  She'll never find the will to use it.

Viola smiles, and starts walking slowly forward.

==========END CHAPTER EIGHTEEN==========

===========
Chapter Nineteen
===========

Office of the Lone Gunmen
College Park, Maryland
Monday, August 14, 2000
6:11 p.m.

"Well hello, Hannibal," Frohike murmured, as he paged
through his copy of the print out of the Operation Parasite
files.  "Looks like you guys've got a problem."

Scully nodded silent agreement, unable to take her eyes off
her own copy of the report.  Mulder had told her over the
years about some of the human monsters that he'd tracked
while working for VICAP, and before that the BSU.  She'd
also had some first hand experience with such things as a
pathologist, and then, of course, there was her time on the
X-Files -- although to Scully it was worse when the
atrocities were clearly attributable to human beings.  So
this wasn't the worst thing she'd ever read, but it
certainly was right up there.

Eight deaths in a little over ten months, each documented in
meticulous detail, including autopsy and crime scene photos.
 Six men and two women, each found in a sexually
compromising situation, and each having died horrible -- and
in four cases bloody -- deaths.  The women seemed to have
been singled out for special savagery:  both had had
hysterectomies performed, while they were still alive, and
without anesthetic.  They had then been allowed to bleed to
death.  

Two of the men, on the other hand, had been found together,
nude.  Each had had his penis cut off -- again, while he was
still alive -- and left in the mouth of the other man.  And
tying it all together were DNA studies done on hairs and
bodily fluids recovered at each crime scene.  Beyond
question, all eight murders had been committed by the same
person.

Scully shuddered, then tried to force the horror of it into
the background.  It didn't pay to dwell too much on the
details.  She'd learned that back in medical school, before
she'd even considered a pathology residency.  She remembered
the first patient she'd lost, when in her fourth year as a
med student she'd actually been allowed to work with real
people, under the watchful supervision of the senior
residents.  Al Ferguson's death hadn't been her fault; he'd
been admitted for hospice care, and had been assigned to her
specifically because there wasn't very much she could screw
up.  But still, it hurt so bad when he died --

She shook her head.  Not gonna go there.  Not tonight.
Background.

The eighth and most recent file, of course, concerned the
death of Shinichi Nomura, the man who'd died in the
Watergate fire.  *Prior* to the Watergate fire, she reminded
herself, feeling her anger build as she recalled how her
materials relating to that case had disappeared.  She'd
retrieved her draft autopsy report from the backups she kept
at work, but the background materials identifying Nomura
were simply gone.

Except here they were again -- including the photograph that
had triggered her panic attack.

"God damn him!"

The words were out of her mouth before she realized she was
going to say them.  She looked up from the report, to see
Mulder and the three Gunmen staring at her, wide eyed in
surprise.

"Scully?"

"Sorry, Mulder."  She took a deep breath, trying to steady
herself, then gestured at the papers on her lap.  "It's the
Nomura file.  Everything that was stolen from my apartment
is in this file."  Her partner nodded, but his expression
was uncomprehending.  Fighting to keep the exasperation from
her voice:  "Mulder, don't you see?  These materials
disappeared from my apartment.  They were stolen.  Now here
they are, in this computer file -- an FBI file that's
controlled by Skinner, and that he has apparently decided
not to let us see!"

"You don't know that the two are connected," Mulder
objected.  "These are computer records, and that means
they're easily duplicated.  Skinner didn't have to get this
information from you.  There could very easily be other
copies floating around.  In fact, since *you* got it from
the Bureau in the first place, it's likely he got it from
the same source."

"Mulder ...."  She let her voice trailed off, and shook her
head.  "Weren't you the one who was saying, just this
morning, that he had no right to keep this kind of
information from us?"

"Yes, I was -- but weren't *you* the one who wanted to give
him every possible break?"  Mulder took a deep breath, then
added, in what was obviously supposed to be a conciliatory
tone, "Look, Scully, I agree this looks bad.  But can you
honestly picture A.D. Skinner breaking into your apartment
and stealing those files?  Really?"

Scully wanted to scream.  Why was he always ready to jump to
the most wildly illogical conclusions, but whenever *she*
floated an idea that was a little out there, he tried to
pour cold water on it?  More to the point, why was the man
who claimed the motto 'Trust No One' always so ready to put
his faith in people who, in Scully's opinion, clearly had
failed to earn it?  She felt a flash of the old resentment
over Diana Fowley, but ruthlessly suppressed it.  The woman
was dead, and Scully had been proven right about *her*
loyalties.  Best to let sleeping dogs lie.

"Let's look at the file creation dates," Frohike said after
a moment, carefully inserting his words into the silence
that had fallen.  The expression on his face said that he
also remembered the near-open warfare over Fowley, and
didn't want to get caught in the crossfire again.  He turned
to one of the computers, and started reviewing the Operation
Parasite directory from the floppy disk.  "The Nomura
entries were made on the seventh -- last Monday.  What day
did the records disappear from your apartment, Agent
Scully?"

"Wednesday," Scully admitted.  Her shoulders slumped.
Wrong.  God damn it.  Deep breath.  "Okay.  So there's no
direct connection.  But Skinner *still* knew about it before
we did, and he *has* been keeping this material from us.
Right?"

"It does look like it," Mulder agreed.

"And since we agree he's trying to keep us from knowing
about this, it remains possible that he had some
involvement, somehow, in the theft from my apartment.
Doesn't it?"

"Scully --"

"Mulder, eight people are dead, and from the evidence before
us, Skinner is responsible for the fact that nothing is
being done about it.  I've never even *heard* of this case
until today.  Not even on the grapevine.  Doesn't that
bother you at all?"

"Of course it bothers me," her partner replied, sounding a
little testy.  "But I'm having a hard time accepting the
idea that Skinner would participate in a cover up of that
magnitude.  Yes, he's caused us problems in the past --
although he's also helped us.  And yes, we've got questions
about his motives.  But this?"  He brushed his fingertips
across his copy of the report and shook his head.  "No.  I
don't believe it.  There has to be more to it than this.
There has to be something we don't know."

"Then help me figure out what it is!"  Scully got up from
her chair and started to pace.  "Why wouldn't he want us to
know about this?  And why does he have the records of these
murders sequestered?  Why would he do such a thing?"

"We could just ask him," Mulder offered with a shrug.

"If I can ever get in to see him, I might," Scully muttered.
 She glanced at the Gunmen, who were watching in round eyed
silence, and almost laughed.  They looked just like children
who were witnessing their parents having a fight.  "Although
it would mean compromising our little scam this afternoon."

"Logically, it must have something to do with the
Consortium," Mulder said.  "They're the only ones who've got
the necessary leverage, and Marita confirmed that they were
the ones who got me out of hock on Wednesday night.  Her
faction did, anyway.  So let's see if we can determine what
her group's interest is.  Let's think about the victims, and
see if we can figure out what they have in common."  He
looked down at the report again, and started paging slowly
through it.  

Scully recognized what he was doing, and kept her peace.
Apparently Byers did, as well, because he got up, left the
room, and came back a minute later with a yellow legal pad
and a pencil.  He handed them to Mulder, who nodded
absently.  Then Byers took his seat again, and they all sat
in silence, watching, as Mulder reread the report,
scribbling notes as he went.

"Okay," he said, "a few things stand out.  First, there
isn't anyone on this list who's under 40, and most of them
are in their 60s or 70s.  I'm not sure what that proves, but
there it is."

"Sounds like the old sixties thing," Langly commented.
"Never trust anyone over thirty.  Or in this case, over
forty."

"True."  Mulder chewed his lip for a moment.  "So maybe
Marita was telling the truth, at least about the conflict
within the Consortium.  And maybe this is the young turks,
so to speak, carrying out an undercover war against the old
guard.  If Krycek and Marita still have control of the palm
pilot, that would give them control of Skinner, so it might
be at their behest that he's hushing this up."

"Maybe," Scully responded.  It didn't feel quite right to
her, but she didn't want to admit to having a hunch, so she
didn't say anything else.  After a moment, Mulder shrugged,
and looked back at his notes.

"Another thing I noticed is that, while the deaths are
spread all across the country, when you match them up with
the dates, there's a progression, from west to east.  The
first two are in Southern California, then one in Vegas,
then a couple near El Paso, and so on."  He looked up at
Scully again.  "That might support the 'super soldier'
thesis."

"Except that the Watergate bombing was supposedly its first
test," Scully reminded him.

"Right, but that doesn't prove that there is no such
critter.  It might just mean that Marita was lying about how
long it's been out there.  Maybe her bunch turned it loose,
and for a while it was killing the people they wanted dead,
nice and quiet and below the radar screens, but now it's out
of control and they're afraid of the publicity."  Scully
nodded reluctantly, and Mulder added, "Or it could be
something else."  Once more, he turned to the legal pad.

"The third thing I noticed seems really significant," he
said.  "All of these people were involved in the life
sciences, one way or another.  We have a microbiologist, a
couple of geneticists ... even an obstetrician."  He stopped
and blinked.  "And you know what else?  I just now realized
this.  Every death but one was close to a Consortium
facility, known or suspected.  Roush had a base in Southern
California, Susanne Modeski's outfit was in southern New
Mexico, near El Paso, and ... Jesus.  *Three* of these
people died within shouting distance of that mine in West
Virginia.  Strughold's.  You remember?"

"God, how could I forget?"  

She shivered.  That immense cavern, and all those files --
including one on *her*.  She'd known there must be records
on her, from her abduction, but that one had dated from her
childhood.  Yes, it was just part of a huge, Cold War era
project that seemed to involve the entire population; there
was no evidence that she'd been singled out *that* young.
But still ....

And there'd been aliens there -- gray aliens.  Dozens of
them, if not more.  She could admit that to herself now,
after all these years and everything else she'd seen.
Aliens.  Extraterrestrial biological entities.  And they'd
touched her.  Fleetingly and inadvertently, but they'd
touched her.  They were real.

"Right."  Mulder was nodding slowly, and he had that look on
his face -- the look that said the pieces were starting to
fall into place.  "Somebody's killing their biologists," he
said, his voice very soft.  "Their biologists and their
geneticists, and even an OB.  Who would want to do that?"

"Their bosses," Langly said, his voice flat and unemotional.
 "After they were no longer needed."

"Or their bosses' enemies," Byers suggested.  "So that their
services would no longer be available."

"Their victims," Frohike said.  "And those who care about
their victims."  

He was looking directly at her as he said it, his expression
deadly serious.  He looked as if he were ready to ride forth
and do battle, himself, right now, and at this moment he
didn't look ridiculous at all.  She felt a sudden rush of
unaccustomed warmth for the little man, and for Langly and
Byers, too.  She was surrounded by people who cared what
happened to her, but she was always so damned careful to
keep them all at arm's length.  Too careful for her own
good, maybe.

"It could be any of those," Mulder agreed, drawing her
thoughts back to the subject at hand.  "But I'm leaning
towards the victims.  That would jive with what Marita told
us."  Scully stirred, ready to object, but he held up a
hand.  "I know, I know.  Unsubstantiated testimony from an
unreliable source.  But it's all we've got."  

He levered his way to his feet and made his way awkwardly
across the room, leaning on the backs of chairs for support.
 At last, he stood in front of her.  "Scully, I think I'd
better be alone for this.  I need to profile, and I can't do
that with you around.  Do you understand?"

"What I understand is that sometimes you get lost when you
profile," she answered, looking him square in the eye.  "And
I'm not willing to let that happen.  Not again.  Not if it's
going to be like that time with Patterson."  

She hesitated, aware of the Gunmen watching their every
move.  To hell with it.  Her feelings for Mulder were
nothing to be ashamed of, and probably no real surprise to
anyone in the room.  She reached out and caressed his cheek,
trying to express with her fingers and her eyes what she
couldn't find the words to say.

"Scully, there isn't any other way," he replied.  His eyes
locked on to hers, seeming to probe down into her very soul.
 "I don't like this any more than you do.  There was a
reason I left the BSU.  But in this case, I don't see that
we have any choice."

It was the word 'we' that did it.  The last time -- God, had
it really been more than four years? -- he'd just gone and
done it, shutting her out without a second thought in his
singleminded pursuit of the Truth.  This time ... this time,
although he was still insisting on his need to withdraw, he
wasn't doing it unilaterally.  This time he was telling her
in advance, seeking her approval.

He was asking for her permission.  And she could not refuse.

A few minutes later, Scully was standing in the open
doorway, ready to leave.  Her partner was looming over her,
but he wasn't going with her.  She'd expected to drive him
home, but he demurred, saying he wanted to spend a little
while longer with the guys, going over the materials and
making preparations.

"But you don't want me here, do you?" she'd asked.

"No," he replied, after a pause.  "You're too much of a
distraction, Scully.  I don't know if I can explain this,
but ... well, when you're here, I'm *always* aware of you,
and it breaks my concentration.  No one else has that effect
on me.  Only you."

Scully understood about that well enough.  She always knew
when Mulder was nearby, even in a crowded room.  So although
it still hurt a little to be asked to leave, the underlying
reason was understandable -- even reassuring.

"Be careful," she said.  She stretched up to brush her lips
against his.  "Call me if ... if you need anything."
Knowing that he would not.  Then, not wanting to give him a
chance to decide to lie to her, she stepped on through the
doorway, pulled it shut behind her, and headed down the
hall.

She took her time descending to the street.  The heat wave
was still in full force, and she was in no hurry to step out
into it.  Also, while she didn't *really* think Mulder would
have a change of heart and come after her ... well, maybe
part of her did hold out that hope.  But now here she was at
her car, and it was time to go.

But still she dawdled, sitting behind the wheel for a few
minutes with the engine running.  She didn't like leaving
Mulder like this, and she didn't like what he was going to
try to do.  And, if she were honest with herself, she also
felt a little resentment at being shut out, even if it *was*
with her own consent this time.  It felt a little too much
as if she were being told to run along and play while the
grownups did the real work.  She knew Mulder hadn't meant it
that way; he was nothing like Agent Griggs.  But still ....

There had to be something she could do, something she could
contribute.  She and Mulder had always worked well together,
primarily because their strengths complemented each other so
perfectly.  Well, if Mulder was off on one of his wild,
intuitive romps, where did that leave her?  With deductive
reasoning, and solid, straightforward police work, of
course.  And there was one big, glaring lead that seemed to
have gotten lost in the shuffle.

Skinner.

She examined the idea for a moment, turning it over in her
mind and testing it.  She had no doubt that on any other
case they would consider someone in Skinner's position to be
a suspect -- if not of the actual crimes, then at least as
an accessory.  They would track him down and question him,
no matter how inconvenient it was, and they wouldn't let his
secretary brush them off.  The fact that he was their
supervisor complicated matters, but it didn't change the
basic principle.

There might turn out to be nothing there; Mulder was
probably right about that.  It was the next thing to
unbelievable that their boss would be involved in something
like this, to the degree that he appeared to be.  But maybe
by talking to him she could gain some insight into what
*was* going on, even if he had no direct involvement.  There
had to be more to the story than what they knew, and Skinner
seemed to be in a position to supply some of the missing
details.  

She'd voiced that opinion earlier, and Mulder had even
suggested that they simply ask the A.D. directly.  Now that
proposal floated before her again, tantalizing her with its
obviousness.  Sometimes the shortest distance between two
points really *was* a straight line.  Maybe all she had to
do was corner Skinner, get past his Assistant Director
shield, and persuade him to tell her what he knew.  And if
she *could* accomplish that, maybe Mulder would be saved
from having to delve too deeply into the mind of a monster.

Scully nodded to herself.  It made sense, and she certainly
had nothing else to occupy her time this evening.  She
checked her watch.  Almost 7:30.  Skinner was unlikely to
still be at the office, and that was just as well.  For what
she wanted to do, she was better off catching him at home.
She debated phoning him first, but decided not give to him a
chance to avoid her yet again.

She threw the car into gear, pulled away from the curb, and
headed for Crystal City.

==========END CHAPTER NINETEEN==========

===========
Chapter Twenty
===========

Office of the Lone Gunmen
College Park, Maryland
Monday, August 14, 2000
8:10 p.m.

Revenge.  That had to be the motive.

Mulder rubbed his eyes, gazing at the yellow legal pad with
its near-illegible scribblings, then tossed it on the coffee
table and picked up the crime scene photos from the
Operation Parasite files.  After Scully departed, the Gunmen
had led him to a side room, then left him alone.  They'd
seen this before, and knew what to expect.  They also
wouldn't distract him, the way Scully's mere presence in the
office inevitably would.

Revenge.  Yes.  Staring at the pictures was reinforcing his
opinion.  He could almost feel the anger and hatred
radiating off the images.  The terrible, black rage that had
driven the UNSUB to savagely mutilate those bodies, before
finally granting them the surcease of death.

Every serial killer has a pattern, or "signature".  That was
one of the first things Bill Patterson had taught his fresh
faced young charges, back in his glory days at the
Behavioral Sciences Unit.  The meaning of the signature may
be obvious, but more often it is not.  It is usually buried
in symbolism, symbolism that in turn is based on the unique
psychology of the individual killer.

Sometimes those symbols express themselves through the
choice of victims.  Sometimes through the time, manner or
location of death.  Sometimes a killing is triggered
situationally, and sometimes it is simply the logical
conclusion of a long, slow period of escalation.  But the
cause is always discoverable, Patterson had taught.  You
just have to learn to think like a monster.

The public took it as a given that serial killers were
irrational and insane.  Surely only a crazy person would
embark on such a rampage of death and destruction.  Surely
no one in his right mind would slaughter strangers,
dismember them, disembowel them, even *eat* them.  Most
people were not like that.  Most people were sane.

But the profilers who worked for Patterson knew better.
They knew that the men they sought -- for almost all serial
killers were male -- were cool and calculating people, who
knew exactly what they were doing.  Mulder and his
colleagues had even held long, late night bull sessions over
the question of whether a truly insane serial killer was
possible.  Someone who was actually psychotic, after all,
someone who was out of touch with reality, wouldn't last
long against the resources that a modern police department
could throw against them -- let alone the FBI.

Perversely, the typical UNSUB's very normality made the act
of profiling that much harder and more frightening, because
anyone perceptive enough to do the work could not help but
be aware of the darkness lurking deep within his own soul.
And the profilers asked themselves, and occasionally each
other, what it was that made someone like Jeffrey Dahmer or
John Wayne Gacy slip the leash of civilization.  What would
it take to turn one of Us into one of Them?  A thousand
explanations were offered, but no answers were found, beyond
the simple, indisputable fact that all humans were capable
of evil.

Mulder had struggled with those questions back in the 80s,
when he did his time in Patterson's shop.  Like most
profilers, he eventually burned out, lasting longer than
some, but not as long as others.  He'd sworn to himself,
when he walked away from that office for the last time, that
he'd never use those skills again.  He'd had his look into
the abyss, and he didn't want another.  

Unfortunately, he'd had to break that vow more than once
over the years, most notably when Patterson himself was
finally overwhelmed by the darkness.  And now here he was
again, practicing the arcane art he'd learned so many years
ago.  Or trying to practice it, at any rate.

Once more he studied the photographs.  There had to be a
pattern here, if only he could find it!  Mutilation of the
victim's sex organs was nothing new, of course; that had
been going on since the beginning of time.  There was
tremendous psychological energy wrapped up in human
sexuality, and when it was released in a negative way,
terrible things could and did happen.  These photos were
just another set of examples.

It was also important to remember who the victims were,
especially in this case.  Mulder couldn't prove it, but he
was nevertheless certain that all of them had worked for the
Consortium in some scientific capacity.  Probably they had
all been employed in one aspect or another of the Project --
the attempt to create an alien-human hybrid, by means of
endless, cruel experiments on helpless human subjects.

Subjects like Scully.  And Samantha.

Mulder paused in mid-thought, distracted and disturbed by
the memory of what had been done to his partner and his
sister.  For a moment he wondered why he was doing this.
Why should he lift so much as a finger to stop what was
happening to these people?  They were all monsters in their
own right, after all, and no more deserving of his
consideration than, say, Josef Mengele.  They had, in a very
real sense, forfeited their own humanity.

He sighed and shook his head, rejecting the idea almost as
soon as it had formed.  He was doing this because it was
what he did, and because no one deserved to die like that.
There were also the other victims of the Watergate bombing
to consider.  *They* were wholly innocent of any wrongdoing,
and if Mulder stood by and did nothing, it was likely that
more innocents would die.  People who committed such crimes
seldom de-escalated.

Most importantly, he was doing it for Scully.  Because she
would want him to.  Despite everything that had happened to
her, and everything they had seen, she still believed in
justice.  And thank God for that, he thought with a sad
smile.  He didn't know where he'd be without Scully.  She
kept him honest -- in more ways than one.

He turned his attention back to the case, and resumed his
speculations.  

Was it possible that one of the Consortium's victims -- an
abductee subjected to their medical experiments -- had
actually escaped with her memories intact, and now was
hunting down and destroying her erstwhile tormenters?  The
geographical pattern, with murders running from west to
east, was suggestive of someone escaping from a facility in
California, and then working her way across the country.  It
was an open question where this hypothetical escapee would
have obtained the necessary information to carry out these
attacks, but even that, he supposed, wasn't impossible.  

But it didn't seem at all likely.  In all his studies of
alien abduction, Mulder had never once heard of anyone who
claimed to have escaped from captivity.  Those who were
returned were brought back by those who had taken them, and
always with their memories erased.  There was never anything
left but the occasional fragment of recollection.  Enough to
generate flashbacks and other symptoms of PTSD, but not
enough to concoct and carry out an elaborate plan of
revenge.

Another possibility was that someone, somewhere, had
recovered enough of her memory to realize what had been done
to her, and had decided to take action.  His own experiences
with Dr. Werber, as well as Scully's single attempt at
hypnotic regression, and her admission the other night that
she had occasional flashbacks about her abduction, proved
that it wasn't out of the question.  The geographical
pattern was also consistent with *this* theory.  It could be
a returned abductee who lived in California, and was taking
out her targets in this order because it was convenient.  Of
course, he was also faced, once more, with the problem of
how this person had identified and located her victims.

But as with the escapee theory, there was no proof -- and
somehow, it just didn't *feel* right.  Nevertheless, he made
a note to contact MUFON, and see if they had anything about
a former abductee dropping out of sight, under circumstances
that did *not* suggest another abduction.  He had a feeling
it would be a long list, even if he restricted it to
Californians.  Former abductees had a tendency towards
psychological and emotional problems that lent themselves to
erratic behavior, such as had been exhibited by Duane Barry
and Max Fenig.  But it was worth a shot.

This wasn't a typical serial killer, he reminded himself,
tossing the pictures onto the table next to the legal pad,
and lying back on the sofa.  He closed his eyes, and tried
to feel the anger, tried to open himself to it, the way he
had in the old days.  This UNSUB wasn't typical in a lot of
ways, not least of which was that she actually had a motive
-- one that a lot of people would be able to relate to, even
if they might not be driven to murder, themselves, under
these circumstances.  

Other unusual factors included the fact that this UNSUB was
a woman, as proven by the DNA tests run on specimens
recovered at the various crime scenes.  Female serial
killers were so rare as to be almost unheard of, and when
they did occur, they usually targeted friends or family
members.  There was also the wide geographical destribution
of the victims, not to mention the strong likelihood that
the victims knew the UNSUB -- and probably each other, as
well.

And fuck it all, anyway.  This wasn't getting him anywhere.
He needed Scully's help.  He'd realized that almost as soon
as she left, but that old stubborn streak had kept him from
admitting he was wrong.  He'd also been trying to protect
her.  He wanted to minimize her exposure to the tough
emotional issues that underlay this case.  Her panic attack
and the subsequent E.R. visit last week were plain evidence
of the power her abduction still held over her.

God damn them.

The training he'd received from Patterson had also
contributed to his decision to send her away.  His old
mentor had been like some football coaches, believing that
women and sex took the edge off when you were trying to
profile.  Patterson had therefore discouraged his people
from becoming involved in serious relationships.  He'd
wanted all that emotional energy for himself.  For himself,
and for the sacred task at hand.

But to hell with Bill Patterson.  In the end, his approach
had failed.  He'd ruined the lives of at least a dozen men,
and then finally ruined his own, and Mulder wasn't about to
follow in the man's footsteps.  In the old days it had been
different, but now he had too much to lose.  Now he had
Scully.

Mulder sat up again, and pulled his cell phone out of his
pocket.  For a moment he sat there, looking at it, thinking
about whether to call Scully and ask her to come back.  Then
he shook his head.  No.  He did want her help, but not here.
 The boys were good friends, and had been very helpful over
the years, but they weren't indispensable.  Not the way
Scully was.  And if he and Scully were going to try to piece
this together, it was best they do it someplace they both
were comfortable.  He started gathering up his materials,
calling out to Frohike as he did so.

#          #          #

Residence of Assistant Director Skinner
Crystal City, Virginia
8:31 p.m.

Scully's uncertainties had reasserted themselves by the time
she arrived at Skinner's apartment building, and she
therefore wound up sitting in her car for a few minutes,
reviewing the argument in her mind.

First, Skinner beyond question had known about this string
of deaths for months.  The first of the Operation Parasite
files had been created back in December, and there had been
regular entries ever since.  

Second, the A.D. was almost as certainly attempting to keep
Scully and her partner from learning about the murders.
He'd had her request on his desk since Friday morning, and
not only had he failed to act on it, but he'd not returned
her phone call when she attempted to follow up.  Kimberly's
body language when Scully visited the office this afternoon
had also been telling.

Skinner also had some sort of connection with the
Consortium.  She'd known about that for years, and been wary
of him because of it, but this case also seemed to be tied
in somehow.  Someone had called Skinner on Wednesday evening
and alerted him that Mulder was going to be released.
Marita Covarrubias claimed that she was the one who did
that, and the fact that she had access to the Alexandria
police records lent credence to *that* part of her story, at
any rate.  

Covarrubias had also claimed that the dead man in Mulder's
apartment was one of her operatives, and that his death was
related to the Watergate bombing -- and therefore,
presumably, to the other murders in the Operation Parasite
file.  Scully still didn't believe in the super soldier
story, but she had no reason to doubt that the man had
indeed worked for or with Covarrubias.  The fact that the
woman had made no mention of those other killings, but had
made up a fable instead, strongly suggested that she was
also the one who was pulling Skinner's strings.  And she had
a connection to Krycek, as well, as evidenced by her
reaction to the things Mulder had said during the meeting in
Ocean City --

The A.D.'s car suddenly appeared, emerging from the
underground parking garage of his apartment building.  The
dark sedan pulled onto the street, turned and sped off past
her own parked car.  She had a brief glimpse of Skinner
behind the wheel, still wearing his suit and tie despite the
heat.  He did not appear to have any passengers.

She debated the situation in her mind for a handful of
seconds.  Wherever the A.D. was going, he appeared to be in
a hurry.  It didn't seem likely he was going out to
socialize -- not at this hour on a week night.  She could
either go after him, in hopes he would lead her to something
interesting, or she could sit here and wait until he came
back.  And that might take hours.  

Hell, maybe this *was* a social outing.  If he was going for
an overnight stay with a girlfriend, he might not come back
at all.

She turned the key in the ignition, pulled an illegal
u-turn, and took off after her supervisor.

#          #          #

Residence of Dana Scully
Washington, D.C.
8:31 p.m.

This time Frohike remained in the van, not bothering to ask
whether Mulder wanted help getting upstairs.  The little man
watched him in silence as he climbed out of the car, hooking
his briefcase with a couple of fingers while he held onto
his crutches with the rest.  As he stepped up onto the curb,
Frohike leaned across the passenger seat, and spoke through
the open window.

"You take care of each other, okay?"

"We will," Mulder said, wishing that he were confident that
they could keep that promise.  It was going to be a long
night, and an ugly one, and there was no real way around it.

"You'd better," Frohike replied.  "And don't hesitate to
call if you need something.  Anything."  He seemed to be
about to say something else, then shook his head.  The
passenger side window slid up, and a moment later the
battered old van pulled away from the curb.

Mulder turned and made his way up the front steps of
Scully's apartment building.  He rapped softly on her door
and waited a moment.  No response.  She was probably in the
shower, or in her bedroom.  He shifted the briefcase around
to his other hand and fumbled for his keys.

As he'd expected, the living room was empty and the lights
were out.  He dropped his briefcase on the sofa, and made
his way towards the bedroom.  Along the way he took note of
the fact that the bathroom door was open, and devoid of
Scully.  She wasn't in the bedroom, either.

Mulder frowned, and sat down on the edge of the bed to rest
a minute.  Scully hadn't actually said she was coming
straight home, but he'd had the impression that she intended
to.  Well, she must have stopped at the store or something.
He heaved himself to his feet again, and maneuvered back
down the hall towards the living room.  But when he got to
the entryway he stopped, his eyebrows shooting up in
surprise.

There was a young woman standing next to the sofa.  She was
short, although not as short as Scully, with long brown
hair, and was wearing black jeans, an Iron Butterfly
t-shirt, and sneakers.  Her face was buried in her hands,
and her shoulders were shaking, but she wasn't making any
sound.  The front door now stood open, the key still in the
lock, giving silent testimony as to how she got in.

Mulder shifted his weight, causing the rubber tip of one of
his crutches to squeak on the hardwood floor.  The young
woman looked up, her hands sliding down off her face to her
breastbone -- and all at once, everything came crashing down
into place.  

The string of murder victims, all Consortium scientists.
The trail of bodies from west to east, starting in
California.  His own firm conviction that these were
vengeance killings.  Marita's obvious desire to keep the
matter hushed up.  Even the CD he'd found in his apartment
last week, and the bottle of unusually sweet diet Coke in
Scully's refrigerator.  

All of these things were clues, clues he should have picked
up on before this, but at least now he knew.  Better late
than never.  The woman in front of him was older than the
last time he'd seen her, that day when she and her sister
were taken away by people claiming to be from the California
Child Protective Service, but there was no mistaking her
identity, even after all this time.

"Teena Simmons," he said.  His crutches went clattering to
the floor as he reached for his weapon.  "Or is it Cindy
Reardon?"

==========END CHAPTER TWENTY==========

===========
Chapter Twenty-one
===========

Residence of Dana Scully
Washington, D.C.
Monday, August 14, 2000
8:40 p.m.

For a few seconds Mulder stood stock still, pointing his SIG
at the young woman before him.  It was her.  It was really
her.  One of the Eves.  She was older now, perhaps 15, and
definitely no longer a little girl, but there was no doubt
in his mind.  It was her.

//It existed during the height of the cold war.//  Deep
Throat's words echoed inside his head, as he recalled their
conversation of so many years ago.  //We got wind the
Russians were fooling around with eugenics.  Rather
primitively, I might add.  Trying to crossbreed top
scientists, athletes ... to come up with the superior
soldier.  Naturally, we jumped on the bandwagon.//

And then the next day, the woman who called herself Eve 7,
who they found locked in what amounted to a dungeon.  Her
words also floated back to him, and they were harsh, bitter
and tinged with madness:

//You have 46 chromosomes.  The Adams and the Eves, we have
56.  We have extra chromosomes. Number 4, 5, 12, 16, and 22.
 This replication of chromosomes also produces additional
genes. Heightened strength.  Heightened intelligence.//

//Heightened psychosis,// Mulder had added.

//Saved the best for last.//

"I - I'm Cindy."  The Eve in front of him suddenly spoke,
her voice low and tight.  There were tear tracks on her
face, and she hiccupped, then took a deep breath, and
continued.  "And you've got to help me.  I don't have
anywhere else to turn."  Her voice dropped to a whisper, and
in a shaky voice, she added, "I think Teena's gone crazy."

Mulder nodded, but didn't lower his gun.  These girls had
been masters of deceit and manipulation when they were eight
years old.  What would they be like at 15?

"Tell me about it," he suggested.  Say something.  Say
anything.  Give me something to work with.  Give me some
time to think this all through, and figure out the best
course of action.

"Well ... you ... you already know about us," Cindy said,
her voice still very low.  "What we're like, I mean."  She
stopped to sniffle, and added, "After all, you sent us to
that place.  That Institute.  And I guess you were right."
She took a hesitant couple of steps forward, and Mulder
backed away as best he could, hopping on one foot.

"You're afraid of me."  The girl spoke as if it were a
revelation, and she shook her head in apparent wonder.  "I
guess I understand that, but please ... you've got to
believe me."  A few more steps forward, and she dropped to
her knees in front of him.  "I'm the one they cured.  I'm
the one who's safe.  Teena's the one who's dangerous.  She's
the one you have to watch out for."  Again she buried her
face in her hands.  "I just want it to stop!"  Her shoulders
began to shake again.

Mulder found himself stroking the top of her head, a gesture
of comfort, and immediately he snatched his hand away.
These girls were dangerous, he reminded himself.  They'd
killed dozens of people, and they were in all probability
pathological liars.  He could trust nothing they said.  He
felt an odd tugging at the back of his mind, but dismissed
it.  Nervous tension.

"Please," she whispered.  She dropped her hands and looked
up at him again.  Her eyes were red and puffy, her features
round and soft and innocent.  "Please."

Abruptly, he could see her in a different setting.
Everything was bright and white and sterile, and she was
strapped to a steel table, in five point restraints.  Men
wearing scrubs were all around, their faces anonymous behind
hospital masks as they manipulated their strange, terrifying
equipment.  She was struggling and crying, begging for
mercy, begging for it to stop, begging just to be left
alone.  And her hair was suddenly red --

With a snarl, Mulder forced the image out of his head.  This
wasn't Scully, and the girl kneeling before him wasn't
suffering now.  Whatever had happened to her in the past,
horrible as it might have been, didn't change the fact of
who she was, and what she had done.  Still holding his SIG,
he grabbed her upper arm with his free hand and dragged her
to her feet.

"Wh - what are you doing?"

Wide brown eyes staring out of a tear-stained face, trying
to comprehend.  That tiny tug, once again deep within his
mind.  Mulder shook his head, trying to clear it.

"Over on the couch," he said, giving her a little shove and
doing his best to sound like a cop.  "Move!"

She stumbled in that direction, and he followed, hopping
awkwardly on his good foot.  He grabbed the back of the sofa
for support and waited for her to sit, then lowered himself
down on the other end.

"Now," he said, still holding his gun in a threatening
manner.  "Tell me what's going on.  You're Cindy Reardon,
right?"

"Yes."  She was huddled up on the far end of the sofa, still
wide-eyed and sniffling.  Mulder felt a pang of guilt at the
way he was treating her, but quickly suppressed it.  This
girl was a ruthless killer, he told himself yet again.  "Or
you could just call me Eve 9.  That's what *they* called
me."

"Cindy's fine," he said, nodding.  "You said Teena's gone
crazy.  What do you mean?"

"What I said."  If anything, her eyes got rounder and wider.
 "She ... she's my sister, Jesus, and I love her and always
will.  But you don't know ...."

"What don't I know?"  Mulder felt himself calming as he
spoke, almost as if a soothing hand were passing across his
brow.  Scully's hand, brushing away the upset.  "Tell me,
Cindy," he prompted.  "Tell me what you mean."  It was
important for him to understand, and it was equally
important that he show concern and empathy.  She'd been
through so much, and she needed to know that somebody cared.
 

The tug in the back of his mind had gotten stronger, but at
the same time it seemed less obtrusive.  It was almost as if
something were moving in his peripheral vision, but he
couldn't quite make out what it was.  A quick, small thought
flitted by, telling him he should be alarmed, but then it
was gone.

"It started when we escaped," she said.  "From the
Institute."  She cut a nervous glance at him, her gaze
flicking from his face to his gun and back to his face.
Mulder hesitated, then lowered the weapon, while still
keeping a firm grip on it.  "But you probably already
figured that out.  We knew from the beginning how smart you
were."

"Yeah," Mulder said.  His tongue felt thick and heavy in his
mouth.  "Yeah, that was one of my theories."

"We escaped," the Eve repeated.  "And Teena ... Teena killed
one of the guards, but that was okay.  We'd agreed that we
were getting out, no matter what it took.  Kill or be
killed.  That's what Teena said."  She closed her eyes
briefly, and shuddered.  "You have no idea ... the things
they did to us."

Yeah, Mulder had some idea.  He'd talked to a lot of
abductees over the years, and their stories haunted his
dreams -- dreams that featured Scully or Samantha in the
starring role.  And he'd turned this girl over to those
people.  Her, and her sister.

"Go on," he said, his voice steadier than he'd expected it
to be.  The tugging was now much stronger, really more of a
steady pull -- but suddenly he felt a chill wash over him,
as if he were seated directly under the air conditioner.
His hackles rose, and he shivered.

"Can you ... can you put this down?"

He glanced down, to see that Cindy's hand now rested on the
barrel of his gun.  He looked back up at her, and realized
that she'd moved over next to him on the sofa.  He hadn't
noticed that she was moving.  Her fingers brushed his.  He
turned his gaze downwards once again, and watched as she
took the SIG from his hand, turned and laid it carefully on
the far end of the coffee table.

Out of his reach.

"There.  That's better."  She looked back at him and smiled.
 "They just ... they scare me."  She moved closer, pressing
her body against his and burying her face against his chest.
 "You don't mind, do you?" she asked, her voice muffled by
his shirt.

"N-no."  His arm was around her shoulders, and he was
suddenly very much aware that she was female, even if she
was impossibly young.  Far, far too young.  His fingers
strayed down across her shoulder blades, and he realized
that she wasn't wearing a bra --

He felt another blast of cold, dry air, wrapping itself
around him, chilling him all the way to the bone.  He
blinked, his head clearing under its influence.  It was as
if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over him.  He
shook himself, and the fog lifted further.  What was going
on here?  What was he doing?

"Fox?"  

He glanced down at Cindy, and blinked.  She was looking back
up him through her eyelashes.  Her face was still round and
soft, but no longer innocent.  There was adult knowledge in
her eyes, breathtaking and erotic.  He felt a stirring in
his groin, and then a soft caress on his inner thigh.  Her
hand ....

"N-no," he said, trying to push her away.  This was wrong,
in so many different ways.  Not only was it wrong, it was
dangerous.  This girl, this girl ... she was ...

"Yes," she murmured, moving back against him.  Her lips
touched the base of his neck, and he felt his body
responding further.  The muscles in his arms quivered, as he
fought the urge to pull her close.

He closed his eyes.  He was losing himself, and a small part
deep inside knew it, but he couldn't seem to stop.  His cock
was painfully hard, and she was stroking it through his
jeans, while her lips continued to work on his neck.  His
own hand was kneading her shoulder, and the other crept
forward, seeking her breast --

The blast of cold hit him like a whirlwind, clutching at him
with icy fingers and buffeting him back to reality.  The
pull on his mind -- God, that had to be coming from Cindy,
from the Eve -- increased exponentially, and he felt as if
he were being torn in two.  He was being pulled and pushed
and flung about, and the girl was no longer touching him,
she was on her knees on the sofa, and she was screaming
something, but he couldn't make it out, he couldn't tell
what it was or who she was yelling at.  He lost his balance,
and then he was falling forward, and darkness was rushing up
to meet him --

He's standing in the woods, all alone.  There's a little bit
of fog, but it's not too bad.  Not bad enough to really
impair his vision.  There are dried leaves on the forest
floor, and a slight chill in the air, but no breeze to speak
of.  He looks around, interested but not afraid.  He doesn't
recognize this place, but somehow he knows that it's safe.  

He chooses a direction, and begins walking.  The leaves
crunch loudly under his feet, providing a staccato rhythm in
time with his step.  The undergrowth is sparse and yielding,
and he has no trouble making his way.  There are a few low
branches, but he finds it easy to duck under them.  And
before long, the trees thin out, and he comes to a lake.

He stands at the edge of the forest for a moment, looking
down at the water.  It's still and calm, with a light mist
rising off it.  The shore curves away from him, in a wide,
gentle arc, and in the distance he can see a pier.  And tied
to the pier is a small boat, with someone sitting in it.  He
sees a flash of red, glinting in the sunlight, and he knows
who it is.  Scully.  He begins walking again, and in a
matter of seconds he's striding out onto the wooden planks
of the pier, his feet making a pleasant thunking sound with
each step he takes.

"Hey, Scully," he says, as he reaches the end of the pier.  

She's sitting quietly in the boat, staring out across the
lake.  She hasn't moved since he first saw her, and she
doesn't respond to his greeting.  He squats down and tugs on
the rope, making the boat rock a little bit.

"Scully?" he says.  "You awake."

"She's not there, Fox."

He turns and looks over his shoulder, and sees Melissa
Scully standing behind him.  He stands and turns to face
her.

"She's not there," Melissa repeats, waving her hand at the
boat.  Mulder glances around, and sure enough, Scully's
gone.  The boat is empty.   Her turns his gaze back to
Melissa.  "She's on her way to your apartment, and she needs
your help."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't be stupid," his partner's sister says, shaking her
head in apparent exasperation.  She steps a little closer,
and he suddenly feels colder, as if the sun has gone behind
a cloud.  "I told you, plain as day.  She's on her way to
your apartment, and she needs you.  I just saved your ass,
and now you've got to wake up and save hers."

He's suddenly lying on his back on the pier.  Looking up, he
sees Melissa bending over him.  The sun is over her left
shoulder, and her face is hidden in shadow.

"I can't do it, Fox.  Dana wouldn't believe I was real.
That's why it has to be you."  She pauses, and dimples.
"That's pretty cool, actually, when you stop to think about
it.  I don't think Dana's ever believed in anyone the way
she believes in you.  Now can you do it?"

"Yes."  

Of course he can do it.  If Scully needs him, he can do
anything.

"Good."  With great intensity:  "Remember.  Dana.  Your
place.  Now."

She straightens up, and gazes down at him for one more
moment.  The surface beneath his back changes; he's no
longer lying on the splintery wood of the pier.  The sky is
gone, replaced by an off-white stucco, and out of the corner
of his eye he can see something hard and brown.  Scully's
coffee table.

"Now I've got to go, Fox," Melissa says.  "I've got to make
sure you've got a ride."  She winks, and in the next
instant, she's gone.

Mulder groaned, struggled to a sitting position and looked
around.  The room looked pretty much as it always did,
although it was in a bit of a disarray.  The afghan that
usually hung over the back of the sofa had slid off onto the
floor, and some papers that he'd noticed on the coffee table
had fallen to the floor.  But his gun was still there,  and
he leaned forward and grabbed it, holding it close to his
chest, as if it were a talisman.

The front door was still standing open, and Cindy Reardon
was nowhere to be seen.

First things first.  Scully was in danger, and the quickest
way to check on her, and warn her of what he'd discovered,
was to call her.  He pulled his cell phone from his pocket,
flipped it open, punched her speed dial -- and got a
recorded message.  The customer is out of range or has
switched off their cell phone.

Fuck.  Try again, just in case.

//The cellular customer you have dialed --//

He sat staring at the phone for a few seconds, while fear
seeped in around the edges of his mind.  Where the hell was
she, and why wasn't she answering?  Much as she teased him
about his own cell, Scully was completely addicted to hers.
He couldn't imagine what it would take to get her to switch
it off.  And where the hell could she have gone so soon that
she would already be out of range?

Somehow, he struggled to his feet.  His ankle was throbbing,
and he knew he must have banged it on something when he
fell.  Steadying himself against the back of the sofa, he
made his way along it, then hopped across the short open
space to where his crutches lay.  He hesitated, then stuck
his SIG in the waistband of his jeans, and bent over to pick
them up.

He spent a couple of minutes searching the apartment, making
sure that the Eve was really gone.  He'd known as soon as he
regained consciousness that she was, but the professional
investigator in him forced him to be sure.  He then returned
to the living room, stepped out into the hall, and closed
and locked the door behind him.  

He slipped the key out of the lock -- Cindy Reardon's key,
wherever she'd gotten it from -- and dropped it into his
pocket.  He then maneuvered on down the hall to the
apartment building's front door, and out onto the front
stoop -- just as Frohike's van pulled up to the curb.
Mulder couldn't help but smile.  Melissa had said she was
going to find him a ride.  He moved on down the steps, and a
moment later he was sliding into the passenger seat.

"Where to?" the little man asked.  He seemed unsurprised at
Mulder's sudden appearance.

"My place," Mulder said.  "Now."

"You got it."  

Frohike threw the car into gear, and pressed the accelerator
all the way to the floor.  As they careened around the first
corner, on their way to the Key Bridge, Mulder pulled out
his cell phone and tried it again, hoping against hope that
this time she would answer, and that everything would be
okay.  No such luck.

He kept trying, over and over, all the way to Alexandria.

==========END CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE==========

===========
Chapter Twenty-two
===========

Alexandria, Virginia
Monday, August 14, 2000
8:41 p.m.

It didn't take Scully very long to figure out where Skinner
was going.  Once out of his immediate neighborhood he turned
west, away from the river.  Soon he reached I-395 and headed
south, in the direction of Alexandria.

The A.D. could have any number of reasons for going to
Alexandria, of course.  A late movie, a visit to a friend --
hell, he could just be out for a drive.  But Scully didn't
think so.  Her suspicions were already aroused by the day's
course of events.  Then a few minutes later he exited the
Interstate onto King Street in Alexandria, still heading
south, and her few remaining doubts were gone.  He was on
his way to Mulder's.

She did her best to stay two or three cars back, while still
keeping Skinner's sedan in sight, but it was difficult.  Her
training at the Academy had assumed that for this sort of
operation there would be several units operating in concert,
with radio communication to help coordinate their movements.
 That way no one car would be visible to the suspect for
more than a few minutes.  Doing it alone, without being
spotted, was much harder -- especially since the man she was
following had had the same training that she had.

Somehow, she managed it.  At least, the A.D. showed no signs
that he was aware of her presence, as he continued to follow
the most direct and obvious route from his apartment to
Mulder's.

He finally pulled into a vacant parking space a block or so
from Mulder's building, giving Scully just enough warning to
allow her to turn onto a side street rather than having to
drive right past him.  She parked her car next to the first
empty stretch of curb she came to -- in front of a fire
hydrant -- got out of her car, and jogged back to the corner
to see what Skinner was doing.

Peering around the corner, she saw that her boss had gotten
out of his car, and was walking away from her at a brisk
pace, in the direction of Mulder's building.  She stayed
where she was, leaning around the corner and watching him,
until he reached the stoop.  He trotted up the steps, pulled
open the door and disappeared inside.  Scully then stepped
on around the corner and went after him.

During the short drive from Crystal City, she'd spent some
time wondering why Skinner had picked now to pay a visit to
Mulder's apartment.  Mulder, of course, was in College Park,
with the Gunmen.  Did Skinner know that?  Had he chosen to
drive over here now, so that he could search the place
without her partner's knowledge?

But search it for what?  The copies they'd made of the
Operation Parasite files?  She shook her head.  That didn't
make sense.  If Skinner had evidence of what they'd done,
and was taking it seriously, he would've shown up with a
team of agents and a warrant.  If he wanted to handle it
less formally, he would call them into his office and ream
them out.  But just showing up at Mulder's apartment without
warning was almost completely out of character.  There'd
been the one instance, during the Amber Lynn LaPierre case,
but that had been exceptional, and hadn't been repeated, no
doubt at least partly due to the chilly reception she'd
given the A.D. on that occasion.

Maybe he wanted to talk to Mulder about something.  Not
necessarily about those files, but about something else.
She'd considered that for a moment or two, then rejected it.
 Their boss had had all day to talk to either one of them,
and had not done so.  On the contrary, he'd seemed to be
consciously avoiding them, despite the fact that he knew
that *they* wanted to talk to *him*.  

If something had come up since then, she would have expected
him to use the phone, and either impart whatever it was that
way, or arrange a time and place for a meeting.  And he
hadn't done so; Scully was sure of *that* much.  He hadn't
called while she and Mulder were together, and if he'd
called Mulder after she left the Gunmen's office, given the
current state of their suspicions about Skinner, she was
confident that her partner would have notified her.  Even if
the A.D. had specifically ordered him not to do so.

None of this made any sense at all.

She took the front steps to Mulder's apartment building two
at a time, then eased the door open a crack so she could
peek inside.  The elevator door was closed.  Stepping
inside, she saw that the indicator above the elevator
revealed it to be just arriving at the fourth floor.
Mulder's floor.

Scully took the stairs, moving as quickly and as quietly as
she could.  It seemed to take forever, but at last she
reached the fourth floor landing.  She paused there for a
moment to catch her breath, then opened the door just far
enough to allow her to see into the hallway.

It was empty.

Scully nodded to herself, and stepped out into the hall.
She moved down towards Mulder's apartment, avoiding the
creaky floorboard in front of number 46.  Reaching her goal,
she stopped, and cautiously pressed her ear against the
door.

Voices.  There was definitely a conversation in progress,
and an unfamiliar female voice was doing most of the
talking.  She heard Skinner once or twice, briefly, and he
didn't sound happy.  Unfortunately, they weren't speaking
quite loudly enough for her to make out the words.

She heard a door opening behind her, and half-turned, to see
Mulder's neighbor, Mrs. Ellison, looking out at her, a sour
expression on her face.

"He's in there, all right," Mrs. Ellison said.

"What?  Who?"  She couldn't possibly mean Mulder.  He was in
College Park.  Even if he'd left just after she did, he
couldn't have got here this quickly.

"Your boyfriend," the woman snapped.  An unpleasant note of
satisfaction entered her voice.  "He's got a girl in there,
too."

"You ... you must be mistaken," Scully said, trying to keep
her voice down, so the occupants of Mulder's apartment
wouldn't hear her.  "He's not home tonight."

"Maybe that's what he told *you*," Mrs. Ellison said with a
nasty little laugh.  "But believe me, honey, he's in there.
I've been listening to 'em go at it for nearly four hours."
She smirked.  "And she's a loud one, let me tell you.  Even
louder than you."

Scully flushed, both at the knowledge that this woman had
listened in on her and Mulder's lovemaking, and at the
unwanted vision that flashed through her mind of Mulder with
another woman.  He's *not* in there, she reminded herself,
and shook her head to chase the image away.  But before she
could come up with a reply, Mrs. Ellison spoke again.

"Take it from me, honey," she said.  "Men aren't worth it.
They're liars, every last one of 'em."  With that, she
returned to her apartment, slamming the door behind her.

Almost at the same instant, Mulder's door opened, and Scully
swung about, to find herself facing an attractive young
woman with long, brown hair.  She was holding a gun, and
there was something familiar about her face --

Jesus.  It was Marissa Herman.  That is, it was the face
that had been on the Monkeywrechers' web page.  But the
*real* Marissa Herman was in custody.  This one, obviously
was a fake.  And Skinner had apparently known she was here.

"Dana!"  The other woman's cry of delight sounded genuine,
as if an old friend had dropped by for a surprise visit.
"How nice!  Won't you come in and join us?  *Walter* just
got here, but we can always find room for one more."  And
she stepped back from the door, turning so that her weapon
covered the entire room, as well as Scully, who was still
standing in the doorway.  

Taking a second look at the stranger, Scully felt a surge of
anger, as she realized that the woman was wearing Mulder's
Roswell Grays jersey, and apparently nothing else.  She knew
that the implied intimacy with Mulder was fraudulent, but
still she deeply resented the intrusion, and she had an
irrational desire to rip the shirt off the other woman.  If
anyone was going to wear that shirt, it would be Scully!

She compressed her lips in annoyance, forcing that thought
away.  No time for such nonsense.  Checking the rest of the
room, she saw Assistant Director Skinner standing on the far
side, a bemused look on his face.  He was handcuffed to the
radiator.  At least that seemed to settle the question of
which side he was on -- although she *still* didn't know why
he'd come here in the first place.  And -- good God.  Marita
Covarrubias was curled up at one end of the sofa, looking as
if she'd been dragged through a wringer.  She was naked.

"I told you to come in, Dana," the brown haired woman said,
speaking sharply and gesturing with the gun.  

It was a SIG, of the same model issued by the Bureau, and
Scully couldn't keep herself from glancing again at Skinner,
who seemed to be a bit more alert than he'd been a moment
ago.  He caught her gaze and gave a little nod.  His service
weapon.  God alone knew how she'd gotten it away from him.
He outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds.  

But that wasn't important at the moment.  What mattered
right now was that Scully couldn't count on the A.D. for
fire support.  At his age, having ridden a desk for the
better part of a decade, Scully doubted that he carried a
holdout.

"Dana, I don't want to shoot one of these people, but I
will, if you don't get in here and shut that door.  *Now!*"
An evil, happy smile curved the woman's lips.  "I don't
really need *three* play toys, after all."

Scully hesitated just a moment longer, long enough for the
intruder's eyes to begin to narrow, then did as she was
told.  She felt the tension rise in the room as the door
clicked shut.  This situation was bad.  It was very bad.
But at the moment, she didn't see any opportunity for
constructive action.

"That's better," the other woman said.  "That's much
better."  Again the disturbing smile, as she gestured with
Skinner's SIG.  "Now I want you to put your gun on the
floor.  Slowly and carefully, Dana.  I would *hate* to have
to shoot you.  I've been waiting much too long for this
chance."

"Waiting for what?" Scully asked, trying to delay the
inevitable.  She moved away from the door, wanting to
position herself so she could keep an eye on both Skinner
and the woman.  "I don't even know you."

That evoked a laugh, an incongruously merry laugh, as if
Scully had just told a joke, or made a terribly witty
comment in the course of conversation.  "Yes, you do, Dana.
You've known me for a long time.  I'm heartbroken that you
don't remember."

Scully studied the woman's face again.  There *was*
something familiar about her -- and not just from that
picture on the Monkeywrenchers' page.  The almost-memory
niggled at the back of her mind, taunting her, never quite
coming into view.  Having seen the face so recently, as part
of the Monkeywrenchers' operation, was confusing her,
muddying the older recollections.  

And then suddenly, she had it.

"Oh, God," she whispered.  "Eve."

At that instant, her cell phone shrilled.  Reflexively, she
reached for it -- then stopped, her hand poised just above
her pocket, as the Eve took a step forward and leveled the
gun directly at her heart.

"Don't," the other woman said.  The phone rang again, and
she continued, "Just let it go."  A little smirk.  "It's
probably just a telemarketer, anyway.  I'm doing you a
favor, Dana."

They stood in silence for a few moments, while the phone
continued to ring.  Damn it, it might be Mulder, or the
Gunmen.  Whoever it was, if she could just get it open and
switched on ....  She watched the Eve's face, trying to
gauge her intentions.  No.  She, was paying too much
attention, and her features were hard and determined.  At
last, the shrilling stopped -- only to start up again, a few
seconds later.  Mulder.  It had to be Mulder.  Only he would
be that insistent.

"Oh, for Christ's sake.  We're not going to listen to *that*
all night.  Dana, take it out of your pocket, very slowly,
and drop it on the sofa.  Put your gun there, too, while
you're at it."  Skinner must have moved, because suddenly
the Eve was directing her attention in his direction.  "Not
now, Walter.  You'll get your turn in a little while."  Back
to Scully.  "Okay, Dana, let's get it done."  Again the
strange, sultry smile.  "The game can't start until you do."

With great reluctance, Scully did as she was told.  She then
backed away from the sofa, and watched as the other woman
stepped forward, picked up the cell phone and switched it
off.  She dropped it back on the couch, then took Scully's
SIG, ejected the clip, and put it back down, as well.

"There," she said, giving a happy sigh and stepping back
again.  "Now that's out of the way, we can begin."  

Scully breathed a sigh of relief; the Eve might be
hyperintelligent, but she was inexperienced, and apparently
didn't know that a lot of law enforcement officers carry a
second weapon, or holdout.  Her own was concealed in an
ankle holster, tucked under her pant leg, but she wasn't
ready to try for it.  Not now.  Not unless things started
looking a lot more grim.  The other woman was still watching
her closely, and the risk was too great.

"The first thing we have to do," the Eve said, walking over
to the couch to stand in front of Covarrubias, "is find out
who Walter wants the most."  She glanced at Scully, an
amused look on her face.  "That only seems fair, doesn't it,
Dana?"  

She looked at Scully a moment longer, then turned back to
Covarrubias, who had slumped down on the sofa, her chin
resting against her chest, her eyes closed.  The Eve clucked
her tongue, grabbed Covarrubias' hair with her free hand,
and yanked her back up to a sitting position.  Covarrubias'
eyes blinked open, but she didn't say anything.

"No sleeping!" she said, a sing-songy note to her voice.
"Not yet.  Can't go to sleep until the party's over."  She
pushed the woman back, so that she was leaning against the
arm of the sofa, waited to make sure she wasn't going to
fall over again, then nodded and turned towards Skinner.

"What do you think, Walter?  She's pretty, isn't she?  I
admit that she's not very peppy -- not at the moment.  But
we can fix that."  Back to Covarrubias.  "Can't we?"

If Scully had not seen what happened next, she would never
have believed it.  As it was, she had difficulty accepting
the testimony of her