Oklahoma (Part 1/41)
  By Amperage and Livengoo
  Copyright October, 1995
   International Readers:  No third season spoilers
  Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

                              Introduction

    Hiya, folks!  This is for all of you who wondered what happened to
  Amp after Therapy II and Goo after Corpse, not to mention the lost
  souls crying out for Colors.

   So, you ask, where HAVE Amp and Goo been?  Home!  Slaving our
  little fingers off writing Oklahoma.

   So what, besides the obvious, is Oklahoma?  Back in January '95
 Amperage ran a riveting story called The Sacrifice, in which she
 made passing mention of a Mulder case, years in the past, with an
 eviscerated child, and Mulder writing the impossible profile.  It
 was the turning point in 1987, where VICAP and BSU overwhelmed
him and hot-shot young Fox Mulder started to turn away and explore
the fringes of the X-Files.

   Back in June, Amp let me get my slimy lawyer fingers on her
history for Mulder, and expand on that a bit.  She gave me some
history and some details, and I was hooked.  I wanted more and I
whined for it  in the classic manner.

   And then. . . .

   Amp sent along a gritty, gorgeous opening like nothing I'd seen,
 with an idea out of an English Lit. major's dreams - help her write
 Oklahoma, and brace that baby around the poems of T.S.Eliot.  How
 could I say no?  EVERYTHING went on the back burner when the
new piece of Oklahoma needed to be written.  And it's hot.

   If you ask me what this story's about, I'd tell you it's about
transitions.  Those key points when you stop being one thing and
become another.  In this case, it's Mulder's transition from what
he was to what we see in the X-Files.  And transitions from one
kind of society to another, one level of awareness to another.  I'm
sure Amp has her own ideas of what this story's about, but she
keeps her own council.

   Fair warning time.  This story isn't nice and it isn't kind.  It's
hot and rolling, and violent and full of disturbing notions.  NC-17
for violence and language, oh my yes.  And if you didn't like
Therapy or Corpse, I doubt you'll like Oklahoma.  You've been
warned. We accept flames, but personal attacks are never good
 netiquette.  Please toss the email to Livengoo@tiac.net.
So.  You've been warned and you've been enticed.  Just to be sure,
there's a pop quiz. <VBG!>  I hope you decide to try Oklahoma, and
I hope you enjoy it.
  ____
    It's been pointed out to me, by some of the concerned readers on
  the group, that it's eminently unfair of Amp and me to drop
weird-o and tres disturbant concepts (not to mention truly bad
Franglais) on readers all unannounced.  Accordingly, I'd like you to
 take a pop quiz before going on to read Oklahoma.  Please take the
 following with a grain of salt and two aspirins and call me in the
 morning. What you call me is up to you.

    1)  Do you believe that Mulder probably did not exist before Dana
     Scully walked into the basement office?
   2)  Do you believe that Mulder grew up in a wholesome home,
     unexceptional but for skulking spies and aliens?
   3)  Do you believe that Mulder is a well-adjusted adult who
     happens to have some rough interpersonal skills?
   4)  Does all poetry have to rhyme to be any good?
   5)  Does Mulder ever use terms stronger than "darn" and "shucks?"
   6)  Did Mulder pursue the X-Files because he couldn't get a date on
     a Friday night? (they were all watching Picket Fences?)
   7)  Do serial killers, to your knowledge, on average, have profiles
     similar to one Fox Mulder?
   8)  Does Mulder always behave with propriety, in an upright and
     rational fashion?
   9)  Do you require a romantic entanglement between two
     individuals in virtual three-D (i.e. not a magazine!) to feel that
     a story is complete?
   10)  Did Therapy and/or Corpse aggravate or annoy you?
   11)  Should there be a "Psychology Included" warning along with
     the sex and violence warnings?
    If you answered "yes" to any four or more questions, you may
     want to reconsider and turn back now!  This is a dark ride.
     Goo
  ____
   Miscellany:
   Oklahoma is set in 1987.  It has nothing whatsoever to do with the
  bombing.  Mulder is in VICAP, and not partnered at present.
   Abbreviations like BVM for Blessed Virgin Mary crop up here and
  there.
   With a very, very few exceptions, poetry is T.S.Eliot, and your
  best source is The Complete Poems and Plays if you feel inspired.
  It's gorgeous stuff, so I hope at least a few of you go make a run
  on the bookstores.
   Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual
  property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The
  FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana
  and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and
  everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.
   There are forty one pieces to this (yeah, another bandwidth hog),
  which should add up to more than a month's worth of
  entertainment at a piece a day.   There's a lot of it ahead of you!
  We sincerely hope you understand how we love doing cliffhangers
  for you all, and that you choose to read it as we post it.
   Here we go!
                               Oklahoma
                      by Amperage and Livengoo

       Fox Mulder, FBI Special Agent, one of ten men in the Bureau
  who got to do the kind of work that was currently flashing
  up on the screen in the front of the airplane - a line of work
  beloved by producers and writers, BSU VICAP, to go the entire
  alphabetic route - was crashed in his narrow, coach class airline
  seat, with a thin line of drool pooling on the hand supporting his
  chin.  Sam Rodriguez shook his head, grinned.  Spooky Mulder.  If
  the public knew the difference between someone like the movie
  version and someone like Spooky Mulder they'd probably run
  screaming into the night or demand Ed Meese resign. . .

        "What's with him?" Special Agent Cooke asked around the
  sleeping mass. "He's like, in a coma or something."

        "He takes Dramamine, I think."  Actually he usually almost
  od'd on the stuff.  Rodriguez frowned.

        "I've taken Dramamine and I never crashed like that," Cooke
  hissed back.

        Rodriguez shrugged.  "I think anti-nausea drugs do that to
  him.  Last winter, he got the flu and his doc gave him a
  prescription for Compazine so he could work. They had to take him
  to the hospital.  Hallucinating, weaving, the whole nine yards.
  Made him crazy."

        Cooke considered Mulder's oversized frame, shook his head in
  disgust.  "Are they sure it was the Compazine?" he asked.
        Rodriguez went back to the open file in his lap, reading
  glasses dangling off the end of his nose.

        Three bodies so far.  One indian boy, one white girl and now
  another white girl.  Weren't serial killers supposed to stick to
  one sex, and kill only in their own racial group?  Sam frowned.  He
  wanted to ask Mulder about that one, but Mulder was drooling
  away next to him.

        This latest corpse, the one they were saving for him in the
  Muskogee morgue. Sam turned over to the initial report.  Seven
  years of age.  Ericka Bettina Jones.  Bettina?  Poor kid.  Found in
  a hayfield, body approximately two weeks old at the time of
  discovery.

        Oh great.  A two week old body.  In summertime heat.  He'd
  need a fucking gas mask.  Maggots and creepy crawlies of all
  descriptions running around the body too.  Flies and ants and, oh
  this was going to be fucking great fun.  Pendajos.
        She'd been gutted, innards taken out, stuffed with dressing,
  they thought, and sewn back up with catgut.  Stuffed with dressing.
   Sam closed his eyes thinking about last year's Thanksgiving dinner
  with Jenni's family in Virginia.  Probably Stovetop or Pepperidge
  farm.  Fuck.  And no internal organs or signs of trauma other than
  the great evisceration job.  Wonderful.

        A few lines of poetry had been found in her pocket.

      "Garlic and sapphires in the mud
       Clot the bedded axle-tree
       The trilling wire in the blood
       Sings below the inveterate scars
       Appeasing long forgotten wars.
       The dance along the artery
       The circulation of the lymph
       Are figured in the drift of stars."

        Francis said it was from T.S. Eliot, The Four Quartets, Burnt
  Norton.  Sam didn't have any room to argue. If the great, all
  mighty, eidetic memory said it was, then it fucking was.

        They'd found poems with the other two, supposedly, but the
  damn county Medical Examiner for the first body had tossed the
  poem into the trash.  The second was smudged to shit before
  anyone ever figured out what it was.  Sometimes Sam just rolled his
  eyes at the jobs done by GP's.

        The seatbelt light came back on.  Sam put the file back in his
  briefcase, elbowed Mulder in the ribs until Pretty Boy woke.

        Mulder frowned, blinked, eyelashes clogged with crumbs, wiped
  his drooly hand. "Oklahoma City, Francis"  Sam informed him, not
  unkindly.

        Mulder nodded disorientedly.  "I was dreaming," he said
  softly, still out in la-la land.

        "Oh?"  Sam replied.

        "Yeah." He shook himself, closed his eyes.  When he opened
  them he was all Spooky Mulder, king of the unkindest cut, the
  young and coming star of Behavioral Sciences.  "So. Oklahoma."  He
  nodded, moved his tongue around in his mouth, no doubt still trying
  to get bits of rubber chicken out of his mouth.  The plane began
  its downward spiral.

           "Is Jenni still cutting her little man off?" Mulder asked as
  they were waiting for their baggage.

        "Yeah.  And the big man is about to get upset.  Man, I hate
  this shit."  Sam shook his head.  "I've got balls the color of your
  tie.  And it wasn't my fault this time."

        Mulder grinned.  "Okay Frito.  Let's hear it.  Why'd she
  decide that the little general was named McArthur and needed to
  go back home?"

        Sam grinned at Cooke, who was somewhere between thoroughly
  disgusted and thoroughly confused.  No wonder the guy did PR.

        "I thought you said Regional was supposed to meet us."

        "They are," Cooke replied.  "I don't know.  Maybe they're in
  the main lobby."

        "Well."  Sam decided to answer Mulder.  "I got sent out on the
  field.  She thinks since I'm a pathologist that I'm supposed to
  stay at Quantico in my little autopsy bay and cut up bodies."

        "You know there is a cure for the frustrations of a fickle
  wife."  Mulder's mouth crinkled up in a grin.

        Sam knew where this was going.  "Yeah, but doesn't that stunt
  your growth?"

        Mulder surveyed his legs, torso and arms.  "You mean I
  coulda' been *taller*?  Shit.  If I'd known I had a chance at being
  Larry Byrd I woulda' laid off the old tally-whacker."

        Sam, six inches shorter than his friend, shorter than most of
  the women he worked with, frowned.  "Imagine where I'd be today,
  if I'd indulged myself."

        "Fuck; you'd be a midget."  Mulder broke out laughing as he
  snagged his suitbag.  "What about you, Cooke?"

        Cooke frowned and turned beet red.

        "Oh come on. Can't go around one night standing anymore,"
  Mulder said.

        "You do, Francis," Sam said, deciding to pull the pressure
  off poor Cooke.

        Mulder grinned and turned. "Yeah.  But I'm Spooky Mulder.  I'm
  the self-destructive bastard who jacks up everyone's insurance
  premium.  People just expect me not to give a shit.  Well, Cooke?
  Do you groom the terrier?  Wax the porpoise?  Have long intimate
  dates with Mrs. Woo and her four lovely daughters?"

        Sam pulled his own suitbag off the merry go round.  "Marion,
  leave him alone."

        Mulder pulled out his Rayban Aviators.  "Don't get hyper,
  Frito.  Just having a bit of fun.  Cooke doesn't mind?  Do you?"

        Cooke shrugged embarrassedly.

        "Marion," Sam began, shaking his head, "some day you're going
  to fun yourself into an unmarked grave and I'm going to have to do
  the autopsy."

       They found the agents.  Just look for the uncomfortable
  guys in dark suits with bulges that don't attract a woman's glance,
  as Mulder had once put it.  The Agent in Charge, Jack Averman, had
  flown down from DC last night and was with the locals already.
  Hell, word was he *was* a local boy done good.  "How'd I get so
  lucky to have the Spookster?" he asked with a smile that was not
  a smile.

        "I get results on the unsolvable," Mulder smiled, a smile
  that was more a grimace.  "You got an unsolvable here.  There's
  another dead body out there somewhere already, he's already
  kidnapped his next victim, and they're gonna keep coming until
  every kid under the age of twelve has a personal escort, unless you
  got someone like me. I'm probably the only person here who's
  smarter than he is."

        He had just made three enemies.  Sam grimaced.  Jack Averman,
  who had met and worked with Mulder before, frowned.  "How do
  you know he's already killed again and got another child?"

        "I'm Spooky, remember?"  Mulder nodded.  "This guy's got
  attention.  He likes attention.  Makes him produce more if he feels
  like he's got an audience.  These deaths, real Hollywood gory. Oh
  yeah, the more media, the happier he is, the more dead bodies we'll
  see."  He shifted his hang up.  "Now we're going to Muskogee today
  so Frito can get the autopsy done and I can see the field, right?"

       Averman frowned.  "Yeah."

       "Well, let's go.  Who are you guys?" he addressed the other
  agents.  When they said hello, Mulder nodded.  Sam got the
  impression  Mulder had read their dossiers last night.  He knew
  everything about them, knew how they could be used.  Averman
was going to need a choke collar to keep Mulder under control.

           Averman, Mulder, Sam, and the RA  would be going to
  Muskogee, based on Mulder's observations before he'd even come
into the field.  Enough for Sam to autopsy the body, for Mulder to
talk to Mom and Dad about "sweetums" as he'd called her privately.

  Enough for Averman to discuss the matter with the local Sheriff.

  Then they'd head back in; Muskogee was a dead site as far as
Mulder was concerned.  The killer'd had his fun, time to move on.
Mulder didn't even want to stop at the Regional office and Averman,
to Sam's surprise, agreed.  Probably didn't want Mulder alienating
  even *more* people.

        Stengal, the Resident Agent, drove them himself in his bucar,
  told them a little about finding the body.  How the kids who found
  it had vomited all over the hayfield.  Mulder hadn't really been
  listening, but he was quiet behind his Ray-Bans, no insulting
  remarks, and everyone let him be.  "I was only able to get two
  rooms,"  Stengal said, apologetically.

        It woke Mulder from his contemplative state.  He frowned. "Two
  rooms?"

        "Yeah.  Rodeo's in town.  Sorry.  The hotels have been booked
  for weeks."  Stengal shrugged.

        Mulder's mouth pursed up.  He knew that Averman would be in
  one room and Mulder and Sam would be in the other.  Knew that,
  and Sam could tell it bugged the living shit out of him.  He said
  nothing, however, just stared out the window, went back to his
  quiet, staring out at the early summer sunshine and the miles and
  miles of nothing.

        They got to the hotel room around five.  Averman took the one
  with the king and handed Mulder and Rodriguez the keys to the
  other one.  Mulder said nothing, getting his two bags out of the car,
  juggling them with his briefcase, leaving his portable computer out
  in the trunk to swelter in the heat.  Let Sam open the door to the
  room.  He put his things up immediately.

        Sam considered Mulder from the bed.  His suit bag was on the
  rack, so screw everything else.  He wasn't a GQ kind of guy like
  Mulder, who wore and ruined designer suits the way most people
  used kleenex.   "Hey," he tried, grinning, trying to defuse Mulder's
  tenseness, "I know I'm horny.  But man, I don't think I could *get*
  that horny.  Just stay on your bed and we'll be fine."

        Mulder unzipped his hang up, frowned; it was clear he wanted
  to say something.

        Sam frowned in return.  "It's me.  Frito?  What?  You caught
  a nasty and your dick's scaling like the reptilian creature it is?"

        Mulder frowned more deeply.  "I don't want to keep you awake.
  You know how little sleep I need.  I'm usually up all night."  It
  was so obviously an excuse, Sam got off the bed he'd been sitting
  on, went to his friend.

        "Okay.  What the fuck is going on, Marion?"

        "Nothing."  Mulder grinned, trying to dispel the mood.
  "Nothing.  You want to eat before or after the autopsy?"

        Sam wanted to ask again, but Mulder had his shields up, and
  nothing penetrated those muthers; Sam already knew that.

           The corpse was about as bad as Sam had figured.  Ants had
  eaten out most of it.  Fuck.  There wasn't much to find.  He didn't
  know how she'd died.  He took tissue samples, cleaned out maggots,
  looked for trauma.  Maybe he'd find something in the tissue. He
  doubted it.

        By the time Mulder and Averman came back with the Sheriff,
  he was ready to let the poor thing go rest in the quiet earth. He
  made a few private prayers to the BVM for the little girl's soul and
  left her for the locals to slip back into a body bag.

        Mulder was quiet at dinner.  He wasn't working at being a
  horse's ass quite so diligently, and the reasons why Sam was his
  friend were a little more evident.  Sam managed to get him to tell
  about something that had happened at Oxford, and even though
  they didn't mean too, Averman and Stengal found themselves
  laughing at Mulder's sexual/educational exploits.  Sometimes Sam
  wondered why the guy hadn't become an Academic.  His memories
  of his university days were his happiest.  He'd been successful, good
  at the pursuit of knowledge.  He was scarily good at what he did, of
  course, but he was a pretty miserable person.

        The meal was over and they were sitting over coffee when
  Averman brought the case up again.

        Sam reported his findings, engrossed in his work.  When he
  emerged, Mulder was frowning, mind running at ninety on another
  track.  "We need to go back and look at the other two.  Talk to
  social services."

        Averman frowned.  "What are you talking about?"

        "We were lucky that Ericka was a local.  That Sheriff; he
  knew Ericka, felt deeply sorry for her, but not for her parents.
  Especially not Daddy."  Mulder rubbed his jaw.  "Ericka was
  probably sexually abused.  That's the vibes he gave off.  Not
  enough proof to do anything, but the sheriff knew or at least
  suspected."  Mulder dug through his briefcase.  "The first autopsy,
  Christopher Raintree.  The ME found some evidence of anal trauma.
  He assumed it was part of the work of the killer.  We haven't seen
  any sexual trauma on the other two so we. . . I don't think our
  killer is doing it."

        Averman was scribbling.  "I'll get Hitchens and Bond on it,"
  he said, antagonism gone completely.

        "Kids who are sexually molested don't wear big signs
  proclaiming their problem."  Mulder gestured towards his own
  chest.

        Oh God.  Sam closed his eyes.  What was going on here?  "We need
  to know if our second victim, Kimberly Slater, was molested.  If all
  three cases were reported, then our killer may have an inside track
  with the law.  If not, then he has some way of knowing.  Child porn
  or swapping groups.  He has to know *somehow*."

        Averman was nodding.

        Sam swallowed down his fear.  "Anything else?"

        Mulder shrugged.  "I need some time to digest everything."  He
  glanced at the dessert plate.  "Although that cheesecake is
  probably going to be with me awhile."
 

         They went back to their respective hotel rooms, settled in to
  report writing.  Mulder shut everything out when he settled in with
  a case; Sam was used to it.  Mulder just turned on the TV and shut
  out the world outside that case.  It was like a game for him, Sam
  reflected, flipping through the autopsy report.  A big game of
  guessing.

        It was midnight when Sam yawned, decided to turn in.  He
  made a great deal of noise, changing into some shorts and an old t-
  shirt, brushing his teeth, pulling out a Stephen King.  Mulder
  grinned, gathered up his notebook computer and headed for the
  bathroom.  Sam liked the dark to sleep in.
 
 
 

           Screams.  Screams.  Sam's heart was pounding and he couldn't
  breathe, couldn't think, couldn't remember.  Screams and more
  screams and they were coming from here.  Right *here*.  He
  fumbled for his gun, found it.  Safety off.  What the hell was going
  on?

        Screams.  Hoarse, loud, inhuman screams.  He couldn't think.

        The light was on, the bathroom door was open.  The screams
  were coming from in there.  And someone was beating on his door.
  "What the hell is going on?"  Averman.

        Sam went to the bathroom, gun up.

        Mulder was pressed in a corner, eyes wide, arms wrapped
  around his chest, screaming and screaming and screaming.  A
  panicked, animal scream.  The lights were on and nobody was
  fucking home.

        Sam heard more beating on the door.  Panicked beating.  Oh shit.

        Mulder's screams were still going on.

        Sam ran to the door, dropped his gun on the bed, opened the
  door and scurried back to the bathroom.  He didn't have time to
  explain to Averman.  By the time he got back, the screams were
  gone.  Mulder was still huddled in his little ball, still
  terrified, but now he was moaning, deep sobbing moans.

        "What the fuck's happening here?" Averman asked, gun limp in
  his hand.

        Sam shrugged, back to Averman, kneeling on the floor as close
  to Mulder as he could get.  "Francis?  Marion?  You okay?  Mulder?
  Come on."

        Mulder closed his eyes, put his head against his knees.  He
  still didn't know they were there.  Sam felt a deep abiding fear
  run through him.  Mulder had known this was going to happen.
  He'd planned to not sleep at all.  That meant this had been going on.
  It wasn't something new.  Not new at all.  Oh God, please.  His
  stomach turned over.

        "Francis?"  He reached out, put a hand on Mulder's knee. "It's
  Frito."

        Mulder was crying, deep, hard sobs.  Ugly sobs that shook his
  entire body.

        "Francis.  Come on.  Dream's over, man.  You're okay.  You're
  safe and it's okay."

        Mulder finally heard him, pulled his head up.  "Frito?" he
  asked.  Then he saw Averman, swallowed.  "Oh shit." He couldn't
  stop the crying, but he was finally aware of his world and knew
  he'd fucked up big time.

        Averman sighed.

        "Everybody has bad dreams sometimes, man."  Sam was
  consolatory, rubbing Mulder's back.  "Come on.  It's gonna be
  okay."

        Mulder clutched his knees, crying.  He was trying desperately
  to stop, but it seemed to only serve to make the sobs worse.

        "Let's get you out of here and to bed."

        Mulder shook his head.

        "Come on."  Averman had knelt down, was close, there was a
  deep abiding sympathy in his eyes, a sadness Sam hadn't known
  Averman had in him.  "Come on."

        Mulder tried to inch away from Averman, eyes going very wide.
  He was just barely in the land of the sane.

        Sam swallowed, made a decision.  "He's got some Dramamine in
  his carry on," Rodriguez informed Averman.  "Get me two and a
  glass of water."

        Averman glanced at Rodriguez.

        "They work better than Valium on him." Sam shrugged,
  turned back to Mulder.  "Francis, okay, it's okay.  You're in a
  hotel room. You're safe.  You're going to be okay.

        He heard the sounds of Mulder's carry on being up-ended.  Of
  packaging being destroyed.

        "You're safe and okay.  Nobody can hurt you."

        "Why did Averman have to see?" Mulder asked softly through his sobs.
   He couldn't breathe.
        "Don't worry about that right now, okay?"  Water in a glass
  and then Averman came in, handed the pills and glass to Sam.

        "Okay, Francis.  You take these, hokay?"

        Mulder wanted to refuse.

        Sam put the pills to Mulder's mouth.  "Come on.  You take
  these every time you fly.  They won't hurt you.  Promise.  Come
  on."  Mulder opened his mouth, Sam felt the other man's tongue as
  he placed both pills in Mulder's mouth.

        Then the water. It slopped down his chin, but he managed to
  swallow.

        "All gone.  It'll get better," Sam consoled, rubbing Mulder'
  back gently. Sam waited with him; ten minutes seemed like ten
  hours while Sam made comforting sounds, trying to keep Mulder
  calm; the sobs grew quieter, lessened.  Mulder's eyes dilated, not
  from fear this time, but from drugs.  Sam nodded at Averman, and
  they got him into bed.  He fell asleep as soon as he was in the bed;
  his body wrapped around one of the pillows.

        Averman sat on Sam's bed, watched Mulder sleep.  "No wonder
  the guy's such a butthole."

        Sam stared at Averman, surprised.  He'd expected, oh he didn't
  know. . .indignation, fury.  Not understanding.

        "I was in the marines a long time," Averman said, running a
  hand through his short, salt and pepper hair, stared at his own
  bare legs.  "Mulder's not unusual.  A lot of really tough guys have
  nightmares.  And the Bureau uses Mulder like. . .like he can see
  all these dead bodies and get into the minds of all these serial
  killers and never have problems.  Every time there's a really
  disgusting, really unsolvable string of murders, they call in the
  Spooky.  It's gotta get to anyone eventually.  I guess the being
  such a butt is his way of shoving people away before they can find
  out he's got any problems."  He sighed.  "And I hate to say it, but
  we need him on this case.  You're the medico.  Think he can keep it
  together through this one?"

        "My patients are dead when I get to them."  Sam shrugged.  "I
  guess."

        "Oh, that's great," Averman sighed.  "Such reassurance.  If
  I report this, Mulder flies straight back to DC and gets some leave
  and a trip to Psych."

        "He's been okay.  Nothing that I can see," Sam lied.

        "Look, I'll give him a chance to defend himself.  Maybe this
  is isolated."

        Sam nodded.  Maybe not.
________________________
   Continued in part 2
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 2/41
Date: 21 Jan 1996 23:51:11 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 2/41)
By Amperage and Livengoo
Copyright October, 1995

International Readers:  No third season spoilers
Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual
property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The
FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana
and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and
everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.

_______________________

     Mulder swallowed, tried to get his glands to produce spit.
Dried versions of the stuff were all over his lips, gummy and
nasty, but there was nothing in his mouth.  He was lying on a
pillow and it felt late in the morning.  Blink. Lots of sleep
boogers coated his eyelashes.  His face felt vaguely heavy.
Dramamine.  He clenched his eyes closed as he remembered, suddenly,
what had happened last night.  He put his face against the pillow.

Oh God.  He'd have to fly back to DC in the company of some
regional agent and then they'd make him take some leave time.  The
Spooky finally cracked wide open.  There'd be all these speeches in
front of Thompson and everyone else about how they were sorry, that Mulder
should have told them the stress was getting to him.  They realized it was
an incredible burden for Mulder.  They'd be
reassigning him to something *less* stressful. . .

     He moaned aloud.  From somewhere a glass of water appeared.
Mulder took it, sat up, drank greedily, both hands around the wide
surface of the water glass, then looked at the giver.  Averman.
Mulder swallowed, wished he'd feigned sleep.

     "How're you feeling?"

     "I'm okay," Mulder managed.

     "How long has this been going on?"

     "Not long."

     "Are they this bad?"

     "Not usually."

     "How often?"

     Mulder frowned, considered Averman.  "I don't know.  Not
often.  It's not the work.  I know that's what it must look like.
But it's not."

     Averman nodded.  "You want to tell me what then?"

     Mulder swallowed, looked Averman in the eye.  This man, for
some reason, was giving him a chance.   "When I was twelve my
sister disappeared.  She was eight.  They found me on the floor
with my father's gun, like I'd been trying to shoot whatever it was
that took her.  I was catatonic for four days.  When I woke up I
didn't remember any of it.  I still don't."

     Averman sighed heavily.  "Are there any other problems?"

     Mulder did not pretend not to understand.  "No," he muttered.
"Sometimes I get mad easily, but the men in my family have bad
tempers."

     Averman nodded.  "Is that why you act like such an asshole?"

     Mulder frowned, stared at his lap.  "Yes," he muttered
softly.  "That and I'm sick of all this shit they keep piling on me."

     Averman sighed.  "You're very good.  The Bureau's going to use that."

     Mulder closed his eyes.  "All I see are dead bodies.
Sometimes I go out looking for some and I see a pretty girl and
something flashes in me and I see how she would look dead after
someone like Frito got hold of her.  Sometimes I'm just driving and
I'll pull off because I saw a spot that would make a good spot to
dump a body and I have to go check, just to make sure no one else
has had that same idea.  I've found one or two that way."  He
frowned.  "I sit in a restaurant and I look for the psychopaths.
There are other people in Behavioral who do this work almost as
well as I do.  But they get time between cases and I don't. . .I
flew in from Wyoming yesterday morning, got in around 2 a.m.. Guy
had killed this woman by gutting her like a deer.  I wrote the
profile in the airport terminals and turned it in that night.  I
thought, they'll have me writing reports or doing paperwork, at
least for a few days, but I get called at 6 a.m.. 'So glad you're
back, we'll have someone else wrap everything up--don't worry you
get credit, your ticket's at the airport.'  They wanted Spooky on
this one.  `A rare and unique talent'.  That's what they say when
I complain, then pile this huge guilt trip on me about all the
lives I'm saving."

     Averman swallowed.  Four hours between violent murders.  Four
hours.  God.  Anyone would crack under that kind of pressure.  Four
days would be too few.  Mulder got four hours.  He stayed very
still, waiting for more, but Mulder had run out of breath.  "I'm
okay."  He looked up. "I'm not crazy.  Not yet.  I can finish this
case up.  Don't turn me in."

     Averman frowned.  "Can you?"

     Mulder nodded.

     "Okay.  I want your word that when this is over you'll go to
psych services and get some help."

     Mulder nodded.  "I will.  Thank you."  He did not look at
Averman.

     "Okay.  I'm going to shower and dress."  Averman kept the pity
he felt for Mulder out of his face as he strode to the door.  When
he was back in his hotel room he pressed his eyes closed, breathed
deeply.  What the hell was the Bureau doing to this guy?  And why?
 
 
 

     "You know what's going to happen?  I'll tell you what."  Cooke
hawked noisily and spat.  Averman watched the ugly gob vanish into
a dark patch of dust in moments.  Cooke's voice was also ugly.
"Wonder boy over there will wave his magic dick, make a few
pronouncements, go back to DeeSee and *we* get stuck with the
clean up and the hard work.  Prick."

     Averman's eyes were unreadable behind the mirror-shades that
reflected the bleak field where Mulder was just standing, looking
around.  He turned, and Cooke's florid face was distorted in the
lenses.  "That what you think is going on here, Cooke?"

     "Sure.  Somebody with a hard on for Dirty Harry decides we
need to play glitzy profile games and sends out Spooky.  Now, no
matter what he says, he gets credit when we bag this sicko on good
old police work."  Cooke wrinkled his peeling nose, blinking from
behind expensive-looking shooter's glasses with some kind of
designer signature in the corner.  He'd have a raccoon-eyes burn
when he took the glasses off, his shirt was stained with sticky,
summer sweat and he itched.  And Spooky just stood out there, in
that fucking dried-up corn field, turning in circles and talking to
himself.

     Averman had tried to tune the little turd out.  He put about
as much value on PR flakes as he put on televangelists bringing him
God's true word.  Little horse-fly of a man, pop-eyed and
big-nosed, and he'd been buzzing away at Mulder ever since the
profiler had joined them for lunch. Rodriguez, <what did Spooky
call him?  Frito?> had tried to shut the guy up, but that was
generally Mulder's job and he hadn't made a dent in the man's
verbal barrage.  Besides, Rodriguez wasn't here.  He was riding
back to Tulsa with Stengal to get the tissue samples back in--no
courier services around here--so Cooke had come out with a car.
Tulsa was probably glad to get rid of the twerp.

     Mulder had stopped cold, was scuffing at the dirt.  He
crouched and sort of sighted, like a surveyor would, then he was up
and off across the field at a half-lope.

     "Shit," muttered Cooke.  "Off his rocker."  Averman ignored
him and paced out after Mulder, wondering what the young man had
seen.  Mulder had reached the corn, and was stepping carefully
between rows, looking before every step.  Averman caught up with
him easily enough.

     "You got something?"

     "I have no idea."  Mulder sounded distracted, though, and
Averman had seen good agents in his day.  He believed the tone, the
attitude, more than he believed the words.  "He. . ."  Mulder
seemed too busy to really bother with his sentences, but he tried
again.  "He didn't come from the main road."  A glance back to the
blacktop, where Cooke was sweating bile. "Whoever he is, he knows
the back roads well enough to get here other ways. Look here."
Mulder was fingering yellow damage that marked a bruised stalk.

     "Could have been done by the farmer who found her, Mulder."
Averman might believe him, but the boy would do better if he had to
work for it.  Mulder shook his head.

     "The farmer would have worked with the rows.  And there's a
straight enough path of this kind of bruising.  I'm surprised the
locals didn't catch this, it's easy shit."  He sounded a little
sour, doing work he figured should already have been caught.

     Once they knew what they were looking for, the path was simple
to find.  A rustling, baking trail through dusty green, brushing
bugs from their eyes, tasting the dirt that flavored every breeze
in this hot, dry place, where soil created the fog instead of
water.  The crushed grasses and ripped-up plants of two weeks ago
lay sere, marking where Ericka Jones' murderer pulled off the road.
No Eliot here, no poetry to this land.  It was too dry for such
things to survive.  Fantasy curled up and died in this heat. Or it
should have.  One person's fantasy had been unloaded right here,
thrown away once he was done with it.

     Mulder didn't know what to say.  Averman could see his throat
working, swallowing convulsively, although no spit survived and the
dust was thick in his nose and mouth.  He was glad he couldn't see
the hazel eyes behind those glasses.  The two of them looked.  You
could always hope for something dropped in the dirt, some
miraculous error.  You could also hope to win the lottery, it still
never happened, but you had to try.

     Cooke showed up eventually, looking over the sight and loudly
declaring it useless.

     "I knew they hired you for a reason, Cooke.  They needed an
expert to recognize useless shit."  It was a pale carbon copy of
the Spooky Averman had picked up at the airport, but it was enough
to bring a flush of anger to Cooke's sunburned face.

     "I'm calling it in.  Let the pros do the real search."
Averman lead off back across the fields, hearing the other two
following him.  Mulder caught up with him, a few hundred yards
ahead of Cooke's pudgy, plodding form.

     "They won't find anything."

     "No, but it's something to do.  It's another thing found, and
that's more than we had before.  Maybe I'll put Cooke on it."
Averman's smile was thin.  Mulder's answering grin was wide, manic.
 
 
 

     "Let's drive around a little," Mulder said softly.

     "Looking for what?" Averman asked, curious.

     "For. . ."  Mulder shrugged.

     Averman felt a chill go up his spine, 105 degrees and he was
fucking cold.  "Yeah.  Okay," he said gently.  "You'll know what
you're looking for. . ."

     "When I see it."  Mulder finished.
 
 
 

     The bridge was narrow, rickety and rusting.  When one car was
on it, oncoming traffic had to pull over and wait.  Averman was on
the shoulder, waiting for the old woman to see enough over her
steering wheel to start moving again.  Mulder heard him sigh, but
he wasn't really paying attention.  He was watching the flat, muddy
trickle that was all that was left of the river in this dry season,
and trying to remember what it kept nudging in his head.

     "The circles of the stormy moon
     Slide westward toward the River Plate,
     Death and the Raven drift above
     And Sweeney guards the horned gate."

     "What?"  But Mulder was out the door before Cooke's
exasperated question had died in the car.  Averman flicked off the
key and followed, cursing. Good agents work on instincts, Mulder
was working on fucking autopilot.  Mulder was down, under the
bridge, and Averman yelled to him about moccasins in the rushes.
Little good the kid would be if he got poisoned by some snake.

     Mulder was oblivious.

     "I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
          Fisch weht der Wind
          Der Heimat zu
          Mein Irisch Kind
          Wo weilest du?
     You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
     They called me hyacinth girl.
     --Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
     Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
     Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
     Living nor dead and I knew nothing. . "

Mulder chanted softly.  "He brought her here.  Does this flood when
it rains?"  He asked as though Averman or Cooke would know.  "It's
the closest river to that damn field. . .Frito said that there was
no trauma, no evidence of death.  What if he drowned her?  Not
dead. . .no.  Just unconscious.  You need a water supply when
you're working with meat, drain off the blood.  She's unconscious,
not struggling, but the blood drains.  The heart still pumps itself
dry. . . .brought her here at night.  There was a moon two weeks
ago. . .I was still in Wyoming two weeks ago, we did some work at
night. . .wouldn't need a light.  It's deserted.  Brought her here,
held her under the rushing water long enough so she went
unconscious. Or maybe he drugged her.  I don't know why he stuffed
her.  .  .I think that's part of the game. . .so I won't know. . ."

Mulder paused speculatively.

     "Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged
     And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight
     And the lotus rose, quietly, quietly
     The surface glittered out of heart of light,
     And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
     Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children."

     Averman realized that Mulder, in his head, was back in the
dark, watching.    He waited for more recitation, but Mulder was
speaking again. "Got rid of the blood. . .the entrails. . .if it
flooded, the entrails would wash down river, wouldn't they?  Then
animals would have gotten it.  Coyotes or whatever.  And he didn't
have far to cart her. . ."  Mulder frowned. "That doesn't tell us
where he is, though, does it?  He's gone from here.  Long gone."
Mulder grimaced.  "He knows the backroads 'round here.  But he
knows the backroads in all the places. . .he's going to kill. .
.Dad was a farm worker, maybe?"  Mulder glanced at the sun, winced.

     "It's hot here.  Find out if it floods."  Without any further
word to anyone, Mulder trudged back up to air conditioning and the
car.
 
 
 

     "Yeah she coudda' been drowned.  Yeah," Rodriguez agreed when
he joined up with them again at Regional.  Mulder was leaning back
in his chair, feet on the long conference table of the room they'd
claimed.  He was all Joe Cool now.  Arrogant as hell.  Scoped out
the local secretarial pool, given them a small shy grin and any one
of a number of pretty little rancher's daughters, patriotic to the
core, proud to be typing for the FBI, would probably flop on her
back if he so much as breathed on her neck.  Averman wondered,
with some irritation, how many women in how many cities Spooky
had done.  He didn't even so much as look at them unless they were
Betty Bureau.  Averman had to give him that.

     A receptionist, all of nineteen maybe, brought in a tray of
canned soft drinks, set it down with tall, watering cups of ice.

     Russell, an older, seasoned agent out of Tulsa blinked in
surprise, as did most everyone else.

     "Thanks, Kacy," Mulder muttered, flashing her a smile.

     "No problem.  Ya'll been out in the field and all.  Hotter
than the devil on Christmas."  Kacy flushed to her naturally blonde
roots and nearly ran out of the room.  Mulder glanced at the
selection, grabbed a diet coke.

     "You don't need diet stuff yet," Russell growled.  "How'd you
get a Clerical to do that?"

     Mulder popped the diet drink open, grabbed a cup of ice.  "Do
what?" he asked, genuinely surprised.  "She asked if we could use
anything and I said I was thirsty, but not to bring me anything
unless she thought everybody else could use something to drink. .
."

     Rodriguez grabbed a Sprite.  "Don't worry about how he does
it," he informed the room.  "He came over for supper and my wife's
eyes never left his butt once."

     "You notice she didn't cut you off when you got sent to Nevada
last year, but now that *I*'m gone. . ."  Mulder grinned
mischievously.

     "You're a real cocksucker, Francis," Rodriguez grinned.

     "As they say on the playground. . .takes one," Mulder
replied.

     "Well whip it out and we'll see."  Rodriguez leaned in towards
Mulder.

     "Frito, you couldn't handle what I got.  Takes me twenty
minutes to stuff it down my pants. . .and then I gotta be careful
not to step on it, cause it falls down sometimes. . ."

     "Enough."  Averman's voice cut through their words.  "Enough.
Can we get back to the case?"

     He glanced around the room.  Two agents were grinning, Cooke
was disgusted, and two agents were glancing at Mulder and Rodriguez uneasily.

     "So what else do we know?" Averman asked.

     Hitchens, flipping through his notes, cleared his throat
awkwardly.  "There was no report on Bonnie Grant being sexually
abused.  However, the county sheriff spoke with the family this
morning. . .they said they caught Bonnie "playing" with a cousin
last summer."

     "How old was the cousin?" Mulder asked.

     Hitchens glanced at his notes.  "Sixteen."

     Silence descended on the agents crowded around the table.
Mulder closed his eyes, made a temple of his hands, put the temple
to his face.  "She would have been seven last summer.  Probably
beat the shit of her for it too," he muttered to no one.  "Same
kind of people think a woman in a mini-skirt deserves to be raped."

     "So how does he know?" Averman asked of the room in general.
All eyes turned towards Mulder.

     "I don't know," Mulder sighed, closed his eyes.  "We've got
a little boy buggered.  A little girl. . .fondled. . .another
little girl, maybe something worse.  The timing's off.  There
should be a first body, some kid we haven't found yet."

     "First body?"

     Mulder's eyes snapped open.  "Yeah. He's an intelligent
fellow, our murderer.  I think he wasn't quite sure what he wanted
out of this, there at the first, but now he knows.  He hid the
first body.  Now he wants everyone to know.   He knows just exactly
who's coming to dinner.  Why do you think he stuffed the last one
and left her to bake in the sun?"  The grin was manic and somehow
demonic.  "Ant garnish and all that?"

     It was chilly, summer air conditioning chilly in the
windowless conference room, with the cheap office chairs and the
Oklahoma state map and the picture of William Webster, who was
now fucking around with the real spies, Ronald Reagan, and Edwin
Meese hung up as an odd sort of Trinity, watching over a wizened
flock.  But the agents gathered around the table, staring at Spooky
Mulder who had just promised three more deaths for a certainty.
They were all suddenly ice cold.  The silence was sharp.  Spooky
didn't seem to notice, just closed his eyes, feet still propped up,
brain spinning in realms where demons played and monsters
prowled like housecats underfoot.

     It was Rodriguez, finally, who broke the silence.  "Shit,
Francis.  Does this mean I gotta work with a six week old body next
time?  Fuck."
 
 
 

     Late Afternoon.  Mulder was sitting in his hotel room,
having ducked out of the office on the excuse that he got more
paperwork done in still and quiet--and in full view of a
television set, although this part of it was unstated.
Averman had agreed, but insisted Frito go with him.  Mulder
imagined raised brows at that one.  Why would the Spooky need
a babysitter?

     He had to wonder how much cash Frito and Averman had
dropped to get this room arrangement.  He and Frito had
connecting doors. Averman was in the room next to Mulder's.
Cooke was on another floor.  Frito had opened the connecting
door without comment, and Mulder had decided not to make an
issue of it.  Averman wasn't mentioning what he'd seen to
anyone, and wasn't acting like Mulder was one step from the
loony bin.

     Mulder yawned, stretched on his bed, considered the minor
league baseball game ESPN was showing.  Alexandria Aces versus
somebody with green lettering on their uniforms.

     Next door Frito was actually writing a report.  Mulder
liked behavioral.  For some reason they thought that you
actually had to go back and look up indicators or something.
Yeah right.  He just started typing and saying this indicates
this and this indicates that and these behavioral patterns are
indicative of that. . .you didn't pass your orals at Oxford on
a cute smile. . .anyway, he would write a profile sometime
tonight, run it through his grammar checker and spell checker
and everyone would ooh and ahh and think he worked like mad.
Mulder already knew what the report would say.  Had it
written in his head.  The sexual abuse thing puzzled him.  He
wanted to know how this guy picked his prey, what *he* saw that
made him choose.  Two choices had occurred to Mulder.  First, he
wanted sexual abuse victims.  Second, certain behaviors occurred in
children who had been sexually abused.  Was one of those behaviors
what the killer was focusing in on?  Had the killer been sexually
abused?  The obvious answer was yes.  This guy wasn't very obvious.

     Mulder watched the Aces jog in.  He still didn't know the name
of the other team.  Must have changed uniforms recently.  He knew
his baseball teams.  Oh.  The Beaumont Gators.  New Team.  He
hadn't watched them play before.  Okay.

     Rodriguez glanced through the connecting door.  He'd
given Francis enough time to fall asleep, he hoped.  "Get him
up there, make him take a nap."  Averman had said quietly,
drawing Sam into a quiet office.  "Let him pretend he's going
to do some paperwork.  I don't care.  Get him quiet."

     Mulder was sitting up, rifling through files, reading.
Oh shit.

     "Whatcha' doin' Marion?"

     "These interviews are worthless."  Mulder said throwing
down the files.  "I've got some shit from them, but I need
more.  Can I get some agents to go back to the victims
elementary schools?"

     Sam frowned.  "What you askin' me for?  Shit. If you
want it, you know they'll do it.  But you better tell them
what you want if that's not any good."

     "Yeah. . .stupid gundicks. . ." Mulder swore, picking up
the phone.

     "After you get done, why don't you get some shut eye?"
Sam mentioned mildly.

     Mulder shot him the finger.  "Hi? Peg? It's Mulder.  I
need Agent Averman. . .thanks. . .yeah, you too. . .Averman?
Hi.  Yeah.  Listen.  I need agents sent back out to the
elementary schools.  Listen, I need them to ask about specific
behaviors, I don't have copies of report cards or discipline
reports, Parent-Teacher conferences. . .yeah, no, nothing
about strange men lurking about.  I want to know if these kids
had friends and if they did what social strata they hung out--
you know, tough guys, bimbettes in embryo--what they acted
like in class. . .yeah, exactly. . .if they give you any flack
get a subpoena.  No judge in this state is going to deny us
anything at this point and we all know that. . .yeah. . .I
don't know.  I need more info. Listen. . .also. . .no. .
.yeah. . .I need a list of unsolved adult murders from the
past year. . .male. . .over thirty. . .not the steady sort,
wanderers, drifters. . .yeah.  Thanks."  Mulder grinned and
hung up the phone. "Sorry. I didn't realize I was supposed
to be a good child.  I'll put my shit away and watch baseball
now."
 
 
 

     "Fuck."  Rodriguez sighed and stared at an empty screen that
had been full of text the instant before.  Then he'd hit <return>.
Or thought he'd hit <return>.  Whoever put a delete key there
should be shot and autopsied.  Preferably not in that order.  He
slammed shut the clumsy, heavy, twenty pound portable
pain-in-the-ass that made some tally-whacker down in procurement
feel au courant.  What ever happened to pen and paper?

     Of course, maybe the meat-pullers back in D.C. weren't totally
to blame.  Trying to type and listen at the same time wasn't as easy
as it looked.  Hit <save> and lean back, let yourself listen, focus
on what's there to be heard.

     The game.  Of course.  Some rinky-dink, cow-town team the
local shit-kickers all swore was better than the pros.  Cheers and
beers and announcers, all rambling from Marion's room.  The sound
of cars with lousy mufflers, rusted bodies, and bad alignment since
Oklahoma was where old cars went to die.  Motorcycles.  The low
whistle of wind out here in the fucking end of creation, where God
never bothered to put anything that could slow it down.

     And paper.  Again.  That was when he'd hit the damn delete
key, when he'd heard the soft, little sound of a page folded back.
Up, off the creaky springs of the bed, to hang in the connecting
door, tie undone, dark eyes bloodshot from a night living with
somebody else's bad dreams.

     A friend's bad dreams.

     "What are you doing, Marion?"  Bastard didn't try to hide the
files, or look sorry.  Just grinned back at him like nothing ever
cracked that shell.

     "What, Frito?  You been here so long you've even forgotten
what reading looks like?"  Rodriguez fought the urge to take the
files away.

     "I thought you told Averman you were going to be good?"

     Mulder's expression barely changed, except that all the life went
out of it and left the shell of a smile.  Rodriguez crossed his
arms and stared back, wondering how many years Spooky had
managed to pull it off.  Single rooms, or separate hotels or anything
that kept people from hearing him scream and scream, until he was
too tired to be terrified any more.

     "Francis, do me a favor?  Put the files down."  He had to
grin, [just put the files down and no one has to get hurt. . . ]

     "Do I have to come out with my hands up?"

     "Better be all you get up."

     "Yeah, you'd be cut off forever if she saw what I. . . "

     "Any chance I can get you to shut up and just watch the Hick
Bowl?"   A long hesitation.  "Francis, it's not like I didn't
notice anything.  What were you planning to do?  Go a week without
sleeping?"  The idiot grin he got in return did nothing for Sam's
peace of mind.

     "I tell you what, Frito.  I'll behave."  Mulder handed the
files over.  "Now go screw up more paper work and let me watch the
Gators embarrass themselves."  As if not having the files would
stop him.  Sam shook his head, but Averman had already told Mulder
off, he wasn't going to add anything now.

     "Get some sleep, Francis.  I'll give you your mags back when
you wake up."

     "Celebrity Skin?"

     "Sure, we'll take shifts.  But the pages better not be stiff."

     Mulder snorted, but he'd sprawled back, shoes off.  Sam
crossed his fingers and went back to his fucked report.

_________________________
Continued in part 3..............
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 3/41 NC-17
Date: 23 Jan 1996 07:08:35 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 3/41)
By Amperage and Livengoo
Copyright October, 1995

International Readers:  No third season spoilers
Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual
property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The
FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana
and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and
everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.
 

     The sun had shifted, letting the rooms cool, by the time he'd
reconstructed his work.  The Gators were humiliated and gone.  Pro
wrestling or monster trucks or some other Taco-circuit cultural
mecca shrieked from the next room.  Rodriguez saved to disk and
went to wash the prickly heat-sweat off his face and under arms.
God, and he'd though D.C. was bad.

     A quick glance.  Francis was crashed, sprawled over his pillow
and drooling on the bedspread.  Rodriguez watched him twitch for a
moment.  Dreaming.  Muttering something about kids, and water,
beaches.  Rodriguez tensed, half-expecting nightmares or screams
after the night before, but relaxed and started breathing again
when the Spookster slid back into dreamless rest.  Near miss, one
pass through R.E.M. complete, can we go for two?

     He stepped back, shut his door most of the way.  The numbers
on the phone pad were almost instinctive.  Rodriguez settled back
on his bed and waited.

     One. . .Two. . .Three. . . then the phone and the machine
picked up at the same time.

     "Hello, you have reached. . ."

     "Hello, who is this, just a second, let this. . ."  Grunt
while she tried to reach the switch in the back.  Sam grinned at
the two Jenni-voices running over each other.  The message finally
ended, leaving him with the husky, out of breath one.

     "All right, hello?"

     "Lucy, I'm gonna be late."  Falsetto that he knew she hated.

     "Sam?  Sam!  Honey, I miss you.  When are you coming home?  I
wasn't expecting you to call until tonight."  Husky voice, oh yes.
He felt his balls throb and his cock twitch at the sound.

     "Yeah, well. I wanted to hear your voice.  Make sure you
weren't out with the pool man."

     "We don't have a pool."

     "That never stopped you and me from getting wet together."

     "You're alone."  He could hear the smile in her voice.

     "More or less."

     "I just. . .took my pants off."  He could hear the fabric.
Her voice got just a little throatier as she told him what she was
doing to herself.  A sudden wet sound, then quiet, then her
breathing again.  "Hear that honey?  Remember how it tastes?"

     Oh god.  "I got a tent pole here, Jenni.  I'm so hard. . . "
she laughed at his voice.  He was dripping, she was talking again.

     "You got your hand around it, Sam?  Go on, baby.  Stroke your
cock."  He glanced up at the door, but the TV was the only sound
from next door.

     "Yeah, Sammy," she growled, and he ached.  She was urging him
on, breathing in time with him, panting.  He could hear her
whimpers, for God's sake he could hear her pussy.  He was slamming
his hand up and down, his hips jumping as he moaned, pumping, phone
clutched next to his ear so he could hear her, come with her.  His heart
was racing, and the mattress squeaked almost one long wheeze now, slamming
and coming and long distance and ogodogodogodogod. .

.  Until he and she sagged back, panting to each other, and all he
could do was lie there, soaked and lonely and listening to his
wife's voice.

     "That good for you, Sam?"  Sweet and smiling, voice like silk.

Sam moaned.

     "I can get the red-eye, be home for the weekend."

     "Unh unh, lover boy.  I told you, D.C. and me.  I'm glad your
hand felt so good, 'cause it's your best friend 'til you come home
for real."

     "Jen, Jenni. . ."  He tried not to whine.

     "You knew the rules, Sam.  'Til you're out of beaner country,
long distance is the next best thing."

     "Christ, Jenni. . . you're a real ball-breaker."

     "Unh hunh.  Thought you hidalgos didn't talk about ladies like that."

     "Ladies don't cut their men off."

     "Go borrow Mulder's skin mags."

     "You can't turn the pages."  He heard the faint sound as she
buried her face in the pillow and laughed.  It took a while for her
to come up for air.

     "You know, Daddy can get you sent back."

     ". . . I can't do that, Jenni."  Suddenly soft-voiced, quiet.

     "Yeah.  I know.  See you when it's over, loverboy."  He could
hear the understanding there.

     "Love you, Jenni."

     "Yeah."  The laugh was back. . .  "You and Rosie Palmer."

     "Bitch."

     "Give Mulder a kiss for me."

     "I will if I'm here much longer."  He grinned as she whooped again.

     "Bye bye, Jenni."

     "Love you, Sam."

     "You too."
 
 
 

     Fox Mulder woke up, face down in the wet spot.  He wiped the
drool off his cheek, and felt like a five year old, groaned and
rolled onto his back.  There was some inane fishing show in the
background.  He stared at the ceiling, trying to remember where he
was this time.  Wyoming?  No, there hadn't been stains on that
ceiling.  And he could hear an electric razor like it was in the
same room?

     Mulder sat up, startled.  Took in the open connecting door,
the sound of someone in the bathroom over next door.  Frito, right.
Oklahoma.  Eliot.  Frito.  He felt a profound relief, suddenly, to
have awakened lying there, quietly, instead of curled somewhere
small and hidden.  He ran a hand over his face to clear the last
cobwebs away.

     God, his mouth tasted awful.  He worked his shoulders, his
neck.  The razor stopped.  He could hear Frito moving around,
getting dressed.  Mulder pulled himself to his feet, taking in the
clock and the angle of the light, surprised to see it was almost
six-thirty.  The phone rang next door, Frito kept his voice down
when he answered.  Mulder caught one or two words, nothing much.

     "What's going on?"

     Frito spun, shirt still only half-buttoned, crisp though,
fresher looking than Mulder by several degrees, and knowing it.
"Hey, it lives.  We'll be down in around forty-five minutes,
Averman.  Spooky just decided to return to the living. . .uh huh.
Right."  Hung up.  "We meet the man for dinner, Francis.  You have
forty-five.  Go get ready."
 
 
 

     Dinner was, surprise, surprise, another steak house.  Except
there were eight agents, all getting a good dinner at the expense
of their favorite butt-fucking uncle.  Mulder was quiet, staring at
walls, at faces, generally reminding everyone why he was called
"Spooky" in the first place.  And he was all work, which pissed
some people off.  It didn't piss Averman off.

     So Frito and Averman and Spooky all found themselves sitting
at one end of the table, discussing the case while three or four
other agents listened and two or three agents, Cooke among them,
watched sourly and complained about how Spooky was a sonofabitch
who brown-nosed.

     "Do we have the interviews of the kids?" Mulder asked over his
house salad, shoving spinach leaf into his mouth.

     Averman nodded towards Russell and Meyer.  "Yeah."  The kid
was shovelling his food away like there was no tomorrow.

     Russell didn't need his notes to tell Spooky what he'd found.
"Raintree was a quiet kid.  Tall for his age. He played little
league and never got into trouble.  He always did what he was told.
He was scared of the dark."

     "Scared of the dark?" Mulder asked.  "How'd you know that
from school?"

     "Principal was his denmaster in cub scouts.  Said the kid was
terrified of the dark."

     Mulder frowned.  "Irrational fears are usually a sign of
something that's wrong in a kid's life. . ."  The wheels turned.
"What about the two white girls?"

     "Umm. . .Stengal sent me this," Averman said.  "Ericka was. .
.a sweet child, always did as told. . .never gave the teachers any
trouble. . ." Mulder nodded as though he now expected to hear this.

    "I'll ask Stengal to go back, see if she was frightened of
anything," Averman finished quietly.

     Mulder nodded.

     Meyers considered his notes.  He was incredibly green, Mulder
realized.  A kid.  Not a brilliant kid like him, to be forgiven
faults and humored.  Just a kid who would one day be a good agent.
Mulder might be shit to most people, but he was nice to those who
had less seniority, less rights than he did.  Sometimes he wondered
if other agents would ever learn that.  It wasn't just poster-boy
looks and a firm butt.  It was recognizing that everyone on this
planet has feelings and emotions and likes knowing that you know
they exist.   Mulder considered his empty salad plate wondering
where the greenery had gotten too.  He'd even, somehow, eaten the
cherry tomatoes.  And he hated cherry tomatoes. . .

     "Bonnie Grant was a quiet shy child.  Good grades.  No
problems.  Her teacher said she was very sensitive and that she
came to school with bruises occasionally.

     "Why didn't they report it to Social Services?" Mulder asked.

     Meyers frowned.  "She said they did," he replied.

     Mulder nodded, sighed.  "Some places Family Development and
those type of people do a good job, some places they're witch
hunters, some places they don't do anything."  His eyes wandered to
the empty glass plate in front of him.  He played with his fork a
moment, lost in some private remembrance.  The other agents
assumed it was from some other case, some child beaten to death by
his parents.  To Frito it was a frightening thing.  Watching Spooky
dredge up memories from somewhere.  From a somewhere where little girls
disappeared and big brothers huddled small and frightened on the floor.
"You'll call and ask if she was scared of anything?"  Mulder asked,
looking up.

     Meyers nodded.

     "Good work," Russell told the kid.

     Meyers smiled.

     From the far end of the table Cooke cleared his throat.  "DC
called.  I have to put out a press report."

     "Make us all look like we're sticking our dicks in the right
holes," Mulder said wearily, putting his fork down, glancing at
Frito's Beck's dark.  "For a 'spic you drink good beer.  I think I
want one of those," he said easily.

     Frito frowned, glanced at Averman, who hadn't caught it.
Spooky Mulder did *not* need alcohol.  "Fuck you," he said easily.
"Designate a driver."

     "Averman's not drinking."

     But Averman did, somehow, in that barest instant before he
screwed up, did catch it.  "Agent in charge.  I reserve the
prerogative."  He tossed his car keys to Mulder.

     Mulder groaned.  Averman glanced at Sam.  Sam gave the barest
nod.

     "So what am I authorized to say?" Cooke asked.

     "He's got a kid alive somewhere," Mulder said.  "He's just
waiting for this pronouncement.  The moment he sees that wire
service the kid's dead."

     "How long before he gets tired and the kid dies?"

     "How do we know she's alive?  All we have is the word of
Spooky."

     "I forgot.  It comes from God to Spooky to the rest of the
world."

     Averman let the agents talk, let them bitch and bellyache.

     "Spooky," he said quietly.  "I have to let a press release
out.  Washington will have my ass if I don't.  They'll have your
ass too if I tell them why.  Besides we don't know if the kid's
alive or not.  Even if she is, we're just removing her from this
misery a little sooner, rather than later."

     Mulder's face closed up tight.  He just stared at the table
and the little metal caddy with Equal and Sweet-n-Low and sugar and salt
and pepper.

     "If all time is eternally present
     All time is unredeemable.
     What might have been is an abstraction
     Remaining a perpetual possibility
     Only in a world of speculation.
     What might have been and what has been
     Point to one end, which is always present.
     Footfalls echo in the memory
     Down the passage which we did not take
     Towards the rose-garden. . ."

Mulder recited tonelessly.  No one heard him but Frito and Averman
and Meyers.  Meyers frowned.

     The waitress came then with a huge tray bearing their dinners.
Mulder smelled the sizzling meat and went pale.  He pushed away
from the table, hands gripping the edge of his barrel chair, and he
left the room.  Frito followed, out into the lobby, into the room
marked "podners," past the urinals.  Mulder didn't even shut the
door, just knelt and vomited his two glasses of tea and crackers
and spinach and lettuce and cucumber and squash and cherry tomatoes and
black olives and croutons into the toilet, heaving, chest
rolling with the brute force behind his vomit.  And then it was
over.  Mulder just knelt on the grey, designer tile, staring at the
toilet and at the remains of his dinner.  He put his head against
the seat for a moment.  "He's going to kill her the moment we
put out that press release.  He's going to take her out and he's
going to kill her," he said without turning around, voice sick and
weary and old.

     "Francis, maybe you're wrong.  Maybe she's already dead.
Maybe he doesn't have another one.  Maybe he'll stop killing once
he knows we're looking for him. . ."

     "Yeah right.  And Santa gave me my subscription to Celebrity
Skin."  Mulder's voice was cold, angry.  He heaved again, dry
heaves this time, dry aching heaves, painful to hear, more painful
to experience.

     "You want some Compazine?"  Frito boosted himself up on the
counter.

     Mulder's response was to shoot him the finger.

     He waited, came over to the counter, shoved his entire face
under the faucet, drank water, spat, drank water, spat, dried
himself in the air drying vent.  "She's fucked," Mulder said
quietly.  "Go eat your dinner, Frito."

     Sam frowned.  "Francis, you gotta eat."

     Mulder shook his head.  "I'm going to go get some crackers or
something from a mini mart.  I don't think I'm up to cooked animal
flesh."

     "If you don't come back, they're going to say worse things."

     "Oh, what the fuck do I care?"

     "If you don't go back, I can't go back."  Frito frowned.  "If
you go back and get sick again, I'll make some apologies and we'll
go back to the hotel room.  Get us both some chick food. . .salads
or some kind of shit."

     Mulder smiled, straightened his hair, or tried to.  He kept it
so short it never really looked all that messy, even when it was.

     On the way back, Frito managed to get the attention of their
waitress.  "He doesn't want his steak.  We'll still pay for it.
Just a baked potato with a little butter and some crackers."  He
tried to think of something they might have that Mulder's stomach
could handle.

     "Could I have some sauteed mushrooms without the steak?"
Spooky asked.  He still looked about as white as the little starched
and bleached, frilly apron around the waitress's waist, so the girl
took pity.

     "Yeah.  No problem."  She smiled brightly.  "You just go sit
down and I'll bring it right out."  She went ahead, grabbed the
steak up.  "I'll fix a doggie bag for it. You might feel better
later."  She was a pert little thing, probably just out of high
school.  Mulder slumped in his seat.  Looked miserable.  Sam
gathered that the other agents had been gossiping about his poetry
quoting and sudden departure from the table.

     "Is there anything we should or shouldn't say?" Cooke asked.

     Mulder glared at the entire table.  "It doesn't fucking matter
what you say.  There's a little girl who's alive tonight who isn't
going to be alive tomorrow night.  Fuck the papers.  Fuck the
bosses in D.C.  You're all killing a little girl."  His voice rose
unsteadily.

     Averman's hand was on his arm; it looked gentle but the grip
was steel.  Mulder jerked away.  The little waitress brought out a
baked potato with butter and two pieces of texas toast and some
sauteed mushrooms in a separate bowl.

     Mulder thanked her softly, then stared at the food.

     Sam resisted the impulse to fix the potato for Mulder.

     The other agents were staring, no doubt getting more than
enough gossip for the mill.  It was enough to continue fixing
Mulder's eccentricities.

     Mulder did not eat anything at supper.
 
 
 
 

     "Okay."  The potato was sitting on a styrofoam tray.  Frito
mashed the poor cold thing up, gave Mulder the plastic fork.  "Come
on.  You've got to eat something."

     Mulder just stared at him.

     "And pray to God to have mercy on us
     And pray that I may forget
     These matters that with myself I too much discuss
     Too much explain
     Because I do not hope to turn again
     Let these words answer
     For what is done, not to be done again
     May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

     Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
     But merely vans to beat the air
     The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
     Smaller and dryer than the will
     Teach us to care and not to care
     Teach us to sit still

     Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death

     Pray for us now and at the hour of our death," he recited
numbly.

     Sam took the fork, put some potato on it, gave it back to
Mulder.  "Francis, if you think I'm gonna feed you, you got another
thing coming."

     Mulder stared at the potato.  "I'm not hungry.  I think I just
want to go to bed."

     Go to bed and do what?  Sit up screaming in the middle of the
night?

     "Okay."  Frito sighed, grabbed the styrofoam box, dumped it
onto the counter.  Went over to his own room.

     He heard the TV go on.  Heard Mulder getting ready for bed.

     Sam went back to his portable pieceofshitmachine and started
pounding out another report.  After a while he heard the keys
flying on Mulder's machine.  Sunofabitch would probably spend two
hours on it and have something that looked better than anyone
else's twelve hours.  Life was fucking unfair.  Just fucking
unfair.

Continued in part four..............
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 4/41 (NC-17)
Date: 24 Jan 1996 05:42:04 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 4/41)
By Amperage and Livengoo
Copyright October, 1995

International Readers:  No third season spoilers
Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual
property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The
FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana
and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and
everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.
 

     Mulder went to bed a good twenty minutes after Samuel
Rodriguez, certified California gentry of the finest sort.  Mulder
lay back, head against the pillow, tried to think what the killer
was looking for. Sweet children with a fear.  Children who could be
easily led, told what to do.  Sweet children who had been fucked by
some loved one.  He considered the soft sweetness of hotel pillows
with the soft mattress pad and the flat sheets made taut with
perfect hospital corners.  She was still alive.  She.  Why a she?
Because it was time for a she.  The Lady was a she.  The lady of
the rose petals.  Eliot liked writing about The Lady.  He put her
in Tarot cards, saw her in the BVM.  The Lady.  Tiresius was both
a man and a woman.  When Apollo and Aphrodite had a fight over
who liked sex better they asked Tiresius, who said women had a
better time.  Which pissed Apollo and the Roman Catholic church off
and in the 1800's doctors were still cutting the clits off women to
keep them from playing with themselves.

     The easy breath from the next room indicated that Frito, god
bless his horny soul, was finally asleep.  Mulder waited a few
minutes more for Sam to fall into a deeper sleep, waited to be sure
Averman would be in bed asleep, got up, pulled on his blue jeans
and grabbed his room key.

     He was just out the door when Averman emerged, looking
tousled.  "Where you headed, Sport?"

     Mulder hated people who called him `sport'.

     "Ice," he said on impulse.

     "Ain't got no ice bucket."

     "Cold drinks."

     "Caffeine'll keep you up at night," Averman replied, managing
to still look all Federal Agent, just the facts ma'am, in a pair of
ancient jersey shorts and a ratty t-shirt.

     "Sprite?" Mulder questioned.

     "Where're the car keys?" Averman asked.

     Mulder frowned.  "Designated driver, remember?"

     "I don't think I'll be going anywhere tonight."  Averman held
out a hand, fluttered his fingers.

     Mulder reached down into his jean pockets, handed it over.
"You're killing her," he muttered.

     "I know you believe that."  Averman resisted adding "son."  No
reason to piss the kid off without just provocation.  "But I don't
have any proof of it.  I'm sorry.  We have to put out some word.
It's going to be very carefully worded.  Don't worry."

     Mulder stared darkly at Averman.

     "Okay.  Go back to sleep.  Get Rodriguez to give you some
pills if you can't sleep."

     "I'll be okay," Mulder muttered, going back into his room,
slamming the door.
 
 
 

     The screams were sharp and painful and expected this time.
Averman fumbled with his key to Mulder's room, even as Sam woke and was on
his feet without thinking, rushing into Mulder's room.

     Mulder was pressed into a corner, screaming.  When Sam
approached him the screams grew louder, more frantic.  He
recognized neither one of them, though his eyes were open and
crazily dilated.

     "Oh fuck," Averman breathed.

     Sam stood a long moment.  Mulder stopped screaming after
another minute, after Sam's ears were good and thoroughly
deafened.  How had he gotten away with this for so long?  How, in
God's name, had it gone on without anyone catching it?  Saint Luke
help him.  He is so frightened and the world is so cruel, Sam prayed
unconsciously.  He knelt on the carpet, between the lowboy and the
wall, Mulder's corner, under the clothes rack.  At his approach,
Mulder scuttled back further into his corner.

     God, how many nights had it been like this?  Mulder too
terrified to move.  Just screaming and screaming and then curled up
in the dark, terrified until exhaustion or the daylight came and he
stumbled up, put on a clean suit and made snide comments and drank a lot
of bad coffee and made his scary predictions.

     He made a move closer and suddenly Mulder was scrambling like
a rabbit trapped by a predator, clawing without thought or reason
or hope.  "Easy, Rodriguez."  Averman's voice at his back.

     They waited.

     And waited.

     For Mulder to snap out.  For Mulder to calm down and know
them.  For the fear to ease out of his eyes.

     And finally, long after Averman had set pills down on the
counter with a water glass, finally Mulder stared at Frito.  "Sam?"
he asked softly.  "Where's Sam?"

    Frito exchanged a worried glance with Averman.

     "I'm Sam.  I'm here."

     Mulder stared at  Rodriguez, confused, frightened. "Samantha's
gone.  He took her.  She's scared.  He's going to kill her.  And
they all know."  His voice choked with tears.  "They all know. And
they're going to let him kill her."  He was sobbing.

     "Francis?"  Sam's voice was soft and incredibly gentle.
"Francis.  I know.  I know.  I want you to take a pill."

     "I don't want any pills."  His voice went up into hysteria.

     "If you take the pill I'll look for Samantha." Frito played it
by ear.

     "No.  They took her!"

     "Who took her?"  Averman's voice now.

     "Tiresius.  And the Hollow men, them with their grey skin.
The fisher king," Mulder whispered.  "In a blue light."

     He was gone, way gone.  Call the men with the long white
jackets that tie in the back.  Call in the beard strokers.  Fox
Mulder had slipped around the bend.

     Frito got the pills down anyway.  "These are pills that you
have to take, Fox.  We're trying to find her, but we can't right
now, because you're really upset.  I know it hurts. But we're
trying to find her.  Right now you have to take these pills.
They'll help you be quiet so we can hunt."  Frito swallowed.  Oh
Blessed Lady, please.  Please make him take the pills.

     Mulder put out a trembling hand.  Frito handed him the tiny
Dramamine pills, then the water glass.

     And Mulder took it.

     And then they got him into bed and went back to bed themselves
Averman did not say anything.  Sam wondered who they would get
to ride on the plane back.  Someone like Meyers.  Here's what Special
Agents look like when they crack up.  We take their guns and their
dicks and give them seventy percent of their salary so they can
huddle in a hospital waiting for night and the shadows and terror
because we did this to them.
 
 
 

     The bed was shaking, and things slammed and it was the Big
One, oh god, the Big One, and Rodriguez was going to die all alone
with Jenni in D.C. and. . .

     He slammed his eyes open, to see when the ceiling fell in on
him, and Spooky-fucking-Mulder smiled at him and kicked the bed
again.  Frito scrambled back against the headboard, staring like
he'd seen a ghost.  Or a Spook.  Mulder just gave him that
shit-eating grin, with his teeth gritted behind it.

     "Time to get up, Frito.  We gotta go out and find the kid when
Cooke finishes killing her."

     "Jesus, Francis. . . "  What the hell do you say when somebody
rises from the dead, or near as?  Frito just sat there, feeling the
skin on his balls crawling and watching Spooky turn on the TV, look
for a news station.  The clock on top of the set read eight-thirty,
and the morning news was in full swing.

     Mulder watched it, wearing a grin that was nothing like a
smile and waiting for Cooke to blow some kid's brains out, if she
was lucky.  If she wasn't, the autopsy would just take longer to
read.  Frito watched him, suit hanging in perfect creases, poster
boy looks in place, mirror shades hanging off his shirt pocket and
not a hair out of place.  Through the door, he could see the
running shorts, shirt and sneakers littered around the room where
Mulder had dropped them when he came in after one of those
goddamn dawn's-early-light runs he liked to take.  Sam looked back
to Spooky, arms crossed, snarling at the TV, and felt superstitious
dread make his bowels go to ice water.

     He hadn't dreamed it.  He fucking had NOT dreamed it.  Averman
had been here.  The water glass was in there by the Spookster's
bed, the carpet was scuffed down by the lowboy.  God damn it, Frito
had not dreamed that Spooky Mulder was curled in a corner last
night, screaming and totally out of his head.  So why the fuck was
he standing there, dressed to the FBI nines, watching Cooke yank
the media dicks.  Mulder shouldn't even be making sense this
morning.

     Frito had gone to bed, knowing he'd send his friend back with
a handholder and a head full of tranqs.  He'd dreamed about medical
review boards and hearings for permanent psychiatric disability.
And Mulder was still standing there, real as shit, calling Cooke
things he'd never learned at Oxford.  On the whole, the Big One
might not have been as scary.

     Mulder glanced up at him.  "Look at this prick-licker, dancing
the FBI two-step with the pussies at the press.  Ice water, and
tomorrow he'll tell them he had no idea our baby butcher was gonna
kill the kid.  Asshole."  Mulder shook his head and stalked out of
the room.  Sam could hear him yanking stuff together, throwing it
in his briefcase, slamming the lid like he was cutting Cooke's head
off with it.  He swallowed hard, wiped the sweat off his palms onto
his sheets and crawled out of bed.

     Shaking hands pulled a suit out of the closet, turned the
water on in the shower.  The only reason Frito didn't cut his
throat shaving was because he used a Braun electric.  A razor and
he'd have bled to death before he ever finished.  Mulder was out
there on the phone, calling Meyers, Russell, coordinating them and
giving them what he wanted them to do.  Where he wanted them to
look.  How the fuck he thought he knew where to look sent Sam to
the can with the nerve-wracked shits.

     Mulder was pounding on the door and telling him to hurry his
ass up before he was done.  Sam took a last look in the mirror,
seeing skin pale under the hispanic dark tan, eyes bloodshot and
jumping with nerves, teeth he just couldn't. . . get. . . to
unclench for more than a moment.  He had to put his hands in his
pockets, they were shaking so hard when he walked out the door and
looked at Spooky Mulder, who should have been huddled in his bed
drooling and who, instead, was impatiently eyeing his watch and
rocking his briefcase back and forth between his hands while he
waited for Frito to finish having the shits and shakes.

     Averman was waiting on the balcony, and the look he gave the
Spookster was almost as jumpy as Sam's.  Mulder stared at the two
of them a moment, like they were speaking in tongues.  "What the
fuck is wrong with the two of you?"  Angry, snarling, still
seething at the way Cooke had made him party to murder.  "We have
coffee to drink and a dead kid to start looking for.  Cooke's on
the air, and our boy's going to work right now.  He should be
finished sometime between now and tomorrow at six."

     He'd turned his back to them and was clattering down the metal
stairs of the motel balcony, hands off a railing that was already
hot enough to burn.  Dust kicked up behind his feet as he strode
across the dry, yellow-dirt parking lot that baked under the
morning sun.  Sam shivered and looked around at Averman, who was
pale under his tan.  The two of them followed Spooky like they
really couldn't feel their feet.

     "I saw him come in from a run this morning, right about dawn."
Averman sounded distant.  "What was he like when you got up?"

     "You're looking at it."  Sam swallowed.  Mulder was sitting in
a corner booth, drumming silverware on the table and watching them like
they were wasting his time.

     "What the hell is with the two of you this morning?"  He was
staring at them, trying to read them, and they both watched him
like he'd grown horns and a tail.  They were starting to make his
skin crawl.  Sam sat next to him, caging him back into the corner
of the booth.  Averman settled gingerly across from him.  Waved for
three cups of coffee and a basket of breakfast rolls.  Mulder
grabbed a roll and pulled it apart, wolfed it down like he was
starving.  Sam couldn't recall Mulder keeping anything down the day
before, and he shoved the basket over in front of Francis, watching
him eat.

     Francis stopped chewing, swallowed, narrowed his eyes.  He
glared between Averman and Sam.  "What the fuck is with you two?"
He kept his voice low.  "You think this is funny?  We don't have
enough clowns with Cooke on the team?"  Sam took a deep, hard
breath.  Glanced back at Averman.

     "Francis."  Looked into Mulder's eyes.  Clear, hazel eyes.
"Francis, you remember asking for Sam?"

     Mulder worked the bite of breakfast roll from one side of his
jaw to the other.  "I don't know what you're playing at, Frito, but
we have real work to do today.  We can't stop the bastard from
killing her, but the faster we find her body the more we'll learn.
Or do you figure Jenni's gonna put you back on her A-list if you
just get on the news?"  His angry voice told Frito that Francis had
no idea what was going on.  The pathologist swallowed, wracked his
brain for anything from his psych rotation that could help, but
pathologists weren't expected to deal with this kind of shit.  He
looked back across the table and Averman looked just as
out-of-his-depth, though he covered it better.

     Spooky pulled a county surveyor's map out of his briefcase,
spread it out and weighted the corners with coffee cups, bread
baskets, silverware.  Sam opened his mouth to ask another question,
but Averman caught his eye, shook his head.  Sam sat there,
watching Mulder review every dumping location.  They let him have
the rolls, figured he needed them by now.  He probably never even
realized he was eating, his attention was so damn focused on the
map.  Every so often he'd look up at Averman or Sam, gesturing
across the map.

     "He's picking them off strictly in state.  The only
out-of-state abduction we have was taken out of Six-Flags.  The
first little girl.  But she was *from* Oklahoma.  I want somebody,
maybe Cooke's cronies, talking to the parents about any familiar
faces.  I want Meyers and Russell here, the kids know them better at
the school, and that's where our freshest leads are."   Full Spooky
fifth gear today.  Most AICs would jump down his throat and
strangle him with his own dick for this.  Averman just watched him
go.

     "He'll have picked the next one by now, and be ready to pick
him up the minute he's dumped the girl."  Not even worth asking why Spooky
thought, no, knew, it was a girl.  They would get an answer that only made
sense to Spooky, and more likely than not it would be right.

     Averman ordered for all three of them.  Spooky barely noticed.
When the food came he was still going full tilt, and huevos
rancheros went down with barely a break.  Sam was taking it in,
listening and trying to comment, trying to get past the sure
knowledge that Francis should be curled in his bed, watching shows
not listed in TV Guide.  Averman got up somewhere in the middle of
it, went down the hall to make a phone call.  When Spooky was in
the men's room, after four cups of coffee and more food than Frito
believed he could hold, Averman looked across the table.

     "Okay, we play it by ear today.  Let him have his head, if
he's true to form he's right.  And we need him.  I called a friend
of mine from Little Sisters of Mercy.  He's gonna scream bloody
murder, but I want him to talk to this guy."

     "Shrink?"  Frito's tone told the whole story.  Averman just
smiled back at Frito even as the pathologist shook his head.  "He
won't do it.  He hates letting them near him."

     "I wasn't exactly going to ask for volunteers.  I really don't
want to screw with his head, but tonight we got to have a real
serious sit-down talk about Samantha, and about little men with
grey skins."

     Sam swallowed again, looked at Mulder coming back from the
little hall where these places hid their crappers.  Jesus, Mary,
Joseph and holy St. Luke.  Ride with your thumb on the pin, why
don't you, then see what happens when you take your thumb off and
count to seven.

__________________
Continued in part 5...............
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 5/41 NC-17
Date: 25 Jan 1996 04:45:57 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 5/41)
By Amperage and Livengoo
Copyright October, 1995

International Readers:  No third season spoilers
Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

As ever, Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual
property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The
FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana
and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and
everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.
_____________________

     Francis had them up at the fly-specked, old, Social Services
office, running checks on employees from the last ten years,
checking against prior employment, past references, anything that
didn't add up, didn't make sense.  Looking for someone who'd know.
The office administrator had taken offense right off the bat, and
Frito had watched Francis turn the man into little, quivering
chunks of fat.  No mercy, just starting to hammer in the details of
murder after murder, child after child, and what it would mean
when the next one turned up.  All the rage he could not afford to let
go at Cooke, and he just flayed that pompous little bureaucrat alive.

Two of the innocuous agents nearest the carnage had gone white and
nearly blown chunks.  They all watched, horrified, while Mulder
leaned in across the desk, asking where else you'd find a kid with
the label this guy shopped for.  And Frito felt his guts churn as
Francis did that fucking thing again, pulling his hand past his own
body, like he was painting a target on his chest.  This time
Averman caught it too, and Frito saw the older man's eyes widen
just a little, saw him adding up ugly numbers, getting even uglier sums.

     When Marion turned back to ransacking employee records, Frito
had seen that his hands were shaking again, and that he had to
clench them on a grubby, frayed manila file until they'd stop.
Please god, tell me Averman's buddy shits gold, and can make
Francis listen before the kid blows his brains out on this one.

     And sometime around four-thirty, Frito found Mulder in the
men's room down the hall, crouched over the yellow-spotted can,
arm braced against the filthy, graffitti-obscene partition.  He was
pale and wasted from dry heaves.  Frito leaned against the wall,
feeling the ugly, cracked tile, ice cold through his sweat-dark
shirt, chill against his own feverish fears.  The pathologist
swallowed his own nausea and listened to Francis' dazed voice quote
Eliot.  Again.  And knew they had another one out there, waiting
for them.

     "You tossed a blanket from the bed,
     You lay upon your back, and waited;
     You dozed, and watched the night revealing
     The thousand sordid images
     Of which your soul was constituted;
     They flickered against the ceiling.
     And when all the world came back
     And the light crept up between the shutters
     And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
     You had such a vision of the street
     As the street hardly understands;
     Sitting along the bed's edge, where
     You curled the papers from your hair,
     Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
     In the palms of both soiled hands"
 
 
 

     Late evening sun slanted golden across the sky.  Averman had
given Sam the keys to another bucar.  Another Taurus, this one
burgundy.  No one asked, no one even questioned when Frito and
Spooky had packed up and gone to the hotel.  They were getting used
to this.  Cooke was out of pocket, talking to the locals about the
biggest story they'd fucking had in years, and the other agents
just let it ride.

      Marion, of course, just kicked off his shoes, hung up his
jacket and lay back on the bed to watch another baseball game.
Frito felt some irritation build.  Can't make it through the night
without doing the mental watusi, but he can fucking kick back and
watch a fucking baseball game all afternoon while the rest of us
piss our brains out onto diskettes.  And then before he goes to bed
he'll type up something that makes all that we do look like shit.

     Fuck.

     Three dead bodies and he was the only one to do a decent
autopsy.  Well, there were toxicologicals on the other two, that
was something.  Sam frowned sourly at the crabbed handwriting of
Raintree's ME, trying to make out the "distinguishing
characteristics."

     Someone knocked on the door.  Averman.  He motioned to Sam.
They stood by the concrete railing, squinting in the light,
watching heat rise in waves and billows off the concrete.

     "What'd he do at Social Services?"

     "Vomited and recited more Eliot," Sam said sourly, putting
his hands on the railing, leaning over.   "What'd your shrink
friend say?"

     "I couldn't reach him.  His partner gave me the name of a
shrink here who's real good, real discreet."

     Sam nodded.  "What else did his partner say?"

     Averman gazed through his sunglasses at a jiffymart across the
road.  "Mulder's walking a very thin wire."

     "Well, fuck, we knew that."

     "No.  Well, it's PTSD, but hell, we already knew that.  He
said. . .he said Mulder shouldn't be functioning as well as he is.
He said that Mulder shouldn't be psychotic at night and Joe-
fucking-cool all day long."

     "He loses it in the day time."

     "Yeah, but not bad enough to yank him home."

     "So, what do we do?"

     "Well, I told him about the Dramamine.  He said that if it
worked, okay, but we can add some stuff for his daytime anxiety.
And maybe some sleeping pills."

     Sam nodded.  "I'm licensed, but it'd be better if I could get
a local to do the prescribing, one of the ME's or something.  I
don't have a pad or anything."

     "The shrink here is a psychiatrist.  In case we have to commit
him or something."

     Sam felt like swearing.  Instead he hit his hand against the
railing, closed his eyes.

     "What happened with him?" Averman asked softly.

     Sam opened an eye, squinted at the AIC.

     "Was he sexually abused, do you think?  His sister killed to
protect some dirty family secret?"

     Sam shook his head.  "I don't know." He felt his gut churn and
twist at the thought.  "How does he fucking just know?"

     Averman shook his head.  "I've heard him explain his `guesses'
in a debriefing.  An ASAC sat him down in a room with a tape
recorder and Mulder told them.  It was. . .I don't know. . .He was
quoting medieval texts about vampires in Great Britain and Ghost
Rider comic books and JAMA and Rupert Brooke and the ASAC kept the tape
like he'd learned something but all we learned was jack shit."

     Averman shook his head.  "Have you ever heard Mulder's
explanation for his successes?  The one he gave at the Retired
Agent's Luncheon when they asked the young and coming heir apparent to speak?"

     Sam shook his head again.

     Averman leaned against the railing, stared at Mulder's door.
"I quote, `I have a knack for applying behavioral models to
criminal activity and explaining motivation through causal
factors.'  He shovelled enough shit to fertilize all the lawns in
Georgetown.  You heard what Webster said about him?"  Without
waiting for a pause, Averman continued. "A rare and unique talent."

     "If a thing is unique it can't be rare. . ."  Rodriguez
mulled.

     "Don't cast aspersions on our beloved former director."

     Rodriguez grinned.

     Mulder was sitting on the bed, staring numbly at the screen.
"What?  They found out about my screwing the desk clerk? I swear
she said she was nineteen," he teased, flicking the tv off.
Averman grabbed a chair, Sam took a seat on the lowboy. "What?"
Mulder asked, glancing from one to the other.  Frito stared at
Averman.  His goddamn fucking ballgame.

     "Agent Mulder, the past two nights you have woken with
nightmares."  Averman's voice was sonorous and gentle.  "The first
night you became conscious and relatively lucid.  Last night, you
did not."

     Mulder closed his eyes, went very pale.  "Oh fuck," he
muttered.  "Oh fuck."  He swallowed, opened his eyes, stared at
Frito.  "Why didn't you tell me, you mutherfucking taco lover?"

     "Mulder."  Averman's voice was low, almost a growl.  "You
don't remember any of it?"

     Mulder shook his head.  "I'm sorry.  I. . .I don't have these
dreaming episodes very often.  I promise.  I won't let it interfere
with my performance.  I promise.  I don't. . .I won't let it happen
again.  It doesn't. . ."

     "Francis, stop it."  His voice was rising towards hysteria.
Sam was worried.  "Francis.  Stop.  It's okay.  Just stop."

     "What do you remember?" Averman asked softly.

     Mulder shook his head.  "I don't. . .I don't remember
anything.  I never do."

     "But this has happened before?"

     "I. . .I guess so."

     "What happened?"  Frito this time.

     "I. . .there was this girl, we were invo. . .anyway. . .I
scared the shit out of her. She said I screamed and screamed and
then hid in a corner, wouldn't let anyone near me, was babbling
something about aliens and little grey men.  I've. . .I"  He
swallowed convulsively.  "I've woken up in my closet a few times.
I don't know how I got there.  Just in the back of my closet where
it's dark and they can't come for me."

     "Who can't come for you?"

     "I don't know."  Mulder shrugged.  "I'm sorry.  You shouldn't
have to cover for me sir.  I'll. . ." He closed his eyes.  "I'll go
for therapy voluntarily.  Please. . ."  Mulder opened his eyes,
stared at his hands.  He looked like a different person then.  He
did not look like Spooky Mulder, world class pain-in-the-butt.  He
did not look like Fox Francis Marion Mulder, Sam's friend.  He
looked young and stupid and incredibly tired.  "Please don't make
me leave this case."

     Averman sighed.  "You have to agree to some things."

     Mulder nodded slowly.

     "I have a friend who does therapy.  He's going to call
tonight.  I want you to talk to him.  Be honest.  He's not going to
turn you in or tell the big bosses.  He works for the Little
Sisters of Mercy."

     Mulder wanted to refuse.  But they had him strung up by his
cahones and he knew it.  If Averman whispered word of what was
going on Mulder would get a nice long leave of absence and when he
came back he'd be stuck on some shit detail in Mobile Alabama or
something.  He nodded.

     "Sam's going to get some prescriptions for some stuff.  If he
wants you to take a pill you take it.  No questions asked.  Okay?"

     Mulder stared at Averman and Frito a long time.  "Don't. .
.don't turn me into a zombie, Frito."

     "I won't man."  Not unless I have to.

     "Okay."  Mulder put his face in his hands, trembling, pale,
cold, trembling with fear and anxiety and relief.

     "I want you to answer some questions for me," Averman
finished.

     Frito got up to get Marion some water.  Marion took the hands
away from his face.

     "What kinds of questions?"

     "Questions we need answers to when it's 2 a.m. and you're
screaming bloody murder," Frito answered, putting the waterglass
under the tap.

     "I don't have much. . .choice, do I?"  Mulder took the water
glass, drank deeply, spilling just a little down the side of his
mouth.

     He held onto the glass, watched Frito return to the lowboy.

     "How long has this been going on?"

     Mulder swallowed.  "I've always had nightmares.  After I got
into Behavioral Science they started getting worse.  It's been
really bad for a year or so.  And in the. . .when it's kids. . .it
gets bad sometimes. . ."

     Averman felt the breath expel out of his mouth and nose as
though someone had just punched him.  In the corner of his eye, he
watched Rodriguez go completely pale.  Oh God, a year of screams
and waking up and sitting in closets and corners and babbling and
no one had fucking noticed?  A year of crying and terror and
dreams.  Oh God.  And it got worse when there were kids.  Oh
fucking hell.

     "You said you were dreaming about your sister's
disappearance.  What do you remember?"   His voice betrayed
nothing of the nausea in his stomach.

     Mulder shrugged, shook his head.  "Nothing."  He went to his
briefcase, dug through the papers, moved some things around.
"Here."  He handed Averman a very old file.

     "What's this?" Averman asked.

     "When she disappeared the FBI came.  That's their report and
I got a copy of the police report."

     "You carry this with you?"

     Mulder kind of shrugged, sat against the headboard of his bed,
picked up a picture that had been face down.  Frito hadn't even
noticed it.  A girl.  A little girl with a toy in her hands and a
smile.  Dark hair.  "This is Samantha when she was six."  Mulder
gave the picture to Sam.

     Okay.  Guy keeps the file in his briefcase, keeps her picture
on his nightstand the way Frito kept Jenni's picture.  Well, Frito
had a couple of polaroids under the nice portrait and well, Sam
sincerely hoped Marion didn't have any pictures of Samantha under
the portrait.

     "Mulder.  You have a special affinity with these kids."
Averman glanced at Rodriguez.  No easy way to say it.  "You also.
. .show a . . .different understanding of social services.  Were
you abused?"

     Mulder stiffened.

     Oh God.  Bingo.  Oh God.  Mary, Mother of God, please have
mercy on him.  Please help him, Sam prayed spontaneously, hoping
the Blessed Virgin would understand his being rattled at such a
time.  Oh God.

     Mulder was sitting there staring at a wall.  Oh God, he'd gone
off the deep end.  Oh God.  What had happened to him?  Cases
Rodriguez had seen began flashing through his mind.  Babies fucked
by adults, children who'd been tied down while hot curling irons
had been shoved up their anuses or vaginas.  Boys who knew how to
suck a man's dick by five.  Children sold to other adults for the
price of a carton of cigarettes.  Children passed around and around
and raped until they finally died.  There was some line in the
Bible.  Christ had said, that if you hurt a child it were better
that you be cast into the depths of the ocean rather than do that
evil thing. That the very center of hell was reserved for such
people.  Staring at Fox Mulder, watching him tremble and stare at
something beyond the thin motel wall, Rodriguez echoed Christ's
sentiments exactly.

     "Mulder, I know this is a hard thing.  We're not going to ask
you any hard questions about it."  Averman's voice, very gentle.
The shrink must have given him advice.  "When you start vomiting,
is it because you're remembering?"

     Mulder just stared.  Just sat there and stared, like no one
else was in the room, like no one else existed.

     "Mulder."  Averman crossed the room, sat down on the bed
beside Mulder.  "Fox.  It's okay."

     "Don't call me Fox."  Mulder's voice was soft.  "Please don't
call me Fox."

     "Was your sister killed because of the sexual abuse?"
Averman's voice was even softer now.

     Mulder started out of his trance, stared at Averman.  "No.
No.  No.  We weren't. . .that's not what happened. . .I lost Sam.
I lost Sam so Dad hit me."

     It was so coldly lucid, Sam wasn't sure what to feel or think
or say.  So accepting.  I lost her, ergo I got beaten.  My fault,
so I was punished.

     Averman was staring at Mulder.  "Is that what happened?"

     Mulder swallowed, nodded, stared at Averman.  "What?  You
didn't think that. . ."  His face drained of blood.  "No.  No.
That. . .I. . .No."

     Somehow, somehow, the tight knotting in Sam's gut wasn't so
bad.  It wasn't that things were better because Mulder's dad hadn't
buggered him.  It wasn't that exactly.  But in a way it was.  He'd
been beaten.  Okay.  Okay.  That was bad, but not bad in the way it
had been before.  And it maybe made sense.  Francis was home with
kid sister, kid sister disappears.  Parents have no kidnapper to
blame, so they blame big brother.  Dad beats the shit out of big
brother.

     "Mulder, can you handle this assignment?" Averman asked, very
softly.  "I'll pull some favors get you off this without the whole
world knowing what's happening.  Tell them one of the little girls
looks exactly like your little sister--shit like that happens,
they'll understand."

     Mulder half-smiled, a dopey little smile.  "I can't quit.
I'm the only person out here who knows T.S. Eliot."

Continued in part 6................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma NC-17
Date: 26 Jan 1996 03:58:53 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 6/41)
By Amperage and Livengoo
Copyright October, 1995

International Readers:  No third season spoilers
Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual
property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The
FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana
and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and
everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.
__________________

     Frito closed his eyes against the setting sun and took deep,
hard breaths of the thick air.  Scudding clouds did nothing to
relieve the heat, and sweat rolled down his sides, plastered his
white, cotton shirt to his ribs. It was cooler inside, in the dark
of his room, but he didn't want to go back inside.  Francis' panic
and misery stained the air in there.  He couldn't go back in there
until the knots in his guts were gone, until he could look at his
friend, and not paint the bruises and marks he'd seen before in
autopsies over Mulder's face.

     Averman stepped out, leaned against the railing and drew a
long, shaky breath.  Shook his head and spat.  The dry air ate most
of it before it could stain the parking lot a floor down.

     "I called Dr. Guiterriez.  He's on the line with the kid now.
He'll call you when he's done.  He said he'd get the background
from you."

     Sam nodded.  "Did he say anything else?"  Sam kept his voice
soft, not really trusting it not to shake.

     "Mulder?  Not really, just that stuff about losing his sister,
and trying to convince me he'd be all right."  Averman sighed, long
and deep and lonely.  "What did you make of all that, Rodriguez?
You know him. . ."

     "I thought I did.  He never really talked about his parents.
I didn't even know he'd had a sister."  Frito swallowed against a
dry throat, tried to snort the smell of Oklahoma's thin, fine dirt
out of his nose.  Felt the grainy sense of it on his skin.
"Francis. . . always worked hard at keeping everyone as far away as
possible.  He has a rep as the biggest swinging dick in Violent
Crimes, and he offended as many guys as he possibly could, as fast
as he possibly could."  Averman studied the faint smile on
Rodriguez' even-featured face.  "I guess he thought he could tick
me off, too.  Walked in and called me Frito and tried to rack my
balls.  I think he nearly shit a brick when I called him Marion."

     "Marion?"

     "Yeah.  You know, the Swamp Fox?  He works so hard at being an
asshole. . . I always figured anybody who had to work that hard to
be a prick had to be a pretty decent guy.  He told me so much about
Oxford, I never really thought about how much I didn't know about
him.  You don't, you know?"  Sam swallowed again.  Averman
nodded, but Sam still wasn't sure how he could never have wondered
about Mulder, never have seen any of this in him.  "Do you think he
was telling the truth about. . . his dad, his sister and all?"  God,
please let him say yes.  Sam didn't want to believe. . .

     "You mean about the sexual abuse thing?  Yeah, I don't think
his old man raped them.  But I don't think he just strapped him
once every so often for good measure either. . .you just don't see
a kid look like that unless it was. . . "  Averman let it trail,
lost in memories he'd rather not have.  Glad he'd never seen that
look on his own kids' faces.  He hawked, and spat again.  "You
better go in, Guiterriez is gonna want to talk to you, then we meet
up with the rest of them for dinner.  Barbecue joint tonight."

     Averman grimaced.  Sam glanced at Mulder's door, but didn't
say it.

     When he shut his door behind him, he had to stand a minute to
find any vision in the gloom.  He could just make out Marion's
voice from next door.  The tight, angry tone carried, but no words,
thank god.  Frito forced himself into useful movement, pulling off
the sticky shirt, washing his bare chest, arms, got out a new shirt
and tie.  Stuffed the other shirt into a laundry bag to drop at a
local cleaner's.  Marion's voice, rising and falling with anger,
shrill with denial, sometimes a word would come clear but no sense
to be had of it all.

     And finally, the sound of the phone slamming down.  Of a fist
against a wall, over, and over, and over.  The door slammed back
against the wall as Frito went through it.

     "Francis!  What the fuck. . . ?"  And feeling his heart
racing, then calming as he watched Mulder carefully, deliberately,
put his palms flat against the wall, back to the room, and just
lean his forehead against the cool surface.  Finally turned, slid
down the wall, eyes open and watching things that had happened a
long time ago, a long way away from here.  Frito took a step
forward, feeling the chill running up and down his arms, until
he saw Francis focus on him with wide, dark, terribly young eyes.

     "Frito?  It's okay, man."  A hollow smile.  "I'm fine.  I'm
just. . . so tired."  He shut his eyes, leaned his head back
against the wall.  Sam stood still, no idea what to do, and finally
let the sound of his phone ringing draw him away, closing the door
between the rooms.

     "Hello?"  He knew his voice sounded. . . distracted.

     "Dr. Rodriguez?  I'm Michael Guiterriez."

     "Yes doctor.  I believe you just spoke with. . . my friend."
The long sigh on the end of the line was no more than Sam expected.

     "Yes, we had a very. . . interesting discussion.  I can't say
I envy you."  Sam smiled.  "Do you think you can get him in here
tomorrow?  He was rather. . . resistant when I suggested it."

     "I can try.  When would you want us?"

     Sam could almost hear the other man's smile when he answered.
"Tell you what.   You get him in here and I'll make time.  Until
then, let me get some information."  He ran through all the
standard questions, personal history, childhood, mostly questions
Sam found he couldn't answer.  The number of things he did not
know about his partner were amazing.  Guiterriez was unsurprised.
"I very much doubt he left many openings for anyone to learn a lot
about him.  All right, you're a pathologist, right?"  Sam nodded,
caught himself.

     "Does he show indications of anorexia or of bulimia?  Jack
told me about the bouts of vomiting."

     Frito thought about Francis, at the pool, working out.  No
sign of cellulite, thin but not emaciated, ate like a horse most of
the time. . .  "I think it's very recent, just this case.  I've
seen him and he's usually healthy, no physical signs related to
eating disorders, and I've seen him eat and retain enough food.  No
real binge eating."  He had to smile at that.  Most of what Mulder
ate would be binge eating for anyone else, but was SOP for Francis.

     "Moody?  Radical shifts in behavior?"

     "Always."  Sam sighed.  "Moody is standard for Mulder.
Shifts. . . one I've seen lately.  He's pretty rough usually,
foulest mouth in the room and all."

     "I noticed.  Not out of line for someone in his line of work.
They shut it on and off like a light switch depending on whether
the mike's live. . . "

     "Yeah.  Unless they're in politics."  Sam grinned, heard
Guiterriez chuckle, refocused.  "And Marion's mastered the fine art
of it.  Truck drivers blush.  But. . . not when he's on to
something.  I don't know how to explain this, did Averman tell you
what he does?"

     "A little.  But I'd like to hear it from you."  He didn't ask
about the name.  Sam supposed Averman had told him something
about it.

     "Mulder does psych profiles on serial killers and violent
criminals.  Ask him how he does it and he's so full of shit you
know why his eyes are brown, but he's good.  No, that's the
wrong word.  There just isn't anybody who can do what Mulder can
do.  They call him Spooky around the Bureau, and he is.  He'll sit
there and all of a sudden start telling you about some sick mother
who's murdered a dozen kids.  Chapter and verse, out of thin air,
and every word of it will be right.  He's found several bodies
himself, says he'll be driving along and he'll see a spot and just.
. . know it would be good for dumping a body."  Sam felt the chills
running up and down his back again.  "And often as not, somebody
else already thought of it.  This time he's quoting Eliot, and we
find the poems on the kids' bodies."

     Sam took a deep breath, felt his pulse racing.  Guiterriez
waited for him to start again.  "Usually he's got the mouth of a
Marine sergeant, but when he starts that channeling thing he. . .
stops.  Like he's somebody else.  Or like suddenly he doesn't need
to keep anybody away, it's just him and the words and the killer,
and he's not scared anymore, not chasing us all away."  Frito
didn't know where it was all coming from, didn't know that he'd.
ever seen this in his friend, but when he said it to Guiterriez he
knew it was true.  "The only time he trusts us, the only time he
stops being afraid of us, is when he starts seeing things like a
killer."  He stopped, the words stopped him.  Just stood there and
felt things that had crawled out from under some rock.

     "That's. . . consistent with the impression I had of him."
Guiterriez' voice was a lifeline out of the dark.  "I wish we could
get a better history on him, but I'd be surprised if anyone but him
knows what I want to know.  All right, Dr. Rodriguez, I'm calling
in a prescription for Haldol, if he gets so you can't control him.
And some oral Valium and some suspension Valium.  And Jack said
something about Dramamine.  If it works, use it.  I expect you're
in for a rough night.  He's pretty shaken up.  Try to get him in
here tomorrow.  And I mean, really try.  I don't want you
physically dragging him in, but don't let him talk you out of it.
He's not going to help me a lot, but I want to see him for myself."

     Sam thanked him, hung up and turned back to the other room.
He had to brace himself a moment, but he walked back in like
nothing had ever happened.  And Francis was sitting on the foot of
the bed, like nothing had ever happened.  The look he gave Sam
agreed to the fiction, and warned him not to poke at it.

     "Averman's got barbecue lined up for dinner.  At least it's
not another fucking steak house."  Yeah, Marion was back.
 
 
 

     Forty-five minutes out of Tulsa and the headlights were hazy,
shining through dirt and dust driven off the land by the wind.  The
storm front swept tumbleweeds, dirt, litter of all descriptions
across the road in front of Averman's car.  The rain hadn't hit. .
. yet.  Lightning flashed a threat on the horizon and the car
rattled when the wind slammed across the road.  A big, glowing neon
pig doffed a ten-gallon hat down the road.  They couldn't see the
restaurant.  Some kind of big tent fluttered in the wind, ghostly.
The sign out front made Frito grin.  "Jesus is Your Lifeboat in
the Storm of Life."  Marion leaned forward between the seats,
reading the sign with the disbelief of a staid, New England Yankee
faced with Southern, Rock-and-Roll-Me-Over evangelism.  His mouth
was open, but Frito could see that not even Fox Francis Marion
Mulder could conjure a comment worthy of that sign.  Averman just
grinned the grin of a the Southron resurgent.

     Past the tent, they could see the Hog-Wallow, a shabby little
mecca of pork barbecue with cole slaw on the side, and a plate of
greasy fries for anyone with the courage to try.  Spilled beer and
sawdust muffled their footsteps, not that anything could have been
heard over the juke box playing 'My Wife Ran Off with my Best
Friend, and I Sure Do Miss Him.'  Mulder's grin was manic in the
gloom, and Frito was almost relieved to see him acting normal.

     The collection of suits in the corner didn't need a sign to
announce FBI Night Out.  Hitchens waved, as if they'd have trouble
finding their table.  Mulder was smiling at a waitress already.
He'd have caught her eye even without the fibbie uniform.  Frito
and Averman flanked Spooky, and both poured beer fast, defaulting
the driving to him.  Or tried to.

     "Unh unh."  Mulder leaned over and pulled Sam's beer over to
himself.  "He's senior, but I got stuck yesterday."  Sam looked to
Averman a moment, saw Francis take the signal in and saw his jaw
go tight.  Shit, shit, shit. . .

     The waitress swung her hips past one table, shot a barb off at
another, and made safe harbor hovering between Marion and
Averman to take orders.  Averman counterclockwise, Mulder last,
and Frito crossed his fingers and prayed to St. Jude that Mulder
would order food, eat it, stay calm.

     No need for a menu, barbecue was a safe bet.  Order after
order, and the suicide blonde barely needed to write a word.  She
knew this route by heart, could almost have served them
letter-perfect without taking an order.  Frito just grinned and
looked at her, she grinned back and wrote something down and he
knew she'd have it right even without the order.  And Marion looked
up, polished his best smile on her, and ordered cole slaw and a
scotch.

     Her surprise was visible.  Averman leaned in, put a gentle
looking hand on Marion's arm, and Mulder couldn't have moved that
hand for love or money.  "You're gonna insult these people, son."
Spooky's glare was incandescent.  Frito swallowed, feeling the
electricity.  Meyer was staring, Russell was suddenly very
interested in his beer.

     Mulder looked back up, and deliberately repeated his order.
The waitress was taking it in, glancing back to the bar, writing it
down.  "Tell you what, hon.  I'll bring a plate on the side in case
you get hungry.   And a sweet little thing like you, I'm gonna need
to see your ID."  Her big, flashy, capped smile settled Spooky down
just enough.  He looked exasperated, but he pulled his license and
let her check his age.  She grinned and patted his shoulder, told
him she had food in her fridge older than him, but wrote down his
order.  Marion shook his head and smiled at her again.  Frito'd
seldom seen him flare at anybody further down the pecking order
than he was, and thanked God she was smart enough to handle it.
Averman let Mulder shake his hand off, settled back to sip his beer
and watch.

     Cooke, down at the other end, must have cracked a joke.  Loud,
bad country-western saved them from it.  Tyler and Russell were
loudly arguing the relative benefits of Toro and Lawnboy mowers,
and Meyer, down the way, was steadily demolishing a bowl of chips
and salsa, listening closely to Cooke.  Spooky scanned them all,
narrowed his focus to the beer in front of him, and pointedly
ignored Averman and Frito.

     Dinner showed, and Mulder's scotch made a belated appearance.
Sam shot a grateful look to the blonde, behind Marion's back.  She
winked back.  "She's Acting Single, I'm Drinking Doubles" was on
the box, and it was clear what conclusion the blonde had reached.
Frito could feel the tightrope sway under his feet, and turned as
much attention as he could to his dinner.

     The coleslaw actually vanished, to Sam's relief.  It wasn't
much, but maybe it would stay down.  God, he hoped so.  Please,
please Blessed Mother, let us get through at least one night
without trouble.  Please.

     Song after song, after really lousy song.  Where the hell did
these crackers find this shit? 'Dropkick me Jesus, Through the
Goalposts of Life?'  Even Mulder was grinning, sitting back in
appalled wonder to take in the sheer variety of crap they could get
out of that juke box.  And he was nursing the scotch, not
shot-gunning it, thank the Blessed Virgin. Sam didn't think he'd
prayed so much since he'd taken his boards.  Barbecue and cole slaw
and fries and beer vanished or vanishing, empty plates collected,
and even Cooke feeling mellow, little butt-pimple that he was.

     Averman excused himself a minute.  Cooke, face flushed with
beer and heat, leaned in, dipping his tie in barbecue sauce, and
shouted to be heard at their end of the table.  "Hey Spooky!
Better watch out Sunday.  They're having a revival and they just
might exorcise you!"  Sam caught a crack from Bond about faith
healing, but didn't pay a lot of attention.  He heard Mulder start
to shout something back down to Cooke, but the words kind of
choked off.

     Sam's neck cracked viciously when he snapped back around to
see Marion knock over what was left of his scotch.  Wide, wide dark
eyes, but Sam didn't think he was seeing Cooke, or anyone else.  He
could see Mulder's throat convulse as he swallowed, and cursed.
God damn it.  Can't you keep anything down?

     Mulder shoved his chair back, nearly knocked it over as he got
up, but he wasn't heading for the men's room.  He turned and
walked, calm and fast, for the exit.  Cooke was laughing, Meyers and
Russell staring, and Frito felt his guts implode in one tight,
sudden ball of panic.  Spin back to the table, lean over to
Russell, screaming to make sure every fucking word got heard the
first time, and no screw ups.

     "Get Averman and come after us now!  Meyers, you're with me."
And out the door.  God, God, where the fuck was Spooky going?
Frito stared around him, blinded for a moment by the violent,
sodium lights and neon in the parking lot.  Francis' dark suit and
hair made a faint flicker of movement in the dark at the edge.
Meyers saw him, pulled Frito after him and took off.
 
 
 

     Spooky was up on the shoulder of the road, wind blowing his
hair, his jacket, walking steadily down the road until he stopped
in front of the big, portable sign.  Fingers reached out, grazed
across the letters of Jesus' name, across the word "boat."  Frito
only saw him because he was silhouetted against the stark white of
the sign, a darker shadow in a moonless night.  Thunder in the
distance, and Sam could feel the dirt up his nose, taste it between
his teeth, where the storm winds drove it.

     Averman's voice was a faint shout from back in the parking
lot.  Sam startled to attention, looked back to see the two older
men trying to spot them. Averman and Russell were both half-blind
back under those lights.  Meyers' hiss brought him back around
again, to see his friend walk into the big tent.  Frito grabbed the
kid's arm, sent him scrambling back after Averman and Russell, and
followed Fox Mulder into the dark.  The tent glowed inside with the
lights next door.  The wind billowed the walls of the tent, but
couldn't move the still, close air inside.  Wilted flowers cast a
heavy scent around him and around Spooky, up at the front of the
tent.  His back was to the entrance, just standing and looking up
at the dark wood stage and podium, the pale, sagging floral
arrangements.

     Sam walked slowly, soundless on the crushed grass aisle that
ran between the folding chairs.  He could hear Averman and Russell
breathing as they loped in, Meyers panting, babbling the little
that he knew.  And, just barely, Sam could hear Marion's soft
voice.

     "I never saw one of these until I joined the FBI."

     "Francis?"  Sam kept his own voice almost as soft, praying he
wouldn't startle the young man.  Mulder glanced back at him, face
pale in the eerie glow.  His eyes were dark, huge.

     "Methodists don't have revivals.  And the Brits don't.  Not
in the Anglican church, thank you very much."  That last in an
atrocious English-snob accent.  "The first time the Bureau sent me
down South I saw a revival.  Faith healing.  Speaking in tongues,
polyester suits and hymns and. . . "   He had trailed off, was
letting his hand smooth across the wood of the podium. Frito
flinched at the clatter as Mulder hopped up to the stage.  He
could hear a gasp behind him, knew the others were back there,
watching.

     Spooky Mulder was standing at the podium now, tracing the
tilted surface before him.  Frito saw a frown cross his face, saw
him suddenly stare off into space, angry.

     "The river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
     Clutch and sink into the wet bank.  The wind
     Crosses the brown land, unheard.  The nymphs are
          departed.

     Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
     The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
     Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
     Or other testimony of summer nights.  The nymphs are
          departed."

     "What the fuck. . . "  Russell's stunned voice was a faint
chorus as Spooky worked up to a full thunder, echoing the voice of
the coming storm.

     "And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors,
     Departed, have left no addresses.
     By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept. . . "

     Eliot.  Oh Christ, more Eliot, it had to be . . . Frito
glanced back, caught Averman's wild stare, felt his own heart
racing with the wind.

     Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
     Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long."

     Spooky's sudden whisper froze Rodriguez, hearing the voice of
a child in this dark place.  The return of the thunder sent him
reeling a step back, watching his friend stare far away.

     "But at my back in a cold blast I hear
     The rattle of the bones, and the chuckle spread from ear to
          ear.
     A rat crept softly through the vegetation
     Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
     While I was fishing in the dull canal
     On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
     Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
     And on the king my father's death before him.
     White bodies naked on the low damp ground
     And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
     Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.
     But at my back from time to time I hear
     The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
     Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.

     O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
     And on her daughter
     They wash their feet in soda water
     Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!"

     Mulder fell silent, let the wind scream through the stays of
the tent, panting for air, seeing no one who was there.  Sam had
gathered himself to step forward, but the lost, cracked voice from
the dark in front of him stopped him.

     "I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
     Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest-
     I too awaited the expected guest.
     He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
     A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
     One of the low on whom assurance sits
     As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire."

     Frito shivered, could hear Cooke back there now, swearing in
a voice like prayer.  Averman stood next to Sam, staring at the
young man whose voice wailed with the storm to come.

     The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
     The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
     Endeavours to engage her in caresses
     Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
     Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
     Exploring hands encounter no defence;
     His vanity requires no response,
     And makes a welcome of indifference.
     (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all"

     A sob that shook him in the luminous dark, but could not still
his voice.

     "Enacted on this same divan or bed;
     I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
     And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
     Bestows one final patronizing kiss,
     And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit. . .
 

     'Trams and dusty trees.
     Highbury bore me.  Richmond and Kew
     Undid me.  By Richmond I raised my knees
     Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.'

     'My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
     Under my feet.  After the event
     He wept.  He promised "a new start."
     I made no comment.  What should I resent?'

     'On Margate Sands.
     I can connect
     Nothing with nothing.
     The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
     My people humble people who expect
     Nothing.'
          la la

     To Carthage then I came

     Burning burning burning burning
     O Lord Thou pluckest me out
     O Lord Thou pluckest

     burning."

     Sam heard his own voice sob in the dark, heard Averman's shaky
breath behind him, Russell's steady, monotonous "fuckfuckfuckfuck.
. . "

     But Fox Spooky Mulder didn't make a sound as he let his head
slowly drop down to touch the podium, shoulders shaking like the
wind around them.  When he threw himself back upright, Sam's
heart nearly stopped.  Spooky calmly stepped down off that stage,
wiping tears off his face.

     "His father preached and diddled the kids.  Dad brought the
four or five of them out here after they kicked him out of the
church, moved them around a lot.  He read Eliot in the back of the
church.  He killed her tonight."  Spooky's voice was calm and even,
reciting the facts to them.

     He held a steady hand out to Averman.  "Give me the keys.
I'll bring her home."

     Averman stared back at him, frozen rather than steady, slowly
shook his head.  Spooky frowned.

     Meyers' soft voice whispered in the dark.  "The best lack all
conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity."

     Spooky glanced at him, saw the certainty of failure in
Averman's eyes.  He let his hand roll into a fist and fall to his
side.  "No, Meyers." His voice was soft and choked with
frustration.  "He hates Yeats."

___________________
 

Continued in part 7........................

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 7/41 NC-17
Date: 27 Jan 1996 16:27:27 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 7/41)
By Amperage and Livengoo
Copyright October, 1995

International Readers:  No third season spoilers
Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual
property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The
FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana
and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and
everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.

____________________

     And then he fell into the dust.

     When Frito stood over him, his eyes were closed, his face
unlined like the dead who have no worries left to them anymore.
His palms were bloody and for a moment all Rodriguez could think
was Stigmata, a sign given to the saints.  Then he saw the blood
was seeping from small moon shaped cuts, from nails driven into
flesh when Averman refused.

     His breathing was slow.  Steady.  "Get him home.  Give him
fluids.  The Spirit is finished with him."  A voice echoed behind
them.  The agents twirled, Meyers' gun, Tyler's gun were out,
trained on the voice.

     She was small, a sparrow perhaps.  At the sight of their guns
her eyes were bemused, her mouth quirked.  "Do you fear me?  After
the Spirit has walked among you."

     The lightening boomed overhead and the lights flickered, went
out, came back on.  She was still there.

     Averman pulled the first words out.  "Who are you?"

     "I might ask you that question.  This is my son's tent. He
doesn't believe in the dark dove with the flickering tongue.  He's
Southern Baptist.  They don't believe that. . .

     The dove descending breaks the air
     With flame of incandescent terror
     Of which the tongues declare

     The one discharge from sin and error
     The only hope, or else despair
       Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre
       To be redeemed from fire by fire."

     "Oh God, another crazy."  Cooke's voice seemed out of place,
artificial, cheap against the sounds of wind, against the terrible
quiet rolling in their souls.

     "No.  T.S. Eliot understood faith.  Who is your Faith Healer?"

     She walked past the agents and they let her, just let her.
Knelt beside Mulder, stared at Frito.  "You believe."

     "Yes ma'am."  Frito swallowed.  "His name is Fox Mulder,
Ma'am."

     The woman nodded, touched his brow.  "He is very ill.  He has
been that way a long time."

     Frito nodded again.  The woman was familiar.  And old.  But
her gentle eyes were so very clear.

     "He was speaking in tongues.  When that happens, when the
Spirit moves a person, you must be careful.  First, that they do
not hurt themselves.  You have drugs you can give him?"

     Frito wondered, obliquely, why he was just accepting this
woman's advice.  Why he was letting this uneducated rural
hellfire-and-damnation woman with wrinkled dugs tell him about
Fox Mulder.  "Yes.  Haldol."

     "He needs Valium."  Her words were sharp.

     Sam nodded.

     "Give him food.  And lots to drink.  Give him quiet rooms.
When he dreams, give him the drugs, but give him your love."  Her
wrinkled, gnarled fingers smoothed Mulder's unwrinkled, young
brow.

     "Who then devised the torment? Love.
     Love is the unfamiliar Name
     Behind the hands that wove
     The intolerable shirt of flame
     Which human power cannot remove.
        We live, only suspire
        Consumed by either fire or fire."

     Mulder murmured something suddenly, something soft and not
understood.  The woman sighed.  "I know," she whispered as a tear
dropped from her face.  "I know.  It's all right."

     "He needs healing," she told Sam, looking back up.  "It will
take a long time.  And you will not be the one to help him all the
way.  But that is all right.  You will take him into the doorway."

     The woman stood, stared at Averman.  The air was suddenly pure
and clear and their hair stood on end with tingling and then,
without pause for breath or thought or movement, there was a great
crash and the earth shook and they felt their hearts move
arrythmically against their chests.  Yet the rain had not begun.
The land was desiccate and barren.

     "You have it in your power to let him take the chosen path.

     Here is the impossible union
     Of spheres of existence is actual,
     Here the past and future
     Are conquered and reconciled.

     Can you understand that?" she asked pointedly.

     Averman swallowed, nodded.

     And suddenly they were. . .the air was. . .and their hair was
straight and the sound was sonic driving, driving, draining and
hard and they were diving for cover and all manner of things
shall be. . .the light. Overwhelming light, bewildering, blinding
white light and they could not think could not. . .

     When the lights came back on they were all crouched, listening
to their hearts, feeling their stomachs knot and jerk and their
heads screaming, their bodies jerking and trembling and they could
not think for a moment.

     And the woman was gone as though she had never been.
 
 
 

     Sam had his own ideas, waiting for Myers and Russell with a
car, sitting with Spooky's arm around one shoulder on the rusty
folding chairs.  Averman had the other arm.  No one wanted to talk
about it.  Sam knew.  God, he fucking knew.  When she had touched
Mulder's cheek and cried, he knew.  Oh God, forgive him for ever
doubting.

     Mulder had come around when Rodriguez slapped him several
times, but it was a dazed, confused look and no one really wanted
him lucid or cognizant.  No one wanted to know.  No one had wanted
to know what they'd heard tonight.  Cooke was making the sign of
the cross again and again and again.  God, he hadn't known the
popeyed sonofabitch was Catholic.  Irish Catholic no doubt.

     And then the car came and they ran through the dust and the
wind and the lightening exploding all around them.  It was raining
everywhere but. . .Rodriguez slammed the car door shut, watched as
the other agents got into the other car.  And Mulder closed his
eyes wearily, leaned his head against Sam's shoulder.  When he
looked back, out the window at the second car, it hit.  The rain
and the hail and wind and they couldn't see the road and the hail
was huge, things Mulder could probably fucking pitch.  Looking at
the second car, its lights were the only thing Sam could see.  The
lights were off at the Hog Wallow.  The lights were off everywhere.

     There was only the big yellow and white tent, only the sign
and then, as Tyler decided to try driving in this shit, the lights
of the tent went off.  Like someone had just fucking hit. . .a. .
.switch.
 
 
 

     It was just raining and windy and all fired nasty when they
pulled into the motel parking lot.  Sam pinched Mulder's arm
cruelly and he woke again.  Stared at Sam, pissed.  Lost.  "Come on
Marion," he said.  "Come on.  We're home.  Let's get you into bed."
 

     They rejected the offers of help from the other agents.  Cooke
helped them tug him up the stairs, and then, because Averman said
it right, not cruelly, not condescendingly, he went back to his own
motel room.

     Mulder was wet.  Hell, they were all wet.  All soaked to the
skin, their suits ruined, their shoes squishing.  Frito stripped
off his jacket and tie, threw it all into the next room.  He wanted
a long, hot shower.  A long hot shower and then he wanted to run
down to the nearest Catholic church.  Instead he watched as
Averman did the same.  Then they turned their attention to Mulder.
His shoes slid off easily, his clothes were wet and clumsy and
Mulder's energy, expended in his speech, was gone.  Used up
completely.  There was nothing left now for anyone.  He could not
help them.  They rolled him naked into the bed clothes.  Sam
remembered he had been sleeping with one pillow clutched like a
lover and put the second pillow where he could reach it.

     Averman got the Dramamine, handed it silently to Sam who was
sitting on the side of the bed, watching his friend sleep.

     "Francis?  Francis?  Come on.  Wake up."  Mulder's eyes
opened, bloodshot, puffy, his mouth moved, but did not form words.

     "Come on.  Good stuff.  Open your mouth."  Mulder did so
automatically.  Was rewarded with two small pills.

     Sam put his hand under Mulder's head, lifted it up, put the
glass to his mouth.  Mulder swallowed once, twice, three times.
Good enough.  He put the glass on Mulder's bedside table.

     "Sam?"  Mulder's voice was weak.  No more than a whisper.

     Rodriguez wondered who Mulder was speaking to.  Frito or
Samantha.

     "Sam, the body's going to. . .your evidence will be
destroyed."

     Speaking to his friend.

     "There's nothing we could have done," Frito replied, feeling
the tightening in his gut release just a little bit.

     Mulder's eyes moved restlessly.  At long last he nodded.  He
began to speak again.  Frito had to move close in to hear what
Francis was whispering.

     "There is no end of it, the voiceless wailing,
     No end to the withering of withered flowers,
     To the movement of pain that is painless and motionless,
     To the drift of the sea and the drifting wreckage,
     The bones' prayer to Death its God.  Only the hardly, barely
     prayable
     Prayer to the one Annunciation."

     Francis' eyes searched out Averman, found him and nodded,
satisfied.   He went to sleep then.  A tired, deep sleep, deep like
the very center of the ocean.  Rodriguez did not know what
lurked at those depths.  Monsters perhaps.  Perhaps there was some
peace.
 
 
 

     Rodriguez lay in his bed, listening to the wind and the hail
and the rain.  Listening to the lightening and the thunder and to
the sound of his own heart.  Mulder's room was silent as Mulder's
mind prowled the quiet waters of medicinal sleep.  His mind worked
the prayer of the rosary over and over again.

     "Our Father who art in Heaven
     hallow'd be Thy name.
     Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done
     On Earth as it is in Heaven.
     Give us this day our daily bread
     And forgive us our trespasses
     As we forgive those who trespass
     Against us.
     And lead us not into temptation,
     But deliver us from Evil.

     For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory, Lord.
     Now and forever.

     Keep us free from every evil Lord, and grant us peace in our
     day.
     For You alone are the Holy One, You alone are the Lord.
     You alone are the most high, Jesus Christ.
     We worship You, we give You thanks, we praise You for
     Your glory.
     Grant us now your peace. Amen.
 

     When he was in college he'd taken Mythology.  The professor
had droned on about the earth mother archetype and the Madonna
myth, about the need to see women as pure.  That it was something
created by a male dominated society in a need to keep women in
their place.

     Sam had gone home for a weekend, watched his great aunt Maria
pray to the Blessed Virgin in her pure Castillian spanish, watched
her eyes fill with strength and he'd known the professor was
completely and utterly full of shit.

     There was some reason the archetype existed.  And it had
nothing to do with keeping women in their place.  And if it had
been subverted to that purpose, Sam hoped those men rotted in
purgatory until they forgot what a dick was.  But that was not the
reason for the archetype.

     A knock.  Hesitant.  Soft.

     Cooke?  Sam got up, padded over to the door, unlocked it.
Averman.

     He went back to his bed, turned on the lamp.  Averman sat down
on the chair.

     "What happened out there?"

     Sam shrugged.

     Another knock.  This time Sam knew who it was.

     He opened it.  Cooke came in, sat on the floor.  Looked at the
carpet.

     "He's going crazy."  The voice was soft, gentle.

     Averman exchanged a look with Sam.

     "Yeah," Averman replied.

     "My father is in one of the most expensive nut houses in
Boston because of Korea," Cooke said without looking at anyone.
"Don't let them put him in a place like that."

     Averman swallowed.  Oh God.  Oh God.

     "It was Her.  Wasn't it?"  Cooke stared at Rodriguez
accusatorially.  "She came and the Fucking storm waited on her."

     Rodriguez said nothing.  Stared at Cooke.

     "This place isn't real.  It was real this afternoon when I was
in front of the camera.  It was real when I was answering
questions.  This place isn't fucking real anymore," Cooke recited.

     No one knew what to say.  Mulder would have known.

     "What do we do?" Sam asked.  "You know what we should do.  You
should put him on a plane tomorrow and report his behavior
bluntly."

     Averman did not reply.  They all knew the procedure.

     "If we do, there'll be more dead babies.  We'd still be
swinging our dicks around, trying to get hard ons," Averman finally
said bluntly.  "If Mulder's right he's killed six children.  And
he's going on a spree now that he knows we're interested."

     "So what do we do?"  Cooke's voice was sharp, acidic.  "You
can't hide this.  Mulder's lost it.  Completely and utterly.
Delusory."

     "You saw him reciting T.S. Eliot and making a prediction about
a killer.  Want to bet that when we wake him he'll have a perfectly
logical reason for his knowing figured out.  Perfectly logical to
anyone with a 200 IQ, of course, but it will be," Sam replied,
slamming his fists against the bed.

     "No one has to know."  Averman's voice was cold.  Analytic,
devoid of emotion.  Just call him Mr. Fucking Spock.  "It was just
eight agents, who will be willing to cover anything up so they
don't have to deal with what they just saw, or willing to go along
because of what they just saw.  He can get us through this case and
then back to DC and I'll call in my favors and get him a leave of
absence, tell them, I don't know. . .I'll think of something that
they'll bite. . .he can see my friend."

     "Cover up something like this?  That's grounds for dismissal."
Cooke's voice wavered.

     "They'll stuff him so full of Thorazine they'll have to show
him where to take a shit.  He'll sit in the day room and stare at
the sun making patterns on the wall and some Occupational
Therapist will come by and give him plastic scissors to . . ."

     "Shut up!"  Cooke's voice was choked.  "Just shut the hell up!
Okay?"  Sam shut the hell up.  Oh yes he did.

     "He'll be all right in the morning won't he?"  Averman's voice
again.  Still cold.

     Sam took a deep breath.  It hurt to breathe like that, hurt
through and up and around his lungs and he couldn't really think.
"Yeah. Oh yeah.  He'll be fine, if I know Spooky Mulder.  He won't
talk about it at all."

     "I'll get the other agents.  Meyers and Williams will be
easy."

     "I can convince Tyler,"  Cooke said tiredly, wiping his face.

     "You'll get Mulder his drugs?"

     Sam nodded.

     "Take him to Guiterriez first thing tomorrow morning.  Call
him.  Let him know how important it is now."

     Another nod. Sam got up.

     "Where're you headed?"  Averman asked.

     "I'm going to look through his stuff."

     He went across to the other room, feeling cheap and disgusting
and not caring.  He heard Cooke and Averman talking and then the
door opening and closing.  And silence.

     Clothes and porn.  Big deal.  Some condoms.  Good man.

     Heterosexuals gonna have some real bad surprises in a couple
of years if they don't start using these. . .Sam popped the
aluminum briefcase open.  Case files.  Case files.  Okay, he should
be hitting the old profiles, the old q and a, the theoretical stuff
the. . .red and white edged folders. . . .Sam read a tired stamp,
inhaled in the dim light given by the lamp.  "X-File."  He flipped
through, trying to think of something logical, something that made
sense.  Oh God.  Oh God.  X-File.  X-File.  X-File.  X-File.  X-
File.  Dumping ground for ghosts and ghouls and UFO's.  For
psychics and faith healers and entity rape.  Fifteen X-Files.  Sam
snatched them up.  Ten or eleven of them, left a couple of them
lying in  the bottom.  It was raining and rain was getting on
confidential FBI files and Sam was cold and his feet were tender
against the concrete.  But he pounded and pounded on Averman's
door.  Averman opened the door, was instantly alarmed.  "What?  Is
he. . ."

     Sam rushed in dumped the files on Averman's bed.  "Oh God.
He's. . .God. . ."

     The files spilled onto the rumpled spread, lay, mute accusers
of an insanity that Sam had never suspected, never thought about,
never dreamed ran and travelled and tunnelled in the dark passages
of Fox Mulder's head.

     "We need to send him back.  He goes back tomorrow.  We need to
call ahead and make arrangements."  Sam swallowed the nausea, the
fear that he was betraying Marion, and the fear that if he didn't
he'd watch his friend spiral into the dark forever.

     Averman stood next to him, looking at the files Frito was
pulling apart.  The sucking sound of wet paper pulled from wet
paper was the only sound for a moment. Then Averman sighed and
ran his hand over his short, grey brush cut.

     "What's this about, Sam?  What are all these?  Why you so
upset at a few files after all that's gone on tonight, son?"  Sam
looked up at him, face shadowed by the lights behind the bed, next
to him.  Averman looked at him, saw the oval face pale under
the Spanish-dark skin, softly defined features now haggard, and the
wild look in dark brown eyes.  Soft, good looks of Spanish
aristocracy, California Hidalgo, distorted by fear and worry and a
primitive dread that confused Averman.  Sam's compact body was
trembling with a barely restrained panic, as Averman directed him
into a chair, got him a glass, poured just a tot from the flask he
had in his luggage.

     Sam sipped at the amber liquid, let the burn of it fight the
chills that had nothing to do with being wet, or with the
air-conditioning.  "I. . . I. . . "   He was stammering.

     Averman picked up his own glass, took a file and started
glancing through it, letting Rodriguez sip his drink and calm down
a little.  Abduction case, about fourteen years old.  Strange that
he'd never seen this kind of code on anything. .  .

     "I looked through Francis'. . . through Mulder's briefcase and
found those, like, eight of them."  Averman glanced up to meet his
eyes, saw the real fears and concern there.  Nodded and let Sam
go on, taking in the rapid, flat tone as well the words.  "I looked
at them, and they're crazy, just crazy.  Why anyone would look, why
Marion would. . . " just rattling through the words at first.  Let
him get it out of his system, exhaust that hysteria he'd needed to
let out for hours now.  "He's right around the bend. He must've
been around the bend for. . . for. . . Oh god. How did I miss it?"
He was sitting there, drink cradled against his forehead.

     Averman watched Sam, saw his eyes go far away, then close, and
could almost hear the doctor playing back months, maybe years.
Looking for any hint or clue he could recall.  Averman had seen
men, men he'd commanded, slip into the dark and never come back.
He knew the look, and he'd seen the look on Sam's face in the
mirror each time, seeing himself let a friend slip past the point
of no return.

     "Sam!"  Averman's voice, just barely raised.  The AIC took
Rodriguez' glass and recharged it, handed it back to him and sat,
waiting for the doctor to look at him.  "Sam, listen to me, son.
Calm down now.  I need you thinking clearly."

     Sam fixed on him.  He swallowed again, tried to choke down the
panicky sense of failure, of having lost one he should have caught.
He'd lost people in his residency, as an attending, he'd had
friends and family die, but he'd never lost a friend on the table.
The fact that Fox was going mad was only worse, in Sam's eyes.  How
did you pull someone back from that?  How did you get past knowing
that the body was sitting in some hospital, drawing with crayons,
smiling at nothing.

     Averman had seen this before.  Seeing it once would be one
time too many.  His voice carried a weight of knowledge that cut
through Sam's misery.  "Calm down.  It got scary tonight, didn't
it?  Don't know about you, but I have never, in my entire life,
seen anything like what happened out there tonight.  I know it was
poetry.  I know he remembered it, put something together, figured
something out.  But it still sounded like the Sermon on the Mount.
You've got a perfect right to feel like you do.  But not over
these."  He shook the files he held in the air, watched Sam track
them like they were rattlesnakes.  "These are just files, open
cases, somebody's fears and illusions reported to some poor agent.
Poor bastard had to go out and look the ground over, and came back
with an open case and a good campfire story.  Happens all the time.

So Spooky's looking them back over.  Fine, no problem."

     Sam had finally stopped breathing so fast, could finally take
a drink without his hands shaking.  Averman nodded, watching him
calm down.  Curiosity was finally replacing panic, though the worry
was still there.  Averman dredged up a chuckle from somewhere,
watched the doctor relax a little more.  "Hell, after what we saw
tonight, who knows?  Spooky may just be able to solve these things.
So he's got some unsolved crimes, weird crimes.  So what.  That's
what this one is, and we're all here.  Sam, if he wasn't here, this
one would be another campfire story, and a batch of dead kids.  And
someone ten years from now would look at it and shake his
head.  That kid is really sick.  He needs help, but after tonight,
I figure we need help, too.  And he can give it to us.  These,"
shaking the files again, "aren't what I'm scared of with that kid.
So there's little grey men in here.  I'm almost relieved.  At least
now we've got an idea where THAT came from."

     Sam gulped, took another sip of scotch.  "You figure PTSD, and
he just picked up this stuff and added it to. . . whatever he's
already seeing?"

     "Could be.  Makes more sense than that he's seeing little grey
men on his own, don't you think?  Let's let Guiterriez think about
that, why don't we?  After all, our only shrink is the one who
needs to get shrunk."

     Finally.  A smile out of Rodriguez.  The little spic'd be
okay.  He just got rattled tonight.  Averman hesitated, debated
asking, finally just walked into it.  "You really got shook by the
old woman tonight.  You're Catholic, aren't you?"  No surprise when
Sam nodded.  "She make you feel like the Virgin herself just walked
into the room?"  The hesitation wasn't a surprise, either.
Admitting faith these days was like admitting you didn't walk under
ladders, or let black cats cross your path.  Averman had the
distinct feeling that Mulder's beliefs weren't the only thing
bothering Sam Rodriguez.  "I know my mam raised me believing in
Jesus-Christ-Our-Savior, and 'Nam made me believe in the devil on
Earth.  That old woman tonight, well, she put the chills up my
back, too."  Averman sipped his drink.  "I do know there's more out
there than we know, and that Spooky Mulder is hardly the scariest
thing around.  Fact is, I'm glad he's on our side.  We'll get him
to Guiterriez first thing in the ay-em.  Don't worry, Sam.  We're
gonna get the kid help.  I'm not ready to call DeeCee and tell them
to lock him up on tea and Thorazine.  I'm not ready to
do that yet at all."

Continued in part 8....................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 8/41 NC-17
Date: 28 Jan 1996 02:19:40 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 8/41)
By Amperage and Livengoo
Copyright October, 1995

International Readers:  No third season spoilers
Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual
property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The
FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana
and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and
everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.

_____________________

     "This really fucks the duck."  Fox Mulder stood outside the
coffee shop, rolling a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the
other, and glaring at the flat, yellow-hot Oklahoma sky.  His suit
was GQ perfect, creases all in place, in spite of a steaming
morning of body-cavity heat and humidity.  Cooke, red-faced with
heat and shaky with fear, watched him and waited for the sky to
fall.

     Averman was still settling the bill when Frito joined them.
Marion tossed the toothpick into the clumped dust left by the
rapidly drying storm waters.  "Can we finally get this cluster fuck
on the road?  We've got people to find, places to do."  Hitchens
walked out, knocking loose a cigarette from a fresh package,
ignoring the disgusted looks both Mulder and Rodriguez gave him.
He'd been trying to quit.  He wasn't trying this morning.

     Spooky glared around him, taking in the nervous looks, the
jumpy, startled movements every time one of these chicken-chokers

caught him looking at them, any time he made a sudden move.  Even
Frito, for Christ's sake, was jumpy as hell this morning, and
Mulder'd had about enough of this shit.  Hitchens fled to the
safety Bond's car, leaving Mulder with Averman, Frito and Cooke,
while the others packed off in their usual teams and dispersed on
whatever snark hunt Averman had picked for them.  Cooke,
unfortunately, showed no signs of going away.  He jittered
along behind them as they headed to Averman's car.

     "So," Spooky dropped into step next to Averman, "you've got the
Four Stooges back at Social Services?"

     "Yeah.  I think you had a good lead going there, and I want it
checked top to bottom."  Averman unlocked the driver's door, hit
the override to unlock all the doors.  Cooke grabbed the front
passenger seat fast, before Mulder could get it, trying to ignore
the poisonous look Spooky turned on him.  He didn't need the leg
room, but God knows he didn't want Spooky even that near the
wheel, and he wouldn't sit in back with him to save his soul.  Let
Rodriguez play those games.

     Frito slid in next to Marion, putting his briefcase at his
feet.  He'd been watching Francis all morning, trying to see any
signs of. . . he didn't even know what.  Anything.  Nothing.
Francis slung himself into the back, then startled as Averman hit
the override again, locking all the doors.  Childproof locks, Frito
noted.  They wouldn't be able to unlock them unless Averman hit his
switch.  He swallowed and waited.

     Francis licked his lips.  Not quick and nervous, a slow,
deliberate motion as he collected his temper and leaned forward.

     "Why don't you lean back and put the seatbelt on?"  Mulder
frowned.  Averman pulled back, out of the parking lot and towards
Oklahoma City.  Sam watched openly now, as Marion sat bolt upright
and stared around him at the road.

     "We're going the wrong way."  His voice was soft, definite.
Sam suppressed the shudder up his spine, saw Cooke twitch.  Marion
leaned in between the front seats again, visibly calming himself.
"Turn around, Averman.  We're going the wrong way."

     "I don't think so, son."  Ignoring the sudden, angry frown,
the intentional control of temper.  Sam pulled his briefcase up
onto his lap and flipped off the catch.  Quietly, quietly, please
God.

     "Averman, I'm telling you.  She's back the other way.  We need
to go get her, now, before we lose any more time."  Marion was
keeping his voice steady and reasonable, even though his fingers
were digging into the cloth of Averman's seat back.  Cooke was
trying not to cringe away from him.

     "We got time, Mulder.  We'll go see her, we will, but we've
got an appointment in Oklahoma City first."

     Sam saw Marion's jaw flex as his teeth ground together hard.
Saw his knuckles go white.  "Averman, there's another storm blowing
in.  There's bugs and birds and every fucking thing that crawls and
flies and eats dead meat."  Jesus.  Controlled, low grind of a
voice that he had to be pulling out of his guts.  Frito opened his
case, thankful that Marion was so focused on Averman he never
noticed.  Load a syringe and pray to God you don't need it.  Pull
out the Valium they'd picked up last night before. . . before
Mulder called down the storm and the hag.  And try not to
remember that, try to focus on an agent in psychological distress,
possibly delusional, and very possibly about to snap right here.

     "Marion."  He looked around at Sam's pale, tense face.
"Marion, it won't rain yet.  We have time.  We'll just go to
Oklahoma City first. . . "  and watched Francis' face twist itself
into a smile he'd never seen before.  Bitter, angry and so, so
alone.

     "You don't believe me.  You think I'm. . . "  Marion
swallowed, stared as Sam's face told the truth his tongue could
choke.  And the smile was gone, a crafty, calm look in its place.
Averman's eyes were flickering from the mirror to the road.
Cooke's eyes rolled all the way over to watch without turning.
Mulder pulled his knees around, half-turned to stare into Frito's
wide eyes.  "All right, you think I'm out of my mind.  I can live
with that."  He smiled, careful and under control, his pale color
the only thing that betrayed that calm, rational expression.  "I
quoted Eliot last night.  Fire Sermon.  With deletions."  He half
smiled.  "It was one of my favorites at Oxford. I know it by heart.
I'd know it even if I didn't have an eidetic memory.  So I know
it's not Eliot that's spooking you this morning."  God, his voice
was so smooth this morning, oil slicks on the Potomac.

     "I'm telling you, we're missing a chance.  We've already lost
some of the evidence on that poor kid.  He's already picked up the
next one.  We can't afford to lose any time on this one.  But you
don't believe me. All right.  What don't you believe?  That I know,
or that there's a body there?"  Sam could feel where this was
going.  Averman had dropped to sixty-five, and trucks and
rust-junkers were tearing past him, horns blaring.

     Spooky's voice was rich, hundred-year-old cognac, dark, and
smooth, and the bite on it was vicious.  Sam watched the logic trap
close and couldn't summon a word to stop it.  "Either way, you
don't believe.  So what harm is there in looking where I want to
look?  We don't find a body, I go with you.  We do whatever it is
you want me to do.  I won't argue.  But we do find a body. . . "
Fox Mulder's pupils were huge, despite the flat glare of the
Oklahoma landscape under the merciless sun.  "But you don't
think that will happen.  So there's no problem."  His smile was
charming and assured, and his dark, steady eyes gave it the lie.

     "Doesn't make a whole lot of sense from where I sit, son."
Averman's voice was brisk and cool in the front seat.  "No body?
We just waste time and we got to see a busy man."

     "A shrink."  No question, a flat statement of fact instead.

     "You have to admit, your behavior is a bit unusual for FBI
procedures."  Mulder even smiled at Averman's gentle comment.

     "I'll be glad to admit just that, if you do what I want.  I
don't give two shits what you think of me, all I care about is the
case."  He was still leaning between the seats, speaking low and
even to the AIC, ignoring the way Cooke cringed from him.  "It's a
win-win situation for you, Averman."  Mulder's voice held a coaxing
lilt.  "We spend just a little while, a detour.  There's no body,
and I'll be glad to go calmly to talk with your shrink.  No
problem.  Be glad to.  And you win.  And if I'm right, and there is
a body, then you get valuable evidence.  And you win."

     "And you still go to my shrink?  Even if we find a body?"
God, Averman's eyes were fixed on the road, Mulder's voice in his
ear.  Frito could not believe the bargain being struck.

     "Sure.  Whatever you want. I'll go jump through his hoops."

     "And what if I say 'no', son?  What if I just drive us in to
Oklahoma City?"   Mulder had one shoulder past the bottle-neck of
the seats and was watching the road and wheel as steadily as
Averman.  Cooke was hyperventilating.

     "If you decide to drive in to Oklahoma City," Spooky's voice
was calm, and rational and confident, "then you will need whatever
it is that Frito's got in his case to get me there.  And you had
better pray it works fast."  Oh fuck, oh Jesus and Mary, Mother of
God.  Frito started to lunge but Marion was in motion and suddenly
had one hand, steady and hard on the wheel.  Cooke's shriek, and
Averman's curse together didn't cover Mulder's soft laugh.  "It's
okay, I'm not taking us off the road."  Frito flattened himself
against the seat and tried to believe that.  He couldn't see
Averman past Mulder, but the car had barely twitched.

     "Just one detour.  I don't care who you send me to after
that."  Not so calm now.  Not begging, but asking so hard.
"Please, Averman.  Please.  I didn't want to do this. . . we can't
let him. . . he's already taken the next one, Averman.  I can't let
you throw her life away like that because you want me to go see
some shrink this morning.  The shrink can wait.  Please turn
around. I can tell you exactly where to go."

     Sam's hands were shaking.  The world flashed by at sixty-five
and they'd never stop in time if Spooky yanked the wheel.  Mulder
sprawled between the seats, the tape box gouging his ribs, but his
hand was steady and he watched the road and waited for Averman
to decide what their next move was going to be.

     Finally, slowly, he nodded and started to tap the brake, pull
over to a U-turn in the center of the highway.  Mulder let himself
collapse in relief between the seats, breathing hard with the
tension he'd let go.  He stayed there until they had turned and
were going back, then pulled himself back into the back seat.
Looked at Frito and sadly closed the briefcase, took it away from
him and put it on the floor.  Sam stared at him, shocked and numb.
Francis curled into a corner of the back seat and watched Frito,
Cooke, and the passing landscape, with eyes lost beyond all hope.
 
 
 

     Red dirt in crumbling, cracked flats flanked the rutted excuse
for a road.  Averman's bureau buggy had struggled and bobbed to
get this far, and seemed relieved to sit, ticking over, in the crushing
light that ground the young soy fields into wilted wreckage.

     Averman hit the release for the locks, and Mulder was out of
the car an instant later.  The AIC and Frito emerged more slowly,
gingerly picking a path across fractured, treacherous fields of
sun-baked plates on mud, marred by Francis' heedless footsteps.
Cooke didn't budge from the safe, almost cool interior of the car.

     Marion's white shirt was painfully bright out there, tall and
scarecrow-thin where heat ripples distorted him a few hundred
yards into the fields.  A moment later he had sunk into the earth
itself, and the two men following him broke into a run, stumbling as
the soil gave under their feet.

     They found him in the irrigation ditch, bent, with his hands
braced on his knees.  Frito feared for a moment that he'd been sick
again, would collapse.  Then he saw the body reflected in the
mirrors of his friend's shades.  Let his eyes trail down the ditch,
to see the shallow, muddy fluid disturbed by what should never
have been there.

     The child looked like a hillock of mud at first, her body
coated as the sudden water had taken her, then yielded her back up
the night before.  Frito could hear Marion's feet dragged from the
sucking mud, then splashing back in as he carefully, slowly worked
his way up the ditch to her side.  Little speckles of mud marred
his shirt, his suit pants, as he stood and rolled his sleeves.  His
face was expressionless when he leaned down to roll her over.  The
glasses flashed sun into their eyes when he looked up at them,
straightened, threw his head back and screamed.  Screamed again,
letting it fade into hard, sobbing breaths.  Sam almost felt,
rather than heard, Averman gulp next to him.  Mulder's face wasn't
expressionless anymore.

     "She's been here.  She's been alone since last night.  We
stood there and let him kill her.  We told him he could kill her.
We told him we *wanted* him to."  The sentences rode breathless,
dry sobs that wracked his chest and shook his shoulders.

     "Calm down, Mulder."  Averman's voice had the soothing note
Sam had heard the night before.  A note Sam needed right then as
surely as Marion.  Averman held a hand out at the edge of the
ditch.  "Come out of there. I'll need to get the evidence team down
there.  Best you don't stir it up any more."

     Mulder's face pulled, forehead furrowed, teeth digging into
his lower lip as he choked on the sobs of grief.  Sam could barely
hear him.  "We lost her. . . I lost her again. . . I'm so sorry. .
. I lost her again."  Averman glanced at Frito, as much as asking
what the hell to do now.  Sam shut his eyes, sucked in air that
hurt and burned, a solid mass that bruised his chest.  Opened his
eyes and stepped forward, letting the edge crumble and send him
sliding down the bank to splash into filthy water and the sound of
flies.  Tried to ignore the crayfish he could see crawling across
the body, ignore the reflections in Marion's glasses, fixed on what
could only be a child's poor clay, abandoned in this lonely place.

     "Francis. . . Francis.  C'mere."  Wrapped an arm around his
friend's back, half dragging him to the edge.  He could feel the
ribs through the thin material, feel the trembling as each breath
shook the man.  Francis reached a dazed hand up to take Averman's,
and was pulled out of the ditch, with Sam guiding his feet safely
up the crumbling bank.  He stood, still dazed, staring across the
flats while Averman helped Rodriguez, too.  A glance back at the
poor thing who could not be helped out of the mud, out of the
slough.

     Averman and Rodriguez each took a thin, lean arm and guided
Mulder back across the fields, slowly retracing their paths under
a sun that lashed sweat from them, scorched their vision into a
white blur, but that would, inevitably, give way to darkness.
Little tremors ran through Francis every so often, shivering his
muscles, but he let them draw him back to the car.  Let them get
him into the back, carefully guarding his head so it wouldn't
strike the door as he got in.

     He stared back across the field they'd left, silent, face
pulled into a private grief as Averman called it in and carefully
pulled them away.  The whine of the air conditioner announced the
cooler air pumped into the car, but there was no relief to be had.
Cooke stared at them, looked away fast, and kept his mouth shut
despite the smell of mud and death that clung to them all.

     And finally, the car bumped onto blacktop, the tires droned up
to speed, the world rushed away again in a long, washed-out blur
with Oklahoma City at its end.  But Mulder's eyes were still back
there, on a field and a ditch and a shape that broke the water that
should have been still and flat.
 
 
 
 

     It was eight stories up, a large office, furnished in dark
cherry and mahogany furniture, in brocade and tapestries.  When
Averman went to the receptionist's desk, they were shown back
immediately, no waiting.  The room was large, with a view of
downtown Oklahoma City a view of a sprawling city of green trees
and springs and rolling little hills.

     Their shoes left a trail of mud on the rich carpeting,
mud that had seen a young girl die.  Common dirt and water mixed,
obscene and holy against the plush backdrop of an office of
psychiatry. Mulder stood by the window looking out.  He did not
stop his perusal when someone came in, as conversation swirled
around him.  He heard Averman talking to someone.  He heard Sam.
He heard them leave.

     The hand was gentle.

     Mulder did not turn.

     "I like watching the hills," the voice behind him said.

     Mulder said nothing.

     "Agent Mulder, please come and sit down."

     "Why?  So you can tell them that I'm experiencing severe PTSD?
That I hallucinate and get angry easily?  That I'm having fucking
flashbacks?"

     "Is that what's happening?"

     Mulder put a hand to the window, pressed against it.   "No.
But that's not what you'll tell them."

     "You don't know me.  You don't know what I'll say."  The voice
was intelligent and educated, but it carried a trace of spanish
in its deep baritone lilt.  Frito was fluent in three languages and
his voice carried no trace of an accent in any of them unless he
wanted it to.

     "I know what you'll say."

     "Because you're a psychologist and you know what categories
your behavior falls into?"

     "Yes."

     "You probably find this more frightening than an untrained
person."

     Mulder did not respond.  It was an opening.  Too deliberate.
Too easy for Guiterriez to get the answers he sought.

     "If you want to stay there and look at the city a while, all
right.  I'll wait until you want to talk."  Guiterriez went away.

     Mulder looked at the city.

     He lost track of the time, staring at the vehicles, watching
them until a building hid them, watching the sky pass over head.
Watching the city, the skyline, the people and the streets he did
not have to think about the girl.  He replayed and replayed the
day's events, trying to find some way he could have saved her,
something he could have said.  Instead he'd played by the rules,
done what the FBI said.  Oh Fuck his career anyway.  A little girl
was dead now and he'd known and just sat there quietly.

     He heard the knock, heard Guiterriez talking to someone.
Recognized Averman.  And then Averman went away.  Realized he
must have been standing in front of the window for over an hour.
Realized what this meant about Guiterriez.

     He turned.  "You cleared your schedule for me?"

     Guiterriez shrugged.  "If I need to."

     Mulder stared at him.  "You shouldn't do that."

     "Why not?"

     "I'm just one patient."

     "But you're the patient who needs me right now."

     "I don't need you."

     Guiterriez nodded.  He wasn't going to fight.   "Your friends
are worried about you."

     Mulder turned back to the city, abandoned it after a few
minutes more.  He kept seeing faces in the glass.  "Frito was born
worried," he said,  still staring out the window.

     "Would you like to sit down?"

     "All the seats are lower than your chair."

     "Never take a psychologist as a patient."  Guiterriez was a
big man, not fat, just tall and big muscled, with a neatly trimmed
beard over his round face, and reading glasses that sat halfway
down his nose.  He picked up his pad of paper, a thin folder, and
a tape recorder, moved from his seat in a desk chair to a love
seat, spread himself out over the love seat.  "They know all the
tricks.  There?  Satisfied, Mr. FBI?"

     Mulder turned and sat down on the loveseat across from
Guiterriez.  There was a pile of mud where he had stood, like what
a ghost might leave in a story you tell your kids on Halloween.
*Halloween fires. Jump over the coals!*

     "Have you ever been in therapy?"

     "I. . .when I was a kid, and then a couple of times when
policy mandated it."

     Guiterriez nodded, turned the tape recorder on.

     Mulder swallowed.  "Can we come to an understanding?"

     Guiterriez considered him.  "I don't know.  Can we?"

     "If I tell you some things, you won't lock me away.  I know
what reality is.  I'm not psychotic.  I'm not going to hurt myself
or hurt anyone else, I promise you that."  He leaned forward.
Cursing himself for wanting to tell anything, almost leaping out
of his skin at wanting to tell someone and have them listen, listen
and understand what it felt like, what he felt like, what seeing
that body that hadn't been there yesterday had done to him.

     "I can't promise you. I can tell you that if you tell me
things I won't tell anyone, not even your friends."

     Mulder rubbed his eyes.  "That's not good enough."  Never
mind.  He would go through the spiel.  Make this short.  Give the
good explanations that would get him back in the field. It didn't
matter.  It really didn't matter.  Tell the lies that made everyone
happy with him.

     "Agent Mulder, there are two good hospitals in Oklahoma City.
Right now, I'm contemplating them both.  Trying to decide which one
to send you to."

     Mulder looked up, color draining from his face.  The man
sitting in front of him wasn't bluffing.

     "Now, I want you talk to me and tell me the truth, but I can't
make promises like that.  I know you're hurting.  And it's obvious
to me from the way you came in here and just stood there, staring
at the city that whatever's going on it's hitting pretty deep."

     Mulder shrank back against the pillow.  "I'm not. . .I'm
okay."

     "Don't feed me whatever line you've been feeding your friends.
Tell me the truth.  I'm not the overworked MSWs the Bureau hires.
I'm not some sweet kiddie psychologist like whatever ones your
parents sent you to.  I work with disturbed adults.  I'm not going
to accept any lies."

     Mulder wrapped his arms around his chest, nodded, closed his
eyes.  The lies wouldn't work.  He was dealing with a man with at
least Mulder's own intelligence and training and twenty years of
dealing with emotionally disturbed adults.  He was dealing with
someone who did not suffer his fools lightly.  He was dealing
with someone who would not be bluffed.  In some strange, almost
masochistic way he nearly welcomed it, even as he felt panic
bursting in his chest and the warning that this man could destroy
him, destroy everything.  And he would never be allowed to find the
truth.
 
 
 

     The fragile little corpse before him was quiet.  She had been
shot once, at the base of her neck, and died.  The bullet had been
cut out.  And then the killer had cut out her eyes.  And cut off
her ears.  He'd taken her child's nipples.  He'd left her naked,
except for some pink ribbon barrettes.  Hand made barrettes that
had fluttered in her clear blonde hair.  Sam imagined some young
mother sliding them into her daughter's hair that morning, sending
her out to play, never dreaming that the monsters were swarming,
swarming and licking their chops.  They found the poem stuffed up
her vagina.  Sam could tell on this one.  She had been a pretty
little eight year old.  Someone had fucked her fairly often in the
past.

     Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
     In death's dream kingdom
     Those do not appear
     There, the eyes are
     Sunlight on a broken column
     There, is a tree swinging
     And voices are
     In the wind's singing
     More distant and more solemn
     Than a fading star.

     A tiny scrap of poetry.

     He stripped his gloves, went out of the room.  Prayed to Mary
that the child would come to her now, that it would be all right
and Mary would help Francis.
 
 
 

     Mulder and Averman were sitting in a tiny lounge.  Rodriguez
came in, got himself a cup of coffee.  Mulder's eyes were vaguely
glazed over.  Valium will have that effect, he reminded himself and
quietly sat with them.

     "Are you done?" Mulder asked.  "They wouldn't let me down to
see the body."

     'They' was Averman and whom ever had been with him.  "How
did
the meeting with Guiterriez go?" Sam asked softly.

     Mulder smiled.  Sipped his coffee.  "I'm a fucking nut case
and I need a nice long stay someplace where there are lots of
people there to protect me."

     Averman caught Sam's eye and nodded.

     "They can't prove involuntary yet," Mulder finished, staring
at Sam.  "What was the poetry?"

     Sam glanced at Averman, who shrugged.

     "What did he say we need to do?" he asked Averman.

     "Keep him quiet.  Never let him alone."

     "God knows.  I might fucking eat my gun or solve this case.
What was the fucking poetry, Frito?"

     Sam sighed, fished around in his pocket for a copy.

     Mulder scanned it in a matter of seconds.  "A short snatch
shoved into a short snatch.  He didn't tell us anything.  Shit."
Mulder put his head down on the scarred table.  A technician came
in got her coffee, watched the three strangers.

     "How badly was she scarred?"  Mulder asked.

     "I'd guess there had been anal and vaginal penetration several
times," Sam told him.  "Not the killer.  Nothing new."

     "Momma had a boyfriend.  Boyfriend didn't have a job so he
babysat," Mulder said numbly.  "Were there hair ribbons or a
necklace?"

     "Hair ribbons."  The technician stared, figured out what they
were talking about. Her face went white and she left.

     "Momma didn't give them to her.  He did.  He told her about
Jesus and told her that he would take her to see Jesus. He was kind
and gentle and he took her to Dairy Queen and he didn't hit her.
She thought he was her daddy."  Mulder closed his eyes, weary
beyond all mention.  He leaned back in his chair and for the first
time Sam saw that his holster was empty.  He glanced at Averman
who shook his head.  "He took the other body, another little girl out
somewhere and buried it.  We'll find it when we find the first
body, no doubt.  Our little girl was in the car and she played
with a Barbie doll he'd bought her.  Happiest days of her entire
five years were four days riding around in the car of a serial
killer.  And she knew what he was going to do, but she was so
happy, because he was taking her to Jesus.

     "Who is the third who walks always beside you?
     When I count, there are only you and I together
     But when I look ahead up the white road
     There is always another one walking beside you
     Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
     I do not know whether a man or a woman
     --But who is that on the other side of you?"

     Mulder's voice was soft, gentle.  "Momma hasn't reported her
missing because she thinks the boyfriend killed her.  And in a way
he did.  He sold her to the killer for some money.  Probably enough
to get his car fixed and get out of town."

     He swirled the coffee in his cup.  "He's not here anymore.
He's in Ashton.  I don't know.  Probably a boy first."  Mulder
swallowed.  "Is Oklahoma City a big enough city to accommodate
fetishes?  Have dungeons?"

     "Why do you want to know?" Averman asked.

     "Because I want to go get spanked."  Mulder grinned.  "Do you
remember I asked for a list of drifters killed?  He was. . .he used
to like being spanked or being given enemas, something like that.
. . it was one thing someone used to do. . .It could have happened
in Tulsa, I guess."

     "What about Dallas?" Sam asked sharply.  "I know there are
several places like that in Dallas."

     Mulder glanced at Sam, smiled.  "Yeah.  He could have visited
Dallas.  Do I want to know *how* you know that?"

     "What?  It's not like I'm going to fuck you."

     "Oh right.  I see the way you eye my butt.  You dream about
slamming me in the rump.  Admit it.  You have raging wet dreams
about fucking the Fox."

     "Don't confuse your fantasies with mine. Just because you want
a piece of the old Sammiester doesn't mean I want anything to do
with your sick, VD-ridden, chocolate canal."

     "Dream on.  Me?  Want that shrivelled up piece of manhood?
You're lucky you married an Anglo, Frito, you swaggering piece of
Spanish machismo.  Any good Hispanic girl would have laughed
herself silly the moment you dropped your drawers and showed her
that one eyed reptile."

     "Oh right.  And you're any different?  Yeah, I know most
people think you're really well hung, but I think it's some kind of
falsies for dicks.  You go swimming and come out and nothing's
shrunk.  That's fucking impossible.  Your balls should be crawling
straight up your ass and instead there's a wad the size of a
fucking softball."

     Mulder grinned.  "You want to go skinny dipping and see?"

     "Hah.  You *are* interested in me.  I got you, Francis."

     "Oh yeah.  And I also want to dress up in a skirt and hose and
wear my mommy's make up."

     "Oh, bucking to be director now that the slot is open?"

     "Somebody has to fill those pumps."

     "Excuse me."  Averman's voice cut through their banter.  "Can
we get back to the case?"

     Sam grinned broadly.  "What?  Hitting a little close to home
Averman?"

     "I draw the line at menage a trois and I haven't been able to
fit into a girdle in years," Averman replied easily.  "So you're
saying he what?  He took someone home and killed them?"

     "Umm. . .yeah.  A night of buttbeating or water up the old
sphincter and he killed him.  I don't think he meant to.  He feels
guilty about killing the guy."

     "But not about the kids?" Averman asked, watching him.

     Mulder shook his head.  "He figures he's doing the kids a
favor and preaching to the unsaved all at one time."

     "Is this guy a minister?"

     Mulder stared at Averman.  "I already told you, his father was
the minister."

     "What is he?"

     Mulder shrugged, did not answer.  His drug filled eyes were
dull with exhaustion.  "He has money.  He doesn't have a formal
education, but he made lots of money," he said wearily.  "Can we go
take our nap, Frito, or do I have to seduce Cooke?"

     Sam smiled, but his heart raced with fear that Mulder was
asking to go, asking and not making up some excuse.

     Averman sighed and the look he gave Sam explained a lot.
Francis had very nearly come apart in Guiterriez' office.

     "Yeah.  Come on.  You're the only thing I've got since Jenni
cut me off."

     Mulder rose wearily, staring at nothing.  "All right.  But I'm
on top today."

Continued in part 9...............
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 9/41 NC-17
Date: 29 Jan 1996 04:09:54 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 9/41)
By Amperage and Livengoo
Copyright October, 1995

Housekeeping note: For those who couldn't find Oklahoma 6, I did post it
but forgot to number it. It's the Oklahoma with no numbers after the
title. Sorry about that.
Goo
 

International Readers:  No third season spoilers
Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

_______________________

     Marion relaxed back into the seat, closed his eyes.  Frito
turned the ignition and debated locking the doors, but decided not
to add insult to injury.  The city streets were lined with
cottonwoods the cool green of human intervention, but the land's
true desolation reasserted itself as they left the city limits.

     Dusty flats had surrounded them a long time when Marion's
voice startled Frito from the boredom of the drive out to the
motel.  "Frito, you actually believe in God, don't you."  It might
have been a question.  It might not.  Rodriguez paused, long and
long, wondered at it, finally nodded.

     "Yes.  I don't believe in God the way I was taught, but I
believe there is a God."

     "I'm afraid to believe in God."  The voice was a pale whisper,
dry as the dust in the air.  Sam waited, half-hoped for more, but
the silence held and only the engine spoke, until finally they
pulled in and even that fell quiet.  Marion seemed to shake himself
back from wherever he'd been as Sam got out of the car.  He moved
slowly, carefully, as though things wouldn't stay where he thought
they were.  He jumped when Sam slammed his car door, closed his
own so softly it barely caught.

     Rodriguez kept Francis in the corner of his eye as he turned
and started for the stairs, made certain his friend was following
before he started up the step.  The cool dark of the rooms was
a haven, and Francis seemed half-asleep already.  Frito paused to
see if he'd pull his own jacket off, not wanting to have to treat
Marion like a child.  Breathed a sigh when Francis stripped of the
jacket and kicked off his shoes. He didn't sprawl in sleep, relaxed
and comfortable.  He pulled into the center of the bed, lying on
his side with knees drawn up and arms crossed over his chest.
Frito watched until his breathing had settled into an even rhythm,
and his face smoothed into enigma.

     Sam left the door open when he retreated to his own room,
praying from habit, from lack of a better option, that Francis
would rest easy and peaceful at least for this afternoon.  He
almost couldn't dial Jenni's number.  He wanted to hear her voice
so badly, he was so afraid she might not be there.  When she
answered, his vision blurred.

     "Hi.  It's me."

     "Sam!"  She sounded. . .like home.  He heard her laugh, and he
drew a shaky, painful breath.  Suddenly she was still on the other
end.

     "Sam?  Are you all right baby?"  He tried to answer, but the
sniff caught him, and the sob deep in his throat, and tears were
rolling down his face and he missed her. . .oh. . .so. . .much.
"Oh god, baby."  Her voice was an appalled whisper.  "What is it,
honey?  What's happened?  Are you hurt?"

     He wanted to tell her, wanted to stop, to be a man, to
reassure her, but the sobs were shaking him and they hurt, they
hurt.  He tried to hang up, but he couldn't get his hand to let go
of the phone, and her little sounds of comfort drew the pain like
poison out of his soul.  Samuel Alvarez Rodriguez curled onto his
bed, around a pillow, listening to his wife's voice, and sobbed
until his eyes were dry and his ribs were sore, and he couldn't cry
any more.  And Jenni listened, and she was there.

     When the sobs had stopped wracking him, and she could hear him
gulping air instead of sucking it in painful, whistling breaths,
could hear him blow his nose and picture him unwinding in
exhaustion, she tried again.  "Sam, baby, are you all right?  Is
Fox all right?  Are. . . " but the catch in his breathing told her.

     "Oh god, Sam.  Oh god, is he dead?"

     "No."  He could hear something creak as she shifted, knew
she'd heard even that whisper.  "No, Jenni.  Fox isn't dead, but.
. . "  what did you say?  How did you tell your wife that your
partner was going mad, was hearing the poetry of insanity, and
following a killer's voice.  Or, worse, was not going insane.

     "Sam, tell me.  Are you hurt?"  He smiled and the smile was
painful on his face.

     "No.  I'm okay.  Nothing like that, no, not like that at all."

     "Then what?  Honey, I'll get the next flight. . . "  Did he
want her here?  Did he?  A snatch of Marion's Eliot flitted through
his mind.  Did he want her 'In the circles of the stormy moon'?
The words drove a shudder through him.

     "No.  No.  I'm sorry, I didn't want to worry you. . ."

     "Sam. . . "

     "I. . .needed to hear you so much.  Jenni, I love you so
much."

     "You're scaring me, Sam.  Are you sure you're all right?
Where are you right now?"

     "I'm in my room Jenni."  Calmer now, at the still point of the
turning world.  "Marion. . . Fox, is asleep.  He's. . . this case
is really getting to him.  He's having a lot of trouble on this
one."  Her long, sympathetic sigh told him of an understanding that
she couldn't possibly have.

     "You poor thing.  Both of you.  It's got to be really hell.
He's got you to talk to, but you. . . I can ask Daddy. . . "

     "No.  No, I just needed to hear you, Jenni.  I needed to know
you're there, you'll be there, and you won't change.  I need. . .
"  He bit his lip, couldn't find words that weren't sobs.  She let
him lie there, and just breathed for him, was just there for him.

     "Sam.  You said you can't come home yet.  I. . . this must be
important to you.  I'm here.  I'll be here when you come home.
I'll be here. I love you.  I love you."

     "Jenni, I want to go to sleep now, but I don't want to hang
up.  Can you just. . . "

     "Baby, it's on the FBI's bill, and they owe us for this one."
The chuckle in her voice made him finally smile.  And she crooned
to him as he slid into a darkness barely less haunted than the one
that held Fox Mulder.
 
 
 

     The sound of a door opening rocketed him from sleep into a
panic-stricken wakefulness.  Dark, and the soft sound of motion in
the next room and Sam remembered why his heart slammed against
his ribs and his throat clutched in terror.  Lunged off the bed and to
his own door.  He slammed it open, into the wall, and nearly scared
Mulder into a heart attack.

     "What the fuck are you doing, Frito!"  Marion's hands were up
in a defensive stance, and his shirt fluttered with frightened
panting.  "Shit-cock-sucking-mother-fucking. . .  Do you mind?"  A
door on the other side opened, and Averman stepped out, the light
from his door brilliant in the dusk.

     "Where are you going, Marion?"  Sam looked him up and down,
took in sneakers, running shorts, FBI Academy T-shirt.

     "Cruising for real men, Frito.  What the fuck does it look
like?  I was going for a run.  Now I'm going for CPR."  He took a
visible breath, puffed it out, and turned to the walk away.  Frito
stepped out, blocking him one way while Averman blocked the other.

     "Why don't you give it a pass tonight, Mulder."  Spooky
turned, a long measuring look at Averman.

     "I'm not giving it a pass, *sir*, because I want to go for a
run."

     "It's been a rough day, Francis. . ."  Frito tried to make
peace, keep him quiet.  "Why don't you wait until morning?"

     Mulder's eyes were wide and black in the gloom.  "I'm going
running because I want to go running."  A tone he'd use to explain
to a five year old.  "Because I'm bored.  I want to run and think.
It relaxes me.  And I'm not under involuntary and I'm not under
arrest."  Averman stepped towards him, seeing Sam flinch at the
words.

     "That's not called for, son. . ."

     "Fuck.  You.  Sir."  Mulder turned a flat glare on Averman.
"I'm going running.  Sir.  It's still legal to go running.  Sir.
You want, you can come with me, but get out of my way."  Hard and
low and final.  Averman was not about to pick a fist fight with
Mulder, particularly over such a stupid topic.

     "Give me a minute, son.  You run, Sam?"  Frito shook his
head.

     "Nah, I think Neil Armstrong's right.  We got only a limited
number of heartbeats in our lives, and I won't waste mine running.
That's why I have a wife, but Francis only has Rosie Palmer, so he
runs."  Thank God Marion grinned at that, relaxed and let Averman
get changed.  The AIC came out in an old shirt and shorts that
announced a prior incarnation as a Marine.  Tossed his car keys to
Frito.

     "Here, pace car in case I need a pick up."  Marion snorted,
gave Averman a look of pure exasperation, but let it pass.  Frito
closed his door, and followed them down, caught up a tenth of a
mile down the road, where he cruised at a crawl with his flashers
on and totally frustrated the drivers desperate to get out of
Oklahoma's "natural beauty" as quickly as possible.

     For the first three miles, Averman kept up pretty well.  Right
turn at two miles.  Marion was probably planning eight miles.  The
young man ran steadily, but Frito could see Averman was flagging by
the end of the fourth mile out, with four back ahead of him.  Frito
smiled and tapped the wheel, expecting company on the ride back.
Five miles out and the AIC was laboring visibly, while Mulder ran
like a machine, mindless, steady, pounding miles without any real
attention to anything around him.  When Mulder suddenly slowed
and stopped, Frito shook his head in exasperation.  Show off, running
Averman out.  So impressive, running out a man thirty years his
senior.  At least he was finally taking a rest.

     It wasn't until he pulled up abreast that Frito realized
Mulder wasn't resting.  He wasn't folded over his knees, catching
his breath, he probably didn't even know Averman wasn't with him
any more.  Mulder was staring at the horizon, lips moving as if he
was reading, tasting the words, not saying them.  He spun, scanned
back along the way they'd come, spotting the hotel's lights.  And
cut straight across the flat, hard-pan surface, running flat out.

     "Shit!  Guadalupe hidalgo. . ."  Sam breathed prayers and
curses under his breath as he whipped the car back around in a
three point turn and waited, cursing, for Averman to tumble into
the passenger seat.  Tore back to a right angled turn, whipped in,
driving slowly, looking for a pale man in navy blue shorts and
shirt, running.  Not much to say to each other besides curses, just
drive, slowly, hating the cars that blinded them with oncoming
brights, hating the ones that tore past with horns blaring, hating
Mulder and looking for him.  And it was full dark out here.  They
reached the hotel, tumbled out, looking back now that the lights of
traffic didn't dazzle directly, trying to see a tall, young man.
Sam scrambled up the stairs while Averman paced along the parking
lot, trying to see.  Sam fumbled his keys, finally got the lock,
was throwing himself past the corner of his bed and reaching for
the phone when he stopped.  Realized he heard tapping keys, a
voice.  Froze and felt the rich surge of fury in his gut.

     He held himself, held so hard and still.  Then he went to get
Averman, to keep himself from walking in and beating Fox Francis
Marion fucking Mulder to a pulp.  Averman stared at him when Sam
stalked up.

     "He's inside."

     A long pause.  "What?"

     "He beat us back.  He's in there.  He's typing."

     "But. . ."

     "You'd better talk to him, Jack.  If I try to talk to him I'm
gonna kill him."  Frito knew it wasn't reasonable.  He tried to
choke it down, breathing fast with the effort, but all that fear
and worry and. . .and. . . and Francis was here.  Talking to
himself.  Typing.  Frito was going to kill him if he walked in
there just then.  "I'll stay out here a few minutes.  Go talk to
him." Averman studied Rodriguez, thought about it.  Was profoundly
thankful that these two were based in D.C. and nowhere near his
home in Oklahoma City.

     Mulder looked up at him with fever-shining eyes when he heard
Averman's heavy step.  He couldn't sit still, couldn't sit at all.
Was standing, hunched over the keyboard, fingers flying and no care
for spelling or anything so long as he could read most of it.

     "He saves them, Averman.  He saves them.  Sends them to Jesus,
but their bodies, their bodies are in the wasteland, but that's too
obvious, not right."

     "Slow down, Mulder.  What are you talking about?"

     "What the thunder said, Averman.

     'Here is no water but only rock
     Rock and no water and the sandy road
     The road winding above among the mountains of rock without
          water
     If there were water we should stop and drink
     Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
     Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
     If there were only water amongst the rock"

     His voice growled with emphasis, distracted and desperate as
he typed.  "They aren't saved, Averman.  They can't taste the
water.  They're among the rocks. . .

     Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot
          spit
     Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
     There is not even silence in the mountains
     But dry sterile thunder without rain
     There is not even solitude in the mountains
     But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
     From doors of mudcracked houses

     If. .  .there. . . were. . water"

Spooky's voice trailed as he stood, frozen, over the keys.
Rodriguez was standing behind Averman now, no longer angry, just
staring.  Averman heard him swallow, saw him calmly walk into his
room and heard him open the briefcase.

     Mulder looked up, eyes glazed and reflecting the lights of the
room.

     "What is that sound high in the air
     Murmur of maternal lamentation
     Who are those hooded hordes swarming
     Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
     Ringed by the flat horizon only
     What is the city over the mountains"

     Frito was back, syringe loaded, watching Marion with sad,
lonely eyes, letting him finish.  Mulder's eyes tracked places that
had nothing to do with an ordinary, slightly shabby motel room
outside of Oklahoma City.

     "In this decayed hole among the mountains
     In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
     Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
     There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
     It has no windows, and the door swings,
     Dry bones can harm no one."

     He paused again, so long they thought he'd done.  His eyes
slowly, slowly came closer, almost back to them, but then his voice
whispered to them. . .

     "I have heard the key
     Turn in the door once and turn once only
     We think of the key, each in his prison
     Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
     Only at nightfall, aethereal
          rumours
     Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus."

     He shut his eyes, and staggered, braced on the table in front
of him.  Sam Rodriguez, tears slowly staining his dark face,
stepped forward and found muscle, above the hip.  His friend barely
twitched as the barrel of Valium slowly forced him back towards an
empty, peaceful void.
 
 
 

     Mulder had typed a name.  Ashton.  A description.  Averman
stared at the writing.  Glanced up to the man lying unconscious,
quiet.  He looked too young to be what he was.  He looked too
young. . .

     Rodriguez sat in one of the chairs, slumped, staring blankly
at his friend.  He and Averman had almost had to pick Mulder up,
carry him to the bed.  Like the night in the rain, whatever drove
him had left him drained, exhausted.  Sam's face was almost as
young, vulnerable, when he glanced back at Averman.

     "Does it make any sense?  Is it gibberish?"  Averman could
hear the listless resignation.  Looked back at the paper and felt
fear thrill into him.  Looked up at Sam.

     "It makes sense, Sam.  Here."  He handed the sheet over.
Watched Sam carefully sit up, reading it.  The color drained from
his face.

     "Oh my God.  Oh my God."  He looked up.  Averman couldn't say
it, didn't have to.  If Mulder's raving made sense, it wasn't
raving.  It was truth.  An ancient dread, from nights when men used
fires to drive back the spirits sang there, under the electric
lights.

     And Mulder kept silent, drugged company with his ghosts.
 
 
 

     Averman got them take out food for supper.  He sent his
apologies through Cooke, who went and ate with some other agents,
and Sam knew that they'd be just as happy to have one meal without
Spooky Mulder.  Four men who hadn't asked to be taken on a ride
into the spirit lands, who thought this was investigative work,
logical and complete unto itself.

     Mulder was still asleep, spread out among the pillows like a
dead Christ waiting for annunciation and for Mary to come with her
tears.  But Mary had already come once.  Sam pulled off his
friend's shoes, covered him with the other edge of the hotel
spread.

     When they got to Ashton, they would have to deal with locals.
The thought of Mulder out there, of the local police watching
Mulder lose it, frightened Sam.  He swallowed.  Closed his eyes.
Every day it got worse.  Every day Mulder was losing more of his
sanity, letting something else slip by him.  He remembered taking
Mulder to Guiterriez, watching Mulder go to the window and become
oblivious.  This afternoon, no calm relaxing, no baseball game.
He'd gone to the center of the bed and tucked himself fetal.  This
morning, Mulder's look, throwing himself forward, taking over the
steering wheel.  And that scene with the little girl.  Mulder
hadn't been there, he'd been screaming and apologizing to someone
not present.  Someone who held a belt, someone who made him
responsible for every fucking bad thing.

     Oh God.  What world was this?

     It was the world of the dead and the priests.  The mystics and
the nuns in their quiet black robes before Vatican II.  Oil of
anointing and ash.  Once there had been a place for men who moved
in dreams, whose voices whispered of things unseen.  They would
have been called prophets and have had women sent to them, to be
sure they bathed, to call in strong men when they went into passion
and fits.

     Sam hugged his arms around himself and thought, whether to
Aunt Tia or himself, or even Mulder, he didn't care to know.  We
give them Thorazine and put them where we cannot see.  Science has
outstripped the Myth and made it unlovely.  Men like Francis have
no place in our world.  Latin.  Once the church had reverenced
itself in Latin, in the ancient and the mysterious.  Tia Rosa,
whispering to herself in the time worn tongue, praying for the
babies who had died in her womb.  Latin, with a sweet smell of
incense and the dark of polished woods against sweating stone.  But
now there was no latin and the churches were bright.  The priests
were no longer mysterious, no longer unworldly in their long black
robes.  No longer does one kneel in confessional, staring at the
darkened screen.

     Tia Rosa and the beads clicking against her fingers.  Her
mouth moving in diligent prayer.  She would have known, before
they laid her to sleep with her rosary and her Bible, dressed in her
black widow's dress and her mantilla of handwoven lace.  She would
have seen his eyes and known.  Known he was haunted with the
power of God, doing holy work. `When he speaks with God, he cannot
see himself.'  Her voice was warm on his ear.  Sam looked up.  Francis
was making tiny smacking noises in his sleep.

     We send them to psychiatrists and hold them down for
injections to send them into darkness.

     Sam picked up the report and reread it.

     "Subjects is in Aston.  He lived in Ashton when they first
     came here, travelling across the dust and the dirta nd anever
     knowing what theyr father was going to say.  Momma was dead,
     the cancer came and took her in ther sleep and her face was
     like waxen slil.  and srosepetals.  When she died poppas face
     closed up tight and the children felt fear grow ni their
     harts.

     The knew what had happened.  Everyone knew.  His father's
     fingers hard against the little boys penis, his fingers deep
     in the sweet soft anus, breath heavy and the boy crying and
     not knowing."

     Sam looked up.  Mulder's right hand was open, fingers curled.
A casual invitation like that of God's.  His scrotum tightened.
He felt the breath come harsh across his mouth, dry like desert
winds.

     "He told them stories abvout Harvard.  His tongue was thick
     and the scotch whiskey always burned eligha when it went down.

     Ariel stole it for them.  They drank it so their father would
     not hurt.  And so it would not matter.

     So they drove across the painted sky and across the fields and
     theough the towns.  Elijah stared at the chldren ad wondered
     if they knew the feel of their father's dick as it slid in and
     thraobbed and you screamed but he did not hear you and the
     little ones were asleep in the back room.  He saw ones who
     knew and they stared at each other, as their worlds slid past
     each other, resolute.

     Their cousin was a tall man.  Elijah had not known he was
     Indian.  Eastern towns with tall trees and friends and his
     mother ad graduated Radcliffe.  Harvard Divinity SChool, that
     was Daddy's realm.

     His aunt held him down and gave him enemas, gave them to all
     the children, said they were good, Elijah saw his father's
     look.  He was clean now when he turned around and he did not
     scream, feeling the forbidden whiskey course in his veins.  He
     only screamed when Uncle beat Ariel for stealing whiskey to
     make it through the nights.

     Ariel. . .Ariel did not see the rock.  Cleft the rock and
     water will pour out.  Reverend Coop preached the funeral.
     Father cried for the first time."

     Sam swallowed, tried to think, tried to move someplace past a
small house and tortures done to children because they had the
audacity to be born.  Oh Tia Rosa.  Can you pray for him in heaven
Tia Rosa?

     "Reverand Coop prayed with his father and they spent long
     nights on their knees and the whiskey was forbidden and Elijah
     had to steal.

     They travelled in a tent.

     the heathen are come into thine inheritance
     and the tympel have they defiled

     His father held the bible in one hand and his white shirts
     dripped sweat.  He never touched another child.  But for
     Elijah and SArah, and Nehamiah, and Rebecca.  Elijah wanted
     his father to do him, but he got too tall and dark hairs
     curled in his forbidden places.  Reverend Coop caught him
     stroking his penis one night and beat him until he could
     not stand.

     The tents rippled under hot oklahmoa suns and his father told
     about the idoltary of the over educated.  Sodom and Gomorrah
     were aomng the college boys.  Here there were good, simple
     people, and he had been saved.

     But at night his father read them Eliot.  His mother had read
     it aloud over their cribs.  Insteadof nursery rhymes.
     disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose petals.  It was his
     kindest voice, his gentlest self.  It was the only good thing
     left.

     The hair was dark and he hated it.  He went to Reverend Coop
     and Reverend Coop taught him about the love of men.

     Rebekkah cried when their father took her.  Cried and cried
     and stopped eating.  Elijah kept her with him, when he could.
     When he got dark hairs his father didn't want him anymore.  He
     wanted the other ones. and the reality between the motion and
     the act falls the Shadow

     Nehamiah found their uncles rifle and two sobs stopped one
     night.  The police said it was an accident.  Elijah failed
     them both.  He lay on top of the graves at night, so far from
     his mother's sweet Massachuesetts dirt.  His uncle hit him for
     it.  His father said nothing.

     Sarah ran away.

     Elijah went out into the plains to find her. He found her near
     a spring of soft waters.  Just her body, bloated and gone.  He
     sat with her and he buried her.  He understood then.  It was
     all right.  The children were with Jesus.  And it was all
     right.

     He hated the police who came to question and never stayed,
     knew but never said.

     There is a place beyond all space and time.
     Right action is freedom"

     Sam slid down the wall, staring at Mulder, his mouth half
open, as he struggled up into REM like it was a high mountain.
Sam checked his watch.  Three hours.  Too soon.

     "Dallas.  He was 15 but he looked older. The warmth of men
     curled warm around him.

     Forestlawn.  A church, an indoor tent, and the minister
     smiling his bible in one hand.

     They loved to let him work with the children.  He was 16 and
     he looked 22.  And no one questioned him.  One of his RA's
     father was fuckinghim.  Nehamiah was dead.

     He beat the man to a bloody pulp.  The police came out but no
     one ever pressed charges.  He cried in the pastors study and
     whispered of darkness and his father's slickened penis and
     Nehamiah dead.  Thechurch paid for a hopsital until he could
     remember that he was grown.  The DA did not want to prosecute.

     Warm gentle hands.  They called him nephew, and he kept the
     secret and protected him.  They told him

     A man named Gates made sense.

     Unreal City.

     Ashton, where the children laughed at him.  Ashton where his
     Aunt's clean bathrom and her smirk.  There are children.  He
     is preching to the sinner.

     He kills them then mutilates.  Preching us.

     The children run to him, because he means them no harm.  There
     areno tears in the dark.

     He sends them to Jesus.  Nehamiah was right.

     The church is so very small.  But in it there is light.  And
     Jesus saves them all.

     The pain of livng and the drug of dreams
     Curl up the small soul in the window seat
     Behind the Encyclopedia Britannica.
     Issues from the hand of time the simple soul
     Irresolut and selfish, mishapen, lame,
     Unable to fare forward or retreet,
     Fearing the warm realty, the offered good,
     Deny the importunity of the blood,
     Shadow of its own shadows, spectre in its own gloom,
     Leaving disordered papers in a dustyroom
     Living first inthe silence after the viatcum."

     Sam read the last twice.  Wondered who Francis was speaking
of, himself or the killer.  And then finally understood that it
didn't matter.

     Averman came back in with the food.  Saw Sam's whitened face.
Marion turned and curled more tightly on the bed.  He was not the
inopportune Christ but a simple child, huddled against the loss of
body warmth, huddled into a tiny space.

     He walked deliberately into Sam's room and Sam followed, half
shut the door.

     "He. . .is any of this true?" Sam asked softly, cursing
himself for a fool.  "Or is this in Mulder's mind?"

     Averman pulled out styrofoam containers.  Handed one to Sam.
"Barbecue brisket and links," he said.  Sam opened the dinner.
Any other time the food would have smelled sweet.

     "Do you go to church?" Sam asked, accepting the waxed paper
cup of coke.

     "Most Sundays," Averman replied, looking up surprised.  "Why?"

     "You got any kids?"

     "Two. Both grown."

     "Did you take them to church?"

     "Yeah.  One actually still goes regular.  The other will once
she's calmed down."

     Sam nodded.  "I haven't been in three or four months.  It
always seemed so. . .stand up, sit down, kneel.  Stand up, sit
down, stand up. . .watch the priest, take communion, go home. .
.And Jenni doesn't like it much."

     "Your wife?"

     "Yeah.  She's. . .she converted because she knew how important
it was in my family.   But it was just so everyone would be happy.
Not for real."

     Sam shrugged, tore some brisket off and ate it with his
fingers.  "Francis doesn't believe in God.  He said God scared
him."

     "God took his little sister away," Averman replied.  "And then
the ministers came and said it was God's will.  It was God's will
for him to be beaten."

     "What did Guiterriez tell you?"

     Averman considered his own plate, slowly ate some potato
salad.  "Mulder's concentration is. . .poor, his mind wanders.
There's some evidence of exaggerated startle reflexes. . .
Guiterriez said the rest was mostly guessing.  Mulder wanted to
talk to him, he could see that, but talking scared the shit out of
him.  He thinks there may be some reality impairment, not so much
Mulder isn't functioning.  Probably some paranoid and magical
thinking. . .but not delusional.  Not yet."  Averman swallowed.
"Mulder admits to abuse after his sister's disappearance.
Guiterriez thinks it was continual, since early childhood.  But
that Mulder admits to the abuse he does because he believes himself
responsible for his sister's disappearance.  He. . .thinks his dad
was right for battering him."  Averman's voice was tight.  "His
fault for everything, so the abuse was all right."

     Sam pushed the barbecue tray away.  Stared at it
distastefully.  Felt his stomach draw up.

     "You haven't read that FBI file on the sister yet, have you?"

     "No."  Sam put his head between his knees and tried to
breathe.

     "He was twelve, in the eighth grade."

     "Eighth grade?"  Sam looked up, puzzled.  "My niece is
fourteen.  She's in the eighth."

     Averman shrugged.  "Think about Fox Mulder and tell me a
school system might not want to push him through as quickly as
possible.  Umm. . .It's November, right before Thanksgiving.  He's
left to babysit the sister.  She's in the third grade, eight or
nine.  Parents come home and the lights are all off.  Fox is on the
carpet, huddled up.  The family gun is beside him, unfired.  No
sister.  He was catatonic four days.  When he came out of it, he
didn't remember diddly.  He still doesn't.  The Fibbies they sent
out spent several days investigating the kid."  Averman made a
disgusted face.  "Waste of time.  He didn't kill her.  No evidence,
no clues.  Just a little girl gone.  Umm. . .all the fuses in the
house were blown, melted I guess, if that makes any weird kind of
sense.  The case was never officially put into the X-Files, but it
belonged there. That's probably why Mulder's reading them."

     Sam swallowed.  There was a strangled noise next door.  Sam
was up immediately.  Mulder was not on the bed.  Oh God.  Oh God.
Mother of God hear our prayers.
_____________________

Continued in part 10....................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 10/41 NC-17
Date: 30 Jan 1996 05:19:54 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 10/41)
By Amperage and Livengoo
Copyright October, 1995

International Readers:  No third season spoilers
Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

______________________

     "I need the autopsy reports."  Mulder's voice emerged from the
bathroom.  They heard him pee, heard the toilet flush.  "I need to
know if there were any links at Social Services.  I need the photos
from the last crime scene."

     He stepped out from the bathroom, eyes blood shot, FBI academy
shirt filthy.  His step was springy.

     And the dead will rise on that day and speak again.

     "How are you feeling?" Frito asked softly.

     "I'm okay.  You didn't have to drug the shit out of me."
Francis smiled tolerantly, ran a hand through his hair.  "I smell
food."

     Averman nodded.  "Why don't you come eat, and leave the work
alone."  It was a patented calming voice and Mulder turned to him,
stared at the older agent, eyes narrowing.  Decided it wasn't worth
it.

     "I'll eat in a minute."  Mulder stalked over to his bag,
grabbed a clean t-shirt and a pair of shorts.  He stripped, pulled
on the clean clothes.  "I haven't written any psych stuff in a
couple days."  He found his deodorant, rubbed some on.  "They'll
have my butt back at Quantico."   Went over to the computer, back
to his clothes bag.  Swung his arms.  Rifled through his clothes,
didn't find anything.  Threw his underwear on the floor, moved on.
He moved and moved and made motions that went nowhere, just
released some of the energy building up within him.

     "How much adrenaline are you pumping?" Sam asked quietly,
leaning against the door frame.

     Marion paused, considered his friend.  Smiled easily.  "Just
about seventy percent I'd guess."  He went to his briefcase, dug
around.  "Thanks for screwing up my shit, Frito, you inbred
hildago."

     Sam nodded.  "You're manic, aren't you?  Too much energy,
can't stop moving."

     "Probably more than you want to know," Mulder replied.  "But
I'm not psychotic.  I'm not."

     "Not yet.  How much is it costing you to move around like a
human being and not start just doing for the sake of doing?"

     Mulder shrugged, sat down at his computer, began rifling
through files, rifling through documents, pulling what he wanted,
tossing the rest right and left.  No order.  He stood, kicked the
papers he had piled up.  Frantic motions.  Dances of a man who knew
he was at the edge of losing control.

     Sam took a deep breath and expelled it.  "If you don't want
Cooke drooling at your butt you probably need a shot right now."

     "Let me get the report done," Mulder replied, frowning at
something in his own thoughts.  "Then I'll take your Valium."  He
put his hands on the chair, expelled breath.  "I thought we had a
police report on one of the kids.  On the sexual abuse.  I hadn't
read it, but I thought we had it."  He muttered to himself, stood
straight, went to the door, turned around, paced to the desk.

     "No Valium," Sam replied softly.

     Mulder stared at Sam, his brow creased, then decided to ignore
the implications of his friend's comment.  "I have got to get this
report done.  Do you have the crime scene photos and a copy of your
autopsy report?" he asked, picking up his shoes off the floor,
tossing them over against the wall.  Moving again, quickly.

     "I have the crime scene photos.  I'm a little behind on my
autopsy report for this one."

     "Well, anything's better than nothing."  Mulder wandered into
the bathroom, back out into the hotel room. "I can ask you for
pertinent data."

     "If you'll sit down and eat.  Sit quietly and eat," Sam
replied.

     "Oh fuck you," Mulder almost snarled.  Pushing into his
friend's room, grabbing a styrofoam box at random.  He opened Sam's
briefcase, began rifling through it. "Where are the damn photos?"

     Oh God.  Sam really didn't need this.  "Leave my shit alone,"
he ordered, striding across his room, grabbing Mulder's wrist,
jerking his hands out of the suitcase.  "Sit down for a minute and
let me get something to calm you down."

     "Give me the fucking photos."  Mulder stared at Sam, shook out
of the hold.  Behind him, Averman moved into position.  Sam shook
his head.

     "Francis.  I'm going to give you five milligrams of Haldol.
If it doesn't calm you down I have to give you more in two
milligram dosages, and it may hurt.  Do you understand?  This isn't
a punishment, this is just to get you calm."

     Mulder spun so that he could see both Averman and Frito.
"Look.  I'm fine.  For the moment, I'm actually fine.  I can think
and there aren't any. . ."  deep breath "aren't any flashbacks and
I have to get this shit done.  I'm really, really hyper.  I'd go
jogging but you'd follow me again in that damn Taurus and Averman
would probably have a massive coronary trying to keep up.  I've got
to get rid of the energy somehow.  Look, just give me the photos
and I'll work on my report."

     "The report can wait.  You just need to calm down."  Averman
stepped in, cool and logical.

     "What?  I'm your psychological profiler.  VICAP's finest."
Mulder turned completely to face Averman.  "If you think I should
just be coddled and petted and given injections of
psychopharmaceuticals then you fucking send me back home.  Sir.
Because I should be in a hospital drooling somewhere.  This is a
serial killer.  Sir.  I am your profiler.  That's what I'm trained
to do.  Now either let me do my job or you relieve me of duty."

     Frito had the Haldol out, had the syringe.

     "No one said you can't do your job."

     "It fucking looks that way.  I get up after Frito's pumped me
full of drugs and try to do what I'm getting paid to do and the
first thing you shiteaters want to do is drug me again."  Mulder
stared at his friend, at the needle and the vial of clear liquid.
He glanced at Averman.  "Fucking leave me alone, and let me do my
job."

     The words were running together now, too fast, too hard.
His mind must be racing at ninety miles an hour, unable to catch
any of it, unable to stop and unable to catch hold of any moorings.
His eyes were dilated and huge, his breath fast, in and out and he
was still holding that damn box of food and the box was shaking and
he was trying to decide what to do, Sam saw that.  Wondering if
Averman and Sam could take him, if they could hold him down and
pressure that awful thing into him, that thing that would rob him
of his passion and his cognition.  Wondering if they were right,
sure they weren't.  Sure he knew everything and that everything
was
all right.

     But it wasn't.

     "Marion, calm down."  Sam forced his voice to become level.
"Look, we trust you to do your job, but right now you need to get
some more rest.  Your mind is racing, and your heart rate's up.
You may think you're fine, but you're not.  Look at your hands.
Your hands are trembling."

     Mulder stared down at the styrofoam box of food he had gotten
from the floor.  And then the box was suddenly flying across the
room, flying and hitting the wall, cracking open, falling to the
carpet.  Mulder's hands clenched and unclenched.

     "Mulder."  Averman's voice was cold and stern.  "Mulder,
Rodriguez is trying to help you before you hurt yourself.  If you
keep up this behavior then I'm going to have to call 911."

     "Oh, fuck you."  Mulder's voice had tears in the back.

     "Mulder, do you know your behavior is. . .frantic?" Sam asked.
A friend's voice.

     Mulder stood, trembling, staring at the barbecue plate.  He
nodded slowly, wrapped his arms around his chest, to contain the
hard, hard beating of his heart.  "Please Sam.  Please.  Don't hold
me down and drug me.  Please let me write this.  He's got another
one.  A boy.  A little boy.  Oh God, a little boy who's sweet and
gentle, whose momma hurts him at night. . .Please let me write.  If
you let me do the profile I'll take your drugs.  I'll go to psych
services and tell them everything.  It won't be a profile like the
other one.  This one you can use.  I swear.  Everything will be
real.  I promise.  It'll look good to the brass.  Please."  Tears
stood in his eyes.  "I promise," he pleaded.

     Averman's voice was gentle.  "Okay, Mulder.  Okay."

     Mulder nodded.  Sam got the data Mulder wanted.

     They sat and watched him, watched his movements, his hands
trembling with fear and pain and his eyes huge, staring at the
glowing screen, watching the cursor move.  He referred to the
documents almost never, typing from instinct.  He kicked the chair
out and hunched over the computer screen, feet dancing and moving,
unable to keep still.

     Sam wondered what he was typing, what nonsense he was
putting
onto the screen.   If someone like Guiterriez would be able to use
it, to understand what was going on, how Mulder was coming apart.

     It seemed to take forever, sitting and watching and praying
and wondering why there was no smell of incense. But it was only
twenty minutes until Mulder stopped and was quiet.  He ran it
through the spellchecker.  Went back and deleted a lot of material.
Then finished.  Nodded.

     "I don't want to."  It was the plea of a child who knows he is
defeated.

     Sam nodded. "But you will?"

     Mulder nodded, went to the bed, pulled down his shorts. Made
no comment of the long, sharp stinging.  Then was up, cleaning.  He
was frightened now, frightened of the way his thoughts coursed and
moved and the way he couldn't control any of it and he hit his hand
against the wall several times, hard enough that Averman started
shadowing him more closely, in case he tried to harm himself in
some more tangible way.  It frightened Sam and he was glad Cooke
was not here to be reminded of a father gone into the nightmare
void.

     "Come on," Sam told him, when it became obvious that the first
dose wasn't even making a dent on the frantic behavior.

      Mulder stared at him.  "I can feel the drug. Please."

     "I know," Sam said sadly.  "But you need more.  That wasn't
enough."

     Averman was there or Mulder would have refused longer.  He let
Sam inject him again.  Sam knew he should be dead on his feet now,
not moving, not aware.  But he wasn't.  He reorganized his suits on
the rack, he sorted through his laundry, only to toss everything
back into a corner with exasperation.  He paced back and forth
through their rooms.

     "Come on."  Sam had the needle out, was filling it.

     "No," Mulder replied, sharply.  "No more.  I don't want any
more.  No."

     Averman was there.  "Come on, son," he said gently.  "Come
on."

     "I don't want any more," Mulder replied angrily, teeth
clenched.

     Averman swallowed and put an arm around Mulder's shoulders,
drew him over to the bed.  Held him down, by his shoulders.  Mulder
did not kick, did not move.  Just turned his head away, stared at
the radio-clock, seething.

     But the next dose was enough.  Mulder calmed rapidly, slowing
down until he finally fell onto the bed, curled around a pillow.
Then everything kicked in.  He was almost incoherent as Sam helped
him under the covers, mouth flung open.

     "They said they wouldn't hurt her," Mulder whispered to no one
as Sam turned off the light. "I remember that.  They said they
wouldn't hurt her.  Daddy hit me so hard when I told him that."
 
 
 

     Sam got the floppy disk, printed things up on his word
processor.   Didn't even read it at first, staring at Averman,
staring at the darkened room.  "God. I put enough Haldol into his
system to stop a 747.  He very nearly lost it tonight, closer than
we realized.  We should have sent him home after the first
nightmare," he said softly, "when he was still almost normal."

     Averman didn't say anything.  Just took the printed pages from
Sam's fingers.  After a moment he looked up.  "Read it," he
ordered.  Sam stared at the former marine.  Averman put the papers
into Sam's fingers.

     Once upon a time the world was green and perfect.  We are all
     born into Eden.  The great Gods, our parents, give us love and
     all the things we need in life.  There were bright flowers in
     the spring time and crystalline snows in winter.  Summer's
     heat was a palatable blanket wrapped around us as we dove into
     summer pools.

     Our killer was not born into Oklahoma.  He sees himself in a
     wasteland.  He was born into a coastal existence, somewhere
     much greener, most likely temperate or semi-tropical, some
     place with large forests and abundant water.

     Our killer sees Eliot as a prophet and places pieces of T.S.
     Eliot's poetry on or in his victims.  This behavior is not
     bragging, identifying himself or trying to bring attention to
     himself.  The choices are too well made and indicate a
     critical understanding of Eliot's poetry.  Instead the killer
     is using these poems as a means of "preaching" what he is
     trying to tell his listeners: the media, the FBI, local law
     enforcement, ultimately the general public; some lesson or
     moral.

     The method in which the bodies have all been killed also
     indicates this.  Christopher Raintree was given an overdose of
     Restoril.  Kimberly Slater died of carbon monoxide poisoning,
     and Ericka Jones was drowned.  The latest victim, a caucasian
     girl, approximately six years old, was shot at the base of the
     skull.  These are not painful deaths.  Our subject killed
     quickly, as painlessly as he could.  He then prepared the body
     for our discovery, located it so that we would find it and
     draw our messages from the location and arrangement of the
     corpse as well as the poetry he placed at each of the bodies.

     He is trying to tell us all something.  His message is
     relatively simple.  Each of the children discovered had either
     physical evidence of sexual abuse or we have found some
     anecdotal evidence for sexual abuse.  In the time before they
     are killed the subject treats his children well.  Christopher
     Raintree was wearing a friendship bracelet the parents could
     not identify.  Kimberly Slater was found with a full stomach
     and had probably eaten at a McDonalds recently.  Ericka Jones'
     hair had been cut into a softly attractive bob when her
     mother, a devout member of the Assemblies of God church, never
     allowed her to cut her hair.  The latest victim had new hair
     ribbons carefully arranged in her hair.  There were no recent
     bruises on any child, although Kimberly Slater and the latest
     victim were both healing from possible physical abuse meted
     out by their parents.

     It is obvious he cares for the children, does not want them to
     suffer.  It is also obvious he finds it necessary to kill
     them.  Our killer evidences a great deal of faith, judging by
     his Eliot selections.  He does not think killing these
     children is an evil thing.  He is slaying the children and in
     doing so he sends these children on to Heaven and Jesus, where
     they cannot be hurt anymore.

     What happens to the empty shell is his business.  And he
     chooses to use the shell as a teaching device.

     Christopher Raintree was found with his arms out in a classic
     Christ-Crucifixion pose.  The obviousness of this pose is not
     worth discussion.  Kimberly Slater was coiled fetal with a
     blanket wrapped around her, genitals removed.  Again, the
     symbolic nature of this gesture is almost deafening.  Ericka
     Jones was found gutted and stuffed.  She was an invitation to
     us, the FBI, that we were welcome at his table, to learn his
     messages.  In addition the reference to Christ's Last Supper
     is not to be missed.  Christ offered his disciple his blood
     and flesh.  As a sacrifice.  Much as this child, or at least
     her shell, became.  The latest victim was killed only after he
     knew he had our attention.  She was laid at the end of a
     drainage canal, where the killer knew mud would come and cover
     her body.  Her eyes, ears, and nipples were removed.  This
     mutilation was quite deliberately random.  He simply cut out
     some parts of her, parts easy to remove.  What was important
     was that something was removed.  She lay covered in mud, being
     eaten by small bugs.  Here, he was reporting to his
     congregation, here is how you believe children should be
     treated. As products used and disposed of.

     Our subject is killing children who have been sexually abused,
     sending them on to heaven and warning us that we are
     destroying our children through such abuse.  His anger at this
     abuse is probably derived from a childhood of enduring sexual
     trauma from an early age.  He was the oldest sibling and there
     were several children in his family younger than he.  He
     respects and reveres the Mary images found in Eliot's poetry;
     his mother died quite young, most likely through some long,
     drawn out process such as cancer.  It was after the death of
     the mother that the sexual abuse began.  It was also a short
     time after the death of the mother that the family was moved
     to Oklahoma.  The father's pedophilic interests were
     discovered and the family was forced to move to Oklahoma.

     The subject's lack of distinction between Indian and White
     children leads me to believe that this move was undertaken
     because the father had Native American relations in Oklahoma.
     It was probably the first time our subject realized he was, in
     fact, partly Native American.

     I believe the father, although originally from Oklahoma, did
     not like this place.  His belief in this land being a
     wasteland was probably transmuted to the son.  This indicates
     that the father was a lover of Eliot and gave this passion to
     the son.  Due to the choices of poetry and the subject's
     innate sense of Christian symbols as well as a certain flair
     for the delivery of his message, he cannot be anything other
     than a minister's child.

     There was no sexual abuse of the subject before the move to
     Oklahoma.  Our killer remains sharply in state, only choosing
     Oklahoma children, only killing in state.  Oklahoma and sexual
     abuse are too firmly linked in his mind for any other
     conclusion to be drawn.

     The father abused his son sexually throughout the time they
     were in Oklahoma, only abusing the son.  For some reason he
     did not molest any of the younger siblings until the son was
     no longer a child, but becoming a man.  Only at this time did
     the father move on to a younger sibling.  The killer still
     evidences a great deal of guilt and rage at young children
     being sexually abused.

     The childhood sexual abuse of our killer no doubt influenced
     his sexual behavior as an adult.  Our killer has definite
     homosexual leanings, although he feels some religious guilt
     over it and most likely has fetishes related to procedures
     practiced on children by adults, which, while sexual in
     nature, are approved by our society.  Namely, spanking and
     enemas.  These things were not practiced by the father,
     however, but were inflicted upon him by the relatives his
     father came to meet in Oklahoma, otherwise the subject would
     not have any positive feelings towards these fetishes.

     Once the father had moved on to the younger children one of
     these children killed him or herself in an effort to get out
     of the hellacious circumstances of the family.  Our killer saw
     in this the germination of the idea of killing children and
     sending them where they could no longer be hurt.

     Our killer worked for several years out of state before coming
     here.  I do not know the precipitating factor, but I would
     assume that at some point he was participating in some
     activity related to his fetishes and became irrationally
     angry, displacing his anger towards his father at his partner.

     He killed the partner and in his remorse, decided it was time
     he come home and put an end to the pain and misery suffered by
     children in the wastelands.
 

     Now that he knows he has a congregation watching him, learning
     from him, now that he has drawn our attention, our subject
     will begin killing more frequently.  He does not kidnap by
     force, but chooses children who will come with him willingly,
     will die for him voluntarily.  When he finds such children he
     will take them, and prepare them for their death by "saving
     them."  In some way he makes sure they understand how special
     and wonderful he finds them and then he will kill them.  It
     will happen as fast as he can go through these steps.

     He will continue moving, for although he sees us as his
     congregation, he knows that we will stop him when we catch
     him.  He knows, from travelling with his father, the roads of
     this state very well.  He will criss-cross the state, not
     waiting for us to catch up, trusting that God will lead us as
     fast as God wishes us to be led, but that God will not let us
     catch him as long as he practices his craft well.

     Sam swallowed.  "My God. . .It's. . .so . . .logical."

     Averman nodded.  "Nothing that cannot, once it has been
pointed out, be logically deduced from the site and the evidence."
He put his face in his hands.  "I don't have a fucking clue what's
going on in his head now.  When I read that first document I just.
. .I thought we were going to have to send him home with two
babysitters and enough drugs to sedate half of Dallas. . .But this.
. .I. . ."

     Sam nodded, stomach churning with unidentifiable fears and
concerns.
 
 
 

     The ride was long, and bright in the summer heat.  The sun
caught them, even insulated as they were by metal and glass and air
conditioning.  Two hours to Ashton, just on the border of Texas.

     Frito lifted sunglasses and wiped the oily sweat from his
face.  The front seat was cool..  Cooke and Averman rode in
comfort despite the light on their legs, but the back seat still
sweltered.  The bottled water and soda had gone flat and warm, but
was better than nothing.

     Sweat darkened Francis' hair, and he stirred restlessly,
slumped asleep in the corner of the seat.  He hadn't said a word
after they left, just twisted himself into the corner, favoring the
hip where Frito had injected him the night before.  His blank,
shielded stare had said enough, and had haunted them until the
wheels had lulled him to sleep.  Sam said nothing about having to
help him get dressed, having to lay out the clothes in order on the
bed and help him tie the hideous tie.

     Cooke had sat rigid and watchful until he was certain Mulder
was more than asleep.  His voice since had been low, harsh,
fearful.  Averman and he had. . . planned.  Discussed how to
deflect the Cherokee cops if Marion fell apart in front of them.
Sending him home was no longer an option.  Even Cooke agreed.
'Between hiding a madman and losing one', was how Cooke had
put it.

     Frito felt his lips purse with anger at the thought,
then relaxed again, watching the landscape go by.  Marion would
sleep a long, long time from the looks of him, and Sam let himself
drift off.

     The motor's frequency changed, and Sam opened his eyes to find
hills, dry and rolling, instead of flat land.  Pockets of green
reminded him that summer could end, and rain could return.  The
world had not always been this sere, brown thing.  He took off the
glasses, rubbed at an ear made sore by the earpiece.  Scrubbed the
sleep from his eyes.  Cooke was reading BusinessWeek and Averman
drove as though it was what he'd been born to do, as though there
were nothing else fit for man to do.  And Francis' long frame still
molded itself, in boneless discomfort, in the corner of the seat.

     "We there yet, dad?"  Sam's voice was light, but the strain
was there.  He saw Cooke twitch when he leaned forward, looking
past them at the road.

     Averman's grin showed at the back of his neck, a shifting of
jaw and cheekbone.  "Be a little while longer.  You'll need to
start waking the kid up soon."

     "Why?"  Cooke sounded nervous.  Having Mulder in the same car
was bad enough, Mulder awake. . .  Frito stiffened and opened his
mouth, unsure what he intended to say, but knowing he had to say
something.  Averman beat him to it.

     "Relax, Cooke.  We're going where he wants us to go."
Averman's voice was dry and slightly patronizing.  Cooke stiffened,
but Frito grinned.  "We. . . we pushed his buttons yesterday.  We
should have thought about what we were doing."

     Cooke's stare clearly announced that he was not going to be
able to think for a madman.  Averman's face tightened with fleeting
anger.  "He's not your father, Cooke.  He's not wiping his own crap
on the walls and screaming at nurses.  I don't really understand
what's going on, but he's still doing his job and you will treat
him with that much respect."

     "But. . . "  Averman's glare cut him off.

     "Not 'but.'  You read that profile.  The kid's under a lot of
stress and it's showing, but so far he's gotten us closer to
catching this bastard than you and all your press conferences and
releases.  He needs some  help right now, but you will treat him
with the respect due a fellow agent."  Steady voice that didn't
need to be raised to get attention.  Sam sighed and sat back,
watching Cooke accept that.

     And Ashton's buildings slowly came into sight, scattered at
first, then clustered.  Frito leaned over and shook Marion.  It
took a while, and his eyes were glazed when he did open them.  Sam
gave him a bottle of water, watched him drink it, listlessly at
first, then desperately, trying to get the taste out of his mouth.
It dribbled down his chin, spotted his tie, but his eyes were still
glazed when he wiped his mouth dry with the back of his hand,
looked around with less curiosity than resignation.

     "Ashton."  It wasn't a question.  Frito nodded.
 
 
 

    The hotel was polished and pleasant and could have been
anywhere in the fifty states.  Not a Holidome, but comfortable.
Mulder leaned against the back of the elevator and let the others
guide him, carry the bags, do the work.  He just wanted to sleep,
or write, or run.  He was caught somewhere between all three and
didn't know which way to turn.  All he really knew was that
somewhere here, a small boy was being fed and listened to, played
with and cared for, and would very soon be dying.  The certainty of
that burned through the thick fog of drugs and anxiety, and he
shivered.

     They were on two floors.  Most of the team was on the second
floor, but Averman and Rodriguez had rooms on the third floor,
flanking Mulder's, with the inevitable connecting door.  God, he
was coming to hate the sight of that door in the wall.  He wanted
to go home, where his apartment was quiet and calm and no one
hovered on the other side of any of the doors, with needles and
threats.  The only good point was that he'd outrun Guiterriez.  All
he had to contend with here was Averman and Frito.  And the killer.

     Mulder settled on his bed, flipping through the book of
tourist traps hotels left out, while they hid the Bibles.  He could
hear Frito through the open door, talking with Averman.  Something
about rest and food, but Mulder preferred to ignore Averman and
Frito.  Cooke had a room down the hall.  The thought put a sour
smile on his face.  Cooke was so scared he broke a sweat when
Mulder glanced at him.  Irish mackerel snapper.  Damned
superstitious idiot.

     The pages felt hot in his fingers, and were hard to turn.  He
slammed his hand across several, shoving halfway through the book,
and stared.  Swallowed.  Put the book down, open at the ad for a
helicopter tour, and sat there.  He didn't know he'd been holding
his breath until his chest hurt, didn't know how long he stared
until Frito was shaking his shoulder, eyes wide and frightened.

     "Francis.  Francis!  C'mon, look at me."  Mulder looked up
with startled eyes, lips open, trying to shape a word that reached
out of the page and announced itself.  A brilliant smile flashed
over his face.

     "Look at it."  He flipped the book around, the ad.  Showed it
to Frito and waited to see if he'd recognize what was there.  The
pathologist glanced at it, looked back at him with concern.
Averman was in the doorway, watching.  "Do you see it?"

     "We. . . we need to check with the locals.  Check missing
persons reports, pay our respects. . . "  Sam was still trying to
find the traditional path, solid procedural ground in this shifting
landscape.  Marion was staring at him, expecting him to see
something, say something, and he felt his guts twist.

     "Frito, I'm beginning to think they knew what they were
talking about when they said jacking off would make you blind.  In
your case, at least."  Marion flipped the book back around,
frustrated.  "Averman, you choke the chicken too much, or do you
see it?"

     Jack Averman felt the corner of his mouth quirk.  The kid put
on a good show, no matter what else you had to say about him.  The
AIC walked over and leaned past Rodriguez to see what Mulder had
found.

     "The chapel, Averman.  The chapel."  Mulder's voice had
dropped to a whisper, his long, thin fingers tracing a rock
formation, aerial tourist trap, natural wonder.  Wilderness Chapel
was what the florid copy announced, and it was true.  Beautiful,
graceful stone structure up there in the hills.  The glossy photo
showed a remote road with a chopper's shadow on the hills.  It was
parched and lovely.

     'Here is no water but only rock. . .'  Mulder's voice was
calm.  He knew where he was and what he was saying.  Averman
could see his eyes, glazed only by lingering Haldol, studying the
picture.  "The empty chapel, only the wind's home."  He looked up
at Averman.  "I don't care who talks to the cops, or finds the
kid's mother.  His mother isn't the one who cares about him now.
And this is where we'll find the first one."  He tapped the
picture, and there was no doubt in his voice.

     Frito met Averman's eyes. . .  shivered. But the air
conditioning wasn't that high.

Continued in part 11...............
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 11/41 NC-17
Date: 31 Jan 1996 05:11:20 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 11/41)
By Amperage and Livengoo
Copyright October, 1995

International Readers:  No third season spoilers
Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

___________________

     They had to pay their respects.  The police station was a
long, low, yellow brick building, with cars lined up along the curb
out front.  The grass was sere, stiff in the heat.  The few trees
were tamarisks, their rose and green fingers dusty in the sun.
Little spots of color floated in front of Averman's eyes as he
stood in Wilson Hardman's office, studying the stocky man, and the
objects that surrounded him.

     Hardman's hand was solid, calloused across the palm in a
pattern Averman knew from a childhood spent around livestock.
The pictures of horses, children, competitions, that were centrally
displayed spoke of his true love.  The police captain smiled,
showing silver fillings in two teeth.

     "We really appreciate the FBI's discretion and help in this.
It's taken long enough to get this town on its feet, keep it
stable.  We don't need the kind of notoriety that. . .  Well.  We'd
like to keep our kids safe on our streets.  This is a small place
and we value our people."

     Averman had heard political expediency in police departments
before and considered this about an average example.  Just as well.
He was too busy to pay that much attention to Hardman.  He could
feel Mulder behind him, studying everything in this office, this
place.  Could hear Rodriguez moving, trying to keep subtle.  Cooke,
in the other visitor's chair, was better suited to coddling local
authorities and petting bruised egos.  Let the man earn his money
for once.

     Averman tuned out Cooke, who was engaged in the pro forma
patter that law enforcement agencies used when they were
pretending to be happy to deal with each other.  An interior window
lined the wall to his left, where it let Hardman monitor his station.
Now, it let Averman watch Mulder.  The young man had come to rest
in front of a map.  The chair creaked as Averman got up to join him,
watching the patterns Mulder traced.  He knew Hardman was
watching them, had been since he'd shaken Mulder's hand and seen
the faint glaze in the profiler's eyes.  Averman prayed to the god
he'd been raised to believe that nothing would happen.

     Frito, on Mulder's other side, felt his neck aching from
tension.  He could see Marion's lips move just slightly, but heard
no words.  One long, slender finger traced a river bed, and the
hand spread out, framing a factory district, old, short streets in
a bend of river.  Mulder glanced back at Hardman and Frito twitched
to hear his voice.

     "This neighborhood, down by the docks. . . what was it?"

     "Old factory works.  There's the mattress factory down
there, and up a little further is a place that makes motors for
lawnmowers."  He beamed his pride in it.  "Real coup for the city
council, that.  Employs twelve-hundred people."  Mulder looked back
at the map.

     "What about the mattress works?"

     "Maybe three-fifty, four hundred. Been there forever."
Puzzled voice.  Cooke caught the questioning glance but had no idea
how to answer it.  Mulder licked his lips, frowned at the map.  He
could feel Frito and Averman, tensed on either side of him but
trying to look like everything was SOP, normal.  But the ache in
his head and the fuzzy, Haldol fog wasn't standard operating
procedure.  Mulder swallowed, felt his stomach twisting even though
he'd eaten nothing.  He knew Hardman was watching them, knew
Cooke was frightened and knew there were words to be said.  He
spun a manic smile on Averman.

     "Excuse me, I think I'd like to see. . . the missing persons
reports.  And a map."  God, yes.  That would make them all happy.
Mulder breathed a sigh of relief and followed Hardman, feeling
Frito's eyes, Averman's, on his back as he let Hardman and Cooke
lead them.  Was able to hold his silence as they were shown into a
small office and given a thin bundle of files.  He looked at them
in self-defense, but they told him nothing new.  The map. . .

     Marion was spreading the map out across a table, smoothing it
with little, jerky motions.  His glasses, folded and hooked in his
shirt pocket, swung in time with his tie, little oscillations as
his quick breathing changed rhythm.  Hardman and Cooke were
outside, thank god, negotiating support and space arrangements.
That much at least they'd weathered.  Frito stepped up next to
Marion.

     "Francis, are you all right?"  The sheen of sweat might have
been from the heat outside.  So might the faint flush across his
cheekbones.

     "Quit asking me that, Frito."  Distracted.  He had no time for
this.  Averman was back at his left elbow.  Caught a flat, spooky
stare. "He picked up the child yesterday.  Half-past two."

     "What?"  Averman leaned in.  He wanted to not believe Spooky.
He desperately wanted to sort, rationally and sanely, through those
files and know their next victim's face was in there.  And he'd
already seen the files tossed on the desk and known a formality for
what it was.

     "The secret of its skeleton,
     Stiff and white.
     A broken spring in a factory yard,
     Rust that clings to a form that the strength has left
     Hard and curled and ready to snap."

     "Mulder, stop this.  Stop.  We're in the fucking Ashton police
station and the captain's standing out there with Cooke.  Please,
don't do this."  Spooky stared back into his eyes, not aggressive
now, desperate.  Looking at him, really at him, for the first time
that he remembered today.  But his eyes flickered back and forth
too fast, pale skin and flushed cheekbones that made Averman's
alarms go off.  Mulder swallowed convulsively.

     "He took the. . .the n-next one already, yesterday, at
half-past two.  From the quay.  He gave him a toy.  His mother
sells his mouth at night and hurts him when he cries."  Spooky's
mouth tightened.  He screwed his eyes shut and smoothed the map
again.  "She won't report him missing until the social worker sees
them again because he's run away before but he always comes back.
She doesn't even know yet.  She hasn't come down.  Her boyfriend
will notice first, when he wants to screw the kid."  Mulder had
gone white as a sheet, and his throat was working.

     He spun on his heel, very straight and definite, went past
Hardman and Cooke and all those desks and held it until he'd
slammed through the door of the men's room in the hall, where dry
heaves crumpled him up by the toilets.  The tiles were hard under
his knees, and he could feel the grooves between them, knew he'd
have little, geometric bruises on his knees.  God, he hated the
feel of porcelain under his hands, the ache in his ribs and his gut
as he heaved and heaved and only air and retching.  And, finally,
Frito's hand on his shoulder.  Wet paper towels handed down so he
could wipe his face, drop back on the floor, legs sprawled flat
because he couldn't pull them up anymore without the muscles of his
groin aching.

     "God, Frito.  At least I didn't eat breakfast."  His eyelids
were too heavy to raise.  The metal of the stall was cold through
his hair, the shirt on his shoulders.  He shivered as the sweat
chilled.  He heard the rustle of fabric,  Frito moved to sit by the
sinks, letting his shoes tap back against the cabinet below the
counter.

     "You'll never market it as a diet plan, Francis."  Mulder
could feel every muscle he had to use for the smile.

     "Look for oral herpes when we find this one, Frito.  The
social worker missed it."

     Sam swallowed.  Stared at Francis.  Wondered if he could feel
the stare through closed lids.  "And how long will it take you to
come up with the rationale for that, Francis?"

     "Not long.  The oral imagery gives this one away, though how
he found this one. . ."  Sam hopped off the counter, saw Francis
flinch at the sound.

     "Let me give you a hand up."  Fair warning to let him expect
the steps that walked up to him.  "I bet Averman's jumpy as hell,
but figures the whole team in here's bound to panic the natives."

     "Un-fucking-PC, Frito.  Careful or they'll scalp you."

     "And use my balls for a tobacco pouch?"  God, he was almost a
dead-weight.  His palm felt cold and damp.

     Not worth it for one smoke, spic.  More likely as a golf-ball
cover."

     "Beats your fuzzy dice."

     Marion let his weight open the door, using only the muscle
needed to catch himself as it swung inward.  "Keep your hands off.
You can beat a lot of things, but not my fuzzy dice."  Frito let it
drop, let him have the last word.
 
 
 

     Averman was waiting, had got them off the hook somehow.  Some
excuse about the flu and decongestants.  Frito wasn't really paying
attention.  They left Cooke to publicly relate to Hardman and his
people, piled Marion into Averman's Taurus and pulled out to go
back to the hotel.  Or wanted to go back to the hotel.

     "Turn here."

     "Look son. . . "

     "We've done this before.  Turn here."  Averman glanced at
Rodriguez, assessed the tense note in the voice over his shoulder.
There'd be no point in a lunge for the wheel, but no real point in
frustrating the kid, either.  He turned.  Followed a sickly,
yellowish river that veered away to run under lonely loading docks
where no barge had visited in too long.  Shivered at the rusting,
twisted shapes of cranes.  Spooky pointed them down a sad, scarred
residential street of pocked asphalt and peeling houses.

     "So the hand of the child, automatic,
     Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the
          quay.
     I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
     I have seen eyes in the street
     Trying to peer through lighted shutters. . . "

     Spooky's voice was a thin, acid-scoured whisper from behind
him, weaker and stronger as he scanned from side to side.  The
street was still and dead under the sun's punishment.  Averman felt
sick, deep in his gut, glanced at the rear view mirror to see a
pale, thin face and eyes that couldn't settle on any one object.

     "A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
     Her hand twists a paper rose,
     That smells of dust and eau de Cologne,
     She is alone
     With all the old nocturnal smells
     That cross and cross across her brain.
     The reminiscence comes
     Of sunless dry geraniums
     And dust in crevices,
     Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
     And female smells in shuttered rooms
     And cigarettes in corridors
     And cocktail smells in bars."

     His voice had grown thinner than ever, but now he was focused.
Averman heard him slide across the back seat, up behind Rodriguez'
seat, suddenly craning to see past Sam's shoulder.  But the steady,
hypnotic whisper still rattled over his lips.

     "The lamp said,
     'Four o'clock,
     Here is the number on the door."
 

     "Stop here, Averman."  Barely stronger.  "Put your shoes at
the door, sleep, prepare for life.

     The last twist of the knife.

     And he was out the door and pacing up a cracked sidewalk to
the sagging porch.  Rodriguez was out after him, at a half-run to
come apace.   Averman hesitated only long enough to lock the doors,
then turned and followed the younger men up to where the rust on
the dark, dusty-clogged screens could be smelled.  Up to the
peeling paint and cracked wood of a screen door.  And Mulder's
knuckles sounded loud in the silence of a seared afternoon.

     There was no answer from his knocking.  No answer but the
humming buzz of a fan.  Mulder knocked hard, again.

     "She doan' hear nothin'," a voice informed them. The speaker
was a short, wide woman, dark eyes and skin, grey hair.  A faded
print dress and athletic socks with house shoes.  "She been
snortin' her brains away."  The woman leaned against the bannister
dividing the two halves of the porch.

     Mulder glanced at the other Agents.  "Ma'am, I'm with the
FBI," he said, drawing on all his cordial, shining, agent gloss.
He took out his credentials.  The woman took the leather wallet
into both hands.

     "Fox?  You're not a Fox.  Who named you Fox?" the woman
demanded, handing it back.

     "My father."

     The snort told them all what she thought of this.  "What do
people call you?"

     "Mulder."

     "No, they don't.  What do people call you Mr. FBI?"

     "They call me, Spooky," Mulder replied.  "Spooky Mulder."

     The woman nodded.  "You're not a Fox.  I don't know what you
are.  An owl maybe.  But not a Fox."

     "Does the woman who lives in this house. . .does she have a
little boy?" Mulder asked softly.

     The old woman stared at him. "She got a little boy.  And the
Social Worker tried to take it away, but the Judge he give it back.
She got a little boy.  She sell him."

     "Did anyone come by and get the little boy?" Mulder asked
softly.

     The woman slip-slapped her way over to a dilapidated couch,
lowered herself into it.  "Why I tell you that?"

     "Because, the man who has him will kill him."

     "And what so wrong with that?  He not got the strength to grow
up like you, Spooky Fox."  She seated herself.  "He grow up, he
gonna kill and hurt and be like his momma's boyfriend.  If he grow
up."  She snorted.  "Why not just let him die?  Heaven is chock
full of little kids."

     Mulder swallowed convulsively.  "Did you see anyone come by
and pick up the little boy?"

     The woman sighed, looked out across the road at the river.

     "What's his name?" Mulder asked softly.  "Can you tell me
what his name is?"

     "I seen a man come by.  He give Michael a stuffed animal.
A panda bear.  Michael's toys always been from the garbage heap
before.  This man, he only be takin' the ones nobody gonna' love
anyhows.  When I was little my brother died because my daddy
didn't stop beating him.  Priest said he was in heaven.  Little
children don't have to go to purgatory.  He's not taking the ones
we care about.  You had a daddy loved you.  Might have hurt you
and kept on hurting you.  But he love you.  You love him too, don't
you?"  She fixed Mulder with a stare that had nothing to do with
the hot Oklahoma sun or the dry winds or the smell coming off the
river.

     "I love my father, yes ma'am."  Mulder replied softly.

     "He love you back too."  The old woman sighed.  "I doan' see
what this man's doin' is so much worse than what your people do.
At least he doan make them suffer.  He send 'em to Jesus."

     Mulder did not have words for her.  Just stood, silently,
looking across porch at the old woman. "Any kind of life is better
than no life," he said finally, softly.

     Sam broke out of the trance.  His voice echoed with lessons
taught and learned from nuns with dark swinging veils. "We are not
supposed to take life, no matter what the reason," he said,
hearing not his own words, but the words of the priest.

     "You been to too many CCD classes," the old woman cackled.
"Next you'll tell me abortion is a sin and contraceptives are an
instrument of the devil."

     "I believe that," Sam said, said it simply and softly, truly,
as he had been taught.

     "I don't believe in abortion," Averman whispered.  "I. . .I
know sometimes it has to be.  But I don't believe in stopping a
life because you didn't feel like using birth control."

     The old woman sighed.  "I didn't see nothing else.  If you
knock really hard that lazy whore will wake up."

     Averman knocked, called.  Mulder continued to stare at the
woman. "Who are you?" Mulder asked softly.

     The old woman stared at Mulder, got up, waddled back into her
house.
 
 
 
 
 

     She was small, and the wrapper tied around her was stubbly
polyester.  Something about her had once been pretty.  But that
beauty was gone as surely as if it had never been.  It must haunt
her at night, when she stared in the mirror, watching the thin
white lines disappear into her body.  To remember what she had
once been, to know what she was now.  Her eyes darted, like a
snake's, when she saw them.  Three men in expensive suits and short
haircuts.  Mirror shades and guns under their armpits.

     "You have a son?" Mulder asked softly.  It was not standard
FBI, but no one stopped him.

     "Yeah," she admitted, lifting her chin.

     "I heard he was a sweet child."

     The woman assessed them all, glanced at the car.  If the words
government agency had struck her consciousness she was not
admitting it now.  "You want a blow?"

     Mulder said nothing, his stare blocked by the mirror shades.

     "Sixty and I'll give him to you for an afternoon.  Nothing
that would hurt him, no blood."

     "What's his name?" Mulder hissed, staring through the tiny
mesh of the sagging porch screen.

     "Michael.  Call him anything you like."

     "Do you spank him?"

     "I said just nothing that leaves blood."  She pulled a
cigarette from some hidden pocket, got a fluorescent pink Bic
lighter. The flare was soft and honey yellow.

     "What if he gets hurt?" Mulder asked.

     "Ninety."

     "What if he dies?"

     "Give me three hunnert."

     Mulder closed his eyes.  "What is your name?"

     "What's it to you?"

     "Go find your little boy," Mulder replied.  "Go fucking find
your little boy and tell him that the FBI is arresting his mother."

     Mulder smiled and pulled out his badge.
 
 
 

     Sally.  She was Sally and the kid was gone.  Fuck, she didn't
want to hurt him.  She loved the kid.  Ask the Judge, Judge
Murdock.  The fucking Social Workers had taken him last year.  It
was fucking entrapment, that's what it fucking was.  She'd go back
to the reservation where her Pap was, they didn't do any fucking
things like this out there.  How did she know they hadn't stolen
him, killed him just to get at her?  Fucking government officials.
Fucking shitassed FBI.  Lied to her, said they'd come to fuck
Michael, they were rich suits.  What the hell was she supposed to
do?  Scared they'd kill her.  So she said she'd sell him.  She
didn't mean any of it.  Fuck.  Fuck. Fuck.

     The kid was gone.

     "Madame Sosostis, the famous clairvoyant,
     Had a bad cold, nevertheless
     Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
     With a wicked pack of cards.  Here, said she,
     Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
     (Those are pearls that were his eyes.  Look!)
     Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
     The lady of situations.
     Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
     And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
     Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
     Which I am forbidden to see.  I do not find
     The Hanged Man.  Fear death by water."

     Sally was still bitching to the local police when they put her
in the car.  Mulder knocked again on the woman's door.

     "Ain't nobody lives there, babyfucker," Sally screamed to him,
as two policewomen attempted to put her into the back of a police
car.

     "Ain't nobody.  You seen old Essie's ghost.  You fucked."  For
some reason, Sally found this hysterically funny.  "You fucking
seen Essie's Ghost!"  She laughed.  "They gonna' fucking put you
away!"  The latch was worn.  Mulder pulled the screen door open.
Turned around and walked away.  "She was Loki," he told Frito,
walking away, going to the car, ignoring the sheriff's deputies and
the other agents.  Sam opened the screen door and looked in.
Swallowed convulsively, then followed Mulder to the car.

     Francis was just sitting there, staring into space, eyes
quiet.  Frito felt eyes boring into him.  Twirled.  "What. .
.where's the old woman?" Averman asked softly.

     "Look in the house for yourself," Sam replied in a hoarse
whisper.  "No one's lived there for years."

     Mulder did not say anything.

     Sam watched Averman's mouth move compulsively, watched the
man's adam's apple bob.  "We got an ID on a kid that's still alive.
That's got to be something," Averman muttered.  "You want to take
him back to the hotel?"

     "I thought you boys were pissing into my wellwater, but damn,
you're hot shit, know that?"  The voice was booming.  Sheriff
Hardman clapped a hand on Averman's shoulder, peered into the
Taurus.  Mulder stared back unflinchingly.  "You look like hell,
son."

     Mulder managed a smile.  "I feel like utter and total shit
warmed over for the second day and served with Spam.  Good to
know
I feel better than I look."

     The sheriff liked this response.  "I thought maybe you were.
. .you know. . .that shell-shock thing.  Put you away in the
wetbrain wards."

     "Not yet," Mulder replied, grinned, a fucking ghoul's grin, a
shitwhite bleached bones smile.  "Right now I'm just trying to keep
from puking my guts out over Oklahoma and Frito's drugging the hell
out of me so I can finish the case."

     "Speaking of which."  Frito considered Averman.  "There's
nothing Francis and I can accomplish here."

     Averman sighed, tossed Sam his car keys.  "I've suspected
Rodriguez of giving Mulder something to make him sick just to get
out of the boring shit," he complained mildly to the Sheriff.
"Tell me a good place for a really late lunch."

     The sheriff considered.  "Bar-B-Que Junction.  Right down from
your hotel."

     "Okay.  If Mulder feels up to it, meet us there at two.  If he
doesn't, I'll bring you a plate."

     "I want coleslaw.  None of those fucking baked beans,"
Rodriguez replied.

     "You don't think Mulder will feel like eating a little pork
with the rest of us heathens?"

     Mulder rubbed his arms convulsively, closed his eyes.
Shivered with a cold alien to the incessant Oklahoma heat.

     Averman saw it, let the jibe put on for Hardman's benefit fall
unfinished.  Turned his head to stare at Sam.  "Get him out of
here," he muttered softly.  "Keep him down, I don't care what you
have to do."

     Sam nodded.

     He was quiet, sitting under the freon vents.  "She was a
Loki," he told Sam.  "Do you know what they are?"

     "What who are?"

     "The old woman."

     "She was just some crazy old . . ."

     "The Loki are mischievous spirits.  Not good, not evil, just
mischievous.  They want to have fun with us.  Sally knew what she
was."  Mulder's voice was cold.

     "She was just some old biddy," Sam dismissed.  The old woman
froze his balls too, but he wasn't about to admit it with only him
and Francis sitting under the air conditioning.

     "How do you explain what she knew?"

     "Well, fuck, maybe you're not the only fucking psychic in the
world, ever fucking think of that you cocksucker?"  Three fucks and
a cock in one sentence.  The nuns will be sooo proud.

     "Can't be that many psychics.  Nobody's running screaming into
the night because they got a glimpse into your head.  Question is,
why did she appear to us then?  We must be getting close."

     "I thought you said these were mischievous spirits?"

     "They are.  They like to keep things confused, stirred up."

     "You don't honestly believe that woman was. . .a Loki?"

     Mulder glanced at his friend.  "If answering yes means more
Haldol, then no."

     "That's what I was fucking afraid of," Sam muttered sourly.
He glanced at Fox Mulder, Joe Cool in his white shirt and aviator
shades.  Joe Fucking Cool indeed.  "What are you going to do in the
hotel room?"

     "I don't know."  Mulder shrugged.  "Watch the Ashton Choctaws
beat up on the Lubbock Crickets."

     Sam opened his mouth, shut it.  "That one was entirely too
obvious.  Okay.  I take it this is a baseball game?"

     "Give me a break.  Catching up on minor league baseball is the
only good part about this fucking case," Mulder complained mildly.
"That and thinking about giving you a real blow."

     "You wish."

     "I know you dream about it.  It's all you fantasize about when
you're giving Jenni phone sex," Mulder replied.  "Can we go out to
the Chapel?"

     "No, and if you touch the steering wheel I swear you'll be
hard pressed to know which end you feed and which end you wipe
until we get the fuck out of this case and I deliver you to the
closest psych ward," Sam replied, pissed.

     Mulder stared at his friend, put his hands up.  "Sorry Frito.
I just got carried away.  I'm sorry.  I know you love Jenni.  I'm
sorry I cheapened it.  Sorry man."

     "How did you know Jenni and I. . ."

     "You wouldn't be happily married if you didn't.  Besides.
There's never any splatters of your cum on my skin magazines. . ."
Mulder lied.

     Sam glanced at Mulder.  Knew he was lying.  Knew he was trying
to make it up.  "It's okay man.  I'm just. . .this fucking heat,
you know?"

     Mulder grinned manically.  "Yeah.  I know."

     Mulder grabbed a blanket from over the clothes rack to drape
over himself.  Sam started to ask why he didn't just get under the
covers or turn down the air.  Then didn't.  If Mulder got under the
covers he was admitting he wasn't well.  If he turned down the air
he couldn't cover himself up.  And then he wouldn't have some kind
of material barrier between himself and the world.

     While Sam was congratulating himself for figuring this one
out, Mulder was huddling mummy style under the blanket, one hand
peeking out to flip channels on the remote until he found the
Lubbock Crickets playing the Ashton Choctaws.

Continued in part 12..........
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 12/41 NC-17
Date: 1 Feb 1996 04:16:20 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 12/41)
By Amperage and Livengoo
Copyright October, 1995

International Readers:  No third season spoilers
Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual
property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The
FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana
and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and
everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.

_______________

     One in the afternoon, and Jenni didn't answer.  Frito sighed
and put the phone in the cradle so gently it didn't make a sound.
He wasn't surprised.  She couldn't sit there waiting for him to
call. . . but he still wanted to hear her voice.  He wandered back
into the other room.

     Francis was twisted into the blanket now, lying long and on
his belly, eyes gleaming in the light of the television.  The
remote was clutched in the hand under his chin.  The Crickets were
hurting.

     Frito flipped open Francis' suitcase and rifled through the
back pocket, found glossy paper among balled up socks and
deodorant and a paperback copy of Freud that he knew Francis read
for comic relief.

     "You could have asked, rude, inbred, oily little dust-fucker."
The voice was mild, and he could hear a smile.

     "Careful Francis, you don't know what I'll ask for."  Hmm.
That one.  He knew the centerfold looked like his first lay.

     "Doesn't matter.  Everything you're thinking of is a sin."
The sound dropped.  "No answer on the phone?"

     He didn't want to talk about it, or think about why he'd
wanted to hear Jenni's voice.  "Just watch the boys play with their
big sticks, man.  I know why you like this stuff so much. . . '

     "Hey, if you'd let me out the door, we could both go find the
third dimension. . . "  Sure.  If he thought Marion would look for
any kind of girl who still had flesh on her bones he would let the
bastard out the door.  Glad to.

     "After you asked about spanking bars?  No way in hell.  They'd
kick me out of the Bureau just for knowing you."

     "You are *never* gonna know me, Frito.  And if you did, your
dick could never hold its head up again."

     Sam snorted.  "Your skinny ass couldn't hold it."  Looked up,
grinned to see Marion out from under his barricade, sitting up to
finally pull off his tie and drop it on the shoes tumbled on the
floor.

     "Something that skinny?  Slide right up your ass.  Real
needle-di. . . " and his face froze, just an instant, just a
hesitation.  But Frito swallowed, felt his guts chill and twist.

     "Marion. . . "  What did he say?  He was sorry?  When he'd
likely have to just drug him again?

     Francis had focused on the television.  "Just pull the pages
apart when you're done."
 
 
 
 

     Mulder sat crosslegged and studied his credit card.  Some kind
of calf-roping was blaring away from the set, and he couldn't hear
springs squeaking anymore.  He slowly, carefully, ran a finger
along the edge of the card, around the smooth, rounded corners.
How long would it be until Averman brought the food?  The very
idea of it made his stomach twist.  His ribs ached from the strain of
all the times he'd heaved, and he was feeling light-headed.  He
couldn't recall the last real meal he'd kept down.

     And the card was glossy and tempting.  The card and the rental
booth in the lobby.  Mulder swallowed and ran through all the
repercussions.  They'd find him.  They'd drug him.  Hell, they were
going to drug him anyway, and they weren't going to take him out
there.  They were too scared of what they'd find.  And it made so
much sense.  They just didn't see it. . .

     It would be gambling, turning up one of his few remaining
cards.  Show it now and lose it.  He let himself fall back into the
pillows, across the blanket, and debated.  He was so sick of being
under guard, under eyes.  He wanted to be by himself so much.  God,
he couldn't do this for that reason. . . but he knew he was right.
The bones were out there.  What had it been?  Oh yeah. . . if he
was going to do this he'd leave them the tip and let them climb the
walls.  The grin almost hurt his cheeks, but it was so hard to
resist.

     So why bother?  They were just going to drug him anyway.  It
was one-forty-five.  Averman figured he'd get to the Bar-B-Que at
two or so, and Averman was punctual.  Wasn't expecting Frito or him
to really meet them there, either.  Not if he'd told Frito to keep
him down.  Mulder rolled onto his side and wrapped his arm back
under his head.  They were only going to do what they absolutely
had to because he scared them.  Stupid.  Stupid.

     And suddenly it was like he couldn't breathe, he could feel
all of it pressing in too close.  Frito had Valium and Haldol and.
. . Mulder bit his lip on the pain of that knowledge.  Forced the
air back into his chest.  And Michael was sitting in a car, playing
with a new toy, or eating food that didn't have maggots in it for
once.  And they weren't in Ashton anymore, but they were close.
His head ached and his ribs ached and the taste of acid was sour in
the back of his throat, but Mulder knew where he was, and knew
what was happening.  He knew all that, knew that Frito and
Averman and Cooke would not be driving up into the hills, to look at
some fucking tourist trap.

     And his fingers knew the shape of that card.  He rolled very
slowly and carefully off the bed, and grabbed his jeans and
sneakers.  Skinned out of the suit pants fast.  He wanted something
you could climb in, wanted to be something other than Fox Mulder of
the FBI.  He shoved his ID and his wallet into his pocket, and left
the laces undone on his sneakers.  Almost left right then.  It was
inviting trouble not to, but he couldn't do that.  Couldn't just
walk out.  He pulled the little pad next to the phone over, silent,
and uncapped a ball-point, grinned and knew which few lines he
wanted to leave.  See if they could work it out.  This one would be
easy enough.

     'Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and
          shining
     We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
     Under a tree in the cool of the day, with the blessing of
          sand,
     Forgetting themselves and each other, united
     In the quiet of the desert.  This is the land which ye
     Shall divide by lot.  And neither division nor unity
     matters.  This is the land.  We have our inheritance'
 

     Damn, that one was sooo obvious.  Mulder hesitated and gave
in, scribbled "pop quiz - 5 pts." across the top of it and set it
on his bed.  Hell, he didn't need a trance or a clue for that one.
That one was fifteen-foot tall neon letters, good as a road map.
He picked up his shades and stepped so silently to the door.  Hand
flat on the frame to keep it slow, deliberate and quiet.  Please,
Averman, be in the middle of that first round of rolls with butter
you like so fucking much.  Ice tea and lemon, and the door made no
sound at all.  He could feel his chest moving fast with noiseless
little pants and the flush in his face, and he felt so free and so
scared.  Out the door and pull it shut as carefully as he'd opened
it.  Forced himself not to run to the stair well and handled the
door like spun glass.
 
 
 

     The stairwell was cool and dim in the light of the low-watt
bulb.  Mulder's sneakers echoed softly as he half-ran three floors
down, breathing fast, fast, flushed and feeling the blood in
every vein of his body, the smile on his face.  Stop at the
bottom, hand on the knob, catch his breath and hope, and
finally step through, eyes scanning to find the others before they
could find him.  They weren't there, and his face hurt with the
smile.

     The girl at the Avis counter smiled back, curious and
flirting, and her fingers touched his when he took his card back.
They could trace the charge, and it didn't matter at all.  He
thanked her and she said she hoped she'd see him again.  Handed
him keys, cool from the air-conditioning in the lobby, the shape of
freedom if only for a handful of hours.  Mulder felt like running,
like laughing, and opened the doors and turned the key in the
ignition, and pulled back, frantic to get away from this hotel as
fast as he could.  Back up and pull out and head away.  The
direction didn't matter, he was free.  He couldn't get enough air,
was panting, it felt so good. . .

     The blacktop whined under the wheels and heat devils flickered
over the road bed.  Get Elvis on the radio, fine if it's Elvis
Costello, it didn't matter, it was someone who wouldn't watch him
or flinch or shoot drugs into his ass when he tried to figure out
what was happening.  Drive until a parking lot was there.

     Mulder pulled in to the strip mall and headed for the big,
discount drug-store.  He browsed in the magazine aisle, until he
found a map with the right tourist sites and a book of them, and of
local history.  Sugar coated, but that didn't matter.  Grabbed a
bag of chips and a couple bottles of iced tea with sugar and lemon.

Three candy bars that looked good.  Ran them all on the card, fast
and easy.  No meat, beyond that he didn't care.

     Grabbed the bag and back out to the car.  The map was one of
those huge, folded nightmares that spread across the front seat and
the dash as he searched through the right-angled valleys until he
knew where he was going, and wadded it up, too impatient to even
try to fold it back up.  Popped open one of the drinks and pulled
out and got on the highway, driving the prevailing speed and
revelling in seventy-five miles an hour alone, in the car.  When he
saw his own eyes in the mirror they glittered.

     And the radio reeled through song after song after song, and
Mulder almost sobbed.  Bittersweet joy of watching the light on the
damned hills around him.  He could feel this slipping away already,
knew that it couldn't last.  He'd get to the chapel, he'd find what
he'd need to find, learn what he needed to know.  But he couldn't
stay free, they wouldn't let him.  His breathing slowed, but his
chest hurt with it all the same.

     Long before he drove lonely into the hills, his ass ached from
the seat, and driving, and the shots that pushed drugs into his
blood and fog into his mind.  Bruises over his hips, and he had no
doubt there'd be a fresh bruise as soon as they caught up with him.

And he'd have to let them, couldn't be helped.  If he didn't let
them catch him he'd never be Fox again.  Worse, if they didn't
catch him, Michael had no hope at all.  The aching certainty of
that warred with the pain of letting them trap him again.

     FBI procedure would frown on this.  The sudden thought put a
bitter smile on his lips.  Hell, he'd been shot down from the
moment they stopped trusting him to stay alone in his own room.
Fucking guards.  And he'd just made a jail-break.  God, god, god,
a flicker of black and white behind him.  Shift the mirror to see.
Yes, black and white on wheels.  Fuck!  Son of a bitch!  The
cocksuckers called the fucking cops. . .

     Outrunning it in this squirrel-mobile was never an issue.  It
pulled up and the red-and-blue flicker behind him sparkled in the
mirror, off the chrome details, through his mind.  It had been so
short, he'd never set foot up there. . . not yet.  The siren blared
for an instant, blared again.  Forget it.  The road was narrow up
here, they couldn't pull around.  Mulder shot the single finger
salute to the cop at the wheel, kept his speed steady and kept
going.

     Not trying to run, not trying to dodge, but no way in hell
he'd pull over so close to what he wanted.  So he'd have witnesses,
just as well.  Proof.  God, the mother-fucker was right up on his
bumper, lights flashing, siren going.  Nice car, shame about your
dick. . .

     Brushed up close and fell back, still noisy back there.
Mulder snarled.

     "I see you, asshole.  I know you're there.  Go blow your
partner and get back to me."

     Oh god, fucker was trying to pull around. . . they'd get ahead
and choke him down.  Mulder pulled the wheel and veered just far
enough to block the asshole.  The big black-and-white brushed up
close, frustration in the driving.  Mulder was too busy to look
back, but was sure he'd see some donut-addict with red-veined
cheeks back there trying to teach him new words for fudge-packing.

     Don't tap the brakes.  Don't give him the bird again, or that
black and white would be right up his tailpipe and giving a
practical demonstration of why the sheep got nervous.  Mulder
swallowed and carefully maintained speed.  Didn't dare speed up or
slow down.  Maintain.  That was all he could do, maintain.  Swung
briefly to threaten the bastard back into the lane behind him and
played pied piper with too few horses under the hood.  His hands
were sweating on the wheel and the bluish shadow of the low hills
broke up the gold light searing the road.  A pick-up flew by the
other way, vague awareness of staring faces.  Thank god, thank god.
That might keep the bastard back there a little longer, keep him
from playing games.

     Turn-off signs ahead, and Mulder felt the warm rush of relief.
He'd almost welcome the end of this, captivity or no.  Yes, that
was the turn-off.  Signal.  Come on, asshole, see the turn signal.
. . slow down. . . the prick went for the tight squeeze, right on
Mulder's ass.  Didn't dare to touch the brakes, let the velocity
bleed off until the fucker dropped back enough to let him brake and
turn, deliberately, carefully, no surprises.  The signal clicked
off as he straightened out on the narrow, asphalt lane.  Keep
precisely to the speed limit and the asshole was still bright and
noisy back there.  What?  He thought Mulder hadn't noticed?

     Oh god, let's flirt with this prick.  Mulder swallowed.  He
could smell his own sweat, sharp with fear like any sane person's
would be.  Tourist signs, nobody up here in the heat of the late
afternoon.  He dropped a bit more speed, shivered.  And there was
a parking lot.  Pull in and gun it across the gravel.  Out of the
car, forget closing the doors, get the ID out of his back pocket
and it's open and never turn around, don't give them a chance,
keep walking, don't, for god's sake, don't run unless a bullet
sounds fun.  He heard heavy, running steps behind him, two sets. .
.

     "Freeze, asshole!"  And now it was time to stop.  He'd gotten
this far.  They'd shoot him from sheer frustration if he kept going
now.  One set of steps coming up fast.

     "I'm FBI."  Level and calm, now was not the time for honesty.

     "Shut up, asshole. . . " and a big hand wrenched him around to
see cheeks flapping with indignation and Mulder had to fight not to
laugh. . . he looked so much like Mulder'd expected.  Hoped he was
wrong, but the fold of fat over his collar and the sweat stains and
the grease mark on his chest. . . He clamped down on the inside of
his cheek to keep the laugh in.  Kept his hands up and the ID
folder open between two fingers.

     Steps behind him and someone patted him down.

     "I'm FBI."  Keep it calm and repeat it and hope it got
through.  The cop behind him grabbed the folder while his partner,
standing there in front of him, gibbered at the effrontery of some
city boy who wouldn't pull over when he was told.  Mulder was glad,
now, that he wasn't carrying his sidearm.  That would be the last
straw for this danger to livestock.

     "Looks real.  And they didn't say to arrest him. . . "  The
voice behind him was much calmer.

     Mulder took a deep breath.  "Look, all I want to do is go up
there and look around. . .  What did they say on the APB?"  Safe
assumption.
 

     The guy behind him stepped around, edging between his partner
and the fed.  Mulder let himself relax.  His likelihood of being
cuffed had just dropped considerably as far as he could tell.
"They said you might be. . .well. . . "

     "In some danger?"  Mulder raised an eyebrow and tried to
imagine how Averman could have phrased it to convey danger
without any details.  Not 'danger to himself.'  That would cost him a
resource real fast.  Maybe, just maybe, in danger from others. . .
"They mention a possible problem with the Kid Killer?"  Bingo.  The
younger one nodded.  His buddy was letting his veins burst about
ten feet away, stomping harmless plants to death.  "We're on that
case. . . I can understand the concern."

     "Would you mind coming with us?  Or we can follow you back?"

     Mulder hesitated, considered how to get what he wanted.  "I
came up here on a lead.  Look, I can see why they were concerned.
I don't care if you come with me.  I'd rather, in fact. . ."
Started walking, calm and steady again.  The younger one stayed
next to him, the duck-fucker about ten feet back.  Mulder grinned,
but figured he wasn't in any danger from the bastard as long as he
didn't sound like a farm animal.

     It wasn't a long walk to the chapel from here.  He felt a
vague sorrow for the loss of freedom, of the brief space of being
alone.  But it wasn't important here.  He stopped and closed his
eyes.  The asshole blithered, but Mulder could tune him out.  The
man next to him didn't understand.  He stood there and listened,
and slowly paced into the small cup of the valley, hearing the
trees around him.

     He smelled it before he saw it.  Tangy and clean, fresh.
"Juniper. . . "

     The dirt under the tree was hard.  Thin grass marred it.  Old
and packed and hard.  And bare in one patch.  Mulder crouched
down and cursed, wished for a shovel or something. . .  Polished
shoes stopped next to him and his neck cracked when he looked up.

     "Do you have a pocket knife or something. . . ?"  The guy
looked at him oddly, but pulled out a red pocket knife that
probably had tools for disarming nuclear bombs on it.  Mulder found
a single, tough, thick blade and started scraping.  The soil here
had been hard for a long time, and he didn't need to go very deep.
He could hear the older cop insulting him.  The younger one had
crouched and was watching him with very worried eyes now.  And
the blade scraped on something.  He dropped the knife and brushed
with his hands until he could see a flash of ivory in the twilight
violet glow.  Licked his lips.

     "I want a team out here."

     "Agent Mulder. . . why don't you tell me what this is about?"
Fox Mulder looked up at him with the sad eyes of a man who wished
he was wrong.

     "Dig here."  He patted the spot where he'd scraped a few
inches away.  "This is where the killer buried his first one, or.
. .or. . .the one before that."  Used the knife to scar the tree
and marked the spot.  Any evidence left was hidden in the hard
flesh of the land.  Then turned and walked away, to sit slumped in
the car and wait for the cops, and the fuss, and the cage to slam
shut around him.

     Will the veiled sister pray for
     Those who walk in darkness and chose thee and oppose thee
     Those who are torn on the horn between season and season,
          time and time, between.
     Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those
          who wait
     In darkness?  Will the veiled sister pray
     For children at the gate
     Who will not go away and cannot pray;
     Pray for those who chose and oppose

          O my people, what have I done unto thee.

     Will the veiled sister between the slender
     Yew trees pray for those who offend her
     And are terrified and cannot surrender
     And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
     In the last desert between the last blue rocks
     The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
     Of drouth, spitting from the mouth of the withered apple-seed.

          O my people.

Continued in part 13................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 13/41 NC-17
Date: 2 Feb 1996 01:29:46 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 13/41)
By Amperage and Livengoo
Copyright October, 1995

International Readers:  No third season spoilers
Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual
property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The
FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana
and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and
everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.

_______________

     It didn't take long.  Muttpumping mutherfucker must have
called the moment he had Mulder's tight ass in his line of sight.
Frito in the Taurus, and Averman with the other agents.

     "Are you going to do this hard or easy?"  Sam's voice was hard
and low.

     "What's hard?"  Mulder asked speculatively, not rising from
his seat behind the steering wheel.

     "Hard is I drug the shit out of you and let a psych hospital
find out how hard it is to keep you in a room."  It didn't even
sound like Sam.  "How the fuck could you do that?  Didn't you know
we would go fucking crazy?  Left a fucking piece of fucking fucking
T.S. Eliot on the pillow, you asshole."  Sam's brow furrowed with
his anger.  "You shiteater, you faggot, you fudge factory with
legs.  I don't believe  you did this.  Fuck."
 

     Mulder closed his eyes, for the first time imagining Sam
coming back through the connecting door, finding Mulder gone, not
in the room at all. Terrified, not knowing anything.  Not finding
Mulder.  "I'm sorry," he muttered.  "I'm sorry man."

     "You fucking better well be.  Why the hell did you run off?
Just want to see if Frito's heart passes a fucking stress test?
Damn it Mulder, I have been trying to see you through this.  I have
been trying to be patient.  I have been trying to keep you out of
a funny farm."

     Something snapped in Mulder then.  His face contorted with
rage.  Oh fuck the Sheriff's deputies and fuck poor Sam's feelings
and fuck the entire FBI.  "What the hell are you talking about?
What the hell?  All the goddamn progress of this case, every
fucking thing you've got you got because of me.  Because of Spooky
Mulder mumbling in the dark, listening to shadows and talking to
the spirits.  Because of what I see and what I know and damn you
all to hell, because I knew that she was out there.  I knew it!  He
held her and he held her and she fucking died anyway and he buried
her here.  She liked it here.  It was her favorite spot, especially
in winter when there was a thin patch of snow and no one else would
come!"  Mulder stood, entire hand stretched out towards the chapel.

     "She loved the beauty and the barrenness and when she died all
he could do was hold her.  He sent her on to Jesus.  Because he
loved her and it was all he could fucking do for her and here you
are and you fucking refuse to go look.  You just give me drugs and
tell me to take naps and get scared of me when I tell you the
truth."

     Mulder paused, looked around.  Samuel and Cooke and Meyers.
Averman and Williams and Hitchens and the local ewe rammers
were
gone, down to the site, down to where an innocent girl lay buried
in the burning earth.

     His voice crackled with rage.  "You only go so far before you
turn away, scared of what you cannot see.

     "I will show you fear in a handful of dust."  Mulder's voice
was soft.  He closed his eyes, let his shoulders fall forward.
Over.  All over.  And he was going to go back to that hotel, that
damn fucking hotel and Meyers was going to hold his shoulders
while the needle sang and burned and left him pulled away in that
other world where he could not think, could not see.  He wanted to
run, he wanted to leave, to go somewhere where no one knew
Spooky Fox Mulder, knew he was the up and coming hot shot.  Where
no one knew he was coming off his rocker.  Where he was simply no
one.

     *When you open the door, is it still your sister you see?*

     Mulder opened his eyes at Sam's touch.  "Get away from me you
brown little turd.  Get away from me."  He pushed his body against
the sun hot fiberglass of car.  But Sam was not there.  It was not
Frito's gentle touch.   Mulder shuddered.  Sam was going through
his briefcase.  Mulder sank to a squat beside the car.  There had
been freedom for a moment, a running away.  A sweet delicious
freedom.  If they locked him away, oh god, he would be a fucking
escape artist.  If felt so fucking good, with your heart pounding
in your chest and your mouth dry and every sound magnified and
then you were free and nothing could hurt you, at least not for a
while.

There was the open sky and the long rows of fields and it was all
beautiful because no one else was telling you what to do and

     *Is that all you run from?  From Frito and from Averman?  From
their physical restraints?*

     Mulder closed his eyes again.  Put his face in his hands.  Was
reminded of a time when he simply could not face another beating.
Simply could not endure another night of screams.  There had been
three in one week, three and his wrist was already in a cast and
his head hurt and the welts on his butt had broken out into pussy
sores.  He had a fever, but he wouldn't say anything.  And that
gun, the same gun that hadn't protected Samantha, that gun that
hadn't helped him keep her home.  It was smooth and cool and quick
and then there would be nothing.  No thoughts, no pain.  No fear.
It was the closest he had ever been to suicide.  Nothing mattered,
not the future, not his mother, not himself.  He just wanted to
avoid the pain.  Then his father had come in.  Come in ready to
rage and to belt and to hurt and he had seen his son's closed face
and the gun.  And gently pried it away from his son's fingers.  And
cried, while Mulder stared, not understanding why his father would
be so sad.  It wouldn't bring her back, but it would pay.  His
death would pay.  His father had been so drunk, Mulder doubted he
even remembered the gun or the tears.  He surely hadn't mentioned
it and nothing had changed.

     "Here."  Sam's voice was quiet.

     "No."  Mulder turned his face away.  "Fuck you, Frito.  Fuck
you.  No more drugs.  I just want to go away.  Stop hovering over
me.  Stop controlling me.  Stop telling me to have emotions."

     He heard a gentle sigh.  "Francis, Francis, please look at
me."

     And Mulder couldn't, or he could but he was terrified of what
he would see.

     "Marion, I'm going to give you some Valium.  Then you're going
to get into the car and go back to the hotel with Meyers."

     "No.  I've got to stay here."  As he said it, he knew it was
true.  The whoosh of tires, the guttural sound of combustion
motors, the grinding of loose gravel on asphalt.  There were other
cars.  Several other cars.

     "They're not digging her out right now.  We've got to get a
team from Oklahoma City.  Averman's already asked for it."

     *When will they find Samantha?  Will some other agent driven
by internal ghosts dig through the soul with the edge of a barlow
and find the white of bones, the rot and decay of brown hair, once
kept back in neat braids?*

     Mulder jerked to look at Frito.  Sam started.  Heard Meyers
and Williams talking to the locals, telling them what to do.
Francis' face was twisted, almost inhuman.  Then it relaxed into
something less frightening, into the face a child.

     "We got more problems?  Helluva' a thing.  I thought, boy's
gone 'round the bend."  The voice was Hardman's.  Sam put up a
hand
to stop the ceaseless chatter.

     "Where is Samantha?"  Mulder asked softly.

     Sam closed his eyes, felt the blood drain out of his face.
Took a deep breath and returned his friend's gaze.  "No one knows."

     "I have to find her.  It's all the matters.  I found this
girl.  Why won't they let me find Samantha?"  A soft, plaintive
voice.  "I'm so scared.  All I want is to find her.  Why won't they
let me find her too?"

     "I don't know, man.  I don't know.  Come on, let's get some
antibiotics back into you before you spew again."  Sam's eyes were
kind.  Mulder swallowed.  Nodded.
 
 
 
 

     There was silence, a sharp, dank silence between Mulder and
Meyers.  What Frito had given Mulder was not Valium but more
Haldol, a clear shining cup of liquid. Mulder had looked at Sam,
betrayed.  Sam had shrugged apologetically.  "You kept talking
about your sister."

     Mulder had wanted to throw the cup to the ground, wanted to
make an issue of it.  But he did not want to be restrained, to have
the fat buttfucking sheriff fall on him, watch a needle bury itself
into Mulder's flesh.  And then, at that point, there would be no
more words, and Michael would die.  Would most certainly die.  In
the end, his own feelings and his own terrors did not matter.  All
that mattered was a small boy who did not understand why his new
keeper did not want his dick sucked.

     So now he rode back to the hotel, and he could already feel
the drug coursing in his veins, could already feel a numbing
tiredness dragging into his joints and into all his muscles.  The
drug was robbing him of anger, of energy.  It was beginning to dull
his thoughts, to stop the racing and the knowledge.
 

     "Stop here," Mulder directed.

     Meyers' grip tightened on the steering wheel, and he did not
slow down.  He glanced at Mulder, trying to shape words.

     "Fucking stop, I'm going to vomit," Mulder said more sharply
than he meant to.

     Meyers' foot on the brake was sharp and sudden, a starting
like a rabbit caught in headlights.  They were on the shoulder and
Mulder opened the car door, tumbled out.

     He could not think, could only wrap his arms around his
terribly bruised chest, only let the candy bars and the tea come
out of his mouth, only sit when he was done, only sit with his eyes
closed, and then lean against the open door of the Buick Century.
No energy left, nothing in his stomach, nothing that would stay
down.  His chest and his diaphragm hurt.  His fingers shook.  He
shouldn't have tried to eat candy bars and potato chips.  Oh God.
Everything was numb.  And the Haldol, most of it anyway, was lying
in bile and the half-digested remains.  All he wanted to do was sit
there quietly, let the hot Oklahoma sun pull out the cold chill in
his bones.

     A smell, fresh.  Mulder opened his eyes.  Meyers had some baby
wipes, the little carry-all package they put up as impulse
purchases in Wal*Marts.

     "Williams likes these after cheap ribhouses," Meyers said
apologetically.

     Mulder's fingers shook too much to pull one free so Meyers did
it for him.

     "You were three sessions ahead of me at Quantico." Meyers
said.  "All I heard about."

     Mulder tried to wipe his face.  His hands were tired.  Sore.
He felt Meyers take the wipes.

     "Spooky this and Spooky that.  Is it true that they handed you
a real case and told you it was just practice?"

     "No."  Meyers finished wiping his mouth.  "No.  They thought
they had solved it.  Sent the wrong guy to jail for a few years.
I got it as a practice case, did the profile.  When they told me I
was wrong I took the profile apart point by point, did the same for
the rest of the case. . .it would have lowered my rank to the
bottom of my class, and left an innocent man in jail.  Does
Williams believe in water, or just wipes?"

     Meyers grinned. "It's said you were never posted to a regional
assignment.  No water.  First convenience store we come to.
Water."
 

     Mulder nodded, pulled himself up on the car.  God, he hurt.
They were buckled in, barrelling down the long straight highway
when he bothered to answer Meyers question.  "They were scared to
let me converse with local yokels," he responded weakly, grinning.
Fuck you Frito. I got enough to make me sluggish, to do what the
Valium might have done.  Most it's lying on the Oklahoma roadside.
Fuck you, Samuel Rodriguez.  It was an escape of a kind.  "So they
paired me off with Reggie Pardue in Violent Crimes.  A fucking ASAC
shepherds a rookie around.  Like I was bone china and they were
scared of dropping me."  Mulder snorted.  "I've heard that really
good bulls, their sperm sells for thousands of dollars."

     Meyers glanced at him, then shrugged, evidently deciding that
the drugs were working all thrusters now and that Mulder was
rambling.  "Yeah," he replied.

     "That's what I am.  Except that instead of sperm I give off
profiles. I catch killers.  I'm not a real person.  I'm just a
bull, jerk me off a few times and then take what you want."  It
would not do to keep talking.  Meyers was expecting drugged out.
Mulder folded his arms around his chest and closed his eyes.
 
 
 

     "We're here."  The hand was gentle.  Mulder opened his eyes,
squinted at the hotel.  Nodded.  "Listen, they want me to sit in
the room with you."  Meyers was apologetic.  "I need to go by my
hotel room first, grab some work."

     Mulder nodded.  "Yeah.  Okay."  His stomach hurt.  "You got
any change?"

     Meyers rooted around.  Came up with forty cents. Mulder had
sixty.

     "Why don't I get us some Cokes while you get some paperwork?"

     Meyers snorted.  "I may not be the Spooky, but I'm not
stupid."

     Mulder glanced at Meyers.  He really hadn't thought about
running.  "That would be pointless.  I went because I had somewhere
to go, something to find.  We need that body.  If we can identify
her we can identify him."

     "The woman said you were prophesying," Meyers said
pointlessly, walking with Mulder to the elevator.

     "What woman?"

     "The woman at the tent."

     Mulder frowned.  "The tent revival?"

     "Yeah.  You know the one that scared Rodriguez and Cooke
shitless?"

     Mulder nodded as though he understood.  Decided to let it drop
and act woozy.

     They found a Coke machine on Meyers' floor.  Mulder hung back,
let Meyers select the drinks.  Coke and a Sprite.

     Let Meyers get his shit together in a briefcase.  Followed
Meyers up to the room.

Continued in part 14................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 14/41 NC-17
Date: 3 Feb 1996 07:54:14 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 14/41)
By Amperage and Livengoo
Copyright October, 1995

International Readers:  No third season spoilers
Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual
property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The
FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana
and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and
everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.

____________

     Individual blades of grass and specks of dirt cast stark
shadows in the lights.  The heat of them pulled sweat from
Averman's skin, squeezed his eyes shut with the pain of their
brilliance.  He could smell the sap of the junipers where the
casings of the lights sent baking thermoclines up into the tree,
hear the buzzing of the filaments, stunning summer insects and
animals into a humming silence.

     Beads of sweat on Rodriguez' face caught the light, refracted
it.  Averman could see the sweat that matted the shorter man's
black hair.  The doctor's sunglasses threw back the light,
unnatural under stars.  A faint, welcome breeze could do little to
truly cool the tiny space that had been a chapel for so many, a
chapel for one, a grave for some.

     Sam worried his lip, trying to see everyone at once.  It would
be hours until the real evidence team got out here, but he had to
secure the site, be sure the locals didn't trample it or damage
what little was here.  Oklahoma City's office had squawked, not
seeing the urgency of such an old grave at first.  It had taken
Averman to convince them.  If Sam had ever doubted Averman's
military career, he didn't after that.  Clint Eastwood probably
called Averman to consult when he did that stupid movie, the one
about that moronic raid.  Guy should have stuck to westerns.

     Averman, next to him, heaved a long, deep sigh.  "You have any
trouble with the kid?"  The first words he'd said that didn't have
to do with evidence.   Frito ran his fingers through his soaked
hair, trying to let the air reach his scalp.

     "Some.  He didn't want to take the Haldol.  Hell, I didn't
want to give it to him."  That still hurt.  The look on Marion's
face while he studied that cup and considered the odds.  "Thank God
he drank it.  For a second there. . . "

     "Yeah.  I know.  I wasn't that sure you wouldn't have to use
the needle, myself.  But I was hoping.  He tell you why he hared
out like that?"

     "Maybe.  I don't really. . . he was talking about the case,
and about listening to voices in shadows and how we were all so
scared of him."  Sam felt his mouth pull tight, holding back the
fears for a friend.  Hell.  Hell and shit.  Friends were people you
and your wife invited to dinner and sent Christmas cards to.
Pathologists usually didn't spend all that much time in the line of
fire, but the time Sam had spent over the last year and a half had
been spent with Fox Mulder.  That wasn't a friend.  Sam looked up
into Averman's squint.  "He said every advance we'd had was
because of what he'd seen and figured, and he was right.  We can't
send him home, and he knows it."

     "If he's a danger to himself. . . "  Averman's voice was dry
and hollow.

     "Hell, man.  He's been a danger to himself on this since day
one.  We just don't have anyone else who can get a handle on this
asshole, so we use the barb-wire and bubble-gum on Francis and
hope we can pick up the pieces after we're done."  Sam heard the
sour notes in his own voice.  Thought of the drugs in his briefcase
and how he'd feel. . . and was glad he hadn't eaten because he'd have
done a Francis and blown it.  He glared at a young cop with a big
camera who might have been too close to the site but probably
wasn't, screamed at the asshole to get away from there and leave
it alone.  Averman didn't even twitch.

     "Pendajo, fucking shit-berries. . . "  Sam got himself back
under control.  Frowned.  "I'm going on vacation after all this
shit is over.  Gonna try to forget I ever set foot in this fucking
state."

     A smile on the narrow, tan-dry face of the AIC.  "You know, I
own a house in Oklahoma City, but sometimes I feel just the same
way."  Watched two of the young cops, and the fat one who'd been
bragging about pulling over the crazy fed, as the three of them ran
yellow tape around the scene.  More a matter of having something to
do than anything else.  "Rodriguez, you got any idea at all what
we're looking at next?"

     The pathologist didn't even pretend not to understand.  "He
took this kind of hard, Averman.  I don't know. . . I guess he
keeps thinking he'll find his sister.  I just don't really know.
But I really, really doubt we'll have an easy night tonight."

     And they waited, in the violent light that not would be the
last assault those poor, lonely bones would have to suffer.
 
 
 
 

     Meyers frowned and looked back over his report, marking out
handwritten lines until half of it was scribbled out.  God, he
hated doing these.  Hated having to write all his thoughts out like
this, knowing he'd missed the best ideas.  Everything on the page
looked so stupid when he read back over it.

     He glanced up at Spooky, lying there with the Coke can held to
his head like a compress, remote in hand.  Wondered what Spooky's
paperwork looked like and if he ever had to struggle over it.

     "How'd you like to do my paperwork, Spooky?"  Soft, in case he
was wrong and the guy was sleeping.  The flickering light from the
television screen cast blue highlights, and the low sound could
almost cover Meyers' voice.

     Nope.  Head turned too fast, and his eyes, open but flat and
glazed.  "Sorry, Meyers.  You'll have to fuck up on your own.  I do
it and they'll call you a genius, then shoot you full of drugs."
Meyers winced.  Spooky went back to nursing what might have been
a headache.

     "Uhh. . . you want any food, Mulder?  I mean. . . if what
Cooke was saying is true, you could use it."  Slow, empty smile but
Spooky left his eyes shut.

     "So what'd Cooke say?"  Far away voice.  Yeah, the drugs were
hitting the Spookster all right.  Meyers shivered and wondered what
was going on in his head.

     "He said you were ill.  Said you were weird anyway, but that
your head was really fucked up with the flu."  That wasn't what
Cooke had said, but it sounded good to Meyers.  "He said the
antibiotics and all were making you loopy, but you still had the
best handle on the bastard."

     "Thanks, Meyers.  I think I'll wait for breakfast so I can
listen to Cooke myself."  And Mulder finally rolled onto his side,
pulled the ugly, patterned spread over himself and relaxed.  Meyers
watched him until he saw a slow, steady rhythm of sleep move his
ribs.

     Half out of his mind, and he could still think like a
fucking baby-killer was what Cooke had really said.  Tried to kill
them all, but the best chance they had of nailing the murdering
fucker's dick to the wall.  Somebody should make sure Cooke didn't
drink at lunch.  Averman had about strangled him with his own guts
and Cooke had finally shut up.  Meyers went back to his report.
 
 
 

     The television was showing static and hissing when a faint
noise snapped Meyers' head back out of the nod, hurting his neck.
The empty bed caught his eyes first, and his guts twisted in dread.

The sound of piss hitting water reminded him he could breathe, and
his shoulders sagged in relief.

     Two in the morning and no one but Spooky here.  Dead of the
night.  The evidence team must have arrived from Oklahoma City by
now, and the doc and the AIC would be supervising.  Meyers heard
water running, heard Spooky spit.  He must be trying to clear the
taste of the drugs and puke and whatever from his mouth, poor
bastard.

     Knock on the bathroom door.  "Hey Spooky, you okay in there?"
Heard the water shut off.

     "I can take a leak by myself, Meyers.  I don't need anyone
holding my dick."  Cripes.  Remind him not to hover over Spooky
Mulder again.  It might not bother Rodriguez, but the women in his
class would have racked his balls if he'd talked like this guy did.

The door opened.
 

     Spooky's face was still wet, but he was dressed in running
shorts and a sweatshirt now.  Christ.  When had he gotten up
and changed?  Meyers shivered at the bright gleam in his eyes, the
quick, abrupt way he moved.  It reminded Meyers of his home in
Florida, of the way iguanas flickered across the road in the heat,
moving too damn fast to catch.  It sure as hell wasn't what he
expected at two in the morning on a gut full of sleepy drugs.

     Spooky had the sheets flipped up, looking under the bed.  He
tossed one sneaker out, fast and hard into the middle of the floor.

Was fishing for the other. . . "

     "Uhh, Mulder?  What are you doing?"  Meyers swallowed.
Christ, he could see what Spooky was doing.  What he really wanted
to ask was how he could be doing this with that much crap in his
bloodstream.  The look on Spooky's face said he knew exactly what
Meyers was thinking, and didn't care.  How could eyes look glazed
and bright all at the same time?

     "Running.  I like to get in four miles a day, and I spent
today on my ass.  Get your sneaks, Meyers, or Averman'll ream you
a new asshole for letting me out of sight."  Mulder thought it was
funny.  Shook his head.  "Think you can keep up with me?  You went
through Quantico after I did. . . or have you been back on the
donut wagon?"

     Meyers shook himself loose and scrambled for his stuff, hoping
Spooky told the truth when he said there'd be no point in his
trying to get away again.  Not like he could rent a car at two a.m.

Meyers was back upstairs fast, and Mulder was stretching out.  God
in heaven, but Meyers didn't like this.   Tied his laces and
listened to Mulder pace while he wrote a note telling the AIC where
they were and what they were doing.  He didn't venture to tell him
why.

     Then followed Spooky down the stairs, not even bothering with
the elevator.  Through the lobby and out the front doors, ignoring
the stares of the graveyard shift staff at the desk.  It was
finally cool out here, with mist hanging along the highway.  Stars
overhead, and crickets and frogs noisy in the dark.  And Spooky,
falling into long, loping strides along the shoulder of the
highway.

     Cars blew by, few and far between.  Meyers hung back about
twenty feet, trying to pace himself.  Spooky wasn't a lot older,
and god, could he run.  Meyers was in shape, but Spooky was still
running smooth and steady as Meyers felt his heart slamming and
his muscles going tight.  By the time Mulder turned around Meyers'
feet hurt, his calves burned, and the stitch in his side was eating his
guts.  God, how could the bastard run when he hadn't eaten, barely
slept, and was drugged to the eyes?  Spooky, spooky. . .

     Oh god, miles and miles.  And a car pulled in next to him,
slowed.  Oh god, he could barely see and some pervert was going to
kill him and Spooky would keep running and then Averman's voice
was telling Meyers to get in.  Opened the door.  Meyers just imploded
into the seat, sweating and gasping and so weak he could barely
pull his legs into the car and pull the door shut after him.  God,
his eyeballs felt tired.  His hair felt tired.  And Averman put on
the blinkers and paced Spooky Fox Mulder back to the hotel, where
the bastard actually helped get Meyers up to the second floor and
back to his own room, pulled off his sneakers and dumped him into
bed, drenched with sweat and still wheezing for air.  Meyers was
asleep before he ever felt the covers go over him.  Never heard the
door shut.

     And Averman stood outside his door, jaw working, and stared at
Mulder, taking in movements that were still too quick even with the
drugs and running and exhaustion and no food.  Controlled the urge
to hit the younger man.

     "I thought someone as bright as you could have figured this
one out by now."  Mulder glanced at him, tried to focus on him, but
couldn't keep his eyes still.

     "What, that you'd rather drug me stupid than let me work?"

     "This wasn't working.  This was more of your bullshit,
Mulder."  He kept his tone conversational.  Walking down the hall
and letting Mulder set the pace up the stairwell, now that they
didn't need the elevator for another victim of Spookiness.  "You
knew Rodriguez'd be frantic when you vanished.  Knew what we'd
think when we got back tonight."

     Mulder glanced back, and Averman wondered how he was doing
this on the amount of Haldol Rodriguez had made him drink.
Shuddered.  God, the muscles in the kid's legs were spasming, and
his breathing was so fast.  Averman wondered if he could even feel
what he was doing to his body.

     "I don't need this shit, Averman.  I took my babysitter along.
We left a note.  Obviously you had no trouble figuring out where we
were.  I'm twenty-fucking-seven years old and I made it this far
with nobody looking out for me."  Averman thought of Mulder,
staring at a wall and talking about his father hitting him, and was
willing to bet that last was too true.  Spooky shoved the door open
too fast, and it slammed back against the wall.  Averman caught the
door on the rebound, shut it.

     Mulder was pacing, wired.  Averman was wishing Rodriguez
wasn't still out with the evidence team.  "Son, either you sit down
and get ahold of yourself, or I sit on you."  Mulder glared at him
again.

     "See how hard you can push me, Averman.  Call me 'son' again
and we'll see."
 

     The AIC sighed, crossed his arms.  Wondered if the jokers in
D.C. really had their heads up their asses, or if they just figured
they'd use Spooky until they'd wrung him dry, and then lock him up
somewhere.  God, when would the kid crash?  Would he have to call
a doctor?  Maybe Guiterriez knew somebody out here.  When he left
the site, he had figured Rodriguez had another hour out there
before he could leave.  He might be as little as fifteen minutes
away now, might be another hour or two.  So, call and find out?
Get somebody else?  Or wait and see if Mulder ran himself into the
ground?

     Oh Lord, oh Lord help him.  The kid was flipping open the
computer, booting it up.  Hadn't they had enough?

     "I don't think we need any of this tonight, Agent Mulder. . ."

Spooky shook the hand off his shoulder, fingers flying wildly over
keys.  He was not even looking at what he wrote, choosing to glare
at Averman, drive him away from him with anger as hot as the lights
had been.  Typing blind.  Sweat rolling down his face.

     And Averman watched the gloss of sweat over pallid skin, hands
trembling and muscles twitching as a mind that couldn't rest forced
them on and on.  He knew this, had seen it before, but Rodriguez
had cut it short.  This time it just went on and on, and Averman
had no idea what to do for it.  The doctor had the drugs, all
Averman could do would be to call 911 and slam the door on Fox
Mulder.  Do that and admit the kid was gone, no way back home, on
the long trip into the dark.  And a little kid, at least one little
kid, would take a trip into the dark courtesy of a man who'd send
him to Jesus.  Averman fought down his own nausea and watched,
until he heard keys rattling in the hall, felt relief well through
him.  Mulder's eyes weren't tracking away any more, were fixed on
his typing.  And his fingers stumbled more and more, pausing
sometimes.

     Frito heard the keys, heard harsh breathing and no television
and felt red flare in front of his eyes.  Threw his briefcase onto
the bed.  His hands shook as he popped the latches and drew a
syringe.  He didn't even need to look.  Fucking Fox Francis Marion
Mulder up and pulling chains again, more Eliot, more raving.  The
bastard was going to sleep and he'd be damned if he didn't.  Frito
was so tired. . .

     He had the needle in his hand, went through the connecting
door with his anger around him and stopped, seeing Averman's long,
sad face, and Mulder, pale and entranced, fingers dragging across
the keys.

     "Marion. . . "  He couldn't feel his anger now, through the
cold bitterness.  Francis' eyes flickered, but stayed on the screen
as though he could not look away.  "Marion, you need to sleep."

     "Leave me alone, Frito.  You all left me alone when they took
her away.  Leave me alone now."
 

     Frito swallowed.  "Nobody here wants to hurt you, Francis."
No, not now they didn't.  What had he said this afternoon?   About
his sister, and the old woman had talked about his father   "We
want to help you find her, Francis.  Jack and I. . . we won't let
anyone hit you."

     Dreadful, flat eyes.  He looked gaunt.  Frito didn't think
he'd kept down a full meal since they'd arrived.  No wonder he was
hallucinating.  Now he was just staring back, and his fingers were
finally drifting still over the keyboard, eyes drifting shut to
snap open again.  Frito bit his lip, then put the needle down and
helped pull Francis onto his feet.  Averman stepped in to help get
him into bed.

     "Glad you showed.  If he'd kept it up any longer I'd have had
to take him to the emergency room."

     "What happened?"

     "He was running Meyers into the ground, just like the other
night with us.  Least the note they left didn't have any damned
Eliot."

     Sam turned back to get the syringe while Averman got Francis'
sneakers off.  He was quiet now, but he needed sleep so badly, and
Sam didn't trust that he could stay down on his own.  He tried to
find a spot that wasn't bruised to inject, but both skinny hips
were black and blue.  Sam pulled the sheets and quilt up against
the cold he was sure Marion would start to feel.  Looked up at
Averman, who was saving and printing out what Spooky had written.

     "He'll give me hell for this tomorrow.  You'll have to tell
him he had a chaperon and no one took advantage."  Averman
smiled, but both of them knew it really wasn't that funny.  He
handed over the first page.

     'I do not know much aboutgods; but I think that the river
     is a strong brown god - sullen,untamed and intractable,
     Patient to somedegreem at first recognized as a frontier;
     Useful, untrustworthy as a conveyorof commerce;
     Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
     The problem once solved, the brown god is almst forgotten
     By the dweller in cities - ever, however, implacable,
     Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyr, reminder
     Of what men choose to forget.  Unhonoured, unpropitiated
     By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and
     waiting.

     His rhythm was present in teh nursery bedroom. . . '

     Our killer started began in tehgentle, coastal regions.
     Green, rolling, most likely Atlantc.  The river is both
     physical frontier for him, and spiritual symbol.  Teh
     Christian symbolism of water and the rivermshould need no
     exploration.  He took Michael Weaverbird from teh river
     despoiled and delivered him to Jesus by tehriver innocent,
     baptism.

     Frito looked up at Averman.  "He's using past tense, like the
kid's already dead.  Even he says the kid's still alive. . . "

     "I know."  Averman handed over the second sheet, and Frito
tucked it under and went back to the page he'd already begun.

     WHere is teh end of it, the soundless wailing,
     The silent witherring of autumn flowers
     Dropping their petals and remaining motionless;
     WWhere is there and end to teh drifting wreckage,
     Tehprayer of the bone on the beach, the unprayable
     Prayyer at the calamitous annunciation?

     There is no end of it, the voiceless wailing,
     Nooend to the withering of withered flowers,
     To teh movement of pain that is painless and motionless,
     To the drift of teh sea and the drifting wreckage,
     The bone's prayer t Death its God.  Only the hardly, barely
     Prayable
     Prayer of teh one AAnunciation.

     It seems, as one becomes older,
     That teh past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere
     sequence -
     Or even development: the latter a partial fallacy
     ENcouraged by superficial notions of evolution,
     Which becomes, in teh popular mind, a means of disowning
     the past.
     The moments of happiness - not tehsense of well-being,
     Fruition, fulfillment, security or affection,
     Or even a very good dinnner, but the sudden illumination -
     We had the experience but missed teh meaning,
     And approach to the meaning restores the experience
     In a different form, beyond any meaning
     We can assign to happiness.

     Will i find you under some tree somewhereorwill another hear
     teh voices and pull back the balding scalp of the earth?

     The backward look behind teh assurance
     Of recorded history, teh backward half-look
     Over the shouldre, towards the primitive terror.
     Now, we com to discovr that teh moments ofagony
     (Whether, or not, due to misunderstanding,
     Having hoped for tehwrong things or dreaded teh wrong thngs,
     Is not in question) are likewise permmanent
     With such permanence as time has.  Weappreciate this better
     In the agony of others, nearly experienceed,
     Involving ourselves, than in ourown.
 

     He hasn't touched me, not like mama's men.  I have toys and
     food, but he looks sosad.  He says that it will hurt just a
     little, but then I'll be with Jesus and no one will hurt me
     again.  I like him, I call him daddy adn he dosn't make medo
     the things mama makes me do.

     I can't remember.  Why didn't they take me insted?

     Sam had to look up.  His hands were shaking and he tasted the
acid of bile in his mouth.  Averman was sitting still, hands open
in his lap, watching Mulder lie unconscious, rather than asleep.

     You cannnot face it steadily, but this thng issure,
     That time is no healer: the patientt is no longer here.

     "There have been so many times I just knew I was going to have
to ship him home the next day," Sam sighed.  "And then he'd wake
up and. . .and just be okay.  But this time. . .  He's stopped
teetering on the brink of psychosis.  Now he's starting a long,
slow slide down the hill.  He's not just channelling anymore.  He's
started incorporating it into whatever happened to his sister."

     "Mulder has what?  A PhD from Oxford?"

     "Yeah."

     "A guy like that, probably he could write his own ticket.  Do
whatever he wanted, get on with any good hospital, start his own
practice, do research for fucking NIMH or whatever.  Could be a
professor.  Fox Mulder applies to the FBI before he's finished his
orals.  I was recruited before I finished my ten with the Marines.
FBI, DEA, CIA, NSA.  I liked the FBI best.  Appealed to some
romantic sense of knighthood I guess."  Averman sighed.  "Why did
Fox Mulder want to be an FBI agent?"

     Rodriguez sighed, considered the wrapped figure, curled up in
bed.  Swallowed.  "Because his main goal in life is to find his
sister."

     Averman nodded.  "He's no further gone than he has been this
whole case.  We're just getting down past all the veneer and all
the nicey-nice defenses.  He found someone's sister.  And he's
probably thinking it's pretty fucking unfair that he can find
someone else's sister, but not his own."

     "You think she's dead?"

     "Probably.  But he doesn't.  To Fox Mulder the idea that
Samantha is dead is terrifying.  But it's one he has to face
everyday."  Averman got up, found himself some water.  "He wants
her back.  If he could ever get Samantha Mulder back, he thinks
everything would be all right, would be perfect.  His whole life is
trying to get her back and failing that. . ."
 

     "To bring other ones home," Sam finished for Averman.  "To
see justice done."

     "To know what really happened.  The truth."

     "What is he doing on this case?  I don't think he's ever done
this before.  Not consciously, not like he's doing it now."

     "What?  Found messages in Eliot, spoken with spirits and had
the BVM come bless him?"  Averman's voice was rough.  "Hell, I
think we could all go a lifetime without that happening."

     Sam frowned.  "So what do we do?"

     Averman shrugged, rolled the waterglass around in his hands.
"I don't know.  I honestly don't know.  Keep him safe I guess.
Drug the hell out of him when we have to.  Maybe I'll call
Guiterriez in the morning. . .  Look, go get some sleep.  How long
will Mulder be out?"

     "I don't know."

     Averman nodded, deliberating.

     "We'll get Meyers to watch him tomorrow."

     "I don't understand how he managed to move, much less go for
a jog."  Sam's voice was flat.  "I fucked him over with the drugs.
Fourteen milligrams.  Enough to turn him into a zombie for a while.
He must have really been wired."

     A sudden thought occurred to Averman.  "There were candy bar
wrappers in that little Escort Mulder rented.  Three of them and a
bag of chips."

     Sam's eyes narrowed.  "Oh shit.  Oh fucking shit," Sam sighed.
"I'm going to give him Dramamine instead of Haldol whenever I can.
It'll help stop some of this vomiting, hopefully, and it's
something Meyers can administer.  And I'll make out a list of
things to get Mulder, start pouring food down his throat and hope
some of it sticks."
 
 
 
 

     Mulder was still curled around his pillow when Sam got up,
sourly bitching about not getting enough sleep.  He had moved from
unconsciousness to sleep, was tightly coiled around the second
hotel pillow.  Sam sat down, began making a list.  A knock came
hesitantly and he opened the door with sigh.  Meyers stood
nervously in the doorway.  "Averman said that I was going to help
you with Spooky?"

     "You look tired, kid," Sam said.

     Meyers snorted.

     "Okay.  Whenever he gets up make him take a valium.  It's not
much and its not heavy.  Four milligrams.  It won't do much, maybe
take the edge off," Sam dictated, handing Meyers the bottle.  "Take
him to the grocery store.  These are some of the things you can
bring back."  He handed Meyers the list.  "Make sure you get a lot
of Gatorade.  That's the one thing he really, really needs to be
drinking."

     Meyers nodded.

     "And watch him today.  I won't have time.  If he starts
vomiting the Gatorade, cut it with water.  As long as he takes the
Valium, and goes to the store with you calmly, and keeps a jug of
Gatorade with him, let him come to the sheriff's office.  We'll
have the body ready by then.  If he starts losing it, force these
down his throat."  Sam handed the kid a bubble package of
Dramamine. "Two of them and he'll curl up ready for a nap."

     A swallow, a nod.  "I've never been around anyone who's. .
.crazy."

     Sam grinned, chuckled.  "Sure you have kid.  Lots of them.
Mulder just finally got caught.  Look, what's happening to Mulder
is. . .part of it is just how well he's gotten into the killer's
head.  There isn't a shrink diagnosis for that because most
shrinks, the ones that come up with diagnoses anyway, don't go out
into the field and dig up dead bodies."  Sam swallowed.  "Now
listen, the rest. . .some of the things I'm going to tell you I
need for you not to talk about.  Mulder. . .he doesn't need every
field agent from here to Maine knowing about it, but if you're
going to take care of him, you probably need to know. . ."

     Meyers nodded.

     "Not to your partner or your girlfriend or your supervisor."

     Another nod.  "If he has to be protected, then he has to be
protected.  There'd be a kid killer we couldn't track without him."

     Sam let go of the pent up breath in his gut. "Okay.  The other
part is a disorder called PTSD and you'll be damn lucky if you
don't suffer from it to some extent before you retire.  It means
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. . .it's. . .you see something
terrible, horrible, awful, something happens where you might get
killed, something that's so scary you can't think. . .and then your
brain gets a little fried.  Decides fuck this, it plans to never
let this happen to it again.  Mulder's little sister disappeared
when he was twelve.  He was there and he doesn't remember what
happened to her.  Add to that some other bad things. . .his dad
beat up on him for losing her. . .and then all the things he's seen
since he came to work for the efffbeeeeye."

     "That's . . .it's like what veterans go through.  My dad was
in Vietnam, he was in the infantry.  A Sergeant, then they gave him
a field promotion to Lieutenant.  He made Captain before he left.
He did four tours.  He used to scream at night and sometimes he'd
do weird shit.  Not very often."

     "That's exactly what Mulder's going through, just worse
because of the baby killer.  Normally he's just like your dad."

     The look on Meyers' face was not frightened anymore.  He
understood, he could relate it to his own life.  Mulder was like
his dad and his dad was undeniably *not* crazy.

     "When will he wake up?"

     Sam shrugged.  "Did he vomit on you?"

     "Yeah.  On the road."

     Sam nodded.  "He vomited up all the Haldol I gave him. That's
why he was able to run your socks off."

     Meyers shut his eyes.  "I feel like such an idiot.  I should
have known that. . .Oh God.  I'm sorry.  I should have called you
when he puked.  I should have. . ."

     "Don't worry about it."  Sam snorted.  "You're the one who
paid for it.  Not any of us."
 

Continued in part 15..................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 15/41 NC-17
Date: 3 Feb 1996 21:00:20 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 15/41)
By Amperage and Livengoo
Copyright October, 1995

International Readers:  No third season spoilers
Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual
property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The
FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana
and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and
everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.

__________
 

     The kid was pale and white faced, eyes dulled somehow.  But he
had a half-liter bottle of Gatorade in one hand and was chugging
it down.  The sheriff's office was littered with fibbies, all
jockeying and trying to look busy.  When Agent Mulder came in, they
all glanced, were somehow, Hardman didn't know. . .deferential,
Hardman guessed, that's the only way to put it.

     And the young crown prince just strode through them with
Meyers following like a puppy dog.  "The body?" he asked in what,
Hardman guessed, he thought was a polite tone.

     "Downstairs.  Ethel," he barked at Ethelred, one of the
deputies, trying to fill out his traffic tickets in the midst of
all this madness.  "Show Agent Mulder the morgue."

     Ethel swallowed, nodded.

     "You feelin' any better son?" he asked sympathetically.  He'd
had intestinal flu several years ago.  It wasn't something you soon
forgot.  Kept him in bed a week.  And this kid was working.  Fuck.

     Mulder shrugged, glanced at the Gatorade bottle.  "If I'm not
better soon, Meyers here has orders to shoot me and put me out of
my misery."

     "My doc gave me Compazine when I was puking my gut once."

     Mulder chuckled.  "I hallucinate on Compazine.  Magic bullets
of schizophrenia to shove up my butt."

     Hardman blinked.  Oh.  He stared at the flat eyes of the
Special Agent, understanding why the kid seemed to be talking to
the spirits.  Whatever they were giving him. . .probably scared he
was going to hurt himself when he went out on the road yesterday.
 
 
 
 
 

     The body was carefully arranged on the table.  Evidence bags
holding all the bits and pieces of cloth and hair and jewelry were
scattered on the floor.

     "You look like shit," Frito observed, hand curled over an
evidence report.

     "Thanks.  I feel like a decaying rodent the cat forgot about.

     Sam glanced up at Meyers, who shrugged.

     "What have you got?" Francis asked, kneeling in front of
the evidence bags.

     "Umm. . .ten to twelve year range probably. . .girl.
slender."

     "How did she die?"

     "I'm getting there, Marion.  Hold your fucking dick until I'm
ready to come too," Frito said mildly.  "Blonde child.  She's been
dead ten, fifteen years."

     "Try six or seven," Mulder said calmly, looking down on the
pathetic collection of bones and small bits of flesh.  "Her body
was in a. . .a crypt or a vault or something for a while, so it
dried out faster.."

     "Who's the ME here?" Sam asked, frustrated.

     Mulder looked up, grinned.  "Sorry Sammy.  Didn't mean to step
on your balls."

     "It's okay," Sam dismissed.  "Have you kept the Gatorade
down?"

     "So far."  Mulder hopped up on a clear metal counter, put the
bottle between his legs.  "Get on with it."

     "Umm. . .she ate pretty well, no real nutritional problems.
She was a battered child."

     Mulder looked up.  "Okay."

     "There is still evidence of scars on her buttocks.  Someone
laid into her pretty heavy."

     Mulder swallowed.  "Then we're not looking at someone in the
upper strata of society.  If you're middle class, they. . .umm . .
.they stop before it starts leaving sores, mostly.  Work over a
bunch of different places. . ."

     Meyers stared at the floor.

     Sam just nodded. "I don't know much else."

     "What evidence for sexual abuse?"

     "I don't know."  Sam shrugged.  "Honestly.  If I could tell
you, I would."

     "Do we have an ID?"

     "No.  Jewelry was all cheap fake stuff.  Except for this."

     Sam went over to the evidence bags, pulled something up.

     "What is this?"

     "It's a Tri-Delt sorority ring, with medical tape behind it so
it wouldn't fall off her finger.  Probably belonged to her
mother."

     "The mother was dead, so she had the ring," Mulder whispered.

     "There's lettering in it.  ADF.  Eighteen karat gold,"  Sam
finished.  "We've started a trace, looking for women with those
initials who were tri-delts from the mid fifties to around 1972."

     "How did she die?"  Mulder looked up from the ring.  "And it
was in the sixties.  At Radcliffe."

     Sam swallowed, glanced at the report. "She cut her wrists.
Slashed them pretty badly.  There's still sand in the cuts, so she
was lying in a spring or something like that when she killed
herself."

     It was Mulder's prediction.  Marion and Frito exchanged even,
level glances.  *I'm not crazy*

     *You were right.  You're still crazy.*

     "She was pretty," Frito said evenly.  "Really, really pretty.
The kind of beautiful that walks down runways and makes men
stumble.  Or she would have been."

     Mulder nodded.  "I bet her brother looks like a catamite,"
He whispered.  He closed his eyes.  Deflating suddenly.  Looking
tired and weary and unhappy.  "Can I go out to the site?" he
asked, hand still clutching the evidence bag.

     Sam nodded.  "Averman called Guiterriez this morning.  He's
going to call back around four, so you need to be in your room."

     "Oh fuck that."

     "Mulder, do you remember talking about Samantha yesterday?"

     Mulder opened his eyes, drew the veneer of arrogant bastard
back over himself.  Rodriguez didn't let it phase him.  "You were
getting them mixed up."

     Mulder stared.

     "Do you remember your notes?"

     "What about my notes?"  Mulder swallowed noisily.

     "You talked about Sam in your notes."

     "So?"

     "So, you need to talk to Guiterrez about it.  I'm just a
pathologist."

     "I'm not ready to be committed just yet."  Each word sharp and
steady and clear.   Mulder stood stiffly and walked out.

     "If he loses it out there," Sam closed his eyes, "Call 911."
Meyers watched the physician sit down heavily on a stool, stare at
the body lying peacefully on the exam table.  He looked, suddenly,
very old.  Very old and very weary of life.
 
 
 
 
 

     But Mulder didn't lose it.  He finished off the Gatorade,
looked over Meyer's notes.  "Okay. Look," Mulder circled something,
"these are your notes until you put down the final form and turn it
in.  Don't worry about format.  Just write down the key facts and
rearrange them on the paper until you can see the pattern.  Use
different colored pens for different trains of thought so you don't
get confused. . .use highlighters to bring out things that are
important from things that are crap."

     "But what about procedure."

     "I knew a girl named procedure once. . ." Mulder said, leaning
back, not finishing the age old joke.

     "I'm not a genius."

     "Bullshit.  You had to be pretty bright to get in.  What's
your background?"

     "A degree in Criminology, a couple of years in Ft. Lauderdale
PD.  But it wasn't. . .it was upper middle class types mostly.
Mainly we tried to keep out the riff-raff and solve domestic
disputes."

     "Well, then if you've done domestic you can do anything.
Every fucking thing goes back to the home."

     Meyers kept his hands on the wheel, glancing occasionally at
what Mulder was writing on his notes.  The tidy sheets of black
ball point in neat lines were covered with blue marks now, some
just pointing out lines, others highlighting whole sections.

     "Do me a favor, Spooky. . . "

     "Hmm?"  Flat eyes, lips a bit jaundiced looking from the way
Gatorade stained.

     "Autograph it when you're done.  No other way the guys'll
believe I got tutored by Spooky Mulder."

     "Christ.  I'm not writing 'to Meyers with love, Spooky' on any
damn field notes.  You can do your own reports if you want that
kind of shit."  He tilted his head back, letting the last of the
Gatorade slide, luke-warm and salty-sweet, down the back of his
throat.  "God, it's like drinking sweat.  Drop me off at a massage
parlor and at least I can have a good time drinking sweat."

     "Yeah, I can see explaining that one to Rodriguez."

     "Hell, he's probably checked them out already."  Mulder's tone
was mild.  He tossed the empty bottle in the back with the two
already there.

     Miles of rolling hills, on and on forever.  Meyers missed the
comfortable distances and certainty of water of his home.  How had
humans ever survived this barren, rolling land of grass and sky?

     Spooky had long since finished marking up Meyers' notes, and
might have been asleep, leaning back in the seat.  The change in
rhythm as they turned off the interstate brought his eyes open,
watching.  He glanced back.

     "This is where I picked up the watch dogs yesterday.  Better
stick to the speed.  They see me again and the locals are gonna
shit bricks."

     Meyers nodded, feeling his shoulders slowly unknot, tension
leaking away from him, thankful that Spooky was behaving, being
normal.  They pulled into the parking lot of the park unnoticed,
and over to where Spooky directed him.  This time he locked the car
doors.  This time they didn't have cops behind him, just one guard
on him.

     Meyers followed him up to the quiet place between the hills.
The tiny bowl that had yielded the dead in the night was empty
today.  A huge gash of dun-brown marred the hillside under a
juniper.  They had taken what they wanted and left, sure that
nothing remained.

     Trees ranged here where the hills kept the wind at bay.  They
stood tall and strong until they crested the hills, then bent,
twisted out of their shapes by the world that surrounded this
protected place.  The ground under them was hard, and dry, clothed
in creeping grasses and plants except where men had disturbed the
ground.  Mulder was pacing the line of trees now, staying to the
empty bowl of the meadow just below them.  Pacing and counting.

     "Do you know the stations of the cross?"  His voice was sudden
in this place, and Meyers jumped, then shook his head.

     "Sorry.  I can help you with the Torah a little. . . "

     Mulder shook his head, staring up at the trees and circling
again.  Meyers watched, and tried to see his father's tempers, his
father's fears.  Tried to see how you wrote this up.  Which stare
do you highlight, Agent Mulder?  Which snatch of poetry do you
write in colored ink?  And when you stop at the sycamore, what do
you see?

     He was shaking his head, chewing on the earpiece of his
glasses.  Finally smiled just a little and beckoned Meyers over.

     "What do you see?"

     Trees.  Thin grass.  A few wildflowers.  Meyers swallowed,
pictured the grade book.  "Uh, nothing. . . "  Spooky glanced up at
him, let his smile widen just a little.  With the flat eyes it
looked. . . hollow.  "Does this have to do with. . . anything from
the Bible?  Or Eliot?"  Oh god, more prophecies?

     "Archeology."  Shaking his head now.  "Even if the extraction
team missed this, Frito knows better.  And Averman should have."
He was crouched, brushing at the thin grass, and Meyers was
fingering the Dramamine in his pocket.  "In England, aerial
photography shows medieval villages.  Soil that's been disturbed
has different heat absorption qualities, even thousands of years
after it's been touched."  He looked up at Meyers, who simply
stared and tried to remember what Dr. Rodriguez had said.

     "Meyers."  Mulder read the look, sighed.  "Meyers, grass grows
differently on disturbed soil.  Now, what do you see?"

     "Thin. . . thin grass?  I mean. . . "  Meyers eyes felt wide,
and a smile raced across his face.  "They missed something?"

     And Fox Mulder, star of Quantico, Spooky Mulder who solved
three year old cases blind, and saw visions, grinned back.  "Could
just be a rock, but maybe, just maybe. . . "

     "So what do we do?"

     Mulder stood again, brushing his hands off.  "We call Frito
and tell him he's slipping, and that we may have found something."
A sudden sour look.  "And I wait for my 4:00 call."
 
 
 
 

     "Rodriguez?"

     Sam straightened to look back at Averman.  His shoulders
ached.  He couldn't remember how long he'd been leaning on the
examination table, staring at the remains, mind racing and getting
nowhere.  The AIC's bloodshot eyes scanned around the room, came
back to him.  "You okay?"

     "Yeah.  Yeah, I'm fine.  Just. . . thinking."

     Averman sighed, ground the heels of his hands into his eyes.
Looked back at the pathologist.  "Looks like we're back out to that
damned Chapel.  Maybe, just maybe, we missed something."

     "What?  We went over that site. . . The extraction team
practically took half the real estate from up there."  Frito felt
hot, tired.  And he had a bad feeling about anything to do with
that site or any bodies.  Francis had gone up there. . .

     "They had good reasons this time, Rodriguez.  And not a word
of Eliot in the whole mess."  Averman's smile was strained.

     "Christ.  I'm going to just drug him next time."  He regretted
it the minute it hung in the air, but his shoulders ached and
sagged, and he had to work to draw a breath, he was so tired.  But
he grabbed what he needed and followed the AIC out of the cool
world of the morgue, where everything to be found lay in front of
a doctor who knew how to look.  Out of procedure and sanity, and
into the hot light of chaos.
 
 
 
 

     Spooky was back at the hotel and Averman wanted Meyers up at
the site, to go through the reasoning and help with the work.  The
only agent available to watch Mulder was no one's first choice, and
Meyers winced at the memory of Cooke and Spooky, perched on
opposite sides of the hotel room, trying pointedly to ignore each
other and pretend to be engrossed in paperwork.  Somehow, Meyers
didn't think Mulder was going to be highlighting Cooke's reports.

     Sam stared at the patch in nervous disgust.  "Thin grass.  We
knew this might be a favorite site, and we missed it."

     Averman had been listening to Rodriguez develop this vein for
several minutes, and was too tired to be patient.  "Yes.  We should
have caught it.  Absolutely.  And yes, we missed it for good
reasons.  Dark, lights didn't reach here, take your pick and get it
over with."  They wouldn't call the extraction team back until they
were sure there was something - someone - to extract.  It was going
to be a long afternoon.

     The area had been cleared and marked with string.  Hardman had
one of his people, a tribal liaison with some archeology
experience, supervising a slow, careful exploratory dig.  Sam
swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth.  He had caught exactly
this kind of thing in the past, was trained to observe a site and
see this.  Be honest with himself.  He hadn't missed it because of
lights, or darkness.

     "I missed it. . . because I wasn't looking past that damned
prediction.  I was so scared last night. . . "  His voice was soft,
but Averman caught it.  Nodded.

     "Yeah, me too.  Me too."
 
 
 
 

     "Hi.  They tell you I'm going psychotic?"  Mulder's voice was
dry.  "You're punctual."
 

     "Thank you.  They told me you were having some problems
distinguishing between reality and fantasy."

     "Oh.  No.  I don't think so."

     Mulder heard a chair creak as Guiterriez leaned back.  "Do you
want to talk to me?"

     "Not particularly."

     A sigh.  "Let's talk about your sister."

     "No."

     "Okay.  We do need to talk about these manic states, if only
so I can guide agent Rodriguez in his choice of medications."

     Mulder sighed.  "I've had them before."

     "This badly?"

     "Not that often."

     "Okay, what's the usual frequency of ones this bad?"

     "I don't know.  One every four or five months maybe."

     "What do you do?"

     "I go jogging.  They won't let me go jogging because they
can't keep up with me."

    "What do you think they're scared of?"  A calm voice.

     "Fuck you.  I'm not some paranoid schizophrenic with a head
full of dope."

     "So answer the question."

     "They're scared I'll lose it," Mulder said, resigned, lying
back on the bed, staring at the ceiling of Rodriguez' room.  Cooke,
in the other room, was studiously working on a press release.

     "Have you given them reason to believe that?"

     "I know it's fucking reasonable.  That doesn't make it any the
more fucking easy for me to accept.  Okay?"

     "Calm down."  The voice was quiet.  "I know you're frustrated.
But we have got to talk about this."

     "Why?  So you can tell Frito to keep pumping my butt full of
antipsychotics?"
 

     A deliberate pause.  "Yes.  So I can tell Rodriguez what to
do."

     "Oh, fuck you."

     "Agent Mulder, I'm not going to make you answer, but I want
you to think about what you might do in one of those manic states
when you can't go jogging, if you can't work it off.  Agent
Rodriguez said you hit your hand against the wall."

     "You are so full of shit.  I wouldn't hurt myself."

     "You wouldn't?"

     "No.  I wouldn't," Mulder replied sarcastically.

     "But let's say you're stuck in the hotel room and you're in
the middle of one of those attacks.  And you can't do anything.
But you've got to do something.  Would you find something to make
it go away?  Something that might not be really good for you?"

     Mulder was silent.  He closed his eyes.  "Yes," he whispered.
"I don't want to but I can't help it."  Oh god, he wanted to talk
to someone.  He didn't want to tell them, but he wanted someone to
know.  He was alone and it was dark and he didn't know where to go.

     "Is jogging a way to hurt yourself?"

     "I don't. . .It. . .it makes it go away and I'm still
smiling."

     "Makes what go away?"

     "I don't know. . ."  Mulder paused.  "I don't know," he stated
finally.

     "If you don't have the jogging outlet what happens?"

     "I just. . .I. . .you know."

     "If it gets too bad, would you hurt yourself?"

     Mulder paused, suddenly aware of the trap Guiterriez had laid
for him.  He rolled over to the phone base and gently hung up the
handset.  Mutherfucking bastard.

      When it rang again he did not answer.  Did not react, just
lay on Sam's spread, staring at the nondescript print of some
flowers.

     Cooke finally came back in, answered the phone.  Mulder felt
Cooke's hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

     "Get away from me, you cocksucking babykiller," Mulder
snarled.  "Leave me alone."

     Cooke solemnly reported the conversation.  Mulder heard Cooke
swallow.  He sat up.  Cooke's face was draining of color.  Mulder
snatched the phone away.

     "I'm not going to hurt myself you son of a bitch.  I'm fine,
just fucking fine.  Leave me the hell alone."  Slammed the phone
back down.

     Cooke stared at him.  Swallowed.  "Rodriguez left some
Dramamine for you," he muttered.

     "Oh Fuck off," Mulder snarled, got up, stalked off to
Rodriguez's bathroom, locked the door.
 
 
 
 

     Sam's face was white under his olive skin as Averman drove to
the hotel.  "Are we going to let Guiterriez commit him?" he asked
softly.

     Averman glanced at the younger man.  "I don't know."

     "He technically didn't say, `Yes, I Fox Mulder will hurt
myself.'  If Mulder shows up for a committal meeting all Joe Cool,
he can explain that tape away."

     "And if you tell them about his vomiting and odd behavior and
hitting his fist against a wall. . ." Averman sighed.  "It might
stick."

     "Might and probably wouldn't," Rodriguez replied sourly.  "He
needs to be someplace safe.  Where he can't hurt himself."

     "Agreed."

     "If we do that, we're looking at several more murders."

     "Agreed."

     "Do you think he'd kill himself?"

     Averman considered this question for several minutes.  "No.
Not unless he found out something more about his sister."

     "Like she was dead?"

     Averman nodded distractedly, pulled into the hotel parking
lot.

Continued in part 16.........................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 16/41 NC-17
Date: 5 Feb 1996 11:09:32 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 16/41)
By Amperage and Livengoo
Copyright October, 1995

International Readers:  No third season spoilers
Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual
property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The
FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana
and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and
everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.

______________________________

     There were sobs in the bathroom.  Cooke was sitting on the
floor against a wall, white faced.  He'd been crying.

     Oh God.  Sam swallowed, nodded to Averman.  "Get him some
Valium and get him out of here.  Send Meyers up."

     Averman nodded.  Tugged at Cooke until he was up, in Mulder's
bedroom.

     "Francis?  Francis, come on."

     The sobs were soft.  Oh shit, they were wrong.
ohshitmulder'striedtopulltheplugohshitaverman'swrong.

     Rodriguez recalled Quantico training that he'd hoped he would
never have to use.  One-two-three and fuck. . .his shoulder was a
mass of pain, but the fucking door was open.  Mulder was curled up
under the sink, a tiny little ball, staring at his knees.  No
blood.  No cuts.  How could anyone that tall fold up into such a
little ball?

     "Leave me alone."  Mulder's voice was sharp.  "Leave me the
fuck alone."

     Sam swallowed.  "You know I can't do that.  You know that."
He sat down to await Meyers's arrival.  "Guiterriez must have upset
you."

     Mulder continued crying.  He was trying desperately to stop,
Sam recognized the breathing pattern, the holding to keep in sobs,
then the relaxing, and the choking wails.  Trying to stop it, and
couldn't.

     "What's wrong?"  Meyers was panting.  And Williams.

     "Meyers, sit here with Mulder."  Sam got up, went back into
the bedroom where his syringe and the Haldol waited. Averman was
just coming back in as Sam began drawing the clear liquid.

     "He's hostile right now, thanks to Guiterriez," Sam said
sourly.  "I'm drawing up ten mgs of this.  That should be enough to
calm him down, but he's not going to want to take it.  You're
probably going to have to hold him."

     Sam sat on the floor beside Meyers.  Meyers was ashen faced,
but just sitting quietly.  "You want to talk about it?" Sam asked
quietly.

     Mulder eyed the needle.  "Guiterriez."

     "I don't know what to do, and neither does Averman.  We need
somebody to help us."

     "He set me up.  He kept pressing and pressing and pressing and
I didn't have any choice.  I won't hurt myself.  I'd let you drug
me first.  I don't want to hurt myself.  He's going to want you to
put me in a hospital tonight.  Mutherfucker."

     "Mulder, he's seen a lot of people in similar circumstances.
He knows how easy it is when you're fragile to. . ."

     "Bullshit."

     "No.  It isn't bullshit," Sam replied patiently.  "He thinks
you're going to fall completely apart."

     Meyers shifted uncomfortably.

     "Before that happens he wants you someplace safe, someplace to
cushion the fall."

     Mulder swallowed.  Stared at Rodriguez and Meyers. "I think
about her.  A lot.  Sometimes when I'm really tired, when I'm
coming in from a case, I'll fall into this daydream.  I'm coming
home and there'll be a message on my machine.  It'll be from Sam.
She's in school and she's coming up for the weekend or she just
wants to talk about her new boyfriend.  But when I get in there
isn't a message.  Sometimes I manage to keep the fantasy alive long
enough that I go to bed happy.  Usually when I go through my
messages and she hasn't called I know she's still gone."

     Sam sat still and listened.

     "I shared a bedroom with her.  Our dad was a professor and he
did work for the state department; he had a lot of papers and
needed a study, and there were only three bedrooms.  Sam and I
both
were scared of the dark.  Sam was kinda' scared of it, and I was
phobic, so they let us sleep together. . .we left her half of the
room the way it was, so she'd know we hadn't forgotten about her.
I'd come in and go to my room and stand there with my hand on the
doorknob and think; I'd close my eyes and think really, really
hard. If I could think hard enough, if I could believe hard enough
she'd be there.  Just like. . .like nothing had ever happened.
Bugging me for help with her homework or something.  But when I
opened the door. . ."

     Mulder put his head in the nest between his drawn up legs and
his torso.  Began crying.  A soft, gentle sadness.  "She's gone and
I don't know what happened, and I've got to find her someday," he
managed softly.   "And I see. . .I see other little girls and
parents and siblings and I. . .how do we all make it?  Do we just
pretend?  I don't know."

     "Guiterriez wants to say I'm crazy and maybe I am."  Mulder
lifted his face.  "But I'm not going to hurt myself, even when I'm
too full of energy.  Sometimes I. . .it's like I can't concentrate
but nobody notices. . .I have to replay things over in my head from
my short-term memory, to catch what people are saying. I know
that's because of what happened.  And I get really angry sometimes,
and I know that's because of what happened.  The nightmares are
because of it too.  But I'm not psychotic.  I can take care of
myself when I have to.  I'm not suicidal.  I'm not self-
destructive.  Sam, please.  I'm not any of those things. I don't
know why this is happening.  I've never. . .I can feel them and I
can see them and I know what's rolling around in their skulls, but
not this way.  I've never had anything like this happen. I don't
know why it's happening now.  I've never had . .I've never. . .I
feel like I am going crazy.  But I'm not.  I swear I'm not.  I
don't want to hurt myself."

     Sam felt his mouth go dry.

     "If you want me to take that stuff I will."  Mulder swallowed.
"I know you've got people out there ready to hold me down.  Don't
make me leave this case.  We're getting so close.  We can catch
him."

     Yeah, and maybe you and he can be on the same ward of the
psych hospital, Sam thought.  He nodded.  "Come on out of there
and let me drug you into submission."

     "What are you going to do?"

     "I don't know."

     Mulder stared unwaveringly.

     "We're not going to commit you tonight."  Sam sighed.  "For
what it's worth, I think you probably need some time in a psych
hospital, but not against your will and. . ." he closed his eyes,
"and not when there's a baby butcher out there."

     Mulder nodded.

     "Come on."  Sam stood, held out a hand.

     Mulder stumbled when he stood, needed Meyers' help.  He
crawled back to his room, watched as Sam closed the door.  Meyers
and Rodriguez gently helped him shed his clothes, down to his
shorts.  "Go get the liquid," Sam told Meyers gently.  He'd waste
the suspension Haldol.  The plastic of the syringe had already
begun to absorb the chemicals.  He sighed.

     Meyers came back with the briefcase.  Let Sam find and fill
the little plastic cup with its lines.  "Okay.  This is going to
make you absolutely shitfaced."

     "You don't have to," Mulder replied.
 

     Sam snorted.  "Right, Marion.  You *are* losing your grip on
reality.  You need some down time after that stunt.  Time to
stabilize. I can't sit with you because we've got the team coming
*back* out.  And you won't have to listen to them bitch.  Isn't it
great how you have these things down?  Don't have to listen to
`well why didn't you catch this before?'  `Why didn't you see it
yesterday?'  `Costing us money out of our budget and. . .' Bitch
and moan. Bitch and moan."  Sam smiled, watched as Mulder gulped
the liquid down.

     "Are you hallucinating?" Sam asked gently.

     Mulder swallowed, but it had nothing to do with the
medication.  He nodded.  "Not. . .I know they're hallucinations."

     "What are you seeing?"  He nodded and Meyers left for the next
room.

     "I'm hearing voices.  They keep asking why I can't find Sam.
. .I see this little girl.  The one you dug up.  Elijah sees her.
That's why I see her.  He thinks she's like. . .heaven lets her
help take the children he sends up to heaven.  The kids can see her
too."

     Sam nodded.  In normal times he would know Mulder was
suffering from some form of psychosis.  Right now he just wasn't
sure.
 
 
 
 

     He slipped back over quietly.

     "Meyers, you're the official Spooky watcher when I'm not
around," he said tiredly. "He trusts you. I'll teach you how to
give him the shots."

     "How is he?" Averman asked quietly. He was ready to get in a
car and drive Mulder back to Oklahoma City.

     "He's going to be good to work for a while. He got rid of a
few things."  Sam watched as the FBI agents filed out, left them
alone, disaster averted.  "He needs someone to talk to, but he's
terrified of telling anyone anything. Telling me because I work
with him. Telling you because you're a superior, telling Guiterriez
because Guiterriez wants him in a hospital. . ."  He sighed.

     "I think I understand his behavior. He's. . .I don't know. .
.I could say he was psychotic, but then I saw the BVM. Most people
would say I'm psychotic for thinking that. I don't think he's
crazy. He's just. . .tired.  Tired and wishing his sister were back
and she's not. If he were psychotic, he wouldn't know that she was
gone. But he knows it. He knows it too well."  Sam sat down on his
bed.

     "Why don't you all go to supper? You can bring me something
back. See if you can get a mashed potato or some plain rice or
something. And a couple of packets of butter. We'll feed it to
Mulder when he wakes up."

     Averman stared hard at Sam, then nodded.

     When he was alone, Sam closed his eyes, curled up in bed. He
called home, but Jenni was out, probably with her friends. The
misery that Oklahoma had become was nothing that touched her or
affected her unless Sam called.  He listened to the message on
their machine. Hung up, dialed back. Listened again. And again.
Finally left Jenni a message. Took a cue from Mulder and curled
around the second pillow. Tried to nap. It would be a long night
when the team got in. And then Mulder would wake up and who the
fuck knew what kind of mood Mulder was going to be in anymore?
 
 
 
 

     He felt something bitter in the back of his mouth and tried to
smack some saliva back into himself. Moaned and rubbed sleep crud
out of his eyes.

     The room was mostly dark, with a glimmer of light through the
connecting door. Mulder stared at the door. Oh God, he'd . . .no.
He'd done what he had to. Guiterriez was trying to lure Mulder into
a web. That was no doubt fine for the people Guiterriez normally
saw.  But Mulder wasn't one of those people. Mulder had a degree
that surpassed Guiterriez'.  An intellect that surpassed
Guiterriez'.

     The thought of what he had told Frito rolled through his head.
He hadn't planned it, but it worked.  He was so tired. He sat up,
reoriented the world once it stopped spinning. Found the door.
Meyers was sitting on the bed, flipping through channels. Johnny
Carson was on.  Meyers glanced at Mulder nonchalantly. "Why. . ."
Swallow. "Why don't we get you some clothes or a robe?" he asked
softly.

     Mulder suddenly realized he'd come over dressed in his boxers
and nothing else. He nodded. Went back to his room, found some
shorts and a t-shirt.

     "What's going on at the site?" Mulder's voice was thick and
blurry. Not slurred, just not. . . easy. As though the words took
work to form.

     Meyers stared, suddenly nervous. Mulder watched him, flat,
empty eyes that slowly came back into focus. "What's going on at
the site?" Meyers started as the question was repeated.

     "The extraction team's back out there." He smiled
apologetically. "They're bitching and moaning. Want overtime, too."
Mulder nodded.

     "Yeah, they like to get it all done at once." He vanished back
into his room, came back with his laptop dangling from one hand.
"No chance of us getting out there tonight, is there?" It wasn't
much of a question and the smile that accompanied it wasn't much of
a smile.

     "I. . . I don't think that's a good idea. It's just the
excavation now, anyway. I think. . . " Meyers licked his lips.
Looked back into Spooky's empty stare.

     "You mean Rodriguez and Averman don't think it's a good idea."

     "They brought something up." Meyers picked up the styrofoam
box of mashed potato and Texas toast, held it out like a peace
offering. Spooky took it, slightly wrinkled his nose, took a piece
of the toast and nibbled at it.  Meyers fished out a Gatorade and
handed it to him.

     He turned back to his reports, glancing up every few minutes.
Spooky was sitting cross-legged on the other bed, his computer
open, the soft whine of it just below the audible range. He just
stared at it for a while, eyes reflecting the blinking cursor. The
sudden clatter of his fingers on the keys startled the other man.
Meyers looked up to see the flicker in his eyes as letters scrolled
across the screen.

     In the uncertain hour before the morning
     Near the ending of interminable night
     At the recurrent end of the unending
     After the dark dove with the flickering tongue
     Had passed below the horizon of his homing
     While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin
     Over the asphalt where no other sound was
     Between three districts when the smoke arose
     I met one walking, loitering and hurried
     As if blown towards me like the metal leaves
     Before the urban dawn wind unresisting.
     And as I fixed upon the down-turned face
     That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge
     The first-met stranger in the waning dusk
     I caught the sudden look of some dead master
     Whom I had known, forgotten, half-recalled
     Both one and many; in the brown baked features
     The eyes of a familiar compound ghost
     Both intimate and unidentifiable.

     "Why do you think he does it?" Meyers head snapped up at the
sudden question.  Spooky's hands hovered above the keys, dark,
hazel eyes watching him.

     "Does what?  I mean, you wrote the profile. . . you're the
psychologist."

     "So I have my degree piled higher and deeper. I still want to
know why *you* think he does it."  Meyers shivered.  Felt lost and
must have looked it.  Mulder sucked in one cheek, considered.
"Start at the beginning, Meyers.  Start with the first body."

     "The earliest one or the first one we found?"

     "Which helps you more?"  Soft voice, and the lights from the
screen were an amber highlight along his cheekbone and jaw, a tiny
gleam across one eye.

     "The first found."  Finally, firm ground. "It's the first time
we have an influence we can absolutely identify if his behavior
changes."

     Spooky nodded. "And that was Christopher Raintree. Details."

     "They found him in Ponca City. Asphyxiated and left in a
crucifixion position.  Um, no signs of recent molestation, but
indications of long-term abuse. Anal trauma. The coroner found a
poem, but didn't keep it."

     Spooky nodded again, led him through the details of each death
they'd found. As he reached Erika he had to include the FBI
releases in his timeline. Brought it up to the present, with
Michael Weaverbird.

     "All right, those are the outlines of the deaths. The bare
facts.  What do they tell you, Meyers?"  He had to know everything
Meyers could say.

     "He. . . he doesn't molest them. There is usually a week or
two between their abductions and their deaths. The killings are
relatively painless.  The mutilation is post mortem."

     "The symbolism of the mutilation?"

     Meyers swallowed again. He had hated Socratic method when he
was in school. "I. . . I agree with your evaluation. I read it and
the symbolism is biblical and sexual. He either displays them in
positions of Christian violence, or he damages the body in a manner
related to the abuse suffered."

     "And the poetry?" Spooky's head was tilted, expression mild
and questioning.

     "I'm not really sure. . . I . . . We don't study a lot of
poetry in criminology classes."

     "What do you know about Eliot?" He could have been asking
about the weather.

     "Um. English poet, wrote in the thirties, around the same time
as Yeats.  Um.  Lots of obscure references.  He was Catholic.  His
wife was a nymphomaniac."

     "That's open to debate." Mulder's smile caught the same amber
light that reflected in his glazed eyes. "He was born in America.
His grandfather founded Washington University in St. Louis."

     "He was from St. Louis?"

     "No. He was raised Protestant. He graduated from Harvard. He
was an Anglophile, erudite. He became an English citizen. You're
right that he wrote in the thirties. He converted to Catholicism
late, in his fifties.  He wrote the Four Quartets after his
conversion.  The poems before that. . . have a lost, searching
aspect.  The Quartets are challenging, but they reflect a knowledge
of a peace to be found through faith."

     "Loss. . . and faith and peace."

     "The still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor
fleshless."

     Meyers listened to the soft, dark voice. Nodded. "A paradox.
How can something be both?"

     "What does the flesh mean? What's the symbolism?"

     "Sin. The sins of. . . the flesh are sexual?" He wracked his
brain for recollections of Catholic and Baptist friends and
problems that had seemed small compared to vandalized synagogues.
"And adults commit the sins of the flesh."

     "Sex and death. And he takes the children touched by the sins
of the flesh." Mulder's voice was certain, coaxing. Leading Meyers
through arguments he'd long since understood. Paths the younger
man had not really thought through, leaving them for the experts in
madness.

     "How does he find them?"

     "You had us search the records at Social Services. . . ?"

     "But he's been on the road. Finding these children. Killing
them."

     "So he found them before a certain date? And after a date. .
. " Meyers nodded. "But he's not choosing them for just any abuse,
he's taking kids who were beaten or raped. . . " Meyers stared into
glazed eyes. "How did he know?"

     Mulder's glazed eyes stared back. Long, slow blink.

     A very soft whisper, horrified now. "How do you know?"

     Mulder looked back at his computer. Meyers saw his throat
work. Felt a chill twist in his guts and looked away, finding his
own report. And tried to tell himself he hadn't just looked over
the edge of an abyss and into darkness that might never end.

     So I assumed a double part, and cried
     And heard another's voice cry: 'What! are *you* here?'
     Although we were not. I was still the same,
     Knowing myself yet being someone other -

     I sit on a warm, vinyl seat. The car smells like vanilla, and
     I eat ice cream whenever I want. I will go to Jesus but I will
     play until I do. And Jesus will take the little children.

     Too strange to each other for misunderstanding,
     In concord at this intersection time
     Of meeting nowhere, no before and after,
     We trod the pavement in a dead patrol.
     I said: 'The wonder that I feel is easy,
     Yet ease is cause of wonder.
     Therefore speak; I may not comprehend, may not remember.'

     The little children must be saved. They must return to their
     creator before their souls are violated further. The sinners
     will reap as they have sown and the call of the resurrection
     shall not fall upon their ears.  The child comes to know peace
     and accept the love his Creator, and his time will be upon
     him.
 

     There are three conditions which often look alike
     Yet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow:
     Attachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment
     From self and from things and from persons;  and,
     growing between them, indifference
     Which resembles the others as death resembles life,
     Being between two lives - unflowering, between
     The live and the dead nettle.
     This is the use of memory:

     Sin is Behovely, but
     All shall be well, and
     All manner of thing shall be well.
 

     We have taken from the defeated
     What they had to leave to us - a symbol:
     A symbol perfected in death.
     And all shall be well and
     All manner of thing shall be well
     By the purification of the motive
     In the ground of our beseeching.

     The symbolism of the victims has moved from the spiritual to
     blunt messages of physical manipulation. Children are
     portrayed as sexual toys - their value removed by destruction
     of their sexual organs. Ericka Jones was prepared as food for
     law enforcement and publicity. The radical change of
     symbolism from religious or related to specific abuse to more
     obvious and animal fodder for societal response patterns marks
     a shift of imagery from personal to global. The symbolism of
     a child murdered and left as garbage, fertilizing the staples
     of modern animal needs like food or elimination reinforces
     this assessment. I anticipate the next victim will continue
     this trend of social commentary rather than personal or
     religious symbolism. A return to sexual imagery, but in a
     global rather than a personal aspect, is highly probable.

     Who then devised the torment? Love.
     Love is the unfamiliar Name
     Behind the hands that wove
     The intolerable shirt of flame
     Which human power cannot remove.
     We only live, only suspire
     Consumed by either fire. . . or fire. . .

     "Fire." Meyers looked up again, heart beating fast, fearing
now where Spooky might lead him. The other man paused, hands
over the keyboard.  "Fire. . . " His voice was hoarse. "He'll. . . he'll
burn him." He swallowed. Pulled away from his computer in quick,
jerky moves, rolling off the bed so fast he almost fell on legs
full of pins and needles. He caught himself and nearly ran into the
bathroom.

Continued in part 17................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 17/41 NC-17
Date: 6 Feb 1996 05:59:08 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 17/41)
By Amperage and Livengoo
Copyright October, 1995

International Readers:  No third season spoilers
Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual
property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The
FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana
and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and
everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.

_________________

     Meyers lunged out of his chair, felt the trill of fear as he
lost sight of Mulder for even the moment it took to cut around the
bed, then heard the water run. Spooky hadn't closed the door,
hadn't bothered. The water was running full-blast and he had his
hands buried in the stream, splashing his face, his whole head.
Sobbing. Meyers stopped at the door, pale, looking nervously back
at the table where Rodriguez had left Dramamine.

     "Fire. Meyers, he'll use fire.

     "The one discharge from sin and error the only hope or else
despair lies in the choice of pyre or pyre to be redeemed from fire
by . . .fire." Spooky looked up at him, face dripping and slick
with water, hair matted dark.  And his eyes were as dark. "Fire."
Meyers nodded, didn't know what else to do.

     "C'mon. Spooky, tell me what you're talking about. . . "

     Mulder stared at him. "I couldn't move, Meyers. It was
burning, and I was cold. I was safe where it was cold. . . " His
voice was thin and small.  Meyers reached for him, slowly, so
slowly, and pulled very gently.

     "C'mon." Just like dad, and loud noises. This he knew. This
wasn't voices and spirits, just fear. Fox Mulder followed him,
talking about fire and cold. Meyers turned for only the time it
took to get water, pills, and handed them to Mulder.

     "I don't. . . If I'm not awake I won't know when it starts.
I'll be trapped. . . "

     "You promised, Mulder. You said you'd take them. You promised
Rodriguez, promised Sam. . . "

     "Sam? Sam wants me to take these?" He stared at the pills,
baffled. "But she's gone. . ."

     "She's gone. Sam wants you to take them. . . " He didn't know
why the name worked, but he could see that it did. Mulder stared
back at him, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

     "Sam's gone, Meyers. He'll burn Michael. He'll do it soon, but
not yet.  We have to get there. . . the next one will be a girl.
It's time for a girl again." His voice was lower, not the thin,
terrified voice when he'd spoken of fire. He was burying that fear
again. Deep. Meyers closed his hand around the pills, pushed it
towards him.

     "You promised Sam. You said you'd take these. Don't lie about
this, Mulder." He held his breath and waited. Spooky finally shut
his eyes, face pulled in a flicker of. . . pain? He swallowed them
fast.

     Meyers left him sitting at the table. He couldn't bring
himself to read what Spooky'd written. He was afraid of what he'd
find. He saved it and booted down and put the machine back.
Mulder watched him, wide eyes, and very dark. Meyers stared back
and suddenly felt old and tired, looking into a smooth, pale face that
hid everything he'd never thought he'd know.  It took more than
half an hour, and it may have been Miami Vice rather than the
pills that left Spooky sprawled again, in dreams. Meyers looked at
him, but closed eyes gave no hint of empty space and places a kid
from Miami had ventured only on paper, in the cold, crisp words that
told of pain and the things man did to man.
 
 
 
 
 

     Sam ran his hands over his face, digging the heels of his
palms into his eyes. He'd scrubbed and scrubbed, but the smell of
death still hung with him, under his nails, in his mind. Three
months in the ground. Death did not frighten him, but it's pall
still oppressed.

     Averman was sitting at the table, holding the computer Meyers
had handed him, wishing he could wait for day to read what it
held. The dead of night, he smiled grimly. He'd seen the dead of night
already. It was the quick that scared him. He took a deep breath
and flipped the catches, opened the cool, modern toy. Booted up
and brought up the directory.  Looked for the marks of old, old
things left in traceries of magnetic patterns, flowing electricity.

     Meyers had told them in rushed, nervous words about following
the first steps into the dark. Had told them about reviewing with
Spooky and about Eliot. God, two of them now, talking about Eliot.
And fire and cold. He braced himself and opened the files the kid
had written. Rodriguez looked up to watch him, hair a wreck from
sweat and the nervous tracks of his hands. Listened to the printer
run, and took the sheets as Averman handed them over.

     These took less time to read. Sam sat there, staring at the
wall, pages in his hands. Francis was sleeping in the next room and
couldn't explain, and Sam didn't want to wake him. He feared what
his friend would say. The pages were smudged and rippled when
he finally put them down. He heard a low moan in the next room,
wasn't surprised. The Dramamine couldn't hold him as long now. Sam
gathered the part of himself that was a doctor, and went to look
for Marion, stopping in the door to look at the empty bed.

     The sound of fists hitting the table brought Sam whipping
around, heart slamming under his ribs. Even knowing he had to be
there, the sound was shocking. Marion slammed his tightly balled
fists onto the table again.  His eyes were screwed shut, but he
didn't need to look.

     "You took it." Sam stood there, silent. Felt Averman in the
doorway behind him, knew the AIC was tensed back there. "You took
my fucking computer." Francis opened his eyes, drew a deep, noisy
breath. "You mother-fucking sons of bitches, you just don't have
the right." He was swinging out from around the table now,
advancing on Frito, eyes still glazed with drugs and sleep, a flush
riding high on his cheekbones, but the rest of his face was
white-pale.

     "Those were personal notes. I write official reports for a
reason." He was right on top of Sam now, tight fist lightly tapping
on Rodriguez' sternum, slowly edging him backwards. Averman
had edged around to the side, ready to restrain Spooky. "You. Have.
No.  Fucking. Right. To take my personal notes, read my *personal*
notes.

     "Francis. . ."

     "Don't 'Francis' me. Don't even dare." The pathologist was
backed up against the bureau. He kept his hands low, minimizing
any threat. When Averman met his eyes past Mulder's shoulder, Sam
gave a little shake to his head. Mulder saw it. Spun on his heel, hands
up and clawed, almost shaking. Averman didn't back down when
Mulder got in his face.

     "I talked to your fucking shrink. I took the fucking pills and
shots and naps and. . . "  His voice was spiraling.  A shrill edge
grated on Sam's nerves.

     "Calm down, Agent." The words were soft, posture neutral.
Marion froze, stood there shaking, holding a rage he couldn't
unleash on men who made no move against him.

     "Why? Why can't you just. . . let me deal with this?" His
voice was suddenly soft, thin. "I've dealt with it up until now.
Just leave me alone. Please. Leave me alone." Still trembling.
"Averman, they don't even take a murderer's journal without a
subpoena. Not until he's convicted. You don't. . . you aren't. . .
" Sam could see him bite his lip, let up before he broke the skin.
Averman's hands came up a little.  Mulder stepped back, out of
reach, fearing comfort or restraint. His t-shirt  was stained with
fresh sweat. His bare feet were silent on the carpet when he
turned, scooped up his sneakers and strode to the door.

     Sam was there ahead of him. Francis stopped. His face was
expressionless. Sam swallowed. "Francis, please don't make us. . .
"

     "What? Arrest me? Commit me? You said you wouldn't. . . " He
was whispering. "I'm a legal adult. I have rights. I know. . . I
know what's real, Frito. I do. I just know other things, too.
Please don't do this to me."

     Sam closed his eyes, prayed. Tia Maria, watch over him. Mary,
Madre de Dios, let me be doing the right thing. "Francis, you still
need to rest.  You had. . . you are. . ." Mulder watched him, no
expression on his face, but a terrifying sense of loss in his eyes,
dilated in the shadows. Averman stayed back, letting Sam find the
way to deal with this. "You promised us, Francis. You said you'd do
what we asked. You told me. You promised."

     "You'll hold me prisoner with that?" Ironic, bitter
inflection.

     "You scare me, my friend." Sam stepped forward, and now he
drove Mulder back in front of him. "You see visions, Marion. You
speak of your sister, but cannot remember. You see ghosts in old
women. You know things you cannot know." Mulder opened his
mouth, Sam could see the protest in his face. "Things you *can not*
know. Yes, you were right. You were right about the girl and right
about Michael. Explain to me how you could know this. I want to
believe there's a way you could know this. I want to believe. . . " And
he did. Although it made madness of so much, something in him. . .
remembered the priests and incense. And wanted to believe.

     He could see Mulder swallow. Could feel the frustrated, choked
sense of him.

     "Sit down and explain it to me Francis. Please." Sam looked up
at Averman, silently asking him to go get the pages of hell and
pain that Mulder had spilled from his fingers that night. Turned
back to Mulder, and his fragile, shaky control. Averman slipped the
sheets past Sam's shoulder and settled into a chair to wait.

     His own fears were in delicate check, eyes fixed on Francis,
trying to bridge the distance and find the friend under all the
fear, and pain, and mystery. Handed his notes back to him.

     "Tell me."

     Mulder stared. He had told Sam something. Something to keep
himself out of a hospital. And now Sam was taking him up on it. Do
you want to talk or do you want Haldol? Do you want to make
sense or do you want to rant and rage and scream until we have no
other choices left?

     Mulder closed his eyes. "Fire is a purification. It is the
cleansing. It is also the symbol of. . ." Mulder swallowed. "At
Pentecost, there were seventy-two followers of Christ in the upper
room. They . . .the Holy Spirit came down and crowned their heads
in rings of fire and they knew God's Word, had it in their hearts.
The Evangelicals. . ." Mulder made an emphasis out of his hands, as
though it were hard to keep the explanations straight to an
audience that did not follow his references. "Evangelical Christian
groups vary on what this means. Some say it's like a special thing
given to those who will prophesy or preach in worship. Some say --
this is the mainline view -- that the Holy Spirit came down at that
point. And that it lives on in all those who have been saved. Some
denominations believe the Holy Spirit cannot leave you because
once you are saved you can never be unsaved. Others think that it
can if you sin again. That you become unsaved. Others, like I said,
don't equate it with salvation so the spirit comes and goes as it will.
. ." Mulder trailed, aware suddenly that he had lost his audience.

     "Before that, fire was also a symbol of God -- the burning
bush that was not consumed. God was a pillar of fire at night,
leading the Israelites to the promised land. Fire was used in all
the sacrifices and altars. It was also a form of light in darkness,
which is a symbol of Christ."

"Mostly though, Eliot refers to the pentecostal fire. Eliot
understood it in a transcendent way. . .as God's communication to
us. . .it doesn't come and go because God doesn't come and go. .
.it is the spirit. . .it is. . .the transcendence. And if we do not
choose the fire of the dove -- the dove is the symbol of the Holy
Spirit -- remember the dove came down to Christ when John
baptized him? Then we choose the fire of hell. So we have the choice
of either fire or fire."

Mulder felt a flutter of fear, felt something spin around in his
mind. "You see now, somehow, he knows he's got at least one
watcher who understands him. He started killing with purely
personal goals.  Send the hurt children to Jesus. But then he realized
he could teach us something. So then he got our attention and he sent
his message out to the masses. Now he's still preaching to the masses,
but he knows he's got some watchers who understand his message.
Like a missionary. He sends the message out to the masses, and
any whose. . ." Mulder paused. ". . .any whose hearts are softened, are
preached to more intensely."

     "He's going with two different beliefs, drawn from his Eliot.
The first one is that the Holy Ghost comes down," Mulder made a
movement from his head to his chest with one hand, making a
drawing movement fingers wide at top, touching at bottom, "and fills
the person and that person is saved.  The second is that when the
Holy Spirit comes to a person, that person," the hand was open, the
palm went outwards from his own chest to the room around him,
"can prophesy. Can know things because the Holy Spirit tells it to
him.  Can transcend and become part of eternal."

     No Eliot. He was trying, for once, to explain the Eliot to
them both. To explain Why.

     "What did you see after I was unconscious?" Mulder's voice was
soft, but terribly sharp. "What did you see? Who came? Meyers
said Sam thought it was the BVM. Who came? Who did you see?"

     Sam swallowed, stared at Averman. "This woman came. She said
you were sick.  She said you were prophesying. She said she was
the mother of the man who owned the revival tent," Sam replied
before Averman spoke. "I don't know what she was, but she knew
you like she'd known you from the day you were born."

     "She said *I* was sick?"

     Sam nodded. "She said. . .you started moaning and she said she
loved you like Samantha did."

     Mulder's head jerked up. He stared at Sam. "I don't know," Sam
replied. "I don't know what she knew or how." He put his hands up
in an "I'm innocent" gesture.

     Averman looked as though he was upset. "She was a
charismatic. You know they believe in tongues and all that horseshit."

     Mulder stared at Averman. "Be not unbelieving, but believing,
because you have seen have you believed?  Blessed are they who
did not see, and yet believed."
 

     Averman blinked back. Stared at Mulder. "The devil may quote
scripture for his own purposes."

     Mulder smiled.

     "How can you say that when you don't believe in God?"
Averman
questioned.  "How can you ask me to believe in what you don't?"

     Mulder shrugged. "I don't know," he said quietly, finally. He
stared numbly at his hands. "I hate fire. I fucking hate fire. He
doesn't know that or he wouldn't be using fire." The voice was very
soft.

     Averman shifted over to where Mulder sat, got close. "What are
you saying?"

     Mulder looked up. "Nothing. Nothing." His face was pale. He
swallowed.  Looked around. "What happened, besides the smell of
rotting flesh?"

     "Not much. We'll have everything ready by in the morning. It
was an adult.  A male caucasian. It looks like a strangulation.
Just like you said."

     Mulder accepted this quietly.
 
 
 
 
 

     Mulder let himself into bed, left the bathroom light on.  Left
the lamp beside his bed on.  Tried not think.  Pretended things to
himself.  He knew, and he knew it was like being led as a lamb to
the slaughter.  He knew Elijah did not know or Elijah would not do
this.

     Fox was one of Elijah's children now.  Elijah did not hurt the
children intentionally.

     But he was still quiet, still went to bed as he was told,
though it felt like going to bed the night before you were led out
for an execution.  A strange sense of calm, of being someone else,
somewhere else.  It was his body and he was there, but he did not
feel it.  It was not him and yet it was.
 
 
 
 

     Sam put his face against the pillow.  Too many bodies, no real
answers.  Too many children.  Fox Mulder on the other side of a
terribly thin wall, slipping down into sleep like it was some kind
of river filled with monsters who swarmed under the surface
waiting for his kicking feet.  He was tired and sleepy and the
convolutions of Mulder's brain still frightened him.  Fire.  To be
crowned with either Fire or Fire.  The dark dove of the flickering
tongue. Madre de Dios, Spooky had him saying Eliot now too.  Like it
was some short prayer to a saint before you went to sleep.  He fell
into sleep, knowing that he would have to wake and face the dead.
 
 
 
 
 

     Averman swallowed the last of his nightcap, considered the
reports, considered Mulder's profile.  The best are soon gone, he
thought softly.  Fox Mulder was not, right now, a very likable
individual, but Rodriguez thought he was a good person.  Meyers
had a serious hard on for him.  Averman pulled Meyers report from
the pile.  It was pretty evident what Meyers and Mulder had gotten
done together, although you had to admit it *was* Meyers' work.  But
then he'd stride into a room and you just wanted to slap him for
being a general cocky asshole.  When this case was over, there was
no way the old Fox Spooky Mulder would ever come back.  That
creature was an amalgam of fears and horrors that had never come
to a head.

     Averman thought of his own children.  He remembered the one
time he'd pulled the belt out of its loops, when his son had come

home with all F's in the first grade.  The look of horror and the
realization that he could inflict such horror on another being and
nothing would be said, the remembrance of horror when his father
hit him.  He hadn't hit his son and he had never, ever thought
about belting his kids again.  He didn't understand how men could
do that and stare at the panicked faces of their children and not
be moved.

     They'd pulled Christopher and sent him to a private school
where research was being done.  Told Averman it was something
they were beginning to get a handle on it.  Christopher reversed
letters.  They called it dyslexia.  You heard about it on the news
now and every pissant little school district dealt with it.  But in
74, it was a thing only liberals talked about.  You just hit them
when they couldn't.  Hit them hard to knock some sense into them.

     How could a man hit a child, an utterly defenseless child,
until, when the child grew up, he heard voices and huddled in
bathrooms crying, until people around him whispered words about
commitment and hospitals?  How could a man stare at an innocent
child, all baby fat and dimples and grins and feel his dick grow
hard?  How could he do things to that child, hearing the screams
and the pain?

     Averman pressed his face against the glass.  What a world we
have created, he thought tiredly.
 
 
 
 

     Walking through the abandoned Cathedral.
     Water and fire succeed
     the town, the pasture and the weed.
     Water and fire deride
     the sacrifice that we denied.
     Water and fire shall rot
     The marred foundations we forgot,
     Of sanctuary and choir.
     This is the death of water and fire.

     Bright stars through the fallen beams, clear and sharp.  Water
squished in the grass under his feet.  This place had burned.  Had
burned and. . .

     "FOX!"  He turned.

     There was only emptiness and silence in the char blackened
timbers and the brittle summer green that grew.

     Saw the orange and the yellow.  The red of coals and the white
ash fall.

     The only hope or else despair
     Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre--
     To be redeemed from fire by fire.

     Heat and moldering ash and he stood with the smell in his
hair, the embers in his face.  His father telling him that this is
how London smelled when he was there.  Watching and digging
through the ash for things the flame forgot.

     We live, only suspire
     Consumed by either fire or fire.

     Hot and his hands were burnt.  Stare and someone grabs you.
And you remember watching the fire, feeling the sear of heat along
your face and the blisters breaking out.  Fire is alive it can
swallow and it can roll, billow like a sail, wave like a child.

     The Cathedral was cold.

     He moved to the front, out of the nave and into the crossing,
standing on ruined mosaics.  A simple angled maze.  The devil
cannot follow corners.  The devil cannot move in straight lines
because the devil is a snake.  His feet in their heavy wingtips
crushed brittle grass, growing between the tiny tiles.  The grass
crumbled into waterlogged mush.  The tiles skittered and pushed
down into the foundation.  A very black night.  The sky was dark
and palpable.  You could touch the darkness, feel the radiation of
the passing celestial spheres.  Glanced at the transepts and
the fallen saints who had rested there. Forward.  Into the choir,
the fallen pews, collapsed and decayed, wood rills along their
edges, telling how long the rot had survived.

     The presbytery had fallen in, and the gold leaf was gone.   He
stood quietly, hands deep inside the trench coat.  Wondering.

     A movement in the back, in the dark.  He watched the figure
turn.  The first met stranger.

     In concord at this intersection time.

     He watched and saw the figure of a boy, standing in the
doorway.  And understood.

     Whatever we inherit from the fortunate
     We have taken from the defeated
     What they had to leave us--a symbol:
     A symbol perfected in death.
     And all shall be well and
     All manner of thing shall be well
     By the purification of the motive
     In the ground of our beseeching.

     He strode back through the chapel, ignoring the spongy wood,
the places in the crossing where the floor had fallen through and
ancient kings stared up from their hallows.

     Michael?  Elijah?

     Fox?

Continued in part 18..............
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW: Oklahoma 18/41 NC-17
Date: 8 Feb 1996 06:23:53 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 18/41)
By Amperage and Livengoo
Copyright October, 1995

International Readers:  No third season spoilers
Rating:  NC-17 for language and violence

Fox Mulder and the X-Files are the creation and intellectual
property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  The
FBI is the property of the US Government.  Oklahoma and Louisiana
and Texas belong to exactly who you think they'd belong to, and
everything else belongs to Amperage and Livengoo.

Special thanks to Rodent, the editing goddess.  Rodent - I have a
shrine to good editors.  - Goo
____________________
 

     Mulder woke with a start, unable to force breath into his
lungs, feeling the crackling, the burning, watching the yellow
tongue.  It was hot.  Hot and he could not escape it, could not
run.  Hot and the flame of incandescent terror assaulted him in
waves of fear.

     He found the bathroom by main instinct, found the blue knob,
blue, the color of God.  Twisted and the water fell over him, hard
and cold and the flames were burning, crackling and twisting and
rising up in arching tantamount swells.  Smoke and fire and the
ring of sharp white ash.  Blisters and burns.

     He pulled off his clothes, sobbing, feeling the bile and the
Gatorade gushing from his mouth.  Oh God it was hot.  It was hot
and he was. . .burning. . .

     Into the crowned knot of fire
     And the fire and the rose are one.

     He leaned against the tiling naked, felt the tears, the tears
were hot, his eyes. . .oh god, he could not think, his eyes were
burning, were melting in their sockets.

     He closed his eyes and turned his face upwards, felt the water
trickle and steam into his throat and nose.  He breathed, felt his
body choke.  Coughed and sputtered and breathed again.  Felt his
heel slip on the water, falling, huddling against the cool ceramic,
away from the heat.

     Blazing and burning. A ritual pyre.  Michael sleeps and

     The chill ascends from feet to knees
     The fever sings in mental wires
     If to be warmed, then I must freeze
     And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
     Of which the flame is roses and the smoke is briars.

     Jesus loves the little children.  All the children of the
     world.

     Filled his mouth with water, spat it out when it became warm.
Cold water.
 
 
 
 
 

     Sam blinked.  Nothing.  Go back to sleep.  You're imagining
things.

     Yeah, yeah, I'm starting at shadows, going to be as bad as
Mulder. . .

     He rolled over.  It was raining.  No.

     Sorry son of a bitch.  Up already?  It was only 5:30.  Didn't
the mutherfucker ever need sleep?  Had he slipped out so quietly no
one heard him go for a run?

     Oh hell.

     Sam debated just closing his eyes and going back to sleep.
Debated forgetting that he ever heard the shower.

     Well shit.
 
 
 
 

     The door was open, but no steam billowed out.  No heat.  Water
was splattering the carpet.  Sam frowned, edged over to the
bathtub.

     Oh Fuck.

     Marion was asleep under the shower.  Cold water, icy, frigid
cold water.  Asleep and it looked like he'd been that way a long
time, sitting under the water. Head against the soap dish, legs at
odd angles, discarded clothes a heavy, waterlogged mess.  Sam
turned off the water wondering what the fuck had happened here.

     At the disappearance of the current, Francis' head bolted up,
startled, frightened.  Terrified.  Then he relaxed.  Deep breath.
Shivered.  Sam waited quietly.  Francis stared at him. Shivered,
a full body, uncontrollable shiver.  Again.  Sam put his hand
against Mulder's skin.  Clammy and water wrinkled.  Worse than
clammy.  Outright cold.  He found the towels on the rack.  Three of
them.  One around Mulder's shoulders, one at his lap.

     "He burned him tonight, Frito."  The voice was very quiet.

     Sam nodded.  "Come on," he said, not caring about wondering
what was being said.  "Let's get you out of the water."
 
 
 
 
 

     Five short steps, maybe ten, and then he could go back to bed.
Marion had been sleeping in ice water, God knows a warm bed
should lull him right off.  But he shivered harder suddenly, the
motion sharp against the arm Sam had around his back to guide him.
All the long muscles tensed and he dragged Sam to a stop.

     Sam looked up at him.  Marion wasn't meeting his eyes, was
staring at the bed, blinking rapidly.  Madre de Dios.  Puta.
Merde.  Fluent in three languages and he should be able to find
enough words to describe what he thought right then, with the air
dragging in his lungs and a body on the table a few short hours
away.

     "Please don't fuck with me, Marion.  It's too late for this
shit. . . "

     Francis' eyes had come down to look at him, and the
pathologist shivered.  Looked through him.  "He burned him, Frito."

     "That's what you said, now can you. . . "

     "You don't believe me."  The hand on his arm felt odd.  Wet
and. . . Sam frowned.  Slowly reached over to take his wrist, turn
the hand with the palm facing up.  And swallowed.
 
 
 
 

     The ringing phone slapped Averman's ears and forced him from
a deep, short sleep.  5:30.  Christ.

     "Nng.  Averman here."

     "Sir, you asked to be informed of anomalous homicides. . . "

     "Mmhmm.  Jesus, man.  I sure as hell hope you're not calling
with a drive-by."  Tactless.  He kicked himself, but god, he was so
tired.

     "We have a body recovered in an arson case, sir.  Looks like
a child."  Averman's bloodshot eyes were abruptly staring at the
swirled plaster that shone faintly in the light from the parking
lot.

     "Give me what you've got."
 
 
 
 

     "How did you get these, Marion?"  Very soft, gentle voice.
His finger carefully skimmed over the white, blistered surface of
Mulder's palm.  Grabbed the other wrist and both were blistered.
Soft, white blisters, and Mulder flinched when he touched them.

     "Don't make me go to sleep, Frito.  Please.  I don't want to
go back there."  Rational, calm.  Then much softer.  "I'm afraid."

     Frito stared back up at him.  "Where did you get these?"  Not
from scalding.  The flesh was red.  They looked like burns. . . But
to get burns like that from a shower?

     "I picked something up.  In the cathedral."

     "Francis. . . "  Frito leaned over and turned on the light to
look more closely.  The blisters were still there.  All over his
palms, but none on the sides or backs of his hands.  If he'd done
this with the hot water, they'd be messier, spread further.  The
shower head itself couldn't get this hot, surely or, if it did,
would make a pattern. He left Francis and went to look at it.

     Narrow little nozzle that Francis' hand would wrap around.
That didn't make those burns.  Nothing in here was large enough to
leave that even coat of blisters.  They would have
differentiations.  This didn't make sense.

     Mulder was standing behind him in the door.  He had his robe
around him now, and was still shivering.  Slowly and deliberately,
he reached up and wrapped his hand around the shower nozzle.  "I'd
have had to burn my hand an inch at a time on this, Frito.  I
didn't.  I didn't hurt myself.  I was in the fire."
 
 
 
 

     "Are you sure it was arson?"

     "We found definite evidence of accelerants.  Gasoline mainly."

     "Any chance your perp is the victim?"

     "I. . . if it's suicide it's pretty strange.  We'd feel better
if you took a look at it."

     "Jesus Christ."  If the locals were asking for the feds to
drop by for coffee and donuts, then this one had to be pretty
strange.

     "More or less."
 
 
 
 
 

     "Marion.  There's no fire.  There's nothing here."  Sam could
hear the frustration crackle in his voice, the fear of what he'd
hear.

     "Marion smiled, brittle. "In the cathedral. I tried to tell you. He
burned Michael tonight. And he'll take the next one tomorrow. . . the
day after. Soon. I was there. There's a mosaic in the nave."

     "Marion." Sam ran his hands through his hair, bit back a curse and
a sob and a plea to let him sleep. "Marion. I need sleep. You need
sleep. . ." God, Francis was backing away, face pale even though he
wasn't shivering so badly.

     "Please, Sam. . . .please. Please don't make me sleep again. I don't
want to go back." He had the bed between them. Sam swallowed, felt
the ache in his throat, the pain in his shoulders when he pulled
himself upright. His feet were swollen from hours of standing,
working with the extraction team. His knees, his back. . . He had to
think of the motions to breathe and Francis was standing there,
seeking barriers, seeking any escape for even an instant.

     "Listen to me. I want you to take more Haldol. . . " Mulder's face
twisted, teeth showing on his lower lip, eyes shut tight then snapped
open as though he couldn't stand that much dark. "You'll sleep hard,
you won't dream as much. . . "

     "If I go to sleep I'll go back."  Voice a desperate whisper.
"Don't make me go back.  I don't want to fight you and I don't want
to run. But he saw me tonight."

     "You were asleep in a fucking tub full of ice-fucking-water!"
He could see that Francis startled at the shout.  Drew a shaky
breath and balled his fists.
 
 
 
 

     Averman heard the shout, knocked fast and hard.

     "Rodriguez!  Rodriguez, what's going on?  You okay?"  No sound
for a moment.  The bolts twisted back and Frito was staring up at
him, dark eyes above smudged bruises of lower lids.  Grim, pale
mouth.  Averman looked past him at Mulder, around on the far side
of the bed and almost in the corner.  He felt his mouth open on a
comment, but held it.  Waited for screams, or Eliot or
God-knew-what.  Mulder watched him with still eyes, tracking and
silent.  He looked back to Rodriguez.

     "We got an odd one in Shawnee.  The locals want us out there."

     "To the cathedral."  Mulder's voice.  Rodriguez' eyes
squeezed tight shut.  The doctor let his head and shoulders slump.
"He burned him in the cathedral.  They found him on the altar.
Michael slept until he died and the fire took him."  He could see
the pale man swallow across the room.

     "What happened, Sam?"  He kept his eyes on Mulder.

     "I woke up.  He. . . he was in the tub, in ice water,
asleep."  The words were gasped out on choked breaths.  Rodriguez
had let his head loll against the door, using the wood to hold
himself up.

     "I was burning.  I was with him when he died and it was
burning.  Elijah didn't know."

     Sam's lashes were dark and his face was tight with the fury of
exhaustion and despair.  "He has blisters on his palms.  Even coat
on both hands.  Fuck me if I can figure out how. . . all I can make
of it is psychosomatic damage."

     Averman looked from Rodriguez to Mulder.  Shivered.

     "You're going there.  He's waiting for you.  Please. . . "
Mulder's voice choked off.  Sam looked back over his shoulder.

     "We can get Meyers up and I'll hit him with enough Haldol. .
. "

     "Please don't make me sleep."  The words were bitten off fast
and hard.  "Let me. . . let me see this site."

     Rodriguez rounded, shoulders gathered and fists tensed again.
"You said you were scared of the fire.  Hated the fucking fire,
that's exactly what you said. . . "  Sam caught himself trembling.
Shut his eyes.  Lowered his voice.  "Mulder, why do you want to do
this?"  Because you won't have to sleep?  The thought ran through
three sets of eyes at once.

     Mulder nodded slowly.  "That.  And I need to be close to where
he was.  I need to. . . see what he saw, smell it, walk there."
Distracted from distraction by distraction.

     "I don't know as that's a good idea, Mulder."  Averman's voice
was soft, more controlled than Sam had been able to manage.
 
 
 
 
 

     Listening to them argue to drug him back where men and bits of
paper, whirled by the cold wind that blows before and after time
would take him all unknowing and undefended to Elijah.  To the
fire.  Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs, into the faded air.

     "We've never been so close. . . "  They looked at him.  "He's
taking us to the heart of it, Averman.  Do you see it Frito?

     'Your building not fitly framed together, you sit ashamed
     and wonder whether and how you may be builded
     together for a habitation of GOD in the Spirit, the
     Spirit which moved on the face of the waters like a
     lantern set on the back of a tortoise.'

     "Fire or fire.  He redeemed the child in the abandoned house
of worship. Burned the abandoned house of the soul in the
abandoned house of god."

     "Mulder."  Averman had stepped in and was moving slowly and
carefully towards the young man.  "It's all right, we believe you.
You saw it burn. . . "  He swallowed, felt fear in his chest.  He
did believe him, believed he'd seen, could see the marks on his
hands, and feared.  "This is a crime site, and not safe.  You. . .
you're not thinking so clearly right now.  You don't need to be
there.  Just let us help you get calmed down.  We'll bring the
reports."  God, if he was so scared of fire that was the last
place Averman wanted him.  He could hear Rodriguez getting what
he needed in the next room.  Was grateful that Mulder wasn't
freaking out, wasn't violent or sobbing.  His eyes were dilated, and he
gestured, trying to draw Averman into whatever he was arguing, but
he didn't have time for this.

     Frito had another fucking needle ready.  His skin crawled at
the memory of the sharp sting and the cold drug creeping into his
system and smothering him.

     "No Eliot.  I don't care.  Let me see the site, please,
Averman!"  Mulder backed into the corner by the bed, caged by the
two of them.  If he fought, they'd call him hostile and Guiterriez
would have him.  If he slept Elijah would have him. "Please. . . "

     Not for me the ultimate vision.
     Grant me thy peace.

     "It's not so much. . . "

     I am tired with my own life and the lives of those after me,
     I am dying in my own death and the deaths of those after me.

     Let thy servant depart,
     Having seen thy salvation.

     What images return
     Oh my sister.

     Mulder was crying, quiet tears from under his eyelids.  He
felt Averman's arms around him in a rough embrace like he was a
child, like he would fight hard, grabbing his wrists, pulling to
the bed.  "Shh. . .it won't hurt long. . .shh."  Averman's voice,
rough, the whisper of a coarse voice, softened.  The voice
Averman's children must have heard when they woke from
nightmares.  It was a voice like his father's, stroking his forehead
when he was in pain, telling him it would be all right, the voice when
he had cried, not able to play Little League because of the damn cast,
the patient voice.

     The needle stung like. . .fire.  He felt the heat slide into
his skin; he twisted, screamed.  Felt Frito's hand.  "Don't
struggle."  Sharp voice.

     "Shh. . .you're going to be all right. Shh.  Calm down. .
.Shh. . .it's going to be all right. . .shh. . ."  The needle left,
but the fire burned on, it spread, it danced in his veins, it held
him hostage.

     "Fire."  Mulder whispered.  "Elijah danced around the fire
when he was little.  They built a fire on Halloween.  His father
didn't know.  His mother laughed.  His mother was British and she
always lit a fire on Halloween, tossed herbs in it to appease
nature.  Salt turns it a lovely shade of blue. . .When the fire was
low, the children jumped over the coals.  A pretend sacrifice,
another kind of baptism. . .the world was destroyed once by water.
The second destruction will be of fire. . .The prophet Elijah
called down fire to prove to the king that. . ." deep sobbing
breath, "his God was the only true one. . ."  The words became
harder to say.

     "I know.  You can tell us later.  Shh." Averman let go.

     Quietly they put him into the bed.  Meyers had his paperwork,
his portable, a couple of books and a candy bar when he came in.
He was still dressed casually.  Averman nodded in approval.

     "Stay with him all day," Sam ordered. "He'll be out most of
today."

     Averman turned to the short doctor.  "You told him `it's not
so much'?" he asked mildly.

     "It isn't, considering how much I wanted to give him," Sam
replied drily. "But I don't want him coming back up for a while."
He checked his watch.  6:10.  Forty minutes?  Had all of that only
taken forty minutes?  "We need some cortisone salve and gauze to
wrap around his hands."

     "Any idea what happened?" Averman asked.

     "There's nothing in this room he could've done it on."  A
frown, shake of the head.  "There are some reports in the
literature of psychosomatic burns. . .I don't know. . ." a shrug,
"I don't think it was intentional."

     Averman nodded.  "I'm going to go get changed.  You need to do
the same.  How long do you think you'll need?"

     Mulder mumbled something softly.  They ignored him.

     "Hell if I know. I'm going to get dressed, find someplace and
get him something for his hands," Sam said.  He glanced at Averman.

"Is that something that comes natural when you get a kid?"
 

     Averman smiled, shook his head.  "Yeah.  Yeah it does."
 
 
 
 
 

     He was so far away. Dry cotton was a sour mess on his tongue,
and he couldn't swallow. Dry in his