Oklahoma (Part 25/41)
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.

_______________________

     Despite his best efforts, Mulder went back to sleep before
7:30.  Meyers watched the agent drift off, watched him fight it
with movement around the bed, with focusing on Sunday night
television, with playing mental games.  Like his sister's kids when
they didn't want to admit they were tired.  But finally Mulder's
mouth hung open, the tenseness left his body.

     "How is he?"  Rodriguez' voice was distant over the phone,
disembodied.

     "Well he's asleep right now," Meyers said.  "He wanted to see
the site.  He's not. . .he's pretty lucid.  He's weak, but he acts
like maybe he's feeling better."

     Rodriguez sighed on the other end.  He wanted to deny Mulder,
wanted the analyst in bed until they could fly back to DC and
hospitals that didn't see a lot of rodeo injuries.  "Don't wake
him.  If we're lucky he'll sleep until morning, then he can
go down with everyone.  He down anything?"

     "Two cans of juice."

     Rodriguez' sigh was relieved.  "Look, we don't know what's
causing Mulder's problems  It could be something neurological.
Watch him, anything odd at all you get me."

     Meyers swallowed.  "Yeah."

     "Okay.  I'm going to get the body situated.  Take some
pictures.  We'll be in in an hour or so.  You want anything to
eat?"

     "Yeah.  Whatever."

     "Okay.  Umm, we'll bring Mulder an icee or something and some
more juice."  A voice in the background.  "I gotta go."

     Meyers hung up the phone, stared at Mulder's sleeping figure.
 
 
 
 
 

     They came back just as Mulder's IV bag was giving up it's
final gurgle.  Tried to be quiet, Cooke handed Meyers one of the
bags of burgers.  "God, I hate small towns on Sundays," he
muttered, sitting on the highboy.

     Averman sat beside him, pulled out his own sandwich.  "We're
lucky anything was open this late on a Sunday," he said
conversationally.

     "God, you're lucky you missed that site," Cooke told Meyers
while they watched Rodriguez pull out another IV bag.

     "Hmm?" Meyers said, trying to squeeze ketchup out of the fast
food packets onto the spread burger wrapper between his legs on the
floor.

     "Momma and Step-Daddy come down, all hysterical, in their good
church clothes.  Da-dee is on the town coun-cil.  Momma is the
closest thing they've got to a Jun-ior Leaguer."  Cooke took a bite
of burger, chewed contemptuously.

     Mulder's eyes fluttered open.  He stared confused a few
minutes.  "I thought. . .Meyers you said we'd. . ."

     "You were asleep," Sam said quietly.  "You weren't going out
there tonight anyway."

     "I'm not a fucking invalid."  Mulder pushed up against the
bed, made no comment as Sam changed out IV's.

     Sam sighed.

     "Just wait until the morning," Averman said, taking a sip of
his diet coke.  "And you can go see it."

     "Fuck it.  Elijah's out there," Mulder said, swallowing.
"He's out there and he's going to do it over and over again.  We're
close to catching him. Right now we're close."

     "And right now, best medical opinion is to get you posthaste
into a major hospital," Rodriguez replied, getting up.  "Hope you
like Black Cherry."  He handed Mulder an icee.  "We can't isolate
the cause of the fever."

     "Fuck it.  I'm feverish because Elijah is out there," Mulder
said, pulling the paper from his straw.  "I won't get better until
he's caught."

     Rodriguez took a deep breath.  "Francis, look, you. . ."

     "No.  You look, I *need* to see that site.  I need to know
what Elijah knew."

     "Oh right.  With the IV in your arm and you can't walk twenty
feet without keeling over," Sam muttered sarcastically.  He took a
deep breath and tried again.  "Marion, please.  Stop arguing.  If
we have to carry you out of that lab, you'll go straight to
University of Oklahoma Hospital.  I would much rather postpone
the trip and make it a hospital in DC where there are people you
know."

     Marion stared at him, eyes suddenly bright.  He stared a long
time.  "It's just the damn case.  That's all it is.  I'm feeling
better since you stopped fucking me over with the drugs."

     "If it's just a reaction to the drugs, then you still need a
hospital."

     "I was doing just fine until you and Averman stuck your noses
into things.  I've been dreaming for a year and a half now.  And I
was doing just fine."  Each word distinct and angry, spat out like
the words were venom.  "Just fucking fine.  And then you come along
with all your fucking drugs and your fucking, overweight, hispanic
psychiatrist and try to tell me that *I'm* crazy.  I never was
crazy.  If crazy is knowing who killers are and how they think and
what goes on inside their skulls then we need to comb the locked
wards for new FBI agents, because if I weren't here, if they'd
sent someone else, we both fucking, fucking well know that Elijah
would still be five steps ahead of everyone.  You'd have no idea
what was going on."  Mulder pushed up against the headboard.

     Averman stood, having had enough of this tirade.  "Agent
Mulder," his voice barked.  "You are *way* outta line."

     "Am I?"  Mulder's voice was insolent, angry.  "Am I?"  He
pounded his untaped arm against the bed.

     Averman took a deep breath.  Expelled it.  Moments like this
were ones he'd settled with Lisa and Chris with extended timeouts.
Time outs?  He'd called it sitting in the corner, staring at the
wall.  "If you want to be treated like a working, functioning
member of this team, you damn well will act like it.  I am your
supervisor."  He felt Cooke and Meyers stare at their sandwiches,
pretend not to be there.

     "And right now, according to the reports Rodriguez got back
from your blood sample, you are probably one very sick young man.
The prudent thing to do would be to ship you to Oklahoma City and
let a team of doctors poke and prod you.  However, there is, as you
so profoundly pointed out, a serial killer on the loose and you are
the best link the FBI has in capturing this man.  But the FBI has
lost links before and still caught their man."  Averman paused to
collect his thoughts.

     "You cannot walk very far without collapsing, and you still
need to be on IV's.  Those two facts make it difficult logistically
for you to see the site tonight."  Another pause, this one for
effect.  "Now.  I made copies," his voice dripped sarcasm, "of all
the preliminary work and I brought polaroids of the crime scene."
Mulder looked up from his perusal of the icee in his hands.  His
face was pale and the circles under his eyes were like smudges of
coal, cheek scraped raw and bruised.  He was gaunt and a thin sheen
of sweat covered his skin.  Averman let the sarcasm drop out of his
voice, staring at the bright, sad eyes.  God.  The kid could be
dying.  Averman wondered how he could go to the funeral and see
the parents, knowing what he knew about the kid's past, knowing
what he knew about how much pain they had let their son grow up
in.  He shook the image away.  Rodriguez had also said they didn't
know *what* it was.

     "Look, you can go in the morning.  You'll be a lot more
hydrated.  Your fever's obviously not as high.  I know it's
important to catch Elijah, but I won't kill you as a sacrifice for
him," Averman finished.  "Get it through your skull."

     Mulder swallowed.  He stared at Averman just a moment,
acknowledging the older man.  Then he nodded.  "Yes sir," he
muttered, giving up.
 
 
 
 

     Mulder managed to stay awake for a couple of hours.  Averman
had claimed the room with the connecting door, Rodriguez right next
door.  Mulder sprawled across his bed, reviewed the files Averman
had brought him.  Stared at the skeleton.  "Averman?" he called
through the open door.

     Averman rushed over, toothbrush in his mouth.

     "Finish your oral hygiene," Mulder said. "Wouldn't want to be
accused of making your mouth unpalatable for some pretty young
ho's cunt."

     Averman shot him the finger and returned to spit.  He was back
in a few minutes.  "Whatcha' want?" he asked, wiping his mouth.

     "Tell me about the parents?"

     "Umm. . .they came in dressed for evening worship."

     "The locals hadn't notified them?"

     "Hadn't gone through the purse," Averman replied.

     Mulder nodded.  "Small town idiots. . ."  He thought a moment.

     "Didn't it strike anyone odd that these people have what. . .a
twelve year old?"

     Averman nodded, sitting down on the edge of Mulder's bed.

     "A twelve year old daughter who's disappeared and they went to
Sunday church like nothing was wrong?"

     Averman grinned.  "Oh yeah, I asked in my most concerned,
parental support voice."

     "And?"

     "And the stepdaddy informed me that Adeena often spent time
with her friends."

     "Uh-huh," Mulder muttered.

     "They're locally prominent.  Mom's as close to a junior
leaguer as they come in a city like this.  Dad's on the City
Council."

     Mulder nodded.   Put his head back against the headboard.
"This doesn't make sense."

     "What are you talking about?" Averman asked.

     "He should have taken care of her body in some way that left
evidence of the incest.  He compares this girl to Sarah.  This girl
*is* his Sarah, at least in his mind.  And then he disposes of the
body so that no physical evidence is left."  Mulder closed his
eyes, rubbed his face.  "Doesn't make the least fucking bit of
sense."  He paused.  "Elijah knows I'm out there," he said softly.

     "He  knows.  He's trying to preach to me, but I. . .I don't
know what he's saying.  You don't have any poetry.  Did he leave
any?"

     Averman shook his head.  "Not that we could find."

     Mulder nodded, considered this fact, stared at his bandaged
hands.  "My family's lived on the Vineyard for a long, long time,"
he said quietly.  "When I was little my great aunt Miranda would
take me out to the family cemetery and point out all my ancestors.
It was an old cemetery.  Most of the graves were from the 1800's.
It didn't scare me, playing where all my relatives were buried.
That never scared me."  He paused, eyes distant.  "There aren't
many fresh plots.  Did you know that?  Most family cemeteries like
ours are closed.  You have to go to the mainland to get buried.
The cemeteries aren't allowed to grow anymore.  They say it's
because of ecological concerns.  My dad used to say it's because of
tourists.  But Aunt Miranda had three plots that were still clear.
I was her favorite.  I have a plot."  Mulder rambled calmly, lost
in family politics and family wars.

     Something in Averman's gut twisted.  He wanted to ask a
question, to snap Mulder out of this macabre mood.  He swallowed
and said nothing.

     "Elijah. . .he's trying to preach to me.  He wants me to
understand.  He's younger than I am, maybe by a couple years.  But
he sees us as brothers. . .I think. . ."  Mulder paused, picked at
the bandage.  Silence filled the room.  Averman struggled not to
speak, not to fill the silence with inane noise that would drive
off the fear rising and twisting and filling him so that he could
not breathe.

     "Is it a dream or something else
     When the surface of the blackened river
     Is a face that sweats with tears?

     For the dull brain, the sharp desires
     And the quick eyes of Woolly Bear.
     There is no relief but in grief.
     O when will the creaking heart cease
     When will the broken chair give ease?"

     Mulder's voice was low.  "He lost his family.  I guess, in a
way, I lost mine too.  He came from Massachusetts. My father
graduated from Amherst.  My mother was at Boston College a couple
of years before she met my dad and quit to go with him to his first
posting in Europe.  His mother went to Radcliffe and his father
went to Harvard.  Graduated Harvard Divinity School.  They all had
their entire lives ahead of them then.  But all the promises of
goodness. . ."  Mulder trailed, not wishing to take his analogy any
further.  "At night, when he closes his eyes, he can hear the
cold Atlantic.  He can see the whales and the dim grey days of
winter.  He's never been back, but it's all he thinks about.  If I
die, and I'm buried there, I won't mind.  Elijah knows I come from
the Vineyard.  He knows the salt air will slide across the grass
that grows over my grave."  Mulder looked up.  "Even if I couldn't
get into the Mulder cemetary, I don't want to be buried in
Arlington.  I don't want to be lost.  There are cemetaries in New
Bedford and Chatham and even Boston is an old whaling town.  My
mom and dad have plots in Boston."

     Averman swallowed, took Mulder's shoulders in his hands,
turned the younger man to face him.  "What the fuck are you trying
to tell me?"

     "I didn't see it, because I was lost in dreams," Mulder said,
mind suddenly clear.  "I was trying to preach his word, his gospel.
The drugs. . . I couldn't think. . . He did this one neatly, for
us.  There's Eliot there, some dumb fuck just lost it for us." He
shook his head.  "I don't. . . I'm not sick, Averman.  There's
nothing wrong with me except what the fire brought to me."  He
moved his hands inward, swinging the IV line.  "I only just now
understood, only now just realized it.  He killed Adeena as a way
of putting Sarah to sleep.  Doing for her what he could not do for
Sarah.  I'm next.  He'll send me to Jesus, let my body go back to
what he remembers as Edenic--Massachusetts.

     "With glory and derision,
     Light upon light, mounting the saints' stair.
     Not for me the martyrdom, the ecstacy of thought and prayer.
     Not for me the ultimate vision.
     Grant me thy peace.
     (And a sword shall pierce thy heart,
     Thine also).
     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."

     Mulder swallowed, staring at something only he could see,
preternaturally calm.  "If you'd kept me on the Thorazine, I never
would have seen it," he said softly.  "I would have just slid into
the darkness.  You said that. . .that you wouldn't let me be a
sacrifice for Elijah.  That's what. . .I guess that's. . .But
Elijah's. . .he knows the facts are distributed widely now.  And
I'm from Massachusetts.  And I'm the only one who understands
what's going on. . . He's ready now.  Ready to kill me and to die."

     Mulder swallowed.  "Sarah's body is clean.  Sarah has escaped.
Now it is time for the prophet to withdraw and take his servant
with him."

Continued in part 26...............
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 26/41 NC-17
Date: 15 Feb 1996 06:05:29 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 26/41)
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.  Mulder, listen to me."  Averman swallowed, feeling
the ice that wrapped through his bowels sent shivers along his
nerves.  Looked into dark eyes that let no light back out.  "I need
you to work this through with me.  You're telling me that Elijah's
coming for you next."

     Mulder nodded, calm and definite, still seeing the long dunes
and grasses of the Vineyard.  The slate and blue waters where the
warm Gulf Stream cut through the icy, northern sea, off the coast
of Massachusetts.

     'And men who turned towards the light and were known of the
          light
     And led men from light to light, to knowledge of Good and
          Evil.
     But their light was ever surrounded and shot with darkness
     As the air of temperate seas is pierced by the still dead
          breath of the Arctic Current;
     And they came to an end, a dead end.'

     "Mulder, how does he know you?"

     The eyes came back from a place nearly two thousand miles
away.  A perfectly reasonable smile answered Averman's fears.
"We've been all over the news.  He'd have a hard time not knowing
I'm from Massachusetts.  Particularly after Foster's sermon this
morning."  Puzzled frown as Averman shook his head.

     "No.  You said he only takes abused children.  And we both
know he only takes the ones who've been saved.  He hasn't yet taken
a child too young, or not Christian.  I don't have any doubt you're
right about that.  So why you?  He won't just break his pattern,
Mulder. . . "

     The agent's face closed up, went tight and professional.  And
that scared Averman more than the lost stare focused on sea grasses
and the offshore breeze.  The AIC couldn't leave it there.
"Massachusetts he knows, but how does he know you were beaten?
How does he know if you've been saved?  You could give me a reason
for knowing about each of the kids, Mulder.  When we get the
subpoenas I'm sure we'll find a connection, just like you predicted."
Averman stopped, frowned, feeling the edges of something.  Stared
long and hard at the analyst, who'd withdrawn into a burrow of
blankets.  With his eyes shut and his thin, pale face he looked
terribly young.  Like he'd looked the first afternoon at Social
Service, gesturing across his own chest. . .

     "You said abused kids don't wear banners, Mulder, but maybe
they do.  You seem to know the ones who are too quiet or too
well-behaved."  Averman could hear the excitement pick up in his
own voice.  "And Rodriguez and I spotted you. . . "  He looked away
from the man, worked his hands on his knees.  Couldn't sit still.
Paced to the window and resisted the urge to look out and see if
anyone was out there.  Mulder was watching him now.

     "I need you to think back and try to remember.  Go over every
fucking thing you can remember.  You haven't been on television, no
interviews.  None of that shit.  But if Elijah watched you long
enough he'd probably see about what Sam and I saw.  Fucking hell!
He could have been right on top of us and we'd never have seen him.
But you might have picked up on it. . . "

     "So you want me to tell you if I remember anyone watching me?
Would that be before or after you started fucking me over with the
Haldol and Thorazine?"

     "I don't care, so long as you can get an answer for me."  He
stood and watched the agent a moment.  He'd been right each time,
was probably right this time, God help them.  He had to have seen
someone, or something.  The alternative just didn't bear thinking
about.  "Sleep on it, Mulder.  And tomorrow, when we go to the
site, you keep an eye out."

     He'd talk to Rodriguez about it in the morning.  Make sure
both he and Meyers knew they had a potential stalking situation on
their hands.  Cooke would be useless until they had to work up
press releases on the whole mess.  Averman ran back through his
own logic, and over what Mulder had said.  Scary still, but now he
could make sense of it.  Now he had a place to start.  Through the
open connecting door he could hear even, exhausted breathing, and
let himself drift into the dark finally, hoping for a calm night.
 
 
 

     Sleep came quickly and inevitably, rolling in waves over him.
Under the surface, in the dark, chimeras and fantasies called, and
a voice beyond them.

     'Our gaze is submarine, our eyes look upward
     And see the light that fractures through the unquiet water.
     We see the light but see not whence it comes.
     O Light Invisible, we glorify Thee!'

     Mulder moaned in his sleep, and rolled.  He pulled a pillow
close, all unconscious, and clung.  In the light he saw his mother
and sister, and the water washed around them.  He shivered, and
looked for his father but could not find him.

     "Hello, Fox.  I knew you remembered it.

     'I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each."

     He wanted not to know the next words.  Sleeping lips shaped a
whisper. . .  "I do not think that they will sing to me."

     And other lips replied, in a voice that was not his. . .

     'We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
     By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown. . . "

     Fox frowned, feeling the sand under his feet.  The sun
glittered in the waves when he looked out.  His sister's brown hair
shone when he turned to look behind him.

     "Woke to my hearing from harbor and neighbor wood
     And the mussel pooled and the heron
     Priested shore
     The morning beckon
     With water praying and call of seagull and rook. . . "

     In the dark, a young man cried for the sea he barely
remembered.  Walked next to a companion on a beach he'd never
known.  A girl with long, gold hair, and a woman who taught him. .
.

     'Love is most nearly itself
     When here and now cease to matter.
     We must be still and still moving
     Into another intensity
     For a further union, a deeper communion
     Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
     The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
     Of the petrel and the porpoise.
     In my end is my beginning.

     The chill breeze off the water called through the grass and
whispered in the voice of the sand but Fox barely felt it against
the heat and the ache of the light in his head.

     Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
     Time held me green and dying
     Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

     And the light hurt his eyes as his own startled gasp caught in
his throat.  And it was quiet.  He lay so still, and could hear
Averman snoring.  Feel the faint trickle of sweat as the fever
broke again.  His head ached when he stood, and the light from the
bathroom door hurt his eyes, but the water felt cool and good in
his hands and soothed him.  His feet left the silence whole again,
as he padded back to his bed.  A good natured sneer as he taped the
IV back to the head of the bed, and curled into warmth and safety
again, in the dark.

     When he finally slipped under again, the sea did not lap at
his dreams, and when human voices woke him, he did not drown.
 
 
 
 

     "Are you sure you feel all right?"

     "Meyers, quit hovering."  Sunlight cut through the windows to
shine off the floor where Adeena Wells' clothes had lain in a
neatly folded pile.  The aluminum and enamel laid grid patterns on
the dark lenses of Mulder's glasses, eerie indoors.  But the light
hurt his eyes, today.  Ached, and echoed, and he kept trying to see
it move.

     Mulder pulled himself out of the tired slouch, and turned to
the specimen drawers.  His hand scratched idly at the bruise and
the bandaids Sam had plastered on when he'd finally pulled the
needle loose.  Mulder wasn't looking forward to being punctured
again.

     The analyst led Meyers around the room, just looking at
first.  Fletcher was there.  The hair that had been gray under
fluorescents was colorless floss caught in the sun behind him.  The
Special Agent squinted from behind his lenses, ignored his younger
colleague, and stared into the drawer where Elijah had cleaned his
dead and laid their souls to rest.  Swallowed and shuddered at the
shifting mass of carpet beetles.  At the sudden sense that the
tiles beneath his feet were not so solid or firm.

     "Thank you."  He was happier when Fletcher had shut the
drawer.  Chrome.  Aluminum.  Enamel.  Smooth and cold and clinical
under his fingertips.  Smells of death and jungle and ether and
solvents.  He shivered and remembered doctors and nurses and the
smell of death and illness.  And salt.  And sand.

     "Agent Mulder, you look like shit."  Meyers' voice was low and
trying to be assertive.  "Dr. Rodriguez is going to kill me if I
let you wear yourself out."  He could see his own reflection,
chewing its lip with worry, then Mulder's blank expression lifted
in a thin smile.  If it reached his eyes, there was no way to tell.

     "All right, mom.  We can go.  You can tell Frito I left before
they had to carry me out."  Shook his head as the kid puffed out a
sigh of relief, and tried to put a hand under his elbow.  "Save it
for old ladies in Florida, Meyers.  You're not my type."  No spring
or lightness to Mulder's step, but he managed the car without
passing out or collapsing.  When he dropped into the passenger
seat, Meyers allowed himself to hope for an uneventful morning
after all.

     "So, did you see anyone, Meyers?"  Spooky had let his head
drop back on the headrest, and Meyers could see his eyes shut under
the glasses.  The scraped bruise was dark on pale skin, from where
he'd fallen the day before.

     Startled scan around the parking lot.  No one really visible,
but with the light that bounced from gleaming metal and glass, he'd
be hard put to tell.  "I. . . "

     "Take a good look.  My head hurts too much, but Averman's
going to want details.  No one sitting in cars?  No one on the
street who's not doing the only sane thing and trying to get out of
the sun?"  The words were steady, but drained.  Spooky heaved a
sigh, and let his head roll to look at Meyers.  Somehow, he knew
the hazel eyes were open now.  Shivered in the heat.

     "I really don't see anyone, Agent Mulder."

     Got an answering snort.  "Don't worry.  I didn't really think
you would."  It was a good idea, but Elijah wasn't there.  He
didn't need to see him.  He never had.

     'To be conscious is not to be in time.'

     'Human kind
     Cannot bear very much reality.'
 
 
 
 
 

     "He said that?  Jesus Christ, we're fucked."  Sam Rodriguez
rubbed his eyes.  Six unbroken hours of sleep had felt like heaven,
but it just wasn't enough.  "And you bought it."

     "I have enough trouble with Mulder yanking my dick, Rodriguez.
I don't need you jumping my case, too."  Averman's voice was mild,
but the set of his jaw was tense and nervous.  "Waiting for Tyler
makes me feel like the ugly girl who wants to go to the prom."  He
sat back and idly dragged a french fry through ketchup.  He knew it
would take time to get through the records back in Ashton and in
Oklahoma City, but Tyler could hit something the first time out, or
the fifth, or the hundredth.  Cooke could sit and wait for the
afternoon, but for now it was Averman's turn.

     "Look, do you expect Tyler to call anytime soon?"

     Averman shook his head.  "Why?"

     "I need to get hold of Taylor, but I want to see Marion when
he comes in. I want to see him before he gets a chance to collect
himself."  The AIC turned the phone to face Rodriguez.  Watched tea
colored fingers punch out a quick code.

     Sam caught the phone next to his ear with his shoulder,
pulling paper and pen close, and waited.  Averman watched him, saw
him wait, tapping the pen in time with the ringing of the phone,
tracing the edge of the pad with an unconscious gesture.  Saw the
muscles flicker across his face as he straightened and drew a
breath.

     "Dr. Taylor, hello."  The automatic, professional smile the
listener can hear was on Sam's face.  "They did?. . . Good.  What
did they. . .

     Averman felt himself hunch forward as the professional smile
became a faint, puzzled frown.  Watched the pathologist jot down a
series of figures, then review them, tapping the point of the pen
at each one.  Rodriguez' frown was slowly etching itself into his
features.  It seemed like he wrote forever, and he had moved onto
the third sheet before he spoke again.

     "You're sure of the leucocytes?. . . and the hematocrit?. . .
The Western Blot? . . . "  A brief sigh of relief lightened his
features.  Then his head came up suddenly.  "They really think so?
No. . . . No, I understand.  It would certainly explain the
heightened anxiety. . . And that's the best choice in the state?"
The doctor's voice had suddenly gone flat and quiet.  "Ostler.  All
right. . . If it comes to that, I'll be sure to ask for him. . .
No, you've done more than . . ."  His smile was faint and
humorless.  "No.  Thank you.  And I'll keep you apprised.. . . Good
bye, Doctor.  Thank you again."

     Rodriguez put the phone back onto the cradle very, very
carefully.  It barely made a whisper of sound.  Averman watched his
impassive face and felt an odd twist of dread, and sympathy, and
relief.  Gave him long, long seconds to stare blankly at his notes
and collect himself.  The young man finally shook himself free,
looked up at Averman.

     "I really hate the fucking taco circuit."  His voice was soft
and disengaged.

     "What did Taylor say?"

     Rodriguez stared at him, hefting the pad and letting it flap
in his hand.  "He says. . . the lab results come up just about
normal.  Pyrogens elevated and every other damn thing they can
think to test for is fucking, goddamned normal!"  Flinched as the
man spun and pitched the note pad into the wall.  It thumped when
it hit the floor, a few loose pages fluttering down after it.
"Taylor's been to path and neuro and all they can come up with is
a fucking tumor affecting the hypothalamus.  God DAMN it!  I hate
the fucking state of Oklahoma and every fucking cow town that ever
grew where some asshole took a shit."

     Averman felt his face flush, but held his tongue and watched
the doctor's back, seeing the tension of the muscles along his back
and his neck.  The tight, unhappy way he stood, muscles clenched
and nothing to kick.  Nothing to hit.  It took what seemed like
forever, but may have only been five minutes.  When Rodriguez
turned back his face was barely flushed.  He dropped onto the bed
and knit his fingers, hiding his chin and mouth behind steepled
knuckles, eyes unfocused.

     "Talk to me, Sam.  What are you thinking?"  The AIC kept his
voice low, used the same tones he'd used to keep Mulder calm and
thinking.

     "I've let Marion corner me.  I should have pushed him harder.
. . I can't force treatment on a competent adult unless there's
imminent harm.  I also can't sit there and let him commit suicide,
but I don't think a judge would find imminent harm here.  Not yet."

     "I know he looks bad, but the fever's been dropping since we
cut the Thorazine.  If you can get his fluids back up to normal. .
. "

     Rodriguez was shaking his head.  "No.  This was sudden onset
and the progression's been fast.  If it's a tumor, like Taylor
thinks, we've got to start testing and locate it fast."

     "What about Elijah?"  The old marine sat forward, elbows on
knees, staring intently.

     "He told you Elijah was stalking him now.  Classic paranoid
delusions.  He's been suffering anxiety and fear responses since
the onset of the fever. . . "

     "Which is abating."

     "So what, Averman?  So what!  He was going through a lot of
the fear responses even before the fever. And the vomiting?  And
that show under the tent?  He's been getting sicker and sicker
since we flew in here, and I let him back me off!  Fuck it."  Sam's
voice was a low snarl.  Angry and dangerous.

     "And he's been right every time."  Calm, steady response.

     "So he's a genius, Averman.  Two-hundred IQ, or whatever the
hell it is.  Geniuses get sick too, and they get irrational and
they die and I'm damned if I will just allow it to happen."

     "Round and round, Sam.  Same old question.  What are you going
to do?"

     The pathologist ground the heels of his hands into his eyes,
pushed his fingers back through his black hair.  When he finally
spoke, his voice was soft and determined.  "I'm going to give him
a choice.  He's got twenty-four hours.  He thinks Elijah's that
close, and he could be right, so he's got another day.  Then he
lets me ship him home and straight to Hopkins or GW, and a full
round of testing.  If he says no, I'll call in Guiterriez and we
see about legally forcing him."

     "Shit, Sam.  That's coercion."

     "He knows it.  He's known that was the choice since this
started.  Averman, he's got the psych degree, he's been playing
this off on us since day one.  I cannot sit there and let him yank
us around until it's too late to help him."

     "Are you so sure you can get him declared incompetent?  It
looks spooky as hell, but he's been able to give solid reasoning
for every call he's made."

     Sam's eyes were hollow when he looked up.  "After the fact.
But now he's telling you Elijah knows about him, and is after him."

     "If he's been tracking. . . "

     "No.  You suggested that to Mulder.  If you ask him, I'll put
hard cash down that he tells you Elijah divined it in a dream, or
Eliot told him, or shit like that.  He might have had reasons for
most of it.  I believe that, somehow, he must have seen stuff that
triggered in his subconscious.  But this last bit?  No.  No, I
can't see any way he managed that.  Excuse me.  I need to go put a
call in to Guiterriez.  I think we need to prepare, just in case.
Call me when they get in, will you?"

     Averman watched him walk out, into the heat and the sun, and
felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature in the
room.
 
 
 
 
 

     Meyers had shut up and let him rest, thank god.  Mulder was
glad to let the kid look around for Averman's evidence.  The
analyst just dropped his head against the rest and thought about
what he'd seen.

     Flashes of white, and chrome, and. . . the green highway sign
for Oklahoma City?  Ninety-eight miles to Oklahoma City.  God, he'd
be glad to see the last of this state.  Glad to see the tall green
of trees along the Potomac.  Smell salt water off the Chesapeake,
and see the sand and shingle beaches of. . .  No.  He wasn't
remembering the Chesapeake, or the Eastern Shore.  Mulder reached
for the aluminum and chrome and white again, shutting away
beaches where tropical currents cut through the icy, northern water,
and old, whaling towns struggled through the twentieth century.  The
light was a throbbing ache behind his eyes, that burned in his
teeth and his skull.

     Chrome and enamel, scalpels and glass, but the smell of death
and dust and God's own decay.  Thousands on thousands of legs that
skittered across skin, and a hunger that waited for man, and could
only be held at bay.  Never stopped.  Never vanquished.  He
shivered, smelling chemicals and sickness, and his eyes flew open
to see endless miles of open land, smeared here and there with
asphalt and houses.  Oklahoma City, ninety-eight miles.  Green
sign, nothing like the green of the coast, and the trees, and the
grass on the beach or the ocean in the sun.

     Miles of sere, dun grasslands slid past in the heat.
Unconsciously, his eyes scanned, finding the trees nurtured by man,
or clinging along the rare banks of streams.  The radio slid from
one song to another, all alike.

     'Still.  Will heat move
     Only through the mocking-bird
     Heard once?  Still hills
     Wait.  Gates wait.  Purple trees,
     White trees, wait, wait,
     Delay, decay.

     He swallowed in the heat that burned through the windshield
and cut a sharp edge between light and dark.  The cold breeze from
the vents could only press that heat back in tiny currents, and
chill the salt sweat that burned the scrape on his cheek.  The car
slowed, turned.  The tiny, asphalt island shoving back the grass,
but when the motor's growl died the heat still waited for them.

     Meyers pulled the door open, and Mulder flinched from the hot
wall of air that crashed over him.  Opened his own door, and let
his feet fall to asphalt that shone soft, and liquid-black in the
sun.  So few steps to the shade and pale concrete.  He forced
himself upright and leaned against the burning metal of the car,
breathing the air that had waited for them to come out of hiding,
out of a car, or a room.  Meyers was next to him, hand hovering by
his elbow.  Mulder pulled his mouth into a sour grin.

     "I don't need a walker yet, Meyers.  And I usually don't
belly-flop on concrete if I'm not drugged, so go play with
yourself.  Hands off."  The kid grinned back, shrugged.  Looked
around, probably trying to find spies and killers in the few
shadows that could survive out here.  One?  Maybe.  But the sun was
overhead.  Ghosts walked at midnight and noon, when the shadows
wouldn't scare them.  Mulder grinned like a skull and walked the
few steps that could take him to cool, dark shade again.

     Averman was on the phone, acknowledged them with a look, and
went back to repeating the names of women.  Radcliffe, at last.
Finally, things might fall into place and he could stop fighting so
hard.  Sam must have been watching for them.  He was on their heels
as they found the bubble of chilled air that hit the sweat on
Mulder's face and sides.  The hand in the middle of his back was
cool.

     "Let's get you on your back.  You look like you're about to
keel over anyway."

     "Thanks, is that a formal diagnosis?  Or do you just want to
get me into bed?"

     "You been having hot dreams again, Marion?"

     "Thought you preferred blondes, Sam."  He grunted
as he dropped back against the pillows.  Shivered.  The hand around
his wrist felt icy.

     "I don't know if your dreams are hot, but your fever is.  Hold
still. . . "  Mulder looked away, tried to think of an insult or
snipe, and was grateful when Sam saved him the trouble.

     "This will prick a little."  Fucking IV again.

     "I've always said that about you, Frito."  Winced as he got a
new bruise for his collection.  Watched Sam tape the thing in.
"Jesus, it's gonna look like a bondage flick by the time you get done."

     "Wishful thinking.  Though sometimes I would like to gag you."

     "Remind me not to let you near me with handcuffs."  He let his
head fall back, and his eyes slid shut.  He was seeing chrome and
enamel and green of signs, all over again.   Frowned.  Felt the
bed rock as Frito got up, and faintly registered Meyers, getting
the traditional rookie job of running out for lunch.   Wondered,
vaguely, how Cooke was doing with the Enid evidence team.  There
wasn't a lot there for him to either find or fuck up.  Averman set
the phone down.  Mulder heard it click into the cradle.  Felt the
bed jar, and cool fingers looking for the pulse in his wrist.  The
currents of cold air traced past his skin and sounds echoed like
they had halos.  "Thermometer, Francis.  I want to get a
temperature."  Let Frito lodge the thing in the tender spot under
his tongue.  The bed drifted, currents around him, breeze, but the
smell of cold alcohol and death still hung in his nose, and his
eyes flew open, half-expecting to see white sheets and pastel
walls.  Relaxed again, to see the dark polyester and panelling of
the cheap motel.

     The glass, now warm, whipped out of his mouth and Frito cursed
with some truly vile Spanish oaths that made Mulder grin.  Averman
had settled his elbows on his knees and was watching them.

     "Was it worth it, Mulder?  Tell me what you think you saw out
there?"

     He managed a faint snort.  Sam was glaring at both of them,
and there was something in the look Averman gave him that made
Mulder's guts chill.  He cleared his throat and tried to organize
the floating impressions.

     "He's moved from the abandoned church to the modern one."
Read the puzzled expression on their faces.  "Oh come on, it's not
subtle at all.  God is dead?  The new god?"

     "I didn't find any Eliot on the body this morning."  Mulder
grinned at him.

     "I'll bet.  Frito, you didn't find ANYTHING on that body.
That's the damned point.  All the Eliot is in the body itself, and
the setting.  _Murder in the Cathedral_ - 'wash the bone, wash the
brain.'  That's one.  Just like I told you it would be.  I didn't
see the other one until I went out there, but it's there.  He's
foreshadowing, I think.  I'm not sure what, exactly, but he's
giving us another piece of Eliot, just a little."

     "Okay, dazzle us some more."  Sam's dry, quiet voice made
Mulder nervous. His voice was thin and shaky, but the words were
there.

     "Men have left GOD not for other gods, they say, but for no
          god; and this has never happened before
     That men both deny gods and worship gods, professing first
     Reason,
     And then Money, and Power, and what they call Life, or Race,
          or Dialectic.
     The Church disowned. . . '"  He faltered to a stop.  Watched
Sam chew his lower lip, staring back with flat, dark eyes.

     Mulder licked his lips, tried to read the conversation that
wasn't happening and maintain the one that was.  "He started with
the corn gods and fertility sacrifices, images of food and
fertility.  And then Michael and the consecrated Church, abandoned
and gutted. . . and this last one, in a lab.  Church of Science,
but he chose a method that was more primitive than man. . . "  He
trailed again, and shivered.  Pulled the comforter up and around
him against a chill that wasn't at all in the air.

     "Marion, listen.  I talked to Taylor."  Mulder could feel
Averman watching, but he couldn't look away from Sam.  His guts
felt watery and his mouth was desperately dry.  "The lab can't find
anything that indicates an infection, or obvious organic cause for
the fever or the vomiting."

     "It's psychosomatic.  Frito, it's a reaction to. . . to
thinking into Elijah's head. I don't know why, but I know it IS.
I've been studying the way he thinks, and how he lives, what he
believes.  You saw my hands, the fire. . . "

     "And you also told us prophecies, and you told Averman that
Elijah's coming for you.  That he knows about your childhood."  The
gentle, brutal words hung in the air.

     "It's not like that.  You know it's not."

     "Mulder.  Your fever's back up.  Yes, you were just out in the
heat and running around, but you're sick.  You've been getting
sicker and sicker since we came here."  Sam sat next to his feet,
eyes on a level with Mulder's.  He still felt menacing as hell,
with his calm, patient expression.  Mulder choked the urge to
panic, to fight.

     "Sam, he's escalating.  He knows who I am and where I come
from.  Look at the killings.  The kids are getting older, and more
middle class.  He's not picking them at random, he's talking to
us."

     "I know.  This isn't about Elijah."  Mulder could see Sam draw
a deep breath.  "You're really good.  You deflect beautifully.  But
you're sick and getting sicker.  Against my better judgement, I'm
letting you have twenty-four hours more.  Then you go home, and
we put you in a hospital."

     Mulder was shaking his head, feeling what little color he
still had drain from his face.  "We catch Elijah and I'll be fine."

Knew it was wrong, even as he said it.  Knew he'd made a mistake.

     "No.  The only thing we can find to match these symptoms is a
tumor.  You can't play games with that, this has too fast a
progression.  I don't like letting you even have the one day, but
it lets me call ahead and make the arrangements with the airlines
and the hospital.  You want Hopkins or GW?"
 

     "Sam. . . "  Shut his eyes tight, stinging.  "Don't do this."

     "I know people at both.  Don't force me to do this the hard
way, Marion.  You know Guiterriez will back me."

     Mulder looked up, staring at Rodriguez' sad, hard face.
Looked for Averman, and saw no help.  And he couldn't catch his
breath.  The air felt heavy and painful in his lungs, and his head
hurt.  "You aren't listening to me."

     "I am.  I hear a very ill friend, who isn't thinking clearly."

     "Shit!  You aren't listening at all!  I can find Elijah for
you, and. . . "  Bit down on his own lip, held the words.  Nodded
slowly.  "All right.  All right, don't call Guiterriez.  Give me
the twenty-four, and then I'll go back.  You can put me in GW."
Bitter, bitter words.  Sam relaxed and breathed out.  Smiled at
him.  Patted his ankle.  Mulder controlled the flinch, felt his
face freeze.

     Averman had stood, scooped up his notes.  Mulder could see, in
the mirror over the bureau, what the AIC saw.  Pale face, dark
smudges under his eyes, matched by the scraped bruise on his jaw
and cheek.  The patient, sympathetic look galled and made sense.

     "Why don't you get some sleep.  I'll use the phone in here.
You call me if you need anything."  Mulder watched Averman go,
faintly heard him settle at an identical table, identical phone.
Looked back to find Sam watching him.

     "Good work, the stuff about the churches I mean.  It makes
lots of sense."  The tone was light, but the words hurt.  "Marion.
. . "  Mulder felt himself flinch, saw the hurt in Sam's face.
"Christ, I didn't want to do this to you.  We'll talk about it when
you're feeling better."  Sam picked up a blanket and pulled it over
him.

     Long shaky breaths while he just stood there.  Mulder finally
pulled down, into the blankets and shut his eyes, shut them all
out.  Let the heat and fever and exhaustion pull him under until
they all went away.

Continued in part 27..................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 27/41 NC-17
Date: 16 Feb 1996 11:05:05 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 27/41)
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.

_________________

     He could see chrome and white and tile.  Glass and starched,
hard, white cotton.  Beds with rails, and sharp things around him,
light that held him trapped while cool hands probed and voices
asked him questions.  Enamel cabinets with glass, cylinders of
glass with needles, metal rails and tables and hard edges all
around.  But the smells were death and illness.  Sand under his
feet, and fire that ran through his veins.

     '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.'

     "No.  This is not my church, I do not follow this faith."  But
he heard the voice now, loud at his shoulder.

     "You've worshipped here often enough."

     Fox felt the sand shift under his feet, and the water lap
cold, and salt.

     'And death shall have no dominion.
     Under the windings of the sea
     No more may gulls cry at their ears
     Or waves break loud on the seashores. . . '

     Somewhere a girl with gold hair found peace in the sands left
when an inland sea died and an age of the world ceased to be.  Fox
turned to find a different face.

     'Am I not sister, too, who is my saviour?
     Am I not all of you, by the directed sea
     Where bird and shell are babbling in my tower?'

     "The old drunkard knew the sea, too.  But he didn't keep
faith."  A woman stood on the shore, reading to them both.

     'Lady, whose shrine stands on the promontory,
     Pray for all those who are in ships. . .
     And those concerned with every lawful traffic. . .
     Also pray for those who were in ships, and
     Ended their voyage on the sand, in the sea's lips
     Or in the dark throat which will not reject them
     Or wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bell's
     Perpetual angelus.

     He twisted in his sleep, listening for the bell, and heard
only voices from so far away. . .

     "Jesus, he's burning up. . . " - "I'll call an ambulance." -
"No.  It'll take too long.  They can't cope with this here.  Get
Oklahoma City and a chopper. . . "  Cool hand on his forehead,
cutting through the heat and fog, calling him, but another voice
was louder.  Green trees.  Green sea.  Green sign.  Oklahoma City.
. .

     'Let us go then, you and I,
     When the evening is spread out against the sky
     Like a patient etherised upon a table. . . '

     He drifted somewhere, he didn't know where, but when he shut
his eyes he could hear the rain and pretend he was in
Massachusetts.
 
 
 
 
 

     Mulder considered the big-chested, blonde student nurse.  If
he hadn't been leaning over, vomiting his guts out, this might have
been an enviable position.  As it was, even being able to see down
the front of her smock didn't make him feel any better.  He closed
his eyes.  Fuck it hurt.

     He sat miserably as she recorded the fluid he'd sent back into
the ecosystem and wet a washrag.  She'd come in with implements of
torture, and despite the fact that she was indeed a midwestern,
corn-fed coed who probably stripped part-time to pay for college,
he wasn't feeling terribly friendly.  An IV machine with a
Thorazine drip.  There was also a fucking needle and a small
bottle.  He didn't need to guess about that one.  The Valium they'd
given him for the CT scan was only just now wearing off.

     He leaned back against the bed, grateful Frito had put it in
a semi-reclining position before deserting him to go read test
results.  Not the full recline like he wanted, but a decided
improvement on sitting up straight.  His head hurt like hell.  Not
a pounding ache, more a. . .oh what would you call it. . .just a
general ache that reverberated through him and made noise hell.
The CT scan hadn't been bad, even with the Valium in his IV.  But
the spinal tap, letting a doctor puncture him with a hot knitting
needle three or four times, before heading him straight into
exquisite torture.  Mulder could see uses for that procedure in
getting suspects to talk.

      "Okay.  I'm going to put some Valium into your old IV.  It'll
make you feel calmer."  Mulder finally read the blonde's name tag.
Brenda.

     It figured.

     "Not like I have much choice," Mulder replied.

     Brenda glanced at the restraints like they were something
polite people didn't talk about.  She flushed and shot the Valium
into his IV.  Mulder didn't even ask about the chances for getting
the restraints off.  When he'd gotten here, still in a haze and
they'd shoved him in the room, he'd almost cried.  The little
private room was almost refrigerated, and then they'd slapped a
cooling blanket over him.  Taken his sweats and put him in a gown.
He was so fucking cold.  So cold his teeth chattered.

     The Valium hit his arm, already bruised and sore, with a
burning singe that should be familiar by now, but wasn't.  Mulder
closed his eyes against the fresh onslaught of pain.  It was really
too much.  He was freezing cold and strapped to his bed and his
back hurt where they'd poked him and they'd brought in all these
big hulking orderlies like Mulder wouldn't be able to hold himself
still in the fucking position of a fetus and his head hurt and no
one believed in Elijah.  He bit his lip to keep from crying, found
it already raw but didn't really care.  But the Valium was already
robbing his misery of its power, leaving him with a vagueness and
a not caring, that, in its own way was worse.

     Brenda ripped Frito's tape off.  Mulder scarcely felt it as
she changed out needles and IV's and Thorazine began making its
slow way into his bloodstream and into his body and into his
thoughts.
 
 
 
 

     Francis was out when Rodriguez got back.  The CAT scan didn't
show diddly.  The spinal and the blood tests weren't back yet. The
X-rays told everyone else what Sam already knew.  He sat down on
the cheap, vinyl, couch-convert-a-bed, back to the window, and let
himself collapse.  Fox Mulder was sick, maybe dying and the list
of possibilities was being whittled down bit by bit by bit.  Rare
and exotic poison, meningitis, toxoplasmosis encephalitis, Lupus
and Reiter's syndrome. . .It wasn't fair and it wasn't right.

     Marion's mouth hung open in sleep.  Sam grinned sadly,
thinking about old jokes shared between them, and about how like a
little boy this made his friend look.  His hands hung in the
restraints, twisted up as though he had been fighting in his
dreams, but the hand itself was loose, fingers gently splayed like
those of God the Creator in Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel.  The LED
readout on the IV machine made an infinity sign that constantly
moved, indicating that nothing was wrong, that the flow of drugs
was constant and precise.  And that Fox Mulder was stoned out of
his mind.

     "What?  You're Frito the Neato Bandito?"  The stranger had
dropped a file onto Sam's already cluttered desk, mouth riding up
at the corners in a cruel smile.

     Samuel Rodriguez was used to bigots.  You got a tough hide or
you got out of the Bureau.  He eyed the tall man up and down.  "I
sure as hell ain't the Cisco Kid," he replied.

     The brown haired, doe-eyed man had burst out laughing as Sam
opened the file.  Oh.  Fox Mulder's case.  The new kid.  The cocky
son-of-a-bitch everyone was talking about.  The asshole whose dick
was bigger than everyone else's.  He was incredibly bright, scarily
good, and was supposed to be a wonder boy.  Add to that the fact
that his father had worked for the State Department and you got
someone other people were just dying to hate.  So, Rodriguez
guessed, the kid just gave everyone a reason.  Real aristocrat this
one.  Oh yeah.  "Francis Marion," he replied.

     The man blinked.  "Excuse me?"

     "I bet one of your ancestors was Francis Marion, the fairy
Swamp Fox with the faggot feather in his cap."

     Fox Mulder's cruel smile became a delighted grin.  "Fuck you.
My ancestors were Scotch-Irish.  They didn't know when to bathe
and wore absolutely nothing under their kilts."

     "Probably because there was nothing there for anyone to worry
about."

     "You know what they say.  Small hands, small feet.  Big hands,
big feet?"

     "Want a wheelbarrow to carry it around in?"

     "At least I fucking don't have to rub on both sides before she
knows I'm there."
 
 
 
 
 

     "Frito?"  It was a moan.  Sam swallowed.

     "Hi, Francis."  He stood, leaned over the bedrails and wiped
his friend's sweaty brow.

     "I'm so cold.   Please let me have a couple of minutes without
the blanket."

     "I'm sorry, Francis.  I can't.  You know I can't."

     "Please."  It was a beg.  "I'm so cold.  I'll do anything."

     "I know.  But we've got to get the fever down."

     Mulder smiled at this for some reason.  "Glad you kept your
gay loves to yourself," he muttered.  "The nurses keep using the
thermometer as an excuse to view my butt."

     Sam grinned for Mulder's benefit.  "They've got a whole crop
of student nurses here."

     Mulder grinned.  "Young, chesty, blonde. Sounds like a cheap
b-movie."

     "Yeah, and you should see the female ones too."

     This caused a bark of laughter.  "Stop making me laugh, Frito,
you fucking bastard.  It hurts like hell."  Mulder swallowed.  "Has
anyone called my parents?"

     Oh shit.  Oh fucking shit, Sam berated himself.  "No.  I'll.
. ."

     "Don't, please.  I don't. . .please don't.  My records have
Reggie on them.  I don't. . .Mom won't leave the island.  Dad's. .
.he wouldn't know what to. . .don't let them bury me at Arlington.
Make them bury me on the Vineyard.  Sam will look there when she
finds out. . ."  Mulder trailed.

     "You're not going to die.  Stop being self-pitying," Sam said
harshly.  More harshly than he'd intended.  "You're sick.  You're
probably sicker than you've ever been in your entire life, but
you're not going to die."

     Mulder swallowed, forced his eyes open.  "Elijah's coming for
me," he said softly.

     Sam took a deep breath and expelled it.  It was no use trying
for logic.  Mulder's mind was not rational.  Paranoia.

     "You're safe here," Sam said gently.  "Don't worry about
anyone doing anything to you.  You're safe."

     Mulder stared at his friend sadly.  "I'm sorry, Sam."

     Rodriguez stared.  He rarely heard Mulder use his first
name in direct address.  "There's nothing to be sorry over," he
said finally, softly.

     "Yes there is.  You shouldn't. . .this. . .this wasn't. . .it
wasn't fair . . ."  Mulder paused.  He licked his lips.  "Not to
make you come. . .come this far from your world."

     Sam stood a moment, tenuous, knowing he had to make a
decision.  Play it safe and play doctor or walk out on tottery
boards and be a friend.  Jenny would never forgive him for playing
doctor.  "I followed you, and fair or unfair wasn't involved," he
whispered.  "You're my friend."

     Mulder stared at Sam for a long time.  Understanding.  "I'm
sorry," he whispered again, eyes struggling to stay open.

     "Nothing to be sorry about.  Now close your eyes and go back
to sleep," Rodriguez ordered, laying a heavy hand over Mulder's
face.
 
 
 
 

     Averman's foot was light and Mulder did not stir.  Rodriguez
set down the last of his USA Today, on top of his growing stack of
newspapers and stood.  They went out of the icy little room and
stood in the hallway.

     "How is he?"

     Rodriguez shrugged.  "He's on Thorazine.  He's still spiking
a high fever.  He's still vomiting.  Nothing to tell."  He felt
like sliding down the wall and just sitting on the floor.

     Averman leaned against a wall, stared across the hall at
another hospital door.  "Why's it so cold in there?"

     "They're treating symptoms.  Trying to keep his body temp
down.  He's under a cooling blanket as well.  Ice cold water
circulating over him," Frito explained tiredly.  "Anything new?"

     Averman made a face, sighed.  "They're sending us another
analyst in a few days.  No more bodies.  Does Mulder still think
Elijah is coming for him?"

     "Unfortunately yes," Sam replied, rubbing his eyes.

     "I wonder if he isn't right."

     "He's sick.  He's delusory."

     "He was dead on with every murder.  It makes sense," Averman
argued.  "It really does make sense.  We know the mother went to
Radcliffe.  Oh we got their names.  Rosamund Delia Freye.  And
Clarence David Gragg."

     "Rosamund Delia?" Frito replied.  Blinking.  And then the
white boys thought *his* sisters were named funny?  Oh yeah, right.

     Averman nodded.  "We're going through the Massachusetts
records now for a marriage license, info on the kids, got people
interviewing.  I'll have all that by. . ."  he checked his watch,
"6 or 7.  The Massachusetts' Clerk of the Register wasn't
thrilled with us, but we got her to work late for the first time in
her life."  Averman grinned.  "Listen, Meyers is getting us rooms
close to the hospital.  Why don't we get him to come up here and he
can babysit Mulder while you and I go to supper.

     Sam shook his head.  God he was tired, but there was a couch
in there, after all.  "I need to be here, if the spinal results
come back, or any other symptoms develop. . ."

     "I had a Retriever bitch that was like you.  Every litter of
pups, had to literally drag her away from the whelping bed. . ."

     "What are you insinuating?" Sam asked darkly.

     "Don't make me get the leash."

     "Watch out.  I'll shed my fleas."

     "Yeah, you and every other wetback.  What else is new?"
 
 
 
 
 

     Mulder woke to the back of Haunted Mesa and Louis L'Amour's
photo.   "Hey," he muttered softly.

     Averman put the book down.  "Hey yourself.  How are you
feeling?"

     "Like hell.  But the scenery's nice."

     Averman nodded appreciatively.  "If I were twenty years
younger..."

     "If you were twenty years younger the sheep would still be
scared," Mulder managed.  "They discovered my fetish."

     "What?  Bondage?  Hell, that secret's been out.  You gotta
stop screwing the secretarial pool."

     Mulder gave a half-shrug and smiled.  "And here I thought no
one knew."  He shivered.  "Anything new on the case?"

     Averman shook his head.

     Mulder nodded, eyes distant.  "I'm scared.  Elijah's so
close."

     "We're not going to leave you alone.  I promise."

     Mulder stared at Averman.

     "We won't.  Someone will stay with you."
 
 
 
 
 

     He'd bought the Cherokee Wagoneer new.  A limited.  Four wheel
drive, six cylinder, leather interior, keyless entry, black with
wood panels.  Automatic everything.  Heavily tinted windows.
Childproof locks.

     The children had loved it.  Especially with the back seat
folded down, so they had room to play, to stretch out, to nap.
Elijah yawned, considered the building of the Hilton, the teddy
bear that had been Michael's.  Everytime he closed his eyes he
remembered.  He hadn't meant to hurt Fox or Michael.  He'd thought.
. .he'd thought Michael was in a coma.  He'd thought Michael was
almost dead.  But Fox had been so frightened and Michael hadn't
died until the fire ate at him.  Elijah didn't remember Fox being
frightened of fire.  But Elijah had been young and simple then.  He
had known that Fox was in and out of the hospital far too often,
that he always got the room across from the nurse's desk, that Fox
was clumsy.  But he hadn't understood.  No one had violated Elijah
yet.

     Elijah was unsure of his next step.  He would pray tonight,
pray and hope for inspiration.  He planned to go visit Fox in the
hospital tomorrow morning.  He didn't want Fox to be in such
misery.  Fox had trusted God.  When Fox died, when Elijah died,
they would be in God's warm arms and it would be all right.  And
people would know, because Fox had told them, that children were
hurt.  And so those people, they would be able to see that Fox had
been hurt too.  And that just because a hurt child grows up, it
doesn't mean that they outgrow being hurt.  But it would be okay.
Because Fox and Elijah would be safe in the arms of Jesus.  And no
one would ever break Fox's leg again and no one would ever slide
his penis up Elijah's butt and breathe hot on his neck, fingers
digging into soft skin.

     Elijah closed his eyes and grabbed Michael's bear into his
arms.  It was an expensive, soft bear.  Michael had chosen it.
Elijah decided to leave it here.  He closed his face off, the way
he had been taught, and got out of the Jeep, headed into the Hilton
with his overnight bag.
 
 

     The wounded surgeon plies his art
     Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

     The great physician now is near
     The sympathizing Jesus.

     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.

     And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

     Those are pearls which are his eyes.
     I am not permitted to see.

     His screams were wordless and sounded at the top of Mulder's
register.  They echoed down the corridors and brought the night
staff running, armed with more Valium, prepared to reprogram the
bastardized calculator that measured and controlled the amount of
Thorazine entering Mulder's bloodstream.  Mulder was pulling
against the restraints, his eyes wide and scarily dilated.
Screaming and screaming and if he didn't shut up Meyers would
fucking go insane.

     The figures clustered around his bed made matters worse,
terrified him.

     He was screaming something now,  screaming words.
"LEGGO!LEGGO!!LEGGOLEGGOLEGGOLEGGOLEGGOLEGGOLEGGO!!!!!"
Pulling and tugging at the restraints with everything in him, every
vein in his arms standing out.  The intern, Kit Sanderson, who was,
Meyers had discovered after the first nightmare, Meyers' age, filled a
needle with Valium.  A lot of Valium, and pressed it into the IV.

     Mulder was crying now.  Oh God, Meyers hated watching this
process, having seen it once before, knowing that it made his anus
pucker and his scrotum draw up and his stomach churn and he just
wanted to sit on the couch with his knees to his chin and clench
his eyes shut until it was all over and Mulder was asleep again.

     Please make it better, please make it better, make it stop,
Meyers demanded silently of the walls.

     Sanderson watched as the Valium ran into Mulder's body as
Mulder's loudness abated.  Mulder had tears running down the sides
of his face and he was still scared.  He was sobbing now, angry
sobs, he was fighting the Valium with all of his strength.  Turning
his head back and forth and trying to find some direction to look
that didn't involve staring at the staff.

     Kit got rid of the rest of the nursing staff, everyone.  That
just left Kit and Meyers and Mulder, just like before.

     Meyers felt so damned helpless, standing now, since all the
people were gone, standing on the other side of Mulder's bed.  Kit
had told him what to do last time, but this time he could handle it
on his own.

     Meyers grabbed the box of Kleenex on his own, a whole wad.
"Come on," he told the older man.

     Mulder stared at him.  "Come on.  Your nose has got to be full
of snot."

     Mulder blew his nose, like a little kid.  Meyers could see the
Valium working, loosening him, making it hard for him to
concentrate.  The sobs were dying a quick death.

     "You're okay."  Meyers felt stupid.  This was Spooky Mulder.
Despite all that he had seen, all that had happened, this, this was
the worst.  It was a violation.

     They had known that he was going around the bend, they had
known that, but Mulder was still an agent.  Mulder was still one of
the best, even if he was half crazy.  Even when he'd sobbed in Jack
Averman's arms, you still had to respect the man.  But this.
Mulder was tied to his bed, covered in something out of a bad Buck
Rogers episode.  It was so fucking cold in here that Meyers had yet
to take off his suit jacket, and then when Mulder had a nightmare
they didn't give him time to calm down, they just drugged the hell
out of him and upped the Thorazine.

     Meyers didn't know what other choices they had.  But. . .he
stared at Kit.  The guy was really nice, and pretty good or he
wouldn't be here, but still.  Mulder was just a nutso patient to
him.  Reset the IV machine so that he was sent into deep la-la
land, out there where the elves lived.  This Kit Sanderson didn't
know that Mulder was the swingingest dick in VICAP.  Didn't know
that Mulder was responsible for capturing killers on worthless
clues.  Didn't know that the man he was so blithely sedating had a
fucking genius IQ and eidetic memory and a PhD from fucking
Oxford. That his father had beaten the crap out of him and that his
sister had been kidnapped while he watched helplessly.  This man
knew none of that.  He saw a loopy patient screaming.

     Meyers stifled his anger and went back to calming Mulder with
words that meant nothing and went nowhere, words that merely
served to let Mulder know that Meyers was there and would not
leave. Words that helped Mulder fall back into that pit of nightmares
called sleep.
 
 
 
 
 

     Meyers sat with Sam over plates of cafeteria food.  He was so
fucking tired.  Every pore of his body ached.  He slumped over the
orange plastic tray with his OJ and cereal and toast and little
packets of apple butter, five cents a fucking piece.  <Five cents
for little packets of apple butter?  The hospital had you by the
balls and they knew it.>  He was weary.  So weary.  The Thorazine.
Mulder was on so much Thorazine he could have impersonated a
deadhead.  And early this morning, before breakfast for some
ungodly reason no one could explain, yet another intern and some
nurses and a lab tech had come in and wanted bone marrow.  They'd
pulled out a needle the size of something from a Marx Brother's
comedy and held Mulder down.  Mulder had been so far gone, he
hadn't really understood what was going on.  He'd only known that
it hurt and that they were poking him again.  And Meyers had had to
crouch at eye-level and lie and say that everything was okay.  That
it would be okay.  It would be all right.  Everything would be
fine.  And Mulder couldn't even wipe his own tears or blow the snot
from his nose.  Meyers poked at his fruit loops and tried to
swallow.

     Well, at least when he'd left, Mulder had been okay.  He'd
gone back to sleep, and woken up when the meal cart made its
incredibly loud groaning stop.   Rodriguez and Meyers had left him
with a student nurse and some Gatorade and jello.  Good luck.
Mulder might be stoned, but he wasn't the least bit complacent.

     Averman came in, looking clean.  "We've got the team in from
Ashton," he said sitting down.  "How's Mulder?"

     Rodriguez shrugged.  "Drooling.  He did his psychotic
impression last night, according to Meyers."

     Averman took a deep breath.

     "You weren't hoping to use him?" Rodriguez asked.

     "We have the names."  Averman wiped his face.  "Let me get
some coffee."

     He returned a few moments later with a pint sized cup and some
packets of Sweet-n-Low.

     Averman took a deep breath.  "The Graggs had five children.
Just like Mulder said."  He pulled a notebook out of his inside
breast pocket.  "Maria Ariel Gragg.  Jonathan Elijah Gragg.  Anna
Sarah Gragg, Ezekiel Zebodee Gragg and Timothy Mark Gragg.
Their father was a minister at the Episcopal church at West Tisbury
between the years of 1957 and 1965."

     "West Tisbury's on the Vineyard."  Rodriguez felt a cold chill
go down his back.

     Averman nodded slowly.

     "Oh my God.  Oh my God."  The cold chill tinged with the blue
of electric fire.  Rodriguez' spit went dry and his mouth filled
with a metal tang.  He felt his hands and face grow cold as blood
seeped out of them.

     Meyers said the words for them.  "He knew Elijah."

     "We don't know that," Averman replied.  "But it wouldn't
surprise me any."

     "Elijah. . .Fox. . .they. .. it wasn't guessing or telepathy.
Mulder knew him. They probably played each other in Pee-Wee
league.
Where did Mulder's family go to church?"

     "I don't know.  I don't know any thing like that. . ."
Averman sighed. "You've got to convince them to let him out of the
fog of Thorazine.  If Mulder and Elijah were friends. . ."

     "Oh my God,"  Rodriguez repeated.
 
 
 
 

     "Testing?"  Rodriguez blinked. "There wasn't supposed to be
anymore testing."

     The duty nurse sighed and pulled down Agent Mulder's chart
from the large revolving rack.  "He had the papers for thyroid
function tests. . ."  She flipped through the charts.  "Okay.  Dr.
Chang ordered them for this morning."

     "And then we cancelled them," Rodriguez replied, indignant.

     "Look.  You're not on staff.  If you have a problem, speak
with Dr. Chang."

     "Where *is* Dr. Chang?" Rodriguez asked, not for the first
time wanting to do violence to an RN.

     "On rounds, I assume."

     "Where would Mulder be if he was going for these tests?"
Averman asked, not so concerned with the fact that Mulder was
being tested as he was with the fact that they didn't know where
Mulder *was*.

     "Third floor," the woman said, not volunteering anymore.

     "I would like an orderly to show me where, exactly," Averman
said patiently.

     "They're all busy."

     "Then unbusy someone.  I don't care who you unbusy.  But do
it.  Or I'll charge you with obstruction of Justice."  Hell, he
couldn't do that just because this old biddy with the Loving Care
dark brown hair and the ovoid reading glasses with the chain
holding them to her neck was being a pain in the butt, but she
probably didn't know that.

     The woman pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes and stared at
Averman, unintimidated.

     "I'm going right by there," a pleasant female voice said.
"I'll take them, Grace."  The speaker was a woman about the size of
Averman's right thigh, who wore a lab coat with her name
embroidered on it.  AnnaLou Eichlemann, MD

     "Meyers," Averman barked.  "You up to it, or you want to
catch a shower and a shave."

     Meyers snorted.  "You married?" he asked the chipper little
thing.

     "No," she replied confused.

     "Maybe I'll get lucky."

     "In your dreams Jewboy," Frito shot out.

     "Don't you know that's why Hitler tried to exterminate the
race?" Meyers replied, surprised at himself.  "Nobody else could
get a date with us around."

     AnnaLou Eichlemann was grinning from ear to ear at this
exchange.

     "You're Jewish?" she asked as she led Meyers to the
elevators.

     "With a name like Meyers?  You gotta be kidding. You
observant?"

     "Only when my mother's around.  She nearly went into mourning
when I got engaged to a Baptist boy from Tulsa."

     Meyers snorted.  "Mine wouldn't care what religion as long as
she didn't keep a rosary on the bedstead or sacrifice chickens in
the living room."

     AnnaLou burst out laughing.

     "Okay.  Who're you looking for?"  AnnaLou asked, going behind
the counter, moving around clerical types.

     "Fox Mulder."

     AnnaLou checked long lists.  "Yeah. He was scheduled, but then
it was cancelled.  Last night."  She looked up, confused.

     Meyers swallowed and tried to think clearly.  Just a mix up.
Mulder's probably just sitting against a wall right now, stoned,
waiting for someone to find him.  Like he'd always done at Dillards
when he was in preschool and his mom forgot she'd brought him and
went in search of bargains.

     "Can you call up and get my friends?"

     AnnaLou blinked.  "It's just a mix up."

     "We're FBI agents," Meyers began.

     "Oh well duh," AnnaLou replied.

     "Don't get sarcastic or I won't make your mother happy,"
Meyers whipped out.  Being around Mulder had rubbed off.  No more
skin mags for Meyers.  He was going to get laid now.  "Look. .
.umm we're on the taskforce looking for the Babykiller."

     AnnaLou swallowed and went slightly pale.

     "Mulder thought that the killer was coming for him, but we
thought it was just. . .paranoia. . .now we need to find him,
quickly."

     AnnaLou nodded and picked up the phone.

Continued in part 28................
 
 
 

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 28/41 NC-17
Date: 17 Feb 1996 01:25:53 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 28/41)
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.

____________________

     Elijah glanced back again at Fox, who was still asleep, still
comfortable from the drugs. God had provided.  The wheelchair and
the patient and even made him calm and quiet with drugs.  Elijah
had his old, heartshaped, steel love-cuffs but he'd broken out the
self-release clasps so they were perfectly secure to hold Fox.
When they got to heaven and Fox saw how all the children were safe
in the arms of Jesus, Fox wouldn't be mad.

     He snorted at himself.  Kind of like a cat and a mouse, right?
He finally caught it, now what the hell was he going to do with it?
First things first, he had to get Fox out of that disgusting
hospital gown.  God, those things were embarrassing.  Show your
butt and your dick to half of the free world.  (He'd actually tried
a hospital gown out at an orgy once with a male nurse who was hung
like a horse.  Not too bad, but a good PVC thong bikini was always
going to top it out as Elijah's preferred form of outerware for
such events.)

     Second, he had to expect Fox's unbelieving, blasphemous
friends to come after him.  Massachusetts was too far away.

     Elijah worried his bottom lip as he drove along the freeway,
trying to figure out where to go.  They had to get out of Oklahoma.
Forever.

     Beaches.  Elijah skidded through the lanes of traffic to an
offramp.  He was headed the wrong way.  He needed to be headed
South.
 
 
 
 

     "What do you mean, we've *lost* a patient.  The only patient
I've ever lost had Alzhiemer's.  Wasn't my fault she wheeled
herself into pediatrics," Grace Halverson heaved.  "Fox Mulder is
not lost."  She stared at the short little chink doctor.  He might
be world renowned and all that, but he was still shorter than she
was.

     "Then where is he?"

     "Someone came and took him."

     "Did you check his orders?"

     "The orders were written up in his chart.  Why would I check
his orders?"

     "Did you know the orderly?"  This from Averman.  They were all
sitting in the nurse's lounge, and Grace now understood what an
inquisition felt like.

     "This is the largest hospital in Oklahoma.  I can't know
*every* orderly."

     Averman put his head back against the wall.  So far nothing.
They had agents on every floor, going over every space, but so far
no Fox Mulder.

     "Do you even know the name on his badge?" Averman asked.

     "Whose badge?"

     Averman counted to ten.  "The orderly's badge?"

     "No.  It wasn't important."

     Because orderlies weren't important.  FUCK.  Jack Averman
stood and picked up his cellular phone, dialed a number.  "I need
an APB on Mulder.  We think he's been kidnapped. . .yeah.  Well, if
he's here he's hiding in the fucking boiler room with a nurse.
Yeah, my regards too. . ."
 
 
 
 
 
 

     Elijah watched as Mulder woke and took in the surroundings.
"Hi," he said gently.  They were at a mall.  Elijah had Mulder's
general size now, he thought.

     Mulder stared blankly, dully.  He knew he'd been kidnapped,
but the drugs were evidently making it hard for him to react.
"It's been a long time, Fox."

     Mulder blinked at him.  "Has it?"

     "Yeah.  About twenty years."

     Zoom.  Right over Fox's head.  Elijah sighed.  "You were sweet
on Ariel.  Don't you remember?  Mary and Foxy sitting in a tree,
k-i-s-s-i-n-g.  First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes
Fox with a baby carriage."

     Mulder closed his eyes.  "Jon?  Jon?"  Open the eyes
again."You moved after your Mom died. . .I remember I was in the
hospital with. . ."  He didn't remember what.  "Jon.  You aren't a
killer."

     Elijah felt a spark of anger and pushed it back down.  "No.
I just do the Lord's work."

     "I don't believe in God."

     Elijah bit his cheek sadly.  Oh.  That explained so much then,
why it had been so hard for Fox to understand.

     "What happened to Sam?"  Sam had been Elijah's age.

     Mulder closed his eyes.  Elijah swallowed.

     "Is she dead, Fox?"

     Mulder swallowed, loudly, painfully.

     Elijah sighed.  "I'm going into the store for some clothes for
you.  Is there anything you want especially?"

     "No Baylor sweatshirts," Mulder moaned.

     Elijah grinned.  "You and me both," he replied happily.  "I'm
going to put a cuff on you, so you won't be able to get out. You're
pretty weak and you might hurt yourself."  He cuffed Mulder's
untaped arm and then hung the cuff around a ring on the bed of the
cherokee.  "I won't be gone long enough for the Cherokee to get
hot."

     "I'm thirsty," Mulder muttered.  "They won't let me have
anything but Gatorade."

     "That shit tastes like piss with honey and lemon."

     Mulder shrugged.  "You shouldn't have killed those kids, Jon,"
he muttered, eyes closing.  "You shouldn't have."

    "I'll get you something," Elijah promised sadly.  He wondered
what had happened to Sam.  What had happened to Fox.  Oh God, we
were all once innocent and happy.  But Fox's dad beat him and then
my dad fucked me.  He didn't want to think about what could have
happened to Sam.  Ariel, Fox's girl was dead.  Elijah felt tear
tracks run down his cheeks and he made his way into the Ardmore
mall as he wept for a time long past in the Massachusetts air,
playing tag on the front of a church lawn.
 
 
 
 

     "Oh yeah, that must have been when they brought that guy in,
around ten-thirty this morning.  The one who went totally fucking
nuts in the post office.  God, took five of us to hold him down,
fucking psychopath. . . "

     Meyers' pleasant smile was slowly becoming a rictus as he
watched the guard's florid face quiver with indignation.  "And he
pushed the guy out into the parking lot?"

     "I figure.  Like I say, that's when they brought that lunatic
in.  I've got better things to do than look after orderlies."  The
man's jowls quivered as he shook his head in disgust.  "Asshole.
Left the wheelchair out there like I'm some kind of fucking grocery
store clerk here to pick up their carts.  What's he think?  I don't
have anything better to do?  Well he's gonna learn to laugh out of
the other side of his face after I get him up on a disciplina. . .
"

     Meyers was patting the air, trying to cut off the tirade.
"This is important, the patient, did he look like this?  He'd have
had a bruise on his face, and he might have been a little thinner.
. . "  Held out Mulder's FBI ID, with its official portrait.  The
guard took it in his calloused hands, studying it.

     "Yeah, I guess that could have been the guy.  'Cept he was
sound asleep and drooling and really skinny.  He did look kind of
like this, but really skinny.  Another wet-brain, huh?"
Snickering, and Meyers gritted his teeth.

     "So, can you describe the orderly?"  From the frown on this
man's face, Meyers wasn't cherishing any great hopes.

     "Uh, young guy.  Real smug little shit.  Smiling like a damned
fool.  Umm.  He had blond hair, and I guess he lifted weights.  Got
the other guy into his car all on his own, didn't he?"

     "You remember the car?"  Sudden quickening of interest.
Meyers felt a surge of hope for the first time since they'd
realized that Mulder really was gone.

     "I already told you I was busy with that shooter."  The guard
eyed Meyers.  "I never saw him leave, but he didn't need any help,
did he?  Nobody else out there.  Anybody else and they should have
remembered to bring the fucking chair back.  That all?  I only got
ten minutes of my break left, and you're wasting my time."

     Meyers stared at him, almost told him what he thought of him
and his break and his fucking wheelchair.  Then spun and walked out
the door.  Down to the exit, retracing the route that Elijah had
used to leave.  Stood staring at the booth by the exit, where the
attendant took tickets and collected money for parking.  Stared
until his eyes widened, and he raced up to the booth, baking in the
Oklahoma summer sun.

     "Listen, do you keep records of the cars that go through
here?"  He glanced at the camera, set to record transactions and
get license numbers.

     "Yeah.  What do you think the camera's for?"  The tired
attendant gave him a tolerant, insolent look, leaned past Meyers to
collect money being waved out a car window.

     "I need to get the tapes."  That stopped the guy.  His eyes
narrowed.  Meyers whipped out his FBI badge and let him get a good,
long look at it.  "Official investigation.  I need those tapes and
I need them now."

     The attendant scanned the badge, swallowed, and reached for
his phone.  "Just let me get my supervisor, Agent Meyers, and we'll
see about getting you your tapes."
 
 
 
 

     Mulder's arm was falling asleep, and he was dizzy from the way
the Cherokee rode when Elijah pulled off the highway and found a
closed-down warehouse simmering along the railroad tracks.

     "Okay, Fox.  Let's get you out of that stupid gown."  He got
out, came around to the back.  Leaned down from the open door to
unlock the cuff from the tether ring on the floor.  Mulder
swallowed, trying to get enough spit to make it worthwhile, but the
thick, cottony feel of his mouth left him dry.  So hard to think.
Jon helped him sit up, and untied the hospital gown, pulled it off.

Shook his head at thin ribs, bruises down Mulder's spine, and on
his hip from the tests.

     "You don't need to worry at all, Fox.  Everything's going to
be all right.  No one's going to hurt you again."

     Except you, ran through his head.  And maybe it wasn't the
Thorazine leaving his mouth so dry this time.  Jon handed him a
pair of boxers.

     "Here, I wasn't sure what you liked, but I figured these would
do."  Mulder pulled them on, and took the blue jeans.  That wasn't
as easy.  The Valium and Thorazine made him dizzy, and he was still
weak as hell from the fever.  The seat back propped him up as he
pulled them up, and Elijah reached over to help him get the loose
jeans tugged up and around his waist.  Smiled at him with that
blinding, innocent grin.

     "Scootch up now, and we'll get these the rest of the way on.
Don't worry, I helped the kids get dressed, and my little brother
too.  I figure you must feel pretty lousy with all the stuff they
did to you."  He helped Mulder pull a Sooners sweatshirt over his
head.  Reached to help button the jeans, when he saw how Fox's
hands shook.  "It's okay, Fox.  Really.  They hurt you a lot, let
me help you here."

     Mulder shook his head, hissed in frustration.  Elijah finally
let him finish the buttons, and grabbed a pair of Keds, started
pulling them over bare feet.  Let Elijah tie the laces in big bows,
double knotted like a kid's, so they wouldn't pull loose.

     "C'mon, you can ride in the front now.  You won't feel so
dizzy if you can sit up and see the horizon."  Mulder scooted to
the door, felt a heavy, muscled arm go around his back.  Winced as
Elijah brushed against the bruises from the spinal tap.

     "I'm sorry, Fox.  I know you're still sore from all those
tests."  Elijah half lifted Fox into the front seat.  Fastened the
seatbelt as the drugged man let his head drop back against the
headrest.  The smudges under his eyes, and the gray and yellow
bruise on his cheek were stark against the pale, cool skin.  Elijah
felt the familiar twist of sorrow.  Shook his head.  "You just kept
on finding people to hurt you, didn't you, Fox?"  Closed the door
and headed around to the driver's seat, never seeing the watchful
gleam under dark lashes.

     Mulder's hazel eyes opened wide as Elijah got back into the
jeep.  "Where are we going, Jon?"

     "Home.  We're going home, at last."  The warmth in that smile
was terrifying.  Elijah reached into a bag and pulled out two
bottles.  "I wasn't sure whether you liked Coke or tea. . . "
Mulder took the tea, twisted off the cap, feeling the cuff rattling
off his wrist and slapping his chest as he lifted his hand to
drink.  Elijah sipped his soda, then offered an apologetic smile
and reached across as Mulder lowered his hand, caught the free cuff
and locked it around the panic bar on the door.  Mulder swallowed,
stared at his trapped wrist and carefully shifted his drink to his
left hand.

     "You really don't need that, Jon.  Where could I go?"

     "I'm sorry about this, Fox.  But you might hurt yourself if
you got out.  It'll be okay, you'll see."  Finished his Coke and
started the engine.  The tape deck came on, a tape of spirituals
and gospel by some a cappella group.  Mulder swallowed and leaned
back in his seat.  The dashboard clock said it was after one, and
the signs said they were on I-20, heading to. . .Tyler?  Tyler
where?  The signs flashed by so fast, and it was hard to
concentrate.  He sat back and tried to think.  By now Frito and
Averman had to have figured out he was gone.

     The land was gradually starting to get greener, and to roll.
Elijah was humming along to the tape.  The tires made such a sweet
hum in his head.  He could hear it when he leaned his head against
the glass of the window.  It was so nice, just to drift with his
eyes shut, and feel no fever, and no cold.  He hadn't felt chills
or fever in hours.  And the dark was waiting.  He slipped under to
the calm hum of tires, and the lilt of a man's voice, singing.
 
 
 

     Averman took a long sip of coffee and rubbed his eyes.  The
map in front of him looked terrifyingly huge, with concentric
circles marked in colored ink, radiating out from ground zero in
Oklahoma City.

     "Dallas.  Joplin.  Amarillo.  FUCK!  That bastard could be in
another state or right under our noses."  His words cut through the
ringing clatter of the big room.  Men and women, lined up in desks
to phone police and the FBI in seven states.  Speed traps and
traffic cruisers were being alerted in a broadening ring of
possibilities.  Guards at airports, train stations, bus stations
for Christ's sake, all being put on the alert on the off chance
that Elijah would show up there.

     Calls were flooding in from police and citizens who thought
they might have seen a man meeting the scanty description they
could offer for Elijah, might have seen Mulder.  A good-looking
blond man and a skinny, ill, dark-haired man, possibly drugged.
God, how many hundreds of people could match those descriptions.
They'd had dozens of calls already, and none of them had panned
out.

     Behind him, a woman looked up from the list of license plates
and names.  Close scrutiny of the parking lot tape had given them
thirty-two license plate numbers for people who had exited during
the time between when Mulder had been taken from his room, and
when the guard had wheeled the empty chair back into the hospital.
Thirty-two numbers with names to track down.  Thirty two people,
most of whom were at work.  Phone messages left on machines,
urgently requesting a return call to the FBI.  It would be hours
before they heard from some of them.

     License numbers.  A process of elimination to find the license
plate number to add to the APB.  And just hope Elijah was too busy
or too dumb to change his plates.  And names.  Names that looked
nothing like Jonathan Elijah Gragg.  But Mulder had said it had
been a long time since he'd used his own name. . .

     Calloused fingers were rough on tired eyelids.  Averman had to
work to focus his eyes enough to see across the room.  Tyler and
Hitchens were over there, briefing four fresh people just coming
on-shift.  A hand dropped onto the AIC's shoulder.

     "Christ, Jack.  You look like you're about to keel over."
Charlie Watkins, the Oklahoma City ASAC, was watching him with
worried eyes.  "You're not doing your man any good like this.  Go
get some sleep.  You already sent Meyers and Rodriguez off, take
your own advice."
 

     Averman shot him the finger and shook his head.  "Hell no.
Your guys don't know Elijah and they don't know Mulder.  I
promised the kid I wouldn't leave him alone.  No way in hell do I
walk out of here until we pick up a trail."

     "We'll find him.  We will."  Familiar voice.  Cooke, calling
neighbors and trying to track down workplaces so they could whittle
down their choices, sounded so confident.  Averman wanted to throw
his coffee at him.

     "We'll find him, all right.  Yeah, we'll find him.  Get back
on that list, Cooke."  The AIC picked up the phone at his own desk,
stared at a pile of pink notes a moment.  These were the few that
were close enough that one of them might be Elijah and Mulder.  So
far, they'd all been near misses, but sooner or later they had to
surface.

       Hoped, briefly, that Rodriguez and Meyers were sound asleep.
They were going to need fresh minds when the search continued into
the night.  The locals were enthusiastic, but just not up to this
kind of operation without a lot of guidance.

     And they needed an analyst, God knows they needed an analyst
now more than ever.  He'd called DC, asked them to get their
analyst on the line.  Allen Brackman was still tied up with a case
in California, but he'd call as soon as he picked up his messages.
Averman cursed, and dialed the FBI in Arkansas.  And every fucking
minute, Elijah got harder and harder to find.
 
 
 
 

     He was hungry.  For the first time in so many days, Mulder was
hungry, and he could hear his stomach growling.  The sound, and the
empty discomfort, had woken him out of a long, drifting sleep to
find the land greener and hillier than ever.  It was so loud Mulder
had blushed, and Elijah had started to laugh.

     "I guess we'll have an early dinner, Fox.  If I'd known you
were starving I'd have stopped to get lunch."

     "I didn't know I was starving."  He sat up and worked his
shoulders, winced at the pain in his right wrist as he tried to
lift his hand.  Remembered who he was with, even if he wasn't at
all sure of where he was.  "Where are we?"

     "Almost to Rusk.  There's the best Dairy Queen God ever put on
the face of the land there.  I'll stop and get us something."
Mulder stared at him.  Blond hair.  Broad shoulders, and a square
chin.  He'd been right.  Elijah had looks, just like his sister.
Blue eyes met his.  Kind, warm, flat, mad blue eyes.  "Are you
okay?  Do you need to use the rest stop?"

     Mulder shook himself, realized suddenly that Elijah had asked
the question twice.  "Uh, yeah."  Swallowed and suddenly tried to
force his mind to work.  "Yeah, I'll need to take a piss whenever
we can pull over."  Bit the inside of his cheek and looked back out
the window.  The sun was hard and still high in the west, and
Mulder felt a shiver in his bowels.  The clock said it was after
four.  Jesus, six hours unconscious.  Rusk.  Where the fuck was
Rusk?

     Overhead highway signs told them how to get to places in
Louisiana and Texas.  Okay, he took a moment to focus his eyes.
The cars around them had more Texas plates than Louisiana plates.
And there were more signs for places he recognized as being in
Texas then Louisiana.  For all the good it did him.  It looked very
much to Mulder like he was headed for Rusk, Texas.
 
 
 

     He was back in his residency, and it was summer.  The kid in
front of him was thrashing, screaming with that horrible, thin
sound that a man made in agony.  Sam knew his face had to be
twisted up, but he didn't look.

     He couldn't.

     He was too busy trying to keep the kid's guts inside his body,
trying to keep pressure on the horrible, gaping wound that split
the young man from his pubes to his sternum, and sent yellow fat
and intestines spilling out of his abdomen.  The smell of blood and
faeces and shocky sweat was a thick, choking cloud around Sam, and
the screaming was coming intermittently now, a buzzing, vibrating,
hollow sound.  Sam looked up to find Fox Mulder's face, twisted in
screams, even as his mind finally understood that what he was
hearing was the ringing of a phone.

     He knocked the receiver off the hook the first time, hand
shaking.  It was almost a surprise to see that there was no blood
on the phone, on his hand.  The two Valium he'd taken left him
feeling leaden, made it hard to think.

     "Hello?"

     "Sam?  Oh my god, Sam.  Where the hell have you been, Sam?  I
called the Tulsa office and they gave me Jack Averman's cellular
and. . . "

     "Jenni?"  He could still smell blood in his nostrils.
Shivered in the air conditioning and stared around him at a hotel
room he didn't remember having walked into.  One with no
connecting
door.

     "You haven't called in days.  I got that message on the
machine, but I couldn't reach you.  They said you were in Enid, and
then I couldn't find you at any of the hotels there. . . "

     "Oh God."  He rolled on his back and rubbed his eyes.
"I'm back in Oklahoma City, Jenni.  I'm sorry, I. . . "  Bit his
lip as he thought of those words.  "I'm. . . I'm sorry.  Mulder is
gone."

     Dead silence.  It lasted a long, long time.  "Fox?  Sam. . .
?  You said he was sick, but. . . "

     "Jenni," he rolled over onto his belly, "he's gone and I don't
know where he is.  Honey, he was so sick.  His fever just kept
going up and up and. . . he said Elijah was coming for him, but we
thought it was just the fever."  His voice choked deep in his
chest.

     "Sam."  Her voice was low and patient, pulling words from him.
"Oh baby, oh I'm so sorry.  Oh god, Sam.  How could he be that
sick?"  He could hear the catch in her voice.  "When did it happen?
Oh god. . . When are you coming home?  When are you. . . when are
you bringing him home?"

     Sam swallowed.  Looked at the glass of water by his bed and
got a sip, trying to make his mind work.  "Bringing. . .?  Oh
Jenni, no.  I. . . Jenni, the killer took him.  He's been missing
since this morning, and we think he was right.  The killer walked
in and just. . . walked out with him.  The stupid guard damned near
watched the fucker wheel Fox right out of the hospital and never
thought twice about it, and now we don't know where he is."  Anger
was burning through the drug now, burning through his aching grief.

     "Wheeled?  Sam?  Are you telling me The Babykiller kidnapped
Fox?"  Her voice had dropped to a horrified whisper.

     "Yes.  That's exactly what I'm telling you.  He's been missing
since about ten-thirty this morning."  A glance at the clock on his
nightstand.  Big, glowing numbers told him it was about four in the
afternoon.  "He's been gone more than six hours.  Oh God, Jenni.
He could be anywhere.  That bastard has him all alone and he's so
sick and. . . Oh god."  Bit his lip until it hurt, and just lay
there, aching.

     "Oh my god, Sam.  Oh my god."
 
 
 

     Averman's eyes hurt and his head hurt.  He didn't know how
long he'd sat there with his head in his hands.  They were getting
calls back now, as people came home and found their messages.  Buzz
of all those voices on the phone, low and steady, eliminating one
rumor after another, one name after another.
 

     The phone in front of him rang, and he knocked over his cold
coffee as he lunged for it.

     "Hello?"

     "Hello, Agent Averman?  This is Carol Loftus.  Dr. Brackman
couldn't call, but I'm another of the analysts.  DC asked me to
call you."

     "Dr. Loftus, thank you for calling."  He wiped his face,
pinched the phone between shoulder and ear, pulling a pad and a
pen
in front of him.

     "I understand you have a problem on your hands.  Has your. .
. Elijah is it?  Has Elijah got another child?"  Her voice was
clinical, steady.

     "Thank you for calling back.  I know you've got to be busy."
Lord, the rush of relief and exhaustion was making him stupid.
"And yes, we have a real problem on our hands.  You know our
analyst, Fox Mulder?"

     "Mhm.  I know him."  Averman had to shake his head and grin at
her tone.  Recalled the swinging dick-asshole he'd met at the
airport and totally understood her reaction.  "I heard Mulder was
feeling pretty ill.  I take it he's out of commission for a while?"

     "Dr. Loftus, we've got a real bitch of a complication on our
hands.  I'm not sure just how to explain this but. . . Mulder's
been abducted by Elijah; he's been missing over six hours now; and
we desperately need any help you can give us to figure out where
Elijah will take him, and exactly what we might be dealing with if.
. . when we find them."

     He could hear her breath puff out in shock.  When she spoke
again her voice was flat, stunned.  "Umm.  They faxed me a file
with Mulder's assessments and. . . Let me see."

     He waited, tracing designs on his pad of paper.  Heard her
whispering to herself as she reviewed the file.  Then the sound
stopped.  He could actually hear her gulp over the phone.  "Are you
sure this man has Mulder?"

     "We're almost certain.  There really is no other explanation
we can find for his disappearance."

     "All right.  Mulder did an amazing job.  Very detailed.  I'd
say it's obvious that your man will head for the coast.  It's what
coast. . . Umm.  He might head for Massachusetts.  He'll want to.
It's a long way but. . . "

     "Yeah.  We've got APBs out all along that route, and in all
the states surrounding Oklahoma."

     "Oh god.  Yeah, he could be anywhere.  Umm.  Look, all I can
see here to work with right off the bat is that fixation with the
coastal landscape.  I'll need time to look this over and try to get
some theories.  The Eliot stuff may tell us a little, and it looks
like Mulder was starting to quote Dylan Thomas, too at the end.  I
mean, if what you people wrote down is what he was saying.  If he's
that close. . . Jesus.  I could develop more if I were there and
working with this man and his pattern, not just from a file, but
you don't have time. . . "

     "No.  We don't.  Mulder doesn't."

Continued in part 29.......................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 29/41 NC-17
Date: 19 Feb 1996 05:06:35 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 29/41)
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.

Sorry this is posting a bit late.  A weekend away, etc. etc.  But that's
okay.  After all, we're not in a very exciting part. . . . And I don't get
much email, so I guess not that many of you are reading it. : ) : ) : )

__________________

     The parking lot of the Dairy Queen wasn't totally full, but it
was a long way from being empty, too.  Families with their minivans
and station wagons, trucks, couples on dates.

     "What is this, the only four-star Dairy Queen in the world?"
Mulder couldn't believe the crowd.

     Elijah laughed, a long, clear sound.  "Pretty much.  The
country basket here is a wonderful thing, and they've got Heath bar
topping for the Blizzards.  You said you needed to use the
bathroom?  They've got one here."  He leaned over and unlocked the
cuff from Mulder's wrist.

     Mulder's knees buckled when he dropped out of the jeep.
Elijah had come around to the passenger side, and almost had to
catch him.

     "Sorry, still a little shaky on my feet."  He knew his eyes
were still glassy.  Shivered in the heat.

     "That's okay.  Really.  I don't mind at all."  Elijah stayed
close, reached out to steady him once or twice.  They walked across
the parking lot at Mulder's pace, slow and steady.  The agent
glanced around, taking in the cars, and the phone stand on the
tongue of land between the restaurant and the gas station next
door.  Elijah held the door for Mulder, pointed to the sign for the
men's room, at the back of the restaurant.

     He'd never thought about the fact that taking a piss felt
good, but it was so nice not to have a nurse with that damned
bottle trying to "milk" him.  He turned and rinsed his face in the
mirror, shaky but enjoying the feel of air on skin that didn't hurt
with fever, and a head that didn't ache.  No Eliot in mind, no
fever.  Elijah could talk to him now, and he didn't need the
visions to understand what was going to happen to him.

     When he looked in the mirror he winced at the dark bruise on
his face, the hollows under eyes and cheekbones.  He had a feeling
he knew what Elijah was seeing, then shuddered at what Elijah
would do about it.

     No one looked at him when he stepped out of the men's room.
Normal enough.  He hesitated.  Elijah'd still be in line.  There
was no exit door back here.  Mulder looked out the plate glass at
all that space, so far away.  And saw black.  Black and white to be
exact.  Swallowed, and recognized the sudden pounding of hope in
his chest.  There.  Two cops, with their dinner, sitting at a
table.  Oh, god, he might get out of this yet.

     "Excuse me."

     Both of them looked up at him.  He took a deep breath, looked
up to be sure Jon couldn't see him, back at the two cops.  "My name
is Fox Mulder, I need your help.  I'm. . . "  One was looking away,
clearly annoyed.  The other had an amused expression on his face
that choked the words in Mulder's throat.  He saw the eyes flicker
to his wrist.  To a hospital bracelet that wasn't coming off
without a knife.  And realized that Elijah might not be the only
one who saw only what he expected.

     "Look, buddy.  I'm real glad you got a day pass, but I know
you've got someone looking out for you, and they're gonna be
worried about you if you don't go on out and meet them.  I bet
they're looking for you now."  Soothing, patronizing voice.

     "You don't understand.  Christ.  Look, I'm with the FBI."  The
annoyed one was laughing now.  His friend must have been chewing
on the inside of his cheek.  Mulder felt his guts twist, and
understood exactly what they saw.

     "Listen, kid, you need to start behaving or they won't let
you out again.  We won't call State this time, but don't let us
find you picking on anyone else."  They both went back to
cheeseburgers and fries and shakes.

     Shakes was just about what Mulder had.  A numb, scared feeling
in the pit of his stomach as he walked away from them.  Elijah was
still in line, and waved when Mulder walked by, smiled when he
headed back for the Wagoneer.  Of course he smiled.  He must have
figured this out miles back.  Not worried at all.  Mulder wanted to
vomit, and didn't for once.  Just walked to the jeep, turned to see
the pretty girl at the counter flirting with a handsome customer.
It would take a few minutes.  He had that much.

     God, staring at the phone and wracking his brains.  He walked
over, let his fingers drift over the buttons.  Closed his eyes and
remembered a phone in a room, and he had the number.  Fingers
racing through the number he could see on his card, see on the
keypad.  He hesitated.  Not much time.  He could hear the pulse in
his ears, feel sweat on his sides.  His balls were light against
his body and he had to hold onto the phone to stay upright.  He
didn't bother to look behind him.  Knowing couldn't help one way
or the other.

     He finally chose Averman's cellphone number.  If the AIC
wasn't near a tower he'd have wasted his time, but if he called the
Tulsa office number he remembered, he'd waste more while they
tossed him around.
 
 
 
 

     "They've pulled over a shitload of guys but none of 'em's a
match for any of our licenses.  We got names and descriptions just
in case, but so far they're all clean.  No sign of Mulder at all."

     Sam's face was tight as he stared at Averman.  "What if he's
in the trunk of the damned car?  Are they checking?"

     "You know they can't without cause.  I asked Dr. Loftus, and
she figures Elijah won't do anything that would be uncomfortable
for Mulder. It makes sense."

     "Makes sense, hell.  Nothing about this makes sense.  Marion's
sick, Averman.  Running a fever.  If he doesn't get treatment he.
. . "

     The phone was ringing again.  Averman's cellular this time.
Sam shut up and watched the older man pull the antenna out, hit a
button and hold the thing to his ear.  And watched his eyes go wide
and startled.

     "Mulder?  Where the hell are you?"  Barely finished the words
and Sam found himself yanking the phone out of Averman's hands.

     Marion's voice.  God almighty, it really was him, panicky and
fast.  "I'm at this Dairy Queen just outside of Rusk in Texas and
Elijah's got me and nobody believes who I am and. . . "

     "Francis?  Oh my god. . . Rusk?  Where is he taking you?  Does
he know you're sick?  Are. . . "

     "I don't have time for this, Frito!  He just keeps saying he's
gonna take me home to Jesus!  Get the fuck out here!  I am in shit
over my head and. . . "

     The clicking tone of the disconnect was the loudest sound in
the room.  Averman reached took the phone out of his hand,
listened, shut it.  Sam could feel Tyler and Meyers staring at him.

     "Well.  Now we've got a place to start."  Jack Averman looked
past Sam.  "Tyler, you and Meyers get on the phone to Ma Bell.
Tell them to get their fucking computers in gear and get us the
point of origin.  Sam, c'mere.  He told you where he was, didn't
he?"  Averman picked up a pin, spread his fingers across the map.
"Give me a starting place, Sam.  Let's see if we can pin this
bastard down."
 
 
 
 

     Mulder let his head fall back against the box of the phone,
shut his eyes to block out Elijah's face.  Waited and prayed the
cops were watching, that someone could get out here before it was
too late.

     "You called your friends, Fox?"  The cheerful, patient voice
snapped his eyes wide open.  Elijah wasn't frowning, was smiling.
"I hope they're not worried any more.  You did tell them I'm taking
good care of you?  Let's get you back in the car."  Set the food on
the hood and helped lift Mulder back into his seat.

     When he'd got into his own side, and locked the cuff around
Mulder's wrist again, he smiled and handed over the food. "I'm
sorry, Fox. You must be feeling pretty silly.  I really should have
warned you.  I figured you might talk to someone, but the state
mental hospital is just up the road.  It's only natural those two
cops thought you were out on a day pass.  I wish you could have
seen your face when you walked out."  Mulder watched him shake
his head.  Shut his eyes on freedom so impossibly far out of his
reach.

     "Eat your country basket.  They're not so good when they're
cold."

     Elijah handed Mulder a small box and the smell was heavenly.
Despite the disappointment heavy and leaden in his stomach, Mulder
felt his saliva glands go into overtime, producing more than
enough spit for the first time in weeks.  He almost tore open the
box and Elijah wove out into the four lane.

     The feeling of fear receded in the face of real, live, edible,
fast food.

     Six steak fingers, some fries, toast and a small container of
milk gravy.  Mulder inhaled.  Food.  Real, actual food.  And it had
never tasted quite this good.  He smothered everything in the cream
gravy before putting it in his mouth.  The steak fingers were hot
and sizzling.  The toast soft.  The fries were limpid, but good and
salty.  Greasy.  And soooo hot.  Mulder ate and ate, conscious of
Elijah in the seat next to him, smiling bemused at the scene.

     "You act like you haven't eaten in days," Elijah said,
stopping at a light, considering his Texas State Highway map, free
at your local tourist bureau.

     Mulder looked up from his frantic devourment.  "I haven't,"
he replied.  "You want yours?"

     "You've still got a large Blizzard to go," Elijah reminded
him.  "And remind me to keep my arms away from you until you're
sated.  I'm scared any small appendages would get smothered in
gravy and eaten."

     Mulder smiled, went back to the dinner.

     He left nothing, not so much as the crisp end of a french fry
or a molecule of cream gravy clinging to the side of the cup.
Elijah *did* end up giving him some fries and toast, as well as
Elijah's left over gravy.  It tasted heavenly.  Mulder was noshing
on the blizzard, having gotten over his feeding frenzy, when he
suddenly became aware that something was wrong.  It was a vague
feeling of indigestion at first, then an odd feeling.  The first
wave of cramps rolled through his body.  Mulder groaned and the
Blizzard dropped down onto the carpeted floor of the Cherokee.  His
body contorted as he wrapped one arm around his middle.  The
cramp coursed through him, intense and sharp, like he'd swallowed
fucking razorblades instead of fries.  Wooden blocks were being
rolled around in his tender stomach.  Something was ripping and
tearing at his gut.  He was only vaguely aware of Elijah pulling over.
Of warm hands.  It hurt everywhere.  Fuck.  Fuckitalltohell.

     He doubled over, pressed against the door, hearing but not
understanding Elijah's words.  He couldn't think.  Couldn't
breathe.

     He found his face at his knees and a sharp, cold sweat broke
out over his forehead.  His spit glands felt funny and odd and he
moaned as the cramps passed through him with merciless regularity
and as the razorblades kept tearing and tearing.  He just wanted to
die.  Oh fuckinghell.

     Elijah's hand touched him and Mulder growled.  He did not have
energy for a scream and the way his teeth were locked together, jaw
clamping hard, he could not have emitted a scream anyway. A
thought rolled through Mulder's head suddenly, without warning and
he could not make it go away.  You have to vomit.  You have to vomit
or that food is going to tear your stomach and intestines apart.
vomit now before it can really hurt you.  You're going to be sick
a lot longer as is.  Vomit it all up now.

     A wave of nausea started down in the pit of his stomach and
Mulder felt his body rolling and rolling, like the torso of a puppy
that ate something bad.  The door was open and the cuff was off his
arm.  He stared at the carpet and his knees and didn't have energy
to move to the bahai grass.  His vomit spewed across the carpeting,
spilling over the cup with the cartoon pictures of Dennis the
Menace and Margaret and Joey enjoying wintertime pursuits, over
the bright red spoon, over the spilled ice cream and heath bar bits.
Vomit.  He kept expecting to see blood, bright red blood that would
indicate that his stomach hadn't been able to take the food, that
he would die from a fucking meal at Dairy Queen.  But there was no
blood.  He vomited it all, the chewed up steakfingers and the fries
and the fucking country toast.  He vomited and vomited and
wondered, obliquely, if the peanuts he'd eaten on the flight into
Oklahoma City were going to come up.

     When he stopped he wasn't aware of it for a moment.  He felt
his face pressing against rough denim and realized hot acid and
half-digested food wasn't coming from his nose and mouth.  His
stomach still hurt like fuck, but he wasn't vomiting.  His feet
were in a stew of vomit, and his jeans were splattered.  His mouth
hurt and burned and his nose was stuffy.  He sat a moment,
listening to rustling in the back of the Cherokee.

     He felt Elijah's hands, gentle now.  "Come on.  Let's get you
out of the front seat."  Hands undid the seat belt and pulled
Mulder out of the seat.  He tried to support himself and fell to
his knees in the tall grass.  The hot sun beat down on them both
and the tall cool pines and the long Texas road leading over the
hills.  Mulder squinted, felt Elijah put hands under his armpits,
pull him into the back of the Cherokee to sit.

     Mulder put his head against the leather seat edge, and sat
dumbly as Elijah pulled the shoes off his feet and set them down
on the front seat.  The younger, blonde bent down and got a box of
baby wipes.  He wiped Mulder's face as he would an infant.  Put a
wipe to Mulder's nose and told him to blow.  He wiped the vomit off
the blue jeans and then took the Keds and wiped them clean as well.

     "Do you need to vomit anymore?" he asked, squinting in the
bright, late afternoon sun.

     Mulder shook his head, just barely.

     "Okay."  Elijah nodded.  "We'll stop and get you some water
and Gatorade.  Come on."  Elijah helped him center in the Jeep,
get his legs in.  He rolled Mulder onto one side and put the cuff
back into the ring.  Mulder heard more rustling.

     "They had you on Thorazine to control the vomiting?"

     "And the dreams," Mulder said softly.  "I dreamed all about
you.  Did you dream about me, Elijah?  Or did you simply know?"  He
sat, staring at traffic zooming by outside the darkly tinted
windows and got no answers.  "They said I was crazy.  Jon?" he
asked.

     He felt the other man get into the Cherokee with him, and then
a hand on his waist, the top button on his jeans.

    "NO," Mulder said as loudly as he could, trying to sit up,
restrained by the handcuff, by soreness.

     Elijah sighed and grabbed his other hand as he put one leg
over Mulder's squirming abdomen.  The filled hypodermic needle sat
on the tirewell.  He snapped on another of the fucking heartshaped,
stainless steel cuffs that must have had a self-release latch at
some point, although they no longer did, around Mulder's other
wrist.  "NO.  I don't want it," Mulder said, kicking as hard as he
could as he could, as his arm was drawn over and he was forced
onto his side, one arm cuffed to the ring in what would be the seat
back if the seat was up, one arm cuffed to the hold bar above the
backseat.

     "I'm sorry, Fox.  I'm really sorry."  Elijah's voice was soft
as he moved down Fox's body, sitting now on Mulder's legs.  "I know
they hurt you and I know you don't like needles.  I know you don't
like things that put you to sleep.  It scares you.  I know.  But we
need to give you something and this's what the hospital was giving
you.  I got what they were using."

     Mulder swallowed.  "Please.  Please," he said, terrified.  He
would be stoned and Elijah would be driving closer and closer to
the coast.  "Please don't," he pleaded, very close to tears.  He
felt the blue jeans unbuttoned, felt his jeans and boxers tugged
down.

     "Please don't.  Don't. . .Jon.  Please."

     The cold of an alcohol prep pad.  Then the sharp biting sting
of the needle and then the hard ache as the Thorazine was pressured
into his butt.  It hurt and stung and Elijah remained on top of
him, fingers pressing and massaging the spot and it fucking hurt.
Mulder began sobbing, twisting his body and fighting and arching,
as much as his weak, sore body could or would.

     "I'm really sorry Fox.  I'm sorry."  Tears choked Jon's voice,
but Mulder refused to look at him.
 
 
 
 

     "They what?"  Averman couldn't believe it.  He felt anger
grow and threaten to strangle his guts as he and Rodriguez waited
on the helicopter.  "They did what?"

     "You have to understand," the chief of police said, as he'd
already told the Dallas ASAC and the Oklahoma City ASAC.  "We have
the state mental hospital in our town.  People get used to
patients.  Your boy had a hospital bracelet and he had this. .
.well.  Sometimes, people who're long term, they can't always buy
their own clothes, so their clothes don't fit.  And this guy had on
a Sooners sweatshirt in the middle of summer and blue jeans and it
was all new and all too big.  He was wearing Keds for Chrissake,
with double bows like a toddler."

     "We fucking put out an APB!" Jack replied, even though he
knew how things were.  That APB had gone around to a lot of people.
A local beat cop in his patrol car didn't have any realistic
expectations of seeing Fox Mulder.  Oh, of course, if Jack were a
cop and somebody who *looked* like he belonged on a wetbrain
ward came up and told him he was a kidnapped FBI agent, Jack
would believe it.  Uh-huh.  Oh sure.  Still.  Logic had absolutely
nothing to do with Averman's anger.

     "I hope you've got the roads south closed?" he asked.

     "Yeah.  Just did it.  Got the Cherokee County Sheriff to run
a check of drivers on the main highway."

     But that was nearly twenty minutes ago.  Fuckfuckfuckfuck.  If
Elijah was as smart as Fox said he was, he would know that.  He was
probably on some small side road, or headed in a different
direction. Or something.  FUCK.  There was a sound like razorblades
fluttering and Averman knew their ride had arrived.  "I'll be in
Rusk in an hour or so," he told the man.  "Just do whatever you
can."
 
 
 
 
 

     Mulder licked his lips.  Opened his eyes.  He had a blanket
and a pillow.  He was hot.  Hot hot.  His back hurt from sleeping
on the carpet.

     He moaned softly.  They were still travelling.  Mulder looked
out the back at darkness.  Music filled the Cherokee.  He jerked
the blanket off.  Still hot.  Panted.  Mouth was dry.  He dimly
remembered Elijah giving him some water a long time ago, making
him wash it around in his mouth and then spit it out and then letting
him drink, but that water was long gone.  "I'm thirsty," he
muttered.  "And hot."

     "You're awake?"

     "Yes."

     "We're going to be in Many in just a bit."

     "Many?" Mulder asked softly.

     "Yeah. I figure your friends will be looking for us."
Elijah's voice sounded confident.  "How are you feeling?"

     "Sore."  Mulder couldn't hold the anger out of his voice.

     "Fox.  I'm sorry.  I just didn't want you to hurt."

     Mulder had no answer for this.  He just sighed and stared out
the window at the night sky as he suddenly realized he wasn't
attached to a handcuff.

     "Are we going to a hotel?" he asked after a while.

     "I had planned on it. . .but I don't know.  I feel good.  I
figure we could drive straight on down."

     Mulder nodded.  "You'll stop in Many?"

     "Yeah.  I'll stop. I'll wake you up.  Go back to sleep, Fox."
The voice held a chuckle, like a father reassuring a child.

     He did not want to go back to sleep, but he was too tired to
do anything else.  He sat up with the last of his strength and took
off his sweatshirt, then he put the blanket underneath him, so that
the blanket could soften the bed for his back and his butt.
 
 
 
 

     There was nothing.  Fucking two cops in Rusk.  If they'd been
listening instead of sucking each other's dicks none of this would
have fucking happened.  Fucking HELL.  Frito wondered why Mulder
hadn't pulled a hissy and gotten himself arrested.  Mulder was good
at hissy fits.

     Because he had been shot higher than the fucking space
shuttle.  That was fucking why.  He breathed through his teeth,
sounding like a kettle, stared at the map.  They could be anywhere
by now.  Anywhere.  At least Jack Averman would probably chew
those damn redneck cops up one side and down the other.

     Averman worked his jaw, reading the responses of the girls in
the Dairy Queen.  They remembered him.  And their uniform
description was of someone a bubble off the level.  They didn't
remember who he was with or what vehicle he got into.  He'd come
in and pissed and then gone out and used the pay phone.  They tried
to remember who was in there, but so far no luck.  No one could
identify anything.  FUCKING HELL.  He took a deep breath, pulled a
Texas state map close to him.  Miles had been ringed off by hundred
mile radii.  They knew where he'd been at five.  If Elijah drove
like every other Texas driver, doing around 65, that put him around
a hundred and fifty miles away.  He wouldn't head north or due
west.  Averman knew that.  He took his pencil and blocked out a
section.  There.  Now which way?  South and West was Padre Island.
South and East was Louisiana's coastline.  Either one would be
good.  Deserted.  Elijah was taking Mulder to the coast.  To kill
him.  They had until tomorrow afternoon and then Mulder would be
dead.

     Averman felt his mouth fill with bile.  He thought about the
feel of Mulder's face against his chest as tears streamed down the
younger man's face and the feel of Averman's hands on Mulder's
wrists, and the feel of the battered hands clutching at Averman's
shirt. His gut churned.  He wanted to find Mulder's old man and
beat the living shit out of the guy.  It's over a decade later and
your boy is still fucked up from what you did to him.  How the hell
could you hurt him?  How the hell could anyone hurt their kid and
then see the fear and the terror and go on hurting them?  He
breathed through his nose hard and glanced up at the Texas Ranger
sitting across from him, handed the maps over.  "Tell them to watch
to either side.  He won't go on 69.  He's bright.  Very bright.  We
figure he made his money in the computer industry here in Texas."

     The ranger, who was cast in Averman's mold, considered the
flinty eyes across from him.  "You know the kid well?"

     "Who?  Elijah or Mulder?"

     "Mulder."

     "Well enough," Averman replied, putting his arms up, covering
his face with his hands.  "Look, just. . .we've got to find him."

Continued in part 30....................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 30/41 NC-17
Date: 19 Feb 1996 05:08:57 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 30/41)
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.

Okay folks.  I didn't post last night, so I'll double post tonight.
You're well over halfway through this puppy, and I
know that you never thought you'd get here.  Time to cheer and let
me know what you think of the humble efforts of Amp and myself.
Bored?  Just hanging on from a sense of wanting to complete it?  Let
me hear from you.  And to those who spontaneously threatened me
out of the goodness of their hearts, thank you!  It makes my day to
get a decent threat with the morning coffee!

______________________________

     "Hey."  The voice was soft.  Mulder blinked.

     "Hey," he said back, sitting up.  Elijah stared at him, ran
a hand through the soft blonde hair.  "Okay.  I want you to drink
this."

     `This' was a small cup of OJ.

     "Why?"

     "Just drink it.  It'll make you feel better."

     Mulder considered the stuff and frowned.   He took the small
plastic cup into two shaking hands and swallowed.  It tasted odd.
Strange.  He stopped.

     "All of it," Elijah insisted.

     "I don't want anymore."

     "You have to." Strong hands on the cup, holding it.  Putting
it to Mulder's mouth.  "It won't hurt you."

     Mulder tried to resist, but the stuff went down.

     "I put your Thorazine in it," Elijah said, taking the cup
away.  "I got you some Gatorade, too."

     Mulder stared at the soft blue eyes, the gentle blue eyes.
"You what?"

     "You put Thorazine in OJ because otherwise it's bitter."
Elijah smiled.  "And I figured it was easier than giving you a shot
in your butt."

     "Where are we?"  Mulder asked softly.

     "Headed for the water.  Louisiana beaches don't. . .they're
practically empty.  We'll go at night when no one's there.
Someplace secluded."   Elijah pulled a bag out of the front seat,
pulled out a cotton blanket and a light green t-shirt.  "Let's
get the t-shirt on."

     Mulder stared at this man.  "You were my friend once.  I don't
understand."

     "You will.  Everything will be okay.  I promise."
 

     "We played freeze tag in front of the church.  We ran through
the vestibules, screaming with pleasure.  Ariel. . ."

     "Fox, I'm going to take us both somewhere where we can't be
hurt.  Don't you remember how your father would hit you?  Don't
you remember how it hurt, all those broken ribs and broken bones?"

     "It was my fault my dad hit me," Mulder spat out angrily, not
meaning to, not caring anymore.

     A look passed across the perfect patrician features.  "You
want to tell me what happened to Sam?"

     Mulder took the t-shirt, tried to get it over his head and
then needed Jon's help.  His head was swimming.

     "Scrunch way over and we'll spread the hot blanket out for
underneath to make your back and bottom feel better," Jon said
kindly.

     Mulder looked away.

     "Why was it your fault your dad hit you?"  The voice was
gentle and patient.

     Mulder rolled over until he was pressed against the edge of
the Cherokee.  "Fox.  What happened to Samantha?"

     Mulder closed his eyes and shook his head, rolled back onto
his back, heard the rip of a package and then cotton was spread
across him.

     "Did your dad kill Samantha?"  It was a tired voice.

     Mulder tried to open his eyes, but he was being drained of
anger and strength.  "I lost Sam.  It was my fault," he said
simply, biting a lip.  He might be a serial killer, he might be
fucking taking Mulder to his death, but once upon a long time ago
they had been children running through the vestibule of a small
church. There had been laughter and the blue of summer lawns after
church.  There had been, one Christmas, a tall, gawky girl who had
shyly accepted a thin, sterling silver ring from a tall, gawky boy.
Mulder stared in Jon's eyes, seeing the insanity and the pain.
"Samantha, when she was eight. . .she disappeared.  I was in the
room.  Mom and Dad were out," he said simply, feeling the drug tug
at him.  "How could you think that Dad. . ."

     "He hit you so much," Jon said with a shrug.  "I remember
when Momma was sick, we'd go see you when the hospital kept you
because you were hurt.  He hurt you so much, Fox.  Maria, she used
to cry after we were finished seeing you."

     "My dad didn't hit me until after Sam disappeared," Mulder
said, pushing hard against the muzzy fog that was invading him. "He
never hit me until then.  That was *My* fault.  MY fault. . ."  He
put his head against the pillow. "He didn't hit me.  My dad loved
me.  He always loved me.  He only hit me because I lost Sam."

     Something sad and unidentifiable passed across Jon's face.
"Okay, Fox.  Okay," he said softly, patting Mulder's hand.  "Okay.
You go back to sleep.  I'll wake you when we get to the coast."

     Mulder stared at the retreating figure.  He felt an urge to
say it again.  "Dad loved me."

     He did not see the tears that stained Elijah's face as he
reflected on the delusions that his friend had built to continue
living.  It would be different in heaven.  It would be all right in
Heaven.  Fox would remember everything and they would see Mary
and Sarah and everyone would be happy in heaven.  Maybe
Samantha would be there for Fox.  Fox would be all right in Heaven.
 
 
 

     "The Federal Bureau of Investigation is working with state and
local authorities in a three state search for any information
pertaining to the location of Special Agent Fox Mulder.  Mulder, a
psychologist specializing in profiles of serial killers and other
violent criminals, vanished from the Oklahoma State University
Hospital, where he was being treated for an as-yet-undetermined
illness.  Agent Mulder may be unable to request assistance due to
illness.

     Also being sought in connection with both Agent Mulder's
alleged abduction, and the brutal killings of several area
children, is Jonathan Elijah Gragg.  Gragg in in his mid-twenties,
blond, and muscular in build.  Gragg is to be considered armed and
dangerous.  Anyone seeing either man is urgently requested to
contact the FBI or the police.  The FBI is posting a reward for
information leading to the arrest of Gragg or the location of Agent
Mulder."

     [Attachment: Official identification portrait of Fox Mulder,
and police artist portrait of Gragg]

     ASAC, Dan Harlan rubbed his bloodshot eyes and scanned the
release again.  "Shit, I hate doing this.  We'll start getting
calls on every pair of men from here to the Mississippi.  Maybe ten
percent of 'em will be close to the description.  I guess it's our
best shot right now, though.  Okay, run it out to all the local
affiliates and all.  You know how it's done.  Any chance we'll make
the ten o'clock news?"

     Cooke let his head drop back, and worked his neck muscles.  He
could feel his tired eyes twitching under the lids.  "Not a hope in
hell.  We'll make the morning news, though.  Here, Texas, and
Louisiana.  Do I need to get Averman's signature?"

     "Nah. Mine'll do it.  Besides, I sent him back to his hotel.
Told him I'd put an armed guard on his door if he didn't get some
sleep.  He and Rodriguez'll be worse'n useless if they don't get
some rest tonight.  Your guys okay?"

     "PR's used to these hours."  Cooke's smile was dry.  "Early
bird and all that shit.  Sign that fucker and let me go rack up
some overtime."

     Harlan nodded, put his Bic to use and watched Cooke's thick
frame weave its way back to his cluster of people.  Breathed a
silent prayer that for once, PR could do more than just make the
Bureau LOOK like it was doing something.
 
 
 

     The Grand Cherokee blasted through patches of mist, following
its headlights down the long, straight stretch of road just south
of Leesville.  A middle-of-the-night talk show kept up a soft
counterpoint to the whine of the road, and Elijah smiled to himself
at the beauty of God's own night out here.  Fox's drugged breathing
from the back was steady and regular whenever he rolled up the
window and listened for it, but right now the gentle scent of the
pines at night was too alluring as it kept the rank air of the car
at bay. Elijah drew in deep, heady lungs full and put his foot
down, loving the sweet flash of the road under his wheels and the
way the night flowed like water around the jeep.

     Sixty-five miles an hour ever since Many, and they were making
good time. Midnight traffic south was sparse and fast.  A luxurious
yawn stretched his jaw and made a popping sound in his throat.  He
figured another hour and a half to Lake Charles, get a room. . .

     Flashing red and blue lights ahead, and he gently tapped the
brakes, letting the big tires grip the mist-slick pavement.  The
cop standing next to the cherry-red mustang eyed him, but turned
back to the blonde in the pony car.  Elijah breathed a soft prayer
and smiled at the black and white, receding in his rear-view
mirror.  "Thank you, God," he murmured to himself. Reached back to
put a gentle hand on Fox's hair, seeing the peaceful way the older
man slept. "See, just like I told you.  God's will.  We'll be home
real soon, and then you'll feel better." He turned back and picked
up speed again, trusting that the rest of the way would be clear.
When the talk show degenerated to insults he popped in a tape and
let the sweet sound of children singing God's praises carry them
the hour or so to Lake Charles.

     The roads were mostly empty now, and only the occasional,
lonely window showed in the dark behind the jaundiced spill of the
streetlights.  The big Cherokee had the road to itself as Elijah
pulled around the lake.  I-10 exit ahead, and he smiled and
whistled cheerfully at the big hotel he could see coming up on the
left.  Downtowner.  Right, that looked perfect. Mid-week and the
parking lot was mostly full of rental cars and econoboxes, but he
found a spot right up by the lobby.

     Elijah's back twinged when he turned in his seat, stiff
muscles pulled in his shoulders and forearms.  He sighed, seeing
that Fox hadn't changed position in more than an hour.  The poor
man would be stiff as a board, but it couldn't be helped.  No one
nearby, and a good view into the lobby, so at least he could leave
the windows down.  The blond breathed a silent thanks to God when
he stepped down and finally got a breath of fresh air.  He couldn't
exactly blame Fox for not wanting to take the Thorazine, but he did
wish he'd known about this whole matter one country meal sooner.

     A pallid young man looked up when he pushed through the door,
and audibly shut a heavy book. Elijah could see his thin shoulders
shift as he pushed it to one side and sat up straighter, managing
a tired smile that looked like it came with the uniform he wore.
When he stepped up to the counter, Elijah could see a Calculus 101
book, and he stifled a smile.

     "Sorry to take you away from your homework."  Elijah smiled.

     "S'okay.  It was getting hard to concentrate, anyway.  Welcome
to the Downtowner."  He caught himself and put back on his
official, hotel training.  "What can I do for you?"

     "I need a double through tomorrow.  I mean, through Thursday."
Elijah did grin, now.  Watched the young man enter figures on a
keyboard.

     "Okay. . . I have a double on the fifth floor. . . with a view
of the Lake.  Will that do?"

     "Perfect."   He was pulling out his wallet even as the kid
totaled up the bill.

     "Sorry to have to charge you for two days, with you getting in
so late.  That's ninety-five, even."

     "It's no problem."  He handed over the cash.  "Look, I've got
my brother-in-law with me, and he's feeling pretty bad, can you
help me get him into the elevator?"  The kid - his name tag read
'Atcheson Everett Smith,' poor thing - smiled and was out and in
the lobby a moment later.

     "Sure, let me give you a hand with him. . . "

     "It's not against the rules or anything?"

     "Service.  That's what they keep telling us, service.
Besides," Atcheson's smile stretched even wider, "right now
anything looks better than differential equations."  When Elijah
opened the door and the smell hit him the boy looked like he might
reconsider that opinion, but he stayed, sharing a slightly pale
look of commiseration with Elijah.

     Fox rolled himself tighter into a ball when they tried to pull
him upright, but Atcheson got his legs pulled around and out, and
Elijah got an arm around his ribs, supporting his weight.  His gym
bag over the other shoulder, and they were ready.

     "Whew. . . you weren't kidding when you said he was sick.
God. . . " The boy slammed the jeep door, then ran ahead to get the
door for them.  Elijah managed Fox well enough once they were in
the lobby.  By then, the agent was starting to wake up and walk
more steadily.  Atcheson got the elevator for them, and Elijah
handed him a ten dollar bill.

     "Thanks.  I think I can get him from here, but you've been a
big help."

     "Hey, no problem!"  Whatever else he was going to say was cut
off by the doors, and Elijah pulled Mulder upright for the short,
five floor ride.
 

     "Okay, Fox, we're going to walk down to our room.  Come on."
He glanced at the key in his hand, pulling the taller man along
with him, relieved that Fox was walking, no matter how unsteadily.
Fitted the key in their door and reached inside to flip on the
lights.  "Come on, let's get you cleaned up and in bed, then you
can sleep as long as you like."

     "Where're we?"  Mulder was staring around with glassy eyes.
Elijah paused, studied him.

     "You're awake?  Good.  We're in a hotel.  We'll get you
cleaned up, and then we can tuck you in again."  Fox watched him
with sleep-puffy eyes, as Elijah found a glass on the bureau, and
poured him some Gatorade.  "Bet you're thirsty after that long
sleep."  He could see the way Fox's tongue caught, dry, when he
tried to wet his lips.

     Shaking hands took the glass, but Fox just held it there.
Elijah could feel him pushing it away.

     "C'mon. . . there's nothing in it, if that's what's worrying
you."  He kept his voice soft, guided the glass as Fox finally
pulled it close and drank it in messy gulps, spilling a little down
his chin.  Gave him another and helped him get it down.  "Now let's
get you cleaned up and to bed. . . "

     The drugged man's steps were a little steadier, though still
dragging on the carpet as Elijah guided him into the bathroom.
Stripped off the stained, green t-shirt and the blue jeans, pulled
the Keds off.  He reached over to run warm water in the bathtub.
"You're going to have to help me here, Fox.  You're too big for me
to pick up, but you'll feel better if we get you cleaned up."
It wasn't so hard, really.  The agent moved slowly, but he pretty
much did what he was told, and Elijah didn't have to worry about
him slipping under the water the way little kids could do. It
didn't take long to get him washed and shaved, and have him
wrapped in a towel, getting his hair dried.  Elijah left him sitting in
the bathroom, propped against the sink, and folded another towel in
one of the beds.  Poured a glass of Gatorade and added another dose
of the Thorazine, setting it next to the bed.

     "Come on, I know you're still sleepy."  Mulder's face was
still slack, but his eyes seemed more focused, and he tracked
Elijah closely.  The younger man got him up, and into the bedroom.
Elijah found a pair of boxers in his gym bag and helped him into
them.  "I've got more Gatorade for you."

     Mulder licked his lips and visibly tried to gather himself.
Elijah had the glass pressed into his hands, holding it steady so
the liquid wouldn't spill. One sip and Mulder's long nose wrinkled.
Elijah sighed as he pulled back, turned his head to avoid the
glass.

     "Fox, you need to drink this. I know you don't like it. . . "

     "I donn't want it." He was still slurring, but forcing the
words out.  Elijah's mouth tightened, lips pulled thin with regret,
and tried to pull Mulder's head around.

     "Come on, Fox.  It's going to be easier for you if you drink.
. . ."  Hissed as the agent slapped the base of the glass.  "Damn
it!"  Sticky, yellow-green liquid splattered all down Elijah's
front, and Fox scuttled back on the bed, away from him.

     The young man screwed his eyes shut against the quick burn of
anger, felt his fists ball up tight and small.  Long, deep breaths
slowly unknotted his shoulders and arms, and he opened his eyes to
see Fox, crouched at the foot of the bed, watching him intently.
He carefully moved into the middle of the room, keeping between
Fox and the door, and backed up until he could get his gym bag from
the table next to the picture window.

     "We've been through this before, Fox.  I'm sorry. If you won't
drink it, I have to use a needle. One way or the other, you need to
take the Thorazine.  It's not for that much longer. . . "

     His fingers found the bundle of medical supplies in the bottom
of the bag, and he glanced down to pick out a bottle and a sterile
syringe.  The faint sound of feet on carpet brought his head up,
finding Fox braced against the wall, trying to edge towards the
door while Elijah was distracted.  A step sideways put Jon in front
of the door, and Fox slowly backed up into the room, shaking his
head in careful, deliberate motions, never looking away from
Elijah, who filled the syringe in quick, sure, movements.

     "I don't want the drug." The effort to say each word clearly
was audible.  "I want all of you to just leave me alone."

     Elijah felt the weariness of the long drive, and of necessity,
pushing down on his shoulders.  All he wanted now was a little
sleep, the small peace God had granted to mankind.  He did NOT want
to fight with Fox.  Bracing himself, he stepped in and away from
the door, gauging the way the agent moved.  He was slow and clumsy
from the drug still in his system, but adrenaline could still give
him a short burst of speed.

     "Don't you see, Fox. . . all of us felt that way.  Most of us
feel that way again.  If Jesus had left us alone, we'd all be
damned."  A careful step, two, into the room.  "Sometimes, we can't
leave each other alone and still be true to our consciences, still
be true to God. . . ."

     Jon edged into the room a bit more, turning on the television
as he passed it.  The sound flooded the room, loud enough to cover
most of the noise they might make.  Mulder was on the far side of
the second bed, edging towards the head of it.  He'd have to roll
across the bed to get to the door past Elijah. Jon gauged the
distances, and Fox's speed, and feinted at him around the foot of
the bed.

     Fox dropped and rolled, as he'd known he would, too clumsy
from Thorazine to be able to simply dive across the narrow
mattress.  Elijah lunged and grabbed his ankle, yanking him back
and dropping onto his back to pin the thinner, taller man down.
Fox tried to scream, and Elijah had to force his face into the
comforter to muffle him, keep him softer than the television.

     Fox was thrashing wildly now, like he had in the Cherokee,
trying to throw Elijah off of him, or hit him hard enough to knock
him off.  Elijah scrambled until he had a knee in the small of
Fox's back, the way they'd taught him in wrestling in junior high
school.  He'd need to be off-balance to inject the drug, and even
weak and muzzy, Mulder might still be able to push him off.  Elijah
shifted his weight to make it harder for Fox to throw him off his
back. Twisted until he could shove the boxers off one hip and drive
the needle into the clenched muscles of Fox's skinny butt.  Winced
at the shriek as he pushed the plunger down, driving the drug into
the muscles with what couldn't help but be painful speed.

     Fox was still thrashing, trying somehow to keep moving enough
to fight the Thorazine off.  Jon wrapped his arms around him,
letting him lash out, feeling the blows get lighter, weaker.  His
breath was caught in his own chest, but with grief rather than
exertion as Fox slowly lost the tension and slipped into the
cloudy, compliant mood of the drug.

     Elijah rocked him as he felt his old playmate slide into calm.
Words spilled out of him, even though he knew Fox was too far away
to hear them now.  "I'm sorry, Fox.  I'm sorry.  I wish you could
understand.  You've slipped so far into the dark. . . You don't
leave us any other way.  Your friends didn't want to hurt you, but
they didn't know how to help.  And I don't want to hurt you.  I'm
sorry, you didn't leave me any other way, but I'll make it better.
You'll see.  I am taking you where you can be whole and well and
safe.  It's not for very much longer, Fox. It's not."

     A faint gleam showed under dark lashes, but Mulder's face and
body were slack with the drug.  If he knew what was happening
around him, it was only in the faintest, vaguest way.  Elijah
sighed with relief and stroked his hair, settled him back and
pulled the comforter up over his shoulders.  Almost as an
afterthought, he snapped a cuff around Fox's wrist, and the other,
heart-shaped cuff around the bed frame.  With the drug in his
system, Fox probably would never know it was there.

     "There. See? It won't be for very much longer. . . "  Kept
stroking his back, the way he had with the smaller ones, soothing
people for whom sleep held terrors. "Remember Eliot, Fox. . .

     The inner freedom from the practical desire,
     The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
     And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
     By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
     Erhebung without motion, concentration
     Without elimination, both a new world
     And the old made explicit, understood
     In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
     The resolution of its partial horror. . .
     Time past and time future
     Allow but a little consciousness.'"

     Three in the morning. The too-bright green numerals marked the
dark behind Elijah's lids when he let his head rest heavy on his
hands. Pulled himself straight on the indrawn breath and reached
over to set the alarm.  Two hours' sleep, and then he'd be on his
way.
 
 

     In Oklahoma City Maryann Parmenter called her husband, woke
him out of a sound sleep, and let him know he'd have to get the
kids ready for school in the morning. He grumbled a moment - PR
wasn't supposed to drag his wife away from home the way her sales
work had - but he knew she was on Cooke's media contact team. He
wished her luck and went back to bed, setting his alarm to get him
up an hour early.
 
 
 

     Jack Averman slept restlessly and dreamed of the faces that
never came home from Vietnam. He'd woken twice and phoned to
see if any word had come in, but for all the activity there was very
little news to be had.  He finally slid back into deeper sleep,
waiting for morning.
 
 
 

     Sam Rodriguez, next door, kept his lights on. He didn't want
to be alone in the dark. His back ached and he couldn't find a
comfortable position to sleep. The sky was faintly gray when he
reached over and dialed his home in Virginia, listening for the
sleepy voice on the other end of the line.

     "Mmhm. Hello?" He felt his face pull into a smile, seeing her
with her eyes shut, and her hair tangled and spread on the pillow.

     "Hi, Jenni."

     "Sam?" He heard her come suddenly more alert, and bit his lip
at a twinge of guilt. "It's five in the morning. Are you all right?
Did you. . . did you find Fox?" Her tone dropped, soft and worried.

     "No baby. I'm sorry I woke you. . . "

     "It's okay. Sam, I don't mind. . . it must be four o'clock
there. . . ."  He could hear her jaw crack as she yawned, and her
words were muffled and stretched by it. "Have you heard anything?"

     "No. Well, sort of. Marion got ahold of a phone for a few
minutes.  We know they were heading south. That was around five in
the afternoon. We haven't heard anything since. The roadblocks and
all just came up totally blank."  He stopped, swallowed against the
tight pain in his gut.

     He heard her take a deep, long breath. "Do you think he's. .
. I mean. Sam, do you think he's still alive?"

     "You've been around me and Marion too long. But, yeah. We've
got another analyst helping. She's still in DC, but she thinks
he'll pick a really visible means. . .God. I don't want to talk
about this with you."

     "It's okay. You won't give me any new nightmares." He could
hear the sad smile in her voice. "How are you holding up?"

     "I'm fine." Screwed up his face as his voice cracked on the
words.  Sniffed in through his nose. "I just. . . I wanted to hear
you. I should have waited. . . "

     "No, you shouldn't. I hate getting in and hearing those
messages on the machine, and then having to wait or call all over
hell's half acre to reach you. I'm glad you called.  I've been
worried about you."

     The hiccup of laughter hurt deep in his belly. "I'm not the
one in trouble out here."

     "For a smart man, you say some really dumb things. You want to
tell me what you're doing out there?"

     "No.  I. . . we don't really know what more we can do right
now.  Maybe. . . Jenni.  Will you do something for me?"

     Her sigh was long and kind.  "Sam. . . "

     "I know you don't really. . . I. . . Jenni. Will you go to
church tomorrow.  And say a prayer?  Light a candle?  For Marion
and, I guess, maybe for me?"  His teeth hurt his lip, and his
throat felt tight as he listened to her breathe.

     "Of course, Sam.  I'd love to.  Of course I'll pray for you.
Pray for you both."

     He had to sniff in, rubbed at his nose.  "I love you, Jenni."

     "Me too, Sam.  Can I do anything else?  Call anyone?"

     "No. I ought to hang up."
 

     He could hear her breathing. Then. . . "Why don't you just
stay on the line, Sam? Just so I can hear you there?" His eyes
stung a little, and his nose felt stuffy. He wiped at it. Cleared
his throat.

     "Okay, Jenni. Okay."

Continued in part 31..................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 31/41 NC-17
Date: 20 Feb 1996 06:25:46 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 31/41)
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 rising sun flashed off little pools of water and put a
haze across the windshield as Elijah drove over the border into
Texas. The radio news told him things were as bad as they'd been
for the last century. He nodded, unsurprised by the news, and
prayed softly that the lost souls of the world might find peace.
The Christian talk show was about Jimmy Swaggart's plea for money.
The comments put a brief jeer on his face. It was un-Christian of
him, but he had rather hoped that Swaggart's bluff would be called.

     With Texas housing tracts around him, he tuned in the local
news and listened to the bulletin about the missing FBI agent. That
might make things interesting, but he wasn't too concerned. A
little care on his part, and God would see him through. Traffic was
heavier now, and he smiled to see it. Hard to see license plates
with the sun in your eyes, too. Yes, God was good.

     Robert Gastineau scratched his balls and poured a cup of
strong, black coffee. He sighed and made a face at the taste. The
water here tasted differently than it had back in Austin, and he
still wasn't used to it.  More iron or something. He dumped in
sugar and grabbed a piece of toast, leaning against the kitchen
counter and turning up the news.  Hopefully the traffic wouldn't be
so bad today. There'd been some kind of problem with the parking
lot booth the day before and it took forever to get out of the lot.

     The local anchor had terrible hair, but a nice jawline. Bobby
watched his lips move a moment before he realized the man was
talking about Okie U. Hospital. The picture had changed by the time
he got the sound turned up more. A photograph and one of those
police sketches that could be anyone you saw on the street. This
one looked vaguely familiar, though. . .

     ". . . are also seeking Jonathan Elijah Gragg, in connection
with both Agent Mulder's disappearance and the slayings of several
area children.  Anyone with information regarding Gragg, or the
location of Agent Mulder is urgently requested to contact . . ."

     Bobby Gastineau didn't really feel the hot coffee splash his
legs as his cup hit the floor. All he knew was that his hands were
shaking when he tried to dial the number he saw on his television
screen.

     "Hello? Is this the FBI? Oh god, give me a moment. My name is
Robert Gastineau. I know Jon Gragg, except that's not what he calls
himself anymore. I mean. . . look. I think I know the man you want,
the one on the TV. Who do I need to talk to?"
 
 
 
 

     "So what's this asshole's name, and how does he know our boy?"
Jack Averman ate two Tylenol and washed them down with bad, FBI
coffee.

     Harlan flipped through the thin file in his hands. "Robert
Michael Gastineau. Moved from Austin, Texas to Oklahoma City about
two years ago. Apparently he used to party on down with Gragg,
back in Austin."  He handed the folder over to Averman.

     "Okay, let's see what he can tell us." The interview room was
cool and white, with clean walls. It didn't have the smell of stale
sweat and fear that local cop shops decorated with, but the feeling
was there nonetheless.  Gastineau sat with all four of his folding
chair's feet firmly on the ground, and the sickly, fluorescent
light picked out the sheen on his forehead.  Averman settled down
across from him and studied him.

     "Thanks for coming in, Mr. Gastineau. I'm Jack Averman. I'll
be taping this if it's all right with you?" He flipped open his
badge, let the young man across from him look it over. Let his hand
hover over the tape recorder until he got his badge back and a nod
from Gastineau. "I understand you know Jon Elijah Gragg."

     "Yes. Yeah, I do, but he goes by John Gregory these days. Umm.
. . "  He rubbed his face. Averman saw a man, perhaps in his early
thirties, good looking and well built and scared shitless.  Leaned
forward.

     "I want you to know we really need your help on this matter.
You told the agent on the phone that you'd seen Gragg - Gregory -
on Tuesday morning?"

     Gastineau nodded. "Yeah. I work at Oklahoma State and. . .
look, am I going to get in trouble for this?"

     Averman ground his teeth. "No. We need your help on this one,
we're not likely to be pressing charges or anything." He managed a
thin grin.  "If it helps, we think a man's life may be in danger if
we don't find Gragg soon.  Anything that you can tell us might
help." The man across from him took in a deep, hard breath and
some kind of barrier seemed to break.  He let his head tilt back and
nodded.

     "Okay. I hadn't seen Jon since I'd come up here, and I was
really surprised. He said he was into a pretty heavy scene, and he
needed. . .needed Thorazine. Oral and IM. And syringes. I got them
for him."

     A sick thrill ran through Averman's gut. "How much Thorazine
does he have?  Could he keep a man drugged for several days?"

     "God, he could keep a man in orbit for weeks with what he's
got.  Somehow I figured. . . I thought he was using this for an
orgy, you know?"  The pleading tone put Averman's back up, but he
swallowed the reaction.

     "Excuse me a minute. Would you like a cup of coffee?" The
relieved nod gave him an excuse to get out of there smoothly.
Averman shut the door, turned to the guard.

     "I'll be back in ten minutes.  Give him a coffee, and set one
up for me.  He's cooperating, so we're polite as shit to him,
okay?"  The young man nodded, hurried off to do what he was told.

     Rodriguez must have been told where the AIC was, because he
was in the hall, shifting from foot to foot with impatience.  He
fell in next to Averman as the older man traveled down the hall
with a long, ground-eating stride that was almost as fast as a run.

     "Well?"

     "We just started.  I've got a new name.  The Cherokee was
registered to Gragg, but his credit cards are probably under John
Gregory."  A quick stop in the nerve center.  Watkins had gone
home, but his assistant took the new name and rushed off to get it
distributed so they'd get word the minute John Gregory's cards
surfaced for a purchase.

     Averman turned back to Rodriguez, retracing his steps to their
gold mine and giving the doctor what little he had as yet.  "It
looks like Elijah's got enough Thorazine with him to keep a small
city stunned. We're not going to be able to count on Mulder coming
out of it and being able to contact us."

     The doctor slammed his hands together in helpless frustration.
"Oh shit. Oh SHIT. I'm beginning to think the bastard's right and
God's on his side. Fuck."
 
 
 
 
 

     Elijah smiled at the sweet, young thing at the rental car
counter, and handed over his credit card.  She was able to run the
card through the slide, grab a pen and hand the whole collection of
card, slip and pen to him without ever dropping her eyes or her
flirtatious smile.

     "Now, all the conditions are on the reverse, and you can
return the car to any one of our offices."  She was running her
finger down a long list of numbers in a booklet, making sure his
card wasn't stolen.  He kept the mild expression on his face and
waited until she was satisfied, and had turned her perky face back
to him.

     "Wonderful.  You got an office down around Corpus Christi?"
The keys jingled softly and reflected the bright sunlight streaming
into the airport terminal.
 

     "Oh, yes, sir!  I'm sure they'll be glad to help you any way
they can.  We have other services. . . "  She was reaching for a
handful of brochures.

     "That's all right, Miss Emerson.  I know the way.  But thank
you."  He signed with a flourish, tearing off his copy and tossing
it into the trash.

     The humid, blast-furnace heat of Galveston hit him as he left
the terminal, walked past the parked Cherokee, and got into the
rented sedan.  Nine in the morning, and he'd be back in Lake
Charles by noon.  He worried his lip as he considered the timing,
then decided that Fox would be all right if he got back a bit late.

He pulled onto Route 45 and headed back up to Houston.  A quick
stop at a Wal-Mart for new clothes for Fox, and one at a car
dealer, and he'd be ready to go.  He smiled to himself, and popped
one of the gospel tapes he'd salvaged from the Cherokee into the
tape deck.
 
 
 
 

     The voices wouldn't let him sleep.  A dried trickle of spit
pulled and cracked at the corner of Fox Mulder's mouth as he rolled
onto his side and groaned.  His mouth tasted like something had
died in it, and his ass hurt like someone had been beating him.  So
hard to think through the cotton-wool in his head. . .  He didn't
know how long his eyes had been open before he realized he was
looking at the other bed.  It was another forever before he
understood that the bed was empty.  He tried to pull his arms in,
to shove himself upright, but there was a cold, steel pull on his
left wrist, and a fucking, heart shaped cuff that held him to the
frame of the bed.  Mulder stared at it, trying to put everything
together and wanting to scream with frustration as the thick,
stubborn fog choked his thoughts and kept threatening to send him
back into a hazy nothing.

     No one else was here, he was sure of that by now.  The
bathroom, across the room, was empty.  Drawn curtains.  He tried to
think of why they'd be drawn, and remembered a pretty lake, a cool
balcony.  Looked with sudden hope to the door, but the 'Do Not
Disturb' sign wasn't hung on the knob anymore.  No one would be
coming in to help him.  Fox sagged back onto the bed, yanked at his
wrist in forlorn hope, but the cuff held him and refused to open.
Between the beds, an electric clock told him it was about eleven
in the morning.  On the bureau, snug against the opposite wall,
some talk show prattled on and on.  The phone, next to it, might
have been a million miles away.

     Mulder sucked in a deep breath, and screamed.  Screamed long
and loud for help, over and over until his throat was hoarse and
his breath came in little pants.  And no one even pounded on a
wall.  Middle of the fucking morning in the middle of the week.
And whoever had been in the rooms to either side was driving away
somewhere in a business lunch, in their business suits, with phones
and help and people in reach.  Everyone but Mulder.  He wrapped
himself around a pillow finally, and felt the sure knowledge that
he was all alone, and couldn't even get out of this bed.

     He curled up, back against the headboard and rocked back and
forth glaring at the telephone and getting angrier and angrier as
the drug slowly pulled its claws out of him.  The headboard slammed
the wall as he started hitting it, lashing out sideways with the
one hand that wasn't cuffed.  Hit it over and over, until he could
feel the pain of it even through the fucking Thorazine and it
didn't make a bit of difference.  No one heard him, no one pounded
back or knocked or came to get him out of here.  Mulder was panting
with the anger as he tumbled out of bed, slammed his hand against
the wall and dented the damned wall board.  He was too angry and
scared to hold still no matter what.  He slammed the wall again,
seeing the bloody smudge his knuckles left.  He tried to pull the
lamp up, but it was bolted to the nightstand.  Found himself
yanking on it, shrieking in rage and past any thought or reasoning
until he finally dropped to his knees, exhausted.

     The cuff still pulled his left wrist tight, tethering him to
the bed frame.  Fox stared at it and felt the slow anger kindle
again. Wrapped both hands around the chain of the cuffs and dug his
heels in and pulled with everything his skinny body had left.  When
it moved and he fell on his ass, the pain that shot through him
made his vision swim for a moment.  God, the muscles in his butt
hurt.  It took a while to realize that something had moved, or he
wouldn't have fallen.

     At first Mulder thought the chain had given somehow.  It took
forever for his drug-fogged wits to understand that the whole bed
had shifted towards him.  When he realized, he bit down on his lip
to hold onto the surge of hope, and dug his heels in and pulled
again.  And it moved.

     "Jesus Christ. . . " he breathed, hearing his own slurred
voice and not really caring.  Moved closer to the head of the bed
and wrapped his hands around the chain and pulled again, sobbing
as the bed hung up on the nightstand, and yanked until he had
pulled it loose.

     Mulder was gasping for breath, muscles aching and wrist a
bruised mess by the time he'd dragged the bed into reach of the
phone.  He sagged onto the floor, phone dangling off the edge of
the bureau, as he desperately tried to punch Averman's cellphone
number in.  A recorded voice told him that the number he wanted
was out of service or out of range, and he slammed the disconnect
button in frustration and tried again.  By the third repeat he was
sobbing in frustration, teeth clenched and face red with the tears
he was holding back.  Finally dialed the operator and begged for
her to put him through to the FBI.
 

     When the voice answered he thought it was the sweetest thing
he'd ever heard.  He drew in a sniffling breath.

     "My name. . . "  His voice caught in his throat.  "I'm Fox
Mulder.  Help.  Please. . . "

     "Sir," whoever this woman was, her tired, irritated voice held
no patience for him, "please state your business clearly.  Your
call is being taped."

     "I told you, I'm Fox Mulder."

     He could hear a sigh, cut off short.  "Sir, I'm transferring
you to one of our field agents to address your call.  We have
received numerous calls regarding Agent Mulder, and there may be a
short wait.  Please hold on."  Across the room, the clock ticked
off the minutes after noon, as he sat and listened to muzak.
Mulder gulped, swallowing another sob.  And gradually became
aware of the midday news on the television over his head.

     When he leaned out, phone clutched in his bruised right hand,
left still held taut to the bed frame, he could see his own face,
and a grainy snapshot of Elijah.  He swallowed as he listened to
the news announce him as abducted, and he saw the phone numbers
on the screen.  He'd been on hold more than three minutes.  And the
number was up there on the screen, broadcast across the entire,
fucking state.  Mulder felt his face pull up into a sob or a scream
as he remembered just how many people phoned that kind of
number.  Hundreds.  Maybe more.  He curled back against the bureau
and hung up.  Deep breaths.  Hard ones.  Then he tried again, dialing
9-1-1.

And heard nothing.  Waited and waited until a recording finally
announced he'd been disconnected and advised him on how to get
directory assitance.  The second time it happened he wanted to beat
the phone into little bits of plastic and chips.  He tried once
more, and a sudden memory flashed, almost too fast to catch.  The
Washington Post, maybe.  And a story about phones. And about 9-1-
1.

And this area didn't have 9-1-1.  His teeth were grinding and his
neck hurt with the fury racing through him.  Mulder struggled to
get another breath in past the anger and the despair.  Fuck this,
he couldn't think.  Slammed his head back against the cheap veneer
and chipboard, over and over until the pain in his head matched the
pain in his hands.

     Finally, he tried the phone again.  There was no point dialing
the local FBI, they'd just put him on hold again.  One phone number
was clearer in his head than any other.  He dialed the long
distance exchange for Washington, D.C. and waited as the phone rang
at VICAP in the J. Edgar Hoover Building.  Sitting there, with his
left arm stretched back behind him and his aching right hand
wrapped around the hotel phone, Fox Mulder prayed, for the first
time in years, asking a god he didn't believe in to please, please
let someone pick up the damn phone at VICAP before the fucking
answering machine kicked in, or Elijah walked through the
door.
 
 
 

     He dreamed of Ellen in her smooth green dress.  Garters
without panties and her breasts were soft underneath the sturdy
cotton bra.  Her father's farm and the hot Oklahoma sun.  The
little Mustang, wedged tight in the back seat, rising and arching
with his hands against her sweating back.  Her face, soft and her
eyes those of a gentle doe.  They had walked through the endless,
sweating fields.  Her short black hair.  "Did I ever tell you how
beautiful you are?" Jack asked, raising one of her small hands to
his mouth.

     Ellen laughed and her laughter was like listening to the
sound of crystal bells. Her neck was smooth and long and the
hollows collected sweat, tempting his mouth to rove and his tongue
to feel.  The green dress with only garters on.  His hands pushing
against her legs, feeling the soft, warm curve of bottom and her
nervous shiver as her eyes half closed.

     "Did I ever tell you that I loved you past anything?  That I
will always love you?  That you are my entire world and
everything?" Jack whispered, wanting her to understand his
desire.

     "I know."  Ellen stared into his eyes.  She was not the
college coed of twenty five years ago.  She was his Ellen.  His
Ellen who had chanced to cross an intersection when a trucker
wasn't watching.  His Ellen that they had pried from the frame of
his Mustang.

     "I love you so much."  Jack pressed her tiny, bird-like frame,
against his chest, wrapped her tightly in his arms.  "I love you so
much."

     The smell of her White Shoulder's perfume was heavy in his
mouth and nose as he buried his head in her raven hair.
 
 
 
 

     "Averman?"  The SAC's voice was sharp.  Jack Averman blinked
several times, clearing cobwebs.  His eyes teared as he remembered.
He said a silent prayer.  He did not know if it had been a dream or
if it was, somehow, Ellen.  He knew what he would choose to
believe.

     "Yeah," Averman said, finally, sitting up on his bed.

     "John Gregory used his credit card this morning.  Just got it
in.  We think he's headed to Corpus Christi."

     Averman blinked and swallowed.  "Oh hell," he muttered.  "Oh
fucking hell!"  A sudden smile slid across his face.
 
 

     "VICAP."  The tart voice wasn't one Mulder recognized.  He sat
a moment dumbly.  Some part of his mind had expected it to be
Sandy or Kay, the secretaries.  He took a deep shuddering breath.

     "This is VICAP."  The voice repeated.

     "Hello?" Mulder said shakily. "I'm Fox Mulder. . ."

     "No more sick jokes please," the voice said sharply.  "Now
state your business.  This is an internal line authorized only for.
. ."

     "I want Sandy or Kay.  Where's Kay?"  Sandy, twenty pounds
overweight and forever bitching about how life was unfair that
Mulder could eat and eat and if she looked at a jelly donut her
thighs expanded by four inches at least.  Kay, bubbly and blonde
always ready for a good pun.

     "Sandra Markston and Katherine O'Neal are on other
assignments."

     Mulder closed his eyes.  He hurt.  Everything hurt and he was
tired and now there was some woman who didn't know him.  And
he was tired and sleepy and Elijah was coming back anytime and. .
.

     "Is there someone else you would like to talk to?"

     "Thompson?"

     "May I have your name?"

     "Mulder."
 
     The phone clicked in his ear.

     Mulder closed his eyes, curled up with his chin against his
knees, just curled up.  He was beyond angry, in some strange quiet
place where anger just didn't matter anymore.  He saw his body
lying in state and he saw the cemetery and the quiet plot and the
rich, living smell of water curling in across the grass.

     He sniffled and tried to think.  Dialed the number again.

     "VICAP."

     "I am. . ."  A sob interrupted.  Mulder did not know where the
strange, tight sound came from, but it was obviously within him.
"I am Fox Mulder and I want someone I know.  I don't know you.  I
want them NOW.  He's gonna kill me.  I want Kay or Sandy or
Thompson or even Gillis or Johana.  I want. . ." another strange,
sharp sob. "I want somebody!"

     Mulder heard words and voices and the phone started to click
and then a voice.

     "Hello, this is VICAP, will you please state your business?"

     "Sandy?"  Mulder sniffled.  "Sandy?"

     "OHMYGODIT'SMULDERSOMEBODYGOGETATRACE."  There were
voices now and then Sandy's soft voice.  "MULDER?  Is that you?
Mulder, where are you?"

     "I doan know. . .nobody believed me."  Mulder closed his eyes,
listening to that familiar voice.  Sandy.  Up in Washington D.C.
an overweight woman named Sandy was wearing a headset and
talking to him.  Somewhere somebody was listening to him.  "I. .
." Another sob rocked him, made his gut hurt and twist and churn.
"I. . .I doan know where Elijah is. . ."

     "Tell us what you know. . .it's okay.  Fox, look around you."
New voice.  He didn't know it.

     "I want Sandy," Mulder sniffled as the familiar, gentle voice
was torn away.  "Where's Sandy?"

     "I'm here."  Voices buzzed.  In his head?  On the phone?
"Mulder.  Tell us what you know?"

     "I'm in a hotel room."

     A pause.

     "Is there a number on the phone?"

     "57."

     "Are you alone."

     "Yes," Mulder sniffed.

     "Can you leave?"

     "I'm chained to the bed.  Nobody's here.  They put me on hold
when I said I was Mulder. . ."

     "I know.  We've had a lot of calls. . ."  Long pause.
"Mulder, is he giving you anything?"

     "Thorazine."
 

     "A lot?"

     "Yes."

Continued in part 32...................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 32/41 NC-17
Date: 21 Feb 1996 08:54:19 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 32/41)
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 thank you to the nice people who wrote and gave me good stuff
to read with the morning coffee!
Goo
________________

     Elijah's hand was strong.  The phone went back on the cradle.

     Mulder stared and scooted back, back to the headboard, behind
it.  Felt his stomach rise in his chest, balloon against his lungs.
He could not swallow.  Closed his eyes.

     A soft and gentle voice.

     "Fox.  It's okay.  It's okay."  Elijah was there suddenly.
Mulder was trapped in his corner.  "Fox.  I won't get mad.  It's
okay.  I was gone a long time."

     "I don't *care*!" Mulder spat out.  "I don't *care*!  You're
wrong.  When you die it's all black and death and decay.  There's
nothing and no one!  THERE ISN'T ANY GOD, you fucking faggot!
There isn't any God.  He doesn't exist.  There isn't any heaven.
You just killed those children.  You sent them down into the
darkness and you KILLED them."

     Elijah's breath was deep and he just sat there, waiting.  It
was not much of speech, and it was hard for Mulder to get the words
out, hard to summon the anger.  Mulder didn't care, he sat,
seething, puffing breath out through his mouth, staring at his
captor.

     Mulder watched the pretty boy looks and the healthy tan and
the lithe, athletic frame and suddenly his free hand snaked out,
began hitting.  Elijah dodged and then grabbed Mulder's free hand.
Mulder didn't care.  It didn't matter.  Nothing mattered.  Elijah
was going to take him to the coast and kill them both and nothing
would matter then, except to the maggots.  There was nothing, no
heaven, no hell, nothing but darkness, endless, eternal darkness.
Sam was dead.  Sam had been dead for a long time.

     Elijah made the mistake of bringing his hand close to Mulder's
mouth as he sought to contain the older man's hand without
causing any further harm.  Mulder snapped hard, teeth meeting on
air.  Elijah sighed.  "Fox.  Don't do this.  Don't let your anger
talk for you.  I know, you're far into the darkness.  I know you're
scared.  I know.  But, don't do this.  It's all going to be all
right in just a little bit."

     "NO IT'S NOT!"  Mulder yelled as loudly as his hoarse voice
would allow.

     Elijah let got of Mulder's hand and scooted away.  Mulder put
his face in his knees and braced for what was to come.

     Elijah worked for the hand first and Mulder kicked out hard,
kicked and screamed and tried to move and he felt his bare feet
connect again and again on Elijah's legs, although he never hit the
genitals, which would be his prize goal.  Eventually his free hand
was cuffed and attached to the leg on the floor, turning him over
so that his face was pressed up against a fake pattern of wood.
Mulder squirmed and kicked and screamed, but it was an easy
matter for Elijah to simply sit on his legs and then the boxers were
bunched down below his buttocks and the needle hurt.  Oh fucking
hell it hurt so bad.  He felt Elijah's hand against his bottom,
massaging the bruises and the tired skin and felt the fire rushing
up and radiating out and he could not control it.  It hurt so bad.
. . Mulder bared his teeth against the sudden fuzziness.   Bared
his teeth and growled and bucked hard.

     Elijah rolled off of Fox as the drug reduced his friend to
incoherence.  Another 75 milligram shot.  More than was
recommended.  It was the only thing he could do to give his friend
some relief.  This last had been horrible, like watching a dumb
animal faced with something unknown.  And Fox was in such bad
shape.  Jon hadn't planned to be gone so long.  Rent a car, buy a
car, come back here.  He'd used his Dallas account.  Greg
Johannson.  He knew that no one had that name yet.

     Greg Johannson.  Elijah remembered Luke and smiled fondly.
Luke's hands had been gentle and his kisses moist.  And how
incredibly young and stupid Elijah had been.  The big bedroom and
the story that Luke was his cousin.  The prayer breakfasts with
Pastor Crisswell and never telling the truth because the other
christians did not understand the truth of love between men.  Luke
had been older but it had never mattered.  And when Luke died,
there had been the trust for Elijah.  For Greg Johannson.  Elijah
already had the stock investments. Done what Luke said to do.

     Luke was in heaven.

     Elijah sighed and smoothed the hair sadly.  His friend was so
confused and frightened.  Oh God, what had Fox's dad done?  The
blood from a cut in Fox's scalp smeared Elijah's hands.  Fox'd hurt
himself. One wrist, the one first cuffed, was cruelly marked and
puffy now, and looked horrible.  The other hand was cut open and
bruised.  He was going to lose the fingernail on his littlest
finger.  Elijah vowed to keep Fox down until it was over.  He
didn't want Fox to hurt himself again.  Didn't want Fox to go
through the fear.
 
 
 
 

     Sam Rodriguez rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the words.
Mulder had called VICAP.

     It hit him.   Mulder had fucking called VICAP.  He was muddled
and hysterical and didn't sound too good and the conversation had
been cut off and they didn't have a perfect trace, but they knew
the area code.

     Mulder had called VICAP.  Sam listened intently, leaning over
close to listen to Jack Averman speaking over the helicopter's
radio.  They were half-way to Corpus now and it turned out Mulder
was in Louisiana?  Louisiana of all places?  Jimmy Swaggart and New
Orleans all in one pot pie.

     Rodriguez felt his stomach lurch and realized that they were
turning.  Beside him, Meyers turned green.  Meyers was Rodriguez'
idea.  If they found Mulder before. . . When they found Mulder, he
was likely to have problems.  Extremely ill, possibly psychotic.
Mulder trusted Meyers.  If Rodriguez or Meyers were there the
likelihood of Mulder cooperating with the program went up several
notches.

     Rodriguez put his head against the warm metal frame of the
helicopter and told himself that Jenni was right.  He needed to
stay in fucking D.C.
 
 
 
 

     Mark yawned and finished pouring milk over his raisin bran,
flicked on the kitchen TV and began eating.  It was still quiet in
the house; his parents weren't in from work, his kid sister was
still in school  He was out of classes.  He'd eat and then stumble
into bed until ten, an hour before his shift at the Downtowner
started.

     Nothing, nothing, nothing.  Mark left his finger down on the
cable remote and surfed through the channels, letting the TV scan
for signs of intelligent life.  None of the good cartoons were on.
He settled finally for CNN and turned up the sound.

     The weather.  Hot and muggy with a continued chance of hot and
muggy.  Oh wow, like how could he have guessed *that* one?

     Entertainment. . .yeah, yeah.  Lisa Lisa's smiling face.  It
wasn't a bad song in a boring little way, Mark guessed.  He yawned
again.

     Gorby and his anorexic little woman. . .Mark finished the
first bowl and reached for the purple box.

     "In other news, the search for Fox Mulder, the kidnapped FBI

Agent, continues today with police intensifying their search along
the Texas coast.  The FBI has said that they. . ."  Cut to a press
conference but Mark wasn't listening, he was staring at the
photographs open mouthed.
 
 
 
 

     Elijah sped along the narrow road leading through Cameron
Parish.  It was all so much marsh. Marsh and the smell, when he
rolled his window down, the smell was one Elijah had almost
forgotten.  Rich and teeming and full of humus.  He laughed at the
alligator crossing sign.  How very, very quaint.  Made even the
quainter by his knowledge that the sign had not been put up as a
come-on to tourists.  No, these people really had to worry about
alligators crossing the road.

     Fox murmured something to himself, face buried deeply in the
pillow.  Elijah sighed.  It would not be long, not now.
 
 
 
 

     The hotel room was empty.  The State Police had sent in their
SWAT team and come up with absolute-fucking-zero.  Rodriguez felt
the snap of gloves.  Prophylactic gloves.  God, Rodriguez
remembered Mulder had a hysterical story to tell about a date who
liked Mulder wearing the damn things like he was her gynecologist.
Crime Scene tape.  At least the state police didn't have far to go.
Their regional headquarters were about three hundred yards down
the beach.  The beach.  Rodriguez looked out the floor to ceiling glass
window, across the lake at a metal balustrade, at a concrete and
stone structure, at luxuriant live oaks.  Sailboats.  Bayliners.
Party Barges.  Bass Trackers.  People were relaxing in the warm,
gentle sun. Probably didn't even know that a federal agent was
somewhere, drugged and sick and dying.  Didn't stop to think that
there were kids being beaten somewhere in their fair city.  Kids
who would grow up to scream in the dark.  Hell, some of those
people in their fiberglass and aluminum boats might be the ones who
wielded the belts and the broomsticks.  They might also be the ones
who still started sometimes, wondering when the next blow would
fall.

     The local field agent, who specialized more in fugitives and
interstate drug-running, a big burly man, was talking with Averman.
Rodriguez went into the bathroom.

     Needles.  Two needles.  A single vial.  When Rodriguez picked
it up he read a familiar label.  The same label he'd been staring
at since he'd given Mulder his first shot of Thorazine.  He hissed
through his teeth and shook out an evidence bag.

     "In here."  Meyers' voice from the bedroom, high on the
register.
 

     Rodriguez moved quickly.

     Meyers was staring at the bed post.  He was staring at a dent
in the wall.  He was staring at marks on the headboard.  Rodriguez
flashed the scene.  Mulder's hand beating against the wall.  Mulder
beating his head again and again, screaming in frustration and
rage.

     Sam dropped to his knees.  Mulder would have had to pull the
heavy bedstead five or six feet. There were small dark spots on the
floor.  Blood.  Elijah had cleaned thoroughly, but not under the
bed.  Blood.

     "He didn't leave towels or anything?"

     "There weren't any in here," Field Agent Marleson replied
drawling.

     "Can we get someone to check the laundry?" Rodriguez asked
Averman.  "I'd like to see if Elijah shoved bloody towels out the
door or something.  It might tell us if there's any head trauma or
damage to his hands."

     Averman eyed the marks in the headboard and nodded.  "I'll put
someone right on it.  You're thinking self-inflicted?"

     Rodreguiz nodded.

     "Okay."
 
 
 
 
 

     Holly Beach.  Hwy 27.  Holly Beach.  Elijah took a right, like
he'd been told.  He drove and drove and saw the ocean pounding
against the Gulf.  It was not home.  It was not the Atlantic.  It
was not the Vineyard.  But it was the ocean, full and round.  It
was the pulse and throb of the water and the force and the smell of
salt and decay and life.  It was the water.  One could almost hear
the toiling of the bell on the Dry Salvages.
 
 
 
 
 

     No other clues.  No one had seen them leave.  No one had seen
a small black Cherokee Limited with wood panels, which they had
been told was Jon's current vehicle "but he buys a new one every
year or so.  When he gets bored.  You know?"
 

     No, Rodriguez did not know.  Jon, Jonathan, Elijah, whatever
the hell the guy's name was, had money.  Money pouring out his ass.
Been some rich old family oil baron's "companion" in the late
seventies and early eighties and been left a trust fund and tons of
money of his own.

     Hell.  They had the local TV stations running bulletins.
Hell, they didn't have to fucking ask.  The most exciting thing to
happen in this little backwoods town in years.  They probably had
convenience store clerks eyeing every man who came in, hoping to
be the one who spotted Elijah and Mulder.

     It was a good bet where they were headed, according to the
local authorities.  Cameron parish.  There were two roads going
north/south into Cameron Parish.  And when a hurricane came out of
the warm humid waters, Rodriguez was told, they evacuated
Cameron Parish and the roads only went North.  Two lane one ways
for getting the hell out.  The Cameron Parish sheriff and his deputies
were putting word out, and the State Police were rushing down.
Cameron Parish only had one patrol car.  Well, two, but that was
counting the sheriff's car, and that belonged to the sheriff, he
just charged the parish for mileage when they used it for official
business.

     Putting up roadblocks, combing the beaches.  They'd find them.
They'd find them and Mulder would be safe.  Mulder would be safe
from Elijah anyway.
 
 
 
 

     "Hi."  Carlyss eyed the young man with his dark hair and light
skin.  He should have been born a blonde, but some freak of nature
had made him a soft brunette.  He was fine too, and even in his
loose OP shorts you could still tell what kind of butt moved
underneath.  Oh my, and that smile would just about melt you down
to your Keds.  You couldn't see his eyes beyond the wide Hobie
frames, but Carlyss was sure that would just finish off the picture
that was making her feel weak.

     "Hi yourself," she flirted.  He set down two cokes and two
Gatorades and two boxes of sandwiches.  She rang him up.  "You
going fishing?"

     "Yes'um."  The man smiled and pulled out his wallet.  There
was some more money in that wallet too.  "Like Peter and James and
John."

     Oh fuck, why'd he have to be another one of those religious
nuts.  One of them fundamentalists who spent entirely too much time
worried about church.  Go to confession, go to mass, go to
communion and when the time came you had all your ducks in a
row, right?  Carlyss didn't understand why normal people took it this
far.  It was like, even the priests weren't so annoying.  Yankee
protestants.  She chewed on her gum and whipped out a bag, keeping
the friendly little high-school bimbette checkout girl look firmly
frozen on her face.

     Pity too, as fine as he was.  You know, she bet if she got him
good and horny, he'd drop all that twelve apostles shit.

     "They say people been catching them all along the water's
edge."

     The man nodded.

     "Which one of the cabin places is best?" the man asked, as
Carlyss bagged his food.

     "Well. . .Margaret Simms has the Rest-your-head.  They're on
a par with the rest, but Margaret's are a lot cleaner."

     "They're on the water?"

     Carlyss nodded.  Oh word he was fine.  She could give him the
sacraments in spades.

     "Yeah.  Go down to the Get-n-Go and there's a road that says
Public Beaches?  Take it.  The road to the beach goes straight, but
there's a right hand road with some fresh gravel.  Take it.  Tell
her Carlyss Anne says hi."

     The man thought this through and nodded.

     "You not from here?"

     "I'm from Leesville."

     "Oh."  Sleezeville.  No wonder.  Carlyss Anne didn't know
psychology, but she understood a few things.  "Well.  You pass a
good time,now."

     "I will."  He took his bag and walked out to his big, brand
new white Suburban.  He'd boughten it in Texas.  Some people.
Gotta go to a big city for every little blessed thing.  Carlyss
sighed and reflected that she could learn to appreciate hand-waving
if the price was right.
 
 
 

     "A buddy and me, wanna' do some fishing.  I heard the specks
and the reds are running in the surf."

     Margaret Simms nodded.  "Five days you said?"

     "Yes'm."

     "Okay. . .That comes to 220."  She fairly licked her lips as
the young man shelled out money.  He smiled at her.  Margaret took
the three hundred dollar bills and went to her cashbox.  She
glanced at the wanted poster of Jonathan Gragg and Fox Mulder
pinned above the 8x10 Wal-mart photo of her latest grandbaby,
Ashley Renee.

     "They've got checkpoints out all over," the man said,
adjusting his worn Astros cap.  "Got stopped twice on the way down
here."

     Margaret nodded.  He didn't fit.  Brown hair, not blonde.
Besides if he and his buddy didn't go surf fishing she'd call Bubba
Landrineaux, the Sheriff and inform him.

     "You're in the last cabin," Margaret informed him, handing
back the eighty.  "Number four."  Margaret handed him two keys and
some towels.  "I don't think I put any out there."

     He smiled and pulled at his brim for her.  A gentleman.
Didn't get many of those down here.  Even if they did drive fancy
trucks.
 
 
 

     "Come on."  Elijah's hands were strong.  Mulder, snuggled
around his pillow and the blanket, did not want to move.  He
wrinkled his face tight and clung to his fetal position.

     A sigh.  Strong hands, holding him and pulling him.

     Just let go.  It's so easy.  The darkness is not so very bad.

     No.

     He smelled salt water, heard the roar.  Seagulls screaming.
Wind and the taste of the air.

     Rush and retreat.

     "DoyouthinkyoucanwalkordoIcarryyou?"

     Mulder opened an eye.  Sea Grasses.  Sand.  Endless horizons
of blue.

     Strong hands.  It's so easy.  It won't be very long.

     Feet on sand and he cannot. . .
     Lifted up and move your feet.  So hard to do.
     The bed and the sound of waves collapsing on the sand.
     Pull your wrist up and snap.  Waves roll and suds.
     Endless blue horizons.

     Spinning round and round and round on the empty places.  Aunt
Mira is tending the old graves.  So many names. Mostly Mulders. His
dadda had told him he looked feral when he was born so he named
him Fox, but there was another Fox Mulder here too.  Feral meant
you looked like a fearsome animal.  Fox liked to pretend growl at
Dadda, when Dadda was being nice.  He spun and spun and spun
among the grasses.  You could hear the ocean from here.  You could
see the ocean from here.  Spin and spin and spin.  His arm hurt in the
cast.  Someday Fox would die too.  But that was okay.  Spin and
spin and spin.  You went to heaven when you died.  This was just
for people to visit so they wouldn't get lonely and so your
descendants could go to be reminded that you'd been here once.
 
 
 
 

     Sam was gone.  Fox's fingers dug against the molding as he
hung in the doorway.  He didn't like Reverend Agayar.  He smelled
funny. And they'd made the Graggs leave.  It wasn't fair.  Mary
had been his girlfriend.

     The Reverend was saying things about God's will and generous
creator.  Fox did not speak.  He stayed quiet, and hid in his room.
And sometimes he could forget that Samantha was gone.  Sometimes
he knew she was back.  At school it was best.  He could forget all
day.  Besides if he wasn't quiet they would hear him.  Dad and the
things.  If he was quiet Dad would forget about him through
suppertime.  Fox dug his fingers deeper into the molding and edged
back out.

     Everyone lied.  Everyone said.  Everyone lied and it was like
Fox pretending Sam was back.  If you pretend very hard you can
make it real to you.  But it isn't real.  God was a story that people
made up.  He slipped out the kitchen door without a sound and went
into the backyard.  Huddled against a tree.  If there was a God
then God had let them take his sister.  God had done this.  But
there wasn't a God.  There never was and there never, ever had
been.

     There were only maggots and stench and nothing else.  Fox put
his head to his knees and wrapped his hands around his chest,
pulling at the skin until he left his ribs in bruises.  On top of
the old bruises.  Until he could just barely stand to breathe and
sometimes wished it hurt bad enough not to breathe.

     He felt like crying, but he could not find the energy to cry.
He couldn't even cry anymore.

Continued in part 33...............
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 33/41 NC-17
Date: 22 Feb 1996 03:27:54 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 33/41)
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.

___________________

     He felt so heavy, the air in his lungs was hard to expel.  It
hurt to breathe in, to breathe out, hurt to be.  Air on his skin
burned, and his muscles ached on his bones.  When Mulder opened
his eyes, the lids grated.

     He didn't know he'd made a sound.  He didn't see Jon, but he
was suddenly there.  Mulder's skin crawled as a strong arm wrapped
around his shoulders and helped him sit up, propped him against
pillows, and a cool hand smoothed the hair back from his forehead.

     "Here.  You've been asleep a long time."  Elijah let him see
the seal on the lid of the Gatorade before he twisted it off.
Mulder wanted to reach for the bottle.  His mouth was so dry.
Elijah finally put a straw in the bottle, and held it to his lips.
Mulder drew a sip, leaned back to catch his breath.

     "I haven't been asleep.  I've been drugged."  The words rasped
from his throat.  Sorrow creased Jon's smooth face, thinned his
lips.

     "You left me no choice."

     Mulder just stared at him, finally took another sip of the
thin, swamp green stuff.  It was cold in his throat and he
shivered, but pulled more of it into his mouth, letting it chase
the thick, woolen sourness from his tongue.  His chest heaved,
trying to draw in a breath as he let the straw slip loose again.
Sharp twists of pain lanced from his hips and butt every time he
shifted, wracking his back.  He let his head fall onto the pillows.
"Why?"

     How Elijah ever heard the whisper was hard to say.  When he
leaned forward the sun shaft from the window limned his hair and
lit a glow in the peach fuzz on his skin.  "I don't understand,
Fox. What do you want to know?"  His voice was gentle, as though he
feared it could shatter the man in front of him.  Mulder's eyes
were wide and dark in a smooth, pale face as he pulled his head
upright again, staring into blue eyes that showed just the first
hint of crowsfeet, lines of stress and pain pulling the muscles
around his eyes.

     "I don't want to die.  Why are you taking me?"  Mulder's voice
was low and calm, too exhausted to be angry or frightened in that
moment.  Elijah stared into his eyes, and licked his lips, tongue
hovering at the dry edge of his lower lip, to dart out and moisten
it.  Instantly caught it between his teeth and looked away.

     "Don't make me stay, Fox.  Please. . . it hurts so much."  His
voice was still quiet, but low and choked now.  His adam's apple
worked as he swallowed.  Sucked in the air in a sniff.  Looked
back.

     "You know, I heard Jesus when I was small.  He spoke to me,
and his voice was so gentle."  Mulder didn't look away, watched the
blue eyes scrunch shut on some memory.  Features still rounded by
youth drew into a tight pattern of flushed skin and pain.  "When it
was just me, I could still hear Him. . . "

     "What do you mean?"  His head was too heavy for his neck, and
Mulder let the muscles drop it sideways, seeing the way his vision
fogged at the edges and hearing the slow slurring of his words as
the drug clung to him.

     "There are so many of them, screaming, and I can't hear Him
anymore, Fox.  All the little ones, and so many of the big ones,
too.  It hurts so much, and I don't want to stay any more. . ."
Elijah's soft face was pulled like a child's, wrinkled and red,
eyes glistening.
 

     Fox felt his mouth go dry again.  Shifted off the bones of his
ass, trying to ease the pain of the bruises.  "I understand, Jon.
I understand that they hurt you, and you don't want to stay, but
that doesn't give you the right to kill. . . "

     "No!  No, oh Fox, oh God, why can't you understand?  I can't
betray all of them like that. . . ."  Elijah's shoulders shook as
he tried to calm himself.  Turned his face from the light that
burned across his hair and sparkled in the wet trails under his
eyes, his nose.  Rubbed his sleeve across his nose.  "I'd take them
all, help them all, if I could.  I can hear them screaming so loud
and it hurts so bad, and they won't stop hurting them.  You scream
so loud in my head."  He bit his lip until the skin around his
teeth was white from the pressure.

     "I. . . listen to me, Jon.  Please."  Mulder felt the dry fear
of hope in his throat.  Forced himself up on his hands, leaning
forward.  His shadow narrowed the bar of light trapped by dust,
trapping the killer.  "I never called you, I don't want what you're
offering.  I don't want to die.  I don't want to go with you."

     The sadness in Jon's eyes was as deep as the night, and
smoothed his face again.  "You scream so loud, and you can't even
hear it.  I'm betraying them already, Fox.  All the ones who call
to me, and scream to me.  I can't save them all, Fox.  I'm not the
Savior, I'm only one man.  And I want to go home, Fox.  I'm so
lonely, and it hurts so much. . . "

     "It's all right, I understand."  He could not afford his
conscience, it would kill him.   "It hurts you.  But, Jon, it
doesn't hurt me."  His hands, on his own chest, felt the fear and
dread in the quick pattern of his breaths.  "You aren't taking me
home, that isn't my home, I. . . "

     He pulled back.  Elijah was reaching for him, pity and grief
and sorrow on his face.  The hand on his hair was gentle.  Mulder
tried to hold still, very still.  "It hurts to stay, and it hurts
to know how many I'm leaving, betraying.  There are so many who
need so much, and I'm so tired.  But I can't leave you.  That's
just. . . you were our friend, and I didn't see it.  I can't let
them hurt you any more, Fox."
 
     Mulder stared at him, and felt the bottom drop out of his
stomach.  Finally shut his eyes.  He was tired of looking at dead
ends.
 
 
 
 

     "He puked all in it." Averman's voice was tired as he watched
Rodriguez' eyes open, watched the compact, dark skinned man sit up
on the couch in the State Police offices.  Meyers was in the john,
taking a crap.  "They found his Cherokee in day parking at Houston
Airport."

     "Oh Fuck," Sam muttered, rubbing his eyes.  "Fucking hell."
It was no more than they had expected.  But the knowledge still
hurt.  "I called St. Patrick's, Captain O'Donnell said it's the
best hospital in the region.  They've requested Marion's records
from University Hospital."

     Averman nodded, watched as the pathologist stretched.  They
all ached with the search and the lack of sleep and the intensity
of the last two weeks and the grief.

     Meyers came out, slumped into his chair.  Averman related the
news. Watched Meyers absorb it.  The kid was abso-fucking-lutely
shellshocked.  He was functioning; he was trying hard, but the case
was having its effect on him.  Hell, who wasn't it having an effect
on?  Averman himself must look the same way.  Sam was just sitting
there.  "What else did they find?"

     "A sweatshirt, umm. . .more empty needles and bottles.
Several empty Gatorade bottles.  The same thing we found in the
hotel room."

     "Did the hotel ever find the towels?"

     "No.  They'd been sent off and were already being laundered."

     Rodriguez nodded.

     "The Coast Guard is going to start heavy patrols," Meyers
said tonelessly.  He looked at Averman and for a moment the AIC
didn't know what Meyers was asking.

     "I keep forgetting you've lived on the coast," Averman said.
"Do you want to coordinate that?"

     "If I could be their FBI link," Meyers replied.

     "Are you sure you're up to it?"

     Meyers shook his head.  "But I've got to do it.  Mulder is my
friend."

     Rodriguez stared at his words.  "You know.  He doesn't have
many friends, Meyers.  I'm glad he's got you."

     Meyers nodded, a simple acknowledgment of a lonely, hurt man.
 
 
 
 

     Jon considered the fishing poles and reels he'd bought in
Houston.  The tackle box and all the various lures and baits and
weights and corks and hooks.  He'd torn everything out of its
packaging and put it all into the tackle box.  Jesus had been a
fisherman, but somehow, Jon doubted Jesus had ever had to worry
about Rattle Traps and Cacaho Minnows and which weight of
monofilament line to buy.

     The combo already had line, but he'd had to figure out how to
reel line in on the others.  Fox was asleep, drugged again.  But
Jon had only used a few milligrams of Thorazine.  Not like the
other dosages.  Fox hadn't wanted it, but had been cogent enough to
realize it would only be harder if he didn't acquiesce.  He hadn't
been willing enough to drink the stuff, but he hadn't contracted
the muscles in his bottom and he hadn't kicked as much when Jon sat
on him.  It gave Jon the option of choosing the least used site.

     Jon had no idea how to put on some of the baits.  The rattle
trap was pretty simple though.  A bright, stainless steel convex
piece of work about an inch long with shot in it.  Two sets of
treble hooks dangled underneath and a little bit of paint had been
added to make it look even more like a small fish.  He tied the
line onto the round ring on top of the bait.  Put other lures on
the other rods.  It didn't matter if they were the right ones.  The
sun's dying resonance and fire cast soft purples and pinks across
the sky outside  the patio doors.  Jon had tossed a towel over the
Jenny Lind frame so that no one would see Fox's handcuff if they
walked by and looked in.  A couple of people had walked by, but at
that time the angle of the light had been such that they couldn't
have seen in.

     "Jon?"  Fox's voice was soft.

     Jon finished with his bait and got up.  Fox was staring at
him.  "Jon.  Let me go."

     "I can't."  Jon wiped Fox's brow.

     "If I die, Sam won't be able to find me.  Sam won't know where
I am," Fox muttered, staring at Jon.

     "What if Sam is dead?"

     "Sam's not dead," Fox replied, shaking his head.  "Sam's not
dead."

     Jon did not know what to think of this.  It might be something
confused in Fox's mind, or it might be another one of the delusions
that Fox was using to keep himself functioning.  "Tell me what
happened to Sam again?"

     Fox stared at him a long time.  "I was babysitting.  And then
they came and took her.  And I didn't stop them."

     "When was this?"  Elijah let things click in his mind.
 

     "Right after you left."

     "I didn't stop them," Fox repeated as though this were
important.

     Jon considered this information.  Fox had made it sound like
a stranger abduction.  Now ugly thoughts were forming in the back
of Jon's mind.  "Who took her?"

     "Oh. . ."  Fox's eyes half-closed. "Oh the ones.  The ones who
used to come."

     Jon bit his lip.  He remembered Fox, sweat beading his brow
and biting his lip, trying to act brave because Mary was in the
room.  Terrified of darkness.  Several scenarios played out in his
head and all of them were ugly.

     "She's not dead.  They just took her.  She's coming back.
Please, Jon.  If you have to go, all right.  But Sam's coming back
and I've got to be here."

     "We're going where Sam is," Jon hushed, not wanting to
enunciate the images Fox's words had created. Not sure how Fox
would react.  "We're going to go where Sam is and it'll be all
right."

     "She's *not* dead!"

     Jon took a deep breath.

     "She's not dead.  She's not dead," Fox ranted.

     "Okay," Jon calmed.  "It's okay."  Fox didn't remember all
the abuse.  Had there been sexual abuse?  Jon remembered the
physical abuse.  Sexual abuse, no, he didn't remember that, and
he'd thought Fox hadn't put out the right. . .smells. .. for sexual
abuse.  Now, looking at his old friend, staring at the desperate,
pleading face, he wasn't so sure.  Someone had abducted Samantha.
Someone who had hurt Fox before.

     "We're going to go driving," Jon said, finally.  He had been
certain and sure of what he had to do, but even if he hadn't this
confession would have resolved the matter for him.  He could not
leave Fox here, not in this state.

     Fox looked up at Jon, desperate.  "I *have* to be there.  When
she comes back.  I have to be there.  Don't kill me, Jon.  I have
to be there when Sam comes home.  Don't you understand?"

     Jon nodded and thought of how good it would be for Fox when he
finally did get to heaven and Sam was there.  No, probably no
sexual abuse.  But then, there didn't have to be.  The damage to
Fox's soul had been just as great as any child Jon had sent on to
heaven.  He watched his friend sorrowfully and wondered how many
more children would suffer while the world watched blindly on.  It
was so fucking unfair.
 
 
 
 
 

     The pen stood upright in a mass of sodden french fries and
congealing ketchup.  Sam Rodriguez stared at it, choking down the
urge to giggle.  He pushed the whole mess - fries, pen, cold,
brown-rinded burger and all - into the trash can next to his desk
where half full cups of stale coffee fermented, splattering the
side of the desk.

     "Get out of here, Rodriguez."  Sam looked up at the AIC,
taking in the grizzled stubble and the odor of ground-in sweat and
Louisiana dust.

     "Fuck off, Averman."  Rodriguez was too tired to put much tone
into it.  He rested his head in his hands and let his fingers
massage his temples.  Felt lank, black hair, heavy from days of
work, of sleeping on couches, and scrambling for the next empty
room or abandoned car.

     Jack Averman sighed, settled onto a  chair, straddling it
backwards.  His sleeves were rolled up and Sam could see the
farmer's tan that ended at his wrists.  "All right, Doctor.  Tell
me what you're working on that's so important?"

     Sam rocked back, feeling the sprung frame of the chair.  "Same
as you, Jack.  Reviewing any report from the coastal regions that
doesn't include Elvis.  Passing them on to the cops or Meyers."

     Averman eyed the stacks of files, nodded.  "Find anything
worth checking out?"

     "One or two.  Not many.  When you start phoning on them you
keep finding that one guy's too old, or black.  I don't know how
these people can live with that few functioning brain cells."

     "Relax, Rodriguez.  You really do need to get out of here.
There are other people here who know how to use a phone."

     "I. . . "  The ringing phone kept Sam from having to tell
Averman what he really thought of the AIC's opinion.  He reached
for it so fast he almost knocked it off the hook, scrambling to get
the thing to his ear, hoping that one of the rare reports had borne
fruit.

     "Sam?"

     "Jenni?"  He didn't know whether he was more happy or
disappointed.

     He felt his shoulders sag, leaned forward to rest his elbows
on the desk.  Averman took in the expression and the posture, and
got up to go.  Sam looked up at him, seeing a disappointment
mirrored in his face that put a painful tightness in the
pathologist's chest.  The older man nodded at him, turned and
walked away, feet dropping into each step with a heavy solidity
that spoke of days of nervous wakefulness.  Rodriguez turned back,
rested his forehead on his hand and listened to his wife's voice.

     "Sam, honey.  They said you were in Louisiana, and the news
out here. . . "

     "Yeah.  We were following a false trail into Texas and Marion
got a phone call out.  He called VICAP and they traced it to. . ."

     "We heard.  We heard.  Have you heard anything else?"

     "No.  Jenni. . . "  He had to stop, take a few deep breaths.
"We found the hotel room they'd been in.  He'd. . . this bastard is
drugging Marion, and he was hurt.  There was blood. . . I think
he's getting worse.  And Mulder said Elijah was coming back to kill
him."

     "Sam.  Oh God.  Sam.  I went to church for you last night. .
.Look, Sam, Daddy's here. . . "  He heard the phone fumbled
and handed off.

     "Senator?  I didn't expect. . . "

     "Where else would I be, son?  I gather you've had bad trouble
out there."

     "Yes, sir.  I imagine you've been in touch with the FBI?"

     "You imagine correctly, Sam.  They say you don't have a solid
lead on where the Butcher's taking your friend yet."

     "No."  Sam pulled one hand down over his face, hard, pushing
against nose and eyelids, feeling the slick, oily sweat.  "No.  We
found the hotel room the bastard used last night.  There were empty
Thorazine bottles.  And blood on the floor."

     "I met the boy, didn't I?  That young man you two had over to
dinner, Fox Mulder?"  Sam grunted an affirmative.  "You think this.
. .Elijah's harmed the boy?"

     "I don't know. . . actually, I think Mulder might have hurt
himself, trying to get loose.  I think. . . God.  I think even if
we get there in time to stop Elijah that Marion's going to be in
trouble.  I think he's so fucked up by now. . . "  He had to bite
his lips to stop the words and fear from spilling loose.  Turned so
that all he could see was the wall, so that the rest of the room
knew only what his back could tell them.

     "Yes.  Jenni said he was ill before he was abducted.  Sam,
son. . . listen.  I know you've got a hard time ahead.  I want you
to know that. . .if you find him, you won't have to worry.  I'll
help.  I'll do whatever I can to help.  Do you need anything out
there now?  Are the Louisiana people helping you?  Do you need me
to put a word in?"

     Sam sniffed, felt a small laugh escape him.  His face felt
wet.  "No, sir.  Thank you.  No, they're bending over backwards out
here.  We've got Meyers, he's a young kid, out with the Coast Guard
on patrols, and we're handling the roads.  The state troopers are
doing everything short of a door to door to find them.  I just
don't see what more we can do. . . now it's just wait and see."

     "And that's the worst of all, son."  Sam sat back, heard
Senator Matheson sigh.  "I'll be keeping up on this end.  You just
let me know if I can help, Sam.  Let me know if there's any way I
can help at all."
 
 
 
 

     It was so dark, and he could hear the crickets.  Crickets and
soft tears, that might have been his own.  Mulder listened,
straining for any sound at all, smelling the salt air and the odor
of old sweat.  His body ached, bruised pain in his hips and rear
fusing and sending long, dull, rolling pain through the rest of his
body, to ripple through the cloudy confusion in his head where it
crashed into flaring icepick stabs that ran from the back of his
skull to right behind his eyes.  Little flashes of stomach twisting
hurt-light flashed through his eyes as he rolled his head a little,
trying to see beyond the explosions that he knew came from inside
his head.  It was so dark. . .

     "Dad?  Dad, are you here?  Please let me turn on the light,
Dad, please. . . ?"  His voice sounded funny in his ears.  Hoarse,
and low.

     "Fox?"  Another voice, not his own.  Too deep to be Sam's.  He
felt his heart squeeze into a cold ball of pain with the certainty
that it couldn't be Sam's voice.  Mulder felt his face crumple.  A
light crashed on and he crunched his eyes shut in sudden pain,
throbbing echoing from his eyes to the burning point at the back of
his head. Opened them to stare at the young man sitting on the bed
across from him.

     "I had to kill it, Fox.  I didn't even want to catch it."
Shaggy bangs hid the boy's face, but his heavy, bulky shoulders
curved forward, cupping a pain that had no physical form.  Mulder
blinked, trying to understand.  Slowly let just his eyes trail into
the gloom, looking for a man with a high forehead, and brutal
hands.  For the smell of cigarettes.  Found no one.

     It took so long to think.  Mulder stared at Jon, and tried to
remember where his father was.  Shifted in bed, gasped at the
bruised, cold throbbing of his wrist and butt.  Not so much like
the pain of a belting after all, now that he thought about it.  Too
many places hurt all at once.  He didn't know what the needle
bruises and torn flesh reminded him of, but he also didn't much
feel like remembering.

     Jon looked up at his gasp, and the tear tracks were silvery on
his face.  Mulder was faintly aware of the scent of fish and water
hanging around the younger man.  Tried to sit up a little, and bit
his lip as cold metal jerked on his wrist.  Lay back down.  He knew
what he was feeling now.

     "What did you kill, Jon?"  His tongue was thick in his mouth,
but his head was starting to come just a little clearer.  He fought
for clarity and studied the man sitting across from him.

     Gragg's hair looked wrong, dull and flat.  It took a moment to
remember why it wasn't blond.  Jon wiped his nose on his sleeve
with a long motion like a little kid's.  "I went fishing.  I didn't
think I'd catch anything.  I n-never fished in my life.  I thought.
. . but the pole was pulling and then there was this fish.  I took
it off the hook and I wanted to throw it back, but these people
were there.  And they'd have seen.  I had to put it into this
bucket.  I bent the hook so it wouldn't catch anything else, but
my fish was dead before everyone went away.  I didn't want to kill
it. . ."

     "Jon.  It was just a fish."  Mulder felt his face pull, and
couldn't decide if he wanted to laugh hysterically or cry.  Maybe
both.  "It's just a fish. . . "  bit his lip.

     "But it was God's, and it wasn't in any p-pain, and I didn't
need it.  Fox, I didn't mean to kill it. . . "

     Mulder clenched his teeth, balled his fists, lying there on
his back, staring at the water stained ceiling.  Carefully sat up
so he wouldn't pull on the shackled wrist.  Then he changed his
mind, and gave it a fast tug.  The pain of the torn skin ate holes
in the fog in his head.  "You killed half a dozen children.  You're
planning to kill me.  And you are sitting there telling me that you
are crying because you killed a fish?  He could hear his own voice,
low and disbelieving.

     "You don't understand.  It was innocent.  God made it, and it
was innocent, and I killed it when it didn't do anything, and no
one hurt it.  Fox. . . I helped those kids go to heaven, but a fish
just dies.  It hasn't got a soul.  Daddy used to say the dumb
animals just didn't have any souls, and even Eliot and Momma said.
. . It isn't gonna go to heaven or anywhere and now it isn't even
gonna go swimming around."  More tears.  Mulder stared at him, felt
the sheer breadth of the gap between them, and wanted to cry
himself.

     "Jon. . . look at me."  He waited for blue eyes, too deep and
empty, to look up at him.  "Listen, if a fish hasn't got a soul,
what makes you think we do?"  His head was still so muzzy, it was
so hard to think, to try to map out all the old arguments.  Hard to
even remember Oxford and philosophy in this little cabin, smelling
of warm, Louisiana waters and mildew.  The ideas throbbed behind
his eyes.

     Jon stared at him, and Mulder bit at the inside of his lip,
swallowed, stared back, holding his breath to see if any of it
reached through that shell of certainty.

     Shut his eyes as he saw Jon's face slowly go gentle, then
serene.  Felt the sob choke deep in his own chest.

     "You really are so far in the dark, Fox.  You don't even know
the light that God gave to Man, and Man alone."  The young man
reached out, put a hand on Mulder's knee.  "It's going to be all
right.  Thank you for trying to help me. . . "

     Mulder flinched away from him, stared.  "It's not going to be
all right.  You are going to fucking gut me just like you did that
fish tonight."

     "No.  No, you have a soul, Fox.  And you've been hurt."

     "By you. . . " he hissed, words forced through clenched teeth,
breathing so hard from the effort of sitting there, trying to talk
to this man.

     "No."  Elijah leaned forward to push the sweat soaked hair off
Mulder's forehead, stopped when the agent pulled back.  "No.  You
keep telling me no one's hurt you, and that you're fine, but look
at you, Fox.  You twitch every time anyone gets near you.  You hate
your life so much that the very idea that we go on scares you.  No
wonder you want to believe we end when we die.  Try, just for a
moment, to trust me.  Believe in me."

     "You're going to kill me.  I don't see much point in trusting
you."

     "I'm going to help you.  If you weren't so hurt you'd see
that.  You'd stop fighting me."

     "Or you'll drug me again?"  Jon sat back.  Mulder watched him,
watched blue eyes studying him.

     "No. . . no, I won't drug you again."  The voice was low and
steady, soothing.  It made the agent's bowels go cold, like ice
water.  "I want you to have the chance to see it for yourself, Fox.

I want you to be able to stop being afraid for once in your life.
Stop waiting for us to all hit you.  I'm not your father, Fox.  I
don't know how many other people you've found to tear you apart,
but I'm not any of them.  And I won't let them keep hurting you.
You're my friend. . . "  He sniffed and laughed, wiped at his nose
again.  "I can't let them keep hurting you."

     Mulder stared at him taking that in, trying to find the
meaning of the words down that small tunnel of clarity that ran
through the gray fog.  "You won't drug me. . . then what are you
going to do?"

     Elijah got up, looked around the little cabin.  "I'm going to
take us for a ride, Fox.  I want to see the sun rise over the
water.  We're going to go to the sea."

     Fox Mulder stared and shivered as Elijah reached over and
unlocked the cuff.  When Jon pulled him to his feet, Mulder felt
his legs nearly buckle, and a strong arm looped around his back to
hold him up.

     "So thin.  I can feel your ribs.  You're halfway there
already, Fox."  Elijah laughed softly.  A pleasant, rueful sound.

     Mulder felt his lungs starting to draw in fast, panicky
breaths as Elijah practically lifted him off his feet, pulling him
towards the door.  "You aren't taking anything?"

     "I don't need any of this.  Neither do you.  C'mon, it'll be
all right."  The arm around his back flexed, pulling him a little
tighter against Elijah's side.  Mulder tried to dig in the rubber
soles of his feet as they crossed the threshold, but the packed
dirt crumbled and his feet were barely touching the ground now.

     Two hundred feet away, another cabin hulked in the moonlight,
but no lights were on.  They were next to the Suburban now.  Mulder
could see his own moonlit reflection, and Elijah's, in the
mirror-dark tinted glass of the windows, until Elijah pulled Mulder
around, pushed him back to lean against the car as he unlocked the
door, one hand still braced under Fox's arm to hold him steady.
Mulder grabbed Jon's wrist, tried to pull, loose.

     His tendons ridged and the salt-laden night air scored the
ragged flesh where the cuffs had ripped his skin.  Opened his mouth
to scream for help.  Then Jon pulled loose, and the hand was over
his face, clamped over nose and mouth.

     "I'm sorry, Fox.  I know it's scary.  Just trust me. . . "
The hand shifted, pressed tight over his face, and his lungs were
starting to implode, trying to draw in air and only pulling on
themselves.  Mulder grabbed Jon's wrist, dug in his fingers and
pushed, feeling screams and sobs and fear all caught in his throat,
trapped behind that hand, and the sound of surf in his ears was
loud, roaring.  His skin tingled and his head hurt horribly where
Jon pushed it back against the side of the car.
 

     He was hanging there, feeling his knees go and his face hurt,
his head hurt, couldn't even feel his hands anymore, so hot. . .

     Faintly, miles away, he heard a car door open, and saw light
spill over a face shadowed by moonlight.  A strong hand slid under
his left arm to lift him up, dark edges on his vision bleeding into
his sight, and the painful empty screaming ache in his lungs where
there should be air and he was thrashing, trying to breathe and
nothing was getting to him, the ringing in his head reverberated
through the bruise and echoed down his spine. . .

     Air flooded into his mouth and nose, sweet and cool, taking
the sob from his chest and rushing through his head like wine.
Hands pushed him back into soft support, and held him there as
straps went over his lap and chest.  A slamming sound that rang
through the noise of air in his head, and another, then a hand
pushed his head back against a seat rest.  Words that jumbled in
his scared, confused mind.  Mulder heard an engine start, and saw
light spear out in front of them.

Continued in part 34...................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 34/41 NC-17
Date: 23 Feb 1996 04:59:46 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 34/41)
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 Suburban jerked forward, wheels rutching over the packed
dirt of the primitive road, wheeling up past the darkened, useless
cabins.  People were in there, sleeping in comfortable safety,
waiting for sunrise, and scores of sunrises after that.  Mulder
scrabbled blindly for the door handle, sobbing in sweet salt air,
tasting dead fish and seaweed and all of it heady and pure.
Fingers snatching at the handle and red sparks of pain stabbing at
his tendons and joints each time his fingers flexed.

     Spun a glance over his shoulder to see Jon's profile,
tranquil, focused on the road that rushed through the figure eight
of the headlights.  Not watching the agent at all.  Mulder slowed,
feeling the gray contraction of his stomach as he hooked his
fingers under the handle and deliberately, carefully, pulled up.
And felt the loose, empty click of a disconnected mechanism.  Let
his eyes trail down in the dim illumination of the dash to find the
bank of switches by Jon's left hand.  Found the master switch for
the windows and doorlocks and heard the quick sob of
understanding before he even felt it leave his throat.

     The Louisiana night blew into the cab through the air vents,
warm and wet, full of life.  Fox let his head rest against the cool
glass of the window he could not lower and smelled an entire world
he could not touch.  Wrapped his arms tight over his ribs, feeling
the ridges of bone that should have been clothed by flesh, laid
bare by Oklahoma and Louisiana.  Small, wet spots stuck to his
sides where his wrists pulled desperately tight around his body,
holding onto the need and feeling the air move in and out of his
chest, and the too-apparent play of muscle under a delicate,
attenuated skin.

     Beside him Elijah sat still and serene, seeing the dark world
around them.  The faint glow of dawn hung in the rear view mirror
but the night was still liquid deep in front of them.  Mulder felt
his lips thin, tight against his teeth, barely holding against the
scream behind his teeth and watching the starry sky and trees
glazed by moonlight blur past the smoked glass.   Flat land.
Coastal land.  The tide pulled them south down that tiny last
stretch of road to water itself.  The only sounds were the humming
wheels, the whisper of air through the vents, and the choked
breaths Mulder heard forced through his nose.

     He couldn't talk.  Pain shot up his spine and belled through
his head every time the Suburban vibrated, and his shirt was glued
to his ribs under his wrists.  The tang of his own blood stained
the fecund air that licked their faces.  The muscles that banded
his thighs and arms were trembling now, shivering in long,
uncontrollable ripples that worked up and down through his limbs,
burying themselves in chills that ate through his torso and clotted
under his breastbone.  The words had deserted him, and Jon's faith
loomed in the dark to take Mulder as it had taken so many children,
as it would take Elijah himself.

     The green numerals on the dashboard screamed out an
unequivocal four-twenty in a morning that saw their headlights'
lonely skimming across blacktop and shiny, silver and yellow paint.
Silent miles hummed under their wheels, with only the sounds of
night's denizens calling.  Frogs and insects, owls and mice wove a
net of life just outside the metal and glass shell that wrapped Fox
Mulder and held him in a tiny space where the scent of Elijah's
pain and truth overwhelmed any hope or need that Mulder might
spill into that thick stillness.

     A flush of gray-peach tainted the pure darkness around them as
Jon left the two lane highway, pulling onto a waffled pavement that
jolted Fox's head into bitter little sparks.  Grasses and sparse
bushes riffled in the light air.  The nose of the Suburban dropped
over a small rise and found the Gulf of Mexico.  Catspaws played
over silver-gilt water that tossed back the bright image of lights
on a flat, wallowing boat at a sturdy dock.  The Suburban trundled,
almost rolled in neutral, down the slope of the dune.  It could
have rolled on, out onto the dock, but it didn't.

     Elijah pulled over, and the ratcheted burr of the parking
brake was a sudden violation of the quiet.  Mulder swallowed, felt
his skin crawl when Jon heaved a deep, quiet sigh.

     "I can't trust you, can I, Fox?"  The quiet sorrow in his
voice drew the older man's eyes around in an alarmed snap of the
head.

     "What are you talking about?" Mulder's voice rasped in a
suddenly dry mouth.  Elijah was studying him with empty, intent
eyes.

     "I didn't want to drug you again.  I thought you might finally
understand it if you could just think a little about it. . . "  Jon
visibly chewed the inside of one cheek, a bitter frown creasing the
smooth skin between his eyebrows.  "But you still don't understand.
You're still so lost."

     "Jon. . . " the psychologist pulled himself around to face a
man with a child's face in the pale light of a peach-gray sky.
Tried to find an answer for a question that had not been asked.  "I
do understand, I know you're hurt. . . "  The sudden sharp anger
that flickered on the smooth, rounded features stopped the breath
in Mulder's throat and clenched his guts in an icy grip.

     "You don't understand.  You refuse to understand.  The
children knew but you. . . "  Mulder watched him take a breath,
consciously relax.  Smile ruefully.  "I'm sorry, Fox.  You just
make it so hard. . . hold your hands out, Fox.  Please."  Elijah
dropped a square, heavy right hand into his pocket, and the federal
agent heard a quick rattle of metal.

     "No!"  The door handle was in his back, knees drawn up to try
to kick almost before Mulder knew he'd moved.  Jon watched him
with eyes that held more sorrow than anger now, one hand held out
where it could shield or catch equally well.

     "Don't do this, Fox.  You keep forcing me to hurt you.  I know
you really don't know any other way to be, but I really hate
hurting you.  You make it so hard when you don't leave me any
choice. . . "

     "Fuck you!  I don't make you do any-fucking-thing, Jon!"  His
face burned and his eyes prickled with anger, teeth suddenly
gritted as the adrenaline burned in his blood.  Mulder hissed and
twisted over onto his hands and knee, driving his leg into a long,
extended kick, trying to catch Elijah's face and knowing the
strength would fade so soon, too soon. . .

     That square, solid hand wrapped around his ankle and slammed
it into the back of the seat past a calm, watchful face.  Elijah's
other hand darted out to clutch tight around the back of Mulder's
neck, shoving his face down into the leather of the seat.   A knee
in his back kept him there as the cuff closed tight, and Elijah
pulled his wrist down.

     The knee vanished, and Mulder shoved himself back off the
seat, spinning, panting in fury and pivoting on the arm dragged to
the floor by the cuff.  Elijah held the other cuff, waiting.
Mulder's breathing was harsh and loud in the close confines.  He
could feel the muscles in his arms, his legs, trembling and
shaking.  The low, choked growl from his throat drove him when he
lunged.

     Elijah was heavier, stronger than Mulder had been before he'd
ever set foot in Oklahoma.  The agent lashed out wildly, with
nothing of training or plan, clawing for blue eyes.  The younger
man bobbed sideways, took the strike on the side of his head,
across one ear.  His hand closed tight around Mulder's wrist,
pinned it down.

     "Are you done?"  His voice was cold, calm.  Mulder felt
fingers dig into the tendons of his wrist.  He tensed his back, his
sides.  His muscles ached, resisting Elijah's pull.  The ache in
his head had exploded into a spiked agony that ground whimpers
from his gut.  He barely noticed the pain in his wrists as Elijah
clicked the other cuff and let go, sitting back and stroking his
friend's hair, trying to calm him.

     "Fox, Fox, I am so sorry.  I didn't want to do this to you,
but you don't leave anyone any choice.  You didn't leave your other
friends any choice, and you don't leave me any."  The sound of the
parking brake releasing sent broken-glass though Mulder's head as
Elijah set the car rolling again, and it bumped down the road and
onto the dock.

     Mulder kneeled in the well, face cushioned on the seat and let
his fingers tell him he was shackled to the supports of the seat
he'd ridden there in.  His face felt hot when he buried it against
the leather, teeth clenched against the pain and the words that
could only show him the anger behind Jon's mask.

     The wheels bumped, vibrated over a studded landing plank to
slowly move forward.  Turning his face, Mulder could see Jon,
concentrating on edging the big vehicle into place.  His captor was
moving the wheel in delicate little jumps, reaching down to engage
the brake between motions.  Mulder felt the tremor in his muscles,
felt the sickeningly quick release of the tension in his body and
the bleak, aching acceptance of defeat.  Shut his eyes and let go
of the brief moment of hope and strength and wildness until only
the colorless void where his emotions had surged wrapped around
him.  And finally found the calm he knew he'd need.

     "Are you going to leave me like this?"

     Flat eyes glanced down at him.  "No.  As soon as we're safe on
the island I'll let you loose again, but I can't let you take this
from me."

     Mulder smiled bitterly.  "And if I scream?"

     The answering smile carried little more than regret.  "I doubt
anyone could hear you outside the car with the windows up.  You
can't reach the locks or releases.  Please don't hurt yourself any
more trying to reach them, Fox.  I. . . I hate seeing you hurt like
this."

     Mulder's smile widened to carry the anger he could not let
himself feel.  "Then don't hurt me, Jon.  Let me go."

     "I'm not the one hurting you, Fox.  I never have been."  The
hand rested on his hair until he shook his head, and Elijah let him
throw off the touch.  "I need to go pay for the ride.  I'll be back
when we get near the island.  It takes about half an hour."  Jon
turned the key, turned on the radio.  "I like this boat, Fox.
Jesus liked boats, too."

     "You, Jon Gragg, are not Jesus."  Low, bitter tone.

     Elijah looked out over water studded with dead fish, past the
people who held their childrens' hands tethered in tight grips.  "I
know that, Fox.  Believe me.  I know that."

     The slam of the door cut off any reply Mulder might have made,
and then only the soft music of the radio broke the quiet, as Fox
Mulder buried his face in the leather seat beside him and felt the
rhythm of the boat take over his stomach and his inner ears.
 
 
 
 

     Meyers let strong, black coffee dribble down his throat,
savoring the slow burn of hot caffeine.  The dark stuff - so much
thicker than coffee in D.C., or Oklahoma, or Florida - was sloshing
against the lid of his travel mug as he shifted his weight with
unconscious grace to meet the swell-rocked deck.  The metal and oil
tang of a Coast Guard cutter, and the slow, salty odor of the shore
spiced the night.  Black silk darkness still smothered the shore,
and only late stars and the faint glow on the horizon promised that
it would ever end.

     "We must be still and still moving
     Into another intensity
     For a further union, a deeper communion
     Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
     The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
     Of the petrel and the porpoise.

     In my end is my beginning."
 

     "What the hell's that?"  The voice came out of a sudden flare
of light, the lambent glow of a cigarette ember lighting in a
morning that was still night.

     Meyers tried to see the Coast Guard officer by the faint light
of that small flame, and moved upwind.  "Eliot.  It's T.S. Eliot.
I only remember the poem because it's one of the ones Mulder
expected Elijah to use."

     "Hnh.  Weird case.  So what's the poem tell you?"

     "Not nearly enough.  Spooky. . . .Mulder thought the poems
could tell us why this guy was killing and where he'd show up next.
The ones I read had a lot of stuff about water and the Thames, and
deserts.  So we're out here. One out of three."

     The Coastie was quiet for a long moment, drawing his cigarette
to fiery life, then letting it fade to a dull intensity.  When he
spoke again, his voice was neutral.  "You know, you won't be able
to see anything out there yet.  Not for about an hour.  It's a ways
yet to dawn."

     "I know.  I just. . . Maybe there'd be headlights or
something."

     "We can put the spots on.  They'll light up a big stretch of
shore."

     "No.  No, we've got about fifteen boats out to cover more
miles of coastline than I really want to think about.  There's no
guarantee Elijah'd come here, or be on a spot when we lighted it.
Our chances of actually finding the bastard that way are up there
with the Cubs winning the pennant, but our chances of spooking him
off when the local papers report on it are damned high."

     So you just hope you trip over him in broad daylight, before
he does your guy?"  The suddenly bright coal lit resigned,
weathered features.

     "Yeah.  Actually, we're hoping someone spots them.  Or, if
we're really, really lucky, that Mulder gets another call out."

     "Fuck.  He could already be dead."  Frustration as thick as
the smoke drifted over both of them.  "I hate pulling dead ones out
of the water, Meyers.  I hope to Christ this cop of yours is still
alive."

     The young man swallowed another bitter mouthful of coffee,
smelling warm breezes from the East and dead fish that the farm
chemicals killed off the Louisiana shore.  Took a deep breath of it
and rocked into the swell another moment.  Finally forced out the
answer that had sat in his throat, hurting there.

     "We think Mulder's still alive.  We think Elijah's got another
lesson to teach."
 
 
 
 

     Averman startled awake with his own snore rattling in his
ears.  The chair under him creaked and tipped dangerously, and his
neck snapped with sudden pain as he tried to get his balance.

     "OW! Ow, shit!"  It almost tumbled him backwards before he got
back upright.
 

     "Nice nap?"  The Louisiana trooper across from him was
smirking.

     "Franklin, your momma ever teach you that everybody likes a
little ass, but nobody likes a smart ass?"  The AIC ran his hand
over stubble on his chin, slowly eased the crick in his neck and
scanned the graveyard shift's scattering of, phone handlers.  The
few, quiet voices were muffled by the indoor/outdoor carpet on the
floor.  "Rodriguez finally go back to the hotel?"

     "Shit, no.  He's sacked out on the Chief's couch.  We tried to
send him off with a driver and the little spic nearly took our head
off."

     "I'll take your head off if you call Dr. Rodriguez a spic
again."  Averman glared until Franklin gestured an apology.  "Any
calls come in?"

     "A few."  The other man chewed a messy hole in a jelly donut,
spilling red stuff on his desk blotter.  "There's this one.  Early
fisherman called it in.  Said he saw two guys kind of fighting, one
dragged the other out and kind of shoved him into this jeep."
Franklin's tongue licked powdered sugar off his lips, but missed
the jelly on his chin.  "Get this, he said he figured the one guy
was drunk.  Kind of woozy on his feet.  Finally called it in when
he got the news and heard about your boy.  That's the twelfth
drunk-call we've gotten since yesterday.  One more for the
collection."

     God, his eyes hurt and this man's voice grated in his ears.
"Give me that, Franklin.  We've already missed them twice because
fools assumed just that."  The rattle of the paper was loud against
the whisper of voices.  A book slid to the floor, and Averman saw
two startled faces turn from their phones to watch.

     Thomas Stearns Eliot stared up from the floor, looking into
whatever empty space he'd watched when photographed so long in
the past.  The FBI man felt his face twist in distaste, suddenly hating
the spitless, restrained image of the poet.  Rodriguez must have
sent some gofer out to pick up the only tattered copy in a
Waldenbooks in some mall.  Hope to Christ the place had been air
conditioned better than this swamp-sweat hole of an overcrowded
state trooper's station.  Jack swallowed and shut his eyes, took
several deep breaths, and picked the book up, tossing it onto the
desk.

     "What the hell is that, anyway?"  Franklin was licking white,
powder sugar off his fingers.

     "Poetry.  Our killer likes poetry."

     The trooper flicked a bit of jelly off one cheek.  "Hell with
that.  It doesn't even rhyme.  So why'd the doc send Ron out to get
it?"

     He felt so tired.  Let his head rest on the heel of one hand
as he skimmed the contact report he'd snagged from Franklin,
answered absentmindedly.  "Our boy's preaching the gospel
according to Eliot.  That's what Mulder figured.  Picked all his killings
to go with some poem or other."  The words on the page were
crabbed, bad handwriting that swam in front of his eyes.  Rough,
calloused fingers rasped on the soft skin of eyelids.

     "What's the point of preaching something nobody can
understand?  In my church they'd call that downright stupid.
Sounds like your killer's gonna kill the only congregation he's
got."

     The pencil in Averman's hands snapped, splinters of
yellow-painted Ticonderoga 2 wood showering the paper.  Both men
started at the sudden noise, looked up at each other, and
Franklin's shoulders twitched in an apologetic shrug at the look he
saw in the Oklahoman's eyes.  "Hunh.  Umm. . . guess that's why the
doc wanted it, huh?"

     "Very good, Franklin.  You might make the next grade yet.  Now
call those fucking numbers you got in front of you and let's see if
we can't just maybe, this once, try to get there on time when this
asshole shows up."

     The phone was ringing in Averman's ears.  Three, four, five.
. . on the seventh ring it was picked up, and a tired voice with
the broad, flat vowels of the Northeast answered.

     "Hello?"

     "I'm calling for Stephen Trent. . . "

     "I'm Trent.  Who is this?"

     "I'm Jack Averman, with the FBI."  He almost smiled at the
sudden intake of breath.  "I'm sorry to bother you, but I need to
follow up on this report you called in and time might be critical.
Now, we know you saw two men.  Could you just start at the
beginning, and tell me exactly what you saw?"

     Flat, New York words told him about two men, one who had
fished, young and friendly.  The other one had kept to the cabin,
supposedly with the flu.  Heinekeneitis was Trent's diagnosis,
after seeing his buddy help the mystery man out to the Suburban,
and hold him upright.  Averman felt his back stiffen, swallowed a
sense of frustration and guilt.

     "When did you see them leave, Mr. Trent?"

     "About an hour ago, maybe more."  The muscles twitched along
Jack's jaw at the words.  He let his eyes roam to the three people
across the room, sitting under the clock.  Four-thirty.  Two of the
troopers, a man and a woman, had phones to their ears.  One, the
woman, straightened suddenly from her exhausted slump.

     "And you called up at four, Mr. Trent?"  Averman's pen left
little black marks where he tapped it on the contact report.  He
wrote at the bottom, noting the probability that this was a genuine
contact.  Feeling the seething knowledge of a near-miss.  "If you
don't mind my asking, why did you wait so long to call?"

     The woman across the room was now hunched over her desk,
writing fast, shoulders jerking in quick motions.  The man next to
her was leaning back to watch her.

     "I didn't wait."  Trent's voice was impatient over the phone
line.  "I was looking for the early news, the sports scores, and
this guy's picture came up on the screen.  Looked a lot like the
kid here, except for the hair. . . "

     The woman spun, hanging up.  She lunged to her feet,
negotiating desks like a broken field runner, waving her contact
sheet.  Trent was still talking. . .
 

     "This guy had brown hair. . ."

     The woman was close enough for Averman to read her name tag,
"Marie."

     "Sir!  Got an ID and the witness is positive. . . "

     Into his own receiver. . . "Thank you, Mr. Trent."  Dropping
the receiver into the cradle as he reached for the report.
Franklin was on his feet now, sensing what was happening.

     "I'll get Rodriguez."

     Marie was tapping lines of description, shifting from foot to
foot.

     The AIC could hear Rodriguez' voice coming down the hall,
questioning Franklin.  Marie was still giving him details.

     "A ferry boat pilot picked up a Suburban this morning and
landed it on Monkey Island about twenty minutes ago.  He thought
he'd seen the driver on television, but couldn't remember where.
Get this, he said he figured him for a Dukes of Hazzard actor, then
two guys were talking about Mulder and he suddenly pegged the
face.  He's certain that it's Gragg, just certain."

     "Any sign of Mulder?"  Rodriguez' voice was tense and blurry
with too little sleep, stretched around a yawn.

     "None, but the jeep had smoked windows and this guy never
rolled them down.  You always roll 'em down and look when you
drive off a boat, but he never did.  Sir, I'm betting the pilot was
right, and that he's still got Mulder with him."

     Averman nodded, looked to Franklin.  "You got a chopper.  Get
your pilot up here, and call Meyers.  Tell him we're on our way,
and give him a dock down there where he can pick us up."

     Franklin had the phone in hand.  Rodriguez was right behind
Averman as he headed out the door, jogging across a landing pad
behind the station.  A man with headphones dangling from his neck
nodded to them.

     "I"ll be flying you out there."

     "Fine.  Let's get the fuck off the ground.  We've lost too
much time already."
 
 
 
 

     Mulder panted and curled around the miserable core of sickness
in his belly.  The seat leather was soft and warm under his cheek,
dark where his saliva soaked it.  The boat shimmied and another
dry, empty heave folded him over his chained wrists, with nothing
to bring up but the thick, sour saliva that trailed from his mouth
to puddle on the carpet.  He sagged, letting his forehead fall
against his knees, and moaned as the slithering rock of a boat on
water twisted his sense of balance again.

     Fresh blood from his wrists was dying the clear mucus, and he
watched it through half-open eyes.  The coppery smell and the
smooth, queasy shift of everything under and around him cramped
him up double again, coughing and choking.  Every organ in his body
was trying to come up from the feel of it, and the little trickle of
bile he still had in him was burning in the the back of his throat
and his sinuses.  Fox dropped over onto his side on the rough
carpet of the floormat and groaned a curse that could have been
for all boats, or Jon Gragg, or existence in general.  The throb of
the ferryboat's engines grated up through tires, and metal, and
bone, humming in his skull.  Sometimes a choppy little wave
disrupted the steady oscillation, slapping his brain in his skull,
his organs against his ribs.  Going to Jesus was starting to look
damned good, so long as he didn't have to get near a boat to do it.

     Oh god, the whole fucking thing was shuddering now.  Painful,
jagged motions that rattled through Mulder's body as the engine's
pitch changed.  He'd stopped being human so long ago that he
couldn't even come up with a comparison to make sense of how he
felt.  How humans had ever braved this to colonize America was
beyond him.

     The grinding of the engines was shivering in his bones when
the door opened.  A wave of salt-fresh air stirred the acid taint,
and words and the voices of gulls spurred the pounding ache behind
Mulder's eyes.  Jon's voice, and another. . .

     ". . . anks!  I'll be sure to try that."

     "You do that now!  You sure you was never on television?"

     The laughing question drowned the faint sound Mulder could
summon.  Everything hurt as he struggled back up onto his knees.

     Jon was still draped over the door, blocking any view into the
Suburban.  "Not this week, sorry.  But you pray hard enough and
you'll get a famous one yet!"  Jon's laugh, and the stranger's left
no hope that a voice scoured to a sliver by screams and sickness
could reach anyone.  Mulder felt his mouth twist with bitter regret
as Jon closed the door and the outside world went away.

     The easy smile evaporated as Elijah's solemn expression fell
over his features.  The ferry engines went dead, and he reached to
twist the ignition key, bring the jeep's engine to purring life.
Mulder watched him glance down, saw flat, blue eyes take in what
had to be a green-pale, sweat-slick face and the dark stain of spit
on the leather.  Gragg's straight nose wrinkled at the faint stink
of bile.

     "How long have you felt sick, Fox?"  His voice was mild.  It
had been mild, too, when Jon had cuffed him.  Mulder swallowed.

     "Since just after we left the dock."  Cradled his cheek on the
edge of the seat again, watching Jon shift gears.  Heard him sigh
from deep in his chest.

     "Okay.  It'll be all right."  The Suburban slowly rolled
forward.  "We'll take care of it as soon as we find a place to pull
over."   The words were just jumbled sounds for a few moments,
random syllables.  Then they jostled each other, came together in
sentences that might mean nothing, and then again might mean all
too much.  The agent braced his hands on the floor by the seat as
the Suburban jounced off the loading ramp and onto dry land.

     "What are you talking about, Jon?"

     "I was hoping you'd be all right, Fox.  Hoped the nausea
would have gone away with you not eating, and all.  We'll have you
feeling better. . . "

     "What the FUCK are you saying?"  He leaned against the seat,
trying to keep his head from hitting the dashboard, staring up at
Elijah.  Gragg watched the road, eyes searching for a convenient
place to stop.  "Oh fuck!  Oh, son of a bitch."  Mulder shut his
eyes, felt the little color he'd regained drain away again.
"You've got the Thorazine with you."

     "Fox, I know you don't. . . "

     "Seasick!  I get seasick, Jon.  This is not. . ."

     "Seasick?"  Elijah's eyes, amused, flicked down and back to
the road.  "Fox, you grew up on an _island_.  I know you don't like
the Thorazine, but that's ridiculous."

     "It's true."  Frustration knotted his guts and dread put
shivers up and down his spine.  The Suburban slowed, rolled onto
the shoulder of the road.  Panicky little breaths rasped in
Mulder's throat.

     Jon was reaching over, past Mulder's face, to open the glove
compartment.  The crinkle-rattle of plastic and the clink of glass
answered the flex of muscle in the young man's arm.  Mulder
instinctively jerked at the cuffs, trying to reach and slam that
goddamned compartment shut.  Jon sat back in his seat with a small
bundle in his hands.

     "Jon, listen to me, please.  Look at me.  I mean it.  Really
LOOK!  I-get-seasick.  I hate boats!  Please. . . I won't get sick
again.  Please don't drug me again."  Mulder could smell his own
sweat, sour with fear, and cold on the skin of his hands, his
sides.  Underlying it all was the thin, acrid scent of drugs
clinging to him, still in his system.  His lips felt dry and it
hurt when he bit down on his lower lip, shut his eyes and tried
to gather his scattered thoughts.  Jon's voice cut off the frayed
thread of argument he had tried to gather.

     "Fox. . . "  He was sitting there, behind the wheel.  Mulder
could make out his face in the green dashboard lights, see his
outline in the early, faint glow.  He was pulling the long shape of
the syringe back and forth between his fingers.  "Why can't you
just trust us?  Trust me?"

     Mulder scrunched his eyes shut, balled sweaty fists up to
smother the tremor in his hands.  Forced his voice past numb,
chilled lips.  "Please, Jon.  Don't do this to me."  Shut up as he
felt his voice catch.  It hurt when he cleared his throat, and his
eyes prickled, blurred when he opened them to look back at Jon's
concerned, indecisive face.

     "Please.  Everyone I meet takes something away from me.  All
of you steal little pieces of me. . . leave me this much, Jon.
Please?"  He didn't really know how Gragg could hear him.  He
barely heard himself, but the younger man's lips thinned with
contained sorrow.

     "I know it must look that way to you, Fox.  You've got to
trust me.  I'm taking you where you'll be whole again, and no one
will ever hurt you."  His hands had gone still, one held the needle,
still wrapped in the white paper packaging, the other curled
around a small bottle.

     "Leave me this, Jon.  Please.  Leave me my mind.  Leave me my
self."

     "I only want for you to be at peace. . . "

     Mulder tucked himself up close to the seat, letting solid
floor and seat anchor him.  Swallowed hard against receding
sickness and rising fear.  "I know, Jon.  I know you're only trying
to help us."  Pressed hard against the seat, all wound up into
himself, and stole the strength from somewhere to send out in a
calm, near-steady voice.  "You only wanted to take them away from
pain.  And me. . . "  He had to pause.  Took a breath.  "But leave
me this, so I can try to understand."

     Full daybreak was not so far away, soft gray pushed into
almost half the sky.  Jon's youthful, rounded features were gentle
in the morning, still with determination.  A sick, scared man
huddled up on the floor of the Suburban, trapped by steel looped
around his wrists, and watched Jonathan Elijah Gragg take the
counsel of his beliefs.

Continued in part 35...................
 

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======

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 35/41 NC-17
Date: 24 Feb 1996 06:06:21 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 35/41)
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 blade wash of the chopper kicked down weeds and sent
clouds of dirt and lime scudding away from a clear circle.  Samuel
Rodriguez kept his head low and squinted in the wind as he dropped
to the ground.  Averman, behind him, was bent nearly double until
both were well clear of the blades and the whirlybird was clawing
its way back into the air.

     The ferry was docked again, and a big, taut-bellied man
climbed down the loading ramp to meet them.  Lights glittered green
and red and white up the still-shadowy channel, announcing the
Coast Guard launch.  Its engine cough grew around them as they
listened.

     Frito followed Averman, half running to keep up with the
taller man's stride.  Half-shattered oyster shells crunched loud in
the pre-dawn, drowning the engine from up the channel.  White dust
from the shells was marking the cuffs of Averman's pants.  The AIC
had pulled a copy of a photograph from his pocket and was handing
it to the ferry pilot as he came to a stop.

     "Mr.Angolier?  Thanks for helping out.  I'm Jack Averman. . ."

The badge was open in the other hand, Averman's brusque voice
edging out questions and complaints.  "Is this the man you saw this
morning?"

     The boatman took the shot, studied it.  Frito could see at
a glance it wasn't the one that had been on the news.  Averman was
testing for more than a superficial resemblance.  The nod that
finally answered them was confident.

     "Yeah.  This was him .  Nice guy, friendly.  Bit of a
holy-roller though. . ."

     "What do you mean?"  Sam looked away from the launch, clear
now in the gloom, to see the pilot glance apologetically between
them.

     "Well, I believe an' I go to church and all, but I don't
talk about Jesus all the time or anything.  This boy talked like a
real hand waver.  Kept saying how it was 'a good day to meet Jesus
on the waters.'  At first, I figured him for an actor, cause he
looked familiar and all. . . "  He let the words trail off, turned
to watch the white and blue craft pull snug and tidy up to the
dock.  A dark-haired young man waved from the deck, calling to
them.

     Frito took off for it at a run, distantly aware of Averman
thanking Anogolier, and hauling after him.  Meyers leaned out from
the deck, grabbing the doctor's hand to steady him and help him on
board.

     "You got a good one?"  Meyers glanced from Rodriguez next to
him, to Averman, who had turned back towards the chopper.

     Averman nodded and broke into a trot towards his own ride.
Sam took a breath and answered the younger man in a voice that
carried all the tension he could not afford to let himself feel.

     "Averman'll spot for us from the air, and we'll handle the
water.  They're on Monkey Island, Meyers.  It's the fucking end of
the world, and there's no place left to run."
 
 
 

     Dirty gray sand blew over the road in serpentine patterns,
ending abruptly sometimes where the Gulf had bitten the edges from
the smooth ribbon of asphalt.  Their headlights still shone on the
blacktop, but they were fading with the coming day.

     Mulder slumped against the door.  The glass of the window felt
cool through his hair.  Jon had lowered the windows a few inches
and a wet, dawn wind full of seaweed and salt and the foetor of
dead fish licked across their faces.  The agent's eyes ached as the
breeze dried them, but he needed to see everything, needed the
mud-flat beaches snared in sea grass, and the water slowly going to
burnished pewter under a high, hard sky.

     Jon's reflection was still clear and well-defined in the
window next to Mulder's face.  Fox's eyes slid shut, flicked open
in a quick, almost panicky motion.  His hair was in his eyes, but
he didn't move the hands lying open and slack in his lap.  The
fresh abrasions of the cuffs stained the thighs of his pants.
Mulder thought about shifting, about wrapping his hands around his
wrists to stop the slow, red leak, but it was achingly hard just to
curl his fingers, or to draw a full breath into his lungs.  So
hard. . . he had to work just to keep his eyes open.

     "You can go to sleep, you know.  It's all right."

     Mulder thought a moment, pulled his chin around against the
dragging numbness of his body.  Jon's face was gentle, eyes alert
and serene.  It sent shivers up Mulder's spine, and drew his voice
from deep inside him.  The tiny thread of sound that escaped him
could have belonged to the wind that ran so freely through the
inches allowed it by the glass.

     "No.  I don't want to sleep.  Not now."

     "I'll wake you, Fox.  When the sun rises. . . "

     "It'll be up soon.  I'll wait."  He pushed himself away from
the locked door, into the cradle of his seat.  His hands hurt in
a far, far away throb.  The dashboard clock flashed as the minute
changed, catching his eyes.  Five-seventeen.  Blue and peach washed
through the sky, but the burning edge of the sun was still hidden.
The island rolled to the left, the brown, silted beaches and water
were dull and glossy flat to the right, spilling away from the
road.

     Pilings of docks and the tumble of breakwaters studded the
water out there.  Behind them, on the leeside of the island, the
Calcasieu River washed all the castings of the land upstream down,
down towards the island, towards the Gulf.  Mulder could see it, a
texture in the water.  Ahead of them, sea grass and gently rolling
land ran to the rack line, and flat down to the water.  So flat, so
brown.  It didn't smell like his home, and it didn't look like his
home.  Mulder felt a sudden wash of misery flood through him,
loneliness.  It caught his breath and prickled tears into his eyes.

     Words had to meet that feeling, had to carry it out of him.
"It's so flat. . . where are the stones?  Where are the dunes?"

     "I don't know, Fox..  But listen to it, it still sounds the
same. . . "

     "I don't hear bells.  I don't hear buoys or foghorns."

     "Gulls.  Water.  God's wind in the grass and the sound of sand
on sand. . . "

     Mulder shut his eyes, face pulled and his forehead hurt with
the effort.  His lips pursed tight.  He took a long, shaky breath.
"I want to go home, Jon."

     "Fox. . . "

     "I want to go to the Vineyard.  This is so far away.  This
isn't where I belong. . . "   Mulder felt a sudden fear.  There was
no way out. No way out and he would die here and Averman would
forget.  Averman wouldn't remember to bury him on the Vineyard.
Samantha wouldn't be able to find him.  "Please Jon.  Not here.
Not here."

     ". . . I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  I can't take you there.  They
hurt you there, Fox."  A soft, sad tone.  "Listen to the water,
Fox.  The gulls. . ."

     Mulder stared out ahead of him, to the east, to the sun, and
bit his lip to hold the words still.  Ahead of them, in the growing
light of the horizon, a dark shadow resolved itself.  The agent
squinted against wind and light, watching a shadow that quickly
grew into a lumpen upright.  Dark gave way to faded color and a
dark skin of face, arms.  The shape of a large, doughy woman turned
to stare into the car, into his eyes.  Strange, old eyes, and a
black face that split into a smile he'd seen once before as she
turned to watch them go, waved to them, loose skin of her arm
flapping with the motion as he watched the loki dwindle in the side
mirror.  Swallowed and whispered her name to himself, and raised
his eyes to the peach and pink glow of the horizon. He knew he was
lost.  Didn't need her to tell him.  He'd just vanish here, so far
away from home, and there'd never be a stone with his name in the
seagrass, or a place for him.  He'd be lost here in the warm, alien
waters, and never find his way home again.

     His body pushed ever so slightly against the shoulder belt as
Jon braked and slowed, turning the wheel to take them to the right,
towards the Gulf, towards the water.  Insects buzzed and flickered
in on the gentling breeze as they slowed, and the young man pushed
the buttons to raise the windows, locked them as he'd locked the
doors.  Sound and scent and motion of the outside world came to a
sudden stop within the Suburban.  They were sealed away again, in
the bubble of the car.

     They rolled in neutral to a gentle stop, wheels muffled in the
gritty sand of a sea-hardened beach.  In front of them, the current
raced faster and faster as the tide fled the land, water drawing
itself away deep into the warmth of the Gulf, frothy foam marking
the currents of the river as it surged out into the salt.  The
water to the left showed glittery rose.  Dark shadows marked the
water, studded with lights that would soon be overwhelmed by day's
light.

     "Look at it, Fox.  So beautiful. . . "

     Mulder wrinkled his nose.  "It smells like dead fish."  His
skin had crawled since he'd seen the woman, Essie, at the side of
the road.  Fear rushed through him, washing the numb distance
away.

     "Dead fish. . . Another crime against God's world and
creations.  You're right, but it's still beautiful.  Look at it."

     Boats rocking out there, in the early haze, and water creamed
with froth that crested further and further out, leaving
hard-packed beach behind.  The sun's first sliver, vibrant rose,
hung on the horizon.

     "We aren't going home, are we."  It wasn't a question.  Mulder
knew the answer.

     "Not to the Vineyard, no. . . but we are going home.  We are,
Fox.  Don't be scared.  You truly don't need to be scared."

     The words were bitter, but he'd known what he'd hear.  "Jon,
I don't belong here.  I'm not one of your children. . . "

     The smile on the handsome, young face was filled with sorrow
and kind understanding.  "Don't lie anymore, Fox.  Please tell the
truth this once.  You've been hiding from it for so long.  You
don't need to hide from it anymore."

     "You and I have different truths, Jon."  Mulder's voice was
soft, and toneless.  "You never did tell me why you chose me.  Why
you chose any of us. . . "

     Blue eyes left the water for a moment, took in his friend's
face.  "I remember you.  I remember you in church, with the cast on
your arm.  And how sometimes you couldn't play.  I didn't know
then, didn't understand that you were hurt.  But when I saw you
again, I couldn't miss it."

     Mulder stared at him.  "Miss what?  I can see that you found
most of them through Social Services, but not Adeena.  Not me. . ."

     "I. . . I don't want to talk about this.  It's not important
now."

     "It's important to me.  Jon, you're going to kill me.  I
deserve to know why, don't I?"  He heard the strain in his own
voice, the sudden burr of fear and despair. His hands stung when he
braced himself on the edge of the seat.

     Jon's smile had slowly melted away, leaving his face furrowed
with old pain.  "I've always known, Fox.  I knew when I was little.
I know now.  When we left the water and Daddy brought us to
Oklahoma, I would watch the children by the side of the road.  Most
of them just looked away and went on, but some. . . I knew they
knew.  Their daddies had hurt them, or someone had hurt them.  If
they. . . if they'd been fucked, I could smell it.  The fear clung
to them like the smell of sex.  The way they'd look away and not
meet your eyes, or wanted to be touched so much.  Just like me. .
. and like you."

     A ripple of horror washed through Mulder.  "No.  Jon, my
father never touched me.  He didn't beat me. . . not until after
Samantha disappeared.  Jon, he didn't. . . "  His eyes felt wide,
and the words hurt in his throat.

     Elijah's smile and flat eyes met his protests.  "I know.  You
don't. . .you don't smell like anyone ever fucked you, Fox.  I
wasn't sure for a bit.  Maybe Samantha, I don't know.  I don't
know.  But they hurt you, Fox.  You're lying to me, and to
yourself, if you deny that.  You can lie to me, but you can't lie
to God, Fox.  Your father hurt you, and I know it.  He hurt you,
and others hurt you."

     Mulder was shaking his head, tiny, horrified motions.
"Nononono. . . you don't understand."

     "No one should ever hit a child, Fox.  Their excuses don't
matter.  They're evil if they hit a child.  And there are so many
of them, so many. . .Sarah showed me the way.  Daddy wouldn't stop
hurting her, so she went to Jesus.  She just left.  It can't be
wrong to want to not hurt anymore, Fox.  God can't have put us here
just to be hurt.  My daddy was wrong to hurt me and my brother
and sisters.  And your daddy was wrong to hurt you."
 

     "I keep telling you.. . . "  words, choked with feelings,
that wanted to be tears or screams.

     "You can't lie to me, Fox.  I didn't have to smell it on you,
though I can.  I remember you, and you were hurt so often.  Mary
told me how you kept getting hurt.  And you just let your friends
hurt you here, and now.  I think you must have been letting people
hurt you for years."

     "You're wrong.  Wrongwrongwrong!  Please. . . "  The words
were jagged, broken things from deep in his chest, panicky fast as
he watched Elijah turn the key and gun the motor alive again.

     "He taught you to let them hurt you, didn't he, Fox?  It's the
only thing you know how to do.  That's why I brought you away.  I
just can't let you keep finding people to hurt you, over and over.
I'm going home, Fox. They won't hurt us anymore.  And I'm not going
to leave you here all alone with them."  A quick motion of Gragg's
right hand pushed the Suburban into gear, and Mulder heard the
engine revved against the brake, suddenly released with a violent
lurch that threw them towards the surf.

     He braced himself on the dashboard as the big engine spun
tires and kicked sand in a rooster plume behind the jeep, felt them
lurch as they hit the shallow, receding water and drove, engine
screaming, out into the tide-bared flats of the Gulf.

     The jolt as they hit water threw Fox forward against his
seatbelt and sent spray in an iridescent blur that smeared the
rising sun along the windows next to Elijah.  Mulder's belt locked,
holding him tight as the front wheels skewed on through frothy
water and the rear wheels skidded wildly across unstable sand.  The
weight of the engine shoved the front tires down, letting them bite
into surf-packed silt, dragging them through the knee-deep water
the receding tide left off of Monkey Island.

     Elijah's ululating howl of joy rang in his ears, drowning the
water that clawed at the Suburban's shell.  Silt went to gel under
their wheels and the big car slewed wildly, throwing Mulder against
his door.  Beyond Jon's wordless scream of welcome and the rushing
clatter of the gravelly water slamming against the car, he could
faintly hear a heavy, thudding sound.  A bulbous shape was dark
against the pallid blue of dawn sky, then the grill hit deeper
water and Mulder was too busy to think about it.

     "Shitshitshit, oh shit. . . " His soft litany couldn't have
reached over the sounds of the water and the racing of the engine.
He was hanging in his shoulderbelt now, fingers clawing at the
catch.  Metal and plastic wouldn't yield and Mulder felt a nail
bend and tear, couldn't look away from the water ahead of them and
the water rising up towards the hood.  The catch suddenly released,
and he lurched forward against the dashboard.  The nose of the
heavy car was lower than its ass end now, borne down by the Detroit
metal under the hood that kept the wheels churning through the
mucky bottom while the rear of the thing started to bobble and
float.

     Shock of sea under their wheels and the jeep jarred, scraped
across a sand bar, with the water lifting and carrying the ass end
of it.  Arms shaking from so many days of fever and madness
dropped Mulder's thin ribs onto the dash board, seatbelt dangling in
the air then yanked back into its housing.  Mulder glanced up, saw
the feverish-bright eyes and the fixed smile on Jon's face, the
white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.  He was keening now,
what sounded like names, maybe Sarah, maybe Michael.  Mulder
couldn't say and he really didn't care.  He spun to yank at the
door, hands catching at grips from an unfamiliar angle.  A nail
bent back as he ripped at the catch and he hissed.  The handle
flopped uselessly, inert.

     Water-blur on windows and light everywhere and no clear sight
to be had.  He couldn't see the horizon or the sun, only the insane
wash of light and color around them and his muscles hurt and
screamed at him as Mulder twisted, hands braced on his seat, trying
to find a clear sight.  Window buttons were mockeries, and door
locks a lie.  All the controls that could free him were guarded on
the door by Jon's hand.  The whole vehicle lurched and the nose
sank more, water gushing up to splash over the hood.  A sudden
silence washed over them as the engine drew itself up into one last
whine, coughed and died.

     In the quiet Mulder could hear Jon slamming his foot on a
useless gas pedal.  Braced with his hands on the dash board, elbows
locked against quivery muscles, the analyst listened to panting
that could have been his, or could have been Jon's, and turned his
head in the moment's stasis to meet blue eyes and a flushed face.

     And Jon smiled.  Wide and wild and crazy.  White teeth and
blue eyes and blue of sky and brown of water blurred across the
glass behind him as the Suburban rocked and tilted further towards
the nose, and a rushing sound yanked Mulder's eyes away and down
to where water forced its way up by his feet, cold and gray.  He'd
thought he was spent, past being terrified or having the strength
to care any more.

     He was wrong.
 
 
 

     Prop wash sent clouds of mist scudding to catch light and
confuse the eye.  It threw the double rooster tail of water away
and whipped the dark surface of silt-stained riverine currents into
a froth.  And through all that Averman could see the carapace of
the Suburban, skidding away from land and safety and sanity and
into the rushing channel dug by thousands upon thousands of tides
that shaped the coastal lands before men ever worked their way
here, before men every spilled dirt and filth and left trails of
death in their wake.

     Shiny black, under water and light, and suddenly it tipped
down and away as the hood dove under that scummed surface,
trying to find bottom, and the rear bobbed with the air it held,
rocking and rolling in the growing violence of the tidal waves.
Offshore, the launches hovered, kept at bay by sand bars and
treacherous bottom.

     "We have them in sight, but cannot approach until they get
into deeper water.  We are preparing divers. . ."  The Coastie's
voice was curt and professional.  Behind him Averman could hear a
steady thread of Spanish curses.

     "How deep is it there?"

     "Ten feet maybe.  Variable.  We need a draft of at least
fifteen.  The current'll be carrying them this way, but they won't
float for long."

     "Will they get out by you before they go under?"

     ". . . I can't answer that.  I'm not sure it matters."

     It had tilted now.  Nose down and he could see through the
tinted back windows, make out figures in there, moving.  No
details, but movement.  The headphones made his jaw ache where
they gripped, and the light kept flashing into eyes widened by
staring into dark places.  Averman glanced at the pilot next to him.
The man's face was set, watching the car below with the little
attention that didn't go to keeping the aircraft in a tight circle.

Watched the shadow of the chopper skitter across the water down
below, shading the dark wedge of metal and glass.

     "Do what you can.  Just do what you can."
 
 
 

     Salt spray and the smell of the rotting coast was on Sam
Rodriguez' lips.  And words. . .

     "Lady, whose shrine stands on the promontory,
     Pray for all those who are in ships, those
     Whose business has to do with fish, and
     Those concerned with every lawful traffic
     And those who conduct them.

     Repeat a prayer also on behalf of
     Women who have seen their sons or husbands
     Setting forth, and not returning:
     Figlia del tuo figlio,
     Queen of Heaven."

     Behind him the rattle of tanks and the squeak of rubber broke
the slap of sea against man's brittle shell.  Shouts and the
laughter of gulls all merging, and from Monkey Island the sound of
morning.  The sound of a bell.

     "Also pray for those who were in ships and
     Ended their voyage on the sand, in the sea's lips
     Or in the dark throat which will not reject them
     Or wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bell's
     Perpetual angelus."

     Eliot's words hung on the air between him and Meyers.  Sam let
the binoculars drop on their strap, not feeling the heavy casing as
it thumped against his chest.  He didn't need the lenses now.  The
glossy black roof wallowed out there on the water, where it didn't
belong.  Hanging in the air over it, the big chopper shimmied and
wheeled, impressive and useless.

     "Holy shit. . ."  Meyers' whisper cut through the clatter and
babble.  Divers were yanking their way into flippers and tanks, and
Zinsmeier and Averman's voices bounced through the cabin.
Meaningless sounds.  The black shape rocked wildly as the
tide-driven current slapped it sideways.  Scylla's hungry tongue.

     Sam's ears were ringing, but he could hear that engine race as
the jeep still tried to reach for bottom, drag itself further out.
The chopper's drumming scream sang counterpoint as it veered off
and clawed its way up past where its downdraft tore the spray into
an iridescent mist around them.  Then the chopper and the boats
were all that was left.  The Suburban's engine coughed and died as
it dragged itself into the current and its wheels lost their grip.

     He couldn't see the hood anymore.  Even with the binoculars it
was just dirty water shimmering and brown flecked foam, and glass
with blurred figures.  It yawed drunkenly, canting its grill down
towards the sand.  The river drew it on, deep into the heart of the
Gulf.
 
 
 

     "There are flood and drouth
     Over the eyes and in the mouth,
     Dead water and dead sand
     Contending for the upper hand.
     The parched eviscerate soil
     Grapes at the vanity of toil
     Laughs without mirth.
        This is the death of earth."

     The jeep rocked and tossed them both as the waves and current
slapped it deeper into the Gulf.  Leather was soft and yielding
under Mulder's fingers when he yanked his thin body over the back
of the seat, sobbing with the sudden fear that he'd be too slow,
too weak.  In the corner of his eye Jon was twisting loose of his
seatbelt and reaching and his fingers scraped a bruising trail down
the agent's right leg then Mulder was clear and free and scrambling
up the tilted floor of the jeep towards light and air and. . .

     Glass.  Glass, another window.  Another lock.  Metal dug into
the fingers locked around the handle that couldn't open the rear
door of the Suburban.  Elijah's fingers bit into his leg, then let
go.

     "Fox, it'll be all right, let go. . . "

     "Fuck you!  Let me the hell out of here!"

     "Fox!"

     "Nooo!  No, you don't call me that and you don't take me
through your fucking nightmares anymore!  Leave me alone. . . !"
The words scraped their way free of this throat, flat in the thick
air shoved to the back of the jeep by the water.  He could see it
when he glanced down, mica-sparkle brown around the windows,
cloudy and turbulent inside the car where it surged towards the
dashboard and lapped at the fronts of the seats.

     "Damn it, Fox. . . "  The red flush was bruise dark as Jon
looked up at him.  Mulder yanked his eyes away, looking up at sky
that was being slapped out of his range by the water, the current.
He could feel the metal cage jarring as the waves slammed it and
tossed it further out into the Gulf.  The air was thick and hard to
breathe and made his ears pop.

     "Anh. . .anh. . .aanh"  His breathing and his heart pounded in
time with the dull thuds his hand made against the glass.  Red
smears marked the blue of sky.  When he could see it, when waves
didn't take it away and send his glass and metal trap bouncing like
a toy.  Hot trails rolled back down his arm and dripped from his
elbow and he could feel the burn in his hands and his ribs and his
throat and it didn't matter, none of it mattered, like the hands
that were clawing up his sides now, trying to pull him down to the
water and the dark and the mud and sand below.

     And a hand reached his shoulder.  It was so hard to keep hold
of the door, keep his sneakered feet anchored against the carpet
and the front seats, so hard to sprawl against gravity's pull and
the call of water beneath him. . .

     And Jon's voice.  "Don't worry.  I'm so sorry.  I should have
known you couldn't believe. . ."  And Jon's hand around his throat,
under his chin, until Mulder let go and spun and tried to get his
arms up.  Elijah was off balance and rolled as the car wallowed and
the light was swallowed up.  In the dim gloom, with sounds so
hollow in pressure-painful ears, seeing the bubbles find the
surface where he couldn't follow, Mulder rolled away from Jon,
seeing a look of pity and anger and sorrow.
 

     And hearing the words. . . "We can't go back, Fox.  Can I look
again at the day and its common things, and see them all smeared
with blood, through a curtain of falling blood?  I can't.  You
can't.  You'll get there first, but I won't let you stay scared,
Fox.  It's going to be all right."  And Elijah crouched and there
was no place to hide.

Continued in part 36........................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 36/41 NC-17
Date: 25 Feb 1996 07:18:00 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 36/41)
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 the Spirit moved upon the face of the water. . .As the
air of temperate seas is pierced by the still dead breath of the
Arctic Current;  And they came to an end, a dead end stirred with
a flicker of life. . .

     In the restless wind-whipped sand, or the hills where the wind
will not let the snow rest.  Waste and void.  Waste and void.  And
darkness on the face of the deep."

     Meyers' spine chilled as Rodriguez' words echoed hollowly
through the sunlit clatter.  The divers were running last-minute
checks, one eye on their equipment and one on the slap-ripple of
water where the last glimmer of metal shone in troughs.  Farrigut,
in yellow neoprene and striped tanks, watched beside them.

     "We'll be there soon.  We have to get close enough not to get
lost.  We'll get them. . . "

     "It's taking too fucking long. . . "  Meyers' stomach was a
cold, knotted thing in his gut, and his hands clenched and released
the sun-bleached wood of the coping.  Water slapped their hull, met
itself over the spot where there wasn't any jeep and no men could
be seen anymore.  When he turned his head, forced his chin around,
Rodriguez' brown eyes were wide and fixed, and his lips moved with
prayer and poetry.

     He spun, glared at Farrigut in his rubber and weights.
"You're in your tanks, dive for God's sake!"

     Hard, steady eyes looked up into his, and a wide mouth
tightened.  "Listen to me, kid.  That water's like diving in liquid
shit.  It's thick and dark and brown and it's hot on top but you go
five feet down and it's cold as hell. A man can get turned upside
down and lost before he knows it in this shit.  We don't dive in it
unless we got to, and if we got to then we don't dive until we know
where we're going and we can do it right."

     "They're sinking.  They're trapped and they're under and that
fucking maniac. . . "

     "Can just wait or he'll have even more deaths to his name."

     Meyers turned his back on them, ignored the sounds and counted
the seconds and there were too many.  Too many.  And he couldn't
let it happen.  Soft words to himself.  "I know the water, I've
dived.   Hell, I grew up in the water. .  .They're not going to
make it.  We're not going to make it."  Sam's eyes were on his face
now.  He swallowed and looked back.

     "I shouldn't have left him alone.  He told us what would
happen."  Sam stared back, words caught in that moment before they
could drop and make sense.

     "You didn't know. . ."

     "He told us, Sam.  And we didn't listen."

     He barely knew it but one foot was suddenly bare, and he was
yanking the shoe off the other.  Ignoring the shouts and the words
and the water was warm and stinking-thick around him as he
dropped over the side, then cold around his feet.

     He could taste it in his mouth when he swam.  Taste of a smell
of chemicals and mud and land and death.  Seaweed and jellyfish
caught and stung at his fingers, and the water hurt his eyes.
Words meant nothing more than sound behind him.  All the world
was light and water and salt and the sound of his own breath in his
ears as he swam.  And the tide was rushing out and the waves
slammed around him, four and five feet over his head.

     And then his hand hit something hard and it hurt, and his foot
kicked metal.  Meyers pulled up to tread water, seeing waves and
snatching breaths as they pounded over him until he could feel the
air in his lungs and his veins and knew it was time.  And he dove.
 
 
 

     "And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
     In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
     And the weak spirit quickens to rebel. . . "

     "No!"

     "Don't fight me. . . "  Jon's hand was tight around his wrist
and he could feel the muscles trembling and the thinness of skin
and flesh over bone.  Mulder pulled his knees up and kicked, and
Jon's pain-doubled gasp bought him a moment.

     The blond was sprawled across the backs of the seats, gagging,
hands wrapped around his groin.  Mulder scrambled over him, felt
his body clear the backs of seats and drop into water.  The cold
shock startled a gasp from him and a hiss of pain as salt bit into
his wounds.

     He couldn't see the door locks.  Tingling and numb fingertips
pushed at anything that would move and Mulder pulled himself tight
and small under the shelter of the steering wheel.  Water slapped
at his chin and stung in his eyes when the jeep shifted.  He
coughed, swallowing a mouthful, tasting death and chemicals, gas
and oil and salt.  Elijah's hands blurred pale in the gloom, trying
to reach him, and he cringed lower behind the wheel watching the
man wedged between the bucket seats.

     "I won't go back, Fox.  You won't stop me."  Fury and pain
roughened the words.

     Mulder spat gray-brown water.  "You want me to just lie down
and die like those kids you butchered?  Go to hell, Jon!"

     "You're wrecking everything.  I won't let you ruin this for
me."  There, he'd heard it.  He knew he had.  A sudden click chased
the echo of Jon's words and Fox felt the sudden, terrible surge of
hope.  He wanted to sob with frustration.  His arms were so heavy,
and his legs trembled with cold and weakness where they were
tangled in the pedals.  It took so much.  He lunged suddenly,
exploding from under the wheel to wrap his arms around the back of
the driver's seat.  Tried to force his body over it where the seat
hung crazily, facing down to the floor of the Gulf.

     From the corner of his eye he saw Jon's face, a hand reaching
for him. Shut his eyes and pulled with all the strength he had left
until he was half over, legs hanging.  So hard to breathe the thick
air, and he could see the trail of bubbles chasing each other
towards the light.  The headrest dug under his ribs and he gagged
and stared, as a blur caught his eyes, and he saw a face,
puff-cheeked, at a window.

     Then a hand was balled into the cloth between his shoulder
blades, and it pulled with a force that slammed his head against
the door post and sent nausea-stained stars behind his eyes.  A
hand locked itself around his throat forcing that
kicked-in-the-balls sick pain through his larynx and squeezing,
squeezing the light and the color and the air out of his world
until he couldn't feel the hands he was clawing at, and couldn't
move and couldn't. . . couldn't. . .

     The sound was something he felt rather than heard.  Even the
red roar in his ears couldn't hide it.  A single hammer blow that
pounded the Suburban and ripped Elijah's hand off Mulder's throat.

     A desperate breath hit the agent's lungs, doubled him in a
painful cough and deep confusion.  Mulder forced open his eyes even
as he sucked down another heavy lungful of air.  The pounding was
softer, odd, and Elijah had twisted to see. . .

     The pale blur of a face crazily puffed by air, black hair that
floated and a hand pounding at a shatterstar bullet hole in the
rear window where water helped force the glass to. . .

     "Oh SHIT!"  Mulder snatched a last gasp of air as the glass
folded in, creased along the bullet's damage and disintegrated into
tiny chunks.  Water helped carry Meyers into the small space where
a pocket of air had become a tingling wash of fleeing bubbles.  The
Gulf's slap struck the men in the jeep, pinned Elijah to the wheel
and threw Mulder into the glass of the door.  Desperate hands had
Fox's shoulders and were pulling him away.

     Mulder's eyes hurt with the water as they opened wide, saw
black hair floating free and a round, young face by his.  Then
hands forced him towards a jagged, little gap where glass had been,
and sent him out to follow the last air from the car racing up
towards the surface and the light.

     He kicked, felt Meyers' hands shove at his legs.  The metal
trim was slick under his fingers as he pulled his aching body
clear.  In the gloom he could faintly see Meyers looking up, see
Jon still thrashing in the front of the cab.  Meyers suddenly
jerked as a hand flailed, caught at him, but the water was pounding
against the blood in Mulder's head, hurting his ears and forehead
with stinging needles of pressure and the air in his lungs snatched
him back, buoyed him up, towards the air and light that had to
still be there, somewhere.

     He didn't look behind him, only locked his teeth and lips
tight, and held onto the air in his lungs with all the will and
fear and need to live he could find.

     And rose, slowly and steadily as Jonathan Elijah Gragg found
what he had sought.

     "In a drifting boat with a slow leakage,
     The silent listening to the undeniable
     Clamour of the bell of the last annunciation."
 
 
 

     "Between the idea
     And the reality
     Between the motion
     And the act
     Falls the Shadow

                For Thine is the Kingdom

     Averman stared at dirty, empty water.  He could see men in
scuba gear, but they were casting around, unsure of where to look.
The AIC could barely see more from his perspective.  The jeep had
gone under to be lost in the murk almost immediately.  And the
faint smudge of Meyers' shirt was long-gone.

     When the paleness of skin and cloth suddenly burst through
into air, he mistook it for foam for an instant.  Only an instant.
Then he was cursing and the chopper was circling lower, trying to
get a clear sight of the man.  And trying, like a buzzard, to mark
what was there to be found.

     "Did he get your boy?  Does he have anyone else with him?"
The pilot's voice was taut with nerves.

     "I can't tell.  I can't keep a clean sight on him. . . "  The
AIC held the glasses so tight they hurt his face, trying to follow
the man in the water.  And waves kept driving him under, carrying
him away.  And he couldn't see. . .

     "Shit.  We're shoving the poor bastard under. . . "  A sure
hand pulled back on the stick and the bird lifted away from the
serrated water.  Averman looked down and breathed a curse, but
under his breath he mouthed prayers.  A prayer for the living and
a prayer for the dead.

     And down below, so far away, he could see a white launch and
a small, brown man.  And knew that Rodriguez was waiting to say
goodbye to a friend.
 
 
 
 

     The downdraft was a slap in his face, driving spray across the
surface before the whirling blades carried the chopper up.  Mulder
barely noticed; another squat, foam-toothed wave loomed up to
crush
him under its weight.

     The analyst fought, forced his legs to kick, flailing with
both hands.  Heavy denim and sneakers pulled him down and the
Gulf hit him in the face again.  His mouth and nose were full of water
and the cough doubled his body, carrying him under.  So hard to
hold onto himself against the sluggish, trembling ache.  His lungs
screamed to draw freely.  Too hard. . . he felt the sudden water in
his nose as his lungs drew, and terror jolted through him, heady
and real.

     It got Mulder back up to the surface, gasping and flailing.
A capricious wave caught and lifted him, showing him boats circling
so close.  As close as the sky and the sun.  He couldn't feel his
hands or feet.  Not even the sting of salt in cuts.  The bruised
ache of exhaustion swept aside anything so trivial.  Water slapped
hard against his face again, pushing him under.  Fog was eating up
the world now, red and black and hurting him as it took the edges
and kept growing.

     He threw his head back, reaching for air, but met only water
and there wasn't anything left.  All going away and the whirlpool
had him.  Scylla and Charybdis, sang a hollow voice in his mind,
and it went round and round and he was going under now and he
felt something wrap around him but it was just the mermaids singing
and singing, and he couldn't hear anymore.  No voices would wake
him and all that was left was. . .

     The song and the dark.
 
 
 

     Rodriguez felt the launch shudder as the engines reversed to
pull it to a stop.  Orange dye spread over the blue-brown water,
but here it was hard and pure and small, billowing out from three
men in the water.  Plastic covered two faces, but the third drew
his eyes until he forced them away, and let himself slip down.  He
didn't want to see.  He was afraid to know.

     There were shouts and the clamor of rescue was acid in his
ears.  The men up above had spotted someone.  Coasties milled
around, doing things he didn't try to follow.

     They didn't waste time with winches and harnesses, using
muscle to simply drag the slack body of a man up over the side.
Sam could hear his limbs thud and splash to the deck, and slowly
turned to stare at the gray face.  He couldn't feel the blood drain
from his own face, or the warm deck under his butt.  Just stared as
Dr. Truong and one of the sailors went to frantic work to get the
water out of Fox Mulder's lungs, to find a pulse and force the life
back into the body they'd found.

     He waited, looked up.  They were looking, but hadn't shouted,
weren't gathered.  There wasn't another face.  The sea had yielded
one body, and only one and might yet take him back.  Rodriguez shut
his eyes and saw words on a page.  When he opened his eyes it was
still Mulder's thin frame splayed on the deck, under Truong's
hands.  Face down, they pushed the water out of him.  What looked
like gallons spread clear and shining across the painted deck,
spilling from gray lips and nostrils.

     It was taking so long.  Some part of him knew it when they
started CPR, and counted their breaths with them.  He wanted to
walk across the deck, take up the count with them, help pull a life
away from the Gulf's greedy water.  And he couldn't.  Couldn't move
and was afraid to feel or hope or try to reach for this life.
Elijah and the Gulf had taken Marion.  Truong could fight for a
dead man, he didn't know any better.  Sam knew.  He'd said his
prayers for the dead.

     Rodriguez watched a broad back posting up and down.  His mind
found the memory of the horses at home, of his friend posting the
way Jenni told him. . .

     In memory a dry voice yelled across a paddock.  "The sadist
who invented this shit didn't get enough sex!  I won't be able to
screw for a week!"  Saw Francis, stiff legged and laughing, moving
up and down so much like this.  The technician wasn't laughing.

     Truong's voice was urgent and impossible.  "Got a pulse.
C'mon, you bastard, breathe. . . "  His words were loud in a
waiting silence.  Sam swallowed, tried to force himself over there.

And couldn't.  He couldn't stand to watch Fox Mulder die again in
front of him.

     His eyes were closed, trying to shut out fear and sorrow and
hope.  He didn't want to hear Truong's words, and take hold, and
finally let go again.

     "A curse is slow in coming. . .
     It cannot be diverted
     An attempt to divert it
     Only implicates others
     At the day of consummation. . .
     What ambush lies beyond the heather. . .
     And behind the smiling moon?
     And what is being done to us?
     And what are we, and what are we doing?
     .  . . We have suffered far more than a personal loss -
     We have lost our way in the dark."

     Words came back from a battered page in the dead of night.
Words that had guided Elijah, who had led them here.  Sam squeezed
his eyes shut and let the words wash away hope and fear and leave
him where he'd been led.  Then Marion started coughing, started
breathing.  Chills were running up and down Sam's spine and his
mind was trying to understand something, but the shapes and words
didn't seem to fit any of the thoughts in his head.

     Truong was shouting and the words that should have meant so
much to him faded and were noise in the sunlight.  Marion had been
wrapped in blankets, and the launch slammed across the water,
driven by its big motors.  Sam could hear the sirens echoing over
water.  The familiar howls of ambulances and police cars.  Someone
put a hand on a shoulder he knew was his and shook him a little.

     "Doctor?  Doctor Rodriguez?"  It talked more, but he let the
words go by.  Remembered miracles.  Jonah in the deep.  Marion had
been dead.  He'd known it.  He'd waited to say goodbye.

     The Blessed Virgin had said that Sam would take his friend to
the door. . .and he'd known that he had.  And another had taken him
through.  But Meyers had gone through the door with Elijah.  He'd
known. . . miracles just didn't happen.

     Another voice was talking to him.  Sam felt words somewhere in
his throat, but they didn't make sense and he didn't bother to say
them.  The boat wasn't bouncing anymore, not slamming him as it hit
water, and he knew this voice.

     "Christ, Rodriguez.  What the fuck happened?"  He looked up at
Averman, vaguely registered a long, long pause.  Felt his neck
lower his chin as the AIC crouched down to look into his eyes.

     "Rodriguez?  Sam?"

     "Where's Meyers?"

     ". . . I don't know.  They're still looking."

     Sam giggled.  He felt it welling up and he didn't want it but
he couldn't stop it.  It tickled his nose and hurt his head and
made the tears roll down his face.  His nose was stuffy.

     "They won't find him.  He's gone, Jack.  That's what it takes
to save the damned.  Blood, Jack.  It takes blood."

     "Sam. . . "

     "He knew, Jack.  Elijah knew.  Marion knew.

     'This way the pilgrimage
     Of expiation
     Round and round the circle
     Completing the charm
     So the knot be unknotted
     The cross be uncrossed
     The crooked be made straight
     And the curse be ended.'"

     Averman's voice was hoarse, thin.  "Sam, listen to yourself.
It's over now, son.  It's over, let it go. . . "  He turned and
yelled to someone else, and Sam giggled again.  Giggled as the
older man ordered someone to get another ambulance.

     "Listen, Jack.  He knew.

     '. . . the curse be ended
     By intercession
     By pilgrimage
     By those who depart
     In several directions
     For their own redemption
     And that of the departed.'"

     Averman's eyes were shut tight.  Tears streaked his drawn face
as he looked away from Samuel Rodriguez' wide eyes and hollow
voice, and words he should never have learned.  Remembered a
dog-eared page in a little book with Eliot's lost, sad face on the
cover.  And he cursed the memory of a marked page and turned
back to look into Sam's face.  And gave the final benediction of Sam's
profane prayer.

     "May they rest in peace."

Continued in part 37....................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 37/41 NC-17
Date: 26 Feb 1996 05:59:53 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 37/41)
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 was quiet in the country.  At night, there were the
security lights but nothing else.  No towns close by to cast halos
of light onto the horizon.  Just the sweet blackness of night and
the pure radiation of stars burning their light down onto a world
filled with crickets and innocuous night creatures.

     He'd been here a day now.  A whole day.  Woken late at night
on Thursday in Saint Pat's in Lake Charles. Spent Friday morning
getting the truth out of everyone.  Meyers was dead, Sam was on
tranqs, flying to California to be in the arms of his family.
Meyers was dead and Sam was having a nervous breakdown.
Meyers was dead and Sam was going crazy too.  Meyers was dead
and Sam. . . Mulder tried to break the incessant drumming of those
two thoughts, by staring at the television set.  PBS.  Something about
animals.  He couldn't follow the announcer's voice, and it didn't
feel real enough for him to care.  He'd picked up.  Averman had
argued and argued and there'd been a psychologist and then a
psychiatrist, but in the end they'd had to let him go.  Averman had
stayed right there, like a quiet shadow.  Upgraded the flight back
to DC to first class.  Ridden beside him, quiet, not trying to talk
to him.  Averman had snatched the bag of peanuts and the coke.
Sprite instead.  No peanuts.
 
     And the airport.  National Airport.  In retrospect, it had
been fucking embarrassing.  Averman steering him, one arm on his
elbow, clutching.  And then the Senator and the two hulking men
who'd taken up position like Mulder was going to cut and run.

     Mulder wanted to get up from his place on the couch.  Wanted
to, but his body had settled in.  It was fucking tired and now he
had a place on the couch.  When he moved it was like his joints
creaked.  His skin was feather-sensitive.  And he hurt everywhere.
His eyes felt like he'd been crying for hours--purified of all
their tears.

      Fucking kidnapped.  There had been no choice, just two men
and one of them had had Valium if Mulder had tried to cut and run.
Averman was an Agent, Matheson was a senior senator and Mack
was a psychiatric RN.  If he'd caused a scene they would have looked
like fucking heros and he'd probably still be here.  Here or in that
damn hospital at Georgetown.

     He could still hear Matheson's voice in his ears, after they'd
picked up all his luggage, deposited him into the fucking Bentley.
"You have a choice, Fox.  You can go with me and get better.  We've
gotten you as much leave time as you need.  Or you can fight it and
I've got a friend at Georgetown who's talking with Dr. Guiterriez
in Oklahoma.  They've guaranteed a bed on their secure psychiatric
ward for you.  Please, Fox.  Come to the house in Virginia."

     The second man had been Matheson's driver.  Averman had
nodded, relieved when Mulder mumbled something.  Gotten out,
heading back to the taskforce and a world that wasn't Mulder's
anymore.

     So he was here.  Trying not to cry.  Watching the television
with Mack.  And Ingrid.  Ingrid  was the housekeeper.  It was a
very nice house.  A horsebarn in back.  Ten miles from the closest
town.  Mulder's room and Mack's room had a bathroom between
them.  The doors had had latches to lock but someone had taken
them off.  Recently.  Mulder had seen the latches lying on the kitchen
table when he came in.  His bedroom had expensive, antique
furniture and a thick pile carpeting and a fireplace.  But it was
uncluttered, without knickknacks, and the bedcovers, plain
functional things, were out of place in the midst of luxury.  The wall
outlets had been replaced with blank plates, except for the one under
the bed, but his alarm clock and his lamp were plugged into that and
you would have to move the heavy, carved, oaken bed to get at that
outlet.  The clothes he'd left in DC, some of them had been in the
room when he'd gotten there.

     Matheson had given the rest of his luggage to Ingrid to sort
through.  He'd sat Mulder down, on this very couch, in the big back
den, and talked clearly to him.  It all seemed like a thick haze.
A translucent, pearlescent haze that kept anything from touching
him.  Wrapped him in cotton wool.

     "Fox.  I'm going to be able to keep everything safe for you.
If that's what you want.  I know you're having a hard time thinking
right now.  But I have to know."  Matheson had been sitting on the
coffee table.  "You don't want to take psychiatric disability, do
you?"

     "No."  He'd shaken his head, wrapped his arms around his
chest.

     "Do you want to stay in VICAP?"

     "Yes."

     "Now, I want you to think long and hard about this.  You're
not in the hospital, and I, personally, think you can come back
from this.  But I have to know.  I'm going to be pulling some
strings and calling in some favors to keep this quiet.  Are you
going to be able to get better?  Not just partially better.  All
the way?"

     Mulder had started to say something about how he wasn't sick
and that there wasn't anything wrong with him.  And then he'd
remembered when Averman told him Meyers was dead.  He
remembered when he'd finally gotten word that Sam wouldn't come
see him because Sam was having problems of his own.  He
remembered banging his hand against a bedroom wall.  He
remembered Averman's hands on his shoulders as he was held
against a hotel bed and a needle stung his butt and made the world
recede.  "I want to get better," he'd said simply.  It was the best he
could do.  "I'm going to try."  Soft, simple words that really didn't
sound anything like him.  Quiet words.

     It had been enough for Matheson.

     Supper had been a protein drink and oatmeal.  Not bad.  Not
the oatmeal anyway.  Mack had helped him eat, helped him form his
fingers around the spoon.  He'd hated that.  Needing help.  God, he
hated it all.  He was hungry and he wanted food and they gave him
oatmeal.  He hated this, being dependent.  Being childlike. It
irked and niggled at him.

     There were other pictures on the television set.  They moved
too fast for him. And Mack was speaking.

     Mulder shook his head and focused on Mack's lips.  Mack
probably worked his way through college as a bouncer.  "First a
bath and then bed," Mack was saying patiently.  "Come on."

     "I'm not tired," Mulder replied, mostly for form's sake.  His
throat hurt, was raw.  He could only whisper.

     Mack smiled patiently.  "Come on.  Do you need help walking?"

     "I don't need your help," Mulder replied, indignant.  "I
don't need any one's fucking help."

     "Come on."

     There wasn't much choice.

     Someone had laid his old ratty shorts and a t-shirt out on
the bed for him.  He wanted to take the clothes and sling them
across the room.  He could find his own fucking clothes.  Damn it.
Damn it.

     He walked into the bathroom; Mack was there.  Sitting on the
toilet.

     "I'm not taking a shower with you here," Mulder said, hands
on his hips, exasperated.

     "Fine.  Then I'll run you some bath water."

     "I'll take my shower by myself," Mulder replied.  Take a
quick shower and then fall into bed.  Try to forget that the room
was politely childproofed.

     "Fox, I can't let you take a shower by yourself.  If you want
to take a shower I'm going to stay here.  If you want to take a
bath, I'll go away."

     "I want to take a shower, without you here."

     "You're not strong enough.  If you fall, you could hit your
head.  It's not safe."  Mack's voice was patient.  "You have two
choices.  But showering by yourself isn't one of them."
 

     "NO," Mulder replied.  "I'm going to take a shower without
you hovering over me."

     "That's not an option.  In a few days, when you're stronger,
it may be.  But tonight it's not an option," the big, blonde man
said easily.

     "No." It was irrational.  He knew he would lose.  But right at
that moment, Fox Mulder didn't give a fucking damn in hell.  Just
didn't fucking care.  He wanted to take a shower by himself.
Didn't want someone outside the curtain waiting to catch him.
Didn't want to squat in bathwater and feel it fill with dirt and
crud.  He wanted to fucking take a shower by himself.

     Mack took a deep breath.  "Fox, let's get you undressed and
into the tub."

     "You're not touching me!"  He felt is voice grow shrill.

     "I'd let you do it if it were safe.  But it's not safe.  Not
tonight.  Come on.  Why don't we just put you to bed now?  We'll
discuss it again in the morning, when you're feeling better."

     Mulder stared at the nurse.  "NO.  NO.  Will my options be any
different?"

     Mack didn't answer.  "Fox, come on.  This isn't a big deal.
Calm down."

     And suddenly it didn't really matter anymore.  He felt his
control slipping away, replaced with a sudden irrational anger that
boiled from some deep fire inside him, some fire he didn't know
existed.  It burned and he couldn't stop it, couldn't stop anything
that happened.  He was so pissing mad.  Treated like a child and
there were blank plates on the outlets and the locks were missing
and he couldn't even fucking take a shower alone and he hated
standing there, every fucking bone on his face in sharp detail and
his eyes were smudged and ringed and looked very nearly like he
had two black eyes and he'd lost twenty pounds and his hands and
his wrists were bandaged and screaming at him and here was Mack
who didn't understand any of it, trying to fucking tell him, fucking
tell *him* what to do.  Mulder lashed out.  Crying.  "Stop it.
STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO."

     He knew he had to hit something.  He knew he had to have the
pain coursing through his body, had to cause some sort of pain
somewhere or he wasn't sure what the anger would do.  Wasn't sure
what would happen.  He just couldn't stand the anger and the rage
and it was all churning and. . .

     Mack's arms were strong around him.  His back was pressed
against Mack's chest and Mack had Mulder's arms crossed, had
Mulder's wrists in his big, beefy hands.  Mulder struggled.
Fucking didn't care.  Fucking just hoped that he hurt something,
kicking and fighting and screaming at the top of his lungs.  Didn't
matter anymore.  Fucking didn't fucking care.

     He spent his rage kicking and screaming and trying to get
loose, trying to get away, trying to hurt Mack.  Seeing himself in
the mirror, his body locked against Mack's, his face contorted,
thin, wraithlike body twisting madly.  He hated what he saw and yet
he couldn't stop it.  There was no way.  He couldn't make it end,
couldn't make the pain any less.

     It was exhaustion that finally won out.  He fought and fought
and squeezed every last bit of energy out of his system.  He was
huddled in a tiny ball on the tiny montage of tiling in the
bathroom, Mack hunkered over him, still clutching his wrists.  His
face was on his knees and he was sobbing, couldn't breathe.
Sobbing and tired and he could hardly move.  He weakly made a
motion, trying to show that he still had energy.  Mack's hands were
firm.  He wanted to speak but the sobs that burst out of his
fragile body kept him from it.  The sobs hurt and took energy he
didn't have.  The sobs wracked him and made everything shake and
he couldn't stop them.  He couldn't make it end.  It wouldn't end.  It
wouldn't ever end.  Jon and Elijah and Meyers' young stupid face.
Meyers.  Staring at him like he was the messiah come to an ignorant
flock.  Meyers talking to him.  Frito was crazy too.

     If that last fact was supposed to make him feel better, it
didn't.

     He was only dimly aware of being almost carried into the
bedroom and being set on the overstuffed easy chair, of his shirt
being unbuttoned and the t-shirt being slid on.  Of hands
unbuttoning his levis, of moving his butt so that the jeans could
slide off and then again so that the shorts could go on.  He
huddled in the chair in a ball, sobbing.  Everyone was gone so far
into the long, long dark.  No one had fought.

     He was given a glass of water and he expected pills.  Pills or
a syringe.  But there was no needle or syringe.  There was only a
glass of water and then covers being tucked over his shoulders,
lights being dimmed to murkiness and then to nothing, and he was
scared.

     "Pleasepleasepleaseplase."  The voice was a child's.  Mulder
wondered who was begging in such a young, terrified, pitiable voice
until the bedside lamp came on.

     "Are you frightened of the dark?"  Mack's voice was soft.
Mulder hiccupped, trying to keep out the sobs that had suddenly
renewed themselves.

     "No."  Mulder embarrassed himself with the sobs that
punctuated his voice.

     Mack stared at him.  "Okay.  Why don't I leave the bathroom
light on.  Will that be enough or do I need to get you a nightlight
or leave on a lamp?"  No mockery.  Just a simple question.

     "Enough," Mulder managed.

     "Okay.  Do you want me to stay while you go to sleep."

     "No."  Nononono.  He wasn't a child.  But everything was so
far away now.  Everything had receded into nothingness.  Everything
was distant.  Jonathan's body lay on a slab in the cold and someone
had pulled out all his organs and sewed him back up.  Jonathan was
dead, he had gone were he had sent all the children.  Was there a
heaven?  Fox knew there was not, but he desperately wished there
was.  Jon would be with Mary and Sarah.  Everything would be all
right.  But there was no heaven.

     Mack took the water glass.  "I'm going to sit in the door. If
anything happens I'll be here.  But it'll be like you're alone."

     Mulder swallowed.  Nodded.
 
 
 

     Mack rolled out of his bed, feet hard against the hardwood
floor of his bedroom, he raced across the two bedrooms, flicking on
Fox Mulder's bedroom light.  The screams were loud and terrified,
and Mackenzie Forrester had no idea where Fox Mulder could find
any energy at all, much less enough to scream and scream and
scream
like that.

     His figure was small and terrified, buried against the
headboard.  Ingrid was in the doorway and Mack waved her back
away. Mulder's eyes were open.  "I want my dad."  The voice was
terrified.  "I want my dad."

     Mack swallowed, not sure how to answer that.  Mulder wasn't
here, wasn't listening.  He was lost in some world his mind had
decided was safe to play out nightmares in, because it was night.
Because it was night and people didn't think you were psychotic
when you had bad dreams.

     "Your dad can't come."

     "I want my dad," Mulder insisted.
 

     "I know you do."  Mack got closer, Mulder scrambled even more
tightly against the polished wood.  "I know.  But I'm here."

     "I want my Dadda.  Where's my Dadda?  He didn't hurt me.  He
didn't.  Please let my Dadda come."

     Mack knew that Mulder had been abused, knew that from the
conversation with Averman.  Still he felt his stomach drop, felt
the blood drain from his hands, felt his body grow cold.

     "It's okay.  He'd be here if he could.  But he can't.  But I'm
here.  I'll take care of you.  Like your Dadda."

     "I want him."  The howl was inhuman, but the long form did not
resist as Mack sat down on the bed and pulled him.  The howling was
painful.  It did not strain Mack's ears.  But there was something
broken in it.  He held Mulder's shoulders and head against his
chest and rocked and tried to compete with the howls and the tears
with lullabies.  Held onto the psychotic form and rocked
comfortingly and wondered what, if anything, Mulder would
remember of this in the morning.
 
 
 

     The bath was quick and hot.  He took off the layers of sweat
quickly, got out, dried himself off.  It still bugged the hell out
him.

     Mack had given him nothing.  No drugs.  Mack hadn't sedated
him.

     He pulled on boxers and then blue jeans and a shirt.  The
clothes felt so rough.  He was tired.  Clean and sweet smelling and
tired.

     He lay on the bed, curled up on his side, waiting for Mack.

     The footsteps were quiet.  An afghan.

     Mulder rolled over.  "You didn't give me any drugs."

     "No."  Mack watched as Mulder pulled himself up into a sit.

     "You should have given me drugs."

     "It worked out without drugs."

     "Do you have drugs?"

     "Yes."

     Mulder stared at Mack.  "Why didn't you give me drugs?"

     "It wasn't the best thing for you."

     "How do you know that?" Mulder asked.

     "I talked a long time with Jack Averman.  He told me
everything.  As long as I don't have to, I won't use drugs."

     "I suppose I should say I'm sorry."

     "If you're not sorry, don't apologize."

     Mulder considered Mack.  Tried to reason out Mack's line of
thought.  Found he couldn't and just sat there.  "I'm not crazy,"
he said softly.

     Mack wondered about that, but didn't challenge it.  He'd had
this charge for less than eighteen hours and had already gone
through two crises.  Matheson had scoured for someone like Mack.
Good and confidential and willing to do a lot for a lot of money.
The guy should probably be in a seclusion room somewhere.  But the
people around him were going to give him every chance to get his
shit together before they took that road.  And, you had to respect
the things this man had accomplished.  He deserved this chance.
Even if it was an incredibly unlikely thing.  He still deserved
this chance.

     Mack gave the barest nod.  "Why don't you come to breakfast?"

     "More oatmeal?"

     "I think she made some malt-o-meal for you."

     Like that was so much better, Mulder thought, put his
socks on, slowly, painfully, then forced his feet into shoes.

     He ate half the bowl before he was too tired.  "It's okay,"
Mack said, taking the bowl and dumping it into the sink.  "But
you're going to have to eat fairly often."

     Mulder swallowed and nodded.  Drank a little more of the
chocolate protein friend, a little flat Sprite.

     "I'm making potato soup for lunch," Ingrid informed them.
"And some cup custards.  Is there anything you like, Fox?  It's got
to be soft and light."

     "If you don't mind."  Mulder gave an unsteady, half smile.
"Please stop calling me Fox.  I hate the name Fox."

     "What do people call you?"  Mack exchanged a glance with the
housekeeper.  She seemed nice enough.  And she hung on Matheson's
every word.  Matheson said jump and she turned green.

     "Mulder."  Mack nodded at this, got up.

     While he was down the hall, Ingrid sat with him at the table.
No one spoke.  Mack came back with a small box.  Tape and gauze
and salves.  Mulder sat, watched as Mack bandaged his hands, biting
his lip, chewing on it, really, watching Mack salve and bandage the
cuts and the burns, wrap cooling cloth over the raw places on his
wrists.  Mack gave him some Tylenol and the antibiotics he'd gotten
in Lake Charles when it was over.  Looked at the back of Mulder's
head where he'd hit it.

     A nap before lunch, curled up on the bed, with a crocheted,
(or was it knitted?  It looked crocheted.  Mulder's mother hadn't
been much for either, although there had been plenty of female
relatives who *had*.) afghan tossed over him.  A nap that stretched
on and when he woke, shadows were long and the light was golden,
honeyed.  His mouth felt funny, nasty and rubbery.  He rubbed sleep
from his eyes and wandered, barefoot, into the back den.  The
television was on, nominally, and Mack was reading The Eye of the
Dragon, the new Stephen King.

     "Well.  It lives."  Mack's voice was friendly.

     "Yeah," Mulder replied sheepishly. His stomach growled.
"What time is it?"

     "About seven."

     "Shit."

     Mack grinned.  "Don't worry about it.  When you're asleep I
don't have to play Race Bannon, companion."

     "Did you ever wonder if Race Bannon was more than Dr. Quest's
friend. . .I mean. . ."

     "Yeah.  They were always *looking* at each other and there
were so rarely *babes*," Mack replied.

     "Well, if you're expecting to get any Bannoning, forget it.
I'm saving myself for some completely mindless encounters with the
female of the species."

     Mack grinned.  "At least you don't have to lie."

     "About what?  Unless it's true what they say about guys with
big muscles. . "  He followed Mack down the hallway and into the
kitchen.  Ingrid was sitting at the table, writing a letter.
 
     She smiled at Mulder's approach.  "I expect you're starving."

     "I'm hungry," Mulder replied, grinning sheepishly.
"Ravenous."

     "Sit down," Ingrid ordered.  She was a beautiful woman, even
in her sixties.   Her body was still slender, and her face was
patrician.  She spoke with a slight German accent, even though
Mulder guessed she must have been in the states for many years.

     "Do you want Gatorade, Koolaide or Seven-up."

     "Seven-up."
 

     "Now, what was that about guys with muscles?" Mack asked.
Mulder blinked, tried to remember the conversation.

     "Oh. . .Guys who build big muscles are making up for
deficiencies in. . .uh. . .other areas."  Mulder grinned.  "Now,
tell me why you have to lie."

     "Because women hear male nurse and think fag.  I'm doing this
because I like being able to work where I want, when I want, and
always be in need."

     Ingrid brought Mulder his Seven-up, set it on the slick,
polyurathene surface of the kitchen table.  She set down a place
setting and a cloth napkin.

     "I made an appointment for Monday with Dr. Walters.  The
senator knows her very well.  She's a GP in Markville.  There's
also a therapist, Dr. Jacob Reid."

     "I don't want to go to any therapist," Mulder replied,
darkly.

     "Well, Dr. Reid said to give you a few days to adjust, so we
can put it off."  Uh-huh.  Mack thought about the tears and the
anger and the confusion.  "But you have to see someone.  Tomorrow's
Sunday.  Do you go to church?"

     Mulder shook his head.  "I don't believe in that," he said
finally.  Eliot believed in God, eventually.  Why?  Mulder wondered
that, sitting there, staring across the evening dusk.  Ingrid
brought him a steaming soup bowl of potato soup.  Everything was
over and he was sitting here.  Like Tiresius with his wrinkled
dugs.  Ingrid was watching something outside, distracted.  Mack
helped Mulder with the spoon.  Mulder felt tears of frustration,
but he let Mack help him.  It would get better.  It had to, didn't
it?  He ate his soup and didn't think about the answer to that
question.  Because it didn't have to get better.
 
     The screams.  Again.  Another night.  More screams.  And
screams and screams and even when the lights came on suddenly,
bathing the big bedroom in light, he was screaming.  More energy
tonight.  He was between the wall and the heavy wardrobe.
Huddled, trying to hide, to be small.  Mack's approach sent him into
hysterics.  Sent him scrambling, terrified, his eyes bright and
round, scattering light like crystal.  "NONONONO."  Mack swallowed
and tried to wait.  Tried to hope that he would calm down on his
own.  That he would be consolable.  Averman had said. . .Averman
had warned him.

     He watched Mack with fear and distrust.  Crying and sobbing
and rocking himself.  Holding himself tightly in a tiny ball.  Mack
felt his heart sink.  He hadn't wanted to give drugs.  Hadn't
wanted to send Mulder spiralling down.  Oh God, that would be the
first step leading to committal.

     Mulder wasn't hurting himself, just huddling terrified.
Sobbing, screaming.  Trying to make himself even smaller.  Mack sat
down cautiously, slowly.  Sat and watched Mulder.

     The screams lost their severity eventually.  As raw as his
throat was, Mack had to wonder how he'd screamed as loudly, as
long as he had.  The howls lost their severity and became whimpers.
There was something awful and horrible in this, in sitting and
watching.  In Mulder curled up.  So terrified he would not speak.
This terror, Mack swallowed to stare at it.  This was not terror
from the kidnapping or from the breakdown.  This was something
that went even deeper than beatings and bruises and never knowing
when the belt would fall.

     "Mulder?" Mack asked softly.

     Mulder did not respond.  Tried to swallow, acted though it was
painful.

     "Mulder, I'm going to get you some water?  Okay?"

     Mulder said nothing.  Just stared.  Mack moved.  Got up.  Went
into the bathroom for water and a cup.

     "Jonathan said it was all right.  But Sam's not dead."  Mulder
was speaking to the air, a soft, quiet tone as though to reassure
himself.  "I saw this blue light.  And there was water in the car.
Sam's not dead.  They held me down and told me it would be all
right.  They always hold you down when you're hurt.  They told me
it would be all right.  Tiresius in his grey skin.  I assumed a
double part.  They always came back.  They always come and you
can't do anything."  He was babbling now, his sandpapery voice
muttering the words quickly.

     Mack sat back down with the water glass.

     "Fox."  For some reason the name came easily.  "Fox.  I have
some water.  I want you to drink it."

     Mulder stared at Mack, finally acknowledging him.  "She's not
dead, is she?  Jon said she was dead."

     His swollen eyes threatened more tears.  His nose was red and
puffy and he breathed rapidly through his mouth.

     Mack swallowed.  "Come on.  I know you need to drink some
water."  He pushed the water glass forward.

     "Pleasepleaseplease.  Tell me she isn't dead.  Tell me she
isn't dead.  Tell me they didn't come.  SHE ISN'T DEAD!"  His voice
went up to the top of his current register.

     "No, Fox."  Mack didn't know if it was the right thing to do,
just knew that he couldn't answer that question with anything else.
"No Fox.  She isn't dead."

     "Jon said she was dead."  It was a childish whine, made gut-
twisting by the soft desperation and sorrow that ran through it.
"Jon said I had to go to heaven to see her.  He said she was dead."

     "It's okay."  He still didn't know who Mack was.  But he was
willing to be comforted now.  Willing for Mack to be there.  "It's
okay, Fox.  It's okay."

     Mulder closed his eyes.  "I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry."
His mouth choked.  He began sobbing anew.  Quieter sobs, not
frantic.

     "Fox.  Come on."  Mack set down the glass of water. Put a hand
around Mulder's sharp, thin shoulder.  "Come on."  He pulled the
long, emaciated body out of the corner by sheer force, wrapped
himself around Mulder, until the younger man was cradled in his
arms and lap.  "It's okay.

     "I'msorry.  I'msosorry.  I'msosorry.  I am.  I loved her so
much.  I didn't want it.  I'msorry.  They came and I. . .I. . .they
always took me before. . .Allmyfault. ..Myfault."

     "It's all right.  Shh.  It's okay.  It's okay."

     Mulder continued the slow litany of guilt and pain,
counterpointed by Mack's soft shushing of calm until morning came,
until finally, he dropped off into exhaustion, huddled, his face
pressed against the crook of Mack's arm, clutching at the material
of Mack's t-shirt.  Face red and puffy.  He scarcely moved when
Mack picked him up, curled him up in the bed.  He woke just for a
moment, face swollen and miserable, stared at Jon.  "I'm sorry,"
he muttered again.

     "It's okay," Mack said, putting a soft, calming hand on the
dark brown hair.  "Everything's all right."

Continued in part 38......................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 38/41 NC-17
Date: 27 Feb 1996 11:11:43 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 38/41)
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.

__________________

     Mack watched the figure sleep, huddled fetal under the covers.
He'd had to remove an antique quilt from this bed when he came.
Had to put away all the things that Mulder might bump into or throw
or use as a weapon against himself or against someone else.  He was
exhausted now, but he knew that if he went into his own bedroom
again, he would lie staring at the ceiling, body angled so that his
legs were comfortable in the confines of the sleighbed in his room.
He would not sleep.

     Mack had credited Jack Averman's portrait of Mulder as far as
it went, but had believed it overdrawn.  Now, staring at the
sleeping figure, the clutched fists even in sleep, Mack knew
Averman had tried to tell the facts straight, without
embellishment.

     Ingrid came in.  "Are you still going to keep him off the
drugs?" she asked quietly.

     Mack moved his legs from the ottoman.  Ingrid sat down.  "I'm
still strong enough to control him, so we don't need the powerful
tranqs.  And the other things I could give him would. . .he won't
trust me until he knows that I won't drug him," Mack said quietly.

     Ingrid nodded.  Mack wondered again who this woman was.
There had to be some story here. Something.

     "Do you think he will get better?"  Ingrid's voice shook Mack
out of a haze of exhaustion.

     "I don't know," Mack answered honestly.  "At this point I
don't know.  I know he wants to."

     Ingrid sighed.  "He is trying very hard."

     Mack nodded silently.  "It's good of Senator Matheson to give
him this opportunity.  He'd be in seclusion at any hospital,
probably full of neuroleptics."

     "Rick takes care of his family." Ingrid replied quietly. "And
his friends and his people.  He will do whatever he must to help
Mulder."

     "What group are you in?" Mack asked softly.

     Ingrid had been staring at her hands.  Now she looked up,
startled. "I'm his friend," she replied gently.  "One of his
oldest friends."
 
 
 

     He woke and his mouth was too dry even to smack his lips.
Mulder stared at the bureau on the opposite wall, too tired to move
his head or focus.

     He lay a long time, just staring, until he could concentrate.
Then moved cautiously, sat up, rubbed the tear crumbs from his
eyes.  It was full day, middle of the day.  Mack was asleep in the
big comfortable chair with the ottoman.  Mulder swallowed, glanced
at the corner between the wall and wardrobe.  Slid his feet out of
the bed.

     His feet were quiet on the carpeted floor.  Most of the rooms
had hardwood floors.  His had carpeting.  Mulder wondered if his
bedroom had been chosen for its connecting door and carpeting.
Mulder filled a glass with water and drank noisily.  Filled a
second glass.  When he looked up, Mack was standing in the door
way.  "Hey."

     "Hey." Mulder took long gulps of the tepid fluid.

     "How are you feeling?"

     "I'm okay."  He was tired and he ached and his head hurt and
his hands hurt and he was still sleepy.

     "Do you remember last night?"

     Mulder stared at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.

     "Averman said that sometimes you don't."

     Mulder considered the glass in his hands, the smooth
roundness.  Considered how it would feel dashed against the
bathroom counter.  How the slivers would feel as they were
imbedded in his hands.  He closed his eyes.  "I remember that I was
dreaming about Jon and then bad things started happening," Mulder
replied.  "I remember being scared."

     Throw the glass and before Mack can get to you you can already
have felt the sharp slivers of glass and be part of the sharp
physical pain that will carry you past the aching, unendurable
misery that rises in your chest.

     He felt Mack's closeness.  Felt Mack's hands on his, gentle,
not forcing.  Not making.  Mulder let Mack have the glass.

     "Do you feel like going into the kitchen or would you rather
curl up in bed and eat?"  Mack's voice didn't change.  Mulder
opened his eyes.  Mack had the glass, but he hadn't changed stance
or mood.

     "I. . .want to go outside."  Mulder surprised himself.  He
wanted to be out in the summer heat.

     Mack nodded.  "Can you take a bath by yourself, today?"

     The today made it easier to swallow, to admit the truth.
Mulder shook his head.  He was too tired.  He wanted to take a
long, hot shower.  He was scared of being alone.

     "Do you want a bath or a shower?"

     Mulder considered this.  "I want a shower."

     "Okay.  I'll get the water right and you can take your
shower."

     He showered with Mack in and out of the bathroom, getting his
clothes laid out on the bed, doing this and that, laying out all
the medical supplies, talking to Ingrid.  Showered long and slow.
There was shower soap on the neck of the showerhead, so he didn't
have to bend down, didn't have to worry about the slick smooth bar
falling out of his hands.  He washed his hair, feeling the soap
slide down over his achy body.  Feeling it seep into the scabs on
his head and his hands stung with biting pain.  .

     Mack had a pair of shorts, a t-shirt, underwear.  Mulder put
it on, put on his tennis shoes and socks, wandered into Mack's
room, hair still wet, slicked to his head. "Did you think it would
be like this?" he asked, sitting down on Mack's bed, letting his
hands and wrists be cared for.  No more bandages, just some salves.

     Mack went into the bathroom for some more water and the
electric razor that Mulder was simply too tired to use himself.
When he came back he answered.  "No."

     Mulder nodded and took his pills.
 
 
 

     A soft boiled egg, soft, buttery toast with the crust cut
off.  Mulder ate on the wide, covered porch, staring past the
screening.  He was sleepy, but the heat was warm and palatable. He
stretched out on an iron swing, dandelion yellow paint flaking in
a worn patina. Bright canvas pillows made the sharp places soft and
cushioned his head as he sat watching the hot afternoon, as the
ceiling fan stirred the air.  Mack sat on the other end of the back
porch, absorbed in his book.

     Mulder found himself thinking about Meyers.  It hurt to think
about it.  Meyers had gone down into the filthy warm water.  Meyers
had gone down and pulled Mulder free.  Meyers had been so young.
Mulder remembered teasing Meyers, helping Meyers with his notes.
Oh God.

     It wasn't the first time he'd gotten some one killed.  With
John Barnett.  His fault.  The little therapist they'd sent him to
until he played their word games good enough that everyone thought
he was all right.  And there was always Sam.  Always and forever.
The memory of his father's belt made Mulder start from his warm
drowse in the swing.

     "Anything wrong?"  Mack might be absorbed but he was keeping
an open ear.

     Mulder swallowed and shook his head.  Closed his eyes.  Frito
was somewhere in California in the same shape as Mulder. He pushed
his head against the brightly colored pillow again.

     It hurt so fucking bad.  It hurt and it hurt and it filled him
with pain.  Mulder didn't know if he could ever fill the hurt and
ache inside him.  He pressed his face against the warm metal back
of the swing and wished he were dead.  Just dead.  Dead and nothing
would ever, ever matter again.  Everything would be all right.
 
 
 

     "Hey."  Mack's voice was soft.  Mulder looked around confused.
It was beginning to get dark now.

     "Ingrid's pastor is here.  Visiting.  We're going to go in and
just say hello.  Then get you ready for bed.  Ingrid made you some
bread pudding."  Mack rubbed his shoulder gently, helped him up.

     He felt as though the meeting were on a planet distant to him.
He was alone in his world, alone and the words from the world
Ingrid and Mack and Brother Rick Miles inhabited echoed through
ancient crystal radio kits before they were heard and interpreted.
Brother Miles seemed quite in awe of the FBI agent, the hero who
had been kidnapped by the Baby Butcher.

     "Jon wasn't a butcher."  Mulder found his voice, as Mack laid
out his night clothes.

     "Hmm?"  Mack came back from his own room, had Mulder's drugs.
There was glass of sweet tea on Mulder's bedside table.

     "Jon wasn't a butcher.  He was trying to help those kids."

     Mack nodded, handed Mulder his pills.  Tylenol and
antibiotics.  Vitamins.

     "That preacher thinks that people go to heaven when they die,"
Mulder said, swallowing the pills.  "Jon just believed it more than
most people.  He didn't want anyone to be hurt.  In heaven, no one
is hurt.  He. . .he just wanted me to go to heaven with him."

     "Can you change clothes on your own?" Mack's voice was soft.

     Mulder nodded.

     "He wanted to see his brothers and sisters.  He said Sam was
in heaven.  He thought she had to be.  It was all my fault."

     "Being kidnapped?"  Mack didn't hide the disbelief in his
voice.

     "No. Sam."  Mulder yawned, finished pulling off his tennis
shoes.  "Samantha.  I let them kidnap her."

     "No, you didn't.  She was kidnapped and you were too small to
do anything."

     Mulder stared at Mack, tilted his head to one side.  "Mom and
Dad wouldn't have left me with her if I weren't big enough to take
care of Samantha.  I was big enough.  But I didn't protect her well
enough."  He pulled off his shirt and shorts.

     Mack swallowed.  "I know you think that.  I know.  But,
Mulder, I don't think that.  And everyone else who knows about your
sister's disappearance doesn't think that way."

     "My Dad said it was my fault.  It was.  He wouldn't talk about
it.  But he hit me.  He hit me because I lost her."  Mulder put on
his ratty old FBI t-shirt and a pair of jersey shorts.

     "Okay.  Why don't you go into my room.  There's a TV in there
and a VCR.  You can put in a tape or whatever. I'm going to get you
some supper," Mack offered.  "I don't know why your dad hit you.
If he blamed you it was because he was hurt too.  Not because it
was your fault."

     Mulder bit his lip.  "I don't think this is going to work," he
muttered.  "I'm sorry."

     Mack stopped his movement, putting Mulder's clothes into a
hamper behind the door.  "What?" he asked.

     "I think I need to go to the hospital.  I think that would be
best.  They'll drug me.  Won't they?"  Mulder asked, staring hard
at Mack.

     Mack swallowed, nodded.

     "If they drug me, I won't have to think.  I won't have to
remember.  I just want to curl up somewhere and not have to think.
I killed Meyers and I lost Sam.  I killed them.  And Sam is crazy
and Jon is dead.  I didn't want to die.  I spent so much energy
trying not to die.  Trying to be okay.  But I shouldn't have.  Jon
was right.  He didn't know it, and he didn't understand this, but
he was right. "

     Mack's voice was very soft and low now.  "What was Jon right
about, Fox?"

     Mulder closed his eyes, pulled his knees up onto the bed with
him.  Shook his head.

     "Jon was trying to kill you."

     "I know.  He was right.  If I go to a hospital, it'll be
forever."

     He felt Mack's closeness, felt the other man displace the
surface of the bed.  "Jon wasn't right.  Jon was hurting."

     "I'm hurting."  The words burst out with a sob.  "I just want
to go away.  *I don't care* if there's a heaven or if we just die.
I just want it to be over."  He trembled with the force of the pain
inside him.  "Meyers is dead and Sam is crazy.  And I just wish I
were dead too."   It was a child's statement, and Mulder knew he
shouldn't have made it.  Shouldn't have told Mack anything.  But it
was so hard not to.  So hard to be quiet.  So hard to think not to.

     Mack was suddenly there.  Rocking him, the way you do a little
kid.  "I know it hurts."  The voice was gentle.  "I know it does.
I know.  But you're trying.  You're trying sooo hard.  That's what
you have to do.  You have to try."

     Mulder pushed away from the warmth and the comfort, but Mack
wouldn't let him go.  Mulder made a small scream, not wanting the
warmth, the gentleness.

     "Do you want to take something so it won't hurt so bad?"  Mack
not letting go, not forcing Mulder into the cocoon of safeness.

     "No," Mulder replied, and the No echoed into a soft howl.

     "I can give you something."

     "I doan' wan' it."

     "Okay," Mack agreed.  "Okay.  I'm just going to stay with
you.  Okay?"

     "I wanna' go to bed."

     Mack sighed.  "Okay.  Let's leave on the back lamp and I'll
sit and read."  It was not a question and Mulder sensed it was not
open to debate.  Mack pulled the covers down and Mulder scooted
back until he could push down against the smooth cotton, be tucked
in.

     He lay there, staring at the wall, watching as Mack went in
and out and came in with some paper and a notebook and that damn
Stephen King novel.

     Lay there in his misery, not thinking, not sure what he was
doing.

     "If I ask you won't make me?" he asked.  Mack looked up,
startled.

     "If you ask what?"

     "If I want some Valium.  Not a lot.  You won't make me next
time?'

     "No.  I won't make you unless I can't control you.  If you're
going to hurt yourself and I can't stop you, then I have to.  Other
than that, no.  I won't ever make you take anything."

     That was fair.  Mulder nodded.

     "Do you want some Valium?"

     Mulder considered saying no.  But he shook his head yes.

     Mack helped him sit up to drink the water.  And the pill made
it easier, made everything hurt less.
 
 
 
 

     She was nice.  Soft spoken.  She was slow and careful and she
didn't tell Mulder anything.  They took blood and pee and then Dr.
Walters examined him, listened to his lungs and looked at his hands
and wanted to know about how he felt, what he was eating, she
looked down his throat and into his ears and eyes and told him to
get dressed while she talked to Mack outside.

     "She said you need feeding," Mack said when Mulder emerged,
dressed.  They walked through the cheap paneled hallway of the
clinic, went by the desk.  The girl behind the counter wore skin
tight blue jeans and a brightly patterned shirt with mother of
pearl snap buttons.  "She wants to see Fox in a week."  The girl
addressed Mack.  "So next Monday?  At eleven again?"

     Mack nodded.  "Yeah."

     "Okay."  The girl wrote the appointment down on a card and
they left.  There was no bill.  Not given to them then anyway.

     "That's it?" Mulder asked, getting into the Bronco.

     "Well, you're malnourished and anemic.  Your throat is raw,
and your hands are healing."

     "Why didn't she tell me?" Mulder persisted.

     "Because I told her that you might not be very aware.  You are
sometimes and you aren't sometimes."
 

     "I didn't wake you up last night."  Mulder said softly.

     Mack stopped at a red light, glanced over at Mulder curiously.
"Do you want to stop and buy anything?"

     "Like what?"

     "I don't know."  Mack shrugged.  "Did you have a bad dream
last night?"

     Mulder shrugged.

     "I need to know when you have bad dreams."

     Mulder didn't reply.  He stared at the streets of the small
town, watched the people coming and going.

     "Well, she wants us to keep track of everything you eat.  She
doesn't think you're getting enough calories."  Mack drove
carefully through the traffic.  "Ingrid's not going to be in when
we come home.  Why don't we stop at the DQ and grab some lunch?"

     Mulder shrugged.  "As long as you don't get steakfingers."

     Mack recognized an internal joke.  "There's a MacDonald's here
too, but I'd rather take you to DQ, they make slushes."

     "No.  DQ's fine.  But Jon took me to a DQ. . .I told the cops
who I was and they thought I was a mental patient."  Mulder glanced
at Mack.  "I know I look like one."

     "You look like someone who's been sick a long time," Mack
responded automatically.  Although he knew that Mulder had it
pegged.

     "At least I'm not wandering through a Thorazine haze," Mulder
said mirthlessly as they pulled into the parking lot.

     The DQ was crowded.  Farmers and houseworkers and the dirt
poor hill people.  "How about a milkshake?" Mulder suggested.

     Mack shook his head.

     "Cherry Limeaide then," Mulder said. "I'll go grab a booth."

     He took a seat against the window, watched a woman with her
kids in the booth across from him.  She stared resentfully at
Mulder in his ragged Nike running shoes and OP shorts and his Polo
shirt and his Seiko watch.  She and her kids were dressed in
thriftstore, Walmart seconds.  The oldest little girl seemed to be
drawing most of the young mother's ire.  In the flat, tones of the
hill country, she complained at the child's every move.  Mulder
watched, staring at the poor, uneducated woman, fascinated as
though she were a snake.

     Mack came back with a the drinks.

     "If I fight you and win can I have your burger?"  Mulder
asked.

     "Oh sure," Mack replied, grinning.  "Sure."

     The scents were strong and greasy and it smelled wonderful.
Mulder sipped his slush and the mother's hand reached out and
slapped her little girl across the face.  Mack's hand was under the
table and firm and hard and holding his knee.  "Don't," he
cautioned.  Mulder stared hard at Mack.

     The little girl started to cry but held her sniffles hard.
"Do you want some more of that?" the mother said loudly.  Other
people were watching now, too.

     The little girl muttered her dissent.  And the baby beside the
mother began wailing.  The mother ignored her child.  Mack's hand
was firm on Mulder's knee and he was watching Mulder closely.  "Do
we need to leave?" he asked in a whisper.

     Mulder said nothing.

     Another slap and then the mother began fussing with the baby,
rough and uncaring and tired and the little girl sat beside her
younger siblings and tried not to cry.

     "Come on," Mack said.

     They left the red plastic marker and Mulder left his cherry
limeaide and inside the Bronco Mulder huddled against the seat and
said nothing, would not speak.

     Mack made it out of town before he realized what Mulder was
doing, what he was doing underneath the soundless tears.  He pulled
off onto a culvert that led into the forest, a log truck road long
deserted and pulled Mulder's hand away from his face, stared at the
blood that welled from the bite marks in an ovoid of pain.  Mulder
didn't say anything just tried to jerk away.  The tears became
sobs.  Mack undid Mulder's seat belt, reached behind the seat and
brought up a backpack.  "I know you're upset.  I know," Mack began
gently, softly.  Mulder reached at the door, couldn't pull it open.
"Mulder, calm down.  I'm just going to put some bandages and some
tape on the wound.  But you have to promise me you won't do
anything else."

     Mulder didn't speak, couldn't speak.

     He heard sounds of paper ripping.

     "You said you wouldn't drug me."  Mulder found the words, as
he began sobbing loudly.

     "Then you have to talk to me.  I can't drive home with you
like this.  Mack finished pulling liquid into a needle.  "This is
just Valium, a heavier dosage of what you took last night."

     "I don't want it."  Mulder tried to scream through his panic
and his tears.  "Please.  Please don't make me."

     "I won't."  Mack sighed and put the syringe down on the dash.
"You've got to help me out."

     "Why did she hit her?  Why do they hit?  I helped them kill
Jonathan.  What did he do that was so much more wrong than that
woman?  Jon loved those kids.  I helped them find him and he's dead
and the woman is still making babies and still hitting her kids and
it isn't fair. . ."

     "I know.  I know.  It isn't fair and it isn't right, but there
wasn't anything you could do."

     "He used to hit me and we'd go to the emergency room.  Momma
would take me and the nurses were always nice.  But nobody ever
did anything.  I always went back home.  I don't understand.  I don't
understand.  After Sam he hit me because I lost her.  But I didn't
do *anything* then.  And he would just get mad at me. . ."  Mulder
sobbed and choked.  "It hurts so bad. . .I don't understand. . ."

     "It hurts and when you hurt yourself you didn't feel it so
much did you?"

     "No," Mulder answered.  The biting had carried him past it,
as long as Mack had let him.

     Mack sighed.  "Okay.  Let me put something over your bite.
We'll go home.  If you try to hurt yourself again, I have to give
you the Valium.  Not because I want to.  I don't.  I don't like
doing it.  But I can't let you hurt yourself."

     Mack's hand was firm and gentle and he pulled the soft cotton
of a handkerchief over Mulder's wound.

     "I'm sorry."  Mulder sniffled as Mack reached over and slipped
the seatbelt back around him.

     "It's okay," Mack replied.  "I didn't like having to sit there
either.  When we get back in you'll have to drink a protein drink."

     Mulder made a face.

     "The doctor. . .she wanted you in a hospital.  That's why she
wouldn't talk to you."  Mack sighed.  "You haven't gained any
weight since you came here.  You've got to gain some weight."

     Mulder took a deep breath.  "It's hard.  There are so many
things I've got to do.  I've got to get better.  I've got to gain
weight. . ."

     "You're not fighting it alone, at least.  You've got me.  And
Ingrid.  And Matheson.  We're all going to do everything we can to
help."
 
 
 

     He drank the protein drink, ate a small bowl of rice pudding.
Went onto the porch and curled up in the swing.  It was hot.  Damn
hot.  But Mulder found he didn't care.  The warmth was like a
comforting blanket.  Mack was unobtrusively close, munching on a
chicken wing as he pulled out his novel.

     "Is this what you do?"  Mulder asked, inspecting the bandage
of gauze and tape that Mack had laid over the wound on his arm.

     Mack did not answer immediately.  "Yes," he said finally.

     Mulder sat a moment, staring at the smooth cleanliness of the
loose loomed cloth. Somewhere inside he was listening to a woman
slap her child.  "Why?"

     "Because it's good work.  Because I like helping people."

     Mulder mulled this answer for a while.  There were things he
could say, comments he could make, openings into his own life that
he could give Mack, but he was clearly conscious of the fact that
once he said them, once they were open and clear, he was stuck with
it, with Mack knowing and, ultimately, with the Senator knowing.
He kept his mouth shut and pushed himself down the swing until a
good bit of his leg was over the wide, curving side of the iron
swing, and his head was against the hot canvas pillow.

     The whimpers were soft and pathetic.  Mack watched Mulder's
pass through REM begin and swallowed, felt his stomach turn leaps.
The whimpers and biting lips.  Mulder turned and twisted on the
swing, hands deforming themselves into tiny, hard little balls, his
nails digging and biting the smooth surface of palm.

     Mack was there, kneeling beside his charge, trying to convince
him to "wake up. Shh.  Man, come on.  Wake up.  Wake up.  It's
okay."

     Mulder inhaled a deep, ragged gasp of air and sat up, eyes
wide.  He exhaled and stared at something horrifying in his dreams.
The next draw of breath contained all the pain that had been
building inside him.  A jagged sob rose in his throat.

     Mack slid himself onto the edge of the swing, grabbed Mulder's
shoulders.  Mulder twisted, pulled away, the sobs were louder and
grating.  His hazel eyes revealed nothing of awareness or of
sanity.  Mack swallowed.  Mulder pulled his knees to his chin,
wrapped his arms tightly around his legs, began rocking.  No
screams.

     Mulder fought Mack's hands for a while, fought without
cognition of what he was fighting.  Sobbing and twisting to get
away. Terrified of something that had chased him up from his
dreams
to here in the bright sunlight where most nightmares must die. When
he finally stopped fighting, he knew where he was, knew what had
happened.  He tensed, feeling Mack's hands on his wrists, Mack's
concern.  "I'm okay," he whispered under the ragged, echoing sobs.

     "I know."  Mack's voice was gentle.

     Mulder put his face down in the small valley between his
knees and his torso.  "I'm sorry.  I'm crazy, I think.  Aren't I?"

     "You're going through a rough time.  Mulder, this wouldn't be
any easier anywhere else."

     "I wouldn't know. I wouldn't be aware.  They'd drug me first
and then do ECT and I wouldn't know.  It would be all over.  I'm
tired. . ."  Mulder broke off into sobs.  "I'm so tired.  I'm sorry
Meyers died.  I wish it had been me.  I wish they hadn't found us
until it was all over.  Meyers shouldn't have died.  It was my
fault.  Oh God, I wish I could have gone to his funeral.  His
family must think I don't care."  Painful breaths and sobs that
were as loud as his voice could give.

     Mack rubbed Mulder's shoulder comfortingly.  Oh shit.  Mack
knew where all this had been leading, knew and had hoped it would
turn away.  Yeah right.

     "You're fighting.  That's all that counts right now.  You're
fighting.  Don't give up.  You can't give up," Mack said.  He'd
meant it as a placation, but as soon as he said it he knew it was
true.  "If you give up then Meyers doesn't count.  As long as you
don't give up, it counts."  It was a small pathetic thing to say.
But it was all Mack could think of that was true.  He sighed and
rubbed Mulder's back in gentle circles, let Mulder cry.

     There was more bread pudding for supper.  And another protein
drink.  "Why don't you just feed me sweetened condensed milk?"
Mulder asked sarcastically, sitting on Mack's bed, in front of the
TV.
 

     "You wouldn't keep it down," Mack replied without thinking.
"What's on tonight, anyway?"

     "Monday night. . .I dunno.  I don't watch much TV."  Mulder
sighed as Mack flipped through channels.  He looked through the
local paper for channels.  "You seen The Untouchables yet?"

     "Not yet."  Mack looked up from his place on the floor,
glanced over Mulder's shoulder at the advertisements for movies.
Untouchables, Cinema 6.  "You think you're strong enough or well
enough to go to the theater?"

     "Not right now.  But I might in a few days."  Mulder slid him
the entertainment page.  "Kevin Costner as Eliot Ness. . .I dunno.
. .he looks like a Hoover man and all, but he's just so. . ."

     Mack snorted.  "I'm surprised they don't have you on
recruiting posters.  Probably scared they'll attract too many
fags."

     "Oh, like Hoover's lingerie collection wouldn't have that
effect," Mulder replied, picking up his bowl to eat.  Mack settled
the channel on ESPN.  They watched a forgettable baseball game,
absorbed in the timeless, forgiving patterns of play.

Continued in part 39..................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 39/41 NC-17
Date: 28 Feb 1996 06:21:20 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 39/41)
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.

_______________________

     "Hey man."  Averman's voice was steady, unwavering.  Mulder
smiled at Mack, adjusted his grip on the cordless.

     "Hey.  How are things on the task force?"

     "Just about to wrap up.  I did Meyers' funeral. His family. .
.they're proud of him."

     "Oh."  Mulder swallowed.

     "I hear you're not having an easy time of things."

     "No.  Not really."  Mulder curled up in his chair in the den,
watched as Mack left the room.  "I'm so fucking hungry, Jack, if
you could smuggle me a pizza. . ."

     Averman's laugh was full.  "And get Senator Matheson mad at
*me*?  Haven't you learned that the first thing they teach you when
you get to be a supervisor is how to cover your own ass?"

     "How's Sam?"

     "I talked to Jenni yesterday.  She said being with his
family's helping Sam a lot."

     "That's good."

     "When I get out of this, I'm taking a vacation, I'll come see
you."

     "And bring a pizza."

     "You have entirely too much of a one track mind."

     "Yeah."  Mulder sat a moment.  "Did Matheson tell you what's
going on?"

     "Some.  He said Mack told him you're having nightmares, a lot
of them.  And some self-destructive behavior.  Mulder, they're not
going to lock you away."
 

     "Is this reassurance?" Mulder found himself asking, without
any humour in his voice.

     "I don't know.  What's been happening?"

     "Oh. . .just. . ."  Mulder put his head back against the
chair.  "I have bad dreams.  And sometimes it hurts.  It hurts so
bad I don't know what to do.  It hurts and if I hurt myself I don't
feel the emotional hurt so much."

     "I don't know what to tell you.  I know it hurts sometimes. Do
you think it'll get any better?"

     "I don't know.  I hope so.  I'm trying."  Mulder frowned.
"What did you do when your wife died?"

     "I prayed sometimes and sometimes I yelled at God.  And I
cried. . .I had my kids and I had to act strong for them, but it
was hard sometimes.  But it gets better.  You. . .sometimes it
doesn't seem like it, but as long as you keep struggling, it gets
better.  You just keep getting up and putting on your clothes and
one day you realize you haven't felt like the world's already ended
for several days."

     Mulder sat, staring straight ahead.  "I see Jon in my dreams.
Sometimes it scares me and sometimes I'm glad."

     The monitor Ingrid brought in was white with powder puff blue
edges.  Rounded, nothing sharp. The words printed on the front of
the transmitter base said "Fisher-Price."  Mack plugged the base in
by moving the bed and then sliding underneath on his stomach.
Batteries for the receiver.  It was a baby monitor.

     Mulder said nothing, just bit his lip, stared at Mack as he
tested the system out.  Sat on his bed with knees almost at his
face.

     "I'm sorry," he said, when Mack came in.

     Mack sighed.  "It's just to help me.  It's not such a big
deal.  We'll get rid of it as soon as we can."

     Mulder closed his eyes.  "I'm trying so hard, but it's not
helping."

     "It'll get better," Mack replied as if by rote.

     "Is this all you do?"

     "What do you mean?"

     "I mean, all you do is take care of people who are losing it?"

     Mack gave a small frown.  "I guess you could say that."

     "Do some of them go into hospitals?"

     "Some of them.  Some of them are coming out of hospitals.  And
we avoid hospitals for some," Mack admitted.

     "Am I better or worse than most of them."

     "That's not a fair question."

     "Yes it is.  You don't want to tell me."

     "No.  It's not a fair question."

     "Okay.  Those that went into hospitals, that you couldn't
avoid hospitals.  Am I better than they were?"

     "Mulder, that's still not a fair question."

     "Clinically I'm suffering from Chronic PTSD, delayed onset
with the added diagnosis of major reactive depression.  My level of
functioning is very low.  I can't take care of myself adequately
and I have periods of destructive behavior.  I'm not. . .if I
killed someone the court would never get a conviction.  If you took
it before a judge you could get a long-term committal.  You've sent
people to hospitals who had higher levels of function than I do."
It was not a question.

     "Mulder, yes, I have.  But they were people with diagnoses of
psychoses or who've suffered from long term clinical depression
for years.  You're not like that.  Okay, admittedly, you have a
very low level of functioning right now, but you're not psychotic.
You've had to deal with some incredibly extreme stressors.  Yes,
you're having problems dealing with it.  But I know you've dealt
with the PTSD for a long time and the depression, is as you noted,
part of the grieving process.  If we wait this out and you keep
trying you'll get better."

     "So I've had PTSD for a long time.  So?  There are veterans in
the back corridors of VA wet-brain wards who managed their PTSD a
long time before it claimed them."

     Mack took a deep breath and released it.  "Yes.  I know that.
Look, the possibility exists that you won't be able to function in
your old circumstances.  Yes, the possibility exists that you'll
need some sort of long term care.  But I don't think it's a large
possibility and neither does the Senator.  You don't have to be
well tomorrow.  You have a luxury that a lot of people who don't
make it don't have.  You have as much time as you need.  You have
people who are willing to do whatever it takes to get you better.
You are getting better.  It's going to be in small steps and it's
going to be frustrating as hell, but you will do it.  You've got
to."

     "Yeah, well, Matheson would probably have my butt if I didn't.
God only knows what kind of blackmail he had to use," Mulder
replied, trying to smile.

     Mack returned the smile.  "For what it's worth, I think you're
going to be okay.  I don't think you need to be given Thorazine or
ECT.  I think you just need some time to recover.  Just time and
quiet.  You have a lot to overcome, but it's entirely
overcomeable."

     Mulder sighed.

     "You won't know if you can make it until you've tried. There's
no way to know.  You may not make it, but at least you'll have gone
down fighting.  There's honor in that."

     Mulder chewed his lip a moment.  Looked at Mack.  "I'll try.
But you know it's hard."

     "Yeah.  I know."  Mack smiled honestly.  "Come on.  You need
to get ready for bed."
 
 
 

     Mulder slipped into his chair at the kitchen table, staring
pointedly at Mack's coffee.  Mack put up his paper.  "Sorry," he
said, taking a sip.  "Not yet.  In a few more days maybe.  The
caffeine. . ."

     "The caffeine's why I want it," Mulder replied as Ingrid slid
a coddled egg and soft toast before him.  "I'm still sleepy."

     "Then go back to bed."

     "I'm hungry too."  Last night, he'd woken, in tears.  Mack had
been there with a glass of water and when Mulder asked, there'd
been a Valium that eased the ache and pain and the sure knowledge
that he had betrayed Jon and Meyers and Sam, let him go back to
sleep.

     "You have an appointment with Dr. Reid this afternoon," Mack
said casually, watching Mulder push egg onto the spear of his fork.

     Mulder held onto the fork, motionless, staring down at the
white surface of plate.  After a moment he spoke.  "No.  I'm not
going."

     "Senator Matheson made the appointment.  There really isn't a
choice."

     "I said I'm not going."  Mulder looked at Mack.  "I don't want
to see anymore shrinks.  I'm tired.  I don't have the strength to
play their mind games."

     Mack put his coffee down and rubbed his chin.  "Look, Dr. Reid
knows about your case.  He's not going to be like Dr. Guiterriez
was.  He won't have you put into a hospital, no matter what you
tell him.  He won't do anything other than listen.  He's safe.
He'll just help you."

     "No."  Mulder kept his voice firm.  "No."

     "Mulder, look, you need someone to talk to.  You need someone
desperately."

     "I'm not going."  The voice went up a notch.

     "Mulder, it really isn't a choice.  It's just something you
have to do."

     "I'm not going!"  There were tears behind the words now.
Mulder clutched the fork like a weapon.

     "Look, go this one time and then I'll call Matheson and you
can explain it to him.  Matheson's the one who gave out the orders.
I'm just a lackey this time."

     "What have you told him about me?"

     "Reid?  He just. . ."

     "The Senator?"  Mulder shut his eyes, not wanting to cry.

     "Just that you have bad nightmares and that you've had a
couple of destructive incidents."

     "I don't want to go!"  His voice rose.  Mulder stood.

     Mack sighed.  "Mulder, don't get upset.  There's nothing to
get upset about.  No one's going to use anything you say to do
anything.  I promise.  It's going to be okay."

     "No."  Mulder dropped his fork and left the egg half-eaten,
went back to his room.

     It was quiet in his room.  Mulder was miserable, nose stuffed
up from crying.  Mack had let him be, mostly.  Sat in the
overstuffed easy chair, gave him a cool washcloth.  Mulder sucked
on one corner of the soft blue terry material.  He was trying, he
was trying so hard, and everyone kept tossing landmines in his way.

     Mack's shadow passed over him.  Water, with ice.

     Mulder rolled to his back and sat up.  He wanted to refuse,
but he was so fucking thirsty.  His hands grasped the slimy
surface.  A plastic cup.  Mack had replaced the glasses in the
bathroom with plastic cups.  They looked almost like glass.  He
wasn't trusted with glass.  Mulder drank greedily.

     When he was done, he let Mack have the glass back.

     "More?" the older man asked seriously.

     Mulder nodded.

     Mack went to the restroom, filled the glass again, came back.
Mulder drained this glass, was sated.

     "I can't change this," Mack informed Mulder sadly.  "If I
could, I would.  I tried.  Dr. Reid said he would come here, if
you're not feeling well enough to go there.
 
     "I'm scared."  Mulder's words were soft.  "I'm so scared.  You
don't know how scary this is."

     "Mulder, the man's just a psychologist. You've got a PhD from
fucking Oxford.  His is from Podunk U."

     "*He* can make phone calls.  *He* can recommend committal to
Matheson," Mulder replied.

     Mack paused.  Mulder  got the distinct impression he was
counting to ten.  "Mulder, look.  This is as close to a hospital as
you're going to get.  Everyone already knows you need to be
committed.  That's not even a question in *anyone's* mind, not even
yours.  Reid's been briefed on the situation. He already knows you
have. . .periods of being out of control.  He knows you have
screaming meamies of nightmares.  You could tell him all about the
fifty two different ways you have planned out to kill yourself and
this guy's not going to recommend committal."

     "I *know* I'm not being rational," Mulder spat out angrily.
"I know.  But I'm scared."  He fell back against the pillows.
Curled up on his side.

     "Are you going to keep fighting this?" Mack asked.

     Mulder did not reply.  Just closed his eyes.  "You give me
this little illusion that I have some say.  You don't drug me
unless I'm hurting myself, you let me do what I want to during the
day so long as there are plenty of naps.  But the truth is that I
have to do what everyone says to do.  The truth is that I'm too
sick to make decisions for myself.  It may be the truth. . ." Mulder
paused, choking on the pattern of tears that coursed the redness of
his throat.  "But I don't have to like that truth."  The tears and
the sobs overwhelmed him again.

     Jonathan had said he kept finding people to hurt him.

     He felt Mack's hand gentle on his hair.  Mulder was torn
between wanting the comfort and being mad that he needed the
comfort.

     "I'll call and tell him to come down.  He'll be here around
6:30."  Mack's voice was soft and infinitely sad.  He took the
washcloth from where it lay on the bedspread, went and rewet it for
Mulder.  Handed it back to the agent.
 
 
 

     Ingrid brought him crackers and vegetable soup on a tray, set
it beside him.  "Come on," she ordered.

     "I don't want it."

     "I know.  You still have to eat it."

     Mulder swallowed.

     "Mulder.  Dr. Walters has given me a specific amount of
calories you've got to eat everyday."  Ingrid's voice was soft,
regretful.  "You haven't eaten that amount any day since she gave
it to me.  We've got to get some food down you, even if you *don't*
feel like it.  You've got to be getting hungry for some of the
things that are in this."

     Mulder stared at Ingrid.  "I'm tired of what I *have* to do."

     Ingrid sighed. "You don't feel like you can breathe, do you?"

     He nodded.

     "I know.  It feels. . .you'd be happy to stop fighting
sometimes.  Just give in.  Then people wouldn't expect anything of
you. " Ingrid's hand was cool against his brow.  "I know.  There's
no magic words to ease that.  I know it's hard.  Come on, sit up."

     Mulder pushed himself into a sit.  The soup was rich and full
of old noodles and occasional bits of tomato.  The faint smell of
beef.  Potatoes and snap beans.  A couple of peas and pintos.  A
few pieces of corn.   Despite himself, Mulder felt his glands
water.  The smell of beef had been a trigger for his nausea for so
long.  The smell of cooked flesh.  He tried himself, tried his
body, waiting for the reaction.  Nothing.  It just smelled like
vegetable soup.  Just plain old, ordinary vegetable soup.  And
didn't smell half bad either.  There were saltines and a slice of
white bread on the side and a tall glass of iced tea, which was
very bad for him, but Ingrid kept letting him have it.

     It looked pretty damn good, in fact.  He stared at Ingrid.
Swallowed.  He didn't think he would cry over something like this.
Didn't think that at all.  And yet, there he was, the tears were
trickling down his face.  He had to give in on this.  He had to.
It didn't make it easy or all right.

     It didn't keep his stomach from churning with the force of his
tears.

     But he ate.  And it tasted wonderful.

     6:45.  Mulder stared at the overly tall man sitting across
from him.  He had a nice face, kind eyes.  Taller than Mulder, and
probably skinny for most of his life, although now he was widening
across the waist.  Thick blonde hair, tending now to grey, thatched
his almost angular scalp.

     He had a thick folder.  Psych reports from Guiterriez and
University Medical and FBI psych services.  He'd given it to
Mulder, let Mulder read it.  Watched as Mulder skimmed through it.
Guiterriez had been quite willing to press for involuntary.  Had
been quite sure Mulder was going to self-destruct and take two or
three people with him when he went.  Quite sure that Mulder was
going to stop knowing the difference between reality and his
dreams.  Was going to wake up one morning thinking they were all
little green men.

     University Medical recorded paranoia and "displaced anger and
fear responses."  He knew what FBI psych services thought about
him and didn't even bother with that section before handing it back.

     It was an odd way to start a meeting.  Entirely too
straightforward.

     "What do you think?" he asked, watching as Reid put the
folder back into his briefcase.

     Reid looked up, blinked.  "I don't know.  I don't know you."

     Mulder nodded.

     "I'd like to get to know you."

     Entirely too direct.

     "I won't lie.  I was pissed that you wouldn't come to my
office, but I can understand why you wouldn't want to see another
shrink."

     Mulder stared at Reid blankly.

     "We've pretty much fucked you over.  The therapist you've seen
in the Bureau was pretty well satisfied when you said you were
okay.  You just smiled at her and flirted and she gave you a clean
bill of mental health.  Guiterriez thought he knew what was going
on in your head even before he'd spoken with you.  Neither method
helped you very much."

     "On the whole I liked the first one better.  At least I knew
I could've fucked her if I wanted," Mulder replied.
 
     Reid smiled.  Politely.

     "I was told that you have nightmares and that sometimes you're
not in control of yourself."

     Mulder shrugged.  Closed his eyes.

     "Is it more or less terrifying knowing all the facts and
statistics?"  Reid's voice was not a therapist's voice.  It was a
fellow psychologist's voice.

     "More," Mulder admitted.  "More.  I can't pretend.  And I
know where I should be.  I know what they'd do to me."

     "In a hospital?"

     "Yes."  Mulder swallowed. Opened his eyes.  "What's your
degree in?"

     "Clinical."

     "What do you do?"

     "I have a practice.  I do some forensic.  I work in a couple
of hospitals.  Your PhD is Clinical too?"

     Mulder nodded tightly.

     "Where did you do your internship?"

     It was a strange question.  Mulder stared at Reid unblinking.

     "You've done some therapy?"

     "I did my internship at the Rodham institute.  It's a state
run institution.  Mostly for the criminally insane."

     "Where did you work?"

     "On the lockdown ward.  It's not so much therapy with them as
it is game playing."

     "Was there anyone with your diagnosis?"

     Mulder shook his head.  "They put those people in other wards.
Shot them full of Thorazine and electricity.  Had them coloring
pictures and cutting out rainbows."

     Reid nodded as though he might have learned something from
this.  The move struck Mulder as somewhat arrogant, but he said
nothing about it.  "I did a umm. . .I did my dissertation on
Motivations in Satanic Slayings.  I didn't learn very much about
Satanists.  But I learned a lot about paranoid schizophrenics."

     Reid grinned at this one. "Did you ever think about
practicing?"

     "No.  I wanted to do Forensic work."  Mulder shook his head.
He drew his knees up to his chest to give himself some protection.

     "Is that how you started out?  You always wanted to do
Forensics?"

     Mulder swallowed.  Thought about his life, put his face
against his legs.  Said nothing.  It occurred to him that he could
have just acted as though nothing bothered him.  As though he were
fine.  He'd done that before.  But he wasn't fine.  And he'd
answered all the questions he wanted to about his career choices.

     There was silence a moment and a slight pen scratch.  No doubt
to remind Reid to come back to this one sometime.  "Do you want to
get something to drink?"  Reid's voice was soft.  Mulder looked up.
Surprised.  They'd only been in this room fifteen or twenty
minutes.  The shortest therapy sessions were usually thirty.
 
     Except with severely disturbed cases.  Then, because of
shortened attention spans and reality problems, you cut the
sessions to fifteen minute spans.  The best arrangements are
fifteen minute sessions spread out several times a day.

     Mulder had curled up at the fifteen minute mark, not wanting
to talk anymore.  So Reid had made a decision.
 
     It was humiliating.  Mulder closed his eyes.  "I'm. . .I'm
not thirsty."

     "Well, I'm going to go find something to drink.  Why don't you
come with me?"

     Mulder shook his head, inside the protective barrier of knees
and legs.  Stayed where he was.
 
 
 
 

     He heard voices recede and then voices surged.  "Fox."  Mulder
looked up in surprise at Matheson.

     "Why don't you come get something to drink in the kitchen."
Matheson suggested, holding out a hand.

     Mulder swallowed, blinked a few times.  "I'm not thirsty."

     Matheson blinked a moment.  "Come on anyway."

     Mulder shook his head.  He wanted to stay here, in this chair,
where it was safe.  Where he didn't have to move, have to see
anyone.  The world was cold and sharp edged and right now he
wanted no part of it.

     "What are you doing here?" Mulder asked, despite himself.
Watched as Matheson lowered himself into Reid's chair.

     "I'm going to take care of you while Mack has his day off."

     "Oh."  Mulder swallowed.  "Mack told me."

     Matheson nodded.  "How have you been doing?"

     Mulder shrugged, put his knees down.  "I don't want to see
Reid."

     "Mack told me.  Reid's a very close, very old friend of mine.
He's not going to threaten you."

     "I don't want to talk to anyone about. . ."  Mulder trailed.
Sam'scrazyMeyersisdead. SamiscrazyMeyersisdead.
SamiscrazyMeyersisdead.  "I just don't."

     "I know it hurts."  Matheson's voice was soft.

     "How's Sam?" Mulder asked abruptly.

     Matheson's face changed, such a slight filming of a change
that most people would have missed it.  Guarded now.  Eyes
flickering.  Remembering who caused his son-in-law's insanity.
"Jenni says he's doing better."

     "Is he crazy like me?"

     "No."  A blunt, plain answer.  "Sam's just depressed."

     Mulder swallowed.  "Let me go to a hospital.  I won't have to
try."

     The film disappeared from Matheson's eyes.  "Fox, if I sent
you to a hospital it would destroy you."  He stared searchingly at
Mulder a moment, finally understanding that with some large part of
himself, Mulder wanted the destruction.
 
    Mack brought Mulder a glass of juice.  White grape or apple,
Mulder guessed, watching Matheson with veiled eyes.

     "Where are you going?" Mulder asked.

     Mack gave a small half-smile.  "I'm going to see some friends.
Stay at their place.

     "When are you leaving?"

     "Tonight."

     "And you'll be back?"

     "Friday Morning."

     That was two nights and a day.  Two nights without Mack.  He
stared at Mack, realizing that this was the arrangement Mack had
made especially.  To give him two nights without Mulder.  Two
nights of uninterrupted sleep.

     "I'm sorry," Mulder said, swallowing.

     "For what?"

     "Making things hard for you."  He stared at Matheson.
Matheson would have no patience.  Matheson would hold him down.
Matheson would be like Sam.

     "I'm not. . .Mulder, I don't hate this work.  I'm glad I'm
here.  You need me.  I just need a little time to myself.  Just a
little time.  I get sleepy."  Mack smiled.  "I'm not upset, and it
doesn't bug me that you need me at night.  It just takes a lot of
energy."

     Mulder swallowed.  Nodded.  "I'm sorry."

     Mack gave a sigh.  "It's not your fault.  Don't be sorry.  I
like helping you.  Okay?  But I need a little time for me.
Besides."  Mack smiled.  "I got a couple of hot dates set up.  I
get any action you're the first person I tell."

     Mulder gave a half-smile.  "Oh gee.  I can't have any, but I'm
supposed to listen to you brag?"

     "Exactly.  Come on.  I know you're not thirsty.  But there's
always Dr. Walter's calorie chart."

     Mulder made a face.

     Mack grinned.  "Women."
 

Continued in part 40.......................
 

=====================================================================
======
From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 40/41 NC-17
Date: 29 Feb 1996 01:56:18 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 40/41)
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.

Where, you've gotten this far.  Next to last.  That's right, the
penultimate piece of the biggest bandwidth hog either of US ever put
our hands to!  Hope you're enjoying it, and will be here to the end.
Goo
_______________________

     Reid settled into his place.

     "I went into Forensics because I couldn't hack working with
normal people."  Mulder's voice was dull.  "I could handle working
with the criminally insane.  I remember coming out of a cell one
time and the prisoner inside. . .he. . ."  Mulder swallowed.  "He
told me that he would make me walk in darkness.  As I walked down
the hallway, every light fixture exploded.  I walked down the hall
in darkness, the light one pace ahead.  There was glass everywhere
on the hall.  And some of the pieces hit me, like shrapnel.  It
hurt and it burned, but I kept walking like I had sense until I
made it to the end.  This orderly grabbed me like I was his kid and
he held me, expecting me to cry or something.  Then the ward nurse
wanted me to go down to a hospital.  I needed stitches in my
shoulder from a big piece of glass.  I needed to have the glass
pulled out of my skin.  I got a psychiatrist on another ward to do
it for me.  They drugged the hell out of the case and fixed the
light fixtures.  I hope I'd have more common sense now than to just
keep walking."  He grinned.

    Reid absorbed this.  Evidence of delusional thinking, Mulder
realized.  He'd given evidence of delusional thinking. Oh fucking
shit.

     "Do you believe me?" Mulder asked suddenly, staring at Reid.

     Reid stared back.  "If I hadn't been on wards for the
violently and criminally insane, I wouldn't.  But I have."

     "Do you believe me?"

     Reid nodded.  In his own eyes there was something sharp and
shining, some memory that rivalled Mulder's.  Mulder swallowed
staring at Reid's memory.  He wanted to ask, wanted to ask so
badly. It was a terrifying question to ask.  It scared him so
badly.

     "Do you believe that I heard Jonathan or did I hallucinate it
all?"  He asked it in a rush.

     There was no answer.  Reid sat quietly.  Sat quietly, eyes
fixed on the carpet.

     There was no "No, I don't, but I believe you feel it to be
real and that's what's important."  Reid was staring at the carpet.
Was he frightened to speak and destroy the fragile acquaintanceship
between them or was he frightened of answering what he thought?

     "It doesn't matter," Mulder excused.

     "It does matter.  I just. . .I don't know.  I don't know.  I
read your file last night and I just sat there in my bedroom,
staring at the television set, frightened."  Reid stared at Mulder.
"We're going to treat it as though it happened.  Not as though it
were a series of hallucinations and delusions."

     The answer was yes then.  Only Reid could not afford to say
so.  Mulder felt air rush out of his gut.  He had not known he was
holding his breath.
 
 
 
 

     Matheson had Mack's bedroom.  And the blue monitor.  Mulder
went through his nightly ritual, showering, changing into his night
clothes, tucking himself into the bed.  He missed knowing Mack was
in the next bed, was there when the dreams came.  That he would be
held and held and he would hear Mack's soft voice, calming and
shushing.
 
 
 

     The sobs were soft and barely noticeable even on the baby
monitor sitting beside Senator Richard Matheson's bed.  Matheson
rubbed his eyes, stared at the small alarm clock beside his bed.
2:30.  He pulled himself from the bed and tugged on his robe.
Trudged through the unlit bathroom.

     Mulder was curled up against the heavy headboard, eyes open
very wide, sobbing, curled up there, trying to be small. In the
sharp relief of shadows and dusty blue illumination, the figure,
dressed in jersey shorts and a sleeveless tee brought forth
memories, Ingrid's mother's stories of the camps, his grandmother's
stories passed down from her own grandmother about the starvation
and the crimes inflicted in the civil war.  Survivor.  What was
left of those who clung on and somehow survived.

     "Fox."  Matheson approached the figure carefully, trembling,
breath hot in his body.  Nervous, afraid that he would make the
wrong motion, say the wrong words.  What did he know of
psychosis?

     At the calling of his name, Mulder responded by pressing his
body against the headboard, by holding his breath in a desperate
attempt to stop crying.

     "I'm sorry."  The first words out of his mouth.  "I'm sorry.
I'm okay.  You can go to bed.  I'm sorry.  Please."

     "Fox.  You're not okay."  Matheson sat down on the bed, trying
to think of the words that would calm him.  He reached out to the
huddled, terrified figure of long bones like sticks.

     Fox screamed involuntarily, flinched, drawing his head down.
"Please.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  I didn'tmeantowakeyouup.
Itwon'thappenagain.  Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease."  His voice
was high and shrill and quite obviously terrified.

     Matheson let his hands drop, felt his gut twist up and his
hands grow cold. He remembered Averman's warnings.  Oh God.  Oh
God.

     "Fox.  I'm not angry.  I'm not."

     Mulder did not hear, was trying desperately to stop crying,
to stop breathing, to press himself into the thick maple headboard.

     "Fox, it's all right.  It's okay.  I promise.  It's okay."

     "Please, Dad, I'm okay.  You can go back to bed."  A sob, long
and harsh, interrupted the terrified pleading.  "Please. I'm sorry.
I didn't mean to wake you.  I didn't mean. . ."

     "Fox."  Matheson felt his mouth turn to cotton.  "Fox, it's
okay. You aren't going to be beaten.  I promise I won't hit you.
I promise."

     Mulder had heard this before.  "Dad, I'm okay.  Please Daddy.

Go back to bed."

     Matheson swallowed, continued sitting where he was.

     "Daddeeee. I'm sorrrry."  Mulder was panicking.  Screaming,
terrified.

     A new figure in the bedroom.  Ingrid, her hair pulled back in
a loose braid.

     "Please Daddy.  PLEASE!" His voice was rising into hysteria
now, into an unending terror filled place that no one could reach,
where there would be no choices except for the awful sting of a
needle.

     Without words Matheson got up, moved back, out of the bedroom.
Ingrid took his place, calming and gentling, and trying desperately
to get him calm.  Mulder accepted her hands and accepted her
ministrations, accepted her voice and her words and when Matheson
left the room, Mulder was slipping loose of his hold on the bed,
was letting himself be lured in close to her chest and to her
comforting hands.  He was sobbing and crying but Ingrid's hands
were gentle and smooth and soft and comforting.
 
 
 
 

     "How is he?"  Ingrid came into the kitchen as Matheson was
cooking breakfast.

     "Asleep.  Finally."  Ingrid poured herself a cup of coffee.
"It's good that he sees you as a father," she said quietly, putting
equal in her coffee.  "He needs father figures."

     "But it makes it hell on you."

     Ingrid smiled.  "He's a sweet young man."

     Matheson smiled in return, wondering how many times in his
life Fox Mulder had been called a "sweet young man."  From Jenni's
description of Sam's friend, he suspected you could probably count
them all up on one hand and still be able to hold a cup of coffee.

     "You said he'd be here a couple of months.  It's going to be
at least three or four.  At the very least.  I suspect he'll have
to spend Christmas here."

     Matheson stared at Ingrid, remembering the way she looked
naked, the way her body moved.  "That's fine then.  He has that
right."
     Ingrid nodded.

     "Do you want some extra household help?"

     "No.  Mack and Mulder are both easy to care for.  There's no
problem there.

     Matheson nodded.  "I told Reid that we'd come in this
afternoon.  Think Fox is going to be up for it?"

     Ingrid shrugged, sipping her coffee.   "I don't see why not."

     "Is this common?"

     "All-nighters?"  Ingrid nodded.

     "Tell me again that I'm paying an exorbitant fee for Mack.  I
want to give him a pay raise."

     Ingrid smiled over her mug.  "What about me?"

     "You haven't seen what I'm getting you for Christmas,"
Matheson replied, grinning.

     "Just as long as it isn't Glenlivet again."

     "Oh God."  Matheson closed his eyes.  "That was the best sex
I've had in years."

     "Stop dating twenty year olds.  All body, no brain. . ."
 
 
 
 
 

     "The senator said you had bad dreams last night."  Reid's
voice was unconcerned as Mulder slipped into the wingchair beside
his desk.

     Mulder grimaced, sighed.  "I have bad dreams every night."

     "Do you want to tell me what you dreamed?"

     "Just. . .I was just. . .the Senator didn't know I need to
have the bathroom light on at night and when he went to bed he
turned it off.  I had a bad dream."

     Reid tried to remain relaxed.  "You haven't told Senator
Matheson that you need that light on, even now."

     Mulder shrugged.  "It's no big deal."

     "You were up all night, crying."  Reid frowned.  "It is,
obviously, a big deal.  Matheson said you confused him with your
father.  Guiterriez discusses a history of abuse that occurred at
your father's hands."  Reid paused, rubbed his nose.

     "So it's obvious that I transfer my feelings for my father to
Matheson,"  Mulder finished for the therapist.

     Reid remained silent.

     "It's not like that. . ."

     "There's also the issue of your belief that the abuse was
deserved. . ."  Reid asked.

     Mulder shrugged.  "No.  I don't think that."

     "That's not what I've been told."

     "I. . .I have a lot of guilt about my sister's disappearance,
but I know that it wasn't right, not what he did to me."

     "What did he do to you?"

     "Oh, you know."  Mulder sighed, slumped against the heavy
velvet material of the chair.  "He beat me.  He used his belt and
sometimes a broomstick.  Nothing very exotic.  Just the traditional
measures employed in savagely disciplining a wayward child.  The
same things that had been done to my own father by his father and
probably by his father's father and on and on."  He kept his body
slumped, his voice casual.  No indicators, no warning signs.
Nothing that he did not want to say.  He watched Reid flip through
pages of handwritten notes.  Felt his blood pressure ease back into
the stratosphere.

     Reid was making hen's scratch notes, probably to explore this
more, in depth, to discuss it.  But not right now.  His instincts
were probably urging him to discuss this, to get it out of the way.
But he was following his training, not his instincts.  Come on.
Follow your training.  Don't listen to the feeling in the pit of
your stomach.   Mulder knew he could not stand that, not here, not
now.

     "Your dad didn't believe in nightlights?"

     "Sam could. . .but I was a boy," Mulder responded.  "I got
over being scared of the dark at Oxford. . .I was. . .seventeen or
eighteen.  I had this roommate who helped me. . ."

     "When did you leave for school?"

     "I was fifteen, almost sixteen," Mulder replied, on easy
ground now.

     "And your sister disappeared when you were twelve?"  Reid was
staring at him horrified.

     Mulder nodded again, trying not to understand why Reid was so
upset.  Why the psychologist's face was filled with pity and anger.
If he understood he would have to remember those long nights.

     "He was gone on business trips a lot," Mulder excused.  "When
he wasn't home, my mom would let me sleep with the lights on.  And
after she left, I would stay with friends and we'd keep a light on
somewhere."

     He closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around his chest.

     "Do you want me to tell Matheson about the light?" Reid
asked.

     Mulder bit his lip.  "I should tell him."

     "But you won't."

     "What if he gets mad?"

     "He won't, and you know he won't."

     Mulder shivered.  "He'll ask me why I didn't tell him before.
You know he will."

     "Why don't I call him in and we can ask now?"

     Mulder opened his eyes.  Stared at Reid.  Swallowed.  Felt the
fear grow up into his chest and his mouth and it was tight and hard
and it hurt.

     "I'll tell him," Reid said finally.  "He's not like your
father.  In some ways he is, but he wants you to get better.  He's
willing to do whatever it takes."

     "My dad wanted me to be strong too," Mulder muttered, even
though he knew it was not fair and not logical and not true to say
those words.  They came out, bitter and angry.
 
 
 
 

     Matheson and Reid talked for about two minutes and then the
receptionist asked Mulder to go back to Reid's office.  Matheson
was staring, genuinely hurt.

     Mulder felt a shiver travel up his spine, he tried to be who
he was now: a tall, twenty-five year old man who was considered a
hot shot in the Federal Bureau of Investigations.  But all he could
feel was the cold twisting of his viscera.

     "Fox.  It's all right.  I didn't know that you needed the
light.  I'll turn it on.  If you need something, you can just ask.
Whatever it is, it's okay."  Matheson glanced at Reid, who gave the
barest nod.

     "It's okay.  I'm just. . ."  Mulder tried to get more words
out.  "I'm sorry, sir," he finally said, closing his eyes.  His
breath hurt his chest.  His hands were cold and shaking.  He
swallowed air, tried to control his breathing.  He sat a moment,
drawing composure into his body again.  "Did you mean that?  If I
need something?"

     "Of course I did, Fox."  So concerned and so gentle.

     "Well, I really would like a blonde: leggy, big hooters,
really dumb.  You know of any willing to comfort a sick G-man?"
Mulder smiled, was rewarded with Matheson's broad easy smile and
Reid's genuine chuckle.
 
 
 

     "My dad's the reason I got my PhD."  Mulder's voice was soft
as he slid down against the heavy plush velvet of the wingchair, as
he put his face against the crook of seat and edging.  Two hours
had elapsed since thier last words, and now the sunlight of late
summer afternoon slanted long and honey on them.

     Reid blinked at Mulder's obvious need to control this session
by coming in with his own agenda. "Oh?" he asked in a voice that
implied he did not believe Mulder's statement.

     They stared at each other.  He's my father; he loved me; he
only wanted what was best.  So much said without words.

     "How?"

     "I told you I did the Fordham institute for my Clinicals?"

     Reid nodded.

     "I didn't start out there.  I started out at a hospital in
downtown London.  They got the dregs of society, all the poor and
the immigrants and the homeless.  But it was supposed to be a
really good proving ground. If I'd made it I might be in a big
practice or teaching or something."

     "What happened?"  Reid was genuinely interested, not as a
therapist, but as a fellow psychologist.

     Mulder stared at his hands a moment.  "I would go and I would
just. . .I would lock myself into a toilet and I would just cry and
cry and cry.  It just. . .Finally there was this woman. . .her
eight year old daughter had been kidnapped and held, tortured,
raped and finally killed. . ."  His mouth was dry, remembering the
woman's nasal, lower class accent, the slow way she had moved,
wrapped in her aged raincoat.  Her heavy, doughy body slipping into
chairs.  "And one day I just walked out on her.  I just walked out
of the whole hospital.  I don't remember it.  I walked out and the
hospital administrator was pissed. . .eventually they got in touch
with some friends.  I was in the Tube, sitting in a car, just
sitting in a car staring at nothing, unresponsive to most stimuli.
. .the police found me and handed me over to my friends.  They took
me home."  His voice was numb.  "My advisor wanted me taken from
the program, failed, lose my doctoral candidacy status. I got
better and in a couple of days I went to see him.  He just started
screaming at me and I collapsed again.  He took me home and
anyway, somehow or other he got in touch with my mom.  In a
couple of days I was okay, yet again.  And he was. . .he told me he
wouldn't accept me in the program I had been in, besides he didn't
think the hospital would have me back.  We discussed career options.
He said he thought I might do well as a forensic psychologist, most of
my best papers had been about psychopaths and paraphilias and
other deviants.  I'd had a couple of papers published already.

     I went home with the list we drew up of things I could do and
I called my dad.  He told me that he'd call around.  The next day
he said that if I wanted to work in law enforcement, I could have
my pick.  FBI, CIA, Army, you name it.  He said it didn't even take
his name.  They'd heard that I was interested and wanted to know
how to recruit me. . .I decided on the FBI.  Not as many secrets.
My Dad, he had a lot of secrets. . ."  Mulder trailed, sighed.

     "The FBI wined and dined me. . .  I was on a Lear Jet, headed
to Quantico, two hours after I recieved my doctorate.  They wanted
me to skip out on my graduation, and get permission not to go
through the ceremony, but the College Master told them to go to
hell."  Mulder smiled.  "They threatened to make me wait until the
next session, but I didn't have to.  I missed the first three
hours, got there in time for the first lunch."  He sat a long time,
considered the room around him.  Let a companionable silence
envelope the lazy summer lit room.

     "Will it ever happen again?" he asked.

     Reid was startled.  "What?" he said.

     "Will it ever happen again?"  The words had not been so very
hard to say the first time, but they were hell to repeat.  Mulder
stared at Reid in anger.

     "Communing with a serial killer the way you did?" Reid asked,
as though his own mouth were dry, as though he could not speak.  "I
don't know.  Is that what you need to know?"

     Mulder thought about this question, this new conversation,
unbidden.  He thought, and then he nodded slowly.  "Is it me or was
it him?" he asked very softly.

     Reid caught it this time.  Did not need to hear it twice.
"Can you find that out?" he asked, seriously.

     Mulder swallowed.  "If I can't, I want to be hospitalized.  I
don't care if they keep me so drugged up I have to wear diapers. I
don't ever want to go through that again.  I won't ever go through
that again. I have to know."  He stared at Reid.  "I have to know
who did it or it's always going to be there and I don't think I
want to get better if I can't know."
 
 
 
 
 

October 1988
Quantico, Virginia
Behavioral Science Unit
Office of John Thompson, Division Head

     Fox Mulder stared at the head of the Behavioral Science Unit,
trying to appear perfectly calm.  "May I ask why you disapproved
my transfer request?" he asked.

     "You're the best profiler I've got.  I'm not about to lose
you."

     "You know. . ."  Mulder paused.  "You know what kind of
problems I've been having."  He stared at the older man.  "I can't
believe you'll keep me here.  It's killing me.  It killed Sam."

     Thompson sighed.  "We all regret Agent Rodreguiz' death,
Agent Mulder.  I'm aware that you and Rodreguiz were friends. . ."

     "I cannot keep on doing this.  You keep giving me these cases.
. .kids buried in basements after they've been eviscerated, serial
rapists who leave their victims lying in puke and waste. . .And if
it's just a case to send back to the locals you require it to be
done overnight. . .I can't keep up. . ."

     "I expect a great deal of you, that's true, Agent Mulder.  But
your record shows. . ."

     "My record shows that I'm keeping up.  But. . ."

     "If you're feeling job stress, perhaps you should see a
therapist."

     Mulder stared at the cool man, unbelievingly.  "If you'd
actually read the fucking request I sent, you'd have seen that I
*am* seeing a therapist."

     "Agent Mulder, the fact of the matter is that there are few
men who can do what you do, not as well as you.  There are a myriad
of facts that a good profiler must keep up with and be able to
correlate and synthesize.  Your intelligence combined with your
incredible memory provide all the necessary ingredients.  You
simply are one of the best analysts it's ever been my privilege to
watch."

     "And it's driving me crazy!"  Mulder closed his eyes.  "I want
out.  I have got to get out."

     "No. I'm sorry, Mulder."  Thompson's voice was kindly.  "I
wish I could give you a way out.  But there are twelve of you.
Just twelve.  You catch the most depraved killers found in our
nation today.  Your work. . .this Monty Props thing you did over
the summer. . .it's brilliant.  They're going to be talking about
that monograph for the next thirty years."

     "I took showers in my suits, trying to get the bad smells and
bad tastes out of my system," Mulder muttered.  "When I went to
bed at night, I would see the graves he dug, negatives on my
eyelids to stare at as I fell asleep."

     "Fox."  Thompson's voice was now gentle.  "I'll approve a
couple or three weeks of paid leave.  You can go somewhere,
decompress.  Get rid of the stress.  In a few weeks, you'll feel so
much better you won't recognize yourself."

     "I don't want a vacation.  I want out."

     "I'm sorry, Fox.  But I can't lose my most valuable resource."

     Mulder stared at Thompson, his eyes glazed like those of a
deer shot by a hunter.  "You're killing me.  Bit by bit.  You
have to know what's happening to me.  One day I'll take my gun and
I'll put it in my mouth.  And I won't blink when I pull the trigger."

     Thompson took a long, shuddering breath.

     "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder.  This conversation is over."

     "You MotherFucker,"  Mulder muttered.  "Do you know what it
was like for me after Oklahoma?  Do you?"

     "I said this conversation is over."

     "I had a fucking nursemaid for five months.  I woke up
screaming every fucking night.  Screaming and it took hours,
fucking hours to calm down!  I saw a therapist: he's not on my
fucking jacket.  I saw a therapist, and at first he wouldn't even
see me longer than fifteen minutes at a time!  I was that severely
impaired."  Mulder's eyes now smoldered with a deep, white-hot
fire.  "I kept a behavioral notebook.  Do you want to know what
kinds of things were in it?"

     "Agent Mulder, leave my office this instant!"

     "Things like `Ten things I can do for myself that I couldn't
do last week. . .things like: shave or be trusted not to smash a
glass and hurt myself with it!'"  Mulder closed his eyes.  "I
worked so hard, I worked too fucking hard for you to throw it all
away."

     That said, he turned from the red faced, standing Thompson and
left the office.  Stood in the bullpen staring at everyone, the
techs and the secretaries.  Knew they had heard.  Wondered what
they were making of it.

     Knew he had to get out of this somehow.  Somehow he had to get
free.  Before the warm Gulf waters reached out and claimed him as
they had claimed Jon and Meyers and now Sam.  Before the dust
across the sere plains of Oklahoma came in the night and choked him
to death.

Continued in part 41............................
 

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

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW* Oklahoma 41/41 NC-17
Date: 1 Mar 1996 03:35:49 GMT
 

Oklahoma (Part 41/41)
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.

That's it.  Thanks for coming along on the ride, everyone!
Goo
____________________

     Jack Averman didn't know what had snapped him awake.  The
second time the phone's jangling bell broke the stillness he shut
his eyes in relief, swallowed the lump in his throat and stretched
a sweat-slick hand to grab the receiver.  Control forced his
breathing to a natural rate, but his heartbeat would have to slow
on its own.

     "Hello?"  Something in his voice brought a chuckle from his
caller.

     "I wake you up?  Getting old, Averman, if you let her put you
to sleep already."

     "Mulder?"  He dug his feet into the sheets and shoved,
scooting his ass up until his back rested against the headboard.
When he flicked on the bedside lamp his eyes hurt for a moment.

     "You're lucky.  I already wore out all the decent ones in the
region.  You got me between rounds one and two."

     The dry laugh echoed through the phone again.  "Think you can
put off terrorizing the locals for a day or two?"

     The air suddenly felt close and hot, and the ex-marine drew
hard to get a breath.  His shiver had nothing to do with cold as
Mulder's voice combed fingers through his guts.  He had to work to
keep his tone light.  "Sure.  When are you coming?"

     "I've got a flight booked for Oklahoma City  in two days.  I
need to talk with you."

     Averman grabbed an old envelope off the nightstand and clicked
the point out on a pen.  "Go ahead.  Which flight?"
 
 
 

     Oklahoma City International Airport was bustling in spite of
the oil bust, and Averman had to crane to see through the crowds.
He almost didn't see him at first.

     The man who walked up to him was wary, and met his "Hey
there," with a self-deprecating, sardonic grin.  The arrogant,
hostile bastard of almost two years before wasn't even a flicker in
the back of this man's eyes.

     "Mulder.  You look good."  The hand he shook was dry, with a
firm grip.  He wouldn't let Averman take his suitcase.

     "Considering how I looked the last time you saw me, I could be
dying of cancer and I'd look good."  At least the grin was
familiar.  The younger man's eyes scanned the crowded concourse
automatically, distractedly, as they wove through the business fare
travelers and a few mothers with shrieking children.  He could see
the nervous way Mulder's jaw clenched every so often, and waited
until they could feel the sometimes-draft of hot, April air that
rolled through the electric doors before he asked.

     "What's this about?"  Grinned.  "You need a job, or
something?"

     Mulder's snort was audible in spite of the noise echoing under
the vaulted ceiling.  "Or something.  Let's get to some place that
has beer.  And serves something more than peanuts to eat."

     "Sure.  What are you in the mood for?"  Remembering salads,
rice.  Gatorade.

     Mulder had pulled up to a sudden stop and was staring out at
the sunlight, hot and brilliant, on a state he probably didn't even
like to think about.  Loosened a necktie graced by winged, pink
pigs.  "I never did get a chance to really enjoy those famous ribs.
Let's live dangerously."

     "Knowing you, that should be easy."
 

     Mulder licked barbecue sauce from a fingertip with the
concentrated deliberation of a scholar considering Paradise Lost.
And grinned at paradise regained. The heaped platter in front of
him steamed gently as he reached over to lift a frosted mug of
beer.  Hefted it to Averman, eyebrow raised in ironic salute.

     "To old times. . . "

     "May they never come again."  The older man completed the
toast with fervor and the *chink* of glass on glass.  Mulder
grinned and tore a rib off the rack, stripping it with the
enthusiasm of all yankees who finally got to eat real food.
Averman waited, let the analyst work his way to the topic in his
own good time.

     Mulder had a stack of naked bones on the empty plate before he
slowed and looked up.  Jack solemnly leaned forward, poured the
last of the pitcher for them both, topping their mugs with amber
and froth.  Beads of water dripped to the table when he lifted the
mug again.

     "To old friends and old lovers. . . "

     Mulder stared at his glass then.  It was a long moment before
he finally reached over, lifted his glass back.  "I wish some were
here and I'm glad some aren't."  Hazel eyes stared back, almost
challenging.

     "I heard about Rodriguez.  How's Jenni taking it?"  Averman
looked in his beer, not wanting to see the look on Mulder's face.

     "As well as you could expect.  Not very.  The Senator finally
got them to bury him in Arlington.  His family's Catholic, and a
suicide. . ."

     "Jesus.  The poor girl.  Poor both of them.  Didn't anyone see
it coming?"  Cold twist of guts.  The past doesn't really let go,
you just hide it under stuff.  Averman pictured the woman he'd met,
pretty and blonde, with laugh lines that pain had etched too deep.

     "He ate his gun, Averman.  As far as I'm concerned, the
bastards who put him back on duty like that pulled the trigger."
Jack startled, looked at cold, bitter eyes across from him.  "They
sent him out on a kidnap/homicide, Jack.  A child pornography ring
case.  Any idiot could see what that would do to him.  This wasn't
really suicide.  It was murder."

     "I. . . "  There weren't words to hold and say the things
behind his teeth.  He swallowed, and Mulder nodded.

     "Yeah.  I know.  I won't let them do it to me."

     "The bastards've got you back on the same-old-same-old?"  Felt
queasy and took a long draw on his beer, so his gut might have a
reason to feel cold.

     The grin that answered him was spooky.  Wide and feral and
humorless.  "They're trying.  And that's what I need your help on
. . ."

     Jack could feel his puzzlement register, saw the amused
answering look.

     "I want you to back me up.  I'm going to go see Guiterriez. I
want him to sign the papers."

     Averman's elbow settled in a pool of beer.  He didn't care,
the cold wet didn't matter.  He was staring into Fox Mulder's hazel
eyes, trying to decide if he was crazy or if Mulder had finally
dropped his last marble.

     "And you want me to. . . ?"

     "Back me up in there.  Stand behind me, get jittery and
nervous and make sure no one slaps a nice, white coat on me.
Averman, they put Frito right around the bend and they'll do it to
me if they get a chance.  They won't let me transfer, I've tried.
The only hope I've got to stay sane is to prove I'm crazy."
 
 
 
 

     The waiting room wasn't full, but it felt crowded.  People,
nervous and jittery or withdrawn, sat in soothingly overstuffed
chairs, staring through Impressionist prints and walls in neutral
shades.  Mulder didn't recall noticing the prints before.  He sat
on the edge of a chair that tried to lure him deeper and rolled his
palms back and forth over each other, studying the men and women
around him.

     The receptionist had stared at him for a long time when he and
Averman had walked in.  Taken his name and scurried away into a
warren of hallways that Mulder could not remember.  He felt the
currents change in the room and looked up from his hands, pressed
tight together, to see Guiterriez watching him.  The stocky man
scanned the room, whispered a few words to his receptionist and
nodded, then retreated again.

     Two whispered conferences.  Mulder sat back, watched a
slender, careworn woman slouch past him.  Then forty-five minutes
of quiet and nerves, feeling Averman page through endless
magazines on modern maturity and fishing, none of which Mulder
believed he was reading.  The phone rang in a hushed, electronic
buzz every few minutes, startling the four people left waiting.  Their
nerves jangled with a ferocity of emotion that overwhelmed the soft,
plush chairs and soothing colors and music.  When Averman tossed a
glossy magazine onto a table the slick paper hissed in the quiet.
Mulder watched him stride over to a rack on the wall, missing the
footsteps that were swallowed whole by dense carpet.  The senior
agent's boots left deep, dark crescents marring the rug.

     A click and a soft swish of wood on carpet snapped all the
eyes in the room to it, tension crackling static in the dry air.
A woman, dressed well but not richly, scanned them, then fixed her
eyes on Mulder, beckoned him.  He felt Averman at his back, a
pattern in the static of the room.  All sound was drunk by soft
pile and wallpaper.  "Doctor will see you now. . . "  Mulder smiled
at the rote formula, wondered if Guiterriez had ever tried to get
her to change it.  She walked brusquely, shoulders barely moving,
leading down a hall and through a dark, lambent rosewood door.  The
brushed steel of the handle sparked with electricity, then felt
smooth and cool under Mulder's fingers.  He left the door for
Averman to close.

     The analyst couldn't see Guiterriez' face.  The man's mass was
dark against the brilliance of blue sky, and the fresh green that
was Oklahoma's own in the spring, before summer's brutal heat
drove the sap into hiding and seared the land with its kiss.  A shiver
ran up and down Mulder's spine, air conditioning raising goose
flesh, and memory raising ghosts.  The maroon and dove gray
furniture was the same, and the heavy, rosewood tables and desk.
Mulder let his hand drift across the back of the plush chair,
watching the physician step away from his window.  Light showed
placid features and alert, wary eyes.  The agent didn't wait
for the offer, but settled back into the cool, velvet plush,
letting his arm rest across the back, letting his service weapon
gleam malevolent black among all the muted and subtle shades of
this place.  Guiterriez' eyes flickered to it.  Averman stepped up
close behind the chair, and Mulder smiled at the electric charge
that filled the air now, even though all the static was gone.

     "Agent Mulder.  I must confess, I am surprised to see you
again."

     Mulder felt the Spanish cadences, weighted, drumming from the
walls.  He'd heard that voice in nightmares for close to two years.
It sent cold ripples over his skin as he watched Guiterriez
watching him.   The silence stretched, long and dissonant after the
last syllable had been smothered by the false comfort of the place.

     Fabric rustled behind him as Averman shifted.  Guiterriez'
eyes flicked up at the sound, then back.  Mulder let his eyes close
a little, tilted his head, just a bit.   And smiled.  The
psychiatrist's face was still shadowed, but the window's light
picked out the flex of muscle in cheek and neck as his jaw clenched
and released.  The agent sighted and leaned forward, letting his
elbows rest on his knees with too little weight to be relaxed.
Guiterriez' teeth shone in a grim smile as he settled on the small
couch facing Mulder.  The younger man felt his pupils dilate and
contract almost painfully as the doctor's shadow played past him.

     "Did you visit simply to play games of psychology with me,
Agent Mulder?  I have never doubted your skill with those."

     The profiler snorted, let his smile grow.  Leaned back and
casually hooked the heavy automatic from the holster at his waist.
Averman stepped so close he could hear the brush of clothing
against the couch.  The physician across from him was very, very
still as Mulder dropped the ugly weapon onto the table between
them, enjoying the clatter it made.  Guiterriez' eyes stayed locked
on his face.

     "I think you and I will both be more comfortable if I'm not
wearing that."  The doctor began to relax, and Mulder leaned
forward, elbows on knees again, enjoying the sudden stillness that
returned to the other man's stance.  Lips pulled tight above a
well-trimmed beard, and the dark eyes snapped.

     "I think I would be more comfortable if you left.  I think,
Agent Mulder, that there is nothing I can do for you."

     "I'm sure you'd be more comfortable if I left, but I'm equally
sure that there is something you can do for me."  Knit his fingers
together and hooked his thumbs under his chin, trying to ignore how
cold the tips of his fingers felt, and the oily sweat that made
them slippery.  Guiterriez leaned forward, and the sunlight was
blocked by a cloud.  Mulder studied the flush on dark skin and
forced his own breathing to stay slow and regular.

     "I tried to help you before, Agent Mulder.  There are many
psychiatrists in Washington.  Please say what you want to say and
leave, before I am forced to call my assistant to. . . "

     "It won't take long.  I want you to do what you should have
done in the first place."

     A puzzled look and half open mouth met his gallows grin.
Mulder felt the bones under his skin, could almost smell his own
terror.

     "All I want from you, Dr. Guiterriez, is signed papers
attesting that, in your opinion, as of the date you first saw me,
that you would attest that involuntary hospitalization was
required."  His mouth was dry, and he had to fight to get the words
clear of his tongue.  Guiterriez swarthy features pulled in
confusion, then consternation, giving way to anger.

     "What are you asking me?  Why?  You are no fool.  Do not
mistake me for one."  The Spanish accent was thicker.  "What do you
intend to prove with this little exercise?"  He was on his feet,
pacing back to the window, back where Mulder could not read his
face anymore, but he didn't have to now.  The doctor's voice held
all the anger and confusion his features would have shown.

     "You don't need to worry, Dr. Guiterriez."  Mulder let his own
voice drop into the soothing tones taught for clinical practice.
Saw the psychiatrist stiffen with recognition.  "I have no
intention of bringing any sort of malpractice claim against you."

     "Your grounds. . . "

     "I said I didn't intend to bring a claim.  However, I was a
patient of yours, and I have witnesses that you stated that I was
at risk, and in need of involuntary hospitalization.  In point of
fact, I required hospitalization for emergency treatment shortly
thereafter.  Agent Averman can support that."  Saw Guiterriez' eyes
bounce, and could infer Averman's nod of support.  "You were aware
that I was at risk, and I was your patient.  You had a duty of care
and would be held to the standards of your specialty.  In any court
of law that would be grounds for malpractice, Doctor."  Mulder
leaned in, shifted balance and was suddenly standing.  "I want
those papers, Dr. Guiterriez."

     The voice was somewhere between a hiss and a whisper.  "Why?
What would you do with them?  I do not mistake that you would
seek what I would recommend for you. . . "

     Mulder chuckled.  "Have you been in touch with the FBI since
you saw me?  I'm certain you must have been contacted.  I know you
told Dr. Rodriguez and Agent Averman."

     "Your service weapon had to be removed on my authority.  I
prescribed medication for you.  Of course I was in contact. . . "
Blustering now.  Defensive and aggressive.  Mulder fought back the
smile.

     "Then I'll want copies of all those records.  And the
statement as well."

     "Not until I know why.  This is intimidation, illegal. . ."

     Mulder sighed.  He felt like far more than two years had
passed.  Oklahoma's sunshine made him want his sunglasses, even in
this protected place.  "Doctor, this may be hard to understand, but
I need that statement. I have witnesses.  If I do not leave here
today with that statement, I can assure you that I will bring a
malpractice suit against you.  I suspect you are quite aware of
what happened to me while I was technically under your care, and I
doubt you would want to go to court against the man who helped
stop the Baby Butcher."  A low sound, barely audible, made him look
at Guiterriez.  He had to force himself not to look away.  "You know
and I know how it will look when I get up there and tell them about
the pain and suffering of the mental instability you failed to
treat, and detail the hallucinations of the killer's dreams."  God,
his hands were shaking.  He kept them close to his sides and fought
not to ball them into fists.  It was a relief that Guiterriez had
moved across the room, otherwise Mulder was sure the doctor would
have smelled sour fear sweat.

     Averman cleared his throat, and the sound made both men jump.
"Dr. Guiterriez, I really regret that this is proving so stressful
for you both.  But Agent Mulder's right.  You told me and Rodriguez
and Mulder, here, that you thought he should be in a secure
environment and were about willing to sign papers to arrange for
it.  And you never carried through.  I'm sure you saw the news. ."

     Guiterriez stared at the two of them, hands flat on his desk.
His jaw worked and Mulder almost imagined he could hear the teeth
grind.  His stomach was balled tight and he could feel shooting
pain in his own shoulders from the knots of his muscles, and wanted
more than anything right then to turn tail and run.  Never have to
hear Guiterriez' damned Spanish accent and arrogant tones again.

     But he didn't have that choice, and he stood and stared, hard
and cold, at the psychiatrist.  And felt no triumph when the man
deflated.  Felt only a tired, lost dread when he sagged into a
chair and pulled forms from his desk, and letterhead, and began to
write.

     It took a frighteningly short amount of time to complete his
work.  Dr. Miguel Guiterriez finished the words that could have
locked Mulder away and it had taken him less than twenty minutes.
The paper shook in his hands when he held it out to Mulder.  His
face was pale under the tan, and the tired bags were dark under his
eyes.

     "Will you tell me at least why you want this so badly, Agent
Mulder?  You have what you want. . . "

     Mulder stared at him.  Felt his shirt cling to his skin under
his jacket.  Turned and walked back across that thick, pile carpet
to pick up his weapon.  The automatic was cold, and the skin of his
fingers felt sensitive and sore when they brushed the metal,
brushed fabric.  And ran through all the possibilities and threats,
finding so few. . . The one hold Guiterriez had over him was in his
hands, poison that, used carefully, would save him.

     "I want it because without this, I will be in Behavorial
Sciences until I actually do need to be hospitalized."  He
hesitated, weighing his words.  "I know what you think, but you're
wrong.  I do know what's real. I knew when I saw you what was
real. And I know that if I stay in the BSU I will go mad.  They won't
let me leave.  I've tried.  All I want is to find the truth, but the
FBI, or whoever the hell decides what happens to me, doesn't care.
I tried to transfer." He smiled at Guiterriez.  A warm, genuine
smile for once.  He had wanted so much to talk then, still wanted
to.  And about this he would.

     "They want to keep me locked up in VICAP until I'm screaming
the nightmares of serial killers asleep and awake and until I don't
know where I end and they begin anymore.  But they made a
mistake.  They let you talk with me.  They let someone make this
decision."  He shook the papers in his hand.  Guiterriez was watching
him fascinated and horrified.  "I can only use this once, but I only
need it once.  This is my key out of hell."  He turned and smiled,
a false, bright, cordial smile.  "Thank you, Dr. Guiterriez.
You've helped me more than you'll ever know."

     Mulder's pulse was hammering so hard he was sure the other two
in the room could see it, hell, hear it.  He took the half step
back, feeling the papers crinkle in his hand, and his legs locked.
Knees still and teeth clenched, he forced himself to turn his back
on Guiterriez.  His ears ached, listening for the click of a call
button, the step of an attendant in the hall.  Averman was holding
the door open and nodded reassuringly to him.

     "Agent Mulder. . . "  The voice stopped him cold.  Sent a
tremor through his legs, and he felt his heart stop for a moment.
Dry mouthed, he turned back to stare at Guiterriez' expressionless,
dark eyes.  "I. . . You say I helped you.  That thought frightens
me.  I hope. . . I hope one day someone gives you the help you
think you don't need.  Until then, be careful."

     Fox Mulder stared back at the physician. Swallowed hard
against the painful lump in his throat.   "Thank you, Doctor.  I'll
keep that in mind."  Spun and this time didn't stop for anything.
He didn't remember leaving, didn't recall cool halls or pastels and
paintings, but suddenly hard light was striking his face, forcing
his eyes shut, and he stopped, blinded, as Averman caught up with
him.

     Dark, dark glass and metal cool against his face, earpieces
snug over his ears, and he could finally take off his jacket here,
where everyone's shirt was stained dark with sweat and no one
would know.  No one would question.  When he could open his eyes
again, he found the grizzled man next to him watching him.  His eyes
were wonderful, clear and blue and concerned, but never wavering,
not looking for tiny hints and clues and betrayals.  Mulder wiped his
nose, feeling a prickle behind his eyes, feeling the heat of the
sun on his back.

     "Was it worth it, son?"

     The laugh was short, and it caught in his throat.  "I hate it
when you call me son.  Hell, I hate being called that, period."

     The answering snort was loud, too normal to exist there, then.
"C'mon.  You look like you could really use a beer now.  Or scotch.
I know I could, after waiting for that shrink to call the troops
and march you out of there.  But you didn't answer my question."

     "Worth it?"  The asphalt of the parking lot was soft under
their feet, and it was hard to see their car for the spears of
light from chrome.  Mulder felt his mind wandering to the coast, to
the Potomac where the cherry blossoms painted the tidal pool in
sweet, foreign shades and the Vineyard, where spring winds and
storms whipped the graceful sea oats and whelks and conchs washed
up on pebbly beaches.  "Yes, Averman.  It was worth it.  This," he
shook the sheaf of paper in his hand,  "this says that I needed
help and the FBI colluded in seeing that I didn't get it. Colluded
in keeping me from medical assistance in a psychiatric emergency.
With this. . . with this I have them over a barrel."

     "What do you expect to get?"

     He laughed, short and relieved, a real laugh nonetheless.
"It'll get me out of Behavioral.  There are these cases I've
wanted to work on, stuff everyone else has abandoned."

     "Those X-Files you had with you?"

     "Hunh.  Yeah.  Those.  I looked through them and. . . they're
pretty strange.  Lots of campfire stories and crap, but some of it.
. ."  He bit his lip.

     "I've seen a few of them.  The ones you had before.  You
were gonna say that some of it's like what happened to your sister,
weren't you?  What happened to. . . Sam."

     Mulder nodded, a sharp little motion.  "Yes.  And I think
there are questions there to be answered.  That somebody needs to
answer."

     "And that's what you're going to do?"

     "Yeah.  That's what these let me do."  He grinned widely,
threw his head back and laughed a long, long time.  "These will get
me out of hell, Averman.  But first, I need to get the hell out of
Oklahoma."
 
 

May 12, 1989
Hoover Building
Washington, D.C.

     He knew all the nooks and crannies of Violent Crime.  His
first posting, of course.  Reggie Pardue was still here. A SAC now,
not an ASAC.  How many newbies at G-10 status, get ushered
around by an ASAC?  At one time, Mulder had smiled to think of it.
Now it caused a t