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
a